LaVozzi led them down the hallway, his heels clicking against the hard linoleum floors. Don couldn't help but glance into the offices as they passed by; the rooms, almost all of them, were clean and sparsely furnished, but larger than Don's own cubicle back at FBI headquarters. He shoved down his jealousy; this was private industry, and the perks tended to be nicer than for government wage-earners. The furniture was cheap and durable, but here and there an office boasted a nicer wood-tone desk. The whole place had an attitude of we're here to work about it; none of the fancy and expensive plush carpeting that he'd seen in Magenbrot's home. Going some, Don thought, when the cleaning people live better than the owner.

LaVozzi couldn't help but read Don's mind. "Yeah," he said ruefully, "I keep thinking that I gotta get some kind of interior decorator in here, but the last one I hired ended up being really good at working with some of my supply houses, so I transferred her in there as a buyer and we kind of forgot about fixing up the place. Happens when you grow too fast."

"What Tony isn't saying," Charlie put in, "is that one year ago it was just him and a dozen technicians, eking out a living and hoping to strike it rich."

"Which we did," LaVozzi grinned. "Life is tough when you gotta worry about how to spend your money faster." Then the frown crept back into play. "Which is why I wanna get this thing cleared up fast. I got people depending on me, Eppes; people that've been good to me and I wanna be good back to 'em." He shook his head, not slowing his pace one iota. "These Better Day people; gotta wonder, Eppes. I hired the outfit 'cause I liked what they stood for. Paid 'em good money when I could've gotten the same service a lot cheaper. Thought they meant to look out for people who got a bum rap from life. Now they turn around and do this." He snorted. "I'd fire 'em on the spot, but the contract I got says three months notice. And the thing is, I got no proof that it's them, Eppes. That kid that died, he could be an innocent victim, too, ya know? But I hate to think that it might be one of my own."

"What have you done about it so far?" Don asked.

"I got my head security people on it," LaVozzi told him. "They've been poking around in people's lives, checking 'em out, seeing if anybody's suddenly come into any money."

"Any luck?"

LaVozzi snorted. "For me? No. One of my admin assistants, though, came under fire. A distant cousin with some bucks passed away suddenly in a car accident, left her a chunk. Gave my assistant heart failure until we could check out her story. She's clean."

Don went for another angle. "DEA thinks that drugs are flowing through here. What do you think?"

LaVozzi started to get angry, then thought better of it. He deflated. "Yeah. Yeah, we got some problems. Place like this, military contracts, we got pressure like you wouldn't believe."

Right. Nothing like the pressure to solve a set of serial killings before someone else gets murdered. Nothing like the pressure to solve a murder in a government research facility.

"You got pressure to keep up, you start looking for easy answers. Drugs is one of 'em, and pretty soon you got some people you can't trust."

"You do anything about it?"

"What can I do?" LaVozzi spread his hands wide. "I offered employee assistance programs. I get my security guys a dog to sniff 'em out. Nothing."

Don considered. "I may ask to have everyone tested."

LaVozzi stiffened. "That'll bring down the civil rights guys, Eppes."

Don shrugged. He'd been on the hot seat before. "Not if we make it voluntary, at least at first. And that will rule out a lot of people, let us concentrate on those who refuse, especially those who are in a position to pass confidential information." They arrived at the front entrance, a lobby with metal detectors and a couple of guards that LaVozzi greeted by name.

"Jimmy B., Eric, this is Special Agent Don Eppes, from the FBI. You give him whatever he asks for, ya hear?"

"Sure thing, boss," the one identified as Jimmy B. said. "Hey, Professor Eppes. How's it going?"

"Hey, Jimmy B.," Charlie returned. "How'd you do on your calc final? Jimmy's going to school in the evening, going after a degree in fluid mechanics," he confided to Don before turning back to the security guard.

"Aced it, doc," Jimmy B. said proudly. "Listen, you know anybody that can give me a hand with my physics course? The boss here, he got me through chemistry."

"Oh, I think I can scare somebody up," Charlie said with a smile. "You just let me know when."

Don turned them back to the problem at hand. "Guys, run me through your security procedure." He glanced at the metal detector ring that arched over the door. "One of your employees walks up to the front. What then? You walk him through the ring?"

