| Conversation at the Wagon Wheel |
[25 Mar 2008|07:28pm] |
"Y'all were a great crowd, thanks once again an' be sure t' tell your friends about us. Good night from the Cajun Devildogs!" GW waved from the stage as he and the band wrapped things up for the night.
They'd had a good crowd in the club tonight. The Wagon Wheel liked to have them around about once every six weeks, drawing in homesick Louisianans as well as music lovers and curious tourists who wanted to hear an authentic Cajun band. A number of the patrons in the crowded bar were familiar faces, fans who showed up wherever they played.
One person who definitely was not familiar was the tall man with salt and pepper hair dressed in a suit and looked distinctly uncomfortable in the boots n' sawdust environment.
Markowitz was not precisely uncomfortable, it was just that he'd never seen quite so many pairs of broken-in boots in one place at one time before. Give him the jazz clubs of New York any day. He couldn't wait for this portion of his assignment to be over so that he could get back to a city he was more at home in.
But he applauded right along with the other spectators, deciding that it maybe wasn't so bad. His untouched beer was sweating through the paper coaster in front of him, and he glanced at his watch quickly before rising from his chair. His opinion of the music aside, this was not technically just an evening out. Work always called, especially for something this important.
"Mr. Robichaux," he said, hovering on the edge of the small crowd of autograph seekers who had gathered near the stage. To show the badge or not to show the badge? This was not Wolfram and Hart, and he didn't want to cause a stir. Besides, the suit was enough to indicate that this was not a usual hang-out for him. Markowitz indicated the table where he'd been sitting with a tilt of his head. "When you get a minute, I'd like to have a word with you, please."
( Your country needs you. )
Note: This takes place the friday before Holy Week
Agent Markowitz was written by Stargazer
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| Body of Evidence |
[25 Mar 2008|07:51pm] |
Faced with a mountain of paperwork, Starnes decided to roll up her figurative sleeves and slog through it. As much as filing reports was the least interesting part of her job, she wanted the crap off of her desk. So she poured herself a mug of bad coffee and swiped the last of the semi-stale doughnuts from the breakroom and ensconced herself in her cramped office to set to work.
The Blanchard case was at a standstill. There was no further indication of where the former detective might have gone after her escape, and while there were vague matches to her physical description connecting her to several gruesome murders, the victims left alive were far too traumatized to connect her solidly to the killings. Just a lot of cold trails. Starnes found herself hoping that the other woman had left the state. It would at least pull this mess out of her life.
The matter of two sisters who had disappeared from a dormitory at UNLV had also ground to a halt. Foul play had been suggested, but if the girls were dead their bodies were nowhere to be found. The last official word was that the case was still under investigation, but anything even resembling a lead seemed to have dried up. The detective couldn't imagine how the parents must feel, especially since nothing seemed to be getting accomplished. Frustration abounded, clearly.
( Interoffice Communication )
"Yeah, that'd be fine." Starnes' voice was muted, and she actually did make some notes on lined paper before giving the deputy the fax number for the machine in her office. "Thank you, Deputy Gilmore, you've been...you've been a lot of help."
How would police work ever get done without inter-office cooperation?
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