End of Watch

She was a forty-five-year-old woman, not a ten-year-old watching her father die.

Frank closed the folder and left the room.

CHAPTER 14

Annie looked up from her computer as Frank carried her cup into the squad room. Frank noticed one of the other detectives still reading his paper. That wouldn't play in her squad room. She balled up the empty bialy bag and tossed it in the trash. That, however, was just like her detectives—rip through the food then leave the empty containers lying around like bones. The Times sports section was next to the coffeepot. Frank skimmed it. Looked like the Pats were going to the Super Bowl again, a dynasty in the making. No mean feat in an era of salary caps and free agents. More steroid scandals and basketball fights. Still no hockey.

Glancing around the room, she found Annie staring at her.

'Ya finished already?'

Frank shook her head. 'Just needed more coffee.'

She trudged back to the lieutenant's office, took the chair again. She ran her fingers over the glossy wood grain, wondering what she needed to read that she didn't already know.

They'd turned onto East Ninth. She'd been walking next to him, a bag of groceries cradled in his right arm, her hand in his left. When he walked with her or her mother he always kept himself between them and the street. He'd explained it was an old custom from the days of runaway horses in the streets. But that night the danger came from the entrance to an apartment building. Boing! Like a jack-in-the-box the junkie had popped out and landed in front of her father.

Wielding a short, ugly pistol, he demanded, 'Gimme your wallet!'

Her father dropped her hand, pushing her behind him. 'Take it easy,' he said.

Frank peeked around his waist.

'Gimme your money!' the junkie yelled, dancing and jabbing his gun close at her father.

'All right! Jesus Christ, hold on! Let me put my food down.'

'I don't care about your fuckin' food!' the junkie screamed.

'All right, all right, I'm getting it!' her father soothed. He groped for his wallet. Frank watched the junkie's feet. Tennis shoes with holes in them, dancing at the end of skinny legs, dancing close to her father's feet.

'Come on, man, hurry up!'

Her father pulled his wallet out.

'Give it to me,' the junkie mumbled. 'Give it here.'

Her father dropped the groceries as his body swung forward. The junkie jumped back, swearing. Her father swung a roundhouse left at the same time Frank heard the pistol shot. Her father fell onto a knee then tipped over.

'Oh, shit,' the junkie said. 'Oh, shit.'

Frank had a clear look at him before he bolted down the street. His eyes were round and black. Greasy hanks of hair hung in his face and his skin was gray.

'Frankie,' her father said in an awful voice. 'Go back to the store. Tell him to call a cop. Get 'em here quick. Get an ambulance.'

'An ambulance?'

She turned to her father, saw his shirt darkening around his hands, staining through his jacket.

'Dad?'

'Frankie. Go!' He breathed hard. 'Now. Run.'

And she ran.

She ran and she ran like the Gingerbread Man.

There was a knock on the LT's door and Silvester poked her head in. 'I talked to my Loo. You wanna ride over to Queens with me?'

Frank pushed a hand through her hair. 'Yeah. I'd like that.'

'Let's go.'

Frank scooped the papers into the folder, passing it back to Annie as they walked down the hall.

'Anything?'

'No,' Frank said. 'Nothing.'

Annie dropped the folder on her desk. 'Here.' She handed Frank the jars and their paperwork. 'You're deputized. Let's go sign out a car. Maybe we can even get one with tires and a steering wheel. Psh. The crap they make us drive. Half the time they break down in the middle of rush hour and the other half they don't even start.'

They got a plain brown Buick that choked to life, shaking like a wet dog.

'Cross your fingers,' Annie muttered.

Leaving the lot she dug a pack of espresso beans from her purse and held them out to Frank.

'No, thanks.'

Annie popped a handful, smirking, 'Legal speed.'

'Need somethin' on this job.'

'Tell me 'bout it.' She chewed, her dark eyes roving the street. 'Franco? Is that Italian?'

'Nah. Spanish. Spanish-German on my father's side. Norwegian-Dutch on my mother's. You?'

'Eye-talian. True and true.'

Frank deciphered 'true and true' as through and through.

'I been called everything—guinea, dago, wop, greaser—I didn't know my name was Annie until I was six. My father's side of the family is from Naples and my mother's from Salerno.'

'Ever been?'

'No.' Annie grew wistful. 'I've always wanted to go, but I've never had the time. You know how it is. Kids, the Job.' She shrugged. 'You got kids?'

'Nope.'

'I got two. Ben and Lisa. They're good kids, despite me. Lisa's at NYU—wants to be a lawyer. Can you imagine? My own daughter. Her brother's a chef. You ever heard of Gramercy Tavern, up on East Twentieth?'

'Uh-uh.'

'Oh, it's a nice place. Very fancy. They got foie gras and quail, salmon cooked in salt. They got eighty-five types of cheeses. My son's the grill chef.'

'Quite an accomplishment.'

'Let me tell ya, he didn't get his talent from me. That's for sure. I cook outta a box. If mere weren't Kraft macaroni and cheese my kids woulda starved to death. Musta skipped a generation, cause my mother's baked ziti? To die for!'

Grizzled clouds spit snow, the flakes melting as they hit the windshield.

Jutting her chin skyward, Annie said, 'Supposed to be more of this.'

'I heard. Guess I better pick up a real jacket somewhere.'

'You stickin' around a while?'

'Yeah. At least until we get the print results back. Then ...' Frank flipped a hand, checking Annie's profile. 'What about talking to someone at the cemetery? If you don't have time, I could do it. Ask around, see if the groundskeepers have seen anyone at the grave, if there's been things left there before? If so, how often? Stuff like that.'

Annie nodded, covering the street. 'I got this kid I'm workin'.

That's my priority, but maybe we can take a run out there when this breaks. Or you could ask on your own, let me know what you find out.'

'All right.'

They drove and watched, keeping one ear on the street, the other on dispatch chatter.

As the snow accumulated Annie said, 'It's starting to stick. Bet you wish you were home now, huh?'

'Nah, I like it. I miss the city. I think it's prettier than LA.'

'Prettier? New York? Come on.'

'You're right. Pretty is for flowers. New York isn't pretty. It's ... good-looking. It's handsome. Makes you stop