She cracked her eyes open and realized it was a fist, knuckles knocking on the table. What a wakeup call. With effort, she lifted her head and eyed the detective sitting across from her. His wool jacket smelled like mothballs and he sucked on his cheeks, narrowing them in a Dirty Harry impression as he glared at her. He had the Clint Eastwood balding-head thing going for him, but where Clint could nail Dirty Harry with nothing more than the gleam in his eyes, Detective Mothballs just looked like a dweeb in tweed, as Truman was fond of saying. She wished she were back in the caterpillar’s stomach. And wasn’t that a sad state to be in. He pushed a button on a digital voice recorder on the table. “State your name for the record, Sleeping Beauty.” It was obvious she was a person of interest in the kidnapping. If she’d been a civilian, she would have asked for an attorney before even stating her name.
