by Baxter Clare
"It seems funny, is all, that girl. She's younger than I thought she'd be. And a fool, too."
That was just like his mama, be thinking everyone a fool. Well that bitch hadn't looked like no fool snooping around in the supply room. What else had she gotten into before he and Lucian caught up to her?
His mother broke her bread and leaned toward him. As if she knew what he was thinking, and often she did, she confided, "You see, son. That's what I was laughing about. This ain't about police business. It ain't about that at all. It's bigger than that."
Her grin iced his blood.
"That Loo-tenant? She don't even know what this be about. That's what's so funny."
Marcus didn't like the sound of that, wondering what world of trouble his mother was getting them into now. He turned his head from her to his empty plate. Like a ten-year-old, he asked to be excused.
11
The next night Frank held a double Scotch in the air while she worked her way through the melee of the Alibi. Snagging an empty chair, she twirled it next to Noah's and straddled it. She leaned into his ear, asking, "What's your wife doing tomorrow?"
"I don't know. Why? You gonna run away with her?"
"Nope. She's too smart to have me. Think she'd have time to go shopping with me?"
"Shopping?"
"Yeah, I gotta find something to wear to the opera."
"Opera?"
"Yeah. The opera."
"The opera?"
"What are you, a fucking parrot?"
"Give me a break," Noah laughed. "Since when are you a fucking opera buff?"
Noah kept saying the word like he was choking on it.
"Mag liked it. I got into it from listening to her play it all the time."
Noah's eyes slitted and he asked, "You goin' with the doc?"
"No fooling you, Detective Jantzen. So you think I could call her? See if she'd help me find something?"
"Sure. Markie's got practice at 2:30 and I think Les's is at 1:00, but we can work something out. Jesus," Noah said wonderingly. "You dressed for the opera. Will you take pictures for me?"
Frank ignored him and leaned across the table.
"You talk to any of Danny's homes?" she shouted at Lewis.
"Yeah," Lewis yelled back. "Echevarria and Hernandez."
Noah said, "Smokin' Joe Lewis, here, called 'em the most sorrowful excuse for men she'd ever seen. At first they're giving us the three monkey routine—see no evil, hear no evil—then I lay it on 'em that they're looking like our prime suspects. That they cut Danny Duncan out of the business to keep overhead down. Then they just caved. Started crying, blubbering in Spanish, snot runnin' all over. Man, they were just pitiful."
Noah gave Lewis the nod and she picked up the story.
"Yeah. Turns out they didn't want to be in business with Danny anymore, not because of the money but because of auntie. They're afraid of her. Especially now with Danny dead. They claim she's a witch and that she's been planting curses on them. The one dude, Hernandez, he found a black cat hanging from his porch one morning, then a few days later he steps on this little sack under the door mat. He said he paid his neighbor to throw it away for him."
"What was in it?"
"Damned if I know. He didn't even want to touch it. A week later someone had laid powder all around his house. He said it was dirt from a graveyard and that if the person it's meant for steps in it he'll the within the week."
"So's he still alive?" Frank scoffed.
"He didn't step in it. His wife saw it first, had a heart attack.
They're scared. That old Mother Love's got 'em pissing in their pants. They got two Rottweilers in the yard and can't figure out how someone's puttin' all this shit around without settin' the dogs off."
"Did you see any of this stuff?"
"Just some of the powder by the side of the house. Why?"
"Go back and get a couple clean samples from around the house."
"For what?" Noah asked incredulously.
"Just to have. Make sure chain of custody's clear on it."
"Oh, let me see. First it belonged to some dead guy in a cemetery, then MLJ dug it up at midnight, then she turned into a bat and sprinkled it around their house, then we got it. That's pretty clear."
Frank ignored the sarcasm.
"What else did these three stooges say? And did you get to Carrillo?"
"Carrillo's in Mexico, supposedly. Left the day before Danny went down. Evidently Echevarria—I'd say he was the bolder of the two, wouldn't you?" Noah asked Lewis.
