Last Call

by Baxter Clare

  To prove she has no problem, Frank vows to stay sober for a week. If she can get through the week without seeing purple spiders or ending up in the Betty Ford clinic, then she must be okay. If she can’t, then she has a problem. She tests herself the week Foubarelle goes out of town. Being on call the whole week is good incentive to stay sober. The days are easy, the nights a little harder. Around four or five o’clock, her body nags that it’s time for a drink. She distracts herself with work. She spends the hours interviewing residents along the street where the Pryce family used to live. She knocks as late as eight o’clock and then spends another couple hours writing notes. Twice she sleeps on the skinny vinyl couch in her office. The other nights she slips in next to Gail for what is little more than a nap and change of clothes.

  When Fubar returns, Frank celebrates her week of sobriety at the Alibi. Tossing off a double, she orders another. Johnnie joins her and at midnight Nancy asks, “Want me to call you a cab?”

  Frank thinks, you can call me anything you like, but says, “Good idea.”

  Next morning her hangover is exquisite. She wonders how she got that drunk. She didn’t mean to, and scolds that she should’ve had dinner. She resolves to go easy tonight. Two beers, max, she tells herself.

  Alcohol has always been a friend Frank can count on. When she feels low it consoles her. When she wants to celebrate it takes her higher. When she mourns, it comforts her. When she needs to chill, it calms her. If she’s a little down, it brings her up. If she’s amped too high, it brings her down. The booze oils her enough to fit comfortably into her own skin, no matter how tight, how large, how raw or how exhilarated she feels. It makes bad times bearable and good times better.

  Because the booze has always been such a loyal and dependable friend, Frank cannot—will not—see its betrayal. And the betrayals start off small enough: a hangover on a workday, the fuzzily recalled evening, a tiff that in the sober light of dawn seems senseless. They’re petite mignons, really, little sins, of fleeting concern during her shower or drive to work.

  Because she hasn’t noticed the smaller betrayals, she’s equally blind to the larger ones—the recriminating arguments that leave her bruised but justified; remorseful cold shoulders to those deserving better; the dull head that shadows much of her workday followed near the end of watch by distractive planning of what to drink and where.

  Alcohol is Frank’s right-hand man, her Robinson Crusoe and Gal Friday rolled into one. It’s the cavalry routing the bad guys in the final desperate hour. It’s the lifeline suddenly appearing in a walloping sea. So of course she has ignored all the hints and signs that her old friend is going behind her back. Who could look at that? Who would want to see? She keeps loving her buddy, her pal, sharing the bulk of her time with it and all her confidences. And her friend pats her hand or gives her the high-five just as it always has. And because she still trusts it, unable to believe it has anything but her best interests at heart, she willingly takes its hand and follows it too far.

  When she wakes from a blackout wondering how she got home, while she pulls her guts up through her teeth at the kitchen sink, or hides bloodshot eyes behind Ray Bans and shaking hands in pockets, she wonders how she’s crossed the line again. She berates herself for going as far as she has and swears she won’t do it again. But when the booze calls her and says one or two won’t hurt, just for old time’s sake, she says, “Sure,” certain, trusting even, that her old friend won’t hurt her. And because she trusts it, she follows it repeatedly, again and again, over the line.

  Frank decides her vow to stick to two beers is unnecessary. By nine o’clock that night she has finished a six-pack. There are no notable aftereffects and Frank thinks no more of limits or abstaining. She is fine. Just fine.

  Chapter 18

  There are two people that Frank has yet to talk to—Mary and Walter Pryce. She’s put off calling Ladeenia and Trevor’s parents because she knows they will ask about Noah. He had stayed in touch, calling them regularly just to check in. To let them know he hadn’t forgotten. He’d been fond of the Pryces and they of him. Everyone liked Noah. He was just that kind of guy.

  Frank has a few questions for the Pryces, loose ends she could easily tie up on the phone, but she wants to meet them. They are the living link to the case she’s become so attached to. And they are a link to Noah.

