Chapter 12
“Crosbie,” Allison Higgins, the assistant behind the glass, says. “How the heck are you? Or should I call you Private Detective Mitchell?”
Every inch of the place is etched in my memory.
The interrogation rooms, the metal desks, the small municipal court, the judge’s chambers, the break room.
I can still hear the radios crackling and the telephones ringing, smell the cheap, bitter coffee, and see the detectives busy with paperwork.
Seeing Allison is awkward. When I worked here, we became pretty good friends, but after I left, our friendship fell by the wayside. It wasn’t a good feeling. Don’t friends keep up after a job change?
Allison was raised in Casper, Wyoming. She had several rough-and-tumble brothers and is used to cowboy humor.
She also had a sister who had a neurodegenerative disease that made her incapable of caring for her own child.
Before she was incapable of doing so, Allison’s sister took her life.
As a result, Allison raised her sister’s son.
The father was uninvolved and a drunk. I’d thought of how much I’d hate to lose Jess that way.
But when I was on the job, we were an exasperated team of two women at the bro-heavy station.
Allison winced along with me at their locker room stunts and of course talked in colorful detail about all this ad nauseam throughout the workday.
I’d happily answer Allison’s eye roll at the juvenile jokes and puerile antics, but it was more than enduring the pranks and tomfoolery.
It was the not-so-subtle club mentality.
Dudes here, ladies there. Allison and I knew we weren’t invited.
It was an invisible wall of sexism. And the more you said anything, the worse it got.
Nothing prosecutable. Nothing specific. All their violations landed in a gray zone, but the slights and insults were piled higher than my head.
“I’m good, Allison. And you’re right, it’s Private Detective Mitchell.” I wink.
Allison grins back, and I realize how much I miss her, how she’d smirk and hide her laugh when we’d talk trash about the guys, especially Hartley. Our connection also involved running together, working out, and occasionally grabbing lunch.
Now, if I were still seeing the therapist I saw back in college, she’d have a field day. More isolation, she would point out. When did this loner streak rear its head again? she’d ask.
I knew it was me who could find any reason at the drop of a hat to retreat from friendships, and that I should resist it.
And I did. For years now, I’ve stayed relatively in touch with the gang, even after Hannah, John, and Maggie all moved east. And Fiona, even when I wasn’t sure I liked how superficial she could be.
But after Coleman, I haven’t spoken at length to any of them, including Allison, in months and months.
Allison and Jess even get together sometimes, but without me.
They met through me when I was on the force still, and sometimes I’d invite Jess along to join us for coffee or lunch if Sam was with his dad or at school, but the two became closer after I left the department.
After I isolated myself from everyone but Jess.
Allison’s blond hair has gone grayer at the roots, but some of the strands refuse to cooperate with the others and pop straight up from her part.
I tell her I want to file a report: that the latest sketch looks a lot like me.
“Sketch?” she says. Then it hits her. “Oh!”
Wallace cuts in, “Not just a lot. More like precisely.”
Allison studies me like an art critic. She fiddles with her phone and gasps. “Oh my God, Mitchell. It does.”
She pages someone in the back, probably Ross.
I go at the loose skin on the outside of my thumb again. “Who’s on today?”
“Ewing and Stoddard,” she says. “But I think Stoddard stepped out.” She shakes her head like she’s trying to process my dilemma. Like I’m a dead woman walking. “What do you think it all means? What will you do?”
“Not sure,” I say, disappointed that Stoddard isn’t in.
That leaves Detective Mitch Ewing, a stalky, balding man who is good friends with Lieutenant Hartley and spearheaded the move for all the officers and techs to wear black armbands at work to show solidarity—as if that were needed—when word got around that we’d reported the harassment.
Sergeant Ross swings the door open and sees me. “Mitchell!” He flashes a big smile. He’s put on some weight, his midriff expanded like risen dough.
