Camouflage

Author's note: Okay, most of the 'tease' is done - from Chapter 11 onward, the action really starts to ratchet up. Hope this holds you off for a week. :)

Chapter 10

After leaving the offices of the L.A. Herald Don headed for the stadium, where Megan was faithfully plodding through the Warriors interviews on her own. On the way, he realized that it was lunchtime and he was starving, and he stopped for sandwiches. Then he dialed David Sinclair to find out how he and Colby were doing on the Ansel Stevenson murder. "David, how's it going?"

"It's going," said David. "We've been to the lab, and also Donna Bainbridge's apartment. We're on our way to Stevenson's house now. Colby's in the car with me; we're on speaker." Don could hear Colby speaking into his own cell phone in the background.

"You find anything other than what was in LAPD's preliminary report?"

"Yeah, something that doesn't make a lot of sense. It looked like a lot of the files were gone, and maybe some samples, although it's hard to tell on those because we don't know what was there to begin with. If Bainbridge was going to kill Stevenson and steal the information, you would think she would have thought it out ahead of time – had some kind of plan. But when we got to her apartment, all of her things were there, down to her makeup, toothbrush, and stuff like that that. If she knew she was going to kill Stevenson and flee with the information, you would think she would pack a few things first and have some money handy. She didn't take any of her things with her, and she didn't have any money. She stopped at two ATMs last night for cash, and LAPD is checking for credit card hits."

Colby spoke up. "That was LAPD on the phone," he said. "They said she took out $5000 from a branch of her bank in north L.A. as soon as it opened this morning."

"There you go," said David. "This was obviously unplanned on her part."

Don frowned at the boulevard stretching away in front of him. "So she's a scientist, right? Presumably a reasonably intelligent person. Whether this was planned or not, why would she run? What evidence was there that pointed to her? Were her prints on the weapon?"

"No," said Colby, "LADP said it was wiped clean – it had some of Stevenson's fingerprints on it from when it was put into his hand, but no one else's."

"So, that's my point," said Don. "There isn't really any solid evidence against her. If she did it, why wouldn't she just go home and play innocent, and say she didn't do it? There'd be no hard proof that she did – and with him dead, she'd inherit the project anyway, free and clear. She wouldn't have to steal the information and run, and incriminate herself. It doesn't make sense. What were they working on, anyway?"

"We're still trying to find out," said David. "The lab was funded by a small private pharmaceutical company named Biotech. We're trying to get hold of someone there and set up an interview, hopefully after we check out Stevenson's house."

"Okay," said Don. "Keep me posted. And do me a favor – call Charlie and see if he or any of his scientist buddies have heard of this lab, or of Biotech."

"Will do."

Don hung up, still frowning, as he swung into the stadium lot. He found Megan in the same small room they'd used the day before, just as hungry as he was, and grateful for the sandwich. Together they plowed through several more player interviews over the remaining hours of the day. Finally, around six that evening, they finished up the last scheduled interview, and sat back to compare notes.

"What about Jarvis Trent, the quarterback?" asked Megan. "He's having a pretty good year. I saw them post his stats on TV last night. Why didn't Charlie pick him out?"

"I asked Charlie the same thing," said Don. "Jarvis Trent is a ten year veteran – he's been solid, but no superstar. He played backup QB for five years before he made starter with the Titans. They had a young superstar rookie they were grooming, and just used Trent to fill the gap until he was ready. When their star became starter last year, Trent went to the Warriors as a free agent. He had a lousy year last year; the whole team did, but that was expected because they were a brand new franchise."

"But this year, his pass completion rate is way up," said Megan.

"Right. When I asked Charlie about it, he said that Trent is doing slightly better this season throwing to all his receivers except one, and he is doing way better with that one, and way better with his passes to one tight end. Trent's overall performance is not statistically different than last year, especially when you factor in a year's worth of experience for all of the team– they've all had a year's worth of time to learn this offense, so they all should be a little better. He throws to two different tight ends and four different receivers. There were only two players who had a statistically higher level of receptions – a particular receiver and a tight end."

"Deondre Wiseman and Freddie Muhala," guessed Megan.

"Right again. Wiseman is having a record year by any receiver's standard, and his huge increase in receptions is driving up the quarterback's completion record, too. Muhala, too, has caught more passes than any other tight end this year. But Trent's performance with the other three receivers and the other tight end is not a whole lot better than some of his better years in the league. That's why Wiseman and Muhala made Charlie's list, and Trent didn't." He glanced through the notes. "Did you come up with anything interesting before I got here?"

"Nothing," Megan sighed. "Everyone I interviewed today was not on Charlie's list, and none of them seemed to be hiding anything. A lot of them made it clear that they don't appreciate our being here, especially during the playoffs." She glanced at the list. "We start on the staff tomorrow. I suggest we bump Trainer Frank up on the list."

