"It's probably nothing", Karl thought, as he ran the name, he doubted how much stock he should put in information provided by the mysterious young man whose only request in exchange for his knowledge was that Karl keep his name out of the official record. That struck agent Young as peculiar…
Alicia Clayton did bring up a case file. The woman had hit Boston, New York, L.A. and Seattle. Each time three painting went missing replaced by an exquisite forgery marked by a tiny star shaped skull and cross bones. Her dislike for men was evident too. A male museum guard in Seattle was shot, while a female was simply locked in a closet… In New York she had almost been caught, three men had been shot and two of them died when NYPD and the FBI thought they had her cornered. Now according to Young's witness she was here in Phoenix. He wondered what else the man knew about Clayton. He glanced at his note book, Mr. Hamilton was reluctant to offer his number and address but he had finally consented. It couldn't hurt to pay him a visit. Young smiled.
Hitting seventy-five on the highway, it only took half an hour to drive to the Mesa address… the yard was neatly kept and side walk and drive way swept clean, even after last night's dust storm. He wondered briefly how Hamilton managed it in his wheel chair but pushed the thought aside as he rang the bell. He waited several seconds before he heard the voice call out
"Who is it?"
"Agent Young, FBI" he called back as the door swung open suddenly, surprising him.
"I wondered how long it would take for you to show up." Hamilton said over his shoulder as he spun the chair with easy grace. He smiled softly… his eyes slightly sad. "Come on in." his whole demeanor radiated casual confidence.
"I'm not intruding?"
"Not at all… I was just making dinner." He turned toward the kitchen, with a wave toward the bar stools at the counter. "Have a seat Agent… Young, wasn't it? Can I get you a drink? No beer on duty… coffee maybe?"
"Coffee would be good, thanks." He watched the man move surely, preparing the coffee. "I want to ask what you about Alicia Clayton. What you know about her."
"I know she's dangerous" Hamilton frowned "and I doubt she's left town."
"How do you know?"
"Somethings are better left to the imagination."
"If you know something that can help me…"
"As I said before I've never met her but I know her reputation…" he hesitated "she's hit other cities… always forges and steals three paintings… paintings by men she apparently doesn't believe deserve their fame."
"Always three?
"Always three." The sharpest blue eyes he ever saw seemed to be sizing him up "and this appears to be her first here… though I could be wrong."
"If it is there's a window to catch her?"
"She waits about a month between jobs."
"What is her problem with men?"
"I don't know for sure." Hamilton shrugged, his blue eyes glinting conspiratorially as he continued. "There are rumors of course…"
"What sort of rumors?"
"That's not really relevant to your case."
"I suppose not…" curiosity made him grin "but there must be a h*** of a story there."
"I'm sure there is." The young man agreed "I also heard" he continued "she likes high end apartments that offer month to month leases instead of hotels… I'm going to bet there aren't many of those in the area."
"I'm going to bet you're right." Karl opened his mouth to ask another question but at that moment the door slammed open in the wake of a small dark haired hurricane.
"S̄wạs̄dī ph̀x!" the boy called happily as he tossed his back pack on the coat rack and kicked his shoes off by the door.
"S̄wạs̄dī dĕk" Hamilton returned his face smoothing into a brilliant smile filled with deep affection. "How was Mrs. Faueug Fung today?"
"She is good, she gave me worms…" the kid grinned and Karl noticed he had eyes the same startling shade as his father. "She said she wants to have us for dinner soon. She let me draw her grapefruit tree… and I helped with her garden. I picked peppers… they are suuuuper hot!"
"Speaking of dinner" Hamilton waved the kid toward the stairs "go. wash up…" the boy swirled away leaving startling silence behind him…
"Cute kid." Karl observed "I didn't realize you were married"
"I'm not. Bobby's mother is… dead." The words came out slightly strained indicating it was a painful memory and Karl thought it might be best to leave the wound alone. He couldn't help wondering if her death had anything to do with what ever put the man in the chair… but for now he kept his questions to himself.
"I appreciate your help." He rose to leave
"If you need anything else…" the offer hung in the air a moment
"I might actually" Karl admitted "I'm a bit out of my zone… out here we spend more time chasing coyotes than art thieves."
"Coyotes?" the young man raised his eyebrows questioningly… "The FBI chases coyotes…?" he shook his head briefly looking slightly amused.
"Human smugglers… run people across the border."
"Would have thought they were border patrol's problem."
"Mostly they are, except when they hold their cargo until family members can pay their demands… or they keep them in sweat shops." Karl looked grim "It's an ugly business."
"Making a profit at the cost of human lives always is." Something flickered in Hamilton's eyes… something painful Karl thought, a haunted look of pure horror.
