Rating: PG-13

Category: Case Story

Series: 12th in "Daedalus" Series

Warnings: Spoilers for other stories in the series. Caveat Lector for everything else, including intense emotional scenes. If you really want to know, go HERE.

Notes: This series began a week or so after "Murder 101," and will continue through the fourth season and beyond.

Standard disclaimers apply: I don't own them, I'm just playing with them. "If We Must Die," belongs to poet Claude McKay.

~*~*~

From "The Cascade Times," Wednesday, 5 January 2000:

RECORD DONATION BY WHITE TECHNOLOGY

Children's Hospital Says "Thank You"

~*~*~

8:22 a.m.

The shining sun seemed a practical joke in the bitter morning cold. A light veil of clouds threatened to dump snow onto the four gathered on the sidewalk outside Brookport Apartments, huddling together in their winter coats and scarves.

Amy West stuffed one last suitcase into the trunk of her blue Escort and slammed it shut. It almost didn't close. The back seat was similarly crammed with boxes of belongings, all packed to make the cross-country trip to New York. She stepped onto the curb and turned to face the three waiting to see her off.

"You'll love New York," Blair Sandburg said, loose curls blowing in the chilly breeze. "I still remember seeing the Statue of Liberty for the first time."

Amy laughed. "Well, site-seeing will have to take a back seat until I find a job," she said. "Then nothing but auditions."

"No sweat," Rafe said. He winked at Tracey. "Producers will be lining up to give you parts."

"I just can't believe I'm really doing this," Amy said.

"It's want you want," Tracey said. "And you deserve to see your dream come true."

Amy gazed lovingly at her sister, then expelled a deep breath. "I guess it's time I headed out," she said. "I've got five days of driving to look forward to."

Rafe reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. "Henri wanted to see you off, but he's in bed with the flu. He wanted me to give you this."

"Thank you," Amy said. She tucked the card into her pocket, then wrapped her arms around Rafe. "Take care of Tracey for me."

"I always do," Rafe replied.

Amy blinked back sharp tears as she let go. She found herself enveloped in Blair's arms, suddenly wishing she wasn't leaving. She didn't know anyone in New York and the idea of leaving all of her friends and family behind was terrifying.

"Come visit me," Amy whispered.

"Anytime," Blair said. "You'll be fine. The West sisters always are."

Amy chuckled, but the sound became a soft choke. She reluctantly let go and turned to face her sister. Tracey let her tears fall openly and that did Amy in. She rushed into Tracey's arms, holding her as if the world would end.

"I love you so much," Tracey said. "And I'm so proud of you."

"I know," Amy said. The cold stung her eyes and Amy tried to wipe the tears away. "You're the strongest person I know, Trace."

"I've got vacation time in February," Tracey said. "I'll come see you, okay?"

Amy nodded into her sister's shoulder. She swallowed the rest of her tears. It was time to go; she could cry them later that night in her hotel room. After one last squeeze, Amy released Tracey and stepped back. With a final glance at everyone, she walked around to the driver's side and opened the door. As she climbed into her car, she heard Rafe's cell phone ring.

As she drove away, Amy refused to look back. If she did, she might have turned around.

~*~*~

9:04 a.m.

There was already a small crowd when Rafe and Blair arrived at Cascade Park. A police cruiser was parked behind Jim's Ford. The two uniforms worked crowd control, keeping the curious onlookers away from the park's stone fountain. A small quiver settled in the pit of Blair's stomach as they approached.

Jim and Megan squatted beside the body of a young woman. Her eyes were wide open, her skin bloated from the fountain's water. A necklace of bruises circled her neck.

Blair held back a few feet and swallowed hard. Images of Alex Barnes, the fountain at Rainier…

"Sandy?" Megan asked, grounding him again.

Blair blinked, and he realized she and Jim were staring at him. "Yeah?" he said. "I'm fine. Really."

Jim was not convinced, but didn't push. Rafe looked down at the dead girl.

"Any ID?" Rafe asked.

"No," Jim replied. He pointed to a spot near the base of her neck. "But I don't think she drowned. Looks like forced trauma to the skull, probably a fracture. There's a good chance she was dead before she was put in the water."

"It was an anonymous tip," Megan said before Rafe could ask. "No one seems to have noticed her."

Rafe seemed to notice a conspicuous absence. "Where's Noble?"

"He strained his back last night," Megan said. Off of Rafe's curious grin, she added, "At the gym. He's spending the day in bed."

Blair looked at the corpse, and an odd feeling of familiarity washed over him. "Jim," he said. "I think I know her. Not know her, but have seen her before."

"Where?" Jim asked.

"At the university." Blair stepped around Jim to look at the girl from a better angle. "I'm pretty sure she's a foreign student. Olga something."

Jim stood up, dusting off the knees of his pants. "Let's head to Rainier, then," he said. Jim looked at Megan. "You got it from here?"

She nodded.

~*~*~

9:25 a.m

A strained silence filled Jim's truck during the short trip to Rainier University. Jim kept his eyes on the road, wanting to say something but finding himself unable to phrase it properly enough to speak. He hated having Sandburg at that crime scene. Even if the girl hadn't drowned…it had still been hard for Blair, and Jim knew it. He'd heard the slight spike in Blair's heartbeat.

Although Jim had gone over the "What ifs" in his head any number of times, the crime scene still conjured up more. What if Alex had hit Blair like that, or broken his neck before the fountain? Jim wouldn't have been able to bring him back from that.

"Jim?"

Jim blinked and glanced over at his partner. Sandburg stared at his curiously.

"You're gonna break the steering wheel," Blair said.

Jim realized he had a death grip on the wheel and relaxed.

"It's okay, Jim," Blair continued.

"You sure?" Jim asked.

Blair nodded. "Yeah, I'm sure," he said. "It's been over a year. For an instant I was scared, but then it was gone. Want to know why? Because you were there and she's gone."

A soft smile tugged at the corners of Jim's mouth. He turned onto University Avenue and drove toward the Admissions Building. Campus was fairly deserted. The winter term didn't begin again until Sunday and most of the students liked to wait until the last minute to return to campus.

"Did Amy get off okay?" Jim asked. He pulled into a parking space in the visitor's lot and turned off the engine.

Blair nodded as he unbuckled and climbed out of the truck. "Yeah, but it was hard for her to leave," he said. They began walking. "She and Tracey have been together ever since their parents died. Rafe hated to leave Tracey alone this morning."

"You know," Jim said. "A year ago Rafe would have fainted had anyone mentioned marriage to him."

Blair laughed. "Yeah, you're right. It's funny how people change."

~*~*~

9:37 a.m.

Jackie Burns hunched over her keyboard, pulling up the current student registry. The Admission's Office secretary prided herself on knowing all the current students by name, if not by face. Having a photographic memory and processing the student transcripts herself saw to that. To her knowledge here was only one Olga that had attended Rainier in the last five years.

After a quick search, Jackie announced, "Got her."

Ellison and Sandburg peered over her shoulder at the screen.

"Olga Mueller," Ellison read aloud. "Spent a semester here Spring of 1999, on a student Visa from Poland. The Visa expired last May."

"Did she transfer back to her old school in Poland?" Sandburg asked.

Jackie hit another key. "She withdrew from classes here, but our records end there. Her Visa expired and there's no record of her applying for another."

"So she stayed illegally," Ellison said.

Jackie studied the picture on her monitor. Young, pretty, with dark scared eyes. Olga reminded Jackie of her niece. But there was something else….

"Tommy!" Jackie shouted suddenly, startling both men. "Sorry," she said to them. "But I think he'll be able to help."

Before either could ask whom, Tommy Jacobs walked into the office from an adjacent office. He glanced from Jackie to the two men standing with her.

"Tommy," Jackie said. "This is Detective Ellison and Mr. Sandburg."

"Hi," Tommy said blankly.

Ellison looked at Sandburg, who shrugged.

"Did you know a girl named Olga Mueller?" Ellison asked.

Tommy blinked, retaining his blank stare. Then a spark of recognition preceded a wide smile. "Sure," he said. "We dated a few times last year. Why? Is she in trouble?"

"She was murdered," Ellison said.

"Huh?" Tommy asked. His jaw dropped open. "I thought she went back to Poland. Did she come back? Who'd want to kill her?"

"We don't know," Ellison said. "How close were you to Miss Mueller?"

"Not very," Tommy said. "Like I said, a few dates is all. Mostly basketball games, she liked American sports."

"Did you know any of her friends?" Ellison asked.

Tommy shrugged. "Not really, she didn't talk about them. And she didn’t live in the dorm. I always met her when we went out."

Sandburg leaned over the computer monitor again. "Says she lived in the Manheim Towers. That must have cost a pretty penny. Did she have a sponsor of some kind?"

Jackie brought up another screen. "Not that we have a record of."

"A sponsor," Tommy repeated. "Like someone with money?"

Ellison turned toward Tommy again. "They'd have to have money. Why?"

Tommy shifted his weight, dragging one foot across the carpet. "Two things, I guess. On our second date she showed up in a righteous leather coat that must've cost a bundle. She said it was a gift from her friend Alex."

When Tommy went silent, Sandburg prodded, "And the other thing?"

"She got picked up from my place one morning," Tommy said. "After she, uh, spent the night. Anyway, the guy in the car looked an awful lot like the rich guy from the East Side. He's a color or something. Mr. Green…no, not Clue. Uh, White."

"Alexander White," Ellison said.

"Yeah, him."

Sandburg gave Ellison an unreadable look, but the taller man seemed to understand. Ellison nodded and turned to Tommy.

"Would you be willing to go to Central Precinct and give your statement?" Ellison asked.

"I guess so," Tommy said. "I gotta work until four."

"After work then," Ellison said. "Just tell the desk sergeant who you are."

"Okay." Tommy scuffed his shoe on the carpet once more. "I hope you get the guy who killed her. She was real nice."

"We will," Sandburg said.

~*~*~

10:28 a.m.

The executive offices of White Industries took up two floors of the Tallman Corporate Building in downtown Cascade. Tallman housed offices for the wealthiest companies in the city and satellite offices for several out of country companies. It was a suit and tie district where glass ceilings were the norm and businessmen didn't talk about their vices.

White Industries was in perfect company.

Jim flashed his badge to the lobby security officer, only pausing long enough to find out which floor Alexander White's office was on. He and Blair received their fair share of upturned noses and disdainful looks while waiting for the elevator to arrive. They stepped inside with four suited men who looked unhappy at the idea of sharing the lift with anyone not in a three-piece and tie.

Fortunately, Jim and Blair only went up five floors. Once they stepped out and the elevator doors closed behind them. Blair shivered.

