PRIVATE - P.J. Vasquez...Private Eye

[von Streusser]

P.J. Vasquez...Private Eye

The office is on the second floor, and I bet you had a hell of a time finding the place. Sorry, on my salary I can't afford a nice storefront property. On the plus side, at least no one saw you come in, and no one will see you go out. In here it's just you, me, and your troubles...and I can take care of the last bit. Care for some coffee? It's behind you.

My name's Peter Vasquez, and I'm a Private Detective. My friends call me P.J., my enemies call me something that sounds strangely like a gunshot, and my landlord calls me deadbeat. You, you can call me Susan if it makes you comfortable. I don't care long as you pay. Leave your politics at the door too, I don't care what party you're from or what line you're selling, cause I ain't buying. Leftist, rightist, it doesn't put food on the table for me, so I don't care. I'll work for anyone, whether you're a monarchist or a socialist. Just so long as you pay me a good capitalist's wage.

The office isn't much to look at. A desk, a couple plants I should water more often, the coffee pot that's still behind you if you want something to drink, and a window with some blinds I keep mostly closed...you know, so you get that cool line effect in an otherwise dark room? I've always loved that.

I keep my records in that filing cabinet. I don't keep much in my desk. Just a gun and a bottle. One I keep loaded. The other keeps me loaded. Now then, what can I do for you?

 

[Josephus I]

[OOC: Maybe you should move this out of "private" threads?

 

[Voshkod]

The torpedo walked into the office, wearing a suit five times too nice for the ugly face on top of it. He opened his jacket, pulled out a large envelope (and revealed his own pistol at the same time), and dropped it on the cheap desk, where it landed with the noise of a wet corpse hitting concrete.

The gunsel raised his hand. "Don't ask me nothing. I'm just the courier." He waved a meaty hand toward the envelope.

 

[von Streusser]

[OOC: Maybe you should move this out of "private" threads?

[Why's that? Your conversation with Mr. P.J. is private here, I doubt anyone wants their discussions with a private eye overheard by the general public. He advertises just enough, mostly through word of mouth, that if you really want to find the place, you can...but anything that goes on here is confidential.]

 

[von Streusser]

P.J. looked up at the courier, never taking his feet off his desk. Reaching into his desk, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, draws one from the package, and places it to his lips. He opens his jacket to retrieve his lighter, perhaps opening it a bit more than necessary, revealing a Desert Eagle .50 of his own.

"I assume we are done with the posturing now?" he says, as he lights the cigarette and blows the first puff of smoke just past the gunsel, but not into his face.

Reaching over, he takes the envelope and opens it.

[Voshkod, is there supposed to be a PM accompanying this or something? I have received none.]

 

[Voshkod]

Inside, Vasquez finds two bundles of bills. A quick ruffling reveals 200 fifty-ducat notes, and a letter. Handwritten, blocky, hasty style, the English is precise but stilted - clearly not a native speaker.

Mr. Vasquez,

It is with great pleasure I learned that someone of your particular talents had opened shop in Eutopia. I find myself in immediate need of your services.

I must know, as quickly as possible, every detail about one Zuckergußgebäck Alexander von Maazarin - his criminal connections, his connection to Norway, any possible detail.

The enclosed sum should cover the first few hours of your work. We will, of course, take care of any expenses.

I need this information as quickly as possible. There will be bonuses based on your alacrity.

If this works out to my satisfaction, I will have other jobs for you.

With regards,

/s/Yuri Voshkod

The gorilla looks over at him. "Well? Whatta ya say?"

[OOC: No PM; just wanted to pace the story right. It has to feel film noir, and nothing ever happens quickly in those. Languid blonds, tired detectives, you know the drill.]

 

[von Streusser]

[Ah, good show...yes, your writing is perfect for the scene too, I was going for film noir myself. Well done. ]

Ruffling through the notes, Vasquez whistles. "My my my..." Whatever this 'Yuri Voshkod' had against this 'von Maazarin' fellow was very big indeed. P.J. looked down at what was typically 20-30% of a year's take, sitting in his hands. Sliding it calmly back into the envelope, he took another drag on his cigarette.

Vasquez ran through his mind quickly what he knew of this Voshkod. Former director of ENDTech, now ran Operational Security Incorporated, one of the bigger security firms in the country. Rich, Russian, ran a tea room that brewed incredible tea. P.J. had also heard rumors that there was more to this Dr. Voshkod than the papers knew, but that information was still fairly sparse. Something in the back of his mind made him think that this was connected to something that had happened recently, but he couldn't place what. Didn't von Maazarin run an airline? And the stockmarket?

"Tell Senor Voshkod that I will take his case. I will need some contact information for him though, so that I may alert him when I have something for him. I can understand a certain need for...discretion...in which case an intermediary is fine." P.J.'s chair creaked as he leaned a little farther back, putting his heels back up on the desk and taking another long draw on the cigarette.

