Bleeding Out (33 page)

“Frank?”

Kennedy’s hand was on her arm as cars crept past the Honda. Frank gently pressed the accelerator, moving with the flow. Kennedy asked if she was alright.

“Yeah,” she answered, but Frank wasn’t sure. She felt as if she’d been dreaming and had just woken up. It was hard shaking the sensation. Even as she kept up with the traffic, she sensed herself slipping back toward him.

Where are you? Tell me about you. Help me find you. I know you’re close, I can feel you. I know you. Sometimes I think I am you.

“Frank?”

“What?”
she snapped.

Startled, Kennedy snapped back, “Where the fuck are you?”

“What are you talking about?” Frank said irritably.

“You’re like a million miles away and you just about rear-ended that truck!”

Frank sucked in a breath. This wasn’t the time or place. She promised herself she’d come back to him later.

When they finally got to Parker, Frank was grateful the homicide room was empty. Kennedy started in with the computers, and Frank took the phone books, preferring their clumsy familiarity to the cold austerity of computer terminals. Frank was tracking down Dorsey’s previous coaches, and after a dozen calls she hit pay dirt. She hung up the receiver and slipped into her jacket, telling Kennedy she was going to Fontana.

“I wanna go.”

Frank knelt next to her, supplicating, “We’d get a lot more done if you stayed here and worked on these.”

Kennedy was running their list of highest-ranked students, searching for priors, and then possibly re-ranking them according to the offense involved. It was tedious work. “I know,” she said, reading the monitor. “I still wanna go.”

“It’ll be boring, probably pan out to nothing. I’d likely get you killed in a car accident.”

“Yeah,” Kennedy remembered. “You be careful out there. Don’t go zonin’ like you did this morning.”

“Hey.” When Frank had Kennedy’s full attention, she said, “I really appreciate this.”

“Sure. Surf still sucks. I should move up to Oregon, they’ve got more sun.”

“Can I bring you back anything?”

“A Coke.”

“Got it. See you in a while.”

The phone rang and rang. Eventually Kennedy picked up. “Where are you?” she whined. “It’s almost three and I’m starving. There’s nothing around here but empty junk machines.”

“Listen. Have you run a kid named Clancey Delamore yet?”

“Hang on.”

Kennedy banged the phone down and Frank could hear papers being shuffled.

“Yeah, he’s got nothing. So where are you? Christ, you better come back draggin’ that sum-bitch, you been gone long enough. I got carpel tunnel settin’ in.”

“Wha-wha-wha,” Frank said. “Hang tight. I’ll fill you in when I get there.”

Forty-five minutes later she and Kennedy were cruising through the rain to Clancey Delamore’s house. Frank talked animatedly behind the wheel.

“So our guy this morning, Miller, he coached Delamore for three years. Said he was a great player, a tight end, but that he was super aggressive. He didn’t seem to have any sense that it was just a game. Said a lot of his own teammates didn’t want to play with him. Evidently he was pretty rough. Miller would warn him to take it easy during practice, but I guess he was still way too rough. Like his old man, according to Miller.

“Then they’re in the middle of a conference game and Delamore goes ballistic on another player. He attacks him from behind after the ball is dead and just keeps ramming into him. Sound familiar? Now get this. As he’s beating this poor bastard senseless, he’s got a woody the size of a baseball bat. And later, when Miller’s dressing him down, he gets a hard-on all over again.

“It totally freaked Miller out. He kicked Delamore off the team.”

Frank paused to check Kennedy’s reaction. She was taking it all in. Then she asked cautiously, “So why are we going to his place?”

“I called after I got done with the coach. Turns out he lives with his mom. I gave her a big song and dance about burglaries in the area—told her we’re with Robbery. Told her we were tracking down a suspect known to habituate her neighborhood. Then I said that the department was offering to do free home security checks and we could come by if she liked. Check her locks, give her some safety tips and a sketch of the suspect, stuff like that.”

“And she believed you?”

“Hey. I was very convincing. One of my best roles to date.”

Kennedy asked, “Why don’t you just question him straight out?”

“One, we’ve got no real evidence that this is our guy. We’re running purely on bones and possibles right now. Two, I don’t want him to panic and start cleaning house. If he’s got evidence around, I don’t want him dumping it. And I don’t want him running. I want him confident. I want him to think he’s outsmarting us. Sooner or later it’ll make him trip. Three, even if I did want to move on him, it’s not my case anymore, remember.”

