2010-07-03: Murderous Intent

Starring:

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Guest Starring:

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Date: July 3, 2010

Summary:

Vincent connects with someone…


"Murderous Intent"

NYC

Being a cop is hard work.

Sometimes a person has to choose a way to minimize damage to others. Sometimes it means takin’ all the damage on yourself.

Silencing the rings that cut through the night air, Vincent raises his phone to his ear, speaking into it. "Yes."

The caller doesn't take any shots, they've scrambled their voice, making it unrecognizable, even though Vincent should know who is calling, "Cut out the greetings now, have we boss?" The inflection borders on annoyed, but despite the voice's apparent insolence it proceeds, "I've been working hard at making good on your request— "

"You'll forgive me, it's been a long day," Vincent responds, speaking into the phone. He does indeed know who it is, and he hopes the caller has good news. He takes a glance around the immediate area, and begins heading down the pathway towards the other side of the park opposite Natsumi. "Were you able to make good?" he says, pausing in his walk. "If you need more time— I know what you're doing is dangerous, and you will be well rewarded. There is no need to take any overt risks, however."

"Oh, I've got what you want. Easier than I thought," The caller replies easily enough. "I expect to be well paid for this though." The voice is confident. "And, for the record, you owe me more than just for this. You ought to know that." There's a cough into the phone before the caller states, "I'll leave the drop in the usual spot. Make sure you don't show up there for a couple of days." Beat. "I know for a fact the security cameras there have been disconnected, assuming no one can place us together, I'm able to make good on the rest of our plans— "

"My friend, you shall be well rewarded, you can believe that." There's a definite hint of happiness in Vincent's voice. It's unmistakable. Whatever it was this caller got for him, it is clearly a win in Vincent's book. "I daresay you may well be rewarded more than you're expecting, as a matter of fact." He listens to the rest of what the caller has to inform him of, and he nods, even if the other person can't see it. "I agree. I'll wait a few days, and then I will have it retrieved. They shouldn't be able to piece us together, either. I've paid a lot of money to have both our tracks covered in this."

"I better be," the caller states again. "And we're both up against a wall, likely literally, if they connect us." There's a very audible sigh even with the voice distortion software. "I'll get it there tonight. And boss? I'll get started on phase two. I have that pretty blonde in my sights— " There's a short pause, "I'll be in touch soon.”

I remember this time shortly after I joined the FBI. I was younger. Freer. Detached. Reckless. Between all of these things I was a logical choice for an undercover op. I played my role well; maybe too well. I played a junkie. Heroine. Cocaine. Marijuana. I tried them all. Ha! I abused them all. But that was part of the job. Always part of the job.

It's a quiet building in New York City. A post office of sorts; the kind designed specifically for P.O. Boxes. People that don't want their mail to go to their homes have it go here. It's not illegal, but it's certainly suspicious in a way. Drug addicts live by these boxes, particularly those hooked on prescription meds. For only $25/month a box could have ultimate privacy from all other eyes. Unless someone else has the key.

After stopping on the way, the Caller managed to get to these boxes. Dressed in a black hoodie— with the hood pulled over his head— and a pair of black pants and black gloved hands, the file is shoved into the PO Box he shares with his boss. The Boss. The only one that matters. A glance is given around the area before its promptly shut and then locked. There's no cameras in this building. That's why it was chosen, but the Caller heeds caution anyways. And just as he'd arrived, he leaves, his key with him— the only thing linking him to this box.

Hours later, a mysterious figure moves through the shadows cast by streetlamps, his feet echoing off the alley walls as he makes his way to the box containing the package. The shadow seems to blue and shift with the darkness, until his face is finally revealed by the passing glare of a car's headlight.

Vincent Salvatore. This package is not one to be taken lightly, apparently. Whatever it is, it's important enough for The Boss himself to pick it up. It's not something he can trust with a lackey— especially not after he lost three of them to Vasha. It's so hard to find good help these days.

As the car passes, he makes his way inside the building, fishing a key from the pocket of his khaki pants. He isn't dressed in one of his fancy suits— he would stand out far too much were he wearing that. Today, he wears a simple pair of khakis, and a slightly torn dress shirt. After all, you have to look the part, right? Sliding the key into the post office box, he opens it, withdrawing the contents from within. Folding them over in half lengthwise, he slides them into the inside of his shirt, and disappears into the darkness much like he appeared… without a sound.

