End of Watch (9 page)

“Uh-uh.”

“Oh, it’s a nice place. Very fancy. They got foie gras and quail, salmon cooked in salt. They got eighty-five types of cheeses. My son’s the grill chef.”

“Quite an accomplishment.”

“Let me tell ya, he didn’t get his talent from me. That’s for sure. I cook outta a box. If mere weren’t Kraft macaroni and cheese my kids woulda starved to death. Musta skipped a generation, cause my mother’s baked ziti? To
die
for!”

Grizzled clouds spit snow, the flakes melting as they hit the windshield.

Jutting her chin skyward, Annie said, “Supposed to be more of this.”

“I heard. Guess I better pick up a real jacket somewhere.”

“You stickin’ around a while?”

“Yeah. At least until we get the print results back. Then …” Frank flipped a hand, checking Annie’s profile. “What about talking to someone at the cemetery? If you don’t have time, I could do it. Ask around, see if the groundskeepers have seen anyone at the grave, if there’s been things left there before? If so, how often? Stuff like that.”

Annie nodded, covering the street. “I got this kid I’m workin’.

That’s my priority, but maybe we can take a run out there when this breaks. Or you could ask on your own, let me know what you find out.”

“All right.”

They drove and watched, keeping one ear on the street, the other on dispatch chatter.

As the snow accumulated Annie said, “It’s starting to stick. Bet you wish you were home now, huh?”

“Nah, I like it. I miss the city. I think it’s prettier than LA.”

“Prettier? New York? Come on.”

“You’re right. Pretty is for flowers. New York isn’t pretty. It’s … good-looking. It’s handsome. Makes you stop and stare, you know? I like that no one smiles here. Until they know you. In LA everyone smiles. Until they know you.”

Annie chuckled. “If New York was a woman it’d be Madeline Albright.”

“Yeah.” Frank thought. “If LA was a woman it’d be Britney Spears.”

Annie banged the wheel and laughed. “How ‘bout this? If New York was a dog it’d be a pit bull. Straight outta Harlem.”

“If LA were a dog it’d be a papillon.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. One of them butterfly dogs, right? Always prancing and yapping? My neighbor down the hall has one. Makes me nervous as all get out. I’m afraid it’s gonna get loose and I’m gonna step on it and she’s gonna sue me for a broken heart. Okay, how ‘bout this. If New York was a flower it’d be a rose. Beautiful, but it’ll stick ya.”

Frank countered, “If LA were a flower … it’d be a hothouse orchid—gorgeous but forced.”

They went on like that, comparing the cities to vegetables, furniture, cars, even guns (New York was a Tech Nine, LA a nickel-plated twenty-five) until Annie asked, “Why stay if you don’t like it?”

“Never said I didn’t like it. I like the heat, the ratio of sunny days to cloudy days, the mountains—when you can see them—and I get enough of the streets to keep me honest. Shoot me if I ever get transferred to a white-collar division.”

“I hear ya. My last assignment was the Two-Oh. Upper West Side. I can take crap offa someone who’s been
gettin’
crap all their life, but when these rich muhwhozuhs start beefin’ at me, I can’t help it. I wanna smack the snot out of ‘em. They had to get me outta there. I was a liability to the department.”

“That’s why you got a cherry assignment like the Ninth.”

“I don’t mind. In fact, I prefer it. Here you’re dealin’ with a spade, you know you’re dealin’ with a spade. Up there. Psh.” She waved a hand. “I ain’t got time for politician’. The city wants to pay me for that, they should make me mayor, not detective.”

Frank smiled out the window, glad to be on the street with Annie. Hell, she’d probably be glad to be with the Son of Sam if that’s what it took to get her out of that lieutenant’s office. But Annie was good company. A little talkative, but at least they had mutual ground.

Frank asked, “How long you been working homicide?”

“Nineteen years, cookie. There ain’t a cause a death I ain’t seen. And I’m ready to throw in the towel. Nine months, I pull the pin and I don’t look back. And I’m ready. I couldn’t a said that before Nine-Eleven.” Annie crossed herself. “But since then, it’s all been different. I used to love my work. Now? I still love it but it’s different. I’m different. I’m tired. I’m ready to let someone else clean up the messes. I done my share.”

“I’d say so.”

“You?”

“About fifteen.”

Annie nodded grimly. “You seen plenty, too.”

“Plenty,” Frank agreed.

