Colby tapped his finger on the tasteful sign outside the office. "This is the place. This is the owner of the building where our victim was found, once I scraped through all the legal crap surrounding the name of this guy. Abner Martin, CEO and sole proprietor of AM Enterprises, therefore owner of at least six buildings that LAPD routinely has under surveillance. Class A One type citizen."

"Not such a big office for a guy who thinks he's such a big shot," David noted. "You think he's in?"

"I think we're gonna find out. After you, my friend."

"Thanks." David rapped on the door and pushed it open to Martin's office. The man paused in his dictation to his secretary. David swallowed a grin: the Twenty-First Century, with computers with voice activation, and this yo-yo still got off on a 1950's style secretary?

Colby had already come to his own conclusion: easy way to keep a no-skills mistress around. But that wasn't what they were here for. The FBI wasn't a for-hire agency to spy on errant husbands.

"Mr. Martin, Agents Sinclair and Granger of the FBI." David allowed a moment for the gravity of the situation to sink in.

Most salutary: Martin's face paled.

"You can go, Gracie," he said thickly, trying for a semblance of dignity.

David filed that away for later follow up. They were only after background information, but this man's behavior suggested that he was involved in a little more than horseplay on top of a messy desk. He allowed his voice to become a little harder. "Mr. Martin, I understand that you own the building on Fourth Street, downtown?"

Martin gulped, but some of his color came back which told David that whatever the guilt involved, it wasn't about his case. "That's right. It's part of my real estate holdings. Why is the FBI interested?"

"We're interested because some criminal activity took place there," Colby told him. "Who was the building rented to?"

Martin now frowned; they were on solid ground. There were details that he knew very well. And Martin's face verified that whatever was going on, Martin wasn't involved. At least, not beyond petty larceny. "It wasn't."

"It wasn't what?"

"It wasn't rented," Martin repeated. "I've been trying to get that place rented out for the last three months, ever since Monmouth, Inc. moved up to Santa Barbara. It was empty."

"Pretty busy for an empty office." David pushed forward a head shot of the murder victim, AKA Garrison Kellman, for lack of a better ID. "Recognize this man?"

"No. Was he the one squatting in my building?"

It had the ring of truth. "Mr. Martin, we need to review your records," David said.

"I don't think—"

"He was murdered there. In your building." David let the words drop like stalactites in an ice-laden cave.

Martin changed his tune instantly. Petty larceny meant a fine that he could try to write off in taxes. Murder was more than he cared to be involved in. Martin swiveled his desk top computer around, and punched up a file. "Be my guest."

"So what did Charlie have to say?" Megan asked, walking into Don's office. She plopped into the opposite chair, clearly having nothing to add to the current case.

"Charlie?" Don frowned. "I haven't seen him yet today. And he dodged me last night, didn't come home for dinner," he added in an aggrieved tone. "I was thinking about heading over to CalSci to track him down. Why?"

Now it was Megan's turn to frown. "I saw him come in a little while ago. Isn't he here?"

"No, he's not. You sure you saw him?"

"Don, I spoke to the guy. Dark curly hair, distracted look all the time? Really distracted this time. I almost thought he was going to walk into the elevator doors before they opened."

"Where was he headed?"

"I thought that he was headed for your office." Megan suddenly smiled, bright and false. "Fire me, Don. I'm a terrible investigator. I can't even tell where your brother is going in FBI headquarters."

"Request denied," Don told her. "You don't get a vacation that easily, Reeves." Don hoisted himself out of his chair. "Let's go find him."

"You at a dead end, too?"

"Yeah." Don gave his own false smile. "There are no leads, nothing to follow up. Can't figure out who the dead guy is, and the office stuff is going nowhere. David and Colby called in; the owner of the building had no knowledge of anything going on there and is now busily engaged in trying to figure out how to charge the murder victim for rent owed."

"I wish him luck," Megan grumbled.

A couple of phone calls was all that it took to discover the whereabouts of the missing consultant. They found Charlie sitting in the Forensics Lab, his laptop plugged in and a crowd of forensics specialists shoving and pushing for the opportunity to hear Dr. Eppes lecture. Don took one look: interrupting the man with over a dozen scientific types clustered around him would be an invitation to a riot. He and Megan sat down in the back of the lab to listen.

"You've already determined the density of the crystals of interest as well as the amount of energy required to cause them to shatter as the evidence indicates that they did. Where you're having difficulty is in the reconstruction of the object that they came from. Early indications suggested a large paperweight-like object, but later data tended to discount that." Charlie did something to the computer screen that Don couldn't see, but several in the crowd murmured appreciatively. "One of the data points that doesn't fit in is the shatter point. You have the crystals and you've been able to identify that they are not, in fact, glass, but a plastic resin with well-known properties which do not include a shatter point within the target range that you've pinpointed. Bottom line: you have two apparently contradictory facts. This suggests that you need to look further for a solution to this dilemma."

"If anyone says 'think out of the box', they get to clean today's glassware," one disgruntled voice called out. There was a generalized shudder at that threat.

