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It's a nice night to be indoors in Philadelphia. Despite what comedies may have told you, it's not always sunny there and is, in fact, occasionally snowy. A light dusting of snow is powdering the ground outside. That, combined with it being 3 am, makes it nicer to be in bed than out and about.
Whether he's sleeping or awake, Simon's phone, the one he uses with K&A, begins to ring. It's an especially annoying sound to break the silence of the night.
The main draw back of Dark Passenger is that you can only sleep for an hour at a time--so on one hand, Simon is no stranger to being rudely woken up, and on the other hand, sleep is precious when he can get it. He rouses with his grumpiness kicked up to 150%, lips pursing as he pulls the phone out of the bedside table drawer. He rubs his eyes as he answers it.
"Yes?" he asks, trying to make his voice not sound too clipped.
"Oh thank Jesus you picked up," comes the voice from the other end. It's Rob Hammond, one of Simon's moles in K&A. "I'm in trouble, Simon," he pants, clearly hyperventilating. "Pat just died! I know I'm supposed to be the one helping you, but I need your help! I don't know what to do. I'm freaking out, man!"
He exhales a breath, resolving himself to having to work up Giving A Shit. He pushes his sheets aside and steps out of bed. "Calm down," he replies impatiently. "And tell me what happened."
"I don't fucking know! I went to take a leak for like 5 seconds and I came back and he was just dead! And he has an appointment comin' in like half an hour and I was supposed to protecting him and I'm so fucked," Rob says, before attempting to calm down, with some sloppy breaths that resemble meditative breathing. "Sorry, I just. I don't know who else to turn to who isn't going to immediately blame me. And I ain't calling the cops."
He steps over to his closet, starting to pull out clothes. "Where are you?"
He gives the address. It's of a copy shop in a rougher neighborhood.
"Alright. I'm on my way. Don't let anyone come in and disturb the scene," he says, holding the phone against his ear and shoulder while he pulls out a different phone to text his bodyguard to get dressed--he has a retainer named Wayne that is his driver/guard/assistant. Sorry Wayne, you're coming along, just in case. Thankfully Wayne is paid well...
"Okay, got it!" Rob says, already calming down. Within a bit Wayne is ready (albeit groggy) and has the car waiting for you.
Nothing other than feeding the Dark Passenger (which cries every hour if not fed) so he has a bit of peace to focus on this. Otherwise letting Wayne drive and being surly about being woken up.
He would have put on his kevlar vest under his suit and has a gun under his jacket, by the way. Just in case. Wayne is likely armed too.
The two arrive at Speed-E Copies. There's no one up at this hell hour, so parking is a breeze. The store itself is the archetypical front: only a few windows, a large back area and hours posted that could not possibly sustain the business. But through those few front windows, Simon can see Rob pacing back and forth. When he spots you, he runs over and unlocks the door. "Come in! Hurry!" He whisper-shouts.
He gives the man a sharp-eyed stare at being hurried, but he does step inside, letting Wayne close and lock the door behind him. His attention slides off Rob and focuses on his surroundings, looking for signs of struggles, anything that seems out of place. And, of course, the body.
"S-sorry," Rob mumbles in apology. He turns the stores lights on and unlocks the door to the back room, where there's a second door already open with the dead body of who you assume to be Pat slumped over onto a cheap desk.
The only thing Simon really notices about the body is its distinct lack of injuries. No blood, no cuts, no stab wounds, no bullet holes. He would look like he was sleeping were it not for his deathly pallor. He's just... dead.
"I was gone for two minutes tops," Rob explains, "You don't die from a heart attack that fast or that quiet."
Well, this just got interesting. He eyes the room a moment as he adjusts the cuffs of his suit. "You mentioned he had a meeting soon. With who?"
Simon has Psychometry--which can show him a vision of the most emotionally intense moment of a location. Hoping that that would be his death. Can I try it?
Rob, not knowing crime scene etiquette, reaches over and grabs a day planner from the desk and flips it open to today. "Says here that he met with YJ at 8 pm and then is meeting O here tonight. I don't know who either of those people are."
Simon reaches out to feel the emotional resonance of the room and as he does, he is assaulted with a vision. Pat at his desk. A bolt of black lightning running into him. Fear. Death. But before he can sense any more, there's a loud knocking from the front door.
A tallish man in a fine suit is peering through the windows, impatient for someone to open the door for him, even though its only been a handful of seconds.
He draws in a deep breath as the vision washes over him, then blinks rapidly as he hears the door open. He glances towards the front of the store, then rubs his temples. "Stay here," he whispers to Rob, then nods to Wayne to follow him into the front room, though keeping back to just stand guard.
He smooths down his jacket and steps out of the backroom, pulling the door closed behind him. Putting on his Business Face, he moves to answer the front door, unlocking it and offering the man a polite, apologetic look. "My apologies. It appears Mr. Mahone is indisposed at the moment."
If he would have knocked instead, easy enough to just shift slightly and have Simon go to answer the door instead!
