Three Shirt Deal (2008) (13 page)

"Whose car is this?"

"It belongs to a friend, Wade Wyatt, okay? You can call him. I've got his cell. He lets me borrow it. I had a hot date. UCLA girl. Just dropped her off."

"Of course, that's total bullshit because I just saw you racing this thing at close to a hundred miles an hour up on Mulholland."

"I don't think so. Must've been another car that looks like this one."

"It's a half-million-dollar McLaren," Secada said, still standing in a cover-fire position with her gun drawn. "There aren't ten of those in the entire United States. Come up with something else."

He held out his hands and smiled.

"Okay, okay. Look, can you guys put the guns away? It's a little frightening."

I reholstered my weapon. Secada lowered hers but kept it at the ready.

"Keep talking," I said. "I wanta hear the real story."

"Maybe you could cut me some slack, Officer." He smiled again. "Would that be too much to ask?"

"Why would I do that, Mr. Palomino?"

"Professional courtesy," he said.

"Professional what?"

"Can I reach into my pocket? I want to show you something."

I glanced at Scout. She looked puzzled, too, but finally nodded.

"Okay," I said. "Go slow."

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out another wallet. This was thick and black, like the ones detectives carry. Then he opened it and showed me a beautiful gold and porcelain engraved police badge and ID card.

"What's this?" Scout asked.

"My credentials. I'm with the North Van Nuys Transit Authority Police," he said. "I work closely with Homeland Security."

"Transit Authority Police," I said, and looked over again at Scout.

"Is that anything like the Disneyland Police?" she deadpanned.

"It's an actual police department," Rico said. "I'm sure, as brother officers, we can work something out."

"Just a minute. Stand right there," I said.

I led Scout back to the Caddie and handed her the badge. "Look at this."

She examined the gold shield. It was expensive and well made. Across the top was inscribed, north van nuys transit authority p
. D
. The credentials in the glassine pocket read, enric
o j
orge palomino, commissioner of police.

"What's with this?" Secada said. "This weasel's only twenty
-
six and he's already a P
. C
.? I wasn't figuring to make commissioner until I was at least fifty."

"You ever hear of these guys?"

She shook her head. "Lemme check." She got in the car and picked up the rover mike.

I watched Rico Palomino standing next to Wyatt's car, looking cool and confident. I was trying to understand why Wade Wyatt would let this guy drive his super-rare, half-million-dollar car a
t b
reakneck speed down Mulholland, risking its destruction. Then it hit me. Actually, it was pretty obvious. The car was undoubtedly insured and they were betting high stakes on the outcome of the road races. That meant Enrico Palomino was probably the best street racer Wade knew.

Scout got out of the car and handed the badge back to me. "It's legit. A small, transit police department, located in North Van Nuys, chartered and registered." She bit her lip. "What do you wanta do?"

"I don't care about citing this guy for reckless driving, but something isn't right. Let's turn him loose and check this out."

"Okay with me," she said.

I walked over and handed Rico back his expensive badge. "Okay, Commissioner," I said, almost choking on the words. "Sorry for the inconvenience. You have a nice night."

He smiled, unable to hide a tinge of entitlement. He took the credentials and got back behind the wheel of the McLaren. Then he pulled out and drove slowly up Sunset, disappearing like a silver ghost in the dense coastal fog.

Chapter
16.

IT WAS WELL AFTER MIDNIGHT BY THE TIME WE DROVE BACK TO Bel Air. I dropped Scout at her car, which was parked on Madrono, two blocks from the Wyatt estate. We agreed to meet for breakfast in the morning. In the meantime I intended to find out more about the North Van Nuys Transit Authority. If I could get an address I would run over there in the morning and check it out.

She got out of the Caddie, but hesitated before saying goodbye. "Listen, I agreed to do this stakeout with you because we weren't gonna touch anything, just watch. But we ended up pulling another guy over and drawing our guns. A police commissioner, yet."

"We must be good," I said. "We're peeling an onion here. I want these guys."

"My grandmother used to tell me an old Mexican story about that," she said. "It's about wanting too much."

"Oh, boy."

"The way the story goes, this little boy is on a beach and finds an oyster with a huge pearl the size of a robin's egg inside. He shows it to the village elders, and they know it will feed and clothe the town for years. But there is a tiny, dark spot on the side.

They call the pearl doctor, who comes from another village and examines the treasure. He says he can sand the pearl and maybe the spot goes away, but maybe it gets bigger, making the pearl less valuable. The townspeople tell the pearl doctor to sand the pearl. But as he sands, the spot gets bigger. Now the pearl doctor explains that with more sanding the spot might get smaller again and the value of the pear will be restored. They decide to keep sanding until it's worth only a few pesos as pearl dust. They ended up with nothing."

"What's your point?"

"That's what this case feels like. It started with a murder over a six-pack of beer, but things didn't seem right. A tiny dark spot. We've been sanding and it just keeps getting bigger and bigger. And now we're in major trouble and if we're not careful, we're both gonna end up getting sacked with nothing to show for it."

"Except we aren't after money, we're after truth," I reminded her. "Didn't you tell me just yesterday that you gotta take on the shitty ones a case at a time?"

She just grinned.

When I woke the next morning, Alexa was already gone. She left me a note.

Shane, got up at three A
. M
. Went to work.

Tony gets home in two days. Gotta be ready.

Love, A.

I went into the kitchen and sat at the table drinking burnt coffee, then called the Fiscal Crimes Division at Parker Center. One of their jobs is checking out business ownerships and incorporation papers. I asked the civilian assistant to run a check on the North Van Nuys Transit Authority.

