Bleeding Out (25 page)

“Dang. Have you read all those books?”

“No,” Frank said patiently.

Kennedy smiled as she passed the dining room table, cluttered with the xeroxed guts of the Agoura/Peterson case. Standing behind Frank, she surveyed the guest room.

“This is nice,” she said. The room was simply furnished. Pale yellow walls and a couple of large, healthy plants gave the room a sunny, tropical feeling. Fingering a palm frond, Kennedy said, “I never would have figured you had such a domestic streak.”

“I don’t. My housekeeper takes care of everything. If they die she gets new ones.”

Frank opened the door to a small bathroom and said, “Let me know if you need anything.”

Kennedy poked her head in, regarding the folded yellow towels on their racks, the new bar of soap in the dish, and a vase of tiny white and yellow flowers.

“Did your housekeeper pick the flowers, too?”

Kennedy reminded Frank of a lioness observing its quarry, carefully noting every weakness and opening. She admitted to having cut the flowers and Kennedy twanged, “Ah knew it. Yer just a big ol’ femme under that crusty outside.”

Frank knew Kennedy was teasing, but all the butch and femme references still made her uncomfortable. They alluded to a sexuality that was well buried, one that Frank wanted to keep that way.

“You’re welcome to use the dresser. Why don’t you unpack while I start dinner.”

“Can I help?”

“Yes,” Frank said firmly. “You can watch.”

Frank put groceries away then started the barbecue, relieved by the familiarity of her household chores. Stirring together a marinade for the chicken, she wondered if she had enough fruit on her trees to make a citrus salsa. Kennedy wandered out to the patio as Frank was picking oranges.

“This is a most-excellent house.”

“Glad you like it,” Frank said through the branches.

“Did you buy it like this or remodel?”

“Bought it.”

“Was the gym already there?”

Always the detective, Frank mused. Luchowski was a lucky guy.

“Nope. I did that.”

“Who decorated?”

Frank remembered the day the big leather couch was delivered. Maggie had laughed,
“Now
it’s a home,” and pushed Frank down onto it. They’d made love on the slippery plastic packing.

“A friend,” Frank offered.

“You have friends?”

Kennedy was humored with a fake smile. She followed Frank back into the kitchen.

“Sure I can’t help?”

“Yep.” Frank pulled a beer out of the fridge and asked Kennedy if she wanted anything. She said, “Yeah,” and got up, but Frank pushed her onto the barstool.

“You sit. I wait. What do you want?”

Kennedy rolled her eyes and said exasperatedly, “Make it a Coke, slave-girl.”

Frank handed her a can, then a glass with ice.

“Do I leave a tip when I go?”

“All gratuities were included in your hospital bill.”

Frank disappeared into the den, and a moment later a bossa nova swayed gently from the living room speakers. She resumed her stance against the counter as Kennedy watched her chopping scallions and garlic and ginger. The absence of words between them was comfortably filled by the music. Kennedy relaxed against the bar.

“Tired, sport?”

“A little. It’s kinda nice just to sit here and watch you. What’s the music?”

“Antonio Carlos Jobim.”

“It’s pretty.”

Frank nodded, pausing her chores to drain a quarter of her beer. Beyond the living room window the sun was sinking red. Pretty soon the lights would flick on automatically and she would get the chicken grilling. The evening’s order soothed Frank.

“You like cooking?”

Frank smiled a little.

“Yep.”

“Did your mama teach you?”

“Pretty much taught myself.”

The two women swapped information about their families and where they’d grown up. The conversation continued casually as they moved outside while Frank barbequed. Returning to eat in front of the TV, Kennedy surveyed her abundant plate and said, “Geez Louise, do you always cook like this?”

“I like to eat,” Frank said simply.

“I guess so.”

Frank sipped from a wine glass as Kennedy started wolfing her dinner. Frank used to bolt her food too, but Mag had shown her how to slow down and draw out the pleasure. Frank picked up her fork, warning herself not to go there. After they ate dinner and watched a little TV, Kennedy admitted she was bushed. While she got ready for bed, Frank started washing the dishes. She was rinsing a plate and didn’t hear Kennedy come up behind her.

