Bleeding Out lf-1

by Baxter Clare

  "Then they're in the middle of a conference game and Delamore goes ballistic on another player. He attacks him from behind after the ball is dead and just keeps ramming into him. Sound familiar? Now get this. As he's beating this poor bastard senseless, he's got a woody the size of a baseball bat. And later, when Miller's dressing him down, he gets a hard-on all over again.

  "It totally freaked Miller out. He kicked Delamore off the team."

  Frank paused to check Kennedy's reaction. She was taking it all in. Then she asked cautiously, "So why are we going to his place?"

  "I called after I got done with the coach. Turns out he lives with his mom. I gave her a big song and dance about burglaries in the area—told her we're with Robbery. Told her we were tracking down a suspect known to habituate her neighborhood. Then I said that the department was offering to do free home security checks and we could come by if she liked. Check her locks, give her some safety tips and a sketch of the suspect, stuff like that."

  "And she believed you?"

  "Hey. I was very convincing. One of my best roles to date."

  Kennedy asked, "Why don't you just question him straight out?"

  "One, we've got no real evidence that this is our guy. We're running purely on bones and possibles right now. Two, I don't want him to panic and start cleaning house. If he's got evidence around, I don't want him dumping it. And I don't want him running. I want him confident. I want him to think he's outsmarting us. Sooner or later it'll make him trip. Three, even if I did want to move on him, it's not my case anymore, remember."

  "So why are you tipping your hand at all?"

  "I want to talk to Mom. Oh yeah, I left out another thing. One of the reasons she's letting us in is because there is no Mr. Delamore and Clancey works nights. I said, 'Oh, is he a cop, too?' and she said, 'No, he works at a bakery.' So sonny should be sleeping even as we speak, but I want to see what we can pull from the old lady, take a look around. With this security gig we can go all over—"

  Kennedy interrupted. "Except his bedroom, which is probably the best place to check."

  "I thought about that. I figure we can find out his work schedule and make up a reason to come back when he's gone."

  "Okay, so here's another question. Seeing as you've got no jurisdiction here, what the hell are you going to do if this kid does look good?"

  Frank held up a pontifical finger. "That bridge I will cross, if and when I get there. All I know is this is the best lead we've had yet. You still up for it?"

  "You betcha, but I sure hope this goes somewhere soon. You gotta get a life back, Lieutenant."

  Frank smiled happily, although her words were chillingly true. "This is my life."

  After the first couple of girls he'd bought a used camcorder so he could remember them better once they were gone. He watched the tapes in his bedroom, learning and studying, planning how to make it even better the next time. Over and over he watched, remembering, reliving, refueling. The tapes satisfied him for a while, but eventually their appeal faded. When that happened, it was time to make a new one.

  30

  "Well?" Frank asked over her shoulder, backing out of the Delamores' driveway.

  "I think you better feed me before I rip your head off and start suckin' on your insides."

  "I saw a guy do that once," Frank said, matter-of-factly. "Killed his mother and brother and an aunt. When we came in to arrest him he was sitting as calm as you please at the kitchen table with a big old pan of sauteed brains in front of him. Damned if they didn't smelled good."

  "After tonight, I don't know whether to believe you or not."

  "I was pretty good, huh?"

  Kennedy had to laugh at Frank's unusual lack of modesty.

  "Damn good," she agreed deferentially.

  "Well, Detective, I think it's been a very productive day. How about I buy you some sweetbreads so you don't have to rip my head off?"

  "Deal."

  They went to Frank's favorite restaurant, where the waiter greeted her by name. Waiting for him to return with her wine, Frank took out her notebook.

  "Okay. Tell me what you saw, what you thought, everything."

  Frank listened to the young detective, impressed by her observations. Mrs. Delamore had fallen easily for Frank's ingratiating charm and generously shown them her immaculate house. About halfway through the detectives' bogus inspection, Clancey had wandered downstairs, sleepy-eyed and bare-chested. They'd gone into his room, at his mother's insistence, and it was a mess. As if he weren't hulking behind her, she'd talked about what a slob her son was.

