Bleeding Out

by Baxter Clare

  Frank was sure he hadn’t tried very hard, but at least he’d gotten rid of the worst of the stain. She pointed a menacing finger at him. “Laundry. Tonight. Else I’ll partner you with Giorgio.”

  Johnnie grimaced, and Frank headed out into the afternoon traffic.

  Walking in the front door, Frank was pleased to see Kennedy on the couch watching TV.

  “Afternoon, Lieutenant.”

  “Hey. How’s it going?”

  “I’m almost outta my gourd. How many talk shows can a person watch in a day without goin’ crazy?”

  “Don’t know. How about all those books in the den?”

  Kennedy made a face like she’d smelled something bad.

  “Boring.”

  “You don’t read?”

  “I got a short attention span. I like doing things.”

  While Frank was thinking about that and pulling groceries out of bags, Kennedy walked barefoot into the kitchen. She had color, like she’d been in the sun. Frank asked her how she’d gotten it.

  She indicated the patio and said, “Napping in your lounge chair. Guess who woke me up?”

  Frank popped the top off a Corona and squeezed a lime into it.

  “No clue,” she answered.

  “IAD. Made a house call. They want you in their office at 1:00 p.m. tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Yeah, I know. They left a message for me at work.”

  “That Stuka’s a creepy bastard. I get the feeling he’d fuck a snake if somebody’d hold it’s head.”

  Frank had to smile. “They’re big on animals where you come from, huh?”

  Over homemade pizza and salad, Kennedy asked how the office was. Frank said, “I managed to get one 60D read and answer some calls. Had to give Johnnie some etiquette manners.”

  Kennedy waved a hand. “That boy is positively prehistoric.”

  “Aw, he’s not so bad once you get used to him.”

  “Well, I don’t reckon I’ll get used to him seeing as we don’t have a case anymore.”

  Kennedy waved at the photos and reports and notes stacked next to their plates. “You gettin’ anywhere with all this?”

  Xeroxed pages were spread all over the dining room table in loose disarray. Frank could spend hours walking around the table, picking up a report here, a note there, studying one photo and then another. She was patient with the case, convinced that something would break for her if she worried it long enough. Besides, what else did she have to do?

  “Not consciously,” Frank explained, “but I keep working it anyway, reading protocols for the twentieth time, staring at pictures for the hundredth. Sooner or later, if I’m lucky, a light usually comes on and I’ll see something I hadn’t noticed the first hundred times.”

  “Noah said you’re a great cop. He said you listen to your bones.”

  Frank shrugged, uneasy with the compliment.

  “Do anything long enough you get good at it,” she said indifferently.

  “He said you’re a first-rate Loouie, too.”

  “He’s prejudiced.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve seen you in action. He’s probably right.”

  Frank almost retorted, If I’m so good, what are you doing with a hole in your neck? She poked at a tomato and Kennedy said, “It’s gonna be a drag going back to Luchowski. That bastard’s so uptight he could open a beer bottle with his asshole.”

  Frank grinned. She’d heard plenty like that about him.

  “Goddang, you got some kind of a pretty smile, Lieutenant.”

  Frank looked up from her salad to see if Kennedy was teasing her, but the younger woman’s smile was soft and happy. Frank resumed eating as she felt a flush creeping up her neck.

  “So tell me,” Kennedy said, pulling at a strand of cheese, “how come you ain’t got no girlfriend?”

  Frank sucked in a long breath. Kennedy’s effrontery never failed to amaze her.

  “I thought we went through all that this morning.”

  “That was who you bought the house with,” Kennedy corrected. “This is a completely new subject.”

  Not really, Frank thought, somehow it always comes back to Mag. “Why wouldn’t I have a boyfriend?” Frank stalled, always looking for a way out.

  Kennedy laughed in disbelief. “Gimme a break. Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately?”

  Pulling her crust apart, Frank said, “I see. Walks like a dyke, talks like a dyke, must be a dyke?”

  “Am I wrong?”

  Frank leaned her elbows on the table, like she was about to share something particularly juicy. “Kennedy, my personal life is just that. Personal. I’m not about to discuss it with you. What do I have to say to make you understand that?”

