Dispatch has been quiet during their car rides, but the same can't be said for the ACRU landline.

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

April 28th, 3:34 PM


Bah—- riiinng.

No one's really tortured a phone to find out what its scream would sound like, but it's likely close to the noise made when Officer Valerie Arrow tosses the department landline in a flawless arc to land with a screech and unflagging ring on Andrew's desk. It's, perhaps, a statement as to how, exactly, the SWAT team leader felt on being requested to sit the phones while Andrew and Archibald visited Callie Higgins' veterinary internship location; the things have been wailing nearly off the hook since the unadvised addition of Andrew's reporter contact in mentioning ACRU as a source for further information.

After a pleasant but generally dead-end visit to the Higgins' victim place of temporary work — which led to a detour to her place of more consistent schooling, the Los Angeles Pierce College in Woodland Hills, the phone-calls are not exactly heartening.

"Am I ME?" the frantic twenty-something male voice on the other end of the line pleads, "Cause I haven't felt like me lately! There's like— shadows and— oh man, I was on that site, man and now— shit…"

Andrew punctuates the reception of the phone with a lopsided smirk, rife with the kind of playfulness befitting of a man who collects shoes like he does. The question on the line prompts a slight purse of his lips. More dead ends, likely. His fingers tighten at the continued thoughts from the young man on the other side of the line. "Please hold up just a minute," he requests firmly. "So you were on the website— " he begins. "— can you tell me your name?" His eyes squint as he reaches for a pad of paper. He may have a long collection of names after a long stretch, but perhaps, an equally long collection of fortunes if given the opportunity.

"— and did you input your name into the site, sir? If so, what was your fortune?" His jaw tightens. He can already tell it's going to be a long afternoon. "And in what way are you not feeling like yourself?"

"Like— like I'm not ME— " continues the languishing voice in Andrew's ear, growing distinctly louder then quieter as if intermittently forgetting he needs to hold the phone to stay in contact. "Yeah, I— I put my name in the site. Didn't I? I MUST'VE. Cause, like… whooooaaa…." Something's distracted him as the voice drifts.

Andrew snaps a few times at the phone, only to roll his eyes at himself. It's not like this caller is in front of him and he needs to snap the caller out of it. It's something different. "Hey!" he asserts as authoritatively as he can. "If you want me to help you, you're going to have to give me more to go on. What's your name?" Pause. "And did you get a fortune from the site?"

A clack and stammer of noises as Andrew calls the caller to attention may be, in fact, it working. There's the buzz of phone-call silence as he listens to the question — and a long one after. "My name's— fuck. I forgot the fortune. Here, I'll go get it again— " the swivel of movement and clack of a keyboard.

Riiiiight. One question at a time Andrew, the detective mentally coaches himself. Once again he snaps, but this time it's to himself rather than the man on the other end. His eyebrows draw upwards as he ponders how to proceed. "Right. Thanks. Good to fill me in," he says rather than pushing the questions further. "I'm.. De— " he shakes his head. Wrong approach. "Andrew. I'm Andrew."

Squeak, squeak; click, more keyboard and a mouse and then the fumble of the phone against someone's cheek as it nearly falls then it caught by a flexing jaw. He adjusts, "Okay, umm. So. Shit." All vaguely said to himself, possibly of a search that's not so fruitful. A pause, then. "Okay, okay! Here we go. I went back to the site— " His voice slows with the sense of reading something for the first time, "Hey, buddy— ahaha, hey buddy, that's funny— umm. Okay— hey buddy… you're high… on the phone with the co— "

Buzzing silence.

Andrew's lips part wordlessly as the silence overtakes the phone. His eyes turn across the room as he leans forward to catch the eyes of any of his colleagues. His lips hitch to one side contemplatively for just a second before he manages, with some urgency, "Hey! Can we locate a call? It's off the hook now, but can we figure out where it came from— "

Glancing behind him on either side to make sure he's the closest colleague, Cole then turns to Andrew, putting down the phone he'd been handling on his own. "Umm. They can go back and find the record for those things, right?" His primarily SWAT related training shines through as he contemplates, emphasizing as a one-man unit how new the ACRU remains even past one year. "I'll find out. This one says it's for you." Here, he, a thick palm over the speaker end of the phone, offers it towards Andrew: just what he wanted, another "tip".

There's a vague nod. "Yeah, normally," Andrew agrees with Cole. He smirks, however, as Cole offers the phone to him, "Gee, thanks." Palpable sarcasm seeps through his tone at his appreciate. Yet he clears his throat, and reaches for the phone. Once against his ear he manages, "Hello. Detective Webber here." He pinches the bridge of his nose, "Can I ask to whom I am speaking?" The phrase actually prompts him to smirk again; he's beginning to sound like his mother. Joy.

