Street Rules

For
Frank,
L.A.P.D. Homicide Lieutenant L.A. Franco and her homicide squad, it’s business as usual — a multiple murder, ugly as it is, at least seems to have an easy explanation. Until it coincides with an untimely drive-by shooting. The investigation ultimately pulls Frank and her squad in conflicting directions while drawing Frank closer to the county’s new Chief Coroner, Gail Lawless. Through a series of twists and turns, all Frank’s leads eventually bring her to the disquieting possibility that the killer she seeks might well be one of her own brothers in blue.

From the Publisher

Baxter Clare lives on a ranch in Southern California with her longtime companion.

“Hey, Frank. It’s ugly in there.”

Lieutenant L.A. Franco didn’t like hearing that from a man who’d worked homicide twice as long as she had.

“How ugly?”

“Looks like six so far. Not counting the pit bull. All shot-gunned. Me and Bobby saw what it was and backed out-figured we’d better wait for you.”

Wiggling into a pair of latex gloves, Frank cast a cold eye over the excess of responding radio units. There were only three Figueroa cars. The rest were Sheriffs office, Compton PD, and Southeast Division. A Highway Patrol had responded, probably due to the proximity of the overpass. They were all out of their jurisdiction, lookie-loos just hanging out and catching up on gossip.

“Ambo?” she asked her detective. A loose Windsor knot hung below Dan Nukisona’s open collar and his suit was wrinkled. No doubt the one he’d changed out of when he’d gotten home.

“Don’t need one.”

Frank almost told Nook to straighten his tie, thought better of it. Looked like it was going to be a long night.

“We know who they are?”

“Looks like Julio Estrella, his family, and some guy.”

“And the dog,” Frank sighed.

“And the dog.”

She turned her attention to the unfamiliar house, one of the Craftsman bungalows typical of south-central Los Angeles. The police strobes were lighting it like a Christmas tree.

“I thought Julio lived on Gramercy.”

“He did. Used to anyway. Looks like they moved here not too long ago. There’s boxes and stuff.”

She motioned for her detective to lead the way and they retraced his steps. A large uniformed woman stood at the door holding an entry log.

“You the RO?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Heard you passed the detective’s exam.”

“Yeah,” Lewis grinned.

Frank nodded, “We’ll get you into homicide yet.”

Lewis was a good cop and Frank was pleased she’d been the responding officer. She took in the pile of torn and empty cartons in the corner, stacking plastic chairs, some toys and a two-wheeled trike, garbage bags, a couple empties. It was cluttered but not disrupted. Nook opened the screen door with a “here we go” glance and Frank followed.

The heavy, metallic tang of fresh blood weighted the enclosed air. Frank’s first thought was how much she hated shotguns; they made such a fucking mess. She stood in the living room, noting the woman puddled up in the hallway, then the two children sprawled over each other on the couch. Frank knew Estrella’s older son, but probably wouldn’t have recognized the younger ones. One of the kids on the couch was missing the left side of his head and had fallen backward over the other kid. From the sticky long hair hanging over the edge of the couch, Frank assumed the second kid was a girl. The major organs plastered onto the couch and the blood soaked cushions assured Frank they were both dead. Accompanied by tinny laughter from the
TV,
she gauged their positions. It looked like they’d been shot from the hallway.

Frank moved in that direction, careful not to step on the bloodied floor or brush against the spatter on the wall. She bent to look at the woman. It was Marta Estrella all right. Beyond her, just inside the kitchen, Julio’s eldest lay on the floor. Leo Estrella was only about twelve years old and he looked very surprised. From the blood behind him, it looked like the shotgun load had knocked him into the wall.

Red footprints from a rubber-soled shoe decorated the linoleum. Frank zig-zagged around them, toward an older Hispanic man crumpled on his side by the kitchen table. He looked familiar but Frank couldn’t place him.

“Do we know who he is?”

