by Baxter Clare
"What happened then?"
"He went on and I stayed. Didn't get no fuckin' trick and that pimp nigger never did roll back. Probably went home to his warm bed and slap-pin ' guts."
"Was that the last time you saw him that night?" She must have nodded because Noah says, "I need a verbal response, Tina."
"Yeah. That was the last time."
"What sort of mood was he in the last time you saw him?"
"Like always. Like the lyin' snake he is, somewhere's between charmin' and deadly."
Not the attitude Frank would expect from a man who'd just tossed, or still had to toss, two dead kids. The more Frank hears, the more she discounts McNabb as a primary suspect. She has a moment of regret, guilt even, that she didn't help Noah sooner and harder. She thinks of all the energy and emotion he spent running down dead ends.
On paper McNabb looks like a logical suspect, but his story holds up well after at least three lengthy interrogations. So do the testimonies of the girls, his homes and the bartender. Second, of the little physical evidence there was, none pointed to McNabb. Third, McNabb fits neither her profile nor the FBI's, although the latter was submitted when it was believed the suspect had positioned the bodies. Frank has since resubmitted the case data and is anxious to see if VICAP's new profile corresponds to hers. At any rate, barring a confession or a witness stepping forward, she has nothing on McNabb to present to a grand jury.
But like Noah, she will beat this horse to death. After a late lunch the next day, Frank heads back to Raymond Street. She hopes to find McNabb's grandmother home and is pleased when the old lady answers her knock. After Frank introduces herself, Mrs. McNabb whispers that she has some friends visiting. Frank promises this won't take long. The old lady is peeved but invites her in.
"I'll just be a minute," she tells her friends as she and Frank pass the living room. Two old women stare at Frank, then start whispering as she passes from sight. Mrs. McNabb pulls a chair almost as tall as she is from the kitchen table. She sits but doesn't offer Frank a seat.
"Mrs. McNabb, you spent a lot of time talking to my partner, Detective Jantzen, about your grandson Reginald and his possible involvement in the deaths of Ladeenia and Trevor Pryce."
The old lady bobs her head so violently Frank half expects it to snap off and roll around on the kitchen floor. She continues with her questions, confirming answers she already has, and retesting the strength of Mrs. McNabb's testimony. At length Mrs. McNabb rises on tiny feet, complaining, "Lieutenant, my friends are out there waiting on me and the God's honest truth is I am just tired of all these suggestions that my grandson is a petit four."
"A petit four." Frank blinks.
"Yes," she says with heat, "or whatever you call those child molesters."
"Mrs. McNabb, I'm certainly not implying that Reginald is a petit four, but he may have gotten into a situation he didn't anticipate. I've talked with Reginald. He's a bright boy, and I think at heart he means well, but sometimes accidents happen. Things get out of hand and suddenly we've made a mess we're not sure how to clean up. The normal thing is to panic and run, try to hide our tracks. That's all I'm saying. And to be honest, from the outside looking in, your grandson looks like a pretty good suspect. Whether he was involved or not, that's what it looks like."
The old lady appears calmed by the lies. Good cops develop a wonderful sense of timing, and Frank's tells her she's pushed far enough today. Mrs. McNabb makes sure to see her out, asking at the door, "Where'd that young detective go? I liked him a lot better."
"I liked him a lot better too," Frank admits. "But he's off the case. You're stuck with me now."
"He off 'cause he didn't solve it?"
It's good for the old lady to believe the case is that important so Frank nods.
Alone in the car, she allows a chuckle. Gail will love Mrs. McNabb's petit four/pedophile malapropism. Her humor fades when she remembers she won't be seeing Gail. Or talking to her. Or Noah, either. There's no one to tell. The extraordinary depth of her isolation stuns Frank, snatching her breath away.
"Christ."
She needs a drink. It's the only thing she knows to do to ease the crush in her chest. She races toward the Alibi, feeling better just thinking about the relief a drink will bring. Frank's certain this is not a good solution but equally certain she doesn't have a better one. Jammed up in traffic on Manchester, she has time to see a familiar face pass along the sidewalk. Frank idles up to a woman too nicely dressed for the 'hood and too large-boned to be a woman.
"Hey. Buy you a drink, miss?"
