CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:
FANTASY
( aka 04x09: 52 pickup )

■ ■ ■ ■ ■

"VANESSA HOLDEN, TWENTY-FIVE," Todd introduced the blonde woman displayed on the screen. "Last Friday night, she was clubbing with her sister. A stranger, white male, roughly her age, picked her up. They left the club at 1am, went back to her place. He forced her on her hands and knees, and then he cut her open, just below the stomach."

"Whoa," Dallis gasped.

"Pretty rough," Morgan commented.

That was quite the understatement. Vanessa Holden's eyes were open and webbed with angry red veins. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth onto the cream carpet she was sprawled across. The tight black dress that clung to her body revealed the ruthless slash across her stomach creating another much larger crimson stain beneath her. Not for the first time, Dallis dwelled on what those staring eyes had seen in their final moments. Some people believed the eyes were the window to the soul. If that was the case, Vanessa Holden's windows had been shattered.

"Gutting causes the intestines to spill out," Reid remarked, pointing to the clumps of organs scattered through Vanessa's bloodstain. "You can survive for a few hours, actually. Even days."

Subconsciously, each of them looked towards Todd. It took her a minute to realise they were waiting for more information from her. Don't get her wrong, Dallis was trying her best to get used to JJ's absence, and this was only the second case that Todd had approached them with, but if it was JJ presenting it to them, she would have known the ins-and-outs like the back of her hand. "Post-mortem indicates that he slit her throat at 5am."

"So he disembowelled her but didn't kill her for four hours," Rossi said.

He was leaning back in the chair opposite Dallis, the first two buttons of his shirt undone to reveal slim collarbones and a smooth expanse of skin. When he glanced across the table at her and found she was already looking at him, a sly smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He accepted one of the folders Todd was handing around with an unwavering gaze that Dallis was the first to admit defeat to.

"This could be a sexual sadist," she pointed out, making Todd sigh.

"Yeah, I thought so too, but then I found two priors from a year ago. Prostitutes, actually, in motel rooms."

"Okay, so keep running with it," Morgan encouraged her. "Why do you think this is the same unsub?"

Todd crossed her arms and turned back to the screen, a determined glint in her eye that Dallis had seen a few times now, particularly whenever Morgan opposed what she had to offer. Only a few days ago, the team had solved a local case involving a man posing as a college professor. He was abducting women who fit the 'golden ratio' and killing them in the vast underground chamber beneath his Chester home, hoping to seek revenge on Rossi for family skeletons he kept deep in his closet.

From the moment Rossi and Reid apprehended Henry Grace (aka Paul Rothchild), there had been an undercurrent of tension between Morgan and Todd whenever they were expected to interact. Dallis had to wonder if this was what the team suffered every time she and Rossi had their moments.

Todd directed her remote towards the screen, displaying two crime scene photos for the other murders she'd discovered. In each one, as well as Vanessa's, there was a definite key signature.

"In Vanessa Holden's apartment, the following were discovered," Todd cleared her throat then listed, "Bleach, ammonia, trash bags. All in a triangular pattern. One year ago, motel rooms. Bleach, ammonia, trash bags, also in a triangular pattern."

"He's cleaning up," Emily frowned.

"Maybe trying to hide his tracks," Morgan suggested, conceding defeat to Todd with a dip of his head. She was right. This was the same unsub.

"It could be a sign of remorse," said Rossi. "Apologising for the murder by minimising the mess."

But Todd wasn't finished. "There's one other commonality between both sets of murders. Bleach and ammonia were found under the victims' fingernails."

Dallis let out a shocked laugh. "So there's a purpose for the display of the supplies. He expects them to clean up their own murder."

The team wasted no time packing up and heading for the jet. It was a two hour plane ride from Quantico to Atlanta, Georgia where this unsub had resumed his murderous tendencies. Dallis had to admit, it was concerning that he'd suddenly changed victimology, initially targeting high-risk victims when Vanessa Holden was anything but. He'd taken a year off -- at least, from the looks of it -- so what was stopping him from making up for lost time?

