Saturday, April 5, 2008, 3:40 p.m.

Blackburn Hotel, New York, NY

Alexis was nervous. She’d thought about coming in disguise, knowing that people would be watching and noting those who entered and left, but that seemed disrespectful to her host. Not to mention cowardly. She’d offered to come here.

Still, as her rented car stopped in front of the Blackburn Hotel, Alexis had a cold pit of fear in her stomach. Davian was nervous too, and Alexis could feel his optimistic desire that she would chicken out. She glanced back over her shoulder, seeing a man standing about where Davian was; his ability to disguise himself using non-nova means meant that she had to use their mental link to be sure it was him. His presence was a quiet reassurance. Delaying just a moment, longer, the black-haired nova checked her watch. Three-forty-four, p.m.: between three and six, as instructed. She picked up her clutch purse, sky-blue to match her pants suit, and exited the car.

Beyond her tinted windows, Alexis hid all anxiety behind the twin shielding of unapproachable arrogance and general distain. Her head was high as she stepped up to the door smartly, her heels clicking. The doorman stepped in front of the door, as subtle as an earthquake. “Can I help you?” the fleshy mountain asked, folding his arms over his chest. Even as he spoke, Alexis thought she felt him ping her, looking for her node. He relaxed a little when he found it, the hard planes of his face smoothing a little.

Alexis swallowed before stating firmly, “I’m here to see Cain.”

The doorman was a baseline (you really think every nova-centered club pays the kind of cash a one-in-a-million anomaly would request to guard a door?), but one of a revolving group of three who were paid very well to keep an encyclopedic knowledge of not just novas, but an hour-by-hour mental catalog of the Who's Who among the node-carrying. All of them carried bleeding-edge PDAs they used to help keep up and screen out the fakes, as needed. Justin was today's offering, a well-kept metrosexual young man with frosted blond hair and a three thousand dollar suit.

He smiled genially and sincerely at Alexis' approach, fully expecting her already. She was earlier than he anticipated, in fact, but that was quite alright. Cain, a fellow he'd been passingly familiar with through his comings and goings about the hotel, had already established her imminent arrival, but with the reality of her actual arrival, Justin found himself confronted with that all-too familiar "chug whiskey and cry" beauty that was so common for novas to make him feel. Miss Layton wasn't the best he'd ever seen, but combined with what he knew of who she was - who her family was - he found himself struggling to maintain his professional composure and not simply throw himself at her feet and beg her to take him far, far away.

"Miss Layton", he smiled. "Of course. Mr. Yeager has been expecting you. Please", he opened the door, genuflecting slightly. "You will find his office on the fourth floor, room four-thirteen. You'll find the elevators located directly ahead." Barely managing to catch himself from falling into her eyes, he added a half-second too slowly, "Shall I call for an escort?"

He was staring at her, like he wanted to devour her. And he did, but not in the way Alexis assumed. "No," she said, drawing herself up straighter, "I can find my own way." She hesitated before adding with as much politeness as she could muster, "Thank you..."

"Justin."

"Thank you, Justin." She entered the open door, missing the look of barely-concealed adoration that the baseline gave her. She managed to not look back at the man she was sure was Davian as she was swallowed into the darkness of the building.

The inside was what she'd expect of a hotel run by people with a lot of pride and a lot of money. The atmosphere was actually uncomfortably familiar; if she didn't look at the individual details, it looked like home. The tasteful, lush furnishings had been applied by someone with a designer's eye, and Alexis felt her esteem for the owners of the place rise. She would have been totally comfortable if the room had been empty.

Novas, novas as far as the eye could see. They were staring, just like the doorman, as Alexis crossed the lobby. She pulled her dignity around her like a shield as she walked, not recognizing that people were curious about her, not sizing her up. She pressed the button on the elevator, calling it, feeling the non-existent stares boring into her. When the car arrived, she exhaled with relief and ducked inside.

