Cry Havoc (8 page)

“Harvey Keitel’s got a great line in
Thelma and Louise”
Frank said to her glass. ‘Brains’ll only get you so far and luck won’t last forever.’ Keep the faith. Sooner or later she’s gotta fall. May as well be on this sword.”

Frank grinned at Lewis, knowing right where to drop the bait.

“That’d be a helluva feather in your cap, huh?”

“Want us to run an interdiction on Carrillo?” the rookie asked.

“Can’t hurt. I’ll ask the doc when we can expect the post.”

“Yeah, catch her in between arias,” Noah cracked.

Frank punched his shoulder. Hard.

Next morning Tracey Jantzen flew across the mall into Frank’s arms with the force and emotion of a SWAT team taking a rock house. Frank laughed as she wrapped her arms around Noah’s wife.

“For Christ’s sake,” Tracey cried, “Where the hell have you been?”

Holding her at arm’s length, Frank pleaded that work was the culprit.

“That’s no excuse and you know it. I’m starting to think you don’t love me anymore, now that I’m big and fat.”

“Impossible. That day’ll never come.”

Tracey smiled up at her, saying, “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Me too.”

Linking an arm through Frank’s, she commandeered her toward the Nordstrom entrance.

“Come on, girlfriend, we’ve got shopping to do! So the opera, huh? That’s pretty hoity-toity.”

“I don’t want to get all glammed up, I just want to look… nice.”

“Nice, huh? Like gold lame with a thigh-split and plunging neckline?”

“A little more modest.”

“You know,” Tracey teased, “I’m awfully jealous. I thought I was the only woman of your dreams.”

“You are,” Frank insisted, “but you’re taken. What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re right,” Tracey agreed sensibly. “It’s time for you to move on.”

She paused to feel a flimsy neon-pink blouse and Frank said, “I was thinking something a little more sedate.”

“Not for you,” Tracey chided, holding the blouse up, “for
me.”

Frank nodded approvingly, but Tracey put it back. She tucked her arm into Frank’s, steering her through the store with practiced assurance.

“So tell me about you and this coroner. Noah says she’s a babe. When do I get to meet her?”

“We should have dinner. Invite us over. I haven’t seen the kids in months.”

“Yeah, we’ll do that, but what’s she like? You’ve got to tell me all about her.”

“Like what?” Frank stalled.

“Everything.
You must be gaga for her if you’re going to all this trouble.”

“You gotta look nice for the opera. It’s the Pavilion. Opening night.”

Tracey planted herself in front of Frank, arms crossed, and one brow arched high.

“Everything?
she demanded. “How am I supposed to dress you if I don’t know what your objective is?”

“I’m not busting a Colombian cartel,” Frank laughed. “I don’t have an
objective.”

“Of course, you do,” Tracey insisted. “But you probably don’t even know it yet.”

“Well, then why don’t you tell me. You and No always seem to know what I’m doing before I do it.”

“How serious are you two?”

“I haven’t asked her father for permission to marry her, if that’s what you mean.”

“You’re evading the question.”

“You’d have made a helluva trial lawyer. Too late for a career change?”

Tracey glowered, tapping an impatient foot.

“We can stand here all day or you can answer a simple question.”

“Maybe it’s not so simple.”

“For you, I’m sure it’s not. Do you love her?”

“Jesus, Trace.” Frank looked for the hole in the ground she could dive into. “It’s only been a couple months. How am I supposed to know that?”

Tracey tapped a nail above Frank’s left breast.

“This’ll tell you.”

Frank knew that was true. And she knew more than she could admit to. Some words were still just too hard.

“I like her a lot. Okay?”

“Now, see? That wasn’t so bad. And does she like you?”

“Yeah, but I piss her off.”

“No,”
Tracey mocked. “I can’t imagine.”

“What?”

“Honey, I love you, but I can’t imagine
being
in love with you.”

“Why not?” Frank asked, somewhat hurt.

“You can be as sweet as the day is long—
I
know that—but you come with a lot of baggage.”

“I’m working on it.”

“You still seeing that shrink?”

Tracey could get away with the question for two reasons—she was her best friend’s wife, and she was a psych tech; Frank knew nothing was implied.

“Nope. But I’m … I see things different now. It’s okay. The stuff that bugs her, it’s the stuff that would bug any civilian. You know how it is. The shit we see. Human and otherwise. Rubs off on us after a while. Gail was raised in Berkeley. Ultra PC. She’s got a sensitivity that I lack.” Frank paused. “She thinks I drink too much.”