Nook shook his head. “Bobby thought maybe he’d seen him around Gramercy, where they used to live.”

“Speaking of your partner, where is he?”

“Out puttin’ some of those useless flatfoots to work. That transfer from Shootin’ Newton — Hunt’s his name — he’s a lazy mother. He’d put a third generation welfare mom to shame. We get here — Munoz and Lewis are working it — and I ask him to talk to some people, you know, at least names and addresses, and he looks at his watch and says he’s almost 10-7. Just came by to see what was going on.”

The man’s wallet was just out of his rear pocket. Frank slipped on a glove and spread it open with her thumb and forefinger. James Barracas. Hollywood address. She flipped through the plastic card holder, grunting, “Check it out.”

Nook squinted over her shoulder at the ID card she pointed to.

“Well, I’ll be dipped in shit. Retired LAPD.”

Frank replaced the wallet, noting the pit bull that had bled out near the back door. There was another beautiful footprint in the blood, a rubber-soled print, and she quickly glanced at the victim’s feet. The men were in loafers and cowboy boots. The boy was barefoot. One break, Frank thought, fixing her attention on Julio Estrella. He was slumped in front of the open refrigerator, parts of him clinging to the milk and lard. It looked like he’d turned and caught his blast in the upper chest and throat. His head was tucked toward the floor as if he were embarrassed he’d been caught slipping. Frank squatted, peering up into his face.

She and Julio Estrella went back a long way. Dealing with strangers wasn’t so bad, but knowing the people who’d been slaughtered suddenly made Frank feel too old and too tired for this kind of work. She glanced around. Bobby Taylor had stepped gingerly into the kitchen. She was amazed, as always, that a man so big could move so lightly. She’d have loved to have seen him play football. In the voice as incongruous as his agility, he offered softly, “Kind of a drag, huh?”

“Kind of,” Frank agreed. She stood abruptly, focusing on work. “You call SID?”

With a mess like this she couldn’t imagine Bobby hadn’t called in the Scientific Investigation Division, but Frank didn’t like making assumptions.

“Yeah. Coroner, too.”

Frank instructed, “Let’s not mess with the techs. Get Lawless here, case this thing explodes into a shitstorm. Any muck trucks out there yet?”

News vans didn’t cover south-central homicides with the zeal they did in more affluent neighborhoods. Frank was hoping the radio call to dispatch had been subtle enough to dull their curiosity.

“No, the vultures haven’t got wind of the carrion yet.”

“Check the rest of the house?”

“Yeah, we walked through. Lewis and Munoz checked it out, too.”

Frank wanted to see for herself anyway. She found the phone in her pocket and called her supervisor, studying the kitchen table: a vase with plastic flowers, three cans of Tecate, an open bag of Doritos, an ashtray with butts, an envelope with an address scrawled on the back. While the phone rang in her ear, Frank said, “Nook, you get the address? Cigarette brands?”

“Kool and Marlboro,” he grumbled, waving his notebook. “Someplace on Lester. I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday.”

“What was I thinking?” Frank muttered. All her detectives were top-notch. Supervising them at a scene basically meant handling the brass and admin details so her men were free to do what they did best. Buying them beers, scolding them when they needed it and praising them when they didn’t was how she best managed her crew.

Picking her way to the bedrooms, Frank said, “Hey, John. Frank. Thought you might want to know we caught a multiple.”

She gave her captain the body count, but withheld James Barracas’ ID. Anything other than a straight-forward domestic or drive-by made Foubarelle’s Jockey’s bunch and she didn’t want him flying through her crime scene in a high panic. Frank ducked into the bathroom. The shower curtain was open, nothing in there, and though there wasn’t even room for a gnat’s ass, Frank checked behind the door. She’d learned that one the hard way.

Her captain asked for a motive. Surveying what appeared to be the master bedroom, Frank answered, “Not sure yet.”

