before the party
The eleventh victim -- the one who hasn't yet been avenged -- is one Marco Diesi. How Italian.
Bill feels a quiet sense of gratitude for Detective Bryant, the conscientious soul who had written the original homicide report. It had taken under half an hour to hack his user name and discover the original case report -- intact -- in his files. Finding that also answered some troubling questions Bill had been toying with. Namely, whether or not he had to worry about someone savvy enough with computers to track down every single copy of every single report and wipe each of them out of existence. Or perhaps it doesn't answer the question if whomever it was could do it. Just whether or not he or she had done it. Bill still doesn't know if he or she had tried, or even thought to try.
It doesn't make a lot of sense to bother with the homicide reports on file if whomever is purging them isn't going to bother with tracking down the copies. Not that Bill is complaining. If there had been any indication that the copies were being systematically sought out and deleted, Bill would've had no choice but to come clean. He'd have had to tell what he suspects -- not knows, because the truth is, he doesn't know anythng yet. He has hunches and suspicions, but he doesn't have enough facts to be sure of anything. He has guesswork, and maybe it's a little more accurate than Paulson's guesswork, but it's still all a matter of perception. He'd spent enough years in homicide to know how to put things together that Paulson didn't, and that was the only real difference.
Detective Bryant's report made lots of things about Diesi very clear, relieving Bill of the need to do a whole lot of investigation into his past. Attached to the report is Diesi's extensive -- but largely small-time -- criminal history, a thorough background check on him, and a (really helpful and revealing) list of the man's family. Which is where the clarity comes in really. Because Bill recognizes eight out of ten names on that list, and if he'd ever been involved in the investigation of organized crime outside of the realm of narcotics, he'd probably know all ten of ten.
Diesi had been mob-born, although not terribly involved with the high-end running of the business, as far as Bill can tell. Another interesting fact listed in the case report -- which isn't one of those Paulson had found and forwarded to him originally, which isn't that surprising, as the small time mobster's connection to the porn business isn't as immediately obvious as the other cases Paulson had found -- is that the widow Diesi is Ivy Diesi, nee Ivy St. Claire. And there is the connection. He doubts Paulson would have ever found it, and Bill isn't sure he would've either. Not without reading through homicide's case files one by one. Not without the help of whomever had decided that wiping out case files (probably incriminating ones, why else do it?) was a good idea. Ivy St. Claire, ascending porn princess.
Which is a name Bill recognizes, largely because he'd seen her shagging some giant blond bloke with a handlebar moustage several weeks ago, on film.
He doesn't have a file on her yet, but she isn't hard to track down on the internet. She's got a few fan sites, but mostly he jots things down on a slightly crumpled, coffee-stained notepad, working directly from the credits of her movies.
Bill has a hard time reconciling the alterations of the homicide files in his brain. Someone smart enough to leave the headers in the system so that the files still appear to be intact, but unwilling to do the wetwork neccessary to get rid of all the copies. Why? Doing something like that will complicate a police investigation, but not derail it entirely. Any given case report exists in at least a half a dozen different forms -- hand-written original, computerized version in the main files, computerized version in the docket of the detective investigationg, hard copy in the investigating detective's files, homicide docket, CSI, and maybe a couple of other places, just for backup, for documentation, for a paper trail -- and it doesn't make sense to get rid of one and leave all the others.
Unless maybe it hadn't been done to derail the police investigation.
Bill sits back on the couch, frowning and staring at a promotional shot of Ivy St. Claire on the screen of his laptop. She's pretty. Blonde and tan and grinning at the camera, her nose slightly wrinkled. Still alive, too. Married to the victim, this time, not the victim herself. Not that all the victims had been porn stars, but they'd all been in the industry personally, not married into it. Why Marco Diesi? Why not her?
