Stephen J. Cannell’s mystery novels come to life in Shane Scully’s Tour of Duty, a collection of action-packed videos and never-before-seen pictures from actual locations in this best-selling series. Ride along with LAPD homicide detective Shane Scully as he investigates crime scenes, solves mysteries, and dodges bullets on the mean streets of Los Angeles. Take a daring trip on this non-stop adventure, but watch your back, you never know what could happen!
In Hollywood Tough, detective Shane Scully goes undercover as a Hollywood movie producer to stop some ruthless mobsters from taking over the show biz industry.
A short drive down into the Malibu Colony and they were handing the dusty Acura over to a valet with surfer-blond hair wearing a red coat with gold buttons. It fit him better than Shane’s blue blazer. Another valet was just driving a white Bentley away from in front of the house. There were still a few tardy arrivals lined up at the front door.
“See, we’re not late,” Alexa said as she and Shane headed up the stone walkway. Farrell Champion had built a French Provincial on two ocean-front lots. The house was grotesquely large, dwarfing its neighbors and Shane thought it seemed pretentious and out of place, only forty yards from the crashing surf.
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The crime scene was on Oro Vista Boulevard. Shane’s badge was still in Captain Haley’s safe, but he knew one of the blues guarding the chain-link gate that fronted an avocado orchard. It displayed a sign identifying it as Rancho Fuente del Sol. He drove up the lane to a spot where the police crime-scene vehicles were parked.
The makeshift dirt parking lot was within sight of Tujunga Canyon Road, which ran just north of Oro Vista in Sunland. Shane got out and locked the Acura. He walked around the front of the crime tech’s van and coroner’s wagon, past the three slick-backs -- black-and-white detective cars without roof lights.
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Hollywood General Studios was on Seward, just five blocks east of Highland. The studio was one of the oldest in Hollywood and had always been a rental lot. Shane thought he remembered hearing that Ozzie and Harriet had been shot there. He pulled up to the main gate and stopped as a uniformed guard with a clipboard came over. “Shane Scully here to see Nicky Marcella.”
“He’s casting today. Is Mr. Marcella expecting you?”
“No, sir, you’ll have to call.”
The guard went into his wooden shack and picked up the phone. Shane could see past the gate into the studio lot. Hollywood General occupied one large city block and five or six soundstages.
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“These guys are soulless killers,” Nicky was saying. Despite the frigid air-conditioning, he had started sweating; the collar and front of his silk shirt were drenched. They were sitting in the magnificent lobby at CAA, one of the most powerful and respected talent agencies in show business.
“You gotta let me do all the talking, bubeleh,” Nicky instructed. “I know how these deals are made. Singh’s agent, Jerry Wireman, is a fire-breathing serpent, a gontser macher. He’s gonna want his pound of flesh.”
“How can it be that tough? We’ve got a hundred thousand dollars. They’ve got a script collecting dust. We trade.”
“The hundred large is bubkes… parking meter cash. You gotta readjust your thinking babe.”
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Then they headed across town to pick up Shane’s car at the studio, before going on to the six o’clock A-list party for the New Jersey mobster at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Nicky steered Shane through the double doors onto the hotel patio, near a small grassy courtyard. Shafting late-afternoon sunlight cut through the landscaped date palms and splashed the small patio, painting it orange.
Waiters in red coats served champagne in fluted glasses and hors d’oeuvres with caviar centers. Everybody at the party looked as if they were just out of college. Shane guessed the average age to be around twenty-two. Across the patio, Dennis Valentine was working the meager crowd.
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He called Alexa’s office, got the new LAPD secure computer code from her adjutant, then accessed Carol White’s home address from the Vice mainframe. She lived on Temple in Rampart, a few blocks west of Colorado. Shane pulled up in front of a sad-looking two-story cream-and-brown apartment house. There was an old homeless woman decorating the curb out front.
Parked on the grass next to her was a Vons market wire basket; a silver chariot crammed to overflowing with her priceless possessions. The woman was ageless, anywhere from thirty to sixty, dressed in fatigues and an old Army Surplus blanket cut like a poncho, with a hole in the center for her head.
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The drive from Carol’s depressing, paint-peeling apartment building to the drug dealer’s beautiful, two-story Colonial on North Chalon Road was a short freeway trip out of desperation into the American dream. The two neighborhoods were separated by only twenty minutes and fifteen miles, but they were light years from each other. “I can’t believe we get to live here,” Chooch exclaimed.
Shane and Alexa had set down their overnight bags, and were now following Chooch through the beautiful house, going door to door down the long hall, admiring expensive artwork and plush-pile carpeted rooms full of antiques and French twill fabrics. Shane couldn’t believe it either.
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Climbing up out of the arroyo, they entered a wooded area where Shane saw a sign that read DEVIL’S GATE DAM.
“Mr. Cardetti, why are we going up here?” he asked, identifying Silvio for the StarTAC. Shane was beginning to panic.
“I’m tired of all the questions,” Silvio barked.
They were on graded gravel that quickly turned into rutted dirt. The car bounced and rocked over the uneven surface before finally coming to a stop by a pumping station.
“Guess we’re here,” Silvio announced.
All the enforcers opened their doors and Shane found himself alone in the car, dreading what was about to happen.
“Get out,” Silvio ordered.
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At seven-fifteen he finally arrived at the luxurious, private Jonathan Club. The massive brown building sat on the sand at Santa Monica Beach, with one windowless wall backing up against the four-lane Coast Highway. The sun was hovering just above the ocean, tinging everything in orange light. Shane made a left through the arch and drove toward the entrance.
A man in a red jacket was valet parking cars. As Shane pulled up and got out, he looked at the nearby parking area, trying to spot Nicky’s maroon Bentley—it wasn’t there. He gave up the Acura and headed inside the private club, where he was met by a tall, good-looking man about thirty, wearing a dark suit.
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They arrived at Burbank Airport’s Police Air Unit a little after one P.M. Shane and Alexa followed Filosiani over to a small, black twin-engine King Air that had been flying drugs up from Mexico until last March, when the pilot had lost power and landed on the Ventura Freeway in the middle of the night.
The LAPD had arrested him, confiscated the King Air, and now used it to fly high-ranking officers to different law enforcement conventions around the state. The little plane was a turboprop with a top speed of around three-hundred mph without headwinds.
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