By W Jack Savage

“Off the record,” he said, “now remember it’s off the record, and after saying he knew nothing about it for twenty minutes; off the record, he said that he was terribly sorry about the girl and, though they only knew each other slightly, it was a terrible shame and that he only wished that he could have done something to help her.”

“Off the record,” Frank said. “Well, on the record, ‘terribly sorry’ doesn’t come near where that motherfucker is going to be before another hour or two goes by. Okay, fine. He thinks he’s some kind of senator or something. ‘Off the record,’ my ass. Here’s what you tell him. The girl died on a work assignment that he sent her on. He knew she was in danger with this trick, and he also knew it was a trick. We have him cold on that one. Make sure he knows it. From there, work the premeditation concept about his sending her to her death. Use a transcript of the phone call we recorded. He’s not stupid so tell him we got it from the FBI and that they’ve been looking into his operations as well. Now, he’ll want to lawyer up at this point. So bring Gene down and put him in the cage before you start. Let him know how disgusting you think he is and make sure he knows that he’s going into the cage with Gene until his lawyer arrives. Try that to begin with.”

“Right, Lieutenant,” he said and walked out.

Frank thought about the transcripts as he touched his arm to reaffirm his nicotine patch was still in place. He realized the role his trying to quit smoking was playing with his attitude in general and this case in particular. Terrible things happen to nice people all the time. Everyone in law enforcement knows that. They see it every day. In some ways, living with that reality becomes a most exact barometer of whether or not you can do this job.

Now and then, however, a case will get to you for one reason or another. When you add to that, the normal pressures of living and the likelihood that those responsible for the terrible things that happen will often go unpunished, a recipe for suicidal depression is at hand. There are many ways to deal with these phenomena, not all of them recommended.

“I want my lawyer,” he said.

Jimmy looked at Gene. “I got you a date so don’t say I never did anything for you.”

Al and Jimmy got up and Al went around the table toward the holding cage.

“You’re gonna wait in here until your lawyer gets here,” Al said. “Gene will show you how. He’s been waiting for his lawyer for years now.”

Jimmy and Al laughed while Gene just smiled. Charles Meecham wasn’t smiling, but he was trying not to cringe either.

“Damn,” said Al. “I left the fucking keys on the desk. Jimmy, will you watch him for a minute?”
“Sorry, I gotta use the can. Just cuff him to the cage and go get the keys.”

For a moment, Meecham appeared as though he was willing to talk further. Then he seemed to change his mind. “I told you that I want to call my lawyer.”

Jimmy nodded. “That’s right, you did; I almost forgot. I’ll bring you back the phone in a minute…or Al will. Behave yourself Gene. Not until he calls his lawyer, right?”

Al cuffed Meecham to the cage, and they both left. Gene smiled at Meecham and moved over to where he was cuffed.

“You know what this is about, don’t you?” he asked.

“I watch TV if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s right,” Gene agreed. “Meecham, they want you to…well, they want you to do what they want you to do. It’s out of their hands once you lawyer up. You’re doing the right thing.”

“What are you in for?” Meecham asked.

Gene smiled. “I work here; I’m a cop. I work upstairs in juvenile. Sometimes they bring me down to try to intimidate citizens like you. I played football in college, so they think my size will scare somebody. I am gay though. Black and gay! Shit, they’ll never be able to fire me. Anyway, sometimes I help them out.”

“Why would you tell me that?” he asked. “If you’re trying to help them out, why would you tell me that?”

Once again Gene smiled. “You’re a nice looking guy; we’re both adults here. Nothing has to be unpleasant. In a minute they’ll be back with the phone, and they’ll put you in here. We’ll be in here for a while. It could be nice. By the way, my name is Gene.”

Gene extended his hand through the bars, and he and Meecham shook hands.

“I’m Charles, but I’m afraid I don’t do that, sorry.”

“Well Charles,” he said, “opportunity is the mother of invention, they say. All I want to do is suck your dick. You like that don’t you?”

“I’m not exactly in the mood.”

“Well, Charles, I am in the mood. You may find that you’re fortunate I’m not in the mood for something else. In any case, all you have to do is sit back and enjoy it. You can do that, can’t you?”

