Perception Deception

A tale composed by the Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: Please refer to Chapter One

Chapter 21: Flying Under the Radar

Anyone who used either the front or back entrance to the FBI building would be caught on camera. Colby was officially on a two-day suspension, as a disciplinary action for insubordination; of course, when this was all over, Assistant Director Wright would remove the note from his file -- and replace it with a commendation -- but for the time-being, his showing up at the office in the middle of the night would stand out like a red flag to anyone who might check the camera footage. Likewise, should the Assistant Director himself make a nocturnal call without being summoned, potential consequences would not be good. Colby and Phil discussed the problem while they were in Wright's office, before Colby took off on his "suspension" and went to the Craftsman to check in with Amita.

Wright tented his fingers under his chin and thought aloud. "Tomorrow is the 4th," he noted, "but as you know, a holiday doesn't necessarily mean anything at the Bureau; we still run skeleton crews in every department."

Colby grinned. "Why do you think I arranged to be suspended? The rest of the team is on-call; we had Memorial Day off, so it's our turn."

Wright suppressed a smile and rolled his eyes. "My point, agent, is that IT Services will keep working on that IP address. If they don't have anything by noon tomorrow -- 24 hours – it will mean that Amita's program is probably doing its job. In that case, my judgment is that it's safe for us to begin our investigation."

"So we need a copy of the file from the ice cream shop homicide," Colby supplied.

"Quite," agreed Wright. "Any ideas how we might accomplish procurement?"

Colby shook his head in disbelief. "Geez. They kick you guys upstairs, and you start talking like dictionaries."

Wright sighed. "We need the file tonight," he rephrased.

Colby grinned again, then let the grin fade as he considered their predicament. "Vacation," he suddenly said.

Wright raised an eyebrow.

Colby leaned forward in his chair at the conference table, enthusiasm entering his voice. "Schedules are rearranged all the time, especially in the summer, to cover for vacations."

"Not when an agent is suspended," Wright pointed out.

Colby tapped the top of the table several times with his hand. "No, no, not me," he clarified impatiently. "It was in the interdepartmental bulletin Tuesday; 'Forensics night shift supervisor Dr. Bill Samuels will be on vacation from July 2 through August 14. Assistant day shift supervisor Dr. Pat Renton will be supervising the night shift during that time'; Pat started working nights last shift."

This time Wright did not suppress his smile. "You memorize interdepartmental bulletins, Granger? I wasn't even sure you read them."

Colby reddened and forged ahead. "Dude. Our man Pat will legitimately be in the building all night long, with about half the usual number of staff to worry about."

Wright's smile widened as he pushed back his own chair and stood, starting toward the telephone on the corner of his desk. "I believe I feel a need to discuss holiday and vacation staffing with Dr. Renton," he mused. "Perhaps I should ask him to come in early, and stop by my office for a chat."

By the time Thursday arrived, Don was working overtime. The upcoming holiday packed the campground, and he needed to keep on top of its daily needs. In addition, preparations had to be completed for Friday evening's fish fry. Doris helped out by keeping a close eye on Charlie, even driving him to Doc Johnson's place for a check-up Thursday morning. Doc was pleased with Charlie's weight gain, but unhappy about the dark circles still under his eyes; he advised him to get more rest. Charlie had a few bad moments when Doris threatened to take the computer away. "Give me the name of that accounting teacher," she said. "I'll call and explain that you've been ill. Don't teachers ever cut their students a break?"

Charlie was too worried about losing the computer to contemplate the irony of the question. "No, please!" he begged. "I won't work on it so long anymore, I promise!" Doris did not look convinced, so Charlie tried another argument. "You're right, I can probably get an extension from the instructor; I'll e-mail him as soon as we get home."

Doris grunted. "See that you do," she said. "Then turn the damn thing off and take a nap until I bring you your lunch."

"Yes, ma'am," Charlie answered meekly.

When Don came in for lunch, he was a little surprised -- and worried -- to discover that Charlie had slept most of the morning away, and was not coming to the kitchen, but had been served his meal in his room. He accepted a ceramic serving dish containing mashed potatoes from Doris, and moved to put it on the table. "Is he okay?" he asked anxiously. "I haven't been spending enough time with him..."