I don’t mind Ross. He has empathy. But too much compassion in a place like this is not ideal, and I often wondered how long he’d stick around. I’m glad to see he’s still here.
Allison holds up her smartphone.
He squints at the sketch, then stares at me for a second, his head tilted. “Wow, I do see it,” he says. “You know, I kind of did think it when I saw it yesterday, but I guess I figured there was no way it would be anyone from around here. But yeah, with your hair down and all.”
I think of my old uniform, how relieved I was to not have to decide what to wear to work and how to style my hair each day.
As an officer, I could be undeviating and practical with a tight ponytail.
Since I left, though, I’ve found joy in changing it up, reinventing myself in minor ways with new clothes and trying different things with my hair.
This morning in Dallas, I threw on high-waisted jeans with a tucked-in white T-shirt, my red leather jacket, and some high-heeled booties.
But now, in this place, I feel self-conscious wearing only a T-shirt and jeans—teen-like, not someone to take seriously.
I wish I’d kept my jacket on despite the heat.
“Come on in,” Ross says. “Mitch can chat with you.” He points to Detective Ewing’s office.
Like a factory-second jack-in-the-box, Ewing pops up from behind his desk as we round the corner.
“Mitchell,” he says. Mock smile. He oozes smug arrogance. “How’ve you been?”
“Good.”
Delivered without an ounce of feeling.
“Heard you’ve hung a shingle. How’s that workin’ for ya?”
“Fine.” I don’t offer more. It’s his way of reminding me that I scurried away under the pressure, that I’m no longer a cop.
I don’t want small talk. We’re here for one purpose: to get this on the books in case this thing turns out to be more than some particularly twisted nightmare.
I take solace in my chunky heels because they make me taller than him.
I resurrect my old station stance. Shoulders back, spine straight.
Ewing points to the two visitor seats, sits down, and rests an elbow on his desk. “Sooo,” he says, drawing it out, his mouth in an O shape.
“The sketch,” Wallace blurts out. “Have you seen it?”
“The sketch? Oh, the sketch. The famous sketch. Yes, yes, I have.” Ewing types on his keyboard, studies his screen.
“Look,” I say. “You know I’d never step foot in here and create a hassle for anyone over something as loony as this.
” I pinch my earlobe. I feel the stud I’m wearing press into my finger.
I don’t want to tell him about the earrings right away.
The earrings would make it too concrete, too real. “It’s just, it’s that—”
“It does look like you.”
“See?” says Wallace for an audience of one. Me.
“But that doesn’t mean it is me.”
“No, you’re absolutely right.” Ewing points his pen at me. “It doesn’t. We’ve already received other calls. Hell, every station in America has the phones ringing off the hook. It was the same the last time. And let’s face it, it looks like Jennifer Garner, too, and God knows who else.”
“Exactly.” Listen to me, agreeing with Ewing.
“Tell him.” Wallace turns to me. “Tell him about the earrings.”
I give Wallace an enough already look.
“Earrings?” says Ewing.
“The earrings in the sketch,” I say. “They’re like a pair I have. They’re made locally by a friend of Wallace’s.” I explain about the feathers. “There are probably about a thousand of them out on the market.”
“Like, local market?”
“Montana local, and in very touristy places with tons of traffic,” I say.
“Well, mostly,” Wallace says. “But I think he’s even sold some of them on and Etsy at one point.”
I glance at Wallace, surprised he didn’t mention that part earlier to me, but I don’t want Ewing to think I’ve walked in here without all the details.
Ewing purses his lips and thinks for a moment. “What’s the jeweler’s name?” he asks.
“Bennetts,” Wallace says. “Kerry Bennetts.”
Ewing writes it down.
“Have you worn those earrings in photos that are public, on Facebook and such?”
“No, that’s the thing. I searched my phone last night in my hotel room in Dallas and I couldn’t find any photos of me wearing them. I don’t think he got them from a photo that’s been posted anywhere, but I don’t remember when I wore them last.”
