[Izzy Montoya] She had promised she’d call – and so she did. And arranged a meeting at Joe’s, promising it’d be quick. Joe’s would be another in a long line of hole in the wall bars that Izzy has been known to frequent, though this one is by far the best one of the bunch – polished wood, clean bar and floor, clientele that doesn’t look like they’d rather kill you than see you but they are perfectly willing to ignore you. The best of all worlds.
Izzy arrived and took a table near the door. She’s a beer in front of her, another one across from her, condensation dripping down the mug as it awaits it’s doom at the hands of a fiery haired Fianna kin. THe phone call went something like this:
“S’Izzy. That favor? Need to ask you about something, and see if you can have it tested. Meet me at Joe’s?”
Simplicity at it’s best.
[Imogen] Imogen is brief, and Izzy is not one for extended conversations either. There is enough space for Imogen’s pause however, on the edges of Izzy’s request.
“I should be there in about fifteen,” she says, the tap computer keys an undercurrent to her voice.
In the end, it is more like twenty-five, however, she does not apologize when she approaches. Imogen moves through the bar easily, navigating around patrons and servers with familiarity. She has never been in this bar but she’s been in hundreds like it. The occupancy, the close, personal space.
She is a little well dressed for a place like this – as evidenced by more than appreciative glance or two by patrons. A slight, redhaired woman dressed in charcoal slacks, and shoes that are worth more than the take home pay of some, and unweathered, porcelain skin does not fit in here. She wears a woollen coat, and does not remove it as she takes her seat, picking up the beer glance, lifting it without yet drinking from it.
“Ta,” she says. It is not a greeting, but it is genuine.
A beat. “What can I do fer you?”
[Izzy Montoya] “Evenin.” It’s as much a greeting as anyone gets, but it’s no less genuine. Izzy leans forward, her hand wrapped around her mug. she hasn’t taken her coat off either, though it has been unbuttoned, and pushed open, giving her unrestricted movement. “Thanks for coming.” That too, is genuine, even if Imogen can’t help her with this.
“I’ve been transferred to the 13th. Temporarily.” It’s said in a voice that suggests it had BETTER be temporary, of course. “They’re numbers are better than ours, and I’ve already discovered why. It’s dozens of cases, bagged and tagged, without care for why or the real truth behind it.” This gets her ire up more than anything. Wrongful imprisonment is a cardinal sin, as far as Detective Montoya is concerned.
“Anyway, there’s a case, and they’ve already decided it’s suicide.” Here, she pauses. Then, with quiet conviction. “It’s not.” a beat. “But I’m pretty sure it’s also not one I can’t set them on the trail of, if you get my meaning. Which brings me to the favor – they say he OD’d on heroine. I don’t think that’s what it was. Do you have access to somewhere to test the needle for me on the downlow?”
She gives no indication of why she knows any of what she knows, either. Imogen has seen her pull answers out of thin air before. She hasn’t asked how – so Izzy hasn’t told.
[Imogen] She regards the other as she speaks, her gaze even. Her eyebrow arches slightly as the detective speaks of cases that are bagged and tagged, her eyebrow arching. The expression does not denote surprise, except perhaps at the fact that Montoya is surprised, or even perturbed by this fact.
“I can,” she says, “but why d’yeh suspect it might be something else?”
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, and reaches into the inside pocket of her coat, pulling out an evidence bag containing the needle, wrapped up in a handkerchief to further conceal what’s inside. she slides it across the table, and then with a bemused expression.
“Because I heard it.” Which explains nothing. Once Imogen takes the needle, she scrubs her face with her hand, and drags her fingers through her hair, before she continues. “It’s a long story – one I don’t tell most folks, but I’ll give you the highlights.” There is trust, implied there, and not given lightly. Her voice is quiet when she continues, lost to all but Imogen under the general din of the bar.
“Some bad shit went down in Florida, and as a result, an old Godi taught me a trick.” A gift, she means. “If I concentrate, I can hear.. well, echoes, of shit that happened before. Nothing past a week old, an’ that’s a deluge of information to pick apart. But usually a day, at least.” She shrugs, slightly. “I heard him die. And it wasn’t Heroine, an’ it wasn’t suicide.”
The gift is, however, the reason her closure rate AND conviction rate are the highest in the 25th Precinct, though.
[Imogen] The way the doctor takes the needle is careful. She plucks it by the barrel, holding the kerchief in place. She turns away, twisting at the hips to deposit the needle in her purse hooked over the back of the chair.
She turns back, her eyebrow lifting once more as Montoya speaks. The police officer explains her trick, and after a moment, the eyebrow lowers, settles. She does not focus on this, as intriguing as it is.
“What was it yeh heard?”
[Izzy Montoya] She takes a swallow or four of her beer, letting her thoughts settle, sifting through the memory, before she gives the bullet points once more. “He was a junkie – most likely. Joe Matthews is the name. Someone came to the door, he freaked out. Didn’t want to let them in. Sounded like a struggle, than a crack of wood against flesh – he had bruises. I have pictures. The other voice said he needed to be in treatment, that soon he’d go into withdrawels and he’d be back. He screamed. Said they weren’t gonna ‘put that shit in’ him again. Then started screaming that he could feel it in him. The other person just kept saying it was court ordered, that he needed treatment, that they were doing it the kind way. He said he’d call a lawyer, then…”
A pause, and she closes her eyes. She is a Homicide Detective, and knowing this secret, knowing how she knows what she knows, it’s not hard to imagine she has listened to murder after murder after murder after murder. And she is not yet hardened to them – not after what she’s heard, after what she’s experienced herself. It explains her drinking, most likely. Her smoking certainly. and she reaches for her cigarettes, and shakes one free, simply holding it, for now. “Sounded like he choked on his own tongue. Then the sound of heels across the hardwood, and the door closing.”
[Imogen] Her dark eyes are intent on Detective Montoya as she speaks, her expression even. When she’s finished, Imogen straightens her jacket, lifting up the pint glass for several swallows. It is clear she is about to leave, the way her posture changes, moving her weight forward onto her feet.
“Ha’ you got a case number?” she asks.
If Montoya’s answer is no, the doctor requests she get it for her. If she does, the doctor takes it down. Either way, she gets to her feet, picking up the glass for two more deep swallows, and setting it back with finality.
“I’ll let you know what I find out,” she says. “We’ll go from there.”
She picks up her purse, drawing it up over her arm. “Thanks fer the drink.”
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, and pulls out her notebook from an inner pocket, and gives Imogen the case number. Then, she finishes her beer and stands as well.
“Thanks, Imogen. I appreciate it.” And she does. She digs out her wallet, and pays for the drinks, before she buttons up her coat. It’s time for that cigarette.