ArchivedLogs:Nosing Around

Nosing Around
And Acting Cagey
Dramatis Personae Alexandrine, Doug, Murphy
In Absentia	2013-02-11 Doug and Alex learn that 'security building' doesn't really mean anything to private dicks.
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Lobby - East Village
Bright and sunny, the lobby of this apartment building is clean and unassuming. Requiring an electronic keycard for entry, the pair of elevators dings cheerfully when one arrives. A small sitting area has bright yellow couches and small coffee tables, though the nearby vending machine is perpetually running out of /something/. Tall windows let in plenty of light during the daytime, and the building maintenance keeps the common areas spotlessly clean. The snow stopped falling long ago, and the temperature has risen enough that behind the city's ambient noise is the steady drip-drip of melting snow as the city is released from its frozen state. It certainly makes it easier to get around, and the streets are starting to see their usual traffic. Among those out and about at this hour is Doug, a paper sack of groceries tucked into the crook of his arm as he approaches the Village Lofts, where the super is studiously sanding the steps against the freezing overnight temperatures. Doug greets the older man cheerfully, then slips past him through the propped-open door. Once inside, he sets his bag on one of the available coffee tables before heading towards the bank of mailboxes, already fishing his keys from his pocket. There is a redhead not far behind Doug into the building, preoccupied with music in her ears via earbuds. Her own large canvas tote over her shoulder. She's got some Groceries in there, but if attention is paid, there is also the shiny pink ribbon from a ballet slipper danging over the side. Someone's come from working. Her hair is still up in a careless bun, strands straggling loose as she hums along with the tune playing. Swan Lake, if anyone knows it. She does finally note the familiar mental presence, moving to tug cords to pop earbuds free so she can address her neighbor."Hey." Not very far from that set of mail-boxes sits an inauspicious little sign--perhaps placed there by one of the tenants?--which thanks them for their consideration in not smoking. Directly *beneath* that sign is a rough-shod looking man in a battered suit and tie, a bandaid on his forehead--just a bit of dried blood along the fringe. A cigarette rests between his lips, unlit--as if it was a conscious attempt to threaten the legal authority of that sign. "Hey," he grunts to Doug and Alexandrine, turning about to face them both as they congregate around the mail-box--emerging, as if from the shadowy corner of a bad noir flick. "You're tenants here, right? I'm looking for a missing kid. Might have passed through here. You two got a minute?" Doug turns at the sound of Alex entering, watching her with a small smile until she speaks. "Hey, yourself," he says in a bright tone, and turns back to the mailbox. "I thought you were moving upsta -- whoa, dude." The man under the sign is surprising, to say the least, and the blonde steps back reflexively with a frown. "How'd you get past Mister Papadopoulis?" He wrinkles his nose at the man's state, and turns a questioning look on Alex, eyebrows lifting. << So much for a secure building. >> To the man under the sign, he lifts a shoulder, and narrows his eyes speculatively. "You a cop?" Alexandrine doesn't start nearly as much as Doug, only turning to the new face after telling Doug. "They're on break now. Next Trimester. Still gonna be here on weekends, anyhow." She turns blue eyes on the stranger, a tip of her head. "Bet money he's not a cop." Of course, she's also going to go on a shallow depth fishing expedition in the stranger's head. "Ah might have a minute. You have that minute to interest me." Of course, if there is legitimately a missing kid.. Alex's bleeding heart will melt all over it. "Concerned citizen. Looking on behalf of his parents. Kid disappeared. Hitting up some places he might have passed through." There's a sort of staccato rapid-fire pace to the way Murphy delivers this information; like he was expecting he'd have to supply it. But in the next instant, he's reaching in his coat--pulling out a photograph. A little faded, bent and mussed up. The kid in the photograph is green--and scaled. 