Angry and Obnoxious at the reception desk had summoned someone to escort David and Colby to the CEO's lair, a man very large and lumbering with heavy features. Obnoxious gave the escort very clear, simplistic directions with a sideways glance at the two FBI agents as if expecting David and Colby to somehow try to confuse the issue. Wordlessly the giant turned and walked across the pink granite-tiled floors to the bank of elevators, swiping a card through the reader to summon the elevator, expecting both FBI agents to follow him into the small space and out into the top floors.

Both David and Colby made certain to observe their surroundings, and the upper floors looked to be very similar to what the lobby boasted. The top floor was newly tiled in the same manner as the lobby, and the offices were spacious. The open doors that they passed and looked through showed large windows in each of the offices, some of which looked off into the distant harbor, and all of which had furniture suitable for a quiet evening's get together on matters other than strictly business. The place reeked of money and power. The two FBI agents exchanged glances; sure, there was money to be made in providing a cleaning service, but this looked like the company was charging a king's ransom for the effort.

David tried to probe the man who was leading them forward. "This company looks as though it's doing well," he offered.

Their escort looked at him, intellect barely touching the green eyes. "Huh?"

David slowed it down. "Do you like working here?"

"Uh…yes."

Okay, progress. "Have you worked here very long?"

A beam of pride: "Yes."

David smiled encouragingly. "What do you do here?" Trying answering that with a yes or no, guy!

More pride: "I show people where to go. I pick things up. I take things from one place to another. Mr. Gideon says I'm good at it. He likes me. He takes good care of me."

"I can see that." David elected to build upon their budding relationship. "How about Reuben Magenbrot? Did you like him?"

"Huh?"

"Reuben Magenbrot. Did you know him?"

Blink. "Nope."

Okay, worth a shot and it passed the time spent walking down the long hallway. Their large escort showed them into the anteroom of a large and tastefully appointed office suite. The FBI agents approached the desk. The young lady sitting behind it had her eyes closed, and her chair was tilted back far enough to qualify as a lounger. She would have made a lovely picture if it weren't for the fact that David and Colby had a job to do and, presumably, she did too. David cleared his throat.

Didn't phase her. Without opening her eyes, she asked, "can I help you?"

"We're here to see your boss."

"Have a seat. He'll be finished in ten minutes."

David pulled out his ID; a wasted move, since her eyes were still closed. "I'm afraid we're going to have to interrupt him. FBI," he added pointedly, since she hadn't yet opened her eyes.

"Have a seat. He'll be finished in ten minutes," she repeated, unconcerned.

Going too far. Keeping his voice pleasant, David told her, "He's finished now. You can either announce us, or not. We're going in."

That got to her. "Have some consideration!" she snapped, finally opening her eyes and reaching for the phone. "You people never take the time to understand us, and now you're harassing us. Again!" she added, aggrieved.

Beside him, David could feel Colby ready to blow. He intervened before the volcano erupted, giving the girl his full attention. "We are not harassing you or anyone else in this building; we are investigating a murder. This takes precedence over any contract discussion," he said firmly, keeping his own temper in check.

"Murder! What are you talking about?"

"This is a homicide investigation." David wrestled into submission the satisfaction he felt at getting through her annoyed exterior. "We need to speak to your boss, and we can either do it here, politely, or we can go downtown."

The girl glared at him. She fumbled with the button on the intercom, finally found it, and tapped in a signal. "He'll see you now."

"Damn right, he will," Colby muttered under his breath. He followed David into the inner office.

The first thought that crossed David Sinclair's mind upon entering Mr. Bartholomew Gideon's office was how can I get a cake walk job like this? The second, following close on the heels of the first, was I'd be bored stiff, but that was beside the point. This real issue was that, like his administrative assistant, Gideon too had been taking a nap during working hours. Expensive Italian leathers were propped up on a dark mahogany desk, and the maroon desk chair was in a reclining position, as were Mr. Gideon's eyes.

Clearly this job, in addition to a minimum of stress, gave Gideon a more than adequate lifestyle. In one corner of a room stood an exercise machine that looked capable of removing excess calories without supervision, and there was a large powder room off to one side of the office suite. Out of the corner of his eye, David could see the hygiene facilities beyond that were large enough to be equipped with a small bed in case the desk chair wasn't satisfactory. It would be possible, he reflected, for the CEO to live here in this suite and never leave as long as he could order in food. By the look of the trash receptacle in the corner, that had happened not long ago.

