by Baxter Clare
"So pretty messy?" she persisted.
"Whaddaya think, Franco? They got their throats cut, for crying out loud."
"Let me borrow the book?"
"Oh, most pernicious woman! Oh, villain, villain, smiling damned villain!"
The murder book was archival. It wouldn't sweat Bartlett to loan it out.
"Come on," she coaxed. "I gave you Ackerman." Then she tested a foggy line from a college humanities class.
"We gotta stick together. 'We few, we happy few, we band of brothers we ... for he today that sheds his blood with me ... forever shall my brother be ... ' Close enough, huh?"
Bartlett burst out, "He which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart!"
Frank pinched the phone against her shoulder and rubbed her eyes while he finished.
"Come get your book, Franco! 'Come cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer—remarked the soldier whose post lay in the rear!'"
She started to interrupt his next soliloquy, then fell silent, all too familiar with the feel of gooseflesh rising in her skin.
"Say that again," she told him.
"You're a scholar and a gentleman, Frank. I knew you'd appreciate me someday. 'Cry Havoc! and let slip the dogs of war, that this foul deed shall smell above the earth with carrion men groaning for burial.' Shakespeare, my lady fair. The bard himself."
Frank fumbled the phone into its bed, the dog's searing teeth and the dream of the battlefield fresh upon her.
25
Tito Carrillo packed three pieces of heat. A .38, police-style under his arm, a .2 5 in his boot, and his favorite, a black 9mm Smith & Wesson in his waistband. Carrillo made sure the alley was empty before releasing a stream of piss against the wall. He knew that bruja negra was looking for him, but he felt confident. If she wanted a piece of him, she'd have to get a piece of his three friends first. He shook himself and zipped up, catching his shirt in the steel teeth.
"Mierda," he whispered. He was so engrossed in pulling at the stuck fabric he didn't see the huge shadows engulfing him. Fingers bit into his arms. He didn't even notice the needle's quick sting. Los hijos negros, that black bitch's sons whipped a gag into his mouth. He writhed and twisted, trying to fight, but the hijos held him with ease. They shoved him into the car then squeezed in beside him. He kicked wildly, flailing his torso like a whip. Carrillo used the strength and courage that accompany imminent death, but he was still no match for the ebony twins; one held him in a macabre embrace while the other tied his wrists and ankles.
"That ain't necessary," La Negra said from behind the wheel.
Translated, the gutsy thought in Carrillo's head would have been something like "The fuck it isn't," but even as he struggled he felt a strange numbness in his limbs. They jerked of their own accord. At the same time he noticed he was having trouble moving his eyes and that his lungs were getting awfully tight.
One of the evil hijos de la gran puta looked into his face. Carrillo saw the red lips move. He heard, "It's working," but the words seemed to come from a tunnel. They pulled the .38 from its holster, then he felt the 9mm leave his pants. But they didn't know about his boot. If he could just get to the .2 5 he'd be okay. Streetlights raced over his locked lids. Ay dios, he couldn't move! How could he get to his gun if he couldn't move? Carrillo hadn't cried since he was three, but he wanted to now.
The car stopped. Doors opened. Carrillo's head fell and bumped. Hands grabbed him, pulled him. They moved swiftly against an angry wine-red sky. That was the color of hell, Carrillo thought. That's where he was going.
Then he was rolling over and over, like when he was a boy, down the hill behind their house in Leon. When the rolling stopped, La Negra was looking down at him. A woman was singing soft and far away. Was it her? Hands moved back and forth over his frozen vision. His eyes were dry and he wanted to lick his lips. He couldn't. He knew then he'd never get to his .25. That was enough to make Tito Carrillo a reverent man. He tried to shut his lids, but Carrillo had to apologize to God with the Mother in his eyes. He felt wetness soak the carpet. He prayed it was his bladder, prayed the sharp hiss he heard wasn't a match striking.
Tito Carrillo was still praying when he blossomed into a hideous black and orange flower unfurling itself toward a disinterested moon.
26
Noah flopped onto Frank's couch. Draping his long arms across the back, and sighing for emphasis, he announced, "Tito Carrillo's dead."
