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Date Posted: 14:05:21 08/18/03 Mon
Author: Ph0tog!
Subject: WB Game Entry
In reply to: snip-it! 's message, "WB Game Part I" on 03:30:12 08/04/03 Mon

"…just some old--but not of-interest-old--puzzle box, kind you can find just about anywhere, covered in dust and empty except for the tales the guy selling it will fill it with." Gabriel shrugged, seeing that his explanation did nothing to smooth out the wrinkles the vision had left on Pez's forehead.

"Where's it now?" Sara asked, her eyes narrowing.

"Dunno," he threw out, wanting to move on to the more interesting topic of her new case, sure that's why she had showed up at Talismaniac's door. "Mr. Han--Sly's father-in-law to be," he scoffed, knowing what a hard road his friend likely had yet to walk to gain that honor, "was attacked last night in a robbery of his store. It was stolen."

"Stolen?"

Gabriel nodded. "Han's in the hospital as we speak."

"And this box," she asked, "was entirely worthless? And empty?"

"Worthless," he agreed. "Empty? Dunno."

Her eyebrow cocked in question.

"The mechanism was broken."

"Broken." She said flatly, her disbelief apparent.

"Okay, whatever," he almost cracked a self-conscious grin, rolling his eyes. "I couldn't get it open."

"Well, looks like somebody could," she told him, pulling a Ziploc-ed evidence bag from inside her coat. "Look familiar, Junk Man?"

She let him grab the bag away from her in his surprise and haste. He turned the box over in his hands, unable to touch it through the plastic, but able to discern this box's mechanism had not been finessed--it had been forced open, the attractive (though valueless) carvings and inlay scuffed and shattered in the assailant's violent hurry to crack the puzzle.

"Familiar, yes," he answered Pez. "But this isn't Mr. Han's box. Where'd you get it?"

"Familiar, how," she asked, "I picked it up from the scene in Central Park this morning. Just south of a girl who lost her head last night. Thing is," she continued, "kids down in the lab tell me it's got your fingerprints all over it." An expression of something like concern crossed her face, not accusation, only worry.

"That box is familiar, Pez," he answered her earlier question. "But you've my word I never touched it. It's not Mr. Han's box, but it's the stone cold perfect mirror image of it."

"Down to what was inside, do you think?" she asked.

"Maybe," he said, trying to remain calm and laid back in light of this development. "A lot of old air--or, Pez," he interrupted himself, "I-I gotta go to the hospital."

"We," she stressed, "gotta go to the hospital. You're wanted downtown for questioning, Gabriel. I can't let you outta my sight." Apologetically she added, "I'd rather have you under my thumb than under those of some others at the 11th, if you know what I mean. I brought the cruiser. We'll go meet this Mr. Han together, then, make our way--as the information takes us--back to the station."

"I never saw that box before today, Pez," he declared, a growing desperation nearly coaxing a crack into his voice.

"I'm not accusing you of anything, Gabriel," she said, taking the baggied box back and slipping it into her coat. "Least of all, beheading a young girl last night in Central Park. But I think it's safe to say that we," again she stressed the pronoun, "would like some answers." She gave him a half-reassuring smile. "A look through your client list might help--grab your laptop and we can start with that on our way down to Sacred Heart."

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