Baxter Clare - L.A. Franco 3 - Cry Havoc by Baxter Clare

Author:Baxter Clare [Baxter Clare]
Language: spa
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781931513319
Google: OgRBAAAACAAJ
Amazon: 1931513317
Publisher: Bella Books
Published: 2003-09-01T03:00:00+00:00

"Well, at least we're on the right track," Frank said. "Keep looking for Carrillo. We need him. I'll check with Fubar, see about some witness protection for Hernandez. Might be more inclined to turn if we can get the Mother off his back."

"I doubt it," Noah said. "He's a punk ass. And besides? Which twin are you gonna pin? Lewis say's they're identical."

Noah's pessimism was his way of venting. Frank knew there wasn't a lead he'd pass up, no matter how improbable. She ignored him, letting Lewis add a few more details, until the phone rang in her office. Frank dashed for it.

"Homicide. Franco."

"Narcotics. Kennedy."

"S'up sport?"

"Got the info you requested. There's a boat load. Want to swing by on your way home?"

"That'd work. Until then, give me the gist of it."

"Gist of it is this lady's got some fat pockets and knows how to keep her ass out of a sling. Twenty-three charges, mostly all related to felony possession, and not one conviction. This Betty knows how to fly below the radar. And who to fly with."

Kennedy named a preeminent L.A. law firm, citing a cadre of attorneys the Mother retained there.

"Another curious thing is that a lot of her associates tend to have ugly accidents. Rico Dali, Honduran coke peddler, fell off a roof in 1983."

That was Joe Girardi's frigidaire.

"Jojo Johnson, he was evidently a player in the Rollin 40's and a turf rival. He apparently electrocuted himself in his bathtub. Billy Daniels hustled for the Mother in the early '90s. Somebody doused him with gas and set him on fire in his own bed."

"Whoa," Frank said, making furious notes. "Who handled that?"

Kennedy's papers whispered together.

"Newton," she answered, referring to the LAPD division just east of Figueroa. "But wait, there's more. You get all this for only nineteen ninety-nine, plus, we'll throw in free, extra, at no charge, a pair—you heard right—a pair of Panamanians also with their throats slit."

"A double?"

"That's right. But if you act now, we'll throw in a pimp and rising ghetto star burned to death inside his car."

"What year?"

"Looks like '88."

Gough's cold one.

"Impressive, huh?"

"Back to the Panamanians. Who caught that?"

"That would be . . ." Her papers rustled again. "County. In '89."

"You done good. I owe you a Cherry coke and fries."

"That's all? A coke and fries?"

"I don't even want to know what else you have in mind."

"Aw come on, now, I know you're putting the squeeze on Doc Law, and dang don't I know you're a one-woman gal. I was just thinking dinner and maybe some gin afterwards."

Frank recollected how previous gin games had ended in the bedroom. Darcy leaned into her office, holding up the note she'd left. She waved him in.

"All right. You're on. But let me get back to you. I gotta go."

Kennedy talked to air as Frank swung the receiver into its cradle.

"Have a seat," she told Darcy and closed the door.

"How'd you know about that kid in the dumpster?"

He shrugged.

"It was like the .44."

Resettling into her old chair, Frank said, "Just another picture in your head?"

"Kind of.

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