Bleeding Out (35 page)

Two hours later she was standing in Ruben Benjharad’s apartment. She hadn’t woken the supervisor, but he still wasn’t happy to see her. Frank was used to it; no one was ever glad to see a homicide cop.

Benhjharad had only supervised Clancey for nine months. His employee seemed pretty dependable. If he clearly explained to Clancey what he wanted, it got done. He described Clancey as competent, but never taking the initiative to do anything outside his immediate instruction. Frank asked if he talked to Clancey about things other than work, and Benjharad frowned, scratching his chest. He couldn’t think of anything, nor did he think Clancey talked with the other employees, preferring to take his lunch break alone in his car. The supervisor didn’t offer anything new, but he at least supported Frank’s profile. She thanked Benjharad and reminded him that their conversation was confidential.

At home, finally, she went over the day’s notes. They told her nothing new but did nothing to unlodge the certitude in her gut that Clancey was the one. With a pleasure bordering on desire, she pictured Clancey.

You woke up a while ago, all sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired in your bed that smells like old skin and sweat and cum. I bet you slept through the alarm until Mom pounded on the door, ragging your ass like she does. I’ll bet you didn’t want to wake up, did you? Bet your dreams are better than mine. But you get up anyway. Have to. Mom won’t let you be late. What next? Shower?

Frank remembered the damp pile of towels in the bathroom.

Probably. Because Mom’s trained you to. You don’t really care. Comb your hair for the same reason. Do you look in the mirror? Probably not. Put on whatever clean clothes your mom’s washed. Go downstairs. She said she always has a meal ready for you. You’ll eat with her but you won’t talk much.

There’d been a TV on a plastic cart that faced a small table in the kitchen. Frank bet they watched it during meals.

It’s just a matter of time, now, buddy. I am so close to you. I want you. And I’ll get you.

Frank felt warm thinking of him, and she marveled that it had been a long time since she’d wanted anything as much as Delamore.

Thursday night, long after the rest of the homicide room was deserted, Kennedy found Frank still bent over her desk.

“I thought you said you’d call,” she said by way of a greeting.

Guiltily, Frank answered, “I know. Been busy.”

Kennedy took a seat on the couch, hands dangling between her knees. She was in blue jeans and a cracked leather jacket. Frank tried to resist a quick and unbidden surge of affection.

“How’s it going with Delamore?”

Gazing absently at the budget in front of her, Frank said, “Still waiting on the lab. Talked to almost everyone on our priority list. One guy actually seemed pretty viable, but his time frame was all bad for Nichols or Agoura. There’s one more I still have to talk to. He’s in Indiana, be back Monday.”

“Dang, you have been busy. And here I thought you were just avoidin’ me.”

“So what have you been up to?” Frank asked, changing the subject.

“Mostly begging to get reassigned to the street. I think Luchowski’s gonna put me back on Monday. But anyway, I came by to ask you a favor.”

“Shoot.”

“Let me take you out to dinner on Saturday.”

“Take me out?”

“Yeah, you always cook, and seeing as I can’t cook, it’s only fair I buy you dinner. Where do you want to go? Your pick.”

Frank considered the offer. “You know,” she responded slowly, “I really like to cook and I usually only get around to it on weekends. So if you could choke down another one of my meals, why don’t you come over to my place.”

Kennedy’s tawny mane flew around her face. “Uh-uh. See, the whole point is I’m trying to
re-ci-pro-cate.
Get it? So what’s the point in you cooking for me?”

“Oh-h, I see. If it’s just paying me back that you want, then forget it, but if you want my company and a good meal, let’s do it at my place. Unless you don’t like my food.”

Exasperated, Kennedy flopped back against the couch. “I love your food, but you
always
treat. I’ll only do it if you’ll let me pay for the groceries.”

“Whatever.”

“Cool!” Kennedy bounced to her feet. “How long are you gonna stay here?”

“Little longer.”

“Why don’t you come surfing with me? It’s gonna be a beautiful night.”

“Get outta here.”

“Come on,” Kennedy pleaded. “You’ll love it.”

“Doubtful.”

“Just try.”

“Nope. Out you go. I got work to do.”

“Come on, Frank, don’t be such a wuss.”

“Nope.”