Frank rested her chin onto her good hand.
"What happened?"
Noah shrugged.
"Echevarria's wife called while you were in the meeting. She was all hysterical and wanted us to come over ASAP. We get there and there's this cow tongue hanging on her porch, all wrapped up in leaves and twine. Lewis bagged it. We got it off her porch and asked where her husband was. She said he split. Went to Arizona for a couple weeks to hang with a cousin. Since he heard about Tito.
"I said 'What about Tito?' and she looks at me all amazed. 'That he's dead,' she said. Turns out he got lit up in an alley two nights ago. I'm gonna call LAFD, and the Sheriff's, see what I can find out. Did the doc mention anything about a crispy critter?"
Shit, Frank thought, that had been Carrillo. Gail had trailed the job home with her the other night and Frank had complained about the smell.
"She mentioned something about it. It wasn't one of ours so I didn't pursue it. I'll give her a call, see what she's got. Where's Lewis?"
"We thought in light of Carrillo's immolation we should have SID look at the tongue. We might find some trace in it. Who knows?"
"Good. Anything else?"
Noah shrugged. "Lewis is running those names you gave her. I'm still trying to talk to the managers at her other businesses. They all think she's a fucking saint. They don't see her too often. Seems like one of the twins—Marcus, it sounds like—handles most of the business."
"You gonna talk to her sometime? She knows we're asking around about her."
"Yeah, I know." Noah stroked his chin. "But I want to get as much as I can on her before I hit her with anything. This way she's sweatin'. Not sure what we're up to."
"I don't think this woman sweats much. I'm sure she's got her legal team marshaled by now."
"Yeah, but if we can get something tight on her, even God won't be able to help her."
"I don't think that's who the Mother's bankin' on. Hey. You want to go by her church with me? See her in action?"
"When?"
"I don't know. I'd have to check her schedule. See when she does her gig."
"Yeah, let me know.
" 'Kay. Keep me posted."
"Aye, aye," Noah saluted, rising.
"How's Trace?"
"She's good. Kids are good. It's all good, baby."
Lewis pranced into Frank's office.
"S'up?" Frank asked, irritated at the intrusion into her quiet time.
"That nasty old tongue at Echevarria's house? Turns out there was a note inside. SID lifted a print off it. You ain't never gonna guess who it belongs to."
"How the hell'd you get that back so quick?"
Lewis batted coy lashes.
"I got my ways," she answered.
Frank gave her diamond in the rough a smile.
"Must be the Mother's print."
Lewis deflated like a popped balloon, demanding, "Who tolt you that?"
"You did. Why else would you be bouncing in here? What'd it say?"
"Nothing," Lewis pouted. "Just had Echevarria's name on it."
"That's good," Frank encouraged. "Evidence she knows him and of mal intent."
"It doesn't give us nothing for Duncan though."
"Patience, Lewis. You're in homicide now. Collars come slower. Go home and start working jigsaw puzzles. Find the right pieces, put them together one by one. Eventually you'll get the whole picture. Just a matter of time."
Frank knew Lewis didn't want to hear this horseshit. She hadn't wanted to hear it a decade ago either.
"What else you
got for me?"
"I found Eldridge Jones's bunkie when he was at Soledad. Name's Darryl Little. He's up in Bakersfield. I want to go up and talk to him, if that'd be all right."
"Can't do it by phone?"
"I think it'd be better if I talked to him in person."
That was true, but Frank couldn't justify the expense.
"Try the phone first, see what you can get."
Lewis nodded.
"What's Hernandez say about all this?"
"He won't talk to us. Yelled at us to go away. He's got nothing to say. He's freaked."
"We're gonna need him."
"Yeah, I know. He'll be all right. We just gotta let him chill a bit. He'll come around."
"Unless the Mother gets to him first. What can you hit him with?"
"Not much"—Lewis shrugged—"nothing serious. Noah said we should get a priest to bless him. Kind of like do an exorcism on him or some nonsense like that so that he wouldn't be afraid to talk to us." Lewis snorted, "I told him I work for LAPD, not Mental Health Services."
