|
Post by ch00beh on Jul 16, 2011 1:32:38 GMT -5
~*~*~Saeptum Foundation Site - [REDACTED] PM~*~*~
Thankfully he had fallen asleep during the car ride. Unfortunately, Julia caught him stirring from said slumber as she slowed her car at this site's first checkpoint. He would be awake soon, and he was one of those few people blessed with the inability to feel grogginess after a nap.
"Oh hey, we're home already. Sweet. That trip's always so boring, but you always have a way of making the time pass by faster, Jules."
"You were just sleeping," Julia said. She didn't bother to look at him, though it wasn't out of rudeness. She was looking at the guard outside of her open window and showing her ID. The guard took it, scanned it with a handheld device, then handed it back to her without a smile or a word.
"You sure it wasn't your hypno voodoo magic shit?"
"Yes, I'm sure I did not put you into a trance." That was partially a lie. Julia had pulsed the gas in time when they had gotten to the highway, which, combined with the fairly uninspiring drive, might have helped lull Barclay to sleep.
"Really, because I'm pretty sure I dreamed of you."
"That's sweet of you to say," Julia said, faking as much enthusiasm as needed to not offend him. He probably didn't actually dream of her. There was an implied wink in the tone of his words. Even if she was in his dream, there was no need to analyze what it might mean. She was one of his main contacts at the Foundation as his therapist, and she was in the car with him.
As the mesh gate in front of them slid open, Julia took her foot off the brakes and let the car ease forward, touching her foot to the accelerator once the path was completely unobstructed. They drove past several lots of greenspace (the higher ups decided trees and grass were better for morale than a barren flatland reminiscent of a penitentiary), a several story building of glass and concrete growing as they approached. Soon, they descended down a ramp under the building to a parking garage lit by yellowing fluorescent lights.
Parking wasn't too hard to find, and it wasn't long before the two had made their way into an elevator and out to the site's main lobby. Two armed guards greeted them before the reception at the front desk.
"I think you know how to get back to your room from here, Barclay."
"Yuppers. See you tomorrow, Doc," Barclay said while walking toward one of the many similar looking corridors. He did a backwards wave then began jogging down the hall.
Julia, on the other hand, turned the other direction toward where the technicians' and analysts' wing. Unlike the residential wing which only had cameras along the hallways, the analysts' wing had multiple security checkpoints, complete with pat downs and scans, to make sure nothing was smuggled in or out and to contain any faulty experiments. In fact, in case of emergency, blast doors would seal off the wing from the rest of the facility. Julia even recalled that the walls were reinforced with runed steel, though the security here wasn't even as tight as the containment area. Or so she'd heard. Julia didn't have clearance to even get near the elevator that descended a kilometer into the earth to store all the dangerous artifacts this site kept.
After the second x-ray of her purse and having to retell how she was bringing a particular artifact in for analysis for the Winstone police department, Julia stood in front of another blonde receptionist., though unlike the one out front, this one was wearing a breather mask hooked up to some air supply under the desk. Julia felt strangely unprotected, even though she knew there were probably no pathogens in the air; all the workers in here were just naturally prepared for some inevitable catastrophe. The doctor approached the desk.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Julia Romanesco. I was recently at the Winstone penitentiary, escorting Special Operative Barclay Edward Trent for their routine containment assessment, and I was given some evidence by the commissioner that they would like analyzed by our specialists for an upcoming trial." Julia took out her makeshift isolation bag and handed it to the receptionist.
"If you'll just leave your extension here," the receptionist said, her practiced statement slightly muffled by the breather mask, "we'll call you when we've analyzed this properly."
"Thank you," Julia said, even though the receptionist was already on the phone calling the relevant parties.
|
|
|
Post by The Evil Biscuit on Aug 8, 2011 13:49:45 GMT -5
As always, it was Harris who saw her coming, though his eyes never left his notebook.
'Heads up. Martinez is on the move.'
Brat leaned his head over to peek through the glass wall of his office at the composing floor. Sure enough, it was Benita, marching towards him with that distinct Latin authority she always seemed to radiate. The editor-in-chief regarded Goodman with a baffled glare. 'How in the hell do you do that?' The copy editor took in a breath, but before he could deliver another Shakespearean nugget, Millsap stopped him with a raised hand, 'You know what? I don't even want to know. What do you think she wants this time?'
'Besides your job? Couldn't say.' Harris folded his pen into his binder and closed it. If there was one thing Benita Martinez despised above all else, it was people not paying attention to her.
As she neared, Brat could hear the militant cadence of her needled stiletto heels stabbing at the worn, waxy tile floor. The feature journalist was every inch of five feet tall, with jet black hair that she kept drawn into a severe bun at all times. She complemented her dark hair, dark eyes and olive complexion with an equally black pantsuit, so dark and so painfully immaculate that Brat could swear light actually disappeared into it. He was also convinced of three equally possible facts regarding Benita's wardrobe: one, that she dry cleaned and pressed the same pantsuit every night for the following day; two, that she owned exactly seven pairs of ink-black pantsuits, and three, that she was in fact the devil or some minion thereof, and conjured the same pantsuit every morning after crawling up from the hellish pit in which she dwelled. As she marched to the door and drew it wide open, sucking the stale air from the cramped office space in a deep, cold breath, Brat hedged his bets on the third choice. 'Morning, Martinez.'
Harris folded his hands across his lap and fixed his eyes on the dusty corner window. 'Good morning, Martinez.'
Benita slit her eyes at Millsap. 'Morning, Brat.' It was the furthest thing from a warm greeting as could ever exist. Brat felt her icy eyes boring into him, and knew he needed to make this short, before his soul started pulling away from his body. He noted the manila folder tucked squarely beneath her arm. 'Something for me, Benita?'
'Something like that.' Martinez whipped the folder from the crook of her arm with such a lightning flourish that Brat almost didn't see her do it. He reached out and gingerly took the folder from her, then, confident that it was now safely away from her and therefore not likely to end up slicing across his throat, leaned back in his chair and opened it. Benita folded her hands behind her back and popped her chin up. 'Been trying to keep an ear on the Odio murder.'
Millsap started looking through the paperwork. He'd assigned Benita - at her insistence - to the story when it had first broken, but the police had locked the case down air-tight. Even with Martinez's considerable persuasion and resources, she hadn't been able to get past Williams' iron grip on the police departments. There were barely three pages of notes in the folder. Brat looked up at Benita quizzically. 'This is all you have?'
Martinez bristled. 'Every contact I have is in the dark here. But I managed to find out where they're keeping the suspect.'
Millsap flipped through the pages, keen eyes scanning every handwritten blurb. 'Special Confinement?' His face lit up in realization. This wasn't huge news, but it wasn't small time either. The last time they had covered a Power on non-Power killing, it had sparked a moderate backlash in some neighborhoods that had provided them with two weeks' worth of coverage. But was this why they were keeping it quiet? This certainly wasn't the first Power violence in Winstone. 'So the killer - this Antonio Sharpe - is a Power?'
Benita smirked. 'That's the kicker. They don't know if he is or isn't. There's not really a litmus test for these guys, you know.'
Brat sat straight up, as did Harris. 'So you're telling me they might have a human citizen in the Special Confinement unit?' They exchanged knowing glances. This was a story. Martinez watched them with bitter satisfaction. 'That would seem to be why they're keeping it all under wraps. The civil rights bulldogs would have a field day.' Benita gestured towards Brat. 'Keep reading.'
The editor-in-chief peered closely at the rampant scribbles. 'Mildred Hooper? You think she's involved?'
'Can't be for sure. But she flew back in from Kanto last night. Justice Department's got her name all over Pending Dockets. Maybe she's just coming back off her circuit to sit on the panel, but I'm not convinced - Staudt is by no means overworked, and there aren't any cases up for judicial review.'
Brat wagged his finger at Harris. 'This... this could be that all-Power court idea we interviewed Staudt about in May. Trial of Powers by Powers? That's huge. Help me remember to pull the notes from Press.' The editor-in-chief closed the folder with a sharp snap and handed it back to Benita, but the feature journalist held her hand up in modest refusal. 'That's not all, Brat. Check the last page. Down there by Denham Landsvale's name.'
Millsap untucked the third page from the folder and held it up to the light. Martinez had scribbled a brief list of detectives assigned and attached to the case - one of which she had circled in bright red Sharpie. Brat's eyes nearly popped out of his head.
'Jacob Marshall?!'
Harris suddenly choked on a breath, thumping his chest as he whooped and heaved.
Benita smiled coolly. 'I thought you might like that.'
The editor-in-chief let the page fall from his hands, eyes staring blankly into space. He couldn't believe it. After three years, Jacob Marshall, the Power Policeman, was back on his print desk. He gaped at Martinez. 'This is all fact-checked?'
'Every bit, sir.'
Harris coughed loudly and finally interjected, 'Don't lose sight of the story, Brat. This is a murdered policeman, not the exhumation of a long-dead scandal. Better to let this lie until you can get a better grasp of it.'
Millsap sighed. 'We'll come at it from both sides.' He cut his eyes at Benita. 'The Justice Department has never been watertight. Find a way in.' He handed the folder back. 'This is good work, Benita.'
The feature journalist leered at Millsap. 'Of course it is.' she murmured as she turned sharply on her heel and marched out the door. As she left, Brat felt as though an enormous weight had lifted off of his chest. He noticed that Harris seemed to be relaxing as well. The copy editor shrugged at him. 'What now, Brat?'
Brat rested his chin on his fist thoughtfully. 'I don't know for sure yet. But I know there's someone I need to see. How much cash you got on you?'
Harris rankled. His eyes flashed with recognition. 'Brat, no. Not again.'
'Come on, Harris, she's always good information.'
'Damn your nerve, Millsap, she's a snake. We've given her more money than I care to remember, and not once have we broken a story off her consultation. I'm not paying another dime to that wine-soaked charlatan.'
'Harris.'
'No. No, no, no.'
'Harris.'
'I won't be moved on this, Brat. Not this time.'
'Harris.'
The big man grimaced. 'I can take five hundred from the Special Printing account. But not a penny more. And God damn you, Brat Millsap, if you don't return every cent of it before the month is out.'
Brat clapped his hands together. 'Excellent. Grab your coat. I'll meet you at the car.'
|
|
|
Post by Yoshimitsu on Sept 10, 2011 14:47:42 GMT -5
~*~*~ 3:00PM Coralstone Road, Winstone City ~*~*~
Coralstone Road was renowned for the kind of people who lived there. With the houses that had more rooms than could be counted, gardens where a professional baseball team would have more than enough room and cars that were so expensive, cashing one in would feed a starving country for a year, it was little surprise that only the wealthiest citizens of Winstone lived there. It was also a place where police patrols were seen regularly; with such valuable property, it was a target from robbery. Even so, the inhabitants were not discouraged.
