Last Call

by Baxter Clare

  “All right, I guess.”

  After a beat, she confides, “Sorry about the other night.”

  “Fuck, I don’t even remember it.”

  “Remember getting called out?”

  “Sort of. I remember getting dressed and driving. That’s kind of where I lose it.”

  Frank is relieved. There’s no need for her to come clean. Johnnie doesn’t remember a thing. He has been suspended, pending further review after completion of a mandatory 30-day in-house treatment program. She listens to his ensuing alcoholic admissions like a priest. A dirty priest. When he is done, she apologizes for not helping him sooner. She’s known he’s had problems and she’s hoped they’d go away.

  “Me too.” He chokes out a laugh.

  “It was hard for me to call you on your shit, ‘cause it meant calling me on my own. You were right, you know. You accused me of drinking too much, and I have been. I gotta take care of that.”

  “Yeah, before you get a thirty-day rehab. Man, I don’t want to go, Frank. Can’t you get me out of it?”

  “No can do, buddy. You gotta take this bullet.”

  “Fuck,” he moans and Frank’s heart aches for him. Johnnie’s a pain in the ass, but he’s her pain in the ass. And like it or not, he’s become her conscience.

  “Your desk’ll be waiting for you when you get back, big man. It’s gonna be all right.”

  “Yeah. Okay,” he agrees, sounding unconvinced.

  Frank hangs up feeling worse for her self-serving noblesse oblige. Granted, she hadn’t been as hammered as he was, but probably the only thing keeping her from a bunk next to Johnnie’s was that her BAC had dissipated by the time the brass thought to collect her urine sample.

  She goes cold turkey that afternoon and starts listening to the Pryce tapes. She’s aware that she’s waiting for the phone to ring. But Gail doesn’t call. And she still hasn’t called when Frank gets home from work on Monday night. Confident she can control her drinking because she was sober yesterday and only had two drinks on Saturday, she heads straight for the Scotch. She savors the liquor’s torch as it lights up her belly.

  Sipping slowly, making the glass last, she debates the lightless answering machine. It was Gail’s ultimatum, she decides, so Gail will have to break it. If she doesn’t, maybe that’s just as well. Frank would be the first to admit that she’s been awful company lately.

  Sliding a frozen dinner into the oven, she decides the day went pretty well, considering. The first thing she did after clipping her Beretta and ID back on was to apologize to the rest of the crew. What she did was unprofessional and made the whole department look bad. Yeah, she’s been stressed, but so has everyone so that’s no excuse. The incident was being recommended to the Board of Review and Frank agreed to abide by whatever actions the BOR saw fit to impose.

  The rest of the day was routine. Despite the disruption to her crime scene Jill had nailed the suspect in the domestic and brought him in. Frank had to go out to the range for her monthly qualification and Darcy rode with her. In between reloads, he casually reminded Frank that he didn’t drink anymore and that he might be able to help with Johnnie, or whatever. Reflecting on the implication of “or whatever,” Frank thanked him and let the comment pass.

  Frank only has a quarter-inch of booze left in her glass and it’s barely four o’clock. She has to get through the rest of the night with just one more drink. But, she allows, she can have a glass of wine before dinner and another with dinner, then the second half-tumbler of Scotch for dessert. That’s reasonable enough, she decides, and puts her glass down to save the last swallow.

  She walks around the house, restless. She wishes she could talk to Noah. Which reminds her that Tracey called last week. She’d left a message asking where Frank has been, when are they going to see her again? Frank hasn’t returned the call yet. She feels guilty as hell but Trace and the kids are bleeding raw reminders. She can’t face them right now. She needs to forget for a while. Forget everything. Noah, Gail, Johnnie—all of them. Just get everybody out of her head. The only way she knows to do that is to work. And drink.

  Downing the last sip of Scotch, Frank pours a glass of wine. She starts to carry it into the shower with her but then leaves it on the counter.

  “Pacing,” she tells herself. “Just slow it down.”

  She ignores the clamoring from heart, bone and fingertips, all telling her to guzzle the waiting drink and chase it with a hundred more. Walking away from the glass is harder than facing open fire and leaves Frank trembling almost as badly.