Not important at the moment. David cleared his throat.

They got a better response this time: Gideon opened his eyes and swung his feet down off of his desk. "Gentlemen," he greeted the agents. "Jennifer said something about a homicide investigation? I take it this is not simply an expansion of the DEA's desperate attempts to involve us in some illegal and unlikely scheme they are continually concocting."

"No, sir." David flashed his ID for the third time that day. "Special Agents Sinclair and Granger, from the FBI. We are here on a different matter." I'm not going to share with you that the DEA is breathing down our neck, wanting to take over. At least, not yet will I share. "One of your employees by the name of Reuben Magenbrot was found dead at Lavozzi Industries."

That hit home. Both agents could see the sudden pang in Gideon's face. "Ben?" he asked, sorrow in his voice. "Just a kid, with blond hair and a grin from ear to ear?"

"I can confirm the blond hair." David extended a hand with a picture taken from the M.E.'s files. It was one of the neater ones, one that didn't show the victim with unnatural angles in his pose. This picture had been taken after someone had had the decency to rearrange the features into something approaching a peaceful sleep.

It only took one quick glance. "That's Ben," Gideon confirmed, looking away. He gave himself a moment. "Dammit."

"You knew him?"

"I know all my employees." It took more than a single moment to get himself under control. Gideon managed it in three. "How did it happen?"

"He apparently fell down a flight of stairs," David said, keeping the emotion out of his voice, watching Gideon for the expected responses. Colby, he knew, was scanning any paper on the desk for a hint of anything else.

Gideon furrowed his brows. "You said murder. Was he pushed?"

"We're still determining if it was an accident or not, Mr. Gideon. There are certain aspects to this case that are troubling."

"Ah." Now it was clear. "The DEA has been in touch, and has convinced you that Make A Better Day is a hub for all the drugs coming through Los Angeles and that my employees are all pushers, shoving drugs up the noses of street kids and teenagers." Gideon started getting angry. "Let me tell you, whatever your name is. Let me tell you loud and clear: we had nothing to do with this. Ben Magenbrot had nothing to do with this either! The kid had the smarts of a six year old! It wasn't too long ago, detective, that the proper medical term for someone like Ben would have been moron! When you can tell me how someone like that could dream up a scheme to push drugs through the streets of L.A. or a company as sophisticated as Lavozzi Industries, then you can come here and investigate. Until then, get out of my office!"

"You're jumping to conclusions," David said, unmoved. "You're assuming that we're here to investigate drugs."

"What else would you be here for? I don't see a contract in your hands to engage us to clean your headquarters."

"Lavozzi Industries has ties to the military," David reminded him. "Any death, accidental or suspicious, requires an investigation. We are currently conducting that investigation. Your cooperation would be appreciated." Or required under pain of having your lucrative contract with a military affiliated company cancelled, he left hanging in the air.

"Then, investigate." Gideon spread his hands widely, an angry invitation. "See what you can find that the DEA couldn't in four separate investigations. Look through the files, gentlemen, then leave us alone to make an honest living."

"We can start right here." David made himself comfortable in the chair, Colby paying attention beside him. David didn't need to adjust his position but he did need to make the point that the FBI wasn't going to be anything less than thorough, and on the first go around. "You say that you knew Reuben Magenbrot. How well?"

"As well as I know all of my employees. I personally hired him."

"Did you do a background check?"

"Of course. All of my field employees are bonded. That's required."

"And—?" David prodded.

"You can look up his files, Agent Sinclair," Gideon told him, proving that he really did remember David's name. "He either had no arrests or convictions, or the ones that he had were minor."

"Then you do employ people with a history of trouble with the law."

"Yes, Agent Sinclair, I do." Gideon wasn't apologizing. "Several of us have mental disorders, and those mental disorders are very poorly dealt with by society. We get thrown in jail for having hallucinations, instead of receiving medical care. Shall we talk about the simple things, like how many people with excellent health park in handicapped parking because they're too lazy to be considerate of others who aren't as fortunate?" He waved his hands at his surroundings, taking in the total of the building. "This is a unique company, gentlemen. This company was founded on the principle that people with disabilities are entitled to the same lifestyles as those without. So we only hire people with disabilities, and then we work to pair people up to compensate for what life has done to us. You met Darren?"

