By WhiteJazz

Rating: PG-13

Category: Drama

Series: 1st installment in "Daedelus" series

Warnings: Caveat Lector. For a more detailed description (read: spoilers), go here.

Notes: This series begins a week or so after "Murder 101," and will continue through the fourth season. I have 13 stories planned for the series, though more could pop in at the muse's leisure.

Thanks to Shelley for betaing!

Standard disclaimers apply: I don't own them, I'm just playing with them. The only characters I claim are David Noble and Rolph Kroeger. The song "Paint it Black" belongs to the Rolling Stones.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

From "The Cascade Daily Times," January 29, 1999:

SUICIDE DEATH SHOCKS HIGH-END CORPORATION

Businessman Leaves Behind a Record of Wrong-doings

From "The Cascade Daily Times," February 2, 1999:

TWO INMATES DEAD DURING ATTEMPTED ESCAPE

Cascade Penitentiary Inmates Joel Forrester and Garrett Kincaid Were Shot Trying to Escape From a Prison Work Detail—Three Sunrise Patriots Arrested in Relation to the Incident

From the "Daily Register," February 6, 1999:

GERMAN PAINTER TO ADDRESS PUBLIC AT 12TH ANNUAL WASHINTON STATE ART'S FESTIVAL

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You're the one who insisted we take Arlington."

"You're the one who stuck that herbal…thing under my nose, Chief."

"It wasn't under your nose, it was barely out of my backpack."

"It was fetid, is what it was."

"Fine, but the dent was not my fault, man."

"Gentlemen?"

Simon's voice effectively ended the argument that had begun in the parking garage and subsequently followed Jim and Blair into Major Crime. The pair looked up from their position by Jim's desk, identical pairs of blue eyes staring questioningly at the captain.

"Sir?" Jim asked, perching sideways on the edge of his desk.

"Dare I ask what you were arguing about?" Simon asked.

"Jim had an accident?" Sandburg replied, trying desperately to hide a chuckle.

"Not exactly," Jim said. "Sandburg pulled some herb—"

"It's for headaches," Blair interrupted.

"—out of his pocket—"

"Backpack."

Jim frowned. "Will you stop interrupting?"

"Sorry."

"Anyway," Jim continued. "It hit me and it was all I could smell, like peppery allspice or something."

Simon cocked an eyebrow. "And?"

The captain was sure he saw Ellison blush. "I kind of hit a parked car."

"Hit may be too strong a word," Sandburg said, jumping to his partner's defense. "He just grazed it a bit."

"So that's what held you two up?" Simon asked.

Jim and Blair exchanged an amused glance.

"Not exactly," Blair said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

It hit him and Simon groaned. "You didn't hit the mayor's car or anybody else who could chew me out, did you?"

"Oh no," Jim said. "But we did wait around for the owner of the car."

"Who happened to be robbing the bank across the street," Blair added.

Simon blanched. "You're kidding." Then he thought about whom he was talking to. "No, you can't be kidding."

"We're not kidding," Jim said. "Needless to say, the guy wasn't too angry about his car."

For twenty seconds, Simon Banks just stared at his best—and most unconventional—detective team, then burst out laughing. "Only you two…" he muttered as he walked back to his office.

At that moment, Joel Taggart trudged into the room, his face drawn into a loose mask of fatigue.

"You okay, Joel?" Blair asked, watching the older man with concerned eyes.

"I can't remember ever being so tired," Taggart replied, rubbing his eyes. "Sandy Hatch barely recalls anything about the attack and, to top it off, the plastic surgeon gave a bad report."

Jim shook his head, remembering the few details he had on Joel's current case. Twenty-two year old Sandy Hatch had been walking home from Rainier two nights ago and woke up in a garbage dumpster—missing half of her face. There had been no other marks on her body, save the mutilations to her nose, eyelids and cheeks, and not a single clue as to who would do such a thing to the Dean's List archeology student.

As Joel wandered off, Blair whispered to Jim, "I think the party tonight is just what he needs."

"Yeah," Jim said. "As long as he likes surprises. It'll be good for everybody."

Blair glanced across the bullpen to where Rafe and Connor stood, arguing about approaches to their current robbery case. He couldn't hear the conversation, but knew neither one was immediately willing to back down.

"I hear that," Blair said. "And I'll bet Rafe will be glad when Henri gets back into town."

Jim chuckled. "No kidding."

~*~*~*~

"Dammit," Megan muttered again, tossing the dead cell phone onto the passenger seat of the car. She frowned at her reflection in the windshield, a made-up face and sweptback hair looking back at her.

//All dressed up and no place to go, // she mused.

She was slumped in her car, stalled on the side of the road with a flat tire, miles from the nearest gas station and in a party dress, no less. It figured she would get lost tonight, of all nights. They'd never let her hear the end of it at work.

//Well, damn me for not getting that bloody spare fixed. //

Headlights were coming toward her from several hundred meters down the road. Megan got out and began to wave, hoping the driver would stop and give her a hand. Instead, a shiny red Mustang sped on by and honked at her as it went.

"Thanks a lot!" she screamed at the retreating vehicle.

Megan glanced at her watch. She was already a half-hour late to the party. She began to pace in the gravel, wondering if the trek back down the road was worth it in her high heels. A new set of headlights crested the far hill, heading in the direction she was. Wondering if it was a lost cause, she waved again.

A tan Chevy Caprice slowed down and pulled onto the shoulder in front of her car. She stayed by her own vehicle, waiting. The driver's side door opened and a young man climbed out. He was in his mid-thirties, with coffee-colored eyes and dirty blonde hair. He smiled, looking oddly familiar to her.

"Need a hand?" he asked.

His voice was slightly accented, but it was muddled and not readily identifiable.

"My tire's flat and the spare has a hole," she explained. "Do you have a cell I could use? A friend is having a party up the road and I just need to make a quick call."

He nodded. "I have a car phone. Feel free." He motioned toward his open car door.

She hesitated, but figured she was running out of options. And she couldn't shake that sense of familiarity. "Thanks." Keeping one eye on him, Megan walked over to his car and slid into the driver's seat. She picked up the phone and dialed the seven digits. Her finger inched towards the 'send' button when she felt a stinging pain in her left shoulder.

Bright redness, then darkness.

~*~*~*~

"I don't know who was more surprised by the dancing girl," Blair commented, grinning from ear to ear. "Joel or his son."

Jim laughed, careful to keep his eyes on the road as he recalled that evening's highlight event. The men and women of Major Crime, with a little help from the Bomb Squad had planned Joel's fiftieth birthday party with utmost secrecy. Taggart's son, Lucas, had been instrumental in getting his widowed father to the party location: a mountain cabin Rhonda was putting up for sale. Lucas said the retreat was a birthday gift, just a quiet weekend to get away from it all.

Well, they'd all gotten away with about thirty other party guests. Beer, pizza and onion dip had been the staple foods, with the belly dancer an unexpected bonus for the men in attendance. It was a long-distance gift from Henri Brown, who was out of town for a family funeral. The girl had taken quite a liking to Rafe, much to the younger detective's embarrassment.

Jim turned left onto Frankton Avenue, heading for the loft. "Rafe didn't seem to enjoy her too much."

Blair chuckled. "I dunno. I think he would've had more fun if his girlfriend weren't there. Tracey was tossing the dancer dirty looks all night."

"Yeah, well." Jim remembered the skimpy outfit on the girl. "I don't think any of the women were too fond of her."

"Too true, my friend." Blair cocked his head to one side. "Speaking of which, I wonder why Megan never—"

Sandburg's thought was interrupted by the truck's radio squawking to life.

<"All units, Jane Doe reported in the alley of West Timberlake and Frankton. Possible 261. Officers on scene. Over.">

Jim grimaced. Damn. He snatched up the mike. "This is David 152. We are on Frankton, four blocks away. ETA one minute. Over."

<"David 152, Central. Copy that. Over.">

Jim tossed the mike down and sped up.

Blair looked at him with questioning eyes. "A 261 is a, uh—"

"Rape," Jim supplied stonily.

Timberlake was approaching. It was little more than a one-way street between rows of industry buildings, littered with dumpsters and garbage. Many a body had been found in this quiet part of town. A foot patrolman was standing on the street corner, flagging them down.

Jim pulled over and parked the truck. He climbed out, heading for the officer and flashing his badge. Sandburg was hot on his heels.

"I'm Detective Ellison," Jim said. "This is Blair Sandburg. Where is she?"

"Officer Jameson," he replied. "A homeless guy came screaming out of the alley a few minutes ago, yelling about a dead angel. We looked down the alley and found the woman. She's beat up pretty bad. An ambulance is on the way."

"Thanks." Jim brushed past Jameson and into the alley. A hundred feet down, he saw another officer hunched over a pile of trash bags. He stood up at Jim's approaching footsteps.

"Officer Kale," he said quickly. "She's got no ID on her and hasn't regained consciousness. Looks familiar, though."

Jim moved to squat next to the still form of a young woman, still sprawled in amongst the trash. "My God," he muttered, recognizing who she was. He paled, staring open-mouthed.

"Jim?" Blair asked by his shoulder. "Who—?"

Jim heard Sandburg's sharp intake of breath, but couldn't tear his eyes away from her. He rubbed his eyes, but couldn't make the terrible image go away.

Even with drying blood covering half of her face and matting her dark curls, Jim still recognized Megan Connor. Her blue dress was torn up one side, stained black here and there on the skirt. Blood was smeared on her neck and chest, accenting dark bruises. More bruises decorated her wrists and face, her lower lip cut and swollen.

"Jesus Christ," Jim breathed. He tore off his sports jacket and draped it over Megan's battered form.

Blair knelt on her other side, taking one hand in his. His blue eyes reflected more sorrow and anger than Jim had ever seen before. "Who would do this to her?" he asked in a wavering voice.

"You know her?" Kale asked.

Jim glared at the young patrolman. "Her name is Inspector Connor and she works in Major Crime."

Kale paled. "She's one of ours?"

Allotting the man a curt nod, Jim turned his attention back to Megan. Zeroing in his hearing, Jim listened to her heartbeat. It was slow, but steady. Her breathing was shallow and sounded slightly labored. All he could do was hold her hand and silently urge the ambulance to move faster.

~*~*~*~

Simon blinked, trying to find his way out of a cloud of sleep. A soft, chirping sound was calling to him. He fumbled around, trying to find the phone and remember where he was. He leaned over a bit too far and tumbled to the floor in a heap.

"Ow," Simon muttered, realizing where he was. After Joel's party, he'd crashed on the couch in the cabin's living room, too tired to drive back into the city. He could hear Joel and Lucas snoring upstairs, a matching sousaphone duet.

Snagging the cell phone from his jacket pocket, Simon flipped it open and snapped, "Banks."

As he listened to the grim voice on the other end, he quickly transformed from annoyed to horrified. The details were sketchy, but enough to settle a herd of butterflies in his stomach.

"I'm on my way, Jim," he said tersely.

Simon sat up and snapped the phone shut. As he pulled on his pants, he debated telling Joel. He'd want to know and would certainly be angry if Simon left without waking him. So, Simon crept through the dark cabin, wishing he remembered where the light switch was.

~*~*~*~

Jim hung up the pay phone and made his way to the waiting room chairs. The Cascade ER was fairly quiet that night, so he and Blair were alone, waiting for news on their friend. Jim sank into a plastic chair next to Sandburg and let his hearing drift to the trauma room down the hall.

Doctors and nurses called for various tests, readings, cultures, and other things Jim didn't recognize. Whirs, hums, beeps and hisses filled the trauma room and began to give Jim a headache. He lowered his hearing, returning it to normal levels.

