[Izzy Montoya] 123 not me!
[John Thornton] Chinatown was all hustle and bustle, even this time of night… In spite of the chill rain that poured down upon them from the sky above, the streets were packed with residents, peddlers, and others on the street for various reasons.
One man, a man who had just left the pouring rain without, sat on a bar stool in a quiet bar in Chinatown. A glass sat before him, ice cubes floating in amber liquid, as a thin bead of smoke meandered steadily toward the cigarette resting in the ash tray before him.
The bartender ignored the man, the man who obviously didn’t want to be bothered, who obviously didn’t want to talk about his problems, who likely wouldn’t be leaving him a good tip. The man on the stool obliged by not asking for attention… He just rested his forehead on his palm, his elbow upon the bartop, his eyes ringed in darkness like a masquerade ball mask…
[Izzy Montoya] It took some doing to find him, all told, but she’s a damn good detective. And has his phone number. The door to the bar opens, and she steps inside, and gives her eyes a second to adjust to the dim light inside. He’s not hard to find, and she’s almost impossible to miss. A Shadowlord told her that her look screams ‘cop’, and it’s true. Dark slacks, a tailored blouse under a suit-styled leather jacket. More than that, though it’s the look in her eye – constant vigilance, and the way she holds herself. IF not a cop, then certainly someone who doesn’t take much shit, yet hands out an awful lot of it.
She makes her way to the bar, peeling leather gloves off her fingers. It’s getting colder already, and she misses the Miami sun something fierce. She’d forgotten how miserable it gets in the winter in Chicago, and the city is seeing fit to remind her – quickly.
Be that as it may, soon enough she slaps the glvoes onto the bar next to John, and takes a stool. She points at his glass when the bartender catches her eye, ordering the same for herself without saying a word, before she looks at the cigarette, and up to John.
“Thought you quit.”
[John Thornton] “I did…”
And with that, he takes a swig of the amber liquid. As the bartender serves Izzy, she discovers all too quickly that it is scotch… Simple hard liquor, with naught but ice to dull the sharpness of the taste.
As the hazel eyes turn to her, it’s clear he still hasn’t slept. Or if he has, the sleep has been disturbed. For the circles about his eyes are as dark as ever they have been. In the dim lighting, hazel eyes seem a dim gray…
[Izzy Montoya] “Good. Glad it’s working for you.” She takes her drink, and well, it’s not whiskey, but it’s liquor, and that’s all that matters. She takes a drink, and reaches for the bowl of pretzles down the way, and munches a moment, silently.
Then she lifts her head to meet his gaze evenly, her eyes dark and snapping with intelligence. “So how about you tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help.” Especially now that he knows what he is, what she is.
He’s why she came home, after all.
[John Thornton] John takes another drink of scotch, the ice cubes dancing as the tumbler tilts to slake his thirst. Then, after setting the tumbler on the bar, he loosens his tie just a little bit more. He almost seems to be delaying saying anything at all… Almost as though he didn’t want to deal with it. As though he wasn’t ready to say what he thought, in light of what he already knew.
When he starts, it isn’t about Maija that he speaks… At least, not at first. His words are hesitant but concise…
“Once upon a time… A man named John met a woman named Mrena. But she was more than a woman… In a way that you and I know all too well.
He found himself attracted to her, they dated… Things began to get serious. Then, she died… And John found himself all alone in a way he never dreamt possible.
He fell into the bottle for a long time, as a way to cope with the dreams… So real, so vivid… He was never entirely sure what was the dream and what was real.
Time passed… John crawled out of the bottle. And he met an unlikely woman named Maija. She is more than she seems… More than anyone realized, unless you take the time to get to know her.
John started to spend time with her, to see her socially… To visit her at her home from time to time. Things started to get serious…
And now, she’s disappeared.”
With that, John takes a deep drag of the cigarette, tapping the end lightly on the edge of the ash tray to clear it, as he continues.
