by Baxter Clare
Frank pawed through the shelves of cold files. When she was brand new in the nine-three, Girardi had been sweating blood trying to build a case against the Mother. She found the murder book she was looking for and blew the dust off it. The binder was thin but probably had a good bio on Mother Love.
Someone had thoughtfully left a quarter inch of coffee to thicken and burn. Frank dumped it and made a fresh pot. She filled her cup while it still perked through the basket and settled at her desk with the musty binders.
Peter Gough, retired now, had been the primary on the case of an aspiring high-roller torched in his Monte Carlo. Gough had nothing—no prints, no wits, no trace. All he had was street talk. One of Gough’s CIs, a confidential informer that was still working with Diego, had passed along what he knew as a minor player. Other CI’s reinforced the talk, but it was all hearsay. The vie had burned MLJ—as Gough referred to her in his notes—coming up shy a couple keys in a coke deal. Then the vic compounded his mistake by bragging. A week later he was found chained to his steering wheel, crispy and still smoking. The only thing they knew for sure was what the coroner said, that the vie had been alive when he was immolated and had fought like hell to free himself.
Frank marveled at MLJ’s rap sheet; conspiracy, felony possession, intent to distribute, assault with deadly weapon, fraud. Sixteen pages and not one conviction. Frank wondered if she had connections in the system.
Don’t even go there, she warned herself.
Gough kept referring to an old case number and Frank delved back into the cold files.
“Whatcha lookin’ for?” Noah asked. He was a good detective because he couldn’t mind his own business.
“An old case involving the Mother.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Gough caught one when I came on. A baby-baller fried in his hooptie. He keeps referring to this other one. Here it is.”
Frank blew dust again.
Behind her Noah asked, “You thinking what I’m dunking?”
“Probably.”
Maybe because they’d had the rare LAPD opportunity to have worked with each other most of their careers, or maybe because Noah knew her better than any other human being, they shared an uncanny access to each other’s thoughts.
“That if Lewis is right, and I’m thinking she might be, that this case could be a motherfucker?”
“Kinda like that,” Frank agreed. “You should see her sheets. Multiples on everything and not one conviction.”
“Think she’s got an angel?”
“Don’t even think that. If she does, she can keep him.”
Frank was on thin departmental ice after exposing Ike Zabbo and had no taste for chasing the Mother up a conspiracy tree. She’d jeopardized her career enough with Ike and wasn’t about to risk it again over a hustler’s slit throat. Narco or the rats in Internal could take on the Mother. Frank wouldn’t.
Noah followed into her office. They skimmed through the first case, a Honduran coke dealer who appeared to have fallen off a roof. The autopsy indicated a struggle, as did evidence on the rooftop. The case had been Joe’s. Evidently he’d had a wit but she’d refused to talk.
As she considered how the Mother had burned her old boss twice, Noah chimed, “No wonder he wanted her so bad.”
“Check on the wit. See if time’s mellowed her,” Frank said, scanning the Mother’s brief bio.
Crystal Love Jones, nee Crystal Green. Married Richard Love in 1963. He died in 1964. Crystal Green inherited two Laundromats and a large property on Slauson Avenue.
“Set up pretty nice for a seventeen-year-old,” Noah said, reading over her shoulder.
The young Mother Love, still just Crystal Love then, took over running the laundries and renting the Slauson property. Joe had pulled her income tax records. They were neatly organized by an accountant and showed she paid on time every year. Starting in 1968 the tax bills indicated a large amount of money moving through her newly organized nonprofit Spiritual Church of Saint Jude.
In 1976 she married Eldridge Jones. Four years later he was in Soledad on possession. Around that time the Mother started acquiring serious felony charges. In ‘80 the Slauson property became her legal residence and she began steadily purchasing a number of businesses—a liquor store, a beauty shop, another liquor store, a corner mart.
“Perfect distribution points,” Frank remarked.
