Madeline Mann by Julia Buckley

Author:Julia Buckley [Buckley, Julia]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: mystery
Published: 2010-10-21T05:00:00+00:00

thirteen

I suffer from a severe sweet tooth that throbs at all times of day. I try to ignore its constant yearnings for fear that I'll end up looking like my Tante Gretel, who, though lovely, resembles a lotto ball. She enjoys a sweet with every meal.

I was craving chocolate when I pulled into the lot of the Webley Police Department. I walked through the parking lot (filled with cars but no people) and climbed the steps into an unremarkable foyer, where I bought a bag of pretzels from a machine. I was extremely close to pressing the button for the Ho Hos, but the angel on my shoulder (which looked like Jack in a choir robe) warned me about high cholesterol and its link to heart disease.

Munching a pretzel, I walked to a disappointing cubicle that was mainly a hole in a dingy wall. I'd never actually been inside the police station, and I guess I was expecting to see some of the excitement that I saw on TV cop shows—drug dealers struggling with arresting officers, colorful prostitutes engaged in humorous dialogue with beat cops they knew by name, evil murderers glaring balefully from behind cell bars.

Instead I confronted a woman with hair the color of a tomato and an equally unnatural face, complete with drawn-on eyebrows and lip liner that didn't stay true to the actual proportions of her mouth. She sat in her cubicle, flipping idly through a fashion magazine and being as rude to me in person as she had been on the phone. She suggested apathetically that I sit in one of the orange plastic chairs that added such opulence to the environment. I did so, feeling bored and oppressed by the ugliness of the room. I stared at my nails, unpolished and short, and wondered how some women could abide long ones. For me, they always got in the way.

The woman in the cubicle suddenly yelled, “Man!” while staring at her magazine. I wondered if she were admiring someone's physique or saying the equivalent of “Gee!” about something she'd read. After a minute, she tore herself away from her scintillating tabloid and stared at me. I stared back. “Man,” she repeated, annoyed. “You can go in now.”

“Oh, Mann,” I said. She thought I was giving her a hard time. Customer service has deteriorated to this extent. I stood up and smoothed the legs of my pantsuit. It was cocoa colored and the closest thing to a power suit that I had. I walked to the door and was buzzed in by Tomato Hair, who was back in her magazine.

I stood uncertainly in the doorway, looking down a hallway. The only sound I heard was the soft clicking of computer keys. No perps. No escapees, nor people being wrestled into handcuffs. I cleared my throat. Tomato Hair swiveled in her chair and yelled, “Kubik! Your appointment's here!” The phone rang. She picked it up but managed to say, “Room Twelve,” and hand me a visitor's pass before she answered the call in her special winning way.

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