[Author's Note]

Again, thank you all for the interest in this story! I don't really have much else to note, except that this chapter went unedited and all mistakes are mine. :D

IV.

"Come on, go faster," Rigsby prods from the backseat of the SUV, despite the fact that Cho already has his lights flashing and is plowing through traffic at what I'm sure is nearing illegal speeds, even for law enforcement.

"Crashing into a guardrail at eighty miles per hour isn't going to help Lisbon any," Cho deadpans, weaving through the cars surrounding us effortlessly.

"Neither does showing up five minutes too late," Rigsby responds aptly. I'm torn between agreeing with both of them—we have a deadline, but dying in a high-speed crash isn't going to serve our purpose very efficiently either.

In the end, it hardly matters. We arrive in front of Donovan's condo and the stark yellow of the crime scene tape assaults my eyes, making my stomach slide around uncomfortably. Rigsby and Cho charge up the steps like they've been trained to do and I trail slightly behind out of habit, if nothing else. Two uniformed policeman have been posted at the door, either as punishment or because their superiors don't care much them. One is an older man with a broken nose and the other is younger, with ruddy hair and shifty eyes. They've been here hours already, I'd expect. Rigsby and Cho flash them their badges and they stand aside, grateful for the chance to relinquish their responsibilities.

"What do you think they're looking for?" one officer asks the other as Rigsby and Cho disappear through the door. The older man shrugs in reply. I can't help but interject.

"Do you really want to know?" I ask, sidling up to the younger one. He's nervous, anyway. My decidedly close proximity will only be heightening the effect.

"Y-yeah," he replies, "Are you CBI, too?"

"Eh, you could say that," I say ambiguously, "I'm technically considered a consultant. You know, bureaucratic red tape and all that nonsense."

"So what do you do?" he asks, blinking quickly. He has that intense expression of concern and curiosity, and it dawns on me that he's a conspiracy theorist. A closet one, if his sideways glances at his partner mean what I think they do. No need for suspicions to get out on the job unless you've already proven them, right? This will be pathetically easy.

"I'm what you call a 'specialist,' if you catch my meaning," I say, raising an eyebrow and framing the word with finger quotes. I don't have a meaning, of course, but we'll let him draw his own conclusions.

"Oh…" he says as though everything has dawned on him at once. "Gotcha."

"We're just checking out some things, you know," I say casually, shrugging my shoulders and leaving my hands in my pockets. "With everything this guy was working on, it's a wonder this whole neighborhood hasn't been wiped out already."

"I know, right?" he says and clears his throat. "W-what was he working on, again?"

I widen my eyes. "You mean they haven't told you?"

He shakes his head, obviously nervous. The poor boy is toast.

"Well, it's this neurotoxin that causes your lungs to disintegrate," I lie, faking a shiver up my spine for effect. "No thank you, you know what I mean? At this point, we're just hoping it's not airborne. If it is… goodbye Los Angeles, in a matter of hours."

"Jesus," the kid says, his hands shaking. Sweat is beginning to form on his upper lip. His partner is beginning to look a little nervous himself. "But you guys have it handled, right? Contained, or whatever you call it?"

"Oh, we certainly hope so," I tell him, rocking back on my heels. "This is just a precaution, you know, because we've got to start covering it all up soon. You know how it is, right? Forgive and forget. Or is it prosecute and forget? Eh, it doesn't matter. I forget."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, faking calm. "Hey, uh, you guys don't need us anymore do you? You know, because we could use something to eat…"

"Oh, no, be my guest," I say, gesturing back to the black and white squad car parked at the curb. I offer him a conspiratorial wink. "By the time you get back, all this will have been a figment of your imagination. Know what I mean?"

"Okay, great," he says, hastily grabbing his keys and nodding for his partner to follow him. The man follows without a word. "We'll, uh, we'll be right back then."

I let him get halfway back to his vehicle before calling him back. "Perry! Hey, come back here just a second."

