Chasing Shadows (17 page)

"Who was he?"

I blink back the irritating optical lubricant
and clear my throat. "Nobody."

"Someone at work? A supervisor?"

"No, Geeze, no one I work with."

"A boyfriend?"

"No."

"Someone who knew Luis?"

Ah... I see where she's going with this. "No."
I sigh. "Actually I have no idea, but I'd highly doubt
it."

"I need to know, Miss Jones, to rule him
out."

I shudder. "A professor at Loyola." I say it
grudgingly, knowing the questions that come next.

"You go to Loyola?"

"No Ma'am."

"What were you doing there, Miss
Jones?"

"Why?"

She stares at me grimly.

"I went there because I had found out Madeline
went there, and since she said she knew me, I wanted to see if I
could find out anything else. This professor came up and acted like
he knew me, so I followed along and went to talk to him in his
office. When we got there he sort of jumped me. I guess he either
knew me before, and we had a thing that I don't remember, or he
thought I was someone else he had a thing with. That's why I wasn't
planning to make a big deal out of it."

"Did he call you a name?"

I don't know why but I don't want to tell her.
I shake my head. "He said it had been so long, that's all." Does
she believe me?

She gives me a look that says she knows I'm
full of shit. "Did Luis know you?"

"I don't know." I shrug. "I never got to talk
to him."

Officer Burns stares at me... and stares... and
continues to stare. At long last she says, "Tell me the name they
called you."

I blink. "They didn't." Hell, I don't even
believe me. Its one of the shittiest lies I've ever told and I know
it, but she has no proof and I refuse to be broken by a
stare.

"Who was the professor?"

"He didn't say."

The officer gets up and walks to the door
without looking at me. Once there she turns. "When you're ready to
give me a name, wave at the camera."

I sigh. This is obviously not the best time to
ask for a drink, or a smoke... or a phone call. But on the plus
side, I have learned from
Law and Order
that
they can only hold me so long without charging me right? All I
really have to do is wait them out. Oh and I have to
pee.

***

After what feels like an eternity, could've
just been twenty minutes, I wave at the camera. Another little
eternity later, Officer Burns returns to the room.

"Have something to tell me?"

"Yes." I reply. "I have to pee, I'm thirsty, I
want a cigarette and I want my phone call." Officer Burns lets out
a big sigh, turns around, and leaves me without saying another
word. Just as the door is closing I shout, "I'll just pee in the
corner, if that's how you want it." She leans back in the door,
gives me a look, keeps her silence and departs for real this time.
I groan... shit. Now I realize that I don't know Schuyler's number
anyway, so a lot of good a phone call would do. Who would I call?
Not Ashley, the only number I have memorized. There is no one
else.

Well hell, I'd settle for a toilet. I am now
forty six in bladder years. I don't know how long they can make me
wait. Who am I kidding? This is Chicago: they can do what they
want. I'm pretty sure if I pee on the floor they can charge me with
something, but that doesn't mater because I'm absolutely sure I'm
going to piss myself. I stand up and move to the corner under the
camera. I unzip my jeans. I'm about to drop trou and squat when the
door opens and in walks Grouchy Pants.

He eyes me speculatively. "You need a
restroom?"

"Yes please." I zip my jeans back
up.

"This way." Grouchy Pants leads me out into the
gray hallway. We amble past a mess of desks, and down another hall
before he points me to a door. With a certain amount of forced
trust I open the door. Trust is rewarded sometimes. It is indeed a
bathroom. I'm tempted to cross myself, or make some other religious
gesture to show my gratitude to the universe, but there's no time.
I bee line to the nearest stall. There aren't any doors on the
stalls and I don't care. A whole crowd of my very coolest peers
could be watching, and that wouldn't stop me from enjoying this
piss. I think I groan a little with the relief. I seem to piss and
piss forever, how vindicating. I'm so glad I didn't have to unload
this on the floor.

