Chapter 16

It was a lot to process. Pieces didn't fit.

How could somebody like Alexa find herself attracted to a tattooed Crip criminal with a juvenile felony package? I looked hard inside myself, trying to see if there was a racial component guiding my skepticism. I had started so low on the ladder, as a kid I didn't usually think in terms of race. For me, there were just assholes and mega-assholes. They came in all colors. But still, is anybody completely immune? I'd had Chooch with a Hispanic woman, but did that indemnify me? Sex without commitment is just a party. As I turned this over in my mind, I knew that I didn't have a problem with the idea that Alexa might have had a black lover as long as he was a quality person, but from what Rosey had told me, David Slade was a dirtbag. The road rage incidents, the crazy attempt to shake down the Sheriff's Department with that 911 call. That kind of character flaw didn't just suddenly pop up in your early twenties. This guy had been dirt from the beginning. So what was Alexa doing messing with him? She should have sensed who he was under that fake smile and carefully clipped moustache.

I was pretty sure he had never left his Crip gang, despite being on the LAPD. That was probably why he still lived in Compton. It was his hood. His old crew was kicking it there. He looked to be about the same age as Louis Maluga. I wondered if Slade knew Maluga back when he was a baby G doing corners.

I picked up my radio mike and called communications. When they answered, I identified myself and said, "Wants, warrants and background on a Louis Maluga and Stacy Maluga."

"Roger," the RTO came back. "Stand by."

I was almost out of Newton, driving on Washington Boulevard, heading toward the Harbor Freeway.

While I waited, I turned my thoughts to our Chief Filosiani's predecessor, Burl Brewer. Rosey was right, I had experienced firsthand the full extent of his corruption. I was the cop who finally had him arrested for conspiracy and murder back in the late 1990s. Had Chief Brewer somehow been involved with Lou Maluga and Lethal Force, Inc.? I knew I would never get an answer to that question, so I moved on.

As I drove, I kept wondering why Slade had been found dead in Alexa's car. Was that old Academy relationship important? Did it affect everything that was happening now?

They were not easy thoughts. They swung carelessly around in my brain like dangerous wrecking balls, knocking into emotional barriers, punching holes in my value system. If she could betray me like this, what was anything in my life worth?

"One-L-Forty. On your wants, warrants, and background. Stand by."

I keyed my mike. "Go."

"Louis Maluga. Born March sixth, nineteen sixty-five to Rita Maluga, father unknown. He did five years in Soledad from ninety-nine to oh-five for aggravated assault and attempted murder. His first arrest was in Compton in nineteen eighty: assault with intent. Juvie never filed. Second arrest in April: attempted murder. Witness died same, result. Third arrest, June of ninety-nine: attempted rape, attempted murder. Witness disappeared. Never filed."

"Okay, I get it. What about Stacy?"

"Stacy Maluga, nee Stacy Adams. Born in Norway in seventy-two at a naval hospital. Moved to the states in seventy-three when her father was discharged. He was killed in nineteen seventy-five. DUI. Family moved to E Street in Compton. Her booking sheet is mostly drugs. She was also arrested in July of ninety-five for indecent exposure and lewd acts. She had sex on stage at a strip club."

"Okay. Can you download both yellow sheets and fax them to my office at Homicide Special?"

"Roger that."

I gave her the number, then disconnected. I didn't ask for David Slade's yellow sheet because I knew there wouldn't be one. All his prior crimes had been sealed juvie busts, or he wouldn't have qualified for the felony waver. Everything he'd done wrong once he was on the LAPD would be in his PSB package, if I could find a way to access it. With all the heat coming down after his murder, it was going to be hard to get my hands on it. But I have friends and I'm devious, so I intended to try.

Without really planning it, I realized I was heading back to my house in Venice. It was probably stupid to keep going home, but I was drawn there. That house was my only connection with Alexa. I kept thinking I'd walk in and find her with a perfectly plausible explanation. Or I'd find a message on our answering machine. If she was alive, I knew she would get in touch with me.

I parked half a block away and moved down the street looking for department-issue, four-door sedans with black tires. Nothing. I kept in the shadows of a line of elm trees and worked my way past the house. If detectives from the Professional Standards Bureau were here to question me, they were pretty damn good at blending in. I couldn't see any sign of them but decided to enter my house from the canal side anyway, just to be safe.

I moved quickly along, hoping none of my neighbors would see me. I entered the backyard, took out my key, unlocked the sliding glass door, and carefully pushed it open.

The minute I stepped inside and smelled the stale air, I knew she was still missing. Nobody was there. The house was lifeless and still.

It was just after ten-thirty a. M. I turned on the kitchen television as I walked through, but was stopped in my tracks by what I heard.

"Speculation is running rampant. What was a dead undercover police officer doing murdered in the front seat of the head of the LAPD Detective Bureau's personal car?"

One of the anchors from Channel Four was leaning forward, looking stern, but you could see the excitement in his eyes. I turned away from the TV and checked on the answering machine hooked to our kitchen telephone as the newscast continued.

"This morning, in a brief statement, Deputy Chief Ramsey confirmed that Sergeant David Slade was killed while in police handcuffs but refused any comment on the guilt, innocence, or whereabouts of Lieutenant Alexa Scully. He also wouldn't say if she was a suspect in the execution-style shooting."

I froze with my hand on the telephone, watching this asshole engage in rampant speculation. Suspect in the execution-style shooting? How could he even imply that? The video package played behind him, complete with separate shots of Alexa and David Slade. They had used Slade's Academy photo. He looked handsome and clean cut. It would not have helped this media hatchet-job to show him like he really was, in his Marcel do with an armload of badass Crip ink. The shot switched to a pleasant-looking, middle-aged African-American woman in a TV-friendly, dark blue suit and pale blue blouse. She wore a small gold angel pin prominently on her lapel, attesting to her purity and faith. The on-screen graphic identified her as Congresswoman Roxanne Sharp. She had a long record as a media whore who always weighed in on racially charged situations.

"If this is what it appears to be, I can assure you that I will personally take the LAPD to task," the congresswoman promised. "This fine, African-American officer was gunned down in his prime, left dead in his bureau commander's car. I can promise the people of Los Angeles, this will not become the latest example of LAPD arrogance or investigatory incompetence."

Nathan Red was up next. Handsome, with gray flecks in his black hair, he looked like Billy Dee Williams in a tailored Armani with a silk tie.

"David Slade's family is considering legal redress against the LAPD and the city. At this time, we will withhold further comment, except to say that it certainly raises questions that Lieutenant Scully is suspiciously missing."

My heart sank. I knew this was only the beginning.

I played my messages as the newscast continued spewing speculation and misinformation. My three calls to Alexa were still on the machine. A call from the Professional Standards Bureau came in at nine a. M., issuing me the dreaded two-six to report to Mike Ramsey's office. Then Alexa's voice was on the machine.

"Shane, it's me." She sounded small and tired. "I'm so sorry about this, darling. I can't bear to think what this is doing to you and Chooch, but I had no other choice." Then there was a long pause before she said, "I killed David Slade. An argument over something personal. I'm confessing to his murder. Please turn this tape over to the department." Then, another long pause, before she said, "I can't go on. Things have been too difficult. I'm too far gone to save myself. I love you, darling. Kiss Chooch and tell him I love him, too. Try not to hate me too much."

Then I heard a gunshot.

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