Chapter 6 – Two Out of Three
Just out of interest, is anyone actually listening to the essential listening? I'm not overly bothered if you aren't, I'm just intrigued : )
Time for Agent Pearce to show her quality…
Essential Listening: Hey Bartender!, Koko Taylor
0o0
After a while, Prentiss had stopped calling, and Spencer had begun to relax, ignoring the nagging feeling that he was acting like a petulant child.
He and Ethan had drunk their fill and caught up, his friend steering the conversation to lighter things now that he had given all the advice he could. They had said their goodbyes outside the bar both promising to keep in touch this time around, and Reid had watched Ethan duck back inside to prep the stage for the evening's show. He was calmer now than when they had been growing up – happier.
The part of Reid that made him squirm with guilt really hated him for that.
He kicked the stones on the pavement in front of him.
The itch that had begun a scant hour earlier was creeping across his mind, and he knew that it wouldn't be long before it had him in its cold, sharp grasp once more.
He had to move.
He started walking, feeling his muscles relax slightly as he put them to use. His face set, he ignored the people around him. It didn't matter where he ended up, as long as there wasn't a needle there.
It was with some surprise that he found himself outside a heaving bar. He glanced up at the garish sign above the door.
'Miss Dixie's'
He leaned back, a little surprised at his own subconscious. Perhaps he didn't want to be on his own tonight after all.
Well, he thought, she is a colleague – I can't just let her wander around a foreign city with a serial killer on the loose. Even if I'm more his type than she is.
Besides, he ought to apologise for his behaviour. Again.
Although he suspected that Agent Pearce could probably take care of herself and that this was just a handy excuse not to go back to the hotel, he elbowed his way through the press of people around the door and looked around.
She had positioned herself under a large fan near the end of the bar, towards the back of the crush of people around the band. There were more than a few empty glasses beside her, and he wondered just how much she'd had.
Here, in her own element, she was completely relaxed, oblivious to everything except the music that she was so clearly enjoying. The easy smile she wore as she listened and the oddly sensual way she was moving to the music made Spencer think that perhaps Ethan had been on to something after all. He blushed, glad that there were no profilers nearby.
He wasn't the only one who'd noticed her. A group of men walked by her, one of them 'accidentally' jostling her, his wing-men melting into the crowd. Reid started towards her, arriving within earshot just in time to hear one of the top ten worst pick-up lines ever.
"I hate when that happens – I'm sorry," purred the man, oozing what he probably thought was charm. "What can I do to make it up to you?"
Still a little way behind her, Reid couldn't quite see her expression, but her body language had shifted to unimpressed. He suspected that she was giving the man an appraising look.
"I'd say you can go fuck yourself," she said, almost conversationally.
The man sputtered and Reid stared at her, a smirk breaking out across his face. She really didn't need his help.
"That's not a ver' ladylike thing to say," said the man, his tone slipping from sugary to tart.
Agent Pearce sighed.
"Spell: 'synecdoche'," she said.
The man gaped at her; Reid was reminded of an overgrown goldfish.
"What?"
"Spell: 'synecdoche'," she repeated, almost impatiently.
"Why, darlin'?" Mr Goldfish drawled, under the misguided impression that he was getting somewhere.
"Because I like the men I fuck to have more than two brain cells," she said, coolly, and the man reeled as if she'd slapped him.
"Who the hell do you thi-" Mr Goldfish began, angrily, but he was cut off.
Reid didn't know why he did it, other than a vague connection to the amount of brandy he and Ethan had put away between them, or the maddening itch that was clawing its way up his spine – or even the way Agent Pearce had been dancing – but he couldn't stop himself.
"S-y-n-e-c-d-o-c-h-e."
Agent Pearce and Mr Goldfish both turned to stare at him.
After a moment of surprise, Grace smiled broadly.
"Now that's more like it," she said, in a tone that made him start blushing again.
Mr Goldfish looked disgusted.
"Him?" he demanded. "You'd pick him over me?"
"Every time," said Grace, firmly, and Mr Goldfish stormed off to meet his friends.
"Thanks," she said, sliding over to Reid. "He was dead slimy."
"No problem," he replied, suddenly uncomfortable. He'd wanted to ask her why she'd lied for him and apologise for his earlier rudeness, but now he was here he didn't know where to start.
She must have noticed a little of his discomfort, because her smile softened.
