The pounding on the door became the throbbing in Sergeant O’Connor’s head as he awoke face first and fully dressed, sprawled across the queen-sized motel bed. Even after the pounding stopped, the echo continued inside his skull. With the heavy curtains pulled, only a thin blade of sunlight bisected the room. O’Connor rubbed his face and smacked his lips, blinking at the digital clock on the nightstand. He was late for something, information trickling into his brain as he faintly recalled singing along to the Piña Colada song, recalled the cute redhead with the fruity little cocktails, and the tow truck driver carrying him up the stairs. Just as he was about to remember what he was late for, the pounding at the door started again.
“Yeah, yeah, just a minute!” Sgt. O’Connor glanced around the room, regarding the slightly disheveled state. He scooped the fruit flag into the empty bucket glass and set it on the nightstand. This would not be a good time to have company through.
“Sergeant?” He heard a piqued voice calling just outside the door.
O’Connor faintly recalled the conversation, assembling the mobile command half-crocked before he returned to the bar for a night cap.
“It’s Dr. Vickers. We spoke on the phone last night?”
He was supposed to see the alleged crash site with the old guy. “Give me a couple minutes.” He swept his fingers through his hair and acknowledged the second day growth of a fine blonde beard, nearly invisible to anyone else. His eyes were bloodshot, sunken deep into his face, and he felt an urge to vomit when he brushed his teeth. Short of shaving the tropical fruit flavored fuzz off his tongue, there was little he could do to dress himself up. He pulled on his smaller piece, in a shoulder holster, his Ray Bans, affected his best cop face, and opened the door briskly, hoping to take the old guy by surprise and present an intimidating front. He did not prepare for getting smacked upside the face by a tangibly bright midday sunlight.
Vickers was an older guy, probably in his mid-sixties. His hair, poorly dyed, was bluish black, combed back in an attempt to cover the bald spot. He had a thick, unnaturally black push broom mustache. “I was afraid that I might have missed you.”
O’Connor scowled at the sun; a stern glare that seemed to make the old man nervous. “I had an unexpected conference call this morning.”
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Mr. Vickers surveyed the sergeant’s footwear. The mustache twitched. Having worked with Chief Martinez in the past, he expected a legitimate law officer, not this unkempt slacker.
O’Connor, recognizing the disdain, reminded himself that he could probably find ways to bury this guy in the cold case files room and be done with the whole excursion, if only his car were working. “Radiator blew out on the cruiser about twenty miles out of town, so I’m just pleased to be of any help at all to you today.” Short of wiping the bristle-stached professor out of existence, O’Connor just wanted coffee. Patting his pockets, he realized that he had left his wallet with badge, ID and company credit card, in the Starlight lounge the night before. Hoping that he wouldn't need them, he quietly regretted leaving them with the red head. He’d thought the badge might garner him some respect, or at least a pass on his substantial bar tab.
Dr. Vickers drove an old, white Aerostar minivan, outfitted with a special wheelchair lift at the back. It was clearly labeled with an excessive number of handicap stickers to inform anyone else in traffic that there was a wheelchair aboard. Climbing into the passenger seat, O’Connor was impressed with the immaculate cleanliness of the interior and overwhelmed by the cloying reek of chemical air fresheners.
“Sorry about the smell,” Dr. Vickers said, as if anticipating the reaction. “I keep birds, and they leave an unfortunate atmosphere after transport.”
O’Connor pretended not to mind, even as he rolled down the window for some fresh air.
“Oh, don’t worry about the heat, I’ll turn on the air conditioner.” The doctor cranked the A/C to full blast, filtered, O’Connor noticed, through several little dashboard fresheners clipped to the vents, each with a different colored liquid in the little glass vial.
Hoping to convince the doctor to stop somewhere along the way for a cup of coffee and breakfast sandwich to soak up the hangover, O’Connor was disappointed that they did not pass a single fast-food joint on the way out of town. He was, however, pleased to see his Crown Vic pulled into the second repair bay at the service station as they headed north. Leaning back in the passenger seat, hoping that the doctor wouldn’t notice that he’d shut his eyes, he listened to the doctor describe how he had wrangled a small plane equipped with LIDAR to scan the surrounding hills, and offered O’Connor a few printed pages of the pixelated images. O’Connor cracked open a single eye to peer down at the printout, and the pale crescent image buried in the topographical map. He nodded, feigning attention as they headed out of town.
He was fairly confident that if he had to ride more than a few miles in the stifling chemical stench of the Aerostar cab, he was definitely going to be sick.