Disclaimer: not mine, not profiting.
"Considering how dangerous everything is, nothing is really very frightening." Gertrude Stein
I draw the line at wearing a mask.
"But he saw you at the police station- he might recognize you," Reid argued.
"Don't you think wearing a ski mask will attract a little attention?"
"It'll be dark and we'll be far away- this just a precaution."
Luckily I have pretty generic features and don't stick out in a crowd; I'm average in pretty much every way.
The doctor, on the other hand gets looks of attraction from passersby, wherever he goes. Reid would argue that it's the cane that draws people's attention, but I've seen people do a double take, when his blindness is less apparent. Sitting by a window in the coffee shop wearing his sunglasses, Reid looks sighted to onlookers and still gets stares of appreciation.
Finally we agree on big sunglasses and a fake beard for Reid, a baseball cap for me and I'm wearing my old glasses instead of contacts. Lombardi only saw me briefly and he was fairly preoccupied at the time.
I think the beard is a bit much, but Garcia was so enthusiastic about applying it, that I gave in and said it looked convincing.
If this gets Reid to eat, he can wear a catsuit for all I care.
It's raining on the first evening, which seems fitting, given my feeling of foreboding. Unfortunately it also makes it really hard to follow Lombardi's Miata, and we quickly lose him at an intersection.
Saturday is spent uneventfully following Jack to his poker night, and Sunday finds us hiding behind a giant pyramid of Spam at the supermarket while Jack searches for the perfect cantaloupe.
I don't know exactly what we're looking for- unless Jack is seen disposing of a bloody knife, or wearing his late aunt's pearls, all of this "surveillance" is pretty pointless.
Reid shrugs off my doubts and reminds me of our agreement- he's already gained two pounds, so who am I to judge?
Monday evening looks like another wash, pun totally intended, until Jack stops to pick up his dry cleaning. The shop is large and connected to a Laundromat with a separate entrance.
Reid is asking questions a mile a minute, just like he always does, trying to fill in the gaps left by his blindness. I tell him the name of the shop and he freezes, dropping the handful of quarters I've given him to feed one of the machines. Coins roll around our ankles and underneath a row of dryers, but Reid isn't paying any attention.
"There's a Winchell Cleaners underneath my building- it's smaller than this one, and the dryers are always out of order. I had to carry wet clothes back to my apartment once, so I stopped going there, even though it's more convenient," Reid's words are coming faster now, and I know he's excited.
It seems like merely a coincidence to me, but what do I know? I'm a nurse, not Magnum P.I.
Jack is at the counter talking with the owner, when we notice his voice is rising. He hits the counter a few times with an open palm, making enough noise to draw glances from the other patrons.
The owner's voice is getting louder too, and he finally waves Lombardi outside. Reid wants to go closer, but there isn't enough cover. Through the glass we're getting a pretty good view, although we can't hear what they're saying.
Jack's hands are balled up into fists, just like they were back at the PD when Reid was antagonizing him. The owner turns to go back inside, but Jack stays right where he is, still yelling.
The entrance to the dry cleaner's opens with the tinkling of bells, as the owner pushes his way back inside. Jack hasn't moved from his spot on the street, and he's still yelling, the words audible now through the open door.
"You'll be sorry, Stu- just wait."
"Stuart Winchell, age 42, Laundromat mogul- he owns six in D.C. and works at the biggest one on 42nd Street. Husband of Marilyn Winchell, no kids, he has no police record and appears to be an upstanding citizen," Garcia recites.
I can hear a tv blaring in the background, and know she probably dug this up on a commercial break- she is the queen of multitasking.
"Can you check for any communication between Winchell and Lombardi?" Reid asks. His cheeks are flushed in excitement, and for the first time in ages he almost looks healthy.
"Way ahead of you, Reid- cell records indicate a ton of calls between the two of them. Lombardi always initiates the contact. It looks like Jack was pestering Mr. Clean for months before his aunt's death."
"Good work, Garcia. "
The next evening I find myself parked outside Jack's place.
Technically it's my day off, but I've come to consider this more of a side project than actually working.
