Street Rules lf-2

by Baxter Clare

  "Let's see .. . Julia Roberts?"

  "Not that interesting."

  "I lose," Noah sighed, hands up.

  "Placa. Said she wanted to meet me Sunday. Six o'clock. Behind Saint Michael's."

  "S'up with that?"

  "Don't know. Kinda odd though, don't you think?"

  Ike bent an ear to the conversation and interrupted, "You said Placa wants to see you?"

  "Yeah."

  "What for?"

  "No clue. Said she had to show me something and would I be there or not? I said sure and asked her what it was about but she said I had to promise not to tell anyone. Then she whispered something — I couldn't hear what she said — and hung up, like she didn't want to get caught talking to me."

  Noah's face clouded.

  "Think she's in trouble with this Estrella thing?"

  "Maybe. Seemed like something was buggin' her the other day, but you know Placa. Stoic."

  Ike asked, "What else did she say?"

  "That was it. Like she was rushed."

  "Maybe it's a set-up," Ike said.

  "Why me? For what?"

  "Want me to go with you?" he offered.

  "No. It's at the church. That's a pretty neutral zone. Probably wants to drop a dime on somebody."

  "Placa?" Noah said dubiously. "Since when's she calling us to do her dirty work?"

  "We'll see," Frank shrugged. Ike started to say something but Noah called out, "Hey-hey! Look who's here."

  Heads at the Nine-three table swiveled to watch Gail Lawless snake her way toward them.

  "Who's dead?" Nook grumbled and Johnnie cried, "Well, hell! If it ain't Doc Law."

  "Don't pay any attention to 'em," Noah ordered, waving her into the seat he'd wedged between himself and Frank. He shouted, "Gin 'n tonic for you, Doc?"

  She nodded and Frank watched the coroner taking in the faces around the table. Frank studied Gail's almond-shaped eyes. They had an almost Asian cast but were set in a distinctly western, raw-boned face. When they settled on Frank, they sparkled.

  "Hi," Gail smiled.

  "Hey. Thought we'd scared you off."

  "I figured my hair wasn't long enough to set on fire," she smirked. "Besides, how could I resist the tall tales?"

  Diego was telling a story about an interview he and Ike had done. Their wit was an old lady and her dead husband, who she assured the detectives, was right next to her on the couch. Diego would ask a question, and she'd say she wasn't sure. The old lady would turn to her husband and ask what he thought. Then she'd look at the detectives and smile as if they'd heard the answer too. Diego finally got the hang of it, and asked the lady to repeat the husband's answers, "on account of my partner and me being so deaf from all the gun battles we've been in."

  She was a great witness, even they couldn't put her on the stand because she was loony-toons. Diego made small talk as they left and she complained about making dinner for her husband. He insisted on supper at six o'clock, but he never ate a thing anymore. She always ended up scraping his plate into the garbage can.

  "After that," Diego rapped on the table, "Every night, six sharp, Ike was at her door."

  "That's like the old lady I had when I was still in uniform," Johnnie said launching into his own story.

  Nancy plunked a tall glass in front of Gail and swept up an empty pitcher. Noah kept interrupting Johnnie's story, showing off for the ladies at the table, and Nook grumbled interjections. Taking in conversations from other tables, monitoring the mood of the bar and her own detectives, Frank tested the atmosphere like a wild animal, too sober to let her guard down. She didn't anticipate trouble, but was ready for it. Part of that was her natural character; part of it was too many years as a cop.

  For a moment, Frank gave the coroner her full attention. She seemed to be having a good time and when the boot at the other end of the table asked Gail the trickiest case she'd ever had, the ME launched into an animated story of an anesthesiologist who'd poisoned his wife with succinylcholine. Frank watched as she explained the wife's exhumation, charmed by Gail's flying hands and lively accounting.

  Nook took center stage after Gail, recounting a body he'd found under a swimming pool. The ice was melting in Gail's glass and Frank leaned over to ask if she'd like a fresh drink.

  "I'll get it," she insisted, but Frank waded to the bar, caught Mac's eye and yelled, "Gin and tonic." He nodded and Frank continued to the bathroom, grateful for the momentary quiet. Drying her hands she glanced at the face in the mirror. Nestled within shadows and a wreath of fine wrinkles, cobalt blue eyes stared back. She'd turned forty in January and looked every minute of it.

