Robocop got out and came around to my door, orange-tanned news people falling away from the force of his obvious wrath. When the door opened, a deafening barrage of humanity rang in my shell-shocked ears.
“Miss Lytton, where have you been?”
“Samantha, is Oliver Turner your lover?”
“Miss Lytton, are you on the run from the mob?”
“Is it true that Playboy has offered you one million dollars for a spread?”
A million? Maybe I was moving up in the game of life!
My new best friend, the scowling cop, hustled me away from these impertinent questions and into the beige brick building. The reporters followed him right inside. I smiled at the cameras. Oops—I didn’t want to look like some sort of sleazy fame-whore. Lifting my chin, I switched to put on my ‘serious young-ish woman of the world’ face.
“Ma’am!” I turned to pay attention to the cop again. “Come this way.” He led me past the long, wide desk that separated the waiting area from the inner sanctum of policeness. So strange to be walking through a real-life version of Law & Order. Everything mirrored what I’d seen in movies—plain desks, old computers, faded posters—but smelt of disinfectant. My nose burned. It was an odd flare of sensation in my otherwise shocked system. We came to a desk in the corner, and he made a stiff gesture for me to sit. I did. My skin prickled. Looking around, I realised every single cop and civilian in the place was staring at me.
My good friend panic plopped itself in my lap. What on earth was I going to say? I opened my mouth to breathe, but my lips had dried and shrivelled to nothing. No air would come in. My eyes and lungs burned like fire.
I was so deep in the shit that my vision began to darken.
* * * *
“Samantha, honey. Wake up.”
I lay on the floor. It was cold. My head hurt. My eyes were wet. I lifted my arm to touch my temple. “Ow.”
“You fell on your face,” Sam said.
I was half convinced I’d hallucinated him. But he held my hand, sure and warm, and felt so solidly wonderful that I clutched him back. Kneeling, he took me in his arms—and on his lap—and exhaled a long breath. His strength flowed into me. Gratitude re-wetted my eyes. He hadn’t really abandoned me. He’d come to a police station of all places to rescue me. Either he actually cared, or he was the shittiest criminal ever.
“She just fainted,” Sam said to the four boys—and one woman—in blue who surrounded us.
My Robocop crouched over me, hands on knees, his big brown eyes appearing to be a lot more concerned than he had before. “Get her some water,” he gruffed to another officer. “Who the hell are you?” he directed to Sam.
“Sam Turner.” He flashed the winningest smile that ever winned. Robocop’s moustache flickered. Sam set me gently onto the floor and shoved his hands decidedly in his pockets, where he kept them. Nope, he was still an excellent criminal—the kind who left no fingerprints. “I’m Samantha’s boyfriend. I’m sure we can clear all this up—it’s a big misunderstanding, I think.”
“You come with me.” The cop grabbed Sam. My lover promptly fell to his butt, and squeezed me profusely and with great showmanship.
“After the man broke into Samantha’s apartment, she escaped to my house and hid out for a few days. We went to Vegas for Christmas, and then came back here.” He turned winsome eyes to the lady cop. “Unfortunately, we haven’t been looking at the news or anything, so we had no idea there was some sort of manhunt on for her. Or womanhunt.” He dimpled. The cops appeared unimpressed, which was very unfair, considering the performance Sam had just given.
God bless his criminal acumen. He’d provided me our story before they separated us.
Which they immediately did. I found myself in the dingy little room no one wants to be in. White-ish tiles on floor and ceiling, wobbly table and one tall, narrow window with scratches marring it. They set a cup of water and a bag of Doritos in front of me, and left me alone. I waited for a long time. I ate Doritos. I waited. I drank metallic tap water. Fortified, yet slightly leery of water-borne pathogens, I tried to calm my brain enough to fill in any gaps in Sam’s story.
Before I thought of even one good hole-plugging lie, the door creaked open. A tall African-American woman in police uniform glided into the room. She was stunning—I wondered if she was Ellen’s sexy officer friend. Oh, boy. Another thing to consider—not implicating Ellen. Robbing your BFF of hot cop action was a cardinal sin.
