Page 72 of Love is Angry

I leave before he can think of anything else to say, my chest shaking with horror and fury.

Laura’s theory is looking more probable with every passing second. I’d deliberately pushed the conversation in that direction, deliberately let him think I was going to turn him in for sexual assault—and he did exactly what Laura suspected he would do. He threatened my life.

Denial isn’t possible anymore. I’ve got too many questions—and I need answers.

Chapter 32

Rhue

The local precinct isn’t too busy on the weekends. It isn’t too busy, period. My side of Rochester is the quiet side. The most excitement it saw in the past decade was at the Echeveria mansion—first with Mom, and not long afterwards with Laura. Other than that, I rarely see the red and blue lights flashing anywhere in my neighborhood.

I make my way into the building, brushing past a cluster of beat cops heading out for their daily rounds. The smell of tobacco and coffee makes my nostrils flare as I push through the double doors and find myself standing in the middle of the lobby—a massive square room with floor-to-ceiling windows and old wooden chairs that have seen at least two decades’ worth of asses. Behind the main reception desk, two officers in blue uniforms tap away on their computers.

To my left, I see a few homeless people accompanied by a few social workers. My guess is they’ve just been processed and they’re waiting for the last of their papers and personal belongings before they put the jail behind them. For a while, at least. I know they’ll be back. It’s getting colder at night, and the shelters aren’t always safe, so many of the homeless turn totheft and petty crime so they can at least spend a night or two warm and fed in jail. Some end up in prison for weeks and even months, sometimes years; but it’s better than being out there, in the merciless streets of a society that no longer cares about them.

As I look around, I’m reminded of my mother’s charity work. She put in so many hours tugging the sleeves of Rochester’s richest in a bid to redistribute some of the wealth. Her focus was always on the homeless and on finding ways to get them off the streets permanently and without jail or prison time. “It’s not right,” she used to say. “Most of them are veterans. They fought for this country, and we can’t even bring ourselves to look them in the eyes when we see them in the streets.”

Sadly, I am also reminded of my father’s cynicism. He took great pleasure in pressuring the city council into enacting punitive measures against the homeless, such as replacing park benches with the foldable ones that could be locked for the night, or the large metal spikes erected on flat surfaces where some would otherwise sleep. “Personal responsibility,” he’d tell Mom. “Not everybody has it. They’re in the streets because they’re selfish and irresponsible, the tragic tale of every addict.”

Of course, my father never went to war. He never served. He claims to respect the troops, but that’s about it. His company tore down housing projects and community centers and shelters with zero empathy, solely for the purpose of raising luxury apartments and malls. Space is always business for Julian Echeveria. If you occupy a space he means to make money with, you’re a fucking nuisance. How did my parents even end up together, one might ask? It was carefully orchestrated. Grandpa Echeveria knew the Spauldings were American royalty. He nudged Dad in that direction—but I’d love to know who nudged Mom.

“Can I help you?” An officer behind the desk snaps me back to the present with his question.

I give him a pleasant smile. “Good morning, officer. Yes, you can. I was wondering if I could speak to the detectives who were in charge of my mother’s suicide.”

The officer gives me a long, hard look, as if trying to peer into my very soul. I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel out of place. Like I’m not supposed to be here. Julian would certainly blow a fuse. Odd that I think of him more as ‘Julian’ now, and less and less as ‘dad’.Maybe I’m emotionally distancing myself, now that I know what he did to Madison. Now that I know just how cruel he is.

“What’s your name?”

“Rhue Echeveria. My mother was—”

“Roxanne Spaulding-Echeveria,” the officer sighs. I just ruined his day; it’s written all over his face. “Yeah. That’ll be Detectives Contreras and Williamson. Williamson retired, but Contreras is in today.”

“Could you check with him and see if he can give me ten minutes of his time?”

This time, the officer’s look morphs into something akin to pity. Everyone knew Mom. My family helped finance several policemen’s balls over the years. “Sure. Hold on.” He dials an internal number and waits for someone to pick up. He doesn’t keep his eyes on me as he speaks, and he keeps his voice low. “Hey… Yeah, hold on to your pants, Conte. I’ve got Rhue Echeveria downstairs. Yeah… Wants to talk to you about his mother… Yeah, I thought so, too. Okay. Yeah, I’ll let him know.”

He hangs up the phone with a heavy sigh, then gives me a polite smile that doesn’t so much as approach his eyes.

“Detective Contreras can’t see you today, I’m afraid. He doesn’t have the time, but he asked me to take down your number. He’ll give you a call at his earliest convenience.”

I shake my head and smile. “That’s fine. I’ll just come back tomorrow.”

“He’s not working tomorrow.”

“Day after tomorrow,” I reply. “I’ll come back Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and every day that follows afterwards until he finds a minute to see me.”

The officer understands where I’m going with this. I must look like I’m dead serious, too. He groans and rubs a hand over his face. “You’re giving me a headache here, kid.”

“I’m not asking for a goddamned tour, officer. I’m asking, as a concerned citizen and legal adult, to speak to the person or people who investigated my mother’s death. If, by chance, I happen to know something which would change the official outcome, wouldn’t your department want to know the truth?” I don’t know shit, but I’ve got to get in there somehow.

“Your last name isn’t exactly synonymous with anything like truth.”

I shrug. “Last name, schmast name. I’m a concerned citizen. I’m also very persistent.”

“Fuck. Okay. You know what? I don’t need this today. I really don’t.” He scoffs and runs a hand through his wavy brown hair which is cut short on the sides. “Detective Contreras’s office is upstairs, second floor. Major Crimes Unit. You can take the stairs in about twenty seconds, when I take a bathroom break. But I don’t ever wanna see you around here again afterwards unless it’s in an official capacity, you hear me?” His voice has dropped to a whisper as he narrows his eyes at me.

“I hear you, sir. And thank you.”

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