by Baxter Clare
But she had to try. It was only fear stopping her and she was tired of letting fear have its way with her. Yanking the briefcase up into the passenger seat she snapped the latch and pulled out the folder. Her statement topped the thin pile of supporting documents. Slipping it from the folder, she approved of the detective’s neat typing. Homicide reports were always so coolly removed from the gore of their subject, all black ink and white paper, straight lines and precise edges. Clean, tidy and nicely sanitized.
She remembered Detective Heller. He was thin and young, maybe early thirties. He’d been patient with her but not overly kind. Having done it herself so many times, Frank surmised it had probably been hard for him to interview her. He had just kept his distance, trying not to get involved in her grief and pain.
The amount of detail in the report surprised her. She’d forgotten the suspect wore a black sweater with holes in it; the hand holding the gun was scraped; a long cut under his right cheekbone looked infected; he was missing an upper tooth; he was using a piece of yellow rope for a belt and he wore frayed black high tops—all useful at the time, but none of it relevant today.
She’d said the junkie had a little bit of an accent. Heller noted he had repeated the suspect’s demands, as stated by the witness, in various accents but that said witness hadn’t recognized any of them. Frank remembered how confused she’d been. Heller hadn’t sounded anything like the junkie, but he kept trying and she kept shaking her head, looking to Uncle Al for help.
After Heller cut her loose she and her uncle drove through the pre-dawn streets. She was the one person who could identify the junkie. They searched alleys and corners, stoops and shooting galleries. They searched but failed to find. Long after the sun had struggled up, with her mother sedated and snoring, Frank took that failure to bed with her. And had every night since.
“Christ,” Frank whispered, fighting back an avalanche of tears.
She remembered a burly, tattooed marine at one of her first AA meetings. His mother had been killed in a car crash when he was only eight years old. Tears cascaded down his face as he told the group his story. When he’d started crying at the funeral his father had taken him aside and told him to stop. That men didn’t cry. So he never had. Started drinking when he was nine. Quit almost thirty years later after his second heart attack. The marine had wiped his tears away, smiling as he said, “Now I cry whenever I want to and I don’t give a fuck who sees me.”
Frank figured if a marine could cry she could too. She let them come. They were embarrassing but no one could see. She cried for her crazy mother, her lost father and the kid who’d tried to make sense of it all when there was no sense to be had.
She let the tears run dry then looked for something to blow her nose on. There wasn’t anything. Opening the door, Frank did the Okie blow onto the street. It was gross and messy but she pulled the door shut with a smile. If anyone was watching it looked perfect. What better cover than an aggrieved woman crying outside the cemetery?
Oddly serene, Frank dried her cheeks with her palms. She got out of the car and stretched. Keeping her father’s grave in view she walked the graveled roads within the cemetery. She read the headstones, their names heavy and familiar—Gosline, Voorhis, Schenk, Van Houten, McCrodden and Knutsen. Dozens of graves held veterans, from the Civil War all the way through Vietnam.
The cemetery’s history was compelling. From old history lessons she knew the city of Canarsie went back to the Canarsie Indians. The natives were routed by the Dutch, who were displaced by English, and then George Washington kicked everyone out so that anyone could come in.
Frank’s tour woke a nostalgia she didn’t know she had. She thought she’d cut her ties to the past but its roots seemed to be thriving beneath her consciousness. Even her body betrayed her, reacting instinctively to familiar sights and smells and sounds. Despite decades in southern California, even the New York winter was welcome. She wanted to make snowballs and pitch them at unsuspecting pedestrians, like she and her cousins used to do. Or fall backward into a drift pile and make snow angels.
Shooing the memories with a shake of her head, Frank ambled back to the car.
She poured the last of the coffee and took The Da Vinci Code from her briefcase. Propping it just below her line of sight, she settled against the door, delighting in the simplicity of her stakeout. Before turning a page she scanned the cemetery. She read like this, indulging in the pure pleasure of it for almost two hours.
