2020-09-14 - Clayton Case - The Grey Area

The information and equipment was handed over to Alexander Clayton one night at Two if By Sea, passed off by its resident terrible bartender. Vic included a hefty dossier on her father, Walter William Grey, resident of Portland, Oregon.

In his mid 60s, Walt was a decorated Sergeant in the US Army, served in the Gulf War during which he lost a kidney to a gunshot wound, and was honorably discharged in 1991, after the death of his wife Lucy to cancer. Vic was born in 1983, and was eight when her mother died and her father came home to raise her as a single parent.

He opened the Grey Area in 1993, and it became the local hangout for veterans and law enforcement. He lives down the block in the small house Vic grew up in. He has many dear friends but no romantic relationships that anyone is aware of.

Vic includes what she remembers of his daily schedule, since her father was a military man and routine was his bread and butter. The address of home and bar are also there, copies of the keys to both, the password to both alarm systems (hopefully they haven't been changed in the last 5 years), and several tiny HD and night vision capable cameras, with receivers that upload the footage to a secure internet server only Vic can access.

She would like them placed to see anyone approaching front or back doors of both buildings, two inside the bar to cover the tenders and patrons, and one covering the parking lot of the bar. Nothing invasive, nothing inside the house itself, just security to be able to tell if anyone approaches the home or business that shouldn't.

Alexander made arrangements to rent a car to drive to Portland before his leg got 'popped' like an overfilled balloon of blood. Since he doesn't want to deal with the cancellation fee, though, he does his best to make it work. Luckily, it IS his left leg, so driving is still possible. Just...irritating. And painful. Which means that when he gets into Portland, he stops off at the cheap hotel he's rented, not far from the Grey Area for a bit, before deciding how to make his approach.

Older men don't usually change their routines without cause - but that doesn't mean that there hasn't BEEN cause, especially if Vic is worried about the guy. So, first order of business is to just limp his way into the bar when it opens up for the evening, get a beer and a booth with a good view of the place, and people watch. This far from Gray Harbor, Alexander's abilities have dwindled - not eliminated, but become unreliable enough that he sticks to his mundane skills and talents. Knowing that the bar is a 'locals' place, he's forthright about not being from around here, and knowing that he's a terrible liar, he sticks as close to the truth as he can manage - he went to school in Portland, he's here for a day or two, the bar is close to his hotel, and with a bum leg, walking or driving (and certainly busing) is enough of an irritation that he ended up here.

He uses the time to make sure that Walter's schedule doesn't seem to have changed, scope out the best places for the cameras at the bar, and also to watch the other patrons - he does his best to pick out the cops, but he also looks for other people who might be watching Walter. After all, there must be some reason Vic is worried.

The Grey Area is not overly large, but it has a cozy, welcoming atmosphere where the patrons and owner mostly seem to know one another. There are many patches on hats and jackets indicating veteran status, and others look like Ruiz on his day off, clearly cops. On one counter behind the bar are photos of Walt with various friends and family, including his deceased wife, and several of him and Vic, from her childhood to her police academy graduation.

The stools at the bar are covered in well worn black leather, with wooden legs, the floor is checkerboard linoleum in black and white, and the bar is along one wall, with a few tables and booths in the rest of the expanse. There's a pool table, an electronic dart board, and a couple TVs either tuned to news or sports on any given day. You won't find a margarita machine or frozen drinks, but the pours are generous and the prices are reasonable.

Walt still keeps his hair high and tight in a military cut, though it's fully silver these days. He looks to still be in shape for a man his age, though it's tough to tell under the overshirt, tee, and jeans he wears with hiking boots. He is a much more personable bartender than his daughter is, taking good care of his customers. His schedule is exactly as Vic described. The man is very punctual with his timetable.

Those who aren't regulars stand out sharply, Alexander included, but they are still welcomed, if watched perhaps a bit more than others. There are a few tourists, likely wandered in like Clayton did, but in one corner are two Hispanic men who seem to be watching the owner more than visiting with each other. Across the bar is one large man who looks like a biker, who seems to be watching those two carefully.

