Sitting in the cold and staring at the walls was growing old, but short of throwing a chair through the glass, Miki didn’t think he had much of a choice.
Then Sanchez walked in, and Miki’s evening went to shit.
“Hey. How are you doing?” The casual manner Sanchez showed him the other day was gone, replaced by a patented used-car-salesman charm designed to squeeze something out of a conversation. Sanchez set a thick folder down on the table and placed a paper cup of milky coffee in front of Miki. “Here, I brought you something hot to drink while we talk.”
The coffee was bitter under the sweet, but Miki took another sip, focusing on the bright yellow pattern on the paper cup. Sanchez pulled out the chair across the table from him and sat down. He flicked one last look up at the mirror, resigned to seeing his own bruised expression in the reflection and not the faces of the maybe-people behind the glass.
“The only one there is Morgan. Is that okay?” Sanchez glanced behind him, following Miki’s gaze. Miki nodded once and watched Sanchez take out a small recorder, put it down on the table, then turn it on.
“We’re going to record this. I’m going to ask some sensitive questions, and I understand if you need to stop at some point in this to get yourself together, but unless you ask for a lawyer, I’m going to try to get through this as quick as possible, okay?”
“Okay,” Miki said, nodding. He picked at the cup’s cover, lifting the edge with his thumbnail. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“I can’t tell you that,” the cop admitted. “I’m only asking questions. You’re not being charged with anything, but I need to talk to you. If you refuse, then we can bring lawyers into this, but I don’t want to. Do you?”
“No, I’m good.” He leaned back in the chair, his shoulders rolled in. A burning feeling began in Miki’s gut, overriding the ache in his knee. “Is Kane in trouble or something? Is that why he’s not in here?”
“No, Morgan and I thought it would be better if I were the one to talk to you,” Sanchez replied softly. “He’ll be waiting for you after we’re done.”
“Okay.” Miki nodded. “Go ahead then.”
Sanchez started. “I really need to talk to you about Shing and how you’re connected to him. Do you understand?”
“I don’t know anything about how Shing ended up in the car,” Miki replied. “I was in the house washing the dog—”
“I know.” The cop opened the folder and took out a large envelope, folding open the clasp so he could pull out the contents. “I’ve got to ask you some questions… and understand you don’t have to answer them without having a lawyer present, but they have to be asked. It’s your choice how you do this.”
“I’ve got nothing to hide.” Miki’s chin tilted up, his mouth set into a hard, straight line.
“We found some evidence at Shing’s restaurant that shows he hurt you when you were younger. Now, we have to ask you, did you have Shing killed? Because of what he did to you? Or do you know someone who would kill him because of what he did?”
Miki hissed in disgust. “No, I swear to God, I haven’t seen Shing in years. Not since….”
“Not since when, Miki?” Sanchez pressed.
“Not since I was a kid,” he replied. The talk of Shing and the bad coffee was doing a number on Miki’s stomach, and his belly gurgled, threatening to return Kane’s dinner up onto the table. “I… fucking hell, what do you want from me?”
“I know Shing hurt you,” the cop said, softening his voice to a whisper. “Did you tell anyone about that? Anyone at all?”
“Shing…. Look, I just crashed in the storeroom at the restaurant….” Miki bit the inside of his cheek, forcing the bile back down his throat. “I don’t know…. I didn’t kill Shing. I don’t know anything. God, just let me go home.”
Miki turned his head, willing himself back to adulthood. Sanchez’s gentle tones and soft voice were too much like the coaxing whispers he’d heard when he was a kid. Miki shook out his arms, then shook his head, needing to feel his body respond. Kneading his fingers into his thighs, Miki fought the agitation rising inside of him, and he searched for something to bring him back to the now of the room.
Grabbing his knee, he pressed into the damaged tissue, riding the sharp rip of pain as it tore up his leg and into the base of his spine. Panting slightly, he rocked forward, digging in again until he couldn’t see through the red haze. A scream lingered on the back of his tongue, driven more by the memories of the nights he spent waiting for footsteps in the darkness than his self-inflicted torture.
The taste of blood on his tongue stilled Miki’s rocking, and he swallowed, chasing the cop-house coffee down with a wash of metallic copper.