Nope. I like the night job better. It's more consistent with your hours of attack. You could be doing porn anytime. And you'd need a job to pay rent. You're living somewhere. You did Nichols and Agoura and Peterson inside. Jane Doe was an aberration. You might live with your folks, but at your age they'd expect you to have some money at least.
And you spend your mornings cruising. But you won't be at the parks anymore. I know the black-and-whites are scaring you away.
You're not stupid. Going there for the last two was risky enough. But you had to do it, didn't you? And at the end of the rapes you switched to schools, not just one school but two. You're good, breaking it up, moving it around, but you're still in the locus of Culver City. You haven't moved out of there, and I don't think you will. You're comfortable and feeling good where you are. You've got us running all over.
But why schools? first because you know that's where you'll find girls? Why not just pick up runaways, homeless kids? It'd be harder on us, better for you. Nope. You like them young and innocent. You don't want a street veteran. You want someone who'll offer no resistance, someone who has no clue how to fight back.
Frank recalled the anticipation and pleasure she'd felt after denying Noah's protests and deliberately putting Kennedy on the bust.
The lieutenant opened her eyes to the shadowy ceiling. Usually she enjoyed the challenge of trying to think like perps, especially someone like this with no apparent motive, but tonight the similarities felt too close to the bone. Frank opened the fat book she'd been holding and squinted at it. Not to bring images closer, but to squeeze them away.
Frank glanced up from the sports section as Kennedy stumbled out of the guest room in shorts and a sports bra. Unaccountably flustered, Frank closed the paper and got up for more coffee even though her cup was still half full.
"What are you doing up so early?" she asked sarcastically. Behind her Kennedy mumbled that she was going to get bed sores if she slept any more.
"Coffee?" Frank asked, not turning.
"Sure."
Kennedy slouched against the counter and Frank handed her a cup, careful to keep her eyes above Kennedy's neck.
"What the hell you get up so early for when you don't have to work?" she grumbled good-naturedly.
Frank flipped her wrist over. "It's nine o'clock."
"Like I said, what do you get up so early for?"
Frank shook her head and picked up the paper, muttering, "Kids."
"What's happenin' in the world?" Kennedy asked, standing close enough to Frank to see the paper too. Frank was keenly aware of Kennedy's soft smell, like freshly mowed grass or baking bread. Something ancient and involuntary turned over in Frank's belly; it was small and buried, but it groped at the warm scent. She got up and opened the refrigerator.
"How'd you sleep?"
"Oh, pretty good, I reckon, considering there's a hole in my neck. Your bed's comfortable."
"Hungry?"
"Girl, how do you eat so much and stay so skinny?"
Frank closed the door, still keeping her back to Kennedy.
"Hey. How about I take you out to Sylvester's? Best corned beef hash in the city."
"They got grits?"
"Kennedy," Frank said, fooling around at the coffee pot again, "this is L.A., not Lubbock."
"Damn. Ya'll don't know how to eat around here." Then, to Frank's relief, Kennedy went into her room to put on a shirt.
The day was clear and sunny. During the drive they bantered easily, and at the restaurant they both ordered the hash. Kennedy kidded the waitress about putting grits on the menu. Then a comfortable silence slipped between the cops as they assessed the patrons.
"So," Kennedy asked at length, "who's the we you bought the house with?"
Frank stalled, sipping her coffee.
"You've got a mind like a steel trap."
"I'm a detective," she grinned helplessly.
Frank studied the happy eyes and shiny hair. Kennedy's cheekbones were high and strong; her color was good. Her lips were pink, the lower one fuller than the top.
"Who'd you buy the house with?"
"You're relentless," Frank said dismissively, deciding that was a better quality in a cop than a houseguest.
"Who was it?" Kennedy pressed.
"Look, sport, I'd really rather not discuss my personal life, okay?"
"You did in the hospital."
"That was different."
"How so?"
The waitress brought them a basket of biscuits, forcing Kennedy's elbows off the table. Frank noticed her lean right back in when the waitress moved away. Like an animal hunting, she didn't want to lose the trail.
"Why was it different in the hospital?"
Frank paused, appraising the handsome face again. She decided it wasn't the packaging that made Kennedy appealing, but the enthusiasm behind it. She was so damn...vibrant. Kennedy was staring at her, waiting for an answer. Frank knew she wouldn't quit until she got it.
"That was all stuff I thought you should know."
"I see."
Frank watched her open a biscuit and draw butter and honey across it.
"Pretty good," she said around a mouthful.
"As good as mama's?"
Kennedy laughed and mumbled, "Mom couldn't cook for shit. It got so that if something wasn't raw or burnt me and my brother wouldn't eat it."
Frank smiled in spite of herself, infected by Kennedy's high humor.
"So, did you decorate the place or was that the mystery guest?"
Frank's jaw muscle jumped. She'd been willing to share about the nightmares and the fear, but now Kennedy was crossing over into an area where she had absolutely no business. Any hint of warmth fled from Frank's eyes. She warned Kennedy to drop it.
"Okay. Sorry," Kennedy said contritely. She pushed the biscuits toward Frank. "You should have one while they're warm."
Frank took a biscuit, but just left it on her plate. She'd spent eight years successfully forgetting Mag until Timothy Johnston's death had suddenly resurrected her. Mag's specter had risen as Frank watched Kennedy bleeding out. It had sat next to her in the ambulance and followed her into the hospital. Noah had given the wraith life and Kennedy fed it. Now it loomed large and powerful, hanging over Frank like a second, much darker shadow.
Kennedy continued making Smalltalk, but Frank only answered with nods or monosyllables. After breakfast, she dropped Kennedy off at the house despite the younger woman's protests that she wasn't tired.
"Good. Keep it that way."
"Where are you going?"
"The office for a while."
"Sure you don't want some company?"
"Very."
Kennedy opened her car door but before she got out she turned to face Frank. "I'm sorry I got so nosy back there. I was just curious, that's all."
Frank nodded, staring ahead, deciding what would be the best route to take to Figueroa at this time of day.
Kennedy stuck her hand toward her. "Friends?"
Kennedy's sincerity was genuine, no mocking, no teasing, and Frank thawed a little. She shook. "Sure. What do you want for dinner?"
"Geez, girl, we just had breakfast. Brunch."
"Yeah. And you'll be starving in a couple hours. What do you want?"
"I don't know," Kennedy whined, then brightened. "Surprise me. If everything you make's as good as last night's supper, then I'll be happier'n a dump rat."