Participants:
| Scene Title | Person of Interest |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | The nature of Brennan's situation leads to a minor interdepartmental tug-o-war in Central Park. Likely not the first. Certainly not the last. |
| Date | March 17, 2010 |
Central Park - Bethesda Fountain
Baby it's cold outside.
Really. Really cold.
Cold enough that even punctilious Vincent has a duskey grey-brown knit cap pulled down low over his balding skull. It's a few shades lighter than the suit he's wearing, buttons all fastened and tie snugged dead center at the hollow of his throat for all that he seems to have taken to preserving the fine bristle of his five o'clock shadow. Apparently such deliberate shows of laziness have become stylish in recent years.
His overcoat is likewise buttoned, gloved hands pushed deep into their pockets while he stands and waits, not all that far from the outspread bronze feathers of angel wings hooded over Bethesda fountain. Water has long since ceased running in the cold, but the landscape retains its mystical appeal in the whirl and flurry of fresh snow through ever-changing drifts.
For anyone who's met him or otherwise seen his photo, Lazzaro's hard to mistake even at a distance. He has a distinctness about him, and a black, unforgiving, tarry kind of intensity that people who have something to hide find reason to keep away from him for. At the moment though, he doesn't pose much of a threat to anyone. He has arranged for a meeting, and he is waiting.
Of course, the meeting would have to be outside. In the cold and snow. His breath is bright white as he sighs it out softly. Bundled up in his duster, the maroon and cream scarf wrapped tight around his neck and tucked into the collar of the jacket. A fedora rests on his own receding hairline. The hem of the coat flutters around his legs, the tan slacks he's wearing are dusted with snow from traveling.
"Agent Lazzaro?" The Home Sec Agents offers in a rumbled greeting, blue eyes narrow sightly from under the brim of his hat, but a small smile touches his lips. A gloved hand is pulled out of a pocket and offers. "Agent Benjamin Ryans. Thank you, for seeing me, especially in this god awful weather."
"Agent Ryans. If I thought it was going to get better any time soon, I might have waited," offered plainly in return, Vincent takes Ryans' hand in his own with a half-smile and shake that's all business, without even the faintest brush of camaraderie for their respective positions as Government issue hounds. He doesn't look happy to see him anymore than people typically look happy to see vacuum cleaner salesmen turn up on their doorstep, and sizes him up plane as day before releasing his hand after too long a hold and moving in a direct line on to business.
"Okay." Okay. "My understanding is that Doctor Brennan was involved in an incident earlier this month where he might have been witness to the aftermath of a homicide wherein a volatile Evolved ability came into play. So where do you come in?"
"A man that gets down to business, I can appreciate that." The old Company agent says softly, though the words carry as if he had spoken them louder. The hand is tucked in his pocket again and short firm nod is give. "I, Agent Lazzaro, am the senior agent on the case. Dr. Brennan and his young daughter are valuable witnesses in the case."
"I would rather avoid having to question a three year old child who claimed to have seen a monster." The words are matter of fact that the look Ryans is giving echoes that. "All I am asking is for some of his time to get his side of it all and ask the necessary questions. I understand that he is under protection for some sort of threat, though his wife did not know why."
Vincent is silent for a beat, black eyes dark enough that they seem to absorb more than they reflect, slow breaths measured out in foggy turns that fade quickly against falling snow. "Funny," he says, almost too quietly in return, "I wasn't under the impression that any evidence in the microwaved bacon case implied any kind of national or terroristic threat."
If there's any humor to be found in the clamp of his jaw or the low set of his brow, it's subtle. Also, at Ryans' expense and slow to fade, even once he's tipped his head in austere allowance to continue. "He's become a person of interest in an unrelated case. One that is of no interest of you, should you be so inclined as to try to make use of whatever level of clearance has been metered out to you, and one that I am currently not at liberty to discuss the details of. If you really think he's going to remember some significant detail three weeks after the incident that he forgot to outline upon his initial interview with the first officer on scene, I can arrange for a meeting."
A small ghost of a smile touches the Agents lips, but the look in his eyes are cautious and rather intense. "The cases are handed to me, who am I to question the orders of the brass?" He tries to make the words light-hearted… Hey, I'm just doing my job. "If they say to investigate it, then it is my job to do so." Loyal Company Man.
Eyes narrow under the brim of that hat, crows feet deepening, there is a bit of a dip of his head before he concedes. "You are correct, of course, since it obviously has nothing to do with my case, then I don't really need to know the circumstances of why he's in hiding. What I do care about is meeting him and doing my job." His chin tilts up a bit, as he states, "A report may have been taken, but I find I prefer to hear the words come from the man himself. I don't often trust the people to put everything in writing, somethings are often lost in the writing."
"No one."
…Is, of course, the answer to Ryans' first question, if Lazzaro puts just enough backspin in his inflection to further twist the knife on his overall agreement with that assessment.
"The nature of his current situation is such that free communication back and forth is limited. It may be a day or two before I'm able to speak with him. In the meanwhile, you…obviously have access my phone number and other contact information," thank you, Mrs. Brennan, "and may impress the urgent nature of your case upon me at will."
There is no reaction to that twist of the knife, Ryans has been playing the game far too long. His game face is on at this point, though those two words tell a lot to the old man. "A day or two is fine, maybe by then this weather will have passed us by enough to quit being such a bother." There is a brief moment, before there is no doubt there is nothing else the two can say to each other, so a hand lifts to grip the brim of his hat, head inclining.
"That is all I need, so I will let you get on with the rest of this miserable day, Agent." Ryans is able to keep the words pleasant. No good bye. No have a good day. He doesn't even expect it in return.
"Very good. I'll be in contact, then." Expression back to its default state of eagle 'I am smiling' severity, Vincent steps back from the tip of Ryans' hat, no more inclined to linger in freezing air than anyone else hustling through this part of Central Park. "Pleasure meeting you," doesn't quite sound like a parting shot, and he exits more like a stage magician than a federal agent: in a lift of his hands away from his sides and an all-consuming furl of dark smoke.
Watching the smoke swirl away, Ryans looks less then happy, but not for the reason that might come to mind. Simply, he doesn't agree with blatant displays of ability. "Cocky, Son of a bitch." The senior company agent murmurs as he turns and starts the long trudge back the way he came through that blustering blizzard.