uniformed cops, talking to Lisa, the office manager. They turned away from her and peered through the glass at me.
Something happened to me in that moment. Those two cops, those blue uniforms, staring at me through the glass. I just stopped. Everything shut down, went a dark gray color. I couldn’t feel my hands or my feet. I was a lump of clay, and the look on my face was probably guilty as hell.
One of the cops opened the glass door to the back, and they casually strolled through, looking at me.
Karl spoke to me without moving his lips. “You don’t say anything to them, son,” he said. “Not one thing. You keep your mouth shut. You got rights.”
I swallowed. Nate was an ex-con, and a lot of his customers were, too, so Karl knew the drill. He didn’t judge. He assumed that any cop in here was on some bullshit mission.
It didn’t matter. They were coming for me.
“Bram Riordan?” one of the cops said.
“That’s me,” I said. And then, almost against my will, the words slipped out. “What the fuck do you want?”
Both of the cops’ faces grew hard. At my shoulder, Karl repeated, “Mouth shut, son.”
“We just have some questions for you,” the bigger, fatter cop said. “You mind coming with us?”
I couldn’t help it. I was panicked. I understood why guys went crazy in situations like this, tried to run or tried to shoot their way out. I’d spent six years inside. The prospect of going back—even though I’d done nothing wrong—suddenly seemed inevitable. And worse than dying.
“What’s this about?” I said. “If you’re going to arrest me for something, read me my rights.”
“You’re not under arrest, Riordan,” the thin cop said. “It’s just some questions. Purely voluntary. You’re free to go.”
I glanced around the garage. It had gone still, every guy there staring at me, watching what was going down. Every guy there thanking God it wasn’t him.
I threw down the rag I was holding. “All right,” I said. “I’ll go.”
They put me in the car—in the fucking black and white. In the back seat, like the criminal I was. When I’d been arrested six years ago, it had all been a blur—I didn’t remember much, except flashes of images. But this, I remembered. This, I felt seared into my skin and my blood.
On the drive, I didn’t ask them again what it was about. There was no point. They weren’t going to tell me shit. So I didn’t say anything, either. Already, my jail habits were coming back, my walls going up. Say nothing. Don’t give them anything. I looked out the window and thought about getting up this morning, going for a run, daydreaming about Summer. Watched the town go by from behind the dirty glass.
At the station, they led me into an interview room and sat me down, both of them across from me. The fat cop sat down. The skinny cop stayed standing. The room was dimly lit with fluorescent light and smelled like stale sweat, bad breath, and fear.
“We want to ask you about the money in the safe,” Fat Cop said. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”
I stared at him and said nothing.
“There’s cash in that safe every day,” Fat Cop continued, “ except that some days it goes missing. And that’s been happening ever since you became an employee, ever since Nate Friesen gave you the code to the safe. Is any of this ringing a bell, Riordan?”
Still I stared at him, remembering Karl’s advice to keep my mouth shut, as I turned the options over in my head. They’d been talking to Lisa, the office manager, in the office before they came to get me. It must have been her. She’d decided I’d taken the money, and she’d called the cops on me.
I couldn’t believe it. It actually stung. I’d always treated Lisa with respect, and I’d never given her any reason to hate me. But when the money went missing, she’d called the cops and told them it was me.
Now Thin Cop took a turn. “Today’s cash went missing as well, Riordan,” he said.
Something happened to me in that moment. Those two cops, those blue uniforms, staring at me through the glass. I just stopped. Everything shut down, went a dark gray color. I couldn’t feel my hands or my feet. I was a lump of clay, and the look on my face was probably guilty as hell.
One of the cops opened the glass door to the back, and they casually strolled through, looking at me.
Karl spoke to me without moving his lips. “You don’t say anything to them, son,” he said. “Not one thing. You keep your mouth shut. You got rights.”
I swallowed. Nate was an ex-con, and a lot of his customers were, too, so Karl knew the drill. He didn’t judge. He assumed that any cop in here was on some bullshit mission.
It didn’t matter. They were coming for me.
“Bram Riordan?” one of the cops said.
“That’s me,” I said. And then, almost against my will, the words slipped out. “What the fuck do you want?”
Both of the cops’ faces grew hard. At my shoulder, Karl repeated, “Mouth shut, son.”
“We just have some questions for you,” the bigger, fatter cop said. “You mind coming with us?”
I couldn’t help it. I was panicked. I understood why guys went crazy in situations like this, tried to run or tried to shoot their way out. I’d spent six years inside. The prospect of going back—even though I’d done nothing wrong—suddenly seemed inevitable. And worse than dying.
“What’s this about?” I said. “If you’re going to arrest me for something, read me my rights.”
“You’re not under arrest, Riordan,” the thin cop said. “It’s just some questions. Purely voluntary. You’re free to go.”
I glanced around the garage. It had gone still, every guy there staring at me, watching what was going down. Every guy there thanking God it wasn’t him.
I threw down the rag I was holding. “All right,” I said. “I’ll go.”
They put me in the car—in the fucking black and white. In the back seat, like the criminal I was. When I’d been arrested six years ago, it had all been a blur—I didn’t remember much, except flashes of images. But this, I remembered. This, I felt seared into my skin and my blood.
On the drive, I didn’t ask them again what it was about. There was no point. They weren’t going to tell me shit. So I didn’t say anything, either. Already, my jail habits were coming back, my walls going up. Say nothing. Don’t give them anything. I looked out the window and thought about getting up this morning, going for a run, daydreaming about Summer. Watched the town go by from behind the dirty glass.
At the station, they led me into an interview room and sat me down, both of them across from me. The fat cop sat down. The skinny cop stayed standing. The room was dimly lit with fluorescent light and smelled like stale sweat, bad breath, and fear.
“We want to ask you about the money in the safe,” Fat Cop said. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”
I stared at him and said nothing.
“There’s cash in that safe every day,” Fat Cop continued, “ except that some days it goes missing. And that’s been happening ever since you became an employee, ever since Nate Friesen gave you the code to the safe. Is any of this ringing a bell, Riordan?”
Still I stared at him, remembering Karl’s advice to keep my mouth shut, as I turned the options over in my head. They’d been talking to Lisa, the office manager, in the office before they came to get me. It must have been her. She’d decided I’d taken the money, and she’d called the cops on me.
I couldn’t believe it. It actually stung. I’d always treated Lisa with respect, and I’d never given her any reason to hate me. But when the money went missing, she’d called the cops and told them it was me.
Now Thin Cop took a turn. “Today’s cash went missing as well, Riordan,” he said.
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