Bleeding Out

Foubarelle's nitpicking, the absence of witnesses in all his cases, and the absence of anything useful from a witness when he found one. In the middle of this bull session Ike poked his head in. He was resplendent in a three-piece pinstripe, his nails buffed to a high gloss, diamond studs winking like a constellation against his dark hair, which Frank was pretty sure he dyed. What she didn't know was how Ike managed to dress like a Mafia don, supporting his ex-wife and kids on a detective's salary. Maybe she didn't want to know.

Johnnie just stared. Then he said, hopelessly, 'On toppa all that, I gotta work in an office fulla faggots.'

Examining his cuff links, Ike replied, 'You're just jealous 'cause I make you look bad.'

'Yeah, that's it. So how much time you gotta give yourself in the morning to look like this?'

'Longer than the two minutes you take.'

'Alright,' Frank interrupted. 'You both look like fuckin' movie stars. Johnnie? Anything else here?'

'Nah. I'll leave you alone with Giorgio.'

'Mille grazie.'

'Mille grazie,' Johnnie imitated in lisping falsetto, and Frank knew how it felt to run a preschool. She looked questioningly at Ike, but he asked how she was doing.

'Good. What's up?'

'IAD must be giving you a hard time.'

She nodded, wondering when the social call was going to end.

'Don't let the bastards get you down,' he counseled. Then, 'Remember the James case?'

Albion James. Twelve years old. Shot in front of the QuikSnak by his friend, one Little Crank, a thirteen-year- old Broadway Crip who was evidently jumping James into the set. A good banger has to work for their set, procuring money, guns, drugs, whatever the gang needs. James' work, his initiation into this particular set, was to jack the convenience store. According to the store clerk, James chickened out at the last minute and Little Crank ragged him on the street corner, telling him to get his ass back in there and do the work or he'd issue a general BOS—beat on sight—for him. James evidently tried to walk away, but Little Crank pulled a piece and ordered him back in. James stood glued to the sidewalk while Little Crank insisted, 'Do the work, Little Jim-Jam.'

When James still didn't budge Little Crank blew a hole in his chest, then calmly walked into the store and demanded the clerk's money. The clerk and a customer witnessed the entire scene. Neither would testify. The clerk adamantly refused; the customer seemed very reluctant but still open to it.

Ike wanted to work the customer but he had to get an okay from the assistant DA to go with just the one wit. Frank frowned, knowing Ike's chances of persuading McQueen were slim. She became the assistant by winning cases and hoped continuing to do so would land her the DA's job someday. Filing cases wasn't about justice, it was about politics. She took the cases that had the best chance of winning. Those with less than compelling evidence were thrown back to the detectives until they could make them more winnable. Frank could already see this one flying back at them, but she told Ike to keep pressing the wits, especially the customer. She'd take the heat if McQueen didn't like it.

When Ike left, Frank returned calls to the sheriff's office and highway patrol, and responded to homicide- related queries from a number of agencies around the state. Johnnie returned with a question in the middle of one of her conversations. Frank noticed there was mustard on his shirt, and after she answered him she told him to go change. He said he didn't have a clean shirt in his locker.

'Then I guess you better borrow one from somebody.'

'Hey. Aren't you ROD?'

'Yeah. What's your point?'

'I don't have to take orders from you,' he smirked.

Frank pushed her lips together, considering. Then she stood and wiggled a finger.

'Come here.'

She led Johnnie to the bathroom down the hall and positioned him in front of the mirror.

'Look. You want to see a cop show up at your son's homicide investigation looking like you do? Me, personally, I'd call in a complaint on you. Come on. Did you sleep in that shirt too? It's a fucking mess.'

Johnnie tried to brush out the wrinkles, saying, 'It's not so bad.'

'It's trash, man. I've seen cleaner clothes on hope-to-die junkies. Look, I know it's been a rough couple of days, but you've got to go home tonight and do some laundry. Get a six-pack, take it to the laundromat, get your clothes done. I'm not your mother, Briggs. I shouldn't be having to tell you this. I'm running a homicide unit, not a daycare center. Alright?'

'Yeah, yeah.'

They walked back to the squad room and Frank added, 'Try wearing polo shirts. They got collars and they don't wrinkle so bad.'

He nodded. 'Maybe I'll try that.'

Back at her desk, Frank fiddled with a pen, worrying about Johnnie. He was manifesting all the signs of a crash-and-burn, and she wondered how she could ward that off. Noah was his partner. Maybe she'd ask him to have a few beers with him some night, see if he could get Johnnie to open up.

Before she took his place, Joe Girardi had warned her that ninety percent of the job would be holding her cops' hands. She'd be a sounding board, a mother, a shrink, and a doctor. If she thought getting off the street and getting behind a desk would take her out of the shit pile, she was wrong. It would only get her in deeper. All those interview and interrogation techniques she'd used with cons and perps, now she'd have to use them on her own people just to get them to do their jobs. The trick to being a good supervisor was inspiring your subordinates to do their job. Not to do it for them or order them to do it, but to grease the skids. That meant listening to their marital problems, their economic woes, troubles with their kids, hassles with the bugs that were eating their roses, the dogs pissing on their cars.

If they still weren't performing after all that, then you had to lay down the law. Mandatory counseling, demotion, transfer— whatever needed to be done. Contemplating her role as a glorified babysitter reminded Frank of Kennedy. She glanced at the clock and thought she better be getting back home to start dinner. She wrapped up a few loose ends and returned one more call before leaving.

On the way out she glanced at Johnnie's shirt. He hadn't changed it, but he'd daubed most of the mustard off. He was listening to someone on the phone. He covered the mouthpiece and whispered, 'I couldn't find a clean one.'

Frank was sure he hadn't tried very hard, but at least he'd gotten rid of the worst of the stain. She pointed a menacing finger at him. 'Laundry. Tonight. Else I'll partner you with Giorgio.'

Johnnie grimaced, and Frank headed out into the afternoon traffic.

Walking in the front door, Frank was pleased to see Kennedy on the couch watching TV.

'Afternoon, Lieutenant.'

'Hey. How's it going?'

'I'm almost outta my gourd. How many talk shows can a person watch in a day without goin' crazy?'

'Don't know. How about all those books in the den?'

Kennedy made a face like she'd smelled something bad.

'Boring.'

'You don't read?'

'I got a short attention span. I like doing things.'

While Frank was thinking about that and pulling groceries out of bags, Kennedy walked barefoot into the kitchen. She had color, like she'd been in the sun. Frank asked her how she'd gotten it.

She indicated the patio and said, 'Napping in your lounge chair. Guess who woke me up?'

Frank popped the top off a Corona and squeezed a lime into it.

'No clue,' she answered.

'IAD. Made a house call. They want you in their office at 1:00 p.m. tomorrow afternoon.'

'Yeah, I know. They left a message for me at work.'

'That Stuka's a creepy bastard. I get the feeling he'd fuck a snake if somebody'd hold it's head.'

Frank had to smile. 'They're big on animals where you come from, huh?'

Over homemade pizza and salad, Kennedy asked how the office was. Frank said, 'I managed to get one 60D read and answer some calls. Had to give Johnnie some etiquette manners.'

Kennedy waved a hand. 'That boy is positively prehistoric.'