Accidents of a Florist [complete]

2: A flowering business, targeted?

'New assignment for Callia and Agatha' reads the file on Callia Strongbite's desk. She drops her bag onto the floor and sinks into the chair on wheels, checking across the office to see if her coworker has read the file yet. Agatha's not at her desk, so no.

The information supplied is minimal: a 34 year old Silver Dust pack member remains severely injured after being run over by a car whose outside structures were lined with silver. The 60 year old man driving it was from Half-Formed Mountain pack.

The too packs have always been somewhat rivals, due to the close proximity of their lands, and this event has not helped dissipate the low-laid animosity. As a result, Callia's old pack is demanding retribution, claiming the driver had financial motive. But the Half-Formed Mountains aren't about to give in to their demands: it was an accident, and accidents are not to be paid for. 

Anticipating a boring case where diplomacy is the best strategy, Callia closes the file with a sigh. Just then, Mona Leeroy strides into the open workspace with a heart-eyed Agatha on her heels. "Morning Callia," they both say in time in contrasing tones. While Mona, ever the head of the office she is, sounds ready for business, Agatha sounds far, far away in dream-land.

Used to this daily distraction of her coworker, Callia patiently waits for Agatha to spot the file on her desk and read it. After a few minutes, Agatha looks up with a small frown: "Would you like me to take care of Silver Dust?"

"Yes please... I'm not in the mood to face my old pack."

"When are you ever?" Agatha chuckles and they both gather their things to go investigate. "See you in the café at twelve."

--

Grant Broadshoulder is a washed-out man with nearly white blue eyes, and lank blond hair. The top of his back is an outward curve and his entire abdomen seems placed in an inward curve. Looking at him, Callia can scarcely believe he's gotten out unscathed of his driving accident. If she'd met him on the street, she'd have thought life could take him away just by shaking his hand.

He led her into the living room and offered her tea (which she refused, struck with a gut feeling that anything the man touched was as ill as him). "You're here about the accident, aren't you? I didn't do anything wrong: just one moment I was driving down the road, then the other, I was bowling over the young man on the sidewalk!"

"Could you explain in more detail, Mister Grant?"

"Well yes, I was driving normally, you know, and then the car slammed into the florist!" Callia scribbled this down onto the form, with a side note on how it seemed Broadshoulder was attempting to convince her.

"I see. Have you had your car inspected recently?"

"Yes, last Monday."

"Any irregularities?"

"No." She asked him about the silver plating and he replied that it had been recommended to him a few years back by an old friend who said it warded off the spirits of roadkill. Apparently they gathered in heavy mists at night to bring to others that same fate that had come to them. Callia noted this down, all the while thinking that the silver was to blame for the near-death of the 34 year old, and that it was quite the ironic twist.

She moved on to the medical section of the form. "When's the last visit you paid to the medicine man? Have you ever had seizures or trauma to the head? Do you suffer from intermittent drops in blood pressure and/or sugar? Do you have a condition affecting short-term memory? Are there any precedents in the family of addictions, diseases or disorders?"

She began to tick off boxes accordingly. The sixty year old was at risk for dropping dead for none of the detailed conditions even though he looked quite sickly. His father, he said, had suffered from anemia, and his mother from dementia, but hers was due to an accident in her formative years, rather than genetics.

Once the form was filled, Callia asked Broadshoulder what he thought of the charges against him.

"I'm retired, true, but I am not short on money. What happened was an accident, and I wasn't trying to steal no money!"

"That wasn't exactly the accusation, sir," said Callia. "The Silver Dust pack is concerned that you were encouraged to target a flowering business."

"Target a business? Why, I've just said it was an accident."

Seeing that the man was getting worked up, Callia put away her clipboard and rose. "Thank you for your time, Mister Broadshoulder. I'll be on my way out."

Old or not, a werewolf was a werewolf and she wasn't about to find out whether this one was willing to fight.

--

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