Chapter 21: Lies, Greed, Misery
A/N: So this chapter is a little weird. I had crazy writers block trying to pull all the pieces together (thus the eternity between updates) so I decided to throw it out and try something totally new for me. This entire chapter is from Nellie's POV. I chose to go present tense because I wanted to capture her immediate reactions not her thoughts about everything in retrospect. It was actually pretty fun to write. I hope you guys enjoy the little foray into her head as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Once upon a time I would never have been able to imagine taking a piss in front of another person. There are many other things that I've done, that have happened to me or near me or to someone important to me which I also couldn't have imagined, but somehow it's this one thing that's sticking in my brain. I don't know how much longer they can keep me. I know my lawyer said he would have me out first thing in the morning, but they took my watch and it's like a fucking casino in here. I swear the bright lights are some kind of elaborate scheme to torture every person held in this eight by ten cage into confessing to whatever will get them put in a place where there is the relief of dark at night.
Of course, it's not the lights, it's that I had four cups of coffee before the one the detective brought me in the interrogation chamber and my bladder is screaming at me and I can't tell what time it is because of the fucking lights.
I glare through the bars at the bored man sitting behind the desk. He's good looking in that farm-boy way I really liked when I was a whole long younger and infinitely stupider. When I was Derek's whore.
I have a sudden need to sneeze and I realize that if I sneeze I'm going to wet myself and that would be even more humiliating than using the small silver toilet in the corner. Thank fuck I'm wearing a skirt. Trying not to be aware of the very transparent 'wall' of bars between me and the man who reminds me of Derek, I shimmy my panties down to the edge of my skirt and sort of squat over the bowl. I manage to keep myself covered and not get urine all over myself, but I 'm so busy thinking about the logistics of not coating my only clothes in urine that I can't stifle the humiliating sigh of utter contentment I release along with the long, loud stream of fluid.
I wipe and then pull on my panties as quickly as possible, feeling exposed and violated even though objectively I know nothing more of me was exposed than it would have been if I'd been in a proper stall. Still, I hate everything about my cage and captors. Uppity VanBetterThanThou better be as good as his $500 an hour price tag would imply. If I have to spend more than a day in this hell hole I am going to start talking back to the ghosts.
"Miss Noble, please turn and put your hands behind your back."
The Derek-Cop is now standing by the door of my cell, there's another beefier, older cop behind him. I cross my arms across my chest. "Why?"
"Detective Rosati has a few more questions for you. We've already informed your lawyer that you're being taken in for questioning. He's on his way."
Damn. As much as I hate my cell, interrogation is worse. The mirrored window with its hidden watchers, the blank white walls, uncomfortable chairs and the relentless press of questions. My skin crawls just thinking about it. The fact that I'll have a lawyer this time should be comforting, but it isn't. I've met the man twice and he's as cold a fish as they come.
I turn slowly and stick my arms out behind me. I can't help but flinch a little when the cold metal hits my skin. Funny how handcuffs feel so very, very different in this context. Until tonight the only use I had for them was when Derek used to… but I can't think about Derek right now, though it feel like I can't escape him no matter how much time passes Even here, there's that farm boy cop who doesn't look anything like broad shouldered, blonde, freckled Derek Walden, yet every time he moves or speaks it's as if Derek is in the room.
Honestly, if I'd known that fucker was going to haunt me I wouldn't have made sure he was 'asleep' in the apartment when Freddie set it on fire.
Not-Derek fastens both cuffs around my wrists and takes hold of my left elbow. I allow him to steer me through the cell door and then follow the older cop into a long, nondescript hallway.
There was a blonde at the far end of the hall. She's in uniform which means it's not the detective. My eyes drift over her and fix on the man she is escorting. My heart stutters. Freddie. I focus on trying to breathe normally as my vision clouds with a wave of sudden panic. Instinctually I know it is bad if they see me react to him. Either they know and there's nothing my actions can do to save me now, or they're still guessing and a single confirming flinch is all they need. Either way, I'm determined not to give them the satisfaction.