"Did you hear anything?" Blair whispered.

Jim shrugged. "A lot of medical gobbledy-gook." He paused. "Simon's on his way."

Sandburg nodded. "Did you call anyone else?"

"No. She needs privacy for now."

Jim's cell phone chirped to life. He thought he'd turned it off when he entered the hospital. Snapping it open, he said, "Ellison."

<"Detective? It's Officer Kale. We found Inspector Connor's car. Well, highway patrol did.">

"Where was it?"

<"In a ditch, just off Route 5 north. It's being dusted for prints right now.">

Jim was torn. As much as he wanted to go over to the scene himself, he was unwilling to leave the hospital. "Keep me informed."

<"Yes, sir.">

Jim hung up and looked over at Blair. "They found Megan's car in a ditch off Route 5."

Sandburg's jaw dropped. "So she *was* on her way to Joel's party. God, we couldn't have been more than ten miles away."

Nodding angrily, Jim said, "I know." He dropped his head into his hands, suddenly both angry and ashamed. He had been drinking and laughing while Megan was…who knew what?

Jim continued that line of silent degradation for the next ten minutes, until Dr. Rice exited the trauma room and Simon Banks barreled into the ER at the same time. Both men headed straight for Jim and Blair, who immediately scrambled to their feet.

"Is she okay?" Jim asked bluntly.

Dr. Rice nodded grimly. "She'll recover. Ms. Connor regained consciousness a few minutes ago, although she doesn't seem to remember much about the attack. But it's expected."

At the worried expressions he received from the three men, Rice continued. "She sustained a severe concussion, caused by blunt force trauma to the head. Three ribs on her right side have hairline fractures and she's sustained multiple bruises and abrasions. There is also a rather large laceration on her left cheek." He paused, taking a breath.

Jim pleaded silently that that was all, that the doctor was through. But Dr. Rice's next words crumbled that delicate hope.

"There was also evidence of recent sexual intercourse." Rice rushed on to forestall the horrific thoughts running through the men's heads. "Ms. Connor stated that she has had consensual sexual relations within the last thirty-six hours, and no bruising or tearing was found."

"But it still doesn't rule out the possibility of rape," Simon muttered.

Jim flashed to Megan's ripped and bloodied clothes.

"That's right," Rice said sadly. "And unless the evidence collected in the rape kit shows anything to the contrary, there is no way to know for certain until the assailant is apprehended or Ms. Connor regains her memories."

"Jesus," Sandburg muttered, running a hand through his thick curls.

Simon's fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles were solid white. His breaths came in labored pants, like the snort of an angry bull.

Dr. Rice glanced away from the three men, staring at his chart. "Officer Wendy Johns is in with her; she's collecting the rape kit. I'll let you know when they're through. I'm sure you'll want to…." The doctor cleared his throat, then excused himself.

Numbly, Jim watched Simon take a few steps backward towards the waiting chairs. The captain lashed out with unexpected fury, catching the nearest chair with the tip of his shoe and sending it skidding across the ER.

"Dammit!" Simon shouted, staring intensely at the wall.

//What's that old saying? / Jim wondered briefly. //If looks could kill…. //

~*~*~*~

Megan watched Officer Johns collect the contents of the rape kit; extremely grateful a relative stranger had been there for it. If it had been one of the boys she would have died from humiliation. As it was, she wanted to crawl deep into a hole and find comfort in the blackness, the shadows.

The doctor had been by several times, requesting she stay overnight so they could monitor her concussion. She had agreed, not completely trusting herself to be alone right now. The hospital may not be relatively comforting, but it had better security than her apartment building. She felt safer knowing so many people were around.

Officer Johns approached her bed, rape kit in hand. "You're in my prayers," she said.

Megan nodded appreciatively, but the statement brought little comfort at this point. The petite officer left the trauma room, closing the door gently behind her. Megan stared at the door, thin fingers unconsciously trailing her face. A large gauze patch covered her left temple, hiding a cut and lump she could barely feel under the bandage. She shifted, trying to get comfortable, but damaged ribs protested and sent a shot of pain through her midsection.

"Could be worse," she whispered to no one, the words offering no more solace than Johns' had. However, she was grateful that only her head and ribs were in any great deal of pain. Part of her regretted her night with Ronnie; if she hadn't been so overjoyed at seeing an old boyfriend from Sydney, she might have been able to control herself. But a single life was a rather lonely life.

"Thanks a lot, Ronnie," she muttered, although it was no more his fault than it was her fault the atom bomb fell on Hiroshima. Shit happened.

<Clack> <clack>

Megan blinked, looking through the window in the trauma room doors. Captain Banks' hulking frame filled the glass rectangle. His chiseled features were weighed down with worry and anger. She nodded and he stepped inside, his expression clearer now in the bright light. In fact, Megan couldn't recall ever seeing Banks so furious.

"Captain," she said, almost inaudible.

"Connor," he replied in voice that was heartbreakingly soft.

Megan looked over his shoulder, her voice normal and steady as she said, "Jim, Sandy. If you're listening, you might as well come in, too."

Jim and Blair entered the room, slight embarrassment mixed with sincere concern. No one seemed to know what to say.

"I suppose you've spoken with the doctor," Megan said, trying to fill the silent void born of everyone's discomfort.

"He gave us a basic rundown," Captain Banks confirmed. "We were hoping you could, uh—" he stammered, looking to the other men for help.

"Fill in the blanks?" Megan supplied. She sighed deeply. "Honestly, I don't remember much, and I'm not sure if that's a blessing or a curse. I was late for Joel's party and got a bloody flat. My cell was dead and a motorist stopped to help. I used his car phone, then…nothing. Lights out. I woke up in the ER."

"Will you be able to identify the motorist?" Jim asked, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans.

Megan closed her eyes. Instantly, a face transposed itself over the blackness, a smiling face with blonde hair. A face she knew she could never forget. Her eyes reopened and the image faded, but never completely disappeared.

"Yes," she replied. "He had an accent, too. European, but muddled like he was trying to disguise it."

"We'll bring in a sketch artist," Banks said. "See if we can't put a face to our suspect. What about his car?"

She thought a moment. "It was a tan Chevy Caprice, newer model, I think. I didn't see the license number, though." Megan studied her fingernails, freshly clipped, feeling useless for not noticing more.

Banks glanced at his watch. "We'll set up the sketch artist for first thing in the morning—or at least after daylight." He stepped up to Megan's bed, letting one hand rest softly on the blanket. "Try to sleep."

"Aye aye, Captain," she replied, thankful for his understanding. She just wanted to be alone for now.

The captain offered a gentle smile and walked out.

"If you need anything," Blair said.

"Anything," Jim repeated.

Megan managed a grateful smile. "I know. Just find the son of a bitch for me?"

"Count on it," Jim said.

"I have a question or two for him," she said bitterly.

With knowing nods and supportive smiles, Jim and Blair left. The door closed gently behind them, effectively shutting out the rest of the world. Even as that door shut, a dam burst open. No longer able to suppress the rage, fear and guilt, Megan pressed her bruised face into the pillow and cried. Salty tears stained the white fabric, soaking it through long before the torrent stopped.

~*~*~*~

A thick cloud hung over Major Crime the next morning. Personnel went about their duties solemnly, avoiding casual conversation and, in particular, Captain Banks' office. Banks had stormed in at quarter to seven, barking orders and gulping black coffee like a man possessed. Wide circles were walked around his office.

When Ellison and Sandburg arrived at the precinct--both solemn and sleep-deprived--they noted the changed atmosphere.

//They've heard, // Jim thought, glancing around at his co-workers. //At least enough to make them uncomfortable. //

Leading the way, the pair marched straight into Simon's office without the polite gesture of knocking first.

"What do you have?" Banks asked immediately.

Jim handed over a piece of paper. "We pulled a few prints off Megan's car that aren't hers. They're being run through our computers right now."

Simon stood up to pour himself more coffee. "I just called the hospital. Ray Davis is down there sketching out our suspect. He'll fax it over as soon as they're done." He handed steaming mugs over to Jim and Blair.

Sandburg cleared his throat, accepting the mug. "I hate to be the pessimistic one here, especially considering the case, but Megan doesn't remember the attack, so how do we get this unknown guy for anything but third degree assault?"

"We hope Megan's memories come back," Jim replied softly. He knew what those missing memories could mean for Megan's mental state, but he also knew what it could mean for convicting the man responsible. It was a lose-lose situation. Jim glanced out into the bullpen. "Who knows?"

Simon groaned, knowing immediately what Jim meant. "Most of this department, I think. Got leaked before I could plug it and you know how people gossip around here. But I called the patrol captain and made damn sure he'll shut them up downstairs."

The phone on Banks' desk rang.

Simon snatched it up. "Banks." He listened, nodding once. "Send him in, Rhonda."

Jim and Blair shared a curious look, wondering if they should stay or go. Banks hung up and set down his coffee mug.

"Hang around, gentlemen," Simon said. "The Chief decided that since we are down three detectives—with Brown out of town and Dills out sick—they're rotating in a man from the 59th precinct."

"A new detective?" Jim asked.

Simon nodded. "David Noble."

Jim's eyebrows shot up. "Boomer Noble?"

"Who?" Blair asked, his eyes darting between both men.

The office door swung open after a sharp knock, cutting off any response to Sandburg's question. David "Boomer" Noble stepped in, a friendly smile on his handsome face. He was Simon's height and well built with icy green eyes set off by the white sweater he wore loosely over black jeans. The clothes contrasted well with his closely shorn salt-n-pepper hair. Jim remembered an old rumor that when Noble entered the Academy at age twenty-two, he was already an old man—he'd begun graying prematurely at seventeen.

Now, at forty-one, David was a formidable detective and somewhat of a legend at being the best crack shot on the Northwest coast. Jim had never been able to understand why the man had given up a choice position at the Portland PD and transferred to the 5-9, the smallest precinct in Cascade that catered mostly to the elite and upper crust. It was the 'getting cats out of trees' kind of work that bored Jim silly. But everyone had his or her reasons.

"Captain Banks?" David asked, his voice soft, but commanding. "Detective David Noble."

Simon shook the man's offered hand. "Simon Banks. And these are two of my men. Detective Jim Ellison and his partner, Blair Sandburg."

David shook both men's hand, his grip firm and friendly. "I've heard stories about you two."

Jim managed a friendly grin. "Good stories, I hope."

"For the most part," David replied with laughter in his voice.

"Detective Noble," Simon said, regaining the man's attention. "You'll be working with Detective Rafe on a series of bank robberies. Ellison and Sandburg can introduce you and get you set up with a desk."

"Yes, sir," David said.

"Jim, I want to know as soon as those fingerprints come back," Simon said, sitting back down behind his desk.

"Of course, sir," Jim replied.

"Dismissed, then."

With a quick nod, Jim led the way into the bullpen. Sandburg wandered over to Jim's desk, while Jim bypassed Dills' desk and stopped at the empty one nearest the break room. Jim turned to face Noble.

"You'll be able to work here," Jim said. "Rafe is around here somewhere."

"Thank you, Detective," David replied good-naturedly.

"Call me Jim." For some reason, Jim found himself immediately liking David Noble. The man had a benevolent air about him that set Jim at ease.

David smiled. "Boomer."

"That's an interesting nickname."

"It's an interesting story," David said mysteriously. "Maybe you'll hear it sometime."

Jim had a feeling he would. He looked around, spotting Rafe talking to a patrolman across the bullpen. "Rafe's right over there," he said, pointing.

David followed his finger. "The guy who looks like a Gucci model?"

Chuckling lightly, Jim nodded. "That's the one. But don't worry, Rafe's a great guy. Just dresses like he's uptight."

