End of Watch

by Baxter Clare

  He finished with a sigh. “You’d have liked him. I know you would. Everybody did. He was just that kind of boy.”

  Crossing the room, Cammayo offered one of his rare smiles. He pulled a wooden crucifix from the wall and handed it to Frank. It was heavy.

  He explained, “Pablo made that for me. For my thirteenth birthday. He hid it from me, working on it when I wasn’t home and late at night. He was brilliant with a knife. He could make anything. My mother has a collection of statues he made for her. Over twenty saints. Twenty-two, I think. He had so much talent.”

  “Who taught him?”

  “My father. He carved, too. He taught Pablo the basics, but Pablo was better than our father ever was. God definitely gave that boy a talent.” Cammayo burst out with vehemence, “I hate drugs. I hate how they cut down God’s flowers just as they’re blooming.”

  “I know,” Frank commiserated. “I know.”

  She admired the forlorn Jesus carved into the cross, handing it back to Cammayo.

  “Let me ask you, you being a priest and all, why is that good people like your brother get taken so early? Why does God do stuff like that?”

  “No one can know God’s ways. He is a mystery and none can fathom mystery’s reason. We must accept what God delivers, having faith that His reason is just, though to our simple human eye it appears anything but.”

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways and all that, huh?”

  “And all that, yes.”

  Cop and cleric stared at each other.

  “Thanks for your time,” Frank finally offered. To her surprise, Cammayo placed a hand on her arm.

  “You’re not going to stop looking for him?”

  “No.”

  “Let me help.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Please.”

  Frank nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”

  She turned but Cammayo clamped down through her coat. “On your word?”

  She held Cammayo’s gaze. She owed him nothing.

  “On my word,” she vowed.

  CHAPTER 43

  “Well? So? How did it go?”

  Frank let Annie wait on her cell phone. “How did what go?”

  “Hello? Did you talk to Cammayo or not?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “And? If I wanna talk to him am I gonna find him in a hospital somewhere?”

  “I told you I’d be civil and I was. I don’t think he knows anything. I think he’s on the level.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I told him a bullshit story about how we knew Pablo had called him from Leavenworth and he went apeshit. Had no clue what I was talking about.”

  Annie chuckled. “I’d a liked to seen that. So now what? I can’t spend much more time on this, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. I appreciate what you’ve done so far. I’ll follow up on Leavenworth, his cellies. Told Cammayo he might go to Panama. Who knows? Maybe he got there. Probably a huge dead end but it’s my time I’m wasting. Not the taxpayers’. I’ll let you know what I get.”

  “Yeah, all right. You gonna stick around to do that?”

  “No. I’m gonna take a late flight home. Surprise ‘em at work tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh. Yeah, sure.”

  After a silence, Frank asked, “Can I take you out to dinner before I go?”

  “Nah, we caught a stabbin’ last night. Captain’s got us all on it. I’m probably gonna be lookin’ for this mutt all night.”

  “Then I won’t see you before I go?”

  “Not likely. So, you take care, Franco, huh? I gotta go.”

  “Wait.” Unsure how to express her sincerity, Frank blurted out, “I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done.”

  “Aw, shut up. I was just doin’ my job.”

  “A bit above and beyond.”

  “Hey, it’s no big deal. You take care of yourself, cookie.”

  “Yeah, you too, Annie.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Holding the dead phone, Frank already missed her friend. Without enthusiasm she found the Leavenworth number. She was passed through half a dozen numbers until she hit a dead end with an answering machine. She left her message then paced the apartment.

  She was anxious. Something wasn’t finished. She was clean with Annie—it was nothing there. And Cammayo felt done too. She still vacillated between anger and acceptance, but her anger was hollow. More habit than real. And although Cammayo might have missed a detail or two she was convinced he didn’t have much else to offer. She stopped to look out the window, craning to see the skyline the World Trade Center used to fill.

  Everything changed and nothing changed. Tower’s rose and fell but there were always buildings. Weather changed but there was always sky. People came and went but there were always people.

