2019-08-14 - Human Inclinations

The sun is setting in the west, slipping towards the sea and bathing the decks of the Two if by Sea in gold and crimson light. There's a salt-laden breeze coming off the sea, providing a welcome coolness. The bar is relatively quiet - something about having a mysterious shooting not that long ago tends to depress tourist turnout for a bit. This means Alexander has gotten a pretty awesome table near the edge of the deck, near one of the fire pits, and with a great view of the ocean. It's also larger than two people need - and a good thing, since Alexander didn't just bring the photo, but a whole thick file folder of notes, photocopies, and the like: his research thus far. Perhaps moved by Isabella's lipstick remark, he has appeared wearing his Mormon missionary clothes. Aggressively and awkwardly boring, but no holes anywhere to be found. His hair has been brushed back out of his eyes, but the salt breeze is already undoing that, and a lock or two is flopping forward to brush against his brow. He's sitting, waiting, watching the ocean and the seagulls who are flying nearby, hoping for some human kindness. Or enough inattention to just steal some treats.

When she arrives it's with very little fanfare.

Isabella Reede isn't prone to dressing up; the young woman prefers a very distinct line between fashionable and functional, somehow managing to find a perfect balance between a young woman's vanity and a profession that sometimes necessitates travel in rough areas and the occasional kick or punch for whoever gets uppity - be it a person or a frisky marine animal. Fresh from several visits and a quick change in her residence, the moment she hits the deck, that incisive stare moves quickly through all the other faces there, taking in the visual stimulus she needs and discards extraneous details she doesn't need and all within a span of seconds. Her gaze finally lighting on the person she's looking for, she flashes Alexander Clayton one of those quick starlight smiles, those businesslike strides taking her towards the table.

The red-gold blaze of the sun's depleting corona sets off the bronze and copper highlights of her dark hair when she takes that interception course, clad in her usual go-tos no matter what the occasion, unless forced to do otherwise. She prefers jeans, necessary considering their location and the slight edge of a chill blowing in from the North, wedge sandals with a modest heel, though with straps to make the most out of her immaculate pedicure and the set of three toe rings that she splits among them. Her hair is up in that usual, windblown array she favors, though feminine apathy has a certain kind of magic of its own; it looks more artfully disheveled than it does an actual mess, wisps framing her face and curling at the elegant lines of her throat and shoulders - and all the more accentuated by the high-collared top she wears, dyed a sapphire blue, which fastens around her nape and leaves her back and shoulders bare. Her jacket is slung on one arm.

No jewelry, save for simple studs, and that prevalent moonstone pendant. No makeup, either, save for a touch of ocean-safe sunscreen and eyeliner...and her lipstick, though the shade is nothing scandalous, meant to enhance and render more luminous the natural color of her mouth.

"Hi," she says, setting her things on the spare seat. She seems to be in a relatively good mood, though she throws him a look that's both arch and mischievous over the curve of a bared shoulder. "Should you ruin my lipstick now or later?"

Alexander stands as she approaches, one of his own brief smiles flashing out as she makes her way through the sparse crowd. A wayward breeze skitters the hair across his forehead, and he cocks his head to one side. "I don't think I want to ruin your lipstick at all, Isabella. It looks quite nice on you as it is." It's said very solemnly, although there's a hint of answering mischief in his deep set eyes. He moves a little carefully, but only a little, and the scratches along his nose have almost faded completely. He does not, however, offer a kiss. At least not immediately. Instead, he moves to pull out a chair for her, with the air of a man who has watched YouTube videos about etiquette in the recent past. "How are you feeling?"

"Liar." Said gamely of his lipstick remark, seeing mischief in his eyes.

Her hand is already reaching out for the chair but the man himself pre-empts it, standing once she arrives and pulling it out for her. Isabella's smile curves upward, appreciation there - some would laugh, and other women might even scoff, but there are certain sensibilities to the archaeologist that are distinctly European, given her years in Oxford. She's come to expect this sort of thing, though she would never say it out loud - the fact that Alexander has bothered is only testament to his ability to consider details regardless of whether he's experienced something before.

