There was no need to be worried about his safety, and Riggs was long past ever being afraid of shadows, but all the same, his senses were on heightened alert as he made his way through the darkened interior of the building. He went past the elevator, instead slipping quietly into the nearby stairwell. Taking the stairs two at a time, he quickly reached the third floor. Riggs poked his head out to scan the corridor, saw no one and stepped out onto the carpeted hallway. It wasn't even a case of him being someplace that he wasn't supposed to be, but all the same, it made him feel better if no one were to see him there. Going down to the last door at the back of the building, he retrieved a key from his front jeans pocket and inserted it into the lock. Riggs sighed faintly under his breath as he pushed the door open. If Roger knew what he was doing, he'd probably try to kill him … or even worse, lecture him - no doubt a fate worse than death.
The door swung open into an office, the large room divided into smaller cubicles. Despite the good amount of sunlight coming through the bank of windows along one side, Martin still found the place off-putting, although he couldn't quite put his finger on the reason why. It was a Sunday and the place appeared to be deserted of any workers. Riggs weaved through the mass of desks, each decorated in its own personal way, funny calendars, family photos, limp houseplants, pens and pencils left on the desktops but the whole place gave him an eerie feeling - as if just ten minutes ago the room had been filled with busy employees who had suddenly disappeared as if sucked up by an alien spacecraft. And he knew that he was ready to get out of there as soon as possible. Reaching the last row of cubicles, he entered into another hallway. The offices back here obviously belonged to a more important tier of people since they were constructed from actual walls rather than flimsy partitions. All the same, it was as quiet and creepy as the front room, but down the left side, a small circle of light spilled out from underneath a closed door, faintly illuminating the corridor.
Walking down the hall, he stopped in front of the lit room and knocked gently on the door.
"Come in."
Riggs pushed the door open, stepping into a small office. A man was seated at the desk, a nondescript individual with thinning brown hair and rumpled work shirt and tie. "Right on time," he murmured, not even bothering to look up from where he was typing away into the computer.
Riggs shrugged. "I have few redeeming qualities, but I do keep my word."
"That is good to know."
Still not bothering to look up, the man bent over and pulled a thick sealed folder from a drawer down below. He put it on the desktop along with some larger papers that had been rolled up and rubber banded together. Picking up the rolled papers, he finally locked eyes with Riggs as he held them out, gesturing for the detective to take them. Riggs stepped over to the desk and took the papers, his own eyes staring intently at the other man for a moment, quickly memorizing his sharp features. He knew better than to be fooled into letting his guard down by the man's somewhat mousey exterior - never judge a book by its cover. Riggs suddenly pointed to the thick folder. "For me as well?"
The man behind the desk smiled – a gesture that did nothing to warm his countenance. Nodding his head, he held the other item out. Reaching over, Martin grabbed the folder, sighing deeply when the man refused to relinquish the grip he held on the other end. "You know the arrangement, Riggs."
His blue eyes narrowed into slits. "Yeah, yeah," he growled, "of course. Quid pro quo." He yanked harder and this time the folder was freed. Riggs quickly shoved it into his knapsack, along with the other papers. "Can't you guys just do something out of the kindness of your hearts?" His voice was sarcastic.
The other man just smiled again in response. "We'll be in touch."
"Can't wait."
Martin pulled his pickup in front of the Murtaugh residence, his brow wrinkling in confusion when he noticed that there were no vehicles in the driveway. He wasn't surprised to see Trish's station wagon gone since she often went out early to take care of things while the kids were at school, but not seeing Roger's car there made the detective suddenly very nervous. It was early morning - certainly early enough that on normal days Roger would still be growling like a grumpy bear, scarcely awake and sucking down copious amounts of tar black coffee at the kitchen table. It was a running joke between the partners, Riggs always beating Roger into the squad room every morning, even on the days when he had been fueled by nothing more than bourbon and cigarettes.
Where in the hell could he be? Did something happen to his case? Did Murphy call him in? Surely Roger would have phoned to let him know if something was up … Right? … Or what if IA had come to arrest him in the middle of the night… no, no, Trish would have gotten in touch with him … Or … or what if the fuckers who seemed intent on destroying him were finishing the job…
Martin's instincts were almost always right on the money and although he wasn't getting that unexplainable gut feeling that he usually did when something was amiss, it didn't alleviate his tension one bit. Instead he pulled his gun, double checked the clip and quietly exited the truck. Quiet as a whisper, he made his way to the front door where he tried the knob. Locked. Riggs' head suddenly swiveled to the right, his attention focused on a shuffling noise coming from the side of Roger's house. Beretta cocked, he pushed himself against the structure and crept along the edge until reaching the corner. Without hesitation, he threw himself forward, the barrel of his gun landing barely an inch away from Roger's startled face.
