It is currently 20:14 Pacific Time on Mon Jul 15 2002.

Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent Moon phase (39% full).

Currently in Saint Claire, it's a sunny day. The temperature is 80 degrees
Fahrenheit (26 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the
north at 6 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 29.93 and falling, and
the relative humidity is 40 percent. The dewpoint is 54 degrees Fahrenheit
(12 degrees Celsius.)

Location: The Rat and Raven Pub

Rina pages: We'll just say Rina dropped in on him and dragged him out to
have some fun and relax a bit, then. Sort of a thug's night out. :>


Well into her second shot, Rina is feeling decidedly more
relaxed--sociable enough to flirt with Mick, tonight's bartender, and show
off the slender engagement ring.

Salem nurses his bottle of O'Doul's -- nonalcoholic beer; the ex-Ronin
remains quite the teetotaler, especially when compared to the 'old days'.
He's about as relaxed as can be expected and keeps a healthy eye on the
pub crowd, but pays most of his attention to Rina, quirking a thin smile
at her interactions with the barkeep.

Rolling her eyes at Mick's concise opinion on marriage (which is not at
all favorable), Rina turns on her stool, swiveling through most of 360
degrees to face Salem once more. "What about you? Are you anti-breeder?
No, wait... you're a misanthrope, so." The remark comes with a teasing
half-smile.

Salem blinks, then lifts a brow and replies in dry tones. "A misanthrope,
and retired from the dating scene." He lifts the bottle, drinks, and adds,
"More trouble than it's worth."

Rina tips her head, offering a wry smile. "The words of a man who's either
never been in love, or had his heart broken one too many times..." She
tosses back the last of her whisky and calls over her shoulder to Mick.
"One more f'the road, eh?"

Mick eyes her. "Long as you're not going home on that bike of yours."

"Don't worry about her," says the Philodox, languidly. "I'm driving." His
glance slips sidelong to Rina, but he doesn't offer an answer to her
observation.

Rina rolls her eyes and mutters something about overprotective
cavaliers--and in the middle of her good-natured complaining, her jacket
emits a fragment of electronic Bach. She gives a little start, and frowns
as she digs out her cellphone. Answering it with a "Yeah?", she claps the
free hand over her ear to block out the quiet buzz of the bar.

Salem merely makes a quiet noise of amusement, a half-a-chuckle, one might
say, and sips at his faux-beer. He watches Rina's face as she takes the
call.

Rina's frown deepens, pleasant buzzed haze disappearing in a flash. "Well.
Fuck me gently with a chainsaw," she says tersely. "I'll be there in a
few..." A glance toward Salem, and she asks, "OK if I bring Jack?"

Any hint of a smile vanishes from Salem's face, and in a moment, his
expression holds its usual tense stoniness. He takes another swallow of
O'Doul's and then sets the bottle down.

Rina reaches behind her to the bar, then, her hand finding the shot and
bringing it unerringly to her lips. She drinks down a swallow or two,
closing her eyes.

Mick raises an eyebrow at her diction, but merely adds up the tab and
slips it onto the bar.

Salem refrains from drumming his fingers on the bar. His gaze remains
rivetted on the kinswoman's face.

Rina's brow is furrowed slightly as she sips at the whisky, her head bowed
a little, the dark eyes fixed somewhere on the floor. "Right. Um, where
at?"

Salem picks up his bottle, drains it, and reaches out for the tab,
slipping it toward himself while Rina is busy on the phone. He eyes the
figure at the bottom, then reaches for his wallet.

At roughly the same time, Rina digs a wad of cash from her pocket, peeling
off two twenty-dollar-bills and handing them vaguely in his direction.
"Four. Got it. Be there ...pretty soon. Slightly toasted. Bye." Still with
that abstracted expression on her face, she puts away the cellphone
one-handed, and finishes off the whiskey in her hand.

Salem hesitates with his hand on his pocket, then shrugs and takes it
away. It's the twenty-first century; he has no problem with letting the
woman pay the tab. "Who was that?" he asks.

"Rhiannon," Rina murmurs. "She's had some news, I guess." The dark eyes
shift to him, as she drops tab and cash on the bar. "You can drive me?
It's over by Rog--" A wince flickers across her features, and she corrects
the slip with a set to her jaw. "By Jeremy's place."

Salem pushes to his feet. "Mmnh. I see." He ushers her toward the door,
one hand digging into his pocket for his keys.

Rina settles her jacket more firmly about her shoulders, as she slides
down from the barstool. She follows him out, and folds herself neatly into
the passenger seat.

[Scene change.]

Location: Whispering Pines - Rhiannon's Apartment

Rina arrives a fairly short time later, looking slightly piqued, a flush
on the pale-olive skin. She knocks a few times on the door and calls out,
"Yo. It's us."

Salem juggles his keys absently in one hand, vaguely tense.

Rhiannon doesn't need to check and make sure it's Rina, and yet she still
does, holding her gun at the ready, just in case. After affirming that
Rina and Salem are, in fact, out in the hall, she quickly unlocks the door
and ushers them inside.

