"Come on, Nicky, give me something I can use." Peter paced the floor of the bullpen to the outer limit of his phone cord's reach, then retraced his steps. "Henderson didn't commit suicide. I know that much." He failed to stifle a yawn. "Suicide doesn't make sense, you know that."

"Let me run the tox screens and see what I come up with. But you know, Pete, homicide's gonna be a hard sell. I mean, the guy was found in solitary, dead as a doornail, with a vial in his hand."

The coroner's enthusiastic voice infuriated Peter. How the hell could anyone be that awake at four a.m. on a Monday? The notion Nicky had been slated for the night shift this week crossed Peter's mind, but he dismissed the idea as quickly as it came. No one who worked nights ever sounded as chipper as Nicky did. No, Paul must have requested Nicky be the one to perform the autopsy, and the call had probably routed him out of bed. Odds were caffeine had made Nicky this hyper; Peter had seen it work on him that way before. He wished the three cups of coffee he'd drunk since midnight would have the same effect on him.

Peter rubbed his bleary eyes and reached for the mug of cold coffee on the corner of his desk. He took a gulp and grimaced at the acrid taste as he swallowed. Battery acid. He had no intention of comparing the tastes of the two, but he'd bet his last dollar battery acid tasted like the dregs he'd poured from the pot half an hour earlier. "Yeah, and monkeys can fly." He shook his head, wondering where he'd gotten that one. "Far as we know, Henderson didn't have any medical condition that would have warranted him being allowed to keep medication in his cell. And the only way he could have gotten the vial in is under the guise of medication. Someone had to give it to him. This stinks to high heaven. Get me something to help me prove it, will you? Fast."

"I'll run the tox screens like I promised. I'll put a rush on it, but the lab can only speed up so much. Soon as I get anything, it'll be in your hands, I swear."

"Yesterday, Nicky. I need the report yesterday."

A faint edge of impatience crept into Nicky Elder's voice in response to the warning tone in Peter's. "You'll get it as soon as it's done. I can tell you right now it was some sort of orally ingested poison, but you're going to have to wait for us to identify it."

"It better be soon. I'll be waiting." With that, Peter hung up the receiver and considered the sludge presently inhabiting his coffee cup. Begging Skalany to make a fresh pot would probably be less life-threatening than drinking the rest of it.

"Nothing yet?" Jody's weary voice penetrated the fog in his brain.

"No, damn it." Frustration getting the better of him, he kicked his desk. The impact of his boot against the wood provided a meager catharsis.

"Told you they couldn't get the results as fast as you wanted them to." Peter whirled to face her; she held up her hand to forestall another outburst. "Whether we think Henderson was murdered or not, a tox screen takes time. And we've got to wait for the results before we know whether he was poisoned by a substance we can easily link to Jericho's operation."

"To what's left of Jericho's operation, you mean." Peter sighed and flopped into his desk chair. "My money's on Blanchard paying off a guard to put the poison in Henderson's food, then slip the vial into his hand after he died." He buried his head in his hands, trying desperately to ward off the desire to sleep. His mind drifted. The particulars of the case, as scant as they were, tumbled through his brain. They had nothing concrete... yet. The tox screens wouldn't come back for a couple of days. But maybe there was another direction he could take this in.

Jody nearly dropped her coffee cup when Peter leaped up. "No."

"Blanchard, Jody. I'm going to talk to Blanchard."

"No, you're not." Paul Blaisdell's voice overrode the start of Jody's trying to reason with his son. "If I wanted you to get close to Blanchard, I'd have assigned you the Garrity case."

"Yeah, which should have been mine in the first place," Peter returned, glaring across the room at T.J. Kincaid. T.J. did no more than return the glance with a hooded gaze, eyelids at half-mast. Peter found it almost comforting that T.J. was no more awake than he was. Unlike Mary Margaret, who exuded energy despite having been called in to work in the middle of the night.

"Peter, I called you and Jody in on this one despite the better judgment that said to keep the two of you away from anything remotely linked to Jericho because you're the best homicide team this department's got. I got Skalany and Kincaid out of bed a couple of hours later because I want you and T.J. to figure out if you can find a link between Garrity's homicide and Henderson's death and because I want Mary Margaret to pick up any loose threads you and Jody miss." Skalany grinned in triumph; Peter made a face at her and resisted the urge to act childish and stick out his tongue. "Work with it, son. I'm not about to let you stray off the reservation the way you did with Randolph Cooper, so get used to it." Paul turned to Jody. "I know from experience it's a thankless task, but I'm relying on you to rein him in."

Jody nodded. Skalany chimed in, "I'll keep an eye on him too."

Paul chuckled and walked back into Simms' office. Peter muttered, "Thanks a lot, Paul. Leave me to the mercies of the dynamic duo."

"Did you hear something?" Jody asked, looking at Mary Margaret.

"Not a thing." Skalany directed an appraising glance at Peter. "His lips are moving, but I can't hear a thing."

***

Steve warily eyed the envelope which had been delivered by a courier moments before. The return address was that of his attorney. They all had an inkling as to the contents of the envelope -- but what if they were wrong? What if Emily Webber had changed her mind about dropping the suit? Hell, what if she'd been too frightened to drop the suit after the morning's front page news about the death of the employee of Jericho who'd agreed to help the police reconstruct the terrorist's computer records?

"Well, open it already." He broke his stare at the envelope to meet Megan's eyes. As worried as he was about what the envelope contained, he found it hard not to chuckle at the sight of the anticipation evident in her expression.

Marilyn, who stood beside her, wasn't half as excited as Megan was at the prospect of the suit being over. Of course, Marilyn's visit to Emily Webber's home might be the reason for her serenity. Then again, maybe Marilyn had after years of watching learned the art of masking emotion that was her brother's trademark. His wife flashed him a smile which stopped his reverie cold. "You heard the lady. Open it."

He fingered the envelope tentatively, then drew back his hand. "Part of me's afraid to open it. Afraid it's not what we think it is." Steve directed an abashed glance at the women as he spoke. He was sure Marilyn, if not Megan, had picked up on the fact he was both gunshy -- a word which came to him less easily now that he'd actually shot and killed two men -- and embarrassed by exhibiting such reluctance to open the envelope, not to mention suspicion it wasn't what it seemed.

Marilyn offered him a reassuring smile and moved to stand behind his chair. Placing one hand on his shoulder, she reached for the envelope with the other. "Well, if you're not going to open it, I will." She paused. "It's the official confirmation the suit's been dropped. Emily told me last night she'd drop the suit this morning and I believe she did. She wanted out of the lies. She didn't want to be manipulated anymore."

"You sound so sure."

"I am sure." Marilyn flipped the envelope over, ran a finger across its flap, and dropped it back onto the table. "This is your vindication. You should be the one to open it."

Steve picked up the envelope and steeled himself for the worst. Ignoring the silver letter opener Megan proffered, he slit the envelope open with his finger and withdrew the contents. A single word jumped out at him. Dismissed. The lawsuit had been dismissed because the plaintiff was no longer willing to pursue it. He tilted his head to look up at Marilyn and realized she'd read the document over his shoulder. His own relief was mirrored in her gaze. "It really is over. And you're the one who made it happen." He removed her hand from his shoulder, shoved back his chair, and enfolded her in his embrace. "You made it
happen."

Marilyn took a step back and looked up at him, then averted her eyes. "No, I'm not. Emily made it happen."

***

"Looks like I'm the only one who can reconstruct Jericho's files now." Kermit flashed Karen a feral grin. "Cyber crime unit's not as good as I am, and the FBI hasn't added their brightest lights to the mix yet. Guess I cut my medical leave short and go back in."

"No, you don't. And that's an order, Detective."

"Paul's my commanding officer now, remember?"

Karen smiled. Damn. This was the smile she used when she had something up her sleeve. "Who do you think issued the order?"

Kermit groaned. "Is he still concerned about defense objections because of my personal stake in the case?" She nodded. "It's worth the risk. I'd have been the one to work this aspect of the case if Jericho didn't shoot us. There wouldn't have been any argument about it. If anyone on the force can reconstruct the computer trail it's me." Karen leveled a cool gaze at him. It wasn't a skeptical one, but he nonetheless argued, "I've seen the department's cyber crime unit work, and they're not good enough to get the evidence off that computer without Henderson's help. They've never come up against Jericho's security measures. I have. I know the kind of encryption he'd use, I can figure out the passwords without setting off some failsafe, and I can probably reconstruct most of the deleted files. If the FBI'd sent us one of the key people from the National Security Division, maybe I'd be willing to leave it to them to do the job. They've got some guys there who are close to as good as I am. A couple of gals, too. But for whatever reasons -- and my guess is the typical bureaucratic instinct to make things as hard as they can possibly be -- they sent us people from a field office somewhere." He snorted in disgust. "I can smell the difference between agents from HQ or the elite divisions and field office personnel a mile off, and the minute Paul told me about his first encounter with them I smelled field office." He moved toward Karen and stopped a few feet shy of where she stood, using the proximity to drive his final point home. "Given the circumstances, specifically the lack of ability I'm seeing in cyber crime and the FBI agents they sent us, there's no other choice. I'm the only one skilled enough to do it."

"Your skills aren't in question. Conflict of interest is." Kermit opened his mouth to protest; before he could, Karen expanded on the statement. "Not actual conflict of interest, because Paul and I both believe you can maintain your objectivity and treat this just like any other computer puzzle you might seek to unravel, but perceived conflict of interest. The defense is going to paint you and Paul as pursuing the same kind of vendetta against Jericho and his organization as he did against you, and you know it. We've got to make sure we don't give them an opening where they can convince the judge to bar the evidence we get off Jericho's computer as tainted. And the best way to do that, whether we like it or not, is to let cyber crime and anyone the National Security Division might send do their jobs." She paused, and Kermit could see a gleam in her eye. "But that doesn't mean you can't talk cyber crime through the methods they need to use. Paul's arranged for a dedicated phone line into your office and instructed cyber crime to turn a blind eye to any remote connections you might be able to make to Jericho's computer, once they get it online."

"So you're telling me I need to talk them in the back door, then lead them through the maze so we can truthfully attest they retrieved the evidence." Kermit considered the notion for a moment, then nodded. "The plan should work. As long as cyber crime understands I'm the one with the answers to how to do it."

"There's one more condition to your unofficial involvement in this one."

Kermit didn't bother to conceal the suspicion which instantly arose at the mention of another condition. "What haven't you told me?"

Karen winced, the action barely perceptible. She probably could have concealed the wince from anyone else in the department, but he read her too well to be fooled. "Jericho's computer doesn't move from its current location for security reasons. Which means cyber crime's going to have to use your office."

***

"Use my office?" Kermit growled. "No one uses my office without my permission." He lowered his glasses to level his best glare at Karen. "Not that you or Paul have ever asked for my permission when you've used it -- and accessed my computer -- in my absence."

"Privilege of command." A twinkle entered Karen's gaze as she uttered the words.

"Fine. But cyber crime can't claim that excuse. And I don't trust them with my setup the way I do you and Paul." Kermit resisted the urge to slam his hand against the nearest surface, certain he'd damage the furniture if he did. "Hell, I don't trust them with it at all."

"I'll ensure whatever pieces of your equipment you don't want their hands on are secured elsewhere." From most precinct commanders, it would have been an empty promise designed to pacify him. From Karen, it was a promise he knew would be kept.

"Have Blake do it." The glint in Karen's eyes warned him something was up. "What?"

"He's doing it as we speak. Paul and I thought it wisest." She laughed. "After all, there are some items in your office which would be very difficult to try to explain to cyber crimes."

Kermit chuckled. "You mean certain illicit items, among other things?"

"Precisely."

***

Frank Strenlich's bellow greeted Peter and Jody as they returned to the bullpen and took off their coats. "You two get anything at the jail?"

"Nada." Jody grimaced. "Unless you count catcalls from a bunch of prisoners who act like they've never seen a woman before."

Peter dropped into his desk chair and cast a glance up at the Chief of Detectives. "No one heard anything. No one saw anything. No discrepancies in the timesheets of the guards who work solitary confinement, yet none of them admit to having the slightest clue anything was wrong until they did their scheduled cell check and found Henderson in an odd position on his cot. Only thing we can get them to say is he was unresponsive, there was a vial in his hand, and his lips were turning blue when they found him."

"Not that lips turning blue's uncommon even among prisoners in the best of health." Jody fought to keep her teeth from chattering at the memory of how the cold had penetrated through her coat during their interviews at the city jail. The sub-freezing temperatures outside had felt warmer, for Christ's sake. "Way those cement blocks are constructed, they sure don't hold the heat any."

