[fic] [cw rps] you are so magnetic (you pick up all the pins) - 2/2
--
He figures Jensen's taking some back road known only to bikers when he hangs a sharp left at the Inglewood turnoff. His brain is still lagging behind when Jensen idles in an empty Public Storage lot.
"Uh, hey, listen," Jensen says.
"What's up man? What're we doing in this blowout? Time's a-wastin'."
Jensen snaps his mouth shut and squeezes his clutch hand, gunning for the wall straight ahead, which lifts open just as his bike skates though in the widening space beneath. He rides it into the open freight elevator and finally kicks the stand and hops off, pressing a button, not looking at J.P. the whole time.
The silence is killing him, but it literally feels like his mouth's been wired shut. When the elevator dings open, he silently trudges behind Jensen through the long, quiet hallway.
Jensen finally offers at the door, while he's rooting for his keys in his pocket, "So yeah, I live in the flops. I guess I should've mentioned."
It used to be that people had so much stuff they needed additional space just for storage alone, if you can imagine it. J.P. certain can't. That was a long time ago, though. All the Public Storage, U-Store-It, and Urban Storage franchises have become flophousing, slums, since. It was back in the early formation of Mexicali, when the massive overflow of immigrants caused some to rent storage rooms where they stored themselves, instead. There was a brief moment of Fed intervention, before realizing it just wasn't worth it and withdrawing. Eventually, all the aforementioned franchisees in key areas were razed, and the ones that remained became the new slums, more self-contained ones. Inglewood was one of the valueless communities that was already slated to be sacrificed, before a chemical fire did it in and saved everyone the trouble. J.P. thinks of his house in the Fortescues. It never seemed that special, exactly like every other one in his community, exactly like all the Fortescue communities in all the aggregate states.
Jensen unlocks the padlock and fidgets for a moment, before he opens the door, nearly running into Chris who, scarily enough, looks only to be waking up now.
"Jen, hey, crazy how we're so synched up." He raises his eyebrows when he sees J.P. towering behind him. "Whoa. You bringing back hookups now? Rock on," he slips his shades down and shuffles out past them with his guitar strapped to his back.
"Jensen," J.P. says, slowly, two syllables have never sounded so long.
"Yeah?" He asks warily.
"Do you even know who that was?"
"Uh, yeah? My roommate?"
He could faint, honestly. "That-- That was *Kane*, of Leverage Up, LD, are you fucking kidding me? He's the lead guitarist for the band that pretty much defines carbon postal fuzz-grunge. Oh my fucking god. Mayhem's going to die. Shit, am I still breathing?"
"Yes," Jensen says, dryly. "And very loudly, I might add."
"How do you two even know each other?"
"I've known him forever. He's my best friend. Should we be moving on?"
"No, you're right. Sorry. It's just, I live for their shows."
Jensen grins. "Never miss one when they're in town."
"You were there? Last weekend? How'd I not see you?"
He laughs. "Jay, I'm always there. Along with hundreds, thousands, of others. How could you possibly pick me out of the crowd?"
J.P. shakes his head, but doesn't say anything. "Holy shit. I just can't believe you live with him." A sudden thought occurs to him, and he's surprised by just how much he doesn't like it. "Wait. You guys, uh, so you two are--"
"Best friends, like I said," he says, rolling his eyes. "Now if you're done geeking out? I'm going to boot up. Make yourself at home."
He looks around. It's a good-sized unit, actually, concrete slabs on all sides. There's a small vent in the corner that's letting in slivers of moonlight through thin slats. There are two twin beds, one futon, a table constructed of something wrapped in a sheet (a flattened box maybe?) resting atop cinderblocks. Kane doesn't seem to have more than the guitar he took with him. Jensen, likewise, seems to have only the laptop he's unloading now from his shoulder bag and the bike he's propped in the corner. Which makes sense. The Feds have long relinquished the flops in dead zones to whoever will have them, the ones in zones no one cares enough to make room and raze. Security is nonexistent, so you only live there if you've nothing to get stolen. You only live there if you're too crazy to care or too insignificant to matter. He gives a mental shake of his head, tries to clear his cluttered thoughts. He feels awkward looking around the barren room. It's not like there are any distractions. You know code and have a computer, your whole world opens up inside. "You must go in a lot, huh?"
"Hm? Not really," Jensen says absently as he kicks his legs up on a pillow/cinderblock ottoman. "The intel's all happening on this side, anyway. Who wants to sleep through that? I just go in to store it."
