The First Cut by Dianne Emley Page B

Frankie said she could stay with her for a few days.
    “So I said, ‘Oh?’ Frankie wasn’t missing yet. I’d just seen her the day before. Her paper was there that morning, but when she works late, she sometimes doesn’t take it in until the evening. I figure I’ll call Frankie’s cell phone after this gal leaves. Her face was red and she was sniffing, like she’d been crying. So I ask her if she’s all right. She says she’s fine and the tears roll out from beneath these big sunglasses she has on. I ask her if she wants something to drink and she says no. She’s having a hard time trying to turn the bolt lock and I notice she has Frankie’s set of keys. Frankie had this key ring shaped like a tiny pistol. The little thing for the bullets rolled around and everything. Said her dad gave it to her. He’s a police officer, too, you know.”
    “What did this woman look like?”
    “I told Detective Schuyler about it and he showed me the drawing of the woman Frankie was seen with at that club by the airport. This could have been the same woman. Instead of the heart-shaped sunglasses, she had on these big square ones that covered half her face and she had black hair that went past her shoulders. Looked like a wig. I didn’t pay that much attention to what she was wearing, you know how they dress these days, but when I thought about it later, it seems to me that she had on gloves. Leather gloves.” Mrs. Bodek tilted her chin to make sure Vining got the significance.
    “Then what?”
    “She went down the stairs, muttering to herself, and out through the front gate. I called Frankie’s cell phone and left her a message about it. A couple of days later, the police show up, telling me Frankie’s gone missing.”
    “Thank you, Mrs. Bodek. You’ve been very helpful.” Vining started heading down the stairs. She turned back. “Did you hear what the woman was muttering?”
    Mrs. Bodek raised both hands. “Nonsense. Gibberish. Who can understand how they talk these days. She said, ‘This is vujaday. This is seriously vujaday.’” She shrugged.
    Vining shrugged as well.

 
    S I X
    R UIZ DROVE FRANK LYNDE HOME.
    Kissick coordinated patrol officers into teams for knock-and-talks around the neighborhood and interviews with the film production crew.
    Vining thought she’d also be knocking on doors, one more pair of feet on the street, but Early told her to get into the car, an indication that Early wanted to chat. Vining wasn’t surprised.
    They stopped at Goldstein’s Bagels before returning to the station, going to the La Cañada Flintridge store since the Old Pasadena location had been forced to close.
    “Raised their rent too high,” Early said. “Had to make room for more high-end retailers. The city planners call it gentrification. I call it a shame that they’re eroding the character of the city for the glory of people who max out their credit cards.”
    “Right.”
    “Best we grab something to eat while we can. Going to be a long day and night. Plus you’re running on empty anyway.” Early’s small glance revealed to Vining what the sergeant had not said.
    Cops notice everything. Even when they aren’t looking, they’re looking. Being watchful was second nature to a cop. That included watching one another, especially in a department the size of Pasadena’s, where everyone knew everyone else, at least by sight. An officer who was having problems, showing signs of distress, would not go unnoticed for long. Everyone had a bad day. Most cops eventually burned out, either becoming apathetic, letting everything go, or becoming aggressive, refusing to take the smallest amount of crap. That was predictable, expected, and acceptable within a range. But for a cop who was going over the deep end big-time, who had gone from a known quantity to the X factor, the stakes were too high to do nothing.
    Vining was holding to her story about feeling wobbly that morning because she hadn’t eaten enough. She