ArchivedLogs:Sniffing Out Clues

Sniffing Out Clues
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Melinda
In Absentia	2013-03-05 Murphy bugs Melinda for clues, chases down ghosts. (Part of Prometheus TP.)
Location <NYC> Montagues - SoHo
Montagues harkens back to the day when SoHo was filled to the brim with artists, with its mismatched furniture, all plush and decorated heavily with carved wood, but remains trendy enough to keep its newer patrons by making sure that furniture is clean, in good repair and inviting. The antique tables all have been reinforced to seem less creaky. The real draw of the cafe is the smell: fresh roasted coffee mingles with perfectly steeped teas. Spices from crisp pastries mingle with the tang of clotted cream but don't overwhelm too much the scent of chalk on the menu boards. Murphy does not belong here. Then again, the man *looks* like he belongs in the foreboding pages of a long-expired detective novel -- he's got that hard, harsh look -- that scowl that seems to exist in a state of perpetual indignance at the particular arrangement of the universe around him. He stops before entering the coffee shop, foot stomping on his cigarette -- grinding it into the sidewalk. And then he's walking in, hands shoved so deep into his pockets it looks like his coat might be at risk of tearing its way off his shoulders. He's well-dressed, for the occasion; he's taken to dressing himself up recently -- giving the impression that he actually /works/ for a living. A dark, black wool coat; a suit and tie under that. A faint swish of stubble on his cheeks -- he hasn't shaved for three or four days. As an assistant manager at the establishment, Melinda does a fair bit of training. Tonight, she's bouncing between helping someone new to the register and supplementing the barista behind the great espresso machine. Her skin suffers the effects of having steam blown at it one too many times, but she doesn't look the worst for wear, in her white shir, black tie and black slacks. She's also apron free for the time being, giving a new employee another run through of the register quirks. "Yes, but you have to put it in size, type, milk order or the machine will print out two different orders." She glances up and spies the newcomer, her eyebrows quirking upward. "You can do this next one by yourself. I'm sure it'll be fine." "Coffee," Murphy grunts to the new cashier. "Black." That's it. That's all he wants. Easiest order in the world. He's already fishing out his wallet as he gives it, scratching at his jaw as he glares up at the menu through blurry, sleep-deprived eyes. What a goddamn night. As he slips a fiver out of the folds, he gives Melinda a brief, intense -- and borderline impolite -- stare. Like he /knows/ her or something. Those eyebrows of his bend together, and she can almost /hear/ the creak of it -- like gears churning. "What size?" whines the impertinent new cashier. The teen is not pimplefaced, but certainly belongs in the breakfast club crowds Melinda ribs him gently for his tone and looks up at the customer. "Small, medium or large? Can we interest you in another shot of espresso inside? Gives it some extra kick." She smiles through the scrutiny, though a small wrinkle appears between her brows as his creak. "Medium," Murphy grunts, the sound non-committal. "Hold the fancy." Then, to Melinda -- observing that small wrinkle above the space between her eyes: "Seen you before. You do work for homeless folks." As he passes the fiver to the cashier, he's looking directly at Melinda -- gaze *boring* down on her. Like he means to throttle her through sheer moxie alone. "You got a minute to talk? Can wait a bit if it ain't convenient." "Oh, well. Yes," Melinda confirms as she watches the trainee take the money and make the appropriate change. She then turns away and fills a medium sized cup with coffee from one of the urns prepared behind her. She turns back, holding his order and passing it over the countertop. "Sure, I guess. Hey, Rosie, keep an eye on Mike for a bit." The requests brings the blonde head of the woman behind the espresso machine. She looks everyone over and shrugs. "Sure. Ain't that busy right now." She smiles at Mike and then ducks back behind her machines again. Melinda takes this time to move out from around the back of the counter and out into the main lobby of the shop, snagging a brownie from the counter as she goes. It has long been out of the display cabinet and somewhat nibbled upon. "Did you want to sit?" "If you want." Murphy's quite accomodating when it comes to having chats with random strangers in coffee shops. He follows Melinda as she nibbles on that brownie; if she goes to sit, he sits across from her -- those big, rough hands of his folded together. "Name's Murphy," he tells her. "Looking into some disappearances." His card is produced; it's got his name in big, handsome black letters. 