Title: High Society

Chapter 15: Hook, Line, and Sinker

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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Don took a gulp of hot coffee, and closed his eyes gratefully as the caffeine hit his brain. At thirty-seven, four hours of sleep just weren't enough anymore. He opened his eyes, and stared at the files on the conference room table with a sigh. Amita had made a lot of progress last evening. She was smart, to be sure, and she was now close to having results, but Don couldn't help but compare her to Charlie. Amita's work, and Larry's, before he left, was solid, steady, reliable. No fireworks, no miracles, but they managed to come up with a solution, given enough time. Charlie on the other hand, was a whirlwind, a tsunami – not only were his solutions quick and brilliant, he brought the force of his personality with them – an eagerness, an intensity, a drive that the others lacked. Don was lacking some of that drive himself, these days; he couldn't quite put his finger on why, exactly, but somehow, he'd been feeling jaded, doubtful, when it came to his chosen profession. He was beginning to realize that he had not only relied on his brother's solutions, he'd relied on his spirit and enthusiasm to shore up his own flagging sense of conviction in his work, in the Bureau. He missed Charlie; work just plain sucked without him, and Don could feel a familiar sense of loss and anger reappearing, as he wondered for the thousandth time what had possessed his brother to send that email to Pakistan.

His thoughts were interrupted by Colby, who appeared in the doorway. "Don, Charlie's on the phone."

"Okay," sighed Don. "Transfer it in here."

Colby shook his head. "He's downstairs – says he wants to ask you something, privately."

Don looked at him as if for an explanation, but Colby just shrugged and headed back for his desk, so Don punched in the number for security, and told them to issue a visitor's badge. He sat there tapping a pencil, waiting until Charlie appeared, and watched as the familiar figure strode across the bullpen, with his slightly geeky, eager stride. Just like old times.

As Charlie appeared in the doorway, he held up a sack. "I brought breakfast," he said. "Bagels."

He plopped down in the seat across from Don, opened the bag, took out a bagel, and then shoved the bag across to Don. "Thanks," murmured Don, watching as Charlie began working his bagel with his hands, restlessly tearing it into chunks. "What's on your mind?"

Charlie glanced up at him, then down at the bagel pieces, a slight worry line between his brows; then finally he sighed, and looked up again. "I need your opinion," he said. "I got invited to a - a show – on Saturday, and I want to know if you've heard of it."

Don had just taken a big bite of bagel, and he spoke through it, his cheek bulging. "Charlie, I'm the last person you should come to for a show review."

Charlie glanced out through the glass windows of the conference room, and then turned back to Don, shaking his head impatiently. "No – I mean, well – have you ever heard of an exclusive show called Fantasy?"

Don frowned. "LAPD has been investigating a bunch of – events – in the LA area," he said. "Anything from dog fights to illegal gambling. The name kind of rings a bell, but it's nothing we've ever been asked to look into here." He frowned. "What's this, another Morrison bash?"

Charlie stiffened defensively. "No – it's not one of his parties." His eyes skittered away evasively. "A woman was talking about it last night after dinner."

Don eyed him, his face expressionless. "Amita said you went out with the Morrison crowd again last night."

"It was just dinner and the symphony," retorted Charlie, his eyes daring an argument. "I was home – sober, mind you – by 11:30."

Don held up a hand as if to fend him off, and took another bite of bagel. "I didn't say anything. Did you hear me say anything?"

"Sorry," Charlie mumbled, his scowl fading at bit, as he poked at a chunk of his bagel, sending sesame seeds hopping across the table. "Amita was giving me a hard time about it yesterday; I guess I'm just defensive. Anyway, concerning Fantasy, I suppose if you haven't heard anything specific, maybe it's not a big deal – maybe they're just rumors."

Don's frowned deepened. "What are just rumors?"

Charlie rose, shrugging again. "Just stories about drugs, and sex – it's probably just the rumor mill." He looked out at the bullpen with a sigh, and Don could see the wistfulness in his face. Charlie turned back to him. "Anyway, thanks – I've got to get to school."

"I'll ask around," said Don, not quite ready for him to go yet, but Charlie just nodded, and loped out the door. "Thanks for breakfast," Don called after him.

