Bleeding Out (21 page)

Frank looked perplexed. She glanced at Tunnel, realizing he was skinny enough to have gone undetected on the other side of the hall door. For a second she thought she was going to puke, but she took control and said softly to Kennedy, “How you doing, sport?”

The young cop blinked a few times and shivered. Frank barked, “Get me blankets!”

A uniform covered Kennedy with a ratty bedspread, while Johnnie yelled on the radio for a fucking ambulance. Jill burst through the crowd, completely soaked, and gasped, “Oh, my God.”

Frank looked up to see her propped against the stove, almost as white as Kennedy. Too much blood was soaking through Frank’s wadded jacket, warm and slippery on her fingers. It was too familiar, and Frank felt the dark panic flapping toward her again. She was ready to bolt from the room, but Kennedy was staring at her. Not cocky anymore, but bewildered and pale.

“You’re doing great,” Frank assured, wondering where the goddamn ambulance was. With her free hand she smoothed Kennedy’s forehead, smearing even more blood on her. A siren grew closer and Frank silently exhorted,
Hurry, hurry, hurry, fucking hurry.

Cops had gathered like flies on shit around the apartment.

“Get everyone out of here,” she said to Jill who seemed grateful for an order. Two EMTs rushed past her, and Frank and Noah scrambled out of their way. The techs wedged a foam block around Kennedy’s head and slid her onto a backboard, rising together on the count of two.

Frank and Noah followed them to the ambulance.

“I’m going to ride with her,” Frank shouted over the rain. “Get back to the office, find out who her next of kin is, brief Foubarelle.”

To the ambulance driver she shouted, “Where are you taking her?”

“King/Drew,” he yelled.

“No, tell Foubarelle where we are,” Frank said, as she jumped into the back. An EMT banged the doors together. She left Noah standing in the rain and swearing.

Everyday, in milliseconds, people make decisions that put them on specific paths with destiny. Some are good decisions, like taking the stairs instead of the elevator only to find later that the power went out just as you walked out of the building, or choosing tuna salad at lunch and watching all your co-workers who ate the egg salad get salmonella poisoning. Some decisions don’t have such good outcomes, like taking the freeway instead of the interstate and hitting gridlock that makes you miss an important meeting. Or doing something seemingly trivial that creates a fatal domino effect, like Frank did when she spitefully ignored the half-and-half on the grocery list.

Mag and Frank had been lucky enough to work the same shift that day. They’d gotten off late, as usual, but Mag had been done earlier than Frank. On the drive home she’d asked Frank to run into the liquor store for a pint of half-and-half for Angie.

Angie was Mag’s best friend from high school. A pilot with American Airlines, sometimes Angie stayed with them for a night or two on a layover. She and Mag would be up till the early morning, laughing and catching up on news from home while Frank fumed in bed. Despite the fact that Mag clearly adored Frank, and that Angie was happily married with two kids, Frank always felt second best when the two friends were together.

Angie was so much like Mag—outgoing, vibrant, adventuresome —all the things Frank wasn’t, and she had convinced herself that sooner or later Mag and Angie would end up together. Frank would sulk jealously throughout Angie’s visits. If Mag couldn’t tease Frank out of her sullenness, she’d just ignore her. She’d explained often enough that Angie was like caviar and champagne, but Frank was pot roast and mashed potatoes. Her friend was extravagant and funny; Frank was daily life with all its stable, reliable comforts and pleasures.

Smacking Frank’s thigh, Mag had double-parked in front of the liquor store. Trying to humor Frank out of her funk, she’d teased, “Come on, old pot roast.”

But Frank had whined, “Why can’t she just use milk in her coffee?” and slouched further in her seat.

“Because she
likes
half-and-half. And I had it on the list yesterday, so don’t give me any crap.”

Frank had retorted, “She’s not even here yet and you’re already fawning all over her.”

Sighing patiently, Maggie pointed out, “One, I’m not fawning. Two, if you could read a simple grocery list, this wouldn’t be a problem. Come on, honey, I’m double-parked here.”

“She’s
your
friend,” Frank muttered sullenly. “You go get it.”

Seeing Frank was serious, Maggie had grabbed her purse, swearing, “Goddammit, Frank! When are you going to grow up?”

