#96 -- Writer's Choice
Disclaimer: I own neither Without A Trace, nor the ‘Mallory’ novel series. They belong to Warner Brothers Television and Carol O’Connell respectively. I make no money from these works, they are for entertainment purposes only.
Title: "Networking"
Fandom: Without A Trace
Character: Martin Fitzgerald
Prompt: #96 - Writer’s Choice
Word Count: 3800 (approx)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None in particular
Author's Notes:: Third in a series including (1) Press Conference and (2) Memos
Thank you to my betas. Previously published.
NETWORKING
He looks in the mirror and sighs. This is getting to be monotonous; you’d think they’d be getting tired of it by now. But no, they’re still enjoying the game. Obediently, he turns on his signal, letting them know that he’s seen them and that he is, in accordance with the laws of the State of New York, pulling over.
He rolls down the window and waits. They’re delaying for a bit, trying to get their giggles under control. Obviously, word has spread, for Martin can’t imagine Mallory having the patience to deal with these two. They’re just a couple of fools who think they’ve got free rein to hassle somebody and are willing to use it.
He knows, though, that Mallory is the instigator behind all this. It can’t be coincidence that every day for the past few weeks Martin has been pulled over for some violation that he may or may not have committed. It’s her latest volley in the ongoing war between them.
Finally, one of the cops emerges from his car, packing everything the good officer needs. He’s so weighed down with nightstick, mace, gun, cuffs and everything else that if Martin decided to make a run for it, he could easily do it on foot and backwards. Yet Clown-Boy can’t be a rookie, not from the looks of him.
By the time Clown-Boy gets to the window, Martin has him profiled. Issues with authority, clearly shown by the amount of gear and the way he’s trying to appear larger than he seems; unimaginative, thinking that force is the best way to intimidation. Definite inferiority complex. That screams out in the swagger and the sneer. It’s written all over him… he’s going to teach this little rich-boy puke who’s boss.
“Can I help you officer?” Martin doesn’t even blink, a trick he learned from arguing with his father. Now there’s issues with authority. If Victor can’t intimidate him, then what chance does a dull-witted city cop have? As Clown-Boy gets closer, Martin can even see the powdered sugar on the guy’s uniform. Sloppy. Food on the clothes is a Bureau no-no. Every agent learns from Day One that ‘Appearance is Important,’ as they are ‘Representatives of the Federal Government.’ Apparently, representatives of the City of New York have no such image to uphold.
Clown-Boy laughs and now he’s close enough for Martin to read his name-tag. Kinder. Martin bites his lip, forcing himself not to smile at the irony. “Step out of the vehicle, please.” The accent on the last word makes it clear that this is no request, and that Kinder would love for Martin to protest. Martin doesn’t though; he could easily handle this man if things got rough. The FBI taught Martin how to defend himself and he’s picked up a few dirty tricks all on his own. Kinder doesn’t look like he’s practiced his self-defence since he got out of the Academy.
They’ve deviated from the script. They’re supposed to ask him for his driver’s licence and registration first and make him wait while they ostensibly check it out. Then they’re supposed to ask him to step out of the car and make a fool of himself in public. He’s almost disappointed - he had the Times crossword all ready for the delay.
Kinder’s partner comes up to join the fun. His nametag identifies him as Denison. A denizen of what, Martin wonders. He knows it’s really Dennis’ son, but these idiots have deprived him of a crossword, so he’ll take what little word fun he’s going to get.
“Turn around and face the car, and place your hands on the roof.”
Martin does as instructed, his face entirely blank. He’s not scared, even though these guys would like him to be. No, scary is going in to face Jack and explaining why he is late for the third day in a row. He supposes that he should have done something before this, but he didn’t want to spoil Mallory’s fun.
“What’s this?” Kinder pats him down and actually manages to find a gun cleverly hidden away in a shoulder holster, covered only by a suit jacket. Admittedly, the jacket has been tailored to keep its line while dealing with something that would show up under a cheaper garment, but Martin’s willing to forgive himself his vanity.
It’s also not the weapon the Bureau issued to him. He’s taken a cue from his nemesis in that department - after shooting Reyes, Martin made the move to something with more stopping power; now he carries the same thing Mallory does. The Bureau may not approve of a .357, but it’s licensed, so there’s not a lot they can do. He knows the things people say about guys who like to carry big guns… among them is the fact that they come through incidents alive. Anyone who thinks that such a big calibre is overkill has never faced a meth-head screaming and waving around a semi-automatic or - worse yet - a full-auto submachine gun. Martin shoots someone, he wants them going down, whether their brain has figured out that they’re dead or not.
