End of Watch (25 page)

“The thing is,” she whispered, “I’m sorry. Sorry I left. Sorry I ran away. Sorry I wasn’t there for you.” Fighting the rising pressure in her throat, she tacked on, “I’m sorry you died alone.”

The tears came anyway. Frank let them. She bowed her head.

“I’m sorry for all of it. Sorry to the core of my bones.”

Hot drops splashed on her mother’s stone. She thought of them as liquescent offerings and choked on a small laugh.

“Big word, liquescent. I wish you could meet Gail. You’d like her. Both of you. She has your kind of politics. Very correct.”

Frank pulled in a deep lungful of the wintry air.

She felt done. Until she had an idea.

Without daring to see if anyone was watching, Frank sat in the snow. She lay down, waving arms and legs, then rose carefully. Looking at the angel on her mother’s grave, Frank concluded, “The good news is I love you. Very much. No bad news.”

With a nod to the angel, Frank left the way she came.

Frank landed in LA at two in the morning. She got a cab to Figueroa and crashed on the skinny couch in her office. Up at five, she took a French shower and changed into the fresh outfit in her locker. She’d finished half a pot of coffee by the time Darcy came in at five-forty.

“Hey.” He plopped the
Times
on his desk and poured a cup. “Good trip?”

“Good enough. Glad to be home. Fill me in.”

He did, as the rest of the squad trickled in.

They assembled for the morning brief, and afterward, cocking a hip on Bobby’s desk, Frank praised, “Nice job holding the fort down, Picasso.”

“Thanks.”

“There’s a lieutenant’s exam coming up. You taking it?”

Bobby sat back and clasped his hands under his chin. He smiled. “I was thinking about it.”

“Do more than think about it. Study up. Take it. I’m not gonna be here forever.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Just means you should be ready to take over a unit. Here or anywhere else.” She picked up a six-inch statue on Bobby’s desk. It was an intricate carving of a man with wings and a sword. “Who’s this?”

“St. Michael. Patron saint of policemen.”

Frank studied the dark wood. “Where’d you get it?”

“Irie.” Bobby grinned. “Another sideline. He’s pretty good.”

She put the statue down. “What’s Irie’s real name?”

“Oh, man, I don’t know. I’d have to look it up. John-John or something like that.”

“Find it for me.”

Frank didn’t move and Bobby asked, “Right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?” he asked, sliding open a drawer.

“Nothing. Just curious.”

Obsessively tidy, Bobby found a specific folder in his tabbed and cross-tabbed files. He flipped through to an indexed page and read, “Romeo. John-John
Row-may-oh.”

“Row-may-oh,” she repeated. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Did we ever fill out a package on him?”

Bobby shook his head. Detectives were supposed to register confidential informants. Irie, like a lot of other CIs, had balked at becoming an official snitch but the detectives used him anyway.

Frank edged off the desk. “Anyway. Good job. Get to studying, huh?”

“Roger that.”

Before getting tangled in the whirlwind of running a homicide unit Frank closed her office door and called Gail. “Hey,” she greeted. “How about lunch?”

“Where are you?”

“Work.”

“When did you get in?”

“Late last night. Figured you wouldn’t want to give me a ride home at three a.m.”

“You figured correct, copper. Welcome home.”

“Thanks. It’s good to be back. So whaddaya say? Lunch?”

“I can’t. Not today. It’s too busy. But how about dinner? Maybe Saturday?”

“Dinner it is.”

“Did you find anything else before you left?”

“You mean Cammayo?”

“Yeah.”

“No. I gotta chase a couple leads down from when he was in the can. I’m pretty sure they’ll just go to ground, but still and all, it’s nice to have a name after all this time. Even though he’s probably long dead.”

“Are you sure it’s him?”

“Certain.”

“Well, good. That must feel satisfying.”

“I don’t know about satisfying,” Frank mused. “More like done. Just over.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks. Me too. How you been?”

“Okay. Tired. Exhausted really. I fall into bed and wake up exhausted. I think I need another vacation.”

“I read about the Bentley case. Sounds like it’s the Sheriff’s nightmare now.”

“Yeah, thank God.”

“So …” Frank danced around her question. “When was the last time you had a checkup?”

