Hollywood Moon

by Joseph Wambaugh

Genres: Action & Adventure; Police Procedurals

Synopsis

There’s a saying at Hollywood Station that the full moon rising over the city brings out the beast—rather than the best—in its citizens. And in Hollywood, playground of transvestite hustlers, drug-crazed tweakers, and aspiring actors sometimes criminally desperate for fame, that’s saying something. LAPD veteran Dana Vaughn and “Hollywood” Nate Weiss, a struggling-actor-turned-cop, are hot on the trail of a man they suspect to be the perpetrator of a series of violent attacks on women. Meanwhile, two surfer cops known as Flotsam and Jetsam keep bumping into a pair of suspicious characters they’ve got pegged as petty criminals. No one suspects that they might be involved in something bigger, more high-tech, and much more illegal.

After a dizzying series of twists, turns, and chases, the cops will find they’ve stumbled onto a complex web of crime where even the criminals aren’t quite sure who’s conning whom.

Release date: November 4, 2009

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 480

Sample

HOLLYWOOD NATE RENTS midgets,” the long-legged, sunbaked surfer cop whom the others called Flotsam said to his partner while 6-X-32 was passing
Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, cruising east on Hollywood Boulevard at twilight.


The dying spangled sunlight ricocheted off the windows of the taller buildings, and his shorter surfer partner, also weathered
and singed, whom of course they called Jetsam, glanced at the driver through the smoked lenses of his wraparound shades and
said, “What?”


Flotsam wore his two-inch hair gelled up in front like a baby cockatoo, and Jetsam’s was semispiked, both coifs streaked with
highlights not provided by sun, sea, or nature. And with just enough gel to get it done and still not annoy the watch commander,
a lieutenant in his early fifties, twenty years their senior, and very old-school.


“In fact,” Flotsam continued, “last Wednesday, Nate hired one to bowl with him for twenty bucks an hour. That’s when five
coppers from the midwatch and Watch 2 got together at the bowling alley in the Kodak Centre with a bunch from north Hollywood
and Wilshire. I heard that Nate, like, stole the spotlight with his midget.”


“Where did you hear about Hollywood Nate and midget love?” Jetsam wanted to know.

“I got it from Sheila,” Flotsam said, referring to Officer Sheila Montez, a midwatch P2 whom both surfer cops lusted for.
“And I ain’t saying he loves little people, but, dude, he’s so cinematically dialed-in, he devised this way to capture the
attention of all the bowling alley Sallys. His little fella gets all flirty and cute with the Sallys, and it sets things up
for Nate to move in and close the deal.”


Officer Nathan Weiss, a hawkishly handsome thirty-seven-year-old, physically fit gym rat, was called Hollywood Nate because
he possessed a SAG card and had actually appeared briefly in a few TV movies. And he always volunteered to work every red
carpet event at the Kodak Theatre in his thus-far futile quest for cinematic discovery and eventual stardom.


Jetsam envisioned those feverishly hot Sallys as he shot a casual glance toward the Walk of Fame, where lots of curb creatures
were already out. He saw a tweaker sidling closer toward the purse of an obese tourist who was busy yelling at her much smaller
husband. The tweaker backed off and slithered into the crowd when Jetsam gave him the stink eye as the black-and-white passed.
The Street Characters—Batman, Superman (two Supermans, actually), Darth Vader, Spider-Man, Bart Simpson, SpongeBob, and Catwoman—were
all mingling with tourists in the forecourt of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, posing for camera shots in an endless quest for
tourist bucks.


“Maybe we oughtta hire a midget too,” Jetsam said. “I used to bowl a lot when I was married to my second ex-wife, who I miss
like a prostate infection. It was a low-rent bowling alley in Long Beach, and I was, like, the only bowler in the whole place
who wasn’t sleazed-out. Even my second ex—who loved bowling, Leonardo DiCaprio, and pharmaceuticals—was inked-up, a butterfly
on her belly and my name on her ass. Her girlfriend told me how that prescription zombie screamed like a cat when they lasered
my name off. I’da coughed up two weeks’ pay for a video of it. Her exotic girlfriend, by the way, might be worth your attention,
bro. She’s an Indian.”


“Feather or dot?”

“Dot.”

