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Chapters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
 
 
 

NYC - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Broadway
Last updated: 01/02/2007 02:01:11 AM

Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own every single character in here. They're mine to do with as I please. I own Every. Single. One.

Obviously that's a big fat lie!!!!! Marvel owns them; I don't even own a hair on Scott's chinny chin chin.

Couple of Notes that will be REALLY helpful: It's Alternate Universe set in the forties in NYC. Scott's a Private Eye, Jean and Remy are brother and sister, and trust me, Rogue fits into it. But you'll just have to find out how later...

"What!? No, 'How ya' been, Scott?' or 'Long time, no see!'"

Elisabeth Braddock, secretary to the entire fifth division of the NYPD, tried extremely hard to look stern at the man before her, but the smile forming on her peach colored lips belied any anger she was trying to display. "What do you want, Summers?"

Scott started for the file cabinet beside her desk. "A house on the beach, a million dollars, and a beautiful purple-haired wife wouldn't hurt, either." He stole a glance at Elisabeth; she simply shook her head in mock disapproval at his childish flirting. Scott decided time was wasting, so he shot right to the point, opening the top drawer and dumbly flipping through file tabs. "I'm looking for a file on a man named Remy White. I know he's got some dirt under the fingernails, if you know what I mean, but I want specifics."

Betsy stood and crossed to where he was standing. "No way! Jesus Scott, you couldn't have picked a worse time to go hunting for that one's file."

Scott paused in his searching for a second. "What? Why?"

Betsy almost covered her startled look completely. Almost. "You...you don't know? Then what do you want with him if you don't know?"

"Don't know what, Betts?" Scott took a step forward.

For a brief moment, the secretary looked as if she was actually going to protest telling him, but she soon realized it was futile and sighed in defeat instead. "Remy White is a primary suspect for the Manhattan murders."

Scott nearly swallowed his tongue. Five women...no, six now, including the one found four nights ago and tearing up the New York headlines since, had been found strangled to death and thrown into a ditch, referred to widely now as the Manhattan Massacre. "What! Are you serious? Remy White?"

Betsy strode over and picked a newspaper from her desk, popping her gum nonchalantly in the process. "Not only that, but his chances are looking mighty good for hanging for this little number, too."

Scott snatched the paper with a surprisingly steady hand and read the front-page headline. Prominent Businessman Found Dead. The article described the death of prestige entrepreneur Charles Xavier, business partner of a Mr. Eric Lensherr. Scott read on. Apparently Xavier was found dead outside his apartment three nights ago, shot twice in the chest.

Betsy settled onto her desk, crossing her legs and leaning back on her hands as she spoke. "Lensherr was inside the man's apartment, says he heard the whole thing. Claims he heard Remy and this Xavier guy arguing outside the door then BAM. Next thing he knows he hears footsteps bolting down the hall and by the time Lensherr got there, White was gone."

Scott nodded, dumbfounded. "You believe him?"

"Well sure I do, kid. I mean, there's other witnesses that say they saw a tall, auburn-haired man in the apartment building that night, so I'd say it's pretty obvious." She paused and looked back at Scott. "So now you see why I can't let you have the file on the guy."

Detective Summers tilted his head slightly, immediately slipping from shock to persuasive mode. "Aw, c'mon Betts. Do it for your ole pal, Scott?"

Betsy shook her head firmly. "Nope. My boss'll kill me. You know how McCoy gets."

Ten seconds later Betsy was expertly thumbing through the tabs, stopping at 'White' and reluctantly slipping it out of the cabinet. "You owe me one, Summers. I'm surprised it's even here." She handed him the manila folder and he graciously thanked her before slipping back out the door.

Summers screwed his eyes shut later that night and rubbed the strain from his eyelids. He glanced at the clock over his office door only to find it stopped at three. "Cher! What time is it?"

The sweet southern belle stepped through the door so quickly Scott had the suspicion she was waiting by the door with that cup of coffee in hand for hours. The steam produced seemingly from the brim told him otherwise, though. "Eleven, sugah. Why? Yoah clock broke?"

The detective accepted the mug and nodded. "Yep. Now Cher, as my secretary, I would like you to fix this little problem, okay? I know sometimes we forget these things." He shot a playful grin her way to which she smiled sarcastically.

"Gotten any work done, Summahs, or have you been sitting on your hands dreaming about that li'l redhead of yours?"

