Police.
"Uh, yes," I say hesitantly, staring at the badge for a moment before turning to the one who addressed me. "Can I help you?"
"We're hoping so," he says. "We wanted to ask you a few questions."
"About?"
"About Daniel Santino."
My brow furrows. Professor Santino? "What about him?"
"Would you mind coming down to the station with us?" he asks, smiling tersely. It doesn't escape my notice that he avoids answering my question. "It'll only take a few minutes."
I glance between the two men and the car parked near them—clearly an unmarked police cruiser. "I don't know."
The second officer struts toward me, his expression hard. I watch enough mindless television to know the good cop/bad cop act, and this one obviously is the latter. "You can come with us now voluntarily or we can pick you up later and take you downtown, whether you like it or not."
Frowning, I oblige, climbing into the backseat when the older officer opens the door for me. He's kinder, trying to be friendly and chatting as he drives toward the police station. Detective Jameson with the Homicide Unit.
His partner, Detective Andrews, is clearly naturally an asshole. He sits in the passenger seat, silent, scowling.
When we arrive, I'm taken to a small drab room with nothing but a table and some chairs, the walls slate gray, a sign on the door that says 'Interrogation'. I nervously sit down in a chair with the men across from me. They offer me something to drink, but I'm too anxious to accept it.
Their questions seem simple on the surface: When's the last time you spoke to Daniel Santino? What did you talk about? Why were you there? They ask me again and again, the same tedious questions in a loop just worded a little differently each time, as if they expect to trip me up and get another response eventually.
I was the last person seen with him.
His estimated time of death coincided with my visit.
"Wait, you don't think… I mean, you seriously don't think I had something to do with this, right?"
Both men just stare at me.
"He was alive when I left him," I say, in utter shock that they're insinuating I could be involved. "I would never hurt someone, much less kill them. I wouldn't... I couldn't. Check the security cameras. You'll see!"
"The cameras in that building weren't recording," Detective Andrews says. "They recycle on a 24 hour loop. By the time he was discovered, the footage was erased."
"Well, I swear he was alive. He was! I would never do something like that. I'm not that kind of person!"
"I believe you," Detective Jameson says. "We're just trying to lock down a timeline of that afternoon."
He sounds genuine, but his words are at odds with Detective Andrews's attitude. He's treating me like a flat out criminal. His expression is hardened, his voice icy when he chimes in. "How long have you been involved with Ignazio Vitale?"
Naz's name catches me off guard. "Excuse me?"
"Ignazio Vitale," he says. "How long have the two of you—?"
"I don't see how that's any of your business," I say, slipping my hands from the table onto my lap when the man's attention shifts to the ring on my finger.
"You're aware of his reputation, I presume? It's not a far stretch to think—"
"Naz is a good man," I say defensively, cutting him off. "He has nothing to do with any of this."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Of course," I say. "I don't care what reputation you think he has. He's done nothing wrong, and neither have I… I didn't do anything. I just went to talk to him about my grade, and then I left, and he was still alive."
"And where was Ignazio at that time?"
My brow furrows. Before I can respond, the door to the interrogation room opens, another man poking his head in. Clearly their superior, based upon the way both men straighten their backs, giving him their undivided attention. He struts in, eyes skimming me, as he shakes his head. "You're free to go, Miss Reed."
Detective Andrews shakes his head in disagreement. "We still have a few more questions."
"Tough," the man says. "She's lawyered up."
My eyes widen. I did what?
Detective Andrews is just as surprised, turning to me. "I didn't hear you ask for a lawyer."
I didn't know I needed one.
Detective Jameson, on the other hand, stands and gathers his things. He pulls out a business card, slipping it across the table with a smile. "If you ever want to talk, my door is always open."
He walks out, past his superior. I stand, rubbing my sweaty palms on the legs of my jeans and slip the business card in my pocket with my mother's letter as I look between the men. "So I can go?"
"Of course," the man says, nodding tersely. "Thank you for coming in."
"Sure," I mumble, my head down as I bolt out of the interrogation room. I hear the officers whispering behind me, their conversation heated, as I head into the lobby. Looking up, my footsteps stall when I come face-to-face with the last person I expected to be standing here. "Naz."
The corner of his lip twitches. "You okay, jailbird?"
I nod.
"Good." All humor fades from his expression, eyes darkening with rage as he turns his focus to the officers gathering behind me. His gaze shifts between them, taking them in, the pure hostility wafting from him enough to make the hairs on my arm stand on end. "If you gentlemen have anything else, my attorney will be more than happy to field your requests, which you're well aware of. It's why I pay him, after all."
"We had no questions for you," Detective Jameson says. "We just had a few for Miss Reed."
"Who is my fiancée, which you're also now aware of," Naz says. "Bullying a young woman is quite unbecoming of you, Jameson. I thought your mother would've taught you better than that."
Naz doesn't wait for the officer to respond. He motions with his head for me to come with him. I step past, and he presses his hand to my back, leading me out of the police station. His car waits by the curb for us. I slide in nervously, sickness brewing in the pit of my stomach.
Naz pulls into traffic, heading toward Brooklyn, before he relaxes. He slouches somewhat in the seat, letting out a deep sigh. I'm not sure if it's relief I hear or if it's exasperation.
"How did you know I was there?" I ask quietly.
"An associate gave me a courtesy call when he saw you brought in. I got there as soon as I could."