(This first draft crime novel continues, and if you’re new, go into the Archives on the left and bring up the July 16th post, They Had the Right to Remain Silent (1), where it all began.  Each posting is numbered, you can’t lose your place.  If you’re following along, thanks, drop a comment, and let’s proceed with today’s entry.  Thanks for stopping by.)
They Had the Right to Remain Silent
Richard S. Jachimecki
Chapter ( xxvii ) continues…
     Becker looked at the paper, “Peter Sheffield, 1395,” he read. “I called him this morning. He said he’d wait at the corner of 96th and 11th.”
     Peter was standing on the southeast corner. His eyes were clearer than the night before, and they now widened, as the car pulled to the curb. His expectation was of a more conservative ride to the station house. Terrance let him into the back seat.
     “How you feeling today Mr. Sheffield?” Terrance asked as they pulled out onto the street.
     “Better. Sorry about last night. Please, call me Pete.” he replied.
     “How’s the memory, Pete?” Becker asked.
     “Owen,” Pete blurted.
     “You just said ‘Pete‘.”
     “Owen was the name, on the envelope,” Pete said, moving up on the edge of the backseat, poking his head between the two front buckets.
     “That’s good man, real good,” chimed Terrance, pulling out his notepad.
     “Still no last name?” asked Becker.
     “No. Just Owen,” Pete confirmed.
     “All right, do you remember more about the woman?”
     “Yeah, the redhead.”
     “Right. Think you can describe her?”
     “She was about five- foot nine or ten. Decent bod,” Pete said.
     “We’ll need something a little more specific, Pete,” Terrance added.
     “Right, right. Sorry. She was fit, looked like she worked out,” Pete said, as the picture formed in his mind. “She was in a business suit with a skirt. Well defined calves, you know, like a runner. She carried herself nicely in those heels. Wait, she had high heels on, so she was shorter,” Pete corrected.
     “I’ll make a note of it,” Terrance continued to jot down the description.
     Traffic was light the rest of the way, people out of town for the weekend. Becker parked by the station house.
     “OK, Pete,” Becker said, and turned toward the backseat, “we’re going to hook you up with a sketch artist to get a make- up of her face.”
     “Yeah, lots of makeup,” Pete agreed.
     “No, no. A make- up, a rendition of the face,” Becker clarified.
     “No sir. I’m saying this woman was wearing a ton of makeup. Real Glamour type, you know?”
     Terrance opened his door and got out of the car, then pulled his bucket seat forward and Pete followed.
     “Just keep remembering,” Terrance said.

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