“It’s happening all over again. And there’s nothing John can do to stop it.”
[Izzy Montoya] She listens, picking apart the pretzels one by one, and chewing them quietly, contemplatively, as he speaks. She gives him all the time he needs to work the thoughts into words, words he doesn’t want to say out loud, but that he has too. He admits to falling into the bottle – something she had heard – and crawling out. She says nothing that he chooses scotch tonight as his drug of choice. She has never stopped drinking – though once back in the day he begged her too. At least he got her to learn her limit, something she has difficulty with in any other fashion.
“Jesus, John.” She nods her understanding, as he trails off at the end, yet doesn’t say anything at all, not for a long moment. She turns so she can face him, and studies his profile, the exhaustion in his eyes, his form. “I know it sounds fuckin’ trite? But I understand. So What is this the reason for that ABP on that car the other day?” Though she suspects she already knows the answer.
“Any leads?” Clearly, she’s decided to help, that quickly. Sometimes, the cure is to simply keep moving, at least at first.
[John Thornton] “A few…”
John takes another deep drag on the cigarette, the smoke drifting from him lazily, dancing about the mop of brown hair, brushing the tip of his nose. Then, after replacing the cigarette in the ash tray, he turns to her, meeting her gaze before continuing.
“Look… This… … You’re probably better off not getting involved. I may already be too late; I don’t know what I’ll do if I am. But if it ends badly, you won’t want to be involved…
Even if it doesn’t… I may end up suspended over this…”
He then takes his tumbler of scotch on the rocks in hand, and finishes the scotch part. The empty tumbler is placed upon the table, as the now-gray-eyed gaze returns to her.
“You’re better off not involved. Safer…”
[Izzy Montoya] She chuckles softly, wryly. “You always did try to protect me.”
She drops her gaze to the pretzel in her hand, that she’s tearing up between her fingers, as if she’s trying to come to some sort of decision. She drops the pretzel to the napkin, and dusts her fingers off as she thinks long and hard about what she’s about to say. Finally, her voice soft, she questions. “Remember the fuckin’ McCleary case?”
He should. It was the case she was working on that got her demoted, that had her leaving town. He never new the details, not all of them. She never told him any of it – one of many, many things she kept from him.
“That asswipe, McCleary? Official record was that he was that he murdered a gal, cut’er up an’ left her for dead. That’s not what happened though.” She takes a breath, and starts shedding a bar napkin between nimble fingertips as she talks, her voice soft, pitched carefully to reach only him under the din of the bar.
“He’d been systematically killin off folks like me n you. He’d find ’em, an’ skin’em, piece by mother fuckin’ piece – alive. I got wind of it all by accident really, but once I confirmed it was goin’ on, I sent word to the True, so they could deal with’im. But they fucked it up, an didn’t fuckin’ clean up their mess all the way – and he almost escaped. They got in a hurry, an’ left me in the center of a shitstorm. Remember the stakeout? It was a diversion, t’keep the force off the True so they could take care of it, an’ they fucked it up. He had some fuckin’ gift an’ a buncha friends they ain’t expect and poof – shithole city. Then, instead a one guy that’d be disposed of, I suddenly got two bodies an’ buckets of blood – and one metis – that I gotta get cleaned up an’ gone, an fast.”
A beat. “I wasn’t fast enough. Got everything but fuckin’ McCleary out an’ gone, and there I am, covered in’ blood, gun in hand, that the fuckin GlassWalker had shot him with – an McCleary with a bullet in the brainpain. Took some serious strings pulled, stories told, money crossin hands by true an’ kin alike – an’ in the end, the promise that’d I’d accept a demotion and transfer for a few years until the case went completely cold.”
She looks at him, then, and nods. “An’ my one condition was that you’d not know a fuckin bit of the real back story, an’ I’d take th’fall completely on my own. So yeah, John. It’d probably be safer? But I been doin this a long ass time. So how bout ya just not worry about me, and tell me whatcha got – an we’ll find out what happened to ya girl.”