"Is it me or was it ten degrees colder in there?" he asked.

Jim nodded his agreement. Directly in front of him was a large reception desk. In bold letters on the wall behind it was WHITE INDUSTRIES CORPORATE. The two women behind the desk wore matching red dress suits, their hair done up in tasteful, but unflattering buns.

They walked up to the nearest woman. DONNA was neatly printed on her nametag. Donna looked up, quickly taking stock of the visitors.

"Welcome to White Industries Corporate," Donna said. "What can I do for you?"

"I need to speak with Alexander White," Jim said.

"Do you have an appointment?" Donna asked, addressing only Jim. She seemed to find Blair unworthy of attention.

Jim frowned and pulled out his badge. "No, and it's urgent."

"I'm sorry, Officer," Donna said. "But he's unavailable."

"It's Detective," Jim said coldly. "And when do you expect him to be available?"

Donna glared at him, then consulted her computer schedule. "Mr. White is in a meeting across town and will be out most of the day. Would you like to leave a message?"

"Yeah," Jim said, leaning in. "Tell him to call Detective Ellison at the Cascade PD. It's regarding Olga Mueller."

Donna typed something into the computer, then fixed him with a forced smile. "I'll see to it that he gets the message, Detective."

"Thank you," Jim said. "Come on, Chief."

Jim walked back to the elevator, Blair on his heels. Jim punched the call button.

"That's that?" Blair asked.

"If he's not here, he's not here," Jim said. He pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed dial. It was picked up on the second ring. "Connor? It's Ellison."

~*~*~

11:03 a.m.

Megan slipped her cell phone back into her pocket and walked back into Dan Wolfe's office. Rafe was still waiting. He looked up when Megan walked in.

"It was Jim," Megan reported. "They have a lead with Alexander White, but he wasn't there. He wants us to do some checking and see if any other foreign students were put up in the Manheim Suites in the last few years."

"You think it's a good lead?" Rafe asked.

"It's all we've got for now," Megan said. "The girl didn't have a current Visa, and no one knows where she's been for the last six months."

The door banged open and Dan Wolfe walked in, making notations on his chart.

"She didn't drown," Wolfe said, tucking the chart under one arm. "The head trauma was severe, probably a hammer or sharp tool of some kind. But that didn't kill her. She was poisoned."

"Poisoned?" Rafe repeated. "Poisoned, bludgeoned and put in a fountain. Jesus."

"Yeah," Wolfe said. "And if you guess this one you get the grand prize. She was poisoned by our elusive old friend."

"The conch venom," Megan said instantly.

Wolfe nodded. "Yeah. I also found evidence of recent physical and sexual abuse."

Megan felt her stomach knot with anger.

"Thanks, Dan," Rafe said.

~*~*~

11:12 a.m.

Megan was silent on the elevator back up to Major Crime. Rafe shuffled nervously. In the past year, certain things had begun to set Connor off, and sexual abuse cases were one of them. Rafe could certainly understand why, but he never knew how to treat the subject around her.

"She was twenty-two," Megan whispered, so softly Rafe almost missed it.

"Yeah," Rafe said. "We'll find him. Whomever he or she is."

"I remember Alexander White," she said. "Last year at the charity ball that was robbed. David bumped into him, spilled champagne on White's suit. He was a pompous ass."

"Did he strike you as a killer?" Rafe asked.

Megan shrugged. "Honestly? No. But I suppose if we could spot killers by sight alone, the world would be a safer place."

The elevator stopped, its doors sliding open. They stepped out, walking silently down the hall toward the bullpen. Megan stepped over to her desk and sat down. Rafe watched her for a moment, then walked toward his own desk.

"Detective Rafe?" Rhonda called from her desk.

Rafe switched directions and walked over to the secretary. "Yeah?" he asked.

Rhonda handed him a slip of paper. "Dan Wolfe just called up. He needs you to call him right away."

Rafe walked back to his desk and snatched up his phone, dialing quickly. "Dan? It's Rafe, I just got the message…Scratched?….Yeah….Thanks, Dan." He hung up.

"What is it?" Megan said from behind, startling Rafe.

"Dan found something else," Rafe said. "The letters A and W scratched into the victim's thigh."

"Scratched?" Megan repeated.

"I'm going to call Forensics right now," Rafe said. "But I'll bet a million to one the skin they found under her fingernail is her own. And A.W. belongs to the person that hit her."

"She was still conscious enough to do that," Megan said, her eyes wide. "The bludgeoning didn't work, so the killer used the venom."

"It's guess work," Rafe said. "But right now it sounds like a pretty damn good guess. A. W."

"Alexander White," Megan said, her voice dripping with anger. "I'll call Jim."

~*~*~

1:34 p.m.

When the Manheim Tower records came in, Jim and Megan practically pounced on them. They spread them out across the table in the Break Room, going over everything carefully.

Alexander White had kept two suites in the apartment complex from January 1998 until this past December, both on the same floor but not neighboring the other. While White was the renter of both apartments, he was required to notify the front desk of whoever was staying in them at any given time. From January '99 until May '99, Olga Mueller resided in apartment 8-C. The same apartment was inhabited August '99 until December '99 by Johanna Schuyler. The first two women in the apartment were Greta Van Wier, spring, and Vianne LeBois, fall.

White's second apartment, 8-F, sported a long list of different users. Most of the names were male and stayed less than a week. They were very likely business associates, but the names needed to be checked out anyway.

"Sandburg and I will check out the other three women," Jim said, "and see if we can't find out if they were students, business associates or just old friends."

Megan nodded. "I'll start placing phone calls," she said. "See if I can't dig up any more dirt on White before we ask for an arrest warrant."

"And tread softly," Jim said. "We don't want to mess this one up."

"No, we don't," Megan said.

~*~*~

1:57 p.m.

Rafe hung up, letting the receiver clatter into its cradle. If he heard one more person praise Alexander White's selfless work with charity or donations to city projects, he was going to throw up. People made him out to be some sort of saint.

But if the evidence was coming together correctly, White was anything but a good guy.

Phones rang all around the bullpen. With two detectives out, day officers were working extra hard to get all the work done that needed doing. Jim and Blair were out chasing a lead. Simon had been in and out of his office all afternoon, mostly preparing for the PR work that would come later. White was a well-known man in Cascade. If he were arrested, Simon would have to take control of the shit storm.

"Detective Rafe!" Rhonda called.

Rafe looked up. Rhonda pointed at her phone and said, "Line two. You'll want this one."

He picked up his handset. "Detective Rafe," he said.

<"This is Antonia Marquez from Mr. White's office,"> a softly accented voice said.

"Is Mr. White in now?" Rafe asked.

There was a slight pause. <"No, sir. But Mr. White has made an appointment to see a Detective Ellison at 8 a.m. on Friday morning.">

"I'm sorry?" Rafe couldn't believe it. White was scheduling them in?

<"An appointment, sir,"> she repeated. <"To discuss whatever matter—">

"Yeah, yeah," Rafe said. "Tell your boss that's not good for us."

Rafe slammed his phone down, not surprised to look up and find Megan staring at him. He stood up and grabbed his jacket.

"Let's go, Connor," Rafe said.

Megan was on her feet immediately. "Where?"

"I'm making us an unofficial appointment," he replied.

~*~*~

2:34 p.m.

"You can't go in there!" Donna shouted.

Her efforts to stop Rafe and Megan from barging down the corridor to White's office were futile. With each step, the detectives knew that they were going to get in trouble. They just didn't care.

A set of double doors with a nameplate reading A. WHITE punctuated the end of the corridor. Donna tried to dash around and get between the doors and the detectives. Rafe gave the door a hard rap and pushed his way inside.

Rafe and Megan stopped just inside the doorway.

Alexander White stood behind a walnut desk the size of a small car. He was portly, but not quite fat in his middle age. A thin mustache had hints of gray that gave away his age, but his black hair was unmarred. A young Hispanic woman stood next to him, perhaps a little to closely. She looked at the intruders with a hint of panic.

"What the hell is this?" White thundered. He marched around from behind his desk. "Donna—"

"I'm Detective Rafe with the Cascade PD," Rafe said, holding up his badge. "I'm sorry Detective Ellison couldn't be here, but I wanted to tell you in person that the appointment you made for him just isn't good for us. I thought that since you don't seem to be busy—"

"I want your badge number, Detective," White interrupted.

"And we want some answers," Megan said.

"And you are?" White asked.

"Inspector Connor," she replied with open distaste.

White stared at them for a moment. Then he looked at Donna and nodded. She turned and walked out, closing the doors behind them. The young woman walked to a smaller desk in the far corner of the room and sat down.

"You have five minutes," White said. "Starting now."

Megan glanced over at the other woman in the room. "Is she going to stay?" Megan asked.

"Antonia is my assistant," White said. "Anything you have to say, you can say it in front of her."

"Fine," Rafe said. He took out a copy of Olga's Rainier ID photo. "Do you know this girl?"

White took the photo and studied it as he walked to sit at his desk. Rafe and Megan shadowed him; both standing by chairs but neither relaxed enough to sit.

"I do," White said. "I sponsored her for a semester. She was a bright young girl. Olga, I think her name was. What about her?"

"She died last night," Megan said.

"Oh?" White said. He appeared neither surprised, nor upset. "That's a shame."

Rafe studied the older man. "Not surprised to hear that? Considering she should be back in Poland right now, instead of Cascade."

"Perhaps she never left the country," White offered. "Some foreigners do that. They are too afraid to go back to their country so they stay illegally."

"You were her sponsor," Rafe said. "You didn't take her to the airport?"

"I wanted to," White said. "When I went to pick her up, she'd already gone. I assumed she'd called a taxi."

"Why do you sponsor foreign students?" Megan asked. "And put them up in such a nice apartment at obvious expense to yourself? What do you get out of it?"

"Good publicity," White replied. "I have a lot of money, as I'm sure you are aware. I also do a lot of charity work. I have the means to help them live comfortably while they are here, so I do. That's no crime."

Megan glanced over at Antonia. "Did Olga work for you while she was here?"

"I beg your pardon?" White said.

"Did you have Olga do any sort of office work for you?" Megan repeated. "Maybe assistant work?"

White stared at Megan for several moments. "Many of the girls I sponsored didn't feel right about accepting my money without doing something in return. Yes, Olga did some filing on occasion."

"Are you sponsoring Antonia?" Megan asked. She glanced briefly back over at Antonia. The young woman tried to look like she was concentrating on a brief, but her eyes fluttered all over the desk.

"I am," White said. A flush of red crept in around his collar. "I believe this interview is over. You've gone way over your five minutes."

