Page 73 of Love is Angry

I offer a smile, but he dismisses me with a wave of his hand. I take a few steps back and spot the door leading to the staircase about twenty feet to my left. No one will see me if I’m fast and silent. I wait for the officer to get up and head to thetoilet, leaving his colleague in charge. Said colleague hasn’t paid attention to our conversation, and I doubt he even remembers me coming in, so I slip past the door and fly up the stairs to the second floor.

The Major Crimes Unit occupies half of it, I realize, sprawling to the right. To the left, it’s the Vice unit. Judging by the overall silence, but for the occasional phone ringing or fax machine screeching, it’s as quiet as I thought it would be. Rochester’s eight police stations aren’t exactly overwhelmed, though I expect school breaks will be a little bit messy. It’s one of the few times in the year when people lose control and do stupid things. It’s like a cycle of debauchery, reaching its inglorious zenith over spring break.

Straightening my back, I put on my most serious face, take a deep breath, then go into the Major Crimes unit. Police officers, detectives, and clerks alike raise their heads to look at me. I must be more interesting than their case files and news feeds. I keep my cool and walk like I belong here. I spot Contreras’s name on the door of a glass-walled office and go right in before anybody can stop me.

“Hey, you can’t go in there—” someone says, but the door is already closed, and I lock it for good measure. Detective Contreras, sitting behind his desk in front of an open box of powdered donuts, gives me a foul look.

“What the fuck?!” he snaps. It’s hard to take him seriously with that slim white sugar mustache lining his upper lip.

One of the officers is already at the door, knocking and demanding that I open up, but I ignore him and focus on Contreras.

“Detective Contreras, I’m Rhue Echeveria. I understand you’ve got quite a case load,” I say, pointing at his desk, empty save for the donuts, the latte mug, the computer screen and a couple of folders on the right corner. “But we really need to talk.”

The detective stills, his outrage simmering down to displeasure and discomfort. “Damn. I thought I told Sam to—”

“You did, sir, and he conveyed your message clearly,” I reply.

Contreras sighs deeply and motions at the growing pack of officers outside to leave us alone. Well, at least I made it this far.

“What do you want?” he asks me, brow furrowed as he puts a half-eaten donut back into the box. “I’m not doing the policeman stereotype a favor right now, I know.”

“They look amazing,” I reply with a flat smile.

“Help yourself,” Contreras says, wiping his fingers with a paper tissue as he leans back into his chair. “I just lost my appetite.”

“Listen, I’m sorry.” I sit in the chair in front of his desk but don’t indulge in any of the donuts. They do look good, but my own appetite is pretty much nonexistent these days. “I would’ve liked to resolve this another way, but you and Detective Williamson are my only leads. And I understand Detective Williamson retired.”

“Yes, he did, that lucky bastard,” Contreras replies. He’s in his mid-forties, judging by his expansive forehead and salt-and-pepper hair. Retirement is still a distant dream for him. “Kid, I’m sorry about you losing your mother, I really am. I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. You know it was ruled a suicide, so I’m not sure how you expect me to help you.”

“It wasruleda suicide—interesting word choice.” My heart is sinking fast. I really didn’t think I’d get confirmation here.

He frowns at me. “Don’t know what you mean,” he says.

“Well, if you thought she killed herself, you’d say so. ‘You know she committed suicide.’ But no—you don’t tell me what she did, even though you should know the facts better than anyone. You tell me how it went down in the books.”

Contreras shifts uncomfortably and scowls at me. “Don’t get smart with me, kid.”

Too late. I’ve picked up the scent and I’m not about to let it go. “Detective let’s not beat around the bush, here. I wouldn’t be sitting here if I thought my mother killed herself. We both know that’s not what really happened.”

“You’d better stop talking before you say something you might regret,” the officer warns me in a low hiss. There it is. The fear in his eyes. I know that shade of yellow. My father has inflicted it upon so many people.

“Detective, I’m not here to beg you for the truth,” I say, feeling sick to my damn stomach. My head’s trying to make excuses. Saying this is how he usually is. That maybe he’s just intimidated because I’m my father’s son. “I only want to have a look at the case file. That’s all.”

He scoffs, only partly amused. “You’re either bored out of your mind or dumb as a rock. They say you’re smart enough to break your mother’s heart with athletic scholarships, though, so I’ll assume you’re in dire need of a hobby.”

“Detective, I’m in dire need of the truth regarding my mother’s death.”

“She killed herself,” Contreras says bluntly. “That was the ME’s conclusion. Written and certified, black and white. It’s right there in the official record. There’s nothing else I can offer at this point. The case was closed last year.”

I decide to throw a fox inside the chicken coop and see what happens. “Right. But did the ME come to that conclusion before or after someone paid him a visit?”

Contreras pauses for a long moment. All of the humor drains out of his face. “Like I said, son. You really want to think twice before you open your mouth.”

The air thickens. The room is suddenly small and overcrowded, even though it’s just the two of us. Contreras does have a way of putting his whole weight into a conversation. I can easily see him pulling confessions out of suspects. This is aman who gets what he wants. Right now, despite his less than desirable first impression, he aims to intimidate me.

“You forget who my father is if you think you’re gonna scare me into giving up,” I tell him.

Contreras leans forward, elbows resting on his desk. “You forget who your father is if you aren’t scared. What do you think he’d do to you if he found you poking your nose in this business right before his election? What do you think the media would do if they had a clue what you were up to? I hear you, kid—I got issues with my old man, myself. But I’m not going to help you sabotage his election. I like my job.”

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