She propped her elbows under her chin and covered her face with her hands, lightly moving her forehead up and down against her fingertips. When she stopped, she looked at Noah and asked, "What's with the gum? That just really tops her whole image."
"She's a pistol," Noah agreed, leaning forward eagerly. "I like her, Frank. We talked on the way over. She seems really smart, steady, confident. I think she'd be great. We've got somebody out there banging away at these girls like they're bumper cars. If you're right, this guy has murdered four of these girls. I'd hate to see a fifth one go down because you were afraid to try an option."
"A pass play," she said.
"What?"
"Never mind."
Noah studied Frank, gauging her stance.
"Just talk to her. Give her a chance. If you can't get over it, we won't do it. You're the boss."
Frank lifted her eyebrows dubiously, and in the ensuing pause both cops tried to read each other. A good detective knew a lot of body language, and Frank figured she was probably speaking volumes. Her clasped hands were like a row of soldiers guarding her mouth, the thumbs and index fingers posed like sentries between chin and mouth. Frank finally pulled her face from behind its barricade, sighing, "Bring her in."
When Noah and the young detective returned, Frank asked her sharply, "Why do you want this assignment?"
Kennedy smiled and casually flicked her shoulders, loosely holding Frank's piercing gaze.
"It sounds fun."
Frank threw Noah a quick I-told-you-so glance.
"I assume Detective Jantzen told you what the job entails?"
"Yeah. He says you've got a real fuck-up on your hands."
Around a thick hick accent, Kennedy snapped her gum for emphasis. Frank stared coldly. She detested Southern accents and allowed herself her prejudice. In men they reminded her of ignorance and inbreeding; in women they suggested incompetence and illiteracy. In Kennedy they sounded like all those things. But there was an edge to the drawl that suggested it was more affect than actual. The young detective stood comfortably, her hands held loosely in her deep pockets. Her hair was pushed back behind her ears, revealing three diamond posts sunk in the cartilage of her right ear and two in the left. A small gold cross swung brightly from a hole in the left lobe. Her shoulders were bronzed and well-muscled.
"Where'd the tan come from?"
Kennedy grinned hugely.
"Surfing. I moved out here for the waves."
"Do you manage to squeeze in some time for work?"
"We've been workin' a lotta nights, which is kind of a drag, but it gives me time in the water, so that's awright."
Jesus Christ, Frank thought, Annie Oakley meets Brian Wilson. She asked smoothly, "Noah said you're in Narc. How many collars have you had?"
"Dang," Kennedy said, looking absently at the ceiling. "I'd have to check, but I reckon around one-twenty or so, mostly in Corpus Christi."
Frank was impressed, although she gave no indication of this.
"Have you ever worn a wire?"
"Yeah, it's pretty cool."
Frank just stared, but Kennedy remained unfazed by the cold scrutiny. Her playful insouciance was aggravating, and Frank said sarcastically, "You realize this isn't Beach Blanket Bingo, don't you?"
When Kennedy looked puzzled, Frank continued. "We've got a psycho on our hands. A big, dangerous man who likes killing girls after he's battered the shit out of them. Someone who wouldn't think twice about snapping you in half like a twig and then jamming a stick up your ass to watch you die. This isn't about fun and games. It's about little girls dying."
Frank had spoken with more heat than she intended. Without a trace of accent, Kennedy calmly parried, "I understand that, Lieutenant."
Frank knew she'd given away her hand. Locking eyes, she discerned a steel resolution beneath the easy facade. Frank looked away first, casually picking up a pencil.
"Who's your supervisor?"
"Lieutenant Luchowski."
"Have you talked to him about this?"
"No, ma'am."
Frank concealed her sharp irritation. She hated being called ma'am under normal conditions, and from Kennedy it was almost too much. She tersely asked Kennedy for his phone number.
Frank looked at Noah, who'd been watching silently, and said, "Alright." He grinned and gave Kennedy a low-five.
"I want to try and wrap up those interviews today, so don't disappear on me after you return Detective Kennedy to her—" Frank almost said tiki-hut, but realized that would not be politic— "office."
"You got it."
Frank watched the two detectives leave like they were going to play football together and she hadn't been invited into the game. She pulled the phone toward her and pounded Luchowski's number into it. He was pretty dedicated to playing by the rules, and Frank didn't think he'd be happy about loaning out one of his detectives. But that was alright, because Frank suddenly found herself eager for a good fight.
"I worked my whole goddamned life for you people and what do I get back from you? Nothing! Nothing, goddamn you!"
His father had called in sick again and spent the day drinking. The boy could hear him in the living room, could hear his mother trying to murmur her way out of the deadly salvo. It wouldn't work, though. Why couldn't she see that? He was only a kid, and even he knew better than to talk back to the old man. She was just making things worse.
The boy sat huddled on his bed. Every muscle was rigid, every nerve stretched taut. He sat waiting. Waiting for the old man to yell his name.
16
"Beer-thirty?"
Johnnie leaned eagerly in Frank's doorway, like Greg Louganis entering a swan dive. She glanced at the clock. "Yeah, I'll be there."
Johnnie exited, clapping his hands. Frank knew his enthusiasm wasn't for her company but for the rounds she'd buy. Though she should be last in line to point the finger, Frank briefly worried about Johnnie's drinking. He drank a lot, every day, but if she excluded his frequent hangovers, or sullen distress when he had to work beyond quitting time, it didn't obviously affect his work. She realized that buying him beer only contributed to whatever problem he might have, but it wasn't her place, yet, to advise him on his drinking habits, nor did she want to disrupt tradition.
When Joe Girardi had been lieutenant of the ninety-three, he'd always popped for rounds on Friday afternoon at the Alibi. It was an informal way to end the work week, swap stories, blow off steam. More importantly for Frank, it was an opportunity to engage in the squad's good-old-boy camaraderie. Amid the continual whirl of razzes and quips that passed for conversation, through undeclared drinking contests and suddenly declared fistfights, Frank had held her own. She'd earned her spot on the nine-three as much at the Alibi as on the streets.
Concentrating on the paper under her nose, she heard Gough and Nookey talking. Most of the squad was still out, though, and Frank was determined to get more work cleared off her desk. Poking his head in, Nookey asked, "See you at the Alibi?"
"In a bit," she nodded. Nook left with Gough, but a few minutes later the silence of the squad room was interrupted by the rest of her detectives. Frank gave up the notion of any more work and followed them out.
Because the Alibi was the cop-friendliest bar closest to the station, it wasn't uncommon for it to be jammed on a Friday night.
Gough and Nookey possessively defended a large table while Johnnie arm-wrestled at the bar with a uniform in his street clothes.
"'Bout time you got here," Gough grumbled. "I thought we were going to have to call the Guard to help us save the table."