After using the cemetery restroom, she leaned against the Nova and called Figueroa. Diego picked up and she said, “Hey, Taquito. Let me talk to the great Picasso.”
She heard Diego grunt to Bobby, who answered in a voice softer than rose petals.
“Picasso. How’s it going?”
“Good. We closed out all our old pendings and are just sitting around waiting for the phone to ring.”
“Damn. I shoulda done this a long time ago.”
Bobby chuckled. “It’s pretty quiet. We caught a domestic yesterday, but the guy was right there in the apartment when a unit responded. Easy slam dunk.”
“Sweet. What else?”
“Remember that guy Irie told us about? Fidelio Ramirez? We traced him to a friend’s house in Phoenix. Phoenix PD are looking for him. He’s got three priors we can hold him on—one possession and two assaults—and if Phoenix finds him I was thinking of sending Lewis and Darcy out to get him. Is that okay?”
“Sounds fine. Do you have the paperwork ready?”
“No, I was going to call you about that.”
Frank walked him through an extradition and clarified a few other things. After a little chitchat, she hung up. Despite her nostalgia, she missed her squad and was eager to be home.
The rest of the day passed dreamily. It was hard on Frank’s ass but she was grateful for the down time. The cemetery had a fair trickle of visitors. Frank perked up when a few got close to her father’s site but none lingered. When the gates closed, she meandered back to Tribeca by way of Dean and Deluca’s. The prices were vulgar but considering what she’d pay to eat out she indulged. Plus, when she complained to Mary about how many doughnuts she was eating or how much she was spending on lattes, Mary always assured her that she could do whatever she wanted in the first year of sobriety.
“Worry about diabetes and bankruptcy later,” she said. “For now, just focus on stayin’ sober. If it takes doughnuts and lattes, so be it. It’s better than drinkin’!”
With that in mind, Frank wheeled past the wine display, dropping two pints of Cherry Garcia and a bag of cookies into the cart. What the hell, she thought, adding another bag. A woman had to have something to do during surveillance.
CHAPTER 22
Thursday—13 Jan 05, Tribeca
I still got it.
Made a spectacular dinner. Pork loin roasted in black currant and apple glaze, surrounded by roasted butternut squash and potatoes, accompanied by autumn fruit chutney and sautéed chard with pignoli and red currants. Washed it all down with sparkling pear juice—okay, so pear juice doesn’t have the panache of a Fume or a Chard, but still and all it was damn good. Especially for a woman who didn’t think she’d ever cook again.
Bought everything at Dean & Deluca’s. I’ve wanted to shop there since I was a kid. Insanely expensive but worth it to see Annie’s face when I served her dinner. She’s fun to cook for, grateful, and it makes me feel useful. And I’m hungry. Really hungry. Maybe it’s the weather, but I actually enjoyed cooking for the first time since I quit drinking. Maybe because I was in a different kitchen. No memories or empty liquor cabinets to haunt me.
Maybe I should move. Rent the house out and get an apartment closer to work. There’s too many memories at home. Leaving that house would really be leaving Maggie. Maybe it’s time. Leave Maggie, the booze, all the old hurts. Make a fresh start. I feel like Tm starting a whole new life—someone said in a meeting that the only thing that changes when you quit drinking is everything. And Tm starting to se
e that. How old habits and ideas have to go. Like holding onto my pain. It’s all got to go. It’s stuff I have to look square in the eye and say good-bye to, no matter how difficult or painful.
Cried at the cemetery today. Embarrassing as hell but it felt good. Like lancing an abscess and letting all the pus drain out. Felt clean when I was done. Raw, but clean.
This sobriety is a trip. Got to admit it’s kind of interesting to see where it’s going to take me next. Hell of a lot more interesting than sitting on my couch with one hand wrapped around a liter and the other around a 9-millimeter. Hey, Tm a fucking poet! Christ, what a life that was. Fucking sad. And crazy. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Mildly cirrhotic like dear old Da, and mildly mental like dear old Ma. Yeah, okay so maybe I fell close to the tree, but I landed on a hill, baby, and Tm rolling. Watch me—
CHAPTER 23
Frank put the pen down when her phone rang. The number on the screen was Gail’s.
