..:ALL'S FAIR IN LOVE AND CRIME:..

Inspector Koichi Zenigata sat unassumingly in one of the waiting rooms of Interpol's headquarters. He eyed the windows, then the art on the walls, and occasionally looked at the secretary who was positioned near a large door, which he surmised led to the president of the organization's office. This was the first time in the close-to-middle-aged man's life he had ever left his home country of Japan, which filled him with an excited nervous energy that he hadn't felt in a long time. The weeks leading to this very moment already felt like a blur: first he celebrated a hallmark in his long and dedicated career, and now he's been invited to the home base of a renowned institution over the matter of an intriguing proposition. The man's head wasn't completely in the clouds, however, as he decided during the travel to France to hear out the offer, and then make an educated decision. Though, whenever he thought of this, that excitement always bubbled up in him again. The inspector rested his clasped hands in his lap and stared at his feet in an honest attempt to keep his giddy nerves at bay.

Visually, the man was right-at-home in the endless offices of the ICPO. Standing at a generous 5'11", the inspector was everything one would imagine a steadfast cop looking like. Broad-shouldered with strong, well-sculpted facial features, Zenigata possessed a naturally commanding energy thanks to his build, but yet had a whisper of softness alongside that seemingly tough demeanor. His large, sweet eyes were the key to this, though they were often obscured by the brim of his tan fedora, which, additionally, was often coupled with a serious scowl displayed prominently on his long face. Though, in this place in time, there was an air of quiet anticipation in his deep brown orbs as he continued to wait patiently. The gentle gaze flashed into one of sudden awareness once he heard his name called out.

"Koichi Zenigata," announced the young woman as she looked directly at him. "Mr. Michaud is ready to see you now."

The inspector then stood to his full height, and fluffed the collar of his heavy trenchcoat before he made his entrance. He was never one to fret about his personal appearance, as the man was loyal to the stock uniform all officers of his rank seemed to wear, alongside him having the belief that he was simply "too busy" to care about such a thing -- although, he knew leaving a good impression was important in a situation like this. The leader of the organization's office was elegantly decorated and spacious, with it being the exact opposite of the small rooms that housed Tokyo's top chiefs. It had a different energy as well, as a vaguely heavy mood filled the air as Zenigata curiously looked around, with him wondering what kind of conversations had been held here previously. The man then noticed Michaud's presence at the very end of the room, and as he removed his fedora out of respect, he began to feel more out-of-place here than he ever expected.

Michaud looked at his visitor with a broad smile, which was mostly obscured by his bushy mustache, and promptly got off of his swivel chair to approach him. As he drew near, he offered his right hand and began to speak, "Ah, Inspector Zenigata-" but, before he could finish, the eager guest grabbed his hand and gave it a firm shake, "Monsieur Michaud, c'est sympa de..." Zenigata paused, and then finished his sentence with full confidence, "de vous rencontrer!"

Michaud looked at him with blatant surprise on his round face, but it quickly transformed into a subtly charmed smile. The man cleared his throat, and then gently replied, "I applaud you for familiarizing yourself with the home language, inspector, but there's no need to speak in French." For the head of the renowned crime-fighting organization, this was a good sign -- this only confirmed to Michaud how dedicated this potential hire was regarding everything he does.

Zenigata reflected a similar sense of surprise following the president's response, but it only temporarily shook his confidence. Post-war Japan slowly became introduced to the English language due to the continued presence of the American military and media, which led it to be adopted as a fairly common second language. The inspector became familiar with it in his own time in the military, and likewise, became close-to-fluent in it. French, on the other hand, was completely unknown to him. The man poured through a rudimentary French language study novel as he traveled to Lyon, and while he had a sense of relief he did not have to speak the language, he briefly wondered what the fate of that book was going to be.

Zenigata pulled his hand away, and reiterated his introduction sheepishly, "Oh, I apologize, Mr. Michaud. It's nice to meet you, and it's an honor to be standing here in the ICPO." He finished with a smile, then watched as the man casually sat himself on a sofa near the far left corner of the room. "I'm flattered by the interest the organization has expressed in my career, but I'm unclear of why I've been specifically invited."

Michaud raised his hand towards the plush chair that stood beside the sofa as an invitation, and then began his reply, "Your recent arrest of Orinosuke, along with several of his partners and other yakuza affiliates, has been the focal point of many conversations here in the ICPO lately," as he continued, his gaze met Zenigata's directly, "Speaking from experience and as an observer of many other similiar cases, this is one of the most impressive string of arrests I have ever witnessed."

A proud smile curled the inspector's lips, with the flattery making him nearly stammer the opening of his humble response, "Thank you, sir, but I was only doing my job."

"The reason why you've been invited here is that I believe you're the key to furthering the investigations of several older cases," the president explained, with him pleased by his guest's reply, "Interpol has been researching a string of suspicious murders in New York City for a long time now, with all of them having circumstanial evidence tied to organized crime, yet nothing concrete has manifested over the years. When I read the way you sniffed out that drug trafficking ring, I wondered if you perhaps had a perspective on these crimes that our men have yet to consider."

"Why haven't the local police been able to get any leads in these murders?" promptly asked Zenigata.

Michaud frowned, "New York City is a very complex location -- Tokyo is triple its size, and the population of NYC is packed like sardines by comparison. To answer your question simply, there's too much crime where the police can't devote themselves to these cases, in addition to being under-staffed and often under-paid. That's why we were invited to step in. We already have a agent stationed there, but now he's even getting mixed up in all that New York has to offer." The man finished, with the last statement being an attempt at dry humor.

