Call Placed to Marshal West

[Addison Constance]

Addison had finally settled into the new office having made her acquaintances with the necessary department heads. Now it was time to get back to work. Twirling a black ink pen in her fingers, she spread out and looked over the contents of a folder she had been given just that morning. An escaped convict, murderer, top priority. A few notations made in columns of her personal packet on the man in question. A quick glance up at the corner of the third page of research notes that was already completed gave her the name and number of the Marshal that was assigned the case.

Marshal Nicholas West

Given a turn in black leather office chair she picked up the phone and proceeded to dial the number with the tip of the closed pen she still had in her hand. One... Two... Three rings and it went to voice mail. Damn she hated some of the ways that were necessary for communication with others. The voice mail played out, and knowing she had the right number she did leave a message after the tone.

" Marshal West, hello. I'm Addison Constance with behavioral analysis. I am looking over the file I have been given on the recent escapee. I wanted to touch base, see if there was any new developments or you had anything to add. I would appreciate a return call. You can reach me here at the office, 306- 572- 1928, it rings directly to my desk. My cell is 306- 324 - 1229. Thanks."

She placed the phone back down, and picked up the Blackberry on the edge of her desk. Quickly programming the Marshal's number in. She did put all he pictures and notes back into the file, and locked it into the top drawer of the oak desk that she had brought from New Orleans with her. The Key put in the front left pocket of her low rise Abercrombie jeans, phone in the back. Lights out and she was leaving so she could get safely back to her house long before sun rose.

[Nicholas West]

The beauty of his assignment, for the rest of his colleagues in district, was that “when in doubt, send it to West”. It meant that anything with even a glimmer of possibly having preternatural involvement in the slightest was being shot to his desk. Preternatural not paying their taxes, needed to get spanked? Put it on West's desk. If it was of Federal interest and or purview, was in his district, and had even a touch of a “particular involvement” proven or suspected… He heard about it, and it fell on him to get it done. I
n the case of his newest of new cases, he had a fun one ahead of himself.

Nicholas was buried in his least favorite part of his job, inside a SCIF, although one which he was as thorough and unrelenting until the end as any other. The “secure, compartmented information facility” in this case was in downtown Seattle, “1000”, on 2nd Avenue near Spring Street. The local Federal building where he and his same such alphabet soup colleagues operated. Cell phones were not allowed in SCIF’s, it was nearly Eight in the AM when Nicholas had finished up inside the hardened room and returned to his own office.

He loosened his silk crimson tie and unbuttoned the collar of his white, French cuff, Brioni shirt. After punching in his access code and strolling on in, he removed the rare, Jade like, chrysoprase and platinum cuff links and pocketed them. Rolling up his sleeves two inches, deciding he was thirsty, as he headed to the Uncle Sugar sponsored mini-fridge which was naturally sans alcohol. His office was surprisingly large and well-furnished in comparison to the good lot of his colleagues, even those whom had seniority. Hell, with the way he dressed and the office he'd been given you might have thought he was running the whole district.

Unless he was playing in the mud, and or doing deeds which required otherwise, he dressed the part. The office was a consequence of the position he had been assigned to, and short of the two actual bigwigs on the floors above him? Was probably the nicest the Marshals could lay claim to in the building.

A bottle of ice cold Fiji water was collected from the mini-fridge, uncapped, and sipped. He carried the bottle with him to his desk and plopped down in his dark brown leather chair. Other than that silver, circular badge, Sig Sauer P-229R .40, and spare mag holstered to his black leather belt one might have thought him some sort of fresh faced executive.

The Sig was a personal firearm on the short list of authorized “duty” firearms he and his were authorized to carry, if they wanted to pony up the cash to do it. The Uncle Sugar issued Glock was in a safe, along with a plethora of other nasty things that went “bang”. He closed his eyes for a moment, setting the bottle gently onto his desk before leaning back as if he might actually nap, deep in thought concerning cases and priority. So far it was “so good”, and ultimately nothing nearly as transparently sinister as he originally imagined when he had received the initial briefing. Nothing so sinister, concerning the preternatural, yet… Save for the escaped convict.

It was colder inside the quasi-luxurious space of his office than inside the SCIF, his eyes flickered over to take in the sight of his suit jacket hanging where he had left it across the room. It wasn't cold enough to warrant his getting up to go put it on. The black iPhone notified him, shattering his split second of almost solace, with a low volume tone and chirp that he had received at least one phone call and or voice mail while he had been inside the confines of the vault. He sighed as he reached out over the glass desk and swooped up his phone, messing around with the touchscreen for a moment, looking over his missed calls. One. He immediately went on to check his voice mail, put it on speaker, and let it play.