"That the computer Mr. Morgan gave you?"
"Yeah, that's the one. Take it with me everywhere."
"I can see why he wanted to offload it. That thing's ancient."
"Runs better than it looks." He begins tapping away at the keys. "What about you?" He nods at the laptop.
"No, not really. Just for work sometimes. In and out." He doesn't know what possesses him to keep going, maybe the unnerving silence and emptiness of the room and how it's not as discomforting as it should be. "I had a cousin who died. He got lost inside, never came back. He was ten, I think. My parents said we were close, but I don't really remember him. Just the nightmares. Thought there were these people in there that pulled him in, wouldn't let him come out. Had the nightmares for a long time. It's never really set well with me, since." His parents looked at him carefully after that until the day he asked for a skateboard, and they breathed easier, again, never knowing about his pact with Chad to become couriers in five years. Lesser of two dangers by far, in his opinion. He doesn't trust VR, man, the newest Fed drug to sedate the masses, people blissing out while outside, real life was corroding shit, and no one lifted a finger to stop it. "You going in now?"
"Nah, I'll just hook up verbally. I have a librarian daemon that facilitates my searches. Don't need to give you another chance to perv at me like when I was innocently driving."
"Sorry that you were going so slow, I could count out all your damn freckles."
There's a pause before Jensen ducks his head and mutters, "Not really helping your case, here." He doesn't seem exactly mad, though. "Librarian," he says into the mouthpiece and then proceeds to have a one-sided conversation while J.P. awkwardly stands by, trying not to fixate on those fucking freckles again. God, how embarrassing.
"He's coming up with three Charles Meany's in the Greater S.A., one of who's cross-referenced with a district PD license in self-same area."
"Any visuals?"
"Hm, nothing clear."
"Proves nothing then. He could be lying. This guy we met could've killed the real Detective Meany and Mr. Morgan and has a whole host of other missing bodies lined up that he uses to slip in and out of their identities."
Jensen eyes him warily. "Or this could be the Charles Meany we met today."
He shrugs. Some people have no imagination, honestly.
"Wait a minute. That's not possible."
"What isn't?"
"I just got this e-mail..."
J.P. mm's knowingly. "Oh, yeah, that is a surprise, but surely you've got some non-daemon friends?" He peers over Jensen's shoulder when there's no rebuttal forthcoming. "Who's it from?"
"Mr. Morgan."
"What?!"
"It's a letter of recommendation he promised me for my subsidized Millington scholarship renewal. It's weird, though. It's dated last Friday, but it was only sent this morning."
"Soo. How does a dead man send e-mail?"
Jensen taps his head in response, and J.P. winks gamely back. "I just thought of something. This was Jeff's computer, so--" He politely asks the Librarian to pull up the specs. "Nicholas Petrossian?" He echoes blankly, after a beat.
J.P.'s eyes widen, memory flashing back to the briefcase at Mr. Morgan's. "NP! Man, time to recall the troops." He offhooks his phone and says Mayhem into the mike.
Fortescue Heights #2007234, V10
"Whoa, so Mr. Morgan's real name is Nicholas Petrossian? What the hell?"
"Okay, let's go over all the findings. Ok, so. Me and Jensen saw Ms. Ferris leave Mr. Morgan-- no wait, Petrossian's house where a totally bogus detective claimed to be 'on the case' which, clearly bullshit." He ticks his fingers off as he paces. "Meanwhile, you two saw Mr. Marsters in Mr. Butler's apartment, looking for all intents and purposes 'romantically entangled,' even though Mr. Butler was swearing love to Mr. Morg- Petrossian only last week. Ok, sidebar, Petrossian's a mouthful. Reverting back to Morgan, you all know who I mean."
"Noted," Jensen says. "Now we don't know why Ms. Ferris was at Mr. Morgan's place, but her timing did coincide with the appearance of this Detective Meany, who may or may not be an actual detective and thus possibly in cahoots with Ms. Ferris for some nefarious purpose or another."
"Also to note that there seemed to be imminent trouble brewing between her and Mr. Morgan the Friday before he disappeared. You two sure it looked like Mr. Butler and Mr. Marsters were, uh, involved?"
"They weren't sticking it to each other, if that's what you're wondering, perv," Mayhem says. "But there was definitely some homoshit emotional undertones going on-- Ow!" He rubs the back of his head where Danneel whacked it, sparing everyone else the trouble.
