Chapter 18

The “Interogation Room” wasn’t as bad as I had imagined. Having never been to a police station, I had feared the worst Law and Order episode. Maybe those weren’t so bad now that I think about it.

Inside the room, Detective Patrick invited me to sit in a lovely, hard, steel chair certain to make any perp confess inside of an hour. The table was government issue in the lovely, federal green color of bridges. It was littered with droplets of dried coffee, sticky soda, and crumbs from what I was assuming were various pastries. That wasn’t so bad. Reminded me of my desk and the mocha stain that had been on the right side near the corner for a year. A constant splotch that faithfully continued to remind me that I needed to clean. It was a good, loyal stain. Didn’t have the heart to get rid of it.

The walls were painted a matching green and looked to have matching stains. Too matchy-moo for my taste. The lighting was typical police station décor. Fluorescent downlighting units attached to a pockmarked suspended ceiling system that looked decayed and ready to collapse with the next earthquake.

After seating myself, I faced Detective Patrick and composed myself for his probing questions, feeling my face get warm and my eyes sting a little. God, I was tired and my butt ached already. Now I looked embarrassed and thus guilty. I wished I had some ice water.

“Your full name please?” he asked.

“Lois Louise Pushkin,” I answered, correctly. One point for me. I wondered when I should ask him for that water. I am allowed one water, right?

“Are you married, Ms. Pushkin?”

“No. What does that have to do with anything?” I was now tired, achy, annoyed, and needing that water. Why should he care if I was married? What did that have to do with the murder? Well, I guess a bit since most married people are killed by their spouses. But Faraday hadn’t been married to me so what relevance did the question even have?

Detective Patrick said, “Hmmm.” He wrote something on his notepad. Looking back up at me, perhaps to check if I was lying, he asked, “How long had you known Kip Faraday?”

“Like I said before, about a year. I remodeled the executive bathroom off of his office,” I replied.

Detective Patrick hmmm’d again and wrote some more notes on his pad. “How involved were you in the actual construction? Did you visit the bathroom regularly?”

I snorted a little and Detective Patrick eyeballed me suspiciously. “Mr. Faraday asked me that during construction. I visited the bathroom once a week and then sent him a weekly progress report wherever in the world he was. He put me in charge as the project’s construction administrator.”

“Was that typical for Mr. Faraday? He certainly had enough assistants to do that sort of work?” asked Detective Patrick. “Why would he choose you to do reports for him?”

“Because that was my job as a construction administrator. I monitored the general contractor and his subs, plus kept the construction schedule and everyone on task. I was Mr. Faraday’s liaison for the project. Besides, I personally don’t think he wanted any of his assistants around the construction. I don’t think he trusted them with anything outside of concierge, clerical, and butt-wiping duties,” I answered.

Detective Patrick twiddled his pencil between his fingers and asked dryly, “Butt wiping duties?”

“Sorry,” I said, “that was rude. Um, Faraday would have his assistants do anything he wanted and they would do anything he ordered. I just meant that if he needed his butt wiped, they would do it.”

“He was that comfortable and trusting with his assistants?”

I thought about that for a moment. “I wouldn’t call it trust. I would say he believed they existed to serve him and if he needed their assistance for such a delicate matter, well, duh, they would, of course, do it.”

“Would Mr. Gerard do it?”

“No.”

“Would Mr. Hansen do it?”

“I’m inclined to answer yes since he was Faraday’s shadow and also rumoured to be in love with the man,” I said. I could see Bruce doing that, with latex gloves of course. Homoerotic images flooded my mind. Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts, La la la la!

“Are you alright Ms. Pushkin?” asked Detective Patrick as he leaned across the table toward me. “Do you need some coffee?”

Startled out of my mental rendition of “There’s a Hole in My Bucket”, I stared back at him. “Yes, uh, actually, I would like some ice water. Are there any relevant questions you’d like to ask me?”
“You’re the one who started with the butt reference,” stated Detective Patrick. “We know where you were the night Faraday died and that checks out for now. Do you know where any of the other persons of interest were that night?”

“I don’t know your whole list. I only know where Trevor was because he told me, but that’s just hearsay.” Oh, yeah, I need to tell Detective Patrick about my lawyer’s request. “My lawyer will be needing a copy of my statement regarding this case.”

“No, he don’t. What about Paul Atkinson?”

“I only know where Paul was because he told me,” I said. “And yes, he, my lawyer, will. In fact, I’d like to call my lawyer right now.” Who did this cop think he was? This was not right. The hairs on the back of my neck started to prickle and rise.