I finish up, wash my hands and check the
mirror. Honestly, I don't look too bad. My racing stripe hair is
clean and shiny. My clothes are okay, the jacket lends a lot of
character that I might not otherwise posses. I think I've lost a
little weight, my size tens are looking loose. My skin is in a
dormant phase, very few zits, must be ovulating... that's a scary
thought. Oh by the way, I know about the ovulating thing from a
special I watched on
NatGEO
, not because I'm
trying to get knocked up. I sigh in a contented way. This isn't too
bad really, interrogation. At least this is America, not Islamabad
or something. There's only so much they can do to me. I wipe my wet
hands on my jeans and exit the bathroom.

Grumble pants is waiting. "What was your name
again, Officer?" I ask as nicely as I know how, which isn't saying
that much.

"Officer Clark." He answers
humorlessly.

I nod. "Am I being charged with anything,
Officer Clark?"

Grumble Pants Clark looks at me. "We're working
on it, Miss Jones."

Well, that sounds promising. I wonder how I'll
like jail. I give Officer Clark the once over. Mid forties I'd
guess, thinning colorless hair but pleasant features. He's probably
not a catastrophe in plain clothes. The Officer gestures for me to
precede him back the way we came. I shrug and comply without
comment. If they can't think of a reason to hold me, I know they
have to let me go. As we ease back by all the desks I hazard a look
towards the front of the building. I am rewarded by the sight of
daylight streaming in through the windows.

"Jesus, how long have I been here?" I'm not
expecting an answer and I don't get one. "Can I get a drink Officer
Clark?" I glance back at him.

"Sure thing." He says, in a way that makes me
think he has no intention of letting me have a drink. We arrive at
the plain wooden door and Grumble Pants Clark opens it for me. I
pad in, my sock feet lending me silence, and resume my seat. The
Officer leaves and I am afforded the opportunity for more quiet
introspection. If the chair were more comfortable this would feel
like home. Good thing there's no windows in here. I'd hate to know
how bright it’s getting outside. That might make me
cranky.

***

It’s been another interminable amount of time.
The door opens again. A police man I've never seen before enters.
He has thick brown hair. He looks young and well rested, must be a
day shifter.

"You're free to go Miss Jones."

I stand up and stretch. "Can I get my
stuff?"

He looks dumbfounded. "Stuff?"

"Yes Sir. I had a gray and black shoulder bag
with my phone, cigarettes, lighter, computer, wallet... my stuff.
And I had boots too." I'm struggling to keep my voice
reasonable.

"I'll check on it." He says. He sounds genuine.
I don't trust him, but I follow him anyway. He leads me out past
the desks, which are teaming with activity at this hour, and to a
meager looking lobby on the front of the building. Now he
disappears to 'check on my stuff'. I suck down my weight in
metallic tasting water at the conveniently located fountain and
settle in to wait. I wonder how long I should give it before I
hassle someone else for my things. To my surprise, less than
fifteen minutes later the very same dayshift police person returns
and he's carrying my bag. When he gives it to me I check through
it. Everything seems accounted for, wow.

"Thanks." I say. "Any word on my
boots?"

The police man looks regretfully at my sock
feet. "I'm sorry, Miss Jones. Those are evidence. You stepped in
blood."

I sigh. What can I say? I could ask when I'll
get them back, but I'd only be prompting the poor nice man to lie.
"Bye then." I announce, and I turn in my sock feet to walk out the
front doors.

Once outside, the cold seeps into my sock feet
with great enthusiasm. I stop to light a Camel, before digging out
my phone. I forgot I'd turned it off. I power it on and it takes
its sweet time getting ready to function. I suck on my cigarette
and hop from one sock foot to the other while I wait for it. My
breath is fogging. It sure cooled down since yesterday. Finally the
phone is on, and now I have to wait while it vibrates about a dozen
times registering all the missed calls, voicemails, and text
messages. I groan. I should check the messages, but I don't. I just
open the recent calls and dial Schuyler.

He picks up before I even hear it ring.
"Meegan!" He shouts. "Are you okay? I thought you were dead. Answer
your fucking phone."

