"This doesn't go out of here," she said, opening the door. No sooner had she returned to her desk than Diego poked his head in.
"Quivo, Taquito?"
"Got a minute?"
"Sure."
He tilted his head and Frank followed. He and Ike had a suspect in one of their cases but couldn't get him into the box. Zabbo wanted to pull him in on a technicality, but Diego wanted to wait, let it ride until the suspect did something stupid. If they pulled him in now and he didn't tell them what they wanted, they'd have to let him go. Then he'd know he was wanted and could take a powder.
"This guy's rap sheet covers the floor, man. He'll fuck up any day now and then we've got him," Diego reasoned. He sat relaxed in his chair, the faint outline of a tattoo still visible under his left eye. He was an old cholo, a White Fence homeboy who'd turned his life around to play on the other side of the law. Nothing perturbed Diego, but his partner was a hothead. At 53, Ike was the second oldest member of the nine-three. The boys called him "Pinkie" because of his rings, and there was much speculation but no proof as to how Ike managed to live like a shot-caller on a detective's salary.
Waving a sticky maple donut in the air, he argued that their suspect knew he was hot and that they already ran the risk of losing him. Ike was confident if they brought him in on a minor that they could break him down in the box. Just as Frank was about to side with Diego her phone rang and she sprinted into her office. She was waiting for the coroner's office to call about Placa's cut.
"Homicide. Franco."
"No, no, no," the voice at the other line argued. "You worked hard to get where you are, Frank. You've got to answer the phone, Lieutenant Franco."
Frank recognized Joe Girardi's high-pitched voice.
"So they know exactly which office to send the bomb to, right?"
Joe chuckled and asked how it was going.
Frank's hand found her neck when she answered, "Not so bad. I've got one detective out on maternity, another that's retired, and one that should be in AA meetings. Other than that, things are good."
"Let's see. That redhead you hired would be the ML.
Gough's wearing out his lawn mower, and the drunk would be Ike or Johnnie. Or you."
Frank smiled into the phone.
"That'd be Johnnie."
"What are you doing about it?"
"I gotta talk to him. Tell him I'm worried about him, worried about his job performance."
"And he'll spit in your face. That's what I did when Dougherty called me on my shit. Let me know if there's anything I can help with. How's Fubar treating you?"
"He's getting kind of antsy. Stats were down last two months, closures were sixty-nine and fifty-two respectively."
Her old boss whistled, "That's low for you, my girl."
"Tell me. And the little man ain't happy."
"Tell him he better get you some more bodies — live ones, that is."
"Yeah, he keeps saying he's going to, but they never materialize."
“Things heating up yet?"
The body count at Figueroa always increased with the summer temperatures. People were outside more and their tempers started fraying in the unrelenting city heat. Trivialities quickly escalated into traumas, and by August it wasn't unusual to have daily homicides. Joe had escaped it all when he retired to the fishing in Minnesota. For a second Frank felt a pang of envy.
"Nah, still pretty quiet." She paused. "Remember Placa? Claudia Estrella's daughter?"
"Sure, sure. What did she do now?"
"Somebody smoked her the other night."
"Aw, geez. That's a goddamned shame."
The disappointment in Joe's voice made Frank uneasy and she worked the tightness just under her hairline.
"Yeah. Not only that, week before, her uncle and aunt and cousins got capped."
"You got a turf war going on?"
She told Joe how the Kings were muscling into Playboy territory, but that so far all the killing was strictly related to the Estrella clan. There was no broader indication of an all-out gang conflict. She mentioned the lead on Ruiz and how they'd spent the weekend trying to find him. When that topic ran out Joe casually asked, "Are you still going over to BSU?"
Frank squeezed harder.
"Yeah, once a week or so. It's going well. I'm glad I did it."
"Good. Good girl. It's a hard thing to do, believe me. I know. Christ, after that Palmisanto case? I thought I was going to swallow the magic bullet, I tell you."
Frank hadn't been working with Joe when he'd pulled his first serial killer case, but she'd heard about it dozens of times over dozens of beers. Joe was telling it again now, and Frank's mind wandered to the Delamore case last year. It had taken a huge emotional and physical toll on her and was part of the ugly spiral that had landed her in Clay's office.
Frank asked about the fishing and the cabin that Joe was building. He laughed, saying if the fishing kept up the way it was he'd never get the damn thing finished. He launched into a story about a pike and a mosquito and Frank had to smile. It was good to hear his voice. He had a knack for buzzing her out of the blue, usually when she was chewing on a particularly vexing problem. Joe had 'good bones'; his instincts were strong and he listened to them. He'd taught Frank how to trust hers and molded her into a first-rate homicide detective. With his retirement looming, he'd started grooming Frank to succeed him. He'd had to fight like hell for it, but his legacy was creating Figueroa's first female homicide lieutenant.
"Well, you know, we old retired folks get on the phone and forget that you kids still got work to do. I should let you get back to it."
"Good talking to you, Joe."
"Hell, I'd be more likely to finish that cabin tomorrow than get a phone call from you."
"Yeah, I know. Just get busy."
"Tell me about it. Well, listen. You know where I am."
"Yeah, I do, Joe. Appreciate it."
Frank replaced the phone and sat back, hands clasped behind her head. She allowed herself the brief luxury of missing Joe, then cut it off to avoid being buried in the emotional avalanche of people she missed.
There was nothing in the office urgently requiring her attention, so she grabbed her coat and decided to wake up Claudia. Fifteen minutes later, Alicia, Claudia's oldest granddaughter, opened at Frank's knock.
"Buela!" Alicia yelled for her grandmother. Looking Frank up and down she called, "It's the policia."
Frank waited until Claudia came to the door in a long T-shirt and sweater.
"Morning, Claudia," she chirped, holding up a bag of donuts. "Let's talk."
"I already tolt you ever'thin' I know," the woman argued sleepily.
"Aw, you know that's not true. Am I coming in or are you coming out?"
Claudia unlatched the steel screen. Frank followed her into the kitchen, watching her make coffee. Alicia asked for cereal and Frank asked, "Do you want a donut?"
Suddenly the girl was shy and hid behind Claudia. She stared curiously and Frank held the bag out to her, "Go on. Take one."
Alicia looked up at her grandmother.
"Vaya," she grunted and the girl grabbed one from the bag, then another, and scampered into the living room where the TV was already blaring.
"She's cute," Frank grinned. Claudia leaned back against the counter, eyeing Frank blankly.
"So tell me, how many funerals you been to lately?"
Claudia looked away.
"Let's see," Frank said. Starting with Claudia's oldest son, Chuey, Frank named the dead in order. She finished with, "And that leaves Carmen on Saturday. Then who? Tonio? Is he next in line? How old is he? Thirteen? Then does the little one get it? Is Alicia next?"