June 26th, 2008 12:30 PM San Diego Office of West Horizon / San Diego FBI Offices
"Again, she approached you?" Mayfield's voice on the phone was blank, as usual, a bit obscured by the buzz of the speaker phone.
Logan adjusted a cufflink, trying to keep his hands busy to hide their slight shake. He knew Mayfield was on the East Coast, but some irrational voice told him the man was in the next room, would be able see exactly what Logan was thinking. Sending the file had been a big risk.
"She's a friend from college. Just lunch." He paused, fingers playing with the cufflink. "It's just a coincidence with her job."
There was a long pause from Mayfield. "Milk her a bit, Logan. See if she knows anything."
"She's only been a fed for about a year. She's still a grunt."
"Do it anyway." His voice carried a hint of impatience.
"Yes, sir." Logan was abruptly reminded of Aaron, of his casual commands and casual acceptance he would be obeyed. The thought made him clench his jaw, made him more sure he was doing the right thing. "I'll call you tonight."
He drove himself, the streets of San Diego half-familiar and becoming clearer as he made his way to the FBI offices downtown. Neptune was a mere hour away, and he was surprised at the temptation to head that way, to find the beach that had been his second home. For a brief moment he caught of a glimpse of the Pacific through San Diego's skyline, and could nearly taste sea water. No matter what happened, he promised himself, he would go surfing as soon as he could.
It was Veronica's fault he even realized he missed it. And hadn't that been a kick in the crotch, him opening his email on one of the worst days of his life and see this "Hey There" in his inbox. He could practically hear her faux cheerful tone, the little squeak at the end that told him she was exaggerating her cute blonde petiteness. "Hey There." Right. And the day before he had listened as Mayfield ordered the death of Wes Whitmore.
He took his exit, the skyrise the FBI offices inhabited looming over him. He found the parking lot, took the ticket, and walked through the echoing garage, heading for the elevator. Again, a slight adjustment ot cufflinks, to the tie at his throat, to the lay of his jacket over his shoulders. Mayfield had groomed him, had ordered his suits, shown him the correct knot for his tie. He felt like choking. He missed the easy weight of t-shirts and jeans, the way they made him feel like himself. He hadn't felt like Logan Echolls in a long time. Not until that chirpy little "Hey There" appeared in his inbox.