by Baxter Clare
“Who was it?” Kennedy pressed.
“Look, sport, I’d really rather not discuss my personal life, okay?”
“You did in the hospital.”
“That was different.”
“How so?”
The waitress brought them a basket of biscuits, forcing Kennedy’s elbows off the table. Frank noticed her lean right back in when the waitress moved away. Like an animal hunting, she didn’t want to lose the trail.
“Why was it different in the hospital?”
Frank paused, appraising the handsome face again. She decided it wasn’t the packaging that made Kennedy appealing, but the enthusiasm behind it. She was so damn…vibrant. Kennedy was staring at her, waiting for an answer. Frank knew she wouldn’t quit until she got it.
“That was all stuff I thought you should know.”
“I see.”
Frank watched her open a biscuit and draw butter and honey across it.
“Pretty good,” she said around a mouthful.
“As good as mama’s?”
Kennedy laughed and mumbled, “Mom couldn’t cook for shit. It got so that if something wasn’t raw or burnt me and my brother wouldn’t eat it.”
Frank smiled in spite of herself, infected by Kennedy’s high humor.
“So, did you decorate the place or was that the mystery guest?”
Frank’s jaw muscle jumped. She’d been willing to share about the nightmares and the fear, but now Kennedy was crossing over into an area where she had absolutely no business. Any hint of warmth fled from Frank’s eyes. She warned Kennedy to drop it.
“Okay. Sorry,” Kennedy said contritely. She pushed the biscuits toward Frank. “You should have one while they’re warm.”
Frank took a biscuit, but just left it on her plate. She’d spent eight years successfully forgetting Mag until Timothy Johnston’s death had suddenly resurrected her. Mag’s specter had risen as Frank watched Kennedy bleeding out. It had sat next to her in the ambulance and followed her into the hospital. Noah had given the wraith life and Kennedy fed it. Now it loomed large and powerful, hanging over Frank like a second, much darker shadow.
Kennedy continued making Smalltalk, but Frank only answered with nods or monosyllables. After breakfast, she dropped Kennedy off at the house despite the younger woman’s protests that she wasn’t tired.
“Good. Keep it that way.”
“Where are you going?”
“The office for a while.”
“Sure you don’t want some company?”
“Very.”
Kennedy opened her car door but before she got out she turned to face Frank. “I’m sorry I got so nosy back there. I was just curious, that’s all.”
Frank nodded, staring ahead, deciding what would be the best route to take to Figueroa at this time of day.
Kennedy stuck her hand toward her. “Friends?”
Kennedy’s sincerity was genuine, no mocking, no teasing, and Frank thawed a little. She shook. “Sure. What do you want for dinner?”
“Geez, girl, we just had breakfast. Brunch.”
“Yeah. And you’ll be starving in a couple hours. What do you want?”
“I don’t know,” Kennedy whined, then brightened. “Surprise me. If everything you make’s as good as last night’s supper, then I’ll be happier’n a dump rat.”
Frank squinted at Kennedy. “A dump rat?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kennedy laughed. “You never been to the dump and seen all them big ol’ rats runnin’ ‘round? Fat and happy as can be?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Well, girl, you ain’t lived ‘til you’ve gone rat shootin’ at the dump.”
Frank pressed her lips against the smile oozing around the edge of her mouth.
“That’s a big thing in Texas, huh?”
“Oh, yeah. Huge. And it being Texas and all, we got rats the size a Rottweilers.”
Frank’s smile finally spilled over. Kennedy grinned happily and said, “See you later, gator.”
She slammed the door and jogged up the walkway. Frank thought about telling her to take it easy, but Kennedy would just flash that damn cocky smile and do exactly what she wanted. Backing into the street, Frank wagged her head. Kennedy had an amazing capacity to bring Frank down then toss her up again, higher than she’d been in a long time. Higher than she was sure she wanted to go.
He worked the late shift. It was okay. He gave his mother most of the money but kept a stash for himself, for the whores. He didn’t go home right after work. His mother would still be there. Since his father died she was constantly criticizing and complaining. He could never do anything right. If the weather was nice, he’d buy some junk food and eat his dinner at one of the parks. He liked them. They were free, and big, and it was easy to watch girls without anyone noticing him. He started spending more and more time there.