  She calls to arrange a meeting. Sundays, after church, is the best time for them. And the worst for Frank—Sundays are when she and Gail try to carve some time out together.

  During a late dinner on Wednesday night, Frank tries killing two birds with the same stone.

  “I called the Pryces today. The parents in Noah’s cold case. I need to talk to them face-to-face but the only time that works for both of them is Sunday afternoons. They live up in Santa Maria, so I was wondering if you’d like to drive up there with me. I just need about twenty minutes with them, and then we can have the rest of the day to do whatever you want. Maybe have lunch in Santa Barbara, hit some antique stores?”

  They are eating Chinese food at Yujean Kang’s. Gail looks up from her Ants on a Tree to reach for Frank’s hand. “That’d be fun. I’d like that.”

  Frank holds on to the hand in hers. This is the part where she should say something tender and sincere. The words themselves come easily enough after a lifetime of cajoling witnesses and suspects, but Frank is sure that if she speaks them without feeling that Gail will see right through her. She settles for squeezing the doc’s hand and assuring her, “Me, too.”

  Sunday breaks hot and bright. They pick up coffee and cinnamon buns at Europane and head for Highway 101. Looking east, the mountains sport spring wildflowers, and to the west the Pacific sparkles benignly under a bright blue sky. It’s a textbook southern California day. Gail chatters about work and her mom and sisters. Frank makes the appropriate noises and feigns interest but her thoughts are where they always are—with the Pryce case.

  Leaving Gail contentedly reading in the car, Frank introduces herself to Mary and Walter Pryce. When they inevitably ask why the case has been reassigned, much as she hates to, Frank tells them the truth. The news saddens them and although they offer to help Frank however they can, their resignation is palpable.

  As promised, Frank is soon back on the highway where it occurs to her that the Pryces have closed the book on their dead children and moved on. If they’ve moved on, why shouldn’t she? Why keep flogging this dead horse? There are file cabinets back at Figueroa full of unsolved cases, some as tragic as Ladeenia and Trevor’s, some more so. Why not focus on them instead?

  Because this is Noah s case, comes the dim response from a corner of her brain. She tells herself she wants to solve it for him. Not for the Pryces—to hell with them—but for Noah. He’d appreciate it. But an even darker corner of her brain whispers that if she lets Pryce go, she has to let Noah go, too.

  She turns to Gail and forces a smile. “So what’s for lunch?”

  Frank keeps her brain hushed for the next couple of weeks by spending every available minute canvassing a tight pattern of houses between Cassie Bertram’s duplex and the old Pryce house. Ninety percent of the time she is off the clock.

  For weeks she gets nothing but attitude and indifference. Deciding to switch to where the crime ended rather than where it started, she starts knocking on doors immediately around the dumpsite. A wino and five kids have moved into the house where the woman with the chicken lived. An elderly Salvadoran couple owns the house behind the dumpsite. Two of their children and three of their grandchildren share the three-bedroom bungalow. They lived there when the Pryce kids were discovered and tsk-tsk about the tragedy that was. So many tragedies. Of course things were different when they were younger. They remember nothing Frank doesn’t already know. By the time she leaves them the sun has been down for an hour. She consults her watch. Just one more.

  Frank checks her notes. Yolanda Miron lives on the west side of the dumpsite. Frank sees lights on in the house and presses her
luck. A gray-haired Hispanic woman opens warily at her knock. Holding up her badge and ID, Frank inquires, “Mrs. Miron?”

  The woman nods with concern but as Frank explains the reason for her visit she relaxes and invites Frank in. A stout man-child with the obvious characteristics of Down’s syndrome looks up at Frank as she enters the living room. Mrs. Miron says, “Izzy, it’s almost bedtime. Pick up your things.”

  Izzy nods, complying with quick, curious looks at Frank. Frank begins by rote and Mrs. Miron echoes what everyone else has said— it’s been such a long time. She’s afraid she has nothing new to add. Like a few other people, she remembers Noah and asks why he’s not working the case.

