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#Post#: 421--------------------------------------------------
The Detective is In / Out of his Mind
By: Slick Date: March 27, 2026, 7:29 pm
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[center]Butch[/center]
Butch had Lonnie leave him at the apartment, sending him to
start a headcount on their people, spreading the word to be on
alert, arm up and bunker down. Dip to a safe house, if
necessary. The threat wasn’t identified, yet, but there was one.
But it was to stay internal for now. But Lonnie’s first stop on
his route was Maxine’s Juke Joint. She was to carry a message to
the Prince’s Haven and request a council with the Sheriff.
Many of the elders of the Camarilla had a stick up their ass
about technology. Aside from the fact that they mostly didn’t
understand computers or smart phones, equating them to magical;
they were susceptible to surveillance, and the surveillance
state of the Mortals were terrifying for them to comprehend.
Even if Butch wasn’t of a like mind — he definitely was — the
Prince or the Sheriff wouldn’t even have one near them to reach
them.
Butch would have to wait until this pony express would deliver
his message, and even longer for the sheriff to arrive. But he
would wait. He wasn’t leaving the crime scene. The cops could be
there any moment, checking on their no-show Lieutenant. And he
would be ready, and either overwhelm them with Presence or flee
into the night, depending on how they arrived.
He surveilled the roof top, trying to keep him foot print low,
using enhanced senses from Auspex to find anything noteworthy.
Whether it was paranoia that the killer be waiting for him, or
angry that someone had killed his progeny, he couldn’t see
anything. He scanned the surrounding area, looking for someone
maybe watching in the distance.
He needed the Sheriff. The Malkavian was broken, for sure, but
he was effective. He picked strange, yet efficient hounds,
smarter than he looked, and despite his “Code of honor” was one
dirty fighter. He was also a helluva detective, and that’s what
he needed. He also needed to see if the Lunatic was hiding
something. Who knows, maybe he had something to do with it. The
Prince and Sheriff did seem chummy.
Butch waited, simmering the entire time.
—————————————————
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[I]-Dust. We all go to dust in the end. They call it
immortality, but cases like these remind you that it’s all a
charade. Death always comes knocking, and that sonovabitch won’t
hesitate to knock twice. For guys like Rollie Marbroux, death
had likely chased him down to punch his ticket again. A dirty
cop, held up as a hero, feeding of the very populace he swore to
protect in more ways than one. In a town this dirty, the list of
who swung the scythe — or the stake — was probably long.[/I]
[I] “This never gets old,”[/I] Maxine mused with a wry grin
before smoking through her Flapper-era cigarette holder. She
wore a simple and sleep black dress, highlighting the caramel of
her skin, a small black hat and a lace veil covering her doll
like face. She’d painted her lips black as well. When asked why
she dressed like she was going to a funeral, she had shrugged.
[I] “Not like we can go to his”[/I]
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Butch shook his head, listening to the Sheriff ramble his
madness out loud. If he hadn’t been speaking truthfully, Butch
would have hauled off on the Noir-head. But he didn’t. He just
smoked and watched the “Detective” work.
Hannigan was shift of six foot, while not imposing, looked solid
beneath the rumpled suit he wore. The trench coat was sturdy,
but had seen better days. It helped barely hide the massive six
shooter he had in a shoulder rig. He used a magnifying glass to
examine the stake, and what little ash remained around it.
-Roland had gotten his first suntan in years. Too bad it was his
last. Bad way to go. Staking out for the sun was personal. Meant
they knew what he truly was. Meant they wanted to send a
message. Left days ago, or perhaps the perfect timing. Maybe
Rollie had been the message to his sire. But who was the
messenger? Butch Fraiser has his own laundry list of enemies…-
[I] “I’m right here, ye daft cunt.”[/I] He snarled, and there
was a big of brogue that clipped at the end. Rarely came out,
even when he was angry at this point. But the old words had
their way. Maxine was biting back a laugh, smoke fuming out of
her lips as she looked off towards something. Insolent, all of
his childer. Hannigan stood and looked towards Butch, bushy
brows furrowed, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Butch was stone face
as the Malkavian approached.
“Well, Butch, do you have any suspects in mind? Whose toes did
the Brujah step on this time? Oh that’s right — you control all
the crime in The City of Saints.”
