around and kick-punched the car a buncha times and then, next thing I know, blue-and-reds. They made me do the alphabet backwards – which, for the record, I cannot do sober – and they said I was too drunk to drive and blah blah blah.”
Vills leans in. “What was your plan? What did you think you could accomplish at that hour of the morning?”
“I was going to go back to the Torch Key house. Pound on the door. Wake Peter up if he was still there – if not, break in. People had to have contact information in there somewhere.”
“Then what?”
“Call them. Ask them.”
“Why would they give out that information to you?”
“I don’t know! I can be persuasive. Or violent. It wasn’t a super-awesome plan, OK? Did you or did you not hear the part where I was drunk?”
Grosky shrugs. “You know, if you hadn’t been caught that night, we wouldn’t be here right now.”
“Then hoorah for fate throwing us together,” she says with an eye roll.
“Seriously. You showed up on our radar just as we were looking for you. You take a pretty rough-looking mug-shot. It’s funny now, hearing the story, because I said to Vills – Vills, what did I say to you when I saw Miriam’s mug shot here?”
Vills says, “He said, ‘Looks like she has JBF hair.’”
“‘Just Been Fucked’ hair,” Grosky clarifies.
“Clever,” Miriam says.
“I like it. Whatever. Point is, you can think what you want about fate, but it brought us together today. Here in this little shack on the beach. Nobody else around. Very romantic.”
“Not an official FBI interrogation room,” Miriam notes.
“This one’s off the books,” Vills says.
“For now,” Grosky says.
“So, you two really are Feds?”
They smile, share another of their conspiratorial looks, then nod.
“What do you want with me, then? If I’m a killer, put me away. If I’m a serial killer, throw me in the chair and dissect my brain to find out what’s wrong with it. Trust me, I’d love to see the results. Why me? Why here? What’s your plan, you two crazy kids?”
Grosky grins big and broad. “We’ll get to that, Miriam. Patience.”
TWENTY-ONE
JAILBIRD
She thinks it’s going to be like it is in all the movies: big jail cell with the gray bars and the food slot, rubbing elbows with thugs and killers who see her as nothing more than sexual breakfast. But the reality is, the bars are really just a black chain-link fence making her feel like she’s a German Shepherd in a kennel. And she’s only in here with one other human being: a sluggy Cuban sitting half-asleep on the bench, his double-chin pressed down in the chunky vomit shellacking his own chest. At one point she yells at him, “Did you even chew your food?” but he barely stirs.
Everything goes by in a flash. They bring her in and ask her questions. Take her fingerprints. Take her photo – for which she puts on her most feral stare, like a rabid raccoon startled from its meal. They take everything she has and tow the car to the impound yard voucher for her personal property.
And here she worries about the money. Because nowhere on the voucher does it list eight thousand (er, give or take a hundred) dollars . She hid the money around the car. Did they not search it? It’s a pretty Podunk police station. Do they give a fuck?
She has to summon all of her willpower to tamp down the screaming shit-fit that threatens to overwhelm her. She wants to ask about the money. But that means they’ll find out about the money.
Shitfuck .
Instead, she bites her teeth and nods and smiles.
Along the way, she learns how several officers are going to die.
Officer Dorn Chihuly – he of a Tom Selleck ’stache – is going to die on the operating table in twenty years when they try to remove a mass from his liver. Officer Gale Paltrovich, a woman whose body has the shape of a tackle dummy under a bedsheet, is going to choke on a Brussels sprout when she’s ninety-two. Officer Carlos Mendez
Vills leans in. “What was your plan? What did you think you could accomplish at that hour of the morning?”
“I was going to go back to the Torch Key house. Pound on the door. Wake Peter up if he was still there – if not, break in. People had to have contact information in there somewhere.”
“Then what?”
“Call them. Ask them.”
“Why would they give out that information to you?”
“I don’t know! I can be persuasive. Or violent. It wasn’t a super-awesome plan, OK? Did you or did you not hear the part where I was drunk?”
Grosky shrugs. “You know, if you hadn’t been caught that night, we wouldn’t be here right now.”
“Then hoorah for fate throwing us together,” she says with an eye roll.
“Seriously. You showed up on our radar just as we were looking for you. You take a pretty rough-looking mug-shot. It’s funny now, hearing the story, because I said to Vills – Vills, what did I say to you when I saw Miriam’s mug shot here?”
Vills says, “He said, ‘Looks like she has JBF hair.’”
“‘Just Been Fucked’ hair,” Grosky clarifies.
“Clever,” Miriam says.
“I like it. Whatever. Point is, you can think what you want about fate, but it brought us together today. Here in this little shack on the beach. Nobody else around. Very romantic.”
“Not an official FBI interrogation room,” Miriam notes.
“This one’s off the books,” Vills says.
“For now,” Grosky says.
“So, you two really are Feds?”
They smile, share another of their conspiratorial looks, then nod.
“What do you want with me, then? If I’m a killer, put me away. If I’m a serial killer, throw me in the chair and dissect my brain to find out what’s wrong with it. Trust me, I’d love to see the results. Why me? Why here? What’s your plan, you two crazy kids?”
Grosky grins big and broad. “We’ll get to that, Miriam. Patience.”
TWENTY-ONE
JAILBIRD
She thinks it’s going to be like it is in all the movies: big jail cell with the gray bars and the food slot, rubbing elbows with thugs and killers who see her as nothing more than sexual breakfast. But the reality is, the bars are really just a black chain-link fence making her feel like she’s a German Shepherd in a kennel. And she’s only in here with one other human being: a sluggy Cuban sitting half-asleep on the bench, his double-chin pressed down in the chunky vomit shellacking his own chest. At one point she yells at him, “Did you even chew your food?” but he barely stirs.
Everything goes by in a flash. They bring her in and ask her questions. Take her fingerprints. Take her photo – for which she puts on her most feral stare, like a rabid raccoon startled from its meal. They take everything she has and tow the car to the impound yard voucher for her personal property.
And here she worries about the money. Because nowhere on the voucher does it list eight thousand (er, give or take a hundred) dollars . She hid the money around the car. Did they not search it? It’s a pretty Podunk police station. Do they give a fuck?
She has to summon all of her willpower to tamp down the screaming shit-fit that threatens to overwhelm her. She wants to ask about the money. But that means they’ll find out about the money.
Shitfuck .
Instead, she bites her teeth and nods and smiles.
Along the way, she learns how several officers are going to die.
Officer Dorn Chihuly – he of a Tom Selleck ’stache – is going to die on the operating table in twenty years when they try to remove a mass from his liver. Officer Gale Paltrovich, a woman whose body has the shape of a tackle dummy under a bedsheet, is going to choke on a Brussels sprout when she’s ninety-two. Officer Carlos Mendez
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