"Actually, I've been killing myself over this file." He gestured toward the papers strewn before him. "I've got to get it back to Betsy by tomorrow or she'll kill me."

"Who's is it? That Remy guy's?"

Scott sighed in exhaustion. "Yeah. The kid's record is basically clean, but my gut tells me his conscience isn't so lucky. Which means only one thing."

"He's smart." Cher finished for him.

"The only mentionable scratch on here is a good sized warehouse bust roughly seven months ago carrying merchandise collectively worth up to forty grand. An old friend of ours was involved in that one, believe it or not." Cher's finely kempt eyebrows rose in interest, for she knew exactly who the detective was referring to: the only person he addressed as 'old friend.' Scott went on. "Impressive list of addresses here, though. Let's see," he skimmed over the pages, " he's got an estate in New Orleans, a penthouse here in Manhattan, a mansion in L.A." Scott conveniently did not mention the Manhattan Massacre to his secretary. He decided to hold off on that until he was positive. Besides, it wasn't his job to discover a murderer, or prove him guilty or innocent. All he was getting paid for at the moment was finding a man by the name of Remy White, killer or no killer.

Cher fidgeted nervously, lacing her slender fingers with one another. "Hmm, I see. So Ah guess the question is, where do you go from heuh?"

"To the bar, Cher. Where else?"

Cher scoffed. "Gawd. Going to tip down a drink when there's a case that needs solvin'. Just like a man."

Instead of coming back with a cute remark, Scott grabbed his coat and hat and led Cher out the door with him, locking it up for the night behind him. "Actually, no. I am going to the bar to find an old friend."

On the sidewalk rainwater drizzled, seeping into Cher and Scott's clothes and the dark pavement, giving it a slick, glossy look. The pair waited for a taxi and chatted idly. Finally, a bright yellow cab pulled up beside them, and Scott chivalrously told Cher she could take this one and he'd wait for the next, like he did every night.

To both of their surprise, Jean stepped out of the car, looking purposefully at Scott. Cher slipped a wink at the detective before waving a good-bye to the both of them and riding off.

"Ms. White." Summers coughed nervously. "What can I do for you?"

She smiled sweetly- a smile Scott was sure had a list of broken hearts behind it. "I'm sorry. Did I catch you at a bad time? It looks like you're trying to get home."

He shook his head quickly. "Oh, no. Never an inconvenient time for a client."

"I would have been here sooner, but I did some window shopping." She smiled sheepishly, raising the few large bags in her hands with the golden print Bloomingdale's scrawled across the front. Her brother obviously took care of all her needs, even the essential need to buy the latest fashion in dresses.

"Geesh! Did you buy the town?"

A melodious laugh caressed the damp air, and to Scott's amazement, the sound sent a pleasant shiver up his spine. "I tried." She paused and the amusing twinkle her eyes made set almost immediately to serious, as if she felt bad for giggling when her brother was missing. "I really came here to find out how the search was going for Remy."

Scott took a quick intake of breath, as if he was unsure how to word his next sentence. "It's going...well."

A delicate rust colored eyebrow rose in question. "Well?"

Suddenly, Scott felt a great swell of pity for the woman before him. The poor dame had no idea what kind of person her beloved brother was, and yet she stood here, extremely concerned for the rat's well being. Disconcerting to say the least. "Yes, well."

She stared at him with large innocent eyes, as deep and blue as the ocean. They were questing for information, information he wasn't willing to shatter her illusion of her big brother with. As opposed to doing just that, he closed more of the gap between them with his own body and brought a hand to her shoulder, capturing her eyes with his own chestnut brown ones.

"Jean, I will find him. I know your mind is imagining the worst right now, but Remy is alive, and I will find him."

Jean, her heart thumping wildly at both the confusion and excitement at the intimate moment just created between them, nodded weakly. Scott, too, was moved by the electricity that seemed to pulse from their brief connection.

"Um," he couldn't see, but he was positive he was blushing furiously. "Do you need a hand?" He nodded toward the bags.

She glanced down and began to gratefully nod her head yes, but stopped dead and stuttered out a polite refusal, hastily backing away and waving down a cab. She choked out a quick good-bye and smiled before riding away.

