A Strange Development (Altamira)

OoC: Hopefully several strange developments. Here's the first:

IC: "What the hell do you mean, my account's frozen?"

A bony fist slammed down onto a obsidian table so hard that cracks spiderwebbed across its gleaming, polished surface. The other hand tightened around the small cell phone. Joints popped audibly.

"Damn the police and damn their inquiries! I have no idea who Johnny Bones is! My name is Angelo Rodriguez--no, you hijo de puta, you shut up. I've got more than fifteen million dollars in that account. How am I gonna feed los hijos, huh? You think just because soy mexicano I gonna go work at a 7-11? Oh, go f*** yourself. Mierda!"

The phone was snapped shut and flung across the table; it skidded and bounced before forlornly coming to rest at the opposite end, nearly knocking over a candlestick.

Its owner sighed a rattling sigh and rubbed his forehead, creating a faint rasping of bone on bone. His fleshless jaw clacked shut, looking less like a grin and more like a grimace.

"Freeze my accounts, will they?" Johnny Bones growled.

He pulled his laptop closer and refreshed the internet page displaying the status of one of his many bank accounts in the vain hope that the message would magically disappear. Unfortunately for him, the polite notice remained, excess capital letters jumping out like the bad news they conveyed:

Dear Sir:

We regret to inform You that Your Accounts have been frozen in order to assist the Police with Their Inquiries concerning the known criminal Johnny Bones. The Police Force of America has concluded that You are somehow affiliated with the Aforementioned; inquiries are Continuing.

Sincerely,
Edward Magee Purpopplis V, Director of American Bank Nationale.

It was the same in every single account Johnny owned. How they had discovered his fake identities, he had no idea, but the bottom line was that he was flat broke. He had maybe a hundred and fifty dollars in cash in his pockets. It wasn't as though he needed food or water, but he was still going to get billed for his trio of houses...he couldn't buy gas for the Warthog, or ammo for his guns. He couldn't bribe his way out of anything...no more drugs...

He swore again, this time in English.

Standing, he grabbed his jacket and typed a few quick commands into the laptop. Whirring and clicking echoed throughout his modest, one-story house as security systems he had built himself started up. Cameras started filming, automatic turrets poked out of their hiding places throughout the rooms, doors locked, plates of titanium slid down behind bulletproof glass windows.

He walked to his bedroom and shut the door behind him, pausing briefly to hear the reassuring click of the lock. Then the zombie strode briskly to his closet, opened a wardrobe, and pushed aside a couple of trenchcoats. A plain, modest door greeted him--the only door in the house without a lock or that did not require a passcode. He opened it and stepped through.

The one thing, the solitary good thing about the Dome...easy travel from anywhere--such as Johnny's wardrobe--to anywhere. And free, to boot.

Ten minutes later, he had chosen a door at random and stepped through.

Two hours and one salvia trip after that, he was looking for a job.

***

Things were not going well.

He wasn't quite sure where he had ended up. It was dry and sandy, but there was no ocean nearby--that sucked royally. No babes. Johnny had slit his own "throat" a few times into a human so as not to alarm the local yokels, but other obstacles stood in the way of possible employment.

Johnny's charming personality, for one.

Nevertheless, that wasn't the main problem. There were no jobs he wanted. Regular jobs were demeaning. The first thing he had considered was bounty hunting--Kellson had made the bulk of Johnny's fortune as a regicide (after death, it was all a matter of playing the stock market and winning a few televised poker tournaments)--but he had almost immediately rejected the idea like a hot chick rejects fat drunks at a bar, only without the can of mace. Bounty hunting was practically the opposite of saving souls.

After that, he had thought about music. He played drums, bass, piano, and guitar with near-legendary skill and could imitate the voice of any singer in history as well as make his own voice pitch-perfect. Nevertheless, after poking his head in a restaraunt with live music, he had discarded that idea as well. They played salsa here. Outrageous. No doubt they'd look at him like he was crazy if he tried to play some honest-to-God Pantera...ha, they'd probably call the cops...

He paused and glanced over his shoulder.

"Hm," he said, turning and trotting back to the squat, dark building and staring unblinkingly up at it. "That would be the very height of irony. Delicioso.

It could work. He could rise up pretty fast and get some cash, learn some tricks, learn how they think...and it would help his soul count...He'd make it very clear he wasn't regular. Maybe inspector or detective or something. Something well-paying and not boring.

Ah, hell. He would do it because it was ironic.

Hooking his thumbs in his pockets, he strolled inside the Santa Mariela Police Dept. HeadQuarters to ask for a job.

OoC: I think that's where this is, right? ^^;;

OoC: The main Rubatoian police station is in Rancha Rosa, but there are ones all over the country, so Santa Mariela works well too. I wouldn't expect anyone to remember all my towns anyway. ;P

By the by, if you need a description of the town, you can find one here.

IC:
Inspector Tracey de Carlo kicked open the door and strode in, with her partner Inspector Daniela Cruz yelling insults behind her.

"Oh, you're just upset because you were useless with Concepçāo, Cruz. But it's okay--your language skills still make you a valuable partner."

Cruz rolled her eyes at the redhead. "You might want to preface 'Conceiçāo' with 'Maria da', de Carlo. Otherwise you're going to draw some stares."

"I'm not worried about drawing some stares," Tracey grinned. "So I look like someone who doesn't speak the local tongue. I've got Gaian down--you know, the global language? Rochester accent or not, that's all the language that counts. I can't be bothered with trifles like Old Rubatoian."

Their bickering came to an abrupt end as they came to stand before the austere figure of Captain Romero, and had the fierce coal black eyes and quick wit turned upon them.

"Inspectors from Captain Buffón in Rancha Rosa, if you will kindly never enter my station in such a boisterous manner again, I will just as kindly refrain from tearing the badges from your shirt-fronts. Do we understand each other?"

Tracey's hand snapped up into a salute. "I apologize for my partner, Captain. She is confrontational by nature."

Inspector Cruz's calm facade instantly fell to pieces, "What?"

"It's something I've observed about you over the past months. You're proving my observations correct right now, Partner."

Captain Romero made a low noise in his throat--and the bickering came to a stop once again. "With Captain Buffón's recommendations, inspectors, I will be assigning each of you some local cases. Inspector Cruz, you will be handling the matter of the Mourinho murder, and training new officer Gustavo Marroné.

"As for Inspector de Carlo, I have decided to give you the case you have often requested from Captain Buffón: you will now be handling the Madrigal case in Sergeant Vicente Velhamar's stead. You have been proving yourself since the Silva burglary to be a more capable officer than he, and I trust you will not prove those impressions wrong."

Tracey nearly leapt out of her boots at those words; some of the officers watching the conversation thought that she might be the first person in history to actually try to hug Captain Romero.

