Sable Alley Read online

  An hour later, the scene is processed. Dr. Turner is gone with the body. The forensics team has taken more pictures and dusted the bins for prints. I’m the last one to leave the alley.

  I get to my car. Robinson is still talking to CSO Clarke. I honk the horn, letting him know I’m ready, but Robinson waves for me to go on without him. He gets into a marked unit with CSO Clarke, and they do a U-turn. It’s best anyway. I stink to the point I can’t stand myself.

  Instead of going back to the station, I decide to go home.

  Chapter Three.

  Mum is in the living room recovering from surgery on her ankle. She was climbing a bar dome on the playground at school with her students when she slipped and fell. She ended up on her back. Scared her class half to death. Scared me and Dad half to death when we heard about it. The kids thought she died because she wasn’t moving at first. She laughs whenever she starts talking about it. Dad doesn’t think it’s funny.

  Mum has her bandaged ankle propped up on an ottoman, and she’s watching a game show. Her silver hair is pinned in ringlets. She has on a floral dress, like she’s going or been somewhere. I don’t understand why she wears nice clothes only to sit in them at home. Mum doesn’t entertain guests. She’s not part of a bridge club, and she doesn’t have afternoon tea with friends. There’s no way she’s comfortable, but every day she wears a dress.

  After placing a bowl of pease pudding on the tray beside her chair, she looks around at me. “You’re home early. Were you fired?”

  “No,” I answer. Not wanting to be delayed by her questions, I run upstairs and get in the shower.

  Standing under the hot water, I’m already feeling better. When I finish, I put on a clean suit and tighten up my hair into a bun. In the mirror, I look like a new woman, a well-dressed, put together detective constable.

  I go back downstairs to check on Mum to make sure she’s going to be okay until Dad gets home.

  “Did you hear what I asked you before?” she says.

  “No, sorry.” I fold the tray and put it behind her chair.

  “I asked if you were fired from your job?”

  “No, Mum. Why would you ask that?”

  “I saw you waiting outside for Detective Robinson this morning. It was almost nine o’clock.”

  “I was late, but DS Green didn’t fire me.”

  “She’s a scary person. Never smiles. I bet she runs the unit like a general about to lose a battle.”

  “There isn’t anything scary about her.” I take Mum’s bowl to the kitchen. “You want something to drink?”

  “Water, please.”

  After rinsing out the bowl in the sink, I grab two bottles of water. I also grab the bag of pretzels on top of the refrigerator. Mum likes to snack when she’s watching television, and I don’t want her to get up that much while I’m gone. More opportunities for her to fall and hurt herself.

  “I still can’t believe you’re a police officer,” Mum says as I hand her the water bottles and bag of pretzels.

  “Detective constable,” I correct her with a big smile.

  “You’ve passed your training!” She opens her arm, and we hug. “So proud of you, Victoria. Look how far you’ve come.”

  “Thanks, Mum.” Feeling a slight pull in my leg, I cut the hug short.

  “How do you feel?” She’s always concerned. Sometimes I think she feels sorry for me too.

  “Great,” I answer. “A little scared.”

  “You’ll do fine. You’re smart and brilliant.”

  “I have a case. I don’t know what I’m doing. Everything seems so much bigger than I am.”

  “You are a giant, Victoria. You can handle anything.”

  “I wish I had your faith.” I kiss her forehead quickly. “I have to go to work.”

  “Go win the day!” she says with a shake of her fist.

  Mum, my biggest cheerleader.

  Chapter Four.

  In the parking lot in front of the station, I’m checking my emails. Three are unread. I select the icon. Someone by the name of Logan Scott sent the second and third email. I open the first one by DS Green. It’s the official notice of pay deduction for being late. I sign the email with a press of my thumb on the screen and send it back to her. Nothing like losing money.

  The second email is an appointment reminder with Logan Scott at eleven this morning in his office. It’s thirty minutes after, and I haven’t gotten a first notice of the appointment. How can this be a reminder? And who is this Logan Scott? There’s no indication he’s a doctor. I check his title under his name. He’s a citizen auditor.

  I haven’t spoken to one of them in years. Citizen auditors usually show up when a naturalized citizen has a new job. An interview is conducted, but it’s strange they want to interview me now. I was a community support officer for four years, and I was never questioned. The position wasn’t significant enough to get their attention, I guess.

  I head straight for his address on Stovell Avenue. His office is on the second floor above a bookstore. I park across the street in the only available spot. To get to his office, I have to enter through a door next to a bookstore. It opens to a tiny space and a flight of stairs. A single light flickers on the wall to the right. I get to the second-floor landing and notice there are two doors. The one on the left has smoky glass window with a block lettered name. It reads LOGAN SCOTT. The other is a simple wooden door. A plastic plant on a wrought iron stand is in between them. I knock on the glass to Scott’s office. Shadows and light play off the smoky window. There’s no movement from inside, and there isn’t a sound. I check my IET for the time. It’s almost twelve. He’s probably out to lunch.