Charlie grinned. "I think we can do better than that. What happens if you change the density of the object in question?"

"Dr. Eppes, we already know what the object is made of," someone objected. "We have the crystals."

"Which doesn't quite fit the hypothesis." Charlie started tapping on the keyboard again. "What if there was a foreign object embedded within that paperweight? Something looking approximately like this?" He added a final keystroke. A linear representation on the computer screen jumped out at them: a paperweight with an abstract carving inside. "Find this foreign object, and you will have solved the mystery of why the paperweight exploded the way it did."

There was a multi-tonal chorus of sound, all adding up to the concept of I got it!, then several people started all jabbering at once. Charlie developed that little half-smile that Don recognized from having seen it after all successful lectures his brother had given, the smile that said that someone understood what he was talking about. The fact that the entire group achieved comprehension made it all the sweeter. Don took advantage of the crowd's distraction to push his way through, Megan in his wake. "Hey, buddy."

"Don." Charlie's smile broadened. "Didn't know you were here."

"Didn't know you were here, either, buddy." Don tried to keep the jealousy out of his voice. Charlie was Don's contribution to the FBI, wasn't he? He didn't mind sharing his brother's genius with Forensics, did he? "What'cha got?"

"A partial on the object that exploded," Charlie told him, oblivious to his brother's feelings. "It was a large, paperweight-shaped object, but at least 15 centimeters in diameter in a roughly oval shape, most likely with a foreign object embedded inside. It was composed of a plastic—"

"Yeah, yeah, some sort of plastic, I heard that part, Charlie." Don rushed him on. "Why do I get the feeling that you know a little bit more than that?"

Charlie got that guilty deer-in-the-headlights look on his face that Don had seen ever since he'd learned to needle his brother over everything. He zeroed in. "Give, Charlie. What do you know?" This is almost too easy. Too bad it's work and not play.

Charlie looked around, still guilty. "Can we go someplace a little more private?"

"Charlie, this is FBI headquarters," Megan said. "More private? What are you worried about?"

Definitely unhappy. "Please, Don?"

Don sighed. "My office."

Charlie was no less unhappy in Don's office, shoving his hands into his pockets and staring at the floor as if hoping that it would swallow him up before confession time.

Don went straight for the throat. "Charlie, you know that we've got zip on this case. If you know something, then you have to give it to me. What do you know?" He was gentle—this was his brother, after all—but this was business. With that Tanner guy involved, this was national security type business.

"Don…" Charlie looked away, clearly wrestling with something.

"Charlie, this is serious. This is interfering with a federal investigation, buddy."

"I…"

Megan silenced Don with a look, and Don was suddenly glad that the profiler was present. "Charlie," she began, drawing the man over to the bench, gently pushing him onto it, "Charlie, what's the problem? Don and I can't help you if we don't know what's going on." She sank down beside him, wordlessly offering support.

Charlie looked away. "I don't think I can tell you—"

Flash of insight. Don asked, "Charlie, does this have something to do with the NSA?"

The suddenly hunched shoulders told both Don and Megan that he'd hit the nail on the head.

Megan sent Don a glance, warning him to keep silent for the moment. "Is Don right, Charlie?"

Charlie couldn't look at either one of them. "It's classified, Megan. I'm not allowed to talk about it."

"Charlie, we have a murder here—"

Megan held up her hand to stop the senior agent from going any further. "Charlie, I understand that. I'm not asking you to give up any state secrets. But you need to know that we've already had a visit by a CIA official, wanting to know about the murder victim. He let us know that the victim was one of his people. Charlie, this could be big, and we need to get a handle on it as quickly as possible. If this is national security, we need to know and move fast."

"One of his people? CIA?" Charlie shook his head. "Megan, Ned wasn't CIA. He was NSA. I met him a couple of times, face to face, back several years ago when I was consulting for them. But he was NSA. Definitely NSA. I only remembered his face this morning. Then I knew for certain."

"But this guy, Tanner—" Don interrupted himself, remembering the discussion in D'Angelo's office. "No. Think about it, Megan. Tanner never came out and said that our victim was one of his people. Just that the guy, as far as they knew, was in Damascus. Then he led us on a verbal merry-go-round, fishing for information." He became grim. "He didn't know that we have our own connections here. That Charlie would remember the guy. You said his name was Ned, Charlie?"

"I think I've already said too much."

"Then, don't talk. Listen," Don ordered. "You don't have to say anything. I'll do the talking. Our victim, Ned or Garrison Kellman or whatever his real name was, meets with someone. I'm willing to bet that the someone was connected with the CIA, either an agent or a suspect, or else our Mr. Tanner wouldn't be so interested. The paperweight thing shatters, methodology to be determined. We know that it happened before your friend was killed, because there were shards of plastic found underneath the body. If it had happened afterward, the crystals would have all been on top. Good so far?"

Megan nodded. Charlie remained still, so Don pushed ahead.

"You talked about something inside that paperweight. I'm willing to bet that whatever that foreign object is, it will hold the key to this murder." Charlie still didn't move. Don went on. "Ned and the other guy break the paperweight. Heat, I'm guessing, because of what you guys were saying in Forensics. They get this foreign object thing. Now is when it becomes fuzzy: where did this foreign object thing go? Did our other guy take it? Who is he? What is he? Charlie?"