Unfortunately for some people, the residents of Coralstone Road were also usually very intelligent and infuriatingly nosy. It was very rare for a person to even walk up the street without being noticed in one way or another. A twitch of a curtain or a shadow in an upstairs window would move, and suddenly any passers-by would notice that they were being watched. Those who didn't notice the subtle movements would continue, blissfully unaware, but for those who did see the silhouette in the window felt unnerved.
It had been a scandal, years ago, when a teenager was seen wandering up the drive of one of the houses, pulling out a key, before opening the door and stepping inside. No moving truck. No suitcase. Nothing even indicating the boy was actually moving in. Somehow, he had done smoothly and covertly, the residents all decided. Maybe in the dead of night, some speculated. The boy had been no trouble, however. There was no answer if anyone tried to welcome him to the neighbourhood, and he made no effort to fit in. Other than him leaving or returning to his house at strange hours, there was nothing to complain about.
Marshall had been very curious about what was inside that house. He had never gotten his hands on a warrant, never been invited inside and never broken in before. Well, the breaking in was about to change. With Sharpe finally behind bars, he was free to finally have a look around in peace. The fences and hedges already in place from the previous occupier of the house gave him enough cover to move in peace, but he had an excuse in case anyone came asking. After all, the population of Winstone still knew him as a detective, even if he wasn't strictly on the force.
He strode along the driveway casually, each step causing a jangling of his spurs and a clinking of whatever was underneath his poncho. As soon as the hedges shielded him from view, as he walked down the thin path leading to the garden, he reached under the poncho and pulled out a small box. Keeping it firmly in his hand, he turned into the garden and set his eyes on the back door.
"Alright, pardner, let's see what secrets you've been keeping," he muttered to himself, opening the box.
|
|
|
Post by Beelzebibble on Oct 20, 2011 14:48:31 GMT -5
Debate politics with newspaper phone book“I would like to take a polite stance of disagreement, if you please,” Renard informed the phone book. “Your dim view of Winstone's public servants is borne, one suspects, not from an honest appraisal of the facts but from a deliberate will to cynisme. This impulse is, I have always maintained, one of the most infectious and deplorable to trouble humanity and phone books alike. If you could only permit yourself the luxury of an optimistic and open-minded philosophy, a luxury which no one else seeks to deny you (because you are a phone book), doubtless you would look more charitably on the toiling politicians of this city. I notice you insist on falling back upon Abraham Northcutt as the example that demonstrates your every charge against our public sector. Surely you must concede a two-year-old scandal is hardly the strongest justicatif at your disposal in such a fast-moving world as politics. The Northcutt affair was unfortunate, I will gladly admit, but can you point to another so catastrophic debacle in more recent years? And at least all involved in that incident had the grace to step down from their posts immediately, beginning with the governor himself. I think I recall hearing that even the, ah, lady in question soon thereafter washed her hands of the damning career and sought nobler pursuits. Although I suppose I cannot fault you for not guessing this detail, since I’m sure there are no contacts for that line of work nestled among your pages…” But Renard turned away with a frown before attending to the phone book’s response. This was not the business he’d had in mind, the task upon which hinged his departure from the apartment. There was another concern, which presented itself anew in his mind once his eyes fell to the four-paneled door that indicated his own bedroom. Look up Jacob Marshall in the phone book newspaperWhy, naturally. The name was already grignotant away within his mind, suggesting by tiny increments here and there that the character of Jacob Marshall held some past significance to Winstone City. Of course the proper recourse was to search for his name in the collection. At this point there is an optional dramatic delay in the spacing which the reader in a hurry is welcome to skip, while the reader who desires the full effect may experience by clicking the spoiler button below.
Several moments of hallucinatory imagery and gesticulation with a compass-like index finger later, Renard had his hands on a copy of the Post dated to December 6 three years prior, marked with a sticky note of a lemon-yellow hue indicating material of notable though ne pressant interest to some case or another. There was certainly no denying that the headline alone of this installment was enough to capture Renard’s attention. MARSHALL GOES SOUTH[/font] BENITA MARTINEZ Feature Journalist
The frenzy in Winstone's police department following the Edward Diamond trial may finally begin to settle: legendary “cowboy cop” Jacob Marshall has withdrawn from his post as the city’s premier investigator and most notorious bloodhound.
Long plagued by suspicions that his ironclad track record of interrogation and apprehension concealed an undisclosed power, Marshall has faced a newfound rumble of scandal since the remarks made by Antonio Sharpe at the trial eight days ago. Sharpe’s statement, implying that Marshall’s “obsessive” knowledge of the activities of the world-famous criminal known as the Butterfly might betray the truth of the detective’s own identity as the master thief, was received by eager ears throughout the city.
“This couldn’t have come at a worse time for Marshall,” observed social commentator Catherine Blankenship, though not before registering her opposition to his resignation. While quick to dismiss Sharpe’s utterances as “the incendiary claptrap you expect of a cornered teenager,” Blankenship admitted: “All the same, anything remotely provocative, following so hard on the heels of [ex-Commissioner] Reese’s own Waterloo, was sure to start a wildfire. Push all this forward a year and I guarantee that it would have blown over with no harm to Marshall’s career, but the rumors touched ground just at the department’s most vulnerable hour.
“People don’t want to trust the Winstone police, these days,” she continued regretfully. “They’re happy to think the worst of Marshall, and they’ll be only too happy to keep doing so now that he’s stepped down. The right response would have been to stay on and for him – for the whole department – to work diligently and regain the city’s faith the hard way.”
Obliging Blankenship’s assessment, the majority of voices have shown far less remorse for Marshall’s withdrawal than she. Writes a correspondent who wished to remain anonymous: “Do I think he’s the Butterfly? That’s probably a long shot, but it’s not the point. I’m just glad to know that he’s off the force. The man’s always been a troubling figure; his methods and his attitude have put a lot of people on edge. Remember Kinsey? How about Davidson? I’m surprised he hadn’t been fired outright by now, with a history like that. The police don’t need Marshall, and frankly, they’re better off without him.”
The contributor was referring to two incidents, both within the past four years and featuring fellow officers (Brad Kinsey and Seth Davidson), which cast aspersions upon Marshall’s character. In the former incident, a drug raid turned sour when Marshall’s weapon misfired, causing permanent damage to Kinsey’s arm; rather than fall back and assist his injured man, Marshall ordered Kinsey to “bite the bullet” before rounding up the unarmed drug traffickers. A still more controversial situation unfolded during the capture of Corrado Arpino, a convicted killer with ties to the Giarrettiera circle. While Arpino held an overpowered Davidson at gunpoint, Marshall challenged him with the now-infamous words “Don’t think you’re safe, boy. Don’t for one goddamn second think you’re safe.” If not for the timely intervention of officers Rachel Gould and Miles O’Reilly, it is widely believed Marshall would have opened fire – speculation which the “cowboy cop” all but encouraged in subsequent interviews.
When asked about these incidents, Blankenship allowed that “prudence has always been a weak point of Marshall’s, menace always one of his foremost strengths,” but maintained: “What matters, with apologies to Messrs. Kinsey and Davidson, is that he got the job done and better than most. I don’t want to believe that Winstone might be a more dangerous place now because of the unfounded accusations of a juvenile delinquent like Antonio Sharpe.”
Marshall himself was unavailable to comment, as was the department’s recently appointed Commissioner, Perry Williams, who replaced Emerson Reese in August after the latter was discharged on grounds of unethical consultation with third-party information broker Yoon Mangjeol . . .
Renard finished the article at a hasty clip, his brow furrowing further with every paragraph. Now he could recollect with no difficulty his memories of that tumulteux time. It was all too easy to forget how relatively recently Mr. Williams had assumed the post of Commissioner, and that he had stepped into the role at a period of such upheaval. First Emerson Reese, then this Jacob Marshall… Why hold forth with a phone book about the corruption among the politicians, when there had once been very nearly as much malfeasance within the ranks of the gendarmerie? To be frank, this was one of the reasons Renard had always at least half-hoped to find employment on the force: to help restore to them some measure of integrity. But in recent years he’d conceded that there was not much need. Perry Williams had by all accounts done an admirable job of cleaning up the department’s activities. There had been no more Marshalls… That thought set Renard to rereading the feature with a reinforced care. He had never met Jacob Marshall (nor could truthfully claim that he looked forward to doing so today) but he now remembered enough about the medisances three years ago to notice something amiss in the tone of this article. Yes, there was a point of note to which the Post had paid considerably less attention than seemed its due: the question of whether Marshall was in fact a Power or otherwise. After that second paragraph, the article made no further mention of this subject. Renard was absolutely certain it had been a more heated topic of debate, and a greater factor in Marshall’s fall from grace, than the author allowed. He gave a puzzled glance to the name of the journalist. Mme. Martinez was a familiar name, one he respected as an avid follower of the Post, but this seemed unlike her. Renard did not know the woman to have any pro-Power leanings, such as might have inclined her to drape a veil over the possibility of Marshall’s being one. Perhaps an editorial stroke from some higher rafter in the grand and bustling mills of the Winstone Post had censored any further exploration of the subject? If it did no other good, at least this question stiffened Renard’s resolve. Between his original empressement to do well by Commissioner Williams and Inspector Landsvale, and his newfound curiosity as to the issue of Marshall’s Power status, he was firmly intent upon seeking the ex-detective out. Only the recurring motif of gunplay in the article stirred any peureux feelings within him; Renard hoped dearly that when this Jacob Marshall had turned in his badge, the department had seen fit to remind him to relinquish the pistol as well. After rolling up this newspaper to take with him, Renard trod lightly over the other stacks in order to exit the bedroom. First to equip himself for the afternoon out, next to line up potential destinations. Where was an ex-officer, who’d returned after several years to the city he had once served, liable to show his face?
|
|
|
Post by Yoshimitsu on Jan 10, 2012 10:47:09 GMT -5
Kid was still smart.
Not smart enough, but still smart. The alarm system in the house was at the back door, exactly like Marshall thought. Normal robber would go for the front door at night, thinking the alarm would be there. Not Marshall, and not Sharpe either apparently. Right next to the back door, but in an alcove. Couldn't see it from outside. Alarms were something of a specialty with Marshall. He slipped the box of lock-picking tools back under his poncho and pulled the front panel from the alarm box in front of him. The mesh of wires underneath would baffle anyone else, but Marshall pulled out the power cable and resealed the system. Even better, his vision hadn't changed so it wasn't a decoy. Safe as houses. Or not, as the case was.
He glanced around the room quickly. The kitchen wasn't exactly where he expected to find some incriminating piece of evidence, but thoroughness was the key with any investigation. Clean as a whistle and not a single thing out of place, except for a newspaper on the table. He opened the fridge to find nothing but a couple of bottles of water. Probably ate out all the time, at them fancy places that charged a fortune for the house salad. Snobby little brat. He checked the drawers, finding a bunch of general utensils and not much else. Did the kid never use his own house? Probably not. Didn't seem to even need sleep. He glanced at the newspaper again, and the headline caught his eye.