“Carrying a concealed weapon is against the law,” Denison proves he has no real knowledge of said law, despite the uniform and badge he wears. Carrying a concealed weapon is illegal, only if you don’t have a permit to do so. As a member of Federal Law Enforcement (it’s even spoken with capitals - they are, after all, second only to the President and God), Martin has every right to carry a concealed weapon, possibly more so than these clowns. Detectives get to carry concealed, but uniforms have to put theirs on display.
Martin says nothing, just leans on the car and twiddles his thumbs. People don’t do this anymore… not many people anyway. The last person he remembers seeing do it was Andy Moog back in ’90, during that break before the third overtime. Oilers versus Boston. Now, that had been an intense series. This, however, is not intense or exciting. In fact, it’s only vaguely amusing.
Denison pulls out his ticket book and starts laboriously filling out a ticket, though he hasn’t said for what.
“Don’t forget the broken taillight,” Kinder snickers, still going through Martin’s pockets. Martin knows damn well that the taillight isn’t broken. If these guys are the type to play that game, protest is what they want. Martin hates the idea of people like these becoming cops. Not the aggressive part - you need a certain level of aggression to survive in law enforcement - but the pettiness. So he says nothing. It’s such an old game, anyway. Broken taillight. That was a third rate television cliché when Martin was still a kid. It doesn’t deserve acknowledgment.
Finally, Kinder reaches the pocket that holds Martin’s I.D. It takes him a while to read it: clearly literacy isn’t the man’s strong point. No, these aren’t Mallory’s creatures at all, they’re rogue players and that makes them fair game. Taking them out would be almost Darwinist. “I guess the Eff Bee Eye doesn’t think that they have to obey the laws of our good city.”
Martin says nothing, does nothing. He didn’t identify himself because he knew it would make things more fun for these jerks. That’s one of the main differences between Martin and Danny. Danny’s got a quick temper and would be up in these guys’ faces - probably long before this part. Quick to anger, quick to cool. Martin, on the other hand, stays calm in situations that would have Danny bouncing off the walls. But when he does blow… Viv’s the only one who knows what that looks like. Well, Franco Reyes knows - or knew, depending on how you look at it - but he’s in no shape to be telling anybody. Even Victor’s only seen it once, which is why he sometimes tiptoes around his son, unwilling to face that wrath again. God’s might be greater, but only because Martin, thanks to God’s better judgement, doesn’t have the ability to destroy cities.
Which is why he saves it for people who are worth it. These two don’t qualify; they barely even register on the ‘mildly irritated’ scale. He’s more irritated with himself, really. He could have taken the subway today, or even his bike. The weather’s not so bad that it requires driving, but he’s been letting himself be amused by Mallory’s game. Time for it to end though… these two have spoiled it.
Kinder still seems entertained, but Denison looks startled. It’s suddenly occurred to him that anybody Kathy Mallory deems worthy of hassling might just be someone whom it’s dangerous to hassle. Mallory chooses her enemies carefully: she likes to be proud of who she fights. Like Martin, she judges herself by her enemies and like any predator has a great sense of self-worth. Denison’s not going to admit his fear, though, not in front of his partner. This Martin understands. No matter how rotten people are, you stick with your partner above anything, unless what he does is so far out of line as to make you sick. Up to and including murder. Well, maybe a questionable shooting… you give your partner the benefit of the doubt because your life rests in his hands.
Martin still feels guilt about that on some cold, dark days. Not the shooting itself, that was good: Reyes had a knife and he wasn’t worth saving. But losing control and making a little girl into a liar… she’ll have to live with that for the rest of her life too. Twice a victim and for nothing she did. That’s injustice to the nth degree, and if Martin goes to hell for anything, that’ll be it.
Finally, they finish up and hand Martin his ticket. He folds it carefully and puts it in his wallet - everything he needs to get the full identity of Officer Denison is on that, which means the only badge number he needs to memorise is Kinder’s. Mallory’s not the only person who can play games; she’s not the only person who has friends.
(&)
Jack says nothing when Martin comes in, which is worse than if he’d yelled. Yes, it’s definitely time to end this. Any time Jack’s pissed off enough to start acting like Victor, it’s time to smarten up.
He sits down at his desk and starts preparing to invade the NYPD network. As long as he’s not going anywhere near Special Crimes files, it shouldn’t be too difficult. Mallory doesn’t guard everything, after all. The information Martin wants rests in personnel. Name, address, and the all-important Social Security number. He can do so much with those things. Fortunately for Kinder and Denison, Martin has a line between ‘capable’ and ‘willing.’ A little hazy in places perhaps or maybe even perforated, but it’s there.
