resembled Agoura's.
When she finished coloring the list, Frank shrugged into her wool blazer and headed for the Alibi. She caught the second half of Monday night football, but later, after she'd only been asleep for two hours, she was called out on a domestic with Gough and Nookey.
She arrived at the Dalido Arms apartments and Gough told her the story.
'Twenty-eight-year-old male Hispanic. Girlfriend stabbed him in the heart. Neighbors say they were fighting all night 'bout some other bitch he's bumping. Suspect denied the whole thing. Said she was cutting onions and he'd startled her. She'd turned with the knife in her hand and he'd run into it.
'Man,' Gough said through the exhaustion born of a career in homicide and too little sleep, 'if I had a dollar for every time someone ran into a knife in this town, I could have retired ten years ago.'
Nookey shot his partner a look and hissed. They took the woman back to the station and tried working a confession out of her. The two older detectives were masters at coaxing confessions. Frank observed from behind the one-way mirror. She'd learned a lot from them over the years and still took pleasure in watching them work off each other. Seeing them interact she suddenly realized just how much Nookey was going to miss his partner. Frank uncomfortably pushed the feeling aside and concentrated on the detectives' dialogue.
By the time the rest of the squad rolled in at 6:00 a.m., Nookey had a signed confession and his suspect was sleeping downtown in a jail cell. Gough was typing the report as Frank interrupted him to ask why he'd called her out on that case—he and Nookey could have handled it in their sleep.
'We were asleep,' Nookey said.
'Yeah. Just thought you'd like to see the masters at work,' Gough responded, without looking up.
As squad supervisors, Frank or Foubarelle were on call for all homicides. If it was an uncomplicated case, like this one, the responding detectives usually handled it on their own. If they were green or new to the squad, Frank insisted on a supe rolling with them. But her squad was all seasoned veterans. Gough and Nookey had needed her tonight like a dog needs fleas. Boy-red had called her out just to tweak her.
'You did good,' she said, and walked away. Gough rolled his eyes and Nookey chuckled. His partner was forever failing to get Frank's goat.
Briggs was dressed nicely for a morning in court, but Frank recognized the bloodshot eyes and slight tremor as he pulled his papers together.
On her way to her office she clapped him on the back.
'Rough night?'
'Aren't they all?' he asked seriously, and Frank had to agree. She remembered vague, uneasy dreams and was relieved she couldn't remember more.
After the morning briefing, Frank headed over to Parker Center with the NCIC printouts in her briefcase. The Agoura case was getting as cold as Melissa in her grave. The longer cases sat, the harder they were to solve. But Frank was a master at perseverance, and Agoura was quickly becoming a personal challenge. Frank hadn't actively worked a case in months. She loved pitting herself against the perps, though, and Agoura's was offering a nice edge. Frank was ready for it, wanted it.
She offered curt hellos to the faces that recognized her and quickly settled herself in front of an empty computer. Even though she knew how to use the basic functions, she hated the machines. She liked the old- fashioned method of digging through files, pulling folders, having pictures and statements and notes spill out with their dusty smells.
As she was writing down information from the computer screen the pager on her belt went off. The watch sergeant. She called in from an empty desk.
'I got good news and bad news for ya,' he teased.
'What have you got, Artie?'
The sergeant happily reported. 'Bad news is you got a double at a rock house on 70th and Denker.'
Frank sighed. There weren't supposed to be so many homicides this time of year. The weather was bad, days were shorter, people more mellow. Didn't the perps know that?
'So what's the good news?'
'Looks like they already got the shooter.'
'Alright. Thanks.'
Frank hung up, stuffing papers back into the briefcase. She backed out of the computer, figuring Agoura was going to get a little colder.
Frank got home around eight o'clock, pumped and pressed, slammed a couple of beers, and fell asleep with an
A while later her own cries jerked her out of sleep. Frank stumbled from the bed, tears blurring her vision. Still not sure where she was, she groped toward the bathroom. She slapped cold water on her face but couldn't look at herself. Clutching a towel, she breathed into it deeply, unable to wash away the dream or the pain it had summoned.
The water running in the sink didn't drown the shotgun still pounding in her head, and no matter how tightly she squeezed her eyes, Frank couldn't stop seeing Mag's bewildered face. She rinsed and rinsed under the running water, sure she was still covered in blood. She fought for reality, forcing herself to acknowledge the blue towels, her pink brush, the words on the tube of toothpaste.
'Clean teeth...healthy feeling gums...a great taste,' Frank whispered. Finally she dared a glance in the mirror, certain there'd be blood all over her. Instead, she saw her own bewildered face. That broke the spell. With a strangled cry, Frank slammed a fist into the mirror. The glass exploded and Frank cursed, slugging with her other fist. Panting like she'd just sprinted a quarter mile, Frank stared at her bloodied knuckles, wincing at the glass splinters stuck under the skin. The pain was clear and clean, and it distracted Frank from her inner anguish. A fat silver shard was imbedded in the back of her gun hand. Frank yanked it loose. Mesmerized, she watched as her blood flowed against the white porcelain. After her heart slowed a little and her breathing evened out, she plucked out the most obvious shards, clamping her teeth down against the pain even as she relished it. Welcomed it.
'Let's get you a drink,' she murmured, wrapping the towel around her hand and talking herself into the kitchen.
'You're alright,' she whispered steadily. 'Everything's okay. Everything's alright.'
She was reassuring herself like she'd done as a kid, when her mom was on a manic high and breaking dishes so they could go out and buy a new set, or when she was in bed for the tenth day in a row and Frank had eaten absolutely everything edible in the house. Carefully taking a glass out of the cupboard, she filled it with Scotch. She drained it. Bleeding, still shaking, she poured more.
The alarm startled Frank out of a deep sleep. She was stunned by the ache in her head. She threw a hand over the buzzer only to feel worse pain. Then she remembered the dream and its terror, smashing her fist in the mirror, and the blood, and trying to wash it away with Scotch as she'd roamed uneasily through the empty house.
Frank sat up woozily, reaching for the bedside lamp with her left hand. It was stiff and swollen too, but at least it wasn't throbbing like the right. The light stabbed through Frank's eyes and lodged in her brain. When she rolled out of bed her stomach rolled with her. Stepping gingerly into the bathroom, she searched for lurking shards she hadn't mopped up last night. She groped under the sink for a bottle of Pepto Bismol, chugged a quarter of it, and chased it with four aspirin. She dozed under the hot spray of the shower until the pharmaceutical cocktail took effect.
The fine cut of her suit couldn't mask the slump in Frank's shoulders as she mixed sugar in water over the kitchen sink. The drink would simultaneously fight her dehydration and fatigue. Although the coffee trickling through the percolator smelled noxious, the caffeine would help move the fog out of her brain. Frank had been through this before, she knew the drill.
Thirty minutes later she was at her desk, still exhausted, her hand on fire, but at least the worst of her physical pain had eased. The other, she couldn't do anything about. The phone rang in the squad room and she heard Noah answer it, then a second later he whistled. When he draped his lanky frame around her doorway, she squinted at him through the haze of her hangover.
'We got a 187 at Carver Junior High. Female Caucasian. Looks like a teenager. Naked and beat to shit.'
Frank was up and swinging into her jacket before Noah had finished talking.
