by Baxter Clare
"They get harder, don't they?"
"Christ!" He slapped at air. "You don't know the half of it. You're still a whelp."
"Yeah," Frank allowed. The gulf between twenty-five and forty-five was rough enough; she couldn't imagine pulling a forty-eight at his age. "You know what, though? I'm in kind of a bind here. I've got to be back to work tomorrow morning but I'm afraid to leave this evidence just lying around. I've been waiting over thirty years for an answer to this case and right when there might be a clue I gotta leave it. So I'm wondering if you could do me a favor and pull the file for me, so I know who's in charge and who to contact about it. Could you do that for me?"
"Kid, don't worry about it. If it's on Annie's desk, it'll get taken care of. She's a stand-up cop. She's just got her hands a little full right now."
"Yeah, I know. And we got off on the wrong foot. My fault. This has just... I wasn't expecting this, is all. Just came out to pay respects to my father and I find this. After all this time . . . kinda rattled me and I took it out on her."
Mercer stretched and got up. "Don't worry about it, kid. Annie's good people. She'll take care of it for you. You got my word on that, okay?"
Frank stood, too. "I appreciate it."
Mercer nodded, lifting a hand as he left the squad room.
CHAPTER 10
Walking to Rockefeller Center, Gail asked, "How did it go this morning?"
"It was interesting. I'll tell you when we get to the restaurant. How about you? Tell me about your morning."
Frank listened to Gail, her eyes darting left and right, back and forth. Even on vacation she checked the crowd, tuning in to the pulse of the street. She did the same when they entered the cafe. There was one table available overlooking the rink, centered in a row along the window. As the waiter led them to it, Gail whispered, "Is this okay?"
Frank shrugged. She hated sitting with her back exposed but answered, "What the hell? Who knows I'm a cop?" Gail studied the menu and Frank gave it a short glance.
"Want to split a chocolate shake with me? I'm probably going to gain a hundred pounds before I get another AA chip, but my sponsor says I can do whatever I want in the first year as long as I'm not drinking."
"Have you got any chips yet?
Frank made a peace sign. "Two."
"You're kidding?"
"Uh-uh."
Gail palmed her mouth, not able to stifle her laugh.
"What's funny?"
"I'm sorry. I'm just having a hard time seeing you standing up, saying, 'My name's Frank and I'm an alcoholic' Not to mention accepting a chip. Two chips. It's such a contrast to your lone avenger persona."
"Tell me about it. I can't believe it half the time, either. But you know," she said, watching as a laughing mother and daughter sprawled on the ice, "it seems to be working, and that's all that matters."
"You're right. Something seems to be working. You look sorter. Less rigid."
"Great. Sort's a good look in a cop."
"Don't worry. You don't look that soft. Just not so pinched, so tight."
"There's a line in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. After Big Daddy realizes he's dying of cancer he tells his son he's been walking around his entire life like a doubled-up fist and by God now he's gonna have him some fun. I wouldn't say I'm having fun yet, but by God I think I'm starting to unclench."
Their eyes met and Frank looked away first. Gail graciously returned to the menu.
"Okay. Tell me about this morning."
"You're not gonna believe it. Three thousand miles from home and here I am working a homicide."
Frank explained the morning's chain of events and Gail mused, "Wow. After all these years."
"Yeah, wow. Pretty weird."
"How's that feel? I mean, it seems that you'd pretty much closed the door on his death and then to have it swing open again ..."
"Yeah. Don't think I haven't considered a couple drinks today. Not that I'm gonna, but... I don't know. I was surprised. Still am. You're right about the door being closed. And it took me a long time to close it. It hasn't bothered me so much lately. I'd pretty much given up on ever finding the guy, but, man, when I was a kid I used to lie in bed at night thinking about him—his eyes, mostly. That's the thing with hope-to-die junkies. They've got black holes where they oughta have eyes. There's just nobody home inside. They got Night of the Living Dead eyes and I'd fall asleep thinking about those eyes on me. I'd dream about 'em—still do sometimes—and I'd wake up terrified to look in a mirror because I was sure I had junkie eyes."
