by Baxter Clare
She debates putting his vehicle description in the box, but the case isn't critical enough for an APB. He doesn't know he's wanted and Frank wants to keep it that way. She told Ferris that if she has second thoughts and thinks to warn Antoine, it will only hurt him more than help. She gambles Ferris will keep her mouth shut, hoping the combined relief of off-loading her secrets and of duty to Antoine will keep Ferris silent.
Besides, he'll show up soon to collect his check. His pattern is to arrive a couple days before it's due, expecting the check to be early, surprised when it's not and furious if it's late. When he shows, Frank will be there with a search warrant. She contacts Bakersfield PD. They are grudgingly cooperative, agreeing to notify her of Bailey's arrival and accompany her when she serves the warrants.
Frank waits patiently for Bailey to surface. When she's not on the clock she's at home studying the Pryce books. A bottle of Scotch is never far from her hand. Reviewing the SID reports for perhaps the fiftieth time, she bemoans the lost Pryce evidence. Frank thinks what she wouldn't give for it and wonders where the hell it ever ended up. If she just had it and could reprocess it, maybe they'd find a tiny smear of DNA this time. Something the lab might have overlooked on its first go-round. Something to put Bailey away with. Or exonerate him. Either way it would be conclusive.
"Yeah," she offers to the drink in her hand. "And if wishes were horses we'd all ride."
She considers searching through Property one last time but hasn't the hope or the stamina to spare in some wild-ass chase. She'll have to build her case with what she has. But as improbable as it is, Frank still has one last ace up her sleeve.
Chapter 36
One of Bailey's old girlfriends still lives in the hood. Frank talks with her. She reiterates what a girlfriend Frank tracked to San Francisco has said.
"Front, back, sideways, upside down. That boy was just plain freaky. And he always wantin' some. Three, four times a day. Sometimes more. He wasn't never satisfied."
"What happened if you didn't give it to him?"
"Depends. He'd sulk or mope around sometimes. Most times he'd just take what he wanted. Just throw me down and do what he liked."
"Whether you were willing or not?"
"Hell, yeah." She snorts. "Didn't matter what I wanted."
"Why'd you go out with this guy?"
"He was nice at first. Used to bring me flowers and candy. He was real gentleman-like at the start. Then he just got rougher and meaner. Disrespectful. I just thought it was, you know, a mood, or something that would pass. But let me tell you, it didn't pass. It weren't no mood."
"Will you fill out a statement for me?"
"Hell, yeah, I will. You investigating him for something like this, I know you are, else you wouldn't be axing me all these questions about how he like it. Hell, I'll testify against that nappy-headed motherfucker any day. Motherfucker threw me into a wall before he left. Chipped my tooth, see?" She lifts her lip to point at a jagged front tooth. "I had a pretty smile, too."
"Still do," Frank says, showing her own. It's a satisfying moment when someone's willing to testify.
Frank heads to the county courthouse with Bailey's warrant. She's called ahead to check the schedule of Judge Moses Braun and catches him after he's recessed for the day. He's particularly sympathetic to cases involving children and signs Frank's warrants without even reading them.
On the third floor she runs into a cop she used to patrol with. Pausing in front of her, he needles, "I'll be damned. If it isn't Lieutenant Six Flights Up."
The man has built a career out of mediocrity and she shoots back, "If the hats aren't calling you upstairs, you aren't doing your job."
"You really knock one of your own men out?"
"Come on," she pleads. "Do I look like I could knock a cop out?"
Frank is tall, and despite her liquid diet she has maintained her gym muscles. Leaving the cop pondering her question, she continues to the DA'S office. Frank has to wait twenty minutes before Lydia McQueen bursts from her office like a fire hydrant under too much pressure. Short and stout, she even looks like a fireplug. She stands in front of Frank, demanding, "What do you want?"
"Good to see you too."
Frank highlights the warrant request, citing Bailey's history of aggression, assault and forced anal intercourse. She also notes a detailed timeline of his whereabouts during the afternoon of the murders and his blown alibi.
