Nukisona and Taylor at the corner of Hyde Park and South Wilton.”
Frank backed out swearing. So much for superstition.
Chapter Seven
Back in the warren of traffic on the One-Ten, Frank shook her head at Nook and Bobby’s run of bad luck. Not only did they get the Estrella homicides, but they’d caught two mysteries in the last two weeks — each case a bad boy shot with no witnesses, no motives, and no suspects. She considered how the two didn’t make an ideal homicide team. They were both more tenacious than aggressive and tended to plod through cases, bogging down in detail. Especially Bobby. Though they both earned high marks for sheer determination, she wished there was more fire in their partnership. As it was, she’d have to settle for stubbornness and resolve. Because of their tendency to err on the side of caution, Frank figured they were calling her out on a grounder.
She poked the radio’s preset button to KLOS, hoping electric guitars and pounding backbeats could pump her up for what was looking like another long night. Creeping off at the Downtown exit, she worked her way south using a maze of side roads. The cool spring evening belied the deadly summer heat just around the corner.
Bummer of a nice night to die, she thought, arriving at her destination. A Sheriffs unit and two LAPD radio cars worked their lights where the road made a dogleg. The coroner’s van split the night with glaring halogens. Handley was stepping into a pair of coveralls so Frank figured the investigator had only beaten her here by minutes.
“What have you got?” Frank asked Bobby. He twitched his head at a body on the sidewalk. Its legs were off the curb, hidden by a line of parked cars.
“It’s Placa, Frank. She took a couple rounds.”
Frank swallowed hard, holding Bobby’s gaze a beat, before lowering it to his tie. She took in the LAPD tie clip and starched creases in his shirt. She appreciated the time he took to get dressed for a call-out. In the matter of seconds it took for Frank to formulate those thoughts, she had morphed into stone and ice. Now she swung her head toward the body which was suddenly not just a body. The ice in Frank’s veins warned her that this was personal. It also warned her to be especially objective. She walked over to Placa, squatting on her heels in front of the dead girl.
Give it up, she silently willed. Show me how it went down.
Placa’s left cheek was pressed against the broken concrete. From the shattered look of it she’d been dead or disabled as she went down and hadn’t been able to break her fall. Her braid went through the back of a Dodger’s cap, tilted almost off her head. Frank could make out a tiny blue tattoo just under the eye socket and the “52K” jarringly tattooed under her bangs. A sexy female devil with flowing hair and pointed tail peeked from under Placa’s right sleeve. Her left hand was arched awkwardly in a blood puddle. The name “ITSY’ stood out in blue on the webbing of her thumb and forefinger.
Frank unconsciously held her own ring finger, stroking it lightly as she studied the dead girl in front of her.
Handley knelt too, but Frank said, “Hold up.”
“I don’t have all night,” he pointed out. The look Frank cut him was enough to send the tech a respectful distance away.
“Anybody see anything?”
“Not yet,” Bobby answered quietly.
Frank looked around. Nook was talking to two of the uniforms. The Sheriff’s deputy was making conversation with Handley. Waddell was working paper in a radio car and Hunt was in his usual position against the bumper of another. Frank gave Handley the nod and walked over to Waddell. Twitching her head toward Hunt, she asked, “You short tonight?”
“Yeah. Couple guys called in sick. Guess its just coincidence that it’s Saturday night, huh?”
“Who’s got the log?”
“Hunt.”
“Who was Responding Officer?”
“They were,” he said at the cops Nook was talking to. Frank moved toward
Frank backed out swearing. So much for superstition.
Chapter Seven
Back in the warren of traffic on the One-Ten, Frank shook her head at Nook and Bobby’s run of bad luck. Not only did they get the Estrella homicides, but they’d caught two mysteries in the last two weeks — each case a bad boy shot with no witnesses, no motives, and no suspects. She considered how the two didn’t make an ideal homicide team. They were both more tenacious than aggressive and tended to plod through cases, bogging down in detail. Especially Bobby. Though they both earned high marks for sheer determination, she wished there was more fire in their partnership. As it was, she’d have to settle for stubbornness and resolve. Because of their tendency to err on the side of caution, Frank figured they were calling her out on a grounder.
She poked the radio’s preset button to KLOS, hoping electric guitars and pounding backbeats could pump her up for what was looking like another long night. Creeping off at the Downtown exit, she worked her way south using a maze of side roads. The cool spring evening belied the deadly summer heat just around the corner.
Bummer of a nice night to die, she thought, arriving at her destination. A Sheriffs unit and two LAPD radio cars worked their lights where the road made a dogleg. The coroner’s van split the night with glaring halogens. Handley was stepping into a pair of coveralls so Frank figured the investigator had only beaten her here by minutes.
“What have you got?” Frank asked Bobby. He twitched his head at a body on the sidewalk. Its legs were off the curb, hidden by a line of parked cars.
“It’s Placa, Frank. She took a couple rounds.”
Frank swallowed hard, holding Bobby’s gaze a beat, before lowering it to his tie. She took in the LAPD tie clip and starched creases in his shirt. She appreciated the time he took to get dressed for a call-out. In the matter of seconds it took for Frank to formulate those thoughts, she had morphed into stone and ice. Now she swung her head toward the body which was suddenly not just a body. The ice in Frank’s veins warned her that this was personal. It also warned her to be especially objective. She walked over to Placa, squatting on her heels in front of the dead girl.
Give it up, she silently willed. Show me how it went down.
Placa’s left cheek was pressed against the broken concrete. From the shattered look of it she’d been dead or disabled as she went down and hadn’t been able to break her fall. Her braid went through the back of a Dodger’s cap, tilted almost off her head. Frank could make out a tiny blue tattoo just under the eye socket and the “52K” jarringly tattooed under her bangs. A sexy female devil with flowing hair and pointed tail peeked from under Placa’s right sleeve. Her left hand was arched awkwardly in a blood puddle. The name “ITSY’ stood out in blue on the webbing of her thumb and forefinger.
Frank unconsciously held her own ring finger, stroking it lightly as she studied the dead girl in front of her.
Handley knelt too, but Frank said, “Hold up.”
“I don’t have all night,” he pointed out. The look Frank cut him was enough to send the tech a respectful distance away.
“Anybody see anything?”
“Not yet,” Bobby answered quietly.
Frank looked around. Nook was talking to two of the uniforms. The Sheriff’s deputy was making conversation with Handley. Waddell was working paper in a radio car and Hunt was in his usual position against the bumper of another. Frank gave Handley the nod and walked over to Waddell. Twitching her head toward Hunt, she asked, “You short tonight?”
“Yeah. Couple guys called in sick. Guess its just coincidence that it’s Saturday night, huh?”
“Who’s got the log?”
“Hunt.”
“Who was Responding Officer?”
“They were,” he said at the cops Nook was talking to. Frank moved toward
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