Читать книгу Witness To Death - Dave White - Страница 21
ОглавлениеMichelle Sandler pulled off the Turnpike, made a few turns, came up behind the station, and saw the roadblock. Maybe, she thought, the police station is always blocked off like this. When she went to DC with Frank a few months ago, there were roadblocks around all the important buildings.
She turned right, away from the police station, found a parking spot. Before she could walk over to the station, she had to get her purse out of the trunk. It was hidden under Burt, the health teacher’s replica skeleton. She always kept her purse in the trunk, in case someone tried to mug her. And once she’d agreed to repair Burt’s broken rib over vacation, Michelle had an even better hiding spot for her valuables.
Not that any of that mattered anymore.
She slung the purse over her shoulder and replaced Burt. When she turned to start walking, she smelled the smoke in the air. It was sharp and acidic. She kept walking and heard the sirens. As she rounded the corner, she saw the crowds a block away. And she saw the front of the station was in flames. Firefighers were spraying water at black holes that used to be windows. The cops had set up a barrier and were herding civilians behind it.
One police officer was standing by himself, closer to the building, where Michelle was. Despite the cold, he had his hat off and was wiping his brow with a handkerchief. Soot caked his face.
Digging the bottle of water she always kept with her out of her wallet, she approached him.
“Here,” she said, holding out the bottle. “Are you all right?”
The cop took it, smiled, and then took a long pull. When he finished, he said, “Thanks.”
“What happened?”
Shrugging, the cop said, “I don’t know. Probably shouldn’t talk about it.”
“My friend. I came down to bail him out. He was under arrest.”
The cop laughed. “How are you planning on doing that? There isn’t a judge here.”
She hadn’t planned at all. In fact, if bail hadn’t been posted yet, she wasn’t sure what she’d be able to do. When she drove down here, she just wanted to see John. Make sure he was okay. But life had taught her that when all else failed, lie.
“His lawyer’s right behind me,” Michelle said. “He’s coming from Toms River.”
Behind them, the firefighters turned off the water. The smoke leaving the building was gray steam, not the black Michelle remembered from when the house on the corner of her street burned down a few years ago.
“You realize the building’s on fire?” He smiled as he said it, but it didn’t come out funny.
“Please, is there someone I can talk to?”
The cop sighed and looked at the water bottle. “I can ask my commanding officer. What’s your friend’s name?”
Michelle hesitated a moment. John’s face had been all over the news. Saying his name wouldn’t be like saying any old name. Maybe this guy would be shell-shocked enough not to notice.
The cop widened his eyes, waiting.
“John Brighton,” she said, the name falling from her lips.
“Really?” The cop shook his head. “The guy who’s wanted for murder? You paid his bail? I brought him in myself. He hasn’t even been arraigned.”
Michelle flushed. “Can I at least talk to him?”
“Stay on that side of the barrier. I’m going to get the commander.”
He stalked off. Michelle watched him go, walking with that cop attitude, like he owned the world. She wondered if they taught that in the academy; “How to Hold Yourself like an Asshole 101.”
Maybe it’s the uniform, she thought. Frank walked like that, and he wasn’t an asshole.
She watched her cop talk to another cop, one with more decorations on his uniform. Her cop pointed her way. His boss pointed toward the far end of the parking lot where they stood. Her cop walked over toward the lot and looked around. He wiped his brow once more and shrugged. Then he came back, talking to the other cop before he even stopped walking. The decorated cop looked toward the lot pointing again. Then he slowly dropped his hand. Both looked back at Michelle and started walking her way.
That wasn’t good.
They reached her in three seconds. The decorated cop’s hands were balled in fists. The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes were tightened by his squint. He had a chin that looked like a turkey gobbler. The other cop finished the water.
“You wanted to see John Brighton?” Decorated didn’t speak, he shouted.
She nodded. The steel wool in her throat keeping her from speaking.
“Where is he?”
She still didn’t speak. Where is he? As in, he’s gone?
“I asked you a question, ma’am.”
“I don’t know where he is. He should be here. I just wanted to talk to him.”
“You said you paid his bail,” the first officer said.
“Well, I—” She hated being called on a lie.
“He’s not here. If you had something to do with it, you better tell us.”
“I have no idea where he is. If I did, I wouldn’t be here talking to you. I can try calling him.” She dug her cell phone out of her purse.
“Do that.”
She dialed and waited. It went right to voicemail. She told that to the commander.
“Jesus Christ.” The commander turned to the other cop. “Samuelson, go ask around. See if anyone’s seen him. I need a damn walkie. Samuelson, wait, gimme your radio.” He pointed at Michelle. “Stay here.”
He hailed a fire fighter, and then walked up to him. The commander put a hand on the fighter’s shoulder and started to talk, waving his free hand. Then the commander said something into his walkie. He listened for a moment, then returned to Michelle.
“His lawyer set the damn fire. Who are you?”
“Um,” Michelle said. His lawyer?
The commander shook his head. Another explosion—soft, sounding like a firecracker—came from the building. The commander looked back at the building, then again at Michelle.
“Wait here. We’re going to want to talk to you. I have to check on some other things. Obviously. Jesus Christ.”
Michelle didn’t wait. As soon as the commander was ten feet away, she slowly, so as not to draw attention, turned and walked behind the barrier. Once the officers were out of sight, Michelle dashed toward her car. With luck, she’d be back on the Turnpike before they even noticed she was gone.
