White sister

Chapter 8

Below me, on the left side of the road, the Pacific coast stretched in a lazy horseshoe defined by the lighted curve of the Malibu Shoreline. Off to the northeast was Pepperdine University. I was driving along twisting Oceanridge Drive, looking for 223. Finally, I pulled up and parked in front of a huge, multimillion-dollar mansion that sat by itself on a point that overlooked Malibu far below. A gold M adorned the center of an ornate design on the double-hinged, wrought-iron gates.

I put aside my fear over Alexa's fate. I had to play this carefully, and I knew I wouldn't do it right unless I had complete control of my emotions. I walled off my panic as I looked through the gates at the estate. Whoever Stacy Maluga was, he or she had a much better appreciation for security than David Slade. Floodlights blasted the grounds and signs promising armed guards and killer dogs were posted everywhere. I looked across two acres of rolling lawns toward a gorgeous neoclassical house. White columns, a flat roof, marble steps all displayed in carefully placed uplights. It looked like the U. S. Supreme Court. Hard to guess how much land was involved, but it had to be at least five or six acres.

I got out of the Acura and approached a state-of-the-art communication system on a post near the gate. The unit had two cameras: one up high for a wide shot, another set at face level to catch my close-up when I used the intercom. I pushed the buzzer and waited. Nothing. I pushed it again. About a minute later, a man spoke. He had a deep bass voice with a homeboy lilt.

"Whatchu want?"

"Is this the Maluga residence?" I asked, using my stern, no-kidding-around cop voice.

"Who be wantin' ta know?"

"Shane Scully, LAPD." Then I heard some muffled sounds, like he'd put his hand over the mike to talk to someone.

Seconds later, the man said, "Nobody here called the po-lice."

"It's about a white Cadillac Escalade," I said, playing out a little more line.

"Say what?"

"A new, white Cadillac Escalade, belonging to Stacy Maluga was involved in a fatal accident tonight," I lied. "The deceased isn't the owner and I'm trying to determine if the car was borrowed or stolen."

"Mrs. Maluga's Escalade?"

"Yes, Mrs. Maluga."

"What be happ'ning to that ride again?"

"It was involved in a fatal accident. I need to speak with Mrs. Maluga."

"Damn!"

And then, our little communication ended and the intercom went dead. I started to turn around, but the man was obviously watching me on the security screen, because as soon as I turned, he said, "You got some po-lice credentials and such?"

"Yeah."

"Hold 'em up t'the lens there, so I can see 'em."

I pulled out my badge and held it up.

"Jus' a minute, 'kay? Gotta lock up the dogs."

The intercom went dead again. I knew that it wouldn't take Rafie and Tommy long to run the plate on the Escalade. They'd be here soon. I prayed that I had enough time to run some kind of a bluff. I wasn't limited by the truth like Sepulveda and Figueroa. I had so much personally at stake, the rules of the criminal justice system had no consequences for me anymore. However, once these people found out what was really going on, they'd clam up and we'd be doing our talking through lawyers, which wouldn't help me find Alexa.

A few minutes later, I heard a humming noise and looked off across the grass. A four-seater, fire-engine-red golf cart with a corny Rolls-Royce hood and a fringed canvas top was zipping across the lawn toward me with two African-Americans aboard. It slowed and bounced over the low curb, rolled down the drive, and parked on the other side of the ornate gate. The larger of the two men got out. He was six-foot-three, two-twenty, and wore a Lakers tank and baggy jeans. He had one of those lean, cut bodies that looked like the anatomy chart in a doctor's office. He also had a shaved and shined bullet head that fighters and tough guys favor.

He never smiled but said, "Where the Escalade at?"

"There was a fatality. I need to speak with Mrs. Maluga."

"You best tell me, Cochese. She ain't seein' no visitors."

" 'Cept I ain't gonna tell you. I'm telling the owner of the car. I can put out a call and get the Malibu substation up here to help me with this. You want, in ten minutes I can fill this driveway with cops."

"Mrs. Maluga ain't home."

