Street Rules lf-2

by Baxter Clare

  Apart from the wound traumas, Placa's internal exam had revealed nothing unusual. Her organs were pale from hemorrhaging but unremarkable. The stomach was empty except for what looked like antacid residue. Frank didn't think it was common for kids to chew Rolaids, and wondered about the cause of Placa's upset stomach.

  Because no one was around, Frank blew out a huge horse breath. She laid her head back against the comfortable couch, wishing they'd seen Placa's bruises in the dark. The chances were slim they'd have pulled anything useful, but still she would have liked to dust them for latents. Frank hated working scenes at night just for that reason. There was so much to miss and by the time they returned in the morning scenes had changed and were contaminated, sometimes even cleaned up.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting," Gail breathed, bursting through the door. "A couple of the residents cornered me. They lie in wait for me outside the locker room."

  "No problem. I was just going over what we found."

  "Or didn't," Gail said apologetically.

  Frank stood by the door, waiting for the doc to finish up. A fruity shampoo scented the office and Gail's dark bob concealed her face as she stood over the desk. She'd changed into jeans and a faded UA sweatshirt. The scrubs fleshed her out a little and Frank noticed when she was in regular clothes that she was very angular. Watching her leave the Alibi one Friday night, Noah had called her rawboned. Bobby had added that she looked like one of Modigliani's blue women, then Johnnie had chimed in that the doc gave him blue balls.

  "Okay," she said straightening, swinging the damp hair from her face. "Ready?"

  "Whenever you are."

  Gail covered the room in long strides and was just about to turn the light off when she said, "Hey, turn your face this way."

  Frank did as told. Gail put a fingertip below her temple and said, "Looks like you've got a bruise there."

  Frank felt it gingerly.

  "Must've intercepted a round meant for Johnnie."

  "Ouch."

  They walked to the elevator and Gail said, "That surprised the hell out of me. Noah seems so easy-going."

  "He is. That's not like him to blow up."

  "Was he close to Placa?"

  "Kinda."

  "You seem to have a pretty good rapport with those guys."

  "We get along."

  Gail took a sidelong glance at Frank and grinned, "Why do I get the feeling that if they had awards for understatement you'd bring home the trophy every year?"

  "Don't know. Tell you what. Instead of driving me all the way back into town, why don't you just give me a lift home. You're in San Marino, right?"

  Gail nodded and Frank said, "I'm on the way. I'll just catch a cab into work in the morning."

  "You sure? I don't mind."

  "I'm sure."

  Once they were buckled into Gail's Pathfinder, the doc confessed, "I'm glad your boys had that spat. This way I get to spend some time with you."

  Frank studied the ME's profile, glowing deep pink in the dying sun.

  "What'd I do now?"

  "Nothing. I just meant I only see you during autopsies or on Friday nights. Neither place is very conducive for conversation."

  Curiosity edged Frank's fatigue out of the way and she decided to spar a little with the doc.

  "No says you were asking questions about me the other night."

  Gail immediately bristled.

  "Did he say that?"

  "Yep. He's my main dog. Tells me everything."

  Enjoying Gail's embarrassment, Frank continued, "Now that we're in such a conversationally conducive spot, what did you want to know?"

  "I was just. . . wondering about you," Gail stammered. "You're so reticent."

  "If I'm not mistaken, your exact description was intriguingly impenetrable."

  "My God, what'd he do? Recite our entire conversation verbatim?"

  Frank was like a cat with a mouse.

  "Said you asked about me and Kennedy."

  "Oh, God," Gail cringed. "I will never ask him anything again."

  "Not if you want to keep it a secret," Frank grinned. "No's the department gossip."

  "So I see. Oh God, how embarrassing. It's none of my business, I know. I was just curious about you."

  Frank didn't know the doc that well and calculated just how much she wanted to reveal. She and Mag had called themselves roommates, rarely acknowledging the carpet cleaner and muff diver comments. During the long drought between Mag and Kennedy it hadn't been much of an issue; people made presumptions and she'd let them. Besides, she was sure her relationship with Maggie was carefully documented in an IAD file somewhere. Being in the LAPD and having secrets was a contradiction. She'd believed in "don't ask, don't tell" long before Clinton had thought of it. Conversely, Frank didn't like lying to the people closest to her. Her partners knew, and Joe had known. Frank decided to let Gail off the hook, offering, "Kennedy and I are just friends."