"The first and most immediate piece of this case to be handled is the arrival of one of the local family's cousins from Gardenia in Airopa; she's a thief and counterfeiter wanted the world over, but she's eluded capture thus far. Contacts tell us that she's said to be coming to visit her aunt, Sonya Madrigal, in the hospital here in town. The warrant's prepared--but we need someone clever enough to catch the woman. Are you up to it, de Carlo?"

"A cousin? Well...yes! Of course! It's only the first step to catching the others!"

"Good, good. Now, both of you, go off to the briefing room for the rest of the details. Report back when you have made some significant progress."

Both women nodded and went off to their tasks. The Captain returned to his desk, where he found a dark-haired man waiting with his secretary.

"Can I help you, Signor?" he asked, walking up to look the man in the eye.

The secretary, however, answered for him: "This man is interested in a job, Captain."

OoC: Blaaaah, sorry for my random uses of other languages to try and make the Rubatoian culture seem more realistic. ^^;; "Conceiçāo" means "conception" in Portuguese--it's a more widely used way to say the somewhat common Brazilian first name "Maria da Concepçāo" ("Mary of the Conception", obviously a pretty religious first name.) That's all irrelevant to Tracey though (but at least now you understand that first part.) XD

Let me know if you have any questions about the language/country/whatever. I've probably tried to make all of my places too complicated. <_<;;

OoC: No worries about the language. As you can see, I speak Gutterspanish, so I'll get by semi-OK in Spanish, Portuguese, and maybe Italian.

IC: Johnny leaned against the wall casually, his burly arms folded, and looked the captain up and down. The stereotypical chief, eh...the zombie could smell cigar smoke on him. No alchohol, though. That was bad--no, actually, wait...that was good. Drunken police were better for criminals, but now that Johnny was on the complete opposite end of the spectrum...

"A job?" the captain asked, slightly incredulous.

"A job," Johnny repeated, looking down at him--he was several inches taller, to his slight satisfaction. "Your turn to say it again, captain..."

The captain ignored the jibe. "Romero," he answered, holding out a hand to shake. Johnny hesitated, years of bad grace urging him to ignore the gesture. No, no...the spectrum, man. Remember the spectrum. He straightened up and shook the man's hand firmly.

"Johnny Bones." This wasn't America or the UK or Russia. The name didn't warrant a gasp or a shout here...all it got was a quirk of an eyebrow.

"What kind of job?" asked Captain Romero warily. Johnny shrugged, the languid movement exposing the hilt of a Bowie knife and the tips of two holstered pistols; Romero's eyes narrowed. Johnny caught the flicker in the captain's eyes and the slight change in his stance. Oops. Bad first impression. The secretary, thankfully, didn't see anything.

"I dunno," Johnny said, surreptitiously adjusting his jacket so that the weapons were hidden from view. "I ain't got much of a rez-um-ay, but I can guarantee you that I can easily outfight, outgun, and outrun anyone here."

"That's a damn high claim, Mister, er, Bones," the captain said, the "er" conveying not puzzlement, but a sort of sneering attitude that said "I can't believe this guy."

"Want to put some money on it?" Johnny asked, grinning widely to show gleaming white teeth.

"I don't need strength or muscle," Captain Romero said. "If I needed a new boy to help us out, I'd want intelligence. Someone who sees details, someone who knows how detective work works--"

"You have two papers in your in-tray," Johnny interrupted, "leading me to believe that either no crimes are committed in this town or you work hard. Since we both know this place has more crimes than flies on a donkey, you work hard. Your pistol is loaded, safety on, and cocked. It's well-cleaned and the handgrip is made of black rubber. You've got a pack of Pantweed's Slim Panatella cigars on your desk--there're five left--on top of a sheet regarding the Madrigal family--wait, what? Really? The Madrigals live here?"

The abrupt halt in what had been a splendid, rapid fire analysis threw both of them off guard. "Yes," Romero said. "Inspector de Carlo has been assigned to the case. Well, you've obviously got a keen eye, Bones. The wages are..."

Johnny wasn't listening. Madrigal. Cadenza Madrigal? It wasn't as though it was a common name like Smith or Baker. He racked Kellson's memories...yes, he had run into Cadenza in a rather sandy place...Rubato. That was where...oh, damn. Of all the doors in the Dome he had to pick the one that led to Cadenza's stomping grounds? Zorlo was afraid of her, and he was roughly Johnny's equal...

Well, Zorlo always had been a pussy.

"We can discuss wages and rank and whatnot later," Johnny said smoothly, cutting Romero off. I'll work with Inspector de Carlo. If I do well and I like the job, we can talk more. Testing the waters. Sound good? Sir?" he added, rememberin the employer-employee hierarchy that he had rarely ever used.

Romero watched him for a while. "You'll be subordinate to her during the case," he said gruffly. "You may well go insane."

"Don't you worry about that, sir," Johnny said cheerfully. I already am, he added silently.

"All right, then. This will be probationary. De Carlo! Stop arguing with Cruz and get over here."

OoC: Sorry if I didn't really get Romero right. And I laughed at the other Captain's name. Buffon.

OoC: No, your Romero portrayal was perfect. :]

And I know, I know, Buffón looks like buffoon. XD But I actually got the name from a Italian goalie from the 2006 World Cup. ;P

IC:
Tracey glanced over her shoulder at the sound of her name. "Be right there!"

Turning to Daniela, she wrapped up her speech in as nonchalant a tone as possible, "Sorry Cruz, but I'll have to share the finer points of manipulating the local riffraff for information with you later. Good luck with the trainee, all right?"

The words brought the usual roll of the eyes from Cruz that had come to accompany most of the remarks that came out of the redhead's mouth--but along with an unexpected quip: "Don't be so smug, de Carlo--it looks like you've got one of your own."

Freckled face gone momentarily blank, the girl's eyes traced the line of Cruz' outstretched finger across the room to a tall, muscular man standing beside Captain Romero. Him?

She ran a judgmental eye over the pair as she strutted on over. The first and most clear point of interest that struck her was that there was a bit of perceivable tension between the two men; but the detective quickly chalked that up to the weapons the taller man had obviously tried to hide, and perhaps...a lack of respect on his part? There was something about standing in such a casual stance before the Captain that had implications of the like. Whatever it was, she took note of it and moved on.

Now for the new man himself; despite his tanned complexion and dark hair, something about him immediately gave her the impression that he wasn't a local. For starters, he had been the first person, aside from herself, that she had ever heard use the word "Sir". In fact, judging from the bits of speech she had overheard, she could almost declare without a single doubt that he was from the States of Cordelia.

All things considered, cousin-hunting suddenly became a much more interesting prospect.