"All this after Mr. Morgan supposedly broke his heart only last week."
"Don't forget the part where Mr. Butler threatened him to boot. Man, this is getting juicy." Danneel zeroes in on them each in turn for facial confirmation.
"You want to hear juicy? That's not even the best part. Check this out. We ran a search on Nicholas Petrossian after, and this came up in the Dispatch's archives. Jensen?"
"Nicholas Petrossian, McSoco VP Accountant of International Sales, New Nueva York office, mysteriously disappeared and there is evidence that implements his death, although police still have no confirmation. Prior to going missing, Petrossian was recently charged with fraud and embezzlement. He is survived by his mother who resides in the South Bay Beaches," he recalls.
"Can you dig up her address? I'm thinking the two of us should pay a visit."
"Already got it, let's go."
South Bay Beaches, Redondo
Monday, 19:33
A frazzled-looking woman with thick, curly hair and thicker glasses, a floral blouse, and a showy costume pendant answers the door.
"Sorry to bother you, ma'am," Jensen says. "We're looking for the mother of a Mr. Nicholas Petrossian?"
"There's no one here by that name!" The woman tries to slam the door shut in their faces but a resigned voice rings out lowly from behind her. "Just let them in, Ma."
She blocks the door with her frame and whips around, hissing, "What are you doing?"
"It's fine, really, they're ok." She huffs but ushers them in quickly, shutting the door right on their heels.
"Why don't we all sit down. Guess I've got a lot of explaining to do."
Mrs. Petrossian bustles around, putting tea on and buttering and plating warm biscuits.
"That's a beautiful necklace you're wearing," J.P. murmurs to her as she hands him a plate.
She glances down absentmindedly. "Oh this old thing? I found it in this old thrift shop years ago. Bought it with the quarters I won on the slots, if you can believe it."
"Speaking of unbelievable," Jensen cuts in, no longer able to keep quiet. "Jesus. I can't believe you're alive, Jeff. I-- We all thought you might be dead."
"Yeah, what the hell's going on Mr. Morgan, or Petrossian, whoever you are."
"It's complicated. I don't know where to start."
J.P. cuts to the chase. "How about the fraud and embezzlement charges you had before you went missing the first time around?"
Jeff nods, unsurprised. "I'm sure you two got my real scan, but to recap. I used to be an accountant for McSoco in New Nueva York. I got in young, and it was the dream job you always read about. I was eager about making my way up. I'd just landed this ultra account, and people were starting to notice me. Especially Lehne. It was incredible."
"Who's Lehne?"
"Fredric Lehne. He was my boss."
"Never liked that man," Mrs. Petrossian interjects.
"Ma," he says, rubs her shoulders soothingly before he continues. "It was all very short-lived, anyway. Pretty much right after I landed that account, somebody stole fifty million out of it and moved it into a foreign account that was set up in my name. I was framed."
"Why didn't you just withdraw the money and return it, explain what happened to the police?"
"The account was emptied before I could do anything."
"And you had no idea who set you up?"
"I couldn't exactly stick around to conduct my own private investigation."
"And the money never turned up?"
"Vanished without a trace," Jeff agrees. "Just like I did. I knew the police would show up any moment, so I ran. I was followed though, someone stalked me for months. I kept getting these threats from someone accusing me of stealing from the foreign account. It was a nightmare. I finally had to give Nicholas Petrossian an out, shake off his stalker. Faked my own death."
"So who's Jeffrey Dean Morgan then? You can't just create a new person out of thin air. You need all your codes and stuff."
"Jeff was an old friend. A teacher who was drafted and died in the Pacific Wars the year I came to town. I just... picked up where he left off--"
"Like that doesn't sound creepy at all."
"It's not like I really stopped to think about it. I'd been running so long. I just started living again, living this borrowed life that I eventually made my own. Everything became normal; I became Jeffrey Dean and he became me. Then I met Mr. Butler."
"Now that man I like," Mrs. Petrossian chimes in, beaming.
"Everything was going great. But then, well, your article ran in the paper," he trails off.
"Ohh," J.P. groans as it slowly dawns on him. "You were found because of my photo. Fuck," he says, with feeling.
