Part 6

Federal Building, Denver
March 30

Vin frowned as he hung up the phone. He'd been attempting to contact Monica Hastings to thank her for the flowers, but they'd been missing each other all day. The receptionist at Riverside Pharmaceuticals sounded apologetic, but reiterated that Dr. Hastings was in a meeting with the lab's financial backers, and couldn't be reached. The receptionist had insisted the doctor would return the call as soon as she got back, but that might be awhile. Vin glanced at his watch, mentally shaking his head. He, Chris, JD, and Josiah were booked on a flight to Dallas leaving Denver at five-thirty. It was almost one now.

He glanced around the office. JD was on the phone; he had the receiver clenched between his ear and shoulder and both hands on the keyboard, typing rapidly into the computer. He was finalizing the list of equipment they would pick up that night in Dallas.

Vin could hear the soft murmur of Josiah's deep voice from the conference room. The profiler had Bobby Fewell in there; the two of them were supposed to be going over all the information Bobby would need as Ezra's backup on the upcoming mission. Vin frowned. Seemed like he'd been hearing a lot of Josiah and not much of Bobby. Vin had nothing against the rookie agent; the kid was likeable enough and Vin knew his work with other teams had been good, excellent even. But Bobby sure seemed to be having trouble with this assignment.

'Well, he could just be nervous,' Vin conceded silently. Most of Bobby's work had been with Team Three, and he hadn't had much undercover experience. Team Three tended to function more as a backup to the other teams, cleaning up in the aftermath of busts, things like that. The agents assigned were either pretty old, nearing retirement, or green, like Bobby.

Chris had left a few minutes before, saying only he had "some stuff" to take care of and would meet them at the airport. Nathan had bullied Ezra into going home for a nap. That Ezra had finally agreed either meant he was in serious pain or tired of Nathan's nagging, but Vin suspected Ezra really just needed some time to himself to prepare for his undercover role.

He looked up again as JD slammed down the telephone receiver. The youngest member of Team Seven had been in an uncharacteristically brusque mood all day, rarely speaking, and his normal happy grin was absent.

"Want to talk, JD?" Vin offered.

"Nothing to talk about." The young man didn't even look away from his computer screen, his face set in lines that aged him by at least ten years.

"JD."

"Look, Vin, you're on Chris' side of this," JD snapped. "You always are. But I'm on Buck's side."

"This isn't about sides, kid," Vin pointed out. "Buck told you that himself. If there's somethin' between them, it's between them." He shifted, remembering what Chris had told him in the wee hours of the morning. Vin still couldn't believe Chris had held a knife to Buck's throat and cut him.

On the other hand –remembering what Buck and Chris himself had told him about Chris' behavior after his family had been killed - he could believe it-much too easily.

And God help them all if JD ever found out.

Vin and JD both looked up at the quiet rap on the door. It opened slowly and a woman looked around it hesitantly. "Umm...I'm sorry, I was looking for-" Then her eyes fell on Vin and she smiled. "-You," she finished, coming all the way in.

"Dr. Hastings!" Vin was surprised to see the woman here but pleased too. He quickly cleared a pile of folders off the chair nearest his desk. "I just got off the phone with your secretary."

"Yes...I called in for messages and she told me. I was close by so I thought I'd try to catch you here." The young woman looked around the room appraisingly and then dimpled at Vin. "I've never been to a Federal Building before," she confessed.

A sudden throat clearing announced Josiah's presence. He was standing in the doorway to the conference room, with Bobby Fewell next to him, looking interested. Vin suddenly remembered his manners. He said quickly, "Dr. Monica Hastings...JD Dunne, Josiah Sanchez, and that's Bobby Fewell."

"Please, call me Monica." The woman extended her hand to JD, her smile faltering a bit at the noticeable hesitation before the young man briefly took it.

Josiah jumped in to bridge the suddenly awkward moment. "So what is your impression of the Federal Building?" he asked, sounding more like Ezra than even Ezra could.

"Well, it's not exactly what I expected," she admitted. She glanced at Vin out of the corner of her eyes. "I was hoping I could persuade Agent Tanner to have lunch with me."

"Me?" Vin repeated, feeling stunned. He quickly recovered. After all, he had been planning to ask her out when he returned from Oklahoma. "Do you like Mexican food? Place near here has a buffet at lunch..."

JD jumped up, drawing every eye to him. He flushed. "Got to go," he muttered, grabbing his jacket and spinning on his heel toward the door before the words had even left his mouth.

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"JD! JD, wait up!"

JD hesitated, then stopped and turned around, waiting for Bobby Fewell to catch up to him in the crowded lobby area. His friend slowed as he approached, shaking his head. "Man, what is with you? You always react that way when you're introduced to a awesome looking woman?"