"I'll remember that."

Feeling that his obligation was fulfilled, Jim headed over to his own desk, ready to begin what promised to be a very long, difficult day.

~*~*~*~

Simon hesitated before knocking to make sure he was composed. He'd been in a constant state of fury ever since last night--or early this morning, depending on your point of view. He was helpless to explain the overpowering animosity he felt towards Megan's attacker, although it wasn't completely unexpected. She was one of his officers, after all. Hurting one hurt the whole department. Though sometimes he wondered if it wasn't more than that. It—

The door to hospital room number 407 opened before he could entertain his next thought. Megan stood in the doorway, dressed in the sweat clothes Simon had dropped off that morning. The bruises on her face were darker now, sharply contrasting the white bandages.

"I thought you'd never get here," she said, her voice not quite yielding the brassy confidence he was so used to hearing.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked, stepping into the hospital room.

"Yes. If I spend one more minute in here, I'm going to start scaling the walls."

"You know this is AMA, right?"

Megan sighed. "Yes, I do. The doctor told me, the nurse told me. You told me that a half hour ago when I asked you to pick me up."

"Sorry." He could feel the same overprotective, fatherly instincts he had for Daryl coming to the fore. It could have been amusing.

"No worries."

Simon picked up a bag of personal belongings, including the few cards and flowers that she had accumulated. They were still waiting on the nurse and wheelchair.

"DMV gave us a list of cars to check out and the artist's rendering has gone out," Simon said, trying to fill the silence.

"I know you're on top of it," Megan said.

She looked at him then, looked directly into his eyes. Simon very nearly took a step back, shocked and frightened by what he saw there. It was something he'd never seen from Megan, an emotion she had refused to express in the many months he'd known her.

Fear.

Plain, naked fear.

Simon tried to smile, to give a kind word, something to make that emotion disappear. But he knew it was beyond his control.

Fortunately, the nurse arrived with the wheelchair and their attention was diverted by Megan's half-hearted protests about being wheeled out of the hospital like a child.

~*~*~*~

It was almost dinnertime when Banks arrived back at the precinct. Jim heard his baritone voice filtering out of the elevators just before the man himself emerged. Simon walked right up to Jim's desk, where he and Sandburg were busy with the DMV list.

"Connor's home," Simon said. "How are you doing?"

Jim grunted. "Most of the tan Caprices in Washington are registered in other cities. Of the four in Cascade, two don't have car phones and are owned by single women. The third is in a garage since last Wednesday and the forth is a rental out of a private company. It's closed on Sunday's and the owner isn't answering his home phone."

"Get on that first thing tomorrow, Jim," Simon said.

Sandburg handed Banks a sheet of paper. "We didn't get any matches on the fingerprints we found. Jim sent them down to Interpol, so hopefully they'll tell us something."

Jim nodded, but his mind was on something else. "Something has been bugging me. Does anyone else find the perp's sketch just a little familiar? Like you've seen him before?"

Simon looked mildly surprised. "So I'm not the only one, eh?"

Sandburg picked up a photocopy of the artist's rendering. "Now that you mention it…but who is he?"

"That's what I pay you for," Banks commented.

"I don't get paid," Blair observed.

Simon frowned. "Well, I pay your partner and since he puts up with you 24-7…why am I explaining myself to you? Get to work."

"Why don’t I get coffee?" Sandburg offered, getting up.

Jim tried not to laugh as Blair made his hasty retreat. Noticing Simon was still there, Jim turned his attention to him.

"How's our new boy, Jim?" Simon asked, gazing around the room.

"Rafe's been giving Noble the grand tour," Jim said. He thought about how the women in the department had been ogling the pair all day. "Between the two of them, they could do a cover spread for GQ."

Simon laughed. "Don't let that fool you, Jim. The rumor mill swears he's a devout bachelor."

"Could be."

Jim's phone rang, startling them both. He picked it up. "Ellison."

<"Detective Ellison? It's David Noble. Put on the five o'clock news, channel three.">

Jim's brow furrowed. "What for?"

<"I think your suspect is on TV.">

Jim dropped the phone without a reply and was instantly on his feet. He snatched up the photocopied drawing and bolted into the break room, ignoring Simon's questioning shouts. Jim flicked on the television set, grateful it was already on channel three. As the picture faded in, a German-accented voice was speaking about an art exhibit.

"Jim, what's doing on?" Simon asked as he entered the room.

A face filled the screen, young and blonde-haired. He was dressed in a fancy suit and speaking behind a podium packed with various network microphones.

"Jesus," Jim muttered. He held the sketch up to the television set. It was a perfect match.

"That's him," Simon said, disbelief evident in his voice. "That's why he looked so familiar."

Jim nodded, listening to the rest of the spot. The clip of the blonde man faded into Sharon Lewis, news anchor for Channel 3. "Rolph Kroeger will be speaking at the Cascade Arts Festival tomorrow at nine a.m., and again at three p.m. The session is open to the public, as are all the exhibits at the Festival. When we return…."

The television faded into the background as the gravity of the discovery sunk in.

Rhonda poked her head into the room. "Captain? Inspector Connor is on line one."

Banks was out of the room like a rocket with Jim hot on his heels. Jim forgot propriety and listened when Simon picked up the telephone receiver.

<"He was on the damn television,"> she seethed. <"Rolph Kroeger, they said his name was Rolph Kroeger.">

Jim looked at Simon, both of them thinking the same thing: time for an arrest.

"Megan?" Simon said into the phone. "I'll call you back when he's in handcuffs."

Jim had his truck keys in hand before Simon had hung up the phone, intently focused on the mission at hand.

~*~*~*~

Three detectives and a consultant arrived at the Cascade Towers Hotel at six o'clock. Captain Banks led the way; Taggart, Jim and Sandburg marched single-file behind him. After a few short words with the desk attendant, the quartet hopped an elevator to the tenth floor. They rode in silence, each man alone with their private thoughts of vengeance.

**Ding**

The elevator doors slid open. Jim followed Banks down an elegant hallway, eyes searching for room 1013. He let his hearing wander down the hall, zeroing in on three voices speaking in a foreign language. //German, maybe. // Jim kept listening as he walked, even though he had no clue what they were saying.

Banks knocked sharply on the door to 1013.

"Who's der?" a heavily-accented voice asked.

"Cascade Police," Simon replied, holding his badge up to the peek hole.

There was a mumbling of voices, followed by the click of locks. The door opened, revealing two tall, muscled men in dark suits. They stared at Jim and the others with openly hostile gazes.

"What do you vant?" the shorter of the two asked.

"Rolph Kroeger," Banks said.

"Mr. Kroeger is a busy man—"

Simon interrupted. "Mr. Kroeger is under arrest."

Soft laughter drifted out of the hotel room. The men stepped aside and Kroeger strode up from behind them. Jim felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle at the site of the man. Maybe five-foot-seven, Kroeger stood at ease between his towering companions with a half-grin on his face. He was impeccably dressed in a 3-piece suit. A large gold ring, shaped like a curled snake with emerald chips for eyes, stood out on his right hand.

"What do you want, Detective?" Kroeger asked, his accent giving way to perfect English.

"Captain," Simon corrected. "Captain Simon Banks."

"All right," Kroeger said. "What do you want, Captain?"

Jim took a step forward, unnerved by the foreigner's casual attitude. "You're under arrest for the assault and battery of a police officer, for starters."

Again Kroeger laughed, as if enjoying a private joke. He turned to the man on his left. "Otto," he said.

Otto reached into the jacket. Instinctively, Jim pulled out his gun and pointed it at the man.

"Put it down," Jim ordered.

Otto just smiled as smugly as his boss and pulled out a thin leather case, similar to a passport. Jim relaxed a bit, re-holstering his gun. Otto handed off the passport case to Banks, looking bored with the whole thing.

"As you will see," Kroeger explained. "I am what you call a cultural attaché. Diplomatic immunity, gentlemen. I cannot be arrested."

"What?" Blair squawked, speaking for the first time.

Kroeger regarded Sandburg as he would a distasteful noise. "It is no wonder the crime in this city when you let policemen look like women."

Jim bristled. He could feel Sandburg tense and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. Jim looked at Simon, who was glaring at the diplomatic papers in his hands. Banks sighed, resigned to the horrible truth.

"Get the hell out of my city, Kroeger," Simon growled, dropping the passport to the ground. "Or I can't be responsible for your safety."

"I'm here as a guest of this country," Kroeger said. He smirked at them. "I will not be bullied by you."

Banks opened his mouth to reply, then stopped. Instead, he turned on his heel and marched down the hall, muttering a string of colorful curses. Joel and Blair followed, but Jim hung back for a moment.

Jim looked Kroeger right in the eyes. "We'll be back. Count on it."

"Come near me again," Kroeger replied in measured tones. "And I will have *you* arrested."

Swallowing an urge to knock Kroeger's teeth down his throat, Jim turned and followed his friends to the elevator. A single thought echoed in his mind: Kroeger had never denied it. And now they had to tell Connor.

~*~*~*~

Megan sat up with a jolt, panicked and lost. The last bits of light from the sunset illuminated her apartment living room. She'd fallen asleep on the couch, a mug of cold coffee on the table next to her. The nightmare was quickly fading, leaving behind only a feeling of desolation and aloneness.

Then she realized what had awoken her. The door buzzer was going off. Megan glanced at her watch, amazed that it was almost seven o'clock. Captain Banks should have called by now. She carefully lifted herself off the couch, one hand on her sore ribs. Megan walked to the front door, smoothing her rumpled sweats and readjusting her ponytail.

Looking out the peek hole, she froze. Banks and Ellison were standing outside her door, exchanging uneasy glances. A chunk of fear settled into her stomach. Steeling herself, Megan unchained the door and slid the bolt out. The door opened with a familiar squeak.

"Connor," Banks greeted.

"Captain," she replied, letting the men inside. Someone was noticeably absent.

"Did you tell Sandy to wait in the car?" she teased half-heartedly.

Jim missed the joke. "He had to meet a research group at the library."

"Look, Connor—" Banks began.

"He wasn't there, was he?" Megan asked. She had horrible images of Kroeger out there, attacking other women while they searched for him.

"He was there," Jim said.

Megan blinked, not understanding. "So you arrested him…right?" She looked at the two men, unable to mask her confusion. If he had been there and they were here….

"We couldn't arrest him," Banks said. "He's got diplomatic immunity."

"Diplo—what?" Megan felt an angry flush rise into her cheeks. Diplomatic immunity was something used in the movies, not real life. "What in hell does that mean? The bastard gets away with it?"

"No, he doesn't." Jim took a step closer, making Megan take a subconscious step backward. He paused, his voice forceful. "We will get him."

"But how?" Megan felt close to tears, drained physically as well as emotionally. "He's bloody immune!"

Megan knew she was shouting and didn't care.

Banks cleared his throat. "Connor, I—"

"Could you please go?" she asked, both her voice and emotions strained to the breaking point. "Both of you."

The captain looked ready to protest, then changed his mind. He tapped Jim's arm lightly, leading the man out. Banks paused in the doorway and looked back.

"We'll get him somehow," he vowed.

Megan didn't reply. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth, every bottled up emotion and frustration would come shrieking out like a wailing banshee. Instead, she nodded and closed the door, sliding both locks back into place. Turning around to face her now-empty apartment, Megan felt a wave of despair wash over her. Unable to contain it any longer, Megan grabbed a ceramic pitcher from a nearby shelf and vaulted it across the room with a scream. It smashed against her CD player, accidentally turning on the radio. A song was just beginning.