“No way, dude,” Flotsam said. “Every time my laptop goes sideways, I get one of them on the line and always end up tossing
my cell phone against the wall in frustration. I buy more cells than every cartel in Colombia. But I agree, we should definitely
not overlook the target-rich environment at the Kodak Centre.”


Jetsam said, “Being where it’s located makes it, like, the most lavish bowling alley this side of the palace of Dubai. Maybe
we can’t afford it?”


“ ‘Can’t’ is a frame of mind that don’t hold our photo,” Flotsam said. “Hollywood Nate claims that on certain nights, it’s
full of bowling alley Sallys hoping Matt Damon will come in to roll a line or two, or maybe Brad Pitt when Angelina’s in Africa
looking for sainthood with people even skinnier than she is.”


Jetsam said, “I hear what you’re saying, bro. I mean, there’s gotta be opportunities on those lanes for coppers as coolaphonic
and hormonally imaginative as the almost four hundred pounds of male heat riding in this car.”


Flotsam thought about it some more and then said, “There’s a midget that works at the newsstand on Cahuenga. And there’s that
roller-skating midget at Hollywood and Highland. The one that throws water balloons at tourists? He’d crawl in a clothes dryer
for twenty bucks an hour.”


“A plethora of midgets ain’t gonna get us our way,” Jetsam said, showing off the new vocabulary he was acquiring from his community college
class. “We gotta think original. Maybe we could, like, hire a clown to bowl with us. That would amaze those ten-pin tootsies.”


“I’m scared of clowns,” Flotsam blurted, and it was out of his mouth before he could take it back.

“You’re what?” Jetsam said, and this time he turned fully toward his partner as the late-summer sun dropped into the Pacific
and lights came on in Hollywood, the fluorescent glow making the boulevard scene look even weirder to the swarming tourists.


Flotsam and Jetsam had been midwatch partners and fellow surfers for more than two years, but this was the first time Jetsam
had learned this incredible secret: His tall, rugged partner was afraid of clowns!


“Maybe I said it wrong, dude,” Flotsam quickly added. “It’s just that they, like, shiver me. The way a snake creeps you out,
know what I mean?”


“Snakes don’t creep me out, bro,” Jetsam said.

“Rats, then. I seen you that time we got the dead-body call where rats were all eating the guy’s eyeballs. You were ready
to blow chunks, dude.”


“It wasn’t the rats themselves, bro,” Jetsam said. “I just wasn’t ready for an all-out rodent luau.”

“Anyways, I’m just saying, clowns, like, make me, like, all… goose-bumpy. I mean, maybe I saw too many movies about slasher
clowns or something, I don’t know.”


“This goes on my desktop,” Jetsam said with a grin. “I’m holding on to this.”

“What happens in our shop stays in our shop, dude,” Flotsam said grimly, referring to their car with its “shop number” on
the roof and doors. “So hit your delete key.”


“I feel ya, bro,” Jetsam said. “No need to go all aggro. Next time a boulevard clown squirts a tourist with a water gun, just
stay in the car and roll your window up and lock the doors. I’ll man-up for both of us. And I’ll taze the first asshole that
calls my partner a sissified, whimpering bitch.”


While 6-X-32 was cruising the boulevard, two homeless middle-aged panhandlers in east Hollywood named Axel Minton and Bootsie
Brown were pushing a man in a wheelchair along the sidewalk to a graffiti-tagged neighborhood market frequented by local pensioners.
It was a store where Axel and Bootsie often begged for change from the residents of the neighborhood, mostly Latino and Asian,
who bought groceries there.


Axel was a spindly white man with sprigs of gray hair who would drink anything from a bottle if the label indicated any alcohol
content. Bootsie was a black man blind in one eye who slept in a storage shed behind the apartment building where eighty-eight-year-old
pensioner Coleman O’Toole lived. They both wore layers, sooty and drab, molded to their forms like fungus until it wasn’t
clear where the fabrics left off and they began. And neither was many gallons away from wandering Hollywood Boulevard—like
all those other self-lobotomized colorless specters in pull-tab necklaces and football helmets, or maybe wearing bikini bottoms
on their heads—pushing a trash-laden shopping cart, chanting gibberish, or yodeling at terrified tourists. The Hollywood cops
called it “gone to Dizzyland.”


Each transient had wheeled Coleman O’Toole to the store many times for a modest fee. This time they were both pushing the
wheelchair, and they were bickering when they stopped in front and entered, leaving Coleman O’Toole parked in the shadows.