"That's not such a bad idea."
"Puh-lease," Lewis groaned.
"Think about it. There's a lot these boys could be telling us, but they're afraid. This'd be the same as a witness protection program. We guarantee them safety in exchange for information. We don't even have to relocate the bastards. Just sprinkle 'em with holy water. I like it. Check it out."
"You're serious," Lewis gawked.
"Yep. A priest might not work though," Frank said, hunkering across the desk toward her cop. "We might need somebody like the Mother, a priestess or whatever who does this same kind of voodoo shit. Somebody Echevarria and Hernandez believe could counteract the Mother's mojo. Check it out. See if they'll bite."
Lewis's laugh came out like a bark.
"And if they do? Where I'ma find this priestess, huh? I'm supposed to look her up in the Yellow Pages. Axe around at the Local Wizards 14?"
When Lewis was done amusing herself, Frank asked, "You forget who writes your evaluation reports?"
The rookie sobered.
"No, ma'am."
"Good. Don't. Anything else?"
"No, ma'am."
Frank pointed at the door.
27
The next morning, on her way to the lieutenants' meeting, Frank cornered Darcy outside the men's room. Making sure no one was within earshot, she said, "Hey. You think your ex would do us a favor?"
"For you," he rumbled, "maybe. But she sure as hell won't for me."
"This guy on the Colonel Sanders case, Hernandez, he knows shit but he won't talk. He's petrified. Thinks the Mother's got curses on him. Noah was thinking we could get somebody like a priest to break the spells. To cleanse him or whatever, convince him he's safe. I was thinking your wife might be equivalent to Mother Love. Maybe we could get Hernandez to go for that. What do you think?"
Darcy folded his arms.
"I could ask her, but if your man doesn't believe in her it won't do any good. So I suppose it's up to him."
"You let me work on him. Meanwhile you work on your wife."
"My ex-wife," he corrected.
"Right. Find out what she'd charge. I'll have to figure how the hell to bury it in expenses."
Frank sat distractedly through the meeting.
What if Noah was right? Maybe they could gain Hernandez' trust by protecting him with some bigger, badder mojo. Frank wasn't against humoring a witness if he helped bring the Mother down. It amused Frank to think of turning the Mother's own weapons against her.
It was late when she returned to the squad room; except for Noah and Lewis, everyone else had gone home.
"Hey," Frank said to Noah. "Lewis told me your idea about the priest. You think if we could find another voodoo queen like the Mother that Hernandez'd go to her?"
"Maybe," he considered. "He might be scared enough to try anything."
"Talk to him. Find out."
In her office, Frank found a note on her chair. She read, X says yes but you have to bring him to her. She won't come up here.
"Deal," Frank said to the room.
She didn't know what Noah had told him, but Hernandez was eager to meet Marguerite James. Frank was pretty curious too. And surprised.
Darcy's ex greeted them silently at her front door. She was at least a foot shorter than Frank expected and bordering on plump. She was barefoot, in a sleeveless white dress belted with a bright assortment of scarves. Dozens of beaded braids ended above the swell of her breasts and Frank forced herself to look away. The woman's breasts were perfectly round and full and they pressed against her blouse like jail-bound cantaloupes making a run for it, dark nipples sent out as the advance team.
She wordlessly appraised Frank and her witness. She didn't even have a glance for her ex-husband. Hernandez fidgeted, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Frank endured a silent appraisal, thinking Marguerite James looked like a woman who knew secrets and wouldn't tell you what they were. Frank had a dozen questions she probably wouldn't ask Darcy until she knew him a hell of a lot better. Marguerite studied her a lot longer than Frank thought necessary, seeing as Hernandez was the client.
"Follow me," she commanded, leading them through a living room decorated with carvings and sequined flags. In the rear of the apartment she let them into a windowless room. It was empty but for a large table with two chairs opposite a flowery altar. She told Frank and Hernandez to sit.
"Tell me about this woman who's cursed you," she demanded of Hernandez. He glanced at Frank and she jerked her head in assent. He nervously told Marguerite about Danny and the hexing of his yard and Echevarria's, and the identical tongue he'd gotten but thrown away. He said he'd been going to Mass twice a day but didn't know if a Christian god could fight these older gods.
