The Wicked Witch in the West
"We don't know what she's up to, but it won't be good!"
Things were still complicated with Juliette, so Nick Burkhardt was glad that breakfast in the diner had become a regular weekly ritual. Just to sit and generally chat with Monroe and Rosalee was a very pleasant thing. It helped, of course, that they knew what he was and he knew what they were. Kept everything relaxed.
Still, there was one odd occurrence today. Probably nothing, but Nick had a cops' mindset - a nose for things that weren't quite right. They'd finished eating, and were just lingering over coffee. Monroe was telling Nick, with great enthusiasm, about a new job he had on – repairing and reconditioning an 18th Century English long-case clock. Nick was kind of paying attention, knowing how much this sort of thing meant to his friend, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.
Rosalee was sitting opposite Nick, next to Monroe, facing the front of the diner and half-listening to the talk with an indulgent smile. Then, suddenly, her eyes widened, just a fraction. As a species, Fuchsbauen tend to live by their wits, and have pretty good poker-faces, but Nick was a Grimm, and his perceptions were quicker than most. Before he could say anything, however, he heard the door of the diner open. It was at that moment that Rosalee, with uncharacteristic clumsiness, managed to knock her cellphone off the table.
"Oh, dammit!" She muttered.
"I got it!" Monroe said amiably, diving under the table to retrieve the errant technology.
Rosalees' move was perfectly timed - if it was a move – because it was just then that the new customers walked past their table. Two men, one about six feet, with a wiry build and untidy black hair, the other a good four inches taller than his companion, powerfully built and with fiery red hair.
It was then that Nick realised that Rosalee had done something quite deliberate. As the two men passed close he felt something he'd never felt before. Felt, not saw. Something like what he'd felt years ago in school, when his science teacher had him touch the poles of a Van der Graaf generator. Like these guys were carrying a massive charge of static electricity. Only not.
He locked eyes with Rosalee. She gave him a tiny shake of her head – knew he'd seen or felt something but didn't want him to talk about it. OK, he'd leave it for now, he owed her that much trust, more in fact. He slid his eyes toward the door -the two newcomers were at the counter – and she nodded.
Monroe re-emerged, holding the cell up in triumph. Rosalee thanked him, then said:
"Nick, we'd better get going. I've got a store to open and Monroe here needs to grab his tools and go start work on that precious clock!"
Nick nodded. "My turn to get the tab, anyway. I'll finish this and get to work myself. Later."
Monroe seemed a little put out by the turn of events, but Rosalee steered him firmly out of the door. Nick turned his attention to the newcomers. They'd just got their coffees, and the red-headed one was asking:
"What's in that cookie?"
"Chocolate chip and macadamia." He was told.
"I'll have a go at that, then." He replied.
As this was going on, the other man had turned to look around the diner. He had a strong-boned face, a little on the thin side, metal-framed glasses and an odd, jagged scar on his forehead. As he swept his gaze across the room, his eyes caught Nicks'. They were a vivid green, piercing and carried a sense of power like nothing Nick had felt before. The contact was fleeting, the stranger gave Nick a vague nod and turned back to his companion.
"Hermione'd have a pink fit if she saw you eating something like that at this time of the morning!" He pointed out.
The redhead snorted. "If 'Mione had her way, I'd be living on salad and chicken breast! Mum all but had a stand-up row with her about getting some decent food in the house!" He didn't sound too serious. "When do we have to be there?" He went on.
"Couple of hours, yet." The dark one replied. "we can have a look round if you like."
"OK, but you drive, mate. This wrong side of the road lark does my head in! I don't like the automatic transmission, either."
Definitely British, Nick thought. Those accents were unmistakable. The dark one spoke like Patrick Stewart in Star Trek, kind of clipped and precise. The other one spoke more slowly, drawing out his vowels in a pleasant burr. Here on business? Probably. Not Wesen, he thought, or Grimms. Didn't strike him as Reapers, either. Not ordinary, though. Well, if their business was anything to do with him, he'd find out. Time to go to work.
Nick and Hank spent most of the morning interrogating Joey. Joey was a burglar – something he made no bones about – but in this case, things had taken a weird turn.
