Street Rules (19 page)

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?” Frank 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.”

They paused to order from Nancy and as she walked away, Gail said amiably, “She’s cute.”

“And available.”

“Is she an ex?”

Frank smiled, “Nope. You won’t find many of those in my closet.”

“Pun intended?” Gail asked.

Frank smiled, mentally hurrying Nancy along with the drinks. She was beat and knew the scotch would give her a temporary lift.

“Did you have a quiet weekend?”

“Not really. Worked most of it.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a workaholic,” Gail cringed.

“It’s possible,” Frank admitted. “First step to recovery’s acknowledging it, though, right?”

“Did you get called in?”

“Nope. Worked mostly on Placa’s case. We found our primary suspect Saturday night and worked him in the box for twenty-four hours —”

“—God, no wonder you’re tired.”

Frank shook her head at the table, “Nook and Bobby did the hard part. But none of what we have is adding up, which makes me think I’m going to land back at Go with no money. There are things about this case that I can’t square.”

“Like what?”

“Like my best suspects have valid alibis. Like why is Placa’s mother so antsy every time I bring up drugs? I know they know something, but they’re not talking. And the graffiti around the ‘hood — it’s as good as a daily newspaper. Bobby and I checked it out today. There are a couple memorials up for Placa, her brother did a really beautiful one. He’s got his sister’s talent with a can. Anyway, the memorials show a lot of respect, but the curious thing is that none of them are striking out a rival gang — and that’s standard procedure on a memorial. The curious thing is, we’re seeing strikes with LAPD struck out. Two of them are fresh ones we’re pretty sure her brother did, and they both say 187 LAPD.”

Frank explained that tacking the California penal code for murder onto a rival’s name was a common death threat.

“So the brother’s mad at the police?”

“Yeah. Like we’re responsible somehow for his sister’s death.”

“Maybe he’s just mad that you’re not doing anything about it.”

Frank smiled at Gail’s innocence. She wasn’t sure how the woman could be Chief Coroner of one of the world’s most brutal cities and still be so naive.

“What?” Gail asked in response to Frank’s amusement.

“Nothing. I don’t think that’s it,” she said sitting back, so Nancy could set her drink down. “Bangers don’t look to the law to solve their problems. The law is their problem. They’ll take care of any justice or punishments in their own way.”

“Street rules.”

“Exactly.”

“Which gives me job security.”

“Both of us.”

Stirring her drink with a fingertip, Gail said idly, “Maybe it’s a cop.”

“Maybe what’s a cop?”

“The missing link. The person, persons, you’re looking for.”

Frank frowned, “Why would it be a cop?”

“Well, all that 187 LAPD graffiti, and the older man — what was his name?”

“Barracas?”

“Yeah, he was LAPD, right? Narco?”

“Retired.”

“Still it’s kind of interesting he was taken out too. And this courier business the boys supposedly ran sounds kind of flimsy. It’s a perfect front for running drugs.”

“Great,” Frank nodded. “Now you’re into LAPD bashing like the rest of the world.”

“I’m not bashing anybody. It’s just an idea.”

“Hm. Better stick to your day job, doc.”

“Whatever. You don’t have to get so defensive.”

“I’m not defensive,” Frank clarified into her drink, “it’s just hard enough to put up with the thrashing the department gets from the outside, then when my own colleagues start it gets a little tiresome.”

“I’m not bashing your beloved institution,” Gail argued, “but you have to admit the LAPD’s hardly a bastion of ethics or morality.”

“Granted, but by the same token most of its cops aren’t out committing multiple homicides.”

“Of course not,” Gail agreed. “But you’re a huge department. Rogue individuals turn up. It doesn’t mean the whole institution’s suspect. I’m not casting aspersions upon you personally.”

“Better not be,” Frank warned, as another waitress brought their dinner.

“Or?” Gail asked archly.

“Or else I won’t stick around for dessert.”

Stabbing at her salad Gail moped, “And now I’ve probably gone and pissed you off so much you won’t answer my question.”

“What question’s that?”

“L.A. Your name. What’s it stand for?”

Swallowing a huge bite of club sandwich, Frank answered, “Law And. My mother forgot the O.”

“Come on. Tell me.”

“Departmental secret. If I told you I’d have to kill you.”

“It’s something really sappy, isn’t it? Like Lilith Ann or something absolutely not in character with a tough cop image. Am I right?”

“Yep. That’s it,” Frank agreed too easily.

“Can I call you Lily?”

“Call me whatever you like.”

“Come on, tell me,” Gail pleaded.

“Can’t. Classified material.”

Nancy came over to check on them and Frank circled a finger over the table. “Another round?”

Gail shook her head, narrowing her pretty green eyes at Frank.

“Don’t think you can ply me with liquor, copper. I’ve got a memory like an elephant. And friends in high places.”

Popping a French fry into her mouth, Frank grinned, “Good luck. It’s legally L.A. Changed it years ago.”

“You brat,” Gail complained, and Frank was having such a good time sparring with the doc that she actually laughed.