Butch balled a fist, and to his credit Hannigan stared him down.
Maxine cut in before there was the chance for violence.
[I] “Those serpents in The Ministry always had it out for him
after that shipping container bust after he got Embraced.
Supposedly a Haitian nest is teaming up with those Snake Charmer
Revivalists out in the Bayou. Maybe they thought they were
strong enough to strike. What’s that awful Pastor’s name? The
one they found with a Senator, two hookers and an 8-ball?”[/I]
Butch gave her a curious look, as if that had been news to him,
before speaking up. [I] “Cherub Charlie Henson. Greasy fuckin’
protestant snake.” [/I] If anyone was wondering where Butch’s
prejudice’s lied….
“So a few Setite Cults joined forces to exact revenge. Not a
bad theory. Let’s see if we can’t pull more water out this well
while the moon’s still high.”
Hannigan began his Noir-thriller prowl towards the stairs, not
waiting for either of the Brujah to follow, speaking to himself
to low for them to hear when they did follow.
-There were still clues to track down int he victim’s apartment.
He may have been asking for it, but this had still been a
Masquerade Breach. If Rollie was vulnerable, if the killers were
willing to cross Butch and the Brujah, we were all vulnerable.
Not on my watch.-[/center]
#Post#: 427--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Detective is In / Out of his Mind
By: Slick Date: March 27, 2026, 11:21 pm
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[center]Hannigan used the edge of a pin to shift through the
mess the attackers had left of Marbroux’s apartment. Butch
shifted his shimmering, hazel eyes from the Sheriff, the door,
and the windows. He wasn’t afraid to wear his emotions on his
sleeve at times, and he was annoyed and paranoid. Max was more
composed, though her hand was auspiciously just chilling in her
handbag, likely on a gun. She tried to seem bored, but she was
shifting in her heels too much. She’d been his favorite, once;
he’d been hers. Now she was a lieutenant, with her whole
operation of her own, one of the longest running smuggling rings
in the city. She wasn’t supposed to be here, she was supposed to
be somewhere safe. Still, having her there, as backup, or
support, eased his nerves a bit. Max spoke first.
[I] “Well they either were looking for something or they wanted
it to look like they were looking for something…”[/I]
————————————————
-The Skirt was right. Whoever staked Rollie had torn through his
place like a rabid dog. And it could have been staged. Something
was off. That nagging itch behind my eye telling me I’m missing
something. Miss Maxine Haynes draws my gaze, and not because
she’s a Dame to Kill For. The Former Sultress of Swing was a
stone cold killer in her own right.-
Maxine’s postured shifted, raising a brow as Hannigan looked to
her. When he spoke directly to someone, his voice raised an
octave, seamlessly slipping out of his odd narration.
“You were broodmates with the Victim, correct?”
Maxine raised a brow, eyes shifting to Butch before nodding her
head. He’d said Lonnie had swept for listening devices.
“And how was your relationship with Mr. Marbroux?”
[I] “Oh, I loathed the man somethin’ fierce. And while I can’t
say I’ll miss his racist ass, him bein’ dead doesn’t make my
nights any easier.”[/I]
“You’re breaking’ my heart, doll.” Hannigan pinched his finger
and thumb together, playing the world’s tiniest violin as he
began moving through the rest of the apartment.
-Marbroux was part of a gang task force. Just as much as a
gangster as the perps he hunted. Typical Big Easy corruption.
Had a few ghouls on his squad, crooks with badges juiced up on
V. The others were likely soaked with Presence they looked to
Rollie like their warlord. Maybe those Ghouls saw the real power
their Capitan had and wanted more. The entire apartment stunk
like a cop coverup. Valuables were stolen, but big ticket items
had been left. They didn’t want to be burdened — or they didn’t
come by car. The bedroom light had been left on in the otherwise
blacked out room.
Interest.-
The bed was sliced open, and the closet full of cheap suits had
been tossed through. On a shelf was an open and empty safe.
Hannigan ran his tongue over his teeth behind pursed lips, pale
blue eyes darting around as he tried to put the pieces together.
[I] “You think his ghouls turned on him?”[/I] Butch asked
Hannigan shrugged, coming back out and looking around the main
area. “Not sure. But no forced entry, the lack of blood… I
think Rollie knew his attackers.”
The Sheriff moved to the kitchen table where it had happened.
