The hall outside Mozell's cubby-hole office was once again crowded. Mozell had informed Donaldson firmly that Greg had 'shotgun'--right behind her--and he could like it, or lump it. She did allow Donaldson to claim the only other available space, just inside the door, which meant that Pfeiffer and Clark were outside peering in. Grissom had been finishing up some vital paperwork on a case, and was the last to arrive, so he had to settle for the back of the crowd.

Mozell had turned in her chair and was giving Donaldson the sort of stare usually limited to the province of drill sergeants or teaching nuns. "Understand something here, Donatello--I don't give a damn what you think about my friends. We need this information, and coming down hot and heavy on them will simply make them that much more stubborn."

"But--"

"No buts. You could put these people in the Black Hole of Calcutta, and they'd just get even more stubborn." She reached out and started poking him in the chest, not at all gently. "You're only here on MY sufferance, and if you piss off my friends, I'll make you regret it. Do. You. Understand?"

Agent Donaldson frowned. McClain was enough to give a man ulcers. Why couldn't she just be an obedient target, blast it all! But they needed her, like it or not. So he held his tongue, albeit with some difficulty. He nodded sharply, and stood back slightly, so that Grissom, Clark and the others could look into McClain's office as she called her 'contacts' by way of an internet video chat program.

Moe fired up CU-SeeMe, quickly punching in an address and checking the focus of the web-cam, making certain it caught her best side. "And you might be acting a little appreciative that I brought in my own web cam for this."

"We could have gotten you..."

"I've dealt with requisitions in my life. No thanks. They could be having my first year memorial service before it came through."

"In a special case..."

"And then you owe someone," said Greg.

"I suppose I could have stolen one from somewhere else in the building," said Mozell absently, "but people seem to frown on that." The speakers clicked, and she smiled as she could practically feel Donaldson wince at the recorded voice of a famous comedienne chanting "One-Ringy-Dingy, Two-Ringy-Dingy..." "Lily Tomlin is a genius."

Greg said, "An' thath's the truth," then blew a raspberry. Donaldson pulled a package of TUMS out of his pocket and took the first one of the day.

The window popped open, and everyone in the office could see into what looked like a bizarre mixture of a Victorian-era men's club crossed with a cyber-cafe. A short, square man wearing a pin-striped, single-breasted suit was looking back at them. He had a rather impressive mustache and was puffing on a cigar only slightly smaller than Cuba's yearly tobacco harvest as he smiled at the camera in a rather demented fashion.

Donaldson had just a split second to wonder if he'd actually seen a stuffed polar bear in the background when the man spoke up. "Scribe! Hola! Guten Tag! Howdy! Long time no see!" His eyes flicked back and forth, taking in the image from Moe's camera. "I see you've finally got that job working for the Empire, lass... I hope this call isn't business. Tish and I ARE still part of the Rebel Alliance, you know."

Moe surprised everyone by giggling. "Had to pay the bills, Gomez. And I wasn't about to go back to clerking at one of those stores again! I've sworn that off unless I have offspring in danger of being taken away for non-support."

"After last time, I don't blame you. Here, let me call Tish, she's been dying to talk to you." He turned away from the camera for a second. "Tish! Cara mia! It's Scribe! She's on the line!"

A tall, pale women in a long black dress stepped into the camera's view. "Scribe! Dear! How are you? I do hope you've recovered after that dreadful incident with the broomstick."

Mozell nodded. "He's in jail, I have a new job and a cute boytoy."

"Tish" raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? You understand that you will have No peace from me until I see photographs. Many, many photographs. Full frontal will be required."

"I can't provide the nekkidness right now, but here's a quick look." Mozell reached up, grabbed Greg's collar, and dragged him down so that he'd be visible. "Say hello to the nice people, Greg."

"Hello, nice people," Greg said obligingly.

"Are you treating our girl right?" Gomez's voice was still jovial, but there was a glint in his eyes.

"Doing my best to be a cross between a body guard, a gigolo, and a best friend."

"Good. Keep it up."

Tish purred, "Ah, Scribe. You've made an excellent choice, dear. If you need any advice on training..."

Meanwhile, Donaldson's jaw was sagging slightly. "We have to trust these lunatics?" he hissed at Grissom. "They look like they've just escaped from a remake of the 'Addams Family' show!"

"That's up to you," Grissom whispered back. "How many more deaths do you want this stalker to rack up, eh?" Donaldson's jaw tightened, but he remained quiet.

Mozell was continuing to speak. "I know where to come, but right now I've got a problem, Tish. It's a bad one, and before you ask, it's not job related. Not directly, anyway. This one is personal."

"What is it?" inquired the tall, pale woman solicitously. "How can we help?"

Moe took a deep breath. "Remember Bee-Bee?"

"Yes," Tish and Gomez both nodded.

"She's dead. Murdered. And I'm next."

