The truth is subjective when vampires speak with the Cops.
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The restaurant is still filled even at this time of night, though one would never know by the sound alone. Voices are kept low, and tables are attended with a swift attention of well-trained staff as if it were prime-time. One might assume that in the King of the Wind, it is always the dinner hour, and the establishment would not scrimp on the quality of their service even at two in the morning.
The woman sits alone in a boot in the back, facing the door. The host will direct anyone who asks to her table, as it is no mystery just where the woman holds court when she chooses to set for the evening. Before her is a glass of red wine and an unlit cigar, contrasts against an otherwise impeccable white tablecloth.
The woman herself is equally enigmatic. Blonde hair of a shade as pure and golden as Iowa corn flows down over one eye in a silky wave only to curl frothy at the ends, obscuring just one eye as blue as the 4th of July. She wears a short-sleeved angora sweater that hugs a form that should not be legal yet this is Vegas and all sorts of things push the boundaries of legality here. A pink sheath skirt hugs her hips, and around her throat is a silk scarf of blood red, jaunty and festive.
She sees him as he arrives, as he was expected, and has a smile waiting for him. Though, the lady would not ruin the gentleman's chance to make his introductions. Her fingers rest lightly upon the stem of her wineglass, each nail painted demure pink.
The lean, sandy-haired man approaching the woman's table carries himself with a quiet confidence, an ease of bearing that implies an ease of mind. He smiles to the waitress who points him in the right direction, tipping her with a twenty, then makes his way over. The man is wearing a pale pink button-up beneath a navy blazer, and a pair of tight-fitting jeans. Oddly stylish, given his profession. Still, the pale gaze he levels on the woman as he draws near her table is purely assessing - whatever appeal her figure might possess, this man could be a eunuch for all the attention he gives it.
"Miss Rosemont. Thank you for meeting with me. My name is Gerard Hunter." He reaches - slowly - inside his blazer and produces a wallet, flipping it open to reveal his SAD credentials. Laying it atop the table, he says "Please familiarize yourself with the information there. This is an official meeting, but I'd like to get the boring stuff out of the way. Portions of this conversation will be recorded, with your assent. Also, there is an SAD team standing by to respond to any violence, as per our protocol. That said, I expect we'll get along splendidly." Without waiting for an invitation - or, indeed, a response - the lean detective eases into a seat across from Gwen. He pulls out a fancy-looking tape recorder and sets it between the pair.
Gwen regards the man with a smile. Takes a brave man to wear pink under a blazer, and with jeans, no less. Then, he is flashing his badge and laying it on the table. Gwen's demeanor chills slightly. "Am I under arrest or suspicion for something, Detective?" she asks, her voice a rumbling purr full of soft promise. "I agreed to this meeting, I was under no obligation and now I see a device upon my table." Her eyes shift to the recorder once more, focusing on the little machine for a longer second.
"You must think me as someone very different if you would think that I would grant, or receive, hospitality with violence. That is not how we work, sir. Perhaps you should be asking the Pack about that particular directive."
"As I said, ma'am, the recorder will be turned on only with your permission. You're in no trouble at all. Not from me." For a moment, Gerard lets his considerable charm shine through, flashing a disarming smile as he reaches to reclaim the badge. "But there are those stupid protocols. Whenever I have an official meeting, they want me to make positively sure you know who you're meeting with, all of that. Something about a Constitution." He shrugs casually, pocketing the wallet, and is again all business.
"Alright. Why I'm here, Miss Rosemont, is to do with a meeting your… community held recently. Several informants brought a few points of it to my attention, and I'd like to ask you - and through you, your leadership - about them." His pale gaze locks onto the woman's features with a horrid intensity, not seeming to notice or care about anything except this conversation. "Bottled blood. And a vampire named Adrian. To start with. Do I have your permission to turn this recorder on?"
"Unless you plan to pay me royalties, or serve me a warrant, the recorder stays off," Gwen says with a finality. If the man would look into her eyes, he would find a depth there. Yawning, limitless, it is a pit that is far too easy for a mortal of the strongest of measure to bear. Her full red lips curl into a smile.
"It is noted that you are trying to impress the urgency of your words with your expression, but if you look into my eyes, you never know *what* you might find," Gwen lifts the glass to her lips, sipping of the wine.