  Kennedy asked, "You saw the pile of porno mags by the bed and the economy size bottle of lotion? What do you reckon Mrs. D. thinks Junior does with all that hand cream?"

  "I'm sure she just thinks her boy's got some mighty soft skin," Frank smiled, borrowing Kennedy's twang.

  "How 'bout the videos?"

  Frank nodded. There had been no books or music in Clancey's room, only a twenty-four inch television with a VCR perched precariously atop it. A shelf of neatly aligned videos above the television contradicted the room's chaos. Frank had noticed that most of the titles on the spines were handwritten, and a brief scan of the commercial titles indicated most of them were skin flicks.

  "And all those football trophies on the floor? I'll bet they used to be on that shelf where the videos are. It's the only shelf in the room. Now they're just layin' 'round under his dirty clothes while the videos are carefully stacked up there. Like maybe he's outgrown the trophies and they're just down on the floor with all the rest of his crap."

  "Hmm," Frank murmured. "I hadn't thought of that."

  "But then it's also kind of odd if football's behind him that he'd have a clean uniform hanging in his closet."

  Frank was picking at her antipasto. She froze. "A what?"

  "A uniform, like for football," Kennedy gloated.

  "Are you kidding me?" Frank drilled her young colleague.

  "Big as life. Red and white. Number eighty-one."

  "No shit?"

  "Absolute constipation. I peeked at it when ya'll were admiring his trophies. It was just cleaned, too."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I smelled it. I think Mrs. D. uses Tide."

  "Son of a bitch," Frank muttered incredulously. "What else?"

  Kennedy ticked off a few more things, then she sucked noisily on an ice cube. "What about you?"

  Frank waggled her eyebrows, pulling a wadded piece of tissue from her jacket. She dangled it before Kennedy.

  "When I got the tissue to blow my nose I swiped the bottom of his shower."

  Frank carefully unfolded the Kleenex and together the two detectives peered by candlelight.

  "There you have it," Frank poked with her nail. "Pubic hairs. We'll see if we can draw a match on them."

  She folded the tissue, pocketed it, then reached into her pants pocket. "Did you notice how antsy they got when I asked about that locked door in the garage?"

  "And that Junior has the only key."

  "Right. And when I spilled that jar of nails on the floor?"

  Kennedy chortled, "Yeah, spaz. Like to gave me a heart attack. I was lookin' at the tools on the wall and I thought Junior'd pulled a gat on you or somethin'."

  Eyes twinkling, Frank opened the palm of her hand. In it sat a hunk of green/gold carpet fiber.

  Kennedy stared at it, then at Frank.

  Frank deliberately ripped out a piece of note paper and folded it around the yarn. "This was poking out from under the garage door. I dropped the nails so I could yank some out. Agoura and Peterson both had green carpet fibers on them."

  Kennedy's eyes narrowed admiringly. Frank sat back with a short, satisfied chuckle, unable, or unwilling, to hide her pleasure. Studying Frank, the younger detective shrewdly noted, "You love this, don't you?"

  Frank shrugged, obviously pleased.

  Kennedy asked, "How do you feel now that you've seen him?"

  "Absolutely, 100 perce
nt certain."

  "But you've got nothing but circumstantials on him. How can you be so sure?"

  Frank smiled oddly and took on a thousand-yard stare. "Oh, I'm sure," she whispered. "I know it. Seeing him, smelling him, looking at where he sleeps, where he fantasizes..."

  Frank's mysterious smile widened, becoming almost cruel. She whispered reverently, "I know him because I am him."

  She didn't see the golden hairs rising on Kennedy's arms.

  By the time they finished a long dinner it was after ten o'clock. Both women were exhausted. Since the restaurant was closer to Frank's house, she invited Kennedy to spend the night. Once there, the younger woman crashed quickly and easily, but Frank was too wired to sleep.

  She was elated at how closely Delamore matched her profile. If this were her case, she'd be slapping a search warrant in front of a sleepy judge right now, but as it was her hands were tied. It didn't matter that she had probable cause and a deep gut instinct. If she told RHD what she had, they'd probably lose or mishandle any solid evidence she found. Plus, once word got out, she'd face disciplinary action for taking on another division's case. That would raise enough jurisprudence questions for the case to get thrown out of court. Clancey would walk after all.

