The Candidate

no-lightbox

Sliding out of the car, Charlie smirked faintly as he spared a glance around before returning his gaze to the private detective. He'd expected little more than the response he had been given, and in part he was glad for the predictability, "You're kind of an ass, you know that, right?" Whether it was part of a ploy to maintain a level of icy professionalism, or just the man's general disposition, Charlie didn't mind, so long as the job got done.

And really, there was something inherently likeable about a man who, despite being a bit of a dick, still knew right from wrong and wanted to see a bad situation set on it's head again. Charlie couldn't complain about the honesty, either. He'd spent his life surrounded by politicians - it was refreshing to spend a few minutes with someone who didn't feel the need to suck up like a half-starved remora. Or worse yet, a person who expected Charlie to...

Closing the car door behind himself, Charlie followed after Les towards the guard house. The young brunette woman behind the desk was petite, but carried herself with an air of confidence that suggested behind her small frame she packed enough punch to handle herself. Charlie was brief, handing her the claim number for the vehicle and as she buzzed them through the gate. As the gate slid open, he looked over to Les again, curiously, before stepping through, "Police said the damage to the towncar was pretty extensive, but we had it brought here to throw of the press scent. What exactly are we looking for?"
 
Lester Johnson
Les Investigations​

Lester shrugged noncommittally, his gaze lingering in the gatehouse a moment longer than was strictly necessary. Or polite. He strode forward confidently, leading Strathmann into the yard despite only having a general idea of where the car might be. His right hand, buried in a jacket pocket, fidgeted unconsciously with a small stack of coins. It'd been his own call to come out here, to look at the vehicle in which the senator had bit it, but hell if he had the first clue as to what he would be looking for. Or even of what to make of the damage. For all his investigatory skill, Les wasn't a cop, and crashes were beyond him.

But they had to start somewhere, and the car seemed like as good a place as any. Lester slowed to look back, mouth twisted in silent contemplation, as he waited for Strathmann to overtake him and take the lead. He'd just have to approach it like he did a domestic. The injured party had already been consulted and the scenario explained to him; it was time to collect evidence. And, most often in the case of unfaithful spouses, that meant a tracker. It wasn't a hard thing to do, if not entirely legal; the investigator usually just slapped it inside the wheel well of the moron's car, finding it later to download the contents from it. Whomever it was that Strathmann (and Elena) claimed did this knew where the senator was going to be in order to carry out that hit. So yeah; in retrospect, Les did know where to look. Or at least, what to look for.

"Was your boss into anything...borderline illegal?" The question cut through the air, lacking any segue. "Or backing legislation that was at all unpopular with certain people?"

It wasn't a pleasant question. But it needed to be asked.
 
no-lightbox

As Les slowed his pace, Charlie moved forward into the lot, heading in the direction he knew the car to be. It had been only a few days since the accident, but he had seen the wreck several times. First, to see if there was anything substantial to Elena's claims, but then because he had needed to... he had been desperate for some sort of closure, some answers of any kind. He'd gotten none of the former, and only more questions...

A brow quirked at Les's question and looking over at him, Charlie frowned thoughtfully. It seemed an unfair question, but then, Lester didn't know Gerard Gibbs. Very few did, personally, and it was only common practice to question the legitimacy or moral standings of a political face, "Gibbs was straight as can be. Didn't even cheat on taxes. I've known him a long time, and I've never seen him so much as stiff a waitress on a tip. As for legislation, I mean... there's always something unpopular about a Presidential Candidate for someone. But for the most part, his platform was pretty well received. He just wanted to bring things back to good old American values."

Rubbing his forehead, Gibbs sighed, "Pretty squeaky clean... Had a brother down in Florida who ran into trouble with a prostitute. But at the end of the day, you can't help family, right?" Gesturing ahead, he pointed out the wreck, though there was little need to. The luxury town car was no more... and in it's place was a shattered, splintered mess of metal and broken glass. The entire driver's side was crushed in like a soda can, the back dented just as severely. How anyone survived appeared miraculous, indeed.

"Sheesh... Gets worse every damn time I see it."
 
