The First Cut (44 page)
He picked it up and handed it to her.
It was splattered with John Lesley’s blood. Vining stuck it inside her pants pocket.
Outside, the LAPD SWAT team captain told her, “We made an audio recording of the entire incident between you and Lesley in the basement. Put a microrecorder in through the broken window. Everything came through good. Will be important once they start the investigation of the shooting, which they will.”
“But of course. Thanks for covering my back.”
“If we don’t do it for each other, who will?”
She shook his hand. “Can I listen to that tape?”
“Sure.” He handed her the small digital recording device.
She sat in an LAPD cruiser and played it through twice. She pulled Sergeant Early over to listen.
“Right before the shooting starts, what do you hear on the DVD that’s playing in the background?”
Early rubbed her eyes as she listened. “Frankie Lynde moaning in pain. John Lesley, the creep is getting off. Ugh.”
“I’m gonna play it again. You don’t hear Frankie saying anything?”
Early paid closer attention then shook her head. “I just hear a woman who’s in serious distress. Should I hear something else?”
Vining shook her head. “Just wondering.” She had clearly heard Frankie’s threat to Lesley: “You’ll never be done with me!” Curiously, Lesley seemed to hear it, too. Maybe Frankie had already latched onto him. Maybe in doing so, she’d released her grip on Vining.
V
INING HAD HER ARM ATTENDED TO AT THE HOSPITAL, THEN JOINED THE PPD
team to wait for Kissick to come out of surgery. He was awake but groggy, so they didn’t stay long. The surgeon assured them that his injuries were not too serious and that he would recover. His two sons were there as was his mother and his ex-wife.
Vining had seen photos of the ex but they had never met. The vibe that Vining got suggested that the ex knew about Vining’s relationship with Kissick and thought it was ongoing. Vining found this curious. Maybe there was something in the way she and Kissick interacted, even as ill as he was, that suggested romance. Romance had persisted, like a willful child, unresponsive to her efforts to keep it in line. Maybe she should let it run free.
After leaving the hospital, the PPD team went for drinks and appetizers at Outback to celebrate.
Vining ordered two beers, finishing half of the second one. The men were talking steaks. She didn’t want to be the first to leave, but felt the need to be home with her daughter. Emily had promised reheated spaghetti with meat sauce, and nothing had ever seemed more appealing to Vining. She trailed out shortly after Sergeant Early.
F O R T Y
T
HE FUNERAL HOME WAS IN A TRIM OLDER HOUSE SET BACK ON A
sprawling lawn shaded by an expansive oak tree. A thatch of clivia grew beneath the oak, stalks with pompoms of orange blossoms standing like fire torches above verdant sword-shaped leaves.
Frankie’s wake was in a large room with stained-glass windows. A scant dozen people were scattered among rows of folding chairs. Many were police officers in uniform, their hats in their laps. Vining pegged some in street clothes as law enforcement. Voices were subdued. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers.
Frankie’s family was standing in a loose circle near the entrance, their black garments making them look like crows resting in a leafless tree.
Frank Lynde broke away from the group and warmly embraced Vining. “Hello, hero.”
“Please. Just doing my job. You would have done the same thing. Howyadoin’, Frank?”
“Better. Each day, better. You and I know that closure stuff is bullshit. It’s all about learning to live with what happened. I do feel like maybe Frankie’s finally at peace.”
She gave him a small smile.
He seemed to want to talk. “I don’t blame Frankie for anything. Sometimes we hurt people we love on purpose. Sometimes it happens by accident, when we’re doing what we need to do to get by.”
“Guess we all do what we need to do to get by.”
Sharon Hernandez, Frankie’s buddy on the force, came over. She was in uniform. “Hi, Nan. Thanks for coming.”
They hugged.
“That was amazing what you did. Everybody’s talking about it.”
Vining shrugged. “Thanks, but I’m looking forward to life returning to normal. Whatever that is.”
Mostly police officers came and went. It was the typical slow erosion, Vining thought. Old friends, who didn’t understand the demands and pressures of the Job, faded away to be replaced by new friends who carried a gun, badge, and a decidedly different view of the world.
They turned as Kendall Moore entered. He gave them a brief nod and did not speak, but went straight to the casket, halting before he got too close. He dared to lean in and made a small movement as if he might touch Frankie. His hand again dropped to his side and he quickly left.
Frank Lynde watched Moore retreat and read Vining’s mind. “What would be the point of jacking him up? Can’t say I haven’t thought about it.”
“Hell,
I’ve
thought about it.” Sharon touched Vining. “Say goodbye when you leave.”
Vining approached the casket. Frankie was in uniform, her hat between her hands. Her makeup was heavy. Her blond hair was curled and stiffly sprayed. The uniform’s collar was buttoned high, obscuring the gash on her neck.
Vining hated what morticians did to corpses.
On an easel was a display of photographs of Frankie throughout her life.
Vining reflected that she knew everything about the dark side of Frankie’s world, but nearly nothing about the joy. She didn’t know her favorite color, food, or ice cream flavor, her favorite time of day or the movies that made her cry. That was not part of Vining’s job.
