by Baxter Clare
"I know, I know. But he's not drinkin' on the job, I can tell you that. But yeah, he's hung over almost every morning. I had to pull over last week so he could puke in the street."
Frank stared grimly.
"Don't come down on him too hard," Noah pleaded.
Frank nodded, knowing what a softie he was. Noah and Tracey joked that in their house, it was "wait 'til your mother gets home," because Noah just couldn't discipline the kids. He looked for the best in everyone and when he found it, he'd cling to it, refusing to look at the bad. It was one of the ways he kept his sanity in an insane job.
"This doesn't go out of here," she said, opening the door. No sooner had she returned to her desk than Diego poked his head in.
"Quivo, Taquito?"
"Got a minute?"
"Sure."
He tilted his head and Frank followed. He and Ike had a suspect in one of their cases but couldn't get him into the box. Zabbo wanted to pull him in on a technicality, but Diego wanted to wait, let it ride until the suspect did something stupid. If they pulled him in now and he didn't tell them what they wanted, they'd have to let him go. Then he'd know he was wanted and could take a powder.
"This guy's rap sheet covers the floor, man. He'll fuck up any day now and then we've got him," Diego reasoned. He sat relaxed in his chair, the faint outline of a tattoo still visible under his left eye. He was an old cholo, a White Fence homeboy who'd turned his life around to play on the other side of the law. Nothing perturbed Diego, but his partner was a hothead. At 53, Ike was the second oldest member of the nine-three. The boys called him "Pinkie" because of his rings, and there was much speculation but no proof as to how Ike managed to live like a shot-caller on a detective's salary.
Waving a sticky maple donut in the air, he argued that their suspect knew he was hot and that they already ran the risk of losing him. Ike was confident if they brought him in on a minor that they could break him down in the box. Just as Frank was about to side with Diego her phone rang and she sprinted into her office. She was waiting for the coroner's office to call about Placa's cut.
"Homicide. Franco."
"No, no, no," the voice at the other line argued. "You worked hard to get where you are, Frank. You've got to answer the phone, Lieutenant Franco."
Frank recognized Joe Girardi's high-pitched voice.
"So they know exactly which office to send the bomb to, right?"
Joe chuckled and asked how it was going.
Frank's hand found her neck when she answered, "Not so bad. I've got one detective out on maternity, another that's retired, and one that should be in AA meetings. Other than that, things are good."
"Let's see. That redhead you hired would be the ML.
Gough's wearing out his lawn mower, and the drunk would be Ike or Johnnie. Or you."
Frank smiled into the phone.
"That'd be Johnnie."
"What are you doing about it?"
"I gotta talk to him. Tell him I'm worried about him, worried about his job performance."
"And he'll spit in your face. That's what I did when Dougherty called me on my shit. Let me know if there's anything I can help with. How's Fubar treating you?"
"He's getting kind of antsy. Stats were down last two months, closures were sixty-nine and fifty-two respectively."
Her old boss whistled, "That's low for you, my girl."
"Tell me. And the little man ain't happy."
"Tell him he better get you some more bodies — live ones, that is."
"Yeah, he keeps saying he's going to, but they never materialize."
“Things heating up yet?"
The body count at Figueroa always increased with the summer temperatures. People were outside more and their tempers started fraying in the unrelenting city heat. Trivialities quickly escalated into traumas, and by August it wasn't unusual to have daily homicides. Joe had escaped it all when he retired to the fishing in Minnesota. For a second Frank felt a pang of envy.
"Nah, still pretty quiet." She paused. "Remember Placa? Claudia Estrella's daughter?"
"Sure, sure. What did she do now?"
"Somebody smoked her the other night."
"Aw, geez. That's a goddamned shame."
The disappointment in Joe's voice made Frank uneasy and she worked the tightness just under her hairline.
"Yeah. Not only that, week before, her uncle and aunt and cousins got capped."
"You got a turf war going on?"
She told Joe how the Kings were muscling into Playboy territory, but that so far all the killing was strictly related to the Estrella clan. There was no broader indication of an all-out gang conflict. She mentioned the lead on Ruiz and how they'd spent the weekend trying to find him. When that topic ran out Joe casually asked, "Are you still going over to BSU?"
