It was after three by the time they returned to the station. Bobby processed their suspect while Frank went upstairs to generate the avalanche of reports and forms on him. This wasn't her job as a Lieutenant, but they were so short-handed that she pitched in whenever she could. Besides, what would take her a couple hours would take the finical Detective Taylor a couple of days. Ike and Noah were still there, typing and talking on the phone. Noah grinned and flapped a big hand at her. Ike just glanced at her. She hung her linen jacket behind the door, glad there were no more meetings today.
The phone rang and she picked it up. It was Fubar whining about her write-up for the monthly newsletter. Assuring him it would be on his desk tomorrow morning, she absently poked through one of Placa's cartons. Nook had sent the clothing off to the lab. There was white powder in most of her pockets and they wanted an analysis, even though it was probably just antacid residue. Placa had stubs of Turns rolls everywhere — her pockets, drawers, backpack. That was a lot of bellyaches and Frank had been meaning to ask Claudia if Placa had an ulcer.
Foubarelle ranted about sundry things, and Frank answered in monosyllables as she went through the backpack. Two notebooks, school papers, a math and history text. A Dallas Cowboys cap. She fished out Tampax, half a pack of generic cigarettes, crumpled napkins and match books, a handful of bus schedules and tokens, six open Turns rolls.
Frank had to offer the captain more assurances before he'd let her go, then she pawed through the litter in the bottom of the pack. Discarded wrappers, crumbled tablets and loose tobacco concealed an assortment of hollow-point bullets and an envelope of razor blades. A zippered flap held an ugly switchblade.
Frank shook the pack onto a section of newspaper without finding anything else. She wet her finger and tasted the powdery residue coating everything. Sweet. Turns. Flipping through one of Placa's notebooks, she placed a call.
'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.
