"Fine. You're right. You are wasting my time."
He stood, reseating himself behind the desk. "You know my number and you know where I am."
Frank hadn't expected the abrupt dismissal. She got up and walked to the door, then paused, her hand on the knob. Clay had opened a folder and was sorting through its contents.
"Are you going to sign off on me?" she asked.
Without lifting his head, Clay answered, "Of course I am. Your job's all you have in the world."
Sometimes he'd go out and find a whore before he had to be at work, or sometimes he'd cruise on the way home. He couldn't do it very often. It cost a lot for what he wanted, and his mother always noticed the missing money. After a while he gave it up and just watched the whores, thinking about what he'd like to do to them. He'd sit alone in the car, wishing his dad were with him, missing him.
23
Frank tried to help Kennedy into the Honda after she was wheeled out of the hospital. Kennedy slapped her hand away, complaining she hadn't forgotten how to walk.
"Geez Louise," she drawled, "the way ya'll are fussin' over me you'd think I was a double amputee."
Watching Kennedy get in on her own, Frank commented, "Too bad Tunnel cut your carotid and not your vocal cords."
They went by Kennedy's apartment to pick up some clothes. Frank looked around while the younger woman packed. The place obviously came furnished in used Sears Roebuck. The carpet was the standard chocolate shag, and though worn, it was clean. The kitchen was cramped but tidy. There were some dishes in the sink, and Frank quickly washed them.
Kennedy emerged from the bedroom with a suitcase. When Frank offered to help, Kennedy waved her away. Frank waited against the door, surveying the spartan surroundings. No plants, no books, no pictures. A stereo system and lots of CDs dominated the room, as did a pile of sports equipment. Two surfboards and a mountain bike were propped against the wall. A neat pile of newspapers sat on one end of the couch.
"Okay. That's it."
Frank tugged at the suitcase, reminding Kennedy she was supposed to be taking it easy.
"Oh yeah, it's really heavy."
"That's not the point. Easy is easy. You're lucky I let you walk up here."
"Oh, you're so butch," Kennedy teased.
Frank headed down the balcony steps while Kennedy locked up. By the time Kennedy got to the car, she was pale.
"You alright?"
"Yeah. I just got a little dizzy."
"You've been in bed for days and your body's been through a lot of trauma. See why you've got to go slow?"
"Yes, mother."
"I ain't yo mama."
"Damn straight. You're way better lookin'."
"Don't you ever quit?" Frank asked, turning into traffic.
"Uh-uh."
Frank checked her mirrors, thinking it could be a very long week. When Frank parked in her own driveway, she hopped out to open Kennedy's door, but of course Kennedy was already out and reaching for the suitcase. Again Frank snatched it from her but this time the younger cop didn't protest. She was busy studying the stuccoed house, the trimmed lawn on either side of the brick walkway, the lush bougainvillea hedges. Frank opened the front door into the big living room, and Kennedy whistled.
"Are you on the take? How the hell do you afford this on a cop's salary?"
"You don't. It was in foreclosure, so we got a great price."
"Who's 'we'?"
Realizing her mistake, Frank said, "Let me show you your room."
Kennedy followed slowly, nodding approvingly at the gym. She paused at the den.
"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?"