While Axel and Bootsie were inside loading up on shelf items, which included three quarts of 100-proof vodka and three quarts
of gin, another octogenarian transient, known as Trombone Teddy, shuffled by. He’d been a good bebop sideman back in the day,
or, as he put it, “when I was a real person.” Teddy, who was well known to officers at Hollywood Station, looked curiously
at the figure in the wheelchair. Then he used his last few coins to phone the police, and the call was given to 6-X-32 of
the midwatch.


Axel and Bootsie’s bottles of liquor and several bags of snacks were piled on the counter. The part-time clerk, who called
herself Lucy, was a white transsexual in a blinged-out T-shirt, low-rise jeans, nosebleed stilettos, and magenta hair extensions
piled so high she wouldn’t have felt being conked by a bottle of Corona, which could easily happen in that store. She adjusted
her silk scarf to better conceal the healing from recent surgery to remove her manly apple and looked at the transients curiously.


Being acquainted with both of them as well as with Coleman O’Toole, she said, “Is Coley throwing a party or what?”

“It’s his birthday,” Bootsie said.

“No, it isn’t,” the tranny said. “His birthday was last month, same as mine. He brought me a card.”

“It ain’t his birthday, dummy,” Axel said to Bootsie. “It’s the anniversary of his retirement from the railroad. He has a
party every year to celebrate his current life of comfort and ease.”


Lucy looked at Coleman O’Toole’s pension check and at the endorsement. The signature looked like the old man’s scrawl. “Why
don’t you wheel Coley inside?” the tranny said, squinting out the window at the wheelchair figure alone in the darkness.


“You wanna check his ID, see if he’s old enough to buy booze?” Bootsie said with a wet, nearly toothless grin.

“Yeah, you wanna card old Coleman?” Axel said, snuffling and grinning wider than Bootsie. “Actually, the old bugger’s sick.
Puked halfway down the street. You don’t want him in here unless you got a bucket and mop.”


“And all this booze is gonna cure him?” Lucy said, then shrugged and started ringing up the items just as 6-X-32 parked in
front of the store and was met by Trombone Teddy.


The cops hardly noticed the old guy in the wheelchair, and Flotsam said, “Did you make the call, Teddy?”

“Yes, sir,” Teddy said. “Is there a reward for capturing a couple of crooks for check fraud?”

“Whadda you mean?” Jetsam said.

“If you would put in a word to the store owner, would he give me a few bucks for blowing the whistle on a pair of thugs?”

“High-level business negotiations are above my pay grade, Teddy,” said Flotsam. “But I gotta think somebody’d buy you a forty
or two.”


“Okay,” Teddy said. “I’ll take a chance that generosity still exists in this ungrateful, goddamn world. Go inside and you’ll
find two thieves cashing a stolen check.”


“This better be righteous, Teddy,” Flotsam said, walking inside with Jetsam at his back.

The tranny, who was as tall as Flotsam in those heels, was surprised when the cop appeared and said, “Can I see that check?”

Pushing the check across the counter, Lucy said, “Something wrong, Officer?”

“That’s what we wanna know,” Jetsam said.

Flotsam examined the check and said, “Are either of you Coleman O’Toole?”

It was Lucy who said, “No, they’re not, Officer. Coley’s the one out there in the wheelchair. These two sometimes wheel him
down here to buy groceries.”


“Coley’s the salt of the earth,” Axel said, looking uneasy. “I’d fight a whole pack of pit bulls for old Coley. He’s a fellow
wine connoisseur.”


“Connoisseurs don’t drink wine in a paper bag,” Jetsam noted.

“Coley’s my man,” Bootsie said. “When some no-account neighbor put lye in his gin bottle one time and he ended up wif a tube
in his stomach, it was me that poured some good whiskey into the tube so he could get drunk.”


“That’s a touching testament to friendship,” Flotsam said, putting the check on the counter.

He walked to the door, nodding to Jetsam, who stayed inside while the grocery transaction was being completed. Lucy was counting
out the change when Flotsam came back inside.


Axel Minton looked at the cop’s expression and said, “Uh-oh.”

The tranny’s eyes were theatrically made-up so as to be seen from balcony seats, and those amazing orbs moved from Flotsam
to the transients and back again before she said, “Don’t tell me that’s not Coleman O’Toole out there in the wheelchair!”


