by Baxter Clare
Frank rubbed the back of her neck, bringing her focus into the present.
Al and her father were their only children. Al died not long after she’d moved to California and his wife had returned to Illinois.
Her cousin John had died of hepatitis, contracted from dirty needles. Her other cousin went to Illinois with his mother. Last Frank had heard, in a long-ago letter from her mother, he’d found God and joined a fringe Klu Klux Klan. Frank wouldn’t have been surprised to see his name pop up on an FBI bulletin.
She tried to remember her father’s co-workers, his friends at the bars. Her mother had known hundreds of people but Frank couldn’t say she’d been close to any of them. She scanned nearby headstones, looking for similar offerings. There weren’t any. Whoever put the flowers and votive here had done so deliberately.
Frank squatted in front of the candle. It had a paper picture on it, a kid dressed like a pilgrim. Santo Nino de Atocha. She reached for the glass, then pulled her hand back.
Someone would have left prints on it.
Frank studied the flowers. White chrysanthemums wilting at the edges. In an old mayonnaise jar stained with evaporation lines. The jar had been used before. She stood, peering down into the candle. There was water, about an inch collected at the bottom. Her heart was speeding. She wished she had a camera. She checked the headstones again, making sure she had the right ones. She calculated the odds of having identical headstones in the same cemetery, deciding they were slim to nonexistent in a place the size of Canarsie. She found two fallen branches and stuck them into the jars, inverting the glass onto the sticks so she could carry them without marring the prints.
Carrying the jars like flags, she walked to the corner deli she’d noticed on the way in. She asked a three-hundred-pound man for a phone book and he grudgingly slid it over the counter. Frank found the number for the Ninth Precinct and called on her cell phone.
“Sergeant-Jones-NYPD-how-can-I-help-you.”
“Sergeant Jones, who would I talk to about a lead on a very old homicide?”
“Depends. How old we talkin’?”
“It’s about”—Frank calculated—“thirty-six years cold.”
“That’s pretty icy. Where did this alleged homicide occur?”
“Ninth Precinct and last I heard, about twelve years ago, a detective from the Ninth was working it.”
“What was his name?”
“Can’t remember. He called out of the blue, surprised me that anyone was still working on it.”
“Yeah, you think we’re just sitting around drinkin’ coffee and eatin’ doughnuts, right?”
“Well, actually I’m a homicide lieutenant with the LAPD, so no, I don’t think that.”
“No shit?”
“Absolute constipation, Sergeant. So who would I talk to?”
“Seein’ as how it’s Sunday, that’d be Meyer or Silvester. Hold on a sec.”
Frank waited until another voice came on the line.
“Homicide. Silvester.
The name came out “Silvestuh,” in classic New York-ese. The voice was husky, but definitely a woman’s.
“Detective Silvester, my name’s Lieutenant Franco. I’m with LAPD homicide, and I got something that might help with an old unsolved of yours.”
“Of mine?”
“Not yours specifically. Of the department’s.”
Silvester echoed the desk sergeant, “How old we talkin’ here?”
“Nineteen sixty-nine.”
Silvester whistled. “That’s a mystery, all right. What sorta lead we talkin’ about?”
“It’s a long story, but I have some prints that should get checked out.”
“Prints? What kinda prints?”
“Like I said, it’s a long story and rather than tell it to every dick in the NYPD I’d rather just tell it to whoever’s gonna look at this case.”
The detective bristled. “Well, you know, we just don’t go opening up old mysteries every time Jane Q. Public calls and says, ‘Oh, I got a clue here’s gonna blow this thing wide open.’”
Frank’s temper surged like a dark tide, an unpleasant side effect of sobriety. Mary had assured her it was a phase and that it would pass, but until it did, Frank just had to ride it out, breathe through it. Mary said to pray through it but Frank couldn’t do that. Instead she thought of song lyrics. Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking.
“You there?”
And when she passes, each one she passes, goes, “Ahh.”
“Hello?”
