Three shirt deal

Chapter 8

"This is gonna cause a pile of trouble," Scout said. We were parked in the lot behind La Golondrina, two spots over from her slick-back detective car. It was nine-thirty p. M. "One of the investigating officers in our unit had her purse stolen a while back- lost her badge. It's a whole rigamarole. First, I gotta notify my supervisor, Captain Sasso, how I lost my ID, and you know that's gonna turn into a mud fight. Next, she's gotta send a teletype through the whole damn department with my badge number. Then an area headquarters team has to maintain the list of lost badge numbers indefinitely and send 'em each month to all divisions and station houses. Looks like I just blew our covert investigation."

"Just tell Sasso the purse was stolen, same as your IOs. Don't tell her we were over giving Mike Church a chest bump. If you tell her that, we're screwed."

"Except I don't like lying."

"That's ridiculous. Lying is the first great art of police science."

"Yeah, right. For you, maybe." She got out of the car, then turned and looked back in at me. "Anyway, thanks for the rescue."

We looked at each other. We had bonded over the dustup in Church's yard, and we both knew it.

Finally, I said, "Secada's such a pretty name, why don't you use it? What's with the Scout thing?"

"There're two theories on that," she smiled. "One is because I'm always out in front."

"I saw that."

"The other reason is my last name. Llevar. In Spanish, Llevar means 'to lead.'"

Secada left and I called Alexa. She was still at the office but said she'd be home in an hour or so.

"You're not gonna have a change of heart, like last night, are you?" I said.

"No, not tonight. I gotta get outta here. My brain is broken. I need a drink. I'll see you at the house."

I hung up and took the freeway heading for Bel Air. On the way I radioed Records and Identification and asked them for a deep check on Wade A. Wyatt, giving the 387 Bel Air Road address.

While I waited for them to come back to me, I transferred to the 101 Freeway heading toward the 405. Then the radio crackled.

"L-fifty-six. On your background check for Wade A. Wyatt. Subject is a white male. Twenty-six years. Six-two, one hundred eighty-two pounds. Brown hair, brown eyes. He has two arrests for possession of narcotics. One in two thousand, the other in two-thousand-four. Both busts were expunged. He is the only son of Aubrey and Beverly Wyatt, same address. His father's a well-known L. A. attorney."

"Yeah, I know who Aubrey Wyatt is. Thanks."

I hung up but almost missed the interchange to the 405 because I was wondering how Aubrey Wyatt fit into this. He was one of L. A.'s biggest movers and shakers. A letterhead founding partner of the law firm Wyatt, Clark, and Cummings. Aubrey Wyatt was definitely somebody who could throw around some weight in this town, which his son's two expunged drug busts certainly proved.

I took the 405 to Sunset and headed east. After fifteen minutes I pulled up in front of Aubrey Wyatt's mansion on Bel Air Road.

The house was a gorgeous, oversize French Normandy with a slate roof and lots of blond stonework. It sat on over an acre of property with a beautifully manicured lawn that sloped from the front porch to the street where an eight-foot-high wrought-iron fence protected the estate. There was an electric gate with gold-tipped spears. I wondered if French horns would blare theatrically when it opened.

I parked across the street and looked at the beautifully landscaped property wondering what to do next. One thing was obvious. This was a much more appropriate address for the McLaren.

Just as I was pondering my next move, the solenoids on the gate started clicking and the heavy wrought iron swung slowly open. Seconds later, a red sports car flew down the drive and bounced hard as it hit the street. The front undercarriage left a little trail of sparks as it powered out of a right-hand turn, almost clipping my car before it sped away up the street going well over the speed limit. I'm not an expert on exotic cars, but I thought this one was a Ferrari Enzo, which if I remembered correctly, is a limited edition model worth close to a million dollars. The car was going fifty by the time it hit the end of the block.

A lot of law enforcement is just playing hunches. If I'd stopped to think about it, I probably would have let him go, but I didn't stop. On an impulse, I put the Acura in gear, spun a smoking U-turn and headed after the million-dollar sports car.

It was hard to catch. Whoever was behind the wheel was way over the speed limit and paying little attention to traffic laws.

