Bleeding Out (26 page)

“What are you doing up so early?” she asked sarcastically. Behind her Kennedy mumbled that she was going to get bed sores if she slept any more.

“Coffee?” Frank asked, not turning.

“Sure.”

Kennedy slouched against the counter and Frank handed her a cup, careful to keep her eyes above Kennedy’s neck.

“What the hell you get up so early for when you don’t have to work?” she grumbled good-naturedly.

Frank flipped her wrist over. “It’s nine o’clock.”

“Like I said, what do you get up so early for?”

Frank shook her head and picked up the paper, muttering, “Kids.”

“What’s happenin’ in the world?” Kennedy asked, standing close enough to Frank to see the paper too. Frank was keenly aware of Kennedy’s soft smell, like freshly mowed grass or baking bread. Something ancient and involuntary turned over in Frank’s belly; it was small and buried, but it groped at the warm scent. She got up and opened the refrigerator.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Oh, pretty good, I reckon, considering there’s a hole in my neck. Your bed’s comfortable.”

“Hungry?”

“Girl, how do you eat so much and stay so skinny?”

Frank closed the door, still keeping her back to Kennedy.

“Hey. How about I take you out to Sylvester’s? Best corned beef hash in the city.”

“They got grits?”

“Kennedy,” Frank said, fooling around at the coffee pot again, “this is L.A., not Lubbock.”

“Damn.
Ya’ll don’t know how to eat around here.” Then, to Frank’s relief, Kennedy went into her room to put on a shirt.

The day was clear and sunny. During the drive they bantered easily, and at the restaurant they both ordered the hash. Kennedy kidded the waitress about putting grits on the menu. Then a comfortable silence slipped between the cops as they assessed the patrons.

“So,” Kennedy asked at length, “who’s the we you bought the house with?”

Frank stalled, sipping her coffee.

“You’ve got a mind like a steel trap.”

“I’m a detective,” she grinned helplessly.

Frank studied the happy eyes and shiny hair. Kennedy’s cheekbones were high and strong; her color was good. Her lips were pink, the lower one fuller than the top.

“Who’d you buy the house with?”

“You’re relentless,” Frank said dismissively, deciding that was a better quality in a cop than a houseguest.

“Who was it?” Kennedy pressed.

“Look, sport, I’d really rather not discuss my personal life, okay?”

“You did in the hospital.”

“That was different.”

“How so?”

The waitress brought them a basket of biscuits, forcing Kennedy’s elbows off the table. Frank noticed her lean right back in when the waitress moved away. Like an animal hunting, she didn’t want to lose the trail.

“Why was it different in the hospital?”

Frank paused, appraising the handsome face again. She decided it wasn’t the packaging that made Kennedy appealing, but the enthusiasm behind it. She was so damn…vibrant. Kennedy was staring at her, waiting for an answer. Frank knew she wouldn’t quit until she got it.

“That was all stuff I thought you should know.”

“I see.”

Frank watched her open a biscuit and draw butter and honey across it.

“Pretty good,” she said around a mouthful.

“As good as mama’s?”

Kennedy laughed and mumbled, “Mom couldn’t cook for shit. It got so that if something wasn’t raw or burnt me and my brother wouldn’t eat it.”

Frank smiled in spite of herself, infected by Kennedy’s high humor.

“So, did you decorate the place or was that the mystery guest?”

Frank’s jaw muscle jumped. She’d been willing to share about the nightmares and the fear, but now Kennedy was crossing over into an area where she had absolutely no business. Any hint of warmth fled from Frank’s eyes. She warned Kennedy to drop it.

“Okay. Sorry,” Kennedy said contritely. She pushed the biscuits toward Frank. “You should have one while they’re warm.”

Frank took a biscuit, but just left it on her plate. She’d spent eight years successfully forgetting Mag until Timothy Johnston’s death had suddenly resurrected her. Mag’s specter had risen as Frank watched Kennedy bleeding out. It had sat next to her in the ambulance and followed her into the hospital. Noah had given the wraith life and Kennedy fed it. Now it loomed large and powerful, hanging over Frank like a second, much darker shadow.

Kennedy continued making Smalltalk, but Frank only answered with nods or monosyllables. After breakfast, she dropped Kennedy off at the house despite the younger woman’s protests that she wasn’t tired.

“Good. Keep it that way.”

“Where are you going?”

“The office for a while.”

