Graffiti Creek

by Matt Coleman

  The cop stood right behind her. She could feel him breathing. He flicked her license with a thumb. “Cary Ann Trubody. Five-five, huh? Shame they don’t put weight on here anymore, Cary Ann. It’s a good picture. Looks like you were a bit thinner then.”

  Cary swallowed a gag.

  Before he could say more, two more cars arrived simultaneously. One was a patrol car, lights going. The other was also a police car, but unmarked. They both pulled in to pin in her car at the front. A female officer climbed out of the patrol car, while two pot-bellied detectives in cheap suits rolled out of the unmarked car. They all three eyed her as they walked past. One of the detectives asked Officer Reynolds/Reynard, “Is it her?”

  He said, “Appears to be. Ask Officer Doyle.”

  The detective barked, “Go on, Doyle.”

  Cary heard a woman’s voice behind her, commanding, but softer. “Turn around where I can see you.”

  She did as asked and faced the female officer. She was an inch or two shorter than Cary. Her hair was tied back in a tight ponytail. All of her features angled into dark corners and mysterious points except her eyes. They perfectly matched her skin’s deep shade of brown. Soft eyes. Sad. They stared at one another for a moment. Officer Doyle squinted, closed her eyes for a beat, swallowing regret, or resignation. She sighed. “It’s her.”

  Cary batted her eyes at everyone there. “Who? I don’t know you. I don’t know any of you. I was just driving home from a party.”

  Officer Reynard (she could make it out now) laughed. “Some party. Three o’clock in the morning?”

  One of the detectives stepped forward and ordered her to turn back around. “Where do you keep your phone, Miss Trubody?”

  Cary stuttered, confused, “It’s—it’s in my—my back pocket. Why?”

  Without hesitation, the detective slipped her phone out of her pocket and walked over to his partner. They huddled together and studied the screen of Cary’s phone. The partner scrutinized Cary. “You got a passcode?”

  Cary shook her head.

  They spent several minutes perusing through her phone, while Cary tried to peer over her shoulder. Officer Reynard growled at her to turn around several times.

  Heaving a sigh, the detective who took Cary’s phone walked up waving it at her. “Where is it, Miss Trubody?”

  She half-turned. “Where…where is what?”

  His partner stared at the night sky. “Jesus. Don’t do this.”

  Cary quivered her head back and forth. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you have the wrong—”

  The detective cut her off and turned to Reynard. “You got zip ties?”

  Reynard nodded and pulled out a black zip tie. The detective took it and patted Cary on the shoulder. “Hands behind your back, fingers interlaced.”

  She laughed out objections but did as she was told. The detective guided her toward the unmarked car and placed her in the backseat. He glanced back at the other three. “Get her car and follow me. Reynard, you take care of the friend.”

  Doyle almost raised her hand, then embarrassedly squeaked. “What about me, sir?”

  He laughed. “Get the hell out of here, Doyle. We’re done.”

  Cary craned her neck up from the backseat. “What am I being arrested for?”

  The detective chuckled. “You aren’t arrested, sweetheart. We’re just taking a little drive.”

  Chapter 3

  The Hill Street Cafe sat tucked into a row of squat brick shops less than a block from the beginnings of a labyrinthine complex of governmental buildings. It was one of more than fifty restaurants within walking distance of Dollar Hill—a name given to an area populated by lawyers and politicians.

  And cops.

  There were cops mingled in and around every part of Dollar Hill. Especially the Hill Street Cafe. Despite its shit box appearance, the Hill Street Cafe had earned a reputation as a favorite hangout of cops, city politicians, and high-ranking officials working in Dollar Hill.

  Dollar Hill, for all its problems, championed diversity, with local lobbyists and young lawyers coming from every creed, color, and constitution. However, the Hill Street Cafe remained one of the last vestiges of Old Straight White Male America. Which meant looking too brown or gay could make someone stand out a little.

  And Sameer Zardari looked exactly like a Pakistani Freddy Mercury.