"Let me buy you a drink," she offered, elbowing away from him. "Brandy, right?"
"Uh, yeah – thanks…" he said, but she'd already gone. She was assessing the length of the queue for the bar now, and he half expected her to turn back and suggest they went somewhere else, but she didn't. His eyes nearly popped out of his head as she undid the top two buttons on her blouse in a calculating sort of way; the two very busy bar-men made a bee-line for her, nearly crashing into one another in their rush to be helpful.
Apparently Agent Pearce was not a woman to be trifled with.
"I get bored in queues," she explained when she got back to him, handing him his drink.
"Oh," he said, not quite sure how to react. A question formulated it self in his unusually empty mind. "Synecdoche?"
Pearce smiled into her drink.
"A little unfair, perhaps, but I thought it might be the quickest way to get rid of him." He must still have looked confused because she continued: "It gets harder to spell the drunker you are – I figured he'd move on to someone who wouldn't give him a pop quiz before she let him buy her a drink."
"He was getting pretty angry."
Pearce nodded, thoughtfully.
"Assaulting a federal agent wouldn't be a great way to end an evening, I suppose," she said, conversationally.
Reid smirked.
"Nor would getting into a bar fight on your second night on the job," he said, and Pearce smirked, too.
"Funnily enough my old Governor warned me about that…" she joked.
"You shock me," he said, and they both laughed.
Pearce swirled her drink contemplatively.
"I'm probably drinking too much," she observed. "Subconscious homesickness, I reckon."
"I can't tell," said Reid, over the noise of the crowd. As he said it, he realised that he could, however, smell the whiskey on her breath. "But a hangover tomorrow might also be inadvisable."
"It was another point in my Gov's top three things not to do in a new job," she admitted, with a grin.
"What was number three?"
"Sleep with a colleague."
Once he'd stopped choking, he realised that Agent Pearce was laughing again, and when he could breathe he joined her. It felt good to laugh again, and Pearce seemed to have the knack of surprising it out of you, like she knew it was hiding in there somewhere, just waiting for the opportunity to come out.
"Still," she said, turning away. "Two out of three will do – the hangover's more or less a dead-cert right about now… and perhaps Mr Slimy will come back."
"You must have been a real hit back home," he said, and for a moment she looked so unhappy that he almost reached out and gave her a hug.
"You've no idea," she said, so softly he almost missed it under the pounding music in the bar.
Her sadness seemed to melt as quickly as it had appeared.
"Still," she said. "I'm here now, and you lot seem like a great bunch – little idiosyncratic at times, but that's never bothered me."
He wanted to say something nice to her, to make her feel welcome and forget whatever it was that had momentarily consumed her, but the music changed and he missed his chance.
Pearce turned back to the band and whistled appreciatively.
"I love this one," she exclaimed, beginning to dance again, swaying and shifting to the powerful, guttural music.
Reid took a gulp of his brandy, trying to keep his eyes on the band and not on her. He considered putting his drink down – he could feel the alcohol clouding his judgement, making him think things a professional agent probably shouldn't – but he wanted something in his hands. The itch was still there, competing with the throbbing music and close heat of the room.
A surge in the crowd by the bar pushed Pearce backwards, so that – for a moment – his hand was on the curve of her hip, their bodies moving together with the inertia of the crowd.
Reid gasped, surprised, and Agent Pearce turned to him to apologise. He waved it away with an awkward smile and she turned her attention back to the band.
What am I doing here? he asked himself, taking another deep drink.
The hot buzz of the brandy was making his head cloudy; he fiddled with the top button of his shirt. The heat in the club was cloying, oppressive.
Agent Pearce wasn't making it any easier, he noted, with a sort of detached amusement. Not that she could possibly know what the combination of the alcohol and her dancing was doing to him. After weeks of Dilaudid induced numbness, he barely knew himself.
His fingers ached to touch her again, even just for a moment; he shook his head to clear it, distracted.
What is wrong with me? he wondered. I only met this woman yesterday – and she's a colleague, it would be entirely inappropriate…
A colleague that lied for me.
Realising with some surprise that his eyes had been following the inviting curves of his new team-mate's body he looked away across the club, mightily embarrassed.
The band was winding the song down now; the expression on Pearce's face was easy and content, and he wished he could keep an image of it somewhere safe in his head to help him through his darker moments.
He swallowed the dregs of his brandy, making up his mind.
