Bleeding Out lf-1

by Baxter Clare

  "Honestly, I don't expect you to give a damn about these kids either. But what is news, and what'll get you ratings, is exposing the fact that a two-bit comedian's accidental death is more important to the police that your viewers pay taxes to than the planned and deliberate deaths of at least four young girls. RHD could move on this right now, but the death of a celebrity cokehead is a greater priority than multiple deaths of the average citizen's child."

  Frank watched the story playing in Sally's eyes, knew she had her. Even though she wasn't hungry, Frank forced the tender veal down, letting Sally think. Finally the reporter's eyes narrowed and she said, "So you want me to cover this to force Robbery-Homicide into action?"

  Bluntly Frank answered, "That's my angle, yeah."

  "Why? It's not your problem anymore. Are you using me to settle a score? I want to know."

  Frank shook her head and dabbed at her mouth with the heavy napkin.

  "You know, Sally, I've been a cop for almost seventeen years. I've seen the worst that you can imagine and then some. But there's a man out there, with no remorse and no compunction, who is stealing girls off the streets. He hurts them. He rapes them. And then painfully...knowingly...savagely," Frank paused a beat, "he kills them. And he loves this. More than anything. And because he loves it, he'll never stop. He'll go on raping and hurting and killing, and he'll only get better at it. I talked to some of the girls that lived through his assaults. They're never going to be the same. Their worlds are shattered."

  Frank searched the reporter's face. When she continued, she spoke so softly that Sally had to lean closer.

  "When I questioned them, when I had to ask them about the man who'd done this to them, they trusted me. They looked at me like somehow I could help them be whole again. Which of course I can't. But I told them, I promised them, that we'd catch him, that they'd never have to be afraid of him again. I intend to keep that promise. It's the least I can do for them."

  Frank sat back, spent from the veracity of what had started as a line for Sally.

  "So yeah, it's not my problem anymore. But I can't walk away from those girls, and whoever he's got his sights on next. Because I can guarantee you, he will kill again. As sure as you're taking your next breath."

  Sally coolly tapped a lacquered nail against her wine glass.

  "Very touching. But if I break this, then every mike jockey in town will be hounding them."

  Frank needed Sally, she had to play this last hand as well as she could. Smiling patiently, and she hoped winningly, Frank coaxed the reporter.

  "Come on, Sally. You're light years ahead of most the crew out there. Do your homework. You can get an exclusive, and however you do that is fine with me. As long as we've never had this dinner, and as long as RHD moves."

  "If I call them on it I'll need more ammunition."

  "Trust me. All you have to do is tell them you know they have a suspect in Culver City, and that they have solid evidence connecting him at least to Agoura. That'll get them sweating. The commission won't be pleased that they're just squatting on a quadruple homicide. And besides," Frank hinted, pulling out the last drop of charm in her arsenal, "this could be just the beginning of a useful relationship between us. Don't you think?"

  The hungry young reporter stabbed her ravioli and bared her teeth in answer.

  33

  “Kennedy hoisted a six-pack and said, "Congratulations." Frank opened the door wider, letting her inside. "What am I being congratulated for?"

  "You got your man." Frank shrugged. "RHD's man."

  "Oh-h-h," Kennedy feigned, "and they didn't have any help from you?"

  The older cop returned the feint with a brief, enigmatic smile. "What's up?" she asked, examining the three Cokes and three beers in the six-pack carton.

  "Did you see the news tonight?"

  "Nope."

  "It's the lead story. Sally Eisley, KTLA? She had a total exclusive. She was marching in there behind these RHD dicks, filmed the whole thing."

  "Yeah?"

  "I suppose you don't know anything about that, either."

  When Frank didn't answer, Kennedy checked her watch and grabbed Frank's arm, pulling her into the living room.

  "Come on. Let's catch the late news."

  Frank followed, accepting the beer Kennedy handed her. The younger detective bounded over to the TV, threw herself excitedly onto the couch, and pried a Coke open. Frank admired Kennedy's energy, wondering if she'd ever had as much. Yeah, she thought, but that was light years ago.

