Post by Charlotte Jacobs on May 16, 2011 23:04:06 GMT -8
It was dark, the sun long since having abandoned its post to the moon, and the night seemed to sound only of water as rain fell in sheets. The street was mostly empty, save for the odd person here and there, and the occasional car, headlights shining through the torrential downpour. A slim figure moved through the downpour, fedora pulled low over her face and hands tucked in the pockets of her trench coat.
Her destination was through a plain wooden exterior door, up a simple, non-descript staircase to an equally non-descript door. Letters on the frosted glass read “Green Veil Investigations: Charlie Jacobs P.I.”
Charlotte Jacobs unlocked the door to her offices and gently nudged the door open with her hip. She removed her wet fedora and tossed it expertly onto the top of the coat rack. Her soaked trench coat followed, going on one of the hooks. It had been a long, tiring day, but she had gotten the missing piece she needed. And currently there were no other cases waiting on her desk. There were, however, piles of old case folders stacked up in haphazard piles covering most of the surface.
She sighed, sitting wearily down in the chair behind her desk. She really needed to hire a receptionist. Someone to take care of the paperwork, greet potential clients, answer the phone... Possibly bake a cake with a file inside, on the rare occasion her investigation led her to temporarily reside in a jail cell. Her relationship with the cops was... tumultuous. Charlotte leaned back, propping heeled feet up on the one open space on her desktop.
There were footsteps on the stairs. A client? At this time of night? Could possibly be a neighbour... but Charlotte had developed a second sense of sorts over the years. Whoever they were... they were there to visit her.
They knocked, before hesitantly opening the door. He was tall, and wearing a tan trench coat, which covered a dark blue suit. His hair was hidden under a rain soaked fedora, but she was certain he was blond. He was what Charlotte would call handsome, if not for the look of worry on his face. That look of worry was temporarily replaced by surprise. She’d seen it before. He hadn’t expected to see a woman sitting behind the desk. The question was... would he remain now that he knew that Charlie Jacobs was, in fact, Charlotte Jacobs?
“I need your help.”
Charlotte let her feet drop to the floor, leaning forward. He was staying. Either that meant he was more open-minded than most men this day and age... or his trouble was such that he’d take ANYone’s help. This was going to be interesting...
“Everyone who comes through that door needs my help,” she replied, leaning back in her chair again. With practiced ease she flipped open the silver cigarette case, removing both a cigarette and a book of matches. “How, in particular, do you need my help?” Snapping the case closed again, she studied him thoughtfully as she lit the cigarette.
He was going to be trouble.
It wasn’t an unpleasant realisation, necessarily. Some trouble wasn't bad at all. The question was... what sort was he?
“I need you to find someone,” he replied. At least he didn’t beat around the bush. Right to the point. Good. She liked that in a client.
“They owe you money, Mister...?”
“Henning. David Henning. And no, they don’t.” Henning took off his fedora, holding it loosely in his hands as he took a seat across from her. She was right, he was blond. “She’s the step-daughter of a friend. He’s... ill, and she’s something of a wild child. Doesn’t like her step-father much. Or wishes her mother hadn’t remarried. Either way... She’s run off.”
Charlotte set the lit cigarette in an ash tray, pulled out a notepad and began taking notes in careful script.
“I’ll need their names, of course. Do you have a photo of the girl?”
Henning reached under his trench coat and pulled out a large manila envelope. He tossed it onto the desk, on top of the pile of folders in front of her. “The girl’s name is Becky. Becky Ames. Her mother’s name is Diane Ames-Dunn. Her step-father is Richard Dunn.”
She paused in her writing, glancing up at him. That was... unexpected. And added more than a little complication to things. It was never simple with high profile clients. Even if they were a step or two removed from the process.
“The business mogul?”
“One and the same.”
Once she had the names written down, she opened the envelope containing Becky’s photo. Knowing what the girl she was being hired to find looked like would be rather on the helpful side. Committing the girl’s face to memory (an eidetic memory was useful in her line of work), she set the photo off to one side, on yet another stack of folders.
“My usual fee is three hundred dollars up front, and ninety five dollars a day. Not including gas and other expenses.”
Before she’d even finished speaking he was nodding, taking a white envelope out of his pocket and tossing it on the desk.
“Richard instructed me to give you this for your up front fee. I trust it is enough?” Henning was smirking slightly as she picked it up and opened it. She managed to contain her surprise to the raising of an eyebrow. There was a thousand dollars in that envelope. “This is, of course, not including the ninety five dollars a day.”
Cassandra set the envelope back down.
“Mister Henning, you have yourself a private investigator.”
He rose to his feet, putting his fedora back on. He took a business card out of his wallet and held it out to her. “Keep me informed of what you find.”
She took it, fingertips lightly brushing his as she did so. Her eyes flickered down to scan the simple black text (which included his name and telephone number), before returning to meet his.
“I intend to.”
