The Interview

Delilah Romanoff was cold. Freezing actually. She thought she read somewhere that the police could mess with the thermostat during an interrogation. Maybe she made that up but she had only been there for thirty-five minutes, and no one had bothered to tell her why. She shivered. Goosebumps spread all over her body and she wished that she had chosen to grab a sweater before leaving the house in shorts and a tank top.

Thanks to the August heat outside the AC was cranked up, and the room was everything outside of comfortable. Matte gray-blue walls, a concrete floor, and a solid metal table that was bolted down sat in the center of the space. There was nothing present to give any kind of warmth to the room, and the little she had left in her body was being purged thanks to the stiff metal chair her bare legs rested against.

A scuffing sound echoed throughout the room when she pushed her seat back. She stood and started walking around in an attempt to generate some heat. Her stomach grumbled. She thought of the plate filled with fluffy pancakes and sweet, sticky maple syrup that she had left behind at the diner. It was almost cruel for the officers to take her away before she got a single bite in. She imagined the servers digging into her abandoned stack of flap jacks and pressed her forehead into the painted cinderblock wall before her. If the lads in blue didn’t come back soon she would likely starve to death.

The door at the other end of the room opened and two unfamiliar men walked inside. Neither of them looked like they were happy to see her, which was fine with Delilah, so long as they planned to let her go at this point. If they waited much longer they would find themselves being served with a wrongful death lawsuit. She was a three square meals a day kind of girl, and missing the most important one was bound to lead to her grave.

“Gentlemen, I hate to interrupt whatever you have going on, but can we move this along? I don’t know what I’m doing here, and the two officers you kindly sent to collect me interrupted my first meal of the day. I’m practically wasting away and I’m freezing. This B and B is not going to get a five-star review,” Delilah said.

The two men looked at each other before the taller one cleared his throat and said, “Ms. Romanoff—”

“Yup, that’s me,” she interrupted. The man took out a voice recording device and placed it in the center of the table. He announced the time, date, and parties present in the room.

“As I’ve just stated for the record, my name is Detective Gordon and this is Detective Henk,” he said, gesturing at his partner. “We have to ask you some questions about a floral delivery that came from your shop last Tuesday night. Do you remember it?”

“Mr. Gordon, Detective, I run a very successful flower shop. I’m sure you realize that asking me about a single delivery without a stitch of detail is a bit…unhelpful.”

“Fair enough,” he replied, “and how many deliveries did you have that day Ms. Romanoff?”

Delilah sighed and walked over to the table where Detective Gordon sat. His cohort stood a few paces behind. She took the seat across from the men and placed her clasped hands in front of her before saying calmly, “Detectives, let me break this down for you. My storefront brings in half a million dollars in revenue every year, which is twice that of the average. I’m not patting myself on the back, here. I’m trying to show you how much business we do. I have eight staff members who run the storefront, an entire team of master gardeners, an accountant, an online assistant for internet orders, two delivery drivers, and a cleaning crew that comes in every evening. Two of my front-of-house employees are management, and if anyone would know the answers to your questions it would be them,” she said firmly. “Now, I can get you the answers you need, but I spend my time marketing my business while I let the shop run itself, so I don’t know how many deliveries we had on Tuesday. If you would like me to check I can, but so far I’m failing to see why you interrupted my breakfast.”

“I see,” said Gordon.

“You’re telling me that you do half a mil a year and you don’t know every single delivery that goes out the door? I find that hard to believe,” said Henk, finally breaking his silence.

Delilah turned toward him, smiled a smile that was not quite threatening, and said, “And how do you run your flower shop Detective?” The man’s neck turned a splotchy red color, and patches of fluster rose on his cheeks.

“Do you have the names of your managers?” Gordon asked.

“I do.”

Silence dragged on for a moment before Gordon realized what she was doing. “Please provide us with the names of your management team, Ms. Romanoff.”

“Certainly,” she said and gave them the names he’d requested.

“Great, that’s very helpful thank you,” he said.

“No problem,” she said, annoyed. Her blood sugar was all over the map, and things were going to turn ugly soon if she didn’t fill her stomach. “May I go now?”

“Not just yet,” said Henk.

“And why not?” she snapped back.

“Where were you on the night of Tuesday, August fifteenth at about six in the evening?”

