52
ANSON
One of the officers opened the back door of the closest patrol car while the officer who had handcuffed me placed a palm on my head and forced me down into the seat.
The moment my legs were inside, he slammed the door and turned his back, blocking my view through the window.
He spoke to the other two for a moment, then they returned to the first patrol car as he rounded the front of mine and got in behind the wheel, starting the car.
“Where are you taking me?”
He glanced at me in the rearview mirror through a few strands of loose, dark hair, but said nothing. Instead, he gave his siren a quick squelch and pulled out behind the first patrol car.
This time of night, there wasn’t much traffic, and what little there was cleared out of the way when they spotted the two patrol cars coming up behind them.
I made a mental note of each turn, each street sign, anything unique enough to refer back to if I had to retrace our path.
Turns out that was unnecessary. When we pulled to the curb on the corner of Martin and Belmont, I knew exactly where we were.
Outside my window was the homeless encampment where Andy had lived.
Where his mother’s body had been left. Where that girl had been abducted.
Unlike the last time I was here, the camp was alive.
I counted five people among the tents under the dry cleaner’s awning.
Andy’s tent was gone, replaced by a larger blue one with a bushy old man watching us from just inside the open flap.
The circle with a diagonal line across the center drawn by Twill was still visible on the brick.
Clearly, her warning had done little to keep people away.
“Why are we here?”
This time, the driver didn’t bother to look at me.
He got out of the car and left, slamming the door behind him.
A moment later, the door to my right opened and Detective Moss got in beside me.
She fell into the back seat with a bit of a huff, like she’d been on her feet for a very long time and this was her first opportunity at something resembling rest. She stared forward for a moment before looking down at my cuffed hands.
“I didn’t tell them to do that. Would you like me to remove them? ”
Back at the table in the courtyard, when I brushed Paul’s sketchpad, I took a paperclip. I’d picked the locks on the handcuffs before the patrol car had pulled away. I handed them to her and suppressed the smile that desperately wanted to come out.
If she was impressed, she didn’t let on.
She dropped the cuffs on the floor near her feet.
She wore black flats, scuffed up, but practical.
Shoes she could run in. “You broke into that liquor store and stole evidence,” she said, nodding toward the building on our right. “That’s enough to land you in juvie.”
“I gave you the tape. I never told you how it came into my possession. I certainly didn’t tell you I broke in or stole it. I imagine making assumptions in police work can get you in trouble.”
Careful, Champ. Confidence and arrogance are kissing cousins best kept at a distance.
The lines of her face tightened. “You were in my house. You have an established pattern of breaking and entering. In my line of work, we don’t call that an assumption; we call it repeat behavior by a known perpetrator. Once a thief, always a thief.”
“I didn’t steal anything from your home.”
She had a small scar next to her right eye.
It looked old. Maybe from some childhood accident.
It twisted into a half moon when she spoke.
“If you hadn’t given me that tape, we wouldn’t have known to look for a black SUV,” she admitted, her voice growing softer.
“We wouldn’t have known to look for the girl at all . . .”
Her voice trailed off, and we sat in silence for nearly a minute before I spoke again. “Did you find her?”
Detective Moss didn’t answer that; instead, she looked down at her hands.
Her fingers moved, fiddled, like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with them.
“You’ve had a troubling past, Anson. A lot of assumptions have been made about you.
They’re in your file—detailed, listed, and bullet-pointed nice and neat.
Damning assumptions. When I read something like that, I remind myself those assumptions are simply the opinion of another person.
Qualified or not, they aren’t my opinions.
I prefer to form those on my own. That being said, I’m willing to overlook a lot of what I read in that file.
I’m even willing to overlook your few minor infractions.
For now. Providing you stay out of my house. Think you can do that?”
I nodded.
She did too. “Consider this moment you entering my life with a clean slate. Those other words, those assumptions, are still there, but they’ve been erased from my chalkboard. Think of them as dusty remnants under the new words I’m writing about you myself. Does that make sense?”
I nodded.
I hope you don’t plan to offer her the same courtesy.
When was the last time you met someone with a badge you could trust?
Her team is tainted. Don’t buy into her nonsense.
Cops love to get all friendly when it suits them; it helps them get close.
It’s Police Buggery 101. They’ll smile right up until the moment they put the cuffs on you, but in your case, she won’t make that mistake again.
You can guarantee when she’s ready to lock you up, she’ll use zip ties. No picking those.
“Why did you bring me here?”
She studied me for a few long seconds, then banged twice on her window. The officer who drove me here reappeared and opened her door.
“Follow me,” she said. “I’ll show you.”