Doris followed him with a basket of biscuits, which she sat next to a boat full of steaming sausage gravy. "Now, he's all right," she soothed. "Doc said he's mending real good; just needs a little more rest." She smiled and blushed slightly when Don pulled out her chair for her, and held it while she sat down. "You just sit on down and take a break," she said. "Don't need you working yourself into a breakdown." Don looked toward the hallway uncertainly, and Doris began to dish food into her plate. "It'll be easier for him to go back to sleep without you barging in there," she pointed out. " 'Sides, we had a talk about that accounting class of his. I threatened to take the computer away -- he's been working too hard. He agreed to e-mail that teacher and ask for an extension, so I let him keep it."

Don groaned inwardly at this news. Threatening to take away Charlie's hard-won computer pretty much guaranteed off-the-charts stress; no wonder he had slept all morning. He was sure that Charlie would find a way to work without Doris catching on. He was also sure that she was right; Charlie probably had been working too hard -- and as much as Don wanted all of this to be over, he couldn't let Charlie compromise his health any more. He'd have to watch him more carefully, he decided, ladling gravy all over his biscuits and potatoes, trying to ignore the fact that he was about to eat pork – taboo, according to his Jewish faith, but he didn't want to call attention to that by refusing the meal. He wondered fleetingly if God would mind the transgression when there were lives at stake, and pushed away the even darker thought that a man who had killed others during the course of his career perhaps had bigger worries than eating pork. He wrenched his mind back to their current situation. Maybe there was something Charlie could have him do, during the evenings.

Not that there was much "evening" left, by the time Don dragged himself in at dusk. He could barely stay awake long enough to eat dinner -- which was no longer half a sandwich, but another complete meal as extravagant as lunch. Charlie wasn't the only one gaining weight; Don was sure that if it wasn't for the physical labor involved in his job, he would balloon right out of his yard sale clothes.

He stopped by the room quickly to check on Charlie before he went to back to work. His brother was snoring softly on the bed – but the computer was whirring on the rickety table, so Don knew Charlie had been up to something. He sighed, rubbed his neck and gently closed the door; it was time to chop firewood again.

Don had not come in for the evening yet when Charlie, after staring at the computer monitor for almost five minutes, slowly closed the laptop and stood, intending to hunt Don down and tell him what he had discovered. Then he remembered that Doris had told him at dinner that she had sent Don into Idaho Falls, to pick up the order she had placed at a grocery store there -- the last of the fish fry supplies -- and Charlie thudded back down into the chair. He pushed a stray curl behind his ear and thought for a moment. Then, he retrieved his prepaid cell from the backpack under the table, and called Amita.

One ring, and her breathless voice greeted him. "Charlie! Oh, Charlie, we have to find a way to talk more often. I've been so worried about you all week — are you all right?"

He closed his eyes at the stab of pain hearing her husky voice caused. " 'Mita," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. Maybe I can buy more minutes for the phone, soon -- or use Don's, although he hasn't got that many left, either."

Amita repeated her question, sounding worried now. "Are you all right? Your voice sounds a little odd."

He opened his eyes again and smiled fondly. "I'm okay, baby," he answered. "I've had a little cold."

"You need to take care of yourself," she fretted.

"I'm okay," he repeated softly.

There was a moment of silence, and then Amita's tone of voice changed with the subject. "Are you any closer to getting a computer?" She had thought for days about her alliance with Colby and Phil Wright. She felt guilty about doing the one thing Charlie had begged her not to do -- trusting someone, even someone at the Bureau. Now, she purposefully left their names out of the conversation. "Listen," she said excitedly. "I was thinking. Maybe the people who attacked you tracked down both you and Don through your IP addresses -- you were both using computers. I designed a cloaking program, so that when you get a computer and start working again, the IP address will be untraceable. I think the app is ready to go; I just uploaded a copy to my Primacy web page. There's a password-protected link. You can download it when you get a computer!"

Charlie experienced half-a-second of panic -- he'd had the fleeting thought himself, although he thought it improbable -- but calmed immediately. He had been working on the search since Monday, and nothing had happened. Still, the cloaking program couldn't hurt; and by designing it, Amita had tried to help. There was no point in telling her that he had been active on a computer for several days already; she was worried enough as it was. "That's great," he said. "I'm not convinced that's how they found us; but a cloaking program is a good idea. What's the password?"