  As much as it frustrated her, she had to go slowly. Frank settled in the den with soft music and a pad of paper, starting a list of things to follow through on. Gradually, her own thoughts and Astrud Gilberto's wistful yearnings lulled her to sleep.

  When she twisted onto her side the clipboard fell against her chin. Frank woke up and saw Kennedy slumped on the floor beside her. She thought she was dreaming, then decided Kennedy's soft snoring was real. So was the rise and fall of her chest and the slight movement under her eyelids. Frank wondered what the hell she was doing there, then got distracted by the fiery auburn and russet strands gleaming in Kennedy's hair. Frank wanted to smooth the tousled hair, wondering if it would be as silky as she remembered from the hospital. She reached out, then drew her hand back.

  Kennedy jerked awake as the clipboard clattered onto the floor. She gaped at Frank, petrified.

  "It's okay, sport. You're okay," Frank soothed. "Everything's okay. You're alright."

  "What was that noise?" Kennedy blinked.

  "Just me. I dropped the clipboard. It's okay."

  As Kennedy regained her bearings, Frank whispered, "What are you doing all curled up on the floor?"

  Kennedy thought about it for a moment, then mumbled, "I had a dream. I woke up and saw the light on so I came in here. But you were asleep. I didn't wanna wake you up. But I didn't wanna go back to bed either. I just sat down next to you for a sec."

  Kennedy's hair was hanging in her face, and again Frank had the urge to smooth it out of the way. She patted the couch and shifted her feet into the corner.

  "Come here."

  Kennedy cuddled up at the other end, and Frank offered part of the afghan she was under. She frowned as she asked, "Did you put this on me?"

  "Yeah. You looked like you were cold. You didn't even move when I covered you."

  Frank felt foolish that Kennedy had crept in and covered her with a blanket like she was a baby.

  "Tell me about your dream."

  Kennedy shook her head adamantly. "Uh-uh."

  "Why not?"

  "Too scary."

  "Tunnel?"

  "I don't know. I don't remember. I don't want to remember."

  Frank gently tried to persuade her it would help to talk about it, but Kennedy scoffed, "How would you of all people know that?"

  Frank seriously considered the question. "I used to have someone to talk to," she said finally. "It helped."

  "Your lover?"

  "Yeah."

  "What was her name?" Kennedy asked sincerely. When Frank hesitated, Kennedy bargained. "I'll tell you about my dream if you tell me her name."

  Frank bit her inner lip as Gilberto sang about quiet nights and quiet dreams. "Maggie."

  "It's a pretty name." Then, "How long were you two together?"

  "Eight years," Frank said tightly.

  "How'd she die?"

  Kennedy asked the question gently, but Frank still felt it was none of her business.

  "Look," she snapped coldly, "that's enough with the twenty questions. Just tell me about your goddamn dream. That was the deal, right?"

  Kennedy flinched almost imperceptibly, and a guarded hurt dimmed the light in her eyes. Frank immediately regretted her outburst. She tossed off the afghan and started toward the CD player, then turned back. Kennedy was staring at her like Frank was a dog that might bite. She hated the wariness in Kennedy's eyes, hated even more that she'd put it there.

  "Christ," she sighed. "You come at me out of left field and get pissed when my first reaction's to protect myself."

  Kennedy's armor didn't budge as Frank sat earnestly on the edge of the couch.

  "Look. I don't know how to do this. You want me to talk to you, but Jesus, it took me years to learn how to talk to Mag, and even then it was half-assed. It's nothing personal, I just can't do this as easily as you do. I wish I could. I envy you. It's like you've got an emotional flak jacket you put on when you go to work, then just take it off and leave it by the door at night. My jacket doesn't come off like that."

  "I'm sorry," Kennedy offered. "I should've stuck to the bargain."

  "You always have to go for that extra inch," Frank complained.

  "I have to," Kennedy defended. "You'd never give it, and it's the only way I can get anything out of you." She paused, then added, "You want me to tell you all my stuff but then you don't tell me diddly. Is that fair?"

