Brighid FitzPatrick | Harmonia (pax_vobis) wrote in paxletalelogs, @ 2011-02-24 20:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | harmonia |
Who: Brighid & Detective Taylor (an amazing NPC).
What: Questions with no answers.
Where: Pax lobby.
When: 21 February, midafternoon.
Warnings: None.
Notes: Completed log.
Footsteps rang out, tenants and strangers alike swarming the halls and stairwells of the upscale building, lending an almost panicked quality to the typically quiet grounds. The front desk was conspicuously unmanned, its polished surface empty of everything save a small plastic stand housing information booklets. From the sitting area beyond a detective in shirt and tie watched the desk, taking note of those who passed. Many he had already pulled aside, but as evening approached there would be more tenants coming home, more potential persons of interest to question and observe. At last the lobby door opened, revealing a slight young woman the detective had not previously seen. He rose from his seat, striding toward her with a renewed sense of purpose.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said. His tone brooked no hesitation, demanding her immediate attention as he flashed his badge. “Detective Taylor. Do you have a minute?”
“Oh.” Brighid paused, startled at the abrupt attention. Since classes had resumed after the holidays, she had fallen back into her standard routine of trudging to the bus stop two hours before her earliest class and arriving back at Pax anywhere from an hour to two hours after her latest class. Today had been some type of American holiday, so traffic had been lighter than normal and her travel time had been cut to half an hour each way, and she’d been distracted by thinking of what she could possibly do with the extra time. Belatedly, she realized she’d probably been staring blankly at the man – the detective – before her.
“Aye. Em, I mean, yes. I mean, yes, Detective, sir,” she fumbled, blushing faintly.
He smiled at the pink that rose to her cheeks, glancing down to his notepad in an effort to put her more at ease. “Nothing to worry about,” he said. “Just a few routine questions.” He guided her out of the path of any other residents making their way home, nodding toward a nearby officer, then toward the door; anyone coming in after Brighid would be stopped and held until they could be questioned. “Name and apartment number?”
“Em, Brighid FitzPatrick. B-r-i-g-h-i-d,” she spelled helpfully, used, by now, to the American tendency to change her given name to Bridgit and supposing the police would want the correct particulars. He nodded mute gratitude, scrawling her name on the little sheet. “Number 705. Sir.”
“When was the last time you saw the concierge?”
Reflexively, she looked over to the front desk. “Andrew?” Her hands moved up to fiddle with the straps that held her bookbag over her arms and she frowned as she thought. “He was here when I got home from classes on Friday. Em. I don’t recall seeing him over the weekend, but I believe he’s normally free on Sundays. ” Brighid paused again before turning back to Detective Taylor. “Has something happened to Andrew, sir?”
“And what time was that?” He glanced up, clearly unwilling to give her question an overt answer - if any answer at all. “On Friday, I mean.”
"Perhaps near 5? My last class on Fridays dismisses at 3 and I usually catch the bus around 3:30." She tried to remember if there were any other markers she could use to narrow down the time, then shrugged apologetically.
“Was there anyone here with him?” His head canted curiously, his eyes narrowing as he regarded her more closely. “Maybe you’ve seen someone in or around the building you didn’t recognize?”
"Em." Brighid fumbled under his scrutiny, unsure whether she wished she had more information to share or that the detective would simply disappear and leave her alone. Something had obviously gone awry with the concierge and, as the officer before her wasn't going to enlighten her, she felt Samuel might be her next best source. She couldn't talk to him, though, until the detective decided he was done with her. After a pause that was probably too long, Brighid blew out a breath. "I don't remember seeing Andrew with anyone. And I'm sorry, Detective Taylor, but I'm not familiar enough with people in the building to pinpoint anyone who might be out of place. There seem to be people moving in and out all the time. I wish I could be more helpful."
“Hm.” For such a small sound it carried in it a remarkable amount of judgment. He scribbled a few further notes on his pad - none of any real value, though he had long found the act itself set people ill at ease, often loosening tongues where no other tricks had worked - and glanced at his watch. “Well, we’ve got the rest of the tenants to go through,” he said, barely looking up at her. “If we need to come back to you, we know where to find you. What’s the best time to reach you?”
"Mostly after 5, sir, as I've classes during the day.” After a pause in which the detective appeared to make note of this, Brighid offered him her mobile number in case he needed to reach her when she wasn't at home. Finally dismissed, she made the long walk up to the seventh floor to begin the process of finding out what in the world was going on.