"Yeah," she chorded, "he only went through one box of tissues."
"Evidently he went to Mother Love's after Danny ended up gutted in Carrillo's driveway. Told her they meant no disrespect and kissed her ass a couple times. They promised to be good boys and it's been quiet since then. No dead cats or graveyard dirt."
Frank asked, "So what do you think?"
Lewis looked to Noah and he was about to speak, but Frank said, "Lewis. It's your case."
She swiped an embarrassed glance around the table.
"We know from his sister, Echevarria, and Hernandez, that the vie was planning on going into business on his own. Not only would that be cutting into his aunt's profits, but it would be disrespecting her right on the street. She couldn't let that go down. It seems to me like Mother Love's our best suspect. There's nothing else pointing us another direction."
Frank raised an eyebrow at Noah.
"What she said," he answered.
"All right. Let's ride this pony. But carefully. That woman's kept her nose clean this long because she knows what she's doing. We've got to have a full arsenal before we hit her with anything."
Noah interrupted, "And even then she'll probably still slither out of the charges."
"Maybe, maybe not. If we give the DA enough material, they might be able to do their job."
"For once," Lewis grunted.
"This bad attitude I'm hearing? Mother's not psyching you out, is she?"
Lewis shook her head and Noah answered, "No, but you've gotta admit we don't exactly have a stellar conviction rate for her."
"Harvey Keitel's got a great line in Thelma and Louise" Frank said to her glass. 'Brains'll only get you so far and luck won't last forever.' Keep the faith. Sooner or later she's gotta fall. May as well be on this sword."
Frank grinned at Lewis, knowing right where to drop the bait.
"That'd be a helluva feather in your cap, huh?"
"Want us to run an interdiction on Carrillo?" the rookie asked.
"Can't hurt. I'll ask the doc when we can expect the post."
"Yeah, catch her in between arias," Noah cracked.
Frank punched his shoulder. Hard.
Next morning Tracey Jantzen flew across the mall into Frank's arms with the force and emotion of a SWAT team taking a rock house. Frank laughed as she wrapped her arms around Noah's wife.
"For Christ's sake," Tracey cried, "Where the hell have you been?"
Holding her at arm's length, Frank pleaded that work was the culprit.
"That's no excuse and you know it. I'm starting to think you don't love me anymore, now that I'm big and fat."
"Impossible. That day'll never come."
Tracey smiled up at her, saying, "I'm so glad to see you."
"Me too."
Linking an arm through Frank's, she commandeered her toward the Nordstrom entrance.
"Come on, girlfriend, we've got shopping to do! So the opera, huh? That's pretty hoity-toity."
"I don't want to get all glammed up, I just want to look... nice."
"Nice, huh? Like gold lame with a thigh-split and plunging neckline?"
"A little more modest."
"You know," Tracey teased, "I'm awfully jealous. I thought I was the only woman of your dreams."
"You are," Frank insisted, "but you're taken. What am I supposed to do?"
"You're right," Tracey agreed sensibly. "It's time for you to move on."
She paused
to feel a flimsy neon-pink blouse and Frank said, "I was thinking something a little more sedate."
"Not for you," Tracey chided, holding the blouse up, "for me."
Frank nodded approvingly, but Tracey put it back. She tucked her arm into Frank's, steering her through the store with practiced assurance.
"So tell me about you and this coroner. Noah says she's a babe. When do I get to meet her?"
"We should have dinner. Invite us over. I haven't seen the kids in months."
"Yeah, we'll do that, but what's she like? You've got to tell me all about her."
"Like what?" Frank stalled.
"Everything. You must be gaga for her if you're going to all this trouble."
"You gotta look nice for the opera. It's the Pavilion. Opening night."
Tracey planted herself in front of Frank, arms crossed, and one brow arched high.
"Everything? she demanded. "How am I supposed to dress you if I don't know what your objective is?"
"I'm not busting a Colombian cartel," Frank laughed. "I don't have an objective."
