Take and Give

by Amanda G. Stevens

  “Why not uniforms, sir?”

  Mayweather hit the doorbell. “First, when it’s just us, you call me Jason. Second, stand next to me, not behind me. Third, the uniform’s for suspects. Not witnesses.”

  But last week, Agent Tisdale had been in uniform all day, in and out of the office, and he’d been interviewing both suspects and witnesses. Austin stepped up beside his boss, but a frown tightened his mouth.

  Mayweather—could Austin really think of him as Jason?—tipped his head. “That’s not how everyone does it. That’s how I do it.”

  “Right. Sir. Jason.”

  The man grinned like a toothpaste commercial model. “Relax, Austin, seriously.”

  The door opened to a woman somewhere between Austin and Mayweather on the age scale. “Yes?”

  Mayweather flashed his badge long enough for her to read it. Austin’s badge nearly slipped from his fingers, but he dipped a quick catch that no one seemed to notice.

  “I’m Agent Mayweather and this is Agent Delvecchio with the MPC. Reese Cabrera-Hill?”

  “That’s me.”

  “We’re here for your written statement.”

  “Oh, right, of course.” The woman waved them inside, and the bangles on her wrist clinked when she lowered her arm. Her plum sweater brightened her dark eyes and Latina complexion.

  She gestured them to the small dining room left of the entryway. “May I offer you some coffeecake? Made from scratch this morning.”

  “I don’t turn down refreshments,” Mayweather said.

  “Coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  Austin squashed the surprise at both of them from his face. Didn’t Reese Cabrera-Hill want the con-cops out of her house as quickly as possible? And didn’t Mayweather want professionalism here?

  “I’ll grab some plates.” Reese disappeared.

  Mayweather pulled a folded paper from a pocket inside his trench coat, the witness statement, composed of blank lines and a question at the bottom. Do you attest that this statement is true to the best of your knowledge and contains no hearsay or speculation?

  Or outright lies, Austin always wanted to scribble into the margin, though attesting a statement was true ought to preclude deceit.

  After slinging his coat over a chair, Mayweather opened the paper and smoothed out the folds, not a nervous gesture but an absent one. Around the room, his glance ticked, as if he had a mental checklist. Chairs. Table. Curio cabinet. Check, check, check. Every item of furniture had been painted wine red. The lack of clutter here stood at odds with the overgrowing lawn.

  In two trips, Reese brought three mugs of coffee, forks, creamer, and sugar. By the time they all sat down at the dining room table, Jason and Austin had been here for fifteen minutes and accomplished not a bit of Constabulary business.

  “I’ve made three coffeecakes in two days.” Reese took a bite and smiled. “Cinnamon was boring me, so this is chocolate. And not bad if I do say so.”

  Jason tried the cake and sipped his coffee and approved of both before handing her the witness statement.

  “You should have this thing online, Agent Mayweather. Electronic signature and all that. Honestly, the Constabulary makes legislative progress almost every week. Tech progress couldn’t hurt.”

  Between Austin’s shoulders, inching up his neck, a finger seemed to tap. Maybe not a warning but a clue. Mayweather half smiled at his witness, and he lifted the slice of coffeecake right off the plate to take another bite, as if she hadn’t provided forks.

  “Psych reasons, probably,” he said. “Nothing replaces the gravity of your signature in ink.”

  Had these two met before? Nothing sparked in the air between them, not like that, anyway, but … they didn’t feel like strangers. And truly, Austin had no reason to be here. He ate coffeecake and listened.

  Mayweather should have left him at his desk combing through phone records. This couldn’t even be called a first interview. So much for proving something, or whatever he’d hoped to do when he latched onto this opportunity like a band roadie offered a chance at the front man’s mic. Mayweather handed Reese a pen from inside his suit jacket, and she pursed her lips and scrawled on the lines of the witness form.

  Maybe Mayweather was the one proving something. Austin forked a bite of coffeecake, little crumbles falling from the top onto his plate.