"Good idea. We'll stop for today, and tomorrow, we'll do formal interviews with the owner, P. J. Murciano, and with Clayton Mansell, and Coach Rubacek. We'll hit a couple of others first – maybe the team docs, and then we'll do Trainer Frank. I don't want him to be suspicious because we put him too high on the list." He glanced at the time on his cell phone, and rubbed his face, wearily.

Megan studied him. "I could use a drink, and I hate to drink alone. Care to stop for one?"

Don hesitated for just a second, then said, "Yeah, sure. There's chi chi place in the hotel across from the stadium – it's pretty nice."

Megan made face. "No thanks. I don't do chi chi if I can help it. I found a great place a couple miles north of here – they have any beer you can name, and good burgers, too."

Don grinned. "Sounds good. Lead the way."

...

"Wait a minute," said Joey Cancetta into his burner. "Just hold on." He smiled at the bevy of girls clustered around him at the bar, enjoying happy hour, and said, "Excuse me a minute; I have to take a call. I'll be right back." He gave them his most charming smile and eased away from them.

As he headed for the door her heard one of them say, "A running back with dimples. Oh, my God."

"He's damn fine," drawled another, and they dissolved into giggles.

He couldn't help but grin to himself as he pushed out the door and headed out to the alley beside the bar, but his grin faded as he glanced up and down it to be sure it was empty, and then spoke into the prepaid cell phone. "Deondre. What's up man?"

"I don't know." Deondre's voice was low and husky, despondent. "This investigation shit. It's buggin' me."

Joey frowned. "Buggin' you how?"

"I don't know. I've been thinkin', what we're doin' just ain't right. This Magic shit an' all. I wasn't raised like this. I keep wondering what my mama would say if she knew."

Joey gaped at the phone for a minute, then collected himself. "Deondre, you've got to be kiddin' me, man. Your mama? Come on, we aren't doin' anything that every other team isn't doin'. You think the players on the other teams aren't using the latest supplements? All we're doin' is leveling the playing field. You got nothin' to be ashamed of."

"You think?"

"I know," said Joey confidently. "Look man, I'm kinda busy right now, but I'll call you back later, okay? I know Frank said we shouldn't be callin' each other but it can't hurt to talk on the burners. I'm tellin' you though, don't change a thing. You aren't thinkin' about stopping, are you?"

"N-no," said Deondre, slowly.

"Look, Dee, we're almost there. Superbowl, baby. Get your ring, get through the season. Next season you can change it up if you want and quit takin' the stuff, but don't mess with success, not now. Everybody's dependin' on you. We'll talk later, okay?"

"Okay." Deondre sounded slightly heartened, but doubt still wound through his voice. He hung up, and Joey stared at the phone for a moment, thoughtfully. Then he hit speed dial.

When the voice on the other end answered, Joey said, "Frank."

Frank sounded irritated. "Yeah, Joey, I'm busy; what do you want?"

"Are you somewhere you can talk?

Frank's tone was more cautious now, and he said, "Yeah, I can talk. What is it?"

"I know you said we aren't supposed to meet, but I think you need to give Deondre a little pep talk. He just called me – he's all depressed about the investigation, says we're doin' the wrong thing. I tried to cheer him up, told him all the other teams are doin' it too, but I don't think I convinced him. I think he's thinkin' of stopping.'"

"Shit." Frank was silent for a minute. "Okay, I'll pull him aside after the weight room tomorrow. Thanks for the heads up."

"No problem," said Joey. "Later."

"Later."

Joey hung up, stuck the burner in his inside jacket pocket, and headed back to the door. On the way in, he checked his reflection in the bar window, smiling and checking out his dimples. He was damn fine.

...

"Charlie, I think you should see a doctor," said Amita, hovering over him, anxiously.

"I think Amita is right, Charles," added Larry, his brow furrowed, sitting forward on a chair, on the other side of Charlie's desk.

Charlie, back in his office after another dash to the men's room, shook his head, wincing at the movement, and sat down shakily. "I can't afford it, and anyway, it's probably just the flu. In fact, you should both not be in here with me – you'll end up catching it, too."

"Nausea and headache could be symptoms of a concussion." Amita cocked her head at him, reprovingly. "If it is your concussion and it's still bothering you this much, you should go back in for a check." She paused. "I still can't believe what happened to you. They haven't figured out who did it yet?"

"No. I doubt they will," said Charlie. "I didn't get a good look at him. Look, I appreciate the concern, but I have stuff to do, and you being here isn't a good idea if I'm sick. I have to load data to run an algorithm for Don, and I have work to do on the grant commission presentation."

