Bleeding Out lf-1

by Baxter Clare

  "Hello, Frank."

  Richard Clay stepped out of his office, interrupting Frank's thoughts. He held out his hand.

  "It's good to see you again. I wish it were under more auspicious circumstances."

  "Hello, Dick," she said smoothly, returning the shake. She perched on the edge of a chair in front of Clay's desk while he took the one beside it. Frank recognized the move, she did it all the time. Get close to your suspect. Make her nervous. Invade her body space.

  "How's your serial case coming along?"

  "Not mine anymore. RHD's got it."

  "Hmm. Is that a relief or a disappointment?"

  Frank hated this touchy-feely shit, hated it like the plague, but she knew she had to go along with it for Clay to sign off on her ROD. She felt his quiet appraisal and wondered vaguely if he saw what she wanted him to or something else. Frank was a detective. She was a master at projecting whatever attitude was needed. Today called for casual yet earnest cooperation.

  "Guess I'd have to say disappointing."

  "And how does being relieved of duty feel?"

  "It's probably good for me. I haven't taken a vacation in years."

  Clay was peering at her over his bifocals.

  "Does it feel good?"

  Frank considered for a moment, wondering how high Clay's bullshit barometer went. As she recalled, it was pretty sensitive.

  "I've felt better."

  He smiled softly. "I'll take it that's a 'no'."

  She shrugged.

  "Tell me about the shooting."

  Clay remained silent while Frank laid out the mechanics of the story. When she'd finished he asked, "How did you feel going in?"

  "The usual. Excited. Tense. Pumped."

  "And in the hallway right before Detective Kennedy was seized?"

  "Same. Probably a little more concerned. We didn't know where this guy was, but he was in there somewhere with us."

  "Were you afraid?"

  "Didn't have time to be. I suppose I was. It's hard to remember," she lied.

  "How about when you were in the bathroom and heard the suspect screaming at your detectives? How did that make you feel?"

  Frank remembered the lurch her stomach had made and the nauseating panic, then the icy calmness that took over, the complete detachment.

  "I felt like a machine. My vision and hearing were acute. I could smell the towels on the door. They'd been damp for a couple of days. There were black and brown cracks in the linoleum. It was mustard colored, had some sort of a square geometric pattern. I was on autopilot."

  "Were you scared then?"

  "I guess. I don't remember."

  "When you shot the suspect, what was going through your head?"

  "Not being seen. Being 100 percent accurate. No room for error."

  "It must have been tremendous pressure."

  Frank shrugged. "I suppose. You don't think about it at the time, though."

  Frank was trying to lead the conversation and hoped he'd ask when did she think about it. But Clay had been doing his job for a long time. He bowled her over by asking, "Tell me how you felt kneeling over Detective Kennedy while she was dying on you."

  Frank wasn't expecting that one. Clay's vivid description forced the scene into her mind, followed by Mag on the dirty liquor store floor. Frank sat perfectly still. Her eyes narrowed and focused intently on Clay's, warning him not to continue. Clay steadily maintained his gaze. They both knew he'd set the hook. Now she'd either fight it or give into it. He was allowing her time to figure it out. When she spoke it was almost in a whisper, as if sound might shatter her self-control.

  "I know I'm supposed to talk about this. I have no intention of doing so. I respect your time and I don't want to waste it."

  Clay took off his glasses and thoughtfully polished them with a handkerchief. He took some time doing it, carefully rubbing each lens, redoing them, examining them for smudges. He refolded the handkerchief and patted it back into his pocket. Frank knew he was buying time. Slowly, using both hands, he slid the glasses back onto his nose, adjusting then until he'd found just the right spot. Adopting Frank's casual posture, he leaned halfway out of the chair and rested his forearms on his thighs, fingers clasped between his knees.

  "You know I have to sign an evaluation saying you're capable of performing your job."

  "I am capable of performing my job."

  She spoke evenly, very quietly.

  "Are you sure about that?"

  "Very."

