Well it's been quite a while, whoops. Hope this new chapter is enjoyed. Please R/R!!!
The Question's first stop was the abode of the late Jerry Stephenson, better known as the trigger man who'd shot her partner. He hadn't been dead long enough for anyone to start going through his place, and when she picked the lock she found it just as he'd left it. She closed the door behind her, and flicked on a small hand flashlight, rather than turn on the overhead and risk discovery. The place was a mess, the typical bachelor pad, pizza boxes stacked in one corner, dirty dishes. The furnishings were simple and cheap, the place was a one-bedroom in a seedier section of town. It had all the earmarks of someone just scraping by, so why, oh why did he have a large, flat-panel television? She frowned. Living beyond his means? The entertainment center was new, it seemed. There was little dust on the TV, stereo, and new gaming consoles compared to the surrounding area. He could perhaps have bought them on credit, but mentally adding up the value, she doubted it. Mr. Stephenson had recently come into rather a lot of money to be able to afford such nice new toys. Interesting.
She paged through his caller ID next. Several calls from a blocked number. She'd have to see about getting his phone records . . . Oracle might be able to help. Out of curiosity she picked up the phone, listening to the series of beeps that signaled messages. Wondering if he were the type of idiot who left his pin number for his phonemail written somewhere accessible, she paged through his address book. She smirked. "Phonemail–555-2145 (34-DD)." She rolled her eyes at his passcode and not for the first time couldn't feel at all bad he was dead.
She dialed the number and entered the code, waiting. "Hey, Jerry, it's Paul!" The man sounded drunk. "I heard you got a line on some big job, dude. Any room for more help? Call me!" The message was dated two days before the Question was killed. She wrote down the name and number on the caller ID–Paul Mason would be receiving a visit once she tracked down his whereabouts. The rest of the calls were disappointing, mostly telemarketing. She hung up the phone and pocketed Jerry's address book. If he was stupid enough to write down his phonemail passcode, he was probably dumb enough to have his 'business' contacts written down.
Another check around the apartment found some crumpled receipts on his dresser. He'd paid cash for his television and toys, probably having received payment that way. Very professional, and unfortunately impossible to trace. She tried the area around his desk next, finally coming up with a paycheck stub that confirmed that he could not have afforded his toys on his salary. It also revealed that he was a 'Cleanup Technician' (a fancy title for Janitor) at Jupiter Coffee and Tea. The font was modern, sleek, probably a new outfit. She pocketed the slip, remembering that amongst Q's files there had been a menu from Jupiter. She'd thought nothing much of it at the time. Now . . .
The computer was useless; nothing but the sort of thing single men with poor taste downloaded, and she turned it off, half wanting to drop a magnet into its workings. The rest of the apartment revealed nothing more of interest, and she slipped out and down the back stairwell, pulling the blue fedora low over her blank face as she stepped out into the Hub City alley. A check of the address book revealed no location for Paul Mason; probably close enough a friend Jerry had no need for a street number. Well, she'd just have to find him.
The sun was dipping low on the horizon, but it was still early evening. Time enough for her purposes. She found a secluded pay phone and dialed Paul's number after keying in to disable caller ID. Happily he was home, and she adopted a bubbly chirp and asked him if he'd mind taking a short survey for the pizza place the boxes in Jerry's apartment had come from, in exchange for a free pizza coupon. He agreed readily and answered a few inane questions about his ordering habits and topping preferences.
"All right, that's great. Thanks so much, sir. Now . . . to what address should we send your coupons?" She asked, sweetly.
Two minutes later she was in the GTO heading toward 356 Bloch street, apartment B.
She figured Paul for a night person, so she parked in what appeared to be a secure lot, and walked several blocks, keeping to the shadows, to his building. The lights were on inside his first-floor apartment, and she took a walk around the building. While marginally nicer than his buddy's apartment complex, it was still in a seedy section of town, and adjoined a dark alley where one could probably find some undisturbed moments. She waited there, leaning against the brick, arms folded, until the light went out in the apartment, and keys could be heard jangling in a hand as someone opened and closed a door.
