Last Call

by Baxter Clare

  Her detective’s passion is a balm to Frank, who smiles for the second time that afternoon. “S’all good to the gracious,” she says with a slap at Lewis’s shoulder. “Call if you need me.”

  Chapter 33

  What Frank neglected to tell Lewis was that her appointment was with a highball glass. Traffic on the I-10 is knotted and while Frank inches along she worries about going native.

  “I was off” the rim,” she confides to the windshield. “That’s bad when a D-I has to boot my ass.”

  The Crisco remark might be something she’d say behind a pitcher of beer with the boys, but certainly not on scene. Frank strives for respect with the rankest of victims and she’s instilled this into the nine-three. It creates a professionalism that Frank completely lacked today. And when she swung on Johnnie.

  Meandering through the last couple months, she logs other instances. She embarrassed Bobby with a castrated banger that had bled to death, joking in front of the mother that she was glad she wasn’t going to have to make a cast of the wound. Then there was the incident with Miller, provoking the bastard to swing so she could get in his face. Bobby’d seen that one, too.

  Embarrassment blooms in the forefront of Frank’s consciousness. It’s a new sensation, and one she doesn’t want to get familiar with. She stares at the camper mired next to her. A young white male sits behind the wheel. He’s thin and stubbly. French or German, Frank thinks. They’re big on renting campers. The guy’s stuck in downtown L.A. traffic with no clue where he is.

  “Maybe I’ve got no clue,” she mutters. Maybe she should talk to Clay. He’s retired now from the department’s Behavioral Science Unit, but before he pulled the pin he sent a letter informing her he’d be available for limited private practice. Frank can’t remember if she saved the letter.

  She checks out the camper again, thinking that’s the answer. As soon as the Pryce case blows over she’ll take a leave of absence and get her head back on. Rent a camper and travel around the states. Except for some extraditions and chasing leads down, she’s never done any traveling. It might be good to see the big old USA.

  But the possibility occurs to her that she might never close Pryce. Frank is good, but she’s not a magician. Some cases just never come off the books. Noah was a good cop. He worked it hard for over a year and got nowhere. In the six intervening years, they still haven’t discovered the primary scene or uncovered one witness. The paucity of physical evidence they started with has disappeared and, barring a miracle, any unrecovered evidence will have long since followed. Odds are, lacking a credible confession or other wildly lucky break, the case may well remain a whodunit.

  Unpalatable as it is, Frank has to admit this eventuality. The thought adds to her grim mood and she wishes she’d bought a pint for the road.

  “Jesus.” She shakes her head. “What a fucking drunk.”

  She turns the radio up. Sig alerts and sky cams won’t do her much good now. She changes bands, pulls in KROK. Recognizes R.E.M. and keeps scanning. Jammin’ oldies. Minnie Riperton. Please. She stops at The Beat. Her fingers dangle over the steering wheel and she bats them on the dashboard to an old Tupac song.

  “Baby, don’t cry,” she mouths along. “Got to keep your head up.”

  Lewis’s outraged face looms again and she recalls the reproach in Bobby’s eyes, sees the wariness in her other detectives. Maybe she’s outplayed her hand. Maybe she’s so beyond burnout she doesn’t even know it.

  She didn’t used to be like this. She doesn’t want to be a relic, x-ing days off the calendar until she collects a watch, but on a day like today leaving sounds good. Take early retirement and travel around. Get the fuck out of Dodge while the getting’s good. Maybe she’ll do like Steinbeck, only without the dog. Travels with Lieutenant Franco. She’ll visit the house in Kansas that Truman Capote memorialized. Trace the shooting spree Mailer chronicled in Belly of the Beast. Maybe write a travel guide to homicide in the U.S.

  The camper eases past her and she thinks about what she’d take with her. Except for a couple changes of clothes, her CDs are all she really wants. After twenty years in this town all she has to show for it is what she can hear on any good jazz station. Frank mulls this over and tries not to be depressed. She studies the camper, figuring what sort of mileage they get these days. She remembers the I Love Lucy episode where Lucy and Ricky and Fred and Ethel piled into an Airstream and headed out West. She’d love to see the inside of one of those. She imagines lazy breakfasts in roadside diners. Waitresses with beehives pouring Folgers coffee at Formica counters.

