by Baxter Clare
After three hours, Frank is exhausted. Sick Willie glows with insane satisfaction. She thinks him fully capable of murdering a child, but not Ladeenia Pryce. She didn't go down the way Willie claims. His story is all over the map, without one detail similar to the versions he told Noah. She maintains that her perp is a man who prefers older girls, but not knowing if she'll ever need Sick Willie again, she leaves him with the advice to keep an eye out for a package.
The deputy returns Frank's gun and she snaps it into place. She takes grim comfort knowing that even though she's been anaesthetizing herself too often and too thoroughly of late, at least a guy like Willie Coleman still makes her want to scrub her skin off.
Chapter 28
Miss Cleo calls, asking when they can meet. Frank tells her to meet her at the Tarn's by the station. Resplendent in red linen, she is there when Frank arrives. Frank wonders how much time it takes Miss Cleo to get prepared for the day.
"I talked to an associate of mine. She was with Reggie a while back but she's just an old Hoover now."
A Hoover was a crackhead so down and out she'd scavenge carpet piling for rock crumbs.
"I guess you were sweating him pretty hard back then. She said it was outrageous how you kept pickin' all his girls up. It sounded like he never even saw the child you was all sweatin' him about. He made the girls he had left turn twice as many tricks and if they didn't, he'd beat them so bad they could hardly walk. That's why I've never had me a daddy. " Miss Cleo shivers in disgust. "I talked to some girls but they didn't know anything. You ask me, that boy's never hired anyone smarter than a cockroach. And that's disrespecting cockroaches."
"What else?" Frank asks.
Miss Cleo raises a slim shoulder. "Doesn't seem like there is much else. The girls he hires may be young, but that seems to satisfy his appetite."
"A'ight. What about Floyd?"
"I can't find anything about him. He's up from the Courts. Nobody here knows him very well."
"And Coleman?"
Miss Cleo flaps a meticulously manicured hand. "Don't know nothing about him, neither. I can't find anybody who's ever heard of him."
"Keep looking." Frank drains her coffee and rises.
Miss Cleo gasps. "Don't I get something for today?"
"Get me something better than nothing and I'll front you a Franklin."
Frank hasn't expected the drag queen to come up with a solid lead and it reinforces Frank's belief that Noah's best suspects are dead ends. Still, she wants to check out the last one. Returning to the office, she rereads everything Noah has on Charles Thomas Floyd.
Male, black, thirty-two. Would have made him twenty-six at the time of the Pryce murders. Noah had scratched out seven different addresses for Floyd. The latest is in Watts, at Imperial Courts.
"Great," Frank bitches. "Has to be one of the best pin-and-pops in town."
Referring to the proclivity of the project's inhabitants to pin visiting cops down with sniper fire, she debates going to the Courts alone, deciding a cold case doesn't warrant any urgency. She'll go in with a unit first thing in the morning, before the cars start getting backed up on calls and while the majority of the Court's residents are still asleep.
Floyd's rap sheet is as long as a Michener novel, involving multiple felony possessions, assaults, grand thefts, larcenies and burglaries, with dozens of misdemeanors thrown in for color. He's been sent up twice, once on AWDW and once on GTA The grand theft auto doesn't bear inspection but Frank scours the assault with deadly weapon rap.
Four months before the Pryce case he was busted for raping a thirteen-year-old at knifepoint. The girl had stopped at a liquor store on her way home from school to buy Ding Dongs. According to her later testimony, Floyd had come on to her, mackin' and wooin'. She'd admitted to being flattered at first and had let him walk with her. Her concern started when he switched from flattery to pressure. Refusing his overtures only encouraged him. The girl became truly frightened when Floyd's pressure turned into threat, a threat he eventually fulfilled by pulling a knife on her and dragging her into an alley. He raped the girl from the back, telling her all the while that he'd cut her if she made a sound.
Floyd's history made him a compelling suspect. His alibi on the day of the abductions was weak. Only two lowlifes who'd rather fall out of a tree than tell the truth could corroborate it. Problem was, at that time Floyd lived a good sixty miles from South Central. No one could make him in the area during the requisite time frame. Along with a fistful of cousins and an uncle, Noah had unearthed Floyd's local connections. They were mostly gutter hypes and wannabe balers. None of them had seen Floyd that weekend. Half of them didn't know where he was, the other half said he'd gone up north.
