"Hey sport. You get the stuff I sent you about Custard Pie?"
"Yeah, thanks."
They chatted for a minute, Frank fending off the anticipatory jabs, like Kennedy accusing Frank of calling because she missed her.
"Horribly," Frank answered, "but as long as I'm here, I was wondering if you could do me a favor."
Kennedy said something obscene and as steeled as she was, Frank was glad Kennedy wasn't there to see her face flush. Sex with Kennedy had been exhilarating and Frank wished for a moment she could accept the young woman's indecent proposal.
" 'Fraid nothing that exciting," she said levelly. "But while you're still on the desk, check out this family for me."
Frank gave Kennedy all the Estrella's names, asking her to dig up whatever she could on them. When Ike strolled into her office it gave Frank an excuse to hang up before Kennedy could launch into her customary harangue.
"Wus up, Pink?"
Running a bejeweled hand down his silk tie, he bared perfect white teeth.
"Hittin' them Estrella's hard, huh?"
"Tryin' to."
"You getting anywhere?"
Frank rocked a flat hand back and forth.
"What can I do for you?"
The dapper detective seemed to chase his thoughts around, then said, "Anthony Richards. Queenie's offering to drop him from 2nd-degree to vehicular manslaughter if he pleads guilty. And drop the kidnapping because he never intended to take the kid."
Frank thought over laced fingers. Richards had jacked a car parked in front of an AM/PM. The owner of the car had run in to buy a soda and a pack of cigarettes, leaving the car running with his 4-year old son in the car seat. Richards had shoved the boy out, but the car seat got tangled in the seat belt and never detached from the vehicle. He drove up the One-Ten at over 80 miles an hour before being stopped just south of the Coliseum. The kid was still strapped into the remains of the car seat. The DA didn't want him getting off on technicalities so she was lightening the charges to get him at all.
"I'll call her," Frank said.
"His arraignment's tomorrow," Ike warned. He was resplendent in a tailored three-piece navy pinstripe, diamonds winking, and mustache perfectly groomed to department standards. Even though he bristled each time, it was impossible for the guys to resist calling him "Gangsta".
Frank reached for the phone and it rang just as she touched it.
"Homicide. Franco."
"Hi. It's Gail."
"Hey." Frank was pleased, but didn't show it. "Hold on."
She lowered the mouthpiece.
"Anything else?"
"No. Don't forget, though."
"I won't," she promised, waiting until he left before asking into the phone, "What's up?"
"Bad time to call?"
"Not at all."
"I just wanted to let you know I got Placa's tox results."
"Anything stand out?"
"Not really. At least not to me. Alcohol, lots of antacid residue, cannibinol. The usual stuff. Anyway, I've got to go. I just wanted to let you know it's here. I'll leave it with Rhondie."
"Good. I'll stop and get it on my way home."
Placa's toxicology report was incentive enough for Frank to leave the office at a reasonable time and at the Coroner's office she took the stairs two at a time.
"Hey, Rhondie," she greeted Gail's secretary. "The boss around?"
The older woman nodded toward the doc's office, saying, "I think she's busy."
"I won't bug her then. Just tell her I said thanks."
"I'll buzz her if you like, and let her know you're here."
"I don't want to interrupt."
"Hold on."
Rhondie called the doc who said on her speaker phone to send Frank in. She was bent over a computer on a wheeled stand, surrounded by a flurry of sketches and diagrams.
"Hi," Gail grinned, "Check this out."
She demonstrated a vividly animated reconstruction of a stabbing, showing exact placement of the wounds and points of entry.
"Pretty cool, huh?"
"That come with an R rating?"
"It should. Did you get your report?"
"Yeah. Thanks. Hey look, I really appreciate you getting these to me so quickly."
"Pays to know the Chief Coroner, doesn't it?"
"In spades. And I was wondering if the Chief Coroner would let me buy her dinner. The lowly homicide cop's humble way of saying thank you."
Gail glanced at the thin watch on her wrist and Frank admonished, "When are you going to get some vinyl gloves?"
"I'm hopeless," Gail shrugged. "But I'd love dinner."
Chapter Twenty-One
Across the street from the USC complex, the Marengo Grill was a modern clash of dark wood and mirrors, soulless, but functional. The waiter tried to seat them at a table in the center of the room, but Frank was uneasy with her back to the entrance. She told the waiter she wanted the empty bench seat in the corner and he obliged, efficiently taking their drink orders.
"I took your suggestion to heart," Frank said, settling a napkin onto her lap.
"Which suggestion is that?" Gail asked, doing the same thing.
"Considering that a cop might be involved in the Estrella business."
"Really?" Gail asked, surprised.
"I don't have any better leads right now," Frank allowed, "and some of the things you said made sense. I don't have a suspect but it's an interesting idea to toy with. It would explain a couple lose ends that have been bugging me."
"Like what?"
"Odds and ends."
She explained what she'd already told Bobby, adding, "There wasn't one spent shotgun shell at the Estrella's. Whoever did them picked up after himself. Or herself. I should be impartial 'til I have a fact. Anyway, you saw Luis Estrella's room. It was a pigsty."
As a junkie's habit worsened, so did his personal hygiene, and from the looks and smell of the garage room, Luis had been pretty heavily into his addiction. Frank went on to explain the incongruity of an oil-burner like Luis meticulously shooting six people and carefully picking up each ejected shell.
"Yeah," Gail agreed. "Especially after just having killed his family."
"And the dog," Frank added, the line having become the black joke tagged on to any mention of the Estrella body count.
"And we know Placa took five rounds, but only one casing was recovered from the scene."
"Maybe she was being shot at from inside the car."
"Not likely. It doesn't make physical sense to fire a handgun inside a car. If the shooter was in the vehicle, in all probability he had his hand out the window. So where are the other four jackets? Item: only one out of eleven cartridges was found. Item: all the Estrella's were killed with one, well-placed shot. The shooter wasn't firing in a panic or a frenzy. He was coolly, deliberately aiming for maximum effect. He was doing a premeditated job."
"The same for Placa," Gail added and Frank nodded.
"Let's say it was the same shooter. He got three of the five shots in the ten spot. That's damn good placement for a moving target. Whoever shot her's either extremely lucky or has had some serious practice with a handgun. Plus another item: the shot to the back of her head? One hundred percent fatal — you're random shooter doesn't know that. These idiots spray bullets everywhere and half of them glance off the skull bone. This guy, or gal, but I don't think so, went out of his way to place that shot. It was worth it to him to risk the extra time it took to make that shot. Why would somebody be that afraid of her? Was it somebody with a lot to lose? A reputation, a career, a family?"
Frank was drinking beer tonight and she traced a bead of condensation down the side of her Guinness bottle.
"Who knows. Anyway, this is absolutely just between you and me."