"Grace?" he began, and she turned to him, that satisfied smile still on her lips. For a split second he thought about kissing her, but he shook himself mentally, telling himself that it was the brandy talking, and that it should absolutely be ignored. "Why did you tell Prentiss that you hadn't seen me?"
The smile evaporated and she looked down for a moment, considering her answer.
"You had the look of a man who needed a night to himself," she said, gently. "Look," she went on, biting her lip. "I don't know what's going on with you, but it's obvious that something is – and far be it from me to stop you getting a bit of breathing space if it's what you need to do."
Not for the first time, he had no idea what to say – had he really been that easy to profile?
"Um… thank you," he managed, intending to say something profound, but the words just wouldn't happen.
Grace gave him a small smile and he found himself offering to refill her glass. He wrangled his way to the bar almost happily, startled by the knowledge that he hadn't thought about the vial of Dilaudid waiting for him in his hotel room for a whole ten minutes.
0o0
The airstrip shone with the aftermath of a fall of rain.
Not enough to dampen spirits in the French Quarter, Morgan thought, pensively, as he climbed onto the waiting jet. Maybe we'll get lucky, he mused as he heaved his go-bag over his shoulder.
He rather doubted it.
"Hey," he said.
Prentiss was already settled in the jet, going over the Galveston files.
"Hey." She looked behind him, her face falling.
"Where's Reid?" he asked, glancing around the jet.
"I was hoping he was with you," Prentiss explained, concerned.
"I thought you said you'd call him?" he said, sitting down.
"I did, four times – nothing! I even called Pearce in case she'd run into him…" she looked at her watch, unhappily. "The victim's fiancée is expecting us."
Morgan sighed, checking his own watch.
"What are we supposed to do?"
"We got one option," said Morgan, unhappily. "Wheels up."
He went to tell the pilot that they weren't waiting.
He wasn't blind to Reid's issues. They'd all noticed his behaviour: the lack of patience, the sudden outbursts of anger. None of them had said anything, even to each other; it would have felt too much like betrayal.
But now…
Until now, he'd done everything he could to stay on top of a case, irrespective of the turmoil he was obviously experiencing.
Morgan sighed heavily, watching the metal steps of the jet retract as the door of the jet closed.
This time, Reid had gone too far.
0o0
JJ turned a page, trying to concentrate on the case notes despite the noise of the bar she was sitting in. After they'd eaten she'd allowed Detective LaMontagne to drag her out for a 'change of scene', as he put it, on the basis that they needed to think about something else for a while.
She hadn't put up much of a fight.
Detective LaMontagne was a nice guy, after all.
"Thank you," said the Detective, as the bartender handed him a mug of beer. He looked down at his notes; JJ looked at the beer in surprise.
Surely the Detective wasn't drinking on the job.
"It's not right," said LaMontagne, gesturing at the file in front of him. "The French Quarter's one of the only parts of the city that dodged Katrina, and now there's a serial killer loose.
"It's a small area, we're narrowing down the profile," JJ reassured him, glancing at the beer. "We'll find him."
LaMontagne picked up his beer and took a thoughtful sip.
"You always drink when you're still on the clock?" she asked, lightly.
"This is New Orleans, honey," said LaMontagne, amused. "It's a cultural thing."
JJ nodded, surprised – he had seemed like such a straight cop.
"Where are you from?" he asked her, taking another sip.
"Pennsylvania."
"I take it folks are a little rigid about the rules up that way?" he drawled and she gave him a look. He was smiling though, so she laughed.
"If it makes you feel better," LaMontagne said, pushing the glass away. "We'll play it Pennsylvania style tonight."
JJ smiled, surprised – and a little flattered
"I – I just hate that this guy has a leg up on us, you know?" he lamented.
"I promise: as soon as my team knows anything we'll hear, ok?"
LaMontagne nodded, and then stole a sideways glance at her, mischief in his eyes.
"Why haven't you married?" he asked, and JJ stared at him, astonished.
"Uh, that involves this case how? Exactly?"
"It doesn't," he said, playfully. "I'm jus' flirtin'."
JJ stared at him.
Well, he is cute, she thought, and looked away, surprised at herself.
"It's unprofessional," he said, embarrassed. "You don't have to answer that."
"Excuse me," one of the waitresses reached passed JJ and presented Detective LaMontagne with a drink. "Complements of the woman in the blue top."
Both JJ and Detective LaMontagne turned to look; the woman waved at him coquettishly.