Still… these idiots deserve something. He skips into a few databases, careful not to leave footprints. Something catches his eye, and he tries not to laugh. So that’s the game. Not what he thought, but he’ll play that too.
He carefully opens the top drawer of his desk. Danny found out the hard way how seriously Martin values his privacy, and he still hasn’t forgiven Martin for it. On the other hand, Martin can always comfort himself with the memory of Danny nursing a pair of bruised fingers while throwing the mouse-trap at Martin’s head. Martin’s defence is two-fold. First, the drawer is kept locked, so Danny’s invasion should never have happened. Second, there’s no way to prove that Martin’s sole purpose for setting the trap wasn’t to stop pests. In fact, as far as Martin is concerned, it worked quite well. A pest got into the drawer and was trapped.
He pulls out a small black book and flips to the ‘Ys.’ There are only two names on the pages and Yates’ is no longer valid. Oh, the name is still the same, but the address and phone number that go with it have been changed to ones belonging to the federal prison system. Sadly, every now and then a criminal investigator gets either desperate or foolish enough to believe that their advanced knowledge of criminalistics will let them get away with a crime. Martin still calls him from time to time, though. Just because the man is in prison doesn’t mean he still isn’t a friend. He’s just a very easy to find friend.
But Yates isn’t the one he wants; Yates can’t do anything for him right now. Martin checks the other number, dials, then waits.
“Eric Yochlowitz, please.” Jack’s bugged Martin about his ‘Washington contacts’ before, but not all of them are who people expect. They’re not all in Congress or the Senate or other halls of perceived power. Some of them work in cramped little cubicles and have a fetish for very sharp pencils and nice, neat little columns of numbers. You can’t work White Collar without interaction with the one agency that even the fearless FBI regards with awe and terror. The agency that holds the true power in America, striking fear in the hearts of lawmakers and lawbreakers alike. Even Al Capone, who evaded the FBI, the Treasury Department and the local cops couldn’t escape the merciless clutches of the one and only IRS. Or as Eric once described it: ‘We don’t care how you make your money, but you better damn well give Uncle Sam his cut.’ Better to admit you run drugs and whores and declare the relevant proceeds than think that Internal Revenue won’t take everything and more. And unlike the FBI or the ATF, or any other triple letter agency active in or outside America, the IRS doesn’t need a reason to go after you. They don’t need ‘probable cause’ or warrants… they can just ‘randomly select’ you (how ‘random’ depends sometimes on the ‘you’) and upend your life.
Martin’s lived through one, so he knows. It’s how he met Eric, and as he waits, he wonders how people who don’t keep balanced chequebooks can even hope to survive the dreaded tax audit. Even Martin’s neat little columns weren’t quite neat enough, so how could someone like say, Danny or… well, Kinder or Denison come away with even a shred of sanity remaining? IRS investigators scare the crap out of even honest people. You have to be very, very certain of your dishonesty if you hope to fool one of those agents of darkness.
They chat for a bit, Martin taking advantage of interagency cooperation to scam some free long-distance, then he makes his pitch. He’s got more than enough for Eric to get started. Even this mild hint of wrongdoing is enough to get an auditor into hunting mode. The Social Security number is a gift, a way to make things easier for Eric. One way or another, Kinder and Denison are in for the nightmare of their lives.
As Martin hangs up the phone, he wonders what it is about him that makes people think he’s ‘nice.’ Is it the youthful face that he sometimes wishes was a little more weathered or scarred, just so people will take him seriously? Is it the way he can be quiet and soft spoken - so unlike the father he hardly knows?
His eyes fall to the picture pinned up on the wall of his cubicle. Sad, really. People think it’s nice - that damned word again, almost as bad as ‘sweet’ - that he keeps a picture of his father close by, but that’s because people don’t look close enough. Everyone else, even Danny who really doesn’t have a family, has candid shots, group shots… real pictures, not official publicity photos, which is what this is. A fake, over-bright grin… it’s an expression Martin doesn’t really recognize. He’s more used to cold and distant, or disapproving, even disappointed. There are no happy group shots in the Fitzgerald photo album, just stiff Christmas-card poses. He doesn’t think there are any where he’s smiling, not a real smile that gets past the lips and crinkles the eyes. It’s all just a curve to the lips, put there because the photographer said ‘smile’ and not even the devil would dare wreck one of those family portraits.
He blinks twice, banishing the dark thoughts for another time. He’s opened the doors to showcase enough family skeletons around here - only quick enough for a glimpse of bone, but still… it’s something that Isn’t Done. Besides, if he doesn’t want to be known as ‘The Deputy Director’s Kid,’ he also doesn’t want to be known as ‘Poor Martin,’ either.