Before Charles could respond, Al came back in with a phone and the keys.

“Whispering sweet nothings in your ear Charles?” Al asked. “That’s our Gene. I’ll bet he told you he was a cop, too. Gene is such a kidder that way. Anyway, here’s your phone, and our deal is off the table. Tell your lawyer that it’s accessory to murder and conspiracy to commit murder. The D.A. says we’ll only prosecute you for your fucking escort pimping agency to which you can plead out for a fine; that is, if you agree to name Hockenberg and testify in open court. He’s getting the whole enchilada, so he’ll likely take his chances with a jury. We’ll get you ten years minimum if you don’t play ball, and you’ll do at least six with cute guys like Gene here to keep things interesting. But just remember, we did offer you a walk for your cooperation right now, and you said you wanted your lawyer. So here’s your fucking phone big shot, but if it ain’t F. Lee Bailey on the other end, I’d cozy up to Gene here before we send you down to county, cause any deal you might have made will be off the table after your call.”

“You never said I could walk,” Charles muttered. “You never offered that.”

“I’m offering it right now,” Al said, “in exchange for your statement that you knew and had complaints about his rough stuff with other girls, when you sent the Harris broad over to Hockenberg’s that night. The rest we’ll evaluate after you’ve written it out. You still may have to testify in open court and plead out for pimping, but you might not. It’s for sure that we won’t hold you today if you cooperate. So go ahead. Don’t let me influence you. Make your call or talk to me right now. I got other shit to do.”

Al uncuffed Meecham and began opening the cage door.

“All right,” Charles said. “I’ll make a statement. But I won’t sign it until I get your agreement in writing first.”

Al smiled. “Depends on your statement, big shot. But I’ll get him over here anyway.”

From behind the one-way glass, Frank touched the nicotine patch on his arm again. He walked back to his office and closed the door behind him. He sat down and picked up the phone to call home. There was no one there. There hadn’t been anyone there for nine years. But calling a number no one would answer was an exercise in gaining privacy. With his door closed and the phone to his ear, he was busy. If it was urgent and someone wanted him, he could always hang up and wave them in. In such a case, “I gotta go,” was all he’d say to no one on the other end. Otherwise, he acted as though he was listening only. It had evolved into thinking time for Frank. With the phone to his ear, his mind began to sort things out. Noreen Harris, 19, from San Bernardino. The A.K.A. prefix burned in his mind: Noreen Vagle, daughter of Danielle Vagle. Frank knew he might well have been Noreen’s father. It was more likely Terry Matthews or Bob Matrichuk. But it could have been him, and in a strange way, he felt, somehow, responsible.

He and Terry had pulled Danielle over one night when they were both young cops in the Foothill division. She made it just too easy. She was driving under a suspended license and had been drinking as well. When she offered to work it out with the both of them, he thought she was a pro. Only later did they realize that she was just a young actress and that Matrichuk and another officer had introduced her to handling problems on the spot a week earlier. After that, they all dated her from time to time. Dropped by and fucked her was more like it, but then they were all in their first marriages at the time. Nothing more was possible or really desirable after their initial meeting.

As time went by, Danielle actually saw some success in Hollywood. More than most, certainly, and as near as anyone knew, without trading on her good humor to achieve it. For one thing, her naiveté came across in auditions as genuine, wide-eyed innocence. Rather than becoming one, she got cast in roles as victims. She did five or six movies, all told, a few bits on TV and, more importantly, a few national commercials. The commercials proved more lucrative than everything else put together, and she bought some property in the Inland Empire, just in case. Just in case, landed on her in the form of an unwanted pregnancy, but unwanted by whom became the source of some debate.

Frank had heard that Bob Matrichuk had pretty much fallen in love with Danielle and was about to leave his wife for her, when he found out Terry Matthews, Franks partner, was still banging her when Matrichuk wasn’t around. One night, after hearing the whispers for a while, he confronted Danielle. When she admitted to seeing Matthews, he beat her up. Later that same evening, he ran Frank and Terry off the road in Altadena. Terry and Matrichuk went at it that night, and Terry kicked Bob’s ass, but good. The next day, Terry went by Danielle’s, and when he saw her, he went nuts. He drove over to Matrichuk’s, pulled him out of his house and kicked his ass again. There was an investigation, and they both were put on suspension.