Delilah took out her phone and pulled up her Google calendar. She scrolled back to last Tuesday and found that she had a meeting with a local wedding venue at about 4:00 p.m., but the rest of her schedule had been clear. She thought back. What had she done after she left there? All her days seemed to run together in the warmer months. Wedding season started as early as March, and she barely knew which way was up until things started to slow back down.

“I had a meeting at the Golden Gate for an upcoming wedding at about four. After that, I guess I just went home.”

“You guess?” Henk said with a tone of suspicion.

“Am I under arrest, here?” Delilah retorted. Keeping a lid on her temper for much longer was going to be difficult. Being trapped in an interview room without so much as a granola bar was going to be a problem if they didn’t wrap things up.

“No ma’am, you’re not under arrest,” replied Gordon.

“I didn’t think so. You didn’t read me my rights, so I assumed I was asked here to help. Not to be interrogated. I believe I did all the helping that I could considering you didn’t do your homework. Am I free to go?”

“No, you’re not,” Henk chimed in.

“And why not?” she said. Her patience was nearly gone.

“Where were you on Tuesday night?” Henk tried again. Delilah did not miss the irritation in his voice.

“I’ve already told you. I was home.”

“No, you said, ‘I guess I just went home.’ That’s not definitive. Where were you?”

“Henk,” Gordon tried.

“Where were you, Ms. Romanoff?”

“Home. I was home.”

“Can anyone corroborate that?” he asked.

“No, I live alone.”

“No partner? Kids?”

“I’m single, and I don’t have time for kids. My business is my life.”

“That’s convenient,” he said snidely.

“Unless you’re going to arrest me, Mr. Henk, I’ll be going now,” she said and stood.

“It’s Detective, Ms. Romanoff, and I’m placing you on a twenty-four-hour hold. There seems to be something that you know, and I want to know what that is.”

“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer in that case, Mr. Henk. Time is money, and you’re costing me both.”

“I believe it is you, ma’am, who is wasting everyone’s time here,” he spread his arms wide to include all three of them.

“I want to speak to my lawyer.”

“You have your phone. Go ahead and call them,” Henk replied.

“Privately,” she spat.

“Oh, that’ll be fine,” Gordon said before Henk could get a word out. “We’ll head outside for a cup of coffee then.”

Before they left, Gordon made a statement for the recording device which indicated that the interview had been suspended. When both men exited the room Delilah texted Carrie Coleman. Carrie was a longtime friend who also happened to be her attorney. Her phone rang less than thirty seconds later. When she answered, she could hear music in the background.

“Care—”

“Stop, don’t say anything. Are they in the room with you?” she asked.

“No, no. They’ve gone.”

“What are you doing being interrogated by the police without me present? Have you ever watched Law & Order? Like, even one episode?”

“I didn’t know it was going to turn into a whole ordeal!" she exclaimed. "I was getting breakfast at the diner, and two cops came up to me and asked if I would meet them at the station. They said something about helping out with an investigation. Me being me, I obliged. I wasn’t read my rights. Nothing indicated that I was the one in the hot seat.”

“And how do we feel about that decision now?”

“They still haven’t read me my rights.”

“Well, that’ll make it easy for me to get this whole thing thrown out if they try to pin something on you.”

“Like what? I own a flower shop!”

“Do you even know why they have you there?”

“Something about a floral delivery last Tuesday,” Delilah replied.

“Ok, and did you deliver it?”

“I only make deliveries when we’re in a bind.”

“Do you have an alibi?” Carrie asked.

“For what? I don’t even know what they’re saying happened. No one has told me anything.”

“Ok, ok. I’m coming down there. How long have you been there now?”

“About an hour and a half,” she said, checking the time on her phone.

“Ok, I’ll be there in twenty.”

Twenty minutes feels like seventy years when you’re hungry, cold, and just want to go home. Carrie walked in holding a white pastry box, and Delilah nearly tackled her to get whatever was inside. Naturally, it had been a box filled with donuts. There were two left in the box, but the rest had migrated elsewhere. Considering their location she had an idea as to where they had gone.  

Delilah wasted no time stuffing her face with a donut. Chocolate icing jammed itself into the corners of her mouth and sprinkles scattered themselves across the floor, table, and her lap. She felt better almost instantly. It was wild how closely attached food and her mood were. She decided she would see a doctor about it once she was back on the outside.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Delilah said to her friend as she inhaled the second donut.