  Silence stretched between them until Clay said, "Unfortunately, I think you're right. I think you'll be just fine on the street. To be honest, it's what you do when you're not working that worries me."

  Frank knew what he meant, that sometimes work was the only thing a cop had and when the job was gone there was nothing left but bullets or bottles. She offered him nothing.

  "Your consult form says you're single."

  "That's right."

  "Do you date?"

  "Are you asking me out?"

  Clay smiled. "Do you?"

  "No."

  "How come?"

  "Too busy."

  "Would you like to date?"

  Frank and Clay were head to head, eyes locked. She hesitated before answering no, and he immediately asked her why.

  "Too busy," she repeated with a shrug.

  "Doing what?" he pressed.

  Frank sighed, conveying a supreme indifference to the barrage of questions.

  "I don't know. Working, I guess."

  "What do you do when you're not working?

  "Sleep. Eat. Exercise. Read the paper, watch the news, football."

  Clay sat back, asking what team she liked.

  "Chiefs look good. And just to show I have a heart, Warren Moon makes the Seahawks a sentimental favorite."

  Clay smiled again, like an indulgent grandfather. "You wrote down that you drink moderately. What's moderate to you?"

  "I don't know. Depends on the day."

  "Do you drink more on bad days?"

  "I suppose."

  Frank sat back, stretching her legs all the way out, crossing arms and ankles.

  "What's an average day's consumption?"

  "Two, three beers. Scotch sometimes, maybe wine if I have dinner."

  "Do you ever have nightmares?"

  Frank's nonchalant expression wavered for an instant, but then she said stoically, "It's a package deal. You get a pension, medical, and nightmares for the rest of your life."

  "Are they bad ones?"

  "Is any nightmare good?"

  Clay smiled at his own question, neatly laying the trap. "Do you ever wake up crying?"

  The flexed jaw muscle was Clay's answer. He shifted his attention to a thread on his slacks. "I don't suppose you'd tell me what they're about."

  He looked back up and searched her cobalt eyes, waiting. Finally he sighed loudly. "Lieutenant, you seem like an intelligent person. I have to admit, I admire your investigative skills and I've enjoyed it the few times we've worked together, but frankly, I sure as shit wouldn't want to be living in your shoes right now. I'd say you're on the edge of a hard place and I'm offering you a hand— no strings attached. I can help you, Frank, but only if you'll let me."

  Their eyes dueled while Frank considered Clay's offer. She respected him, he seemed like a straight-up guy, but she just couldn't tell him everything. What she'd endured lately with Kennedy and Noah was bad enough. She wasn't willing to go any further. Not for a stranger. Clay finally realized that.

  "Fine. You're right. You are wasting my time."

  He stood, reseating himself behind the desk. "You know my number and you know where I am."

  Frank hadn't expected the abrupt dismissal. She got up and walked to the door, then paused, her hand on the knob. Clay had opened a folder and was sorting through its contents.

  "Are you going to sign off on me?" she asked.

  Without lifting his head, Clay answered, "Of course I am. Your job's all you have in
the world."

  Sometimes he'd go out and find a whore before he had to be at work, or sometimes he'd cruise on the way home. He couldn't do it very often. It cost a lot for what he wanted, and his mother always noticed the missing money. After a while he gave it up and just watched the whores, thinking about what he'd like to do to them. He'd sit alone in the car, wishing his dad were with him, missing him.

  23

  Frank tried to help Kennedy into the Honda after she was wheeled out of the hospital. Kennedy slapped her hand away, complaining she hadn't forgotten how to walk.

  "Geez Louise," she drawled, "the way ya'll are fussin' over me you'd think I was a double amputee."

  Watching Kennedy get in on her own, Frank commented, "Too bad Tunnel cut your carotid and not your vocal cords."

  They went by Kennedy's apartment to pick up some clothes. Frank looked around while the younger woman packed. The place obviously came furnished in used Sears Roebuck. The carpet was the standard chocolate shag, and though worn, it was clean. The kitchen was cramped but tidy. There were some dishes in the sink, and Frank quickly washed them.