He sat there for a moment, reflectively chewing his bagel. Why would Charlie care about that particular party, unless it was something associated with Morrison? He imagined that for Charlie, asking that question was tantamount to possibly admitting he'd been wrong about Morrison, and Don knew that Charlie had to be truly bothered to take that step, especially when the admission had to be made to his older brother – an older brother who would delight in saying, 'I told you so.'

He picked up the phone, and started to dial Wright's number, as Colby reappeared in the doorway, curiosity in his eyes. "What was that about?"

"Oh, Charlie just had a question," said Don cryptically, setting the receiver back in its cradle.

"Oh," said Colby, sounding a bit disappointed. "David and I were wondering if he was telling you he was getting his clearance reinstated."

Don shook his head, staring. "What gave you that idea?"

Colby shrugged. "I don't know, wishful thinking, I guess. Amita told us yesterday that he applied for a reinstatement a few days ago."

"He did?" Don's jaw dropped, and it was Colby's turn to stare.

"He didn't tell you?"

Don shook his head, slowly. The news brought with it a feeling of betrayal, and then a bit of anger, but it quickly subsided as he considered that he hadn't exactly been good at promoting conversation lately, himself. Arguments, maybe, but not conversation. Colby looked slightly embarrassed and was turning to go, but Don stopped him. "Wait – I want to ask you something. Have you ever heard of a something called Fantasy? I think it's a party."

"Yeah," said Colby. "I've got a buddy in the DEA who's working on it. In fact, he said both the NSA and the DEA are collaborating on the investigation – why, are they pulling us in on it, too?"

Don stared at him. "Not yet," he murmured. "So what is it, anyway?"

Colby grimaced and shook his head. "Nasty stuff, man. The rumors are that it's a rotating party. Some say it's just legitimate entertainment, singers, acrobats – like in Vegas. Others say that for a price, a person can get anything from designer drugs to sex – and that the prostitutes aren't all willing – or of age. Sexual slavery – that sort of thing."

Don could feel his gut tightening, but he kept his face neutral. Was Charlie actually associating with people that went to this thing? "Okay. Thanks."

He waited until Colby's broad shoulders were halfway across the bullpen, and dialed Assistant Director Wright.

At the same time, across the bullpen, Jack Timmons rose and stretched, and headed for the elevator to the parking garage, to call in a report.

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J.T. Morrison had just finished a conference call with a group of executives from Universal Studios, and had hit the call end button, when his phone rang. He glanced at the number, and his brows rose in anticipation as he lifted the receiver. No speakerphone for this conversation. "My friend," he exclaimed. He rarely used Markus' name, even in his own home, alone in his own study. One couldn't be too careful. "I'm assuming you have good news?"

Markus' voice came over the line, the tone decidedly perturbed. "Your potential guest made a visit to his brother this morning, at the FBI offices."

J.T.'s smile faded, but he mustered bravado. "What on earth is wrong with that? The man is his brother. Was he there for a meeting?"

"No." Markus' tone turned begrudging. "He apparently just stopped for a few minutes and dropped off some bagels. My man said they talked for just a few minutes – he could see them in the conference room but couldn't hear what they were saying. The bottom line, though, J.T., is that your prize is the brother of an FBI agent. However, because he's been to some of your parties, because I have found that it is true that he has lost his clearance with the FBI, and simply because it is you asking, I am going to grant him access – but to the outer room, and the show only. He will get a bronze pass – no silver or gold – no access to drugs or the back rooms until I am more sure of him."

J.T.'s expression turned petulant. "And what fun is that?"

"You were the one who said you had to take it slowly," retorted Markus. "I hold you personally responsible for him, J.T. Be at the pick-up location in time for him to be processed – I intend to look over him very carefully – and be thankful that I'm letting him come at all."

The phone clicked, and there was silence. J.T. set the receiver down slowly, and sighed. Truly, the situation was becoming untenable; he couldn't wait much longer. The sensation of the young man's leg against his in the limo the evening before had nearly sent him over the edge. He had to have him, and he would. He would own him in every way, before this was over.

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"Hey, you busy?"

Charlie looked up in surprise, to see Don's head in his doorway. A bag from a local deli appeared beneath it, and then the head and the bag were followed by his brother's body as Don pushed his way into the room. "I thought I'd return the favor – I brought lunch."

Don's dark eyes swept swiftly around the room, as if looking for something, and then his expression sobered, and he shut the door behind him. Charlie looked at him curiously. "It's a nice surprise – thanks. I realized after I got out of there this morning I hadn't managed to eat much of my bagel."