"She's not that good looking," JD protested. He immediately felt like a fool. No matter what he thought about Monica Hastings, he couldn't deny she was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever met. He swung around again and showed his ID to the guard in front of the elevator leading to the parking garage. "It's just...she's responsible for Ezra almost dying, and Vin acts like-like-"

"Like a normal, red-blooded American Joe when a gorgeous woman starts letting him know she's interested? I mean, come on, JD! The woman is hot. Besides you can't really blame her for what happened to Standish. She just created the drug, she didn't put it into his water filter." Bobby stopped as the elevator doors opened onto the parking area. "Hey'd they ever catch him? That Martin guy or whatever his name is?"

"Murine," JD answered absently, digging his keys out of his pocket. "No...no sign of him."

Bobby clapped a hand on JD's shoulder. "Come on...Tanner's taking Miss America to lunch...guess you'll have to settle for me."

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"So when do you get to move back to your place?" Bobby asked twenty minutes later, digging into his order of cheese fries.

JD took a slurp of his Coke, shaking his head. "Don't know," he said morosely, staring down at the table. "The bomb did major structural damage to a load-bearing wall. And all that rain after didn't help. Plus now they're saying there's damage to the foundation." He shook his head again, reaching for his cheeseburger. "They don't even know if it can be fixed, much less when they might get around to fixing it."

"That's tough," Bobby commiserated. "So've you gone apartment hunting yet?"

JD stopped chewing, forced down the bite in his mouth. "Apartment hunting?"

"Well...yeah. You aren't going to live with Larabee indefinitely, are you?" He took a drink. "I know there're vacancies in my complex. A one-bedroom the next building over. Looks onto the pool."

JD forced a laugh. "A one-bedroom? Where does Buck sleep, on the balcony?" He shook salt onto his fries, then looked up to catch Bobby's incredulous stare. "What?"

The other man shrugged. "Just...I never have figured out why you share a place with Wilmington. I mean, I like him, but I wouldn't want to share an apartment with him. You're around these guys all day, don't you want some privacy and your own free time?"

JD stared down at the remains of his lunch, pushing it away. His appetite was suddenly gone. "Never thought about it," he said quietly. He rallied. "I like living with Buck."

Bobby shook his head. "You know what your problem is, JD? You've got family confused with coworkers."

JD just stared at him.

"No, it's true," Bobby insisted. "You seem to think Wilmington and the others are your family. They're not, they're your coworkers. Your teammates, sure, but not family. Do your job, say goodbye at the end of the day, say hello again the next morning."

JD felt a sick churning in his stomach. "Team Seven is my family," he said firmly.

"No, JD, they're not." Bobby laughed a little. "Good thing too...I sure wouldn't want someone like Ezra Standish perching on my family tree!"

"What does that mean?" JD snapped, feeling his hackles rise.

Bobby stopped laughing. He looked embarrassed. "Oh, hell, JD, I didn't mean anything by that. I mean, I know he's a great undercover agent. But...how can you really trust him? He was on the take in Atlanta and everybody knows it."

"Ezra wasn't on the take!" JD's voice raised and some people at nearby tables looked over at him. He quickly lowered his voice. "He was set up."

"Yeah, I've heard the story." Bobby shook his head. "But come on, JD. Haven't you ever heard the expression, 'no smoke without a fire'? The whole FBI turned against Standish, from what I've heard. Gotta wonder what they know that you don't."

JD stared down at his food, appetite destroyed. He didn't know where to start telling Bobby how wrong he was.

JD had never felt so alone.

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"What part of Texas are you from?"

Vin looked across at Monica Hastings. The bar/restaurant he and his friends had nicknamed "The Saloon" was crowded-it always was on Buffet days-but he'd managed to find a table for two near a window. Vin didn't like crowds. Being near the window at least allowed him the illusion of escape.

"How'd you know I'm from Texas?" he asked.

"I'm good at placing accents. It's a little game I play." Monica Hastings cocked her head to one side, studying him, then nodded her head as if she'd made up her mind about something. "West Texas," she declared. A smile lit her face. "Am I right?"

"Close enough," Vin conceded. "Little town no one's ever heard of anyway. Most people that get there just want to leave." He stared off into space, lost for a moment to his memories. "Nothin' much left there but dry oil wells and broken dreams."

Silence fell between them.

"Your father was in the oil business?"

