InsaneJournal

such unholy heaving, the statues close their eyes
Who: Lia, Viola, open
What: An eventful day drawing to its conclusion.
Where: Pax Letale, exterior.
When: February 20, 2011; evening.
Warnings: None
Notes: A brief appearance from a homicide detective, not detective Taylor, but his partner perhaps.

Her body ached from a long day of standing for which her only relief had been the drive home. Even her brief visit to her sister's for a shared meal had involved more time on her feet than off them between food preparations and dish washing. They'd likely spent no more than fifteen minutes actually eating together, but nevertheless they'd managed to squeeze a full hour's worth of sisterly bonding out of the evening. Bianca was never reticent when it came to conversation, and Viola enjoyed listening to her younger sibling (or giving her advice, depending upon whom one asked). However, she had been up since four-thirty and although most would have considered her in good shape, her muscles were beginning to feel the strain of the day and her mind the heavy veil of exhaustion. It was through sheer determination that she remained stationary, no shift in weight between her legs, no shivering against the bitter chill on the passing breeze. (Even Viola had to admit California could get chilly once the sun went down, particularly so close to the shoreline, which left the air cooler and decidedly damp). Her only movement was to draw the edges of her jacket collar more tightly around her throat as she stared into the distance, the sleek green of foliage and the lines of yellow tape discolored by the soft glow of flashing police lights.

An officer had stopped her to confirm her residency at Pax Letale before asking to take a statement. Viola knew she must have said something out of the ordinary when he waved over another man, pausing briefly to utter something in a low voice to the stranger that she could not make out. It was disconcerting to find that despite being innocent of any wrongdoing, she immediately felt like the guilty party when the new arrival turned to face her. He was a man of averages, height and hair all standard issue; nothing there of note except the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothing, a stale, choking scent that stung her nostrils and stuck in her throat so that it disrupted her breathing with its cloying presence. It was times like those that Viola knew how deeply that steady rhythm, those carefully timed inhales and exhales, maintained her sense of equilibrium. If she could keep it under control, force it into an even pace, the rest of herself followed suit, stilling the stir of hectic thoughts or the quickening of her pulse. When she failed to keep it in time, and her next draw of air hitched in her throat, she was pulled off center and left ill at ease. He was watching her all that time. Though she could not see his eyes from behind the dark shield of sunglasses, she could almost sense the intensity of his gaze as it followed her every movement and catalogued this subtle breach in her composure. She hated that he might see her imperfection so effortlessly, and the feeling she got that if he could not see it, he would still smell it on her.

The corners of his mouth edged back into a smile, the whites of his teeth glinting in the yellow tint of soft luminescence that spilled overhead from the apartment complex's windows. "Now, Ms. Kirke, is it? Tell me exactly what," he paused to wet his lips, "time did you arrive back on the premises?" He spoke too slowly, each syllable drawn out a fraction of a second too long, and every word spaced apart by a similarly extended pause. His tongue fell harshly on the consonants that framed the vowels between them to add a distinctiveness to his enunciation. They were minor differences from the typical manner of casual speech, but Viola found herself distracted by their unusual rhythm.

"As I said before, it was approximately six-forty," she repeated the same information she had told the uniformed officer, who had made the previous rounds of routine interviews.

"And you were," he tilted his head, though he was always facing her, always staring down, "returning home from your sister's?"

Viola nodded her head, meeting his gaze measure for measure as she counted her breaths, a simple exercise that centered her thoughts into a more manageable clarity. She refused to be intimidated into a misstep when she had no fault to confess. "That's correct."

He leaned a little bit closer as he stated the next question with crisply cut intonation, "and, ah, Officer Daniels, mentioned you witnessed someone leaving the premises."

"No, that isn't entirely accurate," she paused, going over every word that came thereafter in her thoughts before she composed her final answer, knowing it would be subjected to intense scrutiny by this stranger. "I stated that I thought I saw movement by the pool, but that it was dark. It could have been an animal."

"You couldn't tell?" He asked, and Viola watched his eyebrows rise and fall. She wondered if he had intended his question to sound so condescending, so accusatory.

"No, I couldn't." Her reply was perfectly even. The man tapped his pen against a pad of paper, before drawing its tip neatly across the page in a few quick and decisively jotted notes, but he said nothing else. The surrounding noises - the shuffle of footsteps, distant murmurs weaving together, the slam of car doors - invaded the emptiness left by the lapse in conversation. Viola thinned her lips before she dared to break it.

"Officer - "

"Detective," he corrected, his voice as stoic and unfeeling as the mouth that carved out the concise amendment. Viola looked into the smooth planes of dark, reflective plastic that gave not even the slightest suggestion of kindness or warmth the way eyes could.

"Can you tell me what's going on?" She posed her request, polite but firm, and without any hint of pleading. But her careful avoidance of emotional outburst, whether it came in the form of pathetic tears or angry tirades, swayed him no more effectively.

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss the details of this investigation."

"But someone died." Viola said, the statement made with the same even execution with which she'd given all her replies and yet, she felt as though someone else spoke through her then. She glanced askance in the direction of where she knew the outdoor pool was located. It was more than just the milling officers and crime scene investigators that drew her interest. Something there pulled at the deepest parts of her soul, a whisper in the shadows that she strained to hear. But it was ultimately the sound of the detective's very real voice that startled her.

"Did Officer Daniels," his tone was sharp and disapproving, "tell you that?" Though she could make out no difference in his expression, she nevertheless was left with the distinct impression that she'd caught him off guard. Perhaps it was the flicker of taut muscle along his jawline that suggested the clenching of teeth.

"No, I - " Her lashes fluttering in momentary confusion, unable to recall why she had ever come to such a morbid conclusion. There were several reasons that necessitated a police presence that didn't involve a death. She shook her head, regaining her composure as she offered a more rational argument for her inquiries and concerns. "I live here, detective. I just need to know if we're still in any danger."

"Ms. Kirke, I assure you we're doing everything," he drew a breath, fingers tracing the knot of his tie where it rested against his throat. His manner, despite the softened edge of his elocution, was anything but comforting. "In our power to ensure the safety of you and your fellow residents. Now I suggest you return to your apartment, have something warm to drink, and get some rest. You look tired. We thank you," his lips drew back again in a curving smile, pink gums, white teeth. "For your cooperation. If you think of anything later that... might be helpful in this investigation, please contact us." He held out his hand, and she took it, his fingers cold as they clasped firmly against hers. His grip was a little too tight. But she was soon alone again, aware of the stiffness in her joints from standing still so long, and found that his advice, while unsolicited, was not entirely an unwelcome suggestion. She started the walk back toward the lobby and the dreaded flight of stairs awaiting her.