"What?"

"Someone is cyberstalking internet fanfic authors. And I seem to be their next target."

She gave them a fast run down on the case so far. Greg had wiggled out of the room and faxed the significant paperwork. When Donaldson had asked why she didn't just forward it through an email program, he'd received disbelieving stares. Mozell had informed him, gently for her, that the faxing left less of a trail.

Soon Gomes and Tish were bent over a stack of papers. "These are the headers of your most recent emails, yes?"

Moe nodded. "I saved what I could when I realized that his behavior matched the profile we'd been sent."

Gomez looked at the freshly printed sheet closely. "All duds, save for the originating machine. Tish, take a look at this. Doesn't it seem familiar?"

Morticia accepted the sheet, noting the underlined IP address. "I recall seeing this before, but not when or where."

Donaldson let out an irritated grunt. "And these are the experts Ms. McClain thinks will save the day?" he mumbled softly.

Not softly enough, apparently. Morticia turned back to the camera. "From your ill-fitting, off the rack suit--you did purchase it from Sears, no?" Mozell noticed how the agent's mouth tightened in annoyance, and gave Greg a smirk and eyebrow wiggle. Morticia was continuing, "and your highly shined shoes, you would be a law enforcement officer. State? No... from your attitude, you would be federal. FBI, perhaps?" Now Grissom and Pfeiffer exchanged knowing looks. Clark was making 'not me' gestures behind Donaldson's back. "Well, Special Agent, when your automobile needs repairs, do you expect the repairman to instantaniously deliver a functioning car? Or do you accept that it will take some time?" Her expression was that of a schoolteacher speaking to an unruly student. She turned back towards Gomez.

"Which position do you wish, my love?"

"I'll take point, Tish. You take shotgun."

The two sat down to a matching set of keyboards and began to type with a speed that had the onlookers blinking in surprise.

"Hmm... reserved IP number. Looks like it's been assigned to the government of Latvia and... Woops! Trace in progress! Get that, Tish!"

"I have it. Diverting."

"All right... Latvian government, reserved IP number, unused at this time... hmm. According to this, there IS a machine at that number, intended only as a placeholder. Tish? Shall we?"

"Let's."

"Now wait a moment," began Donaldson. "If you're talking about breaking into a computer belonging to a sovereign foreign government-"

"Shut. Up. Donatello." The agent glared at Mozell, but refrained from further comment. He did think that it might be a good idea when this was over to mention her name to a friend in the IRS. It was a measure of how ignorant of what he was dealing with.

The couple on the screen continued, paying little attention anyone save Scribe.

"If there is a machine there, someone may have zombied it. But there's still something about the address that seems familiar, cara mia."

"True, mi amore. Logic Bomb?"

"Depth Charge, I think. Our Scribe is in trouble, and I really do not think we have the time for Logic Bomb. It's effective, but slow."

"Truly. Depth Charge it is." Morticia's fingers rattled over the keys.

Scribe's eyes were bright. "Depth Charge 5.0?"

"Depth Charge 9.0, dear. We re-wrote it recently."

Moe glanced from the screen to the FBI agents and back again. "I don't suppose..."

"Perhaps later, when no one's looking over your shoulder, lass."

Donaldson muttered. "I've never heard of..."

"I'm not surprised," said Mozell. "It would make Bill Gates or Steven Jobs wet their jockeys."

"And... here we go." Gomez tapped a sequence into the keyboard, and suddenly, large amounts of text began to scroll up the secondary screen he was looking at.

"Holy Matrix," murmured Greg.

Both of the couple looked at it, their smiles fading quickly.

"So this is why it seemed familiar, Gomez."

"He never learns. I do not think he can learn. I believe it is time to make a rather blunt phone call." Gomez turned back towards the camera. "Scribe, would it help you and your federal friends if the owner of the anonymizer came forward and 'volunteered' to assist law enforcement in tracking the person committing these crimes?"

"It would be a lot of help! Thank you, Gomez!" the relief was evident in her voice.

"Then, dearest Scribe, you may wish to listen in on this phone call, along with your ill-dressed friends," smiled Morticia.

Gomez picked up a cordless phone and quickly dialed a number. When it rang through, he smiled nastily. "Giorgi, Giorgi, Giorgi! You've been a naughty little monkey, Giorgi."

"Oof!" whispered Mozell. "This should be good."

A faint quacking could be heard from the other end of the call."I'm referring to your being an accomplice to murder, Giorgi." The quacking, while still faint, grew outraged. "Don't irritate me, Giorgi. You won't like the results."

More quacking. "You want a reason? How about three million reasons, Giorgi? Do you feel cooperative now, perhaps?" There was a sudden silence. "Excellent. Now, listen closely, fool. I don't care about your little schemes and con-jobs. I don't care if you break the law or if you bend it into a pretzel. That's none of my business. But someone is cyber-stalking a friend of mine, and they're using your anonymizer to do it."