Paul was a decent looking guy, mid twenties it seemed, taller and broader than she was, but the element of surprise was in her favor. She lunged at him as he passed the alley, dragging him in and kicking him in the face, dazing him enough that he mostly quit resisting as she slammed his back against the wall.
"Hello, Paul. We're going to have a chat." She said.
The young man swallowed, trying to get his bearings, and focused on her, eyes widening. "Y-you don't have no face . . . "
She inclined her head. "Freak eyebrow waxing accident." He tried to bolt and she punched him hard, twice in the ribs. "Not until we're finished chatting." She chided.
"I-I don't know nothing!" He was scared, that was good. And he was starting by screaming denials, a sure sign of a guilty conscience.
"That, I almost believe." She said, holding him by his jacket with one hand, the other at the ready to hit him again if he didn't keep still. "However, I would like you to regale me with the tale of our late friend Jerry Stephenson. He recently had some sort of large and lucrative job to do for someone that turned out to be his last. Who hired him?"
"I don't know nothing about a job!" He cried, immediately.
Deciding he needed some further motivation, she reached down with her free hand, got a grip on his little finger, and twisted savagely. The snap was quite satisfying, as was his ragged scream. "Let's try again. And don't think for a minute I'll ask nicely nine more times. There are much more interesting bones to break."
Paul whimpered, cradling his twisted finger, trying to shy away from her. "Y-you're crazy, you no-face bitch . . . "
She shrugged a bit. "That's been pointed out to me a time or two. Now, who hired him, or shall I break more digits?"
The guy cringed. "M-my supervisor did. He had him doing some under the table stuff, sometimes I'd go with him and we'd take stuff from labs."
She frowned under her mask. "Why would he hire a coffee bar janitor and . . . whatever you are to lift things from labs? What labs? And who's your supervisor, did you and Jerry work together?" The idea of a Jupiter Coffee and Tea manager sending his employees out to steal from labs was . . . bizarre at best.
Paul hesitated until she reached for his hand again, then flinched back. "N-no, no more!"
"You wouldn't last a minute under real torture, I'm guessing. Talk and we don't have to test that theory."
He whimpered a little, and started talking. "I-I work at Phoenix Labs, the pharmaceutical company. I just do stuff like monitoring temperatures, I swear, I don't mess with any of the chemistry."
"Thank heavens." She said, dryly. "How did your supervisor come to know Jerry?"
The young man swallowed. "W-well. They had a grand kickoff party for the Labs when they opened. Jerry and lots of his buddies from work were there, and the higher-ups for Jupiter, I dunno why, friends of the scientists I guess, or they catered, I forget. So me and Jerry were hanging out and hitting on some chicks, having a beer, and started talking to the manager of my lab . . . and you know, we were drinking and Jerry starts bragging about a bunch of B&E's he got away with, and Mr. Riley said he might have use of that kind of talent if we were careful . . . "
Mariko narrowed her eyes behind her mask. "Where did you steal from? And what?"
Paul had apparently decided it was in his best interests to answer her promptly. "O-other pharm labs mainly. I . . . think it was some kind of industrial espionage thing, they wanted to complete something before the other guys I guess. No one got hurt, so no problems . . . "
Her grip tightened on his jacket, and she thought about hitting him again, but restrained herself. "You took completed drugs?"
He shook his head. "No . . . mainly chemicals they had stored. I don't know what they were, they'd give us some sort of big long number and tell us to find the stuff that matched, and we did. That's all I know, I swear to god. It was just for the money . . . "
She cocked her head slightly. "What's your manager's name?"
"W-Wallace Riley. He's not a doctor, I think he's more of a businessman."
"I'll just bet." She growled, releasing his jacket and stepping back. "Do yourself a favor, Paul. Vanish. Get on a bus and go anywhere. And in case you're thinking of running off and letting Mr. Riley know about my questions . . . "
"N-no, I swear! I'd get fired!" He said, desperately backing away and running into a garbage can.
"If things are as deep as I think, you're likely to get two in the head and dumped in the river. 'Fired' will be the least of your problems. But that's nothing compared to if I see you again." She turned away, heading down the alley. "Goodbye, Paul. Pack only what you need." Behind her, she heard him scramble for his keys, and back to his apartment.
