Hold of the Bone

by Baxter Clare Trautman

  When Caroline calls, Frank makes excuses not to see her. But the weekend looms, and she can’t put her off anymore. They make a date for dinner at Caroline’s. Frank arrives with flowers and Caroline’s favorite chocolate truffles. She goes through the prescribed motions, by turns gracious, attentive, and charming. It is only after they are in bed that Caroline wonders, “If I ask you something, will you promise to be straight with me? No pun intended.”

  Frank smiles thinly in the dark. “Sure.”

  “Why do I feel like you are a million miles away?”

  “Not a million,” she admits. “Just a couple hundred.”

  “In Soledad?”

  “Afraid so.”

  Caroline removes her hand from Frank’s thigh. It leaves a cool spot the same temperature as Frank’s insides.

  “Is there someone else?”

  “No.”

  “Not that woman up there, your victim’s daughter?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Frank snaps the light on. She pushes her pillow against the headboard and sits up. “It’s crazy. I don’t even know how to tell you.”

  “Start at the beginning.”

  Frank does, repeating everything she told Marguerite. “I feel like I’ve suddenly come alive up there. Like my whole life’s been fake up to this point and all of a sudden I’ve discovered my real one. I know that doesn’t make sense. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “That’s good,” Caroline murmurs. “Because I’m not sure I do.” She stares at the ceiling while Frank traces the pattern on the bedspread. Finally she says, “I feel like you’ve told me you’re seeing a man. I don’t know how to compete with something like this.”

  “You can’t. There’s nothing to compete against.”

  “That’s my point.”

  They lie in the strained silence until Caroline sighs. “Seeing as you’re not really here anyway, it might be better if you went home.”

  “Yeah.”

  Frank tries not to bolt from the bed. She dresses patiently while Caroline looks on. Zipping up her hoodie, Frank sits on the edge of the bed. She takes Caroline’s hand.

  “I’m sorry it’s not working right now.”

  “So am I. I miss you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I wish I could give you more to hang your hat on, but I don’t have it to give. I’ve got to see this through. I don’t know why, I just do.”

  “And I wish I could help you but I don’t feel like you need my help. Or want it. Do you?”

  Frank shakes her head. “I think this is something I’ve got to do alone.”

  Caroline nods. “It looks like that tarot lady was right.”

  “Maybe.”

  She kisses Caroline’s cheek with a twinge of remorse. But her lover’s comfortable familiarity is no match for the mystery of the mountains. As she lets herself out of the condo, she feels like a prisoner stepping from jail. She drives fast through the red darkness, windows down, fog wrapping in her hair. At home she drags her mattress and blankets out to the backyard. The night settles her cool, damp hair on her face, and she ponders the insanity that drives her from the warm bed of a desirable woman. But it’s an idle question, because Frank already knows the answer.

  Chapter 35

  Frank gets to the squad room early on Friday, but Lewis is already there. Before Frank can even greet her, Lewis grins and waves a sheaf of papers. “Guess what I got?”

  “Winning lottery ticket?”

  “Almost as good,” she gloats. “Remember all those ledgers I found? I’ve been working them steady, running down names, making calls.”

  Frank lifts a finger. “Hold on.”

  Her detective has switched from casual ghetto slang into an Ivy League idiolect. Frank thinks it’s an unconscious habit, but it always signifies Lewis is onto something hot. She pours coffee and perches with it on Lewis’ desk. “Alright. Tell me.”

  Lewis is almost bouncing in her seat. “Jim McKinley. In 1968 he was an apprentice plumber and he worked for Saladino Construction. He’s retired now. I talked to him last night. He remembers Domenic Saladino.”

  Frank nods.

  “McKinley remembers working with Saladino. Said that he was a good worker but he drank too much. Recalled that he usually came on in winter, that he lived somewhere up north. Never stuck around too long. I asked him, did he recall the last time he worked with Saladino, and he said yeah, at a block of commercial buildings they were building on Western.”

  She pauses, unable to keep the grin from splitting her face.

