Deja Who (Insighter #1)(51)

You’d think they’d make a sign that would handle helping citizens bail out other citizens.

He realized he had no actual problem with the Chicago Police; his nerves were getting the better of him. Oh, and also the consistently bad memories of his childhood. And then there was the niggling fear that Leah had pissed off one or two or all of her cellmates and been beaten to death, not unlike her mother.

Leah was charming and likeable, but you kinda had to work for it. It was there. Um, under all the layers of blank hostility.

Oh please please don’t let her be dead or battered. Oh, man, they probably took her bra knives. She’d be helpless without her bra knives!

No checks, the posters told him. No money orders. Bank or cashier’s checks only, presented during normal banking hours. Because apparently there was nothing more annoying than being presented with a cashier’s check for low five figures at 2:00 a.m. You could pay cash, by which they meant credit card (not cash) or debit card (also not cash, but no one had told the CPD). He had his debit card, and a balance of $614.23. And Cat, who would wire five figures if he called and asked.

(“Of course a homeless rich ex-mayor of Boston has a cell phone,” she’d said irritably when he’d expressed surprise. “Third graders have them. What exactly is your day job again?”)

It would take up to about two hours to complete . . . whatever it was that needed completing. He still wasn’t sure if Leah was under arrest for murder or if Detective Preston had been browbeaten by a suit into dropping the charges. He figured, if nothing else, he could at least find that much out.

Ah! Here was the large desk, behind which sat a sergeant of some kind. Behind him, he could see rows of desks, and hear ringing phones, and see people going back and forth, some in uniform and some not, and here and there people were in handcuffs, but most of them weren’t, so that was encouraging. It didn’t look scary. Just busy, like any office on a weekday.

There wasn’t a line, so he could go right up to the desk sergeant, whom TV had led him to believe would be a harried, heavyset, sassy African-American woman who was busy but also cared deep down inside. The reality was a heavyset white guy who looked like an accountant who had just heard the IRS had no interest in any of his clients.

“Well, hi there!” Bright hazel eyes blinked up at him; the man’s light brown hair was neatly combed. His uniform was crisp and clean; his badge gleamed. The man radiated good fellowship; Archer was dazzled in spite of himself. “Help you?”

“I hope so. I’m here to see Leah Nazir. Or try to bail her out. Or look at her through plate glass while we press our hands together like they do in prison on TV.” Given his family history, it was absurd how all his prison knowledge came from Sons of Anarchy reruns. Ooh, that Gemma! What a wonderful bitch.

The cop who looked like a cheerful accountant blinked faster. “Leah Nazir?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.”

“Yes.”

He held up a finger. “Just a moment.” Then he left his desk, something they weren’t allowed to do on TV but was apparently okay in real life.

Archer waited by the abandoned desk and fretted. What did “ah” mean, coming from a cop?

“Ah, that Leah Nazir. Yep, she’s dead.”

“Ah, Leah? Nazir? I think she escaped, sowing death and destruction on her way out . . . I’ll go check.”

“Ah. Hmm. You’re a friend? Of Leah Nazir? Yeah, you’re under arrest. Come along quietly or we’ll all shoot you.”

What if she was fated to meet her killer in a holding pen? What if the whole path of this life was to put her in lockup at just the wrong time with just the wrong person? What if she’s bleeding out? What if she’s dead? All our stupid little meetings, trying to figure out who her murderer is this time around, playing at detective, and she could be dead right now. And in a way, that would be Nellie’s fault this life, too.

He rubbed the heels of his palms over his eyes and shook his head. This was useless and worse than useless. The desk sergeant would know where she was. Leah was alive, somewhere in the building. Right? Right.

Come on, buddy. How long does it take to get an update? Hurry up or my paranoia will have its way with me again. Where IS he?

But then! Before the desk sergeant could return! There she was, walking toward him—except she didn’t see him. She was walking next to (yikes!) Detective Preston, whose head was bent attentively toward her, clearly soaking in every word.

“. . . for God’s sake, he was your beloved big brother. He saved you from countless beatings, he protected you in the face of your mother’s helplessness and who wouldn’t worship someone like that? He never showed you the side his victims saw and he never would. Do you think I would be this fucked up if I’d had a protective older sibling? You can’t blame the man you were for the dead; that was on Albert. All of it: on Albert. The man doing the actual murdering. If, in your other life, you had gone to the police and said, ‘Hey, I’m pretty sure my brother is the Boston Strangler,’ you know what would have happened. They would have had the cuffs on you in about five seconds . . . and that’s if they believed you at all.”

Detective Preston nodded, but Leah barely noticed.

“You have been carrying all that around, and for what? You’re one of the good guys this time. And what if you were a farmer, and not a detective? There still would be nothing to make up for. You could, I don’t know, milk your cows in peace. Or whatever you would do if you were a farmer. That old life is done. I insist you stop having nightmares about it immediately.”