Danielle became pregnant shortly after that with no clue as to which one of L.A’s finest was to be the father. Matrichuk said he’d leave his wife and marry her if she’d have an abortion. When Terry told Danielle that he’d kill Matrichuk if she did have an abortion, she thought it might be a good time to retire and disappear for a while. Nobody heard a thing from her for a couple of years. Finally, she called Frank. She told him that she had a little girl named Noreen and lived in a house in San Bernardino. She asked about Matrichuk and Terry but made him promise not to tell them where she was. Frank kept his promise for three years.

That changed when Bob Matrichuk was killed trying to talk a guy out of killing himself. No one ever knew what he said. But, whatever it was, the guy lowered the gun from his own head and put a bullet in Bob’s. After the funeral, Frank told Terry he’d heard from Danielle. Terry listened and finally said, ‘fuck it’ and walked away.

Fourteen years had passed and Frank was now a Lieutenant in Homicide and also acting Homicide commander while a permanent replacement was being chosen. As he looked at the file with his right hand, his left still holding the phone to his ear, he noticed Barb waving that he had another call. Through his office window, she could see Frank mouth the words, “I gotta go” and hang up.

“Blattey, homicide,” he said.

“Frank, it’s Terry. Is it true? Is it Danielle’s daughter?”

“Yeah, who the fuck told you?”

“A guy in vice, I know. Was she…was she a working girl?”

“I’m not sure, Terry; it looks like she went out for this…his escort guy a few times. She called herself an actress. The guy who killed her calls himself a personal manager, and this escort business has a mostly entertainment business clientele. But, you know how that goes.”

There was silence.

“Are you still there?” Frank asked.

“Yeah, how’d Danielle take it?”

“I don’t know. My guys who caught the case told her before I realized it was her. I tried to call her around noon, but there was no answer. Our escort guy is giving up our perp, but I don’t know. The ‘haves and the have-nots’ you know. The D.A.’s got his nose up half their butts up there. Industry crime is not his favorite. If this guy comes up with a half decent lawyer, I could see him blowing it off.”

“How did she die?” Terry asked.

“Looks like he choked her; the orbit bone around her right eye is fractured, and three teeth got knocked out. But you know, he’ll say she fell—post mortem and all that shit. I tell you Terry, it just sucks.”

“Is…is Danielle coming up or has she seen the body?”

“I don’t know,” Frank answered. “Like I say, I haven’t been able to reach her.”

Again, there was a silence.

“Have a drink with me?” Terry asked. “Can you get away for forty-five minutes?”

Frank agreed. “Okay, name the place.”

They settled on a sports bar on Sunset, and when Frank arrived, Terry had some “production assistant type” up against the wall of the hallway between the bar and the restrooms. Frank approached the bar and ordered a beer.

He and Terry were partners for nine years. They were never close, on or off the job, but they were good cops, and everyone agreed that they made a good team. Still, there was never any doubt as to who wanted to be “bad cop.” Frank allowed that to a point. After they were split up, Frank didn’t care what Terry did.

A minute later, the production assistant type left out the back way, and Terry joined Frank at the bar.

“What’re you drinking?” he asked.

Frank didn’t hesitate. “I got a beer, but you can buy me a bump: tequila.”

“Two Cuervo Gold’s and a tall draft,” he told the bartender. Then to Frank, “How’s homicide?”

“Well, apart from working the murder of an old friend’s kid, it’s okay. How’s narcotics?”

Terry chuckled. “We should’a got into computers when we still had the chance. Did you…did you see the girl?”

“No,” he answered. “Why would I? I’m the interim boss remember? Anyway, I wouldn’t know her from Adam, and neither would you if that’s what you mean. If I recall correctly, the words ‘fuck it,’ ended our last conversation on the subject at Matrichuk’s funeral. I don’t know why I’m feeling guilty about it. But, in a way, I do. People come into your life, you know. The truth is that I don’t know if I’d even recognize Danielle anymore.”

