Post by Deleted on May 31, 2013 0:57:53 GMT -5
Jason Bard's Apartment: Monday, 6:59 A.M.
A sharp pain rouses me from my slumber right in the middle of a surprisingly pleasant dream. Those don't happen nearly as often as I'd like, so I'm more than a little agitated at having one so rudely interrupted. I toss the covers aside and fix a stern glare at what should be my left calf, but instead is nothing more than an empty space on the mattress. The doctor calls it phantom limb pain. At the moment I couldn't care less what it's called, I just want it to stop.
Unfortunately, just as I reach for the prescription of vicodin I keep on my nightstand, my alarm clock decides to go off. The loud, shrill tone chases away any chance I have of getting back to sleep in the next few minutes. Yeah, that's pretty much how my luck goes nowadays.
"Son of a..." I grumble as I turn the alarm off.
For a brief moment I'm tempted to take the dosage of vicodin anyway, but I quickly decide against it. I'll need to be alert and clear headed for the next couple hours, which wouldn't be an easy task with something that powerful in my system. I have a meeting with a client lined up, and I don't pull in nearly enough income to risk blowing off or making a bad first impression on a potential paying customer. Not even for the sake of some much needed pain relief.
Being a private investigator isn't exactly the most lucrative of professions. Big paydays don't just drop into my lap, and there's no such thing as guaranteed income. If I don't work I don't get paid; I don't get paid and the bills start to pile up. Today's meeting could very well determine whether or not I stay in business. That means I need to be in top form, or at least as close to it as I can manage.
So, I haul my sorry ass out of bed to get ready for the day ahead. I regard myself in the mirror as I plod my way into the bathroom on crutches, and I’m not entirely thrilled with what I see. My eyes are bloodshot from too many long nights, and the hair on my head and face are both long overdue for a trim. It’s a tricky balancing act between looking scruffy, and coming off as some kind of disheveled hobo. Right now I’m definitely on the wrong side of the scale, so it’s going to take some work to get myself looking presentable.
My name is Jason Bard, and this is just another day in my life. I'd thank God that they don't all start off this way, but that would require a bit more faith and reverence than a guy like me can muster.
Wasn't always like this. Once upon a time I had a promising career in law enforcement ahead of me. Some people - well, mostly me - might even say I was on the fast track straight to the top, which is no easy feat in the Gotham City Police Department. Not without greasing the wheels, so to speak, or otherwise straying from the straight and narrow. I won’t lie and claim that I was a saint, but compared to some of the really bad apples in the department I was pretty damn close. So yeah, a promising career; a bright future...
Two functioning legs.
It’s amazing just how quickly one’s fortunes can change in this city.
Bard Investigations: 8:30 A.M.
I hear the telltale pitter-patter of rain drops on my office window and try not to groan too loudly. I hate the rain; have for as long as I can remember. In most cities the rain washes away the grit and the decay, but in Gotham it bathes the city in its own filth. And when it's done, all the scum just sticks right to the surface, like the buildup on an unwashed tub.
Sentimental and spiritual types like to say that rain is the tears of God, but God... He doesn’t bother crying on Gotham City. If there's any fluid leaking from the Almighty over this city it's a safe bet that it isn't coming from His eyes.
It takes me a moment to limp over to the window so I can draw the blinds shut. The prosthetic leg I wear to get around works well enough, but I’m still not used to the damn thing yet. It doesn’t help that the pain from earlier is still gnawing at me. A couple over the counter pain relievers help to keep the edge off, but not enough for me to completely ignore the discomfort. A few drinks could help with that, but even I’m not enough of a lush to start drinking this early in the morning.
“Excuse me?” a soft, feminine voice calls out from the doorway behind me. “Mr. Bard?”
“C’mon in,” I respond as I turn around to face the new arrival.
The woman standing in my doorway is long and lean, but with plenty of curves in all the right places. Not staring at those curves is a test of willpower that I’m fairly certain I’m going to fail. What can I say…I’m human? Somehow I manage to force my gaze upwards, where I discover long blonde hair that falls in soft curls around her face. Jaw dropping doesn’t even begin to do this woman any justice.
It isn’t just her physical beauty that grabs my attention though. The form fitting black dress she wears is well tailored, showing off just enough skin to be appealing without being immodest. Jewels adorn her ears, neck, and wrist. She has gloves covering both her hands, but it’s practically impossible to miss the ring on her finger regardless. Everything she wears screams money, so maybe my luck is about to turn around after all.
