Street Rules
Baxter Claire
Chapter One
'Hey, Frank. It's ugly in there.'
Lieutenant L.A. Franco didn't like hearing that from a man who'd worked homicide twice as long as she had.
'How ugly?'
'Looks like six so far. Not counting the pit bull. All shot-gunned. Me and Bobby saw what it was and backed out-figured we'd better wait for you.'
Wiggling into a pair of latex gloves, Frank cast a cold eye over the excess of responding radio units. There were only three Figueroa cars. The rest were Sheriffs office, Compton PD, and Southeast Division. A Highway Patrol had responded, probably due to the proximity of the overpass. They were all out of their jurisdiction, lookie-loos just hanging out and catching up on gossip.
'Ambo?' she asked her detective. A loose Windsor knot hung below Dan Nukisona's open collar and his suit was wrinkled. No doubt the one he'd changed out of when he'd gotten home.
'Don't need one.'
Frank almost told Nook to straighten his tie, thought better of it. Looked like it was going to be a long night.
'We know who they are?'
'Looks like Julio Estrella, his family, and some guy.'
'And the dog,' Frank sighed.
'And the dog.'
She turned her attention to the unfamiliar house, one of the Craftsman bungalows typical of south-central Los Angeles. The police strobes were lighting it like a Christmas tree.
'I thought Julio lived on Gramercy.'
'He did. Used to anyway. Looks like they moved here not too long ago. There's boxes and stuff.'
She motioned for her detective to lead the way and they retraced his steps. A large uniformed woman stood at the door holding an entry log.
'You the RO?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'Heard you passed the detective's exam.'
'Yeah,' Lewis grinned.
Frank nodded, 'We'll get you into homicide yet.'
Lewis was a good cop and Frank was pleased she'd been the responding officer. She took in the pile of torn and empty cartons in the corner, stacking plastic chairs, some toys and a two-wheeled trike, garbage bags, a couple empties. It was cluttered but not disrupted. Nook opened the screen door with a 'here we go' glance and Frank followed.
The heavy, metallic tang of fresh blood weighted the enclosed air. Frank's first thought was how much she hated shotguns; they made such a fucking mess. She stood in the living room, noting the woman puddled up in the hallway, then the two children sprawled over each other on the couch. Frank knew Estrella's older son, but probably wouldn't have recognized the younger ones. One of the kids on the couch was missing the left side of his head and had fallen backward over the other kid. From the sticky long hair hanging over the edge of the couch, Frank assumed the second kid was a girl. The major organs plastered onto the couch and the blood soaked cushions assured Frank they were both dead. Accompanied by tinny laughter from the
Frank moved in that direction, careful not to step on the bloodied floor or brush against the spatter on the wall. She bent to look at the woman. It was Marta Estrella all right. Beyond her, just inside the kitchen, Julio's eldest lay on the floor. Leo Estrella was only about twelve years old and he looked very surprised. From the blood behind him, it looked like the shotgun load had knocked him into the wall.
Red footprints from a rubber-soled shoe decorated the linoleum. Frank zig-zagged around them, toward an older Hispanic man crumpled on his side by the kitchen table. He looked familiar but Frank couldn't place him.
'Do we know who he is?'
Nook shook his head. 'Bobby thought maybe he'd seen him around Gramercy, where they used to live.'
'Speaking of your partner, where is he?'
'Out puttin' some of those useless flatfoots to work. That transfer from Shootin' Newton — Hunt's his name — he's a lazy mother. He'd put a third generation welfare mom to shame. We get here — Munoz and Lewis are working it — and I ask him to talk to some people, you know, at least names and addresses, and he looks at his watch and says he's almost 10-7. Just came by to see what was going on.'
The man's wallet was just out of his rear pocket. Frank slipped on a glove and spread it open with her thumb and fore-finger. James Barracas. Hollywood address. She flipped through the plastic card holder, grunting, 'Check it out.'
Nook squinted over her shoulder at the ID card she pointed to.
'Well, I'll be dipped in shit. Retired LAPD.'
Frank replaced the wallet, noting the pit bull that had bled out near the back door. There was another beautiful footprint in the blood, a rubber-soled print, and she quickly glanced at the victim's feet. The men were in loafers and cowboy boots. The boy was barefoot. One break, Frank thought, fixing her attention on Julio Estrella. He was slumped in front of the open refrigerator, parts of him clinging to the milk and lard. It looked like he'd turned and caught his blast in the upper chest and throat. His head was tucked toward the floor as if he were embarrassed he'd been caught slipping. Frank squatted, peering up into his face.
She and Julio Estrella went back a long way. Dealing with strangers wasn't so bad, but knowing the people who'd been slaughtered suddenly made Frank feel too old and too tired for this kind of work. She glanced around. Bobby Taylor had stepped gingerly into the kitchen. She was amazed, as always, that a man so big could move so lightly. She'd have loved to have seen him play football. In the voice as incongruous as his agility, he offered softly, 'Kind of a drag, huh?'
'Kind of,' Frank agreed. She stood abruptly, focusing on work. 'You call SID?'
With a mess like this she couldn't imagine Bobby hadn't called in the Scientific Investigation Division, but Frank didn't like making assumptions.
'Yeah. Coroner, too.'
Frank instructed, 'Let's not mess with the techs. Get Lawless here, case this thing explodes into a shitstorm. Any muck trucks out there yet?'
News vans didn't cover south-central homicides with the zeal they did in more affluent neighborhoods. Frank was hoping the radio call to dispatch had been subtle enough to dull their curiosity.
'No, the vultures haven't got wind of the carrion yet.'
'Check the rest of the house?'
'Yeah, we walked through. Lewis and Munoz checked it out, too.'
Frank wanted to see for herself anyway. She found the phone in her pocket and called her supervisor, studying the kitchen table: a vase with plastic flowers, three cans of Tecate, an open bag of Doritos, an ashtray with butts, an envelope with an address scrawled on the back. While the phone rang in her ear, Frank said, 'Nook, you get the address? Cigarette brands?'
'Kool and Marlboro,' he grumbled, waving his notebook. 'Someplace on Lester. I didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday.'
'What was I thinking?' Frank muttered. All her detectives were top-notch. Supervising them at a scene basically meant handling the brass and admin details so her men were free to do what they did best. Buying them beers, scolding them when they needed it and praising them when they didn't was how she best managed her crew.
Picking her way to the bedrooms, Frank said, 'Hey, John. Frank. Thought you might want to know we caught a multiple.'
She gave her captain the body count, but withheld James Barracas' ID. Anything other than a straight-