Frank squeezed harder.
"Yeah, once a week or so. It's going well. I'm glad I did it."
"Good. Good girl. It's a hard thing to do, believe me. I know. Christ, after that Palmisanto case? I thought I was going to swallow the magic bullet, I tell you."
Frank hadn't been working with Joe when he'd pulled his first serial killer case, but she'd heard about it dozens of times over dozens of beers. Joe was telling it again now, and Frank's mind wandered to the Delamore case last year. It had taken a huge emotional and physical toll on her and was part of the ugly spiral that had landed her in Clay's office.
Frank asked about the fishing and the cabin that Joe was building. He laughed, saying if the fishing kept up the way it was he'd never get the damn thing finished. He launched into a story about a pike and a mosquito and Frank had to smile. It was good to hear his voice. He had a knack for buzzing her out of the blue, usually when she was chewing on a particularly vexing problem. Joe had 'good bones'; his instincts were strong and he listened to them. He'd taught Frank how to trust hers and molded her into a first-rate homicide detective. With his retirement looming, he'd started grooming Frank to succeed him. He'd had to fight like hell for it, but his legacy was creating Figueroa's first female homicide lieutenant.
"Well, you know, we old retired folks get on the phone and forget that you kids still got work to do. I should let you get back to it."
"Good talking to you, Joe."
"Hell, I'd be more likely to finish that cabin tomorrow than get a phone call from you."
"Yeah, I know. Just get busy."
"Tell me about it. Well, listen. You know where I am."
"Yeah, I do, Joe. Appreciate it."
Frank replaced the phone and sat back, hands clasped behind her head. She allowed herself the brief luxury of missing Joe, then cut it off to avoid being buried in the emotional avalanche of people she missed.
There was nothing in the office urgently requiring her attention, so she grabbed her coat and decided to wake up Claudia. Fifteen minutes later, Alicia, Claudia's oldest granddaughter, opened at Frank's knock.
"Buela!" Alicia yelled for her grandmother. Looking Frank up and down she called, "It's the policia."
Frank waited until Claudia came to the door in a long T-shirt and sweater.
"Morning, Claudia," she chirped, holding up a bag of donuts. "Let's talk."
"I already tolt you ever'thin' I know," the woman argued sleepily.
"Aw, you know that's not true. Am I coming in or are you coming out?"
Claudia unlatched the steel screen. Frank followed her into the kitchen, watching her make coffee. Alicia asked for cereal and Frank asked, "Do you want a donut?"
Suddenly the girl was shy and hid behind Claudia. She stared curiously and Frank held the bag out to her, "Go on. Take one."
Alicia looked up at her grandmother.
"Vaya," she grunted and the girl grabbed one from the bag, then another, and scampered into the living room where the TV was already blaring.
"She's cute," Frank grinned. Claudia leaned back against the counter, eyeing Frank blankly.
"So tell me, how many funerals you been to lately?"
> Claudia looked away.
"Let's see," Frank said. Starting with Claudia's oldest son, Chuey, Frank named the dead in order. She finished with, "And that leaves Carmen on Saturday. Then who? Tonio? Is he next in line? How old is he? Thirteen? Then does the little one get it? Is Alicia next?"
Frank let that work while the old coffee machine burbled and wheezed.
"Claudia. You've spent the last week burying most of your family, including your daughter. I know you're a good mother. You've done all you can do, given your circumstances. Maybe you didn't make all the best choices, but you did pretty good. And you never had any help, did you? You've done it all alone. I know that's hard. My mother raised me alone. I know it's not easy. And I know you don't want to lose any more of your babies."
Frank paused. It didn't surprise her that a mother living in south-central wouldn't turn in the person who'd gunned down her daughter. She knew the high price of retaliation. And there was nothing Frank could do to prevent it. It was what made homicide at Figueroa so frustrating. Even when they knew damn well who'd done a hit on someone, and knew they had witnesses, they couldn't make the wits talk. Hardcore bangers were hope-to-die killers who thought nothing of wasting a witness if it would keep them out of Chino or San Quentin.
