Politics of the Day, [Artemis]

[Duncan Carlisle]

Rewind. For the fifth time in the space of roughly ten minutes, fingertips pressed against plastic buttons; spooling back the panicked voice captured on an answering machine, breathless and stilted on the other end of a phone line that the rugged detective, now hunched over a scattered mess of documents on his desk and pensively rubbing at the generous growth of stubble on his jaw, had not been present to pick up first time around.

MESSAGE PLAYBACK:
“Duncan? Duncan, if you’re there, for fuck’s sake pick up the goddamn phone. I think they’re onto me; someone’s been following on my tail since I left the HQ. I’ll try to lose him at the harbour. Call me back as soon as you can. Please.”
MESSAGE ENDS.

A mechanical beep cut shrilly through the dank silence, ringing in the Scotsman’s ears like a warning bell, and for some moments afterward, he made no further sound. Only hard strip light sliced into the flaws and lines of his features; broad hand that had been sliding over his chin lofted to the vicinity of the man’s firmly shut eyes; long fingers pinching hard at the bridge of his nose before scraping back into dark tresses with no small amount of frustration, because Carlisle had to wonder whether this was really, entirely unexpected. It was almost solely because of Mikhaila and her willingness to feed him information that the vice crime subsection of Aldenville’s police department had even managed to get anywhere close to the underground prostitution ring currently circulating within the city. The poor girl had been trafficked from Russia, of all places. Had her passport ripped away and was being forced to sell her body for everybody’s profit but her own, when Duncan found her. Put him in that situation, and capacity to place trust in others would have failed him entirely – yet she had, although understandably hesitant at first. What kind of use that sort of blind faith was now…

Unbidden, a soft growl rumbled at the back of the werewolf’s throat, punctuated with a sharp snarl as he pushed to his feet, shrugging on a battered leather jacket and already halfway out of the office before he could give himself any further time to dwell. That message had been recorded a couple of hours ago at least, and hell if he’d be in time to save her, but Carlisle’s principles simply would not let him rest until he found the girl – whatever state she was in.

The night’s vast conglomeration of scents stung Duncan’s receptive olfactory senses and caused his eyes to water, but it was jarring, visual confirmation that eventually met him at the harbour’s edge. Long, denim clad legs and booted feet had pounded the streets and shoulders remained hunched high with wary tension beneath his clothing, even as the intermittent flash of bright blue light reflected from rippling water and lines upon lines of yellow tape implored him not to cross. Police swarmed the area like flies, and as far as his experience went, that could only ever mean the worst. Not one to make a particular habit of paying attention to what he was told, the vice detective didn’t break his stride once; ducking under the cordoning tape and reaching out for the nearest officer, strong digits curling around a uniformed forearm and fixing the unlucky individual with piercing, grey opticals. He wanted answers. “What happened here?” Deep, rumbling tones of a thick Scottish accent demanded of the officer, who did nothing but glare beneath an agitated frown.

“Sir, with all due respect, this is a crime scene. You shouldn’t be--”

But Carlisle had already ceased listening at the first sign of rebuttal. Forcing his limbs into motion once more and now ignorant of all else, his trajectory turned towards the victim; nothing more than an uneven lump on cold tarmac, covered in an impersonal, white, plastic sheet. If anyone demanded his ID, or hell, if they attempted to restrain him, he’d deal with it as and when. His priority as of now, kneeling next to the lifeless body and attempting to peel away its covering, was to confirm yet another in a long line of lost lives on his conscience.

[Artemis Renard]

Would it not have prompted the officer the wereleopardess was presently conversing with to direct a series of joshing, discombobulating glances her way, she would have undoubtedly scrunched and wrinkled her nose in blatant repugnance. Good god, but detective Renard simply abhorred the docks with its heavier-than-air malodor, and she wasn’t being superficially foppish in her reasons whatsoever. An overabundance of most unpleasant odours crashed against the woman like a sensory tsunami, inundating her enhanced senses and raining abuse upon her receptors; so much, the feline shifter could nearly taste the damn fetor upon her tongue. Motor oil, waste, algae, rubber, grease, metal, excretions, and who knew what else, she could smell them all. Artemis’ heightened awareness of the fact probably exacerbated the matter further, that she was certain the harbour’s funk would adhere to the skin and hair and clothing, and she would have to scour herself clean afterwards in order to get the reek out. It was only fortunate the French native had conditioned herself beyond permitting such outside factors to govern her, years on the force where she had been exposed to incalculable corpses and, indeed, even lengthier years of being a therianthrope having enabled the woman to successfully block out excessively concentrated, obnoxious odours to some degree. Thus her refined features maintained their professional, unruffled look, choosing to let the young officer conclude the walk through he was giving of the crime scene, rather than deter him in any way.

