Red Fish, Blue Fish
ACRULiza_icon.jpg
ACRUAndrew_icon.jpg
ACRUArchibald_icon.jpg
acru
This morning, the radio sits quietly. Standing orders to make sure all reports are up-to-date.

Beverly Hills Police Station, 464 N Rexford Dr, Beverly Hills, CA 90210

April 27th, 10:16 AM

"…!"

beverly-hills-police-department-sign2.jpg

A lone floor fan nobly attempts to spread a thin measure of relief to the overheated ACRU branch of the department. It's April; it shouldn't be this warm. Take it up with requisitions: you'll get shot down, but at least it'll be in a fully air-conditioned office. The dual police station clocks tic in unfeeling slowness to a matching 10:16 and 10:16 in the morning hours with nothing breaking the obligatory paperwork. An hour ago, Officer Arrow led her SWAT team out for 'warm-ups' and the betting pool as to if they return alive or not has finally dried up. Even with Liza's yet in-acclimated partner absent, around the corner testifying, the room's cramped like — with the weather — an unwisely open can of sardines.

In the open binder labeled Homicide | Higgins, Callie, the usual reports gunk up the works: fingerprints from every suspect surface, the foot-imprints of every officer that stepped on-scene, a list of evidence confiscated, and an initial on-site report from the coroner — yet to be confirmed by the overworked ME who hung up on Andrew yesterday. A spare couple of non-ACRU registered patrol officers gawk by and then scamper off; young, it must be guppy-prank time of the year.

Exactly what a bunch of dull, sweaty, detectives need to complete their morning.

White suit jacket draped on the chair behind him, Andrew peruses the file while humming the theme to Breakfast Club: "Don't You Forget About Me" performed by Simple Minds. Instead of dress pants, he's wearing blue jeans, and no one has commented yet on his manner of dress. On the plus side, he looks professional when he's wearing the jacket. Especially because no one can see the rainbow sneakers hidden beneath the expanse of his desk.

Liza's stripped to survive the heat, too: her black suit jacket (more tailored to cinch her waist than Andrew's, but maybe not by much), hangs on her own chair. She sprawls heavily back against it, her freer in the airy, thin pollen-yellow tank-top splattered with purple zigzags. Like her nearby colleague in the cross-arrangement of desks, the ACRU detective looks considerably less like a most people's mental image of detective without the too-hot article; she looks more prepared for sun outside than a day at the office inside. The unavoidable layer of humidity on her skin shapes her toned arms in their highly productive stretch high above her head.

She pauses her eyeing of the door where the non-ACRU officers disappeared (full of a wily consideration, those eyes) to, suddenly and with decisive action, dig in her purse under the desk. A moment later, "Don't You Forget About Me" actually performed by Simple Minds starts to drift off the floor. Her distinctive voice speaks through the recording to complain. "It's gonna be stuck in my head all damn day now, you realize that."

The heat as made Archibald restless. The snail's pace this case and the road blocks put up by the ME are doing nothing to help the mood. "Yes, Andrew, stop that cheery humming. It's driving me out of my mind." With a snatch, he scoops up the binder and starts flipping through the files without much care to be delicate. His long legs pace him across the desk in the cubicle opposite of his partner. Snapping the binder closed, he drops it onto the desk with a loud thud and waves in Liza's direction. "And you, you too. The original song is not much better." With a loud sigh, he collapses into his chair in a melodramatic fashion. "Call the ME again. We can't just sit here twiddling our thumbs. It's oppressive." The binder is opened again - it's as if he's a hyperactive child unable to decide on what he would actually like to do.

"I really like that tank," Webber comments towards Liza while staring downwards at his file. "Fashion really is in the details." He points towards Archibald, still without looking up from the file, "You could learn a lot from her." Andrew actually smirks at the comments about his humming. He may or may not be messing with his officemates in some strange protest about his shoes. Or he might just like humming. The smirk extends as he slides the file away from him and tilts his head at Archibald. "Aw Archie," he responds literally beaming, "You need to learn to say please and thank you still. It's a life skill. I swear." He holds up two fingers. And then suggests, "I think you should call them," a suggestion that may be to punish the ME for hanging up on him yesterday. Scratching the back of his neck though, his eyes turn up to the ceiling in contemplation. He is just as bored as his partner. "Fine. I'll call the ME. But I get to drive later, and you have to say thank you, or I won't share what they say," he wags a finger at his partner before leaning back in his seat again and drawing out his cell phone. The number is punched into the keypad and he waits for someone to pick up.