She also notices how carefully he moves, and that dims the quality of her smile. "Better by the day," she reassures him, and while he hovers close to scoot her in, she turns her body so she could look at him and his profile, lifting a hand - a warning, and if he doesn't protest, she reaches for him. Not to touch his skin, forever cognizant of the thin glass wall that they have to maintain between one another, on occasion, but she indulges and compromises on the need by letting her thumb and index capture that dark lock of hair when it sweeps over his forehead, smiling ruefully. "Your hair curls in the ends," she murmurs as she makes the observation, lashes lidding, the sea and strawberries on her skin. Eyes lift to meet his, concern within them. "How are you?"

Alexander's eyebrow arches. "I rarely lie," he says, with a smile.

He's not practiced at this whole chair thing, and he frowns with concentration to try to make sure it doesn't bang into the backs of her knees or scrape on the deck. It's a little awkward, but successful, and his smile widens - then he freezes like a startled deer when she reaches up to touch his hair. He doesn't pull away, meeting her gaze square. "It does. When I let it get too long, particularly. Sorry. I should have it cut. Just had other things on my mind, of late." He looks down at himself. "I'm good. Actually. Isolde said you came by, and she made us some of the hot chocolate. The Captain seems to have followed your example and escaped his dire confines. I haven't heard of anything terrible happening in the last couple of days? So...good. yes." He starts to move back to his chair, running his hands through his hair and disheveling it all over again.

I rarely lie.

What follows is an unapologetic and winsome smile, Isabella's shoulders lifting in a what can you do? sort of gesture. "I know," she says, in a tone that sounds very much like I know, but it's not going to stop me anyway.

He knew what he was getting into.

His satisfaction at performing a gentleman's duties has her grinning, that appreciative expression softened by the fact that she finds it endearing - an admission that wild horses and chains would have to drag out of her, but she makes the problem go away by turning her eyes to the sea, propping her chin on one hand and watching the high tide roll into the shore. That lidded look remains, but it's less arch, less feline - it is no exaggeration, when she tells him that she is drawn to it, loving everything about the ocean, no matter what horrible, terrible things may be lurking in its unexplored depths - and there are many of them.

"I was about to say that I like it a little long," she tells him when he apologizes, turning to look at him, laughter and exasperation both present on that sunkissed mien. "Like how you have it now, just enough to curl at the ends." Her contralto is low, amusement brimming with heat. "It feels nice against my fingers when they do."

His self-prognosis - not that she would ever really trust it - is one that she takes in stride. "Well, that one was bound to happen, I think," she says with a laugh, regarding the Captain. "The moment he could walk again. I'm surprised he didn't simply parachute out from the fifth floor. He seems to be that type of guy. And Isolde..." Her smile gentles. "She's sweet. I suppose I'm taking her to Seattle for a dress and some interview-proper clothes for a meeting with Vivian."

"Do you?" Alexander makes a thoughtful noise, tugs at one of his bangs. "Well. We'll see. It looks untidy. But I often do." Although not tonight. He settles down at the table, and brings up his file, brightening visibly as he takes out the old, old photo and passes it over. "You still can't see the dark tendrils, can you?" Just checking. The photo is clearly an antique. Or rather, a copy of a copy of a copy of an antique photograph somewhere. It shows the CHARMING picture of eight women in white dresses before eight pyres, with a man in dark clothes standing before them all with a commanding sort of expression. The women's dresses, even in this black and white photocopy, practically glow in the dying sunlight, catching the eye from quite far away if one looks.

He slides it over. "What are you going to use the photograph for? I brought most of my research, just in case. You needed any more. Even photocopies from the original book that started me on the whole thing." A crooked expression. "Although I don't suppose that's a good thing. Necessarily."

It has sort of become a routine for Rick these last few weeks. Get off duty, changed into civilian clothing, then drop by the bar for some beer. And so he steps in now, looking around rather carefully as he heads in the general direction of the bar, steps slow.

