| Secret Service |
| Summary: | Kincaid tracks down a lead on an old, old case. |
| Date: | 08 Jan 2042 AE |
| Related Logs: | All Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics logs (see tag _statistics). |
| Players: |
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| Supply Center — Deck 3 — Battlestar Cerberus |
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| This is a deep, cavernous room that disappears into a maze of shelving and side storage rooms. Stacks of towels, all kinds of paper, and spare clothing are interspersed with everything else a crew would need for a cruise - all the way down to spare candles for the Chapel. Near the large entrance hatchway is a desk with a crewmember ready to accept requests and potentially fill them. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #316 |
Petty Officer 3rd Class Cyril Bey is a very busy man, or so he likes to say. Tall and bald, this dark-skinned long-limbed ball of nervous energy spends his time pacing from one end of the Supply Center to the other, his muscled legs and soft footfalls allowing him to make the transit from aisle to aisle with a cheetah's speed and a housecat's silence. Small wonder that folks working his shift have learned to set up several lookouts whenever they engage in a bit of on-duty time-wasting — and why they're more than happy to point out where he is so an MP might corner him for what they hope will be a very long interview.
PO3 Bey, for his part, is distinctly unamused. "What's this about, Corporal?" he asks irritably from his seat in one of the Supply Center's adjoining offices. It's a Spartan thing, the duty manager's home base, with at least fifty different clipboards hanging beside at least six different whiteboards on the grey bulkheads behind. "Busby came running; said it was urgent. What's urgent is the fruit shipment we just got from Elpis, that's what's urgent. And unless you want those good-for-nothing loaders at Receiving to 'lose' a carton, I suggest you make this fast."
Lance Corporal Daniel Kincaid — Cylon sympathizer by day, detective by afternoon. While he's wearing his MP armband and has the utility belt that goes along with it, the reporter's notebook in one hand and clicky ballpoint pen in the other gives away his previous profession. "I can't even imagine how crazy it must be around there, Petty Officer." Danny clucks his tongue sympathetically. "But hats off to you guys on getting those bombed out decks set back up. I heard if it wasn't for your boys, the brass wouldn't have desks to write on."
Those pleasantries gone first, he gets to his point. "I've got an investigation I had open that I wanted to run down some loose ends on. It's about Marissa Langer. She passed away a while back."
"Don't thank me yet," Bey chuckles darkly. "We had to burn a bunch of our decontamination gear doing it. Hope none of your decks get nuked any time soon, because the response time's only going to get slower. As for the desks — shit, it's not like brass needs written orders to frak us, do they." All of this is spoken in the same rapid-fire and monotonous tone of voice that might have made him a good auctioneer if his life had taken a somewhat different turn. "And — Langer? Seriously? She's been dead for months. What gives?"
"Like I said, I'm trying to close out a file." Danny says it in that world-weary tone that any junior NCO knows — trying to get rid of the backlog; you know how Command hates backlog. He glances down at a pad. "You ever know anything about her and a Pierre Rene-Marie? He's one of those QUODEL civilians. Real sharp dresser, if you like your men swishy as Hades."
"Him." There's evident distaste in the petty officer's voice. "Piers, not Pierre. Yeah, I know him. Championship level asshole; Colonial Board of Food and Safety-certified triple-A prick. Strutted around these parts wearing that bullshit scarf slapping all the girls on their you-know-whats, and nary a harassment complaint was filed once he waved around his little blue pen and his triplicate evaluation forms." All of this is delivered in less than fifteen seconds, punctuated by the restless tapping of his boots against the side of his desk. "Langer played too. You know how some women get that look in their eyes that says 'You, me, bedroom, now, drop the martini?'" Bey's sharp gazes flicks up and down Danny's face. "Well, you probably wouldn't, but. Sorry. Yeah. So much friction between them I'm surprised she didn't set his dick on fire during one of their sessions. Earplugs never came in handier."
Scribble, scribble, scribble moves the pen across the paper, the Lance Corporal nodding his head at each and every word. It's like talking to your therapist. 'Uh-huh. Uh-huh.' He smirks at the speculation about his own luck with women, but doesn't quite rise to the bait. Just the smirk.
"No kidding. When did the two of them become a thing?"
"Week or so after the suits arrived, maybe?" Bey shrugs. "Don't remember. Do remember the first time they went to ground, though. A few days after we hopped to Uram for FCQs, I went into one of the offices to pick up some paperwork and boom, there they were, right about to go for it like high schoolers under the bleachers." There's a wounded look in his gaze. "Well. I scared that sonuvabitch good by showing him these." The burly man flexes. "That one there's Hammer. This one here's Anvil." He's talking about his left and right biceps, respectively. "Anyway, Piers wasn't content to frak my boss. She gave him access to all the department's files. All of them. And guess who got to put them back into order by chron, not by alpha? Yeah. Yours truly."
"Just how it is, huh? Always how it frakkin' is." Kincaid clucks his tongue sympathetically once more, even as he scribbles more and more down on his pad. What does that chicken scratch even SAY? He bites on his lower lip, glancing up at Bey. "Langer ever say what her boy toy did before he got into the QUODEL business? I read somewhere he did some sort of consulting work for Picon Fleet HQ."
"Something about him being more than an accountant. He was on some sort of mission, she'd tell us. Deep cover." Bey scoffs audibly. "Yeah, and I made it with Athena. Probably some shit he made up to rope in the ladies, though — " Judging from his expression, whatever memory has just been jogged is evidently a disturbing one that he hadn't ever considered in this context. "I caught him comparing dick sizes with one of my girls, Andy Pond — she's dead — and, in case you're wondering, I meant that metaphorically. Something about how he wasn't here on behalf of QUODEL at all, that he was doing some sort of secret shit for Picon, that he was really here to safeguard our jobs from the evil bureaucrats."
Snap! The notebook closes shut. That, apparently, is all Kincaid needed.
"Thanks so much, Petty Officer. I won't keep you from your stuff. Thanks for helping me run this all down, though, huh? Should help me close out this piece of crap file and let me get on to something important. You can tell your lazy-asses to get back to work on that, fruit now."
And, with a jaunty wave, Danny heads on out. It seems like he has figured out what he wanted to figure out.
"Hey, whenever you want more dirt on the guy, I got it." Bey pauses only to make sure both chairs have been returned to their proper places before he too heads out, much to his subordinates' dismay.