[John Thornton] “Izzy…”
John just watches her for a time, trying to frame ideas into words, vaguely understood concepts that were more primal than the higher brain functions.
“… Thanks.”
He finishes the scotch, leaving the tumbler and cubes on the table, before taking the cigarette in hand again. He places it in his mouth and takes a deep drag… Before taking it from his lips to tap the ash into the ashtray.
“She left me a message that said she’d return home the night of her disappearance. A friend was sick and needed her help. I waited there until morning, when she didn’t return.
I’ve got the car she took to get where she was going, and I’ve searched it. I’ve got a strand of hair and several sets of prints to be analyzed on a hush-hush basis.
I’ve also been in the house in front of which it was parked. The place was burned… Arson. I’ve read the fire report, and I found personal effects that I believe belong to Maija.
I also canvassed the neighborhood; some of the neighbors were kind enough to try to help.
I know who I need to talk to next… I just have to find them.”
((All of this is per rolls made with Paws witnessing today))
[Izzy Montoya] She listens, as he lists off what he knows, what he’s found out, and the steps he’s taken so far. She nods, slightly, and continues to shred the bar napkin into tiny pieces between her fingers, simply keeping her hands busy why she lets it all sink in.
“Personal effects – purse, bag, anything like that?” He knows who he needs to talk to next, and she runs her fingers through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. “Any ideas on how to fuckin’ find this person? If you got a description I can help track’em down.”
The cursing seems to be second nature. She certainly hasn’t changed. “Also – if ya want me too, I can check out the house, see if I find anything ya missed.”
[John Thornton] John seems to consider this, and then shakes his head. He taps his glass, and the bartender approaches after a short time, and refills the scotch.
John remains silent, until after the bartender leaves again, before answering Izzy.
“No…”
He sighs, before taking a swig of the scotch.
“Even if this doesn’t mean the end of my badge, I may well be taken to task for what happens as a result of this…
They tried to cover it up. They tried everything they could do, not only to forestall the police, but to forestall other garou. To forestall kin.
It makes them complicit in the actions, don’t you see? They’re hiding how she died, which means they may well be responsible for it.
Or that they are protecting the one who is…
Whatever the case, the Nation won’t care… She didn’t have a tribe elder to go to, as far as I know. She didn’t have a garou to handle her interactions with those born True…
I can’t allow that. If it is indeed as I suspect…”
John pauses, unable to finish. Instead, he takes the cigarette in his hands, and takes a deep drag. As he tamps out the end of the cigarette and releases the smoke from his lungs, his expression becomes terrible.
It smacked of Hellfire and brimstone, of judgement and punishment… And in that moment, were Izzy to know his father, she would recognize that look. The garou nation had seen it before, upon a visage not so unlike John’s own. The garou nation had seen it, upon the face of “Hanging Judge” Thornton… Forseti to the Get of Fenris… One known for his hard line against those who transgressed the Litany.
“There will be justice.”
((Give me perception + empathy, diff = 6 please))
[Izzy Montoya] (per+empathy)
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 4, 4, 6, 6, 9, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) Re-rolls: 2
[John Thornton] Somehow, something in the look in John’s eyes… One would have little doubt just what justice was in store once John finished his investigation. Justice would come from the barrel of a gun; he clearly intends to kill whomever caused Maija’s death.
Without regard to the personal cost to himself.
In his eyes was the fury of a Get of Fenris, a tribe renowned among tribes for carrying out punishments against those who transgressed against their even well extended families. In his eyes was the righteous indignation of a man who believed in the Law, and who, in thinking it would be circumvented for other gains, was willing to execute the Law in a manner he saw fit.
[Izzy Montoya] She watches him as he talks – and tries to protect her even still. He’s hell bent for revenge in a way that would make their ancestors proud, in a way that justifies their shared Tribe, the fury and vengeance that is second nature to the Fenrir. She doesn’t say anything for a long moment as she studies him, and then nods, slightly.
