Name: Charles DeRama
Player: James Hertsch III
E-mail Address: jhertsch@gamewood.net
Chronicle: Santa Cruz/Werefolk
Breed: Homid
Pryio: Twilight
Tribe: Pumonca
Pride: None
Jamak: None
Concept: Cop turned P.I.

ATTRIBUTES:
Physical: Strength-4(/5/7/7/6), Dexterity-3(/5/6/6/6), Stamina-3(/5/7/6/6)
Social: Charisma-2, Manipulation-2(/1/-1/-1/2), Appearance-2(/2/0/0/2)
Mental: Perception-3, Intelligence-2, Wits-3

ABILITIES
Talents: Alertness-1, Brawl-3, Intimidation-2, Primal-Urge-3, Streetwise-2, Subterfuge-2
Skills: Drive-3, Firearms-3, Stealth-3
Knowledges: Computer-1, Enigmas-1, Investigation-2, Law-1

ADVANTAGES:
Backgrounds: Contacts-2, Kinfolk-2, Resources-2, Secrets-5
Gifts: Sense the Truth (Lv. 1 General), Mockingbird's Mirror (Lv. 1 Tribe), Sweet Hunter's Smile (Lv. 1 Breed)
Merits and Flaws: Photographic Memory (3 pt. Merit), Too Curious (3 pt. Flaw)

RITES:

RENOWN RANK 1
Cunning-1/0
Ferocity-1/0
Honor-1/0
Wisdom-0/0

Rage-6
Gnosis-2
Willpower-8

Expanded Background:

Contacts:
Charles has two Major Contacts. The first of these, Lt. Freshton, who works for the California SBI (or equivalent organization), and was DeRama's immediate senior when he was part of the San Francisco police force.
Charles's second contact is Vinnie the Nose, a minor information broker in the Bay Area's crime network. Neither one of these contacts is aware that DeRama is really a werepuma. DeRama's minor contacts tend to be in law enforcement and crime.

Kinfolk:
Charles's Kinfolk are his two partners, Merrick D'Angelo and Alfred O'Malley. While not directly related to Charles himself, they are nonetheless fully aware of what their partner is, and are "plugged in" to other werecat tribes' Kinfolk networks--and, like most Kinfolk, they're not quite sure why various werecats can't get along.

Resources:
Each month, Charles draws from his firm a reasonable income.

Secrets:
Via his Contacts (and through a little too much observation), Charles has learned more than he should know about supernatural involvement in law-enforcement and crime. Where most people in his position would crusade against crime (or against the supernatural machinations), Charles has contented himself with working on preserving a balance between these forces.
Like all werecats, he sees Cahlash as the "mad brother," and fights the forces of Asura rather than blindly striking at the Unmaker's forces...

Possessions:

Gear: Machine Pistol, pager
Equipment: Standard office suite (fax, computers (mildly outdated), phones). Hyundai, Several changes of clothes, apartment

Den-Realm: None

Appearance: ?
History:
Charles grew up in a military family: the usual drill. Every few years, he'd move from one place to another, his family following the orders of somebody just called "the Pentagon."
While he didn't really have an unhappy childhood, Charles tended to be quieter, more introspective, than his fellow army brats. Where they would play on the slide, he would sit in the sandbox and simply ponder the sand. Where other children would pick on the weak and the helpless, Charles, even then a large boy, would take it upon himself to defend those who could not defend themselves. He didn't know why--it was just something he did.
He continued in much the same role as he grew up, went college, and went to the police academy.
At the age of 20, DeRama became one of San Francisco's finest, still unaware of the Beast that hid inside him. Wholly, he was an unremarkable officer: a decent shot, a solid, dependable worker. Yet, there was nothing about him that stood out, except for his fondness for solo assignments--and his insatiable curiosity.

