[Completed] A U.S. expatriate is cast into a rainy, foggy corner of Europe. He went there on the pretense to work on his research, but he actually wanted to put as many miles as possible between himself and his ex.
The university he works for has fo...
They heard the waitress' agitated voice before they saw her. The pony-tailed police officer had apparently been able to get hold of her.
"You don't have the right to arrest me like that." Monica's words were shrill. "I just googled it. You can't do that unless you have a strong suspicion that I've committed a criminal offense."
She appeared in the door, followed by Ponytail, and made a beeline for Savage. "What's this?" She waved her phone towards the Meiers, Ralph, and Art. "Do you suspect us of having murdered Mrs. Knooch?"
Savage raised his hands defensively. "This is just a routine investigation. I'm sorry for the inconvenience that we may cause you."
Monica fingered her mobile. Then she held it up to Savage's face, like a priest warding off a fiend from hell. "See here? You can't arrest us unless you have a strong suspicion."
Savage cast a glance at the device, then at Ponytail, and finally looked down at Monica. Her wiry frame didn't even reach the height of his collarbone. "You need to understand... in view of our preliminary investigations, we can't rule out a murderer living in the building. There are no signs of forced entry into the building." His expression was neutral.
"Which makes us the primary suspects." Monica stepped over to the others to stand beside Adriana. She glowered at the inspector, her thumbs hooked into her broad belt. She now wore jeans and a black leather jacket.
No black and white stripes, nor orange—Art felt a bit disappointed. He would have loved to see Savage's expression at the sight of a Monica in prison garbs.
"No, you're not the primary suspects. We just want to talk to you at the police station. We do appreciate your cooperation. As I said, you should be back before evening." He extended an arm towards the waiting van.
"Of course, Officer," Ralph said and then looked at Monica. "He's right, Monica. Let's get this over with."
Mrs. Meier started towards the vehicle. Adriana shrugged and followed her.
Art watched Monica in fascination. Her eyes darted between Savage and Ralph.
An angry fox caught between a bear and a wolf.
"Please," said a voice close to Art.
He turned, surprised by the word, and saw Ponytail smiling at him.
Herding the suspects into the van.
That was what she wanted.
"Sure." As he made to turn towards the vehicle, he caught Monica looking at him, biting her lip. He gave her a slight nod and a wan smile, willing the fox to avoid confrontation with the wolf and the bear.
The corners of her mouth twitched, then she shrugged. Still clutching her mobile phone in her hand, she walked off towards the van, past Ralph and Art.
Art followed her.
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The van's back section had three rows of seats. Mrs. Meier was in the rear, Adriana in the middle, and Monica at the front. Monica's attention was on her phone. Adriana smiled at him, so he took the seat beside her.
"I can't wait to tell my friends at the radio about this," she said. "I'm a suspect in a murder case. Imagine that." Her tone of voice was tense.
"Yeah, it's kind of funny." Art had to agree.
Ralph entered and sat down beside his mother, and the van started.
"Not sure about funny," Adriana said. "More like weird. You know, like one of these stories you see in a movie or you hear about. And suddenly you're sitting right in the middle of it. It reminds me of something I've recently seen on TV."
Adriana started telling Art about some whodunnit that she had watched. He nodded and hmm'ed at what he thought were the right places and let her do her talking while he watched the city passing by the car's windows. The stony, austere buildings stood too close to each other. The people on the sidewalks wore grays and blacks. A world nearly devoid of colors.
It all felt unreal.
No signs of forced entry... can't rule out a murderer living in the house...
Savage's words echoed in his mind. He was suspect in a murder case. A mathematician, who'd rather be a postdoc in Hawaii, and he was sitting in a police car with his fellow suspects.
Suspect Adriana at his side was talking his ear off, but at least she was a spot of color in a world of grays, with her red scarf, red lips, and red ear things. And her voice was melodious, explaining how they pinned down the culprit in that TV series by using a psychic.
Suspect Monica was lounging in the seat ahead of Adriana, one of her loafers set against the wall separating the passengers from the two officers. She stared at her phone, as usual. The screen displayed black text on a white background and an orange bar at the top. The long strands of her hair were in need of a wash and obscured most of her face from where he sat. But he saw a faint smile on her lips as her eyes moved along the writing.
And behind him were the Meier suspects, the oldish Janitor and her not-so-young son, probably eying the lot of them in disapproving silence. For all he knew, the two of them could have been the ones strangling Knooch last night, for whatever reason these people might need to commit a murder—if they needed a reason at all.
And Knooch, lying on that bed of hers.
His thoughts kept churning, like his socks tossed about in the communal washing machine at Dumstreet 9. The murder, the neighbors, this place, the murder, the neighbors...
"Sorry," Adriana said.
Art became aware that Adriana had stopped talking, her last word obviously an apology. He turned his face towards her. "Er..."
She wore a small smile. "I'm talking too much, I'm sorry. You know, I do need a smoke, I'm such an addict. And when I can't smoke, my mouth starts going blah, blah, blah. Can you forgive me?" She placed her hand on his arm. "I'm trying to quit, you know. It's such a messy and smelly habit. I hate myself for doing it."
"No problem, I appreciated you doing the talking. I'm... at a loss for words. I guess we're all a bit out of sorts today."
She retracted her hand but left a tingling sensation where she had touched him. Her fingernails had the same color as her scarf and her lips.
His wife Jane had used to paint her fingernails, too. She probably still did.
——
A/N 1: Dedicated to tranquilstars for lending me the metaphor of thoughts like clothes tumbled about in a washing machine
A/N 2: This book has been tagged #grownupreads. This is a new, semi-official tag for a readership that is (by age or attitude) 30 years or older. If you want to know more about this tag (and plans for an upcoming official Wattpad personality for this reader-/authorship), have a look at the chapter Where Wherewolves Walk With Vile Veerwolves in my book Fleeting Thoughts (yeah, I know, the title is deceptive)
