The Offices of Thalia Trimble, Private Eye - vol 1

Dylan snaps his fingers when you say the name, excited to finally have his memory jogged. A moment later the realization of what that name means begins to sink in. "I am inclined to agree... You wouldn’t happen to have any other powers you’re keeping secret, would you? Like the ability to create a black hole that can take out this entire company in one clean shot?"

The dry cleaning clerk comes back a few moments later. "You guys get everything you need?" He spots the freeze framed video displaying Ivanovich. "Oh, hey. That’s Chris! He comes in all the time. Awfully clumsy with his wine. No... You don’t think he’s the mugger do, you?"

The clerk has his back to Dylan who looks incredulously at the oblivious man.

Without missing a beat, Thalia says, "Of course he's not the mugger. We found him already, thanks to you! No,we stopped on this frame because I recognized him. He lives in my building, just down the hall from me. Does he have anything here to be picked up right now?"

Dylan is having a little trouble staying in character. The fun part of the deception seems to be wearing off as the reality of what you've discovered hits him. Luckily, the dry cleaner is the overly trusting type and is all smiles as he ushers you both out front. "Yes, actually. He dropped a suit off two nights ago. Such a busy man, always orders delivery service. I was going to take it out there when I got done my shift. But if you..." Ultimately, you're not quite sure if it is naivety, laziness, or a combination of both but the dry cleaner is practically shoving the suit wrapped in plastic into your arms. A receipt is pinned to coat hanger which lists the the name Christopher Evans and his address. "Please tell Chris I appreciate his business and look forward to seeing him again soon!"

Once you are out of the dry cleaner Dylan turns to you, "I'm out. I am sorry. I want to help in any way I possibly can, but there is no way in hell I'm going to that man's apartment. What's the game plan here, Thalia? This is getting really dangerous."

Rolling her eyes and slinging Ivanovich's plastic-filmed suit over her shoulder, Thalia grabs Dylan's elbow and pulls him toward his car. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course you're not going to his apartment. Now that we know who the actual murderer was, the rest of the tentative plan has to be scrapped. It wasn't some local thug who got flustered or went rogue. If someone hired Ivanovich, they got exactly what they were paying for. So bullying the perpetrator into giving up his employer is out."

She waits for Dylan to unlock the car doors, then reaches in and hangs up Ivanovich's suit before climbing into the passenger seat. She sighs heavily, looking through the windshield at nothing. "Oh, and you're a little late realizing that this is 'getting really dangerous.' I could have told you that yesterday when I was fighting off fifteen guys with sonic blasters on the street by myself yesterday."

Resting her head back against the seat, she closes her eyes and waves a hand vaguely. "Just drive back to Nathan's and I'll walk the three blocks to my car from there. That way, if anyone's watching my car, they won't see you."

You drive in silence for most of the trip. Dylan eventually speaks. "I’m sorry. Hearing about the dangers has a distinctly different feeling then seeing it with your own eyes. I don’t know how you’re able to cope with all this." He now has his glasses back on but his hair and makeup from the Detective Saunders persona remain intact.

He pulls the car to a stop across the street from Nathan’s. The sun is fully down but this part of San Espero is lit up nearly as bright as if it were still in the sky. If you are a fan of starry nights, this light polluted city is not the ideal place to be.

"Seriously, Thalia... What are you going to do?" You notice the ‘we’ from the earlier pep talk is gone.

Thalia's mouth curves into a very faint smile as Dylan wonders aloud how she copes with being in such a dangerous situation. "It's because I'm a professional, Dylan. Believe me, if I had to argue a case in front of a jury, I'd be sweating so many bullets they wouldn't know whether to mop up or check the ballistics."

She hesitates, because despite what she just said, part of her is disappointed in him. He'd been moved by her predicament and rare moment of vulnerability to make a heroic declaration, and she'd been just tired, scared, famished, and slightly tipsy enough to have bought into it. But she'd known even in that moment that he couldn't live up to what he was promising, and she further knew that it was not anyone's fault.

"It's a matter of doing what you're made for, I think. I'm made for this, you're not. And that's just how it is." She glances at him with a glint in her eye. "I gotta say, though - you did make a killer fake police detective."

As he pulls over across from Nathan's, her hand is already on the door handle when he asks what she's going to do. She gives him a lopsided grin and gets out of the car. "Well... I promised our dry cleaner friend I'd deliver this suit." She opens the back door and removes the suit from the hook. "And that's what I'm going to do. Thanks for everything, Dylan. Call you later."

