Spare. Quiet. Enigmatic. Not for the first time, Mary Margaret Skalany reflected on how well the loft suited the personality of its occupant. She couldn't live in a place like this, couldn't imagine giving up the modern conveniences she took for granted -- like phone service, television, and her microwave. Yet... tonight she craved not creature comforts, but the peace which enveloped her here, easing nerves frayed to the breaking point by the events of the past two weeks.

Candlelight from the tapers set around the room cast a dim glow on her surroundings. The soft light soothed her. Eyes adjusting to the near darkness, she waited for the right moment to announce her presence to a meditating Kwai Chang Caine. She had -- somehow -- banished her earlier indecision during the climb up three flights of stairs and the shedding of her coat and gloves, but her newfound determination had in no way enhanced her ability to organize the thoughts that swirled in her mind. So she stood in the corner of the room nearest the door, grateful for the concealment of the shadows, and simply observed.

Several feet away, Caine sat motionless, limbs folded into the lotus position, eyes closed. Mary Margaret envied the ease evident in his posture. Tension and weariness weighed down her own limbs so she felt exceedingly ungraceful, as clumsy as the ugly duckling she'd been at thirteen. A sigh fought to be let out; she stifled the sound and shrank further into the shadows, fearful of disturbing Caine's meditation.

Flames flickered in the whisper of chilly air that seeped through the French doors from the roof garden. Her attention drawn away from Caine, Mary Margaret instead watched the candles, mesmerized by the myriad of dancing lights.

"You are... distressed." She started at the slow, even cadence of Caine's words as she tore her gaze away from the candles to look at the man now standing before her.  Answering her curious glance, he continued, "Your soul is in turmoil. The tumult of your emotions..." Caine paused, and swept his right arm out in an all-inclusive gesture. "...fills the room."

Flustered, all she could think to say in response was, "I... I didn't mean to interrupt you. Don't think you have to -- I mean, I can wait until you're through." Wincing inwardly at how inarticulate she sounded, she slumped against the wall. "Oh, hell."

A single arched eyebrow greeted the oath.

"Let's try this again," she began, one corner of her mouth quirking up in reluctant amusement at her own discomfort. "I came -- well, I don't know exactly why I came, only that I thought you might be able to help. Damn it, why am I so tongue-tied? Excuse my rambling, Caine." Stopping for a moment, she huffed in a steadying breath. "I need your help making sense of this whole mess that's unraveling before it goes any further. You probably have a better perspective than the rest of us, a clearer mind about it."

"What... whole mess?"

Her own confusion matching the puzzlement which laced Caine's tone, Mary Margaret replied, "The wrongful death suit against Steve Carlson and what could happen at the coroner's inquest. Peter must have told you."

"He did not."

Concern entered her voice as she tried to figure out why Peter would have said he intended to seek Caine's advice on the matter, yet have failed to do so after two days' time. "Well, that's news to me. He was supposed to have been the one to tell you." She shook her head and stepped forward, taking Caine's proffered hand and welcoming its warmth against her icy skin. "But since he didn't, let me sketch out the details first, so you'll know why I need advice."

***

"We've got about ten minutes leeway if we want to make it to the arena in time for the game." Jim Hellstrom tossed his napkin on the table, glanced down at the check, and reached for his wallet as he spoke.

"I still can't believe you managed to score tickets. Every year they sell out way in advance." Kelly Blaisdell shrugged, toying with the half-slice of pizza left on her plate. "Every year, without fail. Never figured out why, but everyone wants to see the game with the Maple Leafs." Laughing, she added, "Sometimes I think the fans wouldn't be this excited if we made the Stanley Cup playoffs."

Jim snorted. "No offense to your hometown team, Kel, but there's no chance in hell of that happening." He paused long enough to calculate the tip and slip a twenty-dollar bill back into his wallet, exchanging it for a ten. Adding the money to the cash already atop the bill, he continued, "Never has been, never will be. Unless you manage to recruit a Doug Gilmour, that is."

"Or a Bertrand Dubois?"

"Huh?" Jim grimaced as he saw the mischievous twinkle in Kelly's dark eyes intensify.

She took a long swallow of cola before satisfying his curiosity, holding the liquid in her mouth long enough to prolong his agony to near the breaking point. "AKA Detective Peter Caine." Jim's mouth dropped open in shock; Kelly broke into a triumphant grin. "Yep, that's right, my big brother. He went undercover as a player with the Carlsberg Sonics a few months ago. Peter probably thought the most embarrassing thing that could happen would be if he ever ran into the guy whose identity he assumed."

"I take it it wasn't?" Jim guessed, amused.

Although he hadn't thought it possible, Kelly's features became even more animated as she giggled, then told him, "Nope, the most embarrassing thing is photos exist of him undercover... and Carolyn and I managed to lay our hands on them."

"Blackmail material?"

"And you said you were an only child," Kelly rejoined in a sing-song voice.

"Yeah, well..." Jim's words trailed off as he made a pretense of re-examining the check and the money he'd left.

Kelly must have noticed his discomfort, for she rushed on, "Blackmail material to the nth degree, mind you. What Peter looks like in some of those photos --" She shook her head so vigorously her ponytail bounced against her shoulder.

"Says the woman who looks about sixteen right now." Jim's voice was soft, and he smirked when she fixed him with an exaggerated glare.

"Better explain yourself, Major."

"Oooh, I've got chills down my spine now that I've been yelled at by the teacher," he teased, reaching across the table to give her ponytail a tug to reinforce his crack about her looks.

"Wouldn't try it if I were you, Mister. Remember, I had a big brother to teach me self-defense." Kelly's laughter died in her throat as she started to swat away his hand, but slipped her own into it for a moment instead before resting her cheek against his palm. A slight hitch in her breath was all the warning Jim had before she took his hand again, leaned across the table, and claimed his mouth with her own, the action as bold as his had been at lunch with their families earlier in the week.

He returned the kiss hungrily once a split second of shock she'd initiated it was past, drawing her closer with his free hand. All too soon, she broke the contact between them, withdrawing her hand from his and sliding out of the half-embrace. "Kelly?"

"Wow!" Kelly lifted her hands to her flushed cheeks. Just as Jim was about to ask her if she was okay with what had just happened between them, she resumed talking.  "Hockey," she said, her voice unsteady.  She drew in a deep breath and continued, "Any more of this and we'll miss the game."

"Yeah. Yeah, might be late as it is," he agreed, sliding out of the booth and standing in one swift motion, then offering Kelly his hand as she started to rise. Electricity coursed between them again at the touch. Both snatched back their hands. Jim then diverted his attention by lifting her coat off the peg outside the booth and holding it for her. Her hair caught in the collar, and Jim's hand lingered a shade too long at the nape of her neck as he helped her free it.

As she waited for him to put on his jacket, Kelly wondered aloud, "How did you get tickets this hard to come by? Are you known as your squadron's scrounger?"

"Maybe." Jim grinned. "In this instance I didn't have to be, though. Got 'em off someone who wasn't going to use 'em."

"A scalper?" Kelly's struggle to hold back her laughter failed.

"Nope. Your brother."

Her eyes widened. "Peter?" At Jim's nod, the stunned look on her face grew more pronounced. "Peter has season tickets. He doesn't miss a game if he's not on duty, especially one against the Maple Leafs, and I know he's not on duty tonight."

Placing an arm at the small of Kelly's back, Jim began to guide her out of the pizzeria. "Well, maybe he just decided to do something nice for you to try to make up for what happened to your car."

Kelly stopped dead a few feet from the door and twisted to look up at him. "Not this nice." Jim wondered for a moment at the lack of bite in her voice, until he heard her add, "He never came by for the car shopping trip he and I were supposed to go on this afternoon either."

This time, unlike when he'd bantered with Kelly shortly before, a chill really did travel down Jim's spine. That didn't sound at all like anything he'd expect of his friend... and the worry shadowing Kelly's eyes told him those instincts were right.

***

"So everything hinges on the determination made at the coroner's inquest." Mary Margaret fell silent, mentally reviewing everything she'd told Caine over the past two hours to determine whether she'd omitted any salient details. A lock of hair drooped into her eyes, having freed itself from the barrette pulling back the sides of her hair. Distracted, she used one hand to shove the strand behind her ear as she pushed her empty teacup to the center of the low table with the other. "We didn't see any of this coming, Caine. There's more to this whole thing than meets the eye, but what?"

His action mirroring her own, Caine slid his cup away from him. "I do not know."

Noncommittal. Of course. Why should she expect anything else? "Can you guess?" she asked, urgency mingled with irritation underlining her words. "Someone's fulfilling their agenda here, but why? What do they hope to gain?"

"Perhaps justice," Caine suggested. "After the violent death of a loved one, it is often easy to lose one's path, thereby allowing the heart to be inflamed by thoughts of vengeance."

"Emily Webber's not the one driving this." She paused, fighting to curb the dismissive note that had crept into her voice. Caine shouldn't bear the brunt of her anger at the instigator of this scheme, especially when she'd come here to seek his counsel. "I'd stake my life on it. And that may be exactly what I'm risking if the outcome of the coroner's inquest is an unfavorable one." Belatedly, she registered the hint of pain she had heard in the Shaolin priest's words moments earlier. "Oh, Caine, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound as though I was blowing off your thoughts. I just --"

"You do not believe I am right about the... motivation behind the lawsuit?"

"This isn't the same, Caine. Not at all." Mary Margaret met his piercing gaze. "You had those thoughts, didn't you? After the temple burned, when you thought Peter was dead?" Before he could respond, she laid a gentle hand atop his and added, "I know Peter swore vengeance on your killers. He wasn't the only one, was he?"

"No," Caine admitted, "he was not. Such darkness lurks in all men's souls. My path was obscured. For a time, I was... blinded by my rage and my pain, however righteous. As Emily Webber now is by hers."

Mary Margaret stiffened and drew back her hand as if she'd been scalded. "There's always another way, is that it?" When Caine would have spoken, she cut him off with a quick shake of her head. "Don't. I always thought Peter took things too much to heart. I never figured he was right about your expectations. The situations are different. Tan was evil. He was responsible for the deaths of scores of innocents, and you believed him responsible for the death of your son. Of course your fury was righteous. Hers isn't. Steve didn't have a choice that night. None of us did."

"Mary Margaret --"

Exhaustion and the awkward twisting of her legs under the table kept her in place, although every brain cell she had screamed at her to uncoil herself from the hardwood floor and leave before she took this disagreement to the point of no return. "Sometimes there is no moral righteousness in pacifism, Caine. Protecting the innocent has to come first; I know you believe that as ardently as I do."

"One can protect by nonlethal means."

"Sometimes. Not that night. If we'd tried, it would have been the blood of innocents that was on our hands – if we'd lived, that is." She sighed. "Violence begets violence. I know that. For the love of God, don't you think I see that every day? But there are times when force must be met with force if justice is to be served."

***

"You must look beyond the obvious," Caine returned, as implacably as though he hadn't heard a word she had said.

"Wait a minute. Wait just a damn minute here." Past caring how argumentative she sounded, Mary Margaret cut him off, her voice rising in volume to override whatever he might say next. "That's exactly what I've been saying all along... we need to look beyond the obvious, to look past Emily Webber, if we're going to find the answer behind the lawsuit. I'm not the one who suggested her motivation was the end-all and be-all of this whole new nightmare."

"I did not." During the few seconds following Caine's pronouncement, Mary Margaret would almost have sworn she was watching him tamp down impatience... if experience hadn't shown her his rare moments of visible anger seemed far more violent. "I merely suggested she was in a dark place, that her grief and anger have fueled her desire for retribution and her conviction her cause is just."

"Caine, so help me God..." Her knuckles struck the tabletop, the sharp sound disturbing the room's peaceful atmosphere as though it had been a gunshot. Willing herself to relax, Mary Margaret uncurled her fingers from the fist she couldn't remember making. "How in the world is that any different from what I just said?"

Ignoring her accusatory tone, Caine told her, "Her spirit has withdrawn into the shadows. Evil feeds on those shadows, on one's lust for revenge. She has lost a great deal... and yet, what she has already lost is nothing in comparison to what she may yet lose."

"I'm sorry, I don't have the patience for cryptic right now." Mary Margaret's lips curved into what she hoped was an apologetic smile. "Talk to me in plain English, Caine. Tell me if you're saying what I think you're saying. Do you think someone else is behind the lawsuit?"

Again the trademark shrug she'd seen so often as she paused in her recounting of the events of the past few days -- an action she was growing to hate. "I do not know. What I do understand is that it is when a man's -- or a woman's -- path has been obscured that he --"

"-- or she."

"-- or she -- is most vulnerable. I believe Emily Webber is... open to suggestion." Caine ended the sentence on a quizzical note, as if uncertain he'd used the appropriate phrase.

"So you think she's being manipulated, that she was ripe for the picking." Mary Margaret nodded; Caine's instincts confirmed the theory they'd pursued since the day the suit was filed. "And that brings us back to our starting point. Whose agenda is being fulfilled and what do they hope to gain?"

Caine shook his head. "No. Those were not the questions that brought you here."

"Really? I thought they were." She heard her waspish tone, but lacked the energy to worry she'd offended him.

"You sought... respite. The sorrow in your heart cries out for peace. That yearning does you honor, for you do not rejoice in the victory achieved over Jericho's men, but recognize it is always a time of mourning when lives are taken."

"We had no choice that night," she whispered. "But this... visit of ours solves nothing."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Those who seek to take advantage of Emily Webber's path being obscured delight in killing. They prey on her loss, denying her the chance to find peace. They have chosen the path of darkness. She needs to find her way back into the light, or she will lose her way... and her soul."

"Excuse me for saying this, but her needs aren't weighing heavily on any of our minds right now. Nor do I think they should."

"Even if in finding a way to succeed in appealing to the goodness within her, you find the capacity to forgive yourselves?"

***

The game was tied two goals apiece late in the third period when Doubek, the home team's leading scorer, got the puck and shook loose from his defender. As he crossed the center line on his way towards the goal, one of the Maple Leafs tripped him before he could get off a shot.

Jim leaned forward, adding his voice to those urging the ref to make a penalty call. As the game continued without a call being made, the crowd's expression of its dissatisfaction intensified. He raised his own voice as the catcalls grew louder, trying to drown out the competing voices of the group of Toronto fans seated two rows ahead of them.

"Hey jackass, he tripped him!" Jim whipped his head around as the shout inches to his left nearly pierced his eardrum. Dumbstruck, he stared as Kelly leapt to her feet, screaming at the top of her lungs, "What the hell is the matter with you? Are you blind? "

Two rows ahead, five heads swiveled toward her in reaction. Jim took one look at the expression on the young men's faces, remembered how rowdy they'd been first period (before they'd drunk the equivalent of a keg of beer) when the fight on the ice had nearly been mirrored by one breaking out in the stands, and grabbed Kelly's arm.

She continued to fume as he tugged her down into her seat, her rant culminating in an incensed mutter. "For God's sake, my mother could have called that penalty." Fire in her eyes, she punctuated her words with a glare at the ref.

Jim leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Remind me never to get on your bad side." He laughed. "I'm not sure I'd survive."

Kelly's gaze darted to the Maple Leaf fans, who'd returned their attention to the game. She wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue at their backs, then turned to Jim. "Are you trying to tell me your father didn't warn you?"

"About what?"

"Never mind." Kelly stared straight ahead, intent on the action on the ice.

"Oh, no, you don't. You don't get away with it so easily. C'mon, Kel, give."

She ignored him and continued watching the game, concentration on the players all he could read in her features. Jim shook his head. Figured. He started dating a mercenary's daughter and she proved to be as tough a nut to crack as any soldier he'd ever met. He stifled a groan and reached for her ponytail, which he yanked gently.

"Ow!"