For all of two seconds he considered, as the message began to play, the nature of the call. The confirmation came after the name in the form of “with”. Of course she was “with” some law enforcement agency or another, less than a handful of people outside the business had that number. He would have remembered giving out his number to someone with a voice like hers, Addison Constance. Given the business nature of the recording, he sat up in his chair at that point and made like he worked for a living, gripping up a Mont blanc and putting its tip to the pad on his desk. He wrote down her name, and numbers after replaying the message once.

She had not declared her agency, and while Nick was never the sort of boy to assume… “When in Doubt? FBI”… was the rule in Fed land. She had said she was “with behavioral analysis”, the FBI had the premier BA unit, which he was sure to catch shit for if he ever acknowledged aloud.

When in doubt? FBI more than likely did “that”, had purview, capability, or in the case of personnel who did not disclose anything other than what Ms. Constance had? Nick's Vegas money was on the Bureau. All the same, they were all on the same team weren't they? Nick put her numbers, office and cell, into his iPhone directory's newest entry under Addison Constance.

He was a busy worker bee indeed. He had been at the office since 0300, Three AM, and inside the SCIF all the while his colleagues began to filter in to do their relevant duty and functions as related to other human beings, normal people. His day was not over by a long shot, and he wouldn't be surprised to find himself on task until at least the mid-evening.

His position meant keeping “irregular” hours, more irregular than the already odd hours any other Marshal kept. He figured, based on the time of the missed call from Ms. Constance, that she did as well. He messed through his directory then, locating the entry for her, and tapped her mobile number on the touchscreen to dial. Apparently phone tag was the name of the game, in their business it was common enough, because his call went straight to her voice mail.

“Ms. Constance, Marshal Nick West returning your call. I would prefer to discuss the matter in person, concerning the matter of official business and federal fugitives of that lot. Please give me a call back, that we might arrange the requisite details. I look forward to meeting with you.”…

Requisite details meant, in this case, at what time, date, and at whose office would they be meeting to discuss such official matters. With that the call was ended.

[Addison Constance]

Addison woke up in the exact same position she had when to her daytime slumber [death]. She lay there a few moments gathering her wits about her. Comfortable enough to have remained there the entire day. The loose fitting charcoal gray aeroposatle yoga pants, and well worn long sleeve t'shirt that read Property of LSU athletic department

But no it didn't seem that was the way the evening was going to play out. She heard the light buzz of vibration and a quick glance over she would see that her blackberry was flicker a red notice that she had messages or missed calls.

A light huff given as she swung her long legs off the king size bed in the room she had been paying for since her transfer. A hand smoothed over her hair and then downward across the shirt and the pants making sure they had not shifted any. Which indeed they had not. She padded barefoot over to desk where she had laid the phone and picked it up.

Hopping up on the dresser in one graceful move, she looked through the phone to see what was going on. A couple calls from a few folks from down in New Orleans. Well wishes and that sorta thing. Nothing big. The last message was from the Marshal she phoned earlier. Nice voice, thinking and imagining what the man looked like with just a few sentences spoken.

It would see it would warrant another call. Great.

Addison, Marshal, as you prefer, it is how it will be handled. Can we met at one of the local bars, Sunset Tavern. I would say anytime after 2200, or 10 pm. I will get a table near the window. and I will be wearing a scarlet hoodie and jeans.

Call was ended she was sure that he would return her call if that was just not possible. Nonetheless it was time for her to start getting dressed anyhow. She was certain there was work to do at the office if he didn't show.

Getting a shower, she blowed dried her long brown hair before pulling it up in a loose twist at the nape of her neck. She looked through her clothes and pulled out the venetian red Jordan style AF Zip front hoodie and placed it on a chair. then the rest of what she was going to wear was placed out.

The snow white Cami was put on first, and then she slid on the Hollister low rise skinny jeans in a vintage wash. Of course to complete the ensemble, she had her 3in Marc Jacob calf length chocolate leather boots.

Standing she went to the safe and took out her credentials with badge, Glock in it's holster, so she could place it just on her right hip. The safe locked again, she would grab the hoodie off the chair and slip into it, before gathering up her blackberry, small pocket knife, debit card, two twenties, and the key.

Her walk was more of a quick slither to the door, hearing it click behind her, she started out of the hotel, and toward the bar, she did have a few things to do before arriving. Dinner was one of those things. Surely it wouldn't take her more than the two and a half hours that she had given herself, before needing to be at the tavern.