"So if the unsub changed victimology, does that make him organised or disorganised?" Emily wondered, glancing across the aisle to where Dallis was sitting beside Hotch.

As the last to board the jet, she had lost the race for the empty seats around the main table. Emily and Reid were sitting together, pouring over the notes Reid had taken during the briefing. Opposite them was Rossi, who had been saving the seat beside him for Dallis until Todd asked if she could join him. With no reason to decline that wouldn't expose him, he settled for the aisle's distance between them instead, offering her the green tea he had made for her as soon as he boarded. Dallis didn't mind her spot, she got to compare Hotch's notes with her own while openly gazing at the side of Rossi's face without appearing lovesick.

"Well, prostitutes point one way," Morgan said, reminding Dallis that she needed to pay attention. "Club girls another."

"The triangular arrangement of the cleaning supplies is interesting," Reid remarked as he regarded a close-up photo of the three important objects.

Dallis hid her grimace behind the lip of her cup. "Reminds me of Floyd Feylinn."

Hotch considered this, his brows knitting into a thoughtful frown. "Obsessive compulsive?"

"Could be institutionalised."

From their close proximity, it was hard to miss the rich aroma of cologne that clung to Hotch's neck. He wasn't the type to splurge on expensive parfums, and in the weeks following Haley serving him with divorce papers, the team couldn't help but notice the slight lack of care in his appearance. But that was then, and Hotch had bounced back in recent months. Dallis' immediate assumption from the cologne was that he was back on the dating scene. She'd have to bug Rossi about it later, see what he knew.

"We're missing the forest for the trees here," Rossi let out a sigh. "This guy started with prostitutes, a high-risk victimology. Took a year off, came back, and killed a socialite."

"No forced entry, no coercion of any kind," Morgan reiterated.

"The year away throws me off," Dallis admitted, crossing one knee over the other. In the one moment where she wasn't paying attention, Rossi caught the movement as he sipped on his coffee, sweeping his gaze across the long expanse of her legs until he reached the soft curves of her hips accentuated by her pencil skirt. He sank deeper into his chair, concealing the warmth that flooded his face behind his chipped white mug. "Either we haven't discovered the rest of his murders yet or something prevented him from following through with his urges. If he was institutionalised, it could be worth looking into mental institutions with patients newly released or even prisons."

"He could've gone to jail for something unrelated," Emily nodded in agreement.

Remembering himself, Rossi lowered his mug back to the table. "It begs the question, how does our unsub go from Loser of the Year to Don Juan?"

Reid's eyes brightened. A coy smile curled the corner of his mouth. "Actually, as Byron interpreted him, Don Juan was an ironic reversal of sex roles, and when -- actually, that's about it..."

After silencing Reid with a disapproving shake of his head, Hotch turned back to his notes. "Something must have happened between the last prostitute and Vanessa Holden to make him change his victimology."

"Could the unsub have known Vanessa?" Todd asked, hesitant to interrupt the flow of conversation. Dallis understood that. She typically sat back and listened when she had nothing more to offer than what the others had already shared.

"It's unlikely," Morgan said. "Sexual sadists attack anonymously."

When Todd merely tilted her head, confused, Reid clarified, "They have to sever a personal connection and see their victims as objects to perpetrate this level of torture."

"We have to build two profiles then," said Emily. "One for the unsub who kills prostitutes, one for the unsub who goes to clubs."

"We've never done that before," Rossi muttered.

Dallis popped her shoulders in a shrug. "There's a first time for everything."

"Prentiss is right," Hotch insisted. "The victimology's so different, we treat them as separate unsubs and see what overlaps. Prentiss and Reid, work up a geographic profile, focus on the location of the murders. Cohen and Rossi, concentrate on the prostitutes. Jordan, Morgan and I will go deal with Vanessa Holden."

■ ■ ■ ■ ■

"TAKE A LOOK AT this," said Dallis.

