Bleeding Out

breath. Frank paused the video, uncertain she wanted to see more. She stood up and paced for a moment, unconsciously rubbing the back of her neck. When she stopped, she stared at the scene frozen on her TV.

'Jesus,' she breathed, suddenly overwhelmed. Dropping into a chair next to the TV, she carefully sifted though her ideas. A defense attorney would try to dismiss the tape; there was no proof Clancey was holding the camera, no proof he'd murdered her. Yet. Frank wondered what else was on the tape. Regardless, what there was made a strong link. The defense would have a hard time wiggling out of the connection. For Frank, however, there was no doubt.

'Gotcha,' she whispered. She was surprised that the word sounded hollow. She'd expected a sense of triumph but felt deflated instead. She finally had him, just like she wanted, but her victory was empty: the cost of all the lives he'd ruined greatly outweighed her own small success. Frank mashed her eyebrows together for a minute, thinking. At last she sighed. Clearing her half-eaten sandwich off the table and walking into the kitchen, she poured the suddenly nauseating ale down the drain.

She dreaded looking at the rest of the tape but knew she had to. She should make a copy, too. She could do that at HQ tomorrow. The copy would go to RHD along with an anonymous note. But Frank couldn't let them sit on it. She had an idea of how to handle that, too. Tomorrow.

Acutely aware that she was shoving aside her feelings by thinking like a cop, Frank returned woodenly to the living room, where Melissa Agoura was frozen on her television screen.

'Well, well, Lieutenant. I must say I was surprised to get your call. I didn't think you'd keep your end of the bargain without a battle.'

Sally Eisley flashed scary white teeth at Frank, who pressed what she hoped was convincing affability through her layers of fatigue. Immaculately made-up and dressed to the tits, Sally blended well with the rest of the clientele. In the background, the Italian boy singers alternated with big band songs. The distinctive clicks of crystal and china filled the restaurant as naturally as the sound of cars humming home on the freeway.

Frank's antipasto sat untouched, and she caught herself twirling her wine glass. She stopped. It had been a long day after a long night. The red wine reminded Frank of her restless sleep, interrupted by glimpses of Mag, then Agoura, wrapped in Clancey's chair. Tunnel was there, too, in the dark room, and then he was Clancey and coming at Frank, who was tied into the chair. Instead of a broom he had a broken wine bottle. Blood kept spilling out of its jagged neck. Frank was amazed how one bottle could hold so much blood.

Sally carefully arranged her skirt. Frank blinked slowly against the dream. She restrained herself from swallowing her wine in one long draft and, instead, held the bottle over Sally's glass. 'May I?'

'Certainly.' Satisfied with her pose, the reporter casually draped an elbow on the linen tablecloth and inquired, 'To what do I owe the honor?'

Frank finished pouring, then admitted, 'I've got something for you. Something I think you're going to like a lot more than my pitiful little bio.'

'Don't be so modest, Lieutenant. It doesn't play well on you.'

'I'm serious. It's about the Culver City Slayer.'

Sally momentarily lost her meticulous composure, and Frank saw a hungry little girl who'd never gotten enough of something. A waiter glided to their table and bowed slightly at Sally. She didn't show it, but Frank knew Sally was charmed by the obsequious service. The waiter spoke only after Frank had acknowledged him, patiently detailing the evening's specials. At Frank's suggestion, Sally opted for the porcini ravioli, while Frank ordered the osso bucco. The waiter departed, their order in his memory, and Sally turned on the detective with undisguised glee.

'So what do you have for me?'

Frank lingered over a sip of the dark wine. On the surface she was aware of teasing Sally, but underneath the artful police work, Frank was reluctant to begin. Sighing deeply but inconspicuously, Frank highlighted the Agoura and Peterson cases.

When the waiter presented their plates, Sally impatiently asked, 'Why are you telling me all this?'

Frank assured the waiter they were satisfied, then carefully explained how the cases were connected. Without offering Clancey's name or specific details, she laid out the evidence against him.

'You know these cases are being handled by Robbery-Homicide now. They have all this evidence and they're just sitting on it. These girls are not a high priority for them, what with Woodall still not closed and then Marker getting bumped yesterday.'

A sitcom personality had been found in an alley, whacked in the head and robbed. All the people in their gated communities and alarmed cars were in high panic about it because it had happened to one of them. Frank ignored her meal, leaning in close to Sally as if to confide in her.

'Honestly, I don't expect you to give a damn about these kids either. But what is news, and what'll get you ratings, is exposing the fact that a two-bit comedian's accidental death is more important to the police that your viewers pay taxes to than the planned and deliberate deaths of at least four young girls. RHD could move on this right now, but the death of a celebrity cokehead is a greater priority than multiple deaths of the average citizen's child.'

Frank watched the story playing in Sally's eyes, knew she had her. Even though she wasn't hungry, Frank forced the tender veal down, letting Sally think. Finally the reporter's eyes narrowed and she said, 'So you want me to cover this to force Robbery-Homicide into action?'

Bluntly Frank answered, 'That's my angle, yeah.'

'Why? It's not your problem anymore. Are you using me to settle a score? I want to know.'

Frank shook her head and dabbed at her mouth with the heavy napkin.

'You know, Sally, I've been a cop for almost seventeen years. I've seen the worst that you can imagine and then some. But there's a man out there, with no remorse and no compunction, who is stealing girls off the streets. He hurts them. He rapes them. And then painfully...knowingly...savagely,' Frank paused a beat, 'he kills them. And he loves this. More than anything. And because he loves it, he'll never stop. He'll go on raping and hurting and killing, and he'll only get better at it. I talked to some of the girls that lived through his assaults. They're never going to be the same. Their worlds are shattered.'

Frank searched the reporter's face. When she continued, she spoke so softly that Sally had to lean closer.

'When I questioned them, when I had to ask them about the man who'd done this to them, they trusted me. They looked at me like somehow I could help them be whole again. Which of course I can't. But I told them, I promised them, that we'd catch him, that they'd never have to be afraid of him again. I intend to keep that promise. It's the least I can do for them.'

Frank sat back, spent from the veracity of what had started as a line for Sally.

'So yeah, it's not my problem anymore. But I can't walk away from those girls, and whoever he's got his sights on next. Because I can guarantee you, he will kill again. As sure as you're taking your next breath.'

Sally coolly tapped a lacquered nail against her wine glass.

'Very touching. But if I break this, then every mike jockey in town will be hounding them.'

Frank needed Sally, she had to play this last hand as well as she could. Smiling patiently, and she hoped winningly, Frank coaxed the reporter.

'Come on, Sally. You're light years ahead of most the crew out there. Do your homework. You can get an exclusive, and however you do that is fine with me. As long as we've never had this dinner, and as long as RHD moves.'

'If I call them on it I'll need more ammunition.'

'Trust me. All you have to do is tell them you know they have a suspect in Culver City, and that they have solid evidence connecting him at least to Agoura. That'll get them sweating. The commission won't be pleased that they're just squatting on a quadruple homicide. And besides,' Frank hinted, pulling out the last drop of charm in her arsenal, 'this could be just the beginning of a useful relationship between us. Don't you think?'

The hungry young reporter stabbed her ravioli and bared her teeth in answer.

33

“Kennedy hoisted a six-pack and said, 'Congratulations.' Frank opened the door wider, letting her inside. 'What am I being congratulated for?'

'You got your man.' Frank shrugged. 'RHD's man.'