Silvester pushed the forms toward him. "Come help our friend here from Los Angeles. She's got some evidence needs bookin'." Sliding her chair back, Silvester shrugged into a heavy coat.

"Which case?" Charlie asked.

Annie scribbled a note and handed it to him. "Here's the number. Be a doll and check it out for me, huh? I'm sure the lieutenant here'll be glad to fill you in on the rest." She stood on tiptoe to peck the old man's cheek. "Thanks, Charlie."

Grabbing a welter of binders and papers, she left Charlie and Frank staring at each other.

CHAPTER 9.

Figuring it would go easier if Mercer knew he was talking to another cop Frank extended a hand and introduced herself. Mercer shook, asking, "Los Angeles, huh?"

"Yeah." Tipping her head toward the candy carton she explained, "I'm on vacation and happened to find these."

"What sorta case we talkin' about here?"

"Happened thirty-six years ago. A junkie killed my father. Ninth caught the case but never caught the guy. I come out to visit my father's grave. I find these. Thing is, everyone in my family's dead. There's no friends, no family that coulda left these. So who did? And why? If you're a cop, what's your first idea?"

The old man scratched his chin. Flakes of skin speckled his leather jacket. "You thinkin' the skel left these?"

Frank shrugged. "Or someone who knows the skel, knows what he did."

" aAt's a stretch, ain't it?"

"You never stretched a lead?"

The old man chuckled again, patting his chest and pulling a pair of gla.s.ses from a jacket pocket. After adjusting them he read the note Silvester gave him. He dropped it in his pocket.

Frank continued, "I want to print these. See what's on them. Can we do that?"

"Yeah, sure, kid. We can do that. But first things first." Mercer shuffled over to the coffee machine. He sniffed the half-full pot, made a face. "Murphy's Law, ain't it? You ever notice no matter what time of day it is the pot's either empty or old? I'm gonna dump this, make us a fresh pot."

"I'm good," she insisted.

"Well, good for you," he said. "I'm not, and I'm too d.a.m.n old to drink bad coffee. Been doing it all my life." He carried the pot from the squad room, telling her over his shoulder, "Sit tight, kid. I'll be right back."

Mercer ambled down the hall, pausing to talk to everyone he knew, which sounded to Frank like everyone from the janitor on up to the captain. She heard him joking, showing off pictures of his new granddaughter.

Frank flicked her wrist, wondering about her date. Pacing the room she thought how homicide desks looked the same everywhere. Files, binders, scratched notes on sc.r.a.ps of paper, which turn into reams of sc.r.a.ps, all set off by inst.i.tutional walls tattooed with memos, bulletins, wanteds, rules and regs.

She checked her phone, made sure it was on. No messages from Bobby or anyone else. Alone in the quiet room, Frank studied Silvester's computer. She leaned over and joggled the mouse. The screen saver disappeared and Frank zipped around the desk. Finding an Internet icon she Googled Nino de Atocha, quitting when she heard footsteps in the hall.

Mercer wandered back in, the coffeepot clean and filled with water. "Here we go." Dumping fresh grounds into the basket, he asked, "Now what did you say your name was?"

"Frank."

The old man peered over his shoulder in disbelief. "Frank?" he shouted.

"Yeah. Short for Franco. It's a nickname."

"Frank," he repeated. "I remember when girls were named Lucy or Kathy or Linda-now you're all Franks and Keyshondas, Sky and Brie." Mercer wagged his head. "My youngest daughter just had a baby. Named the poor kid Brie. How would you like that, huh? To be named after a cheese."

With the coffee burbling and trickling into the pot, Mercer reached into his jacket again, producing a stack of baby pictures. He handed them to Frank.

"That's her. Isn't she a cutie?"

Frank pretended to study each one. "Adorable," she told him.

"Nine days old today."

She pa.s.sed the photos back and Mercer displayed the school pictures in his wallet.

"That's John. He's twelve. He's my oldest grandson. My son Richard's boy. And those are his sisters, Michaela and Kathleen. This is Cory and Eileen. Eileen's my oldest granddaughter. She's thirteen. No. Fourteen, now. Yeah. Fourteen in November. We went up to Schenectady for her birthday. That's where my boy Danny lives. Oh, his wife's a sweetie. We didn't think he'd ever settle down, but he finally did and thank G.o.d with Sue. She's been so good for him. This is my daughter Linda. She just had Brie. She has a boy, too, Michael. Got a Michael and a Michaela." He chuckled. "How about that? I don't have a picture of Michael. He's a devil. Almost two and givin' his mother fits. Or is he two already? No. Almost. He was born in February, that's right."

