Alcohol has always been a friend Frank can count on. When she feels low it consoles her. When she wants to celebrate it takes her higher. When she mourns, it comforts her. When she needs to chill, it calms her. If she's a little down, it brings her up. If she's amped too high, it brings her down. The booze oils her enough to fit comfortably into her own skin, no matter how tight, how large, how raw or how exhilarated she feels. It makes bad times bearable and good times better.
Because the booze has always been such a loyal and dependable friend, Frank cannot—will not—see its betrayal. And the betrayals start off small enough: a hangover on a workday, the fuzzily recalled evening, a tiff that in the sober light of dawn seems senseless. They're petite mignons, really, little sins, of fleeting concern during her shower or drive to work.
Because she hasn't noticed the smaller betrayals, she's equally blind to the larger ones—the recriminating arguments that leave her bruised but justified; remorseful cold shoulders to those deserving better; the dull head that shadows much of her workday followed near the end of watch by distractive planning of what to drink and where.
Alcohol is Frank's right-hand man, her Robinson Crusoe and Gal Friday rolled into one. It's the cavalry routing the bad guys in the final desperate hour. It's the lifeline suddenly appearing in a walloping sea. So of course she has ignored all the hints and signs that her old friend is going behind her back. Who could look at that? Who would want to see? She keeps loving her buddy, her pal, sharing the bulk of her time with it and all her confidences. And her friend pats her hand or gives her the high-five just as it always has. And because she still trusts it, unable to believe it has anything but her best interests at heart, she willingly takes its hand and follows it too far.
When she wakes from a blackout wondering how she got home, while she pulls her guts up through her teeth at the kitchen sink, or hides bloodshot eyes behind Ray Bans and shaking hands in pockets, she wonders how she's crossed the line again. She berates herself for going as far as she has and swears she won't do it again. But when the booze calls her and says one or two won't hurt, just for old time's sake, she says, "Sure," certain, trusting even, that her old friend won't hurt her. And because she trusts it, she follows it repeatedly, again and again, over the line.
Frank decides her vow to stick to two beers is unnecessary. By nine o'clock that night she has finished a six-pack. There are no notable aftereffects and Frank thinks no more of limits or abstaining. She is fine. Just fine.
Chapter 18
There are two people that Frank has yet to talk to—Mary and Walter Pryce. She's put off calling Ladeenia and Trevor's parents because she knows they will ask about Noah. He had stayed in touch, calling them regularly just to check in. To let them know he hadn't forgotten. He'd been fond of the Pryces and they of him. Everyone liked Noah. He was just that kind of guy.
Frank has a few questions for the Pryces, loose ends she could easily tie up on the phone, but she wants to meet them. They are the living link to the case she's become so attached to. And they are a link to Noah.
She calls to arrange a meeting. Sundays, after church, is the best time for them. And the worst for Frank—Sundays are when she and Gail try to carve some time out together.
During a late dinner on Wednesday night, Frank tries killing two birds with the same stone.
"I called the Pryces today. The parents in Noah's cold case. I need to talk to them face-to-face but the only time that works for both of them is Sunday afternoons. They live up in Santa Maria, so I was wondering if you'd like to drive up there with me. I just need about twenty minutes with them, and then we can have the rest of the day to do whatever you want. Maybe have lunch in Santa Barbara, hit some antique stores?"
They are eating Chinese food at Yujean Kang's. Gail looks up from her Ants on a Tree to reach for Frank's hand. "That'd be fun. I'd like that."
Frank holds on to the hand in hers. This is the part where she should say something tender and sincere. The words themselves come easily enough after a lifetime of cajoling witnesses and suspects, but Frank is sure that if she speaks them without feeling that Gail will see right through her. She settles for squeezing the doc's hand and assuring her, "Me, too."
Sunday breaks hot and bright. They pick up coffee and cinnamon buns at Europane and head for Highway 101. Looking east, the mountains sport spring wildflowers, and to the west the Pacific sparkles benignly under a bright blue sky. It's a textbook southern California day. Gail chatters about work and her mom and sisters. Frank makes the appropriate noises and feigns interest but her thoughts are where they always are—with the Pryce case.
Leaving Gail contentedly reading in the car, Frank introduces herself to Mary and Walter Pryce. When they inevitably ask why the case has been reassigned, much as she hates to, Frank tells them the truth. The news saddens them and although they offer to help Frank however they can, their resignation is palpable.
As promised, Frank is soon back on the highway where it occurs to her that the Pryces have closed the book on their dead children and moved on. If they've moved on, why shouldn't she? Why keep flogging this dead horse? There are file cabinets back at Figueroa full of unsolved cases, some as tragic as Ladeenia and Trevor's, some more so. Why not focus on them instead?
Because this is Noah s case, comes the dim response from a corner of her brain. She tells herself she wants to solve it for him. Not for the Pryces—to hell with them—but for Noah. He'd appreciate it. But an even darker corner of her brain whispers that if she lets Pryce go, she has to let Noah go, too.
She turns to Gail and forces a smile. "So what's for lunch?"
Frank keeps her brain hushed for the next couple of weeks by spending every available minute canvassing a tight pattern of houses between Cassie Bertram's duplex and the old Pryce house. Ninety percent of the time she is off the clock.
For weeks she gets nothing but attitude and indifference. Deciding to switch to where the crime ended rather than where it started, she starts knocking on doors immediately around the dump-site. A wino and five kids have moved into the house where the woman with the chicken lived. An elderly Salvadoran couple owns the house behind the dumpsite. Two of their children and three of their grandchildren share the three-bedroom bungalow. They lived there when the Pryce kids were discovered and tsk-tsk about the tragedy that was. So many tragedies. Of course things were different when they were younger. They remember nothing Frank doesn't already know. By the time she leaves them the sun has been down for an hour. She consults her watch. Just one more.
Frank checks her notes. Yolanda Miron lives on the west side of the dumpsite. Frank sees lights on in the house and presses her luck. A gray-haired Hispanic woman opens warily at her knock. Holding up her badge and ID, Frank inquires, "Mrs. Miron?"
The woman nods with concern but as Frank explains the reason for her visit she relaxes and invites Frank in. A stout man-child with the obvious characteristics of Down's syndrome looks up at Frank as she enters the living room. Mrs. Miron says, "Izzy, it's almost bedtime. Pick up your things."
Izzy nods, complying with quick, curious looks at Frank. Frank begins by rote and Mrs. Miron echoes what everyone else has said— it's been such a long time. She's afraid she has nothing new to add. Like a few other people, she remembers Noah and asks why he's not working the case.
Frank usually answers this inquiry by saying he's been reassigned. Maybe because it's been a long day, maybe because she's frustrated, maybe because Mrs. Miron is nice and her house smells like cookies, Frank tells her Noah was killed in a car accident. Izzy overhears this and interjects, "My Papi was killed in a car."