Jim snatched his hand back as Kelly brought hers up to slap it away; she rubbed at the base of her ponytail instead. He chuckled. "Ready to talk now?"

She shot him a dark look. "I thought you were my date, not my big brother. Don't Air Force pilots know any better interrogation techniques than the ones my brother's been using since I was six?"

"Kelly..."

"Oh, all right." One eye on the puck, she heaved a put-upon sigh and explained, "No one wants to go to a hockey game with me or Peter anymore. They claim we go overboard in our enthusiasm. And when I say no one wants to go, I mean absolutely no one will agree to go with us. We scare everyone off."

"I can see their point." Kelly turned to face him and he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "You were a little intense there, you know that? But if you think this is enough to scare me off, you're dead wrong." He paused, glanced at the drunken Toronto fans, and amended, "Although it might be a good idea to invest in protective gear if you're planning on pissing off any more of the visiting team's fans."

"Haven't needed any yet." A self-satisfied grin lit up Kelly's face.

"Who was talking about buying it for you?"

***

Stalemate, Mary Margaret decided, drawing her legs up against her and resting her chin on her denim-clad knees. She'd gone to Caine for advice, solace... comfort. She'd come away from his loft more frustrated than ever, yet paradoxically more focused.

Caine's words had left her with much to think about. She wasn't certain she agreed with his theory Emily Webber was entirely a victim in this matter, nor did she believe allaying the woman's pain or enabling her to see the truth behind her father's death could possibly end this nightmare. Whoever the instigator was, she couldn't imagine him allowing the suit to be withdrawn, even if Fred Goodwin's daughter saw the light. No, Caine's assertions had only reinforced her suspicions they were fighting an enemy as insidious in his own way as Jericho had been -- and her resolve to get to the root of the machinations threatening to destroy first Steve Carlson's life and, eventually, perhaps her own.

But... She sighed, hugging her legs as though the physical action could ground her, could still the whirlwind of emotions that had lurked right beneath the surface even during the moments of respite she'd experienced while with Caine. Maybe there was some truth in the notion true victory could be achieved in forgiveness. Since that night last week, there'd been a sadness permeating her every moment, a sorrow she couldn't quite identify. Only now did she comprehend she had needed time to grieve... for the lives she had taken, however evil those men might have been; for the loss the families of the dead would suffer; for the loss of a good man's innocence of the ways of violent death as he fought to protect his family; and for the piece of her own soul that died a little each time she was compelled to use deadly force. And in taking time to mourn, perhaps she would find the small patch of peace she sought.

Forgiveness? Forgiveness might take a little while, Mary Margaret thought as tears stung her eyes for the first time since that night. She allowed them to fall unchecked, a line from the Lord's Prayer echoing repeatedly in her mind. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who have trespassed against us.

Long ago, she had memorized those words, with a child's inability to understand the magnitude of what she said in prayer. Over the years since, she had recited those words often, never really paying attention to what she said. Now, when such awareness was the last thing she wanted, she truly understood the enormity of what the prayer asked.

Never before had she felt so sure she was guilty of rejoicing in death. Never before had she prayed for forgiveness of an act she couldn't avoid without believing her own need for forgiveness would be enough to attain absolution. Never before had she harbored such conviction the world was better off without the men she had killed -- or such certainty the hardening of her own heart against them would stand in the way of her own forgiveness.

Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who have trespassed against us. How could she find forgiveness in her heart for men who had killed innocents, men whose last act in life was an attempt to murder others, men whose deaths had not lessened the threat they posed to her future? And how could she forgive the woman she'd never met who had come to personify the continuing threat?

Choking back a sob, Mary Margaret bent her forehead to her knees and let the tears continue to flow. There were no easy answers to the questions that plagued her... but, for now, perhaps cleansing her soul, washing away the grief with her tears and prayers as best she knew how, was enough.

***

"Sports section?"

Her partner's eager voice came from somewhere over Jody Powell's right shoulder. Without taking her eyes off the section of Sunday paper next to her plate, she reached down to rummage through the stack of newsprint strewn on the empty chair beside hers. "Here."

Peter caught the section she flipped over her shoulder and glanced down long enough to make sure the banner read "Sports". He shook his head in bemusement, and returned to his own chair across the table from Jody. "How do you do that?"

She sighed, marked her place with a finger, and looked up. "Do what?"

"Find the sports section without even looking."

Jody shrugged as she picked up her coffee mug. "Just lucky, I guess."

"Every Sunday?"

"I don't look for the sports section for you every Sunday. Sometimes you buy your own paper and do it yourself." Jody's weary voice fell a shade shy of testy.

"Not when I can cadge whatever parts of the paper I want from you."

She choked on the piece of French toast she'd just forked into her mouth. When she recovered from the ensuing coughing fit, she asked, "Cadge? Since when do you use that word to describe sponging the newspaper off me?"

"Since I lost that bet to Skalany two weeks ago and had it drummed into my head," he replied, slicing into his stack of flapjacks. "But don't dodge my question. How do you do that?"

Jody rolled her eyes before returning her attention to the article before her. "Jeez, you weren't kidding. You really didn't get much sleep last night, did you? They assemble the paper the same way every week, remember? I count down three sections, pull out Sports, and throw it at you."

"Point taken." Peter scanned the headline as he spoke. "Shit, last night we played the Maple Leafs."

"And your point is?"

"Gave my tickets to Jim so he could take Kelly."

"No big brother who plays hockey is that generous."

"Tell me about it. I forgot who we were playing."

Jody lifted her head and stared at him assessingly. "Bad weekend all around, huh?" She reached for the syrup pitcher at the same time as Peter, and their hands collided.

He chuckled and drew back. "Ladies first." A grin spread across his features as he watched her pour the syrup. "No, not all of it."

She slid the pitcher back across the table and picked up a strip of bacon. "Must feel good to have Blaisdell back home again."

"Oh, you have no idea how great it feels to know Paul's home," Peter returned, his grin widening. He paused to watch Jody bite into the bacon and close her eyes as she chewed, an appreciative expression taking over her face. This Sunday brunch ritual they'd established months ago, indulged in whenever both of them had no other plans for the day, felt good too. Damn good, as a matter of fact.

Leaning back in his chair, their conversation all but forgotten, Peter picked up his mug and studied Jody over the rim as he drank. Good food, good coffee, the Sunday paper in all its overstuffed glory, and company perceptive enough to grasp when he wanted to talk and when he wanted to savor the silence. How could he ask for a better way to while away the hours and ease into the week ahead?

Right now, he could almost forget the horrors of the week and a half past, not to mention the insidious threat which remained. Paul was home, Jericho had been defeated by death, and he had a lazy Sunday afternoon ahead to enjoy. If he didn't think about anything but the here and now, he could be persuaded life didn't get much better than this.

"Damn it to hell, anyway!" Jody's curse broke the contented spell he'd allowed his mind to cast.

"What?"

Her section of the paper came sailing across the table. Before he had a chance to read whatever story had caused her outburst, Jody confirmed the possibility he dreaded. "The reach of Jericho's organization is now old news. Emily Webber's lawsuit against Steve Carlson is at the top of the charts... and there's speculation one or more officers from the 101st Precinct are engaged in a cover up."

***

"Brunch is one of the more glorious inventions known to man," Megan Durham announced, her voice unnaturally loud and bright, as she rose from her perch on the arm of her husband's chair.

"One too many Bloody Marys, Megan?" Kermit Griffin inquired without raising his gaze from the newspaper on his lap.

"Innovations might have been a better choice of words." The laughter in Karen Simms' eyes when she looked up belied her distracted tone.

Megan wrinkled her nose at both her friends, the action conveying good-natured exasperation. Only Karen acknowledged the gesture. "Oh hell, see if I'll ever try to ease tension again." She sighed, plopped back down onto the chair arm, and fought the urge to rip the Sunday Times of London out of her husband's hands as payback for his delayed chuckle at her remark.

A blanket of silence settled over the room once more, disturbed only by the sporadic rustle of newspaper pages. Megan glanced down at the stock table she'd discarded a couple of minutes before, considered and rejected the notion of studying it again, and surveyed her guests. Save herself and Annie Blaisdell, every person in the room appeared wholly absorbed in their reading material.

On any other Sunday, every section of the newspapers littering the carpet and tables would have had an equal chance at being read. Today everyone was consumed by one topic: the papers' treatment of the Jericho story. Especially the way so much of the coverage had shifted from speculation on the unsolved assassinations in which Jericho had had a hand to the wrongful death suit. Even her own effort to ignore the story had gone by the wayside when she saw the downward trend at week's end in the price of stock in many of the companies in which Steve's capital was most heavily invested.

She sighed, and studied the others in the room again. As usual, neither Kermit's expression nor his mannerisms revealed any portion of what he might be thinking; his utterly focused demeanor could have been as demonstrative of his seeking to best a computer game score as of his plunging full throttle into an investigation. Karen's eyes were narrowed in concentration as she scanned the pages, her expression thoughtful. Megan angled her foot to prevent her pump from slipping off, reached down to secure the shoe, and looked toward the sofa.

One arm around his wife as she nestled close to him, head on his shoulder, Paul Blaisdell divided his attention between the printed page and frequent concerned gazes at Marilyn and Steve. Megan smiled at the picture the couple presented, wondering what it must feel like for them to be reunited after such a long separation. She imagined their emotions weren't much different than her own had been once she learned John's caring, like her own, had transformed into something deeper.

Gratitude for her good fortune overwhelmed her, and she stole a brief glance at her husband's impassive features as she reflected on how lucky she was to have found him. Theirs was the kind of happiness she wished for everyone important to her. Marilyn and Steve deserved it as much as she did, and it just about tore her heart out to see this stranger named Emily Webber threaten to destroy what they too had found.

Refusing to allow herself to carry her thoughts through to the next logical step and admit her own husband could be destroyed as a result of Emily Webber's actions, Megan let her gaze travel across the room and come to rest on the Carlsons. She watched them for a short while, her frustration growing. Marilyn would focus on her paper long enough to read a sentence or two, then turn worried eyes on her husband for a few seconds before dropping her gaze. The pattern repeated like clockwork. And she had to admit Marilyn had more than ample cause to fret.

Steve looked like hell, tension creasing his All-American face into lines that appeared permanently etched. If she'd thought he'd acted withdrawn since he, Marilyn, and the children became her houseguests, she hadn't known the meaning of the word. Right now, his silence screamed of his having retreated behind a wall of his own making, a wall designed to protect his family and friends from both the turmoil in his soul and the pain outsiders were determined to inflict. The longer he read the news accounts, the more guilt he was bound to feel over the lives he'd taken.

Damn. So much for her brilliant scheme to relieve Steve and Marilyn's anxiety over the lawsuit and the impending coroner's inquest by providing a relaxing alternative to the never-ending strategy sessions. She shook her head, disgusted at her own naiveté. Had she really thought she could orchestrate a peaceful interlude by inviting the Blaisdells and Kermit and Karen for brunch? Shouldn't she have known the day would degenerate into this?

"Am I the only one who thinks we're all being just a bit unremittingly serious here?" Megan blurted out, her words surprising herself as much as the sudden attention paid to her suggested they did the other seven in the room. Annie's slight smile suggested she had an inkling where the other woman intended to lead the conversation, but what mattered more was Marilyn and Steve's reaction to her words. Marilyn's dark eyes radiated pain; Steve looked as though he was struggling to keep a rein on his emotions. She gulped at the raw anger she saw in his face and steadied herself with a hand on her husband's shoulder.

Before she could get out another word, she heard Steve's voice, unnaturally hard. "In case it's escaped your attention, being sued for wrongful death is a pretty serious matter. And maybe you've forgotten that --"

Suddenly Megan was on her feet, with no conscious awareness of how she'd gotten there. "Maybe you've forgotten how lucky we all are."

"Lucky?" Anger blazed in Steve's eyes, matching the derision in his tone. "You call waiting for a coroner's inquest to decide if you're being charged with murder lucky? You call getting served with papers that say you're being sued for wrongful death lucky?"

"Compared to last week at this time? You're damn right I do." She struggled for composure before she spoke again. "We're all alive. A week ago, I don't think any of us would have believed that would be the case, no matter how good a front we put on. My God, we've come so far since then." She paused, then repeated, "We're all alive."

***

"So much for hoping the coroner's inquest, if not the suit, could be kept quiet until it was resolved." Jody snorted in disgust before falling silent as the waitress approached their table, coffee pot in hand. She waited until both coffee cups were refreshed and the other woman was gone, then continued, "I can see it now: cameras and microphones all over the place, reporters doing their damnedest to interfere with the proceedings. Great, just freakin' great."

"Probably won't be as bad as you think." Peter took a long swig of coffee, wincing as the liquid seared his throat on the way down.

Jody favored him with a skeptical glance. "Who are you and what have you done with my partner?" she deadpanned.

"Don't tell me I've got a reputation for being pessimistic now, too. I thought my only reputation was for being a reckless, overzealous hotshot cop."

"Like Dirty Harry Callahan?" Jody's expressionless face matched her bland tone for a moment before she picked up her coffee mug and averted her eyes from him.

Peter shook his head, choking back the laughter which threatened to erupt. He didn't have to be Shaolin to know she'd looked away to hide the mirth in her eyes. She wasn't the only one who remembered his admission, during their first undercover assignment as partners, that he'd chosen to use the last name Callahan because of its link to Dirty Harry. "Go ahead. Make my day," he growled in his best imitation of Clint Eastwood.

"And do what?" Jody managed before dissolving into laughter.

"Tell me where I earned this reputation for pessimism." He frowned. "Have I really been that bad?"

"Look, forget I said anything." She spread her hands in a classic gesture of surrender. Peter questioned her with a gaze, and she sighed. "All right, all right. You just haven't been acting the way anyone would have expected since Jericho was taken down." A pensive expression entered her eyes. "Almost as if you saw this whole mess coming."

***

Speculation gave way to anxiety while Peter watched Jody's eyes darken as though a stormcloud had drifted above, turning their hue a smoky blue. Damn it. He knew where her distress originated.

Peter leaned across the table and captured her hand in his. "Not this time, Jody. It's not the same as when Eagleton was committing those murders. Promise." He squeezed her hand in a gesture of reassurance. Surprised when she returned the favor before pulling away, he filed the oddity in a corner of his mind for future contemplation. "But to get back to my original point, I think you're overanticipating. The media frenzy will die down."

"Maybe." Doubt hung heavy in the air between them, its presence almost a living entity.

"The repercussions of Jericho's organization being destroyed are going to be felt far and wide. Worldwide. That's got to be the bigger story in the long run." He looked down at the headline in front of him and grimaced. "All present evidence to the contrary."

"I wouldn't lay odds on it. The bigger picture isn't what sells newspapers and gets the TV news ratings. What sells is lifestyles of the rich and famous. And it's an added bonus when they can cut someone rich down to size in the process."

"I'd say you were getting mighty cynical there, partner, but that's exactly the way I read the first article about the suit. After reading that story, well..." Restless, Peter tapped his foot against the wooden floor until he caught sight of Jody's grimace at the sound. "If I hadn't met Steve myself, I might have thought he was just some rich, power-hungry son of a bitch who could pull the trigger for the hell of it and expect to get off scot free. I don't call that reporting, I call it twisting the facts to make them fit a false premise." He sighed. "But it doesn't matter what I think. What matters is getting to the truth of who's pulling the strings before --" Suddenly ill at ease, he broke off and sought refuge behind his raised coffee mug.

Jody waited a few seconds for him to complete his thought, then finished the sentence for him. "Before they get to sell more newspapers by running banner headlines about dirty cops who helped cover up the truth."

***

"All I'm saying is my mother didn't mean anything by it." Todd McCall swung one suitcase out of the SUV, set the bag on the driveway's asphalt, and returned for another before slamming the liftgate.

