After taking a number and waiting for what feels like most of my life (and it really is a healthy percentage of my life, considering I was born only two days ago), the last woman I want to see comes out. She has an “I don’t have time for your bullshit” look on her face before I even open my mouth. I don’t think I have the right vibe for her. Her first name is Denise and her last name hard to pronounce, so I know what I’m going to call her.
“Follow me,” Officer Denise says, pointing to a chair across from her desk. She leans back and takes a sip from a Styrofoam cup of coffee and says, “What seems to be the problem?”
I explain everything—waking up in the hospital, the memory loss, the bloody cape I tossed, the eyewitness account of me being pushed into an ice sculpture, my possible disagreement with Lauren Montcalm, and lastly, the fact that my accountshave been completely drained and closed.
“So we have a possible assault and…I’m sorry about the money, but I can’t do anything about your debts.”
“No, that’s just it. I think someone stole it.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I woke up in the hospital with no wallet, no ID, no money.”
“How much do you think was stolen?”
“I don’t know. All of it. I don’t know how much I had to begin with, but I charge a ton for matchmaking so I think I was flush.”
It sounds bad when I say it out loud in a police station. Most things probably sound bad in a police station. The truth sounds the way your face looks under the unforgiving lights of a truck-stop bathroom. She jots down a few notes on a yellow legal pad and asks, “Do you know anyone who might have a problem with you? Do you have any enemies?”
God. Enemies—that sounds so gangster. “Like I said, I have a few guesses. Right now my biggest lead is Lauren Montcalm.”
“Wait a minute. Are you talking about the artist Lauren Montcalm?” she asks.
“Yes! I had a recovered memory that I asked her for money.”
“A recovered memory?”
I nod. “The doctor said they would come back to me in flashes, like visions.”
She recoils at the wordvisions.“Oh boy. Anything else?”
I pull up Kobra’s Instagram profile and explain my issues with him.
“He’s a major problem,” she says.
“Wait, you know him? Who is he?”
“He’s a major meth dealer in the area. We’ve never been able to get charges to stick, but he’s definitely dealing.”
No surprise there, except I wonder how I hooked up with him in the first place. “Is he dangerous?”
“You don’t get to the top of the heap in the drug world through pacifism.”
I nod vigorously. I bet Kobra lied to me about being an international trader when I vetted him for the app.
“What about this boyfriend?” Denise saysboyfriendin a tone that is anything but innocent until proven guilty.
“He’s in Switzerland.” Why does everyone have to assume it was JP?
“Was he in Switzerland the night you were injured?”
“I don’t know.”
“Speaking of your boyfriend, why can’t he help you find your residence?”
“Again, he’s in Switzerland.”
“Don’t you talk? Doesn’t he have a phone?”