Don pulled a chair up next to the desk. "You didn't eat any of it." His eyes caught Charlie's, and his gaze turned more direct. "Get any phone calls this morning?"

Puzzlement washed over Charlie's face. "No, why?"

Don hitched his chair a little closer, and spoke in a low voice. "I asked around about Fantasy, and I apparently pushed some buttons. Wright sent me over here. He said a couple of guys from the DEA or NSA, or maybe both, were on their way over here to see you. I guess they've been investigating the party, and they want to ask you some questions."

He pulled out a sandwich and tossed it at Charlie, then took out one for himself. Charlie blinked at it. "I really don't know what to tell them. All the woman said was that it was amazing, and it had acrobats and singers. It's not as if I've attended it, or anything."

A knock sounded at the door before Don could reply, and then it swung open a bit, revealing two young men in hooded sweatshirts and ball caps. "Professor Eppes?" said one of them, and Charlie frowned a bit. He didn't recognize either of them. In fact, on further examination, they didn't look quite young enough to be students.

Don had caught his look and rose to his feet, his hand sliding under his jacket, and Charlie saw the movement and stood also, his eyes wide. The men slid quickly into the room and shut the door, and one of them said, "Relax agent," as he flipped out a DEA ID. The other man produced an NSA badge as they moved toward the desk. "Agents Cooke and Leach," the first one, presumably Cooke, said. "Wright should have told you we were coming."

At Wright's name, Don finally relaxed, and he took his hand off his Glock and pulled his chair aside just a bit so the men could also drag chairs closer to the desk. "We hear you have some information on Fantasy, professor."

Charlie had finally found his voice, and he sank back into his chair. "I don't really know much about it," he said. "I was out with some people last night, and it was mentioned. I'd never heard of it, and looked it up out of curiosity, and it didn't appear exactly – kosher. So I asked Don about it this morning, to see if he knew anything."

"We've been following that case for months now," said the NSA agent, the one named Leach. "Fantasy is a rotating party – it changes location from week to week around the L.A. area. The rumors are that there is a main party room with live entertainment and drinks – nothing illegal, if the establishment had a liquor license. However, the rumors say also that there are illegal drugs, gambling, and prostitution on site– that for a price, a person can access the back rooms and the illegal part of the event. The person or persons who run it are a mystery – and how they manage it is a mystery also. The logistics alone would be hard to imagine – every week, the props and sets have to be taken down and moved, and set up in a place that is big enough to hold the event. They need workers to do that – how they keep the hired help from spilling the secrets – much less the guests, is beyond us, but they have. We had one or two people who we thought had connections, and seemed to be willing to talk, but they disappeared before they could tell us anything. We've gotten nothing concrete in the months we've worked this. Anything you can give us would be appreciated. Now where were you, and who were you talking to, when those comments were made?"

Charlie looked at Don, hesitating, and Don could see distress in his eyes. It made his own gut tighten a bit, but he spoke, reassuringly. "Charlie, it's okay. You said a woman said something about it at dinner, right?"

"Yeah," replied Charlie softly, uncertainly. He cleared his throat. "I was out with a group of people for dinner at Cici's and then for an outdoor symphony afterward."

Cooke had pulled a small notepad out of the front pocket of his sweatshirt, and had begun to write. "Was this an organized event?"

Charlie shook his head. "No. Just some friends. Actually, I didn't really know any of them except the person who invited me."

Cooke looked up. "And that was-?"

Charlie looked at Don again, and Don knew he was having difficulty with this; he undoubtedly felt guilty about giving Morrison's name. The thought generated both a feeling of vindication and a twinge of impatience. Don had obviously been right to warn him of the man, but Charlie still didn't see it – his urge was to defend the slime-ball. The fact frustrated Don, and made him more than a little jealous. He nodded curtly, giving Charlie a wordless prod, and Charlie sighed. "J.T. Morrison," he said, reluctantly.

Cooke and Leach exchanged a glance that said the information had some kind of significance, but all Cooke said was, "And was Morrison the person who organized the outing last evening?"

Charlie looked miserable – no, more than miserable – a little frightened, Don thought, as his brother answered. "Yes."

"And how do you know him?"

"We met a few weeks ago at a restaurant. He invited me to a couple of his parties -,"

Leach's eyes widened. "You've been to his parties?"