"I told you, Detective," Joey said for the umpteenth time, "I don't do home invasions! Jeez, I don't even carry a crowbar, forget about knives or guns!
"Look, I cased the joint. Those people are loaded, and insured up to the hilt, right? So they're going to Miami for a week, right? I see them off in a cab, then go grab a bite and some sleep. Around four in the morning I go back to do the job. The drapes are drawn, but that's OK, they got this maid, and they probably told her to go in during the evening and close them. People do that.
"I already hacked the security system, so I pick the lock and go in, head for the bedroom 'cause that's where women keep their jewels, right? Only I'm halfway up the stairs, and suddenly all the lights go on and the guy is standing on the stairs with a gun on me!"
"And then," said Hank, "according to the houseowners' statement, you yell 'Crap! I'm sorry!", and hightail it outta there. He calls 911, nothing's taken, nobody's hurt, you're long gone and he wouldn't recognise you.
"You were home free, Joey. All you had to do was stay quiet. But instead you have a bouquet delivered to the house yesterday, with a note apologising for the inconvenience. A bouquet you paid for with your own credit card. Why?"
Joey drew himself up to his full five-foot-three.
"I'm a professional, detective!" He said stiffly. "I do my homework. I check my customers out. I never robbed anybody who couldn't afford it or who wasn't insured. I spent five years studying to be a locksmith so I don't have to break anything, and two years learning computers so I can hack systems without crashing them. I make sure the houses are empty and I never make a mess. I did one job a year ago, it was three weeks before they realised anything was gone!
"Now that poor lady took sick on the way to the airport, so they cancelled their vacation and came home. It's not nice, not polite, to go into somebody's home when they're there. I owed them an apology. Especially since she was sick."
"It's nice," Nick said as they sent Joey down to Holding, "to see somebody take a pride in their work!"
"Sure it is!" Hank growled. "But with nothing taken and no ID, most we can get this guy on is sending unsolicited flowers! Can't get breaking and entering 'cause he didn't break anything - picked the lock clean and neat. Can't even get trespassing, 'cause the guy who owns the house can't be sure it's Joey he saw!"
"We got a confession." Nick pointed out.
"Yeah, and his attorney'll say 'no harm, no foul', the DA'll go with it to save money on a trial, and he'll walk." Hank shook his head. "Chalk it up to experience."
They'd about got to their desks when Wu hailed them. "Captain wants you two in his office!"
Captain Renard was looking a little worried, Nick thought, but then he recognised the two men he'd seen in the diner, waiting in the office. This close, the odd sensation he'd felt before was doubled. There was power here, real power, but what kind?
"Gentlemen," Renard was saying, "These are two of my best officers, Detectives Nick Burkhardt and Hank Griffin. Nick, Hank, these are Detective Chief Inspector Harry Potter," the dark man with the scar, "and Detective Inspector Ronald Weasley" the redhead. "They're with the London Metropolitan Police, here on an important case. I want you two to give them any assistance you can."
"And keep us from making too many gaffes!" Weasley added with a broad, infectious, grin.
"The Metropolitan Police?" Hank frowned. "What's Scotland Yard doing in Portland?"
Potter chuckled. "As far as I know, Scotland Yard is still in London!" He pointed out. "We're here looking for someone. Can we go somewhere for a coffee and talk about it?"
Nick glanced at Renard, who nodded. "Keep me posted." He said.
As Nick led them all back to the Squad Room he heard Weasley telling Hank "No, they just call us 'the Met', now. 'Scotland Yard' sort of went out in the '70's. HQ is still in New Scotland Yard, though."
Nick turned to Potter. "Detective Chief Inspector, that's a mouthful!" He remarked.
Potter rolled his eyes. "I know, I know! The head of all the police in the UK has the title 'Her Majesty's Chief Inspector of Constabulary'! You can call us DCI Potter and DI Weasley if you like, but just 'Harry' and 'Ron' would be better.
"You're the bloke I saw in the diner this morning, aren't you? I'm good at faces."
Renard watched them go through the glass walls of his office, then picked up his cellphone and dialled an overseas number.
