"That's okay, nobody really cares. Everybody looks the other way. All the claims are unsubstantiated or unfounded. You feel pretty good, but little by little the pressure builds up again. So one day you're out on a routine bust, and some asshole that you know has a record a mile long and has walked on most of those charges, he starts dogging you and he's in your face, and maybe, just maybe, you've heard bitch or cunt or dyke one too many times lately, and you let fly. You give this son of a bitch everything you've got.
"And you know what? There's not a cop in the world who wouldn't sympathize with you. You lose it. And rightly so. There's only so much a man, or a woman, can take. Especially a woman. Nights get lonely, I know, and probably more so for a girl like you. Gotta be secret, gotta be quiet, keep things in the closet. The pressure builds up...it's understandable. You're only human. So this Johnston dude gives you and your team a scare, and you're primed. You blow. It's a normal reaction, nobody's blaming you, Franco. Hell, even your own cops are backing you. It's understandable."
Rothman got quiet. Frank could feel him staring at her. She nodded her head at the floor and scuffed her toe against a black shoe mark.
"You're good," she said softly. "You know what? If you don't make it in IAD you've got a great career in pulp fiction. I'll be first in line to buy your books. Promise."
"Franco, relax. You can level with us. It's okay. We really are on your side. You can tell us how it went down and we'll back you."
"Yeah?"
"Absolutely," Rothman swore, one hand in the air.
"You really want to know?"
Rothman nodded sincerely.
"Alright. I'll tell you."
Frank patiently recounted the exact story she'd already told them half a dozen times. They interjected their own scenarios and events throughout, which Frank carefully refuted before continuing. They played it that way for two and a half hours. When they were done, Frank was wound tighter than a spring and had stains under her armpits. The two IA detectives didn't look much better.
Frank extended her hand to the men, saying, "Gentlemen, I appreciate your resolve in keeping the LAPD the bastion of civil rights that its become."
Stuka reached for her hand before he realized he was being dissed. "Fuck you. You need to get laid proper, Franco. Try a man for once."
Frank ran a hand through her hair, musing, "Maybe you're right, Stukie. Tell you what. I'll try one if you will."
The round little cop moved toward Frank, but his partner grabbed his arm. "Come on, Jer. Don't waste your time."
Frank watched them slip into their office like rats into a hole. She squeezed the back of her neck as she went down the stairs and out into the sunshine. On the way home she picked up a six-pack of Foster's. She slammed two of them before she even pulled into the driveway.
The house was quiet. Frank was slightly alarmed until she saw Kennedy lounging in the back yard. Except for a Walkman and a pair of pink underpants, she was naked. Frank stared through the French doors, then quickly turned away. She made a fuss of slamming the refrigerator door, shaking the utensil drawer, banging the cabinets.
She cracked another beer, grabbed some chips, and carried them around the blue-tiled bar, relieved to see Kennedy had slipped her shirt on. Casually, she stepped outside.
"Hey. How's the tanning business?"
"Good," Kennedy grinned. "How's the bar and grill business?"
Frank shrugged, popping some chips in her mouth.
"Don't know how many times I have to repeat the same story to those idiots. They're so lawsuit-conscious they can't even do their jobs. They wait for the news and civil rights groups to tell them what to investigate, and then they make up shit instead of going out and looking for real problems."
"What'd they say?" Kennedy asked, stretching out on her back, eyes closed against the sun.
Frank told her Rothman's scenario and Kennedy started laughing so hard Frank had to warn her not to pull her stitches.
"Oh geez," she wailed, "that's almost as good as you intimidating me with your awesome rank and power."
In the hospital, they'd pulled the same stunt on Kennedy. Their scenario for her was that Johnston had tried to run past them and accidentally nicked Kennedy, and that Frank had overreacted and blown him away. It was understandable, of course. There was a lot of stress and chaos going down, but Kennedy could tell them the truth. They understood how Frank could "seduce" Kennedy into going along with her story, how Frank's aggressive manner and higher rank would naturally be intimidating to a younger, more impressionable detective.
"Ain't it a comfort knowing your tax dollars are being well-spent by those two yahoos?"
Frank sipped, appreciating the buzz she was getting and the sun's warmth. If Cassandra Nichols' killer wasn't still loose, she might have actually enjoyed this time off. Having Kennedy around gave her a focus, and though the kid didn't need much, she obligingly let Frank fuss over her. But when that was done, Frank's mind inexorably returned to Agoura/Peterson. She was about to get up and start her trancelike circuit around the table when Kennedy said, "When was the last time you saw a movie?'
Frank remembered going to the Plaza last Christmas, but she couldn't remember what she'd seen.
"Been a while."
"Let's go, then. Later on."
Frank felt Kennedy eyeing her expectantly. She pulled on her beer, trying to figure why she suddenly felt uncomfortable. Going to the movies, hanging in the sun, drinking beer—all this was fun. She realized that if Kennedy hadn't been there she'd have been chafing at the bit, gnashing her teeth until she could get back to work. Frank liked being with Kennedy and that made her nervous. But she wouldn't go further with the realization.
"What do you want to see?" she asked cautiously.
"I don't care, anything!" Kennedy threw her hands in the air. "Let's just get out of here. I'm goin' crazy sittin' around all day."
Frank had to admit Kennedy had been awfully good. She was almost hyperactive, and this convalescence must have been excruciating for her. The least Frank could do was take the kid out to a movie. Considering that as an obligation rather than a pleasure allayed Frank's anxiety. She swung her legs off the lounge.
"I'll get the paper."
They picked out a Bond flick and later, as they walked out of the theater, Kennedy gushed, "That was excellent!"
Frank agreed. "Yeah, it was pretty good. I think Brosnan's the best Bond since Sean Connery."
"Since who?"
"Sean Connery."
"Who's he?"
Frank stopped walking and stared at her companion.
"You don't know who Sean Connery is, she stated.
"No," Kennedy said impatiently.
Frank remembered the CDs Kennedy had stacked on her bedside table. She'd recognized Stone Temple Pilots and Greenday, but most of the other names were foreign to her. As she explained that Connery was the original James Bond she was struck again by the gap in their ages. She also realized that Kennedy had liked the movie more for its nonstop violence and action than its tongue-in-cheek dialogue and Bond's implausible urbanity.
Kennedy wanted coffee, so they stopped at a restaurant a few blocks away. She scarfed a latte and a huge piece of chocolate cake. Frank nursed a brandy, watching the young woman attack her dessert. After she was done, Kennedy smacked her lips and said, "Dang! That was good. Now what do we do?"
"Get you home to bed."
Kennedy's face lit up lasciviously.
"Alone?"
Caught off-guard, Frank almost choked on her drink. She glanced into it, suddenly feeling too hot.
Kennedy leaned forward, adding, "You shore are purty when you ain't bein' so uptight."