His companion's eyebrows lifted at the sentiment. To Les, having never even seen the wreck on television, it looked pretty severe. A twisted heap, the remains of the sedan could barely be called a car and only identifiable as such by the single front right tire that still held to its axle. The PI found himself stopped mid stride; it was far more damage than he'd prepared himself for. It was, he mused absentmindedly, a freaking miracle that the girl had escaped with her life. If Strathmann's claims were true and this was intentional, whoever caused this most certainly did not want survivors. A small whistle of astonishment escaped his lips as less brought his feet back together. He brought his phone out, flipped it up, and snapped a picture. For later reference, he'd claim if challenged. But really, when did a common citizen, even a public investigator, ever get to view as nasty a wreck as this from so close?

Putting the cell phone away, Les approached the car, heading toward the driver side first. The left edge of the car was practically kissing the center console, or at least what the Jaws of Life hadn't ripped back in the extraction process. He winced; that wouldn't have been fun. Red stained the tan ceiling and the plush tan seats. Even deep cleaning hadn't removed all the blood, and Les stuck his head in further through the driver window to get a better view. Well, 'better'; there was little more to see at that angle, save for a small hairpin. It had likely been overlooked or judged unnecessary by the police when they investigated. And it probably was. But Les palmed it and extracted himself from the window, shoving it into his pocket as he turned and walked around to the back.

The trunk was nearly as bad as the front, the back lights practically sitting atop the rear axle. There was probably a great deal that someone with any kind of training could see in the damage, but Les was not that person. Instead he focused on the wheel wells. Carefully, so as to avoid potentially slicing his hand or finger on a sharp edge of metal, he felt along the undersides, doing his best to find a any sign of a GPS tracker. First the left, then the right, but neither bore any thing, save for yielding a bloody palm. The driver side wheel well was smashed to hell, as was any tracker than may have been stuck there. So, nursing a shallow cut across his palm and hoping he might get lucky, Les moved around to the passenger front tire.

And lucky he got. After a brief moment of feeling underneath with his good hand, he brushed against a tiny box perhaps the size of a pill bottle. Grunting in satisfaction, he pulled it free from its magnetized grip and stood up to examine it as he pressed his minor injury against the leg of his jeans.
 
no-lightbox

Charlie had read his share of crime novels in his day. He was a huge fan of Law and Order on television and considered himself something of a gumshoe when it came to locating a missing remote control or the smell in the back of the refrigerator. But where actual detective work was concerned, there was a good reason he had opted to hire one, instead of handling it on his own. When Lester came away from the wheel well with the tracker, Charlie's eyes widened and whistling out a breath, he swore softly.

"So that's how they did it..." Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled free a handkerchief and held it out to the private investigator, before gesturing to the tracker, "Any way that we can figure out where it came from? Do they give off any sort of reverse signal or anything we can trace? Cost is no object... whatever it takes, Mr. Johnson."

The police had no real reason to comb over the vehicle, so it wouldn't have been easy to discover. But if the men responsible hadn't come back for it, maybe there was still hope that they were done. Maybe there was hope that Elena was safe... As long as he could keep her under wraps, keep her from saying what it was she saw...

Yet he wasn't ready to believe it and a part of him knew it was because the likelihood of Elena getting away unscathed was too low to fathom. As soon as they found out she had seen anything, she was going to become the next target.

Shivering, he shook his head, "We can discuss it at the hospital. We really ought to get back..."
 
Les nodded in appreciation before taking the handkerchief from Strathmann, injured hand lifting from his pants leg to do so. Bringing it to his eye, he examined it more closely, trying to assess the device so as to answer the question asked of him.

"No," he sighed, gripping the cloth tightly in his fist to stem the small flow of blood. It was a transmitter, sure; unlike the models he was more familiar with, that had to be extracted later in order to download the GPS coordinates of travel from the thumbdrive-like format, this was exclusively an active machine, battery powered and slightly larger to permit transmission of signal from its given location. "These things don't work like that, with 'reverse signals', whatever that is. And the battery is probably dead, anyhow. But..."

It had to be programmed somehow prior to its install on the Senator's car. Turning it about awkwardly in his hand, Les spotted a small port; a micro USB cable would fit it. Smiling with a bit of satisfaction, the man shoved it into his pocket.

"I'll take a crack at it. There's probably not much on there, but it never hurts to check."

With a final glance over the wreck, ensuring he hadn't forgotten anything, he turned and began the trek back to the gate. Strathmann was wanting to head back to the hospital, but he wanted to get into this box. The battery might be dead, but if it wasn't, and these people had remote access to it, they might be able to erase any data. So better to get it looked at asap. He slowed enough for the other man to join him.

