"Uncuff him," she tells Darcy.
Darcy does, grinning. Miller rubs his wrists.
"Hey, punk-ass bitch. You got something to say to me? Hm? I can't hear you." When he is silent she smirks. "Not so mouthy now, are you?"
He spits over his shoulder, mumbling into it.
Frank glances around the room. Seeing Bobby's cleared it, she steps into Miller's face. "If you're gonna say something, be man enough to say it loud enough so I can hear. Or ain't you got the balls?"
"I got 'em," he says, hefting his crotch. "Right here. More than your dyke ass can handle."
"That's right," Frank agrees. "You're too much man for me. That's why I had to get wit' your baby sister last night. You know she shaves her pussy smooth like a little girl's? Got a little mole on the right inside lip. Did you know that? Hm? You ever get some of that? I'ma tell you what—that bitch is a tasty piece a ass, n'mean?"
Miller bounces from foot to foot. He chews on his lip, killing Frank with his eyes. She pushes him, licking her lips, singsonging, "Yeah, I ate her up like she was a piece a chocolate cake. Then I went and saw yo mama. She went down on me like she was a vulcha. That bitch be old, but she can suck a marble through a straw. She ever do you like—"
"Shut the fuck up!"
Miller feigns a lunge, and Frank steps back, laughing. "Wait a minute, little man. I ain't even finished. Lemme tell you what I done to yo mama with my fo-fo. I put the barrel in her ho-ho." She makes a twisting motion with her wrist, chuckling. "Turned it nice and slo-slo. Had the bitch beggin' for mo-mo, screamin' on the flo-flo. Yeah! Tadow!"
Frank laughs and Miller breaks for her with a wild roundhouse. Frank's ready and sidesteps while slamming him into the wall. With her forearm against his Adam's apple she jams her Beretta between his teeth. In a hot rush she envisions pulling the trigger and leaving nothing of his face but neck bone and a wall stain.
"I could kill you right now," she hisses in his ear. "Call it self-defense and not lose a second's sleep over you. In fact, I'd sleep better. I been cleaning up after shit-scum like you my entire life. Why shouldn't I blow one more motherfuckin' puke outta this world? Huh?"
She shoves the barrel farther down his throat and he gags.
"You throw up on me you punk-ass son-of-a-bitch and I swear I'll pull this fucking trigger. How do you like being on this end of the gun, baby killer? Still feel like a big man? You think Clyde Payson liked it? Huh? Huh? Answer me, motherfucker!"
She bounces his head into the wall and he sputters blood with a garbled response.
"That's right, you fucking coward, he probably didn't like staring into your four-four any more than you like sucking on this Beretta. Or do you like it? I can't tell. I think you like it, you cock-sucking bitch."
The stench of Miller's piss reaches her nose and Frank looks pointedly at the mess on the floor.
"At least Payson didn't piss his pants like a fuckin' baby. Puke like you, your mother should've eaten you at birth."
Extracting the Beretta, she drops her arm and slams his head once more. Crying and choking, Miller crumples into his pool of piss. Frank stares in profound disgust, directed more at herself than at Miller. Bobby comes up to re-cuff him and Frank steps aside. The Beretta dangles from her hand.
"Come on. Let's go." Bobby coaxes Miller to his feet. Even after he's led the boy from the room Frank still doesn't move.
Behind her, Darcy asks, "You all right?"
No, she thinks. Definitely not all right. She turns to face her cop.
"That was stupid," she says. "There was no excuse."
"Whatever. The fucking punk had it coming."
"No. Not whatever. Never whatever. You excuse it once, you'll excuse it again. Next thing you know, you're the same fucking scum they are. Only with a badge. No excuses, Darcy. We're supposed to protect people from shit-birds like Miller, not become them."
"Suit yourself." He shrugs.
"Go help your partner," she tells him.
The room is empty and Frank takes the edge of the bed. She's got the post-adrenaline shakes, and she's scared. She could have killed Miller. She wanted to. The tiniest flinch on her part would have spattered that bastard into whatever sorry afterlife he has coming. Frank tastes his blood on her lips and leaps up.
"Jesus!"
She paces a short, taut circle, wondering what is wrong with her. When the magpie women enter the room to upbraid her, Frank flees past them. Outside, she is comforted by the relative safety of patrol cars and uniforms. Leaving Darcy and Bobby to process the arrest she heads for the Alibi. She's still shaky by the time she gets there. Taking a stool, she orders, "Double Chivas, Mac. Make it two."
"Ice?"
She shakes her head. "Neat."
"You got it."
She swallows the first drink in one shot.
The evening crowd hasn't come in yet and Nancy perches on the stool next to her. "Hey," Frank says, relieved at the distraction. "How you doing?"
"Good. How about you?"
"Peachy-keen," Frank lies. She finishes the second glass and lifts it for a refill.
Nancy asks, "Are we drinking dinner?"
"Just the appetizer. I'll get something in a little bit."
But in a little bit Johnnie comes in. She orders Chivas for them both and when Mac pours his drink, Johnnie gripes, "Damn it, how come bartenders are all always called Mac?"
"Because we're all Scotch-Irish bastards. MacPeters, MacDougal, MacPhilips. You dumb WASP bastards can't keep us straight so you call all of us Mac."
"To dumb WASP bastards," Johnnie toasts.
Mac pours a shot to join in the toast. "To Scotch-Irish bastards."
They look at Frank who hasn't raised her glass.
"Got something against the Scotch-Irish?" Mac grins.
"Nope. Just bastards in general." She changes the subject. "Mac, if you're such a good Scotch-Irish lad tell me what Chivas means."
"Oh." Mac clutches his chin. "I heard once."
"Detective Briggs, any guesses?"
"Good times ahead," Johnnie answers.
Frank shakes her head. "Guess again." It's a game she used to play with Noah—three guesses, each sillier than the next, but Johnnie doesn't know the rules.
"I don't know."
Frank peers at the amber liquor in her glass. "It's Gaelic. Means the narrow place."
"So?"
"So nothing." She sighs. "Never mind."
Chapter 13
Every witness pulls Miller out of the six-pack of photos. In the lineup, each one points and says, "That's him." He is bound over and pleads not guilty. Frank apologizes to Bobby as she did to Darcy. Nothing is said of it again, for which Frank is grateful. The calculated violence of her attack on Miller scared her and she just wants to forget it, chalk it up to circumstance and move on.
The City of Angels obliges her. After a four-year dip, violent crime stats throughout L.A. are climbing to new highs. It's only May, yet Figueroa already has 58 homicides on the books. It's a tough enough load for a full squad, and Frank's shy a man. Her best man.
Notwithstanding a brutal seventy-hour week, by the end of it Frank sits alone in her office. She has finished combing through the Pryce murder books. She has analyzed crime scene photos, autopsy reports, lab reports completed prior to losing the physical evidence, responding officer and primary detective reports, notes from Noah and canvassing officers, statements from friends, family, neighbors and the woman who found the bodies. Dozens of rap sheets have been read—from Peeping Toms to sadists to child offenders. Everything has been reviewed but the box of interview tapes. They sit in their shoebox, carefully dated and labeled in Noah's hand. She still can't bring herself to listen to them, rationalizing that Noah would have documented anything worth hearing. It's a weak argument but the best she can muster.