I beckon her to step inside my office as I relocate some old files from the room's sole vinyl chair. Admittedly, its worn cushion has seen much better days. But then, so have I.
"How may I help you, Miss--?"
“Riley,” she replies. Her voice is elegant, a soft contralto that goes down smoothly just like the best bourbons. It only serves to reinforce my impression of her. “Peyton Riley.”
Peyton Riley is not the name of the woman I set up this meeting with over the phone, which immediately piques my curiosity. She could just be a walk-in, but that seems extraordinarily unlikely. I’m hardly the only P.I. in town, and my office is far from the kind of upscale neighborhood a refined woman like this would call home. Of course, looks can be deceiving I suppose.
“Well Miss Riley, you’re not exactly who I was expecting this morning.”
“I can explain Mr. Bard,” she insists, but I cut her off with a quick the wave of a hand before she can say more.
“I’m sure you can, but first, please call me Jason. I’m really not much for formality.” And being called Mr. Bard makes me sound far more important than I really am. I keep that part to myself though. I find most women don’t really care for self-deprecating comments.
“Well, Jason,” she starts. “I needed to exercise a certain degree of caution in contacting you. I’m here to speak with you about my fiancé, and he’s a rather…influential man.”
Outside the Gotham Hilton: 9 P.M.
Peyton Riley. The name rang a bell the moment she mentioned it, but it wasn’t until she told me the name of her fiancé that I realized the potential mess I’m getting myself into. I should walk away right now, and forget all about this. But that isn’t going to make the bills go away, so the hefty payday I have waiting for me at the end of this job is far too good to pass up. At least that’s what I’ve been trying to convince myself of for the last twelve hours or so.
There’s no other argument I can think of that justifies working for the daughter of a local crime boss.
Well, formerly local anyway. Recently, both the Riley’s and the Sabatino’s have been forced to move the bulk of their operations outside of Gotham City. All thanks to the tireless work of a certain caped crusader. Gotham might still be a hellhole, but it has gotten somewhat better ever since the Batman arrived on the scene.
I know quite a few people in the GCPD who would disagree with that point of view, and it’s hard to blame them. Masked vigilantism doesn’t exactly reflect well on a police department, especially when it actually results in things getting done.
I can only assume that old Sean Riley agreeing to marry off his lovely daughter to an ugly mug like Johnny Sabatino is for the sake of an alliance between the two families. Probably the only way they figure they stand a chance of making a push back into Gotham. Too bad for them that Peyton has herself other ideas, and good for me that she’s willing to spend a pretty penny to see those ideas through.
That’s why I find myself parked in the lot of the Hilton with my camera at the ready. Despite the Sabatino’s not having the power they once boasted; Johnny boy is still arrogant enough to flaunt his infidelity in front of a crowd. He casually walks arm and arm into the lobby with a woman that is definitely not his fiancé. Hell, it’s almost like he’s going out of his way to make my job easier.
I snap a few photos of them entering the lobby, and then settle in for what could be a long wait. The rain, which has been falling lightly yet steadily all day, finishes off in dribbles and shakes. Looks like God is finally done with Gotham…for now.
About an hour passes when I suddenly spot Johnny’s entourage escorting the woman out of the hotel. Conspicuous in his absence is Johnny himself. After walking in the front door there’s no reason for him to suddenly get shy and take another exit. Not unless someone spotted me, but if that’s the case then surely somebody would have approached me by now.
I’m not afraid of any serious consequences while I’m still sitting in a parking lot. Somebody might threaten to rough me up or damage my car, but this is a busy hotel with too many potential witnesses. The odds of it escalating to anything major are pretty slim as long as I don’t do anything stupid.
I let a few more minutes pass before my curiosity gets the better of me. If I let Sabatino slip away then I’ll have to start my surveillance all over again, and if that’s the case I’d be better off finding out sooner rather than later. A few bills encourage the receptionist to give me Johnny’s room number. Good thing I managed to convince Peyton to give me operating expenses upfront. Last thing I can afford to do is start spending the little bit of pocket money I have left.
It seems Johnny hasn’t checked out yet, nor has he snuck out any of the other exits. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out something is not right about this situation. Why would Johnny’s entourage just leave him behind? People in his position rarely stay anywhere without at least a few bodies around for protection.
I get my answer when I knock on the room door, and it opens with no resistance whatsoever.
“Ah, Peyton,” I breathe. “What did you go and do that for?”
