CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHTOnce again, I sat in the little room at the P.G. police CID, mentally bouncing Superballs off the walls. After an eon had passed, the detective came in—a short, hard-faced black woman with freckles sprinkled across reddish skin and frizzy hair that sat like a fur hat on her head. Detective Tamara Wesley took my statement with the same uninflected efficiency I’d come to expect from P.G.’s finest. Then she slapped a set of cuffs on me and turned me over to a woman who resembled Oprah—the hefty version—in a cop’s uniform.
“Let her have her call. Then take her to lockup,” Wesley told the oversized cop.
“Am I being charged with something?”
“We’ll let you know” was all she said before walking away. I just stood and stared, too tired and dazed to argue. I felt my escort giv
