The Divorcee Murder Club

Cuarenta Y Cuatro ~ 44

               The linoleum tiles beneath my boots are scuffed and worn from many others who, like me, have been detained over the years. A hiss of chatter floats down the hallway, where police officers and staff congregate to do their work. Someone must have brewed fresh coffee because the aroma is thick and warm. Too bad they won’t offer me a cup. I didn’t get to grab my belongings, so it’s cold in here without a jacket.

There’s also something about my arrival at the station that doesn’t feel right. I thought I would have my photo taken and get booked. Instead, I got tossed into a jail cell with three other dudes sleeping off booze. 

One of them is snoring, and I don’t understand how anyone can take a peaceful nap on a hard wooden bench in a cage that smells like piss from a urinal two feet away that desperately needs scrubbing. 

Seriously, if I pee in that thing, I’ll probably get chlamydia. 

Hours have passed, and each time a police officer walks by, I ask what’s happening since this doesn’t feel like protocol. Why did they shove me in here? I should have asked for a lawyer.

“Hey, hey!” I growl at an officer walking up to the cell. “What’s going on? Why haven’t I been booked?” 

“Relax…” the officer stares me down, then shouts, “Open up three!” There is a buzz, then a click, and the jail cell door rolls open with a clang. The officer backs up and motions me forward. “Come on out, and follow me.”

“Now, what’s happening?” 

“You’re being released.” The officer proceeds ahead of me.

“Why?

“Beats me. I’m just walking you to the front.”

We pass the cubicles of employees burning the midnight oil at their desks, with mugs of coffee on standby for sips. The officer walks me to a window where another officer stands inside a room filled with cubby holes. 

“Miguel Gomez needs his things. We're releasing him.”

“Alrighty…” the other officer turns to the cubbies, searches for my name, and pulls out a plastic bag with the belongings they took from me. “This is yours. It should all be there.”

“Right.” I open the bag and shuffle the items, which isn’t much: just my watch, phone, wallet, and the card from Emilio Suarez.

I’m damn glad I tossed out whatever that drug was.

The officer walks me to the end of the hallway, then says, “You’re free to go.”

Hesitation causes me to look from him to the exit, then back to him again, but he shrugs and walks away. This is weird, yet I head for the doors, step out onto the cement steps of the precinct building, and let my head fall back. A mini cloud escapes my mouth with my long breath, and I glance around. The street is bathed in the deepest pink of twilight, so it must be getting close to six AM. But why was I detained for hours, only to be released like some guy shoved in the drunk tank to sleep it off? 

“Get inside.”

I jerk my attention to the right, and there is a black SUV idling, with fog streaming from the exhaust pipe. Bernard stands next to the back passenger door, dressed in an all-black suit, and motions inside. I’ve only met this man once before, and it was when Augusta threatened to have him fling me over his shoulder and force-feed me duck.

“Where are we going?” I walk down the steps.

“Just get in.”

“Ok…”