Frank squinted at Kennedy. "A dump rat?"
"Yes, ma'am," Kennedy laughed. "You never been to the dump and seen all them big ol' rats runnin' 'round? Fat and happy as can be?"
"Can't say that I have."
"Well, girl, you ain't lived ‘til you've gone rat shootin' at the dump."
Frank pressed her lips against the smile oozing around the edge of her mouth.
"That's a big thing in Texas, huh?"
"Oh, yeah. Huge. And it being Texas and all, we got rats the size a Rottweilers."
Frank's smile finally spilled over. Kennedy grinned happily and said, "See you later, gator."
She slammed the door and jogged up the walkway. Frank thought about telling her to take it easy, but Kennedy would just flash that damn cocky smile and do exactly what she wanted. Backing into the street, Frank wagged her head. Kennedy had an amazing capacity to bring Frank down then toss her up again, higher than she'd been in a long time. Higher than she was sure she wanted to go.
He worked the late shift. It was okay. He gave his mother most of the money but kept a stash for himself, for the whores. He didn't go home right after work. His mother would still be there. Since his father died she was constantly criticizing and complaining. He could never do anything right. If the weather was nice, he'd buy some junk food and eat his dinner at one of the parks. He liked them. They were free, and big, and it was easy to watch girls without anyone noticing him. He started spending more and more time there.
25
Her detectives were used to the click of Frank's Italian loafers, and when she padded into the squad room in sneakers, they were surprised to see her. "Dude-ess," Noah greeted affectionately, and Johnnie dropped his feet off his desk, grinning a little too broadly. He didn't have time to cover his folded newspaper. Ike lifted a finger on a phone call, and from the typewriter Diego greeted, "Ess-say." She exchanged hand signs with him and slapped Noah's shoulder as she passed to her office.
"You're RODded, babe. Go home," he called.
"You closing everything?" she rejoined, meaning had he handed all the cases to the DA.
"One hundred percent."
"Then I'm outta here," she called back, settling into her old chair, realizing how good it felt. Feeling a sense of purpose in directing other people, guiding them to resolve the final, mysterious destinies of strangers—strangers to the nine-three but vivid memories alive to the survivors of their cases—all of it felt fine. Being a homicide cop was the next best thing to being God: telling someone how and why a loved one died was a power trip, and Frank loved that power. A lot of cops shrank from the responsibility involved; those like her fed off it, lived on it. The cost of playing God was high—failed relationships, chemical dependencies, cynicism, emotional petrification. Frank was willing to pay, though. For her it was still worth it.
Sifting through a stack of pink message slips, she prioritized who she needed to get back to and threw away the ones that didn't matter. Along with wads of legal briefs, interdepartmental memos, RHD memos, and department memos, was a pile of evidence reports, 60Ds to be reviewed, copies of prelim, death, and MI reports and personal notes from her detectives. There was also a message from IAD.
Noah leaned in.
"The Fubar finds you in here, he's gonna kick your ass."
"That'd be worth selling tickets to," Frank muttered.
"I'm serious. He says we're to 'report' if we see you around here."
"You're kidding?"
"Uh-uh. Am I gonna have to run you in, Frank?"
"Guess so."
Noah grinned.
"How's Gidget?"
"She's doing well. She's a quick healer."
"Not being too much of a pain in the ass?"
"Not as big as you."
Frank buried her head in the paperwork and didn't see Noah's wide smile. Without looking up she said, "Have a seat. Tell me what's going on. Internal giving you a hard time?"
Noah plucked the knees of his trousers and dropped onto the couch, all gangly joints and limbs.
"Nah, those idiots, they don't have a clue, even though they've been on us like lips on a blow job. They're just blowing smoke." Noah paused, then casually threw in, "They've been askin' a lotta questions about you and Kennedy. Your relationship."
Frank smirked a little, throwing out an old memo.
"That's not surprising. They're just swinging in the wind. It's either grab onto that or grab onto their dicks. They've got nothing legit on this. They know it. We know it. Christ, even the big hats probably know it. But we've got to do it for the commission."
IAD was just doing their usual song and dance, doing CYA, making sure Frank wasn't holding out on them. They'd been just as hard on her detectives, and almost as hard on Kennedy and the uniforms at the bust. There were no holes in any of the stories, but IAD couldn't understand how no one had seen Johnston hiding behind the hall door. They were convinced Frank had overreacted and concocted a story to save her skin.
"Besides," Frank tossed more papers into the garbage, "if they want to bury me they've got years worth of shit."
"Still," Noah cautioned, "you watch your ass."
"Nothing I can do about it," she shrugged. "How's everybody else?"
"Alright. Gettin' back to normal."
The day after the shooting Frank had talked to all her detectives. Jill had requested early leave, but Foubarelle had flatly denied it. Frank told her to take it anyway, that she'd hash out the paperwork later. Johnnie was still pretty amped. She'd caught him after work, after he'd already had a few. She let him tell her about standing out on the balcony in the rain and not being able to do anything and how stupid they were for not seeing him and the door slamming behind them and feeling pukey because she and Kennedy were still in there.
"I'm glad you got that motherfucker," Johnnie'd confided earnestly. His voice was huskier than usual, probably from being up all night. She wondered if he'd sobered up at all before going to work. Johnnie needed a tight rein for his own good. With Foubarelle running the ops he wouldn't have that. Their supervisor couldn't rein in a hobby horse, and she hoped Johnnie wouldn't do something really stupid before she got back.
Noah was a little subdued, but still bopping around with his chronic enthusiasm. He was alright. He had Tracey, and for that Frank was profoundly grateful.
"Has RHD been around?"
"Not a peep."
Frank made a disgusted face. Clearly Agoura/Peterson wasn't high on their list of priorities. Noah filled her in on a slashing Gough had caught, a Belizian who took a razor to his brother's throat over a third brother's wife. Their suspect had fled, probably back to Belize, but the surviving brother and a sister wouldn't cough up anything. Ike got a woman who'd been beat to death with a chair. Her boyfriend denied any involvement, but the neighbors said they'd had an awful fight that night. Her screaming had prompted an anonymous call to Figueroa. By the time the responding unit arrived they had to call homicide. Noah beamed maniacally.
"Sa-ame Bat-channel, sa-ame Bat-station."
"Quick, Robin! To the Bat-cave!"
"So what do you think about Robin and Batman...you know?" Noah raised his eyebrows in implication.
"Nope. Purely hetero. They were bringing up porno on those big consoles down in the Bat-cave and slapping the bat together."
"Hmm. You think Alfred was in on that?"
"You bet."
"Damn! Circle jerks in the Bat-cave. But what about Bat-girl?"
"You kidding? Who do you think dressed her up in all that black leather?"
"Damn!"
Frank smiled, relaxed in her old chair.
"Shouldn't you be out playing cops 'n' robbers?"
Johnnie slumped in the doorway just as Noah jumped up, shouting, "Holy Homicide, Bat-woman!"