Bleeding Out lf-1

by Baxter Clare

"What do you think happened to him?"

  "I don't know. We figured maybe his old man was beating the shit out of him. He coached us for a while and he was like a total idiot."

  "How do you mean?"

  "He was always yelling and screaming if we forgot a play or something. He'd get right in our faces and spit would be flying all over. It was totally gross. He never touched us but he shoved Clancey around a lot. I saw him kick him in the ass once."

  "He'd hit Clancey?"

  "Oh, yeah. He was a bastard. Coach finally told him he couldn't come to practice no more."

  It was dark by the time Frank and Kennedy finished. Frank was driving Kennedy back to her car and Kennedy craned her head out the window, looking at the moon. "Are you going to get some surfing in?" Frank asked.

  "That sure is a sweet moon. Maybe I'll grab my board and see what the water looks like. Why don't you come with me?"

  "Don't think so. I'm going to make some phone calls, see if I can't find some of the other boys on our list."

  "You should go home and get a good night's sleep."

  "I want to nail these other guys. Then tomorrow, if I can get away for a while, I'm going to check out the bakery, talk to Clancey's supervisor. I want to run the carpet fibers and samples by the lab, too."

  "How're you gonna do that without a case?"

  "There's a private lab in Claremont that can probably do it for me in a couple of days."

  Kennedy whistled. "That'll cost you a fortune," she said.

  Frank just shrugged.

  "What'll you do if they match?"

  "I'm thinking about that."

  Frank brought her car alongside Kennedy's and cut the engine. She turned toward her and said, "Hey, I owe you. Big time. I couldn't have done all this without you."

  "Yeah, you could've," Kennedy disparaged, "it'd just taken longer."

  "No. You were great, sport. Thanks."

  Kennedy waved a hand and opened her door. As she was getting out Frank said, "Be careful driving home, okay?"

  "Yes, mother."

  "And you'll be careful in the water?"

  "No, I'm gonna be a reckless idiot so I can wind up back in the hospital again. You gotta learn to relax, Lieutenant."

  Kennedy hopped out, then turned and stuck her head back in. "Will you call me?"

  Even as she nodded yes, Frank doubted that she would.

  He'd seen her at the park a few times. Always alone, never with anyone else. She looked ragged. Maybe she was a stoner, or a runaway. She was a little older than he liked but she was small, and that was important. And she seemed scared. He liked that too.

  He watched her. She always had a Walkman and sang quietly to herself, moving her shoulders slightly to the beat. Sometimes she poked furtively through the garbage cans when she thought no one was watching. But he was watching. He liked that she was here a lot. It was reassuring that there was someone he could have. At first he wasn't interested in her, but the more he saw her, the more he thought she'd do just fine. She'd probably be real quiet, not a screamer. He hated it when they screamed. He didn't want to hear them. The idiots didn't realize it only made him angrier, made him want to hit them harder.

  And now he figured out she was homeless. She had on the same clothes and was probably in the park because she didn't have anywhere else to go. That her disappearance would go unnoticed added to her attraction. He was smart. He had taken a lot of precautions to not get caught. He didn't think the police were on to him, but he had to pace himself. Sometimes, like with that black girl, he'd acted impulsively. He had to guard against that. Had to take his time, play his plays the way he'd called them, not let the defense rush him.

  But he was getting antsy.

  31

  Monday morning Frank was back in the office at 5:00 a.m. A while later she greeted her squad with a grunt and re-quest for updates. Leaning a squeaky chair back as far as it would go, she crossed her natty crimson ankles on the corner of Johnnie's desk. Her socks matched the red turtleneck under her jacket, a small concession to the building Christmas spirit. Nookey had put up a little tree with blinking lights, and Noah had cutouts from the kids pasted all over. Everyone was flecked with their shedding glitter.

  Bobby had a tricky suspect in a botched robbery that ended up a double homicide. Frank wanted to ride with him but had to get her sample out to Claremont. Kennedy was right—the cost out of her own pocket would be considerable, but Frank wasn't concerned about that. Single, with no dependents or major expenditures except a locked-in mortgage and tailored suits, Frank could afford to splurge. In addition, a private lab would give her a definitive completion time. Plus privacy. She didn't want her involvement in this case getting leaked.

