Who: Max and Daryl What: A Very Civilized Lunch Where: A cafe near the Seattle Times HQ When: Last Tuesday Warnings: Mild language thanks to Max, but otherwise nothing. This actually is a very civilized lunch. They deserve blue ribbons.
After the events of Monday evening, Daryl was quite eager to use her time productively. She could have determined that the “bomb” was a fake after mere minutes, but the Bomb Squad spent so much time hemming, hawing, and picking its nose that no resolution was found. It was quite frustrating, especially since the whole thing could have been avoided if only the police had listened to her. So few people seemed to, which was an absolute mystery: she was, after all, always right.
But she had to remind herself that people didn’t appreciate being reminded of that fact. Lately, she was becoming much more attuned to that fact. It explained why she had asked to meet with Maxine Main of all people. When she stopped to think of it, it was a bit absurd. After all, Ms. Main was consistently biased and therefore unreliable. She was incapable of acting diplomatically or neutrally, which made her difficult to pull information from - it would always be tainted. But Ms. Main’s emotional tendencies could be useful in some scenarios, she had to admit. And her intimate connection with this case meant that she would be a much better ally than an enemy. Daryl simply needed to place her in the correct spot.
Sitting at an empty table at the cafe, she checked her watch. It was 11:57, three minutes before she agreed to meet Ms. Main. She had already chosen their table and ordered drinks for them both, with a menu for herself and set out for the other woman. Everything was going smoothly, which she quite approved of. She looked out the window coolly, watching pedestrians pass. People were so predictable. She could tell when one member of a duo was interested in the other, when someone on the phone would rather be doing anything else, and when a woman shopping was trying to think of ways to hide her purchases from her husband. People watching had once been her favorite pastime, but it had lately been a bore. She blamed Adam. Everyone was bland and one-note in comparison to him.
The waitress - who was in an abusive relationship and refused to acknowledge that fact - approached with a tray of drinks, smiling at Daryl as she set them down. “A beer for your friend,” she said as she set the beer down in Ms. Main’s empty place. “Black coffee for you,” she said with a raised brow, setting the cup down in front of her. “And waters for you both.” The glasses were set down in tandem, earning a half-smile from Daryl. Ordering a water for Ms. Main showed that she cared about the other woman’s state of hydration, which clearly suggested that she was interested in a true symbiotic partnership. It was a foolproof plan.
“Thank you,” she replied softly, leaning forward to smell her coffee. The beans were South American, roasted off-site and stored for at least a week. Not an ideal cup, but not horrid. She leaned back in her chair, stirring the coffee absently with her spoon. She had requested it lukewarm, but it was still far too hot for her. And so she would wait, hoping that her drink would reach an acceptable temperature by the time her lunch companion arrived. Max was late.
She had never been the most punctual person, and juggling an infant, work, a sullen teenager and a superhero with anger issues hardly made it any easier to remember to set alarms and watch the clock. She had realized she was going to be late at 11:55, because she had only remembered to glance at the clock at 11:55. Amanda was running a fever, and Max had taken the morning off work. She’d spent the better part of the early hours walking around the living room with the baby on her hip. Teething, it seemed, was a fucking nightmare that no one had warned her about. And in a life that was already chaotic? It was a fucking catastrophe.
Max hadn’t left Aubade until 12:03, after she’d handed Amanda off to Alina and ignored the baby’s screaming long enough to change into jeans and a sweater. A leather jacket and gloves later, and she was in the truck and driving to the prearranged meeting point. The drive was short - 15 minutes, and she spent the entire time wondering what the fuck she was doing meeting Daryl Hockney. She didn’t trust the woman, and Daryl definitely didn’t trust her. Chances were pretty good that someone would throw a drink before lunch was over, and changes were pretty good that it would be her.
