Disclaimer: "Bones" is the property of Fox Broadcasting, Kathy Reichs, and Hart Hanson. The following story was written for pleasure only and not for personal profit in any way.

Chapter 2

Booth pulled up to the curb next to a small rundown house.

"This is the residence of Donald Jensen, Evan's father. His mother died four years ago."

They sat looking at the dilapidated building for a minute. Booth looked down at his paper work.

"This is the place," he said, checking the file again just to be sure."

"I wonder if anyone even lives here," Brennan questioned, as she climbed out of the vehicle.

They walked up the unkempt path to the door. White paint was peeling off the walls of the house. Booth knocked on the door loudly. They waited. He knocked again. "Mr. Jensen?" he called in a loud voice. A muffled voice could be heard from the inside of the small house.

"I'm comin'."

They could hear movement inside. Finally the door opened and there stood a man as unkempt as the house and yard. He was dressed in worn out jeans and a thin white tank top. The man leaned heavily on the doorframe, staring at them with angry, bloodshot eyes.

"I am Special Agent Booth, with the FBI," Booth said, showing the man his badge, "This is my associate, Dr. Brennan. Are you Donald Jensen?"

"I might be," said the man, standing up a little straighter. "What do you want?" he asked in an aggressive, defiant tone.

"Sir, we would just like to talk to you about your son, Evan. Can we come in?" the Agent asked, in a polite voice.

The man grunted and turned, walking back down the short hall towards the living room.

Brennan gave Booth a sidelong glance, which he returned, eyebrows raised, before leading the way into the cluttered house. The floor was covered with trash and empty beer cans. The man collapsed on the couch, picking up an open can of beer from the end table.

"Mr. Jensen, can you tell us when you last saw Evan?" Booth asked, notepad in hand.

"Nope," replied the man, taking a drink from the can in his hand.

"Didn't your son live with you?" asked Brennan, folding her arms across her chest.

"Sometimes, more or less," he replied in an indifferent voice.

"Sir, I am afraid we have to inform you that Evan is dead," Booth said, watching the man as the news sunk in.

"Dead? Figures," said the man, "He was a worthless kid. Up to no good, always in trouble. Running drugs, he was. Do you think he shared any of his earnings with his old man? Not a dime. Can't say I am surprised, always knew he would come to a bad end."

"You knew your son was running drugs and you didn't do anything to stop him?" Brennan asked, shocked at what she was hearing.

"Stop him? A job is a job, but you would think he could help out with food around here once in a while, pull his weight-" the man started, but Brennan cut him off.

"He was fourteen years old, what about school?" She could feel her anger rising.

"Eh," he grunted, taking another drink.

"Your son is dead, don't you even care?!" she asked, staring at the man on the couch. "We believe his death may have been tied to his involvement in drug trafficking."

"Bones," hissed Booth quietly, shooting her a look to tell her to be quiet.

"Well, look at him," she replied just as loudly, turning towards her partner. "We just told him his son is dead and all he can do is complain that the boy wouldn't buy beer for him."

"Bones, please," Booth hissed again, then turned to the man on the couch before she could say anything else. "Sir, you said that you were aware of his involvement in drugs, did you know any of his connections, maybe the people he worked for?"

"Nah, he never said," replied the man, "I never asked. I didn't want any part of that."

"Oh, but you didn't care that your 14-year-old son was involved in it and that it may have gotten him killed," Brennan said, her voice raising slightly with her anger.

"Bones," interjected Booth again.

"Look, lady," Jensen said, pointing a finger at the anthropologist, "you have no idea what it takes to raise a kid these-"

"Apparently, neither do you," retorted Brennan, cutting him off.

This time Booth interrupted. "Thank you for talking with us, Mr. Jensen. If you can think of anything else that might help us, please give us a call," he said, as he put his arm around Brennan's back and steered her towards the door.

Mr. Jensen didn't reply and didn't get up as they left the house.

Brennan allowed herself to be towed to the Tahoe. Once inside, she began to rant again.

"I just don't understand what kind of man, what kind of father, could just… not even care…" she trailed off.

"Bones, I know," Booth said, in an understanding voice, as he put his keys into the ignition.

"Evan Jensen was just a child, 14 years old. Alone, no parent, no guidance- he doesn't even have anyone to care that he is dead," Brennan ranted on at top speed; she always spoke quickly when she was angry.

"Hey, Bones, I know. It's okay," Booth said again, trying to calm her.

"No, Booth, it's not okay; no one should be alone like that. When this is what becomes of youth, we are failing as a society. Pushing adolescents into adulthood without any guidance-"

"Look," Booth interrupted, waiting for her to turn to him, "I didn't mean that this situation is okay, you just need to calm down. Take a step back. I will do some more searching and see if I can find any more family the boy might have had," he said, making eye contact with her as he spoke.

"Why? Do you think they might know something that can help us?" Brennan asked, staring back at his dark brown eyes.

"No," he replied, pulling the gear shift into drive, "but they might care that he's dead."

She stared at Booth a few seconds before a small smile started at the corner of her mouth. She rested her head back against the seat and let her gaze rest, unseeingly, out the window as they drove down the street.