As the inspector came to a stop before the men, she held out a hand to the newcomer. "Inspector Tracey de Carlo, Sir. Are you ready to get started?"
----------------------------------------------------------------
Arietta Madrigal stood by her mother's bedside in the ICU, concern the most apparent of the emotions playing upon her downcast face. The majority of the family was miles away, or behind bars, or on other worlds--no one but herself was there to look after Sonya after her latest chemotherapy treatment, and she couldn't help thinking that it was all just a crying shame. No one seemed to care about the poor woman anymore.

"Luminari and Algretta have gone out of town for some weeks, Mãe, but Cousin Adriana is coming all the way from Gardenia in a day to see you. I know, it's not the same as Pai, or Algretta, but--"

"--Cadenza isn't coming, is she?"

Even when spoken in such a soft tone, the question threw Arietta off; she stumbled over a dozen of consolatory words before finally shrugging her shoulders in defeat. "No, Mãe, she's not. You know...you know you two have a lot of issues. She resents you for letting Vivace control all of our lives. And, as she sometimes puts it, for 'smoking your way to lung cancer.' "

"I know...I was just hoping that...that..." the woman turned away and sighed. She seemed to have bitten back whatever she was thinking of when she faced her daughter again. "Ah, well, you say Adriana is coming? What a dear."

"Yes, she should arrive at Allegre International Airport tomorrow around one in the afternoon. She says she'll be coming straight here."

"Wonderful. I'm so happy she decided to come--oh, here comes the nurse, hija. Let her by, won't you?"

"Sure, sure, Mãe. I'll head back to check on the house now, okay? I'll come by to see you later."

"Okay, honey."

As Arietta left, she brushed past the nurse entering the room with a luncheon tray. Unbeknownst to her, however, was that the very same nurse had been wearing a wire while standing on the other side of the door, and that all of her conversation with her mother had been transmitted right back to the Santa Mariela police station.

Eh, Johnny thought. Not bad. Cute. Of course, she'd look better with less baggy clothes on. What was with that cape, anyways? It was a hundred degrees outside! The zombie couldn't feel heat--his sweat glands didn't work--and he had lived in Texas long enough to get used to three digit temperatures, but c'mon, lady. That just seemed stupid.

"Yeah," he answered her, slightly stressing his soft southern drawl. He could speak with any accent or with none; it was just a matter of habit and preference. He had gotten huge props on Letterman during Impressionist's Week. "Sure thing, miss."

"Inspector," Tracey corrected quickly. Her freckled cheeks flushed slightly. Ah. That explained the cape, then...this really mattered to her.

"Miss Inspector, I was about to say," Johnny answered, smiling politely as his crimson eyes twinkled, betraying his amusement at the young detective. "My mistake." He shook her hand. Either she was hiding her strength or she was rather weak. Hell, maybe she was strong and Johnny was just stronger. Maybe both. "Well, you're running this show. I'm just along for the ride. I'll be best used for the physical arresting, if you're curious, but I'm hoping to pick up some tricks of the trade from a real detective."

He could tell she was pleased by that. Oh, this was easy. "Well, yes, thank you. We aren't going after one of the big dogs, you know; it's simply a cousin of the main family--"

"Not Cadenza?" Johnny asked. Tracey shook her head, then cocked her head and put on an expression of rather cunning intelligence. Ha. Ha ha.

"No, not Cadenza...how do you know who she is? You're not from around here, obviously..."

Johnny grinned. Not as idiotic as she looked. "I get around," he answered, deliberately evasive. He sauntered past and easily lifted a pair of handcuffs from a table, slipping them into his pocket with the ease of an experienced thief. "Kinky," he joked. "Well, I'm ready to do whatever, Inspector. What're your orders?"

He gets around, eh? We'll just have to look into that...

The detective gave the man a long, searching look that she had given many a suspect before shaking that line of thought off. A officer shouldn't distrust their partner from the very start, even if that partner did have extraordinary red eyes and wore no shoes despite very clearly having the funds to purchase a pair. He was strange, but that made him interesting. All the great ones were a little eccentric, right?

Well, she'd trust him for now, but be on her guard. The master sleuth Holmes never divulged all his secrets and thoughts to even his closest companions, after all.

"My orders," she finally said, assuming an authoritative tone of voice, "are to go and start up the car in the back garage. While you're doing that, we've got a wire from a contact at the hospital that I've got to listen to."

She stalked off as soon as she finished speaking, not waiting to see whether or not he'd obey. Her energy had returned to her, and the other officers could see it clearly; she was fueled by the knowledge that the sooner this cousin was arrested, the sooner they could move onto more "worthy" pursuits. When she reached the small room where the message was waiting, she shooed each and every officer out before sitting down and playing the tape, saying that she needed absolute silence in order to pick up on ambient noise and other minor clues that even sounds of their breathing would distract from. The men grumbled but complied, and the zealous girl was left to herself.

The tape began with a crackle and the voice of Arietta Madrigal. Tracey could hardly contain herself when she heard it. Sweet lord, it's one of the sisters! Why couldn't we have been there instead of just hearing about it? Sloppy, sloppy work on our part...truly pathetic.

And yet...

Tracey lunged forward frantically and pressed the "eject" button, her mind having taken a sudden turn onto a new track of thought. She seized the tape before the machine could even finish opening the hatch, and turned it over and over in her hand, searching for a time label she had instructed the nurse to stick on it for archival purposes. She found the tiny sticker on the underside, the label gleaming with a brilliant silver sheen as she turned the object towards the golden rays peeking through the window blinds and the sticker caught the light. There, embossed into the papery surface, was the time "3:46 PM", on October 7th; the very time Arietta had left the hospital and the tape had finished recording.

Bless that woman's heart for remembering my directions! Now we have a thread to follow, and we'll draw our net round a worthwhile Madrigal yet!

Rushing out of the room, the sleuth dove towards the officer she had given her gun to for cleaning with such energy that the man yelped for fear that she was going to assault him somehow.

"My gun--are you finished with it!?"

"W-well, I--"

"Out with it, man! This is urgent!"

"N-no, it's not ready yet! There's still a lot of glue stuck in it from when you dove into that vat chasing that contact of Algretta’s!”

He cringed back from her grasp with those last words, expecting her to strike him even though she never had before. She just had that sort of ferocity in her at that moment that he didn't know what to expect.

"Fine then, give me that!" she yelled, pointing to an old musket hung on the wall.

"The founder's musket? B-but, that's just an artifact kept for history's sake--"

"--does it still work?"

"I guess so, but--"

"--that's all that matters! Dust it off and give it to me, pronto! You have ten seconds!"

Too frightened to disobey, the man did as he was instructed. A few minutes later, Inspector Tracey de Carlo was strutting out to her police car in the back, a 17th century musket in hand.

"Pop this in," she directed Johnny as came up to the car and handed him the tape. She looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to move out of the driver's seat before getting inside the car and starting off for the hospital.

