A/N - Thanks for the lovely reviews. They really make my day as I try out CM. I should have mentioned this is post-Revelations in terms of canon.
The Foundling
Chapter Two
Morgan kneels by the nearest blood stain. There are two main areas of blood, a splatter across the bed, and a larger puddle beneath it where the girl had fallen. The three scenes were nearly identical, attractive young woman shot in a hotel room. A silencer had been used and no prints were found by the crime scene unit. There was a set of untouched meals in each of the three rooms, fish in the first, steak and pork in the others. A bottle of unopened wine encased in a silver bucket. Emily flips through photographs as Morgan walks the room silently, trying to get a feel for the killer's actions.
There was little commonalities between the three woman. They could all be considered attractive but the first was a petite Asian, the second a tall Caucasian with long flowing brown hair. The final victim was a freckled redhead. Though, if the killer was more concerned with matching novels than victimology wouldn't help much.
"Somethings bothering you," Morgan cuts through her thoughts.
"Nothing's bothering you?" Emily shots back on instinct. This was the third murder scene they'd seen in the last two hours. It'd affect anyone. When Morgan doesn't respond she thinks harder. "Do you know how difficult this must have been to orchestrate?" Morgan nods his head. "I mean three different woman, on the same night, in the same hotel. He had to first discover a man who was having affairs with three separate woman. Then he had to romance all three, gain their trust, and then plan an evening together on the same night. How likely is it that they'd all be free? Or that he could progress from one to another without being covered in blood. Not to mention the forth victim."
"It's nearly impossible."
"And the husband," Emily produces a photo from the file. "He's having affairs with all three women simultaneously? I mean he's wealthy but," Emily flips the photograph for Morgan to see. "He's hardly Brad Pitt."
"Some women are attracted to power."
"I don't see it."
"Some women like money."
"And some women are bought by money," Emily raises her tone in realization.
"You think they were working girls?"
"Fancy lingerie, hotel rooms booked in their names."
"I'll call Garcia," Morgan offers flipping his phone open.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Sam Thomson lives in a modern building decorated with miles of glass. The wall of windows dissolving into the blue water and the bluer sky beyond. Reid wasn't one to covet material goods, but even he took a look around the apartment lobby with something akin to envy. His own apartment, a three story walk up with a view of cement and grass, couldn't quite compare. Reid liked his building. It had charm but this building had something else entirely. Hotch talked to the main security guard but Reid wandered aimlessly over to the wall of glass. The afternoon sun seemed brighter reflected against the inner harbour and the carved marble floors. It bordered on extravagant, the security ostentatious. The agents had needed to flash their badges twice before being granted entrance; once at the doorman and again at the front desk. Perhaps it was worth it for the view. The sun was near the crest of the sky, and the dotting of boats and two single-man kayaks perfected the vision. Statistically Reid knew that Seattle garnered more days of rain than nearly every other urban centre, but that didn't affect his enjoyment.
Reid only turned around when he heard another voice added to Hotch's. It's the appearance of a uniformed officer; a tall and willowy woman with auburn hair and a far from pleased demeanour. "You must be from the BAU," she offers with a hand.
"Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner," Hotch offers as he takes it, a quick shake that ends with him nodding towards the younger. "This is Dr. Reid."
"Constable Martin," she directs quickly, waving them immediately towards the elevators. Reid adjusts his book bag and finds his place beside the two.
"High security," Hotch comments as the metal doors slip closed.
"One of the most expensive buildings in the city," the officer says.
"1812," Reid provides once the three reach the eighteenth floor, before Hotch can check his notes. The halls are branded in carpet, beige wool that is thick enough to press back upward against their steps. Their destination is on the Northwestern side; facing outward into the harbour and surrounding mountains.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
The offices of HQ Publishing are barely two blocks further North. The building does little to impress from the outside, a simple brick and mortar construction that bleeds unimpressively into the tapestry of the street. Rossi and Jennifer are wordlessly directed to the fourth floor. The main offices of HG are centred in New York and the placement reflects this. The Western offices occupy only three floors but it hardly seems a smaller subsidiary. A waft of oak infuses the air as they enter the reception area, pristine historical furniture giving the area an opulence and bridging a separation with initial impressions. The secretary stands before they even reach the main desk, directing them down a long hallway before they can even make introductions. The quick movements of her knee-length pencil skirt shows they were expected.
"Mr. Quinn will be with you shortly," She offers without a smile as they reach the main office. She waves at one of the overstuffed sofas and departs, shutting the door behind. Rossi lifts an eyebrow at the display, exchanging a look with JJ as she takes a seat. He doesn't. He shifts from foot to foot a moment and then makes an quick perusal of the room, feet following his eyes. It's a large office, about forty feet across with acceptable views of the harbour. It's likely the building enjoyed better views in the past, but two larger buildings to the South obscure a portion of the waterfront.
JJ shifts on the leather sofa, the soft rustling of her skirt distracting the older officer a moment. He turns away from the window and begins a deeper study of the interior. The walls are lined in bookshelves, each filled with hardcover novels. They're divided into genre and then divided again by author. In another setting Rossi might have considered it overly organized but it fit the backdrop and purpose of the room. The furniture is functional; one expansive desk covering an entire corner of the room with polished silver name plate dictating outward. There are a collection of matching pens, each lined beside the other. It's almost be too neat except for the overflowing in-box balancing on one corner.
Rossi checks his watch indifferently before focusing his attention upward again. He assumed they'd be waiting. At least they had the comfort of an office in a style that suited Rossi; the blend of cigar smoke and wood polish comforting to the older man. He ran a hand casually down a gilded picture frame. There was an aged map within, one of several that decorated the room. This one appeared to be an early eighteen century rendering of the area, based on the yellowing in the corners of the print, and the minor inaccuracies. It's intriguing enough for Rossi to ignore the opening of the door.
"My son," An older voice offers as Rossi catalogues the historical mistakes. "He collects them; likes to imagines himself a amateur cartographer."
"It's a beautiful piece," Rossi offers as he turns to face the other man. Jennifer starts to rise from the sofa but the older man indicates for her to sit again. He's about ten years older than Rossi, a circular balding pattern and deep lines beneath his eyes showing each month more.
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," the man offers with a hand. He shakes Rossi's hand first, the firm shake of a seasoned businessman. "Harold Quinn, head of HQ Publishing."
"Thank you for meeting with us," Jennifer delves into the pleasantries. Taking her own handshake, she quickly dispenses with the necessary introductions.
"It's no problem at all. Be assured that we will help you in any way we can."
"Now," Rossi interjects deliberately. JJ throws him a warning look but it falls off the older man. "Now you're willing to help."
Harold's face turns far less friendly at the implication. He leans back against the desk before he speaks further. "You must understand that If we thought that the author could be involved in any way we would have handed them over. But it's an impossibility."
"You deduced this yourself?" Rossi asks. "Without involving the police."
"It is an impossibility," a fourth voice enters from behind the door. He's a tall man, broad across the shoulders and about forty years younger than Harold. The matching brown hair and green eyes show the resemblance.
"My son Gavin."
"We needed to balance the author's need for privacy with the needs of the public," Gavin explains. "My father is truthful. We will cooperate in any way necessary," He says with a wave of his hand. There's a stack of papers in his hand and they flutter as he moves. "As requested by the police, I've compiled a list of all of Sam's, well, more eclectic fans but I've got to warn you. She's got a lot of fanatical followers."
JJ takes the list from his, word only registering as she scans the list. She passes it to Rossi with the thought. "She?"
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
The door was open by a girl that looked barely beyond the teen years, blaring music from behind enough to confirm the supposition. It was loud enough to make Reid wince but he did his best to ignore the auditory assault. He instantly pegged her as the author's daughter and recalculated the man's age to mid-fifties as he looked beyond the door, eyes scanning the room on instinct. The opulence of the building was reflected in the apartment, marble fireplace offset by thick wood flooring evident throughout. It had been stained to a dark black, an unusual choice but it reflected well with the white furnishings. The entire suite was done in neutral shades, except for the rich contemporary paintings that added sharp colour to an otherwise ordinary space. That wasn't what interested the young doctor. He was studying the orderliness of the space, the fact that everything had been thoroughly cleaned, There wasn't a crocked picture or a speck of dirt in the living area despite the predominance of white. The main living area was lined in thick bookcases, each filled with books. There were classics offset by books of poetry, architecture, music and fashion. It wasn't surprising considering the man's profession except for the orderliness. Every book had been returned to its exact place, sections between genres evenly spaced.
Hotcher offers his hand but Reid only listens to the introductions enough to nod his head on cue. He'd begun his profiling the instant the door opened, eyes narrowing in thought. The apartment didn't look like an apartment owned by a fifty year old. The decorations were too modern. It's likely the daughter could have selected the art but that didn't explain the modern furnishings. And it was small. Reid inches a little to the left, scouring the hallway to the right and counting the doors beyond. As he inched forward a large Doberman lifted his head from beside the fireplace, walking protectively across the small space to stand beside the girl.
Reid decided she wasn't a girl. There was only one bedroom to the apartment. He recast her as a wife, taking the time to recalculate her age. She was dressed in a white silk shirt, short tan shorts too fine a material and stye for a teenager. She was thin enough to be one, possessing a waifish figure that didn't offer much in the way of womanly curves. Her complexion was soft but he could detect the smallest lines around her eyes. He guesses thirty and frowns instinctively. That leaves the age of the author much more murky. She could have started a younger fan, or they might be equals in age. He was leaning more towards fan, due in part to her hair. It was mostly chestnut brown, but the blue streaks painted across the front blended well with the overly drawn black eyes. She looked impressionable.
He was about to consider further when his feet are nearly knocked from underneath him. Reid grabs at the door frame before he can fall over, looks down to see the large black animal staring back up, teeth bared. "Oh my god," the woman mumbles with a yank at the dog collar. She barely moves the animal; vague curse sounding under her lips before she pulls again, harder than the first time. Her arm strains under the force but the dog acquiesces, tottering to the far side of the room. Her hair falls downward, shock of blue covering her pale face until she pushes it back again, puff of air parting the thickly cut bangs. "It's not my dog," she promises as she looks straight up again. She has blue eyes. Not that it's significant. They're nice blue eyes. Not astonishingly so. Just a simple blue. Or a deep blue. Like the water he'd spied downstairs.
"We're looking for Sam Thomson," Hotch interrupts and the eyes are gone. Reid stands up straight again, turning his eyes back into the open space. They land on the dog at the far side.
"That would be me. Though you may call me Samantha Davis," she offers with a tentative look at all three.