“You were in Dallas last night?”
“Yes.” God, why did I bring that up? I have no intention of telling him I was at CrimeCon. He and the fellas would love that, me hanging out with a bunch of crime junkies and amateur sleuths. That would be joke fodder for weeks.
“For fun?”
None of your business. “Does it mean anything?” I redirect him.
I wonder if he has details the public doesn’t know.
And I’ve always wondered if he knows the thing.
The big thing, if Billy Railes told anyone about how I played good soldier.
Ewing is the kind of cop who would shake down Railes for the unofficial version of events, so it’s possible Ewing is seeing me in a different light—ironically, a better one. Possible, but I’m not counting on it.
“Just getting the specifics. You know how it works. Or maybe you’ve forgotten?” A dead stare, a pointed accusation.
I ignore it. I tell him I wasn’t wearing the earrings in Dallas.
“Do you have them?”
“Yes. I mean, no, not with me. I haven’t been home yet. I’ll check when I get there.”
“Okay, let me know.” He leans back in his chair and sighs, as if to say, What the hell do you want me to do?
I give a slow blink as if I can wipe it all away. My mom always said this tic ran in the family, that our grandmother on her side used to do it, too. That Jess and I both do it when we want to clean something out of our minds. If that’s true, it’s a heavy dose of annoyance I want to flush.
“Ewing,” I say. “I know you’re not going to order up a protective detail for me. I can take care of myself. We’re just here to give you the information, to get it in a report. If something does happen to me, which I doubt it will, you’ll at least have some info.”
He nods in slow motion, studying me as if he thinks I might be setting a trap. God, this guy. Sitting in his office makes me realize how I’ve come to relish my autonomy as a PI and how much I value not being scrutinized and told what to do, even if I am worried about my ever-increasing debt.
“Okay, great,” he finally says. “Thanks for that.” He tosses his pen onto his desk to signal that we’re done. “I’ll file the report and notify the FBI, although they’re swamped with these. You know that, right, Mitchell?”
“I know.”
I stand. Wallace does not.
“Wait,” says Wallace. “Is that it? I mean, isn’t there some kind of protocol to set up? Shouldn’t you give her some guidance? Direction? Should she confess something like they’re demanding?”
I clench my teeth. I’d squeeze my eyes shut like a child, too, to try to make it all go away if I could, if I knew I wouldn’t look like a complete fool in front of Ewing and Wallace.
“I don’t know.” Ewing stands, too. Gives me a quizzical look. “Should you?”
“No.” I stare back. “Should you?”
An actual childish reply, but I couldn’t help it.
“Not me in that sketch.” His eyes lock on mine.
“What is the FBI advising?” Wallace says.
“Wallace,” I say, making it clear in my tone that I want him to zip it. “I can answer that. Nothing. They’re not advising anything. Right, Ewing?”
Ewing’s eyes stay on mine, half lidded, as if opening them all the way would show me too much respect. Why couldn’t it have been him in the sketch?
“Is there anything they’ve shared with you at all?” And here I am, talking to him again. Forcing a polite tone. “Something I should be aware of? Like, what this guy might look like? What he drives? What part of the country he might live in? Have they located an IP address?”
I need to chill. The station has gotten under my skin. So has Ewing’s cocky stare. He’s savoring the fact that I’m no longer a cop, that I couldn’t hack it, that I won’t have the decency to take this opportunity to confess to the world that I was wrong to report Hartley.
That I overreacted.
“They don’t have much,” is what he says.
“If they do, they haven’t shared anything on the network.
There are no descriptions. At this point, if someone ends up dead, the local department with jurisdiction investigates as usual and shares what they find with the FBI.
And it’s not a two-way street. But if anything comes up, we’ll be in touch.
And if you change your mind, you know, about anything? ”
I say nothing.
Ewing is already sitting back down, but his glare stays on me.
“Thanks,” I bite off and grab Wallace’s arm, past ready to be out of this place.