  Formica counters.

  “Holy fuck.”

  Formica countertops. With the metal stripping around the edges. The camper in the Pryce pictures. The kitchen when you walk right in the door. Confined quarters. Take Ladeenia on the table. Spill some coffee, knock the sugar over. Bruise her leg against the edge of the table. Take her against the stove where she burns her thumb.

  “Holy fuck,” Frank repeats, throwing the Honda into neutral and jerking the parking brake. She scrambles through her briefcase, finding the picture.

  A Mercedes behind her bleats, trying to get Frank to advance another twelve feet. Frank ignores the imperative. She scrutinizes the photo. It’s the long shot from the dumpsite. Six vehicles down from the photographer, barely visible behind a work truck on the south curb, is a truck with a cab-over camper. Frank stares and the Mercedes’ driver leans on her horn.

  Frank moves into the space without even looking from the picture. Noah had checked every vehicle on the street. The camper had stood out because it was parked three blocks from where the owner lived. The brother of one of the women Noah had interviewed on tape. The woman who watched Oprah every day and bitched about having to feed her family. And her brother visiting from up north. Frank swears, wishing the murder books weren’t on her dining room table. She tries to quell her enthusiasm. Noah would have teased it out if there was something worth teasing.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Noah had interviewed the brother and marginal notes seemed to indicate he’d dismissed him as a potential suspect. Frank dredges the mud in her brain, trying to remember what Noah had written. She exits on the closest ramp and works north to Pasadena. The twenty-minute drive still takes almost an hour and Frank is so hyped when she gets home she forgets to pour a drink. She doesn’t even unload her belt or pockets before flipping through the murder books. She can’t find the obscure notation and has to go through the notes again, slowly.

  There it is. Antoine Bailey. Sister said he was with her all day. Went to the grocery store in the morning, watched TV together and played Mexican Train all afternoon. Noah had run Bailey through the system, coming up only with minor vehicular infractions and traffic misdemeanors. An addendum to his notes showed Noah talked to the brother ten days later. He was on disability, an electrician by trade. Traveled back and forth between his folks’ place in Bakersfield and his sister’s in L.A., where he collected his check once a month.

  “Don’t get your panties in a wad,” she tells herself. “It’s probably nothing.”

  But she lays out Ladeenia Pryce’s autopsy photos. She studies one in particular. The closeup of the bruise on Ladeenia’s leg.

  The bruise is shaped like the ribbed edge of a Formica tabletop.

  Chapter 34

  Frank is in the squad room long before the rest of the crew comes in. She can’t call the Disability Insurance office until eight so in the meantime she runs Bailey through the system again. His name pops up on two priors. One’s a lewd and lascivious charge about two years after the kids were murdered, and the second is a dismissed assault only seven months old. By 9:00 am she has tracked Bailey through the DI records. His check gets sent to an address in Bakersfield. Frank cross-references the address to Kevin and Sharon Ferris. This doesn’t surprise her.

  She knows from knocking on doors that a Mexican family now lives in the house that the Ferrises used to live in, and from listening to Noah’s tapes las
t night, she remembers Sharon Ferris saying her parents moved up to Bakersfield after she got married, leaving her the house on Raymond Street.

  Bailey had his DI checks sent to Ferris when she lived in L.A., and now the checks go to her in Bakersfield. Frank wonders if Antoine is close to his older sister, what their relationship is like. Why the sister and not his folks? What’s the bond there? Is she backing him where his parents won’t? What’s the hook? Frank has to find that out and work Ferris from that angle.

  Ferris has two sons. She tracks one to Bakersfield, at an address not far from his mother. The second boy still lives in South Central and has accrued a variety of misdemeanors. Nothing serious and probably nothing worth riling his mother about. From the tone of Noah’s interviews, Frank decides Ferris isn’t friendly with the law but not openly hostile either. This gives Frank a slim edge and she drums the desk with her fingers. She hasn’t felt this good since she saw Izzy Miron putting his dolls to bed.