  “You like it, Agent Delvecchio?” Reese’s writing didn’t pause.

  “It’s great.”

  “I agree. I think I’ll make one for my cousin and his girlfriend this weekend. They’re visiting from Kalamazoo.” She wrote for another minute then signed the form, looping the pen back to make a whorl in the center of her last name not unlike the chocolate in the center of the coffeecake. She pushed the page over to Mayweather.

  “Cross your t’s?” He stacked Austin’s now empty plate on top of his own.

  Reese bobbed her head, and her gold earrings glinted against her neck. “Don’t think I missed anything.”

  “Take a quick look, Agent.” Mayweather passed the form to Austin.

  Okay, sure. Austin pressed the paper flat on the table.

  Date of Incident: October 19

  Two days ago.

  Please recount the events in your own words: I was leaving class on 10/19, Monday night, and across the parking lot, I heard a girl crying. I went to make sure everything was okay. I came around the back of the row of cars and saw two girls from class, Aaliyah Johnson and Stephanie Eggers, sitting in a small white car. They didn’t see me, and I stood there a minute, trying to decide if I should interrupt. Steph said, “I know this sounds stupid, but I’m not that scared of re-education. They’ve been in my neighborhood twice in the last month, and I know eventually they’ll be on to me, so I’m ready for that. What I’m not ready for is my family to find out. They’ll never speak to me again. I’m so scared of that, I can’t witness to them.”

  Aaliyah proceeded to encourage Steph. She recited what sounded like Bible verses, and then she prayed for her to be protected from the Constabulary and for God to give her courage to tell her family “the truth about Jesus.” She also closed her prayer by saying, “in Jesus’ name.”

  I left without confronting Steph and Aaliyah. I called the Constabulary as soon as I had gotten back to my car and locked myself in. I didn’t feel safe enough to wait for them to arrive, so I told the dispatcher I would provide a written statement at another time, and this was acceptable to her. She told me to do what was necessary to feel safe.

  Reese’s handwriting looked like a computer font, one of those swirly ones that showed up everywhere from greeting cards to bakery boxes. Austin pushed the paper back. “I do have one question.”

  Mayweather’s eyebrows drew together.

  “For Ms. Cabrera-Hill,” Austin said, and Mayweather nodded.

  Reese waved a dismissal. “Hill is fine.”

  Austin shrugged. “Ms. Hill, are you familiar with archaic Bible translations?”

  Her hand jerked on the table and rattled her bracelets. “Of course not.”

  “Then are you sure the verses Aaliyah was quoting weren’t from the Progressive United Version? I mean, they were probably inspirational verses about courage or something, right? Nothing controversial enough to be retranslated.”

  Both Reese’s hands drew back into her lap, and she shifted to cross her legs under the table. “That’s true, but it was obvious that both of them were Christians. People quoting the PUV have legal beliefs. These girls were crying about the Constabulary.”

  Obviously, she was right, and he hadn’t needed her to make that point. He shrugged, more toward Mayweather than Reese. “Just clarifying.”

  “Which is part of the job.” Mayweather’s white teeth flashed at the witness, and he picked up the statement, skimmed it for less than a minute, then set it back down. “Speaking of
clarification, how many people did you see giving spiritual comfort to Stephanie Eggers?”

  Reese’s nose crinkled, making her look closer to Austin’s age. “Just Aaliyah. Which is what I wrote down.”

  “And you even signed it, so technically, I don’t have to offer this to you, but are you very sure you don’t want to amend it?”

  “Why would I amend it?”

  Austin’s neck prickled again. Answering a question with a question. Avoidance.

  “Because when we questioned Stephanie, she maintained she was alone in the parking lot, the prayer had been hers. Five hours later, her exact slip of the tongue was, ‘I won’t say anything to get them arrested.’”

  Reese blinked. Before the silence could stretch, Mayweather leaned forward.

  “Ms. Hill, was there someone else in that car?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was Nicholas Lowe in that car?”

