Steps in the Right Direction

"Honey, my intentions are way past flirting."

~Janet Evanovich.

Maura's Rental House. Alexandria, Virginia.

In terms of evidence collection in general, Maura Morrow's home was chaos. However, when compared to the blast site at the Bureau, it suddenly seemed infinitely less daunting. At least Morrow had kept her home in order, and the only real area of issue was the garage, where the SUV had blown up. But even then, the bomb had been poorly constructed, and there had been more fire than actual boom. Mac had assigned a few evidence collection techs from Quantico to dust the house for fingerprints, while she and Shostakovich covered the blast site, along with Masterson and Lewis. The garage was a bit of a mess, but still only a quarter of the size of their last explosion, so there was some kind of silver lining.

Mac knew that Dawson was hoping for definitive proof that Linnea Charles had been in the vehicle. Sadly, she knew that wasn't going to happen—she could, at least, declare that Linnea's body wasn't still in there at the time of the explosion, which had to be some cause for relief. But as for the rest, the blast itself, coupled with the high power pressure hoses used to put out the fire, had done too much damage to gather anything as minute as a strand of hair or other genetic material.

Still, she and her crew could collect all the components of the bomb, along with samples of ash and burned bits of the SUV, and determine how it was made and with what compounds. Every bomb had its own unique signature, and the pieces that made up the whole could tell an investigator a lot about its creator.

With a light sigh, Rowena Lewis stepped out of the garage, out onto the lawn. She removed her protective glasses and her face mask before slipping out of her latex gloves, putting them in the left pocket of her jumpsuit as she retrieved a small vial of Visine from her right pocket. After so many days of working around soot and smoke, her eyes had become red and irritated. She turned her face heavenward, adding a few drops to her eyes and blinking rapidly as she tried to flush out all the bits of debris that had inevitably found their way onto her sclera, hissing slightly at the burn that accompanied the drops.

"Y'alright?" Jonas Shotakovich was walking back up the driveway, face etched with a look of genuine concern. He'd stepped away to take a phone call, but for the most part, he'd kept with earshot of the crew at all times, ready for any piece of information that he could immediately relay back to his team.

"Nope." She answered honestly. Then she pasted on a brilliantly false smile, "But then again, none of us are."

He gave a dry smile at the remark, obviously agreeing. Then he raised his voice, commanding the attention of Macaraeg and Masterson as well. "That was Agent Dawson on the phone. Apparently, Maura Morrow took a flight to London last night. We've got Interpol coordinating with Roza on making a positive ID."

"Interpol?" Rowena perked up.

Shostakovich nodded.

Roe looked over at Jeff with a grin.

"Emily," was all she said, and all that she needed to say.

"How's Agent Eden?" Mac asked, her brows knitting in compassionate concern, her voice slightly muffled by her face mask. Even if she hadn't noticed Shostakovich's distracted air, or the way he was incessantly checking his phone as if hoping he'd somehow missed a call or a text with good news, she was well aware of the bond between agents on a team and how it affected them when one of their own was injured.

"Stable. For now." He didn't seem too relieved by the prognosis, and the others understood that Eden wasn't officially out of the woods just yet.

Mac's cellphone buzzed, and she frowned slightly when she didn't recognize the number. Still, it was a D.C. area code, so she pulled her mask down and answered. "Macaraeg speaking."

"And what a lovely sound it is." David Rossi's voice was unmistakable, and so was the teasing infused in the words.

Mac instinctively moved away from the group, walking further down the driveway—not because she felt that this conversation might not need to be overheard, but because she was already fighting a grin and she really didn't want witnesses to how ridiculous she was being. However, her tone betrayed none of her emotions as she flatly but not unkindly intoned, "What can I do for you, Agent Rossi?"

"We heard about the explosion."

She didn't ask who we was, or how they'd heard the news. Instead, she merely set her protective glasses atop her head and said. "And?"

"And I wanted to know if you've found a body yet—specifically Linnea Charles' body."

So they knew Linnea Charles was confirmed as kidnapped and missing. Adelaide Macaraeg felt zero sense of surprise at how well-informed the BAU was.

"Why don't you ask Dawson?" She looked up at the heavens for a moment, adding the slightest hint of taunting to her tone.

"Because you're much more pleasant to talk to," came the smooth reply, and she gave a huff of a laugh at the statement. David Rossi certainly could be charming, when he put his mind to it. The little danger danger alarm went off in the back of her mind, but she'd long ago learned how to ignore it. However, she did keep in mind the real issue at hand—the BAU technically wasn't part of the loop anymore, and as charming as Rossi was, she couldn't compromise the flow of information in this case. There had already been enough setbacks. And to make matters worse, everyone was at least vaguely aware of the fact that the BAU was taking the cowboy's way and as a matter of principle, she didn't approve.

