Title: High Society

Chapter 25: You've Got Issues

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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The Eyes in the Sky became a crackling in Don's ear. "The Eagle has landed," deadpanned a dispassionate, disinterested voice, and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. His back seat driving had pushed Colby over the edge less than five minutes into the trip. The younger agent had pulled to the shoulder of the interstate and switched places with his team leader in an angry huff that led to several minutes of an uncomfortable silence. "Downloading navigation to your GPS units now," the disembodied, disconnected intonation continued. "SFPD SWAT has been standing by, and is also en route. Will coordinate with LAPD on channel nine."

Don glanced at the SUV's dashboard clock and growled. "Walker should have let me ride in the SWAT van," he grumbled. "How did we end up in last place, anyway?"

David tried to reason with his team leader. "You're lucky Assistant Director Wright let you come at all," he pointed out.

Don spit out his response. "The fight with Charlie was staged. So was the suspension."

David suppressed a sigh. "I'm not referring to that, Don -- and you should know it. Agents are generally not allowed to be anywhere near an investigation when a close family member or friend is involved."

He wasn't having much luck soothing the savage beast, and Colby soon shot that plan to hell anyway. More or less safely ensconced in the back seat, Granger ventured an opinion. "If that fight was staged, you and Charlie should both be in Morrison's next film. We're talking Oscar-caliber."

In the ensuing silence, David closed his eyes and sank into his seat. Don hit his flashers and tromped on the gas pedal, determined to cut some time. The SUV surged forward and the growling engine almost silenced Don's quiet response. "It was supposed to be. Staged, I mean. Charlie forgot to duck."

Granger grunted. "Dude. I've only got sisters, but if one of them came at me the way you went at Charlie -- I'd probably forget to duck, too."

David glanced quickly over his shoulder as he pulled even farther away from Don, hoping that Colby was prepared to duck right now himself. He probably should have maintained his silent sulk. "That's a little harsh," he interjected softly, ever the peacemaker.

Don's jaw clenched as he chewed his gum furiously. His hands tightened on the wheel again, which actually squeaked in protest. "He's right," he responded tersely. He looked in the rear-view mirror at Colby's shadow in the dark interior behind him. "You're right. I don't know why I said what I did. I didn't mean it." He swallowed, and let his eyes drop. "I didn't mean it."

Colby held onto the passenger strap with one hand and tried to balance himself with the other on the seat beside him, as the Suburban hurtled through the night. He was beginning to share David's point of view, regretting his earlier candor. "So, you'll fix it," he said now. "By the time we get there, Cooke and Leach will have Charlie out, and..."

Don interrupted him, sounding angrier than ever. "I can't believe he got himself into this in the first place," he ranted. "His security clearance level means that much to him?" His voice became louder and more stringent with each sentence. "He's a teacher, dammit! He should be happy as long as he has a place to teach!"

David could hardly believe it himself when his voice was the next one he heard. "I don't know, Don." Eppes glanced furiously in his direction. The SUV swayed and Sinclair winced, shrugging. "I'm just saying. Maybe he's only worked with us for a few years, but I'm pretty sure he's been consulting on a top security level for a while."

"Yeah," Granger chimed in. "Every alphabet agency out there has an interest in Charles Eppes! Hell, we've run into half of them in cases of our own, and discovered that Charlie already had a history with them -- the CDC, NSA, Coast Guard..."

"Shut up," Don said bitterly. "You're not helping. I already know that Charlie's not doing any of this because of me -- I asked him not to; I begged, dammit! He went under anyway. His fucking clearance, and working with all those other agencies, obviously means more to him than I do."

Granger and Sinclair exchanged a look. Unfortunately, the interior of the vehicle was not light enough for Colby to read the warning on David's face. He shook his head. "Dude. You and Charlie have issues."

David hurried to intervene before Don flipped the Suburban. "Look, after we get him out, we've got a long ride back to L.A. Colby and I can hitch a ride with SWAT -- or Cooke and Leach, if we have to. You and Charlie should ride back together. You haven't really been able to talk to him since the fight, right?"

