Date: 6/28/2004
Around 6:30pm.

Fifteenth Avenue, Uptown

From south to north, the buildings shift from small, two- or three-story offices with delicatessens, ice cream shops selling homemade ice cream, and similar types of small specialty shops on the first floor to, first, a few old-fashioned inns, and then a small park on the western side of 15th, south of Market Street. Less than fifty yards to a side, there is a curving path in it, and a few park benches, and a small grassy place used, to guess by the poles, for volleyball or badminton. North of that, between Market and Osprey, are old houses, mansions almost, with metal gates and walls to set them back from the street. Along the street itself, tall trees tower, cutting off much of the light that should reach the ground, excepting a small strip in the center of the roadway itself from which the sky can be seen. Farther north, where 15th joins Osprey itself, there are a few condominium buildings, with carefully sculpted bushes around them.

Late afternoon sunlight fills the local Starbucks with an almost ethereal glow. Too bad the light is wasted on passe decor and a few less than photogenic customers. It's quiet in here today, with just a few scraggley college students and two old ladies chatting about curtain rods providing the only background noise -- well, almost. An angry, harsh voice occaisionally intrudes into the relative silence. The voice seems to belong to a person talking on a pay phone near the back. He seems distracted and upset. Any who have met him before would easily recognize the man as Dirk Dawson.

Innocence, thy name is Emily. Or at least, she looks innocent, moving into the cafe with her blonde hair loose and down around her shoulders. She's not nearly as spooked as the other day, her features set in pleasant lines and her body held in a relaxed posture. She orders her drink -- vente caramel macchiato whip -- with the calm professionalism that comes from excessive coffee consumption. As she waits, the loud voice catches her attention. It is then that she tenses slightly, a subtle change in her posture. Swallowing, she looks back toward the barista, hoping that he hurries up.

"Look..." Dirk's voice is equal parts exasperation and anger. "I'm not asking for much. A four-block sweep. That's it. No..." He frowns and turns directly away from Emily, his back to her. "No..." The PI brings up a hand and sweeps his hat off his head, clutching it tightly. "/No./ Listen, statistics show that when a car is stolen..." He falls silent again, listening with growing impatience.

There's a brief knowing look in her eyes, as if the woman is well aware of what happened to the poor PI. Regardless, she nearly starts snapping her finger at the barista as they work on her order, hoping to slip out of the cafe before he turns around. This, unfortunately, causes the young woman to roll her eyes, slowing her movements down.

Dirk faces the phone and begins to figit, flipping the cord with his free fingers while he continues to listen. A scowl is becoming rather pronounced. "I /know/ this isn't San Fransico. But you can't honestly expect me to believe that your force consists of one model-T and a soapbox racer. Certainly--" He suddenly covers up the mouthpeice and swears silently -- though the word he's mouthing is obvious to any onlookers. He brings the phone back up. "I'm sorry about the sarcasm, I just..." The harried PI keeps talking, somehow managing to inject a reasonable tone into his conversation. He's now facing the front once more.

Emily had darted behind the edge of the barista counter when he turned, hoping to stay out of sight. Unfortunately, the girl announces her drink in a bored voice, staring right at her as she does, "VENTI CARAMEL MACCHIATO WHIP" in a way that attracts the attention of the entire cafe to her. Cursing to herself, Emily sighs and reaches forward to take the drink.

Dirk turns to look with all the others. And then: "Shit...!" He probably said it right into the phone, but suddenly he doesn't seem to care. He takes a quick step forward, trying to confirm that the owner of the Venti Caramel Macchiato Whip is indeed the girl he met a few nights ago...and jerks back as he reachs the limit of the phone cord! The detective curses angrily and makes a hurried attempt to return the phone to its cradle (he fails, causing it to rattle loudly against the wall). Not paying any further attention to his previous conversation, Dirk starts walking over. And the scowl is still in place.

