Disclaimer - I own nothing! I just like to take things out to play with them
A/N - This is the first fanfic I've ever published, so please forgive me if it's a little amateur-ish. I'm English, so I'm sorry if I get some of the American wrong (language, cultural content etc). Also, this is a slight AU - it takes place at some point in the first half of Season 2, but there's no Tom-in-a-boat. There are, however, likely to be spoilers for later seasons, so please don't read it until you're up to date, just in case.
xxxxx
Raymond Reddington stood in the middle of the yellow freight elevator, dominating the space, even if the only person there to witness it was Dembe, standing over his shoulder. A look of boredom played briefly over his face before he schooled it back to neutrality, his dislike of the rigidity and rules of the FBI at the forefront of his mind. He knew that his association with them was a necessary evil, one that had served his interests very well, but that didn't mean that he had to like every aspect of it.
As the elevator shuddered to a halt and the doors opened, Raymond let his eyes sweep the room, squashing the small feeling of disappointment when he saw that Agent Keen was not in attendance. Agent Ressler, however, was. He was in a seemingly frantic conversation with Agent Mojtabai, but as soon as he saw Reddington stepping into the room, he rushed over, a look of barely-controlled fury burning in his eyes.
"What have you done with her?" His demand was quietly venomous, but Reddington was unfazed, raising only an eyebrow, not dignifying the question with an answer.
"Keen! Dammit, Reddington, what have you done with Keen?"
"Done with her? Nothing! Why, do you think I should?"
"She's not shown up for work and she's not answering her cell. You took her home last night, so where is she?" Ressler levelled his gaze at the criminal and held it, not willing to let him get away without answering the question.
"I left her nice and cosy at that delightful motel she calls home." Reddington's tone stayed jovial, but the FBI agent caught the concern that flashed behind his eyes. "Maybe she overslept? Have you tried paying her a visit?"
"Of course I tried, I'm not an idiot, but the receptionist told me that she'd checked out weeks ago."
"Oh Donald!" Reddington let out a full-throated laugh. "Is this what this is all about? You're feeling put out because dear Lizzie didn't leave a forwarding address? Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not going to be the scapegoat for your bruised ego."
"Reddington" Donald was growling now. "I need you to tell me where she lives now. If she's overslept, fine, I'll take the blame, but if something's happened to her then we need to know, and quickly." The older man pursed his lips for a moment, obviously weighing up his options, before he nodded curtly.
"Fine, but we take my car."
xxxxx
The drive had been uncomfortable and awkward but mercifully brief. Ressler had stared broodingly out of the window, ignoring Reddington's eyes as they attempted to bore into the back of his head. The two of them had barely spoken two words since leaving the Post Office, with Reddington making no secret of his dislike of his travelling companion.
The motel, when they arrived, was seedier than Keen's original accommodations. But at least, Reddington assured him, the rooms were much less pleasant. Ressler asked why she had moved, but Reddington just laughed briefly and derisively, as though it should be obvious.
As they approached Agent Keen's room, something seemed off to Reddington, though he couldn't have said what. He held out his hand, stopping Ressler from proceeding, and drew his pistol, the agent following suit. Reaching out, Reddington grasped the doorknob, turning it slowly and cautiously. The door opened and swung into the room, obscuring their view.
Only a few steps into the room, Reddington froze, almost causing Ressler to walk straight into him. Donald took a moment to look around at the scene of chaos spread out in front of them. There had obviously been some kind of struggle, with furniture upended, curtains ripped from the windows, and a ceramic lamp smashed on the floor. It took a moment for him to see what had caused the other man to freeze – a sizeable pool of almost-dried blood was spread out across the bed's dark brown blanket, the colour making it much less obvious than it should have been.
"Reddington" Ressler touched his arm, gently. "We need to get the techs in here straight away. We will find her." He looked at Reddington, saw his slack-jawed look of shock, his eyes on the verge of tears, and he actually felt sorry for the man.
"Reddington, we will find her."
xxxxx
By the time AD Cooper and Agent Navabi arrived at the scene, Reddington had left. He'd barely said a word, but there had been an air of purpose surrounding him when he departed. A small part of Ressler almost pitied the people who had taken Keen when he caught up with them. Almost.
The crime scene techs went through the motel in minute detail, collecting every sample, every fingerprint, and every little bit of evidence, all the while with one or other of the agents breathing down their necks. When they finally left the scene, a figure in the shadows watching the building flipped open a cellphone and quickly dialled.
"It's all yours."
Within moments an unassuming white van pulled up outside. Mr Kaplan hopped out of the front seat and slid the side door open, allowing four private crime scene techs to jump out.
"You are to go over every inch of that room. The FBI has checked it once, but they don't have the resources we have." And with that they set to work.