  As it turned out, Frank was swamped and didn't get out of the office until after three. She fought through traffic and delivered her fibers to the lab ten minutes before they closed. Next she headed to the bakery and talked to the plant foreman, who supplied her with Clancey's records and supervisor's name. There were no surprises in Delamore's thin personnel file. He'd started in 1991 as a packer on the swing shift. He'd settled into the night shift in '93 and been promoted to forklift operator two years later. His time cards indicated he worked punctually Wednesday though Sunday, 9:30 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. , with a half hour lunch at 1:30. Despite being a seemingly decent employee, Delamore was only making three dollars more than when he started.

  Frank wanted to talk to his supervisor but was told he wouldn't be in until later. The foreman had grudgingly given her his address. She was going to try catching him at home. Meanwhile, she was hungry and only about twenty minutes from the Alibi. When she walked in, Johnnie was cheering on the Panthers and close to sloppy drunk. She clapped him on the back and ordered coffee.

  "Who's winning?"

  "Hey, le Freek!" Johnnie roared, a little too boisterously. "Carolina's kicking Dallas' ass."

  Being a Giants fan, Frank found that good news. Mel shoved a nasty cup of coffee at her. She took it to a small table, relieved that Johnnie didn't follow. She watched Kerry Collins throw an incomplete pass, then saw Nancy approach.

  "Hey, hon. You must be on call tonight."

  Frank nodded and asked how she was doing.

  "Alright. Shitty tips, though. And if your buddy grabs my ass one more time I swear I'm gonna break a glass over his head."

  "He'd probably like that."

  Nancy shook her head disgustedly. "Probably. Have you had dinner yet?"

  "Nope. How about a cheeseburger?"

  "Rare, no onions, Swiss cheese."

  "That's my girl," Frank tiredly encouraged.

  "That'll be the day," Nancy smirked. "I'll probably be in Depends before it happens."

  Nancy's parting shot made Frank grin. Glancing back over her shoulder, Nancy savored the rare sight. Frank followed the easy sway of her ass across the room, grateful for the diversion from the long day.

  Two hours later she was standing in Ruben Benjharad's apartment. She hadn't woken the supervisor, but he still wasn't happy to see her. Frank was used to it; no one was ever glad to see a homicide cop.

  Benhjharad had only supervised Clancey for nine months. His employee seemed pretty dependable. If he clearly explained to Clancey what he wanted, it got done. He described Clancey as competent, but never taking the initiative to do anything outside his immediate instruction. Frank asked if he talked to Clancey about things other than work, and Benjharad frowned, scratching his chest. He couldn't think of anything, nor did he think Clancey talked with the other employees, preferring to take his lunch break alone in his car. The supervisor didn't offer anything new, but he at least supported Frank's profile. She thanked Benjharad and reminded him that their conversation was confidential.

  At home, finally, she went over the day's notes. They told her nothing new but did nothing to unlodge the certitude in her gut that Clancey was the one. With a pleasure bordering on desire, she pictured Clancey.

  You woke up a while ago, all sleepy-eyed
and tousle-haired in your bed that smells like old skin and sweat and cum. I bet you slept through the alarm until Mom pounded on the door, ragging your ass like she does. I'll bet you didn't want to wake up, did you? Bet your dreams are better than mine. But you get up anyway. Have to. Mom won't let you be late. What next? Shower?

  Frank remembered the damp pile of towels in the bathroom.

  Probably. Because Mom's trained you to. You don't really care. Comb your hair for the same reason. Do you look in the mirror? Probably not. Put on whatever clean clothes your mom's washed. Go downstairs. She said she always has a meal ready for you. You'll eat with her but you won't talk much.

  There'd been a TV on a plastic cart that faced a small table in the kitchen. Frank bet they watched it during meals.

  It's just a matter of time, now, buddy. I am so close to you. I want you. And I'll get you.

  Frank felt warm thinking of him, and she marveled that it had been a long time since she'd wanted anything as much as Delamore.