  Chapter 25

  Noah talks through her stereo. He sounds relaxed, like he’s talking smack with his dawgs. It hurts to hear his voice, but she concentrates on Reginald McNabb’s. He and Noah joke and Frank winces when Noah laughs. She plays the tape through, hunting for inconsistencies that aren’t there. Or that she can’t hear.

  She’s drinking beer tonight instead of the hard stuff. When she gets up to play a new tape, she opens another bottle. Noah dictates the date, time and place of the interview. He introduces himself and, for the record, the woman he is talking to. She’s the last of the hookers McNabb talked to the night of the murders. After a few minutes of bio background Noah asks her where she was that night.

  “Where I always am. Corner of Florence and Vermont.”

  “Was it a busy night?’”

  “Hell, no! It was freezing. Warn’t nobody out.”

  “Did you have any tricks that night?”

  “Uh-uh. Not a one. I was fixin’a go home, and that’s when Reg rolled on me. I told him I was freezin‘ my ass off for nothing and all he was gonna get from me that night was fuckin’ pneumonia. He told me he’d be back in a hour and that if I wasn’t there I’d better have some cash for him in the mornin’.”

  Frank hears her suck on a cigarette.

  “What happened then?”

  “He went on and I stayed. Didn’t get no fuckin’ trick and that pimp nigger never did roll back. Probably went home to his warm bed and slappin ‘ guts.”

  “Was that the last time you saw him that night?” She must have nodded because Noah says, “I need a verbal response, Tina.”

  “Yeah. That was the last time.”

  “What sort of mood was he in the last time you saw him?”

  “Like always. Like the lyin’ snake he is, somewhere’s between charmin’ and deadly.”

  Not the attitude Frank would expect from a man who’d just tossed, or still had to toss, two dead kids. The more Frank hears, the more she discounts McNabb as a primary suspect. She has a moment of regret, guilt even, that she didn’t help Noah sooner and harder. She thinks of all the energy and emotion he spent running down dead ends.

  On paper McNabb looks like a logical suspect, but his story holds up well after at least three lengthy interrogations. So do the testimonies of the girls, his homes and the bartender. Second, of the little physical evidence there was, none pointed to McNabb. Third, McNabb fits neither her profile nor the FBI’s, although the latter was submitted when it was believed the suspect had positioned the bodies. Frank has since resubmitted the case data and is anxious to see if VICAP’s new profile corresponds to hers. At any rate, barring a confession or a witness stepping forward, she has nothing on McNabb to present to a grand jury.

  But like Noah, she will beat this horse to death. After a late lunch the next day, Frank heads back to Raymond Street. She hopes to find McNabb’s grandmother home and is pleased when the old lady answers her knock. After Frank introduces herself, Mrs. McNabb whispers that she has some friends visiting. Frank promises this won’t take long. The old lady is peeved but invites her in.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” she tells her friends as she and Frank pass the living room. Two old women stare at Frank, then start whispering as she passes from sight. Mrs. McNabb pulls a chair almost as tall as she is from the kitchen table. She sits but doesn’t offer Frank a seat.

  “Mrs. McNabb, you spent a lot of time talking to my pa
rtner, Detective Jantzen, about your grandson Reginald and his possible involvement in the deaths of Ladeenia and Trevor Pryce.”

  The old lady bobs her head so violently Frank half expects it to snap off and roll around on the kitchen floor. She continues with her questions, confirming answers she already has, and retesting the strength of Mrs. McNabb’s testimony. At length Mrs. McNabb rises on tiny feet, complaining, “Lieutenant, my friends are out there waiting on me and the God’s honest truth is I am just tired of all these suggestions that my grandson is a petit four.”

  “A petit four.” Frank blinks.

  “Yes,” she says with heat, “or whatever you call those child molesters.”

  “Mrs. McNabb, I’m certainly not implying that Reginald is a petit four, but he may have gotten into a situation he didn’t anticipate. I’ve talked with Reginald. He’s a bright boy, and I think at heart he means well, but sometimes accidents happen. Things get out of hand and suddenly we’ve made a mess we’re not sure how to clean up. The normal thing is to panic and run, try to hide our tracks. That’s all I’m saying. And to be honest, from the outside looking in, your grandson looks like a pretty good suspect. Whether he was involved or not, that’s what it looks like.”