"Thanks," Liza croons, chill despite the heat — and despite her prior complaint, and even despite the most restless detective's further complaining. There's a smile dancing on her lightly glossed lips, amused — she's gonna find amusement wherever she can on this muggy claustrophobic morning, damnit. The same expression is matched in her eyes, but they stop tracking Archibald and Andrew as she leans down, reaching for the source of the song — to dutifully turn it off … one might expect.

She turns it up instead and casually spins her chair to the side as if she hadn't. "I bet she'd talk to me," she asides as Andrew tries to reach Callie. Never mind that it's the other detectives' case.

The phone rings dutifully in Andrew's ear exactly twice — before the ringing ceases, and there's a breath of things crackling as the connection's made seconds before it slams down. He's been hung up on. Again.

Archibald merely rolls his eyes and glares at his partner - or what the Captains have saddled him with as a partner. He would do much better on his own and envies Liza's position of not needing a chaperone wherever she goes. "Yes yes, you have remarkable shoes or whatever it is you crave to make yourself feel better in the morning." Fashion is not something that ever crosses Archibald's radar and it's not about to start making blips now. "Please and thank you are no comfort to our murder victim, nor will it make much a difference to anyone if we don't find who killed Callie Higgins. What should it matter to us?" The P's and Q's are not exactly Archibald's strong points, which is most likely why he needs a partner and is not allowed out of the precinct without one.

He leans on the open binder in front of him and gives a humorless and altogether unfeeling smile. "Please, call the ME and make sure that we can progress in the case that is our jobs. Thank you for wasting precious time on lecturing me about manners when we could be hunting down a killer. And my name is Archibald." Archie is off limits. As to Liza, he gives a glare. "So you enjoy allowing killers to roam free when a simple call would help us in our case? Fine, then. Bravo. Continue your superior attitude. That is quite helpful in our search." The irony of his own superior attitude is lost on him.

Archibald is given a great big smile in return. "Our murder victim is dead. I think she's beyond comfort— " her family is another story, but Andrew doesn't say that. "And I don't really want you to comment on my shoes," he shrugs before pointing at Liza, "You can." There's a dig in there somewhere. But then he's interrupted by being hung up on.

His eyebrows tick up at Archibald and his attitude towards the third detective in the room, and as he turns away Liza might catch the slight roll of Andrew's eyes. He returns the phone to the desk and leans back to face her. "Sloane, can you do me a solid and try to call? I'll repay the favour." And then, with the slightest squint of his eyes he tacks on, "Name your price."

Of all the personality types and individuals who have criticized her for one reason or another in the past, Liza has never encountered anyone quite like Archie— Archibald— and she's in the midst of openly staring at him when Andrew asks for the favour. Raising her hands in a bastion of no-harm-meant defense, blinking, her eyebrows raised (and the skirting amusement not entirely absent from her lips — and Simple Minds still plays on), she drags wide eyes back to the detective with the phone, bugging them out even more for an instant to express her sentiment, matching his rolling ones: is that guy for real.

As for the favour… "Weeelll…" Liza flops her arms on those of her chair, the back of it rocking. She spins her chair slightly to the right, then the left. "You can just owe me." The twinkle in her dark eyes suggests she will definitely remember and call on him for a a favour back, no doubt about it. She reaches for her own desk phone, skimming a black-painted fingernail down the list of phone numbers taped on the side; various departments and sections of the law, Shea's office line, and, with fresh Scotch-tape on the bottom, ME Callie Holt. She makes the call.