"Officer Frank," she gushes in a breathy voice. "Whatever you want it's gonna cost you more than a drink."
"Don't I know it."
Frank tips her head toward the seat next to her. Miss Cleo minces around the grill, smoothing her skirt as she settles beside Frank.
"You can't drive better than this on your salary?"
"What's wrong with this?" Frank asks.
"It's old, what's wrong with it. Look like something my grandma'd drive." Miss Cleo sniffs.
She's a classy hooker, but there aren't that many classy bars in South Central. The Sizzler's close and clean. Two 10-7 uniforms snicker as Frank and Miss Cleo take a table. Miss Cleo orders red wine, removing the white gloves that cover her telltale wrist bones. An artfully tied scarf conceals the large Adam's apple, and Miss Cleo remains the image of a sophisticated lady.
"Being careful out there?" Frank asks.
The ageless transvestite flashes a snowy smile. "I'm here, aren't I?"
Frank pulls pictures from her briefcase, sliding them across the table. "You know any of these guys?"
The drinks come and Frank finishes half her beer before Miss Cleo's first sip. She studies pictures of Noah's three suspects but at last shakes her head. Feathers wave from the cloche over her ironed bangs.
"What'd they do?"
"Detective Jantzen ever talk to you—"
"Oh, I heard he passed. I'm so sorry about that. He was a lovely man."
Frank responds with one nod. "He ever talk to you about a case he had a while back? Two kids dumped in a lot near Raymond Street. Strangled." Trevor's broken neck is still a holdback.
Miss Cleo's fine features draw together in concentration. "It seems like it. Yes, I think so. That've been about four, five years ago, hmm?"
"Six. This guy, Reginald McNabb"—she taps his picture—"is a pimp. He lives over to Raymond. Keeps a stable of really young girls. Don't think he has one over sixteen. He likes it front and back. That's how the little girl was done. This guy, Charles Floyd, he's just a hustler. I want to know what the word is on him. And this guy, name's Willie Coleman. He likes kids. Down in Calipatria right now, serving a dime on a child molest. "
The feathers bounce in understanding. Frank finishes her beer, already wanting another. She lays two twenties on the table.
Miss Cleo is surprised. "You don't usually pay in advance."
"I don't usually care this much. Can I give you a ride somewhere?"
Chapter 26
At the coffeepot next morning, she asks Bobby, "How goes it, Picasso?"
Hunching his broad shoulders, he answers in his sweet voice, "Weird. It goes weird."
"How so?"
"I don't know. Just feels weird without Noah, and Johnnie gone now too."
"Yeah. I know."
They both look over the squad room. Jill's typing and Lewis is on the phone.
"How goes it with you?" Bobby asks over the rim of his cup.
She thinks for a moment, then confides, "You're the art major. You'll appreciate this. You know Munch's The Scream? The skinny woman with her mouth open like an O?"
"Yeah." Bobby nods.
Heading toward her office, Frank says over her shoulder, "It goes like that."
Unable to stand the confining squad room, twenty minutes later Frank checks out a slickback and drives to McNabb's crib.
Noah had dragged Reginald McNabb down to the station no less than t
hree times, and each time his testimony was consistent. McNabb was at the Cozy Corner from about 2:30 to 4:00 on that Friday afternoon. Ladeenia and Trevor left their house around 3:30. According to McNabb, there was no one to kick it with at the bar, so he left. He cruised around looking for his homes, couldn't find any. He stopped at the B & O for cigarettes. He got a Quick Pick and five scratchers. None of the dated tickets were winners and he'd thrown them out. The owner of the store didn't remember him. He doesn't have a substantial alibi until he appears at Jackson's Bar at almost 6:00. The bartender and three homes back his story. He has two Seven-and-Sevens then goes out to make sure his hos are getting ready for work. The girls Noah talked to support the timing. Reginald spends the better part of the night hustling. Christmas is coming and he needs bank. His girl Tina is the last to see him that night, around 11:30.
The morning is still young when Frank pulls up to McNabb's. A bronze Camry, tricked out with gold rims and personalized plates reading BIGPMPN, announces he is home. This pleases Frank. The best time to trip a suspect up is when they've just been pounded out of bed. Frank flashes ID at a woman behind the cracked door.