“So why are you tipping your hand at all?”

“I want to talk to Mom. Oh yeah, I left out another thing. One of the reasons she’s letting us in is because there is no Mr. Delamore and Clancey works nights. I said, ‘Oh, is he a cop, too?’ and she said, ‘No, he works at a bakery.’ So sonny should be sleeping even as we speak, but I want to see what we can pull from the old lady, take a look around. With this security gig we can go all over—”

Kennedy interrupted. “Except his bedroom, which is probably the best place to check.”

“I thought about that. I figure we can find out his work schedule and make up a reason to come back when he’s gone.”

“Okay, so here’s another question. Seeing as you’ve got no jurisdiction here, what the hell are you going to do if this kid does look good?”

Frank held up a pontifical finger. “That bridge I will cross, if and when I get there. All I know is this is the best lead we’ve had yet. You still up for it?”

“You betcha, but I sure hope this goes somewhere soon. You gotta get a life back, Lieutenant.”

Frank smiled happily, although her words were chillingly true. “This
is
my life.”

After the first couple of girls he’d bought a used camcorder so he could remember them better once they were gone. He watched the tapes in his bedroom, learning and studying, planning how to make it even better the next time. Over and over he watched, remembering, reliving, refueling. The tapes satisfied him for a while, but eventually their appeal faded. When that happened, it was time to make a new one.

“Well?” Frank asked over her shoulder, backing out of the Delamores’ driveway.

“I think you better feed me before I rip your head off and start suckin’ on your insides.”

“I saw a guy do that once,” Frank said, matter-of-factly. “Killed his mother and brother and an aunt. When we came in to arrest him he was sitting as calm as you please at the kitchen table with a big old pan of sauteed brains in front of him. Damned if they didn’t smelled good.”

“After tonight, I don’t know whether to believe you or not.”

“I was pretty good, huh?”

Kennedy had to laugh at Frank’s unusual lack of modesty.

“Damn
good,” she agreed deferentially.

“Well, Detective, I think it’s been a very productive day. How about I buy you some sweetbreads so you don’t have to rip my head off?”

“Deal.”

They went to Frank’s favorite restaurant, where the waiter greeted her by name. Waiting for him to return with her wine, Frank took out her notebook.

“Okay. Tell me what you saw, what you thought, everything.”

Frank listened to the young detective, impressed by her observations. Mrs. Delamore had fallen easily for Frank’s ingratiating charm and generously shown them her immaculate house. About halfway through the detectives’ bogus inspection, Clancey had wandered downstairs, sleepy-eyed and bare-chested. They’d gone into his room, at his mother’s insistence, and it was a mess. As if he weren’t hulking behind her, she’d talked about what a slob her son was.

Kennedy asked, “You saw the pile of porno mags by the bed and the economy size bottle of lotion? What do you reckon Mrs. D. thinks Junior does with all that hand cream?”

“I’m sure she just thinks her boy’s got some mighty soft skin,” Frank smiled, borrowing Kennedy’s twang.

“How ‘bout the videos?”

Frank nodded. There had been no books or music in Clancey’s room, only a twenty-four inch television with a VCR perched precariously atop it. A shelf of neatly aligned videos above the television contradicted the room’s chaos. Frank had noticed that most of the titles on the spines were handwritten, and a brief scan of the commercial titles indicated most of them were skin flicks.

“And all those football trophies on the floor? I’ll bet they used to be on that shelf where the videos are. It’s the only shelf in the room. Now they’re just layin’ ‘round under his dirty clothes while the videos are carefully stacked up there. Like maybe he’s outgrown the trophies and they’re just down on the floor with all the rest of his crap.”

“Hmm,” Frank murmured. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“But then it’s also kind of odd if football’s behind him that he’d have a clean uniform hanging in his closet.”

Frank was picking at her antipasto. She froze. “A
what?”

“A
uniform, like for football,” Kennedy gloated.

“Are you kidding me?” Frank drilled her young colleague.

“Big as life. Red and white. Number eighty-one.”

“No shit?”

“Absolute constipation. I peeked at it when ya’ll were admiring his trophies. It was just cleaned, too.”

“How do you know that?”

“I smelled it. I think Mrs. D. uses Tide.”