  On his first visit to the Hill Street Cafe, he even wore a denim jacket and black and white vertically-striped shirt with his Converse high-tops and slim-cut jeans. He peered down at himself in contrast to the suits and police uniforms scattered among the booths and sighed. A waitress approached holding a steaming pot of coffee. She eyed him up and down with a smirk. “Is this your first time here, sweetheart?”

  “Well, I drove by once. I noticed the name of your establishment. It stood out to me because, as a child I used to watch reruns of Hill Street Blues.” Sameer chuckled softly to himself. “I was always partial to the episode where Sgt. Belker wore the chicken suit and—” The waitress had added a pair of raised eyebrows to her smirk, so Sameer nodded and mumbled out a “Yes. It is my first time.”

  Her amusement grew into a full smile. “You can seat yourself.” She leaned closer and almost whispered, “There’s an empty booth at the back. Kinda out of the way. I’ll be with you in a second.”

  Sameer nodded a thanks and made his way to the back booth. He felt the need to almost cover himself as if he were naked as he walked between booths and tables full of loaded stares.

  After a minute or so, the waitress reappeared with a menu and a notepad. Sameer ordered a cup of coffee and refused the menu. The waitress—Juliana, according to her name tag—wrinkled her brow at him. “You don’t want to eat?”

  Sameer smiled. “I don’t eat much breakfast. I find early meals to be disrupting. Not to say—I do not mean they cause me to—in general, breakfast simply makes me feel heavy, like a—”

  “Sweetie,” Juliana returned the smile, but interrupted. She glanced over her shoulder at the other patrons, who were still steadily throwing glances in Sameer’s direction. “I don’t mean to pressure you, but it might draw less attention if you ordered a pancake or something.”

  Sameer followed her gaze to the rest of the cafe. He noticed a couple of pie plates on the bar with pies resting under them. “Is that a chocolate pie?”

  Juliana laughed a little. “Yeah. You want chocolate pie?”

  “My mother made what she called ‘icebox pie.’ Her pie had whipped cream. I’ve found that I prefer meringue as an adult. The slight caramelization of the top of it appeals to—” Sameer pursed his lips and nodded. “I’ll take a slice, yes.”

  Juliana flipped closed her notepad and laughed again. “You got it. I guess that’s the advantage of being a grown-ass adult, huh? Nobody’s going to say you can’t have pie for breakfast.”

  They shared a smile before Juliana left to get coffee and pie. Sameer leaned back into his booth, slouching down to provide at least some modicum of privacy. The place was cufflink to cufflink with middle-aged and older white men. They all reeked of wealth and their eyes were hardened by animosity. He didn’t find any faces he recognized, but, then again, Seamus knew city politics better than Sameer. More importantly though, he didn’t see a single friendly face in the room. He couldn’t imagine cold approaching any of the stuffed shirts currently eyeing him like he had horns.

  Juliana brought a slice of pie and refilled his coffee a few times. Each trip, she smiled and offered some small talk—a comment about traffic, updating him on the recent switch of coffee brands, complimenting his jacket. When it came time to pay, Sameer realized Juliana might be the only agreeable local he was going to find.

  He pulled out a twenty and slid it toward her when she started to hand him the bill. Juliana took the twenty and tossed out, “I’ll be right back with some change, sweetie.”

  Sameer sat forward to catch her. “I don’t—I don’t need change.”

&n
bsp; Juliana stopped and turned with raised eyebrows. “You sure?”

  Sameer nodded. “I would like to maybe speak with you for a moment, however.”

  Juliana shifted her weight and gave him a sad smile usually followed by some polite mention of a boyfriend back at home. She started with, “What is it you want to talk about?”

  Sameer nodded once and placed his hands on the table in front of him. “My husband.”

  Juliana’s countenance flashed a mixture of surprise and the facial calisthenics of trying not to come across as offensively surprised. She shook her head. “Do I know him or something?”

  Sameer shrugged. “Possibly. He is missing. I haven’t heard from him in days. Which is not like him. But he’s an adult, which means not much being done.”

