"I gotta drop this department car back at the Glass House. I don't wanna disobey any of their instructions. Follow me, then later we can go to Sandy's in your car," Shane suggested.
"My car's at home. I was with a friend when you called. I had him drop me off here. I figured we'd use your car."
"Then who owns that plainwrap?" he said, pointing to the gray Crown Vic across the street. "That's gotta be department issue. No civilian is gonna buy a stripped-down gray sedan with no air and blackwalls."
They moved across the street and looked through the windshield of the locked car. They could see the telltale wires hanging down under the dash, identifying the recessed police radio.
"Yep," she said, "but it's not a detective car. No coffee lids on the dash."
She was right. Since detectives had to do lots of stakeouts, they drank gallons of coffee. The cars were department-owned, so the cops had no pride of ownership. The common practice was to peel the plastic lids off the Styrofoam Winchell's cups and throw them up onto the dash. Shane had never been in a detective's plainwrap that didn't have half a dozen or more plastic lids up there. If the motor pool ever cleaned the interiors, the old, wet rings from the tops stained the dash and remained behind as a permanent testament to the practice.
"Staff car?" he said hesitantly.
They both walked around the Crown Vic, looking through the windows. It had beem immaculately cleaned. All the cars in the staff motor pool were automatically washed and vacuumed once a day by inner-city gangsters dressed in jailhouse orange.
Alexa took out her cell phone and punched in a number. After a minute she got the Communications Center.
"This is Sergeant Hamilton, serial number 50791. I found one of our plainwraps parked in a bad spot. It's a 548E," she said, giving the radio code for a vehicle parked illegally across a driveway. "It should be moved. Could you give me the officer's name so I can contact him to move it?" She listened, then said, "City plate, DF 453." Another wait, then, "Thanks," and she closed the cell, a troubled look on her face.
"Shit, I don't even want to ask," he said.
"It's a Triple-O staff car," she said.
Triple-O stood for the Office of Operations, which reported directly to the chief of police. Shane remembered that the administrative staff of the Office of Operations contained about five men and women, all captains and above. The office acted as an adviser to the chief of police and exercised line-of-command oversight in all divisions. In short, Operations was Chief Brewer's right hand.
"It could have been left here because of the movie," she said hopefully. "Triple-O handles press relations."
"You packing?" he asked.
"Yeah, of course."
"Gimme it. Mine's gone. I've been losing guns faster than winos' teeth."
"What're you gonna do?"
"Break into this thing. I don't wanna fuck around with the lock, standing on a street corner. Lemme have it."
She dug her Beretta 9mm out of her purse and handed it to him. He dropped the clip and handed it back, then tromboned the slide to make sure the chamber was clean. He held the automatic by the barrel, looked both ways for potential witnesses, then broke the side window of the car, shattering glass onto the maroon velour upholstery.
"Dominican Regals are expensive smokes," he said. "I don't know many line cops who can afford ten-dollar cigars."
He opened the door, leaned inside, and started rummaging around. The ashtray was clean. He opened the glove box. There were three objects inside: the departmental registration, indicating that the car was indeed the property of the Los Angeles Police Department; an L. A./Long Beach Thomas street guide; and in the back of the compartment a sealed Baggie containing three fresh Dominican Regal cigars.
Chapter 39
THE UNOFFICIAL NOTIFICATION of a crime to a civilian was known in police work as a courtesy report.
Shane had revealed Sandy Sandoval's identity to Alexa over breakfast in her neat duplex apartment on Pico, two blocks east of Century City. He had slept fitfully on her living-room couch, and now, marginally refreshed, they left her place and drove across town. It was Saturday morning, and Barrington Plaza loomed, a tower of sunlit granite.
Shane pulled up, and Alexa badged the shoulder-braided bandleader who announced them, then keyed the elevator. Show tunes from the Boston Pops serenaded their arrival at the penthouse level. It was eleven-thirty A. M.
"So this is the famous Black Widow Nest," Alexa said, looking at the magnificent hallway on the eighteenth floor.
Most of the LAPD knew about her and knew that Shane had once been the Black Widow's handler, but her real name had been in the possession of only two Special Crimes detective commanders. Shane had deliberated hard before telling Alexa. In the end, it was the fact that Chooch's life was involved that made the decision for him.
Shane rang the doorbell to Sandy's penthouse apartment, dreading the job of telling her what had happened. He was sweating, but it was flop sweat, cold and clammy as wet clothing.
The mahogany door opened, and Sandy was standing there in a tailored black sheath that fit her size-four frame like a second skin skin that was dusky, the color of dark sand; her eyes, golden-brown amber; her long raven tresses swirling around her shoulders with planned abandon. A single strand of pearls dangled with fuck-you elegance. She was dressed to party. She stood in the doorway, a questioning look on her gorgeous face. Then she shot a quick glance at Alexa.
"What is it? This is a terrible time, Shane. I'm bushed, I just got home."
"Chooch is gone," Shane said. "He's been kidnapped."
"I… I thought you said you had found him," Sandy finally stammered, her liquid amber eyes losing focus, clouding like a fighter hit too hard.
"He's been kidnapped, Sandy. By men who are trying to stop an investigation. I'm afraid…" He stopped. "I think by cops," he finished.
"Cops?!" she said, and involuntarily her hand went up to her mouth.
"This is Sergeant Hamilton. She's my " He looked over at Alexa. What exactly was she? His department prosecutor? His only believer? His nemesis? What the hell else was she?
"I'm Shane's partner," she said, answering his question and filling the void.
Sandy spun abruptly and headed back into her apartment. Alexa and Shane followed. She walked slowly ahead of them, fluid as a dancer, her hips swaying seductively. Shane would have preferred a more leaden gait. Even in the face of this news, she radiated sexual grace. When she turned and faced them, he saw distress bordering on hysteria in her eyes. Instantly his heart went out to her, and guilt overwhelmed him.
"Why? Where did it happen?" she asked.
"An apartment on Third Street, a safe house I was renting. I guess they followed the sitter over from my place in Venice. I can't think of any other way they could have found him," Shane said.
"We aren't exactly sure who," Alexa said. "But it appears to be high-ranking police officers who are calling the shots."
"You should go to the chief. Go to Burl. Tell him what you suspect."
When Alexa hesitated and looked at Shane, Sandy sank down on the sofa. "You're telling me you think Burl's "
"We don't know exactly who is involved," Shane said. "But it goes way up. Maybe all the way to the mayor. It involves Logan Hunter, Tony Spivack, and the Long Beach Naval Yard."
"The 'why' is easier to understand. They took Chooch to keep us from continuing an investigation into it," Alexa said.
Sandy looked down at the white plush pile to hide her devastation.
"Sandy… I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I didn't see it coming. If I could change this, I "
She waved this away with her slender hand, sat absolutely still for a moment, then looked up. Her expression had hardened, the vulnerability had vanished. "How can I help? There must be something we can do." He watched in fascination as she tucked the loose strands of panic away, grabbed hold of her plummeting emotions, pulled hard, and darted up quickly, climbing hard, like a kite in a strong wind.