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Post by Penny Royals on Nov 15, 2012 16:01:47 GMT -8
Midnight.
The rain was pouring down on the streets of Gable. It had been dumping buckets for three straight days, flowing straight to the river. There were rumors that the rain was foreboding of a hurricane or other big storm coming through, but so far no heavy thunderclouds had peaked their heads over the mountaintops in the distance.
The neon sign of the Open 24/7 was getting a rare bath, its grime slowly oozing off down the poles. Parts of the sign, notable the 'n,' were flickering towards the end of their life. Still, the sign provided a beacon to the weary drivers, though not many would be stopping there tonight.
Underneath the makeshift roof of the six gas pumps lay a white, lonesome figure etched in chalk and spread eagle on the pavement, one hand up by the face, the legs flayed awkwardly from the body in a way that seemed... unnatural.
All was quiet, except for the lonesome whine of a car engine as the first car of the night pulled up to the station.
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Post by JW% on Nov 15, 2012 18:32:50 GMT -8
It rained like angels weeping over the black pavement. No angel was ever this cold or dark though. I was there, at an hour when even God tells you it's time to pass out in a pool of your own refuse, following a note that had been slipped under my door. What else did I have to lose? Besides my health. The rain fell on my umbrella, and I felt the cold wetness soak into my pants. From the knees down I'd been wading in the rain, like walking through an open sewer.
I didn't trust that note, but these days, I didn't trust much besides my own eyes and hands. And even those lying bastards sometimes tricked me. Still, my bank account was so empty that the moths had all left to greener pastures long since, and there wasn't much I knew how to do but work with my hard head and harder hands. This didn't look like the kind of gig I normally did though. The chalk outline told me that much. Maybe the angels were weeping, but it certainly wasn't for my benefit. Poor schmo. Bought it here at the Open Allnighter, where so many other things were bought and sold, like so much refuse passing from hand to hand.
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Post by Alastor on Nov 15, 2012 20:59:23 GMT -8
There was the relatively unique whine of a motor desperately needing a check up as another car pulled up at the scene. "Damn thing..." The driver muttered to himself, a man in his late sixties.
As the car pulled to a stop, the detective pulled himself out of the vehicle, taking a look around the scene before fiddling with his pockets in search of the letter, finding the coffee stained paper in his side pocket. He was curious as to what this was all about, and more importantly, if the mention of a payout was a sham or not.
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Post by Anya the Purple on Nov 17, 2012 15:52:49 GMT -8
It was just so fucking poetic.
Seriously, everything about it was just perfect. Dark night, pouring buckets, freezing wind, and a lone detective walking toward a murder scene at midnight. Somebody should put it in a novel.
Ari Rosenbloom pulled his coat tighter around himself, struggling to keep the heat in against the wind. God, the things he did for the love of mystery. Also the cash. Business had been slow since he started his own business, and the thought of a meal of something other than shitty leftover pasta was enough to get him out here, even on a night like tonight.
He reached the crime scene to find two people already there. "Hey," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the wind. "One of you the guy who sent this letter?" He held up the small slip of paper, then stuffed it back in his pocket so it wouldn't get too wet.
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Post by Adlai Stevenson on Nov 19, 2012 16:51:24 GMT -8
Midnight.
The rain was pouring down on the streets of Gable. It had been dumping buckets for three straight days, and Marwan Ramzi absolutely loathed every minute of it.
The wipers scraping against the windshield of his cut-rate beater of a sedan could only hope to try and keep up with the cascade of water pouring from the murky heavens above, leaving Marwan to rely upon the blurred streetlamps and dotted white lines on the cracked pavement below to steer his vehicle away from the rusted guard rails.
When he arrived at the gas station, the foreign-born private eye unfurled a worn out umbrella, barely enough to cover his head and shoulders. He looked upon the scene he was told to go to - the note was still in his pocket - as well as the men already there, looking just as puzzled as he was.
"Wasn't me," he said as he overheard the short man's question.
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Post by JW% on Nov 20, 2012 13:49:57 GMT -8
The angels wept their cold bitter tears as I noted the rest of the arrivals. Some of them I knew, by reputation if not in person. They were my comrades, my competition. Some of them I'd never laid eyes on. It wasn't a big town, and I tried to get out as much as I could, so I knew the look of them when they came up. That dangerous look that said they didn't have anything to work with but their wits and maybe that piece they're packing. And some of them were packing.
Way too many gumshoes for this party. Whoever sent the invitations wasn't looking for a private event. They were looking for a private eye. Kinda made me wonder if there was another town somewhere out there, over that rainbow that had to be showing, given how much rain was pouring on it, that didn't have so much competition. No wonder I was living hand to mouth with barely a case to go by.
I just shook my head. Don't know if anyone could see me respond to the question or not. Didn't really care. I had what I needed to know. The invite sent private eyes to the scene of a crime. Message received. Time for me to leave.
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Post by Penny Royals on Nov 23, 2012 11:13:28 GMT -8
((Alright with three days since Per's last post and eight since mine with no sign of Corte, it's his loss. If he wants to join in, he's gotta find a way to jump into it. On with the show!))
The group of men seemed to be chatting quietly, barely biting the clues given to them right here. The 'n' on the sign flickered for the last time, and burned out.