"This so-called meeting was simply a party. They happen all the time in Vegas. Just across the street, in fact, some Korean Businessmen are tipping rather heavily in Blood. Parties happen… you have been to them, I'm sure?" She asks, blinking her eyes slowly. "Adrian was the host of a vampire, and he had bottles that he *claimed* were bottled blood. None of us actually found out if he was telling the truth. I figured it was a fanciful trick. It was a costume party after all… or didn't your informant tell you?" She lifts a sculptured brow.
Adjusting her seat, Gwen leans subtly to the side, as if sitting to long in one position gave her a little cramp. "Mm. Wouldn't that be just the funniest thing. He tells us that he has this marvelous secret and in fact it is just wine. That would be disguise in its finest guise." She purses her lips, nodding with an admiration of the thought.
"Maybe so. Might be just wine." Gerard seems to give this thought some serious weight. For a long time, he stares at the woman's gaze, apparently mesmerized, before suddenly ripping his gaze away from the woman and down at the table as he considers. "My informant /didn't/ mention that possibility. Not at all. But then, it *does* match a lead I got from a Tokyo associate. And another from Buenos Aires. Listen, maybe you can just humor me." He draws out a pad and paper. "What's this Adrian's last name?"
He pauses, ducking his head deeper in thought, closing his eyes and reaching up to rub at his temple, as though suddenly possessed of a terrible headache. "There's another thing. The reporter who keeps talking about sex with vampires. Emerson. She was seen there. She's unregistered, ma'am. You know that's a violation." He appears to be under the impression that this Emerson woman must, herself, be a vampire.
"His last name is Allyn-Hallic. Lovely name, if you ask me," she smiles, her fingertips lightly turning the stem of her wineglass as she sets it against the table. At the mention of the reporter, the vampire has to laugh.
"Unregistered as what? A pest? Well, sir. I think that is your department, not mine. She was there as the guest of someone, and no, am sure I do not remember his name," she smiles again, though her grin looks almost smug that time. "If you were to ask me to speculate, I would say that Miss Emerson asked to be there. In fact, after all the salacious things she has said about us— which I have to say have made our date nights ever so much more interesting—it is a pretty sure bet that she asked to be there in the name of 'investigative reporting'. In my day, we called it being sneaky but times change." She shrugs.
"So you're claiming Emerson is a human. I mean, mortal. Interesting." Gerard writes down the name offered to him, then nods a few times. "That matches up with what my friends told me, ma'am." He offers a quick, winning smile across the table toward Gwen and rises to his feet. "That's all I needed to bother you about, Miss Montrose. By the way.. you have an amazing voice. Huge fan." His -own- manner seems much more relaxed, now that business seems to be concluding.
"I really appreciate you taking the time. And about the information regarding Emerson. She's a pain up our ass, too, you know. Something about rights." He shrugs, as though the word holds very little meaning to him; it's very, very, hard to tell if he's being serious. "Here - take this. My card." He lays a laminated card down onto the table. "Call me if you remember the name of her companion, hm? Maybe we can use it to finally get us both some peace." And with that, the sandy-haired detective turns to wander away, pocketing his unused voice recorder as he goes.
"Rosemont," The lady replies with her fluid tone, correcting his mis-speaking of her name with a seemingly careless gesture. "And I would have you know that I did not say that this 'Emerson' person was human. Truth be told, she could be any number of preternatural creatures. Heavens knows so many exist nowadays. It's a common tactic for one to point out the flaws of another, just to draw the trail away from something truly dangerous. The old bait and switch, I think they call it?" She tilts her head to the side, her hair shimmering with an almost metallic sheen. "But then I am sure you would know better than I, Detective. I don't have any sort of training in these matters."
"Rights are funny things," she says when he mentions them, taking up his card with a slip of her fingers. "People claim them, but they really only mean something if other people invest in caring just the same. It's getting everyone else on board with your ideas," her eyes rise to the man's face, her eyes blue and cool, though the smile on her lips is forever warm. "I'll make sure to call if anything comes to mind. Maybe after we find the man who killed the vampire and kidnapped another. But then, that's not really that important, is it? Rights and all."
"You have a nice night, Detective," she calls, her voice like a songbird.
