Title: High Society

Chapter 26: Alibis and Red Herrings

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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He almost escaped, during the transfer.

Mr. X had let a sufficient amount of time pass, in-between J.T.'s departure and the arrival of security, that Charlie was closer to sober than anyone suspected. Perhaps, in the melee of Fantasy, Markus simply forgot that Charlie had been dosed with Impulse rather than the heavier-hitting and longer-lasting Rohipnol. More likely, he forgot to inform his security personnel of that fact. Whatever the case, Charlie found himself alone in the tiny, partitioned room, still trussed up and naked on the squeaky wrought-iron bed. His arms stretched painfully over his head, and he tugged a few times before it became clear that his wrists were ensnared in something, trapped somehow in the vertical bars of the headboard. With that knowledge came a flood of memories; Charlie remembered more than he wanted. Noises drifted to him from similar rooms, a sound track for his disjointed memories, and he lay in abject misery.

He hurt where no man, in his opinion, should ever hurt. Chagrined, he also understood that he was lying in the sticky evidence of his own…involuntary reaction. Worse, there were clear scenes playing across the chalkboard of his mind that involved J.T. He knew now that Morrison was heavily involved in the backroom illegalities of Fantasy. He understood that the producer had set him up for this humiliation from the very beginning. It was also apparent that no-one was coming, from the F.B.I. or anywhere else, to save Charlie.

Something had gone horribly, completely wrong.

When the two well-dressed goons came to escort him to his own private transport, Charlie played possum. While it wasn't unusual to carry drunks and otherwise overdosed individuals out of a Dreamscape room, leaving that person tied up the way Charlie was, could potentially cause a stir among the other patrons. With little discussion, the men loosened the lengths of leather and silk that bound him.

If he had been just a little more sober – or just a little less traumatized – Charlie would have waited until a more opportune time to make his move. As it was, as soon as one of the guards pulled him to his feet, Charlie uttered a Tarzan-yell into his ear, startling him, and pushed against the man successfully enough to thrust him onto his ass on the cement floor. Then, having little real idea where he was and absolutely no idea where he was going, Charlie took off running. He continued screaming all the way down the hall -- once he started, it seemed that he could not stop – and staggered more than he ran. Buck naked, covered in vivid purple bruises, hair a wild halo around his head; the other patrons found him very amusing. Many assumed he was simply part of the entertainment. He did not get far before the original security guards received some help from additional security personnel.

It took four sober, fit and muscular men to restrain one skinny, nude, terrified mathematician with a broken nose – but eventually, they did. Charlie still fought, even as he felt the needle enter his arm. He fought until the sedative took effect, and then his dark eyes, full of terror and pain, darted from one of the security guards to another, until he lost his battle and fought no more.

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It was nearly three in the morning by the time the three F.B.I. agents and Leach reached L.A. Don had Colby take the SUV straight to Morrison's estate.

When they reached the gated entry, he told Colby to break it down; to hell with the damn Suburban. Colby insisted upon the more traditional route, however, ringing the bell at least half a dozen times before someone responded and eventually buzzed them in.

By the time Colby navigated the vehicle up the winding drive, J.T. Morrison himself was waiting for them at the front door of the well-lit estate. He was wearing a dark navy velour robe that set off his graying hair nicely, and leather Romeo slippers that probably cost at least as much as Don's SUV.

A younger, blonder, thinner, taller Adonis in pajama bottoms – and nothing else – lingered in the vestibule behind him as J.T. took a few steps into the cool night to greet his official visitors. He smiled, although confusion was apparent on his face, and extended a hand toward Don. "Agent Eppes? My goodness, what an odd time for a visit! When my house boy Ramon awoke me, I thought he was insane. Nothing's wrong, I hope?"

Don ignored the offered hand and tried to look past Adonis into the house beyond him. "Where's my brother?" he asked with no preamble.

Morrison dropped his hand and chuckled. "Curiouser and curiouser," he murmured. At the look on Don's face, J.T. took half-a-step back. "He's at home asleep, I would imagine. Ramon and I dropped him off well before midnight."

