Santa Ana Wind Part III – Dillon A/N: This is part three of the Santa Ana Wind series. For those of you who haven't read the first two stories, or if you've forgotten parts of them, I provide a Synopsis of the main plot points and characters in this first posting. If you do want to read those two before this story, don't read the Synopsis first – it is definitely a spoiler. If you remember the first two stories, you can still read the below as a refresher, or skip straight to Chapter 1. Don fans should like this one – but don't worry, Charlie fans, I whump him too. Credits – Many thanks to my faithful and wonderful betas, FraidyCat and Alice I. Disclaimers: I don't own Numb3rs or any of the characters. I do claim the OC's and the story line. In this story, I describe actual locations, but take some liberties with the details. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead; is purely coincidental. This disclaimer applies to all chapters in this story. Prologue Synopsis of Parts I and II – (Read only if you want to skip Parts I & II, or don't remember the details.) Santa Ana Wind is above all a story of brothers. In it, the Eppes brothers are pitted against the Moran brothers, Dillon, Sean, and Tommy. The Morans are of Irish heritage; and grew up in the lower middle class neighborhoods of Philadelphia. Dillon, the oldest, is a successful businessman with a dark side – he runs a variety of illegal businesses on the side, most notably a string of meth labs. Sean and Tommy are his younger brothers, both have drug problems, and at the start of Part I - Tommy, Tommy, the youngest, is in prison for drug dealing. Sean, the middle brother, has a serious meth addiction, and hatches a plot to spring Tommy free, against older brother Dillon's advice. Parts of California are being inundated with wildfires fanned by the Santa Ana winds, including the area north of L.A., and around Lake Arrowhead. Tommy is working a fire line with some other prisoners, and Sean arranges for his escape while he is out of the prison. Charlie is on his way back from a math conference in San Francisco, and, taken by a fit of altruism, stops to help the fire marshals. He uses his FBI ID to get around the state troopers so he can offer his assistance. This mistake ends up putting him on the wrong side of Don and gets Charlie and Don into hot water with the FBI Director of Internal Control, Jason Walsh. On Charlie's way back home, he drives right into the middle of the attempted escape, and is taken captive. While a captive, he overhears Tommy telling another escaped prisoner about the Moran family's meth businesses in LA, which are modeled after their meth houses in Philadelphia. Don and the team find him and rescue Charlie; during the rescue, Tommy is shot and killed, and Sean watches with binoculars from a neighboring hilltop, as Tommy falls into an open grave, which had been dug to bury a dead firefighter who had been caught up in the plot. Sean vows revenge against the brothers. In Part II - Sean, Sean's spiraling meth addiction is slowly driving him insane – a condition known as meth psychosis. Jason Walsh has dragged the director of the FBI into the matter, and is putting a lot of heat on Don for Charlie's alleged infractions– for gaining access to the fires with his ID, and not signing waiver paperwork to be in the field. Don, for those reasons, and because Charlie's kidnapping has rattled him, bans Charlie from consulting for the LA office, thinking that it is for Charlie's own good – and Amita wholeheartedly agrees. In spite of what Charlie overheard, the team cannot find proof of the labs, and Jason Walsh pulls Don and his team off the Moran investigation, claiming they are harassing Moran, who happens to be an old friend of Jason's. In the meantime, Sean starts out on his quest for revenge by ramming Don's SUV as Don is on his way home from work. Don is seriously injured, and ends up in the hospital. Charlie tries to convince the team that the Morans are behind the hit-and-run, but cannot. His only recourse is to go against Don's wishes and run his own investigation. He makes the connection, and gets the information to the team, who arrest Dillon and the man he hired to run the labs, his half-brother, Lenny Angelo. Sean is not named in the arrest warrant, and now is even more furious. He can't get to Don, who is in the hospital, so he goes after Charlie. In his growing insanity, he hatches a plot to recreate his brother Tommy's death. He brings Charlie back to the construction site, and tries to lure an only partially recovered Don there, with the intent to kill them both. Charlie is injured, with an infected gunshot wound in his shoulder, and is near death, and Sean, in his madness, does not give Don the proper clues to find him. Finally giving up on Don, at least for the time being, he throws Charlie in the open grave on top of another dead firefighter, and begins to bury him alive. Don and the team have found the neighboring hilltop where Sean stashed his car and see Sean in the act. They get there in time to rescue Charlie, but Sean slips away. While Charlie is in the hospital, Sean gains access to the Eppes household, creates a hiding place in the basement, and waits. When Charlie returns home, he tries again to lure Don by taking Charlie captive, still bent on killing them both, in a last blaze of glory, in attempt to redeem himself in Dillon's eyes. Don, to Charlie's horror, shows up according to Sean's wishes, removes his vest and his gun, and sends his team away. The team; fortunately for Don, doesn't listen any better than Charlie does, and they pretend to leave, only to return and jump Sean just as he pulls the trigger. Don is grazed by the bullet, but he and Charlie get out relatively unscathed, and Sean is captured. Dillon unfortunately, gets out of prison – the judge throws out Charlie's work because of his kidnapping, citing a conflict of interest, and Lenny Angelo, out of fear for his life, takes the rap for Dillon. Don, although completely shaken by the whole ordeal, is finally convinced by Charlie and his team to allow Charlie to consult again. The brothers still bear psychological scars, and Charlie a possible permanent shoulder disability, as Part III opens.