Chair knocked back. Blood on the back wall, the table, the
floor. Not a lot, but enough that made him think they’d gotten
close before they made the move. Hannigan closed his eyes,
taking a deep breath into his dead lungs, breathed out, and
opened his eyes again.
-This went deeper, which meant I had to. Opening the mind’s eye,
it turns the world into a kaleidoscope of color. Hues most
people could never name or ever see. The powers of the blood had
always confounded me until I’d drained that hippie in the 70s.
Now every trip with Auspex was like an acid flashback. But like
with tea-leaves, you just had to learn to read the mess.-
He knelt down, running his fingertips along the ground around
the fallen chair, eyes unblinking, ears straining. He would stop
eventually, and then move his gaze around as if following an
unseen force.
-3, maybe 4 guys. Things were calm until they weren’t. Rollie
got sloppy, left himself open and he was down before he knew
what hit ‘em. It wasn’t until after they took him up to the roof
that they came back to go through the apartment. Maybe they
found what they were looking for. Maybe it was staged, like the
Dame said.-
Hannigan turned to Butch. “You said Roland had contacted you
about something he wanted to share. Any idea what that was
about?”
Butch shook his head, “No. Wanted to talk in person.”
“Huh.” Hannigan jotted a few things down in a note book, and
started towards the door. “You two should leave before the
killers show back up or the cops do. Don’t leave town — I might
have some follow up questions….”
-Snake-handling Vampire Pastors and Rogue Ghoul Cops. Quite the
colorful cast of characters. Could almost drive a man
mad….-[/center]
#Post#: 438--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Detective is In / Out of his Mind
By: Slick Date: March 29, 2026, 5:13 pm
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Hannigan’s office was off Bourbon Street, tucked into the second
floor of an old building that had been turned into small
commercial offices, the kind of place had hard drive recover
next to a chiropractor. The inside hallway of offices had solid,
full frame doors. Hannigan’s had the classic wooden build, half
frame window with cloudy glass, bold font reading “ Big Easy
Private Investigations”.
The main room was the office and the waiting room. A few chairs
in font of a large, cluttered desk, filing cabinets, cork boards
lined up with various string diagrams. It also included a
kitchenette. Most of the shades were drawn, but one was up to
allow the warm glow of the street lamps outside to illuminate
the space some.
The second room was a bedroom and bathroom combo, including a
Murphy bed and a small closet. There were no windows.
“Honey, I’m home,” he called out as he entered, shutting the
door and locking it. “Oh yeah. I’m not married…” He hung up his
jacket.
-Not even a cat to keep my seat warm. Not that I liked cats. I
didn’t mind being alone. My office was my haven, and when it
wasn’t office hours I liked to keep the two separate. Secretary
could gum that up. Not that I could afford to pay one. You don’t
get into the PI work for the money. You do it as a calling. You
get hunches and you track ‘em down. You solve cases, and you
live paycheck to paycheck. The glamour disappeared for me long
ago.-
Hannigan moved around, turning on the desk lamp with green-glass
lamp shade. From the kitchenette he took a glass from a cabinet
and a flask from inside the mini-fridge, pouring the thick red
blood into the rocks glass, about two fingers worth.
He opened the window, the sounds of the city winding down
filtering in as he sat in the low resting leather chair.
Lighting up a cigarette, he took a drag before he sipped his
“cocktail”.
-It would be morning, soon. I’d placed a few calls to the proper
agencies in town. Rollie’s apartment would be swept by the real
police, and there would be a case opened. There was nothing else
I or anyone in the camarilla could really do until the sun went
down. The Prince was updated, his Man Friday letting me know I
had carte blanche to do what I needed to do my job. He didn’t
seem too shook up about Rollie biting it. Not that he would.
Butch and the Prince had been butting heads for years. Jereoux
was like most Venture, competent but too self-righteous about it
to be liked. But he pupped the city like a Maestro at times, and
it made me wonder if he a hold on my string. Make no mistake, he
was just as much of a suspect as Butch was.-
He finished the glass of blood, taking his time with the
cigarette. Eventually he would stub out the smoke and wash the
glass out, setting it in the drying rack.