Don't you— forget about me
Don't, don't, don't, don't~

Ring ring, ring ring…

A clip-clop of shoes might reason that the gawkers have returned— here's Liza's chance— but the form rounding into the ACRU squad room lacks the uniform of a rookie and owns the ID tag of a tech professional slapping against his collared shirt pocket. "Detective— Webber?" A shot in the dark around the room lands him on Archibald, as the sole one holding what looks like work. In his hand, a Microsoft tablet that he glides a finger across as he takes a few steps closer, "I've got preliminary digital results back from Callie Higgins' hard-drive and thought you'd want to see this…"

Archibald's black mood is completely erased when tech professional is there to give them more information. Finally, the wheels in his head can stop twirling in a useless manner and now have grease to crank forward. Not even thinking twice about assuming his partner's identity, he quickly reaches forward to take the information from him. The binder of useless information is slammed shut with finality and a bit of joy. "Yes, of course. Do hurry, as you can see, I'm surrounded by a morass of ennui. What did you find?"

Andrew shoots Liza an equally skeptical look as his own eyes widen: I know, right? And to top it off, he's Archie's partner. "Deal," Andrew smirks. "A favour at a later date. I'll even throw in a round at the bar as a bonus prize. Like a video game power-up. If this were a real game your character would get like bonus points and an increase in its maximum health."

But then a tech is entering their little office and looking for him. Two fingers are raised as Archibald greedily takes the file, prompting an odd smirk on the real Detective Webber. "Hello," he waves again to the tech, "I'm Detective Webber." His eyes narrow as he points at Archibald, "I don't believe we've met. That is my partner Detective Ross, but he prefers to be called Archie." Once more he pauses, and then points towards Liza because it's just rude not to introduce all of the people in the room, "And that's Detective Sloane. She's not on the case, but is generally interested in solving crime and ensuring killers don't roam free," he very purposefully borrows Archibald's words. And then, in a way that may actually irritate Archibald further, he asks, "What's your name?"

The smirk gains more ground as he turns to Liza again, "Did you hear that? Evidently we're boring." Or, perhaps, more accurately, the world is boring…

Although she's partly distracted by listening to the phone ring listlessly in her ear, Liza looks up to give the tech a lazy two-finger salute (Andrew gets a funny look, too, an amused one for his introduction; it doesn't linger).

She shakes her head while she shifts the phone from one side of her head to the other. "All I heard was 'more ass'," she replies, daring to flash a wily smile Archibald's way, entertained by her own self before she goes back to narrowing her eyes, preoccupied. She doesn't like that no one seems to be able to reach the ME — yet. Maybe just one more little ring…

With a gentle— short of impatience— snort, the tech steers the information back into his own hands. "We traced an email— what?" Jerking to look at Andrew with widened, caught eyes, "Ummm. Matt Levine— " then twists the tablet to show both detectives; the indicated email sits on one side:

The Future
to moc.liamg|6311ydalyggih#moc.liamg|6311ydalyggih

You better watch your back.

"— to a website," two fingers shift the second half of the screen into full-view. "There's no instructions on the page, but according to some teenage-aimed forums out there, you just enter your name and an unstated amount of time later, you get an email from 'the future' with your 'fortune'."

"Archibald." Archibald is quick to respond. He completely ignores anything else coming out of either Liza or Andrew's mouth as it has nothing to do with the case and therefore is irrelevant. "Interesting." Without another word, he swivels in his chair to the computer on the desk in front of him. It's not the officially mandated old and clunky computer - but his own sleeker laptop model. A few searches and he has pulled the website up on his own. Dutifully, he clicks on the cookie and when prompted to put in his name, he types out quickly, 'Andrew Webber' and then presses enter. "Let's see what fortune has to say about us, then, shall we?"

