White Sister by Stephen J. Cannell Page B
Authors: Stephen J. Cannell
Tags: Fiction, Thrillers, Mystery Fiction, Missing Persons, Los Angeles (Calif.), Police - California - Los Angeles, Scully; Shane (Fictitious character), Musical fiction, Sound recording industry, Hip-hop
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Mrs. Maluga."
"Then make a damn appointment with my attorney. He inna book. Name a Nathan Red," lobbing that name at me like incoming mortar fire.
Nathan Red was L . A .'s new Johnnie Cochrane, an African - American lawyer who handled high-profile media cases for wealthy minorities. When Nathan Red was behind the bar, somebody was usually about to be accused of racism.
"And you're sure you've never heard of LAPD Sergeant David Slade?" I continued on.
"What I be doin' scrillin' with some five-oh? I don't kick it with no po-lice. You go now, 'fore I have them put you out."
Stacy looked toward the kitchen, but Wayne and KZ were still gone, probably making me a glass of arsenic lemonade. She was angry that they were taking so long and sighed theatrically, then went to look for them, leaving me alone for a minute. For a street - smart, tough lady, this was a major error in field tactics. As soon as she was out of the room, I quickly moved to the sliding glass doors and opened them wide. Then I hurried to hide behind the bar. Just before I ducked down, I saw her pager sitting on the green marble top. I had already broken enough regs to end my career, so I thought what the hell and snatched it up, turned it off, dropped it in my coat pocket, and crouched low with my gun drawn.
A minute later, Wayne and KZ returned. "Where he be at?" KZ blurted.
They did a quick sweep of the living room, completely missed me, but then saw the open glass door and ran into the backyard. Adios, g-sters.
I waited until they were clear, then sprinted across the white area rugs and closed and locked the slider. Next I walked over to the bookcase, kneeled, and looked at the picture albums. I found one labeled for this year, pulled it out, and started paging through it. I was looking for a shot of David Slade like the ones I'd seen in his bedroom. Stacy Maluga was the star of most of the pictures. She had a tight gym-trained butt and long stripper's legs, which she dressed to show. There were shots of her at different private parties and rap music events, always the center of attention, often with her arms around well-known celebrities. On every page, there were pictures of her looking hot and trashy.
Then, sure enough, in one of the photos, there he was: Sgt. David Slade of the good old LAPD. All decked out in his black 211 suit partying his heart out with a bunch of guys in Crip head wraps, looking as out of place as a cockroach in a Waldorf salad. The picture also made a liar out of Stacy Maluga because in the shot, she was sitting on Slade's lap with her hand between his legs, groping him like a Tijuana hooker. He had his tongue halfway down her throat.
I pulled the picture out of the album just as Stacy came back in from the kitchen.
"Where's Wayne and KZ at?" she snapped.
"Stepped outside for a breath of fresh air," I said. Then I handed her the picture. "Tell me again how you never heard of David Slade."
Chapter 9.
SHE WAS FROZEN, holding the picture, looking for a suitable response.
"I want to know about that photograph," I pressed.
She looked up at me. Blue ice turning to hard steel.
Just then, I heard a car pull up out front. Seconds later, the front door was thrown open. I couldn't see the entry from the living room, but the door slammed so hard against the wall that the crystal chandelier shook, rattling the glass teardrops like wind chimes.
"Stacy!" a man roared.
"In here, Lou."
Then the biggest man I have ever seen lunged into the living room. He was carrying a foot-long .357 Israeli Desert Eagle, which is a huge chrome-plated gun, but despite its size, it still looked like a toy in Maluga's giant hand.
I'd seen pictures of him in the Calendar section of the L . A . Times, usually at some music awards banquet. The press shots didn't begin to capture the essence of him. He was a monster. Fro m w hat I'd read, he was half-black, half-Samoan. His head was basketball sized. Round black eyes glinted maniacally from under hooded
"Then make a damn appointment with my attorney. He inna book. Name a Nathan Red," lobbing that name at me like incoming mortar fire.
Nathan Red was L . A .'s new Johnnie Cochrane, an African - American lawyer who handled high-profile media cases for wealthy minorities. When Nathan Red was behind the bar, somebody was usually about to be accused of racism.
"And you're sure you've never heard of LAPD Sergeant David Slade?" I continued on.
"What I be doin' scrillin' with some five-oh? I don't kick it with no po-lice. You go now, 'fore I have them put you out."
Stacy looked toward the kitchen, but Wayne and KZ were still gone, probably making me a glass of arsenic lemonade. She was angry that they were taking so long and sighed theatrically, then went to look for them, leaving me alone for a minute. For a street - smart, tough lady, this was a major error in field tactics. As soon as she was out of the room, I quickly moved to the sliding glass doors and opened them wide. Then I hurried to hide behind the bar. Just before I ducked down, I saw her pager sitting on the green marble top. I had already broken enough regs to end my career, so I thought what the hell and snatched it up, turned it off, dropped it in my coat pocket, and crouched low with my gun drawn.
A minute later, Wayne and KZ returned. "Where he be at?" KZ blurted.
They did a quick sweep of the living room, completely missed me, but then saw the open glass door and ran into the backyard. Adios, g-sters.
I waited until they were clear, then sprinted across the white area rugs and closed and locked the slider. Next I walked over to the bookcase, kneeled, and looked at the picture albums. I found one labeled for this year, pulled it out, and started paging through it. I was looking for a shot of David Slade like the ones I'd seen in his bedroom. Stacy Maluga was the star of most of the pictures. She had a tight gym-trained butt and long stripper's legs, which she dressed to show. There were shots of her at different private parties and rap music events, always the center of attention, often with her arms around well-known celebrities. On every page, there were pictures of her looking hot and trashy.
Then, sure enough, in one of the photos, there he was: Sgt. David Slade of the good old LAPD. All decked out in his black 211 suit partying his heart out with a bunch of guys in Crip head wraps, looking as out of place as a cockroach in a Waldorf salad. The picture also made a liar out of Stacy Maluga because in the shot, she was sitting on Slade's lap with her hand between his legs, groping him like a Tijuana hooker. He had his tongue halfway down her throat.
I pulled the picture out of the album just as Stacy came back in from the kitchen.
"Where's Wayne and KZ at?" she snapped.
"Stepped outside for a breath of fresh air," I said. Then I handed her the picture. "Tell me again how you never heard of David Slade."
Chapter 9.
SHE WAS FROZEN, holding the picture, looking for a suitable response.
"I want to know about that photograph," I pressed.
She looked up at me. Blue ice turning to hard steel.
Just then, I heard a car pull up out front. Seconds later, the front door was thrown open. I couldn't see the entry from the living room, but the door slammed so hard against the wall that the crystal chandelier shook, rattling the glass teardrops like wind chimes.
"Stacy!" a man roared.
"In here, Lou."
Then the biggest man I have ever seen lunged into the living room. He was carrying a foot-long .357 Israeli Desert Eagle, which is a huge chrome-plated gun, but despite its size, it still looked like a toy in Maluga's giant hand.
I'd seen pictures of him in the Calendar section of the L . A . Times, usually at some music awards banquet. The press shots didn't begin to capture the essence of him. He was a monster. Fro m w hat I'd read, he was half-black, half-Samoan. His head was basketball sized. Round black eyes glinted maniacally from under hooded
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