  “Yeah.” She tapped the windowpane. “That’s it.”

  Frank got into Annie’s old coat one more time. She fired up the protesting Nova and drove east. She made a quick stop before parking in front of the Canarsie Cemetery, following the familiar path to her parents’ grave. There were visitors scattered throughout the cemetery, but none were close.

  Frank hunched between her parent’s stones. She cleared her throat, looking at her father’s name. “The good news is, I’m pretty sure who killed you. Bad news is, he’s probably dead. But it doesn’t matter anyway. You’re all dead. Who knows? Maybe you already know each other. Playing cribbage on a cloud, I don’t know. Anyway, I’ll keep looking. Just in case. Mom, the good news is …” She placed a flamboyant bunch of flowers at her mother’s stone. “I know you liked pansies.” She swallowed. “But they didn’t have any. Winter, I guess. So I just took one of everything the florist had. I know you like color …” Frank ran a hand across her mouth. She stood, looking around, part cop, part distraction. She squeezed the back of her neck. Glanced up at the bloodless sky.

  “The thing is,” she whispered, “I’m sorry. Sorry I left. Sorry I ran away. Sorry I wasn’t there for you.” Fighting the rising pressure in her throat, she tacked on, “I’m sorry you died alone.”

  The tears came anyway. Frank let them. She bowed her head.

  “I’m sorry for all of it. Sorry to the core of my bones.”

  Hot drops splashed on her mother’s stone. She thought of them as liquescent offerings and choked on a small laugh.

  “Big word, liquescent. I wish you could meet Gail. You’d like her. Both of you. She has your kind of politics. Very correct.”

  Frank pulled in a deep lungful of the wintry air.

  She felt done. Until she had an idea.

  Without daring to see if anyone was watching, Frank sat in the snow. She lay down, waving arms and legs, then rose carefully. Looking at the angel on her mother’s grave, Frank concluded, “The good news is I love you. Very much. No bad news.”

  With a nod to the angel, Frank left the way she came.

  CHAPTER 44

  Frank landed in LA at two in the morning. She got a cab to Figueroa and crashed on the skinny couch in her office. Up at five, she took a French shower and changed into the fresh outfit in her locker. She’d finished half a pot of coffee by the time Darcy came in at five-forty.

  “Hey.” He plopped the Times on his desk and poured a cup. “Good trip?”

  “Good enough. Glad to be home. Fill me in.”

  He did, as the rest of the squad trickled in.

  They assembled for the morning brief, and afterward, cocking a hip on Bobby’s desk, Frank praised, “Nice job holding the fort down, Picasso.”

  “Thanks.”

  “There’s a lieutenant’s exam coming up. You taking it?”

  Bobby sat back and clasped his hands under his chin. He smiled. “I was thinking about it.”

  “Do more than think about it. Study up. Take it. I’m not gonna be here forever.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Just means you should be ready to take over a unit. Here or anywhere else.” She picked
up a six-inch statue on Bobby’s desk. It was an intricate carving of a man with wings and a sword. “Who’s this?”

  “St. Michael. Patron saint of policemen.”

  Frank studied the dark wood. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Irie.” Bobby grinned. “Another sideline. He’s pretty good.”

  She put the statue down. “What’s Irie’s real name?”

  “Oh, man, I don’t know. I’d have to look it up. John-John or something like that.”

  “Find it for me.”

  Frank didn’t move and Bobby asked, “Right now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?” he asked, sliding open a drawer.

  “Nothing. Just curious.”

  Obsessively tidy, Bobby found a specific folder in his tabbed and cross-tabbed files. He flipped through to an indexed page and read, “Romeo. John-John Row-may-oh.”

  “Row-may-oh,” she repeated. “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Did we ever fill out a package on him?”

  Bobby shook his head. Detectives were supposed to register confidential informants. Irie, like a lot of other CIs, had balked at becoming an official snitch but the detectives used him anyway.