MARSHALL GOES SOUTH[/font]
BENITA MARTINEZ Feature Journalist
Course the kid had this paper out. He was planning something on Marshall's turf, he'd want to be sure he was safe. The detective didn't bother reading the article, he knew what it said already. All 'fallen cop' and 'glad he's gone' and 'power involvement'. If only they knew how useful, how fucking essential he'd been to the force. So what if he got a little rough sometimes? He got the right people behind bars. He even got half of the Powers behind bars if they stepped out of line. Williams and them should be praising him and begging him to come back. Whatever. He got by no problem, found his work where he could. Like that French one, Roulette or whatever his name was. Nice, big reward for a job done.
Marshall binned the paper (surprised that the kid even had a bin considering he didn't have anything else in his kitchen) and made his way to the hallway. Probably one of the smaller houses on the road, or they were all done up on the outside to make them seem bigger. He climbed the stairs, guessing that the bedroom was the best place to find something suspicious. Got the right door on the first try. Thank Christ for that, he didn't care about what kind of shampoo the kid used. Nice bedroom though. Kingsize bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers, bedside table. Pretty standard, but everything looked fucking pricey. How had anyone not realised the kid was a thief? Where else did he get this cash from?
Best start somewhere. He opened the wardrobe and started going through the clothes there. Loads of suits, some with the price tags still on. He checked one. Came in at a thousand dollars. Fucking hell. Nothing in any of the pockets, though. He closed the wardrobe and went to the chest of drawers instead. Top few drawers were empty. Bottom one had some papers in it. Couple of receits, couple of maps of cities. He pulled out a stack of envelopes, none of them marked.
"What've yeh been hidin', 'Tonio..." He muttered, opening the first envelope and reading the note inside. Typed, not signed, no name.
Congratulations on not arousing suspicion.
Payment will be delivered through the usual means.
My associate will be at the Felice Potabile at 8:00pm on Thursday.
So the kid was usually engaged in partnerships. He checked a couple more letters, but they were mostly the same. The last envelope he picked up felt heavier, the shape a bit wider. Something more than a letter was inside. He opened it and let a small bracelet fall into his lap. Pretty understated, silver or maybe white gold, a couple of sapphires. He checked the envelope again and pulled out another note.
A token of affection for orchestrating such a successful demerit of an upstanding member of the law enforcement. Marshall has been run out of town by critics and Power hating citizens.
However, you are becoming a liability. While you may not have shown me your face, rest assured that I will find you. Your arrogance has gone too far.
Now that was interesting. He slipped both the paper and the bracelet back into the envelope and pocketed it, along with several others. These'd come in handy, he was pretty sure. Better find Miss Attorney and see what she had to say about it.
|
|
|
Post by Beelzebibble on Jan 20, 2012 19:59:14 GMT -5
Before Renard’s thoughts had sorted themselves out altogether, his attention was captured by an earthy aroma which draped itself easily across the living room from the open window and below, and placed an ineradicable image in his head. Yes, of course a piping cup of Demitasse’s finest roasted elixir would suit his palate quite neatly, but one hardly imagined there could be enough time to indulge in such luxuries while one had a search to carry on. Although surely…? (And here Renard shook his head slightly in affectionate disbelief at his own power to justify.) Although surely Demitasse might prove an apt starting point on the mission? After all Renard was far from the only one to favor this coffeehouse over all competitors throughout Winstone. On weekdays particularly the establishment bore a formidable stream of foot traffic. Given what Renard knew, and what the good Inspector had told him, of Jacob Marshall’s conspicuous wardrobe, Demitasse might very possibly house an employee or customer who’d spied him prowling the streets today. Bon: destination number one was decided. An easy bicycle ride from the apartment. But the swiftness of the journey was no reason to leave home unprepared. Your keys And your trusty pipe And the tobacco! Don't forget your notepad. And a pencil. The notepad, pencil, keys and tobacco were already snug in the pockets of his overcoat, although as he dropped the pipe into one such pocket, he wisely prodded around with a finger to ensure the location of the keys beyond a doubt. Today, Renard was sworn, there would arise no need to consult Strelitzia reginae for the spare. Don't forget the umbrella Renard cast an appraising eye over the massive black-and-white-striped umbrella in its angular stand. At first his assessment was not favorable: the weatherman over the radio had given no indication that the weather would take a turn for the worse, while the calm, clear sky outside further affertit the impression that the rest of Winstone's afternoon and evening would be relatively benign (much more so than the last time Renard had taken a case in hand). Maybe some kind of bludgeoning weapon, just in case However, abrupt thoughts of M. Marshall and his fondness for gunplay changed Renard’s mind. Here there was no call to marvel incredulously at his own power to justify. He merely fetched the umbrella out of the stand and, for practice, gripping with both thin hands the narrow tip rather than the wooden handle, swung the massive black-and-white-striped umbrella at the nearest bookcase and nearly upset a china plate from Belgium which he’d quite forgotten he had mounted up there. The weight and striking power were good, but this truncheon was hardly subtle. Between its size and arresting coloration, its presence would be easy for any potential assailant to notice and account for. Renard suspected he’d be well served by some more easily concealed means of self-defense. Therefore he hied himself once again into the kitchen and retrieved a small yet capable serrated bread knife from the cutlery drawer. To ascertain that his eyes weren’t tricking him on this occasion, he tapped a finger against the tip of the blade. You're not bleeding again, are you? I mean really, Rules, come on. Only a very little bit! A single scarlet droplet to be wiped away on a paper napkin. It was a small price to pay for the surete that this knife was the genuine article. “ Allez, Micmac, up, now…” But the Caucasian shepherd took no hurry in rising upon his enormous paws, stretching his great frame out, and unloosing a glacial yawn. Renard observed this movement with a renewed sensation of mild concern. In the first couple of weeks that the dog had spent under his care, Micmac had reacted to Renard’s every word and gesture with rapt, enthusiastic attention. But the time intervening had seen a distinct degeneration in the dog’s behavior, although a degeneration toward two poles at once if such a concept made sense: Micmac now divided most of his moments between uncontrollable rowdiness and nonchalant lethargy. The development troubled Renard, who had made every effort to follow the instructions first left to him by Mlle. Keigler and further explicated in their correspondence since then. In truth, it was clear she had some knack which he couldn’t match. The detective conceded that he possessed no great skill in exerting authority over other beings, particularly those at least three times stronger than he. Ponder the location of Channery Well could he remember the last she’d reminded him on the subject of taking Micmac outdoors, in the most recent of their late-night conversations over the telephone – late-night, at least, for Renard, who was unaccustomed to using the phone past dusk, but midmorning for Mlle. Keigler in her Newfoundland residence. “You got to tell him first,” she’d urged, when Renard had complained that the dog would tackle him whenever it was time to go outside. “Get the idea in his head. Lay out the mission. Cause if the first thing he hears is the rattle of the leash, he’s gonna go nuts.” “Micmac,” Renard announced very clearly, “we are going out!” The dog blinked up at him, then trotted into the kitchen to poke his snout at the empty dish on the floor. “Out, Micmac,” Renard insisted. “We are going out around town for a while. Outside. Ah... outdoors?” The dog took a few laps from the bowl of water by the refrigerator. This was a waste of time. Renard plucked the bright green leash off its hook next to the living room door. Immediately Micmac sprang into life, bounding in from the kitchen and barking loudly. His tail wagged with such vigor that when it struck the bookcase it nearly toppled the Belgian china plate again. With difficulty, and while incurring an unseemly dusting of canine slobber, Renard affixed the leash to the Caucasian shepherd’s collar. He had no sooner tucked the massive black-and-white-striped umbrella under his arm and twisted open the doorknob than Micmac wedged his nose into the two-inch gap and applied such force as to fling the door wide open. As he charged out into the hallway, nearly upsetting the Strelitzia reginae in his wake, Renard locked the apartment door in a winded huff. As much as he enjoyed the companionship Micmac offered, Renard couldn’t quell a distinct feeling of soulagement that his term with the animal was only temporary and that Mlle. Keigler would in time relieve the detective from these duties. “Be a little while, honcho. I’ve got a couple deals cooking up over here. Few gigs to run for some friends of mine. These irons gotta be red-hot before I pull ‘em out of the fire. But I’ll be back to take the monster off your hands soon as I can, Rules. Don’t break him in the meantime!” Yet Renard had never yet been able to confirm what Mlle. Keigler’s long-term plans for returning to the Archipelago were: whether she would simply pass through to pick up Micmac and his effects on the way to elsewhere, or set up camp once again in Winstone. It was this second possibility which unnerved Renard, not for his own sake but for hers. So far he hadn’t confessed the truth to her, that he had sold the knowledge of her Power to pay off his debt to Mme. Mangjeol. The prospect of admitting this frightened him. He understood full well what it would mean to Mlle. Keigler, and what she would think of him afterward. Perhaps if she simply visited Winstone to retrieve Micmac and then departed, she would never have to find out… Then these thoughts were swept off by the whir of chain and pedals as the Frenchman on his bicycle raced le chien enorme down the slope to the intersection at the foot of the hill. * * * Once he had secured both vehicle and Micmac outside the entrance to Demitasse, a heavily-breathing Renard paused to gather his bearings before venturing inside the shop, where, of course, the panoply of inviting aromas took his breath away again. He made a swift inventory of the plush seats and high tables in search of a Stetson hat and poncho, but no such items presented themselves, nor any man fitting the physical description offered by the Inspector. Fine: M. Marshall was not here. It would have formed too contrived a convenience otherwise. But just suppose he had been by earlier…? After spending his due two minutes and forty-seven seconds in line, Renard reached the counter, where an unfamiliar barista awaited him with a brisk word of welcome. Keenly predicting that “the usual” would go over poorly with a new employee, Renard spelled out his order of a Café Noisette, shy on the cream, with a dash of toffee in just so many words. OOC: Barista, anyone? Remember, Marshall was in here [url=http://archipelagoexodus.proboards.com/index.cgi?action=display&board=orpboard&thread=2978&page=2[HASH]62484 ]earlier [/url]…[/i][/spoiler]
|
|
|
Post by Tout-Perd on Jun 16, 2012 23:59:26 GMT -5
~*~*~3:30 PM, Winstone Police Department Headquarters~*~*~ Click, click, clickclick, click. Nopcsa's dress shoes beat a sharp rhythm on the tile floors of the Winstone Police Department. The building itself was nothing inspiring, a squat utilitarian construction with no real elegance or innovation to its design. It felt like a holdover from the early eighties, Nopcsa mused to himself, as his upward gaze fell upon the dingy tiles of the hanging ceiling. Really, though, it seemed EVERY government installation was a holdover from the Reagan years. They all had that same boring smell, the scent of old coffee and fresh ink, with that slight bouquet of allergy-aggravating dust to round it out.
His transit here had been uneventful, one long slog of a commute. The mindreader had missed out on the in-flight drinks, but Mr. Hajdu was... far from a teetotaler, to say the very least. From the angry buzzing inside his gourd, it was clear that the attorney had considered his vacation to have been wrongfully terminated, and had proceeded to sublimate his anger into a furious pummeling of his liver.
