'Tell him,' Lewis says, tipping her head toward the kid. She wheels out to the living room. Frank is left with the boiled body and Garcia, who looks everywhere but at her commanding officer. Frank sees Lewis take the neighbor aside. She follows her detective into the next room and listens. Frank is suddenly tired and Lewis is asking good questions. She leaves the apartment, grateful for the relatively fresh air outside.
Frank waits outside against the black-and-white, the sun heavy on her closed lids. Lewis was right to jump her case. Frank ponders what's happened to her—when she got so callous—but can see no defining moment. Frank knows she's hurting. And doesn't know what to do with the hurt. She can't tackle it head-on like the shrinks and Gail would have her do. She's got to come at it sideways. Sooner or later she'll get a handle on it, but right now it twists and squirms inside her like a slippery knife blade. It's easier to shut it all out, turn off everything, rather than feel anything.
The hardness is easy after so many years. Law enforcement, especially in the relentlessly murderous divisions, exacts its pound of flesh from those who pursue it. The most common blood sacrifices include divorce, alcoholism and apathy. If these aren't enough to break a cop, the toll escalates to bitterness, rage and not- infrequent suicides. Frank considers which rung of the burnout ladder she's on and thinks of Noah.
'Bastard,' she whispers.
He's the lucky one. Noah got out while he was still whole. She wonders if the endless glut of human ugliness would have ever gotten to him. The Pryce case did in the beginning and she was glad when Joe finally put him back into full rotation. He resumed sleeping and eating, and Frank knew he was all right when he started whining again. She couldn't imagine the job permanently beating him down and was glad she'd at least been spared seeing that. Maybe it never would have happened to Noah. Tracey and the kids were his lifeline. They kept him afloat in a sea of shit. And it was Noah that had kept Frank's head above water. Without him, she wonders if she is drowning.
When Lewis emerges from the building Frank pushes off the car and calls her over. 'First, I'm sorry about what I said in there. You were right. I was absolutely outta line.'
'It surprised me, is all. It's not like you to—'
'Second thing,' Frank interrupts. 'This is a slam-dunk. Tell me why.'
'Well, the mother says she slipped. You ever slipped with even a tiny pot of oil? Shit goes
This earns Lewis a tight but legitimate smile.
'And the worst mess on that kid is from the top of his head down. Not random like you'd expect if he got spattered in a spill. That
Frank nods, pleased. 'You gonna bring her in?'
'Yeah, I'ma bring her in!' Lewis says, indignant.
'When you get her calmed down ask her two things—
Lewis writes this down.
'Did the kids see anything?'
'Nuh-uh.'
'A'ight. Look, I got an appointment. You need me here?'
'Nah, I got it, LT.'
'I'll have Garcia stay with you. Let her talk to the kids. You be nice to her and she might be your partner someday.'
'Or my detective,' Lewis says with a sly smile.
'You plannin' on replacing me?'
Lewis blushes, explaining, 'Yeah, see, 'cause you gonna be my captain.'
Her detective's passion is a balm to Frank, who smiles for the second time that afternoon. 'S'all good to the gracious,' she says with a slap at Lewis's shoulder. 'Call if you need me.'
Chapter 33
What Frank neglected to tell Lewis was that her appointment was with a highball glass. Traffic on the I-10 is knotted and while Frank inches along she worries about going native.
'I was off' the rim,' she confides to the windshield. 'That's bad when a D-I has to boot my ass.'
The Crisco remark might be something she'd say behind a pitcher of beer with the boys, but certainly not on scene. Frank strives for respect with the rankest of victims and she's instilled this into the nine-three. It creates a professionalism that Frank completely lacked today. And when she swung on Johnnie.
Meandering through the last couple months, she logs other instances. She embarrassed Bobby with a castrated banger that had bled to death, joking in front of the mother that she was glad she wasn't going to have to make a cast of the wound. Then there was the incident with Miller, provoking the bastard to swing so she could get in his face. Bobby'd seen that one, too.
Embarrassment blooms in the forefront of Frank's consciousness. It's a new sensation, and one she doesn't want to get familiar with. She stares at the camper mired next to her. A young white male sits behind the wheel. He's thin and stubbly. French or German, Frank thinks. They're big on renting campers. The guy's stuck in downtown L.A. traffic with no clue where he is.
'Maybe I've got no clue,' she mutters. Maybe she should talk to Clay. He's retired now from the department's Behavioral Science Unit, but before he pulled the pin he sent a letter informing her he'd be available for limited private practice. Frank can't remember if she saved the letter.
She checks out the camper again, thinking that's the answer. As soon as the Pryce case blows over she'll take a leave of absence and get her head back on. Rent a camper and travel around the states. Except for some extraditions and chasing leads down, she's never done any traveling. It might be good to see the big old USA.
But the possibility occurs to her that she might never close Pryce. Frank is good, but she's not a magician. Some cases just never come off the books. Noah was a good cop. He worked it hard for over a year and got nowhere. In the six intervening years, they still haven't discovered the primary scene or uncovered one witness. The paucity of physical evidence they started with has disappeared and, barring a miracle, any unrecovered evidence will have long since followed. Odds are, lacking a credible confession or other wildly lucky break, the case may well remain a whodunit.
Unpalatable as it is, Frank has to admit this eventuality. The thought adds to her grim mood and she wishes she'd bought a pint for the road.
'Jesus.' She shakes her head. 'What a fucking drunk.'
She turns the radio up. Sig alerts and sky cams won't do her much good now. She changes bands, pulls in KROK. Recognizes R.E.M. and keeps scanning. Jammin' oldies. Minnie Riperton. Please. She stops at The Beat. Her fingers dangle over the steering wheel and she bats them on the dashboard to an old Tupac song.
'Baby, don't cry,' she mouths along. 'Got to keep your head up.'
Lewis's outraged face looms again and she recalls the reproach in Bobby's eyes, sees the wariness in her other detectives. Maybe she's outplayed her hand. Maybe she's so beyond burnout she doesn't even know it.
She didn't used to be like this. She doesn't want to be a relic, x-ing days off the calendar until she collects a watch, but on a day like today leaving sounds good. Take early retirement and travel around. Get the fuck out of Dodge while the getting's good. Maybe she'll do like Steinbeck, only without the dog. Travels with Lieutenant Franco. She'll visit the house in Kansas that Truman Capote memorialized. Trace the shooting spree Mailer chronicled in
The camper eases past her and she thinks about what she'd take with her. Except for a couple changes of clothes, her CDs are all she really wants. After twenty years in this town all she has to show for it is what she can hear on any good jazz station. Frank mulls this over and tries not to be depressed. She studies the camper, figuring what sort of mileage they get these days. She remembers the
Formica counters.
'Holy fuck.'
Formica countertops. With the metal stripping around the edges. The camper in the Pryce pictures. The kitchen when you walk right in the door. Confined quarters. Take Ladeenia on the table. Spill some coffee, knock the sugar over. Bruise her leg against the edge of the table. Take her against the stove where she burns her
