What Are You, Mick St. John? [ch. 4] PG13
Posted: Mon Jan 26, 2009 9:01 pm
Beta: Much thanks and appreciation goes to my superbeta, Barb (Bank1115). She’s awesome. This story wouldn’t be where it is without her.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
What Are You, Mick St. John?—Chapter 4
It was almost half past six in the evening when Carl knocked on the door to Mick St. John’s penthouse. He tried a couple of times over the span of a minute and was about to give up when the door suddenly opened.
“Carl.” Mick’s eyes stared into—no, through—his. It was if he knew what he was there for. “What can I do for you?” He leaned against the doorpost.
“Mick,” Carl stepped forward, his heart beating slightly faster. “Can I come in?”
“Oh-kay.” Before moving aside to let him pass, Mick turned and glanced around his apartment, as if making certain it was presentable.
Carl casually looked around as he moved into the living space. It was immaculate. So. Either this guy’s obsessive-compulsive, or he’s got something to hide.
“Can I offer you a drink?” Mick headed towards the bar.
“No, thanks,” Carl waved him off. “I’m still on the clock.”
“I see.” Mick poured himself a glass of single malt and settled into an easy chair, gesturing for Carl to take a seat at the same time.
They stared at each other for a few moments until Carl finally had to look away for a moment. He cleared his throat.
“I was wondering if you had remembered anything that you forgot to tell me about when you gave your statement about the other night.”
Mick cocked an eyebrow. “Like?”
“We found some blood at the scene that didn’t match any of the deceased or Miss Stevens.”
“So?”
“Well, you and Beth were the only others there, and both of you claim not to be injured.”
“That’s because neither of us are.”
“So how do you explain the blood?”
Mick put down his drink and turned up his palms. “I don’t know…it is a warehouse. Maybe someone injured themselves on the job.” He leaned back into the chair.
“The warehouse hadn’t been used in weeks before Lee Jay and his crew showed up. The blood was fresh. And I’m inclined to believe it’s yours over Beth’s, since you were the one wrestling with the bad element.”
“What do you want me to do, Carl? Strip naked and prove to you I don’t have a scratch?” He flashed a smile.
“Come on, Mick, nobody in this room wants to see that.” He sat forward and clasped his hands together, resting his elbows on his knees. “All I need is a DNA sample.” He nodded down at the sample collection kit he had brought with him.
“No.” Mick shook his head for emphasis.
Carl frowned. “Why not? If Lee Jay injured you during the struggle, it should only help your self-defence claim.”
“Look, Carl…” Mick began. “I don’t understand, why does this even matter? And just what do you mean, self-defence claim?”
“No one’s disputing that Lee Jay got what was coming to him. But the department frowns upon others dishing out the justice.”
Mick looked straight into Carl’s eyes. “I was dishing out justice—but it all came in defence of myself and another.”
Carl returned Mick’s stare. Just when he thought he was about to crack under the intensity of it, Mick’s phone rang, offering him a brief reprieve. Without looking at it, Mick reached into his pocket, pressed a button, and the ringing stopped.
“So why won’t you give me a DNA sample and prove it?”
Mick flashed him a wry smile. “Think me old-fashioned if you will, but I like my privacy, and I think a good man’s word should still count for something. I am not injured—and hey, I offered you immediate visual verification, but you refused.”
“Hmm.” Carl grunted.
The phone started to ring again. Mick rolled his eyes and took it out of his pocket. He scowled at the display, then at Carl. “I have to take this. Excuse me a moment—I’ll be right back.”
Carl nodded, but Mick had already answered and was walking rapidly to his office.
The second Mick shut the door, Carl eyed the glass of single malt on the table. Better not take that—he might miss it too quickly. He jumped up from his seat and walked quickly over to the kitchen, looking for something, anything, that might have DNA on it. Luck was on his side—there was a lone glass sitting in the sink. It had been rinsed, but not well; like Mick had sprayed a little water in there, dumped it out, and set the glass in the sink to wash properly later. There appeared to be the diluted remnants of some sort of red juice at the bottom. Carl carefully picked up the glass with a tissue from his pocket and hastened back to the couch. He quickly opened his kit, removing some of the contents and shoving them into the interior pockets of his jacket to make room for the glass. He had just shut the kit and settled back into the couch when Mick’s office door opened.
Carl had crossed his legs and was casually drumming his fingers on his knee when Mick reclaimed his seat—and his single malt. Carl mentally breathed a sigh of relief.
“Sorry about that, Carl. Look, are we done here? I have some work I need to do.”
Carl stood up, willing his face not to twitch when he heard some of the wrapped swabs and other sundries crinkle in his pocket. “Yeah, we’re done for now. But we’ll be in touch.”
Mick raised a wary eyebrow, but followed him to the door. “I understand you don’t like to leave loose ends, Carl. Neither do I. Go talk to Beth if you want. She can confirm—I was not injured that night.”
“Fine. Maybe I’ll do that.”
“Okay.” Before Carl could even blink, Mick had put a hand on his shoulder and propelled him swiftly through the door and into the hallway. “You have a nice day, Carl.”
