Her View

I came home after a typically hard days work and as I turned on the light saw that someone had been in the apartment and trashed it, she tells me. I grabbed the phone and called 911. I reported it as a break in. I wasn’t really scared, but I am terribly annoyed. And now I’ve got to deal with police asking questions and digging around in my apartment, she implies. “I do not have a gun. I do not have illegal drugs. The bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen were reasonably clean before my uninvited visitor messed the place up,” she tells me. “My bedroom window is open. Whoever came in came in that way. Nothing seems missing. I did a quick check of my jewelry. It all seems to be here.

I do not tell the cute cop I looked for notes or for something broken. There was nothing out of place. I turned on the TV to distract me and then immediately turned it off. I pace around the apartment trying to figure out what this means and come up with nothing. Bobby, I think to myself immediately, the son of a bitch. It had to be Bobby. I can’t call him. I won’t call him. I’ll change the damn locks, put bars on the windows. Maybe he did keep a key I think, but what did he want here?

The doorbell rings. I check myself in the mirror. I laugh at myself for doing so. Nonetheless I catch myself thinking I look good. I laugh at myself for that too. I’m smiling when I open the door.

Two cops are standing there in plain clothes. One of them is incredibly handsome. I notice him right away. He looks me straight in the face and says, “Ms. Lance?”

“I’m Connie Lance,” I say.

“May we come in? We’re responding to a call of a break in. I’m Sergeant Taffeta. This is my partner Officer Rowe.” He lifts the badge he is holding and brings it up to eye level. “Come in,” I say. And of course they do.

When I sit down on the couch I notice him looking at my legs. It is such a funny dance we dance. He looks at my legs. I catch him looking at my legs. I pull my skirt down though it moves very little. I look at his left hand. There is a wedding ring on his fourth finger. I catch myself letting out my breath.

My Move.

I’ve seen nothing that calls out clue, nothing that makes any sense, and one thing that doesn’t make sense, Captain Herrick’s card. I make a formal report: name, age, phone-number, time of break in, employer. Maybe she’s a receptionist at Channel Five. I do not let on that I know she’s half of the local news anchor. I give her my business card, with the slightly raised blue embossed lettering. I do not say anything about Herrick’s card. Why should I? Let’s let this one marinate a little bit and see where it goes.

Herrick calls me into his office in the morning. I like this already.

“Heard you investigated the Lance break in last evening,” he says.

“That I did, sir.”

“Anything worthwhile,” he asks.

“Couldn’t figure out a thing,” I say.

“I know her personally,” he tells me. “She called me this morning to let me know about it. What did they take,” he asks.

“Nothing that I could tell, Chief. I didn’t stay around that long. Rowe and I were at the end of our shift. I wrote up an initial report and went home.”

I do not say I saw his card in her bathroom vanity draw. Why should I?

“How do you know her?”

“Oh she’s interviewed me once or twice. Nothing much. But I’d like to work this one thoroughly and quickly, makes us look good with the media. Brownie points.”

“Well, I’ll give it what I can.”

“No, actually,” he says, “I’d like to work this one myself.”

“Sure chief, just let me know if I can help.”

One plus one equals three already.