"C'est moi." He said. "Would you like to tell me why two British Aurors just arrived in my precinct without any warning?"
"I'll have to give you some background," Harry was saying, "and it's a bit sensitive, so please keep it as quiet as you can. Back in the late '90's we had a problem in the UK with a far-right group, led by a man called Riddle. They had big plans for a coup, but all they achieved was a few minor acts of terrorism before they were rumbled. They holed up in a ruined castle up in Scotland, there was a shoot-out with some armed police, some got killed, others got arrested.
"That's where the trouble started, really, because some of the ones that got caught sang like canaries. Among other things, they told us about this woman..."
Ron took a photo out of a folder he had and passed it across. It was a high-quality colour print of a small, squat woman with a toadlike face and mousy brown hair she wore tied in a girlish bow.
"Her name is Dolores Jane Umbridge, and she was a highly-placed Civil Servant working for the Home Office. She was up to her neck in the conspiracy and had been passing intel to Riddle's people for years.
"As you can imagine, the Government wanted to avoid a scandal, so she was quietly arrested. They told everybody she'd fallen ill."
Harry sighed. "Turns out it wasn't too far from the truth, because when they came to talk to her, they found she was as batty as a fruitcake!"
"Totally bloody mental!" Ron affirmed. "So instead of having a secret trial or whatever, they sectioned her."
"Confined in a secure psychiatric hospital." Harry went on. "They did everything they could for her, but she went on deteriorating. Delusional, paranoid, the whole thing.
"This was back in 1997, and nobody thought she was getting out. But then, of course, 2008 happened!"
Hank and Nick shared a look. Like everyone else, they had unpleasant memories of the 'Planets in the Sky' phenomenon and the subsequent invasion of Earth by vicious robot-like aliens. The consequences of that short but chaotic period were still being felt everywhere.
"There was a break-out." Hank surmised.
Ron nodded. "Daleks shot a fighter down and it crashed into the hospital. Lots of people killed, others got out. We didn't have any trouble rounding up the most of them, but some were a bit more clever. Umbridge was one of them."
"We kept looking, but no clue for a long time. Then we had a tip-off from the FBI that she'd been spotted over here. As far as we could make out, she was headed in this direction, so Harry and I came over to have a look."
Harry leaned forward. "Umbridge may not look like much." He said grimly. "But she's extremely dangerous. As I said, she's delusional and paranoid, but she's also highly intelligent. She tried to escape once before and almost succeeded, tried to kill a nurse in the process. She's no regard for human life, doesn't care who she hurts."
"Sounds like serial killer material." Nick remarked. "Maybe we should call in the BAU?"
"We're liaising with the FBI." Harry told him. "If it all blows up, we can call them in. But what with one thing and another, we'd prefer to keep it low-key."
"Do we have any idea what this woman might be planning?" Hank wanted to know.
Harry shook his head. "We don't know what she's up to, but it won't be good!
"It's only fair to tell you, as well, that she may already have killed. We're not sure, there's no evidence, just a couple of bodies in places we think she's been to, with no other explanations.
"There's a businessman in New York, Mac Taylor and his team are looking into that one, and a Navy officer in Washington DC, that one's under NCIS jurisdiction. Chances are, it's nothing to do with Umbridge. Here are the files, we'll be contacted if anything shows up."
"So," Hank said, "We need to wait and see, right?"
"Not exactly." Ron told him. "We can look over the airport, train and bus arrivals, and check local hotels and so on. Can't be that many British tourists in Portland. No offence, but this isn't exactly Orlando, Florida!
"Old-fashioned leg-work, really. Show the photo around and see if anyone recognises it."
It took less than an hour to get hold of the airport and other records. They were just starting in when Renard came over.
"Nick, Hank, there's been a man found dead in his apartment. Normally I wouldn't bother you, but the witness who found him asked for Nick specifically, says he knows you."
Nick glanced over at the visitors, Harry waved a hand.
"Go." He said. "We didn't come here to keep you from the day job. Ron and I will carry on with these and catch you up when you get back."
The apartment block was a nice one, not high-end, but middle-class and comfortable. Wu was already there and gave them the basics.
