Street Rules (29 page)

“You know who it is?” Noah asked.

“Look, I can’t talk. I’m on the cell.”

“Aw,
come on,
Frank.”

“Just know you’re on. I’ll talk to you later,” she said, hanging up. She hoped he’d have sense enough to go to the game anyway, and that nothing happened in the meantime. If I could just get hold of Johnnie, she thought taking the stairs two at a time, he could cover. Frank offered a silent thanks when she walked into the squad room and there he was, hunkered over late reports.

“Hey. Tried to page you.”

Johnnie fiddled at his belt. His shirt was wrinkled and he hadn’t shaved.

“It wasn’t on,” he grinned sheepishly.

“Work better when they are. I called No, too. You guys are up.”

She raised her palm at his expected remonstrance, continuing, “You need to page him. He’s at a game down south, let him know you’ll cover ‘til he can get his ass up here. Go downstairs and shave. You look like shit in a sack.”

His initial protest silenced, he just slumped in his chair. He sullenly asked the same thing Noah did and Frank explained without detail. Johnnie blew his lips at the ceiling and she closed her door on him. A few minutes later she heard a phone ring, and Johnnie’s dejected rumble.

Frank gutted Placa’s murder book, laying out the autopsy protocol, the tox results, lab reports, Placa’s pictures, sketches, Bobby’s reports — everything, all neatly arrayed in front of her. Hunched in her old chair she sifted through the papers like a fortune-teller reading the cards. She weighed options and deliberated. She sighed occasionally, shifted a piece of paper, but mostly she just thought. After a while she picked up the phone.

Foubarelle’s wife curtly said her husband was busy. Equally curt, Frank told her, “Tell him another Estrella’s in the hospital. He might want to know.”

He called back in less than a minute.

“What’s the problem?” he greeted shortly.

She told him. Then added, “I’m charging him, John.”

“Now wait a minute.”

She heard the panic in his voice and would have been amused any other time.

“Langley clearly said you’re not to do anything with this, and I won’t have you going against him, Frank.”

“I have to. Even if this goes nowhere and the DA throws it back in my lap, he’s at least got to know we’re on to him, that
I’m
on to him. He can’t keep getting away with this. I don’t know how many people he has to kill before the department has the balls to move against him, but I’m not going to wait around and see. I’m charging him, John, with or without Langley’s blessing.”

“You can’t do that,” the captain protested, the whine and the fear higher in his voice. He seemed to get it under control, because his next words were more authoritative.

“I’m ordering you not to do this, Frank.”

“Sorry, John.”

She wasn’t.

“You realize the ramifications of openly defying your supervisor.”

What should have been his boldest statement yet was couched with fear, and Frank played him as she so often did. It was like fishing, set the hook and reel him in. No wonder Joe liked it so much.

“Yes, I do. Do you want to call Langley or should I?” she asked needlessly.

She waited almost an hour for the phone to ring. Fubar nervously told her the DC was out of town. Frank was to meet him at Chief Nelson’s house ASAP. Frank pulled her case together and started the long drive to Brentwood. She was shown into his study, where Nelson greeted her without cheer.

“Notoriety seems to be plaguing you personally as much as it is the department.”

“Yes, sir.”

Frank stood stiffly in front of his well-polished desk. A liaison from IAD and a department lawyer sat in leather wing chairs with brass studs. Foubarelle fidgeted behind them.

“Tell me, Lieutenant, do you actively seek out problems or do they just happen to find you?”

The big man wasn’t happy and Frank responded, “I don’t seek them anymore than the rest of the department, sir.”

That seemed to placate him a bit and he said, “Well, show us what the furor’s about.”

Because she had so little to go with on the Estrella massacre, Frank focused entirely on Placa’s case. She carefully outlined his motive, explaining how the business with Barracas had evolved and the subsequent showdown. She described Placa and her refusal to do the work, the confession from Tonio, and this latest turn of events wherein he’d found out the net was closing in. She acknowledged that her case for murder was weak but told them about the equine-related samples found on Placa, the sperm, and the fact that she hoped to obtain supporting DNA and fiber samples from the suspect. If the samples matched as she thought they would, they’d have a much stronger case.

