Bleeding Out (27 page)

Johnnie just stared. Then he said, hopelessly, “On toppa all that, I gotta work in an office fulla faggots.”

Examining his cuff links, Ike replied, “You’re just jealous ‘cause I make you look bad.”

“Yeah, that’s it. So how much time you gotta give yourself in the morning to look like this?”

“Longer than the two minutes you take.”

“Alright,” Frank interrupted. “You both look like fuckin’ movie stars. Johnnie? Anything else here?”

“Nah. I’ll leave you alone with Giorgio.”

“Mille grazie.”

“Mille grazie,”
Johnnie imitated in lisping falsetto, and Frank knew how it felt to run a preschool. She looked questioningly at Ike, but he asked how she was doing.

“Good. What’s up?”

“IAD must be giving you a hard time.”

She nodded, wondering when the social call was going to end.

“Don’t let the bastards get you down,” he counseled. Then, “Remember the James case?”

Albion James. Twelve years old. Shot in front of the QuikSnak by his friend, one Little Crank, a thirteen-year-old Broadway Crip who was evidently jumping James into the set. A good banger has to work for their set, procuring money, guns, drugs, whatever the gang needs. James’ work, his initiation into this particular set, was to jack the convenience store. According to the store clerk, James chickened out at the last minute and Little Crank ragged him on the street corner, telling him to get his ass back in there and do the work or he’d issue a general BOS—beat on sight—for him. James evidently tried to walk away, but Little Crank pulled a piece and ordered him back in. James stood glued to the sidewalk while Little Crank insisted, “Do the work, Little Jim-Jam.”

When James still didn’t budge Little Crank blew a hole in his chest, then calmly walked into the store and demanded the clerk’s money. The clerk and a customer witnessed the entire scene. Neither would testify. The clerk adamantly refused; the customer seemed very reluctant but still open to it.

Ike wanted to work the customer but he had to get an okay from the assistant DA to go with just the one wit. Frank frowned, knowing Ike’s chances of persuading McQueen were slim. She became the assistant by winning cases and hoped continuing to do so would land her the DA’s job someday. Filing cases wasn’t about justice, it was about politics. She took the cases that had the best chance of winning. Those with less than compelling evidence were thrown back to the detectives until they could make them more winnable. Frank could already see this one flying back at them, but she told Ike to keep pressing the wits, especially the customer. She’d take the heat if McQueen didn’t like it.

When Ike left, Frank returned calls to the sheriff’s office and highway patrol, and responded to homicide-related queries from a number of agencies around the state. Johnnie returned with a question in the middle of one of her conversations. Frank noticed there was mustard on his shirt, and after she answered him she told him to go change. He said he didn’t have a clean shirt in his locker.

“Then I guess you better borrow one from somebody.”

“Hey. Aren’t you ROD?”

“Yeah. What’s your point?”

“I don’t have to take orders from you,” he smirked.

Frank pushed her lips together, considering. Then she stood and wiggled a finger.

“Come here.”

She led Johnnie to the bathroom down the hall and positioned him in front of the mirror.

“Look. You want to see a cop show up at your son’s homicide investigation looking like you do? Me, personally, I’d call in a complaint on you. Come on. Did you sleep in that shirt too? It’s a fucking mess.”

Johnnie tried to brush out the wrinkles, saying, “It’s not so bad.”

“It’s trash, man. I’ve seen cleaner clothes on hope-to-die junkies. Look, I know it’s been a rough couple of days, but you’ve got to go home tonight and do some laundry. Get a six-pack, take it to the laundromat, get your clothes done. I’m
not
your mother, Briggs. I shouldn’t be having to tell you this. I’m running a homicide unit, not a daycare center. Alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They walked back to the squad room and Frank added, “Try wearing polo shirts. They got collars and they don’t wrinkle so bad.”

He nodded. “Maybe I’ll try that.”

Back at her desk, Frank fiddled with a pen, worrying about Johnnie. He was manifesting all the signs of a crash-and-burn, and she wondered how she could ward that off. Noah was his partner. Maybe she’d ask him to have a few beers with him some night, see if he could get Johnnie to open up.

