Hold of the Bone (11 page)

She deciphers her handwriting. “When Domenic got married, the brother that had been living with him at the cabin moved into town, got into insurance, and never went back to the ranch.” Frank looks up. “Found out from Gomez that the brothers didn't speak unless Saladino was drunk, then he'd pound on his brother's door at two a.m. and stand there calling him names until the cops came. Seems he spent a lot of weekends in the local pokey. Which brings us back to the
Mazettis. They'd bail him out because they needed him back at the ranch, but it seems like there's been bad blood between the two families going way back.”

“Then why'd they let the grandfather stay on?”

“I don't know. Gotta get to the bottom of that.” She is already eager to go back, and the mountains rear tall and green-black in her mind. She thinks of the dusty valley towns and sees the Salinas River flowing brown and muddy past banks hand-plowed with sweet peas and celery. Boots echo on wood and a porch swing creaks. A hummingbird beats the air, holding its beak steady inside a trumpet flower. Cows graze belly deep in new grass and across the river the Gabilan Mountains shine greenly.

“What else you got?”

Frank swallows. She squints at the paper in her hand. “Uh, the Mazettis. John Mazetti. Quite a drinker. He and Saladino used to get into it.”

“Where'd you find this all out?”

“Apparently most of it's local legend, but the Chief of Police verified it. He's a Soledad native, went to school with Saladino's girls. Was awfully protective of them. Kept insisting I was on the wrong track looking into them.”

“Well,” Lewis points out, “whoever killed Saladino whacked him hard enough to crack his skull. Takes a lotta energy, lotta adrenaline to kill someone like that. Not saying a female couldn't do it, but. . .” she spreads her hands wide. “ME couldn't see any defense wounds, no broken hand bones, arm bones. And ain't no other wounds, which makes me think he was taken by surprise. So probably not the girls, but maybe not a stranger either—if some Joe-blow come up an gonna jack you, he gonna point a gun at you or a knife, he gonna threaten you. You gonna be prepared to defend yourself. And some old Joe-blow decide he gonna rob a laborer, he ain't gonna hit him so hard as to kill him. He don't want to kill nobody, just want some money. Let's say he did kill Saladino by accident, he sure as hell ain't gonna stick around and bury him.”

“And he was found under the framing, so whoever buried him must have known they were going to be pouring concrete sooner or later.”

Lewis speculates, “A construction dude. Saladino's a dick. They get in a fight. Dude whomps him too hard. Oh shit. Looks around. Quick, bury him here.”

Frank argues, “You just said no defensive wounds.”

“They have words. Saladino thinks they're done arguing. Dude's still pissed. Picks up a two-by-four and whacks him.”

“Hard enough to kill him?”

Lewis turns palms up in a supplicating gesture. “Hey, man, adrenaline's a funny thing. Ain't no telling what a man do when he all hopped up.”

“What were they arguing over?”

“Who knows? Sound like it could be anything with Saladino, always runnin' his mouth. Money? Way the guy was workin'? A woman? Maybe Saladino stole the dude's boo.”

“He sounds like an ass, but no one's accused him of philandering. Yet.”

“Phi-
lan
-dering,” Lewis repeats with a grin. “That's a good word. Maybe they just arguin' over how to do the job. It's late, right? End of the day? Dude been doin' it one way, then Saladino breeze into town and say now we doin' it this way. You know we seen people killed dead for lesser 'an that.”

“Truth. And we're seeing a pattern with Saladino's drinking, his mouth. You keep working names. Try and find the uncle, his wife, any relatives. Maybe someone down here who worked with Saladino. I'll keep talking to the daughter, see if I can't shake something loose. Maybe go back up next weekend, see what her ex has to say. And Saladino's sister. If I can get Pintar to cover for me.”

“I bet she'll cover. I think she misses being on the street. It's almost like she enjoys rolling on a scene in the middle of the night.” Half-heartedly Lewis adds, “Sure you don't want me to go?”

