Chapter 10

Ryan sat perched on the back of a bench as Seth paced beside it. It was nine thirty and they had been waiting, lost in their own thoughts as SUVs, clunkers, delivery trucks, and non-descript vehicles of every variety except public bus No.4 drove by. The morning rush hour was over and No.4 was scheduled for this stop every hour on the quarter hour.

"The bus is already 15 minutes late. We should have called a taxi."

"You never know if they'll come to a new address in the numbered streets," Ryan said absently. Seth climbed up the bench next to Ryan and slouched over. They were both tired from a night of planning and a morning of family drama.

A pimped out blue Mustang slowed down ominously near the bus stop. Its occupants shouted incomprehensible jeers over loud pulsating music and threw a beer bottle that barely missed Ryan and Seth. Ryan jumped up before the bottle shattered on the sidewalk behind them. His heart was pumping fast and he would love nothing more than to get into it with them, but the Mustang peeled away with a loud rev of its engine.

Seth had jumped up too, and his face was now flush with nervous energy. "Whatsup? Bad hair day? Man, it is so sad to know pods are a universal scourge." He brushed beer splatter off his pink buttoned down shirt and gray trousers.

Ryan glared down the street at the back of the car, but he knew didn't have the same effect in a bike courier's costume. The ridiculous bike tights came from Sandy's closet and an off-beat tee shirt from Seth's. Neither he nor Seth blended into the numbered streets today, but that was fine since they needed to be uptown. Ryan exhaled loudly and lifted a racing cap to run a hand through his hair. "Forget the fuckers. We've got to concentrate. You can't get caught… Kirsten, Sandy..."

"Ryan, think of that as a good omen." Ryan shifted his glare to Seth and added a squint of skepticism. "You didn't get almost whacked with a glass bottle before you broke into Harbor, did you? No, and you got caught. See?" Ryan only looked more skeptical. "Look, lightning doesn't strike twice so you – we- won't get caught this time." Seth sat down, closed his eyes and put his palms together. "Okay. Concentrating now, going into a deep meditative trance," he said.

Their one-sided conversation was interrupted as the bus pulled up. Ryan flashed his bus pass, and sat in the front row with his bag on the seat next to him. Seth fumbled getting the correct cash into the meter, then, followed Ryan. He tapped Ryan's bag impatiently. With a sigh Ryan lifted the heavy bag and set it between his feet. The bus was mostly empty.

Seth drummed his fingers on the armrest and twisted his head peering all around. He started a steady commentary about the other passengers and their comic book character potentials, then, read aloud the posters admonishing him to have safe sex and letting him know where to cash his paycheck for a modest fee. The stream of consciousness monologue went on for a few miles.

"I gotta get a bus pass, too, so I don't have to wait for the 'rent-mobile to pick me up at Harbor… so embarrassing. You know, the Greyhound to Portland had a head, but didn't have posters or gadgets." He reached past Ryan and fiddled with the cord hanging along the window. The 'Stop Requested' light turned on over the driver's head. Seth pulled his hand away quickly and feigned innocence. "Sorry, I'm a little nervous about our first mission together."

Ryan rolled his eyes and said, "Okay, okay, take a breath. We stick to the plan we worked out last night - keep it simple. No Army Ranger gestures, no secret codes, no elaborate stories, no superhero tricks. I go in with a delivery and get lost in the records' room. You make sure the receptionist is distracted and doesn't come looking for me. Buzz my cell if anyone comes near the records room. If the cops have already been there or it's locked, … we won't mess with it. And get the hell out if I get caught."

Seth nodded with exaggeration. "Yes, Mommy dearest. All the rooms have card swipe locks. But they don't usually lock the records' room, it's used by so many different people. If the cops have been there already … we'll come back with Plan B."

Before Ryan could argue, the bus lurched to an abrupt stop, throwing them forward in their seats. A foul smelling, older man boarded and walked passed them. "Oh, my kingdom and Captain Oats for a can of Lysol. Can proletarian transportation be any more brutal?" Seth turned his nose away from the aisle.

"How old is your grandfather?" Ryan asked ignoring Seth's antics.

"I dunno, somewhere between elderly and mature."

"You know I kinda lost it with the old man."