July 23, 1993

That insatiable curiosity indirectly led DeRama to his greatest discovery: the supernatural. Specifically, Charles was tailing a known drug dealer, and he was surprised when the dealer met a "supplier," and an innocent happened by. The "supplier," obviously unwilling to let the innocent become a witness, grew before DeRama's eyes, and moved toward the hapless bystander. As it continued growing, the creatures eyes became slitted, and, before DeRama knew it, he was lookin at what appeared to be a creature that was part man...and part cat.
Acting on instinct, DeRama was out of his car, and leaping with his firearm to do something---he didn't know what he COULD do...until his own clothes burst at the seams, and he had transmogrified into a saber-toothed puma himself.
Calling on this ancient warform, he leapt into battle against the other werecat. For his part, that werecat turned into the Chatro form. As the drug dealer, frightened out of his wits, backed off, the two cats circled, growling.
The other sprang. Rage welling up in him, DeRama slashed the other as he flew by...and that other turned and raked his hide with its teeth, scoring a deep wound.
"Hah," the other said. "Even a Tekhmet would have dodged that blow."
"Tekhmet?" DeRama growled, surprised he seemed able to speak in this form.
Its fur fuzzing, the other walked around DeRama. "Surrender now, and I'll let you live another day, Pumonca."
"Pumonca?" DeRama followed the other as he moved.
"You're supposed to say, 'I surrender, or I give up,' or attack me."
DeRama sat. "I don't know what's going on here, but you just tried to kill somone." His tail twitched. "And it's my job to stop you. Or to arrest you." DeRama watched his tail for a moment. "What, exactly, are we doing here?"
"We 'were' about to fight each other." The other cat paused. "You have no idea what's going on, do you?"
"Umm...no."
"Ordinarily, I'd just rip your throat out, but it looks like I just happened on your First Change, so it wouldn't be quite fair." The other paused to lick his paws. "But, I'm going to be nice to you, and introduce you to a guy I know. Go quit your job, and meet my friend here at sundown tomorrow." The other shifted slowly back to human form, and stretched, his clothes seeming to re-appear.
"Who are you?"
"Me? Don't worry 'bout it." the man waved as he walked away. "Judgin' from what you did tonight, we'll be enemies next time we meet. Be Seein' you."
The next night, he met Johnny Firestorm, and his world changed.

The First Year was typical as werecat first years go: motorcycle rides all over the West Coast. A first hunt. First stalking. Education. That sort of thing.
It was here he learned of Cahlash and Rahjah. It was here that Charles learned the shades of grey in between the Maker and the Unmaker--and how the Unmaker wasn't evil, but that his minion Asura had subverted Cahlash's purposes to his own.
And, of course, he learned the Yava, the great tribal secrets, at the end of his apprenticeship:
* A Pumonca is one with her land; if she leaves it for more than a full moon cycle, she will die.
* The essence of the poisoned land (toxic waste, radiation, sewage) is deadly to a puma. Immerse him in its toxins and he will quickly perish.
* All beasts fear the puma. No horse will bear him, no dog will follow him. The great cats are his Kin and they befriend him, but no other animal can approach without terror.

{NOTE: These are the great secrets of the tribe. They are NEVER shared with outsiders, but only within the Pumonca tribe. It's up to the ST as to whether or not any are true.}

At the conclusion of his First Year, his kuasha left him with a pair of Kinfolk who ran a private investigation firm, and there he has stayed to this day.

Wednesday, July 19th, 2:54

Charles got back and found the following phone message along with a return number on his phone.
"I need someone to find a monster, and a nasty one too. He's got great big teeth and goes by the name of Grendel. Well, not really, call me at this number if you think you can help."

Wednesday, July 19th, 1995 8:03 p.m.