Before she took his place, Joe Girardi had warned her that ninety percent of the job would be holding her cops’ hands. She’d be a sounding board, a mother, a shrink, and a doctor. If she thought getting off the street and getting behind a desk would take her out of the shit pile, she was wrong. It would only get her in deeper. All those interview and interrogation techniques she’d used with cons and perps, now she’d have to use them on her own people just to get them to do their jobs. The trick to being a good supervisor was inspiring your subordinates to do their job. Not to do it for them or order them to do it, but to grease the skids. That meant listening to their marital problems, their economic woes, troubles with their kids, hassles with the bugs that were eating their roses, the dogs pissing on their cars.

If they still weren’t performing after all that, then you had to lay down the law. Mandatory counseling, demotion, transfer— whatever needed to be done. Contemplating her role as a glorified babysitter reminded Frank of Kennedy. She glanced at the clock and thought she better be getting back home to start dinner. She wrapped up a few loose ends and returned one more call before leaving.

On the way out she glanced at Johnnie’s shirt. He hadn’t changed it, but he’d daubed most of the mustard off. He was listening to someone on the phone. He covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “I couldn’t find a clean one.”

Frank was sure he hadn’t tried very hard, but at least he’d gotten rid of the worst of the stain. She pointed a menacing finger at him. “Laundry. Tonight. Else I’ll partner you with Giorgio.”

Johnnie grimaced, and Frank headed out into the afternoon traffic.

Walking in the front door, Frank was pleased to see Kennedy on the couch watching TV.

“Afternoon, Lieutenant.”

“Hey. How’s it going?”

“I’m almost outta my gourd. How many talk shows can a person watch in a day without goin’ crazy?”

“Don’t know. How about all those books in the den?”

Kennedy made a face like she’d smelled something bad.

“Boring.”

“You don’t read?”

“I got a short attention span. I like
doing
things.”

While Frank was thinking about that and pulling groceries out of bags, Kennedy walked barefoot into the kitchen. She had color, like she’d been in the sun. Frank asked her how she’d gotten it.

She indicated the patio and said, “Napping in your lounge chair. Guess who woke me up?”

Frank popped the top off a Corona and squeezed a lime into it.

“No clue,” she answered.

“IAD. Made a house call. They want you in their office at 1:00 p.m. tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yeah, I know. They left a message for me at work.”

“That Stuka’s a creepy bastard. I get the feeling he’d fuck a snake if somebody’d hold it’s head.”

Frank had to smile. “They’re big on animals where you come from, huh?”

Over homemade pizza and salad, Kennedy asked how the office was. Frank said, “I managed to get one 60D read and answer some calls. Had to give Johnnie some etiquette manners.”

Kennedy waved a hand. “That boy is positively prehistoric.”

“Aw, he’s not so bad once you get used to him.”

“Well, I don’t reckon I’ll get used to him seeing as we don’t have a case anymore.”

Kennedy waved at the photos and reports and notes stacked next to their plates. “You gettin’ anywhere with all this?”

Xeroxed pages were spread all over the dining room table in loose disarray. Frank could spend hours walking around the table, picking up a report here, a note there, studying one photo and then another. She was patient with the case, convinced that something would break for her if she worried it long enough. Besides, what else did she have to do?

“Not consciously,” Frank explained, “but I keep working it anyway, reading protocols for the twentieth time, staring at pictures for the hundredth. Sooner or later, if I’m lucky, a light usually comes on and I’ll see something I hadn’t noticed the first hundred times.”

“Noah said you’re a great cop. He said you listen to your bones.”

Frank shrugged, uneasy with the compliment.

“Do anything long enough you get good at it,” she said indifferently.

“He said you’re a first-rate Loouie, too.”

“He’s prejudiced.”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen you in action. He’s probably right.”

Frank almost retorted, If I’m so good, what are you doing with a hole in your neck? She poked at a tomato and Kennedy said, “It’s gonna be a drag going back to Luchowski. That bastard’s so uptight he could open a beer bottle with his asshole.”

Frank grinned. She’d heard plenty like that about him.

“Goddang, you got some kind of a pretty smile, Lieutenant.”

Frank looked up from her salad to see if Kennedy was teasing her, but the younger woman’s smile was soft and happy. Frank resumed eating as she felt a flush creeping up her neck.

“So tell me,” Kennedy said, pulling at a strand of cheese, “how come you ain’t got no girlfriend?”