Don had been ready for a lot of bull – but not that. He jerked his eyes back to Morrison. "What? I want my men to search the house."

J.T. fluttered a hand in acquiescence. "Don – may I call you Don? – I have no idea what the problem is, but my home is always open to you and your friends. In fact, I insist that you all come in from the cold now, and join me in the breakfast room. Ramon and his…guest…are in the kitchen brewing us some coffee. Please warm yourselves, and then you may search for whatever you want."

Don flicked his gaze to Colby, who shrugged, as taken aback as his team leader. Then he looked back at Morrison, and nodded toward the young man who was turning to lead the way into the house. "He have a name?"

J.T. smiled as he began to follow, gesturing with his hands that the agents should fall into line. He walked beside Don as they headed indoors. "Ah," he chuckled. "That's my old friend Avian. It's his fault I ended up cutting my evening short with Charlie – Avian phoned as we were approaching the rendezvous and told me he was in town for the evening. Naturally, I had him come here to wait for me." He chuckled again. "I confess, I was so anxious to spend time with Avian, I didn't really enjoy Fantasy the way I usually do."

Don skidded to a halt in the great room, causing David to actually run into him. Don turned slightly and nodded briefly at the junior agent. "Take Leach and search the house for Charlie." He turned his head toward Morrison. "Unless our host objects, of course? Would you like us to come back with a warrant?"

Absolutely nothing flickered over J.T.'s expression – save renewed confusion. "You're looking for Charlie? Good Lord, Don, isn't he at home? Of course you don't need a warrant; I just don't understand what's going on." Morrison shrugged and smiled engagingly. "I'll admit, it usually takes me a few cups of coffee to think clearly…and it is three in the morning…"

A stunning redhead wearing only a man's loosely buttoned dress shirt strode into the room on the longest pair of legs Don had ever seen – evidently, Ramon's 'guest'. Finding four strange men in the great room didn't seem to bother her. She smiled at them invitingly, letting her gaze linger on J.T. "Mr. Morrison, sir, Ramon says the coffee is ready."

J.T. took Don by the elbow. "Come, sit with me and tell me what's become of Charlie." He waved his other hand in David's direction. "You men feel free to search to your heart's content – I have nothing to hide. Do join us for coffee as soon as you can."

Don shook off J.T.'s hand but followed him into a breakfast room that was half the size of the Craftsman, Colby trailing behind after a bewildered look at David. The willowy redhead had disappeared, but a dark and scowling young man was waiting for them with a full pot of coffee. Morrison arranged them all at the table, while the dark-skinned young man began to fill the heavy earthenware mugs that sat before each of them.

"Thank you, Ramon," murmured J.T. He laid one hand in the lap of his Adonis Avian, who sat somewhat vapidly next to him, and placed the other on the handle of his mug, looking at Don over the table. "This is my house boy, Ramon," he introduced. "Ramon accompanied Charlie and me to the party tonight. When I decided to come home early, I offered to let them stay later and send the car back for them, but they both said they'd just as soon make an early night of it themselves." He looked up at Ramon, who had circled the table and now stood over Don, his carafe of coffee nearly empty. "We dropped Charlie off before midnight, wasn't it?"

Ramon's sneer was almost imperceptible. "We were at the small house in Pasadena around 11:45," he concurred.

Granger had stopped ogling the palatial surroundings long enough to gulp some coffee, and now he set his mug down and found his voice. "Charlie told us about those parties – don't they take your phones? How did you get a call?"

Morrison nodded. "Yes, yes…when one meets transport at the rendezvous point, one relinquishes one's phone. Avian called while we were still on the way there, in the limo."

He leaned over the table toward Don. "Tell me what's happened, please. You've been to the house in Pasadena, and Charlie's missing?"

Don wasn't about to admit that they hadn't been to the Craftsman yet, and he hedged. "We found Charlie's cell phone in the back of a truck in San Francisco," he answered.

