Participants:
| Scene Title | Agent Recovered |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | A text message leads to the recovery of Minea Dahl |
| Date | May 12, 2009 |
Apartment of Minea Dahl
Early afternoon, shortly after lunch. Most people are sitting in restaurants or what have you. Two agents for the company however are not. THe email sent to the Senior agents phone with it's ominous text has the both of them striding towards her apartment door, super in hand. Badges do a lot for opening locked doors.
"If I get sued for unlawful entry and loose my job, i'm going to hire the best lawyer and come after you both" The uniform wearing man answers as he flick the three keys for her place in his hand as they approach the door. He knocks first, it's only polite. "She not answering her phone?"
For someone who is normally in a good mood, the landlord is looking at an angry giant black cowboy. "You think I don't know how to work a phone, is that what you're insinuating?" His brown eyes narrow towards the man as he arches up an eyebrow. "You can open it. Or I can open it."
That pretty much does the trick as the keys go into the lock and turns it.
He's already given Lawrence /some/ information. Just that he received a distress text from Agent Dahl. He told him nothing else. Of course, being smarter than most give her credit for, Minea included the when, the where and the who in the text. Six words was all it took.
Got home. Goodman Waiting. Broke in. MD
Goodman may have underestimated Minea Dahl, but just from her record alone, Len had this feeling that Dahl was the real deal. He glances at Lawrence, "I am not entirely certain what we're going to find in here Agent Cook. I suggest you prepare for the worst." This of course, doesn't sit well with the landlord who turns a nice pasty white color.
Lawrence looks over his shoulder at the landlord. "We'll call if we need you," he says calmly. He purses his lips together and nods to Len. "I'm as prepared as I'm going to get. Shall we?" He's a little jumpy.
Waiting for the snoopy landlord to move out, Len reaches down and places his hand on the doorknob and turns it. He's fairly certain there's no danger, Goodman would have done what he needed to and slipped out, so he has no reason to have his weapon drawn.
Pushing the door open, he steps inside, leading the way.
Inside the apartment all looks normal. Keys on a side table, purse beside it. IT's a small loft, but still moderate by NY standards. She could afford bigger, but from the fresh looks of everything, it's newly renovated. The furniture is high quality but it's.. homey, comfortable. An alcove off to the left was her workspace it seems, laptop, desk top, a probably very expensive printer, papers of all kinds. True light set up, a rack of inks and various calligraphy pen's. Some half finished projects all tucked away in folders and labeled. Persian carpet, tick and lustrous, various pieces of art from all over the world. A hall leads off to the bedroom, stairs will be found down there to lead to the open space above the room that is her office space. There's a light on in the kitchen, filtering in with the ambient light of the place and not a sound comes from the place. Minea's not seen.
Lawrence waits for the landlord to go before drawing his weapon, hiding it from the hall at large with his body as he steps in behind Len, immediately flanking the other side of the door and letting a narrowed-eyed gaze sweep over the room. His expression is particularly pinched. Maybe he's constipated. Whatever, it looks funny on him. Lawrence sweeps over the exits, the windows, and finally he steps further into the room, gaze scanning the walls, then the carpet. "Oh."
If Len has any qualms about preserving evidence, he would probably stop right here — get a forensic team down here and put on some gloves. But honestly, he knows all he needs to know so there's no sense in any of this. They aren't going to get anything on Goodman.
Like a moth, Len is drawn to the light in the kitchen. He turns and looks back at Lawrence. "Put that thing away before you shoot someone," he notes of the weapon. The cowboy is already a tad annoyed at the way the past week has gone.
He steps into the kitchen.
"Mind the glass," Lawrence tells Len quickly as the man steps over to the kitchen. He points near the kitchen. "There are tiny tiny pieces. I'm keeping my gun out in case there are hostiles on the premises, sir." He sounds a touch puzzled. After a few heartbeats, he follows Len toward the kitchen. And he's still holding the gun.