Don's sigh echoed inside the vehicle, full of despair and concern. "No," he admitted finally. "Maybe you've both got a point. Charlie and I definitely have issues -- and the ride back to L.A. might just clear up a few."

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Ramon wanted to scream, to cry, to protest the injustice as much as the gringo tied up on the bed seemed to want to – but for entirely different reasons. There was a time, not so long ago, when he, Ramon, had made J.T. groan in ecstasy like that.

It had been difficult, when Morrison tired of playing with him. He had stayed in J.T.'s employ hoping that his lover would come back to him; and he had, upon occasion. With Ramon always there, in the house, he became a convenient rebound man. Morrison would have his affairs – he would not even attempt to be discreet about them, and Ramon's heart would break a little more with each boy du jour -- but at least he could have J.T. himself for a few weeks, in-between the conquests.

This one was different.

He hated this one.

He had hated this one from the start. He was a man of dark and swarthy beauty, in some ways, and was made more attractive by his peculiar mix of intellectual brilliance and social naïveté. He was certainly the most mature, and well-known, of all the men Ramon had watched J.T. pursue. His employer took his time with this one; the fact that the object of his affections was obviously not gay, and not interested in a sexual liaison with J.T., seemed to attract Morrison even more.

It disgusted Ramon, all of it. J.T. bringing him along, to rub his nose in it like he was a disobedient dog! The undeniable excitement he felt while watching, while listening…he was disgusted with himself, as well. For quite some time he even forgot that he was supposed to be filming with the handheld digital camera. If he had not been panting, he would have thought that he had even forgotten to breathe.

The poor slob on the bed?

He was the most disgusting of all. Drugged half out of his mind, yet still doing his best to protest. Crying like a spoiled child.

He hated this one.

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Originally twenty minutes behind the SWAT van, ten minutes behind Cooke and Leach, Don had managed to nearly halve the distance between them all by the time David gently prodded him. "Right at the end of the bridge," Sinclair advised. "An industrial warehouse…"

"I heard," snapped Don impatiently. "I heard them take down the driver, too. What I haven't heard is any reference to the cargo in the back of that semi."

Colby leaned forward a little to peer through the front windshield as Don finally began to slow the SUV. It wasn't difficult to tell where they were supposed to be. The chopper hovered above the abandoned set of warehouses, a bright searchlight aimed at the parking lot. Two SWAT vans blocked the driveway, their headlights providing additional illumination of the semi – which was pulled up to the loading dock. Cooke and Leach stood with the driver near the cab, and Don screeched to a half beside their sedan, behind one of the vans. He was out the driver's side door before the SUV had completely rolled to a halt, and he hit the ground running. Colby and David were not far behind.

Don threaded his way through the vehicles and law enforcement personnel, and started yelling before he reached the DEA and NSA agents. "WHERE IS HE? WHERE'S CHARLIE?"

Leach looked away, and Cooke shuffled his feet, waiting for Don to get closer. When he did, Agent Cooke nodded at the driver. "Bert Resin. Claims he had no idea where he was headed."

The driver appeared completely unperturbed. He reached for the baseball cap on his head, tipped it up a bit so that he could scratch his scalp underneath, and shrugged. "Like I said, I been driving for this guy 'round 'bout a year, and I ain't never gone to the same place – or used the same truck – twice. Somebody downloads turn-by-turn directions to the GPS, and I just go where I'm told. First time I've hauled an empty truck, though; and I ain't never gone this far before, neither."

Don took a threatening step toward him that Resin did not even seem to notice. "Empty? What the hell's he talking about?"

Cooke turned his head to look at Leach, who reluctantly held up a large evidence bag. "This is all we found in back," he practically whispered, and Don reached out and yanked the bag from his hands. Inside was yet another bag, this one a quart-size common kitchen storage bag. It contained a cell phone, and a lone GPS chip.

Don's heart fell. "From Charlie's wallet?"