Peter stretched… time to get up and get coffee he decided, the file in front of him was starting to blur. Walking out of his office and down the stairs he kept his eyes carefully ahead, not pausing to look at the empty desk… the empty desk that taunted him mercilessly, that reminded him he still couldn't bring Neal home. Every day that passed without finding Richards felt like he was failing his friend. There had been leads… leads that were carefully followed but all of them led to nowhere.
He wondered how Neal and the boy were faring… wondered how the younger man was healing… the last time he saw him he had still been so pale and in so much pain. He wondered how Nathen was holding up under the trauma the little boy had been through and how Neal was adapting to fatherhood. He wondered if his friend had forgiven him for sending him into WITSEC… he hadn't missed the coolness in Neal's demeanor before he left. Neal didn't trust the Marshals and he had manipulated the younger man into going with them against his will. Peter didn't blame him for being angry.
He sighed and filled his mug with coffee and headed back to his office, it was better than the dreams about his friend hanging there in that dark filthy room... the moisture seeping down the walls and the blood seeping from his lips into his eyes... Peter shook that thought away, picturing instead Neal, where ever he was, annoying his therapist as he healed.
He stopped… someone was in his office. Hurrying up the stairs he found Agent Mills standing against the wall… but Peter was thought he looked nervous.
"Looking for something?"
"The Hendrickson file? Jones said he brought it up here…" Peter grabbed the folder from its place on top of the pile and handed it to the young man. After a moment's hesitation the boy turned and rushed from the room. Peter smiled, he could almost hear Neal's comments about him intimidating the probies. A light knock brought him back to reality. Williams stood in the doorway.
"Thought you would want to know Valdez got a call from Mrs. Richards."
"Really?" This could be a lead, he thought.
"Johnny contacted their son. Called him from a burner phone last night."
"Did she happen to say what he said?"
"He wanted Kevin to join him."
"How did the boy react?"
"Told him he wasn't interested… at least according to his mom."
"Still couldn't hurt to keep an eye on the boy for a while.
"Yes sir." She smiled "that's what I was thinking."
He glared at the canvas… his own words echoing in his mind. He had easily condemned the smugglers profiting from human suffering but he… he really wasn't any different. For twenty thousand dollars he caused a child's death. He tried to concentrate on the painting but his hand shook with the horror of his guilt. In fury he splashed an angry swipe of paint across the canvas… again and again until the tears came. "Murderer …murderer… murderer!" his mind screamed at him. Sobbing his angry stokes turned to grief stricken, broken little lines waving across the painting. Knowing he destroyed her… not just the girl though but her family. Johnny had been a gentle man but now he was a sadistic monster… Her mother left alone to bear her grief and her little brother… what happened to him… and it was all his fault. He shuddered, he only met her once and he still managed to crumble not only her life but her world as well. No wonder Peter sent him away… he wondered if his friend would ever forgive him. He hadn't missed the agent's distant behavior before he left New York. Peter couldn't bear to be associated with what he'd done and Neal didn't blame him for being disgusted.
Suddenly remembering her face was incredibly important. He focused on her smile as she landed in the dusty carpets. Cleaning his brush he changed his technique… slowly as he recalled the swirls of the long brown hair, the flash of pale green eyes, the joyful quirk of her grin they took shape under his hand in stark brilliant reality. He poured his despair into the picture until the girl seemed alive again in the dimming room.
"Ph̀x?" the little voice pulled him back to the present. He smiled at Nate creativity. Uncertain what to call his extra dad when they first moved the little boy had taken up calling him Ph̀x, Thai for dad, shortly after meeting their sweet motherly Thai neighbor. He looked at the child now his hair wet from the shower and his pajama top buttoned askew. His throbbing raw heart warmed at the sight "Who's that?" he pointed at Meagan Richards' portrait on the easel.
"A little girl I met once."
"She's pretty"
"Yes she was." The sadness caught in his throat choking him.
"Ph̀x?" the big blue eyes regarded him seriously "are you ok?" Neal nodded and forced his smile back in place.
"All ready for bed?" he asked. The boy nodded holding out the copy of "Treasure Island" they were reading together.
"Oh you want me to read to you… is that it?
"Yes."
"You washed your hair?"
"Of course" the boy rolled his eyes
"Brushed your teeth?"
"Ph̀x!" Nate pleaded. Grinning he re-buttoned the boy's shirt trying not to smear oil paint on the ninja turtles. Then Neal wiped the paint off his hands and dropped his brushes in to soak, before drawing the boy into his lap and tousling the damp curls that brushed his cheek…
"I had scarce gained a position on the bowsprit when the flying jib flapped and filled upon the other tack, with a report like a gun…" he began reading where they left off. With an effort he didn't look over his shoulder at the deeply realistic face set against a wildly abstract background.
Author's note: "S̄wạs̄dī ph̀x" is Thai for "hello dad" and "S̄wạs̄dī dĕk" is "hello boy". Nate calls Neal ph̀x which sounds like almost like pow. the quote from the end is the beginning of chapter 25 of Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson