“My—oh my God. You think that I did this?”
I glanced back at Mr. Matsura lying silently on his braided rug and felt the tears stinging my eyes. “I didn’t do this! I would never hurt anyone—especially not Mr. Matsura. He was my neighbor!”
Officer Houston’s radio squawked on his shoulder and he leaned his angled chin, muttering, “Yeah, come up for the body.”
The body.
Mr. Matsura was now the body.
My stomach heaved. “I didn’t do this,” I whispered.
Officer Houston looked me full in the face now and I noticed that though he seemed young, his eyes were sunken and dark and his mouth was heavily lined with lips that pulled down at the corners in a natural frown. He regarded me disdainfully.
“If you didn’t do this, someone went a long way to make it seem like you did.”
“That’s it! That’s it—I’ve been framed, I—” I stopped in midsentence, my cuffed wrists raised, my palms facing me. “Oh,” I said, my eyes focusing on the dark red streaked across my palms, the rivulets of color seeping over my fingers. “That’s blood. I have blood on my hands.” I stared down in disbelief, seeing the heavy streaks of color on my jeans, the splatter on the toes of my white sneakers.
Officer Houston pushed me down in a kitchen chair and I slumped, then backed away when I noticed the bloody trail on the clean wood surface of the table. The trail of blood led to a kitchen knife, its blade hanging over the edge of the table, blood drying on it. I gulped.
“Do you recognize that knife, Ms. Lawson?”
“It’s mine,” I whispered.
The next few hours passed by in a daze. I was shuffled down the stairs of my apartment building and slammed into the backseat of a squad car. I stared out the window, watching the rain-slicked city race by as I was carted to the police station. It was dark, but I didn’t know what time. I didn’t know what day it was. I looked down again at my white T-shirt, my blood-caked jeans—I didn’t even remember changing out of my Giants pajama bottoms and T-shirt.
I scooched forward on the car seat, leaned as close as I dared to the plastic-holed divider. “Do you know Alex Grace?” I asked Officer Houston as he drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the butt of his shotgun. He didn’t answer me, just smoothly pulled around a slow-moving minivan and hit the gas.
“Sir? Excuse me?”
I saw Officer Houston’s chest go as he blew out a long sigh. “Yeah, I know Detective Grace. Why?”
An immense feeling of relief washed over me. “He’s my friend. He’ll tell you that I didn’t do this. There is someone after me. Her name is Ophelia. Ophelia—well, she doesn’t have a last name, at least I don’t think she does. Anyway, she did it; Alex—Detective Grace—he’ll corroborate my story. Can you just call him, please? Or, don’t I get a phone call?”
Officer Houston turned the wheel and maneuvered the squad car into an open space in the police department lot. He opened the back door and clamped his hand on my shoulder, sliding me out.
“You’re going to call him, right? Or we could just go see him. He’s probably in his office.”
Officer Houston pulled me close to him. We were nearly nose to nose and I could see the grit of his yellowed teeth, smell the faint odor of nicotine and sweat on his collar. “Look, girlie. The only thing I hate more than someone who would take advantage of an elderly individual is someone who thinks they have some sort of special privilege because they know someone on the force. I don’t care if your best friend is the Queen of fucking Sheba; this isn’t a parking ticket. You’re not getting out of this one.”
“I’m not trying to get out of this,” I wailed as Officer Houston shuffled me toward the door. “I want this person caught as much as you do. She’s evil. You don’t understand what’s at stake!”
Officer Houston rolled his eyes and kept walking, shoving me lightly in front of him. “Let me guess: I should set you free, and you’ll bring the real killer to justice.”
“Um, yes, actually.”
“You and OJ, sweetie pie.”
Officer Houston guided me into the police station vestibule and I looked longingly at the elevators that had so often shuttled me down to the safety and comfort of the Underworld. I clamped my eyes shut, imploring the elevator doors to open, to spit out Nina or Vlad or even Pierre—anyone who could help me.
“Can I call someone?” I asked, my voice sounding small.
Officer Houston just stared at me as he picked up the phone at the registry desk and punched a few numbers. He held the phone to my ear and I felt my lower lip quiver when I heard the recorded voice on the line.
“The customer you have tried to call”—a break, and then a gruff-sounding Alex inserting his name—“has left the calling area. Please try again later.” There was a click, then the drone of the dial tone as it wailed mournfully on the line.
“Looks like your detective buddy took the day off.”