From the shadows behind the station, where there was a stretch of flat nothingness, was movement. The most intuitive of the group could probably detect it even with all the other men talking. But nonetheless, when the darkness seemed to grow, it was still a surprise.
The man who now stood in the semi-circle of light was tall, and perhaps handsome, with a dimpled chin and an etched-out nose, all poking out from underneath a crumpled gray fedora. His jacket was long, his pants drenched. But undoubtedly the trait most noticeable was his lack of a right arm. The man assessed the crowd, and calmly walked over by one of the pumps.
"We're missing one." He said, matter-of-factly. His voice was like gravel. Smooth gravel. "I said the time on the note, didn't I? Oh well... we'll just carry on without him. That's one less head I've got to worry about."
((Yes I'm aware 'smooth gravel' makes no sense. XD Much of the similes in these sorts of things make no sense...))
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Post by Alastor on Nov 23, 2012 12:44:09 GMT -8
The aged detective was about to speak before he heard the newcomer, turning to speak. "I do think we've found our man, gentleman." He said, his voice carrying a tinge of interest.
Though the paradoxically smooth gravel of the unknown man's voice hadn't infused much trust, for some strange reason.
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Post by Anya the Purple on Nov 24, 2012 17:34:51 GMT -8
So this was the guy who had gotten Ari out here in the freezing cold rain in the middle of the night. "And why did you want so many of us out here?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. The newcomer's voice was reassuring, and Ari couldn't help but feel reassured, but he didn't want anyone to know that. Skepticism was his thing. Or at least, he tried to make it such.
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Post by JW% on Dec 12, 2012 19:46:58 GMT -8
Something about this hurt my gut. Like a thick hole in my stomach leaking acid and bile. It didn't feel right. The note and all seemed obvious enough. There'd been a murder here, and there was only two reasons to call an investigator to a murder scene. Hire them to find out who did it, or hire them to cover it up. I didn't do the second one. But the fact that so many detectives had been called together... made me think that this one armed man didn't want the first one done.
Fair enough I suppose. Time to head home. It was midnight... maybe I could stop by the bar on the way home. Should still be open. I could use a drink to warm me up after all this cold rain. Like angels tears for the dearly departed, cold and unfeeling to the rest of us who didn't see the angels weeping.
The one armed man had better speak quickly, because they were about to lose my interest.
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Post by Penny Royals on Dec 12, 2012 20:56:06 GMT -8
The man went to stand by the chalk outline, looking down at it a little forlornly.
"Do any of you follow the news?" He asked, pausing to let it sink in. As if it were just a rhetorical question, he continued: "Two days ago a young girl named Karen Long was murdered in this very spot. She was nineteen years old, and a rather good member of the community." He stepped around the outline to stand once again in front of the others. "She lived with her father and brother, at 627 Haven Parkway. She worked at Perry and Jane's when she wasn't doing sports or at school at Gable University. Her best friend was one Myra Long, living at 463 Yonder Boulevard. Her boyfriend? Tommy Rockefeller, teen heartthrob and leader of The High Rollers. Her uncle, Frederick Johnson, who many of you," he glanced at the cars parked by the pumps, "May know as the salesman at Harold's Automotive. And then there's her mother, the famous vixen Jade Smarring, singer and star at The Smoky Den." He stopped, looking to each of the people present. "Now, the man who found her was Reverend Blake. If any of you know him, which you may in fact do, you'd know that the man wouldn't hurt a fly. Even so, the cops have been after him for years, thanks to religious and political differences. No matter how many times they break into the church..." He paused, grinning a bit mischievously, "They can never seem to find that damned speakeasy. The password is 'Horsefeathers.' Remember that. In any case, Reverend Blake was arrested for the murder of Karen Long, and is currently in questioning. I know for a fact that he didn't kill her. That's why I've called all of you here." He smiled then, gentle. "I need you to not only prove Reverend Blake's innocence, but find out who exactly killed Karen Long."
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Post by Alastor on Dec 12, 2012 21:00:48 GMT -8
"Cut to the chase, kiddo." The aged detective replied curtly. "What's the reward? You've called us all here with the promise for that, after all."
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Post by Penny Royals on Dec 12, 2012 21:05:09 GMT -8
The man gave a small laugh.
"Of course. The reward." He pulled something out from under his huge jacket, a briefcase. One would wonder why he had been carrying it inside, until they noticed that the lock was busted. "Twelve thousand dollars in reward. That's enough to buy you a few drinks, isn't it? Whoever can solve this case gets the money- though if you all solve it, together, you have to split it." He grinned. "So what'll it be?"
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Post by Anya the Purple on Dec 18, 2012 22:37:27 GMT -8
"I still don't get why you want so many people," Ari said, but his curiosity was piqued. Aside from the 12,000 bucks, he'd been to the Reverend's speakeasy once in a while. The guy was a bit of a sleaze, Ari thought, but he'd never peg him for a murderer.
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Post by Penny Royals on Dec 19, 2012 6:30:27 GMT -8
"Have you ever heard of the term, 'Many hands make light work?' Yes? Okay. I've called so many of you here for just that reason- you see, you have a deadline." He shut the briefcase, walking to the middle of the area, into the rain. "I'm out of town in about 48 hours. So, in two days, this time once again, I'll meet whoever may have solved the case here. Then they shall get their reward."
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