Cooke nodded, and Don held back a groan. "This…this isn't his phone," he protested, grasping at straws. "Track the GPS in his phone. I know they hold them somewhere until after the party, but at least that will get us closer." He glared at Resin, who appeared almost bored. "Maybe one of the other employees is less brain-dead than this one!"

Cooke appeared interested and reached for the evidence bag, but Colby intercepted him. He looked sadly inside for a moment, and then at Don. "He broke his iPhone, remember? This looks like the one he had the day I took him to the hospital." He looked back at the bag and managed to wrestle the phone open through the layers of plastic, jabbing the '2' and depressing the 'Send' button. Almost immediately, Don's own phone began to vibrate on his belt, and automatically his hand went to it. Colby shrugged apologetically, as if it was somehow his fault. "I think Amita is #1 on speed-dial," he shared, snapping the phone shut again and passing the bag on to Agent Leach.

Leach silently accepted the bag as LAPD Lieutenant Gary Walker and two of his men joined the party. He looked at Eppes, not unsympathetically. "We'll find Dr. Eppes," he drawled before turning to the Sergeant to his left and issuing an order. "Martin, get this clown into the back of the van; maybe the trip back to L.A. will improve his memory."

Resin shrugged. He knew they couldn't keep him forever without charging him, and he had done nothing wrong; he was a licensed driver who had delivered his cargo – nothing more, nothing less. He hadn't even violated the speed limit! There was nothing he could tell them about 'Mr. X' that they didn't already know, and there would probably be a fat bonus in it for him when his mysterious employer found out about his troubles. A free trip back to L.A. was fine with him, so he lumbered off willingly with Walker's men.

"Take him to Parker Center," Cooke said to Walker. "There's still the issue of a possible leak at the F.B.I. offices."

Don was still too stunned by the lack of Charlie to get his back up over that, and he turned to walk the perimeter of the semi to see if they had missed something – like a skinny mathematician with a broken nose riding underneath the vehicle, hanging onto the axle, or something. He almost missed Leach's quiet comment. "This is horrible," the NSA agent said. "I knew we should have let him out when he wanted out."

Don took another half-step before the words caught up with him. Slowly, he turned, and started back toward the duo. "What did you say?" he demanded.

"Shut up," hissed Cooke, but Leach didn't even glance in his direction.

Instead he looked at Don, defiantly lifting his chin and speaking tremulously. "Charlie called Agent Cooke a few days before the first party – he was on speaker phone, and he said he wanted out. He said that you advised against his participation, and he said that he respected your opinion a lot more than he did ours."

Don was close enough now to exhale hot air onto Cooke's defensive half-sneer. "Did you threaten him with losing his clearance again?" Colby and David began to move into flank position, having no trouble interpreting Don's tone.

Cooke remained silent, but Leach jumped right back in. "No; he did worse. He threatened him with your clearance."

That stopped Don long enough for him to actually look at Agent Leach. "He did what?"

Leach nodded. "It started with Charlie's clearance, but your brother said he was prepared to let that go. So Cooke told him you were under internal investigation, and that we could stop it. He let Charlie believe that staying under was the only way to save your career."

The noise of the chopper and the dozens of officers milling the parking lot faded into nothing. Fully expecting to be too late to prevent Don from killing Cooke, Colby stepped in-between them, his back to the DEA agent. He was so surprised to discover that he had moved faster than Don, Granger didn't quite know what to do, and found himself staring mutely at his friend.

Dark eyes that were pools of agony stared back. "Oh, God," Don choked, looking pleadingly at Colby. "He did it for me. He did it for me, and now he's out there…somewhere, missing…" His eyes widened, and his knees buckled, David just barely managing to keep him on his feet. "God, he thinks I wish he'd never been born! He thinks I hate him!"

