End of Watch (6 page)

Mercer ambled down the hall, pausing to talk to everyone he knew, which sounded to Frank like everyone from the janitor on up to the captain. She heard him joking, showing off pictures of his new granddaughter.

Frank flicked her wrist, wondering about her date. Pacing the room she thought how homicide desks looked the same everywhere. Files, binders, scratched notes on scraps of paper, which turn into reams of scraps, all set off by institutional walls tattooed with memos, bulletins, wanteds, rules and regs.

She checked her phone, made sure it was on. No messages from Bobby or anyone else. Alone in the quiet room, Frank studied Silvester’s computer. She leaned over and joggled the mouse. The screen saver disappeared and Frank zipped around the desk. Finding an Internet icon she Googled
Nino de Atocha,
quitting when she heard footsteps in the hall.

Mercer wandered back in, the coffeepot clean and filled with water. “Here we go.” Dumping fresh grounds into the basket, he asked, “Now what did you say your name was?”

“Frank.”

The old man peered over his shoulder in disbelief. “Frank?” he shouted.

“Yeah. Short for Franco. It’s a nickname.”

“Frank,” he repeated. “I remember when girls were named Lucy or Kathy or Linda—now you’re all Franks and Keyshondas, Sky and Brie.” Mercer wagged his head. “My youngest daughter just had a baby. Named the poor kid Brie. How would you like that, huh? To be named after a cheese.”

With the coffee burbling and trickling into the pot, Mercer reached into his jacket again, producing a stack of baby pictures. He handed them to Frank.

“That’s her. Isn’t she a cutie?”

Frank pretended to study each one. “Adorable,” she told him.

“Nine days old today.”

She passed the photos back and Mercer displayed the school pictures in his wallet.

“That’s John. He’s twelve. He’s my oldest grandson. My son Richard’s boy. And those are his sisters, Michaela and Kathleen. This is Cory and Eileen. Eileen’s my oldest granddaughter. She’s thirteen. No. Fourteen, now. Yeah. Fourteen in November. We went up to Schenectady for her birthday. That’s where my boy Danny lives. Oh, his wife’s a sweetie. We didn’t think he’d ever settle down, but he finally did and thank God with Sue. She’s been so good for him. This is my daughter Linda. She just had Brie. She has a boy, too, Michael. Got a Michael and a Michaela.” He chuckled. “How ‘bout that? I don’t have a picture of Michael. He’s a devil. Almost two and givin’ his mother fits. Or is he two already? No. Almost. He was born in February, that’s right.”

Frank sang an entire Cole Porter standard while gulping her impatience. “Nice family. You’re a lucky guy. Think we could get this evidence booked now?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Padding to the desk he took Silvester’s chair. He felt around, found a pen and said, “Okay. Whadda we got here?” She started describing the candle again but Mercer interrupted, “Speak up. I can’t hear so good outta my left ear.”

As she described the containers Mercer gave them a slow once-over. He did the same with her when he finished filling out the forms.

“So your old man, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“How old were you?”

“Ten.”

He nodded as if watching one’s father get popped by a crashing junkie was a rite of passage for all ten-year-olds. Getting up stiffly, he poured coffee. Handing Frank a cup he tipped his head toward the pot. “There’s cream and sugar there.”

“Black’s good. So how soon do you think we can get these printed?”

“No telling,” he answered. “Old case like this. Could be a while.”

“Any idea who’d handle it?”

Mercer shrugged, casting an eye around the empty room. “It’s assigned to one of these guys. Even if it’s thirty-six years old somebody’s gotta submit a Five on it once a month.” With pride he added, “We never close a homicide, even if it just gets stamped ‘Negative Results’ every month.”

Frank nodded. “Someone from the Ninth called me about twelve years ago. He was looking into it but I couldn’t tell him anything new. Then this stuff appeared. May not be anything, might lead to a clearance. Who knows?”

Mercer leaned back, picking at his chin with a long nail. “It’s worth a try.”

“So you retired, or what?”

“Yeah. They kicked me out two years ago, but I still hang around, keep my hand in, help out where I can. But those forty-eight-hour days? Kid, let me tell you, I don’t miss ‘em at all.”

“They get harder, don’t they?”

“Christ!” He slapped at air. “You don’t know the half of it. You’re still a whelp.”