  “He says he remembers because Saladino’s daughters pulled up to the job site one night and started screaming at him that he’d murdered their mother.”

  Frank sets the cup down. “What else did he say?”

  “That ain’t enough?”

  Frank shrugs. She keeps her hands in her lap so Lewis won’t see them shake.

  “He left after the girls got there. It was almost dark. He was helping Saladino do some framing because they were gonna pour concrete the next day. They were almost done when the girls pulled up. Saladino told him to go home, that he’d finish up. So McKinley did. Said he was uncomfortable with the daughters being upset and screaming, so he got the hell out of there.”

  “Where’s this guy at?”

  “West Covina.”

  “Guess we better go for a ride.”

  She gets up and carries her coffee into her office with two hands. Not bothering with the light, she locks the door and puts her back against it. She is unmoved when a wave of dizziness warns a vision is imminent. She surrenders to the oncoming flight, spiraling high like a condor over the sunset-bloodied mountains. The canyons flicker below her in golden orange and red flame. The sea washes blackly to shore to break ruddy on the sand, and all of it—mountains, fire, sky, and ocean—is forever a great endless circle of beginning and ending, leaving and coming, birthing and dying, and always, always, always—“Fuck.”

  Frank drags a hand over her eyes to wipe away the endless whirl. She slaps the light on, takes her chair, and sets to furious typing. A knock summons her to the morning meeting. She finishes what she is typing and starts the meeting late. She hears only half of it. When it is over, Lewis is excited to roll to Covina.

  “Half an hour,” Frank tells her. She returns to her office, finds two pictures on classmates.com and hits Print. Then she pulls the retirement papers from her drawer, seals them in an interdepartmental envelope, and drops them in the mailbox. Picking up her prints, she slides them into a cell-frame with four other pictures.

  “Ready?” she asks Lewis.

  “Just been waiting on you.”

  Lewis grins and grabs keys, but Frank says, “I’ll drive.”

  This gets a raised eyebrow from Lewis, but she answers, “Ten-four. You know what? I’mma use the little girls room ’fore we get stuck in traffic.”

  Waiting in her car, Frank rolls a cigarette and smokes. Lewis comes out of the station and Frank pitches the cigarette. Her cop gets in, fanning the air.

  “Damn, LT, it stink in here. That why you wanna drive, so you can smoke you nasties?”

  Frank’s only answer is to swing out of the lot. Lewis is in a good mood and chatters like a songbird. Frank doesn’t contribute to the conversation. Eventually Lewis ventures, “You sweet on that Saladino chick?”

  Franks cuts her with a glance. “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “You just looked sad this morning when I told you. Like you disappointed or somethin’.”

  “Surprised, more like it. Disappointed I didn’t pull that outta her, that my young Turk’s sharper than I am.”

  “Yeah,” Lewis jollies, “that’ll be the day. What you wanna do about this?”

  “Go back up and talk to her.”

  “Let me go with you.”

  “No.”

  It comes out sharper than Frank intends.

  “You sure?”

  She speed
s under a yellow light.

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  The next light is red. Each cop studies her side of the street. As Frank accelerates, Lewis mentions, “My aunt’s birthday party is next weekend. I could invite you. I’m tellin’ you, you’d like her.”

  “Lewis, don’t.” Frank warns. They’ve had this conversation before.

  “A’ight, I’m just saying.”

  Frank shakes her head at Lewis’s unceasing effort to hook her up with a dyke aunt. “If this woman’s such a damn prize, why isn’t she taken already?”

  “She selective, is all. Don’t want just anybody.”

  “Then I’m sure she’d be thrilled with a broken-down, old cop.”

  Lewis turns on her. “Whatsa matter, you sayin’ shit like that? Young Turks,” she mimics. “Broken-down old cop. Why you all Gloomy Gus on me?”

  “Ain’t Gloomy Gus.”

  “The hell you ain’t. Your face so long it be leavin’ drag marks here all the way back to the station.”