"Pretty much," the other guard, Eric, said. "You go through the metal detector, you sign in on the books, and you swipe your ID card through the reader." He jerked his thumb up toward the ceiling. "We've got cameras recording the whole thing, and we keep the records for a week."

Don nodded; it was similar to what he'd seen in other military grade research facilities. So far, no surprises. "I'll be asking to see those tapes for the night in question. Hang onto them."

"Will do."

"For now, how about the books? Can I see them?"

At LaVozzi's encouraging nod, Eric brought out the sign-in book. "We go through about two of these every month," he offered. "You sign in here, with the time, and then you sign again when you go out."

Don perused the lines. "What about people who don't sign out? What's going on here, like with this one?"

Jimmy B. shrugged. "These people have left by another exit, usually the one in back. One every week, we go back and reconcile the signatures, make sure that everybody's leaving when they should. Never had any problems."

Don glided his finger down the list of names. None of them looked familiar, until he came to those entering at approximately seven in the evening. Reuben Magenbrot's name was there, as well as his girl Nancy Merrin. There was some half dozen names that he associated with Make A Better Day, all written in a determinedly clear hand, each one eager to identify themselves properly. "These guys also have ID cards? The people from Better Day?"

Jimmy B. nodded. "Every one of them. We color their ID's with a light blue background, so that we can differentiate them from our own employees. We run them through a background check, though. That's part of the contract, part of the rules. They can't substitute anyone onto their team without it."

LaVozzi agreed. "Makes it a little tough for them to clean the whole place when someone calls out sick, but better a little dirt than a leak. I told 'em that from the get go."

Don kept looking at the sign in ledger. "And they always come in through this entrance? Go through this gate."

Eric shook his head. "Not always. Usually; a group of 'em arrives together. But every now and again some of them walk in through the back entrance. They still go through the same security measures: the metal detector, the cameras."

"Don?" Charlie looked puzzled. What was Don after?

Don ignored his brother. "What about the night that Magenbrot died? Do you have those records?"

"Right here. We've been keeping that under lock and key," Jimmy B. said. "We started a new book the next day, so that we wouldn't have to worry about losing any records for any investigation."

"Where are the records for that night?"

"Right here." Jimmy B. flipped to a page near the end of the book. "They're all here, the whole crew from Better Day. We got Magenbrot's name right here. His girl Nancy is right above his." Jimmy B. grinned wistfully. "Nice guy. We were teaching him manners, taught him to let his girl through first, to be polite. Ben picked up on that real fast, really wanted to treat Nancy right. It was cute," he sighed. "I should find a girl that adored me like she adored Ben."

Don grunted. "You and me both. You were here that night? You saw 'em both come in?"

"Yup. I was pulling a double that night. I've got mid-terms on Thursday, and I needed that night off, so I switched." Jimmy B. turned, worried, to LaVozzi. "I can still have that night off, right, boss?"

"You got it, Jimmy. School's important."

Don turned to LaVozzi. "How many other entrances do you have?"

Eric answered instead. "Three, but only one—the back door—in use. The other side door is wired for emergencies only, and the loading dock is designed for truck deliveries."

Don fastened the polite smile on his face. "I'll need to go through every entrance, just to get an idea of how people and things enter and leave this facility."

That wasn't what Charlie had in mind. "Uh, Don?"

"Charlie?"

"I've got office hours this afternoon."

"Not a problem, Charlie," LaVozzi cut in. "You came here with your brother, right? I'll have one of my people give you a lift to where ever you need to go."

"Thanks, Tony." Charlie's face echoed his relief. "Don, you'll be okay here without me?"

"I think I can manage," Don told him, keeping the laughter out of his voice. After all, I've been doing this FBI thing for a number of years…

Charlie decided that he really really liked office hours. When all was said and done, it was a good time to be a professor.

A lot of his colleagues wouldn't say the same thing, would only put in the minimum amount of time as mandated by their contract or their department head or by their guilty conscience, but Charlie realized that he never minded that particular job requirement. It was, as always, the student.

It was like teaching. If forced to tell, then Charlie would have to admit that he enjoyed teaching the upper level courses not because of the material but because of the students. Those taking those upper level courses were really interested in math, had chosen to make it their life work, and were willing to put in the effort to learn what Charlie had to teach. His freshman calc courses, interesting as they were, contained a large number of students who were there because freshman calc was part of their degree requirements, and they couldn't progress in their own major until they could demonstrate successful completion of same. Those were the students who were satisfied to creep by with a passing grade and the same students who rarely, if ever, darkened his office door.