“Is there anything else?” Renard queried, tone devoid of all traces of French accent after years spent in the United States, and the response she got was the tacit wave of a head on the officer’s part. “Alright, officer. This is what I want you to do – look around for any possible cameras in the vicinity of a crime scene. Thefts aren’t uncommon on docks, so let’s hope they’d installed video surveillance.” With that said, the young man nodded his agreement and meandered off to make himself useful some more. There already were enough officers seeking out potential witnesses around the harbour to interview them, and those corralling the spectators gathered outside the police line… Hmm, or not.

“What happened here?”

Even with Artemis facing the other way entirely, the exigent, almost growled out demand managed to claim the woman’s attention effortlessly, inflection pervaded with an element that was beyond the grasp of humans and yet quite resonant to the feline shapeshifter, rising above the clamor of the harbour. Craning her neck around and turning on her heel, the better to lay cerulean eyes upon the source of this hullabaloo, Renard couldn’t help a slight frown that tightened her brow as she took in the sight of that vice detective – Duncan Carlisle was him name, she believed – and the taken aback officer. Exasperation churned within her, though at whom exactly the emotion was directed was the question. The uniformed policeman was lucky she wasn’t in utterly sour mood, otherwise Artemis would’ve ensured he wrote parking tickets for the rest of his career. She did find the Scotsman’s approach unprofessional; not only had he completely ignored to display his badge, but he had theatrically barged in on the crime scene as if he was the primary. Forcing long legs into motion, and waving a dismissive hand at the officer incognizant of the fact that Carlisle was a fellow cop, Artemis made her way towards the vice detective, his canine scent wafting over on the crisp air. As did the stench of drying blood from the body he was hunkered down by, reaching out a single hand to lift the plastic cover, and reveal the pale woman with two gunshot wounds on her chest. Blue and crimson alternately bathed her advancing form, colouring Renard’s features and ivory shirt, and melting into darkness of her pants and jacket. Umber tresses were swept off her countenance, and a silver badge hanged upon the chain around her neck.

“If you’ve seen enough,” Artemis began simply as she came to a halt on the opposite side of a body, trying to keep irritating from bleeding into her voice as hands comfortably rested upon her hips, “the body needs to be released to the coroner. And you can also tell me what exactly brings you here tonight.”

[Duncan Carlisle]

Lifting flimsy plastic away from the form of the deceased provided Duncan with nothing but a rush of rather intense sensory assault, for a start; the sight of an ashen face and neck palely blossoming with irregular patches of black and blue – cold contained beneath that covering so concentrated that he could feel the chill radiating outward and pressing against his own flesh without the need for direct touch, enough to cause the hairs at the back of his neck to stir and stand on end; clothing torn and soaked dark with freshly spilt blood that trickled in stygian pools to the concrete from hidden gunshot wounds, nose, the corner of cracked lips… an overwhelming stench of gunmetal and salt and alkaline and the base note strain of something intensely sweet that subjugated all else. Death was an old friend to the gruff Scotsman, and he knew its feel rather intimately after several decades of dalliance. It was enough to hone the breadth of his focus and pin it exclusively to the girl for a few uncounted moments, blocking out the reek of the river to nothing but a tingle at the back of his olfactory senses; cloudy opticals drawn to her visage and lingering there indefinitely beneath the tense constriction of heavy brows.

“If you’ve seen enough, the body needs to be released to the coroner. And you can also tell me what exactly brings you here tonight.”

The sound of the female’s voice was what brought Duncan back to the world, more than anything else; smooth and easily curling around an American dialect, firm and authoritative without being unpleasant to even his sensitive hearing. He didn’t regard her immediately; rather taking time to replace the cover on Mikhaila’s face, alternating flashes of vivid luminescence now refracted from that concealment rather than soaking into her deceased flesh. At length, Carlisle’s neck craned back and sharp opticals pinned the woman where she stood, towering on the opposite side of the body. A face that he recognised indeed, unique, elegantly feline and straightforwardly pinned to a name – Artemis Renard, one of Aldenville’s primary homicide detectives. Nostrils flared just a fraction, and on instinct; her scent held an electric tingle of familiarity that tickled hotly at the back of Duncan’s throat; that of an individual with lycanthrope blood thrumming through her veins, though certainly not of lupine origin.