The Queen warns, "It sounds thin."
"Thin, but inculpatory. If I can get into the vehicle"—she flaps her search warrant—"I hope to match the girl's bruise marks to the edge of the tabletop."
"Let me see that," she says, holding out a well-tended hand. Leafing through the papers, she repeats, "It's still thin. This is the best you can do after six years?"
"It was a dump, Lydia. I'm happy to have this much."
The Queen is puzzled that one of the items Frank is looking for are Ladeenia Pryce's panties. "You can't expect to find these after all this time."
"Maybe, maybe not." Frank elaborates on Bailey's pathology, explaining the possibility that he might keep souvenirs from his victims. The panties never turned up anywhere else and Frank hopes that's why.
The attorney grunts and shakes her head. "Looks like a one-on-one, Frank. The sister's word against his."
"I know."
"So why should I waste time filing based on just this?"
Frank offers her most ingratiating smile. "Because we've been working together since before either one of us had a gray hair and because you know I'm good for more. Because I hardly ever come to you until I've built a case. But mostly, because I need this guy."
Frank and the DA eye-spar.
"Even if I do sign off, you'll have a helluva time at the arraignment."
"Let me worry about that. Just get me started."
"You better find that underwear," the Queen bitches, but she puts pen to paper.
Frank is happy. After certifying and duplicating warrants, she celebrates at the Alibi. To make the evening even nicer, Nancy is there. Frank drinks, flirts and thinks only of catching up to Antoine Bailey.
Chapter 37
Frank doesn't know where she is. She stands in complete bafflement and cracks her shin on what feels like a coffee table. She thinks maybe she's in her living room, but there's no tell-tale light from the street. She shuffles with her hands extended and bumps into a padded chair. She doesn't have a padded chair. Fighting frustration and a pounding head that does nothing to clarify the situation, she gropes for a wall. She runs into another table and things clatter to the floor.
An overhead light splits her skull. She squints into it to see Nancy holding her robe closed.
"What's going on?" the waitress asks.
"Uh . .. sorry. Just trying to find the bathroom."
"Over there." Nancy points to a door in the opposite direction.
Holy shit, Frank thinks, gulping water from the sink. What in hell is she doing here? She splashes water on her face, flinches when she sees herself in the mirror. Her hair's a snake pile, her eyes are red and puffy, and there's a deep crease on the cheek she slept on. Passed out on, she corrects.
She takes some comfort that she at least woke up with her clothes on. Frank stares at her ruined face. She just meant to have a couple drinks, not end up passed out on Nancy's couch. For a horrific instant she sees how far out of control her drinking is. Queasy, she returns to the living room. Nancy has straightened the overturned table and offers Frank aspirin.
"No. Thanks. I think I'd better get going."
"Your car's not here."
Frank lets that filter through the jackhammer in her head. "I'll call a cab. I'll wait outside."
Frank looks for a phone, but Nancy sighs. "Let me get dressed. I'll give you a ride back to the bar."
"No, Nance. It's ..." Frank glances at her wrist, amazed that it's almost five. "Okay," she relents.
While Nancy dresses, Frank combs her hair with her fingers and fills he
r pockets with what she'd emptied onto the coffee table the night before. Or the morning before. All she can remember is drinking stouts with Scotch backs and slowing to just stout when the anchorman on the evening news developed a Siamese twin.
Taking the stairs from Nancy's apartment, Frank asks what time they left the Alibi.
"You closed it."
"Was I obnoxious?"
"It'd be easier if you were."
"Why didn't you call me a cab?"
Nancy stops to face Frank. Pity and anger alternate across her face. "I thought maybe I'd finally get lucky last night, but you passed out while I was making the bed."
Frank is mortified. "Nance, I'm sorry."
"Yeah."
Nancy continues and Frank stays a step behind. They are quiet in the car, until Frank tries her tired excuse.
"It's not you, Nance. You know that. It's me."
"Oh, I know." She laughs falsely. "It's always you. But how come you're good enough for Kennedy? Or the coroner? How come you're good enough for them but never me?"