“Sure you don’t want some company?”

“Very.”

Kennedy opened her car door but before she got out she turned to face Frank. “I’m sorry I got so nosy back there. I was just curious, that’s all.”

Frank nodded, staring ahead, deciding what would be the best route to take to Figueroa at this time of day.

Kennedy stuck her hand toward her. “Friends?”

Kennedy’s sincerity was genuine, no mocking, no teasing, and Frank thawed a little. She shook. “Sure. What do you want for dinner?”

“Geez, girl, we just had breakfast. Brunch.”

“Yeah. And you’ll be starving in a couple hours. What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” Kennedy whined, then brightened. “Surprise me. If everything you make’s as good as last night’s supper, then I’ll be happier’n a dump rat.”

Frank squinted at Kennedy. “A dump rat?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kennedy laughed. “You never been to the dump and seen all them big ol’ rats runnin’ ‘round? Fat and happy as can be?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Well, girl, you ain’t
lived
‘til you’ve gone rat shootin’ at the dump.”

Frank pressed her lips against the smile oozing around the edge of her mouth.

“That’s a big thing in Texas, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. Huge. And it being Texas and all, we got rats the size a Rottweilers.”

Frank’s smile finally spilled over. Kennedy grinned happily and said, “See you later, gator.”

She slammed the door and jogged up the walkway. Frank thought about telling her to take it easy, but Kennedy would just flash that damn cocky smile and do exactly what she wanted. Backing into the street, Frank wagged her head. Kennedy had an amazing capacity to bring Frank down then toss her up again, higher than she’d been in a long time. Higher than she was sure she wanted to go.

He worked the late shift. It was okay. He gave his mother most of the money but kept a stash for himself, for the whores. He didn’t go home right after work. His mother would still be there. Since his father died she was constantly criticizing and complaining. He could never do anything right. If the weather was nice, he’d buy some junk food and eat his dinner at one of the parks. He liked them. They were free, and big, and it was easy to watch girls without anyone noticing him. He started spending more and more time there.

Her detectives were used to the click of Frank’s Italian loafers, and when she padded into the squad room in sneakers, they were surprised to see her. “Dude-ess,” Noah greeted affectionately, and Johnnie dropped his feet off his desk, grinning a little too broadly. He didn’t have time to cover his folded newspaper. Ike lifted a finger on a phone call, and from the typewriter Diego greeted,
“Ess-say.”
She exchanged hand signs with him and slapped Noah’s shoulder as she passed to her office.

“You’re RODded, babe. Go home,” he called.

“You closing everything?” she rejoined, meaning had he handed all the cases to the DA.

“One hundred percent.”

“Then I’m outta here,” she called back, settling into her old chair, realizing how good it felt. Feeling a sense of purpose in directing other people, guiding them to resolve the final, mysterious destinies of strangers—strangers to the nine-three but vivid memories alive to the survivors of their cases—all of it felt
fine.
Being a homicide cop was the next best thing to being God: telling someone how and why a loved one died was a power trip, and Frank loved that power. A lot of cops shrank from the responsibility involved; those like her fed off it, lived on it. The cost of playing God was high—failed relationships, chemical dependencies, cynicism, emotional petrification. Frank was willing to pay, though. For her it was still worth it.

Sifting through a stack of pink message slips, she prioritized who she needed to get back to and threw away the ones that didn’t matter. Along with wads of legal briefs, interdepartmental memos, RHD memos, and department memos, was a pile of evidence reports, 60Ds to be reviewed, copies of prelim, death, and MI reports and personal notes from her detectives. There was also a message from IAD.

Noah leaned in.

“The Fubar finds you in here, he’s gonna kick your ass.”

“That’d be worth selling tickets to,” Frank muttered.

“I’m serious. He says we’re to ‘report’ if we see you around here.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Uh-uh. Am I gonna have to run you in, Frank?”

“Guess so.”

Noah grinned.

“How’s Gidget?”

“She’s doing well. She’s a quick healer.”

“Not being too much of a pain in the ass?”

“Not as big as you.”

Frank buried her head in the paperwork and didn’t see Noah’s wide smile. Without looking up she said, “Have a seat. Tell me what’s going on. Internal giving you a hard time?”

Noah plucked the knees of his trousers and dropped onto the couch, all gangly joints and limbs.

