Last Call

by Baxter Clare

  “Where were we?” she asks the books lining the wall. “Oh, yeah.”

  Watching the girl. He smokes while he watches and is sated for a moment. But the more he revels in his pleasure, the more he wants to relive it. His cock thickens as he finishes his cigarette. Does he touch her? Does the fresh skin excite him?

  “No,” Frank says against her glass. He’s not tripping on sex with a little girl. He’s tripping on the power, the command. Totally dominating the situation. Even the little boy he barely notices fuels his desire. He is in complete and total control and it’s like being God. So he takes her again. Rougher this time, longer. And from behind.

  Ladeenia’s anal trauma was extensive, leading Frank to think this was the second, less impulsive assault. He maintained his erection longer and did more damage. He takes her against the stove this time, or the counter, and maybe this is where she burns her thumb, on a burner or coffeepot. Again he doesn’t notice. Or care. She means nothing to him. Nothing. All he knows is that when he’s inside her it’s quiet in his head. For a moment that seems to stretch into infinity, the squirming in his brain is stilled.

  Frank’s mouth twists humorlessly. She understands the longing for surcease. Her glass is empty and she pours again, meticulously. Photographs from the Pryce case drop from the folder on her chest. They surround her like leaves from a wintry oak. Except for the two she clutches in her hand, as if in cadaveric spasm.

  One is a long-shot of the street where the Pryce kids were found. Cars line both sides of the road, houses opposite the curbs. The other picture is a shot of the west end of the street. More cars, a truck with a camper, a couple work trucks, more houses. Nothing significant. Nothing that jumps out shouting, “Hey, look at me!”

  Frank’s hand drops as she passes out. It is finally quiet in her head.

  Until she bolts from the couch, immediately aware of her surroundings and the sick whomping in her head. The fifth that was full last night is almost empty at her feet.

  Frank wonders how this has happened again. She’d sworn herself to two drinks, max. How the fuck did she down most of a bottle? She remembers carrying it in here and pouring a generous nightcap, putting some CDs in, and that’s about it. The effort of plumbing her lost evening is curtailed by a lurch in her gut. Frank barely makes it to the kitchen sink. She pukes until she’s empty, but her stomach still contracts reflexively. Frank gulps for air in between the huge, choking spasms. When she’s finally able to straighten up she looks at her watch. 5:25. She has barely half an hour to get to work. Her stomach folds in on itself, forcing Frank back over the sink. She brings up nothing but hard air.

  Forty-five minutes later—pale, sore and shaky—Frank starts the morning brief. Johnnie doesn’t look much better and Frank is disgusted. She swears she will cut back.

  Chapter 22

  Using existing information, Frank has constructed a victimology of the Pryce kids. She’s going over it again in her office, trying to find something she may have missed the first time. Noah had talked to the parents, surviving siblings, neighbors, friends and teachers, even their bus driver. He’d cross-checked each kid’s personality, habits, hobbies, friends and routines. His notes on them alone took up half a binder.

  The victims are not prostitutes, bangers or drug dealers, but they did live in a fairly high-crime area. They didn’t frequent rough bars or rock houses, but both places abound in the area. The vies were young and alone. That alone put them at risk for being victims. Frank puts her pad down and considers the shoebox on her desk. She still hasn’t listened to the interview tapes. She’ll have to sometime but is still willing to settle for Noah’s written notes. She parses his initial interview with Mr. and Mrs. Pryce. It’s bare facts, nothing not in the reports.

  Curiosity harps at Frank and she fingers through the tapes. Some are starred. She pulls one of these, reading a label marked Sharon Ferris.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” She almost knocks her chair over as she jumps up. “Just get it the fuck over with.”

  She puts the tape in her boom box, stabbing the play button. After the introductory hiss, Noah’s voice announces he’s investigating the death of two children that lived on Raymond Street. Frank cuts it off. Noah’s voice slices like a sword fresh from the forge. Her pain morphs into rage and she wants to break something. The boom box. Just pick it up and slam it down until it’s in two-inch pieces. She imagines the satisfaction of slamming the box over and over on the edge of her desk, the noise and splintering and the shock of it in her hands. She thinks about this instead of Noah and the rage ebbs.