  When she returned with Gail's drink, the ME protested, "You didn't have to do that."

  "You know the rules," Frank said. "Tradition is, you drink at the Nine-three table, the LT picks up the tab."

  "Who started that anyway?"

  "That would have been Joe Girardi, my old boss."

  Gail sipped, eyeing Frank from under a fringe of dark lash.

  "You must have plenty of stories," she observed.

  Frank did, but the boys were usually so busy trying to get their own tall tales in, they seldom asked. Frank mostly settled bets, paid the bill, arbitrated discussions, and nodded in the right places. Even after work, she was still the boss.

  "Yeah," she nodded, tilting her head at the detectives, "But this is good for them. Lets them blow steam."

  "And how do you blow steam?"

  "Listening to them," she smiled.

  She wobbled her coffee mug, watching the film on top shimmy. Johnnie was questioning Nook's story and he asked the doc a technical question. She jumped into the fray, and deftly defended Nook's story without deflating Johnnie's ego. No small task, Frank thought. Gail went on to top Nook's story and Frank admired how she fit in with the Nine-three.

  Bobby took a turn and Frank's thoughts drifted idly to Kennedy. She wondered what the manic detective was up to this Friday night. If she wasn't working, and if conditions were right, she was probably surfing. If not that, then cruising on her in-lines or 10-speed, or defeating imaginary foes at kick boxing. Whatever she was doing, Frank was certain she'd be moving; the girl couldn't sit for long. She reflected on the fling they'd had, an affair comprised mainly of passionate and aggressive love-making.

  Frank indulged in the memory of that last time with Kennedy. They'd stumbled around the apartment, groping each other like school kids, finally landing on the floor and filling themselves with each other. Then Kennedy'd given her that damn cocky smile and said, "I'm starving. Want pizza?"

  Still somnambulate, Frank had dumbly replied, "Sure."

  They'd eaten dinner, talking about their week. Kennedy had pried (as always) into how it was going with Clay at the BSU. Frank had hedged (as always). It was going well but she hadn't wanted to get into the details. Instead she'd told a story about a case Ike had caught. Kennedy had laughed around a bite of pizza, accusing Frank of changing the subject. Frank argued there was no changing subjects with Kennedy, only delaying them.

  "You know what?" Kennedy had asked. Expecting the inevitable confrontation, Frank had answered, "I'm afraid I don't."

  "I think we need to make love again. Slow this time. What do you think?"

  "Second best thing you've said all night."

  "What was the first?"

  "Let's get pizza."

  Three days later Frank surprised Kennedy at her apartment. Not only was Kennedy surprised, so was Frank and a very disheveled Nancy.

  "Isn't that right, Frank?"

  "What?"

  "162 stab wounds?"

  "Where?"

  "That Salvadoran woman who shredded her boyfriend, remember? Cut him 162 times. Crochetti had to count each one. Man, he was pissed."

  Frank nodded, verifying Bobby's story, and Gail laughed from the back of her throat.

  "God, I can hear him now. Worse than a damned .22'," she rasped in imitation of the old ME.

  Noah caught Frank's e
ye and he cocked his head at her, wondering. She winked and he tapped his mug to her cup.

  "To Fridays."

  "Here, here," Gail joined in, raising her glass to Noah, then Frank. This precipitated a whole series of toasts around the table, in Spanish, Polish, Chinese, Japanese, and Czechoslovakian. Then the conversation turned to the NBA playoffs and Gail edged toward Frank.

  "You follow basketball?"

  "Nope. I'm pretty much a football fan. How about you?"

  "I like to watch the Niners and Giants. Those are my dad's teams and I kind of grew up with them."

  "You're from Berkeley, right?"

  "Good memory," Gail nodded. "How about you?"

  "Back east."

  "Where back east?"

  "New York City."

  "Really?" Gail said, surprised, pushing her dark bob away from her face. "I'd have never guessed."

  "Good," Frank said, watching Noah's face crack into a big grin. She looked over her shoulder just as she heard Kennedy's wicked drawl.

  "Yes sirree, I reckoned this was where I'd find you bar rats along a Friday night."

  Johnnie and Noah greeted the young detective, imitating her accent, and telling her, "Make yerself to home."

