2019-06-22 - The first step

"You and Andre pick up Harry at the bus depot, bring him back here, that's all."

But that was never all. Jobs went off the rails all the time. Graham knows it, and - while he glances over at Andre in the passenger seat - he figures Felix knows it, too. Why else send the big guy along on a simple pick-up?

Graham's head is absolutely fucking pounding. Felix had looked him up and down when he stepped into the office, and there was a moment of obvious displeasure, but he never asked. In the back of his mind, standing in that office and looking at his boss, Graham had the vague sense that Felix had at least a vague conception of what had happened. Ever since... that night... with Mac and Heather... Graham was more attuned to his boss's moods.

Felix was a hard man to read, even with this new ability to pick-up queues from people like never before, but it was there, a quiet displeasure paired to a relentless lack of caring. Felix was stubbornly unfeeling about his employees; he was all up in their business, but he wasn't about to start to feel sorry for some stupid fucker that got himself tangled up in a traffic accident on Elm Street in the middle of a summer thunderstorm.

So now Graham, concussion or not, sits in the driver's seat of one of Felix's cars, with Andre next to him. The music is on but low, and the big guy is busy with some knitting. They are still sitting there, watching the bus station, when Harry's bus arrives and he trots off into the station. Graham frowns, but okay. Maybe there was more to it than he thought.

Gunshots.

All hell suddenly break loose, people tearing ass out of the bus station, screaming the way only a crowd of surprised bystanders can scream.

Graham sighs. He sits in the car, watching everything unfold: the people running out of the bus station, two guys speeding off in a non-descript white sedan, the cops rolling up moments later, the coroner's office rolling up at some point. He gets out and smokes, leaving Andre in the car, and he watches that fucking cop - de la Vega - show up and take charge from all the uniformed morons.

It's starting to become a habit around here. People dying, disappearing, losing their everloving minds. The county ME practically has a running joke for this place by now, but don't ask him what it is.

'That fucking cop' pulls up in an unmarked black charger, sirens off, though the strobing lights scatter red and blue in alternating patterns across the sidewalk until those, too, are killed. The captain climbs out in a dark suit, gun visible briefly at his hip, and has some words with the uniformed cops milling about. A dose of organisation is given to the chaos; two of them are directed to finish up with witness statements, while a third is berated about his ability to put up tape. Which might be harsh, but the truth sometimes is.

Just before de la Vega hustles into the station itself, he spots the car parked across the street, and jerks his chin to one of the other cops. Go see what's up, says that squinty little look he gives the occupants of the car. Then he turns and prowls off, shoving the door to the bus depot open with his shoulder, weapon drawn as he steps inside. Dead guy, ten o'clock. Behind that row of padded seats. He steps around the pool of blood, which is when he spots it. Dropping into a crouch, he pulls on a latex glove from a handful stuffed into his pants pocket, and retrieves the bloodstained key lying there. His brows knit slightly as he turns it over gingerly.

Outside, the cops get to deal with Graham being Graham at them, spinning a yarn about how he's just here, waiting for his fucking cousin to get in on the bus from Spokane. He's not breaking any laws, and neither is the big guy in the passenger seat, who's just working on his knitting. Does this cop wanna smoke? Graham offers him one, and a light, and let's shoot the shit for a minute. He's a likable guy, that Mr. Stewart.

Inside, things have calmed down, but there's still the latent excitability of a crowd that just witnessed a shooting.

Several people saw what went down, and - when compiled - their statements tell a straightforward tale. The bus came in from Seattle normally. No one knows the name of the guy that got shot; he rode the bus alone and didn't chit-chat with anyone along the way. Not that his identity's a mystery now. He's got ID on him: Harold Nagel, a peripheral associate of one Felix Monaghan, known for running drugs in and money out.

But back to the story.

Harry stepped off the bus and walked into the station. He was walking toward the lockers when two men who were waiting inside the station walked up and shot him twice each: two in the chest, two in the face; they definitely wanted him dead. They grabbed a duffel bag he had with him and ran out on foot. There's plenty of security footage of them - no masks, just two 20-something guys that don't look familiar to Ruiz at all.

