2022-01-17 - The Neutral Zone

Cooking is for -- other people. Ravn Abildgaard takes a considerable amounts of his meals at the Black Bear Diner where Gina Castro may love screwing with him (no, not that way) but the cook doesn't; he always asks to be surprised, and while most foods are quite greasy, they are also quite decent. He can probably handle the grease -- after all, he's in the habit of walking a lot and forgetting both breakfast and lunch on a great deal of days. The Black Bear is a good place to catch the Dane most afternoons.

He sits now, with a mostly un-eaten burger o' chef's choice (everything but the vegan mayo) and a stack of papers from a law firm in Seattle. Gloved hands curled around a coffee mug this is as good an office as any -- and quieter, because the HOPE Centre is a lot of things, but quiet and undisturbed is not on that list.

Time was, the Black Bear Diner was on de la Vega's no-fly list. One too many lukewarm coffees or sandwiches made with the wrong fixings, and he decided to take his business elsewhere for a while.

But now that whole mess with Reyes's gang has blown over, and the Chief's (somewhat) back in Monaghan's good graces. He shoulders his way inside, looking about as uncomfortable in an off-the-rack suit as is possible. Why he's wearing a suit today is anyone's guess. He makes his way up to the counter and starts digging for his wallet. "Black coffee and, uh, a turkey sandwich," he mumbles to the waitress.

Is that Ravn over there? He watches the other man for a few moments, but doesn't disrupt him.

It sure is. A gloved hand goes up in a lazy wave -- and then halts mid-air because that's the first time Ravn has seen de la Vega all formal looking and he has to stop himself from blurting out something about whose funeral are we attending.

Mostly because there well might be one.

He nods an invitation at the other side of the table in the booth instead. The jackass has claimed the most discreet one but at least he's open to the idea of sharing.

Once he's paid for his order, Javier peels away from the counter and ambles on over to where the folklorist's seated. The suit's charcoal grey, and the tie he keeps tugging at like it's choking him is a far too cheerful blue. So probably no funeral.

"Afternoon," he greets, eyeing the papers. "Hell of a place to try to get work done."

"There's a kindergarten meet and greet at HOPE. I love kids. From safe distance, and with ear plugs." Ravn makes a little face. "I wanted to take this stuff home overnight to look at but then someone told me it's urgent -- and it's definitely not urgent but now I'm started on it anyway so I might as well. Where's the party?"

At least they've cut out the incessant Christmas music here. There's some kind of country rock playing, which the waitress is jiving along to while she does some inventory.

Javier looks dubious at the comment about kids, but doesn't argue it. Another glance at the papers, then back to Ravn. "Huh? Oh." The suit. "I'm, uh, meeting with the DA in a couple of hours." He looks over his shoulder briefly, as if to see whether his food's magically ready to go. But nope. Back to the younger man, "You want some company?"

"Sure thing. You're a hell of a lot more interesting than this, but then, in fairness, so is gravel." Ravn looks at the papers and puts up a momentary woe-begone expression. "I dodged law school and yet, here I am."

He shakes his head. "Oh well. I should have realised that it's never as simple as telling a lawyer to deal with things. What's new and exciting with Bennet, or is this the actual DA?"

"Thanks," mumbles the cop, "I'm fucking flattered." He sits down anyway, though, and immediately starts fussing with his tie. "The DA out of Seattle. Not Bennet. Though speaking of which.." Uh oh. "There was a little incident at the Safeway about a week back. Couple of guys with shotguns. You know anything about that?" His dark eyes rove from Ravn's paperwork, back to the man himself.

"You know I do, or you wouldn't be asking. And if you thought I knew something important you'd have texted me or called me to come in." Ravn picks a bit of lettuce off his plate and chews on it. "I did give my statement to the emergency responders but -- you know. Couldn't quite tell them that the ghost the guy was babbling about was Kailey Holt and Perdita Leontes doing their thing."