Morrison's expression of confusion was back. "Perhaps he lost it? Or it was stolen?"

Ramon snickered sarcastically. "Some smart professor. He can't seem to hold onto cell phones very long, can he?" Morrison shot him a warning glance, and Ramon turned quickly away. "I'll see if Pa…Sal…Ter… the girl is done with more coffee."

Don studied J.T. carefully for any reaction while he spoke. "Charlie was going to the party undercover; when he attended the first one, he documented several instances of illegal activities. We had people ready to tail him tonight; a GPS locator chip was placed in his wallet. That chip was with the cell phone we eventually found in San Francisco, so I know somebody found it." Now Don leaned toward J.T. "I just need to know exactly who, so I can kill him."

J.T. paled dramatically and his hand flew from Avian's lap to his throat. His eyes grew wide. "Oh, my heavens! I…" – he looked at Avian, and then back to Don – "…I know nothing of anything illegal at Fantasy. If Charlie stumbled onto something, it's news to me. Dear God. I never would have willingly exposed such a dear friend... Oh, my Lord." He paused, and took a breath. He looked up at Ramon, who was coming back in from the kitchen, sans coffee. "In retrospect, this would explain his demeanor tonight. I just assumed he was still in pain."

Ramon's upper lip seemed to curl. "From his brother breaking his nose, you mean. Yeah, he was a little anxious tonight – but he's been upset ever since that fight." He looked Don over and smiled. "You know, he stayed here for nearly a week afterwards; he was so sad, sometimes I almost felt sorry for him. Looks like you won – I don't see a mark on you."

Don's face darkened and Colby hurried into the conversation. "So, back to tonight. The three of you go to this party. On the way, Avian calls, and you decide to make an early night of it. You dropped Charlie off…"

Morrison suddenly interrupted. "I'm sure they returned his cell phone, when they returned mine, and yours, Ramon. Didn't you notice that?"

Ramon shrugged. "Didn't notice him not getting one," he answered.

J.T. grew excited. "There!" he crowed, literally bouncing in his seat. "Someone must have followed us, and…what's the word…nabbed Charlie at his house after we dropped him off!"

"Not enough time," argued Don. "We followed the locator chip all the way to San Francisco – and the chip stopped moving at 12:15 a.m."

J.T, looked as if he were about to burst into tears. "Oh!" he responded, disappointed. Suddenly he buried his face in his hands. "This is horrible!"

Avian slid an arm around Morrison's shoulders, and suddenly found his voice – or remembered his lines, Don thought darkly. "Now, now," Adonis murmured, "it'll be all right. They'll find your friend…"

Colby's attention was divided between Morrison, Don and Ramon, but Don's eyes followed Ramon as he turned to return to the kitchen and fetch the second pot of coffee.

It didn't for one second escape Don's notice.

Ramon was smiling.

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F.B.I. Assistant Director Wright was waiting at Parker Center by the time Walker and the SWAT team returned. Lt. Walker dropped off Charlie's phone and the errant GPS chip at Forensics, planted the truck driver Resin in an interrogation room, stopped by the break room to mainline some coffee, filled a couple of Styrofoam cups with even more, and finally swung by the shift commander's office, where VIP guests were kept waiting. He grinned wryly when Wright stood to greet him and thrust one of the cups in his direction. "Can't thank you enough for coming down here in the middle of the night. I figured we should debrief this guy as soon as possible."

Wright accepted the cup and looked into the hallway over Walker's shoulder. "Exactly where is everybody else?" He then focused narrow eyes on the lieutenant. "And I do mean, 'exactly'."

Walker shrugged, sipped some more coffee, and drawled an answer. "Your men headed directly to the Morrison estate, to see what they can get out of him. Agent Leach hitched a ride with them, so I would imagine he's assisting in the questioning." He coughed; cleared his throat, and briefly moved his eyes away from Wright's. "Agent Cooke is no longer part of this investigation. We have the testimony of Leach as well as his own admissions; he used Dr. Eppes to further his own agenda. At best, the Professor was misled; smart money says he was told out-and-out lies -- lies that may have led directly to his disappearance. I put a call into DEA Assistant Administrator Zanzibar, reported what's going on. Not sure how they'll handle it; fact is, we need to debrief Resin sooner rather than later."