  Much to Frank’s surprise, the young cop appeared hurt by her words.

  “Nothing,” she said, rising to clear her dishes. Frank sat musing at the table while Kennedy clattered in the kitchen. She could feel the tension behind her, and though she was determined to help Kennedy, she wasn’t about to open herself up like a home entertainment system.

  From the kitchen, Kennedy said, “Frank, you’ve been great about taking care of me and I appreciate all the effort, but I’m going home tomorrow. Frankly, I’d rather pop a stitch than sit around here talking to you about the weather all day.”

  She came around the table and stared down at Frank, brown arms crossed, eyes cool. “You can take me or I’ll call a taxi. Just let me know.”

  Kennedy was really pissed. Frank almost laughed, not sure what the hell she was so fired up about.

  “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “I think it’s a jim-dandy idea.”

  “I don’t.”

  Kennedy slapped her palms down onto the table and leveled her face with Frank’s. “I don’t care what you think. All I want to know is if I need to arrange for a taxi tomorrow morning.”

  Frank pursed her lips over laced fingers, studying the angry face so close to her own. “I’ll take you,” she finally said.

  “Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Kennedy disappeared into the guest room, leaving Frank to wonder just what the hell had happened.

  He liked watching the girls and thought about tackling them with his full body, pounding his head and shoulders into them. He’d get excited and usually wound up masturbating in the car. Sometimes at work he’d start thinking about the girls and whack off right on the forklift.

  He’d been doing a whore about a week ago and pretended it was a girl in the park. He’d gotten so carried away he’d almost strangled her with the towel. She was really freaked. When she could finally breathe she threatened to call the cops. That rattled him, and he kicked her out of the car.

  “You’ve got to think about your next play,” his father had always said. He hadn’t been thinking with the whore. He’d almost gone too far. But if he was careful enough, he could go as far as he wanted.

  26

  “Mornin’,” Kennedy yawned, plunking her suitcase by the table. Frank looked up from the paper, surprised that she was already dressed and packed. “Morning,” she replied. “Want some coffee?”

  “I’ll get it,” Kennedy said, but Frank had already walked behind her and taken down a mug. She filled it, putting it next to Kennedy, then got out the milk. Their silence was awkward. Kennedy fixed her coffee. She looked expectantly at Frank.

  “Ready?”

  Frank felt a tug in her chest, realizing she wasn’t. She tried to rationalize that Kennedy had to go sometime, then argued with herself, Yeah, but when she’s better, not walking around in stitches. Frank told herself she was still liable for Kennedy. She didn’t know what had happened last night, but it was her responsibility to find out. She wasn’t ready to send the kid home. Not yet.

  “Look. Last night…I’m sorry if I was short. I’m just…I’m not used to…talking much to people. Not about myself. I’m not real good at it.”

  Kennedy politely kidded, “That’s an understatement. But hey, you
know, it’s no big deal. I’m just always pokin’ my nose where it don’t belong, makin’ a pain of myself. Your hospitality’s been wonderful, Frank, and I truly appreciate it, but I should be gettin’ on home and outta your hair.”

  “You’re not in my hair,” Frank responded quickly. “I mean…I like having you here.”

  Kennedy searched for something in Frank’s face, finally saying, “You’re such a paradox. You walk around like some Nazi in jackboots, but then you’ve got this soft side you flash now and then. You know? Like you’re a real human being, like when you talked to me in the hospital. So I start thinking what a neat woman you are, how much I really like you. Then I ask a simple question, and bam! you’re Super Nazi again. I don’t know what to think and figure I just better leave you alone. I’m never sure who you’re gonna be.”

  “I’m not sure I know who I am lately,” Frank said, quietly to her feet. “I mean this stuff with Tunnel, you almost dying, my cops all getting reamed by Internal. I’m not even a fucking cop right now. It’s all a little confusing.”

  Frank met Kennedy’s eyes, fumbling for the next words. “I’m sorry I jumped on you. You just…sometimes you bring up stuff that I don’t want to get into. It’s old stuff. Irrelevant.”

