December posting 11: Depth of Field, chapter 2/? -- NB: read warnings!
Okay, be advised, this is one, a WIP, and two, this section ends on a cliff-hanger!
If you do not deal well with such, I will let you know when you can read to a conclusion of that!
Right. On to the fic! At the AO3 here (chapter) or full work so far here.
Depth of Field, ch. 2.
Chicago Blues
Tuesday, June 22, 1999
Duncan arrived at the back of the bar in time to see Dave, one of Joe's more reliable bartenders, helping a truck driver unload crates of supplies onto the loading dock. Duncan checked to be sure the back door was braced open and the two lunch waitresses weren't swamped yet before he came back out with the dolly to start bringing in already-unloaded cases.
Twenty minutes later, Duncan wrestled the last box into the storage room and nearly collided with Dave, who gave him a puzzled look and asked, "Any idea how late Joe's going to run?"
Duncan shook his head. "I didn't know he was busy this morning. I was wondering how you ended up on the morning shift."
"Joe called and asked if I could come handle set-up and opening, something about an unexpected meeting this morning that might run late. What the hell, you know? Overtime is overtime. But he said he'd be in by noon to let me get lunch."
Duncan raised an eyebrow. "Well, the meeting wasn't with me. Come on. I'll cover you for a lunch break. If Joe hasn't made it in by then, I'll swing by his apartment and check on him."
"Hey, he's got a cell phone," Dave pointed out and pulled out his. He punched in the number, waited, and finally left a message of, "Hey, Joe, it's Dave. Call me at the bar when you get this. Thanks." He gave Duncan a rueful look. "If he's fine, he's going to accuse us of being mother hens."
"Only if we call half a dozen times." Duncan added lightly, "An old friend of ours got into town last night. They might just be running late at a bookstore. Come on, I'll get the bar, let you get lunch."
Dave gave him a very old-fashioned look over his glasses. "You know, you could just say you're worried?"
Duncan managed a smile. "You're how far off from your Ph.D.? Is this cheating?"
"I graduate in December, and I think Joe pulled some strings, too; the VA hired me for a psych intern program. And yeah, I'm a little worried too, Duncan, but he's only an hour late. Traffic alone could do that." He didn't sound as confident as the words should have, but Dave went back to the lunch rush.
They both kept watch on the doors.
By one-thirty, Joe still hadn't shown up.
In between pulling beers for some businessmen escaping a boring seminar, Duncan asked Dave, "When did Joe call you?"
"Last night," Dave said. "Why? Heading over there?"
Duncan nodded. "Yeah. He should have called by now." His phone rang and Duncan muttered, "Speak of the devil--"
"Hardly a fit greeting, Duncan." Methos was purring with amusement. "What would you say to--"
Duncan cut over him. "Have you seen Joe this morning?"
The laughter vanished out of Methos' voice. "No. Should I have?"
"He said he had a meeting this morning, but he hasn't made it to work. He's not answering his phone either. I was hoping he was meeting you."
"Not me. It could be anything," Methos pointed out, "including a late shift coinciding with too many meds last night. That storm can't have done his legs any good. Of course, it could also be his employers… or one of our acquaintances. I'll meet you at his place."
Duncan nodded. "Good. If it's just a bad day, I'll want the help yelling at him."
"You'll get it." Methos hung up.
Duncan just told Dave, "I'll call later when I know something."
Dave gave him a worried glance. "Yeah. Do that. Or get Joe to." He pulled out his phone and tried Joe's number again.
Oakland FBI office
The courier was waiting patiently in the reception room, reading a battered copy of The Epic of Gilgamesh. College age, long-distance runner lean, olive-toned skin, black hair striped blue and purple. He'd also focused in on his book in the five minutes it had taken Matthew to extricate himself from his phone call.
He walked in, said, "I'm Matthew McCormick," and held a hand out for the clipboard.
The young man nodded to him, glanced at the name and photo on his lanyard, and passed over the envelope on the clipboard instead. "Sorry for the trouble, Agent. The client specified delivery in person."
Matthew took the envelope, frowning a little when he didn't pass the clipboard with it. "In person, but no signature required?"
"No." The courier shrugged, but puzzlement tightened his mouth, too. "That is kind of weird now that you say that."
Matthew nodded. "Half a minute more." He examined the envelope, noting the lack of a return address, and slit it open. The sole content was a locker key attached to a machine-printed tag. "No. Nothing I was expecting." He looked back at the young man. "Did you get a name?"
Now he looked worried and uncomfortable. "Um, no. And he paid in cash."
"Before you go, I'll need a description, then. Have a seat." Matthew indicated the couch he'd just left and pulled out a notepad and pen.
"I'm not under arrest, right?"
Matthew shook his head. "No, you're not, Mister…?"
"Abascal, Xiang Abascal." He spelled it for Matthew and pulled out his wallet to show him a driver's license without being asked.
Matthew checked the photo, memorizing his address and license number in the process, then handed it back. "Thank you. I'm afraid I need a description of the person who hired you in case this leads to something we don't like. Seeing as there's no return address on this envelope, I'd have to say there's a chance."
Xiang sighed. "Damn. Right." He closed his eyes to think about it, then started talking. "Male, Caucasian, and I'd say he's not mixed blood of any kind. Medium-short brown hair, no curl to it, parted off to the right. I have no idea what color his eyes were. About your height, and meat market arms -- one of the guys who does way too much time in the gym to get dates, you know?" Xiu opened his eyes for a moment. "Seriously. Biceps almost the size of my thighs, or maybe a little bigger."
Matthew nodded. "I know the type you mean. Go on, please."
Xiang closed his eyes again. "Blue jeans, dark-washed and not worn yet, dark green short sleeve shirt with a collar -- business casual. I don’t remember seeing a logo. Expensive running shoes, Nikes, maybe. He pulled his wallet out of his left hip pocket, not his right. I remember thinking that was kind of unusual. No tattoos that I saw, no scars… no, wait." He frowned, eyes still closed but flicking back and forth behind the eyelids as if he were examining his memory. His frown deepened but he finally said, "I'm sorry. There's something more that I can't quite pull up."
Xiang opened his eyes and shrugged. "But there was something a little… off about him, you know? One of those guys where the smiles don't quite match what's going on in the conversation. Like he's talking to you but writing a play in his head at the same time or something. Just weird." After a moment's pause, he added, "Okay. Not just weird. He was creepy. That's why I didn't think to get the address or his name. He was really disturbing, but he paid me in cash, a good fifty bucks over what the charge should have been, and told me to keep the change. I'm sorry, Agent, but I need the money and I wanted away from him."
Matthew nodded. "With the costs of textbooks, I surely can't blame you. I'm sorry to have to ask, but can you be more precise than 'creepy'?" He raised one hand before Xiang could draw a breath to argue. "I'm not saying you're wrong, Mr. Abascal. I suspect you're entirely right. But can you verbalize what in particular set off your alarms?"
Xiang studied him for a moment. "You actually mean that. Okay. Maybe. It's not that I’m crazy vain, but you know," and he smiled a little, "bike shorts tend to get looks. You looked when you came in, and you… I don't know, filed it as what I was wearing or something and went right back to looking me In the eyes. He looked and it was… it wasn't sex. It wasn't my fashion sense, or my job, or did he want to ask me out. But it was…."
He trailed off thinking about it, then frowned. "I don't know. He looked, he saw, but I couldn't tell you what he saw." Xiang thought about that a moment longer and didn’t quite shiver by sheer force of will. "I don't think I want to know what he was seeing, if you want the truth. But that's when I got nervous."
"And that's when he started pulling out cash?" Matthew asked.
"Yeah." Xiang looked up. "He saw I was nervous?"