The inspector leaned back into the plush chair, taking a moment to think about all the information he had received. He then looked at him again, asking, "How long has this been going on?"

"It started with the death of Magda Benvenuti, a restaurant extortionist whose bloodied body was found in the outskirts of Brooklyn, with no leads," he answered solemnly. "At the time, many believed it was an act of revenge -- either mob-based or perhaps an employee of one of the many businesses she targeted -- but over time, more and more criminal bodies were found, all in random locations and different types of deaths. I believe this has been going on for five years now."

Zenigata slightly grimaced at the description of the murder, but his expression grew neutral as he began to ponder again. All the given info directed him to the assumption that all of this was being driven by organized crime, but by some group or someone that knew how to hide their tracks well. He then thought of Michaud's description of New York City, a location that the inspector was only familiar with in passing. He knew that Tokyo was not a perfect city, and he had certainly seen its fair share of problems thanks to his career, but knew there were many citizens that lived safely. At that moment, he struggled to envision this for the people in that American coastal city. Feeling a sense of justice within him, the man stood up and proudly offered the head of the organization his hand once again.

"Mr. Michaud, I am more than honored to help with this investigation in any way that I can."

Peering through the back door of the Moura Encantada, Sean Gibson looked for his employer as he quietly stepped into the building. He was a handsome young man with looks that could easily land him a career as a model, with his wavy platinum blonde hair that would naturally catch the light and his fit, slender physique. He knew he was attractive, and always dreamed of making something out of himself: whether that be that aforementioned modeling gig, or better yet, becoming an A-list movie star. Yet, he was trapped under this seedy establishment, always failing to find a way out. With each passing day, Sean found it more difficult to maintain any form of amiability towards his boss. As he entered the man's private office, he looked at him with subtle daggers as he spoke, "We need to stop meeting like this -- those back alleyways have a bad energy to them."

Narciso Gaspar looked at his partner with a curiously amused expression as he dismissed his concerns, "The back door is for your convenience, Sean. With the amount of guests the club's been attracting lately, you're likely to get trampled if you came through the front doors." He then hopped off of his chair and waddled towards the young man. "Besides, in our line of business, secret entrances are the way to go."

As Gaspar good-naturedly patted Sean on the back while he cackled, a glare flashed on the latter's face. What am I doing staying here? He wondered once more, with that particular thought dominating all others whenever he entered the private quarters of his boss' club. Gaspar sensed some sort of unease within his guest and moved his hand away. "Geez, kid, it was only a joke," he then waved the same hand in a blasé manner. "The club's popular, but business is a little rough right now. Your good work will not go unnoticed." He spoke in faux fatherly fashion, though Sean was wise enough to know it was an act.

The club owner was the exact opposite of his employee in every regard. Gaspar was a stout little man, with his small legs being terribly disproportionate to the girth of his stomach. A faintly gray, brown toupee obscured what little hair he had left, and he always argued that the piece was natural. Regardless of his boarish appearance, the man composed himself charmingly, making it easy for outsiders to never question his intent. He waltzed to the window of his office that gave him a bird's eye view of the Moura Encantada's main room, and admired the fruits of his hardwork like a king.

He looked over his shoulder as he heard Sean begin to approach him. "Speaking of which, how's Mrs. Hutchinson doing?"

A frown tugged at Sean's lips as he felt the frustration ignite him once more. Suddenly, he exploded, "Enough with the small talk! I'm getting tired of being paid nickels and dimes while I constantly do everything in your side gig," the words came tumbling out of his mouth before he had a moment to register what he was saying. "The last woman you paired me up with wasn't even rich, Gaspar."

An awkward, tense silence filled the room as Gaspar took a long drag of his cigar. The short man dispelled the strong smoke directly into his partner's face as he began his defense. "She was the owner of a decades-old business, I figured she would have a little money stored somewhere." He then shrugged, "She's already off your tail -- we can afford a small mistake like her."

"But you're not the one interacting with these women. What if I get a stalker or something?" The blonde spat out.

Gaspar paused as he looked at Sean with utter disbelief, which was followed by uproarious laughter shortly afterward as the man conjured up images of a potential "stalker". "You've got one hell of an imagination, kid," was finally his reply once he calmed himself of his fit. "These women are lonely and naive, and they're not known for having the best attention spans."

Each chuckle that came out of his boss felt like little knives to Sean, but he found himself only having the power to frown in response. Without smiling, Gaspar asked again, "Have you made any headway with Mrs. Hutchinson yet?"

Sean hesitated, "Kitty-- I mean, Mrs. Hutchinson, I've... I've yet to call her back."

In a sudden, violent burst of energy, the club owner lunged at the young man and grabbed him forcefully by the collar. "Why are you taking your sweet time with this spinster?!" he yelled. "She's got so much money she doesn't know what to do with it!"

"I… I don't know!" Sean stammered. "There's something different about her, I can't place what though!"

Gaspar smacked the man upside the head as he let him go. "That's a lousy excuse, and you know it." He growled as a gentle knock was heard outside the office door. "Who is it?" He looked behind him, seeing one of his many employees peak through the small opening.

"They need you on the stage to introduce the next act, sir."

"Bah, I'll be down in a minute!" He replied quickly before turning his attention back to Sean. The man readjusted his suit and tie, put out his cigar, and then gave him this warning: "We've found a goldmine with this Hutchinson broad, Sean. Don't do anything stupid to ruin this for both of us."

Sean closely watched his employer seesaw out of his office, his gaze sharpening as he left his sight. I can't go on doing this. He thought to himself, this is the last time I'm going to let myself get pushed around by that pig.