Free Elixir by Ruth Vincent Page B

asked as he ran the backs of his hands over me.
    “Ma’am, in the absence of a same-gendered officer on the scene, an opposite-gendered officer is legally allowed to perform a noninvasive pat down for security purposes,” said McCleary. It sounded as if he was quoting that statute verbatim.
    At last he was done, and I quickly buttoned my coat, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. I watched Obadiah undergoing his own pat down with Officer Diaz. Obadiah was shooting daggers at McCleary—the officer’s touch had been professional enough, but I could bet they didn’t manhandle ladies like that in Obadiah’s time. The chivalry was sort of touching.
    “No weapons,” I heard Diaz say.
    Headlights flashed on the brick wall of Obadiah’s building as a second cop car pulled up. Two more NYPD officers got out.
    “Miss Jones, you’re going to come with us. Mr. Savage, you’ll go with my colleagues.”
    The two new officers approached us.
    I exchanged a panicked glance with Obadiah. They were going to drive us to the precinct in separate cars—and probably question us separately too—to see if our stories matched! Obadiah and I hadn’t had any time to talk since Eva’s fall; we’d had no chance get our accounts straight. What were we going to tell the cops? We couldn’t tell them the truth—that Eva had been flying! Surely Obadiah knew you couldn’t say something like that? But if he said she flew and I said she’d fallen—or if I said she’d fallen from the fire escape and he said she’d fallen from the roof—if our stories didn’t match up, this was going to seem really suspicious.
    I wished I could do something, say something to Obadiah, at least mouth the words “she fell off the lower fire escape, right?” but now all four officers were staring at us. There was no way to communicate, not even a wink.
    The two new cops were leading Obadiah over to their patrol car. He turned back and looked at me over his shoulder. I could see the fear in his eyes.
    “Miss Jones?” said McCleary. He had opened up the passenger door to his. Diaz was already inside.
    What could I do? You don’t argue with a cop.
    Feeling sick in my gut, I got in.

 
    CHAPTER 8
    I ’d never been in the back of a police car before. It was nothing like a regular vehicle—the whole backseat area was made of hard plastic, and was incredibly cramped, even for a petite person like me. I couldn’t imagine how squished Obadiah must be right now. Underneath the smell of the officers’ coffees in the front-seat cup holder, there was an ever-present odor of stale sweat—all the bodies who’d been crammed back here before me had left their scents haunting the air. It was incredibly warm—heat was blasting through the small plastic vents, and I felt claustrophobic, nauseous and numb, wishing I could open the window and just feel cold, clean air on my face.
    When I turned my head to look out the rear window, I could see that several more cop cars had pulled up in front of Obadiah’s club—the blue-uniformed officers moving amongst the crowd of gawkers. Maybe they were questioning these people too?
    Officer Diaz was silent as he drove—it was like some twisted version of being in a taxi. I was silent too, too upset to try to make any conversation with Officers Diaz and McCleary. We drove for what seemed like a long time, though in reality it was probably only about fifteen minutes. At last we pulled up to a large brick building—built in the neo-Gothic style with a redbrick turret. I’d walked past this building before and admired it—I always thought it was an odd place to house one of Brooklyn’s main police precincts. I never dreamed I’d be going inside.
    Diaz parked the car, walked around to the back and then opened up my car door. He told me to follow and I walked behind the two officers up a long flight of steps to the heavy brass double doors of the grand entryway.
    Despite the ornate exterior, the inside of the building was