Chapter Seventeen…

(This chapter sets up the next one and is from our most observant hottie's point of view…enjoy)

Morgan watched through the tinted window as first Hotch, then Emily and Officer David entered the interrogation room, where Franks sat, wrists cuffed to the table.

Hotch had insisted the man be fully restrained while the women were in the room, and Morgan agreed with that dictate one hundred percent. He'd expressed support for Emily, earlier, but actually seeing her sitting across from that bastard Franks just settled wrong in his stomach.

He watched Franks face as Hotch identified the two women, but the man had a wiliness on his face that belied his earlier fanaticism.

Franks looked up, and though Emily's back was to Morgan he could see Franks' eyes running up and down over her frame. The mixture of loathing and sexual heat in the bastard's eyes confused the hell out of Morgan. If the man was a true religious fanatic, there would be no sexual component to the case. Franks' eyes conveyed that he had one thought when he looked at Emily, and it wasn't to kill her. So why had he shot at her and David?

Morgan mentally reviewed the facts of the sixteen murders, but there was no obvious sexual undertone. Even without Sciutto's trajectory results, he'd know this wasn't the killer they were looking for.

But he had to agree with Emily and Hotch—Franks knew who the shooter was. Question was—would he give the guy up? The man had shot at Franks as well—would Franks so-called religion and loyalty keep him from giving the guy over?

Morgan watched as Hotch moved to stand directly beside Emily. His appeared relaxed, although Morgan could tell by the way he kept moving his hands that he was ready and waiting for Franks to make a wrong move.

Morgan didn't know what Hotch was afraid of—he'd ordered the man shackled. Morgan's attention sharpened as Franks turned his body more in the direction of the only other man in the room. "She yours?"

"In a manner of speaking, Mr. Franks. Please direct any discussion toward Agent Prentiss. Officer David and I are just here to observe." Hotch said, coldly.

"Maybe I don't want to the Agent Prentiss." Franks said, a sly tone in his voice that hadn't been present during the earlier interview. Morgan frowned, wondering what the man was thinking.



Hotch's fists clenched and he crossed his arms over his chest, deliberately closing himself off to Franks. This was Emily's show, he was just there to keep her safe.

"Then we'll just sit here until you do." Emily said, calmly. It was vitally important that she maintain control of the discussion, and by allowing him to focus on Hotch—she would be giving control to one of the two men.

Not this time—this was her game.

"We'll be waiting a while, then." Franks smirked. He motioned with his chin to the cast on her arm. "Did I do that?"

"Maybe it was your bullet. Maybe it was someone else's." She said. "I think it was someone else's. I don't think you could have shot me."

"You don't?"

Morgan watched as Franks tried to pretend his interest wasn't peaked. To a trained interrogator the signs were clear. He mentally congratulated his female colleague at her tactics. He'd probably have gone on the assault, where as she was going about her questioning in a much more subtle manner.

He'd always admired Em's style—no doubt about that. Today, he admired her strength and persistence. Woman probably should have been driven back to her place in DC, but she'd chosen to stay at the hotel. (Even though they were well within driving distance of the Capitol—they'd chosen to stay together in the hotel for convenience sake.)

"No, I don't." Emily said, shrugging her uninjured shoulder dismissively. "From what our tests tell us, you are a poor marksmen."

"You're tests are bullshit." Franks snarled, turning to look at her directly, now.

Way to go, Em. Derek thought. She'd made a good call insulting his masculinity. For a traditionalist like Franks, attacking his skills as a hunter or provider was the ultimate insult.

"I'd have hit you—or that other one—if you hadn't moved." Franks said. His glare said it all—if he wasn't cuffed he'd have showed her just what skills he possessed.

"Well, I did. What does your great book say about that?" Emily asked, as casually as if she was inquiring about the weather. "Will you get your great reward now?"

"Don't talk about the Book that way! You've no right." Franks bellowed, lunging forward in his chair. The cuffs on his ankles—bolted to the floor—kept him from reaching her.

But it was enough for Hotch. When Franks had moved, he'd moved as well, pulling Emily's chair back and stepping between her and the table.

Derek started to move, ready to enter the interrogation and help Hotch calm the man down, when Officer David stepped behind Franks. With one small hand squeezing the man's shoulder, the Moussad agent forced Franks back down in his chair.

"Agent Emily has more questions for you, Mr. Franks. I suggest you answer them. I am getting tired, and hungry. That makes me—what is the word—bitchy. You don't want to see me bitchy, Mr. Franks."

"You some kind of super-demon?" Franks demanded, though it wasn't very effective. His eyes were watering, and he trembled.

Ziva held him in place for several long moments until she was convinced he understood the severity of her threat. "Now, Agent Emily. If you'd ask the questions we are all so dying to know the answer to, then we can go for Chinese."

"Infidels." Franks said quietly. "You dark eyed's never can be satisfied with American anything. Always wanting something foreign. Nothing a man ever does is good enough."

The rest of the interview went round and round, with Franks avoiding Emily's questions. He didn't break, and Hotch finally motioned Emily to bring it to a close.

He could see she was getting passed tired and he wanted her back to the hotel to rest as soon as possible. As for Franks—they'd have to get there information another way.

Derek waited until Officer David had already exited the interrogation room and the guards had long removed Franks to enter. Emily sat at the table, rearranging papers in the files, while Hotch stood silently, looking over her shoulder. Neither was looking at the other, and Derek could almost sense Emily's palpable sense of failure.

He knew she was hoping for more. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder, smiling softly at her when she jumped at his touch. "Eas y there, chick. I've got a theory."

"What?" Hotch demanded.

Morgan looked at him, taking in the lines around his mouth, the way he stood directly behind Emily—much closer than he'd ever seen the man get to the younger woman. "I think Franks' has been married. Most likely to a dark-eyed, dark-haired woman. Probably common law, since we couldn't find any records of a marriage."

"What makes you think that?" Hotch asked, still not moving from his position behind Emily. He had a sneaking suspicion she'd need someone to lean on until they got back to the hotel. He just knew, somehow, that she was past the point of exhaustion.

"The way he said, all you dark-eyed women are never satisfied. That wasn't a religious belief in demons, Hotch, but a personal reflection based most likely on past experience."

"So?" Emily asked, "Where does that leave us? I'm sorry, Hotch, I thought I'd be able to break him."

"Hey, don't say that." Hotch began, "We've learned one thing—Franks' act of fanaticism earlier, was just that. Now we know. You did a good job, Emily. Don't doubt that. You always do. Come on, honey, let's get you back to the hotel. You can let Garcia fuss over you a bit, eat, and then get some rest. It's been one hell of a day."

Emily let him and Derek help her gather the files, and she accepted a helping hand from her chair from Hotch.

Derek watched the interchange and wondered if either one of them realized the emotions Hotch conveyed as he spoke to her, or were aware that he'd called her honey. Or that the man stood way too close to his colleague.

He wondered if either one of them was aware of what was going on between them at all?

Could two profilers be so blind?