THE LOBBY OF THE ASTORIA Police Department was pretty typical, at least from what I’d seen on crime shows. Not the flashy, fictional types, but the real-life stuff on Investigation Discovery Channel. I was mildly addicted to Homicide Hunter. Off-white lino smudged with black scuffs from the bottom of police-issue shoes, off-gray walls that were at once glaring and depressing, photos of retired and/or fallen police officers lining the walls, flickering fluorescents the ratcheted up the headache to migraine proportions. Rather grim. They seriously needed to have a discussion with their interior decorator.
At some point in the distant past, someone had made a half-hearted attempt to lighten up the place. There was a fake ficus in one corner, its droopy plastic leaves coated in dust. Above it hung an equally dusty photograph of the Astoria Column.
Directly across from the glass entry doors was a faux-wood desk topped with bulletproof Plexiglas. The on-duty officer was perched safely behind the glass, a tiny speaker turning her voice into a tinny, crackly mess. She was young, no more than twenty-five, with curly, dark hair twisted into a bun. Her bronze nametag read “Bilson.” Neither she nor the name were familiar.
Behind her, a portable room divider blocked the view of what I assumed was the bullpen. It also did double duty as a bulletin board, peppered with pinned notices and reminders.
I rapped on the Plexiglas, and she looked up from the magazine she was flipping through. “How may I help you?” She looked bored. I couldn’t blame her. Not a lot happened in Astoria, especially during the off-season when the tourists from Portland stayed home to avoid the excessive amounts of rain on the coast.
I gave her what I considered to be my most charming smile. “I’m here to see Bat. I mean, Detective Battersea.”
She was unimpressed. She strummed long, red nails on her desk. “In regards to?”
“The arrest of Portia Wren.”
She gave me a blank look. Surely she wasn’t that dim. I tried again.
“The murder of August Nixon.”
This time she perked up. “Is that what her name is? I hadn’t heard.” She shot a glare over her shoulder at some unseen person no doubt out of sight behind the divider. “Idiots won’t tell me anything. I’ll see if Battersea is available.” She picked up a black phone that looked about the same vintage as my high school yearbook. Tapping out the numbers, she waited with pursed lips until someone answered on the other end. I couldn’t hear what she said, but she put down the phone with a nod and leaned closer to her mic. “He’ll be right up. Have a seat.”
I nodded and searched for said seat. The only chairs available had cracked, peeling faux-leather cushions marked with stains of dubious origin. I decided to stand.
It was a good ten minutes before Bat finally showed himself. By then, steam was roiling from my ears, and I wished like anything that I wouldn’t get thrown in jail for the epic rant I wanted to deliver I stiffened my spine and shot him a death glare, which he promptly ignored. He was dressed in a black suit with a pale-blue shirt and the exact same tie he’d been wearing the day before. Did the man only own one tie? He clutched a cup of coffee in his left hand, steam trailing from the hole in the brown lid. I sniffed. Not coffee. It was definitely tea. Chai, if the spicy scent was anything to go by. That was unexpected. He took a long, slow sip before speaking.
“Good morning, Ms. Roberts. This is a rather early surprise.”
I snorted. “According to the rumor mill, you’ve arrested Portia Wren for Nixon’s murder. Is that true?”
One dark brow lifted. “The rumor mill is surprisingly fast. Yes, we arrested Ms. Wren this morning.”
“Are you nuts?” I blurted, propping my fists on my ample hips. “Portia is one of the nicest, sweetest people you’ll ever meet. There is no way she killed Nixon, no matter how big a louse he was.”
He gave me a long, slow look that I couldn’t interpret. “I’m afraid the evidence says otherwise.”
I glared at him. “What evidence?”
He smirked, and a dimple flashed at the corner of his mouth. “Good try, but you know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”
“Wait a minute. What about the wineglass? That wasn’t Portia’s lipstick on it. And she doesn’t drink anything but chardonnay. Someone else was there. That person could have killed Nixon.”
He paused a beat. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Roberts.” And with that, he turned and strode off, the slick leather soles of his dress shoes making a smart sound on the linoleum floor. I tried to refrain, but I couldn’t help grinding my teeth. I needed to know what they had on Portia if I was going to show them the error of their ways.
“Pain in the butt, isn’t he?” The desk officer had come out from behind the glass. She clutched an e-cigarette in her hand. Smoke break. “Hot, though. Even if he is an old guy.”
I wasn’t sure that late forties denoted “old,” but I mumbled agreement. She was right on all counts. I eyed the desk officer. Maybe she had the information I needed.
“Have you worked with him long? Detective Battersea?” I asked innocently.
She giggled at the thought of her working with the lead detective. “I just started three months ago. I haven’t got to work with him. Yet.”
I leaned a little closer, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “Give it time. A person with your intelligence and drive is sure to climb the ladder in no time.”
“You think?” She beamed at the idea.
I nodded sagely. “I’m rarely wrong about these things.” I tapped the side of my nose as if I could smell her success in the air. What I smelled was stale coffee breath. Girl needed a stick of gum.
She held the door open for me,