"Of course, you do," Tracey insisted. "But you probably don't even know it yet."
"Well, then why don't you tell me. You and No always seem to know what I'm doing before I do it."
"How serious are you two?"
"I haven't asked her father for permission to marry her, if that's what you mean."
"You're evading the question."
"You'd have made a helluva trial lawyer. Too late for a career change?"
Tracey glowered, tapping an impatient foot.
"We can stand here all day or you can answer a simple question."
"Maybe it's not so simple."
"For you, I'm sure it's not. Do you love her?"
"Jesus, Trace." Frank looked for the hole in the ground she could dive into. "It's only been a couple months. How am I supposed to know that?"
Tracey tapped a nail above Frank's left breast.
"This'll tell you."
Frank knew that was true. And she knew more than she could admit to. Some words were still just too hard.
"I like her a lot. Okay?"
"Now, see? That wasn't so bad. And does she like you?"
"Yeah, but I piss her off."
"No," Tracey mocked. "I can't imagine."
"What?"
"Honey, I love you, but I can't imagine being in love with you."
"Why not?" Frank asked, somewhat hurt.
"You can be as sweet as the day is long—I know that—but you come with a lot of baggage."
"I'm working on it."
"You still seeing that shrink?"
Tracey could get away with the question for two reasons—she was her best friend's wife, and she was a psych tech; Frank knew nothing was implied.
"Nope. But I'm ... I see things different now. It's okay. The stuff that bugs her, it's the stuff that would bug any civilian. You know how it is. The shit we see. Human and otherwise. Rubs off on us after a while. Gail was raised in Berkeley. Ultra PC. She's got a sensitivity that I lack." Frank paused. "She thinks I drink too much."
"You do."
"Think so?"
"I know so."
That wasn't the answer Frank expected.
"So when can we get this shopping over with?"
Tracey took Frank's arm again, pulling her deeper into the stylish racks of clothing.
"Like I said, you're a piece of work. But I love you. If she hurts you, I'll kill her."
"I don't think that'll be necessary," Frank assured, letting herself be towed along.
When the sun had purpled the skyline and the city lights winkled like so many diamonds and rubies and emeralds, Frank met Gail at the door.
The doc sucked in her breath.
"Ohmigod."
"Too much?" Frank grinned.
The doc shook her bob.
"You look stunning."
After some not very serious attempts to get Frank into gowns and lace, Tracey had judiciously selected a pair of black silk trousers and a matching silk shell held up with rhinestone spaghetti straps. Frank had wagged her head in disbelief, but the salesgirls had oohed and aahed, dashing off for rhinestone earrings and shoe clips. She'd accepted a black clutch with a rhinestone clasp, but drew the line at a pair of frighteningly high stilettos and a make-over.
She'd let Tracey drag her into the salon for a French twist and laughed when Tracey put her arms around her, purring, "If she doesn't want you after this, you just come runnin' back to mama, you hear, girlfriend?"
Frank thanked Gail, telling her, "You're lookin' pretty fly, yourself, Doc."
The ME wore a simple creme-colored turtleneck tank, but it clung seductively over Gail's ample hips and ended above her knees, leaving plenty of great leg showing. A few large pieces of gold jewelry dramatized the effect, as did some artfully applied make-up.
When Gail chuckled, "Am I dope?" something shook loose in Frank's gut and went flying up to her heart. Right where Tracey said it'd be.
"The dopest," she said sincerely. "You look wonderful."
"Do I look okay, really? You know . . . symmetrical?"
Frank took Gail by the waist, inspecting the soft rounds under her dress. The right breast was real, the left, a perfectly matched prosthesis.
"Can't tell which is which. They look the same. Both fine."
"Okay. I'm just checking. There's only so much I can tell from a mirror."
Frank reassured, "You look perfect. Every inch of you."
Stopping and starting their way downtown, Gail asked, "Did you send anyone to Camp Lockdown this week?"
