Street Rules (27 page)

“Goodbye.”

Frank returned one more call, then Foubarelle slipped into her office with a pile of make-work designed to make Figueroa look proactive in community relations. After that, Noah and Johnnie needed case reviews. Johnnie requested a day off to take his son to Disneyland on his birthday. Frank denied it, coldly pointing out that Johnnie should have thought about that before he burned all his comp time and sick leave on hangovers. Between phone calls from seemingly every other jurisdiction in southern California, she helped Diego prep for court, talked to lawyers and PDs, and signed off on dozens of forms, requests and reports. This went on until the squad room had at last quieted and emptied, until Frank’s time was finally her own.

She was running through a list of things to do. First was to get his phone records. Second, she had to figure a way to get a saliva sample from him. Then samples from his closet and his car. Her father had taught her that if she had to hit somebody bigger than herself, hit them so hard they couldn’t get back up. That’s what she intended to do now; hit this son of a bitch with so much evidence he’d be buried alive in it.

The phone rang a couple times but she ignored it. If it was important, the desk would know how to find her. When she heard the quick clack-clack-clack on the stairs she sighed and put her pen down.

“I understand you’ve reassigned your case load,” Foubarelle announced, walking into her office for the second time that day.

Frank nodded, wondering how the hell he’d gotten wind of that.

“And that you’re working that banger girl on your own.”

“Yeah.”

“Would you mind telling me what that’s all about?”

She gave him a version of the song and dance she’d given Bobby.

“I don’t like it, Frank. If this was a high-priority case, or something very sensitive, then that would be different, but it doesn’t look good that a lieutenant is actively working a run-of-the-mill drive-by. You’re not a Detective Three anymore, Frank. You’ve got a squad to run and I don’t want it to suffer because you’re off pursuing leads that are best pursued by the men under you. I want you to give that case back to the detectives who originally handled it.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Oh really? Please enlighten me,” he said, spreading his hands expansively.

Frank massaged her ring finger. She wasn’t ready to tell him. She wanted a lot more ammo than she had right now so she tried stalling.

“This isn’t just a drive-by. I think it’s something a little bigger, little more volatile.”

Foubarelle tensed.

“How much bigger?”

“I’d rather not say yet. Until I have more facts I’m just shooting from the hip.”

“How much bigger and how much more volatile?” he repeated, his bluster evaporating.

Frank chewed on the inside of her lip. She’d have to tell him sooner or later. She’d just hoped it was going to be later.

“I think it might be an officer involved incident,” she gave up.

“What?”

Fubar was turning red and Frank wouldn’t have been surprised if the top of his head flew off like a jack in the box.

“I don’t have all the facts yet,” she said calmly. “That’s why I haven’t told you anything. But I didn’t want Bobby or Nook digging up any more on this. That’s why I took it over.”

“I see. Well that certainly casts the situation in a different light.”

Foubarelle looked sick and Frank almost felt sorry for him.

“Is it an officer from Figueroa?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, Christ,” he said. “We better call Langley.”

He was referring to his boss, the deputy chief.

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I don’t have a lot to go on right now, just circumstance and second-hand testimony.”

“That’s enough that he should be told about it.”

Frank disagreed, suspecting Fubar just wanted someone to shoulder this heavy load with him.

“Just give me some time, John. Another day.”

As he grabbed for Frank’s phone he shook his head.

“Langley’s got to know.”

He got the DCs secretary, telling her he had “a situation” and to have Langley call ASAE.

“Tell me what you’ve got,” he said, biting on his thumbnail. As she told him, he paced and kept repeating, “Oh, Christ.” Frank declined to give the cop’s name and Fubar didn’t push it. He already knew more than he wanted to.

Two hours later she sat in Langley’s office, telling the story again. The DC listened intently, not saying anything until Frank was finished.