Lower Washington Street. The wrong side of the train tracks. If there 'was' a right side of the tracks in Santa Cruz. A sign on the door proclaimed the rundown building to be the home/office of one Charles DeRama, Private Investigator. And, in over a month, DeRama hadn't seen squat. Zero business. Not that the former cop had been idle. He'd already looked around Santa Cruz, and puzzled out a few things. The wild dogs all over the place? Werewolves--creatures who would tear him to pieces, if he revealed himself. Which Charles hadn't. Even on those occasions when one of the dogs had gone Crinos, DeRama had fled like the humans--no need to let the pit bulls know there was a cat in town.
Curiosity might have killed some cats, but Charles had lived to tell the tale. Bastet. Pumonca. One of the celebrated Eyes of Seline. At least, that's what Firestorm had said before he vanished into the night. 'Damn kuasha' DeRama thought for the three-hundredth time. 'Left me high and dry.'
Of course, the cat's independent. The cat's solitary. The cat doesn't need packs like the Garou. On the other hand, the cat called Charles DeRama was damn near broke, and the matress in the storeroom wasn't getting any cleaner. Fortunately, he could stay reasonably clean--a bath in Feline form always did the trick.
{Q: I'm assuming he's found a secluded lake or pond in which to bathe?
A: Neary Lagoon works after the Bone Gnawers (werewolves) are done with it. Either that or the river.}
Then there were the "hacker" slayings. Some serial killer running around chopping off people's heads. For more than a year, he'd run around killing people. Now, city leaders said, the guy was gone. Heads? Something about that was suspicious, but DeRama still couldn't put his finger on it. Well, if the guy was gone, he was gone. And, so much the better--Charles preferred his head where it was.
Still, Santa Cruz was obviously a place where the supernatural flourished....and abound in its own set of mystery. Leaning back in his cheap office chair, DeRama put his legs up on the desk, pondering the unfortunate events in his life.
His machine pistol, for example: the investigator had gone to considerable expense to obtain a firearm capable of defending him from the assorted nasties that cropped up in his line of work. In fact, he'd sold his old revolver to pay for the new weapon... and then, when he'd applied for a concealed-carry permit (Manipulation + Bureaucracy = BOTCH), he'd found out that the thing had been stolen.
The boys in blue, one of whom DeRama had been until about a year before, had confiscated the weapon as evidence in a murder--and said weapon was now in Michigan for ballistics testing... and fingerprint dusting... and forensics tests galore.
Knowing the speed of the judicial system, DeRama expected his gun back in time for Halloween. Halloween 2000, that is. The P.I. made a mental note to talk to his contacts about a new firearm sometime.
Noting the time, Charles prepared for bed. No sense staying awake when there was nothing to do. Flipping on a cheapie little black-and-white TV (picked up surplus at a yard sale), DeRama settled into a meaningless sitcom.
A knocking came at the door. 'Who would come at this time of night?' DeRama thought as he moved toward the front office. A case, perhaps? A lead? Something to do with his time aside from avoid the werewolves?
Well, one of them, at least: a case, brought in th form of a woman in a plum-colored dress. With a simple motion, he gestured her in, and commanded her to sit in a chair opposite his. She sat, and addressed him, her nervousness steaming out in waves.
"You're a private investigator, aren't you? I'm sorry. I was driving home from work and I saw the light on. I thought you might be working late."
Charles looked at his watch. "It IS a bit late," he started to say, but then, his curiosity getting the better of him, he changed his mind.
