Participants:
| Scene Title | Affectations |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Felix brings Judah news of Colette and a dinner invitation. |
| Date | March 8, 2009 |
This isn't so much Fel's stomping ground at the moment. Not with SCOUT at the HQ. It's after his own shift, but before he heads home that he stops by in search of Judah. Despite the usual sharp suit, he looks like several different varieties of hell. His hair's buzzed back to the scalp, apparently to let the doctor work more easily on the line of stitches that arc along the side of his head. There's bruising on the opposite side of his face, and he's limping, as he searches among the cubes for Judah.
Judah's not a difficult man to track down these days — and even if he was, he sticks out with his broad shoulders and angular lines, dark eyes and balding scalp. He sits at his desk, hunched over a stack of week-old paperwork, cane resting against the divider that separates his makeshift office from the next. Most of the bullpen's other denizens have gone home for the evening, which leaves him to comfortably wallow in the solitude that Crown Heights provides.
The sound of Felix's footsteps do not go unnoticed by the detective. They've known each other long enough that he can recognize the Fed from a good twenty paces away, though he does not swivel in his seat or so much as turn his head to glance back over his shoulder and confirm his friend's identity. Confident or lazy, your pick. "Felix."
"Judah," says Fel, peeking around the edge of the cube. "Hey," His voice is unwontedly gentle - that's a weird tone for the Fed. "I haven't seen you. I live down the hall now, with Leland Daubrey. Used to be in Narco, now he's with SCOUT. I heard about Colette. Any news?"
"Daubrey. Mm." Judah's pen dances across the bottom of the page, adding his signature to the appropriate line. This done, he sets it down but does not cap it — a sure sign that he doesn't anticipate this conversation to last very long. "No," he says, voice flat. "No news, no nothing, fuck all. Is there something I can help you with?"
Alexander says, quietly, "I'm told she's at the kids' shelter on Staten, called the Lighthouse. Looking for her sister, or something, since she's apparently popped back up on the radar. I've not run into her yet when I was over there. Is there anything I can do to help?" He's still hovering uncertainly at the edge, leaning on a stick of his own.
For what seems like a very long time, and probably is, Judah says nothing. He stares off into space, the expression on his face utterly lackadaisical, without even a trace of mirth. Staten Island is the worst place for someone like Colette to be, but any immediate concerns he might've had are tempered by Felix's mention of the Lighthouse. "You could drag her back home," he suggests, "kicking and screaming, but that wouldn't solve anything, would it?" A snort. "If she wants to come back, she'll come back. If not—" He makes a vague gesture with his hand. "At least we know where she is."
"I'm tempted to do just that. I swear I was never that dumb when I wasa teenager. Or I would, but I know I was. I'll check it out, see if it's true. She should have an immediate out, when she wants to come home," Fel offers, humbly.
Judah leans forward, cradling his chin in his hand, fingertips working over the bridge of his nose. He closes his eyes. "Take Jupiter with you. Damned dog belongs to the kid, far as I'm concerned. Won't stop scratching at her door, keeps me up at night. I'd sleep better if she wasn't alone."
Felix nods to that, reaches over to put a hand on Judah's shoulder. "She'll be fine," he assures the other man, quietly. "And I will. I should be fit to go back in a couple of days."
The hand on Judah's shoulder puts him back in touch with reality. He glances over, looking Felix up and down in his peripheral vision, though this only confirms what he heard when the Fed first approached. "You were limping," he observes, tone mild, careful not to sound too accusatory. "What happened?"
"I had an epic fuckup while interrogating a suspect. He got loose from the table-cuff, slammed a door on me, then hit me with a chain-wrapped hand. It's all my fault, and these'll remind me to be more careful," he says, touching the stitches with a very gingerly fingertip.
"If you aren't careful after everything you've already been through, then I doubt this is going to make much of a difference." Judah's heard this song and dance before. Shrugging Felix's hand from his shoulder, he returns his attention to his paperwork. "I'd ask who the perp is, but something tells me I'm better off not knowing." The perp would be better off, too, if the slight twitch at the corner of the detective's mouth is any indication.
Felix blushes at that. Way to go, slavic pallor. Betray Fel's every thought. "The one and only Flint Deckard," he says, embarrassed.
"Yeah?" Judah picks up his pen and raises both his dark brows. Flint Deckard isn't a name that's unknown around Crown Heights — when you supposedly murder twelve people in cold blood by setting fire to their apartment complex, it earns you a certain degree of notoriety. "Did you get anything out of him?"
"No," Fel looks utterly shamefaced. "I….have never met a suspect less willing to play ball," he admits. "Harrison's working on him."
"The music teacher?" Judah doesn't sound particularly impressed. Or optimistic. "Good luck with that. She and Daubrey have two very different definitions of sing."