-I can feel the sun creeping up. The higher it starts to climb,
the more I can feel a weight being pressed on me. Like a man
accused of witch-craft back in the Salem days. Every minute was
like another stone on my chest. The need to rest was clouding
any things I had on the case. Details were smudging. I shucked
my clothes, getting down to my skivvies after shutting the door.
As I burrowed under layers of blankets, I wondered if I was
truly going to sleep, or if I was just dying again. I prayed for
a dream.-
#Post#: 443--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Detective is In / Out of his Mind
By: Slick Date: March 30, 2026, 4:25 pm
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[center]The cops found Rollie’s apartment in the AM. By the PM,
there had been a case established, a task force appointed to
that case, and the most bare bones information given to the
press. A cop was missing. No leads. No suspects. No prints or
DNA at the victim’s apartment. No murder weapon. That one had
been taken by Hannigan. Cops didn’t need to find a stake, and he
still wanted to examine it.
Using various contacts through the Camarilla, and his own within
the NOPD, Hannigan arranged for an interview with Roland
Marbroux’ Gang Task Force off sight from their main precinct.
Instead, they were meeting on the third floor of an office
building that was still under construction. The property
belonged to Franco Castillo, one of Hannigan’s new Hounds and a
former Sabbat Lasombra. He was in the real-estate game, having
snagged this property and was in the process of flipping it.
A few uniformed officers were there to greet the task force
members at the door down stairs, and a few more upstairs
assigned to keep order, and to keep the Task force separated.
All of the offices were emptied, and each member was to wait in
their cubicle until they were called to a quad of enclosed
offices in the center of the area.
The inside of the offices had been arranged like interrogation
rooms, the blinds pulled down over every window, though Hannigan
was using his fingers to peer through a gap, looking at the few
suspects they still needed to question. Sitting in one corner of
the room with a small coffee table taken from a defunct break
room, was a woman with auburn hair pulled into a tight,
professional braid, thick rimmed glasses sitting on a button
nose. She ore a business casual suit with sensible boots, typing
away on a laptop. Melissa “Gumshoe” Jones was another hound of
Hannigan’s, another detective and a Nosferatu underneath the
illusion she cast. Across from her, leaning against the wall and
inspecting his nails was Franco. Average build, mediterranean
features, with an anger that seemed permanently set in his jaw
and annoyance in his dark gaze. The trio were on a short break.
-The box smelled like sweat and fear. It always did, even when
the suspect was innocent. Put a man in a box, under the right
circumstances he’d tell you anything you want to hear.
Interrogation was an art, one most didn’t understand. They
looked for the answers they wanted, and usually dropped the
paint brush when they got an outline of the picture. Cops like
these, they could barely put together stick figures before they
were slapping cuffs on people. This was different. We weren’t
questioning them about their abilities as law enforcement, or
trying to see if they were dirty. I knew they were dirty, and
they did, too. I just wanted to know who iced Roland Marbroux.
And I knew tricks that most cops didn’t. I didn’t have to wade
through muck of lies to find the nuggets of truth. Some of these
bastards, I just had to dip right into their crooked heads and
rummage for the answer. So far, nothin’ had come of it.
Gumshoe, true to her nature, was good at sussing out the truth,
latching on to the little facts and had things on all the
officers to ply their mouths open willingly in most cases. The
real tough guys, I referred to Franco. If they got lippy, he was
happy to smack ‘em in said lips. One guy threatened to send his
Union rep after him, called him a ‘greaseball’.
Franco just looked him dead in the eyes and said
[color=white]“Piss yourself.”. And he did. Pretty sure I could
hear him crying’ when he was escorted to the elevator. Little
heavy handed, but we would need that sort of moxy for the next
batch of guys.-[/color]
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Letting the blinds close, Hannigan turned and walked back to his
seat. Franco meanwhile was mumbling no-so-under his breath in a
mix of either Italian or Spanish or both. The lasombra was not
yet used to his new superior and his quirk. Few did. For a Clan
as egotistical as the shadowmancers, though, it likely didn’t
sit well with Franco that he had to take orders from a Lunatic.
He didn’t have much choice, however.
Gumshoe looked up from her laptop, [I] “Ready for the next guy,
boss?”[/I]
Hannigan nodded, opening his cigarette container. Next up were
the Ghouls.[/center]
#Post#: 453--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Detective is In / Out of his Mind
By: Slick Date: April 6, 2026, 5:23 pm
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[center] “Axe that, Franco. Bring ‘em both in.
