Street Rules (23 page)

“Hey.”

Lydia jumped. She relaxed slightly when she saw it was just Frank, but didn’t finish opening her door.

“Got a couple questions for you. Want me to ask out here or some place private?”

Lydia grumpily clicked the lock, allowing Frank into a dime-sized but tidy apartment.

“How you afford this?”

“Ocho pays for it.”

“Damn. He pays for the place where you’re knockin’ boots with an off-brand. You got some nerve,” Frank praised. “Let me ask you something personal. Did you and Placa ever do business together?”

“What do you mean,” Lydia asked, her dark eyes narrowing to slits.

“You know, like hustlin’, going somewhere to do business outside the ‘hood?”

Lydia cracked her gum, eyeing Frank with obvious disdain. She made a grunting sound, “You mean like those low-class
putas
that hang out on the corner?”

“No, not like those skanks. I mean real nice, high-class work. None of that strawberry shit.”

“We don’t gotta do that,” she said, her disgust becoming disbelief. “Why you askin’ that for?”

“It’s just something I heard. I just-“

“Who you heard that from?” Lydia cried. “I’ll lay that fuckin’
chingona
out on the sidewalk. Who tolt you that? Don’t nobody know
nothin’
about me and Placa.”

Lydia’s indignation was real, and Frank calmed her, lying, “Hey, it’s no big, just some trash I heard from a kid in lockup. Did you ever meet her anywhere outside of here? You know, where no one would see you together?”

“People can see you anywhere,” Lydia said angrily. “I tolt you, we hooked up here.”

“Nowhere else?”

“No.”

“What happened when you two saw each other on the street?”

“We’d flash each other. We’d dis each other, but not too much. We didn’t want to start no trouble.”

Frank nodded, “Tell me again about the drugs. Did she ever tell you who she sold to, or where? Anything like that?”

“I already tolt you that too,” Lydia explained.

“I know. I’m stupid. Tell me again,” and she did so, exaggeratedly patient, like Frank was a slow child. Frank again asked where Placa was going when she left her that last day. Lydia again said she didn’t know.

“She did that sometimes. Just said she had to go somewhere. She’d get real sad and mad like. I asked her once or twice but she never tolt me. Said she couldn’t, so stop askin’.

Lydia was wistful when she added, “She was different like that. Cholos always be talkin’ about what they done and what bad-asses they are, but me and Placa, we din’ talk about where we been or where we are. We liked talking about where we wanted to be.”

“You knew she wanted to go to college, right?”

Lydia’s animosity softened, “Yeah, that was her dream. She used to say she had to get out of here. She said she’d take me with her when she left and that we’d leave this
vida loca
foolishness. One time,” Lydia smiled behind her hand, “she said she wanted to be a cop and come back and arrest all the P51s.”

“What was your dream?” Frank asked.

“To go with her,” Lydia whispered.

“All right,” Frank said, feeling a pang of tenderness. “You be careful out there. Don’t make me have to be asking questions about
you
someday.”

“I can take care of myself,” Lydia huffed.

“Yeah, I know. That’s what Placa used to say.”

Frank had been determined to get to the Estrella’s, but the 93rd pulled a new case before briefing was even over — a Korean store owner beat to death at dawn while rolling up his metal storm door. Tensions between black and Korean communities ran high in south-central. The blacks accused the Koreans of sabotaging their neighborhoods by operating liquor stores on every corner. The Koreans said they had every right to run a business where there was opportunity. Frank had called Fubar before they even rolled and he arrived as the coroner techs were loading the vies body.

The brass knew crime scenes were off-limits even to them, yet they consistently ignored the yellow police tape.

Foubarelle stepped under it and Frank was grateful he hadn’t arrived earlier to fuck up the evidence collection.

“What have you got?” he asked, his chest puffed like a fighting cock.

Frank indicated three separate people talking to detectives. Smoothly guiding her supervisor back under the tape, she said, “We actually have wits to this one. The old man was walking up the street. Saw a tall, muscular, black male, shaved head. He was arguing with the owner. He thinks the suspect’s name is Luther Moore. Everybody calls him Mr. Em. Styles himself a Muslim but the old man says he’s a bum. He got a little closer and he heard this Em saying he just wanted a pack of cigarettes. The vic, name’s Ruk, he owned the store, but he wouldn’t open up. Old man says Em kept arguing. Says Ruk seemed frightened and was trying to get into the store but Em was in his face. Em grabbed the vie by the arm and slammed him against the building. Then he picked up a garbage can,” Foubarelle frowned at the garbage still coating the sidewalk, “and threw it at Ruk. Ruk went down, then Em picks up the can again and starts beating the vie with it. That’s what the other two described too.”

