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Iron barred doors clanged open and shut as buzzers activated the solid metal portals leading from one secure section of Rikers to another down a south leading hallway. JJ's nose wrinkled at the smell of bleach and other cleaning chemicals as prisoners in orange jumpsuits cleaned the floors. She stepped around one man whose hair matched his jumpsuit and made him appear completely orange. He smirked at her and made a rude gesture accompanied by the words, "Hello, Clarisse," and his attempt at the hissing/slurping noise made famous by Hannibal Lecter.
"Back off, Herbert," said the guard accompanying them to the protective custody wing of the prison. "Or you'll spend a few hours in solitary, and I know how much you'd hate that."
Herbert shot him the finger and went silent as they moved away. "New friend," Matt teased JJ.
JJ shook her head and choked back a laugh. "I never get used to the grey walls, and the smell, and the feeling of controlled chaos."
"It is all that," said the guard. "I tell myself that they're human too, but humans that belong here because they made choices. I don't believe in all that psychobabble crap, that they had terrible childhoods, so they don't know what they're doing. We all make choices," he finished resolutely.
Matt raised his eyebrows at JJ, and she shook her head as the guard opened another door with a buzz and a metallic clang. "Here we are, the privacy suite," He quipped and opened the ordinary door which led into a small, square room with gray walls, floors, and a metal table with three chairs in the center. In one chair sat a small man with receding brown hair, light brown eyes, glasses, and orange jumpsuit. He had the air of an accountant waiting for clients instead of a convicted pedophile.
"Push this button if you need me, or when you finish," instructed the guard as he indicated a red button set into the wall at the left of the door.
"Well," began Sonny Giovanni. "What can I do for the FBI?"
He sat back in his chair as if it were the most comfortable perch in the world. He smirked at them and his faced crinkled in a way that exuded trust. JJ shivered a little and wondered if his victims had found him trustworthy, too, until it was too late.
"Charles Capello," Matt said and watched as Sonny's face continued to smile, but the eyes behind his horned-rimmed glasses lost their friendly light. His arms crossed over his chest as he flicked his gaze to the barred window.
"What about him?"
"Where is he?"
"How the hell would I know. I've been locked inside this fine establishment for the last two years."
His heavy Brooklyn accent grew more pronounced with each word. His eyes moved back to them, and he smirked again. "What do you want with Chaz?"
"We'd like to locate him," JJ said. "Tie up a loose end. He's the only one left from the old days, and he's a cop-killer. We don't like cop killers."
"Sorry, but I left that life behind me. I'm a model prisoner, ask anyone. I go to all my shrink appointments, and she says I'm makin' excellent progress in comin' to terms with my anti-social behavior."
"Is that so," Matt inquired. "Then you won't mind telling us everything you know about Capello and where he might be."
"I told ya, I don't know. Are ya deaf and stupid?"
"And I thought you made progress in – how did you put it – your anti-social behavior," JJ said, sarcastically. "I don't see much progress, do you, Matt?"
"Nope."
"Maybe we should have a word with your doctor."
Sonny brayed laughter and reminded JJ of a mule her uncle kept on his farm. It was an ugly sound full of demented amusement. Then, he suddenly sat up straight, schooled his face into serious lines and took off his glasses. "You don't scare me, little girl. I've looked the devil in the eyes and lived to tell the tale."
"If that's so, you won't mind if we pull a few strings to remove your status as a protected prisoner. You'd like general pop," JJ said coyly. "I know they'd like you."
Sonny went as pale as new cream. "You can't do that. My lawyer – "
"Stop," Matt held up a hand. "Maybe we can work something out. Let me converse with my partner."
JJ and Matt went to a corner of the room and spoke in whispers for several minutes. Sonny strained to hear them, but his hearing wasn't what it had been in the past, and he couldn't make out their conversation.
"Sonny," Matt said as he and JJ returned to the table. "May I call you Sonny?"
Giovanni nodded grimly. "What choice do I have, Mr. F.B.I?"
"As our friend the philosophical guard likes to point out, there are always choices in life. For instance," Matt opened the file folder he'd brought with him. "You can choose whether or not to help us locate Charles Capello and save a life. That'd grease wheels with the parole board when you come up for it. "
Giovanni shrugged. "That's three long years away."
Matt removed the photo that lay upside down in the folder. "If you don't want to assist the FBI or find the man that left you here to rot, will you help this little boy."
Matt showed the photo and fought down the urge to strangle Giovanni with his bare hands when the pedophile's eyes lit up at the sight of Andrew Capello. Sonny licked his lips and said as he stared at the photo like a man dying of thirst in the desert stares at a mirage of an oasis in the distance. "Who's this beautiful child?" Sonny's voice crooned like a father telling a child a bedtime story.
Matt held the photo just out of Sonny's reach and hoped his hands didn't betray his rage as he fought to make them steady.
"This is Charles's son. Someone kidnapped him this morning. Help us find him, and we'll speak to the parole board."
"No," Giovanni said in disbelief. "I heard this kid got whacked a year ago."
"Then you are in communication with the old life." JJ pounced.
Giovanni waved away her accusation. "So, what? I hear things all the time. This kid is dead. Nice try, though."
"He's not dead. Your former boss faked his death to take him away from his mother, also a former police officer and now an FBI agent. She's not happy that Capello took Andy away from her. I'm sure she'd have a word for the parole board, especially if we tell her exactly how you looked at this picture of her little boy. She might pay you a visit."