Detective Webber pushes away from his own desk, exposing his prized rainbow Adidas (WITH WINGS), as he does so. He takes a few steps towards the computer and perks his eyebrows. "Classy," Andrew responds sarcastically in turn. His eyebrows arch expectantly as his eyes scan the website over Archibald's shoulder. "The creepy death website," he murmurs more to himself than anyone else. "That's not a surprise. The roommate talked about it briefly— but then proceeded to say the entire internet is responsible." His lips press together thoughtfully, "Now, I guess the question is whether the emailer just knew something was going to happen to the vic, or whether— " he doesn't finish the thought. His eyes squint as he turns around to face the tech again, "Did you check the source material of the email? Anything to go on at all or was it untraceable?" He blinks a few times as his hand strokes his chin, "And what about the website— "

"Do I still get a bonus prize?" Liza interjects, because she's hanging up: no luck, favour or no favour. "You're on a creepy death website?" she tunes in, "how come you guys get the creepy death website?" While she gets to sit around making useless phone calls. She waves her hands. Pausing with her palms outward and decidedly empty, she changes her mind. "Actually, you can have it." Creepy death website intrinsically doesn't appeal — at the least, it doesn't inspire this particular detective.

"We're still working on that," intones Matt Levine towards Webber, a soft tic by one eye suggesting he's about done with everything in this room. "I just thought you'd want to see right away. From the chatter, there's a lot of young adult activity on this website, and it seemed prudent to get it on your radar in-case there were any preventative action you felt right. Maybe some kind of… warning could be issued? While we try to get it down…" Question trails him off; it's their case.

Skeptical though his glance to Liza seems, there's a correlation even he can't quite ignore.

Creepy death website feels more potent when Watch your back sits next to an official document stating the victim's single stab wound in the back.

With a roll of his eyes, Archibald points to the site. "They are asking for your name and then they email you. Does that not strike anyone else as strange? Where are they getting your email address? Are they hackers, is this an ability? This was sent from my computer. So, therefore, if they email my account, then they are using my IP address and tracing backward. If they are not, then they are searching your email through your name. It's a test, Webber, try to keep up." With a roll of his eyes, he returns to the search for said 'teenage' boards. "Nothing about this website should denote 'creepy death' site - look at it it's pink. So, why are multiple teens calling it that? See if we can put a trace on that email address. We should pull all their emails and see who asked for a fortune and what happened to them." He points backward at Matt Levine. "See why people are calling it a creepy death site."

Matt Levine shakes his head once, "The forums don't really call it a creepy death website. That seems unique to your uh, witness. They are certainly saying that it's 'eerily accurate,' but from what we can tell, there's nothing related to death." He glances at each of the detectives in turn and grants them a small wave. "I should, get back to it though. Lots more searches to do to learn what I can— " and with that Matt Levine traipses back to his hovel.

"Or they're not searching at all," Andrew counters as his hands tuck into his pockets. "If someone could tell the future, then I think they could probably figure out email addresses without a search. Just saying." He pauses, "Of course this is all conjecture. I don't think I've ever met anyone who could tell the future." He hmmms further, "The second possibility is calculated murder. Creepy death website seems to suggest people are going to die, but I'm not convinced… The roommate mentioned something about the future on the website, but I also think the roommate is biased against the internet in general— "

Liza receives a smirk and a nod, "It would be silly if you didn't get the bonus prize as it is, by definition, a bonus, and not contingent on anything. The favour though," he shrugs. "You'll have to con me into washing your car another way."

Matt Levine is treated with a small wave and a, "Thanks for your help," before he's completely out of earshot. Once more Andrew hmms to himself, "So. Creepy death website is what the roommate called it. I guess that makes sense. I suppose if it insinuated my roommate" his hypothetical roommate "was going to die, and then she did die, I might call it that too— "

Liza's grin over her bonus is short-lived as she listens to the chatter of the other detectives. If someone could tell the future. She works for the Ability Crimes Response Unit in a world that's been revealed stranger than most people thought possible, but theorizing psychic powers as a viable option is not something she's adjusted to: she narrows her eyes skeptically at her colleagues.

And at Archibald's computer. "Just a," she lifts a hand and crinkles her chin, pursing her lips, "… thought— but you know, uh… if that website somehow led to someone's death, shouldn't you guys like… not be hangin' out on it?"

