Last Call

domestic and brought him in. Frank had to go out to the range for her monthly qualification and Darcy rode with her. In between reloads, he casually reminded Frank that he didn't drink anymore and that he might be able to help with Johnnie, or whatever. Reflecting on the implication of 'or whatever,' Frank thanked him and let the comment pass.

Frank only has a quarter-inch of booze left in her glass and it's barely four o'clock. She has to get through the rest of the night with just one more drink. But, she allows, she can have a glass of wine before dinner and another with dinner, then the second half-tumbler of Scotch for dessert. That's reasonable enough, she decides, and puts her glass down to save the last swallow.

She walks around the house, restless. She wishes she could talk to Noah. Which reminds her that Tracey called last week. She'd left a message asking where Frank has been, when are they going to see her again? Frank hasn't returned the call yet. She feels guilty as hell but Trace and the kids are bleeding raw reminders. She can't face them right now. She needs to forget for a while. Forget everything. Noah, Gail, Johnnie—all of them. Just get everybody out of her head. The only way she knows to do that is to work. And drink.

Downing the last sip of Scotch, Frank pours a glass of wine. She starts to carry it into the shower with her but then leaves it on the counter.

'Pacing,' she tells herself. 'Just slow it down.'

She ignores the clamoring from heart, bone and fingertips, all telling her to guzzle the waiting drink and chase it with a hundred more. Walking away from the glass is harder than facing open fire and leaves Frank trembling almost as badly.

Chapter 25

Noah talks through her stereo. He sounds relaxed, like he's talking smack with his dawgs. It hurts to hear his voice, but she concentrates on Reginald McNabb's. He and Noah joke and Frank winces when Noah laughs. She plays the tape through, hunting for inconsistencies that aren't there. Or that she can't hear.

She's drinking beer tonight instead of the hard stuff. When she gets up to play a new tape, she opens another bottle. Noah dictates the date, time and place of the interview. He introduces himself and, for the record, the woman he is talking to. She's the last of the hookers McNabb talked to the night of the murders. After a few minutes of bio background Noah asks her where she was that night.

'Where I always am. Corner of Florence and Vermont.'

'Was it a busy night?''

'Hell, no! It was freezing. Warn't nobody out.'

'Did you have any tricks that night?'

'Uh-uh. Not a one. I was fixin'a go home, and that's when Reg rolled on me. I told him I was freezin' my ass off for nothing and all he was gonna get from me that night was fuckin' pneumonia. He told me he'd be back in a hour and that if I wasn't there I'd better have some cash for him in the mornin'.'

Frank hears her suck on a cigarette.

'What happened then?'

'He went on and I stayed. Didn't get no fuckin' trick and that pimp nigger never did roll back. Probably went home to his warm bed and slap-pin ' guts.'

'Was that the last time you saw him that night?' She must have nodded because Noah says, 'I need a verbal response, Tina.'

'Yeah. That was the last time.'

'What sort of mood was he in the last time you saw him?'

'Like always. Like the lyin' snake he is, somewhere's between charmin' and deadly.'

Not the attitude Frank would expect from a man who'd just tossed, or still had to toss, two dead kids. The more Frank hears, the more she discounts McNabb as a primary suspect. She has a moment of regret, guilt even, that she didn't help Noah sooner and harder. She thinks of all the energy and emotion he spent running down dead ends.

On paper McNabb looks like a logical suspect, but his story holds up well after at least three lengthy interrogations. So do the testimonies of the girls, his homes and the bartender. Second, of the little physical evidence there was, none pointed to McNabb. Third, McNabb fits neither her profile nor the FBI's, although the latter was submitted when it was believed the suspect had positioned the bodies. Frank has since resubmitted the case data and is anxious to see if VICAP's new profile corresponds to hers. At any rate, barring a confession or a witness stepping forward, she has nothing on McNabb to present to a grand jury.

But like Noah, she will beat this horse to death. After a late lunch the next day, Frank heads back to Raymond Street. She hopes to find McNabb's grandmother home and is pleased when the old lady answers her knock. After Frank introduces herself, Mrs. McNabb whispers that she has some friends visiting. Frank promises this won't take long. The old lady is peeved but invites her in.

'I'll just be a minute,' she tells her friends as she and Frank pass the living room. Two old women stare at Frank, then start whispering as she passes from sight. Mrs. McNabb pulls a chair almost as tall as she is from the kitchen table. She sits but doesn't offer Frank a seat.

'Mrs. McNabb, you spent a lot of time talking to my partner, Detective Jantzen, about your grandson Reginald and his possible involvement in the deaths of Ladeenia and Trevor Pryce.'

The old lady bobs her head so violently Frank half expects it to snap off and roll around on the kitchen floor. She continues with her questions, confirming answers she already has, and retesting the strength of Mrs. McNabb's testimony. At length Mrs. McNabb rises on tiny feet, complaining, 'Lieutenant, my friends are out there waiting on me and the God's honest truth is I am just tired of all these suggestions that my grandson is a petit four.'

'A petit four.' Frank blinks.

'Yes,' she says with heat, 'or whatever you call those child molesters.'

'Mrs. McNabb, I'm certainly not implying that Reginald is a petit four, but he may have gotten into a situation he didn't anticipate. I've talked with Reginald. He's a bright boy, and I think at heart he means well, but sometimes accidents happen. Things get out of hand and suddenly we've made a mess we're not sure how to clean up. The normal thing is to panic and run, try to hide our tracks. That's all I'm saying. And to be honest, from the outside looking in, your grandson looks like a pretty good suspect. Whether he was involved or not, that's what it looks like.'

The old lady appears calmed by the lies. Good cops develop a wonderful sense of timing, and Frank's tells her she's pushed far enough today. Mrs. McNabb makes sure to see her out, asking at the door, 'Where'd that young detective go? I liked him a lot better.'

'I liked him a lot better too,' Frank admits. 'But he's off the case. You're stuck with me now.'

'He off 'cause he didn't solve it?'

It's good for the old lady to believe the case is that important so Frank nods.

Alone in the car, she allows a chuckle. Gail will love Mrs. McNabb's petit four/pedophile malapropism. Her humor fades when she remembers she won't be seeing Gail. Or talking to her. Or Noah, either. There's no one to tell. The extraordinary depth of her isolation stuns Frank, snatching her breath away.

'Christ.'

She needs a drink. It's the only thing she knows to do to ease the crush in her chest. She races toward the Alibi, feeling better just thinking about the relief a drink will bring. Frank's certain this is not a good solution but equally certain she doesn't have a better one. Jammed up in traffic on Manchester, she has time to see a familiar face pass along the sidewalk. Frank idles up to a woman too nicely dressed for the 'hood and too large-boned to be a woman.

'Hey. Buy you a drink, miss?'

'Officer Frank,' she gushes in a breathy voice. 'Whatever you want it's gonna cost you more than a drink.'

'Don't I know it.'

Frank tips her head toward the seat next to her. Miss Cleo minces around the grill, smoothing her skirt as she