Chat with Cho
"Nothing to say for yourself, huh?"
Cho slowly and deliberately places his muscled forearms on the smooth table, and interlaces his fingers in a motion loaded with intent. He leans forward and stares impassively across the wood to the suspect, who is observing him unmoved with a big-eyed, innocent expression.
"I want names, times. How'd you get in here? You know this is private property, right?"
The kitten mews.
Cho fixes the suspect with his best forbidding stare, the one he uses on hard-boiled criminals and also Rigbsy when he starts prattling on about Van Pelt. He is caught by a momentary pang to note that it washes over the kitten much like the threat of being fired does over Jane.
Trying another tack, he deftly flips open his black notebook and removes a small pencil from its usual residence in his shirt breast pocket. He has no doubt he can make short work of this fluffy pocket-sized law-breaker.
"Give it up. Name."
"Meeeewup."
"That right? Did you steal my chicken?"
"Mrrrewwep."
"That's not an answer."
The kitten stares blankly at him. It was a perfectly adequate response, if you asked her.
xoxoxoxoxo
Hidden in the observation room, Rigsby is gawping through the one-way mirror. He has never seen the stoic Cho quite so rattled before. He knows this because Cho's tie is the teensiest bit askew and his right shoelace is marginally undone. He's ex-military, for god's sake.
"Grace, c'mere! You gotta see this!" he calls as Van Pelt walks past, hugging a bundle of files.
"What's going… Oh my god," she replies bug-eyed, as she glides up to the mirror. They search each other's eyes in astonishment.
Minutes later, the two team members are deep in discussion with Ron, as a number of other CBI employees jostle for position around the window. There is an excited fever of anticipation in the air.
"I can't believe," Grace is saying, as she gazes through the window, "that that tiny little thing has Cho – Cho! – all riled up."
"Have a little faith; almost nobody gets past Cho," interjects Ron with some conviction.
"Ron, have you seen what's going on in there?" exclaims Rigsby, jabbing his thumb at the sight of the kitten clambering over the table and attempting to climb up Cho's habitually smoothed tie. "It's carnage!"
"It'll be ok, Wayne," says Grace soothingly. "Want some muffin?"
xoxoxoxox
Cho is fast realizing that this little suspect has powers he never imagined. All great detectives have their nemeses: Holmes and Moriarty, Jane and Red John… It looks like he's finally come face-to-face with his. Well, he's just going to have to rely on years of training, his vast experience in interrogation. This feline fraudster won't stand a chance.
He delicately attempts to peel the sharp claws from his favourite tie, but this Terror of the Bullpen appears to be made of sterner stuff and gives him to understand, politely, that she does not wish to be removed from his very appealing cotton apparel just yet.
A couple of moments later, after some slightly undignified fumbling in which Cho tugs helplessly at the kitten and the kitten clings on with all her might, before executing an ill-advised escape route up his head, she has managed to provoke Cho into an unwitting yelp of pure exasperation. Dammit. Don't let it know it's got to you, Ice Man! Keep. Your. Cool.
xoxoxoxox
"Everything all right in here, Cho?" enquires Grace calmly and in some amusement, peering in through the door. "She's so cute. Did she do it?"
"Not sure yet," he replies, grimacing, his large hand finally detaching the kitten from his shoulder and depositing her wriggling form on the seat across from him. "It won't talk."
The kitten regards him indignantly. "It?" How insulting. She flicks her tail in a momentary fit of pique, and tries to jump back up on the table. She's not one to bear grudges, and, besides, she's just seen a very interesting pencil laying only a hair's breadth from this stern man's hairy paw, which she wishes to become better acquainted with.
"Gotta be kidding me." Cho heaves a sigh heavenward, a note of vexation creeping into his voice as the tiny cat botches her landing slightly and goes scrabbling for the pencil, batting it this way and that until it eventually rolls reluctantly off the edge. A shame. It had been having fun on that table for once. Usually it was all work, work, work with Cho.
"Where were you at 08:03 this morning?"
The kitten declines to answer. To be perfectly frank, she cannot be doing with these sorts of inane questions. There is far too much to explore under the table.
"You got in, got a little hungry…Hey!" The kitten's little face peeks up from Cho's engaging black shoelace, looking somewhat bewildered. She cannot believe that there has evidently been some kind of moratorium on entertainment in this dull grey room. This was not at all what she had been led to expect from law enforcement.
"Would you….! Gah!" Cho has the distinct impression that things are not going well as he makes a clumsy grab for the kitten, who bolts from his grasping hands and skitters away to a corner of the room, looking aggrieved.
"Fine. Stay there," mutters Cho, resuming his seat with as much dignity as he can muster, somehow sensing the gasps and – he's pretty damn sure - chuckles coming from the observation room. It's time to bring out the big guns. "You're cute, but not that cute. You need me to tell you what happened? Well, here it is: you snuck into the bullpen; you knew your size would get you in unseen. You saw my chicken on the desk; you got a little opportunistic. It just all smelled too good…"
The kitten sits back neatly, tiny paws placed demurely together, and cocks a kittenish eyebrow. Enough is enough. This giant human seems to be implying that she has eaten an entire chicken baguette - with all the trimmings. Unbelievable.
"Riirrrrrseeee," she declares, patiently. Really, this unsmiling human is quite staggeringly dense. She's not too sure who put him in charge here.
Cho pauses and taps his dutiful pencil, weighing up the evidence. He can't be certain about this, but he thinks she might be saying "Rigsby".
He leans back heavily in his chair, left arm supporting his weight, and swivels it to look back grimly over his shoulder. He can hear a faint, distant thud, as if someone has knocked something over. It sounds suspiciously like Rigsby's forehead meeting the glass.
Edited to add: I do not own The Mentalist or any of its characters. (Can I claim the kitten, though? ;) )