"Mmhm," Isabella murmurs in confirmation, though while she is still replying to his earlier comments about his hair, her attention is drawn immediately to the familiar photograph of the purported witch burning in the 1880's, presided over by her great-great-great grandfather. Slender academic's fingers reach out to take it, lifting it from the table so she could look upon it once more and commit the details to memory; the pyres, the eight women, the antiquated look and feel of the picture. Lips purse in a contemplative fashion.

"Dark tendrils?" she asks, looking over at him. "Where?" She hadn't been told this, and she gives the photograph another squint. "I don't see any, where are they supposed to be?"

The question of the hour drops in the narrow space between them, but if she's bemoaning about talking about darker subjects while they're enjoying the weather out in the deck together, it doesn't register. Something deep and contemplative has taken over her expression, and she picks up her own satchel so she could slip the copy carefully within its pockets. "Thanks to our visit to the Archivist, a few more details about the Baxter family tree came to light." He would know this, he was present. "We knew from the beginning that the preacher married a woman from the Weber family, but we didn't have a name until that visit. I went to Likely Stories today, to get reacquainted with an old schoolmate...Elias Weber. Distantly related to me. I don't know how he's related to Dorothy Weber, the preacher's wife, but he's going to find out for me. That's not all he told me, though."

Her eyes lift to meet Alexander's, smiling faintly. "I was busy today," she confides softly.

Alexander gestures to the preacher. "Myself, Thorne, and Harper all see dark tendrils radiating out from Lindon Baxter. Even in reproductions. Actually, I don't think the original photograph even exists. A shame. Imagine what it could share, if even a copy of a copy has such a strong impression." He shakes his head. "I still don't know what they mean. I'm thinking of asking the camper people. If they're not currently evil."

He makes a thoughtful, interested noise at the new information. "So it seems! Please, do share. I have..." he pats the pockets of his slacks, finds a pen, "here. I'll take notes." He roots through the file to find a spare piece of paper, at the exact same time that a breeze blows in off the ocean and catches one of his papers and flings it into the air. It goes tumbling towards the bar as Alexander hastily rises, dropping the pen over the rest of the papers in hopes that they, too, won't scatter.

Still on his walk towards the bar, Rick pauses as that paper goes tumbling in the same direction as his destination. Since he's close to the paper, he moves over to stop it on its tumbling journey, glancing over in Alexander's direction. "This is yours, I believe?" he offers as he holds the paper out towards the man. A nod in Isabella's direction as well.

"A shame?" Isabella lifts her eyes to look at him for a moment, expression utterly indescribable, before she lets out a laugh, propping her chin on one hand as she looks at him. It is a look that is largely exasperated, underscored by something else, though she certainly doesn't seem irritated - not even close. "Are you the same man who just went through a particularly trying ordeal dealing with a cursed object?" As always, she doesn't hesitate teasing him, dark brows winging upwards. "Well, I suppose I should find this heartening, that you've a strong stomach for dangerous situations and that you're terribly resilient."

She would say more, but papers start to blow and while some manage to escape, she's able to press her hand on the pen and the rest of the sheets before they roll off the table. With their Good Samaritan to the rescue, however, she smiles in her usual open, easy way. "Thank you," she says, though she'll let Alexander retrieve what's his.

Eyes wander towards the bar, to flag down a waitress.

"Officer...Carlson," Alexander says, after a moment's thought. "Yes? I believe. Alexander Clayton." He gestures towards Isabella. "Isabella Reede." His expression bounces between wariness, suspicion, and a tentative sort of friendliness as he edges towards the paper. Yes, Alexander does have an exhaustive memory for members of the local GHPD - and no doubt, many of them recognize him on sight, if only because more experienced cops tend to point him out and say 'for god's sake, stay away from that weirdo'. Which the photo might collaborate: because that's what the paper he's retrieved is - it's a vintage crime scene photo, maybe from the 40s or 50s. Black and white, showing the heap of a broken and fallen Ferris Wheel on the boardwalk and...pieces. Of small bodies. Alexander takes it, hastily. "Thanks, Officer." He stares at the man for a while, dark eyes blank and reptilian, before edging back towards his table. "You want to sit with us?" it's offered off hand.

Isabella gets a more natural sort of smile. "Primary sources are always better. You know that. And I am hard to kill. Not impossible. But passing hard." He moves to sit down, and tuck the photo back with a number of other crime scene photos, just as grizzly."

