White sister

Chapter 39

When I go to potentially dangerous meetings with people I don't trust I always scope out the location in advance and try to arrive late. Sometimes that shakes up the equation and you get a better look at what you're heading into.

I was parked across from Wright Plaza, watching to see if any unusual activity was taking place in preparation for my arrival. The plaza was intended to be an architectural statement piece with twin glass towers connected by a granite mezzanine bridge. There were too many subtle but pretentious rainbow arches incorporated into the design for my taste.

While I waited I called Sally Quinn in the Valley Division and got her just as she was heading out to lunch.

"Sally, I need a background check on Lionel Wright," I told her.

"You gotta cool your jets, buddy. Being in your posse is career poison. This has become very political."

"The minute they found Slade in Alexa's car it was political. Mike Ramsey has been scrambling around like a cat burying turds on linoleum. He'll do anything to stay out of this jackpot. Alexa and I are just a convenient way out."

"And how does that bring us to Lionel Wright?"

"I need his jacket. Especially anything pertaining to old scores he's got out against him down on Sixtieth Street. That's a Blood neighborhood, so check the gang book or call Organized Crime. I can't remember his name, but I think they have a sergeant down there solely working hip-hop music crimes."

After a short pause she said, "I oughta have the air in my head changed for even considering this." Then I heard her take a deep breath. "Okay. Call me in an hour."

"Sally, thanks for hanging with me." But she had already hung up. After that call, I tried to fit these new pieces into my expanding puzzle. If Lionel Wright had started on Sixtieth Street in South Central, it probably made him a Blood or at least Blood friendly. The Malugas and their whole bunch were Compton Crips. It was certainly possible Lionel Wright had financed his early success in the music business through street crime. I was parked across from twenty million dollars worth of real estate with Lionel Wright's name on it. So let's not hear any more of that argument. Crime definitely pays.

While I watched and waited, I called Chooch on his cell phone. His battery must have been fried because I went straight to voice mail. I left a message that I would be there in time for Alexa's surgery at ten a. M. tomorrow. Even though I was pretty sure the rat squad would be there waiting to pick me up, I'd find a way to deal with them. No way was I going to let Alexa go through that surgery without me.

Then I saw a long, white, stretch limo pull into the underground garage at Wright Plaza. Bust A Cap had arrived. I waited another ten minutes and no threatening gangsters were slinking around, so I put the Jeep in gear and drove down Sunnyslope into the underground garage at Wright Plaza. There was a security stand on the A-level in the middle of the drive near the elevators. I pulled up and a large brother with cornrows wearing a starched short-sleeved Wright Plaza security uniform looked in at me.

"I'm here to see Lionel Wright at WYD Records," I said.

The guard was a big muscular guy with gang tats peeking out from under the stretched short sleeves of his uniform.

"Name?" he said, as if he were checking in guests at a leper colony.

"Shane Scully."

He looked at his clipboard and pointed to a visitor parking place nearby. There was no sign of the white limo that had arrived only a few seconds before me. It had probably gone down to some secure parking space below. I pulled in where instructed, got out of the car, and chirped the lock. The guard waved me over, motioning with the index finger of his right hand. A demeaning come-hither gesture.

"I'm supposed to meet somebody from security," I called across the thirty feet that separated us, not about to be beckoned like a naughty child.

" 'Ats right, and security is on its way. You gonna wait for the man right here," he ordered.

I reluctantly crossed the pavement toward him and stood next to the booth.

"You po-lice?" he asked.

"Is that gonna be a problem for us?"

"You got a strap, you best give it to me."

"Back at ya."

We stood there and stared daggers at each other.

At that moment, the elevator opened and two mastodons with shiny, shaved, bullet heads exited. Both were about the same size and shape of KZ and Wayne from Stacy Maluga's house. Narrow waists, chorded necks, and bulging thighs. Dimensions hard to obtain without steroids. They wore expensive tailored, black suits with banded collars. When they reached the security guard, one of them said:

"We got him, Kaz."

"He's packin', Vonnie. Wouldn't give it up."

"It's okay. He's the law," Vonnie replied, showing executive potential. As we walked to the elevator, he said, "I'm Vondell Richmond. This is Taylor Hays," indicating the other security guard who looked at me with undisguised contempt.

Vondell used a key card, which hung from a chain around his neck, to activate the elevator door sensor. As it opened, he said, "If you'll please follow us?" Polite but cold.

The east tower of the building was only five stories, and Lionel Wright's suite of executive offices took up the entire fifth floor. When the elevator opened, we walked out into a snow-white reception area: white furniture, white carpet, white drapes. The only color came from several giant abstract canvases, which musf have been done exclusively for this space, because aside from bold slashes of red and blue inside their ornate frames, they were all painted on the same stark, white background. The effect was surreal and startling.

The receptionist was a ten-point-five on a scale of ten with coffee-colored skin and features so delicately sculpted it was hard not to stare.

"Mr. Scully?" she said with her beautiful British accent. "I'm Patch McKenzie. I believe we spoke. Is there anything you'd like to drink?" No stuttering now. She'd recovered her composure since we'd talked.

"I'm fine," I said softly.

"I'll tell Mr. Wright you've arrived." She then spoke quietly into a tiny microphone headset that was barely visible at the side of her face.

I was standing on two-inch-thick white plush pile carpet while classical music played softly over an expensive Muzak system. The environment was serene and restful. It felt like God's waiting room. Hardly what I'd been expecting. A moment later, Patch McKenzie smiled up at me.

"Mr. Wright will see you now," she lilted.