I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places

I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places by Lisa Scottoline Page A

Book: I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places by Lisa Scottoline Read Free Book Online
Authors: Lisa Scottoline
shaking so badly, I could barely hold the pen. He gently walked me through each question, holding a finger down on the line like an elementary-school teacher.
    On the first item, I wrote “purse.” Next to that it read, “Model,” which my concussed brain failed to compute. I looked helplessly at Officer Moon.
    â€œBrand,” Moon translated.
    I nodded and wrote “Gucci.”
    New item: Wallet. Model: Gucci.
    Officer Green peered over my shoulder. “You’re a Gucci girl, eh?”
    â€œYes, they were gifts,” I said. “Up until tonight, my life was very good.”
    He chuckled and handed me his own cell phone. “I got your bank on the line. You just have to tell ’em your social and they can cancel the card.”
    I thought it was so nice of him to call them for me. I hate customer-service trees almost as much as I hate getting mugged. I thanked him and gave the info to the representative.
    Then I was introduced to two detectives who asked all the same questions the police had. The detectives were perfectly nice and professional, but the process of being asked the same questions several times, to someone who isn’t used to it like me, inadvertently communicated skepticism. As a result, I felt I wasn’t coming off as believable, so I became very concerned with accuracy.
    For instance, when they asked me how many times I was hit, I had to clarify: “Well, I was kicked once for sure, and I think the rest were with his fists…”
    â€œYes, you were punched,” the detective interrupted. I didn’t know how he was so sure of that, but he continued. “How many times?”
    â€œMultiple times,” I answered, sounding like a nervous witness on the stand.
    â€œCan you give me a number?”
    â€œBetween five and eight times? No more than ten.”
    Looking back, I have no idea why I was so intent on making sure that I didn’t overstate things. It was like I wanted to be fair to my attacker.
    It was the least I could do if I was going to get him in trouble.
    The detective finished his notes and added, “Oh, and one more thing. Don’t cancel those credit cards for a couple days. They’re usually where we get the best leads.”
    I looked at Officer Green, like, dude? He avoided my gaze.
    Finally the EMTs arrived. I was helped into the back of an ambulance where a paramedic took inventory of my injuries.
    â€œAbrasions on legs, arms, foot, laceration on chin, contusions on neck and face. And you got choked, kicked”—he glanced at me—“punched.”
    â€œHe kicked me once, I think, and then punched? I’m not really sure, it was hard to tell.”
    He glanced up at me. “Yeah, punched.”
    Why does everyone keep saying that?
    Then he spoke with less certainty. “And, um, were you … did the guy try anything, you know, um…?” He made a face.
    â€œYou mean, was I sexually assaulted?”
    He nodded, looking embarrassed.
    I didn’t realize EMTs were so delicate. “No, nothing untoward.”
    He laughed in relief. “Good, because that’s a whole ’nother kit. ”
    Despite my judging him just a little bit for not being able to say the word “rape” in a professional capacity, we became buds. He told me I should walk with a dog for protection. I told him I had one, but he could only kill you with cuteness. He said he had two Rhodesian ridgebacks, and I impressed him with my Westminster-nerd knowledge of the breed.
    â€œSo can you just clean me up, and I can go home?” I asked.
    â€œYou got clocked. Head trauma means you should really go to the hospital.”
    I was more scared of going to the ER than of having a concussion. In seven years living here, I had carefully and intentionally avoided needing emergency care. I always imagined a New York City emergency room on a Saturday night would be a horror show of gunshot victims, cyclists

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