He can't resist a small chuckle. "And if anyone complains about the display of chocolate bars that exploded, that was me. It was just -- I don't know what it was, certainly wasn't professionals."

"I read the statement," de la Vega assures, dark eyes steady on the other man. "Thought we might talk, off the record of course, about whether there was anything that didn't make it into the report." If there are any fries, he'll reach out to snag one, like the opportunist he is.

"By the time the officers were taking statements, people were already forgetting that we all saw a freaking Christmas Carol acted out live." It's not like Ravn has even gotten to his fries yet; it's probably doing him a favour, stealing them. The Dane certainly pretends not to notice the tuber theft. "Most shoppers seemed to just remember that there were some blokes with shotguns, some kind of robbery attempt that went bad. Holt just kept quiet, and people assumed her nosebleed was because she hit her head."

The folklorist returns the Chief's gaze evenly, thoughtfully. "And of course you can't put that all on record. The one thing that seemed to really matter was the way one of them was shouting something about Monaghan. I didn't catch what exactly. Something about tell Monaghan. I don't imagine they meant Seth."

The fried potato is consumed, and another two snagged between his heavily tattoed fingers and thumb. The cop narrows his eyes slightly at mention of a Christmas Carol. "You want to tell me about that? Some ghosts showed up to, uh, teach you some lessons, or what?" Those fries are devoured as well, and he murmurs his thanks as his coffee's dropped off. "And what happened to Miss Holt's nose? Off the record, of course."

"It has to be off the record by default because you can't put this on record and expect the Veil to not edit the record," Ravn murmurs. As official inquiries go, he is finding he rather prefers this style to past experiences around Europe; it's certainly more comfortable to share a plate of fries with the man asking the questions than having a table lamp shone in your face while some bloke tries to act out a bad gangster movie, looking tough.

Then he chuckles, because it was -- dangerous, yes, but in a way, it was also funny. "Jacob Marley, chains and threats of hellfire and brimstone. Holt conjured him up -- an illusion, to frighten the robbers off. It was all her and Leontes. I guess this town is not a great place to be some buck with a shotgun, trying to shoot up a Safeway."

He touches his own nose with a gloved finger; probably a subconscious gesture, remembering what Kailey Holt looked like, spraying blood through a napkin supplied by the store's deli butcher. "The same thing happened to her that happens to you. She exerted herself a lot, and got a nose bleed from it."

He's in the midst of reaching for another fry when Ravn mentions chains and threats of hellfire and brimstone while chuckling. Which gives the cop pause, while he contemplates that image. Then, with a huff of amusement, he finishes eating it, and snags a napkin so he can wipe his fingers dry. It's followed up with a swig of his coffee, and a shake of his head. "Didn't know of anyone other than Lilith Winslow who had the, uh.." He gestures to his face. Probably to indicate the bleeding after exerting oneself using the Gift.

"Kailey's extremely powerful with illusions. I saw her do the same thing during the hurricane -- and cars in the parking lot started to..." Ravn pauses, searching for the right expression. "Well, melt. Like some kind of surrealistic painting. The melting watches, Salvador Dali? It looked a lot like that. It all got written off as storm damage, of course."

He steeples his long fingers. "I'm not sure what those blokes wanted. If it'd been anywhere else -- I'd assume that that Safeway was owned by some guy who owed some other guy money. The kind of logic that makes a grumpy money lender send a couple of thugs to rough the place up, as a warning. And, well, the name Monaghan -- even I can do that math."

Probably none of this is any great surprise to Javier, judging by the look on his face. You live in a town like this long enough, you get to know who's who and what's what. Helps, too, being the Chief of Police, no doubt. He seems to consider snagging another fried potato, then changes his mind and sticks with the coffee.

"So." He drinks, swallows. "You sure it was Felix they were bleating about?" His phone goes off, and he digs it out, checks the number, and silences it with a puff of breath through his nose.