We’re burnin’ moonlight and we still gotta lot of
pavement to pound,” Hannigan lit up his cigarette. Once
he had a good drag, he stood up and kept the chair out, moving
to the far window behind the suspect’s chair as Franco
exited, yelling in English outside. Gumshoe pulled out a makeup
mirror and looked over her face, ensuring the illusion was
holding up correctly around her monstrous visage. She looked
like a human woman. Not a drain lizard. Nope.

The last two came in cursing and yelling while Franco
easily pushed and wrestled them roughly, but quickly into the
room and into their seats. They seemed incensed by his ability
to manhandle them, and it got them to quiet a bit. Franco dusted
himself off and moved back to stand behind the books this time,
his face in a perturbed sneer by their insolence. The room
darkened slightly, the shadows growing deeper, longer by
millimeters. The lights outside the room seemed to dim as well.
It was subtle, and the ghouls likely didn’t notice it, but
the Kindred did. Gumshoe gave him a sidelong glance through
novelty but chic reading glasses while Hannigan began talking to
himself under his breath, looking out as the shimmering darkness
through the blinds.
Eventually, he cleared his throat after exhaling a dead lung
full of smoke and that deep, detective-noir octave of his voice
took over.
-Lt. Terence McDonagh and Sgt. Stevie Pruitt. Ghouls. Scum.
Whatever cops they mighta been before Marbroux, who could say.
Now, they were some of the biggest drug dealers in New Orleans.
So good at skimming from drug busts that Roland Marbroux brought
them into his inner circle. We’d ruled out everyone else
on his team, and given they had privileged information on Rollie
double life, they mighta known who killed him.-
McDonagh, sweating through his cheap, cream colored suit,
shifted in his chair, blinking rapidly. [I] “What the fuck
is this? I thought you guys said you were Internal
Affairs.”[/I]
Franco spit, “We lied.”
Pruitt, dressed more casually, the kind of guy that wore a
t-shirt underneath his flack vest and went to work, leaned
forward, concern in his eyes. He wasn’t blitzed out of his
mind like his partner. [I] “So Marbroux’s dead.
That’s confirmed?”[/I]
Hannigan nodded as he took a drag. Gumshoe followed up just to
reiterate. “Yeah. Left out to meet the sun.”
McDonagh’s wide eyes narrowed, before he snorted. Pruitt
did the opposite, but tried to give a confused look to mask the
surprise. [I] “What’s that supposed to mean,
‘meet the sun’? Did they find a body?”[/I]
McDonagh shook his head, muttering [I] “Idiot,”[/I]
before looking anywhere but in anyone’s eye.
-I’ll give ‘em credit for trying to maintain
appearances, but it was time to cut to the chase.-
“Gumshoe—“ Hannigan was glancing over his
shoulder to ask the woman to show them something when she was
already beating him to the punch, having picked up on what his
monologue was getting at. She had dropped her facade and both of
the ghoul detectives physically reacted to the sudden goblin
sitting in the chair where a young woman had been a moment ago.
“Oh it’s not [I]that[/I] bad,” she muttered,
putting the laptop away and sneering a vicious lip at them.
“I’m the Sheriff of this town, boys. I’m not
here to investigate the murder of your police Captain. I’m
here to investigate the murder of a Kindred. Your master. So
I’m gonna make you a deal I didn’t to the rest of
your team. You tell us everything we want to know, or me and
Franco here will stick our hands up your asses and get you to
talk that way.”
Both man protested, looking between the Malkavian and the
Lasombra before glancing to the Nosferatu of all people for
help.
“Me? Oh no, I just like to watch.” She smiled
hideously.[/center]
#Post#: 462--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Detective is In / Out of his Mind
By: Slick Date: April 8, 2026, 11:31 am
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[center]Gumshoe started the detectives recounting their
whereabouts the last few nights, while Hannigan used Auspex to
skim the surface of their minds, checking for discrepancies in
the stories. They couldn’t help but fib about minor details, but
nothing suggested that they had been in Roland’s apartment or
the rooftop. Without the pretense of the masquerade, the ghouls
were more than willing to open up to the vampires, but the smell
of fear was still rank on them. Their master was dead, and their
position within the Court was unknown. They wanted to be useful.