With that, he took his leave, closing her office door behind her. As his footsteps slowly faded, she sat back in her chair, twirling the card in her fingers thoughtfully. Her instincts were telling her that there was more to this than a mere runaway. And her instincts were very rarely wrong.
Her destination was through a plain wooden exterior door, up a simple, non-descript staircase to an equally non-descript door. Letters on the frosted glass read “Green Veil Investigations: Charlie Jacobs P.I.”
Charlotte Jacobs unlocked the door to her offices and gently nudged the door open with her hip. She removed her wet fedora and tossed it expertly onto the top of the coat rack. Her soaked trench coat followed, going on one of the hooks. It had been a long, tiring day, but she had gotten the missing piece she needed. And currently there were no other cases waiting on her desk. There were, however, piles of old case folders stacked up in haphazard piles covering most of the surface.
She sighed, sitting wearily down in the chair behind her desk. She really needed to hire a receptionist. Someone to take care of the paperwork, greet potential clients, answer the phone... Possibly bake a cake with a file inside, on the rare occasion her investigation led her to temporarily reside in a jail cell. Her relationship with the cops was... tumultuous. Charlotte leaned back, propping heeled feet up on the one open space on her desktop.
There were footsteps on the stairs. A client? At this time of night? Could possibly be a neighbour... but Charlotte had developed a second sense of sorts over the years. Whoever they were... they were there to visit her.
They knocked, before hesitantly opening the door. He was tall, and wearing a tan trench coat, which covered a dark blue suit. His hair was hidden under a rain soaked fedora, but she was certain he was blond. He was what Charlotte would call handsome, if not for the look of worry on his face. That look of worry was temporarily replaced by surprise. She’d seen it before. He hadn’t expected to see a woman sitting behind the desk. The question was... would he remain now that he knew that Charlie Jacobs was, in fact, Charlotte Jacobs?
“I need your help.”
Charlotte let her feet drop to the floor, leaning forward. He was staying. Either that meant he was more open-minded than most men this day and age... or his trouble was such that he’d take ANYone’s help. This was going to be interesting...
“Everyone who comes through that door needs my help,” she replied, leaning back in her chair again. With practiced ease she flipped open the silver cigarette case, removing both a cigarette and a book of matches. “How, in particular, do you need my help?” Snapping the case closed again, she studied him thoughtfully as she lit the cigarette.
He was going to be trouble.
It wasn’t an unpleasant realisation, necessarily. Some trouble wasn't bad at all. The question was... what sort was he?
“I need you to find someone,” he replied. At least he didn’t beat around the bush. Right to the point. Good. She liked that in a client.
“They owe you money, Mister...?”
“Henning. David Henning. And no, they don’t.” Henning took off his fedora, holding it loosely in his hands as he took a seat across from her. She was right, he was blond. “She’s the step-daughter of a friend. He’s... ill, and she’s something of a wild child. Doesn’t like her step-father much. Or wishes her mother hadn’t remarried. Either way... She’s run off.”
Charlotte set the lit cigarette in an ash tray, pulled out a notepad and began taking notes in careful script.
“I’ll need their names, of course. Do you have a photo of the girl?”
Henning reached under his trench coat and pulled out a large manila envelope. He tossed it onto the desk, on top of the pile of folders in front of her. “The girl’s name is Becky. Becky Ames. Her mother’s name is Diane Ames-Dunn. Her step-father is Richard Dunn.”
She paused in her writing, glancing up at him. That was... unexpected. And added more than a little complication to things. It was never simple with high profile clients. Even if they were a step or two removed from the process.
“The business mogul?”
“One and the same.”
Once she had the names written down, she opened the envelope containing Becky’s photo. Knowing what the girl she was being hired to find looked like would be rather on the helpful side. Committing the girl’s face to memory (an eidetic memory was useful in her line of work), she set the photo off to one side, on yet another stack of folders.
“My usual fee is three hundred dollars up front, and ninety five dollars a day. Not including gas and other expenses.”
Before she’d even finished speaking he was nodding, taking a white envelope out of his pocket and tossing it on the desk.
“Richard instructed me to give you this for your up front fee. I trust it is enough?” Henning was smirking slightly as she picked it up and opened it. She managed to contain her surprise to the raising of an eyebrow. There was a thousand dollars in that envelope. “This is, of course, not including the ninety five dollars a day.”
Cassandra set the envelope back down.
“Mister Henning, you have yourself a private investigator.”
He rose to his feet, putting his fedora back on. He took a business card out of his wallet and held it out to her. “Keep me informed of what you find.”
She took it, fingertips lightly brushing his as she did so. Her eyes flickered down to scan the simple black text (which included his name and telephone number), before returning to meet his.
“I intend to.”
With that, he took his leave, closing her office door behind her. As his footsteps slowly faded, she sat back in her chair, twirling the card in her fingers thoughtfully. Her instincts were telling her that there was more to this than a mere runaway. And her instincts were very rarely wrong.