She looks up at me, all teary eyed and flustered, and it’s impossible for me to keep my distance. She still has the gun in her hand as I approach, and not even five feet away is the corpse of Johnny Sabatino. A single gunshot wound to the forehead is the obvious cause of death.
“I…I…” she stammers as I draw even closer. “I didn’t mean to. He hit me; swore he was going to kill me…”
I didn’t notice it at first because her face looks puffy from crying, but there seems to be a red mark on her left cheek. If this was self-defense then she has a chance of moving on from this horrible mess. She swoons suddenly, as if she’s about to faint and I step forward to catch her.
“Can you take this from me please?” she whispers faintly into my ear.
Before I can stop to think I find the gun in my hand, and that’s when I realize my mistake. Peyton still has the same pair of gloves on that she wore earlier, which means the only set of prints on this murder weapon belong to me.
“Oh you’re good lady,” I remark as I look at the gun. “You got me hook, line, and sinker.”
She steps back with renewed vigor, and flashes me an arrogant smirk before letting out an earsplitting shriek. I barely hear the cops shouting at me over her voice. She played me like a pro. I’m actually impressed with her skills even if it did just land me in a whole world of trouble. I like to think of myself as a perceptive fellow, but I sure as hell never saw this one coming.
Running is out of the question, and trying to explain my side of the story would be a waste of breath. So I do the only sensible thing: I drop the gun, drop down to my knees and put my hands behind my head. The cops aren’t gentle as throw me face first to the floor, and slap the cuffs on my wrist.
“He killed him!” Peyton exclaims as I one of the cops hauls me up to my feet. She’s still playing the role of distraught fiancé, and doing a damn fine job of it. Cops are eating it up right out of the palm of her hand just like I did. “He just came in here and killed him for no reason!”
“It’s all right ma’am,” the other one consoles her. “We’ve got him now. He’s going to go away for a very long time.”
Not if I can help it, but the odds aren’t exactly in my favor at the moment. It’s all staged so perfectly that getting out of this jam isn’t going to be easy.
The cops take every chance to bump and jostle me as I’m led towards the front door, and when I call them on it they just do it some more. It’s nice to see the GCPD is as classy as it ever was. One step out the door and the skies open up on me with a sudden downpour. If I was the melodramatic type I’d say God himself is trying to add insult to injury.
“Well that just figures,” I mutter.
A sharp pain rouses me from my slumber right in the middle of a surprisingly pleasant dream. Those don't happen nearly as often as I'd like, so I'm more than a little agitated at having one so rudely interrupted. I toss the covers aside and fix a stern glare at what should be my left calf, but instead is nothing more than an empty space on the mattress. The doctor calls it phantom limb pain. At the moment I couldn't care less what it's called, I just want it to stop.
Unfortunately, just as I reach for the prescription of vicodin I keep on my nightstand, my alarm clock decides to go off. The loud, shrill tone chases away any chance I have of getting back to sleep in the next few minutes. Yeah, that's pretty much how my luck goes nowadays.
"Son of a..." I grumble as I turn the alarm off.
For a brief moment I'm tempted to take the dosage of vicodin anyway, but I quickly decide against it. I'll need to be alert and clear headed for the next couple hours, which wouldn't be an easy task with something that powerful in my system. I have a meeting with a client lined up, and I don't pull in nearly enough income to risk blowing off or making a bad first impression on a potential paying customer. Not even for the sake of some much needed pain relief.
Being a private investigator isn't exactly the most lucrative of professions. Big paydays don't just drop into my lap, and there's no such thing as guaranteed income. If I don't work I don't get paid; I don't get paid and the bills start to pile up. Today's meeting could very well determine whether or not I stay in business. That means I need to be in top form, or at least as close to it as I can manage.
So, I haul my sorry ass out of bed to get ready for the day ahead. I regard myself in the mirror as I plod my way into the bathroom on crutches, and I’m not entirely thrilled with what I see. My eyes are bloodshot from too many long nights, and the hair on my head and face are both long overdue for a trim. It’s a tricky balancing act between looking scruffy, and coming off as some kind of disheveled hobo. Right now I’m definitely on the wrong side of the scale, so it’s going to take some work to get myself looking presentable.
My name is Jason Bard, and this is just another day in my life. I'd thank God that they don't all start off this way, but that would require a bit more faith and reverence than a guy like me can muster.