"Yeah, you've got some anger control issues," Seth said in all seriousness. Ryan glowered. "Just kidding. Not that you don't but it worked perfectly; we're going to fix Mom's case." Seth paused. "What Gramps did was beyond fucked up, but I wonder if he'll be okay." Seth bit his lip. "Not from what you did to him. I mean in jail… not that I care…"

Ryan shrugged. "I get it; he's still your grandfather. Don't worry. They separate out the old guys, plus it's a minimum security prison. If you have to go to jail, that's the kind to be in." Ryan tested his injured wrist, making a fist and turning it tentatively. "Trust me, he can hold his own."

"Yeah, I guess ruthless robber barons who clawed their way to the top have a little chutzpah."

They got off the bus and walked a half a mile or so to the Newport Group building. It was a five story, modern glass affair, befitting a developer in Orange County. They paused at the door. "This is it. Wonder Twin powers – activate!" Seth held out his knuckles.

Ryan punched Seth's knuckles. "Just be careful, Seth." He took out his cell phone and checked Seth's number.

"Kid Chino, I read you five-by-five, Ironist out," Seth answered into his cell phone.

Ryan entered the building and referred to the directory listings in the atrium. Kirsten's office, the residential department was located on the third floor. Ryan knew it but wanted to play the part. He had been there a few times usually to help pick up charity event props with Seth.

The elevator opened to the receptionist's desk. A young woman looked up eager to help. By her stood a Christmas tree decorated in tasteful ornaments. Holiday cards were posted on the bulletin behind the desk.

"I've got a clay delivery for the modelers," Ryan said pushing a clipboard and pen at the young receptionist.

She hesitated but signed. "You're not the regular courier."

"Yeah, but I've subbed here before. It's fifty pounds – it's a really short delivery or I'd use a van. You want me to take it to the supply room like I did the last time?"

"Well…" she balked, "usually I take deliveries here." The elevator opened to Seth. "Hi, I'm a CHAPS. Angus Beets with the California Highway Appreciation and Preservation Society. I'd like to talk to somebody about the importance of our highways, and let's not forget our byways. Our mission statement is to educate. And developers such as the Newport Group are key players."

"I'm sorry nobody can see you today. If you'd like to leave a card..."

"Surely, the endangered roadways are of some importance? Worth a moment of your time?" Seth scrunched up his face in earnest.

Ryan hoisted the package from the desk and smiled at the receptionist sympathetically at her situation with Seth before heading down the hallway.

Just as he remembered and Seth's floor plan showed, the record room was an interior office just behind the receptionist's desk. He poked his head in to see if it was occupied. Empty, he entered and quickly closed the door behind him. He opened his courier bag, put on rubber gloves and used a crowbar to jam the door shut. He looked around carefully. A line of standard filing cabinets stood against the left of the room, the right side held architectural drawers. He found where the 'P' files were and searched for 'Petty Funds'. He heard voices outside the room and froze to listen. The voices moved on and since he had no luck under 'P' he searched for 'Charity Event'. "Calder Account' … 'Chase Bank'. No luck. Under 'F' for Funds – no luck. He grew frantic, opening drawers at random.

He looked at his watch - 25 minutes had already passed. Frustrated and angry, he peeled off the gloves, wiped down both sides of the doorknob, and exited. He looked toward the receptionist's desk and nodded grimly at Seth who was still jabbering away at the front desk. Ryan crossed the hallway and down the staircase.

Seth came down and met him outside within a minute. Without preamble he said, "You had no luck because the cops came yesterday and moved some cabinets to Mom's office and locked it." Seth smiled knowingly. "The lovely receptionist could not resist my charms or subtle interrogation techniques. And Ironist's superpowers produced ..." With a dramatic flair he held a keycard in the air.

"Okay, I can get back in using the staircase – I taped the stairway door open just in case. You, umm, stay watch here." Ryan made a grab for the key.

"No, you're not going in without me," Seth said pulling the keycard close to his chest. He ran toward the door and made three steps before Ryan grabbed him and spun him around. They stared at each other. "You're really not going to let me help save Mom?" Seth asked angrily.

"No, yes,… of course. I just don't want you to …" Ryan grimaced and studied the sidewalk for a few moments. "Okay we go in and look together, maybe we'll find it faster. But get caught and I'll kill you."

"Deal."

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Seth peeked his head into the hallway. He gestured with Army Ranger-looking signals. Ryan ignored them and looked for himself to see nobody was in the hallway. Kirsten's office was the third door on the right. They made their way down the hall. The place was a ghosttown; business is slow when a company is under investigation. The door clicked open when the plastic electronic key was swiped.