"What can I do for you?" he asked, leaning back in his beat-up chair.
"I'm Norine Locatelli," she said, "and my husband is missing."
"Keep talking," DeRama answered, his eyes passing up and down her features, cataloging them for future reference.
"Well, he went fishing one day and never came back. The Coast Guard found his rented boat - but not Joe. The police have said they thought he committed suicide and put that down as his cause of death. They said he was trying to cash in on his life insurance so the company won't pay now - since it was suicide. I've had to go work at the plant as a secretary now to support myself and my daughter."
DeRama interrupted. "You know, he might not be dead. He could be kidnaped. He could have run away with a mistress. And his 'death' would be perfect cover. Or, he might have had an unfortunate accident."
Charles paused. "The dogs have been rather thick around here lately."
"My husband and I don't always get along," she explained, "But we've stayed together for the sake of our daughter. I know he isn't a perfect man; but he loves Caroline. He wouldn't just abandon her. If he's dead, I need to prove it. That way the insurance company will pay off. Joe has a substantial policy to take care of us in this event. If he's not dead, then I want to know what happened to him and see that justice is done. I owe it to him. We've been married fourteen years. And there's one other thing. I've told this to the police, but they've ignored me."
Charles raised an eyebrow. "And, what is that?"
"Joe didn't fish. He was afraid of the water. He would have never have gotten into a boat. He's never fished a day in his life."
{Q: I have no idea what the going rate for P.I.'s is up in Santa Cruz. I'll weasel around it.
A: I don't either. Probably on a case by case (how much can I get) basis.}
"Sorry it had to happen to your husband," Charles said. He wrote a number down on a slip of paper, and passed it to Norine. "Tell me what you think of that number."
The woman lowered her eyes and nodded.
Charles almost considered giving her a lower number. But, he considered, he would have to eat, and if a real case showed up, well... 'twould be enough to consider that a real case would have to take precedence. Charles looked at her, almost forgetting to blink.
Her hand went to her pearls. "I have these pearls," she started to explain. "They were a gift from my grandmother and have been in my family for ages. I could sell them, but I was hoping to leave them to Caroline when she was older. I was thinking you might consider a deal."
"Keep talking."
"I could give you Joe's files and client lists. Other detectives have offered to buy them, but they won't take my case. I could give the files and list to you as payment. If you think they're worthwhile, then we could call it a trade. If not, then I'll agree to sell my pearls and give you the money. I've had them appraised. I should be able to get at least two thousand for them."
DeRama pondered. "Come back and talk to me tomorrow. And bring me a couple of those files--I want to see what I'd be buying."
Charles was about to go back to his TV and a late dinner when the phone rang. "Secret Eyes Detective Agency."
"Hello, brother," a sultry woman's voice came throught the line.
DeRama felt a thrill go up his back. Only one type of person might call him "brother"--another Bastet.
"It's such a nice night. Why don't you wait outside? We should talk." "Who is this?" DeRama asked.
"My name is Aleena. I'm waiting outside." The phone went dead.
Although DeRama knew it might be a trap, he knew that, eventually, his 'satiable curiosity would compel him to go outside. Off he went...but not without a few preparations.
(DeRama is going to shift into Sokto form (that's Bastet equivalent of Glabro for you Werewolf readers), and THEN he's going to go outside, his senses on "full alert.")