"Wow, that was bold," said JJ, a little more jealous than she'd expected to be.
"Well, she might'a thought we were jus' workin'," said Detective LaMontagne, testing the waters.
"We are," said JJ, flatly.
"Wait – are you jealous?" LaMontagne asked, with a quirk of his mouth that made JJ incapable of being offended.
"No!" she refuted. "I'm just – I'm surprised, that's all."
LaMontagne laughed, and JJ decided that it might be worth a little embarrassment to see him grin like that again, the weight of the case forgotten.
"You're a lousy liar, too," he continued, still grinning.
JJ stared at him for a moment.
"Haven't had much practice, huh?"
She laughed, realising that this was a compliment.
"It's a culture thing," she grinned, swatting him lightly on the arm. "See… There you go," she said, passing him the drink.
She had never met anyone quite as laid back as Detective LaMontagne. She settled back on the bar stool, realising that despite the folder full of brutal murders in front of her, she was rather enjoying herself.
0o0
Reid leaned against the bar, watching Agent Pearce dance.
Against all expectation, he was enjoying himself. The brandy and the heat, and the attractive young woman who genuinely seemed to be enjoying his company had dulled the itch that had been threatening to consume him. It was still there, but right now Agent Pearce was far too distracting for him to care.
He was drunk, he knew, because there was no way that he would ever overtly stand two feet behind a woman – a colleague, even – and stare at her body. No way.
Yet that was what he had been doing for the past hour and a half, getting steadily drunker and steadily less inclined to listen to the part of his mind that was telling him that this was a Bad Idea.
He was ignoring it.
He ran his eyes over Pearce, appreciatively.
There was something truly appealing about her, he mused. She wasn't what you might call a classic beauty – there was a sharpness to her face and eyes that made her look a little impish. She probably thought she was a little overweight, but Reid – who had been paying attention now for far longer than was proper – thought that she was just right: pleasantly curvy in all the right places.
He liked the way that her hair fell across her face. It was a shade darker than JJ's and while it had been straight earlier in the day, in the heat and humidity of the club it had begun to fall in waves.
It was probably just the brandy talking, but when she smiled it made the whole world seem lighter somehow, tipping the scales of her aesthetics to beauty.
Pearce, oblivious to Reid's drunken and conscious assessment of her, turned to him, laughing.
"This is a great one," she laughed, and he could see that she was almost as drunk as he was. "Dance with me!"
"I – uh," he stared at the hand that was gripping his. "I can't dance –"
"Everyone can dance," Pearce insisted, pulling on his arm. "Dance with me."
"No, really," he protested, feeling very hot under the collar, but Agent Pearce ignored him.
"Here," she said, taking his hands and placing them on her hips.
Reid felt his mouth go dry.
"You just need to get into the rhythm, that's all – and this is blues, so it's a good rhythm."
She started to move with him, laughing lightly at his wide-eyed expression.
"Come on, Spencer, I'm thousands of miles from home in a club riddled with slimy men – I just want a friend to dance with." She tapped him very playfully on the end of his nose. "And you need to step outside of yourself for a little while."
Reid cleared his throat, trying to ignore how good she felt pressed up against him, the sweet smell of alcohol on her breath.
He really liked the way his name sounded on her lips.
"I'm – uh – really clumsy," he said, desperately trying to maintain control.
"I couldn't tell," she said, with a quirk of her mouth. "But really, it's not hard – you know that music has been linked with early human development, right?"
Reid nodded, concentrating on not stepping on her feet.
"So let go – it's hard-wired in. Your body knows what to do."
He tried not to jump as she wound her arms around his waist.
"That's it," she said, smiling. "You're getting the hang of it."
He seriously doubted it, but he wasn't going to argue. Her proximity was making him giddy, and he unconsciously tightened his grip on her.
Maybe he could get to like this.
0o0
Prentiss sat across from Miss Duprés, feeling deeply uncomfortable. This was the part of the job that never got easier: invading a person's home on the worst day of their lives. Or worse, like Miss Duprés, when they had finally begun to put it all behind them and were trying to get on with their lives, only to have it all dragged back up again.
Beside her, Morgan shifted in his seat, equally tense.
For a moment, Prentiss wished that they didn't have to do this, that they could leave this woman in peace.
But that was the job.
"Everybody kept saying that crime was gonna skyrocket after the relocation," Miss Duprés was saying. "You just never think it's gonna happen to you."
