Last Call by Baxter Clare Page B

canvass secondary routes, and tertiary. More if necessary. She is determined to cover a wide radius between the two lines.
    She studies the dozens of photos Noah took of the crime scene and neighborhood. She carries pictures of onlookers from the crowd with her. Noah’s already identified most of them. Frank makes everyone she questions study the faces in the photos. One man identifies his brother. He’s moved to Las Vegas. The man Frank talks to can’t remember what he was doing the night the Pryces were murdered, let alone his brother.
    Frank tracks the brother down. Jorge Medina. He buses tables at the Riviera Casino. He has a history of misdemeanors and fails to return Frank’s phone calls. On a starry Saturday morning she drives to Las Vegas to catch Medina during his noon shift. Medina’s an unimpressive character who remembers nothing. He racks his brain but can’t tell Frank what he was doing that night six years ago. He doesn’t even remember why he was visiting his brother. When he lived in Orange County it wasn’t unusual for their families to get together and have dinner, play cards. Frank watches his apprehension grow in proportion to the failure of his memory.
    Finally she flips him her business card, tells him to call if he thinks of anything. She leaves with the conviction he’s clueless. Civilians are naturally nervous around cops, but only guilty people try to hide their worry. In addition, barring a traumatic event in their lives, the only people who can tell you what they were doing on a given night six years past are people who have created an alibi and memorized it. Innocent people don’t need alibis.
    Frank leaves Las Vegas no closer to a suspect than when she arrived. Still she’s pleased with the miles of desert highway between her and L.A. Plenty of hours to think about the Pryce kids. Hot air blows through the car and she cools off with a six-pack of Coronas triple-bagged around a bag of ice. Frank slaps her hand against the door, keeping time with ZZ Top and Stevie Ray Vaughn. Well insulated, she cruises into the burning sunset.

Chapter 16
    Despite a traffic jam in Barstow, Gail is still awake when Frank gets in from Vegas. She puts down the book she is reading and smiles.
    “Any luck?”
    “Nope. Guy didn’t know a thing.”
    “Sorry.”
    Heading for the bathroom, Frank shrugs. “No big. I’m gonna get the dust off of me.”
    She spends as much time as she can in the shower, hoping Gail will be asleep by the time she’s done. But she isn’t and Frank gets into bed beside her. Gail closes her book and turns the light off. She snuggles into Frank, and Frank accommodates the doc’s head on her shoulder. Gail caresses Frank in a way that used to drive her nutty. Now Gail’s touch is almost repulsive. She’s relieved when Gail quits.
    “Talk to me,” Gail whispers to Frank.
    Except for a mad desire to be back on the highway, Frank feels nothing.
    “I can’t,” she confesses.
    “Why not?”
    “I just can’t. There aren’t any words inside me.”
    “Just empty?” Gail sympathizes.
    Frank thinks again about the frozen quarry. “Yeah. All empty.”
    This seems to satisfy Gail but then she asks, “Is it Noah? Is it still missing him so much?”
    The answer that leaps to mind is worse, and Frank is furious. Furious at Gail for bringing up what she’s worked so hard to ignore, furious at this invasion of privacy, furious that Gail cares, furious that she can’t go to sleep, furious that she has to constantly defend herself. Inside, she is a raging ball of self-contained fiery hell. Outside she is a sheet of glass—cold, rigid and just as fragile.
    “I can’t talk about this,” she manages.
    “Why? What would happen if you did?”
    “You’re asking the impossible, Gail. Do you want to see me crack into a million pieces? Is that what you want? To see me all busted up like Humpty Dumpty? You’d be stuck with a thousand broken pieces and you’d have to sweep me up