Page 64 of Deja Who
THIRTY-FIVE
Archer was more than a little nervous about walking into the CPD to pick up Leah. Or bail her out. Or maybe only visit her. It brought back memories of his childhood. Of course, his bad memories were the equivalent of skinned knees and neighborhood bullies compared to hers of shattered trust and exploitation and tampon commercials.
Shattered trust and exploitation? You’re losing it, pal.
Well, sure. That seemed about right, after the week they’d had. His inner voice always correctly deduced when he was losing it, or when he was cock-blocking himself, but the rest of the time it was unhelpfully silent.
Speaking of unhelpful: the CPD website. Nothing there about how to bail someone out; nothing about which building to go to or department to call. But if he wanted to take the Police Entry Level Exam, he was all set. And if he wanted togo to a CAPS meeting (whatever that was; the website never really explained), he was good to go. Also, if he wanted to apply for a building permit, he knew exactly how to go about it. The mayor of Boston had been much more helpful.
So here he was, after another Cat consultation, parking his car in the ramp across the street, plunging through the front doors, and nervously following signs directing him to what was euphemistically called the detainee station (which made it sound like they were all waiting together for a bus or something and no laws of any kind had been broken).
Along the way he read posters helpfully explaining that the Chicago Police Department was the second largest (after the NYPD) local law enforcement agency in the country, and also one of the oldest. And also, Sergeant Thomas is starting up another softball league so you should definitely call his cell if you’re interested. And it’s Patrolman Roger’s birthday today and there’s cake in the briefing room.
You’d think they’d make a sign that would handle helping citizens bail out other citizens.
He realized he had no actual problem with the Chicago Police; his nerves were getting the better of him. Oh, and also the consistently bad memories of his childhood. And then there was the niggling fear that Leah had pissed off one or two or all of her cellmates and been beaten to death, not unlike her mother.
Leah was charming and likeable, but you kinda had to work for it. It was there. Um, under all the layers of blank hostility.
Oh please please don’t let her be dead or battered. Oh, man, they probably took her bra knives. She’d be helpless without her bra knives!
No checks, the posters told him. No money orders. Bank or cashier’s checks only, presented during normal banking hours.Because apparently there was nothing more annoying than being presented with a cashier’s check for low five figures at 2:00 a.m. You could pay cash, by which they meant credit card (not cash) or debit card (also not cash, but no one had told the CPD). He had his debit card, and a balance of $614.23. And Cat, who would wire five figures if he called and asked.
(“Of course a homeless rich ex-mayor of Boston has a cell phone,” she’d said irritably when he’d expressed surprise. “Third graders have them. What exactly is your day job again?”)
It would take up to about two hours to complete... whatever it was that needed completing. He still wasn’t sure if Leah was under arrest for murder or if Detective Preston had been browbeaten by a suit into dropping the charges. He figured, if nothing else, he could at least find that much out.
Ah! Here was the large desk, behind which sat a sergeant of some kind. Behind him, he could see rows of desks, and hear ringing phones, and see people going back and forth, some in uniform and some not, and here and there people were in handcuffs, but most of them weren’t, so that was encouraging. It didn’t look scary. Just busy, like any office on a weekday.
There wasn’t a line, so he could go right up to the desk sergeant, whom TV had led him to believe would be a harried, heavyset, sassy African-American woman who was busy but also cared deep down inside. The reality was a heavyset white guy who looked like an accountant who had just heard the IRS had no interest in any of his clients.
“Well, hi there!” Bright hazel eyes blinked up at him; the man’s light brown hair was neatly combed. His uniform was crisp and clean; his badge gleamed. The man radiated good fellowship; Archer was dazzled in spite of himself. “Help you?”
“I hope so. I’m here to see Leah Nazir. Or try to bail her out. Or look at her through plate glass while we press our hands together like they do in prison on TV.” Given his family history, it was absurd how all his prison knowledge came fromSons of Anarchyreruns. Ooh, that Gemma! What a wonderful bitch.
The cop who looked like a cheerful accountant blinked faster. “Leah Nazir?”
“Yes.”
“Ah.”
“Yes.”
He held up a finger. “Just a moment.” Then he left his desk, something they weren’t allowed to do on TV but was apparently okay in real life.
Archer waited by the abandoned desk and fretted. What did “ah” mean, coming from a cop?
“Ah, that Leah Nazir. Yep, she’s dead.”
“Ah, Leah? Nazir? I think she escaped, sowing death and destruction on her way out... I’ll go check.”
“Ah. Hmm. You’re a friend? Of Leah Nazir? Yeah, you’re under arrest. Come along quietly or we’ll all shoot you.”
What if she was fated to meet her killer in a holding pen? What if the whole path of this life was to put her in lockup at just the wrong time with just the wrong person? What if she’s bleeding out? What if she’s dead? All our stupid little meetings, trying to figure out who her murderer is this time around, playing at detective, and she could be dead right now. And in a way, that would be Nellie’s fault this life, too.
He rubbed the heels of his palms over his eyes and shook his head. This was useless and worse than useless. The desk sergeant would know where she was. Leah was alive, somewhere in the building. Right? Right.
Come on, buddy. How long does it take to get an update? Hurry up or my paranoia will have its way with me again. Where IS he?