“I’m betting she hasn’t changed that much,” Terry said. “I saw them both a few years ago. Beth is about, well, was about Noreen’s age when she got hit on her bike by that car. Annie and I had split up that summer, and I got to thinking about Danielle and, and Noreen. I drove out and knocked on her door. Some guy answered. I could tell he was “on the job.” It turned out that he was a Sheriff’s Deputy out there. Danielle wasn’t home, and I made up an excuse about a meth lab in the neighborhood that we’d connected to some people in L.A. I left pretty quickly, but waited around until they got home. As they got out of the car, I remember that she seemed nearly as tall as Danielle. They were both beautiful. I let it go after that. I wish I hadn’t gone out there.”

“Yeah,” said Frank. “Digging up the past. It’s a goddamn shame though. I know she was a lotta trouble, but I always thought of Danielle as good people. And now this.”

“You got any ideas?” Terry asked.

Frank looked at him, threw back his shot, and slowly picked up his beer.

“Yeah, I do,” he said.

Peter Hockenberg had a history of being attracted to men and punishing women for the fact. In truth, he punished the few men he’d allowed himself to have sex with as well. He was rough on all of them but talked most into believing it was their fault. He had nearly killed a woman in San Diego six months earlier.

He went down to Tijuana twice a year for diet pills and met a woman in one of the pharmacies in the Plaza just across the border. Her name was Alice, and Peter could tell that she was new to the process. Thousands of people go to Mexico every day just for the cheap pharmaceuticals. Alice was visiting from the Midwest and was house sitting for her sister and her husband while they went to Hawaii. Peter helped her get the best price for her drugs, gave her a couple of his diet pills, plied her with Margarita’s, drove her home, and banged her at her sister’s place. He wound up tying her up and choking her with a phone cord until she blacked out. One time she nearly didn’t come out of it. He whipped her with the phone cord until she made some noise and then left her tied up naked on the balcony. A neighbor heard her moaning the next day and called the police.

In fact, he was a personal manager. A fifteen percenter who worked hard for the three clients he had who made him money. He never had sex with any of them nor anyone they recommended. Otherwise, he demanded sex from all the young women before taking them on as clients. If they made him any money at all, the sex would stop. If they didn’t, he made them go on dates for Charles Meecham’s escort agency. He took a kickback from their tricks and charged Meecham a finder’s fee as well. But if Meecham sent him someone looking for a personal manager and he wound up taking them on, Meecham didn’t get shit.

Therefore Charles was only too happy to give up Hockenberg in exchange for a walk. He and everyone knew it would be a long walk, too. As in “gone Johnson” in twenty-four hours—a long walk. And he’d never be seen again in these parts for his own protection and what was left of his reputation. After all, he hadn’t been charged with anything. Hockenberg, for all his faults, had made Charles a somewhat wealthy man. There would be money enough to move and start again somewhere else. Or, get into something new. In either case, with no charges hanging over his head, the former was at least possible. No looking back though. No contact with the past that could trace him to the future. He knew that much about Hockenberg’s propensity for violence. On balance, he felt himself a lucky man. Someone was dead. A girl he had sent to him like several before her. But he killed her. She’d have done anything he asked. Not that he ever did ask, that is.

As Charles pulled in the carport, the thought that any further harm might come to him seemed far away. But, just the same, there was a sense of urgency in his manner. He’d thought of hiring movers, but his possessions could be replaced. He had lived somewhat frugally in his private life, so his luggage and a box or two would have to do. Perhaps he’d tell the landlady to put his things in storage. Perhaps he wouldn’t.

He opened and closed the door behind him. He walked slowly from room to room. Convinced nothing was askew, he began packing quickly. Then the doorbell rang.

Peter felt the blood rush to his head and woke up to the realization that he was upside down. As he tried to right himself, each movement he made raised more dust, and he coughed violently. The dust covered his sweaty body, and he wore no shirt. He was in some kind of burlap sack, and as he managed to work his way up to one knee, a violent cramp seized the back of his thigh. He screamed in pain and tried to stretch out his leg, but the knot wouldn’t untie. He began coughing again as the dust in the bag became too much. The staccato of his breathing intertwined with the soft whining from the pain, and his cramped leg seemed to tighten. “Fuck,” he screamed. “What the fuck is going on, goddamn it?”

