“We’re waiting for the warrants to come in. Then we will book you. You’ll see a judge sometime tomorrow or the next day for your arraignment hearing and after that you’ll be extradited to St. Louis—but I’ll be back when you’re finished with your statement.” He turned to go.
“When will I know what’s happening to my wife?”
Detective Kelly halted and turned. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and tipped his head.
“Your wife. Yeah. I bet that’ll last long. She’s still in interview, far as I know. She has a temper, that one. And a big mouth too. Another spoiled celebrity . . . we seem to book a new one every month. But it’s looking like she’s going to be released.”
Finn felt faint with relief and laid his head down on the notepad, smelling the clean, papery smell, and wishing he could fill the pages with numbers instead of words—numbers that would continue to grow and expand, unending, breaking down the walls that held him, creating a force field around him. The thought gave him an idea. He lifted his head and looked at the empty page, contemplating the numbers that documented his journey from a bridge in Boston to a cell in Los Angeles.
“I’m sure she’ll come see you as soon as she can,” the detective added, interrupting Finn’s train of thought. Then the detective started to laugh. “Or not.”
WHEN THE WARRANT came down from the Missouri DA, the lead agency in the case, Finn was officially booked into the LA County Jail.
Fingerprints, mug shots, medical checks, strip search.
He’d been through them before. Many times. In prison it’s a common occurrence. Yet, as they took his clothes and put them in a sack, and then told him to stand up naked and stretch his arms and legs out, it wasn’t any easier to endure. As they told him to stick out his tongue, bend back his ears, tilt his head, wiggle his fingers and toes, lift his arms and legs he cringed and bore down on the indignation that rose in his throat. All he could think about was Bonnie. The thought of her being put through the humiliating process made him angry and desperate, and when he was instructed to bend and spread he couldn’t do it.
He didn’t respond the way he should have. He got agitated, he didn’t cooperate, he shoved the officer conducting the search, and he was immediately pushed to the floor and left without his clothes for an hour before they conducted the search again, a little more forcefully than before. This time he contained himself, and he was given a jumpsuit and rubber shoes and left in the holding cell once more.
Chapter Twenty-Six
FINN HAD SPENT the rest of the night and the entire day bouncing between holding and the various booking procedures necessary to process a new inmate. The rest of the day he’d spent waiting for this interview with the detective who had instructed him to write his statement. His arraignment hearing had been moved to first thing Tuesday morning, which meant more waiting. He hadn’t had any word about Bonnie. If she was out, he wouldn’t be able to see her until after the hearing anyway, but when Detective Kelly walked into the interview room, a thick file in his hands, and dropped into the seat across from Finn, Finn welcomed the first words out of his mouth.
“Your wife’s been released, and you’re still on the hook for a bunch of shit. How do you like them apples?”
Finn felt a sinking in his chest that belied his deliberately blank expression. Bonnie had been released. He would focus on that and ignore the rest of what the detective had to say. He looked down at his hand, at the five dots that made up the man in the cage. The sixth dot, the one Bonnie had added to represent herself, was fading. Another day or two, and it would be gone.
“And really, Mr. Clyde. Are you trying to be a wise ass?”
Finn brought his attention back to the detective who was eyeing him with exasperation.
Finn maintained his neutral expression and waited for the detective to clarify exactly what he meant by “wise ass.” He’d spent hours writing his full statement the night before, and he’d taken it very seriously. After all, his life sorta depended on it.
“This statement is twenty, hand-written pages long.” Detective Kelly scowled.
“It’s a detailed account,” Finn replied, but his mouth twitched a little.
“Yeah. Detailed. Did you enjoy making up license plate numbers and exit numbers?”
“Did you check the license plate numbers and exit numbers?” Finn asked.
“Now, why in the hell would I do that?”
“Because they validate my timeline.”
“I see. And did you take note of all these things as you drove?” the detective asked, his lips pursed doubtfully.
“Depends on what you mean by taking notes. I didn’t write them down, if that’s what you mean. Even if I had, I didn’t have them when I wrote my statement, did I? The guy who kept staring at my ass during the strip search will verify that.”
Anger flickered over the detective’s face at Finn’s insolence.
“So you’re telling me that you just remembered all these numbers?
“I’m good with numbers.”
The memory of the last time he’d said that very same line echoed in his head. He’d told Cavaro as much before he’d been beaten up and tattooed with playing cards. He hoped the result here would be different. The detective turned pages again.
“You pulled over on February 28th to assist a motorist with the West Virginia license plate 5BI-662.” Detective Kelly raised his eyes from the page and shook his head like it was highly doubtful.
“That’s right.”