2019-06-11 - Copbothering

The receptionist is on break at the moment, so guess who got arm-twisted into filling in for her for fifteen minutes? Captain de la Vega, grouchface extraordinaire, that's who. The scruffy-bearded cop is slouched in a chair that's a little too small for him, and sporting full duty gear - including a live firearm, holstered at his left hip. He's currently reading a magazine of some sort. A gossip rag. He does not look amused.

And look who comes to bring fun and joy and light into the Captain's life? It's Alexander. He's slouching his way into the police station, and glancing around a bit furtively. Almost like he was thinking of trying to slide past the receptionist and sneak somewhere he wasn't supposed to be. But if that was his plan, when he sees Ruiz, his sudden rethinking can actually be seen on his face. He blinks, then heads towards the Ruiz, head down but eyes watchful, hands in his pockets. A glance at the magazine, before he says, "Are you rooting for them to get back together? I think they're probably not very good for one another." This is said with perfect seriousness.

Ruiz doesn't immediately seem to clue into Alexander's semi-stealthy intrusion into the precinct. Though let's be honest, that magazine is gripping. It's a murmur of conversation between two officers that draws his gaze, and then the skulking fellow is caught in the periphery, and watched as he approaches the front desk. He closes the magazine, sets it down on the counter between them. Then slides it closer slowly. "You read my mind," he deadpans, keeping his fingertips on the magazine. "It is all yours though, if you want to spoil the surprise." A beat, and then, "What can I help you with, Mr. Clayton?" He doesn't move from his lazy slouch in that chair, dark eyes trained on the man opposite.

Alexander reaches out to touch the magazine, because hey, free reading material. But he just keeps his fingertips on it, not tugging unless Ruiz lifts his. His eyes remain fixed on Ruiz with that unblinking sort of reptile stare he has. "I'm glad you're here. You're competent. Why are you on the reception desk, though?" A sidelong look at one of the officers, as if they clearly should be here instead, but his attention snaps back to the Captain. He clearly has some sort of internal debate, perhaps arguing with the voices in his head as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. When he speaks, his voice is lower even than its usual softness. "What would I have to do to be allowed to see some very cold case files, Captain?"

Ruiz keeps his hand on the magazine a moment longer, then relinquishes it to Alexander's possession, if he so chooses to claim it. The swarthy fellow eases back in his chair, fingers weaving together over his belly; he ignores his radio when it goes off, as it's wont to do whenever it damn well pleases. "A favour for a friend," he confides with a little smile, dark gaze unwavering. Then he waits, perfectly aware Alexander has something he wants to cough up. Patience, thy name is Ruiz. Well, Javier technically, but not many people know that. "It would depend on the cold case. There is an open source website with a large number of police and FBI reports. I can find you the URL, if you like. Other than that, it would be on a case by case basis." A brow ticks up infintessimally. "Did you have something specific in mind?"

Alexander looks down when the magazine is relinquished. He opens it and starts paging through. Either he's not really interested in the breathless coverage of celebrity drug addiction, or he's a very fast reader, judging by how quick the pages turn. He glances up. "Not on the website. Likely not digitized." He meets the upward brow with an impassive look. "Yes." A pause, while his head ducks down and he reads more in the magazine. "The year would be 1969."

Ruiz watches the glossy pages as they're turned; dark eyes shadowed by darker lashes, and a slight downturn at the edges of his mouth. Not quite disapproval, so much as an overabundance of caution. He knows this particular man would not have sought him out for something trivial. "1969," he repeats, sotto voce. His tonguetip skims his lower lip, right where his beard starts, and then he eases onto one hip to dig a notepad out of his pants pocket. A pen follows, from a front pocket of his shirt, and is clicked on. Both are slid onto the counter between them. "You write down everything you know about this. I cannot promise you anything. Except that I will look, for you. Yes?"

Alexander shifts from foot to foot. He's clearly uncomfortable with the idea of committing what he's looking for to paper - or maybe just to commit it to the keeping of the cop. His brow furrows and he stares at Ruiz. There's an odd sort of pressure in the air, a flutter not /on/ Ruiz's skin, but under it. Something coming from Alexander that seems to be weighing and assessing some internal parts of the other man in a way that's probably not very polite. But, at least, whatever the weighing reveals, Alexander bends over and writes out a few brief phrases: Johnson Family Mortuary, arson, 1969. Then, after a moment, writes adds: Suzanne Johnson nee Baxter. He pushes it back towards Ruiz. "There may be trouble. If you look."

