"Pretty sure. But if I change my mind, you'll be the first one to know."
"Promise?"
"Absolutely," Frank assured, walking Gail to the door.
"Thanks for dinner. It was wonderful. And I had a great time today."
"Me too. Maybe we can do it again."
"Really? Even the hegira?" Gail chuckled, and Frank thought, damn, that's the sexiest sound.
"See?" Frank pointed out. "There you go again."
"There I go what again?"
"Hegira. I've never heard anybody use that word in conversation."
Gail laughed and Frank made sure the doc drove away safely. For a long time she stayed under the red Pasadena sky, searching the darkness where Gail had turned the corner. When she finally went back into her house, she whispered as if trying to convince herself, "Pretty sure."
Chapter Twenty-two
Frank hated Mondays. Not because she was going back to work, but because meetings ate up the day; press meetings, the lieutenants meeting, community building meetings, district attorney meetings — meetings ad nauseum. She didn't catch Nook and Bobby until quitting time. Flapping the bus schedules in front of them, she asked what they thought.
"Busy girl," Nook said.
"Busy doing what?" Bobby said, taking the words straight out of Frank's mouth. She loved watching her detectives chew on a problem, and she sat back, letting them run with it. Slanging was their first thought too and they kicked it around, deciding it was a family thing. Their points were that Claudia, Gloria, and Chuey had all had possession with intent to distribute charges. They weren't rolling in dough but were obviously living better than they could on AFDC and food stamps. Claudia probably handled the business end and the kids had done the running. Claudia's offhand remarks about dealing here and there belied a sensitivity to the issue. It was likely there was someone else involved, someone bigger than Claudia who could put the screws to her, maybe even cap her family when necessary.
The cops felt like they were getting part of the picture but not the whole screen. Frank considered asking Nook's opinion on the shakedown theory, but kept quiet, still wanting to flesh it out more. It was a serious charge, and not one that Nook or anyone else in the department would take lightly.
When she asked if they thought Placa could have been hooking, Bobby stared at her deadpan. His partner snickered, "That girl had her hustle on, but not like that."
"I don't know," Frank said, stretching her arms over her head, "I think it might be worth nailing down."
"Yeah, well, Les and I've got a doctor's appointment at 3:30 . . ."
"I'll take care of it," Frank said. "It's a silly idea, but if I can find Lydia I'll run it by her. See if I can't pin her down some more about the dope."
"I'd go with you," Nook said, "but I've got an appointment too."
"Yeah, with your Lazy-boy."
"I'm not young like you two," he balked. "Time for the old dogs to move over and let you pups have a try."
Frank baited, "Don't tell me you're retiring, Nook."
He hissed at the "r" word, mumbling retirement was for losers. His old partner had retired in January and that was when Nook had put in for transfer. He was right. Homicide at Figueroa wasn't for old dogs. Frank usually worked at least a twelve-hour day. When they rolled on a fresh case, 24, 36, even 48-hour days weren't uncommon. The job was physically, emotionally, and intellectually demanding. Joe Girardi had called homicide the decathlon of police work, and Figueroa the Olympic arena.
After they left, Frank reveled in the silence that enabled her best work. She stopped for a moment when she heard footsteps shuffle and click in the squad room. Ike was the determined click and Diego was the Vibram-soled shuffle. Frank went out to tell Ike that McQueen wouldn't budge on her charges.
"Whatever. I did my part."
"That's all you can do you," Frank commiserated. It was hard enough finding the bad guys, but then when the district attorney's office let them go with a slap on the hand it felt like fighting a losing battle.
"How's it going?" she asked Diego.
"Okay," he answered, filling Frank in on their day. When he was done, she said to Ike, "Aren't you late for the track?"
"That's were I'm headed."
Every afternoon he could be found at Hollywood Park, putting money on the last races of the day.
"Damn, Pinkie, I don't know. Peep you, dipped like a bailer, got your bling on . . . those ponies must be ridin' bank to you."
Ike's mouth turned down. He was no Rhodes scholar but he hated street slang. All you had to do to send him into a fit was say "ebonies."
"Yeah," Diego grinned, slipping Frank some skin, "Gi' my dawg mad props. He be da illest one-time hoedin' it down fo' da Nine-Tray."
"Assholes," Ike grumbled, straightening his tie. He was the only detective Frank knew who tightened his tie after work.
"Gang-stuh," Diego kidded, watching his partner preen. Frank unperched from the desk, saying goodnight. She was tired of being inside all day and figured she'd try to find Lydia or Tonio. Driving north from the station, she absorbed the surrounding graffiti and street action. The ratty section of Hoover Street that she was on was probably how most people envisioned south-central. Neglected houses pocked with bullet holes and defaced by taggers served as shooting galleries and rock houses. Empty windows yawned behind the black teeth of iron bars. Dirt yards fronting the street were strewn with garbage, rusted engine parts and busted furniture. Banana trees and bougainvillea struggled in the impacted soil, creating the look of an impoverished banana republic plunked down in the middle of one of the wealthiest cities in the world.
The Estrella's street was neater and cleaner. Frank noticed their tired Buick wasn't in the driveway and was pleased when Tonio opened the door.
"Hey. Quivo!”
"My mom's not here," he answered through the steel mesh.
"That's okay," Frank answered easily, "How 'bout your sister?"
"She ain't here either."
Frank asked where they were. Tonio said he didn't know, they'd been gone when he got home."
"Where you been today?"
"You know. School."
"This the one day a week you go?"
"Huh?"
"Nothin'," Frank grinned, picking up the stink of stale malt liquor. "You look like you been hangin' out. Smokin' some Phillies, crackin' some Eights."
"I wun doin' that."
"Hey. I ain't your PO. I don't care if you're flying all day long. Looks like I woke you up."
"Yeah."
"What you so tired from?"
Tonio pitched a thin shoulder. A crude Virgin of Guadalupe was tattooed on his bicep. On his left arm he wore the same gang insignia his sisters had, and on the right he had KV2. He was wearing boxer shorts and a dingy tank-T. Frank noticed a faint blue mist on the shirt. She glanced at his index fingers, finding more of the tell-tale blue, the King's favorite color.
"Been out strikin'?"
He flicked his shoulder again.
"You do that one at the PikRite? It's pretty good."
"Nah, that was Tiny. He's way better'n me."
"I don't know. There's some pretty nice tags out there for your sister. I know you done some of 'em. You do that one on Denker? That big one? It's pretty good."
The boy sheepishly scratched his belly, confiding that Placa had done most of the mural.
"You should be in art school or something, I mean, I can't even sketch a crime scene. Where'd you learn to do that?"
"Don't know," he answered, bashful all of a sudden.
"Placa teach you how to make those curvy letters?"
"Yeah, she taught me some."
"She was pretty good, huh?"
He agreed and Frank said, "Tell me, how you get them so high? You carry a ladder around or something?"