"You head back; I'm going to go break into this thing. I've got your number, and you have mine. I'll be in touch."
 
no-lightbox

He didn't like the idea of separating. In all reality, though, it was Lester's show and if he thought it was for the best, Charlie wasn't going to argue. He was relatively sure he was better suited at the hospital with Elena, anyway. Nodding, tucking his hands into his pockets, he took one last look at the mangled wreck of a car, frowning.

"I was pretty sure before, now I'm positive. She wasn't meant to survive... Whatever these scumbags want, Mr. Johnson, I don't doubt for a minute if they find out Lena is alive, they'll come after her. Be careful... Wouldn't put it past them to come after you, either. Call me as soon as you've got anything on that tracker... and I'll see if I can't convince Lena to open up a little more about the SUV she said she saw hit them from behind."

With another nod, Charlie turned away, making his way through the gates of the impound lot and back to his car. It wasn't a long trip back to the hospital, but with the mounting distractions, it was a good half hour before Charlie had returned to Elena's room. Outside, he found Dixon Carver waiting for him, the red haired man wearing a sheepish expression, his skin more flushed than usual as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Listen, Charlie. Sorry about earlier. I didn't get your text until--"

"Don't worry about it. Is she alright?"

"Lena? Yeah... She's good. Nurse just checked up on her... said she'd probably get the okay for release by tomorrow morning. I was gonna call you, but you said you didn't want any of that information over the wire. Where's the PI, anyway?"

"He's working on something... Found a tracker on the wreck. It's possible he might be able to figure out who put it there. I'm gonna go talk to Elena, but I want you to stay close, in case I need to go out again."

"Sure thing, Charlie." As Dixon settled back into his chair, Charlie pushed open the door to Elena's room, not at all surprised to find her in much the same position as when he had left. With a stern frown, Charlie pulled a chair to the bedside and sank down into it, "Listen, Lena. I know that this is a lot to ask, and I know that you can't help what's going on in that head of yours... but we found a tracker on the car. This... this definitely wasn't an accident, and I might be able to prove it. But we'll have better luck if you can tell me what you remember."

Looking over at him, Elena sighed, shaking her head. He was admittedly a little startled when her voice filled the silence, not a moment later, "I don't remember. It... it's there... I can see it in my head, but it's blurry... like a picture, all out of focus. I keep trying, but I just can't..." Breathing out, she turned her eyes away, "I'm sorry, Charlie. I don't know if it'll ever come back."

Reaching out, he laid a hand over her own, shaking his head, "We'll get there, Kiddo. Just... keep trying." Sinking back in his seat, Charlie pinched the bridge of his nose, "And pray Mr. Johnson finds something in the meantime..."
 
Lester hadn't given Strathmann a second look. Instead he pressed on down the sidewalk, shifting and twisting to get through the occasional compressed crowd he might come across. His jaw worked, mindlessly rolling his tongue about in his mouth in contemplation, ignoring in its favor even the forthcoming apologies he garnered as people bumped into him or angry curses as he bumped into others. The tracker was the sole focus of his attention. Or at least, how to extract the info. If he were a betting man, he'd say the thing was encoded, protected digitally at the very least by a strong passcode so as to prevent the very thing he'd shortly be attempting. And while he could handle the less complex tasks that were sometimes required on a computer, Les most definitely was not going to be able to break into an encoded anything.

Rounding a corner, the PI paused at the thought. That meant May. His nose wrinkled as he thought of the little pixie; he really did not want to endure again her come ons and yammerings. But maybe he'd never given her enough of a challenge. The last certainly hadn't been; most of May's attention had been devoted to eyeing Lester in a vaguely hungry manner while she talked his ear off about nothing, and he left her place feeling really tired, despite the fact that she had broken her way into the hard drive provided her and dumped the info in a short span. Huffing heavily through his nose, he flipped open his phone, brought up her number, and hit 'Send'.

*** ​

"You've got to get Unix 20XX, if you even think you're going to do any kind of program editing. It's the best for handling any kind of challenge it comes across, though most people never put it through its paces, for some reason. It's really weird! Maybe people don't appreciate computers like they should, or the things they do for us! Do you know that there's a computer that's at least three decades old that's been running a grade school's AC ever since it was installed? It's crazy, when you think about it; most computers today are obsolete in like five years. Eight tops. But that's because most people don't care for them like they should. They're always downloading crap onto their drives because they didn't bother running their porn through a security program first! I get wanting to get off, but come on; Playboy didn't make it's millions because the ads it featured drew people in!"

