You know the drill - if not, be sure to read the prequels to this story starting with "Dark Horse", you'll be glad you did. :)
Your reviews are appreciated. Enjoy!
A game of Solitaire filled the computer monitor. She sat with her chin in her hand and her eyes glazed a bit, moving the cursor over the digital deck of cards. The chat window came up again.
hfinch: She's safe.
She clicked on the popup window and typed a reply:
samsonw: You were right. He hasn't come out of his office all morning. Making sure his alibi is rock solid. I don't think he knows yet.
hfinch: Good. They never had the chance to get to her.
samsonw: Won't they still try?
hfinch: No. He just finished up with them.
Sam smiled as the phone rang. She crossed her legs under the desk and put the headset on. "Thank you for calling Michael Emerson Realty, this is Samantha, how may I assist you today?"
A female voice responded. "Yes, I would like to speak to Mr. Emerson, please."
Sam checked the phone lines, they were open. "I do apologize," she said in her best sing-song, smiling, customer service voice, "but Mr. Emerson is on the other line at the moment and is not to be disturbed. Would you like to leave a message? Or I can set up an appointment for you."
"Will you put me through to his voice mail?"
"Certainly, please hold one moment," Sam expertly pressed the correct buttons and sent the call to her boss' voice mail box.
The phone rang again as the main door to the office opened.
"I'll be with you in just a moment," Sam said, her voice light and friendly. She answered the phone with the same greeting, gave the same excuse for Mr. Emerson, and took a message on a pad of paper.
She hung up the call, stuck the pencil in the bun at the back of her head, and looked up at a tall man wearing a nice gray suit, and a powder blue button down shirt, no neck tie. He leaned on the reception desk and smiled at her.
"How may I help you?" Sam said.
"You never talk that nicely to me on the phone… or in person, come to think of it," he said.
"Of course not. I'd never speak like this to people I know," Sam said as though it was obvious.
"Even Harold was impressed when he called here yesterday. You're too good at this, Sam." He eyed her.
"Let's just say that I've done my share of work in the field of customer service, long before I knew you. I would only go back to it if someone's life was in danger… obviously."
"I'm here to see Mr. Emerson," he said, back to business.
"Do you have an appointment?" Sam raised her eyebrows and, in return, got a look that would have cut glass. "Okay, fine, please have a seat. It will be just one moment."
The man in the suit stepped away from the desk and sat in one of the chairs across from her. Sam dialed an extension.
"Hello, Sam," Mr. Emerson answered.
"Mr. Emerson, I have a gentleman here who wants to meet with you."
"How many times do I have to tell you to call me Mike?"
"You know my answer to that, Mr. Emerson," Sam rolled her eyes.
"I'll wear you down yet, Sam," Mr. Emerson teased. "Does he have an appointment?"
"No, but he says it's urgent." Sam gave the gentleman a look over the top of the desk. "A mister..."
"Oh, it's Rooney," he said from his seat.
Sam bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Mr. Rooney is waiting to speak with you."
"Tell him I'm in a meeting, I don't know how long I'll be."
"Okay," Sam said happily and hung up the call.
"Mr. Rooney," she called. The man who called himself Rooney got up and approached the desk.
"Mr. Emerson will see you now," she smiled. "The first office on the left." She pressed a buzzer under the desk, and the door to the business offices unlocked. Rooney stepped through and the door shut behind him.
Sam closed the game of solitaire and entered one more thing into the chat window:
samsonw: He's here. Everything I e-mailed to you I have in hard copy as well.
hfinch: Excellent. I've already alerted C. I'll see you both soon.
Sam closed the window, deleted the logs, and shut down the computer. She opened a file drawer in the cabinet next to her and pulled out a packet of documents. A shout that sounded distinctly like Mr. Emerson, came from behind the locked door. Sam didn't pay attention to it as she folded up the documents and slipped them into her purse.
She took off the headset, pulled out a couple of Clorox wipes, and wiped down the desk, the keyboard, and the phone.