Frank jumped and Kennedy said, “Sorry. I just wanted to thank you for everything. The dinner was incredible and your hospitality could make you an honorary Texan.”

“That’s something I’ve aspired to for a long time,” Frank said wryly.

“I’m sorry to flake out on you so early.”

“No, that’s good. You need your rest. Get to bed.”

“Alright.”

Kennedy turned away, thanking Frank once again.

“Sure.”

Frank stuffed the flatware in the drainer. She felt ridiculous accepting Kennedy’s thanks. If anything, Frank should be down on her knees thanking Kennedy for not having died on her. She couldn’t even consider what that would have been like. She wiped the counter, finding comfort in the familiar blue tiles, but she was still disconcerted by Kennedy’s gratitude. Staring at the light spilling onto the floor from the guest room, Frank stood drying her hands longer than she needed to. Finally, she walked toward the yellow beam and knocked gently on the open door.

“Yeah.”

Frank stepped tentatively into the room, still gripping the dishtowel. She wanted to say something to Kennedy but didn’t know what.

“Do you have everything you need?”

Kennedy was propped against her pillows, a magazine in her lap. Fatigue, plus a huge T-shirt, made her look young and fragile, and Frank felt a quick, choking desire to protect Kennedy from every bad thing the night could bring. She wanted to warn her to leave the light on and not close her eyes. Kennedy’s smile and contented reply forced the words from Frank’s head but did nothing to reassure her. She passed the towel from hand to hand, still groping for what to say.

“How’s your neck?”

“It’s okay. It’s kinda tweaky and tight but nothing I can’t live with.”

“You going to be able to sleep alright?”

“If you ever quit worryin’ about me and get outta here,” Kennedy grinned.

“Alright.” Frank shifted from her left foot then back to her right. “If you need anything, just let me know, okay?”

Kennedy nodded, her eyes mirroring the trace of her smile.

“I mean, don’t worry if you have to wake me up, okay?”

“Okay.”

But still Frank didn’t leave, and Kennedy asked, “Is something wrong?”

“No. Not at all. I mean, I just…” Frank took a huge breath.

“Look, I don’t know, maybe you’re…healthier, better-adapted, maybe it won’t happen to you, but if you wake up scared, or have a bad dream, I’m just next door, okay? You don’t have to go through any of that alone. Just come and wake me up, alright?”

Kennedy’s smile faded and she agreed.

“Promise?”

“Yeah,” the younger woman said seriously.

“Okay,” Frank sighed, hugely relieved. “Get some sleep.”

She returned to the dark kitchen and hung up the dishtowel. Pouring the last of the wine into her glass, she noticed the slight trembling in her hand.

On Friday afternoons he watched the football games at Culver City, or sometimes he’d go to Crenshaw or Inglewood, but he never went back to his old school. He drove by occasionally but would have been ashamed to be seen there. That was where it all started to come undone. He played that game in his head every night, and every night, he stopped battering Jimmy Pierce once he was on the ground. In his head he went on to finish the game, neatly straight-arming blockers, flying into the end zone with the crowd cheering and his father clapping. The scout on the sidelines would be incredulous and he’d ask the beaming coach, “Who’s that kid?”

He missed the game, missed the contact and the release of pounding into the other players. After the games on Friday, if he had enough money, he’d cruise LaBrea or Washington until he found a whore. Then he’d take her in the back seat and slam into her, a towel around her throat silencing her cries.

Frank woke up on the couch in the den, fuzzy and slightly headachy from the wine. It was a familiar feeling, and she dismissed it with a glance at the VCR clock. It’s gleaming red numbers mocked that it was only half past three. Dark, relentless dream flashes assured her there would be no more sleep tonight, and Frank was glad the lamp was still on. She straightened her legs over the end of the couch and concentrated on Stan Getz soloing
on
“These Foolish Things.”

When the song ended, she stopped the spinning CD and walked quietly into her bathroom. She shook out some aspirin and brushed her teeth, then got into bed with a pysch text. She closed her eyes, the book unopened, wondering where he was.

You’re out there somewhere. Maybe working. What do you do?

Frank made a list in her head of night jobs. She ruled out all the jobs that involved people. If their profile was right, he wouldn’t work well with others, too insecure. She considered delivery jobs.