"Thank you for your time," Rafe said. "I think we've gotten all we need."

Megan and Rafe walked toward the door. Megan opened them and stepped outside. Rafe paused in the doorway, looking back at White.

"Aren't you even curious how Olga died?" Rafe asked.

White caught him in a cold stare. "I assume she was murdered," he said. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here."

"You're right," Rafe said.

He spared one more glance at Antonia. She sat at her desk, still unmoving, almost terrified. Against his better judgment, Rafe closed the door. He fell into step beside Megan as they walked back down the corridor.

"I wonder what Jim and Sandy turned up on those other girls," Megan said. "Because all signs are pointing to White."

~*~*~

4:54 p.m.

~*~*~

6:12 p.m.

Megan used her spare key to David's apartment. She had a bag of take-out in one hand and a six-pack of Fosters in the other. She pushed open the door, not surprised to find David dozing on the couch. The same place she'd left him that morning. Megan closed the door and took the food into the small adjacent kitchen.

"Hey," David mumbled, stirring from his sleep.

"How's your back?" she asked. Megan put the new beer into the refrigerator and took out the last two cold ones.

David flexed his muscles experimentally. "Better," he said. "When it flares up like this it usually only takes a day to go back to normal. Back to work tomorrow."

Megan took cartons of Chinese out of the bag and situated the food on plates. "You sound eager to go back," she said.

"I am not a couch potato," he said, carefully sitting up. "I was going out of my mind today."

She laughed. "What? The soaps didn't keep you occupied?"

David groaned. "I refused to watch them. I did, however, win a new car on The Price Is Right. The guy playing the game didn't, but I would have."

"That's the one with the big wheel, right?" Megan asked.

"Yup."

Megan grabbed chopsticks, the beer and the plates of food, and carried them over to the couch. David started to stand and help, but she shooed him back down.

"I've got it," she said. "Sit."

He sat. Megan handed him a plate with fried rice and General Tso's chicken. Her own dinner was plain rice and steamed vegetables.

"Methinks she knows what I like," David teased. "You look tired."

That was his always-polite way of assessing how work had gone. On bad days she looked tired. On good days she looked good. Even if she was neither.

"Long day," Megan said. "I'll fill you in tomorrow if you do come in. I just…"

"Don't need to think about it right now," David said.

Megan picked at her veggies, but found herself with little appetite. Instead, her eyes wandered over the stack of books on the coffee table. One lay open. The title on the spine was COLLECTED POEMS. Megan put down her plate and picked it up. The poem on the page was called "If We Must Die," by Claude McKay.

She looked over at David, who was watching her as he ate. "Trying to depress yourself on your day off?" she asked, only half teasing.

"It's a good poem," he said. "And I quote, 'If we must die, O let us nobly die, so that our precious blood may not be shed in vain; then even the monsters we defy shall be constrained to honor us though dead.' He was writing about World War I."

Megan smiled warmly. "He sounds like he was there."

"Probably was," David said. "Makes me think about it."

"About the war?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No, about death. 'Let us nobly die.' It's hard not to wonder about when you're in our profession. Will I die tomorrow in a hail of gunfire or a ninety-year old retiree in a nursing home?"

"I'd rather wonder about solving my case," Megan said softly. "No use wondering when we'll die. There's too much living to do."

"I know." David leaned over and kissed her tenderly. "As long as I've got you, I don't need anything else to live for."

~*~*~

January 6th

8:23 a.m.

A ring of concerned faces sat around Simon's conference table the next morning. Everyone from Major Crime was present, except Henri Brown who was still sick with the flu. Case files were open on the table and Captain Banks had everyone's attention.

"I got several angry calls last night," Simon said, his voice dangerously calm considering his topic. "From people complaining about Mr. White's unexpected appointment yesterday. While there is little doubt in my mind that there is something shady about White, we cannot go off half-cocked."

His gaze settled on Rafe and Connor, who looked away. Joel and David flipped through the files, acquainting themselves with the details of the case. Blair played with his coffee mug. Only Jim met Simon's stern frown.

"White knows some powerful men in this city," Simon continued. "So no more stunts like that, understood?"

The group chorused a round of "Understood's."

"What else do we have?" Simon asked.

Jim pushed a stack of case files into the center of the table. "Sandburg and I pulled all the old files where someone died as a result of the conch venom. We need to go through them again and look for connections."

"The shipping companies keep coming up dry," Joel said. "They have to be getting the venom somewhere."

"Probably a private source," Rafe said.

"And if it's available on the street," David added, "No one's talking about it."

"Anything new on the other three exchange students?" Simon asked.

Jim shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "But I'm expecting something in an hour or so. We've got someone making a list of apartment rentals in the week before and after each girl was supposed to leave the country."

"That's a hell of a long list," Blair said.

"All we're looking for are connections to White or one of the girls," Jim said.

"You know, a guy like White never thinks he's gonna get caught," David said offhandedly. "Tracing him might not be as hard as we think. He wouldn't bother too hard with covering things up."

"Which could play in our favor," Simon said. "If he hasn't already started covering things up after yesterday's impromptu interview."

"I want to talk to White's assistant," Megan said suddenly, speaking up for the first time. "She seemed very nervous yesterday, like she kept expecting something to happen."

Simon looked like he was going to say no and assign someone else. But the determined fix of Megan's jaw changed his mind. "You and Rafe go," he said. "She knows you already. But at her home only. Do not go back to White's office."

"Understood," Megan said.

~*~*~

9:43 a.m.

"We've got a hit, Chief," Jim announced as he strode into the bullpen with a sheet of fax paper.

Blair looked up from his desk. He'd spent the last hour reading the conch venom files. His mind was swimming with names, faces, and dates of death. Jim's news brought a welcome respite from it all.

"Which one?" Blair asked, removing his reading glasses to rub at his eyes.

"Vianne LeBois," Jim said. "She's been living in an apartment on Sixteenth Street since last winter. The lease is in her name."

"Is there a co-signer?" Blair asked.

Jim nodded. "Mr. Xander Whitman," he said.

"Clever," Blair said. "Maybe he was trying to cover his tracks a little."

"Well, harboring an illegal alien is a felony," Jim said. "White knew what he was doing was illegal."

"So do we get a warrant for White?" Blair asked.

"Not yet," Jim said. "White apparently has access to the conch venom. White Industries imports various components. His shipping rosters have checked out clean, like everyone else, but…"

"White has the power to get things into this country under the radar," Blair finished.

"Bingo," Jim said. "Let's go talk to Ms. LeBois. See what White is doing to keep her in Cascade."

~*~*~

10:12 a.m.

Harrington Apartments was a large complex that took up half the block between Sixteenth Street and Jenkins Avenue. It was upscale, without being ritzy, with a security guard in the lobby and its own underground parking garage.

Jim flashed his badge at the security guard, who waved him by without a glance.

"Tough security," Blair commented as they got on the elevator.

Vianne rented a penthouse on the thirteenth floor, one of three. The hallway was modestly decorated, giving the same air of money without money the outside of the complex gave. Past apartments 13-A, 13-B, to 13-C.

The door opened almost the instant Jim knocked, as if someone was waiting for them. A young woman with large green eyes and blonde hair stood in the doorway. She was tall and willowy, and she wore a light blue dinner dress. Her smile faded when she saw the two men behind her door.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a soft French accent.

"I'm Detective Ellison," Jim said, showing her his badge. "This is my partner, Blair Sandburg. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

A flash of panic crossed her face, immediately schooled into a curious frown. "What is it about? I am expecting company soon."

"It's about your Visa, Ms. LeBois," Jim said.

Vianne blinked. "Is my credit card payment late? They send police to collect it now?"

"Not that," Jim said. "For over a year you've lived in this country illegally."

"No," Vianne said. "I became a citizen, only I changed my name. Perhaps that is your confusion."

"And what name would that be?" Jim asked.

Vianne ushered them inside and closed the door. She walked over to a small desk in the foyer and produced a sheet of paper. She held it out to them. Blair took it.

"Lisa Vincent," Blair read. "Okay, but why change your name?"

"Vianne was me in France," she replied. "Lisa is me in America."

"Why is the lease in the name of Vianne LeBois?" Jim asked.

"I applied for the lease before deciding to change my name," Vianne replied. "Changing it was too much trouble."

"And what about your co-signer," Jim asked. "Xander Whitman?"

Vianne blinked, pausing for a moment. Her gaze never wavered as she debated her words. "He is my employer," she replied.

"And where do you work?" Jim asked.

Vianne's eyes narrowed. "Have I done something wrong, Detective?"

"No," Jim said. "But I want to know about your relationship with Alexander White."

"Mr. White?" she echoed. "He is my friend. He helped me apply to Rainier University and helped me gain citizenship. Mr. White is a godsend."

"We'll see about that," Jim muttered.

Blair frowned at Jim, then looked at Vianne. "I'm sure he's helped you out in the past, but right now Mr. White is under suspicion by our department. We're simply trying to investigate all possible angles. Do you see Mr. White very often?"

"No," she replied flatly. "We are not in contact, and I really must ask you to leave. My guest will be here any moment."

"If you can think of anything White did that seemed out of the ordinary," Blair said, handing Vianne his card. "Please call."

Vianne took the card, ushering them back toward the door. "Of course."

Jim didn't speak again until he and Blair were safely in the elevator and going down.

"White certainly has an image," Blair said.

Jim snorted. "How can so many people defend him?" he asked.

Blair shrugged. "Because they don't know his dark side," he replied. "Some people are just experts at hiding their vices. Hell, if White had been more careful, we may never have gotten this far. His vanity is working for us right now, man."

"I know that, Chief," Jim said. "But the guy leaves a bad taste in my mouth. And I still haven't met the bastard face to face."

The elevator arrived and the doors slid open. A young gentleman stepped inside as soon as they exited. Blair headed for the lobby doors, but Jim hung back. The gentleman had seemed vaguely familiar. Jim marched over to the security desk.

"Who was that man?" Jim asked.

The security guard blinked. "Uh, Harold Morgan," he said. "Visits Ms. Vincent every Thursday or thereabouts."

Jim furrowed his brow, thinking. The name didn't sound familiar, but the man's face was. Very familiar, the more he thought about it. "Does Ms. Vincent receive a lot of male callers?"

"Dunno," the security guard replied. "I only work the day shift. Call Larry, he works nights around here. Comes in at six."

"I'll do that," Jim said. "Thanks."

Jim marched over to the front doors where Blair waited.

"What was that?" Blair asked.

"Could be nothing," Jim said. "Or everything."

