"Naw, he didn't talk hardly at all. I had to keep asking him things."
Frank glanced at Noah and he lifted his hands in the air, knowing she was peeved Lewis had to work with Paul Seuter alone.
Seuter was a skilled pathologist, but extremely shy. Talking was as comfortable for him as chewing razors. Because of that, and his pasty skin, the detectives called him Boo Radley. Frank wondered what the novice detective had missed and hoped she could spot it in Seuter's prelim report.
"Anything else?"
"Yeah," Noah piped up. "What else did Sister Shaft do today? Close all our opens, catch Jack the Ripper, and still get to soccer practice on time?"
Lewis glared at her partner.
"Do you mind if I finish?"
"A'ight," Noah rapped, "I'ma head for the door, I'ma give you the floor. Y'all wanna speak, then talk to Le Freek."
When it came from anyone other than Noah her nickname had a nasty edge, but Frank applauded his rhyming skills.
"Shit," Lewis whined, "why I gotta work with some crazy-ass O'Malley think he Busta Rhymes?"
"Hey, I ain't no O'Malley. I'm a Jew."
"Jewish, Irish, shit, y'all look the same to me," Lewis zinged back. Frank was pleased to see her holding her own, not getting her back up too much.
"Now let me finish," Lewis continued. "We leaned on Hernandez some. Jack Lord here," she said, tilting her head to Noah, "he ran the 'you're the best suspect' number on him again. Hernandez did his crybaby thing then allows as how he was at Carrillo 's the night Duncan's murder went down. Not only was he there," Lewis gloated, "he and Carrillo saw one of the twins get out of Duncan's car after parking it and drive off in another car. Looked like a gray Benzo, sedan model."
"That's the good news," Noah interjected. "Now tell her the bad news."
"Ain't no way he's gonna cop to it in court. He knows Mother Love'll kill him. He messes his pants just thinking about her."
"Well, at least we're on the right track," Frank said. "Keep looking for Carrillo. We need him. I'll check with Fubar, see about some witness protection for Hernandez. Might be more inclined to turn if we can get the Mother off his back."
"I doubt it," Noah said. "He's a punk ass. And besides? Which twin are you gonna pin? Lewis say's they're identical."
Noah's pessimism was his way of venting. Frank knew there wasn't a lead he'd pass up, no matter how improbable. She ignored him, letting Lewis add a few more details, until the phone rang in her office. Frank dashed for it.
"Homicide. Franco."
"Narcotics. Kennedy."
"S'up sport?"
"Got the info you requested. There's a boat load. Want to swing by on your way home?"
"That'd work. Until then, give me the gist of it."
"Gist of it is this lady's got some fat pockets and knows how to keep her ass out of a sling. Twenty-three charges, mostly all related to felony possession, and not one conviction. This Betty knows how to fly below the radar. And who to fly with."
Kennedy named a preeminent L.A. law firm, citing a cadre of attorneys the Mother retained there.
"Another curious thing is that a lot of her associates tend to have ugly accidents. Rico Dali, Honduran coke peddler, fell off a roof in 1983."
That was Joe Girardi's frigidaire.
"Jojo Johnson, he was evidently a player in the Rollin 40's and a turf rival. He apparently electrocuted himself in his bathtub. Billy Daniels hustled for the Mother in the early '90s. Somebody doused him with gas and set him on fire in his own bed."
"Whoa," Frank said, making furious notes. "Who handled that?"
Kennedy's papers whispered together.
"Newton," she answered, referring to the LAPD division just east of Figueroa. "But wait, there's more. You get all this for only nineteen ninety-nine, plus, we'll throw in free, extra, at no charge, a pair—you heard right—a pair of Panamanians also with their throats slit."
"A double?"
"That's right. But if you act now, we'll throw in a pimp and rising ghetto star burned to death inside his car."
"What year?"
"Looks like '88."
Gough's cold one.
"Impressive, huh?"
"Back to the Panamanians. Who caught that?"
"That would be . . ." Her papers rustled again. "County. In '89."
"You done good. I owe you a Cherry coke and fries."
"That's all? A coke and fries?"
"I don't even want to know what else you have in mind."
"Aw come on, now, I know you're putting the squeeze on Doc Law, and dang don't I know you're a one-woman gal. I was just thinking dinner and maybe some gin afterwards."
Frank recollected how previous gin games had ended in the bedroom. Darcy leaned into her office, holding up the note she'd left. She waved him in.
"All right. You're on. But let me get back to you. I gotta go."
Kennedy talked to air as Frank swung the receiver into its cradle.
"Have a seat," she told Darcy and closed the door.
"How'd you know about that kid in the dumpster?"
He shrugged.
"It was like the .44."
Resettling into her old chair, Frank said, "Just another picture in your head?"
"Kind of. This was more like a feeling that there was another kid, but that he was missing."
"A feeling?"
Darcy nodded without giving anything else up.
"What are we talking here? ESP, premonitions?"
"I can't bend spoons or make doors slam," he smiled, "but I guess you could call it that."
"What do you call it?"
"Just a utilized talent. I think everybody's capable of receiving extrasensory information, but most people don't develop the requisite awareness."
"And you have?"
"Obviously."
Frank sat back with her hands behind her head.
"What about all this voodoo shit? Do I even want to know?"
Darcy's smile widened.
"My ex-wife's a Mambo priestess."
"A Mambo priestess," Frank repeated. Darcy's complexity amazed her once again. "The only thing I know about mambos is the Perry Como song."
"When you grow up in Louisiana it's almost impossible to avoid learning something about the culture. History permeates your life as surely as mold. Then when you marry into it. . ."
Aware she was opening herself up to a dissertation, Frank asked, "So what would it mean if somebody hung a black cat on your porch, left a little sack under your door mat, and sprinkled some kind of dirt all around your house? All this while your two dogs were loose in the yard."
Darcy smoothed his moustache while Frank tried to imagine him with a Mambo priestess. He was good-looking, short but powerfully built, attractive if one liked the strong, silent type. Brown hair— defiantly past regulation limits—set off baby-blues that didn't miss much. As Darcy mulled the question, she admired his self-assurance. He radiated a quiet strength and Frank thought he'd be a good man in a crisis. Despite her earlier misgivings about his temper, she was increasingly glad he was on the team. When she'd asked him on his first day if he planned on punching her out like his last supervisor he'd thought it over, answering, "Only if you're as dumb an asshole as he was." Frank had checked a smile, deciding Darcy James the Third might fit in well at Figueroa. So far, so good.
"It would appear," he answered at last, "that someone was fucking with my head. First of all, the black cat, that's a powerful hoodoo symbol. The thing about a black cat is it's universally recognized as an ill omen. The term mojo originally meant a bone from a black cat. It's come to mean a hand, or gris-gris—small bags, traditionally made of red flannel, filled with whatever ingredients the conjurer deems necessary. Mojos are usually worn under the clothing for good luck, but as in this case, they can be filled with bad things and left somewhere near the victim to emit their properties."