Dillon Moran tooled his BMW up the winding roads in the Hollywood hills. He took his time, pulling over where he could; surveying the road behind him to make sure he wasn't being followed. He didn't trust his home after the feds had crawled through it – God only knew what kinds of bugs they might have placed. He was having it swept, but it would take awhile before the people he hired could clear it; although they were experts, the home and grounds were sizable. In the meantime, he was using an untraceable cell phone, calling from remote locations.
Finally satisfied that if there was anyone following him, they were far enough away that they couldn't remotely pick up his conversation, he pulled off into the parking area for a scenic overlook. It was mid-afternoon, and the only people there were some Japanese tourists, a group of young college-age kids, busily snapping pictures of themselves and the view. He strode away from them to the other side of the lot, the cool breeze tugging at his tailored suit. After a brief respite, the Santa Ana wind was picking up again – not as potent as it had been in October, but it was back, along with a sporadic wildfire or two. He could hear it whistling past the cell phone as he put it to his ear, and he knew he would have to speak over it. It didn't matter; the tourists were far enough away, plus the wind drowned out sound, sending any conversation swirling away over the hilltops. He hit speed dial, and put the phone to his ear. "I'm clear. Can you talk?"
"Yeah," came the voice from the other end.
"I've got a new man assigned to the programming. He's taking everything I've got in Philly and Jersey, and rerouting it."
"Going forward, or history?"
Dillon shot a glance at the tourists, making sure they were keeping their distance. "Both. He's already modified the banking transactions going forward, but he needs to go back and cover past transactions. And he needs get into tax records again. He knows what to do once he's in their system, but he needs access, just like Mick did. Can you get us that?"
"Yeah. He's modifying any connections to my accounts, too, right?"
"Of course, Jason – yours and mine. It will be a little tougher to capture it all – it will take some time. The business out East has been in operation a lot longer than the one in L.A. – he has to track down a lot of past transactions. I'm thinking we go after the hard copies of the tax records from the start – if we could get our hands on those, modify them and return them without anyone knowing, it would seal the deal. We wouldn't have to bust them out of some prosecutor's office."
There was a pause. "I might be able to put someone on that from my end. How long will it take for your guy to finish the programming?"
Dillon steeled himself for the response. "Four to six weeks."
Swearing blistered the line. "That's way too long, Moran. They're getting ready to start an investigation out of the Philly office."
"That's your department," replied Dillon coldly. "You're the one who works for the Bureau. You need to figure out a way to hold them up."
There was an angry pause on the other end, and Dillon could almost see Walsh's expression. "All right. I can do that, but it's going to add another level of risk to this. When your guy is done with his changes, is it going to be foolproof? There'll be no way anyone could track back through what he did?"
"He says no – the transactions will be erased, permanently. No way to track them. Just like what Mick did with the L.A. records. Even now, before he makes the changes, it would be tough to figure out – you'd need a hell of a search program."
The voice on the other end dripped with contempt. "Like the kind of thing Dr. Eppes managed to come up with for the L.A. businesses? You saw how well that worked out."