"..."

"Do I sound like I give a damn about your reputation?"

"..."

"Good. Now make up your mind. Will you cooperate? Or would you prefer I hang up right now and make a call to the Koan Choa Cho and the Keisatsu Cho?"

"..."

"I wouldn't dare?!"

"Oh, never a good response," Mozell whispered. "Giorgi must watch too many American movies."

Gomes was continuing. "Try me. Tish is already talking about coming out of retirement just for you. You won't like that."

"..."

"Excellent. Here's what you're going to do. In a moment, I'm going to give you a phone number for the Las Vegas Crime Scene Investigation division. You're going to call them, explain that you own the anonymizer that this killer is using, and that out of the goodness of your heart, you're offering what you know to assist in the apprehension of this henious creature."

"..."

"That's better. And a final reminder, Giorgi. Scribe is our friend. So I'm going to give you a little more incentive to help. In the event she's hurt by this scumbag, or worse, killed... Tish is going to call an acquantance of hers in the Genoyosha. They'd very much like to know where you live now, Giorgi."

This time, Scribe, and everyone in the office and the hallway beyond could hear a clear - if very faint - scream of "Noo!" come from the phone Gomez was holding.

She also noticed both of the FBI agents twitch at the mention of the Japanese-sounding word, and resolved to ask a few questions once this call was over.

"You don't want that to happen, Giorgi? No problem. You keep Scribe alive and safe, and you'll stay alive and safe. Very simple, really."

Gomez waved a pencil at the camera, and Grissom, realizing what he wanted, passed one of his calling cards to Mozell, who quickly IM'ed the name and number on the card to her friends.

Gomez read the number in the IM window to the phone. "You got that, Giorgi? Good. One last thing. You've got thirty minutes."

"..."

"I mean that when I hang up, the clock starts counting down. If you haven't gotten in touch with Vegas CSI by then, Tish and I start making phone calls and giving away your address to certain people who are very interested in knowing where you live. Is that clear?"

"..."

"Excellent. Good-bye, Giorgi. And Giorgi?"

"..."

"Clock's ticking!" With that, Gomez slammed the phone down on the cradle. "You should hear a phone ringing any minute now."

Mozell grinned. "History, I take it?"

"Indeed, dear Scribe," noted Morticia. "And with you, as well."

"Huh?"

Gomez grinned again, but this time, it was the rictus of a naked skull. "Remember the last time your website was vandalized?"

Mozell shot out of her chair as if jet-propelled. It was a good thing Greg had learned to read her so well--it saved him bruised toes, and possibly an inadvertent reverse head butt. "That was Ped Xing?" she snarled. "Oh, I want his head! On a plate! With horseraddish!"

Grissom looked at her, surprised. "I take it you've crossed paths with our 'volunteer' witness before."

"Oh, yeah. The bastard vandalized my website, and when I tried to correct it, he erased it, then locked me out of my own account!"

Grissom could almost see steam coming from her ears. "I understand, but you will need restrain yourself until we no longer need Mr.. Mr..."

"Giorgi Fetchet," interjected Morticia from on-screen. "We're glad we could help, dear Scribe."

"And don't forget to call us if he doesn't show," added Gomez. "We intend to keep our promise to the little vermin." He smiled. "You take care, lass. And don't be such a stranger! You've got broadband now. Have a little fun!"

They both waved, and the window on screen closed with a *blip*.

They prepared to scatter after the webcast. Grissom headed for his office, along with Donaldson. Pfeiffer had to get back to Mesquite for a few hours to wrap up some details on another case. Mozell, with Greg at her side, stopped Waylon in the hall, and all three came to a halt. "Care to trade?" she asked.

The FBI agent tried to keep a straight face, but the twinkle in his eye was unmistakable. "Trade what, exactly?"

"Info, as you already know, Waysides," grinned Mozell. "I saw you two twitch when the word Genoyosha came up. I might not speak Japanese like a native, but I know enough to start wondering why the words 'black ocean' should scare the pants off of a web-vandal like Ped Xing."

Agent Clark gave a mock sigh of exasperation. "And if I refuse, you'll just go out scanning the net for the info, right?"

Scribe simply stood there with a smirk that should have been registered as a lethal weapon, a fact Clark immediately told her of. "Okay. Is there someplace we two--" Greg growled softly. "--correction, we three, can sit and take ten?"

Greg nodded. "Break room's this way."

Three sodas were punched out of the machine, and Clark passed them around. "Shall I go first?"

"Please," smiled Mozell.

"Okay... the Genoyosha, or 'Black Ocean Society' is a racist, nationalist, political society that makes the Nazi party look like pikers. They froth at the mouth any time the 'no-war' clause in Japan's American-written constitution is mentioned. They want nothing more than to go back to the good old days of 1942, and an Empire of the Sun. Imagine the KKK and the Nazi party getting together and having a Japanese love child. That's the Genoyosha," finished Clark.

