Receptionist Abby Moreno raised her head at the sharp sound of the security door leading from the checkpoints just inside the entrance to the Los Angeles field office of the FBI. A scrawny college student loosened the straps of his bicycle helmet and dug for the parcel earmarked for special attention by a certain FBI agent. She smiled and pressed a button that projected an indexed directory on the touch screen in front of the large, round desk.
The bicycle courier took the hint and, after assuring himself that he had the correct envelope, began to navigate the directory. When he found the agent that he wanted, he tapped the name to reveal which office the agent belonged to. All he got in response was a loud beep and a surprised glance from the receptionist.
"Who are you trying to find, sir?" Abby asked pleasantly. He shrugged and handed her his manifest, indicating the fourth name down on the list. She pinched the bridge of her nose in slight annoyance. This new system was supposed to lighten the workload, but she found that she was just as efficient without it. It was riddled with bugs and errors; another government innovation that would soon be known as a waste of tax dollars.
"You'll find him on the fifth floor. One moment and I'll print a visitor's pass for you." Her hands flew at the terminal and soon the printer whirred to life. The courier kept his head down and avoided eye contact. Abby figured he was shy.
"Is it nice out today?" She asked brightly. He shrugged.
"Smoggy," he said by way of reply. She clucked her tongue sympathetically and handed him his pass.
"Fifth floor," he mused. "Thank you, ma'am," he said to Abby and without a glance in her direction headed for the elevator. As the doors opened and he stepped in, Abby turned back to her terminal and reached for the phone.
"Hey Stu, it's Abby. Yup, the directory is down again."
The elevator doors opened to reveal a maze of cubicles and the cacophony of the agents working amid the jungle of squares. Setting his shoulders, he strode out of the elevator with false bravado and began peering around. A tall agent spied his distress and started toward him.
"Hello. Is this a certified letter?" She asked politely. He nodded in response. Hands trembling, he examined the letter closely and cleared his throat.
"It's for an Agent-"
"Eppes?" She cut him off. He shook his head.
"N-no," he stammered. "It's, ah, for an Agent Granger?" She eyed him suspiciously. When Don was busy (which was often) Megan always handled his mail, and had learned from experience that he received a large amount of certified mail. She'd just assumed this was the same.
There was definitely something off about this letter, though. First, why was the courier so nervous, and second, when had she or David or Colby gotten certified mail at work? The man avoided her eyes determinedly.
"Well, if you like, I can just-" she began gently.
"NO! No," he said, upset. "I-I have to verify his identity and get both a fingerprint and his signature," he clarified. Now Megan was on high alert. A fingerprint and signature? It sounded dangerously like another black op. She put her hand on his arm and guided him to the conference room.
"Wait here," she said authoritatively. As the door swung closed, the man drew in a quivering breath. He hated serving papers, especially these kinds. He tried to steady his nerves and began setting out his supplies on the table.
Megan rounded the corner and saw that Colby was deep in conversation with a would-be witness on the phone.
"Yes, Mrs. Crantz, we take these things very seriously and are always glad to have your input. However, we investigated thoroughly and found nothing amiss with your neighbors. Yes, I am aware that the Aman-Jaras are of Israeli descent, but both Mr. and Mrs. Aman-Jara are native U.S. citizens as well as their two children. Well, they aren't prohibited from traveling abroad and certainly not from visiting family over there. Yes, we'll keep an eye on them just in case." Megan decided that she'd let him suffer enough in the grip of Mrs. Crantz and tapped on the cubicle. When he looked up, she motioned urgently to him. He smiled in relief.
"Mrs. Crantz, I'm terribly sorry to cut this short, but there's been a break in another case and I have to leave immediately. Yes, ma'am, you have my word. Have a good day." He hung up on the squawking woman and breathed a sigh of relief.
"Thanks for gettin' me out of that one. Someone at Homeland Security hates us." He rubbed his eyes.