"You don't have to tell me."

She caught Peter's eye and nodded. He might only have spent one night in detention when he was charged with murder, but she remembered the chill of the surrounding when she'd visited him and slipped him his badge. She could only imagine how much worse it must have been for him. "Anyway, Chief, we got nothing."

"A big fat zero," Peter contributed. "Just more questions."

"Do any of the jail's surveillance cameras cover Henderson's cell?"

"To the extent that we could see whether anyone entered?" Peter shrugged. "There are cameras, but how good a view they provide of his cell is anyone's guess. We've got a request in to the warden for production of the tapes from yesterday as evidence. Should have them in a couple of hours."

Strenlich checked his watch. Jody gave in to the sudden urge to look at the clock on the wall. Seconds later, she wished she hadn't. It was after 6:30 already and they'd been at it all night and all day long. If they had to wait for and view the tapes, it'd be another good five hours minimum. God, what she wouldn't give for a long soak in a hot tub and some time to unwind.

"All right, get out of here." She stared in shock at Strenlich. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her own astonishment reflected in Peter's expression. "What are you waiting for? Tapes won't be here for a while. Viewing can wait till tomorrow. Go home."

Peter slowly got to his feet, casting a glance toward Simms' office door.

"He's already gone home, Pete. You and Powell should do the same."

"You don't have to tell me twice." Already standing, Jody slipped her coat back on as she spoke, then gathered her gloves and purse.

"What about you, Chief?" Peter asked, tugging on his coat.

"Like I've got anything to go home to." Strenlich snorted. "Get him out of here, Powell, before he delays my finishing up here and going home to a cold beer and whatever's on the sports channel."

Peter turned to Jody, his expression affronted. She resisted the desire to laugh and linked her arm through his. "Come with me, Peter, and I just might buy you dinner."

"But I'm the man, that's my job," he protested as they walked out of the bullpen.

"I'm a modern woman, I can spring for a meal every now and then." They were both quiet for a few seconds, then she asked, "Delancey's or somewhere else?"

"A large pizza and a bottle of red wine?"

"Deal."

***

Paul stumbled through the door somewhere around seven that evening. Years ago, being up for thirty-six hours straight wouldn't even have compromised his reflexes, much less his capacity to remain alert. Now, thirty-six hours without sleep left him counting the minutes until he could fall into a warm bed and sleep straight through till the alarm rang the next morning.

Annie greeted him with a kiss and an assurance dinner was ready. He returned the kiss and broke away from their embrace to hang his coat in the hall closet. "It smells wonderful, but I'm beat. All I've got the energy for is climbing up those stairs and getting undressed."

"Not on your life, Blaisdell." Annie's tone brooked no opposition; it was the same tone she'd used in their children's teenage years to set them scurrying to obey. "If I know you, you haven't eaten a decent meal since dinner last night."

He managed a half-smile he knew she'd hear in his voice. "Can't put one over on you, can I?"

"You never have and you never will. Come with me." She reached for his hand. "I'm going to get something nourishing in you before I let you go upstairs."

Paul allowed her to lead him into the kitchen, where the table was already set. Kelly stood over the stove, soup ladle in one hand, inhaling the aroma emanating from the huge pot on the front burner. She turned at her parents' entrance into the room and broke into a wide grin. "Oh good, Daddy, you're home. We can finally eat." The grin turned sheepish. "Mom's close to smacking my hand for trying to sneak a few spoonfuls of the gumbo."

Leave it to Annie to anticipate the need for a filling meal he could eat quickly. She'd used the recipe he'd brought back from a brief mission in New Orleans, too, he realized as he glanced into the pot. Chock-full of okra, andouille sausage, chicken, and shrimp, the gumbo gave off a scent nearly enticing enough to restore his appetite.

Annie removed the ladle from Kelly's hand and made a shooing motion. "Wash your hands, sit down, and let the blind chick dish this out." She punctuated her instructions by turning off the burner, grabbing a potholder, and lifting the pot. By the time Paul had washed his hands at the kitchen sink, she'd carried the pot over to the table and ladled ample portions into their soup bowls. Combined with the crusty loaf of freshly baked sourdough bread in the center of the table, this would be more than enough to satisfy his growling stomach.

Kelly darted to the pantry while her parents were seating themselves and returned bearing a bottle of Tabasco. Paul laughed. The hearty sound rumbled throughout the room. Leave it to his daughter to remember the story he'd once told her about the Cajun cook who'd sworn the secret to bringing out the best elements of the taste of the cayenne pepper in her closely guarded gumbo recipe was the addition of this hot sauce at the table. Kelly shrugged, laughter dancing in her gaze.

Paul shook his head, accepted the bottle Kelly proffered with one hand and the bread tray Annie passed to him with the other, and remarked, "In some ways, nothing changes."

"Eat your food before it gets cold," Annie ordered. "Then we can go upstairs while Kelly does the dishes and finish what we started last night."

The soup burned his throat on the way down, the irritation caused by his almost choking. Sleep might not be the only thing he wanted this evening after all.

***

"I've got your family, Paul. They're in my hands now. Want them back? I've got a few demands I want you to meet." The voice of the man cloaked in shadow was familiar, but Paul couldn't quite place it.

The man was an enemy -- an old enemy. He was sure of that, but the knowledge didn't help him to identify the man. It wasn't Jericho. For the first time in a long time, Jericho wasn't at the root of what had happened.

"Your son's afraid of me, Paul." The man's disembodied voice came from a corner of the warehouse obscured by crates and heavy equipment. Paul clenched his gun in his hand, the weapon's solid reassurance the only thing preventing him from making a mistake and endangering his family by going after his nemesis now. "It took a while, but he's afraid of me now. In fact, I terrify him." Evil laughter echoed off the walls of the deserted building...

... and in Paul's memory of the dream as he jerked awake. For a few seconds, he was disoriented enough the remembered laughter seemed to resound throughout the bedroom, growing more maniacal by the second. Gradually, he awoke enough to
realize it had been another nightmare -- and not one about Jericho this time. Disturbed by the thought of someone else coming after his family, he debated getting up but decided he'd rather not wake Annie.

For a long time, he lay awake, the dream having banished all semblance of exhaustion that might have remained after a few hours of sleep. Calmed by the slow, steady sound of Annie's breathing, he finally allowed himself to be lulled to sleep. His last waking thought was a vow to protect his family, whatever the cost.

***

Peter bolted upright, drenched in sweat, heart pounding. He scanned the room wildly, half expecting to see the visions of his nightmare manifest themselves right there.

Nothing.

The streetlights outside provided him barely enough light to make out the objects in the bedroom, but it was sufficient for him to know he was its lone occupant. No shadowy figures spouting cruel threats and enjoying his futile efforts to break free inhabited the corners. No instruments of pain and torture rested against the night table, the bed, or the dresser.

He took a deep breath and sought to find his center. It took a minute or two for him to calm his heart rate enough to enter a meditative state and even then he failed to find the peace he sought.

A voice shattered the stillness, its distorted words startling Peter out of his meditative state. "Ready to meet your maker, Detective Caine?" The words were the same as those he'd sworn he first heard after a nightmare a week earlier, the same as those he'd sworn he heard each night since. Their growing familiarity did nothing to stop the chill which crept down his spine.

If it was the aural equivalent of a vision, it was fighting harder and harder to draw him in each time it recurred. The thought of consulting his father about it crossed his mind, but Peter dismissed the notion. Somehow, he knew this wasn't something Caine could help him deal with. Somehow, he knew the fight against the possessor of that voice would be a Shaolin cop's, not a Shaolin priest's.

Of course, that would be the case only if his visions truly were at times manifesting themselves in an auditory fashion. Otherwise...

Otherwise, he was hearing voices. Otherwise, he was losing his sanity. Hell, the prospect of what could be the case otherwise wasn't worth considering. He was probably just picking random signals on the psychic antenna he seemed to have developed since the completion of his Shaolin training. With his luck, he'd be fighting the battle he knew would be his not because it was originally his, but because he stumbled across whoever spoke the distorted words and whatever they were trying to do to a stranger.

The thought provided an odd sort of comfort. The darkened room seemed to envelop him in a tranquil blanket, as did the fact it was quiet once more, the silence not even broken by sounds from the hallway outside his apartment or the ticking of a clock. A few moments later, he found himself hovering in the twilight gap between wakefulness and slumber.

The nearly inaudible whirring sound several feet away failed to negate the call of Morpheus.

***

"Our reservations are confirmed for 8:00 tomorrow night." Kermit sat back down at the kitchen table and reached for the coffee pot as he made the announcement. "Though why they've got their staff calling people to confirm those reservations this early is anyone's guess."

Karen arched an eyebrow. "Where did you make the reservations?"

Kermit chuckled. "Oh no, you don't. You're not getting that information out of me. Torture me all you want, but you're not going to find out till we walk in the door."

"I have ways to make you talk," Karen retorted in an accent which parodied the Nazi characters who'd used those words in countless old movies. She sipped her coffee, then added, "Ways you haven't even dreamed of yet."

The seductive purr with which she'd uttered those words brought a wide grin to Kermit's face. He had no intention of telling her where they were going, but he'd get mileage out of her efforts to pry it out of him. Enough mileage to take him to the West Coast. "I'm a resister. You'll have to intensify your efforts."

Her eyes alight with a mixture of curiosity and enticement, Karen replied, "Oh, I will. Count on it."

"All you're getting out of me is the dress code. Wear the black dress."

His fiancée's expression became confused. "The black dress? I have several, Kermit. You know that, you've taken them off me often enough. Narrow it down."

"Oh, you know the one." When she still exhibited no recognition, he added, "New Year's Eve."

"Aha."

Karen returned her attention to her breakfast, but he knew her apparent fascination with her omelet was designed to cloak the fact she was trying to puzzle out exactly where he was taking her. Probably wouldn't be long before she figured it out, either. Unless he missed his guess, though, she'd indulge him in his desire to keep their destination secret, to the extent of playing out exactly the seduction scenario at which she'd hinted. Oh yeah, he was going to enjoy the next 24 hours -- and then some.

Jim's gaze swung back and forth between Karen and his father, his eyes moving as fast as though he were following a tennis ball back and forth across the net. Even Peter wasn't often so blatant about his curiosity. Before Kermit could utter the sarcastic comment that crossed his mind, his son asked, "What's so all-fired important about tomorrow?"

Kermit wished he had a camera to immortalize the disbelieving expression on Karen's face and the way Jim's question had frozen her hand on her fork. "Look at the calendar, kid."

Making a face at the word "kid", Jim twisted in his seat to consult the calendar on the kitchen wall behind him. "Oh shit. Valentine's Day. I'm gonna have to scramble to figure out where to take Kelly. Now I know why she kept dropping hints about looking forward to Wednesday. I couldn't figure out why she was more excited about our date then than any of our other dates. I haven't exactly been paying too much attention to the calendar."

"Word of advice, Jim. Get her flowers." The instant the words were out of his mouth Kermit regretted them, for Jim visibly bristled at the suggestion.

"That much I know. A dozen roses, probably over $40 a pop this time of year. Got that covered, or I will when I get to a florist. But where can I take her that won't already be booked to the gills?"

"You could have dinner catered here," Karen offered.

"And Paul could kill the three of us." Kermit shook his head. "No, you'll have to find a place, Jim."

"Yeah, but where?"

"I just might be able to wangle some reservations for you."

"Karen, I can't ask you to --"

"Nonsense. I'm offering. But you'll need to wear the suit you brought or get another."

"Got that covered." From the smirk on Jim's face, Kermit knew he was planning something. God help him, he'd created a monster.

***

Peter stretched tired muscles cramped from sitting too long and rubbed his eyes. He and Jody had been watching the surveillance tape from the city jail for so long he was beginning to have trouble focusing on the screen. Of course, another night of fitful sleep didn't exactly help matters. Once he'd fallen back to sleep after the nightmare, he'd awakened at regular intervals and had trouble going back to sleep each time. As a result, he felt more like he'd been awake the entire night than like he'd gotten any rest.

He looked back at the screen and noticed a blip in the tape. It might be nothing but a faulty tape or a problem with the VCR or... "Jody, rewind the tape a little."

