Frank let that work while the old coffee machine burbled and wheezed.
"Claudia. You've spent the last week burying most of your family, including your daughter. I know you're a good mother. You've done all you can do, given your circumstances. Maybe you didn't make all the best choices, but you did pretty good. And you never had any help, did you? You've done it all alone. I know that's hard. My mother raised me alone. I know it's not easy. And I know you don't want to lose any more of your babies."
Frank paused. It didn't surprise her that a mother living in south-central wouldn't turn in the person who'd gunned down her daughter. She knew the high price of retaliation. And there was nothing Frank could do to prevent it. It was what made homicide at Figueroa so frustrating. Even when they knew damn well who'd done a hit on someone, and knew they had witnesses, they couldn't make the wits talk. Hardcore bangers were hope-to-die killers who thought nothing of wasting a witness if it would keep them out of Chino or San Quentin.
Frank pleaded, "I want to help you, Claudia. I don't want you to lose any more of your family. Christ, I've known you since you were Placa's age. In all that time, have I ever lied to you? Haven't I been carnal?"
Claudia nodded. Frank was encouraged she was at least listening.
"I've always been straight up with you, haven't I?"
Again Claudia nodded.
"Then be straight up with me now. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on here. All I need's a name. That's all you got to do. Drop me a name."
Frank could see the strain on Claudia. It was subtle, but it was there — the eyes narrowing by a fraction, the lips becoming a little more bloodless against each other, shoulders squaring just a tad. Frank gently stretched the breaking point.
"You want to tell me, but you don't. I understand. It's okay. It's okay to be afraid too. I know what you're up against."
Claudia's brown eyes flickered, becoming even more wary. Stepping into the woman's personal space, Frank stared down at her, but Claudia wouldn't raise her head.
"Who's the pendejo Gloria was talking about? Tell me, Claudia. Tell me," she begged gently.
"I don't know who it is," she mumbled, taking a nibble around her thumbnail.
Focusing on a black scuff mark on the linoleum floor, Frank said, "No te creo." They stood that way for minutes. Frank relinquished. The coffee was ready and she nodded at the pot.
"Can I have a cup of that?"
Claudia shrugged but made no move to pour. Frank got up and found the cups, pouring one for Claudia.
"You're standing here, putting up with my shit, and in a couple days you're gonna bury your baby daughter. You're a brave woman, Claudia. You're strong. I seen you raise five kids alone. I seen you give up the cargo, and that's hard, specially when it's still movin' in and outta this house."
Claudia stiffened. It was a slight motion, but something about dealing smack had touched a nerve.
"Digame," Frank said softly. "What about the dope, Claudia?"
"I told you," she answered tersely. "I don't know nothin'."
"And I told you I don't believe you."
They stalemated again, then Frank told a story about breaking up a fight Placa was in and how Placa'd been so full of fury and pride that she was ready to take Frank on after the cholos had been shooed along. Frank smiled at Claudia.
"She was your daughter, but a lot of us helped raise her.
She was a good girl. I'm not quittin' 'til I find out who did this."
Putting her cup down in the sink, Frank said, "I'll see you later."
Chapter Eleven
The sergeant took roll. He made a few jokes, took a couple, and then let Frank have the floor.
"Thanks, Sarge. Some of you've been here awhile and you knew Carmen Estrella. Street name was Placa. She was a King, big OG in the Fifty-second Street clique. She took five rounds from a .25 on Saturday, at South Wilton and Hyde Park, around 1715 hours. Wits tell us the shooter may have been parked in a sedan at the corner."
Frank held up a handful of flyers.
"This is our primary suspect. A lot of you probably know him. Name's Octavio Ruiz. Goes by Ocho. Drives a yellow '91 Thunderbird, lives at 50th and Broadway but he hasn't been home for a few days. If you see him, bring him in. Don't mention anything about this case. He's got outstanding GTA and weapons felonies you can use."
Frank walked around the cops as she spoke, handing each of them a flyer. One of them, Dimmler a young, muscle-bound blonde with a crew cut, fanned himself with the sheet asking, "Hey, Lieutenant. What's the big deal with this chick? I mean she's just another banger, right?"
Frank nodded, his words clattering around in her head. Just another banger. She understood the mentality. Cops had to establish and maintain distance from the public they served. It was ironic they pinned their shields over their hearts. To do what they had to do, cops had to develop emotional armor against the insanity and violence they encountered on an hourly, daily, weekly basis, month in, month out. They lived in a grim world where only the cops capable of emotional detachment survived. Frank did the same thing. Usually. This time it was personal and Dimmler's words stung.
He hadn't meant them to, just like the cop who'd stepped over her father's body hadn't meant to wound Frank when he'd complained, "Dumb fuck. My shift was almost up." For that cop, her father had been an obstacle to dinner and a hot shower. For Frank, her ten-year old world had just imploded. She never forgot that cop. Thirty years later, no matter what low-life scum bag was leaking into the street at her feet, she remembered that he might be the center of one person's universe. And though the vie was nothing to Frank, there was probably someone beyond the yellow tape Jonesing for an explanation about what happened to their boyfriend, husband, son, daddy. Frank had never gotten an answer. She didn't think about it, but that lack of resolution had impelled her into homicide, and kept her there, still gamely looking for answers. Even if they weren't hers.
"Just another banger," she agreed bloodlessly. "And Ruiz is just another felon that I'm trying to get off the street, Dimmler. Just doing my job. And the more felons we put away the sooner you can get back into the gym to work on those pretty pecs of yours."
Lewis wolf-whistled and someone threw a wadded paper. Dimmler blushed. Frank raised her voice above the catcalls, deliberately keeping it in a low register.
"Ruiz runs with the 51st Street Playboys. He has a tattoo of an octopus on his back that extends around to his chest. Got a big M tattooed under his collarbone. On his right shoulder he's got BPBOYS, under that, 51, and under that, an upside down exclamation point, R, and another exclamation point."
Hunt mumbled, "Gee. How will we know if it's him?"
"He's got a scar running up the right side of his neck, stands 5'11", weighs a buck eighty-five. If you spot him, approach with caution. Call me at my pager number, it's on the flyer or have desk notify me immediately. Questions?"
Sitting in back, Heisdaeck asked when was the last time anyone had seen Ruiz.
"Day of the shooting."
The old cop just shook his head and said, "Ain't gonna see him for a spell."
"Not if he's smart," Hunt added.
"He's a banger," Dimmler quipped. "How bright can he be?"
From the back of the room Munoz threw another piece of paper at Dimmler and laughed, "You got a lot to learn, Pretty-Boy."
The beefy blonde waved irritatedly at the missiles, growling, "Cut it out."