"That's right. Rick Carlson," Rick replies as he hears Alexander's words, nodding a bit. "I think I've seen you somewhere before, Mister Clayton. It's a pleasure to finally meet you." A nod to Isabella, and a smile, "Miss Reede." He glances to the paper, then back to Alexander, before he nods, "Sure." Looking towards the bar to get his order placed, he moves over to the table as well.

"Rick is a nickname, not a real name. Richard Carlson," Alexander mutters, quiet but still loud enough to be heard, and very firm. "Officer Carlson. You haven't been here very long. Gray Harbor, I mean." He looks up as Isabella moves away to take her phone call, then shifts to make room at the table for the cop, his hands curling protectively on his file. When the waitress arrives, he orders a beer. And stares at Rick. "You've probably seen me. Yes. I go to the department sometimes. Sometimes at crime scenes. Various places." His eyes narrow suspiciously at the professed pleasure, but after a moment, he adds, "...nice to meet you." Like he's reciting off a teleprompter somewhere. He looks down, then back up. Waiting for social protocols to engage.

"Do you like history?" he asks, at last. It could be worse.

"Officer Carlson," Isabella says, lashes lidding faintly, though she keeps an eye, sidelong, at her companion and how he interacts with members of the one organizational entity in the city that has developed no love for the man sitting across from her. However, when Carlson doesn't say anything snide, or abrasive, or virtually anything else that would guarantee getting strips flayed off him by Isabella's blade-sharpness, she relaxes visibly and flashes Rick with an unforgivably bright and cutting smile - liable to catch the unsuspecting unawares.

"Glad to see the boys in blue know how to take a break, considering the circumstances," she continues. "I-- " Her ringtone blares from her satchel, and she murmurs her excuses when she reaches for it. Seeing the New Orleans number, there's a faint frown. "It's my aunt." That to Alexander as she rises. "My apologies, I have to take this."

She answers the phone, then, and proceeds to walk to the other end of the relatively deserted deck, to speak quietly with the woman on the other line.

Nodding a bit at the comment about his name, Rick offers a smile. "That's true. It's just that few people have used my full first name in a long time." After all, few people used his name at all while he was drifting from town to town. He nods again at the part about him not having been in Gray Harbor for very long. "It's starting to feel like home, though," he replies. He nods at Isabella's words, offering a smile. "Still getting back into being back on full duty. Spent some time recovering from getting shot in the shoulder." At Alexander's question, he considers for a few moments. "History? That would depend on what kind of history, and what period, of course," he replies, offering the man a smile.

It's pleasant enough and most importantly - not raining. So after getting his drink - a gin martini, how cliche - from the bartender, Dante meanders out onto the patio. As usual, he's overdressed, though really it's only the blazer and the pocket square that do it. He's actually wearing denim, though it's expensive-looking and well-fitting. He stops by the railing, one hand in his pocket. All he really needs is a cigarette.

Alexander frowns. "Unfortunate. It's your name. If people use the wrong name for you, then you might end up forgetting who you are. You should remind them." It's rapid and firm, although his voice doesn't rise above conversational level, the nickname issue is clearly one of Strong Feelings. It doesn't stop him from firing another question, though: "How did you get shot?"

He starts going through the file, putting out a couple of different pictures here and there as he gets out a timeline, handwritten. "Gray Harbor history." All the pictures are horrible. Look, there's that one of the imminent witch-burning in the 1800s, there's a few of dead kids in black and white, here's an old newspaper article of the massacre in the park, and a newspaper cutting talking about the apprehension of William 'Billy the Ghoul' Gohl, and his many, many suspected murders. Alexander arranges these carefully. "Gray Harbor has many interesting events across several time periods. Usually all pretty terrible. But interesting. Don't you think?" He doesn't notice Dante just yet, his near-black gaze fixed on the cop, instead.