There was no answer, and instinctively, the possibility that he was alone calmed him somewhat. If he was alone, perhaps he could escape. The burlap seemed strong, but the twill was somewhat porous. With all this dust, he reasoned that if he could somehow get a hole started, perhaps he could use his weight to force his way out. It wasn’t like a nightmare. It was a nightmare, and how he found himself in it was a complete mystery.

He seemed to remember drinking. Or having a drink, at least. There was music. It was downstairs at the House of The Blues. It was early though. He seemed to remember light coming through the doorway when people came in. Then there was nothing. Only…only having a drink after work and now this. He tried to peer through the twill. There seemed to be some light to his left. All he could make out was a hanging light bulb. It seemed at his level, meaning the bag he was in was suspended from what looked like about six or seven feet. The thought that whoever put him in the bag in the first place might simply leave him there until he died was all he had to deal with at the moment. And so, with as much effort as he could muster, he tried to force two fingers against the twill facing the light. For a moment, it seemed as though he was making some headway. A moment later, he heard voices.

“And so, here’s how we play Charles,” said one voice. “It’s called, well, it doesn’t have a name really, but we’ll call it Home Run Derby. What you do is take this and hit the bag until long after it stops moving. Do you understand?”

A soft, almost whimpering voice answered. “Will you let me go then?”

“Charles,” another voice said, “We’re getting the impression—I am anyway—that you don’t particularly like our company. Of course, we’re going to let you go. That is, providing you do everything we’ve asked of you. So far, so good, Charles; however, a couple of things remain. Beginning with this. But I can assure you, and I think I speak for both of us in saying that this will be the most difficult thing. For a sensitive guy like you, I mean.”

“What the fuck is going on?” asked Peter. “Whatever it is, I’ll pay. If you know me, you know I’ll pay.”

“Yes,” said the first voice. “We do know you and paying is what we had in mind. All right Charles. Step right up. Now, pace yourself, because this is going to take a while. Wait! I almost forgot. Put the tape in. I hope you like ELO. It’s a little dated now, but it’s one of my favorites.”

A moment later Peter felt the first blow hit part of his upper arm and back as the strains of “Turn to Stone” began blaring from somewhere. He screamed in pain but was interrupted by a second blow on his right knee. In all, his screams, fits of swearing, and wails of agony lasted almost ten minutes. ELO’s “It’s Over” was halfway through when Peter stopped responding. Charles Meecham was not an athletic man and rather than hitting Hockenberg hard after each scream, he seemed to let up. This had the effect of prolonging the agony that would only end in unconsciousness and death for his former business associate. “Night in the City” was just beginning when it looked as though Meecham would pass out from exhaustion.

“That’s all right Charles,” said one voice. “You can take a break now.”

Meecham fell to his knees and began to cry.

“I wouldn’t be in any hurry to get on my knees if I were you Charles,” the other voice said. “Plenty of time for that later. What was is you told Hockenberg on the phone? Let’s see, yes, it was ‘fuck her in the ass. She’s a haughty little bitch. She’ll like that.’ Those were your words Charles. They seemed to trip off your tongue, too. Before we let you go, our friend is going to make sure that you know exactly what that feels like Charles. By sun up tomorrow, you’ll be a murderer and a bitch, and if you haven’t disappeared by sundown tomorrow night, you’ll be prosecuted for one and turned out for the other. Now get the fuck up and get back to work. I can still tell there’s a body in that bag. Before you’re through here, he needs a lot more tenderizing.”

Three days later, the former squad car partners drove out to San Bernardino.

“How do you feel?” Terry asked.

“I don’t know,” Frank replied. “Better, I guess. That’s all you get. You know how it goes. God knows our ex-wives do. Better is as good as can be hoped for. Yeah, I feel better.”

“I suppose,” Terry said. “Do you think…do you think we’re doing the right thing here?”

