He heard her asking her mother if she could go to the other end of the park. She was bored. The mother reluctantly shooed her off. He watched her, and before he lost sight of her he started the car and drove to the other end of the park. This end was never as busy as the fishing ponds or the picnic areas. There weren't any cars in the lot. He parked near the bathroom and stood next to the men's room. He still didn't really know what he was going to do. He was nervous and sweating, and he felt his heart pumping loudly in his head. Peeking around the corner he saw her walking up the road, swinging a little stick in time to a song she was singing.
He waited. Her song came closer, a soft sound, and he smiled. She was right outside the bathroom. Oh god, he could hear her, she was so close and alone. He looked. She was reading a placard, still singing. He moved from the men's room entrance. What happened next was like he was someone else.
He grabbed her quickly from behind, had her neck in the crook of his elbow before she even had a chance to turn and see him. Somewhere in the calmer depths of his mind he realized that was a good thing. It bolstered his confidence. She tried to cry, but he quietly told her to shut up or he'd kill her. He wondered if he meant that. He didn't know, but it felt good to say it. Holding her against him he dragged her into a thick stand of brush, never letting her see him. And he didn't want to see her. He only wanted one thing.
28
One of the worst things about being ROD was waking up in the middle of the night and not having anywhere to go. Frank picked up the pysch text by her bed, hoping it would distract her from the thoughts that came loose in the night, like boats silently slipping their moorings. After an hour, nowhere closer to sleep, she finally threw off the comforter and headed for the garage, sharply aware how empty the house was.
Kennedy had left a few days ago, promising to call Frank if she needed anything. Her leaving was inevitable, but Frank hadn't expected to miss her. Leaning out the patio door for a moment, Frank noted the thick, damp fog, and thought of the night they'd gone to the beach. Kennedy had pointed out the few stars that managed to outshine the city lights. It had been a long time since Frank had really looked at them. They were beautiful.
Flustered, angry with her own foolishness, Frank retreated inside, slamming the door loudly. She was alone and could make as much noise as she wanted. She flipped on the scanner and turned the volume up, forcing static and chatter into the emptiness.
She started her workout, registering the 12-Adam calls and mostly ignoring the rest. A 7-Adam domestic, woman assaulting a man with a cooler, reminded her of an old partner. Literally up to his ass in women, Petey had a wife at home and a girlfriend in every sector of Figueroa. One night he'd stopped during their break to knock off a quick piece while Frank waited outside in the unit. She was thinking about what she was going to make for dinner when Petey hauled ass out of the complex. His pants were flapping open, he had his gun belt in one hand, his hat in the other. The girlfriend was running after him in a slip, her hair all wild, and a woman Frank had never seen before was right behind them. The women were hollering in Spanish. Frank couldn't make out what they were saying, but the girlfriend kept slapping Pete with a cast-iron skillet while the other woman jabbed at him with a mop. He'd screamed at Frank, "Drive! Drive!" and she'd scooted into the driver's seat. Pete barely missed her lap as he dove in on the passenger side. Frank gunned away, glancing at her partner. He was bleeding and trying to catch his breath.
"Guess she wasn't in the mood," Frank had noted dryly.
"Christ," he'd sworn. "We're in the kitchen, and I'm puttin' it to Marta, and this woman comes in and starts screaming. I'm trying to figure out what the hell's going on and I look around and it's Luz!" Luz was his girlfriend on 52nd Street.
"How the fuck was I supposed to know they're sisters?" he'd moaned.
Frank had heard the expression, "The clothes make the man," but she'd never seen proof of it until she started patrol. It was true: women were fools for guys in uniform. She was musing whether it was the outfit or the persona attached to it that turned women on, when a dispatcher called a 3-Adam on a possible 187 at Dorsey High School.
Frank slammed the treadmill's emergency stop. Dorsey High was just north of Culver City. The 3-Adam call was being handled by the Southwest Division, bordering Figueroa's north side. A possible homicide at a high school near Culver City. At dawn on a weekday. Frank yanked her towel off the machine and sprinted to the dining room table, grabbing car keys and her old .38. It was one of three revolvers she owned, and the one she carried since she'd been forced to turn over her Beretta. She slipped the holstered weapon on over her wet T-shirt, zipped a sweat jacket over it, and slammed out the front door.
Traffic was minimal, and though she didn't beat the KTLA news van to Dorsey High, she was still there before Southwest homicide. The sky was graying to the east, but there wasn't enough light for the news cameras to get good shots. Headlights from three radio units lit an area behind the school. Frank's heart somersaulted when she saw two patrolmen taping off a section of bleachers on the football field. Half a dozen onlookers, the news crew, and curious cops were trampling the scene. Frank rolled out of her Honda, thankful for the LAPD emblazoned across her back.
Immediately Sally Eisley trotted up to her and Frank held up a warning hand.
"Sally, this is Southwest's call. I just stopped by to see if I could help. I don't know anything, and even if I did I would be in no position to say."
"You just happened to be in the neighborhood at quarter after six?" she asked cynically.
"No, I was on my way home from a jog and picked it up on the scanner. I'm just another curious onlooker."
"Do you think this could be—"
"Excuse me."
Frank strolled away and quickly commandeered the scene, ordering two uniforms who were milling around looking at the ground to clear everybody back a couple hundred feet and stay back.
"Who the hell are you?" the burly black uniform asked.
"Lieutenant Franco, Homicide," Frank answered.
"Do you have your ID, ma'am?" he persisted.
Frank turned on him sharply.
"Hey genius, do I look like I'm dressed for work? It's at home on my dresser, if you want to go get it for me. I picked this up on the scanner after my run. Now can you get your job done or do you want to let a few more people walk around in here?"
Frank's deliberate belligerence was only too familiar to the cop. He retreated sullenly, letting the detective approach the bleachers. When she lifted the white sheet, she felt a jolt of excitement.
Slumped between the first and second rows was a naked female, about 5'4", one hundred pounds. Frank squinted in the poor light. She looked like she was probably Hispanic, but maybe Caucasian. It was hard to tell around all the bruising. She was wedged on the flooring between the first and second tiers, like she'd had too much to drink and had slipped between them. Despite her ungainly position, it was obvious that she'd been posed. Her legs rested demurely side by side on the first row, arms carefully crossed in her lap. A small pool of blood had seeped out from under the girl's buttocks, and Frank quickly noted the absence of bruising below the knees or around the face. Frank stared into her dull eyes, wondering what was the last thing she saw.
The posing was a twist, but Frank knew it was him.
You've really gone all out this time, haven't you? Did you stick around to admire your handiwork?