Last Call

'What happened if you didn't give it to him?'

'Depends. He'd sulk or mope around sometimes. Most times he'd just take what he wanted. Just throw me down and do what he liked.'

'Whether you were willing or not?'

'Hell, yeah.' She snorts. 'Didn't matter what I wanted.'

'Why'd you go out with this guy?'

'He was nice at first. Used to bring me flowers and candy. He was real gentleman-like at the start. Then he just got rougher and meaner. Disrespectful. I just thought it was, you know, a mood, or something that would pass. But let me tell you, it didn't pass. It weren't no mood.'

'Will you fill out a statement for me?'

'Hell, yeah, I will. You investigating him for something like this, I know you are, else you wouldn't be axing me all these questions about how he like it. Hell, I'll testify against that nappy-headed motherfucker any day. Motherfucker threw me into a wall before he left. Chipped my tooth, see?' She lifts her lip to point at a jagged front tooth. 'I had a pretty smile, too.'

'Still do,' Frank says, showing her own. It's a satisfying moment when someone's willing to testify.

Frank heads to the county courthouse with Bailey's warrant. She's called ahead to check the schedule of Judge Moses Braun and catches him after he's recessed for the day. He's particularly sympathetic to cases involving children and signs Frank's warrants without even reading them.

On the third floor she runs into a cop she used to patrol with. Pausing in front of her, he needles, 'I'll be damned. If it isn't Lieutenant Six Flights Up.'

The man has built a career out of mediocrity and she shoots back, 'If the hats aren't calling you upstairs, you aren't doing your job.'

'You really knock one of your own men out?'

'Come on,' she pleads. 'Do I look like I could knock a cop out?'

Frank is tall, and despite her liquid diet she has maintained her gym muscles. Leaving the cop pondering her question, she continues to the DA'S office. Frank has to wait twenty minutes before Lydia McQueen bursts from her office like a fire hydrant under too much pressure. Short and stout, she even looks like a fireplug. She stands in front of Frank, demanding, 'What do you want?'

'Good to see you too.'

Frank highlights the warrant request, citing Bailey's history of aggression, assault and forced anal intercourse. She also notes a detailed timeline of his whereabouts during the afternoon of the murders and his blown alibi.

The Queen warns, 'It sounds thin.'

'Thin, but inculpatory. If I can get into the vehicle'—she flaps her search warrant—'I hope to match the girl's bruise marks to the edge of the tabletop.'

'Let me see that,' she says, holding out a well-tended hand. Leafing through the papers, she repeats, 'It's still thin. This is the best you can do after six years?'

'It was a dump, Lydia. I'm happy to have this much.'

The Queen is puzzled that one of the items Frank is looking for are Ladeenia Pryce's panties. 'You can't expect to find these after all this time.'

'Maybe, maybe not.' Frank elaborates on Bailey's pathology, explaining the possibility that he might keep souvenirs from his victims. The panties never turned up anywhere else and Frank hopes that's why.

The attorney grunts and shakes her head. 'Looks like a one-on-one, Frank. The sister's word against his.'

'I know.'

'So why should I waste time filing based on just this?'

Frank offers her most ingratiating smile. 'Because we've been working together since before either one of us had a gray hair and because you know I'm good for more. Because I hardly ever come to you until I've built a case. But mostly, because I need this guy.'

Frank and the DA eye-spar.

'Even if I do sign off, you'll have a helluva time at the arraignment.'

'Let me worry about that. Just get me started.'

'You better find that underwear,' the Queen bitches, but she puts pen to paper.

Frank is happy. After certifying and duplicating warrants, she celebrates at the Alibi. To make the evening even nicer, Nancy is there. Frank drinks, flirts and thinks only of catching up to Antoine Bailey.

Chapter 37

Frank doesn't know where she is. She stands in complete bafflement and cracks her shin on what feels like a coffee table. She thinks maybe she's in her living room, but there's no tell-tale light from the street. She shuffles with her hands extended and bumps into a padded chair. She doesn't have a padded chair. Fighting frustration and a pounding head that does nothing to clarify the situation, she gropes for a wall. She runs into another table and things clatter to the floor.

An overhead light splits her skull. She squints into it to see Nancy holding her robe closed.

'What's going on?' the waitress asks.

'Uh . .. sorry. Just trying to find the bathroom.'

'Over there.' Nancy points to a door in the opposite direction.

Holy shit, Frank thinks, gulping water from the sink. What in hell is she doing here? She splashes water on her face, flinches when she sees herself in the mirror. Her hair's a snake pile, her eyes are red and puffy, and there's a deep crease on the cheek she slept on. Passed out on, she corrects.

She takes some comfort that she at least woke up with her clothes on. Frank stares at her ruined face. She just meant to have a couple drinks, not end up passed out on Nancy's couch. For a horrific instant she sees how far out of control her drinking is. Queasy, she returns to the living room. Nancy has straightened the overturned table and offers Frank aspirin.

'No. Thanks. I think I'd better get going.'

'Your car's not here.'

Frank lets that filter through the jackhammer in her head. 'I'll call a cab. I'll wait outside.'

Frank looks for a phone, but Nancy sighs. 'Let me get dressed. I'll give you a ride back to the bar.'

'No, Nance. It's ...' Frank glances at her wrist, amazed that it's almost five. 'Okay,' she relents.

While Nancy dresses, Frank combs her hair with her fingers and fills her pockets with what she'd emptied onto the coffee table the night before. Or the morning before. All she can remember is drinking stouts with Scotch backs and slowing to just stout when the anchorman on the evening news developed a Siamese twin.

Taking the stairs from Nancy's apartment, Frank asks what time they left the Alibi.

'You closed it.'

'Was I obnoxious?'

'It'd be easier if you were.'

'Why didn't you call me a cab?'

Nancy stops to face Frank. Pity and anger alternate across her face. 'I thought maybe I'd finally get lucky last night, but you passed out while I was making the bed.'

Frank is mortified. 'Nance, I'm sorry.'

'Yeah.'

Nancy continues and Frank stays a step behind. They are quiet in the car, until Frank tries her tired excuse.

'It's not you, Nance. You know that. It's me.'

'Oh, I know.' She laughs falsely. 'It's always you. But how come you're good enough for Kennedy? Or the coroner? How come you're good enough for them but never me?'

'They're different. You know that. Kennedy's a cop. We went though some shit together and then we had a fling. Is that what you want? A fling?'

'What about the coroner? She's not a cop.'

'Exactly. She's not. And do you see me with her? You know how we are. You hear us after a couple beers. We're not a nice bunch of people, and it takes other cops to understand that and put up with it. The truth is, you're