Ike asked, "What else did she say?"
"That was it. Like she was rushed."
"Maybe it's a set-up," Ike said.
"Why me? For what?"
"Want me to go with you?" he offered.
"No. It's at the church. That's a pretty neutral zone. Probably wants to drop a dime on somebody."
"Placa?" Noah said dubiously. "Since when's she calling us to do her dirty work?"
"We'll see," Frank shrugged. Ike started to say something but Noah called out, "Hey-hey! Look who's here."
Heads at the Nine-three table swiveled to watch Gail Lawless snake her way toward them.
"Who's dead?" Nook grumbled and Johnnie cried, "Well, hell! If it ain't Doc Law."
"Don't pay any attention to 'em," Noah ordered, waving her into the seat he'd wedged between himself and Frank. He shouted, "Gin 'n tonic for you, Doc?"
She nodded and Frank watched the coroner taking in the faces around the table. Frank studied Gail's almond-shaped eyes. They had an almost Asian cast but were set in a distinctly western, raw-boned face. When they settled on Frank, they sparkled.
"Hi," Gail smiled.
"Hey. Thought we'd scared you off."
"I figured my hair wasn't long enough to set on fire," she smirked. "Besides, how could I resist the tall tales?"
Diego was telling a story about an interview he and Ike had done. Their wit was an old lady and her dead husband, who she assured the detectives, was right next to her on the couch. Diego would ask a question, and she'd say she wasn't sure. The old lady would turn to her husband and ask what he thought. Then she'd look at the detectives and smile as if they'd heard the answer too. Diego finally got the hang of it, and asked the lady to repeat the husband's answers, "on account of my partner and me being so deaf from all the gun battles we've been in."
She was a great witness, even they couldn't put her on the stand because she was loony-toons. Diego made small talk as they left and she complained about making dinner for her husband. He insisted on supper at six o'clock, but he never ate a thing anymore. She always ended up scraping his plate into the garbage can.
"After that," Diego rapped on the table, "Every night, six sharp, Ike was at her door."
"That's like the old lady I had when I was still in uniform," Johnnie said launching into his own story.
Nancy plunked a tall glass in front of Gail and swept up an empty pitcher. Noah kept interrupting Johnnie's story, showing off for the ladies at the table, and Nook grumbled interjections. Taking in conversations from other tables, monitoring the mood of the bar and her own detectives, Frank tested the atmosphere like a wild animal, too sober to let her guard down. She didn't anticipate trouble, but was ready for it. Part of that was her natural character; part of it was too many years as a cop.
For a moment, Frank gave the coroner her full attention. She seemed to be having a good time and when the boot at the other end of the table asked Gail the trickiest case she'd ever had, the ME launched into an animated story of an anesthesiologist who'd poisoned his wife with succinylcholine. Frank watched as she explained the wife's exhumation, charmed by Gail's flying hands and lively accounting.
Nook took center stage after Gail, recounting a body he'd found under a swimming pool. The ice was melting in Gail's glass and Frank leaned over to ask if she'd like a fresh drink.
"I'll get it," she insisted, but Frank waded to the bar, caught Mac's eye and yelled, "Gin and tonic." He nodded and Frank continued to the bathroom, grateful for the momentary quiet. Drying her hands she glanced at the face in the mirror. Nestled within shadows and a wreath of fine wrinkles, cobalt blue eyes stared back. She'd turned forty in January and looked every minute of it.
When she returned with Gail's drink, the ME protested, "You didn't have to do that."
"You know the rules," Frank said. "Tradition is, you drink at the Nine-three table, the LT picks up the tab."
"Who started that anyway?"
"That would have been Joe Girardi, my old boss."
Gail sipped, eyeing Frank from under a fringe of dark lash.
"You must have plenty of stories," she observed.
Frank did, but the boys were usually so busy trying to get their own tall tales in, they seldom asked. Frank mostly settled bets, paid the bill, arbitrated discussions, and nodded in the right places. Even after work, she was still the boss.
"Yeah," she nodded, tilting her head at the detectives, "But this is good for them. Lets them blow steam."
"And how do you blow steam?"
"Listening to them," she smiled.
She wobbled her coffee mug, watching the film on top shimmy. Johnnie was questioning Nook's story and he asked the doc a technical question. She jumped into the fray, and deftly defended Nook's story without deflating Johnnie's ego. No small task, Frank thought. Gail went on to top Nook's story and Frank admired how she fit in with the Nine-three.
Bobby took a turn and Frank's thoughts drifted idly to Kennedy. She wondered what the manic detective was up to this Friday night. If she wasn't working, and if conditions were right, she was probably surfing. If not that, then cruising on her in-lines or 10-speed, or defeating imaginary foes at kick boxing. Whatever she was doing, Frank was certain she'd be moving; the girl couldn't sit for long. She reflected on the fling they'd had, an affair comprised mainly of passionate and aggressive love-making.
Frank indulged in the memory of that last time with Kennedy. They'd stumbled around the apartment, groping each other like school kids, finally landing on the floor and filling themselves with each other. Then Kennedy'd given her that damn cocky smile and said, "I'm starving. Want pizza?"
Still somnambulate, Frank had dumbly replied, "Sure."
They'd eaten dinner, talking about their week. Kennedy had pried (as always) into how it was going with Clay at the BSU. Frank had hedged (as always). It was going well but she hadn't wanted to get into the details. Instead she'd told a story about a case Ike had caught. Kennedy had laughed around a bite of pizza, accusing Frank of changing the subject. Frank argued there was no changing subjects with Kennedy, only delaying them.
"You know what?" Kennedy had asked. Expecting the inevitable confrontation, Frank had answered, "I'm afraid I don't."
"I think we need to make love again. Slow this time. What do you think?"
"Second best thing you've said all night."
"What was the first?"
"Let's get pizza."
Three days later Frank surprised Kennedy at her apartment. Not only was Kennedy surprised, so was Frank and a very disheveled Nancy.
"Isn't that right, Frank?"
"What?"
"162 stab wounds?"
"Where?"
"That Salvadoran woman who shredded her boyfriend, remember? Cut him 162 times. Crochetti had to count each one. Man, he was pissed."
Frank nodded, verifying Bobby's story, and Gail laughed from the back of her throat.
"God, I can hear him now. Worse than a damned .22'," she rasped in imitation of the old ME.
Noah caught Frank's eye and he cocked his head at her, wondering. She winked and he tapped his mug to her cup.
"To Fridays."
"Here, here," Gail joined in, raising her glass to Noah, then Frank. This precipitated a whole series of toasts around the table, in Spanish, Polish, Chinese, Japanese, and Czechoslovakian. Then the conversation turned to the NBA playoffs and Gail edged toward Frank.
"You follow basketball?"
"Nope. I'm pretty much a football fan. How about you?"
"I like to watch the Niners and Giants. Those are my dad's teams and I kind of grew up with them."
"You're from Berkeley, right?"
"Good memory," Gail nodded. "How about you?"
"Back east."
"Where back east?"
"New York City."