His partner groaned. "We've watched this half-hour before Henderson's death ten times already. And we've watched it every which way -- real time, fast forward, rewind. Face it, the tape shows nothing. All we're getting is a half view of Henderson's cell. Looks like whoever killed him knew the range of the camera and made his moves in the section of the cell and corridor that aren't monitored." As an afterthought, she grumbled, "And don't ask me why the guards don't monitor every inch of the jail, because I sure as hell don't know."

"Just rewind about a minute or a minute and a half." Peter slanted a frustrated glance at the remote control in Jody's hand. He still didn't know why she'd taken it away from him about half an hour into their viewing session. He hadn't played with it half as much as he would have done had they been watching videos for entertainment, rather than reviewing surveillance tapes. "Just do it, OK? Maybe it's my eyes, but I'd swear I saw something."

Jody complied without another word of complaint. Odds were she guessed he believed he'd seen an anomaly in the tape. Either that or she was humoring him, and after watching the surveillance tape this long he was sure she didn't have the patience for that.

Peter moved closer to the edge of his chair and leaned forward, elbows on knees. He squinted at the set and waited for the blip to appear again.

There it was. Pronounced enough he had a hunch the tape had been tampered with. Not that defective or overused tapes didn't often exhibit glitches equally pronounced, but still... he had a feeling. "Rewind it again."

Jody released a long-suffering sigh and rewound the tape. They watched the segment again. "I didn't see anything different this time than I did all the other times. Just half Henderson's cell and Henderson looking for all the world as though he couldn't possibly be dead thirty minutes later."

"Do it again." This time, Peter anticipated the blip in the tape. "Watch closely." He focused intently, shouting, "There!" when the blip recurred. "You see it this time?"

A long moment went by before Jody nodded. "I saw something." When Peter grinned in triumph, she warned, "But that doesn't necessarily mean we found anything. There could be something wrong with the tape. I've taped a program and seen it play back with the screen getting jumpy for a second. I'm sure you have too. It might be all this is."

"Yeah, or it might be that someone tampered with the camera, stopped the recording half an hour before Henderson's body was found, and spliced in old surveillance footage so the guard monitoring the feed from the camera figured nothing was wrong."

"And if that's the case, then someone managed to get into solitary -- and Henderson's cell -- sometime within that half hour and slip the vial into his hand." Jody twisted her neck as though she was trying to work out painful knots. "Maybe even force fed him the poison."

"Either that or they poisoned his dinner, then slipped the vial into his hand after the poison had taken effect. With the vial making it look like suicide, they'd have had time to dispose of any traces of the poisoned food."

"OK, so how do we prove our theory?" Jody posed the question with an eagerness Peter hadn't seen since she perused the desserts inside the glass counter at the pastry shop on Saturday night. "Whether the food was tainted or not, it's long gone. If we're right about the tape, no footage from the half hour in question exists. And however they carried out the murder, there's a guard somewhere who was paid off to let the killer into the cell."

"Or to commit the murder himself."

***

"All right, come on, give."

"Give what?" Kelly laughed at the eager expression on her sister's face and ignored her in favor of taking a huge bite of her burrito.

"You know what, Kel." Carolyn moved her plate a little to the right, so it nearly touched her soda glass, and leaned forward. Dropping her voice to a conspiratorial level, she inquired, "So, tell me. What extra-special thing does Jim have planned for you for Valentine's Day?"

Kelly spooned more salsa onto the burrito and added a dollop of guacamole. "I have no idea. He hasn't told me yet. But I'll tell you one thing, it better be something spectacular to make up for his keeping it a secret."

"Spectacular as in?"

"Well... " Kelly frowned as she tried to decide on an answer. "Not some elegant formal restaurant with a band and dancing and all that. Not that I'd object to anything like that, but I don't need it. As long as it's romantic. That's all I want."

"It would be nice, wouldn't it?" Carolyn sighed.

"Oh, come on, you can't tell me Todd isn't going to do something special for you on Valentine's Day. Something without the baby." Kelly looked at Brian in the high chair alongside the table and felt an instant wave of guilt that she'd excluded him so easily from any possible plans her sister and brother-in-law might have. But it was Valentine's Day, damn it, and taking the baby would put a damper on any romance the evening might include.

"We have dinner reservations at that steakhouse you were so vocal about liking last week. And reservations at the Sutton Place Hotel. We hired a babysitter to stay overnight because I didn't want to impose on you or Mom."

"Didn't want to deprive either one of us of our Valentine's Day, right?"

Carolyn laughed. "If I know Dad, he's got something really special planned for Mom after being away for so long. And you -- you've never been dating anyone at this time of year. Your breakups always seemed to hit just in time to destroy your Valentine's plans. I don't want to miss a second of how bubbly you're going to be on Thursday about whatever you and Jim wind up doing."

"You don't sound anywhere near as excited as I am about tomorrow night. And I don't even know where I'm going or what to wear."

"It's just hard." Carolyn focused on pushing her rice and beans around her plate with her fork for a few seconds. Her listless movements and the aversion of her eyes told Kelly something was very wrong in Carolyn's marriage. "We haven't really gotten along all that well since Dad came home and everything happened with Jericho. We can't seem to find much common ground, no matter what we're discussing." A hollow laugh escaped her. "Last week we even had a fight about whether I could make decent coffee -- and I know Todd likes my coffee. I'm afraid the evening's going to be a big flop. I mean, we've had these reservations for ages and I actually made plans for the babysitter a couple of months ago, figuring I could cancel them if I wanted to leave Brian with you or Mom. I just hope we can live up to the grand plans for our evening."

Kelly reached across the table and stilled Carolyn's hand, which had again begun to push food around her plate, by placing hers atop it. "Everything's going to be fine. All the two of you need is some time to yourselves without any pressure. You'll see. After a romantic night of dining and dancing, followed by a night hidden away in a hotel room, you'll be more in tune with each other."

Carolyn slid her hand out from under Kelly's and scraped her chair back so she had room to slouch a little. "From your mouth to God's ears."

***

"I can move up my appointment with the police surgeon to this afternoon, get recertified for duty, and be at the precinct tomorrow. As I told you yesterday, it won't be a problem. I could have made the call yesterday morning, gone to the police surgeon in the afternoon, and been in today. With Henderson dead, two FBI agents stepping on toes, and cyber crimes getting ready to work on Henderson's computer, the place must be a madhouse."

"Karen." Paul spoke her name in a warning tone, causing her impassioned argument to come to a halt. "I told you yesterday I'll handle things this week. There's a reason I suggested you stretch your medical leave out a bit longer than you really needed to. Enjoy your time with Kermit this week."

"And keep him reined in and away from the precinct?" Karen chuckled. "I know, I know, it's better this way. Better I'm here to run interference between him and Jim, if I'm needed. And I'm grateful for the time away from the office, regardless of how I've sounded. But you need to spend time with your family too. It's been too long since you've been home. I feel guilty you're handling things I should be handling down at the precinct instead of spending more time with them. Maybe the first week after I was discharged from the hospital, the police surgeon would have had reservations about my returning to work, but we both know that would no longer be the case. You need me there for more than the limited time I've come in during the past week, Paul."

"You're more valuable to me where you are. If I know Kermit, the minute he gets anywhere with what he's tracking down, he's going to ruffle a few feathers. You can stop him from doing too much damage. As far as my family's concerned... " He sighed, searching for the right words. "I'll take some time when we've wrapped up this investigation. Annie saw me during the two years I was away. We spent too much time apart, but she understands why I'm doing what I'm doing. You probably see as much of Kelly as I do, with all the time she's been spending with Jim. Carolyn and I need to talk when everything's settled down. And don't say your sharing the load here would settle things down enough to give me the time to talk to her, because she needs me to give her time before she'll open up to me. As for Peter, I feel better being where I can keep an eye on him. Especially after assigning him and Jody to this case."

"They're our best team. Given the circumstances, assigning them's our best shot at solving the mystery of Henderson's death, despite their personal stake in any matter connected to Jericho."

"Yeah. As long as Peter doesn't pull another stunt like the one he did with Randy Cooper."

Karen's laughter rippled across the phone line. "If he does, I'm sure you'll put the fear of God into him."

"I'll certainly try." Paul paused, then said, "Karen, take the time. Do what you planned to do about the police surgeon, come back Monday, and hope the work on my office is finished by then."

"Translated, hope you figure out somewhere else to put the FBI. All right, I will. Just don't work yourself too hard. Remember, Valentine's Day is tomorrow and I'm sure Annie expects you to have the energy to make it a memorable night."

Paul chuckled. "Oh, I have plans to make it quite memorable." A knock on the door interrupted the conversation. He looked towards the door; reflected in the frosted glass was Peter's silhouette. "Come in," he called, then hastily concluded his conversation with Karen.

Peter strode into the office, followed by Jody. "We might have something."

"Something revealed in that?" Paul inclined his head toward the videotape in Jody's hand.

"More like something not revealed. The tape shows nothing, but... " He paused, a wide grin plastered across his face.

Jody groaned. "Oh, for the love of -- Peter, don't drag this out. Just tell him what we've got."

"OK, OK. Jeez, she's taking your edict to ride herd on me to heart, Paul."

"Rein you in were his exact words."

"Whatever." Peter made a face at Jody's correction. "There's a glitch in the tape. Not for very long, but long enough to suggest the surveillance footage was tampered with. My guess is someone disabled the cameras and spliced in old footage without taking into account there'd be a minute gap – just enough for the jump from one to the other -- between the two. We figure either there's a guard who was paid off to let the killer into Henderson's cell and look the other way when he was murdered or there's a guard who was paid to carry out a hit."

"All right. Go make your theory more solid." Paul looked from one detective to the other. "In other words, prove it."

***

Peter scanned the last page of the witness statement, closed the file folder with a snap, and slammed it down on top of his desk. "Not a damn thing. Two hours of interviews and we turn up nothing."

"We didn't manage to pull in every guard who was on duty that night," Jody reminded him. "We may turn up inconsistencies in someone's story when we talk to the rest of them."

Peter's only response was to kick his wastebasket. It sailed halfway across the room, stopped in its progress by its crash into T.J.'s desk. T.J. jumped, startled by the noise. Skalany and Blake both glared at Peter. Broderick shouted from the booking desk to hold the noise down. Every other head in or near the bullpen turned to look at him.

He took a swift look at the door of Captain Simms' office. Closed. Several silhouettes visible behind the frosted glass. And Strenlich's door was wide open, revealing an empty office. Good. The failure of either Paul or the Chief to come out of the office in response to the sound meant they were preoccupied with the FBI. At least he didn't have to come up with a logical explanation for taking his frustration out on the furniture. Not for a while, anyway.

"Wastebasket never did anything to you, partner." Jody followed her acerbic observation by picking up the thread of the conversation at the same point where they'd left off. "With the mood you're in, we might even manage to crack one of them. And you're forgetting the best lead we have. We've got two guards who weren't on Sunday night's roster, but signed in anyway."

"And they're both conveniently out of town, taking some of their accumulated vacation time. Of course, the jail was shy three guards who called in sick Sunday and yesterday, which means they could have been called in to take up the slack. But still... if that were the case, they'd have signed in last night too." Out of habit, Peter raked a hand through his hair as he gave some thought to the situation. "Mistake we made Sunday night was not instructing the warden to ensure everyone who worked at the jail was in town and available for questioning unless we said otherwise."

"We? Way I remember it, I was taking statements at the time. You wanted to talk to the warden alone."

Any other time, he'd have resented anyone's pointing out his mistakes. Right now, he was more than happy to take the blame. He'd screwed up royally, and he hadn't realized his lapse in judgment until midday Monday. Since then, the memory of the error had taunted him off and on. And the fact several of the guards they'd questioned this afternoon had mentioned their colleagues' absence only made the mistake more glaring. He sighed and decided he might as well answer Jody. "Yeah, well, that wasn't the brightest idea I'd ever had. I shouldn't have presumed he'd follow protocol."

Jody got up, shot a warning look at an all-too-attentive Skalany, and crossed to her partner's desk. She snatched up the file he'd been reading. "Nothing says they'd have still been in town if the warden had followed protocol." She sifted through several pages, glancing for a moment at each one, then stopped to peruse their notes on one of the interrogations more thoroughly. "Check this out."

Peter craned his neck to see the document. No dice. Even a Shaolin cop couldn't make out someone else's hastily scrawled notes from the opposite side of a desk. He reached for the document and got the entire file shoved back at him. Jody leaned over the desk and stabbed a finger at the next to last paragraph. He read it once, then reread it to make sure it said what he thought it did. "Last time anyone saw them was quitting time after Saturday night's shift. But the sign in sheets show they were there Sunday."

