Hunt, telling him she wanted the scene log. He sneered and moved slowly off the bumper, retrieving the list from inside the unit. Frank scanned it and as she did, she murmured, “Are you 10-7?”
“No, ma’am,” he drawled, his answer sounding lazy and snide.
“Then I suggest you get your ass off this car and find some witnesses.”
Hunt grunted, “There ain’t a fuckin’ monkey in this jungle that’s seen shit.”
“You’re probably right,” she answered, “but you better start knockin’ to prove it.”
Swearing under his breath, Hunt hitched up his heavy belt and sauntered off. Frank assessed the area. The east side of South Wilton was residential. It was a nice neighborhood lined with old, graceful palms. Each small, neatly kept bungalow had a trim patch of lawn sloping gently to the street. It was a solid working-class street where pride was still evident. Despite the hype, much of the south-central neighborhoods were like this one, quiet and modest, occupied by decent people trying to earn a decent living. Then there were the kids like Placa, who lived hard and died fast.
The rule of the streets, Frank thought, resuming her sweep of the area. The west side of Wilton was industrial, with privacy and security fencing running the length of the sidewalk. Where Frank stood, Wilton took a deep curve to become Hyde Park. Tall fences continued along the north sidewalk, but a building supply company took up the entire south corner.
Most of the adults on Wilton had gone back inside, bored with yet another gang-related shooting, but the kids still hung around, gawking. A radio played on a porch. A couple of young girls sang and mock danced with each other. Frank recognized the tune, the one all the pop and hip-hop stations played every twenty minutes. The irony that the band was Destiny’s Child didn’t escape her.
Frank caught the heavy odor of frying food in the air as she watched Hunt and Nook knocking on doors. Few of the houses had air conditioning. They would have easily trapped the heat of the day. Little kids would have begged to play outside before they had to go to bed. Grandmothers or grandfathers would have watched them, collecting the evening breeze on stoops and porches. Aunts or uncles might have joined them, sharing 40’s or iced teas. Siblings would have been kicking by someone’s car, bumpin’ and swapping tales.
Still Hunt was probably right; nobody would have seen anything.
Frank returned to Bobby, who was searching the wallet Handley gave him.
“She strapped?”
“Nope, nothing.”
“What do you think about that?”
Bobby nodded, “Kind of weird for that G to be running around without a gat. Is that what you’re thinking?”
“Yeah. Especially Placa. She favored those little deuce-fives. I could wallpaper my bathroom with her concealeds alone. Find out what time this was called in, and when the first unit showed up.”
Nook sauntered up, and asked, “Why’s the LAPD better than the AMA?”
Both Frank and Bobby stared at him, and he grinned, “We still make house calls.”
Neither of his colleagues responded, and he said, “What?”
“Do a weapons sweep. Look for a .25.”
Bobby asked, “You want to knock with us on this one?”
Frank nodded, watching Handley shove Placa’s shirt up. She knelt next to him, noting the entry wounds.
“How many you see?”
“Well… looks like five. So far,” he said, pointing. Placa had taken a round dead center in her back and another through her left shoulder blade. A third grazed the left side of her neck, and Handley exposed another a few inches above her beltline. The fifth made a tiny hole at the base of her head. Whoever smoked her had made sure she wouldn’t get up again.
“Trajectory?”
Handley gingerly examined the most lethal wounds. He boasted, “Hard to say for sure until we get her on the table, but entry appears to relatively level, maybe angling slightly left.”
Nook had recovered a fresh case from a
“No, ma’am,” he drawled, his answer sounding lazy and snide.
“Then I suggest you get your ass off this car and find some witnesses.”
Hunt grunted, “There ain’t a fuckin’ monkey in this jungle that’s seen shit.”
“You’re probably right,” she answered, “but you better start knockin’ to prove it.”
Swearing under his breath, Hunt hitched up his heavy belt and sauntered off. Frank assessed the area. The east side of South Wilton was residential. It was a nice neighborhood lined with old, graceful palms. Each small, neatly kept bungalow had a trim patch of lawn sloping gently to the street. It was a solid working-class street where pride was still evident. Despite the hype, much of the south-central neighborhoods were like this one, quiet and modest, occupied by decent people trying to earn a decent living. Then there were the kids like Placa, who lived hard and died fast.
The rule of the streets, Frank thought, resuming her sweep of the area. The west side of Wilton was industrial, with privacy and security fencing running the length of the sidewalk. Where Frank stood, Wilton took a deep curve to become Hyde Park. Tall fences continued along the north sidewalk, but a building supply company took up the entire south corner.
Most of the adults on Wilton had gone back inside, bored with yet another gang-related shooting, but the kids still hung around, gawking. A radio played on a porch. A couple of young girls sang and mock danced with each other. Frank recognized the tune, the one all the pop and hip-hop stations played every twenty minutes. The irony that the band was Destiny’s Child didn’t escape her.
Frank caught the heavy odor of frying food in the air as she watched Hunt and Nook knocking on doors. Few of the houses had air conditioning. They would have easily trapped the heat of the day. Little kids would have begged to play outside before they had to go to bed. Grandmothers or grandfathers would have watched them, collecting the evening breeze on stoops and porches. Aunts or uncles might have joined them, sharing 40’s or iced teas. Siblings would have been kicking by someone’s car, bumpin’ and swapping tales.
Still Hunt was probably right; nobody would have seen anything.
Frank returned to Bobby, who was searching the wallet Handley gave him.
“She strapped?”
“Nope, nothing.”
“What do you think about that?”
Bobby nodded, “Kind of weird for that G to be running around without a gat. Is that what you’re thinking?”
“Yeah. Especially Placa. She favored those little deuce-fives. I could wallpaper my bathroom with her concealeds alone. Find out what time this was called in, and when the first unit showed up.”
Nook sauntered up, and asked, “Why’s the LAPD better than the AMA?”
Both Frank and Bobby stared at him, and he grinned, “We still make house calls.”
Neither of his colleagues responded, and he said, “What?”
“Do a weapons sweep. Look for a .25.”
Bobby asked, “You want to knock with us on this one?”
Frank nodded, watching Handley shove Placa’s shirt up. She knelt next to him, noting the entry wounds.
“How many you see?”
“Well… looks like five. So far,” he said, pointing. Placa had taken a round dead center in her back and another through her left shoulder blade. A third grazed the left side of her neck, and Handley exposed another a few inches above her beltline. The fifth made a tiny hole at the base of her head. Whoever smoked her had made sure she wouldn’t get up again.
“Trajectory?”
Handley gingerly examined the most lethal wounds. He boasted, “Hard to say for sure until we get her on the table, but entry appears to relatively level, maybe angling slightly left.”
Nook had recovered a fresh case from a
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