The upper portion of Carolyn's body disappeared into the back seat to unbuckle Brian from his car seat. A few seconds passed before her disembodied voice cut through the chill night air. "Don't even try to tell me that. Contrary to what she obviously believes, I'm not some gullible, stupid little girl. Ouch!"

Concerned, Todd stepped forward. Before he reached her, Carolyn emerged from the car, their son in her arms. He stifled a chuckle at the sight that confronted him in the dim light emanating from within the SUV. Brian's left arm was wrapped around his mother's neck, while his right clutched a handful of long blonde hair.

Carolyn glared at Todd, her expression warning him to refrain from comment if he valued his life, then turned her attention to coaxing her son to let go of her hair. He relaxed as he shut the rear door and went back for the suitcases, the softening of her voice giving him hope her anger was spent. No such luck. She waited only until he deposited the bags on the front stoop and fished in his pocket for the house key to revive their argument. "I know exactly what she was trying to do and exactly how disappointed she was when I didn't swallow the bait."

Todd groaned. "She's not good at expressing her emotions, you know that. She doesn't like to admit the people she loves are vulnerable. You have to agree what happened a week and a half ago was enough to set anyone on edge." He opened the door and ushered his wife in, reaching behind her to flip the light switch before dragging the bags inside. "Cut her some slack, Carolyn. She was worried about us."

"Yeah, she was worried all right."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Todd slammed the door and whirled to face his wife.

"We'll finish this later. Right now it's way past our son's bedtime and I want to get him into bed." Carolyn's tightly controlled voice radiated ill-concealed fury.

"We'll finish it now," he called after her as she began to climb the staircase.

Carolyn stopped on the third step, her spine rigid. "She was worried about you and Brian, I'll give her credit for that much. But she wouldn't have shed any tears if anyone in my family was killed -- or if I was."

***

Hell of a way to start a Monday morning. Far from fully awake, Peter groaned as he realized the insistent ring hailing from his phone wasn't going to stop any time soon. Half a ring sounded, then silence descended.

Adjusting the shower spray to rinse away the soap, he started to count off the seconds. He couldn't have been in the shower five minutes, and the phone had rung at least as many times. It was bad enough the phone was ringing this early at all, but the hastily established pattern of three-and-a-half rings, silence for thirty seconds, next call was damn near enough to drive him insane. Especially when he'd managed to sleep all of three nightmare-plagued hours the night before, resulting in the exhaustion which weighed down his muscles and befogged his brain.

Sharp needles of spray washed the last trace of shampoo from his hair as he hit the number twenty-eight. He braced one hand against the tile below the showerhead and rested his head on his extended arm, ticked off the next two numbers, and shoved away from the wall. As he expected, the phone rang at the same moment he turned off the faucet.

"All right, all right, I'm coming, I'm coming," he grumbled before grabbing a towel and heading for the offending instrument. He paused in the bedroom doorway, grimacing at the phone as it began its third ring, then changed direction. This time, the third became a fourth and the answering machine kicked on a split second before Peter arrived in the living room.

His hand hovered above the receiver while the message played itself out. The ending beep pierced his eardrums, and he shook his head to rid it of the shrill sound. Before he could lift the receiver, his youngest sister's voice came streaming through the answering machine. "Still not home, huh, big brother? Must have been some hot date for you to give Jim and me your tickets Saturday night *and* forget to call me back last night. Not to mention standing me up after you promised --"

Peter snatched up the receiver. "You're welcome. Jim like the seats?"

"The seats and the company, thank you very much." Kelly laughed. "Best seatmate I've ever had at a hockey game."

"Hey, those were my tickets, remember?" Peter glanced longingly at the empty coffee maker on the kitchen counter, cursing himself for failing to set it on the timer the night before. "A token of your thanks would be in order. And by the way, I'm crushed you preferred going to the game with Jim over going with me." He hesitated for a second, struck by a thought. "Don't tell me he gets as obnoxious as we do."

"Speak for yourself when you talk about getting obnoxious," she protested. "I'm just enthusiastic."

"As a Mack truck," Peter muttered.

"I heard that. For your information, brother dear, Jim wasn't scared off by it. As a matter of fact, I think he found it attractive."

"He would." Before his sister could respond, Peter demanded, "Why are you calling me so early, Kelly?"

"Somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning." Her chiding tone faded, replaced by a slight wheedle as she uttered her next words. "Come to the police auction with me today, please. You promised to help me pick out my new car. Then you stood me up Saturday when I was going to go to the dealership and you ducked my calls yesterday. Come on, Peter, please?"

"For that you were too scared to talk to me until the sixth time you called today?"

"Huh?"

"Nice try. The confusion almost sounds real. You know what I'm talking about. Those five calls in the last five minutes where you didn't wait for the machine to pick up."

"I don't have a clue what you're talking about." Kelly's voice sounded genuinely puzzled, but there was another edge to her tone as well, one he wasn't sure he wanted to identify. "I called you three times yesterday, you weren't home, and I left you a message each time asking you to call me back. You never did, so I called you again now and I started to leave another message, but you picked up. Must have been someone else."

Peter allowed his gaze to wander to the answering machine. Belatedly, he registered the flashing red light he should have noticed earlier. Habit led him to count the flashes. Two more than he expected. He interrupted Kelly's renewed plea for him to accompany her to the police auction to ask, "You left five messages yesterday, right?"

"I told you three, Peter." Impatience seeped through the phone wires, and he was reminded of the little girl who'd stamped her feet when her older brother denied her something she craved. "The police auction?"

"Yeah, sure, what time?"

"Starts at eleven. So I figured we'd have plenty of time to look before it starts if you pick me up around nine fif-"

"Wait a minute, did you say eleven?" When she confirmed the time, Peter groaned. "I can't. I have to work. I thought this was one of the months when they start it at six."

"But you promised." She paused, then added, voice brighter, "I know, I'll get Jim to take me. Just don't think you're off the hook."

"I'm sorry, Kel. Look, I'll make it up to you, OK?"

"Promise?"

He rolled his eyes, recognizing her best wheedle. "Cross my heart and hope to die. Satisfied? Now can I go get ready for work?" Without waiting for a reply, he dropped the receiver into its cradle and reached over to hit the button to replay his messages. The towel knotted around his waist slipped and he adjusted it while he waited for the tape to rewind.

Kelly expressed concern over whether he was all right in the first message, left mid-morning Sunday. The next message, from mid-afternoon, was her voice as well, a little less concerned and more impatient. The third was a hang-up from the early evening, the fourth Kelly again around ten Sunday night. He'd probably missed that message when he took the garbage down the hall to the chute. The sixth he knew would be the half-message aborted by his picking up on Kelly's call, so the fifth was what held his interest.

The date stamp pronounced one a.m., only a few minutes before he'd awakened from his first nightmare. A male voice filtered through the machine, sounding as though it had been distorted by some sort of mechanical device. "You think it's over, Detective Caine. But it's not. The final days are at hand."

***

By the time he arrived at the precinct, Peter was convinced his head was ready to blow off  -- not that the option didn't grow more attractive with each passing moment. His temple throbbed in sync with each heartbeat and no amount of meditative effort had been able to calm the pounding. To make matters worse, the hangups had started again ten minutes after he finished talking to his sister and had continued until he left his apartment.

And then there was the matter of the other phone call.

As he turned into the parking lot, the threat the final days were at hand reverberated in his mind. The distorted voice of his memory ricocheted about his brain, resounding in time with his headache. Maybe between the two he could get a job with the percussion section of a rock band.

Distracted by this thought, he managed to hit the only remaining patch of ice in the lot. The car fishtailed, and he maneuvered it out of the threatened spin and into his usual parking space while he wondered whether he'd been targeted by the caller because he was a cop or because he was the last in the Caine line.

Protocol dictated filing a report about the calls so they'd be a matter of record should the harassment escalate. To hell with protocol. The voice now echoing in his mind had exhibited no identifying characteristics other than gender. Under those circumstances, it would do him no earthly good to try to track down some nameless, faceless man who'd mechanically distorted his voice beyond recognition. Besides, he had more important things to worry about, like preventing the destruction of anyone's life by the fallout from the coroner's inquest and the wrongful death suit. Those were real problems, while the calls he'd received were just an annoyance.

So why did they unsettle him so?

***

Plaintive tones issued from Caine's flute, the dissonant tune reflective of the disquietude he sensed had taken root in the city. The brilliance of early morning sunshine had failed to chase winter's chill from the air. Ordinarily the Shaolin priest would barely have noticed this minor physical discomfort, but today he felt a shiver run down his spine just as he hit a particularly sour note.

Caine brought the flute away from his lips. One deep breath centered him before he rose in a fluid motion from the lotus position. He searched both memory and the present for the source of the sensation of evil which permeated his meditation room. Knowledge of the maleficence's rootstock teased at the edges of his mind, dancing away when his thoughts would have identified and embraced it. Before he had a chance to examine the implications of such knowledge eluding him, an icy blast bit into his skin, although no gusts had blown open any of the loft's doors or windows.

"You have felt it too, Kwai Chang Caine." Lo Si's pronouncement preceded him into the doorway between meditation room and apothecary.

"An... evil presence lurking in shadows." Caine gestured to the far corner of the room. "The light of the sun has dispelled the shadows from these corners. Yet the evil has found other shadows in which to dwell." He turned to face the older priest, allowing his puzzlement to touch his expression. "I sense a great destructive power has been unleashed. Much harm will be done before it is stopped. Many lives may be lost." His grip tightened involuntarily around the instrument in his hand, relaxing only when he felt the wood splinter, the flute's fragments slicing into his palm. "This evil must be stopped."

Lo Si favored him with a placid glance, then shook his head. "This is not your battle. But it may be your son's."

***

Organized chaos assailed Peter's senses the moment he walked into the stationhouse. The early morning buzz of activity, significantly less lively than the frenzied air the precinct took on as the day progressed, usually came as a welcome greeting. Today, this wasn't the case. Today, he craved nothing more than a few minutes of peace and quiet -- and a steady infusion of caffeine -- instead of the constant background hum characteristic of even the 101st's most quiet day.

The precinct's version of silence was abruptly shattered by the simultaneous high-pitched whine of a drill and the shriek of a woman's rapid-fire, barely distinguishable Mandarin words. The drill was part of the ongoing construction, grating on his nerves but not unexpected. He paused a short distance from the booking desk and allowed his gaze to scan his bustling workplace for the source of the second disturbance.

Even so early in the morning, Broderick's attention was already divided between the phones, a stack of reports, a teenager -- Ethan Mills, Peter thought his name was -- who'd been hauled in to the 101st at least once each week for the past month as a mugging suspect, and the elderly Chinese woman who'd apparently been his latest victim. Mrs. Bei spoke little English despite nearly half a century in this country, she'd been mugged several times, and Peter wasn't sure whether the rapport he'd developed with her stemmed from his being the son of the Shaolin priest or from his refusal eight months ago to help her daughter convince her to move out of her home of forty years in Chinatown and into the daughter's house in the suburbs. He shook his head, sighed, and started forward to try to calm her down. Seconds later, he checked his progress when he noticed Roger Chin reassuring her.

Chin's Mandarin was nowhere near as fluent as Peter's own. Frustration born of that knowledge ate at him as he listened to the younger detective, who was constantly a step behind the thought to which he needed to react, and fought back his urge to intervene. Come to think of it, how had Chin gotten involved in this in the first place? The uniforms usually brought in young Mr. Mills, and he couldn't imagine Chin having been tapped as translator so quickly the kid still hadn't been processed. Unless...

Peter caught Broderick's eye and tilted his head toward Chin, then mouthed, "Arresting officer?" Broderick's nod told him his guess Chin had interrupted the mugging while on his way into work was likely accurate. Guess I'm not the only one starting off the week with a bang.

Chin moved down to the other end of the counter to retrieve a stack of blank report forms; Peter winced. He knew what would happen next, and it wasn't going to be pretty. Sure enough, no more than two seconds after Chin turned his back Mrs. Bei's screech reached a volume and pitch he imagined was only slightly lower than that needed to shatter glass, then she reached up and over to start beating Mills around the head and shoulders with her ever-present umbrella. Peter suppressed a chuckle at the sight of the strapping Mills, who was only about an inch shorter than Peter himself, cowering away from the tiny virago. All 4 feet 9 inches and 85 pounds of her. Mills couldn't get his cuffed hands up high enough to protect his head from the unrelenting assault raining down on him.

Peter groaned. Hilarious as this was to watch, he figured he'd better stop Mrs. Bei before she put Mills' eye out with the umbrella's sharp tip. Before he could take a step, Chin strode back down the length of the counter and shouldered his way between the two. Mills hid behind the shorter, leaner man, shouting his assessment of Mrs. Bei as a "crazy old broad", while Mrs. Bei yelled back in Chinese, all the while trying to breach the barrier of Chin's body.

Strenlich guffawed from the direction of the coffee table. "Baptism of fire Chin's getting there, huh?"

Mrs. Bei swung the umbrella. Chin caught the makeshift weapon, disarmed her in one swift motion, and started scolding her in Mandarin, using her umbrella as a pointer. An image of the umbrella as a single huge extension of Chin's finger being shaken in Mrs. Bei's face flashed before Peter's eyes, and he could no longer contain his own laughter.

"Just another day under the 101st big top," Skalany proclaimed from behind him.

He turned, falling into step beside her to walk to their desks in the bullpen. "If Chin's the lion tamer, who's the lion -- Mrs. Bei or our frequent guest Mills?" He dodged a coffee-carrying Blake, his reaction time a split second slower than normal, and proceeded to bowl into Jody. Thankful the only damage done was to the file folder she'd been carrying, he bent down to help her retrieve the scattered pages.

Mrs. Bei's shriek, which startled him upright, gave new definition to the word "piercing". The next thing he heard was Chin declaring "Enough" in Chinese in a voice louder than hers, followed by dead silence. Peter looked to both women, shrugged, and suggested, "Maybe it's the dog-and-pony show?"

"And this is obedience training?" Jody shook her head. "Good as any other description, I suppose."

"Didn't think he had it in him." Peter let out a low whistle. "Way to go, Chin."

"Jeez, Peter, you look like hell." The non-sequitur startled him, and he jumped, his reaction causing the concern reflected in Jody's eyes to increase.

"Well, good morning to you too."

"She's right." Skalany paced around him before retreating towards her desk. "You do look like shit, partner."

"What is this, a tag team?" He shot a wary glance at both women as he took off his coat. "What's this leading up to?"

They're right, Detective. You do look a little the worse for wear. Captain Simms' voice reverberated in Peter's ears, and he whipped his head around to see if she'd entered the squad room. He wasn't sure which scared him more – the worried visages of the two women here with him now or his realization the voice had existed only in his mind and he wasn't sure if it was a memory, a prediction, or an auditory hallucination.

"You know, you don't look so hot yourself, Mary Margaret," Jody observed, studying her friend as she spoke. "Want to talk about it?" She shifted her gaze from Skalany to Peter and added, "That offer goes for both of you."

"Rough night." Skalany sighed. "Rough weekend, actually. I --"

"Nothing to talk about, Jody," Peter snapped, cutting off the rest of Skalany's sentence. "Both of you just lay the hell off how I look and stop nagging me, will ya? It's none of your goddamn business."

"Detective Caine, in this office. Now." Before a sputtering Peter could get out another word, Blaisdell crooked a finger over his shoulder to point to Simms' office door and added, "You don't want to try my patience, son."

Peter threw his coat in the general direction of his desk and plodded toward Blaisdell with the mien of a prisoner heading to his execution. Once he entered Simms' office and Blaisdell closed the door behind them, Jody locked gazes with Skalany, certain her own eyes exhibited as much shock as the other woman's. "What was that?"

Skalany's glance followed Jody's to the closed door. She stared at the door, brow knitting in confusion. "More to the point, who was that and what has he done with Peter?"