Vin shook his head. "Never knew him," he said shortly. Surprising himself, he went on, "Ma died when I was about five and after that it was all orphanages and foster homes." He looked down at his plate. "Ran away lots of times. Finally when I was about sixteen they just stopped botherin' to haul me back. I did a hitch in the Army, drifted around awhile, got some college here an' there and finally ended up a US Marshall. Then the ATF and Denver." He took a gulp of his iced tea and set down the glass, not quite daring to meet the woman's eyes. He wasn't usually so revealing about his past-especially to a woman he barely knew. "Your turn," he forced out cheerfully. "Where you from?"

"Originally? Hawaii."

Vin raised his eyebrows. "Beautiful place."

"It is. I've been there on vacation. I didn't grow up there." Monica moved her fork restlessly around her plate. "My father was in the Navy. He met my mother in San Diego when she wasn't much more than eighteen. He was twelve years older. Married her-much to the disapproval of her family. From what I've been told, it wasn't a happy marriage. My mother-she was so young. She'd always had money, everything she wanted...she didn't have a clue about how to be a wife or a mother. And he didn't have much patience with her." Vin noticed her fingers were clenching the fork so tightly the bones showed white through the skin. "When I was two he caught her with another man. He killed them both and then turned the gun on himself."

Vin impulsively reached across the table to grasp her hand. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely.

She managed a smile. "It was a long time ago. Anyway, my aunt and uncle raised me right here in Denver. My poor aunt-she wanted a homecoming queen, cheerleader type, and instead I was a shy bookworm. Oh well, at least my cousin Nina fulfilled some of her dreams."

Vin remembered the beautiful blonde woman he'd been introduced to at Riverside Pharmaceuticals. There had been something familiar about her. "Nina. The lawyer?"

She giggled, the sound dissipating some of the solemnity that had engulfed them. "You sound so disapproving. She happens to be a very good attorney."

Vin smiled. "Bet she is. But you ever heard that song, 'Let's kill all the lawyers, kill them tonight'?"

Monica erupted into laughter, setting her glass of tea down hard on the table. Vin grinned widely-he liked hearing her laugh. "What kind of lawyer is she, anyway?" he asked. "She looked familiar-maybe I've seen her in court."

She stopped laughing, although her eyes still twinkled. "Defending some of the crooks you apprehend? I doubt it. She does mostly corporate law. Probably just as crooked but much more faceless." She glanced down at her watch; Vin noted it was a lacy, delicate affair with good-sized diamonds around the face. She made a face. "Speaking of Nina, I have an appointment with her in twenty minutes. She might be my cousin but she's not above charging me for a missed visit." She looked up to meet Vin's eyes. Blushing slightly, she said, "I've enjoyed our lunch."

The invitation was definitely there. Vin wasn't the ladies' man Buck was but he'd have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to see it. He took a deep breath. "Maybe we can do it again? Maybe dinner, next time."

A brilliant smile lit up her face. "I'd like that."

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Chris pulled his Dodge Ram into a parking place near the hospital entrance and killed the engine.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, feeling the lack of sleep from the night before tug at him wearily. He had got through the long day by stubbornly focusing on one thing at a time. He owed it to his men to be totally concentrated and committed to the mission. To be anything else could be fatal.

But he also knew he couldn't leave Denver without talking to Buck.

Really talking to him this time, not allowing Buck to divert him to something else.

Larabee quirked his lips in his characteristic half-smile. 'Have to give Buck credit,' he mused. 'He knows how to push my buttons.' And which buttons to push as well. Looking back on their argument the day before, Chris could see how Buck had herded him away from topics Buck didn't want him venturing toward by bringing Chris' anger to the fore. It was a trait Buck had perfected years before, invariably pissing Chris off all over again when he realized just how well his old friend could manipulate him.

'No, manipulate isn't a good word.'

That implied something bad, or evil. Buck-as Chris well knew-engaged in such tactics only to protect, not himself, but Chris.

So the question was, what was Buck trying to protect Chris from?

Well, he wasn't going to find out sitting in the parking lot.

Chris took a last deep, centering breath. He had to stay in control during the coming confrontation, not allow Buck to distract him. Really, it was amazing how quick Buck could get him to yelling when he set his mind to it. Usually the madder Chris got, the quieter Chris got. But not when Buck was involved.

Only one other person had ever been able to get Chris riled up like that.

And he'd been married to her.

He made his way into the building and up to Buck's floor. As he was walking past the nurses' station he heard a voice calling his name. The Ward clerk, a fiftyish woman who perpetually wore a frazzled air like a badge, came around the counter to shove a large floral arrangement into his arms. Surprised, Chris accepted it. Lots of tall, spikey blue, purple and white flowers nestled in a wide, Chinese-style bowl.

