Street Rules

'Sorry. Guess I'm not known for my sensitivity.'

'I guess not. You're so cold-blooded sometimes.'

'Comes with the territory. Murder's a pretty cold-blooded business.'

Balancing her hands like full scales, Gail said, 'The tender Frank, the brutal Frank. The warm Frank, the frosty Frank. Sometimes it's difficult to reconcile your two personalities.'

Frank joked, 'You should try living with them.'

'Hey, I'm sorry. I know what you put up with every day. I see the results of it on my tables. I know you have to find a way to deal with that, but I hate to see your finer qualities subsumed by the heartlessness of your work.'

Gail paused, seeing a grin start on Frank's face. 'What?'

'Nothing. That just sounded so . .. Shakespearean.'

'Well see? You talk like a wife-beater and I talk like a British Lit professor. Maybe brutal's better.'

'No,' Frank corrected, 'I love the way you talk. It's like listening to Mah-stuh-piece Thee-uh-tuh.'

Gail laughed, and Frank felt uncharacteristically self-conscious under the doc's scrutiny.

'Can I ask you something?'

'Already told you what L.A. stands for.'

'I know,' Gail smiled. 'I was thinking of something else.'

'Shoot.'

'The stuff you said you were working through. Can I ask what it is or would I be prying?'

Playing with her snifter, Frank considered, then said, 'You'd be prying. And I can tell you. Be good for me. Make my shrink proud.'

Gail's brow crunched in disbelief.

'You have a shrink?'

'Richard Clay. At Behavioral Sciences. They're mostly a bunch of quacks over there, but Clay's a good guy. I've worked with him, and I had to see somebody after I shot Timothy Johnston. He's all right.'

It was amazingly easy to tell Gail about Maggie and how she died, then about Kennedy and Delamore, and how she was finally dealing with the whole literally bloody mess.

'Impressive,' Gail said when Frank was finished.

'How so?' Frank asked, draining the last of her grappa.

'There's a lot more substance to you than I originally thought.'

Frank smiled, 'More than just a wife-beater, huh?'

Gail returned the smile, her eyes lingering on Frank's. Looking away, Frank said, 'I saw you hiding a yawn a while ago. Maybe we should call it a day.'

'Probably,' Gail said. Frank cleared the dessert plates and Gail helped. When she started rinsing the dishes in the sink Frank stopped her.

'Leave 'em. I'll get 'em tomorrow.'

'Wow. You cook and do dishes. Are you sure you don't want a girlfriend?'

'Pretty sure. But if I change my mind, you'll be the first one to know.'

'Promise?'

'Absolutely,' Frank assured, walking Gail to the door.

'Thanks for dinner. It was wonderful. And I had a great time today.'

'Me too. Maybe we can do it again.'

'Really? Even the hegira?' Gail chuckled, and Frank thought, damn, that's the sexiest sound.

'See?' Frank pointed out. 'There you go again.'

'There I go what again?'

'Hegira. I've never heard anybody use that word in conversation.'

Gail laughed and Frank made sure the doc drove away safely. For a long time she stayed under the red Pasadena sky, searching the darkness where Gail had turned the corner. When she finally went back into her house, she whispered as if trying to convince herself, 'Pretty sure.'

Chapter Twenty-two

Frank hated Mondays. Not because she was going back to work, but because meetings ate up the day; press meetings, the lieutenants meeting, community building meetings, district attorney meetings — meetings ad nauseum. She didn't catch Nook and Bobby until quitting time. Flapping the bus schedules in front of them, she asked what they thought.

'Busy girl,' Nook said.

'Busy doing what?' Bobby said, taking the words straight out of Frank's mouth. She loved watching her detectives chew on a problem, and she sat back, letting them run with it. Slanging was their first thought too and they kicked it around, deciding it was a family thing. Their points were that Claudia, Gloria, and Chuey had all had possession with intent to distribute charges. They weren't rolling in dough but were obviously living better than they could on AFDC and food stamps. Claudia probably handled the business end and the kids had done the running. Claudia's offhand remarks about dealing here and there belied a sensitivity to the issue. It was likely there was someone else involved, someone bigger than Claudia who could put the screws to her, maybe even cap her family when necessary.

The cops felt like they were getting part of the picture but not the whole screen. Frank considered asking Nook's opinion on the shakedown theory, but kept quiet, still wanting to flesh it out more. It was a serious charge, and not one that Nook or anyone else in the department would take lightly.

When she asked if they thought Placa could have been hooking, Bobby stared at her deadpan. His partner snickered, 'That girl had her hustle on, but not like that.'

'I don't know,' Frank said, stretching her arms over her head, 'I think it might be worth nailing down.'

'Yeah, well, Les and I've got a doctor's appointment at 3:30 . . .'

'I'll take care of it,' Frank said. 'It's a silly idea, but if I can find Lydia I'll run it by her. See if I can't pin her down some more about the dope.'

'I'd go with you,' Nook said, 'but I've got an appointment too.'

'Yeah, with your Lazy-boy.'

'I'm not young like you two,' he balked. 'Time for the old dogs to move over and let you pups have a try.'

Frank baited, 'Don't tell me you're retiring, Nook.'

He hissed at the 'r' word, mumbling retirement was for losers. His old partner had retired in January and that was when Nook had put in for transfer. He was right. Homicide at Figueroa wasn't for old dogs. Frank usually worked at least a twelve-hour day. When they rolled on a fresh case, 24, 36, even 48-hour days weren't uncommon. The job was physically, emotionally, and intellectually demanding. Joe Girardi had called homicide the decathlon of police work, and Figueroa the Olympic arena.

After they left, Frank reveled in the silence that enabled her best work. She stopped for a moment when she heard footsteps shuffle and click in the squad room. Ike was the determined click and Diego was the Vibram-soled shuffle. Frank went out to tell Ike that McQueen wouldn't budge on her charges.

'Whatever. I did my part.'

'That's all you can do you,' Frank commiserated. It was hard enough finding the bad guys, but then when the district attorney's office let them go with a slap on the hand it felt like fighting a losing battle.

'How's it going?' she asked Diego.

'Okay,' he answered, filling Frank in on their day. When he was done, she said to Ike, 'Aren't you late for the track?'

'That's were I'm headed.'

Every afternoon he could be found at Hollywood Park, putting money on the last races of the day.

'Damn, Pinkie, I don't know. Peep you, dipped like a bailer, got your bling on . . . those ponies must be ridin' bank to you.'

Ike's mouth turned down. He was no Rhodes scholar but he hated street slang. All you had to do to send him into a fit was say 'ebonies.'

'Yeah,' Diego grinned, slipping Frank some skin, 'Gi' my dawg mad props. He be da illest one-time hoedin' it