“You do.”

“Think so?”

“I know so.”

That wasn’t the answer Frank expected.

“So when can we get this shopping over with?”

Tracey took Frank’s arm again, pulling her deeper into the stylish racks of clothing.

“Like I said, you’re a piece of work. But I love you. If she hurts you, I’ll kill her.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Frank assured, letting herself be towed along.

When the sun had purpled the skyline and the city lights winkled like so many diamonds and rubies and emeralds, Frank met Gail at the door.

The doc sucked in her breath.

“Ohmigod.”

“Too much?” Frank grinned.

The doc shook her bob.

“You look
stunning.”

After some not very serious attempts to get Frank into gowns and lace, Tracey had judiciously selected a pair of black silk trousers and a matching silk shell held up with rhinestone spaghetti straps. Frank had wagged her head in disbelief, but the salesgirls had oohed and aahed, dashing off for rhinestone earrings and shoe clips. She’d accepted a black clutch with a rhinestone clasp, but drew the line at a pair of frighteningly high stilettos and a make-over.

She’d let Tracey drag her into the salon for a French twist and laughed when Tracey put her arms around her, purring, “If she doesn’t want you after this, you just come runnin’ back to mama, you hear, girlfriend?”

Frank thanked Gail, telling her, “You’re lookin’ pretty fly, yourself, Doc.”

The ME wore a simple creme-colored turtleneck tank, but it clung seductively over Gail’s ample hips and ended above her knees, leaving plenty of great leg showing. A few large pieces of gold jewelry dramatized the effect, as did some artfully applied make-up.

When Gail chuckled, “Am I dope?” something shook loose in Frank’s gut and went flying up to her heart. Right where Tracey said it’d be.

“The dopest,” she said sincerely. “You look wonderful.”

“Do I look okay, really? You know … symmetrical?”

Frank took Gail by the waist, inspecting the soft rounds under her dress. The right breast was real, the left, a perfectly matched prosthesis.

“Can’t tell which is which. They look the same. Both fine.”

“Okay. I’m just checking. There’s only so much I can tell from a mirror.”

Frank reassured, “You look perfect. Every inch of you.”

Stopping and starting their way downtown, Gail asked, “Did you send anyone to Camp Lockdown this week?”

“Camp Lockup,” she corrected, then answered, “One,” recalling Jill’s bizarrely cleared shooting. “And Lewis got her first case. Guy with his throat slit. Sitting in his Caddy with a chicken in his lap.”

“A chicken?”

“Yeah. Headless. Turns out the vic’s aunt is Crystal Love-Jones. Ever heard of her?”

“Sounds like someone who advertises in the personal section.”

“She’s a crack dealer. Pushes tons a year. Keeps an assembly of lawyers on retainer. Narco’s never been able to touch her. Anyway, it looks like the Colonel was bled dry. I’m wondering if he was dead or alive when it happened.”

Gail frowned, “He was a Colonel?”

“That’s what No’s calling him. You know, the chicken? Colonel Sanders?”

“Ah, gotcha, that ineffable, indefatigable police humor. How’d Lewis do on her first solo?”

“All right. Made a couple mistakes but mostly ‘cause No prodded her into them.”

“Why are you all so hard on her?”

“Boot camp,” Frank shrugged. “Everybody goes through it.”

“Sounds like a frat house hazing,” Gail argued. “Inane and senseless.”

“Naw, there’s a reason. If she can’t take a little shit in the squad room she won’t be able to take it on the street. I’d rather know now than when my back’s against a wall. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s just so juvenile.”

“We like to call it that ineffable, indefatigable po-leece humor. When do you think you’ll get to the Colonel’s post?”

“Oh, God, we’re so backed up right now. Handley’s sick. Jacob and I’ve been in court all week. And I should be at work tonight instead of going to the opera. A slit throat, obvious cause of death, we’ll be lucky to get to it by Monday. I don’t think I put your boy high on the rotation.”

“No big,” Frank said. “I was just wondering.”

Trailing her fingers under Gail’s dress, she added, “I don’t think you can tell us much more than we already know.”

“Better stop that or we’ll miss the opening act,” Gail murmured.

“That wouldn’t be so bad.”

“At these prices, yes it would.”

