Renee Montoya (unaskedquestion) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2014-08-05 00:01:00 |
|
|||
She knew he was trouble. It was printed on the front page of the Bugle damn near every day, that old rag. That was why she entertained his questions. That and he kept a roof over her head. It took one mangy dog to bite the hand that fed you when it treated you right, but Detective Renee Montoya, back on the legit beat after spending too long at the bottom of a bottle, was no one's bitch. Still something was fishy. Stark Tower kept the city that never slept awake with its energy. It didn't just lose power, and despite what Major Crimes said, fires didn't just happen by accident in cash cows like Stark. Just like vics didn't usually feel like going for a walk. From the outside this looked like a simple tale of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. On paper everything was orderly, cooperative, and above and beyond. But organizing shit didn't make it not stink. Maybe the tin man didn't have the heart they all thought he did. But she aimed to find out. It wasn't that surprising how quickly a dame fell back into old habits. After a brief conversation with Stark, Detective Montoya had made a few notes on a notepad and gone back to her open cases, gangs tearing up the city, organized crime It always came back to something corporate. A bunch of men in suits made of teflon. She wasn't getting anywhere by the book on this one. Renee glanced down the row at the desks emptying for paper bag lunches and stale coffee in the break room. She picked up the heavy black earpiece on the rotary phone--why the fuck hadn't they replaced those?--and pulled a card for the number. "Major Crimes Unit. Dawlins speaking." "This is Detective Montoya, #7737. I need you to send me over some case files." They weren't exactly hers. But they wouldn't exactly miss them. It was amazing she could make it through the file on Stark in a day much less an afternoon. But it was like watching a barnfire, one fuck up in a series of fuck ups entirely preventable but infinitely repeating. But strange things had a way of finding Tony Stark. Renee Montoya wouldn't find them sitting at her desk. At about 3:30 pm, she left her desk at 1 Police Plaza and grabbed her coat. There was a cloud on the horizon that looked like more than rain. That would make it tolerable for a cop to walk these tense and muggy streets. Renee took her fedora off the hook by the door. "Be back later." She murmured to no one in particular. Because in this precinct, no one cared. Washington Heights, her final destination, was ten times the neighborhood it used to be. A war on drugs and brown men had cleaned the place up and gentrification had assured the blocks surrounding the William Randall Hearst Burn Center would stay pristinely uncluttered by inconvenient truths of urban squalor. It made the caramel skinned detective's skin crawl going up this far north. She turned up the collars of her trench and kept her head down as her feet scuffed the pressure washed pavement. The building pushed out air as she pulled the door open. Renee made her way down the sterile linoleum to the front desk. She gave a smile to the girl at the desk, Carmen her name was picked up from the tag sitting where Renee's eyes had fallen. The girl must have been the only other latina it above 117th street. She could be an ally, and she could be an in. "Tengo un par de preguntas" Renee leaned over, pressing her elbows into the desk. Closer she could smell Carmen's shampoo. It was a tropical breath of air in this sticky August afternoon. She let her badge flash open like a shiv. "About a friend of mine." It was a risk flashing the brass, but regulations made doctors and their lackeys cagier than a coop of hens. Carmen's eyes widened then hardened like deep mahoghany. "We didn't call you." "I know that." Renee leaned in and dropped her voice. "And you know that. But between you and me, haven't you had a strange check-out lately?" She could read it all across her face. She wasn't wrong. Renee reached across her desk and picked up a pen. "The name I'm looking for, is Max-" She spoke it even as she was writing it on a post it on the desk. "Dillon. Can you get me his chart?" Carmen's eyes looked back down the hall warily and she took the note, folding it crisply "What was your name?" She managed to stammer, shoving the note away. . Renee shook her head "I ask the questions." The latina at the desk looked up without standing and rose her eyebrows. "Helping you is not worth my job." If she'd learned anything from Charlie, it was when you had questions, a badge only took you so far. Detective Montoya had reached as far as she could get digging after Max Dillon, the missing link in this dog and pony show from Stark. But there was a secret at this burn center, and even the receptionist wasn't talking. Renee walked out of the building, went down a floor and entered through the parking structure. Carmen may have seen her face, but she hadn't seen Renee's real one. She crouched behind a van unrolling the pliable and familiar pseudoderm mask. She smoothed it over her face like water, securing it before pulling out the bonding spray from her jacket pocket. The mask obscured her features, in truth, it erased them, but it fit like how her face was meant to feel. Her hair was lighter, a long and dirty blonde, and even her clothes seemed to change to a non-descript khaki. If she stood out, it was only because she lacked a face. It was sometimes a fine line between investigating and committing crime. But only one path to an answer. She browsed the map of the hospital in the parking structure before heading down to security. She walked as if she belonged and kept her head down. She didn't want conflict and most of these people weren't criminals even if criminals moved in their shadows. She just wanted answers. The security room was lightly staffed. After the fire alarm, it was vacant. The Question slid in and pulled up the menu for the multiple monitors. Bingo. It had been left logged on, so she searched for the Burn Center's records. It was under five minutes that she had transferred the past 3 days of footage a drive in her coat. And before the drill was resolved that she was hurrying back down the hall. WIth luck, she could make it to the Center's record and to Dillon's chart before things were swinging again. She did, but she wasn't alone. "Who are you?" the voice of the receptionist called out, Carmen, Carmen, Carmen. Renee kept to the shadows, though even had her face been seen it would give no answers. "I told you." Renee moved closer, prowling around the periphery of the room. I ask the questions." "You think Mr. Dillon was hurt?" "I don't think he just walked out." "He was pretty bad off." Well that confirmed that. Carmen hesitated a moment "Go. I was making a copy anyway. Go. Before the alarm is sorted." Renee grabbed the folder and ran. Back at home, if you could call it that, the mask was removed as were the the pants. All those trappings of civilization that got between a lonely detective and her pad thai leftovers. She sat on the couch for two that was just a reminder of who wasn't there, picked up the remote. Instead of netflix, she loaded up the drive hooked into the side of the television. A shaggy dog climbed onto the furniture, filling the vacant space. Renee smiled wanly down at him and moved her noodles out of the way of an inquisitive snout. "I'll feed you later, you." Renee scratched the dog's head and started up the sped up security footage from the hospital. It wasn't riveting stuff, but it wasn't the worst thing on her queue. Six hours, half a pot of coffee, and a box of noodles later and it was no better. Renee found herself hunched over the living room table, with Dillon's file spread out underneath a large orange cat. She had long ago lost the sofa to the sleeping dog. If she still smoked she'd have been half chimney--imagine if she still drank. It was easy to see what Renee had picked up from Charlie apart from a mask and a hat. It was a drive bordering on paranoia. At about 8:30 last night all the footage was suddenly just fried. When it was recovered at 1:15, Dillon as gone. Whoever'd taken Dillon was good. They had the tech, they had the know how. They had the reason. Stark had all those. She knew where she needed to go. It was on one of these papers. The answer to this question would be in finding Max Dillon. "Move baby." Renee pulled a sheet out from under the behemoth of a cat who gave a disinterested warning mrow. "Address--addressaddressaddress...Here!" She grabbed her pants too. "C'mon Justice." she grabbed her keys and a leash and a wad of bills. She hoped the train was still running, because she was heading uptown and she had a lot of questions. |