  Thursday night, long after the rest of the homicide room was deserted, Kennedy found Frank still bent over her desk.

  "I thought you said you'd call," she said by way of a greeting.

  Guiltily, Frank answered, "I know. Been busy."

  Kennedy took a seat on the couch, hands dangling between her knees. She was in blue jeans and a cracked leather jacket. Frank tried to resist a quick and unbidden surge of affection.

  "How's it going with Delamore?"

  Gazing absently at the budget in front of her, Frank said, "Still waiting on the lab. Talked to almost everyone on our priority list. One guy actually seemed pretty viable, but his time frame was all bad for Nichols or Agoura. There's one more I still have to talk to. He's in Indiana, be back Monday."

  "Dang, you have been busy. And here I thought you were just avoidin' me."

  "So what have you been up to?" Frank asked, changing the subject.

  "Mostly begging to get reassigned to the street. I think Luchowski's gonna put me back on Monday. But anyway, I came by to ask you a favor."

  "Shoot."

  "Let me take you out to dinner on Saturday."

  "Take me out?"

  "Yeah, you always cook, and seeing as I can't cook, it's only fair I buy you dinner. Where do you want to go? Your pick."

  Frank considered the offer. "You know," she responded slowly, "I really like to cook and I usually only get around to it on weekends. So if you could choke down another one of my meals, why don't you come over to my place."

  Kennedy's tawny mane flew around her face. "Uh-uh. See, the whole point is I'm trying to re-ci-pro-cate. Get it? So what's the point in you cooking for me?"

  "Oh-h, I see. If it's just paying me back that you want, then forget it, but if you want my company and a good meal, let's do it at my place. Unless you don't like my food."

  Exasperated, Kennedy flopped back against the couch. "I love your food, but you always treat. I'll only do it if you'll let me pay for the groceries."

  "Whatever."

  "Cool!" Kennedy bounced to her feet. "How long are you gonna stay here?"

  "Little longer."

  "Why don't you come surfing with me? It's gonna be a beautiful night."

  "Get outta here."

  "Come on," Kennedy pleaded. "You'll love it."

  "Doubtful."

  "Just try."

  "Nope. Out you go. I got work to do."

  "Come on, Frank, don't be such a wuss."

  "Nope."

  Their eyes met, sparkling and playful, and Frank was almost tempted to hop in her car and follow Kennedy to the beach. "Go on. See you at five on Saturday."

  Kennedy made a disgusted noise and muttered, "Coward."

  Frank highlighted an expenditure in red as Kennedy asked from the doorway, "What can I bring?"

  "Surprise me," Frank muttered. She didn't see Kennedy's wicked smile.

  By the next night, Frank was exhausted. She tried to relax and drank more than she should have, closing the Alibi with Johnnie and Ike. Nancy made a bid to get Frank to come home with her, and tempting as it sounded at the time, Frank was relieved to wake up alone in her own bed on Saturday morning.

  Her hangover wasn't bad, just dulling, and it was siphoning her already low energy. A run on the treadmill helped as she thought about what she'd make for Kennedy. Maybe a pork tenderloin napped with a roasted garlic creme sauce and rotelle on the side to hold the sauce, or maybe she'd just barbecue some Porterhouses and bake potatoes. She realized she was looking forward to the evening and checked her anticipation. She spent the morning distracting herself with Agoura/Peterson details, getting so involved that when the phone rang she answered, "Homicide. Franco."

  There was a pause before Kennedy said, "I could've sworn I dialed your home number."

  "You did. Just forgot where I was."

  "Whatcha doin?"

  "One guess."

  "You're goin' round that table like a wild dog circlin' a fawn."

  "Bingo. What's up?"

  "I hate to do this, but I can't make it tonight. We've got this surveillance, and one of the guys on the detail called in sick. Luchowski wants me to take it."

  "That's great," Frank said, artfully concealing her disappointment. "You're back on the outside."

  "Yeah, finally. So you think I can get a raincheck?"

  "You bet."

  "What were you gonna make? Tell me so I can drool over it while I'm stuck in my car with a bucket of KFC."

