Frustrated, both detectives had abruptly abandoned the previous interrogation, leaving Frank alone with his thoughts. He sat stone-faced in the chair, unwilling to give them anything that would help them to incriminate him. Frank remained immovable, leaving the detective without the answers he sought to force out of him. Lisa did this to herself, and their refusal to accept that was not his fault.
Now, Detective Baptiste and Detective Saenz re-entered the room, forcefully pulling the wooden door closed behind them. Detective Baptiste cast a suspicious eye in Frank’s direction as he took the seat nearest Frank.
“May I get you anything?”
“No, I don’t need anything.” Frank did not want amenities. He wanted to return to his wife, for this nightmare to end.
“We need your help, Franklin.” Detective Baptiste kept his eyes on Frank but caught a peripheral view of Detective Saenz, idling in a corner behind Frank, as he spoke. The detective drew his words out to undercut the heavy French accent that showed up in the pronounced r’s and k’s, pausing at the end of each sentence to confirm that Frank understood. “Someone hurt your wife; nearly killed her dead. I tink you know who that someone is, Franklin.”
Frank stared blankly at the detective, weary at the mere thought of defending himself against his baseless accusations. He shifted in his seat as Detective Saenz suddenly rushed toward him, slamming his fists on the cheap square table, violating Frank’s personal space. Frank clasped his hands together in his lap beneath the table, lightly tapping the heel of his foot, pushing the growing rage bubbling in the pit of his stomach into his feet, as far from his heart as was possible—a distance that, he hoped, would help him to manage it.
“I did not hurt my wife.”
The detective’s eyes traced his mannerisms, heightening his sensibility. Bracing himself for the inevitable questions, Frank summoned his inner child, pulling from the history of the young boy growing up on the East Coast, molded by his father to function as a Manchurian Candidate of sorts.
Gripping one corner of the table and the back of Frank’s chair, Detective Saenz injected himself into the interrogation. The lines deepened in his lemon-shaped face as his energy soared to a new plateau. The top of his Hershey-smooth head glistened with sweat, bringing attention to the carefully edged half ring of straggly gray hair holding onto its sides.
“Stop ya lying, now! We know ya did it! Come on! No bullshit! Dis Charlie person is not a real person! Just admit it!” His accent, even more pronounced, stabbed at Frank’s patience with each word. Understanding him was difficult in and of itself, but his obvious bias in regard to Frank’s guilt equated the act of listening to him with Frank driving an ice pick into his inner ear.
Frank remained silent. His face, expressionless, giving no indication as to which of the detective’s claims, if any, were true.
Detective Baptiste cleared his throat, cueing his partner to calm down. “Frank, I am tryin’ to help you, but you have got to give me something. Unless attempted murder is okay for you?”
Frank looked at Detective Baptiste and then away again. Distress reddened his hazel eyes. Frank felt weak, exhaustion fracturing his resolve with each passing minute. “Why are you doing this? I need her. Don’t you understand? I could never hurt her.”
“That’s good.” Detective Baptiste, who had been slouching in the fold-up chair he occupied, sat up, leaning forward toward Frank. Engineering a false empathic connection. “Then, tell me exactly what happened in dat room.” Detective Baptiste tried to sustain a gregarious approach.
“I told you everything I know.” Frank grimaced as tension generated fresh knots throughout his body.
Detective Baptiste, deciding to niggle at Frank’s apparent frustration, prodded him further. “So what, tell me again, from da start.”
Frank slouched his shoulders, preparing to rebirth what laid a constant siege on his mind, the mental picture accompanying his words making him queasy. “I came out of the bathroom and found her laying on the floor, covered in . . . covered in blood. I thought she was gone. I am not sure what happened.”
Detective Saenz sat on the corner of the table, leaning in toward Frank’s face, nearly brushing his lips against his skin as he spoke. “I heard ya 912 recording. Talkin’ ’bout some Charlie person.” Saenz rattled off the information, not bothering to mask his agenda. Itsy remnants of the jerk chicken and rice consumed during his lunch, spewing out of his mouth, landed on the exposed layers of Frank’s skin. “But there is no Charlie person, and there never was.”
“No, Charlie is a real person.” Frank looked Saenz directly in the eye.
“You did dis! No Charlie person!” Detective Saenz’s words warmed his ears like a lead bullet.
Frank’s cheeks reddened as his frustration mounted. He struck his fists on the table in annoyance. “Charlie is a real person but she . . . she isn’t here.” Frank dropped his head, trying to calm his racing heart. He was losing control of himself. That would not get him back to Lisa any sooner. It would only delay their reunion. He needed to keep it together, regardless of what they said or thought of him.
“Because she does not exist!”
“That’s not true! Charlie didn’t physically hurt Lisa, but she is responsible.” Gently raising his head, he peered directly into Saenz’s eyes again. Absent from them was any question regarding his guilt or innocence. Saenz was simply gunning for a confession. There would be no convincing him of his innocence. “I didn’t touch Lisa. I would never, ever hurt my wife.” Frank put his head face-down on the table.
“That is not what the pretty wife said to me, Franklin. She told me that you did dis to her.”