“Detective Silvester. We’re both in the same business so I’d appreciate a little respect here. I’m not some mope off the goddamn street. I have a viable lead in an open case. You can deal with me here and now or you can deal with your supervisor after I get through with him. I’ll leave it up to you.”
After a long pause in which Frank wondered if Silvester was mouthing lyrics too, the detective demanded, “What’s the case numbuh?”
“I don’t have it with me. The victim’s name was Franco. Francis Matthew Franco. The case would have been opened on twelve February, nineteen sixty-nine.”
“Franco. So how are you related to the vie?”
“I’m his daughter.”
“You’re his daughter and you think you got a lead?”
“That’s right.”
“And you say you’re with the LAPD?”
“Correct again.”
“You got credentials to verify this?”
Oh, but he watches so sadly.
“Yes.” Frank bit the hiss off the s.
The detective sighed. “Spell Franco for me.”
Frank did.
“You got a number I can call you back?”
“Not right now, no,” Frank lied. “How ‘bout I call you in twenty?”
“Yeah, all right.”
The detective hung up and Frank sneered at her phone. She snagged a cabbie and held up a finger. Back in the deli she asked the clerk for a box.
“A box?” He was mystified, as if Frank had asked him to pull a stealth bomber out from under the counter.
“Yeah, you know. Groceries come in ‘em. They’re square? Tan? Made of cardboard?”
“Yeah, smart-ass, I know what a freakin’ box is. You gonna buy somethin’ today or just see how much you can get for free?”
“Look, I’ll buy the goddamn thing. Do you have one or not?”
The man gestured with pursed lips. “Over there,” he said, indicating a door to the rear.
Frank found an empty candy carton, showing it to him as she passed the counter, slapping down a buck.
“Lower East Side,” she told the cabbie. “Ninth Precinct.”
“You know what street?”
Do I know what street, Frank thought.
The Ninth’s arched entrance was branded into her memory. She still had dreams where she passed under the rounded alcove and stood before the massive duty desk, but instead of a cop behind the desk there was always a bad guy. Usually a junkie with black holes for eyes. Never a cop in sight, just junkies everywhere, shooting up, sprawled on the nod, vomiting, shaking, pacing…
“Fifth. Between First and Second.”
The cabbie nodded and took off. Frank cradled the box in her lap. They crossed the East River and Frank accepted the water’s flat metallic smell like the kiss from a loving but homely woman.
Being in the city was harder than she thought. Maybe Mary was right. Maybe it was too soon. She wondered if Cal’s still stood next to the precinct. A couple doubles would feel fine right now. Absolutely fine. But thinking the drinks through to their logical outcome meant there’d be no hot chocolate with Gail in the afternoon. Frank checked her watch, wondering how long she was going to be at the station.
At home, Frank’s schedule was unpredictable at best and as Chief M.E., Gail’s wasn’t much better. Between them broken dates had been the norm, so Gail shouldn’t be too upset if Frank had to bail. Maybe she’d be as surprise
d as Frank was by this twist in events and be willing to let her make it up.
As the cab came off the Williamsburg Bridge, Frank averted her eyes. It was okay to look at the Con Ed yard and Fish Park glittering in its raiment of broken bottles, but she didn’t want to look at the projects or tenements. Hurtling up Ludlow to First she couldn’t help but notice the tony shops and trendy bars. The gentrincation was a relief, yet at the same time she had to wonder where the poor were getting squeezed to. Seeing familiar names and buildings, her guts clenched. She cursed herself, wishing she’d listened to Mary and stayed home. The taxi rounded a corner and jerked to a stop in front of the Ninth.
Frank stared. The old station house looked cleaner than she remembered.
The cabbie twisted in his seat. “This the place?”
“Yeah.” She paid him and got out with her carton, mustering the nerve to step inside, up to the desk. Squaring her shoulders she walked under the arch and through the door.
All these years the Ninth had loomed mythic in her memory but in reality the place was small, almost cramped. Frank almost laughed. She walked up to the desk, asking the duty officer where she could find Detective Silvester.
“In regard to what?”
