Baby's Breath

Wouldn't you know it? Angelica doesn't speak a lick of English and Jimenez is the only one, out of the two of us, that's bilingual. Now don't get me wrong; I'm not one of those asses who believes if you're in America you should speak only English. Despite the fact, America doesn't have a national language, and I wish people would shut the fuck up on that, I think there's nothing wrong with learning other tongues and Cultures. In fact, Spanish is a beautiful language. Every time Jimenez speaks it, my toes curl.

However, other than ordering a beer, I can't talk it and hardly understand it. Not that it really matters at this point. Even if I was bilingual as hell, I arrived two hours late and Lorenzo already had her in the interview room before my arrival.

A rather perturbed Chief Whitman approaches me as soon as I burst through the doors, explaining right away that I'm not allowed to interrupt Jimenez. He leads me to the observation room, all the while scolding me for my tardiness. His lectures can last for days, and I struggle to not roll my eyes in true preteen style. He's right though. It was irresponsible of me and not something I normally do. My reliability is now in question. Which sucks.

After my boss departs, leaving me properly chastised, I focus on the interview in front of me on the monitor but haven't so far understood a damned thing being said between them. But her obvious anguish is universal and doesn't require a translator. I don't need Google to tell me this mother is dying inside. Her expressions are comprehensive by any parent with a buried child. It's a dialect which transcends language, time, and cultures. If you haven't had your baby stolen from you, you won't get it. And I hope you never do.

Some clubs you just don't want to join.

Jimenez has always been incredible with the grieving, and I witness how easily she opens up to him. I get that ultimately that he is the better choice in handling her than I. My mothering instinct died the moment my daughter took her last breath. I'm not too comfortable consoling and especially not touching. It makes my insides squish right the hell up. Sorry, that's the only way I can explain it. Although I long to be in that room with them, I recognize my limitations.

My partner holds more empathy than anyone I've ever known. He never loses hope for his fellow human beings no matter the nightmares he may have witnessed in the eight years he has working this job. I lost my faith in humanity long before I ever became a detective. Yet, he always holds firm to his principles, and I admire the hell out of him for that.

His interrogation of her is like watching poetry in motion. Lorenzo knows exactly what to ask and when to ask it. He does that with all suspects and witnesses. He can play hard or soft, whatever the situation calls for.

She cries a great deal and Lorenzo, with a sympathetic expression, reaches across the scuffed-up wood table to cover her hand while I sit here, watching awkwardly, refusing to grant my own emotions passage through. He often allows her a moment to collect her thoughts and gently encourages her to continue speaking once she can.

By the time he ends the session, a long two hours has crept by. In that agonizingly slow time lapse, I manage to choke down six cups of coffee and chew off the majority of my nails from desiring a cigarette. Although a caffeinated vibration is buzzing through my arms and legs, I still go limp on a wooden chair, observing the scene with a blank stare. My ass is numb, and frustration is high, the pressure in my chest almost coming out of me in a scream.

I've never been good at waiting. Patience may be a virtue for some, but to me, it's a major annoyance, like a fly in the ear.

When he finally hands the shattered Angelica over to her awaiting mother, he enters the small observation room where I dwell. Without sparing me a single glance, he passes me to grab his own cup of coffee from the large metal decanter in the corner of the shadowy chamber. I try not to look anxious, but goddamn I'm dying to know what she said. He, of course, isn't in any hurry to tell me, and I'm teetering on losing my shit. I have a short fuse and he is testing me right now. How long does it take him to make a damn cup of coffee?

"You were late, Lindsey," he remarks, finally sparing me a quick glance over his shoulder.

"Nice observation," I counter, hoping he doesn't lecture me. I already got reamed by the chief. Really, I don't think my proverbial anus can take much more.

Unperturbed by my sarcasm, he sits in a chair across from me, his impenetrable dark eyes settling on me. I hope I appear cooler to him than I feel. My brain is melting like flesh in a crematorium and he, as if sensing my internal torment, is taking his sweet time in explaining what just transpired in the interview.

I personally think he just digs punishing me for my tardiness.

He adds to the layers if building madness by blowing on his scalding hot coffee, watching me as he does, before taking a slow sip.

Oh, for fuck's sakes!

"Ok," he finally begins, nabbing my eager attention. "Angelica claims she had been afraid her husband was stalking her, but only at first. Apparently, she's been hearing noises in her apartment, mostly, in the middle of the night, but when she'd check it out, nobody's there."

"When did this start," I ask. Apprehension slithers down my spine, a sense of foreboding mingling with the memory of what happened in my condo earlier.

"About a month ago. She even called the cops."

"Is there a police report?"

He nods, leaning back in his chair while cradling his coffee with both hands. "She mentioned an odor correlating with the break-ins. The smell was strongest in her son's room, and it made him vomit sometimes. Angelica even went to the landlord to complain about it, and he sent maintenance to check it out, but they found nada to explain it."

The memory of the rotting flesh smell enters my mind, but I don't go there. That is a bit too exact, and would certainly cause suspicion from my ever-observant partner. Jimenez doesn't miss shit, and I will do well to remember that.

"Ok, the noises? What were they? The sound of someone breaking in," I ask.

Lorenzo leans forward with a frown and rests his forearms on his knees still holding the Styrofoam cup loosely between his palms. He's not tall. He's eye to eye with me, but he's broad and muscle toned as hell, and I can see his pectorals work beneath the fabric of his shirt with every move he makes. He's distracting, and I remind my hormones to put their pussies away.

Dammit, bitches, there's no time to ogle.

"This is where it gets crazy," he goes on in his typical soft voice. "She claims she heard what sounded like a goat screaming and stomping around her apartment. She's convinced El Diablo came into her home and murdered her son."

"That would explain the religious shrine she had in the boy's room. She tried to protect him from the devil," I reply thoughtfully. As much as I don't believe in that, I can't help but pity her. Whatever had her freaked out, she tried her best to keep her son safe. I close my eyes, struggling against the headache forming.

"Exactly. She scheduled a priest to come this week and bless her apartment."

It's been such an intense day and I don't have time to deal with paranormal superstition. Fuck, I want to growl in my frustration but refrain because of public behavior expectations. Sure, things seem a little freaky, but the devil?

As much as I want to scoff at such an idea, I remember reading in my daughters file that during the interview with Charlotte Miller, my daughter's young nanny, she mentioned an evil presence in the house and a strong stench. I won't try to examine her allegations because I'm confident there's a tangible explanation. Not to mention she had been the suspect in Rose Marie's murder until proven otherwise. I really can't take much stock in anything she said back then. Not because I believe her responsible for my daughter's murder, but because she suffered a big-time head injury. Something dinged her dome that ill-fated day and people have been known to hallucinate with concussions.

"Well, I think before we put out a BOLO for Lucifer, we should bring in Angelica's husband. We'll probably have more luck," he said, flashing a grin.

God, his smile is wicked…brilliant flashes of straight white teeth and goddamned dimples.

Why hadn't I noticed those dastardly bastards before?

This discovery within me needs to be shut down at once, thus I shift my attention away from his big brown eyes, inwardly desperate to escape the small confines of the room. And his cruel, beguiling grin. With breath trapped in my lungs I rise so fast his eyes flash, as if startled. I cover my abruptness while heading for the door like a prisoner on the escape.

"We should check in with Whitman," I say. My voice sounds strained, even to me, but he must have heard, for he falls into step beside me.

Once we make it into the open spaces, I exhale, relief coursing through me. Oh, but this day has been shit.

Christ, I can only hope it gets better from here. But do bad days ever get better? Really?