"It sounds like it, yes." Matthew kept his voice calm, soothing. "Did he have any accent, or any mannerisms you noticed? Anything more you can tell me to track him down?"
"He sounds like half a million guys in the area, doesn't he?" Xiang gave Mattehw an apologetic shrug. "I'm sorry. There wasn't…" He paused again, then said, "No, wait. When he'd start smiling at… something else? He'd run his thumb along the base of his fingers. Like this." He showed Matthew, left thumb brushing along his palm, just under the bottom finger joints.
Matthew frowned at that, wondering why the mannerism was familiar. "I can see why you'd notice that. And your description's quite good, Mr. Abascal, thank you. You're using your left hand. Did he use his left, his right, both?"
"Left," he said. "Same hand he pulled the wallet with."
Matthew nodded. "Thank you. Last question, I think: Where and when did he meet you?"
"San Francisco, about a block from the Embarcadero BART exit, at 11:10." He checked his clipboard to be sure of the time. "Yeah. 11:10 is when I put him down. Call it 11:05 he flagged me down. I was on my way up to Stern & Baer to pick up some papers. They prefer to use couriers in town."
"San Francisco to Oakland, with another job in hand?" Matthew asked, interested. "Did he want his package brought first, out of the way or not?"
"I didn't tell him. Stern & Baer are regular customers, so when he asked when I could get your envelope here, I factored in their delivery before I gave him a time. I delivered their papers on my bike, then doubled back to the ferry and came here. Does that matter?"
"It might," Matthew said. "It might not." He wrote his last few notes and said simply, "Thank you. If I need this formally, I'll get in touch." He pulled out a business card, wrote his cell number on the back, and handed it to him. "If you think of anything else, please call me."
Xiang took it, tucked it carefully away in his belt pouch, and was already turning to go when Matthew asked, "Mr. Abascal. Did he have any chance to get your name?"
"No, I--" He stopped, frowning and concentrating hard. Matthew would have expected a single woman to understand immediately; Xiang caught on quickly enough that he’d had trouble himself or known someone who did. "I didn't have my ID out, my name's not on the clipboard… I don't think so." He looked much more wary now. "You are worried about this guy."
"Most people don't send anonymous packages to the FBI," Matthew pointed out. "Be more careful than usual for a few days. Just in case."
Xiang frowned, his face gone tight. "Yeah. That guy didn't tip me nearly enough for this."
Joe's apartment
Duncan's skin prickled at the feel of another immortal as he came through the lobby door. However, after a night under the same roof with Methos, he knew precisely who it was. That knowledge was the only thing that kept his hand away from the escrima stick under his jacket.
He just walked up to Joe's door and pulled out the spare key.
Methos moved away from the door, answering questions Duncan hadn't asked yet. "No answer to the doorbell and the lock's scratched. It looks new?"
"He upgraded the lock when he moved in, so it's all of four months old," Duncan said and opened the door.
"Hopefully this place isn't rented?" Methos asked, prowling in right behind Duncan. He split left, stepping over a book lying open on the ground between the entry and the small kitchen. "Someone's been here."
Duncan just nodded. Joe never left anything where he could trip over it or have to wheel a chair around it. He crouched down and ran a hand over the carpet by the front door. The carpet was still faintly damp, with a small pebble in place. "Whoever it was came in after the rain started last night but before the streets dried."
He moved to pick up the book, checking the title from habit, and put The Knight in History down on the kitchen counter-top. A few coffee grounds were scattered near the sink; the pot sat empty and cool in the coffeemaker. "And no, it's not rented. Joe bought it; he didn't want anyone having a master key to his place unless he gave it to them."
"Whoever did this was decent with locks, then. That's a good brand." Methos moved through the living room to rattle the patio door -- locked -- then ransacked Joe's easy chair for anything hidden beside or under the cushion.
Duncan went through the kitchen, studying the counter, the stove, the oven, the contents of the refrigerator. No extra cup or glass to indicate Joe had let someone in, dinner plate and pot in the drainer. Nothing odd left where it shouldn't be, no bloodstains on the floor. The coffeemaker was loaded, the carafe empty. "The coffee wasn't started. That or Joe refilled it afterward. But there aren't any breakfast dishes out yet, and the dinner dishes are still in the rack."
He headed towards the bedroom. The light-blocking curtains were pulled into place, but books lay scattered on the floor there, too, and the bed hadn't been made. Joe must not have been up long when he was surprised, then, or he hadn't been up at all yet. Duncan looked around again, then frowned. Shouldn't Joe's wheelchair be neatly tucked away beside the bedside table? His prosthetics weren't on the bookshelf by the bed, either.
Duncan looked around again, trying to take in the details first then going over it again to look for the patterns. He frowned, forehead tight with worry, when he realized that the scattered books weren't completely random: there was enough room between them for a wheelchair.
The closet didn't look ransacked; neither did the drawers. Duncan had helped Joe home a few times when bad storms had aggravated his joints, but he just didn't know enough about Joe's routines. Methos, on the other hand, had stayed with Joe in Seacouver and Paris both. Duncan raised his voice to be heard in the next room. "You've stayed with Joe before -- should I be looking for a sleep shirt?"
"Not this time of year. And Joe never refills the coffeemaker until he's going to bed. Says he's night owl enough as it is. At a guess, whoever took him came in late last night or first thing this morning," Methos said. He appeared in the doorway, looking the room over and asked, "Where's his chair?"
"Not in here. Neither are his legs."
Methos prowled over and started ransacking the bed, checking pillows and sheets before making the bed back up almost absently. He started to put a pillow back, then pulled it up to his face instead, inhaling deeply before putting it back down gently.
Duncan looked over from sorting books back; they'd been on a shelf about arm-level in a wheelchair. His best guess was that Joe's arm had knocked them over, deliberately or otherwise. The lack of expression on Methos' face told him he'd found something else. "What am I not going to like?"
"The whole thing?" Methos asked. His light tone didn't hide a cold, controlled anger Duncan hadn't seen since Bordeaux. "There're spots of blood on the sheet and blanket -- drying, but not dry yet. There's also a damp patch on the fitted sheet and into the mattress. Again, still drying after however many hours. And the pillow smells like chloroform. The kidnapper left it wrong side down; his mistake. Any idea when Joe left last night?"
Duncan closed his eyes, thinking about the schedule. "He worked the closing shift last night. He shouldn't have gotten home until four this morning."
"It was still raining when I turned over at four," Methos said coldly. "If I were going to kidnap a man in a wheelchair, I wouldn't want witnesses."
"Joe made it in and into bed," Duncan pointed out. "Joggers and dog walkers are out by five, five-thirty. Not many at five, but it gets steadily worse from then. So far, this doesn't look like a robbery, or even an attempt to cover it with a robbery." He glanced around. "Time to check his office."
Methos nodded and opened the door into the other bedroom. "I'll get it. Check the bathroom."
Duncan ducked in to investigate and found the shower bone-dry, the razor clean and dry, the soap hard. He checked the medicine chest and found the prescription bottles for what Joe called his 'crap day' pain killer and the daily anti-inflammatory that Joe had, reluctantly, started taking.
Methos called, "Involuntary, Duncan."
Duncan left the bathroom behind to join him in the office, barely glancing at the shelves. The books here were in place, which somehow surprised him. Joe's guitar hung safely in its case on the wall, the desk didn't look any worse than Joe's desk at the bar… and Methos was holding up Joe's keychain.
"No, Joe wouldn't have left here without those," Duncan agreed quietly. "Damn it."
"Does he walk anywhere here?" Methos glanced out the window at the angle of the hill.
"Yes, but if it's a matter of public transit, Joe prefers walking uphill. Says it's easier to keep control."
