2019-10-08 - City Hall Shade

The onset of Autumn has brought nothing but clear skies to Gray Harbor - a far cry from the tumultuous Summer that had come before, when the small, sleepy town has been inundated by violent thunderstorms. This morning, however, the sky is cloudless and the sun has claimed enough height upon the sky that it drenches the idyllic environs that surround the classic Federal Colonial building of City Hall with light, setting the red and gold leaves dotting its impeccable landscaping on fire and making whatever green is left more lush and vivid. Gray Harbor is at its most beautiful over the warmer months - but the Fall isn't so bad, either.

The morning has brought Isabella Reede to the building, relishing the opportunity to engage her mind and body again in whatever pursuits she deems worthy of her time. She's dressed like any typical graduate student that could be found anywhere in the world; fitted jeans pulled over boots with modest heels, a loose top underneath a dove-gray blazer, leaving a moonstone pendant on a white gold chain glinting against the folds and fragmenting ambient illumination when it hits the smooth surface, leaving spots of color that wink out occasionally against her front. Her style has always occupied the line between practical and fashionable, never one to wear skirts or dresses unless she absolutely must, and luckily for her, the Pacific Northwest's culture is unfailingly casual - she can get away without ninety percent of the time.

She is here for some research and official paperwork, though the artifacts that live within the glass cases of the designated museum rooms capture her interest. She has diverted from her set course this morning to follow the timeline presented by the former Addington homestead, starting from the earliest pieces in the collection before working her way out. Her steps pause at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, ever magnetized towards texts of all kinds, green-and-gold eyes appreciatively taking in the titles. Long academic's fingers lift, to lightly brush them against the spines and bindings, though she doesn't pull any of them out. That way lies temptation, after all.

Unfailingly casual is never something someone would say about Clarissa Robbins and probably one of the many reasons she's easily labeled as an outsider to anyone that looks her way. She's wearing a designer red coat that looks more like a dress than the black dress she has on underneath it, gold clasp on the belted waist catching the light in all the right ways to say yes, I was expensive. The clicking of her heels is loud against the floor as she enters the same room Isabella happens to be in, flipping through a couple of documents she must have just gotten from one of the offices on another level. "Ah, Miss Reede, was it?" She greets politely, giving a proper little smile and moving away from where she was headed towards Isabella, "Here to put in for some kind of archaeological excavation permit or something more exciting than a dog license?"

It's the heel-clicking that captures her attention first, Isabella's sharp attention gravitating towards the approaching woman; Clarissa Robbins stands out in any room, no matter how empty or occupied, and there's an affable enough half-smile that tugs her lips upwards. As neat and put together as she looks - a far cry from when they first met on the beach - the ravages of the illness that has taken most of the populace have made their marks on her. She looks thinner than she was the first day they've come across each other, the hollows underneath her cheekbones more pronounced, and the visible line of her collarbone pushing up from underneath her skin. "Missus Robbins," Isabella greets, her formal address (and the ease in which she adopts it, indelible traces of her time in jolly old England) running incongruous with her casual clothes, though the astute observation has that smile shifting closer to a grin. "I wish, because that would mean funding, which I presently don't have at the moment. I'm in the midst of writing my doctoral thesis, so I have to rely on my current consulting contract and my occasional lectures at the local college for income. I'm actually here for some research on Joshua Foster's casino project, and to stop by your office to deliver these." She hefts up the portfolio tucked under her arm. "The paperwork your assistant kindly sent me for that application for membership to the Historical Society."

Clarissa looks a little surprised by something Isabella says, but that's only momentary. The only thing that shows that she herself may have struggled with illness of late is a very slight reddening of the end of her nose where she's had to wipe the makeup off with with a tissue every so often. Otherwise she's got a great makeup person that can hide even the most prominent cheekbones. "The casino? Really? You're the third person I've run into this week that's looking into something about it, myself included. I'm firmly against that sort of business coming into this town. We already have enough problems, we don't need the sort of seedy business and individuals such things would bring to our streets on top of everything else." She gives a prim sniff that might not just be to show distaste from how she roots around in her purse to pull out a tissue, "Please excuse me, I'm coming off of that dreadful flu that's going around. And that's wonderful news," she nods towards the paperwork, "I'm sure there will be no problems with it. It's all mostly for show anyway and so we can get your little writeup on the website done with little tidbits of your history."