Johnny nearly fell out of the uncomfortable seat laughing, fumbling through the hilarity to grab the cassette The inspector scowled, clearly itching to get to the hospital. "Sorry," he said, sliding out the door--he generally never cared to use a seatbelt anyways--and leaning against the squad car, still chuckling fit to burst. "But are you seriously considering bringing that?"

"What's wrong with my weapon?" Tracey huffed, getting into the car and slamming the door. Johnny ambled around to the other side and followed suit.

"It's a musket, darling," he drawled, his grin widening as she noticeably stiffened. "This is the twen--er, this is the Modern Era. People have automatic weapons and frag grenades. You might as well bring a water pistol for all the good it'll do. Did you even bring ammo for that relic?"

For once, she stayed silent, but her face told him enough. "That's what I thought." He had two pistols and a shotgun...but those were his. You couldn't ask a real man to part with his weapons.

Nah. He was just making an excuse.

"Listen to the tape," de Carlo commanded, pulling out onto the street. Johnny let the matter slide, smirking, and turned up the stereo.

When it was done, he pushed eject and shrugged. "She's not getting here until tomorrow."

"Who cares about the cousin?" Tracey snapped, zipping through a yellow-to-red light in a decidedly un-policewoman like move.

"Uh, your boss?"

"Arietta's a much larger priority!"

Johnny sighed, his previous good mood beginning to slip away. That was bad--he couldn't do drugs on a mission or with a cop, much less a mixture of the two. At least she hadn't busted him for not driving with a seatbelt. Maybe they didn't care here. Anyways...damn. Those Madrigals must be sex fiends. There were, like, five hundred of 'em.

"So your logic is...we hunt down this new lady based off of what, exactly?"

It was Tracey's turn to look insufferably smug. "There was a time on the tape. Now we know when Arietta left the hospital!"

Johnny didn't respond. Please, Jesus, don't have let me been stuck with a complete nincompoop. In fact, the police were idiots in general. Why didn't they have officers in the hospital? Plain clothes, that sort of thing? Obviously they had expected that various Madrigals would show up, so why not have some of the boys ready to lock the doors and shout "Ho ho, tricked you, you incompetent boob, off to the hoosegow."

Even if they did know when Whatshername had left the hospital, they still didn't know where she went.

"How far to the hospital?" he murmured, depression beginning to creep into his mind.

"Two minutes."

"Is it close to the station or have you been speeding?" Johnny muttered. An idle thought slunk into his mind. Hm...that would be fun.

He leaned forward slightly and flicked a switch on the dashboard. The sirens on the car started to wail and red and blue lights flashed from above. Tracey shrieked and smacked the switch, sending the cacophony away.

"Are you insane?" she squawked. Johnny managed a lopsided grin and fell back against the chair.

"Always wanted to do that," he said. "Where's the radio you use to talk to all your other cop buddies?"

Inspector de Carlo's hand shot out, grabbed a handheld microphone attatched to the dashboard, and yanked it closer to her.

"Oh, well. Looks like we're here, anyways." Tracey pulled into a parking space and Johnny surreptitiously clicked the safety off of one of his pistols. "You're no fun," he said, opening the door. "Don't forget your antique."

Tracey chose to ignore the quip as she stepped out of the car and briefly scanned the area around it. Phew, good--it looks like no one followed after us when he set the sirens off. That could have brought the whole criminal community of Santa Mariela down upon our backs. In fact...we're lucky we even made it two meters with the car and ourselves still intact.

Frowning at the thought, the girl warily stepped round to the front of the car, and set the security system, as futile as she knew it was. The thing could emit all the tear-gas it wanted--it would never be enough to keep the most desperate crooks from scavenging it for hubcaps, stereos, and anything else of even the most remote value. But even so, Tracey's principles would not let her simply leave police property as a sitting duck. She was already considering disobeying a direct order and going after Arietta instead--there was no need to add losing a squad car to the list.

She motioned for Johnny to follow as she approached the ramp that led up to the hospital entrance, whipping out her magnifying glass and hunching closer to the ground as she came to the first inch of sloping concrete.

"Stay towards the edge," she ordered as she studied the pavement, "I might have to double back over the surface."

After five or so minutes, her studies appeared fruitless; thousands of footprints and bits of caked sand had been left on the walkway, but no mark was any more telling than the other. The detective knew Arietta to have awkwardly large feet for a woman--distinctive from the prints the footwear of rest of her sisters, with their more shapely, feminine feet, would have left, but everything on the ramp was so muddled together and ill-defined after having been trampled over countless times that she couldn't pick even one of the sister's prints out.

"I think we need to search the security videos--even though they're only from inside the building. She might have been carrying something suggestive with her--something that would give us an idea of her next destination."

Clunky musket in hand, Tracey marched through the double doors and flashed a shining police badge to both those who inquired and those who didn't as she pushed her way into a security room. She thumbed through the filed surveillance videos with reckless abandon until she came to the one that was the object of her interest and gave a cry of satisfaction; there, still warm from the recorder, was the ICU's tape from that afternoon.

"Thank goodness for security cameras--they don't ignore seemingly 'trivial' details like dim-witted and distracted witnesses might."

The detective popped in the video and sat back in the chair with a decidedly smug smile. The hospital hallway buzzed to life in faded, sand-tinted color, orderlies and nurses bustling about, and gurneys zooming down to rooms in the ICU's nook of the wide building. Down from one passageway whose entrance was out-of-sight came Arietta Madrigal, dressed smartly in a dark green cocktail dress and carrying a black-beaded clutch purse.

The moment the woman had appeared on screen, Tracey gave a cry, "Why, it's almost too obvious! A party--and a semi-formal one, at that. And note the sad, almost guilty look--the woman feels bad about going to a festive occasion with her mother in the hospital with such a dismal condition. All the signs are clear as day!"

Johnny shot her a skeptical look.

"As far-fetched as such deductions may seem to you now, my fresh-faced trainee, I assure you that my logic holds water."

She stood, placing the tape back into the rack before grabbing her musket. "So come now, Officer, and let us consult a friend of mine. He has the peculiar quality of knowing about all the social engagements going on at any particular time in Rubato--and that's precisely the information we need."

What a fine eye for detail this woman had. Nevertheless, she had the common sense of a duck swimming in a pond filled with cement. It was definitely possible that Arietta was going to a party and did in fact feel guilty.

It was equally possible that she simply wanted to show up to her probably-dying mother in clothes that didn't look like they'd been imported from a thrift shop in Bolivia and she just felt sad because her mother was, again, probably dying.

But hey, Johnny wasn't the Lord High Inspectoress. What did he know?

Tracey led the way out of the hospital and to the car. As they approached, she stopped suddenly with a gasp. The zombie strolled past and elbowed her out of the way.

Bugger, the crime here really was through the roof.