On the fourth floor, Alexis quickly figured out which way the numbers ran, and she turned and moved toward four-thirteen. When she found the door, she paused. Alone in the hallway, she bit her lip and furrowed her brow. You’re in already, she told herself. Just do it. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door.

The best thing about teleportation, Henry mused, was the little things. He'd arrived in New York by way of the Blackburn's Lobby little over an hour past, notified the doorman of his guest's arrival, and took the elevator up to the office he ostensibly no longer maintained in the Big Apple, thanks to his persona non grata status in his home country. The door was the kind you see in the dictionary under 'detective's office door', all wood and frosted glass, and as Henry approached it, the magnetic locks on the door disengaged with an audible click. "And it's good to be back, Alex", his mouth curled into a smirk.

The door swung open, and Henry laid out on the desk a thermos of espresso he'd picked up in Verona, a couple of dogs with the works he stopped over in Chi-town for, and a half a dozen newspapers from Paris to San Fran. The little things. Sloughing off his black overcoat, he hung it on the rack, unbuttoned his cuff button and rolled up the sleeves on his white button-down and he silently scanned the room. Same as he'd left it, down to the tiniest detail. Very clean, very neat. Very damn empty. That wasn't so much a design decision as it was a necessity, same as the thermos, the newspapers: things like PDAs and coffeemakers tended to spontaneously fall apart when he was around them too long. Nothing in the room except for the locks on the doors would have been out of place in 1950. Henry liked it; it lended a sort of timeless quality to the room he found very endearing, and his clients found strangely accommodating. Satisfied with the decor, he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, loosened his wine-colored, Italian silk tie, and kicked his Floorsheim's up on the desk to enjoy the 'San Francisco Chronicle' and a dog.

When Alexis finally arrived - and there was no mistaking that silhouette, frosted glass or no - he still had a little coffee left and was halfway through London's fortnightly 'The Tart'. "Come on in", he called, folding his paper away and tossing it onto a stack with the others. Pulling a second tiny mug out of it's location in the desk drawer from memory, his eyes directed themselves forward to the knockout entering his office. It may have been the most archetypal scenario he could have imagined, beautiful woman and all. He'd spent enough time around nova-grade beauty that he could maintain his professionalism around it. But that didn't make it easy.

"Please, have a seat", he leaned forward, nudging the small, porcelain mug to the far side of the desk. "Before we begin, can I pour you an espresso?" Smiling with an implied wink, he offered, "Best in Italy, I promise."

Alexis had been expecting a modern office, replete with gizmos and high-tech toys. This sparse room was devastatingly empty, and the only reason she didn’t turn around and run was she was sure that only a nova P.I. could find what she was looking for. Still, there was a moment of hesitation when she was on the threshold, caught between fleeing and staying. Her blue eyes studied the man behind the desk, weighing him for a long moment.

Her decision was made, and the hesitation was gone. Alexis stepped decisively into the room and firmly shut the door. Her heels made sharp noises on the floor as she moved with quantum elegance to the offered chair. “Good afternoon, Mr. Yeager,” she said as she started to settle herself. She realized suddenly what the scene must have looked like to an outsider. The worldly, down-on-his-luck P.I., the bombshell needing his help, and the dark office in which they conducted their initial business: it all seemed to be taken straight out of a Hollywood film. She stifled a giggle at how serious things seemed, when reality couldn’t be further from the truth.

Alexis crossed her legs and set her purse on the floor, the small smile she couldn’t completely hide visible. “Thank you,” she said, nodding to the mug. “An espresso would be lovely.” She watched him pour the hot drink, the bitter smell from her espresso refreshing the almost-faded scent coming from his mug. She wasn’t sure she was going to drink it immediately; the first rule she’d learned when partying with people you didn’t completely know was, “Never take a drink you didn’t open or mix yourself.” She wasn’t sure that this was like that scenario, but she wasn’t going to take a chance, not until she felt safe.

