Chapter Twenty
Rain showers pour that can flood the mind . . .
I didn't need any more help to produce any tears. Obviously, Bishop won Round One of our battle. Dude was sly as a fox with his tricks. I guess I shouldn't have suspected anything different. My eyes stung as salty tears began to well up in my eyes. I forced myself not to blink. Despite Dymond's advice, I didn't want Bishop to see me cry. He was a predator, and if he saw me wounded, he would go for the kill. I could feel it.
“So,” Bishop tapped on my journal, “Do you know what this is?”
My eyes shifted away from my journal. “You tell me,” I said.
“Hmmm. We can do this dance all night long, Crystal, it doesn't matter to me. But I want to help you out. Keep in mind that you have to help me.”
I huffed and said, “Fine. You want to know about me and Ray. He's my boyfriend, okay? I lived with him, isn't that what you want to know? I love him and I can't wait to see him again.” My tone was frantic and I inhaled deeply to calm myself.
Bishop nodded, a satisfied expression covering his face. “Okay. You were Ray's girlfriend.”
“I
am
his girlfriend.”
“And how long have you been together?”
“Over three years.”
“And how are things going between you?” Bishop asked.
The first tear escaped from my right eye. The salty wetness tickled my cheek as it traveled down my face. My mind was racing as I tried to get a grip. I decided to bluff as much as I could. I looked down at my journal and said, “You should know.”
“Fill me in.”
“I'm still his . . . okay.” More tears were flowing and I wiped my face with my hand.
“Need some tissues?” Bishop asked. He actually sounded sympathetic.
“What I need is to get out of here,” I replied.
“I understand,” Bishop said. He motioned to tall female guard. She nodded and headed for the door. It squeaked when she opened it. She looked back one more time before exiting the interrogation room.
“Do you need a break?”
I shook my head and said, “Just get on with it.”
He reached across the table and tapped his hand next to mine. “If you're sure.”
I nodded again.
“So, how would you describe your relationship?” he asked.
“I think it's like most, ups and downs.”
Bishop asked me a couple more questions, trying to ease me in. I kept my answers short and sweet. The tall guard came back into the room with a box of Kleenex. She placed them on the table beside me. I thanked her before pulling out a couple sheets of tissue and wiping my face.
“I want you to feel comfortable,” Bishop said.
I twisted my lips and then frowned.
“As comfortable as you can be, given the situation,” he said. “You're being quite helpful, and I appreciate that.”
He smiled and I looked away. Just as I had changed my tactics, he had changed too. His tone was mellower. His body language more relaxed. He was in the “I want to be your friend mode.” I wasn't buying it for a minute. See, from the questions he asked, Bishop must have realized he was being helpful too. My mind had cleared up and I knew they didn't have anything on me. My journal was littered with thoughts about me and Ray, and about our troubles, but I was now confident that there was nothing else.
See, me and Ray were going through a bad spot those past couple of weeks and it was most evident in my journal. Maybe they thought we were breaking up and that with enough prodding, I'd be ready to rat him out. What Bishop didn't know is that I wasn't opening up, I was shutting down. He wasn't getting anything from me.
Bishop tried hitting me with heavier questions. “So, are you saying you don't know anything about Ray's involvement with dealing drugs?”
“No.” I replied.
Bishop acted surprised. “You've been with him for over three years and you expect us to believe you were clueless?”
“I guess so.”
Bishop stared down at the small pad he had pulled out of his pocket. He had been writing on it every now and then since he had started questioning me.
“You told me that you haven't worked the entire time you've been living with Ray, is that correct?”
“Yeah.”
“So, he's been taking care of you?”
“Yeah.”
“You know you lived in a house worth two hundred thousand dollars, right?”
I looked straight at Bishop and replied, “No, I didn't.”
“There was a lot of nice stuff in there. Top of the line leather furniture. Three large screen plasma televisions. Hell, even I can't afford that bedroom suite you had. And your clothes, shoes, and jewelry . . . when I heard about your collection, I thought maybe you had hijacked every major department store in the city.”
He didn't ask a question, so I didn't respond.
“So, tell me how you thought he was able to provide you with so much, Crystal.”
“He cut hair.”
Bishop shook his head in disbelief. “He just cut hair, huh? You think I'm a fool?”