There's no such thing to cover that up on Isabella's features, the only signs of cosmetics being moisturizer, the careful application of biodegradable, ocean-safe sunblock and clear gloss on her expressive mouth - there's certainly a degree of envy there, as always when in the company of attractive women who manage to maintain some manner of effortless beauty (she is acquainted with many of them), and the sheer femininity to pull it off. Something a lifetime tomboy can't manage without any additional effort, and she generally doesn't fuss too much about her appearance to start.

Clarissa's surprise is mirrored by her own. "Really?" Interest flares over her lightly-tanned visage like fireworks, though there's relief and approval that follow closely at its heels the further she goes on. "Have detectives been speaking with you about it? My interest was..." And here, her brows draw down. "I've been volunteering for the environmentalist group that's been retained as consultants for the case - Pursley v. Foster? I specialize in underwater archaeology, so marine conservation has always been a serious interest of mine. The lawyers for the plaintiff put me in a potential list for expert witnesses, which was how I became further involved, though there's no guarantee that I'll be called to the stand. Honestly, if Pursley's lawyers want a chance at winning, they ought - and probably will - hire an expert marine biologist. I trust that my name was entered because it was convenient - I'm already lending my services to the coalition, my family is locally well-known for making its living in the water and I'm no exception, and I was born and raised here." Her brows furrow. "How did you become involved, Missus Robbins? Is it about the permits?"

There's a strange look upon her when she is told that Clarissa has caught the flu, though it smoothes over right away. "I'm glad you're on the mend," she tells her sincerely. "And I'll turn in the materials, for sure. I was thinking of rooting the attic in my family home for records and the like that I can donate to the Society as well."

Clarissa makes a bit of a sour face when Isabella mentions detectives, "Yes, unfortunately I had a run in with a particularly inept detective about it when I happened to casually mention I was looking into--exactly, the permits." She nods at Isabella, pleased the other woman was so quick to pick the right track, "I didn't find anything and I even checked to see if the building and the land around it might be able to be declared a historical landmark to prevent anyone purchasing to build, but sadly I didn't find anything. I was thinking about reaching out to Mister Pursley himself, actually. Causes like this are rather close to my heart and I definitely do not want the criminal element in the area expanding with the likes of a casino."

The sour look doesn't escape her notice; recently appraised of some of Clarissa's background and the dark pall cast upon her reputation by her husband's death, there's no amusement on Isabella's features - by all rights, a certain degree of distaste would be understandable. "Which one, Morgan or Quintanilla?" Indicative that she, too, has been visited by either or both, though when the other woman reveals that she's also looked into whether it could be declared a landmark, she grins appreciatively. "Honestly, I wanted to ask you that also, whether there was any interesting history attached to the motel or the plot of land and surrounding areas it was sitting on. No dice, though? That's too bad." A thoughtful noise escapes her lips, her stance shifting - feet astride, her portfolio resting against the flaring curve of her left hip. "I've talked to Pursley once or twice, namely because I was curious as to what his interest in the matter is. He owns several waterfront properties and he believes that the casino would be an eyesore, on top of the fact that it stands a real risk of devaluing his current investment, so his stake in the matter is purely economic, or from what he's willing to tell me, anyway. But he's clearly no environmentalist, so I suspect that he brought the group I'm volunteering with in to make his case stronger."

There's a nod to the hallway. "I've done my research on the case and its background in the event I do get called, no matter how remote the chance. My next stop is the Registry."

Dressed like some teenager who has been stuffed in church clothes, Blake is speaking with some shitty public defender. Speaking meaning he's saying nothing and the public defender is working up to a tizzy. Blake looks down, his hair side parted, clutching a folder in one arm, the other one left limp to his side.

"I can't fucking do everything for you. You need to find another psychiatrist. I got you an extension. You have fourteen days....Fourteen days Mr. Cooper." They slip back into a suite of side offices, leaving him in the hall. He looks around, up, sighs.

"Quintanilla," The name is spoken more like a curse, far more than distaste between the two of them at least from Clarissa's side. She daintily folds up the tissue she used to wipe her nose and places it back into the vintage Hermes handbag that dangles from the crook of her arm, "That man couldn't solve a case even if he was there to witness--" whatever she was about to say is interrupted by the voice of the public defender, who earns a sharp look from Clarissa, "It never ceases to amaze me that even the higher ups in this town can't seem to hold themselves to higher standards," she tsks, giving Blake a quick sympathetic smile. But not too sympathetic. Those shoes don't look like they belong to someone that might have money to give to fundraising efforts. She turns her attention back to Isabella, "It wouldn't surprise me that he's worried about his real estate investments being devalued by something like a casino. That sort of business brings all kinds of terrible people around, but also things like cash for gold ventures and check cashing ridiculousness and pretty soon everyone's property values have plummeted."