Alexander is never all that good at social. Or not looking guilty just on general principles. But with the cast on his leg, he does look HARMLESS, and he's able to nurse a couple of beers most of the night without (hopefully) looking too creepy. He keeps an eye on those three that seem odd, and at one point reaches out with delicate mental fingers to read their emotions. Finding no immediate threat, he doesn't try to escalate the situation, although he does do his best to memorize the three of their faces, as well as what MC patches the biker might be wearing, and any tattoos that might be showing on the other two. But he makes an early night of it, so to speak - he'll slip out, back to his hotel, and gather up the materials for the bar cameras, doing final checks to make sure all of them are working and that he understands how to set them up.

He doesn't come back until all the lights are out, and Walt has gone home, and hopefully so have the three who, he suspects, are what Vic was worried about. Or part of it, anyway.

The tiny cameras can be attached easily with the adhesive strips they come with, and the receiver is a small square box that can be hidden anywhere nearby. There are very good candidates for placement, such as on the AC unit above the back door, on the light fixture beside the front door, on various light fixtures inside.

Last call is 2:30 am, so by 3, Walt shoos out the last of his regulars, cleans up, and turns off the lights. By 3:30am he's setting the alarm and out the door, locking it securely, before he makes the stroll to his home down the block. There is no sign of the two Hispanic men, but the biker stays in the shadows across the street until Walt is safely inside his house, then he departs.

Alexander is, at least, used to sleepless nights. He might wish, in the back of his mind, that the damned Veil had waited just a few more days to pop his leg, but he does his best to not hobble too distinctively as he makes his way through the shadows towards the bar. He can feel the electric currents that make up the bar's alarm system, and so if he can find a relatively concealed door or window, he moves to open it, while carefully channeling the current through his own body, so that it never loses connection while he lets himself inside.

He's read books about lockpicking. He HAS a lockpick set, acquired semi-legally. Now, if only he can manage to actually pick a lock or open a window without shattering it. Sometimes, he wishes he'd found a burglar to pester about this sort of thing.

Alexander manages to cleanly bypass the window, which wasn't locked anyway, because of reliance on the alarm system. Most people aren't going to be able to do what Clayton does, so who would think of it at all as being a risk. Inside it's dark except for the slight glow from one of the neon Bud Light signs that Walt keeps on in case he has to come in before sunrise for a delivery, and has to navigate. It's quiet, just the occasional hum of the coolers under the bar kicking in from time to time.

Alexander's hands are gloved - thin, black leather gloves that are more expensive (and higher quality) than most of his outfits. He uses these to creep through the bar, using the faint neon glow and his memory to make his way towards the back door and the AC unit there for one placement, and then to make the rounds of the light figures. He aims for a wide coverage of both the bar and the tables and doors, to have the best chance of getting eyes on anyone who might be intending the older man harm.

Everything seems to be going as smooth as silk for Alexander, that is until he's nearly finished in the bar. When he goes to put one of the cameras on a light fixture inside the bar, he finds...another one. A different make and model, which has clearly been there for a few years from the accumulation of dust on it.

Alexander pauses. First, he checks (from the side) to see if it's likely the camera caught him. Then, he very carefully finds a new place to put HIS camera, one where the camera has a concealed angle on that light switch, and then tries to see if he can determine where the local receiver on the older camera might be.

Alexander closes his eyes and reaches out for the subtle flows of electricity around him. It's like pushing through mud this far away from Gray Harbor, but he's got an idea of what to look for, and after a moment, he's able to separate out various threads and currents, until he comes to the pool table and the ceiling tile. He looks at the pool table. He looks at his full-leg cast. He says some very impolite words, and then begins to try and haul himself up, inch by painful inch, to stand on top of the table and check what's behind that tile.

It's not easy, getting up on that pool table with a broken leg. But somehow the sleuth manages it. It's the pay kind that locks the balls away until the right coins are put into it, so there's no eight ball to make him slip and slide off at least. The ceiling is a standard drop one, with acoustic tiles set into a cheap metal frame, hiding cables and pipes and the like in the narrow space above.

The tile just pushes up easily, and he can see the little black box with a single green light on it, no more than 2" x 2" x 4", secured to the metal frame that supports the tile with a simple adhesive strip.

Alexander studies the little black box for a bit. But then he carefully puts the tile back and climbs down. Interfering with the monitoring might provoke a reaction - and since he doesn't know what, exactly, Walt is being threatened by, he doesn't want to risk triggering something that might put the man in danger. He does, however, attempt to do a careful sweep for other monitoring devices (not HIS, obviously. Those are good and righteous), and mark their location on his mental map of the bar. And make a note to check Walt's house for bugs before installing the new ones tomorrow.