The thing is, there are parts of Rick's past that he would want to forget about. Not that he's going to speak about that now, though. Thankfully, he can focus on that other question for now. "My partner and I, we were stopping a car that had been speeding and drifting from side to side of the road. Turned out it was a stolen vehicle, and as I was asking for the driver's ID, he pulled out a gun. Hit me in the shoulder, then tried to run over my partner. He shot at her as well, but her vest stopped the bullet." He shrugs a bit again, glancing over to offer Dante a nod, before he looks to those pictures, studying some of them a bit thoughtfully. "Quite interesting. It would seem the town has always been a magnet for strange events..."

The only thing that is visible of Isabella at the moment is her back, the bared line of her spine and smooth, suntanned complexion marred by a thin white surgical scar that manages to curl over one bare shoulder to stop somewhere on her visible left shoulderblade. Her evident youth may prescribe a certain degree of vanity when it comes to visible flaws, but she doesn't appear to care who sees the evidence of some manner of past hardship, as always comfortable and confident in her own skin. Her spine is curled inward, head dipped low and a hand cradling a smartphone against her ear as she carries on a low conversation with the person on the other line. One arm is stretched out, to brace against the railing, fingernails tapping an absent rhythm against weathered wood. Streamers of dark hair, left deliberately free from the clips keeping most of it pinned at the back of her head, spill in the ocean breeze.

She ends her call, and pivots on her sandals and their modest heels, moving back towards the table she had vacated. The new arrival gets a glance, if not just because he looks overdressed for the weather - the Pacific Northwest may be cool compared to other parts of the country, but it is still the summer and the ocean air is the only reason why the heavy humidity in the air is in any way bearable. The newcomer's profile looks familiar, also, but ultimately, she can't place him - then again, there are many faces that are familiar in Gray Harbor.

The archaeologist reaches Alexander and Rick's table just as the latter is describing how he was shot. "Lots of that happening lately," she says; her tone is glib but her eyes are furious, a brief flicker of that relentless inner tempest visible before her smile banishes it away again.

For now.

Dante doesn't immediately butt in, and he doesn't mean to eavesdrop but his head is cocked with interest towards the table. He glances at what's on the table out of the corner of his eye, then nods once to Rick when he's acknowledged. It's only then, when he looks up and over that he realizes he's been introduced to at least one person. "Ah, hello. It's Alexander, yes? What's all this, then?" he asks as he motions to the table. He's trying to hide his interest and it's not really working.

Alexander considers Rick's story with an unblinking sort of attention. "Your partner?" Like he's got a mental map of the local po-po in his head, and he wants to make sure it's up to date. After a delay so long that it might be an afterthought, "I'm glad neither of you died. And that your shoulder has healed." Something that might be a smile in the cop's direction, before he ducks his head and looks back at his research. "Yes. Rather regularly. Still don't understand the underlying meaning behind the events. The past is an uncertain reality, hinted at rather than explained." As Isabella comes back, he offers her a warmer smile. "Is your aunt okay?"

And then Dante wanders over, and he considers the man for a long moment. Then nods. "I'm surprised you remember. You were drunk. I think." A glance to the table. "Dante Taylor, writer. Horror. Mythologies." A pause, before he points at Rick, "Officer Richard Carlson." Then at Isabella. "Isabella Reede. And it's research. Historical research."

Rick nods, "Johnson. She got me to the hospital to get treated." He nods a bit as he hears Isabella's words. "Guess it's the family tradition for me. After all, it happened to my mother as well." He nods again at Alexander's words about the past, and the research. As Dante is introduced, he offers the man a grin. "Tequila and tabasco, right?" A brief pause, before he adds, "It's a pleasure to properly meet you, Mr. Taylor."

Who is Rick's partner? Isabella turns her curious green-gold eyes in the officer's direction when Alexander poses his query, though with the table so occupied, she does what a courteous citizen would do; she vacates the fourth chair of her belongings, and situates it close to the seat she intends to occupy, and ends up on the one next to the not-private investigator, though she takes deliberate, delicate care in ensuring that their bodies don't touch - but close enough to indicate, at least, that she was here with him originally. A slender arm folds on the table, tilting her head at the files on the table, fingers extending to absently trace the profile of the imposing looking preacher overseeing what appears to be a witch trial.