“You think the Trueborn killed her, and are protecting themselves from retribution?” She takes a slow breath, and then nods.
“Ya need t’take me to the fuckin’ house. Jus’… Ya need to. If that’s where they fuckin’ did it, I might can get ya the proof ya need – but only if ya get me there soon enough. It won’t be proof to anyone else, but it’ll be enough so’s you know what your really lookin for.” A beat, and she levels a even gaze on him, steady and intent. “Thing is… ya gotta promise me somethin’ if I do.”
She waits, a beat, to make sure she has his attention. “Make sure ya get the whole story before ya do something fuckin’ stupid. You haven’t been mired in this shit as long as I have, and ya gotta make sure you have the whole of it before ya act. Then, if ya need to go through with what you’re fuckin plannin already, I’ll cover your ass as best I can.”
[Izzy Montoya] A pause, and then. “Wait – how long’s it been…”
[John Thornton] “She disappeared on the night of the 19th… Eight days.”
John takes a swig of the scotch in the glass, and then counts on his fingers as if to verify the accuracy of the statement. Then, his eyes turn to her.
“I intend to find out, Izzy. It does me no good to do anything until I know for certain who the perpetrator is. If I don’t know it all, I can’t ever be sure that what I’m fuckin’ plannin’ already was done to the right person.”
He takes another swig, finishing the scotch… A slow and steady flush of red beginning to creep into his complexion ever more steadily as the alcohol hits his bloodstream.
“But I can’t let you help me with this. If I do, you might do something like trying to protect me after, and I won’t ruin your career, or your life, over something I’ve done.
No, I’ll handle it on my own. That’s just how it has to be this time.”
He taps the glass again, and the bartender nods, while finishing up a mixed drink.
“No… right now, what I need from you, is a safe ride home, and your silence. I’m in no condition to drive right now, and if I’m wrong on that… Such things can be remedied.”
[Izzy Montoya] “Shit, too long.” She’s pushed the limits before, but a week is all she has managed before.
She could argue. She could point out that he could ruin his own life, his own career, by doing what he’s obviously planning. He is angry, he wants justice, and he wants it in the most traditionally Fenrir way possible. She scrubs her hands over her face, and sighs. When the bartender offers to refill her glass, she shakes her head no, and doesn’t finish the one she has. She’s just become designated driver. That much she can do.
“Alright, John.” She agrees. Ride home, and silence for what he’s planning. For now she can keep both of those. And after that, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Change of subject, then. “Met one of the forensic pathologists – said she knew you. Dr. Slaughter?” A beat. “Ain’t figured out though if she one of ours?” It feels odd still to be able to ask him that, here and now, after so many years hiding such things from him.
[John Thornton] “Yes…”
The bartender refills John’s scotch, and walks back to the other end of the bar. A group of young women had just entered; they were obviously better company than John this night.
“She’s claimed by one of ours named Decker. I’m not certain where he is now, but I understand he was the ranking member of our social group for a time.”
He takes a swig of scotch.
“She seems okay from what I know of her, but admittedly, I don’t know her that well.”
[Izzy Montoya] She nods, slightly. “Decker – Silence, right? I kept my ear to the ground here even while I was gone, in case I got to fuckin’ come back n shit.”
She grabs another handful of pretzels, and munches slowly, letting them soak up what little she’s already had to drink, so that she’ll remain crystal clear – while he does his best to dull his senses completely. “Anyone else on th’force I should know bout? Or jus’ in general? We used t’have this network n shit back in the day, made it a lot easier to figure out who was who. Aside from the big tall an’ pissy’s.”
It’s said with that lopsided smirk that rests so easily and comfortably on her lips. She watches the ‘Tender and the girls at the end of the bar, uses the mirror behind the bar to scan the room, and then her attention returns to John.
[Izzy Montoya] (pause!)