“I’m going in on Friday. I’m sure it’s nothing. I probably just need to take my iron. I’ve been getting home too late to eat dinner and then I don’t want to take vitamins on an empty stomach, so I don’t, and this is what happens.”

“Sounds like you need someone to cook for you.”

“Does this mean you’re making dinner Saturday?”

“Lady’s choice. I’ll take you out, cook at home, whatever you’d like.”

“I miss your cooking. Why don’t I come over?”

“What would you like?”

“I don’t know. Steaks? Up my iron intake?”

Frank already missed the red wine she’d drink with a steak, but answered, “You got it. See you around six?”

“That’ll be perfect. I’ll see you then.”

‘“Kay.”

“I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too. Saturday.”

“Saturday.”

Frank nestled her pleasure close to her heart, keeping it there like a small warm bird.

Tuesday, 25 Jan 05
—
Home

Tired. Easy day but boring. Had to sit through one of Foubarelle’s bitch sessions and then the supervisors’ meeting. Cleared up a lot on my desk though. Hit the downtown meeting after work. Really like that one. Missed it. Always a lot of cops, law enforcement types there. A couple people missed me. Bull thought Td gone back out. He’s a good guy. Retired from the Santa Monica PD, been sober twenty-one years. Pretty inspiring character. He’s got some hairy stories
—
stopped drinking after he’d called in sick three days in a row, on a bender. Sitting on his couch, throwing up blood into a crystal vase, he saw himself in the mirror over the mantle. Death warmed over, sitting in his living room, holding a vase full of bloody puke. Gave me the willies. Like seeing me in the TV with the Beretta in my mouth.

Had a nice talk with Gail. She’s coming over for dinner on Saturday. Yeah, okay, Tm excited. I know anything can happen between now and Saturday but just the fact that she wants to have dinner is encouraging. I miss her. Miss talking to her everyday, going to bed together, waking up next to her and everything in between. Even miss her clothes all over the floor and dishes piled in the sink. Small enough price to pay for love.

Had a good talk with Mary too. Told her about making the snow angel. She cried. She’s so cute. She asked how the willingness to believe was going. I told her it was going well. Tm too tired to fight it. If there’s something out there, great. If not, oh well, me and billions of others have been duped. And no way to tell either way. So whatever. Tm willing to be willing to believe there’s something out there. Maybe that’s who made Bull look in the mirror that morning or made me glance at the TV.

Speaking of weird, I was talking to Darcy and guess who walks into the squad room? Marguerite, of all people. All five-two and a hundred-twenty pounds of tightly packed flesh. Still a bomb, which made her appearance interesting enough, but given how much she dislikes poor Darcy I was surprised to see her there. He was too. While he was recovering, she says to me,
“
Hello, Lieutenant. You’re looking well.”

I thank her, tell her I am well.

“Yes,” she says.
“
I
can feel that.”

I kind of nod, make to leave, but she shakes her head and says, “Still unconvinced, aren’t you? What a waste.”

“Waste of what?” I ask.

“You have a gift, Lieutenant. Like my ex-husband. The gods gave you both a talent and you both choose to squander it. It’s a shame.”

Darcy growls, “Marguerite, if you came to berate us maybe you could at least wait until end of watch.”

She gives him a sour look and says she’s come to talk about Gabriela, if he can spare three minutes for his daughter.

I say, “Good to see you again, Ms. James,” and start for my office.

She tells me, “Likewise, Lieutenant,” and before I can even see it she’s taken one of her business cards
—
from out of nowhere
—
maybe she was holding it in her hand, but it felt too cool and smooth to have been held there for long
—
and she says, “Come see me again, Lieutenant. Soon.”

I smile, ask, “Why soon?”

She laughs
—
gorgeous woman, frankly stunning when she laughs. I swear she glowed, like chocolate backlit by sun
—
and she says, “You of all people should know. Our time here is short, unpredictable, and there is much to be done.”

Strange chick, I know, but she gets to me. I feel naked around her, like I couldn’t keep a secret from her even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. Weird, huh? I kept the card.

This is kind of interesting too.

