.25, roughly 150 feet south of the body. It had been on the road and was flattened.
“Show me where the jacket was,” she said to Bobby.
He walked Frank in front of a battered pick-up parked at the crook of the curve. Frank stepped on the spot. Raising her arm, she sighted along the sidewalk at Placa’s height. The trajectory of Placa’s wounds would have been consistent with a shooter in a tall vehicle or standing where Frank was. She wondered if it was coincidence that she’d been shot with a .25. Maybe it was her gun. She tried to imagine Placa fleeing, Placa who’d rather suffer a beating death than run. Placa with her outrageous and dangerous pride.
Was she outnumbered and outgunned on foreign turf? Frank thought this was Rollin’ 60’s turf. Frank didn’t think the Kings had a quarrel with them. Maybe she’d rounded a corner and a rival happened to be coming around the other way. But she was running north. So the danger would have to have been from the south. From where the casing was, the shooter had been just at the bend, not enough time for a shooter to accidentally round the corner, recognize her, and open fire. Unless they knew she was there, as if they’d been following or chasing her.
Frank was doing her best to be objective, but events were becoming too coincidental; within one week Julio Estrella’s family was massacred. A few days later his brother winds up OD’d in the bottom of a canyon. After that, Placa mysteriously calls to tell Frank to meet with her, then ends up fatal. Another convenient drive-by statistic.
Frank needed a good witness. There had to be one. It was pretty hard to ignore a girl running down the street and shots being fired; even as jaded as south-central residents were, they would have instinctively glanced up to see which way the bullets were coming from. Was there shouting, screaming, anybody claiming? When the first shots sounded, they’d have all ducked for cover. Before that though, someone must have seen or heard something. But this was south-central; ratting in the ‘hood was often deadly and rarely done.
Adjusting the bite of the harness under her left arm, Frank drew a long breath and joined her men in their search for a witness.
Chapter Eight
A couple hours later, the best the detectives had were two people who thought maybe the car that had driven up on Placa was some sort of sedan. They couldn’t even give them a color or guess at a make. Too dark. No street lights. The usual frustrating responses. But the first witness was pretty sure she’d seen a sedan pulling away from the curb around the pickup, as if the sedan were leaving a parking space. When they asked the second witness where the car was in relation to the street, he’d said, come to think of it, the car looked to be parked.
“Right in front of that pickup,” he’d said pointing. And the car had a rounded back, not a square one. “Like a T-bird,” he’d added.
Frank stood on the dark street listening to a helicopter whock-whock overhead, it’s Night Sun cutting a path through the sky. Frank watched it fly out of her jurisdiction. Bobby stretched, cracking his back, and Nookey complained, “I didn’t even get a chance to have dinner.”
He gallantly volunteered to go back to the office and start the odious paper work. Frank knew his ulterior motives were to get a little nap and avoid doing the next of kin. She told him to go get some dinner, and then he and Bobby could round up the homies. Frank said she’d do the notification and Nook looked at her curiously.
“Why are you gonna do it?”
“My turn,” Frank said simply, not wanting to explain her long ties to Placa’s mother. She’d wanted to tell Claudia Estrella about her brother Luis’ death but Foubarelle and the Deputy Chief had claimed her time that afternoon.
Frank drove slowly north-east, finally parking in front of a house that wasn’t quite as tidy as the rest on the block. She couldn’t think how many times
“Show me where the jacket was,” she said to Bobby.
He walked Frank in front of a battered pick-up parked at the crook of the curve. Frank stepped on the spot. Raising her arm, she sighted along the sidewalk at Placa’s height. The trajectory of Placa’s wounds would have been consistent with a shooter in a tall vehicle or standing where Frank was. She wondered if it was coincidence that she’d been shot with a .25. Maybe it was her gun. She tried to imagine Placa fleeing, Placa who’d rather suffer a beating death than run. Placa with her outrageous and dangerous pride.
Was she outnumbered and outgunned on foreign turf? Frank thought this was Rollin’ 60’s turf. Frank didn’t think the Kings had a quarrel with them. Maybe she’d rounded a corner and a rival happened to be coming around the other way. But she was running north. So the danger would have to have been from the south. From where the casing was, the shooter had been just at the bend, not enough time for a shooter to accidentally round the corner, recognize her, and open fire. Unless they knew she was there, as if they’d been following or chasing her.
Frank was doing her best to be objective, but events were becoming too coincidental; within one week Julio Estrella’s family was massacred. A few days later his brother winds up OD’d in the bottom of a canyon. After that, Placa mysteriously calls to tell Frank to meet with her, then ends up fatal. Another convenient drive-by statistic.
Frank needed a good witness. There had to be one. It was pretty hard to ignore a girl running down the street and shots being fired; even as jaded as south-central residents were, they would have instinctively glanced up to see which way the bullets were coming from. Was there shouting, screaming, anybody claiming? When the first shots sounded, they’d have all ducked for cover. Before that though, someone must have seen or heard something. But this was south-central; ratting in the ‘hood was often deadly and rarely done.
Adjusting the bite of the harness under her left arm, Frank drew a long breath and joined her men in their search for a witness.
Chapter Eight
A couple hours later, the best the detectives had were two people who thought maybe the car that had driven up on Placa was some sort of sedan. They couldn’t even give them a color or guess at a make. Too dark. No street lights. The usual frustrating responses. But the first witness was pretty sure she’d seen a sedan pulling away from the curb around the pickup, as if the sedan were leaving a parking space. When they asked the second witness where the car was in relation to the street, he’d said, come to think of it, the car looked to be parked.
“Right in front of that pickup,” he’d said pointing. And the car had a rounded back, not a square one. “Like a T-bird,” he’d added.
Frank stood on the dark street listening to a helicopter whock-whock overhead, it’s Night Sun cutting a path through the sky. Frank watched it fly out of her jurisdiction. Bobby stretched, cracking his back, and Nookey complained, “I didn’t even get a chance to have dinner.”
He gallantly volunteered to go back to the office and start the odious paper work. Frank knew his ulterior motives were to get a little nap and avoid doing the next of kin. She told him to go get some dinner, and then he and Bobby could round up the homies. Frank said she’d do the notification and Nook looked at her curiously.
“Why are you gonna do it?”
“My turn,” Frank said simply, not wanting to explain her long ties to Placa’s mother. She’d wanted to tell Claudia Estrella about her brother Luis’ death but Foubarelle and the Deputy Chief had claimed her time that afternoon.
Frank drove slowly north-east, finally parking in front of a house that wasn’t quite as tidy as the rest on the block. She couldn’t think how many times
Similar Books