There just seems to be the one, and it seems trained on the front door. Clearly, it is watching to see who comes and goes in the Grey Area. If Vic is forbidden back in the city, it could be that someone is trying to make sure she doesn't breach that agreement. But after some four or five years, is anyone still checking it?

Alexander considers the box. Then the camera. He leaves them be, in the end. If someone isn't checking them, better to encourage that neglect. If someone is, then his own cameras...well, Vic's cameras will catch it, and she can decide what to do with the information. He checks the bar again, looking to make sure all his cameras are concealed out of sight and that he hasn't disturbed anything unduly, then he stumps his way out to the window, and channels more electricity to let himself out without triggering the alarms.

Hopefully.

There is a shadowy figure waiting outside, leaning against a broken lamppost. Alexander spots them before they speak, and when they do, they step into the dim light from the window where the neon sign filters through. It's Walt Grey himself, smoking, hands in his pockets, one brow quirked upwards. "Who sent you?" he asks flatly. Ok, so maybe it wasn't the bad guys who had that camera and that box hidden in the bar. He's in the same clothes he wore when he locked up earlier. His voice is deep, rich, and his blue eyes have the hard glint in them of a man who has lost much, but holds what he still has dear.

Because Alexander spots him before he steps out, he keeps his hands out and neutral, trying to look harmless, and perhaps more importantly, not intending any harm. He winces at the flat question. His shoulders slump and he tries not to lean on his cast leg, which is throbbing in painful time to the sudden acceleration of his heart. He wasn't supposed to be seen. There's a sigh. Well, fuck. He doesn't QUITE say it, but since he's not a hard man to read, it's written all over his face.

Alexander also has a real problem not answering direct questions. So, he says, watching the man, "Someone who is worried about you. Not anyone who intends you harm. Sorry for frightening you." The last is sincere, at the very least.

That gets a sigh out of Walt and he scrubs a hand down his face. "Vickie sent you, didn't she?" he asks with a weary tone. He seems tired. "Kid thinks her old man knows nothing. Cracks me up every time. Does she honestly think I didn't realize that she left the force and town because someone had been putting pressure on her? That I was likely the pressure point they were tapdancing on?" He waits for Alexander to answer, the picture of patience.

Well, Alexander didn't tell him. Technically. He lowers his hands and shrugs. "She cares about you. Worries. It's not...a bad thing. I imagine she'd be here herself, if she thought she could be." He puts his hands in his pockets and studies the other man, his head tilting to one side. "Have you had any problems?" A faint smile. "Might as well get a full report while I'm here, unless you plan to shoot me." A pause. "I'd rather you didn't."

Walt shakes his head. "I'm not gonna shoot you. I don't have all the details, but I know when your only child makes excuses to not come home for Thanksgiving or Christmas for four years straight, something bigger is keeping her out. All she wanted was to be a cop, so whatever happened, was bad enough for her to abandon that." He shrugs and leans against the lamp post again. "She doing all right? Where is she now? Last I heard she was in Hoquiam."

"Thank you," Alexander says, very solemnly. "And...I don't know the details, either. She's," he squirms uncomfortably, "near Hoquiam." He casts a glance around, just in case, before adding, quietly, "I don't really know what she's dealing with, but I think she has good reason for keeping her distance for a while. She saved the lives of a couple of friends of mine. So, I agreed to do a small job for her." He gives Walt a long, thoughtful look. "All she wanted was to be a cop? Really?" A flicker of a sad smile. "I can sympathize."

Walt listens patiently and nods to Alexander. "She had the highest scores in her class at the Academy. Made detective in record time. It was that last job she was on, the one she couldn't talk about, that it all went to shit. Her fiance left her, and after things went down, never saw her friends here again either, not even her partner on the op, de la Vega." He kicks at a stone on the pavement for a moment. "I haven't pushed her about it, she still calls now and then without telling me much, but I worry about her." He arches a brow. "Was she going to have you put cameras in the house too? Or just on the doors?"

Alexander's head comes up, eyes widening at the mention of de la Vega. He blinks. "Her partner? I, I see." He runs a hand through his dark hair, and gives a sheepish little chuckle. "The house too. If you like, I could put them in unobtrusive places, but I think it would reassure her. To have them there." He glances back at the bar, and adds, "You know there are two men watching you, I'm sure. If you made me, you certainly made them." A flicker back to him. "How did you make me? Motion sensor on the camera?"

