A/N: Noalyn, consider your death threats noted.
"Timothy, put that down! You'll be late for school!" Ann yelled after the young cat. She shook her head and turned back to the two police officers at the door. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your names. They were?"
"I'm Detective Fox, this is Agent Fedorov. We're investigating a crime for Interpol. Do you have a moment?" Fox continued to hold her badge up for inspection. Without looking at the shield, Ann stepped to the side, granting access.
Fedorov sat to the side with a pad of paper and a pen while Fox sat on a couch facing Ann. The middle-aged badger slowly wrung her hands in the silence before the first question.
"Miss Gledhill, how long have you worked here?" Fox began. Ann looked to the floor in thought.
"About three years now."
"Who owns this place? Who pays you?" Fox continued with the normal procedure, getting the interviewed person to feel comfortable giving honest answers.
"This orphanage is funded by donations from several wealthy private sources, as well as a few civil-minded companies."
"How many children do you house here at any one time?"
"Anywhere from ten to about fifty, I suppose."
"You don't work here alone, do you?"
"During the day, I do. All our children attend public schools, so there needs to only be one person here from about eight until two. After that, there are two other women who help out."
"Now," Fox leaned onto her knees and lowered her head, to give an air of seriousness to her body language, "do you keep records of what children come and go?" Ann shook her head.
"Once they leave here, their files are sealed or destroyed. They're legal adults, after all, and we do have privacy laws here." She spoke the last part of the sentence while staring at Fedorov. Fox leaned back and furrowed her brow in thought.
"Who work-ed here, before you?" Fedorov asked.
"Before me?" Ann asked Fox, not answering to the Russian. "Well, there was Abbie, but she passed away last year. Then, there was Carolyn Briggs. She worked here for about twenty years."
"She still alive?" Fox asked optimistically. There was a long delay from the other party. "Miss Gledhill?"
"Oh, she's still alive. It's just that two decades of running an orphanage, outnumbered twenty to one, has taken its toll on the poor woman. Go see her and you'll know what I mean."
"Pudding and shoe sauce!" Briggs shouted into the next room. Fedorov cringed behind his glasses.
"You may interrogate her. I will be outside."
"Interrogate?" Carolyn's nurse asked, raising her voice. Fox shook her head. "I don't know how you French do things, but in England we don't go around interrogating old ladies in their sick-beds!"
"No, no, no," Fox explained, "Ignore what he said. He doesn't speak English very well. I just want to ask Carolyn a few questions. It's important. We wouldn't bother jumping the Channel otherwise." The long-eared rabbit looked Carmelita in the eye, and, after a moment, nodded.
"Alright. But just ten minutes!"
"That's all I need."
"Do YOU have my pudding?" Briggs asked from her bed beside a large window.
"Mrs. Briggs, can I ask you about one of the children you cared for at the orphanage?"
"Oh, my, my, my!"
"Uhm, okay. Do you remember anyone named Sly—er, Sylvester Cooper?"
"Sly Fassbinder? Oh!" Briggs went into a laughing fit, unable to control herself for a good minute and a half. "I remember him. Always sneaking out of his room at night. He used to find the things the children had stolen from each other and return them while they slept. You know, he and those other two were inseparable. You know they all left on the same day? They said they were moving somewhere together." Fox's heart skipped a beat. A decrepit old lady might have just blown the case wide open, which was, through an ironic twist of the English language, putting Fox nearer to closing it.
"What other two?" Fox asked, her hand shaking slightly as it held a pen over some paper.
"The United States," Fox said over her bulky cellular phone. "Yes, that's right. We talked to the local cops and tracked down Bentley's next of kin to the United States. Agent Fedorov and I are in Swansea right now, on our way to New York. City. New York City." Fox led Fedorov to the security checkpoint within sight of their terminal. "Make sure you talk to people in New Jersey and tell them we're coming. Jersey. New Jersey. It's a state." She threw her hands up in frustration. "Like a province. ASK SOMEONE ELSE, THEN!" She tucked the phone into her shoulder and looked at Fedorov for support. "These morons."
"They're Westerners. What do you--" He paused and realized he just insulted his partner. "Never mind." Fox put the phone back up to her ear.
"What? Oh, it's his brother. His BROTHER!" Fox continued to shout into the phone as the security officer approached her with a plastic bowl.
"Ma'am, please place all metallic objects in this tray." Absent-mindedly, Fox found her sidearm and dropped it into the platter while still talking on the phone.
"I can't hear you! You're breaking—ah, damn." After realizing her mistake and explaining herself to the security guards with her badge, Fox passed through the checkpoint, her pistol setting off the alarm briefly. Fedorov strolled through the detector, his .54 not tripping the system. "How'd you do that?" Fox asked casually as she holstered her pistol into the small of her back.
"I was in the KGB," Fedorov shrugged. They boarded the British Airways flight to New York and found their coach seats in the far back of the plane. Like a gentleman, Matkovich allowed Fox to choose whether she wanted the window seat or not. She took the inside seat, since the view was obstructed by the wing. After a pre-takeoff drink, there was nothing that could stop Carmelita Fox from getting to New York; except, of, course, a mid-flight hijacking.