There's broken glass, water has long since evaporated with the time that has passed. Her gun and red blackberry on the counter. Everything looks to be in order except for the owner of the apartment. She's right where she fell when Maury Parkman worked his magic. Same clothes that she wore the night before, brown hair spilled out from her head, eyes closed. Minea Dahl's been located.
All the glass, the window - none of those things matter at the moment. Not when one of his agents is missing. All that stuff will be taken care of once he's done here. As he spies the body lying on the floor, there is the thought that flashes across the cowboy's mind that perhaps she's been killed. Len does something he hasn't done in front of other's since his arrival to the city — he takes off his hat. He sets the hat on the counter then squats down to place his fingers at her throat.
He turns his head up and glances at Lawrence. "She's alive."
He contemplates trying to wake her. He lifts one of her eyelids to check her pupils to see if maybe she's been drugged, but he gets good response from it. He taps her lightly on the cheek. "Agent Dahl. Agent Dahl."
Lawrence closes his eyes; about twenty seconds later, he says, "Yes. And she's wet herself." He makes a little choking noise, moving instead over toward the window, keeping his body close to the wall as he ventures a peek out. His eyes widen; he shifts his focus away from his sense of smell and back to his sight so as to properly scan the rooftops. "Shall I call medical personnel, sir?" His lips are still pursed tight together.
No drugs. No waking Agent Dahl at the tap on her cheek. The brunette remain silent, unmoving, breathing. Somewhere locked in her mind, oblivious to the distress she's caused others outside of her mind, She's in a bikini, oversized sunglasses on her face and watching Roberto the cabana boy somewhere in Cannes, folding some towels on an adjacent seat. Life is better, perfect, nicer in her mind right now. Hello Roberto.
No response from the agent as Len tries to wake her. He would find Lawrence somewhat amusing, though this is not the time for all of that. Something is definitely going on here and Len already has a good idea of what they've done and — the cowboy is pissed.
"No need. We're going to take her ourselves. She's not injured — but we need to get her back where we can get someone to look her over. You'll have to get the door."
The fact that Minea has been sitting here for over 12 hours in her own urine doesn't seem to phase Len one bit. He pulls her up into a sitting position, then heaves her up over his shoulder. He carries her around like she was a sack of flour — and for all specifics here, she may as well be. He reaches for his Blackberry and calls ahead. "Got an agent. Going to need to have some folks on standby to take a look at her. On our way in now." He turns to Lawrence, as he clips the phone back to his belt. "Waiting on you, Agent."
Lawrence is already on his way to the door to hold it open, frowning. "I should examine the area, particularly the window, sir. You're certain it's alright to m…?" he trails off. If his superior says to move her, alright. Looking down at his hand on the doorknob, he sighs slightly. "Prints everywhere."
There is no objection from the agent as being slung over Len's shoulder and no pets come screeching for attention, just the quiet apartment
"Not concerned about prints." Of course, he wouldn't be since he already knows plenty more than Lawrence at this point. Revealing that information — would be tricky at this point. Of course, going over Dahl's apartment would keep the other agent busy for a bit. "Go ahead and analyze the scene here and get back to me." He continues to carry Minea as if she weighed nothing as he turns around in the hallway to look back at Cook.
"Listen. I want real time reports on what you find." With Goodman running around trying to keep Denton's agents from stopping him, he is going to have to put out a general order to insist that all updates be processed through at real time — which'll make sure nothing is 'forgotten' by his agents. And it looks like he might have to have 'the talk' with Lawrence. Sorry, son. Santa isn't real. He places his hat back onto his head and starts down the stairs. Best to avoid the landlord at this point.
"Sir! Why aren't you concerned about fingerprints?" Lawrence asks, blinking. "Is there anything else you're not terribly concerned with in the standard operating procedures?" Oh, the snitty tone. The snitty, snitty tone.
Len's loud booming voice can be heard. "Get everything you can except the fingerprints!" As he reaches the ground floor, he walks over to his jeep and — well, she's not conscious, right? He's not all that ginger when he places her in the seat — but considering he carried her down several flights of stairs, one can't fault him too much. He buckles her in and hops in and drives off, leaving Lawrence Cook to do as he will in her apartment.