As the lyrics continued, Megan found a quiet comfort in them. The deep, pulsating sounds of the music pounded into her ears and blocked out everything else. It could have easily been written just for her. She sank onto her couch, listening in silence.

Three and a half minutes later, the tune faded out with same intensity in which it had begun. One line continued to dance through her mind.

"I wanna see the sun blotted out of the sky," Megan murmured. She hummed the tune to herself as she fell into another fitful sleep, this time mercifully devoid of dreams.

~*~*~*~

Blair was already awake and hard at work when Jim trudged down to the kitchen the next morning. He looked up from his computer as Jim poured himself a cup of coffee. Blair was already on his third mug of the bitter brew, the caffeine keeping him awake for the time being.

"Didn't hear you come in last night, Chief," Jim said, pouring creamer into his cup.

"That's a first," Blair mused.

"Guess I was tired." Jim sat down opposite Blair, blowing at his steaming mug.

"Well, I got in really early this morning. Slept for a few hours, then decided to do some research."

Jim leaned forward. "On anyone I know?"

Blair nodded. "Rolph Kroeger. Seems he's a big shot in the Austrian art world. Does mostly watercolors of nature, considered to be brilliant by his older peers. He's been living in the U.S. for the last two years, teaching and speaking at art festivals."

"So he's legitimate?"

"Seems that way." Blair drained the last of his cold coffee and stood up to put the cup in the sink. "I did find an interesting bit on information, though."

Jim straightened up a little at that. "What?"

"Since Kroeger's been in the States, he's had twelve different secretaries. Each one has ended up quitting for some reason or another, but no formal charges have ever been made against him."

"Do you know the women's names?"

Blair shook his head. "They aren't in any of the databases I can access from here, but I can probably do more digging from your computer at the station."

"Do that, then."

"It'll have to wait," Blair said. He closed up his laptop and slid it into his backpack. "I've got office hours this morning, then two morning classes. I'll do what I can from my computer, then see you around lunch time."

"That's fine," Jim replied, in a clipped tone.

Blair sighed. He knew Jim was probably miffed, but he couldn't help it. There was no place Blair would rather be than out trying to nail Kroeger, but he had used up his favors for the month. He kept reminding himself that his thesis was almost finished, then the headaches would be over. He wouldn't have to split his time one way or the other.

"You can probably check to see if any of the cities Kroeger has been in have had a corresponding assault reported during his stay," Blair suggested. He handed Jim a piece of paper. "I wrote them down."

The telephone ringer chimed through the loft. Blair paused on his way to the door, watching Jim stand and snatch up the receiver.

"Ellison." Jim paused. "Yeah, Simon…damn…so that's it, then?"

The frustrated expression that flowered on Jim's face could only mean bad news. Blair was only faintly sure he wanted to hang around and hear it. Jim uttered a barely audible grunt and hung up.

Venturing to speak, Blair asked, "What's wrong?"

Jim rubbed a hand across his face. "Simon called the State Department this morning. Seems Kroeger needs a private hearing to determine if he can be prosecuted or deported. That makes it Megan's word against his." He cleared his throat. "And the fingerprints from Megan's car don't match Kroeger's."

Blair's jaw dropped. "What? Whose are they, then?"

"We don't know yet," Jim replied, shrugging his shoulders. "They don't match either of Kroeger's bodyguards, either."

"Damn."

Jim nodded. "Double damn."

Shouldering his backpack, Blair stepped out the door. "Later, man."

"Yeah."

Blair closed the loft door quietly. As he trudged down the stairs, he was consumed with an overwhelming sense of uselessness. It was becoming more and more apparent that Kroeger was, indeed, untouchable.

~*~*~*~

Jim stared at his computer screen and the image of the rearing panther Sandburg had put up as wallpaper months ago. As the Sentinel of the Great City, he felt completely useless right now. Someone had hurt a member of his tribe and he was helpless to bring him to justice. It pissed the hell out of him. Jim glanced around the bullpen, watching the Monday morning activity with little interest. Rafe and Noble were in Simon's office reporting on a recent case. Rhonda was doing paperwork. Detectives came and went at their own pace.

He thought back to his unofficial stakeout earlier. Jim had waited outside Kroeger's hotel and watched the man get driven away in a black Lincoln. He'd heard little conversation, and what had been said was all in German. It had been a bust, but Jim at least felt like he was doing something. Right now, he was sitting on his ass. The uselessness was compounded by the fact that the forth Caprice had, indeed, been rented by Kroeger and returned to the rental place early Sunday afternoon, less than twelve hours after the attack. Jim had spent two hours that morning in a fruitless search of the Caprice; any evidence there might have been was long gone.

Biting back a yawn, Jim stood up and wandered into the Break Room, intent on a fresh cup of coffee. When he reached the pot, it was empty.

"Damn."

Heaving a sigh, Jim went about emptying the old grounds and making a fresh pot. As he was filling the pot with water, Rafe and Noble walked in.

"Ah, it'll be nice and fresh," Noble said pleasantly. "Morning, Detective."

Jim managed to put on a smile. "Jim's fine, Noble."

"Then I insist on Boomer. At least in social situations."

He nodded and poured the measured water into the coffee maker. Jim flipped the "on" switch, then leaned back against the counter.

"Some strange shit going around," Rafe commented.

Jim raised a questioning eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Our call this morning," Noble said. "A hooker was found beaten to death in a fleabag motel room. No prints, no semen, no witnesses. Girl didn't even have a pimp to question."

"Thing is," Rafe continued. "She had a strange cut on her left temple. Dan Wolfe said it could have been a big ring shaped like an animal. A lizard, maybe."

Jim blinked. "A ring?"

Noble nodded. "Yeah. Why?"

Thinking back, Jim recalled the snake ring Kroeger wore on his right hand. Then he had a flash of the bandage on Megan's left temple and the unidentifiable cut hidden beneath it. "Could be nothing," Jim replied. "Or it could be everything. I've gotta go out for a little bit, gentlemen."

Jim strode to the door of the Break Room. He stopped mid-step when his name was called.

"Jim?" Noble asked. He gave Jim a confident stare. "Need some company?"

He hesitated. What Jim was planning probably wouldn't be received well and he didn't want to get Noble into trouble on his second day. Then again, Sandburg was tied up at Rainier for most of the afternoon. Jim nodded to Boomer.

"If Rafe can spare you for an hour?" Jim said.

Rafe shrugged his shoulders. "Sure. Should I ask where you'll be?"

"No."

With that, Jim and Noble left the room. They walked across the bullpen, with Jim pausing at his desk to grab the truck keys. As they walked to the elevator, Jim silently reasoned that this was a good idea.

Even if it was stupid one.

~*~*~*~

David shifted uncomfortably in the old Ford's passenger seat. He'd tried several times to start up a conversation with Ellison, but the man was so focused on the road he didn't seem to hear David's words. David knew something important was going on, but had no inkling as to what it was. He ran a hand over the top of his short, salt-n-pepper hair, a nervous gesture he'd never been able to rid himself of.

"So why move to Cascade?"

The question startled David to attention. He glanced over at Ellison, who was watching him with one eye.

"Beg pardon?" David asked.

Ellison shrugged almost imperceptibly, his expression one of mild curiosity. "You had a great career in Portland, from what I heard. Why move to the Cascade 5-9?"

Images of Emily, of Tucker Dodds and fourteen keys of heroin flashed through David's mind like a slide show, though the pictures were taunting rather than entertaining. It was not something he wanted to go into right now.

"I got tired of that life," David replied. "Cascade was something new, I thought. Didn't count on my reputation preceding me." He flashed a rueful smile.

Ellison nodded, turning onto a street David didn't recognize. Taking advantage of the initial conversation, David asked what had been on his mind since the outing began.

"Are you going to fill me in before we get where we're going or should I just wing it?"

Chuckling slightly, Ellison replied, "We're going to ask Mr. Kroeger about his whereabouts last night."

"Uh-huh." David bit his bottom lip. "Is it just me or did Captain Banks say we couldn't arrest him?"

"It's not just you, Noble."

David groaned. "Please, no. The only reason I kept the nickname Boomer was so people wouldn't think I was some sort of French aristocrat."

"I hear that." Ellison grinned a funny grin, as if enjoying a private joke. "It's not just you, Boomer."

"That's better." David hesitated. "You think Kroeger's the one who killed that prostitute Rafe and I found, don't you? Because of the ring cut?"

Ellison kept his eyes firmly on the road, but nodded once again. "Meg—Inspector Connor had the same cut in the same place as that hooker."

David sighed, admiring the younger detective's loyalty to a colleague, but wondering at his assumptions. "That's an awful big extrapolation based on a cut."

"Have you ever just known something?" Ellison asked vehemently. "Just known it deep in your bones?"

David thought back to his years in Portland and all the chances he'd taken on his instincts. It was those chances that had permanently killed his odds of making captain.

"Yeah, I have," David replied. "But sometimes that faith isn't enough."

"It's all I need in this case," Ellison growled. "I want this guy out of my city."

And David believed him. He'd never heard anyone say "my city" with quite that amount of absolute authority before. David knew right away that he wouldn't want to be on Ellison's shit list for all the whiskey in Ireland.

The rest of the drive to Kalianni's Restaurant was made in silence. It wasn't until the pickup parked in front of the restaurant that David thought to question it.

"Dumb question," David said, climbing out of the truck. "But how did you know he was here?"

"I asked his secretary," was the matter-of-fact reply.

"And they're in the habit of arbitrarily giving out that information?"

Ellison emerged from his truck wearing a Cheshire grin. "They are—" he adopted a perfected Austrian accent "—when a fellow countryman wants a chance to interview his idol for the local ethnic paper."

David chuckled. "I'll be damned. So are we playing this 'good cop, bad cop,' or what?"

"More like 'bad cop, silent cop.'"

With that cryptic reply, Ellison marched into Kalianni's. David kept in step with Ellison, who flashed his badge at the maitre de. The flustered man promptly pointed out Rolph Kroeger's table. As they approached, David understood why Ellison had chosen him as his compatriot.

Even sitting, Kroeger was a short man who was dwarfed in the company of his oversized bodyguards. Two bulky men sat on either side of Kroeger, their size almost laughable next to the dainty Greek salads they were eating. Ellison was a large man, but David was a good three inches taller and twenty-five pounds heavier. He'd often used his linebacker build to intimidate suspects and this case seemed to be no exception. So David resigned himself to being silent and looking tough.

Kroeger spotted their approach, his jovial expression darkening to a contemptuous sneer. He mumbled something to his companions, who immediately shot to their feet. Boomer tried not to smile as he looked *down* at Kroeger's tallest guard.

"Is this how Cascade Police treat their guests?" Kroeger asked, perhaps too loudly. "By harassing them like common criminals?"

"Where were you last night?" Ellison asked, ignoring the questions and curious looks from nearby tables.

"I do not answer to you, detective."

David watched the tallest guard's hand inch towards his jacket and disappear inside. In a lightning motion, David yanked the man's hand out and twisted it upward.

"Ow!" the bodyguard yelled. "What the f—"

Ignoring him, Boomer reached into his jacket and pulled out a .38.

"I have a license!" he said.

"Congratulation." David let the guard go, but held onto the gun. He glanced at Ellison and shrugged. So much for silent cop.

Kroeger looked almost purple with rage. "You harass me and abuse my men. How dare you?"

Ellison still didn't seem to hear Kroeger. "What do you know about the woman murdered at the Flamingo Motel last night?"

"Know what? I know nothing." Kroeger threw his hands into the air and David saw light glint off his gold snake ring. "Hookers are murdered every day and you accuse me of it?"

Bonus.