A small, grimy faced street urchin had unscrewed the back liscense plate of the car and was going to work on the front one, taking care to avoid the anti-theft device. Tracey half-raised her musket, but Johnny slapped it out of her hands. You couldn't just pop a kid because he was lifting a piece of metal. The boy's head snapped up, dark, unkept hair partially falling down around his eyes. He snatched his purloined treasure from the dusty ground and took to his shoeless heels.

In an instant, Johnny raced after him, the edges of his jacket flapping in the breeze. There was no contest; he was several times faster than the little bastard. Johnny ran up beside the boy and held out a muscular arm, stopping abruptly. The boy ran into it and fell over; it must have been like running into a iron bar.

Johnny picked up the liscense plate and flung it back to the car like a frisbee. Behind him, he could hear Tracey flouncing over. Damn. He picked the boy up by the scruff of his neck and muttered, "You better beat it, kid."

The kid, looking sore, angry, and confused, wisely took the advice and disappeared into an alley.

"Street Arabs," he heard Tracey mutter. She walked up in front of him with a condescending shake of her head. "I would have arrested the boy, but we have much bigger fish to--"

"Yeahyeahyeahyeah," Johnny cut in, brushing past her once more. "Enough. You're welcome." He felt no elation at the takedown; it was just a kid, after all. Hopefully, he'd feel better once they'd arrested someone that wasn't a preadolescent pickpocket.

A minute later, they were back in the uncomfortable squad car and speedily sneaking along to Tracey's "trusted assosciate." Johnny glanced at his watch and made a few hasty calculations. He'd be reverting to skeleton form within the hour. With luck, he'd be able to stay out of sight long enough to switch back to a fleshier image immediately. He pulled his iPod out of his pockets, put the buds in his ears, and pressed play.

No point in listening to Holmes here, eh?

Tracey had a habit of speaking and assuming that all were hanging on her every word.

"Now, see,” she began, turning onto a side street where the asphalt was replaced with a rocky mix of sand and gravel, “this friend of mine is a trifle...eccentric, so you're going to have to be on your toes to pick out the important facts from the rest of the junk he spews. I really don't understand how it is that he keeps getting invited to these shindigs, or however it is that he keeps track of these occasions, but--"

The girl stopped mid-sentence, realizing that she had gone through several facts without a single sound of acknowledgment from her partner. Turning her eyes from the empty road for just a second, she noticed the zoned-out look on her trainee's face and could hardly contain the indignation the discovery brought. Now, she had to admit that it wasn't entirely unheard of for people to become inattentive during her explanations--they sometimes ran on longer than she realized, and details had to be thoroughly explained to those who saw but did not observe--but this was beyond that. This man was wearing headphones; his inattention was intentional.

Of all the gall…

The detective pointedly cleared her throat once, hoping that it would be enough to hint at her annoyance—but when it proved ineffective, she didn’t hesitate for a second to pluck the bud from Johnny’s ear and slap him on the back of his head.

He whirled around to face her with a look that perfectly communicated: “What the hell?”

“Now, I know my voice isn’t exactly what I’d call musical, but I’d really appreciate it if you had the courtesy to listen to your superiors, my friend-in-training. I was just giving you rather important facts that could prove vital if we don’t wish to waste time listening to idle nonsense when we see this friend of mine. ‘Festa Flavio’ isn’t known for his brevity of speech.”

Tracey anticipated the comeback of “Neither are you,” and held a reproachful finger up before it could come.

After turning onto another, and if it were possible, even narrower side street, the squad car came to a stop after another minute’s drive. Tracey noticed Johnny glancing around for a building or person of some sort, and directed his eyes to pair of feet in the sand.

“Flavio...gets a little panicky when he hears cop cars approaching.”

Not waiting for a response, the inspector hurried over to the man buried in the sand and yanked him out by his twiddling toes.

He emerged with a yelp and a cough, and then sat upright, blinking and wheezing, to stare the cop in the eyes. “Inspector de Carlo,” he said dully in recognition.

“Yes, Flavio, it’s me. We’ve come for some information.”

Flavio heard her words, but his eyes didn’t meet Tracey’s. He was looking, somewhat timidly, at the imposing figure that was Johnny Bones behind her.

“Is…is he cool?”

“Yes, Flavio, he won’t arrest you. He’s with me. Listen, I need you to tell me of all the semi-formal events going on in the country right now—and if you don’t make it quick, then I can’t guarantee that I won’t just arrest you.”

This shook the lanky man up even more than the sound of a cop car had. “Ah-ah-si, Signorina Inspector, of course. There is not much going on today, what with it being Sunday and everything, and some people being at mass, you know. I was to go myself, but I had this terrible run in with…”

“The parties, Flavio.”

“Of course, Inspector. There is a party in this very town at the Lucatoni residence, and another at the Torres house. In Rancha Rosa, the Buffón family is hosting an event…”

“That’s a police captain’s family, Flavio. You know that.”

“Ah, my apologies. Um, yes…well…”

“Do you happen to know of any that began after 3:46 PM? Perhaps a dinner party?”

“Oh! There is one at the Garcia house, Signorina Inspector. Scheduled to begin at 4:30 and not to conclude until 7:30.”

A delighted smile broke out upon Tracey’s face. Plans were already beginning to take shape in her mind. “Seven-thirty, you say? Perfect, Flavio. Perfect. We’ll return if we need your services again.”

While the twitching, gangly informant and de Carlo chatted, Johnny absorbed their conversation without much interest, understanding with a noticeable indifference. Stupid puta wants to slap him, huh? We'll see about that. Oh, yes.

Sitting on the edge of the car, he turned the almost-purloined liscense plate over and over in his hands. Things must be worse than he thought here if prepubescent boys were reduced to stealing scraps of metal. Who is running this circus? It sure as hell ain't the cops.

The conversation ended in front of him, but he didn't get up from his perch. What an irritating job this was. There were too many rules to follow, now that he thought about it. Pay attention, don't touch this, don't threaten civilians. Next thing you know they'd be asking him to tuck in his shirt and kowtow to Chief Romero...

"Hoi! Bones!"

He blinked and glanced down at the young jack-in-office before him. "Yeah?"

"We're leaving," Tracey said, snapping her fingers anxiously and motioning him to hop off the car. "Were you listening at all?"

"Yeah. Garcia house, starts at 4:30, three hours long. I suppose you're formulating a plan already."

Her reply was lost in the coughing start of the dusty car, but he wasn't interested anyways. Man, he could really use some salvia right now...

They drove along for a while, Johnny silent and staring, Tracey concentrating furiously and smiling at the same time, occasionally muttering under her breath.

"I have a plan," she said as the car rolled along.

"I can hardly contain my excitement," Johnny replied dryly. "No doubt an ingenious scheme that involves crawling through the attics and lassoing this lady right out from under the loving gaze of whatever muchacho she's dancing with."

