by Baxter Clare
Frank was the kind of drunk who liked to be alone, who crawled off into a hole to lick her wounds and feel safe. As uncomfortable as the idea was, she knew it would be healthier to stay with Annie than alone in a hotel room above a bar.
“You sure?”
“Naw,” she chided. “I’m mentally deranged and I just changed my mind. Course I’m sure.”
Frank trailed her up the stairs. “That’d be nice.”
“Good. I got an extra key in my desk. You can let yourself in.”
After checking out of the hotel Frank did just that.
The apartment was a flight up in a renovated loft building on Franklin Street. Turning to lock the door behind her, she was startled by a child-sized statue of the Virgin Mary beside the door. Rosary beads hung from an almost life-size wooden hand and candles encircled the base. Checking out the rest of the apartment, Frank wondered what she’d gotten into. But everything else seemed normal enough. Honeyed wood floors warmed the rooms and high ceilings with big windows made the place feel cozy rather than cramped. Framed photographs and studio portraits hung everywhere and Frank easily spotted family resemblances. She scanned the titles on a bookshelf, amused they were all romance novels.
Despite the Virgin Mary lurking by the door, Annie’s crib was a lot nicer than the hotel. And Frank didn’t have to worry about running into Madonna in the bathroom. After stashing her few things in the guest room she found Annie’s phone book in the tiny kitchen, using it to figure out subway lines to the cemetery. Done with that, she looked for coffee and made a pot. She filled a china cup and carried it back to the living room on its saucer.
She was intent on taking another look at her father’s file, but the statue caught her eye. It was about four feet tall and appeared to be carved from a solid block of wood. Frank wondered how much something like that cost. Sipping her coffee she moved around it. Its imploring eyes followed.
“So?” Frank suddenly asked. “Is it another woman?”
She waited for a sign. When none came, she shook her head and paced the living room. Her briefcase was on the coffee table. Frank popped it open. She pulled the file out and paced some more, finished her coffee. After refilling her cup, she settled onto the couch and opened the folder.
She flipped through years worth of DD5s, past her own statement, the deli clerk’s statement, pausing at a list of evidence collected on and around her father’s body. The list was short. Khaki slacks, navy T-shirt, navy cardigan, brown leather jacket, white crew socks, leather work boots, white shorts. Eighty-three cents in change, one gold Timex watch, one gold wedding band, a single-bladed pocketknife, a key ring, a pack of Winston cigarettes and a Zippo lighter.
Each item conjured a memory but the last was the most vivid. In the still apartment Frank could hear Frank Sinatra under bar chatter, the click-snap, click-snap, click-snap of her father’s Zippo as she opened and closed it. Over and over, while her father and Uncle Al talked and smoked and drank. She waited for them to pull fresh cigarettes from their packs so she could fire up the Zippo. Click-snap, click-snap, click-snap.
She scanned the autopsy report.
“What the hell?”
The coroner had described her father’s liver as “mildly cirrhotic.” Cirrhosis was a nutritional ailment. She’d had autopsies done on kids whose livers looked like fine pate instead of sleek, dark organs. Cirrhosis in those cases was caused by severe malnutrition but in most adults it indicated degrees of alcoholism.
“Christ.”
Frank pitched the folder onto the couch. She’d never seen her father drunk but he drank every night. He and Uncle Al would put away pitchers at Cal’s and knock back occasional shots. At home her parents always drank wine and beer, martinis and champagne on special occasions. Her father’s tolerance for alcohol was prodigious. Just like her own.
She laid her head against the back of the couch. A familiar and comfortable anger welled inside her. She wanted to hold it and warm herself with it, but at this delicate stage of sobriety anger was an indulgence she couldn’t afford. Instead she found her cell phone. She was relieved when Mary answered, “Hey, kiddo. How’s it going?”
“I’m sober.”