The lawyer questioned and probed, finally opining that they could foreseeably prosecute various allegations, but not murder. Not yet. He cleared his throat and amended smoothly, “Of course should this matter go any further, we’d have to consult with the District Attorney directly.”

Nelson nodded, boring coldy through Frank.

“The department has more than it’s share of troubles right now, Lieutenant. I know you. I know your record. I’m still not convinced that the incident last winter wasn’t an overreaction on your part.”

Frank burned at the indictment but her exterior remained at zero centigrade. “Before we go any farther with this, there are a few things I need to know.”

Nelson abruptly dismissed Foubarelle and his counsel, waving Frank into a wing chair. She sat in it, slightly repulsed by the leftover warmth. The chief took the other chair, pulling it close to her. Only inches from her face, he ordered sternly, but kindly, “Level with me, Franco. Tell me about this man.”

An incredulous smile almost got away from Frank as she realized what the chief was up to. He was looking for something personal, a vendetta or agenda that would explain Frank’s accusations, something he could twist to discredit her suspicions. She found herself in the paradoxical position of defending the bastard, wanting to laugh at the surrealism of the situation. Over the next half hour, Frank grudgingly admired the Chiefs interrogation skills and was relieved when he told her to call the others back in.

“I’ve decided to give the lieutenant twenty-four hours to come up with something more than this,” he said tapping Placa’s murder book. “That means,” he said, casting Frank a piercing glare, “that what we have discussed today does not leave this room until further notice from me. Is that clear?”

It wasn’t as good as Frank had hoped for, but not as bad as she’d feared.

“Yes, sir.”

“These are serious charges against a fine officer and I won’t have this department needlessly dragged through the mud. Is that clear, also?

“Yes, sir.”

Nelson turned to the lawyer, asking if he wanted to add anything. He threw in a few standard caveats then Nelson adjourned their meeting.

“Sir?” Frank asked, reclaiming the chief’s attention, sensing Fubar tensing next to her.

“What is it, Lieutenant?”

“Sir, should these charges be justified, this man poses an immediate threat to the surviving family members. I’d like to request their residence be under twenty-four hour guard surveillance by one of my teams and a radio car.”

Nelson thought about it.

“One radio car.”

“Yes, sir.”

“See she gets it,” he said with a nod to Foubarelle.

The red light on Frank’s phone machine blinked maniacally. She stared at it, foggy-brained, wondering if she needed to know who’d called. She punched the rewind button, drowsing as she stood. Christ, she was tired.

Somebody wanting to know if she wished to renew her subscription to the
L.A. Times.
The second call was Bobby, telling her to call him ASAP That had been while she was having dinner with Gail. Another call from Nook, Romanowski, then Bobby again. Fubar in full panic was the fifth call. She fast-forwarded to the next call.

“Hi. It’s Gail. It’s not too often I get to call people this late, so I thought I’d take advantage of it.”

It sounded like she was chewing as she continued, “I just wanted to thank you again for dinner. It was sweet of you to call me. And thanks for sharing your bad day with me and letting me share mine. It makes them more bearable, don’t you think? At any rate, I hope the rest of your night went well. Hope you get some sleep. Call me if you want. I’ll be up until about midnight. I have a ton of e-mail to catch up on. Bye. Oh! I almost forgot. Do you like opera? Don Giovanni’s at the Pavilion. It could be fun. Let me know. Bye.”

Frank checked her watch, knowing it was well beyond midnight, but hoping she was wrong. Stripping her clothes off, she rewound the last message and played it again, falling naked into bed, almost asleep before she could get the covers up under her chin.

She left home again as the sky was graying to the east. The young day retained a hint of coolness and Frank sped down the highway with the windows open, the wind slapping her hair dry. Before the sun had crossed the horizon, she was walking up three flights of stairs, smelling dirty diapers, urine, and old grease. She knocked at Ocho Ruiz’s apartment and an old woman opened the door, eyes snapping to attention when Frank flashed her badge. She protested, trying to close the door, but Frank held it open.

“Calmate,”
she soothed. Her accent was awful but it seemed to help and the woman quieted. In broken Spanish Frank told her she only wanted to talk to Ruiz. She wasn’t here to arrest him. Sweeping her hand behind her she indicated she was alone,
“No hay mas policia. Solo quiero hablar.”
Just talk.