She drapes the suit over her shoulder and walks the three blocks to her car, carefully hanging it up before driving herself home. She digs her pager out of the passenger seat before getting out, checking for messages as she walks into her building.

Once she's in her apartment, she lays the suit out on her bedspread, gently removing the flimsy plastic film without damaging or stretching it out. Then she opens the jacket and inspects the suit. It's expensive - the stitching and fabric are top-notch - without being flashy, and she can see how it's been tailored to allow for wearing a gun holster and probably one or two other weapons.

She opens her closet and takes down two containers from the overhead shelf. One is recognizable as a sewing basket. The other is a metal case with a three-digit combination lock. She puts both on the bed, opening the latter first to reveal a few different gadgets nestled in gray foam padding. This is her collection of some prototypes Jamal has gifted her from time to time.

She selects a tiny microphone, transmitter, and receiver from the case, then a seam ripper from the sewing basket. With a steady hand, she carefully cuts a few threads from a seam in the lining of the suit jacket and tucks the mic and transmitter inside, making sure they are snug, with no play to create extra noise. Then she finds just the right shade of thread and painstakingly closes the gap in the seam.

When she's finished bugging the suit, she attaches a small headset to the receiver and tests the system to make sure it's transmitting, then puts the jacket back on a hanger and replaces the dry cleaner's film bag over it.

She changes clothes, trying to look like a college student moonlighting as a delivery girl, and schleps the suit back out to her car. She drives to Ivanovitch's address, puts on her cap and the disguise specs to change her eyes to a watery blue, and carries the suit to the door. She presses the buzzer at the door. The man at the front desk of the apartment building answers, and she tells him, "I have a dry cleaning delivery for Mr. Evans."

The door man smiles and motions you forward. There is a cart nearby like you might see used to move luggage in a hotel. He takes the suit, inspects it, and uses the back of his hand to flatten it out before hanging it from the top bar of the cart. He returns to the desk and retrieves a large book, which he opens and places in front of you.

"If you could please fill out the following." It is a visitor log with spots for the date, your name, address, home phone number, place of employment, work phone number, reason for visit, time in, time out, and your signature. Each entry has every single spot filled in. You imagine that the doorman will be less then pleased if you try to leave without filling it out.

"You’re not the normal one who delivers Mr. Evan's dry cleaning." There is a considerable amount of suspicion in his voice. You pick up the motivation behind this as leaning more towards boredom mixed with a desire to abuse the tiny amount of power this man holds, rather than something truly nefarious.

As you grab a pen and move to fill out your entry, a name catches your attention. Arthur Fisher. The electronics expert who designed the sonic whatsis. He is listed as having visited for a "business meeting" two days earlier at 1:15 PM. There is no check out time.

"Nope," Thalia says, putting a little edge in her voice as she fills in the form, "and believe me, my uncle's not happy about it. Regular person pulled a no call, no show, so guess who got asked to fill in? Like I needed this after putting in a full shift at my day job."

She has several different aliases that she rotates through for jobs like this. Tonight, in this moment, she is Stacey Keyes. She puts down her fake address and fake phone number - which she'd have falsified even if she weren't undercover, because that's just overreach for a visitor log anyway - and Hardy's Handy-Clean, the name of the dry cleaner business. She heaves a sigh.

"I don't have the number memorized," she says, flipping back as many pages as she needs to find the last delivery from Hardy's Handy-Clean and copying that number down. She notes the date, trying to get an idea of the frequency of Ivanovich's "wine spills."

"Oh, that’s too bad. A fine thing like you shouldn’t have to work so hard to make ends meet." The doorman leans forward and slowly looks you up and down. "I think you need a good honest man to take care of you. What do you say to grabbing drinks around midnight?"

Thankfully, you are able to locate another dry cleaner entry not too long into the creepy doorman’s pitch. The last delivery was 18 days ago. Assuming you turn the doorman down on his offer, you exit the building and return to your car to await the return of ‘Mr. Evans.’

After the past couple of days it is actually nice to have some quiet stakeout time to yourself. You’d love to recline the seat and take a power nap but resist the urge. The peace and quiet found within the confines of your car is relaxing enough for now.

You listen in for the next 90 minutes as the doorman greets several residents and attempts to hit on a Chinese delivery girl who refuses to respond beyond saying who the order is for. Finally, you hear the door man say "Good evening, Mr. Evans. Got a delivery here for you."

You hear slight rustling as the suit is lifted and turned over to Ivanovich. The enforcer thanks the doorman in a very convincing American accent and rebukes any further attempts at small talk. On the ride up the elevator you are surprised to hear the Russian whistling ‘Dancing Queen’ by ABBA. He continues this after the elevator dings and he exits.