Amita's voice took on a hint of both embarrassment -- and seduction. "All one word," she instructed. "First, spell out the number...um...the number of times we had sex, the night you proposed to me. Do you remember what that was?"

Charlie barked out a laugh of disbelief and dissolved into a coughing fit. He had to hold the phone away from his face for a few moments. He was still gasping when he returned the cell to his ear and started talking again. "My God, Amita! You think I'm likely to forget a thing like that?" He coughed again, then laughed. "Especially that second time."

She laughed in response. "I was quite impressed myself," she teased. "Your cold sounds terrible, sweetie..."

Charlie rolled his eyes, even though she couldn't see him. "What's next in the password?" he asked.

Amita sighed. "I'm glad you don't have a computer, yet. You obviously need some rest. The name of your favorite Kohaku koi; uppercase the first letter. Finally, the year the K-means clustering algorithm was designed."

Charlie shook his head and chuckled. "Geez, Amita. Overkill, much?"

She laughed. "Shut-up. I'm trying to be clandestine. I figure that's a good skill to develop, if I'm going to be married to a scientist who spends half his time working for the FBI...the NSA...the CDC..."

"All right, all right," Charlie interrupted. "But cluster analysis? That's a bit pedantic, don't you think?"

"I was in a hurry," she replied tartly.

He smiled fondly. "I love you," he said quietly. "I miss you so much."

Amita's voice was clogged with tears when she answered. "I love you, too," she responded, "and I feel as though one of my limbs is missing...I don't want to learn how to live without you, Charlie."

He swallowed thickly, and tried to lighten the mood. "That's because you're still trying to figure out how to live with me," he teased.

Amita laughed softly. "Damn straight," she agreed, and Charlie laughed again. Once again the sound degenerated into a cough. Amita waited worriedly for him to catch his breath; when he did, she could still hear him wheezing into the phone. "You need to get some rest," she ordered. "Do you have any kind of medicine?"

He nodded. "I'm fully medicated," he assured her. "Don's been taking good care of me -- and so has the landlady."

Amita arched an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that image."

Charlie giggled, gently, not wanting to set off another round of coughing. "Don't worry, my love. She only has eyes for Don."

A beep sounded, and Amita knew that she needed to recharge the cell. "When will you call again?" she asked hurriedly.

Another beep, and Charlie answered just as quickly. "I'm really low on minutes. I'll check Don's phone, and maybe I can call before next Thursday. If not, I've got to get into...town, to buy some more minutes. I'm not really sure..."

"I'll be waiting," Amita assured him. "Whenever it is. Take care of yourself, Charlie. I love...."

Another beep obscured her last word, but Charlie understood anyway. "I love you, too," he whispered. " 'Night, 'Mita." He snapped the cell shut before she could hear the sob he knew was coming.

Charlie squeezed his eyes shut and tried to control his emotions. Tears were clogging his throat and he soon erupted into another coughing fit. This one ended in full-out gagging that almost had him rushing for the bathroom, but he managed to hold onto the delicious dinner Doris had served. He was still breathing raggedly when he dragged the laptop toward him and logged into Amita's Primacy home page. Black spots were obfuscating his vision, but he managed to click on the password-protected link to the cloaking program. More slowly than he would have thought possible, with fumbling, sluggish fingers, Charlie typed threeEinstein1967 into the password field. The website took him to another screen, where the cloaking program began to download.

Exhausted, Charlie pushed back the chair and staggered slightly on his way to the bed. He would let the program download, and just lie down for a few minutes, while he waited for Don.

Dr. Pat Renton lifted a stack of files off the counter and made a nonchalant announcement to his skeleton crew. "I'm going to take these down to records," he said.

A junior tech glanced up from his microscope, surprised. He half stood. "Doctor, I can do that…"

Renton smiled. "No need, Bruce; you're in the middle of something, and I need a break before I get into the Anderson crime scene forensics." He yawned, and shook his head self-depreciatingly. "Guess I haven't acclimated to working the night shift yet. If I don't stretch my legs, I won't be held responsible for the consequences."