Finally, I got close enough and gave the siren hidden under the hood a growl. I also flashed the red lights the police garage had installed in the Acura's chrome grill. The Enzo didn't slow, so I pulled up on his bumper and hit the wailer again, this time letting it go for twenty seconds. My red lights flashed manically, strobe-lighting the big trunk of the midengine Ferrari. The car finally pulled to the curb. Before I even got out of my MDX I had already worked up a healthy dislike for the driver. As I crossed to the car I pulled out my badge.

When the window of the Ferrari came down, I was looking down at a handsome young man in an expensive black leather jacket. His left hand was up on the wheel and I could see a ten-thousand-dollar Presidential Rolex on his wrist.

At that exact moment, the silver and black BlackBerry on the passenger seat rang. He picked it up.

"Shut that off. You're not available," I told him.

"Gotta go," he said into the phone and then shut it down.

"License and registration," I said.

"Come on, a traffic bust? Give me a fucking break."

"Hey, you almost hit me coming out of that driveway."

"It's my street," he said defiantly. "I've got someplace I've got to go.

"Your street? You really gonna stick with that?" I was smiling at him. It was my wide, humorless smile that contained no warmth. It hung on my face like a vacant warning. "Gimme your license and registration or you're going to the Men's Central Jail," I told him.

"Jesus." He leaned over, grabbed the registration out of the glove box and thrust it angrily through the window at me along with his license. I took my time looking them over.

"You're Wade Wyatt?"

"That's what is says, doesn't it?"

"You better rein in some of that attitude, Wade. It's not getting you where you want to be."

He glanced impatiently at his expensive Rolex, then looked at me with disdain as I continued to check his registration.

"This car is registered to Aubrey Wyatt," I said. "My father. It's his car. I have his permission to use it, of course."

I leaned in. "Listen, Wade, I was just coming over to see you when you spun out of that driveway and almost clipped me." "See me? What for?"

I played out a little line. "Some Hispanic guy in the Valley is driving around in your Mercedes McLaren. The oh-eight. I couldn't catch him, but he didn't look like his name should be Wade Wyatt. I was wondering if the car was stolen."

"Look, there's no problem. It's okay for him to use it. I'm really late. I've got an important appointment. Do we have to do this at ten o'clock at night?" "Where are you going?" "None of your business."

"So tell me, what's your connection to Mike Church?" "Mike who?"

"Mike Church. The guy you're letting drive the McLaren."

"Oh, him."

"Yeah, him."

"I hardly know the guy."

"You hardly know him, but you let him tool around in your half-million-dollar car?"

"He's a good mechanic, okay? The McLaren was having trouble with the suspension and Mike what's-his-face was taking a look at it for us. I guess he's gotta test drive it to fix it, okay?"

I stood looking at him, smiling my big empty smile, trying to look like any minute I might snap and turn him into pavement paste.

"Can I go?" He seemed less sure now.

"Whatta you do when you're not almost killing people with your dad's car?" I asked. "Whatta I do?"

"That was the question."

"I've got a summer job at Cartco. My uncle owns it. It's a big factory operation in Burbank. They make cartons to ship stuff in. I'm working part-time in their Legal Affairs Department while I'm studying for the California Bar. I just graduated from Harvard Law. Ever heard of it?"

"Yeah, I've heard of Harvard. Smart kids with bad manners. In Boston, right?"

"Boy, listen to the man. Really got it dialed in, don't ya?"

"With your attitude, I think you're gonna make a great lawyer." Still smiling. Still holding his license and registration.

"Can I go now?"

"You keep it down, Mr. Wyatt. The speed limit on these streets is twenty-five. I could write you for reckless driving, but since we hit it off so well, I'm gonna let you go with just a warning."

He took his license and registration and started the engine. The Ferrari sounded tight and he revved it up to high RPMs, goosing it twice for effect before squealing away from the curb. The million-dollar sports car was so overpowered it left an inch of rubber beside my right foot. I watched the taillights swing left at the end of the street. I heard that distinct Ferrari whine as it roared up Sunset Boulevard, taking Wade A. Wyatt to wherever it was he needed to be in such a hurry.