25
Her detectives were used to the click of Frank’s Italian loafers, and when she padded into the squad room in sneakers, they were surprised to see her. “Dude-ess,” Noah greeted affectionately, and Johnnie dropped his feet off his desk, grinning a little too broadly. He didn’t have time to cover his folded newspaper. Ike lifted a finger on a phone call, and from the typewriter Diego greeted, “Ess-say.” She exchanged hand signs with him and slapped Noah’s shoulder as she passed to her office.
“You’re RODded, babe. Go home,” he called.
“You closing everything?” she rejoined, meaning had he handed all the cases to the DA.
“One hundred percent.”
“Then I’m outta here,” she called back, settling into her old chair, realizing how good it felt. Feeling a sense of purpose in directing other people, guiding them to resolve the final, mysterious destinies of strangers—strangers to the nine-three but vivid memories alive to the survivors of their cases—all of it felt fine. Being a homicide cop was the next best thing to being God: telling someone how and why a loved one died was a power trip, and Frank loved that power. A lot of cops shrank from the responsibility involved; those like her fed off it, lived on it. The cost of playing God was high—failed relationships, chemical dependencies, cynicism, emotional petrification. Frank was willing to pay, though. For her it was still worth it.
Sifting through a stack of pink message slips, she prioritized who she needed to get back to and threw away the ones that didn’t matter. Along with wads of legal briefs, interdepartmental memos, RHD memos, and department memos, was a pile of evidence reports, 60Ds to be reviewed, copies of prelim, death, and MI reports and personal notes from her detectives. There was also a message from IAD.
Noah leaned in.
“The Fubar finds you in here, he’s gonna kick your ass.”
“That’d be worth selling tickets to,” Frank muttered.
“I’m serious. He says we’re to ‘report’ if we see you around here.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Uh-uh. Am I gonna have to run you in, Frank?”
“Guess so.”
Noah grinned.
“How’s Gidget?”
“She’s doing well. She’s a quick healer.”
“Not being too much of a pain in the ass?”
“Not as big as you.”
Frank buried her head in the paperwork and didn’t see Noah’s wide smile. Without looking up she said, “Have a seat. Tell me what’s going on. Internal giving you a hard time?”
Noah plucked the knees of his trousers and dropped onto the couch, all gangly joints and limbs.
“Nah, those idiots, they don’t have a clue, even though they’ve been on us like lips on a blow job. They’re just blowing smoke.” Noah paused, then casually threw in, “They’ve been askin’ a lotta questions about you and Kennedy. Your relationship.”
Frank smirked a little, throwing out an old memo.
“That’s not surprising. They’re just swinging in the wind. It’s either grab onto that or grab onto their dicks. They’ve got nothing legit on this. They know it. We know
it. Christ, even the big hats probably know it. But we’ve got to do it for the commission.”
IAD was just doing their usual song and dance, doing CYA, making sure Frank wasn’t holding out on them. They’d been just as hard on her detectives, and almost as hard on Kennedy and the uniforms at the bust. There were no holes in any of the stories, but IAD couldn’t understand how no one had seen Johnston hiding behind the hall door. They were convinced Frank had overreacted and concocted a story to save her skin.
“Besides,” Frank tossed more papers into the garbage, “if they want to bury me they’ve got years worth of shit.”
“Still,” Noah cautioned, “you watch your ass.”
“Nothing I can do about it,” she shrugged. “How’s everybody else?”
“Alright. Gettin’ back to normal.”
The day after the shooting Frank had talked to all her detectives. Jill had requested early leave, but Foubarelle had flatly denied it. Frank told her to take it anyway, that she’d hash out the paperwork later. Johnnie was still pretty amped. She’d caught him after work, after he’d already had a few. She let him tell her about standing out on the balcony in the rain and not being able to do anything and how stupid they were for not seeing him and the door slamming behind them and feeling pukey because she and Kennedy were still in there.