She was elbow-deep in a box of newspaper clippings when she came across something interesting. Upon arrival at the station, one of Detective Harding's officers handed over everything the precinct had on the two prostitutes murdered by their unsub. Rossi had hooked into the technicalities of the paperwork while Dallis searched pieces of evidence, eventually scanning through what was compiled on the victims' livelihoods; newspaper advertisements for their services, online chat rooms and email threads that only left dead ends. She wandered over to Rossi's side, leaning over the back of his chair so he could also see her discovery.

"Both women were advertising in the same paper," she declared, laying it flat across the tabletop. "Quirky one-liners asking for a man to dominate them, followed up by promising to come to them..."

"You think this is how he found them?" Rossi asked, making Dallis shrug.

"It would make sense," she said. "We're profiling the unsub who murders high-risk victims, right? Well, the newspaper allows him the protection of anonymity that a digital footprint doesn't. And specifically searching for women who want someone dominant?"

"Let's him fulfil a fantasy," Rossi pieced together.

"Exactly."

Curious to know what else was in these newspapers, Dallis got comfortable in the seat beside him where she read until the rest of the team started filing into the station. First it was Emily and Reid, then Hotch and Morgan. Todd was nowhere to be seen but the thunderous expression on Hotch's face when he marched towards them warned Dallis not to question it.

"What have we got?" he asked.

Dallis and Emily shared a hesitant look.

"The unsub killed the prostitutes in separate pay-by-the-hour motels in Fulton County," Reid declared. "One of the poorer neighbourhoods in the area. Now Vanessa Holden's apartment was in the Peachtree District where there's a lot of big money. Based on the geography, he isn't just changing his victimology, he's changing his whole tax bracket."

"Well, the high-profile of Vanessa Holden bears that out," Morgan said. "By killing her, he was climbing the social ladder."

Rossi sighed, running a hand along the stubbled line of his jaw. "If that's the case, this unsub had a long way to climb. Dallis found both prostitutes advertising here. Take a look at their pictures."

"Subservient positioning, asking to be dominated," Hotch concluded after skimming over the newspaper pages Rossi held out.

"Promising to come to you," Emily continued, noticing the same little details as Dallis. "It cuts out the social interaction of meeting on a street corner."

"But that's a long way from a self-assured unsub who hits the clubs."

"Yeah, except he took a year off between the murders," Hotch reminded Morgan. "Maybe he took that time to change himself."

Morgan couldn't help but scoff. "That's impossible."

Hotch turned fully towards him, tilting his head. "Why?"

"Well, you're talking about a total transformation here. I mean, how you talk, how you dress, how you think about yourself..."

Still, Hotch wasn't convinced. "It's difficult, maybe. But not impossible."

"He's already started killing," Rossi added. "There must have been a secondary trigger that motivated him to change who he was, so if you're going to transform yourself, how would you do it?"

"A steady diet of self-help books," Emily posed.

"Start hitting the gym," suggested Dallis. "Change your wardrobe, maybe get a haircut."

"You went through a bangs phase too?"

With a sly curve of her mouth, she tugged at the uneven strands of her fringe. "How could you tell?"

"You also have to learn how to read people," Reid pointed out. "I mean, what is a pickup? It's basically just a profile."

"Decoding cues of interest and recoding similar ones," Morgan nodded along.

"If you're too obvious, you turn off your target," said Emily. "If you're oblivious, your target moves onto a better profiler."

"None of this sounds like something this type of guy could do on his own," Dallis persisted. "Someone or something would have pointed him in the right direction. Is a self-help book really enough for that?"

"What about a self-help class?" Reid suggested.

Morgan held up a hand. "Okay, wait a minute. An unsub who kills prostitutes, is he really thinking about signing up for a Tony Robbins seminar?"

Reid mentioning the self-help class reminded Dallis of something else she had found in the newspaper. She thumbed through the pages until she found the right one. "What if he found the class in the same place he found his victims? Listen to this. 'Learn how to pick up chicks. Let's face it. We all want to have sex. But women are a mystery. Take my class and learn how to unlock desire.'"