“Hey,” Frank answered.
“Hey yourself. How’s it going?”
“It’s going. No match to the prints but we talked to the groundskeepers at the cemetery and they say the flowers are changed about every two weeks, so I’m staking the place out.”
“Did they know who was leaving the flowers?”
“Nah. Whoever it is apparently comes during the weekend when they’re off, so I still don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman. To show you how unobjective I am about this, Annie suggested maybe it was an old flame and I about came undone. In a normal case that probably would have occurred to me in five minutes, but here? No way. Still don’t like the idea but I’ve braced myself for it. Promised Annie that if and when I see whoever it is, I won’t talk to her. Or him. Just tail our mystery guest and let Annie do the interviewing. Least I can do, right? It’s her case.”
“Well, maybe you’ll find him or her this weekend. Then you can come home.”
“Maybe. With any luck.”
“Would you like me to pick you up when you come in?”
“That’d be wonderful, if you have time.”
“Let me know when and I’ll see if I can swing it.”
“You got it. Thanks. How you doing?”
“I’m okay. Tired. Wish I was still on vacation. Did you hear about Rodney Bentley?”
“The old anchor for KABC?”
“Yeah. During the last storm he called nine-one-one claiming his wife and two kids were trapped in a car that had gone off the road into the LA River. He said she’d called on her cell phone crying that they were being carried off by the current. Two hours later CHP retrieved the car with everyone dead inside. We did a routine autopsy but there wasn’t any fluid in the wife’s lungs, plus she has markings around her neck and petechial hemorrhage inconsistent with drowning. So it looks more like triple homicide than accidental death and the media’s in a feeding frenzy. I even had a reporter waiting outside my apartment when I got home last night.”
“Who caught the case?”
“The Sheriff’s Department. Did Bobby tell you about the domestic you had?”
“Yeah. Said it was a slam dunk.”
“How are they getting along without you?”
“Surprisingly well. Seems I’m completely expendable.”
“Not completely.”
“How so?”
After a long pause, Gail said, “I probably shouldn’t say this, but I miss you.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. A little.”
“Only a little?”
“Don’t push it.”
“Yeah, I’m bad at that, huh?”
“You certainly are. But I had a good time with you. You were fun and easy to be with. Like the old Frank, but better.”
“I had a good time, too. I almost called you a couple times but stopped myself. Don’t want to push.”
“A phone call’s not pushing.”
“No?”
“Um-um.”
Gail sounded soft and willing. Frank wanted to reach through the line and hang on to her. To touch her, smell her, kiss her, make love to her…
“Are you there?”
“Yeah.” Frank opened her eyes. “I’m here. How was the Phantom of the Opera}”
“Oh, my God, it was fantastic! It was so worth waiting for.”
Frank couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Did your friend from the frigid north enjoy it?”
“Yes, she did. Then we both went back to our respective hotels. Speaking of which, where are you staying?”
“Uh, I’m at Annie’s. She’s letting me stay in her guest room.”
“My. That’s convenient.”
“Yeah, it is. Beats a hotel.”
“I’ll bet. Talk about chummy.”
Gail didn’t sound sweet anymore and Frank was happy that she cared enough to be worried about another woman.
“Is she a lesbian?”
“No. Not at all.”
“What does she look like?”
“Annie? She’s Italian. Thick salt-and-pepper hair. Conservative cut. Dark eyes. Great features. A little thick around the waist but fairly trim.” Gail didn’t say anything so Frank added, “She’s handsome, but not nearly as beautiful as you.”
Gail remained silent.
Frank looked at her phone, saw she was still connected. “You there?”
“I’m here,” was the cool reply.
Frank couldn’t resist teasing Gail. “So, this jealousy of yours. That a particular trait of sobriety?”
“Oh, please. Why would I be jealous? You’re not even my girlfriend anymore.”
“We could change that.”
“I wouldn’t want to interfere with you and Annie.”