“Well,” he mused, leaning back in his large chair. Silver-haired, tanned and trim, Langley looked like a Beverly Hills surgeon. Like Foubarelle, the DC was a political animal, but at least he’d spent some time in uniform. His understanding of what happened on the streets was better than the captain’s, yet he too was disinclined to buck prevailing political winds. When he smiled indulgently, Frank felt her stomach roll over.

“Lieutenant, as you’re well aware, lately the department has had some rather serious setbacks. Mind you, some of these difficulties we’ve brought on ourselves. Others are …
inadequacies
with public perception. Regardless however of who’s at fault, it all adds up to give us a rather
tarnished
image.”

The DC chose his words carefully and deliberately, as if choosing steps through a yard full of dog shit. It was his media speech, the let’s-give-them-something-but-not-what-they-want talk and she knew what was coming next.

She barely listened as he said, “You must see, that with so little evidence we are in no clear position to proceed with these
allegations.
At this point your charges are
highly
speculative. Certainly if the officer in question has been involved in
inappropriate
activities he should be investigated. It’s the department’s responsibility to investigate all such allegations and take action dependent upon the outcome of said investigations. However, this is not a good time to bring certain of these
charges
to light, particularly with so little evidence to back them. Speculation at this stage is pointless, and should word leak out, the department could have a rather
inflammatory
incident on its hands.
Surely
you can appreciate the reaction to this?”

When Frank’s reply wasn’t forthcoming, he continued, “I appreciate the job you’re doing, Lieutenant. Credit is due you for your diligence. Though I’m sure it has
pained
you to implicate a fellow colleague, you have pursued a difficult line of inquiry to its logical conclusion. At this point however, I would deem it more
fruitful
to follow a different path. Various
of
these allegations have merit, and I can
assure
you they will be brought to IADs attention.”

Frank couldn’t look at the DC as he continued with a thinly disguised warning that should this
somehow
become public knowledge, that would be
extremely
unfortunate. Did both the captain and the lieutenant understand that? “Yes, sir,” Fubar piped up.

Langley waited, his paternalistic urbanity, turning cool. “Do you understand what we’ve discussed, Lieutenant?” Holding her teeth together, she said, “Yes, sir.”

“Very good,” he said standing to end their meeting. Shaking Frank’s hand he added with absolute sincerity, “Keep up the good work, Lieutenant.”

Frank swore all the way back to her office. She had nothing on this bastard for the Estrella murders. She knew that. Nor could she substantiate Luis Estrella’s murder. But with Placa she’d had a better chance. He’d been taken by surprise and forced to make mistakes. Still, even if he’d been caught kneeling over Placa and firing into her heart the department would be reluctant to pursue charges against one of their own. Such a reluctance might almost have been noble if it were a matter of a brother protecting a brother, but the code of silence wasn’t about protecting a comrade; it was a sickening reflection of how many heads might roll if the truth got out.

Frank’s stomach cramped through her anger and she tried to remember the last time she’d eaten. Camped in traffic, she decided it was going to be a long night and that her first priority should be food and a drink so stiff it was rigored. She wasn’t far from USC and wondered if Gail was still at work. It’d be nice to talk to someone sane for a little while.

Frank dialed her office and got Rhondie, who said she’d page Gail. Frank hung up. Maybe she’d just go on over to the Marengo Grill. If Gail couldn’t make it she’d just eat without her. No big deal, she thought, swinging onto Cesar Chavez, but was glad when Gail called back a few minutes later.

“Hey. Interested in dinner at the Grill? I was close and thought maybe you could join me.”

“You thought right,” Gail answered. “Can you give me about forty-five minutes?”

“Is that Lawless time or real time?”

When Gail laughed the answer Frank knew how badly she wanted to see her. And it scared Frank. She’d gotten used to not wanting anything. It made life so much simpler. And duller, she admitted. Frank wondered what Clay would have her do, knowing the answer even before she finished the question.

