she’d rolled to a stop here in a black-and-white. A Spanish TV show blared through the open windows and a yellow mosquito bulb dangled from a socket over the front door. She knocked loudly, and when the door opened, the face in the crack betrayed recognition and a weary animosity.
“Hey, Claudia. I need to talk to you.”
Claudia Estrella stepped back into the disheveled living room and the lieutenant followed. Frank took in a dark-eyed girl on the plastic-covered couch, distracted between the stranger and the television. A toddler crawled on the floor with a sagging diaper, and Placa’s older sister stared at Frank from the kitchen. Drying her hands on a towel, she asked disgustedly, “What you want now?”
Frank didn’t answer, facing Claudia instead. She noted the gray roots under the black dye, the hard set of her face and deep lines.
“When was the last time you saw Carmen?” she asked, calling Placa by her proper name.
“Two, three o’clock.”
“Where’d you see her?”
“Here.”
“What was she doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was she eating, or watching TY hangin’ out? What was she doing?”
“I don’t know. I just saw her going out.”
“Where was she going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was Gloria here too?”
Claudia bit some skin around the edge of her thumb and stared at Frank with a sharp, wary expression.
“Yeah.”
“Gloria,” Frank called. “Come out here. I need to talk to you.”
They heard swearing in the kitchen and a drawer banging.
“I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you,” Claudia’s eldest daughter said from the doorway.
“When was the last time you saw your sister?”
She shrugged, just like her mother.
“Earlier, like she tol’ you.”
“Not since?”
The young woman shook her long hair. When she’d been a banger she’d worn it in a teased pile, now it just hung limply. Permanent bags under the big eyes replaced the black circles from makeup, and like her mother, her hips had spread with each child. Babies had ended their days of hanging with their girlfriends and fighting over boyfriends. They had handed their legacy down to Placa and this was were it ended, in a stuffy house smelling of old diapers and grease, with the TV on too loud and Del Taco bags covering a chipped coffee table.
“What was she doing?”
“Nothin’. She wasn’t even here most of the day. Probably being a lazy-ass and kickin’ it in the park, I don’t know.”
“Did you talk to her before she left?”
“No.”
“She didn’t say anything to you?”
Gloria shook her head.
“She talk to the kids, anybody else?”
“I don’ know,” she answered, her irritation growing. “What, you think I had some tape recorder goin’ on or somethin’?”
“Did she look like she was upset when she left? Happy? Anything?”
“Normal,” she said in Spanish, flipping a shoulder.
Frank asked Claudia, “She get any phone calls before she left?”
Gloria aborted a glance at her mother, but not fast enough to escape Frank’s notice. Claudia’s son, Tonio, emerged sleepily from a bedroom. Skinny and gangly, only fourteen, he scratched his hairless chest and asked in Spanish what was going on.
“Estan preguntando de Carmen. No les diga nada.”
Frank wouldn’t say she was fluent in Spanish, but after years of listening to it everyday, she could understand a fair bit.
“Don’t say anything to me about what?” she asked Gloria, who stamped her foot and said, “Nothin’. Why you police comin’ aroun’ askin’ all these questions when we tell you we don’ know nothin’, eh?”
Ignoring her, Frank faced Claudia instead. She’d struck this pose so many times. It was never pleasant, but at least it was easier with a stranger. Nonetheless Frank did her job perfectly, speaking levelly and gauging Claudia’s reaction, as she said, “Somebody shot Placa.”
Claudia’s mask slipped for a second and Frank was aware of Gloria careening into the room, screaming,
“Hey, Claudia. I need to talk to you.”
Claudia Estrella stepped back into the disheveled living room and the lieutenant followed. Frank took in a dark-eyed girl on the plastic-covered couch, distracted between the stranger and the television. A toddler crawled on the floor with a sagging diaper, and Placa’s older sister stared at Frank from the kitchen. Drying her hands on a towel, she asked disgustedly, “What you want now?”
Frank didn’t answer, facing Claudia instead. She noted the gray roots under the black dye, the hard set of her face and deep lines.
“When was the last time you saw Carmen?” she asked, calling Placa by her proper name.
“Two, three o’clock.”
“Where’d you see her?”
“Here.”
“What was she doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was she eating, or watching TY hangin’ out? What was she doing?”
“I don’t know. I just saw her going out.”
“Where was she going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was Gloria here too?”
Claudia bit some skin around the edge of her thumb and stared at Frank with a sharp, wary expression.
“Yeah.”
“Gloria,” Frank called. “Come out here. I need to talk to you.”
They heard swearing in the kitchen and a drawer banging.
“I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you,” Claudia’s eldest daughter said from the doorway.
“When was the last time you saw your sister?”
She shrugged, just like her mother.
“Earlier, like she tol’ you.”
“Not since?”
The young woman shook her long hair. When she’d been a banger she’d worn it in a teased pile, now it just hung limply. Permanent bags under the big eyes replaced the black circles from makeup, and like her mother, her hips had spread with each child. Babies had ended their days of hanging with their girlfriends and fighting over boyfriends. They had handed their legacy down to Placa and this was were it ended, in a stuffy house smelling of old diapers and grease, with the TV on too loud and Del Taco bags covering a chipped coffee table.
“What was she doing?”
“Nothin’. She wasn’t even here most of the day. Probably being a lazy-ass and kickin’ it in the park, I don’t know.”
“Did you talk to her before she left?”
“No.”
“She didn’t say anything to you?”
Gloria shook her head.
“She talk to the kids, anybody else?”
“I don’ know,” she answered, her irritation growing. “What, you think I had some tape recorder goin’ on or somethin’?”
“Did she look like she was upset when she left? Happy? Anything?”
“Normal,” she said in Spanish, flipping a shoulder.
Frank asked Claudia, “She get any phone calls before she left?”
Gloria aborted a glance at her mother, but not fast enough to escape Frank’s notice. Claudia’s son, Tonio, emerged sleepily from a bedroom. Skinny and gangly, only fourteen, he scratched his hairless chest and asked in Spanish what was going on.
“Estan preguntando de Carmen. No les diga nada.”
Frank wouldn’t say she was fluent in Spanish, but after years of listening to it everyday, she could understand a fair bit.
“Don’t say anything to me about what?” she asked Gloria, who stamped her foot and said, “Nothin’. Why you police comin’ aroun’ askin’ all these questions when we tell you we don’ know nothin’, eh?”
Ignoring her, Frank faced Claudia instead. She’d struck this pose so many times. It was never pleasant, but at least it was easier with a stranger. Nonetheless Frank did her job perfectly, speaking levelly and gauging Claudia’s reaction, as she said, “Somebody shot Placa.”
Claudia’s mask slipped for a second and Frank was aware of Gloria careening into the room, screaming,
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