But—office hours. Most students who came by were genuinely interested in learning whatever concept eluded them. Sometimes they came as singletons, and sometimes they came in a mob. Charlie had to admit, he really enjoyed the mobs, because it was like teaching a class without preparation: gloriously stimulating, coming up with the correct theory on the fly and seeing the knowledge take root in those brains. It was, Charlie had decided, similar to his work with Don and the FBI, in that there was a theory or an analysis for each situation that they presented to him, and it was up to Charlie to figure out, on the spur of the moment, exactly which theoretical equation would advance the case.

This afternoon's office hours were of the singleton variety, and Charlie found his attention drawn not so much by the math content—that was interesting enough, since Sarah was in one of his upper level courses—but by the student.

Sarah was in a wheelchair.

Charlie had always realized that, had always seen her position the chair toward the front of every classroom in the aisle, using the desk top of the adjoining seat to plop her backpack of books and pencils and laptop. He'd never mentioned it, had always found that his attention was caught more by her ability to perform math than it was by her ambulatory limitations. He'd always intended to ask, assuming that he could figure out a polite way of doing so, but the math had always been so fascinating…

The question had taken on a new meaning for Charlie, with Don's case. Charlie's case, too, he corrected himself wryly. It wasn't every day that Professor Charles Eppes found himself questioned on suspicion of murder.

Sarah responded with a wistful smile. "I have to give you credit, Prof. Eppes. You lasted almost three years before you asked. In my book, that's something of a record."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. I just…" Charlie looked down at his shoes, not certain of what he meant.

Sarah was. She'd been through this on an almost daily basis. "You weren't being rude, Dr. Eppes. I get tired of being asked, though. It's like I have to apologize for not being like everyone else, or at least have an explanation."

"You don't have to apologize—" Charlie broke off. He redistributed his thoughts. "You shouldn't have to apologize," he said instead. "You know, I think I'm more annoyed at myself, now that you put it that way. Why should you feel that you have to have an explanation? I don't have any right to ask."

"It was a car accident," Sarah said.

"You don't have to—"

"You're right; I don't have to," Sarah interrupted. "That doesn't mean that I can't." She took a deep breath. "It took me a long time to get to this point, to get to a place in my own head that I can deal with it." She looked at him fiercely. "I'm not going to let anyone take that away from me."

Charlie was taken aback by her intensity. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…" Sarah took another deep breath. "I mean, I'm as good a person—and as bad—as everyone else. Not better, and not worse. But, because of a drunk driver four years ago, I now have medical problems that will stay with me until my grave; a death that will come a decade sooner for me instead of you because of those problems. I now have places that I can't go because buildings built decades ago used staircases instead of elevators. Until and unless medical science comes up with a way to rebuild the spinal cord, I'm never going to be able to run a marathon."

"Did you want to, before?"

Sarah stared at him. "Want to what?"

"Run a marathon." Charlie gestured helplessly. "Did you do a lot of running before—" another helpless wave—"that?"

Sarah giggled suddenly. "Nope. Hated it. Hated gym class, in high school." She regained her equilibrium. "It's the old idea of wanting something because you can't have it." She cocked her head at him. "You've been meeting with a bunch of us, haven't you?"

"Well, not exactly like you—"

"I should hope not. I'm unique. Each of us is unique. What's your question, Professor Eppes?" she asked, clearly pleased at being the one to have the answers for a change.

"It's…" Charlie trailed off, not certain how to ask. "I mean, you seem so at peace with yourself. I mean, with what's happened."

Sarah nodded; this was something she was familiar with. "It wasn't easy," she admitted. "It took years, and I'll still throw myself a good pity party sometimes. But somebody taught me that getting angry at the world only makes things worse—gives you stomach ulcers, for one thing—and gets in the way of life. You can be angry all the time, but there's a price to pay. You meet some of us like that?"

Charlie had to agree.