{Q: A compromise: I gave DeRama a Resources rank of 2. What if this represents a "regular" stream of business (possibly handled out of story by DeRama or his partners), with in-story cases can be handled on a case-by-case basis.
A: Wonderfully thought out and put. Agreed most hearily. (I was really beginning to feel for the guy. I wanted to loan him $20. for a decent meal. JK)}

Wednesday, July 19th, 1995 8:31 p.m.

Stepping out into the evening air, Charles noted that the sun had only recently set, thanks to daylight savings time. (Perception + Alertness = 0 successes) Looking all around, DeRama saw nothing, except for the occasional car passing by. His curiosity sated, Charles muttered something about practical jokers, he headed back inside...only to be tapped on the shoulder.
(Perception + Alertness = 0 successes) Spinning around, he saw nobody--and he was still alone. Charles growled. While he could deal with games just as well as anybody else, this was just beginning to annoy him. Then, somebody laughed off to the left of him. (Perception + Alertness = 0 successes) DeRama turned, but saw nothing.
Tired of the game, Charles headed back into his office--whoever was out here could come to him, he figured. Then, he turned again, and a well-dressed and elegant woman brushed passed him. (Dexterity + Alertness = no successes) DeRama tried to grab her, but took hold of nothing.
The woman tapped him on the shoulder. "Care to dance?" She asked.
DeRama took her in. Attractive. Almost...feline.... "Aleena?" he asked.
She nodded and twirled and flitted about, as if moving to some unheard rhythm. "Dance with me," she entreated him.
Ever the eloquent cat, DeRama replied, "No music."
"There's always music," she responded. "You just have to learn how to hear it."
Aleena continued dancing around Charles dodging from side to side before stopping beside him, smiling widely.
"Cat got your tongue? I assure you I haven't!" she said with a grin. "Why don't you invite me in?"
DeRama smiled an enigmatic smile, his large Sokto form making him look not unlike the Cheshire cat in human drag. "Why don't you just come on in?" he smiled, turning and walking back into his office.
Aleena followed Charles into the office, looking around in a smooth motion before sitting in the chair. Looking back up, she licked her long tongue across her teeth.
"So, how is your little business here running?"
DeRama shrugged. "It runs."
"Tell me if you want anything interesting to investigate and I'll see what I can do. " she said tilting her head slightly.
"I'll keep that in mind," DeRama said noncomittally.
Flicking a pen up, Aleena spun it from one hand to the other over her head without looking at it.
"Have you gone housecat on us Charles or do you still remember your roots?" The eyes showed the intensity behind her question.
"Perhaps you forget, Aleena," DeRama was still standing as he spoke, "...that my roots are with the humans... and that our people's roots are as varied as the humans...and beyond."
DeRama shifted subtly back into human form, his body shrinking somewhat as he did so.
Stretching, Aleena silently watched the transformation with a smile. "Your roots, like mine have always been with our kind, Pumonca, the people of this land. Your roots are in this land whatever you may say and you know it. Do you care about our people? Do you care about this land?" she remarked questioningly.
DeRama looked at her sternly. "I seek the secrets of this land. Even this little town--Santa Cruz--is rife with secrets. With information. And somebody must keep it safe. Do I care about the land, Aleena?" Charles crossed to look out the window. "I care about the hidden places. I care about the darkness that devours our land. I strive to keep the balance, as we always have. The land sings to me, and I devour her song." DeRama turned to his guest. "But, I don't think you came here to discuss real estate. What's going on?"
"What is going on? A good question and I'm glad you know where your strength and heart comes from. Have you heard about the attack on the Puma and other cats in mountains? The monkeys have been taking out their rage against us, but it wasn't us that caused it. We and our kinfolk are the victims."
Charles frowned. "Pumas and other cats dying? Sad news." the Pumonca paused. "I assume a taghairm has been called, and that somebody will decide to call a taqlah?" Charles paused. "But, I don't think tipping our hand so quickly would be wise--the dogs have been indiscreet lately, and I'm still trying to find out why."
{Note: a taqlah is a band of werecats called together to dispense justice. These taqlahs are particularly popular with the Bagheera. However, because cats are so solitary, they don't last long.}
"It's good to see you remember our ways so well. It is not only the Puma's that have died. Are you willing to help avenge your brother's death? If your unsure, think what you'll be missing, a unique occurence among our people and a chance to learn more about our neighbours. Surely you can't pass up the chance to learn so much that is hidden from you."
Waiting quietly for the reply, Aleena gracefully licked along the back of her hand which was now furred and clawed, washing any specks of dirt that might be hiding there. All the time, her eyes watched the other Pumonca with intent.
Charles's eyes lit. "Getting to know the neighbors, eh? Sounds like a good idea. If we're lucky, the Simba'll stay out of the way...." Charles watched her lick the dirt from her hand.
"Oh, I'm sure they will. After all, there aren't that many of them about," she replied.
DeRama's shadow grew larger and changed--and a puma-man stood where a normal human once stood. Taking Aleena's hand, Charles spoke in the Bastet tongue. "Need a little help?" he asked as he took Aleena's hand.
Purring deeply, Aleena smiled revealing a set of perfect teeth. Holding up her paw towards Charles she continued talking. "I never need help but if you're offering some extra assistance, I'll happy accept. After all, if we can't be comfortable around each other, who can? We're two sides of the same coin and both driven by curiosity and excitement."
The now-Crinos DeRama took her paw in his hands, and started licking each finger, nibbling gently as he did so. His eyes reflected starlight as he gazed into Aleena's own, stroking her paw as he removed it from his mouth. "For such as us, curiosity IS excitement,"DeRama purred.
"You missed a bit."she said batting playfully at his nose and pointing back at the upper part of her hand with a grin as wide as her face. "So Charles, I see you've never been backwards in coming forward."
Whilst Charles had his face down at her paw, a crash echoed through the room from outside.
Charles looked up at the sound. His mouth open, he took in the air, attempting to sense who...or what....had just made that sound. Charles drew in the breath and he threw out his senses. Nothing! Surprised, he looked back but Aleena was gone. No sign of her. The chair, the room was empty.
Her voice appeared for the chair as if she was still there, a cheerful lilt to it.
"Things to see, people to do, my dear brother. Wait for my call and we will run together and you can finish the task you started. Until that time Charles, - and it will be soon. Until then."
DeRama chuckled to himself. Mockingbird's Mirror. He should have known--that was one of his own tricks. Returning to his office, DeRama pondered the message from his machine. Unable to resist the instant gratification, the Pumonca picked up his phone, and dialed a return call. To the machine that answered, he left a message.
"Looking for a Beowulf to slay your Grendel? Give me a call back, and we'll hold a council of war. You know the number."

