Author's Note: This space left blank unintentionally.
~Q~
Fan Mail - Say it with Flowers
~Q~
Wall flowers tend to blend in, but Flowers on 14th popped itself in between two bland brownstones, a profusion of rosy brick with crisp white windows and flowers spilling out of window boxes then tumbling over the sidewalk in trailing tendrils of red, pink and yellow. The floral cheer carried right through the front door into the crowded front room, past a profusion of perfumed blossoms, until he reached a counter attended by a brightly clad woman of middling years.
"Good morning," she chirped, bright as a bird. "Is there someone special you're looking to please this morning?"
Glancing around, wondering idly which of these flowers his partner actually would like, Booth shook his head with more than a bit of reluctance as he pulled out professionalism and flashed his badge. He gave her one of his better smiles to go with it, though.
"Morning, Special Agent Seeley Booth. And you are...?"
"Oh, I'm Susan. Susan Burnaby."
The smile brightened up a bit more. "Susan, I was actually hoping you could help me trace an order this shop recently filled."
"Oh." Susan recoiled slightly, tucking a strand of hair nervously behind one ear, but then curiosity lured her back. "I hope everything's okay."
"Nothing to worry about, this is just part of an ongoing investigation," he assured her.
Nodding, she gestured for him to ask his questions.
"Okay, so I was hoping you could tell me something about this order." He presented the handwritten note tucked into an evidence envelope, explaining that the miniature pink roses it came with were delivered to the Jeffersonian the previous evening.
"That's Janelle's writing," Susan informed him. "That means the order was phoned in."
"Is she here? Could I speak to her?"
"Sure." The slow assent betrayed a hint of reluctance at no longer having him all to herself. Susan stood stiffly, side-eyeing him as she went to a curtain concealing the back end of the store. He got the distinct impression her slow compliance had more to do with impending envy than actual guilt. "Janelle? An FBI Agent wants to talk to you."
"Me?"
He heard the squawk of surprise clearly.
Susan smirked but didn't elaborate.
An older woman slipped past the curtain and halted in surprise, turning to regard her younger companion skeptically. "Is this like that 'arrest warrant' you served up on me last year?"
"That was just part of the act," Susan protested.
"Yeah, right." Janelle's exasperated eyes swept Booth from head to toe, then the general area surrounding him. "Where's the boom box?"
The boom box? Not sure whether to be confused or amused, Booth went fishing instead. "I'm sorry...?"
"No," Susan insisted, eyes wide. "He's not a stripper. He really is from the FBI, here to ask you about this." And that note card was passed on yet again.
"Oh. You're..." Pointing a glare at her companion, a flush spread across her cheeks at having been led to make such an embarrassing mistake in front of serious business. "I'm so sorry. Susan thought it would be hilarious to send a stripper to arrest me last year on my birthday and you look ... I thought—"
"I get it." He rescued her with a quick interruption, feeling heat sweep over his own face at the misunderstanding (flattering though it was, he supposed). This wouldn't have happened if he'd had Bones with him. He fielded all manner of misunderstandings and embarrassments with his partner, but nothing quite like this. Booth cleared his throat. "The note. I need whatever you can tell me about the person who placed this order."
Though still mortified Janelle recovered quickly the moment she saw the note card. Heavier of frame, sturdy in all the right ways, she frowned down at her own writing. Her mood shifted quickly as she exchanged another, entirely darker glance with her business partner. "He called yesterday morning."
Surprised, Booth asked if there was something distinctive about the call that would make it stand out in her memory, and Janelle chuckled without humor. "Being ripped off makes it memorable. Is that why you're here?"
"Ripped off..."
"Is that the one...?" Susan interjected.
"Yeah." Janelle was not happy about it, whatever the two were discussing.
"Pardon my intrusion," Booth interrupted. "If I could get your name...?"
"Janelle Taylor. This is my shop."
"Great, can you tell me what happened?" His colored note cards out and pen poised, Booth waited.
