CHAPTER 24
Angela picked up her purse and headed for the door. She wasn't sure what to do or where to go, but she needed to get out of Brennan's apartment. The silence was deafening. At the door she paused, looking back at the empty living room. Suddenly she noticed something poking out from under the couch. Dropping her purse, she walked over and picked it up. It was a man's black leather wallet. Opening it, she found a driver's license in the little plastic window. Excitement rushed through her and she grabbed her cell and called Booth.
"Booth," he answered tersely.
"I know who has her," she stated without preamble. Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely get the words out.
"Who? How? Tell me!" he demanded.
"I found a man's wallet under the couch. I don't know how forensics missed it. He must have dropped it. The driver's license inside is for a guy named William Fontaine." She read off the address and then repeated it for him while he wrote it down. He hung up without another word.
Twenty minutes later they arrived at the address. Agents were silently swarming the neighborhood, getting into position, ready for Booth to lead the operation.
"Stay with the car. Brennan and Angela would never forgive me if anything happened to you," he told Hodgins as he put on his vest and checked the ammo in his gun.
Hodgins nodded mutely, sensing that Booth was in no mood to argue. He was comforted by the grim determination in Booth's face. He'd save Brennan and get the son of a bitch that took her. Probably get his pound of flesh before turning him in, too. He clapped Booth on the shoulder. "Be careful, man."
Booth met his eyes. "Save your concern for Brennan. Who knows what this bastard's done to her." Then he was gone.
Booth approached the front door with six agents at his back, weapons at the ready, moving as quietly as possible. Booth knocked on the door, eyes darting to the windows on either side of the door. The curtain moved at the one to the left and he dropped down a bit, motioning the agents to spread out behind him. Then the door opened, revealing a middle aged man, balding with a paunch, dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans. At the sight of all the guns trained on him, his hands went up and his mouth dropped open.
"Don't shoot!" he stammered, going pale, sweat pouring down his face.
Booth looked him up and down suspiciously. "William Fontaine?"
"Y-y-yes?"
"Where were you last night, around nine o'clock?"
The man looked confused and his eyes darted around as he tried to understand what was going on. "Home, my wife and I were watching a movie." Just then there was movement in the room behind him and the agents all tensed up.
"Bill, who is it?" A chubby blonde woman came up, gasping in shock as she saw the guns. "What's going on?"
Booth relaxed a little but didn't lower his gun. "Your wallet was found at a crime scene this morning." Something wasn't right here, he thought. Either this guy was a good actor, or he was innocent. His gut was going with the latter.
Bill lowered his hands a little, but raised them again when the agents tensed up again and moved in. "Is that what this is about? Last night when I went to pay for the movies I was gonna rent, my wallet was gone. Then I remembered bumping into this guy as I was walking up to the video store. He must've taken it."
Booth sighed with frustration. The perp must have dropped the stolen wallet at the scene on purpose, just to throw them off. He was almost sure that's how it happened, but he wanted to be certain. Stepping back, he gave the agents instructions to search the house and the surrounding area.
Half an hour later it was clear it had been a wild goose chase. She wasn't here. After apologizing to the Fontaines for disturbing them, he walked back to the SUV, angrily removing his vest. He was cursing under his breath, muttering about wasted time. Hodgins took one look at his face and got behind the wheel. He held his tongue as Booth got in and he pulled away from the curb, heading for the Hoover building.
Glancing over at Booth, who wore an expression that said he wouldn't welcome conversation, Hodgins turned on the radio. "Hot Blooded" blared out of the speakers and Booth hit a station preset and turned down the volume, his mouth grim. Hodgins, of course, didn't know the significance of the song, and Booth was in no mood to enlighten him. Any other time he would have enjoyed the song and the memory it evoked, but not today. Not until he found her and beat up the bastard who took her.