He jumps and guiltily looks back, probably wondering whether or not he should pretend he didn't hear me and keep going. He's also furiously trying to remember if he ever offered me his name—his mind will be working too hard to realize that it's written plain as day on his uniform.

"Do me a favor, will you?" I say, leaning into him and lowering my voice. "Keep this between us. The less we think you know, the better off you are. Understand?"

He nods and backs away slowly before taking off in the fastest walk I've ever seen. I'll be surprised if he even thinks about coming back to this place today. In the next few hours he'll contemplate his resignation, and half an hour after that he'll refute the idea. In the end, he'll be fine once he realizes that Los Angeles wasn't really going to be wiped out. He may feel a little silly, but no harm no foul.

"Jane!"

My amusement is temporary—Cho's voice rings out from the house and I find myself hurdling up the stairs, fearing the worst. The feeling of apprehension in my chest only worsens as I get closer, Lisbon's collapse playing on repeat behind my eyes. Awful, awful images. I rush into the cool air of the inside of the condo, almost praying that I don't find what I'm expecting to.

"What is it?" I ask, winding through Donovan's home to find Cho and Rigsby standing in the man's study, frozen stiff. "What happened?"

"Another air freshener thing," Rigsby says, obviously close to hyperventilating. "I entered a room without looking for one and it went off."

"He walked into the room and it hissed," Cho reports anxiously. "What were Lisbon's symptoms?"

I watch Rigsby for a few seconds but he doesn't cough or collapse. He gives no indication of discomfort, except for the mild case of anxiety he has anyway. The air around us is still and sweet.

"You're fine," I assure him. "Lisbon, uh… you would have known by now."

"Really?"

"Really," I reply and inhale deeply. "Hm. Smells like gardenia."

"I told you," Cho says, shaking his head.

"Dude, how was I supposed to know?" Rigsby replies angrily. He shoots his colleague an angry glance before turning back to face me. "Jane, what are we looking for here? I don't see any glowing vials lying around the place."

"It wouldn't be anything so blatant," I note, exhaling loudly. "And it wouldn't be back here, so removed from the rest of his home."

"Why not?" Cho asks. "Wouldn't he want to hide it?"

"Not here," I reply. "He's too proud of himself. He would want it nearer to the social heart of the structure. The living room, perhaps, where it would be inconspicuously observed in the event of company. It would be hidden inside something symbolic to him, something meaningful. The item itself, however, would have to be commonplace enough to avoid suspicion."

"So what does that leave us?" Rigsby asks, leading us into the room in question. His shoulders are squared and tense; waiting for a fight. He won't find one here. Not yet, in any case.

Donovan's living room is modestly but impressively furnished, bearing cool shades of white and blue. The walls are covered with diplomas and other various talismans of his achievements. All his education is from UCLA, I notice. One framed letter on the right hand side bears a different letterhead, but doesn't appear to be anything but an acceptance letter. His more important achievements are near the top, headed off by his doctorate in microbiology. His books are on display, the more intellectual titles arranged on eye-level so that people can easily see them recognize his depth of character. His self-indulgent science fiction paperbacks are probably holed up in his bedroom, or some other equally personal location.

"Well?" Rigsby inquires after a few minutes. "Anything?"

"Give me a moment," I reply shortly. "I need my bearings."

"We don't have a moment," he insists pointedly. "This has to go fast if it's going to do Lisbon any good."

"You don't think I know that?"

"Jane, I know you have your little ritual things that you need to do to get in the zone-"

"Ritual things?" I ask incredulously. "Really?"

"Well, you need a little drama to work. We all know that and we put up with it, but Lisbon needs us. We don't have time."

"Listen, Rigsby-"

"Guys," Cho interrupts, "Enough."