The ROs had left the closet open and the bedspread flipped up, but other than that the room was tidy. Marta Estrella kept a nice house. Resigned to the fact that her captain would never get a handle on the timing of a homicide investigation, Frank placated him with guesstimates as she glanced through the closet. Clothes hung neatly. Men’s and women’s shoes were arranged in rows, except two pairs in the corner. Crooked and overturned, they were jarringly out of character with the general orderliness. She looked at the clothes hanging above them. They were tightly bunched. Fubar was asking about the media. Frank silently folded the phone shut, trading it for the 9mm under her arm. Adrenaline crackled into her bloodstream, narrowing her vision and sharpening her smell. She noticed the carpet was slightly darker under the gathered clothes just as the tang of urine hit her. She stepped to the side of the closet, reaching in slowly. With a deep, steadying breath, she used her gun barrel to part the clothing.

A little boy — he couldn’t have been more than six — gaped up at her, terror-stricken. Frank’s adrenaline fled as quickly as it had come and she holstered her weapon before the shakes hit her. She stood in front of the kid, calmly getting her breath back. Poor little bastard was shaking in his underwear. Frank knelt, extending her hand, and the kid pressed himself even flatter into the corner. He was all huge brown eyes and open-mouthed horror.

“Ssssh,” Frank whispered, not knowing if the kid spoke English or Spanish. “It’s okay
. Esta bien. Todo esta bien.”
She didn’t know how to say she wasn’t going to hurt him, so she repeated everything was okay. The kid just stood quaking in his own pee. Frank got up slowly and stripped the blanket off the bed. She knelt again, holding the blanket open, urging him to come into it. He sobbed, hyperventilating, but he allowed Frank to gently wrap the blanket around him. She pulled him carefully from his hiding place, securing him even tighter, making sure to cover his head so he wouldn’t see what was in the living room.

Nook and Bobby stared when Frank said, “Call Child Protective Services,” walking past them with the little feet dangling under the blanket.

“Who the fuck is
that?”
Nook hollered behind her, but Frank just whispered,
‘Todo esta bien,”
and kept stroking the boy’s head. Outside, Frank searched for the nearest Figueroa car. Munoz was walking the chief coroner toward the house but Lawless paused, watching Frank head toward her with the blanket.

“Hey, doc,” she greeted quietly in passing, “Nice outfit.”

Gail Lawless was obviously dressed for something more glamorous than a coroner’s investigation, and she grinned. Hefting a bulging briefcase, she replied, “Have scrubs will travel.”

“Sorry to interrupt your evening, but I need you here.”

Hunt was resting against his hood and Frank nodded at the rear door.

“Open up.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, taking his time moving off the car. “Who’s the prisoner?”

Frank ignored him, looking around for his partner as she settled the boy in. She leaned out and called, “Waddell!” feeling the kid jerk under her hand.

“Sssh,” she whispered, smoothing his hair.
“Esta bien.”
She wished she could think of something more reassuring to say but her limited Spanish was eluding her. Hunt’s partner jogged over and Frank told him CPS was on the way. Waddell was to accompany the kid and not leave him alone for a second. Nor be alone with him for a second. Frank wanted it to be impossible for a defense attorney to claim the LAPD had fed the kid ideas.

Frank studied the boy for a moment. His head protruded from the blanket and he stared back at her. Frank moved away from the car, guiding Waddell next to her.

“You got kids, right?”

“Three,” he nodded.

“If he falls asleep, stay next to him. He’s going to have some nasty nightmares.”

Frank turned toward Lawless, as Hunt sniggered, “Aww. I never knew you were so maternal,
Lieutenant.”

Frank faced him. He was a big son of a bitch, mean and stupid too. Bad combinations in a cop and she wondered what he’d done to get busted from Newton to Figueroa.

“That’s not maternal, Hunt, that’s business. We need that kid. He’s a material witness. You might want to learn how to do that.”

Giving him her back, she said, “Come on, doc. I’ve got six bodies for you. Not counting the dog.”