Stephen Cannell - Three shirt deal

"Let's see what happens at Alexa's meeting tomorrow. I'll see you there."

"I've been ordered by Jane not to attend. She wants to represent PSB without my interference." Secada shook her head sadly "If Morales doesn't accept our new writ, then it looks as if all of this was for nothing."

The meeting took place in Alexa's office at ten the following morning. The room was too small for the crowd we'd drawn. I had checked myself out of the hospital and was feeling queasy and weak. I wore my clothes carefully over two pounds of ointment, burn bandages, and bruises. Jane Sasso showed up looking pretzel thin and severe in one of her trademark Armani suits. She was so brittle, I thought if she moved too quickly she might snap. Her hard, lined face and pixie haircut made her look like a pissed-off Disney character. She sat in the big upholstered chair in the corner. Jeb Calloway was Mighty Mouse in a black suit. I'd never seen him wear a tie, except at police funerals, but today he had on a paisley monster with a big Windsor knot. Also in attendance was Tru Hickman's attorney, Vonnie Hope, who was easy to overlook in this room full of A-type personalities.

The Chief finally breezed into the office, all five foot seven of him bouncing on oxblood loafers, his bald head shiny, his pink face the color of a baked ham. Tito Morales trailed him into the room. The election was only a week away and Morales was still twenty points ahead in the polls and doing daily interviews, so he was wearing a media-friendly red tie.

Tony said, "We're packed like sardines in here." Without another word, he moved the meeting into the large sixth-floor conference room.

Once we were all settled in swivel chairs with a view of Union Station out the floor-to-ceiling window, Tony put the ball in play.

"I've read the case facts, Alexa," he said. "It appears Lieutenant Devine blew the Hickman investigation and that we may have the wrong guy in the pokey."

"I don't agree," Tito Morales said. He looked cool and in control. He knew we'd been unable to tie him directly to anything, and he knew that with Devine dead and Church and his crew dummied up, his only problem now was Wade Wyatt. From his overconfident attitude, it seemed reasonable to conclude that he'd already cut some kind of a deal with Aubrey. He knew Wade was not going to fall out of the sky and bitch up his victory party at City Hall. Morales had a duplicate case folder in his hand. "There's a lot of what-if speculation in here," he continued. "Unless you can produce Wade Wyatt to testify, everything you've got about Lieutenant Devine's investigation is subject to a good deal of dispute. Since he's dead and can't give his side of the story, the way I read it, you don't have anything but a theory here."

"Hey, Tito, you pled this guy on bad evidence," I challenged. "That bloody shoe print you never ran doesn't match the sole pattern on Tru's boots. Someone else was in that kitchen. I'm saying it was Mike Church."

"Then you'll want to produce Mr. Church's boots and get a pattern match, won't you?"

"It was a year ago. After all this, they're gone."

"So that's nothing, then." He closed the case folder for emphasis.

"Wade Wyatt and Mike Church are much better suspects," I said angrily.

"Except, I have a confession from Tru Hickman saying he did it, and I also have extensive case material supporting that plea bargain. So I'm against a new writ. If the Prosecutor's office keeps going backward, if we keep reopening old cases just to satisfy a few evidentiary nitpicks, we'll never get through even one month's calendar."

"Fuck the calendar," I said.

Alexa took my hand and squeezed it, telling me to get hold of myself. It was a gesture of caution.

"How about you, Jane?" Alexa asked. "It's your bad due-process investigation. What are you gonna do?"

Sasso looked at Alexa, then at Tony Filosiani, whose face showed very little. The Chief liked his division commanders to make their own decisions.

"We're reopening the Olivia Hickman murder investigation," she said. "And we're putting a homicide number on Ron Torgason's death as well."

"Good decision," Vonnie Hope said. "Because if you hadn't, that was going to be an L. A. Times front page story tomorrow."

"Don't threaten me, little girl," Sasso said, crisply.

"Not a threat-a promise. I'm still working this murder. After it's adjudicated, and it will be…" She glared at Tito before going on. "After that, I'm cutting loose from the P. D.'s office, so it won't do you much good to threaten my job, Tito."

"You can reopen your investigation, but that doesn't mean you're going to get a writ," Morales said. "You still have to convince a judge and I'm gonna be there to make sure that doesn't happen."

As we walked out of the conference room, Jane Sasso, Tony, and Alexa huddled up in the hall. I watched Tito get into the elevator, elegant and self-assured.

Alexa and I left Parker Center and stood outside in the late morning sunshine. It was a hot day, and I could immediately feel the heat on my sun-sensitive, burned skin.

"I'm gonna go over to the D. A.'s office," Alexa said. "See if I can make a deal with Chase Beal. You set up your appointment with Aubrey Wyatt yet?"

"I'm just gonna drop in on him. I don't want him to have any time to get ready."

"Manslaughter. That's what you want the D. A. to offer?" she asked.

"You get Chase Beal to offer me that kick down and I'll see if I can get Aubrey Wyatt to cough up that little hairball he calls a son."

The law firm of Wyatt, Clark, and Cummings was on the top three floors of a forty-story Century City Office building. The firm did legal work for movie stars and L. A. power brokers, and was heavily involved in political fund-raising, which earned them a lot of expensive lobby art as well as plenty of heft in state politics. I wanted to drop my bomb from altitude. Didn't want Aubrey Wyatt to hear it whistling down until it hit. Surprise is everything in this kind of negotiation.

"LAPD," I told the young Harvard grad in pinstripes working the huge granite desk across from the elevator, showing him my badge. "It's regarding Wade Wyatt and a homicide investigation I'm conducting."

"You don't have an appointment," the man said. "Mr. Wyatt doesn't see people without an appointment." Then he paused and added, "Ever!"

"Tell Mr. Wyatt that I'm here with his son's last chance to avoid life in prison. He sees me right now or he loses it."

"You sure you want that to be the message?"

"That's the message."

The young man leaned forward and started to pick up the phone, but then thought better of it. He got up and disappeared through a door behind the desk. A few minutes after he left, my cell rang. It was Alexa.

"You get Wade back from wherever he is and if he comes through with everything we want, the D. A. will offer Man One, but he's not happy about it. Morales is his deputy D. A. and a mayoral front-runner. Chase told me this is not the way to make friends in California politics."

"I'll do my best to deliver," I said.

I closed my cell phone as the Harvard grad reappeared and said, "Follow me, please."

He led me down a beautifully decorated hallway hung with museum-quality paintings. I was ushered into an expansive, if somewhat sterile, conference room dominated by a long red mahogany table surrounded by twenty oxblood leather chairs, which sat on a sea of cut-pile gray carpeting.

I was drawn by the view to the massive floor-to-ceiling window, which overlooked the city. To the west was Santa Monica Bay and even though the ocean was five miles away, I could make out the white sails on a flock of boats crisscrossing the choppy water. It was a rare, smogless, windswept day. Crisp and clean, full of sharp edges and bright colors. I was still at the window when the door behind me opened.