  “So I’m supposed to tiptoe around like I’m in some sort of verbal minefield? Make sure I don’t set you off?”

  Frank shook her head emphatically “No. Look, I just…we’ve been through a lot in the last week, and…a lot of stuff’s getting stirred up.”

  “Like what stuff? Tell me about it.”

  “I can’t,” Frank said, talking to the floor again.

  “You see? That’s what I mean,” Kennedy accused. “You’re great at talking about my shit, but what about yours?”

  “You’re better at it than I am,” Frank offered lamely. “I’m pretty rusty when it comes to talking about stuff like that.”

  “Rusty? Goddamn, girl, the Tin Man’s got nothin’ on you.”

  Frank ducked her head in an embarrassed grin, then looked earnestly at Kennedy.

  “Stay,” she said.

  Kennedy hooked her thumbs defiantly into her waistband and arched an eyebrow. “Gimme one good reason to.”

  “My cooking.”

  Kennedy’s smile was Machiavellian. “I’ll stay,” she bargained, “but only if you tell me who you bought this house with.”

  Frank was too astonished by Kennedy’s moxie to be fazed by the question. “Why do you want to know so bad?”

  “‘Cause I don’t really know anything about you that’s not related to your job, or this shooting somehow. I do know there’s a real person lurking somewhere inside you, someone who’s more than just the badge she wears.”

  “Think so?”

  “I know so. I met her in Tunnel’s apartment and in the hospital. She was even in your guest room the other night.”

  Frank was slipping on her hard-ass mask and Kennedy asked seriously, “What are you so afraid of?”

  Frank laughed at the ceiling. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “Girl, you lie like a rug,” Kennedy said with a heavy accent.

  “It’s not too late to take you back to your apartment.”

  Kennedy picked up the suitcase. “Let’s go.”

  Frank had to make a decision, and she didn’t want to make the wrong one. She gnawed the inside of her lip, looking at Kennedy but not really seeing her. They waited like that until Frank spoke slowly, measuredly, “I bought the house with my lover. And she’s dead now. Okay?”

  Kennedy’s face softened and Frank looked down at the suitcase. “Why don’t you go put that away.”

  The drive to Parker Center was crowded and slow, but Frank wasn’t in a hurry. Now she was just wasting IAD time. The sun felt great pouring in through the window, and even the diesel fumes and oiled asphalt smelled good. Punching the radio’s memory buttons and finding only commercials, Frank settled for the freeway’s orchestra of random horns and a thousand cars and trucks.

  IAD had been grilling her hard over this shooting, and Frank wondered if they had other motives. That wouldn’t have surprised her. Honestly, she was amazed she’d made it this far. Her time on the force hadn’t earned Frank any loyalty. The department was a machine, consuming people and spitting out statistics, that kept a handful of career politicians in coveted spots. Frank produced good stats so she was useful, but she’d never be one of the boys.

  Gough had taunted her about that, telling her she could work for the department for fifty years and still not fit in. He was right. After almost two decades on the job she had yet to develop the proper “us against them” mentality. Frank wasn’t a saint—she did her share of bending means to justify ends—but she maintained her belief that her primary allegiance was to the streets, not the department.

  The day she’d been sworn in as a police officer she’d taken a fundamental oath to protect and serve the people of the city of Los Angeles. Without that oath, she’d never have made it through her first day. The bitter politics and bloodied back alleys would have forced her out long ago. No matter who was on her now— IAD, Foubarelle, Johnston’s mother, hell, maybe even one of her own men—she still owed Nichols’ father, Peterson’s mother, and Agoura’s parents the meager satisfaction of finding their child’s murderer. It was that simple. It was all she knew.

  Frank pulled up at Parker and ran up the stairs, not because she was in a hurry but for the exercise. She greeted Rothman, who snarled, “You’re late.”

  “Traffic.”

  Stuka grabbed a folder off his desk and motioned to a conference room down the hall. IAD called their interrogations interviews. Conference room was a euphemism for hot box. Stuka told her to take a seat, but she said she’d prefer to stand.