Frank was convincing. “I don’t see why not. It’s not like we’re going to the funeral or to the graveside. We’re just paying our respects. If she looks uncomfortable about us being there, we can leave quickly.”

They found the mortuary off D Street, and when they arrived, the parking lot was nearly filled. There were young people, mostly high school friends, and five or six Hollywood plates in the parking lot as well. Danielle looked as though she had found a way to stop time. She was beautiful as ever, still looking much the naïve victim. She greeted everyone and, with no man at her side in evidence, her eyes fell on Frank and Terry. She broke into tears. Frank rushed to embrace her and Terry followed suit. The police were needed, it seemed, and through the short service that followed, they sat with her and stood by her side. When all the guests had gone, nearly two hours had passed. Several times Danielle had touched one or the other on the arm, as if to reassure herself that she was not alone. Frank suggested pie and coffee at the nearby Denny’s they had seen driving in, but Danielle said she wanted a drink. They found a place on Hospitality Lane near the Freeway and settled in a booth.

“The man who killed her,” she began, “do you know who he is?”

“Yes,” said Frank. “We’re still trying to find him, but we know who he is. He may have…well…he had a lot of enemies, honey. We’re not the only ones looking for him. Either way, he’ll get what’s coming to him, Danielle. I promise you that.”

“It was so nice of you to come out,” she said as she started crying again. “I felt so alone. I’ve never felt that alone. I thought you might call earlier.”

“That’s my fault honey,” said Frank. “We were busy, and I didn’t notice the victim’s name—Noreen’s name—until later. I tried to call you that day, but I couldn’t get through.”

“How’re your kids?” she asked and started crying again.

Frank answered first. “They’re fine Danielle.”

“So are mine, honey,” Terry added. “Danielle, if you like, one of us can come out and be with you tomorrow. I’d be glad to do it.”

More tears as Danielle nodded her affirmation.

“Is there any way that…that you could stay with me tonight. I’ve been so alone in that house.”
They decided to take everything Danielle needed and drive her back to L.A. with them. All the traffic would be going the other way in the morning, so getting back for the funeral would be no problem. She would stay with Terry and the three of them would have dinner and drinks at the Derby in Arcadia. But Frank had to cancel at the last minute, and Terry and Danielle had dinner by themselves. That night Terry comforted Danielle and respected her unspoken desire to save sex for another time. The next day he escorted her to the funeral and stood at her side at the cemetery. As those who attended stopped by to offer their final condolences, a man who introduced himself as Noreen’s high school history teacher stopped in front of Terry.

“May I ask if you could be Noreen’s father?”

Before Terry could respond, Danielle spoke up.

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“She certainly had your eyes,” he said with tears welling up in his own.

In Danielle’s living room, with pictures of Noreen on nearly every wall, it was clear that Beth, Terry’s oldest daughter, could have been Noreen’s twin sister. He asked Danielle why she never told him. She said that she had caused all of them enough trouble and that, to be honest, she wasn’t sure for quite a while. When she called Frank, she said that it was partly to find out if Terry was still married. When Frank said he was, she made him promise not to mention that she had called. Terry told her about coming out to see her and meeting her deputy boyfriend instead. He told her of waiting down the street and watching as she and Noreen got out of the car and walked in the house.

“Did you kill him?” she suddenly asked.

“No,” he said. “But we did see to it. He might have walked, Danielle. We didn’t want you to go through that.”

“Thank you.” she said. “I just wanted to know for sure that he was dead. Thank you.”

“It was a pleasure.”

Her voice was soft and reflective. “Noreen was ambitious, prettier than me, and had more talent. But she was impatient and very ambitious. I feared something like this might happen. But, they don’t listen. They don’t listen to us, just like we didn’t listen. All you can do is love them and hope for the best. It never seems enough.”

“We do what we can, honey. I sometimes think we lose them the first day they go to school.”

“What about the man who ran this escort business?”

“We took care of that, too, Danielle. He’s not dead, but we took care of it. The score will never be even. Believe me. It never evens out. I wish I could tell you it does. Frank described it best in saying that ‘better’ is the best you can hope for. Feeling better, that’s all. I…I never stopped thinking about you Danielle. I wish things had worked out differently for both of us. I was happy and honored to be there for you today. It felt right, and, well, I was glad to do it.”