Besides, he and his dad are making progress, or whatever the shrinks want to call it now - not that either one of them would see a shrink for anything, unless they had to for The Job. But they’re talking. Their last conversation must have consisted of at least twenty words and all of them civil. He’s not including the words ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ in that count either… that’s progress too, isn’t it? Admittedly, Martin was asking for advice at the time and that always brings out Victor’s good side.
He sighs. He supposes he should count himself lucky. Both parents are still alive and compos mentis, or at least as compos mentis as they ever were, he was never hit like Danny, or abandoned like Sam or even Jack… but somehow he became the chronic runaway, developing plans for escape more detailed than anyone who’d ever been behind bars.
He glances at Sam, who pretends to ignore him. She says she ran away too, that grand total of once, and came home as soon as someone came looking for her. So, he’s the serious runaway and she’s the one with commitment issues. Maybe ironic, maybe not. After all, he was always looking for a place he could safely call home; he’s not sure she believes that such a place exists. He wonders for a moment if she’ll use this game with Mallory as just another excuse to leave him behind, just like she’s used her worry over Viv and her concern about her job, and every other thing she can think of.
To hell with it. If Sam can’t let him have enemies, then maybe they aren’t so good for each other after all. Because Martin’s learned that much about himself: he needs somebody to fight with or he gets self-destructive. And Mallory’s a good opponent: smart, ruthless and relentless.
“And to think you wanted me to be a politician,” he mutters. People think George W. is bad... give him the tools to do so and Martin Fitzgerald would take over the world, just for lack of something better to do. Then, of course, he’d have to hand-pick the resistance, just to have one worthy of fighting. Far better he’s here, with petty battles to wage. Because Martin Fitzgerald does not like to lose. It’s one thing he and his father have in common, which is why Victor stopped playing games with his smarter, more creative son, and why Martin has always favoured individual sports over those requiring a team. Allies are different - you can pick and choose your allies and when to use them, like Martin has here, but you’re still ultimately an independent player.
But if anything, Mallory’s smarter than he is. That’s what makes this such a challenge, such an enjoyable challenge. It’s brain versus brain, the only really good game going. Each has their own strengths and weaknesses: she might be smarter, but he’s better at making friends, forging alliances. It’s why he and Danny get along, despite whatever other differences they may have; Danny may be a thug at times, but his quick mouth has a brain to back it up, even if he’s loathe to admit it.
Oh, well. Having made his move, Martin settles in to wait for Mallory’s response.
(&)
“How does she do it?” Jack Coffey threw the file down on the desk with more than a little disgust. It wasn’t the fact that two patrol officers were now in more trouble than even the worms in Internal Affairs could manage - that he could deal with. Kinder and Dennison were screw-ups of the first order. He’d wanted them out of his precinct for years, but detectives didn’t get to call the shots on the placement of uniforms. And until now he’d never had any success.
This time, though, they’d screwed over Mallory and somehow she’d managed to pull the IRS down onto their heads. He knew it was her. It couldn’t be anyone else. Only Mallory. He didn’t know how, and didn’t want to know how she’d done it.
Riker smiled, tapping his battered notebook on his knee. He had an idea… the old man would be proud. “Be happy. It’s what Lou always hoped for.”
“What?” Coffey snapped. Markowitz had been his mentor, his friend. Mallory was… Markowitz had loved Mallory and by default every one else did too. He stared through the glass at the brat as she paged through something on her computer, pulling off magic that no other being could know. He prided himself on his ignorance, just as Markowitz had - that ignorance was a shield against whatever Mallory did. I didn’t know… I didn’t even know such a thing was possible.
Riker shrugged. He knew his partner had done nothing, except what she always did best. It was this Fitzgerald kid who pulled off the rest, that he was sure of. According to the rumours, the baby-agent was more Ronald Deluthe than Kathy Mallory: high up family member, a need for attention, talent but no one willing to teach and that stupid ability to run into baseball bats. But now… Riker thought about the only time he’d ever actually seen the baby-Fed. He never dreamed that anyone could put that look on Mallory’s face, that anyone would be willing to draw her wrath. Stupid, but not so stupid at all. He thought of a tiny felon crouched in the front seat of a Jag and waving her knife at Markowitz. Of a little girl who never fit in, too smart and too scary for the other kids to want to be around. Oh, Lou would be so proud, it was a shame he never lived to see the day. “Fitzgerald. Lou would have loved it. The kid’s finally found somebody who’ll play with her.”