"Watch your back hardly denotes murder. It could mean a multitude of different things: 'a friend is attempting to steal your boyfriend or girlfriend', 'a friend is talking about you behind your back.' Forget the fact that we are seeing both the prediction and the outcome together. Everything takes on a 'eerily accurate' meaning after the fact." Archibald rolls his eyes at what he assumes is the gullibility of many young people. "If no one else is actually calling it a creepy death site, then either this was a very elaborate set up where someone with a lot of time on their hands decided to answer hundreds of teenagers in order to manage one spooky slumber party trick on the intended victim before killing them, or this is completely coincidental." He waves a hand at both Liza and Andrew is if they have missed the entire point - which is exactly what he is thinking at the moment. Matt Levine has already been forgotten as an incidental. For a moment, he looks at Liza in particular with furrowed brows as if he simply can't comprehend what she's saying. "This is the biggest breakthrough of this case that we have yet to have and you are going to let a single vague warning scare you? How ever did you manage to make it this far?"

Then, he steeples his fingers and sinks back into this thoughts as if that was a lone epiphany in a long stream of consciousness. "If this is a person who can, in fact, see the future…some sort of precognition or remote viewing, then we must find this higgylady1136 and see what she saw. The other possibility is that she is able to make things happen one way or another and every person who emails her is affected. She could create the fortunes to happen. Oh, that would be good, wouldn't it? The ability to make what you wanted come true. Would that even be possible?"

Andrew turns to Liza, and all out grins— one of those toothy, nearly mischievous smiles that only becomes cheekier by the second, "Just remember it's easy to be brave when using your partner's name." The grin almost breaks out into a chuckle, but it's stifled by a ding on Andrew's phone indicating he's just received an email. He does however, note more seriously, "I think we probably should consider putting up a public warning. Work with the public relations people and see if they can warn people just to steer clear. No reason to make the public too anxious though. Whatever we release shouldn't incite mass panic. Maybe something about it being a scam related to identity theft." He hmmms quietly.

He doesn't check the email right away though, instead he addresses Archibald's comments towards Liza and teasingly reprimands, "Hey, hey, hey. We already established that Liza," yeah, he's decided to use her first name, "is against murderers running free. Annnnd she did just try to contact the ME for us and our case. Might be worth not burning that bridge." He shrugs, "Just sayin'." There's a pause before he notes, "Also, I think HiggyLady was our vic…"

And only then does Webber pick up his phone and read his email. His eyebrows draw together as his lips tighten into a thin line. "Seems that they aren't using some sort of computer tracer… I just got a fortune." His lips purse thoughtfully. "I think our fortune teller likes my shoes."

Having since abandoned her long, incredulous stare at Archibald (still amused around the edges, like someone watching a comedic but unfortunate accident unfold) to pluck an empty file-folder from her desk drawer, she looks to Andrew while fanning herself. She pauses the fanning much-needed, fleetingly luxurious moving air, casually tipping her head up as if she could peek at his phone from here — she can't — and asks, "What's it say?" Before even hearing the answer, she moves on to his partner, buoyant as can be, "I think you should put your name in next, Detective Ross."

Sucking on the inside of his cheek, Andrew cants his head to the side as he stares at his phone. "It says, 'Icarus could also fly.'" His lips edge upwards once more as he tacks on, "Maybe they saw me drink my Red Bull this morning?" And then, as if to allay any comments from his partner, he tacks on, "Like you said, it could be interpreted a number of ways. I'd prefer it if our fortune teller likes my shoes."

"Yes, because identity theft won't start a panic." Archibald eyes Andrew. "Yes, or whoever it was called. Who has time for incidental names at a time like this. What did our mystery teller call him or herself? The Future? Not tacky at all." After the message, he stands and - for perhaps the first time ever - takes a vested interest in Andrew's shoes. "Icarus who flew too close to the sun? Oh, this is interesting. Perhaps remote viewing isn't too far off." Quickly, he types in his own name onto the site without even questioning. Like a child waiting for Christmas, he watches his inbox with interest. An email pings only moments after sending his name. "Mind that mind over matter is what matters."

