Information



Dottie
Legacy Name: Dottie


The Nostalgic Feli
Owner: Molly

Age: 11 years, 6 months, 1 week

Born: September 20th, 2012

Adopted: 11 years, 2 months, 2 weeks ago

Adopted: January 10th, 2013

Statistics


  • Level: 1
     
  • Strength: 10
     
  • Defense: 10
     
  • Speed: 10
     
  • Health: 10
     
  • HP: 10/10
     
  • Intelligence: 0
     
  • Books Read: 0
  • Food Eaten: 0
  • Job: Unemployed


Adopted from Jongy121.

Chapter 1

Russet lamplight pooled around the shadow cast by the awning of number 12, Edith Street. A man in a faded black trenchcoat stood outside, taking in the crumbling brick façade, the newly powerwashed sidewalk, the beaten aluminum doorframe and the “closed” sign taped permanently to the glass of what appeared to be an out-of-business dentist’s office. He approached the door with practiced nonchalance and lit up a cigarette, took a long drag, blew the smoke into the street. He found the small buzzer beside the door. A familiar voice crackled through the receiver.

“I called you in an hour ago, sweetie. What took you so long? Don't tell me those detective skills of yours are slipping.”

“Been smoking again? Haven’t changed a bit, I see.”

“Don’t play with me, Chris. Where’ve you been?”

“I was busy. Not at your beck and call anymore, Dottie.”

“…Come on up.” The door hummed and the lock clicked open.

Chris Oliver. That’s what it said on his driver’s license, and that’s what Dottie called him. It was as much his name now as Jackson Weatherley. Chris ran a hand through his blond hair and half-closed his eyes against the flickering, blue-white light just inside the door. Guess that’s what happens when you’re this deep undercover. Even your own wife doesn’t know your real name. Well, ex-wife. And even the divorce was all part of the cover. “No one stays married these days,” Victor had said. “It’ll look good on the papers.”

He pulled open the door and climbed the stairs, counting them. Fifteen. He’d walked this staircase in the dark a hundred times. The carpet gave in all the familiar spots. He avoided the bloodstain on the top landing - his blood and someone else’s - and opened the door to the unmistakable smell of water damage and Dottie’s dollar store perfume.

“What’s the matter, handsome? Can’t keep up with your appointments these days?” Dorothy Louge kept her eyes trained on Chris as she jabbed at the rotary phone dial, the numbers long since slashed from their paper backings by Dottie's French-manicured nails.

“Had some business I needed to attend to.”

“The only business to which you should be attending,” Dottie said deliberately, “is the assignment that Victor has for you.” She slapped a manila folder on the desk, her nails following with a resounding click.

Chris made no move to take the envelope.

"Go on, you do the honors. I haven't even seen what's inside."

“I’m tired, Dot. Tired of you, and Victor, and these assignments, finding things and people that don’t want to be found.”

"Suit yourself," Dottie said with a shrug, leaning back in her chair. Dot had never been one for a hard sell.

"Save me the midlife crisis, Chris, and open the damn file." Victor Kirsch rose from his seat, hat pulled low, hands tucked into the pockets of his pinstripe suit. Chris hadn't even seen him there. Maybe he was slipping. Either way, he wasn't getting out of this one, not tonight.

"What's the assignment?"

Victor flipped open the folder and pointed to the Polaroid paper-clipped inside. “Szymon Kuznetsov. Nice kid. Had some threats come his way as of late. We’re gonna find out why.”

“We don’t deal with nice kids, Victor. You know that, and I know that, so cut the crap.” Dottie snapped her gum. "What's this really about?"

“I got to agree with her, Vic, and you know how much I hate doing that." Chris picked up the file. "He’s an orphan. Got himself into some trouble, probably stole something, pissed someone off."

"Say, his mother was murdered." Dottie peered at the file over Chris's shoulder, her face so close he could smell the mint on her breath.

"What's this Vic, you want us to go down there and look for some decade-old chalk outlines?"