Because Floyd is wanted for parole violation, she has an edge on him. She calls his parole officer and leaves a message. The PO still hasn't returned Frank's call by the time she's ready to roll after him on a foggy Monday morning.
She drives a slickback with a patrol unit behind her. She's anxious going into the projects, the building melding into the shroud of marine layer. Searching for the street number, Frank mutters, "Welcome to Shangri-fuckin'-la."
She pulls up next to a chain-link fence, assembling quietly with Munoz and Garcia. All three scan the neighborhood. Two older women carrying grocery sacks frown at the cops, and a scrawny teenager slips into a house across the street. Mostly the fog is keeping everyone inside. Despite the weather, a whistle sounds. Curtains move aside and windows open. Frank and the uniforms maintain an even pace to Floyd's door, then knock loudly.
The adrenaline in their system makes the cops hyperalert. Munoz hits Frank's arm. "Hey! Is that him?"
Frank turns to see an armed male black running from another building. He fits Floyd's description. Holding an assault rifle, the man pauses to unlock a primered 280Z long enough for Frank to get a good look.
"Shit!" Frank says, sprinting.
The man dives into the car. Over rising jeers and taunts, Frank hears the Datsun's engine turning over. It catches, and Frank shouts at Munoz and Garcia, waving them toward their car.
Then the Datsun's motor dies.
Munoz gets to the car first. Deploying to the rear, he screams at the man, "Put your hands outside the car!"
Frank sees the man turn in his seat, wide-eyed. He brings the rifle up. Garcia has already taken a knee, aiming her 9mm. As Frank hears the rifle's ack-ack and sees the exploding glass, she drops belly-first onto concrete. Munoz goes down backwards, dropping his gun.
Blind fire continues from the car. Worming toward the Datsun, Frank yells for Garcia to get down but the cop is in her own world, squeezing off rounds as calmly as if she's at the range. The assault rifle suddenly stops and Frank hears one of Garcia's shots. A drawn-out moan comes from the car. Frank uses the front bumper for cover while Garcia advances.
The man sits in the front seat, strangely stiff. He stares with huge eyes at Frank. He looks like Charles Floyd. The rifle is canted against the steering wheel. Blood spills from his neck.
Frank orders him to get his hands in the air but he doesn't comply. She repeats the order, swearing, but Floyd moves only his lips. With Garcia covering, Frank yanks on the driver's door. Floyd's eyes follow her, hugely terrified.
Again she yells, "Hands up!"
Floyd squeaks, "I can't move."
Sizing up the neck wound, Frank has to decide whether Floyd's telling the truth or not. The rifle butt is only inches from where his right hand lies on the seat. Frank aims point-blank at Floyd.
"Get your fucking hands up," she speaks slowly and deliberately, "or I'm blowing your fucking head off."
"I can't," Floyd yelps again, the horror in his eyes genuine.
Careful not to place herself between Garcia and Floyd, Frank darts in. Jamming her Beretta against Floyd's temple she swipes at the rifle.
She backs away with it. Floyd still hasn't so much as twitched. Frank smells the stink of her own sweat, feels it running onto her ribs. She grabs Floy
d's left arm and pulls him to the concrete. He cries out but still doesn't move and Garcia has him cuffed in seconds.
Frank tells her to call for an ambulance and backup, even as another unit squeals into the complex. Munoz is sitting up, holding his hand against the blood seeping through at his shoulder.
"I'm okay," he breathes as Frank runs to him.
"Good." Frank grins. "Might take a while for the ambo to get through traffic."
"Especially if the natives hear a cop's down."
Frank would rather have Munoz lie down and stay quiet until the EMTs arrive, but that doesn't seem like the safest policy after having just shot a man in the Courts. Now that the firing has stopped the residents are emerging from their apartments, their voices building to a familiar wail about rights and police brutality.
"Think you can get up?" she asks Munoz.
"Yeah, I think so."
Frank steadies him under his good shoulder and helps him to the backseat of his car.
