night because they couldn't see. Nor did she know that they left the safety of their roosts only when badly frightened.
3
The Mother was restless. She'd snapped at the boys during dinner then gone to bed early. She paced, hating how edgy she felt. Now and then she separated the heavy red curtains, looking out into the L.A. night. Headlights streamed up and down Slauson Avenue. A helicopter whomp-whomped not too far off. The sky was the color of old blood, the same as it was every night. Nothing had changed.
But something had. Something no one else could see. The Mother knew it. She knew things before she saw them or heard them sometimes. She was like a bloodhound that could smell a man's scent in the room even though he wasn't there. Something had touched the Mother. She couldn't touch it back, but still she felt it upon her, as thick as warm fog.
She checked her view again, expecting to see lightning but there was only the smudgy maroon sky. She pulled her robe tighter.
Normally the sensuous slide of silk against skin delighted her. Tonight it felt only cold. Everything felt cold— the burgundy chenille spread, the antique velvet chairs, the king-size mahogany bed frame—all the rich textures she loved felt cheap and lifeless.
The Mother paced through her anxiety. It wasn't new. It always happened before a big vision. Sooner or later she would wake up on the floor or in a chair, not knowing how she got there. Concerned faces would be around her, waiting for reassurance. She didn't mind the visions. It was the waiting that vexed her. But the Gods would reveal the vision in time. In Their time. And only if she had prepared properly.
She scrutinized an altar near the window, making sure it was clean and well-tended. Red candles burned amid bowls of rice and honey. Bananas curved around sprays of red hibiscus flowers and black rooster feathers. A plate of fresh crabs and an open bottle of rum stood waiting.
The Mother dipped her hand into a jug of water. Sprinkling the shrine, she murmured an ancient invocation. Wetting her other hand, she washed them together. She crossed the room and pushed a chair the size of a throne from her desk. Opening a satin-lined drawer, she gathered a chain of cowry shells, a wooden mat, and a thick cigar. She pulled a box of matches from her pocket and lit the candles on the desk. One was white, the other red. The Mother opened the mat, sprinkled it with water, and then laid the cigar between the jug and the candles. She turned the lights off. The words of a language as old as the wind melded with the candle shadows dancing against the wall.
Now she was ready. Now They would surely come.
4
Lewis and Bobby Taylor were climbing the steps ahead of her. Frank slowed down to eavesdrop on their conversation. Bobby was explaining, 'If you do your job right, you won't be a nigger or a bitch. You'll just be a cop. Period. That's all they'll see you as. But if you don't pull your weight or back your brothers, then you'll be worse than a nigger. You'll be outside forever and nigger will be the
'I been earning it eight years,' Lewis complained. 'How many more times I gotta prove I'm down?'
'Every day,' was Bobby's reply. 'Every new partner, every new case.'
Frank followed quietly behind, pretending to scan one of the memos in her hand.
'Yeah, well they don't give
'I've been here a long time. These guys know who I am. I've been through hard times with them. And good times too. When you've been around a while and had enough beers with them, and backed them on enough busts, covered for them, then they'll trust you too. But right now, we don't know who you are. You're being tested, Lewis. So just do your best and forget the rest, understand?'
'Yeah, I understand,' Lewis blew out. 'It's just hard sometimes.'
Bobby answered, 'If you wants it easy, sistah, best be givin' up this po-leece bidness and getting' yo' black behind down to Sunday school, be teachin' lil' chilrens instet.'
It was the first time Frank had heard Lewis laugh. It was a good sound and Frank was grateful Bobby was taking the rookie under his wing. The Ninety-third Homicide Squad had taken some fire lately but it looked like they were going to come out all right.
When Frank had pinned a series of murders on Ike Zabbo, one of her own detectives, her accusations had unraveled the squad. Nook, the last of her good old boys, had quit in solidarity with his indicted colleague and the rest of her detectives furiously questioned Frank's loyalties. Then only a few days after she'd dropped that bomb, Zabbo was gunned down in a parking lot and the nine-three finished unraveling.
Even though it was well outside their jurisdiction, her detectives had clamored to work Zabbo's case alongside the big boys at South Bureau. Frank had forbidden it, adding fuel to their already incendiary acrimony. Even Noah had come down on her. He was the only one with balls enough to voice the squad's increasing frustration about her dispassionate stance regarding Ike's violent, and as yet, unsolved murder.
Frank had warned her crew with deadly sincerity that unless they felt like pursuing new careers they would forget about Ike Zabbo and leave the investigating to South Bureau. After that she'd stormed into her captain's office demanding four new hires. Not one, not two, not three, but four. She'd been under-staffed for years and was crippled without Ike or Nook. More importantly, she'd needed an infusion of new blood to stop the nine-three's hemorrhaging.
Foubarelle had produced, allowing her to bring Lewis on from Robbery and Darcy James in from another division. With Jill back from maternity leave and Foubarelle working on the fourth hire, Frank felt like she was finally heading a decent squad again. There were gaps, but overall the team was solid.
Lewis was raw and sensitive, but she'd proven her street ability as a uniform. Frank had been watching and waiting to bring her aboard. Lewis had the perseverance and curiosity that was vital to homicide. Her skills were still weak but that was to be expected. Frank had paired her with Noah because she'd learn a lot from him, if she was willing. So far they were still testing each other. Noah delighted in pushing her buttons but took equal time in teaching her the intricacies of interviewing the parents of a dead child or how to look at a crime scene before entering it. Lewis paid sharp attention to her partner, constantly alert for tips as well as gags.
Johnnie Briggs and Jill Simmons were working together. It was a problematic combination, but Frank couldn't afford to put Johnnie with someone new nor could she have him operating on his own. Johnnie was a loose cannon and he needed a seasoned partner who could rein him in, which Jill reluctantly did. For a while his drinking seemed to have tapered off; he was actually getting to the 6:00 AM briefings clean and on time. Since the business with Ike though, his sick calls had increased and when he did show up he was often bleary and shaky.
Jill handled her partner with a loose disdain, not really wanting to be back at work, and certainly not partnered with Johnnie Briggs. Her heart was home with her infant daughter but she did what was required. Frank suspected it was only a matter of time before Jill took the chair opposite Frank's desk to tell her she was quitting.
Bobby—quiet, plodding, and dependable as ever—was showing the new guy the ropes. Darcy James III barely topped five feet eight with his shoes on and Bobby loomed well over six feet. Bobby was slow and deliberate, where Darcy quickly and intuitively interpreted a situation. When pressed, Darcy was equally forthright with his opinions, while Bobby, after considerable deliberation, usually offered a more politic answer.
Then there was Taquito. Frank sighed quietly. Lou Diego had been doubly wounded, first by his partner's alleged treachery, then Frank's refusal to stand by one of her own men. He blamed her for Ike's death. He refused to talk about it and would leave the room whenever Zabbo's name was mentioned. In his own time, with his own logic, Diego was dealing with the reality of Ike's betrayal and the position he'd put the whole squad in. Frank didn't push him. He was a good cop and she didn't want to lose him, but she wondered if she already had. She accommodated his unspoken rage, hoping time and latitude would help him come around.
Even Foubarelle seemed to have calmed down. He was still an asshole, but after four years the captain was learning to stay out of Frank's way and let her do what she did best, which was produce stats for him. Bottom line, that was all Fubar wanted. He wasn't a people man, nor committed to an ideal. He just wanted to see how far his star could climb. Frank enjoyed high clearance rates for a different reason. Her motivation was unconscious, but every murder solved was a vindication of her past. Frank needed homicide as badly as the captain needed