Scott stood speechless, staring after the taxi, the rain thankfully letting up and sharing nighttime with the moon. Detective Summers felt an overwhelming sense of no control, something he really hated. This, he remembered, was why he hated to fall in love. It brought nothing but confusion, uncertainty, and most importantly, heartache. And Scott had a feeling this particular broad was very capable of bringing on just such an immense heartache, one he was entirely not ready to deal with. But in the back of his brain, a voice told him that she would indeed persist until she held his very heart in the palm of her little hand, and an even tinier voice told him he was willing to let it happen.

Barry's Hideaway was packed. After all, it was hitting midnight on a Friday, and this was the hottest place in town. The detective wasn't here for the stiff drinks or even women, not tonight anyway. He was here to have a friendly chat with someone, and that someone was sitting right at his usual table: the booth that lurked in the corner of the room, surrounded by heavy smoke and dangerous men in sleek black suits. Scott made his way toward the tiny glowing ember that appeared to be floating, but at closer look was seen to be the tip of a thick cigar. In this particular dark spot set aside for the man Scott came to see and his 'associates', the prevailing, eerie silence, made from men pitching 'deals' and hands sliding beneath the table to exchange one good or another, seemed to drown out the droning buzz of music, glasses clinking, and people chatting at the bar that seemed to be a million miles away at this point. Once you crossed a certain invisible line going to the dark corner booth in Barry's Hideaway, you were no longer a fella buying a drink, but a Tommy packing, drug-dealing thug with darting eyes and a heart made of pure sticky greed.

Summers slid easily into the booth before the man clearly running the operation. The guy had thick, coarse black hair and two hollow coals for eyes that bore into a soul with a glance. The two men went back, and not the good way.

Scott cleared his throat and managed a stiff nod of the head. "Logan."

"Nice suit, Summers. You look like shit."

"Don't hold back. Tell me how you really feel."

Logan took a swig of the amber colored brandy and savored the burn that embraced his throat before saying, "Ain't it past yer bedtime?"

Scott, choosing to ignore the comment, put forth his question. "Do you know a man named Remy White?"

Logan stiffened considerably, but not enough for the human eye to detect. "No." He said shortly.

The detective sighed. "Why do you lie to me, Logan?"

" 'Cause you're always on my ass about something, Private Dick, always tryin' to get me thrown in the slammer. Even if I did tell you the truth, I'm willing to bet you wouldn't even believe me." He snapped.

"You see, that's where you're wrong old friend. Had you initially told me the truth about knowing Remy White, I would indeed have believed you because I have this little thing we Private Dick's like to call evidence, records," Scott slammed several photos in front of him onto the table, "and most importantly- photographs."

Logan peered down at his own face staring up at him in black and white. He immediately knew exactly what these pictures were. The warehouse-bust on the corner of Sax and 5th a couple of months ago, the only time he'd ever been caught red-handed. It was a sloppy shipment, he and Remy's men had been slacking. Summers had been damn disappointed he hadn't been there to snap the handcuffs on Logan, but that was enough to keep the Canadian born smuggler satisfied. Logan remembered having the distinct feeling he was being watched that night, but his lacquer-fogged brain had dismissed it. Obviously, he had been right. He cursed himself for not taking his usual course of action, trusting his instincts, and bolting the hell out of there.

"See? Now why don't you cut the crap, Logan, and tell me where he is."

"Why? Who's askin' for him?"

Scott gritted his teeth in frustration but swallowed hard and plastered a smile on his face. "A family member, believe it or not."

Logan met Summers' eyes. "A family member?" He repeated tersely.

"Mm-hmm. Who would have thought, but he's got a pretty li'l sister, a redhead. Jean, I think her name is." Scott tried to sound as detached as possible to the woman he just met and already found himself thinking about more often than not. Unbeknown to Scott, Logan's jaw tensed. "You heard of her?"

Logan nodded. "Yeah, I met her once or twice. She and the Cajun are real close, so if she don't know where the kid is, I'm sure as hell ain't gonna be of much use to ya'." Logan paused and thought of how to word his next sentence without sounding too concerned or giving any more information than he had to. He truly didn't know where Remy was, but he didn't want to give Scott any clues as to where he might

be. "I know one thing for sure, though: Remy doesn't run...from anything. He faces his problems like a man, one of the things I like about the guy. As for his sister, I'd stay away from her if I were you. Remy catches you even looking at her in a way he isn't appreciative of, and you won't have any trouble finding him- he'll be at your front door by the time you make it home." There was an unmentioned "same goes for me" that hung in the cigar smoke between them.

