"I thought you said you'd call," she said by way of a greeting.
Guiltily, Frank answered, "I know. Been busy."
Kennedy took a seat on the couch, hands dangling between her knees. She was in blue jeans and a cracked leather jacket. Frank tried to resist a quick and unbidden surge of affection.
"How's it going with Delamore?"
Gazing absently at the budget in front of her, Frank said, "Still waiting on the lab. Talked to almost everyone on our priority list. One guy actually seemed pretty viable, but his time frame was all bad for Nichols or Agoura. There's one more I still have to talk to. He's in Indiana, be back Monday."
"Dang, you have been busy. And here I thought you were just avoidin' me."
"So what have you been up to?" Frank asked, changing the subject.
"Mostly begging to get reassigned to the street. I think Luchowski's gonna put me back on Monday. But anyway, I came by to ask you a favor."
"Shoot."
"Let me take you out to dinner on Saturday."
"Take me out?"
"Yeah, you always cook, and seeing as I can't cook, it's only fair I buy you dinner. Where do you want to go? Your pick."
Frank considered the offer. "You know," she responded slowly, "I really like to cook and I usually only get around to it on weekends. So if you could choke down another one of my meals, why don't you come over to my place."
Kennedy's tawny mane flew around her face. "Uh-uh. See, the whole point is I'm trying to re-ci-pro-cate. Get it? So what's the point in you cooking for me?"
"Oh-h, I see. If it's just paying me back that you want, then forget it, but if you want my company and a good meal, let's do it at my place. Unless you don't like my food."
Exasperated, Kennedy flopped back against the couch. "I love your food, but you always treat. I'll only do it if you'll let me pay for the groceries."
"Whatever."
"Cool!" Kennedy bounced to her feet. "How long are you gonna stay here?"
"Little longer."
"Why don't you come surfing with me? It's gonna be a beautiful night."
"Get outta here."
"Come on," Kennedy pleaded. "You'll love it."
"Doubtful."
"Just try."
"Nope. Out you go. I got work to do."
"Come on, Frank, don't be such a wuss."
"Nope."
Their eyes met, sparkling and playful, and Frank was almost tempted to hop in her car and follow Kennedy to the beach. "Go on. See you at five on Saturday."
Kennedy made a disgusted noise and muttered, "Coward."
Frank highlighted an expenditure in red as Kennedy asked from the doorway, "What can I bring?"
"Surprise me," Frank muttered. She didn't see Kennedy's wicked smile.
By the next night, Frank was exhausted. She tried to relax and drank more than she should have, closing the Alibi with Johnnie and Ike. Nancy made a bid to get Frank to come home with her, and tempting as it sounded at the time, Frank was relieved to wake up alone in her own bed on Saturday morning.
Her hangover wasn't bad, just dulling, and it was siphoning her already low energy. A run on the treadmill helped as she thought about what she'd make for Kennedy. Maybe a pork tenderloin napped with a roasted garlic creme sauce and rotelle on the side to hold the sauce, or maybe she'd just barbecue some Porterhouses and bake potatoes. She realized she was looking forward to the evening and checked her anticipation. She spent the morning distracting herself with Agoura/Peterson details, getting so involved that when the phone rang she answered, "Homicide. Franco."
There was a pause before Kennedy said, "I could've sworn I dialed your home number."
"You did. Just forgot where I was."
"Whatcha doin?"
"One guess."
"You're goin' round that table like a wild dog circlin' a fawn."
"Bingo. What's up?"
"I hate to do this, but I can't make it tonight. We've got this surveillance, and one of the guys on the detail called in sick. Luchowski wants me to take it."
"That's great," Frank said, artfully concealing her disappointment. "You're back on the outside."
"Yeah, finally. So you think I can get a raincheck?"
"You bet."
"What were you gonna make? Tell me so I can drool over it while I'm stuck in my car with a bucket of KFC."
"I don't know," Frank lied. "I hadn't really thought about it yet."
"Well, that's good. I was hoping you hadn't gone out and got groceries already."
Frank didn't respond, and Kennedy asked, "You wanna try for next Saturday?"
"Sure."
"Cool. I'll talk to you later, then."
"Right."
Frank pressed her ringer down on the receiver button. She replaced the phone slowly. Scanning the suspect list, Frank stonewalled her disappointment and called one of the numbers on the list. A few minutes later she was stalled in traffic. All around her there were families in vans hurrying home, couples in sedans dressed for parties and dinners, truck drivers eager to park their rigs, and single men and women in sports cars fantasizing what their dates would be like. Watching them as dusk blued the skyline, Frank's thoughts kept straying back to her own evening, but she quickly refocused on work.
Studying an elegant couple in the Beamer next to her, Frank pondered her options if the Delamore carpet didn't match the evidence sample. There were a number of ways she could play it. As the Beamer inched forward, she wondered where the couple was going. The man was laughing, the woman smiling, as if she'd just said something clever. They seemed quite happy. Frank looked away.
Later, sitting in the dark, watching shadows against the light—one thin and small, the other tall and wide—Frank was keenly aware of the action around her. A dog trotted down the sidewalk. A car door shut. There was canned laughter from a TV turned too loud. City sounds punctuated the night—a horn, trucks rumbling, a chopper whumping not far off.
"Come on," she whispered, following Delamore's silhouette across the living room window. "Come on, buddy."
And then he was at the front door, light tumbling out around him. She sank lower, slowly, never losing his face as he slid into a shabby Camaro. As his taillights faded, so did Frank's exhilaration. She stared at the house, its allure diminished by his absence. His secrets were in there, though.
By the time Frank pulled away from the curb the couple in the Beamer were in their bed, fast asleep, and Clancey Delamore's house had long been dark.
He was sitting at a picnic table on the edge of the park, anchoring the sports section open with large forearms. The day was cool and blustery, but little kids were running around on the grass and mothers were relieved to have them distracted. At least until one of them fell and hurt himself, or wouldn't share the ball with someone else.
There were two Mexican girls swinging branches at each other, sisters he guessed. He studied them openly, surprised to find he had no feeling for them. He was beyond little girls; they'd been practice for the older and more demanding work he faced now. A quick survey of the park uncovered no suitably aged girls. But that was alright. He didn't want to take them from here anyway. He'd snuck in though a gash of chain-link fence in the thick scrub just to think and relax before going home to his mother and the same dumb questions she always asked: How was his night? What did he want for dinner? Where had he been since he got off work? He thought she'd stop asking because his answers were always the same: Okay. Anything. He'd gone for a walk or to the twenty-four-hour movies.
He knew he couldn't tell her what he was doing, couldn't tell anyone, even though he just wanted to run down the streets screaming, "It's me! I did it!" He was proud of his work, especially the last girl, and thinking about the next one made him feel hot and excited. It was going to be even better. He knew just what he wanted to do.