She’d slammed out of the car leaving Frank churlish but unrepentant. She was still hunkered in her seat, building an even bigger case against Angie, when she’d heard a boom and saw a kid running out of the liquor store. He’d run right by the car, toting a sawed-off. Frank had bolted after him and caught him almost immediately. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen. He was terrified. As she’d cuffed him to a stop sign he’d stammered, “I didn’t mean it.”

She’d glanced behind her, expecting Mag to be running up, but there was only a crowd growing at the liquor store and a man shouting. Frank had raced back, feeling like her feet were glued to the sidewalk. Shoving people out of the store’s entrance, she’d seen Maggie on the floor, surrounded by bright, colorful candy bars. A hole foamed pink air just above her left breast. A man had scurried around her, ranting in a language she didn’t recognize. He’d tried to blot Maggie’s blood with paper towels. Frank had stepped toward her, wanting to touch her and afraid to, sure if she just let this play out she’d wake up to find it was only another nightmare.

She’d heard someone yell, “Call 911!” and realized she’d said it. She’d tried staunching the wound as she knelt next to Maggie, but it was too big and the blood flowed freely around her fingers. Frank gently and uselessly wiped the froth off Maggie’s lips. Her lover’s face blurred and shimmied as Frank viciously cuffed tears from her eyes. She’d whispered, “Hold on, baby. Stay with me, stay with me.”

Mag had stared at Frank without responding. Air had breezed through the hole in her chest. Frank had seen holes like that in other people. Most of them had died. Mag was unconscious when the paramedics rushed in. Frank had prayed in the ambulance for the first time in decades.

At the hospital, she’d paced and paced. When the doctor came toward her she’d read his face and felt herself go into free fall. His voice had been dim and far away, saying Mag had never regained consciousness, the damage was far too massive. She’d literally drowned in her own blood. All over a pint of half-and-half.

Shock, coupled with the deep fatigue of an adrenaline crash, was threatening to settle over Frank. She needed coffee and numbly followed the signs to the cafeteria. Standing in line, she was oblivious to the dried blood on her hands and clothes, or the stares around her. The cashier gingerly handed Frank her change, suggesting there was a bathroom just down the hall where she might want to wash up. Frank’s only response was a weary blink. The woman lowered her eyes back to the register.

Frank dragged herself back to the waiting area, where Foubarelle, Luchowski, Noah, and Chief Nelson were waiting for her. The head nurse volunteered her office, and the five of them squeezed inside. Frank reflexively gauged their moods: Foubarelle was livid, Luchowski looked sour, and Noah was still amped. Only the chief seemed calm.

“What happened in there?” he asked as soon as he shut the door. He indicated a chair, and even though she’d have loved to sink down into it, Frank stood. She started from the beginning, with the abandonment of the stakeout. At the part where the bust slipped sideways she paused to let Noah explain. He spoke animatedly with big gestures. Frank envied his energy, but knew it was just adrenaline he was running on.

“It was a clean shoot,” she concluded.

“How can you say that?” Luchowski exploded. “You might have killed one of my men!”

Without bothering to correct pronouns, Frank said with barely controlled restraint, “No, Timothy Johnston was killing your man.”

“Lieutenant Franco, of course we weren’t there, but this looks like a gross overreaction. Was it necessary to mortally wound the suspect?”

Frank couldn’t believe these dumb fucks. Kennedy’s life was on the line and they were asking if it was necessary?

“With Detective Kennedy bleeding the way she was I didn’t feel that exposing her to further risk of injury was prudent. Johnston had clearly demonstrated his intent to harm her, and in my mind he wouldn’t have hesitated to kill either one of us if he had another chance.”

“With a
pocketknife?”
Luchowski sneered in disbelief.

“Yeah, the pocketknife that put a fucking hole in her throat!” Frank exploded.

“Calm down, Lieutenant,” the chief soothed. “What we mean is that with a firearm you obviously had the advantage over a small knife. What we—”

“Yeah, I had the advantage and I used it. Timothy Johnston wasn’t a boyscout playing with a Swiss Army knife. This fucker was a convicted felon with a rap sheet longer than my arm and a lot of time in stir. You weren’t there, but I can guarantee you he wasn’t going back in. And he wasn’t going out alone. He’d already cut Kennedy and he was going for her again. I stopped him.”