  She slouched against the wall, casual in pressed jeans and LAPD T-shirt, thumbs hooked into her pockets, Ray Bans on her head. The day was warm enough for Topsiders without socks, and Frank crossed a bare ankle over her shin. She looked like she was waiting to take off on a sailing expedition. Frank knew her posture alone was enough to piss off the IAD men.

  “Where’s your little chicken?” Stuka clucked.

  “Back at the hen house.”

  “Not worried about a fox getting in while mama’s away?”

  “I’d feel sorry for the fox,” Frank answered calmly.

  “Oh, she doesn’t like men either, huh?”

  “You’d have to ask her that.”

  “Doesn’t she do whatever her sugar mama tells her?”

  Frank grinned, but her eyes were as dark and flat as a shark’s.

  “I wish. She’s her own girl, Stuka. If you knew anything about women, you’d have seen that right off.”

  “Guess I haven’t had as much practice as you.”

  “Nah, guess not. You and the Ratman are too busy being IA moles.”

  Rothman finally spoke up, telling Frank to cool her jets.

  “Don’t take it so goddamned personal. This is SOP. We’re just doing our job.”

  “Some job you got. You sleep good at night?”

  “Lieutenant, how long have you been with the LAPD?” Rothman asked monotonously, a standard baseline question.

  “That’s not in your file there?”

  “In your own words,” Stuka growled.

  “Sixteen years.”

  “You like it here?”

  “Love it.”

  “How come you’ve never been out of Figueroa?”

  “It doesn’t get any better.”

  “Oh really?” said Stuka, feigning surprise. “No better than Rollin’ ‘60s and Pirus going off on each other like rabid dogs, wanting a piece of your ass worse than anybody else’s? No better than Salvatruchas and Westsiders sticking each other every night and working leads from strawberries and hookers with running sores and that’s the best they got? It doesn’t get better than piss and graffiti on your own station house and snipers taking potshots at you and cockroaches in your desk drawers?”


  Stuka ran out of steam.

  Frank said sheepishly, “Guess I don’t get out much.”

  It was Rothman’s turn now.

  “Nobody likes IAD, and that’s okay. But at least Stukie and I haven’t spent sixteen years in Figueroa.”

  Tapping an unlit cigarette on the table, he asked Frank directly, “Do you know what I think?”

  “No clue.”

  “I think you’re afraid to leave Figueroa. You’re a big fish in a small, scummy pond, and you know in your heart of hearts that you couldn’t make the leap into a better pond. You’re a big cheese in Figueroa because nobody else wants to be there. You’re a woman in a man’s job and you know there’s only two ways to rise—EEO appointments or blow jobs. You don’t have the guts to leave. If I was a woman, I’d be pretty frustrated.”

  Frank allowed a glimmer of a smile. She knew they were playing her, shaking her cage. If it were a normal workday she’d be livid wasting her time like this, but on ROD she was actually amused by their tactics.

  “That’s very insightful,” Frank congratulated. “Did you come up with that all by yourself?”

  Rothman ignored her, getting to his point.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet it gets frustrating knowing there’s only two ways out for you. So you build a little steam, take it out on felons and colleagues, an occasional hooker now and then.”

  Rothman was referring to the handful of excessive force and coercion charges she’d accrued over her career.

  “That’s okay, nobody really cares. Everybody looks the other way. All the claims are unsubstantiated or unfounded. You feel pretty good, but little by little the pressure builds up again. So one day you’re out on a routine bust, and some asshole that you know has a record a mile long and has walked on most of those charges, he starts dogging you and he’s in your face, and maybe, just maybe, you’ve heard bitch or cunt or dyke one too many times lately, and you let fly. You give this son of a bitch everything you’ve got.

  “And you know what? There’s not a cop in the world who wouldn’t sympathize with you. You lose it. And rightly so. There’s only so much a man, or a woman, can take. Especially a woman. Nights get lonely, I know, and probably more so for a girl like you. Gotta be secret, gotta be quiet, keep things in the closet. The pressure builds up…it’s understandable. You’re only human. So this Johnston dude gives you and your team a scare, and you’re primed. You blow. It’s a normal reaction, nobody’s blaming you, Franco. Hell, even your own cops are backing you. It’s understandable.”