The woman backed up, still frightened, and Frank spoke in English, telling her to get Ruiz. She must have understood because she went into a room down a narrow hall. After some muttering, Ruiz appeared, equally fuzzy-eyed and disheveled.

Frank showed her ID again and told Ruiz she needed to talk to him. He asked what about and she told him Placa’s murder. Exasperated, he pawed on a low coffee table for a pack of cigarettes.

“Why you people comin’ aroun’ with that shit again? I don’t know nothin’ about that bitch.”

“I believe you,” Frank said. Ruiz lit up, cocking a curious eye at the lieutenant. Frank didn’t think he recognized her from the Dolly Parton interrogation, but she didn’t give him time to dwell on it.

“Look. You are
not
a suspect in Placa’s shooting. I have a suspect. But unless you can give me a really good alibi, you
look
like the better suspect and the district attorney isn’t gonna believe it’s this other person.”

Frank explained she needed to know exactly where he was, and who with, so that she could clear him. If he was innocent, he had nothing to be afraid of.

“We know you were involved in that shooting at Eagle Rock. Personally, I don’t give a shit. The guy’s okay. All I care about right now is nailing this sonofabitch who killed Placa. If you talk to me, give me a good alibi so I can eliminate you as a suspect, I’ll make sure nothing happens to you. I don’t want you for any of that other shit. I want to be able to say to the DA, Octavio Ruiz didn’t do it and here’s why.”

“Then I go to jail for shooting that punk.”

“No. If you’re being
carnal,
if you had nothing to do with Placa, I’ll make sure they can’t touch you for anything related to that evening.”

“What about my posse?”

Frank needed Ruiz, so she said, “Them too,” unsure how she could guarantee that. Ruiz fell onto the couch, considering the bargain. He was being cooperative for once so Frank maintained a persuasive rather than coercive tack.

“I don’t want you, Ocho. I don’t want your homes. I want the person that I
know
did this. Thing is, I don’t have a lot of evidence, so the DA’s gonna laugh me out of her office when I go to her and say oh it’s this other person not Octavio Ruiz. But if I can prove it’s not you, and none of your crew, she’ll have to look at what I got. Then we can lay off you. I don’t like wasting my time chasing after you any more than you like my detectives all over your ass. If you help, we both get what we want.”

“No matter what we was doin’ that night?”

“Except for murder, I don’t give a flying fuck.”

“How do I know you ain’t lying?”

“You don’t. All you have is my promise. Ask around to see if it’s any good.”

Frank and Ruiz maintained a stare. Finally Ruiz said, “I’ve heard a you,” and started to talk. He stuck to the story he’d told her in the box, only this time he added it was a business trip; he and his
vatos
had gone there to sell some guns. A .22, two .38s and a .44.

Frank nodded.

“I need to know who the homes were.”

Ruiz pouted and Frank assured him, “I ain’t gonna bust nobody. I just gotta check out your story.”

“Man, this don’t fly, bustin’ my
vatos.”

“I’m not bustin’ anybody. I already told you that. But just hangin’ with your homes doesn’t make a very strong alibi. I want people that were there, that are gonna swear to me that you were there too. That’s all. I get that, you never see me again.”

Ruiz sneered. “Yeah, right. First it’s me, them my homes. You fuckin’ one-times are all liars.”

“Hey. Whatever. You can believe me and have me out of your life or you can have me in your face and in your friends faces until I get my answers. And if I have to do it the hard way, I’m taking everybody down with me, and I’ll tell them it’s ‘cause you were too fuckin’ chicken-shit to cooperate.”

“Ain’t chicken-shit,” Ruiz laughed around a drag on his cigarette.

“Then let’s end this right now. It’s on you, man.”

Ruiz considered her from behind the curling smoke.

“You know if somethin’ was to happen to me, I got people on the street reppin’ me. Even if you was to fuck me, you couldn’t fuck everybody.”

Frank nodded submissively. Her acquiescence lured Ruiz into thinking he had the upper hand. He stared at her some more, hard, before saying, “This is fucked, man.”

Then he gave her names. She wrote them down, and as she was leaving he said, “You got a sister?”