"Hey, guys." Colby walked in, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He carefully deposited several steaming hot cups and a small bag of bagels onto the desk in front of Don. "How'd it go last night?"
Don scowled at him. "I thought that you were taking the morning off after your stake out last night."
"What's the matter? You don't like bagels? I even got David tea instead of coffee."
"Much appreciated." David slipped in and grabbed his mug before anyone else could take it by mistake.
"Dibs on the blueberry," Megan called from across the room.
"Sorry, Megan. They were all out. Strawberry okay?"
"It'll do." Megan rolled her chair across the floor and snatched up the pink one, nabbing a small container of cream cheese on her way. She took a bite. "Thanks, Colby."
"Stake-out?" Don pushed.
"Oh, that." Colby gave a throw away gesture. "Guy was an idiot. Tried to break in around nine in the evening, and we had him booked before Letterman came on. Even got the report filed," he added proudly. "You know me and reports."
"Right." Standing joke of the office: Colby could write a report slower than any other field agent, and that was before he submitted it to a spellchecker. Don selected his own bagel from Colby's offering, not realizing that it was cinnamon apple until he bit into it.
"So, how was the seminar?" Colby pushed. "I take it Charlie came through just fine."
"Yeah." Why did Don have this hinky feeling about his brother? Charlie had bolted out the door this morning without breakfast, promising to grab something on the way. Did his brother look a little peaked? A little under the weather? Charlie had gotten up late this morning, sleeping through his alarm and then rushing to make up for it. That wasn't unusual. In fact, it was as normal a morning as Don could remember.
So why was Don worried? He sighed. He was letting the non-case get to him. He bit down hard on the bagel, resolving to drag his errant thoughts back to where they belonged. Charlie was fine; everyone could see that. He was still as hyperactive as ever, not withdrawing like Anders' other victims. Don needed to pull his head back to reality.
David pushed a file into Don's hands and picked up one of the remaining bagels, now that his hand was free. "The Carter case. I'm thinking that an interview with Robert Hogan is what's needed to clear up some of those details, then we can proceed to an arrest. What do you think, Don?"
"Willy Klink's in on it, too. I'm sure of that," Megan put in. "I'll take him. Colby, you'll back me?"
"Sounds like fun. Don?"
"Yeah, sure. Go ahead, guys." Don recollected himself. "You think you got enough for a warrant for both of 'em instead of just a question and answer session?"
Megan and David looked at each other.
"Right. I'll take that as a definite maybe. Tell you what: run it by the D.A. and see what they say. If they think a judge will sign it, go for it. Otherwise, polite questions. We don't want to scare them into running and hiding until inflation drops their take to zero." Don stopped short.
Megan prodded him. "Don?"
"That's it." Barely above a whisper.
"What? What do you mean?" Now they were all staring at him.
"Last night. What Charlie said." Don looked at his team. "He didn't even know what he was saying. Charlie asked, 'how does this guy make any money at it?' Guys, how does this guy live?" He warmed to his topic. "We've just been assuming that his money has been coming from those seminars. But just think about how much he's spending: he rented and renovated that building that he's in, in downtown L.A. That costs a bundle. He bought a heavy duty audio system. That's another bundle."
"Don, he charges an arm and a leg for those seminars," David objected. "The initial one is free, but the follow up course for the week runs upward of a thousand. I was there at the first one. I saw the prices on his little brochure that I brought to you. Believe me, there were a lot of people turned off by that."
"Right," Don said triumphantly. "In fact, there were only twelve people at round number two, and about six or seven at this last one. Even assuming that all twelve ponied up at seminar number two, that's still only twelve thousand. That's barely enough to rent the building, let alone renovate it. I repeat," he said again, "where is Anders getting all this money to throw around?"
Colby pushed his chair back. "Sounds like that's my cue for some investigative field work," he offered. "While you guys finish up the Carter thing, how about I see if I can do a little digging into Anders' bank account? I'll put out some feelers. Nothing'll be back for twenty four hours at least, Don," he warned.
"Gotta start somewhere, Colby."
Now he felt fine.
Last night Charlie could barely keep his head up, managed to head upstairs to bed before Don could pounce, and now he felt fine.
This was not like any flu he'd ever had. What else was within the realm of possibilities? Malaria was one disease with recurring fevers, but the incidence, Charlie thought, here in the United States was so vanishingly low as to preclude his having contracted it.
This morning had been a little rocky. He'd slept so soundly all night long that he'd slept through his alarm. Fortunately, that was a common occurrence, and the dashing about that followed allowed him to avoid both his father and his brother. Charlie peered at the mirror in the men's room. Were those dark circles under his eyes? It didn't look like his eyeballs were turning yellow, as they would if it was malaria.