Sarah sighed. "Yeah. We call it 'the attitude'. Sure, there are a lot of things to get angry over, from the stupidity of various officials to the idiocy of people who think that they can take advantage of you because you have a disability. Sometimes the worst is those people who pity you; I really hate that, you know? But being angry all the time is even worse. We tell 'em: get over yourself. Grow up. When life hands you lemons, make lemonade. Or, better yet, ask for tequila and salt. Did you know that I'm one of the luckier students on the CalSci campus?" she asked with a quick change of subject. "Because of my accident, I'm a couple of years older than most students, older than twenty-one. That makes me one of the few juniors legally allowed to drink beer," she grinned. Then she grew serious again. "Don't let 'the attitude' get to you, Professor Eppes. It's their problem, and not yours. Just keep treating everyone you know—with and without disabilities—as an individual."

Don stared at the sign in book at the back entrance, wishing it held the answer to this case. There was something here—he knew it—something that would crack the case wide open. It was staring him in the face, if only he could figure out what it was.

He turned to the security guard. "This is just like the front entrance, right? People walk in through the metal detector, slide their ID through the reader, and then sign in."

"Pretty much." This security guard's name was Marjorie, Tony LaVozzi had told him before dropping him off here, and Marjorie was above suspicion. Marjorie was Tony's niece, making some money on the side to help afford law school. "We don't have an ID reader on this side. We used to, but it broke down and every time it comes back from being fixed, it breaks down again. We just do without it. Cameras, too. We get so few going through this back entrance that we don't bother with them. Maybe now we'll start," she added grimly.

"Um." Don continued to stare at the sign in book. "So everybody signs in here?"

"Everyone," Marjorie assured him. She grinned. "Want to see the names of the cockroaches that live in the basement?" she joked. "Moe, Larry, and Curly. They sometimes hike over to the pizza place, and have to sign back in with anchovies on their breath." Then she became somber. "You get the guy that killed Ben, Special Agent Eppes. Ben was special to us. It didn't matter that he worked for another company; a contractor. You get to know some of them, and Ben was special. He wanted to make something of himself, and some of our guys—especially a couple of 'em in the labs—they used to take him into the lab and let Ben hold some of the test tubes to pour some liquids back and forth. Ben loved it. He'd boast about helping our people."

"You knew him?"

"I did. I won't say that everyone did. Most everyone went home at five, before Ben and the others came in to clean. I usually work the evening shift, so I used to see him a lot."

"Were you on the night that Ben was killed?" Was this the lead that he needed? "Did you see him come in?"

Marjorie nodded. "He came in with the rest of them. I helped get them through the detector, and then slide their ID's through the reader. That was the easy part. Everyone of the people from Better Day takes pride in signing their names, and that usually takes forever. That night was no different."

"Wait a minute," Don objected. "I thought you said that the ID reader was broken."

Marjorie shrugged. "This one is. I was on the front desk that night. Everyone came in through the front, and used the ID reader in the front."

It was there. The clue was so close he could taste it. There was something that Don knew was there, and it was on the tip of his tongue, and he almost knew what it was. "You were in front. On the front desk. Who was back here?"

Marjorie shook her head. "I'm not sure. I could find out, if you like. Actually, that would be easy. When we come onto the station, we sign in ourselves, as guards. It would take some checking, though; we usually stick the part-timers back here, since it doesn't get as much traffic, and we've got a lot of part-timers on the evening shift. Guys getting some extra money to get by." She pulled over the sign in book, scanning through the signatures. "This book isn't as long. Like I said, most people come in through the front, so that front book gets filled up pretty quick. We're talking last night, so probably Peter was on…" She trailed off, running her finger along the signatures. "Yup, it was Peter. He signed on at four thirty-two PM yesterday. A couple of the Better Day people came through here, probably missed the bus that the company sends for them." She hesitated. "This is odd."

Don went on alert. "What?"

Marjorie pointed. "That's Ben's signature. I could have sworn that I saw him come in through the front entrance last night."

Don's instincts were screaming at this point. "You're sure? Magenbrot came in the front? Could you have made a mistake?"

"Yeah, I could have." Marjorie's expression begged to differ.

"There's one way to find out." Don took hold of the sign in book. "We're going to do a little comparing of the records."

Which was how Special Agent Don Eppes discovered that, among his many talents, Reuben Magenbrot apparently was capable of signing in twice on the night of his murder.