  Frank usually answers this inquiry by saying he’s been reassigned. Maybe because it’s been a long day, maybe because she’s frustrated, maybe because Mrs. Miron is nice and her house smells like cookies, Frank tells her Noah was killed in a car accident. Izzy overhears this and interjects, “My Papi was killed in a car.”

  Mrs. Miron nods. “A month before those children were found. It was such a crazy time. What with Christmas coming and my daughter getting married. She got married the weekend they found them, the children. We were all so sad without Papi. It didn’t seem right without him but it seemed wrong to stop living. My husband was a very strong man, very proud. We talked about it a long time and decided Papi would want the wedding to go.” Her hands flap in her lap like little birds trying to take off. She apologizes. “That’s why I remember so little. It seems silly, we were right next door, but we had so much happening with ourselves.”

  Frank nods encouragement, watching Izzy arrange a collection of action dolls in a large laundry basket. He’s laid them side by side and is covering them with a worn hand towel. He rearranges some of the figures so that eventually they are all covered, with only their heads exposed. The little hairs all along Frank’s body rise in a delicious frisson. She has a wild idea. A ridiculous long shot, but she asks anyway. “Where was Izzy that weekend?”

  “Oh, he was here with me. In fact, he got sick that weekend. It was one more crazy thing.” Mrs. Miron’s smile for Izzy turns the comment from a complaint into a statement.

  “Did Detective Jantzen ever talk to Izzy about the children?”

  “Oh, no.” Mrs. Miron is adamant. “He was sick that weekend. I remember he was in bed. We were worried about him because a cold with him can sometimes turn into pneumonia. He’s not so active and they settle in his lungs, so what with my husband’s funeral and the wedding, then Izzy getting sick—”

  “Detective Jantzen never talked to him later?”

  “Not that I remember. Izzy’s usually in school during the day. He goes to special school.”

  Frank watches Izzy fussing with the blanket, making sure each doll is tucked in just so. She asks, “Would you mind if I ask him a few questions? I promise I won’t upset him.”

  “Of course,” the woman says, “but I don’t know how he can help. Izzy,” Mrs. Miron says to claim her son’s attention. “This lady would like to talk to you.”

  Izzy grins at Frank, and she smiles back.

  “Hi, Izzy. What are you playing with?”

  “These are my dolls,” he answers thickly.

  Frank waits while he names each one. When he’s done, she says admiringly, “They’re very pretty. What are you doing with them?”

  “I’m putting them to bed.”

  “Do you do that every night?”

  He nods and tugs at the hand towel. Mrs. Miron adds, “He started doing that right after his father died. We explained how dying is like a long sleep and when Izzy saw his Papi in the coffin he insisted we give him a blanket. He wouldn’t stop pestering us until my son brought a blanket in from his car and let Izzy tuck it around him. Since then he tucks all his toys in, every night. Don’t you?”

  Izzy’s nod is happy and Frank asks if Izzy was in bed the entire weekend of the Pryce killings.

  Mrs. Miron answers for him. “The wedding was on Sunday and Izzy was tugging at me all day Saturday. I felt bad, what with him just losing his Papi, but we were so busy getting ready for the wedding. And then he got sick Sunday—I had to leave before they cut the cake—and I felt so bad I’d been neglecting him but there was just so much craziness.”

  “So he was okay Saturday?”

  “Yes, he seemed fine then. I noticed his nose was runny and I gave him some yerba tea that night but it wasn’t until the next day that he got the fever.”

  Frank pulls two pictures from her notebook. “Izzy?” She gets his full attention before saying, “I’m going to show you a picture of a boy and a girl and I want you to tell me if you’ve ever seen them before. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Frank hands him the pictures of Ladeenia and Trevor. Even before they have left her hands, Izzy is beaming.

  “I put them to bed,” he announces. Jabbing a finger toward the window, he added, “I put them to bed outside. They were outside and I put them to bed.”

  “You put them to bed,” Frank repeats slowly.

  “I put them to bed outside,” Izzy repeats, nodding.

  Mrs. Miron is alarmed and Frank puts a hand on her arm.

  “When did you do that?”

  “When they were sleeping out there. In the casita..”