They would soon put Frankie’s casket into the ground. Her case files would go into storage, eventually buried beneath files and more files until the case of Frances Ann Lynde was forgotten.
Vining and Frankie had made the same journey. They were sisters, bound by their calling, by violence and their own spilled blood. Vining had made it back. She couldn’t explain everything that had happened. She accepted that some things had no logical explanation.
From her pocket, Vining took out Frankie’s school photograph splattered with John Lesley’s blood. She slipped it beneath the hat Frankie held and placed it between her cold fingers.
So this is good-bye.
Vining snapped her hand to her forehead in a salute.
She found Sharon Hernandez in the lobby where the funeral director was helping her with a vinyl record album.
As Vining left, the opening riff of the Beach Boys’ “California Girls” began to play.
F O R T Y - O N E
I
T WAS THE FOURTH OF JULY. NEARLY A MONTH HAD PASSED SINCE THE
violent resolution of the Frankie Lynde affair. Later in the day, at the Vining home, there would be hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill and viewing of fireworks shows around the city from the bird’s-eye perch off the back deck. Granny, Vining’s sister Stephanie and her family, and Vining’s mother and her new beau were coming by. Jim Kissick, enjoying the last weeks of his leave, was bringing his boys by for the fireworks.
Emily and Granny were at the market picking up last-minute supplies and Vining was enjoying some quiet time to herself. She sat at the kitchen table, drinking the last of a cup of ginseng tea Emily had pressed on her. The girl’s dogged expansion of her skill set had led her to explore the organic food store. Vining followed the tea with a chaser of dry Count Chocula cereal to dilute the tea’s bitter aftertaste.
She refolded the cereal’s inner liner and shoved the box aside. Now the only thing on the table was Kissick’s thick binder about her assault case. She ran her fingers around its plastic edges, now feeling strong enough to open the book, but reluctant nonetheless. She reflected back to the Frankie Lynde case.
It had been quiet in Pasadena since then. Even the gangbangers seemed to be taking R&R. The stunned city needed time to recover.
There had been changes in the Detectives Section. Alex Caspers had returned to patrol and was delighted to get back on the streets. Vining had Kissick’s desk in Homicide, working with Ruiz, until Kissick returned. After that, Sergeant Early promised Vining a desk in Detectives, but she couldn’t say where.
It was fine with Vining. She was through sweating the small stuff.
There had been developments since John Lesley’s bloody demise in his basement playhouse. Pussycat Lesley’s attorney, fresh from helping her last celebrity client beat a child molestation rap, was trying to cut the best possible deal for her notorious new client. DDA Mireya Dunn vowed that while Pussycat might be able to keep herself off death row, she’d never get out of prison.
Lisa Shipp was out of the hospital, recovering at home with her parents and fielding phone calls from a William Morris agent about a book and movie deal.
Lieutenant Beltran had taken every opportunity to heap praise on Vining. He now claimed that his comments about being friends with John Lesley were taken out of context and misconstrued. Vining didn’t know whether to respect or be horrified by the machinations of guys like Beltran. Teflon-coated jerk. Still, she dutifully saluted the uniform, not the man.
Her thoughts turned to Frankie. At the wake, Frank Lynde said he felt his daughter was at peace. Vining wondered what it would take to find peace for herself. She feared there was just one way: bring T. B. Mann to justice by whatever means necessary.
She opened the binder. The first thing she saw was a photo of the pantry smeared with her blood. As she looked at it, rage surged just beneath her skin. She closed the binder and stood, crossing to the living room where she opened the sliding glass door. A blast of hot July air hit her. She walked onto the terrace and looked at the foothills. Below, the giant city crept across the basin until it melted into the smog.
He’s out there,
she thought.
He’s free while I’m in prison.
She clenched her fists and whispered, “Game on, T. B. Mann. Game on.”
A B O U T T H E A U T H O R
D
IANNE
E
MLEY
was born in Los Angeles. Except for her junior year in college, when she studied at the Université de Bordeaux, she has always lived in and around Los Angeles. She has a BA in philosophy and an MBA in marketing, both from UCLA. She has held jobs as varied as drill press operator, polling place recruiter, California Department of Consumer Affairs complaint handler, clothing boutique buyer, egg and poultry industry marketer, software company sales manager, and technical writer. Having traveled the world, she now lives five miles from where she grew up with her husband, Charlie, and two cats and is gleefully happy with her favorite, and final profession: crime writer. Visit the author’s website at
www.DianneEmley.com
.
The First Cut
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2006 by Emley and Co., LLC.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
B
ALLANTINE
and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Emley, Dianne.
The first cut / Dianne Emley.
p. cm.
eISBN-13: 978-0-345-49529-7
eISBN-10: 0-345-49529-2
1. Policewomen—Fiction. 2. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction. 3. Team murderers— Fiction. I. Title.
PS3605.M54F57 2006
813'.6—dc22 2005058922
v1.0
