2019-08-25 - Options

An unfamiliar car rolls up to that guard shack, somewhere after lunch. Black, push bars mounted on the front, some kind of American muscle; looks like it wants to go fast, but its driver keeps to a fairly sedate pace. The window's rolled down once it comes to a halt, and a perfectly polite conversation ensues before the gate swings open and the car's put back into gear. Dust billows from the rear tires, carried off on the slight breeze as it pulls in to park at the edge of the terraced, manicured lawn. The cop who climbs out is in a suit and tie; off the rack, though it fits well enough. He's armed, of course, and wears a pair of aviators to keep the hazy sun out of his eyes. A quick, assessing glance is sent about the property. Habitual, really, like the dyed-in-the-wool military man he is.

Eventually he makes his way to the front door, and favours the housekeeper with a smile that actually approaches pleasant. She looks Latina to him, so he answers in Spanish, "Muy bien, señora. Estoy aquí para ver a Mr. Addington. Puedo pasar?"

Ruiz slips off his shades, and blinks a couple of times as his eyes adjust to the change in light level. The housekeeper receives a terse nod of understanding; he'll not wander off. Besides, it gives him an opportunity to take stock of the place. He's not made, at all, for this sort of opulence; one could easily see him being one of the immigrant hired help, much like the girl who let him in. Cutting the lawn perhaps, or driving one of the Addingtons' cars.

He turns slightly as Thomas makes his way down the stairs, and the flick of his dark eyes suggests he hasn't missed the fact that Margaret is eavesdropping. "Good afternoon, Mr. Addington." What does he want? "I thought we might have a short chat. It shouldn't take too much of your time." He doesn't seem offput by the abruptness. "Outside, perhaps? It's a lovely day."

The cop flickers a smile, slight, when Thomas declines his suggestion. He does however step forward, and display his badge before offering his hand. "I'm very sorry. Captain de la Vega, GHPD." He looks more like a ruffian than a police officer, with the bits of ink visible at the backs of his hands, and just under the collar of his shirt. The hard face with its fine lines and scruffy beard likely don't help. "Is there somewhere we can sit down, Mr. Addington? I promise I do not require much of your time. Completely off the record." The latter is accompanied by a slight shift of his eyes toward the top of the stairs, as if it's more for Margaret's benefit.

Ruiz shrugs out of his jacket as they descend deeper into the house. It is stuffy as hell, and he's already sweating just from standing around outside in this damned suit. Much as he did in the foyer, the cop's gaze roves around the sitting room, with a practiced eye for spotting points of ingress and lines of sight. He's wearing a shoulder holster over his shirt, ID badge and gun at his left hip. The jacket's given a snap to shake it out, then set across the back of the nearest chair before he takes a seat.

"As I mentioned, this is off the record. I don't think it will be necessary." To call his lawyer. The younger man smiles slightly, and waits for Thomas to sit. It's a long while before he speaks. Then, "You must be very tired, Mr. Addington." Just that.

"I imagine it isn't." All it's cracked up to be. The captain relaxes back in his chair, and busies himself turning up his shirt sleeves while Thomas fetches him a drink. Never mind that vodka's about as far down the list as it something alcoholic can get; but he's not about to mention this. Flick, flick, flick as he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. Looks like a convict or something, with all those tattoos. Some of them are pretty, some of them not. "How long has William Gohl been getting you to help him with his dirty work, Mr. Addington?" He voice is maddeningly even.

The captain's sitting right where Thomas left him, sprawled comfortably in that mid-century wingbacked monstrosity like he owns it. His dark eyes find and hold the older man's, though the smile isn't returned. "Mm." That's the sum total of his acknowledgement of the observation that he's had a chat with Erin's friends. He watches and waits, posture laconic, gaze anything but. "I see." A beat. "What do you figure happened around July first?"

He's patient, is Ruiz. Doesn't rush the man to try to remember when this all started, to dig back through the weeks and the fog of his inebriation for the information being asked for. He almost looks sympathetic. It just got to be too much. "The storm. Yes, I remember." How could he forget?

"No," is his reply after a few beats, as to whether he's been really, truly haunted. "I can't say that I have." His fingers weave together atop his belly, and his voice remains level even as Thomas's volume wavers. "I am sure your sister means well. I'm sure Erin and her friends do, too. But none of it's really helped. Has it?"