Matt didn’t notice. He was too busy power striding toward the Sixth Precinct station house, a squat, concrete, narrow-windowed iteration of midcentury modern that was described by at least one architectural critic as a visual catastrophe—which from one point of view, it was.
Just not from mine.
You see, the Village’s previous precinct building was located a few blocks away on Charles Street. Now that structure was indisputably impressive. Dedicated by Teddy Roosevelt in 1897, the thing was solid granite with a neoclassical facade. But the actions inside that grand civic monument weren’t always so prized.
Before the gay rights movement gained legitimacy, homosexuals and cross-dressers in the Village were routinely rounded up and dragged through the old precinct’s stately columns. During one of these attempted roundups, the legendary Stonewall Riots ensued. During another, an Argentine student became so distressed he threw himself out the second-floor window, impaling himself on the wrought-iron fence below. The young man lived, but the incident was an ugly moment in the Village’s otherwise flamboyant bohemian history.
In 1970, the Charles Street station house was sold, and the men and women of the precinct moved to their West Tenth address. So, okay, the Sixth’s new building was a monstrosity of pseudomodernity. But the contemporary windows no longer looked down on a spiked fence; they looked out on Seagull Haircutters, one of the country’s very first unisex salons. The climate inside the building was a lot more tolerant, too.
These days, the new Sixth had a female precinct commanding officer, employed a daring lady beat cop known as “the pit bull,” and championed the Gay & Lesbian Anti-Violence Project, the nation’s largest crime-victim service agency for the lesbian and gay communities.
All in all, even given the abysmal architecture, I didn’t see a catastrophe here.
As Matt jaywalked across Tenth between two parked vans, skirted a couple of police scooters, and pulled open the precinct’s heavy glass front door, I trotted along behind.
The Sixth’s interior had the same characteristics as a lot of city buildings from the early seventies: an institutional floor of high-traffic cement and walls of concrete block finished with a coating of shiny enamel. I could almost see some city official choosing a “calming earth tone” off the builder’s color palette. But under the harsh light of fluorescent bulbs, the gray green walls looked more like giant bricks of molding Gouda.
There was a booking area in the back of the ground floor. Closer to the lobby, a museum-type exhibit of police paraphernalia was displayed in glass cases. There was also a Wall of Honor with engraved plaques of the heroic officers from the Sixth who’d lost their lives on 9/11. (Sadly, far too many tributes like it could be found in precincts and firehouses throughout this city.)
Unlike me, Matt didn’t waste any time observing the scenery. He approached the desk sergeant, a brawny African American cop with a shaved head, a mustache, and a terminal stare.
“We’re here to see Detective Lori Soles.”
“And you are?” his basso voice asked.
“Matt and Clare Allegro.”
“Cosi!” I corrected.
Matt turned and glanced down at me. “What?”
“You introduced us as Matt and Clare Allegro—”
“I did?”
The desk sergeant was no longer paying attention. He was already calling upstairs to the detectives’ squad room. A smiling Lori Soles appeared a few minutes later. She led us up the same staircase she’d just descended, then down the hall, through the detective squad room, and into an interview room—a small space with a metal table and chairs. On the wall was a mirror that I assumed was one-way glass with closed blinds dropped most of the way down over it.
We weren’t suspects being interrogated, and Lori didn’t close the door after we entered. Thank goodness, I thought, because with no windows, the bare, airless room felt positively claustrophobic. If two detectives started questioning me in here, I’d probably confess just to get out again.
As we sat down, I was about to exchange a few pleasantries with Lori, soften her up a little, maybe find out how their investigation was going. But Matt opened his big mouth first.
“I have some information about last night’s shooting. Important information.”
Lori nodded with great interest and stood. “Let me get my partner.”
“Oh, crap,” Matt whispered.
“Too late,” I said. “You’re in it now.”
“This Soles person is okay. But that other one...”
“Listen, Sue Ellen’s obviously crushin’ on you. Just use it to your advantage. You usually do.”
“Are you mental? That woman’s six feet tall and packing. I don’t flirt with armed females.”
“Too bad, Matt, because she’s certainly flirting with you. Do you know what she called you after you left the crime scene last night?”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Mr. Tight End.”
Matt groaned. “Do me a favor. Don’t encourage her again.”
Again? “When the heck did I encourage her?”
Before Matt could answer, we heard the quick, determined footsteps of Lori Soles and her partner approaching. More brief pleasantries were exchanged, then the two Amazons sat down across from us at the metal table.
Both women looked pretty much the same as they had the night before. Sue Ellen had her slicked-back ponytail and Lori her tight, blond cherub curls. Both were dressed similarly again, too. They each wore dark slacks and had exchanged their identical blue turtlenecks for white blouses, their nylon jackets for pressed blazers. At least their blazers were different colors, I thought. (Well, sort of... ) Lori’s was Kelly green; Sue Ellen’s was hunter.
“So, Mr. Allegro,” Sue Ellen Bass began, the flirtation clearly dialed way down now that we were inside the precinct. “My partner tells me you have something important to share?”
Matt immediately conveyed his suspicion that Hazel Boggs had been killed by mistake, and the single shot that ended her days had been meant for his fiancée Breanne Summour.
Sue Ellen exchanged an unhappy glance with Lori. This was obviously not the kind of “important information” they’d been expecting to hear.
Lori spoke up. “What exactly makes you think that your fiancée’s life is in danger?”
Matt proceeded to lay everything out, just like he had for me the night before. He told them about the near miss with the SUV, the Prodigal Chef Web site, and even Randall Knox’s possible vendetta.
In the light of day (or at least the harsh fluorescence of Interview Room B), Matt’s Breanne-in-peril theory sounded even weaker to me than it had in the shadows of last night’s firelight.
“This Prodigal Chef person,” Sue Ellen said. “What’s his name?”
“Neville Perry.” Matt leaned forward.
“I see. Well, has this Neville Perry made any specific threats to your fiancée?”
“What do you mean specific?” Matt asked.
“I mean the Web site you describe sounds like a joke,” Sue Ellen replied. “Your fiancée is a public figure. If this chef sent her a threatening letter or e-mail, we should speak with her, see if she wants to lodge a formal charge. Then we can pursue it.”
“There hasn’t been anything specific,” Matt admitted. “Not yet anyway.”
Sue Ellen glanced at Lori then shook her head. “If the Web site is just poking fun, which it sure sounds like it is, that’s a first amendment freedom. We can’t arrest a guy for posting what amounts to a bad taste editorial cartoon. You get what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I get what you’re saying.” Matt’s body was tensing up. He laced his fingers tightly in front of him on the metal table. “Then what about the SUV? Last time I checked, running someone down in the street wasn’t protected by the Constitution .”