Dissecting The Toad
(ATF)

by Brandgwen

Disclaimer: The guys belong to Mirisch, etc., the universe belongs to Mog, "Addicted to Bass" belongs to Daemion/Abrahams (copyright 1998 Prozaac Recordings) and "Into Temptation" belongs to Neil Finn (copyright 1996 Capitol Records). All characters, with the exception of the Seven, are of my own creation; any resemblance to persons, real or fictional, is entirely coincidental. I'm not making money, I'm not worth suing.
Author's Note: This fanfic is the second in the Deep Cover series.

Smythe

Buck had noticed Margaret Smythe as she was shown in. In truth, everyone had; she was a striking woman. Her poise and breeding accompanied by all the trimmings wealth could offer could turn just about any head. But then, Buck's head turned quite readily, anyway. She glanced up at him as he entered the interview room, then refocussed her attention on her hand, which she had placed flat, palm down on the rickety table before her.

"I trust, Officer, that my lawyer has been contacted. I did supply his name and contact number as I was shown in."

"Then I'm sure someone has gotten onto it, Ma'am, and that's Wilmington. Agent Buck Wilmington."

Margaret looked up, the tiniest hint of flirtation in Buck's voice attracting her attention. Much about the man before her attracted her attention. A few years younger than herself, perhaps, but she had worked her magic on younger, still. His eyes carried the same sense of fun his voice had betrayed. "Buck. That's an unusual name."

"Well, yes Ma'am. I'm an unusual person."

I'll bet you are. Smythe drew herself up and hooked one leg over the other. In spite of the slippery plastic chair in which she sat, she managed to maintain both grace and dignity. The skirt of her short, black dress sat a little higher of her leg. "Really, Buck, you must call me Margaret. I'll not be content until you do."

Buck smiled he most congenial smile and leaned back in his chair. "So, Margaret, how are you doing, this fine evening?"

She rolled her eyes. "Buck, my dear, if you're going to try and wheedle information out of me before my lawyer arrives, at least do it with some finesse."

"Apologies, Ma'am, I was just making conversation."

"Really," she allowed her eyes to wander around the interview room. There was little to see. The walls were painted white, the table a metallic grey. A few stickers and posters adorned the walls, sporting safety slogans, or advising inhabitants of the nearest fire escape. Her eye caught on one small sign, stuck at eye level, by the door. Your right to smoke is respected, your decision not to is appreciated.

"Do you mind, Buck, if I smoke?"

"Not at all."

She made a show of looking for her cigarettes, then turned a hopeful gaze on her captor. "It seems my store has gone astray. Do you think I might borrow one?"

Buck shook his head. "Sorry, Ma'am, don't smoke."

She frowned, then sighed. "Now, Buck, whatever happened to Margaret?"

Buck chuckled, "sorry, Ma'am, I forgot."

She smiled slyly and regarded him through lowered eyelashes. "Then I will have to make you remember. It shouldn't be too difficult. After all, men being men, you do have a weakness," an arrogance in her manner betrayed her as a woman used to accumulating information, "all I need to do is ferret it out and you will have to do as I say." She waved her hand at him with a flourish and silently wished for that cigarette - the trail of smoke would have appeared wonderfully exotic.

"All men, Margaret?" Buck grinned, "do tell."

She lowered her eyelashes at him, half playfully. "Still wheedling, I see. You are making more of an effort, however." She turned the idea over in her mind and decided there was little harm in spilling this particular secret. None to herself, anyway. If nothing else, it would divert his attention until her lawyer arrived. "Well, I say all men have a weakness, but, of course, that's not true. Most have at least three or four. The really interesting men out there can have up to ten."

"Really interesting, huh?" his smile encouraged her to elaborate.

"Why, yes. The more flawed a man is, and the more colourful his flaws, the better. Take my follow detainees, for instance," she knew this would pique his interest, "Francis Conners wants his finger on the trigger and half the world in his pocket, which pretty much makes him dull as wood. That boy, Jennings, wants to be the wiseguy on television, living the high-life, always getting the girl. What a shame he's such a worm. As for Mitchell..." she paused, collecting her thoughts, "Alexander Mitchell wants everything he doesn't have and more of what he does. There's an interesting man."