The vitriol Clarissa displays at the invocation of Gabriel's name visibly takes Isabella aback - her face is simply too reflective to hide it, though she recovers quickly. "Prior experience in his past case?" she ventures, though her tone is mild enough to indicate that she doesn't intend to pry further. She, too, diverts her attention briefly to the public defender and his counsel to his younger-looking client, unable to help but overhear the need for a psychiatrist.

There's a lift of her fingers to Blake in greeting, ever friendly, to follow the quick smile Clarissa casts his way. "The habitats of the cutthroat trout are really delicate," she tells her companion. "Construction efforts and the projected traffic that sort of business would bring to the town stand a real risk of destroying them. From what I heard from the group I've thrown my lot in with, Foster recently filed for a motion for dismissal on the case - Judge Shaw is taking a few days to consider it. It's probably likely that it would get thrown out, barring something compelling that would convince her that the present injunction against building it should stay. Hopefully..." Her expression grows grim. "...the detectives act fast, because I think the likelihood of it staying would probably be dependent on what they manage to present about the grisly issue they're trying to solve." She doesn't bring up the double murder out loud, but if the Chairwoman has been approached by detectives already, chances are she knows precisely what she means.

Clarissa catches Blake's eye first, that sympathetic smile. Doesn't seem to make a dent on his expression, his brows drawn together softly in worry? Perturbed-ness? There's a stubborn pensiveness that clings to him. He tilts his head at the wave and then presses his lips together as he approaches, waiting for a lull in the conversation. "Excuse me. Do I know you? Or you?" He looks from Isabella to Clarissa.

"If everything is resting on the Detectives of this town then Mister Pursley better have another idea lined up to delay all of this," Clarissa doesn't bother to hide her distaste of the local police department, giving Isabella a thoughtful look, "But it's true then? I thought he'd just made it up. I'd never heard of Cutthroat Trout before yesterday." When Blake approaches she turns to address him, "Clarissa Robbins," she offers her hand but no further explanation of who she is. Just that rich lady that was under suspicion of killing her rich husband over a year ago. It made all the papers! And is probably why she hates cops. "Chairwoman of the Gray Harbor historical society. This is Miss Isabella Reede, she's a doctoral student who specializes in...was it marine archaeology?" She looks to Isabella for confirmation. "We were just discussing the possible casino venture in town and what a terrible idea it was."

"Nope," the green-eyed woman replies, simply and easily, to Blake's query. "But you could." She extends a hand towards him in offerance of a handshake. "Isabella Reede, scholar-at-large for Oxford. I can't help but overh-- "

Her phone goes off, and fishing it out of the back pocket of her jeans, the archaeologist glances at the Louisiana number on display. "Sorry, I have to take this." An apologetic look flashed to Clarissa - she'll be back to answer those questions! - before she takes several steps into the other room for some additional privacy, to answer the call. Her voice drifts. "Aunt Mary...?"

"Oh. Sorry. I have a bad memory sometimes. Blake Cooper." Blake looks down at Clarissa's hand first. It takes him a moment before he reaches out with the wrong hand to give her an awkward shake that he seems keen to end. "Sorry, busted arm. Marine archaeology? Cool." He outright frowns at the mention of the casino.

"Parasitic things. They just bring misery," Blake says with a measure of sour disdain. "I mean games can be fun, but casinos never seem to do anyone any good." He looks down at Isabella's offered hand with a measure of hesitation before he's saved by her phone call. He nods. "Does it look like it's going to go through? I haven't been paying attention to much," he admits to Clarissa.

Clarissa doesn't seem to mind the handshake. She's had worse apparently, "It would not do this town any good," she agrees with a shake of her head and a click of her tongue, "There's an injunction against it right now, but Miss Reede and I were just discussing how flimsy it seems once you really look at it. Which is a shame. I wonder if we could hold some kind of town hall and have the public speak out against it if that would help any. Although it might just as easily backfire," she wrinkles her nose, "This town isn't exactly on the up and up presently and plenty of people might think a casino is just what they need to turn their luck around." Poor people. She means poor people.

"Who is the primary person behind it?" Straight to the point. Blake presses his lips together in about as much enthusiasm for the idea as Clarissa shows. "It also provides a lot of cover for other activities. I think there's a lot who would want to see something like that built even if it's ultimately competition...You know, you could hold a town hall if you had the proper dirt to come out at it. Everyone has dirt."