"Especially in the damp," Methos agreed. "But he'd still need his keys."
Duncan opened the guitar case, then turned back, his mouth a tight line. "And this." He held out Joe's wallet, bills still visible in the fold.
Methos just nodded. "Right. Look around for his phone and grab a change of clothes for when we find him. I'm going to break into his email. It might be Hunters."
"Or he might have been meeting a Watcher whose immortal had just moved to town," Duncan agreed and went back to work.
Embarcadero Ferry Terminal
It might just have been adrenaline that made the ferry trip feel longer than usual. Maybe.
Last night's storm had made the morning fog thicker than usual; now the afternoon was fogging in sooner too. The ferry plowed through water above and water below, rising and falling on waves, sliding into curtains of fog and the occasional gap of clear air. Only the light and incline changes told Matthew they were still moving.
Too much adrenaline and too little sleep on top of that left Matthew incapable of immersing himself in his current reading. Sleep would be a worse idea, at this stage; he wouldn't stay asleep and the dreams weren't likely to do him any good. He finally tucked The Art of Happiness into this coat and walked forward to the mostly abandoned rail to let the fog's chill wake him up.
Waves slapped against the hull steadily, barely audible over the ferry's engine. Fog horns wove in and out of the water sounds and the cries of the gulls overhead. Matthew wouldn't have been able to navigate by their notes yet but the ferry's steady motion told him the pilot could. He tried to let that settle him away from worrying at what he was going to find in a ferry station locker.
There was no point wasting the energy when he was going to find out soon enough.
Better to save his concern for problems he could possibly sort out now. Work was settled for the moment, although it had taken him an hour to clear the rest of his day. More than that, his warning that he might be out for the rest of the day had gotten first a very surprised look from his secretary, then an approving one. He tucked away for later the problem that even his assistant thought he'd been overworking.
Unfortunately, that only gave him time to worry at the reappearance of 'Ben Dawson.' (Joe really was going to kill Samuels for that name. And possibly kill him again if he inherited money from the man.) The worst of it, at least for the moment, was that Matthew didn't even know what was unsettling him, although something surely was.
So what if Ben/Samuels had been flirting? That was entirely normal from him. Duncan's reaction to him, on the other hand… that had been too close to his reactions to Matthew in D.C. last winter.
Even immortal memory wasn't enough help when it came to comparing memories. Matthew already knew far too well that memories came filtered through whatever emotions he'd felt at the time. The question of whether something had been slightly off between him and Duncan that morning came with the corollary question of whether that skew had been on Duncan's side or Matthew's and Matthew just didn't know either answer.
They'd run together as usual in the early morning, traded out weights and partner stretches as usual, showered quickly since Matthew had to leave a little early, shared cooking and cleaning and the newspapers… and yet. Unbidden, Cory's worries about his relationship with Duncan came to mind, and Matthew realized he was pacing again despite the fog- and spray-slick deck.
"Damn it," Matthew muttered. "This isn't the time for this."
He could hear cars now through the fog. Echoes of the ferry's motor were starting to bounce back too. Matthew moved towards the pilot's house instead of the gangplank, lifting his FBI badge as he went. One of the crew members turned hastily away and Matthew let him, going onto another crew member who looked thoroughly unimpressed.
"One quick question, ma'am -- how badly is this fog likely to slow down transit as the day goes on?"
She was a solidly built Latina woman whose expression said she'd seen and coped with all kinds and levels of stupid. She nodded once. "Yeah, you're new in town all right. The fog keeps thickening like this, Agent, they're gonna have to shut the ferries down entirely in another two hours. I'd plan on car and bridge or the BART."
Matthew nodded and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Thank you, ma'am." He turned and headed out, already wondering if he was going to have to call Duncan for a ride. He was also wondering if he should buy a motorcycle, which would be easier to work through San Francisco traffic. Cory would have advice if he did.
Matthew took in the ferry building's rough size as he came in, evaluating lines of sight, entrances and exits, the security cameras he could see, and where the security guards were circulating. The details gave him something to occupy his mind as he pulled on evidence gloves and hunted down locker B220, which turned out to be a bottom locker, big enough for a suitcase. Matthew checked the lock by eye, by fingers, and with a voltmeter he'd gotten out of his car before he headed this way. He found nothing.
When Matthew opened the door, the only thing the locker held was a large florist’s box, big enough for a double-dozen long-stem roses at least.
He considered the damned thing, a muscle ticking along the side of his jaw, and debated whether he needed to evacuate the building.
His instincts said it wasn't a bomb, not a literal one. Something nastier, Matthew suspected, and realized he was wishing desperately for a trained partner he'd known for more than a month and a half. He'd worked with a few of the Oakland agents before, but none of them for long enough for something as bad as this already felt. Part of him wanted Fox Mulder's eyes; the rest of him said Mulder would be a second disaster in this.
All of him wanted someone reliable at his back.
Hell.
The terminal was filling up with people trying to make a last trip out before the crush of rush hour, at the end of their classes, before the harbor-master shut the ferries down. Instinct wasn't good enough.
Matthew closed the locker again and took the key with him as he headed for the nearest security guard, a man already watching him closely with one hand resting on the butt of his pistol. Matthew exhaled some of his lingering tiredness, straightened his shoulders, and pulled out his badge to start things rolling.
~ ~ ~
Crane, the senior fireman, stood at Matthew's shoulder. His attention kept flicking back and forth between his guys, who were waiting in case they were needed, and the bomb squad, which was taking the box as seriously as Matthew had. He didn't look over but his voice was so quiet only Matthew could hear him. "My guys say we've got more FBI coming in. How much shit are you going to catch if this isn't a bomb?"
Matthew shrugged. "Technically, I'm senior enough I can't catch too much hell over this regardless. Realistically? Someone sent me that locker key and made damn sure it came to me, by name, without a sender’s name or return address. A bomb is the better of my options at this point."
Crane shook his head in disbelief. "There are people stupid enough to fuck with the Feds?"
"Oh, yes. The ones who think they're both smarter than we are and good enough not to give themselves away to routine." Matthew kept most of his attention on the controlled chaos as he explained, "I used to hunt serial killers and some of the bombers. Those types like playing games with law enforcement."
That got him a long measuring look and one sardonic comment: "No wonder you called out the bomb squad."
A deep voice from behind them asked, "You gentlemen sure you're far enough back?"
Matthew glanced over and nodded to the man whose arrival he'd been half-expecting for the last half-hour. Special Agent in Charge Jack Michaels ran the San Francisco and Oakland offices and right now, Matthew was wishing he knew the SAC better than seven weekly staff meetings and two 'meet the boss and get up to speed' dinners. Wishes and horses, unfortunately. Matthew straightened a little and said, "If it's dynamite, yes, sir, we're clear now it's out of the locker. If it's C4 in that box, we could lose the whole building."
Michaels stood there studying him, tall and solid in a three-piece suit that still looked impeccable despite the fact that he'd undoubtedly been at work for eight hours already. Matthew knew that by now his own jacket was rumpled, as usual. He didn't have to run a hand over his face to know that he needed a shave again, also normal for him by mid-afternoon.
"At which point shrapnel might still get us?" Michaels nodded. "We'll hope it's not, then. Found trouble already, McCormick?" He didn't sound angry yet; one or two staff meeting flare-ups told Matthew he was still reserving judgment.
Crane glanced between them and nodded to them. "Gentlemen. I'll just go check on my EMTs."
After he was out of earshot, Matthew laid out the change to his afternoon plans. "Courier brought me an envelope with a locker key in it and a computer-printed tag. No return address, the client paid in cash, and the sender tipped heavily when he realized he'd made the courier nervous. Addressed to 'Agent’ McCormick. I checked the lock on the locker, found no scratches, wires, or live current, and opened it. When I found the box, I called the bomb squad."