Charlie frowned at him, and his reply came out sounding a little snappish and defensive. "I just said that."

Cooke waved Leach off. "Go on."

"He invited me, my father, and Don to a Dodgers game last weekend." Don felt the other men's eyes on him, but he kept his gaze on Charlie. His brother looked extremely uncomfortable – there was no doubt - something was bothering him, deeply.

"And then the outing last night," continued Charlie. "I really don't know him all that well, or why he's taken an interest in me, other than my book – I'm recently published. He has a very large, varied group of acquaintances."

"Did you see any evidence of anything illegal at his parties? Drugs, for example?"

Charlie shifted uncomfortably. "No – I never saw any drugs. The crowd did seem a little loose, but if they were doing drugs, they were discreet."

"Loose how?"

Charlie flushed, looked at Don, and then his gaze flitted away. "Well, his swimming pool appeared to be clothing optional. And at one party, I wandered down a hallway and saw a half-dozen people in a room, partially dressed, apparently getting ready to – well, you know." His color deepened as he saw them exchange glances, and took in the tight expression of disapproval on Don's face, and he hastened to add, "J.T. broke it up as soon as he found out about it. He sent his security man in to deal with them."

Cooke eyed him thoughtfully. "And the woman who mentioned Fantasy last night was one of Morrison's guests?"

"Yes. I only know her first name, Mirah. I think she's a model."

"And what exactly did she say?"

"She seemed pretty excited about it. She called it amazing, said there were acrobats and vocal acts; said it was really hard to get an invitation." Charlie's gaze slid away, guiltily.

Leach frowned. "And what brought up the topic to begin with? Why would she bring up a secret party?"

Charlie glanced again at Don, looking extremely uneasy; then took a deep breath. "Because she'd just heard J.T. invite me to it."

"What?!"

The exclamation came from all three of the other men, and Charlie looked down, miserably, then up again. "I didn't know what it was," he added lamely.

Cooke and Leach exchanged another look, filled with meaning, and then Cooke looked at Charlie. "Do you think there's a chance that Morrison might be the organizer of Fantasy?"

Charlie shook his head, vehemently. "No. He said he'd gotten tickets; that they were really hard to get, but he'd gotten one for me. I think he's just attending it." His face cleared a little as a thought occurred to him. "Maybe he doesn't know what it is, either. Even Mirah, although it sounded like she'd been there before, didn't say anything about a back room. She didn't mention anything other than legitimate entertainment."

Leach snorted. "Not likely, from what we understand about Morrison. I'm sure he knows exactly what goes on there."

Charlie hazarded a glance at Don. His brother was silent, but his lips were in a tight line, and his eyes snapping dangerously. He looked back at Cooke as the agent spoke.

"Dr. Eppes, I'm not sure you realize the significance of this. We've been trying for months to get someone on the inside, and you actually have an invitation to this thing. This is huge. You did accept the invitation?"

Don broke in, his voice cold. "It doesn't matter – he's not going."

Leach protested. "What do mean, he's not going? Are you kidding me? We might never get another opportunity like this. I think Dr. Eppes should speak for himself."

They looked at Charlie, who looked back at the agents, then at Don, who spoke before Charlie could. "You can't use him anyway – he lost his clearance. He'd have no credibility with a jury if you did decide to use him."

"Let's talk about that." Charlie spoke, his voice quiet, but suddenly decisive. "I applied for my clearance to be reinstated almost two weeks ago. I've gone through the requisite interviews, and they're debating my case. Tell your bosses that if I get my clearance reinstated, I'll do this – I'll attend the party and report out."

Don stared at him. "Charlie, are you nuts? Did you not hear the part about their potential witnesses disappearing?" He looked at Cooke and Leach as if daring them to contradict him. "No. His answer is absolutely not."

Cooke ignored him, looking at Charlie. "I have to admit, we've discussed your clearance issue already – we've considered the fact that if you had to testify about your conversation with the woman last evening, you'd have more credibility if you had it back. I know the guys at the top of the DEA and NSA, and the FBI, have been considering that point. Give us a few minutes, we'll make a call."

They rose, and exited the office, and Don exploded. He had gotten to his feet, and began to pace, angrily. "Charlie, that was one of the dumbest things I've ever seen you do. How do you know they weren't going to give you clearance back anyway? Now, they won't, unless you do this."

