White Sister by Stephen J. Cannell Page A

and not getting one.
    A few minutes later, Baldly returned. "You strapped?" he asked.
    "Yeah."
    "Gimme it."
    "Hey, Mister whoever you are. In my line of work, letting go of your gun is a career felony. I don't give up this piece unless you pry it outta my cold, dead hand."
    He studied me for a long moment, then he pulled up his Lakers shirt and showed me a mean-looking automatic that looked like a big 9mm Glock or some equally brutal, hard case piece of iron.
    "I work security here," he informed me. "You go off on me and your ass gets served. We straight on that?"
    "Very impressive." I smiled and pointed at his piece. "Hope you're permitted for that thing."
    He didn't smile back. "KZ, walk this motherfucker's six," he said, and we headed out of the kitchen single-file. Baldy was leading the way, with me following. KZ was trailing at six o'clock.
    Two doorways and a short, narrow hallway took us into an expansive living room. The place was overdecorated, but reeked of money. Some Melrose designer had made a killing here. Inch-thick glass coffee tables with sculpted chrome legs squatted over large, white area rugs. Lots of leopard - and tiger-print sofas were placed around the room like sleeping jungle cats. The ceiling was at least fifteen feet high and adorned with expensive, carved beams. A built-in bookcase ran along one wall and was full of pictures in silver frames and expensive knickknacks, but not many books. There was a line of what looked like leather-bound photo albums on the bottom shelf. Gold records hung on every wall.
    Standing in the center of all this eclectic expense, wearing a pink terrycloth robe, was a woman about thirty years old, with white - blond hair and a strong jaw. She was pretty in a hard, strip-club kind of way. You could tell that under that fuzzy pink robe she had very nice equipment. She dissected me with angry ice-blue eyes.
    "Mrs. Maluga?"
    "Hey, Wayne? This fool be packin'?" she asked, the words accented by the street. She was looking over at Baldy, who was now revealed to me as Wayne. He didn't look like a Wayne; he looked like a Sluggo or a Spike.
    "Man wouldn't give up his strap, Stacy."
    She glowered at me. "I don't allow no chrome in here." I guess she wasn't counting all the chunky ordnance Wayne and KZ were packing.
    "I'm a police officer. It's against regulations for me to surrender my weapon."
    " 'Cept it's my crib," she answered. Her voice still full of flat vowels and the colorful lilt of the hood. She was Caucasian, but talked ghetto ... a white sister.
    I wasn't about to do another round on whether or not I could keep my gun, so I didn't respond, and just moved on. "Do you own a white Escalade?"
    "So what if I do?" she finally said. "Zat against the law now?"
    "The vehicle was involved in a fatal accident tonight. A man named David Slade died at the scene." I watched her carefully as I said Slade's name.
    Nothing. Her expression remained cold and steady. Then she said, "Don't know no David Slade. That Cad got vicked last week when I was shopping on Beverly. Slade must be the busta who jacked it."
    She glanced at Wayne, who nodded.
    "You report it stolen?" I pressed.
    "I got a lotta cars, sugar. Didn't get around to it just yet. Wayne gonna do it Monday."
    "David Slade was a police officer, so I don't think he stole your car," I said, dropping it on her and watching to see how she handled it.
    "Wayne," she said softly. It must have been some sort of prearranged signal because Wayne and KZ suddenly turned and walked out of the room, leaving Mrs. Maluga and me alone.
    "Lou Maluga is your husband?" I was out of time and already down to fly-casting. Flicking an empty hook across the water, hoping to snag something.
    She watched me for a long moment. Then she said, "If that be all, I got things need tending," pulling the belt on her pink robe tighter.
    "I'm trying to find out what a dead police officer was doing i n y our stolen car. I'm afraid this is going to take a little longer,