Kirsten's office was no longer the bright designer's dream. Her desk was bare and the family photos were gone. The ficus leaves were brown and limp. Ryan closed the blinds to the glass office. Seth was already searching through the files.

"This is it! Too easy," Seth whispered urgently. Ryan went to him.

The door opened. "Oh my God, what's happening here?" The well dressed executive's hand went to her chest protectively and she gasped, "What… is that you Seth Cohen?" Ryan and Seth were on their knees by the cabinet and looked up guiltily. "Did you break in here?"

"Not guilty, Ms. Sherman," Seth said sweetly standing up and raising his hand in an uneasy greeting. "So not guilty!"

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A light bulb flashed in her face, and she blinked trying to erase the blind spot. Nervously her thumb rubbed against her ring finger hoping to rotate a wedding band that wasn't there. At the policeman's instructions she turned her left profile to the camera. This would pass, this was nothing she couldn't handle, Kirsten repeated to herself. She resolutely pushed her palm against her side to stop her hands from trembling. She had faith in the justice system, in the goodness of humanity, and in Sandy.

She had already been searched; her belt and personal effects removed. They had all been extremely civil to her, and their acts of kindness had seemed wrong when she was so frantic inside. The policewoman had reassured her she would get her wedding rings back safely, and the man with the gruff voice who had fingerprinted her had kindly advised her to wipe off all the excess ink before using the solution. Her trauma seemed lost to everyone. They must have seen shell-shocked expressions like hers in this harsh fluorescent setting everyday. Were they treating her better because they knew Sandy? If so, she didn't mind – enlightened thoughts of equality be damned. She closed her eyes to the memory of being patted down, the policewoman's firm hands running over her chest and between her legs. This was bad enough.

The policeman stepped away from the camera and began to enter information into the computer. Kirsten rested against the wall. She didn't think she could handle much more, but she had to consider the possibility of jail. Her deepest fear was falling apart and letting down her family. What did she know about hardship? She had always been Caleb Nichols' daughter and that meant, whether she liked it or not, living in a protective bubble. Even her hippy year, living out of a mail truck, she still had her family's safety net.

"Ma'am," the policeman said apologetically, jogging her out of her revelry, "I'm going to have to handcuff you to take you down to the court house. It's standard procedure."

She nodded in a quick jerky motion, and swallowed hard. He gently took her arms and put them behind her back. The snap of the handcuffs startled her even though she was expecting it. They weighed heavily and were cold. She shivered.

They walked the long underground corridor between the police station and the courthouse, the guard right at her elbow. Ryan must have been marched down a similar path with his hands in cuffs, alone without a family to trust in. She was ashamed she ever considered turning her back to him. It was easy to be a "liberal" in Orange County; it was one of the most conservative counties in the country. To whom much is given, much is expected her mom had taught her. She was proud of raising money for charity. Others might only see the frivolous side but she knew the difference their checks made. Ryan was another level of commitment to ideals espoused more loudly in her Berkeley days. Sandy had asked her to put deed to words when they decided to take in Ryan and she never regretted it. She only hoped she would be strong for him now, strong for them all.

She was put in a bare room – bare save for a bench mounted into the wall. Two other women in the room didn't looked up and she didn't look at them out of respect for their privacy and for fear of offense. She took a seat between the women and stared at the linoleum floor. The cold of the stainless steel bench penetrated her to the bone but she didn't fidget. Newport debutantes did not squirm, but then again they didn't usually get arrested either or have fathers who incriminated their daughters. She allowed herself a bitter smile and thoughts of cilantro appetizers and multi-colored lights.

"Kristen Cohen!" a man shouted out.

"Key-ear-sten," she corrected softly. She took a deep breath and stood up to follow him. They entered the courtroom, and he guided her to a table by her lawyer and uncuffed her. Her eyes flew to Sandy who sat in the first row of seats. He was pale and his face was drawn taut, but he smiled reassuringly.

Her attention turned back to the front when her charges were read. It was all too real, too somber. She almost had to fight to stop from laughing. Surely everyone would see this was a terrible mistake? She hadn't bribed anybody or misused any funds. She wouldn't be blamed for not reading everything her dad put in front of her, would they?

"Not guilty, your honor," she whispered, then cleared her throat and repeated firmly, "Not guilty."

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Author's Note: Some chapters spill out without effort (chapters 1 and 9 come to mind), but this was a tough one. Kirsten's voice is impossible for me. Thanks for your patience and reviews. And huge Thanks to FredSmith, champion beta.