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Special Agent Robert Fowler
Moments in Time
Wed Feb 8, 2006 19:42
66.244.88.49

Sir. Rob’s intercom buzzed to life, causing him to drop the pen he had been writing with. God, he hated these things! Agent Devereaux from the New Orleans F.B.I. office is on line three for you.

He stared at the speaker in amusement for a few long moments. ‘New Orleans’ had been stated with every bit of a northern accent as was possible. Hell, it wasn’t like he could have done much better with his Bahw-stan accent, but at least he tried. Thumbing the intercom, he thanked his secretary, and picked up the phone. Line three, right?

“This is Special Agent Fowler. What can I do for you today, Agent Devereaux?”

You are a difficult man to get a hold of, Fowler. How much red tape is strung up around you and your office up there? But it wasn’t ‘there’, it was pronounced ‘thaaaar’, with nothing less than a heavy southern drawl.

“Enough that even I get stuck in it most weeks,” Rob replied with a short laugh. “So what can I do for you, Agent Devereaux?”

I’ve got one of yours down here, a Mandarin translator by the name of Lee. Uh oh. Sure, it was a common name, but Rob knew who the Agent was talking about. Which didn’t make it any better. We found his daughter’s body washed up in the bayou this morning…

“What about Xiang?” It had taken Rob a few weeks of the name, which was unfortunately common enough, to be able to pronounce it properly.

Huh, so that’s how you say it. No word from her. Apparently the woman took her daughter for an outing, and they never returned. Obviously she didn’t ditch her husband, like we first thought…

“No, Xiang likely wouldn’t have done that. They held to the usual Chinese household tenants. All right, anything else?” Rob began doodling on a piece of paper that was thankfully blank. He made sure to check every time now, ever since he had created a little stick figure doing a Matrix-style death spree across the top of someone’s request for leave form.

Well, there’s one lady that keeps calling us. Florence Sinclair, a supposed ‘psychic’. Called for a few weeks before today, until we threatened to get a restraining order. Said that we needed to look for the girl down here. Apparently the father was distraught enough to come down here himself. Lucky he hasn’t caught word of this…

“All right. I’ll get back to you, Agent Devereaux.” After hanging up the phone, Rob stared at the contraption for a few long moments. What the hell was going on here? And why was he only hearing of this now?! Pressing the intercom talk button, he spoke into it gruffly. “Cynthia, in my office, now.” Caleb had made a surprising find in this woman. Not only could she give an innocent, unbiased view of a case, but she made a decent coffee too. No, he was being harsh; Cynthia Burbank was a good Agent, but she wasn’t cynical enough. When she was though, he’d have to set her loose.

“I want you to get me the files on Jun Lee, and his immediate family. Also get me whatever information you can on Florence Sinclair.” What the hell would those files turn up?

Rob found out a few hours later, staring at a few manilla folders and their contents scattered across his desk. He knew most of Jun’s history with the Agency, considering the man worked for his department. Hell, Jun and Xiang had been at that… damned picnic. He had figured it would be good for them to be in a social environment with the man’s peers. God, had he been wrong.

Onto the other file. The woman cheerfully referred to as Maddy wasn’t anything special; merely ran her own business, which the I.R.S. declared was spotless, and had nothing in her past to worry about. But… This psychic nonsense really was taking it a bit far. She wasn’t nationally recognized, apparently she liked to hang up on television stations that called her house. So why had she called the New Orleans F.B.I. office so frequently? Not even hinting at something, merely said that they needed to look for Lee’s little girl down there.

Sir, Agent Marx is on line one for you. Just great. While Rob headed up this office for the C.I.A., Marx snagged the F.B.I. office.

“Steve! What can I do for you?”

Well, you could start by telling me why I’ve had a Florence Sinclair waiting on hold for the last half hour, in regards to one of your men, Rob. Crap. She called up here. Shit!

“It’s being taken care of, Steve. Just feed her your usual lines, ask her out for a drink. She’ll hang up. I’m picking up the slack here, got it?”

Uh huh. Just let me know. With the phone call ended, Rob couldn’t help but swear. Profusely. Why the hell had the woman called up here? Aside from these being the second-largest offices for both the Agency and the Bureau! Well, there was only one way to fix this. It involved another phone call, but at least this would be relatively painless.

“Jeff? Good, you’re home. I need to ask a favor.” Pause. “No, nothing like that. And you can’t borrow my toys.” Moments later, Rob was laughing. Honest, to goodness, laughter bubbled from his throat. “Right, right. Yours are better than mine, I remember. Hey, could you and Jane take the girls for a few days? I need to go out of town for work.” Whew. “Thanks, I owe you. Pick them up for me?” Happily hanging up the phone from that little excursion, Rob turned to ready everything.

Six hours later, the Special Agent in Charge was stepping out of a sedan on loan from the local Agency office. He had a local lackey with him as well, which helped slightly. It was fun making the guy step all over himself with that fabled southern hospitality. Not to mention the fact that he outranked Mister Lackey by a dozen pay grades. What little luggage he had was ensconced in a hotel room near the local office, which he was given free reign over. Hell, let ‘em sweat. He’d probably be there an hour or two tops.

The fellow, an Agent Richards, lead the way to the door. A few knocks later, and a woman that looked as if she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in several years answered the door. “Yes?”

“Florence Sinclair? We’d like to speak with you about the murder of Morning Glory Lee, aged nine.” … What a dumbass. Why had he let this guy do all the talking again? Oh, right. Outside of his jurisdiction. Screw that! Rob rolled his eyes and stepped up to the plate.

“Miss Sinclair, my name is Robert Fowler, Special Agent in Charge of N.Y.C.’s C.I.A. branch office.” He held out his credentials, giving her ample time to inspect them at her leisure. “I’ve been informed that you have telephone the local F.B.I. office multiple times concerning Morning Glory Lee’s disappearance, and have contacted the New York branch as well.” Pausing, Rob tucked his badge away, motioning toward the door.

“Would you mind if we came in to talk about this? It’d be easier than here on the stoop.” Hell, he even went for the smile. Not the condescending one, just a simple expression that put most people at ease.

Right. No more letting Agent Numb Nuts talk.




OOC: Right. Tired. Auto a call to Caleb about taking over at the office for a few days. Enlist John and Janey’s help for me. I’m tired. Beeeeed!

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