During that period she was investigated for the two murders laid out on Frank’s desk. In 1991 the tax records showed a church reorganization. Noah whistled at the triple-digit figures funneled through it.
“Hell of a character,” Frank mused, reading quickly through the rest of the pages.
“Character, my ass. The woman’s a one-man plague. She’s probably behind every overdose and crack-related homicide in central L.A.”
Frank grinned at her old partner.
“Gotta love her. Job security.”
“You know,” Noah said, his eyes on Frank now instead of the book, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d actually say you were happy.”
“You think? Go on. Take these with you if you want,” she said to the books.
“It’s a nice look on you, Frank. Haven’t seen it in a while.”
“Yeah, yeah. Go on,” she said, shoving the binders into his hands. He grinned, and she checked the clock, making sure Noah left. She’d get enough shit from what she was about to do next and didn’t need any extra from him. She eyed the phone a moment, then tapped in a number.
After being put on hold, and transferred twice, she finally said, “Hey, sport. What’s up?”
“Well, hey there, LT. Why don’t you tell me? Long time no talk.”
The drawl that used to shred Frank’s nerves was soothingly familiar. Frank smiled only because Allison Kennedy couldn’t see her.
“I know. How you been?”
“I been pretty good all right. And yourself?”
“Fair to middlin’.”
“That’s what I hear. I understand you’re keeping mighty fine company these days.”
Frank dreaded asking, even as she did, “What mighty fine company might that be?”
“Aw, now don’t get all coy on me. You know that doesn’t sit purty on you. I mean, you and Doc Law, of course. The way I understand it you two are squeezing together tighter ‘an teeth in a tripped bear trap.”
“And which credible source might this come from?”
“That’s what the grapevine says, and from what I’ve seen of you two together, I reckon the grapevine’s dead on for a change.”
“We’re friends,” Frank allowed.
“And then some,” Kennedy choked. “I gotta tell you, I’m a mite jealous.”
“You had your chance.”
“That’s not true, and you know it. I never had a chance with you.”
Kennedy had a knack for driving a knife straight into the heart of a conversation. Then twisting it.
“Okay. You might be right there. At any rate that’s not what I called about. I need a favor.”
“That’s the only reason you ever call.”
Frank ignored the comment, giving Kennedy the Mother’s real name and social security number.
“Can’t you get this from Figueroa Narco?”
“Yeah, probably. But you’ve got a wider net there at Parker. Plus I trust you to do a better job. If you’re busy though, don’t worry about it.”
“No, I can do it. Just wondering why you’re asking me, is all.”
“Because you’re a good cop,” Frank said stroking her ego. “You’ll dig deeper than the suits here would. Besides, this way I get to check in on you. Still having bad dreams?”
Frank hadn’t expected the ensuing silence.
“Some,” was the tenuous answer. “How about you?”
“Not too often. Hey. You know you can always call. Doesn’t matter when.”
Regaining a measure of her bravado, Kennedy snorted, “Yeah, I’ll bet Doc Law’d love it if I woke you up at tw
o in the morning.”
“I’m a cop, she’s Chief Coroner. We’re used to two AM phone calls. I’m serious. You need me, you call.”
“Thanks. It’s good to know you’re there.”
“I am. Always.”
Another uncharacteristic pause, then Kennedy said wistfully, “I miss you.”
Frank had nothing to offer, could think of nothing more comforting than a softly uttered, “I’m right here.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. And you know there’s nothing to be done about that.”
“I figured as much, but it couldn’t hurt to check, huh?”
“Can’t hurt,” Frank agreed.
For a brief moment, until she remembered how Kennedy hopped from lover to lover, Frank was flattered by the sincerity of her longing. She let the silence hang until Kennedy said, “Well, I’ll get on this and get back to you when I know something.”
” ‘Predate it.”
Adding one of the narc’s own parting lines, Frank told her, “Keep your eye on the skyline and your nose to the wind.”
As she hung up, Kennedy’s laugh came clearly across the line.
“Lewis!” Frank bellowed.