Colby moved in close. He could hear Cooke's arrogant voice berating Agent Leach behind him, and tried his best to ignore the distraction. "Don, we'll find him," he promised. "We've got three federal agencies and two city PDs in on this so far, and we'll call in more." Don had moved a shaking hand to his forehead, and Colby leaned in even closer. "Come on," he encouraged, his voice low and friendly as if trying to befriend a potentially rabid dog. "Help me grab the GPS – we'll take it back to the lab guys. Maybe another driver took this truck to wherever they've got Charlie; the location could still be buried in the GPS."

Don nodded dumbly, shaking off David's supporting hand and glaring over Colby's shoulder at Cooke. "Don't think this is over," he promised, his voice resonating in the night. "I can't waste my time with your sorry ass right now – I've got to find my brother. But I swear to God, Cooke, you will wish I'd just laid you out in this parking lot, before I'm finished with you!"

Cooke swallowed and involuntarily took half a step back, but he tossed his head and shook his finger in the air to make his point. "He's threatening me! I have witnesses!"

Walker was still the closest to Cooke, and now he raised an eyebrow. "Witnesses? Only thing anybody standing here heard was some lame-ass story with a disappearing mathematician for a punchline. You want to talk about witnesses, and lost careers, you should maybe think about false testimony, and the blackmail of a civilian – in the presence of a NSA operative, no less." Walker snorted, and turned to follow his men back to the van. "I'm gonna make sure they secure the driver," he muttered, looking over his shoulder and glancing back darkly at Agent Cooke one last time. "Something here stinks, anyway."

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J.T. Morrison had waited a long time for this one, and it was difficult to get him to listen to reason. Elaina and Ramon eventually stopped trying, and brought in the "Big Gun"; Markus was somehow able to reach J.T.'s upstairs brain, and convince him that it was time to go.

"When they discover the empty truck, the chip; the investigation will be immediate," Markus pointed out. "You know the brother will probably go to your estate tonight; he is unlikely to wait until morning. J.T., you know what you must do, if you want me to…store…your friend, and allow you access in the future."

The thinly veiled threat – Markus could arrange for Charlie's permanent disappearance in an instant, J.T. knew – helped to bring the producer to his senses. Still, it was with great reluctance that he rested swollen lips chastely on the stubbled cheek, and whispered 'Good-bye'.

J.T. and Ramon were the only two passengers in the back of the semi that was taking them to the rendezvous with Morrison's chauffeur and limo. It was still very early, in party time, and no-one else had expressed an interest in leaving yet. The hostess set them up with drinks, urged them to let her know when they were ready for more, and wisely retreated to the bar, where she perched on a stool and chatted with the bartender.

In memory of Charlie, J.T. had ordered a screwdriver – which he swirled over the cubes of ice and sighed over like a love struck young girl. Ramon sulked his way through a White Russian – also in memory of Charlie, although he didn't realize that was what he was doing when he ordered his drink – and took it as long as he could. Finally, he glanced quickly at the bar to make sure Mr. X's employees were keeping themselves busy, and leaned slightly in Morrison's direction. "If you have…additional needs tonight, you know you are always welcome in my quarters."

J.T, snorted derisively. "I'm sure that won't be necessary, you fool. Avian is waiting for me at the estate already; he will serve as my alibi should the need arise." J.T. swirled his glass again and continued his line of thought. "In that regard, Ramon; Pierre will take the limo to that tiny little dump in Pasadena. We want nosy neighbors to see Charlie coming home. Pierre will come around to the back of the limo and open the door for you – he will escort you to the garage. It is not unusual for Charlie to go there at any hour of the day or night, from what I understand, and it should be easy enough for a man of your skills to get inside. Turn the light on so it looks normal, but stay away from windows. Pierre and I will return to the estate."

Ramon interrupted. "What about me? Am I to stay in the garage all night?"

J.T. rolled his eyes. "You are such a buffoon, Ramon. I only hope you do not do something stupid that ends this for us all. Of course not. Stay for twenty minutes, half-an-hour – then extinguish the light and leave quietly; stick to the dark edges of the lawn, take cover in the foliage." He laughed, abruptly. "Do try to avoid falling in that fishbowl he calls a koi pond. I do not care what you do with the rest of your night – as long as it does not involve a cab, which can be traced. Go to a bar, pick someone up, get yourself picked up. Establish your own alibi; or find a way home, if you must. Simply leave Avian and myself alone. I do not care for a threesome tonight."