During the opera, Frank studied Gail’s rapt profile. She had to admit she was having a hell of a lot of fun with the doc. But she hadn’t lied to Tracey; it was complicated. The doc was bright and generous and sexy, but living alone all her life had spoiled her. She held Frank up to standards she wasn’t sure she could meet.

Still, Frank was game. Having loved and lost, she was willing to make concessions. She had to admit it was scary as hell, but it felt good to care about someone again. And be cared for.

She slipped her hand into Gail’s, rewarded by a bright, quick smile. Tracey’s tapping finger echoed against her heart.

Monday afternoon Frank slouched into Ike’s old chair and draped a long leg over the arm.

“What’s the good news?” she asked.

Jill shook her head, so Johnnie answered for her.

“People are scared, man. They don’t want to talk about Danny or any one connected with Mother Lo-ove-Jo-ones,” he drew out. “Like the ground’s gonna open up and swallow ‘em or somethin’. They’re all spooked, huh?”

He looked to Jill for corroboration but she only made a disgusted sound. She made a lot of those lately.

“What?” Frank encouraged.

“I don’t like this,” she blurted. “I don’t like this case.”

“Yeah, she’s spooked, too,” her partner teased. “Thinks she’s gonna get a spell put on her or somethin’.”

“Johnnie, shut up,” Jill snapped.

“True?” Frank asked.

“I just don’t like talking with any of these people. I don’t like their vibes.”

“What vibes?”

“Just creepy. Weird.”

“Come on, you gettin’ soft on me?”

“I’m not soft,” the detective defended, “They just creep me out.”

“That’s how those cults operate,” Noah chimed in. “They pull a rabbit out of their hat and make everyone think it’s magic when all it is is tricks and illusions. They make you
think
they’re powerful, and then once you believe that, you’re afraid of them. And then they’ve got you. That’s their power, the ability to make you afraid.”

Waving his hand, he advised, “It’s all superstition and mumbo-jumbo. Don’t worry about it.”

“Easy for you to say,” Jill muttered.

Frank looked at Diego.

“What do you say, Taquito? Horseshit or real?”

Diego shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, surly. “Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s not. My grandpa used to tell stories about
brujos,
witches and stuff. How they could turn into coyotes or snakes, make people do things. I don’t know.”

“Lewis, I know you believe it,” Frank mocked.

“Nuh-uh! I don’t believe they can change into animals or make anybody do something they don’t want to do. It’s like Noah says, I think they can make you believe certain things. And then once you believe that, they make you believe other things.”

“It’s just a form of brainwashing,” Noah interjected.

“Yeah, like that. It’s all that mind over matter, power of suggestion foolishness. That’s all that voodoo stuff is—but mind you, it can work. I’m not saying it’s magic or nothin’, but that doesn’t make it any less effective. Like Noah says, they make you believe their nonsense. You
think
it works so therefore it does. It’s a placebo religion, that’s all.”

“Aren’t all religions?” Noah asked, provoking Jill’s Catholic ire. She cut him a look, but Frank said, “Darcy?”

He sat back from the report he was typing and measured his answer.

“It’s a complicated question. There are a lot of permutations to consider.”

“Permutations?
Johnnie said mincingly to Noah.

His old partner snickered, “You ignorant bastard. You probably think that’s a fruit going bad.”

“Like what?” Frank asked.

“Like whether you’re talking about simple hoodoo, or something more complex. Like voodoo.”

“What’s the fucking difference?” Johnnie said. “It’s all just ignorant dirt-water bullshit anyway.”

“Not really,” Darcy drawled, his accent faint. “There’s a big difference, and both of them can be very complex.”

“How so?” Frank pressed, intrigued as always by the man’s incongruities. Barrel-chested, bandy-legged, and thick-armed, he drove a Harley, chewed Skoal, and had more tats than most of the bangers he locked up. He kept his own counsel, never joined his colleagues for drinks after work, and rarely joined in conversation unless asked. Off-duty he wore diamond studs in his ear and biker leathers. He looked like a Hell’s Angel who’d rather stomp someone in the face than talk to them, but when he opened his mouth a blind man would think he was talking to a tweed-wearing, pipe-smoking professor. The biker facade concealed a man with a sharp eye for details and anomalies at a crime scene, a keen understanding of criminal predilection, and, if the incident with the hidden .44 was true, an uncanny instinct.