“Well, that’s good. What else?” Frank told her sponsor about the trip to the cemetery. “When Annie suggested maybe it was another woman visiting the grave I wanted to punch her in the mouth. And I wanted to punch me too. Here I am a homicide cop, right? And I haven’t even considered another woman. I still don’t think it’s true—I don’t want to think it’s true—but I guess I have to accept it might be. Then on top of that, I’m going through his autopsy report and I read he’s mildly cirrhotic. He was a drunk, just like me. And a womanizer. I’m telling you, Mary, I’m not liking this. Not one little bit.”
“Aren’t you putting the cart a little ahead of the horse?”
“You mean the other woman?”
“Yeah! You have the poor guy drawn and quartered already! And even if he was involved with someone else, how does that affect how he treated you? Did it make him any less of a father? Did it make him love you any less?”
“No,” Frank admitted.
“So get off your pity-potty about this womanizer business. One, you don’t even know if it’s true, and two, if it is, it doesn’t change his love for you, which you were damn lucky to have. Now. So what that he was a drunk? I know some pretty nice people that are drunks.” When Frank didn’t answer, Mary probed, “It sounds like you’ve had him pretty high up on a pedestal.”
Frank hid a sigh. As it so often did lately, her rage transformed into sadness. Tears replaced her clenched fists.
Mary continued, “That’s an easy thing for a child to do. I’m sure this will come up as you work the steps, but for now just know that your father loved you. That’s what you need to hang onto. In the end, love is really all that matters. And he loved you. Right?”
Frank caught the Virgin’s sorrowful gaze. She closed her eyes and a tear slipped down her cheek. Mary was silent. Frank wiped the tear away, clearing her throat. “I hate how much I still miss him. Being here, at his grave … I didn’t think after all this time it would be so hard. I didn’t think I still cared so much.”
“Oh, Frank, honey, of course you care. You have a huge heart. And this is a huge wound that you’ve never let heal. It scares me that you’re doing this so soon in sobriety but I gotta tell you, kiddo, I think you can do it. I think you’re ready to open up this scab and air it out, to really let it heal this time instead of just putting a Scotch Band-Aid over it and pretending it’s gonna go away. It hurts to scrub out a wound, but that’s how to heal it.”
Frank had no reply. She’d just have to take it on faith.
“It’s gonna be all right, kiddo. You’re gonna get through this and you’re going to be stronger for having done it. You go ahead and have a good cry. I’d say you’re due.”
Frank wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “You think?”
“I certainly do. I just wish I could be there with you.”
“You absolutely are, Mary. You’re here with me right now. Thanks for letting me blow.”
“That’s what I’m here for, honey. And I’m so happy you called me. You been to a meeting today?”
“No. I’ll go tonight.”
“Good. You need to stick close right now. It’d be too easy to hide out and crawl into a bottle for a little relief.”
“Yeah, I thought about that. The cop I’m working with offered to let me stay at her place and I turned her down. Then I thought it probably wasn’t such a good idea to be hanging out alone in a hotel room listening to the bar down below, so I took her up on it.”
“Good girl! Where’s she live?”
“Got a loft in Tribeca. It’s nice. She’s a nice lady.”
“Well, good for you. I feel better you’re with someone. And you know, this will end, Frank. One way or another you’ll get through to the other side. Pain doesn’t last forever.”
“That
’s what I hear.” Frank wasn’t sure she believed it, but this too she was willing to give the benefit of the doubt. “Thanks for listening, Mary. You’re an angel.”
“Oh, honey, I’m just so glad I can be here for you.”
“You are. Christ!” Frank slapped her forehead. “I’m so busy thinking about myself I completely forgot to ask how your grandson’s surgery went.”
“Oh, it went fine. They pinned his ankle and he’ll be playing second base as good as new. Thanks for asking.”
After she said good-bye Frank was left staring at the Virgin.
“You know what?” she told the statue. “I’m hungry.”
CHAPTER 20
Annie came home, dropping to her knees in front of the Madonna. She crossed herself and mumbled for a minute. Standing, she saw Frank leaning against the kitchen wall, watching her.
“What? You never seen anybody pray before?”
“What do you pray for?”
“In the mornin’ when I leave I pray for a safe day and at night when I come home I give thanks that I made it back in one piece.”
“You Catholic?”