"It's certainly bold," Emily remarked.

Dallis nodded. "And starting to sound like the unsub who kills the high-class, not the high-risk."

Deciding they'd done what they could for the day, Hotch dismissed them from the station. Before he could change his mind, the team rushed out to the parking lot where their SUVs waited. Fortunately, the Bureau had found them a hotel nearby, but there was a downside; the number of available rooms. It wasn't often that they had to share. Dallis typically didn't mind it.

"Three keys," she held the plastic white cards aloft as she approached where the team were waiting. "All twin rooms."

On the way out of the station, they'd run into Todd sitting misty-eyed in the foyer. She tagged along with them as soon as she realised only Hotch would be staying back, though she remained stubbornly tight-lipped when both Dallis and Emily had tried to ask what was wrong. She was a nice enough girl; however, Dallis had decided she wasn't interested in a friendship with her outside of work. They didn't have much in common and there were admittedly times that Todd got under Dallis' skin, intentional or not.

Now was one of those times.

"So you and I will share?" she turned to Emily, who hesitated until Dallis gave the green light in handing her one of the keys.

"Looks like you're with me, Pretty Boy," Morgan clapped a hand on Reid's shoulder. "Hotch can bunk with us when he gets back -- if he even leaves the station."

"Which leaves just you and me, Dave," Dallis nudged his arm, smiling. "Fair warning, I've been told that I snore."

"She does," Emily interjected as they set off towards the elevators.

One-by–one, they departed on their respective floors. On the third level, Morgan led Reid down the hallway while trying (and failing) to coax the younger man into checking out the hotel gym with him. On the seventh floor, Todd mentioned ordering sushi while Emily just nodded along, clearly debating if it was a good idea to tell Todd that she didn't like sushi. Soon, it was just Dallis and Rossi together, whose room was on the thirteenth floor and furthest from the rest.

"13A," Dallis remarked, tapping the frayed plastic card against her palm. "Only one key unfortunately. Hope you weren't planning a wild night out."

"With our Don Juan wannabe lurking in the clubs?" Rossi scoffed.

"Fair point."

Dallis hovered the card in front of the electronic reader, waiting for the click of the lock to switch over. They were silent for a moment, observing the room on the other side of the door. It was outdated like the rest of the hotel, with floral lace curtains that would surely fail to block out the sunlight in the morning. The walls were a pale yellow with random white patches where chips and holes had been repaired but never painted over. A box television sat on the wooden tallboy, its antenna dangling precariously over the edge. But none of that really mattered to Dallis. It was the double bed, singular, in the centre of the room that drew her attention.

"Oh," she said, fighting for her life against the rush of sinful thoughts that crossed her mind.

"Is that a pull-out couch?" Rossi asked.

Beneath the window was a two-seater brown settee. Really, it had no purpose, as it faced away from the television and Dallis had to wonder when it was last cleaned as the cushions were covered in suspicious stains.

"Nope," she said after dumping her suitcase and looking it over. "Guess you're stuck sleeping with me."

Rossi's throat constricted with a visible swallow. All of a sudden, he wouldn't catch her eye. "I can sleep on the floor."

Dallis scoffed. "At your age? Your back would never recover." When Rossi said nothing, merely setting down his things so he could search the small wardrobe for a spare blanket, she realised he wasn't kidding. "Dave, seriously. The bed is big enough for the both of us."

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable," he said earnestly.

"I'm a grown woman," she stood with her hands on her hips. "Would it make you uncomfortable?"

"No," he answered without hesitation.

Dallis nodded. "Good. Glad that's settled then. Now, do you mind if I shower first?"

Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom in a haze of hot air. Dallis liked her showers scalding enough that the steam fogged the mirror and left her skin a light shade of pink (as did most women, according to the general consensus from the last girl's night she could remember them hosting. That was before JJ went and had a baby. Who knew when the next one would be?) Now was no different, though she did linger in the bathroom long after shutting off the water so she could dry her hair and ponder over her choice to only sleep in her underwear and an oversized t-shirt. She hadn't exactly planned for male company when she packed her go-bag that morning...