 

[Voshkod]

The thug reaches into his coat and clumsily pulls out a cell phone. He slides it across the desk to Vasquez. It's slighty heavier then one might expect.

"Da boss says to call him on dat. It's a crippled phone, or sumthin like dat."

He stands like a fallen tree rising, brushes his coat down, and walks out with the grace of a quadraplegic cat.

 

[von Streusser]

The man's name is Rudy Graveline. Part-time musician, full time stoner. Usually, a little something from the evidence room is enough to make him tell you anything you want to know. The place is a dingy smoky dive of a bar called the Cat's Eye. Specifically, a back corner. Rudy may be a moron, but he's one of the best cheap musicians on the island...ideal for weddings, bar mitzvahs, and galas. He cleans up OK, and since he can play a number of really obscure instruments, people tend to turn the other way if he happens to light up on stage.

"PJ! How's work man?"

"Not bad, not bad at all...certainly plentiful. So tell me, have you ever seen a man by the name of Zuckersomething Alexander von Maazarin?"

"Zuckersomething? No way man. I'd remember a weird-ass name like that...von Maazarin though...let me think...von Maazarin, von Maazarin. Sounds familiar. Wait! I know a von Vaam! Does that help?"

"Only if she had a von Maazarin with her..." PJ groaned.

"Well....von Maazarin...hmmmm...." There was a long silence, before Rudy asked "So, how's work?"

Vasquez barely managed to resist the urge to pound his head into the table. "Not good, at the moment one of my prize contacts is having a brain fart!"

"Bummer dude."

"von Maazarin!"

"...is having a brain fart? That jerk...want me to straighten him out for you?"

"You're much more useful when you're stoned, you know?"

"Heh, tell me about it. Hey, that guy, von Maazarin, I think I've seen him before, at the South African lady's dinner thing."

"Thank God..."

"Yeah...though she didn't see him. Well she saw him, but not the 'him' she was looking for." Rudy took a pull from his drink.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Soon as she saw him, she goes 'THAT'S not von Maazarin!', then a little later she storms out."

PJ's jaw dropped. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah man...if you want, you can take a look at the tape at my house, we tape all our shows."

"Let's go."

* * * * *​

Shortly thereafter, at Rudy's disheveled disgusting apartment, they found the tape and watched. Von Vaam made the promised statement. "Oh man, this is where it really gets good, watch this!"

On the video, a reporter started snapping pictures of the man identified as von Maazarin...a moment later, his bodyguard jumped up, grabbed the reporter's camera, screamed "NO PICTURES!" and smashed it to bits on the floor.

"Oh my God..." muttered PJ. Rising quickly, he pulled the tape out of the machine. "I'm going to make a copy of this. I'll bring it back in a couple days."

 

[von Streusser]

She didn't knock, but rather opened the door straight away. Vasquez, deep in thought, didn't look up either. The smoke from his cigarette curled up in long thick tails to the cieling, where it pooled and sat, frustrated by any attempt to escape the room. Vasquez's eyes were closed, his feet up on his desk. The woman cleared her throat, and Vasquez didn't move, or open his eyes.

"Take a seat. What can I do for you, Miss....?"

"Von Vaam." was her only reply.

That got a reaction. Vasquez's eyes shot open, and he pulled his feet off the desk.

"Mrs. von Vaam? Witney's mother, no? My apologies, I was trying to break down a case. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Bourbon?"

"Two weeks ago I would have told you I didn't drink...bah, damn this government, they couldn't find their own ass with both hands and a flashlight. I'll take bourbon."

PJ chuckled. "Si, you are right...but you are talking to a man who can at least find his own ass now. But I'm sure you would rather I found your daughter." Sliding a contract across the desk, he placed a pen on top of it. "My rate is on line 2, and I require the amount on line 3 up front. I keep an expense report, and require they all be paid."

"Anything if you find Witney." Mrs. von Vaam signed, and slid the contract back across.

"One of my other cases intersects this one in quite an interesting fashion...are you familiar with a man by the name of von Maazarin? I ask because your daughter, just before she disappeared, was seen at an event where he was also present...and she said, I quote, 'That's not von Maazarin' to him. This man is very dangerous, whoever he is, and I think we may find some clues in this."

"Von Maazarin? The name doesn't sound familiar. Witney went to school in Europe some, maybe they met there? She's never been to Eutopia before."

Vasquez made some notes. "Does she carry a cell phone?"

"Yes, but we've already tried tracing her with it...if it was on, the battery would be dead by -"

"I don't want to trace her...I want her records. If you make a request to the company and get me her phone records, it would help."

"I never thought of that...I'll have my husband do that right away." True to her word, von Vaam placed a call right there in the office to her husband. "Where can we send them?"

"I have a fax, here's the number. Send them as soon as you get them. Right now though, I need to meet with a certain witness..."