Buck was surprised. Knowing Ezra, with his expensive suits and fast car, Buck might have guessed this, himself. The persona the undercover had adopted possessed none of these things. "Really? I saw him when they brought him in, but Mitchell didn't seem like the filthy-rich, has-everything type."

She laughed a smooth, breathy laugh. She enjoyed extolling her feminine knowledge and this man's interest seemed to be growing by the second. Not surprising, of course. How often would an ATF agent come in contact with a woman of her quality? "My dear Buck, some men want possessions and power for show, but not all. And a clever man does nothing unless it suits his purpose."

Buck nodded, his smile faltering only slightly. A clever man does nothing unless it suits his purpose. This woman had Ezra pinned too well. "Tell me something, Margaret. If Mr Mitchell doesn't believe in throwing his weight around, how do you know he has it?"

"Naturally, I don't know he has it," again she focused on her outstretched hand. Leaning forward, she examined her fingernails, as if the fate of the world lay in her cuticles, "but he and I have completed certain... transactions," she glanced up at Buck, coyly, ensuring she had his attention, "for example, one may wish to know something about another individual within the company. Alex can get that kind of information. Maybe you require particular security measures. Alex may or may not oblige. Its not blackmail, understand. One chooses how one deals with their employees. However, if the loyalty of a man such as Alex Mitchell might be bought, one would be foolish not to pay up."

Outwardly, Buck appeared to be absorbing this information. Inwardly, his mind raced. How much of this was true and how should he deal with it? Perhaps she was just bluffing - stalling for time - but what if she weren't?

The woman sitting across from him shifted in her chair, vainly trying to shield her face from the harsh lighting of the interview room. The lines around her mouth and eyes deepened as she threw him a flirtatious smile. "So tell me, Agent Wilmington, is that against the law? To exact special treatment with money or influence?"

"I can't rightly say; commerce ain't my area of expertise," Buck hoped she did not notice the tightness of his voice, "he might just be on the right track... so long as he isn't a federal agent, that is."

She smiled. This Wilmington would make a worthwhile ally. Bribing him would have made the whole business a little easier, but she had not really expected him to accept it. No, he was far more open to charm.

"Tell me something, Margaret, does this special treatment include have guards rostered to drive you around."

Margaret faltered, a little, before answering, "Not exactly. After all, I am a major shareholder - that, in itself, buys influence. However, having Alex on side makes it easier."

Buck watched as she nervously ran a hand over her hair. Lacquer and an armoury of pins ensured the immaculate french roll had not a hair out of place. Causally, he wondered if her hair ever moved.

"Mitchell would also make sure you got the guard you wanted, I suppose?"

She didn't answer.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," he continued, "you see, we've been noticing a pattern in your choice of drivers. One takes you out to see your nephew, one to... well, we needn't go into that," Buck gave her a mischievous smile, "and one just drives you around, while you make telephone calls."

The multiple layers of foundation covering her face could not hide the change in her complexion. "I... I have not idea what you mean," she faltered.

Buck nodded. "No need to talk about that, now. You're lawyer will be here, soon. We can talk, then."

Fury crossed her eyes, as panic overtook her. "We will not. I refuse to have my family name slandered by any petty police concern. I am sure my lawyer will agree."

"I doubt it," Buck replied, lightly, "keeping you mouth shut will only get you in deeper."

"I don't care," she hissed, "no Smythe will ever admit to wrong-doing, as long as I am alive."

Buck closed the door behind him and turned to give his report.

"She gonna cooperate?" Chris got in, first.

"Nope. A real piece of work, that one. Intends to plead innocent, all the way to the gallows."

Larabee let out an annoyed sigh.

"You 'right there, Chris?" Buck knew they had enough to convict Smythe without her testimony.

"Yeah, it's just that we now have two of them refusing to give up names. We may have to send Ezra back in."

"Ezra, right," Buck couldn't disguise his hesitation.

Chris didn't miss it. "Buck? There anything else you want to tell me?"

Remembering whom he was speaking to, Buck hurriedly pushed away his confusion and replied, "Nah, Chris. Nothing else."