She handed the keys to the valet at the curb, and she tugged her gloves off as she walked inside and looked for the other woman. Shoving the gloves into the jacket pockets required removal of a teething ring and two pacifiers, and she wondered when her life had gotten so... she didn’t even know what the word was. Shrugging off the coat, she caught sight of Daryl, and she steeled herself. Now or never. She approached the table, reminding herself this was about catching the Night Terror.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said apologetically, holding up the teething ring as an explanation. She draped the jacket along the back of the chair, took a swig of the beer, and then sat down. Boredom had never sat well with Daryl. By 12:02, she knew that Ms. Main would be late. She considered leaving, as she absolutely loathed wasting time. But she stayed, managing to distract herself by predicting other peoples’ drink orders moments before they spoke to their waitress. She had a 94.2 percent success rate - admirable. Drumming the tips of her gloved fingers on the table, she peered out the window as 12:18 came about. Eighteen minutes late. Lateness could mean a show of disrespect, which would be quite worrisome. A power play in this symbiotic partnership would be most counterproductive.
When Ms. Main blustered into the cafe, however, it was clear that her lateness was not intentional. She was disheveled, baby paraphernalia stuffed into her pockets and clothing looking somewhat rumpled. Her expressions cycled between concern, confusion, and general disbelief. In perfect contrast to the frazzled woman before her, Daryl was perfectly still, not moving a muscle as the other woman sat across from her. Still wearing her gloves and scarf, with her dark, pin-straight hair flowing neatly over her shoulders, she merely inclined her head at the woman’s apology.
“Don’t be,” she said, gray eyes locking onto the teething ring. Main’s child was approximately three months old, as she recalled reading the gossip newspaper articles in a fit of boredom in March. Teething at this age was unusual, given the progression of primary dentition in children. If anyone were to have a child with abnormal teeth, she supposed it was only fitting that it would be a reporter. She lifted her chin slightly, speaking without preamble or prompting. “I suggest that you place those in the refrigerator for a short time before giving them to her,” she said, expression serene. It was the closest she usually came to a smile when not in Adam’s presence. “The cold will create a short-lasting numbing effect on the area without the need for a local or topical anesthetic that could prove harmful. And children seem to enjoy eating cold things.”
She reached for the pot of sugar packets between them, pulling out two and ripping them open. She poured the sugar into her coffee, stirring it with the spoon, and looked into it absently. “I once knew a Polish woman that described my coffee preference as “black as the Devil and sweet as a stolen kiss.” At the time, I was rather unfamiliar with the terms of this proverb, but have since come to two conclusions. If there is a Devil, I have likely met him, and he is not black. And a stolen kiss is far sweeter than two packets of sugar.” She lifted her cup and took a long sip to hide her hidden smile as she thought of her fiance, watching Ms. Main the entire time. Popping her lips as she set the cup down, she inclined her head to the other woman. “How have you been keeping, Ms. Main?” Max had read up on teething, and she’d started shoving things in the refrigerator the day before. The difference between her and Daryl was that Max had to read about it online. It had taken her three days to even think of looking it up, and she’d learned that this shit shouldn’t have started until a month from now. She’d scheduled a pediatric visit, but the doctor said it was nothing to worry about, and she hadn’t worried. But he hadn’t told her about sticking things in the refrigerator. It made her a little cranky.
She didn’t get a chance to stay cranky, though, because then Daryl was saying strange things about coffee. Coffee? Nerves? Maybe. She couldn’t imagine why, though. She didn’t imagine Daryl Hockney as the type of person to get nervous, and she sure didn’t think the other woman was trying to make any kind of good impression. She couldn’t disagree with the bit about stolen kisses, though she couldn’t remember the last time she’d stolen one (she’d have to work on that). But the part about the Devil, that had her sitting forward and taking another sip of her beer.
“Is that what we’re calling him during this conversation? The Devil?” It was appropriate. Max tended to be more passionate about the safety of those she cared about, rather than the general public. But she made an exception where kids were concerned, and that made this personal all the way through. Her back itched, and she knew it was because she was thinking of the scars there.
The waitress stopped at the edge of the table, and Max ordered a burger without looking at the menu. “We’re covered in snow, there’s a Mask killing dozens of people in the city, there are zombie animals being used to commit crimes, and we still don’t have the Night Terror,” she replied, a response to the query about how she was doing. Then, she smiled. “But there are good things too, even if they don’t sleep at night. How about you? Planning a wedding?” The idea that they would ever refer to the Night Terror by a name so prolific as “The Devil” made Daryl snort in disgruntled surprise. “Certainly not,” she said stiffly. “We are not contributing to his sense of superiority by using such a prolific name for him.” Any irony concerning individuals with a great sense of superiority was seemingly lost on her as she took another sip of her coffee.