“Shit,” Foubarelle said. “It
had
to be an African-American.”

Frank smiled, knowing he was worried about the reporters pacing the area, catcalling questions at him.

“Have fun,” she offered, but he grabbed her sleeve.

“Do we have any idea where this Mr. Em is?”

“Nope. Old man thinks he lives a couple blocks south. Might be an Eleven-Deuce Crip.”

That was LASD jurisdiction and Frank confirmed their notification. Inglewood and Watts PD, along with Southeast Division, had an APB too. Noah walked by, clucking, “And they say smoking’s not addictive.”

Frank put her whole squad on Ruk. They spent the next twenty-four hours searching for Luther Moore, amid howlings of the media, black and Korean business and community directors, deputy chiefs, the Chief, even the mayor. Frank could see them all churning this into another riot and pressed her crew mercilessly.

At approximately two o’clock the following afternoon, Southeast got a complaint from a woman who said there was a man sleeping in her garage. The responding officers found Luther Moore curled up in an Impala on blocks, snoring loud enough to scare Christ away.

Frank called Gail from the Alibi’s payphone, exhausted, but exhilarated that their suspect was in lock-up.

“Been a long week,” Frank said. “I’m glad it’s Friday. We gonna see you tonight?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve had a long week too.”

“Look,” Frank yelled, a finger in her other ear. “I’ve got an idea, if you’re not busy tomorrow.”

“I should chain myself to my desk until I can see the top of it again,” Gail sighed. “But I’m sure your idea’s better. What is it?”

“It’s a surprise. I think you’ll like it.”

“Another
hegira?”
Gail teased, making Frank smile.

“Not what I intended. Just be ready for me to pick you up at nine AM.”

“Where are we going?” Gail asked.

“If I told you it wouldn’t be a surprise. Just wear something comfortable and plan on being gone all day. Can you do that?”

“I think I can handle it,” then, “What are you up to?”

“Just trust me. Go home. Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay,” Gail said fondly, then threw in, “You’re a nut.”

“Yeah. See you in the morning.”

Frank returned to the nine-three table, vaguely amused with herself, and eager to contribute her share of damage to the fast-emptying pitchers.

When Gail opened the door to her apartment, Frank announced, “I’ve got lattes and croissants waiting in the car.”

“Let me get my purse.”

She checked Gail’s clothing while she waited. Nice jeans, scoop neck T-shirt, green like her eyes. The color reminded her of the way sun came dappled through the tall oaks on her street. Funky earrings, the gold knife and scissors Gail liked.

“Do I get to know where we’re going yet?”

“Nope. Get a jacket or a sweater and let’s go.”

Frank angled toward the 101 Freeway while Gail described the week from hell. They drove further and further west until Gail finally whined, “Where are we
going?”

“All right,” Frank relented, pleased to see the city behind her in the rearview mirror. “Good morning lady, sans gentleman. Thank you for choosing Air Frank today. We know you have many other options and are pleased you’ve chosen us for your travel needs. The weather for our flight today is beautiful, highs in the low eighties, wind 10-15 miles off shore.”

Gail tilted her head back, laughing. Her neck was smooth and creamy white, and Frank suddenly wondered what it would be like to kiss her there. The thought surprised her but she squelched it, continuing her patter.

“We’ll be cruising at an altitude of approximately 40 miles above sea level at a speed of 65 miles per hour. During our flight, you’ll be able to see the Pacific Ocean on your left and the San Gabriel Mountains on your right. Approximate travel time is 45 minutes, and we hope you’ll enjoy your flight to Santa Barbara. If you have any problems or questions please feel free to contact the hostess. And again, thank you for choosing Air Frank. Click.”

“Santa Barbara?” Gail asked happily.

“Yeah. I thought it’d be fun to get away for a while. You ever been to the botanical garden?”