Gorgeous sat down and blinked sepia brown eyes for a moment or two. I blinked back, trying to appear neutral. This went on for a few minutes, until my eyes were dry as dust, and I felt that not saying something made me seem guilty of something. But that was what she wanted me to think! It was a test to see if I’d volunteer something stupid, which, knowing me, would totally work.
I closed my eyes and put my fingers to the bump on my head. What to say? “Am I in some sort of trouble?”
“What trouble would you be in?”
Touché, hot cop. I smiled and gave a breathy laugh. Suddenly, the weight of my myriad emotions flattened me all at once. Fatigue shrouded me—dangerous. Her kind, sharp eyes took everything in. I pressed my lips closed and set my aching head on my hand. Let her talk. I was so tired of being pushed around. We’d sit there till kingdom come for all I cared. Except that we couldn’t. Except that I had to give Scott a painting tonight or else he’d go on a murder spree of my family. My heart skipped a beat.
“Where have you been, Samantha? You had a lot of people worried.”
My eyes flicked to hers. I needed to pull myself together to get out of here. I clasped my hands on the table and said, “Who?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Who was worried? Who called the police?”
“Your neighbours.”
“They probably called because there was gunfire, right?”
“Of course.”
“Did anyone call you because I disa—left town for a few days?”
Her freckled nose scrunched when she smiled. “No.”
I let that sit there for a moment.
She broke the silence. “A man breaks into your apartment, shoots up the place, doesn’t appear to steal anything and you run—”
“Duh.”
She chuckled. I was beginning to like her. “You didn’t come back. Didn’t you think the police would investigate and need your help to catch the man?”
“Not one person helped me that night.” I sat back in my cold, metal interrogation chair. “Why would I think anyone had called the cops? I didn’t dial nine-one-one. I went to Sam’s house because I was scared.”
“You left your car.”
“Yes, of course. It was at my apartment, where the scary dude was. I ran out of the place without my car keys.”
“How did you get to your boyfriend’s?” She raised her left eyebrow, damn her.
“I took the bus.”
“Which one?”
“The two-eighteen to the two.” Ha! I’d travelled via bus for six months after my parked car had been flattened by a jerk hit-and-run driver. My bus-fu could not be equalled!
She sat back in her chair and sagged into it a little. “Why didn’t you call anyone?”
I folded my arms across my chest, having fun playing stump-the-copper now. “I dropped my phone in the toilet. Plus, I was off fooling around with my boyfriend. Have you seen him? He’s gorgeous.” Maybe not the best tactic to use on the lesbian cop. Then again, she didn’t know I knew that. Perhaps she was bi. I tried hard not to judge, unless people wore socks with sandals.
I continued, “I can see how it might be irresponsible to go dark for a few days, but really, I didn’t figure my peeps were concerned with my safety because I didn’t tell anyone the apartment had been broken into.”
“Why not?”
I sighed and put on my acting hat. Staring at the table, I said, “My mom already thinks LA is a shithole, and that I’m wasting my time here. I didn’t feel like getting a lecture.
”
Those perceptive brown eyes narrowed at me. She did not fully buy the load of horse hockey I was desperately trying to sell her. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she murmured. “Your friend Ellen worried about you.”
Ooh! I’d so have to tell Ellen that her cop had mentioned her. “I know. I’ll definitely have to make it up to her.”
“She didn’t know anything about this?”
I paused. “About what?”
She paused. “The break-in.”
“Nope. I didn’t want to worry her. She knew I’d left the party with my guy.” I waggled my eyebrows. “She knew what was up.”
“Why didn’t he steal anything?”
My blood frosted over like an open freezer. “Steal? He? Who?”
Her eyebrows knitted. “The burglar.”
“Oh!” I laughed my relief. Of course the burglar, moron Samantha. Get it together! One drop of sweat meandered down between my breasts. My innocent maiden act chafed like my thighs in corduroy. “I have no idea.”
