Chapter 8 - The Police Situation

Chapter 8: Chapter 8 - The Police Situation

The interview room the hospital lent the officers was barely bigger than a supply closet. It smelled like bleach and burnt coffee.

Jesse sat across from the two cops with his hands folded on the table, calm in a way he’d never been in front of anyone with a badge.

The mustached officer, who’d introduced himself as Officer Kowalski, flipped open a notepad. His younger partner, a woman named Reyes, leaned against the wall with her arms crossed.

"The intake report says you were brought in around eleven last night with blunt force trauma to the abdomen, a split lip, possible broken ribs, and heavy bruising across the face." Kowalski looked up. "That right?"

"If that’s what it says."

Kowalski studied him. Jesse’s face was clean. No swelling. No purple. Just the same crooked nose and crossed eyes he’d been carrying since he was fourteen.

"Funny thing is," Kowalski said slowly, "you don’t look like a guy who got his ribs broken last night."

"I’m a fast healer."

Reyes snorted. Kowalski didn’t.

"A woman dropped you off at the entrance and walked out before anyone could get her name. Security footage shows she was blonde. Short hair." He tapped his pen against the pad. "You know her?"

Jesse thought about the cheap, sweet perfume. The soft hand under his arm. Don’t die on me.

Carrie Morton.

He knew exactly who she was now. He knew more about her than these two cops would find out in a month. And he wasn’t about to hand her over to a system that would slap her on the wrist, let her walk, and let the brute who’d nearly crushed his balls walk right behind her.

No. Carrie was his to deal with.

"Never seen her before in my life," Jesse said.

"What about whoever did this to you?"

"I was drunk. I don’t remember much." He shrugged. "I think I fell."

"You fell." Kowalski’s voice was flat. "Into somebody’s boots. Multiple times."

"It was a bad fall."

Reyes pushed off the wall. "Mr. Byrne, if someone assaulted you, we can help. But we can’t help if you don’t talk to us."

Jesse smiled at her. It wasn’t the nervous, apologetic smile he usually gave people. It was easy and warm, and he watched her shoulders loosen a little in response.

’Charisma Boost?’ he asked.

[Working as intended, host.]

"I appreciate that, Officer Reyes. I really do. But I’m fine. I’d just like to go home."

Kowalski held his gaze for a long moment, then closed his notepad with a sigh. "Your call. If you remember anything, you’ve got our number."

"I’ll keep that in mind."

******

Jesse stepped out through the glass doors of St. Nicholas Emergency into the cold morning air. The nurses didn’t stop him to ask about the medical bill which was sign enough for him that Aunt Marie had handled it.

Instead the nurses and doctors looked at him aww of how healed he looked.

The street was waking up. Delivery trucks double-parked. A woman yelling into her phone in Greek. A man walking three tiny dogs that all hated each other.

And right there, parked along the curb like it had been waiting for him all night, was a Porsche Panamera Turbo S.

Jet black. Tinted windows. The body was so glossy it reflected the whole street back at itself.

Jesse stopped walking.

People were already slowing down to look at it. A teenager on a scooter circled it twice and took a picture.

Jesse reached into his pocket and pulled out the key fob. He turned it over in his palm. Then, feeling like the biggest idiot in Queens, he pressed the unlock button.

The Porsche chirped. Its lights flashed.

The teenager on the scooter turned and stared at him, mouth open, clearly trying to figure out how a lanky guy in a wrinkled funeral shirt with crossed eyes owned a car like that.

Jesse didn’t blame him. He was trying to figure it out too.

He opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. The leather was soft and cool and smelled brand-new. The dashboard lit up around him like a cockpit.

He’d scraped his mother’s Corolla against a pillar on his second day of driving. He’d never been behind the wheel of anything worth more than eight grand.

But the moment his hands touched the steering wheel, he knew this car. He knew where every control was, how hard the brake bit, how the engine would answer the gas. It was like the knowledge had always been there and someone had just turned the lights on.

[Driving Mastery active.]

Jesse pressed the ignition. The engine came to life with a low, hungry growl that he felt in his chest.

He grinned. "Okay. Okay, I could get used to this."

He pulled out onto the street, slid between a cab and a delivery truck without thinking, and drove home with one hand on the wheel like he’d been doing it his whole life.

*****

Jesse parked in front of the apartment building, killed the engine and sat there for a second just listening to it tick as it cooled.

His mother’s building. The one his uncles wanted to rip out from under him.

’Let them try now,’ he thought.

He’d barely shut the car door when a deep, familiar voice cut through the morning.

"Wow! Cool ride you got there."

Jesse’s stomach tightened on reflex.

He turned around. Leaning against the lamppost, holding a coffee cup and wearing a navy windbreaker with FBI stamped in yellow across the chest, was Percy Bonham.