by Erin Huss
Spider-Webbed Assailant clenched his jaw.
Chase pounded on the door. "Open up! Or deal's off." This sent my assailant into a blind rage. He grabbed a roll of duct tape.
"Not one word," he warned, ripping a piece of tape off with his teeth before slapping it over my mouth. He walked to the door, his fists balled tight and forearms flexed.
"Deal's already off," he declared upon opening the door.
I shimmied my arms under my butt, pulled my knees together and looped them through my arms. OK, Cambria, you can't screw this one up. Up high over your head, elbows together, good. Now, bring them down quickly and chicken-wing your arms out to the side.
It didn't work.
Again.
Nope.
The guy on YouTube made this look so easy.
"Come on, man, just give me a taste of whatever you got," Chase said in an uncharacteristically lazy drawl. He was either playing a role to trick his way into the apartment or I'd missed a Titanic iceberg of a detail in the case I already solved.
OK, Cambria, last time. Arms up high over your head, elbows together, bring them down quickly and chicken-wing your arms out and… Snap! My hands were free (thank you, internet!). I ripped the tape, taking my lips with it, or so it felt, and scrambled to my feet. My Jell-O-y legs carried me to the living room where I found Chase standing with Rev, in no rush to rescue me.
"Cambria?" he asked, confused.
"Chase, what…" My eyes ventured down to the tiny white baggie in his hand.
No.
I felt sick. I felt betrayed. I felt the need to inflict bodily harm. The rage burned so deep I no longer had control over it.
"You bastard!" I lunged toward him, knocking him into the wall. I shoved him against the wall again and again and again. He didn't put up a fight. My assailant didn't try to stop me either. He was actually laughing.
Just then, the door flew open, and in stormed a heavily armored man with a rifle pointed at my face. "Freeze!"
Now here's my knight in shining armor. Finally!
A gang of police officers dressed in black and carrying guns barged through the door. One gun pointed at Rev, who knew the drill and was already down on his knees with his hands high in the air.
"Hands up!" yelled my not-so-friendly knight. "I said hands up."
"You don't understand!" I released Chase, turning around to explain.
"Hands up!" he repeated.
Chase fell to the ground, clasping his hands behind his head instead of putting them up—he can't even follow the police officer's instructions.
"I said hands up, now!" the rifle-toting officer yelled.
This isn't happening.
"Look," I tried to explain again. "I promise I'm not—"
"Up!" Now there were three guns pointed at my head. Obviously, they were not in the mood to listen. I dropped to my knees, bringing my hands up as high as they would go.
A policeman pushed me to the ground. "Ouch! I didn't do anything," I pleaded with the man whose knee was in my back. He forced my hands together and slapped a cold, metal cuff over each wrist. "I'm the victim here. I promise I didn't do anything!" He led me through the door and out to the spectacle in the carports—dark SUVs, squad cars, a German Shepherd being escorted around by a policewoman, scores of people watching. I half expected a news crew to show up along with a helicopter.
"Cam!"
I heard the familiar voice and looked over my shoulder to scan the crowd. Tom stood behind two police officers. Lilly was balanced on his hip, her face digging into her daddy's shoulder. "Don't say anything! I'll meet you there!" Tom yelled.
This was really happening, I realized. I was being arrested, real handcuffs and all. My feet felt as if they were made of cinderblocks, and I dragged them to the police car. One hand on my head, and I was pushed down into the back seat.
Kevin came flying through the crowd. "No! Stop! That's my apartment manager," he screamed. Sometime, during all the fuss, his clothes had disappeared. A police officer wrapped his arm around Kevin's bare waist. "Let go of me! Do you know who I am?" Then he was on the ground, hands pulled behind his back, and on went the cuffs.
I dropped my head back against the seat, listening to the world collapsing around me.
This wasn't part of my theory.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Tenant shall be liable for all legal expenses if Tenant should have Landlord falsely jailed.