  Kennedy brandished the remote, picking through the channels until she found KTLA.

  "Here we go," she said, sucking noisily from her can. "This is rich, you're gonna love it."

  As the last few minutes of a police drama unfolded, Kennedy jokingly wished everyone she worked with was as good-looking.

  "So, did you drop a dime to Eisley?" she asked casually.

  "What's Eisley got to do with anything?"

  "Kinda interesting how she scooped the story, that's all. Like RHD personally invited her."

  "Guess she caught a lucky break."

  Frank's profile was creased and sallow, but it gave away nothing.

  "I'm not keeping you up am I?"

  Staring at the TV, Frank shook her head. Kennedy was in fact a useful diversion from the long night. Frank had heard about Delamore's arrest on the radio, driving home through the Christmas-colored traffic lights. She'd switched off the radio, not wanting to know any more. It was out of her hands now. Still, the sense of something unfinished had nagged at her. She'd rolled down her window, even though the air rushing in was sharp. She'd hoped without enthusiasm that RHD wouldn't blow this. The wind had cut through her as if she were hollow, the night seemed to roll out in front of her endlessly. All she could see ahead were glasses of Scotch and sheets damp and twisted from nightmares.

  "There it is," Kennedy shouted, pressing the volume higher. The KTLA anchor started his spiel, and Frank watched, without interest.

  "Good evening, ladies and gentleman," the anchor smoothly greeted. "We begin tonight's newscast with the discovery and arrest of the Culver City Slayer, the man believed to be responsible for the deaths of four young women in the Culver City area. As detectives from the Los Angeles Police Department apprehended the suspect, KTLA's Sally Eisley"—he paused dramatically—"was there."

  "Pretty coincidental, huh?"

  Frank just pulled on her beer, focusing on Sally's glossy visage. The cameraman segued into the highlight footage of Clancey in jeans and sweatshirt, appearing sleepy and confused as he was led to the police car. Sally did a brief voice-over bio on Delamore, adding that police were responding to a lead made by an anonymous caller.

  Kennedy's eyes were all over Frank, who watched the police gingerly help Clancey into a squad car. The footage changed to Clancey's bedroom and an RHD captain holding a videotape. He was saying that Delamore had actually taped himself with at least two of the victims.

  Kennedy whistled at that. "Betcha there's one happy DA out there tonight."

  Indicating the line of videos on Clancey's shelf, he added that they didn't know what was in the rest of the footage, but what they had seen already was pretty gruesome. The next shot showed the captain in a room they didn't recognize. Kennedy muttered, "Look at that carpet. That must be the room in the garage."

  The camera panned the bare room, focusing on a small pile of clothing and a ragged easy chair with a stack of porn magazines next to it. Sally said detectives presumed the clothing found in "the chamber of deadly terror" belonged to one or more of the victims. Interviewing the captain directly, Sally asked why the delay in catching the Culver City Slayer.

  "Well, the basic problem all along was a lack of witnesses, but if you're diligent and keep working a case, investigating all the leads—and sometimes it can take a lot of time—hopefully, eventually, you'll hit on the right combination of events and wind up with your perpetrator. That's what happened here. We just kept working the case, followi
ng the leads we had. Of course, I wish none of this had happened, but I'm glad we apprehended our suspect as quickly as we did."

  "And, of course, the tip from the unknown caller helped," Sally added without the slightest trace of sarcasm.

  "Yes, that was advantageous, too," the captain agreed. "We'd already had Mr. Delamore under surveillance. The tip confirmed what we already suspected."

  "What a crock of shit!" Kennedy exploded through Eisley's wrap-up. "Did you hear that son of a bitch?"

  As the newscaster went into a segment about insurance rebates, Kennedy muted the sound. Frank kept watching anyway.

  "Damn! What a prick."

  "Who's the wiser?" Frank said without heat.

  "Well, you are. Doesn't it piss you off that those greasy RHD fuckers are gonna get all the credit?"

  "It's their case. Why shouldn't they get the credit?"

  "But you did all the work! They didn't know shit about Delamore until you told 'em."