This had proven both a boon and a hindrance for Nopcsa. Though it loosened up his subject's brain, making it easier to tease thoughts out of the deeply nested tangle, it also meant everything was blurry and uncertain, as if looking through a warped lens. He still wasn't copacetic about a few key points, which he'd definitely have to brush up on by tomorrow. For example, say, if mindreading was permissible as evidence in court, or if he needed some kind of special warrant, or...
The young man sighed, and rolled his eyes. It almost felt like he'd been the one two-fisting overpriced drinks the whole way home, from how fuzzy his thoughts were. Legalese was not a comfortable area for him, honestly. In fact, Nopcsa and the word Legal weren't even on speaking terms these days. To be forced to operate within the constraints of this system... Nopcsa felt like he was a songbird, his wings bound as he was shoved into a maze by a bunch of dispassionate researchers. He was equipped with the tools to end the situation in a matter of moments, but was presently forced to wander through a bunch of dead end hallways.
And that was where his thoughts led him back to the present situation. He had arrived at a door with frosted glass, bold block letters declaring it to be the office of "Commissioner Perry Williams". Unlike the rest of the dreary building, the writing seemed fairly fresh, yet to begin fading back into the general aesthetic of the place. A mental murmur, much like a lawnmower failing to start, from beyond the door caught Nopcsa's attention, and snapped him back to reality.
Commissioner Williams. Oh, joy. Nopcsa had, for the most part, avoided the pugnacious policeman's unfortunate involvement in the Ansonia Incident, but he still knew his reputation well enough. The stories got bandied about in headquarters quite often.
An operative caught carrying a bundle of harmless wands, a variety typically used for shortcutting household errands like scrubbing the floor or such. The Winstone Police force had bagged him for Illegal Trafficking of Firearms, and managed to get the poor schmuck ten years in prison.
Another one, merely present in a neighborhood when an old house caught on fire, spent two weeks in special containment. They let him go, but only after figuring out that it was faulty wiring, and not the guy that could conjure create clouds of freezing fog, that was the culprit.
Nopcsa frowned, looking down at his hands. Those two things were small potatoes. They had happened to stupid newbies, idiots who deserved what they got for wandering through Winstone. The only reasonable way to approach this city was Get In. Get Out. Any power that loitered around here for even a second longer than that was asking for trouble. He was NOT somebody who sought vengeance for his comrades. Low level operatives were expendable, that was the name of the game. The only things that got to Nopcsa personally were the things that got to him personally
Really, his grievance sat with the corpulent poseur behind that door. When shit had gone down at Ansonia, the police response had been... Uninspiring. The law had been less than eager to jump to the defense of the Giarrettieras, and once they found out about the involvement of Powers-
From that point on, it seemed to Nopcsa that they had essentially stopped trying to help out at all. These men, with their bulletproof vests and their arsenal of weaponry, had left them to fend for themselves in a life or death struggle. Maybe if every one of them had been Rie or Helen or whatever, that would've been fine and dandy. As it was, though... Nopcsa, Terrian, and Alyssa were in the trenches, trying desperately not to die, while this prejudiced prick sat safely out of harm's way and threw them to the wolves. As if the power to read somebody's mind would give him the advantage in a raging gun battle...
Ah, well. Fuck it. He wasn't here to be dreary and reserved. Just by being here, he was playing enough of their stupid games. If these bigots wanted Nopcsa here, they'd get enough Nopcsa to last them a lifetime.
He straightened his collar, making sure the iridescent embroidery fell perfectly even. He ran his fingers along his lapels, making sure they were just-so. He looked down at the papers he'd been cradling against his side. They were in order; that would never do. He intentionally shuffled them around, making sure to put his approved form at the very bottom of the stack. Though the temptation to fold it into an airplane and fling it directly into Williams' face was powerful, Nopcsa managed to resist. Williams would have a gun, and most likely, he'd consider any sudden movements at all to be an attempt on his life.
Nopcsa placed his hand on the doorknob, and turned it slowly, deliberately. Giving a slow, gentle shove, he set it coasting open, and then ducked out of sight behind the door frame.
"Good afternoon, Commissioner. I'm the prosecutor that was requested to deal with the Odio case."
Nopcsa couldn't SEE Williams, but his thoughts were clear. Who the hell is this clown, and why isn't he stepping in yet? Oh, an explanation would be furnished.
"Don't bother looking around for me. I'm invisible."
Of course, Williams probably already knew that Nopcsa was bullshitting. That didn't matter to him in the least. He was going to show this man exactly the amount of respect that was due him.
|
|
|
Post by Beelzebibble on Jun 18, 2012 11:03:43 GMT -5
Pause. Rewind. The indistinct monochrome figure stood up again out of the chair and walked backwards toward the bars, As he turned, his face took shape once more, mouthing in reverse. Williams dialed the volume up still further before pressing play. The boy turned around and walked toward the chair.
"It was his life's mission to put the Butterfly behind bars, to a point where he nearly had me convicted. However, a keen eye allowed me to cut a deal with him."
Pause. Rewind. Play.
"It was his life's mission to put the Butterfly behind bars, to a point where he nearly had me convicted."
Under his breath, Williams spoke the words in tandem with the boy. And then a few words of his own: "Come on, throw me a bone, here."
Damn well the Commissioner knew this wasn't going to hold up in court. "He wanted to arrest the Butterfly, therefore he nearly convicted me" did not reduce algebraically to the confession Williams wanted. That statement would carry through just as logically if Sharpe were a lackey of the Butterfly's. Or if he had any association with the Butterfly whatsoever. Or, come to that, if Marshall were such a single-minded maniac as to push his Butterfly vendetta onto any small-time crook he could lay his mitts on. Which fit pretty comfortably with what Williams remembered of Marshall.
But none of these alternatives held as much sway with Williams as the infuriating certainty that Sharpe was holding something back.
He let the tape continue playing forward into the discussion of Marshall and Sharpe's history -- Mangjeol, the Edward Diamond -- and rewatched this with a numb half-interest. He had no reason to doubt that Sharpe was telling the truth here, that the "cowboy cop" really had been a Power all along, but by this point Williams'd already gotten the shock and awe at that discovery out of his system. During the scant half-year or so that they'd both worked in the department, the Commissioner had always preferred to distance himself from the detective. To Williams' mind, his senseless predecessor Reese had been the one to hire Marshall, and the one responsible for his particular unconventional shortcomings. That Marshall had breached ethics by using his own little means of lie detection, utterly resistant to empirical testing, was just another nail in the coffin.
Williams had been only too glad when Marshall had handed in his resignation. He didn't need a wild card like that screwing with his career as Commissioner. And he sure as hell didn't need the wild card back on the table now.
Then the office door opened. Williams paused the recording and looked up from his computer, half-expecting to see Rouletabille and Marshall stroll in at that very moment -- but no, that would've been an unrealistically quick turnaround. Actually no one appeared to be standing there. Williams hesitated for a moment, briefly questioning the integrity of the new stainless-steel ball lock he'd recently had outfitted, before a voice from the hall piped up.
"Good afternoon, Commissioner. I'm the prosecutor that was requested to deal with the Odio case. Don't bother looking around for me. I'm invisible."
Williams slumped in his seat and looked at the clock. Christ, he'd forgotten about this one.
"Tell that to the laser frames every twenty feet in this building," he said loudly. "Beams pick up something the cameras don't, and this whole place goes into lockdown."
|
|
|
Post by Ninety on Jun 18, 2012 19:44:18 GMT -5
"Right up, boss."
Right up your ass and the manager's ass and everyone else in this shitty joint.
Today is payday for Alan Lloyd, his first one since he'd started working at the Demitasse. It was also going to be his last. His manager told him yesterday that things just weren't working out and that Alan should find work elsewhere. The verdict didn't bother Alan at all since he'd hated every minute he spent in the coffee shop.
Jesus, who really gives a shit about coffee, anyway? It tastes like rancid nut sweat unless you load it up with diabetes-level amounts of sugar and it blasts your breakfast out your asshole at the speed of sound.
He had already forgotten what the man at the counter had ordered but it didn't really matter because he had never learned any of the recipes for the drinks, nor did he fully understand how to work the machines. His hours at the Demitasse had been spent sweeping the floors, cleaning the bathroom, and stealing from the tip jar. He was only working behind the counter today because two of the capable employees had called in sick and the manager was desperate.
Alan pulled a few levers and the machine reluctantly spat a thick black syrup into a cup. He stirred in some skim milk to lighten the color and topped it all off with some whipped cream because he remembered the man at the counter had specifically said something about cream. Alan grabbed a saucer and slid the concoction across the counter to Renard.
"Here you go, boss. Next!"
|
|
|
Post by Beelzebibble on Jun 18, 2012 21:00:22 GMT -5
Renard accepted the cup with a slightly incredulous, not to say mefiant, look of appraisal, but this young man was obviously feeling the burden of business and Renard thought it better to pick his battles. After all he had a more important line of inquiry than whether the dash of toffee had made its way safely onto his Cafe Noisette. Renard stepped to the side to allow the next customer a place, then looked down the counter toward the cash register and noticed that it was unmanned. Ah dear. He would have to be quick about his business then. After the youth had finished off the next customer's coffee (something Brazilian-sounding, which Renard had never noticed on the menu before), he charted a stomping path toward the register, tore off his rubber gloves, dropped them in the wastebasket, and read out Renard's fee in a flat tone. Camouflant the delay by fishing around in his pocket for change, Renard essayed his question in a manner he considered quite clever. "My good man, I am joining several friends for a costume party this evening, but I seem to have lost track of them! Have you been paid custom by anyone in, ah, 'period attire', rather like my own?" (Renard had procured the appropriate coinage by now, and offered it to the employee.) "A fellow adorned in the hat and garb of a rough-hewn American frontiersman, perhaps?" OOC: It's been about two hours since Marshall showed his face in here, according to this timestamp.
|
|
|
Post by The Evil Biscuit on Jun 19, 2012 12:24:59 GMT -5
~*~*~ 3:15PM Passione Rossa, Winstone City ~*~*~
"You're shittin' me."
"Would if I could, Mr. Millsap, but I ain't. She's out of the country. Business."
"I was under the impression she didn't even leave the bar, God forbid the country. When will she be back?"
The bartender leveled a stare at Brat that assured the senior editor his question was irrelevant. Millsap put his hands up in dismissal. "Forget it." He turned to Harris, whose own look of smug victory did him no favors. "Laugh it up, old man. What do we do now?"
Goodman folded his broad arms across his chest and thought hard. "Well, I can't say I wasn't half-hoping she'd be here - haven't enjoyed an early-afternoon beer in years. I will settle for coffee, though. Who knows, maybe we'll pick up a lead along the way."
Brat sighed. "Sure. Why not?"
-------------------------------------------
~*~*~ 3:15PM Winstone Police Department, Winstone City ~*~*~
"You're shittin' me."
"Sorry, Ms. Martinez, he's in a meeting. The prosecutor for the Odio case just arrived a few minutes ago."