Ramon was stunned; taken aback, offended. "You're using me to protect your own lily-white ass and then hanging mine out to take the fall?"

J.T. let loose an aggrieved sigh and took a small sip of his sweating drink. "I did not say that, Ramon – although you are such an idiot, it might not be a bad idea. However, I am a man of my word. I told you once that I would take care of you. I will not suggest your name to the authorities, but I am sure they will ask about my staff; especially those not in the house tonight. I am merely suggesting that you take the initiative and provide yourself with a willing partner for a few hours. You may bring him – or her – back to the estate, if you wish." He snorted, again. "Providing your paramour has a vehicle, of course."

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Colby had managed, without much resistance, to convince Don that he should drive the Suburban back to L.A. It was starting out as another uncomfortable and silent trip. Don sat in the front passenger seat, full of angst, regret, self-incrimination. David was in the rear – and so was the NSA's Agent Leach, who had refused to make the trip back sitting next to Cooke in the sedan.

Leach had almost-shyly approached Granger as the FBI agents were climbing into the SUV. "I'm afraid one of us might shoot the other," he said with a seriousness that surprised Colby a little, and gave him pause. "I understand if you don't want to give me a ride back; I kept silent for far too long. This is as much my fault as his." He half-turned to leave, having convinced himself that he should be turned away. "I can catch a bus. Or something."

Colby was further surprised when Don's despondent voice drifted softly across the hood of the Suburban. "Let him in," the team leader suggested. "We wouldn't know what we do if he hadn't turned on his partner; that can't be easy." Don sounded almost reluctant as he offered one last bit of advice. "You just might want to put him in the back seat, and keep him away from me."

So Colby had arranged them all as if planning a dinner party – he was driving; Leach was behind him; Don was in the front passenger seat; and David was behind him – and they had spent the next silent ten minutes negotiating their way back out to the freeway.

They had been hurtling back toward L.A. for another ten minutes before Colby couldn't stand it any longer. "I really think our guys will pull something off that GPS," he opined, referring to the unit that sat on the seat between him and Don.

"Yeah," David chimed in, a note of relief in his voice. "I'm sure we'll still be able to find Charlie before the party is even over."

Don emitted a low groan. "I hope so. Both my Dad and Amita are due home tomorrow. What am I going to tell them? That Charlie got himself…in trouble…trying to save me?" He twisted uncomfortably in his seat and glared at Agent Leach. "I swear to God, Cooke will never work another case in his life. Either the DEA takes care of that – or I will."

Leach nodded, swallowing hard, not looking away from Eppes. That would be dangerous – like looking away from the mother bear protecting her cub. Instead he brought his hand out of his jeans pocket and dangled a set of keys before the steaming agent like some sort of prize. "We won't have to worry about him for the rest of the night, at least. I'm pretty sure Lieutenant Walker won't have room for him in the SWAT van, what with transporting the driver back to L.A. – and I've got the keys to the sedan. Cooke's wallet is locked inside, so he'll have a little difficulty buying a bus ticket."

Don's eyes fastened upon the keys and widened – and he was suddenly suppressing a smile. "He could call somebody in the DEA," he noted.

Leach nodded, pocketing the keys again. "That's true. Then he would have to explain to a superior why no less than four police agencies – and his partner -- abandoned him in the middle of the night at a deserted industrial park on the edge of San Francisco. Something tells me he might not make that call."

Don turned back around in his seat, relaxing almost imperceptibly into the leather. He glanced sideways at Colby, and could see the gleaming white teeth grinning in the night. He turned his head to look out the passenger window, and heard David's low chuckle behind him. Charlie will love this story, he thought, watching the asphalt fly beneath them. He sighed then, fogging up the window and blinking back tears. Please, please, God. Let Charlie live to love this story.

Please.

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End Chapter 25