Temperature Rising (A Novella) - 6. Chapter 6

"Look, I've told you a dozen times already. I followed Marcus to that studio that night and..." Chloe said, hands clenching on top of the desk. The desk was just like these investigators-empty and cold.

"And saw him having sex in a porn movie. We know Ms. Delle, you've told us that for the last 2 hours," the younger detective said.

Rodney preferred his first name. Rodney Lee was his full name. And for the last couple of hours of questioning, Chloe Delle knew there was no getting through to this dynamic duo. The other one, the one with the thinning hair, preferred to be called Mr. Garson or simply detective. Chloe heard him say his first name but forgot.

"Then why won't you believe me," Chloe said, desperation laced her voice.

"Because, the studio that you pointed out to us, Ms. Delle-does not exist," Mr. Garson said, sounding annoyed. "It's not on any registry here in Los Angeles. What you've led us was an empty parking lot," he added.

"I know-the studio used the parking lot as a front. I've been there and saw the door," Chloe said.

"This door you say Ms. Delle-what colour is it?" Rodney leaned over and focused.

"I...I don't know, I couldn't remember."

"You don't remember the colour of the door because there wasn't any," Mr. Garson said, voice pitching over.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Ms. Delle, you said you had a drink that night," Rodney said, suggestively.

"Yes, but what does that have to do with Marcus' disappearance?" Chloe said, closing her eyes and swallowing hard so she can put the words, she was about to say, together. "Look, I had a drink when I got home. That was after I left the studio where I saw Marcus. That was after, not before," she continued.

"As far as you're concerned, until we find Marcus..." Rodney said with eyes cast down on the table, "Every account is taken in as a lead. You're the only one who can give us these leads, for the moment," he added.

"What he's trying to say, Ms. Delle," Mr. Garson said, pacing the back wall, "is that until we find Marcus, you're considered a valuable witness. If we find him dead, then you're a suspect."

"Excuse me," Chloe said, sounding frantic. Tears were streaming down her reddened face.

"Calm down, Ms. Delle," Rodney said.

"You think I had something to do with this?"

"It's all procedure, Ms. Delle. We're looking into everybody concerned with Marcus," Rodney assured her, though it did not sound that it was.

"You think Marcus is dead?"

"We do not think for the worse, Ms. Delle. We are here to help Marcus. We are just trying to deal with the worst-case scenario. Marcus is missing for three days now. It does us no harm to prepare for the worst. You should prepare too," Rodney consoled her

"This is my fault. I shouldn't have let him go to that place. I should've stopped him when I had the chance," Chloe said, sobbing.

"You couldn't have known, Ms. Delle. It's not your fault," Rodney said, trying to calm her down.

Harold went out of the interrogation room and waited by the door. Emotional connection with witnesses was the last thing he wanted. He just couldn't trust them too much. In fact, he doesn't trust anyone at all. He had learned to be cold and unattached so he could base his judgement and intuition on evidence and facts. Perhaps maybe because he had been in to many cases just like this and he learned from experience. Rodney, on the other hand, was young and affectionate. Young people always let their emotions get in the way. He knew Rodney would eventually learn the way he did. He was just sorry he'd learn it the hard way.

When Rodney emerged from the room, Harold walked down the hall. He'd wanted to get a hold of the evidence first but something told him that the answer was in those streets. Besides, the evidence didn't do much at this point. Marcus hasn't turned up yet-not dead anyway. Even if the studio Chloe pointed out didn't exist, something was a miss or a hit.

"You're kind of cutting it a little bit blunt back there, huh, Chief," Rodney said, striding next to Harold, who was a very fast-paced walker despite his being a little overweight.

But, Harold didn't seem to respond to him. Rodney knew that when his partner was quiet and impassive, he was probably thinking. There were times when this kind of behaviour would allow him to say that Harold was full of shit. But in the end, Harold always came on top with the answers on the palm of his hand. Rodney sought to it that he'd keep his thoughts to himself or else he'd be pushing paper back at his desks with stale cases stacked up to the ceiling. Rodney dared not to compare his own intelligence with his partner. He knows better, not necessarily much, but definitely better. He thought Harold was old and baggy. Yet old dogs don't need new tricks to know the smell of bone. Harold was highly experienced. Rodney was full of books and rules. Other times Rodney would think he was the one full of shit.