She quickly came up with the NVNTA's operations charter and read it to me. The little Valley bus company was a nonprofit that was created to shuttle the elderly and people with disabilities to their jobs in the morning and pick them up at night. The bus service had its own transit police department that had been certified by Homeland Security. The transit line currently operated five buses. I asked for a list of the police commissioners and the officers of the company.

I was put on hold while she went on Nexis-Lexis to locate the information. A few minutes later she came back on the line.

"Okay, here it is," she said. "The address is six-three-five-eight Midline Drive in North Van Nuys."

I
leaned over and grabbed the phone book, which still lay open on the counter displaying the ad for the Church of Destruction.

"You sure? That's a towing service and body shop," I told her.

"According to their corporation filings, it's also the legal address for NVNTA."

"Okay, give me the names of the officers and commissioners."

"There're five. In no order of importance: Tyler Cisneros, Enrico Palomino, and Jose Diego are all police commissioners. Wade Wyatt and Michael Church are commissioners and transit authority officers."

Most of the people I'd been messing with for the past three days turned out to be part of this little transit authority police department in North Van Nuys.

The more I sanded this pearl, the larger the black spot grew.

Chapter
17.

SECADA AND I WERE SEATED AT ONE OF THE UPHOLSTERED train booths inside the Pacific Dining Car restaurant in downtown Los Angeles. It was almost nine a
. M
. I was having Swiss eggs, Engineer Style. Secada was slaughtering a Trainman's Breakfast, pushing the avocado, onions, and eggs into a pile in the center of her plate, knife and fork at the ready.

"You're telling me that every one of these people are P
. C. S
for that little bus company police department?" she asked, glancing sideways at the list of names the Fiscal Crimes Division had given me. "What the hell is that all about?" She wrinkled her nose and stabbed an egg yolk for emphasis. Yellow oozed.

"Maybe, like us, they just like the feel of a badge in their pockets."

"Come on, Shane. These guys are running some kinda scam."

The information seemed to have cost Secada her appetite and she began poking at the mashed-up contents on the platter in front of her, rearranging it with her fork, peering into the mess as if she was searching for bugs.

Our waiter came up and smiled at her hesitantly.

"Everything all right? Is your meal acceptable?"

He was looking at Secada with concern, holding her eyes for a bit longer than necessary. The Pacific Dining Car is one of L
. A
.'s gastronomic landmarks, and is housed in an authentic Union Pacific rail car on Sixth Street. Because it's open twenty
-
four hours, it's a haunt for night owls who often collided with the incoming five a
. M
. brokerage crowd. The restaurant's also a favorite spot for cops, being just a short drive from Parker Center.

"It's fine," she told the waiter. "Just doing some food art." Then she lanced the poor guy with one of her high-voltage smiles. I heard him exhale before he moaned softly and turned away.

After the waiter left, I said, "A better question is what's the key that connects this little Valley bus line to them?"

"Are we getting sidetracked here?" she said. "Does any of this get us any closer to a writ of habeas corpus for Tru Hickman?"

"I think so ... I don't know why yet, but there's gotta be a reason Brian Devine and Tito Morales buried that kid on bad evidence. What I want to know is why a cop and a Deputy D
. A
. were protecting a gangster like Mike Church? We need to come up with that answer, and we need it before our transmittal letters and charge sheets come through from I
. A
."

"But there's still a big disconnect here," she persisted. "Okay, let's say this miscarriage of justice wasn't just sloppy police work. But does it have anything to do with Wade Wyatt or all of these guys being transit police commissioners?"

"I think it does."

"But what if it doesn't? What if that's just a random fact? What if it doesn't connect up to the motive for the killing, which as you recall, was over a six-pack of Bud Light."

"Okay, we don't have it yet. I admit that. But something is definitely not right and it's bigger than just some bad due-process on Tru Hickman's case."

"I agree. But which of these inconsistencies should we look at first? In a day, we're both gonna be on suspension."

"Let's split up. You go over to the Van Nuys high school where Mike Church spent his early years conking classmates for their lunch money. Check his senior class yearbook for these names." I picked up the list I'd made and handed it to her. "Find out if any of these other characters went there. Also, take that list of license plate names we got from Church's house."

She was skeptical. "You think it goes all the way back to high school?"

"Maybe. I saw Van Nuys High Wolves stickers on a few of those cars we ran. Something connects these people. Maybe it's as easy as they all went to Van Nuys High."

"What're you gonna do?"

"I read in the paper a few weeks ago that Tito Morales had a campaign headquarters in the Valley and was looking for volunteers. I thought I'd go down and join his campaign."

I saw an envious look cross her beautiful face. "Oh, that's a very cool idea. But I definitely think I should be the one to do that."

"The old Wonder Bread thing again?"

"Well, yeah," she nodded. "I mean, I'll blend in better, don't you think?"

"Blend in? Are you crazy? I hate to break this to you, Scout, but you blend in about like Eva Longoria at a tractor pull. I'm a better choice. I'll get some glasses and a Woody Allen sweater. I'll fall by and sign up. Don't worry, I'll be so boring, nobody will notice me."

"Shit, good idea." She pouted. "I should've come up with that." Then she looked down at her plate and started forking food into her mouth. "When you get to his campaign headquarters, see if you can get your hands on his contributors list," she said between bites.

"I can't just walk in there and start rifling his files. This is going to require a little finesse."