Wright's eyes narrowed further, if that was possible. "Agent Leach wouldn't even ride back to town with him?"

Walker shrugged again and began leading the way to interrogation. "Guess not," he hedged. "I'd be right surprised to see Agent Cooke show his face anywhere near this investigation -- or your Agent Eppes – again, frankly. We've gotta be talkin' at least suspension, here, if not worse."

He went on to describe how Cooke had talked Charlie into fulfilling his undercover mission, and Wright's face was twisted as if he had bitten into something sour by the time the two men paused outside the interrogation room. He inhaled a large swallow of coffee and grimaced even further. "This stuff is horrible," he remarked, and squared his shoulders. "You're right -- if Cooke knows what's good for him, he's still in San Francisco. Far away from all things Eppes."

Walker chuckled and reached for the doorknob. "Let's do this."

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The idea was preposterous, but the agents decided to check the house in Pasadena before they returned to Parker Center. Colby was still driving the SUV. "Boy, that J.T. Morrison – he's a piece of work," he remarked when they were about halfway to the house. "Did he get started in the business as an actor?"

Don continued to stare out the passenger window and did not acknowledge him, but Agent Leach had an opinion. "Charlie was convinced that Morrison wasn't involved," he shared. "Cooke and I met with Charlie last night, to make sure he was ready for this, and he talked about the week he spent at Morrison's estate. Morrison wasn't even there most of the time -- he was off on some job – so Charlie claimed he took advantage of having free run of the place, and looked around for anything that might indicate Morrison's involvement."

At that, Don's head whipped around. "He did what? Good God, Leach, why didn't you people just shoot him yourself, if you were going to work this hard at getting him killed?"

He was halfway over the seat and Leach shrank away from him, glancing at David in terror. "We didn't send him in there!" he insisted, holding up his hands as if to ward off a blow. "We didn't even know he was doing it until it was over, I swear!"

Don suddenly deflated like a balloon burst by a pin, and sank back into his own seat. "Figures," he mumbled, lowering his head to his hand. "Charlie can be pretty stubborn, when he believes in something."

Leach nodded, and risked his life again. "Obviously. I mean, look at the whole Pakistani e-mail thing."

Colby groaned behind the wheel and Don's head shot up. David started to unbuckle his seat belt, preparing to take out his own team leader before he annihilated an NSA agent, when Don surprised even himself. He sighed, and spoke quietly, to no-one in particular. "I don't know. Maybe Charlie was right about Morrison."

Colby was stopped at a red light, and turned incredulous eyes to Don. "Excuse me?"

Don shrugged and looked pensively through the front windshield. "Look, I'll be the first to admit that I was prepared not to like the guy. But he's been good to Charlie, and he's included me and Dad in his largesse; he seemed genuinely upset tonight." He looked around the interior of the vehicle until he had met everyone's eyes. "Didn't he seem surprised? Plus, he's got a pretty… blond… alibi."

The light changed and Colby eased the Suburban into traffic, "I don't know, Don," he began, but Don interrupted him.

His voice took on the hard tone of suspicion that David and Colby had learned to recognize long ago, as he turned his head back toward the window. "The one I'm hinky about is Ramon. There's something slimy about that guy. I swear to God, I saw him smiling over Charlie's missing body!"

"He did seem…inappropriate," David agreed. "Plus, didn't Morrison's driver drop him at a bar between Charlie's house and the estate? Morrison was always with his driver; usually with one or two other witnesses, as well – but we still need to verify Ramon's missing hour."

Colby chuckled. "Well, obviously, at some point he picked up the lovely lady – but she didn't seem the type to hold out for a whole hour, ya know?"

