A Ghost of a Chance (9 page)

The next day the headlines read
Heisman Hopeful Arrested on Drug Charges
. In actuality, Charles got off with a slap on the wrist, suspension from school for two weeks and had to sit out of football for the rest of the quarter. But the scheme worked; Charles was a pussycat after that. Apparently, his few days in jail taught him some valuable lessons about playing with others. He went on to the pros after college for one season, but was busted for steroid use and kicked out of the league.

Keenan still felt pangs of guilt every time he thought about what he had done to Charles. Now he realized karma must have caught up on her
to-do
list and finally gotten around to him.

When they arrived at the precinct, Sergeant Thompson drove through a huge door at the front. The cruiser moved into what looked like a garage, except it had rolling doors on both ends. The one on the other side was closed. Once the door behind them shut, Thompson opened the car door, unlocked Keenan’s safety belt, and pulled him from the vehicle. Without batting an eye, Thompson marched Keenan through a heavy metal door he opened with a round electronic key and escorted him inside.

On the other side was a small cement and metal area with two identical holding cells. Each consisted of a concrete bench with lead pipes bolted to the wall at sitting height and a silver toilet bolted to the floor on the other side of the cell. Circling these luxuries were four blank, cream tiled walls.

As Thompson pulled Keenan to stand to the left of the cell door, he murmured, “You’re going to cause me a whole night of paperwork, my friend. You better sing nice and pretty when we come back to talk to you. Understand?”

Keenan nodded and Thompson made him take off his shoes before he pulled Keenan into one of the cells. Once they reached the bench, Thompson roughly un-cuffed one wrist and attached the business end to the steel pipe, telling Keenan to have a seat.

“I might be a while,” Thompson said over his shoulder closing the heavy door behind him. The beep of the electronic lock made Keenan’s ears pound.

Rubbing his wrists as best he could, Keenan inspected the small room. Except for the toilet and bench, it was empty. Well, of accoutrements, anyway.

A strange little Asian man sat in one corner, eyeing him suspiciously and rubbing his chin. He was nearly transparent, except for a pair of shining black eyes and a red goatee.

“Got yourself in a real jam, didn’t you?” The specter’s voice was very old.

Keenan ignored him and searched the room. He was certain they had it bugged. Spending the night in jail was bad enough; a week on the psych floor, however, was not his idea of a good time.

“You don’t need to talk, young man,” the apparition stated. “I’m an attorney…or was before I died. Constance sent me to give you some advice and maybe get you out of this.”

That brought Keenan up short and he thinned his lips at the ghost, not caring if anyone was listening. “Constance?” he whispered.

“Sure.” The Asian man rose from the floor and drifted to float above the toilet. “Don’t talk, just listen. Name’s McGillivray, but you can call me Mac.”

Funny, he doesn’t look Scottish
. A little smile tugged at Keenan’s lip, the first one of the evening. It made him feel better.

Mac replied, “My father was Scottish, my mother Chinese.”

Keenan could not get his wits wrapped around any of this. The whole situation was only confirming his suspicion that maybe he really
was
crazy and the last to hear about it.
Makes perfect sense.

Mac assumed the lotus position above the toilet and put on a spectral pair of glasses that materialized out of the air. Resting them on his nose, a large leather bound book appeared on his lap. Opening it to somewhere at the center, he poured over the contents while water poured down Keenan’s sides and back. It was getting very warm.

“Let’s see…” Mac wrinkled his nose up and down several times and ran a finger along the page. “163…163… Ah!
163.465 Public indecency. (1) A person commits the crime of public indecency if while in, or in view of, a public place the person performs
. . .” Mutter, mutter, mutter, and then, “
(c) An act of exposing the genitals of the person with the intent of arousing the sexual desire of the person or another person. Public indecency is a Class A misdemeanor
.” He pursed his lips and regarded Keenan gravely. “Oh, that’s very bad. And in front of a girls’ school too. Don’t suppose you knew where you were, did you?”

Keenan shook his head then watched his hands fold themselves together on his lap. The room was getting hotter and he reached to take his coat off. It was only then he realized he didn’t have it on.

“Good. I’m afraid you’re in for a night in jail, son.” Mac regarded him gravely. “Normally, they just give you a citation and send you home. You must have pissed this guy off. You may need to get in touch with someone to come up with bail.”

Bail
.

The word was the first that actually took on some significance for Keenan.

Someone to come up with bail.

Keenan had no family in town, no friends, not even close acquaintances he knew well enough for him to go to for money. There were several ex-girlfriends, but he was certain they’d all just hang up on him. The only people he could think of were his next-door neighbor (fat chance) and Mike, the other graphic designer that sat in the cubicle next to him. Since Keenan had less than forty bucks in his pocket until Monday, and even less in the bank, Mike would have to do.

Just then, the door opened and a man in shirtsleeves and slacks sauntered through it. Under his arm was a clipboard with a yellow tablet attached to it. He was tall with pale skin, fishy eyes, and rumpled dishwater hair. He looked about as threatening as a sponge.

The man leaned on the wall across from Keenan and pulled a piece of paper from the back of the clipboard. Keenan didn’t say a word while he examined it.

“Keenan Swanson, right?”

Keenan nodded and the man tucked the clipboard back under his arm.

“Sergeant Thompson read you your rights, correct?”

Keenan nodded again, but he couldn’t look into those bulging eyes anymore, so he bowed his chin toward the floor.

“Good,” the man continued. “I’m Detective Johnston, Mr. Swanson. Before we start any questioning, I need to know if you would like to waive your right to have an attorney present during an interview.”

Keenan blinked back at him and didn’t know what to say.

