Participants:
| Scene Title | Suspicious Paraphernalia |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Elisabeth gets indirect confirmation that there was none in her apartment, but that may not be all Lazzaro's after. |
| Date | November 11, 2009 |
Central Park has been, and remains, a key attraction in New York City, both for tourists and local residents. Though slightly smaller, approximately 100 acres at its southern end scarred by and still recovering from the explosion, the vast northern regions of the park remain intact.
An array of paths and tracks wind their way through stands of trees and swathes of grass, frequented by joggers, bikers, dog-walkers, and horsemen alike. Flowerbeds, tended gardens, and sheltered conservatories provide a wide array of colorful plants; the sheer size of the park, along with a designated wildlife sanctuary add a wide variety of fauna to the park's visitor list. Several ponds and lakes, as well as the massive Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, break up the expanses of green and growing things. There are roads, for those who prefer to drive through; numerous playgrounds for children dot the landscape.
Many are the people who come to the Park - painters, birdwatchers, musicians, and rock climbers. Others come for the shows; the New York Shakespeare Festival at the Delacorte Theater, the annual outdoor concert of the New York Philharmonic on the Great Lawn, the summer performances of the Metropolitan Opera, and many other smaller performing groups besides. They come to ice-skate on the rink, to ride on the Central Park Carousel, to view the many, many statues scattered about the park.
Some of the southern end of the park remains buried beneath rubble. Some of it still looks worn and torn, struggling to come back from the edge of destruction despite everything the crews of landscapers can do. The Wollman Rink has not been rebuilt; the Central Park Wildlife Center remains very much a work in progress, but is not wholly a loss. Someday, this portion of Central Park just might be restored fully to its prior state.
It's a clear evening in the southern end of Central Park: dusk to the usual dawn, for this manner of meeting. Vincent's alone and just lighting up, black overcoat flat across the shoulders and smooth at the lapels where he stands a short ways off a demolished and overgrown fountain. Odds are he could stand to wear a cap against the cold wind, but for now, warm smoke on the inhale seems to be enough to keep him from shivering while he goes through the motions of checking his cell phone and reaching absently after his wallet to make sure both are still there.
Red light is fading fast across grass that's grown unchecked for way too many weeks, and mountains of rubble remain sloughed over the landscape in places that the city hasn't even attempted to clear. Pedestrian traffic is thin, too. Most with a decent head on their shoulders know better than to linger here after dark. Then again, most with a decent head on their shoulders don't have a license for concealed carry.
As she scuffs through the park, Elisabeth looks around at the overgrown, unkempt landscape that used to be so well maintained. The shining emerald of the city hasn't been that in years now. At least, some parts of it. Elisabeth's hatless as well in the chilly evening, though she's wearing a heavy black woolen jacket over her brown slacks. Her hands are shoved into the pockets of the coat and she trusts to her ability to make sure she can hear how many heartbeats are nearby and whether they're approaching or receding. She rounds the edge of the broken fountain and comes to a stop in the man's line of sight, making sure he sees her before she approaches any closer. Once she's got his eyes, she then moves forward to stand ten feet in front of him. Her blue eyes are cool on him; she's had time by now to handle the feeling of violation that comes from knowing he's been inside her apartment. "Find what you were looking for, Lazarro?"
Vincent's eyes are dark and impassive in turn, difficult to read beyond the fact that they aren't bothered. Any chilliness in her demeanor rides off him like cocaine possession charges off a wealthy white guy, but he is alert, and he is focused. Very focused, in fact — mongoose to cobra or cobra to mongoose. Whatever rocks your riki-tiki-tavi.
He does smile at the question, at least. Halfway. And he too can't help but glance past her shoulder to see that she's alone before he lays down his bets and zeros in on her entirely, cigarette tip pricked hot orange against the evening wind. "I wouldn't be opposed to you running an inventory of suspicious paraphernalia in the off chance there's anything I missed."
With a faint smirk, Elisabeth says quietly, "If I were doing something on the down-low, I'm pretty sure I'm not stupid enough to leave incriminating evidence where just anyone could slither in and find it. But then again, since you weren't exactly conducting any kind of legal search, even if I had been that stupid before, the evidence would assuredly be already gone, wouldn't it? So… where does that leave us?"
