H Is for Homicide

glanced at Dolan. "Can you do me a favor? I left my black leather jacket in the restaurant and my VW's still parked in the Meat Locker side lot. I probably can't get over there until this afternoon. Could you ask about the jacket and warn the meter maid? I don't want to get towed or ticketed."
    "Will do. You don't want to screw around with those meter gals," Dolan said. He flashed a smile and then held out his hand to me. "Thanks."
    "I haven't done anything yet."
    The female corrections officer took me back to the drunk tank and locked me in. I felt nearly sick with fatigue, my brain buzzing from the coffee, body dragging from the lack of sleep. I moved over to my mattress and sank down gratefully, curling up on my side with my face turned toward the others. Bibianna was awake, her eyes pinned on me suspiciously. "Where have you been?"
    "The homicide detective had some questions about the shooting."
    "Has Dawna been picked up?"
    "She's in the hospital at the moment with superficial injuries. Tale's here on the men's side. They're talking about charging him with murder, but I don't see how they can. Manslaughter's more like it."
    "Bastards."
    "He'll survive."
    "Yeah, I suppose." Bibianna seemed on the verge of drifting back to sleep.
    I hesitated briefly, then held my nose and plunged right in. "By the way, while I was out there I put a call through to my bail bondsman, who's posting bail for both of us. He'll be over here at eight."
    Her eyes flew open. "You're bailing me out, too? Why would you do that? I don't have no kind of money like that. You're talkin' five hundred bucks!"
    "So you can owe me. Don't sweat it."
    Her look was puzzled. "But why now? How come you didn't do that in the first place?"
    "I just remembered I had money in a savings account. My car's in the shop. I was saving to get the tranny fixed. What the hell. Let it sit. It's not doing me any good here."
    She hadn't bought my story yet. "I can't believe you'd do that."
    The skinny woman piped up from the mattress in an aggravated tone of voice. "What's the matter with you, crazy? Take the money and shut your mouth."
    Bibianna flicked a look at the woman and smiled in spite of herself. She studied me for a moment and then murmured a "Thank you." Her eyes closed again. She turned over on her stomach and tucked her arms under her for warmth. Within minutes, she'd dozed off.
    The air in the cell was permeated with the scent of sleeping bodies: damp socks, stale breath, unwashed hair. I had thought my cellmates might waken with my return, but no one else stirred. The light in the corridor shone dimly. The quiet became absolute. On the floor, I could still see the numerology grid Bibianna'd drawn for me with spit. Movement and change. Well, now wasn't that the truth?

11
    WHAT HAPPENED NEXT was the result of a bureaucratic error for which responsibility was never assigned. The paperwork came down at six and Bibianna and I were mustered out. Just like that. There was no word from Dolan and Santos, no sign of the tech who was supposed to fit me with a wire. I kept waiting for the jail officer to call me back, take me aside under some pretext or other for the promised briefing. What was the deal here? Had there been a change of plans? For the life of me, I couldn't think of a reason to delay my release. I'd just have to play the situation as it came to me. I was carrying my personal property, still sealed in the clear plastic pouch. They'd returned our shoes, belts, and other potentially death dealing items, like tampons. I was feeling vile, but the first breath of fresh air restored my good spirits to some extent. After a mere four hours in the slammer, the freedom had a giddiness attached to it.
    The morning was cold and foggy, the ground still saturated from the rain the night before. The scruffy hills around the jail looked serene. Little birdies sang. The passing traffic out on the freeway seemed to ebb and surge, rhythmic white noise, very restful, like the ocean at high tide. I longed for a shower, for breakfast, for privacy. I'd have to conjure up an excuse to separate from Bibianna, contact Dolan, and find out what the hell was going on. In the meantime, I was going to have to stick to her like glue.
    The first order of business, of course, was to find a ride home. I checked my plastic pouch, feeling like a mental patient just released from the institution. I had ten bucks in cash, which I decided to blow on a taxi. I'm too cheap for cabs as a