“No, no that’s OK, Ms. Pushkin. Not until we’re finished,” warned Detective Patrick. “Was Mr. Atkinson with you?”

“No. And I’m not going to answer any more of your questions until I see my lawyer,” I said. The whole interview was starting to creep me out. Detective Patrick pulled himself upright in his chair, rolled up his sleeves, and laid his beefy, sinewy, tan arms on the palette of the green table. His breath was hot and he had a sweat bead on his forehead. His eyes were glassy under his monobrow, and he probed me with them indelicately. It was intimidating and gross.

I had to get out of that room immediately. “If you’re going to charge me, do it now or this conversation is over.”

“I’m going to get a statement from you now, Ms. Pushkin,” Detective Patrick picked up his pencil and pointed it at me menacingly. Was he going to hold it to my cheek and threaten to ruin my modeling career if I didn’t confess?

That was the last straw. I simply couldn’t stay in that room. The chair had gotten harder, my butt muscles were on fire, my head was pounding and my face was still flushed. Bastard had never gotten my water. The walls were getting closer together. Quickly pushing my glasses up against my nose as a distraction, I grabbed the pointy end of his pencil, snatched it out of his grip, and snapped it in two with a ‘crack’.

“You will receive my statement from my lawyer.” I reiterated, firmly. I was so done.

With that, I stood up, wiped the crud from my ass, clutched the broken pencil for support, and headed for the door. I heard Detective Patrick’s chair skid across the floor. Turning to find him approaching me, I stood with the pointy end of the pencil aimed at him and said, “Don’t make me scream ‘rape’ 'cause I will. I took a class and I was the teacher’s pet.”

“Watch yourself, Ms. Pushkin,” Detective Patrick cautioned. He leaned past me and opened the door. His body odor wafted across my nose. “I’ll wait for your statement. If I don’t see it in 48 hours, we will come looking for you. Oh, yeah, don’t leave town.”

He laughed at his little joke. I scooted out that door as fast as I could without looking intimidated. Shit, now I would have to go to the lawyers. Don’t leave town – Jesus, what TV show was I on? Well, that was done. I was so exhausted that I could’ve fallen nose first onto the drab precinct vinyl tile flooring. Thankfully, I had enough strength of hygiene disgust to
overcome that desire.

Paul was waiting for me at the double doors and took my arm. “Why don’t you take those off?”

I looked over at him, pushing my glasses farther up my nose. “I need them to see.”
I hadn’t had the time nor the desire to put my contacts in when this adventure started, so the trusty, back-up glasses got pulled out for service.

“No, not your glasses, your shoes.” He pointed down to my swollen feet and winced with pain for me. I hadn’t really noticed the fatigue or blisters that had materialized throughout the day. My toes started to throb violently, now that my brain was paying attention to them, the way children swarm from out of nowhere when mothers are dialing phones. My heels stung and my ankles itched. I would need an emergency pedicure for sure.

“I can’t take them off in here,” I hissed. “It’s disgusting! Hooker and junkie feet –yuck. It’s worse than a motel room. I’ll wait ‘til I get in my car.”

“I can’t vouch for that being cleaner than a motel room, especially since we’ve used it as a motel room,” reminded Paul with a big goofy smile. (Yuk, yuk, yuk, three stooges abound.) I punched him in the arm. In the car, I took off my Jose Ferrars and rubbed my feet on the floor mats. Paul looked at me questioningly. “You know those mats are full of germs and crap, right?”

“Oh, shut up,” I said. “I’m trying to get over my cleanliness freak, so leave me alone.”

Paul laughed and I was not mad enough not to enjoy the fact that I could make him laugh in spite of the new three-ring circus we had been thrown into. Paul’s interview had gone about as well as mine. His interrogator had tried to get him on threatening a police officer when he wouldn’t give a statement and then on obstructing an officer. He hadn’t had a broken pointy pencil to defend himself, but he had gotten out all right.

We drove back to his place. No way did I want to be alone that night. We decided on a simple dinner with lots of booze and I bought a fresh pack of cigarettes at the 7-11. I called Brian and told him how our interrogations had gone and where we would be. Brian had volunteered that he had already fed and watered Kash for me. Paul then called his lawyer and told him what had transpired at the police station. We made an appointment to meet the next day; he was going to transcribe Paul’s statement as well as mine. Paul convinced me that his lawyer would be at least as good as the one my mother’s ex-boyfriend recommended.