For all his laconic ease, it's probably a good bet that Ruiz did not become a captain in the police department by making friends with professional copbotherers. He's on his feet within a fraction of a second; much more quickly than a man of his compact bulk should be capable of. One hand comes down on the sheet of paper and the other shifts like he's going to go for his weapon. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He leans in close to offer those words. His voice is rough-edged, and something vicious skims just beneath the surface of his constrained irritation.

That sort of movement from a brother in blue draws all sorts of eyes. Alexander visibly flinches, and his hands come up out of his pockets, instinctive surrender and non-aggressive display. Most of the cops, seeing /who/ has drawn Ruiz's ire, roll their eyes and turn back to their conversations; most of them have either done or WANTED to do the same to Alexander at least once. There's still a few people who keep a watchful eye on the situation, one trying to catch Ruiz's eye and see if they need to throw the copbotherer out, or in a cell to cool off for a bit. For his part, other than that flinch and surrender, Alexander's expression is frozen in an impassive mask. "Sorry. Sorry," he mutters, not meeting Ruiz's eyes. "I'm sorry." Which isn't actually an answer.

One of Ruiz's least charming traits is his tendency to let his temper get the better of him. If Alexander has spent much time talking to other cops in the precinct, some of them may or may not be willing to corroborate this. Fortunately for him, the captain doesn't seem inclined to do something he might regret today. Like draw his weapon on an unarmed man, innocent or not.

"No lo hagas de nuevo," he murmurs, full aware that the other man won't understand him. The sentiment, possibly, can be intimated: 'don't try that again'. His tongue skims his teeth as he considers the man, then the information he's written down. And he collects it, folds it up, and slips it into his pocket. The pen is clicked off and tucked back into his shirt, and the receptionist happens to make a fortuitous return, complete with a strained smile for Alexander. She's familiar with him. "Thanks for covering me, Captain," she offers with a squeeze of his shoulder as she passes.

"I will see what I can find for you," Ruiz murmurs to Alexander, easing away from the desk with a crackle of his radio going off again.

"I don't speak Spanish," Alexander says, quietly. Not for the first time. Probably not for the last time. At this point, it's probably not even an actual complaint, but rather a touchstone of ceremony and habit. He slowly lowers his hands as the receptionist starts to return. She doesn't get a return smile, despite the fact that she is probably, on some level, saving his bacon. Instead, he jerks his head in a downward nod at Ruiz. And then, instead of turning away like a smart person, he sort of hovers there. "Captain. Did Mister Thorne approach the police? About his festival?"

No, it probably won't be the last. It's also summarily ignored; no acknowledgement, no apology. Ruiz is about to prowl off for the escape hatch that takes him away from all this, and back to his fortress of solitude, when Alexander's follow up question pings his radar. He turns, and studies the man for a moment or two. Then, "Yes." And, knowing full well that if he doesn't elucidate, he's going to get pressured to provide the details anyway, "I imagine it will be approved before the end of the week. I have some.. specifics to work out still." He doesn't explain what those are. But Alexander may be able to surmise.

Alexander's shoulders droop a little under Ruiz's scrutiny. He looks down at the floor, rather than at the captain. "Oh." A hesitation, before he says, "Statistically, Gray Harbor crime and accident rates are significantly above average. Its rates of tourism and visitation are significantly below average," and here his voice drops to a disgruntled sotto voce, "except for all the strangers who are coming and who all /stand out/," before he continues at a more normal mumble, "and there are good reasons for that. I think. Be careful? I have concerns." That last part was loud enough that it prompts a patrolwoman passing by to laugh, and wonder out loud if he was here to file a restraining order on Bigfoot. Alexander ignores this, although his shoulders curl in just a little more.

Ruiz seems mildly confused by the reaction his words have on the other man. He almost asks, but in the end opts to leave it alone. Instead, he takes a step closer in order to offer a few words in that low almost-growl of his: "I want to help you, Mr. Clayton. But you make that very. Very difficult sometimes." He lets that sit between them for a moment, and he ignores the patrolwoman passing by. Finally, he stalks off for the door at the back, a sharp buzz and a mechanical click as the keypad accepts his badge. And then he's gone.