"What you want him for?"
"Wanna talk to him."
Seeing Frank's alone, the woman admits her. She starts to walk away but Frank catches her arm.
"He asleep?"
"He was till you started banging on the door."
"Where?"
The woman is dubious but points down a hall with three open doors.
"On the right or left?"
"Left. The second one."
Frank walks into a dim room. Reginald McNabb sleeps on his belly, hugging a pillow. Even in bed he is decked out in emeralds and ice. A sheet covers him from half his ass down. Frank loves this. She sits next to him, tickling his back with her badge. He swats at it, slurring into the pillow, "Keesh, wha' you doin'?"
Frank holds a finger in front of her lips, glancing at a nervous Keesh in the doorway. Frank trails the badge over the small of McNabb's back and he rolls over in a flurry. His speed surprises Frank, but not as much as she's surprised him.
He grabs the sheets, spitting, "Who the fuck are you?" even though she's held her badge up for him.
"Lieutenant Franco. Homicide. Where were you the night Ladeenia Pryce was killed?"
"What?"
She repeats the question.
"Bitch, what the fuck you talkin' about? Comin' into my house like this! Wakin' me up in my bed. I'ma slap a harassment suit on you's what I'ma do. You got a warrant?"
"Don't need one. Keesh let me in. Where were you the night Ladeenia Pryce was killed?"
"Keesha, you one stupid bitch, you know that? I do not fuckin' believe this," he moans. "Why you people still all over me 'bout them kids?"
"Where were you the—"
"I was the same fuckin' place I was the last time you five-oh motherfuckers axed me! Keesha! Why you let this bitch in here?"
Keesha only answers with wider eyes.
"Where were you the night Ladeenia Pryce was killed?"
"Same fuckin' place, a'ight! To the Cozy Corner, then Jackson's, a'ight! It's the same fuckin' story. It ain't changed. Don't be puttin' it on me 'cause you stupid motherfuckin' one-times can't find your killuh."
"Put some clothes on." Frank stands. "Could you make us some coffee, Keesha?"
"What I look like, your fuckin' housemaid?"
McNabb barks, "Bitch, make the goddamned coffee."
Frank waits in the sparsely furnished living room, McNabb's strewn clothing the only decoration. She studies a high-end entertainment system until he appears in jeans and a T-shirt.
"Nice works," she says. "Probably costs more than I make in half a year."
"Yeah." He snorts. " 'Cause you the only honest cop left in America, right?"
"Well, at least L.A.," Frank corrects. "So tell me about that night."
"Keesha! Where my coffee?" he yells.
"It's coming," she yells back from the kitchen.
"Man, I already told all this to that skinny motherfuckin' Jantzen dude. Musta been at least a hundred times. Why don't you ask him?"
" 'Cause it's my case now, so we gotta start all over."
"Fuck this," he despairs.
"Let's take it from the top. You started the night off at Jackson's." She deliberately reverses the order of the clubs.
"No, goddamn, I was at the Cozy Corner. I didn't get to Jackson's until later."
Frank leads him through the times, hoping to trip him, but he's consistent. She pretends to examine notes, reading aloud, "You stopped at Sammy's for cigarettes. What brand?"
"Sammy's? I didn't go there. Shit, no wonder you can't catch this mo-fo. I stopped to the B & O for Winston's," he says, firing one up from the pack on the table.
"What else you get while you were there?"
Reginald rolls his eyes. "Lottery ticket and some scratchers."
"How many?"
"Shit, I don't know. Three, four, sumpin' like that."
"What'd you win?"
"Nothin'."
"You scratch 'em in the store or outside?"
"Outside."
Keesha brings Reginald a steaming mug.
Frank says, "Hey. Where's mine?"
The girl looks at Reginald and his shoulders jerk.
"Then what'd you do?"
"Drove around some more. Lookin' for my dawgs, Rabbit and TJ, but I couldn't find neither of 'em."
"And then?" she prompts.
"That's when I ended up at Jackson's. About six o'clock. I give up lookin' for them boys."
"Who saw you there?"
"Fuck, man, that homes a yours was always scribbling some mad shit down. Don't you got all that in his notes? And he musta taped me ten times. I know I already answered all this shit."