"Eeeeeew," sputtered Mozell. "That last was an image an author of erotic stories did not need!" Greg merely gagged. "I grew up near Vidor, which has a rep as being sort of Klan Central, and Jasper."

Greg twitched. "James Byrd."

"Exactly. Not exactly my neighborhood, but the whole region has been tarred by the hate crimes. And these guys sound just as bad."

"Not nice people," nodded Clark. "And yes, the FBI has run into them before. Back during 1940. They came to the US, and started trying to force Japanese Americans to spy for them." He adopted a cheesy German accent. "'You hef family in zee old country, ja?' " Clark shrugged tiredly. "Part - not all, but part - of the reason the nisei ended up in detention camps. Hoover over-reacted."

"Threatening people's families... sounds like the sort of folks you have to get in line to hate," noted Greg. "Hell, I think I'll skip the waiting line and just hate them right away. Saves valuable time that way."

"Anyway," continued Clark, "a few years ago, the FBI legal attache' to the Tokyo embassy forwarded a report that an anonymous informant had approached the Koan Choa Cho - the Japanese Public Security Investigation Agency - and the Keisatsu Cho - the Police Guard Division - with the news that the Genoyosha were approaching Japanese organized crime, trying to launder millions of dollars worth of illegal political contributions."

"Bet that went over big at the Imperial Palace," noted Mozell.

"Yep. And there were immediate raids. The anonymous informer was correct. The Genoyosha were trying to launder over thirty million dollars worth of dirty money through a Yakuza controlled bank. The Police Guard Division arrested everybody even remotely connected to the plot in any way, and the PSIA had a field day with the information captured in the raid."

"How's that connect to our new informant?" asked Greg.

"Well... I said the Genoyosha were trying to launder over thirty million. But only twenty-seven million was recovered during the raid. Three million in US currency vanished from the bank by wire transfer just minutes before the raid took place. As did the PSIA's mystery informant." Clark grinned, but this time it was a nasty one. "Given that scream we heard over the phone when 'three million reasons' were mentioned, any bets that we haven't found the anonymous informant?"

"No bet here," growled Mozell softly. "And I can't wait to see him get his, after we catch the stalker. Damned cyber-vandal. Won't surprise me one bit to find out he's an embezzler, too."

"Your turn, Mozell?" asked Clark.

"Fair enough. Ask away."

"What did Gomez mean about his... uhh... "

"Ladyfriend?" offered Mozell with a wicked smile.

"That'll do. When he mentioned Morticia coming out of retirement? It obviously scared our informant"

That got a reaction neither man was expecting. Mozell began to laugh so hard, she slumped over the side of the break room couch. Great whooping gasps of laughter robbed her of the ability to speak. Greg tilted his head toward her. "How can I not love someone who has that good a time?"

It took her a a few minutes to recover. "Oh, Clarkbar, you're gonna love this," grinned Scribe. "You just had the chance to see one of the highest paid dominatrixes in all Europe!"

Clark's face took on an astounded expression as Mozell continued.

"Before she retired, Morticia was the highest paid Domme in all Germany, maybe in all Europe. It took at least a thousand an hour just to talk to her. Any night she wasn't making at least ten to twenty grand had to be a evening that she was taking off to relax." Moe grinned at the flustered expressions both men were now wearing. "Then she met Gomez, and they both decided to retire."

"And what was Gomez?" asked Agent Clark as he tried manfully to pretend he'd never been embarrassed.

"A techno-pagan, and possibly one of the Great Old Ones," Scribe replied.

"Funny," said Clark dryly, "He didn't look like he had tentacles."

"Sweet!" chuckled Mozell. "A fed that reads Lovecraft! I knew there was a reason I liked you." She smirked a little. "In this case, the Gods are people like Admiral Grace Hopper, and all the others from the 40's and 50's who gave us modern computers."

Clark made the connection. "And the Great Old Ones are the hackers who appeared in the 60's and 70's?"

Mozell nodded. "No one's sure which one he is, and nobody wants to push it, either. He's a sweet man, but Tish is very defensive of him, and he's no pushover himself. Last newb that tried his patience is living on an Amish farm now."

"Why?"

"That's about the only place you can live when every computer in the USA refuses to believe you exist. His driver's licence, his credit cards, you name it, if it was on a computer, it went *poof*. And stayed *poof*."

"Ouch," winced Clark.

"Look at the bright side... he also went *poof* to the IRS. Which the tax boys probably find annoying as hell."

All three paused to savor the thought.

"Anyway, when they decided to retire, they also chose to live the way they wanted to live, and to hell with what any neighbors might think of it," continued Mozell. "They have the right."

Clark nodded. "They have the right."