“Who would want to kill you, Samantha?”
“Only everyone who knows me,” I quipped conspiratorially. We were old girlfriends, me and the suspicious cop. “Sometimes I think my name is ‘Annoying’ because N—Sam calls me that so much.”
Oh, boy—she actually rolled her eyes at that one.
“But in all seriousness, it was very scary,” I added soberly.
“And you just decided to stop going to work.”
“Yup. I hated that job.” First true thing I’d said all day. Enough of that, however—back to lying. “I did leave my boss Oliver a note.”
“He didn’t find it.”
I snorted. “Not surprising. He can’t take a pee without one of his assistants scheduling it, sending him two reminders, drawing him a map to the urinal and telling him he did a nice job when he’s done.”
Her mouth turned up slightly. “I used to work in an office. I detested it.”
“Now you get to carry a gun!” That came out entirely too enthusiastically.
“Yes, I do.” She stood and leaned over the table. “Why, Samantha, do you think nine-one-one got a call about a priceless stolen masterpiece hanging in your boss’s office?”
I could swear the Law & Order ‘doink doink’ echoed in the room. “What?” I asked, confusion in my very essence.
She leaned closer to my face. “A man called and said Oliver Taylor had a stolen Picasso hanging on his office wall.”
I burst into laughter. I was good at fake giggling—I’d once played Zaneeta in The Music Man. “If Oliver had a new masterpiece, he’d have bragged about it all day long. He lives to play up his wealth to the plebs.”
“Not if it was stolen. Do you know the one I’m referring to?”
“He has a lot of paintings.”
“I was told you cleaned his art room.”
Damn—this lady was good at her copping. “I was supposed to.” Shrugging, I added, “I ‘forgot’ most of the time.” I snickered more. “I’m sorry, I just can’t believe that my ex-boss is some sort of art thief. He probably is a criminal, but of the white-collar, old, rich dude variety.”
For a few, long moments, she bored into me with her eyeballs. I lifted my brows and stared right back, my innards a knot of pure defiance. I had a lot to lose from people badder than her.
She said, “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but your story reeks like week-old fish. Don’t go anywhere.” Her chair screeched as she pushed it with the backs of her legs and turned to leave.
“Am I being held or anything?” My voice hitched. Scott’s blotchy face haunted my vision.
Her long ponytail whipped back in my direction. “You cost us all a lot of time, money and worry. The only explanation you have is that your job sucks, and you were playing footsy with your boyfriend.” I sank into my seat. “No, you’re not being held. You’re free to go at any time, back to your apartment, which for some reason you thought it a good idea to leave wide open for days and days. I’m going to go chat with your lover now. Should be mesmerising.”
She left. Funny how the real version of events actually made me sound marginally smarter than the fake version.
I thunked my head on the tilty table. Scott would hunt down my family if we weren’t able to return the painting to him. I had to keep up this act that I was the dumbest, flightiest moron whoever moroned. My face burned. How fucking embarrassing. I’d never needed a drink more in my entire life, and that included the time my prom date had turned out to be gay. And my best friend. Ellen had left me there alone in my teal taffeta to go suck face with the prom queen.
Since I was a free woman, I shuffled to the door to leave. Sam was presumably off being interrogated. I didn’t worry about him. At the end of his interview, he’d probably be given a citizenship award and the key to the city.
“Samantha!” This muffled rendition of my name came from my left. No one was there. “Samantha! Garble, garble, garble.” Oh, fudgecakes. A reporter stood smushed up against the window four feet from me, his camera pointed at my incredulous expression. More pretty pictures for the eleven o’clock news. I put my hands to my face and turned away.
I was going to be a national joke. Failed Actress Costs City Four Million Dollars, Found After Diddling Boyfriend Who Is Handsome and Could Get Anyone, but Inexplicably Dates Her for Some Reason.
Well, I had moved to LA to become famous.