Blair rolled his eyes at the cryptic response, not surprised. "Now what?"

"Back to Major Crime," Jim said. "We need to find out if any of the other girls changed their names to become citizens. That may be how we'll find them.

~*~*~

11:45 a.m.

Antonia Marquez's current address was three blocks away from Vianne's building. Another nice apartment complex, but certainly not the Manheim Towers. Which played on Megan's hunch that maybe White was getting nervous. Antonia was his only exchange student to not live at the Towers while enrolled in Rainier. She was the wild card.

She also wasn't home.

Instead of staking it out and waiting, Megan and Rafe headed for the Tallman Corporate Building. Since they were banned from White's office, they decided to try and catch Antonia on her lunch break. They waited by a bus stop across the street, watching the steady stream of businessmen and women going in and out.

At noon, the gamble paid off. Antonia left the Tallman Building with a rush of people that split into groups and headed toward nearby restaurants and delis. She stopped at the crosswalk, checking her watch and scanning a scrap of paper. The light changed and she crossed, right toward Megan and Rafe.

She didn't notice them until they called her name.

"Miss Marquez?" Rafe said.

Antonia stopped and turned, her eyes widening when she recognized them. "Yes?" she asked.

"We need to ask you a few questions," Megan said.

"I really cannot," Antonia said. "I must get lunch and have it back for a meeting at twelve-thirty. It cannot be late."

"We can walk with you," Rafe said. "It's really important."

Antonia seemed prepared to argue with them, but getting back on time took top priority. "If you must," she said.

She began walking down the block toward a deli. Megan and Rafe flanked her.

"When did you first meet Alexander White?" Rafe asked.

"He met my plane when I arrived in America," Antonia replied. Her voice was clipped, almost harsh. She obviously didn't want to be talking to them. "He was very kind."

"What did you think when he said he would be putting you up in off-campus housing," Megan asked.

"I don't understand," Antonia said, slowing her pace a half step.

"Did it seem odd to you?" Megan tried again. "That you would stay in such a nice apartment, when other foreign students lived in dorms."

"He was very kind," Antonia repeated. "No, it never seemed odd."

"But you accepted his offer?" Rafe asked. "In exchange for working for him?"

Antonia didn't speak for almost a minute. She finally paused at the entrance to the crowded deli and turned to stare at Rafe. Her eyes were liquid, even frightened.

"I don't understand what you want from me," she said.

Megan took a step toward Antonia, lowering her voice. "Does Mr. White frighten you, Antonia?" she asked.

Antonia stared at Megan as if caught in a lie. Her chin quivered.

"He gets angry sometimes," Antonia whispered. Her eyes darted around, as if wondering who was listening. "He frightens me when he is angry."

"Antonia," Megan said gravely. "Has Mr. White ever hit you when he was angry? Or threatened you in any way?"

"Do you think he killed that girl?" Antonia asked, throwing her interviewers. She asked it matter-of-factly, as if already sure of their response.

"He is a suspect," Rafe said carefully.

Antonia chewed her bottom lip, her mind racing furiously. Rafe and Megan could see an internal battle being waged inside of her. Soft tears sprung up in Antonia's eyes as she came to a decision.

"Will you send me back to Spain?" Antonia asked in a choked voice.

"No," Megan said. "If you've done nothing wrong, nothing will happen to you."

An amazing change came over Antonia then. Her expression hardened, her fist clenching around the slip of paper in her hand.

"I must order lunch," she said. "Will you excuse me?"

Megan took a card from her pocket and handed it to Antonia. "Please call me," Megan said. "If you want to say anything. We can protect you, if it comes to that."

Antonia nodded and disappeared into the deli.

"We shouldn't have let her go like that," Rafe said.

"I know," Megan said. "But she wasn't going to say anything else about White. I'm getting the idea this guy is definitely running something sneaky in his spare time. We should call Jim, compare notes."

Rafe nodded. They turned and headed back toward Rafe's car.

~*~*~

12:18 p.m.

Blair held the Wonder Burger bag out at arm's length, the strong smell of grease making his stomach churn. It had been Jim's turn to choose a lunch location and Blair's turn to play delivery boy. Normally it wasn't so bad, but Simon, Joel, and David had put in orders, too. There was a lot of saturated fat in that paper bag.

His own lunch was the Wonder Veggie Patty, probably the only veggie burger in the world to have as much fat as real meat did. But it was better than the alternative. Blair placed the lunch sack and tray of sodas on his desk, shoving aside files to make room. If Jim hadn't found addresses for the other two girls, Blair had to delve back into the conch venom files. That was not a job he was looking forward to.

"Lunch is here," Blair said to anyone listening. He plucked his veggie patty from the bag and sat down.

Joel and David came over, picking their sandwiches out of the bag. Joel also took Simon's food, walking it into the captain's office. Blair looked around, but didn't see Jim in the bullpen. He looked over at David, who was holding his chicken sandwich in one hand and typing slowly with the other.

"Hey, Boomer," Blair said. "You seen Jim?"

"He went downstairs for a few minutes," David replied, not looking up from his computer monitor. "Said he needed to find someone."

Since that was probably the most unhelpful response possible, Blair forgot about it and just ate. He didn't pick up the next venom case file until his sandwich was gone. Blair read over the death of Dale Remus on March 4th of last year. Remus had been an electrical repairman at Manheim Towers and involved in the death of one of its residents. Blair vaguely remembered the day Jim cornered Remus in an alley and Remus killed himself with an injection of conch venom. The fact that Remus had worked at the Manheim Towers niggled at the back of Blair's mind. Was it just another coincidence?

"Sandburg!"

Blair jumped and looked up. Jim marched across the bullpen, straight toward Blair with an intense frown on his face.

"What's up, Jim?" Blair asked. Judging from the expression, it wasn't happy news.

"Remember Vianne's mystery guest this afternoon?" Jim asked.

"Yeah," he replied.

"Harold Morgan," Jim said. "I ran his name to see why he looked so familiar. Didn't find a Harold Morgan, but I did find his picture. City Councilman Morgan Stanley, married father of three and one of White Industries' biggest supporters."

"Why does that not surprise me," Blair said. "Father of three, huh? Hell of a role model."

"Now why do you suppose a married man visits a young girl and signs in under a false name?" Jim asked rhetorically.

"You think that White is keeping these girls in the country," Blair said. "And selling them out to his clients."

Jim nodded, his blue eyes flashing angrily. "It fits with Olga Mueller's autopsy report. Physical and sexual abuse."

"Son of a bitch," Blair mumbled. "While we're on the subject, I've got another bit of speculation for you. Remember Dale Remus?"

~*~*~

2:34 p.m.

The insistent beeping of his pager pulled him out of a deep sleep. It had been an extremely late night and, while he'd been given permission to rest the following day, he was never allowed to turn off the pager. Only a select few knew the number, but Icharus was still required to be available twenty-four hours a day. No exceptions.

Icharus stirred beneath his quilt, popping his head out. He blinked against the sunlight peeking in through closed blinds. The pager continued to beep from its spot on the night table determined to deliver its message. He reached for it, cutting off the annoying sound.

He read the number, not at all surprised at the ID. Daedalus was expecting to hear from White. It had seemed inevitable after the death of the foreign student. Icharus found his cell phone and dialed the number on the pager.

<"Yes?"> White asked. He hadn't wasted any time letting it ring.

"It's Icharus. What do you want, Mr. White?"

<"I need help,"> While replied. He sounded short of breath. <"The police are going to find out. I need protection from your boss.">

Icharus had instructions from Daedalus to contact him should White ask for help. White had been a valuable asset in Cascade for the last eighteen months. It would not due for White Industries to suddenly come under the thumb of the police department. That could be disastrous, both for the contacts lost and the information White had.

"I will have him contact you with instructions," Icharus replied.

<"When?"> White asked.

"Soon," Icharus said. "He always works in his own time."

<"His time better be my time. Or I'm dead.">

White hung up. Icharus ended the call and stared at his phone. Looked like his day was beginning earlier than he expected it to.

~*~*~

3:56 p.m.

Henri Brown was beginning to think that paying for premium cable was a bad idea. The only thing worse than being stuck at home sick was not having anything on television to watch. Showtime, HBO, Starz, none of them had had any decent movies on all day long. Henri was ready to choke on romantic comedies and domestic thrillers. All he wanted was a good horror movie or action flick.

At four o'clock he gave up and decided to take a nap. With tissues, cough syrup and orange juice close at hand, Henri curled up on his couch with an electric blanket. He'd just closed his eyes when someone knocked on the door.

Henri groaned. "Come in!" he shouted, hoping the door was unlocked.

A key turned in the door and Henri blinked. He'd given Rafe a key to his apartment last summer. Why in the world was he coming over when Henri was so contagious? Rafe picked up germs like a lint brush. The door opened.

"Henri?"

Tracy stepped inside holding a covered bowl. She spotted him on the couch and smiled.

"Hey, Trace," Henri said, sitting up a little.

"Don't get up," Tracy said. "I brought by some chicken soup. I always seem to make too much and Rafe doesn't much like it."

"Thanks," Henri said. "There should be room in the fridge for it."

Tracy walked into the attached kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. She disappeared from view for a moment as she bent over, then reappeared and closed the door.

"Are you feeling any better?" Tracy asked. She walked into the living room and sat in a nearby chair.

"I think my head only weights twenty pounds now," Henri replied with a wink. "Instead of fifty."

"Been there," Tracy said. "It must be hard being sick alone. I remember when Rafe had it back in September. He was such a baby."

Henri chuckled. "Some guys like the extra attention. Actually, all guys do. I guess we really are babies."

Tracy smiled, twisting her fingers together in her lap. Henri had known Tracy long enough to recognize that gesture.

"What's on your mind, Trace?" Henri asked.

"Is it that obvious?" she asked.

Henri pointed to her hands. Tracy looked down. She clasped her hands together tightly.

"Do you want to have children, Henri?" she asked bluntly.

"That's a nice offer, but not today," he said. When he realized she was deadly serious, Henri cleared his throat. "I do someday. Haven't found the right woman yet, but when I do I'd like to start a family."

Even though he knew where this was going, he asked, "What does Rafe think?"

"He tries to avoid talking about it," Tracy said. "We both agreed before we got married that we'd have children some day. We just never agreed on when that would be."

"And you're ready?" Henri asked.

Tracy nodded. "He thinks it's because Amy is gone and I need someone around. But I don't want to wait too long, you know? I mean, what if we can't get pregnant on our own? What if we need some sort of therapy? That could take years."

Henri felt uncomfortable, a bit out of his element. "Are you sure you want my advice on this?" he asked.