'MURPHY LAW - PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR'. Of course, *anyone* can have a business card printed up. Still... He's watching her like a hawk as she nibbles on that brownie. Measuring her response as he speaks the next words: "These shelters -- you end up helping a lot of mutants, right?" The word 'mutant' is given a certain emphasis. A little bit more oomph than it deserves. Melinda sets her brownie plate down on the arm of the armchair she choses, settling back into it for a moment - until Murphy presents her with his card. She slides forward and takes it up, reading it with raised brows before settling back in her seat once more. She remains quiet as he gets to the point and inhales sharply at the emphasis he puts on that word. "It happens a fair bit, especially since most obvious mutants these days aren't given much chance of a job. So. Yes." "How you feel about that." Still watching. There's a languid darkness to his eyes; a lazy sort of directness to the question. The way he leans forward as he asks it -- those big hands of his crumpled together. It's almost... /threatening/. As if his entire posture has suddenly acquired a certain ugliness to it -- as if he finds the very subject somehow distasteful. "Mutants, I mean." "I'm sorry, but you're really going to have to tell me the point of all this." Melinda's face begins to cringe with concern, developing a dislike of his intense stares and posture. "Especially as this place of business has little to do with what I do in my free time." She wets her lips, sitting stiffly now. "I really don't know how any of this has anything to do with disappearances." "Alright," Murphy says, and at once it's just gone; the ugly posture, the lazy stink-eye, even the scowl. Instead, he just slumps back into the chair, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. Rub, rub. "Sorry. Playing with you, trying to figure you out. Make sure you ain't the wrong sort to ask the questions I wanna ask. Fuck it, though. I'll just act like you aren't." He sucks in a breath, then: "I'm looking into mutants getting nabbed off the street. Probably homeless ones. The sort people won't miss. The thing I want to ask you is this: Have you seen anyone going around these shelters, offering homeless people -- *mutants*, particularly -- help? Not a couch to crash on. I'm talkin' somebody who looks /professional/. Offering medical assistance, or financial assistance. Somebody who's offering something that sounds too good to be true." "I know a couple doctors in the area that provide mutants with help. One who is starting a clinic and one who has a clinic already. Neither of them really seem fly by night or shady," Melinda admits, eyebrows furrowing as she considers his words. "I certainly hope I'm the right sort, but I'm not really going to give you references to vet me. Most of the homeless people I work with do enjoy a certain bit of anonymity and try to keep it - some of the nonhomeless mutants as well." "Can you tell me their names?" Murphy asks. "The doctors, I mean. I ain't looking to make life harder for anyone. Mutant or otherwise. But people have disappeared. Kids," he adds, and there's something in Murphy's tone -- before was mostly posturing and fluff. But when he mentions that last part, his hand makes a creak -- squeezing the coffee cup. A little /too/ tight. He hasn't even taken a sip from it yet. "I'm just looking into things. Trying to figure this out. I've got no leads -- and I need some names. Some place to start." "Hmm. There's a little bit of a problem. One of them has asked me not to talk about his work for fear of losing his funding. He's already started employing a body guard because he feels the world is out to get him for his charity. But he also creeps me out." Melinda leans back in her chair as she considers, glancing over at Murphy, looking him over, brows knitting once more as she spies his cup. "How do I know that you're the right sort? You aren't just playing up the sympathy for mutants card in order to figure out their support systems and destroy them?" Murphy's response is automatic; wordlessly, he pulls out another one of his cards -- and a pen. There's a delicate click as he pushes the pen's top down and flips the card over... And suddenly, he's scrawling something on it. His handwriting is neat and /very/ dense -- he can fit quite a lot of information on one little card... and he's scribbling... a lot. For what seems to be about thirty seconds, all he does is /write/. Then, suddenly, he's pushing it forward toward