"Fine! Have it your way." I turned, walked back to my car and pulled out the dash radio mike. An elaborate bluff, but it worked.

"What fatality?" he said. "Who be deuced out?"

"I need to talk to the owner of the vehicle," I repeated.

"If they be rock or bags a cut or some such shit in that snap, it ain't ours."

"Would you open the gate, sir? I'm about through fussing with you."

We glared at each other through gold initialed, wrought iron, until finally he nodded to the second man, another steroid experiment in basketball togs. The number two hit a remote and opened the huge gates.

"Get in the back," Baldy ordered.

I climbed into the back of the silly Rolls-Royce golf cart and off we zipped toward the house, the little electric engine humming happily while my stomach rolled and roiled.

I had been to some expensive homes in Los Angeles, but never one quite like this. Acres of manicured lawns were punctuated with several beautifully sculpted fountains, all tastefully lit from below. Flowerbeds with colorful red and white impatiens fronted trellises overhanging with purple bougainvillea, framing the edges of the garden.

They took me around to the side of the house. All this wealth helped jog my memory. I recalled where I'd heard the name Maluga before. There was some kind of big-time rap producer named Maluga. Not Stacy, but Louis. I remembered now that he had recently done a nickel in San Quentin for assault with intent to commit. He'd gotten out about a year ago. He was legendary for his violent temper, which had earned him the nickname "Luna" Maluga. Stacy had to be his wife.

After the cart stopped, my two escorts got out and led me through a back door into a large, empty kitchen pantry.

"KZ, wait with this buster while I go see if Stacy wanna give the man some play."

I guess she was home after all.

He left me standing with the other guy, KZ, who kept glowering at me like I'd just bitch-slapped his sister.

"This Lou Maluga's place?" I asked, trying to sound nonthreatening and friendly.

No response. But he had his hands on his hips and I could see the wood-checked grip on a big automatic peeking out from under his basketball jersey.

"Nice spread. How much does a place like this go for?"

Not expecting an answer and not getting one.

A few minutes later, Baldly returned. "You strapped?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Gimme it."

"Hey, Mister whoever you are. In my line of work, letting go of your gun is a career felony. I don't give up this piece unless you pry it outta my cold, dead hand."

He studied me for a long moment, then he pulled up his Lakers shirt and showed me a mean-looking automatic that looked like a big 9mm Glock or some equally brutal, hard case piece of iron.

"I work security here," he informed me. "You go off on me and your ass gets served. We straight on that?"

"Very impressive." I smiled and pointed at his piece. "Hope you're permitted for that thing."

He didn't smile back. "KZ, walk this motherfucker's six," he said, and we headed out of the kitchen single-file. Baldy was leading the way, with me following. KZ was trailing at six o'clock.

Two doorways and a short, narrow hallway took us into an expansive living room. The place was overdecorated, but reeked of money. Some Melrose designer had made a killing here. Inch-thick glass coffee tables with sculpted chrome legs squatted over large, white area rugs. Lots of leopard-and tiger-print sofas were placed around the room like sleeping jungle cats. The ceiling was at least fifteen feet high and adorned with expensive, carved beams. A built-in bookcase ran along one wall and was full of pictures in silver frames and expensive knickknacks, but not many books. There was a line of what looked like leather-bound photo albums on the bottom shelf. Gold records hung on every wall.

Standing in the center of all this eclectic expense, wearing a pink terrycloth robe, was a woman about thirty years old, with white-blond hair and a strong jaw. She was pretty in a hard, strip-club kind of way. You could tell that under that fuzzy pink robe she had very nice equipment. She dissected me with angry ice-blue eyes.

"Mrs. Maluga?"

"Hey, Wayne? This fool be packin'?" she asked, the words accented by the street. She was looking over at Baldy, who was now revealed to me as Wayne. He didn't look like a Wayne; he looked like a Sluggo or a Spike.

"Man wouldn't give up his strap, Stacy."

She glowered at me. "I don't allow no chrome in here." I guess she wasn't counting all the chunky ordnance Wayne and KZ were packing.

"I'm a police officer. It's against regulations for me to surrender my weapon."