He was letting Don's concern get to him, Charlie decided, annoyed at himself. Sure, the guy was dangerous, but Don was going overboard with this. Anders hadn't done anything yet that was out of character. The man was slime through and through but that didn't make him responsible for the actions of others. Statistically, people killed themselves, and there was always the possibility that the increased incidence of suicides connected with Anders was simply a blip on the outlier radar. Just because something was unlikely didn't mean it was impossible.
Charlie peered at his eyes once more. You're stalling, Eppes, he told himself. You're still here in the men's room because you don't really want to review the material for tomorrow's lecture. Get your ass back to your office and do some honest work instead of obsessing over Don's case that isn't even a real case.
He sighed. Is this what FBI undercover work is like? Not sure that I like it.
"You fell asleep again?" Don was disbelieving, and Charlie didn't blame him.
Yet another seminar, another round of listening to Anders drone about light and success, and another nap.
"I think there's something in the air," Charlie told him peevishly. "It's newly renovated; maybe the fumes from the paint are still seeping out. My head's killing me. It could have been those lights that he uses in there," Charlie suggested, half desperately and half really not caring. "And the coffee was vile. He needs to get a new food supplier."
Charlie had really resented the height of the surveillance truck that the team had once again 'borrowed' from the garage. Crawling up into the thing was worse than Don's Suburban, and with fewer hand holds for leverage. Don had let him know that even though this 'case' wasn't authorized, the Director was aware of what was going on, to the point of subtly ignoring the 'personal' use of certain FBI equipment. 'Don't get any scratches on it,' had been the boss's parting comment. Something of a joke, Don had said, considering the number of dings and dents that the truck already possessed.
The one good thing about the surveillance truck was that the team could park it surreptitiously just around the block from Anders' building, which meant no ten-mile hike to join them and de-brief. Charlie was grateful. His head was throbbing to the point where he could barely see in the night's darkness, despite all the street lights doing their best to turn night into something close to early morning ahead of schedule. He shivered, tried to control it, knowing that the others would pounce.
Had to be the flu. Some sort of twelve hour, recurring flu virus that he'd picked up from the crowd of CalSci students that he was around, day-in and day-out. If tonight behaved the same as the last two nights, he'd feel miserable until the ibuprofen kicked in and then would be fine in the morning. Charlie couldn't wait until morning arrived. He wished it were morning right now, because he had an overly solicitous big brother, working a not-case, ready to freak if Charlie so much as coughed.
He was right. Don clutched him by the arm. "Charlie? You okay?"
A wave of nausea passed over him, and Charlie began to shiver. Hot and cold flashes battled for dominance. He blinked, and gave in with a heavy sigh. No getting out of this one. "Flu, I think," he croaked. "Feel like crap."
"We're getting you checked out by a doctor," Don announced grimly. "Here, sit down," he ordered, guiding Charlie to one of the chairs in the surveillance truck, one that Don himself had recently vacated. "Grab that bottle of water. Thanks, David," he added, accepting it and wrenching the top off. "Here. Drink something. Something safe."
"Drugs," Charlie whispered, letting his aching head rest against the bank of equipment.
"Damn right, Charlie. I'm getting a tox screen on you just as soon as we pull up to an ER."
"No, I mean I want drugs. Aspirin, ibuprofen, I don't care what it is. Don, this headache…"
"Don!" Megan interrupted. The profiler was still watching the screens focused on the entrance to Anders' business. "Don, we've got a problem."
"What?" Terse, and to the point. Charlie could hear it in his brother's voice: Don didn't want to deal with new problems. He wanted to deal with the one sitting in front of him.
"One of the women in Charlie's seminar. It looks like she's in trouble."
"What do you mean?" Don's attention was getting pulled away from his brother, and Charlie could have cheered if he had the energy. It's just the flu, Don. I've been battling it for the last couple of days. Go help someone who needs it.
"Dammit, she just swallowed that whole vial of pills!" Megan jumped up. "Don, that's Anders' victim! That's the one he's after!"
Don made the decision. "Go. David, back her up. Call 911 for a squad if she's going down. Colby, can Anders see what we're doing? Any possibility of him seeing this truck?"
"Not from here, boss. He's not on the scene and we're around too many corners for him to look out a window."
"Good. Megan and David'll handle the woman. Guys, we'll meet at the hospital. Colby, you're driving. No sirens, but feel free to break a few speed limits."