  Juliana squinted and nodded. “I’m so sorry.” She cocked her head. “But I’m not sure—”

  Sameer cut her off. “His name is Seamus Fitzgerald.” He pulled a photo out of his pocket. The candid shot showed him and Seamus together at a friend’s wedding. They were both in suits and smiling broadly. “His work friends sometimes called him Fitz or Fitzy.”

  Juliana picked up the photo and studied it before smiling. “You look so happy.” She handed it back. “What kind of work?”

  Sameer took the photo back with a nodded thanks. “He’s a reporter. This is the last place he came. That I know of.”

  Juliana’s eyes suddenly jumped around, nervous. She cleared Sameer’s cup and plate, leaning closer to him. “Do you smoke?”

  “I once had a cigar. I was at an open market in—” Sameer put a hand on his mouth and shook his head, “No.”

  Juliana used his napkin to wipe at a spot on the table. “You should start. I take my break one building over in a little alley. Five minutes.” She stood back up. “I wish I could help you. I’m sorry, sweetie.”

  Sameer flustered for a beat but recovered. “Th—thank you. No, I appreciate your help. And the pie. Quite delicious. Thank you.” He stood to leave, nodded awkwardly to Juliana, and hurried out.

  Outside, Sameer snapped his head in both directions. To his right, an intersection of walkways and bike paths zigzagged off into the maze of governmental complexes. The next building was almost a block away. A row of squat buildings stretched out to his left. The closest one resembled a former restaurant itself. It was vacant. He turned left and walked around the vacant restaurant to find a quiet alley. Midway down he found a table left over from the restaurant. Two metal chairs sat on either side around an old cup full of cigarette butts on the table.

  Sameer pulled out one of the chairs, which had old green paint flaking off of it, and sat down. He didn’t have to wait long. Within minutes, Juliana came walking up from the back of the building. She lit a cigarette as she approached and took the seat across from Sameer. Holding out a hand, she said from around her cigarette, “Can I see his picture again?”

  Sameer fished out the glossy three-by-five and handed it to her. Juliana examined it and, this time, nodded solemnly. “Seamus ‘Fitzy’ Fitzgerald, huh?” She laughed and handed back the photo. “His name sounds like a reporter’s name.”

  Sameer smiled. “Have you seen him?”

  Juliana nodded. “He’s been in. Several times. I didn’t recognize him from the picture at first. He worked a little harder at blending in than you did.” She laughed. “But yeah, I’ve seen him. When you said he was a reporter, it rang a bell.”

  Sameer shook his head. “Why?”

  Juliana took a drag. “Well, he came in probably seven or eight times. The first five or so? I didn’t think a thing of it. But a couple of weeks back, he started asking questions. General stuff. Like, about who’s been in. Who eats with who. That type of thing.” She shrugged. “At first, I didn’t think much of it. We get some recognizable people in here some. So it brings out the occasional star struck question.”

  Sameer squinted at her. “At first?”

  Juliana nodded. “Yeah. So he keeps it up. More and more questions. After a time or two, another one of the waitresses caught sight of him outside with some kid videoing the front of the cafe. Our boss looked into him a little and said he thinks the guy is a reporter.”

  Sameer shook his head. “Why would it matter?”

  Juliana shrugged. “Doesn’t. To me. But our customers are private about their lunch conversation. The last time your husband ate lunch here, he barely touched his food. He was too interested in trying to listen in on the conversation at another table.”

  “Who?”

  Juliana cast a glance back over her shoulder. “There’s a state senator and a federal court judge who eat here together all the time. Your husband had asked about them before. Freeman and Halter. Not sure about first names, but you should be able to find them easy enough.” She smoked nervously, finishing one cigarette and quickly lighting another. “But the other day, when the cops joined them, that’s when your husband showed particular interest. And the thing is, after he left—your husband—those cops followed him out. Or, at least I think they did. It looked like they did.”

  Sameer dug a pen out of his pocket and found an old receipt to write on the back of. “The cops, do you know their names?”

