"Back again? I thought y'all were done here."
The doorman of the building where the unsub's luxury penthouse was located shook his head as he pulled out his set of master keys once again. This would be the third time FBI agents had come in to comb through the best apartment in the place.
"This time we're gonna be checking every unit you've got." Rossi brandished the newly-attained warrant.
Sighing, the doorman took the papers and gave them a careful inspection. He trusted the agents, but it was protocol to check authenticity. Since he was the first line in the building's security, he paid serious attention to making sure all the 'i's were dotted and the 't's crossed.
As they waited, Reid scanned the marble lobby. "How come a ritzy building like this doesn't have security cameras? Anyone who lives here probably has stuff worth stealing. Why wouldn't management have installed cameras inside and out?"
"Mmmm…." The doorman looked up from his reading material. "They did. Had them taken down a few years ago when the property changed hands. Said something about the tenants valuing their privacy and that of their guests. They didn't want their comings and goings filmed. Said it would make people nervous. The tenants take their own measures when it comes to security inside their homes." He handed the warrant back to Rossi. "Anyway, not my business."
"Really?" Dave tucked the papers into an inside jacket pocket. "I would think it was. What if you were the one who got mugged or beaten?"
"Not likely. Not in this part of town." The doorman gave a lopsided grin. "Besides, the people who own this place would make very sure I was taken care of…ya know?" He winked.
"Yeah. We know." Rossi's aversion to the status quo was evident. From what he'd seen of Dallas's underpinnings, wealth on a grand scale could take care of just about anything.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
When they spoke, it sounded like an orchestral arrangement for rusty hinges and creaking doors.
Morgan and Prentiss were hoarse and dehydrated.
Hotch was weak, listless. He lay still, trying to gather his strength. Head turned to the side, he gazed at his teammates.
"Hotch. Hey, man… how you feelin'?"
"N-not good." The short response drained him. He closed his eyes, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep and wake up somewhere else. Someone else. Prentiss's voice forced him to abandon that pleasant fantasy.
"Hotch, we can't get to you. You're gonna have to get us out of here."
Eyes devoid of any spark stared at Emily. "H-how long?"
"How long have we been here? We don't know. A day at least. Probably longer."
"Yeah, we were all drugged, so the passage of time is a little hazy," Morgan added.
Hotch blinked. He wasn't sure he could do much at the moment, but he took a deep breath and contracted his stomach muscles, preparatory to sitting up. It was the wrong thing to do. Nausea and vertigo slammed through him. Desperate to avoid what he felt coming next, and propelled by the sheer force of the queasiness, he did a half-roll that took him to the far side of the bed.
Just in time to vomit on the floor instead of himself.
Too late Hotch realized his peril. Balanced on the edge, dizziness depriving him of control, he fell off the side of the mattress into the bile he'd retched up from a painfully empty stomach.
"Hotch!" Morgan's voice creaked as he and Prentiss watched their boss disappear over the side of the bed, landing with a solid thump and a moan that was the epitome of misery.
"Hotch?" Emily could hear slight movements.
A feeble voice responded. "Yeah. I'm okay." The sound of the Unit Chief dragging himself along the floor didn't give much credence to the claim. "Son of a…" There was more rustling and a few grunts.
When Hotch finally appeared around the foot of the bed, despite being on hands and knees, he swayed alarmingly. But he'd managed to fasten his trousers. There wasn't much he could do about the vomit staining the shoulder and upper sleeve of his shirt. The uncontrolled fall had left his side feeling bruised on top of all the other disagreeable sensations surging through his body. With grim determination he moved forward, listing heavily to one side and bracing himself against the bed as much as possible. Eyes fixed on his colleagues, Hotch narrowed his focus. His world became moving toward them an inch at a time.
But once he'd cleared the furniture and was traversing open space, he was in trouble. Morgan and Prentiss could see it in his eyes. With a pathetic whimper, Hotch keeled over, landing on the side he'd already bruised. Panting, eyes rolling and showing far too much white, he curled in on himself.
As bad as it had been to see him so still and helpless and pliant under Megan's hands, it was far worse to see their friend unable to direct his own body, his fear almost palpable.
Morgan resumed punishing his wrists against their leather bindings; an exercise in frustration.
All Prentiss could do was rasp out Hotch's name again and again, hoping to break through his panic at what had been done to him…and hope it wasn't a permanent condition.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Jeff-the-doorman was not about to risk his job by helping two FBI agents search every unit in the building.
This was an exclusive address, even for Dallas, a city that boasted an inordinate number of extraordinarily wealthy residents. Jeff wasn't one of them, but he was fond of the light duty and good salary that came with his position. He was even more fond of the extravagant gifts bestowed upon him by tenants who valued his discretion and his aid in maintaining their reputations and their secrets.
None of the agents who'd been here had talked about the case in his presence. He assumed they were after the woman who lived in the penthouse because of shady financial dealings. Nothing too important. And having been on the receiving end of some of Uncle Sam's tax fraud laws himself, Jeff wasn't too keen on helping them catch the lady.
No one had mentioned missing people or murder. So the doorman's supposition was that accounting information or luxury items that had been acquired in less than aboveboard means were the targets of the repeated searches.
Had he known people's lives were involved, he might have mentioned one of the penthouse's most unique features.
As part of the individually customized security measures he'd mentioned, it had its own version of a panic room. In effect, a mini-suite with a cleverly concealed entrance through the closet in the master bedroom. The secluded, little suite was as exquisitely appointed as was the penthouse proper.
And Jeff saw no reason to risk a nice, cushy job by volunteering that information.
As it was, he insisted Rossi write a short, official statement that the law had strong-armed the doorman into letting them into units whose occupants didn't come to their doors. He took his time making copies of it along with the warrant papers.
The note and a copy of the warrant would be left behind in each apartment entered. Jeff hoped it would exonerate him in the eyes of the tenants. As for the secret mini-suite…he was sure if it contained financial information of a questionable nature, it couldn't be too objectionable.
The lady who lived in the penthouse was too refined and gentle to dabble in anything that would leave a permanent stain on her impeccable, lovely, luscious façade.