"You didn't know. And really, I guess a part of me always knew it'd never be over. That kind of money, you don't just stop looking one day. And sure enough, I got an email Friday, sent to my school account, since it wouldn't have been hard to find that out once there was a name to attach me to. I got it while I was at school, they really did never stop looking. I had to get out."
"So you pushed your car into the river," J.P. says, slowly. "You were going to leave town again, kill off Jeffrey Dean, just like that?"
"No, I wouldn't do that again. I couldn't. I had to make it look like I died, if I was lucky enough, but more that I pretended to and split instead. I never thought it'd actually work, but I was hoping to buy some time at least. Distance myself enough so there weren't any others he could get to. Figure something out."
"And now your time's up?"
"I knew I wouldn't get much of it. Got another email today. Says I have to pay. That if I don't, my boyfriend will."
"There a meeting place?"
"Tomorrow, 14:00, Fairmark Hotel. Under the palm tree across Meeting Room B. What am I supposed to do? It's not like I actually have the money. And I'm the one with the face people are watching for."
"Hm, leave it us," J.P. says, tapping a finger to his lips.
Fairmark Hotel
Tuesday, 13:26
The four of them get there early and position themselves with Jensen and Chad covering the two exits, while J.P. and Danneel are outside Meeting Room B and at the Concierge, respectively. At 13:50, Mr. Morgan, wearing a hat and shades, walks in and sits down in the armchair under the palm tree to wait. In rapid succession, J.P. spots first Mr. Butler, then Mr. Marsters, Ms. Ferris, and even Mrs. Petrossian coming separately in different directions all within minutes of each other.
"Ok, I'm confused," Mayhem's voice sounds in his ears. J.P. looks up to see a member of the hospitality staff set up a sign outside the Meeting Room announcing The Death and Rebirth of Journalism! "Ok, we've got a problem," he says to the others.
Suddenly the elevator dings, and someone stalks out with purpose, fixing his cuffs.
"Meany!"
Meany approaches Mr. Morgan who looks up at him in surprise. "Petrossian."
"Mr. Lehne! Wait, it was you? Why would you-- I was your best employee! I made you the most money! You were grooming me!"
He rolls his neck in an extravagant, circular motion. "I never believed you were actually dead, you scrappy little survivor you. God, you were an easy mark. We had fun back then, but I don't have time to reminiscence."
"I don't have the money," Jeff spits out.
"Well, of course you don't, you fool. Just. Give me what belongs to me."
"Ok," Jeff says quickly. "I'll give you half of it now--"
"Half," Lehne scoffs, then abruptly narrows his eyes. "Half?" He lunges for the briefcase on Jeff's lap, disrupting the sound wired through all their ears. There're moans of pain and Lehne looks around wildly. "Who sent you?" He roars, before thinking better of it and scrambling away. They all take off running after him.
--
Bastard's headed out Mayhem's exit, which is lucky. Mayhem's one of the best, and his coverall will give him an instant pass, wherever the chase takes them. Danneel's already alerted the concierge, local police units called in and streamed with the likeness of Fredric Lehne's face and, a minute later, the lines of his dark sedan, identifying marker bolded and panned slowly.
Lehne's just peeled out of his spot, and Mayhem's right behind him. He hits the release button and his 'poon hurtles forward bare centimeters to suck solidly on the steel frame. Lehne steers erratically and jams down on the brakes a few times, trying to whip the courier right into something satisfyingly solid but Mayhem's a fucking pro, and he reels the cable out to give himself plenty of slack to maneuver.
J.P. knows it'll be a foregone conclusion, squadron cars are already closing in. Everyone's plugged in to the same radio feed, which he can barely hear over the sound of whipping blades overhead. Mayhem's just getting started, looking to turn the tables on the cager and spin him right off the road. Two shots ring out instead, hitting the tires, and Mayhem turns offs the electromagnetic force and unpoons, the cable automatically reeling back in to his handle and he glides away smoothly, looping back. The car skitters to a stop and is immediately surrounded. Out of the corner of his eye, J.P. sees his teachers and Mrs. Petrossian step out of a police car.
"Freeze! Fredric Lehne, masquerading as Detective Charles Meany, you are under arrest." Detective Beaver hops down from the copter and stalks over to where his men now have Lehne against the car. "You're officially under arrest for impersonating an officer, not to mention charged with federal embezzlement and fraud." Detective Beaver says before reciting dutifully, "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 an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?"
"You will definitely be hearing from my lawyers," Fredric hisses.