Benita's eyes went wide. "The Power?! What's his name? Did he bring anything? What can he do?" The pad was already in her hand, and her pen trembled in her waiting fingers. The deputy at the desk shook his head. "You know better than that, Ms. Martinez. We don't talk to the press during ongoing investigations. Besides, I'm under explicit orders from the Commissioner not to accept walk-ins from journalists at this time. I'll have to put you down for an appointment."
"When's the soonest available?"
"By his schedule? A thousand years."
"You..."
"His words, Ms. Martinez. I'm just sticking to them."
|
|
|
Post by Ninety on Jun 27, 2012 21:57:18 GMT -5
"You mean like a Davy Crockett kind of dude? Coonskin cap; cowhide pants and all that? Sorry, boss, I haven't seen anyone like that around here."
Alan took Renard's money and handed him his receipt.
"I tell you what though, I guess we did have some weirdos come in about two hours ago. A guy with blue hair and a chick with green hair came in together and started looking over a bunch of papers real quiet when this Wild West-lookin' cat pulls up a chair with 'em and starts chatting them up. Sucker looked like a fucking caricature of a Texas sheriff. Way over-the-top, like he was on his way to a costume party or something."
Alan paused for a moment and then smacked his temple with his hand.
"Well fuck me, I guess that's who you're looking for, huh? You might want to rethink partying with that dude, boss. He kind of creeped me out and the lady looked uncomfortable around him too. Not the kind of guy I want to get lifted with. Anyways, the three of them talked for a bit and then the cowboy left and the other two hurried out right afterwards."
|
|
|
Post by The Evil Biscuit on Jun 27, 2012 23:22:27 GMT -5
Brat wheeled into the Demitasse parking lot, narrowly missing a checkered cab that came around the corner on two nearly-flat wheels, careening past the coffee shop like a tri-colored bullet. Millsap laid on the horn and shook his fist out the window. Deafening Turkish synth-pop dopplered away as the cab slipped behind the next corner, and the senior editor threw the sedan into park. "You believe these idiots on the road?" he shot at Harris, whose eyes were fixed on something beyond the hood. "Never mind that, Brat. Look at that."
"Well toast my points -- that's the biggest fucking dog I've ever seen."
"That's a dog? I thought it was a bear."
"Do bears get that big?"
"Do dogs?"
They exited the vehicle and cautiously moved towards the front door, where the monstrous dog lay cooling its great belly in the shade of a cafe umbrella, next to an old bicycle. Harris reached down hesitantly and patted the beast on its enormous head. "Good boy... good boy... you're quite the Cerberus, aren't you?"
Brat squinted through the glass to see what the line looked like. Something caught his attention, and his eyes went wide. "I knew I recognized that bike! Harris! You'll never believe who's here."
"The lion trainer who owns this behemoth?"
"Better. Stay here for a second."
"Brat, don't leave me alone with this - Brat!"
---------------------------------
A heavyset man appeared next to Renard, and placed his hand over the Frenchman's, pushing aside the payment for the coffee. "Please. It's on me. Add two lattes to that order - fat-free milk for my friend outside." Millsap slid a ten across the counter, tossed an arm over Renard's shoulder and turned him towards an empty table.
"Renard Rouletabille... you remember me, don't you? Brat Millsap, I interviewed you after that fantastic detective work you did on the stolen Boullogne? Of course you do, buddy, how've you been? Let's take a seat over here, yeah?"
|
|
|
Post by Beelzebibble on Jun 28, 2012 19:15:30 GMT -5
Renard had not a heart's beat to process the youth's reply before a globose prestance made itself known at his side and the payment for his alleged Cafe Noisette somehow nestled back within his hand. (With this particular point he did not take issue, only because the mixture was so suspect.) In a span of time uncharitable to any potential escape route, the heavyset visitor had concluded Renard's transaction with a few warm words and steered him forcibly around to march away from the counter. It was of course M. Millsap, quashing Renard's startled bonjour beneath a mass of eager greeting. The Frenchman banged each ankle against a different chair as they navigated toward the spot M. Millsap had selected. Let's take a seat over here, yeah? Renard fell sideways into his chair, and from the top of his cup both the apathetiquement-affixed plastic lid and a small spattering of coffee jumped to the floor. Fortunately Millsap did not appear to notice this, as he was signalling to a new arrival that he should pick up the lattes from the counter. This bearded personage Renard recognized immediately as M. Goodman, copy chief of the Post; though the two had never previously met, Renard knew an employee of that beloved journal when he laid eyes upon one. M. Millsap rounded back upon Renard with a smile that was unsettlingly easy to diagnose. Friendly though the editor-in-chief genuinely was, Renard could not deny that the sight of him inspired a certain crispe tension. In their interview after the case of the burgled Boullogne, more than half of what the detective had told Millsap had been lies feverishly concocted in order to disguise Mlle. Keigler's guilt. In the English idiom, Renard had been a "nervous wreck" from the opening handshake to the final wave goodbye. It would not have bothered him terribly if he'd never encountered the affable fellow again. At least this time he carried nothing but the truth, but very little of that. If M. Millsap had taken the impression that Renard was working with the police in an official capacity, then, well... then he would have to set that misconception straight, Renard firmly reminded himself. And as quickly as possible; every minute here was a minute that M. Marshall might spend drifting further away into obscurity. "What a pleasure, monsieur!" he put together, aware of sounding rather like Mme. Mangjeol. "I am sure the papermills have kept you quite busy in the past twenty-four hours, hmm?"
|
|
|
Post by Tout-Perd on Jul 12, 2012 0:51:16 GMT -5
"Oh, so you guys have been setting up anti-Power precautions?" The mindreader stepped up to the doorframe, the beadwork on his shirt scintillating under the office lighting. He withdrew his right hand from his pocket, as if to shake hands with the Commissioner, though the gulf of paperwork and a few steps of distance separated them.
"That's very..." Nopcsa's tone was thoughtful, almost betraying a note of pleased surprise. As Commissioner Williams grudgingly leaned forwards to extend a hand in greeting, Nopcsa's fingers curled into a fist. His index finger remained level, pointing accusatorily towards the officer.
"Quite frankly, that's very cute, Perry," Nopcsa didn't shake, and drew away, lowering his hand. He put his other hand on the back of a chair, rumpling his fistful of official looking papers, and turned it sideways to the face of the desk. He melted into the seat with an overwrought sigh, only turning his head partway to glance over his shoulder at the much larger man.
"Of course I'm not invisible. That would just be silly, after all. What use would an invisible prosecutor be? I'm sure we'd have dozens of accusations about him not even being there, that some ventriloquist was making a mockery of the trial. No, that would just be stupid," Nopcsa spieled off, talking over any attempts to greet him the Commissioner made. He turned his chair again, the legs scraping on the floor. Another loud exhalation accompanied him leaning, as he bent his back over that of his seat. He met Williams' gaze despite his upside-down orientation, and then continued speaking.
"However, right then and there... I just proved that had I been a malicious power with an invisible gun, you would've been dead," A few locks of Nopcsa's dark hair fell out of place, dangling freely 'above' his head.
"This is all rhetorical, of course. I have no reason to shoot you, and much more importantly, you have no reason to shoot me," Nopcsa clarified, his tone brightening considerably before growing fatalistic again, "Nonetheless, I hope you can understand exactly why having you amateurs handle this case concerns me."
|
|
|
Post by Beelzebibble on Jul 15, 2012 11:31:36 GMT -5
“I just wanted a new coffee maker in the break room, and a new foosball table. After all, Siboglinum melted the plastic handles off of the blue team, and you really can’t expect us to go risking our lives for you if we have to make do with a naked metal pole when playing the blue guys. Think about the impact that has on morale!” OOC: I was rereading Nopcsa's intro post, and decided that "we have to do with a naked metal pole when playing the blue guys" is actually a euphemism, and that there is a tradition of Fascere employees dressing up as policemen and doing elaborate strip routines on poles. That's canon, now. You can't revoke that.Commissioner Williams resolved to count to ten before breaking off the inverted eye contact. He made it through one, two, ten and called it a noble effort. His gaze momentarily passed to the semiobscene sight of the prosecutor's Adam's apple, exposed, in this contrived position, from behind the stupid cravat. Williams entertained a brief notion of reaching out and throttling the prosecutor's skinny neck. He supposed he could do it with just one hand while leaving the other one free to draft a letter of contemptuous apology to Bartholomew Staudt. But on the whole it'd be tidier to take things one murder at a time. "I see," he said at length, "that I can add you to the list of people who're just so eager to impress me with their devil-may-care attitude, they forgot to give a goddamn whether or not we bring in Larry Odio's killer." He glanced briefly at the Post-It note on the frame of the monitor, where he'd carefully inscribed the prosecutor's bizarre name; his document on the man was buried too deep on the desk to gracefully retrieve at the moment. A goon from some artifact dealers called the Fascere Order, if he remembered right. "So, Mr. Nopcsa, let me say this very clearly, because I'm sure it's hard to hear just now with all the gallons of fruit bat blood rushing to your brain. I didn't appoint you. I don't care to know you. You have devastated any chance I had of giving a shit about you. Above all else, there's nothing I need from you. And I can only assume you're not in here for any favors either, or else you'd have tried pulling your head out of your ass before speaking. All this tells me we're wasting our time here, so why don't you do a nice handspring out the door and I'll see you in court tomorrow."
|
|
|
Post by Tout-Perd on Jul 16, 2012 11:55:34 GMT -5
“Oh, no, no, no, Commisioner…” A cheshire grin split Nopcsa’s inverted face, “You seem to think I care at all how you feel about me, but honestly? I already knew, from the moment that I got assigned here, that you’d hate my guts.”
Nopcsa lurched upright, and then spun his chair about. The metal legs scratched loudly against the tiles. He halted, facing Williams, and then leaned forward. He planted his elbow smack in the middle of a mess of papers on the desk, and then rested his chin in his hand.
“That doesn’t change the fact that you do need me, Commissioner.”
“You’re a laughingstock, as I’m sure you know,” Nopcsa’s smile belied his caustic words, “You had Powers make a mockery of you for weeks to either side of the Ansonia incident. Even when you sent in a whole team to apprehend those two at that flophouse? They got away. The two Summoners you detained? Waltzed right out the door before you could even get their names. And, as for the perpetrators of the attack on the Ansonia? Most of them escaped with nary a scratch.”
“And that was just within the scant frame of a couple days… Why, since then, you’ve had the entire Winstone Police Department shown up by a doddering Frenchman who barely can tie his shoes, and had the Butterfly in the same building as a yourself and a crack team of officers, and he still got away!”
“Between that and stealing your badge, he’s been doing a ton to make you look like an incompetent fool,” Nopcsa exhaled loudly, “The only one who seems to be furthering that cause more is yourself.”