He did appreciate their concern, and any attention from Amita was always welcome, and a part of Charlie could think of nothing better than being the object of her fussing. However, he was starting to feel lousy enough that he really wanted quiet, so he could get through what he had to and go home to rest. As they left, he looked at the clock. It was already past six, and he was on his last legs. His side and head were aching, and the nausea seemed worse.

Taking precedence over his physical symptoms, however, was the sinking feeling in his gut that he'd had since his argument with Don earlier. His brother's disapproval and accusations smarted, but worse yet was the fact that they'd had yet another argument over a case before they'd cleaned up the fallout from the last one. The day before, Don had been noncommittal when Charlie had hinted about renewing his contract, and Charlie, although he was notoriously bad at reading people, was convinced he was getting a bad vibe from his brother concerning his future as part of Don's team.

His head was pounding, and he winced and rubbed his temple. He had dismissed the idea that his concussion was causing some of his symptoms earlier that day, and had been hoping that his work on this case would put him back in Don's good graces, but now, he was beginning to wonder – on both counts.

The phone rang and he started, then stared at it blearily and picked up the receiver. It was a colleague in the chemistry department at UCLA, George Simmons. After Colby had called with Don's request, Charlie had emailed George to ask him if he heard of the local lab that was run by Stevenson.

"Charlie, how are you? And I mean, really, how are you? I saw the paper today."

Charlie grimaced. "Fine, George, I'm fine. I take it you got my email. You ever hear of that lab?"

"Yes, I've heard of it. One of our students went to work there – Donna Bainbridge. She's been in the news today, too, and the whole thing has made those of us who know her sick. There's no way she did that."

Charlie was a little lost – he'd gotten just the basics of the new case from David when the agent had called earlier to relay Don's request to look into the lab – and so Charlie hastily pulled up the local news on his computer and scanned through the article as George talked. Local scientist shot, and his research partner, Donna Bainbridge, was missing, with a BOLO out on her. She was LAPD's only suspect in the killing, according to the article.

George was still talking. "Donna went to work there, just a month or two after she got her doctorate. She was a bright girl, great to work with, great personality. No one here can believe she could have shot anyone. There has to be more to it."

Charlie studied the photo of Donna Bainbridge on the screen. She was an attractive young woman with long brown hair and a warm smile. "So what was she working on?"

"Not sure. She kept in touch with a couple people in the department, but never talked about her work. It was something proprietary – it sounds like something they were developing, maybe trying to patent. Their lab was funded by Biotech, which is listed as a pharmaceutical enterprise on the web. It's a subsidiary of a larger company – can't remember the name now, but it's on the web, too. That's about all I know. Is your brother looking into this? The article just mentioned the LAPD."

"Maybe," said Charlie. "I guess I'm not sure if he's calling the shots on this one, maybe the LAPD is, but sometimes they help each other out. Thanks for the info, George."

"No problem, Charlie. Watch out for those blitzing linemen."

Charlie made a face. "Yeah, I'll try."

He hung up and typed in 'Biotech' in his search engine, and scanned the selections. There was actually more than one company with that name, and the one he was looking for only had one entry, which didn't yield much except the address. He flipped the search toggle to 'news' and skimmed the articles that came up, clicking through two pages before he saw an article that made him sit straight up in his seat. He clicked it open, and read it with widening eyes, then grabbed his cell phone, and hit the speed dial button for Don's phone.

...

Don Eppes leaned back in the padded booth, and chewed meditatively on a French fry. Megan had been right; the bar had a great beer selections, and equally great burgers. "So why'd you get into the Bureau?"

Megan was leaning forward on her elbows, toying with her beer mug, and the question caught her a bit off guard. She shrugged, and grinned ruefully. "I was a little bit of a rebel in my day. Didn't have a great relationship with my dad. Half of the time I was trying to prove myself to him, and the other half I was trying to provoke him. I knew a career in law enforcement wasn't probably what he wanted for me, but on the other hand, it's a career I could be proud of – and that maybe he'd be proud of me if I did well. Classic daddy-daughter approval thing. I guess that fed into my decision as much as anything." She picked up her burger. "How about you? Why'd you join the Bureau?"

Don's eyes flitted away, then back to her. Megan, as a profiler, had been trained to read people, but she found her new boss as hard to decipher as anyone she'd encountered.

"You've got me, there," he said, with a small smile. "I started out playing baseball."

Her eyebrows rose, and she grinned. "Baseball!"

"Yeah, I was with a minor league team for a while, until I figured out the pros weren't for me. The Stockton Rangers. I ended up in Fugitive Recovery for a while, and then went to the Bureau. Spent some time in the Albuquerque office, and then my mom got sick. I put in for a transfer to L.A., to be with her and my dad while she fought cancer, and here I am."