“Oh, God.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Coffey pale, running his hands through what little remained of his hair.
Riker ignored him, basking in the moment. Perfect.
Title: "Networking"
Fandom: Without A Trace
Character: Martin Fitzgerald
Prompt: #96 - Writer’s Choice
Word Count: 3800 (approx)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None in particular
Author's Notes:: Third in a series including (1) Press Conference and (2) Memos
Thank you to my betas. Previously published.
NETWORKING
He looks in the mirror and sighs. This is getting to be monotonous; you’d think they’d be getting tired of it by now. But no, they’re still enjoying the game. Obediently, he turns on his signal, letting them know that he’s seen them and that he is, in accordance with the laws of the State of New York, pulling over.
He rolls down the window and waits. They’re delaying for a bit, trying to get their giggles under control. Obviously, word has spread, for Martin can’t imagine Mallory having the patience to deal with these two. They’re just a couple of fools who think they’ve got free rein to hassle somebody and are willing to use it.
He knows, though, that Mallory is the instigator behind all this. It can’t be coincidence that every day for the past few weeks Martin has been pulled over for some violation that he may or may not have committed. It’s her latest volley in the ongoing war between them.
Finally, one of the cops emerges from his car, packing everything the good officer needs. He’s so weighed down with nightstick, mace, gun, cuffs and everything else that if Martin decided to make a run for it, he could easily do it on foot and backwards. Yet Clown-Boy can’t be a rookie, not from the looks of him.
By the time Clown-Boy gets to the window, Martin has him profiled. Issues with authority, clearly shown by the amount of gear and the way he’s trying to appear larger than he seems; unimaginative, thinking that force is the best way to intimidation. Definite inferiority complex. That screams out in the swagger and the sneer. It’s written all over him… he’s going to teach this little rich-boy puke who’s boss.
“Can I help you officer?” Martin doesn’t even blink, a trick he learned from arguing with his father. Now there’s issues with authority. If Victor can’t intimidate him, then what chance does a dull-witted city cop have? As Clown-Boy gets closer, Martin can even see the powdered sugar on the guy’s uniform. Sloppy. Food on the clothes is a Bureau no-no. Every agent learns from Day One that ‘Appearance is Important,’ as they are ‘Representatives of the Federal Government.’ Apparently, representatives of the City of New York have no such image to uphold.
Clown-Boy laughs and now he’s close enough for Martin to read his name-tag. Kinder. Martin bites his lip, forcing himself not to smile at the irony. “Step out of the vehicle, please.” The accent on the last word makes it clear that this is no request, and that Kinder would love for Martin to protest. Martin doesn’t though; he could easily handle this man if things got rough. The FBI taught Martin how to defend himself and he’s picked up a few dirty tricks all on his own. Kinder doesn’t look like he’s practiced his self-defence since he got out of the Academy.
They’ve deviated from the script. They’re supposed to ask him for his driver’s licence and registration first and make him wait while they ostensibly check it out. Then they’re supposed to ask him to step out of the car and make a fool of himself in public. He’s almost disappointed - he had the Times crossword all ready for the delay.
Kinder’s partner comes up to join the fun. His nametag identifies him as Denison. A denizen of what, Martin wonders. He knows it’s really Dennis’ son, but these idiots have deprived him of a crossword, so he’ll take what little word fun he’s going to get.
“Turn around and face the car, and place your hands on the roof.”
Martin does as instructed, his face entirely blank. He’s not scared, even though these guys would like him to be. No, scary is going in to face Jack and explaining why he is late for the third day in a row. He supposes that he should have done something before this, but he didn’t want to spoil Mallory’s fun.
“What’s this?” Kinder pats him down and actually manages to find a gun cleverly hidden away in a shoulder holster, covered only by a suit jacket. Admittedly, the jacket has been tailored to keep its line while dealing with something that would show up under a cheaper garment, but Martin’s willing to forgive himself his vanity.
It’s also not the weapon the Bureau issued to him. He’s taken a cue from his nemesis in that department - after shooting Reyes, Martin made the move to something with more stopping power; now he carries the same thing Mallory does. The Bureau may not approve of a .357, but it’s licensed, so there’s not a lot they can do. He knows the things people say about guys who like to carry big guns… among them is the fact that they come through incidents alive. Anyone who thinks that such a big calibre is overkill has never faced a meth-head screaming and waving around a semi-automatic or - worse yet - a full-auto submachine gun. Martin shoots someone, he wants them going down, whether their brain has figured out that they’re dead or not.