“People talk, Perry. You should know this. You’ve had a handful of successes, yes. But the public doesn’t pay much attention to those. They only see the moments where you’ve failed them. And quite bluntly, the man on the street is terrified right now. It’s like every month or two, some new danger or crisis happens, and each time, you fuck it up!” Though Nopcsa’s words were harsh, his tone was elated. His eyes tracked the Commissioner’s, meeting his gaze directly. They lacked any sympathy whatsoever, glistening with sadistic glee.
“And that is why youneed me, Commissioner. You might hate me down to a cellular level, but I can turn this all around for you,” Nopcsa’s arm pulled away, leaving him leaning directly over the desktop.
“They didn’t just pick me for shits and giggles, Commissioner. They picked me because I’m the best possible man for the job.”
“If I seem carefree, Commissioner, it’s only because I already know we have this in the bag,” Nopcsa laced his fingers together, finally setting down his paperwork, “Bring in Larry Odio’s killer? Commissioner, please.”
“Not only am I going to convict this delinquent, but on top of that, I’m going to serve you 'The Butterfly' on a silver platter.”
|
|
|
Post by Beelzebibble on Jul 18, 2012 13:01:34 GMT -5
OOC: IT LIVES. And includes two words' worth of autoing, sorry. There was no use pretending the prosecutor's words didn't sting the Commissioner deeply, though maybe they would have caused more pain if these weren't things he'd already told himself a thousand times over, on his own time. All the same, hearing that kind of talk in someone else's voice added a fresh layer of injury. So did the sheer fluency with which the prosecutor spoke, though Williams could be sure he'd rehearsed every line of it on the way in. He sat with head bowed, fists clenched at either corner of the desk, and glared up from beneath his brow; and when Mr. Nopcsa finally arrived at an appropriately self-important conclusion, Williams released his breath for the first time in thirty or forty seconds. "Missed the memo, did you," he said. He reached for the document Mr. Nopcsa had deposited on the desk, smoothed it out with his palm, and read: NAME: Nopcsa (pseudonym)
AGE: 22
OCCUPATION: Antique-dealer under Fascere Order
POWERS: Mind-reading
INTRODUCTION TO CASE: Request issued to Fascere Order, was selected by employer
And so on. Nothing major of interest that Williams hadn't already learned from the preliminary dispatch, except for that much-beloved signature at the bottom: APPROVED BY COUNCIL MEMBER: Bartholomew StaudtDATE: xx/xx/xxxx
"I guess no one told you why Staudt greenlit your employer's choice. Never crossed your mind? Hmm?" And Williams spread his hands wide in a mock display of soul-searching. "I mean, unless you've just never heard of Justice Staudt before. But I can tell you why he'd round out his little all-Power court by fielding a damn mind-reader on the prosecution. You're a figurehead. "You're a fucking gesture. "You're there to shut the crowd up. That's all. Like Hooper, minus any actual authority. Jesus, you really never stopped to question the fact that Staudt, Bartholomew Staudt, signed you on for prosecution and some know-nothing kid off the street for defense? He's pretending to stack the deck against himself, and you're his flunky! But here's the kicker." Up until the last instant Williams hadn't been sure whether he was prepared to go down this route, but he now found himself speaking with greater confidence in this opinion than he earlier could have admitted. "That greenhorn you're up against? Illiana Silna. Remember that name. She's got more integrity in her little finger than twenty of you worthless mercs." He punctuated this with a demonstrative jab of his sausagelike pinkie finger. "Sharpe's a prick and the Butterfly deserves a life sentence, but I have faith in Illiana Silna. I believe she's here to do what's right. You? Here to swagger around and earn a quick buck. That's what makes you powerless. Five minutes in the courtroom and you could have the whole case blown wide open but you are nothing -- nothing -- without credibility. Say you know who killed Odio? I don't care. Figured out what this punk's got to do with the Butterfly? Write it to your mother. Why the fuck should anyone believe what you say? You're a hack. You're a Fascere goon, and we are not interested in your help. If you think Staudt put you in play for your stunning insights then you are fucking insane. Just prance around the room and make him look good, why don't you, and see if he pays any attention when you tell him what you saw in Sharpe's... in Sharpe's..." The prosecutor never blinked. His smile widened by a hair's breadth. He said, very softly: "Go on?" But Williams had taken in a sudden breath. A thought had struck him, and then a mob of other thoughts all crowding in for attention. The first thought, which opened the gates, had been: He's a mind-reader.There followed every thought the Commissioner did not wish to think. Firstly, yes, his repeated indictments of his own failures and insecurities, which he now could tell had been only too easy for Mr. Nopcsa to draw out and paraphrase. These were joined by a surge of codes, strings, passwords and combinations; a complete inventory of the items held under 24-hour surveillance in the station's vault, and the name and shifts of the officer on that duty in whom Williams placed the least trust; every establishment in Winstone known to be under Don Giarrettera's thumb, and the names of those owners who had agreed to furnish the police with information on the mob's day-to-day business in exchange for protection; the phone numbers to the private hotlines of three dozen police agencies aligned with various nation-states of the UN; the power Wiliams himself most often daydreamed of using when he was a boy in America; a near-verbatim transcript of the letter from Dacten to Larry Odio. All intermixed with a slurry of images: mopping vomit off the floor of Courtney's bedroom; Alicia in tears after he had nearly screamed at her for dismantling, in fifteen minutes of apparently cold-blooded animal purpose, the model train town in the cellar; Monica drawing him close, kissing his cheek and whispering past his ear in the darkness, six months ago at the least... "Get out," said Williams. The prosecutor smiled at him. "I said get out of here get out," Williams roared, and with a sudden motion he barrelled up from behind his desk, seized Mr. Nopcsa's pencil-thin arm, and wrenched him toward the door. "Hey!" the Commissioner barked, and in another instant three officers from down the hall had gathered in the doorway. The closest of them went for her gun.
|
|
|
Post by The Evil Biscuit on Jul 20, 2012 15:20:49 GMT -5
Brat chortled. "We're keeping up. Odio's a high-profile case - plenty of leads coming in. Should make good copy for the next few months - ah." The bell tinkled above the door; Harris was coming in. They made eye contact, and Brat made a quick gesture towards the barista, who was setting two cardboard-ringed cups on the counter. Goodman took the cue and went to retrieve them. The editor turned back to Rouletabille. A notepad and pencil had somehow appeared in his hands.
"Just out doing a little research, thought I might pick your brain a bit about the case - I know a sleuthing mind such as yours has been watching the details closely. An 'expert opinion' column would be just the ticket for tomorrow's byline.
By then Harris had reached their table and quietly took a seat, setting the latte in front of Brat. He took a casual sip and flipped the pad to a clean sheet.
"So let's start with the Butterfly. In your opinion, do you think he did it?"
|
|
|
Post by Beelzebibble on Jul 20, 2012 16:53:00 GMT -5
An "expert opinion" column? Renard nearly blushed, all considerations of time evaporant in a trace. Obviously it would not be the first time his words had managed to find some inroad to the Winstone Post, yet to have an entire column dedicated to his musings -- That would be a decades-old dream come true--! But Renard mustered his humility. Whatever his faults, this was a man well in control of his ego. And so he responded: "Oh, no, M. Millsap, I beg you to put any thoughts of featuring me in such a column from your mind. I am no expert in this case! Indeed I can hardly imagine I know very much more than you do. Nevertheless, if you feel compelled to quote me in some inconspicuous paragraph tucked away somewhere, I may be able to offer an opinion..." He sipped the alleged Cafe Noisette, fought back a ghastly wince which he hoped should have been hidden by his moustache, and offered the following. "The Butterfly and I, if I am not mistaken, share a trait in common: we are both of European stock. So, at least, I have been given to understand, for the Butterfly's inaugural thefts took place in Britain, and he spent his early career flitting about the continent before fanning out to new expanses. Now, sirs, I may tell you something about that, having observed much before I arrived here. The legendary criminal of Western Europe is, ah, a beast of a very different cloth" (Renard sensed he was mangling English idioms here, but proceeded) "than comparable figures elsewhere in the world. Our grand outlaws have a certain predilection for showmanship, a tendency toward posturing and to the careful cultivation of style. By comparison, even the highest-ranking villain in the Archipelago, or in America, or elsewhere, is likely to be either a business-minded mobster with his head safely down, or else -- dieu nous en garde! -- a gibbering fiend whose only interest is bloodshed." The Frenchman made another heroic effort upon the alleged Cafe Noisette, and thence gave it up. "This Western European model suits the Butterfly very well, you see," he continued, "and I submit the King of Clubs as another example." One which had caused Renard himself tremendous grievance in his own time... but this was a detail perhaps best withheld from the newsmen's ears. "As to why this difference should arise, who can say? Perhaps there is something in the fact that America and the Archipelago are young, immigrant societies, in contrast to our deeper roots, our old stories and superstitions. Other masterminds fixate upon opportunity alone, whether for profit or for carnage; our masterminds appear determined to generate some lasting cultural impression. Therefore this element of... well, sirs, of play-acting; this promotion of personae rather like characters from literature. "All leading to this observation. The Butterfly has styled himself a semiheroic figure. I am not so sure about that. He purports to steal only from the rich, complacent, deserving, and if I must tell you the truth, I'm afraid I actually find that philosophy quite repugnant. Give me, please, a thief motivated by self-interest alone," (and here he thought again of Mlle. Keigler) "not a moralizing back-alley pundit. However: the Butterfly has thus far made it his tacit creed not to commit murder -- even in scenarios where murdering the victim would have made his burglary considerably easier! -- and I believe that cannot be ignored in this case. I do not say I trust the man, only that if he truly has committed a murder, this would entail a break from his established persona which cannot have come about frivolously. I find it highly implausible he would shed that aspect of his character 'merely' to kill an apparently random policeman. Let me not seem to denigrate M. Odio's memory, but to speculate that the Butterfly would only have felled him with some significant motive, no matter how twisted and cruel. As such, if authority fell to me I would consider it regrettably but absolutely necessary to conduct an inquiry into the person and affairs of Lawrence Odio." OOC: Happy birthday to mee I like Renard again whee
|
|
|
Post by Tout-Perd on Aug 2, 2012 0:18:23 GMT -5
“Put that thing away, Annie Oakley,” Nopcsa demanded, looking the officer in the eye, “I’m unarmed, and pretty much harmless. To be frank, it’s a lot more likely that Poppa Bear over there is going to maul me than vice-a-versa.” He put his hands up to either side, level with his shoulders, and gave a noncommittal shrug. “My power is mind-reading, and yet you people act like I’m going to summon a dragon or something. Seriously? The very worst I can do is steal your grandma’s secret recipes,” Nopcsa sighed, casting his eyes skywards. “Really, pureed kidney beans in the brownies? That’s the best I get out of that one? I mean, that’s just disappointing, buddy,” His glance fell upon the furthest officer, a man with well-groomed sideburns and a strong jawline. The man’s eyes widened for a moment, his lips twitching slightly. “Anyways, I’m Nopcsa, the prosecutor for the Sharpe case. I’m on your side, so all this alarmist japery is really a waste of time for everybody involved. If you’d be so kind, it’d probably be for the best if you all just went back to what you were doing. You know, let Williams here resume his spoken word rendition of ‘One Thing’.” The mentalist swept his arms to either side, the palms still facing outwards, as if to shoo the officers away. “Wait, so you put beans in the brownies and you don’t know about One Direction?” Nopcsa called after the sideburned man, “ Philistine.” He glanced around again, letting the theatricality drain from his posture. The woman had replaced her weapon in the holster, but she hadn’t taken her hand off of it yet. She was looking to the heavily perspiring Williams for direction. The second officer, a tall Hispanic gentleman, was seemingly having a difficult time deciding between blocking Nopcsa’s path, or clearing the way to usher him out of the building. The third and his facial hair had ambled to the end of the hallway. His posture indicated that he was reading a plaque on the wall, but Nopcsa was certain he was standing by in case things neared their boiling point again. “You know what? Just let me just say two things, and then I’ll skedaddle, okay? Then you all can go back to your whole argumentum ad metum deal, and watercooler talks about the viability of tinfoil hats.” Nopcsa slowly extended his arm before him, trying to ensure the motion was nonthreatening, and then began using his fingertips to smooth the wrinkles out of his sleeve. With dismay, he noted a few popped stitches near the seam where Williams had seized him. OOC: Not that dramatic of a post, but I figure Nopcsa has to dial down just a bit so that he doesn't get riddled with bullets. Photu, I believe this extends our plans for this scene by one round or so.
