The doorbell rang and I go to the stairway to answer the door and I see a badge in the window beside the door. I run through a quick inventory of everything visible from the doorway to make sure there’s nothing illegal within sight, and open the door.
The investigator introduces herself and asks me about my whereabouts the night before last. "Was that Sunday?" I ask, because I’m nervous and I’m not sure if I have an alibi or not, and Sunday I do…
Okay, she didn’t really ask me for an alibi, at first. She asked me if I was aware of a Mustang the neighbor’s had and I said "Yeah, they have a lot of Mustangs." She describes it as an older Mustang, black with a white roof and if I’m familiar with that one and I say "Yeah…" with a question in my voice because I think I am, but I seem to recall more than one black Mustang over there. It’s true… they have a lot of them.
Turns out the other night it went missing from their driveway. She didn’t ask to be let in, and I didn’t offer her coffee, and there wasn’t the ‘bad cop’ who pressed me on my whereabouts, or asked me about the picture of me on the fireplace mantel with a similar Mustang from my youth (ok, maybe my Mustang wasn’t that similar), and I never asked if I needed to have a lawyer present. She didn’t show up at my place of business (or, wait, maybe she did, since I work from the basement), and I didn’t go about loading the trailers in the warehouse I work at even though a police, um, police person was very interested in interviewing me. She didn’t try to get me to incriminate myself or offer to take me for a ‘ride downtown’ unless I cooperated.
She was very nice, and Harley liked her, and she gave him a pat on the head.
Reality is boring. Except, of course, that a car was stolen from next door. To think, they could have taken my car… it was unlocked and is 20 years newer. And insured.