My chauffeuring police officer had dark, creamy skin, a dusting of black hair over his top lip, and a boyish face—like a twelve-year-old dressed in a policeman's costume. Instead of a badge and a gun, he should be carrying a pillowcase going door-to-door saying "trick-or-treat."
He led me through the back door of the police station and down a long busy hallway. We stopped at an unlabeled steel door, and the officer, to my surprise, removed the handcuffs and instructed me to wait in the chair. The room was small, warm, and gray. Two fluorescent tubes hummed from the ceiling, filling the small space with bright light. I sat at a table long enough to double as a bed, with an empty chair across from me.
My neck ached. I inspected the red marks on my wrists, the raw burns from the great zip-tie escape that turned out to be everything but great. No doubt I'd be sitting at home instead of in an interrogation room if the police had found me tied up. I hadn't been booked, at least not yet. No fingerprints. No mug shot—for which I was grateful. I had caught a reflection of the train wreck that was my face and bird's nest that was Einstein in the cruiser's window. Call me vain, but I wanted at least a decent-looking mug shot if I had to get one. Those follow you forever.
It struck me as odd that I'd been so dramatically paraded out in cuffs and shoved into the back of a police car only to be questioned. The information of my innocence must have come to the police while we were en route to the station. Now I'd be forced to give a full statement before I could go home.
Or so I thought.
The door opened. It was the ill-fitted-suit detective from the day I found Kenneth Fisk.
She stared at me so intently my palms began to sweat. Then she paced over to the opposite chair, remaining on her feet, one hand on her hip, the other holding a manila folder. "I'm Detective Angela Spray," she said with a forced grin. "Do you remember me?"
I flattened my hands on my thighs to keep my legs from shaking.
The detective cocked her head, staring at me with an unreadable expression. "Rough day, huh?"
I nodded.
She took a seat and leaned forward casually, as if we were two long-time friends about to have coffee. "Some tea? Water? Soda?"
I shook my head.
"I have a few questions for you so we can clear this up. OK?"
I nodded.
"I need you to answer verbally, please."
"Yes."
"Can you state your full name?"
"Cambria Jane Clyne," I answered so softly I could barely hear myself.
"Thank you, Cambria." She paused, slowly drumming her fingers on the tabletop. Painfully slow, starting with her pinky and ending with her pointer finger, only to start the rhythm over again. My stomach clenched. If she was trying to create a comfortable environment, one to make it easy for me to share the details of the traumatic event, then she was really sucking at it. "It's been a hard time for you, Cambria. Laid off, an eviction filed against you, new job isn't going so well, and money is tight. You've got to be feeling desperate, needing to provide for your daughter. Then there's the added stress of being a single parent."
Again, not feeling comfortable here.
"I talked to your buddy Rev," she said.
My heart flipped. "He's not my buddy."
"No? He's not? That's interesting." She spoke slowly then cleared her throat, much like I did when I was mentally preparing my next words. "He said you killed Kenneth Fisk and asked him to take care of the body for you."
I nearly fell out of my chair. "What! I never even met Kenneth Fisk."
"Rev sai
d that you came to make a purchase before work, Kenneth confronted you, and you killed him."
"Wh…wh…wh…" I forgot how to make words come out of my mouth. "I called the police to report it!"
"I know." The detective placed her elbows on the table and stared into my eyes. "It's a good tactic." She clasped her hands together. "Pretty genius really. Calling the police, making reports, and telling them about this tenant who is engaging in criminal activity when you yourself were the one working with one of the biggest drug dealers in the city. Takes all the focus off you. I get it. You're in financial ruin and have to take care of your child, can't afford to get caught."
"What?" I squeaked. "I didn't have anything to do with Kenneth Fisk, and I've never done a drug in my life!"
"Then why were you in Vincent's apartment?" She stiffened, like a dog ready to attack. "Why were you in the middle of a drug transaction?"