Silence invades the space between us. Finally, after a very persistent glare from Cho, Rigsby gives me a mildly repentant nod and I return it. I curse myself for the distraction because Rigsby is exactly right—Lisbon needs us. The pressure to get this right is nearing intolerable levels and I can understand his aggression. Stress and fear of loss can do a lot to an individual.

"He reads Machiavelli," I observe, tracing the spine with my finger.

"So?"

"Evidence of a devious mind," I say casually.

"I've read Machiavelli," Cho reminds me, the accusation obvious in his tone if not through anything else.

"Yes, I know," I reply, ignoring Rigsby's amused snort. My eyes rest on a picture of Donovan and an older man. They're shaking hands with a diploma clutched between them, but if the white knuckles are any indication they're having a slight battle of dominance between the two of them. Donovan and his father, I'd expect. Not quite the happy moment it would seem at a glance. They're both trying far too hard to smile. My attention drifts down to the father's right hand and there it is: a class ring. The older man was wearing a class ring from Harvard.

"Aha!" I cry, turning my attention away from the less-than-picturesque family photo.

"What is it?" Rigsby demands.

"It's the acceptance letter," I say, coming to stand in front of his wall of achievements. "All his other frames contain diplomas and awards. Things he's already accomplished, so to speak. This frame, however-" I reach for it and gently lift it from the wall, "-is only an acceptance letter. To Harvard, of course, but the fact remains."

"Get to the point."

Ah, Cho. Ever concise.

"Donovan's father is a Harvard alumni," I explain, turning the frame over. "He was accepted into Harvard, but chose to move across the country to UCLA. Why?"

"The weather?" Rigsby suggests good-naturedly.

"I doubt it," Cho replies.

"It was to spite his father," I say confidently, "I would imagine that he's been doing a lot of that over the years. Developing something of this magnitude just goes along in that same fashion. Spite as a motivation for evil, et cetera."

I remove the back of the frame and there it is—a vial only about the size of a thimble. A small slip of white paper has been wrapped around it, with some kind of formula written in hurried black lettering. He was rushing when he wrote it and stashed it back here. Maybe he'd just gotten that phone call for him to return to the lab immediately, not knowing that the real reason his assistant called him back was to accuse him of developing a dangerous chemical weapon. I pick the vial up in my hand and unwrap it, taking a closer look at what's written before handing the vial itself to Cho.

"Run that to Lisbon, please, will you?" I say calmly, despite the fact that my heart is thudding painfully in my chest.

"Aren't you coming?" he asks, taking some tissue from a nearby box and wrapping the vial carefully before laying it to rest in his pocket.

"Nah, send a car back for us," I say, collapsing on one end of the couch. "Rigsby and I are going to catch Donovan when he comes back to get the remaining antidote."

"Why should he?" Cho asks. "He probably made one to keep at the lab, and he has that one. He can reproduce the formula from there."

"Yes, that would work," I reply, "But that would mean that this vial goes into evidence. And once he starts trying to sell his invention, someone is going to do research and find that stealing the formula is easier than buying it. Evidence gets lost all the time, you know. The price of something always comes down to how readily a buyer can find it elsewhere."

"What did the paper say?" Rigsby asks, taking a seat on the chair across from me.

"Oh, right," I say, handing the paper over to Cho. "Give that to the doctors as well. It's a prescription, essentially. Since he's fairly new and concocting these formulas, he may have had a hard time getting the concentrations right. That writing is instructions on the proper dosage. Lisbon's doctor should be able to decipher them."

"Alright, call when you've got him. I'll send someone back for you," Cho says, marching out the door. Rigsby sinks back into his chair and puts his feet up on the coffee table.

"How long do you think we're going to have to wait for this guy?"

"No more than an hour or two," I reply easily. "He'll have been circling the place for a while now, undoubtedly. The cops at the door are gone, the door is closed, and now our car is gone. He'll think it's safe to collect his work and hit the road, only to walk in here and find us."

Rigsby grins. "Good plan."

"I thought so."