White Sister (37 page)

Then I told everyone about the twenty songs that Curtis had already recorded and how much money was at stake. When I finished, they were all quiet.

"Who handles Lionel Wright's security?" Rafie asked.

"He's got some personal bodyguards and he's contracted Fruit of Islam. They're good, but the event is at the Mandalay Bay and that makes it tougher. According to Elijah Mustafa at FOI, most Vegas casinos don't allow any firearms inside. They make all of their patrons go through metal detectors. But Mandalay Bay is an exception. They don't use metal detectors or wands. They're on the honor system, so it's safe to assume that all the principle players in Lionel's party, plus any hitters the Malugas send are gonna be packing."

"Are you actually asking us to show up in Vegas and join a parade of armed street G's so we can save some rap asshole's life?" Dario asked.

It was the first thing he'd said since he'd shown up here half an hour ago. He was in off-duty clothes and his blue golf shirt was stretched tight against his impressive weight lifter's body. "Slade was a bad cop. How can we trust anything that dirtbag wrote in these e-mails?"

"David Slade wasn't who any of us thought he was." I filled them in on what I'd learned
about Slade's dangerous UC assignment and how the department had set up all the road-rage complaints and the 911 call. I knew that OJB had been concerned about him and the effect he had on all their reputations. I speculated that when this information clearing his name was made public it would be good for all of us.

"He was risking his life reporting back to Alexa," I concluded. "Slade worked UC for over two years. The guy sacrificed his reputation, his promotions, and ultimately his life. He was a hero, but Chief Filosiani's got his own game working. Alexa's in a coma and can't vouch for him, and I can't prove he wrote those Dark Angel e-mails, so unless we come through, I will never be able to prove she didn't kill him or that he spent two years risking his life to bust the Malugas."

The silence following that soliloquy hung in the afternoon heat like rotting fruit.

Rafie was still studying the e-mail. Finally, he closed the computer and looked at me.

"Forgetting for a minute that we don't have an ounce of jurisdiction in Nevada, and forgetting that if we go proactive out there, this could spark up into the mother of all gang wars, tell me again how we're supposed to protect Lionel Wright and Curtis Clark." Rafie leaned back and continued. " 'Cause I agree with Rosencamp. If Lionel or Curtis start traveling around with a bunch of off-duty cops, they look like pussies. That's why those guys all use FOI Security. It's perfect for them because they get good protection, but Fruit of Islam is outside the system. It fits with the gangsta image and flips off the straights. Those two won't let us anywhere near this."

"I can get us in," I said. "The guy owes me. I can make us part of his entourage."

They all looked at me like I was smoking something.

Then Rosey looked at his watch. "It's three now. If we was actually gonna do this dumb-ass job, how long do we have to get our act together?"

"Lionel is flying to Vegas on his private jet at five this afternoon. They're having a security meeting in the hangar before take-off in an hour. I want us to be there."

As they all continued staring at me, I realized that everybody was thinking it was just this kind of behavior that had filled up my 181 file at PSB and got me in so much trouble over the years.

Rosey finally spoke. "I can't expose the other OJB members to something like this."

"You guys are my only hope," I said and then turned to Tommy. "I thought you said you and Rafie wanted to solve this case. I guess what you meant was you were looking for a safe way to solve it."

"That's not fair, Shane," Tommy said. I could tell I'd hurt his feelings.

Then Sally Quinn stood, and my heart sank. She was my partner and if she turned on me, they all would. Her freckled schoolgirl face looked solemnly toward us. "Who ever promised police work was gonna be all neat and tidy?" she said. "I love this department. We're all members of an exclusive club that is totally getting pissed on right now. Extraordinary times demand extraordinary measures. I think we should do what Shane suggested and take a flyer here. What's one trip to Vegas, more or less? At least this time, you guys won't lose any money or get the clap."

I could have kissed her.

Rafie stood next. "I'll go," he said.

"Okay," Rosey said. "But only me and Dario, if he agrees."