“Oh, yeah,” said Flotsam. “I’m sure it’s him. He’s strapped in and rigged up nice as you please.”

“What’s the problem, then?” Lucy asked.

“It’s that he won’t be needing all this booze,” Flotsam said. “Him being deceased and all.”

“Uh-oh,” said Bootsie, who pointed at Axel. “It was his idea after we found Coley layin’ on the floor, colder than Aunt Ruby’s
poon.” Then he looked at the tranny and said, “Sorry for my rude mouf, Miss Lucy.”


“You lying rat!” Axel said to Bootsie. Then to the cops, “He was the one noticed Coley had already signed his check!”

“Tha’s right, Officer,” Bootsie said, “but it was this here pissant that pointed to Coley layin’ there quiet as a bedbug on
your pilla and said ol’ Coley woulda wanted us to cash it and have a Irish wake!”


“Okay, you two turn around and put your hands behind your backs,” Flotsam said. And sotto to Jetsam, “Better notify the night-watch
detective about the corpse in the wheelchair and our two grave robbers. While we’re waiting for the body snatchers, I’ll take
care of Teddy.”


As Jetsam led the handcuffed miscreants out to their car to await the arrival of the coroner’s van, Flotsam bought a pint
of Jack for Trombone Teddy to show that generosity still exists in this ungrateful, goddamn world.


The woman officer with the smartest mouth at Hollywood Station was Dana Vaughn, and Hollywood Nate was stuck with her for
at least one deployment period, an unhappy way to spend his first month back on the midwatch. He’d spent a year at the Community
Relations Office (acronym CRO, pronounced “crow”), tending to touchy-feely quality-of-life issues and getting a little bump
in pay for the easy work. But when fellow crow Bix Ramstead shot himself after being involved in a scandal, a lot of the fun
was gone from the job and Nate felt like returning to real police work. Besides, he needed to work nights in order to keep
his days free to pursue and torment casting agents. At age thirty-seven, it was now or never.


With sixteen years on the LAPD, Nate Weiss figured he’d have to stick around for at least four more years to ensure a vested
pension, but one he couldn’t draw until the age of fifty, which kept most cops on the job long past twenty years. He wondered
what he’d do if his acting career finally caught fire in the next four years? Would it be worth it to resign from the LAPD
and lose that pension for an uncertain career as an actor? He might damn well need the pension after he turned fifty and his
pecs were falling and he couldn’t suck in his gut any longer. Hollywood Nate felt that he was way too handsome to make it
as an older character actor, and the mere thought of it made Nate unconsciously pass his hand over his abdominals, well covered
by a T-shirt, a Kevlar vest, and his uniform shirt.


Dana Vaughn, also a P2, who was driving 6-X-76’s Ford Crown Vic late that afternoon, hadn’t missed it. She never missed a
thing, which was one of the reasons Hollywood Nate didn’t quite feel relaxed around her.


After noticing that subtle move to his belly, Dana said, “Yeah, you’re ripped, Nate. Abs to die for. Must be tough being as
smokin’ hot as you. Who cleans all the mirrors in your house?”


“I just have a slight stomachache is all,” said Hollywood Nate lamely.

“Sure, honey,” Dana said with that throaty, tinkling chuckle of hers, which irritated him all the more because he actually
liked the sound of it.


When he muttered, “I’d sure hate to work for you when you make sergeant,” she laughed, and that pissed him off more than when
she snarked him about his vanity.


Another thing he disliked about Dana Vaughn was that she called him honey in the way that his aunt Ruthie called him honey.
Like the old woman at the donut stand in Farmers Market, his usual destination for a croissant and coffee in the morning.


Dana was six years older than Nate, with twenty-one years on the job, but she acted like she was from the WW II generation
or something. Almost every damn thing she said to him somehow sounded patronizing and made Nate feel like a kid. And to make
matters worse, she still looked good. She was fit, with great shoulders and only faint lines starting around her alert golden-brown
eyes and at the sides of her mouth when she smirked at him.


Dana used the workout room nearly as much as Nate, always in a tight tank and spandex shorts. She didn’t even bother to dye
her salt-and-pepper ear-length bob, and it looked just right on her, emphasizing the woman she was, not the girl she had once
been. If she’d been what the surfer cops called a yuckbabe or one of those always griping about “JFH,” meaning just-fucked
hairdo, instead of an older woman who still looked hot and knew it, Nate figured she’d have been easier to take.


