CODA
Coda: (Italian) A concluding event
A sharp knock at the door brought her head up from the Mount Everest-sized heap of folders containing her end-of-the-month reports. Her last, she thought with some relief. Peering over her glasses, she saw Sergeant Benny Montalvo's six foot four, 220 pounds of USC Linebacker body filling the frame.
"Hey, Cap."
"Hey, Ben. What's up?"
"Just wanted to remind you about Giamatti's tonight. Make an appearance there at about nine, ok? The guys want to see you get your present."
"Got it. Giamatti's. Tonight. Nine pm. Will do"
"It's your party, remember."
"uhhuh."
Benny stepped into the office. "You ok, Boss?"
She looked up at him. "Yeah, Ben, I'm fine. Just finishing these reports is all."
"Need anything before I go?"
"No, I'm good. Thanks, though."
"Ok, see you later then." Her exec moved toward the door. "Oh, and you got this. Dropped off an hour ago when you were meeting with the Commissioner." Montalvo handed her a heavy vellum envelope.
She put it in her desk drawer to read after finishing her reports. "Thanks, Benny; I'll see you later."
"Bet on it, Boss," he laughed," because I'm putting out the APB on you if you aren't at Giamatti's by nine."
Shadows were lengthening on her desk by the time she completed the reports. Opening her drawer, she took out the envelope Ben had left her. She recognized the handwriting immediately. She'd transcribed it for years back at 750 Kearney.
"Fran-
Know you're trying to tie up loose ends at Mission, but here's one more. Think of this as a coda.
114 Terrace Hills Dr, Rm 18 City."
That would be the Chief, cryptic as usual. He wanted her to do one more thing, but what? Typing the address into Google, she found it was the address for The Vale, a hospice. "Who do I know that needs hospice care? Who does the Chief want me to see?" she wondered aloud. Pushing her glasses back into her hair, she rubbed her eyes and stretched. Scooping up the paperwork, she put it neatly in a wire basket, got up, took her coat and purse off the coat rack, and turned around to take one last look at her office. It was devoid of the many human touches she'd given it. They had all gone home with her earlier. Turning off the lights, Fran Belding locked the door without a backward glance, strolled through her station for the last time, said good night to the second shift, and took the elevator to the garage.
In the parking spot was her, no, she corrected herself, their SUV. Technically, it was hers until midnight. Sliding in on the driver's side, Fran keyed the address in the Garmin, turned the key, and at the top of the drive, followed the Garmin's cheery direction to "Turn Left." One more drive to solve this mystery, then have Benny return the car tonight, and she'd cab it home from Giamatti's.
Thirty minutes later, she had successfully fought crosstown traffic. Turning into the parking lot. Fran entered the building, signed in, and from a pleasant desk clerk, was given directions to room 18.
She rapped on the door.
"Yeah, c'mon in," a man's voice coughed.
The room's light was dim, but she could make out its basic features, an oversized couch, a couple of comfortable chairs, a small kitchenette, a round dining table, and a power recliner. French doors led out onto a secluded patio—an oversized hospital bed in the center of the room held a man's body in it. Fran looked at him. He was skin stretched over bone. She moved towards him.
"Lady Frances," he rasped.
A memory clicked. Her first case with the Chief, Mark, and Ed. "Charlie? Charlie Rein? Is it you?"
"Yeah. It's me". He coughed explosively. Fran slipped her arm behind him as he hacked and wheezed. After a while, the coughing slowed, and she eased him back on the bed. Charlie waved his hand feebly at the bedside table, and she gave him a sip of water through a straw, easing him down into the pillows when he indicated he'd had enough.
"You were always the girl of my dreams."
"You're still a shameless flirt." Fran pulled a chair close to his bed.
"I'm dying."
"I'm sorry, Charlie."
"Cancer. Too many years of smoking those things, waiting for something to happen. I tried to change, and I couldn't. I'm a leopard; I couldn't change my spots no matter how hard I tried." Charlie paused to take a deep breath from the nasal cannula, then continued. "Saw…inna cop paper you were….retiring." His voice was losing its brief energy.
"Tonight."
"Gotta party planned?"
"They do."
"Lemme guess… Giamatti's. You cops been goin' there forever."
"They have what cops like, cheap drinks and good food. Why did you ask me to come, Charlie?"
He was silent for a while. Fran thought he might have fallen asleep, then.
"I owe you an apology."
"For what?"
"Getting you in that mess with Joe, me, an' Betty. Killing your pop."
"It's ok, Charlie."
"Naw, I didn't know Joe ..was gonna have your old man... shot. I didn't know... Betty... was gonna do it. Not til after."
"It's history, Charlie. I've healed."
"I told Joe….your old man didn't need ... to get killed. Just dropping three hundred large... on top of what he already ...stuck inna yer dad's bank... woulda been good. Not enough for …for Joey. He wanted to be th' big man. Wanted to be better than Eddie."