Kroeger seemed to realize his blunder too late, but the detectives didn't.

"I never said she was a prostitute," Ellison commented, unable to hide a satisfied smirk. They had given him the rope; now Kroeger just had to hang himself with it.

If possible, Kroeger's complexion darkened further. David watched him twitch in his seat, revulsion for Kroeger growing by leaps and bounds. Kroeger was so sure of his diplomatic immunity it was making him careless.

"Get. Out." Kroeger's words were icier than his glare.

"You first," Ellison shot back. He nodded to Boomer and turned to go. They'd apparently gotten what they came for.

David handed the .38 back to the bodyguard, but let it fall at the last minute. It landed in Kroeger's salad, splattering oil and dressing onto his suit. Kroeger shot to his feet and stared at the stain, fury in his eyes.

"Sorry about that," David said, striding to catch up with Ellison.

They hadn't gotten ten feet before Kroeger's voice shouted at them. "Be sure and give my regards to Inspector Connor!"

Ellison froze and spun around on his heel. He lunged toward Kroeger's table, but David snagged his elbow and whirled the detective back toward the exit.

"Don't give him an excuse," David whispered, half-dragging Ellison out of the restaurant.

Once on the street, Ellison shook out of David's grip.

"Son of a bitch," Ellison muttered, slamming his hands onto the hood of his truck. "He was taunting me."

"Yeah, he was." Boomer leaned against the Ford. "But he knows we can't touch him…yet. Anyone with half an eye can see you're upset about Inspector Connor, but don't give him that edge. The most important thing I learned in Portland was never let the enemy see what you're thinking. Period."

Ellison stared at him, considering his words. His angry expression softened and he nodded.

David offered a smile. "The first tip is free."

"You charge for the rest?"

"Of course." His smile widened. "How else do you think I can afford these wonderful, 100 percent polyester, bargain store sweaters?"

Ellison doubled over laughing; his earlier anger dissipated somewhat. "Rafe'll disown you if he hears you saying that."

"Oh, don't worry," David said, trying to hold back his own laughter. "I have Rafe convinced I can get him some Smith suits at a great price. Just won't tell him they'll be off the rack."

They both laughed as they climbed back into the pickup.

Ellison spoke as he started the ignition. "We'd better get back to central and talk to Simon before Kroeger can call and make more complaints."

Boomer settled back into the passenger seat. "Agreed."

~*~*~*~

They didn't get back fast enough.

Jim knew it the second he and David returned to Major Crime. They weren't three feet inside the bullpen before Banks stormed in from the opposite door. With a quick glare and curt nod, both men resigned themselves to following an extremely irate captain into his office.

"Captain, I know what—" Jim began, closing the office door behind the trio.

"What I'm going to say?" Simon asked. He stood in front of his desk, arms crossed over his chest. "I'm sure you do, Detective."

//Detective? // Jim thought. //This is not good. //

Banks glared from Jim, to David and back again. "Then I suppose I don't need to say how stupid it was for you two to see Kroeger today." He fixed angry eyes on Noble. "And you are here on a temporary assignment. I have no truck with getting your ass transferred back to the 5-9."

"Yes, sir," David said, his voice unreadable.

"I hope you're happy, Jim," Simon continued. "Because now Kroeger has filed a restraining order against you."

"What?" Jim exclaimed. "That is bullshit! That son of a bitch attacks two women and *I* have a restraining—"

"Quiet!" Simon bellowed.

Heads turned in the bullpen, but Banks took no notice. The man was positively fuming from every pore. He took a step closer to the detectives, his voice dangerously low.

"Listen to me," Banks said. "Jim, I will not let you ruin this case with your Neanderthal desire for revenge. This is too damn important to me and to Connor. We cannot give Kroeger a chance to win. If you screw up one more time, I will have you reassigned, is that clear?"

"Crystal," Jim replied. He felt like a chastised child, more now than at any time in his childhood. Simon was right, though. As much as Jim hated it, he had to back off or Kroeger would go scot-free.

Simon turned to Noble. "And you are to stick to your investigation with Detective Rafe, understand?"

"Perfectly," David said.

"Dismissed."

With curt nods, Jim and David filed out of the office.

"I'm starting to miss Portland," David quipped as he strolled over to his desk.

Jim didn't reply. He stared across the bullpen at Connor's empty desk and felt a pang of regret.

//Kroeger won't leave this country with his balls intact, // Jim vowed. With that thought, he returned to work.

~*~*~*~

Blair placed the phone receiver in its cradle the same instant Jim walked in the door. Walked was probably too kind. Storm clouds moved with less intensity than Jim Ellison did at that moment.

"You okay?" Blair asked hesitantly.

Jim snorted as he hung up his coat. Turning to face Blair, he said, "I got a restraining order against me."

"Typical day, then?" Blair joked.

"I guess," Jim said, suddenly deflated of the anger that had surrounded him only seconds ago. He crossed the kitchen and snagged a bottle of beer from the refrigerator. "Rafe and Noble found a body this morning. A hooker."

"Man," Blair muttered. He walked over to the kitchen and leaned against the island, intent on his friend's story.

"Yeah." Jim took a long swig of his drink. "She had a mark, a cut from a ring. The damn thing looked just like the one on Megan's face."

Blair blanched. "Kroeger?"

"That's what I said. So I shanghaied Noble and we…uh, visited Kroeger at his place of lunch."

"You didn't?" Blair groaned.

Jim sighed. "Yeah. And you know what the bastard said?"

It couldn't have been good, judging by the dark glare on Jim's face.

"No, what?" he asked, unsure if he really wanted to know.

"He said, 'give my regards to Inspector Connor,'" Jim said, practically spitting the words.

Blair felt revulsion rising in his stomach. Kroeger was practically admitting it. The fact that Jim was standing here now and not in jail for murdering a diplomat was a miracle in itself.

"What are you gonna do?" Blair asked.

"I don't know." Jim tossed the now-empty bottle into the recycle bin. "He's too protected to touch right now. And if I don't tread softer, Simon's going to reassign the whole case."

"I take it he was pretty pissed?"

Jim grunted. "Pissed is kind. He was way beyond pissed, but I think he understands why I did it."

"And what makes you say that?"

"He didn't suspend me."

Blair chuckled. "Well, I've got some news. It's good, depending on how you take it."

"What is it?" Jim asked, leaning against the counter.

"Megan called a few minutes ago," Blair said. "She's coming in tomorrow morning."

Jim's face went through a variety of emotions as the news sank in. Mild disapproval finally settled there. "Is that a good idea?"

Blair shrugged, remembering how he'd asked the same thing. "She thinks so. Simon got her an appointment with the department shrink at one, but she wants to come in early and get ahead on her paperwork."

"I hope she's ready," Jim said. He wandered over to the kitchen table and sat down across from Blair's open laptop. "God knows she needs time to heal."

Sighing softly, Blair returned to his seat in front of the small computer and stacks of notes. "I know. But she wants things to be back to normal, no matter what she finds out. Says staying home all day long is 'driving her buggy.'"

Blair stared at the type scrawled across the computer screen, suddenly a bit unsure about what he was writing. It seemed fine before the phone call, but for some reason the words no longer seemed relevant. Only Megan's recovery seemed important right now.

"Chief?"

He looked up. Jim stared back, questions in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, what?" Blair asked.

Jim shook his head. "I asked what you were working on?"

Blair bit his lower lip. "My diss."

A cloud seemed to move across Jim's face, but it was gone instantly, replaced by a small grin. "Well, I'll start supper. Leftover spaghetti sound okay?"

"Sounds great," Blair replied. He dove back into writing his paper, the back of his mind still wondering how tomorrow was going to turn out.

~*~*~*~

He knew she was there even before he looked up from his desk. It was as if a cloud of tension had moved into Major Crime in the shape of Megan Connor. Jim glanced up from the report he was typing, finding Connor poised in the doorway behind him. Her frozen gaze traveled slowly across the bullpen.

"Connor?" Jim said, his voice warm.

The young woman flinched at his voice, looking at him with a mixed expression of fear and relief. It disturbed Jim to see the normally unflappable Inspector look like a scared child. The transformation was as frightening as it was amazing. Her thick curls were tied back in a severe bun, her thin figure hidden beneath a baggy pants suit.

Connor cleared her throat, the fear dwindling, but not vanishing completely. "Good morning, Jim. Sandy."

She nodded over Jim's shoulder at Sandburg, perched on the edge of Jim's desk. Squaring her slim shoulders, Megan trekked across the bullpen and sat at her desk, mindful of the curious stares thrown her way. A few bruises on her cheeks and neck were still dark enough to show beneath her makeup; they were not lost on the officers in the bullpen.

Jim watched her boot up her computer, fiddling with a stack of paperwork as she waited. He glanced across the room, spotting Simon Banks watching her from his office. A sharp nudge from Sandburg drew Jim's attention back to his work.

"Welcome back, Megan," Joel said cheerfully.

Jim glanced back up. Taggart was standing directly behind Connor, one hand on her shoulder. All the blood seemed to have drained from Megan's face and her breathing shallow. Jim could see the minute tremors racking her body at the older man's touch.

"Thanks, Joel," Connor stammered.

Taggart moved on. Megan visibly relaxed when he left, the tremors stopping and her breathing less labored. She took a deep breath, letting her forehead drop into her right hand.

Jim looked at Blair, who was also watching Megan. They frowned at each other, both worried about their friend. It was as if a stranger had taken over Connor's body, a stranger afraid of everything. And everyone.

The door to Banks' office opened and Simon poked his head out. "Connor?" he called gently. "If you have a minute?"

Megan looked up, nodding quickly. She stood and made her way to the office carefully, not looking at anyone in the bullpen. Simon held the door for her. He glared at Jim--his meaning all too clear--before closing it behind him. Jim watched the two settle into the chairs across from Simon's desk, Megan's back to the bullpen. Playing off of Simon's look, Jim didn't listen. It was none of his business.

"She's really hurting from this," Blair whispered.

"Yeah." Jim leaned back in his chair, staring at the wallpaper on his computer. The panther's blue eyes gleamed at Jim with intense ferocity, as if accusing him of not protecting a member of his tribe. "She needs time, Chief. Maybe she came back too soon."

"I just wish we could help." Blair sounded utterly miserable.

"So do I," Jim said. With a deep sigh, he threw himself back into his paperwork, praying for a new lead to turn up.

Fifteen minutes later, Megan emerged from Simon's office and returned to her desk. Jim watched her sit down, then glanced over to Simon. The captain frowned at him and shrugged his broad shoulders. No luck talking.

The morning trudged on, proving more stressful for Megan as the minutes ticked by. She had resorted to the hunt-and-peck method of typing, constantly glancing over her shoulder or staring at her co-workers. Jim could tell she was nearing the breaking point. She had come back to work too soon.

Around eleven-thirty, Rafe was going around taking orders for the deli down the street. When he got to Megan's desk, she was concentrating so hard on a file that she didn't hear him ask the first time.

"Connor?" Rafe asked, tapping her gently on the arm.

Reacting before anyone realized what was happening, Megan grabbed his hand and shot to her feet, twisting it upwards. Rafe's pained yelp drew eyes from all over the bullpen. When Megan realized whose wrist she was twisting, she dropped it like a hot coal, her eyes widening in absolute horror. Rafe took a step back, holding his wrist against his chest.

"My God," Megan said, horrified. "I am so sorry, Rafe." She scanned the bullpen, very close to tears. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. Excuse me."

She squared her shoulders and marched out of the bullpen, not looking at anyone as she left. Jim watched her go down the hallway and into the ladies room. The bullpen remained silent. Rafe looked completely dumbfounded.

