arresting me?”
“Not at this time, ma’am.”
Not at this time? What the hell was the subtext in that statement? Visions of orange jumpsuits swam before my eyes, and I definitely don’t look good in orange.
I studied Menendez from the top of her tightly cropped no-nonsense jet black curls down to her black-laced running shoes, chosen most likely for chasing down felons. In-between she wore a white button-down oxford shirt, black blazer, and black jeans. Unless a subpoena was tucked inside the blazer, I saw no evidence of one. No subpoena meant this was a request, not a command performance on my part. And a request meant I didn’t have to comply.
“Then I don’t have to go with you,” I said. Anyone who ever watched an episode of Law & Order knew that much. As soon as she got me into an interrogation room, she’d find some way to confuse me, twist around my words, then slap me in cuffs and haul my ass into an orange jumpsuit. It happened exactly that way on every TV cop show I’d ever watched. Except sometimes the jumpsuits were gray, khaki, or olive drab.
Blake stepped between Menendez and me. “We’re going to cooperate with the detective, Gracie.”
I jumped to my feet. “I’ve been cooperating, Blake. From the very beginning. I voluntarily handed over all my records. I answered all her questions. I even called her when I uncovered additional information. And where has it landed me? Apparently, right at the top of her suspects list. Me! Hell, I’ve never even received a traffic ticket.”
By this time tears streamed down my face. I’d officially lost it. But Blake was right. Refusing to cooperate would only raise more suspicions in the detective’s mind. Rationally, I knew that, but how many people can think rationally when faced with an impending orange jumpsuit?
I swiped at my tears and took a few deep breaths, trying to regain my composure. “Fine,” I said finally. “Let’s get this over with.”
Although Union County police headquarters, located on North Avenue in Westfield, is within walking distance of our home, given the hour, Blake and I drove. Detective Menendez, minus flashing lights and siren, followed closely behind us.
Once we arrived, I was led into a room that looked more like a set from Bones than Law & Order , probably because the entire building was only a few years old, and the interrogation room hadn’t had time to grow a creepy patina from decades of hosting drug dealers, rapists, pedophiles, murderers, and other assorted lowlifes.
Blake wasn’t allowed into the room with me. I was left alone for what seemed like a decade but was probably only ten minutes. Time has a way of slowing down when you’re stuck somewhere you don’t want to be late at night with nothing but bare walls to stare at. The surveillance camera mounted in one corner didn’t help.
Neither did the painful hiccups spurred by a combination of my earlier crying jag, a bout of hyperventilating on the ride over, and a heavy dose of abject fear. I tried holding my breath, but the hiccups continued unabated. I could only imagine the entertainment my convulsing diaphragm and wonky glottis currently provided Union County law enforcement as they huddled around a computer monitor and watched me. I glared at the camera, hoping they all laughed so hard they’d wind up suffering through their own bout of hiccup hell.
Detective Menendez finally returned to the room, carrying a cup of water and a cardboard folder. She placed the water in front of me. I picked up the cup and began sipping slowly. It didn’t help.
“Do these look familiar, Mrs. Elliott?” she asked, removing several sheets of paper from the folder and spreading the pages out on the table in front of me.
I glanced quickly at each page, spreadsheets of financial records for the various women Not-Sid had met through Relatively Speaking. I shook my head. “No.”
“That’s odd, considering we found these files on your
“Not at this time, ma’am.”
Not at this time? What the hell was the subtext in that statement? Visions of orange jumpsuits swam before my eyes, and I definitely don’t look good in orange.
I studied Menendez from the top of her tightly cropped no-nonsense jet black curls down to her black-laced running shoes, chosen most likely for chasing down felons. In-between she wore a white button-down oxford shirt, black blazer, and black jeans. Unless a subpoena was tucked inside the blazer, I saw no evidence of one. No subpoena meant this was a request, not a command performance on my part. And a request meant I didn’t have to comply.
“Then I don’t have to go with you,” I said. Anyone who ever watched an episode of Law & Order knew that much. As soon as she got me into an interrogation room, she’d find some way to confuse me, twist around my words, then slap me in cuffs and haul my ass into an orange jumpsuit. It happened exactly that way on every TV cop show I’d ever watched. Except sometimes the jumpsuits were gray, khaki, or olive drab.
Blake stepped between Menendez and me. “We’re going to cooperate with the detective, Gracie.”
I jumped to my feet. “I’ve been cooperating, Blake. From the very beginning. I voluntarily handed over all my records. I answered all her questions. I even called her when I uncovered additional information. And where has it landed me? Apparently, right at the top of her suspects list. Me! Hell, I’ve never even received a traffic ticket.”
By this time tears streamed down my face. I’d officially lost it. But Blake was right. Refusing to cooperate would only raise more suspicions in the detective’s mind. Rationally, I knew that, but how many people can think rationally when faced with an impending orange jumpsuit?
I swiped at my tears and took a few deep breaths, trying to regain my composure. “Fine,” I said finally. “Let’s get this over with.”
Although Union County police headquarters, located on North Avenue in Westfield, is within walking distance of our home, given the hour, Blake and I drove. Detective Menendez, minus flashing lights and siren, followed closely behind us.
Once we arrived, I was led into a room that looked more like a set from Bones than Law & Order , probably because the entire building was only a few years old, and the interrogation room hadn’t had time to grow a creepy patina from decades of hosting drug dealers, rapists, pedophiles, murderers, and other assorted lowlifes.
Blake wasn’t allowed into the room with me. I was left alone for what seemed like a decade but was probably only ten minutes. Time has a way of slowing down when you’re stuck somewhere you don’t want to be late at night with nothing but bare walls to stare at. The surveillance camera mounted in one corner didn’t help.
Neither did the painful hiccups spurred by a combination of my earlier crying jag, a bout of hyperventilating on the ride over, and a heavy dose of abject fear. I tried holding my breath, but the hiccups continued unabated. I could only imagine the entertainment my convulsing diaphragm and wonky glottis currently provided Union County law enforcement as they huddled around a computer monitor and watched me. I glared at the camera, hoping they all laughed so hard they’d wind up suffering through their own bout of hiccup hell.
Detective Menendez finally returned to the room, carrying a cup of water and a cardboard folder. She placed the water in front of me. I picked up the cup and began sipping slowly. It didn’t help.
“Do these look familiar, Mrs. Elliott?” she asked, removing several sheets of paper from the folder and spreading the pages out on the table in front of me.
I glanced quickly at each page, spreadsheets of financial records for the various women Not-Sid had met through Relatively Speaking. I shook my head. “No.”
“That’s odd, considering we found these files on your
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