“Can I now? Generous woman if ever I met one.” Dark brows raised in mild bemusement and muttered words rumbled beneath the man’s breath, huffed out with no small amount of sarcasm lacing their undertones. A pause – one last glance downwards to the lifeless form at his knees, before Duncan finally pushed himself back to a standing position. Not allowing his gaze to waver once, regarding the well-dressed cop with silent appraisal.

“Renard, am I right? The girl was working for me. Left a message and obviously I couldn’t get to her in time. If you need anyone to identify the body…” speech trailed off as Carlisle released a slow, heavy sigh from his lungs, one hand idly travelling upward to rake idly through umber tresses, “Well. I doubt you'll have many others stepping up to the plate.”

[Artemis Renard]

If the werewolf in detective’s clothing had sensed her coming, Carlisle certainly showed no evidence of it. Eyes remained unwaveringly pinned upon the body as singular paces transported Artemis closer to where he crouched; no pricking of the ears at the approaching footfall to signal his awareness of her presence, no flaring of nostrils at the looming feline scent, nothing. Indeed, it was only after the French native had spoken, and the plastic covering placed back over the woman’s face, that pale opticals glanced upwards. Giving the circumstances and priorities, an ephemeral contemplation that would be either completely trifling or helpful to the case flashed through Renard’s mind at that, and she pondered if the source of lycan’s undivided attention was plain old, morbid fascination with blood and death, or if the murder victim was of some importance to him. Perhaps the leopardess’ utterances were callous and inconsiderate, too clinical in their level deliverance, but detachment was a lesson well learned. She’d seen numerous cops personify victims and turn into nervous, alcoholic wreck of men, and the last thing Artemis wanted was to add new demons and contrition to an assortment she’d acquired over many decades – something to follow her home and into her bed, plague her dreams.

“Can I now? Generous woman if ever I met one.”

The loup-garou spoke, yet deliberately failed to state that which detective Renard had so obviously desired to hear. Perceptible sarcasm was wrapped around each grumbled syllable, infusing the Scotsman’s accented timbre, and managing to strike a chord within the woman. Although blasé impassiveness continued to dominate the leopardess’ distinguished features, she could feel the weary perturbation cast its net across her consciousness, and it was an effort to prevent snappish annoyance from settling upon her visage. Artemis did allow delicate brows to arch slowly in a complete lack of amusement, though, the previously assumed stance with her hands upon flared hips only compounding the image further. Did this guy think he was being funny, even in the least? Because she sure as hell was not impressed. The feline therianthrope truly could not have cared less about how generous she looked in Carlisle’s eyes; in fact, the lycan’s perception of her was of no interest to Renard whatsoever. Despite the genuinely warm, compassionate center she harboured, the French native was still nowhere near as magnanimous as she might have wished to be, and in that moment she was very much tempted to repay the wolf with a fairly catty comeback, before having him escorted to the other side of the yellow tape in all of her generosity. But she bit back harsh words, for the thing Artemis did care about was finding the killer, and that body was getting colder by a second. “Don’t waste my time, Carlisle,” was a retort he got instead, smooth and flat like glass.

“Renard, am I right? The girl was working for me. Left a message and obviously I couldn’t get to her in time. If you need anyone to identify the body… Well. I doubt you'll have many others stepping up to the plate.”

When the elucidation finally came, shining some dim light on Carlisle’s reasons for visiting the harbour that night, the leopardess wasn’t quite certain how to feel about it. No, Renard wasn’t contemplating expressing how sorry she was to the lycan, even if lack of doing so might generate misconceptions regarding the abrasiveness of her nature. It was merely the cruel reality of their job; though not so much hers specifically, and that was another thing Artemis preferred about homicide department. Hands removed from the hips, only for the feline shapeshifter to fold her arms underneath her bosom, a curt nod of the head given in Carlisle’s direction. Cerulean orbs slid askance for a fleeting instant as Renard perpended what the werewolf had just said, considering the ramifications and how it reflected upon her case, weighting her options. It didn’t take a detective to realize he felt somewhat responsible for the woman’s untimely death, all labored sighs and failure to rendezvous in time, and her instincts were stressing Carlisle would pursue this like a bloodhound. Last thing Renard truly needed was him running around like Harry goddamn Callahan, butting into her investigation. Perhaps including him into it willingly might be better, especially if the woman’s death was in any way connection to whatever lycan was investigating himself. That was something Artemis simply couldn’t ignore, even if she found him annoying.