The detective skidded into the doorway.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You get us a car yet?”
“No, ma’am.”
Frank cocked an eyebrow. “What are you waiting for? Come on, Lewis, get with the program.”
Lewis made a pissy face but skittered out. Frank smiled. Noah was right. She was happy.
6
Having uncovered more of Danny Duncan’s history, Lewis was anxious to re-interview his sister. Frank agreed, thinking it would be an easy place for Lewis to start the morning. She surprised the rookie by letting her drive and Lewis took them to a nicely kept bungalow in Rampart’s jurisdiction. Danny’s mother met the detectives at the door, politely but warily inviting them in.
Her daughter, Kim, was washing the breakfast dishes and both women were dressed and made-up. Lewis seemed to take that in, explaining she wouldn’t keep them long. Mrs. Duncan motioned the women to sit on a plastic covered sofa.
Lewis got to the point, asking about the names she’d found through the database. Frank took in the photographs stippling the walls between crosses and plates painted with pictures of saints. The furniture was mostly a matching department store set, but a few older, wooden pieces occupied the clean and tidy room. The house boasted modestly but clearly of a hard-working, middle-class family.
Lewis addressed most of her questions to Kim, who answered readily, though vaguely. Frank felt she was sitting on something and might talk more freely if her mother wasn’t in the room. She quietly asked Mrs. Duncan if she could see Danny’s room.
“Certainly,” Mrs. Duncan agreed, leading Frank out to the garage. She explained almost defiantly that she and Kim each had their own rooms inside and her grandchildren shared the third room. She added, “Daniel was too old to be coming home to his mother whenever he was out of money, so I let him stay out here. But I wasn’t going to make it comfortable.”
Frank nodded, taking in the austere concrete-floored room. It wasn’t uncommon in South Central for garages and storage sheds to be bedrooms or crash pads. They were frequently occupied by men and decorated with cobwebs, pin-ups, and empties, but Mrs. Duncan was having none of that. An armoire and a gently worn chair flanked a single bed, its sheets tucked as tautly as skin on a new facelift. An oval braided rug delineated Danny’s half of the space. Tools, paint cans, and the usual garage paraphernalia were neatly stacked and shelved in the other half. A wooden crucified Jesus loomed over the armoire.
Indicating the carving, Frank asked if Danny was religious. Mrs. Duncan’s face got hard and she replied through tight lips that he used to be.
“What happened?”
“He started running with that sister of mine, that’s what happened.”
“How did that change him?”
“Detective, I’m sure you’ve heard about my sister. She’s always been different. Ever since we were babies. She’s always had to do things her way, even if it means going against the natural order of things.”
Mrs. Duncan quickly checked the sunny, rose-filled yard behind her.
“Truth be told,” she continued, “I was glad to have Daniel where I could keep an eye on him. My sister’s an awful influence on young people. She was always filling that boy’s head with notions he shouldn’t have had in there. I prayed for my son. I prayed that he would follow the Lord’s path, but I guess my prayers weren’t as strong as hers. I hope she’s happy now,” Mrs. Duncan spat, “because she’s going to spend eternity on a spit in hell.”
Frank murmured, “I take it you two don’t get along.”
“Truth is, Detective, there was a time when I loved my sister, but that time has long since passed. She chose her path and I chose mine. We went our separate ways many a year ago but I still pray for her. I pray for that girl every day.”
“Mind if I look in here?” Frank asked at the armoire.
“Help yourself.”
She pushed aside a few hangers, some neatly pressed pants and button-downs, a gray suit, a blazer, some winter jackets. A very ordinary closet. Bending to look at some little pellets scattered around a jumble of hightops and a dusty pair of dress shoes, she asked, “What do you pray for your sister?”
“I pray that she returns to the Lord. To the one and true God.”
Frank wasn’t surprised that the pellets were rice grains. Dealers used rice to keep their powders from solidifying, just like rice in a salt shaker. Frank checked the pockets in Danny’s clothes, finding nothing. Not even lint. She was sure Mrs. Duncan turned Danny’s pockets inside out before she washed his clothes, and being a smart boy he’d make damn sure there was nothing in them. The rice had probably spilled out of one of his hightops.