“Now that I’ve seen your office,” Alexis added with the smile still curving her lips, “I am a little surprised you would agree to meet with me. After all, is not the lovely woman seeking help just as often the femme fatale?”

Henry was somewhat please to see that the humor of the situation wasn't lost on his guest, either. Still, she seemed to carry a strange trepidation about the coffee, which was odd for the first half-turn of thought. The way her fingertips sort of pawed at the handle, the barely noticeable way her ice-blue eyes flashed over the rim as if pondering it. It's funny; the way she walked in was all pomp and bred-in arrogance, as if she were playing the very part she described. But it's not a role. It's who the girl was raised to be. You could smell it as clear as the Chanel no. 5 dabbed delicately on her neck.

Pouring himself another cup from the thermos, Henry emptied it, a gesture of monkey see, monkey do to let the girl know he didn't stuff it with flunitrazipam, or something more insidious. He sipped half the scalding bitterness down and smiled gently, laying the mug back on the table. "'Dames' may be trouble, love, but my business more or less seems to be getting into trouble and getting out with something useful, so it's unavoidable." He let loose a stifled little chuckle that could almost be called...self-referential? and added "Besides. Doesn't the grizzled PI usually end up sleeping with the femme fatale before the story's over?" The little jest almost made him feel bad, partially because he wasn't sure if it would be taken in humor, as it was intended, and partially because Jester was a jealous woman when it came to Henry flirting on the side. That jealousy somehow never survived into the bedroom, and their recent sex life was proof of that, but he still felt an unmistakable pang of something that wasn't really guilt but wasn't really fear and was somehow still tied to his off-and-on, kinda-sorta, if-you-must-use-the-word, "girlfriend". At the moment, however, he was focused on Alexis, and as he cracked a smile that he hoped would do the heavy lifting in terms of conveying his meaning, he studied her face for a reaction.

For a second, she stiffened - not, interestingly with outrage at his presumptive manner as her upbringing would suggest. Instead, there was wariness, and fear. Then he saw her study him, just as he was studying her. But Henry clearly was good at broadcasting his intent, and he could see the moment when she picked up on it.

Her shoulders dropped and she picked up the coffee cup, drinking from it. Her facial muscles relaxed and her lips curved slightly. "That comes later in the movie, Mr. Yeager, and since I'm not here intent on seducing you to achieve my ends and lead you to your death, I'm sure we can dispense with the sexual relations altogether." She paused to sip the espesso, nodding at the rich flavor.

The vibe in the room shifted as Alexis grew somber. "I'm not sure if this is the right time for this, but since we're discussing the case, however obliquely, I'd thought I'd present it." She paused, to see if he would object at all, then proceeded. She drew a thin envelope out of her inner jacket pocket, revealing a while silk chemise underneath. The jacket was smoothed back into place as she handed the envelope to Henry.

Inside was a single sheet of paper. A portrait had been drawn on the paper, not done by a police sketch artist, but done by someone who could easily train to become one. The girl in the picture is young, and appeared to be African American by her features and the shading that the artist had provided. The word "Destiny" is written on the paper, as well as "9-10."

"That is the girl I want you to find," Alexis said, sitting back. "Her name is Destiny, and she's about 9 or 10. All I know is that she has a step-father, she's been in trouble in school, she's small for her age and that she participates in the Sierra Club's Inner City Outings program. I want to know everything about her, and her step-father. Can you do it?”

A low whistle escaped Henry's somewhat exasperated lips, and he looked at the picture briefly, back to the lovely woman sitting across from him, and back and forth between the few for a few moments, as if he were scrutinizing her for the untold elements to this puzzle. He'd found more obscure people who were more interested in hiding with less information, but it wasn't cheap, in terms of coin or time. Still, she'd come to him, and he liked to believe that he was good at what he did. Be a shame for the grizzled, world-weary PI to let down the femme fatale, right?

