“Watch your head.” She put her hand on top of Robin’s head as she scrunched down and slid onto the seat, just like it happens with real prisoners.
“Watch your head, sir.” It didn’t work quite the same with me. I was too tall for her to guide me down, so she didn’t try.
“Thank you for your concern, officer.”
She ignored me and slammed the door. It lacked any visible locks, of course. We were essentially prisoners. The backs of patrol cars had changed since I was a young deputy, on my first sojourn into law enforcement before going back to graduate school. In those days, the older cars lacked any protection; suspects just sat in the back seat. The newer ones had rudimentary cage wire to protect the officers sitting in front. Now the prisoner compartment was much more elaborate, and confining, with Plexiglas ahead of us and heavy bars protecting the side windows, to keep suspects from kicking out the glass, wiggling out, and running away. I had seen it happen. Now I just sipped my mocha as Vare drove fast down Fifth Avenue to the Papago Freeway.
“Are you taking us straight to the tent jail?” I spoke through the Plexiglas. She wasn’t driving toward downtown.
“God, how I wish.” And that was all she said.
She drove west, took the 35th Avenue exit, and turned toward the South Mountains until she reached Lower Buckeye Road. A collection of ramshackle houses, tilt-up warehouses, and junkyards provided the scenery. The big county complex was off to one side. I avoided looking that way. The inside of the car smelled; it was better for my stomach not to attempt to pick out the origins of the odors. Robin made the mistake of touching the thick vinyl of the seat and withdrew her hand. Her face was tense, her mouth compressed into a thin line barely holding in emotions. Her coffee sat undrunk, her free hand balled up in a fist.
She had thought she was getting a gift from her lover and had waited to open it until after dinner. She hoped he would be joining her as a surprise. She undressed, lit a candle, and poured a glass of wine in anticipation. The X-Acto knife cut easily through the packing tape. Jax’s head had been covered with a layer of bubble wrap that had made identification impossible until she had pulled it off-and there he was. Robin had told me this story before the cops arrived and hadn’t deviated from it despite hours of Kate Vare’s badgering. I didn’t trust Robin for my own reasons, but she had nothing to do with this crime.
