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 Three Shirt Deal, detective Shane Scully must choose between saving his strained marriage to Alexa or working with an attractive female detective to free a wrongly imprisoned man.
Criminal Courts Building
It was only three o’clock, but I was in no mood to shuffle paper on old cases, so I left Parker Center and killed some more time by going over to the criminal courts building. I rode the elevator down to the subbasement, to the evidence lockers. The Hickman file was under my arm.
I figured this shouldn’t take me too long. I had already decided to take a cursory look at the evidence boxes so I could tell Scout I at least gave it a nod before I sent it all this back to her with a “no thanks.” I found the police graybeard assigned to the court property room. He led me to a storage alcove.
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Scenic Coastal Route
I hate the drive through the desert and since I had all day, I decided to take the more scenic, coastal route. By the time I was approaching Santa Barbara, my thoughts had again turned exclusively to Alexa.
I didn’t want to call her until later hoping that she’d get some needed sleep. She was running on nervous energy, and recently had been losing weight. I could see the strain on her face; the tightness around her eyes and mouth.
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Corcoran State Prison
The huge, foreboding prison loomed in the tan dust up ahead like randomly stacked chunks of gray concrete. Corcoran was ugly, like all prisons. It was built on the site of what was once Tulare Lake, the long-ago home of the Tachi Indians.
The dry lake mitigated the prison’s relentless, unforgiving architecture because everything out here was relentless and unforgiving. In this hopeless landscape Corcoran State Prison somehow managed to belong. Level One inmates had placed painted, white rocks along the drive and lining the visitor’s parking lot. Very festive.
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La Golondrina
“All this railroad needs is tracks and a whistle,” Secada said.
We were in a Mexican restaurant on Olvera Street named La Golondrina. The food was always excellent and after six p.m. mariachis strolled between tables and performed for the dinner guests.
Olvera Street was the first street built in Los Angeles and is just a few blocks from both Parker Center and the Bradbury Building. We had agreed to meet here after work.
Scout’s black eyes danced in an almond face, framed by shiny, black hair that shimmered in low flickering candlelight. We had already ordered dinner and, while we waited, were on our first margaritas.
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Aubrey Wyatt's House
I took the 405 to Sunset and headed east. After fifteen minutes I pulled up in front of Aubrey Wyatt’s mansion on Bel Air Road. The house was a gorgeous, oversize French Normandy with a slate roof and lots of blond stonework.
It sat on over an acre of property with a beautifully manicured lawn that sloped from the front porch to the street where an eight-foot-high wrought-iron fence protected the estate. There was an electric gate with gold-tipped spears. I wondered if French horns would blare theatrically when it opened.
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Prosecutor's Office
The Los Angeles Superior Court Northwest Division is on Erwin Street in the Valley. The prosecutor’s office building is one block over in Van Nuys. I parked in the lot behind the large modern structure and got out of the car.
Everything told me this was a terrible idea. Maybe because of frustration with Alexa I was striking out, throwing a temper tantrum, breaking my own toys. Maybe I should go see Dr. Lusk and get some more beige-on-beige insight.
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Pacific Dining Car
Secada and I were seated at one of the upholstered train booths inside the Pacific Dining Car restaurant in downtown Los Angeles. It was almost nine a.m. I was having Swiss eggs, Engineer Style. Secada was slaughtering a Trainman’s Breakfast, pushing the avocado, onions, and eggs into a pile in the center of her plate, knife and fork at the ready.
“You’re telling me that every one of these people are P.C.s for that little bus company police department?” she asked, glancing sideways at the list of names the Fiscal Crimes Division had given me. “What the hell is that all about?” She wrinkled her nose and stabbed an egg yolk for emphasis. Yellow oozed.
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Medical Examiner's Office
We parked in the lot at the North Mission Road complex. The plain, four-story shoebox-shaped death house loomed above us. It was going to be extremely difficult to get our hands on those two M.E. reports and I had just finished pointing this out to her.
“What’s so difficult? We just grab the stuff and split,” she said. “I still have the juice. Nobody in there is going to deny me computer access.”
“The minute you put in your command ID number, they’re gonna know it was us. We gotta use a little finesse, Alexa.”
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The Bistro Garden
We stopped for an early dinner at The Bistro Garden in the Valley. We didn’t have reservations, but I scored a good table because it was five o’clock and the after-work crowd hadn’t arrived.
The Bistro was Alexa’s favorite Valley eatery. It’s a spacious, high-ceilinged restaurant that sits on the corner of Ventura Boulevard and Van Noord Avenue. The interior dining area was showcased by tall wood-framed, garden windows.
The walls were faced with white trellises, lush with greenery. A rich oak bar dominated the entire east end of the room. Alexa was still grinning over her Mission Road caper when the bottle of Pouilly Fuisse I ordered arrived at our table.
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