Free The Disappearance by J. F. Freedman Page A

looking for.”
    A deputy unlocks the door to the holding cell where Joe’s been stashed. Joe jerks awake from his light slumber. “What’s going on?” he asks.
    The deputy offers no explanation. “Follow me.”
    He leads Allison out of the cell block into the interview section and places him in a small, windowless room. In the middle of the room is a government-issue table with three beat-up metal chairs. There’s also a video camera hidden in the corner of the ceiling that Joe doesn’t know about.
    “Have a seat. Someone’ll be in shortly.”
    Joe looks around at the drab surroundings. What the hell’s going on? he thinks.
    Terry Jackson comes into the room, closing the door behind him. He’s wearing sweatpants and a UCSB varsity basketball sweatshirt, the easiest things to throw on when he got the call. He’s a lanky black man in his late thirties; he played small-college basketball upstate and is known for his booming laugh and needling humor.
    “Mr. Allison. Terry Jackson. I’m a detective here in the department. I watch you on television.”
    Joe grimaces. “I feel like a jerk.”
    “Yeah, I can understand. You shouldn’t have been drinking and driving, man.”
    “I didn’t have that much to drink,” Joe protests, but not too hard. These cops hear that a million times a day, he knows. Better to play it cool.
    Jackson drops into a chair on the opposite side of the table from Joe, turning it around. He folds his arms on the scarred chairback, leans forward comfortably. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he says.
    “Well, okay.” That’s good to hear, coming from a cop. “That’s how I feel, too.”
    “So what I’d like to do is, I’d like to ask you a few questions and send you on your way, if that’s okay with you.”
    Joe lets out an audible sigh of relief. “That’s fine.”
    “Good.” Jackson leans further forward. “The officer read you your rights, right?”
    Joe stares at him quizzically. “What are you talking about?” he asks.
    “Out there in the street, when you were stopped.” Jackson’s smile is open. “I can’t talk to you at all if you haven’t been told your rights,” he explains. “It’s the law.”
    “Well …” Joe’s hesitant. This is the first time in his life that he’s been in a jail cell. He isn’t following this clearly—he’s too nervous.
    Jackson stands up, heads for the door. “Listen, if you’ve got any kind of problem with this, it’s not a big deal.”
    “Wait a minute.” Joe stops him. “Am I going to be released now anyway?”
    Jackson stops a step from the door. “That I can’t do,” he says. “But it’s no big thing, you’ll be sprung sometime later this morning.”
    No way. He wants out now. There could be a reporter or someone who knows him around in the morning, and then he’d really be screwed.
    “That’s okay,” he says before Jackson can leave. “He read me my rights.”
    Jackson turns back to him. “And you’re all right with that?”
    “Sure, I’m fine.” He smiles. “I have nothing to hide.”
    Jackson sits back down again. “That’s good, Mr. Allison. A little cooperation from you, a few pieces of information, and we can wrap this up.” He takes the key ring, which is in a Ziploc bag, out of his pocket and places it on the table between them. “This belongs to you, that’s correct?” he asks, taking the key ring out of the bag and passing it across the table.
    Joe reaches out and picks the key ring up, looks at it. He hadn’t seen the arresting officer take it out of his car. “No. This isn’t mine.”
    Jackson seems surprised. “It isn’t?”
    “No. I don’t recognize it.”
    Jackson sits back, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “That’s weird.”
    “Why?”
    “Because we found it in your car.”
    “Well, it isn’t mine. Somebody must’ve left it in there.” First the bottle, now this? What’s this all about?
    “Like who?” the detective asks.
    “I don’t know,” Joe