13, maybe 14. Doesn't look very happy at the time it was taken. "Ain't the sort who can fit in easy, if you catch my drift. Trying to move fast, on account of... things going the way they are 'round the city. For folks who don't fit in." That brief, surface search Alex engages in pulls up something... weird. She can pick up some of Murphy's thoughts--but beneath it, there's this deep, steady *roar* of static. Like a torrential flood of thoughts--the telepathic equivalent of a DOS attack. It's easy to avoid, but digging too deep... it's like there's a floodgate in his brain, and making one misstep might lead to it popping open. Either way, just a quick peek will tell her that whatever the guy's up to, he *is* interested in finding this kid. And making sure he's alright. There's also some weird jumble about... shadows. Sewers. Monsters. Kali. Recent memories, still flitting on the surface of his mind. "Concerned citizen." Doug repeats this in a tone that's clearly disbelieving, and his own surface thoughts are immediately of those upstairs, and those /not/ currently in residence. He looks at the photograph, his mouth tightening sympathetically as explanation follows. "Poor kid," he says, shaking his head. "Bet his parents /are/ worried. But I haven't seen him around here." He offers a shrug, and turns to his mailbox, sliding the key into the lock and opening it in a creaky swing. "How long's he been gone?" Alexandrine looks at the picture, then at the man holding it out. His mind is odd, curious...but then again, so is Doug's. It doesn't have to mean anything bad. << He's honest about wanting to find the kid. >> She relays it to Doug, even as she's searching her own memories. The snowball fight, the mayor's speech, even the school and the shelters she's volunteered at.. but she's not recalling anyone quite like this kid. "Ah haven't seen him, sorry. Ya have a card or somethin'? Ah see a lot of kids, Ah might come across him sometime." The photograph is gone in an instant, back in his battered jacket; his response is automatic: "Four months plus change. Heard this is one of the hotspots for folks like him. Figured I'd ask around. You might mention it to other tenants? 14. Likes frisbee. Answers to 'Victor'. Green, with scales." In the next instant, he's produced two cards--it looks just as worn as the picture. Just as worn as his coat. Hell, just as worn as *him*. It's got his name--MURPHY LAW--along with a phone number, a fax, and a cell phone. No e-mail. "Something else," he adds, holding the cards out for both of them--slid apart so they can take them. "You hear anything about some kids like this running off down into the sewers? Hear about people living down there?" The question sounds a bit absurd, but by his tone, he is dead serious. Doug glances at Alexandrine when her mind touches his, and his nod is an imperceptible jerk of his chin. << Better safe than sorry, >> A magazine wrapped around a handful of envelopes -- bills, from the look of it. "Heard that from who?" he asks the older man, eyebrows lifting. "Some of those reporters who were lurking around here last week?" He rolls his eyes with a grin, and reaches to take the card. "Dude. You shouldn't believe everything you hea -- are you fucking kidding me?" This comes when he looks at the card, and the look Murphy gets is incredulous, to say the least. "Murphy Law? /Please/ tell me that's an alias." << Well, Ah wasn't going to take a chance with Jax's kids. >> Alex sends Doug's way. "Those reporters were a total pain in... well, you know." Brows lift, just a slight clearing of the throat at the mention of the guy's name. She doesn't remark on it. "Ah'll keep an eye out." She blinks at the sewer question. "Ah've only ever heard of gators in the sewers." She might be lying, but it would be hard to tell. "No." There's a certain finality to the way he says that word; it's the verbal equivalent of slamming a book closed. As if to say 'No, and this officially concludes the conversation concerning the nature of my name'. Then: "Right. Just checking. Probably just a bunch of horseshit." If Alexandrine is keeping tabs on those surface thoughts, she knows that when he says this, he is *lying*. He does not think it's horseshit. Not at all. "Anyway, thanks for your time, Mr. Ramsey. Miss." He nods his head toward her. "You two hear anything, please contact me. The kid's parents are worried sick. And this ain't the time to be on the streets *and* green. Not in New York." He turns, intent on slipping out the door, hands in his pocket, cigarette still dangling from his lips. Doug frowns at the man's reaction, and turns back