Detective Summers left the bar around one, his mind awhirl with more things than he was willing to sort at this time of the night. Logan said Remy a.) wouldn't run from his problems, and b.) was very close to Jean. These things in mind, Scott was now sure Remy was somewhere in the city as opposed to at one of his other estates on the other side of the country. That made Summers feel a whole lot better, to say the least. The last thing he wanted to do was go trekking across the U.S. in search of Remy. Then there was this Jean woman. Damn, Scott didn't know what the hell to think about this doll. Logan made it clear she was off limits for one reason or another , and even if he did play his cards right and get the barest chance of a shot with her, it was also made clear to him that Remy would not be very approving.

Assuming Scott ever found Remy.

Cheryl Knight did not cry often. She was strong, and very few things actually broke her down to tears. Her boyfriend of only eight months but whom she already loved more than anything was missing. And so now, she buried her face in her fluffy down pillow (which without Remy she would never have been able to afford) as tears streamed down her face. Her chest heaved against the mattress as she tried to swallow her racking sobs but it was no use. He'd been gone without a sign for three days now, never had she gone more than a couple hours without hearing his voice, and now...three days. Three long, grueling, tedious days she told herself she would not cry, he would be back any second. But when she went to put on the diamond engagement ring he'd given her only a week before that she was forced to keep in her jewelry box during the day, it was like a dam inside her soul had just given out, sending forth an array of emotions to come pouring through her.

She flipped over on her back and stared long and hard at the spectacular stone that glittered on her ring finger. "Gawd, it is beautiful," she muttered.

"Of course it is. Remy only buy de best for my Rogue."

Cher nearly flew off her bed at the sound of his voice and the pet name he used for her. "Remy!" She screamed and went running to where he stood by her door, leaping gleefully in his arms and showering his face with kisses. He laughed and cupped her chin to plant a lasting kiss on her mouth before setting her back down on the ground.

She gazed up at him with wide eyes, absently stroking the stubble on his cheeks. "Where have yah been?" She asked, too happy to see him alive to be very upset.

Remy's eyes sparkled in response, causing Cher to go weak in the knees. "You know me, Rogue. Always in and out."

"Really, Remy. Ah've been worried sick!"

The Cajun's smile dissolved and he slowly got serious- a rare thing for him so Cher paid close attention. "Somet'in has happened, chere."

"Something has always happened with you Remy." She replied.

"No, Rogue. Dis is serious dis time. Somet'in big has happened and I had to lay low for a while, still do, actually."

Cher's brows furrowed in concern. "Well, what is it Remy? Can Ah help?"

He took a longing look at her, clad in a sea green nightgown that clung to her curves, and reveled in her love for a fleeting moment before shaking his head. "No, Rogue. Not dis time. I do need you to do one t'ing for me, dough. Pack. You need to be ready to leave de minute I come back if it comes to dat."

"Pack!?" Cher exclaimed. "Why? Where are we goin'?"

"We may have to move down to New Orleans if t'ings don't calm down- me, you, and Jeannie. Remy gotta place dere." He gave her a moment to absorb it. "I told you dis was serious, chere."

"Why don't you tell me what's goin' on, Remy?" Rogue laced her fingers behind his broad neck.

"Can't, Rogue. Just be ready for Remy, okay?" He held her close to his own body, instantly remembering how he hated her absence so much through the last three days of laying low.

A smile spread across her mouth. "You know Ah'll go anywhere with you swamp rat." And with that, she pulled him down to her and claimed his mouth with her own. He willingly accepted, wrapping his toned arms around her waist and letting himself melt into her embrace.

Remy never saw himself as a man in love before. The only things he cared about were him, his sister, him, his business, and him. Then, as fate should have it, he met Cher. It had been eight months ago almost to the day; he saw her walking home one night with an armful of brown, paper grocery bags. He asked if she needed help, more so just to strike up a conversation with the beautiful thing than really assist. He was taken aback entirely when she politely refused his offer since women hardly ever refused Remy. He persisted until they were not five feet from her door and she finally agreed. She stole his heart that night; he hadn't seen it since.

Remy had other people he still had to see, and he knew he couldn't stay much longer at Cher's. He tried to gently tug her away from him, but found his arms would not obey his command. Besides, she could be very persuasive when nibbling his ear...

 

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