  Frank didn't answer, and Kennedy continued, "It's like I'm supposed to trust you, but you can't trust me. How do you think that makes me feel?"

  Frank gnashed at her lip, then shook her head at the floor. "You're asking a lot, sport. I don't trust easily. That's no reflection on you, or how trustworthy you are. It's just my own twisted make-up."

  Lifting her head and facing Kennedy, Frank said, "And I do trust you. To a point. And when I get to that point it's hard to cross over. I feel like my back's to the wall. Hell, you know more about me than almost anyone else. I'd say you're doing pretty good, but I just can't move as fast as you. I watch you go from happy to sad, then mad to laughing, and you're so easy with yourself. I just can't do that."

  "Won't," Kennedy insisted. "I've seen you fight with every honest feeling you've ever had."

  "Alright then, won't. Whatever. You just need to back off a little. Don't be so damn invasive."

  "I don't think I'm being invasive enough!” Kennedy challenged. "Somebody's gotta drag you kickin' and screamin' outta that shell you're in."

  "And I suppose you've appointed yourself to the task?"

  "I seem pretty damn good at it."

  Frank stared at the combative young woman. They stalemated until Frank cocked an eyebrow and asked, "Are all the women in Texas as ornery as you?"

  "Worse."

  Kennedy's lofty smile said she'd concede the battle but not the war. "You wanna hear about my dream or not?"

  Frank settled back. "Yeah, I do."

  It was a vague, sketchy dream about Tunnel, and when Kennedy finished she asked, "Have you dreamt about him?"

  Frank played with a loose yarn in the afghan, admitting, "A lot," then she stretched and rose stiffly. "Come on, sport. It's late. Let's see if we can get some real sleep."

  Frank switched off the lamp and they made their way through the dim house. Kennedy paused at Frank's door, her hand on Frank's arm. Half-teasing, half-serious, she said, "I'm sorry to be such a pain in the ass."

  Frank faced her. The streetlight's beam spilled in through the living room window, picking up the shine in Kennedy's eyes. Frank was very aware of the hand still on her arm. She tried to answer, but the thick scent of Kennedy's hair and skin tripped Frank's breath in her throat. After what seemed like decades, she whispered, "You're not."

  Kennedy stood on tiptoe
and her lips brushed Frank's cheek. "Goodnight," she whispered back.

  Long after Kennedy had gone into her room, Frank remained standing in the streetlight's complicit fraternity.

  "Let's get going, sport. We've got a shitload of work to do."

  Frank put a milky cup of coffee on Kennedy's bedside table and left Kennedy groaning behind her.

  They returned to Parker Center and finished running all the names through the computer. Over donuts and more coffee they reprioritized the suspects. It was exasperating work because Frank was sure Delamore was her man. Nevertheless, she was determined to exhaust all her leads before running with Clancey. Even though she had a lot on him, she couldn't afford to overlook anyone. By noon they had a list of nine men ranked number ten. Kennedy was hungry again.

  "Oughta get that tapeworm removed," Frank advised, pulling into a Taco Bell. She watched Kennedy devour a burrito, three tacos, and a large Coke like she hadn't eaten in a week. When Frank parked at their first interview, she surveyed Kennedy's face. Skewing the rearview mirror toward her she noted dryly, "They might take us more seriously if you wipe that salsa off."

  Kennedy grinned, dabbing at herself with a Coke-moistened napkin. Frank shook her head dubiously.

  After questioning their best suspect, Frank and Kennedy decided his work schedule was too tight to make him a viable perp. They'd double-check his story, but if it squared, they'd have to eliminate him. The same thing happened with their next guy; another had just come back to L.A. after a year-long absence. They had to cross off their fourth suspect because he'd lost an arm in a car accident. It turned out that he remembered Delamore from their footfall days.

  "Yeah, he was a weird dude. Nobody liked him."

  Frank asked why. He scowled. "God, all he could talk about was football. Football this and football that. He was like, obsessed with it or something. And we'd be like changing in the locker room, you know, and Clancey'd take his clothes off and he'd be all like black and blue. It was totally gross."