As the waitress came by, Daryl simply asked for the special salad of the day, not bothering to check if there was such a thing. If there wasn’t, there would be - thankfully, the waitress didn’t protest her choice. Wrapping her still-gloved fingers around her lukewarm mug, she raised a brow at Ms. Main’s response. It earned a light smirk, accompanied by a nod. Asking how she was earned a response that told her how the city was. Clearly, this “trust exercise” was doing poorly.
The reply question could have been met with disdain - obviously, she was planning a wedding - but Daryl had resolved to make this meeting run smoothly. And so she nodded, voice a bit milder than usual as she replied. “Yes. My future sister-in-law has been instrumental in the planning process. I suspect that some of her ideas have come from her fourth grade diary, though most of them are quite good.” Imagining Rowan as a young girl planning weddings in her diary was, after all, quite easy. “Though in truth, the ceremony is largely for the benefit of Adam’s family.” She hesitated, gaze falling to her left hand. Adam hadn’t lied when he offered to buy her a second ring that she could wear over her gloves - the diamond engagement ring sat on her gloved ring finger, looking as natural as a ring could in that predicament. “We’re simply happy to be wed.”
Clearing her throat, she took another sip of her coffee. “But I suppose we shouldn’t waste time. You are clearly extremely busy, and so the minutes we have to share are precious. I have been thinking a great deal about the transfer of genetic material to your back through a dream. It invalidates my previous assumption that the wounds he creates are due to the victim’s mind making them real. Perhaps, then, chasing after the root of his ability to kill is a lost cause. Because after all, stopping him isn’t the only goal - he must be imprisoned for his crimes.” “Are we going to start calling him Charlie?” Max asked, and she sounded like she might like that idea. She smiled a little, like Daryl more for the refusal to empower the man with the moniker. Fuck, she might end up liking this woman. Wouldn’t that be awkward?
Max glanced down at the gloves when Daryl did. It was strange the woman wearing gloves at lunch. Even stranger to see an engagement ring over the gloves. Still, the ring itself was gorgeous, and it made her long for things she didn’t have. “Must be nice,” she said with no malice. She didn’t like Adam Morgenstern, didn’t trust him as far as she could spit, but that didn’t mean the woman in front of her couldn’t love him and be happy. Most of the people she knew couldn’t imagine liking Thomas Brandon, much less loving him. It was the same thing at the end of the day. “I never trusted your fiancee, even when I interviewed him over a year ago. Why the gloves?” There was no pause between the confession and the question, but again there was no malice.
“He kills people when he’s awake, too. I just don’t understand why we can’t find one of those people,” Max said, getting down to business without any need for segue. “We could bait him, but I think our respective significant others are likely to kill us if we do that. And since we don’t want to use anyone else as bait, it leaves us between a rock and fucking hard place.” The idea to call the Night Terror “Charlie” was met with a devious, perfectly pleased smirk. “He would loathe that,” she said with an edge of mischief. “Yes. Let’s.”
At the mention of the interview, Daryl nodded. “He is a difficult person to speak to,” she agreed. But it was exactly what she liked about him. She was about to expand when the question about her gloves came quickly, right on the heels of Ms. Main’s last statement. Normally, she would lie - she was eccentric, she could get away with it. But her ability may come into play in their pursuit of the Night Terror, and Ms. Main had mentioned trust. She hesitated, glancing about the cafe. “That is not for this time or place,” she said softly. “But it has to do with our common ancestry. I will expand when we are suitably isolated.” Speaking about the Night Terror was less worrisome, but attempting to explain her wretched ability wasn’t prudent.
Thankfully, Ms. Main was willing to jump straight into business. Daryl listened and nodded, taking another sip of her coffee as she thought. “Baiting would be dramatic and interesting, but I doubt it would serve our purpose. We wish to see this man in prison. The people he kills in the waking world are more difficult to track down, I suppose. But I have been thinking.” This was said almost as a warning that she would start talking for some time, expanding at length on what exactly was going through her mind.