I start reciting a poem I memorized back in high school in my head. It's a stupid poem, a long drawn out description of a woman's suffering and suicide that Mr. Forrest told us was deeply tragic, but mostly we griped about how long it was. On either side the rivers lie/ long fields of barley and rye…
Freddie and his escort disappear into a doorway not ten feet away from where my escorts have stopped and are having a hushed exchange about who had the key. Idiots. I can't help but watch Freddie until he disappears from view, but the poem running through my conscious mind helps me keep the fear off my face. No one could ever look afraid while reciting nineteenth century poetry, or so I tell myself. The green-sheathed dafodilly / tremble in the water chilly/ round about Shalott…
The interrogation room is cold. The older cop takes care of attaching my hand cuff to the table as if I'm some dangerous murderer instead of a nice woman who runs a property management company. Okay, not really a nice woman, but definitely not strong enough or stupid enough to pose a physical threat or a flight risk. Once they're sure I'm going nowhere without carrying a heavy metal table with me both men leave and it's just me and the big window masquerading as a mirror. Four grey walls and four grey towers…
I'm nearly done the poem when the door finally opens. My lawyer enters first. His aftershave hits me like a wave and I don't have to fake nonchalance for a second because I'm too busy coughing out the sudden lungful of Old Spice to think about anything. Detective Rosati follows him. She's brought me a glass of water and I don't even question her motives because I'm pathetically grateful to have something cool to drink and a reason to have my hands freed.
The detective releases my hands and pockets the cuffs. "Your lawyer wants a few minutes alone with you. I'm going to clear the other room and turn off the cameras. I'm afraid that's the best I can do for privacy."
I nod. I don't really care if she's lying or telling the truth. I'm not telling my lawyer anything confidential. For one thing, I don't trust him as far as I could drag this interrogation table, for another, I have been living my story for so long that the fiction feels more real than the truth. Even when Derek's ghost makes itself known so strongly that he could be in the same room as me that time feels like it was a dream, like I made it up and then destroyed it before it could destroy me. In its own way it was a fiction. It was definitely a lie on top of a lie on top of a lie.
Derek and his precious wife Carol: Lie.
Nellie and Ricky, made for each other: Lie.
Derek, the single man just looking for love: Lie.
Nellie, the lost woman in a bad marriage looking for someone to save her: Lie.
Derek and Nellie, the perfectly happy couple: Lie.
Free stove upgrade: Lie.
Fire safety inspection: Lie.
Tragic Fire That Killed Toronto Couple Ruled Accidental: Lie.
Freddie, the sweet orphan in need of a job and a place to live: Lie.
Nearly three years of my life, all lies. So many stories in that short a time that I almost forget there was life before this. I had a life before Derek. I was even in love with Ricky once. I think for a few years I was happy. But that is all gone now. All that's left are the lies.
I was twenty seven when I met Ricky. He had been engaged twice but never married. I had been single except the odd set up for the better part of four years. I wanted to be married, Ricky wanted to prove he could actually go through with a wedding. It was never going to be bliss, but we had lots in common and when we started the business a year later it was like we found our thing, the magic shared passion that would keep the relationship alive.
The sex was bland unless one of us had scored big in a business deal. Money was the secret to Ricky's arousal. Mine was power. When we were successful it was a heady combination. When we weren't doing well we barely talked and I felt isolated and frustrated. I began to seek sex and emotional fulfillment outside the marriage.
Three years ago, when I was staring down the barrel of fifty, I met Derek. He was thirty-five, fresh off the farm, and completely mad about me. He worked out of town so I only saw him once or twice a week, but the sex was incredible and we just clicked. I told him I was separated from Ricky and just staying legally bound so he couldn't shut me out of the business. Derek told me he hated that he was a cheater, but that I was irresistible. Naively I thought he meant he hated that he was making me cheat.
A year in I found out about Carol. But my rage was nothing to the fit Derek threw when he found out that Ricky and I were still living, still sleeping, together. Immediately he threatened to tell Ricky everything, including my plan to take full control of the company. I couldn't let him do that. The company was everything. No matter how much I adored Derek, he was nothing next to that.
Freddie was a fortunate accident. I wasn't even supposed to know that Derek had a stepson. But Freddie was a disrespectful little shit, even at nineteen, and when he found out about the affair he came straight to me and told me he had a plan to solve both our problems and all he needed was a little start-up capital. Turned out that Mrs. Walden-Cooper had a little too strong a love for her only son and Freddie was keen to end that relationship in a permanent way.
I didn't know the details. I purposefully didn't want to now the how. I just supplied the money and building access Freddie needed, on the terms that Derek would suffer the same fate as Carol, and then I waited to see what would happen. When the fire happened I wasn't even certain it had been Freddie until I saw the newspaper the next day.
The little attention seeking shit had actually gone door to door in the building warning every other resident. If there hadn't happened to have been some chewed up wires near the stove my career of funding arson would have ended as abruptly as it started. But the fire department ruled it a tragic accident and the police were far too busy to care about two people dying in an accidental fire, even if Freddie's sob story about thinking his parents were out of town was a piss poor explanation for how the only people to die in a fire were the parents of the kid who rescued everyone else.
We got away with it.