Frank sang an entire Cole Porter standard while gulping her impatience. "Nice family. You're a lucky guy. Think we could get this evidence booked now?"

"Yeah, sure."

Padding to the desk he took Silvester's chair. He felt around, found a pen and said, "Okay. Whadda we got here?" She started describing the candle again but Mercer interrupted, "Speak up. I can't hear so good outta my left ear."

As she described the containers Mercer gave them a slow once-over. He did the same with her when he finished filling out the forms.

"So your old man, huh?"

"Yeah."

"How old were you?"

"Ten."

He nodded as if watching one's father get popped by a crashing junkie was a rite of pa.s.sage for all ten-year-olds. Getting up stiffly, he poured coffee. Handing Frank a cup he tipped his head toward the pot. "There's cream and sugar there."

"Black's good. So how soon do you think we can get these printed?"

"No telling," he answered. "Old case like this. Could be a while."

"Any idea who'd handle it?"

Mercer shrugged, casting an eye around the empty room. "It's a.s.signed to one of these guys. Even if it's thirty-six years old somebody's gotta submit a Five on it once a month." With pride he added, "We never close a homicide, even if it just gets stamped aNegative Results' every month."

Frank nodded. "Someone from the Ninth called me about twelve years ago. He was looking into it but I couldn't tell him anything new. Then this stuff appeared. May not be anything, might lead to a clearance. Who knows?"

Mercer leaned back, picking at his chin with a long nail. "It's worth a try."

"So you retired, or what?"

"Yeah. They kicked me out two years ago, but I still hang around, keep my hand in, help out where I can. But those forty-eight-hour days? Kid, let me tell you, I don't miss aem at all."

"They get harder, don't they?"

"Christ!" He slapped at air. "You don't know the half of it. You're still a whelp."

"Yeah," Frank allowed. The gulf between twenty-five and forty-five was rough enough; she couldn't imagine pulling a forty-eight at his age. "You know what, though? I'm in kind of a bind here. I've got to be back to work tomorrow morning but I'm afraid to leave this evidence just lying around. I've been waiting over thirty years for an answer to this case and right when there might be a clue I gotta leave it. So I'm wondering if you could do me a favor and pull the file for me, so I know who's in charge and who to contact about it. Could you do that for me?"

"Kid, don't worry about it. If it's on Annie's desk, it'll get taken care of. She's a stand-up cop. She's just got her hands a little full right now."

"Yeah, I know. And we got off on the wrong foot. My fault. This has just... I wasn't expecting this, is all. Just came out to pay respects to my father and I find this. After all this time ... kinda rattled me and I took it out on her."

Mercer stretched and got up. "Don't worry about it, kid. Annie's good people. She'll take care of it for you. You got my word on that, okay?"

Frank stood, too. "I appreciate it."

Mercer nodded, lifting a hand as he left the squad room.

CHAPTER 10.

Walking to Rockefeller Center, Gail asked, "How did it go this morning?"

"It was interesting. I'll tell you when we get to the restaurant. How about you? Tell me about your morning."

Frank listened to Gail, her eyes darting left and right, back and forth. Even on vacation she checked the crowd, tuning in to the pulse of the street. She did the same when they entered the cafe. There was one table available overlooking the rink, centered in a row along the window. As the waiter led them to it, Gail whispered, "Is this okay?"

Frank shrugged. She hated sitting with her back exposed but answered, "What the h.e.l.l? Who knows I'm a cop?" Gail studied the menu and Frank gave it a short glance.

"Want to split a chocolate shake with me? I'm probably going to gain a hundred pounds before I get another AA chip, but my sponsor says I can do whatever I want in the first year as long as I'm not drinking."

"Have you got any chips yet?

Frank made a peace sign. "Two."

"You're kidding?"

"Uh-uh."

Gail palmed her mouth, not able to stifle her laugh.

"What's funny?"

"I'm sorry. I'm just having a hard time seeing you standing up, saying, aMy name's Frank and I'm an alcoholic' Not to mention accepting a chip. Two chips. It's such a contrast to your lone avenger persona."

"Tell me about it. I can't believe it half the time, either. But you know," she said, watching as a laughing mother and daughter sprawled on the ice, "it seems to be working, and that's all that matters."

"You're right. Something seems to be working. You look sorter. Less rigid."