Rina comes in with her head bowed, though lines of stress show on her
forehead. She doesn't say anything until the door is closed; then she
turns the dark eyes on the Marshal,. "So?"

Salem's keys vanish into the pocket of his jeans as he follows Rina into
the apartment. His gaze fixes on Rhiannon, tensely curious.

Rhiannon restashes her Colt and gestures at the kitchen. "If you want
anything to drink, I've got soda, water, whatever." That small bit of
hostessing overwith, she takes a seat on the couch. "The police received
an anonymous tip the other night about Costas' killer. They're planning an
arrest for tomorrow."

Rina focuses on the woman, intently, leaning in almost as a predator
might. "D'you know who?"

Salem massages his knuckles unconsciously, his gaze remaining fixed on
Rhiannon.

"Word is, a college-age dealer named Dylan Seagrave." She pauses, waiting
for any sign of recognition from Rina.

Rina's brow furrows. "Dylan, Dylan..." She looks over to Salem, frowning.
"That wouldn't be Garou-Dylan, I hope? I didn't ever know his last name."

Salem shakes his head. "The Stargazer? He's long gone." His lips thin.
"Probably contemplating his toes in the East along with the rest of his
tribe." There's a definite note of scorn audible there.

Rina lets out a sigh, and paces to the kitchen, getting herself a glass of
water and drinking it down.

"In any case," Salem adds, "he didn't strike me as the killing type. More
the opposite."

Rhiannon shakes her head. "No, I looked into that. Unless he's hiding it
really well, he's human. Parents are from Utah, and sent him here for
college. He was a bit of a hellraiser in Salt Lake, but nothing serious.
Dad's a big shot lawyer, and his name might ring a few more bells. Thomas
Seagrave." She looks over the couch at Rina. "He's known for working with
the Russian mob, keeping them clean in Mormontown."

Rina glances over her shoulder from the kitchen, shoulders tensing.
"Great. So we think sonny boy's probably hooked up, then?" She turns,
leaning against the counter and drinking down the ice water, watching
Rhiannon above the rim of the glass.

Salem's face twists into an angry grimace. "Russians." He spits out an
oath in Serbian,

"If not hooked up, at the very least, he was hired to do the work,"
Rhiannon says. "The tip specifics confirm that Costas' finace received
money a couple days before he was killed." She shifts on the couch. "Also,
Dylan is rumored to have a key to the place. Won't know about that until
they search his dorm room, though."

Rina's nostrils flare slightly, giving her the look of a restive animal
for a moment. The predatory anger in her eyes does little to dispel the
impression. "Right. Well, at least that gives us an idea where it came
from. I was expecting trouble. Just not THAT kind of trouble."

Salem paces, long legs carrying him restlessly across the room and back,
hands clasped behind him.

Rhiannon hmmmphs an assent. "Tomorrow will tell the tale. Carmichael and
Schulte may still get ink on it, despite screwing up with your arrest,
which has some folks a little pissed." She blinks, a thought occurring to
her. "Oh, and, speaking of Schulte. I've gotten some information back on
him."

Salem stops pacing, swivelling on one heel to face Rhiannon. "Something
incriminating, I hope."

Rina purses her lips slightly, and turns to refill her glass. "Do tell."

"Not as much as I'd like," Rhiannon apologizes to Salem. "Jackson Schulte
has never been on any police force in Charleston. He certainly didn't make
detective there. But he may have gone to college in one of the South
Carolina state schools. His records have 'fake' stamped all over them, but
it's the classic fake of someone who's undercover. I...think he might be
FBI." She's clearly uncertain about that, but thinks it warrants
mentioning.

"Hell," says the Walker.

Rina looks over her shoulder, a sick look warring with disbelief. "Jesus
H. Q. Fucking Christ on /steroids/." She sets aside her glass of ice
water, and paces to one side to lean on the counter with both arms, her
head bowed. "Feds have such /fucking/ timing."

Rhiannon watches Rina for a moment. "I think maybe there may be two things
happening here," she says carefully, after a moment's thought. "I don't
know for sure if Schulte is a Fed. Maybe he's not, maybe he's something
else entirely--but if he is, and until I can get it confirmed it's a huge
if, then maybe he's not here for you. Maybe he's here for something else,
and your whole situation is a good cover for him."

Rina's head turns, dark narrowed eyes focusing on the woman. "Maybe... the
disappearances. You don't think he's one of their organized crime goons,
then."

Salem leans against the back of the couch, arms folding across his chest,
the corners of his mouth drawn downwards into a pensive frown. "I wonder
if Francisco can scent true form. Gaia knows the gift may return negative
if he's something exotic, but."

Rhiannon nods at both Rina and Salem. "The more I think about it, the more
I have to wonder. He didn't try very hard to prove you actually did do it.
All he did was try to get you to admit it, right? No sniffing around your
place, no talking to your friends. I gotta tell you, no one makes it as
long in the force as his faked records claim with that kind of work." Left
unsaid is, of course, the implication that the FBI hires idiots of that
caliber all the time.