A chair scraping brought everyone's attention to a desk across the room. Rhonda stood up quickly and left the bullpen, following Connor into the restroom.

Simon stuck his head out of his office. "Everyone here has work to do!" he bellowed.

Activity returned to Major Crime as people returned to their work. Rafe continued taking lunch orders, perhaps favoring his left wrist a bit. Jim glanced sadly at Sandburg and resumed work on his reports.

~*~*~*~

//My God, I'm losing my mind. Am I losing my mind? Please, God, I just want to feel safe again. //

Megan hugged thin arms around her knees, trying to squeeze farther into the corner between the toilet and the wall, and ignoring the pain in her ribs. She just wanted to disappear, so embarrassed about her behavior in the bullpen.

//I could have broken his wrist. //

She had been so terrified when a hand had grabbed her arm; she hadn't even thought—only reacted. It frightened her that she was so easily startled nowadays, so quick to become violent. If only she knew for sure what Kroeger had done…or hadn't done. But at times, the idea of knowing seemed scarier than not knowing. Pressing her face against her knees, Megan stifled a sob, feeling hot, angry tears soaking into the navy fabric of her pants.

A light squeak announced the bathroom door opening. Megan looked up, cursing herself for not locking the stall door. A set of heels clicked on the tiled floor, coming closer.

"Megan?"

It was Rhonda. The two women weren't the best of friends, but had created an alliance as two of the few women working in Major Crime. Friends or not, Megan just wanted to be alone.

The green heels stopped in front of her stall and the door swung open slowly. Megan looked up, meeting Rhonda's concerned gaze. The pretty blonde watched her for a moment, and then moved to kneel in front of Megan.

"Is Rafe all right?" Megan asked, her voice shaky.

Rhonda smiled kindly. "I think so. He's more startled than anything."

"I know how he feels," Megan muttered, studying her hands. "I can't believe I did that. I feel so stupid."

"Don't."

The ferocity in Rhonda's voice made Megan look up. The secretary's eyes were blazing with emotion. Rhonda placed a gentle hand on Megan's clenched fists.

"Don't feel stupid, Megan. It wasn't your fault. I think you've every right to be afraid. A terrible thing happened and the stress of not being sure—"

Megan snorted. "I attacked a friend, Rhonda. I'm a paranoid ninny and all I want is to feel normal again." She could feel the tears starting again.

"You may never feel the way you did, but you will feel safe again, no matter what you find out," Rhonda said firmly. "In time, you will. Trust me."

Wiping her face on her sleeve, Megan noticed Rhonda's eyes shining…with tears. A knowing smile crossed Rhonda's face and she nodded.

Megan blanched. "Jesus. You mean—"

Rhonda nodded. "When I was seventeen. It was my boyfriend's best friend."

"Oh, my God." Megan swallowed hard, her own suffering seeming a bit less important.

"We were at a party and I was stoned on pot. I got dizzy and went upstairs to lay down."

"You don't have to—" Megan began.

"I want to," Rhonda interrupted, blinking hard. "Sometimes it helps to talk…and listen."

Megan nodded.

"His name was Carl," she continued in a distant voice. "He came upstairs, flying on PCP or something. I screamed, but the music downstairs was too loud." A single tear spilled from her left eye, trailing light gray with mascara.

Megan gripped the other woman's hand, horrified at Rhonda's terrible secret. Rhonda returned the squeeze, wiping the tear away.

"The stupid bastard passed out before he finished." Rhonda snorted. "I was thankful for that, but it was too little, too late. I snuck out of the party and never told anyone until I was a junior in college."

"You kept it secret for three years?" Megan couldn't imagine it—any of it.

"Almost more." Rhonda almost smiled. "The first person I told was my ex-husband. He was my closest friend in college, but when we started dating my junior year, I got distant. I was afraid to be intimate. One day, I just couldn't take it anymore and told him. He didn't take it well." She chuckled. "He wanted to find Carl and introduce his head to a baseball bat."

Megan smiled. "Did he?"

"No. I found out later that Carl died in a traffic accident out near Spokane." Rhonda almost looked pleased with this fact.

"Do you think that was justice?" Megan asked, sniffling.

"If I'd had my way, I would have pulled a Lorraina Bobbitt on him." Rhonda grinned, then grew more serious. "It's okay to be afraid. Just don't push away the people that care about you. Draw on their strength. Let them be strong for you."

Megan thought about her friendships with Blair and Jim and Simon. "It's hard to be dependent after being alone for so long."

"I know." Rhonda leaned forward and enveloped Megan in a strong hug. "Trust your heart."

Leaning into the embrace, Megan wrapped her arms around Rhonda. She held tight, letting another sob rise up from deep within. She felt Rhonda hug tighter and gave into her tears, letting them flow freely. Her body shook with the force of the sobs. After a few minutes, Megan became aware of Rhonda's soft sobs.

Both women sat, holding each other, crying out their frustration and sorrow, ignoring the world for a time all too brief.

~*~*~*~

Jim looked up from his grilled cheese steak sandwich when the women re-entered the bullpen. He, Sandburg, Rafe, David and Joel had gathered in the break room with their respective lunches, talking quietly about nothing important. Jim watched Rhonda give Connor's shoulder a gentle squeeze, then return to her desk. Megan stood by the doors, looking a bit lost. Jim got up and stuck his head out into the bullpen.

"Connor," he called gently. "Lunch."

Megan looked at him. Her eyes were red and puffy, but she seemed composed enough. Still, he heard her take a deep breath before crossing to the break room. Jim grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the table for her. She eyed it hesitantly before sitting down.

Rafe approached widely, still favoring his left wrist, and handed her a cellophane-wrapped sandwich. "Tuna and tomatoes, your favorite," he announced.

She grinned apologetically. "Thanks, Rafe. Look, I'm really—"

"You don't have to," Rafe said firmly.

Sandburg handed her a Diet Pepsi, which Megan gratefully accepted.

Jim cleared his throat. "Have you met our newest member, Connor?" he asked, pointing across the table to David.

"Not officially," she replied, unwrapping her sandwich. Megan looked at David. "Inspector Megan Connor, formerly of Sydney."

"Detective David Noble," he replied. "Most people call me Boomer.".

Megan grinned. "Is there a story that goes with that?"

David almost seemed to blush. "Sorta."

"He won't tell," Blair piped in. "But we'll con it out of him."

"Don't count on it, Curly," David joked.

Laughter filled the small room, fading all to quickly as the occupants settled into an uneasy lunch hour. Conversation filtered in and out, but no one brought up work. That was waiting patiently out in the bullpen. Right now, it was their time.

~*~*~*~

Megan hit the elevator button harder than necessary. Drained physically and emotionally, she was glad it was finally evening and she could go home. Captain Banks had told her to go whenever she needed to, but she had felt compelled to stay the whole shift and had done just that.

At a great cost.

A headache crept in behind her eyes and she groaned, rubbing her temples lightly.

"A hot toddy should help that," a gruff voice said from behind.

Stifling a gasp, Megan whirled on a heel. She calmed considerably when she saw it was David Noble. Dropping her hands to her sides, she managed a weak smile.

"My grandmother used to say that," she said.

Noble took a step closer, obviously waiting for the lift, too. "My grandmother used to give vinegar rubs for headaches. Frankly, I think the hot toddies smell better."

Megan chuckled. "Taste better, too, I'd think, Detective."

"No doubt. And please, call me Boomer." He grinned sheepishly. "I feel less like the new guy that way."

"That I can understand." She listened to the chime announcing the arrival of the lift. It dinged and the doors parted. "Going down?"

"Of course."

The pair stepped onto the lift. Megan positioned herself on the far side from Boomer and hit the basement button. She couldn't stop a nervous flutter when the door shut in front of them.

"So why Cascade?" Boomer asked.

Megan blinked, then understood. "I could ask you the same thing."

He nodded. "True, but more understandable from Portland. You, on the other hand, were coming from Australia."

"Oh, I got tired of sunny Sydney and decided to try out rainy Cascade," she replied lightly. "A change of pace, if you will."

The lift stopped on the third floor and three uniformed officers stepped on, effectively cutting Boomer off from her. Megan didn't especially mind, but she didn't like the claustrophobic closeness she now felt. Fortunately, they arrived at the parking garage shortly and the people spilled off.

Megan strode towards her car, keys already out.

"Connor?" Boomer called, his voice tinny in the underground garage.

She turned around. He was still standing by a pillar ten feet behind, watching her intently.

"What?" she asked.

"You be in tomorrow?"

Megan shook her head. "No, I don't think so. I'm taking a few more days off."

Boomer nodded. "Happy thoughts for you."

It was such a funny sentiment, yet somehow touching as well, that she smiled a genuine smile. "Thanks, Boomer."

Megan reached her car, unlocked it and climbed in. It wasn't until she was buckled and driving out of the garage that she noticed Boomer was still watching her intently, like some sort of sentry. He didn't make a move for his own vehicle until she was safely on her way out. It was odd and strangely…

…reassuring.

~*~*~*~

"Come on, Jim," Blair grumbled. "I want this guy as much as you do, but this is boring. Not to mention illegal."

Jim sighed, his vision intently focused on the doors of a bar across the street. "We're fine. I'm at least fifty feet from Kroeger. Just a little while longer."

Blair leaned back in the passenger seat of the Ford, tucking his chilly hands under his armpits. They had been tailing Kroeger for the last four hours and had made no headway. Kroeger had gone from bar to bar, always coming out alone and getting into his chauffeured Lincoln town car and driving away. Now it was nearing two a.m. and the pattern had not changed.

An eclectic mix of prostitutes, dead heads, potheads, swingers and other anomalies wandered the streets on Cascade's seedier side. Blair didn't know the bars on this side of town and only served to further lower his opinion of Kroeger. As if it could get much lower at this point.

Ten minutes passed in silence.

Jim shifted in his seat, rubbing one hand over strained eyes. "I'm calling it a night," he announced, defeated. "If we can't catch him in the act, we'll just follow the jackass until he leaves the country."

Blair nodded, sharing the sentiment. He didn't want to quit, not really, but the night was gone.

The engine roared to life. Blair afforded the bar one more backward glance as the Ford sped away.

//Not tonight, // Blair thought. //But soon. Everyone gets it eventually, Kroeger. //

~*~*~*~

Jim was already on his second mug of coffee when Simon called him and Sandburg into his office. Jim could already see Rafe and Noble inside—he assumed it had to do with the robbery ring the pair was working on. Sandburg led the way into the captain's office.

Rafe and Noble offered them seats at the conference table. Rafe's left wrist was wrapped in an ace bandage and he held it at his side. Jim hadn't realized how hard Megan must have grabbed him.

The men exchanged polite 'hello's' and got down to business.

"I got a tip on our robbers," Noble announced, sliding a flyer across the table.

Jim read the name Johanneson Auction Gallery in a funny script across the top of the paper. Beneath was printed a list of various business hours, an address and telephone number.

"Johanneson's is getting a shipment of emerald jewelry to auction off this weekend," Rafe explained. "The collection is said to be worth about two million."

Noble chimed back in. "This is exactly the kind of thing these guys seem to go for. Now Johanneson's has better security than most of the places they've robbed, but we can help them out with that."

"What exactly is the plan?" Jim asked, still unsure of how this was relevant to him.

"A van from Hufnagle Security is scheduled to pick up the jewelry at noon tomorrow," Noble said, his tone matter-of-fact and precise. "Our boys love to steal en-route or on-delivery, so we'll just make this easier on them. I figure Ellison and Sandburg driving the van, me in the back with the jewels, and Rafe at the auction house posing as an employee."