  Kennedy emerged from the bedroom with a suitcase. When Frank offered to help, Kennedy waved her away. Frank waited against the door, surveying the spartan surroundings. No plants, no books, no pictures. A stereo system and lots of CDs dominated the room, as did a pile of sports equipment. Two surfboards and a mountain bike were propped against the wall. A neat pile of newspapers sat on one end of the couch.

  "Okay. That's it."

  Frank tugged at the suitcase, reminding Kennedy she was supposed to be taking it easy.

  "Oh yeah, it's really heavy."

  "That's not the point. Easy is easy. You're lucky I let you walk up here."

  "Oh, you're so butch," Kennedy teased.

  Frank headed down the balcony steps while Kennedy locked up. By the time Kennedy got to the car, she was pale.

  "You alright?"

  "Yeah. I just got a little dizzy."

  "You've been in bed for days and your body's been through a lot of trauma. See why you've got to go slow?"

  "Yes, mother."

  "I ain't yo mama."

  "Damn straight. You're way better lookin'."

  "Don't you ever quit?" Frank asked, turning into traffic.

  "Uh-uh."

  Frank checked her mirrors, thinking it could be a very long week. When Frank parked in her own driveway, she hopped out to open Kennedy's door, but of course Kennedy was already out and reaching for the suitcase. Again Frank snatched it from her but this time the younger cop didn't protest. She was busy studying the stuccoed house, the trimmed lawn on either side of the brick walkway, the lush bougainvillea hedges. Frank opened the front door into the big living room, and Kennedy whistled.

  "Are you on the take? How the hell do you afford this on a cop's salary?"

  "You don't. It was in foreclosure, so we got a great price."

  "Who's 'we'?"

  Realizing her mistake, Frank said, "Let me show you your room."

  Kennedy followed slowly, nodding approvingly at the gym. She paused at the den.

  "Dang. Have you read all those books?"

  "No," Frank said patiently.

  Kennedy smiled as she passed the dining room table, cluttered with the xeroxed guts of the Agoura/Peterson case. Standing behind Frank, she surveyed the guest room.

  "This is nice," she said. The room was simply furnished. Pale yellow walls and a couple of large, healthy plants gave the room a sunny, tropical feeling. Fingering a palm frond, Kennedy said, "I never would have figured you had such a domestic streak."

  "I don't. My housekeeper takes care of everything. If they die she gets new ones."

  Frank opened the door to a small bathroom and said, "Let me know if you need anything."

  Kennedy poked her head in, regarding the folded yellow towels on their racks, the new bar of soap in the dish, and a vase of tiny white and yellow flowers.

  "Did your housekeeper pick the flowers, too?"

  Kennedy reminded Frank of a lioness observing its quarry, carefully noting every weakness and opening. She admitted to having cut the flowers and Kennedy twanged, "Ah knew it. Yer just a big ol' femme under that crusty outside."

  Frank knew Kennedy was teasing, but all the butch and femme references still made her uncomfortable. They alluded to a sexuality that was well buried, one that Frank wanted to keep that way.

  "You're welcome to use the dresser. Why don't you unpack while I start dinner."

  "Can I help?"

  "Yes," Frank said firmly. "You can watch."

  Frank put groceries away then started the barbecue, relieved by the familiarity of her household chores. Stirring together a marinade for the chicken, she wondered if she had enough fruit on her trees to make a citrus salsa. Kennedy wandered out to the patio as Frank was picking oranges.

  "This is a most-excellent house."

  "Glad you like it," Frank said through the branches.

  "Did you buy it like this or remodel?"

  "Bought it."

  "Was the gym already there?"

  Always the detective, Frank mused. Luchowski was a lucky guy.

  "Nope. I did that."

  "Who decorated?"

  Frank remembered the day the big leather couch was delivered. Maggie had laughed, "Now it's a home," and pushed Frank down onto it. They'd made love on the slippery plastic packing.

  "A friend," Frank offered.

  "You have friends?"

  Kennedy was humored with a fake smile. She followed Frank back into the kitchen.