When the rustling on the other side of the door started getting impatient, she gave herself a cursory glance in the mirror (well, in the small square of glass she could actually see into) then just went for it.

Rossi's reaction was immediate and instinctual. Glancing up from the book he was reading, he shamelessly admired her legs not for the first time that day, but now he got the perfect view of her soft skin. He was caught between appreciating that she trusted him enough to be vulnerable around him, then the urge to leave marks on those beautiful thighs with his hands (or mouth.)

"Bathroom's all yours," she smiled, carefully adjusting the hem of her shirt as she curled up on the left side of the bed.

"Right... thanks..." he mumbled, completely forgetting the joke he was going to make about her falling asleep in the shower.

Now that she was clean and comfortable, Dallis settled back against the pillows and flicked through the limited range of television channels before she eventually settled on Days of Our Lives. With it playing low in the background, she curiously scanned through Rossi's discarded book (though she was cautious not to disrupt the page he'd marked.) She was intrigued but definitely not surprised to find he was reading about art. As she started the first chapter, not much of it made sense but it was enjoyable.

"I see you've stolen my side of the bed and my book."

Dallis flinched at the warm sound of Rossi's voice. She hadn't even heard the water stop running. Wet hair, a dark wool quarter-zip that left a tantalising sliver of his chest-hair exposed. He was the picture of desire all the time now. It just drove Dallis crazy.

"I can't do anything about the side of the bed," she said, shrugging innocently when he huffed under his breath. "But I'll let you have your book back."

"Let me?" he repeated, his mouth curling into a smirk that she mirrored.

"Yes," she said, holding it out for him to take. "I already compromised with Days of Our Lives."

"You did," he agreed, but what he really meant was 'you remembered.'

After making himself a coffee and Dallis a green tea with the tea bags he'd packed for her, he settled on the right side of the bed with his book on his lap, caught between pouring over the pages and relishing in the fictional drama on the television. The silence was comfortable as they let their minds unwind from work. It wasn't often that Hotch dismissed them this early, but after spending several hours together there wasn't much need for conversation. He simply basked in having her shoulder pressed against his, the sweet scent of her shampoo that wafted from her silky hair in waves, in the soft sounds she made in response to what was happening on the tv screen. He resisted the urge to kiss the juncture of her neck, the longing to hold her hand, to curl up and sleep with his arms around her waist. When he offered to sleep on the floor, he really was trying to respect her boundaries, but a tiny part of him also feared what his body would expose with her so close.

Tearing her eyes away from his, Dallis searched for the telephone she'd seen hanging by the door. "Do you think this place does room service? My stomach's starting to eat itself."

Rossi coughed, determined to clear the lump of emotion in his throat. "I wouldn't trust it if they do."

"You're right," she sighed. "The risk of food poisoning fails to outweigh the reward of not being hungry."

"We could order pizza?"

Dallis' eyes widened. "With olives?"

He hesitated, visibly grimacing as his lips pressed together. "Sure."

"And mushrooms?"

"Now you're pushing it."

■ ■ ■ ■ ■

IN THE LIGHT OF dawn, David Rossi knew without a doubt he was falling in love again. It should've scared him, had him running for the hills just like Dallis. Love always evaded him in his previous marriages, not to mention the string of other failed relationships. It left him heartbroken, hurt (though he knew he had a part to play in their destruction.) With only his own company -- no wife, no living children -- there were times where his life felt empty.

But that was the thing about love. You didn't just choose who your heart recognised, and his heart was longing for Dallis Cohen's with every beat.

Waking up beside her confirmed what he already knew. She fit him perfectly, her fingers intertwining with his at some point during the night. She was right, she did snore, but the soft parting of her lips was almost irresistible. With his free hand, he ghosted his thumb across her cupid's bow, then remembered himself and ripped his hand away. He feared for a moment she'd wake and be disgusted, but in sleep her body answered him. She moved closer so that her head rested on his chest. Her fingers separated from his and her arm snaked across his stomach, seeking the intimacy she panicked over consciously.

