Chapter 47
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Fogged In
CLIFF
MBPD took no chances with him, especially after they had nearly lost their only suspect in a major theft and a violent killer assaulted a woman right under their noses.
Cliff surmised that this was the most action these bored, yoked cops had seen all year, assuming their usual encounters were with drunk Manhattan Beach moms swerving into oncoming traffic in their Range Rovers, Yeti cups full of white wine.
They roughly cuffed Cliff’s wrists (and ankles this time, given his proclivity to escape) and tossed him into one of the short-term holding cells within the Manhattan Beach Police Department.
He spent a rough night on the hard bench and woke up muddled and gloomy, except for the urgent need to take the longest pee of his life.
At around noon, two more cops came to escort Cliff to another room down the hall.
The room was outfitted like any interrogation room, gray cinder block walls, a table at the center, two metal chairs on either side, cameras in both corners, and a double-sided mirror.
The only difference was a cheerful surf calendar hanging on the wall by the phone.
Cliff had been seated for about half an hour before Detective Arliss Roverson entered the room with a thick file in his hands.
Cliff presumed correctly that it was his rap sheet.
“Coffee?” he asked Cliff.
Cliff waved away the offer. “No, thank you.”
“I see here you were a guest at the State Correctional Facility as recently as a month ago.”
Cliff nodded glumly. It would be the same old game. Where the past took precedent over the present. “Doesn’t bode well for my side of the story does it, Detective?”
Detective Roverson didn’t say anything, just thumbed through the thick file, reading.
“I think that depends on what kind of story you want to tell.”
Cliff thought about this for a second then asked, “Is she okay?” As long as Jamie was safe, that was all that really mattered.
Detective Roverson sat back. “She’s a little shaken up, but beyond some bruising both psychological and physical, I think Ms. Frisco will be fine.”
“And Ott is going away?”
Detective Roverson paused and looked hard at Cliff before answering. “He is in custody, and after processing will probably be back in prison after his arraignment. Three strikes, hell, Ott has like nineteen.”
Cliff was relieved and eased up a bit. He sat back in his chair and girded himself for the questioning, the charges, and the coming re-incarceration.
Some things for ex-cons were inevitable.
He’d been a lifelong criminal. No one would believe he was innocent of this heist, given that his entire life had been in service to pulling crimes exactly like this.
He was headed on an inexorable path back to prison.
The detective started. “Why were you at Piccolo Saturday night?”
“Dinner for Six. I was on a group blind date.”
The detective pushed his notebook aside, folded his hands. He wants to listen, Cliff thought.
“Do you know Melvyn Ott?”
“Yes, we did a job together before. Once. We both went to prison for it.”
“Seems Melvyn is a little sloppy.”
Cliff nodded. Sloppy, violent, impulsive.
“You went missing for twenty minutes. You told officers on the scene that you were locked in the freezer.”
“I was. Locked in by the waitress. I managed to climb out through the vent before I froze to death.”
The door opened and a younger officer handed Detective Roverson a large file. He sifted through and brought out a series of large blue-and-white papers. He began to unfold them in front of Cliff. He knew those papers.
“Can you tell me why we found these schematics of the very house that was burgled Saturday night inside your apartment?”
Cliff sat up. “So this is for certain the house that was burgled?” Cliff leaned forward, putting the last piece together as he stared at the schematics. The detective nodded.
When Cliff was fourteen years old, his father took him to get his intelligence tested after he discovered that he could solve a Rubik’s Cube in under a minute, finish the crossword puzzle every Sunday, and was doing other kids’ homework for money.
He scored 161, genius level. So, when his intelligence kicked in at that moment, he was astounded he had not put it together sooner.
“Why don’t we start at the beginning,” Detective Roverson said. “Tell me about Melvyn Ott.”
“I’m not quite sure that’s the beginning.”
“What do you mean?” Detective Roverson leaned in.
Cliff smiled as, like a fog lifting, the picture in front of him became crystal clear. If he was right, Cliff marveled at the plan, the sheer audacity, the scheming it required.
“For starters, this isn’t Duncan Reeve’s house.”
Detective Roverson stared at him for a moment. “Tell me more.”