by Baxter Clare
Frank straightened, slapping the Pathfinder's roof.
"Look. You be careful driving home. I'll see you next week."
Frank left Gail staring behind her.
Chapter Seventeen
At the cemetery, Frank spotted Bobby standing a discrete distance from Placa's funeral.
"What are you doing here?" he murmured.
"Thought I'd take in the action," she whispered back.
"Shoot, if I'd known you were coming I'd have stayed home. It would have saved me grief with Leslie."
"How's she doing?"
"All right," Bobby smiled, then blurted out, "She might be pregnant."
"No way."
"Yeah. She's going to the doctor on Tuesday."
"Hey, I hope it works out."
Bobby's wife had miscarried twice before. They wanted lots of kids and were in the process of adopting a little boy.
"Anybody around?"
"Not yet. I thought for sure I'd see a couple Playboys by now. I hate these gang funerals. It's like waiting around for sharks to find a school of bleeding fish."
Frank took a look at the assembled crowd. She recognized some of the older folks, the Estrella relatives, but most of the mourners were kids Placa's age. They were all dressed in their finest, the boys in large shirts with sharply pressed baggies, and the girls in divulging tops over skintight skirts. Tattoos were as common as pimples and Frank watched two groups of boys greet each other with bold hand signs, openly announcing their gang affiliation.
Several ranflas slowly cruised the street, no doubt Playboys or another set waiting and watching. The sharks were beginning to gather. Propping herself casually against Bobby's car, eyes and ears wide open, Frank told him about Claudia's reaction when Frank had mentioned dealing junk.
"Maybe it wasn't a Playboy," Bobby said, eyeing the crowd behind his dark glasses. "Maybe it was a deal that went bad. A kickdown."
"Maybe. We need to get with Narco, see if we can't pin down exactly what sort of action they're into."
"Okay," Bobby said, his eyes lingering on a knot of young men smoking at the entrance to the cemetery. Their tats identified all of them as Kings. Frank recognized some of them and Bobby asked, "Want to hit 'em up?"
"May as well. Why don't you take Rojo and I'll take my namesake over there."
"Roger."
The cops walked toward the boys, watching blunts get flicked away.
"Hmmm. Smells good over here," Bobby said.
"Yeah," Frank said, "and most of you are probably on parole, aren't you? Hey, Frankie. Walk with me a minute."
A thick-set older boy did as he was told, but not happily. Frank walked with him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his heavy arm. She stopped and crowded him.
"Okay. I know you're a smart guy. You wouldn't come to a funeral without protection, right?"
He didn't want to answer that, and Frank said, "Don't make me prone you in front of everybody. Just show me what you're carryin'."
Frankie sighed and looked sideways, lifting his long shirt-tail. A nickel-plated Tech-9 rode in his waistband.
"Nice. Now let me ask you some questions. You tell me something I can use, I don't talk to your parolie, okay?"
"Wha' you wanna know?"
"What's the word on Placa? Who hit her?"
"Seem like a Playboy."
"Yeah? Who's claimin' it?"
"Ain't nobody I know of. I heard some people say it was Ocho Ruiz. The ride that pulled on her was like his but ain't no Playboys ownin' it."
"And nobody else is. Don'tcha think that's kinda funny? Now if a King did this, you wouldn't be telling me that either, would you? Kinda makes me wonder if this was inside, you know what I mean?"
Frankie stopped walking, eyes hard and dark on Frank's.
"Wasn't no King done it," he warned.
"How do you know?"
"I just know. Placa was down. Ain't nobody'd have the guts to do it. And Placa was like, loca, man. You jus' didn't mess with her. She put a hex on a dude I knew. Made him think he was a chicken. You didn't mess with Placa 'cuz if she didn't put that freaky malojo on you then her sister would. That whole family's crazy. They's like witches or somethin'."
"Really? You believe that?"
"Yeah, man! I saw that vato get on his hands and knees and start eating dirt. He was just like a chicken."
"I'll be damned," Frank murmured. "All right, Frankie. I'll believe you. But if I find out it was a King, I'ma come find you and you'll be back at the Hall before you can kiss your mother goodbye. No es mentira. You change your mind, or you hear somethin' before I do, call me. Don't lose this," she said slipping her card into his hand.