"Dallis," he whispered, earning a content hum in response. "Dolcezza."

It wasn't until his phone rang that her eyes opened. Immediately, her face flushed with warmth, and the two of them tore apart so he could reach over to the sideboard where his phone was charging.

"Aaron," Rossi's brows drew into a frown as Hotch answered on the other end of the line. "Okay, we'll be right there."

The blinking red numbers on the alarm clock read 6am. Something must have happened if Hotch already needed them.

"There's been another murder."

■ ■ ■ ■ ■

BENEATH THE SLATE GREY sky, Dallis peered over the edge of the balcony at the splattered red blood stain down below. Emily copied her actions, gripping the metal railing with white knuckles.

"That's a long drop," she muttered as Rossi, Morgan and Reid peered up at them from the hotel steps.

Dallis pursed her lips, leading the way back into the room where Hotch was waiting. He wore the same suit from the day before, indicating to Dallis that he'd spent the night cooped up at the station, just as Morgan had predicted he would.

"Not to mention a very different signature."

Overhearing Dallis, Hotch posed the question, "Why would he pull out the cleaning supplies and then not use them?"

At their feet were the three objects in question; an unopened bottle of ammonia, a scattered roll of trash bags and a knocked-over tub of bleach. The liquid had stained the maroon carpet with patches of white.

"At all the other scenes, the bottles were arranged in a precise order," Emily said. "Here, they're just part of the mess."

"I'm thinking she fought back," said Dallis, kneeling in the very spot that the unsub would've kept Becky Williams, aka their latest victim. "He's got her here but she overpowers him, knocks over the cleaning supplies, heads for the balcony..."

"And when Becky went over the railing, his routine had been compromised 'cause he knew the police would respond?"

Dallis popped her shoulders in a shrug. "Or she could have jumped. Seen falling to her death as quicker than gutting herself like a fish."

Emily nodded in agreement. "Her nervous system's pumping with adrenaline. Her fight or flight kicks in."

Hotch sighed, beginning to pace with folded arms. "He's struck two Fridays in a row and if his routine's been interrupted, it might compel him to strike again."

"It's Saturday," Emily fixed her lip between her teeth. "The clubs will be packed tonight."

"I want you both to take a look at these classes the unsub might've taken," said Hotch. "We need to generate a suspect pool as soon as possible."

■ ■ ■ ■ ■

AFTER RETURNING TO THE station, Reid posed the theory that their unsub had some kind of birthmark or scar on his forehead. He'd noticed a pattern in how the unsub was described by witnesses. On the night he murdered Vanessa Holden, he was seen wearing a fedora. Now another witness had seen him with Becky Williams while concealing his face with a pair of oversized sunglasses. It helped Todd share a more accurate sketch with the public while Dallis and Emily poured over the twenty self-described 'pickup artist' classes in the area, eventually narrowing their list down to one.

Viper.

"Men are put on this earth to hunt women," was the first thing Dallis heard the so-called 'expert' say. She almost immediately scrunched up her nose, seeking out Emily to see her reaction. "And even though women deny it, they want to be hunted. They need it. It's part of our biological imperative as animals."

The infamous Viper was a smarmy man with brown sideburns that crept towards his chin. Each of his ears had been pierced with bold silver jewellery that matched the various necklaces tangled around his neck and the lining of his purple velvet vest. He wore a long coat that flapped around his legs like a cape, and in his hands he clutched some kind of hat made out of fluffy black wool.

"And the competition the opposite sex puts you through? Pitting you against other guys? Against your own friends, even? It's all to reassure themselves that they have brought home the best possible mate." He relished in the attention of every man in the room he viewed as lesser than himself, pacing with his head held high, hands waving and pointing to emphasise the words that ran from his mouth like water from a leaking tap. "'Cause just like you, they want someone who's gonna make their eyeballs roll back in their head."