  Frank has to tell Lewis about her papers before they get back to the office. But not before the interview. She doesn’t want her distracted for that, and indeed, McKinley precisely reiterates everything he’s told Lewis. How it was cold and almost dark when the girls drove up, how they jumped out of the car crying and screaming at Saladino. Frank asks if both girls were screaming, or just one.

  McKinley is grizzled and chain-drinks black coffee. He looks at the ceiling, trolling memories. “Just the one was screaming, as I recall. The other was more like she was crying. But they were both fair upset.”

  Frank shows him the six-pack of black and white photos. He squints at the page a moment, then picks out a young Sal. A second later he taps a finger on Cass.

  “It was these two girls. At least, it looks like them.”

  “Which one was screaming?”

  He leans over the pictures, studying them. “Can’t say for sure. Like I said, it was getting dark, and they look alike, don’t they?”

  Frank nods. “Do you remember what the girls said?”

  “Sure I do. Not every day a guy’s daughters drive up accusing him of murdering their mother. That’s what the one girl kept saying. She kept screaming, ‘You killed her. You killed her. You killed my mother. You sonofabitch. You killed her.’”

  McKinley shivers and rubs his arms. “It was spooky, and I don’t mind telling you it gave me the creeps. Saladino was holding the one girl off, and he turns to me and says to go on home. That he’d finish up. I can tell you he didn’t have to say that twice. I was out of there like I’d been shot out of a cannon.”

  “What’s the last thing you remember seeing before you left?”

  McKinley sucks at his coffee, shakes his head. “Just Saladino talking to his girls. Like he was trying to calm them down.”

  “Did it work?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t stick around long enough to find out.”

  They drive back to Figueroa, Lewis crowing and Frank glum. Before they head into the station, Frank touches her cop’s arm. “Hey. I want you to hear this from me. I turned my papers in this morning.”

  “What papers?”

  “Retirement.”

  “You’re shittin’ me.”

  “Nope. I’m done.”

  Lewis leans against the car, fingering the cross at her neck. “Why?”

  Frank nods her head at the binder Lewis is holding. “For that. I’m tired of being lied to every day, dumped on. Been at it almost longer than you are old, and I’m over it. I’m all done.”

  “You can’t be,” her cop protests.

  “I can and I am. Just wanted you to hear it from me first.”

  Frank walks away. Upstairs she types a quick synopsis of the Saladino evidence. Finding Pintar in her office, she presents her notes. “I need to go back up there. Just one more time.”

  After scanning what Frank has given her, Pintar agrees. “But it’s got to be the last time.”

  “Oh, it will be. And by the way, I’ve turned my papers in.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. I’m done.”

  “Since when?”

  Frank shrugs. “Been meaning to do it for a while. It’s time.”

  “I thought you liked your work.”

  “Used to. Don’t much anymore.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. Can I do anything to make it better?”

  “No.” Frank makes an effort to smile. “You’ve been great. Mind if I leave now? I’d like to get up there before dark.”

  Pintar shrugs. “Guess I may as well get used to you not being around.”

  Feeling a sad wave of affection for her boss, she assures, “I’ll always be around. You can call anytime.”

  “That’s not the same—and you know it.”

  Frank nods. She checks in with the squad to let them know Pintar’s on call and that she’s headed back up north. Lewis ignores her, but Braxton and Tatum nod blandly. She knows Lewis hasn’t told them yet. She thinks about doing so but decides she doesn’t owe them like she did Lewis. She pauses by her detective’s desk. “Sister Shaft.”

  Lewis stops typing but doesn’t look at her.

  “Hold the fort down?”

  “Somebody got to,” she mutters darkly.

  After a quick stop at the house to pack a bag, Frank creeps onto the 405. Traffic is awful, but Frank takes her time, rolling cigarettes and thinking. She expected to be thrilled about retiring but is only slightly relieved, as if she’s turned in nothing more important than an overdue expense report. Even that is overshadowed by disappointing Pintar and Lewis. She calls Mary. “Hey. Congratulate me. I put my papers in.”

  “Oh my God! That’s terrific. Congratulations, kiddo. You must be ecstatic.”

  “Not really.”

