Standard Disclaimers Apply.
As ever, many, many thanks to my readers and especially my dear reviewers, LoveforPenandDerek, emzypemzy, and Moon Raven2. Also, congrats to Moon Raven2 for correctly guessing the inspiration for the Hyperion - "Angel." I just had to give a nod to my favourite LA TV show! Thank-you for being patient on the update. But I keep on dreaming about California, so I guess that meant it was time to post another chapter! :)
"There is something uneasy in the Los Angeles air this afternoon, some unnatural stillness, some tension. What it means is that tonight a Santa Ana will begin to blow, a hot wind from the northeast whining down through the Cajon and San Gorgonio Passes, blowing up sandstorms out along Route 66, drying the hills and the nerves to the flash point."
---Joan Didion, "Los Angeles Notebook"
CHAPTER SEVEN:
The Departed
That evening, Reid had a conference call with the rest of the BAU team. He knew that, with the three hour time difference, it was after nine in Quantico and he felt a stab of concern that the rest of the team was in the office so late. In an attempt to assuage the strange feeling, he launched into an overly detailed soliloquy about the Allison Walters case file.
"Take a breath, man," Morgan interrupted finally.
Rossi chucked at the younger man's exuberance and took the break as a chance to fill Reid in on the information from Autumn Aldrin. "It sounds like this little group of theirs lived a pretty bohemian lifestyle during college, but all went straight after they graduated. Joey Hennessey even found religion."
"He was born again?"
"Not into Christianity, no. Apparently his parents where Jewish and he adopted the religion a year or so before he died."
Reid frowned. "Hunh."
"Does that mean anything to you, Reid?" Hotch asked softly.
"I don't know yet. It could be important. Anything else?"
"Prentiss and I worked on victimology," Garcia said. "And we came up with practically squat."
"As far as we could tell, the only links between Tabitha Lawrence and Neve Williams is that they both were women in their twenties and both lived in DC," said Prentiss. "They had different hair colors, different builds, Tabitha had a child; Neve didn't…"
"That's barely enough to build a profile off of," Reid mused. "Tabitha had a child?"
"Yeah."
"How old?"
Reid could hear the scraping and shuffling of paper as Garcia arranged her notes. They must have been in the conference room, separating Garcia from her omnipresent computers. "I'm not sure," she said finally. "I want to say six or seven."
"Could that child have attended the school where Neve taught? Maybe that's the link?"
"We'll follow it up, but I'd be surprised," Morgan said. "Neve worked at a fairly exclusive school."
"Maybe there was family money," Garcia suggested, trailing off.
"So what does this mean for our profile?" Reid asked.
Morgan sighed. "I think we're at an impasse. We have too many variables at this point. We talked about the femme fatal theory before you left, so that's a possibility. But on the other hand, this guy could just hate women."
"Then, of course, there's the issue of the carved word traitor on all the victims," Prentiss reminded the team. "That has to have some sort of significance, otherwise he wouldn't repeat it."
"And then, there's the issue of Joey Hennessey's book," Reid said. "Maybe the unsub's a copy cat killer – of either the murder in the novel, or the historical murder the novel was based on – or a rabid fan."
"Reid, do you think Allison Walters was killed by the same person who killed our other two victims?" Morgan asked.
"I don't know," Reid admitted, sighing. "There's a lot of paperwork to wade through. I spent most of the day on it today. But if it's the same unsub, he must have followed the Breakfast Club to DC. Maybe it was someone they all knew?"
"Or maybe it was a member of the club." Morgan cleared his throat. "Which leads me to the other reason I wanted to touch base with you. We need you to interview another Breakfast Club member."
"Okay, who?"
Another pause. "George Sullivan."
"Sure, okay. She's in LA?"
Garcia piped up. "Yup. She's an actress, better know to the public as Georgia Day. She's on a new, popular medical drama…with Lila Archer."
"Oh. Lila. She was on a medical drama?" He remembered faux beaches and bikinis, not gurneys and lab coats.
Garcia giggled, maybe a little too loudly. "That show was canceled. Now she's on this show, Heart Beats."
"Oh. Well…I'm…I'm sure it'll be okay."
"Good," Morgan said. "I'm glad to hear that. Garcia's going to send you the contact information for George Sullivan's publicist. Try usual channels first, but feel free to throw your credentials around if you run into trouble."
"Heart Beats shoots at the Paramount lot on Melrose," Garcia added. "You know, it'd be pretty sexy if you showed up at the set, badge and guns blazing. Lila would eat you up…"
"Isn't it getting kind of late by you, Garcia?" Reid asked, trying to tie up this conversation before it got any more embarrassing.
"Anyway, Reid, try to talk to George as soon as possible," Morgan said. "We'll continue to puzzle out the profile."
