Last Call

settles beside Frank.

'You can't drive better than this on your salary?'

'What's wrong with this?' Frank asks.

'It's old, what's wrong with it. Look like something my grandma'd drive.' Miss Cleo sniffs.

She's a classy hooker, but there aren't that many classy bars in South Central. The Sizzler's close and clean. Two 10-7 uniforms snicker as Frank and Miss Cleo take a table. Miss Cleo orders red wine, removing the white gloves that cover her telltale wrist bones. An artfully tied scarf conceals the large Adam's apple, and Miss Cleo remains the image of a sophisticated lady.

'Being careful out there?' Frank asks.

The ageless transvestite flashes a snowy smile. 'I'm here, aren't I?'

Frank pulls pictures from her briefcase, sliding them across the table. 'You know any of these guys?'

The drinks come and Frank finishes half her beer before Miss Cleo's first sip. She studies pictures of Noah's three suspects but at last shakes her head. Feathers wave from the cloche over her ironed bangs.

'What'd they do?'

'Detective Jantzen ever talk to you—'

'Oh, I heard he passed. I'm so sorry about that. He was a lovely man.'

Frank responds with one nod. 'He ever talk to you about a case he had a while back? Two kids dumped in a lot near Raymond Street. Strangled.' Trevor's broken neck is still a holdback.

Miss Cleo's fine features draw together in concentration. 'It seems like it. Yes, I think so. That've been about four, five years ago, hmm?'

'Six. This guy, Reginald McNabb'—she taps his picture—'is a pimp. He lives over to Raymond. Keeps a stable of really young girls. Don't think he has one over sixteen. He likes it front and back. That's how the little girl was done. This guy, Charles Floyd, he's just a hustler. I want to know what the word is on him. And this guy, name's Willie Coleman. He likes kids. Down in Calipatria right now, serving a dime on a child molest. '

The feathers bounce in understanding. Frank finishes her beer, already wanting another. She lays two twenties on the table.

Miss Cleo is surprised. 'You don't usually pay in advance.'

'I don't usually care this much. Can I give you a ride somewhere?'

Chapter 26

At the coffeepot next morning, she asks Bobby, 'How goes it, Picasso?'

Hunching his broad shoulders, he answers in his sweet voice, 'Weird. It goes weird.'

'How so?'

'I don't know. Just feels weird without Noah, and Johnnie gone now too.'

'Yeah. I know.'

They both look over the squad room. Jill's typing and Lewis is on the phone.

'How goes it with you?' Bobby asks over the rim of his cup.

She thinks for a moment, then confides, 'You're the art major. You'll appreciate this. You know Munch's The Scream? The skinny woman with her mouth open like an O?'

'Yeah.' Bobby nods.

Heading toward her office, Frank says over her shoulder, 'It goes like that.'

Unable to stand the confining squad room, twenty minutes later Frank checks out a slickback and drives to McNabb's crib.

Noah had dragged Reginald McNabb down to the station no less than three times, and each time his testimony was consistent. McNabb was at the Cozy Corner from about 2:30 to 4:00 on that Friday afternoon. Ladeenia and Trevor left their house around 3:30. According to McNabb, there was no one to kick it with at the bar, so he left. He cruised around looking for his homes, couldn't find any. He stopped at the B & O for cigarettes. He got a Quick Pick and five scratchers. None of the dated tickets were winners and he'd thrown them out. The owner of the store didn't remember him. He doesn't have a substantial alibi until he appears at Jackson's Bar at almost 6:00. The bartender and three homes back his story. He has two Seven-and-Sevens then goes out to make sure his hos are getting ready for work. The girls Noah talked to support the timing. Reginald spends the better part of the night hustling. Christmas is coming and he needs bank. His girl Tina is the last to see him that night, around 11:30.

The morning is still young when Frank pulls up to McNabb's. A bronze Camry, tricked out with gold rims and personalized plates reading BIGPMPN, announces he is home. This pleases Frank. The best time to trip a suspect up is when they've just been pounded out of bed. Frank flashes ID at a woman behind the cracked door.

'What you want him for?'

'Wanna talk to him.'

Seeing Frank's alone, the woman admits her. She starts to walk away but Frank catches her arm.

'He asleep?'

'He was till you started banging on the door.'

'Where?'

The woman is dubious but points down a hall with three open doors.

'On the right or left?'

'Left. The second one.'

Frank walks into a dim room. Reginald McNabb sleeps on his belly, hugging a pillow. Even in bed he is decked out in emeralds and ice. A sheet covers him from half his ass down. Frank loves this. She sits next to him, tickling his back with her badge. He swats at it, slurring into the pillow, 'Keesh, wha' you doin'?'

Frank holds a finger in front of her lips, glancing at a nervous Keesh in the doorway. Frank trails the badge over the small of McNabb's back and he rolls over in a flurry. His speed surprises Frank, but not as much as she's surprised him.

He grabs the sheets, spitting, 'Who the fuck are you?' even though she's held her badge up for him.

'Lieutenant Franco. Homicide. Where were you the night Ladeenia Pryce was killed?'

'What?'

She repeats the question.

'Bitch, what the fuck you talkin' about? Comin' into my house like this! Wakin' me up in my bed. I'ma slap a harassment suit on you's what I'ma do. You got a warrant?'

'Don't need one. Keesh let me in. Where were you the night Ladeenia Pryce was killed?'

'Keesha, you one stupid bitch, you know that? I do not fuckin' believe this,' he moans. 'Why you people still all over me 'bout them kids?'

'Where were you the—'

'I was the same fuckin' place I was the last time you five-oh motherfuckers axed me! Keesha! Why you let this bitch in here?'

Keesha only answers with wider eyes.

'Where were you the night Ladeenia Pryce was killed?'

'Same fuckin' place, a'ight! To the Cozy Corner, then Jackson's, a'ight! It's the same fuckin' story. It ain't changed. Don't be puttin' it on me 'cause you stupid motherfuckin' one-times can't find your killuh.'

'Put some clothes on.' Frank stands. 'Could you make us some coffee, Keesha?'

'What I look like, your fuckin' housemaid?'

McNabb barks, 'Bitch, make the goddamned coffee.'

Frank waits in the sparsely furnished living room, McNabb's strewn clothing the only decoration. She studies a high-end entertainment system until he appears in jeans and a T-shirt.

'Nice works,' she says. 'Probably costs more than I make in half a year.'

'Yeah.' He snorts. ' 'Cause you the only honest cop left in America, right?'

'Well, at least L.A.,' Frank corrects. 'So tell me about that night.'

'Keesha! Where my coffee?' he yells.

'It's coming,' she yells back from the kitchen.

'Man, I already told all this to that skinny motherfuckin' Jantzen dude. Musta been at least a hundred times. Why don't you ask him?'