“Which god is she with now?” Frank asked, pointing at the bureau. “May I?”
Mrs. Duncan nodded impatiently. She looked like she was trying to contain herself, then she burst out, “Crystal is with no god!”
Frank’s hand expertly fished through Danny’s folded underwear and paired socks, while she kept an eye on his mother, thinking she might start crying. Instead Mrs. Duncan stamped her foot and grabbed her lips in her palm, hissing, “She’s in league with Satan.”
Mrs. Duncan’s histrionics amused Frank but she pretended concern.
“How do you mean?” She frowned, her fingers sliding against something cool and slick under a stack of T-shirts. Frank hid the drawer with her back and lifted the shirts. A Hustler and a Maxim.
“I mean that girl is evil. She got the call. Ever since my great-great Grandmother Green, at least one child in every generation has had the call. It was clear right off that Crissie had it. And she used it for her own ends, soon as she figured out how. I love my mother but I curse her for encouraging that dark seed in Crissie.”
“What do you mean she uses it for her own ends?”
“To get her way. To get what she wants. It’s always been that way. Only now she calls it santeria, claims it’s a perfectly legitimate religion. Huh,” she snorted, “just cause a thing’s legal don’t make it right. No matter what sort of fancy cloth you dress it in, it’s still witchcraft. Plain and simple. She brags she’s the most well-known priestess of that devil worship this side of New Orleans. And she got my boy involved in that foolishness. You want to know who killed my son, Detective? My sister did. Plain as you’re standing in front of me, my sister did, God help me.”
“Are you saying she cut his throat?”
Mrs. Duncan stamped her foot again. In frustration or anguish, Frank couldn’t tell, but she went on in a hushed voice, as if someone might be listening to them.
“I’m saying she’s directly responsible for him straying from the Lord’s path. If Daniel had followed in God’s footsteps the way he was raised to, he’d be alive today. But my sister tempted him with material
goods, Detective. She tempted him with gods that like women and liquor. And that’s not all. She prays to those gods and she made my son bow to them too, and this is what comes of it, my son stretched out in a funeral parlor, barely twenty-six.”
Frank nodded. Danny’s mother hadn’t been holding anything back, so Frank asked bluntly, “What kind of work did Daniel do for your sister?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” she said, her face rigid with pain. Frank guided her into the easy chair. She perched next to her at the foot of the bed and launched into her good-cop routine.
“I can’t imagine your grief, Mrs. Duncan. But I am sorry for it. I’ve been working in this neighborhood for eighteen years and I’ve seen the damage your sister’s done. She’s untouchable, Mrs. Duncan. Maybe it’s those gods she prays to, I don’t know. Whatever it is, we’ve never been able to stop her. She keeps dealing her drugs and kids keep dying. Good kids. Kids like Danny who started off right, and had dreams and aspirations until they met up with your sister. I want to stop her, and I know you do too. It’s too late to save your son, Mrs. Duncan, but maybe we can stop other mothers from going through what you’re going through.”
Tears slid down Mrs. Duncan’s cheeks as she tried explaining, “My son was a good boy, Detective. He never meant anybody no harm. I raised him right, I swear I did. But he just fell in with that sister of mine. I warned him about running with her. But he wouldn’t listen. I don’t know what he was up to with her, but I know it wasn’t good. I haven’t talked to Crystal in seven years. My other sister’s always talking to her. But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Not with her running with the devil like she does. Maybe Jessie could help you. I just don’t know.”
She daubed at her face with a wadded tissue, whispering, “Excuse me,” then bolted from the garage.
Frank sighed, checking under the mattress and bed frame, under the rug and on top of the armoire, around the tools and potting soil in the garage side. Nothing. Retracing her steps to the kitchen, she stepped through the back door, bending an ear to the living room.
