Cry Havoc (2 page)

She had Clay over at the Behavioral Science Unit to thank for that. Like most cops, Frank lived with the constant certainty that bad things were inevitable. What Frank was trying to learn, and what kept her from going off the paranoiac deep end, was that she couldn’t control all of the bad events, or for that matter the good ones. She still had more than a healthy share of cynicism—good cops had to in order to survive—but they also had to learn to put it away at the end of the day or they’d end up eating their guns. Clay had taught Frank how to loosen her emotional grip. It was a hard trick to pull off, but Frank was practicing diligently.

Spinning off the couch, she started pacing. Danny Duncan kept dancing just along the edge of her consciousness and every time she tried to focus on him, he vanished. Frank stopped in the middle of the living room. She folded her arms and listened to the air conditioner. She didn’t usually have it on but without it, there was no sleeping through the merciless Santa Anas. The compressor’s hum was steady and comforting. Frank stood and waited. She felt like Father Merrin under the rough shadow of the demon.

Her skin prickled, and she caught the merest whiff of it. Subtle, but there it was, a tiny weight hanging against her heart.

Dread.

Duncan felt big. Bigger than it should for the death of a wannabe bailer. Frank was glad no one was around to see the shiver that tickled her. The idea of another big case was repellent. Delamore, then Ike Zabbo—they’d been big enough to last her a career. A lifetime. They were ugly and sad and more than she wanted to face again.

A thud sounded against the front door and Frank’s heartbeat trebled. She whirled, half expecting to see the door broken into, but its wood was solid and silent. Her 9mm sat on the kitchen counter amid the debris she unloaded from her pockets each night.

“Who’s there?” she called. No answer. Frank grabbed the Beretta and checked the magazine, turning lights off. She simultaneously chided her overreaction and acknowledged the wealth of death threats she’d collected over the years. It was probably just Gail come to surprise her. Frank raced through a plausible scenario. Gail fumbling with her keys on the other side of the door, dropping her briefcase while she clamped a fat folder between her teeth, unable to answer or even curse. She was disorganized like that. Forever losing her keys, her glasses.

Or it was a pissed off parolee with an Uzi in his hands and no thought other than to blow away the bitch that sent him up.

From an angle, Frank peered through the peephole. Nothing. She checked the lateral view from the living room window. She couldn’t see the entire alcove, but the front light wasn’t throwing any shadows. Frank pressed her back to the wall parallel with the door.

Again she asked, “Who is it?”

No answer. Frank turned the lock, ready for someone to bust in or shoot through the door. Nothing happened. She twisted the handle, pulling it just enough to slip the catch out of the hole. Again she expected someone to ram in. No one did. She shoved the door open with her toe. Only silence. Crouching, she chanced a glance outside.

Shadows danced crookedly on the lawn and the wind sent litter scraps scurrying along the sidewalk. At her feet was a dead pigeon. Taking in the empty cars at the curb, the lighted windows across the street, Frank relaxed and breathed normally.

She shook her head at the bird on her door mat. Its head was bent back at an awkward angle and a drop of blood made a perfect red bead on its beak. Frank picked the bird up by its feet. The scaled legs were warm. She dropped the little body into the garbage can and returned to the insulated silence of her house.

Half a block away, a flock of pigeons settled nervously along an eave. Frank didn’t know that birds didn’t fly at night because they couldn’t see. Nor did she know that they left the safety of their roosts only when badly frightened.

The Mother was restless. She’d snapped at the boys during dinner then gone to bed early. She paced, hating how edgy she felt. Now and then she separated the heavy red curtains, looking out into the L.A. night. Headlights streamed up and down Slauson Avenue. A helicopter whomp-whomped not too far off. The sky was the color of old blood, the same as it was every night. Nothing had changed.

But something had. Something no one else could see. The Mother knew it. She knew things before she saw them or heard them sometimes. She was like a bloodhound that could smell a man’s scent in the room even though he wasn’t there. Something had touched the Mother. She couldn’t touch it back, but still she felt it upon her, as thick as warm fog.

She checked her view again, expecting to see lightning but there was only the smudgy maroon sky. She pulled her robe tighter.