Michaels waited for the last of the data, then said, "And your conclusions?"
Matthew kept watching the bomb squad, who'd apparently made up their minds to open it. "I don't think it's a physical bomb, sir, but damn if I was going to be wrong about that at any place that processes this much traffic."
Michaels nodded. "Agreed. I'll back you on that, no matter what's in the box. That said, ASAC," and he watched to see that Matthew was paying attention to the title, "what do you think we've got, and what plans are you already considering?"
"I think we have body parts, God help us. The box is much too big just for photos or 'souvenirs.' I think we have a serial killer playing games," Matthew told him bluntly. "Someone went to a lot of trouble to get me here. Whoever he is, he's in very good shape, and he left that courier's skin crawling. I’ve warned the to watch his back, but I have no reason to think he’s a target."
His own words set off adrenaline and Matthew made himself take a deep breath against the raise in his heart rate. "Yet. No reason yet. The serial killer in Washington state, sir - how active are our leads?"
Michaels met his eyes. "That's not your case, ASAC."
Matthew lowered his voice. "The courier was male, lean, short black hair, and relatively pale, sir. How active are those leads?"
That got a nod. "Point taken. No. We don't think he's slipped through the net."
Matthew nodded. "Thank you." He rolled his shoulders up and back. "Almost a pity. We'd finally have a description, at least."
"A good one?" The SAC nodded. "How reliable did the courier seem?" Michaels was watching the bomb squad, too. "They've decided something."
The squad's posture and positioning moved from anticipation, to tension as someone opened the box… and changed to shock.
"Agent!"
Matthew didn't argue the title, just moved up to see what they'd found. Michaels headed over as well, leaving Matthew no choice but to answer his question. "I believed him. A jury would, too."
The SAC studied the folded, bloody artificial leg the bomb squad had found. "Looks like he was right to be nervous."
Matthew made himself ignore the blood marks to measure the prosthetic by eye, then nodded and told the bomb crew, "Thank you, gentlemen, lady. I'm sorry I had to call you out."
"Valid call," was all the team leader said. "Good luck, Agent."
SAC Michaels waved up the FBI agents he'd brought (San Francisco violent crimes, Matthew noticed; none of his white collar people) and told the police, "It looks like a kidnapping, gentlemen."
"Instead of a bomb?" one cop asked bluntly.
Matthew glanced at him and nodded. "They found a prosthetic leg, one of the newer models, blood on it. Too expensive for the owner to likely have a spare. So either we have someone recently deceased, or we have a kidnapping."
The cop kept looking at him, frowning now, and Matthew had time to read his name off his badge before Perez asked, "Agent, who do you know who's missing a leg?"
"That's a good question, ASAC." Michaels was watching him too. "The locker key came to you. What are the chances someone's making this personal?"
Matthew rubbed his forehead, calculations running through his brain. No matter how he looked at it, and he'd been looking at it from several directions while he watched the bomb squad work, he couldn't believe any immortal would be fool enough to address a challenge to him at the Bureau office. His home? Certainly. The office? No. "It's possible, sir. A friend of mine here in town left his legs in Vietnam. However, I haven't heard about the recent release of anyone I put away."
Perez said bluntly, "Call your friend. The box was sent to you. Sounds pretty fucking personal to me."
Matthew pulled out his phone before the SAC could argue and hit the speed dial for Joe's cell phone. First it went to voice mail, then the automated message informed him Joe’s voice mail was full. Matthew hung up and dialed the bar next, using the movement to cover his glance at SAC Michaels. He wasn't arguing yet, which might be promising.
As soon as the current bartender answered, Matthew said simply, "This is Matthew McCormick. Yes or no, is Joe Dawson there?"
A gusty sigh told him the answer before words made it out. "Oh, God. No, McCormick, Joe never showed for his shift today. Duncan and a friend are looking for him. Please say you haven't found a body."
"No, I haven't. All right. Expect someone by to ask questions, and make damn sure you check the badge with the precinct or the Bureau when they show up." Perez frowned at him; Matthew returned the frown and kept it out of his voice. "Other than that, stall anyone who asks and keep notes and description if they push too hard to suit you. Have Duncan call me if he comes in." Matthew hung up and looked at Perez. "If this is a serial killer playing games, he doesn't need to know how far along we are. Some of them like lurk around the edges of an investigation. A few of the madder ones have been known to pass themselves off as law enforcement assigned to the case ."
Michaels held up a hand and Matthew braced himself for the fight he'd hoped wouldn't be necessary. "If the victim's a friend of yours, McCormick, you can't be on this."
His SAC meant that to close the subject. Matthew ignored the hint.
"Granted, I have other responsibilities as White Collar ASAC, sir. That said, if this is a serial killer playing games, the three most experienced people on this coast are on loan up north, very busy inland, and me." Matthew laid the data out as matter-of-factly as possible. Letting emotion into this wouldn't help his case.
"And it's personal, McCormick. You've got the man on speed dial." Michaels shook his head. "No. We'll handle this one." He added much more quietly, "You're a target too. I know you've been pushing hard to get up to speed, but if there's someone after you, I need you to stay sharp enough to get me data."
Matthew just looked at him, hands in his pockets rather than let anyone see he kept clenching them into fists. "If I were the target, sir, I wouldn't have gotten a locker key. I'd have come out to a bomb under my car or a rigged gas line at my house. That would be if he wanted me dead. If he wanted me alive, I'd have gotten home to my friend hostage in my house or some attractive bait along the way. He's not treating me as a target, sir; he's issuing a challenge to another player. "
"Yes, it was your specialty, McCormick. I get that." Michaels had acquired a frown; the other agents around them were mostly staying neutral, but one of them caught Matthew's eye and tried to warn him off with a head-shake. "But you're not the only one who can hunt them."
Matthew rubbed his forehead tiredly and wished he'd been in San Francisco longer or just that the SAC knew him better. Might as well wish for horses, come to that, or some of his favorite seconds-in-command. What he wouldn't give for Thierry right now…. "Sir, I'm quite aware that a large enough group of agents always has someone who can cover anything. I'm not arguing with you because no one else can do this or because I’m trying to be a pain in the ass. I'm arguing with you because right now, the man's still challenging me to a game. If I decline to play? Then I'm a target -- just as soon as the bastard gets bored."
Matthew tried to rein his temper in, but he'd come this far, he might as well finish pointing out what he considered obvious. "At that point, he either tries to 'convince' me to play or he just kills me and challenges someone else. Either way, he's got a captive to take his irritations out on in the meantime."
Perez looked from Michaels, who was starting to look annoyed, to Matthew. "You think it's that personal?"
Matthew said dryly, "It was sent to the right name, wrong title, at the right office I’ve only been based at for two months. It’s far too likely that someone wants me and could care less that I've been promoted."
Perez brought one hand up in a peaceable, 'we're all allies here' gesture. "If it is a kidnapping, yeah, it's the FBI's baby. But why don't we start by getting some facts settled? Do you have confirmation your friend's gone, McCormick?"
"Joe didn't show up to work, he didn't call in, and one of his steady employees is worried frantic." Matthew kept his voice level. "Joe's reliable and the leg is the right height for him. If he's vanished, then he's missing. It just hasn't hit forty-eight hours yet, or a ransom demand, for anyone to be able to report it in."
Perez nodded. "You called twice, McCormick. His office, where else?"
"His cell phone. No answer and voice mail's full." Matthew looked at him. "Why?"