  There weren't many seats available and noting her predicament, Bobby gallantly offered his. She protested but he said, "Hey, I got to be getting home. It's late as it is. Leslie's gonna bust a move on me."

  Kennedy took his seat and Nancy came over with bright interest.

  "Darlin'," Kennedy drawled, eyeing the waitress up and down, making her blush.

  "Hi," she answered shyly, avoiding Kennedy's eye by wiping rings off the table. "Coke?"

  "Por favor," the detective said in horrible Spanish.

  When the waitress left, Kennedy turned her full attention to the ME.

  "How ya doin', doc?"

  "Fine," Gail replied, with a slight edge. The young narc held the doc's cool gaze a beat longer than necessary, then turned to Frank.

  "How you been?" she asked.

  Conversation drifted back to the DA's office and below the rest of the table talk Frank answered, "Good. S'up with you?"

  "Nothin'," Kennedy shrugged, "Just thought I'd drop by and see what ya'll were up to."

  Frank shrugged, "Working hard, hardly working."

  "You taking care of yourself?" the younger woman asked, with no trace of an accent.

  "You bet. And you?"

  "Stayin' fit as a fiddle."

  "You look it."

  Kennedy leaned closer, dropping her voice even more.

  "Ain't too late to change your mind, you know."

  A thin smile reflected off Frank's coffee.

  "Thanks, but no thanks."

  "Suit yourself," Kennedy dismissed, scanning the crowded room. Spotting Nancy, she said, " 'Scuse me."

  Frank watched the two women talking, joking, Kennedy's hand on Nancy's arm. Frank would have shaken her head if she were alone; the girl had moxie, and then some. Frank had ended their affair when she saw the situation with Nancy, but Kennedy had been unrepentant. She'd insisted her relationship with Frank wasn't monogamous, so what was the big deal? She still didn't understand why Frank had ended it.

  Kennedy made her way back to the Nine-three table, winked at Frank, and said goodbye to the detectives. Knowing Noah was watching her, Frank refused to look at him. She finished her coffee and stayed for another round of one-upping, then dropping some bills on the table, she said, "Make sure Johnnie doesn't take this for alimony."

  "Johnnie, hell," Diego answered. "Make sure Ike doesn't take it for the ponies."

  "Hey, where you goin'?" Noah asked.

  "Going home. Been a long week baby-sitting you guys. Doc, good to see you again," Frank said amiably. "Always nice to have fresh blood at this table."

  When Gail asked, "Pun intended?" Frank answered with a rare and genuine smile.

  Chapter Six

  "Hey. What are you doing here?"

  Noah slapped into the squad room in rubber thongs. Wearing faded red shorts and a cut-off, paint-stained sweatshirt, limbs dangling, he looked like a Southern California scarecrow.

  Frank's squad worked 6:00AM to 2:00 PM, Monday through Friday, rotating on call outs after hours. Unless they'd caught a new case, Frank usually had the squad room to herself on weekends.

  "Aw, Trace and Markie got the flu. I got 'em some videos and the girls are at the mall with some friends. I figured I may as well come in and get that Torres report wrapped up."

  "Yeah. You're late on that. I want it by Monday."

  "I know, I know. So how was your night?" Noah asked innocently, sniffing the coffee pot.

  "Fine," Frank replied, equally innocent.

  "Get any sleep?"

  "Plenty."

  Noah chuckled at her and said, "You're drivin' Johnnie batty. All these women lining up for you and he can't even get one. He was gettin' bitter last night."

  "What'd he say?" Frank asked, unsettled by the vision of Johnnie rambling drunkenly about her love-life.

  "Aw, nothin'. He was just thinkin' he'd do better with tits and a pony tail."

  "All I got's the ponytail," Frank corrected.

  "You got somethin'," Noah pressed, "I'm tellin' you — Nance, Kennedy, the doc ..."

  "You'd probably make more money on Love Line than you do here, No."

  "Damn right," Noah agreed. "I should be charging you a finders fee. The doc was asking questions after you left. I like this, she called you — and I quote directly — intriguingly impenetrable."

  "What did she want to know?"

  "If you and Kennedy were an item."

  Frank raked Noah's face for signs of a joke.

  "What'd you say?"

  "I told her she'd have to ask you."

