10 AUG 1995

"Missing person? I'm not entirely sure why I'm needed. Freaky ass shit, on the other hand, is just my cuppa. The accent was almost American Bostonian, until you realise that it is actually nativised British. But let's have a look at the case file when we sit down. Reed smiled at agent Kylie to lead the way. " Three years here and I don't think I've tried everything in a Jewish deli yet.

Kylie leads the way up to Sammy's Deli, an old school kosher joint a few blocks away in the East Village, near the border of Gramercy. The restaurant is quite full, mostly with tourists, it seems - you hear a bevy of languages being thrown around, and it looks as if there's at least one school group (probably from the midwest, if you had to guess) occupying a long banquet table in the center of the room.

You take your tickets, order at the counter, and carry your food on trays while you scan the room for a seat. You're able to secure a booth in a corner. Not the most discreet place you've ever pored over top secret information, but what the venue lacks in privacy, it makes up for in stimulus and distraction. No one seems to notice or pay any attention to you as you take your seats.

The crowd in the deli provided a cover of anonymity, of sorts. Reed kept one eye on the surroundings, and casually checked out the people in the booth behind theirs, before settling into his seat, and waited for Karl to hand over the documents. He was a practical man, and scanning the dossier quickly before passing them on to one of the others. He much preferred to be at the scene itself to investigate things better.

"I'm afraid I can't tell what is out of the ordinary from these, apart from the fact that she had interesting ideas about interior decoration. Perhaps better heads than mine can glean more. When we're ready, I suggest we head out to her apartment. But no hurry, I've barely started on this, this matzo ball." He held up a spoonful of the dish and eyed it intently.

Karl nods, though a bit absently. He's skimmed the dossier's contents already, and made the necessary motions to look to potential observers that he's interested in his sandwich, but for the most part he's keeping an eye on the room for signs of trouble.

"Apartment seems the logical place to start," he agrees, glancing back to the others at the table. He looks across at Kylie then. "Any of the references in here," he asks, gesturing to the case file, "spark anything for you? Seems more like your area of expertise than mine."

When ordering his food Kirby showed a bit of straight to the point, no umm.. or ahhs..

He quickly starts in on his sandwich keeping an attentive ear out around him. Between bites he casually eyes the crowd of patrons at the establishment.
Finishing the better half of his sammich he cleans up the crumbs around him. "How far is the place from here?"

After her turn at the file, Kylie goes through it quickly cataloging the information, then going through it again parsing the details. "I need to see the original source material, of course, to determine a probability of actual phenomena. This synopsis is incomplete and compiled by untrained eyes. The apartment may work well, if it hasn't been ransacked by goons. "

A no nonsense bunch. Reed agreed with the need to head out, and finished up his meal.

You finish your meals, take your tickets, and pay with cash at the door before you leave (in classic NY deli style, they only take cash), and hop in your cars to head to the Macallistar building. The drive is just a straight shot up 3rd Ave, but what would normally take 6 or 7 minutes winds up being more than a 20 minute drive in the rush hour traffic. You finally reach your destination just shy of 6 pm.

The building is a classic three-story brownstone structure with a faux-castle design located at 210 East 32nd Street near 2nd Avenue in the Rose Hill neighborhood of Manhattan. A fake portcullis hangs above the large double doors, artificial ramparts encircle the windows and ledges, and cheap concrete gargoyles watch from the rooftop.

You arrive to find a black Ford Taurus with an NYPD license plate parked outside, the form of a single occupant visible in the driver's seat.

Reed glanced at Karl, whom he had always assumed had some sort of FBI background. "Your call, this one. They can't still be watching the place." And nodded in the direction of the NYPD car.

"Yeah, I’ll go have a chat with them. Keep low for a minute, yeah?"

Karl exits the car some distance up the street from the NYPD vehicle, straightens his jacket, and approaches the car from an angle that will make him easily visible to the occupant. No surprises here. He walks calmly, as though he’s simply out for a stroll.

He comes up beside the driver’s side door. "Evening," he says companionably, then leans over to take a look inside.