Sonny winced, and redness spread into his cheeks. "I ain't looking at the kid any special way. My doctor says I've got it under control."
"Did she?" JJ said, lacing her voice with contempt. "If that's true then you won't mind helping us find him."
"I don't know where Chaz or his brat is," Giovanni spat.
"Then we're done," JJ said, and she began to get to her feet.
"Wait! I said I don't know where they are, but I can give ya the name of the cop-rat that lives in Chaz's pocket."
"How would you know that?" Matt said with boredom lacing his voice.
"I don't know the details, but I know he has an eye on Chaz."
"Who's the rat," Matt asked.
"Jerry O'Malley." Sonny laughed again as if he'd just told the mother of all jokes. "He's a fuckin cop! You believe it. Been under your noses for years, Mr. FBI."
Matt looked over at JJ, and she nodded. "Well, thanks for nothing, Mr. Giovanni. Jerry O'Malley isn't news. We know all about him. I'm afraid that means we'll be unavoidably busy on parole day."
JJ nodded and grinned at Sonny who burst up from his chair like a man who'd sat on a live electrical wire. "You can't do that."
"We can and we will," Matt said calmly. "We don't make deals with child molesters. Count yourself lucky we don't do everything we can to get your protective custody revoked."
JJ winked at the hapless man and shook her head in disgust when he put his head on the table and began to sob like a little girl.
"Let's get out of here," Matt said.
"Fine by me."
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Spencer Reid watched the traffic outside the window of his cab. Unlike the cabby who'd driven Georgia Blue to her meeting, his driver was sedate, polite and law abiding to the point that Reid wanted to pull out his hair.
"You new in town, honey," said the driver, who looked about sixty years old with a wrinkled tanned face, and her grey hair pulled back and under a cap. She wore huge sunglasses and gloves with missing fingers. Her brown cashmere sweater hung off her skinny body like a sail, and her blue jeans were threadbare and faded nearly white. She smiled at him with crooked, yellow teeth in the rearview mirror.
"No," he lied and looked out the window.
"You don't look like a native. You're too polite."
Spencer tried to ignore her, but she didn't seem to care. "I know who you are," she said delightedly. "You're that guy from that FBI television show. What's it called – Profiler Minds."
Spencer's eyebrows went up despite his urge to tell her to shut up. He looked nothing like the star of a television show, and he nearly said so before he remembered he was trying to ignore her.
The cabby went on about the show, her cats, her aching back, and her no-good ex-husband who'd run off with her best friend thirty years before. He was about to tell her to pull over and let him out, that he'd walk, when she pulled up to a converted brownstone. "Here we are, deary."
Reid paid her, but she refused to let him go before he signed a tattered sheet of paper she happened to have on the passenger seat. He tried to tell her he wasn't the star of that show, but she refused to believe it. He signed the name of the actor on the sheet in an illegible scribble and escaped.
At the top of the stoop, he reached out and buzzed for Apartment 4. "Who is it?"
"Spencer Reid."
There was a long pause before the door buzzed and clicked. Spencer opened it and walked up the stairs to the second floor. The brownstone looked like someone had finished remodeling it only hours ago. The carpet, paint, and the stained wooden handrail all gleamed, and shone like new. The building was nearly silent, which told him someone had installed sound-proofing when they remodeled.
When he entered the second-floor hallway, the door to number four stood open and Georgia greeted him with a scowl. "How did you find me?"
"It wasn't difficult. If you want to remain incognito, don't use credit."
Georgia blocked his entrance until he said. "Garcia and your friend in Cyber Crime tracked you down. Would you like full details, because I'm sure they'd be happy to share the process with you."
Georgia finally stood aside and let him in. "Damn you," she said.
"Hello to you, too."
"I don't want you here," Georgia snapped as he looked around the room.
Georgia watched him take in the modern furnishings, all glass and metal. The white walls covered in paintings down by a creative mind that lacked the talent to sell his work. It was a long room with the living area toward the street and the kitchen area in the back. A closed door led to the right. Probably the bedroom, Reid thought.
"You seen enough," Georgia said.
"Enough to know this isn't your place."
"Not surprising considering I live in Alexandria, just like you."
Spencer refused to show his surprise that she knew where he lived. "Still," he pointed at the red robe she wore over white silk pajamas. "You're comfortable here. You're staying with a friend?"
"Yes, but she's out of town for the next week. I'm here alone. It's safer that way."
Reid turned back to her and noticed that her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, she didn't wear slippers and her hands were trembling. "I want to help," he said.
"No, you're here to make sure I don't go rogue again."
Reid watched her blue eyes flash at him with a fire that made his stomach tingle. "I'd say too late. You're already rogue. Emily told you to stay away."
"Did you think I would?" Georgia flung the words at him, like a challenge.
"No, I was sure you wouldn't," Reid admitted. "May I sit?"
"No," Georgia spat out. "I don't want to engage in the niceties with you. I'm only here for a shower, a couple hours sleep and then I'm going after my son."
"Fine," Reid said and turned for the door. "You want to go after him without back-up or a plan, be my guest."
"I have a plan."
Reid swung back, and despite no invitation, he sat on the white leather couch. "I'd love to hear it."
"No. Get out!"
Reid sat back, crossed his legs, and said. "I'll leave when you tell me why you think I don't understand what it means to suffer loss."