“Jesus,” she let out with a deep breath. It was just dinner. She warned herself to quit nutting up, rationalizing that she was just wired from the afternoon and all she still had to do. Frank had wanted that bastard nailed five ways to Sunday before even whispering his name and now three other people knew. She needed damage control pronto. Her best scenario was that Langley wouldn’t follow through. But she doubted it. He’d pass something along to IAD just to cover his ass. Exactly what he offered and how far Internal went with it was unpredictable. She had to proceed on the assumption that her suspect would eventually know he was being investigated on extortion charges at the very least. That could either work against her or for her.

She slid into a parking spot at the restaurant and ordered a double scotch before the waiter had even finished seating her. Frank recognized a defense attorney at one of the tables and watched him laughing, thinking she needed to talk to McQueen. She could lay out what she had, tell Queenie it was hypothetical, and hope she wouldn’t give Frank her withering, “You’ve got to be kidding” look.

That was the damn frustrating part. When Tonio had first told her, Frank didn’t want to believe him. But all her little clues and circumstances had lined up to back his story and the more she thought about it, the more it made
sense.
But you couldn’t prosecute a case on common sense and instinct. And Frank couldn’t push like she would with a normal suspect. Truth was, if this guy was as smart as he should be, she’d never have enough on him. Langley was right. He could absolutely walk.

Frank seethed, wondering what the odds were of his even being fully investigated for trafficking. And then, the likelihood of prosecution and conviction if it got as far as that. Would he even get more than a slap on the wrist? The man was a decorated Vietnam vet and a great cop with citations and commendations to prove it. It was possible that what Langley told IAD would go straight into one of their files and sit there, until if and when they ever needed it.

Compounding her lack of credibility were Luis Estrella and Ocho Ruiz. On the surface, they both still appeared to be the logical suspects. Ruiz still hadn’t fessed up to his actions on the night Placa died and she thought she’d have to get to him first thing in the morning. She needed supporting statements from him and Lydia and the homes that were in Eagle Rock with him.

Gail walked in just as Frank finished her first drink. The doc was only in scrubs but it was still nice watching her walk to the table. She had a sultry, long-legged sway, and Frank realized, not without some alarm, that this was the second time in less than an hour that she was glad the doc was around.

“What a nice surprise,” Gail said, sliding into her chair.

She handed Frank an envelope, saying hello to the waiter and ordering a gin and tonic. Frank got another double. She allowed herself the luxury of staring at the doc, who arched a brow and stated, “You look like hell. What have you been up to?”

“Wading in shit.”

“Placa’s shit?”

“None other. How about you? How’s your week going?”

Gail’s eyes rolled and she frowned, “I’ll tell you about that in a minute. Open that first,” she said to the envelope.

“Another Christmas present?” Frank asked, extracting a sheaf of papers. It was Placa’s lab results and Frank whistled, impressed.

“Damn. What’d this cost you?”

“I had to promise Suzie it was the last one I’d harangue her about for a while.”

“Harangue,” Frank repeated. “Big word.”

Gail sipped her water, saying, “Look what was under her nails. The right hand in particular.”

Frank flipped a couple pages until she found the section. Tan automotive upholstery fibers. Traces of horse manure and alfalfa. Human skin and horse hairs. Lots of wool fibers and a few silk.

The trace evidence created a clear picture for Frank. He and Placa in his front seat, he on top of her. The skin under her nails showed she’d have fought him first, then she’d have had to give in; he was bigger, stronger, and maybe holding her own .25 to her head. Her right hand had clenched into the debris on the floorboard. The samples from the left hand were cleaner. Only human skin and wool fibers. Meaning non-upholstered seats. The leather in the Lincoln.

“Have we compared these to Luis’ samples?”

“Suze is working on it.”

“How about DNA profiles? Do the skin and sperm match?”

“We ran PCR strips,” Gail said, leaning over to turn pages. She found the strip pictures, showing a match.

“We’ve developing RFLPs too. That’ll increase the accuracy of the match.”

“Beautiful. I owe you big time.”

“Yes you do,” Gail grinned, but Frank was still absorbed in the technicalities of the various reports.

The waiter brought their meals, a healthy salad for Gail and a not so healthy cheeseburger with bacon for Frank.