Chapter Eighteen
The Idiot, the Thief, the Friend & Her Lover
As if my reputation depended on it, I hurried away from the window and found Robocop’s desk again. He wasn’t there, so I plunked myself in his swivelley chair to await Sam’s emergence from the interrogation dungeon. I wasn’t anxious to stay in the police station, but I thought leaving without Sam would look weird. Besides, I worried about him despite myself. After a half hour of being left alone, ol’ Moustache came by and wordlessly dropped more Doritos in front of me. They really had got to know me from talking to Ellen. No booze in sight, though. Not even in his desk drawer. Where were the gritty, alcoholic cops of movie lore?
Guilt prickled at my guts—I prayed no other crimes had been neglected during their search for me. I had really been in trouble, I just couldn’t tell them that.
I called Ellen from Robocop’s phone. If they didn’t like it, I invited them to add it to my bill.
“This is Ellen.”
Her voice bloomed like a happy balloon animal through my chest. “It’s me.”
“You’re on the news again!”
The balloon popped, hissing in its deflation. Not what I wanted to hear. “Yeah. There are camera crews crawling all over the police station. Am I being portrayed as a moron or a mysterious adventure woman?”
“Um…”
Not what I wanted to hear. “Ugh.”
“They’re showing your newer headshot now, though.”
Yes! Small victories. “Can you come get me? Us. I’m going to wait for Sam.”
“The not-FBI agent is there, too?”
“This phone could be tapped!” I said loudly. Four police heads turned my way. I smiled and whispered, “Just turn off Doctor Who and come, okay? Your cop is here,” I added to sweeten the pot.
“Really?” she squeaked. “Be cool about her. She’s on the down-low at work. I have to shower—she’s way too good for my current state of skank. Be right there.”
I set the phone down. I grabbed myself a cup of shitty coffee. I sat.
Ellen’s cop stalked by me, flashing unfathomable, yet clearly hostile glances my way. Her wedding to Ellen would be awkward after this. “Don’t you want to go home?” she asked.
“I’m waiting for Sam.”
“Sam and Samantha.” A sneer shaped her syllables.
I sighed. “Yeah. I know. I tried not to like him. I tried so hard.” Hey, maybe he was still lying, and his name wasn’t actually Sam. That would be wonderful, except for the lying-to-me-again part.
After another half-hour, Ell
en showed up at exactly the same moment that they released Sam. Ellen bounded up to me and enclosed me in a sloppy hug. She practically smothered me, as she was as tall and gangly as I was short and shortly. Once she let me go, she held me at arm’s length. “I like the red. It makes you look cool.”
“Didn’t I look cool before?”
“No.” She loosened her grip on me and turned her head towards my worse half. If Ellen were an X-Man, Sam would’ve been instantly frozen from the icicles shooting out of her eyeballs. “Hello, Sam. It is Sam, right?” she added loudly.
Teeth gritted, Sam nodded. “Hi, Ellen.” Sam put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a crushing squeeze of ownership. “I remember you from Steak on a Stick.”
Ellen grabbed my arm and yanked me away from him. Enclosing me in a monster hug that squished my face between her tiny, yet surprisingly smothering tits, she whispered, “I quit Steak on a Stick on principle. Any corporation that puts a hit on my best friend is not worthy of underpaying me.”
“Fank you, Ellen!” I exclaimed from between the mammaries.
“Besides, they began blocking my favourite zombie apocalypse chat room.”
I fought my way free. “Oh, no! They didn’t expect you to—”
“Yes.” She took a shuddering breath. “Work.”
“What a tragedy,” Sam said.
I’d never actually seen human hackles, but Ellen raised hers faster than a preacher’s son bolts for college. “Wanna compare jobs, lover boy?”
Sam ground his teeth and stared off into the corner. “Thank you so much for coming by, Ellen.”
“I’m here to pick up my best friend. Where can I drop you, Sam?”
Sam pulled on the back of my jeans until I slammed flush against the front of him. He wound his fingers through my belt loops and damn near gave me a wedgie. “No need. I have my car.”
The Dimple of Doom (Samantha Lytton) Page 20