Buildings whizzed by in a blur of clay bricks interspersed with shafts of alleyway shadow as Tracey took the squad car up to what she called "on-the-case speed"--roughly twenty miles above the speed any average person would take down residential streets, but more than justified in her mind when she was on the scent of a criminal. Consulting the map stashed away in the side pouch of the door while steering with her other hand, she could see that the Garcia house was more than a good forty-five minutes away from Santa Mariela--but she didn't believe in being "fashionably late".

And so, they picked up speed again.

The car screeched as a booted foot slammed down on the gas and the bucket of bolts accelerated forward with a sand-crunching lurch. Dry gears wailed, grating on one another like bone on bone, and the windshield was waylaid by dozens of pebbles, leaving pock marks on the green-tinted glass--but undaunted by it all, Tracey drove on, absorbed in her own thoughts.

They forged on this way for some time, wending their way through the desert sands. The wind was blowing fiercely, and the girl was invigorated by its cool touch, spurring her mind on to wander in the way it could when she was comfortable and her thoughts stimulated. Tracey was vaguely aware of her partner saying something, but none of it registered in her mind--had she been paying attention, however, she might have noticed that they had had a coolant leak for the past twenty miles.

Unfortunately, it went unchecked until her partner's voice and the smoking engine finally came to her attention.

"Oh," she uttered as smoke spat out from under the hood, blinking and finally returning to the present.

She eased onto the brake, and the steaming hulk of steel came to a gradual stop. An awkward, almost comical silence fell over the car.

Tracey blinked again, letting her hands drop from the steering wheel. She looked over at Johnny with an expression of sudden understanding. "That's what you were yammering about."

The man glared bullets at the detective.

She anticipated some sardonic comment directed at her supposed skill in observation--and had a reason already prepared: "It's not wise to depend on me to notice things when I'm puzzling over plans and imagining scenarios and motives," she matter-of-factly.

This time, her partner couldn't hold back his retort: "It's also not wise to be puzzling over plans and imaging scenarios when you're driving."

He had got her there--Tracey didn't have a snappy response of her own to shoot back. A simple, offended huff had to suffice as she climbed out of the car and went to check on the engine.

As she popped open the hood, she was immediately reminded of one of the reasons why she didn't work with her hands--she had absolutely no clue was she was doing. Or even really looking at.

"I guess this is the problem, right?" she said, pointing at the overheated engine.

Johnny's face was a mix of disbelief and disdain--but more so the former. His expression alone answered his partner's question.

"So, ah...we need to get to the Garcias' in time, and there's not really a mechanic for miles--especially not one who'd drive out to the middle of the desert--so...how are you with cars?"

OoC: That was really fun to write. XD

"Jesus tap-dancing Christ..."

He sighed and tossed his jacket onto the door of the hissing car, nudging Tracey out of the way and burying his head into the car's guts. Various clankings and curses floated up into the air.

"See, this is why you should listen to me," he said loudly so that she could hear him over the car's moaning. "And why you cops need better cars."

"Ha," Tracey answered. Johnny could easily imagine the huff that came with it. "Like you listened to me earlier? You and your music player."

"iPod," Johnny muttered. Damn. It wasn't as though he carried coolant around with him. "Hand me my jacket, will you? Careful, I don't want grease getting on it...thanks. Yeah, well, you listen to me more and I'll listen to you more. Though after this..." He grunted and reverted to the age old technician technique of giving the offending machinery a good thumping. "After this, I think it'll be best if you let me handle the car. Better for you to, er, use your--dammit--concentration on--sonuvabitch--the plans alone, rather than trying to drive at the same time..."

He reached into one of his jacket's many pockets and pulled out a wrench. "Damn. This wifebeater is gonna be covered in grease. Doesn't anyone ever give these cars check-ups?"

"We could," Tracey said, "but people would just steal the parts."

"They steal them anyways, apparently," the zombie replied. Ah-ha, he did have some coolant in here. It must have been from a few weeks ago when he was working on his Jeep. He found the leak, welded it shut with some flames from his hand, and put more coolant in.

"Done," he said, his head emerging from the depths of the car's nether regions. "We'll probably want to take it a bit slower into town. You want me to drive? So you can, um, focus?"

OoC: Short post, but I don't know how cars work anyways ^^;;

"Eh...sure. You drive."

Tracey tossed her partner the keys, and from that point on resigned herself to quiet speculation. This party, she thought, could be a cover for anything--assassination plot, prison break, bank robbery--who knew? That was the attraction of this case; it could be anything. The exact motives for each action were still cloudy to her, but the puzzles that resulted from them were exciting and made for great cases. She would unravel them all--and then return to Rochester, a celebrated hero!

And get out of this blasted heat...

The sun was glaring down from the west now, pouring its blistering hot rays directly on the surface of the car; sunset was not far off. They were making decent time to the Garcias'--Tracey just hoped it was good enough time. After all, what good was crashing a cover-up if you missed the creamy, real business center under all of that feigned innocence coating?
------------------------------------------------------------------
Tracey had lost all notion of time when the car finally lurched to a stop on the Garcias' street, taking a spot at the end of the queue of sand-covered cars. It wasn't until Johnny got out and slammed the door that she finally came to and sprang out herself.

"Ah, nice driving. Looks like we're only an hour late." The compliment was said without much meaning behind it, but it was more than one could usually expect. If "on-the-case speed" was Tracey's mode for driving to the scene of the crime, then "on-the-case" in general was her mindset once she arrived there; she strode up to the front door, thoughts so abstracted that her blank expression made her look lost, and rang the doorbell without so much as another word to Johnny.

"You, ah...might want to hide the badge," he said.

Wordlessly, she grabbed the cap with its badge off her head, and stuffed it away into a cloak pocket--and not a second too soon, for a moment later, Signor Garcia had answered the door and ushered the detective and her partner inside.

They entered into a room filled with the rhythm of music, smell of food, and murmur of people; Tracey scanned the room thoroughly, ignoring Garcia's efforts to question where he knew her from and when he had sent her the invitation. That was her partner's job--the handling of false alibis and pesky people--she was busy doing the detective work.

And right now, she spotted a great opportunity for some information. Over in the crowd of couples, there was a man she instantly recognized--a large man who lived on the outskirts of Santa Mariela, he was an associate of Algretta Madrigal's and someone that one of the local thieves had tipped her off about months before. And with him, there was his weakness, and her leverage--his beloved girlfriend.

Shouldering her way through the dancers, she was at their side within mere seconds.

"You, Raton--tell me where Arietta Madrigal is this instant. Is she at this party?"

The man was taken aback by this sudden interrogation; it was strange enough that this pale, redheaded woman knew his name, but the fact that she knew about his connection to the Madrigals was even more alarming.

"Who are you?" he sputtered back.

