Thief in the Twilight

Prologue

The light had stopped blinking. It had, in fact, turned off completely. The light on the camera was never supposed to go out. That wasn't supposed to happen. The law required that all interviews, as they preferred to call these barbaric practices otherwise known as interrogations, be continuously recorded. Far be it they be accused of abuse or something, right? Damn it; this was not going the way it was supposed to go. Nothing had gone the way it was supposed to go, not since those two crazy people had burst into my cab today. Was it still today? Or was it yesterday?

My head hit the surface of the metal table in front of me as I groaned in confusion. I didn't know how long they had kept me in here, asking me question after circular question, hoping that I would slip up, thinking I must know more than I was saying. Didn't matter how many times I had told them I wasn't involved, didn't matter how often I swore up and down that I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The door to the room swung open, and two men walked in, making a very conscious effort to avoid touching any part of the door or its frame. These weren't the cops I had been dealing with all day. All-day, maybe all night as well? I didn't know anymore. Sure, they had given me a limp BLT sandwich and soda in a plastic cup, about the most unappetizing meal I had had in weeks. And I knew 'unappetizing'. As a cab driver, you learn to eat when and where you can, and if that means grabbing something from a gas station counter or a food cart you've parked beside, you do it and eat it. Religion, preferences, even dietary needs can all go to hell when little matters besides getting the customer from A to B.

Definitely not the detectives. Probably not even anyone from the precinct. Neither of them wore a uniform. Nor were they dressed in the slacks and collared shirts the detectives wore. Business casual was what I called the detective style. More like street business casual, since shoes were functional, scuffed and the sort of things one could run in and still wear to a meeting. Cuffs frayed, shirts loose, sleeves rolled up, trying to give the impression of your pal after work. They hadn't been my pals. Not with those eyes. The eyes that said that I was guilty, they knew I was guilty, and I would admit it eventually.

Sure, I was guilty. Guilty of a lot of things. Guilty of things that were so far outside their jurisdiction that it didn't occur to them to ask about it. Guilty of things I didn't want to think about. Of things that weren't spoken about in any company, let alone the polite sort. Looking at the two men who had just walked in, I had a feeling I would be talking about those things.

The first to enter, a man a few inches shy of six feet and dressed in an immaculate black suit, sat in one of the two chairs opposite me and laid a small stack of folders on the bare surface. It really was a good suit. Not the sort you would get off the rack, not even in an upmarket department store. No, this was a tailored job, fitted for him and only him and he wore it well. The shoes I had briefly seen fit the bill as well, beautiful leather things that had barely known the brutality of the outdoors and wouldn't deign to consider allowing mud to touch them. Elegant white collar shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, a black-tie hanging undone from the collar, finished the ensemble that screamed money. This was a man who had money or resources and didn't need to be educated on how to use it.

The air he gave off continued to make that painfully clear. He was every bit of the wealthy debutante, in my opinion. Handsome features looked up at me as he finished sorting the folders into three piles, a lock of blond hair slipping over dark eyes: deeply disturbing and cruel. But only for a moment, as they and the rest of him took on a charming and disingenuous light. Ah, so he was going to be the good cop in this show.

"Mr Pamieca, my name is Denton and my compatriot in the corner there," he indicated the second man to enter, who had bumped the door shut with a shoulder before moving to a corner next to the one-way mirror, "is Cornelius. We're here to discuss the special circumstances of the incident earlier." His voice was cultured, that rich tone that one got going to school in prep schools up north and with only the best British tutors to educate on pronunciation. It was smooth as silk, but I sensed an edge to it, hidden behind the words, like a snake in the grass.