Footsteps. Keys jingling. Door opening. Typical and expected sounds continue to be heard. After closing what your presume is his apartment door, you can hear Ivanovich use multiple deadbolts and a sliding chain lock. Nondescript sounds continue for a few minutes before you hear something that gives you goosebumps.

Ivanovich opens a door on rollers, presumably a closet, and you hear the muffled sounds of someone trying to speak. It is not clear if they are gagged or have tape over their mouth. You can hear them thrashing about and begging to be heard. Ivanovich shushes his captive and there is a metallic clink sound made from the suit being hung on on a metal bar. The closet door slides back shut and the muffled cries turn to sobbing.

Suddenly less tired but a lot more stressed, Thalia takes a few deep breaths as she assesses her situation. She has his apartment number from the dry cleaner receipt, so she could always call in an anonymous tip to the police - "I think someone's being held prisoner in apartment 423" - but she doesn't know how deep the Lloyd Laboratories corruption runs in the SEPD, and even if they sent someone, that gambit might well get the cop killed, or Fisher, or both. And it might turn Ivanovich's attention on his own neighbors, as well.

She looks across the street at the apartment building, thinking back to the one time she'd actually been beyond the lobby. It was when she was in college and working part-time delivering pizzas. She remembers the place becauseof the we ird numbering system, where all the odd numbers were to the right of the elevator, and all the even ones to the left, starting with the lowest nearest the elevator. It had made figuring out where the apartment was a pain in the butt, but memorable, and she thinks she can figure out which apartment is 423 from the outside, as a result.

She leaves the car and finds a pay phone. The first one she finds fails her pager's bug test, which unnerves her briefly. But the next one, outside of a gas station three blocks from the apartment complex, is clean.

It occurs to her suddenly that Kate might have been lying, that the pager might actually be testing for non-tapped lines so that she will think it's safe and spill all her secrets to whoever is listening, but she cuts short that trip down Paranoia Parkway really fast. She doesn't have time for this. Arthur Fisher doesn't, anyway.

From the second pay phone, she calls the phone number she'd seen on the dry cleaner receipt. When "Evans" answers, she responds in a voice she's practiced, one that's pitched in a slightly lower register than her normal speaking voice. "She wants a meeting. Marina Park, thirty minutes." And she hangs up before he can answer.

Marina Park is at least a twenty minute drive from Ivanovich's apartment. She jogs the three blocks back to the complex and gets back into her car, watching the door. She's only been back for less than a minute when Ivanovich exits the front door and gets into a nondescript dark sedan. She waits until his car is out of sight before getting out, walking across the street into the shadow of the complex, and walking around the side and toward the back. From the ground, she counts the floors and visualizes the numbering system, arriving at which fourth-floor windows belongs to 423.

She has to jump to grab the ladder to the fire escape. It comes down easily and quietly, suggesting to her that Ivanovich keeps it oiled, since she's never seen any building super that diligent. She climbs the ladder, then pads up the stairs softly until she arrives at the window. A test tells her that the window is locked, but she has a few tricks up her sleeve. Putting on a pair of gloves from her bag, she gets out the glass-cutter and plays cat burglar, cutting a round hole in the glass large enough for her arm. She reaches in and up, flicking the window lock open, then pushing carefully to raise the window high enough to allow her fingers to get under the bottom and push it up the rest of the way.

She then carefully climbs into Ivanovich's apartment.

Once you are fully inside the apartment something catches your eyes. A small black box with a red light. It is attached to the wall a couple of inches to the side of the window, out of sight to anyone from outside. You quietly move toward a window further down in the bedroom. This one also has a small back box but the light is green.

Quickly but quietly you walk across the room to the closet. There is no back box sensor on this door, but looking around you do see another one on the closed door leading from the bedroom into the rest of the apartment. It also shows a green light. You slide the closet door open and come feet to face with Arthur Fisher. He is hanging upside.

Metal bracers are strapped to his leg. From these bracers a hook reaches up to the metal closet bar and keeps him suspended in the air with his head resting just an inch or two from the carpet. His hands (held behind his back) and mouth are bound with multiple layers of duct tape. Gravity forces his shirt to sag down and reveals a number of deep purple bruises all over his midsection. There are a few cuts on his face which have dripped blood into a small puddle below him on the carpet. There are stains in multiple locations from earlier victims of similar treatment. On the shelf above the closet bar you see a sonic whatsis among many, many more conventional firearms.

Arthur’s eyes go wide with confusion at first. Ultimately, he doesn’t care who you are as long as you are not Ivanovich. He shakes vigorously and tries to shout but the words are unintelligible through the duct tape. It is pretty clear what he wants you to do though.

