would be my guess. They’re the closest Blood set to this ’hood. And they’ve been known to put in some work around here.”
“Jesus,” I muttered.
“What’s up?
“Fuqua was a Back Hood Blood.”
“So?”
“That’s pretty fucking strange.”
“What’s strange about it?”
“My last two cases, I been running into a lot of Back Hoods.”
“That’s not so strange. Every year, there’re a few dozen Back Hood hits down here. So if you’re catching cases, you’re going to run into Back Hood suspects.”
As I drove back to the Southeast station, I said, “So now that we know it was a Blood-and probably a Back Hood-any ideas who it is?”
Pinson laughed. “That’s a popular fucking tat. Might take me a few days to track the clown down.” He checked his watch. “Gotta be at Jordan Downs in an hour. We’re working a task force at the projects. It’s going to go late and into tomorrow. My weekend’s shot. But I might be able to put in some time Monday or Tuesday, before my shift starts.”
The case had been stalled for a year. I finally felt like I had gained some traction. I didn’t want to wait.
CHAPTER 35
I grabbed a Styrofoam cup in the watch commander’s office, poured a cup of coffee, and found an empty desk in the corner of the Southeast squad room. I was still stunned by the discovery that the shooter What A Nose IDed was probably in the same gang as Fuqua. But I couldn’t get a handle on why that was significant. Wegland had set up Fuqua, who was a Back Hood. And Latisha had probably been killed by a Back Hood. But what did that mean? I had no idea.
I sat up and logged on to the computer. Maybe Pinson was right. If you dig into homicides with South Central connections, there’s a decent chance Back Hood Bloods will be involved.
I set my cup on the desk, and signed onto Cal-Gangs. When I worked South Bureau Homicide, I discovered that the best source of information often was the members’ girlfriends. Detectives had the most leverage over them because they had the most to lose-their children. So I searched for associates of the Back Hoods. I jotted down the addresses of a half dozen girlfriends-they could be ex-girlfriends by now-and pulled out of the station in the early afternoon. I headed north on Broadway, east on Slauson, hung a few quick lefts, drove down a scruffy street pocked with potholes, and pulled up in front of a dingy gray clapboard house. Iron bars covered the windows, and instead of a front lawn there was an oily patch of dirt with an old Chevy truck in the center, its front wheels missing. I walked around the property, but could see no toys, tricycles, balls, or any other evidence of children.
I returned to my car and drove east to Watts, where the streets grew narrower, the houses more decrepit, the apartments more rundown, the commercial thoroughfares more depressed. I passed a few low-slung crumbling housing projects, and cut down a bleak, barren street-without a single lawn, tree, or bush-lined with two-story, rickety apartment buildings. I stopped in front of one with a large canvas We Take Section 8 banner tacked just below the buckled roof. Fortunately, the iron security doors were open, and I walked into the chipped asphalt courtyard. In front of apartment B there was a miniature rubber football and an empty Pampers box.
I pounded on the door with the heel of my hand. Pausing, I heard rustling inside. I pounded a few more times, until I heard a faint voice: “Who is it?”
“LAPD! Open up! Now!”
A chubby black woman wearing a stained Lakers T-shirt and panties slowly opened the door. Her large brass hoop earrings were turning green along the edges. I badged her and pushed my way inside. The room was spare with just a few metal folding chairs, a splintered wooden breakfast room table, and a half dozen broken toys. Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink and pizza boxes littered the counter.
She stared at me sullenly. “What you want?”
I pointed to a chair and said, “Sit down.”
I looked inside the single bedroom. Two young children were sleeping on a bare mattress on the floor next to another mattress covered with a tangle of mismatched blankets. I walked around the living room, opened the drawers to a metal cabinet, and riffled through the papers and boxes. In the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator and the freezer. Beside the stove, caked with food stains, I crouched, opened a cabinet, pulled out a metal pot, and opened the top. I removed a crushed Dr. Pepper can with holes poked in the charred top that was dusted with a film of ashes.
I set the can on the kitchen counter. “This could be a real problem for you.”
“That ain’t mine,” she said, shaking her head and waving her hand. “I never seen it before.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“One of my silly ass girlfriends probably came in here while I was sleepin’ and fired up.”
I stared at her skeptically.
“I’m not lyin,” she said, defiant now.
I dragged one of the metal chairs across the stained carpeting and sat across from the woman. I crossed my legs and jiggled my foot.
The woman sighed. “All right now. What you want?”
“I don’t have time to screw around, so I’m going to get right to it.” I pointed to the makeshift pipe. “If that tests positive for cocaine, you know that I can call Child Protective Services and they’ll take your kids.”
Her shoulders sagged and her chin dropped to her chest. “I can’t believe this shit.”
“Believe it.”
“Why you mess wit me?”
“Because I need information.”
“Why you think I got information.”
“You may not have it, but you’re going to get it.”
“How can I get something I don’t know about when-”
I raised a forefinger and the woman stopped in mid-sentence. “Listen to me. I need you to find out something for me. And I need it by tonight.”
“But-”
I raised my finger again, silencing the woman. “Just listen. There’s a Back Hood Blood who’s got a tattoo on his right arm with a C and a K with the C crossed out. I need you to identify him for me.”
“Might be a few with that kind of tat.”
“I’ve got one other way for you to pick him out. He held up a Korean grocer last year and killed him.”
“Hold on now.” She raised her hands above her head and shook them, like she was in the grip of divine inspiration. “This getting too heavy for me.”
“Smoking crack with your kids in the house is too heavy for me. Now this is what I want you to do. Get on the phone this afternoon, or visit some friends, or do whatever you need to do. But by seven, I’m coming back here and I expect you to have the information for me. If you do and if your information’s solid, I’ll give you two hundred bucks. If you don’t have anything for me, or if your information doesn’t pan out, or if you’re bullshitting me, I’ll call a social worker I know and he’ll toss your kids in a county shelter.”
“Why you think I know anything about those Bloods?”
“Because a Back Hood Blood by the name of Curtis Pemberton listed your address several times on his arrest reports.”
“I ain’t seen that fool in a year.”
“I want that information.” I checked my watch. “You’ve got plenty of time to get it. Any questions?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Why only two hundred?”
“Because that’s the maximum I can get from the ATM machine. Any other questions?”
She started to sniffle. Her lower lip trembled and her eyes welled up with tears. “Why you do me like this?