Frank turned around and said, "Okay. Who's next? Shadow. How 'bout you?"
A skinny little kid, with bones where muscles should have been, whined, "Why me? I ain't done nothin'!"
Frank just wiggled her finger and Shadow threw his hands up.
"Aw, man."
"Come on," she coaxed, "take it like a man."
"Pero, mierda, I ain't done nothin'."
He was shorter than Frank and she wrapped an arm around his ropey neck.
"Okay. Frankie showed me that pretty Tech-9 he's got, now I want to see what you're holding."
"Nothin'!" Shadow protested.
"Hey, easy, easy. I'm not on your case, man. 'Sides, if I was, I could probably get you for associating already, and that ain't air freshener I'm smellin'. I could take you in on just that."
"I'd be out in an hour," the kid bragged.
"Not if I pat you down and find you're holdin'. You don't want me to do that, do you?"
Frank twisted her head, "Besides. Aren't you sixteen now? Bust you this time you're going to County with the big boys. I hear they got a whole new block full a skinheads." She grinned, "I bet they'd love some puto-ass homeboy coming in on possession. Hm-hm," she said licking her lips.
"Fuck that," Shadow spat. He pulled a snub-nose .38 out of one pocket and a .22 out of the other.
"Man, what are you a Boy-Scout? You come prepared. Okay."
Frank gave him and another King the same spiel, getting much the same answers. Bobby's tack was different but he ended up with what Frank did. Zip. Nobody had heard anything.
Propped against Bobby's car again, Frank said, "Okay. Tell me what this means."
Bobby picked a leaf off a tree and started folding it into what looked like an origami shape. Frank was about to add, "Before I get gray hair," when he said, "Well. It could mean a number of things. Could be a Playboy not claiming because he's afraid of payback. Could be a King not claiming for the same reason, somebody trying to rise in the clique. But that'd sure be a way to make a name for yourself. If it's one of those, somebody'll talk sooner or later. That kind of stuff doesn't happen alone. It could be a completely different clique, different gang. Maybe Lydia did it alone. Maybe it was getting too dangerous, or maybe Placa was playing her."
"With who?"
Frank waited patiently, then Bobby lit up.
"The guy who left the sperm in her."
Frank smiled, and Bobby said, "Ocho?"
"Could be. Maybe she was playing them both."
"Pretty dangerous, and for why?"
"Don't know. But look at our body count here. All of Julio Estrella's family, plus the uncle. Then Luis ODs. Supposedly."
"You've got nothing to say he didn't," Bobby warned. Despite Frank's misgivings about it, all her detectives were eager to put the Estrella shootings onto Luis.
"I'm just saying it's a big coincidence," Frank defended. "And now someone's capped Placa. All this within a week. And she wanted to talk to me about something. I'm saying this isn't over yet. That Placa knew something about what happened to her uncles, about what happened to Barracas, and that whoever killed them shut Placa up too, before she could talk. This is a lot of killing, for what? And Claudia knows something, and the drugs make her nervous. Let's say there's some action being run out of that house that we don't know
about. Let's say the Estrella's are cutting into Ruiz' action, which might be cutting into somebody else's action. Let's say that somebody's fucking tired of it."
"You're saying Julio was cutting into Ruiz' turf?"
"I don't know. I don't know what the connection is yet, if there even is one. But we've got a car like Ruiz' at the scene. He's on the fly. Let's say he took out Placa. Why? Coincidence? Maybe Luis did kill his family, but we've got no motive for that either. All I'm saying is that maybe they're all tied up. Maybe Ruiz is the link, maybe he's not. Just keep in mind that this could be bigger than a banger thing."
"But if we pin Ocho to that party ..."
"Then we got shit," Frank conceded.
Mourners started drifting from Placa's gravesite and Frank scrutinized every movement, thinking if there was going to be trouble, this was when it would start. Bobby flicked his leaf away, watching too.
"Well we know it wasn't an accident. Whoever shot her took a lot of trouble to do it. It wasn't just some wild-ass drive-by. That the car was parked, tells us she was probably in it with the shooter, or that whoever was driving it was friendly enough with her that they could take the time to park. So it had to be someone she knew."