David blinked. "Who?"

"The man who escorted you up here. Didn't you bother to ask his name?" Gideon shook his head in disgust. "Darren is one of my more valuable employees. Several of us are unable to lift large objects, unable to walk for any great distance. Darren does that for us. In return, we provide the intellectual structure that he needs. We help him spend his salary wisely, make sure that he has a home to go to, eats proper food, and has good medical care. Do you know how much we spend on health care benefits?" he added dryly. "The insurance companies take one look at us, and jack up the premiums."

"I can imagine." David recognized the ploy: Gideon was trying to distract them from the issue at hand. He chose not to let him. "How long did Magenbrot work for this company?"

Gideon keyboarded the information on his computer. "Just shy of four years. A model employee and a hard worker; only called out sick when he needed to."

"When he needed to? How often was that?"

"We don't penalize our employees for requiring health care, Agent Sinclair," Gideon reproved. "As a company, we believe—"

"Yes, I understand that you have a very enlightened view of the work place," David interrupted. This was getting very old, very fast. "How often did Magenbrot call out sick?"

Gideon glared. David looked back at him, unmoved. With a sigh, Gideon again consulted his computer. "Three weeks four months ago. Nothing since then. Satisfied?"

"Was his work satisfactory?"

"Very. Ben was one of our best employees. We can—could—always count on him."

"Did he seem to be living beyond his means?"

"We pay our people a fair living wage, Agent Sinclair—"

"Just answer the question, Mr. Gideon." Colby too was getting fed up.

Another glare. "No."

Clearly they weren't going to get any further in this room. Getting a glance of agreement from Colby, David turned back to Gideon. "We'll need to speak with Mr. Magenbrot's supervisor, and the crew that he worked with."

"No."

"Mr. Gideon—"

"Have some consideration," Gideon snapped. "They work the night shift, for heaven's sake! They're sleeping!"

Enough was enough. David Sinclair fixed the CEO with a stern eye. "Mr. Gideon, this is national security. This could have implications far beyond this office. And, for your information, I personally have been awake for more than twenty-four hours, trying to ensure the safety of this country which includes you and all of your employees. At this moment, I am very seriously considering slapping you with a charge of obstruction. Now, you can either cooperate and give us the names and addresses of the employees who work at Lavozzi Industries, or we will return with two warrants: one for the information we require and the other for your arrest. Have I made myself clear?"

Information finally in hand, both David and Colby left the Make a Better Day building with a new and heartfelt sympathy for DEA agents Bausch, Gratofsky, and Lomb.


Hard ass. That was the title for Bausch: hard ass. Don kept his arms folded, fearing that if he let them loose, they'd take a poke at someone whose last name began with 'B'.

The voices came through clearly from the interrogation chamber where Charlie sat, DEA Agent John Bausch pacing in front of him and looming down over his kid brother. Don stared in from behind the one way mirror, watching the whole question and answer period go down with Megan at his side, regretting the necessity that kept them both outside the room. This was an FBI case, dammit! Don himself ought to be the one conducting the interrogation—or at least, Megan—instead of the DEA man. But one hint of impropriety, one whisper of family connections seeping through, and the careers of both Eppes boys would be finished, not to mention the black mark on the L.A. FBI unit as a whole.

Besides, Charlie was innocent. Of that, there was no question. There were a lot of things that Don could accuse Charlie of doing, going all the way back to losing the three essential Lego pieces to Don's ultra-nuclear ray gun that could have destroyed the sun going nova and saved the entire galaxy from destruction when they were eight and four, but murdering a twenty-something year old kid was not one of them. There would be a rational explanation for Charlie's business card being found in the murder victim's hand, and it would be better for all of them if the DEA was the one who discovered it. Then Don and his team could politely shove Bausch and his team out of the way so that they could do some real work.

"He can do this, Don," Megan told him quietly. "He's innocent; he has nothing to fear. Right?"

"Right." Never mind all the 'convicts' who were released years later when new evidence turned up showing that they were wrongly convicted. Don stared through the one way mirror.

Charlie looked at him. Even though he couldn't see his older brother, he knew that he was there. Charlie had been on Don's side of the mirror plenty of times, and he knew exactly what was going on.