"I want my own notes. Who saw you at Jackson's?"
Reginald curses and Keesha slams another mug onto the coffee table.
"Thanks," Frank calls after her sulky back. She questions McNabb for over an hour. His story never wavers.
As Frank prepares to leave, Keesha complains, "You ain't drunk your coffee."
Frank winks. "I'm sure it was delicious."
Keesha blushes hard, leaving Frank wondering only which body fluid was in it.
Chapter 27
Over the weekend Frank makes the drive to Calipatria. William Coleman is doing consecutive nickels behind a sexual molest and aggravated assault on an eight-year-old girl. Told her he'd kill her if she told. Brave girl told anyhow and now Coleman is in solitary for his own safety.
She starts the interview by indicating the folder in front of her. "I've read your jacket, William. It looks like you're in a hell of a pinch here. Cons aren't real fond of short-eyes, are they?" He opens his mouth to answer but she cuts him off. "Point is, we might be able to help each other out. You give me what I want, I might be able to help you out."
"You gonna commute my time?"
"I'm not saying I can do that. Depending on what you tell me, though, the D.A. might be willing to work a deal. That's up to you. What I can do today, and for quite a while on, is to provide you with certain, oh, let's say, entertainments, to help you maximize your pleasure while you're in sol." Flipping the folder open, she slides kiddie porn borrowed from the evidence room across the table.
Willie reaches hotly but Frank pulls it back.
"And there's more," she coaxes. Pulling at her nose and looking at notes, she adds, "Says here you like girls' underpants. Is that true?"
The unpleasant man looks away and Frank makes a laugh.
"It's okay. You can tell me, William. Or do you like Bill?"
"Willie," he says in a voice like rats slithering.
"Willie then. I've seen it all. Been a cop close to twenty years. Nothing surprises me. Nothing disgusts me, either. To be perfectly honest, the only thing I care about is numbers. And right now, I'm working a case I can't close and that's pissing me off. You know the case, Willie." She watches his react
ion when she says, "Ladeenia Pryce."
Willie looks alternately surprised and curious. She can see his mind running like a mouse in a maze. She lets it race from one dead end to the next.
"You know, Willie, this is a terrible thing to say. But I don't really care about that girl and I don't really care who did her. Or the little boy either. I see that sort of stuff on a weekly basis, and I just don't give a fuck. But you know what bothers me, Willie?" She studies him hard and just as he's about to venture a guess she answers, "The numbers. I've got a ninety-six percent case rating, Willie. Do you know how good that is? Of course you don't. But let me tell you, it's excellent. And you know what's fucking my case rating up right now? Ladeenia Pryce. I don't mean to be brutal, Willie, but I want that bitch off my books and out of my life. Do you understand?"
Willie nods.
But Frank says, "I don't think you do. No offense, but I don't think you can begin to comprehend the satisfaction of a one-hundred percent case closure. Not many people can, not even cops. Most of them don't even come close. So let me just say that I would be extremely happy, and extremely grateful, to whoever helps me get Ladeenia Pryce off the books. Do you know what I'm saying? I would be so happy, I'd do whatever I could to make that son of a bitch, short-eyes or not, happy. It's worth that much to me."
Frank pauses, pulling at her nose again. She thinks it's a Karl Maiden, TV cop kind of affect a creep like Coleman might be able to relate to.
"You like girls' panties, don't you, Willie?"
Again the con has to glance away from Frank.
"I can get 'em for you." After a beat she confides, "Used."
Sick Willie flinches despite himself and the light comes up in his eyes. Frank watches him thinking, could it be true? Could it possibly be true?
"Don't be shy." Frank laughs again. "I know you like 'em. It says so right here." She taps the folder. "How about bras?" She suddenly lowers herself close to the table. "I can get them too. Little ones, like training bras. You like those best, don't you?"
She nods and Willie acts nonchalant, not wanting to commit himself, not wanting to believe he might actually get his hands on such contraband treasure.
"You help me and I'll help you," she whispers, leading him through an increasingly perverse scenario. Twisting his fear and monstrous lust into one pliant rein she leads Willie to that deadly Friday. She guides him through the fantasy of what he did to Ladeenia, how he caught her, how he held her, how he fucked her, and even how he killed her.