***

"Anything wrong?" Peter punctuated his question by plucking a CD off the top of Simms' file cabinet, then promptly fumbling the jewel case. He recovered the disk before it had a chance to hit the cabinet, much less the floor.

Did Peter honestly expect him to answer his query? Paul sighed. Of course he did. Peter's efforts to deflect attention -- especially of the unwanted variety -- had been transparent when he was a teenager and remained so now.

He settled into the chair behind the desk, turned an intent gaze on his son, and debated how much he thought he'd achieve by calling Peter on the carpet. A minute before, the ungodly sound of Mrs. Bei's last scream had driven Paul out of Simms' office and into the bullpen just in time to catch most of Peter's conversation with Jody and Skalany. Any concern he had that the elderly woman's shrill voice might cause the ceiling to cave in was quickly overshadowed by the worry his son's behavior evoked. His unease about Peter persisted to this moment.

Ironically, many times over the years he'd seen a far more volatile Peter than the one he'd seen this morning. Logic dictated little more was wrong than overwork and a poor night's sleep. Nevertheless...

Paul shook his head, hoping to clear it of his effort to dissect the vague, nagging anxiety which stabbed at him each time he looked at his son over the past few days. "Anything wrong?" He raised one eyebrow. "Funny, that was going to be my line."

Peter dropped his gaze to the CD in his hand, but didn't respond. He maintained his silence for several seconds, then looked up and asked, "Hey, did you get a load of the sideshow out by Broderick's desk? I don't think Chin knew what he was letting himself in for when he stopped the mugging." He let out a laugh, its volume a shade too loud for Paul's comfort, especially when coupled with the shadows of troubled emotion which clouded his eyes. "If he'd known he was gonna wind up with Mrs. Bei trying to kill her mugger and deafen everyone else, he'd probably have let the kid have her purse."

Paul fought to hide any visible sign of his shock over Peter's unnaturally callous remark. Satisfied he'd avoided betraying his reaction when the younger man's bland expression failed to change, he inquired, "Would you care to rephrase that, Detective?"

Peter jumped at the soft words and fumbled the CD again. This time it dropped onto the file cabinet, plastic striking metal with enough force to crack the case.

"I think that's enough property damage for one day. Sit down, Peter, and talk to me." Thirty seconds went by without Peter giving any indication he'd heard the request, his focus instead on examining the jagged crack in the CD's jewel case. "Detective Caine, sit down now," Blaisdell barked.

Peter snapped his head up and turned wounded hazel eyes in Paul's direction, but didn't move.

"Don't make me say it again."

Reluctance evident in every footfall, Peter trudged over to one of the chairs in front of the desk, dropped heavily into its seat, and favored Paul with a expectant glance.

***

"There's something different about you." Mary Margaret circled Jody's desk as she spoke, the predatory gleam in her eye reminding her friend of nothing so much as a vulture. "I don't know what it is, but something's changed."

Jody rolled her eyes, shook her head, and went back to typing the Eisman arrest report into her computer. Great, just freakin' great. First Peter biting her head off, now Mary Margaret on the prowl for answers to God alone knew what questions. She reached for her coffee mug, gulped down as much of the hot liquid as she could stand, and decided as bad as Blake's coffee was, at least it had the merit of being strong as an ox. T.J.'s, on the other hand... Jody grimaced as the aftertaste hit her mouth, set the mug down on the corner of her desk, and vowed she'd never make fun of Blake's coffee again.

"What the hell is this swill?"

Strenlich's bellow echoed through the bullpen, and Jody spun in her chair, looking up to meet Skalany's mirthful gaze. The other woman didn't seem the least bit surprised she'd been tracking her movements out of the corner of her eye. "He just now drank it?"

Skalany struggled to rein in the laughter threatening to erupt, but failed. A few seconds passed before she regained enough control to get out, "As Kermit would say, oh yeah." She glanced over Jody's head in the direction of the coffee table, then let out a low whistle. "I don't believe it. Jody, look at this. The Chief mustn't be awake yet. He's actually trying it again."

Jody didn't bother turning her head. "Without doctoring it with milk or sugar?"

"Straight. Black. And deadly." Mary Margaret slid the mug out of Jody's reach, ignoring her muted yelp of protest, and perched herself on the desk corner. Meeting her friend's questioning gaze, she shrugged. "Best seat in the house. I've got a great view from here. Better'n your chair, even. Look, he's taken three sips, and the taste ain't getting better."

"Who the hell made this? Even Blake's coffee isn't this bad." Jody followed Mary Margaret's gaze just in time to see a look of distaste, somewhere past disgust but not quite revulsion, pass across the Chief's face.

"T.J.," the two women, Chin, and Blake called at the same time, the latter detective then asserting, "My coffee's not that bad."

Strenlich stomped over to the red-headed detective's desk, where he towered over a half-awake T.J. Kincaid, coffee mug dangerously close to spilling its contents over the young man's head. Never turning his head as he did so, T.J. hissed, "Thanks a lot, partner" in Chin's direction. Jody barely caught the low words, but she knew the entire room caught the far too loud and far too cheerful "What's up, Chief?" with which he greeted Strenlich.

"He's busted." Mary Margaret nodded her head in satisfaction and tore her attention away from the goings on across the room.

"Sure is." Jody glanced toward Simms' office door and allowed a serious note to replace the levity in her voice. "So's Peter if the Inspector's mood when he called him in is any barometer."

Skalany dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. "Peter can handle himself. Although I wish he was out here now watching this. Then again, if he were in Chin's position, he'd probably sell us out, so maybe we shouldn't give him any ideas."

"Never happen." Jody grinned up at her friend. "You and I know how to make coffee."

Dark eyes filled with merriment, as Skalany's gaze darted about the room. Evidently satisfied no one was within hearing distance, she leaned forward conspiratorially and admitted, "I swore a long time ago I'd never do stereotypical women's work, but I just might teach T.J. how to make coffee." Jody snorted. "In the interests of self-preservation, you understand. He's got to learn stationhouse coffee can't be weak, especially if it tastes like -- like Peter's dirty socks."

"If I never drink another cup of his coffee, it'll be too soon," Jody agreed, vaguely unsettled when the other woman rose and started stalking the perimeter of her workspace once more. "And I don't even want to know how you would know what Peter's dirty socks taste like." She shuddered, considered lunging for the coffee mug Skalany had placed beyond her reach, and opted instead to fantasize about a decadent cafe mocha from the nearest coffee bar. Rich, steaming hot, silky liquid velvet sliding down her throat as the heady aroma of chocolate mingled with coffee and cinnamon tantalized her nostrils. The enticing vision was displaced by Skalany passing directly in front of her yet again. "Mary Margaret, would you say what you came over here to say or go back to your own desk? It's too early for this little cat-and-mouse game where you're the cat and I'm the mouse."

"I haven't put my finger on it yet, but I will." The dark-haired detective halted mid-pace, nodded, narrowed her eyes, and studied the other woman intently. "I've got it!" She snapped her fingers. "You had a couple of really --" Skalany drew the word out with relish. "-- really good nights this weekend, didn't you? So tell me, how good was it?"

"Mary Margaret!" Jody shook her head, unsure whether bemusement or outrage should be her first reaction. "Get your mind out of the gutter!"

"Oho, so she admits I'm right." Skalany crossed her arms on top of Jody's monitor and rested her chin on them. "Tell me all about it. Every last juicy detail."

"You're crazy." Before Jody could say anything else, another voice, more subdued than she'd ever heard it, managed to cut through the background noise endemic to the squad room. Ignoring Skalany, she turned to greet the visitor who stood a few feet away, an unaccustomed air of uncertainty about her.

"Sergeant Broderick was busy, so I just came right on back." Carolyn took a deep breath as she reached up to sweep her bangs out of her eyes. Her hand was a bit unsteady; Jody made a mental note of both that peculiar detail and how curt Carolyn sounded.

"Might as well." Jody watched Carolyn's tense features relax, wondering if the fatigue evident in the dark circles under her eyes explained why she seemed so relieved about such a trivial matter as getting approval of her usual manner of breezing into the precinct.

"Sure, why not?" Skalany chimed in. "You're family."

"That's right." Jody nodded. "You never worried about it before, so don't worry about it now. Broderick probably didn't even notice and we all know he doesn't care."

Skalany abandoned her sentry post behind Jody's monitor and walked over to give Carolyn's arm a reassuring squeeze. Jody let out a sigh of relief; maybe her friend would lay off her for a few minutes. Of course, Carolyn probably needed Mary Margaret's bloodhound instinct for scenting both trouble and intimate secrets -- whether they actually existed or not -- even less than she did right now, but hopefully this distraction would overshadow whatever her friend imagined she'd ferret out.

"I need to talk to my father. He's in, right?"

"Fine, don't bother to let us in on the reason you look like I feel." Skalany's voice held a hint of wryness, enough to rob the assessment of any perceived harshness. "Of course your father's in. He and Peter are in Captain Simms' office."

"Thank you." Carolyn made a beeline for the door.

"But I don't think --"

"-- it's such a good time to interrupt them." Skalany finished Jody's sentence along with her as the two stared toward Carolyn's hand on the doorknob of Simms' office, as if waiting for a train wreck to occur.

***

"Would you mind telling me what the hell that was all about?" Paul leaned back in his chair as he waited for Peter to answer him, meeting his son's blank gaze with a challenging one of his own.

Peter averted his eyes and squirmed in his seat. His evident discomfort reminded Paul of far too many father/son discussions over the years, as did his silence. With difficulty, he suppressed a chuckle. Peter's avoidance techniques were so predictable he could teach a course in them, yet his son never exhibited recognition others pegged them as such. He'd used the same techniques to avoid matters he didn't want to address when he was fourteen as he did now, so why had he never processed the reality they didn't work?

Blaisdell allowed the quiet to stretch, betting Peter would be unable to refrain from talking for long. His wager didn't pay off. When he looked down at his watch after what felt like an eternity, he discovered a full minute had passed.

Damn. If Peter was going to talk, he'd have broken the silence by now. Stillness wasn't in his nature, as evidenced by the leg Paul could glimpse bouncing. That fact alone was enough to make him queasy.

He ached to be able to take away the pain he'd seen in his son's eyes, but reason told him anything he did would be only a stopgap measure unless he could persuade Peter to confide in him. Peter's words from years before echoed in his mind: "The thought of not coming to you never even occurred to me." Paul took a deep breath, all too keenly aware the 180-degree turn in his son's usual behavior signaled trouble, rather than increased maturity.

"I'm waiting." Blaisdell deliberately kept his voice devoid of emotion to remove any doubt as to whether the police inspector or the father was the man demanding answers.

"For what?" Hostility and puzzlement warred in Peter's tone, but his inability to meet Paul's gaze for more than a few seconds betrayed the fact he knew exactly what Blaisdell wanted to know.

"That remark a few minutes ago, for starters." Blaisdell hardened his voice as confusion became the predominant emotion present in his son's eyes. "Not to mention that little scene out in the squad room." He held up a hand in warning as Peter opened his mouth to protest. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You know I heard what you said to your partner. Give me one good reason I shouldn't be concerned about dissension between partners after all this precinct's been through the past couple of weeks."

Peter shrugged. "Don't worry about it. Disagreements happen all the time. Doesn't mean anything." He stilled his leg in mid-jerk and slouched down in his chair, stretching his legs out before him. A stranger might have mistaken his posture for nonchalance; Paul recognized a deliberate attempt to craft an indifferent facade.

"After the upheaval this precinct's gone through?" Blaisdell waited a beat to ensure he had Peter's attention, then added, "I'd say addressing the matter was in order, wouldn't you?"

Nine times out of ten, Peter took the bait when he dangled a question before him this way. God help him, this morning marked the exception to the rule. All he got out of Peter was a cold "There's nothing to be concerned about, Inspector."

"In my book, there is." Paul ran a hand over his face as he paused to collect his thoughts. When he spoke again, his softened voice signaled the replacement of the commanding officer by the father. "Everyone has a bad day now and then. I'd be inclined to let it go at that if I hadn't already been worried about you when I walked in here this morning."

Peter straightened, his spine rigid. As far as Paul could tell, willpower alone kept him seated. "Jericho's dead, Paul. You don't need to worry about me anymore."

"Give your old dad a break and accept the fact he's inclined to worry about his children no matter what, will you?" Paul forced a laugh he didn't feel. "Besides, you stood up your sister twice this weekend. I don't need to tell you Kelly's more than a bit miffed you haven't taken her car shopping yet."

"You're telling me." Peter rolled his eyes. "You'd think a guy'd never gotten hung up with other things before. And you don't want to know how suspicious she was about me giving Jim the hockey tickets." He flashed Paul a crooked grin. "I think she expects me to use my generosity as an excuse to worm my way out of replacing her car."

"Tickets for a game against the Maple Leafs?" Paul captured Peter's gaze with his own, certain his intense concern was reflected in his eyes. "You're not that generous, Peter, no matter what you're trying to make up to your sister. Neither one of you would give up tickets to that game willingly. Tell me what's really bothering you."

Indecision flashed across Peter's face, and Paul swore he was debating whether to give in to an urge to do exactly that. Resolution supplanted the hesitancy in his expression. As Peter leaned forward and opened his mouth to speak, there was a single sharp rap against the door frame, followed immediately by Carolyn stepping into the office. "Morning, Peter. Dad, I need to talk to you. Mom told you I did,
right?"

Before Paul could say a word, Peter leapt out of his seat and slipped past Carolyn and out of the office without offering so much as a word of explanation.

Carolyn flinched as the door slammed behind her brother. "Was it something I said?"

Paul shook his head. "More likely something I said."

"I interrupted something important, didn't I? I can leave." She gestured toward the door.

"If this was important enough to you to interrupt, it's important enough for you to stay." Paul chuckled. "This better be good, kiddo."

***

Both Skalany and Jody winced as Carolyn opened the office door and stepped inside. "We're in trouble," Skalany proclaimed when, seconds later, Peter tore past them and out toward the booking desk.

"You ain't kidding." Jody frowned as she craned her neck to watch Peter pace off the several feet of tile floor between Broderick's desk and the bench along the wall outside the squad room. On his fifth circuit, he veered off to reenter the bullpen, headed straight for the coffee maker, grabbed one of the styrofoam cups from the stack beside it, and poured himself a cup. She winced and got up, snagging both her own coat and Peter's as she went.

Seconds later, he spit a mouthful of coffee back into the cup. "Jeez, Blake, this is even worse than usual." He slammed the cup down hard enough for it to teeter on the edge of the table, then tip over into the wastebasket alongside, and advanced on the surveillance expert.

"T.J. made it," Skalany sang out.

Simultaneously, Jody intercepted Peter. "Come on, partner, let me buy you a cup of good coffee at the diner and get you out of this mood." She thrust his coat at him and shrugged into her own.

As she steered him out of the bullpen, Blake's highly offended voice trailed after them. "I make better coffee than that."

***

Carolyn chuckled. "That's what you always used to say whenever we had something we needed to talk to you about and we decided it just couldn't wait till you got home from work. I guess some things never change." As she spoke, she shrugged off her coat, folded it over the arm of one of the visitors' chairs, tossed her purse onto the cushion, and sank into the chair her brother had vacated. "On the other hand..."

"...nothing stays the same. Only memories can remain frozen in time. That's part of life. Sometimes the hardest part."

"Don't I know it." She studied her hands for a moment, then asked, "Wasn't it Thomas Wolfe who said you can't go home again?"

Paul nodded.

"He was wrong." Carolyn shrugged in response to his questioning glance. "I'm so glad he was. You proved him wrong, you promised you'd come home and you did."