He broke into coughing. This time he couldn't stop. Fran pressed the buzzer, and a nurse entered the room with a bottle and a syringe sealed in a white paper and cellophane packet. She shook the bottle briskly and tapped it to break up the air bubbles. Unwrapping the syringe, she rubbed Charlie's skin with alcohol, drew a dose, checked it, tapped it to break up any possible bubbles then inserted the needle.
"I warned you, Charlie, that coughing like this will kill you." She said in a singsong voice flavored with the Philippines.
"Come again, Lady Frances." Charlie's body began to relax. His eyes closed, and he slid into sleep.
"I will, Charlie. Sleep well," knowing he couldn't hear her whisper as she left the room with his nurse.
"You're his first visitor, except for the gentleman in the wheelchair who visited the other day."
"Do you know why he asked me to visit?"
"No, no idea."
"Will you tell him I'll be back to see him tomorrow?"
"Of course."
Her station had closed Giamatti's for the night to host her party. Tomorrow, there would be no commotion, no constantly ringing phones, and no crime for her to deal with. Fran planned to spend the weekend at an artist's retreat, and starting Monday, her days would be filled with preparations for her move to Austria in December. Looking out at the crowd of coworkers and friends, she knew it was a difficult choice but the right one to make. Unlike some of her former coworkers, she'd survived. She'd left on top, left alive. She hadn't fallen into a bottle of booze or talked doctors into giving her pain medication to take care of the searing pain they lived with following an incident gone bad or self-medicating the myriad of injuries they had suffered. Some had quietly decided to end it all. Fran Belding had gone through that hell and came out of it. She had broken up with Ed, but they were talking now. It was a good and hopeful sign for them. Amidst the plaques, presents, hugs, and well wishes given her, she looked for a quiet place. A drink was thrust into her hand. She looked up into the familiar face of Mark Sanger.
"C'mon over here. We've been waiting for you to get away from the muckies."
"Hey, your Honor, the muckies gave $5000 to KidsArt in my name, be a little nice to them."
"This time," Mark laughed, his smile partly hidden by his mustache. Taking her arm, he led her to the far side of the room.
"Well, well, here's our girl!" The Chief said jovially as Fran and Mark approached the table where he, his wife Katherine, and Diana Sanger were sitting. "Quite a night. Quite a night." He took her hands in his.
"So, as of midnight, you can experience the joys of uninterrupted sleep?" Katharine asked
"I don't know what to do with that."
"Enjoy it while you can because you'll make up for that starting Monday morning with the unbridled joy of German dative case," Ironside pronounced.
"I'm not going to worry about that until I walk through the classroom door Monday. In the meantime, I've got a mystery to solve."
"What's that?" Diana asked.
"To find out why Charlie Rein wanted to see me."
"Charlie Rein? Joe Julian's gofer? There's a blast from the past," Mark replied.
"Exactly. The Chief sent a note today, no name, just an address. It was a hospice; he's dying."
Ironside shrugged his shoulders. "I was just as surprised as you when he contacted me." Fran looked into her mentor's face. He knew exactly why Charlie Rein wanted to see her. He wasn't going to give her any other information.
"He apologized for my father's death, but there's more to it. That much I'm certain of. I'm stopping by to see him before I head to Monterey tomorrow. Hopefully, he'll tell me."
"Maybe he just wanted to clear his soul." Katherine offered.
Early the following day, Fran arrived at the hospice, signing in at the desk. She needed no directions this time; she knew where she was going.
The room was closed. Opening the door, she found no one there. It was as if Charlie Rein had never existed.
"Are you Ms. Belding?" a voice spoke behind her.
"Yes," she said, turning around, "I am."
"I'm Patricia Goins, the head nurse here. Charlie died earlier this morning."
Fran was quiet.
"I'm sorry for the loss of your friend. He left this for you." She said, handing over a large envelope.
Fran pulled out a sheet of paper covered in spidery handwriting.
"Lady Frances,
I'm glad I saw you. I knew I didn't have much time left when I talked to Ironside. He said you were tired of being a cop and going to Austria to start life fresh. You'd gotten a grant that would pay for everything, so you probably wouldn't take this to help you. He called it "Blood Money." The Chief always had a way with words. He's probably right about this too. This is the 300K Joe wanted me to plant in your dad's bank account. I took it and told Joey I'd put it in your account. He never knew I didn't. After I met you that night in the club, I knew I couldn't do that to you. I just hung on to it. Joe's gone, and so's Betty; I'm not hanging around too much longer, so I can't use it. I'm giving it to you. You do something good with it. In a funny way, I'm asking you to launder it for me. Ironside knows what I'm asking you to do. Do something and then go have a good life. You deserve it. Maybe along the way, you'll find someone to share it with, like that Sergeant Brown. He's not funny, but he's a good man.
Charles Rein, Esq.
She folded the letter. "Charlie wanted me to make sure you got this," she said, looking at the nurse. Handing her the envelope, Fran walked out of the building.
The Chief was right. It was a coda. The circle had come around full.
In memory of Elizabeth Baur, 1. December 1947 - 30. September 2017. Lux Perpetua et Aeternum Dona Ei Pacem.