Street Rules lf-2

by Baxter Clare

  " 'Fraid nothing that exciting," she said levelly. "But while you're still on the desk, check out this family for me."

  Frank gave Kennedy all the Estrella's names, asking her to dig up whatever she could on them. When Ike strolled into her office it gave Frank an excuse to hang up before Kennedy could launch into her customary harangue.

  "Wus up, Pink?"

  Running a bejeweled hand down his silk tie, he bared perfect white teeth.

  "Hittin' them Estrella's hard, huh?"

  "Tryin' to."

  "You getting anywhere?"

  Frank rocked a flat hand back and forth.

  "What can I do for you?"

  The dapper detective seemed to chase his thoughts around, then said, "Anthony Richards. Queenie's offering to drop him from 2nd-degree to vehicular manslaughter if he pleads guilty. And drop the kidnapping because he never intended to take the kid."

  Frank thought over laced fingers. Richards had jacked a car parked in front of an AM/PM. The owner of the car had run in to buy a soda and a pack of cigarettes, leaving the car running with his 4-year old son in the car seat. Richards had shoved the boy out, but the car seat got tangled in the seat belt and never detached from the vehicle. He drove up the One-Ten at over 80 miles an hour before being stopped just south of the Coliseum. The kid was still strapped into the remains of the car seat. The DA didn't want him getting off on technicalities so she was lightening the charges to get him at all.

  "I'll call her," Frank said.

  "His arraignment's tomorrow," Ike warned. He was resplendent in a tailored three-piece navy pinstripe, diamonds winking, and mustache perfectly groomed to department standards. Even though he bristled each time, it was impossible for the guys to resist calling him "Gangsta".

  Frank reached for the phone and it rang just as she touched it.

  "Homicide. Franco."

  "Hi. It's Gail."

  "Hey." Frank was pleased, but didn't show it. "Hold on."

  She lowered the mouthpiece.

  "Anything else?"

  "No. Don't forget, though."

  "I won't," she promised, waiting until he left before asking into the phone, "What's up?"

  "Bad time to call?"

  "Not at all."

  "I just wanted to let you know I got Placa's tox results."

  "Anything stand out?"

  "Not really. At least not to me. Alcohol, lots of antacid residue, cannibinol. The usual stuff. Anyway, I've got to go. I just wanted to let you know it's here. I'll leave it with Rhondie."

  "Good. I'll stop and get it on my way home."

  Placa's toxicology report was incentive enough for Frank to leave the office at a reasonable time and at the Coroner's office she took the stairs two at a time.

  "Hey, Rhondie," she greeted Gail's secretary. "The boss around?"

  The older woman nodded toward the doc's office, saying, "I think she's busy."

  "I won't bug her then. Just tell her I said thanks."

  "I'll buzz her if you like, and let her know you're here."

  "I don't want to interrupt."

  "Hold on."

  Rhondie called the doc who said on her speaker phone to send Frank in. She was bent over a computer on a wheeled stand, surrounded by a flurry of sketches and diagrams.

  "Hi," Gail grinned, "Check this out."

  She demonstrated a vividly animated reconstruction of a stabbing, showing exact placement of the wounds and points of entry.

  "Pretty cool, huh?"

  "That come with an R rating?"

  "It should. Did you get your report?"

  "Yeah. Thanks. Hey look, I really appreciate you getting these to me so quickly."

  "Pays to know the Chief Coroner, doesn't it?"

  "In spades. And I was wondering if the Chief Coroner would let me buy her dinner. The lowly homicide cop's humble way of saying thank you."

  Gail glanced at the thin watch on her wrist and Frank admonished, "When are you going to get some vinyl gloves?"

  "I'm hopeless," Gail shrugged. "But I'd love dinner."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Across the street from the USC complex, the Marengo Grill was a modern clash of dark wood and mirrors, soulless, but functional. The waiter tried to seat them at a table in the center of the room, but Frank was uneasy with her back to the entrance. She told the waiter she wanted the empty bench seat in the corner and he obliged, efficiently taking their drink orders.

  "I took your suggestion to heart," Frank said, settling a napkin onto her lap.

