The man standing behind her steps forward and we shake hands. I give them a quick rundown of what I found.
Officer Yates turns down the volume on her belt-clipped radio. “We need to ensure that no one is still upstairs, okay? Please stay here.” She motions for Bernard to follow her and they both walk efficiently to the bank of elevators and punch the up button.
I turn to Trey, who is pacing along the bank of mailboxes. “Don’t worry. This is not your fault.”
“I’ve been here since seven a.m., Ms. Whittaker. I have not seen anyone suspicious or anyone I didn’t know come in or leave.”
I nod. “It’s okay. It will be okay. I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you. You might want to call Mr. Price.” Mr. Price is the manager of the building.
Five minutes later, Yates returns alone. “The apartment is empty. Whoever did this seems long gone. Would you two mind coming down to the station and answering some questions?”
I nod, but Trey hesitates. “I’ll need to call my supervisor and get a replacement before I can leave.”
Yates nods and motions me outside and into the squad car. She opens the front door and I’m surprised. She gives me a wide smile, the edges of her mouth forming deep creases in her tanned cheeks. She has cartoonishly big features all competing for space: wide lips, large nose, thick lashes. “The backseat is for criminals,” she explains, with a quick grin. I relax and I adjust the sleeves of my shirt, pulling it away from the dampness underneath my arms and on my back, above my bra strap. My mouth is dry.
“What about Officer Bernard?” My voice cracks and I clear my throat as I climb in the front seat. I pick imaginary lint off my linen pants and smooth the crease with my thumb.
“He’s waiting for the forensics crew. We’ll take some prints and we’ll need either you or your husband to establish what’s been taken.”
“Oh, I have to try Henry again,” I say dumbly, but when I call I am again sent to voicemail. I leave yet another message.
Yates chatters the entire four blocks to the station and, despite being in a squad car, I’m oddly relaxed. At the station, she pulls into a small underground garage that seems to house only marked police cars and leads me up a concrete walkway, dimly lit by sickly fluorescent bulbs, the walls painted a greenish-yellow. I can hear a low buzzing, the intermittent zap of a bug catcher. Inside, the station is a veritable hub of activity, police officers zipping this way and that, and I follow her to an interview room. On the way, she deftly grabs two Styrofoam cups of coffee and a handful of creamer and sugar packets. She gives the door a quick kick closed and indicates for me to sit with a jut of her chin. Her movements are quick and efficient. She places a burnt-smelling coffee in front of me and I thank her, knowing I won’t drink it.
She opens a folder and clicks a pen, at the same time hitting record on a digital recorder. She studies me with open interest; her eyes are two different colors, one brown one yellow-gold.
“This should be quick, I think,” she reassures me. “What time did you arrive home?”
“About one, I think.”
“How long were you gone?”
“I’d left the house around ten thirty.” I blow across the top of the black coffee, just for something to do.
“Okay, that’s a good, narrow time frame.” She writes something down in a notebook and chews a thumbnail. “Then what happened?”
I tell her about doing a quick inventory and returning to the lobby to call 9-1-1.
“Your husband is Henry Whittaker?” She gives a low whistle. I nod. I never know what to say when people are impressed by Henry, by virtue of who he is or what he has. Thank you? That seems proprietary, like I earned something. It might be easier if I was a guy, I could nod knowingly, maybe wiggle my eyebrows Groucho-style or lightly punch them on the arm. Women don’t have a female version of “dude speak.” Maybe I mistakenly imagine all men as overgrown teenage boys.
“Have you been able to get in touch with your husband?” Yates asks.
I shake my head. “Um, no. I tried. Twice.”
“Okay, this is pretty much it. You can hang out here until we clear your place. It’ll be another hour or so.” She squares the folder in front of her and half-stands up, clicking stop on the recorder.
“Um, I have one thing. I feel like it’s important.” I take a deep breath and wipe my palm on the table top. I jostle the Styrofoam cup and coffee spills onto the table. Yates says nothing, but sits back down and opens her file. She clicks the recorder back on and waves her fingertips in my direction. Go on.