Street Rules Page 15

  Yeah, Frank thought, the Pro/Am classic.

  “That’ll be three in a row,” Frank said.

  Fubar flashed his media smile. “I know,” he said unctuously. “I owe you one.”

  Frank made a peace sign.

  “Two.”

  “All right,” he chuckled, caught, “Two.”

  She let him get halfway down the hall, and said, “Oh, yeah. Something else. We got a uniform downstairs, guy named Hunt.”

  Frank told the captain what he’d done to Gail, and his jaw fell. Men in Fubar’s circles didn’t whip their dicks out in public. At least not in crowded bars with witnesses. Frank added that the doc had easily defused the situation, but someone else might think a lawsuit was more in order. She knew that would rattle the captain into action. Fear was Foubarelle’s weakness and Frank plied him with it mercilessly.

  She followed him downstairs, letting him rant that she’d gone over his head in initiating Hunt’s CUBO. She knew if she hadn’t, he wouldn’t have taken action, so she contritely and happily accepted his remonstration.

  In the locker room, she forgot about Foubarelle. Washing her face clean, she reflected that people liked to talk, out of conceit or for solace. They either wanted to brag or confess. Ruiz had done neither as far as Placa’s murder was concerned. He had played with Frank, and was silent with the detectives. The boy was hard core and they weren’t easy to break, but Frank was beginning to think that they didn’t have anything to break him against.

  Back upstairs, she called Northeast Division and talked with a duty sergeant. He reported Saturday had been quiet except for a shooting at a gang party and a stabbing in a liquor store. Frank asked where the party was and he told her an address that matched the one Lydia had taken them to. Frank asked him to check the logs for any arrests related to the two assaults, and while he was at it, to send her a list of any Major Incidents that occurred that night or early Sunday morning. He put her on hold, then disconnected her. She called back and was put on hold again.

  While she was waiting, she wished she’d asked Ruiz how he got there. It was a considerable ride from south-central to Echo Park, and Hispanic bangers were notorious for not shitting in their own backyards. Ruiz and his homes could have done something anywhere on the route, which might be why he was holding out. Worse, it might give him a solid alibi.

  Another sergeant came on the line and Frank had to re-explain what she wanted. He offered to FAX Frank the information she wanted. Said it’d be quicker that way and she groaned inwardly.

  “How many you got?” she asked.

  “Not that many, Lieutenant, but we’re short-handed this morning and it’d save me some time.”

  “You’re Sergeant Willis, right?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Fine, Willis. I’m standing by the FAX machine.”

  If Willis had any sense he’d know the LAPD was still hopelessly out-dated and that the whole station shared one FAX machine downstairs by Donna. When it wasn’t out of paper it was usually out of toner. Rather than disturb the secretary again, Frank went downstairs to make sure the machine was running. On her way she stopped at the box. Her detectives looked exhausted. She knocked on the door and Bobby swung it into the hallway. She motioned him to come out.

  “Anything?”

  “No. We’ve hit him with GTA and everything. Says it’s only a matter of time before he gets back in the house anyway. May as well get it over with.” Rubbing his eyes, he said, “I hate these fatalistic ones. He’s not giving anything up.”

  “Did you throw names at him?”

  “Oh, yeah. I said we’d bring them all in one by one if we had to, and that somebody would tell. He just said whatever.”

  “I talked to Northeast. Seems like La Reina forgot to tell us someone got shot at that party. The sarge I talked to didn’t know much about it, but he’s faxing the log records and MI’s for that time period. I’ll see what we can get off that.”

  Bobby nodded and twirled his head around, trying to ease his stiff neck.

  “What do you think?” Frank asked him.

  “What you got from him backs Lydia’s statement, but he won’t deny or confirm,” he answered, eyes closed. “How about the car?”

  “SID’s going to start it after lunch. I told Noah to call as soon they had anything.”

  Putting an ear to each wide shoulder, Bobby asked, “What do you want us to do?”