The waitress appeared. Gail ordered the lobster quiche and Frank a cheeseburger. The waitress swished away and Gail protested, "You come all the way to New York and order a cheeseburger?"
"I didn't come for the food," Frank replied. "Besides, sober lunches have become a pretty steady diet of cheeseburgers and milkshakes. A cheeseburger's about the only thing I can eat without thinking of booze to wash it down with."
"Oh," Gail said, appearing abashed. "I didn't think of that. Anyway, go on, if you want. You've never told me any of this."
Frank dismissed, "Not much to tell. I kept looking for him on the street. Everywhere I went. Walking to school, riding the bus, getting groceries—I was looking for him in every face. I saw a lot of those junkie eyes and sometimes I thought I'd found him, but then he'd pass me or turn a corner and I couldn't be sure. After a while, I guess I got so caught up in looking for him that I forgot to be afraid. And I lived around enough hypes to understand that the guy had no idea who I was, that he probably didn't even know he'd killed a man and if he did know he wouldn't care—because the only thing an oil burner cares about is fixing. Food, sex, homicide—none of it means shit to them—only the high. Chasing it and getting it. Then I started feeling superior to the junkie—like he should be afraid of me, because I remembered and was straight enough to do something about it. I was reading Trixie Belden and Nancy Drew back then. The Hardy Boys—even the little kids series. Remember the one with the twins? Flopsy and Mopsy or something?"
The waitress set down the milkshake and an extra glass. As Frank spooned it out, Gail laughed. "Flopsy and Mopsy were in Peter Rabbit. I think you're talking about the Bobbsey Twins."
"Yeah, yeah. That was it. The Bobbsey twins." Frank's smile was nostalgic. "Man, those kids were lame. I thought they were dumber than shit—sorry. I hated them for having such happy families and clean houses—I thought that was as fake as Bugs Bunny— but I loved that they always solved the mystery. So I went from harmless fluff straight into In Cold Blood. Somebody left it lying on a table at the library. The title hooked me so I picked it up and that was that. Then I discovered Joseph Wambaugh."
"Yikes," Gail interrupted. "Your mother let you read Joseph Wambaugh?"
"My mother wasn't exactly monitoring my reading habits. I think as long as I was home and taking care of things, for all she cared I could have been reading Playboy. I didn't understand a lot of Wambaugh, but I began to see that only two kinds of people made the rules—crooks and cops. I think the seed to become a cop was already in me but reading Wambaugh was like adding sun and water. Helter Skelter came out around then too. I read everything I could about Charlie Manson and the Tate-LaBianca killings. It fascinated me."
"Uck." Gail shivered.
"After being exposed to all that, and from seeing what I saw everyday in my own neighborhood I realized that the bad guys only had temporary power. They were only powerful until their next arrest, but it was cops that were at the top of the food chain. And that's where I wanted to be. At the very top, looking down on everyone else. That's where I went and never looked back."
"Until now."
"Until now," Frank agreed.
Their food arrived and Gail said, "It must be very exciting to have a lead after all this time."
"Exciting," Frank said around a fry. "I guess it's as exciting as popping a lead in any big case. There's the adrenaline thing. But I don't want to get too close to this, too excited. I mean, what differe
nce is it gonna make after all this time anyway, huh, after all these years? And then if I don't find him, if this goes nowhere . . ."
Gail finished, "You don't want to be disappointed."
"No. I don't."
"Well, do you think these flowers are an isolated incident?"
"Who knows? There's so many questions. I'm thinking of calling Fubar, telling him I'm gonna stay out here a little longer. I want to make sure Silvester follows up on this. Doesn't drop the ball."
"Maybe it's been going on for a while and you've just finally stepped into the picture."
"Great. So I could have solved my old man's murder years ago but I was too self-involved?"
"That's not what I meant. There's a big difference between being self-involved and moving on. There are positive and negative aspects to every situation. Running from the pain of your father's death was negative, but accepting it and moving on is positive. The feat then becomes incorporating the two aspects into a vital, integrated whole."
