"What takes you twenty minutes takes me twenty hours. I need you go to Parker and run Kenneth Hahn through the database. Pull up whatever arrests and major incidents happened there over the last six months."
"Shit, by the time I do that I could teach you how to do it."
Frank peered mystified at the keyboard and muttered, "It's good to be king."
Noah told her as he walked out of the squad room that seeing as they were about to enter the twenty-first century, she might want to try and get a handle on the twentieth.
Later that day he tossed the report on Frank's desk.
"How'd you get that already?"
"Called in a favor. Hey, I got the subpoena signed to pick up Luther Jackson. Johnnie and I are gonna go serve him. Then I'm gonna try and get to the last half of Leslie's game."
"Who's she playing?"
"St. Joseph's. Wanna come? They're really good."
Frank was already reading the list.
"Next time. Thanks for getting this."
"Sure. See ya tomorrow."
Noah paused at the doorway. Frank was engrossed in the printout as he said, "You know, the nine-three would crumble if you ever got a life, Frank."
She grunted without looking at him. He reminded her, uselessly, not to work too late. Fishing around in the top drawer, she pulled out a green highlighter and started marking all the rapes on the list. Agoura's perp had been into rape. He might have started with them and worked his way up to homicide. Tomorrow she would go to headquarters and review the rape cases one by one, in more detail. There might be a pattern among them that resembled Agoura's.
When she finished coloring the list, Frank shrugged into her wool blazer and headed for the Alibi. She caught the second half of Monday night football, but later, after she'd only been asleep for two hours, she was called out on a domestic with Gough and Nookey.
She arrived at the Dalido Arms apartments and Gough told her the story.
"Twenty-eight-year-old male Hispanic. Girlfriend stabbed him in the heart. Neighbors say they were fighting all night 'bout some other bitch he's bumping. Suspect denied the whole thing. Said she was cutting onions and he'd startled her. She'd turned with the knife in her hand and he'd run into it.
"Man," Gough said through the exhaustion born of a career in homicide and too little sleep, "if I had a dollar for every time someone ran into a knife in this town, I could have retired ten years ago."
Nookey shot his partner a look and hissed. They took the woman back to the station and tried working a confession out of her. The two older detectives were masters at coaxing confessions. Frank observed from behind the one-way mirror. She'd learned a lot from them over the years and still took pleasure in watching them work off each other. Seeing them interact she suddenly realized just how much Nookey was going to miss his partner. Frank uncomfortably pushed the feeling aside and concentrated on the detectives' dialogue.
By the time the rest of the squad rolled in at 6:00 a.m., Nookey had a signed confession and his suspect was sleeping downtown in a jail cell. Gough was typing the report as Frank interrupted him to ask why he'd called her out on that case—he and Nookey could have handled it in their sleep.
"We were asleep," Nookey said.
"Yeah. Just thought you'd like to see the masters at work," Gough responded, without looking up.
As squad supervisors, Frank or Foubarelle were on call for all homicides. If it was an uncomplicated case, like this one, the responding detectives usually handled it on their own. If they were green or new to the squad, Frank insisted on a supe rolling with them. But her squad was all seasoned veterans. Gough and Nookey had needed her tonight like a dog needs fleas. Boy-red had called her out just to tweak her.
"You did good," she said, and walked away. Gough rolled his eyes and Nookey chuckled. His partner was forever failing to get Frank's goat.
Briggs was dressed nicely for a morning in court, but Frank recognized the bloodshot eyes and slight tremor as he pulled his papers together.
On her way to her office she clapped him on the back.
"Rough night?"
"Aren't they all?" he asked seriously, and Frank had to agree. She remembered vague, uneasy dreams and was relieved she couldn't remember more.
After the morning briefing, Frank headed over to Parker Center with the NCIC printouts in her briefcase. The Agoura case was getting as cold as Melissa in her grave. The longer cases sat, the harder they were to solve. But Frank was a master at perseverance, and Agoura was quickly becoming a personal challenge. Frank hadn't actively worked a case in months. She loved pitting herself against the perps, though, and Agoura's was offering a nice edge. Frank was ready for it, wanted it.
She offered curt hellos to the faces that recognized her and quickly settled herself in front of an empty computer. Even though she knew how to use the basic functions, she hated the machines. She liked the old-fashioned method of digging through files, pulling folders, having pictures and statements and notes spill out with their dusty smells.
As she was writing down information from the computer screen the pager on her belt went off. The watch sergeant. She called in from an empty desk.
"I got good news and bad news for ya," he teased.
"What have you got, Artie?"
The sergeant happily reported. "Bad news is you got a double at a rock house on 70th and Denker."
Frank sighed. There weren't supposed to be so many homicides this time of year. The weather was bad, days were shorter, people more mellow. Didn't the perps know that?
"So what's the good news?"
"Looks like they already got the shooter."
"Alright. Thanks."
Frank hung up, stuffing papers back into the briefcase. She backed out of the computer, figuring Agoura was going to get a little colder.
Frank got home around eight o'clock, pumped and pressed, slammed a couple of beers, and fell asleep with an FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin on her chest. At some point she woke up enough to turn off the light and stretch deeper under the thin down comforter.
A while later her own cries jerked her out of sleep. Frank stumbled from the bed, tears blurring her vision. Still not sure where she was, she groped toward the bathroom. She slapped cold water on her face but couldn't look at herself. Clutching a towel, she breathed into it deeply, unable to wash away the dream or the pain it had summoned.
The water running in the sink didn't drown the shotgun still pounding in her head, and no matter how tightly she squeezed her eyes, Frank couldn't stop seeing Mag's bewildered face. She rinsed and rinsed under the running water, sure she was still covered in blood. She fought for reality, forcing herself to acknowledge the blue towels, her pink brush, the words on the tube of toothpaste.
"Clean teeth...healthy feeling gums...a great taste," Frank whispered. Finally she dared a glance in the mirror, certain there'd be blood all over her. Instead, she saw her own bewildered face. That broke the spell. With a strangled cry, Frank slammed a fist into the mirror. The glass exploded and Frank cursed, slugging with her other fist. Panting like she'd just sprinted a quarter mile, Frank stared at her bloodied knuckles, wincing at the glass splinters stuck under the skin. The pain was clear and clean, and it distracted Frank from her inner anguish. A fat silver shard was imbedded in the back of her gun hand. Frank yanked it loose. Mesmerized, she watched as her blood flowed against the white porcelain. After her heart slowed a little and her breathing evened out, she plucked out the most obvious shards, clamping her teeth down against the pain even as she relished it. Welcomed it.
"Let's get you a drink," she murmured, wrapping the towel around her hand and talking herself into the kitchen.