Frank sucked in a long breath. Kennedy’s effrontery never failed to amaze her.

“I thought we went through all that this morning.”

“That was who you bought the house with,” Kennedy corrected. “This is a completely new subject.”

Not really, Frank thought, somehow it always comes back to Mag. “Why wouldn’t I have a boyfriend?” Frank stalled, always looking for a way out.

Kennedy laughed in disbelief. “Gimme a break. Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately?”

Pulling her crust apart, Frank said, “I see. Walks like a dyke, talks like a dyke, must be a dyke?”

“Am I wrong?”

Frank leaned her elbows on the table, like she was about to share something particularly juicy. “Kennedy, my personal life is just that. Personal. I’m not about to discuss it with you. What do I have to say to make you understand that?”

Much to Frank’s surprise, the young cop appeared hurt by her words.

“Nothing,” she said, rising to clear her dishes. Frank sat musing at the table while Kennedy clattered in the kitchen. She could feel the tension behind her, and though she was determined to help Kennedy, she wasn’t about to open herself up like a home entertainment system.

From the kitchen, Kennedy said, “Frank, you’ve been great about taking care of me and I appreciate all the effort, but I’m going home tomorrow. Frankly, I’d rather pop a stitch than sit around here talking to you about the weather all day.”

She came around the table and stared down at Frank, brown arms crossed, eyes cool. “You can take me or I’ll call a taxi. Just let me know.”

Kennedy was really pissed. Frank almost laughed, not sure what the hell she was so fired up about.

“You think that’s a good idea?”

“I think it’s a
jim-dandy
idea.”

“I don’t.”

Kennedy slapped her palms down onto the table and leveled her face with Frank’s. “I don’t care what you think. All I want to know is if I need to arrange for a taxi tomorrow morning.”

Frank pursed her lips over laced fingers, studying the angry face so close to her own. “I’ll take you,” she finally said.

“Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Kennedy disappeared into the guest room, leaving Frank to wonder just what the hell had happened.

He liked watching the girls and thought about tackling them with his full body, pounding his head and shoulders into them. He’d get excited and usually wound up masturbating in the car. Sometimes at work he’d start thinking about the girls and whack off right on the forklift.

He’d been doing a whore about a week ago and pretended it was a girl in the park. He’d gotten so carried away he’d almost strangled her with the towel. She was really freaked. When she could finally breathe she threatened to call the cops. That rattled him, and he kicked her out of the car.

“You’ve got to
think
about your next play,” his father had always said. He hadn’t been thinking with the whore. He’d almost gone too far. But if he was careful enough, he could go as far as he wanted.

“Mornin’,” Kennedy yawned, plunking her suitcase by the table. Frank looked up from the paper, surprised that she was already dressed and packed. “Morning,” she replied. “Want some coffee?”

“I’ll get it,” Kennedy said, but Frank had already walked behind her and taken down a mug. She filled it, putting it next to Kennedy, then got out the milk. Their silence was awkward. Kennedy fixed her coffee. She looked expectantly at Frank.

“Ready?”

Frank felt a tug in her chest, realizing she wasn’t. She tried to rationalize that Kennedy had to go sometime, then argued with herself, Yeah, but when she’s better, not walking around in stitches. Frank told herself she was still liable for Kennedy. She didn’t know what had happened last night, but it was her responsibility to find out. She wasn’t ready to send the kid home. Not yet.

“Look. Last night…I’m sorry if I was short. I’m just…I’m not used to…talking much to people. Not about myself. I’m not real good at it.”

Kennedy politely kidded, “That’s an understatement. But hey, you know, it’s no big deal. I’m just always pokin’ my nose where it don’t belong, makin’ a pain of myself. Your hospitality’s been wonderful, Frank, and I truly appreciate it, but I should be gettin’ on home and outta your hair.”

“You’re not in my hair,” Frank responded quickly. “I mean…I like having you here.”

Kennedy searched for something in Frank’s face, finally saying, “You’re such a paradox. You walk around like some Nazi in jackboots, but then you’ve got this soft side you flash now and then. You know? Like you’re a real human being, like when you talked to me in the hospital. So I start thinking what a neat woman you are, how much I really like you. Then I ask a simple question, and bam! you’re Super Nazi again. I don’t know what to think and figure I just better leave you alone. I’m never sure who you’re gonna be.”