Dario took a moment, but then shook his head. "My dad told me to go into the grocery business 'cause people always gotta eat. I chose police work 'cause people also gotta have protectors who enforce the rules. I live by the rules. I believe in them. I can't do this, man. I won't blow ya in, but I can't go along either."

I told him I understood. Then we all watched in silence as he got to his feet and left my yard by the back gate. He walked slowly down the canal path and around the corner to where his squad car was parked.

"I guess that means all the rest of us are in," Tommy said, and one by one they all nodded. I walked inside and grabbed my last back-up piece. It was an S&W Airlight revolver which I kept locked up in my gun safe in the living room. The rest of them followed me into the house and watched as I clipped the fifteen-ounce round-wheel onto my belt.

"Thanks," I said, feeling a wave of gratitude.

"I'm not doing it for you," Rosey said. "I'm doing it for my friend, Alexa." Then, because that sounded so sentimental, he pointed at the small thirty-eight riding my hip and quickly added, "If that's your version of firepower, we're gonna be seriously outgunned. I hate gettin' in a face down with a Crip crew that's packin' choppers. All we got is department-issue iron and a pocket full of light loads."

"I know where we can pick up some heavy firepower," I said.

We left Venice in four cars with red lights flashing, sped down the 405 Freeway and made a quick run through Compton, where I shimmied through the broken back window of the house on Cypress. Once inside, I retrieved David Slade's fully automatic AR-70 from the deep recesses of his bedroom closet.

Chapter
56.

ON THE WAY to Van Nuys Airport I called Chooch at the hospital. He told me that Alexa's condition was unchanged and that Luther still wanted to keep her on life support, which didn't sound to me like a very good sign. I told Chooch where I was going and what I was trying to do.

"Dad, be careful," he warned. "I can't lose you both."

"Don't worry. You won't lose either of us," I said, knowing that promise would be out of my hands as soon as I hit Las Vegas.

"Mom's gonna make it, isn't she?" Chooch sounded lost. It was as if he'd become a little kid again, holding on to a desperate hope. Hearing him like that almost broke my heart. I told him I didn't know, that it was in God's hands. Then I said I loved him and, after a few empty promises, hung up. It was hard for Chooch being caught in limbo like this. Hard for both of us not to know what was waiting for us in the weeks ahead. So much depended on Alexa's survival. I tried to get my mind off these troubling thoughts and focus on the danger that lay only hours ahead in Vegas.

When I glanced in my rearview mirror, I could see Rafie and Tommy's maroon Crown Vic in the diamond lane, tracking behind me followed by Rosey's blue Toyota and Sally Quinn in a brown, department, plain wrap.

Several times during the last few days, I'd been wondering about Insane Wayne Watkins and the note he had written in blood that had saved my life. Rafie had told me outside of Stacy's mansion that he didn't know where Watkins came from. That he was new. Maybe it was time to find out. I radioed dispatch and ran him. He came back empty.

"Maybe Wayne Watkins is an alias," I said to the RTO. "Run me a deep cover check and get in touch with gang intel. Maybe he's in the gang book under his street handle, Insane Wayne."

I gave the operator my cell call-back number and hung up, looking for my off ramp. Lionel had given me specific directions to the airport, instructing me to exit the freeway at Roscoe Boulevard and go to Aviation. I was to look for a Syncro Airplane Interiors sign and turn left toward the field. From there he told me to proceed to the Syncro facility located at the end of the drive next to the runway. FOI security would check me through. I had informed Lionel earlier that I might bring a few people with me. He hadn't told me the size of his plane, or how many people he was bringing. The only information I had was the tail number: November-25-Lima. I hoped he would have enough room for all of us.

I spotted the Syncro sign and turned as directed, pulling up to a field gate. After giving an airport guard our names and the tail number, he opened up and waved all four cars through.

We pulled up in front of Syncro, which was housed in a series of factory-style, bow truss buildings that looked like they'd been built during World War II. Elijah Mustafa and two of his tan-suited, hat-wearing brothers were waiting. They glared impassively, as always. I wondered if they had classes at FOI where they practiced that look in front of a mirror.