She kept these thoughts to herself and simply said, "I'm not telling you, Rossi."

"I know," was his simple return.

"You know?" She was taken aback by the easy confession. Surprise was quickly replaced by a sense of mischief. "So…what? You called just to flirt?"

Now it was Rossi's turn to laugh. She could still feel him grinning as he said, "Well, what better way could I start my day, really?"

Oh, I can think of a few. Thank God her filter was still in good working order, because that was an invitation to open a door that she should not want to open (shouldn't want to…but did she really not want to?). She merely rolled her eyes—half in response to Rossi's foolishness, half in response to her own.

Rossi must have sensed her hesitancy, because he easily retreated to safer ground, "I also hear that you've sent the list to another handwriting analyst."

Of course he knew about that, too. Mac briefly wondered if the BAU had bugged everyone else's phones.

"I did," she admitted. Confirming this bit of information wouldn't alter the course of the case, she decided, although her internal warning system also pointed out that it was a slippery slope, playing fast and loose with sharing protocol. "I sent it to a friend in New York. She's not a handwriting analyst by trade, per se, but she's still one of the best people for the job—she's meticulous to a fault, which is exactly what you want when it comes to something like this. I know Dawson had agreed to let the BAU choose the analyst, but I was never given a name, so…."

"No, it's good—the person we were going to get recommendations from turned out to be Dr. Morrow—"

"You're kidding me."

"God's honest truth."

"The truth really is stranger than fiction," Mac marveled at how small the world really could be, at times.

Rossi made a small hum of agreement.

She added, "But if you do find another analyst that you want me to forward the evidence to, please, let me know."

"Thank you," he said, and she knew that he meant it. Then his tone turned wry again, "I have to admit, I like it when a woman shows initiative."

He was hinting at the kiss again, and Mac felt her ears turn red. However, she simply cleared her throat and warned, "You know, you're beginning to make me regret my impulsiveness."

"Oh please don't. I know I don't regret it."

An amused hum slipped out of her throat before she could stop it—it was lower and more sensuous-sounding than she'd intended, and she immediately cringed, prayed to God that Rossi didn't notice or at least didn't mention it. A beat of awkward silence reigned.

Rossi's voice filled the quiet again, however, his playfulness had subsided, "Honestly, I just wanted to check in. See how everything went. Drew can be a bit much sometimes, but he means well."

Drew was the pilot whom Rossi had contracted for Mac's private flight to Madison, Wisconsin for her daughter's college graduation—a gift that had come without strings or expectations, a gift that she still wasn't sure how to reciprocate.

"He was great," Mac assured him. "A bit old-school, but he knew how to fly a plane and really, that was my only concern."

Drew Corbin had been a bit gruff, in a bumbling, kindly way—he'd referred to her as little lady, and for once, she hadn't minded the epithet, mainly because she didn't detect the usual malice and degradation that had accompanied every other occasion in which she'd been referred to as such.

Rossi gave a hum of agreement. Then, the infamously smooth-tongued man seemed at a loss for words.

"Thank you, again," Mac's own words lurched forward, and she felt a pang of guilt at the fact that she hadn't thanked him as soon as she'd answered the phone.

"Oh, no—that wasn't—I wasn't calling just to hear you express gratitude," he spoke quickly, trying to allay whatever uneasiness she might have felt. "I didn't do it for that—I just…I wanted to make sure that it went OK. That is was…a pleasant experience, I guess."

Jesus Christ. He was too sweet. Mac pressed her lips into a thin line to keep from blurting out as much. She got her stupid grin back under control and quietly said, "It was. It was better than pleasant—absolutely wonderful. Although my family is now convinced I may be living a double life as some kind of secret agent."

Rossi laughed at the idea, and she felt a wave of relief that at least he didn't seem unsure of his footing any more. But relief melted into something else as the same thought that had been nagging her for almost twenty four hours rose up in full force again—how did he know her sister? What sort of relationship had Rossi and Joan developed over their years of mutual book tours? Rossi had a reputation for being a ladies' man and Joan, well…she may have been named after a saint, but the resemblance ended there.

Adelaide Macaraeg would never embarrass herself by asking outright. And she wouldn't do it over the phone, either. She'd mention her sister another time, when she was in-person with David—and she'd watch his face, gauge his reaction, and go from there. She'd learned the hard way that phone conversations can be a liar's best tool—you can school your voice to sound a certain way, and the other person can't read your face to know the truth.