“Nah, those idiots, they don’t have a clue, even though they’ve been on us like lips on a blow job. They’re just blowing smoke.” Noah paused, then casually threw in, “They’ve been askin’ a lotta questions about you and Kennedy. Your relationship.”

Frank smirked a little, throwing out an old memo.

“That’s not surprising. They’re just swinging in the wind. It’s either grab onto that or grab onto their dicks. They’ve got nothing legit on this. They know it. We know it. Christ, even the big hats probably know it. But we’ve got to do it for the commission.”

IAD was just doing their usual song and dance, doing CYA, making sure Frank wasn’t holding out on them. They’d been just as hard on her detectives, and almost as hard on Kennedy and the uniforms at the bust. There were no holes in any of the stories, but IAD couldn’t understand how no one had seen Johnston hiding behind the hall door. They were convinced Frank had overreacted and concocted a story to save her skin.

“Besides,” Frank tossed more papers into the garbage, “if they want to bury me they’ve got years worth of shit.”

“Still,” Noah cautioned, “you watch your ass.”

“Nothing I can do about it,” she shrugged. “How’s everybody else?”

“Alright. Gettin’ back to normal.”

The day after the shooting Frank had talked to all her detectives. Jill had requested early leave, but Foubarelle had flatly denied it. Frank told her to take it anyway, that she’d hash out the paperwork later. Johnnie was still pretty amped. She’d caught him after work, after he’d already had a few. She let him tell her about standing out on the balcony in the rain and not being able to do anything and how stupid they were for not seeing him and the door slamming behind them and feeling pukey because she and Kennedy were still in there.

“I’m glad you got that motherfucker,” Johnnie’d confided earnestly. His voice was huskier than usual, probably from being up all night. She wondered if he’d sobered up at all before going to work. Johnnie needed a tight rein for his own good. With Foubarelle running the ops he wouldn’t have that. Their supervisor couldn’t rein in a hobby horse, and she hoped Johnnie wouldn’t do something really stupid before she got back.

Noah was a little subdued, but still bopping around with his chronic enthusiasm. He was alright. He had Tracey, and for that Frank was profoundly grateful.

“Has RHD been around?”

“Not a peep.”

Frank made a disgusted face. Clearly Agoura/Peterson wasn’t high on their list of priorities. Noah filled her in on a slashing Gough had caught, a Belizian who took a razor to his brother’s throat over a third brother’s wife. Their suspect had fled, probably back to Belize, but the surviving brother and a sister wouldn’t cough up anything. Ike got a woman who’d been beat to death with a chair. Her boyfriend denied any involvement, but the neighbors said they’d had an awful fight that night. Her screaming had prompted an anonymous call to Figueroa. By the time the responding unit arrived they had to call homicide. Noah beamed maniacally.

“Sa-ame Bat-channel, sa-ame Bat-station.”

“Quick, Robin! To the Bat-cave!”

“So what do you think about Robin and Batman…you know?” Noah raised his eyebrows in implication.

“Nope. Purely hetero. They were bringing up porno on those big consoles down in the Bat-cave and slapping the bat together.”

“Hmm. You think Alfred was in on that?”

“You bet.”

“Damn! Circle jerks in the Bat-cave. But what about Bat-girl?”

“You kidding? Who do you think dressed her up in all that black leather?”

“Damn!”

Frank smiled, relaxed in her old chair.

“Shouldn’t you be out playing cops ‘n’ robbers?”

Johnnie slumped in the doorway just as Noah jumped up, shouting, “Holy Homicide, Bat-woman!”

“You are too fuckin’ weird,” Johnnie grumbled.

Noah slapped him on the back. “Weren’t you one of the Riddler’s henchmen?”

Johnnie swiveled to let him by and asked Frank, “What the fuck’s he talkin’ about?”

“Nothing you need trouble yourself with, good citizen. What’s up?”

Now Johnnie took a turn on the couch. Frank felt like an analyst as he griped about his work load, Foubarelle’s nitpicking, the absence of witnesses in all his cases, and the absence of anything useful from a witness when he found one. In the middle of this bull session Ike poked his head in. He was resplendent in a three-piece pinstripe, his nails buffed to a high gloss, diamond studs winking like a constellation against his dark hair, which Frank was pretty sure he dyed. What she didn’t know was how Ike managed to dress like a Mafia don, supporting his ex-wife and kids on a detective’s salary. Maybe she didn’t want to know.