What started as motivation for Reid's appetite has morphed into something greater- the argument at the Laundromat was heated, and now I think the doctor might be on to something.
I can tell that Jack Lombardi is a bad person.
This pronouncement may seem simplistic and entirely subjective, but I have always been a good judge of character- ask anyone.
My parents had loved Liz's last boyfriend, Michael. She'd invited him for Thanksgiving, and he'd presented well- clean cut and charming, he'd brought a bottle of "good" champagne and an elaborate flower arrangement for my mother. He'd listened indulgently as my father told boring stories about his office; he'd complimented my mother's cooking and even asked for the recipe for her candied yams.
I didn't like him from the moment I met him. He was fake and I couldn't believe my sister had fallen for this creep- but here she was proudly showing him off.
It wasn't just the patronizing way he spoke to my parents, or the lack of any substantial personality as far as I could see, it was a feeling. I just knew the guy was bad news, don't ask me how- I'm not superstitious or religious, but I do trust my gut reactions.
Sure enough, a week later Liz showed up at Carrie's in tears- confirming my suspicions.
Her boyfriend had canceled their date, claiming he had to work late. Liz had picked up some takeout and brought it to his office to surprise him with dinner.
It ended up Liz was the one who got a surprise- Michael in a compromising position with Helena, from Human Resources.
My parents were scandalized.
Once again, I learn that police dramas tend to gloss over the hours of uneventful waiting. Sitting in the car with Reid, while Lombardi meets with an accountant, I've probably drunk a gallon of coffee when nature calls.
"Reid, I'll be right back- I'm locking the doors. Don't open them for anyone."
"Can I use the stove?" comes the dry response, and I realize I'm talking to a holder of multiple PhD's and an FBI agent to boot. Reid looks young, but he's not a child staying home alone for the first time.
"Sorry, I just have to take a leak."
"Oh. There's an alley around back with some dumpsters, no one will see you," Reid informs me, and I remember that the accountant's office is only a few minutes from the doctor's apartment; he knows the area.
I'm fumbling with my belt and my zipper, feeling a bit guilty about my imminent transgression. I wonder what the penalty is for public urination, and if it applies to street people. That would be pretty unfair.
I'm smirking, remembering the Seinfeld episode where Jerry gets arrested for peeing in the parking garage, when I feel an enormous hand on my shoulder.
Cold eyes peer through the holes of the 'bad guy mask', and I'm feeling a tad bit uneasy when I notice that he's carrying a Louisville slugger. My aggressor is basically a caveman.
"You'll leave this alone if you know what's good for you. It's a big city… sometimes people get lost."
The man's breath is rank, and the clichéd line would make me groan if I heard it in a movie. But I'm not watching a movie- I'm standing in an alley with my pants around my ankles being threatened by a Neanderthal with a club.
He jabs me in the stomach with the handle of the bat, and I trip over the bunched denim at my feet. I instinctively put my arms out to steady myself, grabbing onto a nearby recycling bin and hanging on for dear life. A bag of cans and bottles spills out onto the pavement making enough noise to raise the dead, but the caveman doesn't flinch.
He's got the bat- he knows who's in charge.
He's bending over me now, and I'm praying that this isn't the part of an episode where the investigator gets "roughed up". He's turned the bat around and takes a practice swing, just in case he's gotten rusty.
He winds up swinging again, but this time he's aiming for my skull.
This is not good.
I scream and manage to roll out of the way as the bat thumps against the cement where my head just was.
"Back off, or I put one between your eyes."
Reid is standing at the end of the alley with his gun drawn, and I've never been so relieved in my entire life. I don't care that my white knight has a white cane- I'm just relieved that the lunatic only sees the pistol in Reid's hands.
My attacker drops the bat and darts through the rows of dumpsters to the end of the alley. He hops the chain link fence with surprising grace, and yells, "This isn't over," as he disappears from sight.
TBC
AN: Sorry for the delay in posting, real life has been hectic and my muse needed a siesta. Please let me know what you thought of part 6, I treasure each review!
No beta, as per usual, please let me know if you spot an error.
I'm thinking this story will have two more chapters.
Thanks for reading!