“She’s expecting me.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Your name?”
“Lieutenant Franco, LAPD.”
“Lieutenant Franco,” the cop repeated, nonplussed. “Hold on.” He picked up a phone, eyeballing her as he talked to Silvester. “Yeah, okay.” He hung up. “She’ll be down in a sec,” he told her.
Frank nodded. About ten minutes later a trim woman in dark gray descended the stairs. The two detectives immediately made each other and as Silvester neared, she reproached, “You said you were gonna call.”
“Happened to be in the neighborhood.”
Silvester pursed her lips while they took each other’s measure.
The detective was a couple inches shorter than Frank, late forties or early fifties, sharp dark eyes, salt-and-pepper hair cut below gold hoop earrings, wide mouth, generously lipped. She looked Mediterranean—Jewish or Italian, Frank guessed.
Tilting her head toward the box, Silvester asked, “This your evidence?”
“Yeah. So what did you find out?”
“Come upstairs.”
As they climbed, Silvester asked, “You workin’ this case indie, or what?”
“No. Not at all. Like I said, it’s a long story and I don’t have a lot of time. I’m just visiting for the weekend. Got a nine o’clock flight back home tonight.”
“Oh.” Silvester feigned concern. “Why didn’t you say so? If I’da known that I’da had this case solved for you ten minutes ago.”
“Look.” Frank stopped to glare. “Enough with the attitude, okay? I come to you as a colleague with potential evidence and you’re treatin’ me like a snitch hoping to con a twenty outta you. If you can’t be bothered with doing your job, find me someone who can.”
Two cops squeezed past them on the steps, one of them crying, “Me-e-ow.”
Silvester’s jaw bottomed out and she took a step toward Frank. “Of all the freakin’ nerve. You know how long it’s been since I been home, Miss Hotshot California lieutenant? You know how long since my head’s seen a pillow? I can’t remembuh the last time I ate because Friday mornin’ I got a eight-year-old whacked outta revenge and last night I get a fifty-four-year-old woman assaulted, raped and brained to death with her own broom and you got the freakin’ nerve to stand there and tell me I can’t be bothered with doing my job? If I had any freakin’ strength left I’d kick your ass down these stairs all the way back to the airport!”
A passing man encouraged, “I got fifty bucks on you, Annie.”
“Make it a hundred,” Annie snapped without looking away from Frank.
When she walks just like a samba that swings so cool and sways so gently.
“Okay. I know you’re busy. I know how it is to juggle a dozen hot cases at the same time and something like this is lower than low priority. I appreciate that. I do. I just want to get this evidence delivered through the proper chain of command as soon as I can— this case is nothing to you and with good reason, but this has been my case since I was ten years old and this is the first break I’ve ever had in it. Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking you for.”
Silvester shook her head and continued up the stairs, muttering darkly. Frank followed. Silvester pointed to a chair in front of a desk, ordering, “Sit!”
Frank did. Silvester took the chair behind the desk.
She glared at Frank while pouring a handful of espresso beans into her mouth. “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”
Glad she’d pocketed her shield and ID card, Frank handed them to Silvester. She jotted down the numbers.
Silvester’s phone rang and she picked it up, griping, “Swell. Probably another Miss Marple with more old clues. Silvester,” she barked. She started scribbling furiously. “Yeah, okay. At ten-forty, you said? Uh-huh. And the neighbors behind the building? What time?” She made notes. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Billy. Gimme twenty minutes, huh?” She banged the phone down, cursed. Yanking open a drawer, she extracted a handful of forms. Glowering at Frank, she snapped. “Whaddaya got?”
“Two items. One clear glass Nino de Atocha religious candle and a glass mayonnaise jar.”
“Hold on,” Silvester said, filling out a form. “How do you spell Atocha?”
Frank read off the candle. A thin, white-haired man strode into the room and when Silvester saw him she dropped her pen.
“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” she purred. It came out “Cholly, Cholly, Cholly.”
“Annie,” he chortled from under a white handlebar moustache. “How are you, love?”
