Ichigo had just gotten out of the shower that evening when his cell phone rang. He hitched the towel up around his hips better, swearing as he rummaged through his pants tossed on the floor, locating the ringing device by the fifth ring.
"Yes," he said into it, dripping onto the moderately-priced hotel's taupe carpet.
"Hey, Scott here," the voice said. "How much for a toy now?"
"Right now?" Ichigo combed his wet hair back with one hand, succeeding in sending longer drips of water down his back.
"Tomorrow morning."
"That's fast. Did you take care of the first items already?" Ichigo looked around for his cigarettes and lighter, scowling when he didn't find either on the bed or table.
"Yes. No problem. The name you gave me -- that guy was anxious to take anything padparadscha."
Ichigo nodded, gave up on the cigarettes, and sat on the bed side, trying not to drip. "What're you looking for in a toy?"
"Green, or gold. Something bright."
"We can do that. How much?"
"Two stones, at least. Ten or fifteen thousand."
Ichigo leaned across the bed and pulled his briefcase closer and took a moment to work the digital lock. Inside he sorted through the small plastic bags and gold envelopes, looking inside several. "Okay, Scott, that price would get you small irradiated diamonds of those colors, or traditional emeralds and golden beryl."
He frowned at the contents of one small envelope, shaking it until the emeralds inside slid out. He unwrapped the diamond paper from around several stones and held them between his fingers against the overhead light. Each about two carats, he estimated.
"Irradiated? Sounds like something grown in a lab," Scott said. "I guess I'll go with the traditional ones." There was a pause. "Are you there?"
Ichigo nodded, cradling the phone against his neck to his ear so he could use both hands to wrap the stones. "I'm here. Are you a Mets fan?"
Scott chuckled. "When they're doing good."
"There's a game tonight." Ichigo stuck the wrapped gemstones back in the small envelope and began putting them into the briefcase. "There's a non-working phone at Gate B that'll have your merchandise in it tonight. Check the change return. Don't worry, it'll be marked out-of-order. The stones will be in an envelope there. Bring a ball glove."
"Tonight?" Scott's voice held reservations.
Ichigo shrugged, nearly unseating the phone at his ear. "Yup. I'm going out of town in the morning."
"What about the money?"
Ichigo's hand rested on one of the heavier small envelopes, and he pulled it closer, shaking it gently. The contents rattled. "Leave the money in the change return. Large bills, rolled, in a film canister. You know, the old ones. Can you get one?"
Scott chuckled. "Yes, I think I can find one."
Ichigo scowled suddenly, focusing on the call. "Hey, and I'll know if you try to make off without dropping the money, Scott. You won't see me, but I'll be there."
"Okay, okay. How much?"
Ichigo shook the envelope onto the bed, frowning. "I'll get the details to you in..." He looked to the clock bolted to the wall. "Half an hour. And come to the locker alone, Scott."
"Okay."
The line clicked and Ichigo shut off the phone and tossed it aside to give the single item from the envelope more attention. He held the gold locket up, turning it to see the emerald cabochon, and then looked to the work tag attached to the chain.
"Kuchiki," he read, squinting at the name written in his father's sketchy penmanship. He pulled the briefcase closer and found the loupe and another custom made lens set in a handle.
He held the lens over the emerald. Beneath the small glass the emerald appeared to be slightly checked, proving it was unwashed by the mandatory chemical bath required by legal stones. "Okay, Kuchiki, you rebel," he said, grabbing his laptop from under the pillow and opening it, "let's see where you are now."
He spent a moment finding the file on Robert Kuchiki, which had minimal listings. "Robert Kuchiki, occasional transport for the Midwest. One purchase, grade A emerald," he read, frowning. "No address."
He sighed and looked at the locket photo. A small dark-haired girl stared back at him, a timid smile on her face, the photo too small and grainy to determine many details. He grinned back at the school picture.
"Sorry, sweetie," he said, wrapping the locket in the soft diamond paper and putting it inside the small envelope, wondering how long his father had had the piece of jewelry. "I have no idea where your daddy is." He replaced the envelopes in the briefcase and closed the laptop.
He set the envelope containing the loose golden beryl and emeralds on the small table near the television stand with the loupe and lens, his mind still on the girl in the locket. Lots of gemstones and clients had slipped through the cracks of the Kurosaki jewelling business since the overhaul that claimed his father's life.
He scowled and finished drying off with the towel, making his orange hair stick up in belligerent tufts. The overhaul hadn't directly taken his parents' lives, but Ichigo knew who was responsible. He wasn't sure which of the nameless alphabet agencies had a direct hand in the house fire or car accident.
He held them all equally responsible.
As the opening pitch was crossing home plate that evening, Aizen and Esparo were letting themselves into Daniel Scott's more than modest apartment across the city. The younger agent looked around at the sable brown leather furniture, the abstract art hanging from the beige walls, the chrome appliances and bar stools at the kitchen counter. The living room was decorated half lower echelon art gallery, half avant-garde museum trinket.
Aizen looked past these and to the view of the city lights blinking on outside the living room window.
"I hate these prissy kinds," Esparo said, lowering a glare at the artwork. "All show and no go."
Aizen shook his head, knowing his new partner wouldn't like the correlations he was drawing inside his head. "Just because you can't appreciate art doesn't mean it's less meaningful."
Esparo put his hands on his hips, the edge of his duster nearly knocking am African god statue off the glass coffee table. He righted it and looked back to the wall. He cocked his head to one side, frowning at the painting of angular lines and garish colors. "I can appreciate art, but this ain't it."
Aizen went to the black and chrome desk near the leather sofa and pulled out the single drawer. "We're looking for his finances. Check the freezer."