"No," she replied. "I mean, I didn't come for advice. Just to talk to you. I mean, you've know him longer than I have."

"Well, here's my two cents," Henri said. "Rafe can be a little dense about some things that require common sense. I know he loves you to death, so tell him how you feel. Guys don't do that, so make him tell you how he feels. Honestly." He shrugged. "Maybe some day communication between men and women won't be such a trial."

Tracy laughed softly. "Thanks, Henri. I should go."

"Anytime," he said. "And thanks for the soup."

"Don't thank me until you've tasted it," Tracy said.

~*~*~

January 7

6:12 a.m.

Megan rolled over and opened her eyes, wonder what had woken her up. Then she heard it again. Her cell phone. She shoved the covers aside, ignoring David when he grunted beside her. Megan stumbled across the small lofted bedroom and grabbed her purse off the floor. She snatched the cell phone out and pressed SEND.

"Connor," she said.

<"Inspector?"> a shaky voice asked. <"This is Antonia. You said I could call you.">

Megan was instantly alert. She focused her eyes on the alarm clock and the early hour. "What's wrong, Antonia?" Megan asked. "Are you all right?"

<"I am afraid,"> Antonia said. Her voice was hushed and choked. <"He is very angry. I need you to help me, please.">

"Are you at home?" Megan asked. She fumbled for the dresser drawer where she kept spare clothes.

<"Yes. Come soon."> She hung up.

Megan dropped the phone into her purse and turned around. David was sitting up in bed, staring at her.

"We have to go," Megan said, slipping into a pair of slacks. "Right now."

~*~*~

6:45 a.m.

Jim had just turned the coffeepot on when the telephone rang. He groaned. Calls this early were a bad way to start off the day. He grabbed the cordless off the counter—reminding himself to cuff Blair for leaving it there last night—and answered it.

"Ellison."

<"Jim, it's Simon. Connor got a call earlier from White's assistant. She sounded scared and asked for help. Connor and Noble are on their way over there.">

Jim opened his mouth to reply, but Simon wasn't finished.

<"Also, we finally got an address for the other two exchange students. They are living together over on the West Side. I've got Rafe and Joel going to pick them up. I want you and Sandburg to go get Lisa Vincent, Vianne LeBois or whatever her name is.">

"Got it, Simon," Jim said.

Jim hung up and turned around to bang on Blair's door. But Blair was already awake and standing in the doorway watching him.

"What is it, Jim?" Blair asked.

"Trouble," Jim replied. "What else?"

~*~*~

6:53 a.m.

Antonia's apartment was on the opposite side of the city from David's apartment, making getting there quickly next to impossible. Megan hated every extra minute they had to sit in traffic as they crossed Cascade. She was sure something very bad was happening. All of her instincts were screaming at her to hurry.

When they finally reached the apartment building, David double-parked in front. Megan flashed her badge at an irate doorman who insisted he move his car. They charged inside, taking the stairs instead of waiting on the elevator. Less than a minute later they reached the door of Antonia's apartment.

Megan banged on the door. "Cascade police! Antonia, open the door!"

There was no reply, no footsteps from within. Megan looked at David. He nodded and stepped back. Megan moved aside and pulled her weapon. David reared back and kicked the door, his foot landing just to the right of the lock and breaking it in.

Megan dashed in first, moving carefully down a short hallway. It ended and went left or right. David nodded to the right and moved in that direction, gun out and ready. Megan held her pistol out in front of her and stepped to the left. Immediately in front of her was another door. To her left a bathroom that was dark and empty. Megan stepped slowly toward what had to be the bedroom.

She pushed the door open. The bedroom was a mess. Pictures were tilted on angles, various glass items broken on the floor. Megan turned toward the bed. The covers were tangled and ripped off the mattress. Sprawled in the center of the bed was Antonia, her young face frozen in a silent scream.

"Dammit," Megan said. She reached out and gently touched the side of Antonia's neck. No pulse.

"Megan?" David asked. He stood just behind her near the bedroom door.

"She's dead," Megan said.

~*~*~

7:14 a.m.

Rafe parked in front of a row of duplexes just outside Cascade's business district. Many of the middle-class neighborhoods surrounded this part of the city. And this was the address Simon had given him.

"Ten-twelve, B-side," Joel said as they climbed out.

They scanned the buildings, counting the numbers until they spotted ten-twelve.

"There!" Rafe said, pointing.

He led the way across the sidewalk. Children stood at the end of the block, waiting for their school bus. All around them people were getting morning papers and leaving work, oblivious to the two detectives.

Rafe strode up to the front door of the B-side of the building. He rang the doorbell and took out his badge. Joel did the same thing. They waited. Rafe rang the bell again, considering breaking down the door. Then he heard footsteps.

The front door opened a crack, still on its chair. Half of a face filled the crack.

"Yes," an accented voice asked.

Rafe held up his badge. "I'm Detective Rafe, this is Detective Taggart. Are you Johanna Schuyler or Greta Van Wier?"

The eye staring at him blinked. "I am Greta. What is this about?"

"We have reason to believe your life is in danger," Rafe said. "May we come inside? Please."

Greta nodded. The door closed, then opened again. Greta ushered them inside. She wore her bathrobe and bright red hair was tied up in a braided ponytail. She closed the door behind them and led the detectives into the living room.

"Is your roommate Johanna Schuyler?" Joel asked.

"Yes, she is," Greta said. She motioned for them to sit, but both remained standing.

"Is she at home?" Rafe asked.

"She is upstairs," Greta replied. "I will get her."

Greta turned and disappeared into the hall. They heard footsteps going up. Rafe turned to say something when his cell phone rang. He answered it quickly.

<"Rafe? It's Jim. We found Vianne dead in her apartment. Connor also found White's assistant dead. Are you with the other girls?">

Rafe's mind whirled for a moment. "Yeah, we're with them now."

<"Get them to the station. And don't let them out of your sight.">

"I won't—" Rafe's reply was cut off by a loud shriek upstairs.

Rafe pocket his cell phone and raced out of the room with Joel on his heels. He took the steps two at a time. At the top of the stairs he froze for an instant, wondering which way. Then he heard a loud thump to his right and dashed toward that door. He crashed through it, almost stumbling over a body on the floor. Instead of looking down, Rafe fixed on a dark figure in the corner of the room, hovering over Greta.

Rafe raised his gun. "Step away from her now!" he ordered.

The figure froze, hands moving out to his sides. Rafe saw a syringe in one hand and a small bottle in the other.

"Johanna's dead," Joel said behind him.

Greta began to cry, her small form hidden behind the intruder.

"Turn around and face me," Rafe said. "Slowly."

The stranger did as ordered. He was dressed in black and wore a ski mask that covered his entire face. Rafe hated that, not being able to see the man's eyes.

"Now put the needle on the bed," Rafe said.

The man in black cocked his head slightly, but did not move. Behind him, Greta suddenly tried to dash toward Rafe.

"Stop!" Rafe shouted.

Too late. As Greta stumbled past, the man reached out and snagged her around the neck. She screamed as he pulled her to his chest, holding the syringe to her throat. Greta froze, her eyes wide and terror-filled. Rafe held his gun steady, his finger twitching on the trigger. Joel stepped up next to Rafe, his gun also trained on the stranger.

"Put your guns down, gentlemen," the stranger said. "You know this will kill her instantly."

Reluctantly Rafe and Joel lowered their weapons, holding them at their sides.

"Let her go," Rafe said.

"You know I won't do that," the man said. "If she lives I die. And that's just not good for me."

"Do you work for White?" Joel asked.

The man laughed. "I don't have to answer that one for you."

Rafe decided to take a gamble. He let his eyes stray to a point over the stranger's shoulder. "Why don't you answer it for him?" Rafe asked.

The stranger's head jerked around to look behind him. Rafe lunged forward, knocking the needle away from Greta's head. She pulled away as Rafe knocked the stranger down. They fell down together, the syringe clattering to the carpet a few inches away. The stranger lashed out and punched Rafe in the side of the head. Rafe saw stars for an instant. When his vision cleared, the man's hand was coming at him with the syringe. Instinctively Rafe snapped his hand out and blocked the syringe, sending the sharp needle right into the stranger's cheek.

The man shouted and Rafe scrambled away. He wasn't sure at first if the plunger had been depressed. Then the stranger went still, the syringe still sticking out of his masked face.

Rafe swallowed hard and turned around. Joel was comforting Greta, who sobbed into his chest. Rafe walked over to the masked man and crouched down. He took out the syringe, then peeled off the mask. The dead man was clean-shave, probably in his thirties, but didn't look familiar.

"Oh my God," Greta sobbed. "It's Barry. Why would Barry try to kill us?"

"Who is Barry?" Joel asked. "Was he a boyfriend?"

Greta looked at Joel with red eyes. "No, not a boyfriend. He…he was…we…." She was unable to say it, instead dissolving into tears.

Joel patted her hair gently. "It's okay," he said. "Who did he work for? Can you tell me that?"

Greta mumbled something into Joel's chest. Rafe stepped forward as Joel asked her to repeat herself. Greta looked up, tears spilling from both eyes.

"Alex White," she said.

~*~*~

10:12 a.m.

Simon Banks led his detectives across the lobby of Mount Rainier Apartments. Alexander White's penthouse was on the top floor. Simon had placed a quick call to make sure White wasn't in his office. Then he had personally gotten a search warrant for White's apartment. Finding a judge to sign one against White was a chore, but Simon had come through. And none too soon, his people were chomping at the bit to get this guy.

They split up in the lobby. Simon, David and Joel took one elevator; Blair, Megan and Jim the second. Rafe volunteered to take the stairs, even though it was twenty-four stories. He apparently had some energy to burn.

Simon gripped the search warrant in one hand. Part of him hoped White would not cooperate. Then he would have the satisfaction of ordering White's door broken down. They rode the elevator silently. Joel and David stared at fixed points on the wall. This case had become very personal to everyone in a very short period of time.

The elevator finally stopped at the upper penthouse. The door slid open and the three men stepped out. The second elevator opened, letting Jim, Blair and Megan out. They were in a small lobby. Just in front of them was the front door to White's apartment. Simon stepped up to the door.

The stairwell door burst open behind them and Rafe dashed through. He puffed lightly for breath, but did not appear the least bit weary from the trek up. He took a position next to Joel.

Simon forwent the doorbell and banged hard on the door. "Cascade PD! Open up, White!"

Silence inside. Simon banged harder this time. "Police! We have a warrant!"

Still nothing. After fifteen seconds of complete silence, Simon nodded. The doorway was cleared. Jim and David stepped forward, both lining up. With a combined kick to the center of the door, it flew open and cracked hard against the inside wall.