  She summarized their bad bust on Johnston, and how they had become close as a result. Then Frank appended, "There was something between us, but it's been over for a while."

  "Thanks for leveling with me," Gail said, catching her eye. "You didn't have to."

  "No big deal."

  The light was red and Frank looked away first. Checking out the street scene, she said to Gail, "Your turn."

  The doc hesitated. She seemed strained and Frank said, "You don't have to if you don't want to."

  "No," Gail breathed. "That's not it. There's just nothing, and no one to tell about. I'm just starting to hate the way that sounds. I've been so busy building a career that in all honesty I haven't ever made the room for a relationship. There were affairs here and there, people I really should have tried harder with, but I was too selfish. And I'm wondering if it's too late now. If I'm too set in my ways."

  The doc trailed off, staring straight ahead. She didn't continue and Frank didn't push.

  "Where are we going for that drink?" Gail asked.

  "Tell you what. I know a place that serves the meanest roast beef sandwich in L.A. with the coldest imported ale. You up for it?"

  "Sure. Tell me where to go."

  "My place," Frank said. Gail chuckled. The sound was low in her throat and Frank liked it, thought it was kind of sexy. She wondered if Gail did it for effect or if it was just natural. Taking in the doc's simple clothes and the lack of make-up or jewelry, she decided Gail wasn't into artifice.

  "What's so funny?"

  "Do you always play everything so close to your vest?"

  "Always," Frank admitted.

  "Does anybody at work know you're gay?"

  Frank squinted out the window, "Except for Noah, it's something most of my squad just assumes. I don't talk about it and they don't bring it up."

  "I would imagine the LAPD's not the most tolerant institution."

  "Now that's understatement. What about you? Rumor mill's outed you."

  "I'm not surprised," Gail smirked. "All you have to do is reject a couple Neanderthal's and that automatically makes you a dyke. I feel sorry for straight women."

  Gail turned where Frank told her, continuing, "I'm not out at work and don't intend to be. I'm not real comfortable mixing boudoir with business." Making an apologetic face, she said, "I know it's not PC, but frankly I've worked too hard to get where I am and don't want to blow it because of who I sleep with or don't."

  "You don't think the good citizens of Los Angeles could handle a lesbian in the Chief Coroner's office?"

  "I don't know and I don't want to find out."

  The doc swiftly rerouted the subject, asking Frank how long she'd been a cop.

  "Closing in on seventeen years."

  "You're almost ready for retirement."

  "Not quite."

  Gail flashed a bright smile, "You like what you do?"

  Frank nodded, "A lot. Miss being on the streets, though. It's easy to lose touch."

  "I know what you mean. I miss being in the trenches too. I try and do a
post every day. Where were you before Figueroa?"

  "That's it. Never been anywhere else."

  "You're kidding? That's pretty unusual."

  "Yeah. Everybody want's to get out of Figueroa, not into it. That's where they put us — me — straight out of the Academy. Probably thought it would be a good way to weed the female boots out. But it was like home to me. Besides, it's a great station for homicide. I'd go crazy in one of the white-collar divisions."

  Gail narrowed her green eyes. "You're not one of those adrenaline junkies, are you?"

  Frank thought of Kennedy and said, "Definitely not."

  They rolled into Frank's driveway. She switched lights on while Gail ooed and ahhed over the split level living room.

  "Do I get the grand tour?" she asked.

  "Soon as I get rid of this," Frank replied, emptying her bulging pockets. Gun, badge, and cuffs took their place next to case folders and manila envelopes on the crowded dining room.

  "The place belonged to an architect," Frank explained, showing Gail the guest room and master bedroom to one side of the living room. She paused at the kitchen, open to the living and dining area, and pulled two Bass Ales out of the fridge.

  Indicating the other side of the living room she said, "There's a den over there, and that second door used to lead into the garage. Now it's my gym."