“No, I don't think you're a fool, but I can't understand why you don't think someone can make good money cutting hair. According to what you're telling me, your barber should be dealing too, right?”
I heard another sound from the female guards. By now, I was sure they were enjoying the wordplay between me and Bishop.
“And let me guess, you just thought the Phantom Cruz was just a bunch of guys that rode motorcycles together, right?”
Now he was getting touchy. My face got hot again and I blinked rapidly. This time, it was time to bring on the tears.
“But what does the Cruz have to do with me?” I asked, my voice cracking.
“Do you know what an accessory is, Crystal? In the courts, you might as well have been on the streets with Ray and his drugs.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.” I spat out as the tears began to flow.
“I think you do know, Crystal. I hate to bring this up, but you're going to have a hard time trying to make the court believe that you were clueless when it's well known that your father was a founding member of the Phantom Cruz.”
The look I mustered up through my tears was cold. But I wasn't as affected by his statement as I wanted him to think I was. I knew before too long, he would try to the connect between my father and the Cruz. And it was time for me to play my trump card. I burst into tears, covering my face with my hands before lowering my head to the table. Just thinking about my dad helped the tears flow. I heard Bishop's chair move back.
“I'll give you a few minutes,” he said calmly. I heard him rise from the chair. But I couldn't let him go. I didn't want “a few minutes.”
“Noooo!” I cried out. “You want to question me, you want to bring my dad into this when you know I don't have nothing to do with the Cruz?” I kept sobbing as I yelled out. “How dare you!” I said frantically.
Bishop sat back down. His smile was gone. I pointed my index finger at him. “You took my dad away from me. He left the Cruz. He was trying to do the right thing. And you . . . you . . .” I choked up as I tried to complete my sentence. “You shot him in the back for no reason!” I buried my face in my hands again and continued sobbing.
“I didn't mean to upset you,” Bishop said, his tone low. I looked up at him. I could tell in his eyes that he knew he had miscalculated. Even the guards were shaking their heads and looked sad. Ray was fair game, he was at the county after all, and facing charges. But bringing my dad into the mix . . . that was the wrong move. I don't know what Bishop was thinking, but my dad's murder was still a hard subject for the CPD to deal with, even after all these years. I don't know how Bishop thought I would respond when he crossed the line, but now, I had to play it for all it was worth.
“Yes, you did.” I spat out. “Look at me!” I screamed, crying uncontrollably. “You took away my father and made my hair turn gray. I'm twenty-one years old with a hair full of white hair and a broken family! You know I haven't done anything wrong. You know it!”
“I . . . uh.” Bishop stumbled over his words. He then rose from his chair again. “I'm going to give you a break.” He plucked some tissues out of the box and held them in front of me. I stared at them but didn't take them. He laid them down beside me.
“I'll be back,” he said, his head turned toward the guards.
I cried for a couple more minutes. I knew someone was still watching me on the other side of that panel. And the guards were still there. After my tears started drying, I heaved, taking in huge breaths and exhaling loudly. The heavy-set guard approached me.
“You okay?” She asked, her tone soft as she tried to comfort me. She placed her hand on my back and rubbed it. I heaved again. “You need any water, honey?”
I nodded mid-heave, clasping my neck for emphasis. The guard rushed toward the door and left. I put my head down on the table and continued to breathe in and out heavily. I heard the tall guard walking up to the table. She sat down. I felt a hand on my shoulder. “You're going to be okay,” she said. Her voice had the same tone as her partner's.
I didn't say anything. I kept my head down. The guard rubbed my back for a moment before stopping. Maybe she had forgotten where we were and who she was. I don't think she was supposed to be trying to give me comfort. When I heard the door open again, I lifted my head slightly. I caught a whiff of Unforgivable. Bishop had returned.
“Sheila went to get some water,” The guard said, as she got up from the seat.
So they do have names
, I thought.
“I know,” Bishop replied dryly. “I beat her to it.” He stopped beside me and placed a bottle of water on the table. “Here you go, Crystal.”
I didn't reply, but nodded and grabbed the bottle of water. I twisted off the cap and took a large gulp. The coolness of the liquid was refreshing. Bishop sat back down and reached for the journal. I almost tried to stop him, but I knew that wouldn't be wise. Instead, I followed him with my eyes as he gripped the spine of the journal and put it under the desk.
“Against my better judgment, I'm going to let you go.”