"Kid spent her whole life in the 'hood so that doesn't exactly narrow the field for us."
"Yeah," Bobby agreed. "And dig this. Why would you come home and then leave after a few minutes? Tonio said she came home around six-thirty, quarter to seven. She was only there for a couple minutes then she left. He remembers because she kept walking in front of the TV and he was trying to watch Hercules. But why come home at all if you're not going to stay?"
Frank twisted her invisible ring, caught in the irresistible lure of chasing a homicide.
"To change clothes."
"Okay. Do we know what she was wearing at the park?"
Frank shook her head and said, "Find out. What else? How about to get something to eat?"
"Tonio said she didn't go in the kitchen. Just into her room then out, like she was getting something. Maybe she was getting strapped. Maybe she came home to get a stash and went out to sell it."
Closer to the truth than she knew, Frank nodded, "There's something about the drugs. I'll call Narco on Monday, see what I can find out. Maybe we can get a warrant. I'd like to search the whole house Monday. I'll set up the paper and have it good to go if Narco gives us anything."
"What are you looking for?"
"Anything. I want to check her personal effects, pictures, notebooks, backpacks, scrapbooks, pockets, drawers, anything that might indicate who she's been hangin' with, or where. Maybe she's slangin', who knows?"
"If there's incriminating stuff like that don't you think they'd have thrown it out buy now?"
"Maybe," Frank admitted. "I probably should have asked for a consent that first night, but I was too focused on Ruiz. Bad move on my part."
"I think we were all leaning to him. It seemed like a grounder."
"Yeah. Well, look. Get home to Les. Better not piss her off anymore than you already have."
Bobby smiled, "No, she's all right."
Frank started walking away, then called, "Hey!"
Bobby turned, and she asked if he'd ever brought the Estrellas donuts. He thought carefully then answered, "No."
"All right. Check with Nook would you? See if he took them any?"
Ever meticulous, Bobby made a note of it right there. Frank drove away, aware the donut she'd had with Claudia had long since worn off. A hole-in-the-wall off Crenshaw made incredible catfish and greens, but the place only had two tables, so Frank called in an order. She added a side of corn-bread, and coffee and bean pie for dessert.
At the tiny restaurant a large man, whose name she couldn't remember, greeted her with winking gold teeth. Black vats of oil simmered behind him and he gleamed gunmetal blue in the close kitchen. Frank poured hot sauce and salt on the greens then propped the containers open in the passenger seat. She went south on Van Ness to get back into Figueroa territory, then meandered east on 52nd. She drove slowly through the residential streets, eating with her fingers, enjoying the sweet, greasy fish and hot, sharp bite of the greens.
Even on her day off, her eye caught the three kids slinking into the alley too fast, the woman in the too-tight outfit near Tripps Market, the crackhead jerking toward a cluster of young men at the corner and their defiant perusal of all traffic. But none of that bothered her right now. With the sun warm through the window and hip-hop on the radio, she rolled through the shadows of tall palms and billboards advertising Hennesy and Alize, Virginia Slims and Camels, Whitney Houston and Ice Cube.
Strikes and tags boldly proclaimed which gang's turf she was in. Van Ness Gangsters and P Stones Jungles, Rollin' 60s and Rollin' 50s, Barrio Mojados and 38th Street. Where the boundaries met, rival names were repeatedly crossed out. Fresh names were painted over, then they too got crossed out and repainted. Frank made note of new tags and recognized old favorites. She turned onto a stretch of Denker that Placa had sprayed regularly. She didn't see anything recent, but paused at a tire yard fortified by brick walls and steel gates.
On the north wall, below the concertina wire and above a garbage-strewn lot, Placa and Tonio had painted a hauntingly beautiful memorial. Clasped black and blue hands, tattooed with three dots, prayed to a Grim Reaper rippling overhead. A weeping Madonna and Virgin of Guadalupe, skillfully robed in blue and yellow and orange, flanked the hands. The mural was circled with the names of fallen Kings. The inner ring had been completed long ago. As more kids died, their names had created a second, and then a third ring around the figures.
