Title: High Society

Chapter 28: Don't Touch Me

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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The van wound its way through the arid landscape, pausing at a gate; then continuing on gravel road for another two miles, clouds of dust rising from the tires, into the California sun. The complex sat on several square miles of desert to the southwest of L.A., in a no-man's-land of rocky ground, dotted with scrub, cactus, and yucca. Morrison rode in the back, which was dark and windowless. Markus trusted no one, not even his oldest associates, and although he was allowing J.T. to visit, he was making sure that Morrison had no idea of where the complex was actually located.

At length, the van hit pavement again, and finally the vehicle stopped. The rear doors opened, and Morrison climbed out, blinking in the blazing sunlight. Markus was standing there, waiting, and stepped forward with a lifted eyebrow. "I didn't expect you so soon, after last night," he said, the words laced with just a hint of disapproval.

Morrison grinned wolfishly. "Last night was just a warm-up," he countered. He flexed his shoulders and looked around him. Before them was one section of the complex, which consisted of a huge, one-storied building with several wings – more like a school building than a house. A few outbuildings were scattered around it, and to their left was an open area containing a track and what looked like a basketball court, without baskets, covered with a black rubber-like surface. An exercise yard, and practice area for the gymnasts, Morrison realized, as they turned and headed for a doorway. "Where is he?"

"We're keeping him in the wing where the staff stays," said Markus. "He'll eat with the performers, but we want to limit his exposure to them. We don't need him to give them any ideas."

"Is he awake?"

Markus nodded. "There's a surveillance camera in the room. He's been awake for a while now, but he hasn't been moving much. We can stop by the surveillance room – I have a loaded syringe there, and some restraints."

"I'll take the syringe, but I might not use it this time," replied J.T. "I might need some help from some of your men, though." He threw a glance behind him at the two goons trailing them. "I tip well."

"Certainly," murmured Markus. He glanced sideways at Morrison, and the eager light in the man's eyes gave him a feeling of disquiet. Morrison's obsession bordered on the irrational. Outwardly, he seemed in control, but Markus wondered, not for the first time, if that was really true. Anyone who would go these lengths to indulge in this sick behavior had to be at least a bit unstable. But then, he could say that about most of his clientele. That depraved side of their natures was what kept him in business.

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Don had dropped Amita off at her apartment, and was at the Craftsman with Alan when the call came from Colby. "Don, the results of the GPS analysis just came back. The thing's brand new apparently, but it did have one other program in it. The program had been deleted, but not eradicated; the techs found a way to bring it back up. We think it's the directions to where the party was held last night."

Don sent a meaningful look toward Alan. "Okay, I'm on my way. Let Walker know – get a team together. We'll meet at LAPD headquarters." He flipped his phone shut.

"What?" asked Alan; a mixture of hope and trepidation on his face.

"We think we have a location for the party last night," said Don, heading for the door. "I'll tell you if we find anything. Let me know if you hear from Charlie."

With that, he was out the door, leaving Alan standing, shoulders sagging, in the silent house.

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Charlie froze at the sound of voices outside the door, and slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position. This time the door swung open; he felt his heart lurch, and he rose to his feet, defensively. As J.T.'s face appeared around the door, his gut flooded with panic, so potent that for a moment, he couldn't breathe.

J.T.'s face was wreathed in a wicked smile, and he strolled slowly forward, flanked by two burly guards. "Charlie. How was the rest of your evening? Did you miss me?"

He stopped in front of Charlie, too close, and Charlie tried to back up, but could only manage an inch before the backs of his legs made contact with the bed. Morrison stepped closer, almost touching, and reached up toward his face, but Charlie batted his hand away and jerked his head back. The feeble resistance prompted the guards, eager to earn their 'tip.' They darted forward, each of them grabbing one of Charlie's arms. Morrison grinned and reached forward again, trailing his fingertips down Charlie's cheek, then gave it a light pat. "That's better," he murmured. "You didn't answer my question, Charlie. Did you miss me?"

Charlie managed to find his voice, at least partially; it came out as a hoarse whisper. "Don't touch me."

"Oh, now, that isn't nice!" purred Morrison "After what we've shared together!" He leaned forward, and Charlie averted his face as Morrison's lips grazed his cheek. "Don't tell me you didn't like it. We both know better," J.T. breathed in his ear, and his smile deepened as he watched Charlie close his eyes, his face filled with humiliation and pain. Straightening, Morrison stepped back and spoke briskly to the guards. "Help him out of his clothes, and put on his restraints." His gaze roved over Charlie avariciously. "Time for a little fun."