“What is real and what is true do not always coincide. In reality, Charlie Knight is a man that was acquitted for a crime that he could not be proven guilty of. In truth, he is guilty. In reality, the Night Terror doesn’t exist - he is untraceable. In truth, he has murdered and terrorized many people. Reality is, therefore, quite objective. I know many truths that may not be yet real, as you did when you wrote your article about Adam Morgenstern.” It was a small benefit, another attempt at being congenial. “If we wish to turn the truth into reality, we must bring the Night Terror’s crimes into this world.” She looked quite pleased with herself as she came to this, smirking delightedly. “And tie them to Charlie Knight.” Common ancestry, now that was something Max understood. Her ability had to do with her hands. Understood. Max nodded. “Mine comes in a little helpful sometimes, too. But you’re right. That’s a conversation for another time.” A time when their lunches weren’t being set in front of them, for example.
“How are we going to bring his dream attacks to this world? And how are we going to do it without revealing who we are, what we are?” She didn’t have a lot of faith in that theory, and it showed in her voice. “ She took a bite of her burger, and then set it aside and went quiet for a second, thoughtful. Finally, she shook her head. “And how do we do it without baiting him?” Because using real kids was out of the question, as far as Max was concerned. Grateful that Ms. Main would leave the topic of her gloves for another time, Daryl forged ahead without missing a beat. “We don’t have to reveal anything,” she said, spearing a leaf of lettuce with her fork. “Everyone expects me to solve unsolvable cases,” she replied cryptically. What she was proposing was incredibly illegal, very high-risk. But she spoke as if she were proposing that they walk across the street when the pedestrian sign was on.
After swallowing her bite, she leaned forward slightly. “If I were to make connections that no one else could, the police department would simply applaud my efforts.” She shrugged, pushing a piece of chicken across her plate. “Unless you think this would be more effective if I worked with a fresh case.” Max considered that, what the other woman was saying. “You’re suggesting we look for evidence in an old case, a cold one, that inexorably ties Knight to his crimes. We do it using means we shouldn’t have, and we pretend we came to the conclusions in the normal way?” Okay, maybe. “How do we know which murder was his?” Sure, there were thousands of unsolved murders in this city, but zoning in on the right one? She glanced at Daryl’s hands again, at the gloves. “Unless that could help us?” she asked casually, gaze indicative of what she meant.
“A fresh case should be a backup plan,” Max agreed after a moment. If they could do this with a cold case, it would be much less dangerous. Illegal access to evidence, illegal information used to catch the criminal, but not physically dangerous. A better idea, all around. “Yes,” she said to her first question. That was exactly what she was suggesting. It would require planning, but she was certain that she could execute it easily. After all, she had the advantage of a reputation now. She had always thought that reputations would be burdensome, that she had no need for one. But this one worked to her advantage. The police officers knew her brilliance, the way she flew through cases and tied them up neatly. If she staged this, no one would question her out of both respect and fear. She liked that.
“I know his methods. I know his victims. I spend a great deal of time with records, it would only require a few hours of searching.” She shrugged. Searching through old records had become a strange hobby of hers, one that left her with a good knowledge of where to find what she wanted. At the glance to her gloves, though, she hesitated. “Yes, it could as well.” She curled her fingers slightly, as if protecting them, before picking up her fork and taking another bite of her salad.
“Yes, and a fresh case would mean that we depend on him to move first.” Her tone suggested that she loathed the idea of depending on anyone, much less the Night Terror. “If this problem is approached logically and carefully, it could be solved. But with Mr. Knight’s release for the torture of Quinn Gaines, the police will require a great deal of convincing to make a move. They wouldn’t want to be embarrassed again.” Max had to agree that - if Daryl could manage it - it was the best possible solution. Was she sure the other woman could do it? Not really. But she had no doubt that Daryl believed she could. She pushed away her plate, taking one last swig of her beer. “So, what do you want from me?” she asked, because she knew this wasn’t a social lunch, despite Daryl’s attempts to make it come across as one.