I waved at Mustafa, who ignored my greeting, so I parked, pulled the case containing the Beretta AR-70 out of my trunk, and walked toward the building. He grabbed my arm as I passed and pulled me back.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said. "Where you going? Whatta ya got there?"

Sally, Rosey, Tommy, and Rafie were out of their cars and in a similar face-down with his other two stone-faced guards.

"This guy doesn't really think he's gonna pat me down," Rosey said, looking at the man in front of him. At six-foot-four, weighing at least two-fifty, Rosencamp towered over the FOI guard. "You best step off, little brother."

"We've got strict orders to check people we don't know for guns," Mustafa said softly. "Open that case."

"Let's not go down this road," I said. "These guys are all LAPD. We're not gonna get shook down like a bunch a street G's at a concert. Make an exception."

It was a tense situation until Mustafa reconsidered. He nodded to his two guys and they stepped away from us.

"Let's go," I said, and we headed into the building.

Once inside, I could see why Elijah Mustafa chose this place. There was a large, narrow hallway that led to an airplane hangar in the back. One way in, one way out
a perfect layout to control security. The walls were lined with photographs of plush airplane interiors that Syncro had installed. Through an open door I saw long upholstery tables where airplane seats were waiting to be covered in fire-retardant, FAA-approved fabric that someone once told me cost thousands of dollars per yard. The building had been cleared of all employees, so no one was working.

We entered a vast enclosed hangar. The floor space was painted shiny white and the building interior was as sterile as an operating room. In the center of the hangar sat a huge, snow-white Boeing Business Jet, a corporate 737. It had been foolish to wonder about passenger accommodations because the plane was large enough to carry a college marching band. Painted on the jet's tail in gold letters trimmed in black was N-25-L.

Rosey came up behind me and whispered in my ear. "Nobody but an asshole would pick a jail sentence for a tail number."

He was right
25 with an L was known throughout the criminal justice system as a twenty-five-year-to-life sentence. The lunacy of that was underlined by the fact that the rapper Snoop Dogg had been the first one to coin the phrase.

A group of about twenty well-dressed men and women were clustered under the wing of the jet. The mostly African-American men were all done up in Melrose fashions. The women were of various shades and sizes. Beautiful and sexy, they all looked straight from the Victoria's Secret catalog. White seemed to be the color of the day. Aside from the jet, Lionel Wright was dressed in a white tux. Holding his arm and looking spectacular in a glittering, white sequined mini-dress was Patch McKenzie. Lionel spotted me and broke away from her, his heels echoing on the hard shiny floor as he approached.

"That's some posse you got, brother," he said, looking at Rosey, Tommy, and Rafie. "Gonna have t' bag you boys some bitches." Right now he hardly sounded like a guy with a business school degree. He was in his Bust A Cap persona, talking street. I introduced him to everybody. When I got to Sally Quinn he said, "Okay, this is working." Grinning at her, using a wide, bad boy smile. Getting some swerve on.

As he reached for her hand, Sally took it and said, "Watch where you try and put that, 'cause I'm packin."

"I like this girl," Lionel laughed.

Just then, Elijah Mustafa called for attention.

Everyone fell quiet. When Elijah spoke, people seemed to listen. He never cursed or used slang. That was part of his quiet force.

"I'm Elijah Mustafa, with Fruit of Islam Security," he began. "We've been hired by Mr. Wright to guarantee your safety at this event tonight." Everyone stayed very quiet to hear him because he had barely raised his voice. "We believe that Mr. Clark and Mr. Wright may be in some danger. I know that some of you are aware of this fact and have brought weapons. I won't embarrass us all and attempt to take them away from you, but I'm asking you to please, leave them behind in your vehicles and let us take care of your safety. The flight to Las Vegas is approximately one hour and forty minutes. We will land at McCarran International at the executive jet terminal. After we deplane, ground transportation will be provided by the Fruit of Islam and will consist of twelve well
-
trained men and a caravan of ten Navigators
enough for all of us. Once we are in the hotel parking structure we want everyone to stay in the SUVs until my team can clear a secure path into the pre
-
party being held at the Mandalay Bay Hotel, in the Foundation Room of the House of Blues.