|
|
|
Post by The Evil Biscuit on Aug 19, 2012 20:49:07 GMT -5
Brat's hand moved in a blur, the pencil furiously expelling unintelligible shorthand as it dashed across the notepad. Never once did he look down at his notes.
"Good, good. Tell me this, though, just for clarity. If you believe that the Butterfly is operating by some stern dictum of 'no killing', and that it would be grossly out of character for him to have done just that, even in a moment of desperation - can we then draw the conclusion that the murder was not only purposeful, but premeditated? The evidence certainly supports that the Butterfly had intent and motive to kill, and was not simply cornered, but this would seem to suggest a much larger degree of forethought into the act itself." More scribbling - Brat quickly flipped to a clean page and began to defile it with scribblings.
"Investigate Odio? They're doing plenty of that now. Based on what you've just told me, would you agree with those who would suggest that Larry Odio was involved in affairs that might be viewed as criminal, and that those affairs may have been a contributing factor to his murder?"
This time Harris spoke. "Careful, Brat. Don't lead him."
Brat chuckled, "Relax, Harris. He doesn't have to put that on the record if he doesn't want to." He underlined an indecipherable jot and turned to a clean page.
"One more thing - are you involved in the investigation, officially or otherwise?"
|
|
|
Post by Beelzebibble on Oct 3, 2012 23:20:34 GMT -5
OOC: Part of the following post brought to you by Lee. Hint: It is the part that caused this post to be delayed by about a month!!!!!!!!!!! Renard shifted slightly upon his stool, relieving the keyring from where it had driven up against his hip. “I do believe the attack was premeditated,” he allowed, “but, gentlemen, we must take care to divorce this question from that of the killer’s identity. Even if the Butterfly was merely framed and had no hand in this crime, nonetheless the evidence continues to favor a calculated murder. Recall the Commissioner’s press statement, and his given reason for arresting Antonio Sharpe: the boy had claimed knowledge of the Butterfly’s doings. You, sirs, know, as do the police, as do I, that it was no coincidence for the murder and the meeting with Sharpe to take place concurrently. Only two hypotheses hold merit: either the Butterfly slew M. Odio while his lackey Sharpe taunted the Commissioner’s incompetence, or else a nemesis of the Butterfly learned of Sharpe’s plan to meet M. Williams, and set a trap to ensnare Sharpe – and, ultimately, he should hope, the Butterfly as well.” He paused to tap a few drops of bubble juice into his pipe, lit a match, and was rewarded with a tiny pinkish-gray plume of fumee. Then he remembered his surroundings and glanced toward the counter, at least half-expecting the pockmark-faced employee to bark out an embargo upon smoking, but the youth had disappeared apparently into the backroom, to the consternation of a slowly amassing gaggle of would-be customers. “Both avenues require premeditation, but do they both require M. Odio to have been elected specifically as the lamb for sacrifice? As I have already said, if the Butterfly is indeed our culprit, then we should not expect him to have chosen the victim at random. As for the other branch of possibilities? Perhaps this phantom foe of the Butterfly did indeed have some vendetta against M. Odio as well, and saw here an opportunity to… to get blood out of two birds with one stone. Yet we know nothing of this theorique ill-wisher’s principles – such a man might have no qualms about killing indiscriminately. M. Odio might thus simply have been unlucky enough to tread into his machinations at the worst moment…” Renard blew a wisp of smoke before hastening to add, though in a slightly sterner tone of voice, “Now, sirs, you seem to have some idea that M. Odio may have invited his own demise through illicit activity. I can offer no comment on that, nor did I hope to imply such. I never met M. Odio in life, and rumors of wrongdoing on his part never trickled down to me. I have suggested the idea that he did something to attract attention as a target, but this could quite as easily have been a noble deed as a wicked one. If there is any point on which I must beg that you take care not to misquote me, let it be this…!” Apropos of begging, a muffled thump punctuated Renard’s words and he saw that the dog Micmac had planted its front paws against the storefront, giving a considerable fright to those patrons nearest the window. The dog ducked its snout against the glass impatiently. “Now, sirs,” said Renard, standing up off his stool and picking up the mostly-full cardboard cup, “in response to your last query, I may tell you quite honestly that I have not taken up this investigation in any capacity, official or otherwise. That being said, I am on, ah… something of an assignment, on behalf of the Commissioner. Being that time is of not forgettable import, I hope there is a way for me to ask, without being too impolite, whether we might end this session?” * * * By making an effort against the tense, seething pulse within his head, Williams kept his voice steady and low. “You want to say two things. Good. I have a new best friend for you. A shoulder to cry on. Her name is Mrs. Eschholz and you two are going to get on like a house on fire. You will go downstairs now, and you will say your Two Things to her. She will give me a call and pass them along, assuming, of course, they’re worth a fragment of my time. You and I will not exchange another god damned word.” Mr. Nopcsa nodded, then opened his mouth with a bright expression and a finger raised exaggeratedly. “ This one,” Williams told the three officers, quite a bit more loudly, “is under watch. He is not permitted further into the building than the lobby. He will enter the lobby only to speak with Mrs. Eschholz, after which he will do an about face and leave the premises. Should he attempt to move further into the building than the lobby, he will be arrested on grounds of suspected espionage. Should he be seen to loiter anywhere on the premises, he will be arrested on grounds of suspected espionage. I sure hope he’s listening to me right now and not working on his next witty retort but I am not talking to him, I’m talking to you.” Commissioner Williams pressed one sturdy hand against the mind-reader’s back and shoved him toward the waiting Ramos and Dunn, each of whom took one of his arms. Williams nodded to Gould, who drew out her gun again for good measure, although since the mind-reader didn’t resist, she did not point it at him. “These orders stand indefinitely. Pass them along to the lobby for the time being; I’ll draft a memo. Also, if you get a chance, please thank this man for providing me with a headshot.” Williams jerked a thumb by his side to indicate the paperwork behind him on his desk. “I’m sure he’ll love seeing it pasted on the wall behind the counter.” He had enough time to catch sight of the mind-reader soundlessly mouthing words which looked like You’re welcome!! before Ramos and Dunn hustled him away from the office and down the hallway, with Gould at the front. Williams shouted after them: “And if you can’t get an empty elevator, for God’s sake, take the stairs.” Then he slammed the door shut. After moving about the room slowly and checking the four hidden cameras to ensure that they’d recorded this exchange, he settled down so heavily into his seat as to rattle a clipboard behind his head nearly off its hook. He wanted to lean forward and rest his elbows on the desk, but there was no space to do so without accidentally embossing some stupidly critical document or another. So he instead rolled the chair out a small ways, leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and took stock of his thoughts. The teeming mob had dispersed for the most part, thank the Lord, although there were still a few stragglers kicking around trash on the street. And, in fact, there were several newcomers among them. One was: draft that memo yes If You See This ManAnother was: pen ought to call the pen ought to tell them watch out for him tooAnd another was: You idiot. No. Williams clapped a hand to his face and rubbed his round cheeks. He was not the idiot. Bartholomew Staudt was the idiot. Bartholomew Staudt was the man so steeped in his own little publicity games as to accept a prosecutor like this. Williams could only imagine how the old bastard’s heart must have skipped a beat when he found out who Fascere was offering. What a fine opportunity to pretend he was playing hardball with Antonio Sharpe. What a perfect way to guilt all Staudt’s detractors into changing their tune! “Too bad you forgot,” Williams spoke softly, “that not everyone’s head is as empty as yours. Ain’t that a shame, Bart?” He wondered if he really could just run Staudt straight out of office over this. Putting the mind-reader in contact with those in authority like Williams was not just an act of towering arrogance, but one that potentially endangered the entire city. Yet still the fresh thought repeated: You idiot. Yes, you, you fucking moron.He had been so obvious. Tipped his whole hand. Mind reading or no. He shouldn’t have lost his temper. He shouldn’t have forced the man out of this room, or given orders to his officers with the man still present. Above all else he should not have let his fear show. He should have humored the mind-reader for as long as necessary, looping the Brothers Johnson in his head all the while, and then ushered him out politely. Let him go on thinking Williams was too stupid to notice the risks. Because now, damn it, Nopcsa knew. He knew how much paranoia he’d inspired in the Commissioner. Might as well have just held up a sign saying GO AHEAD AND READ MY MIND, IT IS MY GREATEST FEAR THAT YOU WILL DO SO. And then it occurred to Williams for the first time: god, could he even show up in court tomorrow? Did he dare? Because he could see now that Nopcsa would spend every moment of downtime idly chipping away at Williams’ brain, if not for the profit then out of sheer spite. Would the Commissioner himself be jeopardizing his own city by coming face-to-face with Nopcsa once more? But how long could he possibly have spent here, listening to the mind-reader’s prattle and dredging up, against his will, more confidential knowledge every second? He leaned back into the wheezing leather chair, closed his eyes, and muttered in mild singsong: “Bart, Bart, you stupid old fart, why would you do this to me…” Then the phone rang. He didn’t need to check which light was blinking red to know that it was coming from downstairs. He picked it up, drew it to his ear, and, after a deep breath, said, “Williams here.” “Hello, Commissioner,” came Mrs. Eschholz’s familiar wilting voice. “The prosecutor just spoke to me. He said he eagerly awaits seeing you in court tomorrow, and – well, Commissioner…” “What?” “He asked you to say hello to the girls for him.” Williams slammed the phone down onto the receiver. At once he thought better of this and called Mrs. Eschholz back to apologize. He ascertained from her that Mr. Nopcsa had left the building, and thanked her. Then he slammed the phone back down onto the receiver. He next smacked one of the sagging stacks of documents, the one topped by Nopcsa’s file, off his desk, scattering the papers across the carpet. He seized the arms of the leather rolling chair with the impulse to hoist it through the window, but held back, partially out of doubt that he would do more than put a crack in the triple-reinforced glass, and partially because Officer Gould had reappeared at the door. “Everything okay? I heard shouts…” She trailed off at the sight of the papers on the floor. Williams blinked at her: Had he been shouting? After a moment he shook his head. “I’m fine, Rachel,” he muttered. “No, don’t worry about it, I’ll pick ’em up,” he added, for she had made to retrieve a couple of the files on the floor. He crossed around from behind his desk, but found himself lingering, struggling to remember what he had just said. His breathing was returning, by fits and starts, to normal. Gould took a step back from the door, but did not yet remove herself from the situation. “That guy, huh?” she said quietly. Williams met her eyes. “Yes. That guy.” If she had any parting comment, Williams’ mind was already elsewhere. She at least had the kindness to shut the door again behind her, leaving the Commissioner to stand, slightly slumped, amid the puddles of paper, counting the breaths until he could trust that he would sound relaxed enough to call home and talk to his wife. At twenty-four, he reached down, cleared out a space, sat on the floor with his back against the desk, felt around for his cell phone, realized that it was hanging in a pocket of his jacket on the door, and decided that could wait.
