[Izzy Montoya] Chicago needs cops. Good cops. That’s always been the case, and even more so now with the recent rash of oddities that the cops can’t/shouldn’t know about. Which means that Chicago also needs cops like Izzy: unafraid to stick their neck out, unafraid to deftly slip something under the counter, shred something, delete a file, “misplace” some key bit of something, change “fomori bane bastard” to “rage roided freak” – everyday things. Despite what went down before she left Chicago last time – Izzy is very good at her job.
Which is why she survives on Coffee and Whiskey and Takeout. Not necessarily in that order. Right now, it’s coffee, and which explains why she’s stepping out of yet another coffee shop, swirling the lidded coffee cup in her hand absently to shake up it’s contents a bit. She takes a sip, and arches her back suddenly pulling the cup down so quickly that she almost spills it as she swallows. “Holy Mary mother of fuck, that’s hot!”
And then she takes a second sip anyway – if a little more carefully.
[Good little girl, Izzy is not.]
[Imogen] The redhaired kinwoman stands beneath the shelter of an alcove, a cigarette held between two fingers, her vibrant hair quenched by the shadow of night. There are several street lights on this block – all of them are ghostly figures in the fog, casting dispersed and diffused light streetword, the mist hanging up in the air like heavy smoke, lifting and growing thicker toward the rooftop of the buildings, and melding skyward until it cannot be distinguished from clouds.
There is a cheap Volvo at the curb, looking entirely out of place in this end of town, and perhaps the source of rather a rather unpleasant and rough-edged rattle that Montoya heard while she had waited in line for her caffeine.
The doctor’s dressed in slacks, a black wool coat open over a cream blouse, a dark blue scarf slung carelessly about her neck, more for art than warmth. Her eyebrow arches slightly at the explosive epithet, before lifting the cigarette back to her lips, taking a long drag.
“Best yeh burn yer tongue first, Detective,” she advises, smiling slightly – an expression that comes easily across her face for all the fact it is more an act than genuine kindness. “It hides the taste.”
[Izzy Montoya] Izzy looks like you’d expect her too, most likely. Dark slacks, a light colored blouse, tailored to fit her slim form, with a leather suit-styled jacket over it all. The jacket is unbuttoned, her badge pocketed and out of sight, and the bulge occasionally seen at the small of her back clearly the place she prefers to holster her weapon. Her hair is dark, and wavy, her eyes just as dark, with the spark of keen intelligence and awareness deep in the depths of brown. She’s no great beauty that the guys would speak of for hours and hours, but she’s not wholly unattractive, either. Built for endurance, perhaps – not comfort.
Unlike the redhead standing in the alcove who is the type of beauty odes and battle songs are written about.
Izzy smirks, slightly, lips curving easily into preferred expression with lopsided ease. She lilts a hand and wipes under her lip briefly, before rubbing her fingers on the thigh of her slacks. “So they say.” A beat, as she studies Imogen. “You look familiar – we met? Sorry if so and I forgot – just got back to town and my minds a bit on the fritz…”
[Imogen] Her nod is absent, unoffended as she lowers her cigarette to tap ash toward the grey sidewalk.
“Not formally. I work at th’cook county medical examiner’s office. I was in th’autopsy suite when yeh dropped by t’talk wi’ Doctor Nicholson,” she says, referring to a colleague.
She switches the cigarette from one hand to the other, and offers a pale, slender hand in the police officer’s directon, “Doctor Imogen Slaughter. A pleasure.”
[Izzy Montoya] A brow quirks slightly, an she nods as it clicks into place. She switches her coffee to the other hand, and slides her hand into Imogen’s. There’s strength there, in the greeting, but not a deliberate show of it. It’s the shake of a female that clawed herself up through what many still find to be a male dominated field. It likely explains her language too. Maybe.
“Ah, alright. Detective Izzy Montoya. Pleasure’s mine.” She reclaims her hand and leans a hip against the railing, and takes another sip of the scalding swill they call coffee here. “Slaughter…” Another beat. “You worked that Day of the Day case, right? The fuckin’ roid freak with the little dude with fuckin’ fangs?”
[Imogen] Imogen’s grip is cool and firm in Izzy’s. They may, perhaps be considered two sides of the same coin. Male dominated fields, law-enforcement. Montoya is blue-collar, Imogen, the product of decades of schooling. Izzy is strong, fit. Imogen slight, delicate boned, the strength hidden beneath her skin.
They are perhaps not so alike.
“Hm.” The sound is one of affirmation. “I would imagine that’s a case that I’ll be remembered for, for a while. S’not often we see genuine circus freaks in Chicago.”
[Izzy Montoya] “They’re all fuckin’ freaks, in some way. Just some obvious than others.” Sounds like she knows first hand – or is simply more jaded than most. “Had one dude down in Miami? Thought he was a fuckin’ croc or some shit – all tattoo’d and pierced to high heaven. Liked to swim around in a lagoon an’ bite the swimmers – rolling them underwater n’shit so they drowned. Even had his teeth filed down to look more ‘authentic'”
At least, that’s the story she sold the press, her superiors – on top of the lies that were told when the body was never able to be fully recovered from the lagoon for complete autopsy and identification purposes.
Convenient, that.
[Imogen] Imogen’s breath exhales, a silent expression, her head shaking slightly as she lifts her cigarette to her mouth. She takes a deep inhale, filling her lungs.
“Charming,” she observes.
[Izzy Montoya] “Utterly.” she says with a smirk.
She watches the street for a few, swallowing a mouthful of coffee as she tucks her free hand into her pocket. “Ever worked with John Thornton?”
[Imogen] Imogen’s eyebrow arches slightly. “A time or two,” she answers. “Why?”
[Izzy Montoya] She chuckles briefly. “No real reason. He was my partner back in the day when we worked the beat. Good guy. Needs to sleep more.” A lazy shrug, as she looks back to Imogen.
“Just makin’ conversation.”
[Imogen] “Don’t we all.”
Just making conversation, Izzy adds, and Imogen nods slightly, glancing up at a tow truck as it makes its way down the street. This, appears, is expected. She drops her cigarette and crushes it out beneath her shoe before stepping away from the alcove.
“You’ll ha’ t’ excuse me,” she says a little dryly, “My ride is here.”
And with that, she steps out toward the curb to meet the truck, which will take both doctor and Volvo away. The former, home. The later to a mechanic who will recommend to the good doctor that she junk it. She won’t.
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, slightly, as she watches the tow-truck arrive. “Have a good one, Doc.”
She watches for a few moments, and then with a look at the sky, she steps out from under the awning, and begins the walk toward home. Shoulda moved home in the Summer. That’s what she shoulda done.