"Not important--simply give me her whereabouts, or I'll be forced to take action. Your girlfriend is wanted for counterfeiting and theft, and if you don't cooperate..."

"Uh..."

Garcia had taken notice of the conversation--it was hard to miss when everyone was staring and listening--and began heading on over to handle the matter. Each step made Tracey more and more flustered--she knew she wouldn't be able to arrest all of these people if a fight started, but she needed this information and wasn't about to give up on it.

Fixing Raton with her toughest glare, she prodded him verbally again. "The information, buddy, or you won't see your girlfriend for some number of years..."

The man finally cracked under the pressure. "Fine, fine--I'll tell you! Arietta's at a party at the house of a police captain named Marcio Buffón! But you should hurry, because she's planning to kill him!"

OoC: Blah--I shouldn't try to post more than once a day. XP

OoC: Omfguberquickreply!

IC: "Who are you? Who is she? Do I know you two? Where is she going? Donde estan sus zapatos?"

Good Lord, Johnny thought, plastering a big dumb smile on his face. What an inconceivably wretched and irritating little man. Dropping into perfect Latin--he felt comfortable with dead languages, ha ha--he answered, "You're a f***cking stupid little man. I am going to kill you and play around with your blood." Then he made bobbing motions with his head and pointed towards Tracey.

Obviously, the man had not understood. He leaned over to a nearby guest and muttered, "What did the man say?"

"How should I know?"

Johnny evaporated from the spot, slinking through the crowd while keeping an eye on Tracey. Evidently, she had found her man; she bulldozed her way through the crowd with the single-mindedness of a robot.

"Why, hello there," someone said sweetly behind him. He turned to see a stunningly beautiful young woman, her straight raven hair loose and down to her shoulders. "My name is Aline. Would you care to dance, señor?"

Johnny oozed charm, taking her dainty hand and kissing it, causing her to giggle slightly. "Nothing would please me more, ma'am, but I'm afraid I have to watch out for my lackwit of a friend over there."

The girl followed his gaze and put her hands on her hips when she saw Tracey. "Hm. Is she your girlfriend?"

Johnny laughed and shook his head. "No, no, no. I'm just doing her a quick favor, señorita. I'm Johnny Bones."

"Johnny Huesos," she purred, clasping her hands behind her back and looking up into his eyes. "An unusual name."

"What can I say?" he replied, smiling politely. "I'm an unusual guy."

It wasn't that funny, but she smiled widely. "Are you quite sure you can't share just one dance?"

Well, maybe one wouldn't hurt. Tracey could take care of her self...

He looked over her shoulder and saw Garcia striding towards the detective, looking angry. The man she was talking to, frightened and pale, gabbled something out while people nearby looked over at the redhead and her victim quizzically.

"I'm so sorry," he apologized, inclining his head and gazing into her soft brown eyes. "But my friend appears to have done something bone-headed. I'd better go help her out."

"I understand," she sighed. "Do you have a phone I could reach you at? I'd like to talk to you more..."

"Absolutely," the zombie said, flashing her a grin and pulling out a scrap of paper and a pen, scribbling the number of his cell phone down and handing it to her. "I beg your pardon, but I must go..."

"Adios," she said huskily, slipping the folded paper into her cleavage as he turned and sidled towards Tracey.

Dammit, de Carlo. This had better be good...

OoC: Massive lulz. Johnny's a chick magnet.

OoC: Reposting.

IC:
"I told you, I reviewed my list of guests, and I'm positive you're not one of them. So quit evading my questions and answer me--who are you and what are you doing in my house?"

Tracey staggered back from the enraged Rubatoian, wary of his sprays of spit and threatening fists, as her mind worked towards an answer to salvage the situation. Calling upon her skills of observation and deduction, she took account of the man; clearly a single fellow, judging from the plain, merely functional furnishings and the ruffled dress shirt that had not seen an iron in years; no woman would allow her house or her husband to be seen in such a state. From there, she turned to one of the first things she had noticed when she entered--the smells of foreign food. Garcia didn't strike her as a man who could cook--and the crockery arranged on the table was too nice to be something he would purchase--so it was evident that he must have hired some sort of caterer. And there was her excuse.

"I'm with the catering company. We were having issues with the desserts, but everything's been sorted out now and we are just checking to see how your guests are enjoying the food."

The detective had a knack for keeping a straight face under pressure--upon hearing these words, Garcia backed down with an almost apologetic look upon his fierce, lionlike features.

"Everything's...everything's been perfect, Signorina."

"Great--our company is very pleased to hear that. Now, with your permission, we'll leave you to your festivities."

"Ah, yes, of course. Ciao Signorina."

Tracey bowed slightly, nodded to Johnny, and then wormed her way back through the crowd to the door. Once they were back outside and out of earshot, she turned to him with a smirk.

"I appreciate you coming over, but an inspector like me knows how to handle tough situations like that. And don't think I didn't notice you flirting on the job, rookie--that's the only explanation for that stupidly contented, confident, and accomplished look on your face."

She stopped mid-lecture to seat herself in the squad car, not waiting for Johnny to do the same before picking back up and tossing an address his way. "Hurry up now and drive to that address--there's about to be an emergency at Captain Buffón's house in Rancha Rosa and I will not be too late to stop it."

Johnny bit back a retort--oh, yes, well handled. Never mind that if Garcia wasn't such a complete moron he would have noticed, like ninety percent of the rest of the guests, that Tracey had been close to smacking that two-bit criminal upside the head. He contented himself with a polite, "I was mingling with the guests. Tomorrow, they'll remember you, but I'll just be some faceless, albeit extremely handsome, guest hitting on a rather beautiful lady."

He stuck the key in the car and turned it, ripping backwards with a squealing of tires, and floored it down the road. Tracey was pushed back into her seat by the force, and she replaced her detective's cap on her head, looking cross and excited at the same time. "You'll be a bit more important to that 'beautiful lady.' What if she's a criminal? You'll have blown our cover!"

"Everyone's a criminal here, and you blew our cover already."

"Perhaps mine, but not yours. No one knows you're on the force yet--you sure don't look like you are."

"Too handsome?"

"No uniform and you're not from around here, actually."

"Too handsome it is."

Tracey let out a huff and leaned back in her seat, folding her arms. "Quiet! I'm trying to think."

The zombie relented, driving with one hand and using road signs to guide him. His other hand fished around in an inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small white cylinder and a lighter. He lit the salvia-cigarette and took a deep drag, rolling a window down and letting his left arm dangle. No job in the world could part him even temporarily from his pyschedelics.

Luckily, the hallucinations the salvia caused weren't enough to make him careen off the road, and eventually reached their intended destination.