What is happening? "I was on the carport roof, and Rev pulled me down and dragged me into the apartment. If you spoke to him already, then you should know this."
"You were on the roof?"
"Yes. I climbed up there to see if I could find anything incriminating. I thought maybe Alice had something to do with… As a matter of fact, I know Alice or Wysteria, whatever her name is, did have something to do with Kenneth and the backpack."
The detective leaned back, staring at the ceiling as if her next question was written across it. The fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered, only adding to the intimidating ambiance. "You climbed an eight-foot-high stucco wall?"
"No, I got a lift up from Kevin."
"The one we arrested? The one so strung out he could barely walk?"
I felt faint. "Look. I had nothing to do with this. I'm just the apartment manager. Rev was holding me against my will. Since when is the victim treated like a criminal?"
"When we arrived you were engaged in a one-sided physical altercation with Chase Hudson. How was it you were being held against your will?"
"I was mad at him because he'd been lying to me."
"Lying to you about what?"
"About his involvement."
"His involvement in this case?"
"Sure, the case, the drugs, whatever. I was mad that he was buying drugs from Rev."
She nodded her head, as if answering an internal question. "Tell me this, Cambria. If you're just the apartment manager, innocently caught up in this, then how did you know Malone's exact location?"
"What?"
"Malone's location." She pulled a sheet of paper from the manila folder and read it out loud. "Vincent meeting Malone now at alcove. Rev. Alice is Wysteria. She stole the car. Vincent should be in prison. But why? Did he kill Kenneth?"
His inner circle is tight-lipped. He keeps a low profile, nearly impossible to locate. And you expect me to believe you just so happened to come across this information?"
I was confused beyond comprehension. "How did you even know I…" Crap. Did they tap my phone? "Wait. No, no, no. I'm not supposed to be talking," I thought out loud. Tom said not to say anything. Keeping broke, innocent people out of jail was what he did for a living. I was both broke and innocent. "I want to see my lawyer. Right now."
She stared at me. "You're not involved with Malone at all but already have a lawyer?"
I clasped my hands together to keep them from shaking. "Thomas Dreyer is my attorney. He's here waiting for me." I hope.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Landlord will be out of the office for personal or business reasons periodically during the term of the Lease.
My requesting to speak to an attorney didn't make Detective Spray very happy, and she had no qualms about letting me know it either, not by verbalizing her displeasure but by leaving me alone in the small, gray, hot room for several hours…or days…maybe weeks. There was no clock, no window to gauge the time. It felt like an eternity before Tom barged through the door. He'd ditched his Lakers shirt and sandals for a black suit, blue tie, blue shirt, and loafers.
I ran straight into him, throwing my arms around his body and burying my head into his chest. I'd never been so happy to see anyone in my entire life.
Tom pulled me back, with his hands around my shoulder blades. "Are you OK?" he asked, his hazel eyes running over me.
I was in an interrogation room having just been cuffed and searched and stuffed into the back of a police car, and he had to ask "Are you OK?"
I suddenly lost confidence in his lawyering abilities.
"No I'm not OK!" I yanked my shoulders out of his grasp. "What took you so long?"
After waiting in this horrid room for ages, my patience had worn thin. I was about to be tried and convicted for something I didn't do. I'd spend my life in prison with a crazy cellmate named Betty who'd never shower, steal my stuff, and be doing time for a crime so heinous I'd be forced to sleep with one eye open.
Leaving someone like me with a wild imagination in a small room should be deemed cruel and unusual punishment.
"I dropped off Lilly with Mrs. Nguyen and changed. I had these clothes in my car. Trust me, I hurried."
He took a seat, placed a black leather folder on the table, flipped it open to a notepad, and clicked his pen. "Sit down and let's figure this out."
I plopped down in the chair.
"Right now, they're only questioning your involvement. You haven't been booked yet, but if you are booked, you're looking at possible charges of possession with intent to distribute." Tom said matter-of-factly, as if he were telling me the score of the Dodgers game or what he ate for dinner. "There's also question of your involvement with the murder of Kenneth Fisk. Cam, this is serious."