" 'Cept it's my crib," she answered. Her voice still full of flat vowels and the colorful lilt of the hood. She was Caucasian, but talked ghetto… a white sister.

I wasn't about to do another round on whether or not I could keep my gun, so I didn't respond, and just moved on. "Do you own a white Escalade?"

"So what if I do?" she finally said. "Zat against the law now?"

"The vehicle was involved in a fatal accident tonight. A man named David Slade died at the scene." I watched her carefully as I said Slade's name.

Nothing. Her expression remained cold and steady. Then she said, "Don't know no David Slade. That Cad got vicked last week when I was shopping on Beverly. Slade must be the busta who jacked it."

She glanced at Wayne, who nodded.

"You report it stolen?" I pressed.

"I got a lotta cars, sugar. Didn't get around to it just yet. Wayne gonna do it Monday."

"David Slade was a police officer, so I don't think he stole your car," I said, dropping it on her and watching to see how she handled it.

"Wayne," she said softly. It must have been some sort of prearranged signal because Wayne and KZ suddenly turned and walked out of the room, leaving Mrs. Maluga and me alone.

"Lou Maluga is your husband?" I was out of time and already down to fly-casting. Flicking an empty hook across the water, hoping to snag something.

She watched me for a long moment. Then she said, "If that be all, I got things need tending," pulling the belt on her pink robe tighter.

"I'm trying to find out what a dead police officer was doing in your stolen car. I'm afraid this is going to take a little longer, Mrs. Maluga."

"Then make a damn appointment with my attorney. He inna book. Name a Nathan Red," lobbing that name at me like incoming mortar fire.

Nathan Red was L. A.'s new Johnnie Cochrane, an African-American lawyer who handled high-profile media cases for wealthy minorities. When Nathan Red was behind the bar, somebody was usually about to be accused of racism.

"And you're sure you've never heard of LAPD Sergeant David Slade?" I continued on.

"What I be doin' scrillin' with some five-oh? I don't kick it with no po-lice. You go now, 'fore I have them put you out."

Stacy looked toward the kitchen, but Wayne and KZ were still gone, probably making me a glass of arsenic lemonade. She was angry that they were taking so long and sighed theatrically, then went to look for them, leaving me alone for a minute. For a street-smart, tough lady, this was a major error in field tactics. As soon as she was out of the room, I quickly moved to the sliding glass doors and opened them wide. Then I hurried to hide behind the bar. Just before I ducked down, I saw her pager sitting on the green marble top. I had already broken enough regs to end my career, so I thought what the hell and snatched it up, turned it off, dropped it in my coat pocket, and crouched low with my gun drawn.

A minute later, Wayne and KZ returned. "Where he be at?" KZ blurted.

They did a quick sweep of the living room, completely missed me, but then saw the open glass door and ran into the backyard. Adios, g-sters.

I waited until they were clear, then sprinted across the white area rugs and closed and locked the slider. Next I walked over to the bookcase, kneeled, and looked at the picture albums. I found one labeled for this year, pulled it out, and started paging through it. I was looking for a shot of David Slade like the ones I'd seen in his bedroom. Stacy Maluga was the star of most of the pictures. She had a tight gym-trained butt and long stripper's legs, which she dressed to show. There were shots of her at different private parties and rap music events, always the center of attention, often with her arms around well-known celebrities. On every page, there were pictures of her looking hot and trashy.

Then, sure enough, in one of the photos, there he was: Sgt. David Slade of the good old LAPD. All decked out in his black 211 suit partying his heart out with a bunch of guys in Crip head wraps, looking as out of place as a cockroach in a Waldorf salad. The picture also made a liar out of Stacy Maluga because in the shot, she was sitting on Slade's lap with her hand between his legs, groping him like a Tijuana hooker. He had his tongue halfway down her throat.

I pulled the picture out of the album just as Stacy came back in from the kitchen.

"Where's Wayne and KZ at?" she snapped.

"Stepped outside for a breath of fresh air," I said. Then I handed her the picture. "Tell me again how you never heard of David Slade."