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As we drove out of the city, I realized these were state cops. I suppose I should have noticed sooner. It seemed odd for an outside department to be involved in a big-city case, but maybe even years after Katrina, New Orleans was still in a state of bureaucratic upheaval.
We pulled into a small station on a regional road surrounded by forest and swamp. Medina got out of the car as Holland made a note in his book. She opened my door. As I started to climb out, Holland opened Jaime's door, then stopped dead. "What's that?" he said.
I turned to see some kind of black powder smeared on my seat. "Damn it," I muttered. "Did I sit in that?"
I went to wipe off my butt, but Medina grabbed my hands and yanked me into position so fast I barely had time to snap, "Hey!" before I stood spread-eagled against the cruiser.
Jaime yelped, genuine now, and tried to get out, but Holland pushed her back in and slammed the door.
"Is that what it looks like?" he asked as Medina patted me down. "Something from the bomb?"
"Could be," she said.
It wasn't. Whatever ripped that building apart wasn't some low-grade blasting powder. But showing any familiarity with what had caused the explosion--or bombs in general--seemed unwise.
Medina patted my back pockets.
"Only thing in there is my wallet," I said. "But go ahead and check."
She pulled out the wallet. Then she reached into the other back pocket, stopped, and waved Holland over.
"What?" I said.
I tried to twist and look, but she slammed me against the car again. I craned to see, being careful not to move anything but my head. She was holding a folded piece of paper and a crushed cardboard tube sprinkled with black powder.
"That wasn't--"
She shoved me against the car again, then unfolded the paper. Holland leaned over to read it. He swore. His gaze lifted to mine, lip curled in disgust. "So you knew nothing about the bombing? Then why is the address in your pocket?"
"What? No. That wasn't in my pocket. Not the paper or that powder. Look at my wallet. Notice anything odd? It's soaked. Like my pocket. That paper and tube are dry, meaning it couldn't have been in there."
"Okay, so how did you get wet?" Holland asked.
"I . . . it's kind of embarrassing, okay? I fell in a puddle. Landed on my ass."
"Yes, that is embarrassing," Medina said. "But not as embarrassing as the truth."
"What do you mean?"
"Your wallet was in your back pocket. It probably fell into the toilet. I lost a cell phone that way once."
"No, my jeans are soaked--"
"Then I guess that bathroom accident was even more embarrassing. Or maybe you put these things in your pocket after you got them wet."
"I've been sitting on them, in wet jeans--they'd at least be damp!"
Medina gave me another shove, hard enough that my chin hit the car. My teeth caught my tongue and I tasted blood.
Holland took over, holding me still as Medina tugged my ID from my damp wallet.
"Savannah Levine," she said. "You're under arrest for . . ."
Medina arrested Jaime, too, despite the fact that they had no evidence to suggest she was involved. That's when I really knew this wasn't kosher, especially when Holland seemed surprised by Medina's decision. He didn't argue. She was the senior partner. But when we got inside and someone yelled that there was trouble with a guy in the holding cell, Holland volunteered to help and got out of there fast.
Medina called over a second officer, a guy barely old enough to be shaving. He took charge of Jaime, who hadn't said a word since we left the car. When I glanced at her now, she was blinking hard, eyes unfocused.
"Jaime?" I said.