After they dropped off the evidence Annie’s cell phone rang. She answered while veering around a plumbing van and Frank braced herself against the dashboard.

“Vincent. Whaddaya got for me?” Annie listened. “Excellent. I’ll meet you at the station as soon as I can. Keep him uncomfortable, okay?” Hanging up, she asked Frank, “You want to go back to the station or I should drop you somewhere?”

“There a good hotel near the station?”

“Let’s see. There’s the St. Marks over on Third. For forty bucks you can have the room two hours, no questions asked.”

“Nice. But I’d like to stay a little longer.”

Annie laughed. “Let me tell ya, there’ve been times I’ve popped for it. Just for the pure luxury of stretching out on sheets for an hour and forty-five then a hot shower. Um-mm. There’s a Hojo at Forsyth and Houston. Sohotel on Broome. Used to be the Pioneer. I think it’s pretty cheap. There’s Hotel Seventeen up Third. I can tell you it ain’t the Crowne Plaza but it’s not a Super Eight, either. It’s clean and cheap. I think you gotta share a bathroom, though. Madonna stayed there.”

“Madonna shared a bathroom?”

“Yeah, imagine? You open the door to go and there’s Madonna on the can. ‘Oh, excuse me. Bu-ut, as long as you’re here, maybe I could I get an autograph?’”

Frank smiled. “Just take me back to the station. I’ll figure it out from there.”

When they arrived at the Ninth, Frank trailed Annie inside to use a phone book. She asked, “So I’m not gonna be steppin’ on your toes if I canvass the cemetery tomorrow?”

“Aw, hell, no. Go for it. But,” Annie warned, pointing a lacquered fingernail, “you tell me everything you find out. Even what you
don’t
find out,
capiche?”

“Capiche”

After checking in with her squad, and talking to a very unhappy captain, Frank decided to try Hotel 17. Walking up Third Avenue, she passed the St. Marks Hotel, pleased that Annie Silvester was the detective on her father’s case. She was also pleased when she got to the hotel and saw that the Hazelden Rehab Center was right next door—if things got bad she wouldn’t have far to go for help.

Frank’s room was small and funky, but cheap, as Annie’d said. Willing to compromise on lodging, but not on what she wore all day, Frank hiked across town to Macy’s. Her long legs ate up the blocks as she hunched against the intermittent snow, warm from her exertion. A memory detached itself as she approached the monolithic department store—shopping there with her mother, having Coke and a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch, a small Macy’s bag propped on the table between them.

The recollection stung. Frank found indignant comfort in her sad memories, but being back in the city of her youth revived happy memories for which she had no ready defenses. She realized that she’d been so busy resenting her mother that she’d forgotten how much she had once loved her. She stepped into Macy’s, assaulted by the warm, perfumed air. The smell hadn’t changed in forty years. Frank quickly bought a change of clothes and when she was done, ate lunch across the street. But the large Macy’s bag propped defiantly on the table couldn’t hide the little bag in Frank’s memory. She couldn’t remember what had been in the bag but her mother had beamed at it as if it held a queen’s riches.

Then came darker days when Frank was towed through the store in her mother’s manic wake, her mother stockpiling merchandise with delighted cashiers, only to leave empty-handed at closing time with barely enough money for bus fare. During the ride home to whichever project they were in at the time Frank had seethed in shame and anger.

The waiter delivered a carafe of wine a few tables down. Frank looked on as the man poured, reminded of a Ray Bradbury story where time was used in place of money. Some saved time, others spent it. The poor sap in the story was down to a few hours in his account. He’d rushed frantically about town, begging for time, but no one would lend him any. He ran out and died.

Frank paid her bill, thinking that was how her drinking was. All done, all her passes used up, none left. Pull the plug. On her way back to the hotel she walked Broadway all the way down to the Strand. For the last year, year and a half, she hadn’t been able to read anything not related to work. Now, with lots of empty hours to face, she thought it might be a good time to try again. For the better part of the afternoon Frank lost herself in paper and ink, finally leaving the store carrying a Strand bag larger than the Macy’s bag.

Dusk had become night by the time she returned to the hotel. Seeing the shared bath was empty, she warmed herself with a quick, hot shower. Ducking across the hall wearing only a towel made her think of Gail running around the Crowne Plaza in her pajamas. She wanted to call Gail, hear her voice. Instead Frank picked a book from the bag and snuggled under the covers. She wasn’t ten pages into it before the phone rang. She jumped up, hunting for the cell phone hidden in her jacket. It showed a local number.

