outside he was utterly motionless: The choking ivy was growing underneath his skin, instead of over it.
With a flick of his eyes, he checked the clock. Only an hour before dawn.
As he headed into the bathroom for a cleanup, he knew he was going to have to be quick about this.
Chapter Forty-one
The caldwell police station had two separate faces to it: the front entrance on Tenth, with all the steps, which was where the TV crews filmed the shit you saw on the evening news, and the back one, with the iron bars, where business was taken care of. In truth, the Tenth Street facade was only marginally better-looking, because the 1960s-era building was like the profile of an aging, ugly woman. There were no good sides.
The squad car Lash was in the back of pulled to a stop right behind the rear entrance.
How the fuck had he ended up here?
The cop who'd arrested him came around and popped the door. "Step out of the car, please."
Lash stared up at the guy, then shifted his legs, unhinged his knees, and towered over the human. Fantasies of ripping the man's throat open and turning his jugular vein into a soda fountain were all but undeniable.
"This way, sir."
"No problem."
He could tell he made the SOB jumpy by the way the cop's hand drifted over to the butt of his gun in spite of the fact that they were in full view of the CPD home team.
Lash was led through some double doors and down a linoleum hallway that looked like it had been installed when the shit had first been invented. They stopped at a Plexiglas window that was thick as an arm, and the cop yammered into a circular metal patch that was mounted on the wall. The woman on the other side was all business in her navy blue uniform, and about as attractive as the male cop.
But she took care of the paperwork quickly. When she was satisfied that she'd pulled together enough forms for them to fill out, she slid the stack under the window to the cop and nodded. The door next to them let out a beeeeeeeep and a clunk, as if it had burped open its lock, and then it was another beat-to-shit linoleum stretch that ended in a little room with a bench, a chair, and a desk.
After they were seated, the officer took out a pen and clicked it. "What's your full name?"
"Larry Owen," Lash said. "Just like I told him."
The guy bent over the papers. "Address?"
"Fifteen eighty-three Tenth Street, apartment four-F for right now." He figured he might as well go with the addy from the registration on the Focus. Mr. D was going to bring the fake driver's license Lash had used when he'd lived with his parents, but he couldn't remember exactly what was on it.
"Do you have any identification to prove you live there?"
"Not on me. But my friend will bring my ID."
"Date of birth?"
"When do I get my phone call?"
"In a minute. Date of birth?"
"October thirteenth, 1981." At least, he thought that was his fake one.
The officer shifted an ink pad across the desk, got up, and freed one of Lash's cuffs. "I need to fingerprint you now."
Good luck with that, Lash thought.
He let the guy take his left hand and pull it forward, watched as the pads of his fingertips were rolled and pressed onto a white piece of paper with ten squares in two rows.
The policeman frowned at what he saw and tried another finger. "Nothing's coming up."
"I was burned as a child."
"Sure you were." The guy did the roll and press a couple more times, and then gave up and redid the cuffs. "Over to the camera."
Lash went across the room and stood still as a flash went off in his face. "I want my phone call."
"You'll get it."
"What's my bail?"
"Don't know yet."
"When will I be out?"
"Whenever the judge sets the bail and you pay it. Probably this afternoon, given how early in the a.m. it is."
Lash was recuffed with his hands in front of him and a phone was pushed over to him. The officer hit a button for speakerphone and dialed Mr. D's cell phone as Lash recited the digits.
The cop stepped back as the lesser answered.
Lash didn't waste time. "Bring my wallet. It's in my jacket in the back of the car. They haven't set bail, but find some cash ASAP."