Paul frowned. For all the warmth in his daughter's words, an angry undercurrent simmered beneath the surface. Annie had been right, as usual, when she'd told him how much he and Carolyn needed to talk. "Home is where the heart is. Isn't that the old cliché?" He hesitated long enough to see a spark of anger at his apparent flippancy darken his daughter's eyes, signifying instinct had led him to use the right tactic to draw her out. "In my case it was true. I missed you all something fierce every moment I was gone."

"I suppose clichés become clichés because there's so much truth in them." Carolyn's voice was distant; her detachment bothered Paul more than would have an accusation his heart, like his body, had been elsewhere for two years. "We missed you just as much. Maybe more." She looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly as she struggled to maintain her composure. "We didn't have any idea where you were, Dad. Nor what you were doing. We just knew the stuff you'd told us about going away to deal with your ghosts was --" She broke off suddenly, her expression that of a cornered animal. He knew that expression. She'd worn it often as a teenager when they argued, and he'd long since learned it meant she feared either she'd gone too far or she had been about to say too much.

"A lie?" he suggested. Keeping his voice calm took every ounce of determination he possessed. He'd gladly pay the price of calling on that resolve if it meant she felt secure enough to agree with him.

The risk paid off. Carolyn nodded, the vigor of the brief action conveying as much fury as a stream of profanity might. "An enormous lie. The kind of lie you never told us before." Her palm slammed into the chair arm with enough force to lift the nameplate from the desktop several inches away. "We didn't know where you were or what you were doing or the real reason you went away. We didn't even have vague references to your job or your duty to rely on as some sort of explanation. And you -- damn it, you planned it that way."

"I'm sorry," Paul offered, tasting the bitter inadequacy of his words. "I have never been sorrier about anything in my life."

"You're sorry." The bite in Carolyn's voice might have made him wince if he hadn't recognized both her mother and his own in her at that moment. Beth and his mother had shared few traits in common, Lydia Blaisdell being a far more formidable woman than her daughter-in-law. However, they'd both been masters at conveying a wealth of emotion with a single chilly phrase. Carolyn had inherited their capacity to make displeasure known while outwardly maintaining a firm grip on self-control.

Paul wished his memory of how the struggle for such control had eaten away at Beth like turpentine at paint was less vivid. Even more, he wished he didn't suspect his daughter's bottled up emotions imperiled her happiness. Right now, Carolyn struck him as brittle, more brittle than he'd ever seen her. One more wrong move on his part could shatter the glossy veneer pasted over the turmoil within.

***

"Anything?" Karen leaned over Kermit's shoulder to deposit a fresh cup of coffee within his reach. The temptation to linger at his side was strong, and she spent a little more time than would normally be her wont setting the cup down just so.

He intercepted her hand before she could withdraw it, lacing his fingers through hers. His thumb lazily stroked the base of hers, the tenderness of the caress at distinct odds with the  intensity of his focus on the computer screen. Eyes still fixed on the dense columns of data he continued to scroll past, Kermit griped, "Tell me if you can find a pattern somewhere, because I'm going blind trying to do it."

Karen slipped her hand out of his and rested it on Kermit's shoulder as she squinted at the names and numbers flying past on the computer screen. Damned if she knew how he could actually read anything when the screen was in constant motion. "What are we looking at?"

"Bank records. Emily Goodwin Webber's and her husband's deposit records, to be precise." Kermit tilted his head back so he could meet her quizzical gaze. "Don't ask. It's better you maintain deniability."

Intent on the information which filled the screen, Karen registered his words only after she'd realized he'd called her name at least twice to ensure she'd heard him. "I won't even ask. I don't want to know." She drummed her fingers on his shoulder and added, "Just do me one favor, Detective. If you find anything, make --"

"-- sure there's a legal way for us to procure the evidence." Kermit completed the admonition at the same time as Karen herself.

She chuckled. "Am I that predictable?"

"You're that much like Paul."

The first time he'd likened her command style to Paul Blaisdell's, she'd been inordinately flattered. So flattered, in fact, his having drawn the comparison while talking to a sleazy attorney rather than during one of their own conversations almost hadn't mattered one iota to her.

Hearing the same compliment now meant even more. Back then, she hadn't known how deeply entrenched his ties to Paul were. Back then, she wouldn't have known Kermit considered nothing a greater compliment than this one.

She swallowed, cursing the sudden lump in her throat. Damn it, why did Kermit have such a knack for causing emotions to well up in her at the worst possible times? When she was certain her voice would be steady enough to sound professional, she replied, "That's because neither one of us wants to risk tainting the chain of evidence in any way. Irregularities in procedure already exist in this investigation. Let's not add any we don't have to."

Kermit glanced up at her, meeting her gaze. Turning back to the screen, he shook his head and laughed. "Just like Paul."

Gratitude for his ability to read her so well washed over Karen. After the past couple of weeks, she'd likely have broken down if she'd tried to thank him for likening her to Paul. Thank God Kermit had seen how overwhelmed she was and understood her need to retreat into the intricacies of the case. "Think another set of eyes will do you any good?"

"Couldn't hurt. Pull up a chair."

***

"You're sorry," Carolyn repeated, her emphasis on each word mocking her father's apology. "Sorry you left or sorry you stayed away?" She uncrossed and recrossed her legs, one suede boot kicking the nameplate off the desk's edge.

When she left it on the floor, Paul upgraded his assessment of her well-justified disappointment in him. "Sorry for everything."

"You're sorry? Well, I'm sorry too." She moved forward to the edge of her seat, her posture warning Paul not to give in to his urge to round the desk and pull his daughter into his arms.

Life had been much simpler when she was small, when a hug could make everything all right, when her father's promise to keep her safe could drive away her fears and doubts. Paul would have given his eyeteeth to be able to assuage her pain and defuse her ire so easily now. God help him, though, the best way to handle this was to allow Carolyn to dictate the terms of how she'd have it out with him. All he could do was take his cue from her -- which, at the moment, meant suffering the bristling silence she had allowed to fall until she was ready to speak again.

When she did, sarcasm warred with sorrow in her voice as she launched into a disjointed litany of pent-up grievances. "I'm sorry I didn't see my father for almost two years. I'm sorry my son spent the beginning of his life without his grandfather."

Regret he'd missed out on so many of the firsts in Brian's life stabbed at Paul. He schooled his features to reveal little of his self-inflicted agony as he watched Carolyn stand and begin to... stalk was the only word he could think of to describe the manner in which she walked about the office, careful not to meet his gaze.

"I'm sorry my sister gave up her semester abroad because she didn't want to leave Mom alone in the house. I'm sorry Mom couldn't convince her she'd be fine alone and Kelly wouldn't accept the efforts Peter and I made to work things out so she could go anyway." Carolyn drew in a shaky breath, then continued,  "I'm sorry Peter and I got the cabin shot up and almost died when some rogue FBI agent came after his witness, and I'm sorry you weren't anywhere around to make our family retreat feel safe again. I'm sorry we had to spend Christmas without our father again -- twice. I'm sorry the whole family was scattered last Christmas because Mom left to be with you. I'm sorry the last thing that happened before you left was you getting set up for murder and I'm even sorrier you weren't here to help us when Peter got framed for the same crime. I'm sorry your little trip to lure Jericho into a trap ended up costing us two years of having you with us and making certain people think they'd been proven right about my family." She snorted, and twisted her wedding and engagement rings with such a savage motion Paul knew she'd been referring to her in-laws. "I'm sorry it almost cost all of us our lives."

The outpouring of words, which had grown progressively louder and more heated until her last sentence rivaled the volume of Strenlich's bellows, came to an abrupt halt. Carolyn stopped dead in her tracks, as though she'd realized she'd stepped over an invisible line, her only movement the continued worrying of her rings.

Paul resisted his urge to go to her. The rigid line of her spine and her refusal to turn to face him head-on screamed of her need to calm down before she could trust herself enough to allow him to comfort her. He rarely saw her so agitated, but he knew when to leave her alone to collect herself  -- even though his inability to help speed the process tore at him.

Long moments elapsed before Carolyn stilled her hands, pivoted on her heel, and strode back toward the desk. Little of the raw emotion so evident in her words remained visible, with the exception of a single teardrop she swiped from her cheek. She stopped in front of the desk, favored him with a sheepish half-smile, and bent to retrieve the nameplate.

Instead of setting it atop the desk, she cradled the wooden in her right palm while she traced the letters of Karen Simms' name with her left forefinger. Her head was bowed, her expression hidden from Paul by a curtain of thick blonde hair. When she spoke, the reflective note which inhabited her whisper startled him. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to see someone else's name on your office, to know someone else is sitting in your chair, making the decisions you're supposed to make?" She spread her hands in a helpless gesture, then returned the nameplate to its initial position. "And it doesn't help to know your promotion means someone else would have taken over the precinct anyway, because this is your office." The sentence had gained volume over the previous one, but the last two words came out close to a strangled cough.

"Maybe we should talk about that." Paul looked pointedly at her left ring finger. "And about everything else my absence could have cost us."

She ignored the suggestion, instead placing her palms on the desktop and using them to support herself as she leaned forward. "If *I* feel like this, how in God's name must Peter have felt working here every day for the past two years? I -- none of this is coming out right." She heaved a frustrated sigh, let go of the desk, and took a step backwards. "Would you believe I practiced what I was going to say to you about all of this?"

Paul answered the faint quirk of Carolyn's lips in an ironic half-smile with one of his own. "More than you'd realize. Don't you think I spent a pretty fair amount of time rehearsing how I was going to tell everyone the truth about why I left and why I stayed away?" He rubbed a hand over his face in an absent gesture which had become ingrained over the years. "I certainly didn't expect coming home would trigger everything we all went through these past couple of weeks. Talk about irony -- part of my reason for leaving was protecting my family, but I ended up endangering you all anyway."

"No, Jericho did that." The sorrow in Carolyn's eyes matched that in her tone. "Since everything settled down, sometimes I wonder if anyone's stopped to realize there are only two people who really got something good out of this whole mess with Jericho." Paul raised one eyebrow quizzically; she gestured to the nameplate. "I wonder whether she and Kermit know how lucky they are."

And how unlucky some of the rest of us are. Paul mentally completed his daughter's thought, scrutinizing her troubled features. "We're all lucky when it comes right down to it. We're --" The buzz of the intercom cut him off mid-sentence. "I'm sorry." He lifted the receiver. "Blaisdell."

Broderick's voice came over the line. "Sorry to interrupt you, but you might want to step out here for a moment, sir."

The barely leashed disgust evident in the desk sergeant's voice caused Paul to scan the bullpen through the office window. His gaze rested on the middle-aged man proffering a sheaf of documents -- authorizations, unless he missed his guess  -- to Strenlich several feet down the counter from Broderick.

"Don't tell me, let me guess. The FBI's gotten around to putting its oar in the water." He groaned. "All right, give me five minutes." Hanging up the receiver, he turned to Carolyn, who was already gathering her belongings. "I'm sorry, honey, I can't avoid this."

She paused in the process of adjusting her purse strap on her shoulder. "No, don't worry about it. Today probably wasn't the best time to talk about any of this anyway." Scooping up her coat, she offered her father a wide smile, albeit one which failed to reach her eyes. "We've got all the time in the world to talk. It'll keep."

Paul rounded the desk and gave his daughter a quick hug. "It shouldn't have to. You've waited too long. But --"

Carolyn moved back into his embrace, her arms briefly tightening around his waist enough to hint she was afraid he'd disappear if she let go. Before he had a chance to remind her he was home for good, she slipped out of his arms and moved a short distance away. "See you soon, Dad."

Her airy tone did nothing to cloak her reluctance to leave. Paul cursed the FBI for first waiting this long to enter the wrap-up of the investigation of Jericho's organization and then choosing such a bad time to swoop in. "I'll walk you out."

As he shepherded Carolyn out the office door, Paul found he couldn't shake the sense his daughter's troubles -- the ones she hadn't been able to bring herself to discuss – were only beginning.

***

"All right, spill it." Jody leaned against the booth's cushioned back and took a long swallow of coffee, her deliberate actions belying the impatience which set her teeth on edge. They'd been at the Olympus Diner for ten minutes, risky enough this early in a shift, but Peter hadn't become any more forthcoming than he'd been earlier. Typical.

"Spill what?" Peter shot her an innocent glance as he lifted the white ceramic mug to his lips.

Jody gulped a little more coffee than she actually wanted, counting to ten as she did so. "Whatever's bothering you," she returned, her voice even. "Whatever made you take Mary Margaret's head off back at the precinct."

Peter flushed a little, and had the good grace to appear chastened. "And yours?" The regret which shadowed hazel eyes told her his question was far from casual.

Jody ducked her head, squirming a bit under the weight of his assessing, yet apologetic gaze. "OK, yeah, sure, mine too." The once welcome warmth of her mug penetrated her awareness, the cup's weight and temperature both suddenly oppressive. She set down the mug and met Peter's eyes before expanding on her thought. "Don't worry about that part of it, though. I'm your partner, I know how to handle your moods."

Her teasing words elicited a fleeting grin. Peter reached across the table to capture her hand in his own. "Bet you never thought that'd be part of the job description when you signed on."

Jody rolled her eyes and snorted, but made no move to remove her hand from his. "Don't flatter yourself, Peter, I didn't say I was here to cater to your every whim. And I sure didn't mean I wasn't ever going to yell at you."

This time his answering grin was wider. "You're just here to keep me honest, is that it?"

"Something like that." Certain he could pick up on her reluctance to break the physical contact between them, Jody released his hand and reached for her mug. "Do me a favor?"

"Anything." From most men, the fervor with which the declaration was proclaimed would have sounded melodramatic. From Peter, it sounded like nothing more than a naked statement of fact.

Naked.

Why in hell had her mind fastened onto that word, rather than all the more appropriate adjectives she could have chosen? She curbed her urge to explore the question further and followed through with her request. "Talk to Mary Margaret."

"You mean apologize?" Penitence for the way he'd blown up at both women mingled with irritation in Peter's tone.

Oh, no. She wasn't falling into that trap again. If there was one thing she had no desire on God's green earth to endure today, it was an entire shift joined at the hip to a thoroughly -- and for no apparent reason -- pissed off Peter Caine. Instead of agreeing with him, she reiterated, "Talk to Mary Margaret."

***

"All right, I'm here." Snyder tossed his briefcase and coat into the booth and signaled to the waitress as he slid in after his belongings. Once seated, he focused his attention on his companion. "Mind telling me why I'm here? I thought we agreed it would be safer for you to confine your involvement in the matter to --" He broke off as the waitress approached their booth, coffee pot in hand.

Randolph Cooper loosened his tie while the waitress poured the coffee, then nodded when she asked if he wanted a refill. He waited until she moved out of earshot before finishing the thinner man's sentence. " -- to talking occasionally to Ross Farlow until this all plays out. Yes, I know. I'm fully aware the only lawyer I'm supposed to talk to for the next little while is a stranger, not my old friend."

Snyder clenched his teeth. Same old Randy. Just as whiny and self-absorbed as ever. Still the same washed-out gray eyes and too-short brown hair sufficiently lightened by the sun to betray his eternal quest for the perfect Caribbean beach on which to spend the winter. Hell, he bet Randy still favored shoving his oversize feet into expensive Italian loafers, but he wasn't looking under the table to find out.

He smirked, but his old friend was so intent on spooning sugar into his coffee he gave no indication he'd seen him do so. Nevertheless, sitting across from him today was quite satisfying. Back in college, Snyder'd been the sidekick, the one trailing along on the edges of the clique formed by his frat brothers. And Randy had been the center around which their circle of friends revolved. Now the tables had turned -- the other man needed his expertise and connections. He was calling the shots.

He'd enjoy the reversal of fortune later. Right now he didn't have the time to wait around for his friend to get to the point. "So why am I here, Randy?"

***

Dense grey fog surrounded Peter, its tendrils clawing at him. His left hand groped for something -- anything -- which might help identify the location, but encountered only the cold, rough surface of a stone wall. He surveyed his altered environment, heart pounding. What the hell was going on?