That got a shrug and Perez addressed his answer to Matthew and Michaels both. "Sounds like a kidnapping to us. A judge would probably think so too. Why not call for a warrant and track the current location of the guy's cell phone?"
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Right. On to the fic! At the AO3 here (chapter) or full work so far here.
Depth of Field, ch. 2.
Chicago Blues
Tuesday, June 22, 1999
Duncan arrived at the back of the bar in time to see Dave, one of Joe's more reliable bartenders, helping a truck driver unload crates of supplies onto the loading dock. Duncan checked to be sure the back door was braced open and the two lunch waitresses weren't swamped yet before he came back out with the dolly to start bringing in already-unloaded cases.
Twenty minutes later, Duncan wrestled the last box into the storage room and nearly collided with Dave, who gave him a puzzled look and asked, "Any idea how late Joe's going to run?"
Duncan shook his head. "I didn't know he was busy this morning. I was wondering how you ended up on the morning shift."
"Joe called and asked if I could come handle set-up and opening, something about an unexpected meeting this morning that might run late. What the hell, you know? Overtime is overtime. But he said he'd be in by noon to let me get lunch."
Duncan raised an eyebrow. "Well, the meeting wasn't with me. Come on. I'll cover you for a lunch break. If Joe hasn't made it in by then, I'll swing by his apartment and check on him."
"Hey, he's got a cell phone," Dave pointed out and pulled out his. He punched in the number, waited, and finally left a message of, "Hey, Joe, it's Dave. Call me at the bar when you get this. Thanks." He gave Duncan a rueful look. "If he's fine, he's going to accuse us of being mother hens."
"Only if we call half a dozen times." Duncan added lightly, "An old friend of ours got into town last night. They might just be running late at a bookstore. Come on, I'll get the bar, let you get lunch."
Dave gave him a very old-fashioned look over his glasses. "You know, you could just say you're worried?"
Duncan managed a smile. "You're how far off from your Ph.D.? Is this cheating?"
"I graduate in December, and I think Joe pulled some strings, too; the VA hired me for a psych intern program. And yeah, I'm a little worried too, Duncan, but he's only an hour late. Traffic alone could do that." He didn't sound as confident as the words should have, but Dave went back to the lunch rush.
They both kept watch on the doors.
By one-thirty, Joe still hadn't shown up.
In between pulling beers for some businessmen escaping a boring seminar, Duncan asked Dave, "When did Joe call you?"
"Last night," Dave said. "Why? Heading over there?"
Duncan nodded. "Yeah. He should have called by now." His phone rang and Duncan muttered, "Speak of the devil--"
"Hardly a fit greeting, Duncan." Methos was purring with amusement. "What would you say to--"
Duncan cut over him. "Have you seen Joe this morning?"
The laughter vanished out of Methos' voice. "No. Should I have?"
"He said he had a meeting this morning, but he hasn't made it to work. He's not answering his phone either. I was hoping he was meeting you."
"Not me. It could be anything," Methos pointed out, "including a late shift coinciding with too many meds last night. That storm can't have done his legs any good. Of course, it could also be his employers… or one of our acquaintances. I'll meet you at his place."
Duncan nodded. "Good. If it's just a bad day, I'll want the help yelling at him."
"You'll get it." Methos hung up.
Duncan just told Dave, "I'll call later when I know something."
Dave gave him a worried glance. "Yeah. Do that. Or get Joe to." He pulled out his phone and tried Joe's number again.
Oakland FBI office
The courier was waiting patiently in the reception room, reading a battered copy of The Epic of Gilgamesh. College age, long-distance runner lean, olive-toned skin, black hair striped blue and purple. He'd also focused in on his book in the five minutes it had taken Matthew to extricate himself from his phone call.
He walked in, said, "I'm Matthew McCormick," and held a hand out for the clipboard.
The young man nodded to him, glanced at the name and photo on his lanyard, and passed over the envelope on the clipboard instead. "Sorry for the trouble, Agent. The client specified delivery in person."
Matthew took the envelope, frowning a little when he didn't pass the clipboard with it. "In person, but no signature required?"
"No." The courier shrugged, but puzzlement tightened his mouth, too. "That is kind of weird now that you say that."
Matthew nodded. "Half a minute more." He examined the envelope, noting the lack of a return address, and slit it open. The sole content was a locker key attached to a machine-printed tag. "No. Nothing I was expecting." He looked back at the young man. "Did you get a name?"
Now he looked worried and uncomfortable. "Um, no. And he paid in cash."
"Before you go, I'll need a description, then. Have a seat." Matthew indicated the couch he'd just left and pulled out a notepad and pen.
"I'm not under arrest, right?"
Matthew shook his head. "No, you're not, Mister…?"
"Abascal, Xiang Abascal." He spelled it for Matthew and pulled out his wallet to show him a driver's license without being asked.
Matthew checked the photo, memorizing his address and license number in the process, then handed it back. "Thank you. I'm afraid I need a description of the person who hired you in case this leads to something we don't like. Seeing as there's no return address on this envelope, I'd have to say there's a chance."
Xiang sighed. "Damn. Right." He closed his eyes to think about it, then started talking. "Male, Caucasian, and I'd say he's not mixed blood of any kind. Medium-short brown hair, no curl to it, parted off to the right. I have no idea what color his eyes were. About your height, and meat market arms -- one of the guys who does way too much time in the gym to get dates, you know?" Xiu opened his eyes for a moment. "Seriously. Biceps almost the size of my thighs, or maybe a little bigger."
Matthew nodded. "I know the type you mean. Go on, please."
Xiang closed his eyes again. "Blue jeans, dark-washed and not worn yet, dark green short sleeve shirt with a collar -- business casual. I don’t remember seeing a logo. Expensive running shoes, Nikes, maybe. He pulled his wallet out of his left hip pocket, not his right. I remember thinking that was kind of unusual. No tattoos that I saw, no scars… no, wait." He frowned, eyes still closed but flicking back and forth behind the eyelids as if he were examining his memory. His frown deepened but he finally said, "I'm sorry. There's something more that I can't quite pull up."
Xiang opened his eyes and shrugged. "But there was something a little… off about him, you know? One of those guys where the smiles don't quite match what's going on in the conversation. Like he's talking to you but writing a play in his head at the same time or something. Just weird." After a moment's pause, he added, "Okay. Not just weird. He was creepy. That's why I didn't think to get the address or his name. He was really disturbing, but he paid me in cash, a good fifty bucks over what the charge should have been, and told me to keep the change. I'm sorry, Agent, but I need the money and I wanted away from him."
Matthew nodded. "With the costs of textbooks, I surely can't blame you. I'm sorry to have to ask, but can you be more precise than 'creepy'?" He raised one hand before Xiang could draw a breath to argue. "I'm not saying you're wrong, Mr. Abascal. I suspect you're entirely right. But can you verbalize what in particular set off your alarms?"
Xiang studied him for a moment. "You actually mean that. Okay. Maybe. It's not that I’m crazy vain, but you know," and he smiled a little, "bike shorts tend to get looks. You looked when you came in, and you… I don't know, filed it as what I was wearing or something and went right back to looking me In the eyes. He looked and it was… it wasn't sex. It wasn't my fashion sense, or my job, or did he want to ask me out. But it was…."
He trailed off thinking about it, then frowned. "I don't know. He looked, he saw, but I couldn't tell you what he saw." Xiang thought about that a moment longer and didn’t quite shiver by sheer force of will. "I don't think I want to know what he was seeing, if you want the truth. But that's when I got nervous."
"And that's when he started pulling out cash?" Matthew asked.
"Yeah." Xiang looked up. "He saw I was nervous?"
"It sounds like it, yes." Matthew kept his voice calm, soothing. "Did he have any accent, or any mannerisms you noticed? Anything more you can tell me to track him down?"
