Rude Awakenings: A Novel of the Terribly Acronymed Detective Club (Book 2)

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Al, Monday

Al snapped awake with his heart hammering in his chest, his mouth tasting metallic from the adrenaline flowing through his veins. In a panic, he didn't know where he was for a moment. Then he looked around from the table on which he'd laid his head and arms, and remembered he was in an interview room at the Vancouver Police Department headquarters on Second Avenue, under the Cambie Street Bridge. Then he remembered he'd just planned on resting his eyes a little, after calling in sick at the library (if this took longer than a couple of days, he might have to have a more honest conversation with his supervisor,) because he'd been so tired from being up for twenty-four hours after maybe very little sleep the night before.

At least he knew now that he was not going to lose his memory of the previous night every time he went to sleep, which suggested an outside agent had caused the blackout, not some neurological condition.

They'd brought him here to give him a ride back into town, because by then the taxi driver had given his statement and left, but not before collecting a highway ransom from Al. They'd also needed to get a fuller story from him on the events of the past day and previous night. Maybe he should have been more cautious when they'd placed him in this room, especially after they'd confiscated the hammer in his jacket pocket after patting him down; he should have asked himself if they considered him a suspect in his own wife's disappearance, but by then he'd been just too exhausted, and if he discovered at some point that he would need a lawyer, he would give Sunny a call. He needed to call him soon, anyway; his friend would want a progress report.

He looked around the room and found it very bare, a table and three chairs, including his, the only things in the room. Not even a glass of water to quench his sudden thirst. He also had to pee.

He stood from the table and went to the door. He found it locked. He looked around, but didn't see any mirrors that would indicate one-way glass; he wasn't being observed.

"Hello?" he called, feeling a rising panic at being in a locked room with no sign of any other life. "Can anyone hear me? I need to use the washroom!"

Suddenly the door opened and two plain-clothes detectives entered the room, carrying an evidence bag with what looked like Rachel's phone in it. "Ah, Mr. Mackenzie, you're awake," one of them, a spiky grey-haired man in a short-sleeved button down shirt with sweat stains in the armpits, said.

"I need to pee," he said.

"There's a washroom down the hall."

"Uh, do one of you need to... accompany me?"

His brow furrowed. "Why would we want to do that?"

"I saw it on TV once."

"You're not a suspect, Mr. Mackenzie, and anyway, you can't escape this area even if you want to." He chuckled at that. "Just go and then come back, we'll leave the door open. Do you need something to eat or drink?"

"Water would be good," he said. "I don't suppose you have Diet Pepsi?"

"Uh... no."

"Water then, thanks."

He found the bathroom and emptied his bladder, then returned to the interview room, where the two detectives sat at the table with the phone between them.

"I'm Detective Parsons," the grey-haired one said, and indicated a younger woman with her brown hair in a tight bun, the collar of her blue button down looking like it could cut flesh. "This is Detective Reynolds. You may not remember us, but we were on the scene with you early this morning, asking some preliminary questions."

"Oh. Yes. Sorry, I don't remember. There were a lot of people there."

"No worries, we like to not be memorable," Reynolds said with a smirk. "The perps don't see us coming, that way."