by Baxter Clare
"I guess," Ruiz mumbled, "Since about midnight."
"Midnight!" Frank screeched. "You poor thing! They give you anything to drink?"
"The chino brung me a Dr. Pepper."
"And that's all?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, you poor thing," she repeated. "You must be starving. You stay right here. I'm going to be right back."
She ducked out for a minute to low wolf-whistles and catcalls.
"Where's the candy?"
Nookey produced two Snickers bars and a pack of M&M's with peanuts, as Frank had requested.
"Don't you guys have work to do?"
"Damn," Johnnie gloated, "this is better than the Comedy Channel."
Frank put her hand on the door knob, composing herself.
"Here we go," she said, bouncing into the box. She gave Ruiz the candy and he ripped a bar open. Frank sat on the opposite side of the table, leaning over it to show the cleavage from her taped breasts.
"I hope you like peanuts. I got candies with peanuts because I figured they had more nutrition."
Ruiz nodded and Frank shook her head, "Poor thing, look at you. You're starving. What have they got you in here for anyway?" she asked indignantly.
"I don't know," Ruiz said with his mouth full. " I din do nothin'."
"Then why don't they let you go?"
"I dunno. They think I had sumfin to do with shootin' some girl," he said through the caramel.
Frank sat back with a gasp.
"You shot a girl?"
"No, I din' do it, but they don' believe me."
Ruiz poured the M&Ms into his mouth and Frank pressed her fake breasts against the table.
"Well, don't you have an alibi? Why don't you just tell them where you were?"
"I can't. I was with my friends. We was kickin' it up to Dog Town."
Frank looked confused.
"You mean the pound?"
"No," Ruiz chuckled, showing brown teeth.
"That's a place up to Eagle Rock."
Feigning a daffy moment, Frank shook her head, then insisted, "Well, for heaven's sake, just tell them you were with your friends."
"I can't."
Frank cried, "Well, why not, silly? If you tell them that they'll let you go. They can't keep you if you have an alibi."
"I can't," he said again.
Frank reached across the table, and patted his hand.
"Honey, why not?" she implored.
"Cause I'll get 'em in trouble. We done some things," he said vaguely, "and they don't want to be talkin' to the police. So I can't say nothin'."
Frank clucked, "Poor thing. I think that's very noble to defend your friends like that. They're lucky. Was that girl, the one that got. . . um .. . shot," Frank said delicately, "Was she a friend of yours?"
"No. She was from another gang."
"Oh, dear. How old was she?"
"I don't know. Maybe sixteen, seventeen."
Frank tsk-tsked, "Poor girl."
Ruiz shrugged matter-of-factly, "You claim and that shit happens. Oh. Sorry, lady."
"That's okay. I hear language like that all the time from the goons around here," she said, indicating the door.
"Goons," Ruiz grinned. "I like that."
The sugar was kicking into his empty system and he started bouncing his leg up and down. Ocho was only eighteen and Frank caught a glimpse of the little boy he once was. Continuing with her bimbo imitation, she asked, "What's claiming mean?"
"When you say who you're representin', you know, what clica you're with."
"Oh."
Pretending confusion she asked, "Are you a Blood or a Crip?"
Ruiz snickered, "You ain't been here long, have you, lady?"
"Why?" Frank asked innocently.
"Cause Bloods and Crips are black gangs. Mexicans don't claim with them. Well, maybe some of 'em do, but we don't."
Frank asked which gang he was in and he proudly flashed, "Fifty-first Street Playboys."
She was slowly gaining his trust and wanted to get him bragging.
"Aren't you afraid? Isn't it dangerous?"
"Naw, I ain't afraid," he boasted. "There ain't nobody scares me. They're scared a me," he confided.
"Why?" Frank breathed.
"See this?"
Ruiz put his hand on the table and pointed at a blue teardrop above his thumb.
"That means you don't mess with me. Cause I'll fuck you up. Sorry."
"How?" Frank whispered.
"However I got to. No one can be disrespecting my click. It's tough out there," he asserted. "You gotta protect what's yours. You gotta fight for everything, and protect it, even your name."
Frank nodded, open-mouthed.
"Have you ever shot anyone?"
Ruiz struck a casual pose.
"Maybe, maybe not. But I scare the sokas. They're scared a me. And my vatos. They know we mean business. They respect us."
Glancing over her shoulder at the door, she quickly leaned closer to Ruiz, whispering, "Have you ever killed anyone?"
She knew she was pushing her limit. Bragging was part of the art of establishing and maintaining status within a gang, but no self-respecting banger would ever admit to murder inside a police station. And Ruiz knew that too, shrewdly repeating, "Maybe, maybe not."
"Your friends, the ones in that gang, I mean, they wouldn't shoot that girl, would they?"
"Placa? Not unless I tol' em to."
"Told who?"
"The Playboys. My clica. The Kings don't mess with us," Ruiz boasted. "We mess with them."
Then he said unexpectedly, "But you know. Placa was a girl and everything, but she was down, you know? She was carnal."
"Carnal?"
"Yeah, you know. Down. She was all right."
Frank shook her head, and with grudging admiration, Ruiz explained Placa's unusual status.
"Wow," Frank said. "So who do you think killed her?"
"I don't know," he grinned, "But the goons think I done it."
Frank's eyes narrowed with concern, and she put her hand on Ruiz's.
"But you didn't have anything to do with that."
"Naw. I got better thin's a do then get in a war with those punk Kings. I got business to take care of. If I'da shot Placa, then my homes would be gettin' shot at and then we'd have to shoot back. It'd be stupid. Ain't no money in it."
"All right," Frank said mustering a motherly pat and a sigh. "Look, honey, I better get back to work. My boss is a goon too. Look, you're a sweet boy. Just tell the detectives you were with your friends and I'm sure they'll let you go. Now, you stay out of trouble, okay?"
She stood and deliberately tugged at her skirt. When she caught Ruiz noticing, he looked away. At the door she turned and said, "What's your name, honey?"
"Octavio Ruiz."
"That Mexican?"
He nodded and she said, "Well, you take care, Octavio. It was real nice meeting you."
Ruiz kind of waved and said, "Thanks for the candy."
Frank yanked off the wig and was pawing at her lipstick just as Foubarelle came around the corner. He stopped dead in his tracks.
"What the hell?"
Johnnie was leaving the show and he mumbled, "Frank in drag. Scariest thing you ever saw."
Frank raised an eyebrow at her detective and he snickered. She motioned for Fubar to follow into her office.
"What's going on?" he demanded.
"Just running a con on Octavio Ruiz. We brought him in late last night."
"Who's he?" the captain asked and Frank stifled a sigh. She explained that Ruiz was their prime suspect in Placa's murder, but that he wasn't talking. She'd just gotten him to offer partial confirmation of his girlfriend's alibi. It was becoming increasingly and uncomfortably possible that Ruiz might not be their man.
"Then who is?"
Behind the thick make-up, Frank's stare was cold and flat. How the man was able to command a fork to his mouth, much less an LAPD division, was still a mystery to her. "Don'
t know."
"Well, get on it, Frank. Not having any suspects is just unacceptable."
"You're right," she agreed, making the little man's day. He was a pompous idiot, but he was easily manipulated and Frank appreciated that in a supervisor.
"By the by, I'm officially on call this weekend, but I was wondering if you could take it for me. Something's come up that I need to attend to in Palm Springs."
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 work-out 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?" F
rank 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."
