"Plenty," Frank agreed.
CHAPTER 15
After they dropped off the evidence Annie's cell phone rang. She answered while veering around a plumbing van and Frank braced herself against the dashboard.
"Vincent. Whaddaya got for me?" Annie listened. "Excellent. I'll meet you at the station as soon as I can. Keep him uncomfortable, okay?" Hanging up, she asked Frank, "You want to go back to the station or I should drop you somewhere?"
"There a good hotel near the station?"
"Let's see. There's the St. Marks over on Third. For forty bucks you can have the room two hours, no questions asked."
"Nice. But I'd like to stay a little longer."
Annie laughed. "Let me tell ya, there've been times I've popped for it. Just for the pure luxury of stretching out on sheets for an hour and forty-five then a hot shower. Um-mm. There's a Hojo at Forsyth and Houston. Sohotel on Broome. Used to be the Pioneer. I think it's pretty cheap. There's Hotel Seventeen up Third. I can tell you it ain't the Crowne Plaza but it's not a Super Eight, either. It's clean and cheap. I think you gotta share a bathroom, though. Madonna stayed there."
"Madonna shared a bathroom?"
"Yeah, imagine? You open the door to go and there's Madonna on the can. 'Oh, excuse me. Bu-ut, as long as you're here, maybe I could I get an autograph?'"
Frank smiled. "Just take me back to the station. I'll figure it out from there."
When they arrived at the Ninth, Frank trailed Annie inside to use a phone book. She asked, "So I'm not gonna be steppin' on your toes if I canvass the cemetery tomorrow?"
"Aw, hell, no. Go for it. But," Annie warned, pointing a lacquered fingernail, "you tell me everything you find out. Even what you don't find out, capiche?"
"Capiche"
After checking in with her squad, and talking to a very unhappy captain, Frank decided to try Hotel 17. Walking up Third Avenue, she passed the St. Marks Hotel, pleased that Annie Silvester was the detective on her father's case. She was also pleased when she got to the hotel and saw that the Hazelden Rehab Center was right next door—if things got bad she wouldn't have far to go for help.
Frank's room was small and funky, but cheap, as Annie'd said. Willing to compromise on lodging, but not on what she wore all day, Frank hiked across town to Macy's. Her long legs ate up the blocks as she hunched against the intermittent snow, warm from her exertion. A memory detached itself as she approached the monolithic department store—shopping there with her mother, having Coke and a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch, a small Macy's bag propped on the table between them.
The recollection stung. Frank found indignant comfort in her sad memories, but being back in the city of her youth revived happy memories for which she had no ready defenses. She realized that she'd been so busy resenting her mother that she'd forgotten how much she had once loved her. She stepped into Macy's, assaulted by the warm, perfumed air. The smell hadn't changed in forty years. Frank quickly bought a change of clothes and when she was done, ate lunch across the street. But the large Macy's bag propped defiantly on the table couldn't hide the little bag in Frank's memory. She couldn't remember what had been in the bag but her mother had beamed at it as if it held a queen's riches.
Then came darker days when Frank was towed through the store in her mother's manic wake, her mother stockpiling merchandise with delighted cashiers, only to leave empty-handed at closing time with barely enough money for bus fare. During the ride home to whichever project they were in at the time Frank had seethed in shame and anger.
The waiter delivered a carafe of wine a few tables down. Frank looked on as the man poured, reminded of a Ray Bradbury story where time was used in place of money. Some saved time, others spent it. The poor sap in the story was down to a few hours in his account. He'd rushed frantically about town, begging for time, but no one would lend him any. He ran out and died.
Frank paid her bill, thinking that was how her drinking was. All done, all her passes used up, none left. Pull the plug. On her way back to the hotel she walked Broadway all the way down to the Strand. For the last year, year and a half, she hadn't been able to read anything not related to work. Now, with lots of empty hours to face, she thought it might be a good time to try again. For the better part of the afternoon Frank lost herself in paper and ink, finally leaving the store carrying a Strand bag larger than the Macy's bag.
Dusk had become night by the time she returned to the hotel. Seeing the shared bath was empty, she warmed herself with a quick, hot shower. Ducking across the hall wearing only a towel made her think of Gail running around the Crowne Plaza in her pajamas. She wanted to call Gail, hear her voice. Instead Frank picked a book from the bag and snuggled under the covers. She wasn't ten pages into it before the phone rang. She jumped up, hunting for the cell phone hidden in her jacket. It showed a local number.
"This is Franco."
"Franco. Annie Silvester."
"Hey. What's up?"
"You wouldn't believe it if I told you."
"Try me."
"Chi di spada ferisce di spada perisce." Annie laughed. "'He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword.' We're interviewin' my mope, we get a call about a homicide. The vie turns out to be the mope's friend, the other guy we're lookin' for. The little girl's father shot the crap outta him. Mope looked like a friggin' colander by the time he got put outta his misery. You should see the blood. Someone's gonna make a fortune cleanin' that apartment."
"Congratulations. Double-header."
"That's not the best part. We take a Polaroid of the vie, show it to my mope and ask if he knows him. I swear, Frank, he turned whiter than me. I thought he was gonna toss his cookies all over the box. I tell him the vie gave him up while he was bein' shot, that he told the father where to find him, and I kid you not, he starts talkin' faster than I can listen. Figures his chances are better with a New York jury than the girl's father. And he's right. Only I didn't tell him we had the father in custody."
"Sweet."
"Yeah, no kiddin', huh? What are you, my good-luck charm? You blow into town and bada bing, I close two cases. So I was thinkin' while I'm on a roll here, I should head out to Canarsie with you tomorrow. How would that be?"
"That'd be great."
"Good. Where you stayin' at?"
"Hotel Seventeen."
"I'll pick you up around ten."
"See you then."
A few pages later the phone rang again. This time Frank recognized the number.
"Hey," she answered.
"Hey yourself. How was your day?"
"Okay. Took the evidence to the lab with Annie, found a place—"
"Who's Annie?"
"She's the detective handling my dad's case. Annie Silvester. Did that, then I found a place to stay. It's funky, but like Annie said, 'It ain't the Crowne Plaza' but it'll do."
"Sounds like you and Annie are getting pretty chummy."
"Chummy." Frank tasted the word. "Makes it sound like we're going to the movies and hanging out together. We're workin' a homicide."
"I see. How's that going?"
"Well, we got the candle and the vase delivered, so now we wait. Tomorrow we'll go out to the cemetery and see what we can turn up there. No pun intended."
"How old is she?"
"How old is who?"
"This Annie."
"I don't know. She's going to retire in nine months. She looks like she's maybe early fifties, give or take a couple years."
"Hmm. How long do you think you'll be staying here?"
"No telling. I talked to Fubar. He's pissed. Told him it could be a couple more days, maybe a couple weeks. I don't know. It all depends on what we get back from the lab. Or don't. How about you? Going back tomorrow?"