“Hey, put a lid on it, you two. Eight years ago, his mother was murdered. Never cracked the case. Few nights ago, a box of her things goes missing and this note shows up, tells the kid to get out of town. I don’t think it’s a coincidence. I think the key to her murder was in that box. Maybe the kid got too close.”

“We look like NYPD, Vic?” Dottie raised an eyebrow.

“We don’t do murders.”

“Just gotta trust me on this, Chris. I got a hunch.”



Chapter 2

I leaned against the window in Dottie’s walk-up flat as she leaned into the glow of the flickering fluorescent bathroom light, peeling off her fake eyelashes.

“You saw the kid today?” The tap squealed as Dottie shut the faucet. She emerged from the bathroom in a satin slip, her face clean and her brown hair wrapped in a towel. She studied my face with her green eyes and sighed.

“Let me guess. Katheryn Povorova's murder is a mystery to even her own son.” Dottie was tugging off her sheer thigh-high stockings, an after-work ritual she’d always called ‘shedding her skin.’ All of this – the makeup, the nails, the eyelashes, the outfit – all of this was her skin. It protected her; it kept her safe.

I nodded. “Szymon's a nice a kid. I showed up at his flat, asked him a couple of questions, but seems like he didn’t know much. Guess it makes sense.”

“If you’re in trouble, you’re not gonna let your kids know about it. They could tell someone, they could be used against you; hell, maybe you don’t want your kids to know you’re in any sort of trouble or they might not respect you anymore.”

“Suddenly you're an expert on motherhood?" I mumbled, leaning harder against the window. I liked the feel of the cold glass at my back. Especially when Dottie was sounding logical. She leaned back on the bed and crossed her bare legs.

“Don’t forget, Chris. It’s all an act. I’m a detective, same as you are. Just so happens you get to play the smart one, day-to-day.”

“Dot…”

“It’s okay. We all make sacrifices for our jobs.” Dottie stood up and crossed the room. “Ever wonder what we might’ve been like if we’d stayed together, Chris?

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do that, Dot. You know we were never really together.”

“So let’s change that.” Dottie slid her hands over the lapels of his second-best sport coat.



Chapter 3

I was always testing Chris Oliver. Even when he was testing me, I was testing him; whenever he noticed me doing something, I noticed him noticing.

“What’re you talking about, Dot?” Chris was on guard.

“You really are a terrible detective. I can read… you… like a book.” I held my face close to his.

“You think you’re so clever? Maybe I’m the one who’s been playing you, this entire time,” Chris whispered. His eyes never left mine, and that was just the way I liked it. I tugged him towards me, and in a second, my fingers were in the breast pocket of his jacket, lifting out a folded piece of paper.

“First lesson: never let your thumb touch the mark.” I stepped away from him and unfolded the page in my hand, ripped from Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Over the text was scrawled a list of names in thick, black marker. Victor’s hand.

“Damn it, Dottie, if you wanted the list, you could’ve just asked.” Chris ground his jaw.

“You wouldn’t have given it to me, and you know it. We’re as much partners as we are rivals, when it comes to Victor, aren’t we? Daddy loves me best. Don’t forget, Chris, my motivation is competition. Tell me about the list.” I could tell from his face that I’d won.

“Victor wrote down the names of all the neighborhood regulars. After I spoke to Szymon, I paid a visit to a couple of his next-door neighbors.”

“Where?”

“52 Elmira. ‘Next-door’ is a stretch, since they live about a half-mile up the road in a sprawling mansion. They didn’t know anything, though, or so it seemed.”

“Who lives there?” I was growing impatient with Chris’s vague responses. “Come on, Chris, give me something to go on. You know I can’t work uninformed.”

“I thought we were rivals? If you’re not going to play fair, why should I? Go talk to them yourself, if you’re so interested.” Chris snatched the page from my hand. “And see if you can convince Victor to give you that list of names, because I sure as hell won’t. There’s a reason you play the receptionist, Dorothy. You’re an analyst, not a detective.”

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