“Carrying a concealed weapon is against the law,” Denison proves he has no real knowledge of said law, despite the uniform and badge he wears. Carrying a concealed weapon is illegal, only if you don’t have a permit to do so. As a member of Federal Law Enforcement (it’s even spoken with capitals - they are, after all, second only to the President and God), Martin has every right to carry a concealed weapon, possibly more so than these clowns. Detectives get to carry concealed, but uniforms have to put theirs on display.
Martin says nothing, just leans on the car and twiddles his thumbs. People don’t do this anymore… not many people anyway. The last person he remembers seeing do it was Andy Moog back in ’90, during that break before the third overtime. Oilers versus Boston. Now, that had been an intense series. This, however, is not intense or exciting. In fact, it’s only vaguely amusing.
Denison pulls out his ticket book and starts laboriously filling out a ticket, though he hasn’t said for what.
“Don’t forget the broken taillight,” Kinder snickers, still going through Martin’s pockets. Martin knows damn well that the taillight isn’t broken. If these guys are the type to play that game, protest is what they want. Martin hates the idea of people like these becoming cops. Not the aggressive part - you need a certain level of aggression to survive in law enforcement - but the pettiness. So he says nothing. It’s such an old game, anyway. Broken taillight. That was a third rate television cliché when Martin was still a kid. It doesn’t deserve acknowledgment.
Finally, Kinder reaches the pocket that holds Martin’s I.D. It takes him a while to read it: clearly literacy isn’t the man’s strong point. No, these aren’t Mallory’s creatures at all, they’re rogue players and that makes them fair game. Taking them out would be almost Darwinist. “I guess the Eff Bee Eye doesn’t think that they have to obey the laws of our good city.”
Martin says nothing, does nothing. He didn’t identify himself because he knew it would make things more fun for these jerks. That’s one of the main differences between Martin and Danny. Danny’s got a quick temper and would be up in these guys’ faces - probably long before this part. Quick to anger, quick to cool. Martin, on the other hand, stays calm in situations that would have Danny bouncing off the walls. But when he does blow… Viv’s the only one who knows what that looks like. Well, Franco Reyes knows - or knew, depending on how you look at it - but he’s in no shape to be telling anybody. Even Victor’s only seen it once, which is why he sometimes tiptoes around his son, unwilling to face that wrath again. God’s might be greater, but only because Martin, thanks to God’s better judgement, doesn’t have the ability to destroy cities.
Which is why he saves it for people who are worth it. These two don’t qualify; they barely even register on the ‘mildly irritated’ scale. He’s more irritated with himself, really. He could have taken the subway today, or even his bike. The weather’s not so bad that it requires driving, but he’s been letting himself be amused by Mallory’s game. Time for it to end though… these two have spoiled it.
Kinder still seems entertained, but Denison looks startled. It’s suddenly occurred to him that anybody Kathy Mallory deems worthy of hassling might just be someone whom it’s dangerous to hassle. Mallory chooses her enemies carefully: she likes to be proud of who she fights. Like Martin, she judges herself by her enemies and like any predator has a great sense of self-worth. Denison’s not going to admit his fear, though, not in front of his partner. This Martin understands. No matter how rotten people are, you stick with your partner above anything, unless what he does is so far out of line as to make you sick. Up to and including murder. Well, maybe a questionable shooting… you give your partner the benefit of the doubt because your life rests in his hands.
Martin still feels guilt about that on some cold, dark days. Not the shooting itself, that was good: Reyes had a knife and he wasn’t worth saving. But losing control and making a little girl into a liar… she’ll have to live with that for the rest of her life too. Twice a victim and for nothing she did. That’s injustice to the nth degree, and if Martin goes to hell for anything, that’ll be it.
Finally, they finish up and hand Martin his ticket. He folds it carefully and puts it in his wallet - everything he needs to get the full identity of Officer Denison is on that, which means the only badge number he needs to memorise is Kinder’s. Mallory’s not the only person who can play games; she’s not the only person who has friends.
(&)
Jack says nothing when Martin comes in, which is worse than if he’d yelled. Yes, it’s definitely time to end this. Any time Jack’s pissed off enough to start acting like Victor, it’s time to smarten up.
He sits down at his desk and starts preparing to invade the NYPD network. As long as he’s not going anywhere near Special Crimes files, it shouldn’t be too difficult. Mallory doesn’t guard everything, after all. The information Martin wants rests in personnel. Name, address, and the all-important Social Security number. He can do so much with those things. Fortunately for Kinder and Denison, Martin has a line between ‘capable’ and ‘willing.’ A little hazy in places perhaps or maybe even perforated, but it’s there.