  Frank stands straight over the stereo. She stares at the box and drags in a leveling breath. After a moment she says, “Okay. Let’s try again.”

  “What were you doing that afternoon?”

  “I can’t say for sure.”

  “Take your time. I know it was a while ago. I can’t even remember what I had for dinner last night.” Noah’s standard line. She can see the big, friendly grin attached to it.

  “I don’t know nothing about that afternoon. Just like any other I guess.”

  “What do you usually do in the afternoon?”

  Frank hears the shrug in her voice as the woman answers, “Watch Oprah, I guess. Get dinner ready.”

  “For the record, who else lives here with you?”

  “My two boys and my husband.”

  Noah asks for everyone’s names and she tells him.

  “How old are your boys?”

  “James is nineteen, Levon’s seventeen.”

  “Must take a while to make dinner.” Again Noah’s grin comes through the tape recorder and Frank almost turns it off. ” Who was home with you that afternoon?”

  The tape hisses, picks up shuffling noises.

  “Kevin ‘d be working and the boys wasn’t home yet. I don’t know where they was at, but they wasn’t with me.”

  “Where does your husband work?”

  Frank pauses the tape to hunt through the interview folders. That Noah doesn’t follow up on the boy’s whereabouts tells her he’s already placed them during the critical time frame. His notes on Levon indicate he and James were doing blunts and videos at a friend’s house. Satisfied, she continues the tape.

  “Over to Grand Tire, off ‘n Hoover.”

  She hears more shifting, then Noah asks, “Can you recall anything unusual about that day?” There’s no answer and Noah prompts, “Did you notice anyone unfamiliar outside or hear any funny noises you couldn’t place?”

  “No. Nothing I recollect.”

  “Mrs. Ferris, are you sure there wasn’t anyone else home with you that day?”

  More shifting, then over-bright, the woman says, “I forgot. My brother was visitin’.”

  Consulting the notes, Frank reads that the interview was done as a follow-up to identifying the vehicles photographed within the vicinity of the dumpsite. Noah’s disembodied voice asks where the brother was visiting from.

  “From up north. Up to Bakersfield, where our folks live.”

  “Where was he that afternoon?”

  “Right here with me. He ain’t never far from the kitchen when Fm in it. He’s always pestering me something awful about when’s the next meal and what’s it gonna be. Lord, that man is worse than both my boys. You’d think he had a worm the way he eats.”

  “How much of the day did he spend here with you?”

  “All of it, as I recollect. We went to the Ralph’s in the morning and I made him bring the groceries in, then I fixed him lunch and we watched TV and played Mexican Train until suppertime.”

  “What’s Mexican Train?”

  “Dominoes. I recollect it was rainy and I made a stew. I thought it would last Kevin for lunch next day, but didn’t Antoine eat it right up!”

  “Dang! You must be a pretty fair cook.”

  “I know my way aroun‘ a kitchen.”

  “I’m jealous, Mrs. Ferris.”

  Frank hears the grin again and recalls Noah’s prodigious ap
petite. He was always hungry, always noshing on something and never gaining a pound. He got written up in his rookie year because he waited for his order at the drive-through before responding to a Code 2 burglary.

  Frank hits the stop button. She can’t do this. She needs a drink. Being on call, she can’t get ripped, but by-fucking-Christ she can at least get a sweet buzz on. Drinking on call is a gross violation. One Frank often overlooks for a drink or two. Tonight she needs more than a drink or two and considers calling Fubar.

  “Fuck it,” she declares. “End of watch.”

  She grabs her jacket, willing to take the chance that she doesn’t get called out.

  But it’s a bad bet. Just as she’s oiled herself into bed after Nightline, the phone rings. The watch commander calls her out to a domestic with an ugly ending.

  Frank dresses while assessing her condition. She’s tired but fairly clearheaded. She rinses with Scope and runs a little soap through her hair, hoping the combined scents will camouflage the ethanol seeping from her pores.

