NUMB3RS OF INTEREST
A Person of Interest and Numb3rs Crossover
Chapter One
Charlie ran his fingers through his dark, curly hair and sighed. He glanced out the airplane window before looking back down at the notebook on his lap. Complex mathematical equations were scribbled on the first page. He started to write again, but stopped when his trembling hand shook the pencil too violently to continue. All he wanted to do was finish this one last project before landing in New York City. He'd said his goodbyes to Don, Dad, Amita, and Larry before leaving first thing that morning, and he was almost to his destination. The plane would land in about forty-five minutes or so. That didn't leave him much time to solve his equations. Charlie knew he was nervous, but he wasn't sure if it was being away from home or having to speak at the New York Mathematics Convention that was bothering him. He sucked in a large gulp of air and blew it out just as quickly. Shoving his nerves to the back of his mind, he wrote like lightning, the pencil flying across the sheets of paper. He just finished his math when the plane touched down. After checking into the hotel, Charlie gathered up all of his notes, equations, and algorithms, and headed to the convention center to set up.
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John entered the room to see his boss slash partner sitting at his desk. "Have a nice lunch, Mr. Reese?" he asked John without looking up from his array of computer screens.
"You should know, Finch. You're always keeping tabs on me," John replied quietly, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly in a grin.
Harold Finch adjusted his glasses on his nose and glanced at the tall man in a suit beside him. "We have a new number," Harold stated.
"Victim or perpetrator?" wondered John, leaning closer to the screens to skim over the most pertinent information.
"I believe he's a victim. He works with the government, but not in a bad way. He's from Los Angeles, but whoever's targeting him must've known he'd be here for a few days. I don't know anything about a perpetrator yet, but I've looked up everything I can about our new victim."
"I'll get eyes and ears on him, and see if you can find the threat," John said, turning to leave.
"Be careful, Mr. Reese," Harold cautioned.
"When am I not careful?" John asked sarcastically, his face expressionless.
John pushed his earwig down inside his ear canal as he walked along the busy New York street. "Finch, how many days is he going to be in town?"
"He purchased a first class ticket for a flight back in three days. But you need to get to him as soon as possible. For all we know, he could've been in danger the moment he stepped off the plane," Harold's voice spoke in John's ear.
"Fill me in on this guy while I head to the hotel," John requested, disappearing into the crowd of people.
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"Professor Charles Eppes?" a blond-haired, blue-eyed man asked after doing a double-take in the huge convention center.
Charlie spun on his heels. He smiled broadly in recognition. "Dr. Louis Harnett! I heard you'd be here."
"When I heard Eppes was already here, I had to come see you. It's an honor to finally meet you in person!" Harnett exclaimed, vigorously shaking Charlie's hand.
"The honor's all mine! I absolutely loved your book on astrophysics. I probably wouldn't normally have read it, since it's not as mathematical as other ones I've read, but Larry Fleinhardt recommended it."
"I see you're all set up over here," Harnett said, gesturing to Charlie's laptop and notes on the platform.
Charlie stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Yeah," he mumbled, looking down the long rows of chairs branching away from the stage. "They usually have the platform at the back, but I requested it be put in the center of the room." He pulled his hands from his pocket to grab a handful of papers. "You see, I have this theory I worked out. The placement of the platform with the flow of traffic through the building—"
"Sounds great, but I have to go. We can talk after the lecture, okay?" Harnett interrupted, backing away.
"Um, sure," Charlie answered, a little disappointed.
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After "borrowing" a keycard from the desk clerk in the hotel lobby, John swiftly slipped down the elegant hallways to find Room 107. He swiped the card and pushed open the door. Creeping in vigilantly, he scanned the room. "He's not here, Finch," John whispered.
"Well, let me know if you find anything. He's probably at the conference," replied Harold.
"Conference?" asked John.
"Sorry, convention, I misread it. There was a smudge on my glasses."
John could hear the rattling of Harold wiping his glasses. The only things in the hotel room that John could see were a suitcase and a collection of stapled papers. He flipped through the pages, but didn't find anything of importance. Searching the suitcase had the same result. "Are you sure this guy's the victim? I can't see him pissing someone off," John commented, deflating with a sigh.
"The machine doesn't make mistakes, Mr. Reese."
"It hasn't yet. But I'm sure it's possible."
"You don't seem very cheerful today. Did something happen at lunch?"
"No. I'm fine, really, Finch."
John wasn't much for complaining, but that didn't mean he never felt overworked. He liked helping people, and it was pretty much his only option, but he didn't always get enough sleep. After the last case, he just felt burnt out. He could never tell Finch that. It was John's job to be tough, unwavering, and an impenetrable force for good. That's what he was and what he always wanted to be, but at the moment, he just needed some physical and mental rest. But he had to press on, and so he did. As John walked out of the hotel, Finch updated him. "John, you have to get to the NYMC right now! They're going to execute him at the end of the lecture," the sense of urgency in Harold's voice flipped the switch for John's adrenaline.
Running now, John sped down the sidewalk. The convention center was only a few blocks away. "Who's going to kill him?" he questioned Harold.
"Two men named Arnold and Blake Fischer. I'm sending you their pictures right now."
John's cellphone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out to look. They were young, college-aged. He replaced his phone and broke into a sprint.
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Charlie's lecture was almost over. He just had to make his closing statement. He was delighted to see how well the flow of people worked with the stage layout he'd asked for. When he picked up the last sheet of his algorithm, his finger inadvertently nudged another sheet off the stand. "Oops! Sorry," Charlie apologized to the audience.
As he knelt to retrieve the paper, the all too familiar sound of gunfire erupted. Bullets flew in his direction, but Charlie wasn't hit. Shrieks from the crowd sent chills down his spine. His heart raced, and he crouched low to the platform floor, his hands over his head. When he glanced to his side, he saw the poor man who was onstage with him lying in a pool of blood. Nausea kicked at Charlie's stomach. He peered around the stand, trying to see what was happening. Two shooters were firing seemingly at random, but as Charlie watched, he noticed the methodical way they fired their automatics. It appeared as though they'd been aiming for the man lying dead beside him. A third man in a suit seemed to come out of nowhere, shooting back with a simple handgun. But his aim was amazingly accurate; he took them out in sixty seconds. The shooting halted as abruptly as it started, and people's cries dissipated. When it seemed safe to, Charlie slowly stood up. He glanced at the now scattered group of people. Where did the tall man in the suit go? A hand grabbed him by the arm, pulling him from the platform. "Hey," Charlie protested, pulling his arm away. "What are you doing?"
"You're Charles Eppes?" John stated more than asked.
"Yes, why?" asked Charlie in bewilderment.
"You're in danger. Come with me," John urged, yanking him toward the door.
"Wait! I can't just leave my calculations up there!"
"Yes you can. You wrote them, you can do it again."
"Who are you?!" he shouted.
"A friend," John stated simply.