After a few more minutes of farewell pleasantries, Reid hung up and flopped back onto his bed, considering Lila. They had fallen out of touch not long after the BAU had solved her case. The relationship – if what he and Lila had could be called a relationship – had been fleeting and fragile, like a house built on sand. He was attracted to her, certainly, the way young awkward men were attracted to popular blonde women. Women like Lila were his weakness and always had been. High school should have taught him better, but sure enough, when Lila entered his life, he was smitten. For him, the rush had come from her attention – he was used to girls like Lila ignoring him, smirking and tittering behind their hands as they watched him, taking in his out-of-style clothing, horn-rimmed glasses and mismatched socks with scorn.
Lila had been different. Lila had been interested, had been interesting. But he had doubted her and had doubted that she valued him for him. He didn't think she loved Spencer Reid, she loved what Spencer Reid stood for: the full power and wrath of the FBI. He was her knight in plaid armor – he had saved her. She didn't love a person, she loved a symbol. And perhaps she realized that. After all, she didn't call him either.
Anyway, he didn't relish the idea of being weekly tabloid fodder. He worked for the federal government; he clung what little privacy he had left.
He tried not to think about Lila and concentrated on Allison's file for a few more hours. Eventually, he fell asleep, surrounded by papers and dreamed of something incredibly important, that he forgot when he awoke.
After breakfast Reid called George Sullivan's publicist and left a message. In the gift shop, as he compared maps of the metro area, he wondered how long he should wait before heading to Paramount. He hoped that some sense of duty – or terror – provoked by a call from a government agency would spur the publicist into action, but he highly doubted it. He disliked the idea of arriving unannounced at the TV set. In fact, he had fashioned the image of a quiet meeting at an obscure café or even at someone's office in an attempt to influence fate, but all these thoughts succeeded in conjuring was an echo of his mother's voice:
"If wishes were horses, Spencer…"
He had repaired to the hotel patio and with his freshly-purchased map and was marking various locations of interest when his phone jingled. He nearly dropped it in his haste to answer it.
"Dr. Reid? This is Lena Lopez."
"Oh, hi, Lena."
"You were expecting someone else." He noticed, not for the first time, that half of her questions were intoned like declarative statements. He wondered idly how she had developed the habit.
"Just an update on the case. What can I do for you."
She hesitated. "Well, I was thinking. About Joey Hennessey, of course, and I realized that I know someone you can talk to, someone who knew him much better than I did. Can you come to the University today?"
"USC?"
"Yeah."
He shrugged and couldn't believe his luck. Here, now, Lena seemed to be presenting him with precisely what he needed – an excuse to avoid the Heart Beats set, and Lila Archer. "Sure. I have some time this morning."
"Where are you?"
"I'm at the hotel. How long of a drive is it?" He refolded the map, mentally plotting out his drive.
"It took me about a half hour this morning and traffic might be lighter now, I don't know. Do you know how to get here?"
"Um."
She laughed and gave him directions. "It's pretty much a straight shot, but give me a call if you run into trouble."
Lena had directed him to Taper Hall, a sprawling brick building on the east side of the campus that housed most of the liberal arts faculties. She was waiting for him near the main entrance to the building, wearing sunglasses and fidgeting with her Blackberry. He was beginning to realize that she seemed to always have to keep her hands busy, and because of that nervous tick, he wondered if she was a recovering smoker. She cocked her head at him as he approached, studying him.
"Aren't you a little hot?" she asked in greeting, taking in his deep purple long sleeved dress shirt, tweed pants and matching tie. The day had dawned stagnant and oppressive and even now, before noon, the heat was surging towards 90 degrees.
"I run cold," he replied. In truth he was a bit uncomfortable at the moment but he knew as soon as he stepped inside, the air conditioning would chill him enough to make his clothing practical. Air conditioning didn't seem to be as much of a problem for Lena, who wore a simple black short-sleeve blouse and a matching skirt.
She nodded and led him into the building and up to the fourth floor. Sure enough, the AC was turned on full blast. "I know you've probably talked to Joey's friends and family, but I thought you might want to meet someone who knew Joey more…professionally."
"Okay..."
"So I arranged a meeting with Dr. Estella Grace, one of the tenured faculty members in the English department. She's studied California literature at length and is something of an expert in the Los Angeles novel, especially the crime and noir genres."
"I didn't know such a specialty existed," Reid said.
Lena smiled. "From what I gather, it's a rather small field. But, regardless of what you think about the specialty, Estella has the unique distinction of overseeing Joey's thesis."
"How do you know these things?"
