Bleeding Out

perp's extreme. We don't know who he is, where he'll be coming from. I just want this as covered as possible.'

'You got it.'

Frank listened as Hobbs described how he'd fit her for sound.

'Good?' Noah asked when they were all back in the car.

Their alley was situated almost dead-even between the Nichols and the Jane Doe sites. They had their decoy, they had their surveillance team. Now all they needed was their perp.

'Green light,' Frank answered. Kennedy started whistling 'Back in the Saddle Again.' The slight narrowing behind Frank's Ray Bans was the only hint of her irritation.

Hobbs was pleased. Technical surveillance was his baby. The smaller the chips, the thinner the wires, the happier he was. Kennedy stood before him, decked up and tricked out like a terrorist package, but no one could tell by looking at her or patting her down. They tested the wire until Hobbs was satisfied, then they reviewed their game plan for the dozenth time.

Weather, the brass, placement, the wire—all of that was going through Frank's mind as she watched Hobbs delicately unhooking Kennedy. She and Noah were chattering like Heckle and Jeckle, Hobbs and the techs were joking around, but Frank stood apart, nibbling at the scarred tips of her sunglasses.

She was nervous about this op, didn't like how many elements were out of her control, but after hours of guesswork, hunches, and plotting the odds, they were finally ready to roll. No matter how much she tried, Frank couldn't come up with a better plan. At this point, with so little to go on, and knowing that the perp would be out hunting soon if he wasn't already, the gig with Kennedy was their best bet. Frank had marginal confidence in the young detective, questioned the odds of encountering their guy this way, and second-guessed her own profiling skills. She was extremely uneasy pouring this much resource into an operation based almost entirely on conjecture, but unless another body turned up offering more clues, it was their only choice.

Compounding her frustration was the increasing attention from the media and RHD. They'd been sniffing around the case, and Foubarelle was about ready to drop it in RHD's lap. The only good thing about the attention was that no one wanted to look like the bad guy. All the agencies were cooperating, and manpower was being thrown at them like lifelines to a drowning man.

Frank sighed, feeling the pull of the muscles in her neck and shoulders. She wanted to knead them but thought better of it in front of Hobbs and his crew. Just as she discarded the notion, an obscure memory leapt from a dark corner: the end of the day, sitting on the couch, talking with Mag, Mag's strong fingers digging into her neck, easing all of Frank's knots.

Frank forced her mind to become a blank screen. Returning to the management of a homicide investigation, she asked brusquely, 'We ready to roll here?'

Kennedy bellowed, ''Roll o-o-n, Big Mama,'' cracking up Marquez and Noah, who thought she walked on water. Feeling like she was in charge of a kindergarten class, Frank stood icily apart from the merriment.

He was deeply into one of his fantasies, playing it out behind his locked door, when he heard the shot. His mother started to scream as he tore his helmet off. She was still screaming by the time he got downstairs. He took one look and couldn't move. His father was sitting on the couch, half his face chewed off by shotgun spray. The son remained fixed to the carpet, as if he'd sunk roots. His mother just went on screaming. Eventually a neighbor came over and let himself in after his pounding went unanswered.

The neighbor quickly backed out the same way he'd come, gagging on his words. The police came and took the body away, and the boy's mother retreated upstairs to her bed. The boy tied the sofa to the top of the car and dumped it in a trashy alley. His mother was still in bed when he returned home. He eventually asked if she was going to make dinner. There was no answer, so he fixed a bologna sandwich and ate it in front of the TV, where the couch used to be. Spots of blood had soaked into the carpet. He thought about trying to clean them up but dismissed the idea as too late, though he did wipe the wall behind the couch with some water and a sponge. He didn't want the living room to start smelling.

19

Frank pulled into the parking garage at half past five. A light drizzle had misted her windshield all the way to work. As she yanked her briefcase out of the back she wondered if the rain was going to intensify. The Weather Channel called for morning drizzle turning to rain, but Frank wasn't about to call off an op based on TV weather coverage. Glancing around the garage, she noticed Kennedy's truck wasn't there yet.

Frank slammed the little Honda's door. She wouldn't be surprised if Kennedy was late. Taking the stairs two at a time Frank felt a smug justification. She noticed lights on in the squad room and was surprised when she entered to find Kennedy standing at the coffee pot.

'Mornin',' Kennedy chirped.

'Morning.'

Kennedy poured and asked Frank if she wanted a cup. Frank shook her head.

'Any problems last night?'

She was worried the perp might somehow get wise to their con and follow Kennedy home.

'No, ma'am,' Kennedy grinned. 'The surf was great.' She extended a steaming mug. 'Sure you don't want some?'

Frank's first instinct was to say no and walk away, but she did want it. She checked her vexation and accepted the mug without thanks.

'You should come out with me sometime. I've got an extra board. It'd be good for you—the ocean's very therapeutic.'

Frank stared hostilely at the cocky young woman. Normally when she drilled people with her icy blues, they tended to turn away, but the smile in Kennedy's brown eyes never wavered. Her happy-go-lucky boldness continued to irritate Frank. Feeling slightly off center, she swallowed her annoyance as Kennedy said, 'I heard it's supposed to rain today.'

'Might,' Frank agreed tersely.

The plan was for Kennedy to go into the drugstore if it started raining heavily. An undercover stationed at the laundromat would drop off clothes and a wig so she could change in the bathroom and leave undetected, and later that morning, that was exactly what happened. The bottom fell out of the sky, and Kennedy barely had time to cover her wired torso with a garbage bag before seeking the Rexall's shelter. She came out a few minutes later with long dark hair, a raincoat and umbrella. The van picked her up at the Shell station.

'Yeehaw,' she said yanking the wig off her wet head as Noah drove away.

'Hey, don't get water on this,' Marquez yelped. Kennedy pretended to shake her head over the instrument panel, and Marquez defended it with his body.

'Gotcha,' she grinned. They were still in high spirits as they walked into the station house. Marquez playfully asked Kennedy out for lunch, and Noah ribbed that the Lady Godiva wig had turned him on. Kennedy retorted that the burly tech really had a thing for peeping toms and it was the trenchcoat that had done it. They were still goofing off when they strolled into the homicide room.

Frank looked up from the bulletin in her hand. 'How did it go?'

'Quiet as a church on Monday morning,' Kennedy volunteered.

'Except for that old lady who told you to get a job and almost hit you,' Noah snickered.

'Oh, Lord,' Kennedy groaned. 'I'm out there worryin' 'bout serial killers and meanwhile little grannies are tryin' to bash my head in!'

Kennedy's head sounded like hay-ud. Frank had become used to Kennedy's accent coming and going: the better the story, the heavier the accent. Frank debriefed with the op team, and just as she was about to send Kennedy back to Parker for the day, Johnnie slammed down his phone and jumped out of his chair.

'Hey,' he rasped, 'I don't know who that was, but somebody that's pissed at the Tunnel. Says he's back in town, dealing out of a crib on,' he grabbed the back of a receipt he'd written on, 'Reston. 5500 Reston, Apt D.'

'You have a warrant?'

Johnnie pawed a big hand around the layers of paper on his desk and came up with the necessary document.

'Got two days left on it.'