"They're different. You know that. Kennedy's a cop. We went though some shit together and then we had a fling. Is that what you want? A fling?"
"What about the coroner? She's not a cop."
"Exactly. She's not. And do you see me with her? You know how we are. You hear us after a couple beers. We're not a nice bunch of people, and it takes other cops to understand that and put up with it. The truth is, you're great. You got a lot to offer the right person, and believe me, a lotta times I've wished I was the right person. But I'm not."
"How would you know if you never tried?" Nancy snaps.
Frank sighs. "You're a civilian, Nance. Your life revolves around your son and hanging out with your friends and watching reality TV. My life is reality TV. I spend sixty hours a week dealing with the worst people can do to each other. I see things I don't want to tell a decent person about, things no one should ever have to hear about. What do you think we'd have in common? What could sustain anything between us?"
"Sometimes it's enough just to be with somebody warm at night."
Frank closes her eyes. The pain inside her head is preferable to the pain outside. Keeping her eyes closed, she listens to Nancy sniffle. "Look. I don't remember what happened last night. I don't know what I did. If I led you on I am truly sorry. I was drunk. I was wrong. I never meant to hurt you, Nance."
"Oh, yeah, I know. Because I'm so nice."
Frank doesn't know what else to say. When they get to the bar, she says, "Thanks for the ride."
Unlocking her car, she half expects Nancy to chase after her. She doesn't, and Frank blows lights all the way to the station. Because it's preferable to her shame, Frank nurses her irritation with Nancy. There's never been more than a mild flirtation between them, but suddenly Nancy's acting like they're the lesbian Romeo and Juliet.
"Fuck her," Frank swears. "Just absolutely fuck her and the duck she flew in on. Fuck Nancy. Fuck Gail. Fuck all of 'em."
She's still fuming as she changes into a clean suit in the locker room. Her blouse is wrinkled but will have to do. She dry swallows a couple naproxen and brushes her teeth.
Smacking her cheeks, watching blood replace the pallor, she murmurs, "Christ. I'm as bad as Johnnie."
She says the words, but refuses to believe them.
After a perfunctory briefing she retreats to her office and closes the door. She curses under her breath at the knock that immediately follows. "Yeah."
Lewis pops her head in. "Can I talk to you a minute?"
Lewis is barely off detective probation and Frank regrets she's been neglecting her. Waving at a chair, Frank answers, "Always. S'up?"
Lewis delivers Frank two neatly typed 60-days.
"Got an ID on the religious case?"
"Nah." Lewis flops a meaty hand. "Still a John Doe."
While she's got Lewis in her office, Frank decides to confront a nagging concern. "I hear you and Freeman been knocking boots. That true?"
Lewis is so taken aback she forgets to be angry. Then she remembers. "Who the hell tolt you that?"
"Heard it a couple different places. If you two think you're being discreet, you're not. You're a senior officer, Lewis. He's a patrolman. I hope it's worth it."
"We ain't doing nothing!" Lewis shouts. "Damn! We went out a couple times. That's all."
"Might want to limit it to that. You know the regs about mixing it up in the ranks. Wrong person gets wind of it, even if there's nothing going on, might end up in your package."
"God damn," Lewis complains. "How the hell a girl supposed to find somebody? Can't date a cop and cops the only one who understands when I run out at three in the morning and don't call for two days. Damn."
"Don't go out of pocket on me, Lewis. I don't write the rules. I'm just telling you what they are. You can go places. You got the brains and the backbone. You want to risk it all on some joystick, that's your business. Just don't say you weren't warned."
"It's not like that," Lewis insists.
"Whatever. I'm just telling you. Word's out." Frank turns her attention to Lewis's follow-up reports.
"Damn," Lewis repeats on her way out.
Frank wants to tell Lewis to not even bother, that sooner or later the romance will end badly. She should just concentrate on her career, because at the end of the day, especially in this line of work, that's all she'll have. But even this is not true, and Frank wisely keeps her counsel.