“Naw, I got it.” Frank knows that once or twice last weekend she'd have gladly traded places with Lewis, but now she can't remember why. “We got any kinda money trail? Any financial on this guy?”

“Nothin' to speak of. Why?”

“Come on, girl. The three motives for murder.”

Lewis ticks off, “Money, pride, and pussy.”

“That's about it.” Frank stands and arches her back. “Sooner or later, what they all boil down to. Keep on it, sister. I'mma check on a couple names from up there, see where they go.”

“A'ight, LT.”

“Hey,” Frank turns. “How ya feelin'?”

“I was on time this mornin', wasn't I?”

“You were. That's good. Hang in there.”

“Like I got a choice?”

“There's always a choice, Lewis.”

Before reviews and bureaucracy sideline Frank for the day, she makes a quick call to Gomez and asks which of Saladino's in-laws on his wife's side might still be alive.

“Hell's bells,” the cop says. “Mary Dusi. Let me think on that. I know her sister died a couple years back. Off the top of my head, there's Carly Simonetti. She'd be Mary's niece. And Carly's brother Jeff, her nephew. He's still out to the Dusi place. They lease it for grapes. Their father was . . . oh, I can't think of his name, but he was one of Mary's brothers. I know she had a bunch of 'em, but I don't know what happened to 'em all. I'm sure the kids would know. Might want to start there.”

“Good deal.” Frank takes the names she's jotted down and gives Lewis the paper. “Check these out. Get me addresses and phone numbers.”

Seeing Braxton sign out, she asks where he's going.

“Knock on some doors about my shooting.”

Frank nods. It's been ages since she rode with him. And she really doesn't want to sit through back-to-back meetings. Copying his estimated return time next to her name, she tells Braxton she's going to roll with him.

He looks surprised but says, “That'd be great.”

Trim and of average height, Braxton has such completely unremarkable features that Frank's still not sure if she could pick him out of a lineup, but the kid's instincts are good and he's willing to learn. Until Figueroa, his career was behind a desk, but he has always wanted a detective shield and is eager to work the street, even if that street's in South Central.

They pass the corner on Slauson where a DL Blood was gunned down by a Raymond last week. Frank notes the shrine that has sprouted at the base of the building. “See that hood weed? Keep an eye on it. The DLs claim east of the 110, but it varies on the west. They beef hard with the Raymonds, so if that shrine starts getting bigger they might be escalating for payback.”

Braxton nods.

She tells him, “Turn left.”

He does but asks why.

“There's an old gal lives right . . . here. Pull over.”

He slides against the curb next to a carefully manicured lawn. The houses on the block are small but lovingly tended.

“Years back, before the priest scandals came out, her daughter killed the bishop at the United Church of All in Jesus. Claimed he'd been molesting her since she was eight and she'd had enough. Beat him to death with a candlestick.” Frank shakes her head. “It was a mess. She confessed right off, never denied it. Said she'd do it all over again. They sent her off to juvy, then she got life in Chowchilla.”

They get out of the car. Frank stretches and Braxton asks, “Why are we here?”

“That bishop was one of my first cases. I'd heard things about him on the beat, rumors, that kind of thing. Never gave 'em much credence until I knocked on Betty Lacey's door,” she nods at the house they're approaching, “and saw her daughter sitting on the couch, still covered in blood. ‘I did it,' she says right off. ‘I killed Bishop Patrick.' Her mama was heart-broke. Killed me to have to take her daughter in. I made it a point from then on to take care of Betty. Keep an eye on her, check in now and then, see how she's doing. And Betty, good God-fearing Christian that she still is, believes it's her duty to keep an eye on the 'hood.”

A tiny, white-haired bird of a woman swings the door open before Frank can knock. “Officer Frank!”

“Miss Lacey.”

The woman takes both Frank's hands and holds them warmly. “How
are
you?” she asks.

