A/N –

Phoenix Red Lion - I have to say the inspiration for San Angelo came from Third Day's song of the same name. So all the credit goes there.

oOo

Dear TPTB –

I forgive you for writing "In Security" because Season 5 is the best season ever (I heart Arrows of Time) and not even Charlie is right all the time.

Sincerely,

PoetTraveler

PS – Why did Don Eppes (formerly Joel Fleischman) have to inherit Maggie O'Connell's dead significant other curse?

oOo

Dear Theoriginalspy –

Thank you for writing recaps so I didn't have to re-watch "In Security." You saved me much trauma and depression.

Sincerely,

PoetTraveler

"Don't get excited."

"Captain, being held by you isn't quite enough to get me excited."

"Sorry sweetheart. I haven't got time for anything else."

- Han Solo (Harrison Ford) to Princess Leia Organa (Carrie Fisher). The Empire Strikes Back, 1980.

Saturday, March 18, 2000

El Malpais National Monument

New Mexico

oOo

"I'd rather be at the back table of an Italian restaurant right now," Don Eppes remarked wryly as he wrapped his arms tighter around his chest and went back to pretending to intently study a sign posted about the lava tube caves around the park.

It was mid-morning and even with the sun winning the odds against the clouds, the wind drove away any warmth it brought. They had been standing by the visitor's center for the last forty-three minutes and odd seconds and Don was seriously wondering if their contact was going to even bother to show up now.

AUSA Henry Matzelle looked even less happy than Don felt and zipped his North Face jacket to just below his chin, "And have Al Pacino blow my brains out? God, you're a douche-bag, Eppes."

Don grinned and just said, "Oh, Henry." To which Matzelle just glared at him again because yes, Don had beat that horse dead into the ground more than once already. Don squinted at the faded signage and began narrating, "Did you know that lava tubes form when an active low-viscosity lava flow forms a crust and a roof hardens over the lava stream? And that this can happen in two different ways?"

There was another particularly hard gust of wind that nearly knocked the Dodgers ball cap off his head and that had AUSA Matzelle returning to the SUV parked near a set of trash cans and a picnic table. Don took another three-sixty, noting a few visitors: families and the random college student and headed back to the car. He was fairly sure that they weren't going to meet up with their informant today.

Matzelle had the SUV started and the radio going. It was NPR and a talk show to boot, and Don just couldn't force himself to listen. But Henry had turned on the heat and fan to the max, effectively muting the droning voices to a tolerable white noise. Don drummed his fingers along the armrest and while he half-wished he brought his new Sports Illustrated with, he was there for surveillance. And while he didn't want to freak Henry out anymore than he actually was, Don was starting to get a little worried.

The stinging cold was leaving his skin – his cheeks and fingers were thawing and Don wondered idly after windburn. He checked his watch again and though he wasn't going to say it, he knew that Wexford wasn't coming after all because Cibola County wasn't the Deep South where being an hour or so late was considered stylish as opposed to a cause for worry.

New Mexico was barren and oddly beautiful, a place he'd passed through before and never bothered to stay. He had been assigned to the field office in Albuquerque, had a desk in a cubicle and a computer and a place for his coffee mug. And how weird was that? On days he knew he wasn't going into the field, he wore suits and ties and broke in a pair of dress shoes that he even polished from time to time.

He turned down the heat vents and after Henry was done blowing his nose, Don asked, "Could you remind me again how sure a thing this actually was suppose to be?"

They had coordinated the info swap five hours before. Don had been in the middle of his eight mile run and had hauled ass back to his apartment when his boss, and then Matzelle five minutes later, called him to see if he was up for a field trip to a locale two plus hours away from Albuquerque. A fairly high level man in one of the Southwest's more infamous syndicates was willing to go State's Evidence. It was simple enough in theory and a major coup against McGurn. If it actually worked.

Not that Don thought the whole shebang was gonna head south, but he'd underestimated how cynical he'd become ever since he left baseball behind him.

(It had been a bitter moment and hurt like the end of the world when he figured his name would never be emblazoned on some plaque in Cooperstown, or that he'd never get finger cramps from too many autographs or that he'd never get a shot at the World Series. This was one thing he'd always thought he had in the bag, and it threw him for one hell of a loop when it turned out he was wrong.)

Which was why the four suits hanging in his closet were freaking him out more than he'd like to admit.

