White Sister: A Shane Scully Novel by Stephen J. Cannell

Author:Stephen J. Cannell [Cannell, Stephen J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Thrillers, General
ISBN: 9781429902632
Google: fhlLf_u4cmwC
Amazon: B002GYI94C
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2006-01-01T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 34.

WHAT THE HELL'S going on?" Tommy said. He sat down on the amphitheater bench beside me.

"I've been wondering how an LAPD sergeant, like Slade, can pull guns on civilians and then walk out from under the I. A. complaints with just some days off and a departmental reprimand," I said. "Why didn't any of the civilians this guy was pulling down on go to the District Attorney and get him to file a criminal complaint?"

"If Alexa was involved with him, maybe she kicked those charges loose and made peace for him with the D. A.," Tommy said.

"And then she calls up the County Sheriffs and tips them to the voice print idea on the nine-one-one call in Malibu? How's that fit?" I said. "She helps him beat the road-rage beefs but turns him in on the nine-one-one thing?"

"Shane's right," Tommy said. "Doesn't make much sense."

They exchanged looks, so I went on. "Since I'm on everybody's shit list, I was hoping to get you guys to check with PSB tomorrow.

Get somebody down there to pull those old road-rage incidents. See exactly who the original complainants were. I need full background checks on them. I'm going to give you guys Alexa's computer; you'll find a file marked overtime deployment schedules. It opens with the password 'Lacey.' Scroll down a few pages and you'll find a lot of e-mails between Slade and Alexa. They're from the last two months. On the surface, they look like love letters, and at the end there's some kinda blackmail threat on Alexa from Slade. But I don't think that's what they are anymore. They talk about having a floor score, which I originally thought was sex, but it's not. It's "

"A rap group," Rafie finished. "Curtis Clark. I just got his new CD, Savage Bitch."

I nodded. "The e-mails contain the names of rap groups and music management companies in messages written to sound like love letters. One e-mail mentions the Biltmore Hotel on Pico. There's no Biltmore on Pico. They talk about having a meeting at the Crypto Motel in room four-fifty-seven. No such place. But my son tells me there's a rap group called Crypto Four-Fifty-Seven. I think the whole thing is code. You need to take the computer to Secure Documents and get somebody you trust down there to decode it. But you guys need to keep this to yourselves. I think when we get the cheese, it will blow the top off this murder case and it might not make the guys on the sixth floor happy."

"It still doesn't lay down for me," Rafie said. "Why is she passing e-mails back and forth with Slade, who was dirty?"

"Yeah," Tommy said, "the guy was a shitcake."

I didn't want to lay it all out yet, but Rafie read my expression. "You got a theory, don't you?" he said, then added, "If you want us in this, we need all of it."

"There's only one way it makes sense," I finally said. "The reason the road rage

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