  “Keep at him.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The squad room was dark except for a light from Frank’s office. She’d spent two hours with Claudia and Gloria Estrella. Now she was updating her notes. When she was done with that she was going to compare them to Nook and Bobby’s for discrepancies. Schubert tinkled from her ancient boom box and Frank paused to arch in her old wooden chair. The muscles in her shoulders complained and Frank promised herself a serious workout when she got home.

  As if she had no control over her own thoughts, they spun back to Placa and the weekend spent with Octavio Ruiz. The kid never did break. They told him two of his homes put him at a party in Eagle Rock. They’d taken blood and hair samples then kept him on his felony charges, hoping a tour in lockup might get his tongue moving.

  Sunday night was spent with paperwork and then Monday morning Nook and Bobby hooked up with a senior officer from Northeast CRASH. Three Dog Town bangers tentatively put Ocho, Lydia, and half a dozen other Playboys at a party in Eagle Rock Saturday night. Northeast busted up the party after someone got shot. Apparently a Playboy shot a kid from Toonerville for drinking the last Corona. The Tooner was still in the hospital, but he was going to be okay. CRASH and Violent Crimes were still looking for the Playboy.

  When Frank had confronted Lydia about the shooting, the girl pleaded ignorance, claiming she’d passed out in a lawn chair. They pulled Ruiz out of County and told him the same homes had ratted on him about the beer and the Dog Towner. Still Ruiz didn’t open his mouth. By all accounts, Ruiz was getting bombed in Eagle Rock while Placa was trying to dodge bullets.

  Frank fiddled with the plastic hula dancer that Noah had given her. Nothing about this case was going easily. It was after seven and here she was in the office, still banging her head against their lack of evidence when she should have been home banging on her Soloflex and getting some sleep.

  Hearing unfamiliar footsteps through the music, she waited to see who they belonged to. She was surprised, and pleased, when Gail appeared in her doorway.

  “Hey, doc. What are you doing here?”

  “Just passing by. I thought I’d drop this off on my way home. The sergeant told me you were up here,” she said offering an interdepartmental envelope.

  Frank opened the flap, pulling out Luis Estrella’s toxicology report.

  “I knew you were anxious for the results. That mig and a half of morphine pretty much clinches the final report.”

  Frank scanned the bile results. Luis had a 1.7 milligram percentage of free morphine in his system, the by-product of a heroin overdose.

  Draping a leg over the edge of Frank’s desk, Gail asked, “How late are you going to work?”

  “Don’t know,” Frank answered, reading that he’d also tested positive for significant quantities of Librium and ethanol.

  “Have you had dinner?” Gail pressed. “Nope.”

  “Want to run by the Alibi, get a hamburger?” Frank looked up at the ME, taking in nice slacks and a blouse, dangling gold earrings and necklace. She postponed the answer by asking, “What are you all dressed for?”

  “I was in meetings with Orange County Health all day.”

  “Must be tired.”

  “Not too tired for dinner.” Frank veered off course. “So that’s it? OD plain and simple.”

  “I’m afraid so. What else were you looking for?” Frank shrugged. She wanted something suspicious-looking. She was having a hard time buying that Luis’ death was accidental. It was too convenient.

  “How are the evidence reports coming along?
”

  “Slower. The spectrometer’s backed up. I’ve got three microscopes down and Sartoris won’t cut me any money for repairs. Bastard,” she groused. “I’ll let you know as soon as I get something.”

  Gail asked about dinner again.

  “If I had any sense I’d go home and catch some Z’s.”

  “Admit it,” Gail teased, “you’re not long on sense.” Frank’s lips reached for a smile, almost made it. “Maybe. Hey. Thanks for dropping this off. I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m sorry it wasn’t what you wanted. Well,” Gail said rising, “if you’re not going to take me up on dinner, I should let you get back to what you’re doing.”

  The doc cocked her head, asking, “What are you listening to? It sounds familiar.”

  “Schubert, Trio in E flat. They used it in a movie called The Hunger. Did you ever see it?”

  “Did I? Good God, I camped in the theatre for three weeks.”