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There was no question of who was driving this time, or for that matter, who was leading the caravan of police vehicles out into the desert. Colby glanced sideways at Don, who was leaning forward over the wheel, his hands gripping it tightly, as if by doing so he could will the vehicle to get there sooner. His SAC was setting a blistering pace for the rest of the group, flying down the remote roads at well over the speed limit, his light flashing. He only slowed as they reached the group of warehouses, scanning them as he maneuvered the vehicle between them.

David glanced at the printout in his lap and pointed. "There – the last one on the right."

Don pulled in front of the building, and several of the vehicles flowed around him, jockeying for position around the large warehouse. It looked deserted and there was no sign of any vehicles, Don noted with disappointment, but they were taking no chances. All of them were decked out in flak jackets and tactical gear, and they poured from their vehicles to reconnoiter.

Don gathered with Lieutenant Walker and the captain of the SWAT team, and quickly separated the men into teams. He led one himself, chafing impatiently as he waited for the SWAT team captain, who had been elected ops leader, to give the command to enter. He felt a hand on his arm, and looked to his right to see David's face, filled with concern. "Don, maybe you should sit this one out, at least until we see what's in there," he said quietly.

Don gave a savage shake of his head. He knew what David was implying, and he refused to believe it. Charlie was still alive – he could feel it. "No way," he muttered back, and at that moment, he got the command on his headset. He swiveled to face his team. "All right, let's approach – we're going in on my command."

A moment later, they were through the door, fanning out through the echoing building. The decorations and props were gone, for the most part, although the basic structures were still in place – partitions separated a large area in at the front of the building from several smaller rooms in back. Walker moved up next to Don, glancing around the cavernous room. "This must be where they held the acrobatic show," he said. He pointed at the ceiling. "They still have some of the trapeze fixtures up there – probably too much trouble to take them down. I imagine that they plan to rotate back to this location eventually."

Don nodded absently; his eyes were fixed on an entrance that led down a side hallway, to the back rooms. He could see Colby and David heading through it, and with a look at Walker, he followed them at a trot, with Walker behind him. Down the length of the hallway, SWAT team members were already bursting into rooms, and sounds of "Clear! Clear!" echoed down the hall.

It took only moments to determine that the rooms were empty, and as Don darted into the last one behind David and Colby, his shoulders sagged dejectedly as he saw that it too, was empty. He told himself that it was a good thing they hadn't found Charlie there – if they had, more than likely they would have been faced with a body. Not to find anyone or anything that gave them a clue as to where to go next, however, was supremely disappointing. They just stood for a moment, looking at the room – there were screw holes in the walls, as if equipment of some kind had been attached to them. Most of the other rooms were finished; they had tile or carpet on the floor – this one had only concrete.

"I wonder what was in here," mused Colby.

David knelt, and touched the concrete floor with a fingertip, then lifted his hand and gazed at the finger. "Blood," he said. "There are a few drops of blood on the floor, most of them dry."

Don stared at him for a moment, nonplussed; then got control of himself. "Get a tech in here," he commanded, "and keep everyone else out. I want this room swept."

They nodded and trotted out, and Don stood there, staring at the room around him. 'It's someone else's blood,' he told himself. 'Morrison didn't say anything about Charlie being injured when he dropped him off.'

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They were some of the longest days that Don could remember. The warehouse yielded nothing – there was enough evidence to prove that it had indeed been a Fantasy venue, but there was nothing there to indicate where the performers and Mr. X had gone from there. Two days after the raid, they were still without a clue. Worse, they were still without Charlie. Any hope that he'd gone somewhere of his own accord that night had vanished. They had to face the fact that he was either dead, or being held against his will. During the day, Don held grimly to the belief that it was the latter – that Charlie was still alive somewhere. At night, alone in his apartment after a daily painful visit to his father, he gave in to doubt, demons, and more than one belt of whiskey.

The initial results on the blood samples had come back, indicating they were from a male of Charlie's blood type, but DNA took longer, and that result hadn't come back yet. Tuesday morning, Don sat scowling at the meager notes that constituted the case file, nursing a cup of coffee and a hangover. There had to be something there, something they were missing. The blood find kept sticking in his mind, like a burr under a saddle. If it really did turn out to be Charlie's, Morrison's story was suspect.

He turned and barked at Colby, louder than he intended. "Anything new on the surveillance on Morrison?"

Colby eyed him warily, as if he were afraid that his scowling SAC might jump up and punch him in the nose. "No. Sunday, he went to Burbank to an indoor market for a while in his limo. Yesterday, he didn't go anywhere. Today he's in Hollywood for a meeting – our guys tell me he's there right now."