"Unlike most people, I actually read my alumni newsletters." She shot him a coy smirk as they paused in front of an office door, plastered in newspaper clippings, comic strips and black and white postcards of 1940s Hollywood. Lena knocked and stood back. The door swung open and a tall woman with sharp features greeted them.
"Lena, it's good to see you again!" Dr. Grace beamed at her. "I was so pleased to get your call this morning. And this must be your distinguished friend from the FBI." She brushed past Lena to grip his hand in a surprisingly strong handshake. "Remind me of your name again, young man?"
"Dr. Spencer Reid," he muttered.
"Doctor! Is that an MD or a PhD."
Reid paused. "Erm, PhD. Three of them, actually."
Dr. Grace whirled back to Lena. "I'm quite impressed, Lena. This one's a keeper." Lena glanced away as Dr. Grace ushered them into her cramped office. "I'm sorry about the mess," she said cheerfully, "but I'm pretty much convinced that disorganization is an English professor's curse. We're a rather scattered lot, all in all."
The office was lined from ceiling to floor with a wealth of books. Most were novels, with some criticisms interspersed throughout the collection. And like all good English professors, Dr. Grace had several editions of the same novels. Reid felt as though he was transported back to college, when he'd sit in his professors' offices and take note of all their books. If he saw the same book in multiple offices, he'd go home a read it for himself, certain that it was important.
Dr. Grace leaned forward on her elbows, staring over the rims of her glasses at the two of them. "So you want to know about Joey Hennessey, hm?"
Reid nodded. "A friend of his was murdered in DC, we think it might have something to do with Joey."
"Indeed." Grace glanced at Lena and then back to Reid. "Murder did always seem to follow Joey."
"What kind of a student was he?"
Grace crinkled her brow as she phrased her answer. "Joey Hennessey was very intelligent, but he underperformed. He was a slow reader and I don't think he really liked what he was reading anyway. We – as a department – were concerned when he declared an English major…until we read his writing, that is."
"That made a difference?"
"Yes, of course. Have you read his book?"
Reid nodded.
"He possessed a rare genius. The way he could combine words and commit them to the page was incredible. We have plenty of students who pass through the creative writing classes who are serviceable writers, but Joey outshone them all. We used to joke that he was the reincarnation of William Faulkner and Dashiell Hammett.
Lena shifted slightly in her seat and shot Reid a quick look. For a brief moment, a shadow passed over her visage. Clearly – at least to Reid's honed profiler senses – Lena didn't agree with Dr. Grace's evaluation. But she remained silent and the frown was gone as quickly as it appeared.
Grace continued, oblivious to the exchange. "It's a pity he died so young. It's always a shame to loose such a powerful talent."
"Maybe he thought he thought his work was finished. You know, like Hunter S. Thompson?"
"No." Grace shook her head so vehemently that the long cascading earrings she wore caught in her hair. "He was bursting with ideas."
"Then why kill himself?"
"I don't know. He always seemed so tormented. He had an artist's temperament; it helped inspire his writing but it made his life a challenge at times."
"Lena said you oversaw Joey's thesis," Reid said.
"I did."
"How did he choose Faye Reynolds' death a subject?"
Grace paused in thought. "Actually, when we first met about the project, in the spring of his junior year, he didn't have a subject, he just knew that he wanted to write a novel for his thesis."
"Which is quite ambitious," Lena interjected, neither questioning nor stating.
"Right." Grace turned her attention to Lena with an air of surprise, as if she had forgotten there was a third person in the room. "Usually undergraduates are not required to produce a manuscript of the magnitude that Joey gave me, but as I alluded to earlier, Joey was a very special student."
"So when did he develop the premise?" Reid asked.
"He came to me with it in the fall and by that point, the book was completely plotted out. Very little changed from the initial outline he gave me and the final plotline in the novel."
Lena raised an eyebrow and Reid blinked in surprise.
"He came up with the entire thing over the summer?"
"Yes."
"Did that seem odd to you?" Reid asked, a theory already blooming in his clever mind.
"Not entirely." Grace glanced at her desk.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I don't know if you noticed this, but Joey chose to echo a resurrection motif throughout the book, and this struck me as a little odd."
Reid leaned forward. "Why?" he pushed.
"Joey didn't strike me as very religious. I never heard him talk about religion or faith before he started the book and it wasn't a theme that he dwelt on in any of his earlier writing. It's a theme we see from time to time in the poetry workshops especially but he never expressed an interest in religion at all. So, yes, I was surprised when he utilized resurrection so thoroughly in the book."
Reid and Lena shared another look. "And he didn't tell you where the idea came from?"
"Not really, no. When I asked him, he said he had been reading noir over the summer and wanted to try his hand at the style." Dr. Grace paused again and tapped a finger against her lips. "You know where you might want to look, if you're interested in the Genesis of the idea?"
