2019-06-05 - Get Off My Lawn!

Logan is an easy person to find. Anybody will tell Ruiz that if he wants to find Logan? All he needs to do is go up to the Lonely Goose, where he spends literally almost all of his time. Now, most of these people will also add in gossip about how he keeps his dead sister's wife locked in the basement, but you know. This town is small. People talk. Anyway! Logan is indeed at his house, and he is outside of the B&B on this beautiful afternoon, knee deep in mulch and fussing with deweeding the shrub garden. He's grumbling as he goes along, in true Logan fashion.

A car pulls up to the curb out in front of the property, somewhere in the midst of Logan's downtime with his shrubbery and his thoughts. Black charger with puck antennae on the back end, dark rims and prominent spotlights mounted by the front grille. In other words, an unmarked cop car. Which, when one gets up close and personal with one of them, it's really pretty obvious what's going on. The vehicle idles for a minute or so before the ignition's killed, and an older gentleman in civilian clothing climbs out. Hands shoved into the pockets of his battered-looking jacket, he wanders on over to where Logan's pulling out weeds and offers a thin smile. "Good afternoon. Logan Miller?" Hispanic accent, fairly prominent.

Logan notices the car as it comes rolling up to the front of his property, a quick glance over his shoulder before his eyes narrow. He breathes out, and refocuses on his gardening, grabbing a handful of weeds and rather aggressively tugging them out of the mulch. It means he's showered with dirt, but hey, he's already pretty significantly dirty already so the new mulch smears will just blend in with all the others. Logan doesn't look at the cop car - or its driver - until Ruiz is finally standing up in front of him. He does not stand, but he lifts his attention up promptly. "That's me," he remarks, and then gets to his feet with a grunt, clapping his hands on the side of his pants to get the dirt off. "How can I help you? Need a room?"

Ruiz isn't, to be fair, watching Logan as much as his handiwork. Sunlight slants across his face, causing him to squint slightly, and prompting a fine network of crow's feet to spring up at the corners of his eyes. When the younger man speaks, he meets his gaze quietly, dark gaze assessing. "No. No room." He extracts a hand from his jacket and unzips it enough to reach for something in an inner pocket. Not a gun; this much is apparent by the mere fact that his gun is at his hip, the butt of it visible under his jacket. What comes out instead is his badge, flashed for long enough to let Logan know that he is indeed, "Captain de la Vega with the GHPD. I would like to ask you a few questions. Mind if we step inside?"

There's not a single bit of surprise that flashes across Logan's face when the badge is flashed. Instead, his eyes just darken, and he breathes out a long and weary sigh. "If this is about Emily, I'm not keeping my goddamn sister in law locked in the fucking basement. She's a teacher at the high school, for Christ's sake!" he complains in a grouchy tone of voice. Really, if Logan was about 45 years older, he'd probably be shouting for Captain de la Vega to 'get off his lawn'. He reaches to pinch at the bridge of his nose before he huffs out another sigh and waves a hand. "Whatever. Fine. If you're here to make a wellness check, be my goddamn guest. She's not even here. She's fucking off somewhere, reading a book or something."

Ruiz seems content to wait for Logan to finish with his little tirade; his expression remains impassive, like a man who's seen far too much shit to let this get to him. "Are you finished, Mr. Miller?" he queries as the badge is tucked away again, bridge of his nose given a scratch with his thumb before he jams both hands into his jacket's pockets again. He's wearing a radio, which goes off with a crackle of static-laced speech from dispatch, and is promptly turned down. "Please." He nods toward the front door of the B&B. "I would like to speak with you. Inside."

Logan was not done, but he manages to look away before he just glares at the front door. "Fine," he says it again, pushes himself forward, and walks past Ruiz and up the steps. The front door is smacked open, and grumpy Logan stomps into the living room of the house, toeing off his sneakers before he tracks in any mud. "The door to the basement is through the kitchen," he says almost mechanically. "It's where we sleep. I turned it into a bedroom after.." he pauses, flinches. "After my wife died."