"Which part of it?" Clarissa asks Blake, adjusting the very expensive bag on her arm, "Joseph Pursley in the one trying to stop the whole thing with an environmental argument about some kind of fish?" She's still not entirely clear on that one, "And Joshua Foster is the one that's trying to build the casino I'm pretty sure. I've not really moved that far beyond the part where I think it's a bad idea to look too into all of the details, but it's already shady business considering the owners of the Sea View Motel were murdered. I've heard it might have been a robbery gone wrong, but that just seems like what a lazy police official might say if they didn't want it to turn into a media circus over land rights. Big business versus the little people and so on and so forth." She gives Blake a more skeptical look when he says that everyone has dirt on them, "I wouldn't hold a town hall expecting to make people uncomfortable. I'd want it held so that the opinion that the casino should look elsewhere could be heard loud and clear." And not any other opinions, her tone suggests. "I might even put in a call to the Mayor to see what he thinks about this whole mess."

Blake makes a mental note of the names, listening intently as Clarissa relays what she knows. "You've already expressed doubts that everyone would be against it, and there will be people on the fence. If you call a town hall, it will be just as much this Joshua Foster guy's platform as yours. You can't go without ammo. The mayor probably has a fair amount to gain from letting it go through. Casinos are big money. They're like bulldozers." He doesn't seem bothered by the look he gets. He doesn't even acknowledge it really. "You need to give people a reason to not want the casino there, or not want Joshua Foster's business associated with the city...but, maybe it will work." He shrugs and winces a little from it. "But sounds like trying to figure out where the mayor really stands on this would be a good idea regardless."

Clarissa nods, though her expression suggests that of course it's a good idea because she thought of it! "Maybe I'll see if he has some time today," she takes out her phone and types a couple of things into it. "I thought a rather good reason for not bringing a casino in would be that we already have a ridiculous amount of murders inside the town lines as it is. Those would only go up if it were allowed to open. Who in their right mind would vote for higher murder rates than we already have?" She shakes her head at such a ridiculous idea. "Maybe there are some people that think Gray Harbor could be the next Vegas or something equally as unlikely, but I can tell you that a lot of people with money in this town don't want to see something like that happen. There's already enough..." She actually pauses here before she says something really horrible, "Riff-raff out and about these days that the police can't control. We definitely don't want more." There, that was only just kind of horrible.

The brisk sound of bootheels hitting antiquated hardwood flooring heralds Isabella's approach back to the conversation, her phone busily tucked into her pocket and still carrying what she has brought with her - a portfolio under an arm, bursting with paper, and the satchel slung diagonally across her shoulders. "What did I miss?" she wonders of both, though at least she has managed to catch Blake's name before she had left. "Sorry about that, I meant to ask what you do around these parts, Mister Cooper?" Ever curious - he has a face that she doesn't recognize, and this is a small town.

"A lot of people feel dead already here. I imagine they think their luck would change if something changed here. There's not a lot of opportunity here, so that's probably what this Foster guy will be selling...in ideas." Blake's eyes drop to the handbag at Clarissa's side but then Isabella's return grabs his attention. "Cybersecurity engineer. Freelance these days. But I've done some basic security installations for a few people while I haven't been able to work." He tilts his head toward his injured arm.

Blake's answer causes Clarissa to purse her lips thoughtfully, "You know, that's not a bad idea. If the fish thing falls through, all we'd need is at least one competing bid. With something that might benefit the town. Perhaps drive in tourist dollars. Or bring people out in a far more positive way than a casino." She gives Isabella a smile when she comes back, "Oh, just more talk about the possible casino and how terrible an idea it is," she waves a hand to indicate nothing much was missed, then gives Blake a more interested look, "What kind of security installations? My husband took care of all that stuff and now I find myself setting off alarms when I go for a glass of wine in the evening. The whole damn thing is just too sensitive."

"Getting a primer on the key players of this new casino project, eh?" Isabella asks Blake, her smile tilting up the corners of her mouth. "For or against?" She had missed his comments from earlier, given the phone call. "Missus Robbins takes these issues very seriously, considering that she only wants Gray Harbor to be a better place, and marine conservation is indirectly, but importantly tied to my work." Can't dive and delve into the mysteries of the deep if the deep suddenly becomes hostile to human bodies by way of pollution and other such things - or at least even more hostile than it already is. The underwater world is beautiful, alien and wondrous in its unique strangeness that can't be matched by anything else that she has encountered on the surface, but it is still dangerous. His profession has her lifting her brows to her hairline in interest. "You're in tech? I work with a lot of videoconferencing and remote document saving and sharing. Would you mind...? Your information, I mean, if you're still looking for freelance work?" She holds up her phone as a prompt.