Sure she could have painted her way out of south-central, Bobby had barraged Placa with scholarship forms and program applications. Frank didn't know if she'd ever filled them out. Too late now, she thought, finding Placa's name flowing in blue script, a temporary tail on the outer circle. Chuey's name was painted near the beginning of the first ring and Frank wondered if Tonio's would be up there someday, and if so, who'd strike it for him?
Putting the old Honda in gear, Frank continued resolutely down Placa's unfinished canvas.
Chapter Eighteen
Later that evening, it took time for a ringing telephone to penetrate Frank's hard sleep. She rolled off the couch in the den, and jogged to the kitchen, answering, "This is Franco."
A CRASH unit had caught Ruiz taking a leak against a building just a block away from Lydia's apartment. They'd requested back up and taken him in. Frank had called Nook and Bobby and they'd met her at Figueroa. Ruiz had been waiting in the cramped interrogation room.
Nookey suggested, "Let's do good cop — bad cop. I'm little like him, so you," he nodded at Bobby, "can be the Intimidator. Besides, he might be more willing to talk to a gook than a spook."
"Well, when you put it that way," Bobby grimaced.
"Yeah. Try that," Frank agreed. Meanwhile, she banged out a warrant to impound Ruiz's T-bird. By three AM she was standing in Judge Levine's living room watching him sign it. Back at the office her detectives worked Ruiz. Nook was nice and bought him a Coke. He offered him cigarettes. He praised the Playboys and ragged on the Kings. He told Ruiz he was their prime suspect because of the car, but that if Lydia's alibi held up it would clear him. He wheedled, he cajoled, he joked. He made out like he was Ruiz' best friend. Then Bobby, three times larger than Ruiz, loomed over him, believably menacing. Nook interjected. He defended Ruiz and apologized for his partner's behavior, seeming to whisper behind Bobby's back that he was a monkey. But it was okay. The kid could trust Nook.
Frank watched all this from the small viewing window. Her boys put in a valiant effort but Ruiz wasn't buying the old "I'm your friend" routine. It was amazing how many idiots did buy the tired ruse, admitting sins mortal and venal that no one in their right mind would tell an interrogating police officer. But Ruiz was one of the cagier perps. He wouldn't open his mouth even after Nook confided that Lydia had copped to the party in Eagle Rock. For a second Ruiz had looked
alarmed. Bobby had hammered him, but the boy sat with his lips clenched and fists in his lap.
After a quick briefing at 6:00, Noah followed Frank back to the window in the box.
"Does Ruiz know you?" he asked.
"I don't think so."
"Maybe you should put on the bra. Doesn't look like they're gettin' anywhere with him."
Frank stroked her chin.
"Too early. They're just getting started."
"How long's he been in there?"
Frank glanced at her watch.
"About five hours."
Frank returned to her office and made phone calls. She organized the T-bird's removal to the print shed and instructed Johnnie to wait at the car until the police garage truck came.
By noon Nook and Bobby still hadn't cracked Ruiz. Ike had been hovering near Frank, watching his colleague's lack of progress, and she had him bring Nook out.
"I'm tired," he yawned. "This little fucker's wearing me down. I don't know why he won't tell us anything. Unless Lydia's lying about somethin' Saturday."
"Noah thought maybe I should put on the bra. What do you think?"
"Yeah, sure. What the hell. Couldn't hurt. We're not getting squat from him."
"All right. Why don't you two order some lunch. Eat in front of him. If he doesn't bend, back off."
"Got it."
Frank watched them for a moment, then headed downstairs. Planting a hip on the desk of a large, heavily made-up black woman, Frank grinned, "Donna. I need a make-over."
When she returned from the locker room, Frank's detectives jostled for space around the viewing window. She was going into the box. Cracking the door, she peered into the room.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Somebody told me Detective Taylor was in here. Have you seen him? Big tall, black guy?"
Ruiz sulked, "He was here 'bout half a hour ago."
"Oh, dear," Frank said, clearly distressed. She was wearing a Dolly Parton wig and Donna had artfully applied mascara, liner, shadow and lipstick. She'd said she couldn't help with the foundation. Frank smoothed her short skirt, absently giving Ruiz a great profile of her tight, hugely stuffed sweater. She made as if to leave, then frowned, and said, "You've been in here a while, haven't you, honey?"