Sandburg looked pleasantly shocked at being included in the set-up without having to beg or finagle his way into it.

However, Jim didn't particularly like the idea. "Sandburg doesn't carry a gun."

Noble didn't look terribly surprised by this fact. "Which is why he's with you, Jim. Odds are, these guys won't try anything until we deliver, which is good for us."

"We've hashed out most of the technical details, Jim," Simon said. "It's a good plan."

"Sounds good to me," Blair enthused. "I'm up for it."

"You are going to keep your head down," Simon ordered. "And stay in the truck."

"Like I don't hear that a million times a week," Blair whispered.

Jim smiled, glad his partner was in good spirits. If only he felt as good about tomorrow as everyone else seemed to.

Simon stood up and straightened his broad shoulders. "Dismissed."

~*~*~*~

<"Pulling out of the Stonewall's driveway,"> Jim's voice crackled over the ear mikes. <"Turning east onto Durham Road.">

David peered out the small windows in the back of the security truck. A brown Cougar fell into line behind their truck.

"Check here," David said into the mike. "Our first tail is in place."

<"Copy that,"> Banks said.

The truck hit a small bump, sending David crashing against the side of the truck. The division between the front and back slid open. Sandburg stuck his face into the opening.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Fine," David replied, settling himself onto the metal bench built into the side of the truck. "Just tell your partner not to hit *every* pot hole between here and the gallery, okay."

"I heard that," Jim called from the front.

Sandburg grinned. "It's useless to try. This is why Jim's been through three vehicles in three years."

"They weren't all my fault," Jim said.

David smiled. "Don't worry so much, Jim. I've wrecked my share of cars in the line of duty."

"How many?" Sandburg asked, a glint in his eye.

"What?" David asked, pretending to be miffed. "And give you blackmail fodder? I don't think so."

"Smart man, Boomer," Jim muttered.

David chuckled, shifting on the hard seat. "Well, I've had my share of partners, too."

He looked out the back window. The brown Cougar veered off to the left and a black Sedan replaced it.

"Taggart's on us," David reported.

The security truck followed its route into the city, police tails changing at intervals. Ten miles out, a green Lexus cut in front of their tail.

David watched the Lexus as it sped up to ride their bumper. The windows were tinted, making it hard to see who was in it.

"Heads up, people," David said over the mike. "We got a tail. It's a green, 1997 Lexus."

<"Copy,"> Sergeant Vasco said from the car tailing the Lexus now. <"Feeding the license to DMV now.">

After several minutes, the Lexus seemed inclined to pass the security truck. It swerved in and out of its own lane. The Lexus sped into traffic, passing the truck just as Vasco's voice crackled back over the wire.

<"Lexus was reported stolen from a TeleMart twenty minutes ago,"> Vasco reported.

David opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by Jim.

"Looks like three kids out for a joyride," Ellison said.

<"Vasco, you get the Lexus,"> Banks ordered. <"Taggart'll be replacing you in half a mile anyhow.">

<"Copy,"> Vasco said.

The Sedan's siren began wailing as it pulled into the opposite lane to pass, its red gel light blaring.

David stared through the front windshield at the Sedan chased the Lexus down a side street and out of sight.

~*~*~*~

Five minutes later, they pulled into the back lot of Johanneson's exactly on time. Jim climbed out, giving Sandburg his patented "stay in the truck," stare. He walked around back and opened the rear door to let David out. As the two men approached, Jim felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Rafe and two other Johanneson's employees were standing stiffly near the back entrance to the storage room. One employee, a redheaded man with blotchy skin, was staring hard at the ground, as if he didn't trust himself to make eye contact. Noble gave him a sideways glance. Something was obviously wrong.

"Right on time," Rafe said, taking a half step toward Jim. His voice sounded strained and Jim heard his heart rate speed up.

"We aim to please," Noble replied.

Jim caught Rafe's eye. Rafe automatically faked a small sneeze—the signal. It was a set-up, just as expected.

Sandburg's voice automatically came over their mikes, reporting what was going on. Jim looked in the truck window; amazingly, the kid looked like he was singing along to the radio.

"Do you have the jewels?" Rafe asked, keeping up the charade.

Noble nodded, flashing a smile. "Safe and sound. If you'll just sign for them…." He produced a clipboard and walked over to Rafe.

Jim opened his hearing up full. He passed over the four heartbeats nearby and into the building. Three more beats, all going double-time. Jim heard the slide of a rifle and a click as the lock fell into place. The acrid scent of gun oil wafted out of the auction house. He stared into the reflection of the second employee's coke bottle glasses: a sharpshooter was set up across the street.

//Damn. //

After collecting Rafe's signature, Noble turned towards the truck to get the jewelry.

"You got a bathroom?" Jim asked, a plan developing in his mind. "It's a long drive to our next assignment."

Red Hair started to say no, but Rafe elbowed him.

"Sure do," Rafe said. He pointed into the storeroom. "Go straight in, it's the third door on the left."

"I'll be right back," Jim said to Noble. Jim caught a worried glance from Sandburg and winked. Blair gave a half-nod.

Jim walked into the storeroom, careful to check where everyone was. The first man was less than two feet from the door, behind a stack of wooden crates. Strong cologne drifted from behind a large oil painting of a basset hound chasing birds, less than a yard from the first guy. The third was most likely behind an iron cauldron of sorts, set near the center of the room. As Jim passed them, he realized that each shooter had a clear shot at one of the three "employees'" heads.

//Four man operation, // he thought.

He ducked into the first office he came to.

"There's a sniper on the roof of the apartments across the street," Jim reported over the mike. "Three men are inside. Sit tight, Noble. Over."

<"Jim—"> Simon began.

Jim took the mike out of his ear, focusing his attention on the three men in the warehouse. He pulled his gun out of its ankle holster, crept out of the office and slipped soundlessly into the storeroom towards the closest shooter. As he approached, Jim's foot nudged something hard. He looked down. It was an iron step, the kind that used to be on carriages. Jim picked it up and put his gun back.

The shooter never saw Jim coming. In one quick movement, Jim swung the iron step and knocked the guy cold. He caught the body before it could slump to the floor and gently lowered him to the ground. Jim paused, listening. His offensive didn't seem to have affected the other two.

He looked outside; from this angle, he could see David Noble standing near Sandburg's door. The detective appeared to be listening to something coming over the microphone. Jim stuck his own mike back into his ear in time to catch Simon's voice.

<"…Sniper is in custody.">

That would make Jim's job easier. He crossed over to where the hound painting was resting, and where his next victim was completely oblivious to his approach.

~*~*~*~

After Captain Banks' message over the headset, David had relaxed somewhat. He had confidence that Ellison was taking care of whoever was inside. David retrieved the locked box of gems from the back of the truck and walked over to the other men. He held the box out to Rafe.

"I'll take them," Coke Bottle Glasses said.

David just shrugged and handed them over to the man. Rafe shot him a glare. Before David could interpret that, there was a loud crash inside the storeroom. Crunching wood punctuated breaking glass, then a thud. David automatically pulled his gun and darted over to stand by the door.

Something hard crashed into the side of David's head. He dropped to one knee, stunned. His vision blurred out for an instant. There was a grunt and scuffling footsteps. By the time David realized Coke Bottle Glasses had hit him with the metal box, Glasses had knocked out the redheaded man and had a gun to Rafe's head. David stared up at him, noticing Jim in the doorway with his gun pointed at the duo.

"Back off," Glasses warned, cocking his pistol. The arm he had around Rafe's throat tightened.

<"What the hell is going on?"> Simon's voice demanded.

"Keep your men out," David said. "The perp has a hostage."

"You've got nowhere to go," Jim said to the would-be thief. "Cops are all around this place."

Glasses had his back against the bulletproof truck, his magnified eyes darting to and fro. He obviously hadn't planned on this.

"I'll kill him," the man warned. "Now back the hell off!"

David pulled himself to his feet, his head swimming. "Kill him and you die, too. We won't let you walk out of here." To emphasize him point, David pointed his gun at Glasses.

The man seemed to consider this, but the aim of his pistol never wavered. "But this guy will still be dead."

"True," David replied, nodding his head. "But this state has no mercy on cop killers. Even if we don't kill *you, * then by God, you'll wish we had."

This seemed to get the thief's attention. His snarl melted for the first time. "He's a cop?"

//This guy's definitely not the brain of the operation, // David thought. "Detective, actually."

"Shit." Coke Bottle Glasses groaned and let his gun slip to the ground.

Rafe slid out of the man's grip and snatched up the abandoned pistol. "Against the truck," Rafe ordered.

Glasses obeyed without protest. Ellison marched over and helped Rafe frisk the man down.

"All clear," David reported over the mike.

As if by magic, police officers and cruisers appeared on the street. A line of them, led by Taggart, strode into the storeroom to collect the men in there. The red-haired man was starting to regain consciousness, assisted by a paramedic's smelling salts. Captain Banks arrived at the scene, assessing the situation and barking orders like a pro.

Rafe waded through the people until he reached David, who had a steadying hand pressed against the wall of the auction house.

"Thanks," Rafe said, offering his hand.

David shook it heartily. "Anytime. I love it when a plan comes together."

Rafe smiled. "A-Team, right?"

"One of my favorite shows," David admitted.

Captain Banks strode over to the pair. "Nice work, Detectives. Looks like we got the whole ring of thieves. The D.A. will be beside herself with joy." Banks stared hard at David. "You should get that looked at."

David blinked, unsure what he meant. Then the world tilted slightly and he remembered the metal box connecting with his skull. He reached a hand to his left temple; his fingers came away sticky red. What had only been a dull pounding behind his eyes became a full roar throughout his entire head.

"Well, whadda you know?" David muttered, and then passed out.

~*~*~*~

Jim stifled a yawn, trying to rub a kink out of his neck as he ate breakfast. Yesterday, the third thief had seen Jim coming and put up a nice fight, sending Jim headfirst through a painting. It hadn't hurt until he'd woken up that morning.

"More eggs?" Sandburg asked, holding up the mostly empty frying pan.

"No, I'm fine," he replied. In fact, what he had eaten wasn't sitting well.

"Oh, yeah," Blair said, as something just occurred to him. "Rafe called while you were in the shower. Said Boomer was released early this morning with a light concussion. I guess he's got as hard a head as you."

Jim grunted at the joke. The fact was, if Breckin James (Coke Bottle's real name) had turned the edge of that metal box even a quarter inch to the right, it could have fractured David Noble's skull. The man was damn lucky.

The telephone saved Jim from any further response. He stood up and snatched the phone off the hook before it could ring twice.

"Ellison."

<"It's Simon."> The captain's voice sounded strained.

"What is it?" Jim asked, suddenly on his guard.

<"Get over to the Cascade Towers, room 1013. Now.">

That was Kroeger's room.

"What—" Jim started, but Simon cut the connection. Jim hung up the phone. "Grab your coat, Chief."

Blair looked up from his coffee. "What's up?"

"I don't know," Jim admitted. "But I don't think it's good."

~*~*~*~

Simon met them at the entrance to Kroeger's hotel room wearing a grim expression that was somehow crossed with satisfaction. Jim knew what was going on before the captain spoke a word.

"Kroeger's dead, isn't he?" Jim asked. A seed of apprehension settled in his stomach. What if Connor had…?

"It looks like a suicide," Simon said, confirming Jim's hypothesis.

Jim couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. Beside him, Sandburg let out a pent-up breath.

"Does Megan know?" Sandburg asked.

Simon shook his head. "I want to tell her in person, after we've made certain it was suicide."

"Good idea," Sandburg agreed.