  The old lady appears calmed by the lies. Good cops develop a wonderful sense of timing, and Frank’s tells her she’s pushed far enough today. Mrs. McNabb makes sure to see her out, asking at the door, “Where’d that young detective go? I liked him a lot better.”

  “I liked him a lot better too,” Frank admits. “But he’s off the case. You’re stuck with me now.”

  “He off ‘cause he didn’t solve it?”

  It’s good for the old lady to believe the case is that important so Frank nods.

  Alone in the car, she allows a chuckle. Gail will love Mrs. McNabb’s petit four/pedophile malapropism. Her humor fades when she remembers she won’t be seeing Gail. Or talking to her. Or Noah, either. There’s no one to tell. The extraordinary depth of her isolation stuns Frank, snatching her breath away.

  “Christ.”

  She needs a drink. It’s the only thing she knows to do to ease the crush in her chest. She races toward the Alibi, feeling better just thinking about the relief a drink will bring. Frank’s certain this is not a good solution but equally certain she doesn’t have a better one. Jammed up in traffic on Manchester, she has time to see a familiar face pass along the sidewalk. Frank idles up to a woman too nicely dressed for the ‘hood and too large-boned to be a woman.

  “Hey. Buy you a drink, miss?”

  “Officer Frank,” she gushes in a breathy voice. “Whatever you want it’s gonna cost you more than a drink.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Frank tips her head toward the seat next to her. Miss Cleo minces around the grill, smoothing her skirt as she settles beside Frank.

  “You can’t drive better than this on your salary?”

  “What’s wrong with this?” Frank asks.

  “It’s old, what’s wrong with it. Look like something my grandma’d drive.” Miss Cleo sniffs.

  She’s a classy hooker, but there aren’t that many classy bars in South Central. The Sizzler’s close and clean. Two 10-7 uniforms snicker as Frank and Miss Cleo take a table. Miss Cleo orders red wine, removing the white gloves that cover her telltale wrist bones. An artfully tied scarf conceals the large Adam’s apple, and Miss Cleo remains the image of a sophisticated lady.

  “Being careful out there?” Frank asks.

  The ageless transvestite flashes a snowy smile. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Frank pulls pictures from her briefcase, sliding them across the table. “You know any of these guys?”

  The drinks come and Frank finishes half her beer before Miss Cleo’s first sip. She studies pictures of Noah’s three suspects but at last shakes her head. Feathers wave from the cloche over her ironed bangs.

  “What’d they do?”

  “Detective Jantzen ever talk to you—”

  “Oh, I heard he passed. I’m so sorry about that. He was a lovely man.”

  Frank responds with one nod. “He ever talk to you about a case he had a while back? Two kids dumped in a lot near Raymond Street. Strangled.” Trevor’s broken neck is still a holdback.

  Miss Cleo’s fine features draw together in concentration. “It seems like it. Yes, I think so. That’ve been about four, five years ago, hmm?”

  “Six. This guy, Reginald McNabb”—she taps his picture—“is a pimp. He lives over to Raymond. Keeps a stable of really young girls. Don’t think he has one over sixteen. He likes it front and back. That’s how the little girl was done. This guy, Charles Floyd, he’s just a hustler. I want to know what the word is on him. And this guy, name’s Willie Coleman. He likes kids. Down in Calipatria right now, serving a dime on a child molest. “

  The feathers bounce in understanding. Frank finishes her beer, already wanting another. She lays two twenties on the table.

  Miss Cleo is surprised. “You don’t usually pay in advance.”

  “I don’t usually care this much. Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

  Chapter 26

  At the coffeepot next morning, she asks Bobby, “How goes it, Picasso?”

  Hunching his broad shoulders, he answers in his sweet voice, “Weird. It goes weird.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know. Just feels weird without Noah, and Johnnie gone now too.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  They both look over the squad room. Jill’s typing and Lewis is on the phone.

  “How goes it with you?” Bobby asks over the rim of his cup.

  She thinks for a moment, then confides, “You’re the art major. You’ll appreciate this. You know Munch’s The Scream? The skinny woman with her mouth open like an O?”

