She glanced at her watch then and what color she had left her cheeks. “Oh my God. Look at the time! I had no idea how late—Oh, no. I haven’t even taken meat out of the freezer! Why didn’t the girls wake me? Where are they?”
She looked around the room, as if they might appear.
It was 5:09, Mendez noted. Sharon Farman was genuinely distressed, not just ready to give them the bum’s rush out the door.
“Has Frank seemed different in any way this past week?” Hicks asked. “Stressed?”
“Of course he’s been stressed,” she snapped. “Look at what’s gone on: a murder, a kidnapping, our son finding that body. We’re
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you remember if your husband was home all evening, or if he might have gone out after dinner that night?” Mendez asked.
“I don’t know,” she said impatiently. “It was a week ago. And I have meetings on Thursday nights. I’m sure he was here when I left and when I came home. He always is.”
She looked at her watch again and got up from her chair. “I have to start dinner. Is there anything else?”
“No, ma’am,” Mendez said, rising. “Thank you for your time. We’ll show ourselves out.”
Without a word Sharon Farman turned and disappeared into the next room, leaving her cigarette smoldering in the ashtray.
“Well, that was weird,” Hicks said as they walked out to the car. “What do you suppose happens if she doesn’t serve dinner at six thirty on the dot?”
“I don’t know,” Mendez said. “Court-martial? But I bet I know where she goes on Thursday nights.”
“Where?”
“AA meets at the Presbyterian church on Piedra Boulevard Thursday nights. That’s my jogging route. They’re usually all out smoking on the lawn when I run by.”
“She had definitely had a few before we got here.”
“Yeah. Nap my ass. Sleeping it off is more like.”
Hicks shrugged as they reached the car. “If I was married to Frank, I’d drink too.”
Farman was in Dixon’s office when they got back. He did not look happy to be there.
“It’s just a formality, Frank,” Dixon said.
“It’s an insult,” Farman snapped. “How many years do we go back, Cal?”
“A lot.”
“A dozen. A dozen years, and you’re doing this to me? This is bullshit.”
“I’m not doing anything to you, Frank. We’re following procedure to the letter. If I had written that girl up myself, I’d have the detectives do the same thing. If Mendez had written the girl up, I’d be doing the same—and you’d be saying it was the right thing to do.”
Farman had nothing to say to that because it was true. He would have been the first one in line demanding to treat Mendez like any other person of interest. But he was embarrassed and his pride was hurt, and Mendez could understand that too. A guy like Frank lived for the job. His reputation was everything to him.
“It’s nothing personal, Frank,” he said. “We’re dotting
Farman wouldn’t look at him. Mendez sighed.
“You wrote up the Vickers girl at fifteen thirty-eight that day,” Hicks said, getting on with it. “We’ll just need to see your logbook for the rest of the shift.”
Farman crossed his arms over his chest. Dixon motioned to the logbook sitting on his desk. Hicks picked it up and paged through.
“You’d never met the girl before, right?” Mendez asked.
“Do you remember every citation you ever wrote?” Farman demanded.
“No,” Mendez said calmly.
“I didn’t remember the girl ten minutes later. It was just another ticket.”
Mendez had a hard time believing that, but he let it slide. “You’d never met her before that.”
“No.”
“I don’t want to go through the DMV records and find out you wrote her up before.”
Farman looked at him then. “You’re a prick.”
“Frank,” Dixon cautioned.
“I’m just saying, Frank,” Mendez said. “Better if you tell me now than have it be a surprise.”
“Fuck yourself.”
Mendez held his temper, remembering what Vince had told him about getting what he needed out of people —even the Frank Farmans of the world. From the corner of his eye he saw Hicks frown as he read the log entries.
“Frank, it says here you took dinner from five to six that day.”
“So?”
“Your wife told us you’re home for dinner at six thirty every night.”
Farman got to his feet, his face turning dark red. “You spoke to my wife? You went to my home and spoke to my wife without telling me?”
“Standard op, Frank,” Mendez said.
“Have you ever heard of common courtesy, you arrogant little shit?”
Dixon stood up. “Frank, that’s enough.”
Mendez took a step toward Farman, feeling the need to draw a line.
“I’ve taken enough abuse off you, Frank,” he said, keeping his tone calm and even. “I’m bending over backward to do this right. You want to make it hard? That’s your choice.
“I can take the gloves off and make this hard for you. I can call in every person you know, all your neighbors, the people you go to church with, and ask them all about you. Does he drink? Does he fuck around on his wife? Does he beat his kids?
“Is that what you want?” Mendez asked. “Or we can turn this over to another agency and really do it right. You can have some arrogant little shit you don’t know and who has no loyalty to this office digging through your life. Would you rather we do that?”
Farman looked like he might blow an aneurysm. So much for getting what he needed.
“Frank, sit down,” Dixon ordered. “Let’s get this over with.”
Farman sat and stared at the front of the desk.
“I worked late that night,” he said. “I had paperwork. My wife is mistaken.”
“You were here?” Hicks said. “Okay.”
But as he said it, he cut Mendez a look.
Farman caught it from the corner of his eye. He turned on Hicks. “What?”
Hicks looked uncomfortable. “You were off the clock at four thirty. You’re salaried. You don’t get overtime. Why put it in your logbook that you went to dinner?”
“Habit,” Farman said.
Hicks looked to Dixon. “Can I keep this for a couple of hours?” he asked, lifting the logbook.
“Un-fucking-believable,” Farman muttered, shaking his head. He stood up. “I’m done here. I’m going home.”
Mendez checked his watch. 6:26. He hoped for Sharon Farman’s sake dinner was ready.
45