I grabbed the bottle and took a swig so Bishop wouldn't see me smile. Once I got my lip muscles in check, I lowered the bottle back to the table.
“However, don't think I won't call you back in for questioning if I need to do so.”
I nodded.
“You're going to be okay, aren't you?”
I nodded again.
“Good,” Bishop said, hitting the top of the table with a flat hand before rising from his seat yet again.
“Zach and I will deposit you at your current address.”
I looked up at him with my eyebrows raised. Bishop saw the question in my eyes.
“That's the condition of you leaving here, Crystal. We need to know where you're staying.”
I wanted to protest. I didn't want to put Dymond in a bad situation in case Bishop or any other detective wanted to dig dirt and later try to arrest me. At the same time, I knew Bishop was aware I wasn't staying at Ray's house. I didn't have any choice but to give up the goods on where I was staying.
“I'm in the Meadows,” I said. My voice was hoarse, so I drank some more water before I gave him Dymond's address. I hoped she wouldn't be too pissed off when I told her that the cops had her address . . . again.
“Ahhh, the Meadows. Okay. Well, let's go.”
I rose from my seat slowly, glancing over at the tall guard. She gave me a supportive nod and smiled. I didn't smile, but I did nod back. Less than ten minutes later, I was in the back seat of the Lincoln, headed back toward the Meadows. With any luck, I wouldn't see Bishop or his silent partner again.
Chapter Twenty-one
And carry your thoughts away . . .
Thankfully, Dymond wasn't pissed that I had to tell the cops I lived with her. We both decided that they didn't have anything on me. Unfortunately, I didn't get my journal back. Bishop told me it was evidence. As it was, there was only about three weeks worth of writing in there anyway.
Getting picked up did have its benefits. I could go home again. I waited three days after my questioning to go to my house. I hopped on Foxy Baby and rode slowly to my destination. The air was as nervous as I was, shifting between hot and cool as I road down the street. My heart started pounding when I noticed the Concord Lane street sign. That was the road leading to my home.
I parked in the driveway. There was yellow police tape still covering the front door. I reached inside my pocket and pulled out the key that I had found in the few things I had been able to remove from the house. I thought I had left it there along with the garage opener. I walked to the front door and pulled the tape down. I looked around to see if anyone was looking at me. Since Ray lived in a upper-class working neighborhood, most of our neighbors were at work, but for some reason, I didn't want anyone to see me. The lock was stiff, and I had to use extra force to turn the knob. I practically fell into the house once I got the door open. I suppressed a scream when I saw the inside of the house.
During their search, the cops had torn up and thrown around everything we owned. The leather couches in the living room and den had been sliced open and the padding had been taken out and left on the floor. Several walls had holes in them. The glass coffee and end tables had been turned over, and the glass had cracked. Every dish we owned was on the kitchen counters or on the floor. Every cabinet door was open.
I hesitated before entering our bedroom. I could already tell that it was a mess, but nothing prepared me for the reality of what had once been my favorite room. The sheets and duvet had been removed from our bed, shredded, and thrown on the floor. The mattresses hadn't fared any better. The nightstands had also been tipped over. Our clothes had been thrown all over the floor, as well as our shoes. In fact, I couldn't even see the carpet. That's how messy it was.
I didn't realize I had been crying until I entered the master bath. I turned on the light, and the mirror reflected my distressed appearance. The bathroom looked as bad as the rest of the house. As I stared at my reflection, my wet face, my red-rimmed eyes, and my trembling lips, I knew I had made a mistake. Dymond had been right. I should have never gone back. As I stepped over our belongings and headed for the door, a sense of anger washed over me. How could the cops destroy everything we owned? How fair was that? I couldn't possibly see what they found there. As I closed the door and locked the deadbolt, I knew I could never go back.
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Twenty minutes later, I found myself parking in the Jam-Book-Ree!'s lot. It was mid-day, and a Monday. The hair salon was closed and there weren't a lot of cars parked in the lot. I was grateful for the cool breeze that hit my face when I opened the door leading inside the bookstore. Mrs. Brock was standing in the same position she had been in the last time I visited the store. She smiled at me and said, “Crystal, how are you? I didn't think I'd see you in here so soon.” As I neared the check-out counter, her smile disappeared and she looked concerned. I knew I wasn't looking my best.
“How are you, Mrs. Brock,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “I'm just here to pick up another journal.”