  She jolted in her chair and put both feet to the floor. She leaned forward to meet Mayweather’s stare. “Absolutely not. Where are you getting this nonsense?”

  “Well, I’m trying to figure out a motive for you to leave someone out of your story, and ‘we were engaged once’ is a good motive.”

  “I haven’t seen Nicholas Lowe in ten years. This is ludicrous.”

  It was. But the air was thickening as if with fumes, gasoline waiting for a match. Surely Mayweather would back off now.

  “I’m thinking based on your ‘legislative progress’ comment earlier that you do pay attention to national news, Ms. Hill. I’m sure you know you’re legally required to report Christians and people harboring Christians.”

  “I turn in Christians wherever I find them, sir. Case in point, the witness statement I just filled out for you.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe there’s someone you need to come clean about here.”

  “Or maybe I should call my lawyer.”

  This was crazy. She was a friendly witness, and Mayweather was turning her more hostile with every word he said. Austin’s hand flattened on the table, half-stretched toward her.

  “Hey.” The word fell from his mouth before he could consider how his boss might react to being interrupted. By the rookie.

  He was so screwed.

  Might as well follow through and save this woman some lawyer fees and the Constabulary some embarrassment. “Listen, ma’am, that’s not necessary. No one is threatening you here, okay?”

  “Oh, yeah?” She cocked an eyebrow at Mayweather, who had gone still and expressionless.

  Crap. Austin’s face flooded with heat. “Yeah. But if the suspect’s telling us something different than you are, we’ve got to get to the bottom of it, obviously. So … how many people were in the car?”

  “Two.”

  “Okay.”

  Not a blink, nothing forced in her eye contact, not a twitch in her body. No reason existed to think this woman was lying. Austin slid a glance to Mayweather that he hoped conveyed, Your call, boss.

  Now that I’ve essentially contradicted you in front of a witness.

  But the man’s expression smoothed, and a smile slid over his face. “Well, Ms. Hill, at this point, my only reason to doubt you is the pronoun use of a distraught girl five hours into her interview. Certainly possible that she misspoke. But as Agent Delvecchio said originally, clarification is part of our job.”

  Reese’s shoulders lowered, giving away how tight they’d been a moment before. She glanced down at the piece of paper that lay between them.

  “Thanks for the coffeecake.” Mayweather stood and folded the statement, then tucked it into his suit and pulled on his coat.

  “Thank you for taste-testing.” She managed a tiny smile.

  “And thanks for making the effort to help preserve your society from crime, especially from criminals with a propensity for violence.”

  “I’m happy to do my part, Agent Mayweather.”

  The Twilight Zone took over as Reese Cabrera-Hill walked Austin and Mayweather to her front door. She smiled as they stepped onto the porch, not a relieved smile but an easy one. The door closed behind them, and Austin followed Mayweather back to the car and tried to steel his ego.

  “You’re fired.” The words would hang in the air any second now. He might not be the one to type out Austin’s termination letter, but he could make it happen. He left the driveway and stopped at the first traffic light before speaking.

  “You have thoughts on your first interview?”

  “Thoughts?” Ouch. Austin’s voice wasn’t supposed to bite like that.

  “Yeah, lay them on me, kid.”

  He faced the passenger window. No sense in letting Mayweather see the flush of … well, that was just it. Austin was either ashamed and disappointed in himself or he was furious with his boss for conducting an interview with such stupid aggression. Might help to know which.

  “Austin.”

  “Sir, I spoke out of turn, and I apologize.”

  “But?”

  Austin risked a glance at Mayweather’s profile. “But, sir, I was concerned that her reaction would become counterproductive, so I tried to …”

  Mayweather’s face cracked into a grin.

  Like a single plucked guitar note, understanding twanged through Austin’s mind. “Did you set all that up, sir? To see what I’d do?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Did you bring me on this interview with the sole purpose of testing my reaction to … that in there?”

  “If this was a test, how do you think you did?”