Nope. You’re smart and you’d use that. Your assaults and your bodies would be spread all over. No, I think you go somewhere, not too far from home, and you stay there. Probably drive the same route every night. Comfortable, predictable, no surprises. You don’t like surprises, do you buddy? We have a lot in common, you and I.

Frank would have smiled if it hadn’t been so true.

J
lie here thinking about you and you’re thinking about…your last girl. Peterson. Bet you didn’t even know her name. Bet you never even talked to her. She would have been so scared, so frightened, and I’ll bet you just stood mute over her.

Frank thought of standing silently by Kennedy’s bed in the hospital that first night, not wanting to console her, crippled by her own fears.

Or maybe you’re on to your next girl already. Its been a while. Are you thinking about how you’re going to do it next time? Do it better, make it last longer. How you ‘re going to hurt her? Same way, or are you ready for something new? Simple assault, violent assault, murder…where do you go from here? Do you ever see yourself in the mirror and wonder who you are?

Frank remembered striking the mirror the night she’d had that dream. This wasn’t the first time she had compared herself to a sociopath. She thought cops and criminals were really the same animal; the main thing separating them was which side of the law they stood on. Only one was sanctioned to kill.

Where are you, buddy? I see you working alone, something like night security or physical labor. If you were doing a security gig, that would explain why you know so much, why you’re so clever at this game. I think you’d be bragging, though. Security guards are wannabe cops. They talk tough, act tough, swagger. But you seem like a lay-low kinda guy to me. And you’re a big guy. Physical labor would be easy for you, effortless. Gives you lots of time to daydream, time alone, nothing too intellectually challenging, quiet, no one in your face except maybe a skeleton crew or night shift supervisor.

She considered making a list of all the jobs in the area that ran twenty-four hours, then realized the implausibility of that. After all, this was one of the largest cities in the world. There wasn’t even any guarantee he’d work within the area she examined.
If he
had a night job.

Maybe you’re a porno freak and spend all your nights in gummy joints and cruising strips.

Frank tried that on, envisioning him in porn theaters, walking down sidewalks, hands crammed in pockets, hunched over, unobtrusive, inconsequential, no one. She put him in a car, an older one, maybe a sedan or import, something practical, nothing flashy. Maybe an older truck if he did manual labor. It would be dusty and in need of waxing. There’d be litter in it. Not a lot, but some, enough to look messy. She could see him cruising, watching the hookers, building up his nerve, probably spending more time jerking off than picking up.

Nope. I like the night job better. It’s more consistent with your hours of attack. You could be doing porn anytime. And you’d need a job to pay rent. You’re living somewhere. You did Nichols and Agoura and Peterson inside. Jane Doe was an aberration. You might live with your folks, but at your age they’d expect you to have
some
money at least.

And you spend your mornings cruising. But you won’t be at the parks anymore. I know the black-and-whites are scaring you away.

You’re not stupid. Going there for the last two was risky enough. But you had to do it, didn’t you? And at the end of the rapes you switched to schools, not just one school but two. You’re good, breaking it up, moving it around, but you’re still in the locus of Culver City. You haven’t moved out of there, and I don’t think you will. You’re comfortable and feeling good where you are. You’ve got us running all over.

But why schools? first because you know that’s where you’ll find girls? Why not just pick up runaways, homeless kids? It’d be harder on us, better for you. Nope. You like them young and innocent. You don’t want a street veteran. You want someone who’ll offer no resistance, someone who has no clue how to fight back.

Frank recalled the anticipation and pleasure she’d felt after denying Noah’s protests and deliberately putting Kennedy on the bust.

The lieutenant opened her eyes to the shadowy ceiling. Usually she enjoyed the challenge of trying to think like perps, especially someone like this with no apparent motive, but tonight the similarities felt too close to the bone. Frank opened the fat book she’d been holding and squinted at it. Not to bring images closer, but to squeeze them away.

Frank glanced up from the sports section as Kennedy stumbled out of the guest room in shorts and a sports bra. Unaccountably flustered, Frank closed the paper and got up for more coffee even though her cup was still half full.