"That's exactly why you need to come up with a way to track their investigation. You buy us a month or so, and your ass – and mine – are covered." Dillon paused. "What are the chances the Philly office would call in Eppes on this?"
"None. The D.A. there wouldn't allow it after he got wind that the L.A. case was thrown out because of his involvement. And I'll make sure the D.A. knows."
"Then we ought to be okay. Even if they brought in another whiz, it would take them some time to find someone, and he'd be starting from scratch. By that time, we'd have some changes already made – I'm sure it would confuse things enough that their man would have a tough time figuring it out before we were done. If not, we would deal with him."
"Yeah, well, your guy had better know what he's doing, Moran. I've got way too much riding on this."
"And I don't?" Moran shot back. "You just find a way to hold up the Philly investigation, and I'll do my part. Another month or so, and this will be behind us."
They exchanged stiff good-byes, and Moran snapped his cell phone shut and swept the area with a last look from keen blue eyes, narrowed against the wind. Satisfied, he walked briskly back to his BMW, which was getting an admiring glance from one of the tourists. The young man looked up as Dillon approached, and held out his camera with both hands, giving a slight bob of his head. Japanese youth was much less formal than their parents, but elements of the culture were ingrained in his gestures. "Will you take a picture of us, please?"
Moran smiled, and took the camera. "Certainly."
The group clustered at the edge of the lookout and Dillon spoke in a hearty voice as he lined up the camera. "Smile!" He took in their excited smiles with private derision, as he snapped the picture.
He handed the camera back with both hands, bowing in return to the man, mimicking him, as the young man thanked him profusely. "No problem," Dillon said magnanimously, smiling broadly. He winked playfully at a young woman, and she giggled as he returned to his car.
The group watched as Moran drove away. "Nice car," said one.
"Nice man," said another. "You see, Takao, Americans are not so bad."
Takao rolled his eyes at his girlfriend, with a grin. "And I say, they are all gangsters."
His girlfriend gave his shoulder a small shove. "You watch too many American movies," she said, and they laughed as they headed toward their SUV.
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Bradford eyed his patient from across tented fingers. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
Don paced restlessly to a window, and stood, looking out, his profile to Bradford. He looked tired, the doctor thought, tired and tense. "Yeah, well, we've been pretty busy."
He turned and moved away from the window, and sat in a chair facing Bradford, and although he slumped back into it, he looked anything but relaxed.
"I should say so," said Bradford wryly. "On top of your regular case load, you've dealt with two kidnappings and three assaults with intent to kill. Oh, and there's just the minor detail that they were directed at your brother and yourself. The fact of the matter is, you weren't coming in here until you got ordered to by Wright, am I correct?"
Don shrugged and looked away. "I was gonna get to it."
Bradford grunted. "Sure you were. Although I thought we'd progressed to the point where you were coming in on your own."
Don's eyes flashed with annoyance. "Look, I wasn't quite ready yet, okay? I've been trying to sort some things out."
Bradford's eyes narrowed with interest. "Like what?"
Don lifted a shoulder and looked away. "If I knew, I would tell you."
Bradford sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Well, it's your nickel. If you want to spout some platitudes and have me sign you off as fit for field duty, go ahead. Or you can actually get something out of this. It's up to you."
Don was silent, hanging in the armchair, one elbow propped on an arm, the fingers of that hand pulling absently at his lower lip. Bradford regarded him for a moment, and tried another tack. "How's your brother?"
Don's eyes flitted toward him, and he dropped his hand, letting it droop listlessly from the arm of the chair. "Okay. I think. I mean, he's back at school, he's working again. I still think he's dealing with fallout from what happened."
"Why do you say that?"
Don shrugged. "I don't know – it's hard to say, I guess, but I can't imagine he wouldn't be. He doesn't talk about it. He seems okay on the outside."
"But-,"
"He hasn't put much weight back on, and I don't think he's sleeping too well. But he's functioning."
"Like you."
Don shot him an annoyed glance. "Yeah. If you say so."
Bradford raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, you were doing the talking. I was just trying to figure out whether you were talking about yourself, or Charlie."
Don opened his mouth to retort, then thought better of it, and sighed. "Yeah, well, I guess you could say that applied to both of us."
"Nightmares?"
Don glanced at him, and then directed his eyes to the corner. "Yeah."