Mac floated to stand next to him and turned to the detective. “Tell him you’d like your phone call.”

“I’d like my phone call,” Keenan repeated dutifully.

Johnston put his lips to one side and gave him a single nod. “Okey, dokey. I’ll check with Thompson.” He ambled out the same way he came in and locked the door behind him.

Keenan was convinced he’d never get that phone call, but five minutes later, Johnston reentered the room without comment and handed Keenan his own cell phone, then leaned against the furthest wall, watching him with bored, half-closed eyes.

Keenan stared down at the familiar instrument as if it were some kind of poisonous snake. He had no idea what Mike’s number was. All he could remember was the office number. Reflexively, he dialed it. The two rings didn’t give him any time to think it through.

You’ve reached General Graphics and Designs. Our normal business hours are 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., Monday thru Friday. Please leave your name, number, and a reason for the call, and someone will get back to you as soon as possible. Have a wonderful day.

Keenan had one second to think of what to say before it beeped into his ear.

“Uh…” More sweat trickled down the left side of his neck. “This is Keenan Swanson and I’m trying to get in touch with, uh, Mike Albertson. I am at the…” He threw a panicked look at the detective.

“Southeast Precinct, Forty-Seventh and East Burnside,” the man mumbled.

“Southeast Precinct, Forty-Seventh and East Burnside,” Keenan repeated. “I’ve been arrested, but it’s all a mistake. I need him to come down and bail me out.” He fumbled for an additional explanation, but it evaded him. Instead, he stammered, “Th…thank you.” It was brainless, but that was the state of his mental dexterity at the moment.

Without hanging up, he handed the phone back to the cop.

When the man left, Keenan buried his face in his hands. He was very tired.

“All right, son,” Mac said. “Let’s work out a strategy for your defense.”

Keenan lifted his head and cocked it to one side. “Just leave me alone. I’ve had all the help I can stand for one day.”

“Sure thing.” Mac slammed the book shut. “I was only trying to assist.” Keenan heard the faint
swoosh
of the man disappearing.

He closed his eyes and let his mind slip into exhaustion. It was going to be a long night.

After several hours of silence and staring at four blank walls, Keenan convinced himself he would be there forever.
Had they forgotten him? What time was it? What day was it?
The stress from the night before and no sleep was making him twitchy. Various apparitions floated through to pay their respects, make fun of him, or ignore him completely. Keenan didn’t mind; without the distraction, his brain would have been on its own. That was always a dangerous scenario. He occupied most of his time trying to figure out what would come in next in the parade of specters.

Finally, he heard the buzz at the cell door and turned around.

A stout little man crossed the cell to remove cuffs then wiggled a finger at him. Keenan followed him out the door where the cop stopped him, indicating Keenan’s shoes with a nod. Keenan slipped them onto his feet.

“Come on,” the officer said, motioning Keenan to another door.

Three specters slid through the cell door and waved goodbye to him and Constance, who cropped up right in front of him, waved hello. She searched him up and down but said nothing.

The short man led Keenan down a long hallway with empty offices on either side, passed a break room, and along a short hallway with a door at the end. Keenan thought he was taking him to get fingerprints, photos, or something, since they didn’t do that the night before, but to his astonishment the man moved through the metal door out into a spacious lobby where Keenan blinked against bright sunshine coming through high windows.

Keenan stopped dead in his tracks and his blood turned to ice. Standing in front of a glassed-in reception counter, looking like an angel in sweats, stood Isabella.

“Fuck,” whispered Keenan.

“You’re free to go,” whispered the cop.

“Oh, honey,” whispered Constance.

Chapter Eight
Spirited Away

Isabella turned to regard the two of them, and Keenan was amazed she was smiling. She gave him a wink, shook her head, and looked down to finish signing something. The little man grabbed Keenan’s arm and propelled him toward the girl. On the way, he snatched the “Evidence” envelope from the reception desk and pressed it into Keenan’s arms. The familiar jingle of his car keys gave him little comfort.

“Thank you, miss,” the receptionist was saying when they came up. “Just make sure he stays out of trouble.”

Keenan saw a mischievous grin lighten Isabella’s face when she said, “Absolutely. I intend to make certain he behaves himself. I’ll see to it personally.”

As if handing off a wayward dog, the man gave Keenan a little push and Isabella grabbed his arm.

Keenan was too numb to resist her insistent pull as she led him through a glass door and out into a crisp, bright morning.

He tried to speak once they were on the sidewalk, but she beat him to it.

“Sorry, Keenan.” Isabella let go of him and fished her keys out of her purse. “There was no way to get word to you that I was coming over. I was checking messages early this morning when I heard yours. I thought it best if I came over to get you out myself. No need to get another employee mixed up in all this.”

Mortification saturated every muscle turning Keenan’s knees into blocks of gelatin. His heart sank.
She’s protecting the company. I’ll be a laughing stock… if I’m still gainfully employed
.

“Look,” he said running his hand through his hair. “I didn’t do anything last night. It was a terrible mistake. I never…”

“I know.” She clicked a button on her keychain toward a waiting sedan parked at the end of the lot. The tinny beep grated against his throbbing head.

“You know?”

“Sure…they told me they weren’t pressing charges. Said one of the other cops wanted to teach you a lesson.” She opened the passenger door and motioned for him to get in. “Said they didn’t have enough to keep you. Lucky.”

Keenan’s mouth fell open, but nothing came out, and Isabella gave him another one of those special smirks he was starting to like. She slammed the door, glided around the front, and got into the driver’s seat. Sweeping pretty brown eyes at him, she put the key in the ignition and started the car.

“Don’t worry. This is between you and me. It never happened.”