A/N: Okay, I'm back on track. This should register as a new chapter, so there's been only one new chapter/author alert, and its only now that the story has been bumped for its update. Be sure to check the previous chapter, Part XIV. It's been updated, too.
"Sly Cooper," Fedorov read aloud through the file. Fox was busy at a desk not far away, a stack of files on either side of the one she had open. She'd been at it for hours before Fedorov arrived. Matkovich pinched the file between his thumb and forefinger and stared at it, unable to translate the French.
"Twenty-three, one-seventy, Seventy-two, brown, unknown, unknown, unknown." Fox recalled from memorization of the Cooper file his age, height, weight, eye color, and the status of his next of kin, last known residency and aliases. Fedorov raised an eyebrow at the detective.
She needs a husband, he thought in his native language. He continued to read through the file, flipping through page after page of 'unknown' and 'unconfirmed.' This Cooper was a real ghost- no family ties, no known connections to anyone- anywhere, or so it appeared.
"Hey, I think I found something!" Fox said, holding a file up to the desk lamp.
"Da?" Fedorov placed the file on the floor and got out of his chair.
"I went rummaging through the cold case files and dug out all the murders with the name 'Cooper' occurring in it."
"What did you find?" Fedorov leaned over Carmelita's shoulder and did his best to read the paper.
"Multiple homicide, southern Wales. Official records show the owner of the house to be David Fassbinder. He was found murdered with his son, Gerald Fassbinder, and was survived by his grandson, Sylvester Fassbinder."
"Where does 'Cooper' become realized?" Fedorov asked, his English beginning to break down.
"Under the witness statements. One of the neighbors referred to them as the 'Coopers'."
"Fassbinder?" Fedorov asked, stroking his chin, the German he'd learned while serving in East Berlin coming back to him. "Do you mind what that means in English?"
"No," Fox admitted.
"Cooper."
A light bulb burst inside Fox's head from the rush of electrical activity. "Macmillan Orphanage. That's where the file says little 'Fassbinder' was taken."
"And how long have you been performing this case?" Fedorov asked, unready for the chair that was backed into his stomach.
Cooper rested in the armchair opposite Bentley, who sat on the edge of the hotel bed, arms crossed over his chest. Sly was leaning forward, rubbing his temples with his hands. He looked up from the floor and noticed Bentley was staring at him.
"What?" Sly made the mistake of asking.
"You know what." Bentley turned his head away to look at Murray, who was asleep on the other bed, mouth agape and filled with potato chip crumbs. Sly shrugged and returned to attempting to rid himself of the headache he had developed.
Damn, when is Marvin getting back with that ice?
Marvin was in the Hotel's lobby, hunched over the payphone in one corner of the room.
"Detective Carmelita Fox, please." Marvin waited a few moments for the phone to be picked back up. "Do you know when she'll be in? Fine. No, I don't want to leave a message." He hung up and took his bucket to the ice machine.
"So, what was your bright idea?" Abernathy asked as they followed Anton into the warehouse. "That is, before we were interrupted." Anton pushed the door open and smiled as the four men walked past. They entered the main area and walked through to an elevated office to one end. Anton shut the door behind them, as if there was someone else there. Doonigan coughed lightly, more to break the silence than to clear his throat. Anton looked the four other men over, sizing them up.
"You're really not what I expected," Anton said, gesturing to Elser. "I was expecting someone... larger."
"What's your point?" Elser demanded.
"What do you think about drugs?" Anton asked. The four other men stiffened. The IRA was notorious for hating drugs and their traffickers, often kneecapping those caught selling the stuff on the streets. Kneecapping was a process by which an individual placed a pistol to the back of another individual's knee and fired a bullet through the joint, shattering the kneecap and rendering the leg useless for life, not to mention putting the victim through several weeks of intense pain. Elser's favorite method involved a Black & Decker.
"I think you better not be thinking what I think you're thinking," Elser threatened. Anton held his hands up defensively.
"Hey, I hate 'em too." Anton lowered his arms and pointed as he spoke. "But, you have to admit, they're out there and there's a lot of money to be made around them." Elser had heard just about enough.
"I think you better get to the point."
"My point, John, is that there's a lot of money around the stuff. Physically. Deals are never done without both the drugs and the cash. There's an awful lot of cash." Elser relaxed and smiled a little. He understood what Anton was thinking. "So much so, that, in a short while, a person could make—hundreds—thousands--- even millions, in just one exchange."
"Keep talking," Abernathy said slowly.