Janelle puffed an irritated gust of contempt, slapping the offending note card down. "He called around nine in the morning, sounded really sweet but upset. He said he'd been fighting with his girlfriend over her long working hours and wanted to make it up to her."
"How did he plan to do that," Booth prompted.
"We talked about using flowers to convey feelings but since they argued over how much time she spends at work, he wanted to have them delivered while she was working late. So she would know that he understood. He was very insistent about getting them there before seven-thirty."
Receiving confirmation of his earlier hunch didn't console Booth at all. The guy knew her habits and work environment well enough to have pinned down a time late enough in the day that she would be relatively isolated while still at work, but yet early enough that deliveries would still be accepted. His stomach churned. "So he requested a specific time?"
"Yes..." Janelle leaned over to turn a page back in a planner set along the back wall. "Seven PM. We gave that order to Colby, he's reliable."
"Did the caller give a name?"
"His girlfriend's name was odd. Temperance Brennan."
Booth flinched, hearing the casual mention of his partner's name as some psycho's wannabe girlfriend. "What about his?"
In anticipation that he'd be asking this soon, Susan was rifling through a stack of receipts already and pulled one out with a frown. "Hector Sandoval."
"That's the caller?"
"Well now, who knows," Janelle shrugged. "That's the name on the credit card he used."
"A Visa charge," Susan added. "Had the correct account number and expiration date, the three-digit security code, and the zip code. We have to input all that at the point of sale terminal." And she gestured to the small machine standing idly by the cash register. "Janelle did everything right. Everything checked out. We thought the transaction cleared."
"So, it didn't clear..." Booth guessed, because both women seemed upset.
"No, we got a huge chargeback from the bank this morning. We're out over $300 dollars, plus fees. The card was stolen."
Unable to believe that basket of roses cost $300, Booth picked up the note card and frowned. "Did he order more than this?"
"Sure did. Thirty red roses."
"Wait, did you say ... thirty?!"
The women exchanged wary glances.
"You're not here about the credit card fraud, are you..."
"No." A sick coiling had begun to snake around his innards. This guy was slick, covering his tracks, phoning in orders using phony names and stolen credit. "The woman he sent them to, he may be stalking her."
"Oh, God!" They both looked properly horrified now, as well as thoroughly burned on the transaction, but Susan was the one moved to speak on their behalf. "Oh, we're so sorry, we had no idea."
"You took all the proper precautions," he reminded, which they had. It wasn't their fault and in a way they were even greater victims, having been screwed out of $300 worth of flowers. "This guy is the one who is responsible, okay?"
The proprietress sighed and settled herself against the counter with a resigned shrug. "No good deed goes unpunished."
Booth took a moment to record information off the sales slip, knowing it would lead indirectly. Mr. Sandoval may be a victim too, but he'd crossed paths with the stalker at some point and the misuse of his credit card gave Booth a much needed opening. Finally, there was a crime to investigate. Letters and flowers weren't illegal but using a stolen credit card was fraud. Identity theft. Outright theft of flowers unpaid for. It was somewhere to start. Pulling out his business card, he gave it to Ms. Janelle Taylor, who studied it with resignation before tucking it right next to the telephone.
"Is there anything else you need," she asked.
Returning his attention to the note card, Booth tried to anticipate what else a profiler would ask. "Did the caller dictate this note?"
Janelle nodded. "Yes, he told me exactly what to write on both of them."
"Mmmm. Either of you left-handed?"
"I am." Janelle again.
It was time to go, but suddenly a blip of ink smeared beside the word 'you' made him pause. "One more thing. What pen did you use to write this...?"
She glanced to her side and plucked up a blue pen, held it out. "Why?"
It was a Paper-mate. Seeing Bones had been right caused an emerging laugh to squirm and twist into something more like a pout when he envisioned actually telling her she'd been right. No way, not a good idea. "You mind if I take that into evidence?"