Rina nods minutely. "Yeah. I thought he was pretty sloppy." She
straightens with a push, one hand raking back through her hair and mussing
the back of her head as she paces. "Right. Well. Dig carefully. We don't
wanna put him on *your* scent. And maybe we can get Frankie in the station
house, somehow." She chews idly on her lower lip, thinking.

Rhiannon adds, "I don't think Fran can, unfortunately. We could ask him,
though. I might be wrong in that." She does a fairly good job of keeping
her voice even, hiding most of the annoyance over not seeing him for the
last week or so.

Rina glances toward the woman, with a thoughtful look on her face. She
doesn't speak; after a moment she remembers her water, though, and turns
to fetch the glass. A few long swallows seem to settle her down a bit.

"Francisco _is_ a tad conspicuous," says Salem with a rueful nod. "As are
most of us. Still." He looks at Rhiannon. "The man isn't twenty-four-seven
at the station, is he? The gift doesn't need much more than light of sight
and some proximity."

Rina nods, glancing to Rhiannon. "We can stake out Schulte, if we can find
someone with the mojo." She comes as far as the edge of the kitchen, this
time, sipping at her water.

Rhiannon shakes her head. "No, he's got a swanky apartment to the North a
bit, he goes home at reasonable hours if his timesheets are any
indication. Nice place, for a cop." Her voice displays how little she
believes in his identity with each passing second. "Finding out about his
social habits will require a little more work, though. We might be best
off just watching the building, although Fran wouldn't...blend in, there."

Rina snorts. "*I* can watch him. Hell, I've run into him twice since the
arrest, so he's keeping tabs on me at least a little. Knows where I hang."

Salem rubs at his chin, thinking. "Leala would, though," he says. "Lianne,
too." He glances at Rina. "We might want a watcher that he wouldn't
immediately recognize, you know." His tone is dry, only mildly chiding.

Rina lifts one shoulder, and looks back at him, innocently chipper. "I
don't get out enough," she answers.

"Salem's got a point, at least about recognition," Rhiannon admits. "But,
the luring idea could work well. Get him to follow you somewhere better
for Fran to be. Of course, this all assumes he has the scent."

Salem grunts. "Hmn. If he doesn't, _someone_ in this city does."

Rina nods. "And we'll find'em." She drains her glass and sets it aside,
pacing once more, as if her small body can't quite contain the stored
energy.

"And hopefully, someone willing to help us, or at least go quid pro quo,"
Rhiannon drawls, well aware of the possibility that that someone might not
like helping a bunch of Walkers.

Salem doesn't seem worried about the non-city Garou. "The Walk isn't
scorned quite as much as it is in other places," he says. "Disregarding
the Wendigo and the Talons, of course."

Rina snorts. "Especially after...recent events, yeah?" She gives Salem a
look. "Not like we haven't been there f'the ranger types, lately.

Salem's good eye gets a keen, feral glint, and his lips part to show the
tips of his teeth. "Synthesis has quite a few Wyrm-deaths to its credit."

Rhiannon defers to the judgement of those who probably know better with a
tip of her head. "If you're both right, then, we can at least be assured
he's...human, and once I get some more information we can figure out who's
side he's on. Beside his own."

Rina nods slowly, and leans against a wall with one shoulder. "Yeah," she
murmurs, thoughtful. Her gaze returns to Rhiannon, and focuses. "Thanks,
Rhi."

Salem's expression reverts back to something more civilized as he turns
toward Rhiannon. He nods in agreement with Rina. "You've been invaluable."

Rhiannon waves her hand, and gets up, heading into the kitchen for a drink
of her own. "Not a problem. S'what I'm here for." She rumages in the
fridge for a moment and produces a can of soda, and kicking the door shut
behind her she comes back the couch and lounges on the edge, taking a
drink.

Salem glances at his watch, then shifts his gaze over toward Rina. "You
need a ride home?" It's not quite a question.

Rina lets out a breath, looking the slightest bit depressed. "Not like I
can actually /walk/ anywhere anymore, is it?" She regrets the cross
question immediately, and offers a wry half-smile to him instead. "I'd
appreciate it, babe." To Rhiannon, she says, "Thanks. We'll get outta your
hair."

Salem arches a brow, but takes no offense. "If you want to walk, we can
walk. But John would skin me if I let you walk home alone." He smiles
thinly.

Rina's mouth quirks a little at one corner, wryly.

Salem adds, deadpan, "The car would be faster, though."

"Not in my hair, hermanita," Rhiannon tells Rina with a slight smile.
"It's pretty quiet in this place at night."

Rina nods minutely, and paces over to take Rhiannon's hand for a moment.
"Thanks," she says again, and then lets go, turning away and heading for
the door.

Salem inclines his head to Rhiannon, wishing her a good night before he
turns to follow Rina out, heeling like a bipedal doberman.

Rhiannon locks the door behind the pair, then heads back to the couch, her
soda...and a small mound of casefiles.