Bleeding Out (38 page)

“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 the 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.”

“Why don’t you hang up. I’ll call you back.”

“Why do you suppose that is?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you.”

“So how late are you working?”

Frank glanced at the clock. “I’m done.”

“What?
It’s not even two yet. Since when have you ever left the office before quitting time?”

Frank heard the excitement in Kennedy’s voice and regretted she wasn’t deserving of it. But she’d try. She’d put in the effort to give Kennedy a nice Christmas.

“Since it’s Christmas Eve and I have a delicious dinner to cook. I’ve got to stop and get groceries, then I’ll be home.”

“Excellent! I’m still at work, then I’m going home and change. See ya around six?”

“Good,” Frank said, about to hang up, but Kennedy asked, “Can I bring anything?”

“I got it covered.”

Replacing the receiver, she heard a phone ringing in the squad room. Ike and Diego were catching tonight, but they were out. Frank knew no one else would answer it at 1:45 on Christmas Eve. As she was mulling that over, Noah stepped into the room and threw a little box at her.

“Tracey saw that the other day. It reminded her of you.”

As she unwrapped the present, Noah asked when she was leaving.

“Soon as I open this.”

“Good. You look like shit. Go home and get some rest.”

“Easier said than done. How you been sleeping lately?”

“Like a baby.”

Inside the box was a plastic figurine of a hula dancer. Frank pressed under the base and the dancer’s knees and waist buckled and her arms waved about.

“Reminded you guys of me, huh?”

Noah laughed. “Hey, that’s an antique, man. They don’t make those anymore.”

“I see,” Frank said, slipping into her coat. “That’s what reminded you of me?” Noah laughed again.

“We just thought you’d have fun playing with her. Next time Fubar traps you in here, just take that Honolulu honey out and start flapping her around.”

Frank forced a sparse smile as she walked out with her detective. “You going down to Tracey’s folks?”

“Yep, for rubber turkey and more neckties. How ‘bout you? Whatcha gonna do?”

“Just hang at home.”

“Why don’t you come over tonight, have dinner, read Christmas stories with us.”

“Nah.”

“Come on! Come over, Trace’ll love it. So will the kids.”

“I can’t.”

Frank shook her head, and Noah stepped in front of her.

“Why not?”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

Frank said dismissively, “I’m making dinner for Kennedy.”

Noah lifted both eyebrows. “Now that’s
chummy.”

“Whatever.”

Frank moved around him and he followed her down the stairs.

“Are you two spending a lot of time together?”

“Christ, you are such an old auntie.”

He laughed and pressed, “Well? Are you?”

“No, we’re not. She doesn’t have any family and invited herself over for dinner. And I let her. It’s that simple.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

Frank loved Noah, but he really was an old nanny.

“Give Trace and the kids a hug for me. Have fun in San Diego.”

Noah wiggled his eyes and gently punched Frank’s shoulder. “You have fun with Gidget.”

Frank looked at the fireplace. She hadn’t used it in years. Mag had loved tires, and whenever the temperature dropped below seventy she’d build a raging one. Frank would curse and open all the windows, but after she’d realized the fat rug in front of it was one of Mag’s favorite places to make love, she hadn’t objected anymore.

“Probably start a chimney fire,” Frank muttered, stuffing in wadded paper and pseudo-logs from the grocery store. In the low-forties and damp, it was cold by L.A. standards. Frank cranked the heat up. When Kennedy knocked and let herself in, Frank was standing at the sink dressing a standing rib roast.

“Hey, girl, this is a dangerous city. Pretty ‘lil thang like you oughta keep her doors locked. Good God on a mountain! What are you cookin’, a whole calf?”

“Heard you Texans like things big.”

“Dang! What army’s coming over for dinner?”

“The way you eat we’ll be lucky to have the bones left. You like your meat medium, right?”

“That’s right. Damn, that’s some impressive sum-bitch. You gonna put those curly little white hats on the ends?”

“Nope, no hats. Only Yorkshire pudding and peas with pearl onions in a green peppercorn sauce.”

“Jesus…what’s Yorkshire pudding?”

“You never had that?” Frank asked, poking garlic slices into the fat.

“Uh-uh.”

“It’s kinda of like a popover. You ever had them?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Well, it’s kind of a greasy bread. You make a dough and bake it with the drippings. It’s good.”

“I’ve never had anything from your kitchen that wasn’t. I didn’t know what you were making so I got you a bottle of red and one of white.”

Frank glanced up at the bottles Kennedy put on the bar and hefted them appreciatively.

“This is some primo wine, sport.”

“The guy at the wine store said they were topnotch.”

“Must have set you back a pretty penny.”

“What the hell, it’s Christmas.”

“Let’s check this red out,” Frank said, cutting a circle in the protective foil. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. ‘Sides, it’s the least I can do seeing as you’re doing all the cookin’ again.”

“My pleasure,” Frank lied. All she wanted to do was sink down on the couch with the TV blasting some inane show and sleep for twenty-four hours, a deep and solid amnesiac sleep. She poured a glass of the wine, then pushed it aside and drank from the glass she already had going.

“Aren’t you gonna try it?”

“Have to let it sit, let some of the alcohol burn off so you get a truer taste. Smells great, though.”

Frank shoved the roast into the oven and mixed the pudding batter while Kennedy told her a story about the narc surveillance she was on. Frank listened diligently, tweaking out a smile at the funny parts, but she didn’t get past Kennedy’s watchful eye.

“Somethin’ on your mind, Lieutenant?”

“No, ma’am.” Frank said, drying her hands on a dishtowel.

“You wouldn’t tell me if there was, would you?”

“Just tired,” Frank said to the towel. “Lots of work to catch up on. Delamore got me all behind, there’s the usual end-of-the-year panic meetings, just a bunch of stuff. So, I hear you’re going to whip my ass at gin.”

Frank’s attempt at levity sounded hollow even to her, and a blind person couldn’t miss the flatness in her eyes. They were pinched and tight, like she had a bad headache, and the slump in her carriage was completely out of character with her typical square-shouldered stance.

“Why don’t you take a nap?” Kennedy said. “Just tell me when to put the batter in and I’ll take care of it. ‘A little nipper,’ as my dad used to say. I won’t let you sleep more than twenty minutes.”

It was tempting, but Frank shook her head. “I’d rather kick your ass at gin.”

She was relieved when Kennedy went along with the con, answering, “Oh, so you’re going to kick
my
ass? A month ago you didn’t even know how to
spell gin
and now you’re talking about kickin’ my ass, you ingrate.”

“Wha-wha. You going to whine or play?”

They played while the roast burbled and steamed out smells that made Kennedy sigh and drool. Frank actually managed to win a couple of hands, more through luck than skill. As she finished the kitchen details, Kennedy set the table. Then she surprised Frank by going to her truck and producing a bouquet for the centerpiece.

Dinner was outstanding. The beef was tender, the outer pieces pink for Kennedy, the inner ones deep red for Frank. The pudding had a golden crust with a soft, buttery underbelly, and the peas popped sweetly between Frank’s teeth in a creamy, peppery sauce. Kennedy raved, but Frank didn’t taste much. She took little bites and spent a lot of time rearranging what was on her plate. Frank knew it was good. She was pleased that Kennedy thought so, too.

Drinking the excellent wine, watching it glow like liquid ruby against the fire, Frank knew that Kennedy was carrying the evening. She was lively and animated, chatting about Christmas in Texas, telling stories about being a female cop in Corpus Christi. Frank responded with vague smiles and tried to ask questions that would keep Kennedy talking, but half the time she wasn’t hearing what Kennedy said.