Liza only has a raised brow for the fortunes. She gives a mild shake of her head, dismissive, and keeps fanning herself with the folder. "I've gotten better fortunes out of a cookie."

"Well it's better than murder," counters Andrew. "And it needs to be serious enough that people heed the warning. If it's not 'scary' enough it'll just inspire morbid curiosity. People aren't exactly cautious about these kinds of things. Unless we're looking for some much deeper meaning— " his lips stitch to the side. Evidently he can see some other truth if he tries. "But it's cryptic enough that it might mean nothing." Frankly, he's not even sure they should be. "And I don't exactly think I'm in danger of getting too close to the sun. I don't actually fly. Aside from Red Bull." Pause. "It gives you wings."

An eyebrow ticks upwards at Archibald's fortune. "That's more of a riddle than a fortune— " But Liza's response warrants another smirk.

"Hmm." Archibald would just put in Liza's name, but he doesn't actually know it. He gives her a neutral look. "What's your name again?" It's not the smartest ploy, but he's curious what other fortunes await. "What we need is someone to trace the 'Future' email back to its source." With a roll of his eyes, he dismisses the Red Bull comment immediately. "It's figurative. It's saying if you get to close, you'll fall. It's a threat, Webber."

"Seriously dude?" Whether that retort is over the fact that he doesn't know her name, or his ploy, is up for interpretation … really, it's both. Liza reaches over her desk, behind a few mostly empty wire mesh pen holders, to nudge the placard with her name on it — in shoddily fitted temporary post-it notes, Det. Liza Sloan written in marker — even further away from his possible sights. "Yeeeahhh…" she decides, casual in tone, "I'm alright. You can have the creepy threatening riddle game all to yourselves."

"Is it?" Andrew replies cheekily. "Or is that just how you read it, Archie?" he actually beams at throwing Archibald's logic back at him. "There's too much to interpret there. 'Watch Your Back' sounds like a threat to me, but it could be just a warning. Or something vague enough to throw someone off balance. Hopefully IT has some success tracing it back." He shrugs. "Yours doesn't sound like a threat to me. It sounds like," his eyes narrow, "it sounds like… wisdom maybe?" His nose wrinkles. "Mind that mind over matter is what matters. Mind over matter— idea that things can be mentally conquered…" His lips press together as he considers this further.

Liza is cast yet another smirk. Good choice, his eyes seem to say before trailing back towards his desk.

As for the 'seriously', Archibald doesn't even shrug. He hasn't really been made to deal with Liza and so she hasn't needed to penetrate further than his short term memory. Back on the fortune cookie site, he quickly puts in 'Liza Sloan' and hits enter while he talks. "It's Archibald. My fortune seems to be telling me exactly what I already know - thinking solves all problems. And, take yours as a warning, a threat; see it as you may. This person is comparing you to Icarus, who is famous for having a goal and then failing at it by ignoring every warning and falling to his death in the sea. I tend to see parables that end in death as a threat."

Not paying particular attention anymore — warning, Icarus, something about parables — Liza's reach for her phone when it gives a little chime and vibrate for e-mail is idle; unthinking. As she reads the message, however, her shoulders rise and fall dramatically. "Really?" She rolls her eyes, although it's all not as annoyed as it could be; she's smiling through the warm gravel of her voice. "If I die now," she points a finger at Archibald around the device, her tone joking, "it's half your fault." She leans back further in her chair, lifting a knee to brace it against the edge of her desk. "'A higher limit doesn't mean it should be tested.'" After reciting her so-called fortune, she tosses the phone onto some stationary, deciding here and now not to take it seriously. She points again at Archibald, a smirk egging on the corners of her smile. "Don't test my limits, Archie."

"I still don't think it's a threat. We all know I came to California for the sun, for better or worse, and I think that's about where Icarus and my similarities begin and end, we longed to be closer to the sun," Andrew states smoothly before walking back to his desk. His lips press together tightly, however, as he sits in his chair, considering something else. Icarus was escaping Greece. He escaped New York… to the sun. But then, he'd never admit it was an escape. "Besides, I don't feel threatened," this time the smirk is more forced.