"Bones, we will find out who killed him," Booth added, not taking his eyes off the road. "That is all we can do for him."

They drove in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Booth's phone rang, breaking the silence.

He pulled it from his pocket, flipping it open. "Booth," he answered, putting the phone to his ear. He listened for a few moments then replied, "Okay, I'll be there shortly."

Closing the phone, he turned to meet Brennan's gaze. "They have arrested someone they believe to be associated with Alex McGregor, a well-known drug lord."

"What does that have to do with this case?" Brennan asked, in a somewhat irritated voice, unsure of the connection.

"Maybe nothing, but I would love to get ahold of McGregor. He may have nothing to do with Evan Jensen, but there are similarities between this case and several of the others we suspect him in. It is worth checking out; besides, we don't have any other leads at the moment," he replied, assessing her mood.

"Drop me at the lab, please," she stated, looking back at the road.

"Sure, Bones." He hesitated. "You usually like to interrogate people with me, what's up?"

"You suspect this guy; what we need is evidence to link him to the victim. I trust your judgment; I am going to go find your evidence," she replied, in a matter of fact tone.

"I'll get the file on this guy and the evidence from the murders he is suspected in. I can have them to you this afternoon," Booth said, smiling to himself, as they headed towards the Jeffersonian.

--

"Michael Donavan," Booth said, leaning back in his chair, in the interrogation room at the FBI building. Across the table from him sat a thin, blond-haired man, looking edgy.

"You're not a smart man, Donavan," the Agent continued. "You're taking all the heat here."

"Did you bring me in here and expect me to rat out my friends?" the man replied, in an irritated yet shaky voice.

"Friends?" the Agent questioned. "What friends? Oh, I know, the people you work for. The people that are so dear to you that you are willing to take the rap all by yourself. Those friends?"

The man fidgeted uncomfortably, rolling his eyes and looking towards the large one-way mirror on the wall behind the Agent.

"Look man, you don't know…" he stated, agitation and fear making his voice tremble again. "You don't know what he is capable of."

Booth let his chair fall forward and leaned across the table towards the man. "Oh, I think I do," he stated in a hard voice. He turned the file lying on the table in front of him around, so Donavan could see it well. "How many of these friends do you recognize?" he asked, as he displayed the gruesome pictures in the file. "How many of these friends got in too deep, or just made your boss angry?"

The blond leaned away from the table and the pictures. "I'm not saying anything, man," he said, folding his arms across his chest. "I can't."

"It's over, Donavan. You're already toast. What is he going to think when you don't check in? We got a whole lot of money and drugs off you. Don't think your boss will miss it?" the Agent continued. "Or better yet, he finds out we picked you up. Either way you are a loose cannon, one he is not going to leave as a liability very long."

"What do you want from me?" the thin man yelled. The agent's line of reasoning was getting to him. He looked at the ceiling shaking his head. "I don't know anything."

"We can offer you protection," the Agent said, sitting up straighter. "You give us McGregor, we give you a way out. Or we can just let you go and find your body a few weeks from now, or what's left of it," he added, gesturing at the pictures on the table.

The two men sat in silence, Booth's last statement hanging in the air. Donavan dropped his head into his hands and let out a shaky sigh. "You don't steal from him, you don't lie to him, and you don't do anything to get on his bad side."

"Or what?" the Agent pushed.

"Or what?" the man repeated, irritated, shoving the pictures and file back towards the Agent. "You don't cross him." The man looked at the wall, raising one hand to his mouth, rubbing his face.

"Where can I find him?" Booth asked.

The man didn't reply.

"We need to find him, we need to bring him in," the Agent said.

The man leaned back, staring at the Agent, with a calculating look. "Look, I really don't know much. There's this warehouse," he paused, shaking his head and looking at the table.

"Where?" the Agent questioned.

"The Brackenyard Warehouse, off the old Jefferson Davis Highway, it is abandoned. We would pick up and drop off there sometimes."

"I tell you what," said Booth, standing up and gathering his file, "you just keep thinking, see what else you can remember," he said, turning and walking out of the room.

--

Booth walked into the lab and, not seeing Brennan on the forensic platform headed for her office. Not finding her there, he set the file on her desk, when Angela walked by the door.

"Looking for Brennan?" she asked, seeing the Agent in the office.

"Yeah," replied Booth, walking towards the office door, "Do you know where she is?"

"She headed to karate, said she needed to work off some frustration," replied Angela concern coloring her voice. "Is everything ok?"

"Yeah, Evan Jensen's father is a real piece of work," he told her. "Look, when she gets back, can you tell I left the file on her desk?"

"Sure," said the artist, "I'll let her know. Where're you off to, hot date tonight?" she asked with a mischievous smile on her face.

"No, I am going to check out an old warehouse sometimes used for drug trafficking," he replied, a little annoyed with how Angela was constantly asking him about his love life.

"Well that sounds exciting," she said sarcastically, as she walked towards her office, "Don't have too much fun."

"Right," replied Booth, heading for the door.

To Be Continued...