  “I have no idea, honestly, sir—”

  “Jason.”

  Still Jason? Okay, that was good. Austin let his body relax against the seat. He’d been coiled up inside for the last fifteen minutes. He sighed.

  “Come on, kid. You’ve got a brain in that skull. Tell me if you passed my test.”

  “Well, either you wanted me to keep quiet—which means I failed with flying colors—or you wanted me to speak up. Which means I … did okay.”

  “Why would I want you to keep quiet?”

  “Because you’re the boss.”

  “Right, I am, but you’re not my robot pet. In case that fact escaped you before now.”

  Quiet eased over them while Austin turned the scenario over in his head. “So, I think you’re saying I didn’t fail. Because I said something.”

  “That’s the small piece. Here’s the big one. You didn’t just speak up, Austin, you defused the situation when I agitated it. You keyed in to my bad cop—yeah, you assumed it was real, but you don’t know me well enough yet to assume anything else. What matters is, you took on the good cop role. You balanced me. Got it?”

  Oh. Yeah. He’d done exactly that. “It wasn’t deliberate.”

  “Nope, it was instinctive. Which is worlds better.”

  Warmth seeped into Austin’s chest. A few miles rolled away under the tires, and his hand itched for the radio knob. All this quiet pinged around the car, empty and irritating. He wanted music. Ideally, he wanted his guitar, chords strummed from his own fingers, but he’d have accepted Billboard’s Top 40 station by the time Jason fractured the silence again.

  “You figure out the rest yet?”

  There was more? Austin angled a glance at his boss and found the man smiling again. “Give me a minute, sir.”

  Jason nodded and flicked the blinker. They’d arrive back at the Constabulary office in a few minutes.

  As they pulled into a parking space, Austin snapped his fingers. “You do know her.”

  “Good work.” Jason shut off the car.

  “Is she … I mean …”

  Jason’s laugh always had an odd wheeze under it, something animalistic that sounded nothing like his voice when he talked. He hopped out o
f the car, and Austin followed.

  “You know I’m married.”

  Sure, but that didn’t stop some people.

  “Happily, may I add. Three boys. Reese and I go back about a year. She’s a frequent informant. Sometimes I think she’s got genetically enhanced hearing or some crazy crap, the things she overhears, the number of Christians she’s helped us catch. Used to wonder if she wasn’t fabricating this stuff for attention, but we’ve never failed to get a confession out of the people she calls in.”

  “Is this test thing … you know, regulation?”

  Jason cut a glance at him and shook his head.

  “But you do this to all your rookies?”

  “Nope.”

  Their shoes gathered recent raindrops from the grass island that stretched from the parking lot to the sidewalk. They ambled shoulder to shoulder, sort of like partners, which was a silly, glamorous thought. They weren’t detectives on some TV show. Plus, Jason Mayweather didn’t do partners. Plus, Austin glowed green, test passed or not. In fact …

  “Did Reese know why you brought me?” Kind of humiliating, if she did.

  “Don’t worry, hotshot, you impressed her.” Jason smirked. “Platonically.”

  The time it took to hit the sidewalk and reach the office door was the time it took Austin to rally his nerve and bet everything on his A+.

  “Jason?”

  “Hmm?” The man missed the taut thread in Austin’s voice. He put out a hand to open the door.

  “Wait, I want—I need—to ask you something.”

  Jason’s hand lowered to his side. “Shoot.”

  “Violet DuBay.”

  One eyebrow lifted, and the man’s slim frame rocked back on his heels. “Go on.”

  “I know we’ve discussed her in the past. I know the case is listed as cold, and you don’t believe there’s a case.”

  “Sometimes girls that age go missing on purpose.”

  “Violet didn’t.”

  Jason leaned against the glass door, his eyes never wavering from Austin’s, but an odd distance shuttered them. He knows something.

  “I want to do an interview, an official one, where I walk in and announce that I’m a con-cop and they have to answer my questions.”