“Yeah,” Frank allowed. The gulf between twenty-five and forty-five was rough enough; she couldn’t imagine pulling a forty-eight at his age. “You know what, though? I’m in kind of a bind here. I’ve got to be back to work tomorrow morning but I’m afraid to leave this evidence just lying around. I’ve been waiting over thirty years for an answer to this case and right when there might be a clue I gotta leave it. So I’m wondering if you could do me a favor and pull the file for me, so I know who’s in charge and who to contact about it. Could you do that for me?”

“Kid, don’t worry about it. If it’s on Annie’s desk, it’ll get taken care of. She’s a stand-up cop. She’s just got her hands a little full right now.”

“Yeah, I know. And we got off on the wrong foot. My fault. This has just… I wasn’t expecting this, is all. Just came out to pay respects to my father and I find this. After all this time … kinda rattled me and I took it out on her.”

Mercer stretched and got up. “Don’t worry about it, kid. Annie’s good people. She’ll take care of it for you. You got my word on that, okay?”

Frank stood, too. “I appreciate it.”

Mercer nodded, lifting a hand as he left the squad room.

Walking to Rockefeller Center, Gail asked, “How did it go this morning?”

“It was interesting. I’ll tell you when we get to the restaurant. How about you? Tell me about your morning.”

Frank listened to Gail, her eyes darting left and right, back and forth. Even on vacation she checked the crowd, tuning in to the pulse of the street. She did the same when they entered the cafe. There was one table available overlooking the rink, centered in a row along the window. As the waiter led them to it, Gail whispered, “Is this okay?”

Frank shrugged. She hated sitting with her back exposed but answered, “What the hell? Who knows I’m a cop?” Gail studied the menu and Frank gave it a short glance.

“Want to split a chocolate shake with me? I’m probably going to gain a hundred pounds before I get another AA chip, but my sponsor says I can do whatever I want in the first year as long as I’m not drinking.”

“Have you got any chips yet?

Frank made a peace sign. “Two.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Uh-uh.”

Gail palmed her mouth, not able to stifle her laugh.

“What’s funny?”

“I’m sorry. I’m just having a hard time seeing you standing up, saying, ‘My name’s Frank and I’m an alcoholic’ Not to mention accepting a chip.
Two
chips. It’s such a contrast to your lone avenger persona.”

“Tell me about it. I can’t believe it half the time, either. But you know,” she said, watching as a laughing mother and daughter sprawled on the ice, “it seems to be working, and that’s all that matters.”

“You’re right. Something seems to be working. You look sorter. Less rigid.”

“Great. Sort’s a good look in a cop.”

“Don’t worry. You don’t look
that
soft. Just not so pinched, so tight.”

“There’s a line in
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.
After Big Daddy realizes he’s dying of cancer he tells his son he’s been walking around his entire life like a doubled-up fist and by God now he’s gonna have him some fun. I wouldn’t say I’m having fun yet, but by God I think I’m starting to unclench.”

Their eyes met and Frank looked away first. Gail graciously returned to the menu.

“Okay. Tell me about this morning.”

“You’re not gonna believe it. Three thousand miles from home and here I am working a homicide.”

Frank explained the morning’s chain of events and Gail mused, “Wow. After all these years.”

“Yeah, wow. Pretty weird.”

“How’s that feel? I mean, it seems that you’d pretty much closed the door on his death and then to have it swing open again …”

“Yeah. Don’t think I haven’t considered a couple drinks today. Not that I’m gonna, but… I don’t know. I was surprised. Still am. You’re right about the door being closed. And it took me a long time to close it. It hasn’t bothered me so much lately. I’d pretty much given up on ever finding the guy, but, man, when I was a kid I used to lie in bed at night thinking about him—his eyes, mostly. That’s the thing with hope-to-die junkies. They’ve got black holes where they oughta have eyes. There’s just nobody home inside. They got
Night of the Living Dead
eyes and I’d fall asleep thinking about those eyes on me. I’d dream about ‘em—still do sometimes—and I’d wake up terrified to look in a mirror because I was sure I had junkie eyes.”

The waitress appeared. Gail ordered the lobster quiche and Frank a cheeseburger. The waitress swished away and Gail protested, “You come all the way to New York and order a cheeseburger?”

“I didn’t come for the food,” Frank replied. “Besides, sober lunches have become a pretty steady diet of cheeseburgers and milkshakes. A cheeseburger’s about the only thing I can eat without thinking of booze to wash it down with.”

“Oh,” Gail said, appearing abashed. “I didn’t think of that. Anyway, go on, if you want. You’ve never told me any of this.”