  I sit on the top step and read through Dr. Turner’s preliminary findings on Ruby Taylor. There isn’t anything new. I look through the pictures I took. Ruby’s face stands out. Someone must have hated her in order to bash her skull in. I check her profile picture on the British East American Colony Citizen website. She’s actually a pretty girl. Red hair. Long eyelashes. Brown eyes. Freckles on her cheeks. I can’t imagine anyone hating this girl, but I don’t know anything about her. I guess once I find out, I’ll know why someone would want her dead.

  The last clothes she wore was a gown and a shawl, which brings me back to the dress and the glitter. She must have been at a party, but how am I going to find out which party she was at? I check her profile again on the website. Her parents are dead, but she has an older sister who lives in Exeter. The parents drowned several years ago in a ferry accident in Chester, hundreds of miles south. Not seeing a connection between Ruby’s death and her parents, I move on. Ruby worked as a secretary at Bensington Construction from Monday to Thursday, nine to three. She had no other jobs and didn’t have a criminal record.

  From the outside looking in, Ruby appears to be an ordinary girl who works at a construction company. There is nothing else that pops out of her life. Maybe, her death was a crime of opportunity.

  But it’s still strange that she signed a nondisclosure agreement. Is it standard hiring procedure by all construction companies? They build buildings, out in the open, and they have signs on site indicating which companies will move in or if they’re building apartments. What’s so secretive about that?

  All these questions. No answers. I have to dig more, but I can’t right now because I’m still waiting on the citizen auditor.

  My stomach growls. It’s embarrassing even though no one is around. I haven’t eaten since last night. I gather my things and jog back down stairs. Just as I open the door, I run into a man, who takes off his hat. He has a greying beard, thoughtful dark eyes, and aging yellow skin. His eyebrows are thick, and he has a full head of brown hair. The man is tall, wide at the shoulders, stalky like a bear, but unassuming.

  “Excuse me,” I reply, going around him.

  “Detective Kipling?”

  I turn around. The gentleman must be the citizen auditor.

  “Mr. Scott?” I ask to be sure I’m not mistaken.
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  “Yes. How long were you waiting?”

  “Not too long.”

  “My apologies. I went to grab something to eat.”

  “I should be apologizing to you instead. I was late.”

  “No need, really. You did me a favor. I missed breakfast, and I was starving. Do you have time to talk now, or would you like to reschedule?”

  “Now is good,” I reply. Getting this over with now is best. Then I can get back to work.

  I follow him up the steps. When we arrive to the door, he searches his pockets for the keys. Laughing and embarrassed, he looks back at me. He reaches into his coat. The jingle signifies he’s found them. He unlocks the door and goes in first.

  The office space is average, but not very big. A small round table is to my left with two chairs underneath a panoramic window. On the right is a desk angled against the far corner. Another door is closed and has a calendar hanging on it. Two opposite walls are green, while the other two are white. There are no pictures, no framed awards, no shelving units of any kind. The office, for the most part, has plenty of open space, and it’s clean.

  “Are you thirsty?” Mr. Scott asks, closing the door.

  I am, but I decline the offer.

  “Please, have a seat. I have to get my tablet out of the desk, and we’ll be ready to start.”

  “Does it matter where?” I ask, looking at the two chairs by the window.

  “Whichever you prefer. They’re both the same.”

  I look around the office one more time before taking the chair closest to the door. For some reason, I don’t trust him. Maybe it’s because I just met him, and he’s a government employee. Or it could be we’re closed off in an office together. I’m overreacting. He’s been nothing but cordial.

  Mr. Scott comes over with a stylus and tablet. He folds into the chair across from me with a heavy sigh and asks, “Do you like Chinese food?”

  “I like food in general,” I respond.

  “I just had mapo doufu. Ever heard of it?”

  “No.”

  “It’s terrific.”

  “What’s in it?” I ask out of curiosity.

  “I don’t know. Next time I’ll find out.” Mr. Scott taps on the tablet with the stylus. “I almost got the form up. Ah, here it goes. Came up much quicker this time. Before we begin, I’m supposed to inform you that this conversation will be recorded.” He points over his head.

  A speaker with a blinking green light is flush against the ceiling.

  “Wonderful,” I comment, unable to hide the sarcasm.

  “Let’s get started, shall we? Please, place your thumb on the tablet so I can verify who you are.” Mr. Scott points to a small box on the screen. My thumb barely fits in the lines, but the pressure I give is enough for the computer to scan and register the chip. Green fills up the box as a result. “Good. Thank you.” He reads the loaded information, “Victoria Kipling, British East American Colony naturalized citizen. I see you’ve been promoted from community support officer to detective constable. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He looks at the screen and reads, “No birth certificate on file. Your estimated age is twenty-three years old. You came to the British East American Colony fourteen years ago?”

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “Jamie and Phoebe Kipling brought you here from the Escisiones Mountains. Mrs. Kipling claimed she found you alone in the woods, but she didn’t say which tribe you were from. Can you give me that information, please?”