She smiled slightly. “I almost married him, you know—the guy you met. But I just couldn’t. Noreen wanted me to do it for me, not for her. They got along, but she was too independent by that time. I realized that if I did marry him, it would have been for her since I didn’t love him. I only started loving you when I realized you were her father. It was safe to love you then. You could never disappoint me or reject me or even cheat on me. I could love you through Noreen, and you would always need me and love me back. It’s strange, isn’t it? It doesn’t feel like twenty years.”

“It feels like fifty to me,” he said. “I told Frank we should’ve got out and into computers back when we were young. We probably would’ve made the same mistakes no matter what we were doing. After all, we’re still the same people.”

“Better, you said? Better. Better is as good as you can make it. Frank said that?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I think he’s right, too.”

Danielle crossed to Terry. She kissed him on the lips and then hugged him with her face to his chest.

“Will you help me?” she asked, looking up at him. “Will you help me to get better? I can’t stay here alone. Can I stay with you for a time?”

“Of course,” Terry said. “I want you to stay with me. I was just about to suggest it. I want you to stay as long as you want.”

Frank touched his arm where the nicotine patch had been. It had become a tick. But, since he knew it had replaced a pack and a half of Camels a day after nearly thirty years, he knew it was something he could live with. With the phone to his left ear, he thought about the six weeks that had passed since the Noreen Harris case. He decided that he was better. Better than that day certainly, and better for not smoking. With that thought, Frank put the phone down just as Barb appeared in his doorway.

“There’s someone here to see you, Lieutenant,” she said. “A Mrs. Harris.”

“Thanks Barb.”

Frank greeted Danielle and ushered her into his office. She agreed to coffee and noted Frank’s request to Barb for decaf for himself.

“Decaf?” she said questioningly. “Is that what captains are drinking these days?”

“I’m just the acting captain, honey. I’m in the running for it, but you know politics. Your guess is as good as mine. I quit smoking though. That’s what the decaf is about. How’re you doing?”

She smiled. “I’m better Frank, and better is the best you can do, a wise man once said. I’m better.”
“I see,” he said. “How’s Terry? Have you seen him?”

“Yes, quite a bit of him lately. He’s been wonderful. You’ve both been wonderful. He’s outside as a matter of fact. I—that is we—were hoping you might be able to get away for an hour or so. Is that possible?”

He nodded. “Until I’m replaced by a real captain, anything is possible. Why? What’s up?”

“We want you to stand up for us,” she said. “We’re getting married in twenty minutes. Terry wants you and so do I. You know how he is about asking for things.”

Three hours later at the Derby in Arcadia where the three of them had planned to have dinner the night of Noreen’s wake, Frank toasted the couple as soul mates, finally united as man and wife. Danielle excused herself to the restroom, and the two former partners were alone.

“It’s none of my business,” Frank said, half facetiously, “but if this marriage doesn’t work out, I think you should hang it up. There’s talk in Sacramento of extending the ‘three strikes law’ to marriage. I’m prepared to support it myself.”

Terry smiled. “Thank you for standing up for us today. Danielle wanted you, and I wanted you, too. We’ve never been exactly close, but you’ve always meant a lot to me. I wouldn’t like to think about going through those rough spots again with anyone else.”

“Thanks Terry; it was my pleasure.”

Ten days later Andy Robinson was named Captain of Homicide. Frank approved of the choice publicly and privately, and at their transitional meeting on Andy’s first day, he congratulated the new captain warmly.

“I thought it might have been you, Frank,” Andy said sincerely. “You did a hell of a job after Harvey left. I’d ask you to be my adjutant, but I know you want your unit back.”

“Thanks Captain Andy. Choosing you makes me think there’s someone with a fucking brain on the loose up there; that’s kind of scary.”

“As far as bringing me up to speed, this is going to be a short meeting,” Andy stated. “Apart from the old stuff, you’re the first commander to clear the board that anyone can remember. The only exception is the Harris case.”

Frank smiled. “Yeah, Captain, you can’t win them all, I guess. All one can do is try to do better.”

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