"It seemed that way. Only way to be sure would be asking one of them, I suppose." The Dane nudges the plate a little towards the cop; an unspoken 'help yourself', maybe. He's a light and picky eater; no reason to return half the meal to the kitchen if someone else's hungry.

He pauses a moment, and looks at the wall; it's one of those decisions where you either back up now or take the plunge. He's never been as cautious as people seem to generally think; plunge it is. "There's something else. Off the record for now, I suppose, and then we can decide how much of it needs to get on the record later -- it's complicated stuff, and anywhere else but Gray Harbor I'd have stayed the hell out of it."

The Dane sips his coffee. "You remember the fire on the Mercantic -- the coaster in the old harbour where a number of people turned up dead. The Gazette wrote about it -- the missing girl who turned up dead. Consider this my official admission of what you already knew, that we got those girls out. The important thing is -- none of those girls had any kind of talent back then. They did not shine. I was in the dream where Violeta died -- and I've never seen anything or anyone with that kind of light. If that was really her, somebody's invented mana batteries outside of computer games. I woke up with second degree burns from that explosion. And the idea that somebody might have found a way to 'store' the shine in ordinary, non-gifted people is profoundly terrifying."

A grunt of acquiescence from the cop; he's willing to agree, it seems. And considering they have one of those men in for questioning? Perhaps more answers will reveal themselves.

With the plate nudged closer, he has no qualms about snagging a couple more french fries, and tossing them into his mouth. He, in contrast, likes to eat, and has the slight belly to show for it. Also the guns to show for his time spent working out, for that matter. "Of course," he murmurs when the Mercantic is brought up. Dark eyes narrowed a fraction as they tick up to the Dane. "Got it on my to do list to come talk to you about that, actually."

Which, obviously he does. Ravn works with HOPE. Violeta was funneled through there, and left town, and now she's turned back up dead in Gray Pond, and obviously the Chief of Police is gonna want to talk to him about it. De la Vega eases back in his chair and scrapes his hand through his beard, and doesn't say anything for a while.

"You know what my game is, Chief. I'm not a crook -- anymore.Anything I can do that saves you time -- though obviously there's a lot of things I don't know because I don't ask. If I did ask I'd lose access to a lot of people. I don't want to be involved with Felix Monaghan's operation. Our mutual acquaintances respect that. That's why they trust me to help in a situation like this, when they know full well that Felix? Felix would probably just sell those girls down the river, too." Ravn shakes his head and toys with a fry, indecisively. "I am trying to think of myself as a kind of -- neutral zone. Even talked to one of Monaghan's top people about it -- and they agreed, at least that they'll keep dealers, things like that, out of HOPE's turf. It's the only ace in my deck -- I know how to keep my mouth shut."

He sighs lightly and takes a bite of the fry. "I did talk to Seth and Vic about her -- Violeta, that is. I think they may approach you about it as well."

The ex-grifter's regarded critically for a time. Tonguetip skimmed along a canine, the faint curl of his upper lip, and in that moment? They aren't friends. They're business associates.

"Es eso así," De la Vega murmurs finally. "De acuerdo entonces." His dark eyes slide toward the window, then back to Ravn. "Well, we'll see how good you are at keeping your mouth shut, then, yeah?" He smiles, ever so slightly, and his eyes crease up at the corners with a multitude of crow's feet.

The smile is returned; it's not the first time in his life Ravn has sat across the table from a police officer. If anything is unusual about it it's that he actually does want to cooperate -- and that he has yet to ask to call his lawyer.

"I'm as good as it takes when you keep my goal in mind, Chief." He leans back a little in his seat and toys with that unfortunate, half-eaten fry, passing it from one pair of fingers to another as if it was one of the coins or toothpicks he usually plays with; not a bright idea, really, getting palm oil on those kidskin gloves. "I want the same thing you want: For this town to be safe. I know it doesn't matter much to the letter of the law, but it matters to me: My agenda here is to fight the dolorphages. Not the crime kingpins, and not the police. What do you need from me on Violeta? We kept no records because records can be traced, and the last thing we'd want is for her traffickers to come look for them and her."