  “I forgot,” I lie. I’m always fearful of revealing this information. Dad warns me to keep it to myself. He’s never told me why though.

  Mr. Scott glances up, letting me know that he doesn’t believe me. He waits for a different answer, the right answer, but I silently refuse.

  “Detective Kipling, it’s important that the BEAC knows your complete past.”

  “I have to think about it.”

  “If you remember after this interview, I want you to contact me. I’ll give you my business card before you leave.”

  “Okay.” Never will I reveal the name of my tribe to him. Hopefully, he’ll forget.

  “What are the names of your biological parents?”

  “Why are you asking about them?”

  “Their names are not on your profile.”

  “They’re not citizens of the BEAC or the British Empire.”

  “We still need to know who they are. The names of your parents…please.”

  There is more to this than the standard interview. What is he getting at? “It’s been fourteen years. I don’t remember their names.”

  “Do they have surnames?”

  “No. I don’t know. Maybe.” I hate lying, but I feel as if I must.

  “Would Mr. and Mrs. Kipling know your parents’ names?”

  “No, they wouldn’t.”

  “You must answer these questions, Detective Kipling. It’s important.”

  “My past has nothing to do with my life here. I wish you would move on.”

  “Detective Kipling, do Mr. and Mrs. Kipling know who your biological parents are?” He’s not backing off.

  Sighing, I answer, “I seriously doubt it.”

  Mr. Scott stares at me with clear disbelief. I guess he’s waiting for me to change my story.

  Breaking the silence, I ask, “Why do you want to know where I came from?”

  “The BEAC requires it.”

  “Is there something else you want to know?”

  Mr. Scott scratches his forehead and taps the tablet screen. “Are your biological parents dead or alive?”

  Still on my parents! The questions are only getting worse.

  Admittedly, I do think of them. My mother’s face has faded with time. My father’s dedication solidly remains. I miss them, and I miss home. I dream about the land. There were cloud touching evergreens. Magnificent ice-capped mountains and limitless skies. Mother bears standing in the stream catching dinner while their cubs play on the shore. Great eagles soaring above, keeping watch. Deer grazing in open fields. The winters were brutally cold. The summers were unbearably humid. But I also remember the song of my people. Distant rhythm of drums pounding with the beat of my heart. Scratches against finished wood and mimicking yelps of coyotes would send us into dance. When I dream of those times, the faces are blurred, just shadows and a mixture of colors behind them.

  “Detective Kipling, are you with me?”

  “Sorry,” I reply, blinking back to reality. “What was your question?”

  “Are your biological parents dead or alive?”

  I wipe the tears and answer, “No. Can we talk about something else, please?”

  “I have to ask these questions.”

  “Go back to them.”

  “Alright, I guess we can do that,” he says. “Going into your characteristics. You have black hair and brown eyes. You’re five-feet-five. Weight is one hundred-fifty-seven pounds.”

  “Sometimes,” I interject.

  Mr. Scott nods and continues, “You are up on all of your vaccinations. Chip was last updated on the first day of January. Has the chip caused any irritation in your thumb?”

  “No.” I rub the small bump with my forefinger. When I first got the injection, my thumb was sore and red for a couple of days. I received it after I was sworn in as a citizen when I was a kid.

  “Have you tried to remove the chip?”

  “You guys would know if I did.”

  “I have to ask,” he comments. “Show me, please.”

  I twist my wrist, so he sees it. He rubs his forefinger on the raised skin, checking for cuts and scratches.

  “Excellent,” he says, “You still live with the Kipling’s?”

  “Yes, I do. My profile says so.”

  “Why do you still live with them?”

  “It’s easier than looking for a new place. I’d have to be interviewed by a citizen auditor…”

  “Which you’re doing right no
w.”

  “And I’d be on a waiting list. There’s no telling how long or where I’ll end up.”

  “You’re a cop and a government employee. You’ll be placed in a decent neighborhood.”

  “I’m with my family. I’m happy where I am.”

  “How do they feel about you living with them?”

  “Are you a psychiatrist or psychologist? Are you trying to get into my head?”

  “Detective Kipling, my job is to ask questions about you and your family for the government. Your answer, please.”

  “They don’t mind.”

  “Have they ever asked you to move out?”

  “No.”

  “If I ask them the same question, would they say the same thing?”

  “Yes, they would.”

  “What do you talk about with them? Do you ever argue?”

  “Why would we argue? Why ask me that question? Is that on your tablet, Mr. Scott?”

  “Yes, it is. The government wants to gauge your relationship with the people that adopted you. They want to know if anything has changed.”

  “We all get along just fine,” I reply with an attitude.

  “That’s good. I’m glad it worked out for you.”

  “You thought it wouldn’t?” I ask.

  “I didn’t think anything.” His cell phone beeps. He reads his messages with a lift of his eyebrows. “Looks like I have to go. We have to end this prematurely.”

  “That works for me.”

  “Yes, but we’ll pick up where we left off tomorrow.”

  “Can’t you just say there’s nothing new to add so I don’t have to come back?”

  “No, you must answer all the questions.”