The competing bid idea has her grinning faintly. "That's actually pretty clever," she says. "Kind of like a new challenger, though it would be relatively difficult at this stage of the game." Her expression sobers, looking at both her companions. "From whatever background I managed to dig up on the case itself, I even asked to take a look at the details of the proposal - the permits are in place and in order, and Mayor Addington himself approved the project. I even called his office to inquire, when I was doing some initial prep work in case I do get called to testify. And...." She can't help but laugh, though the sound is a razored thing. "His PR team was prepared. I got fed the entire package, about how the economic benefits of such a major employer would help everyone prosper and even cited past cases that illustrated how neighboring cities have benefited from the casinos on tribal land. And so on, and so forth. Wouldn't comment on the environmental impacts on such a development, though, but his office did emphasize that the Mayor will of course defer to what the court decides."

Blake knows better than to get into what cybersecurity really is with one random person or another. "I can take a look and see if I can help? In that area I've been kind of figuring it out as I go. Haven't had a problem so far I couldn't fix." His voice is surprisingly naturally low for his youthful countenance. Blake doesn't seem surprised at all when Isabella shares what she's dug up and gone through with the mayor's team. "Like I said, dirt is the best way to go. Making it less profitable for it to go through for someone who can stop it."

Something that Isabella says causes Clarissa to focus on her for a moment, eyes going wide, "Wait--wait. Go back. Casinos on tribal land," she repeats slowly, a cavalcade of ideas clearly forming behind her eyes, "Joshua Forester is not a Native American, right? I've never met him so I don't want to be presumptuous. And that's disappointing but not surprising from the Mayor's office. They're probably going to see a significant amount of taxes come in from a project like that."

She engages her lock screen and presses her thumb on the fingerprint reader, to grant Blake access to her contacts list, which Isabella hands for him to input his phone number in as well as his name. "Thanks. I'm in the middle of a confidential consultation project headlined by a major marine exploration company in Delaware, not to mention I'm in the middle of writing my thesis - I don't want to end up losing any of those documents, or not keep them secure from loss or....you know. Remote break-ins, especially for the former job." That and it would be handy to consult with someone with an intimate knowledge of electronic security systems, just in case.

To Clarissa's wide eyes, she blinks. "No, from what I could tell, I don't think Joshua Foster is, himself." Once Blake returns her phone, she'll do a quick Google search, pulls up the casino mogul's likeness on her screen, and shows it to her companions (https://gray-harbor.com/file/joshua/joshua.jpg). "But he was responsible for making the Quinault tribe's flagship casino a success, so chances are his profile with them is relatively high. It's on my list to talk to Andy Geroux, actually - he's technically Quileute, but from how he was talking about his mother and grandmother, it sounded like his roots with the community go pretty deep. So maybe he can find out more about Mister Foster."

"It's federal law that states can't tax or regulate activities on reservations. So he's likely not getting taxes." Blake lets the implication that the mayor is accepting kickbacks hang in the air. "Is it even legal for him to operate a casino there if he isn't? Native American?" he wonders softly, half to himself. This is so much more interesting than focusing on his own problems.

Blake takes Clarissa's phone and thumbs in his name and number. He even makes a note for her that says, 'Security guy'. Then he hands it back. "Companies hire me to find vulnerabilities in their security," he explains a little better.

After looking at the picture, and jotting down the names mentioned in his phone, Blake glances up to the women, but doesn't keeps his cards close to his chest, so to speak. "Sounds shady." He doesn't tell her to be careful though. It's not like anyone who isn't living under a rock hasn't heard about the grisly times that have clouded the town as of late.

"Maybe not deep enough that they'd welcome the competition so closely placed," Clarissa suggests, nodding to Isabella, "Sergeant Géroux would definitely be a good person to talk to about all of this," her voice certainly doesn't have the derision it did earlier when she was talking about cops. Maybe because he's so new to the force, "He may not be able to get his department in line, but he has connections that might get you some information that could be useful. And he'll probably even help you since you weren't the one that tried to poison his dogs with grapes," she gives a tiny little smile there at that fun memory. "At any rate, I've decided I don't want a casino here and the Mayor better be getting a good package out of all of this if he wants to put up with me making his appearances difficult for the rest of his life over it. In fact, I think I'm going to go up and see if he has any time now," someone certainly thinks highly of themselves and their sway, "If you'll both excuse me. It was nice to meet you, Mister Cooper. And to see you again, Miss Reede."