July 20, 1997 8:32 a.m.

'Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man want to hit the snooze button again,' DeRama thought as he woke up. He had two priorities today: Locatelli and the mysterious Grendel caller. The Grendel girl (as he thought of her) would no doubt call him back. Locatelli?
Well, DeRama thought, that was another matter. Brush teeth. Comb hair. Set answering machine. Get dressed. Go outside. Hang "be back in a minute" sign on door.
He stepped outside. To the police station. Briefly, DeRama considered shifting forms for transport--in the last year, he really had come to prefer his feline form. But, secrecy would be better. Checking his cash, DeRama hailed a cab and headed for the police station.

July 20, 1995. 9:26 a.m.

DeRama walked to the front desk at the police station. "Hi, I'm looking for information," he told the officer behind the desk. The cat flashed his ID, producing it from inside a jacket he wore in the dead of summer.
"Charles DeRama. Private investigator, and I've got some work to do."

Thursday, July 20th, 1995 9:25 a.m.

DeRama found himself led into an office and told to wait for Lt. Heather Luker. As she came in, the first thing DeRama noticed was her hair. Specifically, it's color--the same sort of color you get in the water after your dishes are done for the night. Charles shook his head, wondering where the Santa Cruz police found these types--and how often these types slept. Circles around her eyes and a disheveled air about her told the private eye that she wasn't getting enough sleep--and her scent, carried to his sensitive Bastet nose, told him she hadn't showered in a while, either.
"Mister DeRama," she said, rehearsing her standard routine, "pleased to meet you. Can I see your investigator's license, please."
Producing the requested license from his trenchcoat, DeRama informed her he was interested in the Locatelli files.
"I know what you're here for," she informed him curtly. "The desk sergeant informed me." She gave the license back after eyeing it carefully.
"I had a bad hair day," DeRama explained.
"Uh-huh." Luker scribbled a few notes on her legal pad as she continued. "The case you're inquiring about has been made inactive due to lack of evidence. Whatever there is has been turned over to the FBI."
Their involvement's not surprising, DeRama thought, but taking over the case?
"Do you have any new information about this case?" she asked.
"No," DeRama responded laconically. "Locatelli's wife hired me to look into it, so I'd like to see the investigation file, please."
"I'm sorry, but the file's closed to anyone not directly involved in the case. We wouldn't even let Ms. Locatelli see it - not until the case has been closed. As far as I'm concerned, it's a case of man overboard. In seven years, if not sooner, Locatelli will be declared dead."
(Intelligence + Investigation = 2 successes). DeRama wondered if Locatelli's wife might be a suspect. (Intelligence + Police Procedures = 0 successes).
"Is my client under suspicion?"
If DeRama didn't know better, he would have sworn Luker was smiling. "I'm not going to discuss this case with you," she said. "If you have any other questions, contact the FBI or the Coast Guard. Both agencies are conducting investigations."
(Intelligence + Law = 1 success) Somewhere inside DeRama, a bit of feline rage boiled. He KNEW he should have access to that file, yet this little snippet of a police woman was stonewalling him! Briefly, he wondered what she would look like after being ripped up by a Crinos werecat, but he buried that particular thought. When he spoke again, his pupils narrowed to slits, yet his voice became calmer. Silkier.
Almost dangerous. (Wits + Bureaucracy = 1 success.) "Perhaps you'd like to explain this to a judge? Especially considering I'm Norine Locatelli's investigator." he said, feline Rage adding just that little bit of intimidation to get the woman moving.
Luker sighed and turned to a filing cabinet behind her. Opening it, she retrieved a file and dumped it in front of DeRama. "You can look at it, but don't take anything. And don't ask - because I won't let you take notes or photocopies. I don't want anyone jeopardizing this investigation." DeRama muttered as she left the file with him.
(Wits + Police Procedures = 3 Successes) Charles didn't think she could legally impose these sort of restrictions on him legally, but he decided not to push it....this time. After all, he was new in town....and he needed to build friends somehow.
According to the file, Norine Locatelli maintained her husband never fished--an irony in that he came from a fishing family. It seemed open water made him seasick, and other witnesses backed her up on that count. Also, he had made a number of phone calls to the Chinese Consulate in San Francisco...including several that were obviously faxes.
When he disappeared, his last client had been Shen's Galleries--an Asian Art importer which had been broken into recently, with a Chinese terra cotta statue stolen. On a handscribbled note, DeRama saw a note saying that the place had "very good security."
(Wits + Police Procedures = BOTCH) Seeing nothing further of use, DeRama closed the file and handed it back, thanking Luker for her time.
"If you hear of anything new," she said, "I want to be the first to hear
about it."
"Right," DeRama replied as he left.

Friday, July 21st, 1995 2:16 p.m.