Still… these idiots deserve something. He skips into a few databases, careful not to leave footprints. Something catches his eye, and he tries not to laugh. So that’s the game. Not what he thought, but he’ll play that too.
He carefully opens the top drawer of his desk. Danny found out the hard way how seriously Martin values his privacy, and he still hasn’t forgiven Martin for it. On the other hand, Martin can always comfort himself with the memory of Danny nursing a pair of bruised fingers while throwing the mouse-trap at Martin’s head. Martin’s defence is two-fold. First, the drawer is kept locked, so Danny’s invasion should never have happened. Second, there’s no way to prove that Martin’s sole purpose for setting the trap wasn’t to stop pests. In fact, as far as Martin is concerned, it worked quite well. A pest got into the drawer and was trapped.
He pulls out a small black book and flips to the ‘Ys.’ There are only two names on the pages and Yates’ is no longer valid. Oh, the name is still the same, but the address and phone number that go with it have been changed to ones belonging to the federal prison system. Sadly, every now and then a criminal investigator gets either desperate or foolish enough to believe that their advanced knowledge of criminalistics will let them get away with a crime. Martin still calls him from time to time, though. Just because the man is in prison doesn’t mean he still isn’t a friend. He’s just a very easy to find friend.
But Yates isn’t the one he wants; Yates can’t do anything for him right now. Martin checks the other number, dials, then waits.
“Eric Yochlowitz, please.” Jack’s bugged Martin about his ‘Washington contacts’ before, but not all of them are who people expect. They’re not all in Congress or the Senate or other halls of perceived power. Some of them work in cramped little cubicles and have a fetish for very sharp pencils and nice, neat little columns of numbers. You can’t work White Collar without interaction with the one agency that even the fearless FBI regards with awe and terror. The agency that holds the true power in America, striking fear in the hearts of lawmakers and lawbreakers alike. Even Al Capone, who evaded the FBI, the Treasury Department and the local cops couldn’t escape the merciless clutches of the one and only IRS. Or as Eric once described it: ‘We don’t care how you make your money, but you better damn well give Uncle Sam his cut.’ Better to admit you run drugs and whores and declare the relevant proceeds than think that Internal Revenue won’t take everything and more. And unlike the FBI or the ATF, or any other triple letter agency active in or outside America, the IRS doesn’t need a reason to go after you. They don’t need ‘probable cause’ or warrants… they can just ‘randomly select’ you (how ‘random’ depends sometimes on the ‘you’) and upend your life.
Martin’s lived through one, so he knows. It’s how he met Eric, and as he waits, he wonders how people who don’t keep balanced chequebooks can even hope to survive the dreaded tax audit. Even Martin’s neat little columns weren’t quite neat enough, so how could someone like say, Danny or… well, Kinder or Denison come away with even a shred of sanity remaining? IRS investigators scare the crap out of even honest people. You have to be very, very certain of your dishonesty if you hope to fool one of those agents of darkness.
They chat for a bit, Martin taking advantage of interagency cooperation to scam some free long-distance, then he makes his pitch. He’s got more than enough for Eric to get started. Even this mild hint of wrongdoing is enough to get an auditor into hunting mode. The Social Security number is a gift, a way to make things easier for Eric. One way or another, Kinder and Denison are in for the nightmare of their lives.
As Martin hangs up the phone, he wonders what it is about him that makes people think he’s ‘nice.’ Is it the youthful face that he sometimes wishes was a little more weathered or scarred, just so people will take him seriously? Is it the way he can be quiet and soft spoken - so unlike the father he hardly knows?
His eyes fall to the picture pinned up on the wall of his cubicle. Sad, really. People think it’s nice - that damned word again, almost as bad as ‘sweet’ - that he keeps a picture of his father close by, but that’s because people don’t look close enough. Everyone else, even Danny who really doesn’t have a family, has candid shots, group shots… real pictures, not official publicity photos, which is what this is. A fake, over-bright grin… it’s an expression Martin doesn’t really recognize. He’s more used to cold and distant, or disapproving, even disappointed. There are no happy group shots in the Fitzgerald photo album, just stiff Christmas-card poses. He doesn’t think there are any where he’s smiling, not a real smile that gets past the lips and crinkles the eyes. It’s all just a curve to the lips, put there because the photographer said ‘smile’ and not even the devil would dare wreck one of those family portraits.
He blinks twice, banishing the dark thoughts for another time. He’s opened the doors to showcase enough family skeletons around here - only quick enough for a glimpse of bone, but still… it’s something that Isn’t Done. Besides, if he doesn’t want to be known as ‘The Deputy Director’s Kid,’ he also doesn’t want to be known as ‘Poor Martin,’ either.