Peter inched forward in a vain attempt to escape the murkiness, but found each step a herculean effort. A leaden sensation weighed down his legs, seeking to root him to the spot as though mired in mud. Finally, he yielded to the unseen force prodding him to remain still.

Hostile voices, their accusations and threats overlapping, pierced the fog. Peter strained to hear, but caught only snatches of conversation. The speakers themselves remained hidden in the all-enveloping shroud of mist. Try as he might, he could see nothing more than a few inches in front of him, save the dizzying kaleidoscope at the far end of the corridor. As the voices changed and merged, the kaleidoscope brightened and dimmed by turns, its array of colors ever-changing.

Jericho's name. Vague threats. He tried to listen closely enough to follow a conversational thread from beginning to end, but was distracted by intruding words, many of which made no sense in the present context, and voices lowered to whisper level. "The final days are at hand," hissed yet another sinister voice, this one familiar in a way he couldn't pinpoint.

Somewhere in the distance he heard a woman call his name, her voice distorted as though filtered through an echo chamber. Silence fell, then he heard his name again. This time she sounded more insistent.

Was she pissed at him? Worried? Peter was pretty sure both were true. But how could he be certain when he couldn't identify the speaker?

While he pondered his own question, the swirling fog obscuring his surroundings dissolved and the diner swam back into focus. He blinked twice and fought down the weight which had taken up residence in the middle of his chest. Maybe recognition of his environment didn't equate to really being there? Shit.

A swarm of insects crawled around his stomach, joining the crushing weight which threatened to force the air out of his lungs. The distorted voice still rang in his ears, though the rest had faded. He concentrated on trying to decipher the woman's words, unconsciously centering himself in the process.

"Earth to Peter." The unidentifiable echo resolved into Jody's voice at the same time he registered the hand she waved in front of his face.

"Huh?" Great. Now his powers of speech were affected by his visions or whatever the hell this little trip into the surreal had been. If Jody was a stranger, she'd probably think a village somewhere was missing its idiot.

"Are you OK?" She studied his face as she inquired, her gaze clouding over with concern.

Damn. How bad did he look? Peter prevented himself from voicing the question. If he asked, he'd make her think he was a raving lunatic. Maybe that assessment wouldn't be so far off the mark right now, but still...

"Peter?" Jody's voice cut into his rambling musings again, and he focused on it with effort. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah." He fidgeted with his spoon, his thumb's pressure on its handle lifting its bowl from the tabletop. "Guess I just zoned out for a minute there."

Jody's perplexed gaze turned dubious, but she didn't question him further. Instead, she slid out of the booth and extended a hand. Without thought, he grasped her fingers with his own and allowed her to pull him to his feet. "In that case, we better get going. I think we've been away from the precinct long enough, don't you?"

"Yes, Mother."

His sarcasm produced the expected mock glare. "So help me, God, Peter, sometimes I don't know why I put up with you."

The uneasy sensation gnawing at his gut abated. He grinned and wound his arm around Jody's shoulder. "Come on, you know you love me," he teased, drawing her close.

"Of course I love you." Jody removed his arm from her shoulder, took a step back to face him, and added in the same matter-of-fact tone, "I also love my job as much as you love yours, and if you don't get your ass in gear, we're going to screw those jobs up."

"I'm coming, I'm coming." Peter continued grumbling beneath his breath as he pulled on his jacket, dropped two dollar bills and a handful of change on the table, and followed Jody toward the diner's front door.

***

"I'm starting to wonder just how good an idea this really is."

"Meeting like this? Terrible," Snyder snapped. "It could bring the whole house of cards tumbling down and you know it. Remember the reason you brought me into this in the first place."

"You mean to fulfill my father's dying request?" Randy laughed. "His instructions weren't the only reason I called you. You should be grateful I thought of my old friend. It could be someone else earning all that money you know."

"If the only reason you called me here was to reminisce, I'm leaving. I have a practice aside from the favors I'm doing you, in case you've forgotten."

Before he could stand, Randy blurted out, "Farlow won't give me any satisfaction. He keeps feeding me a song and dance about attorney-client privilege. That's why I asked you here."

"And Farlow's refusal to talk to you on matters of significance would relate to our meeting how?"

Randy fingered the rim of his coffee cup, snatching back his hand when hit by the steam given off by the liquid within. "Give me your best estimate. Does she have a hope in hell of winning the case?"

"You already know the answer. Farlow's at the top of our profession, and if anyone can get a judgment in our favor, it'll be him. But this is more a stall tactic than anything else. Don't expect anything more than we talked about when you came to me."

"I was afraid of that." Snyder shot him a curious stare. "I'm worried about the tactics we're using."

A harsh laugh issued from the attorney's throat. Truth be told, even his own rather questionable sense of legal ethics was sorely tested by his present clientele. But he was damned if his gravy train was going to be derailed by a sudden attack of conscience on the part of the man who'd recruited him. "A bit late to start worrying about ethics, don't you think?"

"Can she withstand the spotlight long enough for everything else to get done that needs to get done?"

***

Peter stopped near the cash register, drawn by the voices from a booth nearby. One of the men sounded like Blanchard's slimeball of an attorney, but who the hell was the other one?

"Move it or lose it, Caine," Jody called over her shoulder.

A blinding flash of light, like the one he'd seen when his sister's car exploded, flared in the middle of his field of vision. It was gone as quickly as it came, the light's evanescence suggesting he'd sensed an event about to happen.

Jody.

Peter ran out of the diner, shouting her name as he went. The instant he stepped outside, his sense of impending doom faded, replaced with the certainty whatever he'd just picked up on endangered neither himself nor his partner. At least not now.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

"No, but I heard enough to give me some very interesting ideas about where the coroner's inquest is headed. Come on, I want to pick a couple of people's brains about something."

***

"That's the last of it." Disgust and frustration in equal measures laced Kermit's voice. "Not a damn thing out of the ordinary. No unusual deposits to Emily Webber's bank account or her husband's. No link between any other account and either of their Social Security numbers. And no indication of any recent investments made with a sudden windfall." He swiveled his chair to face the one Karen had drawn up beside him, slouched back, and reached for his nearly empty mug. "So where in the hell are they hiding the money?"

"I hate to ask this, but is there any possibility..."

"...that she's doing this solely out of grief and the delusion her father was an innocent man?" He shook his head. "Not a chance in hell. Not with Ross Farlow representing her. He doesn't take cases on contingency." Gesturing to the screen, Kermit added, "And she sure as hell couldn't afford him without a great deal of financial help."

A faraway look in her eyes, Karen toyed with her silver pen for several seconds. Kermit drained his mug while he watched her think. Two years of observation had taught him how to recognize the subtle signs of Karen sifting through clues when presented with a seemingly intractable dilemma – the slight furrow of her brow, the absent manner in which she kept a pen or pencil in constant motion, the keen focus he could read in her eyes even as she appeared to be a million miles away. Most people wouldn't have noticed when she came to a conclusion; Kermit felt himself coil, ready to pounce on the solution, a split second before she began to speak. He didn't question the sensation. His instincts were too much in sync with Karen's of late for his overeagerness to strike him as unusual.

"Does Emily Webber have any children?"

Kermit turned back to the keyboard so rapidly his chair skittered a fraction of an inch on its casters. "Talk about not seeing the forest for the trees," he muttered, disgusted with his own failure to come up with the possibility earlier.

"Fresh set of eyes looking at it. That's all it was." Karen's voice sounded from close to his right ear. A single sidelong glance told him she was standing at his side, stretching muscles stiffened by hunching over his computer desk.

Once he started looking for accounts in the Webber children's names, it took all of five minutes for the pieces to begin to fall into place. He let out a low whistle at the data which appeared on the screen, dimly aware of the simultaneous hitch in Karen's breathing.

"A $50,000 deposit less than a week ago to an eight-year-old child's account? Could they be any more blatant?"

As much as the evidence seemed to stare him right in the face now, he knew he should have caught it before Karen did. Nevertheless, he found it difficult to resist the temptation to crow in satisfaction. "And we have a winner," Kermit intoned instead, his lips drawing apart into a feral grin. "If we can chase down the origin of this money, we may have found the missing link."

***

"Wow!" Kelly breathed. "That was... magnificent. I knew it'd be good, but I never imagined the first time could be so --"

"Exhilarating?" Jim suggested, chuckling.

Kelly covered her face with her hands and groaned. "With all your experience -- and all the inane babbling I've been doing -- you must think I'm some naive schoolgirl." She peeked out from between her fingers, then stopped hiding behind her hands.

Jim laughed. "If it's any consolation, nothing in either my experience or my imagination comes close to what just happened." He toyed with one of her dark curls while he reassured her, twisting the hair around his forefinger before releasing it. "Doesn't have to be the first time to be exciting."

Tension evaporated from Kelly's muscles, and she indulged in a languid stretch. Almost without conscious volition, her right hand continued to travel downward so she could stroke the hard, throbbing shaft again. The feel of holding that kind of power in her hand was electric.

Jim glanced down, his gaze drawn to the location of her hand. "Interested in a repeat performance?"

"You better believe it, flyboy!" Her fingers engaged in a lazy, caressing dance of their own along the shaft. Jim flashed her a knowing grin. Heat suffused her cheeks, and she cursed her body's betrayal. Why now, of all times, did she have to blush?

"Any time you're ready. Unless you need to recover from the excitement. I know you're not used to this kind of thrill." He smirked.

"Hah! In your dreams." Kelly wrinkled her nose and shot a mock glare at him. "I'll have you know I'll match my stamina against yours any day. In fact..."

Jim closed his hand over hers, stilling her steady massage of the shaft. "Mighty confident there for someone who's only about to embark on her second time, aren't you? Especially if you want it to last?"

"Oh, I've got the staying power." Kelly injected a wicked note she rarely used into her smile and her tone. "I'm just worried, Major, because I've heard fighter pilots handle brief spurts of energy best."

"Are you saying you don't think I can manage to stay in this for the long haul?" Instead of waiting for a response, he claimed her mouth in a soulful kiss.

She nipped down on his lower lip, breaking the kiss. "Far be it from me to suggest that. Just let me remind you of something." She waited a beat, allowing the pregnant pause to linger until Jim's expression became decidedly uncomfortable. "What we did today was my choice entirely, but my father's going to hold you responsible when he hears about your fast-talking. And Peter's not going to be any too happy with you either."

"Then I guess we better make every minute of this worth it." Jim lifted his hand from hers. "Maybe this time I'll show you how to put a few twists on the pleasure."

"I've got a few ideas of my own I'd like to play out," Kelly returned. She ran her hand tantalizingly along the shaft once more, then lifted it and questioned Jim with a glance.

"You're running the show. Go right ahead," he challenged.

Gleeful laughter escaping her throat, Kelly dropped her hand back onto the pulsing shaft. With a single smooth motion, she throttled it back...

And the sleek red sports car raced down the open stretch of road.

***

"Any ideas?" Karen tugged her coat's belt a little tighter, then wrapped a companionable arm around Kermit's waist and leaned into the arm he'd draped around her shoulders.

"Not a one." He ignored the frosty gust on which his words were carried and brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes, even though the lock would likely fall again a few seconds later. "You know as much as I do. Jim said meet him and Kelly out front because there's something we've got to see." A note of impatience crept into his last few words.

Karen drew away a bit and turned to face him. Laughter dancing in her eyes, she shook her head. "You're so curious about this you can't stand it. You're like --"

"Accuse me of being like a kid at Christmas and you'll pay," he growled.

"Promise?"

Kermit started to respond to the come-hither look in her eyes, but found himself distracted by a flash of motion just past the nearest intersection. "Well, well, I think we've got our answer." He slid his sunglasses down his nose, assessing the low-slung sports coupe as it whipped into the parking lane and came to rest against the curb. Yep, just as bright a red with the glasses off as he'd suspected it was with them on. He shook his head as he replaced his glasses.

Karen was a step behind him when he stepped out from beneath the building's overhang, but she'd caught up to him by the time he reached the car. The passenger window rolled down, and Jim asked, "Well, what do you think?"

Kermit slipped off his shades, swept an evaluating gaze from hood to trunk, and shoved the glasses back into place. "Nice wheels, kid. Think you could play any more to the fighter pilot stereotype?" He shook his head in, God help him, an approximation of the long-suffering paternal fashion Paul had used when Peter brought a black Corvette home from a police auction. "Rental agency must have seen you coming."

"You should see the one I own. Hell of a lot nicer car than the monstrosity you drive."

"Last man who insulted the Corvair's dead. Since you're my son, I'll let you live." Kermit waited a beat, then added, placing one hand on the car's roof, "Maybe."

Blatantly uncowed, Jim rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, even you wouldn't drive that thing if it wasn't for all the mysterious bells and whistles you installed." Before his father could respond, Jim turned to Karen. "OK, I know what he thinks of the car. What's your impression?"

She stepped back a few inches from curb to sidewalk and examined the vehicle. A slow smile spread across her face. "I generally consider automobiles a necessary evil if you want reliable transportation, but even I've got to admit this is beautiful." Returning to the curb, she slipped her arm through the crook of Kermit's right elbow. "And unlike other people I could mention, you get points for being chivalrous enough to allow a lady to drive your car."

"Not really."

Kermit swiveled his head toward Karen when he heard his son's mumble. As he'd expected, she arched one elegant eyebrow. "All evidence to the contrary?" she quizzed.

Jim's reply was muttered less clearly than his previous words, if that was possible. "It's not my car. It's Kelly's."

Kermit leaned down to stare into the car, dropping Karen's hand from his arm only when he heard the soft, sharp intake of breath that revealed he'd pulled her along behind him. Damn. He'd done it again. He kept forgetting the dull ache in his own leg, which no longer made its presence known unless he overworked the limb, would be paralleled by a residual soreness along the site of her stitches.

"Hi." Kelly sat on the very edge of the bucket seat, her torso precariously tilted over the gearshift. So precariously, in fact, a feather likely could have knocked her over into Jim's lap. She smiled up at Kermit, the sparkle in her dark eyes as impish as her expression.

"Hi yourself," he drawled, stifling a chuckle when Jim shot out a hand to steady her as she wobbled and, instead, nearly toppled her.

Kelly stuck out her tongue at Jim. "OK, so I'm a little bit overeager. So sue me, flyboy." Turning her attention back to Kermit, she broke into a grin so bright he figured it'd blind him if it didn't have to penetrate his green-lensed shield. "I bought it for a song at the police auction -- thanks to Jim's negotiations. Then we went for a test drive, and I decided I wanted to show the car to you first." She directed another brilliant smile at him. "You've always been so good to me, as long as I can remember."

"No."

The lethal promise of the single word typically caused those asking favors to opt for the safety of slinking away. Undaunted, his best friend's daughter merely fluttered her eyelashes and demurred, "But I haven't asked you anything yet. How do you know your answer won't be yes?"

God save him from Blaisdell women, especially this combination of Paul's and Annie's traits he'd rarely been able to resist when she begged. "Give it up, Kelly. You're out of your league."

Wide, overly innocent eyes opened further. As if the imploring gaze wasn't enough, now the eyelash speed had increased to a mile a minute.

"Oh no, don't bat those big brown eyes at me, young lady." Somewhere in a distant corner of his brain, Kermit registered the ring of both his fiancée's and his son's laughter. "You're on your own this time. You get to tell your father about this purchase."

***

"You guys gotta get a load of what's outside in the parking lot," T.J. announced as he entered the squad room, fast food bag in hand. He deposited the paper sack on his desk, reached inside, and fished out a fry. Before biting into it, he used the potato to gesture in the direction of the parking lot.

"A thing of beauty, folks," Chin agreed, following the other detective into the bullpen, his own late lunch in hand. "A glorious sight to behold."