Normally the sensuous slide of silk against skin delighted her. Tonight it felt only cold. Everything felt cold—the burgundy chenille spread, the antique velvet chairs, the king-size mahogany bed frame—all the rich textures she loved felt cheap and lifeless.

The Mother paced through her anxiety. It wasn’t new. It always happened before a big vision. Sooner or later she would wake up on the floor or in a chair, not knowing how she got there. Concerned faces would be around her, waiting for reassurance. She didn’t mind the visions. It was the waiting that vexed her. But the Gods would reveal the vision in time. In Their time. And only if she had prepared properly.

She scrutinized an altar near the window, making sure it was clean and well-tended. Red candles burned amid bowls of rice and honey. Bananas curved around sprays of red hibiscus flowers and black rooster feathers. A plate of fresh crabs and an open bottle of rum stood waiting.

The Mother dipped her hand into a jug of water. Sprinkling the shrine, she murmured an ancient invocation. Wetting her other hand, she washed them together. She crossed the room and pushed a chair the size of a throne from her desk. Opening a satin-lined drawer, she gathered a chain of cowry shells, a wooden mat, and a thick cigar. She pulled a box of matches from her pocket and lit the candles on the desk. One was white, the other red. The Mother opened the mat, sprinkled it with water, and then laid the cigar between the jug and the candles. She turned the lights off. The words of a language as old as the wind melded with the candle shadows dancing against the wall.

Now she was ready. Now They would surely come.

Lewis and Bobby Taylor were climbing the steps ahead of her. Frank slowed down to eavesdrop on their conversation. Bobby was explaining, “If you do your job right, you won’t be a nigger or a bitch. You’ll just be a cop. Period. That’s all they’ll see you as. But if you don’t pull your weight or back your brothers, then you’ll be worse than a nigger. You’ll be outside forever and nigger will be the
nicest
thing they’ll call you. It’s all about being the best cop you can be, is all. And that’s not to say it’s always about justice or law. It’s about being treated the way you want to be treated, and you’ve got to earn that.”

“I been earning it eight years,” Lewis complained. “How many more times I gotta prove I’m down?”

“Every day,” was Bobby’s reply. “Every new partner, every new case.”

Frank followed quietly behind, pretending to scan one of the memos in her hand.

“Yeah, well they don’t give
you
grief. You’re not having to prove yourself every day.”

“I’ve been here a long time. These guys know who I am. I’ve been through hard times with them. And good times too. When you’ve been around a while and had enough beers with them, and backed them on enough busts, covered for them, then they’ll trust you too. But right now, we don’t know who you are. You’re being tested, Lewis. So just do your best and forget the rest, understand?”

“Yeah, I understand,” Lewis blew out. “It’s just hard sometimes.”

Bobby answered, “If you wants it easy, sistah, best be givin’ up this po-leece bidness and getting’ yo’ black behind down to Sunday school, be teachin’ lil’ chilrens instet.”

It was the first time Frank had heard Lewis laugh. It was a good sound and Frank was grateful Bobby was taking the rookie under his wing. The Ninety-third Homicide Squad had taken some fire lately but it looked like they were going to come out all right.

When Frank had pinned a series of murders on Ike Zabbo, one of her own detectives, her accusations had unraveled the squad. Nook, the last of her good old boys, had quit in solidarity with his indicted colleague and the rest of her detectives furiously questioned Frank’s loyalties. Then only a few days after she’d dropped that bomb, Zabbo was gunned down in a parking lot and the nine-three finished unraveling.

Even though it was well outside their jurisdiction, her detectives had clamored to work Zabbo’s case alongside the big boys at South Bureau. Frank had forbidden it, adding fuel to their already incendiary acrimony. Even Noah had come down on her. He was the only one with balls enough to voice the squad’s increasing frustration about her dispassionate stance regarding Ike’s violent, and as yet, unsolved murder.

Frank had warned her crew with deadly sincerity that unless they felt like pursuing new careers they would forget about Ike Zabbo and leave the investigating to South Bureau. After that she’d stormed into her captain’s office demanding four new hires. Not one, not two, not three, but four. She’d been under-staffed for years and was crippled without Ike or Nook. More importantly, she’d needed an infusion of new blood to stop the nine-three’s hemorrhaging.