Checking back into the "Grendel Case," DeRama found he hadn't been called. Calling back, he left the "Grendel girl" another message. For a while, he'd keep calling her, unless he got a more interesting case--at this point any employment lead was a good employment lead.
Checking his bank balance, Charles noted it wasn't good. Less than a hundred dollars to his name, and Norine Locatelli's case wasn't going to provide much in terms of ready cash. Calling his "partners" in San Jose (Frank Sorenson) and San Francisco "Bick" Rohner, Charles drummed up a hundred dollars from each against his share of the profits....but they warned him they wanted results, or they'd be getting a new partner.
For his part, DeRama grumbled a thanks to them. "Oh, by the way," he added. "I'm visiting the cathouse soon. Seems somebody's been drowning the kitties, and Momma and Poppa Cat aren't happy about it." [[Note: this is a sort of 'shorthand' that translates roughly like this: "The feline Kinfolk are being hunted, and the Bastet are about to kick ass and take names." Since DeRama's partners are Kinfolk, they deserve to know, methinks.]]
As he hung up, DeRama heard a hum from his fax machine--the message he'd been expecting from Lt. Freshton in the State Police.
My old boss didn't let me down_, DeRama thought.
According to Freshton's information, Locatelli wasn't dead--officially. Since the man was still a "missing person," nobody had filed a death certificate. Which DeRama already knew. And, an Agent Pam Murphy, on assignment in Monterey was covering the case. Phone Number--check. Fax number--check. Freshton had even provided her e-mail address; but, DeRama lacked a computer. Ironies abounded.
Checking boat rental rates (in case he needed to investigate out at sea), DeRama placed a few calls. $45 or $55, depending on the day--rentals started at 6 a.m. and ended at 2 p.m. on the main wharf (where Locatelli rented) (Hmmmmm..., DeRama thought), and at 4 p.m. at Capitola. Both places rented skiffs, which were only good for moderately calm to calm seas.
[[Wits + Investigation = 1 success]] Call to the Coast Guard--the seas were calm on the day Locatelli disappeared. No wind. Which, of course, ruled out the possibility of Locatelli running into bad weather. Looking over what he had to do, DeRama estimated it would cost him a couple hundred dollars to investigate--a couple hundred dollars that his client would traditionally cover. Well, maybe only a hundred, but better to estimate high. DeRama picked up the phone and dialled Norine at the plant where she worked.
"Norine? DeRama. I'll take the case. I want your husband's files, AND you need to cover my expenses."
The voice on the other end of the telephone quavered. "How much?"
"Two hundred dollars."
"I don't have that kind of money--"
"The money's not for me--it's for you."
"It's for me?"
"That's right. The deal's always fees plus expenses. In other words, your husband's files, plus my expenses."
"I can give you fifty now, and fifty a week for the next three weeks."
DeRama thought for a moment. "Sounds like that can work. I'll need to see the files for your husband's most recent cases. Lists of who he saw last. Whoever else is investigating your husband's death. And anything to do with the Chinese Consulate. Bring them by when you bring the first fifty dollars."
"I'll bring what I can after stopping by at home. Is eight tonight okay?"
"Sounds good." DeRama hung up the phone.

Friday, July 21st, 1995 8:34 p.m.

Thirty minutes late, Norine came into DeRama's office, apologizing profusely. "My daughter was sick, I had to make her--"
DeRama cut Norine off. "Don't worry. You have the information?"
Norine produced an envelope with cash in it, and asked for a receipt.
DeRama produced the paperwork off a pad squirrelled away in the bottom of a drawer on his battered desk. Producing a pair of folders from her purse, she handed them to DeRama.
"These are my husband's two most recent cases," she said. "I don't have a boat rental receipt, but the police and the boat rental place should have it."
Charles nodded. Turning, Norine left the office, heading into the evening..
DeRama produced a notepad from a desk drawer and began scribbling:

1. ) Why is the State Department making the FBI involved in this case?
   1. ) Consult Agent Murphy.
   2. ) A China connection?
2. ) What happened to Detective Locatelli?
   1. ) Locatelli went out on a boat and disappeared.
   2. ) Locatelli neither swam nor fished.
   3. ) The seas were calm when he went out.
   4. ) If Locatelli didn't swim, why did he take the boat out?
      1. ) Speculation: Locatelli was meeting someone.
         1. ) Was this person related to an ongoing case?

            -Interview Locatelli's last clients.

            -Check Shen's Emporium connection.

            -Check Chinese Consulate connection.

            -Find out if Locatelli was carrying. anything with him when he went out?

            -Were these items found?

         2. ) Sub-Speculation: Locatelli turning to crime.

            -Question: Was he associating with shady people?

      2. ) Speculation: Locatelli drowned?
         1. ) Unlikely

            -Calm seas

            -No corpse washed ashore.

      3. ) Speculation: Locatelli met somebody?
         1. ) Highly likely. Check with his recent clients, Chinese consulate.
      4. ) Speculation: Locatelli now in hiding?
         1. ) Why?
         2. ) Who's doing it?
         3. ) Why hasn't he contacted is wife?
         4. ) Who is he hiding with?
      5. ) Speculation: Locatelli murdered?
         1. ) Maybe
         2. ) No corpse??

            -Could have been buried secretly.

            -May have run into trouble with "shady" clients.

            -Consult with Vinnie the Nose.

      6. ) Speculation: Locatelli kidnapped?
         1. ) Where is he being held?
         2. ) Who would kidnap him?
         3. ) Why no ransom note or list of demands?
      7. ) Other Speculations
         
         1. ) Locatelli ran off with mistress.

            -Did Locatelli regularly see any women?

Charles looked at the list and sighed. He had his work cut out for him. DeRama looked at the clock. 10:00, and he hadn't had dinner yet. Locking the files away in an old battered filing cabinet, DeRama headed for his old blue Pinto. Time to go get dinner.

Friday, July 21, 1995, 11:30 p.m. At the end of Gamecock Canyon Road.