Marguerite smiled for the first time. She asked for more details about the hexes. Hernandez was vague and Frank filled in what she could.
"Do you know this woman?" she asked, her blunt gaze on Frank.
"Not well."
"But you've met her?"
"Yeah."
"Describe her for me."
When she'd talked to her on the phone, Marguerite had indicated she knew Mother Love. Reputations evidently spread among the Afro-Caribbean religions like AIDS in shooting galleries. Anyone evincing talent as a priest or priestess didn't remain a secret for long.
"I thought you said you knew her," Frank asked back.
"I know of her," Marguerite snapped. "But we don't travel in the same circles. Tell me your perspective."
Frank shrugged, starting with a physical description, but Marguerite interrupted, "No, no, no. What's she like? Her personality."
"Like I said, she's not very big, but she's . . . forceful. She seems larger than she is. She's proud. Arrogant. Been used to having things her way for a long time."
"How does she dress?" Marguerite asked. "Tell me about her appearance."
"She's flamboyant. She's got a big personality and she dresses big. She had on a red blouse, silk I think. And big hoop earrings. Lots of bracelets. Very—"
"Does she wear beads?"
Frank peered into her memory.
"Yeah. I thin—"
"What color?" Marguerite barked.
Frank closed her eyes, unprepared for the interrogation.
"I want to say glass. Red. Maybe white."
Marguerite's unexpected smile was as powerful as a searchlight. Turning to Darcy, she asked, "How well do you remember your orishas?"
"Not very well."
Marguerite rolled her eyes.
"Which one would be associated with red and white?"
Darcy had to think a minute but his answer was apparently satisfactory, for Marguerite said, "There. You're not as stupid as you think."
"I'm not the one who thinks I'm stupid," Darcy bickered back.
She flipped her hand at him.
"You two leave," she told the detectives. "I will take care of Mr. Hernandez. What I'm going to do,
" she told him carefully, "is rid you of the spells this woman's put on you. I'm going to give you protection too, like an invisible shield, so that whatever she tries to put on you will bounce right off of you and back to her."
Marguerite took one of Hernandez's hands in both her own. She leaned into his face and asked, "Do you believe I can do that?"
Hernandez glanced at Frank again, then back at the woman holding his hand. They waited for his answer. Finally it came in a timorous nod. Marguerite tilted an eyebrow at Frank and Darcy. They returned to the living room where Frank studied Marguerite's art collection. She couldn't vouch for its quality but the quantity was impressive enough. Running her good hand over a beaded fetish, Frank asked, "What was she giving me the third degree for?"
"I don't know." Darcy sulked. He'd been morose all day and Frank had to prod him for answers.
"How long's this going to take?"
"About an hour."
"What's she going to do?"
Pressing his thumbnail into the caulking of the windowsill, he shrugged. "I suspect she'll cleanse him—rub oils on him and smudge him—then she'll invoke an orisha. My guess is she'll call upon Shango. That seems to be Mother Love's god. Plus, he's the god who protects against evil. She'll have to set an altar to attract him. The gods are like six-year-olds. They're easily bribed. She'll pray over Hernandez and probably make him a mojo that'll make him feel safe. But like I said, it all depends on how much faith Hernandez has in her."
"What's an orisha?"
"One of the African gods. There's a whole pantheon with a specific hierarchy, much like the Greek pantheon. Each god has dominion over a specific natural phenomenon. They each have their own attributes and personalities. It's pretty involved."
Frank nodded at a tall carving of a bent old man.
"She do any of these?"
"No, she just collects them. She's a physics professor."
"No kidding?"
When Darcy didn't respond, she asked, "Where at?"
"UC Irvine. She's a bigwig in plasma physics."
"Plasma physics," Frank repeated. She was thinking Marguerite was as impressive as her ex when a door banged.
"Where's your daughter?"
"She's spending the night at a friend's. I wanted to see her but Marguerite doesn't like the schedule disrupted. She can be a regular bitch."