Silence from the officer while Logan has his moment. The radio goes off again, softer this time. He waits until the other man is good and ready to comply, and then trails along after him at a good couple of paces back. Watching perhaps for any sudden movement, any clues that he's significantly agitated beyond the realm of merely annoyed. He doesn't remove his boots at the front door, but it's not like he's tracking mud inside anyway. "This is not about Emily," he interjects somewhere in the midst of the man telling him about where they sleep. And again, since it seems to bear repeating: "This is not about Emily, Mr. Miller." His dark eyes track through the living area, settling on one thing or another, drinking in the space that isn't his; he sticks out here like a sore thumb. Like the interloper he is. "Megan. Does the name ring a bell to you? She stayed here recently."

The talk about the dead wife sort of levels out his irritation, at least. Logan's shoulders slump, and he was well along his way across the living room to show the good Captain where the basement is, when the 'this isn't about Emily' gets through to him. The second time. He stops short, turning back to the Captain, the distance between them widened. "Then what is this about?" he says, just before Ruiz reveals his intentions. The name makes his fingers curl up rather instinctively into fists, nails biting into his palms. "Megan," he repeats, his voice cold. "Megan Keene. Yes, that woman stayed here. For a night." He doesn't say that he thinks Megan is a bitch, but it's spoken all through his tone.

Ruiz hasn't moved from the entryway, for the most part. His dark eyes shift back to Logan's, and remain level with his gaze when the other man turns back to him. "Before we start, I must inform you that I will be recording our conversation." A small, boxy device is withdrawn out of his jacket pocket and held up for Logan to see, to make it clear that it isn't a weapon. He doesn't take chances with such things, it seems. The recording device is switched on and set atop a small shelf near the door, and a notepad and pen are withdrawn next. Click to engage it, and then the pad is propped against the wall while he scribbles something down. "Do you have logs of when she checked in and out? What room she stayed in, any visitors?"

Logan's eyes flash to the recorder that's withdrawn from the man's pocket, the frown remaining on his lips. "I don't consent to being fucking recorded," he says as soon as the play button is engaged, looking directly at the recorder as he says it. Then, his attention flashes back to Ruiz. "Were you at the theater?" It's a pointed question, and he shakes his head afterward. "I knew that woman was gonna wind up on the goddamn news or something. That's why I threw her out of here." He breathes out a heavy sigh and moves to the antique roll-up desk in the living room, tugging open a drawer and retrieving a ledger book. He flops it open on the desk, flips a few pages, and points a finger to the book. "There. Megan Keene. She came here the same day the rest of the fucking freak circus rolled into town, but she was the only one who got a room. I didn't see the others. And she left that next afternoon. I comped her room, because it was my decision not to let her stay, and sent her down to the Sea View. She didn't have nobody with her. No visitors that I know of."

Ruiz pretty much lets Logan's saltiness roll right off him, like water off a duck's back. He doesn't address the concern about the recording device and consent. Because it's true; he didn't ask. He told. The question as to his whereabouts is ignored. Silence, save for the scratch of his pen against the notepad. The dates are checked in the ledger, his watch glanced at briefly to confirm something, and then more scribbling. "You say you.. knew she was going to wind up on the news or something." He meets Logan's gaze again for a beat. "Tell me more about that."

Logan tips the ledger towards Ruiz, but he keeps his hand on one side of it. He wasn't going to let the ledger go, that was fairly evident. "Yep, that's what I said," he confirms about the woman, but the next prompt gives him pause. He straightens, looking over to Ruiz, his brows climbing. "No," he says firmly, pointedly, and then looks directly at the tape recorder. "Not with that thing on."

Ruiz doesn't appear to have any designs on taking the ledger. The dates are all he's interested in, and they're marked down on his notepad with a couple of remarks - in Spanish, if Logan happens to be trying to snoop a look - scrawled alongside. Then the request that's met with the younger man digging his heels in, and the cop considers him in silence for some time. There's often an easy way and a hard way to handle these sorts of situations. A path of least resistance, and a path choked with thorns. And sometimes you don't really have a choice. And sometimes you do. His tonguetip skims his lower teeth slowly, and then he reaches for the recording device and switches it off with a soft click. Dark eyes settle on Logan again, expectant. "Tell me." His voice is quieter, yet the edge is more apparent now.

Logan lifts his chin, just a scant amount - he's standing his ground on this, unwilling to fight. His attention remains focused wholly on the recorder, waiting for the moment that Ruiz makes his choice. And with the click of the recorder, Logan seems to relax, albeit subtly. "Thank you," he hasn't forgotten his manners, it seems, even if the phrasing was off. He shifts in step and folds his arms over his chest, raising his eyes back up to Ruiz's own. "She was in my goddamn dining room, talking about making deals," he grunts, eyes hardening. "She kept trying to convince me that I could keep myself and Emily safe. So long as I gave Them somebody else. I told her no fucking way, and I told her to leave. If I had any clue what they were planning at the theater, I would've strangled the bitch." He doesn't sound the least bit apologetic.