OoC: Weak ending, but I don't want to go through all his trippin'. xD

The fact that the cigarette her partner had pulled out was certainly no ordinary cigarette did not escape Tracey de Carlo's keen senses--but she decided she could call him on that later. It hadn't been the first thing about him that had made her wonder if Romero had performed even so much as a simple background check on him, and she was pretty confident that it wouldn't be the last. After all, didn't he say that he knew Cadenza somehow? It was all a little shady.

There were more important things at stake now however; they were just pulling up on a side street not far from Captain Buffón's home, a three-story affair of ruddy clay-brick and bronzed ornamentations that boasted of the wealth a high-ranked police officer could make in such a country. Inside, Tracey knew there lurked a danger the chief would not be prepared for, under the guise of an innocent party-goer; a woman who wielded magic and had nothing but hate for the law. The young sleuth had never come face-to-face with Arietta--she had never actually met any of the Madrigals in person--but she knew her face better than her own father might. She'd pick her out of any crowd.

The car hadn't even come to a full-stop when Tracey bounded out and slunk over to a side window to peer into the house. Without even checking to see if he had followed, she spoke aloud to Johnny as if he were standing beside her: "This one controls wind--I still don't understand quite how, but she does, so look out."

She deemed that Johnny was unimpressed, or absent completely, from the silence that followed. That didn't matter--he was just a person for sounding-off thoughts and ideas at this point in the case.

She continued speaking as if he were listening: "We should enter through the back where the maids and kitchen crew are coming and going. From there, we scan the party guests and pick out our lady. Not any lady, mind you--the criminal, all right? Keep your hands to yourself unless you're needed to restrain our Madrigal."

OoC: Blah and short, but it moves things along.

Bwuh? Huh? Whazzat? Someone talking?

Oh, very well. This tramp'd feel the back of his hand if this wasn't important. He let cleansing magic through his bloodstream and felt the effects of the drugs die away. Oh, it was Tracey. What a stupid looking hat that was.

"Uh-huh," he grunted, not sure what he was agreeing to do. "So, what's the emergency?"

Tracey set off along the stone path through the yard to the servant's entrance; the zombie trotted to keep up with her extreme speed-walking. "Captain Buffón is going to be assassinated if you don't hurry up."

"What a sap," Johnny commented, now strolling behind her, taking long strides to compensate. "You'd think the police chief would have better security."

They entered the back door and sidled quickly past cooks and rather pretty maids. Johnny flashed one a smile as he passed--the girl blushed and spontaneously dropped the spoon she was holding into a pan. Other than that, there was little interaction between coppers and servants; they, the servants, had obviously learned not to ask questions. It wasn't their job.

Tracey opened a door and let out a little hiss of vexation.

"What?" Johnny asked, slinking up behind her and hooking his cap on an apron peg. As he was quite a few inches taller than the detective, he simply glanced over her head and sighed. This wouldn't be quite as easy.

It was a goddamn masquerade party.

OoC: Just like the party of my ex-girlfriend that I cleverly avoided going to. Ho HO.

OoC: Happy Thanksgiving, Dukey. :]

IC:
Tracey let out a loaded breath; the agitation this recent development brought could be read on her freckled face.

"No trouble...really. It just makes this more of a challenge...and challenges are always welcome!"

The detective stepped out onto the stairs, and quickly realized that they would stick out like sore thumbs without masks of their own; and this was were some strong-arming was going to be required. She scanned the room, making split-second deductions about the layout of the house; they had just left the kitchen, and the room before them opened up like a parlor, with a high ceiling and several doors and archways placed along the whitewashed walls. One of these doors was clearly a coat closet; the slightly ajar door with a sandy hat lying forgotten before it could peg it as nothing else. Then there were the archways without doors; the whole lot of them could be written off, as a bathroom had to have a door. Even the poorest of homes had something to cover the entrance.

That left two more doors; if there hadn't been any people present, it might have been difficult to discern which of the two led to a bathroom from this distance, but luckily for the inspector, that was not the case. A woman exited one of the doors, and with her keen eyes and a few more forward steps taken, Tracey could just see the bits of soap between her fingers that hadn't been washed away completely. That was the bathroom. And the female guest that was just about to enter? That was her target.

"Acquire yourself a mask," Tracey whispered to Johnny as she eased further into the room, "I already see mine."

Stealing inbetween two guests stuffing their faces full of paté and creamy pastéis de nata, Tracey wormed her way to the door with the cowl of her cloak brought up as high over her face as possible. The detective drew some looks at first; but as soon as she included a feigned drunken, stumbling gait in her act, she was dismissed just as quickly as a commonplace drunk heading for the restroom.

Her target had been detained during the time it took her to reach the bathroom by a server the sleuth had bribed for assistance back in the kitchen; and when Tracey arrived, she had only just stepped inside the bathroom, not even having had the time to lock the door. The girl shouldered the door open, letting the cowl of her cloak drop and her confident gait resume, and muffled cries could be heard as a tussle ensued. A few curious men watched for a moment until the door was kicked shut and their dates yanked them back to dancing by the ears; and in a few moments, the noise had died down, and a redheaded woman was exiting the bathroom, face covered in an ornate mask like all the other guests.

Tracey de Carlo, just another face in the crowd? Hah, for a time, yes. Now then, on to real business...

The first thing the detective scanned the room for was feet--in her peculiar researches, she had learned that Arietta had distinctive and relatively large feet for a woman of her size. In the stamping and gliding jungle of shoes that was the dance floor, a single pair would be hard to pick out from amongst its neighbors, but with the faces masked and the dresses and hairstyles so similar, it was her best lead for now. Tracey orbited around the perimeter of the crowd, ducking down unnoticed by the people who were too absorbed in their partying to notice the strange girl inspecting their shoes like a bloodhound hot on the trail of a pungent scent.

When the girl popped back up from her search to stretch her back, she caught sight of a figure at the head of the room that made her tense all over; at the top of the stair that led down to the parlor, there stood a woman, garbed in a lavish purple dress, with peacock feathers upon her mask and long black curls swirling down to frame her face. This wasn't Arietta; while she was a Madrigal, the wind-manipulator would have never made such a pronounced effect on the sleuth. No...this was--or at least, this looked like someone even more important.

By jove, this is the last great one left! The one who could be a Moriarty to my Holmes--dare I hope this could be Cadenza?

The girl's little frame quivered with excitement and was that...fear? Her heart pounded so loudly that it drowned out the blaring music. My God, if I'm right, then the captain's in far more danger than I thought!
------------------------------------------------------------------
Across the room, Signora Isabella Buffón stood, clad in a violet dress and beautiful feathered mask, as she glared down from the stairs at a jittery little redhead that had just exited the restroom on the other end.

That's the little puta that Marcio's sneaking around with!? Well, she is wearing the mask I told the maids to give to the chick the private detective I hired found it was, so that must be her. Yech.

We'll just see how much fun those two will be having after I'm finished with her.