"Whatever it is, I'd worry more about making sure your notes on the Jericho investigation are in order." Broderick left the booking desk to stand over the younger men, his countenance stern. "The Inspector and the Chief are still in there --" He cocked his head toward Captain Simms' office. "-- with the FBI. Once they're through talking to the supervisors, three guesses who the feds' next interviews will be."

"The investigators of record." T.J. and Chin exchanged frustrated glances, and the former leaned toward the latter to offer in a confidential tone, "Bureaucracy at its finest, according to my old man. And the Commissioner oughta know."

Chin glanced up at the wall clock and grimaced. "Three-fifteen and we can't even take time to eat lunch without working." He edged one hip onto the corner of his desk and reached for the folder on the opposite corner with one hand, the other plunging into the burger joint's bag. "And here I thought what we saw outside meant things were looking up."

"Count yourselves lucky, guys. Nobody in that office has surfaced for lunch yet." Broderick waited until he was within a foot of his usual station behind the counter, then turned around and remarked, "But you're right. Saw it five minutes ago on my way back from lunch. Sure is a beauty."

Peter shifted uneasily in his chair, one eye on Simms' office door, the other on the case file he'd been pretending to read for the past forty-five minutes. He couldn't concentrate worth a damn, and this interplay about someone's car wasn't helping matters any. "Probably just some shyster lawyer's way to show off his money, anyway," he mused under his breath. "Now the 'Vette was a car."

Just then Blake ambled in on his way back from his latest surveillance. "Hey, Pete, have you seen the latest with your little sister?"

Peter grunted. Ordinarily he'd have warned Blake Kelly didn't appreciate being classified as a "little sister", even by him and Carolyn. Today semantics seemed too petty to be worth the effort.

Jody and Skalany exchanged a glance fraught with a combination of shock and worry. Peter didn't like the vibes their mutual concern gave off, didn't like the fact they'd obviously decided he wasn't acting like himself and had no compunction about showing their anxiety where he could see it. Jeez, couldn't they worry about something important, like whether the FBI's involvement was going to screw up the case against Blanchard and the rest of Jericho's men? Or even their own damn hides with the coroner's inquest coming up?

"I'll take your silence as a no." Blake, who'd used the time consumed by Peter's stray thoughts to shed his coat and settle in at his desk, shot Peter an all-too-gleeful glance. "You really should go look."

"Where?" Peter didn't really care, but maybe asking would get Blake off his back. Which would mean one coworker down, one partner and one ex-partner to go.

"Parking lot." Blake, Chin, and T.J. pronounced the words simultaneously.

Peter tuned out everyone else's obsession with the parking lot and turned back to keeping vigil on Simms' office. At least, such was his intention.

Skalany and Jody exchanged another glance, one which sent the fear of God or Buddha or ... whoever -- Peter gave a mental wave of dismissal -- into him. He didn't need any semblance of precognition to tell him he was about to be double-teamed. No, the unholy glint in Skalany's eyes, matched by the gleam in Jody's, constituted ample warning.

He redirected his gaze to the papers strewn across his desktop and fought to focus his mind on the documents' contents.

"Time for show and tell, Peter." Skalany's shadow fell across his desk. "Come on, get a move on, time's a-wasting!"

Without looking up, he waved his hand in a shooing motion, the same gesture he'd use to brush off an annoying gnat. No gnat he'd ever encountered had perfected the art of annoyance in quite the same way Skalany had, though. She ignored the signal he wanted her to go away, leaning into his field of vision, her hand atop his desk obscuring the paperwork.

Against his better judgment, he met her eyes. "I'm busy. Tell me all about it when you get back."

She shook her head and shot a glance somewhere over his right shoulder. Peter made the mistake of turning to follow her gaze, only to spot Jody standing a few feet behind him, holding out his coat. <Why me?> No sooner did he send up the anguished entreaty than he found himself scrabbling for balance, his chair unceremoniously yanked out from under him. He gained his footing and favored the culprit with a glare and a threat of "Watch your back, Skalany, because I'll get you for this when you least expect it." Vaguely troubled by the fact he'd neither heard nor sensed the dark-haired detective's circling behind him until it was too late, he snatched his coat from Jody's hands. "OK, OK, I'm coming. Happy now?"

Skalany grinned. "For now."

"You?"

"Ecstatic. Now put your coat on. It's cold outside." Jody followed her own advice as she spoke.

"Who are you, my mother?" The complaint earned him a smack on the arm from his partner. "You don't play fair. Neither of you do." Cowboy boots firmly planted next to his desk, he asserted, "I'm staying here."

"Oh no, you're not." Skalany's vow was transformed into action as she and Jody each took hold of one of his arms and, to the laughter of their colleagues, forced them into his coat sleeves, then steered him out of the bullpen.

***

For all the chatter moments earlier about the spectacular car in the parking lot, Peter expected to be hit with a view of the ultimate driving machine as soon as he stepped out the precinct's back door. Instead, he didn't see any car likely to produce such a strong reaction. A surveillance van, a couple of unmarked sedans, and Broderick's new four-wheel drive were in the way.

He hoped.

Peter shoved his ungloved hands into his pockets, cursed the women who'd finally unhanded him for dragging him outside, and strode past the vehicles which blocked his view, mentally ticking them off as he walked. Van. Sedan. Four-wheel dri-

"Holy shit." He froze, staring at the sight which confronted him.

Through the rush of his own blood in his ears, he heard Jody emit an admiring whistle while Skalany started frothing at the mouth about how beautiful the car was. Either they were crazy or he was, and he was betting on them. Whatever car Kelly'd bought at the auction might be a fine specimen, but this -- this had to be a mirage.

He blinked, but his vision didn't clear. Unwilling to admit failure, he closed his eyes and counted off ten seconds. With nothing to do but listen to his sister's and the other women's excited voices, not to mention Jim's rumble of laughter at something Kelly said, it felt like the longest ten seconds of his life. He opened his eyes, hoping against hope the mirage had vanished.

No such luck. A beaming Kelly, locked in Jim Hellstrom's one-armed embrace, still stood next to her new car. The same car Jody and Skalany -- joined, incongruously, by Morgan -- now swarmed over in a pretense at clinical examination which struck him as more like blatant lust. The same sleek, highly polished apple red sports car he knew could go from 0 to 60 in under six seconds without even hiccupping.

"Holy shit," he repeated, his voice a ragged whisper.

"Looks like your sister got a pretty good deal out of her car being destroyed. Sorry it has to be something so difficult to afford on a cop's salary." Jordan's voice came from a few feet behind him.

Instead of wondering why she'd joined the car-ogling exodus from the station, he latched onto the affordability issue she'd raised. God help him, he'd promised to buy Kelly a new car. He calculated the cost, even at auction as confiscated property, and staggered backwards, coming to rest against the side of Broderick's four-wheel drive an instant before his knees buckled.

***

"Chief Strenlich and Detectives Kincaid and Chin will provide whatever further background you need on this case." Blaisdell's carefully modulated voice overrode that of Henry Richards, the FBI agent he'd first spotted hours earlier.

"Well, hell's bells, Inspector, thought you'd be pleased to get our help drivin' this investigation forward."

Blaisdell's glare dared Richards' partner, a rugged dark-haired man in his late 50s by the name of Les Crane, to repeat the remark. Before either FBI agent could object, Paul rose, signalled to Strenlich to take over for him, and removed his trenchcoat from the coat tree. He waited until he had one hand on the door knob to deliver his parting shot. "We'll pick this up tomorrow. At which point I'll render my judgment as to whether the FBI's role in this matter muddies the jurisdictional waters. And if it does, I'll be speaking to the Director's Office."

Consternation painted both agents' faces. Good. With any luck, their reaction meant they'd exhibit more interest in cooperating on the investigation, rather than in doing their damnedest to take it over. Satisfied he'd planted the seed in their minds, Paul stepped out of the office -- only to confront a nearly deserted bullpen.

Blake was the sole detective within his field of vision, Broderick the sole uniformed officer. Neither offered an explanation of the bullpen's unpopulated stillness.

Paul cleared his throat. The sound echoed off the hard surfaces of a room he ordinarily associated with the cacophony of ringing phones, competing conversations, and the rest of the precinct's ordinary background din. His effort to attract the other men's attention produced no more results than had his exit from Simms' office.

"Sudden crime wave or mass unapproved vacation?" His weary inquiry fell a shade shy of testy, the strain of the day's events getting the better of him.

"Exhibition in the parking lot." Broderick's delivery of the sentence carried no inflection, nor did his expression change.

Blaisdell slowly repeated the sergeant's words. Broderick nodded, and he caught the flicker of a shark's grin on the sergeant's face. That, coupled with the intense, bright-eyed interest Blake had begun to pay to their exchange, was sufficient to form a suspicion he didn't want to harbor. "Kelly?"

"Yes, sir." Before Paul could inquire further, Broderick added, "You really do need to see it for yourself, Inspector."

***

"Daddy!" Kelly squealed as she spotted Paul, her voice rising an octave.

Paul took in the situation with a single sweeping gaze. His younger daughter, chocolate brown eyes as wide and startled as when she'd been six and he'd literally caught her with her hand in the cookie jar. His son, slumped against a four-wheel drive as though its solidity were all that kept him standing. An unlikely trio of detectives – Mary Margaret Skalany, Jody Powell, and Janice Morgan -- prowling around a car in a fashion just shy of covetous. Several uniformed officers staring at the car with equal lust. Jordan McGuire further into Peter's personal space than he'd have thought wise, her pretty features marred by the slight feline smile she likely thought hidden. Jim Hellstrom, his arm around Kelly's waist, his demeanor far too relaxed for Paul's comfort.

Not to mention the car itself.

Glossy red paint. Shiny chrome polished to a high gleam. Low-slung body. Souped-up chassis. Unless he'd missed his guess, that was. Judging from the self-satisfied grin on Jim's face as he answered Morgan's question about the car's performance, he hadn't.

Holy God. It's worse than I thought. Paul stifled the urge to ask Kelly exactly how fast she'd already driven this car. He was afraid he knew the answer, and Annie wouldn't take kindly to his having a coronary when and if their daughter confirmed his suspicions.

Peter roused himself enough to force out Paul's name. One wary eye on Kelly and her new car at the epicenter of everyone's focus, Paul strode over to his son. As he neared the younger man, Peter's vague gaze began to unsettle him. He clapped a reassuring hand on Peter's shoulder and offered, "Your sister does know how to make a production out of things when she wants to."

Peter grunted something which might have been assent. At least, thought Paul, he'd take it as such.

Before he could say more to his son, Jordan cut in. "Like I was just telling Peter, if Kelly's car had to get destroyed by Jericho's men, at least she got a great new one out of it. This one's a real beauty. I'm sure she'll get more attached to it than she was to the old one." She paused, favored the car with a glance Paul could describe only as avaricious, and added, "Must have cost a pretty penny, though."

Peter didn't take the bait, not even to complain he'd be in debt for the rest of his life. Paul's concern increased exponentially. Pushing his anxiety aside for the moment, he teased, "I suppose I should have expected this to be the result of Kelly's going to the police auction. Especially after --"

"You mean after me bringing home first a 'Vette and then a Stealth?" Peter's laugh sounded rusty, but the humor which filled hazel eyes was genuine.

"If I survived that, I can survive this." Paul studied his daughter, the car, and Jim Hellstrom's proprietary arm around Kelly, in that order. "I hope."

Jordan snorted delicately and strolled away, heading for the group clustered around the car. An odd mix of bemusement and relief entered Peter's gaze as he watched her wordlessly for several seconds. Finally, he shook his head, rolled his eyes, and commented, "Sometimes I don't understand women. Never thought she'd be civil to me again after how nasty our break-up was, but now she's as nice as she can be."

Paul sighed. Was Peter trying to convince himself old wounds had healed or was he truly oblivious to the possibility Jordan McGuire had her own agenda to pursue?

Peter misinterpreted the nature of his sigh, as evidenced by his next words. "Don't worry, Paul, Kelly can handle the car. Anything she needs to learn to adapt to driving a four-on-the-floor, Jim and I can teach her."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Paul groaned elaborately, eliciting unrestrained laughter from his son.

His daughter, on the other hand, glared at Peter as she approached them, a sheet of paper in hand. "Thanks a lot, brother dear. After the example you set, it's no wonder Dad's nervous about me buying the car. But at least the last name Blaisdell made them say I could drive it off the lot as long as they got paid by the end of the day tomorrow." Beaming with pride, she turned to Paul. "I'll be careful driving it, Dad. I promise."

"Can she keep it, huh?" Peter plucked the bill of sale out of her hand and promptly choked.

Paul pretended to consider the matter while Kelly stared at him expectantly. Moments before he wagered anticipation would have led her to try to wheedle approval out of him with a plethora of creative pleas, he broke into a grin. "No use trying to resist both of you, I guess." He turned to Peter and held out his hand, palm up.

His son stared at him blankly.

"Give it to me." Peter questioned him with a glance. "I brought Jericho into our lives, I'll pay for Kelly's car." Once the document was in his hand, he scanned the page, then scanned it again to ensure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. "Does this say what I think it does without my reading glasses?"

Kelly nodded vigorously, her broad grin reminding him of nothing more than the proverbial canary-eating cat. Peter quipped, "Believe it or not. I actually could have managed to pay for it."

"There's one condition on my paying for the car." Kelly's face fell. "Before I arrange the finances, my mechanic looks it over." Tone troubled, Paul added, "This model shouldn't have sold so cheaply at auction."

"But I got it at the starting bid. No one else wanted it." Paul arched a skeptical eyebrow and Peter snorted; Kelly amended, "Once my negotiator got through telling everyone else who was looking at it a cock-and-bull story about the defects he'd found and steering them to other vehicles he said were in better shape."

"Your negotiator?" Peter voiced Paul's unspoken thought.

Jim came up behind Kelly just in time to catch the question. "You rang?"

***

Closely spaced rows of figures blurred enough so they seemed to overlap. John Durham pushed aside the latest in the backlog of commercial account ledgers he'd neglected for more than a week and focused bleary eyes on his watch.

Seven p.m. had passed several minutes before. He hadn't paid attention to the passage of time once activity died down after the bank closed, yet the lateness of the hour still gave him a start. Out of habit, he reached for the intercom to buzz Megan and suggest they head home. His hand froze in mid-air as he recalled their agreement she'd stay home as long as the Carlsons were their houseguests.

Megan's certainty her availability at all hours as a sounding board could help ease their current situation might prove as much a godsend to Steve and Marilyn now as it had to him over the years, but it didn't make her absence any easier to take. Indeed, even during the busiest part of the day, he'd felt a gaping hole in the fabric of the workplace, a vacuum normally filled by his wife's steady, indispensable presence. If she were here, Megan would tell him such a thought was melodramatic. Then she'd chide him out of his predisposition to melancholy.

None of which prevented the thought from crossing his mind now.

John chuckled at how well his wife read his soul, pushed back his chair, and went to collect his briefcase and coat. Time to head back to the house and to the woman who was his home.

As he approached Megan's vacant desk, he set the briefcase on the floor and shrugged into his coat. The room was darker than usual, and it took him a moment to realize he was used to Megan's computer remaining on until the very last second before she left. Without the monitor's glow, the fluorescent lights overhead didn't seem as bright.

Perhaps this deviation from the norm was the reason he noticed the object's shimmer atop her desk. The weak beacon remained after he hit the dimmer switch on the overhead lights, plunging the room into shadow.

Home called to him. So did the gleam beckoning him from across the room. He answered the latter's pull, uncertain why it was impossible to resist.

The silver frame sat in a place of honor on Megan's desk, situated where she could see it regardless of whether her main focus was on the computer or the telephone. John lifted it gingerly, memorizing its location anew as he did. If he didn't return the photo to its proper place, Megan would give him hell. He chuckled at the strength of his desire to avoid his wife's wrath and turned his attention to the picture housed within the frame.