Her eyes scanned my face. “Okay,” she said, nodding. “You filled the other one up?”
I shook my head. “No. Actually, I lost it.”
“Hmmm.” Mrs. Brock's eyes shifted toward the back of the store where the journals were located. “Well, help yourself and let me know if you need anything.”
“Will do, Mrs. Brock, thanks.” I moved away from the counter and sighed with relief. At least Mrs. Brock was polite enough not to get in my business.
The selection of journals was pretty much the same. My eyes lingered on the red and gold-lined journal I had before. I didn't choose that one again, though. I wanted something new. I scanned the shelves until one journal caught my eye. It was a simple black journal with a medium-sized monarch butterfly on the front cover. I took it off the shelf and smiled, remembering when Ray had told me that I reminded him of a butterfly. Satisfied with my selection, I headed for the front of the store, grabbing another large pen along the way.
“Great choice,” Mrs. Brock said as she rang up my purchase.
“Thanks. I'm going to hold on to this one,” I joked.
Mrs. Brock chuckled. “And if you don't, remember to come back for another.”
“I will.” I handed her a twenty dollar bill.
Mrs. Brock opened the cash register and counted out my change. When she handed it back to me, she said, “You know, I'm still looking for help.” She winked at me.
I looked around the store. It was still empty and I wasn't trying to grab a clue. “I'll make sure to keep that in mind. Thanks a bunch.”
Mrs. Brock looked disappointed. “You're welcome. Please come by again.”
“Oh, I'm not leaving yet.” I said, not ready to endure the summer heat again. “I'm going to relax in one of those huge chairs over there and write a bit.” I pointed to the direction of a grouping of chairs.
“Don't let me stop you, honey.”
I sank down in the chair, which was almost as big as a love seat. I took my journal and pen out of the bag. I opened the journal, glanced at the blank lined pages, and prepared to write.
I feel violated. I wrote about “getting fucked” before. Now the cops have fucked me. First, they pull my ass in for questioning, then they go and destroy our home
.
I don't know what I'm going to do. I wish me and Mom were on better terms. She knows me so well. If I knew where she was, I would be on the phone with her right now. I don't even care if she cursed me out. Even though I'm staying with Dymond, I feel so alone. I miss Ray. I want to see him again. I want him to . . .
“Crystal Sells, is that you?” a female voice asked.
It took a moment for the voice to register. I looked up from my journal and my eyes widened. It was Mrs. Philips, my old English teacher from high school. She still looked the same.
“That is you,” she said. “Get up off that chair and give me a hug.”
I stood up slowly, letting her embrace me. “Hey,” was all I could manage.
She patted me on my back and then released me. “So, how are you getting along?” she asked, her tone sounding like she knew.
“I've definitely had better days,” I admitted. I was sure she had seen Ray's name in the
Dispatch
along with the others charged in the roundup.
Mrs. Phillips looked at the large window dominated the front of the bookstore. “I should have known that bike was yours,” she said. “I'm riding today too.”
“For real?” I asked. “What's your ride?”
“I ride a Yama, Crystal.” Yama was short for Yamaha. I knew her ride was probably nice.
“I'll have to check it out,” I said.
“Definitely. Your Ninja looks nice. Is that the same one you had before?”
I nodded.
She sat down in the chair next to mind. Her facial expression was serious. “Crystal, you are doing okay, aren't you?”
Her tone almost made me break down, but I couldn't start sobbing in the store. Instead I said, “Like I said, Mrs. Phillips, I've seen better days.”
She patted my shoulder. “Anything you want to talk about?”
“Not really.”
“Well, you have that nice pen there, so why don't you jot down my telephone number . . . in case you want to talk.”
I grabbed my receipt and wrote Mrs. Phillips' name and number down. “Thanks.”
“And you'll call me if you need me, right?”
“Sure thing.”
She rose from the chair. “I see you're busy, so I'll leave you alone, but just remember Crystal, you are not alone. Never will be. Okay?”
I looked down at my journal. It was closed and there was no way she could have seen what I had written. Maybe my loneliness was written all over my face.
“Okay. Thanks again.”
“You're welcome.” Mrs. Phillips said before walking down one of the aisles.
My concentration was broken and I didn't feel like writing anything else at the moment. Instead, I sat back and closed my eyes, letting images of a better life fill my mind.