  "Which suggestion is that?" Gail asked, doing the same thing.

  "Considering that a cop might be involved in the Estrella business."

  "Really?" Gail asked, surprised.

  "I don't have any better leads right now," Frank allowed, "and some of the things you said made sense. I don't have a suspect but it's an interesting idea to toy with. It would explain a couple lose ends that have been bugging me."

  "Like what?"

  "Odds and ends."

  She explained what she'd already told Bobby, adding, "There wasn't one spent shotgun shell at the Estrella's. Whoever did them picked up after himself. Or herself. I should be impartial 'til I have a fact. Anyway, you saw Luis Estrella's room. It was a pigsty."

  As a junkie's habit worsened, so did his personal hygiene, and from the looks and smell of the garage room, Luis had been pretty heavily into his addiction. Frank went on to explain the incongruity of an oil-burner like Luis meticulously shooting six people and carefully picking up each ejected shell.

  "Yeah," Gail agreed. "Especially after just having killed his family."

  "And the dog," Frank added, the line having become the black joke tagged on to any mention of the Estrella body count.

  "And we know Placa took five rounds, but only one casing was recovered from the scene."

  "Maybe she was being shot at from inside the car."

  "Not likely. It doesn't make physical sense to fire a handgun inside a car. If the shooter was in the vehicle, in all probability he had his hand out the window. So where are the other four jackets? Item: only one out of eleven cartridges was found. Item: all the Estrella's were killed with one, well-placed shot. The shooter wasn't firing in a panic or a frenzy. He was coolly, deliberately aiming for maximum effect. He was doing a premeditated job."

  "The same for Placa," Gail added and Frank nodded.

  "Let's say it was the same shooter. He got three of the five shots in the ten spot. That's damn good placement for a moving target. Whoever shot her's either extremely lucky or has had some serious practice with a handgun. Plus another item: the shot to the back of her head? One hundred percent fatal — you're random shooter doesn't know that. These idiots spray bullets everywhere and half of them glance off the skull bone. This guy, or gal, but I don't think so, went out of his way to place that shot. It was worth it to him to risk the extra time it took to make that shot. Why would somebody be that afraid of her? Was it somebody with a lot to lose? A reputation, a career, a family?"

  Frank was drinking beer tonight and she traced a bead of condensation down the side of her Guinness bottle.

  "Who knows. Anyway, this is absolutely just between you and me."

  Nodding her complicity, Gail said, "See? I might not be such a bad detective after all."

  "Maybe not," Frank granted.

  After coffee and Armangac, they sauntered back to Gail's office, enjoying the silky night air and easy conversation. Frank waited while Gail prowled around in her purse for keys.

  "Tarrah," she said holding them aloft. She caught Frank reflexively checking Gail's empty, dark car, and chided, "Always the cop."

  "Should make you feel safe."

  "I feel a lot of things around you," Gail admitted. "That's one of them."

  Frank didn't know what to do with that and she examined the pavement at her feet.

  "So what do you think?" Gail asked. "We've had a couple dinners now. How would you feel about a real date?"

 
"What do you mean a real date?" Frank hedged.

  "A planned event. Not something accidental after work or at the Alibi."

  Frank nodded, seeking refuge again in the solid ground.

  "Gail," she struggled, "I really enjoy your company. I like being with you. But I'm moving through some stuff right now," Frank faltered. "Let's just say it probably wouldn't be wise of me to get into any kind of a romantic involvement."

  She paused and Gail asked, "What sort of stuff?"

  "Old stuff. Stuff I should have dealt with a long time ago, and that I'm just now getting around to."

  "I see. So does this stuff," Gail stressed, "preclude something as innocent as a movie, or going for a walk together?"

  "No," Frank allowed with a thin smile. "I just don't want to mislead you. I don't think I'm up for anything more significant than a fine friendship right now. And you might want more. I don't know."

  Holding a grin back on her lower lip, Gail said, "I've been single all my life, Frank. I'm not asking you to marry me. I just thought it would be nice to look forward to doing something together. Would that be so awful?"