She remembered that Thomas said this woman had been on his payroll once. She wondered if she still was, and she decided she would have heard about it that were the case. She remembered, too, Daryl’s blonde friend, and that didn’t make her feel any more trusting. Then, she reminded herself that this woman was after the same thing she was. She exhaled slowly. “I’m not really very fucking trusting,” she admitted candidly. “But I want to help you do this.”
Another sip of the beer - an unplanned one, as she had decided the one before was her last - and she sighed. “I went through my whole pregnancy afraid to sleep, afraid that fucker would come back and finish what he’d started. And Quinn, what happened to Quinn messed with Thomas’ son pretty fucking badly. I want to help, but I want to trust you. I’m not sure I do. So, why me?” As the other woman said her piece, Daryl listened, finishing the rest of her coffee. She took a few moments to collect her thoughts, expression serene. It appeared as if she were watching television, or reading a book. Her mind was working, far away from her body. Gray eyes blank, she strung together words and sentences, stitched them up, and sent them out.
“You have a personal interest in this case. It makes you a liability. It also makes you dedicated. Earlier, when I asked how you were, you explained how the city of Seattle was. That suggests to me that you care for the needs of others, which you validated by mentioning Mr. Brandon’s son. You aren’t doing this simply for yourself, you hold yourself and your actions to a standard. While this could result in some unnecessary guilt later, it could also make you extremely valuable as an ally in this endeavor. You won’t sabotage me at the last minute because to do so would sabotage this case, and you couldn’t allow that to happen.” She shrugged, pushing her plate away. “And as a member of the media, you are privy to knowledge that others aren’t. As an ally, I would hope that you would share that information should he act again. Despite my connections to the police, it’s useful.”
She cleared her throat, canting her head to the side. “As for the matter of trust, there are different forms of it. For example, I trust Charlie.” Knowing that the statement was outlandish, she smirked. “I trust him to focus on control and power over attention to detail and future planning. I trust that in most situations, he will exercise power explosively and in a manner to intimidate. I also trust that when his authority is questioned, he will act irrationally and take out his anger on the flesh of the questioner.” Her tone grew flat at that, an unspoken admission that she knew this from personal experience. “However, I certainly wouldn’t trust him to care for my dog while I’m on vacation.”
After letting that settle, she tilted her head to the other side. “If you fear that I would act to harm you in some way, you would be mistaken. As an ally of mine, our successes are shared. Without full participation from both parties, symbiotic mutualism derails. In embarking on this case, we both should agree that we are working in this manner. We share a common enemy and both wish to see him imprisoned. If we didn’t work together, we would be working separately for the same end. That’s a waste of time, energy, and resources.” She wrinkled her nose. “Wasting time is inexcusable.” Max had a feeling Daryl would think she wasted a lot of time, in general. It made her smile, and she finished the beer feeling better for the honesty. “I’m impulsive, and I take too many risks, and I run my mouth without thinking. But I want to catch this fucker, and I won’t back down from him,” she guaranteed, because she could say that with absolute honesty. “It seems we’ve got a partnership, Hockney. Think we can manage it without killing each other?” She wasn’t sure, but she had a good feeling about it. After all, she’d dealt with people a whole lot bossier in the military. She held out a hand for Daryl to shake. “To kicking Knight’s ass.” Smirking, Daryl simply nodded. She wasn’t surprised by any of this. But Ms. Main’s impulsive tendencies could be contained and used constructively. Every human trait, however inane, had a use. It took a clever mind to find those uses, and Daryl was certain that she would. At the question, she hesitated, looking momentarily mystified. “Why on earth would I want to kill you?” she asked, brows furrowed.
At the extended hand, Daryl hesitated, staring at it as if she feared it would shoot poisonous darts. She hated shaking hands with a passion. That involved letting other people touch her, which was utterly wretched. But this was a partnership, which meant that each party would inevitably have to compromise a bit. She supposed that engaging in this handshake would count as a compromise on her side. With no small amount of hesitation, she reached out, her gloved hand cautiously reaching Ms. Main’s. The “toast,” however, earned a smirk, and she managed to distance herself from the grating sensation - even through her glove - of pressure against her palm. “And to sending him polite postcards every year on the anniversary of his arrest.” She hesitated, looking thoughtful. “And on major holidays.” Max grinned. Okay, so maybe Hockney was okay. Maybe.