The first time Nate had ever seen Dana was in the station parking lot when he happened to be loading his war bag and shotgun
into his shop after he’d just come back to patrol from his stint at the Community Relations Office. Dana was also new to Watch
5, the midwatch, and had been working for the first time that night with young Harris Triplett, a phase-three probationer
whose field training officer was on a day off. Since the P1 was in the last phase of his eighteen months of probation, he
could be put with a P2 like Dana instead of with a P3 FTO. In fact, Harris was scheduled to complete his probation in a matter
of days, and Nate had intended to buy him a burger to celebrate.


Nate remembered seeing her dead-stare the kid just before she got behind the wheel that first night, and he heard her say
to Harris, “Boy, I need to know right out front. Do you intend to fanny burp in my presence or in our shop?”


“Of course not, ma’am!” Harris Triplett said, stunned.

Then Dana said, deadpan, “Do you intend to crank up loogies? You got loogie problems, I suggest you swallow them. To spit
them out the window and have them blow back on our shop would be highly unprofessional and might jeopardize your probation.”


“I don’t do things like that!” Harris said.

“I want you to remember a few basics about curb creatures,” she said. “Rock cocaine is either in their mouths or in their
butts. Watch the breathing of the chest for a tip-off. It’s a built-in lie detector. And throw their keys on the roof of their
car if you’re gonna return to our shop to run their records.”


“Yes, ma’am. Okay,” Harris said.

“And if they got booty rock, it’s your job to deal with it. There are dark and scary places where I won’t go.”

“Right,” Harris said earnestly.

Dana wasn’t through. “One more thing: Most males have no shame, but you need to remember there’re EEO laws on the books regarding
age and gender. Do you resent working with me because my badge and handcuffs’re older than you? And do you think you can get
away with making sexual innuendos and maybe touching me in an inappropriate way because I’m an old woman?”


His face flushed, Harris Triplett looked around for help at that moment, and the passing surfer cops stepped in to save him.

“She’s just honking on you, dude,” Flotsam said to the boot.

Still deadpan, Dana continued, “On second thought, I’m pretty much EEO-proof. You can fanny burp if you want to, but no loogies.
And about the sexual harassment, if I happen to touch you in a lewd or offensive way, you have every right to complain to the watch commander.” A long pause. “But tell me you won’t,
honey. Please tell me you won’t!”


“Get in the car, bro. She won’t hurt you… very much,” Jetsam said to the utterly bewildered rookie, and for the first time,
Hollywood Nate got to see Dana Vaughn flash that annoying half-smile of hers when she slid in behind the wheel.


Remembering that episode, Hollywood Nate had to admit that Dana was sometimes entertaining, even though she could be a major
pain in the ass. A good thing about her was that, like Nate, she preferred Starbucks latte with biscotti to the usual Winchell’s
cuppa joe with two sugars, two creams, and a raspberry jelly donut. Moreover, Nate knew that she’d been in a fatal shooting
the month prior, when she’d worked Watch 3.


That late-night watch was a graveyard shift for three days a week, lasting twelve hours. It overlapped the hours of the four-day-a-week,
ten-hour midwatch. Two weeks after the shooting, Dana had asked to be assigned to the midwatch, and her request was granted.
As an authentic gunfighter and a senior officer on the sergeants list, she was entitled to great respect.


For twelve years prior to her assignment to night-watch patrol at Hollywood Station, Dana Vaughn had been away from patrolling
the streets. She’d worked at the police academy for eight years as an instructor, teaching computer classes and report writing
and reviewing the academic curriculum. Then, after leaving the academy, she’d spent four more years across the street from
Hollywood Station in the Hollywood narcotics unit, housed in a small building at the corner of De Longpre and Wilcox. There
she did mostly administrative chores and helped the UC coordinators who handled the undercover officers.


Being a single mom, Dana Vaughn had tried for most of her career to keep from working the streets, seeking jobs that would
allow her to have evenings at home and weekends off in order to properly raise her daughter. Late in her career, Dana had
decided to take the sergeants exams, passed them easily, and was on the sergeants list. Now that her eighteen-year-old daughter,
Pamela, was going off to Cal in September, Dana had decided that it was time to get more street experience in a black-and-white.
After her promotion, she’d be sent to a patrol division as a supervisor, and she wanted to be ready for the new job.