  "Nice. Very subtle."

  "What was I supposed to say?"

  "Could've tried no."

  "Then I'd be lying. . . wouldn't I?"

  Now Noah looked for answers in Frank's stony face.

  "Are you two not. . . you know . . . ?"

  "No. We're not."

  Frank tried to walk away, but Noah blocked her.

  "Since when?"

  "Since when's that any of your business?"

  "It's my job to keep abreast of these things. So to speak. So since when?"

  "Since a while ago," she relented. "Okay? Can I get some work done now?"

  "That's perfect," Noah exclaimed. "Now you can make your move on the doc. Trust me, Frank; your efforts won't go unrewarded."

  "So you keep telling me," she muttered, then to change the subject she demanded, "Listen. Guess what I did this morning."

  "Let's see. You hired a hooker?"

  Frank shook her ponytail. "Couldn't find one at six AM."

  "You're lookin' in the wrong places," Noah suggested. "Okay. You registered for a cruise around the world."

  "Cruise is partly correct."

  Noah narrowed his eyes, carefully assessing Frank. The faded, neatly pressed jeans, the blue LAPD shirt, were standard weekend attire, but the battered running shoes weren't.

  "Knowing you ... at six AM on a Saturday morning, you'd probably worked out already and you were probably back at work, either at home or here. But cruise is part of the answer . . . let's see. I know you're not happy that we're pinning the Estrella case on Luis . . . I'm guessing you cruised out to Topanga and did a little bush-whacking. That would explain the scratches on your arms. Correct?"

  Frank chuckled, surprised, pleased, and a little embarrassed that Noah knew her so well.

  "Did I hit the jackpot?"

  "Three cherries, my man. Not that it did any good. All I found were ticks and gnats."

  "Lucky that man-eating cougar didn't find you."

  "I'm too tough. She'd have spit me out after one bite."

  "So what were you lookin' for?"

  "I don't know. Anything."

  Frank hadn't expected to find a smoking gun, but she'd needed to see for herself where Luis
Estrella had been. She'd half walked, half slid down the angled hillside, and from the surprisingly accurate LASD notes, found the exact location of the body. Searching for the anomaly in the scenery, she'd spent a couple hours crawling through prickly-leaved shrubs and poison oak.

  But for a small assortment of the usual litter, it was a surprisingly clean canyon. Frank had cleared some duff to bare soil and nestled herself against a large boulder. She'd let the mild sun play over her face. Closing her eyes against it, she'd shut out the scenery and gradually deafened herself to the birdsong and bustle in the underbrush.

  She'd concentrated on Luis Estrella's face, the proud picture of his tats. She imagined him in his room, at the kitchen table with his family, driving in his beat-up car. Working hard at becoming him, she'd absorbed everything she knew about him — his heroin habit, his limp, his ill health, his easy-go-lucky clownishness. She put herself in his tennis shoes and sweatshirt, on the dirty bed in the garage, scratching himself, picking at his sores.

  Frank didn't have to shoot up to know the effects of horse. She'd grown up around the drug and been surrounded by it throughout her career. When a junkie was happy, he shot up. When he was sad, he shot up. When he was breathing, he shot up. A gutter-hype like Luis lived for only one thing, and that was to dip steel. The only thing that mattered to him was scoring and using. A junkie on the nod couldn't be provoked into the rage necessary to waste an entire family. A crashing junkie could be angered, but his rage would be focused on finding his next hit. Nothing else mattered to him. The horse obviated any other needs; food, sex, shelter — it all paled compared to the craving for that next hit.

  Sitting in her patch of sunshine, Frank had tried to feel how a hope-to-die junkie could muster the wherewithal to efficiently and cold-bloodedly kill six people. And his dog. The dog that slept in the garage with him, on his own bed. Johnnie was right. It didn't make sense.

  She repeated that to Noah, who just shook his head. She couldn't blame him. With a case load like theirs, a detective had to take the most obvious leads and run with them. In a few days, sometimes a few hours, another call would come in and his already heavy load would have to be shifted to accommodate the new burden. The ninety-third didn't have the luxury of chasing wild hairs and shaky leads. If the evidence pointed north, a detective went north, even if his gut screamed south. The detective could only indulge his gravitational pull if and when the opposite course had been proved a misdirection.