I don’t know how long I am left sitting on the floor mulling over the recent turn of events in my mind, but eventually I hear someone turning a key in the lock of the apartment door. I bolt up, hoping against hope that it is Victoria and that we can finally talk things over, but instead I am met with quite the surprise.
The dark-haired man who enters and I study each other for the longest moment, both quite taken aback to see each other.
“Um, Hi?” I say, breaking the silence and delving into what is about to be an awkward conversation.
“Who the heck are you?” he asks in a gruff, brazen manor, shoving the newspaper he had been carrying underneath his arm.
“Detective Jasmine Wilson, NYPD,” not thinking of anything better to say. Inwardly I kick myself. If this is the 1960s there are going to be few women cops, most certainly not serving as detectives.
“There isn’t no female detectives that I know of,” he answers me quite predictably, narrowing his eyes.
“Are you some sort of spy working for the Soviets? Looking to break into my apartment and go riffing through my notes to see what kind of government secrets you can take back to your motherland?”
Yep, definitely 1960s.
“Now, one thing I most certainly can tell you is that I am no Soviet spy. But the reason why I am in your apartment is kind of far-fetched,” I say, attempting to keep my voice even. “I don’t think you would believe me if I told you the truth.”
“Try me, or I will see if the uniforms at the 12th will buy your so-called explanation.”
Dang it! Ummm…
The dark haired man smirks. “Uniforms’s it is then,” he says, heading for the landline.
Later, I am studying the walls from within one of the 12th precinct’s interrogation rooms. They are noticeably the same, except with a color of paint in the most obnoxious hue of green imaginable. Why the color is anyone’s guess. It sure as heck is not part of 21st century regulation.
The walls divert my attention from the fact that I currently have bigger problems right now, along with a little teeny tiny detail that I don’t belong in this decade. I hope that whomever the mysterious caller was from earlier, has a way to get me out of this mess. Otherwise I will most likely be charged with B&E along with espionage, if the man from the apartment has his way.
A detective enters, and we lock gazes, his brown eyes meeting my blue ones. His eyes are not those of a person who is about to interrogate me. Rather, they study me thoughtfully, almost if he is sizing me up for something. Finally, he takes a seat across from mine, a strand of blonde hair falling across his forehead that he halfheartedly attempts to brush aside.
“I took the liberty of calling an attorney for you.”
“Oh how nice,” I sigh sarcastically. “As I remember I did not request for one to begin with.”
“You are going to want one if you want to be out of here within the next couple of hours and onto your real destination,” he tells me flatly.
Real destination?! He could not possibly be in on this whole Kennedy thing, could he?
Suddenly, A man enters the room, and I am at first taken aback by how he looks like a slightly older and more mature version of the man I met at the apartment.
“My name is Jarrod Barkley, and I am here to serve you as your attorney. I apologize for any inconvenience my brother may have caused. He is a journalist, and that has caused him to go a little bit off his rocker. Lately has been suspecting anyone and everyone he comes across of Soviet ties.”
I raise my eyebrow at this bit of information. I can’t blame the man really. If I found someone in my apartment one morning, which was apparently his apartment before mine, I would naturally think they were up to something. I am a cop, after all.
“Did you get him to drop the charges?” I am getting tired of sitting here, and the green paint color is staring to make my head spin. I have work to do.
“I can talk him into it, especially when I tell him the truth.”
“You know what I am talking about,” his baritone vice tells me seriously as he takes a seat next to mine.
They are in on this! I don’t know if I should be relived or nervous. I feel like they are both sizing me up for the task at hand and its starting to make my skin crawl. Instead of letting it show, I fix both men with a steely glare in turn, hopefully getting across to them that I am not easily intimidated.
“As soon as the charges are dropped and the paperwork is filled out you will be on your way to your destination,” the blonde detective adds after a pause.
I sigh. I don’t know who these men are or what they have to do with my situation, but right now my only apparent choice is to trust them.