  “Not good,” she reprimands the Frank in the mirror. Her eyes are bloodshot, but she justifies, “What do you expect for the middle of the night.” Then, “Still, girlie-girl. Tail’s startin’ to wag the dog.”

  Frank packs her ID, gun, cuffs, wallet, notebook and change. Stuffing a stray latex glove into her jacket pocket, she takes off into the night that never really gets dark in Los Angeles. She drives fast, with the windows down, and the cool air makes her feel sober. She’s got to make a limit to her drinking and stick to it, especially on weeknights and call duty. Though exhausted, she feels better by the time she gets to the scene.

  Until Jill storms up to her, firing off, “Johnnie’s pasted.”

  She follows her detective into an apartment with a lot of crying kids. The battered body of a female Hispanic lies on the kitchen floor. Johnnie stands next to her making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. When he sees Frank he grins, “Hey, Freek! You hungry?”

  She steps to him and puts out her hand. “Give me your weapon and your ID.”

  Johnnie laughs. “What for?”

  “You’re suspended.”

  “What for? For making a sandwich? I’m hungry. It was sitting right here.”

  “You’re drunk, Johnnie. Turn ‘em over.”

  Certain Frank’s bluffing, he says, “Whoa, lighten up, ol’ Freek. I’m not drunk.”

  He tries wrapping a beefy limb around her shoulder, but Frank knocks it away.

  “Hey, come on,” he says, startled, swaying gently.

  Frank motions two of the uniforms but Johnnie backs away from them.

  “Quit it. You can’t do this to me.”

  “Watch me.” She advances on Johnnie and the uniforms follow her lead.

  He bellows, “Fuck you, Frank. Who the fuck you think you are? Your shit don’t stink? How many times you come on lately smelling like a fuckin’ barroom, huh?”

  The uniforms have stopped. Jill and the onlookers glance between Johnnie and Frank.

  “Who’za one always closing the Alibi with me, ripped to the tits? And on call too, huh? How many you had tonight? Everyone knows you been sluggin’ ‘em back since—”

  Later she will realize it was a suicidal move, but Frank doesn’t have the luxury of hindsight as her fist connects under Johnnie’s chin. The blow staggers him, but the following left to his temple wakes him to murder. Frank steps out of Johnnie’s first swing but can’t avoid the second. It glances off her shoulder and slows her long enough for his third punch to land on her jaw. Frank’s head snaps 180 degrees and she thinks of Trevor Pryce as the lights go out.

  Chapter 23

  “What in God’s name were you thinking?”

  Slumped on Gail’s couch, Frank mumbles that if she were thinking she obviously wouldn’t have swung at a man with over a hundred pounds on her.

  Gail only glares.

  Frank is tired. Foubarelle, the deputy chief, the IAD rats, even the drug-recognition expert who took Johnnie’s urine sample (Frank was ordered to give hers, almost as an afterthought, well past dawn), they’ve all pointed out how stupid that was. She doesn’t need to be reminded, thank you very much. She just wants to get some sleep, but Gail won’t let it go.

  Frank’s jaw feels like it’s packed with wet cement. She tries to minimize movement inside her mouth as she asks, “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  “You know, I should. But my girlfriend picked a fight with a three-hundred-pound subordinate last night and I’m kind of curious why.”

  “Got a lot on my mind. Johnnie just hit a nerve and I reacted poorly. End of story.”

  “End of story.”

  Gail is pacing back and forth in front of the couch. The hypnotic motion makes Frank sleepy, but Gail’s precarious balance on the edge of fury keeps Frank wary.

  The doc grits out, “I’m trying to be sensitive here, Frank. I know you’re under a lot of pressure. Granted, most of it is self-imposed, but I’m trying to overlook that. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, that you know the best way to work this out for yourself, but frankly, I’m losing patience. It’s been almost four months, Frank. Four months in which you have done nothing but obsess about a six-year-old case and drink yourself comatose. I feel more inconsequential in your life than that sofa you’re sitting on. Now you breeze in at eight in the morning and tell me you’ve been suspended for decking one of your own men, and I’m just supposed to take this in stride too?”