"The witness is a repairman, called by appointment about forty minutes ago. He couldn't get an answer, so he got the super to buzz him in and they went up together. The vics' door was ajar, so they went in. Found him dead in his armchair, no wounds or signs of violence, but the apartment had been tossed.
"CSU and the ME are just waiting on you guys. Witnesses are over there. Repairmans' clean, he was at some kind of lodge last night, got about fifty witnesses. So was the super, it seems they know each other.
"One thing about the body. It's weird. Like they say, no wounds or signs of a struggle, but his face! Never seen anyone look so scared or in so much pain!"
Nick thanked him and turned to Hank. "You go on up, I'll take the witnesses."
He'd already guessed who, or at least what, the witnesses might be, and he wasn't entirely surprised to see Bud standing in a corner, looking relieved to see him. The super, standing next to Bud, went into an involuntary woge on recognising Nick, revealing himself to be another Eisbiber.
"I'm not," Nick said quietly, "going to be cutting any heads off right now, OK?"
"I told you he was a good guy!" Bud said to his friend. "Nick, this is Brad, he's the super here."
"Hi, Brad, I remember you from that time I came to the Lodge." Nick said soothingly. "Now, you want to tell me what happened?"
"Well, Brad here and I have an agreement where I do all the maintenance work for this block." Bud told him. "He called me yesterday and said Mr Carmichaels' refrigerator needed work, so I agreed to come over this morning. Mr Carmichael knew to expect me, but he didn't answer his bell, so I buzzed Brad and we went up together."
"We were kinda worried," Brad spoke up, "Mr Carmichael's an elderly guy and we thought he might be sick or something. Anyway, we found his door ajar, so we went in and found him, dead in his chair, with that look on his face..."
Brad clearly couldn't go on, but Bud took over.
"We were gonna call an ambulance until we noticed the mess. Mr Carmichael had a lot of stuff, but he always kept it neat. But everything was all over, so we knew someone had been in. We called the police instead. I'm sorry I asked for you, Nick, but..."
"Was he one of you?" Nick asked quietly.
Brad shook his head. "Not an Eisbiber, no. He was a Maushertz."
That put a new dimension on things. Nick could not imagine why anyone would want to kill a Maushertz. The shy, timid creatures went out of their way to avoid upsetting anyone. But they were hoarders, and if this Carmichael had gotten hold of something important or valuable, it might be worth killing for. Of course, it would not be out of character for an elderly and frail Maushertz to die of fright during a home invasion.
"Do any other Wesen live here?" He asked.
Brad nodded. "A family of Seelengut, couple of Reiningen, a Stangebar and more Eisbiber. Nobody unpleasant. They come here because they know I run the place and they feel safe here."
"Makes sense." Nick acknowledged. "OK, well that officer over there will take your statements. Just tell her what happened and what you saw. You're not suspects, so don't worry, but if you need me, Bud has my number."
As he went off to find Hank, Nick ran over things in his mind. None of the other Wesen Brad had mentioned were inherently dangerous, except perhaps the Reiningen. The ratlike Wesen could be vicious when cornered, but Nick couldn't imagine a Maushertz cornering anyone.
The scene was just as Bud and Brad had described it to him. Mr Carmichael was huddled in an armchair in his living room, wearing pyjamas and a robe. He had been a thin old man with whispy white hair, very frail-looking when alive, Nick imagined, now more so in death. His head was resting against the back of the chair but his face was stretched in a wide-eyed grimace of pain and fear.
Every room in the apartment, apart from the kitchen and bathroom, was lined with shelves, which had clearly once been stacked with boxes and files, all neatly labelled. Now, however, the shelves were partially stripped, the boxes, files and their contents were scattered over the floor.
Hank looked up as Nick came in and said, "Somebody sure tossed this place! Looks to me like the old guy let whoever it was in. No sign of forced entry. ME puts T-O-D around twelve last night. No signs of violence, could be a seizure or heart attack. Looks like he was scared to death if you ask me."
Nick nodded. "I saw a camera in the foyer. We should pull the tapes from last night, see who came and went. We should also do a door-to-door. We also need to got through this room. Somebody was looking for something. They may have found it and taken it already, or they might've got scared when the old guy died and left in a hurry. Either way, we should find out what they were after, if we can."
