It had been so very long since he'd set foot in New York. He'd left in a rare fit of sobriety, but it certainly wasn't how he'd come back. A friend of his, a private detective, was on some big case that took him from Oregon to New York. Cooke didn't quite understand how Oliver knew about his home or why he'd do it, but he'd invited Cooke along for the trip. Cooke assumed it was to help because he was special in some way. Being immune to mental manipulation could be helpful to detectives. He didn't think it had anything to do with Oliver just trying to help him.
But then Oliver had to leave sooner than planned, leaving Cooke with his own ticket. He made it to Manhattan just fine, but from there he didn't know what to do. He'd lost the paper he'd written Oliver's number on and couldn't remember it. By some logic only known to Cooke, he ended up banging on the door of a different private detective. He'd started asking around for how to find a detective. Or rather, "how do you find someone who finds people?" was how he put it. Eventually someone pointed him in Jessica's direction.
So there he was, at her door, knocking somewhat softly if incredibly rapidly on her door.
It was unfortunate that when Cooke found himself at Jessica's door Jessica happened to be nursing a hangover in her bedroom. It was a hazard of extreme whiskey consumption that she was willing to deal with on a regular basis - A grin and bear it scenario without the grinning part. A groan escaped her lips as her gaze found its way to her cell phone. It wasn't as early as she expected it to be, so she decided not to ignore the person tapping at her door. Jessica got to her feet, smoothing her hair as she walked to her newly repaired front door, and opened it.
"Can I help you?" It was as polite as she could manage even if it didn't come out in the friendliest of tones. Her voice was rough as if she'd only just woken up even though she'd been laying awake in bed for hours at this time. Her expression probably could have scared off a fainthearted Jehovah's Witness, too. (In fact, it could. She had previous experiences to prove it.) Jessica rubbed at her eyes for a moment before really looking at the man. She didn't get an immediate read off of him. Usually when one half of an unhappy marriage showed up at her door, Jessica could tell right away. Long before they told her that they suspected their partner of cheating, as a matter of fact. Her best guess was that this guy was lost and wasn't a prospective client at all, but then why was he at her door? Was the business title on the glass that inviting?
The door was pulled open, but he didn't stop right away, his fist flapping uselessly at the air for a moment, before he realized the door was open. But he didn't lower his hand right away, he just stopped trying to knock, staring at her for a moment. He blinked, a little to rapidly. She wasn't what he imagined when he thought of private detectives. Granted, he only knew one in real life, but there were still movies. She looked more like some of the people he hung out with.
"You're....shorter than I'd thought you'd be," he said after a moment. He jerked his hand down finally, bouncing on his toes a little. He looked behind himself, then into her apartment. Or office. which ever it was. He honestly didn't know. This was an apartment building, wasn't it? But her door looked like an office door. "I was told you could maybe help me? I mean, I don't really have any money, but my friend does. He's how I got here. And you know, he's a detective, like you. Not the cop kind, the private kind. And I was thinking maybe cause of that you could, maybe, you know help me figure out where he is? Maybe just call him or something."
That nervous energy was a good tipoff to the identity of the man standing at her doorway. Maybe it didn’t tell her what he was like ethically or morally, but Jessica would wager that there was an illegal substance coursing through the guy’s system giving him that extra boost that made him so annoyingly bouncy. Jessica had dealt with addicts before. She had no problem with addicts. Their addictions didn’t necessarily make them bad people. Case in point, her friend Malcolm.
Her eyebrows raised slightly at the comment regarding her height, but she said nothing. It was nerves. People said a lot of shit when they were nervous and this guy wasn’t giving off a particularly asshole-ish vibe, so she let it go. What she got from what he said was that he needed help. The person who’d brought him to the city, his friend, had somehow gone missing and left him alone and without money. He had no money. On good days, Jessica liked to think that she might have been a good person, but the fact that he couldn’t be a paying customer gave her pause. She froze in that doorway, just looking him over for a second. Eventually, though, that part of her that gave a damn won out. Jessica rolled her eyes and stepped aside, holding her hand out as if she was presenting her apartment to him.
“Come inside. We can talk specifics in my office. What’s your name, anyway?”
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For mylasereyes
But then Oliver had to leave sooner than planned, leaving Cooke with his own ticket. He made it to Manhattan just fine, but from there he didn't know what to do. He'd lost the paper he'd written Oliver's number on and couldn't remember it. By some logic only known to Cooke, he ended up banging on the door of a different private detective. He'd started asking around for how to find a detective. Or rather, "how do you find someone who finds people?" was how he put it. Eventually someone pointed him in Jessica's direction.
So there he was, at her door, knocking somewhat softly if incredibly rapidly on her door.
no subject
"Can I help you?" It was as polite as she could manage even if it didn't come out in the friendliest of tones. Her voice was rough as if she'd only just woken up even though she'd been laying awake in bed for hours at this time. Her expression probably could have scared off a fainthearted Jehovah's Witness, too. (In fact, it could. She had previous experiences to prove it.) Jessica rubbed at her eyes for a moment before really looking at the man. She didn't get an immediate read off of him. Usually when one half of an unhappy marriage showed up at her door, Jessica could tell right away. Long before they told her that they suspected their partner of cheating, as a matter of fact. Her best guess was that this guy was lost and wasn't a prospective client at all, but then why was he at her door? Was the business title on the glass that inviting?
no subject
"You're....shorter than I'd thought you'd be," he said after a moment. He jerked his hand down finally, bouncing on his toes a little. He looked behind himself, then into her apartment. Or office. which ever it was. He honestly didn't know. This was an apartment building, wasn't it? But her door looked like an office door. "I was told you could maybe help me? I mean, I don't really have any money, but my friend does. He's how I got here. And you know, he's a detective, like you. Not the cop kind, the private kind. And I was thinking maybe cause of that you could, maybe, you know help me figure out where he is? Maybe just call him or something."
no subject
Her eyebrows raised slightly at the comment regarding her height, but she said nothing. It was nerves. People said a lot of shit when they were nervous and this guy wasn’t giving off a particularly asshole-ish vibe, so she let it go. What she got from what he said was that he needed help. The person who’d brought him to the city, his friend, had somehow gone missing and left him alone and without money. He had no money. On good days, Jessica liked to think that she might have been a good person, but the fact that he couldn’t be a paying customer gave her pause. She froze in that doorway, just looking him over for a second. Eventually, though, that part of her that gave a damn won out. Jessica rolled her eyes and stepped aside, holding her hand out as if she was presenting her apartment to him.
“Come inside. We can talk specifics in my office. What’s your name, anyway?”