She quickly wiped a tear from her face, then sat straight up, proud. “When you said it the first time I knew it was true, I just didn’t like it. Like you said earlier, I’m aware of my own shit show, and it sure as hell isn’t a Broadway production. That’s what I do. I run away… but I know how to reinvent myself because this is not my first time. I just hope it will be my last…”
Chapter Seven
“The sheriff is busy.” Mickey wiggled his snout-like, stubby nose as if it were itching, then rested his sleepy dark brown eyes on the computer screen.
“And so am I. My son’s murder is still unsolved. I want to know what leads he has. We need to talk.”
“It’s the same thing we told you last week, and the week before that, Mr. Currant.”
Mickey was a power hungry, wet-behind-the-ears police officer who’d joined the force as a favor to his uncle. He barely passed his written exam, and everyone knew it, but he was placed on desk duty to keep his behind out of trouble. He’d only been with the force for a year, give or take a month.
“I asked you to get the sheriff.”
The long-headed son of a bitch looked up at him, flashing a phony smile on his pale, elongated face. Jack sucked his teeth, keeping his temper in check, then took note of the other officers standing about, pretending they weren’t listening to the conversation. He leaned over the counter and showed all his teeth. “Mickey, remember when you shit yourself down there at the Antique Auto Museum?”
“What was I? Like thirteen? So what?” The guy blustered as a few chuckles drifted from the front lobby area.
“Age doesn’t have anything to do with it. You know you can’t live anything down around here. People keep tabs on their neighbors and forget their own transgressions. The point is, I think you forgot who helped you out of that jam.”
“That was so long ago, and—”
“He’s dead now, isn’t he? This is how you pay your respects to my son? You tell me the sheriff is too busy to be bothered with me, when you didn’t even ask him, and you smirk behind that desk and this glass partition that stands between the two of us.” He gently tapped on the glass. His gaze sharpened on the bastard, and Mickey’s complexion went ashen. “You feel safe because the other officers are here. Protecting you. If it was just me and you in the middle of nowhere, you’d shit yourself again right now, wouldn’t you?”
The man’s face flushed red.
“My boy was good to you, Mickey. You and Chad weren’t in the same grade, but close enough, and he and his class happened to be there, too, while I was helping to chaperone. My boy came up to me, pulled my sleeve, and whispered so nobody would hear. ‘Dad, Mickey had an accident. Can you get my extra clothes for him?’ No questions asked. And that’s what I did. Later on, the truth got out, and kids were laughing, but not once did Chad make fun of you. My boy was popular, and you weren’t. He stood up for you and told them to stop laughing. He didn’t have to do that. He owed you nothing. No one knew that burrito went through you like a torpedo strapped to a comet until it was too late.”
Another burst of laughter erupted from the peanut gallery.
“I whisked you away, got you to a place where you could clean up, and then you went the rest of the day sportin’ my child’s favorite pants. Now, you get up off your behind,” he pointed down the hall, “and you go back there and tell Sheriff Sweeney to come out of that office and talk to me.”
Mickey’s lips flattened, and he huffed while running his hand over his slick brown hair.
“I’m telling you the truth, Mr. Currant. We don’t know anything new about Chad. I’d tell you if we did.”
Jack stood there, his hands on his waist. Seconds ticked on by as a fly buzzed around, until at last, it landed smack dab on Mickey’s Subway sandwich. The officer angrily swiped at it, until it buzzed off.
“Strange to see a fly out and about in weather like this. It must be feeding on the lifetime supply of bullshit around here. Now get up!”
Mickey grunted as he got up from his chair and walked over to the sheriff’s office. It wasn’t far at all. Knocking on the door a couple of times, the punk cleared his throat to speak.
“Uh, Sheriff?”
“Yeah, Mickey? What is it?” Jack believed he heard Sweeney say.
“Mr. Jack Currant is here to see you.”
A long silence ensued; the kind Jack was used to. He imagined Sheriff Sweeney rolling his eyes or flopping about in his chair and trying to figure out if he could pawn him off on someone else.