Well, it's probably fortuitous that that last little gem wasn't being recorded. It gives the cop pause for perhaps a heartbeat, but then his pen resumes it's soft scratch against paper. "So you told her to leave. And she complied?" No emotion is apparent on his features, save perhaps for a touch of curiosity.

"She sure did. After sending me images of my dead wife and telling me They were gonna get Emily anyway," Logan replies with a dark look. "To be plain with you.. Captain.. I would've fucking thrown her out if she hadn't gone willingly. But she did." He seems to have nothing more to add, at first. But then, with a frown, he adds, "Look. I took down her license plate number. I don't know if you can run her plates, but.." he shifts to take his phone out of his pocket, unlocking the screen and thumbing through his pictures until he finds what he's looking for. "I can text you this picture, if you want," but he shows him the plate number.

Ruiz jots that down too, a slight crease forming between his brows as he glances up to find that dark look on Logan's face. No comment on what comes next. No judgement. He flips the page in his notepad and writes some more. Meticulous about capturing every scrap of information, particularly since he'll no longer have a recording to fall back on. "Do you have any idea where she went, after she left your property?" The license plate number is noted down and circled, something scrawled beside it. Then he reaches into that inner pocket of his jacket and fishes around for a moment before withdrawing a card. It bears the logo of Gray Harbour's Police Department on the back, and lists him as 'Captain J. R. de la Vega', with a number below. It's held out between index and middle fingers toward Logan. "Yes. I would appreciate that." The picture.

Ruiz jots that down too, a slight crease forming between his brows as he glances up to find that dark look on Logan's face. No comment on what comes next. No judgement. He flips the page in his notepad and writes some more. Meticulous about capturing every scrap of information, particularly since he'll no longer have a recording to fall back on. "Do you have any idea where she went, after she left your property?" The license plate number is noted down and circled, something scrawled beside it. Then he reaches into that inner pocket of his jacket and fishes around for a moment before withdrawing a card. It bears the logo of Gray Harbour's Police Department on the back, and lists him as 'Captain J. R. de la Vega', Narcotics Division, with a number below. It's held out between index and middle fingers toward Logan. "Yes. I would appreciate that." The picture.

"Not a fucking clue," Logan tells Ruiz honestly, flicking a glance down to the offered card. He's a bit wary, but he takes it after a moment of hesitation, and balances it on his phone while he types the number out to send the picture over. "I told her she should get a room at the Sea View. Whether she did or not is her business, I didn't want to see her again. But Emily dragged me to that fucking cursed play.." Grumble grumble. "There. You've got the plate," and he drops his phone and the business card in his pocket. "If there's nothing else...?"

Ruiz waits patiently for the card to be taken, and there's a faint twitch at the corners of his mouth when it is. Not quite a smile, but the first indication that he might actually be capable of such. His phone buzzes once the text message is received, and he continues writing for a good minute before clicking his pen off. "No. Nothing else for now, Mr. Miller. You have my number, if anything else comes to mind. Yes?" He withdraws a step backward, radio crackling softly, mic tapped as he speaks into it while keeping his eyes on Logan. Something about an ETA at the precinct.

"Sure," Logan says in reply, in the tone of voice that suggests he's not overtly eager to go reaching out to cops. Even if it is to find some psycho psychic who tried to kill a bunch of people in a theater. There's a flash of a look to the radio, but he doesn't dilly-dally: he marches right past Ruiz to get back to the front door, and swing it open again. "Have a good day, Captain. And if you don't mind? Next time you hear one of those gossip mongers talking about Emily being locked in the basement? Tell 'em you checked." A beat. "And she said she fucking liked it." And that makes him grin wide.

The recording device is collected and shoved back into his jacket, and the older man takes a moment or two to sweep his gaze over the living area before moseying toward the door that's being held open. He's probably accustomed to people trying to get rid of him. Or worse. "None of my business," he pauses to note to the man, seeking his eyes. "But I will let you know the moment that changes." No smile in response to the grin, though he does study Logan a beat longer before stepping past him and out into the dusk.