Charlie sighed heavily. "I think I'd better call some of my contacts at the NSA before I say anything further."

"You haven't said anything at all yet," Don reminded him. "This is all deductive reasoning, based on available evidence. What was that foreign object, Charlie? Why is it so important?"

Charlie looked down at the floor, and gave Don the important fact. "Putting an encrypted data stream onto a piece of glass and then sealing it into a chunk of plastic was a useful way of transporting information across borders. The agent would put it onto someone's luggage as a souvenir on one end, and another agent could retrieve it here in this country. The NSA gave that process up a few years ago when foreign agents caught on and would randomly steal paperweights. The encryption patterns on the data streams were the only things keeping those foreign powers from reading the messages."

"And you were one of the people creating the encryption key."

"Right." Charlie looked away. "Ned was on the other end of my tether."

"May I remind you, sir," Area Director D'Angelo said into the speaker phone in a tightly controlled voice, "that I called you? That everyone except you seems to know where your man is? Now, as the agency that has been tasked with unraveling this subterfuge, I would appreciate your decreasing the volume of this call, eliminating the unprofessional comments, and tell me just what the hell is going on!" That last came out in a roar.

Don was enjoying the show immensely. After running into so many stonewalls labeled 'classified'—dammit, I've got my own security clearance, thank you very much!—it was a pleasure to listen to someone get chewed out over it.

Another objection.

"Dr. Eppes is consulting for the FBI at the moment, not the NSA," D'Angelo snapped. "In fact, he wouldn't have recognized your man at all if he hadn't been consulted on this investigation and brought to the scene. You are extremely fortunate, sir, that we did engage his services. You'd still be picking lint out of your navel if we hadn't, wondering what had happened to your field agent."

Yet another objection—

"We all report to the same man on top," D'Angelo snarled, temper fraying. "If I don't get what I need, that's where my next phone call—"

Charlie interrupted. "Rob? It's Charlie."

There was silence from the other end. Then—"Charlie? That really you?" And: "This for real?"

"I wish it weren't, Rob. I haven't seen Ned for four years, but it certainly looks like him, even without the beard. It's Ned 'Take Aim' Ames. For real."

Don raised his eyebrows at his brother. Take Aim?

Nickname, Charlie mouthed back. As if Don hadn't guessed that part.

The speaker phone came alive again. "You only saw him once, Charlie. How can you be sure?"

"Twice. And it's him, Rob. Wishful thinking that it's not."

"Access the fingerprint request," Don put in nastily, with a sideways glance toward Megan. Colby, in the background, smirked. "Every other agency in the federal government has."

D'Angelo tossed Don a remonstrating look, but there wasn't any real heat in it. "Well?"

Heavy sigh. "You win, Mr. D'Angelo. Ned Ames was one of our top people, stationed in Damascus. He was involved in some delicate surveillance work and doing well with it for the last three years. Then something happened; we're not sure what. We lost touch with him about three weeks ago. Now apparently he has turned up dead on your doorstep."

Finally getting somewhere. "What was he working on?" Don asked. This was now business.

"Several things," the voice on the other end said. "No, really," he protested grimly. "Charlie, tell them."

"Rob's right," Charlie acknowledged. "It's pretty difficult to get an observer into those sorts of places, so the NSA uses them as generalists, inhaling all kinds of information for sorting out back home. Once the data has been correlated, a team of specialists are sent to deal with it, so as not to compromise the integrity of the observer." He raised his voice. "What were the last three days' worth of entries, Rob?"

"All routine. Troop movements in Israel, Syria, and Lebanon. Six comings and goings of suspected terrorists but none associated with al-Qaida or Hezbollah. They were all from new splinter groups that have since been integrated into larger and less radical groups in those three weeks, according to other observers." Rob sounded as though he was reading from some papers in front of him. "There was a suspected theft of plutonium or enriched uranium—the report wasn't clear—from ex-Soviet scientists who haven't been paid in over three months but Ned thought that they just needed the cash so they reported the stuff as being stolen and pocketed the money themselves. There was a report on some biologicals moving across the Irani border, but that reference was vague and didn't get any independent verification. We dismissed it. And that was all."

"All?"

"Absolutely everything," Rob assured them bitterly. "We never heard from him after that."

"So what do you think is going on here?" Don challenged. "It's probably not troop movements, not here in L.A. Terrorist activity planned for here? Biologicals?"

"I would give a pretty penny to know the answer to that question," Rob said. "It's Special Agent Eppes, right? Charlie's brother?"

"That's right."

"He speaks very highly of you."

Don tossed Charlie a look. Really? "Charlie hasn't mentioned you at all."

Snort. "I should hope not." Pause. "Your brother did some rather spectacular work for us a few years ago. You think you can pull off the same fireworks?"

Don looked at Charlie, who colored. Don turned back to the speaker phone. "You may not want to know the answer to that," was all that he said.