The phone buzzed in her ear and she was about to hang up when Tracey answered.
"Hey. Is this the most beautiful woman in L.A.?"
"Oh, hang on a sec. You want my twin sister who's forty pounds lighter."
"No, I think I've got the right sister. Hi, gorgeous. How's No?"
"He's okay. He's planted in front of a Gilligan's Island marathon. I'll get him, hold on."
Frank tried to protest but Tracey had already slammed the phone down. When he picked it up, Frank said, "Mr. De La Hoya, my man. Didn't mean to interrupt the cultural hour. Just checking up on you."
"Dudess. I'm sorry about this afternoon. I shouldn't have lost it like that, in the morgue and everything."
"Don't worry about it. I'll ream you out tomorrow. 'Sides, gave the doc a chance to give me a ride home."
"Oh, yeah? Did you ask her out?"
"Yeah, sure. You know what a play-uh I am. I made her one of my killer roast beef sandwiches and we had a couple beers."
"Oh, yeah? Then what?"
Frank smiled into the receiver, glad No was okay and back to matchmaking.
"That's it, dummy, else I wouldn't be calling you."
"Aw, man."
"Look. Get back to Ginger and MaryAnn. I'll see you tomorrow."
"That's a big 10-4. Hey, dudess?"
"Yeah?"
"Which one you like better? Ginger or MaryAnn?"
"That's easy. You sleep with Ginger. You marry MaryAnn."
"Right on. Hey. Thanks for callin'."
"No sweat."
Frank tipped herself back on the barstool at her kitchen counter. She felt surprisingly good. She was warm and well fed, and had a nice buzz going, but she had to admit she'd had a really good time tonight. In a town like L.A., where people were obsessed with cash and flash, Gail's simple good looks and honest conversation were refreshing. Attractive, Frank decided, then dropped the stool back onto all fours. That was neither here nor there.
Stretching and sighing, she planned out tomorrow. She needed to talk to Johnnie and sit him down with Noah, have them make peace. Christ, she thought, I'm running a Romper Room, not a homicide squad. Miles glided into Seven Steps as she flipped open the L.A. Times on the table. It would have been a fine thing to see Miles live, she thought, wondering if Gail liked jazz.
Chapter Thirteen
Before Johnnie and Noah went out, Frank called them into her office. Noah sat on the thin couch and Johnnie straddled a plastic chair. Cocking a hip on her desk, Frank glared down at both of them, a rare vantage.
"What happened in the morgue yesterday was inexcusable. Johnnie, your comment about Placa was inappropriate, unprofessional, and offensive to everyone in the room. You apologize to Doc Lawless and her staff, today."
Johnnie started his usual bluster, but glaring at Noah she continued, "Your behavior wasn't any better. You apologize along with your partner."
Noah rolled his eyes and crabbed, "Whatever. But that crack —"
"I don't want to hear it," she said. "I want that apology today, in person, both of you. Got it?"
"Fuck," Johnnie said, "I got court all day."
"I thought that wasn't until ten."
"I gotta get a wit before that," he complained.
"Then you better get going. Morgue opens at eight."
"Come on, Frank," Noah tried intervening, "can't this wait until tomorrow?"
"Nope. I want this taken care of before you," she said to Johnnie, "open your fat mouth again, and before you," to Noah, "pretend to be Sugar Ray again."
Noah hung his head, but Frank could see the grin under his bangs.
"You can go," she told him.
Johnnie squirmed in his seat, whining like a schoolboy, "How come he gets to go?"
Frank ignored him, telling Noah to close the door. When he did, she answered, " 'Cause he's not using all his sick time on hangovers."
"Did he tell you that?" he said jerking his thumb at the door.
"Didn't have to. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out when you come in shaking and sweating, bloodshot as hell. Want to tell me about it?"
"There's nothin' to tell about! Shit, Frank, I don't have enough fingers to count the number times you've come in lookin' like something the cat threw up."
"You're right. Everybody ties one on sometimes, me included, but we don't skip work because of our hangovers, and when I'm getting complaints about one of my cops leaning out of his car and puking in the street, then I've got a problem."
"I had the flu or something. That fucking chicken at Popeye's."
"Johnnie. You can bullshit this all you want. That's your decision. I can't make you talk to me. But I'm telling you, you're walkin' a fine line. You got a problem? That's okay. Everybody's got 'em. Hell, I got 'em, and I'll do whatever I can to help you. If you can handle it on your own, great. Show me. If you can't, and it starts interfering with your work, then it becomes my problem and I'll do what I have to to fix it. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"There isn't a problem," he told the floor.
She studied him a moment, remembering how he'd come onto the squad, still lean and muscled, an old linesman like Bobby. He was all swagger and bragger back then, the Happy Clapper, cheerfully waving off his bouts with various STDs, convinced if they had a poster boy for LAPD cocksman, he'd have been it. But the long hours at a desk, and all the booze and fast food had softened him. He looked tired now, his charm as tarnished as an old uniform button.
"You know where BSU is. And you know my number."
"Is that all?"
"Yeah."
Frank watched him lumber out, feeling for him. She put the pity away and got ready for the eight o'clock ADA meeting.
"Hey, Frank," Johnnie called from his desk. "We gonna see you on the news tonight? LAPD Lieutenant pulls postal, slays supervisors. Coalitions and committees to blame."
Frank had finally broken away from back to back meetings and had gotten to the homicide room a half hour before quitting time.
"Just about," she answered, surprised he was in such good spirits. She wondered if he was making an effort to show everything was okay.
"Where's your partner?"
"Down in Property."
Frank headed to her office, but when Nook and Bobby trailed in with an armload of binders, she said, "Hey. What's the word?"
"We can't find Ruiz anywhere," Nookey puffed. "The fucker's in the wind. According to the aunt he's got relatives in Fresno, Calexico, Madera . . . not to mention Mexico. He could be anywhere."
"Did you put an APB on him?"
"You want us to?"
Frank stifled a sigh. As much as a pain in the ass as Gough was, at least he'd been a good partner for Nook. Between he and Bobby, she didn't think they'd wipe their asses without asking her first.
"Yeah. What else did the aunt say?"
Nook made a disgusted sound.
"The usual. Her nephew's a good boy. He'd never dust anyone. Specially not a girl. You know, just a real gentleman."
"But we had a nice talk with Lydia Alvarez," Bobby said.
"La Reina?"
"Yeah. She and Placa had been seeing each other for about six weeks. In fact, Placa was at her place Saturday from about 11:30 to 2:30. We're getting her day accounted for, but she didn't tell Lydia where she was going when she left. Just said she had to take care of some business."
"And according to her, nobody knew that she and Placa were doing it. She swears Ruiz doesn't know, and she doesn't know where he is. We asked her where she was when Placa got hit and she says she was at a party up in Eagle Rock and that Ruiz was with her."
"Where was the party?"
"She's not sure. It was dark and she didn't know where they were going. She'd never been there before."