to lock his mailbox. "There's always stories about people living down there," he says. "If you live in or around the city, you hear about those people in the subways and stuff, using the abandoned tunnels." He wrinkles his nose. "I don't think I ever heard of any mutants down there, though." When he's addressed, he frowns even deeper, and spins. "Hey! Mister Law! How'd you know my name?" Alexandrine just arches an eyebrow at Mr. Law. "Good afternoon to you." She murmurs, before Doug is asking that question, and being the good friend and neighbor type she is, Alex listen's in on Murphy's head. Murphy stops, half-way toward the door. His back stiffens. Shoulders slump. In his head, a single word pops up--firing off like a brilliant, emerald-green firework rimmed in gold sparkles: <<~~*FUCK.*~~>> His head tilts, glancing slightly over his shoulder. "Papadopoulis told me." Despite the brilliant crackle of that single mental exclamation, there is not the slightest hint of it on the surface--he responds with the thoughtless, practiced ease of a man informing another man of the current state of the weather. But to anyone sensitive to surface thoughts, the truth is clear as day: He's lying. "Before I got here." Doug's tone, and his thoughts are completely disbelieving. "What, you got a picture of /me/ you showed him?" "You lie, Mister Law." Alex steps forward, letting her bag slide down and to the ground. Blue eyes dart to Doug. "How about you tell us the truth? It would probably get you a lot farther. Ah'm willin' to bet you didn't even talk to Mister P. . " Murphy grunts. Alright. *Fine*. He speaks--without ever so much as turning around to face the two of them. "Your name is Douglas Aaron Ramsey. You just moved in, probably--a month or two ago. Your phone number is 555-5451. I know, because I looked you up in the mother-fucking phone-books." He... isn't lying. Doug blinks, shifting his gaze from the man at the door to Alexandrine, the question of the veracity in eyes and mind. "You looked me up," he repeats, his brow furrowing. "Why -- " he clamps his mouth shut, and considers that for a moment. His hand tightens on the mail with a crinkle of magazine, and he frowns, taking a step back. "Mister Law, do you work for my father?" Alex looks to Doug, even as she edges a bit closer to Murphy. << He's legit on the looking you up thing. He really did look you up.>> Alexandrine lets her gaze switch back to Mr. Law. "But why would you look him up? Ah don't see how that is at all relevant to what you're lookin' for in that boy." << Your father? Why would your dad hire someone to look you up? >> Murphy turns. Eyeing Doug up--as if for the first time. Something about the guy's gaze--it's like he's etching him into his brain. "I don't know who your father is," he responds, and this seems to be the truth. "And I look people up. Just happens. I'm just looking for the kid." Again, it seems to be the truth. He soon adds: "I've had this conversation before. Gives me headaches. Point is just, yeah, I know your name, I know your address, but I ain't got any interest in you. I know a lot of addresses." Across the surface of his thoughts, Alex's full name--address--and phone-number--slips by. Like text riding over a digital marquee. Doug glances at Alex, his brow furrowing. << My dad's a jerk. Long story. >> The explanation doesn't seem to make him feel better, although the fact that Murphy doesn't know his father does ease the tension in his frame. "But, looking me up doesn't explain how you knew it was /me/," he says, making a duckface as he sorts through this information. "I mean, a name and address doesn't translate to a visual confirmation." He holds up the card with a lift of his eyebrows. "No email, so I'm guessing you don't do a lot of computer work." His mouth pulls tightly to one side. "So I have to ask you again how you knew it was me, specific-- the mailbox." This is a nova burst of realization on the surface of his mind. "You looked up /everyone/ in this building, didn't you?" Now a grin is creeping across his face. "And you saw which mailbox I opened." "Private dicks. They want to be cops, but think cops just aren't bad ass enough." It's said almost on a bored sigh. << He knows me too. And Ah didn't open my mailbox. >> "But he knows who Ah am too, and Ah haven't checked my mailbox yet. So jus' how did you come to knowin' such things about me, Mister Law? An' Ah'll know if you're lyin'." "Huh. Not bad. You might make a reasonable detective." His