Their eyes met, sparkling and playful, and Frank was almost tempted to hop in her car and follow Kennedy to the beach. “Go on. See you at five on Saturday.”

Kennedy made a disgusted noise and muttered, “Coward.”

Frank highlighted an expenditure in red as Kennedy asked from the doorway, “What can I bring?”

“Surprise me,” Frank muttered. She didn’t see Kennedy’s wicked smile.

By the next night, Frank was exhausted. She tried to relax and drank more than she should have, closing the Alibi with Johnnie and Ike. Nancy made a bid to get Frank to come home with her, and tempting as it sounded at the time, Frank was relieved to wake up alone in her own bed on Saturday morning.

Her hangover wasn’t bad, just dulling, and it was siphoning her already low energy. A run on the treadmill helped as she thought about what she’d make for Kennedy. Maybe a pork tenderloin napped with a roasted garlic creme sauce and rotelle on the side to hold the sauce, or maybe she’d just barbecue some Porterhouses and bake potatoes. She realized she was looking forward to the evening and checked her anticipation. She spent the morning distracting herself with Agoura/Peterson details, getting so involved that when the phone rang she answered, “Homicide. Franco.”

There was a pause before Kennedy said, “I could’ve sworn I dialed your home number.”

“You did. Just forgot where I was.”

“Whatcha doin?”

“One guess.”

“You’re goin’ round that table like a wild dog circlin’ a fawn.”

“Bingo. What’s up?”

“I hate to do this, but I can’t make it tonight. We’ve got this surveillance, and one of the guys on the detail called in sick. Luchowski wants me to take it.”

“That’s great,” Frank said, artfully concealing her disappointment. “You’re back on the outside.”

“Yeah,
finally.
So you think I can get a raincheck?”

“You bet.”

“What were you gonna make? Tell me so I can drool over it while I’m stuck in my car with a bucket of KFC.”

“I don’t know,” Frank lied. “I hadn’t really thought about it yet.”

“Well, that’s good. I was hoping you hadn’t gone out and got groceries already.”

Frank didn’t respond, and Kennedy asked, “You wanna try for next Saturday?”

“Sure.”

“Cool. I’ll talk to you later, then.”

“Right.”

Frank pressed her ringer down on the receiver button. She replaced the phone slowly. Scanning the suspect list, Frank stonewalled her disappointment and called one of the numbers on the list. A few minutes later she was stalled in traffic. All around her there were families in vans hurrying home, couples in sedans dressed for parties and dinners, truck drivers eager to park their rigs, and single men and women in sports cars fantasizing what their dates would be like. Watching them as dusk blued the skyline, Frank’s thoughts kept straying back to her own evening, but she quickly refocused on work.

Studying an elegant couple in the Beamer next to her, Frank pondered her options if the Delamore carpet didn’t match the evidence sample. There were a number of ways she could play it. As the Beamer inched forward, she wondered where the couple was going. The man was laughing, the woman smiling, as if she’d just said something clever. They seemed quite happy. Frank looked away.

Later, sitting in the dark, watching shadows against the light—one thin and small, the other tall and wide—Frank was keenly aware of the action around her. A dog trotted down the sidewalk. A car door shut. There was canned laughter from a TV turned too loud. City sounds punctuated the night—a horn, trucks rumbling, a chopper whumping not far off.

“Come on,” she whispered, following Delamore’s silhouette across the living room window. “Come on, buddy.”

And then he was at the front door, light tumbling out around him. She sank lower, slowly, never losing his face as he slid into a shabby Camaro. As his taillights faded, so did Frank’s exhilaration. She stared at the house, its allure diminished by his absence. His secrets were in there, though.

By the time Frank pulled away from the curb the couple in the Beamer were in their bed, fast asleep, and Clancey Delamore’s house had long been dark.

He was sitting at a picnic table on the edge of the park, anchoring the sports section open with large forearms. The day was cool and blustery, but little kids were running around on the grass and mothers were relieved to have them distracted. At least until one of them fell and hurt himself, or wouldn’t share the ball with someone else.