"Exactly. So... "

"... we find them, we find out the truth." If they talked. The silent addendum must have been reflected in his gaze, for when Jody met his eyes, he saw the same doubts in her own expression. Great. If both of them thought the same thing, he knew what the result of their hunt for the missing guards would be, the way their luck was running. Dead end.

***

Jordan stared into her Scotch, lifted the glass to take a sip, and checked her watch. Ten minutes late. As if she had the time for this when Commissioner Kincaid had asked to see her at 10:00. She repeated her earlier movements, more annoyed by the second. Nearly 8:30 now. She really didn't have the time for this.

"Sorry, I had to finish up the paperwork on my latest bust or risk the Chief's wrath," Morgan explained as she stripped off her coat and perched on the bar stool beside Jordan. "Would have gotten here in time if we'd gone to Delancey's."

"Too many prying ears there." She waited while the bartender took Morgan's drink order, then added, "Besides, the atmosphere here's a lot better. None of the cop bar stigma."

Morgan's dark eyes scanned the hotel bar, then focused on Jordan. "As long as the drinks are stiff."

"Oh, they are," Jordan assured her. "Quite excellent liquor, as a matter of fact. Nothing at all like the rotgut we've had to encounter on vice assignments."

"I'll bet it's overpriced, though."

"What do you care? I'm paying."

"You've been awfully generous the past couple of weeks. First that dinner at the steakhouse, now this. What do you have up your sleeve?" Morgan eyed the well-built businessman a few barstools down with a rapacious glint in her eye. "This is a step up."

As she started to rise, Jordan grabbed her arm. "This isn't the night to see who you can pick up, Janice. We can save that game for another night -- one when we're both in the mood to play."

"And you're not so concerned with whatever's going on between Peter and his partner? Or so interested in finding out whether Jody had anything to do with your breakup?"

Jordan forced a laugh. Was everyone at the 101st blind, including Morgan? Jody's presence in Peter's life had been a problem from the start. She couldn't count the number of times she'd caught Peter eyeing Jody when he should have been paying attention to her. Shit, he hadn't given a damn about her coup Christmas Eve when she'd been the arresting officer in the serial rapist case. No, he'd been more interested in whether Jody walked through the apartment door. And after midnight, he'd sure as hell put more heat into the ostensibly friendly kiss he'd given his partner than the one he'd given his lover moments before.

Damn her. If Jody Powell didn't exist, she'd have been able to wrap Peter around her little finger. He wouldn't have had eyes for anyone else, that was for sure. Suddenly conscious she hadn't answered Morgan's questions, she dismissed the queries by saying, "Give me a break. Jody'll never be able to hold his affections for more than a few minutes, and that's if the remote possibility of them getting together comes to pass. God knows she'll be thoroughly disappointed once she realizes how shallow he is. The way the man goes through women --"

"Same way you go through men?" Morgan interrupted.

"Pot calling the kettle black, Janice. Anyway, Peter wasn't anything more than an extended roll in the hay."

Morgan's dubious expression made it obvious she'd caught the note of bitterness which had crept into Jordan's voice. Shit. "At least I don't make any pretense about it." Leaning over, she nudged the other woman. "Come on, Jordan, you can't think the innocent act will work forever. You're gonna have to get a couple more tricks in your repertoire."

"Oh, I've expanded my repertoire considerably over the past couple of years." Jordan flashed her friend a predatory grin. "To everything needed if I want to move onward and upward. Works damn well too. You're looking at Commissioner Kincaid's newest aide. I'll be replacing Lieutenant Slocum the start of next week."

"Jordan, have you had a few too many? You told me that already. Hell, you bragged about it at dinner last week. I'm looking forward to someone like you having an in with the police commissioner."

Downing the remains of her drink in one gulp, Jordan met her friend's eyes with a challenging stare. "In order to make sure the department's functioning as well as it should, the Commissioner's Office is going to need eyes and ears in every precinct. Unofficial ones, you understand."

Morgan snorted. "Spies for IA?"

"Oh, not for IA. For Commissioner Kincaid personally." Time to sweeten the pot. Morgan might agree anyway, but she was sure to agree when she heard what else Jordan had to say. "He's very eager to keep tabs on the 101st, for one. Whoever provides the eyes and ears in the precinct is sure to find he's extremely appreciative. And since I know you can be trusted, I thought you'd be perfect for the job." Jordan paused, allowing her words to sink in. "What do you say?"

"I say count me in. There are a lot of skeletons in the 101st's closet, and I'm just the woman to unearth them." Morgan raised her glass. "To finally putting those sanctimonious do-gooders in their place."

Jordan raised her own glass and clinked it against Morgan's. "Starting with the golden boy himself. Peter Caine will never know what hit him."

***

"Right on time." Commissioner Kincaid rose from his desk and ushered Jordan to one of the wing chairs near his desk. "A trait I greatly appreciate."

"I said I'd be here and I carry through on my promises." Jordan smiled, well aware he'd see only her external calm. Inside, though, rage burned at Peter Caine and she vowed revenge on him and his partner. That promise she intended to keep.

"Can I offer you a drink?" Kincaid crossed to the bar in the corner of his office and gestured to the bottles atop it.

"Scotch." He shot Jordan a surprised glance; she shrugged. "I've been drinking Scotch all evening and I'm not sure my palate would appreciate anything like the cognac you served me the night you offered me the job."

"On the rocks all right?"

"Fine." Her lips thinned in displeasure as she watched him mix himself a Scotch and water before fixing her drink. Hadn't the man ever heard of serving guests -- or women -- first? Did he think she wouldn't notice the insult? Gritting her teeth, she took the time he expended on the drinks and returning to the seating area to squelch the urge to point out the breach of etiquette. After all, it wouldn't do to offend her ticket to the top.

Kincaid handed her one of the glasses, then settled himself into the other chair and took a long draught of his Scotch. Only then did he pose the inquiry she'd been anticipating since she arrived. "Are you on board?"

Jordan shifted a bit closer to Kincaid, her action revealing more of her cleavage than had showed when she first stepped in the office. She had difficulty suppressing the smirk which threatened to form on her lips when Kincaid's eyes dropped to her breasts as though drawn by a magnet. Men like Kincaid appreciated her attributes. Perfect strangers did too. Why in the hell hadn't Peter appreciated them as much? "On board?" she echoed, schooling her features to display puzzlement.

"With my newest strategy for ensuring I know when there's a problem at any of this city's precincts." He leaned forward, no doubt to get a better view of her breasts.

Two could play that game. Jordan uncrossed and recrossed her legs, a single unobtrusive tug of her hand pulling her already short skirt up about three inches. The maneuver worked. Kincaid's eyes glazed over.

Mesmerized, she decided. The man was mesmerized. She took a moment to enjoy the power she evidently could exercise over him, then allowed a slow smile to play at her lips. "I've already recruited our eyes and ears at the 101st Precinct. Detective Janice Morgan, Vice."

"Will she play ball regardless of what we ask her to do?"

Jordan sipped at her Scotch in as ladylike a manner as she could muster with the knowledge she was probably over the legal limit by now. Oh, well, at least she could hold her liquor well enough not to slur her words or be compelled to pay close attention to the precision of her movements or her conversations. "If you knew her, you wouldn't be asking the question. She's been treated like a pariah by many in the precinct often enough. She'll play hardball. You couldn't find anyone more willing to dig into the dirty little secrets so many people at the 101st hide." Perhaps it was her imagination or the shadows cast by the light atop Commissioner Kincaid's desk, but she thought she glimpsed a slight trace of doubt in his expression. All right, if he wanted her to sell her choice a bit more, she would. "Morgan has her own axes to grind against people at the 101st, including Blaisdell. She won't betray us."

He nodded assent. "Sounds as though you've made an excellent choice, Jordan. Well done." Kincaid saluted her with his raised glass.

"I'm glad you approve. Some people wouldn't."

"Some people understimate your skills, Jordan."

"That's what we're counting on. Blaisdell and the rest of the 101st doing just that." And when they do, I'll blow Peter Caine and his precious Jody right out of the water.

***

"Watch and learn, T.J." A grin reminiscent of a Cheshire cat's spread across Mary Margaret Skalany's face. "You were assigned to me so you could learn to pry information out of anyone and everyone, so watch and learn."

"Watch and learn what?"

"How to find out what the Chief of Detectives plans to do for Valentine's Day and with whom. In other words, whether he and his ex-wife are back together."

"This oughta be good." Peter swiveled his chair in Skalany's direction. "And we have the prime seats."

Jody laughed, and hitched a hip onto the corner of Peter's desk. "For watching or heckling?"

"I like the way you think, partner." Peter reached to put an arm around her shoulders in a companiable hug, but thought better of it and drew his hand back. Better not give Jordan and Morgan any more ammunition for their snipes about the closeness between him and his partner, let alone give Skalany any more reason to grill them... especially since today was Valentine's Day.

"How much longer?"

Peter checked his watch. "Oh, I'd give it about ten seconds, tops. The Chief's due for his second doughnut right about now."

Right on cue, Strenlich stepped out of his office and headed for the coffee table and the box of glazed doughnuts which occupied the place of honor next to the coffeemaker. Skalany crooked a finger in T.J.'s direction to indicate he should follow her, then intercepted Strenlich. "We've almost wrapped up the Dolan case, Chief. Should have the final report in your hands in a couple of hours. And that's the biggest thing on our plate right now other than helping Peter and Jody with the Henderson case." Strenlich began to speak, but Skalany rambled on, "I mean, T.J.'s got something big on his plate with the Garrity murder, but I figure since he was working it with Chin, they can keep working the case without my help. At least tonight, that is. I've got a date with Caine and I have no intention of being late." Peter opened his mouth to get in a little friendly harassment of his ex-partner, but his current partner's warning glare made him think better of it. Especially since he knew she'd help Skalany get revenge if he did get on Skalany's case. "What are you doing, Chief? Got any special plans?"

Strenlich favored Skalany with the evil glare he'd perfected in the Marine Corps and generally used when one Peter Caine was about to get lambasted. "Not that it's any of your business, Detective Skalany, but I'm taking Molly out for dinner. Same place we always used to go on Valentine's Day."

"Getting in good with the missus again, huh, Chief?" Peter ignored the ire beginning to cause the older man's face to redden and went in for the kill. "Bringing her to Paul's welcome home party, taking her out to your old favorite for Valentine's day, probably staying the night. Do I hear wedding bells for a second wedding in your future? Or do you plan to remarry her in Vegas?"

Ignoring the laughter spreading throughout the room, Frank Strenlich sputtered for several seconds, then stomped over to Peter's desk. "I wouldn't be so quick to heckle your boss if I was in your shoes, Detective Caine. Dateless and dangerously close to buying yourself another shift today."

"Hey, don't look at me when you say dateless." Hoots and hollers resounded throughout the room, the most common remark a sarcastic "Way to go, Pete." He plunged ahead, nevertheless. "I may have broken up with Jordan around the same time you broke up with Kelly, but I'm not any more monastic than you are. I've got dinner plans with Jody tonight."

The woman in question stared at him in disbelief, but yielded to his pleading glance. "That's right, Chief."

Strenlich shook his head. "Don't you get enough of him on the job, Powell? Do you really want to expose yourself to our loose cannon on your off hours, too?"

Jody laughed. "Wild cards don't bother me. My sister was one." Peter winced, memory taking him back to the night Kira was killed, to the feel of her still form in his arms and the brand of the Shadow Assassin on her forehead. Jody's hand reached across the desk to cover his. "If I could endure Kira's harebrained schemes when we were teenagers, Peter Caine off the job is going to be a piece of cake." Under her breath, she hissed, "And it better be chocolate."

Peter caught the reference nonetheless. His laughter died in his throat when he noticed Jordan glaring daggers at him from across the room. Whatever he'd been about to say fled his mind as well.

Skalany sauntered over and slung an arm around the burly Chief of Detectives' shoulder. "So, Chief, got an order in for those dozen roses you used to send Molly every year?"

"Damn." Removing Skalany's arm from his shoulder, Strenlich strode back toward his office. Seconds after he slammed the door, he opened it and bellowed, "Broderick, you remember the name of that florist over on Maple Street?"

"Two for one," Peter muttered. "Skalany got two for one."

The dark-haired woman stuck her tongue out at him, then turned to T.J. "And that, partner," Skalany pronounced, "is how it's done."

