Astor made a visible effort not to snarl at being called “sweetheart” and instead managed to say, “Yes, I’m fine, thank you, just scared.”
“Uh-huh,” Blanton said. She looked back and forth between the two of them, apparently searching for some clue that they might be slipping into shock.
My phone rang—it was Rita. “Hello, dear,” I said, turning half away from Blanton and the children.
“Dexter, I just went past the aquarium? It doesn’t open until almost— And so, where are you? Because it’s a couple of hours.”
“Well,” I said. “We got a little sidetracked. There’s been a little incident here at the hotel—”
“Oh, my God, I knew it,” she said.
“Nothing at all to worry about,” I said, raising my voice over hers. “We’re all fine; it’s just something that happened and we were witnesses, so we have to make a statement, that’s all.”
“But they’re just children,” Rita said. “It isn’t even legal, and they have to— Are they all right?”
“They’re both fine; they’re talking to a very nice policewoman,” I said, and thinking it was best to cut things short, I said, “Rita, please, you go right ahead with the auction. We’ll be fine.”
“I can’t possibly— Because, I mean, the police are there?”
“You have to do the auction; it’s what we came for,” I said. “Get us the place on a Hundred and Forty-second Street.”
“It’s terrace,” she said. “A Hundred and Forty-second Terrace.”
“Even better,” I said. “And don’t worry; we’ll be there in plenty of time.”
“Well, but,” she said, “I just think I should be there—”
“You need to get ready for the auction,” I said. “And don’t worry about us. We’ll finish up here and then go see the sharks. This is just a minor inconvenience.”
“Mr. Morgan?” Blanton said behind me. “There’s somebody here who wants to talk to you.”
“Get that house,” I said to Rita. “I have to go now.” And I turned to face Blanton, and saw that my minor inconvenience had just grown a few sizes.
Gliding into the room, teeth first, was Sergeant Doakes.
I have been in many police interrogation rooms, and truthfully, the one in the Key West police station was fairly standard. But it did look a little different this time, since I was on the wrong side of the table. They hadn’t handcuffed me, which I thought was very nice of them, but they also didn’t seem to want me to go anywhere. So I sat there at the table while first Blanton and then several other detectives came and went, snarling the same questions, and then disappearing again. And each time the door swung open, I could see Sergeant Doakes standing in the hall outside the room. He was not smiling now, although I’m sure he was very happy, since I was right where he wanted me, and I knew he’d think it was worth losing Hood to put me here.
I tried very hard to be patient and answer the four standard questions the Key West cops kept asking, no matter how many times they asked, and I tried just as hard to remember that this one time I really was completely innocent and I had nothing to worry about. Sooner or later they would have to let me go, no matter how many ways Doakes managed to invoke professional cooperation.
But they seemed in no hurry, and after an hour or so in which they didn’t even offer me coffee, I thought perhaps I should encourage them. So when the fourth detective came in and sat down opposite me, and informed me for the third time that this was a very serious matter, I stood up and said, “Yes, it is. You are holding me here for no reason, without filing a charge, when I have done absolutely nothing wrong.”
“Sit down, Dexter,” the detective said. He was probably about fifty and looked like he’d been beaten up a few times, and I felt very strongly that one more time would be a good idea, because he said my name like he thought it was funny, and although I am normally very patient with stupidity—after all, there’s so much of it—this was the last straw.
So I put my knuckles on the table and leaned toward him, and I let fly with all the righteous indignation that I actually felt. “No,” I said. “I will not sit down. And I will not answer the same questions over and over anymore. If you aren’t going to file a charge and aren’t going to let me go, I want an attorney.”
“Look,” the guy said, with world-weary chumminess. “We know you’re with the Miami-Dade department. A little professional cooperation wouldn’t hurt you, would it?”
“It would not hurt me at all,” I said. “And unless you release me immediately, I plan to cooperate as much as possible with your Internal Affairs department.”
The detective drummed his fingers on the table for a few seconds and looked like he thought he might tough it out. But instead he slapped the table softly, stood up, and walked out without another word.
It was only another five minutes before Blanton came back in. She didn’t look happy, but maybe she didn’t know how. She was holding a manila folder in one hand and smacking it against the other one, and she looked at me like she wanted to blame me for the federal budget deficit. But she didn’t say anything; she just looked, smacked the folder a few times, and then shook her head. “You can go,” she said.
I waited to see if there was anything else. There wasn’t, so I walked through the door and into the hall. Naturally enough, Sergeant Doakes was standing there waiting for me. “Better luck next time,” I told him.
He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t even show me his teeth. He just stared at me with that hungry-jackal look of his that I knew so well, and since I have never been the sort who enjoys
uncomfortable silence, I turned away from him and stuck my head back into the interrogation room that had been my home for the last ninety minutes.