“Son of a bitch,” Frank muttered incredulously. “What else?”

Kennedy ticked off a few more things, then she sucked noisily on an ice cube. “What about you?”

Frank waggled her eyebrows, pulling a wadded piece of tissue from her jacket. She dangled it before Kennedy.

“When I got the tissue to blow my nose I swiped the bottom of his shower.”

Frank carefully unfolded the Kleenex and together the two detectives peered by candlelight.

“There you have it,” Frank poked with her nail. “Pubic hairs. We’ll see if we can draw a match on them.”

She folded the tissue, pocketed it, then reached into her pants pocket. “Did you notice how antsy they got when I asked about that locked door in the garage?”

“And that Junior has the only key.”

“Right. And when I spilled that jar of nails on the floor?”

Kennedy chortled, “Yeah, spaz. Like to gave me a heart attack. I was lookin’ at the tools on the wall and I thought Junior’d pulled a gat on you or somethin’.”

Eyes twinkling, Frank opened the palm of her hand. In it sat a hunk of green/gold carpet fiber.

Kennedy stared at it, then at Frank.

Frank deliberately ripped out a piece of note paper and folded it around the yarn. “This was poking out from under the garage door. I dropped the nails so I could yank some out. Agoura and Peterson both had green carpet fibers on them.”

Kennedy’s eyes narrowed admiringly. Frank sat back with a short, satisfied chuckle, unable, or unwilling, to hide her pleasure. Studying Frank, the younger detective shrewdly noted, “You love this, don’t you?”

Frank shrugged, obviously pleased.

Kennedy asked, “How do you feel now that you’ve seen him?”

“Absolutely, 100 percent certain.”

“But you’ve got nothing but circumstantials on him. How can you be so sure?”

Frank smiled oddly and took on a thousand-yard stare. “Oh, I’m sure,” she whispered. “I
know
it. Seeing him, smelling him, looking at where he sleeps, where he fantasizes…”

Frank’s mysterious smile widened, becoming almost cruel. She whispered reverently, “I know him because I am him.”

She didn’t see the golden hairs rising on Kennedy’s arms.

By the time they finished a long dinner it was after ten o’clock. Both women were exhausted. Since the restaurant was closer to Frank’s house, she invited Kennedy to spend the night. Once there, the younger woman crashed quickly and easily, but Frank was too wired to sleep.

She was elated at how closely Delamore matched her profile. If this were her case, she’d be slapping a search warrant in front of a sleepy judge right now, but as it was her hands were tied. It didn’t matter that she had probable cause and a deep gut instinct. If she told RHD what she had, they’d probably lose or mishandle any solid evidence she found. Plus, once word got out, she’d face disciplinary action for taking on another division’s case. That would raise enough jurisprudence questions for the case to get thrown out of court. Clancey would walk after all.

As much as it frustrated her, she had to go slowly. Frank settled in the den with soft music and a pad of paper, starting a list of things to follow through on. Gradually, her own thoughts and Astrud Gilberto’s wistful yearnings lulled her to sleep.

When she twisted onto her side the clipboard fell against her chin. Frank woke up and saw Kennedy slumped on the floor beside her. She thought she was dreaming, then decided Kennedy’s soft snoring was real. So was the rise and fall of her chest and the slight movement under her eyelids. Frank wondered what the hell she was doing there, then got distracted by the fiery auburn and russet strands gleaming in Kennedy’s hair. Frank wanted to smooth the tousled hair, wondering if it would be as silky as she remembered from the hospital. She reached out, then drew her hand back.

Kennedy jerked awake as the clipboard clattered onto the floor. She gaped at Frank, petrified.

“It’s okay, sport. You’re okay,” Frank soothed. “Everything’s okay. You’re alright.”

“What was that noise?” Kennedy blinked.

“Just me. I dropped the clipboard. It’s okay.”

As Kennedy regained her bearings, Frank whispered, “What are you doing all curled up on the floor?”

Kennedy thought about it for a moment, then mumbled, “I had a dream. I woke up and saw the light on so I came in here. But you were asleep. I didn’t wanna wake you up. But I didn’t wanna go back to bed either. I just sat down next to you for a sec.”

Kennedy’s hair was hanging in her face, and again Frank had the urge to smooth it out of the way. She patted the couch and shifted her feet into the corner.