Megan sobered. "Is she okay?"

He shook his head. "She passed away about a year and a half ago. It was a good thing I came back. Charlie was home, but he wasn't handling it too well, and my dad was pretty much dealing with it by himself. I've never regretted the move. I got to spend some time with her, and I was there afterward to help support my dad. And L.A. is home."

"You said Charlie was home. I take it he went away for school?"

Don's face was bland, and he wore an agreeable expression, but his eyes flickered at the mention of his brother. "Yeah, he was away studying – first at Princeton, spent some time at MIT and Oxford too. He left home at 13 to study – we graduated from high school the same year."

Megan's eyebrows rose. "Thirteen! David told me he was a prodigy, but that's pretty young. He went by himself?"

"Nah, my mom was with him, at least while he was at Princeton."

"That must have been hard on the family." She could begin to see reasons for potential conflict between the two brothers. A young genius with his requirements for the appropriate teaching – she imagined that would drain family resources, from both a time and a financial standpoint.

Don shrugged. "You could say that. We managed." He paused, then sighed and rubbed his face, hesitating. "I don't think Charlie and I ever connected too well. We did when we were smaller, but high school –well, I was five years older than him, physically and socially. We didn't have a lot in common in those days. He was not only young – he was just around ten or so when he started high school – he was small for his age, and he never has been a social whiz. He couldn't compete in sports against the bigger kids, and had a hard time making friends. Everyone thought of him as a little kid – a little kid who broke all the curves on the tests. I think high school was pretty hard on him. Back then, I didn't pay a lot of attention – he was buried in his books and I figured he was doing what he liked – mathematics."

"So maybe he was doing what he liked," said Megan. "What makes you think he wasn't?"

Don shrugged and looked away. "Oh, I think he liked it well enough. It never really occurred to me that he might have wanted something more than that, though, until our senior year." He grinned ruefully. "My first clue was when we got in a knock-down drag-out fight on the front lawn over a girl. He wanted to take her to prom, and I asked her before he did. They were lab partners and I knew he kind of had a crush on her, but I never dreamed he'd ask her out – she was 18 and he was thirteen. Boy; was he mad. He came at me across the lawn like a linebacker." His grin faded, and Megan could guess at what he was thinking about – Charlie being on the receiving end of a tackle himself a couple of days before. Don took a swig of beer, and his face went unreadable again, and he said, briskly, as if ending the story, "Anyway, we went our separate ways then, for years, and just got back together a about a year and a half ago. So in response to your comment the other day, yeah, we're kind of working out way through this." He made a rueful face. "Not sure how that's going. He ticked me off last week, and I made him mad yesterday. I accused him of leaking the story to the Herald, before I found out that Wallenstein had pumped my dad for the info."

Megan winced. "Ouch."

"Yeah. Anyway, the jury's still out on how this will go – whether we'll continue to work together or not. But I appreciate your concern."

He changed the subject then, and Megan realized suddenly that his short explanation had been anything but an explanation. He'd remembered her offer to talk the day before and had taken her up on it – not to get anything off his chest, but to get her off his back. He'd given her just enough to make it sound as though he was giving her some real information, but he had just touched on the high points of both his and Charlie's history. He'd still revealed nothing about how he really felt about his brother. Not that she expected him to give it up to her – they were just getting to know each other after all – but his guarded treatment of the issue made her wonder if he really understood their relationship himself. It was a shame, she thought, because even she, for as short a time as she had been there, could see they had potential as a team – if they could just get over whatever baggage they had between them.

She'd actually requested the assignment in the L.A. office in part because she'd read an article in a newsletter from Quantico about a case the brothers had solved. The unconventional arrangement – a math professor consulting on cases – had appealed to her. It sounded new and innovative, and she'd thought that maybe an office that forward-thinking would be an exciting place to work. Now, it seemed that just as she'd arrived, her boss was considering ending the arrangement. 'It's a bit disappointing, but it's none of your business,' she told herself, and forced her mind back to the conversation. She hadn't been paying attention and missed what he was talking about – but she was saved by the ring of Don's cell phone.

He answered, listening with a slight furrow between his brows. His eyes glinted with sudden interest. "Are you sure?" Pause. "Okay, yeah, thanks, Charlie." There was true gratitude and just a hint of warmth in his voice, and when he hung up, he had a dark smile on his face. "Charlie found out something interesting. Ansel Stevenson's lab was funded by a small pharmaceutical company named Biotech. I asked Charlie to see what he could find out about it. What he found was that Biotech is in turn part of a larger company named Murtech."

"Murtech?"

"A much bigger pharmaceutical company," said Don softly, leaning forward. "It's part of a multi-business conglomerate, owned by none other than P. J. Murciano, owner of the Warriors."

...

End, Chapter 10