In spite of himself, a grin played at Don's mouth and he grunted in agreement. It was a little after four in the morning, and the street as they approached the Craftsman was still quiet and dark. There was a street lamp between Charlie's house and his closest neighbor, though, and as the SUV drew closer to Charlie's house, he could clearly see old Mr. Henderson in its glow, struggling to drag a trash bin to the curb for pickup. "Park on the street," he instructed, and Colby quickly pulled the vehicle over.

Don didn't wait for his fellow agents; he simply trusted they would follow. He stepped lightly from the Suburban and called out quietly in the night, jogging toward Charlie's elderly neighbor. "Hey, Mr. H, let me get that for you," he offered when he had closed the gap between them, reaching for the trash bin. "Aren't you up a little late?" He smiled. "Or early?"

The stooped old man shoved his hands into the pockets of his ratty old sweater and spoke in a wavering voice. "Donny? That you, boy?"

Don leaned over a little so that the street lamp's light played off his facial features better. "Yeah, Mr. H," he affirmed. "These are some of my friends from work."

Mr. Henderson lifted somewhat watery eyes and smiled when he saw David. "I recognize that'un," he said. "He's been by the house before!" Agent Leach quietly took the trash can from Don and started dragging it to the street. "Nice young feller," noted Mr. Henderson. "What you Eppes boys doing up all night, anyway?"

Don's smile faltered. "Charlie's not with us, Mr. H."

The old man stomped a foot on the ground. "Course he ain't. Not quite blind yet, young man!" Colby chuckled and the neighbor peered at him for a moment. "You been here afore, too." Colby was nodding when Henderson continued. "Don't let yourselves grow old, boys, if you can help it. Up and down, all night. Can't sleep more than two hours at a time. Figured I might as well take the trash out this time." He looked up at Don. "That brother of yours came home in that big ol' fancy limo just before midnight, went straight to the garage. Light was still on out there when I went to bed the first time, around 12:30."

Don tilted his head. "You saw him?" he questioned. "You saw Charlie, or just the car?"

Henderson tilted his own head, frowning. "I seen that car there in the driveway, and watched the driver get out and let your brother out of the back – just like he's been doing the last month or so. Driver even walked him to the garage – which I thought was a nice touch, it bein' fairly late and all."

"Holy hell," Don mumbled. "Morrison was telling the truth."

"Don't let your father hear that kind of talk out of you, son," warned Charlie's elderly neighbor.

Don shook his head, still in a kind of shock at discovering that Charlie had indeed been brought home before his disappearance. This changed everything – and not for the better. "Right," he whispered to his feet. He raised a hand to rub at his forehead, and smiled again at Mr. Henderson. "If you don't rat me out, I'll walk you back to the house, Mr. H."

Henderson laughed, and pivoted slowly in the driveway. "Ah, now, Donny," he reprimanded. "Can't start telling all I know about you now; ain't gonna live that much longer."

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Bert Resin eyed the Styrofoam cups with a spark of interest in his eyes. "Figure I can get one of them?"

Walker deliberately drained his cup, not even wincing when the hot liquid burned a trail down his throat, and tossed the empty cup in a small trash receptacle near the door before he approached the interrogation table and perched casually on the end, just a few feet from the seated Resin. Wright was sipping his coffee more delicately, casually walking the perimeter of the small room, his own eyes always on the center of attention; the interrogation.

"I don't know if anyone will have time to brew another pot," Walker hedged. "Busy night – what with taking half the force to San Francisco and all, chasing an empty semi."

Resin shifted in his chair, but his feathers did not seem particularly ruffled. "Look, I got nothing to hide. Pretty much told you everything, already."

Walker smiled; an expression closer to a sneer. "My friend didn't hear you."

Resin glanced over his shoulder at Wright, reaching under his baseball cap to scratch his head again. He shoved back the chair a little so that he could divide his attention between Wright and Walker, and launched into a congenial explanation.