|
|
|
Post by Yoshimitsu on Nov 7, 2012 17:12:27 GMT -5
~*~*~ 3:45pm, Johnson and Johnson Jewellers, City Centre ~*~*~
The trip back to the city centre had been an uneventful one. Since he didn't want to draw attention to himself, or rather imply that he had been around the kid's house by parking his own car in the driveway, he had grabbed a taxi both there and back. The taxi there had been fine, no conversation and a fair tip. The taxi back had been entertaining. The driver had recognised Marshall after a moment or two of thinking, then started sweating. Even years out of the business, Marshall still had that effect on people. If he hadn't cared so much about what his reputation did to criminals, he might have been annoyed. Instead, he just had a private chuckle to himself and stared out the window until they reached the main shopping street. The driver had even knocked a few dollars off the cost of the taxi. Marshall would have forced his money on the driver, but a buck was a buck.
After having to wait for ten minutes for an expert in the jewellers, he found himself sat in an office in the back of the shop. The so-called expert had already spent most of the time staring at the bracelet in confusion, then interest, back to confusion... Once or twice, he looked like he might have had an epiphany. A quick check of the computer at the desk clearly told Marshall that the expert was wrong. He started tapping his finger against the heel of his boot impatiently, glancing around the room. At least three of the certificates on the wall behind the desk were forged. No wonder the guy was such an idiot. After another agonising ten minutes, the 'expert' had finally come across an answer.
"Sorry about the delay, sir," he started. Marshall cut across.
"Every minute yeh just wasted coulda been put toward helpin' find a murderer, pardner," he said bluntly, putting as much harshness in his voice as possible. "Now, if yeh don' have anythin' useful to show me, I'll report yeh fake certificates behind yeh wall. Spit it out."
The man had visibly paled. His fingers were shaking slightly as he handed the bracelet back to Marshall, who swiftly stowed it underneath his poncho.
"S-sorry, sir," the man started again. "It was a little difficult to determine the origin of the bracelet, you see... It, ah, it was brought to us around a decade ago. Completely unique. The man who made the bracelet was a self-proclaimed artist who-"
Marshall snorted. He'd met one too many self-proclaimed artists. One of them was finally behind bars, hopefully for good. Then again, Miss Attorney seemed like she knew what she was up to. He'd have to keep a keener eye on the case form now on. He waved for the man to continue.
"Y-yes, a self-proclaimed artist who only made one-of-a-kind pieces of jewellery. Given the materials, white gold, sapphires, some of which aren't even sapphires but coloured diamonds... We never learned how exactly he coloured the diamonds, and he passed away several years ago so we never had a chance to-"
Marshall tutted loudly, drumming his fingers against his boot again. The man wiped his brow before speaking again.
"Yes a-anyway, we had that item for several years before it was finally purchased. The bracelet was priceless, though we attached a significantly lesser value to it. It was still near the millions mark. No one seemed to want to spend that much, understandably, but we have a job to value things fairly," he explained, an almost pleading look in his eyes. Looked like he wanted Marshall to validate whether he thought was fair or not. All he did was adjust his hat and continue staring. The man let out a little sigh, but continued anyway. "It was around three years ago, we finally sold it. As is our policy, we receive the address of the purchaser and check it is valid before we finalise the purchase. More than once, we've had a drug dealer or a bank robber come in to buy something, why some of them bought anyway I was unsure, but they had no valid address so we refused the sale."
"I'll need that information, pardner," Marshall put bluntly. Even without a detective badge any more, he had learned that a strong enough glare with just enough threat in it could get him what he needed. The man swallowed loudly, the tapped a few keys on the keyboard. A sheet of paper ran through the printer. Marshall took the paper and promptly left, his poncho catching the sudden movement and flaring around him as he did so.
|
|
|
Post by The Evil Biscuit on Jan 2, 2013 21:48:49 GMT -5
Brat's mind moved so fast his hand couldn't keep up, and instead scribbled a mangled attempt at COMMISH~ across the pad and circled the scratchings with a furious flourish. A special assignment, indeed.
"I've got what I need, we won't keep you further." He stood and straightened his back. Harris began making his own attempts to stand, though somewhat more labored. Brat extended his hand and shook Renard's vigorously. "We do appreciate your taking a moment to speak with us - we'll be in touch very soon. You understand." His eyes met Goodman's, and in the space of a breath a very brief and succinct conversation took place. "Excuse us -- we too have an appointment to keep."
--------------
"What was that all about?" Goodman asked as he stuffed himself inside Brat's car.
Brat grinned. "Renard's on special assignment from Commisioner Williams."
"And?"
"Williams despises Renard. There's something else going on here. If the Commissioner's reaching out to Renard -- for anything -- then he's needing help with something he very likely does not want to be involved with directly. And that, my dear Harris, is what we're after."
Goodman massaged his brow hesitantly. "Brat, I really don't -"
"You don't what, Harris? I hope you mean to say you don't want to sit on this and wait until the goddamn Battler gets word from that paralegal they have inside the Justice Department and breaks the story? Or maybe you mean to say you don't want Regan Wilbon and that ridiculous 'news and opinion' aggregate site he runs to get the exclusive and make us look like old men like he did two years ago? We have to move on this before it moves past us."
Harris sighed. "Finished?"
Brat took a breath. "Sure. Look, we need to go get Martinez. And we need to find out what Renard's up to as well. Busy day ahead, Harris. Hungry?"
|
|
|
Post by Beelzebibble on Jan 3, 2013 19:46:13 GMT -5
Quite certain that he would not work his way to the bottom of this cup, Renard debated whether to leave it on the table or deposit it at the counter, and unconsciously resolved the matter in a moment of distraction by handing it to one of the elder ladies standing in line. With a sweep of air, the scents of Demitasse were left behind for the fresh outdoors, and Micmac rushed not to his side but to the bicycle, eager to move once again. His great broom-like tail swept mecaniquement side-to-side and threatened to topple the bicycle into the gutter, but Renard got a firm hand on Micmac's leash as he hoisted himself up onto the seat. At once, however, the beast's onward force strained at Renard's fingers, and within a moment he'd resigned to knotting the leash around a handlebar in order to devote both hands to maintaining his grip. He pedalled uneasily down Chastetree Lane, jerked forward at unpredictable intervals by the excited Micmac. The dog at least had enough sense to trot on the curb, well removed from the automobiles that occasionally wove around the cyclist before surging ahead. As Renard jangled past markets and offices, it occurred to him to hope he might not have said too much to the newspapermen. He had rather let his tongue outpace him. If anything appeared in the Post which M. Williams wouldn't have wished the public to know, the guilt would fall upon Renard's shoulders. But surely he'd offered nothing more than an outsider's opinion—? No, he couldn't honestly say so. It had been une faute to inform M. Millsap that Renard was on an informal assignment from the Commissioner. Renard shook his head, tugging at the leash to egg on a lagging Micmac (the reason for whose uncharacteristic delay was a particularly interesting scent on the pavement). He should have exacted the editor's promise that such a detail would not appear in print... Had it been worth that risk to keep their discussion brief? It would not be, if Renard failed to find Jacob Marshall before the day ended. A bridge loomed overhead, aroar with motors, and after passing through the cool shade beneath he was forced to squint at the sudden appearance of the inclining sun beyond the shorter row of buildings on the other side. Then a force hurled him forward so violently that in the split-second he had before tumbling off the bicycle and onto the ground Renard was certain he must have been struck from behind by an automobile. First a stab of pain in both palms, scraping against the cement, though fortunately preserving his head from the impact. Then a bark like cannonry, followed by another, and a seizing of breath when he understood why the second bark sounded much farther off than the first. When the stars cleared from Renard's vision, it was to see that the leash had slipped neatly from its handlebar and that the dog trailing this leash had rocketed down the sidewalk with one deafening bark after another. "Micmac!" Renard managed in a gasping shout, for his lungs had taken a forcible winding in the fall. The dog gave no evidence of hearing him. From an automobile up ahead there came a honk which Renard took to be in sympathy, but neither did that halt Micmac in his tracks. It did, however, startle the creature Renard now saw the dog to be chasing: a small furry animal, either a squirrel or a cat. He glimpsed it for only an instant before the prey swerved into an alley, closely pursued. Renard staggered to his feet, ignoring the palpitant pain in his hands, called "Micmac!" again, and took several steps down the sidewalk before remembering the fallen bicycle. When he picked it up it became significantly more difficult to ignore the palpitant pain in his hands. Heaving for air, Renard knew there was no question of riding the bicycle in this state, so he instead hurried down the sidewalk, approximating the act of running as closely as he could, with the bicycle spinning along beside him. His silent entreaty went unanswered, for there was no dead end in the narrow alleyway, which opened out onto the next street over. Renard stood there for a desperate moment to catch his bearings before he started down the alley and almost immediately ran the bicycle into a pile of trash bags. By the time he had emerged on the other side to Westring Street, the dog and his prey had disappeared. "Micmac!" Renard cried, but this would be the last time he could manage it, for his heart felt as if it had ground to a halt. The street, lined with apartments rather than businesses, was empty but for two long rows of parked cars on either side; there was no one to ask. Renard struggled along for almost a block before he gave up and deposa himself upon a front step. He listened intently for another bark, then almost cursed aloud a passing van making far more noise than should have been permitted of any contraption outside a factory. The van disappeared; no bark followed; Renard sat trapped in thought. OOC: Now you know why, close to a year ago, I wrote in another post that Micmac's razor-sharp discipline under Channery had eroded under Renard. It was for precisely no other reason than to foreshadow this development. Hey, tooting my own literary horn sure is fun, I should start a Formspring or something.
|
|