Matzelle took a deep sigh, sounding like a leaking tire and rubbed at his salt and pepper beard with a little frustration. He was staring out, past the low-adobe visitor's center, past the undulating hills that surrounded it and Don wondered a little if he was even on the planet at all because Henry was Henry and came across at being an idiot-savant like when he compared the BCS to the Teapot-Dome Scandal because he was still bitter about Wisconsin beating Stanford at the Rose Bowl.

Personally, Don was more amused by Henry than bewildered by him but since most everyone still talked about him in hushed whispers because he used to be Fugitive Recovery, he let the status quo remain and avoided being labeled the crazy one by keeping to quiet looming and drinking coffee in the background.

Henry muttered something and then did what looked like a half-assed attempt to cross himself Greek Orthodox style, "Oh, you know, the usual. The bad guy calls us up and asks if he can turn himself in and then we click our heels three times and end up back home happily ever after with a ticker tape parade with lots of beautiful women throwing themselves at us for bringing about world peace. End scene."

Don smiled at the fact that he wasn't the most cynical man alive and groped for the lever under the seat and leaned back a few inches till he was happily not-quite vertical anymore and tilted his ball cap low over his eyes, "Don't tell me that you've given up all hope, Henry. You'll never make it to the Prosecutor Hall of Fame if you do."

"You're telling me you still think that Wexford's gonna show up today, Eppes? Didn't think you were all puppy dogs and rainbows like that."

Don snorted at that because Henry knew he was anything but and then hit him in the shoulder when Matzelle began to incongruously whistle 'The Sun'll Come out Tomorrow' because he wasn't Annie either.

oOo

"Well, Henry looks about happy as a clam."

Don looked up from his computer monitor and shrugged as Karen Mehra took her seat in the desk kitty-corner to his. "He didn't show," Don offered and then sort of waved his hand because that was all sorts of disappointing.

In the end, he and Henry waited another hour after driving to a different picnic area. Not because they felt there was a mix-up in location but because Don knew the McGurn case was far deeper under Matzelle's skin than it was his own and it wasn't his place to bitch about having to wait for so long with no results.

This was Don's first real RICO case. He had assisted with similar cases before, with tracking down slippery members that were high-tailing it to Mexico or the Caymans or some place far from where consequences would be meted out for actions. This time though, was different. He couldn't just waltz in for the exciting and inevitable cowboy-and-indian chase, which was all sorts of fun, but the stake-outs and the background work… It was a jig-saw puzzle and he had always been good at those.

They had a few of the major players pegged, as well as some of the lower-level scumbags that any criminal organization used. There was Alfred McGurn, head-honcho and self-proclaimed Don of the group. (They hadn't come across an official name for the drug syndicate and some of the other agents involved were having entirely too much fun with pulling references from Scorsese movies and Al Capone.) Middle management was a little fuzzy, as it was with almost any legal corporation. Who was on top as second-in-command wasn't exactly clear and neither were all the third-tier players. There was Wexford and Tommy Delaney and Don had a strong feeling there was a third, or possibly a fourth man who fell on that level, but for now the shadow man remained nameless.

A few low-level drug dealer arrests had been made. Matzelle suspected a few as being puppets for McGurn, but they either didn't know enough or fried their brains long ago on too much of their product to be anything close to useful.

Karen frowned and scrunched her face like she did when she was thinking about something she didn't particularly understand or like. "Well, that sucks," she drawled. "I thought he was really gonna show. Wexford gets his nice get-out-of-jail-free card and we don't bust his wife on back taxes."

Don grimaced. It was a good plan and Todd Wexford seemed to really love his wife enough to take a hit for her by testifying. They had a kid as well and that could have been enough to try to send the man to the straight and narrow.

That it all seemed vaguely appropriate because of the ringing parallels between history and this current case went unmentioned. They all know that Alfred McGurn claimed his grandfather was a Capone henchman, Jack McGurn, the same guy who orchestrated the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre. And while Don didn't know if that was actually true or not, the current McGurn seemed to take great pride in that story.

Don knew when to choose discretion over valor, especially if Alfred McGurn saw himself as Capone which cast him as Eliot Ness. Which he would never ever tell Karen because she'd take The Untouchables references too far and probably end up bringing a baseball bat along with her Sig Saur and he didn't want his partner (and by default, him) getting any more crazy looks than they already did.

Karen Mehra never spoke about what she used to do before she came to Albuquerque but Don figured it was highly covert because she seemed to have an unlimited number of Interpol contacts and he had caught her chewing out a junior agent in at least four different languages. Well, that and she knew how to do very scary things whenever she could find someone to spar with.