Bruce and the other two techs in the lab smiled. "Don't worry," Bruce said easily, looking back at his microscope. "You'll get used to it the night before Dr. Samuels gets back!"

Pat laughed. "You're probably right," he agreed woefully. He shifted the stack of files in his arms and headed for the wide corridor. "I should be back in 10."

He had planned his "impromptu" visit to records carefully. Checking shift logs in Wright's office that morning, he had seen that Laura Fishbein, the night supervisor in records, always took her lunch from 2 to 3 a.m. Wright checked the roster, and confirmed that only one clerk was scheduled to work with Ms. Fishbein that night.

At 2:15 a.m., Pat Renton smiled widely at a young woman scowling into a computer. "I think they save all the data entry for night," was his friendly opening statement.

She looked up, at first annoyed, and then relaxed a little when she saw his smile. "I know they do," she grumbled. She eyed the file folders he was carrying. "Returning? Just drop them in the pile. I hate holidays. They still expect us to produce the same amount of work, with a skeleton staff."

Sam uttered a sympathetic grunt. "I know what you mean…but the case must go on!" He grinned at her charmingly and eyed the door that led to the file room. He knew there was a copy machine in there. If he could get some time alone in the room, he could pull the Ames file, feed it into the machine, and cover the noise the copier made by banging a few drawers while he replaced all the other files. Then he could re-file the Ames folder, and easily conceal the copies in his oversized lab coat. "I'm on a break," he noted. "I could file these myself; I'll even take the rest of the pile with me, and file those, too."

She started to look embarrassed. "No, no, that's all right. I mean, it's my job…I'm sorry I complained. It was inappropriate."

Pat persisted. "It was completely understandable," he soothed. "I don't mind at all, really. You can initial the log-in sheet, and I'll get to it." He glanced around. "Looks like you're all alone here; you should probably stay near the phone." Then he looked down shyly at the top of his shoes, and silently begged his wife to forgive him. "Perhaps you and I could go to lunch, afterwards, if your relief is back."

She smiled, and blushed prettily. "My relief is actually my boss, and she won't be back until 3. Anyway," she continued morosely, "I've already had my lunch hour this shift."

Pat was surprised that the flirting game came back to him so easily; he had been married almost ten years. He allowed some confidence to enter his game, and winked at her. "Even better," he decided. "A man needs some beautiful and interesting company for breakfast. We could go to the diner just down the street – they open at six, I believe."

She smiled directly into his eyes. "That sounds marvelous," she answered. "Here; let me initial that log-in sheet."

Doris had left some a Mexican casserole in a warm oven, and after she helped Don unload the groceries, she insisted that he sit and have some. Don was so tired he probably wouldn't have bothered, without her there to force dinner on him; but after the first bite, he was glad she did. He relaxed when she told him that Charlie had joined her in the kitchen for dinner, and had already looked better after a day of napping; Don had a second helping.

He and Doris chatted amicably about the next day's fish fry. He found it charming when the middle-aged woman blushed and made a confession. "I got me a box of that hair dye," she said. "Even though he's short-handed with a full campground of his own, Harry's gonna come over for dinner tomorrow night. I'm making some of his favorite coleslaw, too."

Don smiled and winked at her. "You're a good-looking lady as you are, Doris. I don't think you need the box of hair dye."

Her blush deepened. "Well, I don't rightly know if I'll have time to use it," she hedged. "Have some more casserole."

Eventually, so stuffed he could barely move, Don headed down the connecting hall toward the room he and Charlie shared. He opened the door quietly – but Charlie was awake, sitting up on the edge of the bed, looking as if he had lost his best friend. Don's hackles went up, and he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "What?" he demanded.

Charlie pulled no punches. "Illusion Corporation," he said, in a voice that was still raspier than Don would have liked. "It's registered in the Dominican Republic, so it took me a few days to track down ownership. The stock is held by a partnership – and we know one of the owners."

Don blinked in surprise and moved toward the cot, so he could sit next to his brother. "Who?" he asked, lowering himself to the bed.

Charlie frowned as he answered. "J. Everett Tuttle."

End, Chapter 21