  She poured Gail's beer into a mug from the freezer. Hers she left in the bottle.

  "Cheers," Gail said.

  Frank nodded, draining a quarter of the bottle. She made the sandwiches as they talked easily about staffing nightmares and supervising men in a man's world. The conversation shifted to movies, then food, and Frank found Gail both articulate and amusing. Well after they'd finished the sandwiches, they each nursed a pony of Ruby Pinto, and it hit Frank that she hadn't thought of Placa in hours. She felt a stab of conscience and decided that was pretty unreasonable. Clay was right, maybe she rode herself too hard sometimes.

  Gail must have sensed that Frank had drifted from the conversation, because she said, "I think I'd better go. It looks like I'm putting you to sleep."

  "No. Not at all. I was just thinking..." Frank hesitated, wondering if she should admit it. "What a nice night it's been."

  "Yeah," Gail agreed, rising. "Maybe we can do it again sometime."

  "Yeah."

  Frank walked Gail out to her car, telling her how to get back onto Huntington. When she went back inside the house was too still. She put a handful of CDs into the player and tapped the random button. She paced through the dining room, the kitchen, back into the dining room, her hand lingering over reports. She glanced at her wrist, wondering if it was too late to call Noah. Probably not, she thought.

  The phone buzzed in her ear and she was about to hang up when Tracey answered.

  "Hey. Is this the most beautiful woman in L.A.?"

  "Oh, hang on a sec. You want my twin sister who's forty pounds lighter."

  "No, I think I've got the right sister. Hi, gorgeous. How's No?"

  "He's okay. He's planted in front of a Gilligan's Island marathon. I'll get him, hold on."

  Frank tried to protest but Tracey had already slammed the phone down. When he picked it up, Frank said, "Mr. De La Hoya, my man. Didn't mean to interrupt the cultural hour. Just checking up on you."

  "Dudess. I'm sorry about this afternoon. I shouldn't have lost it like that, in the morgue and everything."

  "Don't worry about it. I'll ream you out tomorrow. 'Sides, gave the doc a chance to give me a ride home."

  "Oh, yeah? Did you ask her out?"

  "Yeah, sure. You know what a play-uh I am. I made her one of my killer roast beef sandwiches and we had a couple beers."

  "Oh, yeah? Then what?"

  Frank smiled into the receiver, glad No was okay and back to matchmaking.

  "That's it, dummy, else I wouldn't be calling you."

  "Aw, man."

  "Look. Get back to Ginger and MaryAnn. I'll see you tomorrow."

  "That's a big 10-4. Hey, dudess?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Which one you like better? Ginger or MaryAnn?"

  "That's easy. You sleep with Ginger. You marry MaryAnn."

  "Right on. Hey. Thanks for callin'."

  "No sweat."

  Frank tipped herself back on the barstool at her kitchen counter. She felt surprisingly good. She was warm and well fed, and had a nice buzz going, but she had to admit she'd had a really good time tonight. In a town like L.A., where people were obsessed with cash and flash, Gail's simple good looks and honest conversation were refreshing. Attractive, Frank decided, then dropped the stool back onto all fours. That was neither here nor there.

  Stretching and sighing, she planned out tomorrow. She needed to talk to Johnnie and sit him down with Noah, have them make peace. Christ, she thought, I'm running a Romper Room, not a homicide squad. Miles glided into Seven Steps as she flipped open the L.A. Times on the table. It would have been a fine thing to see Miles live, she thought, wondering if Gail liked jazz.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Before Johnnie and Noah went out, Frank called them into her office. Noah sat on the thin couch and Johnnie straddled a plastic chair. Cocking a hip on her desk, Frank glared down at both of them, a rare vantage.

  "What happened in the morgue yesterday was inexcusable. Johnnie, your comment about Placa was inappropriate, unprofessional, and offensive to everyone in the room. You apologize to Doc Lawless and her staff, today."

  Johnnie started his usual bluster, but glaring at Noah she continued, "Your behavior wasn't any better. You apologize along with your partner."

  Noah rolled his eyes and crabbed, "Whatever. But that crack —"

  "I don't want to hear it," she said. "I want that apology today, in person, both of you. Got it?"