Thalia takes in the significance of the red light on the box by the window and curses herself mentally for not checking for an alarm. Fortunately, she left the window open, so at least she won't give away more information when they go out that way.

Assuming they get out, of course.

When she finds Arthur, she puts a finger to her lips to indicate a need for quiet. There's no doubt in her mind that the place is bugged. She quickly sizes up the latching mechanism on the bracers, then bends her knees slightly, throws an arm around Arthur's legs, and straightens her legs, taking on some of his weight. Then she flicks open the latch on the bracers, suddenly bearing the man's full weight, and lowers him to the floor as gently as possible under the confining circumstances.

Bending close to his ear, she whispers, "Arthur, I'm here to take you to safety, but you have to keep quiet and do exactly what I say, okay?"

She pulls the tape from his mouth as carefully as she can, knowing that it's going to hurt no matter how gentle she is. When that's done, she extracts a small pocket knife from her left front pocket and makes a first cut into the many layers of tape around his wrists, then rips it the rest of the way to avoid cutting him.

Again signalling him to stay quiet, she hurries to the bedroom door and opens it. The light on the box by that door turns red.

Returning to Arthur, she helps him to his feet and toward the window. "We've got to move quickly," she whispers into his ear. "I tripped an alarm on the window, so he knows someone's here. Down the fire escape as fast as you can."

She helps him climb through the window. He's clumsy from fatigue, fear, and having been subjected to punishing restraint for so long, but there's nothing she can do; her pace is going to be set by his capabilities. When he's finally through and on the fire escape, she starts through the window. She's hoping that by opening the bedroom door, Ivanovich will think they're trying to leave through the front door and come that way, rather than looking for them on the fire escape.

Arthur moves as quick as he can but it is about as fast as you expected. You have to help him each and every step of the way as he struggles to even stay on his feet. With each step he seems to gain a bit more footing as more blood starts to flow through his lower extremities. The final climb down the ladder is especially precarious. You go down first and prepare yourself to catch the injured scientist if he falls. Thankfully he is able to make it back to the safety of the tarmac, even if it takes considerably more time then you feel like you have.

While Arthur catches his breath you move to the end of the alley and check to make sure the coast is clear. It is not. The dark sedan is back and parked across the street from the apartment building. Ivanovich sits in the driver's seat looking as calm as can be while sipping on a coffee. Rather than charging in he appears to have taken the approach of letting the intruder come to him; figuring that they will eventually have to make their way back this direction. His eyes focus on the front door but he scans toward both alleyways on the sides of the building as well. You make sure you are out of sight before he can spot you.

You look back down the alleyway for other modes of escape. The other side of the alley is cut off by another building. There is a small opening between the buildings. You would have to squeeze through one by one and it would be slow going. You also spot a manhole but are unsure if you could lift it. Another option would be a nearby window in the building adjacent to Ivanovich's. It is propped open and you can hear music from a radio and smell of Italian cuisine. You believe it leads to the kitchen of a restaurant. The window is one of those small 2' by 3' foot ones that crack outward rather then slide upward. The kind you frequently see in suburban basements. Getting Arthur through there without alerting the cooks would be a challenge. The door that the restaurant uses to take out garbage has one of those steel plates which increase the difficulty of break ins. There is a doorbell next to the door; presumably to alert the staff when delivery drivers or a staff members needs to enter through the door, but the door also has a peephole.

It only takes Thalia about fifteen seconds to make her decision. She tugs on Arthur's arm and leads him to the back door of the restaurant. "Stay here. I'll get in through that window, come around and open to let you inside. If you see anyone come into this alley before I get this door open, you lean on that doorbell. Got it?"

She moves to the window, peering in. It does indeed lead to the kitchen, or at least one end of it. She can hear the pleasant cacophony of multiple Italian men and women engaged in preparing food. She can see a couple of them, far enough from the window that she thinks she can slip in without them noticing.

She pushes her bag through the window first, letting it dangle by the straps and gently lowering it to the floor. Then she inserts her head and shoulders in under the open flap, braces her hands on the bottom of the window, and gives herself a little hop, pushing with her hands. It's not easy, but she's been diligent in her practice of tai chi; her muscles are strong and disciplined. When she's in far enough that her arms are straight, she leans to the left and brings up her right knee, bringing the leg inside.

When both feet are inside and on the floor, she picks up her bag and slides around, hugging the wall and keeping an eye on the kitchen workers until she gets to the back door. She pushes it open quickly and waves Arthur inside.

