The Chesterfield Conspiracy
"What do you mean by 'close'?"
Garcia squeaked excitedly and jabbed at the link to the next chapter, 'The Black Rose'. She was halfway through the first quarter of the second word, however, when Agent Hotchner magically appeared right behind her comfy pink chair.
It took some fancy fast and furious clicking to get Garcia off of and onto a site that probably looked kind of work related in 1.5 seconds flat. That had to have been a record.
"Find anything interesting?" He asked, leaning towards her monitor ever-so-purposefully.
"Yep-er-oonies!" She grinned innocently at Hotch's new tie.
"Oh really? The CCA… you found something on the Canadian Chesterfields Association webpage?"
"Huh? Hotch, this is the CIA… … … site." Yikes! Put a 'C' instead of an 'I' in the search!
"The CIA sells couches now?" Hotch went all squinty. This was bad.
"Not exactly sir. A lot of their agents have been having relaxation issues, so they've added a Canadian sofa as a benefit, sir."
"Why Canadian? Do you think it's some sort of power grab?" he raised an eyebrow. It was in serious need of some tweezer attention, she noticed.
"That's exactly what I've been trying to find out." Garcia crossed her toes, seeing as her fingers were in plain sight.
"Interesting." He muttered, lowering his left eyebrow and itching his right one.
Hotch leaned back against the wall, brown eyes intent on his technical analyst's computer screen. He knew perfectly well that is was a cover up for something – and since the psycho maniac serial killers of the world had thankfully given the BAU a nice, long, boring break – he had time to sit and enjoy Garcia desperately trying to invent a chesterfield conspiracy.
She stared at her boss for a second, blinked three times, no wait – four times, then whirled and started typing so fast her fingers seemed to disappear with the motion. Pulling up files upon files on the Canadian Chesterfield Association, it's employees, and any shady connections either might have – oo, someone got jipped 100 dollars once in the 80's – Garcia's eyes started to glaze over. Pretending to sift through the mountains of junk, her mind drifted to the abandoned fanfic. The author had said it was a true story, which was freaky, and that Brody Macklin looked intensely dangerous in that last bit, which was freaky, and Garcia had seen too many gristly stalker murder crime scene photos, which was freaking her out. But obviously the writer/victim was still safe and alive, or she couldn't have posted anything for the FBI analyst to freak over.
"I think I'm addicted to fanfics," she mumbled, wishing the hammy CEO she was hacking could produce some distraction.
PS I don't own Criminal Minds. Would the owner of Criminal Minds have the insight to include a Chesterfield conspiracy? No, I thought not. Therefore I am not him and he is not me and we are not affiliated in any way. Honestly, I don't even know who he (or she!) is. Do you?