Frank dismissed, “Not much to tell. I kept looking for him on the street. Everywhere I went. Walking to school, riding the bus, getting groceries—I was looking for him in every face. I saw a lot of those junkie eyes and sometimes I thought I’d found him, but then he’d pass me or turn a corner and I couldn’t be sure. After a while, I guess I got so caught up in looking for him that I forgot to be afraid. And I lived around enough hypes to understand that the guy had no idea who I was, that he probably didn’t even know he’d killed a man and if he did know he wouldn’t care—because the only thing an oil burner cares about is fixing. Food, sex, homicide—none of it means shit to them—only the high. Chasing it and getting it. Then I started feeling
superior
to the junkie—like he should be afraid of
me,
because I remembered and was straight enough to do something about it. I was reading Trixie Belden and Nancy Drew back then. The Hardy Boys—even the little kids series. Remember the one with the twins? Flopsy and Mopsy or something?”

The waitress set down the milkshake and an extra glass. As Frank spooned it out, Gail laughed. “Flopsy and Mopsy were in Peter Rabbit. I think you’re talking about the Bobbsey Twins.”

“Yeah, yeah. That was it. The Bobbsey twins.” Frank’s smile was nostalgic. “Man, those kids were lame. I thought they were dumber than shit—sorry. I hated them for having such happy families and clean houses—I thought that was as fake as Bugs Bunny— but I loved that they always solved the mystery. So I went from harmless fluff straight into
In Cold Blood.
Somebody left it lying on a table at the library. The title hooked me so I picked it up and that was that. Then I discovered Joseph Wambaugh.”

“Yikes,” Gail interrupted. “Your mother let you read Joseph Wambaugh?”

“My mother wasn’t exactly monitoring my reading habits. I think as long as I was home and taking care of things, for all she cared I could have been reading
Playboy.
I didn’t understand a lot of Wambaugh, but I began to see that only two kinds of people made the rules—crooks and cops. I think the seed to become a cop was already in me but reading Wambaugh was like adding sun and water.
Helter Skelter
came out around then too. I read everything I could about Charlie Manson and the Tate-LaBianca killings. It fascinated me.”

“Uck.” Gail shivered.

“After being exposed to all that, and from seeing what I saw everyday in my own neighborhood I realized that the bad guys only had temporary power. They were only powerful until their next arrest, but it was
cops
that were at the top of the food chain. And that’s where I wanted to be. At the very top, looking down on everyone else. That’s where I went and never looked back.”

“Until now.”

“Until now,” Frank agreed.

Their food arrived and Gail said, “It must be very exciting to have a lead after all this time.”

“Exciting,” Frank said around a fry. “I guess it’s as exciting as popping a lead in any big case. There’s the adrenaline thing. But I don’t want to get too close to this, too excited. I mean, what difference is it gonna make after all this time anyway, huh, after all these years? And then if I don’t find him, if this goes nowhere …”

Gail finished, “You don’t want to be disappointed.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Well, do you think these flowers are an isolated incident?”

“Who knows? There’s so many questions. I’m thinking of calling Fubar, telling him I’m gonna stay out here a little longer. I want to make sure Silvester follows up on this. Doesn’t drop the ball.”

“Maybe it’s been going on for a while and you’ve just finally stepped into the picture.”

“Great. So I could have solved
my
old man’s murder years ago but I was too self-involved?”

“That’s not what I meant. There’s a big difference between being self-involved and moving on. There are positive and negative aspects to every situation. Running from the pain of your father’s death was negative, but accepting it and moving on is positive. The feat then becomes incorporating the two aspects into a vital, integrated whole.”

“Jesus.” Frank stared her. “I think you’ve been to too many lectures this weekend.” Gail’s smile was easy and Frank tapped the doc’s hand with a fingertip. “You know what?”

“No. What?”

Tracing a line between freckles, Frank suggested, “I hope we can incorporate our negative and positive aspects into a vital and integrated whole.”

Gail pulled her hand away. “We’ll see.”

Frank cleared her throat. “I took the opportunity while I was alone in the squad room to Google the saint on the candle, Nino de Atocha. Turns out that the Moors were holding a bunch of Christians prisoner and were going to use them as slaves but weren’t feeding them or giving them water. Then this little kid dressed like a pilgrim shows up. He’s got a gourd of water and a basket of bread and for some reason the guards let him in to feed the Christians. Story is that the gourd never drained and the basket never emptied, so they decided he was Christ disguised as this kid from Atocha, doing his loaves and fishes thing. Ever after, the Nino de Atocha’s been the patron saint of prisoners and those unjustly accused. Kinda interesting, huh?”