"And what's the young lady's name?" the officer asked. Malcolm reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the crumpled sheet from the doctor, smoothing it out against his knee and handing it over. The officer examined it. "No last name?"
"No, she wouldn't give one," Malcolm said. "But I figure there can't be too many around here with that spellin'."
"I'll give it a look," the officer said, opening up a filing cabinet. He rifled through it, once in a while licking his thumb. Malcolm wasn't the only one in the station. Not only did the rest of the band allow themselves a tour of the joint led by an officer Bon was acquainted with (a friend of a friend, he swears), but another man sat in a metal chair across the room, handcuffs on his wrist. A man in a suit and tie sat next to him.
"Just keep your mouth shut," he whispered. "The more you talk they more they have to hold over you."
"But I didn't do it!" the cuffed man insisted. "Someone stole the bike before giving it to me, I know it." Malcolm listened at the mention of a bike. "Piece of faulty rubbish anyway, fucking crashed the damn thing. Lucky I'm still in one piece!" Malcolm almost asked but decided against it. The totaled bicycle in the garbage may have belonged to this man and not Stevi at all. "These blokes have me cuffed like a common criminal."
"Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Young," the officer said, slamming the drawer closed. "I've checked through every record we have and there's no one named Stevi."
"That only means there's no police record on her, right?" Malcolm asked. "She hasn't been charged for anything?"
"No birth records either," the officer explained. "No certificate copy, no license information, no address, no proof of citizenship." Malcolm took back the crumpled sheet.
"So...that means she's..."
"A runaway, I'd guess," the officer said. "Probably not born in this city or even this country. Did the young lady have a passport on her?"
"I didn't see one," Malcolm thought. "She didn't even have a suitcase."
"Can't get far without a passport," the officer said. "My guess is she's not from this city and ran away. In a hurry too, it looks like."
"What about the bike then, hm?" Malcolm asked, sparing a glance at the man in handcuffs. "Was that hers?"
"Has she mentioned anything about a bike?" the officer asked. The man in cuffs started paying attention.
"No, sir, she can't speak," Malcolm said. "We're waitin' till she's ready, ya' know."
"Well, this young gentleman over here also had a run-in with a bicycle, if you'll pardon the expression." The cuffed man snorted and rolled his eyes. "Perhaps that's the bike in question."
"Was the wheel missing?" the man asked. "All dented? Red in color?"
"Yeah," Malcolm said, relieved to be getting some answers. "Yeah it was."
"That was mine," the man confirmed. "Bloody fucking wheel popped off while I was riding it." Malcolm nodded, anxious for the guys to get back. He could hear their voices down the hall, getting closer.
"Well, that's that, then," the officer smiled. "Case closed."
"Listen, man," the man in cuffs said, a bead of sweat on his forehead. "Can you loosen these up a bit? I ain't going anywhere."
The officer smiled. "Sure thing, mate." He took a set of jangling keys off his belt and unlocked the handcuffs. The man rubbed his wrists. "Better?"
"Thanks," he mumbled. The man in the suit looked suspiciously back and forth between Malcolm and his comrade. "Hey, listen." Malcolm turned his body in his chair so he faced them. "That girl you're talking about. Blue dress, right?"
