Frank heard the excitement in Kennedy's voice and regretted she wasn't deserving of it. But she'd try. She'd put in the effort to give Kennedy a nice Christmas.
'Since it's Christmas Eve and I have a delicious dinner to cook. I've got to stop and get groceries, then I'll be home.'
'Excellent! I'm still at work, then I'm going home and change. See ya around six?'
'Good,' Frank said, about to hang up, but Kennedy asked, 'Can I bring anything?'
'I got it covered.'
Replacing the receiver, she heard a phone ringing in the squad room. Ike and Diego were catching tonight, but they were out. Frank knew no one else would answer it at 1:45 on Christmas Eve. As she was mulling that over, Noah stepped into the room and threw a little box at her.
'Tracey saw that the other day. It reminded her of you.'
As she unwrapped the present, Noah asked when she was leaving.
'Soon as I open this.'
'Good. You look like shit. Go home and get some rest.'
'Easier said than done. How you been sleeping lately?'
'Like a baby.'
Inside the box was a plastic figurine of a hula dancer. Frank pressed under the base and the dancer's knees and waist buckled and her arms waved about.
'Reminded you guys of me, huh?'
Noah laughed. 'Hey, that's an antique, man. They don't make those anymore.'
'I see,' Frank said, slipping into her coat. 'That's what reminded you of me?' Noah laughed again.
'We just thought you'd have fun playing with her. Next time Fubar traps you in here, just take that Honolulu honey out and start flapping her around.'
Frank forced a sparse smile as she walked out with her detective. 'You going down to Tracey's folks?'
'Yep, for rubber turkey and more neckties. How 'bout you? Whatcha gonna do?'
'Just hang at home.'
'Why don't you come over tonight, have dinner, read Christmas stories with us.'
'Nah.'
'Come on! Come over, Trace'll love it. So will the kids.'
'I can't.'
Frank shook her head, and Noah stepped in front of her.
'Why not?'
'I can't.'
'Why?'
Frank said dismissively, 'I'm making dinner for Kennedy.'
Noah lifted both eyebrows. 'Now that's
'Whatever.'
Frank moved around him and he followed her down the stairs.
'Are you two spending a lot of time together?'
'Christ, you are such an old auntie.'
He laughed and pressed, 'Well? Are you?'
'No, we're not. She doesn't have any family and invited herself over for dinner. And I let her. It's that simple.'
'Okay. If you say so.'
Frank loved Noah, but he really was an old nanny.
'Give Trace and the kids a hug for me. Have fun in San Diego.'
Noah wiggled his eyes and gently punched Frank's shoulder. 'You have fun with Gidget.'
34
Frank looked at the fireplace. She hadn't used it in years. Mag had loved tires, and whenever the temperature dropped below seventy she'd build a raging one. Frank would curse and open all the windows, but after she'd realized the fat rug in front of it was one of Mag's favorite places to make love, she hadn't objected anymore.
'Probably start a chimney fire,' Frank muttered, stuffing in wadded paper and pseudo-logs from the grocery store. In the low-forties and damp, it was cold by L.A. standards. Frank cranked the heat up. When Kennedy knocked and let herself in, Frank was standing at the sink dressing a standing rib roast.
'Hey, girl, this is a dangerous city. Pretty ‘lil thang like you oughta keep her doors locked. Good God on a mountain! What are you cookin', a whole calf?'
'Heard you Texans like things big.'
'Dang! What army's coming over for dinner?'
'The way you eat we'll be lucky to have the bones left. You like your meat medium, right?'
'That's right. Damn, that's some impressive sum-bitch. You gonna put those curly little white hats on the ends?'
'Nope, no hats. Only Yorkshire pudding and peas with pearl onions in a green peppercorn sauce.'
'Jesus...what's Yorkshire pudding?'
'You never had that?' Frank asked, poking garlic slices into the fat.
'Uh-uh.'
'It's kinda of like a popover. You ever had them?'
'Uh-uh.'
'Well, it's kind of a greasy bread. You make a dough and bake it with the drippings. It's good.'
'I've never had anything from your kitchen that wasn't. I didn't know what you were making so I got you a bottle of red and one of white.'
Frank glanced up at the bottles Kennedy put on the bar and hefted them appreciatively.
'This is some primo wine, sport.'
'The guy at the wine store said they were topnotch.'
'Must have set you back a pretty penny.'
'What the hell, it's Christmas.'
'Let's check this red out,' Frank said, cutting a circle in the protective foil. 'Thanks.'
'You're welcome. 'Sides, it's the least I can do seeing as you're doing all the cookin' again.'
'My pleasure,' Frank lied. All she wanted to do was sink down on the couch with the TV blasting some inane show and sleep for twenty-four hours, a deep and solid amnesiac sleep. She poured a glass of the wine, then pushed it aside and drank from the glass she already had going.
'Aren't you gonna try it?'
'Have to let it sit, let some of the alcohol burn off so you get a truer taste. Smells great, though.'
Frank shoved the roast into the oven and mixed the pudding batter while Kennedy told her a story about the narc surveillance she was on. Frank listened diligently, tweaking out a smile at the funny parts, but she didn't get past Kennedy's watchful eye.
'Somethin' on your mind, Lieutenant?'
'No, ma'am.' Frank said, drying her hands on a dishtowel.
'You wouldn't tell me if there was, would you?'
'Just tired,' Frank said to the towel. 'Lots of work to catch up on. Delamore got me all behind, there's the usual end-of-the-year panic meetings, just a bunch of stuff. So, I hear you're going to whip my ass at gin.'
Frank's attempt at levity sounded hollow even to her, and a blind person couldn't miss the flatness in her eyes. They were pinched and tight, like she had a bad headache, and the slump in her carriage was completely out of character with her typical square-shouldered stance.
'Why don't you take a nap?' Kennedy said. 'Just tell me when to put the batter in and I'll take care of it. 'A little nipper,' as my dad used to say. I won't let you sleep more than twenty minutes.'
It was tempting, but Frank shook her head. 'I'd rather kick your ass at gin.'
She was relieved when Kennedy went along with the con, answering, 'Oh, so you're going to kick
