InsaneJournal

Who: Rick, his willing volunteers, and OPEN to unsuspecting bystanders press-ganged into assistance.
What: Moving in.
Where: Starting in the lobby.
When: Late afternoon.
Warnings: None!
Notes: Assume Rick posted a date and time. See this post.

Rick generally went with the flow. When his Giancoma contact hinted strongly (with cross-streets and an address, no less) that he move into this building when his last apartment building was condemned (that's progress for you), he had no overwhelming objections. He was smart enough to know that a change of location would neither help nor hinder his own personal game plan. Rick tried not to get too attached to material objects, but somehow he always ended up possessive of space, a habit he had tried to avoid even though the job pretty much defined 'territorial.' His private occupation as informant, his public profession, and his personal preference all supported the idea of working on as much information as possible, and that meant getting to know his neighbors.

Acquaintances and almost-friends from the department helped him haul most of the skeletal furniture into the lobby. Most of it wasn't anything all that impressive, everything masculine in color, rich brown leather for the armchairs and couch, an oak bedframe, a thick pseudo-Persian the height of a man, and, the pièce de résistance, a wide entertainment center made to fit a modest widescreen. Boxes of dishware and bedding was already upstairs, this was the stuff he couldn't haul up on his own. To all appearances, Rick was an utterly normal, bachelor type, who probably liked to watch some seasonal sport on his television, didn't smoke, and had no family. He'd already locked up the gun and the badge upstairs, and he wore jeans and a Mets sweatshirt.

Still wondering (without apparent concern) if anyone was going to show up for this, Rick leaned against his upended bedframe and pocketed his cellphone.