"Shit!" The older detective dropped the bags of trash he had been holding in each hand, his expression tensing up into a deep set frown.
Martin's eyes widened slightly as his hand swung away. "Sorry, Rog," he said with a shrug of his shoulders; his expression a bit sheepish looking as he quickly decocked the Beretta.
"Sorry!?" Bending over, Roger retrieved the bags of trash, muttering under his breath but Martin still could catch a word here and there… "… crazy … I swear if … gonna one day … heart … good thing I …" Still muttering, he stomped his way up the drive, his head suddenly turning. "Damn it, Riggs! Put that gun away before a neighbor sees ya."
Martin shoved the weapon back out of sight under his lightweight jacket. "Hell, Rog, after everything that's happened at your house, if the neighbors' association hasn't kicked you out yet, I don't think nobody's gonna be too concerned about me and my gun."
"You're probably right." Roger sighed deeply. "Crap, I need more coffee." He dumped the bags into the trashcan at the end of the driveway then turned to face his partner. "What's up with you anyway?"
"Nothing."
He regarded Riggs for a moment with a critical eye. "Bullshit."
"Like I said, it's nothing. I … guess I'm just a little jumpy this morning, that's all." Truth be told, after his last clandestine meeting yesterday, he was beyond a little jumpy but there was no need to drag Roger into that mess. Running a hand through his hair, he gestured sharply in front of them. "The cars weren't here. It got me a little worried."
"The station wagon needs a tune-up, so we drove it to the mechanic yesterday. Trish took the other car to run errands this morning." Roger motioned for Riggs to follow him as he headed back around to the unlocked side door. "Quit being so paranoid."
"I'm not paranoid," the younger man muttered defensively. "I'm just … very, very alert. There's a difference. Besides, it helps to keep me alive." Giving a slight shake of his head, Martin jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I'll be right back. Gotta get some stuff out of my truck. I'll meet ya inside." Roger just nodded in response and headed back into the house.
When Riggs came back in Roger was standing by the sink, munching on a piece of buttered toast, a mug of coffee in the other hand. He watched silently as Riggs went over to the kitchen table, his eyebrows shooting upward questioningly as the other man dumped some rolled up papers and his knapsack onto the wooden top. Turning to face his partner, Martin swept an arm over the mess. "Say hello to Harold Jennings Cooper."
"Who?"
Martin grinned widely. "The shithead formerly known as William Evanston."
"So your contacts found him?" Roger asked, his own grin now matching Riggs'.
"Yep." Riggs rummaged around his knapsack, pulling out a large manila folder. Opening it up, he picked up the top sheet and handed it to Roger.
Taking a last bite of toast, he looked it over and gave a nod of his head as he handed it back. "That's him alright. Looks a bit different … older of course, but it's him."
Riggs nodded back as he spread the contents of the folder out across the table. "He's been going by the name Harold Cooper for about seven years now, and keeping way under the radar. He uses his own resources to get in and out of the country so authorities have a hard time getting a bead on him." He glanced over at Roger. "Did you do any looking into the father's background?"
"No, there was really no need." Roger shrugged. "The case was against his son and it was pretty cut and dry."
"Too bad. You missed the chance to land a big fish."
"What are you talking about?"
"It's not as easy to disappear as some people think. There's a reason he was so efficient at it - he's done it before. Authorities have been shadowing this Evanston guy for years… They have no concrete evidence for anything, never can catch him at anything but he's been fingered as a major arms dealer."
"Shit! An arms dealer?" Roger frowned. "Son of a bitch …"
"You really picked a good one to piss off."
"Just my luck."
"Yeah… and I thought mine was shitty."
His frown growing deeper, Roger rubbed a hand across his forehead. "Why go to all this trouble? All that money and resources at his disposal, why not just kill me?"
"For one thing, a murdered detective is going to cause the department to launch a massive investigation - a lot more chances of him being found out…" Martin's voice trailed off momentarily, his expression turning thoughtful. "But, even more than that, I think his motivation is that that would be too quick. This is personal, Rog. He wants you to suffer. And what could be a better plan?" Sitting down, Riggs leaned back in the chair, balancing on the back two legs, one of his hands waving casually in his partner's direction. "First, he ruins your reputation, knowing how much that would affect you … he gets you kicked off the force - kicked off the job that you take such pride in - and in the process taking away any pension and benefits that would help your family, leaving them to twist in the wind … and then finally getting you tossed into prison." Riggs shook his head as he suddenly slammed the chair back down and leaned over to shuffle through the papers in front of him. "And we all know what prison is like for an ex-cop. If, by some miracle, you don't end up with a shiv in your neck by the end of the first month, it would be easy enough to find a prisoner willing to do the job. Certainly wouldn't raise any suspicion like a hit in the outside world would. You're dead and no one is ever the wiser."