There were two Mexican girls swinging branches at each other, sisters he guessed. He studied them openly, surprised to find he had no feeling for them. He was beyond little girls; they’d been practice for the older and more demanding work he faced now. A quick survey of the park uncovered no suitably aged girls. But that was alright. He didn’t want to take them from here anyway. He’d snuck in though a gash of chain-link fence in the thick scrub just to think and relax before going home to his mother and the same dumb questions she always asked: How was his night? What did he want for dinner? Where had he been since he got off work? He thought she’d stop asking because his answers were always the same: Okay. Anything. He’d gone for a walk or to the twenty-four-hour movies.

He knew he couldn’t tell her what he was doing, couldn’t tell anyone, even though he just wanted to run down the streets screaming, “It’s me! I did it!” He was proud of his work, especially the last girl, and thinking about the next one made him feel hot and excited. It was going to be even better. He knew just what he wanted to do.

His chest tightened when he thought about it, and he felt pure pleasure, just like he’d felt before crashing into a defender or bringing the ball home against his chest. In those rare moments of perfect clarity and peace, he’d known the right moves to make and made them flawlessly. Those were the moments when his father had beamed at him from the sidelines. He’d always wished he could stop the clock and stay forever in that smile of acceptance. For those short and shining seconds he felt loved and happy and safe.

That’s how it felt when he was with them, right before he made the big play with his father’s eyes still somehow on him, bright and smiling, clapping with his hands raised, proud of his son. This was what he felt he’d been groomed for all his life. Football had just been a way to get him here where he truly belonged. His father had known that and tried to show him, but he’d been afraid. Now he wasn’t afraid anymore. He knew what he had to do.

She was trying to be patient, but ten working days after she’d submitted the carpet samples, Frank broke down and called the lab. A clerk cheerfully told her they’d completed her carpet sample just that morning. Frank grabbed her coat, a handful of stapled papers, and raced past Foubarelle, who had wandered into the squad room. “Frank, I need to talk to you.”

“Gotta go,” she said in a flurry. “Be back in an hour.” In the lab’s parking lot, Frank opened the sealed report. Skimming past the technicalities she carefully compared the two sample reports. The color, size, shape, and processing of the two fibers were identical. The examiner had traced both of them to a textile manufacturer in Rhode Island and identified each sample as a multifilament polyester with a distinctly characteristic octalobal cross. In his opinion, it was highly likely that they were from the same source.

Frank closed her eyes, containing her elation. She wondered if RHD had the lab samples back on Peterson yet, and if they would be a match with these. It didn’t matter. This was good enough. Though it was impossible to say that the fibers were identical, they were a hard match, and Frank felt an almost sexual pleasure start slowly burning in her belly. She knew she should really be getting back to work. Instead, Frank settled against the headrest. She was perfectly still except for one finger absently rubbing a phantom ring.

She didn’t think she’d sleep, but late Friday night Frank forced herself to lie down and was surprised when the alarm went off. She dressed quickly in a navy sweat suit and tucked her hair under an old Dodgers cap. From the dresser she grabbed the holstered Beretta, her badge, ID, wallet, and car keys that dangled from a complicated Swiss knife. Within minutes she was southbound on the 110. It was just past 2:00 a.m. Although Frank had the road to herself, she cruised cautiously at the speed limit. A thin fog dimmed the moon; Frank had hoped the cover would be thicker and lower.

But no matter. She exited easily on Slauson and headed west to Capitol Baking. Parking unobtrusively across the street, she hunkered down and waited. Eventually, a skinny, balding rent-a-cop strolled through the parking lot. Frank sank a little further. He paused at the steps to the front office, joggled the doorknob, and sat down for smoke. Frank had quit years ago, but she envied him now. When he finished, he carefully ground the butt with his heel and retraced his steps through the parking lot.

Frank checked her watch. She knew from Clancey’s timecards that breaktime was 3:45. Switching off the dome light, she quietly slipped out of the Honda. She’d driven through the parking lot hours ago, after the swing shift had clocked out, and located Clancey’s Camaro. Now she was striding easily toward it on silent running shoes, her red pocketknife hidden in her fist.

Inconspicuously checking the lines of cars, Frank knelt by Clancey’s to tie a shoelace. With the awl on her knife she swiftly punctured both his front tires, the air whispering out slowly. For good measure, she stooped and punched the tires on the cars to either side of his. Not nice, but in the long run Frank hoped it would serve a greater humanitarian purpose.