"Sure, sure, can't wait." He snaps the handcuffs on, then wipes his hands clean in satisfaction before uncomfortably turning to face the tearful reunion taking place. "Uh," he says. "Sorry to interrupt, but I'm going to have to take you in too, sir. You're wanted on the same charge as your old boss, here."
"It was Lehne! He's the one that framed Mr. Morgan," Danneel says, narrating into her cam and gesturing emphatically.
"Sorry sweetheart, but all I know is that fifty million up and disappeared from an account Mr. Petrossian and Mr. Lehne here both had access to. If you're innocent," the detective continues, turning to Mr. Morgan, "what the hell happened to that money?"
Jeff swears. "Christ, I wish I knew..."
"You're not taking away my son are you?" Mrs. Petrossian balls her fists in the detective's coat and shakes him forward before letting go to bury her head in her hands, clearly distressed.
J.P. leans over, momentarily startled. "Mrs. P., where did you get that gorgeous broach you're wearing?"
"Jesus, you homo. This is hardly the time."
He waves Mayhem off and focuses on Mrs. Petrossian who's now petting the broach with an absent smile. "Oh, this? Well, let's see. I've had it for going on twenty years now. Actually, I found it. I was on my way to meet Nicholas at his workplace and there was this paper sack on the floor. Inside was the most beautiful piece of jewelry you've ever seen. Can't believe they made something so pretty. I figured it must belong to someone who worked there, but the next day Nicholas was on the run and I never got the chance to find its owner. It is beautiful, isn't it?" She holds it up for everyone to see.
"You can't believe anyone made something that pretty, because they didn't, Mrs. P. What you've got there is a extremely rare Canary diamond," J.P. says. "There's a very limited number of them in existence and each one is unmistakable. With its vivid color, unique shape and flawless condition, I'd say it's worth. Well, actually, this is absolutely priceless today. But easily at least the fifty million that was stolen twenty years ago?"
Mayhem's grinning. "So he took out the money and put it in that bird, huh?"
"I was taking it to a safety deposit box and the next thing I knew, it was gone! I thought you stole it, Petrossian. God, who knew you'd be too stupid and bungle up even that much!"
"Well, Mr. Morgan, looks like you'll be cleared soon enough. Just need to take that diamond in for inspection, but it should all be over soon."
"Do you still need me to come with you?"
"Nah, not today. Seems like you've had enough excitement. I'll be staying in close touch, though. You just make sure you'll be sticking around and keeping that name, you hear?"
"No, yes, of course. Jeff isn't going anywhere. The man's got obligations. Committments," Gerard says meaningfully, twining their fingers together. "If they're still being honored."
Det. Beaver's already lost interest. "Take him away, boys. I'll be talking to you soon."
Jeff makes a vague noise of agreement, waving him off, before clearing his throat awkwardly. "You mean--"
"Christ almighty, he means put a fragging ring on it! Nice job, J.P," Mayhem adds, offhand. "Now when does the reward talk start? 'Cos I'm pretty sure I just saw a cool billion dollars, or something ridiculous like that, that I helped recover walk out that door just now, and like hell am I not getting a piece of that action."
It really did all start with that one photo. Dad's right, gotta always be looking. One snapshot of a moment, worth 50 million and climbing, and look at all that's come out because of it. It seems that Ms. Ferris liked Mr. Morgan and got jealous about Mr. Butler when she found out. She was snooping around his place to see if he was really missing or just avoiding her. Meanwhile Mr. Marsters was devastated by news of the secret dalliance and threw himself at Mr. Butler as some last-ditch effort and was brutally rejected. He and Ms. Ferris seem awful close these days though, some mutual misery turn admiration society. Reality romances really do appear to be coming back into style, and no wonder it's seemingly springing up here, first -- a school stuck on preserving lost arts, idiots who can't give up the dream of paper. All's well that end's well, except--
"So hey, I was thinking we should be partners."
"Were you now?" Jensen turns around, and there's that patented single eyebrow lift with accompanying smirk. It doesn't grate nearly as much as it should.
"Every stringer needs a courier. Intel's no good if it doesn't have legs to walk, am I right?"
"Turn around and walk away, little man," Jensen deadpans.
And fuck it, Jensen's a jerk, he doesn't need to finesse this. He flicks Jensen's forehead and crushes their mouths together at Jensen's affronted ow, fucker, closing the gap just like that, seals it up tight.
☆☆☆