"Jesus." Frank stared her. "I think you've been to too many lectures this weekend." Gail's smile was easy and Frank tapped the doc's hand with a fingertip. "You know what?"
"No. What?"
Tracing a line between freckles, Frank suggested, "I hope we can incorporate our negative and positive aspects into a vital and integrated whole."
Gail pulled her hand away. "We'll see."
Frank cleared her throat. "I took the opportunity while I was alone in the squad room to Google the saint on the candle, Nino de Atocha. Turns out that the Moors were holding a bunch of Christians prisoner and were going to use them as slaves but weren't feeding them or giving them water. Then this little kid dressed like a pilgrim shows up. He's got a gourd of water and a basket of bread and for some reason the guards let him in to feed the Christians. Story is that the gourd never drained and the basket never emptied, so they decided he was Christ disguised as this kid from Atocha, doing his loaves and fishes thing. Ever after, the Nino de Atocha's been the patron saint of prisoners and those unjustly accused. Kinda interesting, huh?"
"I'd say so. What kind of flowers were they?"
"The ubiquitous white chrysanthemums you can buy in any grocery store. Nothing to work with there."
Gail declared, "I think it's a woman."
"Because of the flowers?"
She nodded. "And the candle. It just doesn't sound like something a man would do."
"No, probably not. So I'm thinking maybe the visitor is the perp's mom or sister. Maybe an aunt. His grandmother'd probably be dead by now. And a girlfriend or a wife would have found somebody else. Moved on, as you'd say."
"So now you just wait?"
Frank spread her hands. "What else can I do? I was thinking of going back to the station this afternoon and hanging out until Silvester gets back, or someone else who can pull the case for me. Until then, one thing at a time, right? So tell me, doc. You know how to skate?"
"No. And I'm not about to learn."
"Aw, come on. I went horseback riding with you. And hiking. I even tried golfing."
Gail giggled. "Try is the operative."
"So you owe me a sporting adventure."
"I'm too old," she protested. "The thought of falling on that ice. Ouch. No thanks."
Frank leaned over the table. "I won't let you fall."
Gail frowned. "You're flirting, Frank."
“Am I?"
"I thought we were just going to be friends."
"We are. What's a little harmless flirting between friends."
"Quit being so damned charming."
"Gail," Frank said seriously, "I'm not gonna lie and pretend I don't have feelings for you. Because I do. Very deep ones. If all I can be is a friend then I'll settle for that, but it's not all I want."
"You're pushing."
"I just want to put it out there. I want you to know exactly where I stand. Cards on the table and all that. And I promise this is as hard as I'll push. Just don't ask me to pretend I don't care. I won't do that. I'm trying to feel things, for once, and be honest about them instead of shoving them aside and pretending they don't exist. So I'm not going to pretend I don't love you." Frank sat back. "Ball's in your court. You gonna take a chance and go skating with me? Maybe have some fun."
"And maybe get hurt," Gail said, her implication clear.
"I promised you. I won't let that happen." Frank cocked her head. "Weren't you the one who gave me a lecture a couple years ago about how you have to live life to the fullest? That by blocking out the pain you blocked out all the joy too? Wasn't that you?"
Gail's dark bob swayed. "I think you're mixing me up with one of your other girlfriends."
Frank stopped a laugh. "That's right. I have so many of them."
"You promise you won't let me fall?"
Making an X over her heart, Frank vowed, "Cross my heart, hope to die."
CHAPTER 11
The Ninth's squad room echoed when Frank walked in, her cheeks still slightly numb from skating with Gail. The doc had been hopeless but Frank had fun holding her up. She looked at the clock on the wall.
Almost five. Two at home.
She called her captain. There was no answer on his cell, office or home phones and Frank wondered how her crew was supposed to get hold of him.
"Asshole," she whispered just before his machine picked up. "John, it's Frank. Something's come up and I'm going to be longer than I thought. I'll know more tomorrow. Call you then."
She hung up and dialed Figueroa. She asked the desk sergeant if he'd seen Foubarelle around and he snorted. "On a Sunday? You gotta be shittin' me."
"Anybody upstairs?"
