Dottie also orients herself by the building next door -- it used to be an office building if it still isn't, where she used the phony rapist dentist's office to send messages to Fenhoff standing in the chief's office. She'd gone to the 20-somethingth floor to look down into the SSR offices, so the SSR were in the mid-levels of the building. Could she remember what floor?
[dice=Intelligence]1d20
She looks for signs if any of the condos are for rental or lease.
She also takes a look at the loading dock--it certainly had one in the 1940s and she assumed the condo likely kept it--and checks the security there.
And then she goes back to Duke's to make biscuits for the morning rush.
Dottie quietly gives Frank the lowdown, adding about the places up for sale, lease, and rent. "I'm wondering if we should size up some options for new housing. Or perhaps a vacation? Though my last abode left me little chance to learn much about how to book lodging online."
Frank nods in agreement;
"Makes sense. Scoping out the condos gives a chance to get the lay of the land."
He chuckles dryly;
"You'd have more luck asking Old Joe about the workings of the interwebs... In all seriousness I think you just look up the Air B&B site and book it... but I know jack for sure."
Might need a credit card. What about asking for a showing?"
Frank nods slowly in agreement, mulling over the pros and cons of their next move;
"Makes sense. Air BnB thing might mean we have a trail... last thing we need is anyone tracin' us. Condo showing should be easier to organise... Let's get after it then?"
A phone call nets you a showing of the Condo on the 7th floor. "The owners are motivated to sell," says the agent. (on the phone, cutting to a key in a lock, turning, a woman with bottle-blonde hair, the skin of her face stretched over synthetic fillers, her lips overly plumped, says "This is a beautiful property, great views, modern finishes. You will absolutely adore it..."
The door swings open to reveal a short hallway. Blonde wood floors, a corner filled with windows, modern cooks kitchen, two bedrooms.
"And all of this for only 1.6. You aren't going to find a better price than that with this level of prestige."
"My gosh, is that all?" Dottie asks, beaming, while silently cursing the rampant real estate corruption in this city.
She wanders in, rubbing her hands along the standard edition dark granite countertops and taking in the current interior decorating trend of all-gray everything. It's like my cell in the Raft, but with kitchen appliances.
"But is it safe? I've heard crime is on an upswing in Brooklyn..." She opens a kitchen drawer.
After receiving the answer to that question, she moves over to the windows to admire the view. (And assess the ease at which she might pop out a window and climb up eight floors, should that need to be an option.)
"Oh! Is there a balcony?"
"Don't you love those countertops! Sourced from South Africa. Would anyone like a drink? There is just a Keurig here. Of course I prefer a French press, but I think the owners were trying to keep things simple. There are some good options here, though. Pike Place...ooo, Kona. Or there are some teas if that is more your, well, cup of tea." Her laugh fills the room like fairy chimes. She really is a charming woman, even if she is laying it on hard.
"And I'm afraid there isn't a private balcony. There is a rooftop garden on the 15th floor that is open to those who live in the building. Generally open to the everyone, though it can be reserved for special occasions. We can take a look after we finish up here, if you like."
Frank gives the countertops an faux appreciate eyebrow raise, then turns to Dottie;
"These countertops are exquisite! Drink. Please... do you have any Prehistoric Glacial Water? Puts the History in H20 as they say! Haha."
Frank chuckles awkwardly at his jape;
"Seeing the rooftop would be great thanks..."
"He's so funny. He also likes that 'raw water' they bottle in Oregon." She pokes her head into the bathroom to try the normal water, than looks in the bedroom. "You know, I use a French press too... how do these things work?"
Dottie goes over to the keurig to get a demonstration. "Honey, didn't you have a question about the history of this building? He's into all that stuff."
If Frank provides an ample distraction, Dottie will make the coffee/tea/giarda water.
Frank takes his cue;
"She's so right, love me some ancient history..."
He leans in whispering an aside to the agent;
"(Case in point, she's actually older than me... but I actually prefer blondes...)"
Frank punctuates the line with a suggestive wink;
"So... I'd love to know more about the history of the place. What was it before it housed condos par excellence?"