Dana’s ex-husband, a lawyer at a firm in the city’s tallest downtown office building, at Fifth and Grand, had bought their
daughter a new Acura for high school graduation and assured them both that all through her university studies, he’d send $1,500
a month for Pamela, and he’d promised to continue the payments through graduate school if she sought an advanced degree. All
of this made Dana despise the philandering bastard a little less than she had during their brief marriage.


An incident that Hollywood Nate found very strange happened the very first night that he worked with Dana Vaughn. They’d received
a “prowler there now” call in the Hollywood Hills on a street below the famous Hollywood sign. They were the first and, Nate
assumed, the only car to arrive. After checking the property on foot with flashlights, and after interviewing a nervous neighbor
who thought she’d heard somebody knock over a trash can, they decided that it was probably a coyote or a raccoon or even a
deer, since the hills were full of critters.


When Nate and Dana were returning to their shop, Nate noticed another Crown Vic, parked half a block farther down the unlit
street. Silhouetted across the roof was a light bar.


“That doesn’t look like a midwatch unit,” he’d said to Dana Vaughn, trying to peer through the darkness. “Must be somebody
from Watch Three.”


“It is,” she said.

“You got infrared eyeballs or what?” Nate said. “How do you know?”

“I know,” she said.

“Why’re they sitting there in the dark like that?”

“That’s how a guardian angel does it,” Dana said, starting the engine and driving back down to the flats, passing the parked
black-and-white without a word and without looking its way.


“It’s great working with you,” Nate said. “I just love a mystery.”

Dana Vaughn heaved a sigh and said, “I’m sure you remember the OIS I got involved in when I was working Watch Three.”

“Yeah, everyone knows you smoked a guy that was doing a death grapple with… what’s his name.”

“Leon Calloway is his name,” Dana said. “That’s him in the parked unit, with his partner.”

“You gonna enlighten me or what?” Nate asked.

And then Dana Vaughn said, “Yeah, I guess I’ve gotta.” And she slowly began to tell Hollywood Nate the story of her officer-involved
shooting, which had endeared her to even the most hard-core anti-female coppers on Watch 3, one of whom had been Leon Calloway.


Calloway was a hulking, flat-nosed, twenty-five-year P2 with a jutting jaw that pushed into a room ahead of him, and a meticulously
shaved head the size of a beach ball. He’d spent his last ten years working the night watch at Hollywood Station. When Dana
Vaughn transferred to Hollywood patrol, some of the women officers told her which guys were good to work with and which were
not. Calloway was in the latter group. When he occasionally worked with women officers who were in phase three of their probation,
he was a mouth-breathing nightmare who scared the hell out of them.


Calloway would usually start the evening by saying to a female rookie, “I hope you can hold your pee or do it in an alley
like a man. I don’t like looking for a ladies’ room when I’m doing police work.”


That might be followed by “Velcro crotches would solve the problem. I think I’ll invent police pants with a Velcro crotch
for all you… ladies.”


It wouldn’t take long either before he’d look at the young boot, and no matter how feminine she appeared, he’d say, “Are you
a lesbian?”


The first time they encountered Latino gang members in Southeast Hollywood, he’d always tell the probationer, “I don’t chase.
If they run, you chase. I’ll drive after them. Try to keep up.”


Or he’d say, “Do you carry D batteries in your war bag?”

And when the perplexed female rookie said, “No, sir, why?” Calloway would say, “To throw at any little asshole that disses
us by running. I hope you got a good arm, sis.”


And all young boots were warned by the older female officers that if they got an upset stomach from eating greasy tacos fried
in lard from a stand on Normandie Avenue—which Calloway liked because it was a “full pop,” meaning it was free to cops—or
if they were under the weather for any other reason, he was sure to say, “Oh, you’re not feeling well? Is it that time?”

The young women learned very quickly that they’d chosen a career in what was still a man’s world, and Leon Calloway never
let them forget it.


He didn’t try any of this with women cops as senior as Dana Vaughn, but he was a hellish partner for rookie Sarah Messinger,
who happened to be riding shotgun with Calloway on the night that Dana Vaughn got into the only officer-involved shooting
of her career.


A business dispute had taken place between a streetwalking prostitute on the east Sunset Boulevard track and a customer who
happen