"Listen to the language he's using," Dallis muttered, folding her arms over her chest. "He's teaching these men to hate women, to view them as objects that need to be won."

But Viper wasn't finished. "My job is to help you slash past every defence, every excuse, every 'why don't you meet my friend' trick that they're gonna throw at you. You may not have ripped abs or afford table service, but if you're smarter and--" He added the hat to his ensemble, holding his arms out proudly. "More interesting, then you will be a better predator. Because this is the jungle, my friends, and your prey wants to be caught."

Morgan shook his head. "He's training serial killers."

"Great," Emily sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger. "So we're dealing with a rampant narcissist and misogynist who's turned himself into a snake-oil salesman."

"Just one more thing he has in common with our unsub," Hotch's brows pinched together.

Dallis hummed. "But look at his forehead. No scar."

Viper might not have been their target, but the odds of the unsub attending Viper's class? They were creeping higher and higher until Dallis was almost positive he'd sat amongst these men who were in desperate need of direction. Once the room had emptied out, they approached Viper with their concerns. When he wasn't staring down Dallis and Emily, he was nodding along to bits and pieces of what Hotch was saying but not truly paying attention.

"So you think this... what'd you call him? 'Unsub' took my class?"

Hotch's eye twitched. "He copied your 'the camera adds ten pounds' routine verbatim."

"Yeah," Viper chuckled. "That's a good gag."

"A gag that he used to murder a young woman," Dallis deadpanned, feeling her skin prick from the heat of his gaze. Viper was no murderer but Dallis knew his type; he'd be the one you had to lie to about having a boyfriend to get him off your back, the one who wouldn't take no for an answer. Deluded. Overconfident.

"If you could just give us your attendance lists," said Emily. "It might help us find him."

Viper scanned her from head to toe. "No."

"No?"

"My clients expect a certain amount of confidentiality. I won't compromise that."

"We can come back with a warrant," Hotch threatened, making Viper scoff.

"Be my guest," he declared. "But keep in mind, the money I make doesn't just pay for my fabulous lifestyle. It also keeps some very expensive lawyers on retainer."

"What club did you go to last night?" Emily asked.

A sleazy smile spread from ear-to-ear.

Morgan clenched his jaw and angled his body in front of both women. "It's a legitimate question. You seem to know a lot about our investigation."

Viper rounded on him. "Two things to learn about me. First, I outwit alpha males like you for fun and sometimes profit. How often do you have to rely on your badge to score, baldy? Second, last night, I was at Club Aqua and I have a stack of tax-deductible drink receipts to back up my story."

"You do remember who you're talking to, right?" Dallis glared.

His smile refused to fade. He inched further into the space between her and Emily but stopped when Dallis pushed back her blazer to reveal her gun in its holster. "You might not want to believe that my style works, and here in this harsh light, you have the advantage. But meet me on my turf? The things I could make both of you ladies do..."

"If you have any questions," Hotch cut in, handing Viper his business card. "Give us a call."

Emily was quick to march out of the room with Hotch right behind her. They maintained their composure but Dallis could tell that both of them were furious for different reasons.

Meanwhile, Dallis lingered beside Morgan, whose hands had bunched into fists at his sides. Knowing she had Viper's sole attention with Emily almost at the doorway, she slid her fingers up Morgan's arm until they were curled around his bicep.

"Come on, Derek," she said, dismissing Viper with a flick of her hair. "I think we've wasted enough time here, don't you?"

They fell into step behind Emily and Hotch with Morgan eventually slinging his arm around Dallis' shoulders. Once they were out of the Viper's line of sight, the gesture changed from intimate to platonic. He reached up to ruffle her hair.

"It was an honour acting flirty with you, Cohen."

"Well, we couldn't let that guy call you bald and get away with it, could we, Alpha Male Morgan?"

Morgan grimaced. "Never call me that again."

"Oh, I don't know," she chuckled, determined to put Viper out of her mind for as long as she should. "I think it has a nice ring to it. I'm sure Garcia's going to agree."

"Don't you dare tell her..."