As the door swings open, Simon vaguely recognizes the man. He's been at a few high society mixers but never really talked with Simon, so he never learned his name.
The man squints. "Do I know you from somewhere?" He shakes his head. "That's not important now. The important part is that I need to talk to Mahone. I have an appointment. So unless he's so drunk he can't talk or dead, I'm going to talk to him."
Simon considers his options. Rob is, in fact, very dead, and nothing he can do is going to fix that. If he just disappeared then that's going to raise different suspicions, and he's now gotten himself in this mess. Ugh. Why is someone/something causing problems for him?
"If only he were merely drunk, I imagine it would make both of our lives much easier," he grumbles, as if this were a great inconvenience for him. Which, to be fair, it very much is. "He is dead, I'm afraid."
"Did you kill him?" He asks, his tone bored. "I hope you didn't, but I won't be mad if you did. Hazard of his line of work."
"No," he replies. "Though at this point I wish I had." He glances about with distaste. "No signs of foul play. Seems to have been a heart attack or stroke, not that I'm a medical professional by any means."
"I am a doctor, but I'm afraid it's just a PhD." He sighs. "I don't suppose you know his higher ups? Or really anyone I can talk to."
"I know some people. Who would be best to contact might depend on what you're in need of," he replies, looking back at the man--he's rich and clearly wanting something, which means he's far more interesting than a random dead gangster, at the moment.
The man takes a second to think. "No, until I see the body, I have no way of knowing you aren't a cop. I suppose you don't know I'm not either, but you're the one with the missing mobster, not me." He smirks for a second. "The Case of the Missing Mobster. It'd be a good name for a book, don't you think?"
He considers the man for a moment. He knows a fair amount of cops, and most cops don't hang around high society events--so he's fairly certain this guy isn't... Hopefully...
He steps aside, gesturing for him to come in, and closes and locks the door behind him. "No. Sounds dreadfully generic," he replies snootily. He makes his way towards the back room.
He steps in and follows behind. "People seem to like generic these days. A dozen superheroes all identically written." Two can play at the snob game. "I don't suppose you can see into the past and see who did it, can you?"
He eyes the man for a moment, trying to gauge if that question had any trace of sincerity in it. "Mm. Can you?"
He's hard to read, his voice equal levels of earnest and bored. "I can only see the past through primary sources, I'm afraid. My PhD is in History." He smiles slightly at his not-really-a-joke. "Now, I believe I was promised a corpse? Is it through that door?"
"History, hm?" He gives the man a curious once over, then opens the door to the back room and steps inside--eyes going to Rob first with a sharp look of don't say a word.
He turns back to the mystery man and corpse, pushing up his glasses as he eyes the dead man. "As you can see."
"Huh." He says, looking up and down the body. "Update my book to the Case of the Capo's Corpse. Better alliteration anyway. Do you need the body disposed of? I know a guy." He says that last part like everything else he says, blurring the line between a weird joke and an earnest statement.
"That is a far more compelling title," he says lightly. "No, I'm sure I can manage, but thank you for the offer."
"Now, if you're willing to tell me what the manner of your appointment was with Mr. Mahone, perhaps I could be of help to you."
"Ah, yes. He was going to help me get some weapons off the record. Simple as that." He pauses, "since we're now co-conspirators in hindering an investigation, maybe we should give out our names?"
He turns towards the man, offering his hand out for a proper handshake. "Simon Dubois. Guns? Simple enough, yes."
"Dr. Clinton Omalu." The handshake is reciprocated. The good doctor has a hell of a grip. "Just guns. Nothing special." He pauses, "though if you could get me Ulysses S. Grant's gun, I'd pay a lot for it." Another almost-joke, if you had to guess.
"Now, I think we'd both like to get back to our lovely warm homes. Perhaps you could give me some names so I can get going?"
He reaches into his jacket, pulling out a business card and a pen--the card only has a phone number on it, one he uses for uh... shady businesses... And he write a number on the back. "Call and ask for Derrick. Tell him I sent you." He offers the card out, held between two fingers. "If you have any trouble, you can call the number on the front."
"And I do deal in historical artifacts," he adds. "If you really were interested in that sort of thing."
Clinton smiles brightly at the last part. "Noted, Mr. Dubois. I'll see what money I can scrounge up. Now if you excuse me, I simply must be going." And he heads for the door unless stopped.
"Have a good night, Mr. Omalu," he replies lightly, watching him go.
Well, maybe this night would have some benefits. But his expression sours as he goes back to eyeing the corpse. Then he looks towards Rob. "If anyone asks, you tell them that you were with me. Tell them Rob had sent you to deliver a payment to me, but I decided it wasn't enough, and made you bring me back here for the rest. We both found him dead, like this."
"Yes, sir!" Rob says, happy that he has an out. "Should I call the higher ups or let them find out on their own?"
"We might as well call now, leaving it will just make us both look more suspicious," he replies.
"If they ask what the payment was for, just tell them you weren't told any details, and I'll handle the rest."
He nods and makes the call.
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