When they got to the entrance, Harold pulled back. He had everything he needed to solve the case back in the evidence room. Why in the world were they leaving HQ? Just when he was about to question him, Harold said that he was going to check out the parking lot again.

Harold spoke so low that Rodney began to doubt if he'd spoken at all. Nevertheless, they parted ways and went carrying on with work for the rest of the day.

When Harold reached the site of the supposed disappearing studio, he came to a very isolated space of a parking lot much like a dark alley in between buildings somewhere. Somehow, he began to think Ms. Delle was probably right to suspect this place.

Harold went out of the car moaning. He wasn't as young as he'd use to be. These knees were showing a lot of wear and tear. But the knees weren't the measure of a man's age. What he really wanted to point out was that at least his dick was still on commission. He'd bed a couple of women outside of his marriage before. One of them was even younger than he was. When he'd still make one of them scream like hell when he was fucking them hard on the pussy, meant that he was still Mr. Man. He was divorced now but that wasn't because he was sleeping around. Their marriage was already falling apart to begin with. He was afraid that the culprit of such demise was his work. After spending quite a few years on a cold bed, he was ready to admit that on his knees to the whole world. But somehow, he got used to it and work was the only thing that got him going, even though his prostate was probably ready to explode from cancer.

Harold distanced himself from the car, wary that someone might be hiding in the dark behind the support pillars ready to jump him. He only had to think about the gun on his side to give him the courage to do what he was there to do. He had been on the field for a long time and has seen a lot of action. The fact that he was still standing that night proved that he was a good law enforcer. If things get a little hairy, he was not afraid to pull the trigger and snuff out some low life.

He went further deep into the lot. It was not completely dark for the lights from the streets were burning perfectly. It provided the much-needed light for him to scour the maw that was the parking lot.

To his surprise, the lot ended only with an empty wall-as usual. There was no sign of any doors or pathways leading to any studio. It seemed he got his answer-again. He did not investigate further knowing that he did not want to waste his time chasing shadows. An investigative body searched the area thoroughly after Ms. Delle gave her statements to the police.

Then why would Chloe lie about having to see a studio? Though he got to the tip of the iceberg, he had to dive deeper to get the whole picture. Harold knew that the parking lot was just the beginning of things. If he wanted more answers, he had to look at it in a bird's eye view.

He left the parking lot but did not go far. He soon reached Sam's Diner just a few buildings away. The lights were still on and he could see through the window that there were still people inside.

He went inside and approached the counter. A heavy-set woman in a waitress uniform came over and Harold fished his badge from his breast pocket. He told her that he had wanted to talk about a certain individual's whereabouts. He was about to show her a picture of Marcus Williams when she said she would get her manager to do the talking.

Harold allowed her to get her boss. Meanwhile, he sat down and surveyed the area. Most of the diners were talking low and the stares they give each other were pregnant with meaning. If he didn't know better, he'd thought that they were all hiding secrets. Marcus' case had not been released to the media as of yet. Heck, they haven't even thoroughly checked on the backgrounds of the people involved yet and that included Ms. Chloe Delle. So these people couldn't have known about it. They have no reason to talk on corners over this one.

"Can I help you?" a male voice rang.

"Yes, I'm with the LAPD and I'm investigating a missing person's case. Any information you could offer us would highly be appreciated," Harold said, calmly so as not to distress him.

"I'll do my best. And you're..." the man said, extending his hairy arms to Harold for a shake.

"Detective Harold Garson," Harold said, intercepting the man's hand.

"Samuel Ross," Sam said.

"Well Mr. Ross, I was wondering if you have seen this man-maybe around the area somewhere, or maybe in here," Harold said, giving Sam a picture of Marcus.

Sam took the photograph, examined it for a second, and immediately returned it to Harold. The sudden dismissal from Sam surprised him. He sensed something was not right about his reaction.

"No, I'm sorry I haven't seen this person before," Sam said.

"What about this woman in this picture?" Harold said, handing another picture. This time it was a photograph of Chloe posing with her friends.