  She spends most of the day garnering information about Bailey, his sister and their family. At end of watch she hits the highway, catching I-5 to Bakersfield. Traffic is stodgy and Frank listens to the Ferris tapes over and over.

  Bailey’s story is consistent with his sister’s. It was rainy. They spent the day together watching TV and playing dominos. In the morning they got groceries. A checker from Ralph’s verified Bailey was in the store around ten that morning. She remembered because he was persistently and irritatingly macking on her. The next day he left town. He’d explained that his camper was near the site because he and Sharon had heard about some children getting killed and wanted to see for themselves. It was a shame. That’s why their parents had fled L.A. When crack hit the streets they couldn’t stand it anymore. They didn’t want to spend their old age worried about getting hit on the head and jacked for a Social Security check. Leaving Sharon and her kids with the house, they moved up north, back to their farming roots. Antoine stayed with his sister until her husband kicked him out for not carrying his weight. Antoine stayed with his folks until the father gave him his old pickup. Antoine had been living in it ever since.

  “Duh, right there all along.”

  She speaks aloud, wondering how many times she and Noah looked at the picture with Bailey’s truck in it. What shift in vision or altering of the cosmos allowed her to connect the dots? Why couldn’t either of them see the camper six days, six weeks or even six months ago? Why does it take six years for her to finally see it? Frank admits to tunnel vision with a van or SUV-type vehicle. She’d even allowed for a work truck but she associated campers with retirees or avid fishermen. Frank marvels at the hologram effect of clues. They can be hanging right in front of your face, but until you have a shift in perception you can’t see them.

  She comes into Bakersfield around five o’clock and heads straight to Ferris’s address, noting only one car in the driveway. She finds a 7-Eleven near a Mickey D’s and buys two beers to wash down a Big Mac. She eats in her car then locks up and walks around the block, giving the Ferrises time to get home from work and have dinner. While she ambles, she considers Bailey’s relation to his sister. Taking in a store window gaudily displaying items for “$.99 or less!” Frank mutters, “How do we approach her?”

  Frank hears herself and is embarrassed. She moves on, musing that she’s getting as bad as a street person. Yet she is dimly aware, and comforted, that the “we” included Noah.

  The sun dips into the horizon and Frank returns to the Ferrises’ house. When she knocks on his door, Kevin Ferris doesn’t look surprised. She follows him into the kitchen where his wife is doing the dinner dishes. He may not have been surprised to see Frank, but Sharon Ferris is obviously startled.

  Frank introduces herself, using the time to note how Ferris’s eyes dart back and forth between Frank and her husband, how she’s wringing the dishtowel.

  “I see you’re busy,” Frank says amiably. “I won’t keep you long. Just a couple things I need to ask about your brother.”

  “My brother?” A pulse starts jumping in Ferris’s throat.

  “Antoine Bailey. He is your brother, correct?”

  Ferris nods. She turns away, attacking a baking dish in the soapy water. “What’s he done?” she asks.

  “Why do you think he’s done something wrong?”

  Ferris glances sideways at Frank and shrugs. “Why else would you be here?”

  “Do cops usually show up at your door asking about your brother?”

  Ferris is silent but her husband asks, “Look, Lieutenant, what’s this all about?”

  Frank nods but doesn’t answer. By keeping the Ferrises waiting for her response she maintains control of the conversation.

  “All right,” she says at length, feigning cooperation. “I won’t beat around the bush with you. Antoine’s in trouble.”

  Sharon Ferris stops scrubbing. “What kinda trouble?”

  “He’s facing some pretty serious charges.”

  “This got anything to do with them kids they found murdered?”

  Bingo. It’s significant that after all this time, that’s the first trouble Ferris thinks of.

  “I’m not gonna lie to you. It does.”

