Chapter Thirty
Suds
For once, Sam listened to my orders. I can’t wait to go home, make love, and tell her how much I appreciate she stayed safe. Unfortunately, my two new best friends insist I accompany them downtown to make a statement. Seeing as how they didn’t kill me, I agree. Besides, it gives me another chance to beat my personal best.
Inside the familiar precinct, I sit in the same uncomfortable chair at the same battle-scarred table. Like any good inquisition, it starts out with me waiting. This tactic is supposed to make me antsy but I put the time to good use, mentally creating rambla-kins, my new made-up term for stuff to discuss at length.
About an hour later, a young cop comes in and asks me a few questions which I refuse to answer. “Sorry, dude. I can’t start until I got me a lawyer.”
After another sixty minutes, I’m psyched and ready to go.
A pretty middle-aged woman joins me in the interrogation room. “I’m Pam Drucker. I’ll be representing you until Quinn gets here.”
I shake her outstretched hand. “I’m Sebastian Sutcliff. Real nice to meet you. My wife speaks highly of you.”
Sitting down, she smiles, leans in, and whispers, “I got money riding on you. Good luck.”
“Thanks, but luck has nothin’ to do with it. I’ve got mad skills.” With my feet on the table, I lean back in the uncomfortable wood chair, and close my eyes.
I need caffeine by the time another officer enters. I’m not about to start my marathon without a gallon of coffee and not the station’s piss.
“Dunkin D’s, extra-large, cream, no sugar.” I place my order with a guy about my age and height.
I guess he didn’t hear me correctly because he slides over gray liquid in a stained Styrofoam cup. “Here you go.”
Now, I may be chomping at the bit but there is no way I am lowering my standards. “No double D’s, no chit chat, no nothin’.”
What the fuck, over?
It don’t take more than thirty seconds for one of my biggest fans to rap on the interrogation room door. Detective Tim Brown hands my joe to my jailor, then forms a silent OK with thumb and forefinger.
Smiling, I take my sweet time pulling off the plastic lid, tearing a slurp hole, and snapping it back on.
When I finish, I glance at the two-way mirror. “Y’all ready?”
Someone taps the glass and my lawyer lifts her sleeve so I can get an accurate read on her diamond studded watch. Sighing heavily, I take a deep breath and let it out real slow. Except for sex, this may be the most fun I’ve had since the last time I was here.
About three hours in, Andy arrives and relieves Pam. He rubs my shoulders and hands me a glass of water. “How ya doing, champ?”
“Never better. I already wore out the first guy and the second is beginning to look glassy-eyed. …Now where was I? Let me roll on back a bit. I lost my place.”
“Go back as far as you like.” The sleepy cop across the table grins like he’s got a whole wad of money riding on me taking my time.
“Thank you, kindly. Now, Sam was trailing a douchebag cheating on his wife. Her words not mine. Did I ever tell you how I met her? It was her first and last interview for the FBI. I used to feel guilty because I got her fired but not anymore. She never would’ve succeeded there.” My cock hardens as I recall our first glorious night of sex and I miss the cop’s next question but it don’t matter none.
“Y’all mind if I start again?” I almost laugh out loud as the FBI agent standing in the corner checks his cell phone and gives me a thumbs up.
If everyone is voting for me, who’s betting against? Confused, I recall all of the times Sam has gotten in too deep. “I suppose you could say this was all my fault because I insisted Sam, my wife, investigate safer cases. You see, she’s a mite prone to misfortune. We started this detective agency, Suds and Sam. She’s Samantha and I’m actually Sebastian but I got this nickname on account of an incident where I might’ve had a bit too much beer to drink. Anyhoo, on the night of August fifteenth …It was a Monday because the day before was Sunday which was church and dinner with her family. You ever hear Father O’Connell speak? Holy shit that man can ramble on. Hell, I sit there and take notes and-”
Someone bangs on the mirror and the cop on the other side of the table sighs. “Sorry, my time is up.”
Yawning, he departs as an older guy with sergeant stripes, a buzz cut, and gray eyes enters. Crossing his arms, he plunks down in front of me.
“Enough of this bullshit.”
“Yes sir.” Well, at least now I know who’s wagering against me. Thank God, otherwise it would be too easy.
“You were brought here to discuss why you shot at the District Attorney, so do it.”