Simon went in first, his gun out and ready. The others filed inside behind him, fanning out to search the enormous penthouse. Simon's first clue that something was wrong was the fact that no alarm had gone off after their entry. The second clue was the shelves in the living room. Places that he suspected very expensive items once rested were empty. One painting was askew and the black iron of a safe was clearly visible behind it.

One by one they all merged into the expansive living room.

"His razor is gone," David said darkly.

"Looks like White beat us to the punch," Jim said. "He cleared out before we could get to him."

"And he already tried tying up loose ends," Rafe said.

"I want Forensics to go over this place top to bottom," Simon said. "Check on White's bank accounts, see if any money has been moved in the last twenty-four hours. I'll work on an order to freeze all his assets. Get it out on the street we're looking for this guy and anyone who helps him."

He received a series of nods from everyone around him.

"Joel, talk to the doorman," Simon said. "See if he noticed when White left. Rafe, get an APB put out on his car, I want everyone to know his plate by heart. Connor and Noble, check the bus station, airport and taxi services. Give them his name and fax them a photo. He doesn't leave this city without us knowing it. Ellison and Sandburg, wait for the Forensics team. Jim, I want you to go over this apartment, see if there's anything he left that we can use."

"He hasn't been gone long," Jim said, sniffing the air. "I can still smell his cologne pretty strongly. Maybe an hour."

"Good enough," Simon said. "But that's an hour he has on us. Move people!"

Everyone scattered, most heading for the front door and their assigned tasks. Simon watched them, pleased with the efficiency of his people and confident they would find White. And find him damn soon.

~*~*~

2:57 p.m.

The basement room was cooler than usual. The heat had only been on for a little while, since the meeting room was rarely used. But warm air circulated, keeping the two men warm enough to be comfortable.

Icharus sat on one of the leather couches, his arms crossed over his chest. He stared at the coffee table, which held its usual brandy bottle and two glasses. He was not nervous, but not at ease, either.

Across from him sat Daedalus, perched on the edge of the other sofa. He picked up a glass and poured some brandy. Daedalus held the glass up, but did not drink. Instead he examined the amber liquid in the soft light cast by the nearby floor lamp. Neither man had spoken since they arrived. It was not necessary. They were waiting.

Three minutes later a cell phone rang. Daedalus put down his glass and plucked the small phone off of the coffee table. He pressed SEND.

"Yes?" he said.

<"It's White. Why didn't you call me sooner? I had to take things into my own hands.">

White sounded agitated, almost frantic. And rightly so.

"You should have had more patience," Daedalus replied, confident that his voice was disguised to the man on the other end. "I told you I would contact you. I never break a promise."

<"The cops knew it was me! I had to do something. They were at my house this morning, did you know that?">

"Yes, and if you had left the girls alone, they would not have been there." Daedalus cleared his throat. "So now we have an even bigger problem than before."

<"You owe me, Daedalus. You said so yourself and I want that debt repaid in full. Today.">

Daedalus narrowed his eyes. Icharus watched him pensively.

"You do not make demands," Daedalus said sharply. "I know of my debt and I fully intend to pay. Whoever said friendship cannot be bought obviously never made a deal with me."

<"Then you'll help me and do what I ask?">

"I'll do what is in my power to get you safely out of the country," he replied.

<"I can get out of the country,"> White growled. <"But there's something I can't do alone. And I want your help to teach a lesson to the police department. Two of them burst into my office and embarrassed me in front of my employees. I hold them responsible for all this. I want you to kill Detective Rafe and Inspector Connor.">

Daedalus blinked. "No," he replied immediately.

<"What the hell do you mean—">

"If you have them killed what lesson do they learn?" Daedalus asked. "They don't. Their loved ones do, but if you want to teach those two a lesson you cannot kill them."

<"Then kill their loved ones,"> White demanded. <"One of them is married, he was wearing a wedding ring.">

Daedalus fell silent, considering his options. It was certainly better than killing two cops, especially when he'd invested so much in watching one of them. No, better to go with the new plan. As much as he hated the idea, he had given White his word. And Daedalus always repaid a debt.

"All right," Daedalus said. "Give me twenty-four hours and you'll have your revenge. After this, our business is through."

<"Understood."> White's line clicked off.

Daedalus ended the call and put the phone down. He fixed Icharus with a hard stare.

"Call Chicago," Daedalus said. "We'll be leaving once our business here is settled. The police will be out for blood and we can no longer operate in Cascade."

"Yes, sir," Icharus said. "And the deputies, sir?"

"Eliminate them," Daedalus said. "No witnesses."

~*~*~

3:21 p.m.

Greta Van Wier had not stopped crying since that morning's attack. The interrogation room table was littered with used tissues and she had refused all offers of food or drink. Each time someone tried to ask her questions, she dissolved into another fit of hysterical sobs.

It was beginning to wear on Jim's nerves. He stood behind the two-way mirror, watching her shred a tissue into her lap. Joel and Rafe had both tried speaking to her, to the same end. Jim couldn't decide if it was an act or if she was really that shocked. He'd never seen anyone so traumatized in his life.

And all their answers lay in her. And the four dead girls in the morgue. All killed with the same conch venom that had been turned on their killer.

The attacker had been identified as Barry Flanders. He ran an adult bookstore and, from what evidence they had found in the back room of the place, a photography studio. There were file cabinets of pornographic photos, organized by the names of the women involved. Olga, Vianne, Johanna and Greta all had a file. There was a brand-new one marked for Antonia, but it had been empty.

What White had done to those girls made Jim's stomach turn. They had come to Cascade for an education and had become trapped in a life they never asked for. A life that had eventually killed them. Jim vaguely wondered if some of Greta's tears were tears of shame and regret, as much as sorrow and fear.

The observation room door opened and Megan stepped inside. She looked at Greta first, then at Jim.

"Any luck?" she asked.

"Not yet," Jim replied. "How's Boomer?"

Megan rolled her eyes. "I told him not to pick up that box," she said. "He threw his back out again. Men."

Jim snorted. "Have Rafe and Joel come up with anything?"

"They think so," Megan said. "White may have had a paper shredder, but he needed to empty it more often. They may have something on how White gets the conch venom into the country."

"That's one step forward," Jim said. "I'm waiting for the two steps backward that always seems to happen with this case."

Megan didn't reply. Instead she walked over to the glass and peered into the next room. "She won't talk while she's so scared. She's terrified of a man she thought she could trust with her life. Nothing prepares you for that."

"Yeah," Jim said. "But without her testimony, we only have a very thin paper trail leading back to White. A jury needs to know those pictures were taken against her will."

"She'll talk," Megan said, her fingers gently touching the glass. "When she feels safe."

~*~*~

6:45 p.m.

Rafe hesitated before putting his key in the lock. While this was nowhere near the first time he'd been late for dinner during their five-month marriage, Tracy had called the station and left a message. She wanted to talk to him about something important. Tracy rarely asked that he be on time for dinner. When she did he tried to be there.

Sometimes being a detective sucked.

He finally swallowed his courage and unlocked the front door of their apartment. Rafe had moved into Tracy's place after the wedding, since it was larger, it had two bedrooms and was rent-controlled. He heard the radio playing softly in the kitchen and decided she couldn't be that upset. Upset meant dead silence when he came home. The radio was a good sign.

"Trace?" Rafe called, stepping down the short hall to the living room. He smelled chicken soup.

The living room and kitchen were empty. A pot of cold soup sat on the stove. The dining table was set for two, with unlit candles in the crystal candlesticks they'd gotten as a wedding gift from Simon. Rafe took off his coat and laid it on the back of the couch as he crossed the living room.

"Tracy, are you here?" he asked.

He checked both bedrooms and the bathroom. Rafe frowned and walked back into the kitchen. As he reached for the telephone he saw a note stuck to the refrigerator door.

"Ran to the store. Be back soon. Love, Tracy."

Rafe grinned. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He turned the burner under the soup to low heat, then walked into the living room and sat down on the couch to wait.

~*~*~

7:23 p.m.

Laura Swanson was very excited about her dinner party tomorrow evening. She enjoyed having people over and entertaining. With only herself and her retired husband in the house, Mrs. Swanson used any excuse to cook for lots of people. She often invited David Noble, the gentleman who rented out their garage, in for dinner. But he was a detective and not often at home.

But Mrs. Swanson knew he was home tonight. She had seen that pretty Australian detective drive him home that afternoon. Mr. Noble had borrowed a lasagna pan several nights ago and Mrs. Swanson needed to ask for it back. She was baking a casserole for tomorrow and it was the perfect sized dish.

Mrs. Swanson walked across the gravel driveway toward the garage. Mr. Noble's car was parked where it always was. But all the lights were out inside. She wondered if he was asleep already. As she got closer she spotted a very dim light through the front door. Mrs. Swanson knocked on the door, softly at first.

When there was no answer, she tried again. The dim light seemed to be coming from the lofted area that served as a bedroom. But no one stirred inside. Mrs. Swanson frowned. She hated to barge inside, but she needed that dish. She debated it internally for several minutes, wanting to be a respectful landlady but also worried about her casserole.

The casserole won out. Mrs. Swanson tried the doorknob, pleased when it opened for her. She pushed the door open slowly.

"Mr. Noble?" she called out. "It's Mrs. Swanson, dear. Are you home?"

Silence greeted her. Mrs. Swanson picked her way across the small living room to the kitchen area. The glass casserole dish sat on the counter, washed and waiting for her. Mrs. Swanson smiled and picked it up.

The telephone rang, startling her. She hugged the dish to her chest, afraid she would drop it. It rang once more, then the machine picked up. Mrs. Swanson walked across the living room, not wanting to intrude on his messages.

<"Boomer? It's Megan. I'm not coming over tonight. Aunt Flo came and brought cramps with her. I'm taking a hot shower and heading for bed. I'll see you tomorrow. Love you, bye.">

Mrs. Swanson was grinning as she closed the door to the apartment. Mr. Noble was such a nice man. She was glad he had someone like Megan to take care of him. No matter how independent they thought they were, men just needed to be taken care of sometimes.

~*~*~

January 8th

4:18 a.m.

Blair jerked himself awake, staring around the room and wondering why his neck hurt so much. Then he realized he'd fallen asleep on the couch with a pile of essays he was grading. The essays had fallen to the floor in a heap.

The phone rang again and Blair reached across the couch to grab the cordless off the console table.

"Hello?" Blair asked, squinting at his watch.

<"Blair? It's Rafe."> He sounded absolutely frantic.