"While you were out having fun with Henry, I was having the time of my life flipping through surveillance footage," Mehra said with a flair made more dramatic by the thick kohl lining her eyes. She smirked when he looked at her as if he wanted to roll his eyes and then continued, "I came up about as empty-handed as you. Except," Karen was sitting indian-style and let the wheels on the bottom of her chair do the work as she pulled herself to her desk and victoriously pulled out a neon pink sticky note. "Your mother called earlier," she said conspiratorial low voice as she handed him the paper. "She said if you loved her, you would return her calls and then she wouldn't have to embarrass you at work."

That time Don did roll his eyes, "She didn't say that, Mehra. You're over-exaggerating again."

"Be a mensch, Eppes. She may not have said it with her lips, but it was sure in her voice."

Karen smirked at him again and then flipped her long black hair over her shoulder and turned her attention over to her computer. Don let the note fall on a stack of files and then hoped if he ignored it long enough, that it just might disappear all on its own.

But it didn't.

He debated with himself what his mother could possibly want. Evens odds it was just to say hello. Than again, it could be for some math thing of Charlie's. An award or recognition something or other. Last time something like that came up he maybe kinda sorta timed everything right, and called long after it was over and then feigned ignorance and didn't have to go.

It's not that he didn't love his brother, he told himself. It's just there seemed to be so many of these events and the last time he got dragged along to a math reception, Don found himself cornered by an ancient cliché of a professor with a bowtie and a corduroy jacket with leather patches who questioned his position on El Naschie, if it was truly ethical for him to continually publish so many of his articles in a journal he edits and said that the articles in question didn't even really make sense and was turning Chaos, Solitons & Fractals into a freaky Scientology-math cult. And could his credentials even be verified?

Don had politely smiled and purposely choked on the flat punch that not even vodka could save and made a mad dash for the door. From there he went to the hotel's bar and hid out until it was time to go home.

Never again, he vowed. Never ever again.

Four hours later, when it was going on six o'clock and Don was just finishing the tail-end of his last report for the day, the pink sticky note had migrated over to a conspicuous spot on the corkboard above his telephone. He grinned and cast a quick look to Karen's still moving chair that she practically sprinted from a minute before and decided that she was too young to have ever been Deep Throat or Mata Hari.

Don tucked the paper in the front pocket of his jeans and grabbed his jacket right after he had locked down his computer. He left a few folders to hide his daily planner and dropped the rest off at Carlos' desk. His boss had been out most of the day and Don wasn't expecting to see him till tomorrow.

As he waved 'good-bye' to a few random people either leaving for home or in a big hurry, Don was tossing a mental coin between take-out or groceries. He wasn't big on cooking and Eighth Street Gyros was sounding pretty good.

oOo

"So I told your brother that the damage wasn't that bad and that he should go ahead and try for his license again but I think after he missed the dog and nailed the fire hydrant, it was just all too much for him.

Don closed his eyes and smiled because it was moments like this that he knew he needed to savor, "There are pictures, aren't there?"

There was a soft chuckle with a hint of glee and 'I can't believe this really happened.' "I saved the clippings from the Star-News. I thought I'd put them in his baby book."

"You don't think that Mom's really gonna let you do that, do you?"

"Don," Alan said completely deadpan. "She got them laminated for me."

At that, Don snorted and nearly lost his grip on the phone. He juggled it in his right hand before getting back up to his ear, "Have I told you lately how much I love you, Dad?"

"Not lately, but it's good to know," Wryness colored Alan's tone and before Don could reply, his cell started to ring. Don frowned when he saw the number.

"Hey Dad," he said. "I have to go."

"Of course you do," Alan grumbled. "Be safe."

"I always am," Don replied as he hung up his ground line and answered his cell phone. "Eppes," he answered tiredly.

"Dispatch to 3695."

And there went his quiet evening at home. Don took a breath and when he recognized the voice, asked, "Angela what are you doing to me?"

"Nothing you didn't ask for, Babe," she replied.

With that, he grabbed his jacket and was already on his way out the door.

oOo

Don pulled his Jeep up to the curb and noted with no small satisfaction that he beat Karen and her mad driving skills to the crime scene. The black and white sat on the other side of the street with its lights flashing and the whole night seemed to hold an air of south-western noir.

The street-lighting was poor with only one lone pole halfway down the block and Don's flashlight bounced over broken shards of glass and the stray bottle cap. They were off on a far end of town, where the gas stations had re-enforced windows and the sidewalks were heavily cracked and most motels were cash-only and no questions asked.