Nervous. Not scared, exactly; Charlie knew that he had nothing to be scared about because he wasn't guilty. One the other hand, he also knew that this wasn't exactly standard procedure for an FBI consultant. Charlie was used to being on the outside, looking in, and describing what he saw in mathematical terms.

This was different. This was real life, and Charlie was in the middle of it.

Don watched as Bausch placed both hands on the table in front of Charlie. "What's the connection between you and Reuben Magenbrot?"

"I've never heard that name before in my life," Charlie returned evenly.

"Care to explain how your business card got into his dead hand?" Bausch's face was less than three inches away from Charlie's, invading the mathematician's personal space with a vengeance. Don wanted to jump through the one way mirror.

"You are very well aware that I have no idea how that happened," Charlie said, continuing to keep his temper. "If I haven't heard of that person, how would I be able to explain his having my card?"

"Then you're saying that you don't know him."

"Yes." Charlie himself folded his arms in a gesture of finality.

"Then you swear that you've never seen this man before." Bausch slapped down an eight by ten glossy of the victim onto the table in front of Charlie. Don winced; even through the window he could see that it was the worst one, the one showing the Magenbrot kid crumbled at the bottom of the staircase, blood dribbling out of his mouth. Dammit, the DEA man could have cleaned it up for Charlie! There was no reason to try to rattle him. Even looking at things from the most skeptical point of view, Charlie as a suspect was a long shot. Hell, there wasn't even proof positive that this was a murder! The kid legitimately could have tripped and fallen down the stairs.

Charlie paled, and swallowed hard. His voice was thick when he told Bausch, "I can't see his face."

"Oh, sorry, professor," Bausch sneered. He made a show of selecting another photo from the file in his hand. "Will this help?"

There was no mistaking where this head shot came from: post autopsy. The skin had that waxy tone that said all of the blood had been drained away in order to better examine the underlying tissue, and the top of the skull had been removed in order to assess the damage done to the brain. The pieces had been put back together but it would take all of a mortician's skill to make the body presentable for an open casket ceremony.

It got to Charlie. He closed his eyes, breathing carefully through his nose, trying not to lose control of himself.

"Well, professor? Know this kid now that you've seen his face?"

"Yes." Don could barely understand what his brother was saying, and his stomach sank. Charlie knew this victim? How? Charlie gulped, squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment, then he pushed the offending photo away, trying not to look. "I've seen him."

"Where?" Bausch wasn't stopping.

"My classroom." Another hard swallow. "He's…"

"Don't try and tell me that he's one of your students, professor." Bausch got into Charlie's face again. "The kid had the IQ of a rutabaga. He didn't belong there."

"He…" Charlie tuned the DEA agent out for several long moments, getting hold of himself, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. "I never knew his name. He would stand, or sit in the back of the room, and he'd always leave before the end of my lecture. I never knew his name," Charlie repeated, closing his eyes once more.

Don hated the way Charlie's hand trembled; it was a sure sign that his brother wasn't dealing well. Don didn't blame him one bit; it was a shock to find out that someone you'd known—or sort of known, since Charlie hadn't been aware of the boy's name—was dead and that it possibly was murder. And that he was being accused of the boy's murder as well.

"You can prove that," Bausch demanded, "that you didn't know him? That you didn't know his name?"

Charlie nodded, not trusting his voice. He coughed, trying to make the vocal cords behave. "It was usually my two hundred level probability and statistics class, the one where I try to work in a lot of demonstrations. I think he liked to watch things fly into the air, like the catapult example for ballistics calculations."

"You can prove it?" Bausch repeated.

Another nod. "My students would have seen him." Charlie tried to look at the picture without seeing it. "You say that he was… was…"

"That's right, professor," Bausch said. Don could see the disappointment in the agent's posture, disappointment that he couldn't immediately pin the murder onto an FBI agent's brother. "He was a mental defective. Want to tell me why he was hanging around your class for geniuses?"

"I…I thought that maybe he was part of the maintenance staff," Charlie stammered. He looked up. "Maybe that was how he got hold of my card. Maybe he was cleaning, and—"

"Professor, that kid had nothing whatsoever to do with CalSci," Bausch interrupted. "As far as I can tell, he didn't belong within twenty miles of the place. Why was he there, professor?"

Charlie got hold of himself. "I don't know. I can't tell you what I don't know. He came to my classes and sat or stood at the exit, listening. He never participated; he never spoke to me. I don't know anything about him except for that."

Bausch tried a new tack. "Where were you from nine-thirty to ten-thirty last night?"

"I flew in from Philadelphia—"

"Try again, Eppes. Your flight arrived just after eight-thirty. Plenty of time to hike over to Lavozzi Industries and off someone."

"My luggage was delayed—"

"Prove it," Bausch challenged. "Give me a reason to believe that you're telling the truth."

Inspiration hit. "My father," Charlie said. "My father picked me up. He can verify that I arrived just after eight-thirty, and then we waited together for over an hour to pick up my luggage."

"I'll believe him as much as I believe you," Bausch grunted. "Try again, Eppes."

"It's the truth!" Charlie protested.

It struck a chord for Don. There was something there, something that would end this farce. He stepped away from the one way mirror, letting Megan monitor the interrogation. He pulled out his cell phone and pushed speed dial. "Dad?"

"Don? Did you find Charlie this morning?"

"Yeah, Dad, listen; this is important. Did you pick up Charlie last night? At the airport?"

"Yes. It took forever; his luggage—"

"Yeah, Dad, I know. Did you wait at the curb for him?"

"For an hour and a half? Are you crazy? I parked the car. Lot F, I think."

Don took a deep breath. "You paid for parking. Did you get a receipt?"

"Of course. Some of those lots, they'll rob you blind and thank you for the privilege. Charlie said something about writing it off as a business expense. What's the problem, Don? The FBI going after parking attendants these days? You ought to, with those prices. Highway robbery."

"Do you still have the receipt?"

"I think so. I probably left it in the car—"

"Can you go out and check if it's there? Right now, Dad?" Please, please let it be there.

"All right," his father grumbled. "What's this about, Don?"

Don could hear his father's footsteps across the walk through the cell phone, heard the sound of the car door being opened, the rustle of papers. "Dad?"

"Hold on, hold on. No, that's not it—did you ever pick up that dry cleaning that I asked you about?"

"I'll get it tomorrow," Don promised him. "The receipt?"

"Nope. Nope. Yes? Nope, not it either. Wait a sec; there it is. Yes, that's it, Don. Why?"

"Are you sure that's the one? Look at the date and the time, Dad."

"Yes, I'm sure. Time out: ten twelve. You don't want to know how much they charged me," his father grouched.

"Thanks, Dad." Don could feel the sweat pouring off of himself, and he wasn't even the one being interrogated. "Hang onto that piece of paper, will you? Don't let it go. I'm going to send someone to get it from you."

"A parking receipt?" Alan Eppes' voice grew suspicious. "What's this about, Don?"

"Corroborating evidence, Dad," Don told him, "for the good guys. Don't lose it." He marched back to the interrogation chamber and walked in.

Bausch glared at him. "You're out of line, Eppes. You can't be in here."

"Questions are over, Bausch." It felt good to say that. "We've got hard evidence that Charlie was where he says he was, so back off."

"Don?" The look of relief on Charlie's face felt equally good to Don.

"Dad never threw out the receipt for the parking when he picked you up last night, buddy," Don explained. "That's independent verification that you were at LAX and not at Lavozzi Industries." That line was aimed more at Bausch than at Charlie.

"He could have—"

"Don't go there, Bausch," Don warned. "Playtime is over. Charlie's innocent. Let's get to work and nail a real suspect."

"Eppes—"

"You got something to say, Bausch?" You still trying to keep the case?

John Bausch flushed. He took refuge in changing the subject. "We need a lead."

"We've got a lead. We've got Charlie's business card."

"But…?"

The smile on Don's face was little short of a smirk. "We've established that Charlie's innocent. It wouldn't be hard for Magenbrot to somehow have picked up one of Charlie's cards at CalSci. You leave cards around all over the place, don't you, Charlie?"

"Not all over the place," Charlie protested faintly, still reeling from Bausch's interrogation.

"Whatever. Enough places that it would be easy for Magenbrot to get hold of one." Don brushed that detail aside. "C'mon, Charlie. Let me fill you in on the details."

"Details? You can't do that. He's involved," Bausch protested.

"No, he's not. You just established that, Agent Bausch. C'mon, Charlie," Don repeated, taking his brother by the arm and all but lifting him out of the chair in the interrogation room. "Let's go to my office. It's more comfortable."