"Camp Lockup," she corrected, then answered, "One," recalling Jill's bizarrely cleared shooting. "And Lewis got her first case. Guy with his throat slit. Sitting in his Caddy with a chicken in his lap."
"A chicken?"
"Yeah. Headless. Turns out the vic's aunt is Crystal Love-Jones. Ever heard of her?"
"Sounds like someone who advertises in the personal section."
"She's a crack dealer. Pushes tons a year. Keeps an assembly of lawyers on retainer. Narco's never been able to touch her. Anyway, it looks like the Colonel was bled dry. I'm wondering if he was dead or alive when it happened."
Gail frowned, "He was a Colonel?"
"That's what No's calling him. You know, the chicken? Colonel Sanders?"
"Ah, gotcha, that ineffable, indefatigable police humor. How'd Lewis do on her first solo?"
"All right. Made a couple mistakes but mostly 'cause No prodded her into them."
"Why are you all so hard on her?"
"Boot camp," Frank shrugged. "Everybody goes through it."
"Sounds like a frat house hazing," Gail argued. "Inane and senseless."
"Naw, there's a reason. If she can't take a little shit in the squad room she won't be able to take it on the street. I'd rather know now than when my back's against a wall. It's not a big deal."
"It's just so juvenile."
"We like to call it that ineffable, indefatigable po-leece humor. When do you think you'll get to the Colonel's post?"
"Oh, God, we're so backed up right now. Handley's sick. Jacob and I've been in court all week. And I should be at work tonight instead of going to the opera. A slit throat, obvious cause of death, we'll be lucky to get to it by Monday. I don't think I put your boy high on the rotation."
"No big," Frank said. "I was just wondering."
Trailing her fingers under Gail's dress, she added, "I don't think you can tell us much more than we already know."
"Better stop that or we'll miss the opening act," Gail murmured.
"That wouldn't be so bad."
"At these prices, yes it would."
During the opera, Frank studied Gail's rapt profile. She had to admit she was having a hell of a lot of fun with the doc. But she hadn't lied to Tracey; it was complicated. The doc was bright and generous and sexy, but living alone all her life had spoiled her. She held Frank up to standards she wasn't sure she could meet.
She slipped her hand into Gail's, rewarded by a bright, quick smile. Tracey's tapping finger echoed against her heart.
12
Monday afternoon Frank slouched into Ike's old chair and draped a long leg over the arm.
"What's the good news?" she asked.
Jill shook her head, so Johnnie answered for her.
"People are scared, man. They don't want to talk about Danny or any one connected with Mother Lo-ove-Jo-ones," he drew out. "Like the ground's gonna open up and swallow 'em or somethin'. They're all spooked, huh?"
He looked to Jill for corroboration but she only made a disgusted sound. She made a lot of those lately.
"What?" Frank encouraged.
"I don't like this," she blurted. "I don't like this case."
"Yeah, she's spooked, too," her partner teased. "Thinks she's gonna get a spell put on her or somethin'."
"Johnnie, shut up," Jill snapped.
"True?" Frank asked.
"I just don't like talking with any of these people. I don't like their vibes."
"What vibes?"
"Just creepy. Weird."
"Come on, you gettin' soft on me?"
"I'm not soft," the detective defended, "They just creep me out."
"That's how those cults operate," Noah chimed in. "They pull a rabbit out of their hat and make everyone think it's magic when all it is is tricks and illusions. They make you think they're powerful, and then once you believe that, you're afraid of them. And then they've got you. That's their power, the ability to make you afraid."
Waving his hand, he advised, "It's all superstition and mumbo-jumbo. Don't worry about it."
"Easy for you to say," Jill muttered.
Frank looked at Diego.
"What do you say, Taquito? Horseshit or real?"
Diego shrugged.
"I don't know," he shrugged, surly. "Maybe it's true. Maybe it's not. My grandpa used to tell stories about brujos, witches and stuff. How they could turn into coyotes or snakes, make people do things. I don't know."