“No, I’m Jewish. Whaddaya think? Course I’m Cat’lic.”
“Hey, for all I know, you could be. I never studied world religions, okay?”
Annie smirked, slipping out of her coat. “My mother wouldn’t say I’m Catholic. She walks in here, she gives the Virgin a wide berth. She thinks it’s idolatrous.”
“Is it?”
“How should I know? I’m a cop, not a priest. It’s Mary. How idolatrous can it be?”
“I took the liberty of making some spaghetti. You hungry?”
“Am I hungry? I could eat the sofa. You’re a doll.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
While Annie changed clothes Frank broiled garlic bread and tossed a salad. Dinner was waiting on the kitchen table when Annie returned.
“You cook and clean up after yourself,” she marveled. “A miracle.”
“And your loose change is still around.”
Annie laughed, producing two glasses and a bottle of red wine. Frank watched her put the glasses on the table and pull the cork. It made a familiar pop and as Annie tipped the bottle Frank laid a hand over her glass.
“No, thanks.”
“You don’t drink?”
Frank shook her head, admiring the carnelian stream Annie poured into the other glass.
“Only three reasons cops don’t drink. They’re health nuts, they’ve found Jesus or they’re drunks. Which are you?”
“You’re the detective. You figure it out.”
Annie grinned, corking the bottle. The wine’s scent tickled every cell in Frank’s body. Each one leaned toward Annie’s glass like eavesdroppers in the old E.F. Hutton commercials.
“All right, Miss Hotshot LAPD lieutenant. You can’t be a vegan else you wouldn’t a made spaghetti sauce with meat, and it tastes like real butter on this bread. Plus, I saw the dressing came out of a bottle. Too many chemicals for a health nut. So I don’t think it’s that. Still, it’s a better shot than the Jesus freak. A Jesus freak wouldn’t a asked if praying to Mary was idolatrous. And I’ve heard what comes outta your mouth. No Jesus freak talks like that.”
Frank grinned.
Wiping spaghetti off her chin, Annie went on. “And the way your hand shot out over that wineglass makes me think you don’t even want to be tempted to drink. How’m I doin’?”
“I think you should get promoted.”
“How long you been sober?” Annie asked around a mouthful.
“Couple months.”
Annie lifted an eyebrow toward her glass. “This bother you?”
“No,” Frank lied. As the silence unfolded she added, “I appreciate your letting me stay here. You’re right. It’s a lot nicer than a hotel.”
“Heck, I’m the one who’s glad. This is delicious.”
“Glad you like it.”
“Who’s the lucky person you cook for at home?”
“No lucky person right now.”
Annie nodded. “It’s hard to keep ‘em around. Men expect you to be secondary to their careers, but turn the tables and their egos can’t handle it.”
Deciding to extend the candor, Frank admitted, “I get around that by dating women. Been lucky so far. Been with cops and an M.E. They know what the job demands so they aren’t pissed off— well, too pissed off—when they don’t see you for days on end.”
“Smart.” Annie tapped her temple with a fingertip. “Why didn’t I think a that?”
” ‘Cause your mother would’ve really had a fit.”
Annie laughed, choking on her spaghetti. Washing it down with wine she sputtered, “Oh, God forbid! Bad enough I’m a cop, huh, but a lesbian? She’d come unglued. She would just come unglued. God bless her, she’d starve to death, she’d be so busy lighting candles for me. I guess you didn’t have to deal with that, huh?”
“Nope. Advantages to dead parents. They’d have probably been all right with it. My mom for sure, and probably my dad, too. They were pretty laid back.”
Frank asked if Annie had caught any more bad guys and she answered, “Thought I’d take a break. But I gotta say, you’re my good luck charm. You show up on Sunday and by Tuesday I got three collars. I ain’t lettin’ you go home.”
“I’ve seen how you work. You make your own luck.”
Annie deflected the compliment, asking, “What did you do today besides make a gourmet dinner?”
“Hardly gourmet. Not much. Figured out which subways to Canarsie. Read. Took a little nap.”