Frank pleaded, "I want to help you, Claudia. I don't want you to lose any more of your family. Christ, I've known you since you were Placa's age. In all that time, have I ever lied to you? Haven't I been carnal?"
Claudia nodded. Frank was encouraged she was at least listening.
"I've always been straight up with you, haven't I?"
Again Claudia nodded.
"Then be straight up with me now. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on here. All I need's a name. That's all you got to do. Drop me a name."
Frank could see the strain on Claudia. It was subtle, but it was there — the eyes narrowing by a fraction, the lips becoming a little more bloodless against each other, shoulders squaring just a tad. Frank gently stretched the breaking point.
"You want to tell me, but you don't. I understand. It's okay. It's okay to be afraid too. I know what you're up against."
Claudia's brown eyes flickered, becoming even more wary. Stepping into the woman's personal space, Frank stared down at her, but Claudia wouldn't raise her head.
"Who's the pendejo Gloria was talking about? Tell me, Claudia. Tell me," she begged gently.
"I don't know who it is," she mumbled, taking a nibble around her thumbnail.
Focusing on a black scuff mark on the linoleum floor, Frank said, "No te creo." They stood that way for minutes. Frank relinquished. The coffee was ready and she nodded at the pot.
"Can I have a cup of that?"
Claudia shrugged but made no move to pour. Frank got up and found the cups, pouring one for Claudia.
"You're standing here, putting up with my shit, and in a couple days you're gonna bury your baby daughter. You're a brave woman, Claudia. You're strong. I seen you raise five kids alone. I seen you give up the cargo, and that's hard, specially when it's still movin' in and outta this house."
Claudia stiffened. It was a slight motion, but something about dealing smack had touched a nerve.
"Digame," Frank said softly. "What about the dope, Claudia?"
"I told you," she answered tersely. "I don't know nothin'."
"And I told you I don't believe you."
They stalemated again, then Frank told a story about breaking up a fight Placa was in and how Placa'd been so full of fury and pride that she was ready to take Frank on after the cholos had been shooed along. Frank smiled at Claudia.
"She was your daughter, but a lot of us helped raise her.
She was a good girl. I'm not quittin' 'til I find out who did this."
Putting her cup down in the sink, Frank said, "I'll see you later."
Chapter Eleven
The sergeant took roll. He made a few jokes, took a couple, and then let Frank have the floor.
"Thanks, Sarge. Some of you've been here awhile and you knew Carmen Estrella. Street name was Placa. She was a King, big OG in the Fifty-second Street clique. She took five rounds from a .25 on Saturday, at South Wilton and Hyde Park, around 1715 hours. Wits tell us the shooter may have been parked in a sedan at the corner."
Frank held up a handful of flyers.
"This is our primary suspect. A lot of you probably know him. Name's Octavio Ruiz. Goes by Ocho. Drives a yellow '91 Thunderbird, lives at 50th and Broadway but he hasn't been home for a few days. If you see him, bring him in. Don't mention anything about this case. He's got outstanding GTA and weapons felonies you can use."
Frank walked around the cops as she spoke, handing each of them a flyer. One of them, Dimmler a young, muscle-bound blonde with a crew cut, fanned himself with the sheet asking, "Hey, Lieutenant. What's the big deal with this chick? I mean she's just another banger, right?"
Frank nodded, his words clattering around in her head. Just another banger. She understood the mentality. Cops had to establish and maintain distance from the public they served. It was ironic they pinned their shields over their hearts. To do what they had to do, cops had to develop emotional armor against the insanity and violence they encountered on an hourly, daily, weekly basis, month in, month out. They lived in a grim world where only the cops capable of emotional detachment survived. Frank did the same thing. Usually. This time it was personal and Dimmler's words stung.