Esparo was about to question why, but decided against it. Instead he headed into the sparsely furnished kitchen.
Aizen flicked on the computer screen and took a moment to find Scott's bank files. He jotted down the names of the banking institutions on a small pad of paper and turned off the screen. "Anything?"
Esparo closed the freezer. "Shit, this guy's boring. Winter blend vegetables, poached cod in lemon sauce, and butter-pecan ice cream."
Aizen knelt and felt beneath the desk's underside. He smiled, feeling the envelope taped there. "I've got it." He stood and carefully opened the envelope which was only folded, flap tucked. He nodded as Esparo joined him. He thumbed through the thick layer of money inside, counting swiftly.
"Fifty-three thousand," Aizen said, stuffing the money back into the envelope. "Looks like Mr. Scott has been dealing something on the side." He knelt and taped the envelope back under the desk and then stood.
"You're just going to leave it here?" Esparo asked incredulously.
Aizen nodded and reached into the pocket of his long coat for the notepad. He ripped off a page, handing it to Esparo. "Call those in to Shoren when we get back and we'll take a look at what he's been putting in the bank. See what our disgruntled investor has been dabbling in."
Esparo glanced at the financial names on the paper. "His name was high on the list."
Aizen's cell phone rang and he answered it. He listened for a moment as Esparo gave the room another skeptical look. He snapped the phone closed and sighed. "Shoren says we've got the rest of our taps and traces on the names, full taps on Scott, and a dozen Homeland Security plainclothes at the Shea."
Esparo gave the bamboo fertility goddess statue on the slate fireplace hearth a puzzling look. "These unhappy accountants, like this Scott guy, this is what they do? Trade illegal stones on the side?"
Aizen nodded as they made their way to the door, pass key in hand. "Too smart to buy gold, too scared to deal drugs." He looked to the other oil paintings on either side of the fireplace. "Gemstones are portable and the unwashed ones are nearly undetectable. A perfect market for Scott, and with as few dealers still in the business who will trade illegal stones, Scott could very well lead us to what's left of the Kurosaki family. Padparadscha sapphires are rare, and unwashed pads are even rarer." He glinted a smile at thoughts of the remaining Kurosaki prospect. "If Scott's source isn't Ichigo Kurosaki or of the Marzoff family, he's close to one of them."
Esparo shrugged, the magnitude of Aizen's words not fully appreciated.
Aizen decided to appeal to the younger man's baser instincts. "Come on. We've got a Mets game to catch."
Late evening was strolling damply across the backyard by the time Michael returned home from work. The house was oddly quiet as he let himself in, something he hadn't had to do in months, as Rukia was always home to greet him, door open, smells of dinner coming from the kitchen, radio playing lowly.
He didn't like coming home to an empty house, and had looked forward to the day a small pair of toddling feet would meet him at the back door. That hadn't happened.
Instead it had been a girl named Dusty down at the bar. That had happened.
He decided not to think about the dent in his marriage. Rukia was over it; so was he. Done and over. Moving on.
He set his lunch box on the counter in the kitchen and tried to remember Rukia's instructions on where to find dinner while she was gone. He opened the refrigerator door and looked in as a knock came to the back screen door. Michael looked over the refrigerator door to see Ambra on the porch, a white French casserole dish in her hands.
"Hello, hello," she said with a warm smile, raising one shoulder above her lime green sundress. "Overtime, hmm?" She held up the dish, peeking through the screen. "A little overdone, but hell, still edible."
He shut the refrigerator door and opened the screen door. "Come on in, Ambra." He held the screen open as she passed through, the ruffle on her sleeve brushing his chest, smelling of suntan lotion.
She placed the casserole dish on the counter, and then turned to him. "Long day?"
He eyed the dish, shrugging.
She blew a strand of deep auburn hair from her eyes. "Too hot to be working so hard. I thought you might be hungry after all those hours."
He nodded. "Thanks for the thought, Ambra, but Rukia cooked enough to last me the week. I just have to remember to thaw it out."
She raised an eyebrow. "Need help defrosting it?" She giggled lightly. "I'm a real whiz at microwaving."
"Thanks, anyway." He reached for the refrigerator door as she stepped in front of it.
"A week, hmm?" She looked up at him expectantly for a brief moment, smile verging on becoming something else. "Thaw it out tomorrow. No sense in letting an innocent stroganoff go to waste."
He chuckled and stepped away to the counter. The casserole did smell good. Much better than the frozen Tupperware still in the refrigerator. "Take it home for Larry."
She smiled wider. "Larry's out of town. As usual." She took a step toward him, eyes on the navy t-shirt beneath the red and gray plaid button up he'd thrown on over top.
Michael avoided her when she closed the short space between them. He'd seen that look before, let himself get trapped once before while in a half-drunken and susceptible state of mind, in which he'd deliberately continued for several months before Rukia had gotten wind of the affair.
He nodded to the casserole dish. "Thanks for the thought."
Ambra's gaze lifted to the cupboards before her eyes went to the bottom ones. "Where does Rita keep the plates?" She bent over at the waist, opening a lower cupboard under the sink, giving the drain board a smile.
Michael watched her, eyes on the green sundress skirt facing him. "Not there. It's Rukia, not Rita." His eyes followed as she straightened and brushed at the dress to remove non-existent wrinkles. "I can find dinner, Ambra."
She shrugged, giving him a flirty smile. "If you think so. Enjoy it. There's more where that came from." She tossed a look at the casserole, then back to him. "Bye-bye, Mikey."
She left out the screen door. He watched her go, crossing their small yards to her own porch, where she scooped up the cat that was waiting for her.
He shook his head. "Mikey."