lighter--brass, with the Marine Corps insignia--is promptly produced, pulled out of his coat. It looks like it's recently been repolished and refurbished. With a flick and loud, obnoxious *CLINK*, he lights it--casting his face in a sharp, metallic tangerine glow. Lighting the cigarette. An eye looking over Alex. "Digging in people's heads can be dangerous, lady. Last fella went sniffing around in my brainbox ended up with a skull full of porridge and free room and board courtesy of the State of Pennsylvania's mental health system. That ain't a threat; just stating a fact. Ain't got complete control over my headspace. You push open the wrong door, you might end up eatin' the Encylopedia Britanica." "As to your address--I figure you're skimming my headspace? I took a guess. I got... eight names that sounded like they might fit your bill. That one popped up first." And the others come--other names. All feminine, all tenants here. Complete with addresses and phone-numbers. Doug lifts a shoulder. "I do all right," he says. "But a word of advice -- this isn't exactly the building to come into and start being cagey. You got lucky in that it was me and Alex you ran into." He glances to Alex, picturing the way this act might have been received by the twins or their father. "I'm sure you've seen the news. Things are tense in the city, and this building is the center of a lot of it. Better to be up front about what you're looking for." "You can say as you like, Mister Law." Blue eyes hold steady on him, not a flicker of fear or indecision on Alex's face. "Ah don't /sniff/ around anyone's...brainbox." There's a ring there of disdain, her chin actually lifting and putting her nose up just a tad. "Nor do Ah skim anyone's.. headspace. And you not havin' control over your own mind.. that's a worrisome thing to hear. Perhaps you should seek professional assistance. Ah hear they have medications for that kinda thing." Doug has never seen Alex like this, pulling the upper class girl act, from her posture to her tone of voice. Who knew she had that side? The mental image of Jax, of Shane and Bastian and Hive, Doug, Ezekial.. it brings a worry to Alex's mind that she wouldn't have, just for herself. "You should heed Doug's warnin', sugar. Some people here aren't near as nice. Some of them might leave /you/ with a skull full o' grits an' needin' a padded room. Ah'm harmless." Come on, she's a dancer, for crying out loud, One of her pink ballet shoes is visible where she set her bag down. Who's scared of ballerinas? "Ain't me I'm worried about. Hell, I *like* misery. Keeps me sharp. But I ain't got the sort of look that attracts attention. You want to worry about somebody, worry about him. Me, I'll keep." He reaches into his pocket again. The picture is retrieved, worn and tattered; it's passed on over to Doug--if he'll accept it. "Take the picture. Show it around, if it ain't too much trouble. Maybe I'll swing by in a few days and ask around again. Maybe I'll do it all proper and polite, too. Even shave." He eyes Alexandrine a moment later, before adding: "I ain't sayin' otherwise. Not here to hurt anybody. Just got a brain full of poison--and I'm tryin' not to share." He nods his head: "Call me if you hear anything. Any time." Doug takes the picture, looking at it again before lowering it to regard Murphy thoughtfully as he speaks. "I'll definitely show it around,' he says, glancing at Alexandrine with a touch of curiosity for her sudden upper-crustiness. "There might be someone who knows him. One of the tenants does some work with runaways." That's /kind/ of Jax's thing, after all. In a way. "They might have heard something." He grins at the promise, and tilts his head. "Dunno. Scruff has its place. But an iron wouldn't be a bad idea." He waves a hand at the bandage on the older man's head good-naturedly. "Maybe a hat." Alexandrine doesn't move for a long moment, just looking at the erstwhile Mr. Law. "If we hear anythin' about the child, we'll pass it on." It's about a /kid/ for crying out loud. There's a hint of a sound like a snort. "Scruff has its place, maybe, but there's nothin' like a man fresh shaved, an' in a fresh suit." A long cord of smoke swells from his nostrils, unraveling like strands of soot emerging from the muzzle of a dragon. Murphy only grunts in response to the fashion tips--glancing between the two of them with a cocked eyebrow--followed by an 'mmmn'. "Good. About the kid, I mean." He turns, then, shuffling on out the door with a steady gait.