  Frank just shrugged.

  "That doesn't bug you at all?" Kennedy asked unbelievingly.

  "It's not my case. I'm just glad they're on to him, and it sounds like they found good stuff against him. Case closed."

  Frank reached for another beer.

  "Well, I think it sucks that you did all the work and then they get all the glory."

  Without conviction, Frank said, "It's not about glory, Kennedy. The bottom line is that Delamore's out of action."

  "That's very noble, but it's still not fair."

  "If you're looking for fair, you're in the wrong line of work, sport."

  "So you're not at all disappointed?"

  Kennedy had her arms folded across her chest and Frank was familiar with the interrogating tone.

  "I wish I could have seen this through, but I'd rather see RHD slam him than have him loose."

  "I don't believe you!" Kennedy moaned. "Two weeks ago you were so hot for this guy I thought I was gonna have to hose you down, and now it's just no big deal?"

  "Kennedy, what do you want me to do? Fall to the floor wailing and pulling my hair? It's over!"

  Kennedy had briefly pierced Frank's apathy.

  "No, I'm just saying you must be disappointed. You keep doing that goddamn stone-faced thing that you do. Why can't you just be disappointed?"

  "Maybe it's not as big a deal as you think it is."

  "Then what are you so fucking glum about?"

  Frank sighed. "Look. I'm tired, okay? It's been a long day. I need some sleep."

  "Alright then," Kennedy said, rising. "I'll go. I just wanted to tell you I thought you did a great job."

  "We did a great job," Frank corrected.

  "There you go again. Just say thank you and accept the compliment."

  "Thank you and accept the compliment."

  At the door Kennedy turned. "Hey, you know, it's almost Christmas."

  Frank nodded, asking, "You going to see your old man?"

  "Nah. It'd be too weird for both of us. How 'bout you?"

  "Hadn't even thought about it."

  "You wanna do something together? I could come over Christmas Eve and beat your ass at gin."

  "Sure," Frank said without enthusiasm.

  "Does that sound good?"

  "Yeah. That'd be great."

  Kennedy scrutinized Frank. "Are you sure you're alright? You look shitty."

  "Thanks. I'm fine," Frank answered quietly.

  "You don't look fine."

  "Just tired."

  "Alright. I'll get out of your hair. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

  Frank nodded, opening the door. She mustered the strength to call after Kennedy, "Be careful."

  Kennedy flashed a grin, answering, "Yes, mother!"

  In-line skates surrounded Frank, in every color known to man and then some. She looked for a salesclerk, frowning that they were all busy. She was tired and ready to go home, even if it was only to coax sleep and battle nightmares. But it was December 23rd and last-minute shoppers like herself were swirling around like piranhas. She finally clamped a firm hand on a kid who'd just left a customer and asked what was the best brand of skates.

  "Well, that depends on a lot of things," he said sulkily, trying to turn away.

  "Like what," Frank said, stepping in his way.

  "Like who's using them, how they use them. Lots of things."

  "A young woman who goes up and down the street in them, jumps curbs," Frank shrugged.

  "She's using them for recreation?" the kid said patronizingly.

  "Yeah. She's not jumping off rooftops or gliding down banisters on them. I guess that's recreational use instead of homicidal use."

  "K-2," the kid spat, with an evil glare.

  "You carry them?"

  "Over there," he pointed.

  Picking up one of the pairs the punk had indicated, she stopped another clerk passing her.

  "Hey. Are these good skates?"

  "Yeah, they are," he said eagerly.

  "They'd be a good present for a recreational skater?"

  "Wa-ay."

  "Can you ring these up for me?"

  "Sure. I just gotta help that lady over there, then I'll be with you."

  "Great."

  Frank leaned against the counter by the cash register, waiting patiently. She hoped Kennedy would like the skates. Frank had overheard her talking to Noah about the pair she had, how they were falling apart. These were pricey, but Frank wanted the best. And besides, if Kennedy didn't like them she could always bring them back.

  The kid bounced up to her and took the skates.

  "For your kid?" he asked.

  Frank smiled faintly, amused that she could really be mistaken for someone's mother.