***

Once Strenlich was safely in his office, no doubt scrambling to make sure those roses got delivered, Peter headed for Simms' office. A single rap on the doorframe was all the warning he gave before walking in and shutting the door behind him.

Dropping into one of the visitors' chairs with an unceremonious plop, he uttered a single word. "Help."

Paul removed his reading glasses and set aside the document he'd been reading. "You and Jody reach a dead end on the Henderson case?"

Peter grimaced. "That too."

"OK, kid, what's the problem?"

"I sorta -- Skalany trapped me into -- well, it's what I wanted to do anyway, but I thought it was too soon --" Peter sputtered to a halt, damning the way his tongue was tripping over itself trying to frame the question.

"This sounds like a good one." Paul chuckled. "Maybe if you start at the beginning, I'll be able to figure out what you're talking about and what you need help with."

"Skalany was pestering Strenlich about his taking Molly out tonight and I said a few things and the Chief got on my back and suggested I didn't have plans for tonight and I didn't, but I announced I had plans with Jody and she didn't sell me out." Peter sucked in a deep breath as he finished blurting out the sequence of events. Sprawling into a more comfortable position, he turned imploring eyes on Paul.

"And you want me to help you figure out where you can get reservations this late?"

"Yeah." Embarrassed, Peter ducked his head. "And where I can get some spectacular flowers, because I think this is gonna cost me big time."

"Oh, I think this will be the talk of the precinct for the next couple of days," Paul teased. "All right, let's start planning this right. What kind of food does Jody like?" He favored Peter with an assessing glance. "You do know you're going to owe me, don't you?"

Peter grinned, relieved, but sobered almost immediately. "I already do, Dad. For a lot more than this."

***

"What did I just do?" Jody cast Mary Margaret a pleading glance.

"You, my friend, just committed yourself to a Valentine's date with Peter Caine." The glee in Mary Margaret's voice was undisguised, but it wouldn't have mattered if she'd answered in a monotone. Jody knew her too well. This was just the type of happening she took unbridled joy in watching and commenting on.

"Maybe I should be committed," Jody moaned. "What in the hell did I think I was doing? I mean, for Christ's sake, he asks me less than twelve hours before the date. And I've got no way to prepare, because I don't know where we're going. Not because Peter wants to surprise me, but because he doesn't know himself. God, I've got to stop bailing him out when he pulls a stunt like this."

"Jody, Jody, Jody." Mary Margaret's singsong chiding brought a reluctant smile to her friend's face. "All of that's easy enough to deal with. Peter'll figure out where you're going, he'll tell you at least enough so you know how to dress, you'll go out, you'll have a good time. And if he knows what's good for him, you're getting flowers and chocolates. At the very least." She leaned over her friend's desk, her expression the same one she wore when she sought confirmation of gossip about intimate matters. "Come on, you know you want to go out with him tonight. You should have expected this after last week."

"Do you ever stop, Mary Margaret?" Good-natured exasperation colored Jody's tone. "Whatever is or isn't going on between me and Peter is none of your business and you know it. Just like whatever's going on between you and Caine is none of mine."

Mary Margaret's face fell. "I think there's more going on between you and Peter than between me and Caine. Even if you and that stubborn partner of yours refuse to see it."

"Oh, come on," Jody scoffed. "You've been dating Caine for ages. Peter and I --"

"-- have been seeing each other for ages." When Jody began to protest, Skalany held up one hand to stop her. "I know, I know, you say you haven't dated each other, but what do you call last Wednesday?"

"Jim trapping us into chaperoning him and Kelly." Skalany'd never buy it, but the retort had come quickly to Jody. At the very least, maybe Jordan or Morgan would hear her and stop speculating about how far things had gone between her and Peter later that night.

"Yeah, right. Peter wore his best suit for a non-date. Tell me another one." Mary Margaret paused, but Jody didn't give her the satisfaction of defending her characterization of the evening. "OK, fine, you won't admit anything about that night, but what do you call Saturday? Or, for that matter, all those Sunday brunches you and Peter have been having."

She looked away from Jody, who breathed a sigh of relief at the respite from being pinned down by Skalany's merciless gaze. The nuns her friend had studied under, nuns Mary Margaret claimed could cow you or extract information from you with one glance, had nothing on Mary Margaret. She'd not only learned that glance, but figured out how to make it even more relentless.

Mary Margaret studied somewhere beyond Jody for a few seconds longer, then turned her attention back to her friend. She lowered her voice, confirming Jody's suspicion she'd spotted Jordan somewhere potentially within earshot. "Brunches, I might add, you had even while he was still dating Jordan. Granted, those were when she was out of town or on duty or had other plans of her own, but still... "

"Drop it, Mary Margaret."

"Not on your life." Brown eyes sparkled with mischief. "You need an outfit you can knock him dead with. I'm taking you shopping at lunchtime." Without giving Jody a chance to reply, Skalany made a beeline for her desk.

Oh God. By the time Mary Margaret was through with her, there wouldn't be any doubt in Peter's mind about the depths of her feelings for him.

One of them was going to pay for this. She just had to figure out who was in for the payback of a lifetime – her fast-talking partner or her so-called best friend.

***

"I need the best you've got and I need them today." Blaisdell listened to the official of the FBI's National Security Division protest -- again -- that he had no computer specialists to spare to lend to the Jericho investigation.

As the man was winding up for another diatribe on how the FBI shouldn't be counted on to bail out the locals, Blaisdell cut him off. "We're well aware of that. Your superiors are the ones who wanted the Bureau to weigh in on this investigation. Whether you agree or not, the Director apparently thought the number of unsolved crimes to which we might be able to link Jericho's organization was worthy of categorization as a high-profile investigation. Someone down the chain of command dropped the ball and sent us two field agents who may be competent in other arenas, but are neither trained in nor skilled at counterterrorism work. Help like that we don't need. What we need is skilled computer assistance."

The smooth Southern voice on the other end of the line countered, "Your department has a reputation for having officers whose skills rival or surpass those of our best."

"If you're that aware of the reputation of our department, you're also aware that reputation rides on one man. And if you're as familiar with the Jericho investigation as you appear to be, you know that detective has been removed from the case because of the danger the defense could discredit whatever evidence he turns up by claiming conflict of interest."

"Look, all I know is every one of our computer specialists has a backlog of work we need done yesterday. We've had a few budget cuts recently. Nothing major, but enough that we're up to our ears in cases. I'm sure you know what being understaffed means. We can't spare anyone."

"That's your final answer?"

"Yes. And don't bother to take it to the Director, because the directive to keep our people close to home comes from his office."

***

Peter stalked the perimeter of the police locker room as though he were a caged tiger. Barely leashed frustration tensed his muscles and kept him prowling in a vain effort to work off some negative energy. "Goddammit!"

Whirling, he slammed his fist into the door of one of the lockers which lined the room's walls. The clang of metal on metal still reverberated when he resumed his circuit of the room.

"I was afraid that was what I heard out in the corridor." Jody's voice interrupted the silent litany of grievances against Rhoda Kaslo in which he'd been indulging himself. "What did that poor defenseless locker ever do to you?"

He ignored the question. "Why are you down here? What have you done with our witness?"

"Much as I'd like to say I strangled her, the answer's nowhere near that dramatic. Strenlich's watching her for a couple of hours."

"Strenlich?" Peter repeated the Chief of Detectives' name a second time, his tone as incredulous as it had been the first time. "She's been pissing Strenlich off as much as she's been pissing us off and he's only been involved in part of this fool's game of trying to get her to settle down enough to give us a statement we can use in court." Suspicion set in, and he narrowed his eyes to stare at Jody. "What does Frank want in exchange? Our first-born?"

Jody faltered for a second. "He figured maybe his spending some time with here would loosen her tongue."

"Loosen her tongue?" Peter barked out a scathing laugh. "How can her tongue be any looser than it already is? We've been listening to her all afternoon."

"And it's seven o'clock now and we still haven't managed to get her to focus enough on the things she overheard and any strange behavior Al Holden displayed over the past couple of weeks to get a coherent statement out of her." She brushed back a lock of hair which had fallen into her eyes. "Might as well try Frank's tactics. Nothing else has worked. And if he fails, at least we'll be fresh when we take over again."

"You never answered me. What does Frank want in return?"

Jody laughed and withdrew a lengthy list from her pocket.
"For us to bring him in takeout when we get back from dinner. And he was very specific about what he wanted and from where."

"We're going to dinner?"

"Chief's orders. He told me to tell you he wants us to get the hell out of the precinct and not come back for at least two hours. But if we're gone three, he's gonna put an APB out on us."

"Well, I hope he can work a miracle because if she stonewalls us or goes off on tangents too many more times, I'm liable to pop her one and get myself charged with police brutality."

"Get in line, partner. Get in line."

***

Officer Duggan yawned and reached for the styrofoam coffee cup which rested in the unmarked car's cup holder. He pried the lid off, tossed it onto the dashboard, and took a gulp of the steaming brew. It had been nice of Keiler to stop by on his way home to relieve him long enough so he could scarf down a burger and buy coffee at the nearest fast food joint.

He needed the caffeine to keep him awake on the double shift he'd drawn, even though being on patrol for two straight shifts never deadened his ability to remain alert. Damned if he knew what the detectives at his precinct were thinking when they assigned this surveillance detail and said it was high priority. But then, he'd never claimed to understand what the plainclothes officers thought, and the Jericho investigation which still grabbed the headlines was only one of the investigations with intricacies he didn't grasp.

Duggan reminded himself Sergeant Broderick, Chief Strenlich, and Inspector Blaisdell had all stressed the importance of ensuring those on surveillance detail pay close attention to their targets at all times. He guessed he understood their reasoning as far as they pertained to the lawyer for Jericho's right hand man, a couple of city jail guards who might be connected to a jailhouse murder -- and the vacant homes of two who'd disappeared shortly after the murder, and even the son of the ex-commissioner who'd gone down for a U.S. Senator's assassination. And Detective Caine's briefing at roll call had made a good case for surveillance on the daughter of one of Jericho's hit men.

Still...

This didn't feel right. The only activity he'd seen outside Emily and Phil Webber's house all shift, other than a few neighbors walking home, had been the husband coming home from work and later taking out the garbage. When he'd trained night vision binoculars on the windows near the start of his shift, shortly after the too-early sunset which signified the dead of winter, all he'd seen had been three kids of elementary school age huddled over homework and a young woman in an apron checking on them. Later, he'd glimpsed her as she drew the curtains. That was it. Why in the hell would surveillance on a house this quiet be a priority?

Emily Webber's hit man father was dead. Detective Griffin's brother-in-law had seen to that. Which meant there was no earthly reason to stake out her house as if it were a hotbed of terrorist activity.

Unless...

Duggan sat up straighter, unmindful of the cup still in his right hand or of the coffee which threatened to slosh out. No, that was impossible. Mrs. Webber didn't look like she could hurt a fly. The nagging feeling in his gut wouldn't allow him to ignore the possibility he'd come up with, no matter how farfetched.

Unless Emily Webber was following in her father's footsteps.

Reinvigorated, Duggan concentrated every ounce of his attention on the darkened house across the street. This time, maybe he'd be the one who got the commendation for cracking the case, not the almighty hotshot Shaolin cop named Peter Caine.

***

Blaisdell examined the dregs of Friday morning's second cup of coffee and debated venturing out to the squadroom to get a third. No, he'd better not. Last time, he'd had to dump out the cup and get a fresh one because it had grown cold while he got sucked into the vortex of Peter and Jody's frantic effort to arrange protective custody for Rhoda Kaslo. The crucial question had been what officers could be both trusted with the detail and spared from the duty roster, but Peter and Strenlich had butted heads on a lot else, including matters such as which of the department's safe houses should be used.

Two hours and much yelling later, the last detail of the plan had fallen into place. The bodyguards, working in teams of two on twelve-hour shifts, were four uniformed officers Blaisdell had commanded on their first assignments out of the academy. They'd dispersed to other precincts several years before, but perusal of their records after the documents were faxed over by their current commanders reinforced his judgment that they could be trusted. Peter had argued with the notion of using one of the department's current safe houses, contending Jericho could easily have located the sites. Blaisdell might have agreed, if he hadn't outfitted this particular one himself or if he wasn't so cognizant of the inherent security weaknesses of each of the city's hotels.