Everything corroborates this sequence of events, right down to the key that Ruiz just collected. It's small. The metal is cheap, and there's a red-plastic grip on it. Raised numbers on the plastic say: 333. Locker 333 would be on the other side of the aisle where the body is laying. There's no one over there.

The crime scene photographers are filing in now, though, to take pictures of the corpse of Harold Nagel.

The cops who question Graham and his cohort seem not to give enough of a shit about things to push, after that yarn about the cousin and the bus from Spokane. Might be that Graham and all his white bread boy scout looks gives the impression of being truthful. Or.. it might be that the cops just do not give enough of a shit. "No, thanks," to the smoke, and the pair of officers take one last glance over the van before marching themselves off to do actual work. Like hit the coffee shop across the street for a latte.

Ruiz, meanwhile, notes the number and palms the key as the CSIs filter in, along with a coroner eager to get his hands on that body. The captain pushes to his feet as one of the protective-gear clad photographers greets him and politely requests that he move aside. A quick, wan smile is flashed, and one last glance shot Harry-wards before the bulky cop holsters his firearm and prowls away from the busy ants and their industry. And toward that bank of lockers around back.

His gaze flicks left and right as he steps up to 333. There's some hesitation before the key is slotted in, and turned. Door nudged open.

The contents of the locker should come as no surprise to Ruiz. Well, maybe the first part is a little weird.

The first thing that Ruiz sees is a teddy bear, stuffed into the locker. Its face is toward the opening, so the big plastic eyes peer out at him, a little smooshed and misshapen. The brown faux-fur is pristine, and there's even a tag still stuck through one of its cute little ears. The tag announces that its name is TIMMY THE TEDDY. There's that cheap, off-brand quality to the toy, and any closer inspection of the tag makes it readily apparent that the printing on the tag is a bad translation. That teddy bear would do brought joy to yours childs heart, it proclaims. Hug himself and enjoyed he is affection.

Just behind it, barely visible through the brown fur, Ruiz sees Saran Wrap. Specifically, he sees Saran Wrap around a pretty sizable brick of cocaine. At least a kilo is stuffed in the back of this locker. Maybe more.

So there it is, officer: At least $20,000 worth of cocaine in a locker in the bus depot; the guy that was supposed to courier it just took four shots to the chest and head; the guys that shot him are long gone; no one knows this cocaine is even here anymore except Ruiz and God.

The door to the locker is swung open slowly, and initially at least, his intentions are limited to the pursuit of information on a victim who may well also be a suspect. He pauses as he's met with something wholly unexpected, and pushes the door open a little wider before reaching inside to lift the bear out. The head flops back and forth as he turns it over, perhaps checking to see whether it's got any obvious signs of having been torn open and stitched back up. The tag on the ear is checked briefly, brows furrowing again at the eye-bleedingly bad translation.

He freezes as he spots something else in that locker. Something.. well, fuck.

Behind him, the CSIs bustle about taking pictures and collecting evidence, though nobody pays him any mind as he's a) pretty well out of their sight line and b) the god damned officer in charge of narcotics in this precinct. He's got things well in hand. Doesn't he?

Ruiz spends a good minute or two studying that $20 thousand dollar brick of cocaine, and an awful lot of thoughts run through his head as they have their moment together. Tijuana. Grimy little kid watching drug deals go down in the alley behind his house. Watching desperate young men end each others' lives over a few hundred dollars of smack. He knows where this stuff has been, and he knows where it's going, even if Harry's little trip's been cut short.

"Hey, de la Vega! Got something here you might wanna see." The invocation of his name stirs the cop from his little fugue, and there's a soft crinkle of plastic as he slips something into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. The teddy bear is left inside the locker, door nudged shut and key turned in the lock. "Let's take a look," he tells the CSI who joins him back in the waiting area, and off they go.

Coming soon to roleplay near you: Ruiz Stole From the Wrong Man.