Could the fortune teller have known?

He swallows hard and then manages a chuckle at Liza's response as he eases in his desk chair. "Well yours also just sounds like words of wisdom. I'd take her advice, Archie."

"No, it is a murderer's full fault," Archibald responds to Liza. He mulls over her fortune for a moment. "Interesting. Mind over matter, higher limits and Icarus. They all seem to be related. Possibly because we are connected." He doesn't even seem to care if he's testing Liza's limits - higher or lower. Instead, he glares at Andrew. "Don't be pointedly obtuse, Webber. It's a metaphor. And don't lie to make Detective Sloan think you're brave. It makes you seem more defeated."

"I don't think you're brave," Liza interjects with a playful grin, happy to clarify in her joking manner: she has no idea of any deeper meaning. Her eyes to sparkle with a hint of curiosity on Andrew, however, and then hop off, gravitating toward her phone without thought. She gives the message she left behind a belated tilt of her head before reminding herself she's leaving it alone. Rocking her chair back, she restlessly looks to the exit, complaining through a sighing, "Come oon, where did those rookie pranksters go, I want to mess with them." While Andrew and Archibald theoretically continue to theorize productive detective work.

Andrew chuckles at his apparently feigned bravery. "I wasn't trying to act brave," his eyes squint and he manages an easier smile. Evidently Archibald completely misread his body language. "I'm not afraid of some random coming after me. If I were I'd have picked the wrong line of work." Icarus followed his father's footsteps. So did Andrew. He pushes the thought aside. "And anyways, these things could all be for naught. Until IT can backwards trace the email, Our Fortune Teller is in the ether," pause "like the rest of our case."

He sucks on the inside of his cheek, "Do we know anything else about our vic? Family?" he leafs through the papers on his desk to look through the reports once more. Despite the creepy death website most people are still killed by people they know. "And what about the cat? Any word on that?"

Archibald raises an eyebrow. "Ah, well, you were certainly hiding something there. I merely assumed it was a false sense of bravery in the face of her clear dislike of the inner workings of this fortune teller." Now, with something for his mind to revel and theorize in, he isn't as on the edge or snappish any more. Not that it's easy to tell that this is his better mood. He flips idly through the binder again. Liza has all but vanished in his headspace as she's filled her purpose for the time being. That is, until the ME possibly calls. "She has family in the Valley. They didn't seem to know anything. She's Registered as a Negative, so that isn't the factor here. The cat is nowhere to be found - but she is a veterinarian. Perhaps you should use those famous 'people skills' to talk to the people at her work to get a better picture of our victim and why she would be on a fortune telling site."

With a harsh buzz, the phone next to Liza's futilely hidden name-plate goes off, a constant reminder that their unit has no dedicated front-desk to field their calls. Hopefully, this one is actually meant for Det. Sloan and not another bid for charity donations — Shea signs them all up for a benefit race once and it's like it never ends.

Liza practically jumps at the opportunity to do something in the midst of this slow spell. She drops her file-fan and swipes the phone off the hook; it meets her ear as she leans in toward it in one fluid motion. The urge to answer with a happy-go-lucky, casual greeting passes visibly right over her face in the form of a smile and roll of her eyes to quell it — even after years of service on the force. "Deetective Sloan!" She waits with an expression of exaggerated bated breath.

"Sloan, it's Young," the coroner, "There's a standing request to inform you of any suspected drug related deaths that fit a previous profile and, well… I think I've got one."

Her head tips to the other side, taking this in. "A standing request! I feel so thought of. Hit me." She's already up, eager for a potential field trip away from the odd fortune teller chatter of Andrew and Archibald.

Andrew issues Sloan a salute at her exit. And the notion of something to do, has him standing up from his desk once more, "Alright then! I will get in touch with her colleagues and see if there's anything we can learn. And maybe whether the vic's kitty was microchipped. From there we can establish whether she was superstition or something of the like." His eyes narrow at Archibald momentarily before he reaches into his pocket and extracts a pair of sunglasses which are pushed onto his nose. "Let's get 'er done."

Add a New Comment
Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License