More shouts and a loud, painful sounding thud against the wall startled her. But she kept working until she took her purse and stepped around to the side of the desk, out of view of the camera above the reception area.
Mr. Rooney entered again, straightening his shirt underneath the suit jacket. He held the door as Sam wedged a door stop under it to keep it from closing again.
"Aw, your hair's a little messed up," Sam said. "Is he still breathing?"
"I'd say so," Rooney said. He brushed his short, dark hair off of his forehead. "He just wasn't as cooperative as we were expecting."
"After working here for four days, I could have told you that."
"Sam!" Someone yelled her name from inside the offices.
"Sam, I want you to call the police on that man!"
"They're already coming, aren't they?" She looked up at Rooney.
"Right."
"Oh, I almost forgot," Sam moved back around behind the desk, opened a drawer and took out a little sign that read "Out to Lunch". She set it on top of the desk and joined Mr. Rooney again.
"Sam! Are you deaf? I told you not to let anyone in!" Mr. Emerson bellowed.
"He's being a little rude," Rooney said, taking a step back to the office door.
"That's nothing compared to what he did a couple of days ago. That man has no shame whatsoever, the misogynist, sleazy, hypocritical ass. How stupid is it to make passes at the very same receptionist who helped book the men he chose to murder his wife?"
"I can hear you, Sam! Who the hell are you talking to? Woman, you'd better get in here in the next five seconds or –"
Rooney moved forward again.
Sam held him back. "He's mostly talk. Don't worry about it John – I mean Mr. Rooney." She let out a laugh.
"What?"
"That's the best name you could come up with? Rooney? It sounds like the name of an inept high school principal."
"It's just a name, Sam."
"But it makes me laugh whenever you say it. Do it, say it again," Sam grinned up at him.
John sighed. "Rooney."
Sam burst out laughing as they headed for the door.
"You have the papers?"
"Right here," Sam held up her purse. "Do you want to get some lunch? I'm starving," she said as John held the door open for her.
"Sure."
The door shut.
"Sam! You stupid woman! I can't get up!"
John approached the detective slowly. Her back was turned. It always took her a minute to spot him, and he enjoyed it a little. She finally found him and he smiled lightly. Whenever she looked at him, John suspected that she played the 'This is Me, Barely Tolerating You' expression on purpose. Not that it wasn't true, of course.
He pulled a folded packet of papers from inside his suit jacket pocket and held them out to her as he approached. Carter took them from him.
"Financial records on Michael Emerson," Carter read as she started flipping through the packet. "That wouldn't be the same one who was brought into the precinct looking like he'd been mugged, would it?"
"I wouldn't know about that, Detective," John said, looking out at the park and keeping his smile at bay. "I only know that he hired a hit on his wife so the insurance would pay out – "
"Thus saving his dying realty business," Carter finished the scenario for him. He heard the hint of satisfaction in her voice.
"I don't know," John said thoughtfully as he watched a family of four ride past on their bikes. "For two million, I would think about retiring somewhere out of the country."
"I'm glad he didn't get that far."
It was a warm, breezy summer day. People were out enjoying the sunshine and no school. Strange how simple their lives seemed, how peaceful; how normal. A woman came into view, carrying a magazine and a can of soda from one of the nearby newsstands. She glanced casually over him and Carter, tucking a stray piece of hair that had fallen out of her bun behind her ear.
She sat down on a stone bench next to a clump of trees about a hundred yards away, crossed her legs, and began to read the magazine. One of her pointed shoes slipped off of her heel and balanced on her toes, which she moved absently back and forth.
"I've wanted to talk to you about something," Carter said.
"What is it?" John looked down at Carter. Her expression had changed to the ever familiar 'Don't Make Me Kick Your Ass' that he'd seen several times before.
"The FBI is still looking for you, just so you know. The CIA is lying low right now. At least I haven't seen them. Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Carter jerked her head casually towards the woman on the bench.