My heart thundered in my chest. I nearly flew over the table. "Of course it's serious!" I stood and paced the room, squeaking my Converses from one corner to the next in three steps.
"I told you not to say anything," Tom said.
"I didn't know I was being questioned. I thought they were just taking a report."
"And they didn't read you your Miranda rights?"
I ignored him, still pacing. "I can't believe this is happening to me. Me! I couldn't have murdered him. The timing doesn't work. I was with Amy. I was with Mrs. Nguyen. This is a complete injustice. I was being held hostage—he tried to kill me!" I held out my wrists to show him the fresh red marks.
Tom grabbed my hands and pulled me closer to inspect, touching the wounds as if making sure they were real. "Cambria," he whispered. He rarely used my full name, so I knew I'd struck a nerve. "Sit down, and tell me everything from the beginning."
I fell down into the uncomfortable chair and launched into my story. "I was on the carport roof when I overheard Alice, or Wysteria—she could go by both or neither—and Vincent, the resident in 39. They were talking about Vincent meeting Malone at Alcove in a few minutes. I don't even know what that means. He left, and so did she, I guess. Unless she was hiding. I didn't see her in the apartment. I sent myself a text message with all the information." I crossed my legs and uncrossed them, unable to get comfortable in the chair. Or in the situation. "The detective was talking about the text I'd sent myself. Do you think they've been watching me? That they tapped my phone?"
"I don't think so," Tom said, jotting down the information on his notepad. "They probably found your phone when they searched the apartment. Plus they've got Rev and Vincent both down the hall saying you're a loyal customer and that's why you took the apartment management job. Also, they're both sticking to the story of you killing Kenneth Fisk."
"What?" I was up on my feet again, pacing the floor, wringing my hands. This had gotten out of control so fast. "I didn't do anything! Chase was the one buying whatever it was they were selling."
"Cocaine."
"Yes, Chase was buying cocaine. I was trying to leave, but then the police officer came, and I…ugh." I fell back on the chair.
Tom dropped his pen. "I told you I knew him. I've seen him down at the courthouse before. I knew it."
"Fine, you were righ
t, and I was wrong. Would you like to write that down on your notepad?" He took me up on the offer and wrote it in the margin. "As I was saying, I wasn't involved. I was trying to get away, except…ugh." I buried my face in my hands. "Instead of leaving I started beating the crap out of Chase."
Tom chuckled.
"It's not funny."
He sucked in his bottom lip and clicked the end of his pen against his temple repeatedly, staring down at his illegible notes. "It would only be funny if he was hospitalized," he added under his breath. He stared down at his notes again, nodding his head. "They didn't read you your rights, and detaining you for this long is a direct violation of your fourth amendment rights." He reached across the table and grabbed my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. I wondered if he did this with all his clients. "Hang tight. I'll be right back."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
As previously mentioned, Landlord reserves the right to at least one mental breakdown during the Lease term.
A room of any size turns into a miniature suffocating box—let alone an actual miniature, suffocating box—when you're awaiting vindicating news. The internal battle to remain upright and sane was becoming harder to win. I was ready to confess to just about any crime if they'd let me out. In an effort to stay lucid, I concentrated on the flood of questions spinning through my head at hyperspeed—Where did Alice go? Did Vincent get away? Was he arrested? If Kevin had called the police, wouldn't they have known I was being held against my will? Would they have sent a SWAT team? Who was Rev, and where did he come from? Why would he and Vincent both say I was the one who killed Kenneth? Was this their plan all along? To pin this on me? Did the police really believe them? Was Vincent the father of Alice's baby? Or Rev? Or this Malone person? Did Joyce know about Vincent?
I thought about the cute maintenance guy who had betrayed Patrick. He betrayed the property. He betrayed all the residents.