Carl blinked and stumbled toward the elevator. Damn, that guy is fast and strong. No wonder he got the jump on three ex-cons.
To be continued...
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
What Are You, Mick St. John?—Chapter 4
It was almost half past six in the evening when Carl knocked on the door to Mick St. John’s penthouse. He tried a couple of times over the span of a minute and was about to give up when the door suddenly opened.
“Carl.” Mick’s eyes stared into—no, through—his. It was if he knew what he was there for. “What can I do for you?” He leaned against the doorpost.
“Mick,” Carl stepped forward, his heart beating slightly faster. “Can I come in?”
“Oh-kay.” Before moving aside to let him pass, Mick turned and glanced around his apartment, as if making certain it was presentable.
Carl casually looked around as he moved into the living space. It was immaculate. So. Either this guy’s obsessive-compulsive, or he’s got something to hide.
“Can I offer you a drink?” Mick headed towards the bar.
“No, thanks,” Carl waved him off. “I’m still on the clock.”
“I see.” Mick poured himself a glass of single malt and settled into an easy chair, gesturing for Carl to take a seat at the same time.
They stared at each other for a few moments until Carl finally had to look away for a moment. He cleared his throat.
“I was wondering if you had remembered anything that you forgot to tell me about when you gave your statement about the other night.”
Mick cocked an eyebrow. “Like?”
“We found some blood at the scene that didn’t match any of the deceased or Miss Stevens.”
“So?”
“Well, you and Beth were the only others there, and both of you claim not to be injured.”
“That’s because neither of us are.”
“So how do you explain the blood?”
Mick put down his drink and turned up his palms. “I don’t know…it is a warehouse. Maybe someone injured themselves on the job.” He leaned back into the chair.
“The warehouse hadn’t been used in weeks before Lee Jay and his crew showed up. The blood was fresh. And I’m inclined to believe it’s yours over Beth’s, since you were the one wrestling with the bad element.”
“What do you want me to do, Carl? Strip naked and prove to you I don’t have a scratch?” He flashed a smile.
“Come on, Mick, nobody in this room wants to see that.” He sat forward and clasped his hands together, resting his elbows on his knees. “All I need is a DNA sample.” He nodded down at the sample collection kit he had brought with him.
“No.” Mick shook his head for emphasis.
Carl frowned. “Why not? If Lee Jay injured you during the struggle, it should only help your self-defence claim.”
“Look, Carl…” Mick began. “I don’t understand, why does this even matter? And just what do you mean, self-defence claim?”
“No one’s disputing that Lee Jay got what was coming to him. But the department frowns upon others dishing out the justice.”
Mick looked straight into Carl’s eyes. “I was dishing out justice—but it all came in defence of myself and another.”
Carl returned Mick’s stare. Just when he thought he was about to crack under the intensity of it, Mick’s phone rang, offering him a brief reprieve. Without looking at it, Mick reached into his pocket, pressed a button, and the ringing stopped.
“So why won’t you give me a DNA sample and prove it?”
Mick flashed him a wry smile. “Think me old-fashioned if you will, but I like my privacy, and I think a good man’s word should still count for something. I am not injured—and hey, I offered you immediate visual verification, but you refused.”
“Hmm.” Carl grunted.
The phone started to ring again. Mick rolled his eyes and took it out of his pocket. He scowled at the display, then at Carl. “I have to take this. Excuse me a moment—I’ll be right back.”
Carl nodded, but Mick had already answered and was walking rapidly to his office.
The second Mick shut the door, Carl eyed the glass of single malt on the table. Better not take that—he might miss it too quickly. He jumped up from his seat and walked quickly over to the kitchen, looking for something, anything, that might have DNA on it. Luck was on his side—there was a lone glass sitting in the sink. It had been rinsed, but not well; like Mick had sprayed a little water in there, dumped it out, and set the glass in the sink to wash properly later. There appeared to be the diluted remnants of some sort of red juice at the bottom. Carl carefully picked up the glass with a tissue from his pocket and hastened back to the couch. He quickly opened his kit, removing some of the contents and shoving them into the interior pockets of his jacket to make room for the glass. He had just shut the kit and settled back into the couch when Mick’s office door opened.
Carl had crossed his legs and was casually drumming his fingers on his knee when Mick reclaimed his seat—and his single malt. Carl mentally breathed a sigh of relief.
“Sorry about that, Carl. Look, are we done here? I have some work I need to do.”
Carl stood up, willing his face not to twitch when he heard some of the wrapped swabs and other sundries crinkle in his pocket. “Yeah, we’re done for now. But we’ll be in touch.”
Mick raised a wary eyebrow, but followed him to the door. “I understand you don’t like to leave loose ends, Carl. Neither do I. Go talk to Beth if you want. She can confirm—I was not injured that night.”
“Fine. Maybe I’ll do that.”
“Okay.” Before Carl could even blink, Mick had put a hand on his shoulder and propelled him swiftly through the door and into the hallway. “You have a nice day, Carl.”
Carl blinked and stumbled toward the elevator. Damn, that guy is fast and strong. No wonder he got the jump on three ex-cons.
To be continued...
:shock: 
when all the results come back, if they make it back to the lab that is.