Lester sat on the couch, elbows on his knees and temples in his hands. It wasn't a terribly large place; like most bright young computer techs, May Paulson wasn't terribly well off, though she'd certainly done well enough for herself to even afford an apartment by herself in the city, and that was no mean feat. Nevertheless, it was obvious where her cash flow was usually directed: a second hand couch of worn and faded green fabric, barely big enough for three people, hugged the living area wall opposite a medium sized television that May had installed on the wall; said walls were by a rule bare and unattended, save for a few small posters of popular bands and an old movie or two; and the dinner table was shoved into a corner, its round shape at odds with its placement. Yet the computer and the desk upon which it sat was carefully tended and cleaned, free from dust and food crumb alike, and May worked at it like she were interacting with a fragile but well loved old friend. The tracker sat on the work surface, connected to the tower by a thin black cord. A flash drive was plugged into a port adjacent to the cord, flashing as information was loaded onto it.

May paused in her rambling to glance at the bright monitor. The progress bar jumped the last few bits to the 100% mark, and a notification window flashed up that the download was done. Grinning, she ejected it virtually then yanked it from its port. Tossing it into the air and letting it fall back into her hand, she spun her chair to look at Lester.

"We've gotta stop meeting like this, ya know. Business. It's so...formal."

Lester stood, the customary five $20 bills in his hand. Mid toss, he plucked the drive from the air and offered her the cash.

"Business is just fine. It's nice and...emotionless."

"Guess so." A bit of light faded from her eyes. But the smile, charming and honest, stayed. "But suppose I give you a freebie on the next one in exchange for a little dinner date? Nothing fancy."

"We'll see. Gotta find more work, first." He extended his empty hand toward the tracker; he knew better than to reach for it himself, close as it was to her precious equipment. "Better hand me that, too. Never know who might come looking for it."

But May shook her head emphatically, the green highlights of her hair giving an odd contrast to her ice-blue eyes.

"That's a nice bit of hardware," she stated. "Isn't cheap on the market. I could probably turn that around for some good profit."

"That's great, but it's evidence for the job I'm working."

Her face fell. Reaching back, she disconnected the small box from its cable and handed it to him. Nodding, Les shoved it into his pocket beside the flash drive and turned to go.

"I'll see you, May. Probably sooner than later."

"Alright!" the woman replied, a some amount of enthusiasm returning at the perceived implication of an informal visit. Les scoffed to himself but let the matter be. Instead he merely closed the door. Once he was back on the sidewalk, Les flipped open his phone again, this time dialing Charles Strathmann's phone number.

"Chuck? Hey; it's Les. Yeah, listen. Where can I meet you? I've got the box cracked. Thought you might want to take a look at what was inside with me. You got access to a laptop?"
 
no-lightbox

They were there, the memories. Trapped in her mind. She had the key, she knew she did, but it was on a chain that stretched miles and miles. The more she tugged, the harder it got to believe she would ever get there, to the end and the blurrier the visions in her head became. Charlie meant well, and she wanted desperately to help, but in the end all she had were vague, foggy recollections of the worst moments of her life.

She'd fallen asleep again, and woke to Charlie, gently shaking her shoulder. As she opened her eyes, he nodded down at her, "We got a break, Kiddo. Lester was able to get into the tracker. I'm gonna head down to meet him, so we can check it out, but Dixon is right outside if you need anything."

"...Tell him thanks..." She started, softly, meeting her father's friend's eyes, "Mr. Johnson. Tell him thanks... for doing this."

"I will, kid. Now get some rest. Dixon's in the hall." He turned and left and with a sigh, Elena closed her eyes, giving that chain another mental tug, as hard as she could manage.

Charlie had instructed Lester to meet him in Central Park - a bench near the Wonderland statues. Here, he sat and waited, his laptop in it's case at his feet. Whatever information the man had discovered, it was the first real break they'd had since this nightmare began. He had no real delusions that they would crack it open in one day - but any indication that it was foul play - any opportunity to prove there was something to actually -take- to the police, he would grasp with both hands.

Fishing out his cellphone, he pinged in Lester's number, holding the phone to his ear, "I'm here, at the park."
 
Lester had given Strathmann an acknowledgement, stating that he was on his way but failing to give anything like an ETA for his arrival. It seemed the Private Investigator thought Soon was reassurance enough.