Gail shook her head, and Frank said, “They’re supposed to be incredible this time of year. You said you wished you had a garden and this is one helluva garden. We’ll do that first, then have lunch at Citronell. Exquisite food at exorbitant prices but well worth it. After that, maybe walk off a few pounds on the beach, or check out the antique stores. You like antiques, right?”

Gail nodded, “You’ve got a good memory.”

“Helps in my line of work. So we’ll do that. Maybe grab a drink somewhere then head for home while the sun’s setting. How’s that sound?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yeah.”

“It sounds very romantic. Was that your intention?”

“No-o,” Frank said slowly, “I just wanted to get away for a while. Been a rough week. Thought it’d be nice to turn our pagers off and get the hell out of Dodge.”

“It’s
very
nice and you’re sweet to think of it.”

“All right then. Just sit back and relax. If you still remember how to do that.”

“I do, but I’ll bet you don’t.”

“Ah-h, I might surprise you.”

“You seem to keep doing that,” Gail observed.

Walking through the Santa Barbara Botanic Garden in spring was like walking through a museum of uncased jewels. Gail zig-zagged from flower to flower, while Frank watched indulgently, charmed by the doc’s simple and obvious pleasure. Later they ate appetizers and salad for lunch, with an outrageously good bottle of wine, then puttered through the antique stores downtown. Frank people-watched while Gail hunted unsuccessfully for deals.

With the sun heavy to the west, they started the drive back, bogged down in the weekend traffic. Frank fiddled with the radio, pausing on what sounded like the mournful opening to
Tristan and Isolde.

“You like opera?” Gail asked, snuggling against the door.

“Kind of. I don’t know much about it. Maggie used to listen to it all the time and I got used to her favorites. They’re about all I know.”

“We should go sometime,” Gail said, closing her eyes.

“Wine catching up to you?”

She nodded with a sleepy smile. Frank reached across Gail and locked her door. “Always the cop,” Gail murmured.

Frank was trying to decipher the colorful strike on the truck next to her, when Gail jerked up, exclaiming, “Oh, shit!”

Snagging her big purse from behind the seat, she pulled out a large envelope and offered it to Frank.

“I forgot. It’s Luis Estrella’s lab results.”

“You’ve been carrying that around all day?”

“Well, I figured if I put it in my purse I’d see it and remember to give it to you but you haven’t let me pay for anything.”

“Shit,” Frank muttered, tearing open the envelope, “That’ll teach me to be generous. How’d you get these so quick?”

“Do you know Suzie? In the lab?”

“She that chunky little butch with the glasses?”

“She’s a little crusty,” Gail admitted, “but she’s a sweetie.”

“Probably got a crush on you.”

“I doubt it. She’s got three grandkids and a husband who just retired. I told her I’d take her out to lunch if she could get that to me ASAE”

“Must want to have lunch with you pretty bad,” Frank maintained.

“Oh, stop,” Gail said, taking a swat at Frank, who was already scanning the material. Interestingly, there was no blood on his pants, but the blood on Estrella’s sweatshirt matched samples from the rest of his murdered family, as did the samples from his shoes. A wad of old gum had trapped some fibers. Brown and tan polyesters that appeared to be automotive textiles, then an odd fiber. A horse hair. The soles also contained minute traces of what appeared to be alfalfa, oats, and horse manure.

That made Frank’s forehead crease. The Sentra behind her honked and Frank eased up to the bumper in front of her.

No blowback on his hands. Odd. After having just shot that many people, at that close a range, Luis should have had blood and flesh spatter on his hands. But there was none. No gunshot residue either. Frank grabbed a pen and wrote “gloves?” But that didn’t make sense. Luis lived at the homicide scene. His prints were all over. Why would he bother to put on gloves?

She read more. Bits of organic debris shaken from his clothing were consistent with his location in the canyon. A man tripping around in the dark would have certainly put his hands out to brace himself, but there was no mention of organic debris in the nail scrapes. There were also more alfalfa, oat and horse manure traces. Was he in a barn somewhere? A stable?
Why?
Frank wondered.

The lab found the same brown automobile fibers in all his clothing and in his hair. Frank remembered the interior of Luis’ car was brown. There were other fibers as well — navy, gray, and black wool. Clothing fiber. A couple others turned out to be more horse hairs.