✓ | sick of losing soulmates [SPENCER REID]

11.3

11.3
( first time in boston. )

☆ ★ ☆

iris

They split up when they reach Boston, Rossi and Morgan following a lead while the others get settled in the nearest police station. It must be a short lead, because within twenty or so ministers, the doors to the elevator bing! and then open, revealing the figures of Morgan, Rossi, and a struggling man. He kicks his legs and shakes his shoulders in a futile attempt to escape, shouting furiously, "Do you know who I am?" Morgan looks more than a little annoyed as he easily tows the tiny, rat-like man off to a cell as Rossi approaches.

"Who was that?" Hotch asks. Next to him, Iris is containing a laugh, amused despite the situation by Morgan's please kill me expression as he pulled the man along before disappearing around a corner.

"Jack Fahey," Rossi answers. "Irish mob. He called one of the potential victim's – Ester's – cell phone multiple times in six hours."

"Any connection to Doyle?" Iris asks.

"Boston PD says he's low-level. But the Irish mob has long standing ties to the IRA."

"You think he could be the mole?"

Rossi shrugs. "Maybe. But mole or not, he's a good source on information."

Hotch nods ponderously, before nudging Iris. "Get Reid. See if you can get anything out of him."

"Anybody got a smoke?" Jack Fahey demands when Iris enters the room, propping the door open for Spencer. He's a little weasel of a man, with a pointed nose and a high, nasally voice; his right ear is covered by a bandage, dotted with blood. His beady black eyes flick to Spencer and snap greedily, "What about you, beanpole?"

While Spencer glances behind him like there must be someone else he's talking to, Iris slams the door shut and snaps, "Keep your trap shut, and maybe we'll let you have a cigarette." Her eyes flick to Spencer and she steps a little closer, whispering loud enough for Jack to hear, cruelly perhaps, "What are you thinking?"

Spencer sees what she's doing and whispers back, also loud enough for their detainee to hear, "Narcissism to mask deep-seated insecurity."

Iris smirks, eyes flicking to Jack without moving her head. "So puncture his self image," she drawls, stepping up to the table Fahey sits at, watching them wearily, "and this little hood-rat will talk."

He pulls at the cuffs that bind him to his chair, lunging at her across the table like a tame cat turned savage as he cries, "Hey, hey, hey! I ain't no hood rat — take that back!" Not trusting the cuffs, Iris steps back and her heart jumps in her chest, as Spencer steps forward protectively, but when the cuffs hold and Jack is forced back into his chair, she gains her confidence back.