"The building was designed by Ralph Walker of Voorhees, Walker & Gmelin. The facade is of mismatched orange brick, intended to create the feel of undulating fabric or tapestry. The first two floors housed extra supplies for the telephone. The switchboard girls worked in a room in the interior of the building so as to keep out the smoke and dirt and so on. The rest of the building was for offices. These phone men, they were like the Jeff Bezos of the era. Phones were big business. The building was named a Historic Landmark in 2004, and telephone operations were decommissioned not much later."
"Do you take anything in yours?" Dottie asks the agent. "Wow this is a really great kitchen, I could make all my homemade gluten free holiday cookies in here in a snap..." she babbles.
When the drinks are ready, she holds up two cups (), and says, "How about we enjoy our drinks on the rooftop garden?"
"That sounds excellent. Let me just lock up here and we will head up."
The rooftop provides views of several enclosing skyscrapers, but to the southeast the airspace is open enough for you to see Governor's Island and Lady Liberty in the distance.
After several minutes reviewing the amenities of the building, the neighborhood, your host grows increasingly uncomfortable. She attempts do conceal her discomfort, but eventually excuses herself to the public restroom in the hallway next to the garden.
Dottie looks appropriately concerned. "Oh geez, you okay?" She calls as the agent hastily excuses herself. "Well, we'll look around a little..."
Frank hangs back, feigning concern whilst also readying himself for their forthcoming sortie;
:
[ooc]Nice deceptions!
Dottie calls toward the bathroom, "Hey if we finish here we'll meet you in the lobby okay?" She doesn't wait to hear if the woman acknowledges her or not--just the effort of "we told you" is enough.
She waves to Frank and heads for the elevator, muttering to him conversationally about the view.
Anything in the elevator that looks like a camera?
If no camera or it is easily "accidentally" blocked... then...
If the elevator has an accessible maintenance hatch in the roof--there is a chance it is locked from the outside, but an old fashioned elevator might not have been altered in such a way -- she will take it to the normal 12th floor, but then pull the stop button to keep the elevator in place and climb on top of the elevator to get to the 13th floor that way. That way the elevator isn't just missing.
If the elevator is designed as it actually should be, then they'll try the stop button guessing at when they are passing the 13th floor. The stairs are a better option for departure, if they can't go back the way they came.
If there IS a camera, then Dottie has another idea...
Frank follows Dottie's lead, pausing as they arrive at the elevator.
He shoots a casual look toward the camera, then to his parter-in-crime(fighting)...
"Presume we're goin' up?"
"We're on the roof, honey. Now, which floor were we on before?" Looking uncertain, she presses a few buttons, including 12.
You make your way to the 12th floor. Stepping through the art deco doors of the elevator, you find the elevator that has been converted to a mail room, its doors fixed open. All three walls of the room are covered in banks of mailboxes. There is no way to access the boxes from behind, so the walls have been constructed to open to a mail carrier to offer access to the back so that they can put mail in all of the boxes at once.
:
Frank eyes the wall of boxes and shrugs;
"Quite the shrine to stationary eh Dot.. but not much else."
:
"Maybe you we're wrong 'bout this place. Its history? I mean its been a while right?"
She will stack any convenient Amazon packages, in the guise of looking for something in particular, up to block any visible cameras.
"Well, I did once see a man run out of a window somewhere around here and explode..."
Her eyes light as she gazes over the mailboxes. She looks at the names and numbers on the labels, trying to match to what is an actual condo here and isn't.
She says low, "Do keep an eye out, would you?"
She draws her fingers along the boxes and one stop there. S-R. Too obvious? Mmmm. "You know these are like most apartment mailboxes... open up out so the mailman can put in the letters all at once." She reaches around the side, feeling for any sort of latch or key on the side, or fiddles with the key slot on the front of the box.
Dottie finds that there is a mailbox labeled Sheldon Smith-Reynolds and thinks that that set of initials might be too big a coincidence, but, like all the mailboxes, it requires a key to open. Looks like it (lock) clobberin' time.
"I seem to have forgotten my key. Could you take care of this?" She points out the box to Frank.
Frank eyes the mailbox with a degree of scepticism;
"You know I don't turn green or have bullet proof skin right?"
He grabs the box door and attempts to wrench it open;
:
Glancing into the hallway to see if anyone responds to the clatter, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her bladed knuckles. "Try these."