  Frank edged off the desk. “Anyway. Good job. Get to studying, huh?”

  “Roger that.”

  Before getting tangled in the whirlwind of running a homicide unit Frank closed her office door and called Gail. “Hey,” she greeted. “How about lunch?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Work.”

  “When did you get in?”

  “Late last night. Figured you wouldn’t want to give me a ride home at three a.m.”

  “You figured correct, copper. Welcome home.”

  “Thanks. It’s good to be back. So whaddaya say? Lunch?”

  “I can’t. Not today. It’s too busy. But how about dinner? Maybe Saturday?”

  “Dinner it is.”

  “Did you find anything else before you left?”

  “You mean Cammayo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No. I gotta chase a couple leads down from when he was in the can. I’m pretty sure they’ll just go to ground, but still and all, it’s nice to have a name after all this time. Even though he’s probably long dead.”

  “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “Certain.”

  “Well, good. That must feel satisfying.”

  “I don’t know about satisfying,” Frank mused. “More like done. Just over.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “Thanks. Me too. How you been?”

  “Okay. Tired. Exhausted really. I fall into bed and wake up exhausted. I think I need another vacation.”

  “I read about the Bentley case. Sounds like it’s the Sheriff’s nightmare now.”

  “Yeah, thank God.”

  “So …” Frank danced around her question. “When was the last time you had a checkup?”

  “I’m going in on Friday. I’m sure it’s nothing. I probably just need to take my iron. I’ve been getting home too late to eat dinner and then I don’t want to take vitamins on an empty stomach, so I don’t, and this is what happens.”

  “Sounds like you need someone to cook for you.”

  “Does this mean you’re making dinner Saturday?”

  “Lady’s choice. I’ll take you out, cook at home, whatever you’d like.”

  “I miss your cooking. Why don’t I come over?”

  “What would you like?”

  “I don’t know. Steaks? Up my iron intake?”

  Frank already missed the red wine she’d drink with a steak, but answered, “You got it. See you around six?”

  “That’ll be perfect. I’ll see you then.”

  ‘“Kay.”

  “I’m glad you’re back.”

  “Me too. Saturday.”

  “Saturday.”

  Frank nestled her pleasure close to her heart, keeping it there like a small warm bird.

  CHAPTER 45

  Tuesday, 25 Jan 05—Home

  Tired. Easy day but boring. Had to sit through one of Foubarelle’s bitch sessions and then the supervisors’ meeting. Cleared up a lot on my desk though. Hit the downtown meeting after work. Really like that one. Missed it. Always a lot of cops, law enforcement types there. A couple people missed me. Bull thought Td gone back out. He’s a good guy. Retired from the Santa Monica PD, been sober twenty-one years. Pretty inspiring character. He’s got some hairy stories—stopped drinking after he’d called in sick three days in a row, on a bender. Sitting on his couch, throwing up blood into a crystal vase, he saw himself in the mirror over the mantle. Death warmed over, sitting in his living room, holding a vase full of bloody puke. Gave me the willies. Like seeing me in the TV with the Beretta in my mouth.

  Had a nice talk with Gail. She’s coming over for dinner on Saturday. Yeah, okay, Tm excited. I know anything can happen between now and Saturday but just the fact that she wants to have dinner is encouraging. I miss her. Miss talking to her everyday, going to bed together, waking up next to her and everything in between. Even miss her clothes all over the floor and dishes piled in the sink. Small enough price to pay for love.

  Had a good talk with Mary too. Told her about making the snow angel. She cried. She’s so cute. She asked how the willingness to believe was going. I told her it was going well. Tm too tired to fight it. If there’s something out there, great. If not, oh well, me and billions of others have been duped. And no way to tell either way. So whatever. Tm willing to be willing to believe there’s something out there. Maybe that’s who made Bull look in the mirror that morning or made me glance at the TV.

