They Had the Right to Remain Silent (45)

(another day, another post, another addition to the crime novel in progress.  If new to the site, Welcome.  Please click on the July 16th posting, They Had the Right to Remain Silent (1), over in the Archives section to the left, and you’ll be on the opening page.  Thanks to all stopping by, if you’re up to speed, read on.)

They Had the Right to Remain Silent

Richard S. Jachimecki

Chapter ( xxix ) continues…

     The room was still. Terrance could hear the weak whooshing of air passing through a vent somewhere overhead. He turned to the sound. A sunbeam sliced across from a window, into the corner of the room furthest from their desks. Dust particles hung in suspension, slowly being drawn into the turbulence caused by the air stream that came from the vent, like the rip current on the shoreline of an ocean. He recalled Lana teaching Parker about the undertow at Rockaway Beach; not fighting the rush of water head- on, but taking a different angle to escape it’s clutches. Then he thought of only Lana, and what would have happened if she came back to bed this morning. His muscles were sore, tense and shaky. They were mounting their own private protest against sleep deprivation. Terrance closed his eyes, for only an instant, he thought.

     “T!” Becker’s voice broke in.

     Terrance straightened up in his chair and looked over the desks to Becker.

     “Do I look as bad as you?”

     Becker raised his head from his notes, giving Terrance the once- over. “Probably…this has been one long week,” he said, as he raked his fingers from front- to- back through his hair, “California DOT has no record of an E. Genver in their driver database. Big surprise. I wish CSU found something to go on, in those dumpsters,” Becker said.

     Terrance sniffed a laugh.

     “Those investigators were pretty pissed, you screwing up their Friday night,” Terrance said.

     “You were there,” Becker argued, “I bought them all breakfast.”

     Terrance laughed harder. “Mase, a couple boxes of donuts does not a breakfast make.”

     “OK, Rockefeller, next time you buy and we’ll hit Tavern on the Green…” Becker said, then looked down at his notes, “Asshole.”

     Terrance slammed his hand on the desk. He roared, and tears started to roll down his cheeks from his squinted eyes. It was contagious. Becker couldn’t fight it and joined in.

     “You didn’t seem to mind. I saw you pound three powder– coated!” Becker yelled. “You looked like Scarface at the end of the movie!”

     “Say hello to my leetle fren,” they blurted simultaneously, each holding air- machine guns.

     Terrance whooped. Becker laughed himself into a coughing fit.

     “Dinner tomorrow better be one hell of a fucking spread there, Emeril Cordon bleu.” Becker wheezed.

     They were sleep- drunk, and the tension of the last few days finally opened its release valve to drain. They sat, like rag dolls, caught their breaths and wiped their faces. They had escaped, taken a vacation if only for a moment. It’s what kept them sane, while insanity hovered around them on a daily basis.