"Ma'am! Ma'am! Are you all right?" Megan and David reached the woman just as she clutched onto the lamp post, fingers white in the harsh light.
In her late thirties, early forties, Megan swiftly estimated. Older than Anders' usual target, if Don's reports were to be believed. Expensive clothes, designer handbag that had dropped to the pavement. Sharp intelligent features now ruined by tears running down her face, the mascara placing raccoon eyes onto soft brown orbs that welled up with misery. Something fell from the woman's hand and tried to roll away.
David snatched it up. "Percocet," he read from the label. "Megan, the vial is empty. It says that thirty of them were dispensed."
Megan shook the woman's arm. "Ma'am, how many of those did you take?"
"My light won't shine forth," the woman moaned. She wavered in Megan's grasp. "I'm not worthy of living…"
"Call 911," Megan ordered. "Ma'am, how many did you take? What's your name?" She tossed a glance at her partner. "What's the name on the vial?"
"Not hers," David told her. "These belong to a Gary Frank."
Megan made a short leap of faith. "Mrs. Frank, how many of these pills did you take?"
The woman, hearing her name, finally looked at Megan. More tears seeped forth. A trickle of blood appeared at one ear, dribbling down her cheek.
"Not enough," she whispered, and closed her eyes.
"Melanie Frank." Megan kept her voice down. The emergency department was busy with people bustling about, and it would be all too easy for someone unauthorized to listen in on the discussion. The team was huddled around the stretcher that Charlie was lying on, talking over him, Charlie paying close attention to what they were saying. "Rich, with inherited money. Married beneath her station, if you can believe a quick scan of the gossip columns. They didn't go so far as to use the word 'gigolo' for the husband, but there were plenty of insinuations floating through. I also talked to LAPD; they've been called out to the Frank mansion on two occasions in the last six months for altercations, all settled without charges being pressed by either side. Her therapist hasn't returned my call, but that probably won't go anywhere. Without a court order, patient confidentiality laws will prohibit the therapist from telling me if Mrs. Frank was at all suicidal."
"Without a case, we have a snowball's chance in hell of getting a court order," was Colby's opinion.
"I was able to talk to Mrs. Frank herself," Megan said. "As one of the people who saved her life, Mrs. Frank was willing to talk to me, and she was very open. She's going to be admitted to the crisis unit for a twenty-four observation hold, but I think she'll be allowed to go home after that. She seems to think that somehow her husband is behind this, and has persuaded the ER doc to run some tox screens to see if there were any unexplained drugs in her blood."
David sighed. "Fat chance, with all the Percocet they pumped out of her. She's going to be all right, then?"
"Sleepy, but mad as hell at her husband. Told me that he was the one that persuaded her to listen to Anders. She wasn't very complimentary toward Wesley Anders, either." Megan gave a slight chuckle. "I understand the ER staff is taking bets as to whether Mrs. Frank, upon discharge from the crisis unit, will go straight to her lawyer to file for divorce or waste an hour or so first giving her soon-to-be-ex the tongue-lashing of his life before she files." She broke off as the emergency room doctor entered, clipboard in hand.
"Dr. Bloom." Don popped to his feet, the rest of his team also coming to attention. "How is he?"
The doctor, a younger woman with graying hair and tired eyes, glanced automatically at the clipboard. "Just fine. Simple case of the flu."
Charlie looked up at his brother. "See? I told you."
"What do you mean, flu? Are you sure?" Don was astounded. "I mean, he looked like he was about to fall over an hour ago. And he just came from the same meeting that the other victim came from, the one that my team rescued—"
"What can I say?" the doctor shrugged helplessly. "Nothing is coming back to indicate anything more than that, Mr. Eppes. Your brother is fine—will be fine in another twenty-four hours," she amended. "Until then, rest and plenty of fluids. The nurse will be in with the discharge instructions, and you can take him home."
"What about a tox screen?" Don wanted to know. "Anything on that?"
"Alcohol level: negative. Opiates: negative. Non-opiates: trace, but that's more likely due to lab error than anything significant. Certainly not high enough to indicate anything ingested recently, Agent Eppes. I won't have the full results back for twenty four to forty eight hours but I don't anticipate anything differing from the prelims." Dr. Bloom winked at Charlie and gave him the rest of the instructions. "You can take him home," indicating Don, "and give him plenty of rest as well. He's really worried about you. Nice to have a concerned family."
"Yeah, well, that's open for debate," Charlie mumbled under his breath, then raised his voice to normal. "See, Don? All I needed was a little ibuprofen. Much better now. Let's go home."