Stephen Cannell - White sister

I glanced over my shoulder at the back porch and saw lights going on inside. I heard Rafie and Tommy calling my name. It wouldn't be long before they'd be out here. I started frantically looking around for a hide-a-key under the bumpers. I found it in the right front wheel well, stashed high up behind the headlight a small metal box attached by a magnet. I pulled it off, opened it, and slipped the key out. There was a small alarm remote on the key, so I chirped it and opened the door.

The car was loaded with expensive extras: leopard seats, color TV in the back, fifty-channel satellite dish on the roof. It had the latest GPS and telephone, and a sound system with enough muscle to blow all the fur off a pimp's collar. I opened the glove compartment and pulled out the registration. In the dim light from the open glove box, I could just read the DMV info. The car was owned by somebody named Stacy Maluga. The name sounded vaguely familiar. The address was 223 Oceanridge Drive, Malibu, California.

Then I heard the back porch door open and I got out of the car.

"Hey, Tommy, there's an Escalade out here. He might be in the garage," Figueroa yelled.

I was trapped. No way to get past him. I rolled up the registration slip and held it in my right hand like a baton. Then I edged toward the open garage door and looked out. Rafie was standing about twenty yards away on the porch, looking in my direction. He hadn't spotted me yet.

Here goes nothing, I thought, and sprinted out of the garage past where he was standing, and down the drive.

"Hey! Who is that?" Rafie yelled, startled. "Come back here, Shane!"

I heard footsteps behind me. I was pretty sure I could outrun him. He spent way too much time in the gym, and guys with lifter's thighs are usually slow as hell.

I rounded the corner at the end of the drive and pumped like crazy, heading for the Acura.

"Come back! Dammit, Shane! Stop!"

I made it to the car, jumped in and put it in gear. I could see Rafie clearly now, about five yards away, closing fast.

"Scully! You son of a bitch! Come back here!"

I floored it and shot away, speeding off the mean streets of Compton on my way to the mansions of Malibu.

Below me, on the left side of the road, the Pacific coast stretched in a lazy horseshoe defined by the lighted curve of the Malibu Shoreline. Off to the northeast was Pepperdine University. I was driving along twisting Oceanridge Drive, looking for 223. Finally, I pulled up and parked in front of a huge, multimillion-dollar mansion that sat by itself on a point that overlooked Malibu far below. A gold M adorned the center of an ornate design on the double-hinged, wrought-iron gates.

I put aside my fear over Alexa's fate. I had to play this carefully, and I knew I wouldn't do it right unless I had complete control of my emotions. I walled off my panic as I looked through the gates at the estate. Whoever Stacy Maluga was, he or she had a much better appreciation for security than David Slade. Floodlights blasted the grounds and signs promising armed guards and killer dogs were posted everywhere. I looked across two acres of rolling lawns toward a gorgeous neoclassical house. White columns, a flat roof, marble steps all displayed in carefully placed uplights. It looked like the U. S. Supreme Court. Hard to guess how much land was involved, but it had to be at least five or six acres.

I got out of the Acura and approached a state-of-the-art communication system on a post near the gate. The unit had two cameras: one up high for a wide shot, another set at face level to catch my close-up when I used the intercom. I pushed the buzzer and waited. Nothing. I pushed it again. About a minute later, a man spoke. He had a deep bass voice with a homeboy lilt.

"Whatchu want?"

"Is this the Maluga residence?" I asked, using my stern, no-kidding-around cop voice.

"Who be wantin' ta know?"

"Shane Scully, LAPD." Then I heard some muffled sounds, like he'd put his hand over the mike to talk to someone.

Seconds later, the man said, "Nobody here called the po-lice."

"It's about a white Cadillac Escalade," I said, playing out a little more line.

"Say what?"

"A new, white Cadillac Escalade, belonging to Stacy Maluga was involved in a fatal accident tonight," I lied. "The deceased isn't the owner and I'm trying to determine if the car was borrowed or stolen."

"Mrs. Maluga's Escalade?"

"Yes, Mrs. Maluga."

"What be happ'ning to that ride again?"

"It was involved in a fatal accident. I need to speak with Mrs. Maluga."

"Damn!"

And then, our little communication ended and the intercom went dead. I started to turn around, but the man was obviously watching me on the security screen, because as soon as I turned, he said, "You got some po-lice credentials and such?"

"Yeah."

"Hold 'em up t'the lens there, so I can see 'em."

I pulled out my badge and held it up.

"Jus' a minute, 'kay? Gotta lock up the dogs."

The intercom went dead again. I knew that it wouldn't take Rafie and Tommy long to run the plate on the Escalade. They'd be here soon. I prayed that I had enough time to run some kind of a bluff. I wasn't limited by the truth like Sepulveda and Figueroa. I had so much personally at stake, the rules of the criminal justice system had no consequences for me anymore. However, once these people found out what was really going on, they'd clam up and we'd be doing our talking through lawyers, which wouldn't help me find Alexa.

A few minutes later, I heard a humming noise and looked off across the grass. A four-seater, fire-engine-red golf cart with a corny Rolls-Royce hood and a fringed canvas top was zipping across the lawn toward me with two African-Americans aboard. It slowed and bounced over the low curb, rolled down the drive, and parked on the other side of the ornate gate. The larger of the two men got out. He was six-foot-three, two-twenty, and wore a Lakers tank and baggy jeans. He had one of those lean, cut bodies that looked like the anatomy chart in a doctor's office. He also had a shaved and shined bullet head that fighters and tough guys favor.

He never smiled but said, "Where the Escalade at?"

"There was a fatality. I need to speak with Mrs. Maluga."

"You best tell me, Cochese. She ain't seein' no visitors."

" 'Cept I ain't gonna tell you. I'm telling the owner of the car. I can put out a call and get the Malibu substation up here to help me with this. You want, in ten minutes I can fill this driveway with cops."

"Mrs. Maluga ain't home."

"Fine! Have it your way." I turned, walked back to my car and pulled out the dash radio mike. An elaborate bluff, but it worked.

"What fatality?" he said. "Who be deuced out?"

"I need to talk to the owner of the vehicle," I repeated.

"If they be rock or bags a cut or some such shit in that snap, it ain't ours."

"Would you open the gate, sir? I'm about through fussing with you."

We glared at each other through gold initialed, wrought iron, until finally he nodded to the second man, another steroid experiment in basketball togs. The number two hit a remote and opened the huge gates.

"Get in the back," Baldy ordered.

I climbed into the back of the silly Rolls-Royce golf cart and off we zipped toward the house, the little electric engine humming happily while my stomach rolled and roiled.

I had been to some expensive homes in Los Angeles, but never one quite like this. Acres of manicured lawns were punctuated with several beautifully sculpted fountains, all tastefully lit from below. Flowerbeds with colorful red and white impatiens fronted trellises overhanging with purple bougainvillea, framing the edges of the garden.

They took me around to the side of the house. All this wealth helped jog my memory. I recalled where I'd heard the name Maluga before. There was some kind of big-time rap producer named Maluga. Not Stacy, but Louis. I remembered now that he had recently done a nickel in San Quentin for assault with intent to commit. He'd gotten out about a year ago. He was legendary for his violent temper, which had earned him the nickname "Luna" Maluga. Stacy had to be his wife.