She slid in and smiled wanly at him. "Our spot," she said dryly.
"If it is, we've gotta either train these cockroaches or start killing them." She looked puzzled, so he lifted the sugar shaker, and the eight-legged German roach took off like a shot.
She let out an involuntary feminine squeal, then returned to form, slapping at it bare-handed and missing. The roach dodged, shooting across the table as Alexa slammed her palm down again the only thing she hurt was her hand. The roach went off the end of the table, hit the floor, and was gone.
"Sign him. Good broken-field run." Shane smiled.
She checked around the perimeter of the booth, looking for relatives, then glanced at Shane. "Strong survival instincts. We should take lessons."
He took out the Arrowhead pictures he'd had developed and slid them across the table to her. "Know any of these guys?"
She went through them while he waited.
"Yep. All of 'em. This one is Calvin Sheets." She pushed a picture over and showed it to Shane. It was of the medium-built man with the ash-blond hair, setting a box down at the back door. Shane realized he'd been right, that Sheets had been the man standing with Tony Spivack at the limo.
"This is Coy Love," she said, sliding another photograph over to Shane, who could see why you wouldn't want to "fuck with Love." He was large, over six feet, with a huge, jutting jaw and a cruel, angular face. He had a thin, lipless mouth, straight as a ruler.
"These other two guys were cops on Calvin's Coliseum detail. They both got terminated with him on his bullshit time-sheet hustle." She pushed those shots over. "Lon Sherwood and Carter something, I can't remember his last name."
She looked up, and the waiter was back, hovering like a dragonfly over a lake, waiting for her order.
"I'll have what he's having."
"Chu makin' my day." He left, grumbling.
"Cummins is president of the Long Beach City Council, and I found out Spivack Development Corporation owns Cal-VIP Homes." Shane filled her in on the Long Beach City Council meeting; the dispute over the transfer of the naval yard to L. A. for water; the chase through Long Beach trying to catch Sheets, Spivack, and Cummins; and their eventual helicopter escape. She was holding her briefcase on her lap in both hands, ready to strike in case another cockroach took off on an end run around the Mexican condiments.
"You had a busy day," she said.
"I won't ask how your day went, for fear it'll severely depress me."
"I hope DeMarco is staying busy, 'cause I'm getting good prima facie stuff," she said, needling him.
"Don't worry about DeMarco. The Saint's all over this. He says with what he has, we'll probably want to to file a civil action."
"Good. 'Cause I'd heard he'd become an alcoholic a blackout drunk and that's why he pulled the pin."
"Don't worry about Dee. He's kicking ass."
Blackout drunk? I'm fucked, Shane thought.
She looked at her watch as the waiter set down her Coke and left. "I ran both Drucker and Kono through the Office of Administrative Services at the Personnel Group," she said. "Drucker just got reassigned from Southwest to Hollenbeck. He's working street patrol day shift. Kono has a worrisome nickname. They call him Bongo. I'm hoping that's because he's of Hawaiian ancestry, and not because he beats people like a drum."
She picked up her Coke and drained it. "Thirsty," she apologized. "Anyway, Kono's still in South Bureau, but now he's working day watch in University Division. That means we're going to have to split up if we want to follow both guys." She glanced at her Timex. "We better get moving. Day watch breaks in forty minutes. Which one a' these raisin cakes do you want?"
"Ladies first."
"Chivalry always knocks me out," she said drolly. "Okay, since he's closer, I'll take Drucker."
He put some money down on the table for the two Cokes, and they both stood.
"Let's communicate on a tactical frequency," she said. "One of the high ones nobody uses. Organized Crime is on tac ten, and that division doesn't have much going now. Let's use that."
"I don't have a police radio; my car's in Venice. I'm using a rental."
"You really bring it all to the table, don't you, Scully," she said sarcastically.
He needed her help, so he let it go.
"We can pick up a handset at IAD. I saw a whole bunch of them in a box in the IO's section," Shane suggested.
She nodded. "We better move it, or they'll both be EOW before we get there."
???
The University Division station was an old concrete four-story building located on South Adams Boulevard, near USC. Shane left the Taurus in the only available spot he could find, half a block up the street. He fed the meter, moved away from it, and sat on a bus bench across from the station. From there he had an unobstructed view of the station parking lot. He had on an L. A. Dodgers cap, pulled low over his eyes, and a dull green-and-brown camouflage windbreaker he had picked up that afternoon at a surplus shop downtown for fifteen bucks.
Shane felt invisible and ready for action: Mr. Brown-and-Green in his camo jacket and dirt-brown Taurus. He had the police handset in his lap and was watching as the day watch started streaming out in civilian clothes, on the way to their private vehicles. It was 5:45.
"Six to Five. Target D is in motion." He heard Alexa's voice coming over the radio on tactical frequency 10. They had chosen their radio code numbers in the parking lot outside the Bradbury while doing a quick equipment check. He picked up his handset.
"Copy, Six. I'm still parked and waiting."
"Roger that," she said. "Target D just left Hollenbeck, heading up onto 91. He's westbound."
"Roger. Standing by on tac ten." He laid the radio on his lap and sat on the bus bench waiting for Kris "Bongo" Kono.
Officer Kono was one of the last ones out the station side door. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and was carrying a duffel bag. He sprinted to his car, obviously late. He jumped into a blue '76 Camaro with racing stripes and a primered left front fender, then pulled quickly out of the lot, burning rubber.
Shane was caught leaning. He was half a block away from the Taurus and late getting back to it, fumbling to unlock the door as the Camaro made a sharp turn out of the parking lot. The 455-cubic-inch engine and blown mufflers on the muscle car roared angrily past and sped up the street.
"Shit," Shane said, finally piling into the Taurus and starting it up. He found a hole in traffic and pulled out, already dangerously behind. He watched, frustrated, as the Camaro went through the intersection up ahead on the yellow light. Shane tried to make up ground, spinning his wheels, chirping rubber, trying to get around slower traffic. When he got to the cross street, the light was against him, so he leaned on his horn and broke recklessly through the intersection against the red light, causing an eastbound truck on Atlantic to slam on its brakes. The angry traffic started screaming at him, blaring their horns and flipping him off.
As Shane shot through the red light, he could see the blue Camaro one block ahead, speeding through another light on the yellow.
"Slow the fuck down!" Shane yelled at the Camaro as he was forced to stop at the second light, trapped behind a row of cars, unable to get around them. He could see the Camaro a block ahead, turning right, heading up onto the 110.
"Come on, come on, come on…" Shane begged the five-way light that was trapping him. Then it turned green, but an old woman in a rusting Subaru was making a cautious left, blocking traffic, afraid to go. "Come on, lady. You got the fuckin' right-of-way!" he shouted at his windshield.
"Six, I'm on 91, heading west, passing Olive," Alexa's voice announced. Static, then: "Six, do you copy?"