Kathryn and Gerard discuss the Frank's Tavern homicides, over breakfast. Yummy.
|
It's late. Or early, depending. The sun has already started cresting over the Nevadan sky-line, but it doesn't appear as though the rangy figure lounging in his booth has stirred for hours. A half-eaten apple pie sits shoved to one side, and the table is covered in various documents, scribbled with red ink. His pale eyes bloodshot, Gerard lifts a hand toward one of the passing waitresses. "Coffee, Kristen, please." She smiles toward him, pausing to rest a hand on his shoulder. "Jerry, you need to go home. Sleep. Not more coffee." The man smiles in answer, his expression lightening to something resembling charm as he replies, "You know I hate being called Jerry. I'll sleep later, kiddo. Just one more cup."
As Kristen meanders off, he returns his attention back to the paperwork before him, eyes zeroing in on a missing persons report. Something subtly shifts in the exhausted figure's easy-going manner - he straightens, leaning forward a bit, reaching for that red pen, muttering something as he underlines a portion of the report.
It's safe to say that the handful of other occupants at Joe's are the world-weary brand of zombies, preferring caffeine and donuts to brains. So for someone to stroll into the relative serenity of the diner at this hour, chiming the bell and announced further by the click-clack of high heels across aged flooring, is enough to rouse a few bleary gazes that way. Has she been to sleep and risen early? Does Kathryn Emerson, in fact, -ever- sleep? It's as if the passing of time is some inconsequential sidenote, to her. Fresh faced and elegantly attired, the redhead is steeped in an air of vintage, old-school glamour; from the glossy crown of her scarlet locks to the tips of her stiletto heels. Demure, but oddly appealing, in a world of tacky glitz and vulgarity.
With a sunshine smile toward the waitstaff, the young woman crosses, without preamble, toward the familiar figure seated in the booth by the window. She doesn't seem able to help the curious glance across the strewn papers as she slides, without waiting for an invitation, to a seat on the opposite bench, smoothing her skirt beneath her with one palm. "Good morning, Detective." That English-rose accent always seems all at once ideal and utterly out of place. And infuriatingly difficult to read, when she smiles that way. "Burning the candle at both ends again, are we?"
A weary smile greets Kathryn as the detective begins gathering up his documents, absently setting them in a file and flipping it closed. Perhaps to keep the young woman from reading it, or perhaps he truly was wrapping up. "Morning already, Miss Emerson? And you here - should we both be recording this conversation?" His tone is a gentle jibe, but the man's eyes are already sharpening. He accepts Kristen's coffee without a comment toward her - indeed, without a glance, his attention wholly focused on the elegant creature across from him.
"I've been reading your latest column, Kathryn." There is a hint of sadness in the man's voice, a touch of reproach, but he smiles to take away any sting. "Bold, as always. The sexual appeal of vampires. But you haven't come to interview -me- on that topic, I know. I've never gotten lucky with the fanged variety."
"Tea, please." Kathryn directs her polite request to the waitress as the woman hesitates to offer her a subtle, enquiring glance. A nod, and she's gone again, leaving the redhead's green eyes to level calmly upon those of the man opposite, the smile never departing her lips. "I never record anything I say before my first caffeine of the day." Taking in his rather more dishevelled and tired appearance, she quirks one brow slightly. "..though I imagine for you, they all tend to blur into one another, after a certain point."
If she's at all perturbed by the file being promptly closed, she doesn't reveal it in her expression, merely folding her hands neatly on the formica tabletop. "I'm flattered to know that you find the time to read it, Gerard," she replies, smoothly running with his switch to first name terms, "..and yes, it was bold. The extreme always seems to make an impression. How else will we learn the truth about these creatures, unless we can draw them into -telling- us?" Well, it obviously makes perfect sense to her. That dealt with, it's down to business. "..any leads on the Frank's Tavern homicides?"
"Not officially my case. But if you're asking, you're interested. Which means maybe it should be, huh, Katie?" Gerard's smile takes on a gently-mocking expression as he speaks, but he draws out a notebook and a stub of pencil. "I haven't heard of any leads. But the guy who's on it…well, let's just say I haven't been impressed. Nobody thought this was a priority."
He pauses, watching the young woman across from him shrewdly. "I always read your articles, Katie. You never call, you never write.." He settles back into his side of the booth, stretching with a few pops of his spine. "Just please be careful. Please." The sincerity in his voice is almost painful to hear. "You're playing with fire, Kathryn, and I don't want you to be my next file."