  "Fuck," Johnnie said, "I got court all day."

  "I thought that wasn't until ten."

  "I gotta get a wit before that," he complained.

  "Then you better get going. Morgue opens at eight."

  "Come on, Frank," Noah tried intervening, "can't this wait until tomorrow?"

  "Nope. I want this taken care of before you," she said to Johnnie, "open your fat mouth again, and before you," to Noah, "pretend to be Sugar Ray again."

  Noah hung his head, but Frank could see the grin under his bangs.

  "You can go," she told him.

  Johnnie squirmed in his seat, whining like a schoolboy, "How come he gets to go?"

  Frank ignored him, telling Noah to close the door. When he did, she answered, " 'Cause he's not using all his sick time on hangovers."

  "Did he tell you that?" he said jerking his thumb at the door.

  "Didn't have to. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out when you come in shaking and sweating, bloodshot as hell. Want to tell me about it?"

  "There's nothin' to tell about! Shit, Frank, I don't have enough fingers to count the number times you've come in lookin' like something the cat threw up."

  "You're right. Everybody ties one on sometimes, me included, but we don't skip work because of our hangovers, and when I'm getting complaints about one of my cops leaning out of his car and puking in the street, then I've got a problem."

  "I had the flu or something. That fucking chicken at Popeye's."

  "Johnnie. You can bullshit this all you want. That's your decision. I can't make you talk to me. But I'm telling you, you're walkin' a fine line. You got a problem? That's okay. Everybody's got 'em. Hell, I got 'em, and I'll do whatever I can to help you. If you can handle it on your own, great. Show me. If you can't, and it starts interfering with your work, then it becomes my problem and I'll do what I have to to fix it. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  "There isn't a problem," he told the floor.

  She studied him a moment, remembering how he'd come onto the squad, still lean and muscled, an old linesman like Bobby. He was all swagger and bragger back then, the Happy Clapper, cheerfully waving off his bouts with various STDs, convinced if they had a
poster boy for LAPD cocksman, he'd have been it. But the long hours at a desk, and all the booze and fast food had softened him. He looked tired now, his charm as tarnished as an old uniform button.

  "You know where BSU is. And you know my number."

  "Is that all?"

  "Yeah."

  Frank watched him lumber out, feeling for him. She put the pity away and got ready for the eight o'clock ADA meeting.

  "Hey, Frank," Johnnie called from his desk. "We gonna see you on the news tonight? LAPD Lieutenant pulls postal, slays supervisors. Coalitions and committees to blame."

  Frank had finally broken away from back to back meetings and had gotten to the homicide room a half hour before quitting time.

  "Just about," she answered, surprised he was in such good spirits. She wondered if he was making an effort to show everything was okay.

  "Where's your partner?"

  "Down in Property."

  Frank headed to her office, but when Nook and Bobby trailed in with an armload of binders, she said, "Hey. What's the word?"

  "We can't find Ruiz anywhere," Nookey puffed. "The fucker's in the wind. According to the aunt he's got relatives in Fresno, Calexico, Madera . . . not to mention Mexico. He could be anywhere."

  "Did you put an APB on him?"

  "You want us to?"

  Frank stifled a sigh. As much as a pain in the ass as Gough was, at least he'd been a good partner for Nook. Between he and Bobby, she didn't think they'd wipe their asses without asking her first.

  "Yeah. What else did the aunt say?"

  Nook made a disgusted sound.

  "The usual. Her nephew's a good boy. He'd never dust anyone. Specially not a girl. You know, just a real gentleman."

  "But we had a nice talk with Lydia Alvarez," Bobby said.

  "La Reina?"

  "Yeah. She and Placa had been seeing each other for about six weeks. In fact, Placa was at her place Saturday from about 11:30 to 2:30. We're getting her day accounted for, but she didn't tell Lydia where she was going when she left. Just said she had to take care of some business."

  "And according to her, nobody knew that she and Placa were doing it. She swears Ruiz doesn't know, and she doesn't know where he is. We asked her where she was when Placa got hit and she says she was at a party up in Eagle Rock and that Ruiz was with her."