"Hold on. I'll transfer you."
The phone rang and Darcy picked up. "Hey. You home?"
"Not yet. Might be a while. How's everything going?"
"Fine. Quiet."
"What are you doing there on a Sunday afternoon?"
"Catching up on sixty-days."
"I wish your work ethic would rub off on your colleagues."
Darcy grunted. "They have lives. When do you think you'll be back?"
"Don't know. Three thousand miles from home, and believe it or not I'm working a homicide. I'll tell you about it when I get back. How's Gabby doing?"
Darcy's pause told her his daughter's cystic fibrosis was flaring. "Marguerite had to take her to the hospital last night. She's home now. I might take off tomorrow if nothing's going on."
"Do that."
"Yeah. We'll see. Don't be too long out there. I don't want to catch something and have Fubar all over me."
"I'll do my best." She hung up, missing her crew and her routine. She found a phone book and the number she was looking for. She dialed it on Silvester's phone.
"Alcoholics Anonymous. How can I help you?"
"Yeah, I'm looking for a meeting tonight." Frank gave the man she was talking to the Ninth's address and the Crowne Plaza's.
"You got a couple to choose from. Any particular emphasis?"
"Anything but a men's stag."
"All right, get your pencil ready."
Frank wrote down half a dozen times and places. She hadn't planned on going to a meeting in New York, but then again there were a lot of things she hadn't planned on. She pocketed the list, thinking she'd need to find a cheaper hotel.
Seeing as no one was around, Frank took a seat in front of Silvester's computer. Because her computer skills barely exceeded turning the damned things on, Frank didn't have any luck searching for information about her father's case. She got up and rummaged through rows of gray file cabinets, snooping the old-fashioned way. Hearing loud voices she slipped a drawer shut and posed near the coffee machine.
Hooting and hollering in the language of a successful collar, four detectives stomped into the homicide room. Silvester, long past her second wind and running on a third or fourth, was one of them. Calling one of the men "Lieutenant" she told him, "We got the little bastard. He was hiding under his grandmother's bed. He crapped h
is pants when we pulled him out."
"Nice job, Annie. How about the kid? How we doing on that?"
"We've got her nailed down to a mom-and-pop shop after she got out of school. There are a couple of mopes hanging around there that Vince and Billy are talkin' to. After I get this mutt processed I'm going to go home and grab a couple hours sleep, get a fresh start in the morning, huh?"
The LT nodded. "Yeah. Nice work. Vince and Billy gonna grab some shuteye, too?"
"Vince and Billy, too." Accepting the lieutenant's amiable pat on the shoulder, Annie turned and saw Frank. "Oh, spare me. Are you still here?"
"Charlie got the evidence booked but he couldn't tell me who was handling the case. Can you?"
"You're lookin' at her."
"You?"
"The one and only, Anne Marie Silvester."
Frank seethed, "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
"Because I didn't have time to check you out. You said you weren't just some mope off the street but how was I supposed to know that? You wouldn't believe the nut jobs we get in here."
"Yeah, I would. We get the same fuckin' nuts in LA. So what do I have to do make you believe me?"
Despite her obvious exhaustion, Silvester's eyes sparkled. "Nothin'." She grinned. "Charlie already did it. I told him to call LA and check your shield. He says you're all right."
Shaking her head at the floor, Frank muttered, "That's why it took him twenty minutes to make coffee. Okay. So can I see the file now?"
"Dear, did you happen to notice with your brilliant detective skills that I got a suspect here? Your pop's been dead what, thirty, thirty-five years?"
"Thirty-six."
"Thirty-six. So another day's gonna matter? God willin', this mutt'll talk and I can get some sleep tonight. You come back in the mornin', seven sharp. I'll get you your father's book for you. Deal?"
Being in no position to argue, Frank asked, "You like bialys?"
Silvester patted her hips. "Don't I look like I like bialys?"
"Not really."
"Psh. Enough with the brown-nosing. With a vegetable shmear, huh?"
"See you in the mornin'."
Frank zipped her thin windbreaker and walked out into the frigid New York night.