  Ferris assumes a defensive posture, hips against the sink, crossed arms guarding her chest. “Antoine ain’t had nothin’ to do with that.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “When he come for his check. He’s on disability. He comes by once a month.”

  “What was he driving?”

  “Same as always. His truck.”

  “Does he still live in it?”

  Ferris nods.

  “He still have the same camper shell on it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Yes or no, Mrs. Ferris.”

  “I don’t know.” She flaps a hand. “I think so. He ain’t said nothin’ about a new one. He ain’t got that kinda money.”

  Giving no sign of her delight, Frank indicates a chair. “Can we sit?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she pulls the chair out. Ferris grudgingly takes the opposite seat. Her husband remains propped against the wall. Frank chooses her seat knowing Ferris will sit as far from her as possible, thus placing Frank between Ferris and her husband. Aware of the bad blood between Kevin and his brother-in-law, Frank doesn’t expect Kevin to move to his wife’s defense. He hasn’t yet and he doesn’t now, compelling Sharon Ferris to face Frank as well as her own husband.

  Frank focuses Sharon. “Going back to the day those children came up missing. You’re pretty insistent that Antoine had nothing to do with it. Tell me why.”

  “He just didn’t.”

  Frank flicks an indulgent smile. “You’re gonna have to give me more than that. Tell me about that day.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “God, no.” Frank fakes a laugh. “Nobody’s under arrest here. I’m just trying to find out what happened to those two kids. Trying to rebuild the day.”

  “It was a long time ago. I can’t remember that far back.”

  Frank reads a little from her notes to jog Ferris’s memory.

  When Frank asks if that’s what happened, Ferris says, “If that’s what I said, then I guess it must be.”

  “So he just hung on you the whole day. Never went to the bathroom, never went to his room.”

  “He didn’t have no room. He slept in his truck.”

  “So is it possible he went out there at some point in the afternoon?”

  “Yeah, it’s possible.”

  “Possible or he did?”

  “I don’t know. He ain’t a two-year-old. I wasn’t watchin’ him all day.”

  “So he could have spent some time out in his camper that day?”

  “Yeah, sure. Of course he coulda.”

  “Did he? Do you specifically remember him being with you every minute of that day?”

  “No, he wasn’t with me every minute.”

  “When wasn’t he with you?”

  �
�I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

  “You just said he wasn’t with you every minute.”

  “Well, it don’t make sense that a grown man would be hanging on his sister’s skirts all day. I mean, at least to relieve himself he wasn’t with me. Sheeshh.” She shakes her head.

  Frank has noticed that Mrs. Ferris keeps a mean house. On her way in, she also noticed an ashtray by the front door. “Does your brother smoke, Mrs. Ferris?”

  “Smoke?”

  “Cigarettes. Does he smoke cigarettes?”

  “Yeah, he smokes.”

  “Pack a day? Haifa pack? Two packs?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a pack. Pack an’ a half.”

  “You let him smoke in the house?”

  “No, I do not. He and Kevin both have to go outside. I don’t like that stink in my house.”

  “So when he visited you down south, did you make him go outside then, too?”

  She offers a nod but nothing else.

  “Man smoking a pack a day must have been outside a lot. It was pretty cold the day those kids were killed. Did you sit outside with him?”

  Ferris shakes her head.

  “So your brother was alone outside fairly regularly throughout the day.”

  “I guess. That don’t mean he did nothing.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But it also means you can’t protect him as much as you’d like to. There were considerable portions of the day that he wasn’t with you.” Frank leans forward to drive the knife in. “I know he’s your younger brother. The good news is, he doesn’t have a prior history for this type of thing. We might still be able to help him if he’s willing to talk. I’m sure you want to help him and the best way to do that is by finally being honest. Tell me why you’re protecting him.”

  Ferris’s eyes flit from Frank to her husband.

  “He’s my baby brother.”

  “And he’s a grown man. You just said so yourself. Why do you worry so much about him?”

  She bristles. “I ain’t worried. Twan just always been different, is all. He’s always been sickly. Nervous-like. But he’s a sweet man. Brings me flowers every time he comes to collect his check.”