"Rafe?" Blair repeated, immediately alert. He heard Jim stirring upstairs. "What's wrong?"

<"Tracy's not here. She's been gone for hours. I thought she was going to the store and I fell asleep on the couch. I woke up an hour ago and she wasn't home. I've been calling all over, hospitals and stores and different precincts. No one has seen her, Blair.">

Blair figured it was useless to tell Rafe to calm down. "Look, call Henri and have him drive you to the station. I'll get Jim up." But feet padding down the steps told Blair that Jim was already up.

<"This isn't like her, Blair.">

"I know, man. We'll see you soon."

<"Okay.">

Rafe seemed reluctant to hang up and Blair couldn't blame him. Blair put down the phone and looked up. Jim stared down at him. The obvious worry clued him in that Jim had been listening to most of the conversation.

"Tracy's missing?" Jim asked.

"Since Rafe got home," Blair said. "That's almost eight hours, isn't it?"

Jim didn't reply right away. He stood there, looking at a spot just above Blair's head. It was downright unnerving.

"What are you thinking, Jim?"

"Nothing yet," Jim replied. "Get dressed, Chief. I'll make the coffee."

~*~*~

5:01 a.m.

The night shift at Major Crime was surprised to see Detectives Brown and Rafe in so early. The pair walked straight into the break room, helping themselves to what was left of the coffee. Rafe was jumpy, his normally immaculate clothes disheveled and slept in. He looked at everything with wide, red-rimmed eyes. Henri still looked a bit out of it from his illness, but concern for his friend kept him alert.

Rafe kept going over the details of the apartment. Nothing was out of place. Tracy's purse was gone. Her car was still in the parking lot, but their market was two blocks away. They usually walked when they only needed a few things. Henri nodded along, taking in the information for the dozenth time.

Joel Taggart wandered in, issuing a jaw-cracking yawn. Rafe just blinked at him.

"What are you doing here, Joel?" Henri asked.

"Simon called me," Joel said, pouring the last of the coffee into a mug. He immediately set about fixing another pot.

Rafe blanched. "Does he think this has something to do with the White case?"

Joel didn't reply. That was a bad sign.

"Is everybody coming in?" Henri asked.

"Yeah," Joel said. "Jim and Blair are on the road. Simon said there was no answer at Noble's place, so he sent Connor by to get him."

Rafe nodded mechanically. He turned his head, spotting Captain Banks entering the bullpen.

~*~*~

Simon had only just left Major Crime at eleven that night, fielding calls from city officials all evening. He marched straight to his office, planning to fix a very large pot of coffee. He wasn't happy about being back so soon, having been unable to trick his body into thinking it had gotten eight hours of sleep. That was compounded by concern for Rafe and his wife. When people disappeared in Cascade, there was always a bad reason for it.

He picked up the coffeepot to fill it with water and noticed a brown package on his desk. Simon put down the pot and picked it up. The package was the size of a videotape, wrapped in what was once a paper shopping bag. There were no markings of any kind to show whom it was for or where it was from. He shuddered involuntarily. Simon shook it gently. It sounded like a videotape.

Simon opened his desk drawer and took out a pair of rubber gloves. Just in case.

He pulled apart the taped edges and slid the contents out. It was a VHS tape, just as he had suspected. Simon slipped the tape out of its box. Nothing was marked; not even the label stickers had been touched.

Simon didn't want to watch the video. He had a sick feeling deep in his gut. On an impulse, Simon walked over and closed his office door. He also closed the blinds near the portable TV/VCR that had been left in there from last week. No matter what was on the tape, no one else was going to see it yet.

He slid the tape into the VCR and turned on the television set. When the screen turned bright blue, Simon pressed PLAY.

The screen jumped for a moment, then went black. What looked like a lens cap was removed. Simon held his breath. A bright overhead light shone directly down upon two figures tied to wooden chairs. The figures were gagged and blindfolded, but Simon knew them immediately.

Tracy and David.

With fear in his heart and his heart in his throat, Simon viewed the rest of the video.

~*~*~

Jim was glad he and Sandburg weren't the last to get there. Connor and Noble were conspicuously absent. Joel, Rafe and Henri were gathered around Rafe's desk, drinking coffee and not speaking. While Sandburg gravitated toward them, Jim looked at Simon's closed door. It seemed odd to him that the blinds were drawn.

As Jim debated the ethics of listening into Simon's office, the door swung open and Simon appeared in the doorway. Jim knew immediately that something was wrong. The dark-skinned man looked positively green. Simon's gaze landed on Jim.

"Ellison, my office," he ordered, but without the usual punch.

Jim cast a quick glance over to Blair, then walked across the bullpen. Simon closed the door as soon as he stepped inside the office.

"What's going on?" Jim asked.

"I need your help with something," Simon said, pointing to the blue screen of the television set. "I need you to tell me if this is for real."

"If what's for real, Simon?" Jim asked, growing nervous now.

"A tape, Jim," Simon replied. "I think someone sent me a tape of Tracey and David being executed."

Jim felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He suddenly felt chilled to the bone. "You think?"

"It could be a fake," Simon said. He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself that were true. "Maybe you could spot something I couldn't, or hear something."

Jim rubbed the back of his neck. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Megan stalk into the bullpen and join the small knot of people by Rafe's desk. She looked tired, worried and anxious. And David was not with her.

Jim looked at Simon. "Play it."

~*~

Blackness. Then the lens cap was removed. An overhead floodlight illuminated two figures. He could see the rise and fall of their chests, the shadows that were their open eyes. Both were alert. But the audio recording on the tape was bad. Or something was creating background interference. He couldn't hear anything beyond feet scuffling very near the camera. He wished he could listen right through the video and hear the heartbeats of his friends. To prove they were real.

Instead he watched the torso of a man walk into view of the camera, visible only from his waist to his neck. He stood facing the lens.

<I never wanted to make this personal. > The voice was electronically filtered. <But I'm sure you know what it's like to be in someone's debt. And what is left in life if there is no honor amongst thieves? I hope you like the other little presents I left. >

Other presents? Before he could ponder that, the man in the video turned to face his victims. His right hand came up holding what appeared to be a .45.

~*~

"Christ," Jim muttered. He jerked forward as if to stop it, but realized his folly in the instant the stranger's gun fired.

Tracey's chair was propelled backward. The stranger immediately turned his gun on David and fired. Jim's stomach lurched. David looked down at the bleeding wound in his chest, and then his head fell forward. The tape ended and the TV screen turned blue.

"This can't be happening," Jim mumbled. "This isn't…I can't…I mean, Jesus, Simon it looked real."

Simon collapsed into a chair, squeezing the bridge of his nose. "In all my years I have never seen anything like this. How do we tell them? We sure as hell can't let them watch this."

"I don’t know Simon," Jim said. "I—"

A soul-shattering scream cut him off.

~*~

Megan was trying to remain calm about the whole thing. Beyond the fact that she considered Tracey Rafe a good friend, Boomer's disappearing act during the night unnerved her. She'd arrived at his place to find it empty and her message unheard. Nothing was missing.

Except him.

As soon as she reached the bullpen she joined Rafe, Henri, Joel and Sandy. They were surprised to hear that no one had seen or heard from Boomer since yesterday afternoon. And no one seemed to know what Simon and Jim were talking about.

Megan felt a headache building behind her eyes. She walked over to her desk and rummaged in the top drawer for aspirin.

"Inspector Connor?"

She looked up to find Officer Wendy Johns watching her. Wendy held two small packages in her hands. Both were wrapped in plain, brown paper.

"Someone left his for you at the Duty Sergeant's desk," Wendy said, holding out one of the packages.

"You don't know who?" Megan asked. She took the package. It was light and solid.

"No, Sergeant Gaffey didn't see anyone leave them. I didn't think you would be in this early."

"Something came up," Megan said vaguely. "Who is the other one for?"

"It's for Detective Rafe," Wendy said as she crossed the bullpen toward the other men.

Megan opened her mouth to call Wendy back, but the words stuck in her throat. Her heart began pounding wildly. She peeled up the corners of the taped-down paper, aware that it could easily be an explosive and that this was a very bad idea. But she didn't care. The paper came away to reveal a generic cigar box.

With the tip of her fingernail, Megan lifted the box lid. Slowly at first, then flipped it completely open. It was filled with something like fine, gray powder. The corner of a playing card poked out of the top. With a trembling hand, she pulled it out. The powder clung to it and she wiped it off. A suicide king.

Metal glinted in the ash. Megan dropped the card and picked out the metal item, wiping it off.

A detective's badge, number 12835. David Noble's badge number.

Megan's throat closed. Bile rose from her stomach and she was afraid she would choke on it. A haze settled over her vision. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

Somewhere in front of her Rafe began screaming.

~*~

5:48 a.m.

Daedalus stared at the brandy in his glass. It was a habit to pour it. He rarely drank it, especially at this hour. And too fine a vintage to be wasting it like that. He hated waste. And so much was going to waste right now, because of a damned promise. A waste of life, a waste of a perfectly good city, and a waste of great deputies.

"Fucking honor amongst thieves," he snorted.

The door opened and Icharus walked in. Daedalus looked up. Icharus stood next to the other couch, but did not sit.

"Is it done?" Daedalus asked.

"Yes, sir," Icharus replied.

"And the deputies? Are they accounted for?"

Icharus nodded slowly. "They are being dismissed as we speak. All have been located, except Hawk."

"I never trusted that one," Daedalus said absently. The brandy swirled around his glass, releasing its strong scent.

"We should move, sir," Icharus said. "The hunt will begin soon. Now that they know."

"No," Daedalus said. "It's already begun."

~*~

7:04 a.m.

The atmosphere in Major Crime had never been like this before. Tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. Work was done efficiently, but silently. Even the silence had an ominous sound to it.

In the bullpen, research was top priority. Joel Taggert sat at his desk, sorting every scrap of information they had obtained about Alexander White. Across the room, Blair Sandburg had the same task with information on Icharus and Daedalus. Even Officer Johns had volunteered to search the file database for other cases involving the victim's ashes.

The break room had been deemed off-limits. Rafe sat at the table, his head resting on his arms. He'd found Tracey's wedding and engagement rings in the box of ashes, and these he clutched tightly in one hand. Henri sat by his side, talking softly to his friend. Megan sat off to the side, staring blankly at one of the walls and gripping a mug of cold coffee. Rhonda sat next to her, holding her hand in a silent offer of support. Neither Rafe nor Megan would be taken home.

Minutes passed. Jim and Simon were still in the captain's office. They had told the others about the tape, and only a direct order had kept them from storming Simon's office to watch it for themselves. Then Jim braced himself for another examination of the tape. That had been almost an hour ago.