"He sounds like half a million guys in the area, doesn't he?" Xiang gave Mattehw an apologetic shrug. "I'm sorry. There wasn't…" He paused again, then said, "No, wait. When he'd start smiling at… something else? He'd run his thumb along the base of his fingers. Like this." He showed Matthew, left thumb brushing along his palm, just under the bottom finger joints.
Matthew frowned at that, wondering why the mannerism was familiar. "I can see why you'd notice that. And your description's quite good, Mr. Abascal, thank you. You're using your left hand. Did he use his left, his right, both?"
"Left," he said. "Same hand he pulled the wallet with."
Matthew nodded. "Thank you. Last question, I think: Where and when did he meet you?"
"San Francisco, about a block from the Embarcadero BART exit, at 11:10." He checked his clipboard to be sure of the time. "Yeah. 11:10 is when I put him down. Call it 11:05 he flagged me down. I was on my way up to Stern & Baer to pick up some papers. They prefer to use couriers in town."
"San Francisco to Oakland, with another job in hand?" Matthew asked, interested. "Did he want his package brought first, out of the way or not?"
"I didn't tell him. Stern & Baer are regular customers, so when he asked when I could get your envelope here, I factored in their delivery before I gave him a time. I delivered their papers on my bike, then doubled back to the ferry and came here. Does that matter?"
"It might," Matthew said. "It might not." He wrote his last few notes and said simply, "Thank you. If I need this formally, I'll get in touch." He pulled out a business card, wrote his cell number on the back, and handed it to him. "If you think of anything else, please call me."
Xiang took it, tucked it carefully away in his belt pouch, and was already turning to go when Matthew asked, "Mr. Abascal. Did he have any chance to get your name?"
"No, I--" He stopped, frowning and concentrating hard. Matthew would have expected a single woman to understand immediately; Xiang caught on quickly enough that he’d had trouble himself or known someone who did. "I didn't have my ID out, my name's not on the clipboard… I don't think so." He looked much more wary now. "You are worried about this guy."
"Most people don't send anonymous packages to the FBI," Matthew pointed out. "Be more careful than usual for a few days. Just in case."
Xiang frowned, his face gone tight. "Yeah. That guy didn't tip me nearly enough for this."
Joe's apartment
Duncan's skin prickled at the feel of another immortal as he came through the lobby door. However, after a night under the same roof with Methos, he knew precisely who it was. That knowledge was the only thing that kept his hand away from the escrima stick under his jacket.
He just walked up to Joe's door and pulled out the spare key.
Methos moved away from the door, answering questions Duncan hadn't asked yet. "No answer to the doorbell and the lock's scratched. It looks new?"
"He upgraded the lock when he moved in, so it's all of four months old," Duncan said and opened the door.
"Hopefully this place isn't rented?" Methos asked, prowling in right behind Duncan. He split left, stepping over a book lying open on the ground between the entry and the small kitchen. "Someone's been here."
Duncan just nodded. Joe never left anything where he could trip over it or have to wheel a chair around it. He crouched down and ran a hand over the carpet by the front door. The carpet was still faintly damp, with a small pebble in place. "Whoever it was came in after the rain started last night but before the streets dried."
He moved to pick up the book, checking the title from habit, and put The Knight in History down on the kitchen counter-top. A few coffee grounds were scattered near the sink; the pot sat empty and cool in the coffeemaker. "And no, it's not rented. Joe bought it; he didn't want anyone having a master key to his place unless he gave it to them."
"Whoever did this was decent with locks, then. That's a good brand." Methos moved through the living room to rattle the patio door -- locked -- then ransacked Joe's easy chair for anything hidden beside or under the cushion.
Duncan went through the kitchen, studying the counter, the stove, the oven, the contents of the refrigerator. No extra cup or glass to indicate Joe had let someone in, dinner plate and pot in the drainer. Nothing odd left where it shouldn't be, no bloodstains on the floor. The coffeemaker was loaded, the carafe empty. "The coffee wasn't started. That or Joe refilled it afterward. But there aren't any breakfast dishes out yet, and the dinner dishes are still in the rack."
He headed towards the bedroom. The light-blocking curtains were pulled into place, but books lay scattered on the floor there, too, and the bed hadn't been made. Joe must not have been up long when he was surprised, then, or he hadn't been up at all yet. Duncan looked around again, then frowned. Shouldn't Joe's wheelchair be neatly tucked away beside the bedside table? His prosthetics weren't on the bookshelf by the bed, either.
Duncan looked around again, trying to take in the details first then going over it again to look for the patterns. He frowned, forehead tight with worry, when he realized that the scattered books weren't completely random: there was enough room between them for a wheelchair.
The closet didn't look ransacked; neither did the drawers. Duncan had helped Joe home a few times when bad storms had aggravated his joints, but he just didn't know enough about Joe's routines. Methos, on the other hand, had stayed with Joe in Seacouver and Paris both. Duncan raised his voice to be heard in the next room. "You've stayed with Joe before -- should I be looking for a sleep shirt?"
"Not this time of year. And Joe never refills the coffeemaker until he's going to bed. Says he's night owl enough as it is. At a guess, whoever took him came in late last night or first thing this morning," Methos said. He appeared in the doorway, looking the room over and asked, "Where's his chair?"
"Not in here. Neither are his legs."
Methos prowled over and started ransacking the bed, checking pillows and sheets before making the bed back up almost absently. He started to put a pillow back, then pulled it up to his face instead, inhaling deeply before putting it back down gently.
Duncan looked over from sorting books back; they'd been on a shelf about arm-level in a wheelchair. His best guess was that Joe's arm had knocked them over, deliberately or otherwise. The lack of expression on Methos' face told him he'd found something else. "What am I not going to like?"
"The whole thing?" Methos asked. His light tone didn't hide a cold, controlled anger Duncan hadn't seen since Bordeaux. "There're spots of blood on the sheet and blanket -- drying, but not dry yet. There's also a damp patch on the fitted sheet and into the mattress. Again, still drying after however many hours. And the pillow smells like chloroform. The kidnapper left it wrong side down; his mistake. Any idea when Joe left last night?"
Duncan closed his eyes, thinking about the schedule. "He worked the closing shift last night. He shouldn't have gotten home until four this morning."
"It was still raining when I turned over at four," Methos said coldly. "If I were going to kidnap a man in a wheelchair, I wouldn't want witnesses."
"Joe made it in and into bed," Duncan pointed out. "Joggers and dog walkers are out by five, five-thirty. Not many at five, but it gets steadily worse from then. So far, this doesn't look like a robbery, or even an attempt to cover it with a robbery." He glanced around. "Time to check his office."
Methos nodded and opened the door into the other bedroom. "I'll get it. Check the bathroom."
Duncan ducked in to investigate and found the shower bone-dry, the razor clean and dry, the soap hard. He checked the medicine chest and found the prescription bottles for what Joe called his 'crap day' pain killer and the daily anti-inflammatory that Joe had, reluctantly, started taking.
Methos called, "Involuntary, Duncan."
Duncan left the bathroom behind to join him in the office, barely glancing at the shelves. The books here were in place, which somehow surprised him. Joe's guitar hung safely in its case on the wall, the desk didn't look any worse than Joe's desk at the bar… and Methos was holding up Joe's keychain.
"No, Joe wouldn't have left here without those," Duncan agreed quietly. "Damn it."
"Does he walk anywhere here?" Methos glanced out the window at the angle of the hill.
"Yes, but if it's a matter of public transit, Joe prefers walking uphill. Says it's easier to keep control."
"Especially in the damp," Methos agreed. "But he'd still need his keys."