"That was some pretty heavy stuff," conceded Bradford.
Silence.
"Care to talk about it?"
"No." Don looked at little abashed at his gruff response. "Not just yet."
"You need anything to help you sleep? I can get you a prescription. Or you could stick with alcohol."
Don shot him a scowl. "Who says I'm drinking?"
Bradford eyed him. "No one. Are you?"
Don's eyes flashed a little. "I have a beer or two before bed, to take the edge off. That's it – you got a problem with that?"
Bradford raised a placating hand. "Not at all. I have one or two myself at night. Look, I'm not trying to make this into something it isn't. But if you've got something bugging you, it's probably a good thing to get it off your chest. Sooner, rather than later, if you get my drift."
Don glanced at his watch. "Well, if it's all the same to you, I'd like to save it for the next session." He looked up. "I need you to sign me off for active duty."
Bradford opened the file in front of him, and signed the paper inside. "It's done. I'll turn it in." Don stood, and he rose with him. "Just don't wait too long for that next session. Is your brother seeing someone - a therapist?" He took in the resulting scowl with interest, and watched as Don turned and headed for the door.
"No. I gotta go – I'll see you later."
'Why does that not surprise me?' thought Bradford. Both of them intensely private, both driven, both in denial, at least when it came to their emotions. They were probably more alike than either of them realized. He sighed as he looked at his signature on the release. He'd signed it off, but he didn't know any more about how Don Eppes was dealing with this than when he'd walked in – other than he didn't appear to be going off the deep end. Yet.
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Charlie stretched languorously under the blankets, and pulled Amita toward him, reveling in the feel of her body against his. He sighed, and planted a soft kiss on her nose. "I have to go," he said regretfully, and rolled away from her, swinging his legs over the side of her bed.
Amita's forehead puckered, as she propped herself on an elbow. "It's only eight o'clock," she protested, watching the sinews in his shoulders and back ripple as he leaned forward and picked up his clothing, trying not to think about how thin he still looked. "I thought we were going to watch a movie."
Charlie stood, buttoning jeans that hung at his waist. "I can't," he said, and he leaned on the bed with his good arm as he gave her another kiss. "I've got to get those tests graded – I've been sitting on them since last Friday."
She sat up, pulling the covers up to her chest, with a bemused look on her face. Her eyes traveled to the scar on his shoulder, a mark, still dark red, where the bullet had entered, and the thinner scars from the surgery that radiated from it. "You sure have been busy lately. You didn't get them done over the weekend?"
Charlie stuck his left arm into his T shirt and pulled it on over his head before inserting his right, so he wouldn't have to lift his left arm over his head, using the maneuver to hide the flash of guilt in his eyes. "I had a lot of catching up to do from when I was off," he murmured, as he slipped his blazer on. He looked at her apologetically. "I'm sorry. Dinner was good."
She smiled wryly and shook her head. "It was takeout, and you hardly ate any of it."
"Yes, I did," he protested.
"Then what was it?"
He looked at her blankly, and she laughed and waved him off. "Forget it. Go home. We'll do something tomorrow night, okay?"
He leaned over for one more kiss. "Yeah, we will. I promise."
He shot her a grin as he headed toward the door, and her heart fluttered a little at the sight of his smile. She hadn't seen too many of those, lately. She watched as the door closed, and her own smile faded a little. Things hadn't been quite the same since his ordeal. For one thing, they hadn't spent an entire night together, not once. He seemed preoccupied, distant, and her attempts to get him to confide in her always ended in denial that there was anything wrong. She wasn't stupid; she knew there was – who wouldn't have a hard time dealing with what he'd gone through? Plus, she could see it in his eyes in unguarded moments, in the tension that radiated from his body.
Truthfully; all of it had begun to make her doubt them, their relationship, just a little. The fact that he couldn't talk to her made her wonder if they really had a future. Even if his motive was unselfish; even if he was trying not to burden her, it wasn't right – if they were going to make this work, they had to be open, honest; not afraid to lean on each other when it was necessary. She kept telling herself she had to give him time, but in spite of her own admonitions, the seeds of doubt had been planted. She sighed and leaned back in the bed, letting her head plop on the pillow, and stared at the ceiling.
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End Chapter 1