Lifting his head, a bug-eyed Frank stared at Detective Baptiste in disbelief. “No, she couldn’t have. She wouldn’t.”
“Come on, Franklin, think about it. Huh? Open your ears and listen to what I am tellin’ you.”
Detective Baptiste’s smug and cavalier tone incensed Frank. His body started to visibly shake as the battle to control his anger ensued.
“The way I see it, she left you, Franklin. Fled your country, the great Americas, and come all da way here to get away from you. You followed her here, to my island, Saint-Martin, to make her pay for making you feel like a little man, no?”
“That’s not what happened!”
“Are you sayin’ you didn’t follow her here?”
“I did, but it was to bring her home.”
“That’s right. You stalked her. A couple of days pass by, tension become too much, can’t take simply watchin’ her no more. So, you sneak into her room and wait.”
Frank frantically shook his head from side to side, rejecting Baptiste’s story.
“Surprised her in da loo, chased her into da kitchen area. She fought you. Didn’t want to go nowhere wit’ you. Grabbed a knife to defend herself, but you were too strong. Big man you are, Franklin. Beatin’ a little fragile woman.”
“You’re wrong!”
“She rejected you, and it made you really angry. So angry that you stabbed her with tha knife! Isn’t that correct, Franklin?”
“I love her! I would never do what you’re accusing me of!”
Detective Saenz jumped in. “Ya record says otherwise. Currently out on bond for aggravated assault.”
Frank shook his head, mentally trying to mitigate the effect of the evidence incriminating him. “That has nothing to do with this.”
“It has everyt’ing to do with this, Franklin.” Detective Saenz hinted at the cards he intended to play. “That tells me that you are a very dangerous, very violent individual. The type of man that nearly beat another man to death.”
Frank slammed his hands on the table in frustration. “I did not hurt Lisa!”
Accepting that Frank was not going to change his story, Detective Baptiste decided to conclude their interrogation. “Well, Franklin, I hope for your sake that’s true. Trust me, I will find out if you’re tellin’ me more lies.”
Frank was about to st
and to leave, but Detective Baptiste held a finger up, stopping him cold. Finding comfort in the fact that although he could not charge him, he did not have to release him, Baptiste stood and began walking toward the door. “Until we confirm whether or not you are in violation of your bond in the States, you will remain here in my custody.”
“I’m not in violation. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“We will see about that, Franklin.”
“But I need to see my wife.” Frank desperately wanted to get back to Lisa. “You can’t hold me without charging me.”
Turning his face in Frank’s direction, Detective Baptiste did not hide his disgust. “This is my island. I don’t care ’bout your money here, or about what it is you want. Only the lady in the hospital now because of you. If it’s up to me, Franklin, if and when you leave here, next stop will be Princess Juliana Airport.”
Detective Baptiste opened the door and motioned for officers to lead Frank to a holding cell. “But if you want to confess, maybe I could make some’ting happen for you, you know?”
The officers brought Frank to his feet, placing the cuffs on him again, and ushered him out of the room and into a cell. Frank felt empty inside. Things had gone so terribly wrong. Uncertain of where he stood with Lisa, the little fight he had seeped out of him. The money wasn’t even important to him anymore. More than anything in the world, he wanted to put his family together again. Time would reveal if he got the chance.
Chapter 14
Rachel was running late, and Micah felt his patience waning. This girl was forever behind schedule. If it were left to her, she would be late to her own funeral. Hovering near the door to the front of one of the buildings of North Park Center, a ritzy Dallas mall, Micah groaned in irritation. Nothing pained him more than an inconsiderate woman. Rachel definitely took the cake. Three phone calls and three voicemails equaled three missed opportunities for Rachel to catch a hint. Saturday morning was still fresh on his mind, and he did not want to see her. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, but she would not take no for an answer, begging him to come pick her up. He had reluctantly agreed to do it at the risk of losing his sanity. This conversation needed to happen. He reasoned his brief suffering would serve the greater good, freeing him from her entirely.
Closing his eyes in acceptance, he reclined his seat and thought back to the motivation behind all of this, the sole reason he had allowed Rachel into his reality. The West End was a far cry from the premier nightlife attraction it was once in its heyday. Reduced to a glorified bus stop and a few run-down food chains, it could no longer boast of its grandeur. Still, the West End station saw plenty of foot traffic. Micah had chosen to ride the train with plans to make the short walk from Main Street and Lamar to Dealy Plaza. His stint as an architect with Good, Fulton, & Farrell, specifically the 508 Project, had kindled a quiescent fancy for the places of note Dallas offered. The famed patch of grass landed the top spot on his list. Micah, along with a healthy number of tourists, spent hours taking in the remnants of that day, November 22, 1963, a day that changed America. He was completely immersed in his thoughts, preparing to board the train at the conclusion of his trip, when she re-entered his stratosphere.
He thought he was imagining her, as he had on several occasions, but when the shadowy likeness moved, his world came to grinding halt. Butterflies swarmed in his belly, lifting his feet off the ground, granting him access to the moon. His body froze on the platform as he immersed his entire being in their momentary connection. He could scarcely believe his luck and ultimately credited their reunion to fate. Though he did not reclaim her verbally that day, the emotional flood gates were opened once more.