“I'm well. And you look fit as ever.”

Miss Lacey lets go to clasp her hands in prayer. “Thanks to the Lord. Come inside, come inside.”

She herds them into an immaculate living room sparingly decorated with paintings of Christ in his various adventures. Frank introduces Braxton, and after a bit of small talk gets to the point.

Miss Lacey has heard about the man killed at the Pik-Wik. She tells the cops all she knows about the shooting but contributes nothing new. Dismayed she can't be of more help, she promises to ask around. As a respected community volunteer and member of her congregation, Miss Lacey's reach is far and wide; Frank leaves empty-handed but well pleased that Miss Lacey is on the case.

“You watch,” she tells Braxton as they walk to the car. “A week or ten days, we'll get a call. She'll have something.”

Braxton's back on Slauson when Frank says, “Whoa. Hold up.”

He steps on the brake and the driver behind them lays on his horn. Frank points to a used furniture store. Faded yellow paint peeks through in spots not covered with graffiti.

“Read that wall. What do you see?”

The car behind roars up alongside and the driver, a shaved Hispanic with a droopy mustache and tatted head, starts yelling obscenities.

“Seriously?” Braxton mutters. “He doesn't recognize an unmarked?”

Frank leans across Braxton, smiles brightly, and flashes her badge. “Is there a problem?”

The driver swears in Spanish and speeds away. Braxton bends over the wheel to study the graffiti. “Gosh, there's a lot.”

Instead of asking if his last rotation was in Mayberry RFD, she punches his hazard lights. “Concentrate on what hasn't been crossed out, what's new.”

“Let's see. Looks like 1 Bloods, Rollin' 30s.” Muttering other clicks, he makes out a Florencia 13 tag.

“Okay. Stop. You got black gangs and a Latino gang that haven't been x'd out yet. Now look at what has.”

Another driver honks and he says, “I should really park.”

She points at an overlay of local 18th Street clicks, all crossed out with One Blood and F13 tags. “Look at the tagger on those.”

“Hey, it's the same guy.”

“Yeah. And see the two lines and three dots under his name? You know what that means?”

“Thirteen. Mexican Mafia.”

“That's right. La eMe. Same guy's in both gangs. Could be an alliance. You don't get a lot of interracial mergers, and it wouldn't be a big deal if the Florence weren't so heavy into dealing for the eMe. See all those 59 HCGs tagged over with 1 Bloods? This is Hoover Criminal territory. We get 1 Blood in a beef with HCG, backed by F13 against 18th Street, and we're gonna be lookin' at enough overtime to retire early.”

“Slick,” he murmurs admiringly.

“Stick around long enough, it becomes easier than reading the back of a cereal box. Quit holdin' up traffic.”

A block later they slide past a tag on the side of a house.

“What's that say?”

Braxton slows. “That's easy. East Side Eight Tray crossing out a Rollin 60s. The tagger's name is KrayZ.”

“Who they feud with?'

“Who don't the 83rd feud with?”

“See?” Frank grins. “You're gettin' it.”

Chapter 14

When they get back to the office, she sees Lewis has left early but there is a neatly typed list of contacts on Frank's chair. She picks up the paper and dials the number for Carly Simonetti. A machine answers. Frank doesn't leave a message. She dials the second number, then Googles North Salinas High Class 1968.

She strikes out on the phone call, but scores with her search. Dialing the given contact number, she wonders how she did her job before the Internet.

Nancy Snelling is the website author and one of those people who lives more happily in the past than the present. She is delighted to talk about the Saladino girls, verifying that Mike and Sal were an item throughout high school, and that Cass went steady with Pete Mazetti at least through their senior year.

“You're sure about that?”

“Of course. I heard Pete proposed before they were even out of school. He wanted to marry Cass before anyone else could steal her away. Those two. They were nuts for those girls. You should talk to them. They followed the girls down to Los Angeles the night their mother died.”