Foubarelle had produced, allowing her to bring Lewis on from Robbery and Darcy James in from another division. With Jill back from maternity leave and Foubarelle working on the fourth hire, Frank felt like she was finally heading a decent squad again. There were gaps, but overall the team was solid.

Lewis was raw and sensitive, but she’d proven her street ability as a uniform. Frank had been watching and waiting to bring her aboard. Lewis had the perseverance and curiosity that was vital to homicide. Her skills were still weak but that was to be expected. Frank had paired her with Noah because she’d learn a lot from him, if she was willing. So far they were still testing each other. Noah delighted in pushing her buttons but took equal time in teaching her the intricacies of interviewing the parents of a dead child or how to look at a crime scene before entering it. Lewis paid sharp attention to her partner, constantly alert for tips as well as gags.

Johnnie Briggs and Jill Simmons were working together. It was a problematic combination, but Frank couldn’t afford to put Johnnie with someone new nor could she have him operating on his own. Johnnie was a loose cannon and he needed a seasoned partner who could rein him in, which Jill reluctantly did. For a while his drinking seemed to have tapered off; he was actually getting to the 6:00 AM briefings clean and on time. Since the business with Ike though, his sick calls had increased and when he did show up he was often bleary and shaky.

Jill handled her partner with a loose disdain, not really wanting to be back at work, and certainly not partnered with Johnnie Briggs. Her heart was home with her infant daughter but she did what was required. Frank suspected it was only a matter of time before Jill took the chair opposite Frank’s desk to tell her she was quitting.

Bobby—quiet, plodding, and dependable as ever—was showing the new guy the ropes. Darcy James III barely topped five feet eight with his shoes on and Bobby loomed well over six feet. Bobby was slow and deliberate, where Darcy quickly and intuitively interpreted a situation. When pressed, Darcy was equally forthright with his opinions, while Bobby, after considerable deliberation, usually offered a more politic answer.

Then there was Taquito. Frank sighed quietly. Lou Diego had been doubly wounded, first by his partner’s alleged treachery, then Frank’s refusal to stand by one of her own men. He blamed her for Ike’s death. He refused to talk about it and would leave the room whenever Zabbo’s name was mentioned. In his own time, with his own logic, Diego was dealing with the reality of Ike’s betrayal and the position he’d put the whole squad in. Frank didn’t push him. He was a good cop and she didn’t want to lose him, but she wondered if she already had. She accommodated his unspoken rage, hoping time and latitude would help him come around.

Even Foubarelle seemed to have calmed down. He was still an asshole, but after four years the captain was learning to stay out of Frank’s way and let her do what she did best, which was produce stats for him. Bottom line, that was all Fubar wanted. He wasn’t a people man, nor committed to an ideal. He just wanted to see how far his star could climb. Frank enjoyed high clearance rates for a different reason. Her motivation was unconscious, but every murder solved was a vindication of her past. Frank needed homicide as badly as the captain needed numbers.

Tossing some of the memos in the trash, she filed others, and took the rest out to the bulletin board. She was pinning them up when Jill and Johnnie walked in with a suspect. He spit, protesting weakly while Johnnie sat him down, and Jill told Frank, “Now this is the damnedest thing. Darcy came up to me this morning and asked if KD here worked in a restaurant. I said, no, the lazy bastard doesn’t work at all. He just mooches off his girlfriend like an overgrown tick. So Darcy asked where the girlfriend worked and I told him she was the night manager at the Jack in the Box on Florence.

He said we might want to check the refrigerators over there. I didn’t think much about it, but I had to ask the girlfriend something anyway, so we went over. She didn’t want us looking around but she finally consented, and look what we got.”

Jill held up a .44 in a plastic bag.

Frank frowned.

“In the fridge?”

“Right where Darcy said. Pretty freaky, huh?”

“How’d he know to look there?”

“Beats the hell out of me.” Jill bunched her shoulder. “I just hope the ballistics match.”

Twelve hours later Frank had another cleared case for the captain’s stat sheet. Darcy James had a note on his desk to see Frank.

Jill rushed in ten minutes later than her usual ten minutes late. Bobby finished his meticulous briefing, while her colleagues watched her scramble for notes and a cup of coffee.