White sister

Chapter 22

Miserable Harry's had sawdust on the floor and angel dust in the bathroom. Guys who didn't shave stopped talking as I entered. There were three active billiards tables, all with cash on the rails. The serious pool shooters were leaning over polished mahogany, lining up their cushion shots. The serious heroin shooters were in the men's room toilets, slapping up their veins. I found Rosey in a back booth with another huge black police officer. Since both were in sergeant's uniforms, they had flushed the dope dealers into the bars up the street.

I slid into the open seat and Rosey introduced me to the cop with him.

"This is Dario Chikaleckio," he said. "He's vice-president at Oscar Joel Bryant."

I knew about this guy. There'd been a story about him in our police department news magazine, The Blue Line. The article said he'd been adopted at birth by an Italian family from Pasadena. The Chikaleckios were social activists who had taken in and raised a rainbow family of over twenty kids, often having ten or twelve at a time in their big house in South Pasadena. When he was eighteen, Dario had changed his name from Washington to Chikaleckio out of love for his adopted family, thus becoming the LAPD's only black cop with an Italian name. Dario was one of those wide muscle guys. His traps were so big, his arms wouldn't hang straight at his sides. He bulged and flexed as he sat next to Rosey, looking at me through rimless glasses.

"I need some help," I said.

"What you need is to stop running around screwing up a high-profile murder investigation," Dario butted in.

"Do we really need this guy?" I said, staring hard at Rosey.

Rosey then said, "Ballistics just matched Alexa's gun to the shooting. It's all over the Glass House and you can bet somebody will leak it to the news in a matter of hours. These media activists are cranking up the pressure. It's already affecting the rank and file." Then he looked over at Chikaleckio. "Tell him about the morning roll call in Devonshire."

"I had a regular Mason-Dixon line in there," Chikaleckio said. "Black cops all huddled up on one side of the room, white guys on other. The old wounds over Rodney King are tender. We don't need no more 'Gorillas in the Mist' B. S. Assholes like Reverend Leland Vespars will try and make this about race to raise money for his Harmony Coalition. He'll be on us like a quart of blue paint. And you're just makin' it worse, Scully. You need to go home."

"Alexa's computer was stolen out of my house yesterday. The chief has directed me to get it back."

Rosey leaned forward, looking at me carefully.

"I swear, Rosey. I'm under Ramsey's orders."

"This man is playing you, Rosencamp," Chikaleckio said.

"I've known Shane for twenty years," Rosey replied. "He's not a liar. Hear him out."

"They're already calling Alexa a racist on TV," I said. "Rosey, you've known her since the Academy. You know she's not a racist. Whatever's going on here, she didn't kill Slade execution-style and then try to commit suicide. There's another explanation."

"Why did he come to you, Rosey?" Dario asked.

My friend didn't answer.

"I'll tell ya why," Chikaleckio continued. "If he gets the president of the Oscar Joel Bryant Association working with him to prove Alexa's innocence, it's like we're endorsing him. We'll be saying the black cops on the department don't believe she killed Slade. It's a media play. He's using you, man."

"Shut up and let me think," Rosey said. It was quiet for a moment before Rosey said, "If there's one thing this town doesn't need, it's allegations that the head of the Detective Bureau is a race hater when she's not."

Dario sat quietly, staring at me before saying, "It ain't about you or your wife, Shane. It's about cops of color not getting a square shake in the field, with the promotion board, or down at PSB. There's not a police force in America where you don't have this same double standard."

"If OJB is gonna stand for anything, we gotta be who we say we are or none of it matters," Rosey argued. "All these black activists want is more strife 'cause it gets them airtime, money, and votes. They want us to all be victims because if we aren't, what the hell do we need them for?"

Dario leaned forward. His gun leather creaked as he put his muscled forearms on the table. "Who stole Alexa's computer? Tell us what happened." I could hear the skepticism in his voice.

I told them about Jonathan Bodine. How I hit him with my car and ended up taking him home with me. After I was finished, they both just sat there, staring.

"We're supposed to risk lookin' like assholes 'cause a this homeless guy and a computer, which may have nothing on it?" Chikaleckio said.

"Last night, right after they found Slade in her car, I dropped by Alexa's office. I went into her computer. All of her e-mails had been purged. But in her Special Ops files, one had been transferred. It was labeled 'Operation Dark Angel.' "

Rosey perked up. "Dark Angel… that was David Slade's nickname in the Academy."

I nodded.

"That doesn't mean that file's on her computer," Dario said.

"Her office computer said: File transferred to AHC. There's no AHC acronym in the department directory, but I've been thinking about it, and I believe it stands for Alexa's Home Computer."

We all sat in silence.

"One crazy homeless guy in a city of ten million?" Rosey finally said.

"I was hoping you could make it an off-duty project. Get some of the guys at OJB to help. I need to sweep the cardboard condos on the Nickel, from Alameda to Main. Check the parks and SRO hotels. This guy doesn't leave a forwarding address. His street handle is Long Gone John 'cause he's a thief and moves around a lot. I'd do it myself, but I'm just one person and I also need to stay close to Alexa right now."

I told them what he looked like, and described Chooch's Harvard-Westlake sweatshirt. After I'd finished, Rosey looked at the muscle-bound sergeant sitting next to him.

"We gotta do this, Dario," he said.

It took a while, but after several minutes, Chikaleckio finally agreed.