her. For her to read. There are three dates on the card. Following each date is a *very* thorough description of clothing -- even the brand, color, and style of shoes. All three dates correspond to one of the days she was working at a homeless shelter -- and all three descriptions match /precisely/ what she was wearing. "Perfect recall," he tells her, bringing the pen up to tap at his temple. "Whatever I see, I don't forget. I was hitting the shelters for the past few weeks, looking for a runaway kid. Found him. Now I'm on a bigger scent." "Not that me being one of them should give you reason to trust me. Wouldn't be the first mutant to go up against his own kind. But I already figured the doctor you're telling me about is Iolaus. I know about his clinic, and I've already done some checking on him. He's legit. So that leaves the other doctor." "And what part gave away that I was talking about Iolaus?" Melinda blinks at the card, recognizing the descriptions of her clothing, and the dates that she worked, but doesn't really link them for proof. She doesn't have super mutant memory. She considers this for a moment and keeps the card, turning it over in her fingertips. "Okay. The other one is Rasheed Toure of Common Ground Clinic in Clinton. He hands out cards and flyers all the time, so I have no qualms giving that information out. I've been to his clinic. It seemed on the up and up, but I am not a private detective." "Starting a clinic. Shaky funding. Needs a bodyguard. Comes up in a conversation about doctors helping mutants. Ain't many folks fit that description in the Greater Manhattan area." Murphy's eyebrows pinch together as Melinda mentions Rasheed Toure's name. "Cards and flyers. He ever seem to /focus/ on helping mutants? Maybe showing up at places where mutants were in trouble, or maybe going out of his way to pay extra attention to them?" "I don't know. The closest I can come to saying yes in that regard is the fact that he was at the mess - the one when Open Doors evicted their mutant population. He wasn't very specific about focusing on mutants any other time but that. He mostly spoke of a sliding scale clinic that would help anyone." Melinda begins to pick at her brownie once more, as Murphy seems less likely to jump across the space between them and throttle her any time soon. Oh, how Murphy's eyebrow's jump at /that/ particular tidbit of knowledge. "Did he," Murphy responds. Then: "Probably nothing. Rasheed Toure. Common Ground Clinic in Clinton. I'll take a look." Then, promptly, he's rising -- his hand curling around the cup of coffee. His other hand reaching out to her. "Didn't catch your name, though I'd understand if you ain't anxious to give it. You've been a big help. Honest." He even sounds like he means it. "My name is Mel," Melinda announces, standing, taking his hand, and shaking it. "As much as I hope you find your missing people, I do rather hope Dr. Toure is not involved." She turns back to fetch her brownie once more. "Have a good day, Mr. Law." "Yeah. About that." His grip is firm. Friendly. A little rough, maybe; a few callouses here and there. A lot of muscle underneath that coat. "Would appreciate it if you don't tell anybody about me poking around in this. Thing's got a certain stink to it, if you catch my drift. Folks figure out I'm sniffing around, they might decide to make some evidence vanish." There's more to it than just that, but he doesn't elaborate. Then: "Anything comes up, you give me a call? I appreciate what you're doing. For folks. Helping out. Not a lot of that around. Not enough, anyway." "Oh, that's not something you just tack on the end. I fully intended to vet you." Melinda eyes Murphy quietly for a while. "Not very nice of you." She exhales and frowns. "I do my best. This world is a pretty messed up place. I hope you find the people. No one deserves to disappear." She stuffs his card into her slack pockets. "I'll call if I think of anything." He laughs, then; the sound is dark -- vicious -- there's no joy in it. No *pleasure*. Murphy's not a happy person; his laughter is like a bark and his grin is as grim as it gets. "Oh, go ahead, vet the /hell/ out of me. Just don't tell anyone what I'm asking about -- if you gotta, just say I'm lookin' for some runaway kid. S'true." Her hand is released; his hands slip back into his pockets. At the comment of disappearing, he smiles -- and, perhaps, for just a /moment/, something close to pleasantness /does/ manage to slip in beneath the radar: "No one truly disappears, ma'am. Nothing is ever /truly/ forgotten." He turns, shuffling off, head down. When he steps outside, the coffee is promptly thrown in the trash -- he doesn't need the stuff. Fuck caffeine; Murphy's got a scent.