Wasn't always like this. Once upon a time I had a promising career in law enforcement ahead of me. Some people - well, mostly me - might even say I was on the fast track straight to the top, which is no easy feat in the Gotham City Police Department. Not without greasing the wheels, so to speak, or otherwise straying from the straight and narrow. I won’t lie and claim that I was a saint, but compared to some of the really bad apples in the department I was pretty damn close. So yeah, a promising career; a bright future...
Two functioning legs.
It’s amazing just how quickly one’s fortunes can change in this city.
***
Bard Investigations: 8:30 A.M.
I hear the telltale pitter-patter of rain drops on my office window and try not to groan too loudly. I hate the rain; have for as long as I can remember. In most cities the rain washes away the grit and the decay, but in Gotham it bathes the city in its own filth. And when it's done, all the scum just sticks right to the surface, like the buildup on an unwashed tub.
Sentimental and spiritual types like to say that rain is the tears of God, but God... He doesn’t bother crying on Gotham City. If there's any fluid leaking from the Almighty over this city it's a safe bet that it isn't coming from His eyes.
It takes me a moment to limp over to the window so I can draw the blinds shut. The prosthetic leg I wear to get around works well enough, but I’m still not used to the damn thing yet. It doesn’t help that the pain from earlier is still gnawing at me. A couple over the counter pain relievers help to keep the edge off, but not enough for me to completely ignore the discomfort. A few drinks could help with that, but even I’m not enough of a lush to start drinking this early in the morning.
“Excuse me?” a soft, feminine voice calls out from the doorway behind me. “Mr. Bard?”
“C’mon in,” I respond as I turn around to face the new arrival.
The woman standing in my doorway is long and lean, but with plenty of curves in all the right places. Not staring at those curves is a test of willpower that I’m fairly certain I’m going to fail. What can I say…I’m human? Somehow I manage to force my gaze upwards, where I discover long blonde hair that falls in soft curls around her face. Jaw dropping doesn’t even begin to do this woman any justice.
It isn’t just her physical beauty that grabs my attention though. The form fitting black dress she wears is well tailored, showing off just enough skin to be appealing without being immodest. Jewels adorn her ears, neck, and wrist. She has gloves covering both her hands, but it’s practically impossible to miss the ring on her finger regardless. Everything she wears screams money, so maybe my luck is about to turn around after all.
I beckon her to step inside my office as I relocate some old files from the room's sole vinyl chair. Admittedly, its worn cushion has seen much better days. But then, so have I.
"How may I help you, Miss--?"
“Riley,” she replies. Her voice is elegant, a soft contralto that goes down smoothly just like the best bourbons. It only serves to reinforce my impression of her. “Peyton Riley.”
Peyton Riley is not the name of the woman I set up this meeting with over the phone, which immediately piques my curiosity. She could just be a walk-in, but that seems extraordinarily unlikely. I’m hardly the only P.I. in town, and my office is far from the kind of upscale neighborhood a refined woman like this would call home. Of course, looks can be deceiving I suppose.
“Well Miss Riley, you’re not exactly who I was expecting this morning.”
“I can explain Mr. Bard,” she insists, but I cut her off with a quick the wave of a hand before she can say more.
“I’m sure you can, but first, please call me Jason. I’m really not much for formality.” And being called Mr. Bard makes me sound far more important than I really am. I keep that part to myself though. I find most women don’t really care for self-deprecating comments.
“Well, Jason,” she starts. “I needed to exercise a certain degree of caution in contacting you. I’m here to speak with you about my fiancé, and he’s a rather…influential man.”
***
Outside the Gotham Hilton: 9 P.M.
Peyton Riley. The name rang a bell the moment she mentioned it, but it wasn’t until she told me the name of her fiancé that I realized the potential mess I’m getting myself into. I should walk away right now, and forget all about this. But that isn’t going to make the bills go away, so the hefty payday I have waiting for me at the end of this job is far too good to pass up. At least that’s what I’ve been trying to convince myself of for the last twelve hours or so.
There’s no other argument I can think of that justifies working for the daughter of a local crime boss.
Well, formerly local anyway. Recently, both the Riley’s and the Sabatino’s have been forced to move the bulk of their operations outside of Gotham City. All thanks to the tireless work of a certain caped crusader. Gotham might still be a hellhole, but it has gotten somewhat better ever since the Batman arrived on the scene.
I know quite a few people in the GCPD who would disagree with that point of view, and it’s hard to blame them. Masked vigilantism doesn’t exactly reflect well on a police department, especially when it actually results in things getting done.