Duncan opened the guitar case, then turned back, his mouth a tight line. "And this." He held out Joe's wallet, bills still visible in the fold.
Methos just nodded. "Right. Look around for his phone and grab a change of clothes for when we find him. I'm going to break into his email. It might be Hunters."
"Or he might have been meeting a Watcher whose immortal had just moved to town," Duncan agreed and went back to work.
Embarcadero Ferry Terminal
It might just have been adrenaline that made the ferry trip feel longer than usual. Maybe.
Last night's storm had made the morning fog thicker than usual; now the afternoon was fogging in sooner too. The ferry plowed through water above and water below, rising and falling on waves, sliding into curtains of fog and the occasional gap of clear air. Only the light and incline changes told Matthew they were still moving.
Too much adrenaline and too little sleep on top of that left Matthew incapable of immersing himself in his current reading. Sleep would be a worse idea, at this stage; he wouldn't stay asleep and the dreams weren't likely to do him any good. He finally tucked The Art of Happiness into this coat and walked forward to the mostly abandoned rail to let the fog's chill wake him up.
Waves slapped against the hull steadily, barely audible over the ferry's engine. Fog horns wove in and out of the water sounds and the cries of the gulls overhead. Matthew wouldn't have been able to navigate by their notes yet but the ferry's steady motion told him the pilot could. He tried to let that settle him away from worrying at what he was going to find in a ferry station locker.
There was no point wasting the energy when he was going to find out soon enough.
Better to save his concern for problems he could possibly sort out now. Work was settled for the moment, although it had taken him an hour to clear the rest of his day. More than that, his warning that he might be out for the rest of the day had gotten first a very surprised look from his secretary, then an approving one. He tucked away for later the problem that even his assistant thought he'd been overworking.
Unfortunately, that only gave him time to worry at the reappearance of 'Ben Dawson.' (Joe really was going to kill Samuels for that name. And possibly kill him again if he inherited money from the man.) The worst of it, at least for the moment, was that Matthew didn't even know what was unsettling him, although something surely was.
So what if Ben/Samuels had been flirting? That was entirely normal from him. Duncan's reaction to him, on the other hand… that had been too close to his reactions to Matthew in D.C. last winter.
Even immortal memory wasn't enough help when it came to comparing memories. Matthew already knew far too well that memories came filtered through whatever emotions he'd felt at the time. The question of whether something had been slightly off between him and Duncan that morning came with the corollary question of whether that skew had been on Duncan's side or Matthew's and Matthew just didn't know either answer.
They'd run together as usual in the early morning, traded out weights and partner stretches as usual, showered quickly since Matthew had to leave a little early, shared cooking and cleaning and the newspapers… and yet. Unbidden, Cory's worries about his relationship with Duncan came to mind, and Matthew realized he was pacing again despite the fog- and spray-slick deck.
"Damn it," Matthew muttered. "This isn't the time for this."
He could hear cars now through the fog. Echoes of the ferry's motor were starting to bounce back too. Matthew moved towards the pilot's house instead of the gangplank, lifting his FBI badge as he went. One of the crew members turned hastily away and Matthew let him, going onto another crew member who looked thoroughly unimpressed.
"One quick question, ma'am -- how badly is this fog likely to slow down transit as the day goes on?"
She was a solidly built Latina woman whose expression said she'd seen and coped with all kinds and levels of stupid. She nodded once. "Yeah, you're new in town all right. The fog keeps thickening like this, Agent, they're gonna have to shut the ferries down entirely in another two hours. I'd plan on car and bridge or the BART."
Matthew nodded and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Thank you, ma'am." He turned and headed out, already wondering if he was going to have to call Duncan for a ride. He was also wondering if he should buy a motorcycle, which would be easier to work through San Francisco traffic. Cory would have advice if he did.
Matthew took in the ferry building's rough size as he came in, evaluating lines of sight, entrances and exits, the security cameras he could see, and where the security guards were circulating. The details gave him something to occupy his mind as he pulled on evidence gloves and hunted down locker B220, which turned out to be a bottom locker, big enough for a suitcase. Matthew checked the lock by eye, by fingers, and with a voltmeter he'd gotten out of his car before he headed this way. He found nothing.
When Matthew opened the door, the only thing the locker held was a large florist’s box, big enough for a double-dozen long-stem roses at least.
He considered the damned thing, a muscle ticking along the side of his jaw, and debated whether he needed to evacuate the building.
His instincts said it wasn't a bomb, not a literal one. Something nastier, Matthew suspected, and realized he was wishing desperately for a trained partner he'd known for more than a month and a half. He'd worked with a few of the Oakland agents before, but none of them for long enough for something as bad as this already felt. Part of him wanted Fox Mulder's eyes; the rest of him said Mulder would be a second disaster in this.
All of him wanted someone reliable at his back.
Hell.
The terminal was filling up with people trying to make a last trip out before the crush of rush hour, at the end of their classes, before the harbor-master shut the ferries down. Instinct wasn't good enough.
Matthew closed the locker again and took the key with him as he headed for the nearest security guard, a man already watching him closely with one hand resting on the butt of his pistol. Matthew exhaled some of his lingering tiredness, straightened his shoulders, and pulled out his badge to start things rolling.
~ ~ ~
Crane, the senior fireman, stood at Matthew's shoulder. His attention kept flicking back and forth between his guys, who were waiting in case they were needed, and the bomb squad, which was taking the box as seriously as Matthew had. He didn't look over but his voice was so quiet only Matthew could hear him. "My guys say we've got more FBI coming in. How much shit are you going to catch if this isn't a bomb?"
Matthew shrugged. "Technically, I'm senior enough I can't catch too much hell over this regardless. Realistically? Someone sent me that locker key and made damn sure it came to me, by name, without a sender’s name or return address. A bomb is the better of my options at this point."
Crane shook his head in disbelief. "There are people stupid enough to fuck with the Feds?"
"Oh, yes. The ones who think they're both smarter than we are and good enough not to give themselves away to routine." Matthew kept most of his attention on the controlled chaos as he explained, "I used to hunt serial killers and some of the bombers. Those types like playing games with law enforcement."
That got him a long measuring look and one sardonic comment: "No wonder you called out the bomb squad."
A deep voice from behind them asked, "You gentlemen sure you're far enough back?"
Matthew glanced over and nodded to the man whose arrival he'd been half-expecting for the last half-hour. Special Agent in Charge Jack Michaels ran the San Francisco and Oakland offices and right now, Matthew was wishing he knew the SAC better than seven weekly staff meetings and two 'meet the boss and get up to speed' dinners. Wishes and horses, unfortunately. Matthew straightened a little and said, "If it's dynamite, yes, sir, we're clear now it's out of the locker. If it's C4 in that box, we could lose the whole building."
Michaels stood there studying him, tall and solid in a three-piece suit that still looked impeccable despite the fact that he'd undoubtedly been at work for eight hours already. Matthew knew that by now his own jacket was rumpled, as usual. He didn't have to run a hand over his face to know that he needed a shave again, also normal for him by mid-afternoon.
"At which point shrapnel might still get us?" Michaels nodded. "We'll hope it's not, then. Found trouble already, McCormick?" He didn't sound angry yet; one or two staff meeting flare-ups told Matthew he was still reserving judgment.
Crane glanced between them and nodded to them. "Gentlemen. I'll just go check on my EMTs."
After he was out of earshot, Matthew laid out the change to his afternoon plans. "Courier brought me an envelope with a locker key in it and a computer-printed tag. No return address, the client paid in cash, and the sender tipped heavily when he realized he'd made the courier nervous. Addressed to 'Agent’ McCormick. I checked the lock on the locker, found no scratches, wires, or live current, and opened it. When I found the box, I called the bomb squad."