“All we’re trying to ascertain is whether this was an overreaction or an absolutely necessary measure. It’s possible that in a moment of extremely high stress you overreacted and simply—”

The sound of Frank gritting her teeth was clear to everyone in the room. She spoke each word slowly and with tremendous effort.

“With all due respect, sir, if I had fired out of sheer impulse, I can guarantee you Mr. Johnston would have had more than one bullet hole in him.”

She’d seen enough shootings to know that when someone fired in terror, or fury, their victims were usually riddled with bullets. They want the fucker to go down and stay down. But Foubarelle was shaking his head at the floor, and Luchowski was glaring. Noah wouldn’t look her in the eye and Nelson wouldn’t stop looking at her.

“Did you consider your backboard, Lieutenant?”

Frank patiently explained how she had weighed all the consequences of a bad shot, and how Johnston’s head seemed the most reasonable target area, the way he was positioned with Kennedy.

Finally Nelson wagged his head sadly, warning, “You know OIS is going to have to look into this.”

“Of course.”

“And that you’ll be relieved of duty while—”

“Sir, my squad and I are in the middle of a very sensitive investigation and I can’t—”

Now Nelson interrupted. “Oh, yes. That Agoura/Peterson case?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s going to be handled by RHD now. It should’ve been given to them a while ago,” he said, with a scowl at Foubarelle.

Frank bowed her head to conceal her disappointment but then quickly raised it, determined to hold on to her case.

“Sir, I respect your judgment on this matter but I’ve put a lot of time into this case. I think it would be a mistake to let RHD—”

“Lieutenant, you are ROD and the case is downtown. There is nothing else to discuss.”

“But Chief, RHD doesn’t know the—”

“There is nothing further to discuss, Lieu-te-nant. Or would you rather go back to de-tec-tive?”

Frank clamped down on her back teeth. “No, sir.”

“And, of course, you need to hand over your badge and weapon.”

He held Frank’s gaze for a moment as she slowly unholstered the 9mm. Satisfied that he’d restored order, Nelson nodded to Foubarelle and left the room. Luchowski followed him, throwing Frank an evil look, and Foubarelle stepped up to Frank with his palm up. Gently she placed her weapon in his hand, then the badge. It felt like giving up a major organ.

“I want this written up by the time I leave my office tomorrow,” he warned.

She nodded almost imperceptibly. It was Standard Operating Procedure to get RODed after an Officer Involved Shooting. A statement and a written report immediately after a shooting was SOP also. Frank had been in an OIS before, but she’d never killed anyone. She knew she’d have to talk to Clay or another LAPD shrink before she’d be cleared for work, if and when OIS signed off on her.

Foubarelle left with a parting glare, and Frank crossed her arms. She asked Noah, “You want a shot, too?”

“Nope.” He paced the tiny room in two steps, his big hands jammed tight into his pockets.

There was silence except for Noah’s agitated pacing. Finally he stopped and stared at the floor.

“You know, I should have said something this morning. I mean, it just didn’t feel good to me, her going in there. She should have been back at HQ, I mean, it wasn’t her bust, or her squad. Hell, even her division. I don’t know. It just seemed wrong. But I let you talk me out of it. I gave in. I deferred to you.”

Noah said the word like an insult, then he looked squarely at his boss, his friend. “Tell me you didn’t have your own reasons for dragging her in there, Frank.”

Like a mantra, Frank reiterated her reasoning. “Reston’s a bad area. They hate us there. I wanted as much force behind us as I could get. I—”

“That’s a load of shit, Frank, and you know it. We had plenty of back-up without her.”

“I’ve got that kid sitting out there as psycho-bait,” Frank continued wearily. “I didn’t think it was too much to see her in action.”

Noah spluttered, “Well, you saw her, didn’t you?”

Frank reached around to the back of her neck. Thinking the best defense was a good offense, she tried turning the tables.

“I don’t get why you’re so defensive about her. You got a hard-on for her or something?”

Noah almost choked.
“Me?
Hey,
you’re
the one who’s been riding her since day-one. You’re on her like stink on shit, man, and you’re wondering if
I’ve
got a hard-on. Jesus, Frank, take a look in the fucking mirror!”

On top of all she’d been carrying for the last couple of hours, that was the straw that finally broke her. Adrenaline spurted into her bloodstream again, and Frank literally saw red. Her hands closed into bloodless fists. In a tight, barely audible voice, she warned Noah that he’d definitely crossed a line.