"That's for Mr. Wilmington," the woman said, her voice a little snappish. "I haven't had time to play delivery person today." She turned on her heel and strode back to her desk. Chris shook his head as he resumed his course down the hall. He had yet to find that woman in a good mood.

Chris didn't know the uniformed cop on duty outside Buck's door. He was another fresh-faced kid in crisply-pressed blues who looked all of fifteen. Since when did the Denver PD recruit from kindergarten? The rookie scrutinized Chris' I.D. for a full thirty seconds before he handed it back and opened the door, saying smartly, "You have a visitor, Agent Wilmington." He didn't salute, but it looked like he was seriously thinking about it.

Chris went into the room, peering over the floral arrangement in his arms. To his surprise, Buck wasn't in bed. Instead he was sitting up in the armchair, pillows stuffed around him and a blanket over his legs. The oxygen was on and Buck had both hands curled tightly around the arms of the chair. "Looking good, Pard," he commented, moving a couple of stuffed animals aside to make room for the flowers.

Buck eyed the floral offering with a funny look on his face. "You shouldn't have, Pard," he said warily.

"I didn't." Chris searched among the flowers for a card, pulling the white envelope loose and handing it to Buck, who made no move to open it.

"Shouldn't you be getting ready for the trip?"

Chris grabbed the other chair in the room and turned it backwards, straddling it. He frowned, not liking the pallor of Buck's face or the dark circles under his eyes. And the weight just seemed to be melting off. Chris could never remember Buck so thin in all the time they'd known each other.

"We have to talk," he said firmly.

Buck shifted uneasily, wincing. "Thought we done talked already."

Chris shook his head, smiling humorlessly. "You think you've got me tapped pretty good, don't you, Old Dog?" he asked silkily.

He was rewarded by a wary light gradually dawning in Buck's eyes. "Don't know what-"

"You're trying to protect someone, Buck," Chris broke in. "Somebody you apparently value more than your own life and safety." He shook his head. "I don't deserve that," he finished quietly.

Silence.

"Hell, Chris," Buck said with a patently-fake laugh. "I'm not protectin'-"

Chris held up one hand. "Don't even bother, Buck," he said firmly. After a few seconds he went on, "I know it's me."

Buck met his eyes and the question was clear.

"'Cause if it was anybody else, you'd trust me enough to let me help."

His eyes locked with Buck's-the gaze steady and unwavering. Buck tried to look away, faking another laugh-which resulted in a coughing spell that left him breathless. By the time it ended he was several shades paler and gasping in pain. Chris, eyes wide and worried, reached for the call button. Buck caught his hand, gripping it tightly.

"Bolo Orlowski-" he muttered hoarsely.

Chris clasped the cold fingers with his own warm ones. "What? That was his bomb in your house, right?"

Buck shook his head. "No...I mean, yeah, it was. Looked like his work, at least." Buck broke off, breathing oxygen shallowly through the canula. "Chris...Bolo's signature..."

"I know, Vin told me what you said," Chris broke in. "About the wires being twisted into a hangman's noose-" he broke off, the memory that had been teasing the back of his mind coming clear suddenly. He drew in a quick, startled breath.

"Oh, God-The detonator on the bomb—the bomb in the truck…"

Buck looked at him, eyes haunted. He nodded once, sadly.

Chris heard his own voice from a million miles away. "Bolo Orlowski killed Sarah and Adam."

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Assistant DA Ira Berman left his office a little early that day. Telling the secretary he shared with three others ADA's he would be in at the usual time in the morning, he took the elevator down. Instead of getting off at the parking garage though, he exited through the lobby and briskly walked two blocks down to a small park surrounding a splashing fountain. A stout, middle-aged woman was the only person around. Berman sat down on the opposite end of the bench she was on. He took a long envelope from his vest pocket and tossed it onto the bench between them.

The woman's eyes flickered to it, but she made no move to pick it up. "My daughter?" she asked, her voice low, strained.

"Her record of arrests has been deleted." Berman's voice dropped. "Your son screwed up, Mrs. Conover."

"He's only fifteen!" She protested. "You wanted him to kill that man!"

"I know. That's why I'm prepared to be understanding." His voice was menacing now. "Take that," he gestured to the envelope. "Get yourself and your kids out of this town, tomorrow. Don't come back. When your son messed up last night, he made some important people very mad."

The woman hesitated, licking dry lips. Then she snatched up the envelope, shoved it into her purse, and hurried away.

Berman out his cell phone. He punched in a number and waited. "It's taken care of," he said. He listened. "It was your idea," he pointed out. "Don't worry, they think it was an accident."

The voice on the other end was strident, angry.

"You can depend on me," Berman said. "Ezra Standish won't live long enough to testify."

tbc...