  That produced a genuine smile from Frank and Gail tried one more time, “Are you sure you don’t want to go out for a bite? I promise I won’t keep you long.”

  Frank glanced at the cartons stacked next to her desk. They were full of Placa’s schoolbooks, diaries, photo albums, clothing, the contents of her dresser drawers … so much to go through and so little time. Taking advantage of Frank’s hesitation, Gail coaxed, “You’ve got to eat sometime.”

  Frank took in the doc once more. She was pretty easy on the eyes tonight and Frank could use a nice view for a while. As if on cue, her stomach rumbled and Frank caved.

  “What the hell. You’re on.”

  Nancy waved at the women sliding into the booth. Gail was harping about Sartoris again, her administrative equivalent in the coroner’s office.

  “We just got a brand new mass spec so he thinks all of our equipment is state of the art. He accused the techs of mishandling the equipment and I said, ‘Yeah, if processing test results 24 hours a day is mishandling, then yeah, we are.’ God! He has no clue what goes on in the rest of that building. Crocetti used to have fits about him and now I see why.”

  They paused to order from Nancy and as she walked away, Gail said amiably, “She’s cute.”

  “And available.”

  “Is she an ex?”

  Frank smiled, “Nope. You won’t find many of those in my closet.”

  “Pun intended?” Gail asked.

  Frank smiled, mentally hurrying Nancy along with the drinks. She was beat and knew the scotch would give her a temporary lift.

  “Did you have a quiet weekend?”

  “Not really. Worked most of it.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a workaholic,” Gail cringed.

  “It’s possible,” Frank admitted. “First step to recovery’s acknowledging it, though, right?”

  “Did you get called in?”

  “Nope. Worked mostly on Placa’s case. We found our primary suspect Saturday night and worked him in the box for twenty-four hours —”

  “—God, no wonder you’re tired.”

  Frank shook her head at the table, “Nook and Bobby did the hard part. But none of what we have is adding up, which makes me think I’m going to land back at Go with no money. There are things about this case that I can’t square.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like my best suspects have valid alibis. Like why is Placa’s mother so antsy every time I bring up drugs? I know they know something, but they’re not talking. And the graffiti around the ‘hood — it’s as good as a daily newspaper. Bobby and I checked it out today. There are a couple memorials up for Placa, her brother did a really beautiful one. He’s got his sister’s talent with a can. Anyway, the memorials show a lot of respect, but the curious thing is that none of them are striking out a rival gang — and that’s standard procedure on a memorial. The curious thing is, we’re seeing strikes with LAPD struck out. Two of them are fresh ones we’re pretty sure her brother did, and they both say 187 LAPD.”

  Frank explained that tacking the California penal code for murder onto a rival’s name was a common death threat.

  “So the brother’s mad at the police?”

  “Yeah. Like we’re responsible somehow for his sister’s death.”

  “Maybe he’s just mad that you’re not doing anything about it.”

  Frank smiled at Gail’s innocence. She wasn’t sure how the woman could be Chief Coroner of one of the world’s most brutal cities and still be so naive.

  “What?” Gail asked in response to Frank’s amusement.

  “Nothing. I don’t think that’s it,” she said sitting back, so Nancy could set her drink down. “Bangers don’t look to the law to solve their problems. The law is their problem. They’ll take care of any justice or punishments in their own way.”

  “Street rules.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Which gives me job security.”

  “Both of us.”

  Stirring her drink with a fingertip, Gail said idly, “Maybe it’s a cop.”

  “Maybe what’s a cop?”

  “The missing link. The person, persons, you’re looking for.”

  Frank frowned, “Why would it be a cop?”

  “Well, all that 187 LAPD graffiti, and the older man — what was his name?”

  “Barracas?”

  “Yeah, he was LAPD, right? Narco?”

  “Retired.”

  “Still it’s kind of interesting he was taken out too. And this courier business the boys supposedly ran sounds kind of flimsy. It’s a perfect front for running drugs.”

  “Great,” Frank nodded. “Now you’re into LAPD bashing like the rest of the world.”