"In Central Park, apparently." Apparently. He doesn't actually look around to confirm that they're still there, but there's a rustle of the surrounding trees and the stir of damp, papery garbage caught up in snarled rebar and shattered masonry. "Do you mind if I ask a personal question?" Not leaving much room available for the idea that she will, Vincent trails his smoke away long enough to tap off ash and a spark or two while he waits.
"Sure," Elisabeth replies. "Can't promise I'll answer it, but you're welcome to ask whatever you want."
"It's not that personal," affirmed not quite at a promise in the dismissive level his brows adopt, he replaces the cigarette before asking (voice muffled somewhat by necessity), "Are you seeing anyone?"
Well, it's not exactly unexpected considering the fact that someone told on him. "I'm seeing several someones," Elisabeth tells him candidly.
"You're not seeing me." Kind of like the Central Park thing, this is obvious enough from the fact that he's in his pants and she's in hers that there is no glancing around necessary to confirm. He just lifts his brows and tucks his hands into his pockets. C'est la vie. "Are you pissed that I broke in?"
There's a pause, and Elisabeth glances away from him. "Yes," she finally says. Those bright eyes come back to his face. "Not that it matters to you, but in case you've never actually had your place broken into? It's a pretty personal violation." Of her space, of her privacy. "I don't like the sanctity of my home breached. It's why there's a security system in place. And since nothing you might have found there would have been in any way legally admissible, I have to admit I wonder why the fuck you bothered."
"I wanted to be sure you were being honest with me. About your ties. Your level of involvement." On the level, Vincent speaks as evenly as he ever does, but he's watching her even more closely now than he was to start, black eyes hardly blinking in the fading light. "People involved with these sorts of things tend to keep places that are very dirty, or very, very clean. That's one hell of a security system, by the way. I didn't even notice the cameras until Casanova pointed them out to me."
Elisabeth shrugs. "One of my ex-lovers does security work on the side," she dismisses mildly. "I got a little paranoid for a while." After Pinehearst, and more so after Humanis First. "I doubt my house gave you much insight into anything except my predilection for lacy undies," she comments.
"If it's any comfort, I have decided not to judge your predilection for lacy undies. You may rest soundly in the knowledge that I have taken your taste in panties into the strictest confidence." One long, smoky exhalation later, Vincent seems to relax, inasmuch as the stiff line of his shoulders slacks out somewhat in the clean cut confines of his coat and the dark suit underneath. "Did you have any other questions, while we're out here?"
There's a faint snort from Elisabeth that might even be a chuckle of laughter. Shaking her head, Elisabeth studies the man in front of her. "Actually…. yes," she finally says. "What the hell's IA want with John Logan?" And then on a separate note, she queries, "And what's your take on this Danko fellow? You think he's actually going to see a courtroom?" She keeps her tone casual, but just asking the question indicates a high level of interest. Then again, rumor hath it that she's fucking the Fed.
"Sooner rather than later, the United States Government will realize they don't want Emile Danko in our hands any longer than he has to be and drag him back into their custody, where he can't hurt anything if he decides to talk about all of the blank spaces in his official records. Whether or not he'll ever sit before a judge after that, I don't know and can't say." It's one or the other, at least, second question fielded deftly before the first. He's still smoking in the meanwhile, but there's little yellowing about his bare fingers and his teeth are clean. Probably just picked the habit up again recently.
"As for Logan, it isn't really my place to simply out and tell you. Not before you've let me buy you a drink, anyway."
She doesn't look at him as he talks about Danko. The tension in Liz's shoulders builds as he admits someone higher up the food chain is likely going to yank it out of the hands of a simple circuit court judge. Then again, the man has an attempted murder rap going against the President's PR lady — so maybe that will count for something. Those blue eyes roam the darkening park, and then they turn on him with an expression of surprise. "A drink?" She gives him a skeptical look. "Sure…. all right. Why not? But I have to tell you, I have my own theory on this. You know a place called Lucy's?" At least there, if something goes hinky, the girls'll look out for her.