"Well, I'm glad it went well," Rossi interrupted her thoughts. She could tell that he was smiling, but softly this time. She both loved and feared the idea that she was the reason.

"Me, too." Despite her conflicting thoughts, she was smiling, too. "Thank you again—even if you don't want to hear it, I am very grateful. It wouldn't have been possible without your help."

"Ah, it would have been possible," he was waving away the praise. "Maybe not as pleasant, but still possible."

She chuckled in agreement. "I have to admit, the whole private jet thing is very pleasant."

She glanced back down the driveway, where Lewis and Masterson were still busy collecting bomb fragments for testing. "Look, I've gotta get back to work, Rossi—"

"So…no answer on the body?"

"I will neither confirm nor deny."

"That's alright. Dawson did tell us."

"So that whole opening gambit—"

"A clever ruse to start a conversation. Not my best, but sometimes we have to work with what we've got, Mac."

"Don't work too hard," she warned, and although she'd been entirely serious, her tone didn't get the memo—it was still teasingly playful.

"Some things are worth a little extra work," he informed her philosophically.

That little warning voice in Mac's head went to full-scale screeching Klaxons. Quickly, she said, "See you soon, Rossi."

"Oh, a man can hope."

She hung up without waiting for further reply. Somehow, she knew he was still grinning like a Cheshire cat on the other end.

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

With everyone gone hither, thither, and yon, the Academy seemed unnaturally quiet. Even the small space that had become the Flying Js' temporary HQ seemed larger without any other bodies occupying it. Not that Sura Roza minded. She did her best work when left the hell alone. However that would not be—the stillness and the space were suddenly filled with ringing, and she pounced on her phone, answering before she even looked at the caller ID. "What's up?"

"Ah, is this Technical Analyst Roza?" The voice was feminine and unfamiliar.

"Yes, it is," Roza tamped down a slight wave of irritation. The only people she wanted to hear from right now where either her team or Viega and Federer, who were handling other aspects of data analysis. "And who are you?"

"I'm Penelope Garcia, I am the technical—"

"I know who you are." The voice might have been unfamiliar, but the name was not. Roza had logged in details of Dawson and Eden's interview with Penelope Garcia, and had briefly researched the technical analyst assigned to the BAU.

"Oh. Well, good." Garcia seemed a little flustered at first, but quickly regained her footing, "Here's something you may not know: I'm about to become your favorite person on this case."

Roza highly doubted that, but she kept her mouth shut.

"Where are you on the investigation into Dr. Reid's cellphone?" Garcia's voice pitched upwards with the question, and suddenly she sounded much younger than Roza had originally imagined.

"I'm not sure I can share that information with you."

"Well, actually, you don't have to. I'm calling to share information with you." Garcia seemed completely unfazed by Roza's flat tone. In fact, she was positively chipper. "Now, I know that you've already confirmed that there isn't a remote access program installed on Dr. Reid's phone—but if someone could install it, then they could also uninstall it, so—"

"So you went looking for data usage reports." Roza had already thought of such a thing herself. In fact, Dawson had thrown together a warrant for Reid's cell phone data, which was still under review.

"Yes. And I think you'll like what I found."

"Found? You couldn't have found anything. If there is an uptake in data usage, it would have most likely only been in the last few days—that data is not even collated for the monthly usage report yet."

"I have skills, Miss Roza."

"It's Mrs. Roza, and that's…impossible. We're still waiting on the warrant for—"

"I have my ways."

Sura Roza suddenly realized that she should have read Penelope Garcia's employee file with a more attentive eye. Of course, Garcia was too smart to openly confess to anything illegal, but almost everyone in the data world knew that you didn't protect your sources out of journalistic integrity—most of the time, you protected them because they weren't obtained through the most law-abiding of methods.

She also realized that any further questioning of Garcia's "ways" would only result in more evasive phrasing and meaningless talk. So instead, she went to the next problem, "You do realize that, as a member of the BAU, everything you say is biased by default, right? Guilt by association, all that jazz."

"I do, and I get it—I'm sure I'd be just as wary, if I were in your shoes." Again, Penelope Garcia's cheerfulness never skipped a beat. "Which is why I'm sending you all of this."

As if on cue, Roza's computer dinged with a notification: New Email from P. Garcia.

Oh, this girl was good. Better than good.

Penelope Garcia might have had a personal bias, but her professional work was beyond solid. Everything Roza could possibly want was enclosed. She saw another flutter of a notification—Garcia had requested a read receipt, so she was aware that Sura was already reading over the files. She quietly waited on the other end as Sura skimmed through the collection.