"We've got to stop meeting this way, Dave," Don said to the patrol man waving him over.

"Agreed." Dave Alexander was a burly man with a barrel chest and a voice like Perry Como, a street cop a year or two out of the police academy. He had to be, Don figured because he didn't have as many hang-ups working with the Feds and had liaised between the groups several times before. "But I think this is something you're gonna want to see," he said as he ambled towards the deep arroyo.

Don knew it was a body even before they made it to the waterline. There was an odor that reminded him of the cut-bait used by the fishermen who spent all day trying for a catch off the Santa Monica pier. He pulled aside some brush that had tangled in the man's shirt and moved his light to see the man's face.

"Shit," he breathed as he realized exactly why Todd Wexford hadn't made it out to El Malpais earlier that morning.

Dave gave him a wry shrug, "I figured I'd let you tell Matzelle. He kinda freaks me out."

"Thanks for that," Don said with quiet resignation as he stood up and pulled his cell phone out. "Thanks a lot."

oOo

There was a time not that incredibly long ago when being around a dead body or a morgue in full autopsy-mode was enough to turn Don's stomach four kinds of sideways. As he watched Henry Matzelle out of the corner of his eye, Don knew that Henry hadn't quite passed that stage yet and it seemed that Karen was taking all sorts of pleasure by pointing out bruises and generally reveling in Henry's discomfort at death and gore.

Just before Matzelle's face could turn a third shade of white, Don passed him the Vick's vapor rub and the man gave him a quiet thank you.

"So how'd he go, Sam?" Karen asked as she eyed a scalpel with a longing look before glancing back at the former Todd Wexford.

"Not nicely," Sam Austin moved his tray of medical equipment so that it was out of Mehra's reach. "Idiot should have made some better friends. He took quite a beating. There's a skull fracture and four broken ribs, one of which that pierced his aorta, but I think it was the broken neck that got him first."

They all winced at that and then Henry took an extra swallow and did a quick about-face and left before anything else could be said. Karen tried to not look amused (rather unsuccessfully) and Don elbowed her because she could try a little harder.

And then Karen raised her eyebrow at him and Don knew that he'd be paying for that later.

"I think it's safe to say that whoever got to him, didn't want him to kiss-and-tell."

Don nodded and thanked him and grabbed hold of Karen's arm and steered her out the door before she had a chance to say anything. "Don't even think it, Mehra," he said good-naturedly. "You know he hates it."

"But Don…" Karen looked up at him and flashed her large doe eyes, looking something like an Indian Ingrid Bergman and traded her southern accent for something closer to Sweden. She clasped her hands over her heart and sighed, "Play it, Sam. Play As Time Goes By."

Don just shook his head because they did this routine every time they came to the morgue and it only never got old because Karen seemed to think it was the funniest thing ever, and though Don had his doubts, he was game enough to play along.

It was a better distraction than thinking about what they just saw.

Between the morgue and the basement they made up a list of possible hit men. ("Say it, Don. Say let's round up the usual suspects." "I'm not Claude Rains, Mehra." "Do you want to be Bogart instead?") And while some of the ideas were ridiculous, most were not.

"Delaney isn't ballsy enough to pull the trigger. He's more distribution side of things anyways," Don said as they rounded the corner to their desks. They could see Carlos standing with his back to them, pacing with his cell tucked under his ear. He turned around under the weight of their stares and waved them over.

"Yeah, yeah… Okay. I'm sending my guy over. Right," Carlos threw a file at Don that he caught south-paw. Don caught the name Wexford on the side before Carlos hung up and started filling them in. "Alright that was Albuquerque PD. They've picked up Wexford's wife and kid and we're gonna sequester them away for a while. Mehra," he said. "I want you to start tracking down whoever it was who hit Todd Wexford." Carlos waved his hand in a vague gesture, "Talk to your contacts. Do whatever it is you do and find this guy."

Carlos Polanski scratched at the back of his neck and took a seat, "Don, I want you to coordinate with the Marshals and we're going to get Leah Wexford and her son in protective custody. We all but know that McGurn ordered the hit and she probably knows who's who and maybe we can get her on the witness stand in Todd's place."

"Sure," Don said. He opened the folder and a picture of the Wexford family slid out. "A revenge thing," he murmured as he studied the kid who was maybe five or so in the photo and Leah Wexford who hand one hand on her son's shoulder and the other around her husband's waist. "A regular all-American family."

Carlos snorted, "Don't knock it, Don. She just might be our ticket for McGurn after all."