He doesn't have any doubt at all that sometime in the near future, another truncated homicide report will come up when he runs a search. You don't kill someone with a name like Diesi -- with the connections that come with the name -- without answering for it. The mob is predictable that way. And he guesses it'll be the same sort of thing when it does show up, clean and simple, professional. The fact that the report had been one of the ones snipped indicates that someone, at least, thinks they're all linked. Someone who has more knowlege of what's going on than Bill does. For now.
He wonders how long he has to figure out who had been so stupid.
He needs to talk to this girl.
He stands up and stretches. It's habit more than need, the habit of long weeks of aching physically, muscles tense and tight with lack of sleep. In truth, he still feels pretty good. Rested.
He needs to find Ivy St. Claire, but it's not going to get done tonight. Tonight he has a party to go to, because Johnny will be quite put out with him if he doesn't make an appearance, considering the circumstances. With any luck, he'll get the chance to talk with Orlando alone, ask him what he knows about Ivy St. Claire, but if not, he can do that later. More improtant is the chance to talk with some of the others, Nikki (Darling) and Sean Bean (maybe, it's hard to say if he'll show up considering what this party is likely to be like), the ones that he doesn't know all that well yet, and get them to talking. Names he's heard without ever having met the people they belonged to. Miranda. Viggo. Cate. At least some of them are certain to show up at some point.
McKellen might be there, and McKellen produces. Might be interesting to find out what sorts of things he knows.
He'll also have to make time to make nice with Nic, or Keira will never forgive him.
And maybe there'd be time to make nice with Keira as well. Fuck, who is he kidding. He'll find time to make nice with Keira.
"You stupid wanker," he mutters, but there isn't any force behind it. It's hard to resist the memory of her hand cupping his jaw, her eyes all soft and shimmery from inches away. It's hard to remember that she's a distraction, hard to remember that he shouldn't, for both of their sakes.
He showers and gets dressed -- regretfully forgoing the shoulder holster this time, but not quite able to leave the ankle holster -- and doesn't notice that he barely thinks about the case at all while he dresses (the silence on the other end of the phone flashes through his mind once while he checks the safety and makes sure the gun isn't easily visible beneath his trousers, but it's brief) and gathers up keys and jacket.
Bill feels a quiet sense of gratitude for Detective Bryant, the conscientious soul who had written the original homicide report. It had taken under half an hour to hack his user name and discover the original case report -- intact -- in his files. Finding that also answered some troubling questions Bill had been toying with. Namely, whether or not he had to worry about someone savvy enough with computers to track down every single copy of every single report and wipe each of them out of existence. Or perhaps it doesn't answer the question if whomever it was could do it. Just whether or not he or she had done it. Bill still doesn't know if he or she had tried, or even thought to try.
It doesn't make a lot of sense to bother with the homicide reports on file if whomever is purging them isn't going to bother with tracking down the copies. Not that Bill is complaining. If there had been any indication that the copies were being systematically sought out and deleted, Bill would've had no choice but to come clean. He'd have had to tell what he suspects -- not knows, because the truth is, he doesn't know anythng yet. He has hunches and suspicions, but he doesn't have enough facts to be sure of anything. He has guesswork, and maybe it's a little more accurate than Paulson's guesswork, but it's still all a matter of perception. He'd spent enough years in homicide to know how to put things together that Paulson didn't, and that was the only real difference.
Detective Bryant's report made lots of things about Diesi very clear, relieving Bill of the need to do a whole lot of investigation into his past. Attached to the report is Diesi's extensive -- but largely small-time -- criminal history, a thorough background check on him, and a (really helpful and revealing) list of the man's family. Which is where the clarity comes in really. Because Bill recognizes eight out of ten names on that list, and if he'd ever been involved in the investigation of organized crime outside of the realm of narcotics, he'd probably know all ten of ten.
