White Sister by Stephen J. Cannell

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