“I’m glad you got that motherfucker,” Johnnie’d confided earnestly. His voice was huskier than usual, probably from being up all night. She wondered if he’d sobered up at all before going to work. Johnnie needed a tight rein for his own good. With Foubarelle running the ops he wouldn’t have that. Their supervisor couldn’t rein in a hobby horse, and she hoped Johnnie wouldn’t do something really stupid before she got back.
Noah was a little subdued, but still bopping around with his chronic enthusiasm. He was alright. He had Tracey, and for that Frank was profoundly grateful.
“Has RHD been around?”
“Not a peep.”
Frank made a disgusted face. Clearly Agoura/Peterson wasn’t high on their list of priorities. Noah filled her in on a slashing Gough had caught, a Belizian who took a razor to his brother’s throat over a third brother’s wife. Their suspect had fled, probably back to Belize, but the surviving brother and a sister wouldn’t cough up anything. Ike got a woman who’d been beat to death with a chair. Her boyfriend denied any involvement, but the neighbors said they’d had an awful fight that night. Her screaming had prompted an anonymous call to Figueroa. By the time the responding unit arrived they had to call homicide. Noah beamed maniacally.
“Sa-ame Bat-channel, sa-ame Bat-station.”
“Quick, Robin! To the Bat-cave!”
“So what do you think about Robin and Batman…you know?” Noah raised his eyebrows in implication.
“Nope. Purely hetero. They were bringing up porno on those big consoles down in the Bat-cave and slapping the bat together.”
“Hmm. You think Alfred was in on that?”
“You bet.”
“Damn! Circle jerks in the Bat-cave. But what about Bat-girl?”
“You kidding? Who do you think dressed her up in all that black leather?”
“Damn!”
Frank smiled, relaxed in her old chair.
“Shouldn’t you be out playing cops ‘n’ robbers?”
Johnnie slumped in the doorway just as Noah jumped up, shouting, “Holy Homicide, Bat-woman!”
“You are too fuckin’ weird,” Johnnie grumbled.
Noah slapped him on the back. “Weren’t you one of the Riddler’s henchmen?”
Johnnie swiveled to let him by and asked Frank, “What the fuck’s he talkin’ about?”
“Nothing you need trouble yourself with, good citizen. What’s up?”
Now Johnnie took a turn on the couch. Frank felt like an analyst as he griped about his work load, Foubarelle’s nitpicking, the absence of witnesses in all his cases, and the absence of anything useful from a witness when he found one. In the middle of this bull session Ike poked his head in. He was resplendent in a three-piece pinstripe, his nails buffed to a high gloss, diamond studs winking like a constellation against his dark hair, which Frank was pretty sure he dyed. What she didn’t know was how Ike managed to dress like a Mafia don, supporting his ex-wife and kids on a detective’s salary. Maybe she didn’t want to know.
Johnnie just stared. Then he said, hopelessly, “On toppa all that, I gotta work in an office fulla faggots.”
Examining his cuff links, Ike replied, “You’re just jealous ‘cause I make you look bad.”
“Yeah, that’s it. So how much time you gotta give yourself in the morning to look like this?”
“Longer than the two minutes you take.”
“Alright,” Frank interrupted. “You both look like fuckin’ movie stars. Johnnie? Anything else here?”
“Nah. I’ll leave you alone with Giorgio.”
“Mille grazie.”
“Mille grazie,” Johnnie imitated in lisping falsetto, and Frank knew how it felt to run a preschool. She looked questioningly at Ike, but he asked how she was doing.
“Good. What’s up?”
“IAD must be giving you a hard time.”
She nodded, wondering when the social call was going to end.
“Don’t let the bastards get you down,” he counseled. Then, “Remember the James case?”