“There’s nothing to interfere with. You gotta know my heart belongs to one gal.”
“Hmph.”
Frank chuckled, thrilled Gail cared so much. “Can I call you tomorrow?”
“If you’re not busy. With Annie.”
“I won’t be. Try and get some sleep, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.”
” ‘Kay. Good night.”
“Night.”
Frank hung up, trading phone for journal, smiling as she wrote.
CHAPTER 24
Gail just called. She misses me. Tadow! And she’s jealous of Annie. Excellent. Means I’m still in the game. Like Robert DeNiro said in The Deerhunter, “One shot, Nicky. Just one shot.”
That’s what I’ve got. One shot to make this work. But if I’m patient and aim carefully, one shot is all I’ll need. Maybe I ought to kneel down and talk to Annie’s statue. Get a little extra mojo going on. Call Marguerite James and get a juju bag. Went to a meeting tonight and someone said getting sober’s like listening to a country-western song in reverse—you get your car back, you get your job back, you get your lady back. No shit. You get your life back. The one you’re supposed to be living if you aren’t busy horking your guts up over a toilet or sucking on a barrel.
Go figure. Anyway. Shouldn’t get too excited yet. But missing me is good. Very good. Big step. Christ, I hope Tm not wrong about this. I want her back in the worst way. I want a second chance. May not deserve one but that won’t keep me from wanting it. That’s an interesting thing, wanting. I’ll never let myself do much of that. Too disappointing when I don’t get what I want. But here I am, wanting Gail, wanting my dad’s killer. Even weirder, if I don’t get either one, I’ll still be okay. It’s like nothing can ever be as bad as the Beretta in my mouth. Or picking up a drink. Nothing can ever hurt me as badly as that. Weird. I love her and I want her but if she says no, this isn’t gonna work, than I’ll be sad but I’ll be okay. I’m not going to flip out. Still, I hope it’s yes. Christ, I hope it’s yes.
CHAPTER 25
Friday evening, as Frank opened the apartment door Annie was slipping her key into the lock.
“Oh! You scared me,” Annie said, hand over her heart.
“Sorry. I was just heading out to dinner. Care to join me?”
>
“Where you goin’?”
“I don’t know. Thought I’d wander around until I saw something that looked good.”
“There’s a great chop house couple blocks from here. It’s expensive but good, and what the hell, it’s Friday, right?”
“Sure. Your call.”
“Terrific. Just give me a minute to change, huh?”
“Take your time.”
Annie put her purse down and knelt for a quick, mumbled prayer. Frank discretely waited at the window. She watched the street while Annie changed clothes.
“Ready,” Annie called behind her, fussing with her purse. She was wearing a tunic sweater over slacks with pearl studs and a necklace. She’d touched up her makeup, too. She reminded Frank of someone but before she could put her finger on who, Annie told her, “Oh, hey. I got the report back on your prints. No match for ‘em, I’m afraid.”
“Damn.” Frank sighed. “Oh, well. Guess I keep waiting.”
“I guess so. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. At least the company’s good.”
They walked in the cold night and Annie asked, “Quiet out there today?”
“Couple funerals, handful of visitors, but nobody at the grave.”
Annie puzzled, “What are you gonna do if this person don’t show? You can’t stay forever, right?”
“I was thinkin’ of hiring a P.I. Know any good ones?”
“Sure. Charlie Mercer. He does private work. He’d probably do it for you.”
“You’re not just being biased?”
“Cookie, what you and I know together don’t match what Charlie knows. Don’t underestimate him just ‘cause he’s old.”
“Just asking.”
“I’ll give you his number. You can talk to him. Cross here.”
Annie cut through a knot of double-parked cars. Frank followed. As she squeezed between two sedans, a huge pit bull lunged from a front seat. The beast gnashed at a half-open window, growling in a frenzy of slobber and teeth. Frank spun, searching for her gun. It took a second to realize she didn’t have it and another second to realize she didn’t need it. The dog slavered at the air outside the window, but it was safely behind the glass.