  “Yeah.” Bobby nods.

  Heading toward her office, Frank says over her shoulder, “It goes like that.”

  Unable to stand the confining squad room, twenty minutes later Frank checks out a slickback and drives to McNabb’s crib.

  Noah had dragged Reginald McNabb down to the station no less than three times, and each time his testimony was consistent. McNabb was at the Cozy Corner from about 2:30 to 4:00 on that Friday afternoon. Ladeenia and Trevor left their house around 3:30. According to McNabb, there was no one to kick it with at the bar, so he left. He cruised around looking for his homes, couldn’t find any. He stopped at the B & O for cigarettes. He got a Quick Pick and five scratchers. None of the dated tickets were winners and he’d thrown them out. The owner of the store didn’t remember him. He doesn’t have a substantial alibi until he appears at Jackson’s Bar at almost 6:00. The bartender and three homes back his story. He has two Seven-and-Sevens then goes out to make sure his hos are getting ready for work. The girls Noah talked to support the timing. Reginald spends the better part of the night hustling. Christmas is coming and he needs bank. His girl Tina is the last to see him that night, around 11:30.

  The morning is still young when Frank pulls up to McNabb’s. A bronze Camry, tricked out with gold rims and personalized plates reading BIGPMPN, announces he is home. This pleases Frank. The best time to trip a suspect up is when they’ve just been pounded out of bed. Frank flashes ID at a woman behind the cracked door.

  “What you want him for?”

  “Wanna talk to him.”

  Seeing Frank’s alone, the woman admits her. She starts to walk away but Frank catches her arm.

  “He asleep?”

  “He was till you started banging on the door.”

  “Where?”

  The woman is dubious but points down a hall with three open doors.

  “On the right or left?”

  “Left. The second one.”

  Frank walks into a dim room. Reginald McNabb sleeps on his belly, hugging a pillow. Even in bed he is decked out in emeralds and ice. A sheet covers him from half his ass down. Frank loves this. She sits next to him, tickling his back with her badge. He swats at
it, slurring into the pillow, “Keesh, wha’ you doin’?”

  Frank holds a finger in front of her lips, glancing at a nervous Keesh in the doorway. Frank trails the badge over the small of McNabb’s back and he rolls over in a flurry. His speed surprises Frank, but not as much as she’s surprised him.

  He grabs the sheets, spitting, “Who the fuck are you?” even though she’s held her badge up for him.

  “Lieutenant Franco. Homicide. Where were you the night Ladeenia Pryce was killed?”

  “What?”

  She repeats the question.

  “Bitch, what the fuck you talkin’ about? Comin’ into my house like this! Wakin’ me up in my bed. I’ma slap a harassment suit on you’s what I’ma do. You got a warrant?”

  “Don’t need one. Keesh let me in. Where were you the night Ladeenia Pryce was killed?”

  “Keesha, you one stupid bitch, you know that? I do not fuckin’ believe this,” he moans. “Why you people still all over me ‘bout them kids?”

  “Where were you the—”

  “I was the same fuckin’ place I was the last time you five-oh motherfuckers axed me! Keesha! Why you let this bitch in here?”

  Keesha only answers with wider eyes.

  “Where were you the night Ladeenia Pryce was killed?”

  “Same fuckin’ place, a’ight! To the Cozy Corner, then Jackson’s, a’ight! It’s the same fuckin’ story. It ain’t changed. Don’t be puttin’ it on me ‘cause you stupid motherfuckin’ one-times can’t find your killuh.”

  “Put some clothes on.” Frank stands. “Could you make us some coffee, Keesha?”

  “What I look like, your fuckin’ housemaid?”

  McNabb barks, “Bitch, make the goddamned coffee.”

  Frank waits in the sparsely furnished living room, McNabb’s strewn clothing the only decoration. She studies a high-end entertainment system until he appears in jeans and a T-shirt.

  “Nice works,” she says. “Probably costs more than I make in half a year.”

  “Yeah.” He snorts. ” ‘Cause you the only honest cop left in America, right?”

  “Well, at least L.A.,” Frank corrects. “So tell me about that night.”