Then Frank went to the SID lab. Here she dared to take the murder book in, because without her badge or ID it was the best piece of evidence she had to show she was a cop. Making a show of opening the binder and extracting the tagged sample along with Agoura's official SID report, Frank apologized to the receptionist for not having her ID, but it was her day off and she'd just had a thought while she was doing errands and wanted to stop and ask about it. The petite and perfectly made-up young woman seemed satisfied with Frank's identity, but informed her that the tech who'd worked on Agoura's fibers was out of town.
After ten minutes of masterful pleading, conniving, and shameless flattery, Frank was able to persuade a tech to look at her samples. Two hours later, Frank had her answer. The fibers matched a multifilament denier yarn called Caprolan, made by Allied Fibers and Plastics.
Back in her car, Frank exhaled deeply, happily. The fiber was by no means conclusively off a football jersey, but it was definitely one of the fibers used in the manufactured high school uniforms. Satisfied that she was still on the right track, Frank again turned her attention to the phone. Punching in a number, she muttered, "Two down, one to go."
Richard Clay was next on her list, and she was apprehensive about talking to him.
His rebuke at their last meeting had embarrassed her, professionally and personally. While her call was being transferred, she wondered if he'd be receptive or refuse to help her. Her curiosity was settled when his secretary informed her that he was at a conference in Seattle and wouldn't be back until Tuesday. Frank was both disappointed and relieved.
She dialed her office and caught Noah on his way out to chase down some witnesses to a drive-by. An eighty-four-year-old grandmother getting out of the backseat of her granddaughter's car had been the unintended victim.
Frank offered to buy Noah lunch and met him twenty minutes later at Zacateca's. Sprawled akimbo in a padded red booth, chewing on an ice cube, he was a helluva sight in his baggy suit and Snoopy tie. She realized as she slid in opposite him how much she missed working. Clay's parting shot gnawed at her.
"Dude-ess," Noah grinned happily, raising his palm in a high-five.
She slapped his hand and responded, "Dude."
"Whaddup, Mac Momma?"
Pulling a plastic-coated menu toward her, she replied, "No thing, J-Daddy."
A pretty waitress said hello to them. Noah glanced up appreciatively. Frank ordered tacos and a beer while Noah went for the wet burrito and more water. He filled Frank in on the last couple of days, bitching about Fubar's micro-management.
"He's got us in that fucking station filling out 60Ds and MIRs and doesn't give a shit about us bein' out in the field actually trying to close some of these things. As long as he's got a pile of papers in front of him he's happy. Man, you should see us in the morning—we can't get outta there fast enough. Even Johnnie."
Noah took another long look as the waitress slid their plates in front of them. "Man," he complained, "that dildo couldn't manage his way out of a paper bag without a guide rope and a seeing eye dog."
The waitress giggled and asked demurely if that was all. Noah grinned goofily and wiggled his empty water glass.
"Damn!" he said, plowing his fork into a huge mound of guacamole, salsa, and sour cream that concealed a burrito somewhere below.
"Jesus, No. Where do you put all that?"
"Gets burned up by all my sexual energy," he replied around a dripping mouthful.
"That's more than I needed to know."
"You asked."
They ate steadily for ten minutes, then pushed their empty plates away. Noah sat back, groaning, and Frank wiped grease and tomato juice off her fingers. The waitress took their plates and Frank motioned for another Negro Modelo.
"So'd you miss me and decide to take me out to lunch?"
Frank smiled slightly, pushing her bottle around the wet rings on the table.
"I had an idea about the Agoura perp. Talked to SID and Crocetti's replacement about it. She agreed with me that the bruises could have been made by a football helmet."
Noah raised his eyebrows, intrigued.
Frank continued with her theory and when she was done, Noah nodded, "Interesting, but what's this have to do with me?"
"I want you to go back to Crenshaw. Interview the coaching staff. Get all—"
"Whoa." Noah held his palms up. "This isn't our case anymore."
"I know."
Noah bent over the table. "Then why am I out there knocking?"
"Because I'm ROD and you're not. I can't get to these people."
Noah laughed incredulously.
"Uh-uh. No way, Frank."
She let him fidget and rationalize all the reasons why he couldn't and wouldn't do it. When he ran out of steam she just kept staring.
"No, if I had my badge this would be an order, but I don't so I'm asking for a favor. Don't play innocent on me. You knew when you copied the murder books for me that I wasn't going to hand it over to RHD and walk away from it. I can't. I'm too into it now. If they close it first, that's great. I hope that prick gets off the street ASAP, but this isn't a high-profile case and you know what they'll do with it. They'll stick it on the burner behind the Carnassian OD and the Woodall capping."
Frank was referring to an influential businessman's suspicious overdose and the shooting of a Hollywood producer outside his favorite Chinese restaurant. "And there are other higher priority cases behind those."
Noah was fiercely shaking his head. Frank slid her bottle out of the way and leaned toward him. "No, when was the last time this guy attacked somebody?"
"Jennifer Peterson. A couple weeks ago."
"Right. And before that?"
"Agoura, in October."
"And before that?"
"What's your point, Frank?"
"My point is he's averaging about a victim per month. Meaning he's due."
Frank sat back and let that sink in, taking a hit off of her beer. "Do we just sit back and say, 'Hey, not my problem anymore. Not my job'?"
Noah stared hopelessly at the traffic out on Slauson. "What about my cases? When in the hell am I supposed to work on those?"
"I'll help you with them, do what I can without a badge. Hell, I'll even write your fucking reports for you. Just go talk to these people for me. I can't do it, No."
"Shit."
"Feel them out, get a roster of kids on the football team for the last twenty years. Get copies of all the old yearbooks. We're looking for a white guy in predominantly black/Hispanic schools. It won't be that bad."
Noah just repeated his prior expletive and rose clumsily from the booth.
"Thanks for lunch," he said with heavy sarcasm, and left her sitting there. She finished her beer, feeling bad about adding to his work load, though encouraged they were taking action. Frank wanted this perp. She saw dead kids all the time, but now and then one got to her, especially when the perp was still out there. She'd known when she was interviewing the rape victims that she wasn't going to be able to drop this case until the guy responsible was dead or behind bars.
She paid the tab and walked out, a cool breeze from the west making her glad she had a sweatshirt on. She trusted Noah would do as much as he could, as quickly as he could. She was just going to wait to hear from him. It was maddening that she couldn't do the work herself, but she was determined to be patient. Meanwhile, she'd distract herself by taking care of Kennedy.
The first time it had been almost like a dream. He could see himself watching her. She was having a picnic with her mother and another woman and two little boys. He was within earshot of them but was pretending to read a newspaper propped against the steering wheel.