The warm smile is returned by her own, sunny still, indicative of a young woman who prefers to demonstrate a certain degree of exuberance and outrageous bravado - but ultimately different, by the undefined look in those expressive eyes as she addresses Alexander. "She's just checking on me," she tells him, half-shrouded in his broader shadow once she fully settles into her seat. "She's tried to convince me to make the exodus to New Orleans, also, after I saw my father off the airport a couple of weeks ago. Ever since then, she's called every three days." She doesn't explain why, not in front of polite and casual company, but he would know the reasons why, and can probably make some very accurate assumptions as to why she didn't make the trip. Her eyes find his darker ones. "She's Talented, also." A stress on the 'T'.

Introduced to the newcomer, she eyes Alexander sidelong. "Do you know everybody?" she wonders with a sudden laugh, nodding to Dante Taylor. "I thought I recognized you. The writer - Oxford alumnus, yes? I'm mostly familiar with your face though. It's everywhere in Heathrow's newstands."

When the waitress arrives with her drink, she blinks as Rick finally identifies who his partner is. "Andi Johnson?" she asks. "Is she-- " But it seems that she's alright, if she was able to rescue Rick. A look of clear relief falls over her face. "Jesus."

"Ah, yes, that..." Dante presses a finger to his lips as he considers Rick. "...yes indeed. Nice to meet you properly as well, Officer. And," he asides to Alexander, "You're rather memorable even when I'm in my cups. And I found a little bit of paper in my jacket the next morning." He smiles cheerfully, then listens to the various swirls of conversation with arched brows. "Indeed I am, my dear," he says to Isabella. "Though that bit of trivia about my education isn't usually on my book jackets." In fact, he looks rather more ruffled and less slick on those photos. More authorly even.

"Officer Johnson. She's competent." Alexander says it in tones of highest compliment, rather than the minimum standard that 'competent' usually means. Or maybe his standards are just terribly low. When Isabella comes to sit next to him, he favors her with a warm, sunny smile, and reaches out to lightly touch her cheek with two fingers. Just a brief touch, although he seems to have to gather himself to do it. "I don't know everybody. That would be improbable, even in a small town, and require far too much surveillance time. But your aunt. I'm glad she's well. And if it were anyone but you, Isabella, I'd say you should probably take her excellent advice. But you won't," he adds, dry and fond at the same time.

Then turns back to the other two, the smile disappearing to be replaced by a more blank expression. Dante is blinked at a couple of times. "Memorable. I suppose. Thank you?" He reaches out for one of the photos, and puts it before Dante. "When the Boardwalk erected its first Ferris Wheel, it was defective. Or sabotaged. It collapsed with several dozen school children on board. Over twenty deaths. If you're looking for creepy stories. You said you were."

Nodding at both Isabella and Alexander, Rick smiles. He doesn't say much more for now, just watching the photos. "Ah yes, you're trying to write a book, right?" he offers to Dante, along with a brief smile, before he looks back to the photos again, studying them rather thoughtfully.

She does not take these small tokens for granted, knowing - better than most - how difficult it can be for him most days. Isabella tilts her head just slightly towards the slip of those callused fingertips against the high arch of her cheek, eyes lidding faintly. "My aunt is a woman of impeccable gastronomic tastes and sound judgment," she declares with a very exaggeratedly imperious air, once his hand falls away and she proceeds to lean back against her seat, legs crossing and picking up her glass - two fingers of scotch in her tumbler, her drink of choice. "And she is most definitely not one to talk." Amusement threads over her expression. "The older generations still call her 'Typhoon Mary' - if nothing else the moniker is indicative of how she was when she was living here." It's as if it runs in the family, or something.

To Dante, she laughs, wiggling her glass. "Dr. Langston in the School of Archaeology is a fan," she tells him. "You wouldn't know it by the look of him, but he is, and like most of the University's old guard, he keeps track."

Her attention is pulled, ultimately, to the picture of the ferris wheel and the small bodies littered there. She doesn't appear to share the rest of the table's fascination, her expression alive with the sort of inscrutability that could only come with several emotions warring at once for primacy. "What was the official explanation?" she wonders, searching Alexander's profile. "Any statements from the Mayor or the Sheriff's Department?"

