White Sister by Stephen J. Cannell Page A

what Rosey had told me, David Slade was a dirtbag. The road rage incidents, the crazy attempt to shake down the Sheriff's Department with that 911 call. That kind of character flaw didn't just suddenly pop up in your early twenties. This guy had been dirt from the beginning. So what was Alex a d oing messing with him? She should have sensed who he was under that fake smile and carefully clipped moustache.
    I was pretty sure he had never left his Crip gang, despite being on the LAPD. That was probably why he still lived in Compton. It was his hood. His old crew was kicking it there. He looked to be about the same age as Louis Maluga. I wondered if Slade knew Maluga back when he was a baby G doing corners.
    I picked up my radio mike and called communications. When they answered, I identified myself and said, "Wants, warrants and background on a Louis Maluga and Stacy Maluga."
    "Roger," the RTO came back. "Stand by."
    I was almost out of Newton, driving on Washington Boulevard, heading toward the Harbor Freeway.
    While I waited, I turned my thoughts to our Chief Filosiani's predecessor, Burl Brewer. Rosey was right, I had experienced firsthand the full extent of his corruption. I was the cop who finally had him arrested for conspiracy and murder back in the late 1990s. Had Chief Brewer somehow been involved with Lou Maluga and Lethal Force, Inc.? I knew I would never get an answer to that question, so I moved on.
    As I drove, I kept wondering why Slade had been found dead in Alexa's car. Was that old Academy relationship important? Did it affect everything that was happening now?
    They were not easy thoughts. They swung carelessly around in my brain like dangerous wrecking balls, knocking into emotional barriers, punching holes in my value system. If she could betray me like this, what was anything in my life worth?
    "One-L-Forty. On your wants, warrants, and background. Stand by."
    I keyed my mike. "Go."
    "Louis Maluga. Born March sixth, nineteen sixty-five to Rita Maluga, father unknown. He did five years in Soledad from ninety - nine to oh-five for aggravated assault and attempted murder. His first arrest was in Compton in nineteen eighty: assault with intent. Juvie never filed. Second arrest in April: attempted murder. Witness died same, result. Third arrest, June of ninety-nine: attempted rape, attempted murder. Witness disappeared. Never filed."
    "Okay, I get it. What about Stacy?"
    "Stacy Maluga, nee Stacy Adams. Born in Norway in seventy - two at a naval hospital. Moved to the states in seventy-three when her father was discharged. He was killed in nineteen seventy-five. DUI. Family moved to E Street in Compton. Her booking sheet is mostly drugs. She was also arrested in July of ninety-five for indecent exposure and lewd acts. She had sex on stage at a strip club."
    "Okay. Can you download both yellow sheets and fax them to my office at Homicide Special?"
    "Roger that."
    I gave her the number, then disconnected. I didn't ask for David Slade's yellow sheet because I knew there wouldn't be one. All his prior crimes had been sealed juvie busts, or he wouldn't have qualified for the felony waver. Everything he'd done wrong once he was on the LAPD would be in his PSB package, if I could find a way to access it. With all the heat coming down after his murder, it was going to be hard to get my hands on it. But I have friends and I'm devious, so I intended to try.
    Without really planning it, I realized I was heading back to my house in Venice. It was probably stupid to keep going home, but I was drawn there. That house was my only connection with Alexa. I kept thinking I'd walk in and find her with a perfectly plausible explanation. Or I'd find a message on our answering machine. If she was alive, I knew she would get in touch with me.
    I parked half a block away and moved down the street looking for department-issue, four-door sedans with black tires. Nothing. I kept in the shadows of a line of elm trees and worked my way past