Free Monkey Wrench by Terri Thayer

sound came out of her mouth. Her hands dangled by her knees. She was in the perfect position to puke. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. I felt my own stomach roiling.
    A siren squealed, getting closer until it was cut off in mid-scream. I felt Vangie shudder as a black and white slewed around the corner. A uniformed cop got out of the car and approached us, keeping one hand on his belt near his gun. From our vantage point on the curb, he looked improbably tall and lean.
    Suddenly, Vangie pressed something into my hand. Small and round. I looked down. It was a prescription bottle. I squinted at it.
    “It’s Pearl’s prescription,” Vangie said. “Take it to her.”
    I opened my mouth to protest, but the cop spoke first.
    “What’s going on here?” he asked. He stood at an angle to us, taking in the street, the car and the nearby yards. His eyes didn’t rest. I didn’t like the feeling of being small and started to rise. His fingers tapped the handle of his gun. “Stay seated, please. Put your hands on your knees.”
    I complied. No sense making this cop nervous. I closed my fist tight.
    Since Vangie wasn’t talking, I said, “My friend found her boyfriend in her car. He seems to be dead.”
    The cop shone his flashlight inside. “How did this happen?”
    I looked at Vangie. She nodded. Her voice was rusty at first and she had to stop twice to clear her throat. “I was driving him home, and he had a seizure or something …” she dissolved in tears. Her dark curls spilled over her cheeks, hiding her face.
    The officer reached in and pressed his fingers against the boy’s throat.
    “Were you drinking?”
    Vangie shook her head without removing her hands. I couldn’t blame her. If my boyfriend was lying dead … I shook off that thought. Buster was in danger all the time. I usually managed not to imagine scenarios like this.
    But sometimes in the middle of the night, I couldn’t help it.
    I hugged Vangie close. She leaned against my shoulder. While my body was hidden, I shoved the pills into my pocket. A second police car rolled to a stop and a woman, looking stuffed into her shirt, got out. She was short, even with thick-soled boots on. I couldn’t tell if she was heavyset or if her equipment made her look like a Weeble.
    The officer acknowledged the new arrival with a curt nod. She barely glanced in our direction. She waved her flashlight around the car, the light strobing. I turned away so I wouldn’t see Wyatt’s head illuminated again.
    “ID, please,” the first officer said.
    Vangie and I pulled out our driver’s licenses and he jotted down our names and addresses.
    “Were you two together?” he asked.
    I returned my arm to Vangie’s shoulder. She felt so thin and vulnerable. “No. I just got here. Vangie called me. My boyfriend is on the force. Ben Healy.”
    He gave a barely perceptible shrug. “Don’t know him.”
    So much for goodwill between fellow officers. The thin blue line was very skinny around here. These were patrol officers. There was no reason they would know Buster, who’d only been on patrol a short time before being moved to Homicide and now the Drug Task Force. His attitude made it clear that there would be no special treatment tonight.
    “Ma’am.” The officer addressed Vangie loudly, leaning down. “I’m going to need you to stand up and answer my questions,” he said.
    “She’s upset,” I said. “Her friend died in her car. Can’t you cut her some slack?”
    He ignored me. Something about Vangie’s demeanor had awakened his suspicions. Vangie stood.
    “Are you on anything, miss?” He let his flashlight play over Vangie’s face.
    I caught my breath, hoping her eyes weren’t dilated. Hoping she hadn’t taken anything.
    The officer seemed to be satisfied with what he saw—or didn’t see—in Vangie. I felt my shoulders come down a notch.
    “Is there anyone else in the car?”
    Vangie shrugged. “No.”
    The officer returned his pad to his pocket.