A/N: Dudes. Dude-lets. Bahama Mama's back. Hope you haven't forgotten our little tale…
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Chapter 4
Don lifted one hand from the wheel and rubbed the back of his neck, sighed tiredly. He glanced at the clock glowing in the dashboard. It was after 10 o'clock, and he had just left the office. As he dropped his hand back to the steering wheel, he let out another sigh — this one of contentment. At least it was over. The case was closed, even the paperwork was cleared up. In triplicate.
As he turned the SUV onto the street where Charlie's house was, he hesitated. It was awfully late to just drop by, and he was exhausted. Charlie probably would be too — wasn't this finals week? Still, Don hadn't seen his brother since the night before their father left for New York, and he didn't want him to think he only came by the house when Alan was home, for free food. Or that he only contacted Charlie if he needed something for a case. He guided the vehicle around the last corner. He would just stop for a few minutes.
He glided into the driveway, behind Charlie's car, and frowned. The house was dark. He looked over at the garage. Dark also. He had fully expected to find Charlie working his usual ridiculous hours — on steroids — during finals week, not going to bed early.
He started to shift back into reverse. He'd catch up with Charlie tomorrow. Unless he caught a new case, Don should even have time to meet near campus for lunch. He looked in the rear view mirror to check traffic, and his eyes wandered back to the house again.
Knowing Dad, he had left several enticing dishes in the freezer.
Knowing Charlie, he had ignored them all.
Further knowing Charlie, he had probably come home from Cal Sci and crashed on the couch. He probably had hours of work to do, yet.
Someone should wake him up.
An evil grin spread across Don's face, and he turned off the idling engine, ripped the key from the ignition, slid out of the SUV and headed for the kitchen door. He shook his head when he found it unlocked. How many times had he talked to Charlie about using his head when it came to simple safety matters?
He pushed open the door, flipped on the kitchen light. "Charlie! You here?" He took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair, and rolled up his sleeves. Stopping at the refrigerator, he grabbed a beer, twisted it open with one hand as he opened the freezer.
Bless me Father, for I am hungry.
He peered at the labels. There was at least two weeks' worth of single-serving dishes in here, and it had already been almost a week. Had Charlie eaten anything since Dad left? Don chose two labeled "Meat Loaf" and put them on the counter. He drew on the beer. Microwaved meat loaf. Beer. Nectar of the Gods.
He put the beer down and placed the freezer-to-microwave dishes directly into the unit. "Charlie!" This time he yelled louder, and longer. He set the machine for "Defrost" and started the timer. Picking up the beer again, he frowned. Maybe Charlie really wasn't here, even though his car was in the driveway. He could be out with someone else. Don shook his head. That was highly unlikely during finals week. Probably crashed on the couch.
Don headed to the living room. He pushed through the swinging door, automatically reached to flip on the dining room light. He tilted his head back for more beer, still walking, and tripped over something on the floor. He tried to re-balance, but whatever it was must be pretty big, and Don felt himself falling.
He had time to hope that Charlie wasn't lying awake on the couch watching him. This was embarrassing. He managed to stop himself on his knees and even kept the beer from spilling. He looked back to see what was on the floor.
This time he spilled the beer, dropping it from numb fingers. Still on his knees, he turned toward the body, forced himself to feel for a pulse, although it was pretty apparent from the angle of this guy's neck that there would not be one. Don sat back and tried to think while he looked around.
There was a dead man in his brother's dining room. His neck was broken. Papers and books and Charlie's laptop were scattered all over the place. Charlie's cell phone was on the table. Afraid of what he would see, Don looked over his shoulder to the couch.
He didn't know whether to be relieved that Charlie wasn't lying there dead, or terrified that Charlie wasn't lying there at all. He guessed he'd have to be both.
He stood, flipping open his cell with one hand and unholstering his weapon with the other. "Megan. I need you and David, now. Something's wrong at Charlie's house. You'd better call 9-1-1. Some guy I don't know is dead, here. I haven't found Charlie yet. I'm going to clear the house."
Megan stuttered a little in her surprise. "D – D – Don, don't do that. Wait for back-up. I'm on my way, I was still in the car when you called. Five minutes."
Don ignored her. "Call David. 9-1-1." He flipped the phone shut again and began to work his way around the bottom floor of the house, opening cupboards and closets not really big enough to conceal anyone, but he had read "Helter Skelter" at Quantico — he knew where Charles Manson had been found.
When he was sure the ground floor was clear, he headed for the stairs. He checked the rooms in the order of perimeter. His old room. Under the bed. The closet. Dad's room. Under the bed. The closet. Bathroom. Cupboard under the sink was open. Bathtub empty, behind the shower curtain. Finally, Charlie's room.
He stood in the door and looked in. Charlie kept his room such a mess, how was he supposed to know whether or not there was a struggle here? Then he saw the handgun safe on the desk, and walked over to it. Empty. Even the extra box of ammo was gone. Just to be thorough, he checked under this bed and in this closet, then holstered his weapon again and turned his attention back to the desk. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Not going to be able to tell what was wrong with this picture — except for the safe in the middle of all the papers and magazines. He smiled slightly. "Journals." Charlie would hate Don referring to the stuff he read as "magazines".
His cell rang and he flipped it open. "Eppes."
"Don, I'm in the driveway." It was Megan. "I hear sirens. Where are you?"