Central Park was quiet today. Small disinterested sounds crept through the foliage surrounding Charlie, present but utterly self-concerned. Song birds chirped and whistled at one another, seeking a mate or declaring ownership of territory. A slight breeze caressed the green palms that tree and bush alike spread out under the sun, and the rustle created an ambiance and an atmosphere that Thoreau would have found appealing. Even the loud grumble of vehicular traffic, so characteristic of New York City, was reduced to a hum, only occasionally noted, the greenery by design preventing much of the noise pollution. It was a peaceful place to simply be for a brief interlude, a place to forget for a moment the cares and worries of the world.

There had been no foot traffic passing by Strathmann as he sat on his bench, so the sudden click of hard heels against the path was a bit jarring. A middle-aged woman, small but not thin, meandered through the gentle turns of the walkway, eyes slowly roving above a distracted smile, as self-concerned as the rest of the park. She was quite obviously in no hurry and seemingly with no destination in mind, and judging by her stride and her pace, she had been walking in this manner for a while. Yet she very obviously didn't belong there, or at least, not without a coterie. A dark blue skirt hugged her legs above black pumps, with an open suit coat to match. Her blouse was light gray; an unfortunate color, for it showed however lightly the small amount of sweat her stroll had earned her had darkened the neckline. Most distinctly, however, a pin styled after the American flag was displayed prominently on her coat lapel. It was Katherine Harper, CFO of Harper Technologies and political opponent to Senator Gibbs, taking as she was known to a brief interlude from the pressures of her job.

Suddenly, as if just noticing Charlie sitting close by, she gave a startled squeak and jumped.

"Oh!" Her hand went to her chest, a foot falling back involuntarily from her position and her whole body tensing. But she immediately relaxed and smiled. "So sorry."

She turned her attention away, moving to continue down the path. But suddenly Kathy turned back, her face taut with curiosity.

"I'm sorry, but aren't you the late Senator's aide? Charlie Strathen?" Her hands clasped before her. "My condolences for your loss. Senator Gibbs was an excellent man."
 
no-lightbox
On the way to the park, Charlie has purchased a paper. He wasn't one for the news, oddly enough, given his career - but he always found journalists were less inclined towards the truth and more so towards dramatics. He had little patience for it, and less so now that he was involved, personally, in a properly dangerous set of circumstances. There was, graciously, nothing new in print, but for a small article once again contrasting the oddness of Gibb's death, so shortly after his brother's.

Yet it was a little unnerving, oddly, and Charlie almost found himself more paranoid that the press weren't salivating over all that had happened like sharks, chum in the water. He had done a good job with damage control, but no one was that good... It stunk of suspicion, and he was beginning to doubt if keeping things quiet had been the right choice, after all.

He was so caught up in his thoughts, that as he folded the paper beside him and looked up, he almost missed the woman strolling past. Catching her from the corner of his eye, he turned as she spoke and rising, Charlie nodded in greeting.

"Ah. Yes. Ms. Harper. Thank you... It's been, ah... it's been difficult, but thank you. Gerry was a good man... and no one deserves what happened to him. I'll be sure to pass your condolences on, of course, to his daughter."
 
"Yes, thank you. Please do." A smile, amiable but sorrowful, broadened Kathy's face. "And let me know if there's anything I or my office can do to help, of course."

A chime sounded, and she glanced down to her wristwatch. She tapped it a few times, cycling through messages on the interface and frowning at them. Finally she glanced back up with a sigh.

"I'm so sorry, but I have to leave. Here." Kathy pulled a business card from her inside jacket pocket and offered it to Strathmann. "My personal number is on there. Let me know if you need anything at all."

With a last smile, Kathy stepped away down the path and was soon out of sight. A few minutes later Lester turned the same curve, hands in pockets. He gave Strathmann a nod.

"Chuck." He looked marginally hopeful, a small smile turning up one side of his mouth. Retracting one hand from his pocket, he handed his companion a flash drive. "Should be on here."
 
no-lightbox
Watching Kathy walk away, tucking her card casually into his wallet, he shook his head. Politicians had a way about them that made just about everything they did sound somehow insincere, whether or not it was... It was a trial, trying to decipher just exactly what they were really saying beneath the fine coat they put around their words.

Engrossed in his thoughts, he nearly missed Lester's approach, but he turned in time to see the man and return the nod, holding out a hand to accept the small flash drive. It seemed prudent to handle their business in private, but it already felt as though time were working against them, so instead, Charlie say down on the bench and pulled his laptop out of the case.