Diesi had been mob-born, although not terribly involved with the high-end running of the business, as far as Bill can tell. Another interesting fact listed in the case report -- which isn't one of those Paulson had found and forwarded to him originally, which isn't that surprising, as the small time mobster's connection to the porn business isn't as immediately obvious as the other cases Paulson had found -- is that the widow Diesi is Ivy Diesi, nee Ivy St. Claire. And there is the connection. He doubts Paulson would have ever found it, and Bill isn't sure he would've either. Not without reading through homicide's case files one by one. Not without the help of whomever had decided that wiping out case files (probably incriminating ones, why else do it?) was a good idea. Ivy St. Claire, ascending porn princess.
Which is a name Bill recognizes, largely because he'd seen her shagging some giant blond bloke with a handlebar moustage several weeks ago, on film.
He doesn't have a file on her yet, but she isn't hard to track down on the internet. She's got a few fan sites, but mostly he jots things down on a slightly crumpled, coffee-stained notepad, working directly from the credits of her movies.
Bill has a hard time reconciling the alterations of the homicide files in his brain. Someone smart enough to leave the headers in the system so that the files still appear to be intact, but unwilling to do the wetwork neccessary to get rid of all the copies. Why? Doing something like that will complicate a police investigation, but not derail it entirely. Any given case report exists in at least a half a dozen different forms -- hand-written original, computerized version in the main files, computerized version in the docket of the detective investigationg, hard copy in the investigating detective's files, homicide docket, CSI, and maybe a couple of other places, just for backup, for documentation, for a paper trail -- and it doesn't make sense to get rid of one and leave all the others.
Unless maybe it hadn't been done to derail the police investigation.
Bill sits back on the couch, frowning and staring at a promotional shot of Ivy St. Claire on the screen of his laptop. She's pretty. Blonde and tan and grinning at the camera, her nose slightly wrinkled. Still alive, too. Married to the victim, this time, not the victim herself. Not that all the victims had been porn stars, but they'd all been in the industry personally, not married into it. Why Marco Diesi? Why not her?
He doesn't have any doubt at all that sometime in the near future, another truncated homicide report will come up when he runs a search. You don't kill someone with a name like Diesi -- with the connections that come with the name -- without answering for it. The mob is predictable that way. And he guesses it'll be the same sort of thing when it does show up, clean and simple, professional. The fact that the report had been one of the ones snipped indicates that someone, at least, thinks they're all linked. Someone who has more knowlege of what's going on than Bill does. For now.
He wonders how long he has to figure out who had been so stupid.
He needs to talk to this girl.
He stands up and stretches. It's habit more than need, the habit of long weeks of aching physically, muscles tense and tight with lack of sleep. In truth, he still feels pretty good. Rested.
He needs to find Ivy St. Claire, but it's not going to get done tonight. Tonight he has a party to go to, because Johnny will be quite put out with him if he doesn't make an appearance, considering the circumstances. With any luck, he'll get the chance to talk with Orlando alone, ask him what he knows about Ivy St. Claire, but if not, he can do that later. More improtant is the chance to talk with some of the others, Nikki (Darling) and Sean Bean (maybe, it's hard to say if he'll show up considering what this party is likely to be like), the ones that he doesn't know all that well yet, and get them to talking. Names he's heard without ever having met the people they belonged to. Miranda. Viggo. Cate. At least some of them are certain to show up at some point.
McKellen might be there, and McKellen produces. Might be interesting to find out what sorts of things he knows.
He'll also have to make time to make nice with Nic, or Keira will never forgive him.
And maybe there'd be time to make nice with Keira as well. Fuck, who is he kidding. He'll find time to make nice with Keira.
"You stupid wanker," he mutters, but there isn't any force behind it. It's hard to resist the memory of her hand cupping his jaw, her eyes all soft and shimmery from inches away. It's hard to remember that she's a distraction, hard to remember that he shouldn't, for both of their sakes.
He showers and gets dressed -- regretfully forgoing the shoulder holster this time, but not quite able to leave the ankle holster -- and doesn't notice that he barely thinks about the case at all while he dresses (the silence on the other end of the phone flashes through his mind once while he checks the safety and makes sure the gun isn't easily visible beneath his trousers, but it's brief) and gathers up keys and jacket.