He hadn't meant them to, just like the cop who'd stepped over her father's body hadn't meant to wound Frank when he'd complained, "Dumb fuck. My shift was almost up." For that cop, her father had been an obstacle to dinner and a hot shower. For Frank, her ten-year old world had just imploded. She never forgot that cop. Thirty years later, no matter what low-life scum bag was leaking into the street at her feet, she remembered that he might be the center of one person's universe. And though the vie was nothing to Frank, there was probably someone beyond the yellow tape Jonesing for an explanation about what happened to their boyfriend, husband, son, daddy. Frank had never gotten an answer. She didn't think about it, but that lack of resolution had impelled her into homicide, and kept her there, still gamely looking for answers. Even if they weren't hers.
"Just another banger," she agreed bloodlessly. "And Ruiz is just another felon that I'm trying to get off the street, Dimmler. Just doing my job. And the more felons we put away the sooner you can get back into the gym to work on those pretty pecs of yours."
Lewis wolf-whistled and someone threw a wadded paper. Dimmler blushed. Frank raised her voice above the catcalls, deliberately keeping it in a low register.
"Ruiz runs with the 51st Street Playboys. He has a tattoo of an octopus on his back that extends around to his chest. Got a big M tattooed under his collarbone. On his right shoulder he's got BPBOYS, under that, 51, and under that, an upside down exclamation point, R, and another exclamation point."
Hunt mumbled, "Gee. How will we know if it's him?"
"He's got a scar running up the right side of his neck, stands 5'11", weighs a buck eighty-five. If you spot him, approach with caution. Call me at my pager number, it's on the flyer or have desk notify me immediately. Questions?"
Sitting in back, Heisdaeck asked when was the last time anyone had seen Ruiz.
"Day of the shooting."
The old cop just shook his head and said, "Ain't gonna see him for a spell."
"Not if he's smart," Hunt added.
"He's a banger," Dimmler quipped. "How bright can he be?"
From the back of the room Munoz threw another piece of paper at Dimmler and laughed, "You got a lot to learn, Pretty-Boy."
The beefy blonde waved irritatedly at the missiles, growling, "Cut it out."
Frank thanked the sergeant and returned upstairs. She ran into Foubarelle on the way.
"Frank! I was looking for you."
"What's up?"
The captain sighed, deeply wounded. Holding up a two-page memo, he said, "You want me to pull a unit when we'
re already understaffed to do survey on a banger's house? For a drive-by? What am I not seeing here?"
Fubar was a station queen; he worked inside, not on the street. She wanted to say that by the time she told Fubar all he wasn't seeing she'd be a week shy of retirement. He'd never been on the street in Figueroa and the little time he had spent on patrol had been at the Venice Division handing out public nuisance tickets.
"This guy's got a rap sheet longer than your arm, he's got three separate felony warrants on him, and he's the prime suspect in a murder case. He's an old timer with the 51st Street Playboys and he's been a bad boy for a long time. He's past three strikes now and if we can find him we have a good chance to keep him out of action until he's walking with a cane."
Frank shrugged.
"You don't want to catch him, it's no skin off my nose."
"Oh, don't give me that, Frank. Of course I want to catch him. We just don't have the resources to pull a car out of action."
"Whatever. Just thought I'd ask. Look, I'm on my way to the coroner's office. Anything else?"
"What's going on there?"
"Autopsy on the drive-by of-the-week."
"And why do you need to be there?"
Frank's eyes narrowed and dilated. She clamped her teeth together. Any of her men would have known to back off, but Foubarelle kept at her.
"It seems to me that your stats have taken a tumble and that you're spending almost as much time out there as a foot cop. Except for the one you closed last week —"
"— Two."
"What?"
"We closed two last week."
"Well, until those I hadn't seen a close-out or 60-day on my desk in weeks. What's going on, Frank?"
"You want to know?" she asked, nailing Fubar to the wall with twin steel-blue lasers. "I'll tell you. I'm working over one hundred cases a year. We get so many homicides here we're thinking of making it a misdemeanor. That's what's going on. A new case almost every third day. And when those new cases come in we're supposed to drop everything and give them highest priority. Even you know our best chance of closure's within 48 hours. I'm supposed to have a squad of ten and I've got six. That's almost half-staff, John. My supervisor keeps telling me I'll get replacements. I haven't seen a new body in this room in four years.