"Where?"
"The Special Collections Department at the Doheny Library. When Joey died, all of his personal papers were donated to the school. I believe his journals from the period are a part of the collection there. They might prove more illuminating than I am."
With that comment, the interview appeared to be over. Lena and Reid didn't speak until they were back outside, walking slowly towards the library.
"Don't you think it's kind of strange that he came up with the entire plot of the book over the summer?" Reid asked finally.
"It's definitely suspicious," Lena agreed. "If only because the topic seems rather far afield."
"He could have bought the plot off of someone," Reid continued, thinking out loud. "God knows there are enough writers in this city. And he would have had the money, since he had a nice inheritance from his parents' estate."
"He could have stolen it," Lena replied flatly.
"Yes. That's a possibility too." Reid lapsed into silence. Could the original plotter of the book also be the unsub? The murders couldn't be revenge, unless the unsub knew that the members of the Breakfast Club – or Neve, at the very least – was privy to the transaction. Or theft.
And all of these questions begat yet another. Could the unsub, and not Joey Hennessey, have written Every Little Thing?
"You're very quiet," Lena observed after several minutes of silence had passed between them.
Reid smiled. "I'm just trying to understand."
"That I can relate to."
They passed a clutch of students, laughing together and showing one another apparently hilarious text messages. Reid watched them, wondering for the billionth time what it was like to be "normal."
"Do you miss it?" he asked Lena as they turned a corner, nearing the library.
"USC or college in general? Or LA?"
"Any or all of the above."
She fiddled with her hair, tucking a few loose strands behind her ear. "LA? No. It was fun for a few years, but I couldn't live here forever. The traffic and the Santa Anas are enough to keep me from ever wanting to relocate here permanently. And as for college? I miss certain friends, of course, but I don't really miss college itself. Why dwell on the past, you know?"
He nodded.
"What about you?"
"Nah. I was here for a reason and once I had met my goal, it was time to move on. Plus I enjoy what I do and the people I work with.
"How pragmatic. Here's the library, by the way."
"Named for the LA oil tycoon, I'm guessing?"
"His son, actually," Lena said. "He was murdered – or perhaps commit suicide – in the 30s and his father donated the library in his honor. It was quite a scandal, the richest man in LA losing his only son under suspicious circumstances."
"I bet."
Inside the library, Lena excused herself to talk their way into the special archives. Dr. Grace had mentioned something vague about maybe calling ahead and securing them access to the papers, but Lena didn't seem particularly convinced of her help. So she was now leaning against the circulation desk, using whatever magic had won her the Patriots job to get them a chance to see Joey Hennessey's journals. A few minutes later, she returned to where Reid was standing, a poorly hidden grin on her lips.
"They're going to let us in," she said. "It wasn't all that hard to get us in," she admitted under her breath a few minutes later, as a librarian led them downstairs, where the papers were kept. "Apparently they haven't had time to completely catalogue them yet, so I guess they're hoping you might help then do their job."
The librarian led them midway down a fluorescent light-lit hallway to a room equipped with a table and a few chairs. One wall was lined with shelves and most of the shelves contained multiple cardboard storage boxes. Other boxes rested on the floor around the table. All in all, there were at least a dozen boxes, maybe more.
"These are the Hennessey papers," she informed them.
"Which ones?" Reid asked, glancing about.
The librarian frowned. "All of them."
"Everything in this room was written by Joey Hennessey?" Lena asked in disbelief.
"I imagine there's a poem or song in one of these boxes by someone else," the librarian said dryly, turning on her heel as she spoke.
"Wow," Reid said, crossing the room to examine the boxes on the top shelf.
Lena sighed, leaning against the doorway. "It's kind of hard to believe that he only one book, given the sheer volume of stuff here."
"I was thinking there was a couple journals at the most. I'm a fast reader, but I don't think I can get through all of this right now."
"What, do you have a hot date?"
Reid turned to consider Lena. "Hardly. I have to go interview another potential witness. Another one of Joey's friends. Actually, maybe you've heard of her – the actress, Georgia Day?"
Lena laughed. "Yeah, I've heard of her. Good luck. Celebrities are nothing but trouble."
Lila flashed in his mind. "I know." He checked his watch. "I guess I better head over to Paramount. Want to meet an actress?"
Lena also checked the time. "I don't suppose the FBI looks too kindly on civilians following their agents around. Plus, I need to call Foxboro anyway." She smirked. "As ever, duty calls," she added, bidding him farewell.
Unfortunately, Reid mentally added, retracing his steps out of the library and back to the parking lot. He clenched his jaw as he walked and tried to steel himself for Paramount, George and – though he hoped avoid her – Lila.