"That, and you've been one of the few people who haven't told me emphatically to stop looking under rocks for the macabre," says Dante to Alexander. But then there's the photo, and the story. His lips tighten. "How ghastly." He leans over and eyes the photograph. "A little bit too visceral and tragic to be material for me. And well, an incident like that should never be anyone's material."
He sips from his drink and inhales, looking a bit thrown off despite his reputation for having a stomach for the macabre, then he inclines his head to Isabella. "I've met quite a few fans from within academic circles. I think it's rather because my writing is about as far from a serious work of academia as you can get. And everyone needs a break now and again." Rather self-effacing for a man who might seem to be someone with an ego at first blush. He nods to Rick. "Indeed. Or at least doing research to see if there is enough material for a book that fits my series."

"Mechanical failure. Not unsurprisingly," Alexander murmurs to Isabella. His eyes flicker at Dante's response, mouth turning downward, head ducking, shoulders drawing in and rounding a bit defensively. "Sorry," he says, quietly. "Didn't mean to upset you." His fingers spider out over the photos, quickly stacking them up and putting them away in the file, closing it to cover them. "What are you looking for? As material. In a place that isn't quite City Hall, sometimes there's an Archivist who is a giant melted face. It knows a great deal about the city's history, and takes bones as payment." His gaze skitters nervously towards Dante. "I don't have photos of that."

Rick raises an eyebrow as he listens, frowning. "Archivist?" he asks, sounding a bit curious now.

"No, no. I did ask for these dark stories. And I have come across real tragedies when hunting myths and legends before. I'm rather used to it. It's a hazard of the job, you might say." Dante smiles in a way that is, for him at least, a bit awkward. Which means slightly less turned-up English charm. When Alexander describes this archivist, he glances to Rick, then back again, apparently not sure if he's joking or being serious. "No, I don't suppose you would."

Alexander's jaw sets. A muscle there twitches a bit, his expression closing down further into a frown. Suspicious looks are directed to both of the other men, searching for mockery. But he doesn't rant or rave - although even in his 'nice' clothes, he looks like a guy who could go off on a good rant at the drop of a hat. Maybe it's Isabella's presence. Either way, he takes a deep breath, lets it out, and shakes his head. "Never mind. Shouldn't have said anything. Let's talk about something else. Sorry." A long, long pause. "Are you both having a nice evening?" It's mechanical - someone else is clearly going to have to find a non-murder, non-crazy topic of discussion if one is to be had.

Rick pauses as he listens. Looking unsure if he should say something or not. That request to speak about something different makes him pause a bit again, before he smiles at the question. "Well enoguh, thank you." And it's about this time there's a signal from his phone and he looks at it. "I fear I have something I need to take care of, though. It was nice to speak with you, all of you."

There's no mockery from Dante. He's talked to a lot of people over the course of his career - especially the nonfiction one - who are telling him stories that seem farfetched with absolute conviction. He's learned how to be a patient listener who doesn't project judgment. "It really is all right. I'm not bothered." And whether he means that or not - he sounds like he does. He turns a polite smile on Rick. "You as well, officer. Have a pleasant evening." He sips at his drink, which is quickly emptying, but he doesn't move to leave. That might give the wrong impression. "Ah, I don't suppose you know anyone who might be renting out a temporary room or apartment? I don't know how long I'll be staying, but it's getting rather awkward to be in a bed and breakfast."

If she exhibits any wariness as to how the other two might react about the things Alexander is saying, Isabella doesn't show it, but her lowered-lash look becomes even moreso, as if in anticipation of said mockery. And when none actually do come, she takes another swallow of her scotch and sets it aside, leaning forward and flashing the two men a smile - genuinely meant; not for the sake of the man sitting next to her, but rather that they are honest enough in their curiosities and opinions without offending her companion, and for someone as blunt as Alexander, it is a trickier balance than most people realize.

She knows. She has to do it plenty. She doesn't always succeed.

