Hold of the Bone (6 page)

“Your call.”

They get seated at Hamburger Hamlet and after ordering a milkshake—strawberry—Frank tells Caroline about her encounter with Marguerite. As she suspected, Caroline greets the account with cool skepticism.

“So you have these
talents
—” her voice italicizes the word “—but you don't have any idea what they are.”

“Correct.”

“And some new path, but you have no idea what that is either.”

“Look. This is why I didn't tell you yesterday. It's hard enough for me to wrap my mind around this without the added layer of sarcasm.”

“Sorry.” Caroline giggles. “But you have to admit it sounds pretty far-fetched.”

Frank lifts her hands. “I'll be the first to admit it.”

Caroline sips at the shake and pushes it toward Frank. She shakes her head.

“Are you rattled by this?”

“Wouldn't you be?”

Caroline hefts a delicate shoulder. “You have to believe in it to be rattled. Do you?”

Frank traces her finger through the water that has dripped down the milkshake glass. “I don't know. I don't want to, but . . .”

Caroline covers her hand. “But what?”

“It's a lot of coincidences. And Marguerite, strange as she may be, she's never lied to me. I trust her even when I don't want to.” She
squeezes Caroline's hand. “And you have to concede that tarot lady pegged me.”

Caroline sits back with a laugh. “Did she ever! She might even make a believer out of me.” She adds seriously, “Do you think she's right about us?”

Frank evades the question by asking Caroline what she thinks.

“Who knows? We have today. That's enough, isn't it?”

Caroline's casual response is a relief and Frank smiles. “Only if you pass that milkshake.”

Chapter 8

Tatum yells, “Phone, Frank!”

It's Lewis. She is going to be late for the morning meeting. “That's the third time this week, Cheryl. What's up?”

There is silence on the line. Frank can't legally ask what she wants to.

“I'll be there soon's I can, LT. Sorry.”

“A'ight.”

Frank gathers the squad. Except for Lewis, all her cops are on time with fresh faces and not one hangover. A pang hits her for the old days; Jill's “on time” had been ten minutes late, Briggs would have been struggling not to barf up last night's booze, Bobby would have been haggard and sleepy from walking the twins around at two in the morning, and she'd have had to scold Darcy about trimming his mustache and his hair. She can't help but marvel how plain damn vanilla this new breed of detective is. Braxton updates his grocery store shooting and she stuffs a sigh; even their cases are dull.

Lewis barges in and pulls up a chair. Her hands shake when she opens her laptop and she is a god-awful shade of gray.

Tatum is talking about his latest domestic. The suspect is the father of the dead woman's two kids. He beat her to death with a remote control and when it broke he went low-tech with his belt. He fled, leaving the kids—nine months and two years—unattended. A neighbor finally called the police when she got tired of hearing the kids crying.

“He's in the wind. The girl's mother says he has family in Guatemala City, so I guess that's where he's at.”

Frank nods; it's not uncommon for Latin suspects to skip across the border. They all wait politely for Lewis.

“Sorry to be late,” she grumbles. “Got autopsy notes from that body over to Western.”

Frank realizes things are so slow Lewis can say the body on Western and everyone knows what she is talking about, unlike the old days when they'd have had three or four open cases on Western. As it should be, Frank thinks, tuning back into her cop.

“Adult male,” she reads. “White dude.”

Frank asks, “How do they know that?”

Lewis grins and lifts a palm. “Hold on. Between thirty-five and forty-five, but a forensic anthropologist's gonna have to look at the bones to determine how long they been in the ground. ME says he thinks they're at least twenty, thirty but not more than fifty years old. Says he might have been a laborer, arm bones all rough where the muscles attach. Plus he had leather gloves on. Cause of death likely a skull fracture.”

Lewis touches her right temple, demonstrating. “Just over his ear. One blow.” She snaps her computer shut. “But the good news is he had on a wedding ring. Initials MD dash DS, and the date, 5/20/42.” Brandishing a notebook, her color improving, she singsongs, “Detective Lewis done a little detecting through public records last night and come up with a Mary Dusi and Domenic Saladino, Caucasian, married in Soledad on May 20, 1942.”

Appearing unimpressed, Frank says, “Tell me more about the skull wound.”

Lewis slumps with a pout. “Look like he got hit with something blunt, but with an edge. Like maybe a two-by-four.”

“What else you got from public records?”

“Like I up all night working?” she whines. “She-et.”

Frank finally cracks a smile. “Alright. Good job.”

Accompanied by predictable moans, she gives a rundown of the new overtime memo from upstairs and the request for sick leave donations for a uniform at Harbor with leukemia.

“Take home,” Tatum bitches, “is we ain't gonna help you, but we expect you to take care of each other. Thanks, City Council.”

Frank stands. “Lewis.” She points to her office.

The big cop follows her in.

“Close the door.”

Frank sits, motioning Lewis to do the same. “Something you need to tell me?”

Lewis makes a face, scratches the back of her neck.

“Figured you could do it, I could too,” she says with half a smile. “I'm pregnant.”

Instead of swearing, Frank offers congratulations.

“Yeah. I'm happy 'bout it. Be better if I wasn't so damn sick.”

“It'll pass,” Frank says. She'd been lucky with only the briefest morning sickness.

“Yeah. Anyways. I kinda wanna keep it on the down-low 'til I'm a little farther along.”

“Understood. It stays here.”

“'Preciate it. Sorry 'bout being late.”

“Don't worry about it.”