No sign of any attention from the hallway.
Frank looks frustrated at the lock, then takes the bladed knuckles.
Lining up another shot he attempts to bust it open;
:
The face plate of the mailbox bends enough for Frank to twist the latch and open it. As the door swings open, the elevator doors suddenly slide closed. The non-elevator mail room does some very elevator like things, and the doors open again, revealing an office decorated in the cool-greys and avocado green of the 1970s. The room is divided mostly into cubicles with divided offices around the edges, and two large conference rooms. Each desk has a primitive personal computer connected to a large mainframe.
Dust covers everything. No one has been here for a long time, but not so much time as it has been since Dottie was here.
A half-smile plays on Dottie's face as the elevator activates and reopens in the offices.
"The 1940s decor was nicer, I'll say." She flips a light switch, curious if there's any power. "And we're looking for records from 1947. Most likely still paper, in file cabinets, though they could have been transferred to microfiche..."
She moves through the area, quietly, even though there's obviously not a soul present besides her and Frank. She waves at a room as she passes. "Aw, I sat in there once for 26 hours for an interrogation. I'll never forget that idiot's face when I flipped the table on top of him. What was his name? Talbot? Taylor?"
Frank eyes the room with a wide eyed curiosity, which is then tempered by the reinforced realisation that Dottie lived events in these dusted shrouded rooms...
"Interrogation huh? Am bettin' you didn't crack right Dot..?"
He clears his throat with a refocussing nod;
"1947. Check. Antique microfiche, check."
:
Frank and Dottie move down the right side of the room, past placards that denote a conference room, offices of a few lieutenants, and the office of someone named Deputy Director Hammond. At the bend in the U, there is a room simply labeled "Records." That seems like your best bet. As you turn the knob, you find that the door is unlocked. While light pours into the offices and central room from windows, there are no windows in the records room, so it is dark. There does seem to be power to this level. You can let me know if you want to switch on the lights.
In the center of the U, there is a defunct Mail Robot with locked doors.
In the records room, there are rows upon rows of beige steel file cabinets. Breaking any of them open isn't terribly challenging, and they are organized alphabetically.
Frank takes in the names, then pauses hand hovering over the light switch as he mulls the former occupants of the building and its set up...
:
:
Dottie answers Frank's question with a smug smirk that clearly indicates he is correct about her not cracking.
When they find the darkened room, she pulls her mini maglite out of her purse and examines the area before hitting any switches.
Dottie feels that simultaneous stomach-flipping sense of reward and defeat that happens when a hunch you have is correct, and you didn't want it to be. "Guess what hideously corrupt energy company did research into Zero Matter in the 70s? Come on, guess."
Dottie takes the photo of Stark, and grabbing a pen jots down VZLA, ROX, Marcus Daniels, 1973 on the back. She tucks the photo into her bra and puts everything else back.
"I'll finish up here, I think this is the main thing we're gonna find. If you think there's a weapons cache here, how about you get a head start on finding that. We're gonna need whatever help we can get."
Out of curiosity she checks "U" for Underwood and "D" for "Delta" (one of her code designations, alongside Agent 04--although she wasn't at this office in the 70s, so it's possible they had moved her older files elsewhere), more to show Frank what she considered her "baby pictures" than anything, and maybe to help her jog her memories about anything else she should be thinking about.
Frank's warning about a silent alarm pinging somebody sinks in, but somehow she can't help but pull out the Carter file. Just for a minute.
Dottie finds nothing that refers to her. Not files for Dottie Underwood, Agent 04, Delta. Whatever records existed of her have been pulled. Director Carter's file, on the other hand, is thick. It isn't even a folder, but a heavy steel box with a sturdy lock. The whole thing is stenciled "above top secret."
Frank moves to one of the offices whose name plate reads Arthur Desmond, and realizes that it is an oblique reference. He puts his hand on the door knob and turns it. Shelves on the walls behind the desk hold books and trophies, but everything is a little too perfectly organized. He pushes on one of the shelves and it flips up into the wall, revealing a rack arrayed with handguns.
More flipping of shelves, photos, and even the top of the desk reveal additional weapons.