Frank's cigarette has burned down to her fingers. She takes a quick last suck on it then grinds it under her heel. She carries the musty boxes into her office. Pryce has just been reassigned.
Chapter 5
Frank takes a garment bag out of the closet. She lays it on the bed, unzips it and carefully removes her dress blues. She undresses in the adjoining bathroom and takes a long shower. She finds her blow-dryer under the sink and dries her hair. The smell of hot dust fills the room. She doesn't have the patience to finish her hair and leaves it damp against her neck.
Walking naked into the bedroom, she contemplates the clothes laid out on her bed. She never thought she'd have to wear them for this. Not for him.
She pins the gold bars on the collar. Satisfied they're straight, she slips into the heavy cloth. The shirt buttons snugly and Frank has to suck her breath in to zip her trousers. She tells herself she'd better spend more time on the treadmill. She pulls her dress belt through the pant loops and puts her tie on in front of the mirror. She doesn't look at her face.
Carrying her hat into the living room, she snaps her old .38 to the belt. She loves her 9mm, but today she feels a need to carry history. Creased and pressed, she drives alone to her best friend's funeral.
There, she stands with her squad, looking across the rectangle of plastic grass at Noah's family. Kennedy is there. Her old flame is subdued but solicitous. She asks why Gail didn't come.
"She wanted to. I asked her not to. Selfish of me, but this will be easier without her."
Frank has developed two personalities—a softer, more accessible personality reserved for rare intimates, and a professional, implacable police persona she uses to her advantage now. She braces herself, relieved when Kennedy doesn't press for detail. She's also relieved when Kennedy doesn't follow to the reception.
Cops and civilians make two separate knots, the former growing louder and raunchier as the liquor disappears. Joe Girardi is here. He's lost hair and gained weight. Frank doesn't know if she's glad to see him or not. She loves Joe, but his presence brings memories. Just like the old days, he pulls Frank away from the squad. She is both relieved and apprehensive.
"You look like you've been fucked, fried and flogged halfway to Friday."
It's such a classic Girardi line Frank has to smile.
Joe squeezes her shoulder, bending his head to hers. "How you doing, girlie-girl?"
"I'm okay."
"I know, I know. You're always okay. How you handling this?"
"Handling what?"
"Noah."
"I'm gonna figure out his caseload and his partner's—"
"No, no, no." Joe jabs a finger between her breasts. "How are you dealing with this?"
Frank stares over his shoulder. "Best I can. There's not a lot of options."
Joe stays quiet, but keeps his face in Frank's.
She manages a grin. "You're interrogating."
"Damn right." He grins back. "I know you won't give it up without a fight."
"Even then," she says, backing away, raising her palms in the air.
Joe shakes his head. "It'll eat you alive."
"I'll take care of it."
"How?"
"Joe, I respect you. Always have. But you're not my LT anymore. Don't push me."
"All right, all right," he soothes. "I'm just asking. I know what you're gonna do anyway."
"Oh, yeah? What's that?"
"You're gonna dive into a bottle and pretend it's never happened."
It rankles Frank that she is so transparent, and she answers, "So what if I do? Who's it gonna hurt?"
"You, girlie-girl. It's gonna hurt you. And it doesn't have to be that way."
"Maybe it does."
Frank stands squarely during Joe's full appraisal. She feels like she's let him down, but she can't change that. Finally he nods.
"Maybe it does. Come on," he says, swinging an arm around her neck. "Let's get back to the party."
He leaves soon after. Lightly slapping her cheek, Joe tells Frank to be careful. And reminds her she has his number. Watching him leave, she's surprised by the lump in her throat. She sips club soda so her crew can tie one on. As the funeral reception breaks up she pours them into cabs and sends them home with more sober revelers. She hugs Tracey and promises to call. She winds up alone in her car, driving with no destination. Like a serial killer, she cruises aimlessly until a perfect opportunity appears.
It's the Alibi. She locks her .38 into the lockbox in her trunk. In the bathroom she exchanges her uniform for shorts and a T-shirt from the backseat. They're wrinkled and stiff with sweat, but there's hardly anyone in the bar. Much of the Alibi's trade is from downtown offices so the place is quiet on Saturday afternoons. The weekend bartender doesn't know Frank well and tries to initiate conversation. When Frank shuts him down he takes up a position at the opposite end of the bar.
She stares at the NASCAR race over her head and drinks doubles. She did what she had to do at the wake, but now her time is her own, and she intends to use it getting shitfaced. As she finishes her third Scotch, Johnnie walks in. She doesn't admit how glad she is to see him. They order boilermakers and raise their shot glasses.
"To Noah."
They order again. By midnight they see two of themselves behind the jeweled bottles in the mirror. The bartender's afraid to cut the cops off and afraid not to. He's relieved when Frank tells him to call a cab. She and Johnnie tumble out to the sidewalk, Johnnie bellowing, "I'm drunker 'n a fuckin' lord!"
"Hella high," Frank agrees. She sways gently while Johnnie waggles a finger. Or two.
"La Freek." He calls her by the old nickname only he uses anymore. "You're drunker'n a fiddler's bitch."
"Uncanny, Detective Briggs. No foolin' you."
When the cab comes they go to another bar. By the time she gets home she has to kneel in front of her door and shut one eye to get the key in the lock. She gets in on the third try, stumbling past the flashing light on her answering machine. She knows who's called and it's too late to do anything about it. She drinks a big glass of water and takes four Excedrin PMs, hoping she'll sleep through the worst of the hangover.
It's a good plan, but at dawn Frank is hugging her John. After she's left with dry heaves she drinks more water and sticks her finger down her throat. When the water comes back up her stomach levels out. She chases two naproxen with an inch of Pepto Bismol and goes back to bed. The ringing phone wakes her. She reaches for it while assessing damage control. The hangover has left only a foggy head and sore stomach muscles.
"This is Franco."
"Hi." Gail's voice elicits remorse mingled with caution.
"Hey." Frank makes an offensive play. "I'm sorry I didn't call yesterday. Johnnie and I stopped by the Alibi and kind of closed the place down."
"Kind of closed the place down," Gail repeats, her words stuck in the wire like an icicle. "I don't suppose it ever occurred to you that I might be worried."
"Honestly, yes. But by the time I thought to call you I was pretty smashed."
While waiting for Gail's move Frank tries to remember how she got home. She walks to the living room window, doesn't see her car in the driveway and assumes she had sense enough to take a cab.
At last Gail says, "I hope you feel like bloody hell this morning."
"I do," Frank lies.
"Good. You deserve it."
The doc's honesty amuses Frank. It's what she loves most about Gail. That and her legs.
"I owe you dinner. How about I take you out and we catch a movie?"
"And you think that'll get you off the hook?"
"I don't know. Will it?"
Gail considers, allowing, "This time."
It's too late for Frank to go back to sleep so after a glass of chocolate milk she exorcises her guilt in the garage that is her gymnasium. With the Soloflex, treadmill and free weights, she sweats the night from her system. A cab takes her to the Alibi where her old Honda waits patiently. When she picks up Gail, she is bright-eyed and hungry. She will not drink tonight. She will be charming and attentive. Frank plans this, she thinks, to keep Gail off her back, to convince the doc everything is all right.