“I don’t come here often, but when I do I always bring donuts. Cops like to buck the donut stigma, but if you bring them around, they’ll eat 'em.”  

“So, am I allowed to leave now that you’re here?” Delilah asked through a mouthful of donut.

“That’s not how this works. I can get you out before the hold expires, but I have to find a reason. They can hold you for a twenty-four-hour investigative detention, so tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything! They asked me to come down and I was brought into this room. Over half an hour went by before two detectives came in and asked me how many deliveries I made last Tuesday. Oh, and I gave them Amarica and Nicole’s information because they wanted to speak to my management team. Then they asked me where I was on Tuesday night, and I said I was home.”

“You said you were home? Were you home?”

“I think so.”

“You think?”

“I mean, I was home at some point. I just don’t know if it was at exactly six, or whatever.”

“Do you have any proof?”

“You know I live alone.”

“Ok, but what about your security cameras?” she asked.

Delilah hadn’t thought of that. She took out her phone again and began scrolling until she found the app that controlled her home security. She went back to the week before and brought up the Tuesday feed. Her parked car was there at 7:03 p.m., but the app wouldn’t allow her to go further back in time. She tried the other cameras to see if they offered a better timeline, but they all did the same thing. For some reason the devices hadn’t picked up her car entering the garage.

She turned the phone around to show Carrie, “well,” she said, “it’s a start. At least you’re home. Is there anything else that you can think of that would help to establish a timeline for you?”

Delilah thought about it. She didn’t know what time she left the Golden Gate, but she did order pizza on her way home. She opened the call log screen and found the call was made at 5:29 in the evening. Carrie thought that was positive. She called the pizza parlor while Delilah sat anxiously beside her.

“They don’t keep a record of when people call," she said after hanging up. "They’re old school. All handwritten orders and a stake to stuff them on. All they count is the money at the end of the night."

“Probably why they have the best pizza in town," Delilah supplied.

“Probably.”

“Now what?”

“Now, we get the detectives back in to find out what you’re really doing here. Keep the video of your car and the phone call on the back burner for when we need it. I want to ask them a few questions this time.” She squeezed Delilah’s shoulder and left the room.

When Carrie returned the two Detectives were trailing behind her. They were both carrying the same energies as before. The whole good-cop-bad-cop thing was an old trick. She had watched enough true crime television to know that at least.

She smiled at them both. The donuts had done good work and she was nearly a different person altogether. She steeled herself against the glares that came from Henk and focused on the task at hand. Getting the hell out of there.

“Thank you for joining us, Ms. Coleman. I believe that your client wishes to cooperate with us, but is struggling with how to go about it.”

“Well, that and your partner here thought it would be a good idea to poke a starving bear. A word of advice? Let people eat their meals, fellas," Carrie replied.

Henk rolled his eyes, but Gordon said, “Point taken. Sorry about that Ms. Romanoff.”

“You’re forgiven, Detective,” she replied.

“Let’s get to it then. Why is Ms. Romanoff being held?” Carrie asked.

“We believe she has more information than she’s saying she does regarding a recent incident,” Henk volunteered.

“Care to elaborate?” Carrie asked.

“Would you care to elaborate, Ms. Romanoff?” Henk asked.  

“No one has cared enough to tell me what’s going on, so I don’t know how I could even if wanted to.”

"Well, ma'am," Gordon began, "it would appear that your delivery van was spotted leaving the scene of a crime."

The room fell silent. Carrie sat beside her, briefcase on the table, arms crossed. Were the Detectives waiting for Delilah to speak? She had nothing to say. If they didn’t want to divulge any more than that she would let Carrie handle it. She was back to thinking clearly, and she wasn’t going to make a mess for herself or her employees.

They all sat staring at each other for some time. It was a modern-day showdown. No standing back-to-back and walking a few paces away. No guns, spurs, or cowboy boots. Just four people, sitting in a room, bearing the virtually unbearable quiet together. Until finally Detective Gordon broke the silence again.

“Hilary Vernet,” he said, “has unfortunately been murdered.”

(To be continued...TUNE IN NEXT MONDAY FOR PART TWO!)