“This is Franco.”

“Franco. Annie Silvester.”

“Hey. What’s up?”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Chi di spada ferisce di spada perisce.”
Annie laughed. “‘He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword.’ We’re interviewin’ my mope, we get a call about a homicide. The vie turns out to be the mope’s friend, the
other
guy we’re lookin’ for. The little girl’s father shot the
crap
outta him. Mope looked like a friggin’ colander by the time he got put outta his misery. You should see the blood. Someone’s gonna make a fortune cleanin’ that apartment.”

“Congratulations. Double-header.”

“That’s not the best part. We take a Polaroid of the vie, show it to my mope and ask if he knows him. I swear, Frank, he turned whiter than me. I thought he was gonna toss his cookies all over the box. I tell him the vie gave him up while he was bein’ shot, that he told the father where to find him, and I kid you not, he starts talkin’ faster than I can listen. Figures his chances are better with a New York jury than the girl’s father. And he’s right. Only I didn’t tell him we had the father in custody.”

“Sweet.”

“Yeah, no kiddin’, huh? What are you, my good-luck charm? You blow into town and
bada bing,
I close two cases. So I was thinkin’ while I’m on a roll here, I should head out to Canarsie with you tomorrow. How would that be?”

“That’d be great.”

“Good. Where you stayin’ at?”

“Hotel Seventeen.”

“I’ll pick you up around ten.”

“See you then.”

A few pages later the phone rang again. This time Frank recognized the number.

“Hey,” she answered.

“Hey yourself. How was your day?”

“Okay. Took the evidence to the lab with Annie, found a place—”

“Who’s Annie?”

“She’s the detective handling my dad’s case. Annie Silvester. Did that, then I found a place to stay. It’s funky, but like Annie said, ‘It ain’t the Crowne Plaza’ but it’ll do.”

“Sounds like you and Annie are getting pretty chummy.”

“Chummy.” Frank tasted the word. “Makes it sound like we’re going to the movies and hanging out together. We’re workin’ a homicide.”

“I see. How’s that going?”

“Well, we got the candle and the vase delivered, so now we wait. Tomorrow we’ll go out to the cemetery and see what we can turn up there. No pun intended.”

“How old is she?”

“How old is who?”

“This Annie.”

“I don’t know. She’s going to retire in nine months. She looks like she’s maybe early fifties, give or take a couple years.”

“Hmm. How long do you think you’ll be staying here?”

“No telling. I talked to Fubar. He’s pissed. Told him it could be a couple more days, maybe a couple weeks. I don’t know. It all depends on what we get back from the lab. Or don’t. How about you? Going back tomorrow?”

“Yeah. From Manhattan to the morgue.”

“Sounds like a true crime title. So what are you going to do with your last night in the Big Apple?”

“I’m going to a play.”

“Alone?”

“No.” Frank waited for an explanation, but Gail continued. “I’m finally going to see
Phantom of the Opera.
I’ve waited so long I hope my expectations don’t exceed the reality.”

“Who you going with?”

“A woman I met at the convention. She’s nice. We’ve had fun together.”

“Nice.” Frank couldn’t resist. “Sounds chummy.”

Gail giggled. “A little.”

“So, where does this woman live?”

“Minnesota.”

“Good.”

“Why good?”

“Don’t know. Nice place, Minnesota.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“Nope. You?”

“Not yet.”

Her jealousy kindled, Frank quizzed, “Plan on going?”

“Maybe.”

“To see your friend?”

“Maybe.”

Gail sounded distracted and Frank asked, “What are you doing?”

“Painting my nails.”

Frank let the silence stretch out. “You never paint your nails.”

“I do sometimes.”

“This for your big date tonight?”

“It’s not a big date.”

“All right. Your little date.”

“It’s not a date at all. It’s just a play.”

“Whatever.” Frank sulked.

“My, we sound jealous.”

“Oh, no,” Frank answered too quickly. “Not at all. Should we be?”

“I don’t know. You’re the one who left, remember?”

“Of course I do. You remind me every time we talk.”

“Well, given whose idea it was to walk I’m not sure how your rather high-handed inquisition is justified.”

Frank bit down on her lip. Talking to Mary one evening Frank had called herself an asshole. Mary had corrected, “You’re not an asshole. You’re just
behaving
like one. Now. Do you want to keep doing that or would you like to stop?”