Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
The next day. A state of the art open-plan office.
Emma retreated to a quiet corner near one of the windows to vent her frustration. "This is ridiculous", she hissed.
"You asked for my help, remember?", Ilsa replied via earpiece from the FBI van parked behind the building.
To Emma's ears she sounded oh-so-sitting-on-a-high-horse, for about the millionth time during the past one and a half days she thoroughly regretted bringing Ilsa stick-in-the-ass Pucci into this. "I'm not going to say that", she insisted.
"Dealing with corporate management is like dressage riding. It's a constant alternation between loosening and tightening the reins, applying pressure and lifting…"
"I'm sorry, but I didn't spend my youth riding polo ponies, so cut the high society metaphor crap!" Emma was on edge and if she was honest with herself, it wasn't because of Ilsa. So much depended on this operation, she had made it into the lion's den of the company's leadership, but nevertheless they still had zilch to go on.
After a long moment of silence, Ilsa spoke again: "Corporate management is like a fish tank…"
"Is this your idea of a joke?"
… … …
Same time at the warehouse.
To their great surprise, Harry was accompanying Nelly when she stepped out of the elevator. Apparently she wasn't too upset about him accidentally exposing her to mortal peril.
"Growing up on the farm, I've received some pretty cryptic telephone calls, but yours last night made it into the top ten nevertheless", Nelly told Winston, trying to make light of the situation. Her pale complexion and her shaking hands, however, indicated clearly that she was fearing bad news.
Unfortunately, very rightfully so.
"Did the places I visited tell you something?", she asked.
Guerrero poured her a cup of tea.
"The places you visited all fall into one of two categories", Winston began to explain. "The first one was easy. You showed obvious interest in everything that had to do with the name "McLaren". The second was more difficult: You regularly eat at a restaurant in Francisco Street, you've rented an apartment in Franconia Street and you're washing your clothes at a Laundromat in Franklin Street..."
Guerrero hit a key and the names appeared on the conference room's monitor.
"We wondered what the words had in common", Winston continued.
Guerrero hit another key. The names on the screen started moving till they overlaid each other.
Francisco Street
Franconia Street
Franklin Street
Fran.
Fran McLaren.
A complete name.
Nelly's eyes widened. "I think I've heard that name before, but I don't know where…"
"Your subconscious knows", Chance said.
… … …
The open-plan office.
"One more comparison that includes any kind sea dweller and I swear I'll make you swallow a goldfish." Emma was pissed to no end. But - although she'd rather have bitten her tongue off than admit it – Ilsa's explanation made sense. She walked over to the executive secretary (the bluestreak cleaner wrasse), asked for a file she knew wouldn't be there and blamed it on one of the younger secretaries (the veiltails). From there it was easy to make fun of the elderly vice presidents (the blobfish) falling for those women's easy-to-see-through charm offensives.
"This way you'll create a bond between you", Ilsa had explained. "Executive secretaries often turn into moray eels in the later years of their career, realizing that their hopes of finding a suitable husband in the office environment were in vain. Use their frustration to your advantage."
Ten minutes later Emma had narrowed down her list of suspects to six people.
Progress! Finally!
… … …
The warehouse.
They hadn't really debated who'd break the news to Nelly. This was Winston's special field.
Nobody envied him.
"28 years ago, Robert and Juliet McLaren were gruesomely murdered in their home. They apparently fell prey to a serial killer called the "Friday killer" because he always struck on Fridays. His targets were young, childless couples. Police assumed he came from a foster home and wanted to punish his own parents for giving him away at a young age or something like that." Winston's tone made it very clear what he thought about psychological explanations for serial killers' deeds. "They were never able to confirm the theory because the Friday killer was never found. After the McLarens' murder he vanished forever, no more killings, at least not in the same MO."
"What does that have to do with me?", Nelly asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"The Friday killer made a mistake during his last deed. He overlooked something."
"What mistake?"
"The McLarens had a child."
… … …
The open-plan office.
"So you're going to talk to every suspect now, aren't you?" Ilsa's voice over the earpiece.
"No, I'm only going to talk to suspect number three."
Ilsa couldn't believe it. "Why? What if it's suspect number four and he uses the time to get away?"
"Gut feeling", Emma replied curtly.
"Gut feeling? You're going to make a major decision as this on the basis of a gut feeling?"
Emma walked over to suspect number three's desk. She engaged him in conversation, but he was cautious, didn't let his guard down.
Time was running out.
She needed a result. Now.
He was getting ready to leave.
Emma "accidentally" let her skirt ride up her thighs a little more.
He got up.
Clutching at a straw, she uttered the ridiculous sentence Ilsa had told her.
… … …
The warehouse.
25 years as a cop had taught Winston how to break bad news, but nevertheless even his voice trembled when he continued speaking. "Their two years old daughter Fran had only recently moved in with them after being raised by her aunt since her birth. The McLarens had been through a rough time and were just getting ready to begin a new life, finally with her daughter."
Realization dawned on Nelly, slowly, very slowly. Ames couldn't watch her face, it was too painful to see. The silence in the room was almost palpable.
"Fran disappeared the night her parents died. The police assumed the killer had taken her elsewhere, molested her and killed her. Extensive search operations, however, brought no result whatsoever." Winston watched Nelly carefully. Would she be able to deal with all this?
… … …
The open-plan office.
"You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you."
Emma clicked the handcuffs shut behind suspect number three's back. Ah, this felt so good! Her gut feeling hadn't betrayed her.
And Ilsa's sentence had worked like a charm…
… … …
The warehouse.
"The BAU unit that worked on the case disagreed with the police's point of view. One of the agents later made a fortune writing a book about that case. He stated that the arrangement of the bodies indicated remorse, a significant change compared to the killer's usual MO, and assumed that the killer discovered Fran and experienced a feeling of extreme guilt."
Harry took Nelly's hand.
"According to the FBI agent he took the child because he didn't want her to end up in foster care, and ran", Winston concluded.
"All the documents regarding your identity are forgeries", Guerrero stated flatly. There was just no way to say this gently.
"So my "father" was in truth…"
Chance nodded. "He was."
Nelly didn't cry. She just sat motionless for a very long while. Finally she asked to be brought to her apartment. Harry offered her a ride and told her he'd stay for the night.
She nodded. One single, curt nod.
When the elevator slid shut behind the two, Ames' mobile signaled.
"Is Daisy still texting you?", Guerrero asked her.
"This really doesn't matter", she replied, still totally shaken after the ordeal with Nelly.
"Give me her number."