Bleeding Out

because she didn't come home for dinner. I remember because I went to a lot of trouble to make something she and Randy both like—Randy's my husband. He's not Jennie's father. I made pork chops. I try to make something they both like or else one of them bitches all through dinner and ruins everyone else's appetite. They never seem —'

Noah interrupted her.

'So you haven't seen Jennifer for three days?'

'That's right.'

'And you weren't concerned about that?'

'Detective, you've got to understand, Jennie pulls stunts like this all the time. At first I was concerned, but when they started happening on a regular basis I just quit worrying. She always comes home sooner or later.'

Not this time, Frank thought, and asked what it was that started happening on a regular basis.

Delia Wyche gathered her patience with a large sigh and explained, 'When she started running off. The first time was three years ago, right after I remarried. She and Randy don't get along so good—she ran away to show me how unhappy she was. She did it a couple of times after that. I was worried in the beginning, but she's always just at a friend's house. I finally figured, let her knock herself out. I don't have time to chase her all over.'

'Mrs. Wyche, can you tell us exactly when you last saw your daughter?'

'Well, yeah I can, but what's this all about? What sort of detectives are you anyway?'

Frank again ignored the questions and drilled the woman with a pitiless gaze.

'Mrs. Wyche, what was your daughter doing the last time you saw her?'

Mrs. Wyche wiggled uncomfortably in her chair. When she answered, her voice was tinged with a whine.

'The last time I saw her was in the kitchen. I was doing the dishes—God forbid she or Randy should do them—and she came in to make herself a sandwich. She'd just gotten up, and she had her backpack with her. I asked her where she thought she was going, and she said to the park. Then I—'

'Which park?'

'The one off Jefferson, by all the oil derricks. It gives me the—'

'Do you mean the Culver City Park? With the ball fields?'

'I guess. It's the one off Duquesne, right off Jefferson,' she said impatiently.

'Alright, then what?'

'I asked her about her homework, which she'd been putting off all weekend, and she asked what did I think she had in her pack? Then when I asked why she had to go to the park to study, she started bitching about the noise Randy was making in the garage.'

'What was he doing?'

'Shoot, I don't know. He's got an old jeep he's always tinkering with. It hasn't run since I've known him, but you'd think with all the time he spends on that thing he had it in the Indy 500 every weekend.'

She paused, searching for a glimpse of sympathy from either detective and finding none.

'You know I still don't know what you—'

'Just a few more questions, Mrs. Wyche. What happened next?'

'I don't know...nothing I think. I didn't want to listen to her and Randy going at it all day so I just let her go.'

'How did she get there?'

'The bus. She takes it everywhere.'

'Did she go to the park often?'

The woman nodded, then realized Noah had referred to her daughter in the past tense. When she asked again what her daughter had done, it was with a genuine note of concern in her voice. Frank had been standing near the door, letting Noah ask most of the questions. Now she crossed the small room and sat on the arm of the empty chair next to Delia Wyche.

'Mrs. Wyche,' she said, as gently as one could say such a thing, 'Jennifer is dead.'

'No,' she chuckled, 'you've got somebody else's Jennifer. Mine couldn't possibly be dead.'

She turned her head, smiling at Noah as if in confirmation of this very simple error, and when he didn't smile she looked back at Frank. The detectives could see comprehension slowly sinking in around the shock of the words. She shook her head.

'How do you know it's Jennie?' she whispered.

'Fingerprints. But we'd like you to come to the morgue with us to confirm that,' Frank said, still gentle.

Her last sentence penetrated the shock, and Mrs. Wyche broke down in huge, gulping sobs. Noah offered the wad of tissues he always carried for such occasions, as Frank left the room to call Delia Wyche's husband.

Foubarelle finally caught up to Frank in her office the next day. She was knocking back a bottle of water and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, characteristically unfeminine, characteristically Frank.

'I understand we have an ID on the girl at Carver.'

Frank confirmed that, and Foubarelle complained that he always had to hear his information secondhand.

'We got with the mother at the morgue kind of late last night. I wanted to wait until she'd ID'd her but I didn't want to disturb you.'

Foubarelle hated being bothered once he'd left the office. He didn't press the issue.

'So what have we got?'

Frank filled him in. When she was finished, he said, 'Any word on the autopsy yet?'

'Crocetti's going to cut her. Hopefully first thing this morning.'

'He said it looked similar to that girl we found at Crenshaw.'

Frank almost snapped, Great. Now Crocetti's a detective, but she checked her temper. When she didn't respond, Foubarelle said impatiently, 'Well? What do you think?'

Frank was debating how to tell him the truth without getting him too excited. She didn't want this case, or Agoura's, walking out the door to Robbery-Homicide. If Foubarelle was nervous about it he'd send it up in a blink. Both cases had drawn media attention, but fortunately the public didn't seem to notice. If Frank could keep a lid on them, she'd be alright. RHD only wanted high publicity, politically sensitive cases, and Foubarelle only wanted to ditch the ones he thought might make him look bad.

'I think it's possible.'

'Shit.' Foubarelle wiped his hand over his eyes. 'Level with me, Frank. How big is this?'

Frank shrugged. Even Foubarelle had to see the deep-shit potential here. Despite her own qualms she assured him, 'We can handle it.'

'That doesn't tell me anything.'

'Are you going to toss it to RHD?'

'If we're in over our heads, yes. If you think we can handle it, no.'

Foubarelle crossed his arms and waited for her answer. He was putting the decision in Frank's hands. She really had to admire his spinelessness.

'It could be an impressive coup,' she countered, throwing the ball back into his court.

'How confident are you?'

'We don't even know if this is the same perp yet. Assuming it is, he's got to slip sooner or later. All we need is some time.'

'Give me an estimate.'

'I can't,' Frank sighed, 'you know that. But we've got more on him than anyone else does.'

'Oh really? Like what?'

Simply, with no trace of pretension, Frank said, 'Me.'

He became a fearsome football player. Even the kids on his own team were afraid of him. He didn't respect pain or fear and couldn't understand it in others. The coach frequently had to take him aside and point out that they just wanted players temporarily stopped, not maimed for life. He tried to control himself, but it felt so good to let go on the field. It was the only place he ever felt safe. He was in control out there: just him and the ball and bodies to block and slam into and hurt. He loved hurting the other players, and in a contact sport—if he was careful—he could get away with it. Yet, as satisfying as it was to see a kid writhing on the field with a torn kneecap or snapped ankle, there was still something missing.