Bringing her azure-hued gaze back to Carlisle’s countenance, she spoke, “There’re fresh bruises on her neck. She probably struggled with the killer first, before trying to run away and getting shot twice in the back. Both are clean exit wounds; bullets are on their way to the lab, so we’ll see what ballistics’ll have to say. According to the body temperature, she’s been dead for an hour or two at most, though autopsy should give a more definite timeframe. She’s got no ID, no driver’s license, or any kind of document.” Unfurling her arms and letting them rest by her sides, Artemis cocked her head aside for a degree, inquisitiveness lofting one of her brows. “So, who’s this girl and how exactly was she working for you?”

[Duncan Carlisle]

“Don’t waste my time, Carlisle.”

For a moment, Duncan uttered absolutely nothing whatsoever. Faint echoes of police sirens wailed reverberatingly in the mid distance, mumbled mutters of fellow officers reached his ears and circulated within the further reaches of his consciousness as clearly as though they were standing directly at the vice detective’s shoulder, and yet his sharp gaze remained steady and unwavering as it ever did when something attracted his attention; concentrated solely upon Artemis this time, and temporarily blocking out the rest of the night’s furore in lieu of his soundless examination. With no small amount of leisure, Carlisle allowed himself a moment to slip from the feline tilt of the woman’s eyes and downwards to the badge that glinted dully against her chest – dark suit, immaculately turned out, hands firmly parked against her hips in dominant assuredness and spine held proud… the veritable epitome of the independent, professional female and undeniably one with spirit, he silently acknowledged as pale opticals flicked upwards in order to regard the cop’s near-glacial visage. Chilled to an invariable smoothness that matched her spoken words, in fact. Duncan simply couldn’t help himself; a quiet, breathed-out laugh brushed past his slightly curled lips, followed swiftly by the slow arch of a dark, incredulous brow towards the hairline. He knew her type, had noted it countless times before in the personality traits of women – and indeed several men – that were drawn into joining the police force for whatever reason; posture and attitude screamed self-confidence and imperturbable passion and drive, the breed of souls that tended to allow their lives and their work blend and coalesce until whatever boundaries ruled between the two became impossible to define. The werewolf liked to think he could spot such individuals from several miles of distance, being one himself – like lured like, after all. And yet, in all his years and purported wisdom, Duncan had never been able to truly distinguish the connecting thread between those qualities and the draw of this, of all occupations.

“There’re fresh bruises on her neck. She probably struggled with the killer first, before trying to run away and getting shot twice in the back. Both are clean exit wounds; bullets are on their way to the lab, so we’ll see what ballistics’ll have to say. According to the body temperature, she’s been dead for an hour or two at most, though autopsy should give a more definite timeframe. She’s got no ID, no driver’s license, or any kind of document.”

Factual statements delivered on even-tempered syllables drew the gruff detective out of his deepening trail of thought, at length. In a direct mirroring of Artemis’ stance, the Scotsman folded muscular arms across his leather-clad chest, returning her apparent defensiveness and forming a further barrier against the chill of night breezes. Turning on his heel and finally tearing his stare away from Renard’s countenance, Duncan’s began to pace – slow, thoughtful steps as his colleague spoke, working his way towards the victim’s covered feet with the natural scowl plastered firmly on his rugged features, deepening the lines carved in the man’s forehead. An hour or two certainly made total sense, being that Mikhaila’s message had been recorded no later than that. He hadn’t felt any warmth from her body when he lifted that cover, though. Only that searing, burning cold.

“So, who’s this girl and how exactly was she working for you?”

“Mikhaila Ivanova,” Carlisle responded near-immediately, thick accent wrapped around the girl’s name with careful consideration. “Trafficked from Russia and had her documents taken, which would be why you couldn’t find any. Found her working for a prostitution ring and offered to help me and my department take them down by feeding us information from inside.” Another pause, and Duncan’s frown deepened somewhat as his line of vision lifted towards Artemis yet again. “S’pose personal liability wasn’t exactly the first thing on her mind.” Or his, for that matter. And Duncan mentally cursed himself for that thought in particular; knowing now, in retrospect, that the girl’s safety should have remained paramount and not be allowed to slip.

“Detective Renard? We’ve found the surveillance tapes. You might want to take a look at them.”

A slightly breathless voice cut into the conversation, fast approaching from Duncan’s right and halting a few feet away from the body. A younger officer, clearly one of Renard’s own, with a visible urgency permeating her tightened musculature. Cloudy grey opticals flickered between the two, and it took a few seconds’ thought before Carlisle’s deep voice resonated once more. “Sounds like a party. I’d like to take a look at them myself.” Lopsided smirk began to tug at the corner of thin lips, and the lycanthrope’s timbre regained its subtle air of teasing. If it’s not a waste of your time, Detective.”