Frank tips her head toward the door and after Lewis carries her bulk from the room she blows out the curse she's been holding in. She rests her hand on the retirement forms. A phone rings in the squad room. A minute later, Braxton sticks his head in to say they have a potential witness in his shooting.

“Need help?”

“No, just wanted to let you know we're gonna roll.”

She waves him out and glances at the clock. She considers rolling with Braxton, then decides that will be little more exciting than the 0800 conference. She wanders out to the squad room, idly pours a cup of coffee, and peers over Lewis' shoulder while she's tapping notes into her computer.

Lewis stops. “Aren't you supposed to be in a DART meeting?”

“Oh, sorry,” Frank says. “I thought you were one of my cops. I didn't realize you were my personal secretary.”

“Damn, LT. What side a bed you got off on?”

“How 'bout I work your case and you go to the meeting?”

“Hell, no,” Lewis grins.

“You just wait,” Frank grouses. “That'll be you sittin' in meetings someday, all day, while I'm retired in Maui sipping on Mai Tais.”

“Thought you didn't drink no more.”

“I might take it up as special retirement hobby.”

“You goin' to that meetin' or you gonna stand here foolin' wit' me all day?”

“I'm going, I'm going.” She slips into the conference room without much notice. Mourning that less crime on the streets means less chance to skip meetings, she suffers the rest of the day in a variety of windowless rooms discussing stats and action plans. In the last meeting of the day, she picks up her legal pad and pretends to take notes while sketching a cabin with mountains behind it. She's drawing a crescent moon when she feels the wind. It whips through the chaparral, shrieking and pounding through the pass. It sets upon her like an angry master on useless hounds and, like beaten curs, she and her horse cringe beneath the blows.

“Frank?”

“What?” She glances around the sterile room, the bland faces mildly expectant.

The DART chairman is staring impatiently. “Do you have any?”

“Uh, sorry. Any what?” She searches for even a draft but the air is motionless.

“Recommendations,” he says, sounding each syllable.

Returned to the discussion, she redeems herself with a number of wild-ass ideas that no one else has thought of. After the meeting, Frank stays in the conference room. She unfolds her sketch of the mountain and waits to feel the wind again. But the air doesn't move. She balls up the sketch and tosses it in the trash.

More water, she rationalizes, but intuitively knows that water, less coffee, more food won't help, because these are visions. Her dubious talents are manifesting just as Marguerite predicted, and just as Marguerite said, there's a measure of ease in accepting the fact.

She taps her pen on the table, thinking it's like getting sober. It was terrifying to admit she was a drunk and even more terrifying to think of life without a bottle. But she took the first baby steps of the journey and along the way there were always people to help her, guides who knew the unfamiliar path she was on.

It's an idea Frank can work with and she goes upstairs. The homicide room is empty except for Lewis typing furiously. Frank looks at the
clock. Only five-fifteen and the new breed has all left for gyms and family. “What are you still doing here?”

“Just trying to make up for the morning.”

“Sister Shaft,” Frank snorts. “You're the last person that needs to be making up time around here. That was good work last night.”

Lewis grins. “Got more.”

She hands Frank a couple of sheets from the printer. “Family's up to Soledad. Looks like he got at least one sister and a daughter still alive.”

“Looks like we need to make a trip up-coast.”

Her cop makes a face, and the color she has regained during the day fades.

“Relax. I got this one. Pintar's on call this weekend. I'll run up Friday, maybe spend the night, knock on some doors.”

Visibly relieved but still game, Lewis, asks, “You sure you don't want me to go?”

Frank shakes her head, glancing over the printout.

Lewis is a supervising detective. Because she has the most seniority in the squad, the best developed street contacts, and the most organizational skills, Frank lets her work cases solo. She skips every other primary rotation and when she gets a case, she rolls with the partner of the primary next up on rotation. If the secondary can't roll, Frank will fill in. It's unorthodox, but Frank has good bones for her cops; she knows Lewis can handle the load and will ask for help if she needs it. Beside, Lewis is so demanding she prefers working alone, claiming she doesn't need any “raggedy-asses” slowing her down. Figuring Tatum is about as raggedy-ass as they come, and not trusting him to work alone, she tells Lewis, “I'm taking Tatum off this. I'mma partner you.”

“For rilla?”

“For rilla, Killah.”

They grin and bump knuckles.

“Man, I owe you. Thought a drivin' all that way right now like to kill me.”

“I hear ya.”

She pats Lewis' shoulder. “Go home. Get some rest. Those bones are older than you are. They ain't going nowhere.”

“Yeah.” Lewis reaches around for her jacket. “I think I'mma take you up on that.”

Frank starts for her office, then stops.

“Oh, and Lewis?”

“Yeah?”

“No work tonight, you hear? That's an order.”

The cop snaps out a sharp salute.

“Ten-four, Lieutenant.”

Frank settles with her feet on the desk, glad to be alone. She reads through Lewis' notes, then types a couple of words into her computer. Peering at the monitor, she places a call.

“Soledad Police Department.”

Frank asks to speak to a detective.

“I think Sergeant Gomez is still around. Hold on.”

While she waits, Frank fiddles with her retirement forms.

“Gomez how can I help you?” a woman answers as if the sentence is all one word.

After a brief case explanation, Frank asks the sergeant, “Do you know a—” she searches for the daughter's name in Lewis' notes, “—Diana Saladino?”

“Diana Saladino,” Gomez repeats slowly.

In the ensuing pause, Frank hears clicking.