"Well, it's great you have a lead."
"Yeah. It is."
"You don't sound happy about it."
"No, I am. It's just. . . weird. Standing in this guy's apartment and listening to him talk about my dad. I felt like I was watching a movie I'd already seen. I gotta admit I'm a little numb. It was exciting following him, but it's still weird. Half of me really hopes he knows something but the other half wishes this would all go away. Half the time I'm sorry I opened this whole can of worms, then half the time I can't wait to dig deeper. Guess the cop and the daughter in me are duking it out."
"Who's winning?"
"I don't know. Doesn't matter, I guess. Either way, it won't bring him back. Even if Cammayo did it, even if he turns out to be a hope-to-die junkie turned priest who killed my father, it still won't bring him back. Nothing can ever change that and I still hate that.
"I guess that's the bottom line. I hate all this. And I want to find the hype that started all this shit and make him hurt, too. Priest or not. Whoever he is I want him to hurt as bad as I do." Frank sighed. "But I know hurting him won't fix the hole my dad left. Nothing can change that. So then I start arguing, why am I doing this if nothing's going to change? I can't fix all those years without him so what the hell's the point? Then Lieutenant Franco chimes in—'It's the law. Justice. Man committed a murder he should be caught and punished. The fact you can't bring your father back is irrelevant. It's a matter of law and order. Period.' I just wish it were that simple. Sorry. I'm rambling."
"You're right. You've become practically loquacious since you quit drinking."
"Ah, there's my English professor. What's loquacious mean?"
"Talkative."
"Ah. Sorry."
"No, I like it much better than your characteristic reticence. That means silence."
"I knew that one." Frank smiled at the wall.
"I like it a lot. I like knowing what's going on in your head. It makes me feel like you trust me enough to tell me. I hated when you were drinking and you'd just shut down. I always felt so left out."
"I know. You were. Everybody was. Including me."
"So talkative is much better."
"Good. 'Cause that's what I've got to learn to do. Talk, talk, talk. I've even started a journal. Can you believe it?"
Gail laughed. "No, I can't. My God, you really are changing."
"I'm trying, doc. Trying like hell."
"Well, it sounds like you're doing a wonderful job. Tell me more."
"Let's see." Frank stretched on the bed, reveling in Gail's voice. "It's been a helluva couple weeks. For that matter, a helluva last six months. I wonder what I'd be doing right now if I hadn't called Joe that night."
"I can guarantee you wouldn't be talking to me."
"Or sleeping in a cop's guest room in New York, and certainly not tracking down leads in my father's murder. It still sounds weird saying that. My father's murder. It's almost like having an out-of-body experience. I think I'm still kind of numb around it. And that's okay. I need some distance to be able to do this. But you know what? I didn't call to hear my own voice. Tell me about Gail."
"Gail's all right. It's nice to see Trina. I miss her. I should take a weekend off and go up to my mom's to see everybody."
"You should. It'd be good for you to get out of the morgue and spend more time in the fresh air. How much of that shit can you breathe before it gets to you?"
"Oh, come on. I'm lucky if I spend a couple hours in there. You know I'm always in a meeting or at the university or in my office. I'd love to be in there more."
"Well, I'm glad you're not. Can't be good for you."
"Hey, congratulations. When did you get your medical degree?"
"Same time you went into stand-up comedy." Gail laughed, making Frank smile again. "Think when I get home you can squeeze me in for dinner? Sometime between your day job and your night job?"
"I'll check my schedule," Gail assured.
"You do that. Let me know."
"I will."
To postpone hanging up, Frank asked how Gail's co-workers were, her boss, even her cats. When the clock on the nightstand flicked to midnight, she said, "I'd love to talk to you all night but I should let you get back to Trina."
"Yeah. We're going to watch a video. Romantic comedy. You'd hate it. You should get to bed. It's late there."
"Yeah, I know. See you when I get home?"
"You bet. Get some sleep, copper. Good luck tomorrow."
"Thanks. Say hi to Trina for me." There was a pause at Gail's end. Frank had seen the women in Gail's family close ranks around each other and she guessed they hadn't been happy about Frank dumping Gail. "Or don't," she added.
"Yeah. Maybe later."
"Right. Well, have fun."
"Okay," Gail answered softly. "Sleep tight."
Frank hung up, too wired to sleep. She paced the small room, sipping Perrier and pausing to write in her notebook or check her father's file. In between, she tried not to read too much into why Gail wouldn't say hi to Trina for her.
CHAPTER 38
After Annie went swimming on Sunday morning she and Frank headed for the Baruch Houses. Frank asked, "Was that true what you told Cammayo yesterday, about wantin' to be a cop?"
Annie offered a crooked grin. "Let's just say I went to Brooklyn College and one day there was a car crash out front, okay?"
Frank tried not noticing the familiar sights outside her window. "So why did you?"
"Steady paycheck. Good benefits. Good pension. Somethin' different happenin' everyday. You?"
"Same," Frank fibbed.
Crossing Canal Street Annie asked, "You ever been in Baruch?"
Frank nodded.
"It's the largest public housing project in Manhattan. Got twenty-four hundred apartments."
"I know."
"How do you—? Don't tell me you lived in Baruch, too."
"Last two years of high school."
"Where else?"
"That's all. East Village, to Masaryk, to Baruch."
Annie went quiet and Frank liked it that way. Her eyes skimmed the skyline, refusing to dip to street level. Even after Annie parked Frank averted her gaze.
"What?"
"What, what?" Frank countered.
"Whaddaya lookin' for up there?"
"Nothin'." Frank got out. She let Annie lead the way even though nothing had changed in twenty-seven years.
A man in torn clothes started toward the detectives. Recognizing the car and making them for cops he retreated. The women climbed to the fourth floor and found the apartment they wanted.
"You okay?"
"Peachy."
Annie shrugged and rapped hard on the metal door.
"Who is it?"
"Police."
"Police?"
"NYPD. Open the door."
There was grumbling but after a series of locks tripped, a thin, ashen-skinned woman opened the door. Unkempt and red-eyed, she bounced in her own skin. A crackhead.
Holding her ID out, Annie asked, "Rosalia Calderon?"
"She ain't here."
"Are you Flora Alvarez?"
"Yeah."
"Can we come in a minute?"
"For what?"
"We'd like to ask you some questions."
"I ain't done nothin'!"
"Not about you. About an old homicide, when you would have been about five."