Sam did not take the picture right away. Harold could sense that he knew who Chloe was. Even though Sam had a moustache over his upper lip, Harold could see his mouth turning flat into a thin line.

"Yes, I've seen this girl before. She's a regular here," Sam said.

"Really, then you would have seen the guy in the other picture also. This kid here is her best friend," Harold explained.

"No, couldn't say that I have," Sam said, almost as if he had rehearsed the line.

Harold was a little annoyed. He did not want to get rude. But, Sam was making it difficult for him to do his job. Sam was not a good actor. Harold sensed the little nuances Sam displayed: the eyes that peeked at the corner of his eyes while he pretended to look at the pictures or the way Sam's lips went rigid after seeing the photos.

"Mr. Ross, a kid's life is at stake here. If you persist on playing this charade, I'd let the judge decide on the offence he'll give you-I'll say obstruction of justice will just be right up your alley," Harold said, as calm and quietly as he could.

"Is that a threat, detective?" Sam retaliated.

"Not if you want it to be, Mr. Ross. We could play it your way or mine, it's your choice."

"You listen to me Detective Garson and you listen well. What kind of business do you think I run here, huh?" Sam said and his lips were as hard as ever.

"I don't know Mr. Ross, you tell me," Harold said, absorbing the blow.

"Take a look at that couple behind you. What do you think are their inclinations? How about those two men, maybe buddies out for a cold drink or something? In fact, if you take a look at everyone else, wouldn't you think they've something to hide as well?" Sam said.

"Mr. Ross, to tell you the truth, I don't really care about what these people are hiding. They could be faggots about to give each other a blowjob or they could be cheating son-of-a-bitches. I don't give a damn. This kid's life is all that matters to me and he might as well be dead if people like you keep on slapping your balls at each other's faces," Harold said, his face reddening.

Sam clenched his fists as if to relieve his seething anger. Harold turned around to see that some of the customers had looked his way. Some even got up and left.

Harold faced Sam again, shaking his head and said, "They just don't learn anything, do they?"

"I think it's time for you to leave detective. I have nothing more to say to you," Sam told Harold sternly.

"Very well Mr. Ross, I'll come back tomorrow then-with a warrant," Harold said, turning to leave.

"Detective Garson, wait," Sam said, just as Harold made his way to the door.

"Yes, Mr. Ross. Is there something you'd want to say?" Harold said.

"The pictures, the boy and the girl," Sam said, stopping short as if caught in between a mesh.

"Go on, tell me Mr. Ross. Tell me what you know," Harold said.

When Harold left the diner, he was more disturbed than relieved. He was not expecting it- the answer Sam would give him. In his line of work, expecting what is not expected is not only a motto but also as a philosophy. Criminal minds work at a staggering full speed and with this speed, intelligence in the highest power goes with it. Seldom would you consider individuals who are caught, after committing a crime, geniuses-that alone criminals anymore. They are just a bunch of retards who do not know what they are doing. Criminals are artists, concocting the most intricate plans ever made. Sometimes these plans are pure brilliance, making scientists and doctors look like dumb and dumber.

Harold felt like an idiot. He was careless. This was worse than being old and unable to get it up anymore. Harold felt like banging his head against the wall for being so stupid. But how could he have missed this simple yet convoluted fact? Was he buried in his own logic that he had fail to see the obvious-the naked truth?

He stopped midway between the diner and the parking lot. He saw his uncanny shadow on the asphalt. Behind him, a large billboard illuminated by yellow blinking lights, served as the eyes that mocked him of his stupidity. The advertisement on the billboard made him see things more clearly then, knowing that Marcus and Chloe would have seen the same thing as they were leaving the diner.

The woman on the ad was laughing-at him (?). He hated that. It was like scorn. The words written on the side said SORE in bold letters. On the woman's tongue sat a candy drop in green. It was an ad of a sore throat lozenge.

NO PROBLEM, it said. INTRODUCING, ESOTRINE, TAKES THE SORENESS AWAY.

That was the cheapest and the cheesiest slogan he had ever seen. Fuck the sign. Just then, Detective Garson felt unstable and vertigo over took him. Was it a heart attack? If so, this was his first. Everything around him seemed to collapse and the sign that loomed behind him began to rise ever so high.