Jim stepped around Simon and walked into the hotel room. Several uniforms were milling around the main room, photographing and dusting for fingerprints. Both of Kroeger's bodyguards were seated side-by-side on a sofa, deflecting questions from Rafe and Taggart. Off to the left was the door to the bathroom. Jim could see the backside of Jeremy Raines, the department photographer, inside.

The thick stench of blood and bath water hit Jim in a nauseating wave. He staggered once and felt Sandburg's hand on the center of his back. Jim turned down his sense of smell a bit to compensate.

"Slashed his own wrists in the bathtub," Simon filled in, leading the way to the bathroom. "His bodyguards found him about fifteen minutes ago."

"Was there a suicide note?" Jim asked.

Simon shook his head. "None that we could find, but all his luggage was packed neatly and laid on his bed."

The trio reached the bathroom and Jim poked his head inside. A thick puddle of blood surrounded an old-fashioned claw bathtub, giving the white tiled walls a pink aura. A thin, silver razor floated in the center of the blood, very near the spot that Kroeger's right hand grazed the floor. Kroeger lay in the center of a full tub of water, tinged pink and completely motionless. Kroeger seemed to be staring at the wall through half-lidded eyes, his mouth hanging slightly agape.

Sandburg gulped hard. "I'll uh, go see, um…yeah," he mumbled, then walked away from the grisly sight.

Jim couldn't blame him. Although Kroeger had blonde hair and no yellow scarf, the man's position was eerily reminiscent of Susan Fraser's body three years ago. That had been a difficult case for Blair and, even now, Jim hated that the younger man had to see some of the things he'd seen. Some were things that no one should really ever see.

"Any evidence of forced entry?" Jim asked.

Simon scratched his neck. "None that we could see. Seems pretty cut and dried to me."

"It just seems so convenient," Jim muttered.

"Beg pardon?"

"Nothing, sir." Jim's eyes swept the bathroom once more. It was completely devoid of any personal products, aside from the generic hotel toiletries. He turned around. "I'm just going to browse the suite."

Jim passed through the main room and into Kroeger's bedroom. The king-sized bed was neatly made, two identical leather suitcases resting at its foot. He walked around the bed. An alarm clock, a note pad and a Mormon Bible were sitting on the night table. The only thing that seemed out of place was a stack of playing cards. Jim studied the card on top of the pile and almost laughed at the irony: the suicide king.

//Hell of a coincidence, // Jim thought. //The guy packs everything but his cards. //

Sandburg stuck his head in the door. "Find anything interesting?"

Jim shook his head. "Not really," he replied, although it didn't feel true. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, something he couldn't quite understand. Jim just decided to push it back and decipher it later.

Simon was right. For all Jim could tell, this was an open-and-shut case of suicide. Of course, they would probably still get hell from the State Department. Jim grinned to himself. Fortunately for him, the captain handled those calls.

"What's so funny?" Blair asked, noticing the smile.

"Nothing." Jim pivoted on his heel to face the door. "Let's go, Chief."

~*~*~*~

Megan was halfway through a rerun of "The A-Team," when a news brief cut into the broadcast.

"Naturally," she groaned. Her attention didn't return to the interruption until she heard a specific name.

"…Kroeger was found dead in his Cascade Towers Suite early this morning. Details are sketchy at this time, but sources tell us that the State Department is clambering for an in-depth investigation. Rolph Kroeger has been a cultural attaché to the United States for the last two years…."

Megan tuned the rest out; her eyes focused intently on a publicity photo of Kroeger superimposed onto the corner of the screen. A wave of relief washed over her, followed immediately by guilt. It felt morbid to be glad about someone's death.

"How'd he die?" she asked no one.

On that thought, Megan reached for the phone. She knew Captain Banks would be on top of this case and would have the details she craved. Halfway through dialing, her doorbell rang. She jumped, startled by the intrusion, and dropped the phone.

"Connor?" Captain Banks' voice called from the other side of the door.

Letting out a deep breath, Megan sprinted from the couch to the front door and undid the locks. She opened the door, halfway expecting an accusation from the captain; she did, after all, have reason to want Kroeger dead. Instead, his expression was one of mixed bewilderment and satisfaction.

"You might want to sit down for this," Banks said.

"How did he die?" Megan asked, countering what she already knew. She ushered him inside and slid the chain lock into place.

Banks' eyes widened in surprise. "You know?"

"It was on the news." Megan walked over to stand near the couch. "What happened? Did someone…?"

"He cut his own wrists," the captain said. "Kroeger killed himself."

"He…what?" Megan's knees jellied and she sat on the edge of the couch. It was too easy. A hot flush rose in her cheeks and Megan's fists clenched into tight balls in her lap. Shock gave way to utter rage. "That son of a bitch."

Banks blinked, apparently unsettled by her sudden change in demeanor. "Are you okay?"

Megan shook her head, thick curls tickling the sides of her face. "He took the easy way out, Captain. He cheated and now he'll never…I'll never…damn it. Dammit!"

The captain reached out a hand toward her shoulder, but Megan ducked around the touch and stalked over to her double windows overlooking the city. She stared through the glass and brand-new iron bars, too upset to speak.

"I know it's sparse comfort," he said, his voice gentle. "But he'll never hurt anyone else."

She knew and, for that, she was glad. There was no way to know how many other women Kroeger had victimized, but there was comfort the thought that he would never do it again. Her finger traced a blemish in the window glass.

"I know," she said softly. "Thank you."

Banks cleared his throat. "I talked to Denise, the department psychologist. She'll clear a space for you whenever you're ready."

Megan turned to face Banks, feeling a wave of gratitude toward the man. He had been so supportive during the whole ordeal, in a way taking the place of her absent father. Of course, this was something she wasn't sure she could ever tell her father.

Megan smiled warmly at him, her feet walking over on her own. She wrapped slim arms around Simon's shoulders and hugged him tight. He returned the embrace hesitantly, then completely. She drew strength from his warmth and solidarity. All to soon, propriety told her to let go. Megan took a step backward.

Simon smiled. "We'll keep you're desk chair warm."

"You'd better," she teased. "Or I might have to steal yours."

"Not until you're ready," Simon said, not talking about the chair this time.

"I promise."

Simon patted her lightly on the shoulder and walked to the door. Megan unlocked it and let the captain out, a bit sad he was going. She watched him walk down the hall to the elevator, then closed and re-locked the door.

Heaving a sigh, Megan strolled into her kitchen and pulled a new bottle of Jack Daniels out of a top cabinet. From the next cabinet she withdrew a crystal shot glass, a gift from her father on her eighteenth birthday. She broke the seal and poured a shot, watching the clear brown liquid swirl into the bottom of the glass. Megan raised it high.

"To you, Rolph, you son of a bitch," she said. "And to never knowing for sure."

Megan touched her glass to an imaginary one and downed the liquor. It seared down her throat and warmed her stomach, erasing any remaining nervous flutters. In fact, she didn't feel much of anything right now. She just felt…numb.

EPILOGUE

She paused outside the doors of Major Crime. The last week since Kroeger's death had passed in a flurry of physical activity.

After her toast, Megan had decided in her heart and head that Kroeger's attack would no longer control her life. Jim and Sandy had compiled a list of reported assaults that had occurred during Kroeger's trips around the U.S. More research showed that Kroeger used an untraceable sedative on the women that also seemed to affect memories of the incident—its origin was still a mystery to local medical personnel.

Although several of the attacks had ended in murder, none had been rapes. Recently received medical records showed Kroeger had been impotent for the last seven years, which had probably culminated in his fierce attacks on women. Because of his diplomatic papers, he'd always gotten away with it. Until now. Kroeger's posthumous rap sheet came to include the mutilation of Sandy Hatch, the death of young prostitute Rose Tull, and Megan's own assault.

Although still sore, Megan had spent hours on end at the gymnasium, practicing kickboxing and aerobics. Last Thursday, she had gone rock climbing in the Cascades with Rhonda and her second husband. Ever since the revelations in the restroom, she and Rhonda had become fast friends.

Now Monday had come around and Denise McCracken, PhD, had deemed Megan mentally fit and able to return to work. The thought was as daunting as it was a relief. Her bruises had faded to a dull yellow, easily covered by make up. The only thing she couldn't hide was the pock-shaped scab left by Kroeger's ring; there would always be a scar. She had sent Rafe a bag of chocolate covered espresso beans—his favorite snack—as an apology for spraining his wrist on her last attempt to return to work. No matter what he said, Megan still felt shame when she thought about her mishap in returning that day.

Megan squared her shoulders and opened the glass-plated doors into the bullpen. To her left, Jim's desk was empty, although she suspected only recently vacated; there was still half of a donut on his mouse pad. Rafe, Taggart and Noble's desks were equally empty. Across the room, Brown was hunched over his desk, concentrating hard on missed paperwork; he had arrived back in Cascade yesterday. Even Rhonda's desk was vacant.

Her gaze continued around the bullpen. She froze when she saw her desk. A bright smile inched its way across her face and she laughed out loud and walked over, breathing in the scent as she went.

Two enormous bouquets of her favorite flower flanked her desk, the vases crammed and the small flowers melted into two yellow dotted spheres of white. In the center of the daisy arrangements was a brown paper bag with writing on one side. Stepping closer, Megan read,

"I bought you a real nice welcome home card,

Purdy enough for framin'.

But dang it all, I lost the thing,

So here's the bag it came in."

She laughed at the verse printed in Blair's scraggly handwriting. Then she looked in the bag; Megan laughed even harder. She reached in and pulled out a pink, stuffed kangaroo, the silly sort with googly eyes you'd find at a carnival. Someone had sewn on a pair of tiny boxing gloves.

A chair scraped. Megan turned around with the kangaroo pressed to her chest and almost jumped. Scattered around Jim's desk were Henri, Rafe, Jim, Sandy, Simon, and Rhonda, wearing identical goofy grins. A bit farther off, David Noble leaned against his desk, also smiling but never looking directly at her.

Megan's heart leapt at the sight of her friends supporting her. A lump settled in her throat, but she did not cry. Although she had always been "one of the boys," Megan felt, for the first time, that she was part of the family. And they didn't come any better.

They also didn't come any closer—literally.

"Don't worry, I had my distemper shot," Megan teased.

"Yeah," Rafe replied. "But what about rabies?"

Laughter rippled around the room and the spell was broken. The detectives went back to their individual tasks. Banks headed for his office, then hung a sharp right and stopped my Megan's elbow.

"Welcome back, Connor," he said.

Megan met his caring gaze and smiled. "Thank you, sir."

With a brisk nod, he disappeared into his office and shut the door. Megan watched the closed door for half a minute, then let her gaze drift to the left of the door. With a tiny smile, Megan picked up a vase of daisies and walked over to Rhonda's desk. The secretary was shuffling through a stack of papers and looked up when Megan plunked the vase down between a photo of her husband and a cup of pencils.

"What's this for?" Rhonda asked.

"For friendship," Megan said, although she suspected Rhonda already knew.

~*~*~*~

Jim didn't listen in, but he watched from his desk. He watched Megan return to her desk and start up her computer. She stood as straight as ever, but her gait was a bit less confident. The brassy Megan Connor he had first met in the airport parking garage was a bit tarnished, but she had survived a difficult ordeal. With a little polish and a little TLC, she would shine the old way again.

It was time for things to get back to what passed for normal in Cascade. Which meant any minute, a call would come in saying that there was a bomb strapped to the Bay Bridge or a new designer drug had somehow made its way into the city.

He just couldn't help wondering about Kroeger's suicide. Something tickled the back of his mind and struggled to break free, like a swimmer desperately seeking the surface. He supposed it would come to him…

…eventually.

-End

Back to Fiction Page