"Some risks have to be taken," he murmured. Peter's fury his objections had been rejected still occupied his mind. While his son had always been as tenacious as the proverbial dog with his bone, he rarely displayed the paranoia which had leaked into the concerns he'd voiced about the safe house location. Blaisdell made a mental note to keep a close eye on Peter until Ms. Kaslo testified at trial. If he didn't, Peter was liable to second-guess the moves made to protect the witness and follow the urge to check in on her. At the rate Peter's luck was running, he'd pick up a tail quicker than he'd managed to glue himself to Randy Cooper the previous week. And if he did, the result could be disastrous: the elimination of a key witness.

Blaisdell groaned, set the coffee cup on the far corner of Simms' desk, and picked up the phone. Back to the increasingly unfruitful quest to get federal authorities to take over the computer aspect of the investigation. He'd gone to the top of the FBI, only to receive the suggestion he should ignore potential conflict of interest allegations and assign Kermit, who the Director had termed "your crack expert, who spends too much unauthorized time in my agency's files." Efforts to get an answer from the CIA had been terminated midway through the bureaucracy when he was interrupted by the protective custody discussion. He could spend another several hours negotiating the various levels of covert brass. Or... he could go straight to the top.

The hell with it. He didn't have the time for hours of passing the buck. He was going straight to his last ditch contact.

***

"Time to crack open the bubbly!"

John looked up to see Marilyn leaning around the door jamb to peer into his study. Joy lit up her face, and her right hand clutched the neck of a bottle of very good champagne.

"I've got the glasses," Megan announced triumphantly, her head popping into the room from the opposite side of the door. "Steve's ready to pop the cork as soon as Marilyn and the bottle reach the sunroom. So all we need now is to pry you away from those debit sheets."

Chuckling, John closed the ledger, shoved back his chair, and rose. If he didn't move fast enough, Megan was liable to literally pull him out of the room. "To what do we owe this celebration?"

Marilyn grinned as he approached the women. "We spent the afternoon with the broker, the mortgage company, and the old owners. We closed on the house." He suppressed a laugh at the realization her excitement had increased the rate of her speech to near warp speed. "If we can get our act together, we can move in as early as tomorrow."

John settled an arm around Megan's waist and gently prodded her out of the doorway and into the hall. As he passed Marilyn, he remarked, "So we're getting rid of our houseguests, eh?"

Marilyn ducked her head, then raised it to display an abashed expression. "I didn't mean to insult your hospitality. You and Megan have been lifesavers having us here this past couple of weeks. After all, five extra people in the house is no picnic if you're not used to it. But we've imposed on you for far too long." A wide grin replaced her solemn expression. "And I can't wait to move into that house and make it my own." With that, she slipped past him and Megan and started down the hallway.

"I know you can't," he replied with a laugh. "But we've been glad to have you here. You haven't imposed on us."

Halfway down the hall, Marilyn turned around. Laughter dancing in her gaze, she retorted, "Maybe not yet."

***

Peter balanced an oversized stack of mail in one hand as he inserted his key in his front door lock with the other. Once the door was open, he removed his key, plodded into his apartment, and kicked the door shut with his foot. God, what a day. A day which had extended into night and consumed an entire shift of the next day, turning into one giant blur of time.

Rhoda Kaslo's abrasive nature had intensified while she gave her statement, rather than softening as he'd hoped. By the time they were finished taking the statement and spending all night and half of the morning coordinating protective custody for her -- with quite a deal of assistance from Strenlich and Paul -- he and Jody had both been edgy to the point of snapping each time they were confronted with a question.

Strenlich's returning the salvos in kind hadn't helped. In fact, the combination of Rhoda's attitude and the volume of Strenlich's bellows had given Peter a headache no amount of Shaolin self-healing skill could touch. Even the two hours sleep Paul had demanded he catch in the locker room that afternoon and gulping down twice the recommended dose of aspirin hadn't eased the pounding. He wished he'd had the wisdom to jump on Blaisdell's suggestion they leave mid-shift, as Jody had, instead of insisting on staying to complete the paperwork Paul had offered to finish for them.

He sighed, crossed to the kitchen counter to dump the mail, and returned to the hall closet to hang up his coat. Every step was an effort, the mere act of placing his foot on the floor enough to ratchet the headache up another notch. No wonder by the time he'd left the precinct Paul had been looking at him with a mixture of worry and exasperation in his eyes.

Screw it. The hell of dealing with Rhoda Kaslo was finally over, Paul had Kermit tracking down Al Holden through his airline ticket, and the composite sketch for which Skalany's witness had provided the description had gone out over the wires. Right now, there was little more he could do but wait. Especially since Paul's edict against unauthorized surveillance on Randy Cooper was certain to extend to his snooping around Cooper's friend – and Blanchard's lawyer -- Snyder, even if nosing around could turn up more information on what Blanchard was planning.

Flipping through the mail, he itemized it aloud with a note of disgust in his voice. Bills, bills, and more bills. Why did everything have to come due at the same time, and why were most of his billing cycles at the middle of the month? Abandoning both the rest of the mail and his mental exploration of that particular mystery, he went to grab a beer from the fridge. Might not be the best thing for a headache, but he sure as hell deserved it after what he'd put up with from Rhoda Kaslo. Besides, it was the end of the week, and it was better than pretending to be having a good time with the crowd at Delancey's when he wanted nothing more than to be alone in a silent apartment long enough for the pulsing in his temple to cease.

He twisted off the bottle top and threw it in the direction of the kitchen wastebasket. It teetered on the edge, then fell in. Peter grinned. Score one for Caine. Taking a gulp of the beer, he headed for the living room with all intentions of flopping onto the couch and remaining rooted to the spot for the rest of the evening. The shrill ring of the telephone as he passed it put an end to that fantasy.

Snatching up the phone before it could ring a second time, he growled a greeting designed to put off whatever telemarketers had plans to ruin his Friday night. The altogether too cheery voice on the other end merely remarked, "My, my, my, testy, aren't you? You really need to chill out, Peter."

"If you'd had the week I had, you'd be a little out of sorts too, Kel."

His sister laughed. "Don't try to con me. I know your week wasn't all bad. I know you had a good time on Valentine's Day." Before he could confirm or deny her assumption, she raced on, "Listen, Peter, I need you to do me a favor this weekend. Well, not exactly me, but you owe me one for bailing on me with the police auction and I volunteered you. Another pair of strong male arms is always welcome, after all."

Peter stifled a groan and took another long draught of his beer. Damn it, he felt guilty enough about getting her car blown up in the first place. She knew he'd never be able to say no to whatever harebrained scheme she'd come up with if she played that card. Hell, he usually couldn't say no to her anyway. He had a bad feeling about this and what it would do to his weekend, though. God help him, what was he about to get himself into?

***

"Hail the conquering hero." Kermit accompanied his proclamation by pumping both arms into the air.

Karen looked up from the photo album she and Jim were paging through. "To what do we owe this pleasure, kind sir?" The quip was accompanied by a flirtatious batting of her eyelashes.

Kermit scowled as she and Jim both dissolved into gales of laughter at her performance. "Funny. Remind me to teach you a lesson about what happens to those who scoff at conquering heroes."

Both appeared completely unaffected by the threat. Jim rolled his eyes and muttered, "Yeah, right", while Karen leveled a cool gaze at him. He'd long ago learned this gaze meant she was neither amused nor threatened by the warning.

"If you're not interested in hearing my news, fine." Kermit flung himself into a leather chair, slouching to get comfortable. "You can join the rest of the peons who worship at my feet when I find the answer to life's mysteries." He'd never admit it, but he was getting immense enjoyment out of his own overdramatization of the situation.

"Kermit... " Karen's voice held a note of warning, as well as one of curiosity.

"Seems my skills are recognized as the greatest in the land after all."

Karen's hold on the cover of the photo album slackened, leaving Jim to scramble to catch it as she let it go. She leaned forward, intent interest evident in the set of her features. "You mean --"

Kermit nodded, an evil grin spreading across his face. "One too many screwups by Cybercrimes plus some bureaucratic doubletalk about resources spread too thin by the FBI's National Security Division and the Agency equals my victory. Which was cemented, I might add, by both directors' assessment that someone as familiar with Jericho's operation as I am is the best bet to crack his system." He folded his arms across his chest and schooled his features into his best gloating expression. "In other words, when I go to work Monday, I get to crack the whole enchilada."

"Congratulations," Jim offered. Before Kermit could reply, his son took a hasty look at his watch. "Holy shit, I'm supposed to pick up Kelly. Gonna have to drive like a bat out of hell to get there on time." Grabbing his bomber jacket and the rental car's keys from the coffee table, he launched himself off the couch and hurried out the door.

Kermit watched him go, then turned to meet Karen's twinkling eyes. "Now that we're alone, I think some proper congratulations are in order," she murmured. "The very private kind."

"Oh yeah."

***

"How did I get roped into this?" Peter eyed his sofa with longing, but settled for leaning back against the kitchen counter instead of taking the phone into the living room.

"I volunteered you. Figured we could always use another red-blooded male to lighten the load. Besides, you and Jim get along great, so it shouldn't be that much of a hardship."

"But I just worked two days and a night straight on two hours' sleep," Peter groused. "After that, I was looking forward to some downtime this weekend -- time to veg out and do nothing." Shit. His complaint had sounded whiny, not outraged.

"You probably just need some good old-fashioned exercise to clear away the cobwebs," Kelly returned, unperturbed. "A few hours of hard physical labor should fit the bill. Then you'll sleep like a baby tomorrow night."

"So tell me, who else have you tried to dragoon into this?"

"No one. Just you, big brother, because you owe me and I'm gonna make you repay that debt." Kelly was silent for a moment, then admitted, "Marilyn dragooned everyone else anyway."

"So I'm supposed to give up my Saturday to be slave labor." Peter let out an elaborate groan. "Why are we doing this for a couple who could afford to have thirty moving companies do it for them?"

"Family and friends can do it better and faster." He heard the familiar peal of the Blaisdells' doorbell in the background. "Oops, gotta go. See you at the Gables at ten tomorrow morning."

"Ten?" Peter yelped. "You mean I have to leave here at eight to get all the way up there? I can't even sleep in?"

"Ten," Kelly confirmed.

"But --"

"I guess you better get a good night's sleep so you can wake up bright and early. Night, Peter."

He barely had time to mumble a goodnight before the dial tone sounded in his ears. Setting both the phone and the beer bottle down on the counter, he buried his face in his hands. What had he just gotten himself into?

***

"Teenagers!" Marilyn set down her champagne flute. The click of glass against wood emphasized her mock exasperation. "The minute I mention the words 'moving tomorrow', they disappear."

Mischief glinted in Megan's eyes. "Just think, though, you have the power tomorrow. Their assignments will be up to you."

Steve gulped when Marilyn flashed a predatory grin worthy of Kermit at his best. Maybe agreeing his wife would be in charge of the move and all its details hadn't been such a good idea after all. "Everyone's assignments will be up to Marilyn."

He hoped the remark would dampen Megan's enthusiasm. Instead, she grinned and said, "Yeah, and the men aren't going to get off easy by taking the prime ones for themselves."

Stifling a groan, he changed the subject. "Have you had time to tell Megan all about the house yet?" Steve sat back and waited for the fountain of effervescence that was Marilyn when expounding on the new house to start gushing.

"Some." Megan took a sip of champagne. "Not much. I think she was afraid she'd jinx the sale if she got too attached to the house."

Megan really could read Marilyn well, couldn't she? He was her husband, and it had taken him the better part of two days to figure out why the excitement which had possessed Marilyn when they put the bid on the house had faded to the point of near-non-existence later, though it should have been a bright point in a world turned upside down by the notification of the lawsuit. Of course, he had an excuse for being so unperceptive; he'd been preoccupied by the wrongful death suit.

"I most certainly did not."

Steve laughed at Marilyn's protest, but John beat him to the line he'd planned on delivering. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

Marilyn tossed her head. "Fine. If the two of you don't want to hear it, go check on your investments or something and let Megan and me talk."

"Oh, I wouldn't miss this for anything in the world." Steve slipped an arm around Marilyn's shoulders. "Even though I've heard it about ten times since we left the broker's office."

"Well, you'll hear it eleven." Marilyn started to move out of his embrace, but instead settled deeper into it. "The house is absolutely gorgeous, Megan. Words don't do it justice. You'll love it, even though it doesn't show itself off at its best this time of year. Lots of garden space outside. It's a rambling old house with lots of nooks and crannies and odd-shaped rooms and a humongous attic with creaky floors."

"Not another one." John groaned. "You're not going to make me feel guilty about handling the mortgage again, are you?"

"This house isn't haunted."

