Hollywood Tough (2002) by Stephen - Scully 03 Cannell Page B
Authors: Stephen - Scully 03 Cannell
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wanted to be fresh for tomorrow's meeting with Chief Filosiani, so he went to bed at ten and was sound asleep by 10:02.
He had an unsettling dream.
Chooch was dragging a big mahogany coffin up the hill at the New Calvary Cemetery, tugging it up to the edge of an open grave. When he got it there, he looked at Shan e a nd smiled.
"It's called a Heaven Rider," his son said proudly in th e d ream. "My eses will all come. Vatos will talk about my bravery. They will celebrate my life." Suddenly, the chapel bell started ringing, and then it sounded more and more like a telephone.
Shane opened his eyes and looked at the bedside clock. It was almost eleven. The phone kept ringing. He sat up in bed and fumbled the receiver out of the cradle, noticing that Alexa still wasn't there.
"Hello," he said.
"Is this Sergeant Shane Scully?" a woman's voice asked. "Yes. Who is this?"
"Detective Carla DePass, Homicide."
Uh-oh, Shane thought, but said, "What can I do for you, Detective?"
"My partner, Detective Lou Ruta, and I are working a homicide at West Eleventh Street, just east of Hoover. We'd appreciate it if you could roll on this, right now."
"I'm not assigned to Homicide. In fact, I don't even go back on active duty till tomorrow."
"We don't need help investigating the murder. We need some help identifying the vic. We're at 2635 West Eleventh, Los Angeles. How soon can you make it here?"
"That's gonna take me half an hour."
"Don't let it take any longer," she said, and was gone. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. That address was somewhere down in the Rampart Division.
Then he had a dark premonition as to who'd died.
Chapter 12.
STAR
"Detective Ruta's in the back by the garage," a young uniformed policeman told Shane after he had identified himself. Shane hung his creds in the handkerchief pocket of his blazer and started up the narrow concrete driveway. The house was a ramshackle California Craftsman, an architectural style popular in Southern California in the thirties and forties. This one had seen better days. The low wood dormers flaked paint, and sagging drainpipes and window shutters made the once fashionable structure look forlorn. This part of Rampart was ethnically mixed; the house on West 1 1 th was located on a street that, a few years back, had been all Hispanic, but Vietnamese and Koreans were beginning to buy up the neighborhood. Asian and Mexican families were standing in their doorways up and down the street, looking at the police circus parked in the center of the block.
Shane got to the head of the drive where Detective DePass, a middle-aged blonde in plainclothes with a weight lifter's build and close-cropped white hair, stopped him. "You said half an hour. It's twice that. Ruta is chewing my ass."
"Well, let's go calm him down then," Shane said. "Which one is he?"
She pointed out Detective Ruta.
Ruta was one of those police nightmares that every co p l ooks at and thinks Please, dear God, don't let me end up like that. He was at least seventy pounds overweight with a drinker's beet-red complexion and a nose like a small Idaho potato. His unkempt mustache was growing down both sides of his mouth in a modified Fu Manchu, or was it a Pancho Villa? He looked like he was just waiting for somebody to say something that would give him an excuse to kick the shit out of them.
A second Blue stopped Shane before he reached Ruta. "You have to sign the Crime Scene Attendance sheet, Sarge," the rookie said, so Shane took the man's clipboard and signed himself in at 12:07 A . M .
"Scully, you're with me," Ruta called, waving a meaty hand at him and walking toward the back porch. He had never met Ruta, but Shane had gotten so much press coverage in the last two years that most cops knew him on sight.
Shane ignored the fat sergeant and veered toward the garage. He could see crime techs working inside through the half-open door. There was a police evidence table out front and he could see the contents of a beaded
He had an unsettling dream.
Chooch was dragging a big mahogany coffin up the hill at the New Calvary Cemetery, tugging it up to the edge of an open grave. When he got it there, he looked at Shan e a nd smiled.
"It's called a Heaven Rider," his son said proudly in th e d ream. "My eses will all come. Vatos will talk about my bravery. They will celebrate my life." Suddenly, the chapel bell started ringing, and then it sounded more and more like a telephone.
Shane opened his eyes and looked at the bedside clock. It was almost eleven. The phone kept ringing. He sat up in bed and fumbled the receiver out of the cradle, noticing that Alexa still wasn't there.
"Hello," he said.
"Is this Sergeant Shane Scully?" a woman's voice asked. "Yes. Who is this?"
"Detective Carla DePass, Homicide."
Uh-oh, Shane thought, but said, "What can I do for you, Detective?"
"My partner, Detective Lou Ruta, and I are working a homicide at West Eleventh Street, just east of Hoover. We'd appreciate it if you could roll on this, right now."
"I'm not assigned to Homicide. In fact, I don't even go back on active duty till tomorrow."
"We don't need help investigating the murder. We need some help identifying the vic. We're at 2635 West Eleventh, Los Angeles. How soon can you make it here?"
"That's gonna take me half an hour."
"Don't let it take any longer," she said, and was gone. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. That address was somewhere down in the Rampart Division.
Then he had a dark premonition as to who'd died.
Chapter 12.
STAR
"Detective Ruta's in the back by the garage," a young uniformed policeman told Shane after he had identified himself. Shane hung his creds in the handkerchief pocket of his blazer and started up the narrow concrete driveway. The house was a ramshackle California Craftsman, an architectural style popular in Southern California in the thirties and forties. This one had seen better days. The low wood dormers flaked paint, and sagging drainpipes and window shutters made the once fashionable structure look forlorn. This part of Rampart was ethnically mixed; the house on West 1 1 th was located on a street that, a few years back, had been all Hispanic, but Vietnamese and Koreans were beginning to buy up the neighborhood. Asian and Mexican families were standing in their doorways up and down the street, looking at the police circus parked in the center of the block.
Shane got to the head of the drive where Detective DePass, a middle-aged blonde in plainclothes with a weight lifter's build and close-cropped white hair, stopped him. "You said half an hour. It's twice that. Ruta is chewing my ass."
"Well, let's go calm him down then," Shane said. "Which one is he?"
She pointed out Detective Ruta.
Ruta was one of those police nightmares that every co p l ooks at and thinks Please, dear God, don't let me end up like that. He was at least seventy pounds overweight with a drinker's beet-red complexion and a nose like a small Idaho potato. His unkempt mustache was growing down both sides of his mouth in a modified Fu Manchu, or was it a Pancho Villa? He looked like he was just waiting for somebody to say something that would give him an excuse to kick the shit out of them.
A second Blue stopped Shane before he reached Ruta. "You have to sign the Crime Scene Attendance sheet, Sarge," the rookie said, so Shane took the man's clipboard and signed himself in at 12:07 A . M .
"Scully, you're with me," Ruta called, waving a meaty hand at him and walking toward the back porch. He had never met Ruta, but Shane had gotten so much press coverage in the last two years that most cops knew him on sight.
Shane ignored the fat sergeant and veered toward the garage. He could see crime techs working inside through the half-open door. There was a police evidence table out front and he could see the contents of a beaded
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