Roger rolled his eyes, trying to shove down the panicked feeling that was twisting his stomach into knots. "Thanks, Martin," he replied sarcastically, "I feel so much better now."
Riggs glanced up at his partner, a slightly uncomfortable look coming to his face as he noticed the dread underlining Roger's voice. He certainly hadn't meant to cause more worry for Roger, but he'd always been the kind of person to just call it as it was. Maybe one day, he'd learn how to self-censure his mouth… oh, who was he kidding? That would never happen. He grinned reassuringly. "It's obviously well-thought out, but that doesn't mean it's foolproof. Every armor has a chink; every plan has a hole. We just have to find it."
"Of course the problem with that philosophy is that any plan we come up with will have a hole too."
Riggs shrugged. "It's an imperfect world, Rog."
Roger didn't have an answer for that. Instead he stared at Riggs for a long moment before a ghost of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. Still smiling, he gave a shake of his head and sat down at the table across from the other detective, gesturing at the papers. "So… what have we got here?"
"Mostly stacks of mind numbing crap… There's no record of him entering the States recently, but he's got a number of safe houses scattered around and I'll guarantee he's at one of them."
Roger gathered some of the papers up to start reading. "Where's the closest one?" he asked.
Riggs grinned. "Vegas, baby." His grin widened. "What do you think about a little road trip? Hit the tables … play a little blackjack…"
"I'm not a gambling man. You should know that, Riggs."
"Fine, we'll take in a show too." He gave another big grin. "Check out some of them leggy chorus girls."
"Why? Are you looking for a date?"
"What?!" Riggs stared at his partner, his expression creasing into a frown. "No…" Muttering under his breath, Martin unrolled a piece of nearby paper, trying his best to hold down the curled edges. Leaning over the table, Roger realized the paper was a map. He followed the direction of Riggs' finger as he pointed to a spot circled in red. "That's the house in Vegas. I've got more maps along with a setup of the house…" He thumbed through the folder, "… here are some surveillance photos too. Should come in handy." He glanced back at the map, pointing to some other circled spots. "These are apparently offices of his. We have info on them as well."
Roger stared at the pictures, his brows arching upward in surprise at the amount of information in front of him. Stretching out with a loud yawn, Riggs got up to pour himself a cup of coffee. "I'll leave it all here for you to go over - I was up all night looking at it." He stifled another yawn as he leaned up against the kitchen counter. "I feel like my eyeballs have been coated in breadcrumbs and deep fried." Taking a sip, he gestured towards Roger. "After you've finished with it, we'll get together - figure out what to do next."
Roger nodded his head, frowning again as he gathered the papers up. "How did you get all of this?"
"Don't ask."
"You don't get this kind of stuff for free. What did this cost you?"
Giving a casual shrug, Martin said, "Don't worry, Rog, it's fine. I'll deal with the price."
Roger gave a shake of his head. He had always been perplexed by his partner's financial situation. He had a good ballpark idea of what Riggs' salary was - it was decent enough, not enough to make one rich, of course, but it was okay. As far as he could tell, Riggs didn't appear to have any costs other than regular immediate living expenses, and there was no family to support, and yet it was as if he hardly had money, living in a dumpy travel trailer as he did and wearing the same couple of outfits day in and day out. He knew part of it was simply that Riggs didn't seem to have any use or desire for material things - other than his truck - and maybe Riggs had money stashed aside, but he didn't really strike Roger as the kind of guy with a savings account. He just didn't know where in the hell it went. Shaking his head again for emphasis, he stared at Riggs, his mouth set in a determined line. "Martin, this is about me. You shouldn't have to do that. I'll help you."
Riggs blew his breath out in a long sigh. "I said it's okay, don't worry about it … so don't worry about it."
The tone of his voice left no doubt that Riggs was getting irritated by the conversation, but Roger pressed forward anyway. Martin wasn't the only stubborn one around. "Of course I worry… it's what I do. Look the last thing I need is to find out you're gonna hafta live on the streets because you spent everything to get this." He gave a laugh, hoping to lighten the situation. "Besides, Trish would demand that we take you in and I've already got enough mouths to feed around here." Leaning over the table, he rested his elbows against the top, hands tented together, then pointed both forefingers in Martin's direction. "So … you have to let me help."
Riggs didn't say anything, just put his coffee cup in the dishwasher and walked over to the table to pick up his knapsack. Throwing it over one shoulder, he gave Roger a pat on the back. "You can't, Rog. It didn't cost me money."
Martin's answer didn't make Roger feel any better, or alleviate the guilt he was currently feeling about the whole mess - in fact it made him feel even worse. "Then what did it cost you?"
"Call me when you've gone over everything," Riggs said breezily over his shoulder as he went out the kitchen door. "See ya later." And with that the door slammed shut and Riggs was gone.