She had the look of a woman who had been dealing with far too much for far too long.
"The report said that your fiancé was bar-hopping for his bachelor party on the night he was killed," said Prentiss, steering Miss Duprés back to the matter at hand.
"We were supposed to be married in October," she nodded, struggling to keep the emotion out of her voice. "He was just out celebrating that with friends."
"Was there anyone at Leonard's bachelor party that you didn't know?" Morgan asked.
Miss Duprés shook her head.
"We all grew up together," she said. "They're like family to me. Whether they met somebody out – now that's a different story," she gave them the ghost of a smile. "They're a rowdy bunch, they'd party with anybody."
Prentiss nodded and got to their feet.
"Thank you for your help," she said.
"It's no problem," said Miss Duprés, sadly. "As long as you find out who killed Leonard."
Prentiss sighed as she and Morgan climbed back into the S.U.V..
Sometimes the job sucked.
"Each of the last two victims was travelling in a group, both were drinking – both in public arenas, bar-hopping, so how could their friends not see anything?"
Morgan tapped the steering-wheel, thoughtfully.
"It's like when a lion preys on an antelope," he said; Prentiss raised an eyebrow.
"You lost me."
Morgan looked at her, chuckling.
"Well that's because, Emily Prentiss, you have never been one of the antelope."
Prentiss gave him a look that suggested that Morgan hadn't been getting nearly enough sleep lately.
"Scratch that, you've totally lost me."
"Ok," said Morgan. "Check this out: the antelope travel in packs, so the lion just sits and waits – waits for just one of the antelope to break away from its herd. So when he's alone, vulnerable and completely unprotected, that's when a lioness strikes – that's when she makes her move."
"Wait a minute," said Prentiss, remembering a previous conversation. "Her move?"
"Prentiss," said Morgan. "There's only one thing that's gonna make a straight man leave his friends on a guys' night out – and it'll make him leave every time."
Prentiss nodded, mildly horrified; Morgan picked up his phone and started dialling.
"One of the victims was out for his bachelor party, and another one out with just the guys. What's the only temptation that's gonna lure these men away from each other?"
"A woman," Prentiss nodded. "Pearce was right."
"JJ –" said Morgan, into his cell. "I think you're gonna want to hear this…"
0o0
"Yeah – ok," said JJ, listening to Morgan's antelope theory. "He's right here with me – thanks."
She hung up; Detective LaMontagne looked at her expectantly.
"What's goin' on?" he asked.
"The UnSub we're looking for is a woman," said JJ.
They scanned the heavily populated bar in a very different light.
0o0
"You really didn't have to walk me back to the hotel," said JJ, as she and Detective LaMontagne strolled along the street.
"Now what kind gentleman would I be if I let a young woman – a guest of my department no less – walk the streets of New Orleans alone at night?" he grinned. "Particularly with a serial killer on the loose."
"Even if she'd be more interested in you than me?" JJ asked, enjoying his company.
"Even if," LaMontagne smiled.
They were passing an alley that led to the back of the hotel, and movement caught his eye.
"Hey," he said, and JJ stopped beside him, turning to look. "Ain't that your agent?"
JJ peered into the gloom of the alley, where two people were enthusiastically making out against the wall.
"Ain't he supposed to be in Texas?" LaMontagne asked.
JJ nodded, numbly; she was at a loss. This was very much not like Reid: ignoring a work call, making out with strange women in alleys… Perhaps his drink had been spiked – and with a female serial killer on the loose, luring her male victims off the main drag…
She had been about to march down the alley and escort him to his room when she caught a glimpse of the woman he was pressing against the alley wall.
Agent Pearce.
Well, that was unexpected.
JJ was so stunned that she didn't make a move, even when a laughing Agent Pearce pulled Reid through the back door of the hotel, a goofy smile plastered all over his face. She stared after them, rooted to the spot.
"Well I'll be," LaMontagne whistled, shaking her out of her shocked state.
"You can't mention this," said JJ. LaMontagne raised an eyebrow, but something of the urgency of her tone reached him and he stayed quiet. "Spencer's going through a rough patch," she said, a note of pleading creeping into her voice. "He was abducted – we didn't know if we'd ever get him back –"
"I won't say anythin'," said LaMontagne, firmly. "Besides, everyone's entitled to a little fun now and then."
He glanced after the departed agents ruefully.