"Great. Sort's a good look in a cop."

"Don't worry. You don't look that soft. Just not so pinched, so tight."

"There's a line in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. After Big Daddy realizes he's dying of cancer he tells his son he's been walking around his entire life like a doubled-up fist and by G.o.d now he's gonna have him some fun. I wouldn't say I'm having fun yet, but by G.o.d I think I'm starting to unclench."

Their eyes met and Frank looked away first. Gail graciously returned to the menu.

"Okay. Tell me about this morning."

"You're not gonna believe it. Three thousand miles from home and here I am working a homicide."

Frank explained the morning's chain of events and Gail mused, "Wow. After all these years."

"Yeah, wow. Pretty weird."

"How's that feel? I mean, it seems that you'd pretty much closed the door on his death and then to have it swing open again ..."

"Yeah. Don't think I haven't considered a couple drinks today. Not that I'm gonna, but... I don't know. I was surprised. Still am. You're right about the door being closed. And it took me a long time to close it. It hasn't bothered me so much lately. I'd pretty much given up on ever finding the guy, but, man, when I was a kid I used to lie in bed at night thinking about him-his eyes, mostly. That's the thing with hope-to-die junkies. They've got black holes where they oughta have eyes. There's just n.o.body home inside. They got Night of the Living Dead eyes and I'd fall asleep thinking about those eyes on me. I'd dream about aem-still do sometimes-and I'd wake up terrified to look in a mirror because I was sure I had junkie eyes."

The waitress appeared. Gail ordered the lobster quiche and Frank a cheeseburger. The waitress swished away and Gail protested, "You come all the way to New York and order a cheeseburger?"

"I didn't come for the food," Frank replied. "Besides, sober lunches have become a pretty steady diet of cheeseburgers and milkshakes. A cheeseburger's about the only thing I can eat without thinking of booze to wash it down with."

"Oh," Gail said, appearing abashed. "I didn't think of that. Anyway, go on, if you want. You've never told me any of this."

Frank dismissed, "Not much to tell. I kept looking for him on the street. Everywhere I went. Walking to school, riding the bus, getting groceries-I was looking for him in every face. I saw a lot of those junkie eyes and sometimes I thought I'd found him, but then he'd pa.s.s me or turn a corner and I couldn't be sure. After a while, I guess I got so caught up in looking for him that I forgot to be afraid. And I lived around enough hypes to understand that the guy had no idea who I was, that he probably didn't even know he'd killed a man and if he did know he wouldn't care-because the only thing an oil burner cares about is fixing. Food, s.e.x, homicide-none of it means s.h.i.t to them-only the high. Chasing it and getting it. Then I started feeling superior to the junkie-like he should be afraid of me, because I remembered and was straight enough to do something about it. I was reading Trixie Belden and Nancy Drew back then. The Hardy Boys-even the little kids series. Remember the one with the twins? Flopsy and Mopsy or something?"

The waitress set down the milkshake and an extra gla.s.s. As Frank spooned it out, Gail laughed. "Flopsy and Mopsy were in Peter Rabbit. I think you're talking about the Bobbsey Twins."

"Yeah, yeah. That was it. The Bobbsey twins." Frank's smile was nostalgic. "Man, those kids were lame. I thought they were dumber than s.h.i.t-sorry. I hated them for having such happy families and clean houses-I thought that was as fake as Bugs Bunny- but I loved that they always solved the mystery. So I went from harmless fluff straight into In Cold Blood. Somebody left it lying on a table at the library. The t.i.tle hooked me so I picked it up and that was that. Then I discovered Joseph Wambaugh."

"Yikes," Gail interrupted. "Your mother let you read Joseph Wambaugh?"

"My mother wasn't exactly monitoring my reading habits. I think as long as I was home and taking care of things, for all she cared I could have been reading Playboy. I didn't understand a lot of Wambaugh, but I began to see that only two kinds of people made the rules-crooks and cops. I think the seed to become a cop was already in me but reading Wambaugh was like adding sun and water. Helter Skelter came out around then too. I read everything I could about Charlie Manson and the Tate-l.a.b.i.anca killings. It fascinated me."

"Uck." Gail shivered.

"After being exposed to all that, and from seeing what I saw everyday in my own neighborhood I realized that the bad guys only had temporary power. They were only powerful until their next arrest, but it was cops that were at the top of the food chain. And that's where I wanted to be. At the very top, looking down on everyone else. That's where I went and never looked back."