 

[von Streusser]

The knock on the door surprised "Lucky" Malloy. "Who is it?" he called, moving slowly towards the front of his run down apartment.

Malloy was out on bail after being picked up trying to sell the "Heart of Africa" ruby to some undercover cops. Peering through the peephole, all he could see was one big eye. "It's Santa Claus...open up." The voice was deep, and had an accent...latin. And familiar.

"Vasquez?" Malloy opened the door, and PJ Vasquez was standing there, smiling.

"Hello Lucky...may I come in? I wanted to talk to you about this ruby thing you found."

"Yeah...come on in. But I ain't answering no questions till my lawyer gets here, OK? I gotta call him, sit down, make some coffee." Malloy shuffled off into another room, and Vasquez went to the kitchenette to brew a pot of coffee.

Coming back from the other room, Malloy sat down. "He'll be here in fifteen minutes."

* * * * *​

It wound up being 14 and a half. "Lucius Tiberius Matlock, who the hell are you?"

"Peter Vasquez, private investigator." Neither man extended a hand to shake. PJ stood up and began to pace around the room while Matlock and Malloy sat down on the couch to conference. "Well Lucky, let's make this quick...where did you get that diamond?"

"You don't have to answer that!" barked Matlock. "Listen, Vasquez, the cops already have his statement on file, you're not getting any more! You have no right to-"

"No right to ask an old friend where he found something? Please...I'm not the police, I'm not going to charge him with anything." Vasquez looked at Lucky and opened his arms. "Where'd you find that thing? I know you didn't steal it. And I know you didn't kidnap von Vaam."

"My client, according to the Eutopian Charter of Rights, has the right to-"

"How do I know you won't run and tell the MILE whatever I tell you?" Malloy looked worried, he was sweating.

"Tilly is a lawyer, and his men are all cops. Tilly doesn't trust me, I don't trust him. And don't get me started on cops."

"I don't believe you, you'll tell Tilly! I'm not saying anything!" shouted Malloy.

Matlock smirked at Vasquez. "You're perfectly within your rights, you don't have to say a thing Mr. Malloy."

"Fine" PJ shrugged, then reached into his jacket, drawing out the biggest gun Malloy had ever seen in his life, and pointing it right at the thug's head. "We can do this the hard way then. Where did you get that diamond?"

Malloy went white, and his jaw dropped. Matlock, shocked, tried to stammer out "That...that is totally illegal, you can't-"

Vasquez turned the gun on him. "Can't what? Can't shoot you both if you don't tell me what I want to know? Why not? You know how much money I make? I'm not exactly married to this job or this country, and it is very easy to find a country that would not extradite me." Turning the weapon back towards Malloy, he spoke with a sharp air. "Diamond. Where did you get it. Now."

"I beat up some kid who was showing it off...a high schooler at Farpoint High, and I took it!"

"Stop! You don't have to tell him Mr. Malloy!"

Vasquez trained the gun on Matlock again. "Shut up. Nobody likes lawyers." He turned back to Malloy. "That kid that was in the papers? Yeosh'Ua Aktari?"

"Sounds about right! Please don't shoot me!"

Vasquez holstered the weapon. "Thanks Lucky, Mr. Matlock. See you both around. I can let myself out." Without another word, he walked out, leaving both men standing slackjawed at what had just happened.

 

[von Streusser]

Vasquez walked back into the apartment he had been in so recently. A police officer stopped him at the door, but a quick exhibition of the papers, signed by Tilly himself, that had brought him to the organ theft case quickly afforded him entry. Stepping into the bedroom, he looked around at the carnage.

This was the sort of thing that made men quit the force.

Blood was everywhere, and some of it had been used to paint runes and symbols on the walls...Vasquez pulled out a digital camera and began snapping pictures quickly, trying to get every part of the room. Organs were missing...heart, kidneys, and liver. Vasquez made a note to himself to check and see if these particular organs were of any significance.

"The Egyptians...they valued particular organs..." he muttered out loud, then took another look at his surroundings. "This...this is disgusting. Symbols, organ removal, ritual murder? Yikes...why not just call the MILE's office and say 'Hello, we're a bizarre cult'..." Vasquez trailed off at the end of his thought. This was huge.

"Or perhaps they did." He began to think out loud, running through what he knew of the case. "Organs begin to disappear from hospitals, taken by groups that appear to be predominantly Topan. Vilms reports to Tilly that Mayor Thorsbeard is growing suspiscious of Topan teens, saying they are beginning to act peculiarly. Von Vaam disappears, and the only lead in the case winds up dead...with his organs missing. Wow, I can get paid double for working the same amount of time." Vasquez' face lights up. "So the people involved in the organ thefts are also involved with von Vaam, and decided to try and cover their asses by taking this gentleman out...and why not take his organs too? They're usable, and it's easier than breaking into a hospital.

Gracias, bizarros...you just helped me a great deal." Snapping a few more pictures, he pokes around the apartment a bit more, and then leaves.