"SID's going to start it after lunch. I told Noah to call as soon they had anything."
Putting an ear to each wide shoulder, Bobby asked, "What do you want us to do?"
"Keep at him."
Chapter Nineteen
The squad room was dark except for a light from Frank's office. She'd spent two hours with Claudia and Gloria Estrella. Now she was updating her notes. When she was done with that she was going to compare them to Nook and Bobby's for discrepancies. Schubert tinkled from her ancient boom box and Frank paused to arch in her old wooden chair. The muscles in her shoulders complained and Frank promised herself a serious work-out when she got home.
As if she had no control over her own thoughts, they spun back to Placa and the weekend spent with Octavio Ruiz. The kid never did break. They told him two of his homes put him at a party in Eagle Rock. They'd taken blood and hair samples then kept him on his felony charges, hoping a tour in lockup might get his tongue moving.
Sunday night was spent with paperwork and then Monday morning Nook and Bobby hooked up with a senior officer from Northeast CRASH. Three Dog Town bangers tentatively put Ocho, Lydia, and half a dozen other Playboys at a party in Eagle Rock Saturday night. Northeast busted up the party after someone got shot. Apparently a Playboy shot a kid from Toonerville for drinking the last Corona. The Tooner was still in the hospital, but he was going to be okay. CRASH and Violent Crimes were still looking for the Playboy.
When Frank had confronted Lydia about the shooting, the girl pleaded ignorance, claiming she'd passed out in a lawn chair. They pulled Ruiz out of County and told him the same homes had ratted on him about the beer and the Dog Towner. Still Ruiz didn't open his mouth. By all accounts, Ruiz was getting bombed in Eagle Rock while Placa was trying to dodge bullets.
Frank fiddled with the plastic hula dancer that Noah had given her. Nothing about this case was going easily. It was after seven and here she was in the office, still banging her head against their lack of evidence when she should have been home banging on her Soloflex and getting some sleep.
Hearing unfamiliar footsteps through the music, she waited to see who they belonged to. She was surprised, and pleased, when Gail appeared in her doorway.
"Hey, doc. What are you doing here?"
"Just passing by. I thought I'd drop this off on my way home. The sergeant told me you were up here," she said offering an interdepartmental envelope.
Frank opened the flap, pulling out Luis Estrella's toxicology report.
"I knew you were anxious for the results. That mig and a half of morphine pretty much clinches the final report."
Frank scanned the bile results. Luis had a 1.7 milligram percentage of free morphine in his system, the by-product of a heroin overdose.
Draping a leg over the edge of Frank's desk, Gail asked, "How late are you going to work?"
"Don't know," Frank answered, reading that he'd also tested positive for significant quantities of Librium and ethanol.
"Have you had dinner?" Gail pressed. "Nope."
"Want to run by the Alibi, get a hamburger?" Frank looked up at the ME, taking in nice slacks and a blouse, dangling gold earrings and necklace. She postponed the answer by asking, "What are you all dressed for?"
"I was in meetings with Orange County Health all day."
"Must be tired."
"Not too tired for dinner." Frank veered off course. "So that's it? OD plain and simple."
"I'm afraid so. What else were you looking for?" Frank shrugged. She wanted something suspicious-looking. She was having a hard time buying that Luis' death was accidental. It was too convenient.
"How are the evidence reports coming along?"
"Slower. The spectrometer's backed up. I've got three microscopes down and Sartoris won't cut me any money for repairs. Bastard," she groused. "I'll let you know as soon as I get something."
Gail asked about dinner again.
"If I had any sense I'd go home and catch some Z's."
"Admit it," Gail teased, "you're not long on sense." Frank's lips reached for a smile, almost made it. "Maybe. Hey. Thanks for dropping this off. I appreciate it."
"You're welcome. I'm sorry it wasn't what you wanted. Well," Gail said rising, "if you're not going to take me up on dinner, I should let you get back to what you're doing."
The doc cocked her head, asking, "What are you listening to? It sounds familiar."
"Schubert, Trio in E flat. They used it in a movie called The Hunger. Did you ever see it?"
"Did I? Good God, I camped in the theatre for three weeks."
That produced a genuine smile from Frank and Gail tried one more time, "Are you sure you don't want to go out for a bite? I promise I won't keep you long."
Frank glanced at the cartons stacked next to her desk. They were full of Placa's schoolbooks, diaries, photo albums, clothing, the contents of her dresser drawers ... so much to go through and so little time. Taking advantage of Frank's hesitation, Gail coaxed, "You've got to eat sometime."
Frank took in the doc once more. She was pretty easy on the eyes tonight and Frank could use a nice view for a while. As if on cue, her stomach rumbled and Frank caved.
"What the hell. You're on."
Nancy waved at the women sliding into the booth. Gail was harping about Sartoris again, her administrative equivalent in the coroner's office.
"We just got a brand new mass spec so he thinks all of our equipment is state of the art. He accused the techs of mishandling the equipment and I said, 'Yeah, if processing test results 24 hours a day is mishandling, then yeah, we are.' God! He has no clue what goes on in the rest of that building. Crocetti used to have fits about him and now I see why."
They paused to order from Nancy and as she walked away, Gail said amiably, "She's cute."
"And available."
"Is she an ex?"
Frank smiled, "Nope. You won't find many of those in my closet."
"Pun intended?" Gail asked.
Frank smiled, mentally hurrying Nancy along with the drinks. She was beat and knew the scotch would give her a temporary lift.
"Did you have a quiet weekend?"
"Not really. Worked most of it."
"Don't tell me you're a workaholic," Gail cringed.
"It's possible," Frank admitted. "First step to recovery's acknowledging it, though, right?"
"Did you get called in?"
"Nope. Worked mostly on Placa's case. We found our primary suspect Saturday night and worked him in the box for twenty-four hours —"
"—God, no wonder you're tired."
Frank shook her head at the table, "Nook and Bobby did the hard part. But none of what we have is adding up, which makes me think I'm going to land back at Go with no money. There are things about this case that I can't square."
"Like what?"
"Like my best suspects have valid alibis. Like why is Placa's mother so antsy every time I bring up drugs? I know they know something, but they're not talking. And the graffiti around the 'hood — it's as good as a daily newspaper. Bobby and I checked it out today. There are a couple memorials up for Placa, her brother did a really beautiful one. He's got his sister's talent with a can. Anyway, the memorials show a lot of respect, but the curious thing is that none of them are striking out a rival gang — and that's standard procedure on a memorial. The curious thing is, we're seeing strikes with LAPD struck out. Two of them are fresh ones we're pretty sure her brother did, and they both say 187 LAPD."
Frank explained that tacking the California penal code for murder onto a rival's name was a common death threat.
"So the brother's mad at the police?"
"Yeah. Like we're responsible somehow for his sister's death."
"Maybe he's just mad that you're not doing anything about it."