Summary:Betty Brant gets a call from an anonymous source about some tips onto the manhunt for Batman and the internal politics law enforcement is facing. Log Info:Storyteller: Cessily Kincaid |
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When you're damn good at what you do, and when you're a good person to boot, working in any industry, you form alliances. Sometimes small, sometimes large. Allies. Contacts. Betty Brant is someone who would fit that category.
And while the entirety of the NYPD were scouring the streets for Batman, following leads, and had remained steadfast thus far that they could handle it without interference from other areas unmentioned such as Thunderbolts, Avengers, or SHIELD and there had seemed to be a unified front such could not be further than the truth.
And the above two reasons were why Betty had gotten a call from an unlisted number. A female voice telling Betty simply, "There's an abandoned lot three blocks into the warehouse district on Vine. Go east a quarter mile, then west. You'll see it. Come alone. I'm risking my job, Brant. Don't be late. And no games. I have a job to do, and bring Batman in. You have a job to get the citizens of this city to not turn on him." The phone hung up, without giving Betty a chance to answer.
Time doesn't stop for anyone, regardless of what they may or may not be suffering from. Her personal leave from the Bugle had honestly set her mind on edge. She wasn't working, she didn't have direction for once in her life. It was all done and dusted…until it wasn't.
Knee deep in chocolate and icecream, the call catches the woman off guard. She answers, greets, but then gets the run down of information one does when they're locked in a drama-thriller. Without another word she stares at the flat screen of her phone and pops one more candy into her mouth.
Up, dressed, slipping on her own mask of sorts, the woman sets out and in the direction she was told to go. A bus ride, a cab after that, a tram, and finally by foot, her heels click lightly along the path as Brant reaches her destination.
A latina woman with long, dark hair is standing out of the way, away from the vauge hue of streetlights next to a rather beaten-up sedan that looks like it could fall apart at any moment. Policemen's salary isn't what it could be, afterall. Especially in the money-hungry city that never sleeps. Officer Montano is in a leather jacket over a plain red shirt and a pair of jeans.
She watches Betty approach, looking past her and checking to make sure that nobody else is with her. She almost looks mildly paranoid. She nods, "Betty. A friend said I could trust you to keep things quiet. Balance them out. That you wouldn't betray me, or twist what I have to say. So, I'm going to give you this chance."
She frowns. "Whatever I say, or tell you, is off the record. Are we clear on that?"
Betty Brant approaches the woman, lifting her phone and giving it a wiggle, asking if it was her that called in the first place. "Seeing as how I don't know your name, there really can't be a record to speak of." She smiles, weakly, only to show the latina that she was, in fact, turning her phone off and removing its battery. Slipping both in her purse, she pulls out a pen and paper instead.
"I'm one for reporting truth more so than anything else. I don't dish out what people want to hear most of the time. I guess if they're a friend of mine then I'm in their hands, and thankful, for what they've said about me." A pause, "I do need to ask, if this is off record…what exactly am I reporting? I'll have to spin something, even if it's a cliff-notes version." A glance around and then to Montano's face, she motions toward the cruiser. "Would you rather sit inside?"
"Officer Montano," the woman says, "Staten island. The Batman." Her eyes narrow. "It's tearing the city apart. Not just hem out there. The police, too. We're all doing our jobs. But while there's a lot of us that think he's snapped, there's just as many who think he's being set up. Then there's all the calls. People out there are going apeshit. But you can't report that. Because our people are strained, following and checking every lead we get. Do you know how many people -think- they see the Batman, every night, Ms. Brant, when there's a shadow that moves, or an unexplained noise in the night?"
The woman grimaces. "Batman wouldn't leave his batarangs at the site of a murder. He's too experienced. It was left there for us to find. He's being set up, Ms. Brant. My instincts tell me as much. But if we don't prove it soon, this city is going to hell."
"This city goes to hell everytime something new comes up around it. It's bursting at the seams with heroe and villians at any given moment. I'm…going to be honest with you. I'm not surprised people are giving a damn about Batman. He's a big name people know - that's the reason he's being used. It's…also somewhat disturbing to hear you say he's 'too experienced' to not cover up his own murder." A hand up, she pauses and sighs. "I agree with you, though. I read about the doctor's death and trying to take out someone who's honestly batting for you, uh…no pun intended, just doesn't make any sense. Stringing up reasonable doubt is just asking for trouble."
Shifting slightly, she places her notebook away. Crossing her arms under her chest, she exhales with a smooth flaring of her nostrils. "Don't promote panic. Got it. What else would you like to say without saying it, Officer?"
"That's because the murders are connected. I'm assisting Detective Sam and his partner in the investigation. Both of them are hellbent on bringing Batman in. Kyle Denver was a patient of Dr. Adams. Adams also served as a psychiatrist at Ravencroft for several years. You realize how many rules and laws I'm breaking to give you this information, Ms. Brant? You'll have to find your own way to justify you getting this information. Giving it to the public. I can't help you with that."
She stuffs her hands into her leather pockets. "But it gives you someplace to start looking. And what to look for. If you print this, without having that already in your pocket, I'm toast."
"Ravencroft and Detectives working a case that are biased. Charming." She murmurs, taking time to glance around the section of warehouse with her own hint of paranoia flaring. "I have connects, Officer, I'll find a way to keep digger. I'm versed with a few different types of shovels, I promise." At length, the woman offers up another smile. Calm, poised, but pained in the attempt, she steps closer and reaches out to settle her hand on the latina's shoulder. "Hey. Just do your job the best you can and I'll do the same, ok? I'm thankful for the information. I won't lead it back to you what so ever." A squeeze, she pulls back. "Besides, this junk comes in the mail. I don't even know your name." She repeats from earlier, winking playfully.
"Yeah." The woman nods, "Funny things you get in the mail. Thanks." She exhales, sounding suddenly exhausted, and looks exhausted. She moves around the car to open up the door. "Keep me in mind if you get any good sales in that junk mail," she suggests, before closing the door, and starts the engine.
The window is still down, though. There's a pause, "You going to need a ride back?"
"Top of my thoughts." Betty promises and steps back, allowing the woman to move as she needs to. Shaking her head, she glances around. "No, I'll be fine. I like wandering when I have things on my mind. Have a good night, Officer. Don't forget to keep breathing, ok?"
A nod, "Maybe drinks, when this is all over, yeah?" She offers Betty a tired smile, and then the car is slowly pulling out of the abandoned lot, going wherever it is near-dead sedans go in the dead of night in the city that never sleeps.