"This? What for?" But she gave it up with a careless shrug.
"Just ... confirming a hunch." He bagged the pen and tucked it away with a note describing when and where he'd taken it. "You wrote out a note card for the roses, too?"
"Yes, I already said that."
"I know." He flared his best apology grin. "Just being thorough, so I don't have to come back and bother you later."
"Oh, it's no bother," Susan offered helpfully. "You come back any time."
"I might just do that," he promised. "Meanwhile, do me a favor. If any other orders come in for Temperance Brennan, call me right away. Hopefully we can catch this guy."
Securing their agreement, he walked back out to the sidewalk, searching up and down busy 14th Street for a place to stop and plan his next move. Track down Hector Sandoval. Get in touch with Brennan's publisher. Have Hodgins take a look at the letter. Get copies of the letter, pen and florist note cards over to the Behavioral Sciences Unit for analysis. Breathe.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, interrupting the zen moment. "Booth!"
"It's me." Her voice, stressed and trying to stay controlled.
"What's wrong?"
"More flowers. A lot more."
The thirty red roses, he suspected. "What kind?"
"Roses, long stemmed and red, over two dozen. It's obscene. Wasteful."
Booth pinched his nose and forced himself to breathe slowly for her sake because he was getting pissed/scared and she still wasn't getting it, how freaking serious this was. "Is there a note?"
"Handwritten." Her breath gusted across the phone speaker only a half second after his, as if they were unconsciously synchronizing. Hiding under her complaint of obscenely conspicuous consumption, he realized, was her own burgeoning unease. A long pause spooled tension between them, his from the unbearable wait, hers while she struggled to process meaning hidden in words that made a peculiar promise.
"Bones, what does it say?"
Another shift and pause, before she read it out loud. "I'll take you away from all of this..."
Icy cold dread clenched his fingers tightly around the phone, his link to her. Damn, damn it! He closed his eyes, breathing in calm so he could stay calm for her sake because under that frigid clench of terror there was a white hot fury building. Nobody was taking her from him.
His partner's voice faded out slightly, finally showing signs of confused alarm. "Booth? What does this mean?"
"Look, I'm up at Logan's Circle. I'll be there in about twenty minutes. Okay?"
"Okay." She sounded reassured but still confused.
What did this mean...? Fury welling upwards, rippling bleak shadows into his narrowed eyes, Seeley Booth stalked over to his SUV and slammed the door shut before allowing himself to slam his open palm onto the steering wheel. The horn bleated, startling pedestrians and he derived grim satisfaction to see other hearts beating fast enough to approach the pace of his own. It meant a damn stalker was out there, circling and watching his Bones, planning to snatch his Bones, getting close but still hidden in the shadows.
~Q~
Author's Note: It's not just the potential for violence that makes stalking such a terrible experience...
Scientific Note: Once again, I'm indebted to a few very helpful sources that are helping me understand underlying pathology, behavior and motivation of stalkers, as well as how an investigator like Booth would react. (When he's not feeling all possessive and alpha male, that is...)
1) J. Reid Meloy, Ph.D. and Helen Fisher, Ph.D.; "Some Thoughts on the Neurobiology of Stalking," Journal of Forensic Science, Nov. 2005, Vol. 50, No. 6.
(Discusses the possibly physiological explanation for stalkers' behavior.)
2) Hazelwood, Robert R and Janet I. Warren; "The Relevance of Fantasy in Serial Sexual Crimes Investigation," Practical Aspects of Rape Investigation: A Multidisciplinary Approach, 4th Ed, Pg 55-66. CRC Press. (2012-05-14) Kindle Edition.
(Discusses some of the reasons and rationalizations stalkers give to explain pursuit of a victim.)
3) Ramsland, Katherine, Stalkers, the Psychological Terrorist, Crime Library: Criminal Minds and Methods
www . crimelibrary criminal_mind / psychology / stalkers / 1 . html
All mistakes are mine.
