Class Acts Volume 1

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3

Wednesday passed by in a blur of minor incidents on the bus and too much coffee. When I wandered into the precinct at five thirty-eight, I was exhausted, irritable, and hungry. The reception area was a mad house, and when this one guy got away from the cop who’d been trying to keep hold of him, we ended up tangled on the floor. What was it with people running into me lately?

I kept my arms around the guy as he wiggled and cursed me out, calling me all kinds of lovely names, some of them on point, since yes, I was an overweight homosexual—slurs inferred. Eventually, two officers took charge of the dude and I stood, brushing off my uniform. Thankfully, there were no rips or lost buttons.

I walked up to the receiving desk and asked the female cop on duty if I could speak with Detective Simms. “I told him I would stop by after work.”

She smiled and pointed a thumb behind her. “Down the hall. He’s at one of the desks on the left. Oh hey, thanks for helping out with Scott back there.”

My eyebrows furrowed. “Scott?”

“The guy on the floor. He’s a repeat offender, and when he’s high, it can be difficult to contain him.”

“Uh, okay. Sure, any time, I guess.” I nodded and followed her directions. Detective Simms was on the phone, seemingly having an argument with the caller when I reached his desk. He looked up at my approach and ended the call seconds later.

“Thanks for stopping by,” he stated, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. “You look different…definitely intimidating.” I’d been told that before about my work clothes. Whatever. I sat and remained quiet, waiting for him to tell me the reason I was here so I could go home and crash. The fact that his skin-tight long-sleeved red polo shirt emphasized every inch of his massive chest in mouth-watering fashion wasn’t enough to distract me from how tired I was. And that he was still a pain in the butt.

We stared at each other until Simms said, “Look, I’m sorry about last night. I work really screwed up hours and I sometimes forget that not everyone is on the same schedule as me.”

I shrugged. “What was it you wanted to tell me?” I needed to get this over with.

He sighed. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” For a second, I thought he seemed disappointed, but I reminded myself Simms was an asshole and I was only here to suit his purposes.

I gaped at him in disbelief. “What, you want to be my friend now? Cut the crap. You have a case to solve, I found the body. Get on with it. I’m hungry.”

He grinned. “Bet it takes a lot to feed that body of yours.” And now I was disappointed. And pissed.

“f**k you!” I yelled, then remembered I was in a police station, and there were handcuffs and holding cells available for me to stay for unspecified lengths of time. Now, everyone was staring at me. Great. “Sorry. Just, can we not make fun of me and get this over with?”

Simms frowned. “Why are you so touchy about everything? There’s nothing wrong with the way you look, or how much you do or don’t eat. It was a joke.” Right.

“How am I supposed to know that? I don’t even know you, and why do you care?” I snapped.

He studied me for an interminable period of time, it seemed, pen tapping against the disorganized sheets of paper on his desk. “Fine. The dead man was an attorney at a firm downtown, Roger Metz, thirty-nine years old. He’d had dinner with his wife, Patrice, on Saturday evening, then went to his office to pull an all-nighter on a case. He was last seen leaving his building around noon on Sunday, and then you found him.

“We would like you to work with a composite artist to get a graphical representation of the man who ran into you on the day of the murder. He’s our main person of interest and having that image will help us narrow down searches in our database. Are you amenable to any of this?”

Not really, but what the hell. “Whatever. You obviously have my phone number. Right now, I work the same shift during the week, sometimes on the weekend, though if you’ve been checking up on me, you probably know that. If I need to come in before the end of my shift, however, you need to give me a heads-up so I can get someone to cover my route.”

“Tomorrow work? Same time as today?” he asked. I nodded and stood, but before I could leave, Simms said, “Why didn’t you put your father in a home when he developed dementia?”

Damn, he was thorough. “What does this have to do with the case?”

“I had to rule you out as a suspect, though I knew you weren’t involved. It was just procedure.” Then he frowned and leaned back in his chair. “Most people would have chosen outside care. You could have kept your job, even had tenure by now at that university. Instead, you took care of your dad with every penny you had, and now live in a crappy apartment and drive people around all day.” My dreams of a Ph.D. and writing world-changing theses had fizzled long ago.

My only response could be, “He was my dad.”