Albion James. Twelve years old. Shot in front of the QuikSnak by his friend, one Little Crank, a thirteen-year-old Broadway Crip who was evidently jumping James into the set. A good banger has to work for their set, procuring money, guns, drugs, whatever the gang needs. James’ work, his initiation into this particular set, was to jack the convenience store. According to the store clerk, James chickened out at the last minute and Little Crank ragged him on the street corner, telling him to get his ass back in there and do the work or he’d issue a general BOS—beat on sight—for him. James evidently tried to walk away, but Little Crank pulled a piece and ordered him back in. James stood glued to the sidewalk while Little Crank insisted, “Do the work, Little Jim-Jam.”
When James still didn’t budge Little Crank blew a hole in his chest, then calmly walked into the store and demanded the clerk’s money. The clerk and a customer witnessed the entire scene. Neither would testify. The clerk adamantly refused; the customer seemed very reluctant but still open to it.
Ike wanted to work the customer but he had to get an okay from the assistant DA to go with just the one wit. Frank frowned, knowing Ike’s chances of persuading McQueen were slim. She became the assistant by winning cases and hoped continuing to do so would land her the DA’s job someday. Filing cases wasn’t about justice, it was about politics. She took the cases that had the best chance of winning. Those with less than compelling evidence were thrown back to the detectives until they could make them more winnable. Frank could already see this one flying back at them, but she told Ike to keep pressing the wits, especially the customer. She’d take the heat if McQueen didn’t like it.
When Ike left, Frank returned calls to the sheriff’s office and highway patrol, and responded to homicide-related queries from a number of agencies around the state. Johnnie returned with a question in the middle of one of her conversations. Frank noticed there was mustard on his shirt, and after she answered him she told him to go change. He said he didn’t have a clean shirt in his locker.
“Then I guess you better borrow one from somebody.”
“Hey. Aren’t you ROD?”
“Yeah. What’s your point?”
“I don’t have to take orders from you,” he smirked.
Frank pushed her lips together, considering. Then she stood and wiggled a finger.
“Come here.”
She led Johnnie to the bathroom down the hall and positioned him in front of the mirror.
“Look. You want to see a cop show up at your son’s homicide investigation looking like you do? Me, personally, I’d call in a complaint on you. Come on. Did you sleep in that shirt too? It’s a
fucking mess.”
Johnnie tried to brush out the wrinkles, saying, “It’s not so bad.”
“It’s trash, man. I’ve seen cleaner clothes on hope-to-die junkies. Look, I know it’s been a rough couple of days, but you’ve got to go home tonight and do some laundry. Get a six-pack, take it to the laundromat, get your clothes done. I’m not your mother, Briggs. I shouldn’t be having to tell you this. I’m running a homicide unit, not a daycare center. Alright?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
They walked back to the squad room and Frank added, “Try wearing polo shirts. They got collars and they don’t wrinkle so bad.”
He nodded. “Maybe I’ll try that.”
Back at her desk, Frank fiddled with a pen, worrying about Johnnie. He was manifesting all the signs of a crash-and-burn, and she wondered how she could ward that off. Noah was his partner. Maybe she’d ask him to have a few beers with him some night, see if he could get Johnnie to open up.
Before she took his place, Joe Girardi had warned her that ninety percent of the job would be holding her cops’ hands. She’d be a sounding board, a mother, a shrink, and a doctor. If she thought getting off the street and getting behind a desk would take her out of the shit pile, she was wrong. It would only get her in deeper. All those interview and interrogation techniques she’d used with cons and perps, now she’d have to use them on her own people just to get them to do their jobs. The trick to being a good supervisor was inspiring your subordinates to do their job. Not to do it for them or order them to do it, but to grease the skids. That meant listening to their marital problems, their economic woes, troubles with their kids, hassles with the bugs that were eating their roses, the dogs pissing on their cars.
If they still weren’t performing after all that, then you had to lay down the law. Mandatory counseling, demotion, transfer— whatever needed to be done. Contemplating her role as a glorified babysitter reminded Frank of Kennedy. She glanced at the clock and thought she better be getting back home to start dinner. She wrapped up a few loose ends and returned one more call before leaving.
On the way out she glanced at Johnnie’s shirt. He hadn’t changed it, but he’d daubed most of the mustard off. He was listening to someone on the phone. He covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “I couldn’t find a clean one.”
