“I mean, fuck!”
“That sounds upsetting,” he allowed as an alternative to Kline, are you familiar with the theory about people who protest too much? And are you unaware that slapping on cologne isn’t a substitute for a shower?
“They’re all fulla shit,” was the closing argument. Kline meant Insighters, presumably, or killers, but the older man was sour enough that he could have meant mankind in general. And it wasn’t the job. Kline had been a dour rookie and a jaded patrolman and, as a detective, was more or less dead inside. And clearly not at all pleased with his French wife.
Chambers figured that was about as good as it was going to get, so he left, but not before Kline got the last word (again): “We got the right guy, kid!”
Chambers turned back around. “This again? I’m thirty-two.”
“Nobody confesses to murder and then calmly sits in a cell for over a decade without a peep if they’re innocent!”
And there it was. One of the many things about the Drake file that bugged anyone who came in contact with it.
And here came one of the other things that bugged the hell out of anyone who came in contact with it: Angela Drake. She was doing what she usually did: pacing like a thwarted tigress as her cousin handed over the PVI forms crucial to IDOC procedures.
“How could I have forgotten how much fun this is? The only thing better than the body search is the paperwork,” the man announced to the air. “That sounded sincere, right?”
“Archer, none of us want to be here. Least of all your father. I get that cracking jokes is your way of defusing the tension, but why would you want to defuse the tension? We’re supposed to be tense and horrified to find ourselves here. We’re supposed to feel that way so we fight hard to get him out,” Angela snapped, veering off from her pacing long enough to glare. Then she grabbed the bridge of her nose and squeezed. “Argh, sorry. I’m a little jittery.” She flapped a hand at him. “Sorry.”
“Wow, you have changed,” Archer Drake observed. In closer proximity, Jason Chambers could see the family resemblance: both tall and lean, long noses and mouths meant for smiling, though Angela’s hair—shoulder-length strawberry blond layers—was much lighter than the man’s. “You’re still an uptight, controlling jackass, but now you feel bad when you behave like an uptight, controlling jackass. And that wasn’t a joke to defuse tension!” he added as she took a few steps closer. “It was an objective observation. That’s a legitimate thing, right?”
“Of course it’s legitimate. But your cousin’s right, this isn’t a happy errand, so why pretend?”
“Thank you, Leah,” Angela said, pointed and triumphant at the same time.
“Miss Drake.”
Angela spun and smiled when she saw Jason had joined them, which was a rarity in his profession. If he thought about how often people scowled at the sight of a cop, he’d get depressed. Well. More depressed. Not for the first time, he wondered why he’d been drawn to a profession where every single day on the job, people were not glad to see him. “Angela, like I told you last time, and the time before that, please call me Angela.”
Please call me Jason.
Please call me Jason.
Please call me Jason.
He opened his mouth.
Please call me Jason.
“Sorry. I forgot.” Not even close.
Fortunately, the dazzling intense woman he’d been horrified to realize he had a crush on
(a crush! like he was sixteen! what next, the acne makes a triumphant return?)
was too busy with the introductions to notice his stilted delivery. “This is my cousin Archer and his fiancée—”
“Leah Nazir,” he interrupted. He’d recognized her at once. “Hello. Detective Jason Chambers. I’d know you anywhere.”
She shook his hand. She had long, wavy dark hair; wide-set eyes; and a pale, pretty face. Her hand was tiny. “Have we worked a case before?” It was a good guess—most local cops knew Nazir consulted with police departments all over the country—but wrong.
“No, I was a big fan of That’s My Mom.”
Nazir’s smile dropped off as if his hand had turned into a dead rattlesnake. She extricated herself from the handshake and managed a small, “Oh.”
Mistake.
“Oh,” Angela added.
Mistake. Why?
“Sorry,” he said. Because for some reason he now had to apologize for the fact that Leah Nazir was once a household name.
“It’s weird that I keep forgetting you were a child star, right, hon?” Archer asked.
“Why do you keep asking questions you don’t actually want the answer to? And it’s not weird, it’s lovely.” She managed to arrange her lips into a gruesome approximation of a smile. “I’d prefer everyone kept forgetting.”
“Sorry,” Jason said again. And then he could put his finger on what he’d overlooked . . . not just Leah turning her back on acting, but the eventual fallout from that decision: Her costar/mother had been murdered just a few months ago. It had made headlines in various entertainment sections of various papers. People and Us Weekly had each done a small article on the case. “Death of an Icon’s Mother,” “Agent Murders Former Client,” “That’s My Mom Costar Slain.” It hadn’t been his case, but when it came to gossip, cops put hair salons to shame. The murder had been exceptionally foul and violent; two rookies had gotten sick at the scene. It had been discussed. Frequently.
“All right.” The brisk voice pulled Jason back to the present. “Your IDOC paperwork is all set, here are your IDs back.” A corrections officer had looked everything over and fed copies into the great bureaucratic machine that was ICC (pronounced “ick” to nearly everyone’s annoyance). This was a small relief, because filling out paperwork didn’t necessarily guarantee entrance to Intake Processing.
And if you were allowed in, you weren’t done yet. Such things took time: a minimum of two forms of ID for every visitor. Searches. Paperwork. No cell phones, no pagers, no smoking. No boxes, no purses, no bags, no books. No sunglasses, no keys, no drinks, no food. No money, no backpacks, no magazines, no wallets. Lock them all away, but the State of Illinois is not responsible for anything stolen if someone breaks the flimsy lock and absconds with your purse, bag, book, keys, drink, food, backpack, wallet.
Diapers, tampons, medication? Determined on a case-by-case basis. (Hint: Take your meds in the parking lot.) Contraband? Illegal per the Illinois Code of Criminal Conduct. (Hint: Leave contraband in the parking lot unless you want to live in a cage.)
Clothing? Everyone must wear underwear. All females must wear a bra.* No tank tops, no shorts, no dresses. No hats, no gloves, no scarves.
All this to sit in a bare, sad room and stare at a loved one who, for whatever reason, now lived in a cage.
“Drake family.” This from the intake processing officer, whom no one saw unless the paperwork was squared away.
“That’s us,” Archer said, and Jason saw Angela bite her lip.
“Come on,” Jason said, and led them to the Visitation Room.
EIGHT
Angela could feel her pulse hammering away in her own ears, which was distracting. And what was worse, it wasn’t because she was nervous about facing her uncle.
Jason Chambers. He was why she was especially grateful for the invention of antiperspirant. And why she was irritated to catch herself giving thanks to the good people at Degree.* Since they’d met a couple of weeks ago, she had found the sober cop in the understated gray suit (or black or navy) to be the human equivalent of catnip. There was just something she liked about him, every single time. He was a big bundle of contrasts: brutally short brown hair, bright blue eyes. Lines of wear bracketed his eyes, but a dazzling smile (when she could coax one from him). Underwhelming sober-colored suits, wild socks.