Frank's arguments sounded hollow even as they occurred to her.
There was no statute of limitation on murder. If she had a possible lead in a case, no matter how old and forgotten, it should be checked out. That was the law. That's how justice supposedly worked. She couldn't ignore the evidence because it made her uncomfortable. She had to see it through. She was a cop. That was what cops did. Not only was she a cop, she was witness to a homicide. She had a moral duty to cooperate with solving a man's death.
Cop and witness. Frank was fine with both roles. It was a third role that kept her from the folder. She stared at the floor, not wanting to go through with it. She heard Mary's words from the night before, telling her to have faith that tomorrow would bring what she needed. Not necessarily what she wanted, but what she needed.
Frank walked back to Annie and asked, "Is there somewhere quiet I could read the file? An interview room or something?"
"Sure." Silvester picked up the folder. Frank followed her down the hall to another room. Annie opened the door, motioning her into an office. "This is Lieutenant Jacobs' office. He won't be here today. Take all the time you need."
"Thanks."
Annie handed her the thin folder, shutting the door behind her.
Frank put her father's folder on the wide, clean desk. She thought to return to the squad room and fill her coffee cup. She squinted at plaques and framed pictures, family photos on the desk. Her father's file stared in blind accusation.
Settling in the LT's chair she swiveled a few times, fingered the middle drawer. It was locked and she idly tried another. Locked too. She crossed her legs, studied the hem of her Levi's. She'd have to buy an extra set of clothes today. She'd find a cheaper hotel and then go shopping.
Frank squared the chair to the desk. Centering the folder, she drew in a long breath and flipped it open. At the top of the folder was a stack of DD5s, the detectives' progress reports, all dated consecutively throughout the years. All concluded NR—Negative Results.
She sat back before going deeper into the file. By the time she got back onto a plane for LA the file's latest DD5 might also read Negative Results. Frank decided that would be a bitter pill but she still had to see this through. There was no going back. She owed her father at least that much.
The sudden sanctimony didn't sit well and Frank jumped up to pace. She hadn't been to the man's grave since she left home and she'd done her best since then to drown his memory. The pacing worked her conscience, helping her realize that her sense of obligation was real enough but that it stemmed from atonement rather than righteous vindication. That was a more comfortable reason to continue and she settled to the folder again.
It was like thousands of homicide cases she'd read over the years and not remotely like any of them. With a detachment bordering on an out-of-body experience she pulled the original DD5s. She did the same with the ME's report and the responding officer forms. She arranged a crime scene sketch next to the reports but left the pictures inside.
Picking up the responding officer's report, she checked his name. Wolinsky. Frank matched the name to a blurry face. Wolinsky was indistinct then and had become more so with time. She wondered if he was still on the Job, guessing he quit long ago or retired. Could even be dead.
He must have been the one who had lifted her off her knees. She was kneeling next to her dad. He was slumped forward over his legs. He held out a hand for her. She took it. It was wet and sticky.
"Frankie," he whispered. "S'gonna be okay."
When her father had dropped to his knees he'd told her to call the police. She'd fled to the deli they'd just left. She couldn't remember what she'd said but a man followed her back to her father. She heard him talking to the tiny crowd, the words "shot" and "bad" buzzing above her head like angry bees.
Then strong hands around her waist lifted her from her father. The second she was freed she shoved her way back between the cop and her father. The cop smelled like cigarette smoke and wet clothes. He asked her father, "Who did this, pal?"
"Don't know," her father wheezed. "Junkie. Fuckin' hurts."
"A junkie?" the cop asked.
Weak nod from her father.
"A junkie." Frank intervened. "He jumped out from there"— she pointed to a covered stoop—"and told my father to give him his wallet."
"That right?" the cop asked.
Her father gave a small nod again.
"Did you get a look at him?"
Her father tried to hold up his hand but it fell to the sidewalk.
The cop stood up and Frank scooted closer to her father. She picked up his hand. It was cold and she held it between hers. Her fear ratcheted to terror. Behind her the cop was talking into his radio. She heard "eta" and "ambulance," "backup" and "homicide."
Her father's face was bent to the ground and she peered into it. His eyes were almost closed and his lips were loose. She squeezed his hand. "It's okay, Dad. It's okay."
"Tell 'em," he slurred. "Al. Uncle Al. Ninth Preesing."
His voice scared her. As the cop knelt again she blurted, "My Uncle Al works at the Ninth Precinct. Albert Franco. He works at the Ninth Precinct. He was in Cal's a little bit ago. You gotta get him. He lives at—"
She couldn't remember. She could see the apartment building. On Lafayette. But couldn't think of the building address. Or the cross street. Only Lafayette would come to her.
"Okay, honey. Don't worry. Look. Why don't you come over here—" The cop was directing her from her father with one large hand but she pushed his arm away.
"No!"
"Look," the cop insisted. "He's gonna be all right. Don't worry 'bout it."
They both looked as the siren cut the corner. An ambulance jolted to a stop in front of them. Two men jumped out with a stretcher and Frank was pulled aside. The men lifted her father onto the stretcher.
"Dad?" she called.
He didn't answer.
"Dad!" she screamed, running to follow but the cop caught her.
Wolinsky.
Frank opened her eyes.
She was a homicide lieutenant with the LAPD.
She was a forty-five-year-old woman, not a ten-year-old watching her father die.
Frank closed the folder and left the room.
CHAPTER 14
Annie looked up from her computer as Frank carried her cup into the squad room. Frank noticed one of the other detectives still reading his paper. That wouldn't play in her squad room. She balled up the empty bialy bag and tossed it in the trash. That, however, was just like her detectives—rip through the food then leave the empty containers lying around like bones. The Times sports section was next to the coffeepot. Frank skimmed it. Looked like the Pats were going to the Super Bowl again, a dynasty in the making. No mean feat in an era of salary caps and free agents. More steroid scandals and basketball fights. Still no hockey.
Glancing around the room, she found Annie staring at her.
"Ya finished already?"
Frank shook her head. "Just needed more coffee."
She trudged back to the lieutenant's office, took the chair again. She ran her fingers over the glossy wood grain, wondering what she needed to read that she didn't already know.
They'd turned onto East Ninth. She'd been walking next to him, a bag of groceries cradled in his right arm, her hand in his left. When he walked with her or her mother he always kept himself between them and the street. He'd explained it was an old custom from the days of runaway horses in the streets. But that night the danger came from the entrance to an apartment building. Boing! Like a jack-in-the-box the junkie had popped out and landed in front of her father.
Wielding a short, ugly pistol, he demanded, "Gimme your wallet!"
Her father dropped her hand, pushing her behind him. "Take it easy," he said.