Frank sat with that, feeling his shame and rage and humiliation.
No. I'd lash back sooner if it was kids my own age. Uh-uh. I've been building up to this, been hanging on to it for a while. This is someone I can't fight. Someone special. Someone who has power over me. Someone bigger, older. A coach?
A warm kick in her gut told Frank she was on a good track.
What did he do to me?
Frank stared blindly into her coffee cup.
There were so many things he could have done. So many. And I'd have been helpless to do anything about it. Who would I tell? Who'd believe me? And maybe he was my friend...
Frank hunted the room for a phone. She got up and asked the waiter if they had one, holding her jacket open with her hands on her hips. He glanced nervously at the gun under her arm and nodded her behind the counter.
"Behine da door," he said in a thick accent. Frank cradled the greasy receiver against her shoulder and dialed Noah's number.
His partner picked up.
"Hey, Johnnie. Is No there?"
"Stuffin' a big fat donut in his face."
She heard the phone being passed. Noah mumbled, "Mornin', Frank. Congratulations. You enjoying your last day off?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You haven't talked to Fubar?"
"Uh-uh. What?"
"OIS signed off on you. You're good to go again."
"No shit?"
"Yeah, he told us this morning. He didn't call you?"
"I don't know. I'm not home."
"Where are you?"
"I'm near Dorsey High. Southwest got a call this morning on the scanner. I went to look. Dead female, teenaged, beat to shit. It was him. Look, is Fubar in his office?"
Noah whistled. "You sure?"
"Absolutely. I'll tell you about it later, just transfer me to Fubar."
"'Kay, hang on." She heard a click, then the line went dead. She dialed the captain herself. The son of a bitch wasn't there. After several more tries she eventually managed to track him to a meeting at Parker. She jammed the phone down and paid her bill, leaving the kid a good tip. Frank had worked six weeks as a waitress in college. Next to being a cop, she thought it was the dirtiest service job you could have.
Frank drove home. The blinking light on her answering machine let her know she had two calls. The first was from Foubarelle, telling her to call him. Frank was surprised, and happy, that the second message was from Kennedy, asking if she wanted to have dinner with her.
She did, although her first inclination was to ignore the message, to not call back until it was too late. She hated that she wanted to see Kennedy, was angry at her weakness. If she ignored the feeling long enough, it would fade. With a twinge of guilt she took a quick shower and left without returning Kennedy's call. At Parker Center she paged Foubarelle from a phone right outside the conference room. He came out looking confused, frowning when he saw Frank.
"You wanted to see me?"
"Not now. I'm in a meeting," he hissed.
"Sorry. I got your message so I thought it was important."
She could see he was anxious to get back in, it wouldn't look good to be gone for long. She added, "Is it about my papers?"
He nodded impatiently. "They came through yesterday."
Bastard, she thought, showing no trace of her anger. "When can I get my ID and my gun?"
"Later on," he waved dismissively. "There's paperwork, too."
"When later?" she pressed.
"This afternoon," he whined. "What's your hurry?"
"My hurry is I've been out of work for weeks and I've got a lot of shit to do. The sooner I'm back the sooner I can get stats for your meetings."
"Well, you're going to have to wait until I'm done here."
Which Frank did. The meeting broke for lunch then reconvened until four-thirty. Foubarelle was ready to go home, but in her inimitable style, Frank persuaded him to go by the office and clear her for work. Two hours later she walked into the deserted homicide room with her ID securely clipped to her belt and the Beretta snuggled under her arm.
She felt whole again. The day was gone, though, and she still hadn't gotten back to Dorsey. She wondered how much progress Gerber and Cherry'd made, or whether RHD was on it yet. Dialing the Southwest Division she said in a bored voice, "Yeah, this is 3-Adam-31. I've got an alarm going off at Dorsey High. Who's the EC for this place?"
The desk sergeant gave her the emergency contact number— Milo Davidson, the assistant principal. She dialed his number, introducing herself as a detective involved in the morning's homicide. She apologized for bothering him at home, but it was critical that she review certain records this evening and talk to whoever coached Dorsey's football team.
"You don't think he has anything to do with this, do you?"
"Not at all," Frank lied. "There are just certain logistical situations I need to confirm with him."
"Oh. Well, I was just about to have my dinner," Davidson said glumly.
"Sorry about that. How long will it take you to get to the school?"
"I'm about twenty minutes away."
"Fine. And the coach's name and number?"
"Oh, I don't think I should tell you that over the phone. I mean, how do I even know you're who you say you are?"
Frank rolled her eyes and suppressed a sigh.
"You're right. You call him, and have him meet us at the school at," she glanced at her watch, "eight o'clock."
"Well, alright. But I'm not certain I know his number."
"Mr. Davidson, if you can find his number, call him, and both of you meet me at school at eight o'clock. If you can't find his number, then you meet us at the school at eight o'clock and we'll call him from there."
"Oh. Alright," he said, still pretty glum. "Eight o'clock." Frank glowered at the huge mound of paperwork on her desk. She had absolutely no justification for continuing with Agoura/Peterson, but then rationalized that Fubar would have let her hang in the wind all weekend anyway.
"I should've known I'd find you here."
Startled, then embarrassed she hadn't heard her creep in, Frank flashed a guilty grin at Kennedy. "Hey. What are you doing here?"
The younger detective dropped onto the hard couch, throwing an arm behind her head and swinging her feet over the end. Black slacks and blouse made a striking contrast to her inelegant posture. Frank realized she'd never seen her in anything but shorts or baggies and was surprised at how nicely she scrubbed up. Indicating the outfit, she asked, "What's up with the duds?"
"The what?"
"The clothes. Why are you all dressed up?" Kennedy yawned hugely. "I was in court all day. It sucked." Kennedy told Frank how the judge had thrown out their search warrant, then asked, "Have you had dinner yet?"
"No. I was going to get some work done. I'm officially back on duty."
"Alright! That's excellent! Let's go celebrate. I'll buy you a beer." Frank shucked her head down at the desk. This was exactly what she'd been trying to avoid. She bowed out, explaining about the new body and how the perp had posed it this time.
"I've just got this feeling it's there for somebody to see, and I think that somebody might be a coach."
"You don't think he's still in school, do you?" Kennedy asked skeptically.
"Nope. That wouldn't support any of our profile. No, I think he's definitely out of school, at least agewise, but his head's still there. I'm going to meet the assistant principal in about an hour, talk to him and get into the files. I want to talk to the coach, too. See how long he's been there, or who was there before him. I want to find all the kids that played for Dorsey that fit our description. I'll start there."
Kennedy had twisted onto her side and was studying Frank.
"Why are you so involved in this? Why can't you just let RHD finish it?"