  "Sure I can't help?"

  "Yep." Frank pulled a beer out of the fridge and asked Kennedy if she wanted anything. She said, "Yeah," and got up, but Frank pushed her onto the barstool.

  "You sit. I wait. What do you want?"

  Kennedy rolled her eyes and said exasperatedly, "Make it a Coke, slave-girl."

  Frank handed her a can, then a glass with ice.

  "Do I leave a tip when I go?"

  "All gratuities were included in your hospital bill."

  Frank disappeared into the den, and a moment later a bossa nova swayed gently from the living room speakers. She resumed her stance against the counter as Kennedy watched her chopping scallions and garlic and ginger. The absence of words between them was comfortably filled by the music. Kennedy relaxed against the bar.

  "Tired, sport?"

  "A little. It's kinda nice just to sit here and watch you. What's the music?"

  "Antonio Carlos Jobim."

  "It's pretty."

  Frank nodded, pausing her chores to drain a quarter of her beer. Beyond the living room window the sun was sinking red. Pretty soon the lights would flick on automatically and she would get the chicken grilling. The evening's order soothed Frank.

  "You like cooking?"

  Frank smiled a little.

  "Yep."

  "Did your mama teach you?"

  "Pretty much taught myself."

  The two women swapped information about their families and where they'd grown up. The conversation continued casually as they moved outside while Frank barbequed. Returning to eat in front of the TV, Kennedy surveyed her abundant plate and said, "Geez Louise, do you always cook like this?"

  "I like to eat," Frank said simply.

  "I guess so."

  Frank sipped from a wine glass as Kennedy started wolfing her dinner. Frank used to bolt her food too, but Mag had shown her how to slow down and draw out the pleasure. Frank picked up her fork, warning herself not to go there. After they ate dinner and watched a little TV, Kennedy admitted she was bushed. While she got ready for bed, Frank started washing the dishes. She was rinsing a plate and didn't hear Kennedy come up behind her.

  Frank jumped and Kennedy said, "Sorry. I just wanted to thank you for everything. The dinner was incredible and your hospitality could make you an honorary Texan."

  "That's something I've aspired to for a long time," Frank said wryly.

 
"I'm sorry to flake out on you so early."

  "No, that's good. You need your rest. Get to bed."

  "Alright."

  Kennedy turned away, thanking Frank once again.

  "Sure."

  Frank stuffed the flatware in the drainer. She felt ridiculous accepting Kennedy's thanks. If anything, Frank should be down on her knees thanking Kennedy for not having died on her. She couldn't even consider what that would have been like. She wiped the counter, finding comfort in the familiar blue tiles, but she was still disconcerted by Kennedy's gratitude. Staring at the light spilling onto the floor from the guest room, Frank stood drying her hands longer than she needed to. Finally, she walked toward the yellow beam and knocked gently on the open door.

  "Yeah."

  Frank stepped tentatively into the room, still gripping the dishtowel. She wanted to say something to Kennedy but didn't know what.

  "Do you have everything you need?"

  Kennedy was propped against her pillows, a magazine in her lap. Fatigue, plus a huge T-shirt, made her look young and fragile, and Frank felt a quick, choking desire to protect Kennedy from every bad thing the night could bring. She wanted to warn her to leave the light on and not close her eyes. Kennedy's smile and contented reply forced the words from Frank's head but did nothing to reassure her. She passed the towel from hand to hand, still groping for what to say.

  "How's your neck?"

  "It's okay. It's kinda tweaky and tight but nothing I can't live with."

  "You going to be able to sleep alright?"

  "If you ever quit worryin' about me and get outta here," Kennedy grinned.

  "Alright." Frank shifted from her left foot then back to her right. "If you need anything, just let me know, okay?"

  Kennedy nodded, her eyes mirroring the trace of her smile.

  "I mean, don't worry if you have to wake me up, okay?"

  "Okay."

  But still Frank didn't leave, and Kennedy asked, "Is something wrong?"

  "No. Not at all. I mean, I just..." Frank took a huge breath.