Instinct
Setting: "Shrink Wrap"
Condensed air tumbles inside the wall somewhere overhead and to the right. One of the lights continues flickering irritatingly with a high, steady whine, both just barely perceptible enough that it's driving me crazy.
And the silence stretches on, long and thin. Julia Wagner's gaze is focused on the table. Unlike yesterday, she sits here alone, her daughter off with her sister or something. She seems like a harder woman than the one who came in yesterday. Doakes is convinced she's dropped the act since we went to pick her up.
I'm not so sure. I talked to her, that night her husband died. I answered the phone. I believed her. Could she really have hidden herself so well? Did she play me? Could I really have gotten that shitty of a read on her? Or should I continue to trust my instincts?
Do I even have any measurable instincts?
"How much longer am I going to have to sit here?" she asks eventually, looking up at me with miserable eyes.
"I don't know," I say honestly. Doakes separated from me as we were taking her in, told me he had to take care of something and he'd meet us in the interview room soon. Soon was... awhile ago. I'm resisting looking at my watch, but it feels like it's been at least forty minutes. I can only guess that I'm once again playing good cop, and I'm sitting here stewing with Julia to create some sort of connection between us. Though if we are playing a game, I wish Doakes had given me the heads up.
Especially because I just don't want to believe she could be guilty of this...
"I don't understand," she says, now that the silence is broken. "Have you found something new? About Kent?"
We have, but I can't tell her that. I have no idea if she's figured out that she's become our prime suspect, and I can't exactly say that Doakes is probably intending to come in here and try to break her like a pane of glass. "I'm sorry, but I really can't say anything until Sergeant Doakes comes back," is all I've got for her.
She looks at me helplessly, then sighs, goes back to looking at the table, her gaze sliding over the closed manila folder on the desk as it goes. I can feel her curiosity. She's wondering what's inside, what we've got on her.
She must know.
(but her face that night, those tears)
(she's got a daughter for god's sake)
The air cuts off abruptly, and the quiet feels vacuous. I listen to that one malfunctioning light, annoyed with it despite myself.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
The door opens, breaking the spell. "Sorry for the wait, Mrs. Wagner," Doakes says as he enters. I glance back at him as he slides out the chair beside me and takes a seat. He places a second folder next to mine.
"It's okay," she says, looking from the folder to him. "Is there something new?"
I study her, watch her curl her hands on the table. Is she nervous?
"Just for your information, we are taping this conversation," he says, ignoring her question. "Do you consent to us taking this recording?"
Julia glances up at the camera in the corner of the wall, then refocuses on Doakes. "It's okay," she says.
"I'll need a yes or no, ma'am."
She pauses, then nods. "Yes."
"Thank you." He nods too. "Mrs. Wagner, we want to know if you're interested in revising any of the statements you made yesterday."
Her hands slide off the table. "No, I'm not interested," she says. "What's this about?"
Doakes slides over and opens up my folder, then pulls out the bank statement from Kent Wagner's secret account. "You stated yesterday that you didn't know about this account," he says, pushing the paper toward her.
She looks down at the sheet, exhales. I stare at her. We know she knew, but that doesn't prove she killed him.
She says nothing, purses her lips and leans back.
Doakes looks at me, nods at the folder. My turn.
I open it up, pull out the stills from the security feed we turned up yesterday, line them up in front of her. "These are pictures of you from three weeks ago," I say, pointing at her figure in each shot. "They were taken at a Chase on Southwest 22nd Street, where you were attempting to draw money from this account." I tap the bank statement lightly with my finger.
She stares at the pictures.
"We'll ask you again," Doakes says. "Did you know about the account?"
She stays silent, her gaze stuck to the page.
I spent the day yesterday investigating anybody beside her after she left, went out to the bank to re-interview a few of the victim's coworkers and friends, all the while Doakes kept right on hunting her. Even after I came back and he showed me those pictures, I was making excuses for her. This all felt too simple, too obvious an answer on paper, and all of my instincts said to look somewhere else. I mean, what kind of woman, what kind of wife, could smash a car into her husband and spread his body across a city block?
But as I'm sitting here I can feel the guilt rolling off her. She knew, and she walked right into our net.
"Am I under arrest?" she asks finally, looking at Doakes.
"No," he says.
"I think it's time I hire an attorney. I know how these things go."
Doakes just looks at her, shifting forward like a dog on a scent. Crap.
"What things?" I ask.
Her eyes flick to mine. "These kinds of investigations. You cops just take one look and assume it must've been the spouse."
She's not wrong. "We're just talking," I say. "We just need you to explain this, these pictures." I tap the papers on the table.
"I think I'd really better talk to my attorney," she says, then looks at Doakes again. "Can I go?"
"You're free to leave," he replies. She gets up immediately, swings her purse over her shoulder. "But you should know," he says, stopping her before she's made a step. "We've issued a search warrant for your home."
Her lips form a hard, pale line. "You have no right."
He reaches inside his own folder, pulls out the judge's slip. "Feel free to look it over."
She doesn't move for it, just looks at him. She looks a shade or two lighter, and suddenly I notice her hand quivering where it's curled around the purse strap. She's afraid.
"I have nothing to hide," she says, her voice not quite as steady as it had been a minute ago. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" She goes for the door. We rise to follow her, and she glances back at us nervously before opening it and heading out.
Down the hall we go. She walks quickly, her heels clicking smartly off the tile floors. As we trail her, I think of the other things we have in those folders that we never got to talk about, the interview with the nanny. Her leaving like this is suspicious as hell. And if she already has a lawyer on retainer, I can feel my faith in her crumbling.
"Officer," Doakes says to some random uniform when we reach the elevator. Esperanza, I think? "Please escort Mrs. Wagner down to her car."
