Frank tossed back her brandy and stood. "Alright. It's definitely time to go home."
She dropped a few bills on the table. Kennedy added some of her own, handing Frank's back. "You gotta learn to take a compliment, Lieutenant."
"Whatever. Let's go."
"Have I spoiled a perfectly fine evening?" Kennedy teased, following closely behind. Glancing around the small parking lot, always looking for trouble, Frank gallantly opened Kennedy's door. The younger woman slid in and unlocked Frank's side. They drove down Wilshire in silence, both of them unconsciously scanning the street life. At a red light, Kennedy announced, "So tell me something—"
"Christ, now what?"
"Don't get pissed off, it's not about your deep, dark past. I was just curious about somethin'."
"That's news."
Frank stole a look at Kennedy, who'd turned sideways and was leering at her.
"Go ahead. Let's get it over with."
"Why'd you ask me to stay yesterday?"
"Wondering the same thing myself, right now."
Frank shook her head, buying time. It occurred to her that one of the things she liked about the company of men was that they rarely asked personal questions nor divulged their own intimacies. Noah was sometimes an exception to that, but she excused him because he'd grown up with four sisters.
"Kennedy, do you know how I'd feel if I let you go home and you popped a stitch and bled out all over your living room carpet?"
"Grateful?" she laughed. "Just that? You're worried about my health?"
"What are you fishing for, sport?"
"Ulterior motives."
"Well, maybe there aren't any. I almost lost you once. I don't want to lose you again."
"Gee, Frank, that's almost touching. So this is just a huge obligation. Nothing else," Kennedy stated.
Frank spotted a hooker who wasn't really a woman. Transvestites were common prey for pissed-off Johns. She hoped his picture wouldn't end up on a homicide desk.
"Not huge at all," she replied evenly, scanning the street. Kennedy appraised her own side, then said, "And no ulterior motives."
"Nope."
"Hm. So tell me somethin' else, why'd you blush back there at the restaurant?"
"I didn't."
"You most certainly did."
"Must have been the brandy," Frank tried.
Kennedy faced Frank and drawled, "Brandy my ass."
Frank had to give the kid high marks for perseverance. "Guess I'm not used to so much flattery."
"Ah, but you like it, don't you?"
They came to another light. Frank leaned against her door to get a full look at the woman next to her. "Isn't it way past your bedtime?"
"You're not answering my question."
"Let's just say it's such a novelty, I don't know one way or another."
The signal turned green as Kennedy settled back into her seat. Turning on the radio, she decided, "I think you like it."
"Maybe," Frank agreed, humoring her.
Kennedy slapped her thighs in time to the music, but suddenly stopped and whirled toward Frank. "Hey! Let's go to the beach real quick and see what the waves are doing."
"Now?"
"Yeah!"
"It's the middle of the night," Frank protested.
"Oh, I know," Kennedy exaggerated. "It's ten o'clock. Oh my God, that's so late! Come on. Let's go. And besides, you don't have to be anywhere tomorrow."
"Thanks for reminding me."
She looked briefly at Kennedy, hoping she was joking, but the expectation in her eyes was real.
"You can't go swimming," Frank warned.
"I know, I just want to see how the surf is. Maybe poke my baby toe in. Please," she begged.
Frank sighed. "Tell me where to go."
The whores didn't satisfy him anymore. He just wanted to look at the girls. It didn't matter if they were Mexican or black or white. He loved how small they were, how unsuspecting. The whores were tough, and certainly not innocent. He never felt bad hurting a whore. They were willing and they got paid for their trouble.
But the girls were different. He thought about fucking them the way he fucked the whores. For a while, his fantasies were enough.
27
The weekend passed amiably. Saturday they fired rounds at the range until Kennedy got tuckered out. She napped in the afternoon while Frank circled the dining room table— restudying, rethinking, trying to be him. She paused once, sensing the sleeping stillness of Kennedy's presence. It was a good feeling, but the sensation bothered Frank nonetheless. She distrusted pleasures inspired by others. They were ephemeral at best, treacherous envoys for disappointment at worst. Squashing the small feeling, Frank resumed her circuit around the table.
The next day Kennedy taught Frank how to play canasta, while Frank shared the finer points of football. The good weather still held on Monday, so they returned to the beach. Frank watched Kennedy wade in the surf. When she jogged back to where Frank hunkered next to a cooler, she was absolutely radiant. Once again, the sleeping desire stirred in Frank. She drowned it with half a beer, wondering how many homicides the Pacific had swallowed.
Kennedy went to bed early that evening, tired from the sun and water. Frank sprawled out on the long couch watching the Eagles beat Dallas. All the Cowboys looked like they were mired in concrete, but if Troy Aikman could get his fat ass out of the pocket they might actually make something happen. Emmitt Smith carried for two miserable yards before succumbing to a flurry of tackles. Frank closed her eyes knowing the next play would either be another hand-off to the overused running back, or a toss to Irvin. The Cowboys' offense was stale and predictable: it was no surprise that Irvin had been busted for blow and Smith ran like an old crab washed up on the beach.
She felt sorry for the running back and didn't envy his Tuesday morning. She thought about the bruises he'd be carrying on his black flesh and remembered the vivid colors on Melissa Agoura's body under the bright autopsy lights. That image was replaced by the outline of the jean rivet on Jane Doe's body. Frank pictured a bear of a man wrapping his arms around the homeless girl and falling on her against the hard street. He'd bruised her with his body, his weight crushing against her. Hitting her hard enough to leave a perfectly readable logo on her skin.
He was ramming his head and his shoulder into me the whole time.
Lisa McKinney's words ricocheted against pictures of Agoura and Peterson's waled corpses. Crocetti's comment fluttered into the mix: It looks like this poor girl was mistaken for a bowling pin. And then there was the new ME, whatever her name was, who'd said the bruises were apparently made with something flexible or soft.
Frank whirled her feet squarely onto the floor, concentrating intensely, her head in her hands. She was unaware Dallas had kicked another field goal.
The overall bruising pattern on Agoura and Peterson was consistent with tackle patterns. Above the knees and below the neck. The faces were relatively unblemished. Clean and legal tackles. Many of the hematomas had large, rounded edges, as if they could have been made by a bowling ball. Consistent with the size and shape of a football helmet. There were no lacerations because there was padding. Either he wore pads or the girls wore it. Maybe both. Agoura's dislocated shoulder, Peterson's broken collarbone, the contusions—all were classic football injuries. Frank remembered the cuts and gashes and myriad black-and-blue marks from playing with her cousins.
There was no evidence the girls had been slapped or hit with fists. No open hands. Legal tackles from a player on the secondary. A linesman could use his hands, a backfield player couldn't. Ever the skeptic, Frank probed her theory for weak spots. Then she quickly moved to the glass-topped table.