"You don't know that," Charlie retorted. "The guy who has my case has been giving me the third degree – he's questioned my colleagues here at school, Amita, Wright -,' he broke off and looked at Don. "I would have figured that he would question you."

Don frowned. He would have thought so, too, and the realization that he hadn't been contacted was disturbing. "Maybe he just hasn't gotten to me yet." He fixed Charlie with a reproving stare. "Although it would have been nice to know in advance that this was coming."

"I wasn't supposed to tell anyone in advance," Charlie mumbled. "Anyway the last time we talked, he said he wasn't quite finished yet, but the way things were looking, he wasn't going to recommend reinstatement. I've been sitting here thinking that any day now, I'm going to get a rejection."

"It doesn't matter," Don stated, firmly. "It's not worth the risk."

"It is to me," said Charlie, quietly. "I miss it – I miss the work. I want to do this again. Besides, what's the risk? I'm going with a group of people – there's safety in numbers. I'll check it out, and report out when I get back. It can't be that hard." He looked at Don, and Don could see disappointment in his eyes. "I would have thought that you wanted me -," he broke off; then shook his head. "Forget it. Obviously not."

Don knew what Charlie had been about to say – that he'd thought that Don would want him back, would want to work with him again. He did, in the worst way – but not if it meant that Charlie had to do this. If Charlie had just kept his mouth shut, he would probably have gotten his clearance reinstated, without having to risk his own safety to get it. He had taken the bait, hook, line and sinker. It was just another example of his younger brother's impetuosity – his tendency to jump in with both feet – a dangerous tendency when working with the criminal element. "Maybe it's better if you don't consult," he thought, then realized suddenly, from the stricken look on Charlie's face, that he'd said it aloud.

"That's okay, I get it that you don't want me around," said Charlie, bitterly. "I'm sure LAPD or the DEA, or the NSA could use a hand. It's a good thing that my case worker hasn't talked to you yet – I'm sure he'd get an earful from you."

"Yeah, well maybe I should give him an earful," Don snapped angrily. "It's not like you've shown the best judgment lately."

Charlie's eyes were flashing, and his voice rose. "If you're talking about J.T., we don't know anything yet. He might not know anything more about this party than I do."

"Yeah, right," Don snorted. "I told you he was a sleaze-ball. And it's not just that – you just don't think before you act."

The door opened again, and they broke off, glaring at each other. Cooke and Leach shut the door behind them again, and approached the desk, their eyes going from one angry face to the other. Cooke cleared his throat. "I have good news, Dr. Eppes. If you cooperate with us in this investigation, I have assurances that you'll get your clearance back."

Charlie took a deep breath, and he shot Don a darkly triumphant glance. "All right," he said, "I'll cooperate. What do you need me to do?"

"Simply attend the party, find out what you can about it while you're there. Get a name or at least a description of the person or people who run it, see if you can verify the illegal activities in the back rooms, give us the location. We're not going to wire you or anything – they might inspect the partygoers. I have a feeling they'll relieve you of your cell phone, but if they don't, and you know where you are, call us in – we might be able to take the place down on the spot." He handed Charlie a card. "This is my cell phone number – I wouldn't put it in your phone – memorize it instead. We need to be a little careful about being seen together – you may be watched. If there is nothing urgent, play it cool the day after the party, and meet with us at your brother's offices on Monday, first thing in the morning. It should be safe to talk there."

Charlie rose, glancing at his watch. "Okay. I have to go – I have a class that started two minutes ago. I'll call you if I have any questions." He grabbed a file and pumped the agents' hands on his way out, pointedly ignoring Don.

Don watched the door close behind him, scowling, then looked at Cooke and Leach. "Let me ask you something – his clearance-," he hesitated.

Cooke knew where he was going and nodded, then shrugged. "He was going to get it back, anyway. The guy who has been handling his case has been giving him a hard time, but the guys at the top aren't paying too much attention to him, unless he uncovered something illegal. The fact is; your brother's too valuable to them. Even if he wasn't, the opportunity he's giving us on this case is too big to pass up." He took in the expression on Don's face; anger, defeat, apprehension. "He's doing the right thing, Eppes."

"The right thing for you, maybe," Don muttered, and he brushed past them, his jaw tight, leaving them alone in the office.

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End, Chapter 15