"Garcia, what did you do before you came to the FBI?" Roza asked, half-distracted by the information on her screen. This level of organization, and the nature of the data itself, was something very few analysts could pull off in such a small timeframe.

"Vigilante justice," came the easy and still-optimistic reply. Roza would have laughed, except she was still too invested in her reading—and she also got the distinct feeling that it wasn't a joke.

However, Roza still had to retain some aura of skepticism. "You're obviously talented, Garcia, I'll give you that—but a person of your skill level could also forge these kinds of documents in her sleep—"

"I could, and maybe, once upon a time, I have." Again, the confession came so effortlessly, so calmly that Roza knew it was the stone-cold truth. "But this isn't one of those times. I can give you the links I used to access the data, but I wouldn't recommend trying them out on a federal computer—or really on any other computer than the one I've built myself. She's an absolute ninja, and really, you can't trust anything else."

"I'd believe it," Roza admitted.

"If you're still skeptical, you can come here, to me—I can take you through it all, prove that I'm not—"

"No, no, I—I believe you, even if perhaps I shouldn't." That confession came as easily as Garcia's had, and Roza felt no shame in it.

"That's the best news I've heard all day." Garcia wasn't being sarcastic; the relief in her voice was palpable.

Sura clicked through the series of images again, making sure her eyes hadn't fooled her the first time. No, it was all still there, still immaculately organized and still very solid. Granted, this kind of evidence probably wouldn't be permissible in court—Roza knew Garcia's source couldn't be legal, and she wouldn't give the hacker away (because that's what this had to be, the ability to access the network—hacking, pure and simple). But then again, this wouldn't go to court. And if it did, well, by then they could have legal access to the data usage reports.

"How far back does this go?" Sura asked, scrolling through the reports. She was already back in the section of reports dated 2014.

"Three years. I sent everything I could get my hands on."

Sura frowned slightly as she looked at one monthly report in particular, "And what do you think of this spike in usage—the one about six months ago?"

"It doesn't make sense," came the simple reply. "At least not at first glance. But if you consider the fact that someone might have done a test run on the remote access program—"

"Then it makes perfect sense," Sura finished for her. "That was my thought, too. It would make sense to make sure it actually worked before the day. Install it, maybe send a few test emails—which could just as easily be deleted, so there's no proof."

"Exactly." It was obvious that Penelope Garcia was grinning at this point. Of course, Sura knew that this was the line of thought that Garcia had intended to set her on, but honestly, it was the trail she would've followed, with or without prompting.

"Are there any other spikes, over the past three years?" Sura was curious.

"Nope."

"Hm."

The line beeped with another incoming call.

"Miss Garcia, I have another call waiting—but I'll be in touch."

"I certainly hope so."

"And—thank you."

"Anything for Spencer Reid." Her reply was still cheery, but Sura saw the bite behind it (I didn't do this for you, I did this for Reid). And for that almost-show of strength, Sura admired her.

She quickly switched lines, "This is Roza speaking."

"Miss Roza," the accent was British, and vaguely familiar—she was pretty sure this was the same person she'd spoken to at Interpol earlier that morning.

"Mrs. Roza," she corrected, unthinkingly.

"This is Mr. Knox." There was a note of haughty mocking in his tone, and she didn't blame him for it. "We've been looking at the CCTV footage from Heathrow, and we finally got your girl on camera."

"And it is Maura Morrow, not her sister?" Sura could've sworn that her heart stopped, but she could hear the pounding of her pulse as clearly as a drum.

"We're 92% certain—which in this area is basically 102% certain." He wasn't lying—facial recognition protocol wasn't set at a cut and dried 100% match. Faces changed angle and outside factors such as the quality of video, the amount of sunlight or shadow, or even simply the facial expression currently being made by the target, could keep the software from committing to a full match. He continued, "I'm sending the confirmation screen caps over via email as we speak."

"Thank you," Sura didn't have anything else to say.

"You're welcome. As always, we delight at the chance to help our dear friends across the pond." Again, the sarcastic tone was just at the edge of his words, but at this point, Sura Roza didn't give a damn. He'd given her what she needed and that was all that mattered.

Her email dinged with a new notification—Knox's email had come through. She clicked on the first attachment. Maura Morrow's Icelandic-featured face stared back at her, slightly blurry due to the video feed quality, but still easily recognizable.

Roza gave a small smirk of victory.

We've got you now, bitch.

"Vengeance is one of life's great motivators."
~K.S. Brooks.