I didn't intend to do it again. But Ricky wanted to keep the kid on payroll, so we did. Then an opportunity arose to move into an upper market of the condo business, but tenant laws and bylaws and property code laws and any number of other bureaucratic pieces of trash were in my way. I couldn't tear down and rebuild unless the building had structural damage or I was able to convince every single inhabitant of the building that they wanted to move out during the renos and pay more when they returned. I was stuck.
But I wasn't really stuck, because there was one way to make sure I not only had to rebuild, but had some starting capital to do so: Freddie needed to set another fire.
My $500 an hour lawyer is tired of my silence. He wants me to tell him the whole sordid tale so he can jump in a prevent them even asking me a question that might be relevant. It's almost insulting. Don't lawyers realize that they will never be as good at lying as their clients? Or perhaps that's only really true in the business world.
"Well, since you don't want to talk to me I guess we'd better get the detective in here and get this over with, eh?" He manages to be both passive aggressive and condescending in the single sentence.
I nod and settled back in my chair, trying to get somewhere near comfortable. I expect they've been grilling Freddie and have expect to be presented with a signed confession. The kid has a knack for sabotaging equipment so it will blow, not so much one for keeping a secret under duress.
Rosati enters the room and takes the seat across from me. She holds my gaze for a long moment and then smiles a bit. "We know what you did, and how, but what I can't quite wrap my head around is why?"
The utter lack of preamble catches me off guard and I nearly say something stupid before I realize the rules for interrogation are basically the rules for customer account support over the phone: assume they're all on a phishing expedition, give them nothing, make them give you the information to confirm or deny.
"Why what, detective?"
"Sorry, I suppose I should explain so we're all on the same page." Jo takes a sip of coffee and then launches into story-telling mode. The number of details she had right is surprising, alarming really.
"So then two years later you think you've gotten away with it. You and your little teenage friend killed two people and the law deemed it an accident. Then you decide to set up another tenant, only this time murder doesn't seem to have been on the menu. So what I'm wondering is why? Why the second building? Why that apartment?"
I mull over what the detective has said and try to calculate the odds that she's acquired evidence to prove all of these assumptions.
"Look, here's the deal." Rosati leans forward. "You didn't actually set up any of these fires. You didn't light the match or lay explosives or physically do anything. Hell, if your little friend in my other room keeps his mouth shut you might be able to successfully argue that you had no idea what he was doing with your money."
My lawyer shifts behind me. It reminds me of a cat waking up at the smell of food. He's liking what he's hearing. I'm still waiting to hear what the actual offer is before I show a sign I know that's where this little speech is headed.
"If you are willing to testify to what you know about Freddie and his role in all of this that will look much better than if you insist on staying silent. You weren't as good at covering your tracks as you thought. I have enough evidence to prove you approved putting ovens you knew were faulty in the second building, and that you paid Freddie for the bombings. I also have evidence that Freddie is the one who tampered with the fire safety equipment. What I'm missing are any mitigating factors I should consider before I pass all of this over to the lawyers."
"I need to speak with my lawyer."
Jo smiles. "Of course. I'll clear the rooms." She rose to her feet and gestured at the window. "Knock when you're ready. We'll be right out in the hall."
As soon as she is gone and a bright light is turned on in the adjacent room to show us it's empty, my lawyer turns to me. "Did you pay Freddie to light those fires?"
"Yes." I say softly, taking care not to move my mouth much. I do not trust that they aren't somehow monitoring this conversation.
"Why?"
"Revenge. Money."
"In that order."
"Yes."
"Why did you pick that unit to sabotage?"
"Abandoned for months. Central."
"So it had nothing to do with the tenant?"
"I don't even know who owns that unit. I would have to look it up, and that's not really possible right now."
"How would you profit from burning one unit?"
I sigh. "It was supposed to take the whole building. We can rebuild bigger and better on the same lot, raise fees, phase out old occupants and sell to higher market."
"Is there an evidence trail they might have found?"
"The 'faulty' ovens from the building where the first fire was were installed in our other building to save money. There was a paper trail. I destroyed the records, but I might have missed one." Ricky was always big on everything in triplicate, ironically because he was afraid of being dragged into court and not having the documents to prove his innocence. Bastard.
"Okay…" As the lawyer explains to me why I should probably give the detective what she wants, I can't help but feel lighter than I have in years. Two years of living with the death of my lover, even if he turned out to be a selfish dick like the rest of them I did think I loved him for a time, and it was finally over. The next thought was more sobering: I was going to get really used to pissing in front of strangers.
A/N: One more chapter to come. Huge thanks for all the lovely encouraging reviews. I can't believe I finally finished this horrible, writer's blocky chapter and can give you guys the whole fic!