  Juliana grimaced and shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. I remember seeing them a time or two, but I never waited on them. They’re detectives though. I can always tell from the cheap suits.”

  Chapter 4

  Johnna sobered up fast. The back of a squad car has that effect. Some berry-scented air freshener mingled with the scent of dried vomit. Her sister used the same fragrance—Mulberry—to mask the smell of what she had done in the bathroom one time. Johnna and her friends called the aroma “Shitberry.” Her sister couldn’t shake the nickname until college. She leaned forward in her seat, pushing her forehead against the plexiglass between her and Officer Reynard. “My nose itches. Can we take these zip ties off? I’m not going to try anything.”

  Officer Reynard drove on stoically. He called back, “Sit back, ma’am. Please. For your own protection.”

  Johnna did as told but asked, sweetly, “Am I under arrest?”

  Officer Reynard met her eyes in the rearview mirror but didn’t respond. He was an attractive guy—dark features and wavy hair flipped back onto his neck. He looked like the kind of guy who could grow a full beard in a few days. He carried himself with arrogance of junior college baseball player.

  Johnna inwardly began to panic. Cary snagged her a job interview at a local magazine. But if she got arrested for public intoxication, then she might still be locked up by Monday morning. Surely she couldn’t be jailed for being a little tipsy in the passenger seat of a car. Or maybe she could. Johnna knew dick about the law. But she did know one thing: junior college baseball players.

  Her hands were locked behind her but rolled her shoulders forward enough to create a little extra cleavage. She pouted her lips into the officer’s reflection in the mirror. “Thank you for being so concerned about my well-being, officer.”

  Reynard chuckled.

  “You know, I’ve always been a huge supporter of the police.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah?”

  She let her voice go breathy. “Oh, yeah. Huge.” She licked her lips.

  Reynard let her advances lie for a beat before swallowing and creaking out. “How supportive are you willing to be?”

  Johnna swayed her head, in thought. “Oh, I don’t know. Will it,” she bit her bottom lip, “get me off?”

  Reynard pulled back behind a factory building. A clothes manufacturer of some sort. Johnna thought she recognized the name on the sign—cheap jeans, if memory served. Wonderful, she thought to herself, I’m about to get cop-raped in the parking lot of a shitty jeans factory.

  Reynard parked up against the building. The lot loomed empty, with security lights creating glowing circles in a repeating pattern. The cop car nosed into a swath of shadow stretching from a dumpster to a loading dock.

  Reynard opened the back door
and helped her out. He gently turned her around and ran fingers down her bare arms. Johnna glanced back in a forced flirtation. He breathed in the essence of her hair as he snapped off the zip tie.

  She turned and leaned against the car, trying to smile so she wouldn’t show her bluff. Her facade was cracking and she realized it. If she wanted this to work, she would have to dive into it. Reckless abandon and all that shit. Johnna started to slide down to her knees, but Reynard caught her by the arms and raised her back up. She frowned and moped, “But don’t you want me to show my appreciation?”

  Reynard slid his big hands, with the hairy knuckles, up her arms. Onto her collar bones. He grinned and shook his head in puzzlement. The expression of a little kid with a magnifying glass in the sun. Waiting. Wondering how long before the ant catches fire. His hands continued. Onto her neck.

  Johnna squirmed and lost all pretense. “What are you—”

  The last word choked out into a croak. Johnna scratched at Reynard’s arms. His uniform was thick material. One of her nails broke off completely trying to claw through it. Reynard pressed a meaty knee across her thighs, holding her legs against the car. He kept squeezing, his fingers beginning to meet and lock around her throat. Johnna thought about her sister again. And Cary. And then, nothing.

  Chapter 5

  Cary wrestled with the zip tie around her wrists. She’d never been bound before. It hurt. Settling on a halfway comfortable position, she leaned her face against the cool of the glass. She had started into panic sweats, feeling the tingling burn creep through her face. She waited for the police station to come into view, but it didn’t. They were heading out of town.