Henry stifled a cough that was nearly a chuckle as he pored over the picture, his eyes focusing, absorbing. "Fuck me, love, I can see why you came to a nova investigator. That's not a whole lot to go on, aye?" Putting the photo down, he smiled somewhat consolingly at his client and assured her "But nothing to it. That's some good information. Really. Finding a wee black girl of ten in Manhattan 'ent easy, even knowing her name, but that tip about the Sierra Club, that's some magic, right there. That, I can work with." He picked up the photo and consulted it again, "'Everything about her', huh? Yeah," he smiled, "I do believe I can."

"And about her step-father," Alexis said, her near-perfect brow furrowing. "I'm interested in him as well, after-" She hesitated, and her blue eyes studied his attentive features another moment. She considered how much to say, and decided that she should be as honest as she could be with the man she was paying to investigate the child.

"I suspect he's abusing her somehow," Alexis told him. "She asked me to kill him." She let the gravity of that statement settle into Cain; she doubted that he'd be interested in that remark the way she was. But it was a clue, and hopefully one that help him find her.

"Ah", he concluded, making a somewhat sour face. "That, too, is rather interesting", he nodded slightly, glancing at the picture again. "Don't worry, Miss Layton. I'll find the wee thing, and by the time I'm through, you'll know the name of the slag her cunt da took to prom, an' then some."

Henry stood up, conveying that their meeting had come to a close. It would have been a lie to say he wasn't a little unhappy to be parting company with the knockout beauty before him, but duty now officially called, and he wasn't paid to shmooze his client, only to get results. "I think I have enough to go on, Miss Layton", he smiled sympathetically at her. "If you can trust me not to rob you on account of who you are, I'll trust you to pay my retainer remotely, at your leisure." A dull, wooden groan escaped a desk drawer as his hand reached to open it, a sign of age, and he produced a single sheet of paper, no letterhead, just a simple string of numbers coupled with a few names, and handed it to the lovely young lady. "Please send the funds to this account. I presume, as a lady of breeding, you would not do something as unspeakably uncouth as attempt to trace these numbers. I will contact you as soon as I have the information you've requested, or one week from today, should I still be working on the case, in discretion, of course." He walked as he spoke, removing his jacket from the coatrack and slipping it over his shoulders with practiced ease.

"May I escort you to the lobby?", he gestured towards the door.

"You need have no worry about my discretion," Alexis said, leaning forward to take the paper from him. "It would be poor repayment for your services, Mr. Yeager, and I am not in the habit of punishing those who work for me. I believe that we can trust one another." In this matter, anyway.

Alexis stood at his gesture, considering refusing but finally giving a quick nod. "Thank you, that is most kind," she said, giving him a smile. If he were going to do something to her, he would have done it already, and not in the elevator on the way out of the building. *Davian, I'm on my way out,* she said, knowing her brother would appreciate the heads up.

Her words were all sweet and professional, but her body told a different story. "Just who the bloody hell does she think I am?", he wondered to himself as he smiled back, apelike, simple, false. He momentarily found himself wondering exactly what it was he'd done - that she'd know of, at any rate - that might give her such reluctance. Was it simply his standing as a member of the Teragen? What happened with Sutra? Slider? Maybe she was inside his head and knew even more than she was letting on - after all, she had made that barely-noticeable, scrunchy-face look like someone trying to take a dump on camera that people get when they're rummaging around inside someone's head - but if she'd found something she didn't like in there, why the job? Was this some kind of elaborate trap?

He decided to let the matter go, for now. There was a job to do, after all, and bizarre trap or not, he was - supposedly - getting paid to find out why some wee girl wanted a hit put out on her da. Besides, he figured, it's not as if he could refuse the job now without confirming whatever suspicions she had. All that remained was to stay on the up-and-up and be, as Raoul had put it, "an ambassador for your species." And hell, if he played his cards right, he just might get a chance to finish out that meeting the way it always plays out in the movies.

"Yeah, right", he heaved. "After all, I'm renowned for my good fortune, aren't I?"

Bleakly, he walked back through the elevator door and returned to his office for the file.