Frostee Freeze, and an Assembly of God church were across the street. They were all covered with sprawling gang tags. A boarded and crumbling building in a large, weedy lot looked like a shooting gallery, and Frank had uniforms bagging matchbooks and cigarette packs, torn soda cans, used hypos, potato chip bags—all the trash in there. She wanted everything printed. A pile of old clothes and rags looked like a makeshift bed. If somebody'd been in here last night she wanted to know who.
The church had had a service the day before but it had finished by 8:00 p.m. and there wasn't another scheduled until noon today. No one opened when they knocked, no lights were on. They talked to people at the food joints, which all closed at 11:00 or midnight. The salon was open 9:00-6:00, shoe repair 8:00-5:00. No one was around at the time they believed the body was dumped.
The detectives spent the morning showing Polaroids of the girl's face to everyone at the school, but they didn't get one good hit. She was pretty battered, though, so chances were they wouldn't have gotten an ID anyway. Missing Persons records were no help this time. They broke for lunch around one o'clock, ordering gorditas and tacos at the taqueria next to the school. The school kids didn't like all the heat around; they ate across the street at the burger place. Frank was feeling human again. She munched on fried pork between two soft corn tortillas, wondering why these girls were being dumped in front of schools. If it was the same guy, she reminded herself. So far they had nothing but speculation to go on. Frank glanced at her watch. She was waiting for Crocetti's call. His prelim would tell them more about any similarities between this case and Agoura's.
She was anxious for the ID on the vie, too. Handley had rolled her fingers, promising to have Frank paged as soon as the prints were run. She was wadding up the paper her tacos came in when her pager went off. She nudged her jacket aside with an elbow and glanced at the number. It was the coroner's office. She returned the call.
'Hey, Lieutenant,' Handley bragged, 'I've got a name for your girl.'
'Tell me.'
'Jennifer Peterson. DOB: 1/5/82.' Handley paused.
Frank asked, 'Address?'
Handley gave it to her. She thanked him tersely and hung up. She called the operator and referenced the phone number. When Frank tried it, all she got was the answering machine. She identified herself and told the machine she had some information about Jennifer Peterson that she needed to discuss with her parents. No one picked up.
Frank grabbed Noah. 'Let's go for a drive.'
She filled him in as they drove west on Manchester Boulevard to Sepulveda. The address took them to a tired house in Culver City bordered by frayed banana trees and overgrown bougainvillea. It looked tropical despite the spitting sky and sixty-degree weather. When their knock went unanswered, they split up to talk to the neighbors. Two houses down, the harassed mother of three preschoolers told Noah that Jennifer Peterson babysat for her. Her mother's name wasn't Peterson, it was Wyche, Delia Wyche, and she was a nurse at Brotman Memorial. She wasn't sure where the husband worked, but he was home a lot. Jennifer called him the grease monkey and didn't care much for him.
Noah thanked the woman, then flagged Frank back to the car. At Brotman, a meticulously dressed man in personnel confirmed there was a Delia Wyche, R.N., on staff. Frank asked him to page Wyche's supervisor, and he balked that it wasn't his job. Noah grinned as Frank leaned within inches of the fey young man and asked, 'Have you ever had a nine-millimeter revolver shoved up your ass?'
Maybe because he saw Noah grinning, maybe because he was suicidal, maybe because he was more ballsy than smart, he swallowed hard and retorted, 'No, but I think I'd like it.'
That was absolutely the wrong thing to say. Before the clerk could even flinch Frank had his perfect Windsor knot clenched in her bad hand and twisted tight under his Adam's apple. Noah's smile had faded, and suddenly the clerk didn't feel so brave.
He tried to squeak 'police brutality,' but Frank tightened her grip, her blazing eyes still only inches from his. Blood started oozing through her bandage.
'Okay, funny boy. Are you going to call Mrs. Wyche's supervisor or do I charge you with refusing to cooperate with a peace officer and obstructing justice?'
He weakly shook his head.
'You going to help me?'
He nodded.
'Good boy.'
Frank let go and the man wheeled his chair farther from Frank's grasp. Noah pulled a quarter out of his pocket and tossed it into the clerk's lap.
'That's for later. After you call Mrs. Wyche's supervisor you can call LAPD and register a formal complaint about her. But you'll have to be patient. There's a lot of people in line ahead of you.'
Frank turned her back and glanced at the fresh blood on her gauzed hand. Noah's gaze followed, and he asked what she'd done.
'Cut it,' she said flatly and stepped out into the hallway. When Noah followed, he said softly, 'You shouldn't have roughed him up like that.'
Frank's head jerked toward Noah. Her eyes were bottomless blue chasms that a man could fall into and never be heard from again.
'Don't even start with me.'
He flashed his palms in a peaceful gesture.
'Alright. I'm just saying if something's bugging you—'
'Nothing's bugging me.'
'Alright. Okay.'
Frank had unconsciously turned to face her partner in a fighter's stance, and Noah bowed his head, backing off. The LAPD's reputation for unnecessary aggression was well-founded, but Frank's presence was usually intimidating enough to get what she wanted out of a wit or a suspect. She rarely engaged someone physically, especially just a cluck-headed desk boy, and she was embarrassed that she'd lost her temper.
The nurse supervisor arrived, and Noah explained without detail about Delia Wyche's daughter. The supervisor went back down the hall to retrieve her employee as Frank asked the clerk for Mrs. Wyche's next of kin. She was promptly, silently handed a slip of paper with a name and number on it. The clerk eyed Frank warily, making sure he was well away from her reach. It occurred to her to apologize to the little bastard, but she didn't.
Frank glanced at the clock on the wall, wondering where the hell Wyche was. Noah'd been done with his shift hours ago. Frank felt a flicker of remorse for her behavior, but that reminded her of the dream and she quickly focused on the square yellow paper in her hand. She joined Noah, who was still waiting in the hallway. He was leaning against the wall, chewing on a nail. His suit was wrinkled and a tad short at the ankles and wrists.
'Anybody have a game today?'
'Naw. Just practice.'
'You should call Tracey.'
'She won't be home 'til later. I'll call after we do Wyche.'
'You don't have to go the morgue. I'll take care of it.'
Noah absently flapped one of his boney hands.
'It ain't no thing. Besides,' he tried to joke, 'the last thing I wanna do is leave you alone with a bereaved parent.' Frank didn't smile. They were both relieved when the supervisor led Delia Wyche down the hallway. She took them to an office where they could talk, but before Frank had finished the introductions, Mrs. Wyche interrupted with the practiced snort of the chronically bitter.
'What's Jennie done now?'
Frank herded the heavy-hipped woman into a seat, explaining that they had a few questions. She wasn't avoiding telling the woman about her daughter, but it would be easier to get answers from her before she was too upset.
'Mrs. Wyche, is Jennifer Peterson your daughter?'
''Fraid so. What did she do?' the woman repeated suspiciously.
Frank ignored her, asking when she'd last seen Jennifer.
'Oh, I don't know,' she said offhandedly. 'Maybe three, four days ago. Let's see, it must have been Sunday