Hank stepped a little closer and asked quietly, "Was he one of...?"
"Yeah." Nick replied. "A harmless one. Timid enough to die of fright. But somebody wanted something he had bad enough to do this, so we still need to find whatever it was, and them!"
They left some uniforms to carry on the search, giving them instructions to bag and tag anything valuable- or unusual-looking. Others were assigned to the door-to-door. There was really nothing else to do for now, so they headed back to the precinct. Their British guests were still patiently working through the records.
"Nothing to report here." Harry told Nick. "Hope you had more luck with your case!"
Hank promptly started giving chapter and verse on the death of Mr Carmichael. Harry listened politely, though Nick saw his eyes narrow when Hank mentioned the state of the body. He wondered why the Englishman had a particular interest in that, and was trying to figure out a way to ask when a cellphone cheeped.
Everyone looked around, then Ron picked a phone up from the desk opposite his and said. "It's yours, Harry. Looks like you've got another billy-doo from that Ziva wench at NCIS." He rolled his eyes. "Always gets the girls, this one!" He informed Nick and Hank.
Harry snorted. "Don't think I'd survive Ziva! That girl chews nails and spits rust!" He checked the SMS. "She wants me to call her. Excuse me, gents?"
He wandered off into a quiet corner. Hank continued talking with Ron, asking if England was worth visiting for a vacation. Nick took advantage of their distraction to edge nearer to Harry. As a Grimm, his senses were a little bit keener than most, and he could make out Harry's end of the conversation.
"Ziva? You asked me to call... Yeah... Portland...It's nice... So what's going on?...Ducky didn't find anything? Nothing at all? Bet he's doing his nut!...Who?...Dr Brennan? Who's he?...She, sorry!...That good, eh? And she still didn't find anything?...Yeah, that's what I'm thinking...AK, definitely...Let the FBS know right away. What are you going to tell the others?...I'll talk to Kingsley about bringing them into the loop, but you know the rules...OK, yeah...Ginny and the kids are fine...Look, can you call Duncan in Paris and see if he can look around?...Well, she could have gone anywhere between then and now and it's worth a try...OK, Ron and I will drop in on the way home, have dinner or something...Cheers, bab."
Nick sidled back toward the others as smoothly as he could, but he couldn't get rid of the suspicion that Harry knew he'd been listening in. The British cop had first-class instincts and skills, if Nick was any judge. There were a lot of questions raised by that conversation. Clearly it concerned the dead CPO in Washington. "Ducky" was obviously an ME, and "Dr Brennan" some kind of consultant they'd called in. Which meant that the cause of death was pretty obscure. So far, so commonplace.
But what was the FBS? Some Government agency he'd never heard of? What was an AK? Not an AK-47, presumably, or the CoD would have been obvious. Who was Kingsley? Harry's boss? Who was this Duncan in Paris? CIA? MI6? Not with the French police or secret service, not with a name like that!
"OK, everybody," Harry announced. "It looks like Umbridge did that Washington job. It was done with the AK." He turned to Hank and Nick. "AK is the nickname for a British Army commando technique. Riddle used to be in the SAS, and he taught all his people the move. It's one of those tricks that anyone can use on someone who isn't expecting it, but it's not possible if your victim sees you coming. It's also one of those things that doesn't leave many traces.
"So, if we assume she was in Washington a fortnight ago, and in New York last week, why the sudden jump West?"
Hank shrugged. "Most British people know about the East Coast, and California, but like you said, Ron, not many come out to Oregon. Could be this Umbridge figured that out, and came where she thought nobody from England would find her."
"Makes sense." Ron allowed. "If she wants to lie low."
"But why the killing in Washington?" Nick wanted to know. "Not to mention the New York one, if that was her?"
"Who knows?" Harry shook his head. "She's paranoid and delusional. The bloke could've looked at her funny, and she might have thought he was a spy sent to get her, or even an alien!"
They went back to work after that, a little more intensely than before.
Just before end of shift, Nick got an SMS from Monroe, asking him to come over as soon as he could.
What now? He thought.