"I haven't sat in back of one of these in a long time," he jokes.
Angry faces press closer to the squad cars and Frank is ecstatic to see the yellow paramedic truck racing toward her. She turns Munoz over to one EMT and follows his partner to Floyd. At least who she thinks is Floyd. She wants to ask him, but he's unconscious.
Chapter 29
A sultry dusk has settled over L.A. by the time Frank and Garcia are cut loose from the Glass House. They have spent the day at headquarters, taking drug tests, filling out reports and talking into tape recorders. They are the only ones riding the elevator and Garcia yawns. "I can't remember where I parked my car."
"I'm close," Frank says. "We can drive around until we find it."
"Thanks. I don't want to spend my night here too."
"Ever been up to the sixth floor?" Frank asks as the doors open.
Garcia shakes her head. "Not for anything like this." They circle down two levels until they find her car. Stopping behind it, Frank tells the cop, "You did good today."
Garcia ducks her head at the praise. "I just hope Moonie's okay."
"Old Moon." Frank flips a hand on the steering wheel. "He probably stepped into the round just to get some time off."
They'd gotten word that Munoz had a through-and-through that missed his lungs and neatly exited a centimeter left of his shoulder blade. Tore up some muscle but he'd be fine. Floyd was okay too— minor nerve damage that had left him temporarily incapacitated. Frank had been relieved to hear that, too, hoping a healthy Floyd would be less likely to instigate a tort suit against the department.
Garcia smiles. Despite her obvious exhaustion, she seems reluctant to leave Frank's car.
"Do what they say," Frank advises. "Talk to the shrink. Even if he's an idiot, it's good to spill your guts to someone you're never gonna see again. Spill it at BSU and leave it there, or it'll come back and bite you in the ass. It's gonna bite you anyway but it'll go down easier if you get it out."
Listen to me, Frank thinks, the poster girl for the vocally challenged.
Garcia's nodding. "Yeah, okay." She still doesn't make to leave.
"You okay?" Frank asks.
"Yeah." '
"I'll give you a ride home. It's no big."
"No, I'm okay." Seeming to marshal her strength, the young woman adds, "It's just been a hell of a day."
"Yeah, it has. Go home, take a shower, get some sleep. Try to."
"I keep seeing his face, like a picture, you know, all framed in broken glass. I just keep seeing it."
"Yeah. You will for a while."
"After I cuffed him and Haystack got there I had to throw up. It kinda hit me then, you know?"
Frank nods, leaving silence for Garcia to fill.
She does, flashing a weak smile. "I guess we were lucky, huh?"
"Lucky, plus you did some damn good shooting. You were like Jane-fucking-Wayne out there. I see you doing that again, I'll get you busted back down to probation."
Garcia opens the door, thanking Frank for the ride. Frank waits until Garcia pulls out of her space then follows her from under the building.
The Alibi is only of couple blocks away and Frank gets there on autopilot. The soft evening riffles her hair and she smirks. "I should get a fucking Oscar."
When she was dispensing advice and letting Garcia talk, she felt like she was outside herself looking in. She was two Franks—one compassionate and supportive, the other detached and mechanical. She can dispense "atta girls" and sage counsel to her staff but she can't muster it for herself. Bottom line is, she's an awful hypocrite. She should be doing exactly what she'd told Garcia to do, but instead of talking the day out, she will ooze into a shot glass and clamp her mouth shut. Keep it all in. Stoic the Magnificent rides again. She knows today is going to kick her ass farther down the line, but right now it's hard to give a fuck. She'll worry about farther down the line when she gets there.
Chapter 30
Tuesday morning Frank has the shakes so bad she can't hold her coffee during the drive to work. When she walks into the station Romanowski slams the desk phone down and yells her name. Everything is too loud.
"This is a citizen with good timing," the sergeant booms, waving a slip of paper. "Got a cold one for ya."