Arthur follows you inside like an obedient hurt puppy dog. You notice that his eyes are a little cloudy and worry about the possibility of a concussion, but that is a problem to worry about further down the road. Right now you have to sling his arm over your shoulder and assist him in a game of hide and seek with a kitchen staff that was never informed they were playing. Arthur is getting more mobile as time goes on and the two of you are able to push past the only door and into the main restaurant without getting spotted.

A lone dinner reading the paper looks up and sees the two of you exit the kitchen. He looks at the beaten and bloody Arthur and then back to you. Your eyes lock for a minute before he raises the paper as a shield. You do your best to block the sight of Arthur from the rest of the patrons and staff. Most everyone in the restaurant is distracted with conversation, food, or work so it isn't too hard to get out the front door without attracting a lot of attention.

You hurry Arthur around the corner so you can get another look at where Ivanovich's car is parked. It is still there, but he isn't. You feel confident that even if he is hiding in the shadows, you and Arthur could get into your car and be off before Ivanovich could stop you.

Meeting the eyes of the restaurant patron, Thalia does her best to infuse her gaze with a combination of pleading and threat. If Ivanovich follows their path, she'd prefer not to have a convenient bystander pointing in their direction, saying, "They went thataway!"

They leave the restaurant without incident - which itself is something of a miracle - and she looks around the corner. It's a relief that Arthur is starting to move a little more under his own steam, though she still has to help him.

"Okay, his car is still parked there, but it looks like he's out of it. He's either gone in the front door or around to the fire escape, so we don't have much time. See that car over there?" She points to her vehicle, parked on the same side of the street as the apartment complex. "That's mine. We're heading to that. We'll go as fast as you're able. Push yourself as hard as you can, because I have no idea where Ivanovich is."

Arthur, looking pale even in the darkness, nods. "I'll do my best. The last thing I want is to end up in that maniac's hands again."

"Right. Well, here we go."

She starts them on the move again, hurrying as fast as Arthur is able. They reach the car without incident - Yes! Two miracles in one night! - and Thalia unlocks the passenger door and helps Arthur in.

You fire up the engine, slam it into gear, and pull out into traffic in a calm but quick manner just as the doorman walks out the front door with an unlit cigarette between his lips. He brings a lighter up and watches you drive away. You are unable to spot any sign of Ivanovich.

Arthur slides deep into the seat, winching in pain when he moves the wrong way. It is a safe bet that he has one or more cracked ribs. He tries to rub some feeling back into his wrists and legs. "I don’t mean to look a gift horse in the mouth but who are you and who do you work for? If I’ve traded one psychotic jailer for another, I want to know ahead of time so I can mentally prepare for what is to come."

"I'm not psychotic, although more than a few people would probably be questioning my sanity right now if they knew what I'm up to. Not a jailer, either, and I'll tell you everything... just as soon as you take a look in the back seat for me, okay?"

It has just occurred to her that the reason she's seen no sign of Ivanovich might be because he somehow stowed away in her car.

Arthur looks at you for a long minute before what you are insinuating dawns on him and his face drains of color. He squinches his eyes and ever so slowly turns around to peer into the back of the car. He doesn't say anything. Arthur leans back further and cranes his neck which causes a pain to shoot through his body. He falls back into the seat and rubs his side. "God, lady. You trying to give me a heart attack? It's clear. Want me to crawl back and check the trunk while we're in the business of causing me a lot of pain?" You have your doubts as to whether or not Ivanovich could fit in your trunk.

Letting her breath out in a shaky sigh that she tries hard to keep to herself, Thalia says, "No. I'm pretty sure he's too big to fit in there, and I have a way to deal with that anyway." She doesn't bother to explain what that is. "So anyway, I'm a private investigator who's been working a case that has intersected with some of the crap you're involved with, Arthur Fisher of Lloyd Laboratories. I wasn't planning on springing a kidnapping victim tonight, honestly, but once I stumbled upon the information that you were being held in that apartment, I couldn't in good conscience leave you there."

She is driving aimlessly, making random turns periodically, in hopes of throwing off anyone who might somehow be tailing them. "One good turn deserves another, so I'm going to be asking you some questions now, and I need honest answers, because you freakin' owe me your life, wouldn't you say?"

"I... Yes. Yes, I suppose I do. But--"

She interrupts him with a series of questions.

"Question number one: Do you have a safe place we can go? Somewhere that nobody at Lloyd or any of the other bad guys you've been running with would know to look for you?

"Question number two: What were you doing having a 'business meeting' with a Russian enforcer?

"Question number three: Why was he torturing you, and did you give up whatever he was after?"