  “Isador!” his mother cries. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  The boy the size of a man looks like he’s about to cry and Frank answers, “It’s okay, Izzy. Maybe that’s what you were trying to tell your mother the day of the wedding.”

  Izzy just looks scared and confused, but Mrs. Miron sags. She throws a troubled glance toward Frank while reassuring her son. She cradles him with one arm while the hand of the other flies to her mouth.

  “Ay Dios,” she breathes. “Como no. He kept going on about the casita and how he put the children to bed. I thought he was talking about his dolls.”

  Frank asks gently, “Do you remember putting the children to bed, Izzy?”

  He lifts his big head up and down.

  “What do you remember?”

  “They were sleeping, but they weren’t put to bed right. I had to put them to bed.”

  “Can you show me with your dolls how they were when you found them?”

  Izzy glances at his mother and she nods approval.

  “They were like this,” he says, taking two of the dolls and wrapping them together one atop the other in the towel.

  “What did you do with them?”

  “I put them like this.”

  He puts the dolls side by side again, covering them to their chins. “I put them to bed.”

  “One more question,” Frank says more for his mother’s benefit than for Izzy’s. It’s the holdback question. The one only someone who has seen the bodies can answer.

  “Was there anything on their faces? Anything that maybe shouldn’t have been there?”

  Izzy fades for a moment then pumps his big head furiously. “They had tapes on their mouths. Gray tapes. It was on their mouths. Like this.”

  Izzy draws a circle around his head with his finger. He returns Frank’s smile.

  Chapter 19

  Based on Izzy Miron’s new information, Frank revises her suspect profile. After his initial revelation he didn’t have much more to add. In retrospect, Mrs. Miron remembered shooing him out of the house because it was sunny and telling him not to go out of the yard. But Izzy was fascinated with the abandoned lot next door and frequently snuck over. Sometimes nice kids were there, sometimes mean kids. That Saturday morning it was dead kids. Only Izzy didn’t know that. He just knew they were sleeping a long time. People that slept a long time couldn’t talk, like his Papi and his dolls.

  The children were wrapped in a blanket but Izzy carefully undid them and laid them side by side. They were just like big dolls. Only their blanket smelled like his sister’s boyfriend. Mrs. Miron explained that meant the blanket smelled like smoke, which Noah had made reference to in his notes.

  After h
earing Izzy’s story it made sense to Mrs. Miron why her son had been pestering her for a blanket for his new dolls. She wouldn’t give him a blanket to take outside, it was too muddy, and she’d tried to distract him with a Barney video and his coloring books. Eventually he’d settled down. The next day he’d gotten sick and been in bed for three days. By the time he got back to the lot the dolls were gone and he forgot about them.

  She’d asked if he’d seen anyone else that morning or taken anything from the casita, but he just wagged his ponderous head like a friendly dog.

  Frank waves a finger at the Pryce pictures she’s propped against an empty flower vase.

  “You were holding out on me,” she tells the children. “You knew that all along. Naughty kids. How am I supposed to find the bad guy if you won’t work with me?”

  Frank has taken to animated conversations with the mute, smiling faces. In a more talkative person the habit might be amusing. Contrasted against Frank’s natural reticence, the trait is ominous. Heedless of the portent, she circles the dining room tables, damaging as much of a fifth as she can before going to Gail’s.

  She’s come to dread the hours of her leaving. Gail has become an image on the periphery of Frank’s vision, an annoying shadow that will neither go away nor come into focus. Gail deserves more than her slightly besotted and grudging tolerance, but that’s the best Frank can muster these days. She tells herself her apathy will pass, that someday she’ll be able to see Gail clearly again and will remember why she fell in love with the doc. But for the moment, memory eludes her.

  Frank sighs and glances at her wrist. She has an hour and twenty minutes left with her kids.

  “Back to one perp,” she tells them. “No problem. That’s where we started this whole ride. So what have we got? One male, black. Age? I’m thinking older than your average bear. Anywhere from early thirties to mid-forties. Why, you say? Elementary, children.”