"Anyone else see this?" He asked, because he had his doubts that Lester was quite so handy that he had managed to hack the information so swiftly. The circle of people who knew that there was foul play involved in Gerard Gibbs's death was small, but it seemed to be growing minute by minute, and Charlie was beginning to feel threads pulling lose, fraying at the edges...

Booting up the laptop, he plugged in the flash drive, "I'm fairly computer illiterate with this sort of thing, so you'll have to explain what I'm lookin' at, here."
 
"Hell, I'm as clueless as you are." The response was clipped, if not offensively meant. The PI stalked around the bench to position himself behind Strathmann, eyes locked on the screen as he circled. "Got a friend to crack the tracker for me. Don't worry; she's legitimate."

The computer had merely been on standby mode, and it booted up immediately upon opening. When Strathmann plugged in the drive, the program installed on it opened automatically, bypassing the file menu. May had done him one more favor; she'd set the info to load automatically. Les sniffed. He really would have to give her that dinner date.

The file window popped open, encompassing most of the screen space. A map flashed into view, detailing the streets and roadways of the city, and in one corner a red light blinked. Slowly at first, a blue line began making its way from the light, slowing at some intersections and stopping at others. In the upper left corner was a kind of date and time counter, steadily marking them as the line progressed. Les scoffed.

"Guess they were keeping a really close look at your boss." He focused on the date. "Starting last year, apparently."

The time stamp had a drop down option, allowing for date and time selection, and beside it were 'Stop' and 'Forward' buttons to allow progression.
 
With a dry, humorless smirk, Charlie shook his head, "A fine pair of detectives we make for this generation. Hopefully it's not too complicated, then." The screen booted up and Charlie leaned back to give Lester an unobstructed view. As the file opened, his mouth folded down into a frown. He didn't need to be a computer genius to understand what he was seeing. The question was why…

Why would someone keep tabs on Gerard for a solid year and only just do something about it?

Frowning deeper, Charlie surveyed the rest of the screen, taking in the dates and times, "Don't suppose we got any information on who was doing this? A name or address where the tracker came from? I can't see what purpose was served in any of this… What changed, that got him killed? At any rate, I think it's safe to assume none of this was done with Gerry's consent. Curious what else they've been watching. Listen… Think you could sweep his penthouse? See if anything comes up there?" "
 
"If I had to guess," Lester muttered pensively, brow knit slightly in thought, "I'd say there's nothing on the drive apart from locations and paths. I'll take a harder look at it later, but-"

His furrow deepened, eye narrowing as a possibility occurred to him. Hopping over the back of the bench with the agility of focus, the PI swatted Strathmann's hands away and pulled the laptop onto his own lap. May wouldn't intentionally hide anything from him, but then, she had no idea what information might be pertinent to what Lester was doing. Which meant Les would have to look for it. Fingers carefully picked their way across the keyboard and the touchpad below it, seeking options and possibilities. And finally something came up.

"It isn't much." Lester indicated a particular file before opening it. Most of the data had been encrypted or straight up expunged from the system, and most information concerning the owner, operator, and manufacturer was gone. Yet a small amount of data remained: Boston, the city of manufacture. His lips pursed, and he jotted a few notes about the device onto a pad of paper he'd pulled from his jacket. "Keep the drive with you. The tracker, too. See if one of your people can find more information on it.

"For now, yeah. I'll sweep the penthouse. You have a key? I'll trade you."

From his pocket Les withdrew the tracker and proffered it to Strathmann.
 
A brow quirked, and looking at the screen, Charlie frowned. Breadcrumbs... Every piece of information they found was just another piece of a puzzle, but one where the bigger picture, the full picture, was still a complete mystery. Everything would add up - it had to, eventually, but in the meantime it was just more questions, more confusion. There was undoubtedly nothing more frustrating in the world that a pile-up of the unanswerable.

Looking ahead of him at the Alice statue, he frowned in thought. Deeper down the rabbit hole... No kidding.

As Les held out the tracker, Charlie closed the laptop and with a nod, slid it into his bag again, placing the tracker beside it, "Yeah, on my key ring. Listen... With this new information, knowing someone's been watching him for this long? I'm not comfortable leaving Lena on her own. I'm going to go back to the hospital and sign her out - bring her to my place outside the city."

Pulling a pad of paper from the front of his laptop bag, he scribbled a note and handed it over, then reached into his pocket and slipped a key from the ring he produced, "This is the address. When you're done at the penthouse, meet me there and we can discuss what's next. Honestly, I'm starting to think it's best I get her out of New York."