And what did it get me? A stint in rehab. And it gave him the arrest and the promotion. You don’t need tah ask. I was pissed off. It was obvious. I hate him. I’ll always hate him.

As per their usual form, The Caller dials the number he knows all-too-well very carefully, his voice is scrambled as he stares up at Maggie's lit apartment. "Hey Boss. It's me." The scrambling pulls out any lightness, comedy, or general smirkyness in his voice, although to Vincent it's likely implicit considering everything. "I don't see why we can't just smother her. Take care of her. Get her out of the picture completely."

He glances up at the lit apartment before sliding down the alley which keeps him in the shadows. "I don't understand why we have to be slow with these things— "

"These things take time."

Vincent's voice cuts across the Caller's. There is no anger to it, however, only cold calculation. "I understand your need to pull the trigger so quickly, but this isn't simply about her. It's about the detective as well. She will be the key to unraveling him… and he can't deny that she means something to him. His reaction in the diner was more than enough to confirm that." There's a pause as he tends to some other business on his side of the phone, before he's speaking into the receiver again. "Keep an eye on her. I want to know her every movement, every day. Do not do anything rash. When the time comes, she will be yours to take care of."

And I quickly learned tah hate my job. Everyday I hated my job. And the worst of it? I was the job; it’s all I had other than a newly acquired cocaine and heroine addiction and a new crew at Narcotics Anonymous.

"I take promises seriously. Just know that," the Caller states emphatically through the distorter. "When things aren't delivered, I get very very angry— " the dark clothed figure rounds a corner and allows Maggie's apartment to become more distant. "Just remember how I've helped you. Remember how I gave you what you needed more than once. And remember how I shredded the paperwork that went to the unit telling them you were released? I expect delivery on some things from that." It's not a demand really, but the Caller is no stranger to back room dealings. Nor is he a stranger to how things work.

"How much longer must we wait?"

"My argument is not with Miss Powers. My argument is with Miles." He pauses, clearing his throat— even if the Caller works for him, and even though Vincent fully intends to deliver on his promises to the man, an implication that he might not do so is not something he takes lightly. Even so, he makes no mention of it and continues on. "you will get what is coming to you, my friend. That I can promise. Miss Powers will be delivered to your hands in the end." As for how much longer…?

"Soon.”

I hate the twelve step program. The only person harmed in my addiction was me. I got it to protect others. But whatever. In my program I learned things about people. Connections to people I would never have considered before; I’m a cop. Some were seedy, but these people… they weren’t different from me.

A soft chime sounds when the man lifts the phone off of the receiver and places it to his hear. He listens to the dial tone for a moment, before a soft click can be heard. After that, he reaches out and inputs the number into the pad, leaning back in his chair once it begins to ring. He holds a wine glass in his other hand, slowly swirling the contents of the glass around inside it, until he finally raises it to his lips and takes a drink as the phone continues to ring. It's routed through several different lines, most of which have some form of equipment to prevent it being traced; because of this, it takes that much longer to establish an actual connection.

It doesn't matter. Vincent knows the call will be answered.

A very annoying cellphone ring resounds through the subway. Irritatingly. It sounds like a midi version of I Wanna Rock and Roll All Night, and receives several looks from other patrons before it's answered in close range.

"Hello?" a distinctly male voice answers through the receiver on the other end. And then, as if remembering something, it asks, "I sure as hell hope this is private, Boss." His lips are pressed together as he settles into the call itself, somewhat unsure, especially without his vocal distorter unprepared for once.

"As always, my friend," Vincent responds, taking another drink of wine. "Untraceable, and even if they could somehow by pass my security, it would lead them to a false residence— although I'm sure the family of four that currently resides there would be much surprised when the SWAT team kicks their door in." Vincent allows himself a small smirk at his own humor, but then it's right back to business. "Either way, I will keep this short. We need to meet. You know the place, you know the spot. I'll expect to see you in one hour."

"Huh. I'm sure SWAT would do a fine job arresting them." With a smirk of his own, the Caller (or the receiver as the case may be today) stifles a small chuckle. "As always, you're the Boss. One hour." Smirking again, the man stands from his seat on the subway and flips his phone shut before exiting the train; he only has an hour to get there, and he'd hate to keep Vincent waiting.

I guess there comes a time in everyone’s life when they decide whether they’re the hero or the villain.

Famous Vito's Pizza isn't all that busy at this time of night— there's a few people in there, a couple in one corner, and the occasional waitress strolling about making sure are glasses are refilled. As if right on cue, a young, pretty girl steps up to Vincent's table, a jug of water in hand. "Refill, sir?"