  “Give it time to kick in. You’ll wake up one morning at o-dark-thirty and that’s when it’ll hit you that you never have to do any of that shit again.”

  “Yeah. Maybe. Just wanted to check in. I won’t be at the meeting tomorrow. I’m heading up north again.”

  “Alright, kiddo. Congratulations. Enjoy the ride.”

  “Yeah.”

  But there is no joy in the long drive, and halfway to Santa Barbara Frank realizes that Lewis’ and Pintar’s disappointment is the perfect mirror for her own. She’s hoped without even knowing she’s hoped that Sal wasn’t involved in Saladino’s death. Now, at the very least, she knows Sal has withheld evidence; at worst, killed her father or was an accessory.

  Fog reaches in from the ocean, gathering the blue with long, grey fingers. Frank shakes her head at the disappearing sky. “Hey, guides,” she speaks to the windshield. “Where the fuck are you now?”

  No one answers. At least not that Frank can hear. The fog swallows the last of the day.

  Chapter 36

  She is leaning against her car, smoking, when Sal comes down off the mountain. She parks the old truck and gets out.

  “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  Frank shrugs. “Me neither.” She pitches the cigarette. “You said you had something to show me.”

  Sal considers. Frank holds the steady blue gaze. The women gathered on the bench watch the wordless struggle. Sal nods. She walks to the women. One protests as Sal explains she can’t stay, but Sal touches each woman in turn and whispers in her ear. A squat abuela hugs her tearfully, as does a younger woman. They leave or walk to the cars parked under the oak tree. All except the one who argued have pressed a bag upon Sal. She carries them to the truck, and Frank drives after her through the gate. They leave the Honda at the turnout and jolt wordlessly to the ranch.

  “Can you get the horses? I have to get something from the house.”

  “Sure.”

  Dune and Buttons are already in the corral. Frank easily halters and ties them. She is brushing Buttons when the truck rumbles back to the corral. Sal silently joins in the work without speaking. She ties saddlebags to the horses, and when they leave the corr
al she loads them with ten-pound sacks from the back of the truck. Frank knows better than to ask what is in the bags or where they are taking them. Not that she even cares to ask, for she has learned that her questions are best answered in the showing. They ride the cropped trail to the cabin. The morning sun is warm and the mountains loom almost cheerfully. Frank wonders if they mock her.

  At the cabin, Sal ties bedrolls onto the horses and fills the remaining saddlebags. The dogs cry and bark from the pen. They cannot go, she tells Frank. It is too far. After stocking them with food and water, she makes one more trip into the cabin. She comes out with the shotgun and slides it into the empty rifle bag.

  “What’s that for?”

  “It’s a long ride. You never know when you’ll need it.”

  They swing the horses toward the mountains and trot over the easy pasturage. Frank is uncomfortable with the pace. She glares at Sal’s back and rides with one hand on the pommel. They begin the climb through buckbrush and manzanita. Frank recognizes the trail; it’s the one they took to the pass. Thorny branches grab at her legs and she has to pay attention to keep Buttons clear of the hungry shrubs. The sun is hot for October and beams with lusty vigor. Frank is glad for the baseball cap she wears. Sweat dribbles from her temples. Dust puffs under the horses hooves and lizards skitter out of their way. The trail rises and narrows. Somewhere Sal has turned off the pass trail, and now the horses pick their way with dainty precision.

  Noon comes and passes in front of them. The horses rise steadily into the heart of the mountains. The rough old gods watch with clasped hands and heads bowed. Frank shivers under the obdurate gaze, certain she will be found wanting.

  They gain a lean ridge and Sal pauses in a scrawny patch of shade. She unscrews the canteen and passes it to Frank. After a long swallow, Frank gives it back. At the barest flick of the reins, Dune moves out. Frank follows into the blunt mallet of the sun. She wishes she’d drunk more water. A cold beer sounds good, too. She imagines reaching into an icy cooler, the tangy spray of hops as she pops the cap, then the bitter, malty taste and rush of bubbles down her throat. She’ll chase the beer with a tumbler of belly-burning scotch.