Why the hell did Marilyn sound so offended? She couldn't believe in ghosts, could she? Although, Steve reflected, after some of the stories he'd heard about Kwai Chang Caine, maybe he shouldn't be so quick to apply logic to the situation. Ghosts being real couldn't begin to approach the bizarre nature of some of the far-fetched tales he'd heard about Caine, after all. Reluctant to give credence to his wife's presumption ghosts existed, he instead interjected, "It's not the Gables, John. Don't worry about that. It doesn't look like something straight out of a horror movie."

"Are you sure?" Megan's dubious tone made Steve wonder exactly what John and Megan knew about his wife's tenure at the Gables before they'd met. "No bats in the belfry, or anything like that?"

"It's a turret, and I'll thank you very much to remember that." Marilyn hesitated, then added, laughter threatening to override her words, "And no, no strange creatures of any kind, as the house inspector and the exterminator Steve also asked to inspect the house can tell you." She released a contented sigh. "No, I've finally made it this time. I'm moving into the house of my dreams with my children and the man of my dreams by my side. This is going to be heaven."

***

"So... have you turned up anything juicy or is this just a good old-fashioned gripe session?" Jordan ran her finger around the rim of her martini glass, then fished out the olive and popped it in her mouth as she waited for Morgan to reply.

"Neither. This is a report on how much certain detectives at the 101st are allowed to get away with." She took a healthy slug of her scotch and set the glass down with a bang. The bartender and several customers at the opposite end of the bar looked in their direction.

"Easy, Janice," Jordan remonstrated. "We don't want to draw attention to ourselves, even if this isn't Delancey's. Sitting at the empty end of the bar can only do so much to keep things confidential."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But if you'd had to watch and hear what I've seen and heard the past couple of days, you'd be pretty pissed off too." Morgan drained the last of her whiskey.

Jordan eyed the other woman's empty glass, gulped down the remainder of her own drink, and signalled the bartender for two more. She waited until he'd delivered the fresh drinks, then asked, "Was it really as bad as all that?"

"Worse than you can imagine." Morgan sneered. "First thing was Skalany acting all high and mighty about her skills in drawing out witnesses. She was bragging about them to the Chief when Kincaid and Chin couldn't turn up a witness to the Garrity homicide. So he let her go out with them and teach them how the job was done." Disgust dripped from her last sentence.

"So what?" Jordan shrugged. "She's always full of herself about the way she pries into people's affairs."

"She turned up a witness. One who'd seen the killer. So now there's a composite sketch being distributed to law enforcement agencies far and wide and she's in her glory." Morgan stared into her glass for a moment; Jordan could almost see the wheels turning in her brain. A calculating glint in her eye when she lifted her head, she swiveled her bar stool in her friend's direction. "I wonder what the Commissioner would think about the way she treats his son like a lackey instead of a partner." The dark-haired woman rolled her eyes. "And don't ask me my opinion of Blaisdell and Simms' bright idea to try to groom T.J. and Chin for the future, unless you feel like listening to me for an hour."

Jordan held up a hand to forestall any such conversation. "Don't bother, I'm sure I'm thinking the same thing. There's not a damn thing we can do about it, you know. The Commissioner may not have too high an opinion of his son's talents, but he'll think T.J.'s being groomed for the future will reflect credit on him. I might just drop a few hints about the way Skalany's handling things, though. I've known a lot of men like him in my lifetime. It's fine for them to doubt their kids' abilities, but let anyone else question them and --"

"-- all hell breaks loose." Morgan grinned. "If it happens, I want a ringside seat."

"Done. So what else happened?"

"Mr. Golden Boy and his partner turned up a witness who can connect one of the missing prison guards to Blanchard. Which means they were hogging the spotlight all day yesterday and all day today. The rest of us might as well not even have showed up for our shifts for all the acknowledgment we got when we made arrests."

"What else is new? Vice never gets the credit it's due. Hell, you remember what happened when I arrested the serial rapist at Christmas." Jordan willed the embittered edge out of her voice, but failed to achieve her goal. "You and I froze our asses off as decoys and we didn't get so much as a 'good job' out of anyone. But Shaolin Wonderboy and Jody bust in on the hostage situation at the precinct – and can't even defuse it without help -- and they're the heroes of the day." She huffed in a deep breath, then took a few sips of her martini to calm herself. "Believe me, it's a welcome change to work somewhere where I'm appreciated."

"I bet." Morgan's features were suffused with envy. "I'm looking forward to bigger and better things when this little spy job of mine pays off."

Jordan whipped her head around, scanning the bar with a practiced eye. No one in hearing range, thank God. She heaved a relieved sigh before she turned back around, fixed a harsh glare on Morgan, and hissed, "Don't say that. Call it something else. We can't afford to have anyone overhear."

"Oh, for God's sake, Jordan, cut the cloak and dagger routine. No one heard me. But if it makes you happy, I'll never mention it again. Now are you ready for the last tidbit?"

"Shoot."

"Griffin got what he wanted again. Blaisdell convinced the FBI and the CIA he was the appropriate choice to crack Jericho's computer system. Regardless of conflict of interest."

Jordan pursed her lips in thought. "Wonder what they've got on the relevant officials at those agencies."

"Can't tell you, but it can't be anything good."

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"This could be the key to toppling them." Morgan lifted her glass in a salute. "And I can't wait to see them fall."

***

Peter stared at the ceiling, trying his damnedest to focus on the nuanced patterns created by the moonlight which crept in through the blinds. If he could just get lost in the patterns -- mesmerized by the interlaced figures of light and dark -- maybe it would hypnotize him into sleep.

Deep breaths, Peter. He fought to regulate his breathing, finding himself ticking off each breath in his mind. Thirty... forty... the hell with it. He could already tell the breathing exercise was going to have about as much effect as had his earlier aborted effort at meditation. And if he couldn't turn off his mind, he was never going to be able to sink into sleep.

He rolled over and shot a glance at the luminous numbers on the digital clock. Shit. Three fifteen a.m. He hadn't slept a wink, he needed to get up in four hours if he expected to leave the apartment early enough to reach the Gables on time, and it didn't look as though he'd sleep at all during those four hours. Great, just fucking great. He'd be working on less than six hours sleep since Thursday -- not that he'd had all that much sleep Wednesday night, between replaying the encounter with Jordan in his mind in a vain attempt to figure out how he could have avoided it and the nightmares, all but forgotten once he awoke, that had plagued his sleep. Figured he'd have this kind of luck. He just hoped he didn't fall asleep at the wheel tomorrow morning... this morning.

Silence pervaded the apartment. Peter found his muscles relaxing and his thoughts beginning to become muddled. Maybe he'd be able to catch a couple of hours sleep, after all.

The sound of a faint click greeted his ears. He tensed. A few moments passed while he struggled to identify the sound. One of the doors in the next door neighbor's apartment, he decided groggily.

An ominous whisper brushed across the edges of his awareness. Peter ignored the query as to whether he was ready to meet his maker as he slipped into a restless slumber.

***

A loud and rather insistent bumblebee buzzed around Peter's head. Eyes still shut, he batted a hand in the direction of the sound. Maybe he'd kill the damn insect, maybe he'd shoo it away, but one way or another, he intended to get rid of it.

The buzz didn't diminish, no matter how much energy he directed into swatting at it. Groaning, he raised himself to a sitting position and forced open his eyes so he could find the annoyance and dispose of it. He yawned, and made a mental note bees wouldn't invade his apartment in February.

Where the hell was that sound coming from? Bleary eyes threatening to close, he looked around. His gaze landed on the alarm clock, and he blinked twice to make sure he was reading the time right. It didn't change. He threw back the covers, leaped out of bed, and lunged toward the clock. A second later, he slammed the off button, silencing the piercing ring.

Shit. The alarm had been going off for half an hour straight, and he'd slept right through it. Damn it to hell, now there was no way he'd make the Gables in time, even at top speed. Kelly was going to ride his ass all day about her big brother's penchant for lateness.

One hell of a Saturday lay ahead. Peter cast a longing glance back at the bed and headed for the bathroom, hoping a shower would revive him.

***

"You'd think at least on Saturday I could catch some extra sleep." A bleary-eyed Todd McCall stood in the middle of his kitchen floor, rubbing his eyes and raking a searching gaze over the room. How in the hell could Carolyn look so fresh and energetic this early on a Saturday morning?

"Who said you couldn't?" Carolyn glanced up from the depths of her coffee cup. "What in the world are you looking for?"

"Is there any more coffee?"

She sighed. "Right in the coffeemaker."

It took another few seconds before he could focus enough to spot the device, which occupied the same space atop the kitchen counter it always did. He headed for it as though it were a homing beacon, stopping only when he drew within a couple of inches of the counter. The mug he grabbed from the cupboard was quickly filled with the steaming brew, and he paused only to ascertain the milk and sugar were already on the table before joining his wife.

Carolyn anticipated his reach by shoving the sugar bowl in his direction. "Thanks." He spooned sugar into his mug, movements made sluggish by weariness. "Honestly, Carolyn, I had plans to sleep in this morning. I've been working awfully hard these past couple of weeks to make up the lost time." His wife's expression tightened, but she didn't jump on his words as he'd half-expected. "I thought I'd have the weekend to decompress, you know."

The shrill sound of a baby's cry -- but not his baby's cry -- through the intercom followed close on the heels of his last word. Carolyn pushed back her chair and jumped to her feet.

"And that just goes to prove my case." Todd pointed toward the ceiling to indicate the nursery's location, but the gesture was lost on Carolyn, whose back was turned to him.

Seconds after he lowered his hand, she whirled to face him. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Why was it so important to do Marilyn this favor on such short notice?" He snorted. "You can't tell me she and Steve can't afford to hire a sitter."

The baby's wail echoed through the room again. "We'll talk about it when I get back downstairs."

What else was new? Todd grimaced as he took too large a sip of his coffee and scalded his tongue. As far as he could tell, in Carolyn's eyes he could do nothing right anymore. And he was getting damned sick and tired of it.

***

Carolyn clattered down the stairs, mildly surprised Todd hadn't yelled out something about her new shoes sounding like a herd of elephants. Puzzlement at his silence furrowed her brow until she rounded the corner into the kitchen.

Elbows propped on the table, Todd sat with his head bowed. Unless she missed her guess, the support of his hands was the only thing preventing his head from hitting the table. A wave of sympathy for his fatigue washed over her.

Several seconds passed as she stood just inside the kitchen doorway watching her husband sleep. How in the world had they ever gotten to the point where sleep and sex were the only activities guaranteed not to spark harsh words between them? God, what she wouldn't give to regain the peace which had marked the better days of their marriage. It was too damn hard to keep on living with this growing chasm between them. Too damn hard for both of them. If they could only find a way to bridge the ever-widening gap between them.

Her musing was cut short when she idly noted Todd's right elbow rested dangerously close to his coffee mug, which was filled close to the brim. She tiptoed forward and moved the cup a safe distance away, then returned to her own chair opposite him. Between sips of her own rapidly cooling coffee, Carolyn studied her husband intently. Too long had passed since they'd made the effort to set aside quiet time on a weekend just for them. In fact, the blur of child raising, Todd working or traveling for business on weekends, and family commitments -- involving both their families --  made it impossible for her to recall precisely when they'd last taken those lazy days for granted every week.

Rising to pour out the cold coffee remaining in her mug and refill it, Carolyn came to a decision. Come hell or high water, she'd make a concerted effort to craft a weekend like those they'd once enjoyed regularly. It was too late to do it for this weekend, but she'd start laying her plans today. A smile curved her lips as a stroke of inspiration hit her.

Turnabout was fair play, wasn't it? Maybe serendipity was the reason Marilyn had asked her to babysit today. Next week, Marilyn would owe her the same favor.

***

Peter slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop inches from the fender of the car which had just run the red light. Fleeting notions of pursuit of the vehicle filled his mind, but he decided against it. First, he was no longer within city limits, which meant the traffic violation was outside his jurisdiction. Second, he was late enough as it was; he didn't need to waste any more time.

He sighed as he started the car moving forward again. Not a damn thing had gone right this morning. His run of bad luck reminded him of when he'd first gone to live with the Blaisdells. Although she could and did read on her own, every day for several months Kelly had insisted Paul read her a bedtime story about some kid's horrible, no good, very bad day. And every night, once the story was finished, she'd turned wide innocent brown eyes on her sister and brother to ask whether their day had been as bad as that depicted in the story. Carolyn had always ignored the question. Peter usually hadn't been able to deflect it, especially since he had a penchant for attracting trouble.