He nods, and she looks at him stiffly before shoving open the door to the stairwell and heading down. Esperanza follows, her silent shadow.
"Still think she's innocent?" Doakes asks when the door shuts.
I glance at him, feeling defeated but not wanting to admit it. "When're we executing the search warrant?" I ask in lieu of a reply.
"Twenty minutes," he says. "Might want to grab some lunch. It's almost two."
I'm not hungry, but I nod, head to my desk. When I open the drawer for my purse, I see my phone flash at me from just on top of it, so I pull it out, wondering what it wants.
Missed texts.
Rudy...
I feel something weird and warm bloom up my chest, click through to the inbox.
Interested in lunch?
Interested in not having lunch?
Call me
I'll come pick you up
Are you there?
Shit, that last one was fifteen minutes ago. I haven't even looked at my phone since we went to pick up Julia Wagner. After last night... I was almost glad when he said he had to go after we finished. I can't believe I cried. I can't believe how complicated things are already starting to feel, but in a good way.
(of course, I've felt like this before...)
I'm here, I type, ignoring that thought. I wonder if I should add anything else, but don't. Hit send.
The answer is practically immediate, Finally. I'm in the parking lot.
Shit.
I glance from my phone over to Doakes, who's at his desk. I notice LaGuerta's gone— back to see Perry again. Once again I can't help but wonder, with a touch of paranoia, why she's been going to the prison so often this week. Did my instincts fuck me with the Ice Truck investigation as hard as they fucked me with Valerie Castillo and, now, with Julia Wagner?
I want that easy comfort that Rudy can give me, that crash of mad, hot consumption, of thoughtlessness, but I don't have time. Yet, he's just right there outside, waiting.
"I'm getting a coffee," I say to Doakes, then slip my phone into my pocket. He looks up at me and nods, then goes back to his paperwork.
Quickly, I make my way out of Homicide, taking the stairs at a half-skip. I kind of wish he'd waited for a text back before just showing up, but at the same time it's almost sweet. And I want to see him.
I throw open the door, make my way through reception. When I step out into the parking lot I see him almost immediately, sitting on the back of his car staring attentively at the entrance. I grin when I see him, and he does too when he notices me. Something goes soft inside me.
"Hey," he says when I approach, sliding off the trunk. My response is swallowed by his mouth, and the action of it temporarily distracts me from breathing.
He tastes kind of strange, almost like cough syrup. I don't like it.
And then he pulls away. "So I found this great place for lunch right around the corner," he says.
"Stop," I say, hating myself for it. "Fuck, I'm sorry, we're getting ready to make an arrest. I've gotta go."
He looks down at me, shifts some of my hair behind an ear. A grin pulls at his lips. "How long do we have?"
"None. I'm sorry, I really have to—"
"Come on." He pulls me into him, and his hand slips down my waist. Cups me lightly with his fingers. I can't... we're in public, right in front of the goddamn station (but I want...). Heat fires from his fingers down and up my skin, and my breath hitches. Chest compresses.
Another kiss, this time from me. And I can taste that weird mintiness on his tongue, like menthol or something, and it's weird and somewhat unpleasant, but so is what we're doing. (People could see...)
I pull away, with difficulty. "I'm sorry," I say again, trying to breathe, trying to collect my thoughts off the floor. "Can we pick this up tonight?"
Fuck but he's still holding me. Fingers moving lightly back and forth. "I don't know," he says. "I might have to work."
That answer is frustrating, and I'm already frustrated. "Cancel," I exhale.
"Take a ride with me," he counters, his eyes shining with lust.
(You fucker) "I really—" (want) "Fuck, I can't."
He sighs, and we're so close I can feel the action of his ribs. "Okay," he says.
I push away from him, back off a step. His fingertips slide off. I can feel the heat thundering down my body, an instinctive force nagging at me to shove him against the trunk and take back the connection. (I want to f—)
"Tonight?" I ask, trying to put a lid on it.
"I hope so," he murmurs. One last kiss, then he finally gets away from me, heads toward the car door. I swallow, still tasting him on my mouth, still feeling the pressure of his fingers, still… pulsing. I move away from his car as he turns over the engine. As he backs out I half want to open the door and tell him to just find somewhere secluded for a few minutes, but I keep myself firmly planted to the blacktop.
We share a wave before he pulls the rest of the way away, drives out of the parking lot, leaving me and a whole mess of feelings behind.
I don't know how long I've been standing here when I notice someone leaving the station, and I turn to see Dexter rapidly shuffling away from me, toward his car.
"Dex," I call.
He looks over at me, appearing guilty as shit. "Deb," he says, sounding as if he was hoping I wouldn't notice him. "Hey."
I feel my eyebrows drop, wondering what he's doing. "Late lunch?" I ask, walking toward him as he reaches his car.
"Uh, yeah," he says.
I study him. My brother's been sneaking off a lot lately, and I can only imagine one destination. "Going to see Rita again?" I ask.
"No," he says. "She had to cancel our lunch. I've got a crime scene."
"Where's your bag?" I ask, looking at his empty shoulder.
"In the car," he replies quickly. Too quickly. "I've gotta go, Deb."
"Yeah, okay," I mutter, still looking at him suspiciously. Crime scene my ass. I bet Rita's waiting for him in an empty, recently air-freshened room at her hotel.
He shoots me a small smile, then moves around me to get to the driver side. Twenty seconds later I'm watching his bumper disappear out onto the road too. The lying, cheeky little shit...
(That should be me sneaking out of here to fuck around during lunch...)
Feeling jealous and still a little amped up, I turn and head for the roach coach. I need caffeine. Lots and lots of it.