  Frank doesn’t need this. She feels stupid enough. Knowing Gail would find out sooner or later, Frank had decided she’d rather tell the doc herself. It was as dumb to stop by Gail’s as it was to swing on Johnnie. Frank reckons she’s on a dumb streak.

  Pulling herself from the couch’s warm embrace, she tells Gail, “I don’t care what you do with it.”

  Gail half barks, half laughs, “Oh, don’t even think about leaving, Frank. Don’t even think about it.”

  Frank turns, as cold as the backup piece she clips onto her belt. “Why stay? I made a mistake coming here. Shouldn’t compound it.”

  Gail looks like she’s been bitch-slapped but answers, “Because good or bad, we’re in this together, Frank, and that’s how we’ll work it out. Together. We can’t do that if you keep running away.”

  “There’s nothing to work out, Gail. That’s my whole point. And you keep insisting there is.”

  “Is that really the way you feel?”

  “It really is.”

  Gail’s fury is instantly quenched by tears. Guilt tries to pierce Frank’s armor but fails. She pats her pockets, making sure she has her keys. It’d be embarrassing to slam out and have to come back for them.

  “Frank?”

  When Frank meets her eyes, Gail says, “If you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back.”

  Frank pauses, squaring her shoulders. It’s a big threat and she gauges Gail’s sincerity. She looks serious enough, and probably has every right to an ultimatum, but Frank doesn’t give a shit. That’s really the bottom line. She just doesn’t fucking care.

  “Sorry,” she says, and slips out the door.

  Chapter 24

  The new sun is fresh and pretty. When Frank gets home she remains in her car, soaking in it. Her anger has cooled to remorse, and the morning’s clarity emphasizes how brilliantly she’s erred. She tells herself that yes, Johnnie was drunk, and yes, he would have been suspended anyway, but none of that negates the fact that she’d been drinking too. Despite his unjustifiable method of delivery, Johnnie’s message was dead-bang true. Frank had swung because she didn’t want to hear she was just like him.

  Dropping head into hand, she massages her eyebrows while rats chew at her guts.

  “Christ on a fucking pony.” She’s acting as badly as Briggs, a man who needs professional help. A man who can’t control his drinking.

  This last is unacceptable. She can control her drinking. She’s just been under a lot of pressure lately and hasn’t policed herself closely
enough. She is not like Briggs, who barely has the discipline to bathe himself. She can control her drinking and she will. She’s just gotten sloppy. Lazy. She’ll go that far in comparing herself to Johnnie. But no further.

  Frank is beyond exhaustion. She tips her head toward the headrest and is almost asleep before it gets there.

  “Come on,” she rouses herself. “Discipline. Word for the day.”

  Despite how odd it feels to slide between sheets at nine in the morning, Frank is soon deeply under. She sleeps through to sunset. Her jaw still hurts when she wakes up but she likes the pain. It distracts her from anything deeper while reminding her what an asshole she was. She turns the volume on the phone back up and listens to six messages, hopeful that one is from Gail. Jill, the lab, Bobby, a clerk in admin, Darcy and Fubar. The captain tells her she’s to report back to work on Monday. Frank won’t admit relief over the last call, or disappointment that Gail’s not on the machine.

  She works up a hard sweat in the gym, then showers and returns phone calls. Jill backed her following the incident, stating that Johnnie was drunk and belligerent. When IA asked if Frank had been defending herself, Jill hadn’t hesitated to say yes, despite every other witness stating that Frank had swung first. She calls Jill, admitting that she was wrong, that Johnnie got her goat and she lost it. Having worked with him, Jill can empathize. Having worked with Frank, Jill’s grateful Johnnie’s the one she finally chose to blow up on.

  That evening, Frank drinks moderately, by her standards, refilling her tumbler only once. Saturday morning she is surprised that she went to bed early and slept through the night. She feels good outside, but dirty inside. At noon she calls Johnnie. He sounds awful.

  “How you doin’?” she asks.