DeRama had followed the road as far is it went--to where it petered out in the woods. Gravel could be rather hard on a Pinto, but Charles needed this tonight. Carefully folding his clothes, he stowed them in the back of his car. Opening his mouth, he sensed his environment, took in the sounds, smells and sights around him, tasting the night air on his tongue. No predators near. No men. No wolves. No Bastet. Just prey. The scent of rabbit, enticing, touched DeRama's tongue. An buck grazed somewhere, unaware of his danger.
Reaching into himself, DeRama touched that core that was Pumonca. The core that was Bastet. That core that set him apart from man, and above the dogs. His body grew for a moment, assuming feline attributes. At one point, he dropped to all fours as his humanity disappeared. As he became more animal than man. As he became the cat, the magick of the night dancing through his veins.
The Pumonca's stomach growled as the night winds carried the scent of still more prey to him. The night was young....and the cat was hungry.

Saturday, July 22nd, 1995 2:16 a.m.

In puma form, DeRama sniffed the air. Smell of prey tickled his nose, calling to his animal hunger. I must be hungrier than I thought, DeRama thought. As he stalked through the wood, he could hear various animals scurrying away as they sensed a predator in their midst.
There--in the bush--the call of bird--DeRama inhaled. Pheasant? He thought. Lunch. DeRama smiled a cat's smile.
Crouching, he sprang as the bird, sensing the oncoming danger, took flight. Got it. DeRama took the pheasant in his teeth, killing it almost instantly.[Wits + Hunting = 1 success.] Purring, he tore into the bird, which still stared sightlessly into the night. Not one to bother with niceties when he was hungry, DeRama crunched the bird's bones, breaking its wings--and exhaled a hearty belch when finished. Satisfying--but not filling. On the other hand, DeRama realized, his muzzle was a mess--not to mention his paws. The puma padded softly through the wood. Water? Somewhere--here. A small pool greeted the puma, who entered it, letting the cool liquid run over his body, cleansing it.
Leaving the pool, DeRama stopped by a tree to relieve himself. A scent? Spoor? Garou? DeRama almost jumped. (Perception + Search = 2 successes) No. A cougar had marked out this territory. And, a large one at that. DeRama snuffled again. A werepuma? Although this ground had plentiful game-- DeRama could smell rabbit and deer just out of his hunting range, he knew this cat would likely be territorial--better to respect the territory of another.
DeRama padded back toward his car. While the pheasant hadn't totally eased his hunger, it had at least made him a little less stir-crazy--he'd been wanting to do this for weeks. DeRama changed into his clothing, and drove back to his offices in Santa Cruz.

Saturday, July 22nd, 1995 11:18 a.m.

Recalling what he could from the police files, DeRama wrote them out and compared them to the file Norine had given him. (Intelligence + Investigation = 3 successes). In looking over the files and comparing them with these notes, DeRama found three things of note: Locatelli had been very secretive about his client, he had been paid very well ($50,000 immediately paid out to cover old bills), and judging from his entries, he was afraid of something. What? DeRama wondered. Obviously, ol' Joe Locatelli was a rather tough bird, so it would have taken something big to shake him up this badly. Something with big teeth? DeRama thought.
As if fright weren't enough, Joe had gone cryptic toward the end-- "RQ dm gds" scrawled beside "Father Antonio, 2 p.m." or "qt, qt, qt" all over the place toward the end of his stint with the living. I've heard of shorthand, but this is ridiculous! DeRama thought as he pored over the file. Then, the man's organizational skills had gone--dates with lines next to them. No action log. No nothing. From the police records, DeRama had deduced that Locatelli was still on the case--interviewing antique shop owners, used-book dealers--and getting caught sneaking around the Greek Orthodox Church. Annotations for his last client, Shen's, are beside large advances--totaling another fifty grand.
Man, he knew how to rake it in DeRama thought. So, Shen's had paid him a load of money--as an advance! But, that money had promptly gone out the window to pay more bills.
Who did he owe, and how much? Locatelli asked himself.
Strange--he had declined another case. He'd returned a $5,000 retainer from one Klaus Jensen, straight after he'd taken the case from RQ. Strange, considering Locatelli's need for money. Also remembering from the police file, Charles realized that the police had access to more information--information Norine wouldn't give him until he figured out just what had happened to her husband. Breaking out own notepad, DeRama wrote up a to-do list:

1. Contact Shen's Emporium. What was this man up to?
2. Make an appointment with Pam Murphy the FBI agent.
3. Find out if there's a "Father Antonio" at the Greek Orthodox Church. Contact him.
4. Contact Klaus Jensen and find out what he knew about Joe's disappearance.

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