"I think you're in able company, Alexander," she tells him simply, eyes laden with a renewed assessment falling on Rick and Dante both. "You're talking to a police officer, and a man who researches darker subject matters and later translates it into fiction, and as Mr. Taylor said, he did ask." She says nothing about Archivist, though the reasons why aren't apparent, either she knows it exists, or has dismissed its mention as a delirious segue.

Rick gets a wiggle of her fingers when he leaves.

"I don't know about a temporary apartment, but perhaps someone is sub-letting," she supplies to Dante. "A childhood friend of mine is the owner of Bayside Aparments, close to the beachhead. From what I understand it's a relatively new acquisition, so I'm certain there are some vacancies. Would you like me to give you his number? His name is Byron Thorne."

"Goodbye, Officer Carlson. Have a nice evening," Alexander says, tonelessly. He lifts his head to stare after the man as he leaves, the regard dark and unblinking. It shifts, after a moment, to study Dante instead. "No." It's curt. Then he frowns, as if realizing that it might be more curt than he really intended. "A lot of people seem to be looking for roommates, of late. On Friendzone. But I don't recall seeing any for temporary boarders. I'm sorry." He thinks, then gives an approving nod to Isabella. "Yes. Thorne would be a good decision. They could talk about suits." A glance back to Dante. "The apartments have amenities. And security. I'd be surprised if he didn't have furnished apartments for hosting investors, and the like."

Dante smiles as gently as he's able at both of them. "Indeed," he says, but leaves the subject of darker things at that. He pulls out his phone to look up the name of the building. "No, that's all right. I'd hate to bother him on a personal line. I'm sure I can find a website and go through the proper channels. But I appreciate it." Then, a little chuckle, "Despite what my wardrobe might suggest, I'm not a man who requires extravagant living conditions. Just somewhere quiet to work and to have something other than the same eggs and bacon for breakfast every morning. It's not good for my waistline." He pats his stomach. "Speaking of. I was going to have a run before bed." Drinking a gin martini, then going for a jog. "Good night, both of you. Nice chatting with you."

"Goodnight, Mr. Taylor," Isabella says, finishing her scotch and watching him leave, until the outside deck is quiet again, with nothing but the breeze blowing in the Pacific and the high tide rolling on the shore to break the silence.

Setting her glass down, she rolls her head back and closes her eyes, fingers slipping over the side of her throat to roll her thumb against the knot she finds there. Her gaze lifts, but only partially, to regard the man sitting next to her. Her visible profile, half-eclipsed by his shadow and limned by the dying sunlight, carries a half-smile. "You're different," she tells him. "Towards people you don't know well. I suppose that's a given, but with you, the contrast is almost outrageous."

"Be careful, Mister Taylor," Alexander says, solemnly. "Paths don't always go the same place when you travel them alone. Don't get lost." Then he looks back down at his file, sneaking sidelong looks back at the writer until he goes away. Only then does he turn his attention to Isabella, expression still solemn. "I don't mean to be. I'm not...good, with people I don't know. It's hard to know what they want to hear, and what they don't." He shrugs. "They seem nice, though." Something a little wistful there, even as he sighs. "But. You said that you'd been busy? I interrupted with invitations. Sorry."

She watches his expression for a moment, before Isabella delivers her opinion - she has plenty of those, and she's never held back on him in the entirety of their admittedly short acquaintanceship. "I don't know whether it has anything to do with an actual, conscious assessment in your part as to what they want or don't want to hear, but rather that you can't help but talk about what you know." There's nothing barbed about it, there's no heat, but rather the even tone of a professional scholar based on personal observations, who is used to making conclusions, though this is softened by their proximity and the way she looks at him.

"I don't think most people can help that, though," she tells him with a smile. "It's a natural human inclination to engage others, and to venture into topics that represent a certain personal investment. You like to talk about things that hold some meaning to you, and you're unafraid to introduce people to it. It doesn't always work, mind, but like I said before...you can't develop a competency in something without practice. And I'm glad despite your misgivings, you keep doing so."

She stretches her arms over her head, and winces faintly, fingers dropping to her ribs. "But yes, I was busy." There's a glance towards the shore before she rises to stand. "C'mon, let's take a walk."