Enough time to tell my story. Unless they arrested me. Then, a parking ticket would be the least of my worries. In the chief’s parking spot, his Corvette sat arrogantly topless under an ominous cloudy sky.
The new police station was one of the few buildings downtown that didn’t adhere to the Mission theme. It was a flat-roofed stucco building painted in subtle tans with brown wood trim. Neatly cropped ivy laced the walls, and a sluggish, beige-and-blue-tiled fountain gurgled at the entrance. It looked more like an office for a group of successful orthodontists than a police station. There must have been some kind of crime wave taking place in San Celina because it took ten minutes to work my way through the line in the lobby to the desk officer, a redheaded kid with a small cowlick. He looked as if he’d graduated from San Celina High School all of three minutes ago. A large revolver was strapped around his skinny waist.
“Can I help you, ma‘am?” He smiled, displaying those kind of braces that are suppose to be invisible but aren’t. Braces and a loaded revolver. Now there’s a scary thought.
“I’d like to see Detective Ryan or Cleary.”
“Just a minute.”
I studied the various notices on the wheat-colored walls of the lobby. Their bowling team placed second in the city championship last year. The FBI’s Ten Most Wanted looked as hollow-cheeked and menacing as ever. I’d moved on to memorizing the faces of missing children when a smooth, tenor voice called my name.
“Ms. Harper? Is there something I can do for you?”
I turned to face the dark, curious face of Detective Cleary. The bulge from his gun was apparent under his snug tweed jacket. Someone in his life was a good cook, or he hadn’t bought any new jackets for a while.
“I have some information about Marla’s murder,” I said.
“What is it?” He crossed his arms and cocked his head, throwing me off a bit. Blurting the whole story out in the lobby was not what I’d expected.
“I found Rita,” I said. “My cousin. Do you know about her?” The eager look on his face answered my question.
“Where is she?” he said. “Is she with you? Get her in here.”
“Well, she’s not exactly with me.”
His dark brown eyes blinked rapidly as he rubbed his jaw. “Just a minute. I think I’d better call the chief.” That was exactly what I’d hoped to avoid. I swallowed hard and considered bolting. No use. He knew where I worked and probably where I lived.
Cleary reached over the counter and punched a number on the desk officer’s phone. After a few short sentences in a voice so low I couldn’t make out the words, he jerked his head at me.
“He wants to talk to you himself.”
No kidding. I followed him through a maze of beige desks down a long hall, past a women’s restroom I contemplated ducking into, to a closed oak door with a brass nameplate—“Aaron Davidson—Chief of Police.” He knuckle-rapped sharply twice and swung it open. “Here she is, Chief.” The small, sympathetic smile he flashed in my direction as he closed the door behind me didn’t ease my mind or the tangled rope in my stomach.
Ortiz sat in a tall black executive chair, his blue eyes alert, his olive-skinned face expressionless. He gestured to a matching office chair in front of his desk. Tilting his chair back, he tented his fingers and regarded me. I avoided his gaze with a quick glance at my surroundings. Oak was the only word to describe the office. Everything matched, down to the brass-and-oak desk accessories. They say you can tell a lot about a person by their work surroundings. But this office was a loaner, so any stories it had to tell wouldn’t be his. The top of the desk in front of him was bare. I wondered if he kept a file cabinet at Liddie’s. I decided not to ask.
“Where’s your cousin?” he finally asked, his voice smooth as the burnished wood desk in front of him.
I told him my story and waited for the meltdown.
“Did he
The new police station was one of the few buildings downtown that didn’t adhere to the Mission theme. It was a flat-roofed stucco building painted in subtle tans with brown wood trim. Neatly cropped ivy laced the walls, and a sluggish, beige-and-blue-tiled fountain gurgled at the entrance. It looked more like an office for a group of successful orthodontists than a police station. There must have been some kind of crime wave taking place in San Celina because it took ten minutes to work my way through the line in the lobby to the desk officer, a redheaded kid with a small cowlick. He looked as if he’d graduated from San Celina High School all of three minutes ago. A large revolver was strapped around his skinny waist.
“Can I help you, ma‘am?” He smiled, displaying those kind of braces that are suppose to be invisible but aren’t. Braces and a loaded revolver. Now there’s a scary thought.
“I’d like to see Detective Ryan or Cleary.”
“Just a minute.”
I studied the various notices on the wheat-colored walls of the lobby. Their bowling team placed second in the city championship last year. The FBI’s Ten Most Wanted looked as hollow-cheeked and menacing as ever. I’d moved on to memorizing the faces of missing children when a smooth, tenor voice called my name.
“Ms. Harper? Is there something I can do for you?”
I turned to face the dark, curious face of Detective Cleary. The bulge from his gun was apparent under his snug tweed jacket. Someone in his life was a good cook, or he hadn’t bought any new jackets for a while.
“I have some information about Marla’s murder,” I said.
“What is it?” He crossed his arms and cocked his head, throwing me off a bit. Blurting the whole story out in the lobby was not what I’d expected.
“I found Rita,” I said. “My cousin. Do you know about her?” The eager look on his face answered my question.
“Where is she?” he said. “Is she with you? Get her in here.”
“Well, she’s not exactly with me.”
His dark brown eyes blinked rapidly as he rubbed his jaw. “Just a minute. I think I’d better call the chief.” That was exactly what I’d hoped to avoid. I swallowed hard and considered bolting. No use. He knew where I worked and probably where I lived.
Cleary reached over the counter and punched a number on the desk officer’s phone. After a few short sentences in a voice so low I couldn’t make out the words, he jerked his head at me.
“He wants to talk to you himself.”
No kidding. I followed him through a maze of beige desks down a long hall, past a women’s restroom I contemplated ducking into, to a closed oak door with a brass nameplate—“Aaron Davidson—Chief of Police.” He knuckle-rapped sharply twice and swung it open. “Here she is, Chief.” The small, sympathetic smile he flashed in my direction as he closed the door behind me didn’t ease my mind or the tangled rope in my stomach.
Ortiz sat in a tall black executive chair, his blue eyes alert, his olive-skinned face expressionless. He gestured to a matching office chair in front of his desk. Tilting his chair back, he tented his fingers and regarded me. I avoided his gaze with a quick glance at my surroundings. Oak was the only word to describe the office. Everything matched, down to the brass-and-oak desk accessories. They say you can tell a lot about a person by their work surroundings. But this office was a loaner, so any stories it had to tell wouldn’t be his. The top of the desk in front of him was bare. I wondered if he kept a file cabinet at Liddie’s. I decided not to ask.
“Where’s your cousin?” he finally asked, his voice smooth as the burnished wood desk in front of him.
I told him my story and waited for the meltdown.
“Did he
Similar Books