“Nice.” Dabbing the napkin at her mouth, she sat back with her glass of wine. “You know, my son’s car is sittin’ in the garage being a home for rats and spiders. Use that instead a the subway.”
“Why isn’t your son using it?”
“Kid thinks he’s from California. He had to have a car when he turned sixteen so I bought an old beat-up Nova from a dealer owed me a favor. He drove it six months and realized what a pain it is to drive in the city. I keep it as backup. It’s a great surveillance car, but for the most part it sits around gettin’ rusty. You take it tomorrow.”
Frank was uncomfortable with so much generosity. She fidgeted, asking, “You sure?”
“I’m sure. Wait’ll you see it. You might want to take the subway. But if you’re sittin’ there doing surveil all day at least it’ll be a little warmer. Supposed to keep snowing through Thursday, maybe Friday.”
Frank nodded. “Okay. But I’m not sure how I can repay all your generosity.”
“Are you kiddin’? Way I look at it, you’re workin’ for me for free. Repay me by helpin’ me close your father’s case. That’s my payment.”
“Deal.” Checking her watch, Frank told Annie she was going to an AA meeting.
“Oh, yeah? I got a cousin goes to AA. He’s a different man since he stopped drinkin’. Got a beautiful wife, an adorable three-year-old and a baby on the way. Couple years ago, I was sure I was gonna have to escort his mother to the morgue. But he’s got his act together now.”
Frank nodded. “You like ice cream?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“I was gonna get some on my way back. What flavor you like?”
“Aw, get whatever you like. I’ll be in bed by the time you get back. I’ll see you in the mornin’, huh? We’ll go down and see if Ben’s car starts.”
“Okay. Sleep well.” Frank stopped before she left the kitchen. “I really appreciate all this, Annie.”
“Psh. It’s nothin’. Get outta here.”
Frank walked north, through the snow. Along the way she passed bums clumped together with bottles, huddled under cardboard tents or curled in tattered sleeping bags. Hunched against the sharp wind, she was glad she wasn’t among them. And well aware she could be.
CHAPTER 21
No stranger to surveillance, Frank thought it the most physically challenging of all police work. For days, sometimes weeks on end, a
surveillance team sat in the front seat of an unmarked sedan. They stayed there hours at a time, unable to stretch protesting muscles. They ate junk food, drank too much coffee and then spent most of the shift wondering when they could take a leak.
If the surveillance went down at night, there were no lights; in winter, no heat; in summer, no air conditioning. The detectives had to stay alert, focusing only on their subject and the street. They couldn’t distract themselves with magazines, books or crossword puzzles. Or at least shouldn’t. Frank rode with an old robbery cop who read the newspaper while she was on the eye. When he was done reading he’d do the daily puzzles. To his credit, he usually spotted their target before she did.
By comparison, setting up on the Canarsie Cemetery was a cakewalk. Frank’s biggest concern was nosy neighbors calling the cops about her daily presence. To avoid a police scene, Annie notified the 69th Precinct of Frank’s surveillance. They clamored for part of the action until Annie explained it was a long-shot setup on a homicide almost four decades old.
Frank found a parking spot on Remsen Avenue. It was a couple cars behind where she’d have liked to be, but by sitting on the passenger side she had a good view of her parents’ plot and its approach. She locked the car and walked to the plot. There were no fresh flowers. No new footprints in the snow.
She returned to the relative warmth of the car. Annie was right about the Nova—it was perfect for surveillance. Dented and rusted, windows cracked, it looked like a small-time hustler’s car. The upholstery was held together with duct tape and the dashboard was split like a busted lip. But it ran and the heater blew hot air. Even the radio worked. Frank turned it on, pouring a mug of coffee from the Thermos Annie had filled for her.
Her briefcase was on the floor of the passenger seat. She hadn’t looked at it since reading her father’s autopsy protocol. She knew she should plow through it, scrutinize it as closely as she would any other file, but she couldn’t psych herself into thinking this was an ordinary homicide. Maybe it would be best to avoid reading it altogether. As Annie made clear, Frank didn’t have any objectivity on the case. What was there to gain by poring through it?