Himself and Megan, caught in the instant between a kiss's end and their separation from an embrace. Neither of them had been aware of the camera until the flash affected their vision. As a result, the moment captured for posterity on film displayed a man and woman with eyes only for each other, as though the rest of the world didn't exist.

But John remembered the night the picture was taken, the reason they were clad in tuxedo and evening gown. Several hundred people had crowded the vast hotel ballroom that December evening. It meant the world to him that this picture was Megan's favorite of the two of them together, for it had been taken on the night the local United Way's annual Holiday Banquet honored Caroline posthumously for her years of fundraising to establish a network of battered women's shelters and advocacy for stronger domestic abuse legislation. Most women would have been so threatened by the hint this was really Caroline's night they wouldn't want any reminders. Megan was so secure about their marriage she welcomed the memory as a keepsake seen daily.

He frowned, a nebulous image niggling at the corners of his mind. Steve and Marilyn had attended the banquet as well, their first evening out since Meg's birth. Marilyn had fretted so much about leaving the infant in someone else's hands he knew she would never have attended if she hadn't known Caroline's efforts -- and the foundation established in her name -- would be saluted. Yet, despite her maternal worries, she'd been happy to the point of effervescence all evening, a study of joy in her midnight blue gown.

"Bloody hell," John muttered. He knew what was gnawing at his subconscious. Last week's front page photograph of Steve and Marilyn had been taken that evening, by the photographer hired for the event -- the man whose contract for the evening stated only photos of the awards ceremony could enter the public domain. Steve and Marilyn's picture didn't fall into that category. And that meant whoever was behind the wrongful death suit had paid off the photographer.

***

Pale moonlight, filtered through the landing's leaded glass window, cast a slight glow on the staircase. The narrow trail of light provided by the moonbeam was enough for Megan to see the stairs. Her descent was sure-footed and noiseless, her right hand's grip on the mahogany banister her only concession to the perilous nature of an unlit flight of stairs in the middle of the night.

Less light illuminated the hallway leading toward the back of the house, but she followed the restless noises she'd heard when she awoke. Their volume increased as she approached the study, confirming her suspicion either Marilyn or Steve was prowling the halls of her house.

She hesitated outside the door. Until they moved into their new house, her friends surely deserved to have their privacy respected, didn't they? On the other hand, maybe a friendly ear would help ease whatever troubled them enough to walk the floor at three a.m.

Megan curled her hand around the door knob and eased open the study door. If the hallway's darkness seemed a blanket of charcoal, this room was pitch black, the result of John's predilection for dark woods and heavy drapes as components of his study's decor. Her eyes would need several seconds to adjust. She stifled a sigh.

In the daylight, she loved the anachronistic Victorian gentleman's club atmosphere created by leather chairs and footstools, the massive cherrywood desk, walls of burnished walnut panelling and overstuffed bookcases, and the burgundy velvet drapes which echoed the oriental rug's background. The study was homey and warm, especially with the fireplace ablaze. On a snowy or rainy day, even her much-beloved window seat in the Tudor's turret paled in comparison to this room as the perfect spot to curl up and read.

At this hour, she hated the room. Hated her initial inability to see well enough to move without tripping over furniture unless she turned on the lights. Hated the looming shadows suggestive of the ghouls and ghosts with whom her overactive childhood imagination had always peopled old houses. Hated the oppressive stillness which made her feel as though she were wrapped in a shroud.

Megan shivered at the eerie picture her mind painted, then relaxed as her environs came into sharper focus. She could make out Steve's brooding figure at the window, looking out over the wide expanse of lawn behind the house. Her brow furrowed as she moved further into the room, as close to the window as she thought Steve would allow. With the curtains pushed aside, it shouldn't be this dark. Damn it, John must have removed the stationary lights surrounding the house and installed a new type of motion sensor light he wanted to try. Again.

"Can't sleep?" Hardly the most scintillating conversation opener, she admitted to herself, but the best she could come up with at this time of night. She cast a longing gaze at her favorite wing chair, decided it would be too easy to fall asleep in the middle of a sentence if she sat there, and dropped onto the hassock in front of it instead.

"Again," Steve confirmed without glancing in her direction.

"Anything I can help with?"

"I appreciate it, but..."

"I'm a good listener."

"I'm going through a time of adjustment, I guess. Better late than never, huh?" Both self-deprecation and sarcasm bled through in Steve's tone.

Megan suppressed a shudder. "Adjustment to what?"

"The world my wife's brother lives in."

The world my husband lives in. Her mind supplied the parallel, but she dared not voice it aloud. Instead, she waited for her friend to continue and prayed she could find the words to help him sort out his troubles.

"I knew about Kermit's past, of course, but I never really knew what it meant until that night." Steve turned from the window and into what little light there was, haunted eyes scrutinizing Megan's features. "You know what the most frightening part of being at the safe house was?"

Megan edged closer to the front of the hassock and extended a hand to draw him back toward the wing chair, then thought better of it. "It wasn't the danger you and your family were in, was it?" When he didn't answer, she decided her question had been rhetorical. "The killing? Realizing you had it in you to take another man's life?"

Steve's laugh rattled in his throat, the sound somewhere between a hollow chuckle and a strangled cry. "Realizing Marilyn's used to this kind of threat putting her and her family at risk."

Megan blinked. Had Steve just said what she thought she'd heard or wasn't she awake enough to comprehend? "I don't understand." A yawn forced its way out, despite her best efforts to stifle the sound. She met Steve's amused gaze, counted his intact capacity for humor as a good sign, and shrugged. "I'm still half-asleep here. Cut me some slack and explain what you're talking about?" She hadn't planned the plaintive note with which her request ended, but at least the show of emotion should make him aware she truly wanted to know what he meant.

"The idea of our family being endangered wasn't new to Marilyn. She..." He allowed his words to trail off, puzzlement clouding his gaze. "John talked a lot about levels of acceptable risk when we were up at the safe house. I suppose that's as good a way as any to explain it – I don't think I'd ever considered living in a world where something like Jericho's threats might be the norm for even a single day. Well, not till it happened, that is. To imagine Marilyn living in a world where you run the risk of this kind of thing for as many years as she has... overwhelmed me, I guess."

"Because of how dirty that world is or because you can't protect her from the past?"

***

"Help me! Paul! Help me!" Annie's frantic shouts echoed down the subterranean passageway, their origin impossible to pinpoint.

Paul raced down the tunnel, following her voice as best he could. Jericho wouldn't make the hunt this easy, even if luring him into the final fatal trap. No one lying in wait for him in the shadows, no tripwires. Finding Annie couldn't be this easy. And whatever Jericho had in store for him was bound to be worse than anything he'd done before.

No sooner did the notion cross his mind than his progress was rudely interrupted. The tunnel forked into two separate entities, the stopping point of neither in sight.

Annie's guiding call abruptly cut off, as though she'd been gagged -- or worse. In its stead Jericho's voice taunted him, its echoes bouncing off the cement walls and ceiling like rolling thunder. "Getting slow in your old age, Blaisdell. I expected you'd be here by now. Aren't you afraid I'll tire of the game?"

Paul prayed his flash of insight was accurate and chose the left fork. "I'm the one you want, not her," he roared in return. "Fight me man to man, damn you."

"An old-fashioned duel?" Evil laughter swelled around him. "What an honorable concept. Not to mention archaic. I'll admit it's a novel idea, though."

"Let my family go and I'll make that novel idea more inviting." Paul's hand tightened around his gun's grip as he issued the plea.

"If you arrive soon enough. If you don't -- and perhaps even if you do -- well, I have a bit more entertainment to avail myself of at the moment. Quite a pleasant diversion it will be, too."

His wife's bloodcurdling scream rent the air.

"Annie!"

Her name escaped Paul's throat in a hoarse cry. He jerked awake, heart galloping.

"Everything's all right, sweetheart." Sleep slurred Annie's whisper. In the morning she probably wouldn't even remember her rest had been interrupted, but her very presence calmed Paul more than anything else could have done.

He raised himself up on one elbow, brushed a stray wisp of hair off her face, and dropped a kiss on her cheek. "Go back to sleep, babe," he murmured, on the off chance she was awake enough to understand.

"Don't get too comfortable," Karen advised him, a hint of humor lacing her tone. "I'm still officially on medical leave, which means we're not going to be here that long."

"Yes, ma'am." Too late, he recalled her distaste for the term. Instead of correcting himself, he snapped off a jaunty salute.

Her only response before heading for her office was a mock glare.

Jim waited till she'd joined Paul Blaisdell behind the closed door of her office, then strolled over to Peter's desk. Jody slipped off the edge, gave him a nod of greeting, and returned to her own desk. Skalany followed, tossing curious glances over her shoulder at two-second intervals until the jangle of her phone distracted her.

Several seconds of silence elapsed without Peter acknowledging his friend's presence. Damn. A quiet Peter was spooky. "Never thanked you for the hockey tickets, buddy." Jim chuckled. "Last time I saw you, everyone, including me, was a little too interested in Kelly's new car to think about anything else."

"She already read me the riot act. I don't need to get it from you too." Peter punctuated his outburst by shoving away from the desk and rising. His chair wobbled on its casters, settling into place moments after its owner stormed out of the bullpen.

Jim stared after him, mouth agape. He owed Kelly an apology. Yesterday, when she'd confided her concerns about her brother's state of mind, he'd dismissed them as a product of an overactive imagination. Now he realized how on target her worries had been.

Mary Margaret's telephone conversation vied with the activity at the front desk for primacy among what little noise continued. Conscious he'd become the center of attention, Jim shoved his hands in his pockets and addressed the bullpen at large. "Pretty quiet in here all of a sudden. I would say I sure can clear a room, but --" Manner exaggerated, he surveyed his surroundings. "-- you're all still here, so that can't be it."

Almost everyone ignored him, a few people offering a sympathetic smile before turning back to their own work. Jody, the sole exception, looked straight at him. "Pull up a chair and get comfortable. He'll be back. Won't be long either."

Bemused by her resigned words, Jim lifted an eyebrow in a silent query.

Jody watched him straddle the wooden chair alongside Peter's desk before she satisfied his curiosity. "Peter won't get far. His coat's still here."

From the sound of it, this game had been played before -- often enough, perhaps, to be characterized as routine. Jim scowled at the thought and swung his gaze to Karen Simms' closed door. If he had to lay a wager on it, he'd bet whatever she'd come here to do had taken a back seat to a certain Shaolin detective's erratic behavior. He groaned. At the rate this was going, he wouldn't just owe Kelly an apology, he'd have to admit she'd underestimated the problem.

***

"Don't worry about it." The anxiety in Paul's gaze belied his words.

"Too late."

"I appreciate your concern, but you don't need to get involved." Karen raised a skeptical eyebrow, and Paul chuckled. "Not yet, anyway. Give me some time to find out what's going on with Peter and handle it. Wait until you come back to work. Then... if I haven't had success, it's your call as to how you address the professional side of the matter."

Karen drummed her fingers against the chair arm before replying. "I truly hope it doesn't come to that."

"Yeah, I know. So do I. Disciplinary action isn't a step I want to be forced to take against Peter." Discomfort more evident in his posture than his expression, Paul rose and crossed to the office window. When he spoke again, his voice was distant, his attention clearly elsewhere. "Especially now. But at the rate he's going, I'm afraid I'll end up having to do it."

"With any luck, neither of us will." Karen's lips quirked into a rueful smile. "Speaking of disciplinary action concerning other personnel in this precinct, however --"

Paul tore his gaze from the bullpen, redirecting his full attention to his successor. "You ready?"

"To quote someone we both know and love, oh yeah."

"Guess that's my cue. You know where to find me when you're finished." Blaisdell strode to the door and paused, one hand on the door knob. "Good luck avoiding the fireworks."

"I could wish you the same as far as certain FBI agents are concerned." She laughed at the expression on his face. "Believe me, I don't envy you the peacekeeping duties there."

"Oh, you'll get to participate in those soon enough, I'm afraid. Richards and Crane appear to be settling in for the long haul." His parting shot delivered, Blaisdell left the office.

Simms waited until he'd cleared the bullpen, counted to ten, and swung open the door. "Detective Blake, in here now." Both detectives who shared the surname shifted in their seats; she directed a barely perceptible shake of her head at the resident electronics expert. Blake nodded and renewed his tinkering with a surveillance device, an air of contentment about him.

Kelly Blake peered around the squad room, her gaze finally coming to rest on Simms. "Which one of us, Captain?"

As if she shouldn't know. Karen tamped down her impatience and replied, "You." Without waiting to see if her order was followed, she turned on her heel and disappeared into her office.

***

Head bent over Kelly Blake's personnel jacket, Simms registered the younger woman's presence in her office doorway. "Close the door and take a seat, Detective." She continued to check the transfer paperwork while her instructions were carried out.

"Captain, what --"

Simms held up a hand to forestall the query, reached for a pen, affixed her signature where that of the officer's current precinct commander was required, and withdrew another sheet from the stack. She signed the second document too, then set down the pen. Closing the folder with a snap, she extended a loose paper across the desk. "For you, Detective Blake." A slight pause occurred before the detective took the proffered document and glanced down at it. "As you can see, new orders have been cut. You start at the 88th on Thursday. It was their call on the start date."

"But I didn't request a transfer." Confusion darkened brown eyes. "I like it here at the 101st. And surely we're more in need of detectives than that precinct. I mean, we've got more crime, more call for detectives on our cases."

"Be that as it may, the department's deployment of personnel does not take into account personal preference."

"In theory."

Karen Simms ignored the muttered disagreement. "Consider yourself lucky, Detective. With the exception of a letter to your file, transfer will take the place of disciplinary action."

"For what?" Kelly leapt out of her chair and slapped the paper onto the desktop. "I haven't done anything to warrant disciplinary action." Her gaze traveled downward to rest on Simms' left hand. A long moment passed before she looked up, a mixture of contempt and fury suffusing her expression. "Never mind, I get it. There's only room in this precinct for *one* affair between a superior and someone in that officer's command, is that it? Regardless of the fact *I'm* no longer with Chief Strenlich, while *you're* getting married to one of your officers? What makes you and Kermit so special you can't be punished for breaking the rules, Captain?"

"Not that it's any of your business, Detective, but Detective Griffin is no longer a member of my command." Simms glared at the younger woman until the scrutiny caused her to look away and sit down. "Moreover, if you were to be subject to disciplinary action as a result of your... relationship choices, said disciplinary action would have long since taken place. The details of our respective personal lives are quite irrelevant to this decision."

The other woman sneered, but remained silent.

"Perhaps the 88th considers loyalty an added luxury it can afford to do without. The 101st does not. Not under Blaisdell's command and not under mine."

"But --"

"Don't even think about protesting," Simms gritted out. "Unauthorized access to another officer's personnel file -- specifically, mine -- heads the list of your infractions."

Kelly Blake blanched and stared at her, raw shock in her eyes.

"Blaisdell handed down a directive limiting contact with the media during the Jericho investigation. Sandra Mason consistently aired information the department was not releasing. Information no one outside the 101st would have been privy to."

"That doesn't mean I was the leak. It could have been anybody."

"Save the outrage for more appropriate circumstances. Sandra Mason broadcast incomplete information from my personnel records because the rest was encrypted earlier in the investigation as a safeguard against leaks. Only one person accessed my file while it was encrypted." Simms leveled an icy glare at the younger woman. "You, Detective Blake. Unless you wish proof of your misdeeds to be turned over to Internal Affairs, I'd advise you accept the transfer graciously." She leaned back in her chair. "Of course, the decision is yours to make."

Kelly snatched back the document she'd left on the desktop. "You don't leave me much choice."

"Fine. I'll expect your desk to be cleared out by shift change."

***