US DOJ METROPOLITAN DETENTION CENTER, TWO WEEKS AFTER THE ARREST
"It's – not going so well," Charlie admitted, hating to say the words. "I'm so sorry."
"Hey," said Don, his voice soft. "Don't blame yourself, okay?"
Charlie gulped, studying his brother. He looked tired, calm, frighteningly resigned. His hair was neat and his face clean-shaven, but there was something blank in the way he looked at the table instead of meeting Charlie's eyes that was disturbing. "Are you okay?" he asked, desperate for any answer other than the one he was expecting.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Don – please look at me," he asked. "I know – this has to be awful, but please don't just vanish."
Don raised his head and focused his eyes on Charlie, who felt his heart steady. "I'm sorry, buddy. It's not awful, just – when you spend this much time with just yourself for company, maybe you need reminding how to play with others." He smiled, the familiar light flashing back into his eyes. "I'm okay. Really. Between you and Dad and the guys, I got plenty of people droppin' by to nag me out of any ideas I get about falling into a depression."
Charlie smiled back, willing himself not to give into the urge to cry. "I miss you." It wasn't what he'd planned to say – it was supposed to be something about the case – "I don't know why my program keeps coming up with no results. I've had Amita check me, other professors – something's wrong and it's driving me nuts not being able to find it."
"Hey – you're always telling me more data equals better results, right? Maybe you need to look at, say, family members of people I've sent away?"
Charlie nodded. "Actually – we just started adding that data." His cell phone rang, and he glanced at the caller ID. "It's David."
Don felt his heart race just briefly, the way it always did when some small thing happened to give him hope that maybe today would be the day this ended. He watched his brother's expression, and saw similar emotions there; hope, restrained by fear. "No," said Charlie. "I'm at the detention center, visiting Don."
"No, no. Yes, of course I want to come. I'll be right there." His younger brother pocketed the phone and stood. "They said they have something."
There was so much in those words; anticipation, excitement, apology for leaving. Don felt himself smile. "Enough to make my day. Get out of here."
"Okay." Charlie looked flustered, and rapped his hand on the table. "I'll be back."
"Of course you will. See ya' buddy."
Don barely paid attention to the detention officer who was handcuffing him and leading him to the elevator back up to the cells. It had become almost a normal routine now, and his mind was completely absorbed in savoring what he had just glimpsed: the crisp excitement of working a case, of teamwork and breakthroughs and setbacks, of phone calls and rapidly changing situations.
They stopped outside his cell, his hands were released, and for the first time, he couldn't force himself to enter with the acceptance he'd cultivated so firmly. It wasn't conscious; just an utter resistance to trade that thrill of involvement for all-encompassing nothingness. He wanted to jump in an SUV and speed down to the office, to chase down whatever lead this was, to apply his head to something other than watching daytime television and trying not to go insane.
"Hey! Am I gonna have to force you in there?" His escort was pissed. Don closed his eyes; it was the only way he could do this. He walked forward into the cell, only opening them when the door had been closed behind him with an annoyed slam.
FBI WAR ROOM
"I got here as fast as I could," said Charlie, bursting into the room and stopping to catch his breath. "What's up?"
"We caught a break," said David. "We've been running down the cases Don was involved with prior to his arrest."
"We figured they were all legit cases, and we follow them, maybe they lead us to whoever set up Don," Colby interjected.
"Right," said David. "Well, we'd been sniffing around this money-laundering network that works for several different organized crime organizations, and guess what we turned up."
He flashed a picture up on the screen, of a run-down storefront with a lopsided sign reading Starscape Recording Studio, then another of a tattooed young man with long black hair and a single earring in the shape of a guitar pick.
"That's Sam Lobell, the son of Traxler Lobell. Nineteen years old. He runs a recording and sound-mixing studio, which happens to be one of many fronts for the laundering network. Aside from being an accessory to his father's criminal activities and some minor drug use, it looks like he's kept his nose fairly clean. Running the studio lets him indulge in what seems to be a genuine passion for music," David explained.
"It gets better," said Colby. "Apparently the man's a mixing genius, even managed to do some genuine sound work for some of the big studios every so often. Seems to be making a bit of a name for himself."
"Nikki and Liz are picking the kid up now," said David, glancing at his watch. "Nychev's been working the money-laundering angle, and it seems these guys specialize in online transactions. He thinks they could easily be capable of the rest of the fame-up. He's letting us run the kid's interrogation."
All heads in the room turned when shouting and cries of protest burst out briefly in the bullpen, followed by a slamming door to one of the interview rooms. A few minutes later Nikki strode into the war room, her hair disheveled and a faint sheen of sweat dampening her face. "God, what a neurotic wimp. Next time, you guys get to pick up the sensitive artiste. Guy can't stand being handcuffed, howled and cried the whole way here begging us to let him go."
Charlie winced. "Sounds unpleasant for everyone involved."
Nikki sat heavily. "Stuck him in an interview room and cut him loose. Thought it might let him unwind a bit, but he's just sitting there looking like a beaten puppy."
The agents all exchanged glances, and finally David sighed. "I'll go in."
FBI INTERVIEW ROOM
"I swear to you, I didn't set up any FBI agent!" protested Lobell. "Look, anything illegal that happens in that studio, I'm just following orders from my dad. Money stuff, you know? Maybe some guy with no talent pays a whole lot to get an album recorded, stuff like that. I'm just the tech guy, I'm in it for the music, okay?"
"You're saying you had nothing to do with that recording I just played you?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying! Look, my gear couldn't even do what you say it did, and I've never even heard of Agent Eppes."
"No?" asked David, his voice soft. He picked up an evidence bag and showed it to him. "Agents searching your studio found this in the trash." It was a crumpled page from a legal pad, bearing a hasty scrawl that read Final edit Eppes project.
The catch in Lobell's breath couldn't be missed, but he covered it with a quick shrug of the shoulders. "Maybe something one of the guys was working on. Not my handwriting."
David studied him. His voice was still gentle when he spoke again. "Records show this is your first arrest. You were pretty terrified, probably still are. I want you to think about that for a minute, how that felt."
Lobell stared at the door, his face hard. David continued. "Agent Eppes is a friend of mine. He was arrested, handcuffed, and he's spent more than two weeks in solitary confinement, knowing he's been framed for something he didn't do. Can you even imagine that?"
Lobell looked away, and David pressed on. "You cooperate with us, you'll end up on probation. You'll save an innocent man from prison, not to mention yourself."
There was nothing but sullen silence from Lobell, and David matched it, watching him for a good five minutes without speaking. The teenager shifted uneasily in his seat several times, but seemed to grow no more inclined to look at or speak to David. He wrapped his arms around his chest and rocked back and forth in sullen boredom, staring at a scratch on the table.
David leaned back in his chair and sighed. "We've got enough evidence to hold you as an accessory to your dad's money-laundering operation, so you're headed for the federal detention center." He stood. "When you feel like getting out, let your lawyer know you're ready to talk about that tape."