The fry-as-fidget-toy is ignored; it's Ravn's face de la Vega's focused on. The little changes of expression; the ease, or lack thereof. One is a man who is very good at playing people; the other is a man who, despite his lack of diplomacy, can sniff bullshit a mile out.

Finally, he reaches for another french fry, bites into it. Chews, and swallows. "I don't have time to litigate with fine people like you." He makes a moue with his mouth, that twitches like it wants to turn into a smile. Or something nastier. "Or Monaghan." His tongue slices across his lips. Maybe it's clear what his priorities are, too.

"As for records, there are.. other ways of getting that information." He's talking, perhaps, about emotional imprints. Residues left on objects that can tell a story about what might have happened. "Don't suppose you happen to have any personal effects of hers that I can take a look at?"

"No -- but I can get you the mattress she slept on, the blanket she slept under, and the bathroom she showered in. It's not much, but maybe it's enough to give us some hints." Ravn appears to consider this to be very much an us -- and by his logic, it is, because while the legal aspects are none of his business, people dying in dreams are. "And for what it's worth, I appreciate it. The last thing I want is for you to consider me a third player here. We shipped them to a shelter in Portland -- and from there and onwards I don't know what happened, because that's the point: HOPE can't get known to keep all kinds of secrets, it'd ruin our position as a kind of demilitarised zone."

It's anyone's question whether he's good enough at the grift to sound convincing, all the way down to the micro-tells -- or whether he's simply not trying. He may have decided that showing de la Vega an open face, easy to read, is the best defence; possibly because he's very well aware of just how problematic his position can get if the GHPD decides he's a problem. Not a US citizen, for one. Not employed by a US employer. And add to that, administrating a small charity slash community centre that can be bogged down so hard in bureaucracy that it might as well just close its doors. Might be Ravn simply doesn't think this is a grift he can pull -- pretending innocence.

Anyone listening in on this conversation between the two men might well think the worst. Some middle aged Mexican wanting to go sniff around a pretty, dead girl's bedclothes. For what? Who the hell knows, but he runs his tongue along his teeth, and nods once to the offer. "Soon as you can. Before it.." He cuts his eyes away when he notices the waitress watching them. She skitters off nervously. "Before it fades."

Dark eyes rove back to the Dane. Dark eyes in a weathered face that's probably seen all kinds of attempts at being grifted, flirted with, fucked with, pleaded with, and straight up threatened in no uncertain terms. "You got anything else for me?"

"Nothing that holds in a courtroom," Ravn replies in earnest (or pretend earnest, depending on how daring one assumes he is). "I can call the Portland shelter, but I doubt they'll tell me anything. You can too, and they might tell you more, but I am unconvinced that it's not a wild goose chase. Violeta's body turned up in Gray Pond, but she died in Serbia in that dream. I don't think she was in Gray Pond when she was taken."

He leans back on his chair; Ravn's grey eyes have not seen what the Chief's has -- but they've seen enough on his journey around the world. Prostitution, poverty, pimps, small time crooks, thieves, grifters -- the locations may differ, but the rules seem to be the same every time. "I'll talk to the boys under the boardwalk. A lot of them won't have anything to say to the police. A lot of them have nothing to say to me. But most of them talk to Mermaid Denny and a couple of other homeless guys at HOPE. Maybe we can turn something up -- people talk around homeless guys, because they're functionally invisible to most."

"Okay." O-kayee, in that funny way his accent shifts the word. Javier finishes off his coffee, steals one last french fry, and goes to push to his feet. "Give me a call, yeah?" Then his eyes sliver up with that wolf's smile of his, and he tosses a crumpled bill on the table that'll cover far more than just his coffee. And begins slouching off before the younger man can protest.