"The Lord works in mysterious ways and all that, huh?"
"And all that, yes."
Cop and cleric stared at each other.
"Thanks for your time," Frank finally offered. To her surprise, Cammayo placed a hand on her arm.
"You're not going to stop looking for him?"
"No."
"Let me help."
"We'll see."
"Please."
Frank nodded. "I'll be in touch."
She turned but Cammayo clamped down through her coat. "On your word?"
She held Cammayo's gaze. She owed him nothing.
"On my word," she vowed.
CHAPTER 43
"Well? So? How did it go?"
Frank let Annie wait on her cell phone. "How did what go?"
"Hello? Did you talk to Cammayo or not?"
"Yeah, I did."
"And? If I wanna talk to him am I gonna find him in a hospital somewhere?"
"I told you I'd be civil and I was. I don't think he knows anything. I think he's on the level."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I told him a bullshit story about how we knew Pablo had called him from Leavenworth and he went apeshit. Had no clue what I was talking about."
Annie chuckled. "I'd a liked to seen that. So now what? I can't spend much more time on this, you know."
"Yeah, I know. I appreciate what you've done so far. I'll follow up on Leavenworth, his cellies. Told Cammayo he might go to Panama. Who knows? Maybe he got there. Probably a huge dead end but it's my time I'm wasting. Not the taxpayers'. I'll let you know what I get."
"Yeah, all right. You gonna stick around to do that?"
"No. I'm gonna take a late flight home. Surprise 'em at work tomorrow morning."
"Oh. Yeah, sure."
After a silence, Frank asked, "Can I take you out to dinner before I go?"
"Nah, we caught a stabbin' last night. Captain's got us all on it. I'm probably gonna be lookin' for this mutt all night."
"Then I won't see you before I go?"
"Not likely. So, you take care, Franco, huh? I gotta go."
"Wait." Unsure how to express her sincerity, Frank blurted out, "I don't know how to thank you for all you've done."
"Aw, shut up. I was just doin' my job."
"A bit above and beyond."
"Hey, it's no big deal. You take care of yourself, cookie."
"Yeah, you too, Annie."
"I'll do that."
Holding the dead phone, Frank already missed her friend. Without enthusiasm she found the Leavenworth number. She was passed through half a dozen numbers until she hit a dead end with an answering machine. She left her message then paced the apartment.
She was anxious. Something wasn't finished. She was clean with Annie—it was nothing there. And Cammayo felt done too. She still vacillated between anger and acceptance, but her anger was hollow. More habit than real. And although Cammayo might have missed a detail or two she was convinced he didn't have much else to offer. She stopped to look out the window, craning to see the skyline the World Trade Center used to fill.
Everything changed and nothing changed. Tower's rose and fell but there were always buildings. Weather changed but there was always sky. People came and went but there were always people.
"Yeah." She tapped the windowpane. "That's it."
Frank got into Annie's old coat one more time. She fired up the protesting Nova and drove east. She made a quick stop before parking in front of the Canarsie Cemetery, following the familiar path to her parents' grave. There were visitors scattered throughout the cemetery, but none were close.
Frank hunched between her parent's stones. She cleared her throat, looking at her father's name. "The good news is, I'm pretty sure who killed you. Bad news is, he's probably dead. But it doesn't matter anyway. You're all dead. Who knows? Maybe you already know each other. Playing cribbage on a cloud, I don't know. Anyway, I'll keep looking. Just in case. Mom, the good news is ..." She placed a flamboyant bunch of flowers at her mother's stone. "I know you liked pansies." She swallowed. "But they didn't have any. Winter, I guess. So I just took one of everything the florist had. I know you like color . . ." Frank ran a hand across her mouth. She stood, looking around, part cop, part distraction. She squeezed the back of her neck. Glanced up at the bloodless sky.
"The thing is," she whispered, "I'm sorry. Sorry I left. Sorry I ran away. Sorry I wasn't there for you." Fighting the rising pressure in her throat, she tacked on, "I'm sorry you died alone."
The tears came anyway. Frank let them. She bowed her head.
"I'm sorry for all of it. Sorry to the core of my bones."
Hot drops splashed on her mother's stone. She thought of them as liquescent offerings and choked on a small laugh.
"Big word, liquescent. I wish you could meet Gail. You'd like her. Both of you. She has your kind of politics. Very correct."
Frank pulled in a deep lungful of the wintry air.
She felt done. Until she had an idea.
Without daring to see if anyone was watching, Frank sat in the snow. She lay down, waving arms and legs, then rose carefully. Looking at the angel on her mother's grave, Frank concluded, "The good news is I love you. Very much. No bad news."
With a nod to the angel, Frank left the way she came.
CHAPTER 44
Frank landed in LA at two in the morning. She got a cab to Figueroa and crashed on the skinny couch in her office. Up at five, she took a French shower and changed into the fresh outfit in her locker. She'd finished half a pot of coffee by the time Darcy came in at five-forty.
"Hey." He plopped the Times on his desk and poured a cup. "Good trip?"
"Good enough. Glad to be home. Fill me in."
He did, as the rest of the squad trickled in.
They assembled for the morning brief, and afterward, cocking a hip on Bobby's desk, Frank praised, "Nice job holding the fort down, Picasso."
"Thanks."
"There's a lieutenant's exam coming up. You taking it?"
Bobby sat back and clasped his hands under his chin. He smiled. "I was thinking about it."
"Do more than think about it. Study up. Take it. I'm not gonna be here forever."
"What's that mean?"
"Just means you should be ready to take over a unit. Here or anywhere else." She picked up a six-inch statue on Bobby's desk. It was an intricate carving of a man with wings and a sword. "Who's this?"
"St. Michael. Patron saint of policemen."
Frank studied the dark wood. "Where'd you get it?"
"Irie." Bobby grinned. "Another sideline. He's pretty good."
She put the statue down. "What's Irie's real name?"
"Oh, man, I don't know. I'd have to look it up. John-John or something like that."
"Find it for me."
Frank didn't move and Bobby asked, "Right now?"
"Yeah."
"Why?" he asked, sliding open a drawer.
"Nothing. Just curious."
Obsessively tidy, Bobby found a specific folder in his tabbed and cross-tabbed files. He flipped through to an indexed page and read, "Romeo. John-John Row-may-oh."
"Row-may-oh," she repeated. "Huh."
"What?"
"Nothing. Did we ever fill out a package on him?"
Bobby shook his head. Detectives were supposed to register confidential informants. Irie, like a lot of other CIs, had balked at becoming an official snitch but the detectives used him anyway.
Frank edged off the desk. "Anyway. Good job. Get to studying, huh?"
"Roger that."
Before getting tangled in the whirlwind of running a homicide unit Frank closed her office door and called Gail. "Hey," she greeted. "How about lunch?"
"Where are you?"
"Work."
"When did you get in?"