Last Call by Baxter Clare

appreciate it. But an even darker corner of her brain whispers that if she lets Pryce go, she has to let Noah go, too.
    She turns to Gail and forces a smile. “So what’s for lunch?”
    Frank keeps her brain hushed for the next couple of weeks by spending every available minute canvassing a tight pattern of houses between Cassie Bertram’s duplex and the old Pryce house. Ninety percent of the time she is off the clock.
    For weeks she gets nothing but attitude and indifference. Deciding to switch to where the crime ended rather than where it started, she starts knocking on doors immediately around the dumpsite. A wino and five kids have moved into the house where the woman with the chicken lived. An elderly Salvadoran couple owns the house behind the dumpsite. Two of their children and three of their grandchildren share the three-bedroom bungalow. They lived there when the Pryce kids were discovered and tsk-tsk about the tragedy that was. So many tragedies. Of course things were different when they were younger. They remember nothing Frank doesn’t already know. By the time she leaves them the sun has been down for an hour. She consults her watch. Just one more.
    Frank checks her notes. Yolanda Miron lives on the west side of the dumpsite. Frank sees lights on in the house and presses her luck. A gray-haired Hispanic woman opens warily at her knock. Holding up her badge and ID, Frank inquires, “Mrs. Miron?”
    The woman nods with concern but as Frank explains the reason for her visit she relaxes and invites Frank in. A stout man-child with the obvious characteristics of Down’s syndrome looks up at Frank as she enters the living room. Mrs. Miron says, “Izzy, it’s almost bedtime. Pick up your things.”
    Izzy nods, complying with quick, curious looks at Frank. Frank begins by rote and Mrs. Miron echoes what everyone else has said— it’s been such a long time. She’s afraid she has nothing new to add. Like a few other people, she remembers Noah and asks why he’s not working the case.
    Frank usually answers this inquiry by saying he’s been reassigned. Maybe because it’s been a long day, maybe because she’s frustrated, maybe because Mrs. Miron is nice and her house smells like cookies, Frank tells her Noah was killed in a car accident. Izzy overhears this and interjects, “My Papi was killed in a car.”
    Mrs. Miron nods. “A month before those children were found. It was such a crazy time. What with Christmas coming and my daughter getting married. She got married the weekend they found them, the children. We were all so sad without Papi. It didn’t seem right without him but it seemed wrong to stop living. My husband was a very strong man, very proud. We talked about it a long time and decided Papi would want the wedding to go.” Her hands flap in her lap like little birds trying to take off. She apologizes. “That’s why I remember so little. It seems silly, we were right next door, but we had so much happening with ourselves.”
    Frank nods encouragement, watching Izzy arrange a collection of action dolls in a large laundry basket. He’s laid them side by side and is covering them with a worn hand towel. He rearranges some of the figures so that eventually they are all covered, with only their heads exposed. The little hairs all along Frank’s body rise in a delicious frisson. She has a wild idea. A ridiculous long shot, but she asks anyway. “Where was Izzy that weekend?”
    “Oh, he was here with me. In fact, he got sick that weekend. It was one more crazy thing.” Mrs. Miron’s smile for Izzy turns the comment from a complaint into a statement.
    “Did Detective Jantzen ever talk to Izzy about the children?”
    “Oh, no.” Mrs. Miron is adamant. “He was sick that weekend. I remember he was in bed. We were worried about him because a cold with him can sometimes turn into pneumonia. He’s not so active and they settle in his lungs, so what with my husband’s funeral and the wedding,