Noticed a little statue on Bobby’s desk this morning. He’s had it a while but I never paid any attention to it until this morning. It’s a pretty intricate carving of St. Michael. Struck me because Cammayo said his brother carved a whole series of statues for his mother. Bobby said Irie carved it for him. When I asked him Irie’s real name, he tells me Romeo. Romeo was Cammayo’s father’s name. Romeo Cammayo. Then I remember Cammayo’s mother saying “bwoy.” Didn’t think much of it at the time but she has a bit of an island lilt like Irie’s.

See? That’s how tired I am. Irie did it. He killed my father then came cross-country to settle in LA and snitch for me.

I was thinking I’d get him to carve a mini Madonna for Annie. A pocket pal she could keep in her purse. Little token of my appreciation.

All Tm knowing now fuh sure is dat some crazy white gull needfuh to get her some sleeps.

Later.

For lunch the next day Frank grabbed a burrito from the bodega down the street and tracked Irie to his usual corner on Slauson Avenue. She parked and crossed the busy street.

“Off’cer Frank,” the old man grumbled. “Tweet in one week. You gwan git me in trouble.”

“Don’t worry,” she answered, waving off his concern. “I don’t want to talk shop. I want you to make something for me.”

“Yeah? What dat be?”

She spread her thumb and forefinger. “Little statue, ‘bout this big, of the Virgin Mary. Can you do that for me?”

Irie’s face split and he padded back to his crate. “Can I do dat,” he boasted. “On’y wid my eyes closed!”

Frank studied the battered face, the rough scar under his right eye. “Irie, mon, you look like you been rode hard and put away wet.”

“Ha, ha. Dat de trut’. So you wan’ it ‘bout six-inch big?”

“More like four. So you could carry it with you.”

“Ah, like fuh put in you handbag.”

“Yeah.”

“What kind wood you want? Light? Dark? Middle?”

“I don’t know. Dark, I guess. Heavy. I want it to be solid. Have some weight behind it.”

Irie pulled at the stubble on his chin. “I gotta see what I got to home. Gonna cost you t’irty-five, maybe fifty dolla’. ‘Bout dat.”

“That’s fine. I saw the Saint Michael you made Bobby. I want it like that.”

Irie grinned. “I make you pretty Madonna. No worries.”

“You’re good. Where’d you learn to carve to like that?”

He dismissed the question. “Is a easy t’ing for me.”

“Someone had to show you though, right? Who was that?”

Shaking his head, he answered, “No one. I jus’ pick it up on me own.”

“Pretty amazing.” She tipped her head to the oranges. “May as well give me a bag as long as I’m here.”

Irie handed her a bag and as Frank searched her pockets for money, she pretended to drop her penknife. Irie stooped to retrieve it.

” ‘Ey. Dat’s a nice knife,” he said, opening the blade.

“I never do anything with it except cut food,” Frank replied. “It’s not like the knives you have.”

“No, dat’s still a good knife dere. Sharp,” he said, running a thumb along the edge.

“Think I could start carvin’ wid it?”

“Sure.” He laughed. “Sure you can. It’s easy t’ing.” He folded the knife and handed it back.

Frank dropped it in her pocket. “Call Bobby when you get the statue done, all right?”

“Sure t’ing. Like a week or so.”

She nodded, swinging the bag of oranges back to her car. As she eased into the flow of traffic she pulled on a latex glove. She felt silly, extracting the knife from her pocket and dropping it into an evidence bag. Running prints on John-John Romeo was doubtlessly going to be a waste of money. But it was her money and she’d sleep well at night.

The rest of the day was followed by more meetings downtown. Late that night, more like early on Wednesday morning, the squad caught a beating death. It was a merciful slam dunk in a bar full of witnesses, but then they caught a shooting Thursday evening. Their likeliest suspect, Armando Diaz, was the dead woman’s husband but he’d gone to ground.

Friday night Frank told the squad to go home and get some sleep, come back first thing in the morning. She did the same, greeting her crew at six o’clock with doughnuts and fresh coffee. After getting them organized on the Diaz murder she left to shop for dinner and clean house. It didn’t need cleaning—Frank had a housekeeper—but she dusted and vacuumed anyway, glad for the distraction. She was apprehensive about dinner, worried about where she and Gail stood, concerned she might trample their tender rapprochement.