  Speaking of weird, I was talking to Darcy and guess who walks into the squad room? Marguerite, of all people. All five-two and a hundred-twenty pounds of tightly packed flesh. Still a bomb, which made her appearance interesting enough, but given how much she dislikes poor Darcy I was surprised to see her there. He was too. While he was recovering, she says to me, “Hello, Lieutenant. You’re looking well.”

  I thank her, tell her I am well.

  “Yes,” she says. “I can feel that.”

  I kind of nod, make to leave, but she shakes her head and says, “Still unconvinced, aren’t you? What a waste.”

  “Waste of what?” I ask.

  “You have a gift, Lieutenant. Like my ex-husband. The gods gave you both a talent and you both choose to squander it. It’s a shame.”

  Darcy growls, “Marguerite, if you came to berate us maybe you could at least wait until end of watch.”

  She gives him a sour look and says she’s come to talk about Gabriela, if he can spare three minutes for his daughter.

  I say, “Good to see you again, Ms. James,” and start for my office.

  She tells me, “Likewise, Lieutenant,” and before I can even see it she’s taken one of her business cards—from out of nowhere—maybe she was holding it in her hand, but it felt too cool and smooth to have been held there for long—and she says, “Come see me again, Lieutenant. Soon.”

  I smile, ask, “Why soon?”

  She laughs—gorgeous woman, frankly stunning when she laughs. I swear she glowed, like chocolate backlit by sun—and she says, “You of all people should know. Our time here is short, unpredictable, and there is much to be done.”

  Strange chick, I know, but she gets to me. I feel naked around her, like I couldn’t keep a secret from her even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. Weird, huh? I kept the card.

  This is kind of interesting too.

  Noticed a little statue on Bobby’s desk this morning. He’s had it a while but I never paid any attention to it until this morning. It’s a pretty intricate carving of St. Michael. Struck me because Cammayo said his brother carved a whole series of statues for his mother. Bobby said Irie carved it for him. When I asked him Irie’s real name, he tells me Romeo. Romeo was Cammayo’s father’s name. Romeo Cammayo. Then I remember Cammayo’s mother saying “bwoy.” Didn’t think much
of it at the time but she has a bit of an island lilt like Irie’s.

  See? That’s how tired I am. Irie did it. He killed my father then came cross-country to settle in LA and snitch for me.

  I was thinking I’d get him to carve a mini Madonna for Annie. A pocket pal she could keep in her purse. Little token of my appreciation.

  All Tm knowing now fuh sure is dat some crazy white gull needfuh to get her some sleeps.

  Later.

  CHAPTER 46

  For lunch the next day Frank grabbed a burrito from the bodega down the street and tracked Irie to his usual corner on Slauson Avenue. She parked and crossed the busy street.

  “Off’cer Frank,” the old man grumbled. “Tweet in one week. You gwan git me in trouble.”

  “Don’t worry,” she answered, waving off his concern. “I don’t want to talk shop. I want you to make something for me.”

  “Yeah? What dat be?”

  She spread her thumb and forefinger. “Little statue, ‘bout this big, of the Virgin Mary. Can you do that for me?”

  Irie’s face split and he padded back to his crate. “Can I do dat,” he boasted. “On’y wid my eyes closed!”

  Frank studied the battered face, the rough scar under his right eye. “Irie, mon, you look like you been rode hard and put away wet.”

  “Ha, ha. Dat de trut’. So you wan’ it ‘bout six-inch big?”

  “More like four. So you could carry it with you.”

  “Ah, like fuh put in you handbag.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What kind wood you want? Light? Dark? Middle?”

  “I don’t know. Dark, I guess. Heavy. I want it to be solid. Have some weight behind it.”

  Irie pulled at the stubble on his chin. “I gotta see what I got to home. Gonna cost you t’irty-five, maybe fifty dolla’. ‘Bout dat.”

  “That’s fine. I saw the Saint Michael you made Bobby. I want it like that.”

  Irie grinned. “I make you pretty Madonna. No worries.”

  “You’re good. Where’d you learn to carve to like that?”

  He dismissed the question. “Is a easy t’ing for me.”