John looked at her again. She pulled the light, floral skirt she wore over her knees and adjusted her bra strap underneath her blouse when she thought no one was looking, turning a page in the magazine.
"Sam kind of bullied her way in, detective," he said lamely.
"And you of all people let her?"
"She's good," he said flatly, shrugging his shoulders. "She's saved my life."
Carter's eyes narrowed, turning his hypothetical ass kicking into a theoretical one. "And I'm sure you know why, don't you?"
John didn't answer. He shared a short, intimidating staring contest with the detective for a few seconds until Carter looked away and heaved a sigh.
"John, bringing in other people in on this is – "
"I'm not holding auditions, Carter," he said seriously. "You can't tell me that she hasn't been useful."
"It's dangerous," Carter completed her thought. "You have a civilian woman, legally dead, working for you."
"It helps me be in two places at once."
"It will be on you if anything happens to her," Carter said firmly. "Anything else, that is."
"Sam chose, detective. And believe it or not, I was against it. I still am, technically."
"Technically."
"She knows I won't let anything happen to her," John said before he thought it through.
Carter studied him for a moment. "I don't need to know anything beyond that. But there might come a time when it won't be up to you. Stay out of trouble, the both of you."
She walked away, dodging some kids on skateboards as John headed in the opposite direction, towards Sam on the bench. His phone rang.
John answered, punching his earpiece. "Hello, Finch. Just finished up with Carter," he said.
"Good. We have another number," Finch's voice came in clearly.
"Already? And here I am, thinking about taking a nap."
"I don't think you'll want to sleep through this one, John."
John stopped walking, hearing the anxiety in Finch's voice. "Who is it?"
"Who are they?" Finch corrected. "Three numbers in total. One came first. Three hours later, the last two came at almost exactly the same time. The first one is someone we all know and love, Detective Lionel Fusco. The others are Jerrod Brander and Casey Lovell."
John waited for the punch line. His eyes darted over to Sam, who hadn't looked up from her magazine yet. He lowered his voice, turning his back to her. "They are supposed to go on trial for murdering Sam's parents."
"That is still scheduled for next week. I know that Sam was considering going. But it may be that someone," Finch's emphasis on the word was obvious, "might be planning something else for them before that."
John thought quickly. "Call Sam and send her after Fusco."
"That is also potentially dangerous. Have you thought of who might have it in for our detective?"
"HR, or what's left of it."
"Precisely."
"Lionel's a big boy, he can handle himself. But he needs to be warned."
"I agree."
"Finch. Don't tell Sam about this until we know for sure."
"I'm way ahead of you, Mr. Reese."
Finch hung up, and John continued his approach toward Sam. Her phone rang and she dug it out of her purse to answer it.
John sat down on the bench next to her as she continued her conversation.
"I thought they were all in jail?" Sam asked innocently. She paused as Finch explained what John already knew. "Oh, I see. Well, at least he isn't completely defenseless – yeah, sure I'll go right away."
Sam looked at John as she tossed her phone back into her purse. "You will never guess who the new number is. In fact, I'm not sure if you'll like it, actually."
John tried holding back his smile. "Who is it?"
"Lionel!" Sam said, hoping for shock and awe.
"I've been trying not to kill him for months," John admitted.
"This is a little more serious than that. It could be HR still sleazing around," Sam fixed her skirt as she got to her feet. "Harold wants me to go to the police station."
"Here," John dug in his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. "Take the car."
Sam took the keys, looking bewildered. "You want me to drive? Are you feeling all right?"
"You also might need this," he took her hand and dropped something in it.
"Your police badge?"
"Trust me. It helps when you need to get into places."
"You're not coming?" Sam asked, holding the badge and the keys.
"I have a few things to wrap up on the last case. I'll catch up."
There are a couple "see what I did there?" moments in this chapter, I know. But it just seemed to fit. :) And I doubt those will be the last ones.
Thanks for reading. Onward!