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he rose to his feet, "I'll see you in a few hours, alright?" and with a nod, he turned and started down the path towards the park exit.
 
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The penthouse was...well, it was a penthouse. Opulent in a distinctly underwhelming way, as only a politician seeking to display his prestige yet still wanting to remain approachable by even the working class could be, there was strangely little to note about the place. It certainly looked like it hadn't been lived in for a few days, though there was no lack of signs of homely activity from its residents' last visit. Shoving the door key into his pocket, Lester glanced around, practiced eye taking stock. Vehicles. Trackers. Crashes. He'd played every moment of that by ear, hoping that he was doing something right. But here, in the living space, here he felt confident. Closing the front door behind him with a click, he turned to face the room, comparing his first impression against a more careful study.

A few more things stood out to him: a bottle of liquor stood on an end table, and a few glasses sat about the living room in various locations at various fill levels. Clearly they had been some party the night before the crash, one likely not involving too many people. Something official, perhaps? 'Off the books'? It was possible. Slowly he began moving through the living room, and then the apartment, seeking anything that seemed out of place or differing from the norm.

And for audio bugs of any kind. It takes a thief to catchy a thief. The saying had always struck him vaguely funny, though perhaps not far from the truth. Yet thievery was a far cry from conspiracy and murder; Strathmann had needed to settle for the smaller criminal. Les checked the usual places: under countertops, in cabinets and drawers, within lampshades or on top of light fixtures. But, save for some disturbed dust, if anything had been there at all, it'd long been removed, likely for download. Or perhaps-

The PI reached under his jacket, undoing the clasp that secured his firearm between his belt and his hip. It was possible, he thought uncomfortably, that whomever was responsible had still been monitering the tracker since the crash but had been unable to access it due to its location in police custody. It's movement would have meant its discovery, which would have meant further removal of evidence from likely places. And the penthouse was the first place any curious mind would look.

A small card caught his attention; a business card of professional make, it'd been placed casually beneath one of the drinking glasses, as if forgotten. His eye brows furrowed, and he picked it up.

"Harper Technologies?" he mused, scanning the card's contents. Had this whole affair been a meeting between the senator and a rep from the company? Perhaps a potential supporter? It was odd; why would a senator need the backing of a glorified R&D company? Politics espionage? Maybe he wasn't as good a man as Strathmann cl-

"Shit!"

No audio bugs might mean the tracker was being watched, which might mean the culprits might seek out the tracker itself. Shoving the business card into his pocket, Les turned and sprinted out the door, hurrying fast as he might for the hospital. As he ran, he flipped open his phone, hoping to reach Strathmann on it before anything could happen to him.
 
Marisol Tait had been working in the Chiefton Hotel for something close to a decade now - she had been young when she started, starry eyed, dreaming of the life where a wealthy man might notice her among the staff and see that she didn't belong in a humble maid's uniform, dusting and vacuuming up after the undeserving masses. That he might sweep her off her feet into the lap of luxury and take her away from her struggles. Those dreams had died, swiftly and violently, but instead of making her jaded and cynical, she felt oddly more at home in her job. It wasn't the best, but it served its purpose...

And thus far, it had been relatively lowkey. Perhaps that was why the news of Gerard Gibbs's death had come as such an unbelievable shock. She hadn't possessed romantic feelings for the man - though he was admittedly attractive for being older and a politician, but he had been kind and generous, and she had enjoyed their conversations, particularly about his daughter, who he had something of a special relationship with. To learn that he had died in a car crash, and so soon before the election was devastating. And to know that he had left that poor girl alone somehow made it all so much worse.

It was, perhaps, why she found herself heading up to the penthouse with the flowers, even if she was all too aware that Elena Gibbs might never return there. She had been stepping clear of the elevator when, to her surprise, a figure came around the corner and careened into her, sending flowers and maid crashing to the floor.

Blinking, staring for a moment at the shattered vase, water pooling into the hideous hall runner, she felt a momentary sense of frustration, but as her eyes twisted up to the offending figure, her frown twitched into a look of confusion, "...W...what were you doing in the penthouse?" She asked, voice a smooth blend of well studied English and a bit of Spanish routes she simple would never shake. Rising to her feet, brushing her hands on the front of her uniform, a brow lifted, "No... no one is supposed to have access but Mr. Strathmann..."
 
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