"I want to talk to him again, and this time, I want him in here," growled Don. "Pick him up as soon as he's done with his meeting." His request seemed irrational, he knew – there was nothing to indicate that Morrison was involved – in fact, he seemed truly concerned; he had been calling the Craftsman daily, asking Alan if there had been any progress. There was another person, however, who was of even greater interest – Ramon. Don wanted to see if he could find a chink in Ramon's story, and the best way to do that was to start with the other participants in the tale – Morrison, and Ramon's woman 'guest.'

Colby was about to walk out, and Don said, "Hold up – I'm not finished yet. After you get Morrison lined up, get Ramon Mendez' woman in here – Sheri Sanders. I want her account of the evening, including timeline. After we get the particulars from them, I want to talk to Ramon. We need to see if his story jives with the rest."

Colby gave him a brisk nod, his wary look turning to one of appreciation – he'd clearly been as frustrated with the lack of progress as Don was. "You got it," he shot back, and headed out the door with a purposeful stride.

Within an hour, which was noteworthy considering L.A. traffic, he and David were back with J.T. Morrison. Don had to admit, the man seemed perfectly willing to cooperate – coming in immediately, with no notice. Because Charlie had trusted J.T., Don was trying hard to do so, also, but he still couldn't shake the underlying feeling that there was something wrong with the man. Maybe it was his obvious alternative lifestyle – Morrison's guest that night had been a young man, although Don liked to think that he wouldn't hold that against him. Still, even if he thought he was innocent, he wasn't going to pull any punches. After all, this was Charlie.

He had decided to do the questioning himself, and went in with David, while Colby kept watch through the one-way glass. Don was polite, but he purposely didn't offer his hand to Morrison, and sat across from him at the table; his manner businesslike. Before he could speak, Morrison did; his eyes troubled. "Have you found anything?"

Don regarded him for a moment. 'Let's see how he reacts to this,' he thought, and he spoke, his expression was guarded, his voice flat. "Actually, we did. We found the last location of Fantasy on Sunday. It was programmed into the GPS we found with the semi."

Morrison leaned forward. "Really!" he exclaimed. "And did you find anyone there?"

'Didn't miss a beat,' Don thought to himself, with an odd sense of disappointment. Either Morrison was innocent, or he was one hell of an actor. "No, no one."

Morrison looked crestfallen. "I can't get over this," he sighed. "If anything has happened to him, it will be all my fault. I'm the one who invited him to the party. I'd been to them twice before, and never saw anything illegal, although I admit, I never had a pass to the back rooms. If only I'd known…," his voice trailed off sadly.

Don exchanged a look with David, and Sinclair leaned forward, his hands on the table. "We would like to make sure we have the timeline in order that evening. You left for the party at what time?"

Morrison reflected. "I believe we picked Charlie up at around six. We got to the check-in point near six-thirty. By the time they processed all of us and we boarded, it was probably seven, which was the scheduled departure time. Maybe a little later. We stayed at the party until about 10:30 – as I said, I was trying to get back to visit with Avian, and we got back to the limo at 11:15; then there was the half hour drive to Pasadena. We dropped Charlie off at 11:45 p.m."

Don's eyes narrowed. "And Ramon was with you the entire time?"

"Up to that point, yes. He decided to stay out, and the driver dropped him off at a nearby bar halfway home."

"And what time did he return to the house with his – guest?" asked David.

Morrison gazed upward, contemplating. "Oh, it was probably about one-thirty or so."

"So, allowing for travel time, there is a little over an hour, almost an hour and a half, during which Ramon is unaccounted for," said Don, leaning forward slightly.

J.T. chuckled. "Well, I imagine he was working his charms on Sheri during that time period. He must have been successful – he brought her back with him." His smile faded at the look on Don's face, and his eyes widened. "Oh, surely you don't think Ramon had anything to do with this!"

"I'm not thinking anything," Don returned mildly. "I'm just getting facts." He sat back in his chair. "Tell me, when you left the party, did Charlie appear to be injured in any way?"

For the first time, Don saw a flicker of something crafty in the other man's eyes, and then it was gone, swept away by a sympathetic smile. "Why yes," he said. "At one point, he walked up to us and he had some cocktail napkins wrapped around his finger – he said he'd dropped his glass, and when he tried to pick up the pieces, he cut his finger. He said it was nothing, but I insisted that he get it bandaged – it was soaking through the napkins. Why?"

Don frowned, and his eyes met David's briefly before turned back to Morrison. "There were a few drops of blood at the scene – we're not sure that they're Charlie's yet."

Morrison raised his eyebrows. "Well, they certainly could be." He leaned forward, earnestly. "I wish you luck – you really have to find him. To lose him – it would be tragic."

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End, Chapter 28