Over the next few days, she checks in frequently with the Bakersfield PD. If she lived there she'd be surveilling the Ferrises' place every night. Being this far away, all she can do is wait. Frank reinterviews Sharon Ferris's old neighbors. None of them have anything to add about Antoine Bailey. She helps Diego with a messy banger case. The nine-three has three unsolveds in a row and Frank wants to break the cold streak. She stays late at the office and doesn't drink. She avoids the Alibi but knows she'll have to eventually face Nancy.
She goes by after a Saturday afternoon spent at the station. She's been sober all week and allows herself three drinks because it's the weekend. She's surprised to see Nancy, who usually works week-nights. It's slow, but Nancy lets the new girl wait on her. When Nancy is alone at the bar, figuring a tab, Frank approaches her.
"Hey. You ever gonna talk to this asshole again?"
"Hi," Nancy says without raising her head.
"Look. I'm sorry I was such a—"
"Save it, Frank. I don't need your apology. I don't need anything from you."
Squaring her tabs together, Nancy drops them into her apron and leaves Frank at the bar.
Chapter 38
The stack of rented movies doesn't hold her attention. She tries reading but can't concentrate. She's finished dinner and the dishes are done. She walks circles in the den after shutting the stereo off. All her music is irritating tonight. She's feels like she's got crabs under her skin.
She makes a pot of decaf and pores over the Pryce books, pacing all the while. But eventually even they lose their grip on her. She has her suspect. All she can do is wait him out. She's already had a grueling workout, but Frank returns to her punching bag. She savages it for almost an hour. The assault leaves her soaked and weak. She thinks maybe she can sleep now. After her shower she rewards herself with a nightcap. Just one. But it's a big one.
A sergeant from Bakersfield PD wakes her at three-thirty. She's pleased about waking Fubar to explain where she's going. Double-checking that she has the warrants, she begins the easy drive north.
She slaloms through light traffic, wind blowing through the car. L.A. recedes and the stars emerge, hard and bright. She falls back to Gail's irrepressible enthusiasm about the stars, how they were shining before she and Frank were born and how they'd be shining long after they were dead and gone. Gail found their continuity reassuring. Frank only finds it depressing.
Watching the blacktop unroll in the path of her headlights, she plans how she'll play Bailey. Frank is wound tighter than coiled st
eel. Like a tiger stalking a deer, she's deferred hunger for opportunity. She's waited for the perfect moment to strike, and that moment is approaching at eighty miles an hour. One misstep and the prey gets away.
She coordinates with the Bakersfield boys. They park near Bailey's camper. In the new dawn, she knocks on his thin metal door. When he answers, she dangles the search warrant. She tells a stunned Bailey that she's looking for stolen property. She's looking for Ladeenia Pryce's panties, so that's partly true. Frank drops the warrant loosely to her side. By not drawing attention to it, she hopes Bailey will disregard it.
He protests, "I ain't stole nothin'."
"Well, let's just have a look," she says. Swinging into the doorway, she forces Bailey to jump down. Frank steps inside. Behind her, Bailey jabbers about harassment and planting evidence, just like they did to O.J., but in Frank's head it is quiet. This is her moment.
Though the camper reeks of stale grease and cigarettes, it is clean. Frank lays her hand on the built-in table to her left, aware of an old-fashioned, diner-style sugar dispenser. She studies the metal finish encircling the Formica. The same material girdles a narrow counter opposite. Frank pulls a picture from inside her jacket. When she smoothes it against the table, she sees her hand is trembling. There are four smudged lines in the bruise on Ladeenia Pryce's thigh. There are four raised ribs in the metal band. She holds a small ruler against the table edge. The ribbing corresponds roughly to the spacing on Ladeenia's bruise, and Frank gets shaky.
"Easy," she whispers, her voice as thin and gray as the light seeping through the curtains. She shifts her focus to the rest of the camper, wondering what else it might be hiding. She puts the picture away and allows a quick smile before hopping down to join Bailey.
"What did you find?" Bailey demands.
"What should I have found?"
"Nothin'," he insists.
"I still need you to come downtown and fill out a statement for me.