I can only assume that old Sean Riley agreeing to marry off his lovely daughter to an ugly mug like Johnny Sabatino is for the sake of an alliance between the two families. Probably the only way they figure they stand a chance of making a push back into Gotham. Too bad for them that Peyton has herself other ideas, and good for me that she’s willing to spend a pretty penny to see those ideas through.
That’s why I find myself parked in the lot of the Hilton with my camera at the ready. Despite the Sabatino’s not having the power they once boasted; Johnny boy is still arrogant enough to flaunt his infidelity in front of a crowd. He casually walks arm and arm into the lobby with a woman that is definitely not his fiancé. Hell, it’s almost like he’s going out of his way to make my job easier.
I snap a few photos of them entering the lobby, and then settle in for what could be a long wait. The rain, which has been falling lightly yet steadily all day, finishes off in dribbles and shakes. Looks like God is finally done with Gotham…for now.
***
About an hour passes when I suddenly spot Johnny’s entourage escorting the woman out of the hotel. Conspicuous in his absence is Johnny himself. After walking in the front door there’s no reason for him to suddenly get shy and take another exit. Not unless someone spotted me, but if that’s the case then surely somebody would have approached me by now.
I’m not afraid of any serious consequences while I’m still sitting in a parking lot. Somebody might threaten to rough me up or damage my car, but this is a busy hotel with too many potential witnesses. The odds of it escalating to anything major are pretty slim as long as I don’t do anything stupid.
I let a few more minutes pass before my curiosity gets the better of me. If I let Sabatino slip away then I’ll have to start my surveillance all over again, and if that’s the case I’d be better off finding out sooner rather than later. A few bills encourage the receptionist to give me Johnny’s room number. Good thing I managed to convince Peyton to give me operating expenses upfront. Last thing I can afford to do is start spending the little bit of pocket money I have left.
It seems Johnny hasn’t checked out yet, nor has he snuck out any of the other exits. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out something is not right about this situation. Why would Johnny’s entourage just leave him behind? People in his position rarely stay anywhere without at least a few bodies around for protection.
I get my answer when I knock on the room door, and it opens with no resistance whatsoever.
“Ah, Peyton,” I breathe. “What did you go and do that for?”
She looks up at me, all teary eyed and flustered, and it’s impossible for me to keep my distance. She still has the gun in her hand as I approach, and not even five feet away is the corpse of Johnny Sabatino. A single gunshot wound to the forehead is the obvious cause of death.
“I…I…” she stammers as I draw even closer. “I didn’t mean to. He hit me; swore he was going to kill me…”
I didn’t notice it at first because her face looks puffy from crying, but there seems to be a red mark on her left cheek. If this was self-defense then she has a chance of moving on from this horrible mess. She swoons suddenly, as if she’s about to faint and I step forward to catch her.
“Can you take this from me please?” she whispers faintly into my ear.
Before I can stop to think I find the gun in my hand, and that’s when I realize my mistake. Peyton still has the same pair of gloves on that she wore earlier, which means the only set of prints on this murder weapon belong to me.
“Oh you’re good lady,” I remark as I look at the gun. “You got me hook, line, and sinker.”
She steps back with renewed vigor, and flashes me an arrogant smirk before letting out an earsplitting shriek. I barely hear the cops shouting at me over her voice. She played me like a pro. I’m actually impressed with her skills even if it did just land me in a whole world of trouble. I like to think of myself as a perceptive fellow, but I sure as hell never saw this one coming.
Running is out of the question, and trying to explain my side of the story would be a waste of breath. So I do the only sensible thing: I drop the gun, drop down to my knees and put my hands behind my head. The cops aren’t gentle as throw me face first to the floor, and slap the cuffs on my wrist.
“He killed him!” Peyton exclaims as I one of the cops hauls me up to my feet. She’s still playing the role of distraught fiancé, and doing a damn fine job of it. Cops are eating it up right out of the palm of her hand just like I did. “He just came in here and killed him for no reason!”
“It’s all right ma’am,” the other one consoles her. “We’ve got him now. He’s going to go away for a very long time.”
Not if I can help it, but the odds aren’t exactly in my favor at the moment. It’s all staged so perfectly that getting out of this jam isn’t going to be easy.
The cops take every chance to bump and jostle me as I’m led towards the front door, and when I call them on it they just do it some more. It’s nice to see the GCPD is as classy as it ever was. One step out the door and the skies open up on me with a sudden downpour. If I was the melodramatic type I’d say God himself is trying to add insult to injury.
“Well that just figures,” I mutter.
To Be Continued…