"You're pushing."
"I just want to put it out there. I want you to know exactly where I stand. Cards on the table and all that. And I promise this is as hard as I'll push. Just don't ask me to pretend I don't care. I won't do that. I'm trying to feel things, for once, and be honest about them instead of shoving them aside and pretending they don't exist. So I'm not going to pretend I don't love you." Frank sat back. "Ball's in your court. You gonna take a chance and go skating with me? Maybe have some fun."
"And maybe get hurt," Gail said, her implication clear.
"I promised you. I won't let that happen." Frank cocked her head. "Weren't you the one who gave me a lecture a couple years ago about how you have to live life to the fullest? That by blocking out the pain you blocked out all the joy too? Wasn't that you?"
Gail's dark bob swayed. "I think you're mixing me up with one of your other girlfriends."
Frank stopped a laugh. "That's right. I have so many of them."
"You promise you won't let me fall?"
Making an X over her heart, Frank vowed, "Cross my heart, hope to die."
CHAPTER 11
The Ninth's squad room echoed when Frank walked in, her cheeks still slightly numb from skating with Gail. The doc had been hopeless but Frank had fun holding her up. She looked at the clock on the wall.
Almost five. Two at home.
She called her captain. There was no answer on his cell, office or home phones and Frank wondered how her crew was supposed to get hold of him.
"Asshole," she whispered just before his machine picked up. "John, it's Frank. Something's come up and I'm going to be longer than I thought. I'll know more tomorrow. Call you then."
She hung up and dialed Figueroa. She asked the desk sergeant if he'd seen Foubarelle around and he snorted. "On a Sunday? You gotta be shittin' me."
"Anybody upstairs?"
"Hold on. I'll transfer you."
The phone rang and Darcy picked up. "Hey. You home?"
"Not yet. Might be a while. How's everything going?"
"Fine. Quiet."
"What are you doing there on a Sunday afternoon?"
"Catching up on sixty-days."
"I wish your work ethic would rub off on your colleagues."
Darcy grunted. "They have lives. When do you think you'll be back?"
"Don't know. Three thousand miles from home, and believe it or not I'm working a homicide. I'll tell you about it when I get back. How's Gabby doing?"
Darcy's pause told her his daughter's cystic fibrosis was flaring. "Marguerite had to take her to the hospital last night. She's home now. I might take off tomorrow if nothing's going on."
"Do that."
"Yeah. We'll see. Don't be too long out there. I don't want to catch something and have Fubar all over me."
"I'll do my best." She hung up, missing her crew and her routine. She found a phone book and the number she was looking for. She dialed it on Silvester's phone.
"Alcoholics Anonymous. How can I help you?"
"Yeah, I'm looking for a meeting tonight." Frank gave the man she was talking to the Ninth's address and the Crowne Plaza's.
"You got a couple to choose from. Any particular emphasis?"
"Anything but a men's stag."
"All right, get your pencil ready."
Frank wrote down half a dozen times and places. She hadn't planned on going to a meeting in New York, but then again there were a lot of things she hadn't planned on. She pocketed the list, thinking she'd need to find a cheaper hotel.
Seeing as no one was around, Frank took a seat in front of Silvester's computer. Because her computer skills barely exceeded turning the damned things on, Frank didn't have any luck searching for information about her father's case. She got up and rummaged through rows of gray file cabinets, snooping the old-fashioned way. Hearing loud voices she slipped a drawer shut and posed near the coffee machine.
Hooting and hollering in the language of a successful collar, four detectives stomped into the homicide room. Silvester, long past her second wind and running on a third or fourth, was one of them. Calling one of the men "Lieutenant" she told him, "We got the little bastard. He was hiding under his grandmother's bed. He crapped his pants when we pulled him out."
"Nice job, Annie. How about the kid? How we doing on that?"
"We've got her nailed down to a mom-and-pop shop after she got out of school. There are a couple of mopes hanging around there that Vince and Billy are talkin' to. After I get this mutt processed I'm going to go home and grab a couple hours sleep, get a fresh start in the morning, huh?"
The LT nodded. "Yeah. Nice work. Vince and Billy gonna grab some shuteye, too?"
"Vince and Billy, too." Accepting the lieutenant's amiable pat on the shoulder, Annie turned and saw Frank. "Oh, spare me. Are you still here?"
"Charlie got the evidence booked but he couldn't tell me who was handling the case. Can you?"
"You're lookin' at her."
"You?"
"The one and only, Anne Marie Silvester."
Frank seethed, "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
"Because I didn't have time to check you out. You said you weren't just some mope off the street but how was I supposed to know that? You wouldn't believe the nut jobs we get in here."
"Yeah, I would. We get the same fuckin' nuts in LA. So what do I have to do make you believe me?"
Despite her obvious exhaustion, Silvester's eyes sparkled. "Nothin'." She grinned. "Charlie already did it. I told him to call LA and check your shield. He says you're all right."
Shaking her head at the floor, Frank muttered, "That's why it took him twenty minutes to make coffee. Okay. So can I see the file now?"
"Dear, did you happen to notice with your brilliant detective skills that I got a suspect here? Your pop's been dead what, thirty, thirty-five years?"
"Thirty-six."
"Thirty-six. So another day's gonna matter? God willin', this mutt'll talk and I can get some sleep tonight. You come back in the mornin', seven sharp. I'll get you your father's book for you. Deal?"
Being in no position to argue, Frank asked, "You like bialys?"
Silvester patted her hips. "Don't I look like I like bialys?"
"Not really."
"Psh. Enough with the brown-nosing. With a vegetable shmear, huh?"
"See you in the mornin'."
Frank zipped her thin windbreaker and walked out into the frigid New York night.
CHAPTER 12
Still Sunday—PM—Manhattan
Going to spend one more night at the Crowne Plaza. What the hell. Called Mary, told her what was going on. She's worried about me but Tm all right. Confused, maybe, but I told her I’m not going to drink over it. I want a drink, hell yes, but not the consequences. She was happy Td been to a meeting. It was at Grace Church. I walked over. Forgot how much I like walking. Never walk anywhere at home but you could spend your life here without venturing more than ten blocks in any direction. Amazed how much I still remember, too.
Passed St. Mark's, where A.T. Stewart was buried. They kidnapped his body from there in the late 1800s and demanded a $200,000 ransom. I think the widow bargained them down to $20,000 and got him back but she didn't bury him in St. Mark's again. Commodore Perry's buried at St. Mark's and Peter Stuyvesant. All that history in one block. I miss that in LA. Everything's new and modern, ultra this and techno that. It lacks a sense of place, perspective.
Anyway. St. Marks was cool but Grace Church blew me away. Beautiful little church, built in the 1800s. It's got some scaffolding up around the spire now, like they're working on it. When I got there, before I went in, I was standing outside admiring it and I almost started crying.