“Think about something, Bobby.”

He and Frank were en route to the Compton PD to pick up a suspect.

“We’re dealing with a family with a long history of banging. I mean, hardcore, hope-to-die OGs. It’s a family tradition. These people don’t scare lightly, but they’re scared about something around Placa’s murder. You can tell. They
know
something and they’re afraid. They’re not moving on this. If it was some
vato
who capped Placa, Gloria or Tonio’d be on him like stink on shit. But nothing’s happened. Let’s consider it’s got nothing to do with a banger. Nor any sort of kickdown. Why would that scare them? That’s their element. I think they’re dealing with something out of their control here, something they can’t or won’t fight. What could that be to a bunch of OGs?”

Frank studied a clutch of women laughing outside a whipped hair salon. Bobby was quiet a long time and Frank let him drive slowly down Florence. Near a Tarn’s, she said, “Pull over. Want some coffee?”

“No,” he said, absorbed in his quandary, engine idling. When Frank got back into the Mercury with a large cup, Bobby proudly announced, “The Erne.”

The Mexican Mafia, with their long arms in the heroin trade. Frank had talked to Narco and they’d substantiated Ruiz’ purported ties to the Erne, but the problem was linking Ruiz to the Estrellas. Short of Placa’s involvement in her fight for his territory, there was no other link. And Ruiz’ corner franchise just wasn’t big enough to involve offing whole families. Much as she didn’t want to, Frank was letting go of Ruiz’ involvement in any of the homicides. He was a street banger, plain and simple, not an organized hit man.

What had surprised Frank was the paucity of information that Worthington, the Narco lieutenant, had provided. It was common knowledge that you could always buy smack from an Estrella, every beat cop knew that, yet Frank couldn’t remember a recent drug charge on any of them. Frank had thought that odd but Worthington had written it off as not having the resources to worry about small timers who sold within the hood. While she’d been chewing on that, the dinner conversation she’d had with Gail kept whispering in her head.

She was willing to admit that the LAPD probably had more than their fair share of bad cops. That was obvious enough. And it was possible that one of them was shaking down the Estrellas. She’d reluctantly entertained the possibility, and the more she examined it, the more plausible it seemed. She still didn’t like that a cop might be involved, but the more she played with the idea, the more sense it made.

“Good guess, but no. Think about the tags,” she prodded. “Who’s Tonio been Xing out?”

Bobby still hadn’t driven out of Tarn’s little lot.

“We sitting here all day?”

He shoved the car into drive, hunching over the wheel. Finally he turned to his boss.

“You can’t mean a
cop?”

“Why not?”

“No way. No sir,” he insisted adamantly.

“Just calm down for a minute. Don’t get squeamish on me. Tell me how long that family’s been dealing.”

Bobby heaved one of his gargantuan shoulders, “Forever. So?”

“So when was the last time any one of them got busted?”

“It’s been a long time,” he admitted. “So you’re talking about a shakedown.”

“It’s possible. It fits. Like Claudia claiming you brought donuts. It wasn’t you or Nook. But Alicia said
some
cop brought donuts. Why? Who? Why would she say that? Why all the LAPD strikes all of a sudden? I mean there’s always been
some,
but why this sudden proliferation at Tonio’s hand? And it would absolutely explain why they’re not talking, not retaliating, why they’re afraid.”

“I don’t like it,” Bobby maintained.

“I’m not asking you to like it; I’m asking you to consider it. Shit, I don’t like it either, but this isn’t lifting a bottle of Scotch or a leather jacket. It’s not even lifting eight pounds of coke from a locker, man, it’s murder. Wholesale murder.”

“Maybe,”
Bobby corrected, as Frank always did when her men mistook supposition for fact.

“Maybe,” she agreed. “That’s all I’m saying. It’s a possibility. And we shouldn’t look the other way because we don’t like what we see.”

“Isn’t that being kind of hypocritical?”

“What do you mean?” Frank asked carefully.

“We looked the other way on Willie Larkin.”

Frank took in an iron works shop and the metal recycling center next door. They passed a body shop, then a sunroof and alarm store before she answered, “That was different and you know it.”

A small-time hustler, Larkin’d been working the block since he could walk. His felony charges used more ink than the editorial section of the Sunday
Times
and at nineteen he’d already danced on two murder raps. One was an old bag lady, Crazy Sadie. She only weighed 90 pounds with all her clothes on, but Larkin had strangled her because she wouldn’t give up her Walkman. The second charge he’d waltzed on was the shooting of Travis Jones. Larkin and his homes were hanging out at JayZ’s poolhall while eight year-old Travis pedaled slowly down the street. One of the homes bet Larkin couldn’t shoot the bike out from under him and Larkin bet a bottle of Olde English that he could. He took aim with his .44 and the boy went down, shot through his femoral artery. Larkin looked around for high-fives while the kid bled to death in the street. The homes who’d bet the 40-ouncer reneged and Larkin beat the shit out of him.