"She's a good cop, and good at being the good cop. More persuasive than you might think. Deckard also doesn't hate her personally, to the best of my knowledge," Felix pulls a face. "Yeah, Lee and Elisabeth do. Lee was….behaving himself."
"Even after he introduced you to the door? That's some restraint." Judah doubts he'd be able to keep his cool under similar circumstances. Skepticism is written all over his face. "On the bright side, you shouldn't have to deal with him for very long. Evidence was pretty solid, last I heard. Should go right to court."
"Lee's a wiser man than I, in many regards," Fel says, without blinking. And then he grimaces. "No. No, it's not. That murder arson set - he's innocent. I don't know why he's not willing to cooperate. He can be acquitted," He's locked his hand on the fiberboard and cloth of the edge of the cube.
"You're going to have a hard time acquitting him with what we have on file, Felix," Judah reminds the other man gently. "Like I said, the evidence is pretty solid, so unless you know something the rest of us don't and are willing to testify in front of a judge, then Deckard's probably shit out of luck, innocent or not."
"We have a psychometer," Felix points out, with that particular eager light in his eyes. "Who has -not- been over the evidence in that case. There are leads left unexplored. That whole thing was a frame job."
"Psychometers can be bought. So can telepaths for that matter. Supernatural testimony never goes over well in court." Judah, even though he isn't looking directly at Felix to catch the light in his eyes, knows him well, and can imagine it. "Besides," he says, "who would want to frame Deckard? He's a nobody."
"An NYPD psychometer?" Felix says. "The Vanguard. If we think we have the real perp in custody, the actual one is free to go about his business. And fuck, we have Parkman on Homeland Security. All he has to do is ask Deckard if he did it."
"Maybe the jury believes him, maybe it doesn't — you don't see a lot of powered characters on television, Felix. People like watching CSI. Hard facts. Scientific evidence. If you don't give them something they can visualize?" Judah trails off, waving his free hand in a flippant, dismissive sort of gesture. "You get the idea."
Fel takes a deep breath, as if to argue further. And then sighs, deflating. "I do," he says. "Ah, well. Maybe Murdoch can come up with some new leads. We could hardly be worse off, unless he hung himself in his cell."
"Or slits his wrists with a shiv," Judah offers helpfully. "If there's anything I can do to be of assistance, let me know. Apart from the usual rigmarole, it's been slow here. I could use the excuse to get up off my ass and out of the office."
"Come back to SCOUT. We need more good people. I mean, what department in the NYPD doesn't, but…." He spreads his hands, and attempts to look pleading.
Dark eyes flick toward the cane propped up against the cubicle wall, and Judah blows a slow sigh out through his nostrils. "I'll take it into consideration," he concedes. "No promises."
Fel says, a bit acerbically, "You're moping, Demsky. Not without reason, but you're moping. When I get my hands on that healer, you're getting that leg fixed. And if Colette isn't home by then, then we get her. You need to get out more. In fact, I'm abusing my host's hospitality and inviting you over for dinner. Who knew Daubrey was an amazing cook?"
"It has nothing to do with the leg," Judah shoots back. No protest about heading over to Staten Island and removing Colette from the Lighthouse by force, however — he'd be lying if he told Felix he hadn't considered it when the other man first brought it up. There's a slick tick at the corner of his mouth as well. It's not that he doesn't get along with Leland, but— "When and what time?"
And Felix looks….sheepish. That's going to be an odd little specimen of domesticity, Ivanov and Daubrey keeping cop house. "I'll have to ask him. I know he's busy with a court case this week. Maybe early next?" he suggests. "Well, the leg is hurting you, I mean, hell, that's a cane and you….you're not carrying that as an affectation."
"Early next works well enough," Judah says. "Give me a call on my cell if I'm not home. I should be able to find time." Or find an excuse, depending. Detective Demsky can be hard to read sometimes, and this particular instance is no exception.
Between him and Leland, it's enough to make Felix want to shake someone. "I will do," he says, smoothly. "You'll be impressed, though. He was apparently trained by a pro."
Judah allows himself a dry chuckle and little more. "I don't doubt it."
And…..time to shut up now, before he gives himself away in earnest. "I'll call you. Let me know if you hear anything about Colette," he says, quietly, before turning to go.
Although Judah doesn't move to stop Felix's departure, he does chance a sidelong look over one shoulder at the other man's retreating back. "Thank you," he says, tone softening for the first time since their conversation, transitioning into something more gentle, genuine. "For Colette. For the invitation."
Fel is, though it is not immediately obvious, blushing. "I'm sorry," he says, simply. "It'll work out. I promise."
"I know," Judah replies, and it's true — he does. His head swivels, shoulders drawn up and squared as shifts in his seat, returning to his work. Felix probably doesn't have a lot to worry about. Just as Demsky can be hard to read, so too does he have difficulty reading others.
He might not have even noticed.
 March 8th: Time To Leave |
 March 9th: Can You Tell Me If She's Alive? |