  "No. Just a friend."

  "Must be a pretty good friend."

  Frank hadn't thought about that, but decided she was.

  After the clerk wrapped the skates, Frank headed home. She made herself go through her exercise routine thinking it might perk her up. It exhausted her, though, and she was tempted to quit. She drove herself on anyway. When it was over she opened a beer, but it didn't taste good, so she let it sit while she took a shower. Then she decided she should eat something, but nothing appealed to her. Contemplating the refrigerator's holdings, she wondered what was the matter with her. She decided she just needed some sleep, that things must be catching up to her.

  Over the last week or so—actually, since Delamore's bust— Frank had noticed she wasn't very hungry. Nor was she sleeping. The exercise she usually looked forward to had become a trial, and that puzzled her. She'd blamed the lack of energy on the lack of sleep. Always sparse at best, it had become even more sporadic, caught in snatches between dreams and alarm clocks. She longed for it at the same time she was afraid of the terrors it brought: bloody, mangled visions of Tunnel exploding, or Maggie and sometimes Kennedy bleeding and staggering toward her, or them or herself or Cassie Nichols tied against Clancey's lounge chair. She'd wake herself with her own sounds and turn the lights on, then pace and drink until the adrenaline subsided.

  Letting the beer drain into the sink, Frank grabbed a handful of cashews and poured a small tumbler of Scotch. Dinner of Champions, she noted humorlessly, sitting on the couch with the remote. She'd found waking up in front of the TV wasn't as frightening as waking up in the den or in her bedroom. Resigned to the long night, she munched the nuts for nutrition's sake, finding no joy in them nor the hot liquid that chased them.

  She was surprised when the alarm went off. The last thing she remembered was Jay Leno interviewing a leggy young actress Frank didn't recognize. She showered, grateful for the four hours of sleep she'd had. Rolling down the quiet highway, she thought about all the cases the ninety-third had outstanding. There was so much work to do and not enough hours in a day. A homicide cop in South Central was like Sisyphus in Tartarus: always rolling the rock to the top of the hill just to have it come crashing down again. Frank sighed, turning on some trashy talk radio to distract her from th
e weight in her chest. Sliding into a parking space she remembered Kennedy was coming over tonight. The thought brought no spark of pleasure, merely a feeling of obligation.

  Upstairs, Gough was making coffee. As she passed him she grunted, "Morning."

  He grunted in reply, going back to the newspaper spread out on his desk. Frank neatly hung up her jacket, then stared at the pile of papers on her desk. She'd probably not get to any of it today, either. She had a meeting with Foubarelle at 7:30 followed by a ride to the sheriff's office where she and Nookey had to talk two guys from OSS about a couple of bangers suspected in a double homicide Nookey had caught last week. After that there was a lieutenants' meeting at noon. Her own people would weave in and out of much of the remaining time.

  And she was right. At 1:00 p.m. she was still in the lieutenants' meeting. Rubbing a hand across her forehead she thought, God, I wish I were home. She thought about Clancey Delamore, how she'd circled around the dining room table before she knew who he was, trying to uncover him and become him, to flush him out. She realized she missed him, missed losing herself in the challenge of finding him.

  She wondered grimly if maybe Clay was right. Maybe all she had in her life were dead people. And Kennedy, who was very much alive. Frank thought about calling her and telling her she was sick. The idea of spending an evening with Kennedy suddenly seemed draining. Frank didn't know where she could find the energy for it. But she knew Kennedy would be disappointed, and somehow that penetrated Frank's funk.

  While Keating in Vice went off about needing more detectives, Frank tried to convince herself that the night would be fun, or at least different. After all, when Kennedy wasn't pissing her off, she had a way of making Frank laugh. Determined to have a good time for Kennedy's sake, she concentrated stoically on the meeting.

  Frank shared some leads that had been generated from the meeting when she got back to the office. Her phone rang and she waved her detectives out when she heard Kennedy's hello. "Hey," she greeted quietly.

  "Hey, yourself," responded the chipper voice on the other end. "Do you know you have never called me? Not once."