Thin Air Page 0,53

go, and how I was going to get word to Venna.

I didn't have to wonder about that first part, not anymore. Facing me, blocking my path, were two guys in matching sports jackets, with logos on the pockets. They were the size of minivans, and they didn't look happy.

"Come with us," one of them said. Not that I had a choice, because before the third word of the phrase was out, there were hands around my upper arms, and I was being marched off to the side, away from the busy foot traffic and ringing slot machines, to a discreet unmarked door with a key card entrance.

They sat me down at a table and stared at me in silence.

"So," I said. "Guys, this is all just a...mistake. Okay? I was looking for my...my niece, she's about twelve, cute kid, blond hair, blue eyes, looks like Alice in Wonderland..."

They kept on staring at me. One of them finally demanded my name. I lied. They kept staring.

After about two eternities, a woman came in and bent over to whisper in one of the guards' ears. He nodded. She left.

I waited for someone to explain to me what was going on. That was about as successful as you'd expect; these were not chatty fellows. I kept offering conversational olive branches, and they kept snapping them off.

Thirty minutes later, give or take, two uniformed police officers entered the room, escorted by the woman I'd seen earlier. I felt a real, serious chill spread over me.

"Joanne Baldwin?"

I didn't nod. It didn't matter.

"Joanne Baldwin, I need you to stand up and put your hands behind your back," the older of the two cops said. "Are you armed?"

"Armed? No! What's going on?" I stood up, mainly because there wasn't any point in not complying. More than enough muscle in the room to enforce the request.

"There's a warrant out for your arrest," he said, and spun me around as he grabbed my right wrist. I felt the cold metal pinch of handcuffs on that side, then the other hand, and it was done before I could even react. "I'm going to need you to stay calm, ma'am. I'm sure if there's a mistake you can work it out, but we have to take you in now."

"But-what kind of warrant?" I asked. Because this seemed pretty excessive for accidental Peeping Tom-age. Or even accidental breaking and entering.

"You're under arrest for the murder of a police officer," he said. "You have the right to remain silent..."

I didn't remember the words of the Miranda warning. It's possible I'd never even heard them before, at least not directed at me. Murder of a police officer?

Man, you'd think that somebody would have mentioned it to me if I was a cop killer.

I didn't remember the guy I was supposed to have killed, although they showed me pictures. I suppose that didn't exactly come as a shock, but what disturbed me was more the fact that I had no idea-none at all-whether or not I'd actually committed the crime. Nothing seemed clear-cut anymore, since I'd done whatever it was I'd done to Marion.

The dead guy's name was Detective Thomas Quinn, and they had surveillance footage of me with him-or someone who looked exactly like me, who used my name. Like, say, a Demon. How long had she been impersonating me? Could she have been responsible? It didn't really matter, because as far as the police were concerned it wasn't exactly a viable defense.

So I went with the truth as I knew it. I didn't remember. No, I couldn't recall being in Las Vegas before. No, I didn't know Detective Quinn. No, I had no idea what had happened to him.

They showed me photos of a blown-up truck in a deserted area to prove that I'd killed him, but all I came up with was a feeling...a bad one. If I had killed the guy, it would have been in some sense necessary, right? Justified? God, I hoped so.

The two detectives interrogating me seemed interchangeable-not physically, but in every other way. No personality to speak of, and all they wanted from me was a confession, which I couldn't properly give. I asked for an attorney, because at least that would give me time, and the questioning ended for a while.

Which left me stranded in a hot, airless interrogation room that smelled of sweat and desperation, old coffee and vomit. Charming. I fidgeted with the coffee cup they'd given me-it was paper, of course; accused murderers