"For that undercover op. She called him down from Seattle I think. Big Narcotics thing, went on a couple of years." Walt smirks. "That's my girl, covering all her bases. Ok, you can put them up, but only if I can make you a cup of coffee and you tell me a bit about my little girl." He tips his chin towards the house down the block and begins strolling that way at a leisurely pace. "Yeah, those two come in once a week and look out of place, and that biker comes in and glares at them. Dunno if Vickie is responsible for whatever the hell is going on there but it hasn't blown up this whole time, so I'm not going to mess with it."

'Leisurely' suits Alexander, since his hobbling speed - while perhaps surprisingly fast - is not going to break any records. And he recognizes the best deal he's going to get when he hears it, so he falls in beside the man, keeping a near-paranoid eye on the street as they walk. "Undercover." He thinks about what absolute little Ruiz has been willing to share of his past - and more, the parts of it that are etched on his skin - and hazards a guess, "Cartels? Undercover work is hard. A lot can go wrong." A bob of his head at the man's decision. "I think that's wise. Just be careful? And if anything in the routine changes..." he shrugs. "You have a strategy to get the hell out of Dodge for a bit, if it's necessary?"

"Cartels would be my guess, yeah. Vickie wouldn't say word one about it though," Walt smirks and at Alexander's question he huffs. "Not inclined to let them chase me out of my town like they did my kid, but I'm not an idiot. I was career military until her mother passed. I have my go bag and a few foxholes to crash in if I need to lay low for a while."

The walk is short, and the house is small but pleasant, homey, older but lived in. Walt unlocks it and toggles the alarm system off on a keypad. He flips on some lights, walks down the hall into the kitchen, and begins making coffee, gesturing Alexander to a seat at the small kitchen table. This is where Vic grew up eating breakfast. There are family photos everywhere, although her mother stops appearing in them after she was about eight. There are pics of Vic in her patrol uniform, and her formal police uniform as well. Her hair was shorter, blonder, back then.

There's a little television on the kitchen counter, which has a timestamped frozen image of Alexander trying to climb onto the pool table on it. It must have triggered with the motion in the dark, as he had to move (flail) more to climb with his leg.

"So you going to tell me your name? Or would you rather I not know?"

Alexander gives another of those shrugs at the huff. "Strategic retreat is sometimes the best option. Good. I think that would reassure her." He hesitates before entering the house, even with an invitation. But once inside, he looks around with a frank (bordering on rude) study of the place, like he's trying to memorize it. Or case it. He slinks towards the kitchen table at the gesture, sitting gingerly. "Your wife died when she was young?" he asks, with a complete lack of tact, as he takes in those photos.

When his eyes reach the television, he sighs. "...note to self. Be more careful." A glance back to Walt, then a shake of his head. "I don't mind. I'm Alexander. Nice to meet you, sir." He doesn't offer to shake hands, or a last name, but his expression is about as friendly as Alexander gets around strangers. Which is still...exhausted, pained, and creepily direct when he stares at the man.

"Walt," he replies, "Though I reckon you already know that." At the question he grimaces. "Vickie was eight when Lucy passed. Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. So, I mustered out to raise her myself. Thank Christ we had life insurance. Was able to buy the bar and keep us afloat. We were never rich, but we got by." Walt glances at an older photo on the wall of a younger Lucy. Vic clearly got her looks from mom, she could have been a supermodel. He pours the coffee into mugs and brings them over. There is a sugar bowl on the table, and a little bowl of those non-dairy creamers you don't have to refrigerate. Same kind he keeps in the bar for the designated drivers.

"As for being more careful, old school military or police types are likely to have hidden eyes on their places. We're paranoid bastards, one and all," he says with a chuckle, sitting across from the other man. "You a PI? Or just a friend of my girl?"

Alexander blithely passes over the shortened name, but his sympathy is sincere when he murmurs, "That must have been very difficult for you both." He follows the look, and smiles. "She seems like she was a lovely woman." He takes the mug with a soft thanks, and doesn't add anything to it. He does take a small sip after blowing on it. "I can't say you don't have reason to keep an eye out. I think she'll be glad to hear it; it can be easy to forget that your loved ones aren't incapable of protecting themselves," he adds, with a hint of amusement.