"Only one?" retorted Megan with a smirk. "What happened this time?"
"Her neighbors, who both grew up in San Clemente and graduated from UCLA, are Israeli terrorists." He shook his head. Megan shared his smile but sobered when she remembered her errand.
"There's a courier waiting for you in the conference room," she said. He raised his eyebrows in surprise and then knit them in confusion.
"A courier waiting for me? What for?" he asked.
"I was kind of hoping you could tell me. He says he has a letter for you, and in order to release it he has to ID you and get a fingerprint and a signature." She gave him a probing glance. He put up his hands and shook his head once more.
"I told them I was out. Completely. Whatever it is, I'm not in the game. I'm right where I belong." He held her stare, and after a moment, she backed off, satisfied.
"Okay. I just-"
"Believe me, Megan," he said as he stood and grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair.
"I know exactly what you were trying to do, and I appreciate it better than anyone else could." He favored her with a smile before setting out for the conference room.
"Colby," she called after him.
"Yeah?" he replied, turning back to her.
"He's a little twitchy. Be careful," she advised. He nodded and proceeded to the conference room.
Colby sized the man up through the glass. He was gangly, like he hadn't quite grown into his height. He estimated that the guy was around twenty or so. Taking a deep breath, he surreptitiously undid the safety snap on his sidearm, and pushed the door gently open.
The courier jumped, startled, when he heard the door open. Colby, trying to allay his fears, smiled and held out his hand.
"I'm Agent Granger, Colby Granger." The courier wiped his hands nervously on his pants and shook the proffered hand. Colby gestured to the materials on the table.
"What's all this?" he asked, and the courier immediately put the table between them.
"I have documents for you, Agent Granger. S-some identification please?" Megan wasn't lying; this kid was downright squirrelly. He left the distance between them and slowly set his badge and ID on the table. The courier snatched them hastily and examined them painstakingly. When he was satisfied, he returned them and gestured to an inkpad.
"In-in order to release them to you, I n-need your thumbprint in this box," he said, indicating the appropriate space on a form lying on the table.
"What exactly do these documents pertain to?" asked Colby, a direct and penetrating stare fixed on the other man.
"Well, uh, I certainly don't have that information," began the courier, but Colby stopped him with a hand.
"Your behavior indicates that you do," he said evenly. "Let's try again. What is all this about?" The courier looked pale.
"C'mon, will ya?" he said pleadingly. "I just deliver the papers, I don't-"
"What is all this about?" repeated Colby. He kept his voice calm, but authoritative. The courier's shoulders sagged.
"I don't know exactly what they say, but usually these papers mean you're gettin' divorced," he blurted out. Colby couldn't restrain his reaction.
"What?!" he said incredulously. The courier backed up.
"Hey, man, don't kill the mess-" he started, before he realized the large FBI agent was laughing. At the man's confused look, Colby stifled his giggles and tried to explain.
"I don't think you've got the right man. I've never been married, never even proposed! You'd better take these back-"
"No way. No can do. Now, if you'll just..." he trailed off, gesturing to the inkpad once more. Colby shrugged his shoulders and did as the young man asked.
"And sign here, please," said the courier as he marked his clipboard with an X. Colby again did as he was told and was rewarded with a large manila envelope. The courier packed his items with light speed and all but ran out of the conference room.
Colby scrutinized the envelope. It was indeed addressed to him, but he had no idea what it could be. Deciding to use caution, he donned gloves and gently broke the seal holding the flap down. He slid the contents slowly out and spread them on the surface. Three smaller envelopes now littered the table, and he picked up the envelope labeled "Read First".
Again, with extreme caution, he opened the flap. Seeing no powder or other cause for alarm, he slid the folded piece of paper out and opened it. He scanned the heading: "Agent Granger, C c/o FBI Field Office Los Angeles" et cetera. He briefly glanced at the handwriting. It was oddly familiar. He was still trying to place it when he finally comprehended the first sentence:
You have a son, if you want one.