"Been a trucker most of my life. Used to work the long hauls; had my own rig. My wife was on the road with me." He smiled. "Elsa and Trixie, a little mutt we almost hit up near Spokane one Christmas. Just dashed across that highway, out in the middle of nowhere… Well, Elsa couldn't stand the thought of that poor little critter getting all smashed up forty miles from the nearest town, so we parked the rig at a rest stop and hiked back almost five miles, whistling and…"

Walker rolled his eyes and raised his voice. "Enough of the damn dog, already!"

Resin seemed to remember where he was, and pulled himself back together. "Oh. Oh, yeah. Anyways. Elsa took sick, couldn't live outta the truck no more – so I sold the rig and set her up in a little one-bedroom out in Covina. Said she wanted to live near L.A. She's got a niece who works in the movies, and Elsa thought it'd be nice if she was close enough for Greta to visit. So I tried working for some freighters, driving short hauls. Just didn't work out. Too unpredictable; sometimes I'd get stuck on a job and have to leave Elsa alone with just Trixie for near' a day."

Wright had finished his own coffee by now, but he stood somewhat mesmerized in the corner and waited for Resin to wind down.

Bert leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat, just getting started. "So 'bout a year ago, I was giving Greta an earful. She gave my name to some Big Wig Producer – Morrison." Wright's ears pricked up and he took a step closer, and Walker leaned in a little. Resin didn't seem to notice either response. "He passed it on to this other fella." A wide smile split his face and he looked from Walker to Wright, back to Walker again. "I tell you, this guy's crazy. He paid me – up front – to drive for him once every two months, for a year. Paid me one-hundred-thousand dollars. Cash."

Wright finally entered the conversation. "You weren't concerned that he wanted you to do something illegal?"

Resin shrugged. "Didn't much care. Didn't see that I was, neither. I knew I wasn't sneaking aliens or drugs over the border, the runs were all local. He has a fleet of semis; like I said, I ain't never had the same one twice." He suddenly shuddered, and looked uncomfortable for the first time. "Onliest part I didn't like was the pick-up. Some big ol' guy would come to the house and blindfold me, shove me to the floor in the back of some car and drive me out to the desert. Never knew where the hell I was. But every time, I'd find an empty semi just a-waitin' for me, a new GPS and downloaded directions all ready to go. Usually, I drove it somewhere fairly secluded near town – a closed business, say." He shook his head. "Fancy people all over the place. Some dressed to the nines, some half-naked…strangest thing I ever saw. I'd wait until the back of the rig – which was done up like some kind of ritzy bar on wheels – was full up, and then I'd deliver 'em to some warehouse."

Walker started to interrupt. "Where…"

Resin shook his head. "I can try to remember somethin' for ya, but I really didn't pay too much attention – I knew I'd never be goin' there again. He told me at the start that he had six revolving locations, and that I would never see the same one twice. At the end of the year, my services would no longer be needed…but if I did a good job and kept quiet, a nice bonus would be in it for me."

"Guess you don't need that anymore?" mumbled Walker. "I wouldn't exactly describe you as 'quiet'."

Resin's face fell, and he hung his head. "My Elsa done passed, 'most three months ago," he admitted sadly. "Poor little Trixie died of a broken heart not a month later. I sort-of figured I'd finish out this contract, sell the house and buy me another rig. Get back into long hauls."

Wright approached the table and sank wearily into a chair sitting a few feet away from Resin, who turned his own chair back toward the table and regarded the A.D. questioningly.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," Wright recited formally, stumbling over his tongue at the end. "Losses."

Resin smiled sadly. "Thank-you. They were good girls, both of them."

Wright caught Walker's eye for a moment. "The Lieutenant can check on that coffee now, if you'd like," he offered kindly. "If there's none fresh, would you like something from the machine?"

"That'd be fine," agreed Resin amicably. Walker slid off the edge of the table and headed for the door. He was halfway through when he heard the driver make a counter-offer to Wright. "Say. Would it help you guys to know what he looked like?"

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End, Chapter 26