End of Watch

'Johnny, I want—'

He raised a hand to stop her. 'I know, I know. Valenzuela and Brown.'

'And Acufia. That's only a week late.'

Johnny didn't even protest and Frank hurt just looking at him.

He had gone through a department-ordered rehab and done pretty well for about a month afterward. Then he came in one morning with the bleary-eyed shakes, but Frank was in rough shape herself at the time and couldn't say much. She warned him that he was running out of chances. She kicked herself for being a hypocrite, but after she went to her first couple AA meetings she tried to get Johnny to go with her. He wouldn't. Said he didn't want to become a Bible-thumper.

'Oh, man,' she argued. 'It's not like that. Got nothing to do with banging Bibles. It's like Cheers, only in reverse. Everyone knows your name but they're sober. Come on. Won't kill you to check it out.'

'Man, I had to do AA in rehab. I'm not into it. I'd rather be drinking than sittin' around talkin' about it. You go to meetings for both of us and I'll go drink for both of us.'

Frank didn't argue. She couldn't have gone six months ago either—she hadn't been kicked hard enough yet. 'All right. You know where I am if you change your mind.'

'Yeah.' He flapped a hand at her, managing the semblance of a cocky, old Johnny grin. 'I never thought I'd see the day.'

She grinned back. 'Neither did I. But let me tell you. Beats eating a bullet.'

Johnny had stared oddly at her before she'd walked away.

The phone on Bobby's desk rang and he answered. Everyone listened to see if they'd caught a case, but the big, black detective said in his shier-than-a-virgin-on-her-wedding-night voice, 'Yeah, all right. Around eight or so.' Rejoining the group, he offered, 'That was Irie. Says he has a good tip.'

'Yeah,' Jill said of Bobby's informant. 'And he wants a twenty in his pocket before the liquor store opens.'

After the meeting Frank said to Bobby, 'Let me know when you're going to talk to Irie. I want to ride with you, stop and talk to that clerk at the Circle Jerk.'

'Roger that.'

Frank tied up loose ends, talked to the duty sergeant and met with her captain until Bobby tracked her down, asking if she was ready.

She nodded. 'Let's roll.'

He checked out a muddy unmarked and Frank opened the door to see empty cups and cans and Burger King bags all over the floor.

She told him, 'Go see who had this signed out last.'

'Uh-oh.'

'Yeah, uh-oh's right. Fuckin' pigs.'

Bobby came back a minute later and handed Frank a scrap of paper.

Getting in on the passenger side she read the names, grunting, 'Figures.'

'Ha ha.' Bobby chuckled, turning onto Vermont. 'Remember when you found Nook taking naps when he was supposed to be knocking?'

Frank grinned. Watching a muscled young man loping along the sidewalk, she answered, 'That was a while back, huh?'

A brand new LT, she'd inherited two old-timers who refused to change their ways. Nook was one of them. When she found out he was taking a nap every afternoon in a shaded lot she had Bobby and Noah sneak the jack out of his car. Later, after Nook parked and was snoring in the backseat, under a blanket no less, the three of them quietly jacked his vehicle onto blocks. After they'd slunk back to their car, Frank raised him on the radio. Through binoculars she saw Nook lurch from the backseat, fall out the rear door and stand staring in amazement. Frank kept calling him and he finally reached inside for the radio, answering that he had a flat and that someone had taken the damn jack out of the car.

'Tell me where you are,' she responded. 'I've got a jack.'

'No, no!' Nook cried, pacing around his car. 'There's no spare either!'

'Well, I'll come get you. Where are you?'

Nook stalled. 'Repeat. You're breaking up.' Frank repeated and he said, 'Oh, it's okay. I got a cab here. We'll let the garage take care of this. What's your twenty?'

Instead of answering she approached on foot.

Nook was asking into his radio, 'Do you copy?'

'I copy,' she said, stepping into the shade.

Nook whirled. He stammered, 'I just went into the store and when I came out—'

Frank held up a hand. 'No more naps, Nook. Clear?'

'I just—'

'Clear?'

He shook his head and sighed. 'Clear.'

'Good. Here.' She tossed him the jack.

His mouth dropped. 'I was gonna call the garage.'

'Garage is busy,' she'd said, walking back to her car. 'When you get it down meet us at Denker and Sixty- ninth.'

'Oh, man.' Bobby was still laughing. 'That was a good one.'

Frank nodded, missing Noah and wishing her old partner were here to laugh with them. They pulled into the Circle K and talked to a clerk. They worked him a solid half-hour but he maintained he didn't see the shooting that happened twenty feet away from him.

Back in the car, Frank said, 'Keep an eye on him. Give him time.'

'Yeah,' Bobby agreed. 'Time enough to have someone he loves get shot. Then we'll see how eager he is to talk.'

'Oo-oo, Picasso. Your cynicism's showing.'

'Am I wrong?'

'Wish you were.'

'Then it's not cynicism. It's the truth.'

'How can I argue with a double major in art and philosophy?'

On the corner of Slauson they found Irie hawking bags of oranges. He looked older than Moses—his skin, his hair, his clothes, all gray. His pants and shirt were frayed but clean and he wore gleaming white Reeboks. They made a show of pulling the old man over to the car. A couple dudes in a passing car hissed at them.

'Irie,' Frank chided. 'S'up wid dem shoes, mon?'

Without even thinking about it, Frank slid into Irie's vernacular—habit from years of dealing with people, from adopting their accents and dialect to help break down the huge wall between cop and civilian.

'Ya like dem?' Irie bragged in his thick patois. 'I foun' dem. Four pair, lyin' in de street! Dem fit good, too! I keep two, give dem rest away.' Irie's face was a topo map of wrinkles and old wounds. He rubbed a raised keloid on his cheekbone and said, 'Ya wan' we talk 'bou' my feets or I tell ya somet'ing ya migh' wanna know?'

Bobby asked, 'What do you have?'

The CI leaned against the car and squinted at the cops. 'Fidelio Ramirez,' he enunciated. ' 'Im de one.'

'Him the one what?' Frank asked.

' 'Im de one shoot Oscar Fuentes.'

Bobby wrote the name down. 'Where can we find this Ramirez?'

With a shrug Irie told them, 'Dat ya problem dere. Street say 'im run away to Mexico, but 'im used to be livin' with 'is girl on Fif-eight Street.'

'How'd you hear it was Ramirez?'

'Ya can't fuh to axe me dat,' Irie snorted. 'Chuh! I gots protec' meself. Ya know dat.'

'Does Ramirez have any other names?'

'Mebbe Cuco.'

'Cuco,' Bobby repeated. 'What else?'