  “I’m not bashing anybody. It’s just an idea.”

  “Hm. Better stick to your day job, doc.”

  “Whatever. You don’t have to get so defensive.”

  “I’m not defensive,” Frank clarified into her drink, “it’s just hard enough to put up with the thrashing the department gets from the outside, then when my own colleagues start it gets a little tiresome.”

  “I’m not bashing your beloved institution,” Gail argued, “but you have to admit the LAPD’s hardly a bastion of ethics or morality.”

  “Granted, but by the same token most of its cops aren’t out committing multiple homicides.”

  “Of course not,” Gail agreed. “But you’re a huge department. Rogue individuals turn up. It doesn’t mean the whole institution’s suspect. I’m not casting aspersions upon you personally.”

  “Better not be,” Frank warned, as another waitress brought their dinner.

  “Or?” Gail asked archly.

  “Or else I won’t stick around for dessert.”

  Stabbing at her salad Gail moped, “And now I’ve probably gone and pissed you off so much you won’t answer my question.”

  “What question’s that?”

  “L.A. Your name. What’s it stand for?”

  Swallowing a huge bite of club sandwich, Frank answered, “Law And. My mother forgot the O.”

  “Come on. Tell me.”

  “Departmental secret. If I told you I’d have to kill you.”

  “It’s something really sappy, isn’t it? Like Lilith Ann or something absolutely not in character with a tough cop image. Am I right?”

  “Yep. That’s it,” Frank agreed too easily.

  “Can I call you Lily?”

  “Call me whatever you like.”

  “Come on, tell me,” Gail pleaded.

  “Can’t. Classified material.”

  Nancy came over to check on them and Frank circled a finger over the table. “Another round?”

  Gail shook her head, narrowing her pretty green eyes at Frank.

  “Don’t think you can ply me with liquor, copper. I’ve got a memory like an elephant. And friends in high places.”

  Popping a French fry into her mouth, Frank grinned, “Good luck. It’s legally L.A. Changed it years ago.”

  “You brat,” Gail complained, and F
rank was having such a good time sparring with the doc that she actually laughed.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Think about something, Bobby.”

  He and Frank were en route to the Compton PD to pick up a suspect.

  “We’re dealing with a family with a long history of banging. I mean, hardcore, hope-to-die OGs. It’s a family tradition. These people don’t scare lightly, but they’re scared about something around Placa’s murder. You can tell. They know something and they’re afraid. They’re not moving on this. If it was some vato who capped Placa, Gloria or Tonio’d be on him like stink on shit. But nothing’s happened. Let’s consider it’s got nothing to do with a banger. Nor any sort of kickdown. Why would that scare them? That’s their element. I think they’re dealing with something out of their control here, something they can’t or won’t fight. What could that be to a bunch of OGs?”

  Frank studied a clutch of women laughing outside a whipped hair salon. Bobby was quiet a long time and Frank let him drive slowly down Florence. Near a Tarn’s, she said, “Pull over. Want some coffee?”

  “No,” he said, absorbed in his quandary, engine idling. When Frank got back into the Mercury with a large cup, Bobby proudly announced, “The Erne.”

  The Mexican Mafia, with their long arms in the heroin trade. Frank had talked to Narco and they’d substantiated Ruiz’ purported ties to the Erne, but the problem was linking Ruiz to the Estrellas. Short of Placa’s involvement in her fight for his territory, there was no other link. And Ruiz’ corner franchise just wasn’t big enough to involve offing whole families. Much as she didn’t want to, Frank was letting go of Ruiz’ involvement in any of the homicides. He was a street banger, plain and simple, not an organized hit man.

  What had surprised Frank was the paucity of information that Worthington, the Narco lieutenant, had provided. It was common knowledge that you could always buy smack from an Estrella, every beat cop knew that, yet Frank couldn’t remember a recent drug charge on any of them. Frank had thought that odd but Worthington had written it off as not having the resources to worry about small timers who sold within the hood. While she’d been chewing on that, the dinner conversation she’d had with Gail kept whispering in her head.