She stood to receive a big hug, chiding, “Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”
“I am,” he wheezed. “But we decided to drive home a couple days early. Supposed to be a big storm coming Tuesday and we didn’t want to get caught in it.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I heard you caught a couple while I was gone. Thought you could use a hand.”
“Charlie Mercer, God love ya. There’s a gold seat in heaven for you.”
“Yeah.” The old man chuckled. “Probably an electric chair.”
Silvester pushed the forms toward him. “Come help our friend here from Los Angeles. She’s got some evidence needs bookin’.” Sliding her chair back, Silvester shrugged into a heavy coat.
“Which case?” Charlie asked.
Annie scribbled a note and handed it to him. “Here’s the number. Be a doll and check it out for me, huh? I’m sure the lieutenant here’ll be glad to fill you in on the rest.” She stood on tiptoe to peck the old man’s cheek. “Thanks, Charlie.”
Grabbing a welter of binders and papers, she left Charlie and Frank staring at each other.
CHAPTER 9
Figuring it would go easier if Mercer knew he was talking to another cop Frank extended a hand and introduced herself. Mercer shook, asking, “Los Angeles, huh?”
“Yeah.” Tipping her head toward the candy carton she explained, “I’m on vacation and happened to find these.”
“What sorta case we talkin’ about here?”
“Happened thirty-six years ago. A junkie killed my father. Ninth caught the case but never caught the guy. I come out to visit my father’s grave. I find these. Thing is, everyone in my family’s dead. There’s no friends, no family that coulda left these. So who did? And why? If you’re a cop, what’s your first idea?”
The old man scratched his chin. Flakes of skin speckled his leather jacket. “You thinkin’ the skel left these?”
Frank shrugged. “Or someone who knows the skel, knows what he did.”
” ‘At’s a stretch, ain’t it?”
“You never stretched a lead?”
The old man chuckled again, patting his chest and pulling a pair of glasses from
a jacket pocket. After adjusting them he read the note Silvester gave him. He dropped it in his pocket.
Frank continued, “I want to print these. See what’s on them. Can we do that?”
“Yeah, sure, kid. We can do that. But first things first.” Mercer shuffled over to the coffee machine. He sniffed the half-full pot, made a face. “Murphy’s Law, ain’t it? You ever notice no matter what time of day it is the pot’s either empty or old? I’m gonna dump this, make us a fresh pot.”
“I’m good,” she insisted.
“Well, good for you,” he said. “I’m not, and I’m too damn old to drink bad coffee. Been doing it all my life.” He carried the pot from the squad room, telling her over his shoulder, “Sit tight, kid. I’ll be right back.”
Mercer ambled down the hall, pausing to talk to everyone he knew, which sounded to Frank like everyone from the janitor on up to the captain. She heard him joking, showing off pictures of his new granddaughter.
Frank flicked her wrist, wondering about her date. Pacing the room she thought how homicide desks looked the same everywhere. Files, binders, scratched notes on scraps of paper, which turn into reams of scraps, all set off by institutional walls tattooed with memos, bulletins, wanteds, rules and regs.
She checked her phone, made sure it was on. No messages from Bobby or anyone else. Alone in the quiet room, Frank studied Silvester’s computer. She leaned over and joggled the mouse. The screen saver disappeared and Frank zipped around the desk. Finding an Internet icon she Googled Nino de Atocha, quitting when she heard footsteps in the hall.
Mercer wandered back in, the coffeepot clean and filled with water. “Here we go.” Dumping fresh grounds into the basket, he asked, “Now what did you say your name was?”
“Frank.”
The old man peered over his shoulder in disbelief. “Frank?” he shouted.
“Yeah. Short for Franco. It’s a nickname.”
“Frank,” he repeated. “I remember when girls were named Lucy or Kathy or Linda—now you’re all Franks and Keyshondas, Sky and Brie.” Mercer wagged his head. “My youngest daughter just had a baby. Named the poor kid Brie. How would you like that, huh? To be named after a cheese.”
