White Sister

Chapter 60.

AFTER WE USED my cell to call 911, he told me his name wasn't Wayne Watkins; it was Sgt. Wallace Wayne and he had been a Sheriff's Department gang squad undercover for almost two years. He'd been put in the hip-hop music business by the county sheriff for the same reason David Slade had. When I asked what he knew about Slade's killing, all he would say was, "Slade helped duke me in. We knew each other back at Compton High. The rest is classified. It's gotta wait till my supervisor clears it." It took less than ten minutes for the first Highway Patrol unit to arrive. The officers took one look at the mess and started screaming for more help over their radio. Later, Sgt. Wayne and I were standing next to the Navigator watching as a dozen Highway Patrol officers and paramedics began to mop up. By then, Lionel Wright was unconscious from loss of blood and was loaded into the first rescue ambulance. It sped off to the hospital with its roof lights and siren strobing, passing another incoming RA as it left. Earlier, Sgt. Wayne and I had tried to stem the bleeding on Stacy Maluga's leg by wrapping it with our jackets and tying it off with my belt, but she had also lost a lot of blood and was in shock by the time the second paramedic truck arrived. The EMTs did a quick field triage, then loaded her into the back. We watched the ambulance fishtail through the deep sand until it also reached the two-lane road and sped away. When it was gone, Sergeant Wayne and I went looking for Curtis Clark. We found him a quarter of a mile away, hiding in a rock outcropping. "Man," Curtis said. "That cave bitch sure know how to take it to the street." Whatever that meant. "Time to man up, Curtis," Wayne said. "You gotta make a statement and own some of this." We pulled him out of his hiding place and led him back to the crime scene. The Nevada Highway Patrol called Vegas Metro Homicide, and then began walking around the carnage, stringing yellow ribbon and shaking their heads in disbelief. They hadn't seen this kind of a bloodbath since Bugsy Siegel left town. In accordance with crime scene protocol, they separated Sgt. Wayne and me until the Homicide dicks arrived. I ended up in the back of a Highway Patrol Chevy Impala. The patrolman confiscated my cell phone and wallet and all I was left with as I sat there were ugly thoughts and a deepening sense of doom. I didn't know if Sgt. Wayne could finally put David Slade's murder on the Malugas. If he couldn't, and Stacy died from her wound without talking, then the only thing I'd managed to accomplish was to kill all the available witnesses who could clear Alexa. I saw a blue LVPD minivan pull up and park a few feet away. Two crusty old guys in rumpled suits with gray hair and cop stares got out. Vegas Homicide had arrived. I watched as they talked to the lead deputy on the scene. The Highway Patrol had called for Condor lights, and while I was watching the new arrivals, a generator started up and blue-white halogen spilled out from the top of a Condor crane, illuminating the gruesome scene. After quickly surveying the scene, one of the Homicide dicks grabbed a patrol officer and headed to the car where Sgt. Wayne sat. The other homicide cop collected a deputy and came over to talk to me. He opened the door and sat in the back as the deputy got in front. Standard protocol. The deputy was there to witness my preliminary field interview and watched in silence through the wire mesh that separated us from the front seat. My homicide guy was in his late fifties with silver brushed-back hair and a sun-ravaged complexion. He had a long face and eyes that had seen too much to be surprised by anything, but I could tell this quadruple killing had captured his interest. "I'm Lieutenant Barry Bush," he said. "My partner over there with your friend is Steve Goodstein. The Highway Patrol tells me you guys are both cops from L. A." "Yeah, I'm LAPD. The guy with your partner says he's an L. A. County sheriff, but you should check that out 'cause all I got is his word on that." "I used to work L. A. Homicide," Lt. Bush said, sounding relaxed and friendly. "When I remarried, I retired out here. But I'm not a casino guy and I got bored, so I re-upped and caught on with LV Metro." He was filling time with chit-chat while he took out his mini-recorder, found a fresh tape, inserted it, and turned on the unit. Then he said, "Okay, I'm gonna skip the Miranda for now. I'm not arresting you. Let's call this a voluntary statement. Fair enough?" "Sure," I said. "Gimme the background particulars, starting with your full name." I gave him my name and rank and told him I worked out of