McDonagh wanted the monthly taste of blood, the rush of power,
the elevated status amongst cops and other kine. Pruitt had
higher aspirations, wanting to be what Marbroux had been. He
wanted the embrace.
Hannigan was muttering under his breath, his monologue coming
through only to himself while there was cross talk going on. It
drew glances towards him, and the dead-eyed stare of a seasoned
Dick was given back to the ghouls, and his lips kept moving.
Gumshoe kept the boys focused, snapping her fingers and drawing
their attention back.
-Since the boys were being so cooperative, Franco didn’t have
much to do, except looking mean in the corner to keep ‘em on
track. Gumshoe did most of the leg work. Helluva investigator
with a mean right hook. Closest thing to a partner I’ve had. I’d
gotten what I could from their heads, and she’d gotten what she
could about the days leading up to Roland’s death, but it was
time to shift topics.-
“We know Marbroux had a lot of enemies, In and out of the
department. Internal Affairs had been trying to build a case on
him and your task force. NOPD is going to be looking at people
he locked away. We know there’s an entirely different suspect
list they don’t have. So who do you boys think mighta done it?”
[I] “Haitians, probably,”[/I] McDonaugh offered, [I] “Or Dixie
Mob. Rollie said they both had Serpents pulling their strings
and Rollie did a lot of busts on them.”
[I] “There’s also the sheriff’s department,”[/I] Pruitt said,
looking at Hannigan and clarifying, [I] “The human sheriff.
There’s a gang of Deputies called the Gator Boys who claim we’ve
been stepping on their toes.”[/I]
Gumshoe shrugged, “Sounds like a cop gang issue.”[/I]
[I] “Yeah, but word is the Deputies are running guns and drugs
with a biker gang in the area. One Roland said was run by a
kindred.”[/I]
[b]-Bandit. Outlaw biker. Brujah. Broodmate to Roland. The plot
thickens with sibling rivalry. And another suspect to the list.-
[I] “Wait, another brujah did this? Is that allowed to happen?
Are they gonna come after us, too?”[/I]
“Probably,” Franco offered, deadpan. He was cleaning his nails,
none too concerned about their safety.
“So we got Haitians, Dixie Mob, Bikers, Rogue Deputies….
Anybody else? Ex wives club?” Gum shoe drummed the table with
jagged nails, trying to get something else out of the cops.
“Roland said he had important information for his sire. Didn’t
say what, but wanted to tell him in person. Any idea what that
could have been?”
McDonagh and Pruitt looked at each other, then shrugged. Their
minds started working, and Pruitt had the flash of a
conversation with Roland in his mind. Hushed tones in a closed
office. Hannigan stared the detective down, and the man
eventually spoke up.
[I] “Rollie thought there was another kindred somewhere in the
department. They were putting together something off books to
take down us and the task force. Had us spying on guys he
thought had something to do with it, try to get to them before
they got to us. He was gonna run it up the flag pole to see what
he could find on the Kindred front.”[/I]
[I] “We thought he’d gotten paranoid. Drank one too many coked
up hookers, right? This guy knows what I’m talking about.”[/I]
McDonagh gave a weak laugh and jerked a thumb to Franco. The
lasombra stepped forward but Gumshoe held up a hand. Franco
looked incensed, glancing to Hannigan who ignored him.
“Did anyone stand out?”
Both men shook their heads and verbally confirmed it. Hannigan
sat on this a moment. Then he took his time looking both men in
the eye, his gaze opening wide and both men would become slack
jawed as he plowed over them with Dominate. He began to rework
some of the wiring in their head, some of it their Master’s
doing. But they would become Hannigan’s agents in those moments.
“You’re both gonna go back to your jobs. You’re going to be my
eyes and ears in the narcotics department, and keep an eye out
for anyone that was on Marbroux’s radar. And you will report
everything you find to me nightly.
Hannigan dismissed the cops, who quickly vacated the building.
Gumshoe would put back her disguise and dismiss all of the
uniformed officers acting as sentries, until only the Sheriff
and his Hounds stood looking out of the third story window.
“Time to split up?” Gumshoe asked.
Hannigan nodded, “Time to split up. Where would you like to
start?”
Gumshoe tapped a pen to her chin. “Serpents got the best motive
so far. Word has it they’ve been rubbing shoulders with the
Anarchs. Could be a connection.”
