"Called in sick. Got that damn flu everybody's down with. Stout?"
Frank nodded and ordered the hamburger.
"How's the dead body business?" Mel asked, wiping a slip of foam off her mug.
"Better than yours," she replied looking around.
"God, isn't that the truth. It's the rain. Keeps people home."
"Guess so."
Frank gazed onto the grimy, wet street, glad to be inside and dry. A gas fire glowed in the hearth opposite the entrance and cast warm light on the bar's dark wood. All the lights were on, and behind the jeweled bottles a huge mirror reflected them back.
"That's a damn shame 'bout all those dead girls, huh?"
"It's a shame, alright."
"You think it's the same guy?"
"Mel, how long have I been coming here?"
"A long time, Frank."
She nodded. "And have I ever discussed an open case with you?"
Mel shook his head, laughing. "And have I never not asked?"
Frank smiled softly, sucking the dark beer through its creamy foam, eyeing the football game playing over her head.
"Who's winning?"
"Trojans, six to three."
"Sounds like a baseball score," she noted, glancing back down at the jeweled mirror. Johnnie was jogging outside the barred window, head tucked into his jacket against the rain. He ran inside, shaking himself out of his wet coat like a dog.
"Goddamn, it's cold!" he bellowed, pulling out the stool next to Frank's. "Mel! Hit me with a whiskey beer back," he ordered, his voice husky.
They discussed the day's college games while Mel poured. Then Mel drifted toward the other end of the bar to take care of two uniforms Frank recognized. Johnnie said, "Heard Fubar reamed you a new asshole yesterday."
Johnnie was talking about a newscast the mayor had heard where the anchor claimed LAPD sources confirmed Agoura's and Peterson's murderers were, indeed, the same person. He'd gone on to make some other erroneous claims, and the mayor had called Foubarelle in a tizzy to find out why he hadn't been told about this first. The captain, in turn, flew into the squad room, fed up with always having to ask for information, and shot at Frank with both barrels. When he'd finished his tirade, Frank had tactfully pointed out that had any of what the newscaster said been true, she personally would have informed her boss right away.
Frank hissed, "Shit," and wagged her head in disgust. "What I wouldn't give to see that squint on the street for a couple years."
"They're givin' us some heat, huh?"
"Yeah. You know if those girls were black or Mexican and dumped in Beverly Hills or Westwood, the press wouldn't even have slowed down as they passed by on their way to a 'real' story."
Johnnie shrugged, licking foam delicately off his lip.
"What's the latest on 'em? Anything?"
Mel slipped Frank's hamburger onto the bar, and she ordered another stout.
"Let's get a table," she said, picking up the plate.
Johnnie followed, and when Frank had finished her first bite she answered his question.
"I got an interesting string of rapes from around that area and a stack of case folders two feet high. So I'm plowing through them this morning—"
"Don't you ever do anything fun?" Johnnie interrupted.
"—and at least three of them so far are similar to what we know about our guy. He was big, maybe left-handed, restrained them with a towel around the throat."
"Kinda grasping at straws, aren't you?"
"Got a better idea? We know there's at least one rapist in that area, our guy's into rape, we know the girls were in that area. Weak lead's better than no lead."
Johnnie shrugged again, a typical gesture for him. "Hey, Mel," he held up his empty mug, "I'm dying over here."
After Mel brought another shot and chaser, Johnnie asked if the whitecoats had revealed anything useful.
"For the DA, but not much right now."
Frank told him the rest of the details from the case folders, then settled up her tab, throwing Johnnie's in, too. She slapped his back and dodged through the raindrops to her Honda. She cruised easily along the slick, gray highway, grateful for the weather keeping everyone home. Upstairs at the station, she started a pot of coffee and slid Beethoven's Fourth Symphony into her little boom box. She closed her eyes while she waited for the coffee and let the Adagio swell over her.
Besides chasing bad guys, music was the greatest passion Frank allowed herself. The singular exception to her general denial of sentiment, she allowed Mozart and Bach to sweep her off her feet like lovers, Sinatra and Fitzgerald to soothe her. She used AC/DC and Led Zepplin to amp herself up, Getz and Jobim to calm down.
During the pause between movements she lowered the volume, poured her coffee, and got back to the stack of cases. The felicity of the Fourth Symphony gave way to the more stately Seventh, then the tape reversed and started all over again. By the time Frank sighed loudly and stretched against the hard chairback, the somber Allegreto of the Seventh was playing for the third time.
Frank turned it up, regretting she hadn't paid attention to the beginning. She allowed the strength of the movement to divert her from the ugly dossier she'd been culling, and as she relaxed it occurred to her that she was tired—deeply, achingly tired.
The Presto began and Frank snapped the player off, determined to concentrate on the lists in front of her. They might pan out to nothing, but at least they offered a glimmer of hope on an otherwise darkened trail. The clock over her door read 6:24. She hefted the phone receiver, debating, then dialed.
"Hey, Trace, it's Frank."
"Frank! You humma-humma, how the heck have you been?"
Tracey Jantzen had a mouth like a sailor in a shipwreck, and it was amusing to hear her curb it around the kids. She was an outgoing, gregarious woman, with a heart as big as the South Pacific, and just as warm.
Frank smiled.
"I've been fine," she replied. "How's the most beautiful woman in L.A. been?"
Tracey came back with the standard reply. "Well, if I knew her Frank, I'd ask her. When are you coming over for dinner? I haven't seen you since forever. Noah says you're working too hard. Why don't you come over next Saturday? We'll drug the kids and play strip poker all night, what do you say? Or at least Noah could barbecue some steaks and I could make a pitcher of margaritas. How's that sound?"
Frank interpreted the slight pause as her chance to answer and she said it sounded real good.
"Go-o-od! Now that I've gone and invited you over, let me go check the calendar and see what we're doing Saturday. Hang on, I'll get No for you."
"Bye, Tracey." But the words just echoed onto a tabletop. After a minute Noah greeted, "Whassup?"
"Hey. You busy?"
"Yeah, I'm playing cowboys and Indians with Markie."
"Who's winning?"
"Man, he is. I'm dead meat, 'cause he's a fierce hombre."
She could tell he was still playing with him.
"Do you have a sec?"
"You bet."
It wasn't unusual for Noah's weekends or evenings to be interrupted by work, but it was unusual for Frank to call. He asked if they'd had a break on Agoura or Peterson.
"No such luck. But I combed through the MI list you ran for me and I've found some spooky shit here."
"Speak to me."
She gave him a synopsis of the information extracted from the rape cases.
"The first one happened on December 8, 1996, at the Culver City Park. It's not far from Kenneth Hahn, and it's a lot like it: both places are surrounded by oil companies. There's a lot of brush back in there where anything could happen. Anyway, a ten-year-old Hispanic female wandered away from her brother who was playing baseball. No one noticed she was gone until she came running back screaming. She was hysterical, and the brother took her home. Turns out she'd been assaulted, anally, but by the time they brought her to the hospital the next day, there was no evidence at all.