A distracted nod is given to the girl as Vincent studies the papers in front of him, the sound of a glass filling and the clatter of heels informing him his water is refilled. Reaching out, he snags the glass off of the table and takes a long drink of water as he continues to analyze the documents in front of him.

As he sets down his drink, he reaches over and picks up another item: a cigar. He takes a few puffs of it before setting it back down. The restaurant is no smoking, but Thomas Moretti- the owner- knows who Mr. Salvatore is. And for Mr. Salvatore, in this restaurant, he can do whatever he damn well pleases… which makes it the perfect meeting spot to hold impromptu conferences with his employees.

And footsteps of another sort step into the restaurant. These ones in a pair of black dockers. Accompanied with faded blue jeans and a black hoodie, with the hood pulled up. The Caller slides into the booth across from Vincent, his smug smile almost being heard in his words as he lifts his arm to check the time, "From looks of it, I'm right on time." A glance is given around the restaurant haphazardly before he allows himself to lean back against the bench.

"No obvious cameras anywhere. Good spot to meet." Pressing his lips together, he drums his fingers on the table and leans forward, craning his neck a little to peek at the documents. "Important business?"

"An old associate owns this establishment," Vincent says, "although you should try the menu. The cook is quite good." As he speaks, he's reaching into the inside of his jacket, right into the spot where a holster would be… but rather than a gun, he pulls out a very thick envelope and slides it across the table to the Caller.

"Payment," Salvatore says. "I believe you'll find you've been well compensated." It isn't the first time the Caller has been paid, and it won't be the last- even then, this payment contains a significant amount more than he'll be accustomed to. "You'll find a bonus in there, as well." With that said, he turns the documents he's analyzing so they can both look at them from an angle. The Caller should know they're the documents he dropped off in the post office box.

"These have been highly helpful. An interesting look into Laurence Miles. Although, I must say… I find it rather curious that he did not wish to take on a new identity after his job. Perhaps…" Vincent pauses, musing to himself as he takes another puff from his cigar, taking care not to blow smoke in the face of the Caller. "Perhaps he was waiting for me. For the day he knew I would be released."

"Good, I'm glad," the Caller replies. "I'd hate tah've gotten them and made them tah be useless. Although that kid in the DA's office'll be the one tah take the fall. Covered most of my tracks." He waves towards the waitress who holds her pad of paper, "Just water— " He'll come for food another time. Perhaps when things settle down some. Or change. He accepts the envelope and opens it carefully thumbing through the contents. "That is… generous. We haven't even succeeded in our plans yet." He leans forward to peek at the documents and glance through them. The smile extends to his tone and even his shoulders which seem to relax some. Face-to-face meetings put him on edge, especially while in the thick of things.

"But why? I've known a lot've men who were the job 'n most were anxious tah get on with life… unless he wants tah take whatever punishment you 'ave for him— " The Caller wouldn't.

"Generosity is something I bestow on those who please me," Vincent says plainly, looking up at the Caller. "You have done me a great service in acquiring these— not to mention all the other services you have performed for me. I felt the bonus was in order. Should your good work keep up…" More bonuses will be received. It goes without saying.

"I have a feeling that he knew it wasn't over. That he knew this wouldn't be over until one of us— or both of us, as the case may very end up being— is dead," Vincent says, turning the conversation back to business. Another puff of the cigar, and another sip of his water, and he continues to speak. "Which is his choice… however, that choice is going to come back around and destroy him. I am going to destroy every shred of this man's life before I am threw with him. He betrayed me, cost me my livelihood— I do not take betrayal lightly. I do not take betrayal at all. I have killed men for lesser things." While he may be waxing poetic on the justice he feels Laurie so deserves, it's also a warning to his employee: betray me, and you will end up like the very man he is trying to destroy. Even then, as he speaks of betrayal and death, the murder of men, he does not lower his voice. If the others in the restaurant can hear him… so be it. He doesn't care. After all, he could have them all killed too, if he needs to.

"I'll remember that," The Caller says as he slides the envelope from the table. He hesitates a second as he considers something and then pulls the hood from his head. Why play coy, people wouldn’t connect them here, would they?

Sam slides out of the booth before issuing Vincent a lopsided smirk. "Just remember I want payment in another form too. A blonde one." He arches both of his eyebrows before he turns on his heel to the door, time to go spend some of that dishonestly earned money on something equally dishonest and available on the street.

And… I’m the villain.

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