Post by skybright on Feb 14, 2006 15:30:28 GMT -5
Daws arrived at the office early that morning, as she always did; she searched the street around the careworn storefront carefully for any sign of observation before she unlocked the outer door, retrieved the newspaper from the corner of the doorway, and slipped inside.
She tossed the paper casually onto the coffee table, where it jostled aside a coverless paperback copy of The Thin Man, and watered the listless house plants that lined the front windowsill -- taking the opportunity to search the street again. Satisfied that nobody was watching the office -- not yet, anyway -- she unlocked the inner door that bore her name and stepped inside.
The fedora found its way to the customary perch on top of Shakespeare's head on the bookcase, and she draped her trenchcoat over one of the visitor's chairs, rubbing absently at her right shoulder. The injury from her encounter with the 'spooks' a few nights ago had finally faded, leaving only a ghostly stiffness. She stowed her casebook in the locked bottom drawer of the desk, leaned back in her chair, and settled in to do some thinking.
Daws hadn't returned to the office yesterday after her meeting with Alex Malone and Dr. Van Linden; she'd wanted Tiernan's goons to have a shot at searching the place without her walking in on them. She never left anything incriminating about current cases lying around; but it didn't matter much either way. Nobody had been in the offices of Grimalkin, Inc. since she'd left with Alex Malone the night before last; nobody had even left a message on the office machine. She supposed that was comforting, in its way.
Instead she'd killed yesterday by wandering the seedier parts of the City, the network of neighborhoods that were taking on the nickname "Mutietown". Daws doubted it would ever have the staying power of "Hell's Kitchen" or "The Bowery", but the name was apt enough. She'd dropped in and out of a few mutant-run businesses she was familiar with -- not asking any questions, just trying to get a feel for the atmosphere, for who might be in league with Tiernan and who might be interested in doing a little pushing against the financier.
It hadn't been particularly productive; but it had given her a chance to let things brew a bit. If she came on too eager to help (or too offended by Carolyn Rosenstein's death) Tiernan was going to smell the proverbial rat. And she herself had needed a break from being wrapped up in the tangled web that spun between Tiernan, Malone, the Paragon Club, and Doctor Van Linden. Jack had always told her the best thing for a case you couldn't make sense of was to let it alone for a day or so.
But the day was up, and Daws was right back on the case this morning. Not that what she had now was exactly a mystery -- the only puzzle involved, really, was how to pin Tiernan without getting pinned herself.
Daws figured she'd need caffeine before she tackled that one. She stood, started the coffeemaker going with some Blue Kona (she'd never admit it, but she had a weakness for really good coffee) and ducked back into the outer office to retrieve the newspaper. She took the chance to check once more through the front window -- still nobody watching, and boy she was getting paranoid in her old age -- before returning to the inner office.
Having poured herself a cup of coffee, Daws returned to her seat at the desk and unfolded the paper. She'd barely had time to skim the headline -- Medical Examiner Sought In Morgue Slaying -- and to let the accompanying feeling of cold dread settle into her chest at the sight of Van Linden's grainy photograph -- when the phone rang.
Daws took a quick drink of coffee -- though it did nothing to alleviate that cold feeling -- before she snatched the telephone reciever up.
"Grimalkin Investigations, Inc. What can we do for you?"
She tossed the paper casually onto the coffee table, where it jostled aside a coverless paperback copy of The Thin Man, and watered the listless house plants that lined the front windowsill -- taking the opportunity to search the street again. Satisfied that nobody was watching the office -- not yet, anyway -- she unlocked the inner door that bore her name and stepped inside.
The fedora found its way to the customary perch on top of Shakespeare's head on the bookcase, and she draped her trenchcoat over one of the visitor's chairs, rubbing absently at her right shoulder. The injury from her encounter with the 'spooks' a few nights ago had finally faded, leaving only a ghostly stiffness. She stowed her casebook in the locked bottom drawer of the desk, leaned back in her chair, and settled in to do some thinking.
Daws hadn't returned to the office yesterday after her meeting with Alex Malone and Dr. Van Linden; she'd wanted Tiernan's goons to have a shot at searching the place without her walking in on them. She never left anything incriminating about current cases lying around; but it didn't matter much either way. Nobody had been in the offices of Grimalkin, Inc. since she'd left with Alex Malone the night before last; nobody had even left a message on the office machine. She supposed that was comforting, in its way.
Instead she'd killed yesterday by wandering the seedier parts of the City, the network of neighborhoods that were taking on the nickname "Mutietown". Daws doubted it would ever have the staying power of "Hell's Kitchen" or "The Bowery", but the name was apt enough. She'd dropped in and out of a few mutant-run businesses she was familiar with -- not asking any questions, just trying to get a feel for the atmosphere, for who might be in league with Tiernan and who might be interested in doing a little pushing against the financier.
It hadn't been particularly productive; but it had given her a chance to let things brew a bit. If she came on too eager to help (or too offended by Carolyn Rosenstein's death) Tiernan was going to smell the proverbial rat. And she herself had needed a break from being wrapped up in the tangled web that spun between Tiernan, Malone, the Paragon Club, and Doctor Van Linden. Jack had always told her the best thing for a case you couldn't make sense of was to let it alone for a day or so.
But the day was up, and Daws was right back on the case this morning. Not that what she had now was exactly a mystery -- the only puzzle involved, really, was how to pin Tiernan without getting pinned herself.
Daws figured she'd need caffeine before she tackled that one. She stood, started the coffeemaker going with some Blue Kona (she'd never admit it, but she had a weakness for really good coffee) and ducked back into the outer office to retrieve the newspaper. She took the chance to check once more through the front window -- still nobody watching, and boy she was getting paranoid in her old age -- before returning to the inner office.
Having poured herself a cup of coffee, Daws returned to her seat at the desk and unfolded the paper. She'd barely had time to skim the headline -- Medical Examiner Sought In Morgue Slaying -- and to let the accompanying feeling of cold dread settle into her chest at the sight of Van Linden's grainy photograph -- when the phone rang.
Daws took a quick drink of coffee -- though it did nothing to alleviate that cold feeling -- before she snatched the telephone reciever up.
"Grimalkin Investigations, Inc. What can we do for you?"