Michaels waited for the last of the data, then said, "And your conclusions?"
Matthew kept watching the bomb squad, who'd apparently made up their minds to open it. "I don't think it's a physical bomb, sir, but damn if I was going to be wrong about that at any place that processes this much traffic."
Michaels nodded. "Agreed. I'll back you on that, no matter what's in the box. That said, ASAC," and he watched to see that Matthew was paying attention to the title, "what do you think we've got, and what plans are you already considering?"
"I think we have body parts, God help us. The box is much too big just for photos or 'souvenirs.' I think we have a serial killer playing games," Matthew told him bluntly. "Someone went to a lot of trouble to get me here. Whoever he is, he's in very good shape, and he left that courier's skin crawling. I’ve warned the to watch his back, but I have no reason to think he’s a target."
His own words set off adrenaline and Matthew made himself take a deep breath against the raise in his heart rate. "Yet. No reason yet. The serial killer in Washington state, sir - how active are our leads?"
Michaels met his eyes. "That's not your case, ASAC."
Matthew lowered his voice. "The courier was male, lean, short black hair, and relatively pale, sir. How active are those leads?"
That got a nod. "Point taken. No. We don't think he's slipped through the net."
Matthew nodded. "Thank you." He rolled his shoulders up and back. "Almost a pity. We'd finally have a description, at least."
"A good one?" The SAC nodded. "How reliable did the courier seem?" Michaels was watching the bomb squad, too. "They've decided something."
The squad's posture and positioning moved from anticipation, to tension as someone opened the box… and changed to shock.
"Agent!"
Matthew didn't argue the title, just moved up to see what they'd found. Michaels headed over as well, leaving Matthew no choice but to answer his question. "I believed him. A jury would, too."
The SAC studied the folded, bloody artificial leg the bomb squad had found. "Looks like he was right to be nervous."
Matthew made himself ignore the blood marks to measure the prosthetic by eye, then nodded and told the bomb crew, "Thank you, gentlemen, lady. I'm sorry I had to call you out."
"Valid call," was all the team leader said. "Good luck, Agent."
SAC Michaels waved up the FBI agents he'd brought (San Francisco violent crimes, Matthew noticed; none of his white collar people) and told the police, "It looks like a kidnapping, gentlemen."
"Instead of a bomb?" one cop asked bluntly.
Matthew glanced at him and nodded. "They found a prosthetic leg, one of the newer models, blood on it. Too expensive for the owner to likely have a spare. So either we have someone recently deceased, or we have a kidnapping."
The cop kept looking at him, frowning now, and Matthew had time to read his name off his badge before Perez asked, "Agent, who do you know who's missing a leg?"
"That's a good question, ASAC." Michaels was watching him too. "The locker key came to you. What are the chances someone's making this personal?"
Matthew rubbed his forehead, calculations running through his brain. No matter how he looked at it, and he'd been looking at it from several directions while he watched the bomb squad work, he couldn't believe any immortal would be fool enough to address a challenge to him at the Bureau office. His home? Certainly. The office? No. "It's possible, sir. A friend of mine here in town left his legs in Vietnam. However, I haven't heard about the recent release of anyone I put away."
Perez said bluntly, "Call your friend. The box was sent to you. Sounds pretty fucking personal to me."
Matthew pulled out his phone before the SAC could argue and hit the speed dial for Joe's cell phone. First it went to voice mail, then the automated message informed him Joe’s voice mail was full. Matthew hung up and dialed the bar next, using the movement to cover his glance at SAC Michaels. He wasn't arguing yet, which might be promising.
As soon as the current bartender answered, Matthew said simply, "This is Matthew McCormick. Yes or no, is Joe Dawson there?"
A gusty sigh told him the answer before words made it out. "Oh, God. No, McCormick, Joe never showed for his shift today. Duncan and a friend are looking for him. Please say you haven't found a body."
"No, I haven't. All right. Expect someone by to ask questions, and make damn sure you check the badge with the precinct or the Bureau when they show up." Perez frowned at him; Matthew returned the frown and kept it out of his voice. "Other than that, stall anyone who asks and keep notes and description if they push too hard to suit you. Have Duncan call me if he comes in." Matthew hung up and looked at Perez. "If this is a serial killer playing games, he doesn't need to know how far along we are. Some of them like lurk around the edges of an investigation. A few of the madder ones have been known to pass themselves off as law enforcement assigned to the case ."
Michaels held up a hand and Matthew braced himself for the fight he'd hoped wouldn't be necessary. "If the victim's a friend of yours, McCormick, you can't be on this."
His SAC meant that to close the subject. Matthew ignored the hint.
"Granted, I have other responsibilities as White Collar ASAC, sir. That said, if this is a serial killer playing games, the three most experienced people on this coast are on loan up north, very busy inland, and me." Matthew laid the data out as matter-of-factly as possible. Letting emotion into this wouldn't help his case.
"And it's personal, McCormick. You've got the man on speed dial." Michaels shook his head. "No. We'll handle this one." He added much more quietly, "You're a target too. I know you've been pushing hard to get up to speed, but if there's someone after you, I need you to stay sharp enough to get me data."
Matthew just looked at him, hands in his pockets rather than let anyone see he kept clenching them into fists. "If I were the target, sir, I wouldn't have gotten a locker key. I'd have come out to a bomb under my car or a rigged gas line at my house. That would be if he wanted me dead. If he wanted me alive, I'd have gotten home to my friend hostage in my house or some attractive bait along the way. He's not treating me as a target, sir; he's issuing a challenge to another player. "
"Yes, it was your specialty, McCormick. I get that." Michaels had acquired a frown; the other agents around them were mostly staying neutral, but one of them caught Matthew's eye and tried to warn him off with a head-shake. "But you're not the only one who can hunt them."
Matthew rubbed his forehead tiredly and wished he'd been in San Francisco longer or just that the SAC knew him better. Might as well wish for horses, come to that, or some of his favorite seconds-in-command. What he wouldn't give for Thierry right now…. "Sir, I'm quite aware that a large enough group of agents always has someone who can cover anything. I'm not arguing with you because no one else can do this or because I’m trying to be a pain in the ass. I'm arguing with you because right now, the man's still challenging me to a game. If I decline to play? Then I'm a target -- just as soon as the bastard gets bored."
Matthew tried to rein his temper in, but he'd come this far, he might as well finish pointing out what he considered obvious. "At that point, he either tries to 'convince' me to play or he just kills me and challenges someone else. Either way, he's got a captive to take his irritations out on in the meantime."
Perez looked from Michaels, who was starting to look annoyed, to Matthew. "You think it's that personal?"
Matthew said dryly, "It was sent to the right name, wrong title, at the right office I’ve only been based at for two months. It’s far too likely that someone wants me and could care less that I've been promoted."
Perez brought one hand up in a peaceable, 'we're all allies here' gesture. "If it is a kidnapping, yeah, it's the FBI's baby. But why don't we start by getting some facts settled? Do you have confirmation your friend's gone, McCormick?"
"Joe didn't show up to work, he didn't call in, and one of his steady employees is worried frantic." Matthew kept his voice level. "Joe's reliable and the leg is the right height for him. If he's vanished, then he's missing. It just hasn't hit forty-eight hours yet, or a ransom demand, for anyone to be able to report it in."
Perez nodded. "You called twice, McCormick. His office, where else?"
"His cell phone. No answer and voice mail's full." Matthew looked at him. "Why?"
That got a shrug and Perez addressed his answer to Matthew and Michaels both. "Sounds like a kidnapping to us. A judge would probably think so too. Why not call for a warrant and track the current location of the guy's cell phone?"
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