Besides, he and his dad are making progress, or whatever the shrinks want to call it now - not that either one of them would see a shrink for anything, unless they had to for The Job. But they’re talking. Their last conversation must have consisted of at least twenty words and all of them civil. He’s not including the words ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ in that count either… that’s progress too, isn’t it? Admittedly, Martin was asking for advice at the time and that always brings out Victor’s good side.
He sighs. He supposes he should count himself lucky. Both parents are still alive and compos mentis, or at least as compos mentis as they ever were, he was never hit like Danny, or abandoned like Sam or even Jack… but somehow he became the chronic runaway, developing plans for escape more detailed than anyone who’d ever been behind bars.
He glances at Sam, who pretends to ignore him. She says she ran away too, that grand total of once, and came home as soon as someone came looking for her. So, he’s the serious runaway and she’s the one with commitment issues. Maybe ironic, maybe not. After all, he was always looking for a place he could safely call home; he’s not sure she believes that such a place exists. He wonders for a moment if she’ll use this game with Mallory as just another excuse to leave him behind, just like she’s used her worry over Viv and her concern about her job, and every other thing she can think of.
To hell with it. If Sam can’t let him have enemies, then maybe they aren’t so good for each other after all. Because Martin’s learned that much about himself: he needs somebody to fight with or he gets self-destructive. And Mallory’s a good opponent: smart, ruthless and relentless.
“And to think you wanted me to be a politician,” he mutters. People think George W. is bad... give him the tools to do so and Martin Fitzgerald would take over the world, just for lack of something better to do. Then, of course, he’d have to hand-pick the resistance, just to have one worthy of fighting. Far better he’s here, with petty battles to wage. Because Martin Fitzgerald does not like to lose. It’s one thing he and his father have in common, which is why Victor stopped playing games with his smarter, more creative son, and why Martin has always favoured individual sports over those requiring a team. Allies are different - you can pick and choose your allies and when to use them, like Martin has here, but you’re still ultimately an independent player.
But if anything, Mallory’s smarter than he is. That’s what makes this such a challenge, such an enjoyable challenge. It’s brain versus brain, the only really good game going. Each has their own strengths and weaknesses: she might be smarter, but he’s better at making friends, forging alliances. It’s why he and Danny get along, despite whatever other differences they may have; Danny may be a thug at times, but his quick mouth has a brain to back it up, even if he’s loathe to admit it.
Oh, well. Having made his move, Martin settles in to wait for Mallory’s response.
(&)
“How does she do it?” Jack Coffey threw the file down on the desk with more than a little disgust. It wasn’t the fact that two patrol officers were now in more trouble than even the worms in Internal Affairs could manage - that he could deal with. Kinder and Dennison were screw-ups of the first order. He’d wanted them out of his precinct for years, but detectives didn’t get to call the shots on the placement of uniforms. And until now he’d never had any success.
This time, though, they’d screwed over Mallory and somehow she’d managed to pull the IRS down onto their heads. He knew it was her. It couldn’t be anyone else. Only Mallory. He didn’t know how, and didn’t want to know how she’d done it.
Riker smiled, tapping his battered notebook on his knee. He had an idea… the old man would be proud. “Be happy. It’s what Lou always hoped for.”
“What?” Coffey snapped. Markowitz had been his mentor, his friend. Mallory was… Markowitz had loved Mallory and by default every one else did too. He stared through the glass at the brat as she paged through something on her computer, pulling off magic that no other being could know. He prided himself on his ignorance, just as Markowitz had - that ignorance was a shield against whatever Mallory did. I didn’t know… I didn’t even know such a thing was possible.
Riker shrugged. He knew his partner had done nothing, except what she always did best. It was this Fitzgerald kid who pulled off the rest, that he was sure of. According to the rumours, the baby-agent was more Ronald Deluthe than Kathy Mallory: high up family member, a need for attention, talent but no one willing to teach and that stupid ability to run into baseball bats. But now… Riker thought about the only time he’d ever actually seen the baby-Fed. He never dreamed that anyone could put that look on Mallory’s face, that anyone would be willing to draw her wrath. Stupid, but not so stupid at all. He thought of a tiny felon crouched in the front seat of a Jag and waving her knife at Markowitz. Of a little girl who never fit in, too smart and too scary for the other kids to want to be around. Oh, Lou would be so proud, it was a shame he never lived to see the day. “Fitzgerald. Lou would have loved it. The kid’s finally found somebody who’ll play with her.”
“Oh, God.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Coffey pale, running his hands through what little remained of his hair.
Riker ignored him, basking in the moment. Perfect.