The voice on the other end of the phone sings of youth, sweet and female, though with a resounding practicality through its inherent shyness. "Alice." A soft pause is not hesitation but courtesy. "And, please, I don't want to waste your time, but there's been a mistake. I checked and everything. My website doesn't have any viruses."

Andrew blinks. Hard. Alice. Her website. He clears his throat, and parts his lips. This is the tip they've been waiting for. "Alice," he repeats quietly, as he eases some in his chair. "I appreciate that. You can't imagine the number of calls we've received today." He pauses. "So the fortune telling website is yours then?" he clarifies. Not that he thinks they've named some other website as spreading viruses. He sure hopes they're recording this conversation.

Amidst checking on the previous call, it's to Cole's credit that he, across the room, notes Andrew's shift in posture; the sudden attention rings in the officer's instinct and he snaps his fingers at the intern he'd already been directing.

"Well… I can." The voice admits, half-sheepishly and half too naive to even be that; it's a fact, like the quiet, "It's my website. Will you be coming over immediately or do I have time to call my parents?"

Adrew's gaze meets Cole's, and he points towards the phone twice. This call. This is the one. If they need to get to some address as soon as possible, they need to get to this one. His lips crack into a perplexed smile at the question. "Fairly quickly," he answers in turn as he sucks on the inside of his cheek. He releases a quiet breath and then notes earnestly, "You're the one who seems to know these things. Do you think you have time to call your parents?" His hand scrubs face. "So… do you create the fortunes?" The tone is conversational and sincerely curious.

"It doesn't work like that." Though retaining a business-like air unfamiliar with the sound of her age, Alice struggles through a developing self-consciousness. "They're difficult to get a hold of. I couldn't tell if they were here with you."

"How does it work then?" he asks idly, still casual in his question. "You could also call your them once we're," he almost second guesses the word, considering Archibald's demeanor, "there," Andrew offers. "I mostly want to talk to you. Face to face." His eyebrows draw together, "I imagine you know what really happened around your website. You seem to know a lot." His fingers once more pinch the bridge of his nose as his expression hardens some. Yet the caller's young innocence has its own weight, and his hand lowers. His tongue rolls over his lips, "You could try calling them once we're off the phone— "

"It's easier to explain in person." The voice of Alice apologizes before she quiets to listen to his presumptions. "I will." She notes agreeably of the phone-call, "610 North Crescent Drive. I'll put the espresso on. See you soon, Detective Webber." The line goes dead.

When the phone's clearly done with, Cole's there, having set a fire under the intern, and he crosses his arms while observing Andrew, a tinge of knowing from having heard the voice of the caller, himself, but also knowing that ACRU's nothing like normal. "Cold blooded killer?" He queries, with shaded expectations.

The address is scribbled down, now that Andrew anticipates forgetting something so important, but details are just that important. His jaw tightens some as he finally returns the phone to the cradle and turns his gaze to Cole, who earns a comical half-smile. "Yeah, she sounds terrifying," his hand once more scrubs his face. "But right now she's our best lead. Apparently she owns the website," eyebrows arch upwards as he glances around the room, "Want to come for a ride?" Pause. "I'd take my partner, but I'm not sure he wouldn't stun this one into silence— "

"Uhh…" Awkwardness prevails when Cole attempts to disguise his own awkwardness— it procreates; he stalls by reaching behind to scratch at the back of his shoulder. "Could, maybe," he finally admits, "I'm up for training in fifteen. You could convince the tank to take my spot, or tow him along instead."

Cole's awkwardness has Andrew sliding out of his chair and tugging on his suit jacket, admiring the shoes that peek out from underneath his suit pants. Beautiful shoes: lime green leopard print Adidas. Fortunately they can barely be seen underneath his well-cut grey suit. "Alright, I'll take the tank then," he winks. "And good luck with the training." He buttons up his suit jacket, glances down, and unbuttons it again, silently berating himself for trying to be too stuffy. This visit shouldn't be stilted; he needs to keep it relaxed and casual. And even if she knows he's putting on a show, at least it's a considerate one…

Information from the vet/school: Callie was always fascinated in that kind of "fortune" stuff. She believed in karma, and read horoscopes for her co-workers daily. The cat was hers and kind of a horrible bitch of an animal who only liked a select group of people it was used to. Her roommate, Britney, hated the cat. People at the college confirm this, and that Britney (who also attends Pierce College) and Callie lived very separate lives with occasionally blow-up arguments because of their many differences. The other vet employees also clarify that scratches on Callie's arms were from an ornery Siamese she treated the other week that got her by surprise. Callie also had an ex-boyfriend (who can't be phoned during working hours) and vet employees say she was hopeful of the relationship renewing; she had been planning to invite him over the next day because the fortune had scared her and she wanted the company.

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