Emily is currently attempting to weave her way through the maze of tables and chairs. She would have made it, she really would, it it weren't for a chair that has a leg stuck on a piece of gum on the floor. Her coffee promptly spills over her hand, causing her to swear loudly and passionately as the searing hot liquid hits her hand.

"Miss Miller," Dirk's face is critical, his eyes dark, as he quickly catches up. "What a lucky meeting this is." He glances down at the complex coffee concoction scattered between the cup and her hand, and though concern briefly wars for dominance on his face, the scowl wins out. "No doubt your captors are watching your every move." There's a pause, then his eyes move back up, scrutinizing her face, seeking...something. "Am I right?"

Emily is currently sucking at her burned hand, a slightly frustrated expression on her face. "Mr. Dawson. I have no captors." There is unease on the woman's face but she says that slowly and clearly. "I don't think that I should be speaking to you." And, despite the fact that the coffee burned her hand, she sips at her drink.

Dirk doesn't move for a moment, continuing to stare at her...and then he abruptly nods, as if hearing exactly what he expected. His face even resumes its normal, vaguely disappointed look. "Fine. No one else is, today." He pulls out a chair at the closest table and falls into it. "Fuck it." He reaches into his jacket and brings out a small, silver flask.

Emily does not sit down and there is a look of relief on her face when he stops questioning her. However, she's a softie and she can't help the momentary look of concern on her face. "I heard you talking about the car. When was it stolen?"

The corner of Dirk's mouth kinks upwards, indicating either anger about his car or derision towards Emily -- it's hard to tell. "Two hours ago." He unscrews the flask and takes a big slug. "Like you care." Putting the cap back on, he fixes her with a weary stare. "I know you. Your character, I mean."

Emily shakes her head, her eyes looking surprisingly sad. "You know nothing, Dirk. Nor would I expect you to." She seems about to add more when common sense rears its head and she instead goes for another mouthful of coffee. When she finishes, she turns and heads toward the door, not looking back.

Dirk stretches out, putting the flask on the table and dropping his hat beside it. He stares up towards the ceiling. "I wasn't sure at first, but with hindsight..." He blows out a loud breath and blinks deliberately, as if trying to clear his eyes. "The 'femme fatale'," he announces at last, raising his voice to reach her. "A classic example."

There is actually a bitter laugh as Emily pushes on the door and she hesitates. Glancing over her shoulder, she eyes the older man before stepping back slightly. "So I'm irresistably attractive then?" She sounds as though she doubts him. "As for danger--I think you do a fine job of leading yourself." Why yes, she is old enough to know something about film noir, it would appear.

"Don't flatter yourself," Dirk sits up then, something about his manner hinting that maybe he's already had a few previous pulls from his flask. "The femme fatale is usually attractive, yes, but that isn't what defines the archetype." He continues to speak loudly, not caring about the growing number of stares (only the old ladies aren't paying attention at this point). He stares at her with an expressionless face. "Try this on: A seemingly innocent women who does a good job of playing 'victim.' She's real good at leading men around by their ties. Always needing help..." He smiles, but it's not pleasant, and doesn't even seem to be directed at her. "But deep down...she's always calculating." He picks up his hat and puts it on. "Deep down...she's cold." He grabs the flask and stands.

"You have never been more wrong." That's said in a low voice and Emily's face finally holds a hint of anger. "You stay away from me, you insulting man." And with that, she exits the cafe, stalking up the street as she does.

Dirk follows her as far as the curb, yelling after her. "Deep down...she could do anything! Including kidnapping!" Turning and jamming his hands deep in his pockets, Dirk sets an angry pace for the long walk home. He turns around only once more: "Tell me you're afraid again! It worked /real/ well the first time!" The Detective heads away with hunched shoulders, looking almost forlorn -- and maybe weaving just a bit.

The funny thing is that Emily -is- terrified. If he could see her face when she looks up at the mansion, he might well feel terrible about himself and his words. The moon is a little too full and bright and instead of going there, she keeps walking down the street, her shoulders hunched slightly.