Blake's point about federal versus state taxes turns Isabella's emerald-gold eyes to his direction, both appreciative and even impressed by the observation, and the implication resounds loud and clear to her, if not just because she's had some prior and colorful interactions with the Addington family within the last few weeks. Her lips hold her smile, however, glancing down at her phone and the 'security guy' note in there. She tucks it back in her pocket once they've taken a look at what Joshua Foster looks like. "I'll definitely look you back up in the next few days," she promises the man, though the more he talks, the more floored she is at the sound of him, forever a creature closely attuned to her five physical senses; such a deep voice coming from a face that looks even younger than hers.

The lack of derision when they speak of Andy does not escape her notice, either, and there's a curious tilt of her head there - Andy had unapologetically come at Clarissa the last time she saw them together, due to her role in the Society, and she can't help but wonder what had changed in such a couple of short weeks that any grudge she would have held towards the man has suddenly vanished. The Chairwoman, with her stylish facade and expensive tastes, did not look like a woman who forgave easily, especially with the words she had just uttered about raining (tastefully attired) fire and brimstone on the Mayor, a member of the most powerful dynasty in town, for the rest of his life if the casino gets built. Still, there's a friendly smile and a lift of her hand. "Talk soon, Missus Robbins." And that is a promise, too.

She watches her leave, before turning to look back at Blake. "So what were you in for?" she asks.

"You fed dogs grapes?" Blake doesn't hid his displeasure at the new knowledge of Clarissa, but he doesn't say anything further. "Not their fault he owns them," he mumbles once she is gone, not much one for words as the women seem to be...well, when they have things to say.

When Isabella suddenly whirls that question on him, Blake doesn't answer at first. "They say I tasered a guy at my last place of work...Seattle. If I complete the therapy...the charges are dropped." He looks down, frowning, as if the whole thing seems uncomfortable.

hid=hide*

"I didn't know," Clarissa says, putting her hands up even as she backs away from the conversation, "And their owner got to them before the dogs did." And then she's click clacking her way down the hallway to give someone and likely someone's many assistants headaches.

His discomfort is one that Isabella senses easily, if not just because of the fact that he doesn't hide it. At his frown, she slides her hands in her pockets - there's curiosity there, though she doesn't ask the questions that are piling up behind her eyes: What did he do? or Did he deserve it? or What do you mean 'they' say that you tasered a guy? because if he did taser a guy, wouldn't it be a more active statement?

Unless he was falsely accused.

There's a glance at his injured arm. "I didn't mean to pry," she says at last. "It's just that your lawyer was ridiculously loud, I couldn't help but overhear."

"It's okay. It's public record I guess? I figured I'd come here, get back on my feet. Lower rent, work remotely for people. Then I got mugged. My laptop was stolen and I woke up with a dislocated shoulder...just life I guess." Blake's demeanor is somewhat muted and resigned sounding. "Do you know any place that has waffles besides that waffle place in town?" He doesn't mention what the lawyer was all up in arms about directly.

"Jesus." Isabella's wince is an open one. "That sucks, I'm sorry. Did you report it?" The idea of a laptop being stolen makes her shudder; she makes a living out of hers, so she can't even imagine how that would feel like.

She doesn't pry any further about his (absurdly, incredibly) personal business, though there's a glance at where his public defender had left. The question of waffles, though, has her smiling ruefully. "Not a huge fan of the Waffle Shoppe?" she wonders. "That's too bad, I hear the food there is great. But I don't, actually - I mean, you can try the Grizzly Den, they serve breakfast, since it's open all hours. Though honestly, I haven't been there in ages, so I can speak for the food. When I was growing up here, though, my brother and I ate there a lot, because the food was good and really cheap."

She sighs, and lifts her fingers to toy with the moonstone pendant around her neck. "Anyway, I should probably get going. Nice meeting you, Mister Cooper. I'll look you up soon."

"No. I don't remember what happened. Not much to report." Blake shakes his head. "On the plus side, there's nothing for anyone to jump me for anymore." He grins ruefully, his eyes seeming slightly older for a moment.

"They aren't a huge fan of me for some reason. I really wanted to try their waffles, but they told me I wasn't welcome there. I can only get them through a delivery service. Not the same thing really you know?...oh yeah. Bear facts. Yeah. I forgot about that place. Thanks. See ya," he lifts his be-foldered hand to and dips his chin briefly.