"Charlie's room. House is clear, you can come up. Kitchen is unlocked; watch the body in the dining room."
Don heard her on the stairs when his cell rang again. He answered it as he met her at the doorway. "Eppes."
"Don, it's Larry Fleinhardt."
Don nodded at Megan and twisted his head to stretch his neck. "Larry. Listen, I can't talk right now, I just got to a … a crime scene. I may need your help on this one; can I call you back in a few minutes?"
"Of course. I understand." Despite his words, Larry sounded a little frazzled. "It's just that I'm a little concerned about Charles."
Don, who had started pacing the room, froze. "Wait. What? Why?"
"You're working," Larry began. "We can talk…"
"No! No!" Don's command was so loud it startled even him. "Tell me why you're concerned."
Larry began hesitantly. "It's just … well, the physics department faculty had a dinner this evening. I neglected to take my cell phone. I just returned, and when I checked, Charles had left a rather confusing voice mail."
"When? What did he say?"
"The message was left around 8. He said that he'll miss the rest of finals week, that he's been called away to San Diego, an emergency with your Aunt Ida and Uncle Morrie? Don, do you have two Aunts named 'Ida'? I was under the impression that was who Alan went to see in New York … and the last two days of finals? That's not like Charles at all."
Don gripped the phone tighter. "What kind of emergency?"
"He said that your Uncle Morrie had a heart attack. He asked me to pass that along to you; he said he couldn't reach you."
Don had been in the office all night. Neither his office phone nor his cell had rung.
"Don?"
"Larry. Have you erased that voice mail?"
"Not yet, no."
"I need to hear it. Can you bring it to Charlie's house?"
Larry was nonplussed. "Of course. Tonight? I thought you were at a crime scene?"
Don squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again. "I am. The crime scene is Charlie's house. Larry, Uncle Morrie did have a heart attack, but it was years ago, and it killed him. I always felt badly that I couldn't come home from Albuquerque for the service. And he and Aunt Ida — my only Aunt Ida — always lived in L.A., never San Diego. And you're right; Charlie wouldn't ditch finals. I can't find him. There's a dead man in his dining room, some guy I've never seen before, and I can't find Charlie."
"Oh, my. This is quite disturbing. I'll be there right away."
"Thanks, Larry." Don disconnected and looked at Megan. "What the hell is going on?"
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Ten minutes later, Charlie's house and driveway were lit to the skies, and crawling with LAPD officers, CSI technicians, three forlorn FBI agents and one agitated physics professor.
Don stopped the guided tour he was conducting for David, Megan and Larry in the dining room. They stood well back, out of the way, but the victim was still visible. He noted the look on Larry's face.
"What is it? Do you know him?"
Larry frowned, shook his head. "No, no, Don, it's not that."
Don tried not to sound exasperated. "Then what?"
Larry kept looking around the dining room. "I was just wondering where his backpack is. All these papers, books, the lap top, the cell … everything came out of there. Shouldn't it be here also?"
Don blinked at Larry. "You're right." He suddenly had a thought. "Come up and look at his room. I can't tell if anything is out of place there or not. Maybe you'll see something." He started to lead the group upstairs. "All I know for sure is that his gun is gone."
Larry hesitated on the stair behind Don. "Charles has a gun?"
"Yeah. I finally talked him into keeping one in the house for protection. I've gotten him to go the range with me a few times. He's really not a bad shot, but he hates it so much he hasn't come with me in months."
"Probably figuring the trajectory angles and shooting mathematically without even knowing it," David offered. They all paused and looked at him. "What? Is that so hard to believe?"
Larry started up the stairs again. "Actually, no. He just never mentioned owning a gun to me, or having shot one, even."
Don led them into Charlie's bedroom. "I told you. He hates it. I think he tries to forget it's even here." He pointed to the desk. "But there's the empty safe."
Larry and Megan walked toward the desk, while David stood in the doorway and surveyed the room. "Are you sure there wasn't a struggle in here?"
"My point exactly," Don answered. "What do you think, Larry?"
Larry had turned his head and was looking at the journal under the safe. Megan followed his eyes. "Are those math symbols?"
He shook his head. "No. It's rather odd, but it appears to be the alphabet."
She frowned. "No, it's not. Charlie's scribbles can be hard to read, but these aren't letters."
He was still looking. "Not our alphabet, Megan. It's Greek."
Her face cleared suddenly. "Oh! That's what looks familiar. Those two together, two 'Delta' symbols. I recognize those from fraternities at college."
He looked at her and smiled briefly, then turned his attention back to the journal as Don and David came to look over their shoulders. "Yes, and probably these near the end are familiar from sororities. Sigma and Nu."
Don interrupted. "So why is Charlie writing about frat houses and sororities in the margins of a math journal?"
Larry tilted his head a little. "It's an alphabet, Don, not just a way to label the affluent young collegian. It could be a word … or letters that signify several words … let's see. If we start at the left-hand side of the page, we have alpha-delta-delta-iota-sigma-omicron-nu…" He looked expectantly at the group of agents, who just stared back at him with various levels of blankness. He sighed, looked back at the scribbles. "Forgive me. In English, then, it would be A – D – D – I – S – O – N. Addison. Does that mean anything to you?" He looked at them again, and this time was met alternatively with looks of shock, disbelief, and something else that could only be labeled as fear.
"Oh, dear." He raised one hand to his mouth so that he could bite down on a nail. "What's wrong?"
