"Your lover?"
"Yeah."
"What was her name?" Kennedy asked sincerely. When Frank hesitated, Kennedy bargained. "I'll tell you about my dream if you tell me her name."
Frank bit her inner lip as Gilberto sang about quiet nights and quiet dreams. "Maggie."
"It's a pretty name." Then, "How long were you two together?"
"Eight years," Frank said tightly.
"How'd she die?"
Kennedy asked the question gently, but Frank still felt it was none of her business.
"Look," she snapped coldly, "that's enough with the twenty questions. Just tell me about your goddamn dream. That was the deal, right?"
Kennedy flinched almost imperceptibly, and a guarded hurt dimmed the light in her eyes. Frank immediately regretted her outburst. She tossed off the afghan and started toward the CD player, then turned back. Kennedy was staring at her like Frank was a dog that might bite. She hated the wariness in Kennedy's eyes, hated even more that she'd put it there.
"Christ," she sighed. "You come at me out of left field and get pissed when my first reaction's to protect myself."
Kennedy's armor didn't budge as Frank sat earnestly on the edge of the couch.
"Look. I don't know how to do this. You want me to talk to you, but Jesus, it took me years to learn how to talk to Mag, and even then it was half-assed. It's nothing personal, I just can't do this as easily as you do. I wish I could. I envy you. It's like you've got an emotional flak jacket you put on when you go to work, then just take it off and leave it by the door at night. My jacket doesn't come off like that."
"I'm sorry," Kennedy offered. "I should've stuck to the bargain."
"You always have to go for that extra inch," Frank complained.
"I have to," Kennedy defended. "You'd never give it, and it's the only way I can get anything out of you." She paused, then added, "You want me to tell you all my stuff but then you don't tell me diddly. Is that fair?"
Frank didn't answer, and Kennedy continued, "It's like I'm supposed to trust you, but you can't trust me. How do you think that makes me feel?"
Frank gnashed at her lip, then shook her head at the floor. "You're asking a lot, sport. I don't trust easily. That's no reflection on you, or how trustworthy you are. It's just my own twisted make-up."
Lifting her head and facing Kennedy, Frank said, "And I do trust you. To a point. And when I get to that point it's hard to cross over. I feel like my back's to the wall. Hell, you know more about me than almost anyone else. I'd say you're doing pretty good, but I just can't move as fast as you. I watch you go from happy to sad, then mad to laughing, and you're so easy with yourself. I just can't do that."
"Won't," Kennedy insisted. "I've seen you fight with every honest feeling you've ever had."
"Alright then, won't. Whatever. You just need to back off a little. Don't be so damn invasive."
"I don't think I'm being invasive enough!” Kennedy challenged. "Somebody's gotta drag you kickin' and screamin' outta that shell you're in."
"And I suppose you've appointed yourself to the task?"
"I seem pretty damn good at it."
Frank stared at the combative young woman. They stalemated until Frank cocked an eyebrow and asked, "Are all the women in Texas as ornery as you?"
"Worse."
Kennedy's lofty smile said she'd concede the battle but not the war. "You wanna hear about my dream or not?"
Frank settled back. "Yeah, I do."
It was a vague, sketchy dream about Tunnel, and when Kennedy finished she asked, "Have you dreamt about him?"
Frank played with a loose yarn in the afghan, admitting, "A lot," then she stretched and rose stiffly. "Come on, sport. It's late. Let's see if we can get some real sleep."
Frank switched off the lamp and they made their way through the dim house. Kennedy paused at Frank's door, her hand on Frank's arm. Half-teasing, half-serious, she said, "I'm sorry to be such a pain in the ass."
Frank faced her. The streetlight's beam spilled in through the living room window, picking up the shine in Kennedy's eyes. Frank was very aware of the hand still on her arm. She tried to answer, but the thick scent of Kennedy's hair and skin tripped Frank's breath in her throat. After what seemed like decades, she whispered, "You're not."
Kennedy stood on tiptoe and her lips brushed Frank's cheek. "Goodnight," she whispered back.
Long after Kennedy had gone into her room, Frank remained standing in the streetlight's complicit fraternity.
"Let's get going, sport. We've got a shitload of work to do."
Frank put a milky cup of coffee on Kennedy's bedside table and left Kennedy groaning behind her.
They returned to Parker Center and finished running all the names through the computer. Over donuts and more coffee they reprioritized the suspects. It was exasperating work because Frank was sure Delamore was her man. Nevertheless, she was determined to exhaust all her leads before running with Clancey. Even though she had a lot on him, she couldn't afford to overlook anyone. By noon they had a list of nine men ranked number ten. Kennedy was hungry again.
"Oughta get that tapeworm removed," Frank advised, pulling into a Taco Bell. She watched Kennedy devour a burrito, three tacos, and a large Coke like she hadn't eaten in a week. When Frank parked at their first interview, she surveyed Kennedy's face. Skewing the rearview mirror toward her she noted dryly, "They might take us more seriously if you wipe that salsa off."
Kennedy grinned, dabbing at herself with a Coke-moistened napkin. Frank shook her head dubiously.
After questioning their best suspect, Frank and Kennedy decided his work schedule was too tight to make him a viable perp. They'd double-check his story, but if it squared, they'd have to eliminate him. The same thing happened with their next guy; another had just come back to L.A. after a year-long absence. They had to cross off their fourth suspect because he'd lost an arm in a car accident. It turned out that he remembered Delamore from their footfall days.
"Yeah, he was a weird dude. Nobody liked him."
Frank asked why. He scowled. "God, all he could talk about was football. Football this and football that. He was like, obsessed with it or something. And we'd be like changing in the locker room, you know, and Clancey'd take his clothes off and he'd be all like black and blue. It was totally gross."
"What do you think happened to him?"
"I don't know. We figured maybe his old man was beating the shit out of him. He coached us for a while and he was like a total idiot."
"How do you mean?"
"He was always yelling and screaming if we forgot a play or something. He'd get right in our faces and spit would be flying all over. It was totally gross. He never touched us but he shoved Clancey around a lot. I saw him kick him in the ass once."
"He'd hit Clancey?"
"Oh, yeah. He was a bastard. Coach finally told him he couldn't come to practice no more."
It was dark by the time Frank and Kennedy finished. Frank was driving Kennedy back to her car and Kennedy craned her head out the window, looking at the moon. "Are you going to get some surfing in?" Frank asked.
"That sure is a sweet moon. Maybe I'll grab my board and see what the water looks like. Why don't you come with me?"
"Don't think so. I'm going to make some phone calls, see if I can't find some of the other boys on our list."
"You should go home and get a good night's sleep."
"I want to nail these other guys. Then tomorrow, if I can get away for a while, I'm going to check out the bakery, talk to Clancey's supervisor. I want to run the carpet fibers and samples by the lab, too."
"How're you gonna do that without a case?"
"There's a private lab in Claremont that can probably do it for me in a couple of days."