  "Not at all. But I remember you saying something about being ready to settle down . . . and if you had that intention with me, it's probably not such a good idea."

  "Fair enough," Gail said letting the grin loose. "So do you think you'd be up for a hike Saturday morning or would that be too involved?"

  "A hike?" Frank asked like she'd never heard the word.

  "Yeah, you know." Gail waved a rashed hand, "Up on the Angeles Crest or something."

  "I've never been hiking," Frank answered, pulling on her chin. "Sound's like something Boy Scouts do."

  "What do you mean you've never been hiking?"

  "Which part of that didn't you understand?"

  "How can you have never hiked?"

  "Hey. I grew up in New York City," Frank insisted, "And now I live in L.A. Where am I supposed to have done all this hiking?"

  "All around," Gail cried. "God, we've got some of the most beautiful country in the world right in our own back yard. We've got the Santa Monica's, the San Gabriel's, San Gorgonio. These places are beautiful. Anza Borrego in the spring, God! I can't believe you've never been! Let me take you Saturday," Gail pleaded. "We won't do anything strenuous, just a short hike. I know a pretty little trail right outside of Altadena. What do you think?"

  "Would I need hiking boots?"

  The doc answered with the low chuckle that Frank found so attractive.

  "No, silly. Just tennis shoes. We're not scaling Everest."

  "How long would it take?"

  "As long as we wanted it to. Unless you really don't want to do it. You're enthusiasm's hardly overwhelming."

  Frank considered, finally relenting, "All right, Nature Girl. Show me."

  "You be at my place Saturday morning at eight o'clock, and I'll show you."

  "I don't need a backpack or a walking stick like those guys on the cover of "Outside"?"

  "It's a two-hour hike, Frank, not a forced march across the Himalayas."

  "All right," Frank smiled. "See you at the Alibi Friday?"

  "Probably not. I've got to get a good night's sleep for this arduous trek."

  "Good idea. See you Saturday then."

  "Okay."

  Gail opened her door, but Frank said, "Hey. Do I need pitons and rappelling ropes?"

  "Yeah. For when I throw you over a cliff," Gail laughed. "Don't get too drunk Friday."

  "Can't. On call again."

  "Are you on call every weekend?"

  "Nope. Just building up favors. Never know when you might need them."

  Frank did as instructed, showing up at Gail's condo at eight AM sharp on Saturday morning. The doc drove them out to the mountains behind Pasadena and they hiked until the day got too warm. Other than mistaking every stick in the trail for a rattlesnake, Frank had a good time. It was easy being with Gail and when they got back to the condo, Frank ventured, "You got a hot date tonight or would you like to come over to my place? I'll throw some steaks on the grill, maybe rent a movie . . . you know, a planned event."

  "Oh, my. Are you sure you're ready for such a big commitment?"

  "Pretty sure," Frank replied. "I've got to go into town. Get some work done. How's six-thirty sound?"

  "Divine. What can I bring?"

  "Nothing. I got you covered."

  A couple hours later, after a quick, hard run on the treadmill, then a shower, Frank started the coals for the barbeque. She didn't have to rush though, because Gail was late. Half an hour later, she added more charcoal and lowered the temperature on the potatoes in the oven. Compulsive about being on time, it tweaked Frank that the rest of the world thought six-thirty meant seven or seven-thirty. But when Gail finally arrived, her color high from the morning sun and her eyes still holding all the warmth of the day, Frank forgot her irritation. Pouring her a glass of wine, they moved out to the patio and listened to the steaks sizzle.

  "I was taking my boots off after I got home," Gail was saying, "and it dawned on me that Luis Estrella's shoes still had blood in the grooves. A lot. Don't you think that most of it would have caked off after he'd been walking around in the chaparral for a while?"

  "You'd think," Frank nodded. "So either he wasn't walking or he wasn't wearing those shoes."

  "Well he had to have been wearing some shoes. There was no evidence that he was barefoot. But maybe he wasn't walking in them for very long."

  Frank clacked the barbecue tongs open and shut.

