'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.'
Frank thanked the sergeant and returned upstairs. She ran into Foubarelle on the way.
'Frank! I was looking for you.'
'What's up?'
The captain sighed, deeply wounded. Holding up a two-page memo, he said, 'You want me to pull a unit when we're already understaffed to do survey on a banger's house? For a drive-by? What am I not seeing here?'
Fubar was a station queen; he worked inside, not on the street. She wanted to say that by the time she told Fubar all he wasn't seeing she'd be a week shy of retirement. He'd never been on the street in Figueroa and the little time he had spent on patrol had been at the Venice Division handing out public nuisance tickets.
'This guy's got a rap sheet longer than your arm, he's got three separate felony warrants on him, and he's the prime suspect in a murder case. He's an old timer with the 51st Street Playboys and he's been a bad boy for a long time. He's past three strikes now and if we can find him we have a good chance to keep him out of action until he's walking with a cane.'
Frank shrugged.
'You don't want to catch him, it's no skin off my nose.'
'Oh, don't give me that, Frank. Of course I want to catch him. We just don't have the resources to pull a car out of action.'
'Whatever. Just thought I'd ask. Look, I'm on my way to the coroner's office. Anything else?'
'What's going on there?'
'Autopsy on the drive-by of-the-week.'
'And why do you need to be there?'
Frank's eyes narrowed and dilated. She clamped her teeth together. Any of her men would have known to back off, but Foubarelle kept at her.
'It seems to me that your stats have taken a tumble and that you're spending almost as much time out there as a foot cop. Except for the one you closed last week —'
'— Two.'
'What?'
'We closed two last week.'
'Well, until those I hadn't seen a close-out or 60-day on my desk in weeks. What's going on, Frank?'
'You want to know?' she asked, nailing Fubar to the wall with twin steel-blue lasers. 'I'll tell you. I'm working over one hundred cases a year. We get so many homicides here we're thinking of making it a misdemeanor. That's what's going on. A new case almost every third day. And when those new cases come in we're supposed to drop everything and give them highest priority. Even you know our best chance of closure's within 48 hours. I'm supposed to have a squad of ten and I've got six. That's almost half-staff, John. My supervisor keeps telling me I'll get replacements. I haven't seen a new body in this room in four years.
'And in case you haven't been out there in a while, this isn't a beach strip. I've got witnesses who won't talk because they'll get killed if they do. I've got kids out there who've done so many drive-bys they could teach John Gotti new tricks. I've got CIs that are hope-to-die users and as soon as we turn them into good sources they OD on us. I've got projects we can't get into to question a suspect without half a SWAT team backing us.
'If I'm spending time on the street it's so I can help my men do the work they're supposed to be doing. You want me in my office every day? Fine. You get me some extra legs out there. The stats don't just walk up to the front door and wait to get picked up like a morning paper. Somebody's got to go out there and dig them up.'
Slightly shorter than his lieutenant, Foubarelle just stared silently up at her. Frank held the little man's gaze then shook her head disgustedly and started walking away. But she stopped and said, 'Why don't you do a ride along for a couple days, John. See where your man-hours are being spent. Come with me to the autopsy. You can start there.'
'I don't think that'll be necessary,' the captain demurred.
'No, really,' Frank insisted. 'I think it'll clear up a lot of misunderstandings. Why don't you come along?'
There are thousands of written rules and regulations within a police organization, but the most critical ones, the ones that make or break a cop, will never be found in any book or memorandum. The rules that cops create themselves are brutal and rigorous and can only be tested through trial by fire. During that trial, a cop has to display two criteria. The first is courage. Will he go into a burning building or make excuses? Will she back her partner or run for cover? Will he go down the alley with the mythic 250-lb man or look the other way and keep walking down the sidewalk? The second criterion is loyalty. Will she turn her partner in for knocking off a piece on the clock? Will he snitch about the free booze and cigarettes from the Handi-Mart? Will he or she balance on that thin line and cover for more serious things?
If she passes, she earns an invisible badge of respect. She'll have to work every day to keep it, but with it, she is allowed entry into the inner sanctum of police work. If she fails, every cop will know it. They might tolerate her, but they will never trust her or treat her as an equal. Respect cannot be legislated or mandated. It can only be earned. Frank made the offer to Foubarelle knowing full well that he'd refuse. He was afraid of the street and his loyalty was to the department, not his men. Frank waited for his answer, giving him plenty of time to make his rope long. Then he hung himself.
'I appreciate the offer, and it's a good idea, I just don't have the time now. Maybe later.'
Frank nodded gently, finding him not even worthy of scorn.
Frank had specifically asked Gail to perform Placa's autopsy but she'd been held up by the unexpected suicide of a sitcom star. The mood in Autopsy Room A was quiet as the new tech photographed Placa's clothed body. Frank and Bobby watched silently while Gail sharpened her knives. Frank doubted there was much the autopsy could tell them, still she wanted to see it all, no matter how routine or seemingly irrelevant it might be. They started the external exam by removing and bagging Placa's blood-encrusted clothing — baggy shorts, T-shirt, sports bra, men's boxers, the Dodger's cap. After photographing and x-raying the body, Gail noted all identifying features, including a homemade tat high inside her left thigh.
It had been crudely dabbed, probably with a sewing needle and pen ink, in the Old English style favored by Latino gangs. Frank and Bobby peered at it, and the big cop slowly read, 'La Re-i-na,' then whistled.
'What?' Frank asked.
'La Reina, man. I don't know if it's a coincidence or what, but that's what they call Ocho's girlfriend.'
Flicking a curious eyebrow, Frank crossed her paper-gowned arms across her chest. That certainly lent a new complexion to the homicide. Poking at an old scab, Gail asked what Placa meant.
'It's a tagger's graffiti,' Bobby answered. 'Which is usually the name of his gang and set, and something like 'we rule' or 'Number 1'. She started tagging when she was what, eight or nine?'