I hold the phone away from my face for a second
to make sure he's done yelling. Are we that close now that it's
okay to yell at me? "Sorry dude my phone was off. Listen, are you
busy right now?”

There's a long pause. "It's 10AM why are you
even awake?" He sounds so much nicer now.

I sigh. "I just got released from jail. I
didn't get charged with anything, but I've been here all night and
they took my boots for evidence, so I'm standing out here in sock
feet and I'm sorry I didn't call you back, really, really sorry,
but do you think you could come get me? It's the one on South
Racine."

"Sure." he says.

Really? Just like that? Where's my guilt trip?
Ashley would have given me hell over this.

"Thanks." I say but he's already hung up. Huh.
Maybe I don't get a guilt trip. Maybe I get the silent treatment
instead. I wonder which is more effective. Probably guilt, since
with silence I could easily forget that he's even mad. Its cold and
I'm feeling conspicuous in front of the police station, so I decide
to check my messages, make me look legitimate. I have six texts and
three voice mails. The texts in order are:

One: Answer your phone. From
Schuyler.

Two: Where the hell are you? From
312-573-2947.

Three: Wanna get breakfast? From
312-674-5723.

Four: Answer your goddam phone. Again from
312-573-2947.

Five: Are you mad at me? From
Schuyler.

And six: Are you dead? From
Schuyler.

Aw, how nice, he cares if I'm dead. And who the
hell are 312-573-2947 and 312-674-5723? Now I do the phone task I
like the least. I dial up the voicemail. I listen while the
automated lady tells me I have three unheard messages. First
unheard message: Its Schuyler's voice.

"Hey Meegan. Been trying to call you. Its 3:47
AM on October 31st. Happy Halloween. I wanted to see what you were
up to... You must be busy. Catch you later." Hmm. Halloween, I
forgot. Maybe I should celebrate.

Second unheard message: I'm surprised to hear
Fin's forceful and chipper voice. "Hey I got a new number. Call me.
I want you to come hang out tomorrow. I mean tonight. Well, really
its Francis... never mind. Call me back. Okay? Cause I have to make
plans." So that must account for one of the unknown
numbers.

Third unheard message: It's Qasim's voice. I'm
too tired to be either excited or irritated to hear from him. The
man just seems totally irrelevant at this moment. I don't even
listen to the message. I hang up mid sentence. I wonder if his
number was the breakfast invite. I wonder if I'd have liked to go.
Will we even like each other sober? Maybe.

Message checking is emotionally draining for
me. I feel like a good Samaritan, like I've done my civic duty. Why
the hell am I so phone popular right now anyway? This is why I
don't have large numbers of friends. Their eerily simultaneous
demands on my attention are too taxing. The only person I wish I'd
answered the phone for is Schuyler. Speaking of whom, here he comes
now. I breathe out a big sigh of relief, and hope he invites me to
sleep on his couch. Damn my feet are cold.

I have never been so glad to see the mother
ship. Although I haven't known Schuyler that long. How many times
have I even seen the mother ship? Three? Well, this is the gladdest
of those three times, that's for sure. How did he get here so fast?
It occurs to me I don't know precisely where I am, it could be
close to Schuyler's building. My new favorite person eases the
Escalade up to the curb and unlocks the doors. I jump in and before
I even meet his eyes I've got my feet propped up on the heat
vents.

"Ahh." I purr. "Thank you, thank you, thank
you."

He's staring at me. "You're boots are
evidence?'

I shrug and rub my toes. "Yeah the blood pooled
around them while I was standing there."

"Who's blood?" His voice is deep and has an
intense kind of calm that's really not very calm at all.

"Luis Finch. He's dead, dead, dead." And I
laugh. I'm aware that I sound crazy. "I went to talk to him at his
work and I found his body by the dumpster. His throat got slit
while I was filling up a Diet Coke." I feel tears like warm little
razors tingling down my cold cheeks. I look up at
Schuyler.