Frank snatches the paper and heads upstairs. She used to get to work half an hour, an hour early. Now she slides in at 0558 like the rest of the squad. Jill's late, as usual, so Frank hands Lewis the paper. She's paired Jill and Lewis during Johnnie’s absence, and after a five-minute briefing the detectives head to the address Romanowski gave down. Frank follows in her Honda, hoping the drive will clear her head. The chain of events from a couple drinks at the Alibi to a fullblown drunk is unclear. She doesn't remember getting home but must have driven herself, since the Honda was parked safely in the driveway this morning. The thought that she might kill herself while under the influence doesn't scare Frank, but the thought of taking someone else out with her makes her stomach roll over.
The nine-three detectives pull up to another broken body on the pavement. Hispanic male. No ID. He looks like a wino. When the coroner tech turns the body, Frank, Lewis and Jill spot the drag marks. It's a dump job. Jill and Lewis moan at the same time.
Frank tells Lewis, "It's a religious case," and Jill rolls her eyes.
"Huh?" Lewis screws up her face.
"Gonna take an act of God to clear this one."
"Shee-it," Lewis complains.
There is no evidence to collect, no witnesses to question, and Frank is soon headed back to the office. She stops at Shabazz for bean pie and a large coffee. The food eases the worst of her hangover and she drives south toward Freeman Medical Center. She still has questions for Floyd.
She finds him in a room with a large Asian family crowded around an old woman. The television blares news. Floyd is on his back, eyes closed.
"Hey."
When he sees Frank, he closes them again. She waits, reading his mood. He seems resigned, as he should be. After the hospital he's going straight into lockup, probably until he's walking with a cane.
He looks at her again and she asks, "Why'd you shoot?"
"Didn't want to go back in."
"I wasn't gonna bring you in. I just wanted to talk."
"'Bout what?"
Holding up the well-worn pictures of Trevor and Ladeenia, she scours Floyd's face. It's blank, then changes to puzzlement.
"That's those two kids got murdered. I already been asked about that."
"Not by me. I want to hear your story."
"Man." He sighs like a tire losing air. "Ain't nothin' to it."
"Humor me," Frank tells him. "You ain't goin' nowhere."
He sighs again, bringing a forearm over his eyes. "What do you wanna know?"
Frank tries tripping him up, like she did Noah's other suspects. Like McNabb's, Floyd's story is consistent straight down the line. She's done with her questioning when she spies a tear gliding down his temple.
"What did you do that y
ou thought I was gonna bring you in for?"
She watches his throat work as he swallows tears. He shrugs and winces at the motion. "Coulda been anything. I ain't no choirboy."
She nods and moves to the door.
Emotion makes his voice shaky, but the words are compelling enough when he calls after her, "But I ain't killed no children."
After putting in her time at the office, Frank bolts at two sharp. She's going home to work out. No stops at the Alibi. No stops at the liquor store. Frank's answering machine indicates she has two messages. One is a solicitation. The other is Gail. She tells Frank she has packed her things in a box and left it in the hall.
"Please come by and get it and leave my key on the table. If you don't want the box, please leave my key anyway."
Frank has tried not to think about Gail. She's hoped this will somehow pass. That maybe time can reconcile them. Frank knows she's wrong and Gail's right. She's willing to make a few concessions and hasn't expected the finality of this message. She plays it back. Gail sounds cool and determined.
Frank thinks about calling to offer contrition, but Gail's tone doesn't brook reconciliation. And Frank won't beg. She made her choice when she walked out and Gail made hers when she'd said don't come back. Apparently, she was serious. Frank respects Gail's resolve, wishes her own were as solid. Dropping hard rock CDs into the player, she sweats in the gym for hours, afraid of what will happen if she stops. The exercise and one tumbler of Scotch get her to sleep. But they don't keep her there.
She wakes up at three and prowls around the Pryce binders, refusing to let Gail into her thoughts. She goes in early and a neglected desk keeps her occupied. Finishing the day out she leaves around three. On the freeway, she dials Gail's number. When the machine picks up, Frank disconnects. She drives to the apartment and lets herself in. The box is in the hall, but Frank looks around anyway.
Newspapers and medical journals are strewn on every available surface alongside folders and loose papers. Coffee cups and half-finished water bottles perch where Gail left them. Neatness was never her specialty. A wan smile crosses Frank's face, like sun trying to come out in the face of a hurricane. As quickly as she thinks of it, Frank dismisses the idea of leaving a note. What would she say?