“Worth a shot. Take Franco with you. I’ll track down Bandit.”
“By yourself?”
“I got an idea on someone I can deputize…”
The three split up, and when Hannigan was by himself, he started
talking again.
-The web kept spiraling out, every string weaving out further
and further. I was better off putting together a list of who
didn’t want Roland Marbroux dead. I could investigate the list
of who did until the end of time. You could say it was a good
thing I had eternity on my side, but this was a ticking time
bomb. If Butch didn’t find retribution for this, he would likely
take matters into his own hands and force a war. Hopefully this
was a one off thing, but even then, the Prince and the Primogen
Council were going to be looking for my head, especially if more
Kindred wound up dusted.
Bandit wasn’t gonna be easy, surrounded by a dozen or so outlaw
bikers. Roping the other Brujah into this wasn’t much of an
option, and their Primogen would likely get himself involved and
gum up the works of my investigation. I needed a neutral party,
someone familiar with the Brujah, but from the outside. Grace.
Keeper of Elysium, former lover of Butch. Her her call ‘em her
‘Brutish Muse’. Dames like that never chose the right guy.-
His rusted Cadillac rattled to life as he started it, heading
off towards Grace’s theater.[/center]
#Post#: 465--------------------------------------------------
Re: The Detective is In / Out of his Mind
By: Cherie Date: April 10, 2026, 5:59 pm
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HTML https://f2lgrgm.media.bublupcdn.com/AfL6jvXxg1zFMc3NTF1jBA/images/full_007-im-92e8a344-13e4-486b-ad75-0de70183f9a5.jpg
-She had a theater on Frenchman street because to her it was the
classier place to have it. It was a beautiful theater that
looked as though it belonged in the 1920’s. She had revamped the
place kept some of the old features but made everything new. It
was a spot for those mortals that wanted to see an old beautiful
theater with some of the aspects in tact and for them to want to
see a show there. Grace only allowed certain plays, by that it
was any play she approved. They could be original ideas and the
best way to get money was to have a play of something popular.
Most of the original ideas were hers and the tended to lean more
towards eroticism. Not pornography, and outright sex, they had a
feel of being erotic with out being overtly grotesque.
At the moment she was standing on the stage with one of the
actresses and she was showing how she wanted the woman to move.
Grace wore an expensive dark blue dress, her hair was pinned up
with clip decorated in pearls. She had on block stockings with
red bottom heels on. She was always the epitome of perfection.
Grace ensured that her outside look was always neat, clean and
expensive looking. She could easily afford it as well as it was
enjoyable to her. Living a more soft life was what she had
wanted.
The door to the theater had opened and Grace glanced over at
Hannigan with annoyance at first, but quickly she did a double
take at him. She dismissed the actress that was on stage. Moving
quickly across the stage to the stairs her sharp heels thundered
on the hollow floor below her as she walked. Finally making it
to Hannigan she kept glancing behind him looking for Franco.
Because why was Hannigan here and not Franco?-
“Hannigan. Where’s Franco? Is he ok?” -she asked immediately, of
course she had heard about the deaths but at that point it had
not concerned her. She other things to worry about such as
putting her show on and at that moment it had not yet been
brought to her doorstep by any means. Her automatic thought was
that Hannigan here was because something happened to Franco.
Whatever thoughts Franco had about their relationship, Grace
might not share those fears he had. She enjoyed his company, she
enjoyed their conversation, she truly enjoyed everything about
him. She had gone to him because she felt drawn to him and a
woman of status did not just move on to just anyone. Grace
wanted to stop being regulated to being Butch’s ex-girlfriend,
because she was more then that. She was still her own person.
She also knew that with Franco there was probably worry about
her history with Butch, but she would truly mean when she said
that was ancient history. She had no interest in returning back
to the Brujah. Even with his cunning little stunt to get her to
talk to him. She would find this thief, and she would ensure
that she faced justice. A slow painful justice to show Butch
what she was truly capable of if he wanted to continue these
games. It would be even better for him to watch.
But now her attention was on Hannigan and waiting with baited
breath to find out the status of her current lover. The one she
was going to ask to maybe stay a little longer at her place. The
thought of being separated after staying together felt like a
step back in their relationship.-
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