Frank's got as much info as he's likely to get without access to resources he no longer has. But his protege', the current Lead Homicide Detective for the city of Sacramento, does, and Frank happens to know good ol' Bobby's got a weakness for Delmar's chicken Parmesan subs, extra olives. He stops by the shop to pick one up, and one for himself (hold the olives), then heads over to the Station. He parks and starts walking in when he realizes he's still got his pistol on him, and that's likely to cause him unnecessary headaches. He grumbles uselessly as he walks back and puts the gun under the driver's seat, then it's back up the steps, through the door, and he needs a moment to catch his breath before asking the Desk Sergeant to let Detective Angelos know he was here.
Frank gets sent back to Bobby's office, and finds his younger friend looking over some case reports. When Frank enters, he looks up and grins, shoving aside the paperwork. "Fraank, you old rascal. What's the word?"
"Oh, my word, they let just any low-life on the Force these days, don't they?" Frank announces with a huge, wrinkled grin as he walks in and takes a seat. The smell of the sandwiches invades every cubic inch of the office's oxygen. "Delmar's," he says, and puts the brown sandwich bag down on his former partner's desk, grease stain up. Mostly up, anyway. He drops the happy old codger routine. Bobby knew him too well for that, anyway. He sighs. "Restless. Retirement was hard before Marge...well..." Frank takes his slim, brown leather wallet from his back pocket, removes a newly laminated card out and hands it to Bobby.
His Private Investigator's License.
The smile returns to his face for a moment, wide as ever. "It's almost as good as a Badge, anyway. So I've been checkin' up on this old case of mine, Bill Wright, you remember? Washing machine genius?" The smile fades, his voice grows grave. "It's been buggin' me, Bobby, bad. I know it wasn't an accident, in my bones, I know. Can you help me out? Check out his credit card, phone records?"
"Aww, you delightful old bastard. You get the extra olives too?" Bobby peeks inside the bag, inhaling the scent. He closes his eyes in ecstasy.
When Frank pulls out the laminated card Bobby reaches out and plucks it from his fingers, looking it over. Looking from the photo of Frank to Frank himself he says "Good for you, Frank."
He hands him back the card "Just remember how many of these we pulled off of murder vics in the past. I mean, sure, you're Detective Frank Rizzo and everything, you aint no pussy. I get that. Just... Be careful out there. This definitely aint as good as a badge, and you know it. A badge means people who've got your back. As far as that's concerned this card aint worth the paper it's printed on."
Bobby leans forward, listening to Frank's request for help. Afterwards he sighs, looking down at his desk and shuffling through the papers strwen about it. "I dunno Frank, I got all this shit here to take care of. I'm basically swamped in fuckin work..." He looks back up at Frank, and his face softens "Aw fuck, Detective. You know I can't say no to you. Especially not after this delicious bribe. And yes, I know it's a bribe."
"I'll take a look into this Wright fellow. I remember the scene, gruesome shit.. but like I said I got tons of shit on my plate right now, so it aint gonna be tonight. Maybe not even tomorrow. But I'll let you know. That gonna be good enough for you, old-timer?"
"Heh. I always said you were too soft for this job," Frank kids as he puts the card back in his wallet, the intensity of his grin fading in light of the reminder that he was all alone in this world. Or would be, if you didn't count Bobby. "Thanks, Bobby. Believe me, if anyone knows you're busy, I know you're busy. Whenever you can get to it is fine. Just give me a call, you know the number." He waves the novelty phone around and laughs.
Frank leaves Bobby to his lunch over paperwork, meandering a bit through the station as he leaves, and calls of "Hey, Frank!" and "Rizzo, how are ya'?" follow him as he goes. Frank has a smile for each of them. He missed this place, these people, so much.
It was a long day of work at the firm, and Dr. Steele could hardly concentrate on his new client. That damn picture and what happened in the parking lot kept fluttering in and out of his memory. Why the fuck would someone take a picture of dad and me? Thomas left work on time this evening, handgun held tightly, as he walked to his car.
Driving home, he spotted the police station which he eyed for a moment. Well, it does look like a police surveillance video... Tom made a sudden turn of his car into the station's parking lot. He parks his car and walks inside, checking his firearm at the metal detector at the door after showing his concealed weapon permit to the guarding officer. Now approaching the front desk, he readies his identification. "Hello, I am Dr. Thomas Steele, attorney. May I speak to someone in your investigation department?"
The cop at the front desk suddenly gets a phone call and he waves off Thomas rather rudely. Frank happens to be walking by and hears Thomas saying something about an Investigation.
Frank ears perk up at the word 'investigation.' He finds the source, a sharp, fine-looking young professional man. Cops don't wear suits like that. Walking around the station had put Frank in a good mood, so when he sees the desk sergeant is busy, probably his old lady he approaches him. Hell, I got the license, and I could use well-off clients.
"You need some help with something, young man?" Frank asks with a grin that looks like it exists on a cheap coffee mug somewhere opposite the words World's Best Grampa.
The young attorney turns his attention to the older gentleman as he is addressed. It was a nasty habit for Steele to examine people for just that split-second longer than what was normal, but it usually gave him a good impression of the individual. Well, he looks old, but he does look like a cop...despite his age.
"Yes, I'm looking for someone who can help me with a photograph and some currently unknown background concerning it." Tom reaches out his hand, offering it to shake. "I'm Doctor Thomas Steele, attorney. And you are?"
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