  "I don't know," Frank lied. "I hadn't really thought about it yet."

  "Well, that's good. I was hoping you hadn't gone out and got groceries already."

  Frank didn't respond, and Kennedy asked, "You wanna try for next Saturday?"

  "Sure."

  "Cool. I'll talk to you later, then."

  "Right."

  Frank pressed her ringer down on the receiver button. She replaced the phone slowly. Scanning the suspect list, Frank stonewalled her disappointment and called one of the numbers on the list. A few minutes later she was stalled in traffic. All around her there were families in vans hurrying home, couples in sedans dressed for parties and dinners, truck drivers eager to park their rigs, and single men and women in sports cars fantasizing what their dates would be like. Watching them as dusk blued the skyline, Frank's thoughts kept straying back to her own evening, but she quickly refocused on work.

  Studying an elegant couple in the Beamer next to her, Frank pondered her options if the Delamore carpet didn't match the evidence sample. There were a number of ways she could play it. As the Beamer inched forward, she wondered where the couple was going. The man was laughing, the woman smiling, as if she'd just said something clever. They seemed quite happy. Frank looked away.

  Later, sitting in the dark, watching shadows against the light—one thin and small, the other tall and wide—Frank was keenly aware of the action around her. A dog trotted down the sidewalk. A car door shut. There was canned laughter from a TV turned too loud. City sounds punctuated the night—a horn, trucks rumbling, a chopper whumping not far off.

  "Come on," she whispered, following Delamore's silhouette across the living room window. "Come on, buddy."

  And then he was at the front door, light tumbling out around him. She sank lower, slowly, never losing his face as he slid into a shabby Camaro. As his taillights faded, so did Frank's exhilaration. She stared at the house, its allure diminished by his absence. His secrets were in there, though.

  By the time Frank pulled away from the curb the couple in the Beamer were in their bed, fast asleep, and Clancey Delamore's house had long been dark.

  He was sitting at a picnic table on the edge of the park, anchoring the sports section open with large forearms. The day was cool and blustery, but little kids were running around on the grass and mothers were relieved to have them distracted. At least until one of them fell and hurt himself, or wouldn't share the ball with someone else.

  There were two Mexican girls swinging branches at each other,
sisters he guessed. He studied them openly, surprised to find he had no feeling for them. He was beyond little girls; they'd been practice for the older and more demanding work he faced now. A quick survey of the park uncovered no suitably aged girls. But that was alright. He didn't want to take them from here anyway. He'd snuck in though a gash of chain-link fence in the thick scrub just to think and relax before going home to his mother and the same dumb questions she always asked: How was his night? What did he want for dinner? Where had he been since he got off work? He thought she'd stop asking because his answers were always the same: Okay. Anything. He'd gone for a walk or to the twenty-four-hour movies.

  He knew he couldn't tell her what he was doing, couldn't tell anyone, even though he just wanted to run down the streets screaming, "It's me! I did it!" He was proud of his work, especially the last girl, and thinking about the next one made him feel hot and excited. It was going to be even better. He knew just what he wanted to do.

  His chest tightened when he thought about it, and he felt pure pleasure, just like he'd felt before crashing into a defender or bringing the ball home against his chest. In those rare moments of perfect clarity and peace, he'd known the right moves to make and made them flawlessly. Those were the moments when his father had beamed at him from the sidelines. He'd always wished he could stop the clock and stay forever in that smile of acceptance. For those short and shining seconds he felt loved and happy and safe.

  That's how it felt when he was with them, right before he made the big play with his father's eyes still somehow on him, bright and smiling, clapping with his hands raised, proud of his son. This was what he felt he'd been groomed for all his life. Football had just been a way to get him here where he truly belonged. His father had known that and tried to show him, but he'd been afraid. Now he wasn't afraid anymore. He knew what he had to do.

  32

  She was trying to be patient, but ten working days after she'd submitted the carpet samples, Frank broke down and called the lab. A clerk cheerfully told her they'd completed her carpet sample just that morning. Frank grabbed her coat, a handful of stapled papers, and raced past Foubarelle, who had wandered into the squad room. "Frank, I need to talk to you."