Seeing her at the station, even briefly, had proven to be enough to jar him free of the nightmare he could not stop reliving: the night he lost her. His life had not been the same since that night. He was in mourning and could not be sated by anything or anyone else. Despite the strength of his longing, their last interaction had not ended well, and he did not know how to approach her.
He returned to the West End every day and waited for her to reappear, hopeful that the words would come to him if the opportunity ever presented itself. And she did return, every week. He watched her movements, careful to stay off her radar. It did not take long before he figured out what brought her downtown: therapy. Micah thought he blended in with the L7’s frequenting the area, but Rachel noticed him lurking outside the office building and flirtatiously questioned his being there.
His truth slid from his lips effortlessly. He told her about the love he lost, that the building was the last place he had seen her. He confessed that he came back daily, hoping to lay his eyes on her once more. Rachel offered to mend his broken heart, to be the bridge he needed to move on into the next chapter of his life. He accepted her kind gesture, craving a woman’s touch. And so began their brittle romance.
Rachel swung open the door, tossing the evidence of her mini shopping spree into the backseat, and plopped down in the passenger seat.
“Thanks for coming, Micah. I wasn’t sure you would.”
Micah raised his seat upright, staring at her from behind his shades. “Not that you left me much of a choice.”
“What do you mean?”
Micah rolled his eyes, discontented with the direction of their chitchat. “You tried to threaten me.”
“Whoa! Taking a few liberties?” Rachel laughed lightly. “I believe my government teacher once referred to it as an incentive.”
“I doubt that is what he or she had in mind, Rachel.”
“Whatever.” Flashing a coy smile, Rachel reclined in her seat. “Let’s go. I’m starved.”
“Are you serious?” Micah had no intention of spending the evening with her.
“Naturally,” Rachel quipped, playfully removing the shades from his eyes, prodding his temperament. “We need to talk about what happened the other morning.”
Micah knew she would want to discuss the abrupt end to their tango, but he was not in the mood. He didn’t feel the need to fix whatever she felt was broken. His mind was on the woman who inhabited the sacred space in his heart. “That’s not happening today or ever.”
“Why did you come then?”
Micah massaged his temples, considering how best to answer her question, especially since he thought the answer was obvious given the start to this little banter between them. Even if he were willing to mend things, Rachel’s confession ushered in a permanent severance.
“Either give me an address or take your bags and catch the bus to wherever you need to go.”
“Renaissance Hotel, Room 1123. Not sure what the address is, but . . . I am pretty sure you know how to get there.”
Micah shifted into drive, rolling out onto the street, and headed toward the highway. Their presumed destination, his hotel, was a good thirty minutes away, providing him plenty of time to make things clear to Rachel.
“Say what you need to say, Rachel.”
“I plan to. Don’t worry about that.”
“Talk. Now.” Micah’s voice was stern, like a father coaxing the truth from his child.
“I don’t want to talk here.” Rachel focused her gaze through the limo-tinted passenger window and out onto the street. “I want your undivided attention.”
“This little thing between us is over, Rachel.”
Rachel released a long, telling sigh, drawing Micah’s attention to her face, then her hand, as she drew a trail from her cherry-red full lips to her egg-size breasts. “But I love you. You can’t quit me.”
Micah, unfazed by Rachel’s clumsy attempt at seduction, reiterated his point. “I don’t have time to play this game with you.”
Rachel quickly pulled the small lever on the side of her seat, popping up while turning her body toward Micah, quickly deadening her momentary show. “Game? You put my heart through a blender and accuse me of playing games?”
“That sounds like a personal issue. Furthermore, this isn’t about me. This is a
bout you.”
Rachel’s intransigent attitude made reason an improbability. “All of this is about you. Play nice, and I might allow you to keep your freedom.”
Micah remained calm, trying to keep his anger under control. “Rachel, you lied to me.”
Rachel leaned her head against the dashboard, sighing in frustration as the realization hit her. “Is that the only reason you came?”
“What were you expecting, Rachel?”
“Are you serious? For three weeks, my age never came up. Clearly it didn’t matter then, so it shouldn’t matter now.”
Micah’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “I don’t have time for this. Picking you up was a mistake, but I thought I could talk some sense into you.”
“Micah, don’t do this. I have done everything you asked.”
Micah shook his head, tapping his foot impatiently against the floorboard. “Rachel, I am not going to prison behind you or anyone else! Do you understand me?”
“Then I guess we’re going to your hotel room?”
Micah tuned into the clicking sound of his turn signal, monitoring the cars to his left and across the light, cautiously making a right turn onto the service road. “I gave you too much credit.”
“Excuse me?” Rachel was dogmatic in her retort, feigning a rather passable innocence. “Credit is what I need from you.”
Grinding his teeth, Micah swallowed the unsavory bile gathering at the base of his throat, repulsed at the mulish impulse he felt to “take care” of Rachel. It was an impulse he was hard-pressed to deny.
“Micah, all I want is you and a few dollars.”
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