  "Yeah," Frank mused. "Maybe the latter. I went into the canyon where they found him and had a look around. He had to have gone through some relatively thick brush to get down there. I was walking around in broad daylight, straight, and I still snagged my clothes and got scratched up. I can't imagine how he got down there in the dark, and half OD'd, without any more scratches and rips than he had. It's almost like someone carried him in. And what was he doing up there in the first place?" she mused, warming to the intrigue.

  "Who knows? Maybe he was on the run. Maybe he wanted to go someplace where he could be alone, think about what he'd done."

  "I can't imagine a junkie being that reflective. And I can't see him heading for the hills if he was scared. He wasn't a nature boy. He was a city kid, like me. He wouldn't run into the boonies for comfort. He'd go underground. Either in south-central or some other city where he could blend in, and not be too far from skag. He only had a couple hits on him. It doesn't make sense that he was up there unless someone brought him up there. Brought him up there and dumped him. That would explain his shoes, and his clothes being so unmarked. See, none of this is adding up to an accidental OD."

  "Then how'd he get all that blood in his shoes unless he was there when his family was being killed?"

  "Maybe he was a witness. Maybe whoever did it needed something from him and couldn't kill him right away. Maybe it was a buy that went sideways. I don't know," Frank admitted.

  "Maybe we'll know more when we get the rest of the lab work back."

  "Hope so," Frank said. "This is a goddamn who-done-it, and no matter how bad the boys want to clear six names, I still don't think it's Luis."

  "It's that rogue cop," Gail winked.

  "I'm starting to think you're right, Detective Lawless. Let's eat."

  Frank had cleared the dining room table of all its junk. They ate on linens and china arranged around the flowers Frank still brought home every Friday night. After the steaks, they lingered over tiramisu and coffee. Frank poured grappa, but after Gail's first sip she made a face and pushed the glass away.

  "Yuk. It tastes like kerosene."

  Frank smiled.

  "Let me run some ideas by you. See what you think."

  She started by explaining that buses were often the primary transportation for south-central residents, so she hadn't thought much of it when she'd pulled the bus schedules out of Placa's backpack. Then she'd been thinking about them on her way into the office th
at afternoon. Placa had been riding these buses all her life; where would she be going that she didn't already know routes and times?

  When she'd gotten to Figueroa, Frank had pulled the four schedules out of Placa's pack again. They were worn and greasy from use. She unfolded one to see dates, times, and circled stops, in red pen, blue pen, black ink, pencil. One in green crayon. She opened the other schedules. Same thing. Frank felt like she'd found treasure maps and the first thing she'd done was make copies of them.

  Drugs immediately sprang to mind; Placa must have been serving all over LA. Why else would she have been in Westwood, Brentwood, Bel Aire? Even Pasadena. All nice places, places where there was money. And maybe some cop was pimping her, finding the clients and sending Placa off to them.

  Then Frank remembered Placa'd had sex with a man only hours before she died. Maybe some cop was literally pimping her. Maybe that was why she'd come home — to change clothes from a trick. That might explain why she wasn't strapped and why she didn't tell anyone where she was going that day. Placa was smart enough to pull it off, ambitious enough too. She wanted to go to college. Maybe this was her tuition. But they hadn't found any clothes that would support the theory. Frank couldn't see Placa tricking, and certainly not for chump change. She'd make them pay and Frank doubted there was a big market for men aroused by girls in shapeless T-shirts and baggies.

  Gail had been listening carefully, but now she interrupted.

  "Well, I'm not a detective, but lam a doctor. Let me shoot some holes in that story before you go any further."

  Bending a finger for each point, Gail said, "She appeared to be reproductively able, but she wasn't using an obvious form of birth control. There was no abortion scarring, no sign of STDs. No apparent vaginal or anal traumas. Unless she just started turning tricks yesterday, I'd expect to see some evidence that she was promiscuous, and there is none."

  The doc was right. Given the age of the bus schedules, Placa had been at this for quite a while.

  "All right, so here's another idea. Let's say she was pimping Ocho's girl."

  "That's disgusting," Gail shuddered, and Frank was thrown off track, charmed once again by the ME's naivete.