"It -amazes- me that you can work so hard, drink -so- much coffee, and still need to have things pointed out to you by a mere reporter." counters the young woman, equally good-natured beneath the dry wit. Propping her elbows on the table's edge now, she reaches forward, seeking to pluck pencil and notepad both from his grasp and settle them before herself, jotting down the notes she knows he'll want and need as she speaks. "..given the location of the crime scene, Frank's.." Scribble. Circle. "..which is a known venue for those illegal fighting rings we all know about.." Rapid underlining. "..it has been suggested, mostly by less talented media personnel and Human Rights groups that the incident seems likely to have preternatural involvement." Giant question mark.
Flitting the man a glance and finding his eyes already upon her, Kathryn smirks a little. "Which, yes, I suppose -ought- to make it a priority, to you. At least to rule out the rumors." Tapping the stubby pencil lightly on the paper, she cants her head a little to one side; briefly relenting to being sidetracked by his apparent concern. "I'm always careful. I'm just not so shy about being careful. That's why I get the best stories, and you know it."
"Well, you got my number. Call me anytime. You know that." Exhaling and rubbing a hand through his hair, Gerard looks back down at the notepad Kathryn is writing on. His eyes widen a flicker, and he exhales, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Frank's, yeah. Fuck, I should've picked that up. I've been so focused on.." He trails off, glancing down at the folder set on the table. "This one can wait, though."
"This Frank's homicide, -that- could be a real problem for everyone. A real embarassment." He reaches for his cup of coffee and takes a long sip, exhaling. "Look, Kathryn, I'll get into this right away. Thank you." He leans across the table to touch the woman's wrist, should she allow it. "I owe you." His smile is winning, head tilting to one side.
"You do." agrees Kathryn, cheerfully. But there's something more to the curve playing across her glossed lips now. A certain coy expression. "..and I'm not done." Setting the pencil down atop the pad, she gently shoves both back toward him with a nudge of her fingertips. This part's off the record, it seems. Folding both arms again, she leans upon them, watching Gerard intently. Catching sight of her tea approaching on the periphery of her vision, she waits for the wite ceramic cup and saucer to be set down at her elbow, flashing Kristen another smile and remaining silent until the waitress leaves them alone again.
Lowering her tone somewhat, she returns her attention to the Detective. "Whoever was sent from your side to check out the details on the autopsy, they're a waste of resources. The coroner's report isn't done yet. But I managed to find out a few details that you really ought to know. I wouldn't share them if they didn't, in themselves, serve as a dead-end to my investigations in that direction, do you understand?" She doesn't wait for assent. Of course he understands. "The wounds on the victims. They were almost certainly preternatural. Their throats looked like they had been crushed, their bodies ripped almost apart. That's not something a human could do, is it." Pausing a moment, she presses her lips together, looking uncharacteristically unhappy with her own findings. "..it really doesn't look good at all."
As always, in such situations, Gerard rises to the occasion - the news hardly seems to faze him at all. His eyelids twitch a bit at the news that whoever witnessed the coroner's report hadn't passed this on, but apart from that, he seems to be growing both more awake and more cheerful by the moment. If words could shave a man and press his shirt, that would be the effect. By the end, he seems almost chipper.
"It sounds like, Kathryn, something that you and I should collaborate on. You've got the.. heels.. and I've got the guns. Alright, what's your price? You're wanting the exclusive, right?" He pauses, eyeing the woman carefully before he continues, his tone pleasant. "I'll give it to you, if you keep feeding me pieces to the puzzle. All of it. -So long as- my name doesn't touch the papers. 'An anonymous source' said the SAD had become involved, things like that. Alright?"
"Of course I want the exclusive. It's my story." Kathryn's smile, as it returns, is equally sunny now. Daintily taking up her teacup, pinky raised and all, she savors a slow sip of the hot beverage, her gaze wandering to the street outside, where the steadily rising sun is beginning to glint upon the metallic shine of cars and the towering buildings that loom over the little diner. With a soft little sigh of contentment, she nods, mostly to herself, before looking back to Gerard.
"I'll give you what I can. I already know who I want to speak with next, though I doubt I'll get much out of him. We'll see." Shrugging lightly, as if it were really of no concern to her at all, the redhead studies the man opposite in calm contemplation for a moment before enquiring, conversationally, "How's the new girlfriend? Miranda, was it?"
"You should call and ask her. Didn't you two meet at that dinner party?" There is a weary tone to the man's voice, as though he's answered this question far too many times. "She -liked- you. It's me that she hates. She says I'm closer to my victims than I am to my girlfriends." The rangy fellow shrugs, then rises to his feet and moves to produce his wallet, laying a twenty on the table.
"I'll start digging on my end. Look, keep your head down. This -could- go sideways very quickly. Call me before your meeting." He has deftly turned the conversation around, so it's a wonder that the man returns to it so quickly, in his next sentence. "Miranda was a lawyer, you know. I ought'a find someone who's as interested as I am in -right and wrong-, instead of guilty and free." And with that, and a last wink, the man turns to saunter out of the cafe.
