steaks on the grill, maybe rent a movie . . . you know, a planned event.'
'Oh, my. Are you sure you're ready for such a big commitment?'
'Pretty sure,' Frank replied. 'I've got to go into town. Get some work done. How's six-thirty sound?'
'Divine. What can I bring?'
'Nothing. I got you covered.'
A couple hours later, after a quick, hard run on the treadmill, then a shower, Frank started the coals for the barbeque. She didn't have to rush though, because Gail was late. Half an hour later, she added more charcoal and lowered the temperature on the potatoes in the oven. Compulsive about being on time, it tweaked Frank that the rest of the world thought six-thirty meant seven or seven-thirty. But when Gail finally arrived, her color high from the morning sun and her eyes still holding all the warmth of the day, Frank forgot her irritation. Pouring her a glass of wine, they moved out to the patio and listened to the steaks sizzle.
'I was taking my boots off after I got home,' Gail was saying, 'and it dawned on me that Luis Estrella's shoes still had blood in the grooves. A lot. Don't you think that most of it would have caked off after he'd been walking around in the chaparral for a while?'
'You'd think,' Frank nodded. 'So either he wasn't walking or he wasn't wearing those shoes.'
'Well he had to have been wearing some shoes. There was no evidence that he was barefoot. But maybe he wasn't walking in them for very long.'
Frank clacked the barbecue tongs open and shut.
'Yeah,' Frank mused. 'Maybe the latter. I went into the canyon where they found him and had a look around. He had to have gone through some relatively thick brush to get down there. I was walking around in broad daylight, straight, and I still snagged my clothes and got scratched up. I can't imagine how he got down there in the dark, and half OD'd, without any more scratches and rips than he had. It's almost like someone carried him in. And what was he doing up there in the first place?' she mused, warming to the intrigue.
'Who knows? Maybe he was on the run. Maybe he wanted to go someplace where he could be alone, think about what he'd done.'
'I can't imagine a junkie being that reflective. And I can't see him heading for the hills if he was scared. He wasn't a nature boy. He was a city kid, like me. He wouldn't run into the boonies for comfort. He'd go underground. Either in south-central or some other city where he could blend in, and not be too far from skag. He only had a couple hits on him. It doesn't make sense that he was up there unless someone
'Then how'd he get all that blood in his shoes unless he was there when his family was being killed?'
'Maybe he was a witness. Maybe whoever did it needed something from him and couldn't kill him right away. Maybe it was a buy that went sideways. I don't know,' Frank admitted.
'Maybe we'll know more when we get the rest of the lab work back.'
'Hope so,' Frank said. 'This is a goddamn who-done-it, and no matter how bad the boys want to clear six names, I still don't think it's Luis.'
'It's that rogue cop,' Gail winked.
'I'm starting to think you're right, Detective Lawless. Let's eat.'
Frank had cleared the dining room table of all its junk. They ate on linens and china arranged around the flowers Frank still brought home every Friday night. After the steaks, they lingered over tiramisu and coffee. Frank poured grappa, but after Gail's first sip she made a face and pushed the glass away.
'Yuk. It tastes like kerosene.'
Frank smiled.
'Let me run some ideas by you. See what you think.'
She started by explaining that buses were often the primary transportation for south-central residents, so she hadn't thought much of it when she'd pulled the bus schedules out of Placa's backpack. Then she'd been thinking about them on her way into the office that afternoon. Placa had been riding these buses all her life; where would she be going that she didn't already know routes and times?
When she'd gotten to Figueroa, Frank had pulled the four schedules out of Placa's pack again. They were worn and greasy from use. She unfolded one to see dates, times, and circled stops, in red pen, blue pen, black ink, pencil. One in green crayon. She opened the other schedules. Same thing. Frank felt like she'd found treasure maps and the first thing she'd done was make copies of them.
Drugs immediately sprang to mind; Placa must have been serving all over LA. Why else would she have been in Westwood, Brentwood, Bel Aire? Even Pasadena. All nice places, places where there was money. And maybe some cop was pimping her, finding the clients and sending Placa off to them.
Then Frank remembered Placa'd had sex with a man only hours before she died. Maybe some cop was literally pimping her. Maybe that was why she'd come home — to change clothes from a trick. That might explain why she wasn't strapped and why she didn't tell anyone where she was going that day. Placa was smart enough to pull it off, ambitious enough too. She wanted to go to college. Maybe this was her tuition. But they hadn't found any clothes that would support the theory. Frank couldn't see Placa tricking, and certainly not for chump change. She'd make them pay and Frank doubted there was a big market for men aroused by girls in shapeless T-shirts and baggies.
Gail had been listening carefully, but now she interrupted.
'Well, I'm not a detective, but
Bending a finger for each point, Gail said, 'She appeared to be reproductively able, but she wasn't using an obvious form of birth control. There was no abortion scarring, no sign of STDs. No apparent vaginal or anal traumas. Unless she just started turning tricks yesterday, I'd expect to see some evidence that she was promiscuous, and there is none.'
The doc was right. Given the age of the bus schedules, Placa had been at this for quite a while.
'All right, so here's another idea. Let's say she was pimping Ocho's girl.'
'That's disgusting,' Gail shuddered, and Frank was thrown off track, charmed once again by the ME's naivete.
'Happens all the time,' Frank continued. 'Women don't have a lot of options, or protection in the 'hood. Drugs, religion, children, death. That's about it. And Placa was too smart for any of that. So let's say she wouldn't hook herself, but how about she gets Lydia on her side? Like I said, not a lot of options in the 'hood. Placa was a ghetto star, maybe burning brighter than Ruiz, I don't know. Gang girls try and hook their wagons to whichever star's rising. They don't want to crash and burn when their men do.'
Trying to hide a yawn, Gail said, 'You're saying Lydia hitched her wagon to Placa's star? Don't you think that's a little implausible?'
'Not really. Placa was a charmer when she wanted to be. And smart. Throw in a hope-to-die OG and I can see her getting a huge kick out of pimping her rival's girlfriend. I can see her laughing now.'
'What would be in it for Lydia?'
'Protection, money, maybe affection. I don't think Placa would have tattooed Lydia's name under her twat unless she cared about her.'
Gail grimaced at the rough noun and Frank said, 'Sorry.'
'Why would Placa have sperm on her if Lydia was the hooker?'
'Good point,' Frank said swirling the clear brandy. None of this speculation tied in to the shooter being a cop, but Frank played with the ideas anyway. It was mental gamesmanship and Frank enjoyed toying with even the weakest of leads; playing with ideas either strengthened or eliminated them. Despite the obvious weaknesses, she didn't want to overlook any possibilities. She'd already done that when she'd assumed Ruiz was the shooter and that had put the case back to square one. And while the idea of a cop's involvement was intriguing, it was also disturbing. There'd be hell itself to pay if a cop was the shooter. Before committing herself to that disquieting tack, Frank wanted to make damn sure she'd exhausted every other option, no matter how ridiculous it might seem.
'Maybe Placa wasn't above cutting off a slice now and then.'
'Do you ever hear yourself?' Gail asked in amazement.
'What?'
'The way you talk. You sound like some of those wife-beaters.'