Grinning, he shook his head. He hadn't thought of that story in years, but today definitely qualified as a horrible, no good, very bad one. Sleeping through the alarm had only been the first in a long line of minor catastrophes. The light in front of him turned red. Peter eased the car to a stop and dedicated his wait to listing the problems he'd had that morning.

There'd been no hot water for his shower. Operating under the false assumption a malfunctioning smoke alarm or burglar alarm had caused the half-hour long stretch of piercing noise actually caused by his alarm clock, his next door neighbor had pounded on his door to demand he fix the problem or run the risk of being reported to building management as a chronic disturber of the peace. With no time for breakfast, he'd grabbed a cup of coffee and a doughnut from a convenience store when a gas tank hovering on empty forced him to stop at a service station on the way out of town. The doughnut was so stale he'd taken one bite and set it aside to discard the next time he stopped. The coffee was both weak and acrid, and he'd choked it down, burning his tongue in the process, only because he needed the infusion of caffeine to wake himself up. And between a level of traffic unusual for a Saturday morning and idiots like the driver who'd run the red light a few minutes ago, he was more than half an hour late despite his haste in leaving the apartment.

Part of him wondered what the hell more could possibly happen today. The other part of him swore merely pondering the matter amounted to tempting fate.

Spotting the sign proclaiming he'd reached Brazelton, he relaxed a little. Only a few minutes more and he'd be at the Gables.

Kelly'd better appreciate his willingness to come at her beck and call.

***

As Peter had expected, the circular driveway was already packed when he arrived at the Gables. He allowed the engine to idle while he mentally catalogued the cars parked along the driveway. Kermit's Corvair, its lime green as obnoxious a color as it ever had been, headed the line. Kelly's new red sports car was parked behind it, but there was no sign of Jim's rental car. Figured Jim hadn't been able to talk Kelly out of taking her car; possessive was a mild adjective to apply to the way she felt about her new baby. He'd lay odds Jim hadn't been able to talk her into letting him drive it, either.

Two other vehicles were parked there as well, one a sleek black Jaguar Peter would have known belonged to John Durham even if he hadn't known what kind of car he drove. The other was a nondescript, but oversized brown panel van. Peter laughed. He couldn't believe it. Steve had actually rented or bought a moving van. This ought to be interesting.

Shaking his head, he whipped the Stealth into the limited space remaining behind the van and cut the engine. Queasiness washed over him at the thought of Kelly's wrath when she realized how late he was. Peter remained in the car a few moments to rehearse how to deal with her reaction. Only then did he pocket the keys, get out of the car, and begin the walk up to the Gables' front door.

He'd always heard about prisoners walking the last mile. Why did he have an inkling he was doing the same?

***

Duggan checked his watch. Damn. Still morning. Still part of his double shift -- if you could call a stint which had already gone past sixteen hours a double shift. He just hoped he didn't catch whatever strain of flu had caused his assigned relief to call in sick.

The stakeout had long since lost its interest. His brilliant idea about Emily Webber carrying on her father's work hadn't panned out yet, hadn't even shown any signs of doing so. The lack of visible activity during the early evening hours had been replaced by a still, dark house for the rest of the night. Even now, the only sign the residents were awake was the fact the paper had been brought in from the porch.

Boring. He considered his assessment of the hours he'd spent on this detail and decided to amend it. Cold and boring. Yep, that about summed it up. And he didn't see the situation changing anytime soon.

Almost on the heels of his thought, the roar of a well-maintained automobile engine resounded from the direction of the block's most distant corner. Duggan turned his head to see what kind of car it was, figuring any break in his steady diet of watching the Webber house was worth it. He did a double take when he recognized the make. Far more expensive than any he'd seen in the past several hours and utterly out of place in this neighborhood. Maybe the driver was lost. Or maybe he was on to something.

He leaned across to the glove compartment and removed the department-issue camera he'd been told to use if anything seemed out of place, never looking away from the street as he did so. The sleek coupe slowed as it neared the Webber house, then slid into a parking space along the curb. Its occupant, a light brown-haired man who looked to be somewhere in his 30s or 40s, got out and headed up the path to the house.

Duggan snapped his picture, wondering exactly how much the man's overcoat had cost. The garment looked like it was made from fine wool, maybe cashmere. Little as he knew about clothes, this guy struck him as the kind of man who wouldn't be caught dead in anything less. He watched as the man adjusted his collar, whipped off his sunglasses, and rang the doorbell.

The same woman he'd caught glimpses of the night before opened the door, the apron she'd worn the previous evening absent. Gaze drawn to her jean-clad legs, Duggan whistled as he snapped her picture. Color drained from her face – due to the cold, he guessed -- and she wrapped her arms tightly around her, one hand disappearing up her sweater sleeve.

Wishing he could hear their conversation, Duggan kept snapping pictures of the two until the roll of film ran out.

***

Peter took a deep breath and braced himself for his impending doom. Can't stall any longer, he told himself as he rang the doorbell. This might be Marilyn's house, but if he knew his sister as well as he thought he did, she'd leap at the chance to answer the door and start busting his chops about his late arrival.

A few seconds elapsed before the door opened to reveal not Kelly, but Megan Durham. It took just about every ounce of self-control he possessed to refrain from doing a double take. Admittedly, he didn't know Megan all that well, but with the exception of some newspaper photos where she'd been wearing an evening gown, he'd never seen her in anything other than respectable suits and sensible business shoes. And along with the proper attire went a no-nonsense, every-hair-in-place hairstyle. Today, however, her appearance was diametrically opposed to his expectations. The predictable business clothes had been replaced by a pair of faded blue jeans, a sweatshirt whose front displayed an image from one of the James Bond movies, and sneakers, while her hair was disheveled enough to look as though she'd spent most of the morning running her hands through it.

"Sorry I'm late."

Megan smiled. "Don't worry about it. There's plenty of work to go around. And your sister's been worried about you."

Yeah, right. More like worried she wouldn't get a chance to tease him about his delayed appearance. Peter turned and took a single step away from the Gables, but Megan grabbed his arm, pulled him into the house, and shut the door. He hung up his coat where she directed, then followed her into the living room, which proved to be strewn with boxes set up in rows so close together you could barely walk between them.

"The prodigal detective has arrived," she announced with a broad grin. "Peter, this room is command central, so feel free to pitch in wherever you're needed."

For the second time in the past five minutes, Peter was stunned speechless. He scanned the room twice; nothing changed. The Twilight Zone. That's what this was -- he was living in the Twilight Zone. Nothing else could explain the scene before him.

Marilyn's kids wore the T-shirts and jeans he expected, but Kelly and Jim were the only others who looked anywhere near what his subconscious had anticipated. Although... He'd bet his last cent Kelly hadn't left the house wearing an oversized Air Force Academy sweatshirt. And Jim must have had his bomber jacket tightly closed when he came to pick her up, because the reference to membership in the Mile High Club imprinted on his T-shirt wouldn't have gotten past Paul. Not in a million years.

Peter's gaze slid past Jim and Kelly to Kermit. If he didn't know the ex-mercenary well enough to suspect he had the proverbial eyes in the back of his head, he'd have shaken his head in disbelief. Sure he'd seen Kermit in jeans and T-shirts often enough over the years to snicker every time a rookie patrolman made the mistake of opining Kermit's workday "uniform" of dark suit, white shirt, and red tie was the only option in his wardrobe, but he couldn't remember the guarded computer genius ever making a statement with his clothes before, much less one which obliquely revealed part of his mysterious past. But here he was, shod in combat boots and clad in black jeans and a T-shirt whose front proclaimed "When I die, I'm going straight to heaven ..." and whose back displayed a map of Vietnam and the words "... because I've spent my time in hell."

Curious, Peter turned his head to the far corner of the room to confirm his initial assessment that Captain Simms' appearance was out of character. As many times as he'd seen her in dark sweater and pants on a stakeout, he still felt a bit shocked on the rare occasions when he saw her in jeans. He supposed he was too used to thinking of her as elegant and stylish, as too refined to dress as casually as the rest of the precinct even in her off-duty hours. After today, he doubted he'd ever think of her in quite those terms again.

The rubbersoled black ankle boots he could have written off. Even the faded, well-worn jeans wouldn't necessarily have rated a second glance, given the task before them this morning. And he'd probably only have looked twice at the fraying braid and numerous flyaway wisps which took the place of the smooth, tightly restrained French braid she often sported at work. But the sweatshirt emblazoned with a smoking gun and the slogan about prying one's gun from one's cold, dead fingers, a sweatshirt just large enough on her slender frame to suggest it was borrowed from Kermit... well, the garment was about as far from his image of his commanding officer as he wanted to get. It didn't help matters to realize she was comfortable enough in the shirt for him to be fairly certain she'd borrowed it frequently, maybe even thrown it on after lovemaking sessions.

Now there was a mental image he didn't need cropping up, especially after having gotten an eyeful of Jericho's blown-up photos of Kermit and Karen naked. Kermit wasn't likely to appreciate him envisioning that, and no matter how hard he tried to shield his thoughts he knew he wouldn't be able to do it well enough to get past Kermit. Desperate to rid himself of the image before he got himself in trouble, Peter shifted his gaze to Steve and Marilyn. After all, while his first overview of the room had indicated they looked a little different than he'd expect them to, they hadn't looked all that far from normal.

Hell, the only thing unusual about Steve's casual attire was Peter's own mistaken belief it'd be some expensive men's store's version of casual. If he was honest, he'd figured Steve for jeans which had never seen hard work, two-hundred-dollar sneakers, and a preppy polo shirt or sweater. He hadn't expected work boots worn down at the heels, jeans so worn they were nearly threadbare at the knee, and a Farm Aid T-shirt. Not that there was really any reason he shouldn't have expected someone who'd grown up on a farm in Iowa to still have a soft spot for such clothes.

Easy, Peter, your preconceptions are showing. You hate it when people prejudge you. Why are you doing it to Steve? He looked away from Steve, toward Marilyn, and smothered a grin. The quiet, serious woman he always categorized her as had been transformed into a fire-breathing taskmaster in charge of the whole moving operation. As if to cement the notion in her helpers' minds, her jeans were tucked into a pair of clunky work boots. Somehow, he didn't think she needed that particular visual. The sight of her placing her hands on her hips, the plaid flannel shirt she used as a jacket flaring open to show the Irish flag on her T-shirt in all its glory, would have put the fear of God into any man, woman, or child who'd ever crossed his or her mother.

Peter gulped, wished he could shrink into the woodwork, and refused to meet her eyes. He glanced in the only direction he hadn't yet examined with the rigor he'd accorded the rest of the room. OK, his first instincts on entering the room had been right. This might top all the rest of them put together.

John Durham was the quintessential suave Englishman, always immaculately groomed and impeccably attired. Hell, he was the kind of man Peter would expect to wear a suit and tie to work on his car, if he chose not to leave the job to professional mechanics. Instead of living up to the sophisticated reputation, however, he was as casually dressed as anyone in the room. The plaid flannel workshirt and disreputable corduroys would have been enough in and of themselves to floor Peter, but the piece de resistance was the fact he wore sneakers. Sneakers? Peter took a second look. Yep, sneakers. He wouldn't have expected Durham to know what sneakers looked like, much less for the sneakers to look as broken in as the old pair he'd dug out from under his bed this morning.

Marilyn's voice broke into his thoughts. "You've been here a couple of minutes, Peter, and you haven't lifted a finger. Stop gawking and get to work." Her gaze scanned Peter's side of the room, coming to rest on Jim. She pointed at a carton crammed with books. "You can start with sealing that box. Once Jim stops holding up the works by hogging the packing tape." Decree issued, she turned back to her own task.

"Yes, ma'am." Peter considered rendering a salute, but decided the effect would be lost.

Jim reached over to hand him the roll of tape. Leaning closer to the pilot so Marilyn couldn't overhear, Peter lowered his voice to ask, "Why are we and all these boxes in the living room? Shouldn't someone be packing up the rest of the house?"

"This is the rest of the house, buddy. There's some furniture still in the other rooms that I think you and I are gonna get stuck moving later on, but everything smaller Marilyn wanted packed in here so she could supervise. You should have seen what this place looked like when we got here."

Oh shit. If they'd made that much progress before he arrived, he was in deep trouble. Peter sent up a fervent wish to be magically transported somewhere without packing crates and set to work.

***

"What are you doing here, Randy?" Emily fought to keep her voice level, praying her tone wouldn't betray her anxiety.