He takes another sip, still watching Walt as he sits down. "I don't have a license. I'm just nosy. Occasionally people pay me. I don't know your daughter very well. I'm sorry. She seems," his inherent honesty brings the intended 'nice' to a screeching halt, and he flounders at the end of the sentence for a while before admitting, "like a terrible bartender. But very competent in other areas."

That gets a laugh from Walt. "Vickie? She's been mixing drinks since she was ten. If she's a bad bartender, it's on purpose, I promise." Or it's not her real job. "I was hoping she'd be able to get back on a police force somewhere else. Damn. If she's slinging drinks, she's got to be miserable." He sips his own coffee and points at a large painting on the wall down the hall. "Side of that is a good spot to put a camera to view people coming in or leaving. That should keep her off your case. And on top of that kitchen cabinet there can get the back door."

"Really?" Alexander blinks, and files the information away. One can almost SEE the almost blank file he has on Vic slowly filling up with various bits of data, and tentative assumptions realigning. He takes a sip of his coffee, then gets up and makes his way to the indicated spaces, carefully and efficiently installing the cameras. He still wears the gloves; he has his own reasons for not particularly wanting anyone to run prints on him. "I don't think she's happy, no. But situations can change. I hope that this one does so that she can come and see you again." He hobbles towards the kitchen cabinet. "If there's anything you'd like me to take back to her, I don't mind. I'm gonna have to admit you found me out, anyway." A quick flash of something like a smile towards Walt.

Walt looks amused at the admission he'll have to tell her he got caught. "Honesty, I like that. Yeah, I'd like it if you brought something back for her, just a minute." He gets up and goes into another room, rummages around for a few, then comes back out with a small jewelry box. "Her mother's crucifix. We were not real religious after Lucy died, church was her thing, but I think she might want to have it."

He hands the box over, scrubbing a hand through his shock of white hair. "Tell her if she'll let me know where she is, I'll come take her out to dinner. Ok?"

"I prefer honesty. Lies just get confusing and unpleasant." Alexander grunts with effort and a small amount of pain as he lowers himself back to the floor after planting the camera on the kitchen cabinet. He turns as Walt approaches. "I'll take it to her." He considers the man. "Also, if she knows that you know the cameras are there, then if something does change. Or seem wrong. You can give the cameras a head's up? And we'll see what can be done." He takes the jewelry box, making sure the clasp is secure before sliding it into the oversized pocket he'd been carrying the cameras in. "I will. It was nice to meet you. You seem like a good person." Alexander doesn't offer his hand, of course, but he bobs his head. Then hesitates. "Here." He pulls out a small notebook and a pen, and writes out an e-mail address. It's a random series of letters and numbers - the address he uses for communication he doesn't necessarily want associated with his business or personal accounts. "If you send me an e-mail, I'll try to keep you informed. As I can."

Because Alexander is both a prying asshole, and a soft-hearted prying asshole.

Walt takes the paper, and then he grabs a business card out of a kitchen drawer. It's for the bar, but he turns it over and scrawls an email and phone number on it. "I do know how to do the texting thing, which I'm sure Vickie thinks I think is some science voodoo magic or something. And let her know if there's trouble, I'll throw a peace sign at the cameras."

Alexander's lips twitch when Walt calls it the texting thing while claiming he doesn't think it's science voodoo magic. He clears his throat as he takes the business card, and tucks it away. "I'll tell her, sir." A bob as the sign is acknowledged, although the irony makes that faintest of smiles come to life, for a moment, as a bright, sunny grin that takes most of Alexander's care away. It's only for a moment, though. Then the card is secured, and the smile has left. "Is there anything else I can do for you? If not, I should go."

"I think you've done plenty more than you were hired for, so no, nothing I need," Walt replies with a small smile. "You be careful out there, all right? Lot of assholes who'd look to target a tourist with a cast on their leg. You need anything, you let me know, and if anything happens to Vickie, let me know, ok?" He gets up and walks Alexander to the door.

"I'll be careful," Alexander agrees. "And I'll try to keep you informed. Don't die, Mr. Grey." Alexander's own, peculiar, form of parting for people that he likes is thrown out casually, and he makes his way out of the house without another word, hobbling off into the night. Bright side? He doesn't have to get up early in the morning to prep to break into the guy's house. Which is good, because he's very tired. And more than a little troubled.