Homicide Special at Parker Center. "Who's your C. O.? Back when I was in L. A. there was no Homicide Special. The top murder teams were all part of the Major Crimes Unit." I knew Bush was just filling the car with B. S. to get a loose feeling going. He wanted to set up a friendly atmosphere so I wouldn't guard my responses. I've pulled the same routine on hundreds of guys. It told me that even though I was a cop, he still didn't trust me. "My C. O. is Captain Jeb Calloway," I answered. "Little muscle-bound character who looks like he could break stones with his hands?" "That's him." "Wasn't he with SWAT or CRASH, one of those high-octane, kick-ass units?" "This is good kitsch, Loo, but I'm onto it. Can't we just get this over with? I'm having a really bad night." He studied me and finally nodded. "Okay, then how do two L. A. cops end up in the middle of my desert with all these dead black people?" "It's a long story." "That's why I carry two-hour tapes," he drawled. I started at the beginning and told him the incredible tale of my last week, ending with the chartered flight full of hip-hop music people to the Mandalay Bay Casino, including the garage kidnapping, the shooting of Elijah Mustafa, and our subsequent trip into the desert to be murdered by the president of Lethal Force, Inc. and his estranged wife. When I was finished, he sat there and looked at me with skeptical, unblinking eyes. "All that story needs is a main title and some end credits," he said. I nodded. Then he spoke into the recorder for the record. "This preliminary declaration was given voluntarily in the presence of Highway Patrol Officer Duane Lewis and Lieutenant Barry Bush. The tape has not been shut off or edited and has been running for twenty continuous minutes. It is eleven-seventeen p. M. on July sixteenth, a Tuesday night." Everything exactly by the book. Sgt. Wayne and I were transported to the police station in separate cars. I met Lt. Bush's captain, who said he was formerly with Chicago PD. I found out that most of the cops on Vegas Homicide were transplants from other departments. Finally, after our statements had been signed and witnessed, Sgt. Wayne and I were allowed to speak to each other again. We got some vending machine coffee and sat in the empty lunchroom. "After high school, I joined the Compton PD," he said. "Compton had a corrupt department with bad city government. Lotta cash payoffs. About ten city councilmen and our chief eventually got indicted. When the new mayor decided to close down Compton PD, the job got contracted out to the L. A. Sheriff's Department. I switched badges and stayed on." Even though he'd been instructed by his gang intel commander to say nothing about his two years undercover, he took pity on me and finally conceded that on the night David Slade was killed, he'd been left behind at the Maluga estate by Stacy. She told him to go down to Lou's Malibu Colony house to work security for a party Lou was having. He told me he couldn't help me with Slade's murder. In fact, he was Lou's alibi for the time of the homicide. I hadn't figured Lou for an innocent bystander, but there it was. "Something heavy was going down with Stacy that night," he said. "She was all riled up, screaming at people. But she only took KZ with her. He was her main guy when it came to street actions. They knew each other from back in the day. When they got home later that night, KZ was spooked, but he wouldn't tell me what happened. By then, he was scared to death of Stacy. She was willing to do anything. I think she's a sociopath." He then looked at me. "I know that doesn't help clear your wife," he said. "But that's what went down." So I still didn't have enough. It was the way my luck had been running all week. At about two a. M. the Las Vegas cops cut us loose with a reminder not to leave Las Vegas without checking in first. We drove over to the Las Vegas Sunrise Hospital where Rosey, Sally, and my LAPD posse were waiting. When I got there, I found out Lionel Wright had survived two hours of emergency surgery and was in recovery. His condition was listed as guarded. The press hadn't found out he was there yet because the hospital had admitted him under the name on his driver's license, Orlee Lemon. Stacy came out of surgery at five a. M. She'd lost so much blood she'd had a cardiac arrest on the table and was now in critical condition. At ten the following morning a search helicopter found KZ wandering lost in the desert. He'd been hit in the arm but the wound was minor and required no stitches. He refused to talk to police and demanded an attorney. Under the circumstances, his arrest seemed like a hollow victory.