The office door slammed open. Jim barreled out, followed closely by Simon.

"You have something," Blair said, looking up from his desk.

"Yeah," Jim said. He looked drawn and a bit ill. He picked up his coat and keys. "I don't know if these guys planted it to be found, or just plain screwed up, but I think I know where the tape was shot."

Blair shot to his feet, grabbing his coat. "Should we tell the others?" he asked.

Before Jim could reply, Henri walked out of the break room and closed the door behind him. "What's goin' on, Jim?" he asked, walking over to him.

"We have a lead," Simon replied, joining them with Joel by his side. "I don't know how it will pan out, so the four of us are going." He held up a hand to stave off Henri's inevitable argument about being left behind. "Be here for your partner. We'll call as soon as we know anything."

Henri nodded.

Jim handed Henri a slip of paper with an address on it. "Have a couple of cruisers meet us here," he said. "And then find out who owns this building."

"I'm on it," Henri replied. "What makes you think this is…the place?"

"A little bird told me," Jim said.

~*~

Circa 1960, half of what is now Cascade's warehouse district used to be part of a nearby middle class neighborhood. Homes, small businesses and a high school were once built there. In two years a series of events turned it into the storage bin and crime garden it would soon become. The arson blaze of 1961 destroyed dozens of homes on the Upper East Side of the neighborhood. Families took the opportunity and insurance money to rebuild elsewhere. Further from the nearby factories. Then a gas explosion in the old Edward James Jones High School—fortunately on a weekend, sparing any injuries to students or staff—took half the school. The only part left standing was the gymnasium. Home of the EJJ Hornets.

The property went to the city. EJJ was rebuilt ten miles away. The city used the old gym for maintenance and storage of city buses until 1985. During that time a plethora of warehouses sprang up around it, changing the geography of the city and giving criminals more hiding places.

Apparently the City of Cascade and the new gym's owner never bothered to redo the old hardwood floors. Jim's glaring clue was the scuffed basketball court, and part of the old Hornet mascot visible on the periphery of the cone of light.

Jim didn't expect anyone to be inside. The crumbling brick had CONDEMNED stickers plastered all over. But he followed protocol anyway. Four uniformed officers took corners in case anyone found a different way out. Jim, Blair, Simon and Joel went in through the service entrance street-side.

The service entrance went into a small office. It was covered in dust and hanging cobwebs, but both had been recently disturbed. The grime on the floor had been swept; probably to erase any footprints left behind. Past the office was a bay of windows—many cracked—that looked out into what was once the basketball court and now housed hundreds of rotting wooden cargo pallets.

Jim led the way into the cavernous room. He sneezed once, feeling his eyes water from the dust. Simon and Joel fanned out, while Jim and Blair followed the swept dust trail past a mountain of pallets, between two stacks, and toward the far wall. All the while, Jim's ears were open for any hint of guests.

They came to an open spot between piles of pallets. The entire area had been swept recently, the grime in one pile nearby.

"Over there, Jim," Blair said, pointing.

Jim followed him to the north side of the open spot. The scuffed and peeled visage of the old Hornet mascot was visible on the floor. Less than a yard away were several splatters of something black, possibly dried blood.

Jim stood a moment, letting his sense of smell open. He pushed away the annoying scent of dust that threatened to make him sneeze again. Instead, he focused on Blair's aftershave to gather his bearings. Then he pushed outward. Fairly strong was the scent of gunpowder. Under that the smell of lilacs, a scent he remembered.

"It was pretty recent," Jim said to Blair. "Eight hours, tops. I can still smell perfume. Flowers. Tracey wore it on New Year's Eve. And there's also a musky scent, aftershave lotion I think."

"So they were here," Blair said.

"Yeah," Jim replied. "Those blood samples will tell us more, but it's a pretty safe bet that the tape wasn't a fake."

"Man." Blair shook his head sadly, gazing around the floor. "I can't believe they're really dead. Rafe will kill White if he ever gets his hands on him."

"If Connor doesn't get him first," Jim muttered.

~*~

11:34 a.m.

"I've got an interesting paper trail here, Jim," Henri said, plopping down in the empty chair next to Jim's desk. "That place had quite a history. Fortunately for us, it's all on paper."

Jim leaned forward. Henri didn't notice that he also had Blair's attention. He sorted through a small stack of papers and legal documents until he found one in his own handwriting.

"Check this out," Henri continued. "After the Central Busing Line went bust in 1985, the city decided to sell their little gymnasium-turned-warehouse. They sold the land, building and buses to a small company called Barely There Enterprises. Supposedly they needed it for storage, don't ask me what they sold. They filed Chapter Eleven two years later. Sold the property for well under its value to some guy who thought he could turn it into a Farmer's Market."

"Way out there?" Jim asked.

Henri snorted. "Yeah, that lasted less than nine months. So the place lay empty for a couple of years. Then comes 1991 and that fire down on the docks. A few places need some storage space, so the Market guy gets a nice penny for his building. Almost seven times what he paid for it.

"The new owner was Denithor Shipping," Henri added. "Anyone remember them?"

Blair shook his head, but Jim's eyebrows shot up.

"I remember that name," Jim said. "Wasn't the entire company indicted smuggling heroin across the border from Mexico?"

"Exactly," Henri said. "That happened in 1993 and the place has been sitting there, full of dust and wood, while the case keeps getting dragged out over appeals."

Jim sat, thinking silently for a moment. "Were there any connections between the buyers?" he asked. "The banks they borrowed from or anyone they did business with?"

Henri nodded, grim but self-satisfied. "All of the businesses were, at one time or another, backed by money from White Industries. Including Denithor, so I'm not sure how White managed to keep from getting dragged down into that particular shit heap."

"Every time I hear the name White I just want to shoot something," Jim said.

"We all want this guy, Jim," Henri said. He glanced over his shoulder at the break room. "Some of us more than others."

"But the guy in the video wasn't White," Jim said. "It sounded as if White put someone up to it. And those playing cards make it a decent bet that our Daedalus character was that someone."

"Ellison, Brown!" Simon bellowed.

Both men turned. Simon stood in the doorway of his office.

"Our car watching White's yacht hasn't reported back in over an hour," Simon said. "I want you down there ASAP."

"We're there, Simon," Jim said.

~*~

Jim found the plainclothes officer assigned to the marina in his car, shot through the head. Blair stayed behind to call for back up while Jim and Henri proceeded down to the dock.

White's yacht, named Flaming Iris, was docked in the last slip of the Southern Cascade Country Club's Marina. It was an impressive ship, at least twice of the size of Jim's loft. They approached slowly and as quietly as possible, their service revolvers leading the way.

Jim crept along the side of the boat, following the pier until the side of the deck sloped down low enough for Jim to peek over. It appeared deserted. Jim held up one hand to stop Henri. Then he listened.

Past his own heartbeat, the lapping of water and a nearby boat's motor, Jim let his hearing wander. He listened inside the yacht, locating a heartbeat below deck and moving closer. He could smell the recently-fire gun.

Jim nodded at Henri, then slipped over the side and onto the deck. The wheel room was directly in front of him, glass on all four sides. Behind that was a small wooden frame with an open door. Stairs descended from the deck into the belly of the boat. Henri joined him and Jim pointed at the door. Henri nodded once.

Jim darted as quietly as he could across the deck and scooted behind the stair house. He squatted where he could still see Henri, who had taken a position near the corner of the wheelhouse. Jim honed in on the heartbeat, but didn't need to. Footsteps fell on the stairs. Jim held up one finger. More steps. Two fingers. Footsteps. He closed his fist.

Henri stood up, his pistol trained on the figure that emerged from the stair house. "Freeze, White!" he bellowed.

A bullet shattered the wall of the wheelhouse and Henri dove out of the way of crashing glass. White dashed forward. Jim stepped out into the light.

"Stop right there!" Jim shouted, pointing his gun at White's back.

White stopped forward motion, but his whirled around. All Jim saw were angry, wild eyes, and a silencer-fitted .357 pointing at him. Jim fired twice. Both rounds hit White in the chest, knocking him backward to the deck. Henri was on top of him in seconds, kicking the gun away with his foot.

Jim stepped over, never taking his weapon off of White. White stared at the sky, gasping in pain.

"You should have killed him," Henri said.

"Those aren't scratches, H," Jim said. "Besides, I think I'd rather see him in jail than on a morgue slab. Let's get an ETA on that back up."

~*~

"Okay, thanks," Simon said. He hung up his phone and groaned. He took off his glasses and rubbed a hand over his face and eyes. These were the days when he seriously considered retirement.

Simon stood and walked out of his office. Rhonda was back at her desk. Joel had taken over sitting in the break room with Megan and Rafe. Simon took a step toward the break room, then noticed a man standing in the bullpen, looking rather lost.

"Can I help you?" Simon asked.

The gentleman turned around and Simon recognized the worry-lined face.

"Yes, I'm Tracey's Uncle Thomas," the man said. "I, uh…Henri Brown called me a little while ago. He thought that Rafe might, um, need someone. Is it true, sir?"

Simon blanched. This was going to be hard enough without one of Tracey's relatives here, too. But Simon guessed Rafe could use the support.

"I'm Captain Banks," Simon said gently. "Why don't you come with me?"

Simon led Thomas into the break room. Rafe and Megan both looked up, wide-eyed and drawn. Rafe stood up when he saw Thomas. Thomas smiled gently, walked over and wrapped Rafe in a bear hug.

Megan watched Simon intently. "What is it, Captain?" she asked.

Simon cleared his throat. "The lab has the results of those blood samples Jim found in the old gym," he said. He had to force himself to look Megan in the eye. "They found positive matches for both Tracey and David." He meant to add an 'I'm so sorry,' but it seemed trite and pointless.

Rafe and Thomas rocked as if physically struck. There were very few times in his life that Simon had seen a grown man cry, and certainly never Detective Rafe. But now Simon watched as both Rafe and Thomas broke down, holding each other in shared grief. Simon looked away. He glanced at Joel, who sat silent and stunned.

At last, he looked at Megan. She hadn't moved. Her face had gone completely blank. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, but her gaze was far away. Then she blinked, returning briefly to the here and now.

"I'd like to go home," she said.

~*~

Simon unlocked the apartment door, and then let Megan walk in first. He was reminded of a day just over a year ago, when he'd driven Megan home from the station. Just after spraining Rafe's wrist. Somehow he knew that the pain she was in today was exponentially worse than what she had felt then.

He followed Megan inside, closing the door quietly. She stood in the middle of her living room. Simon looked around and blinked. Framed art was gone from the walls. A bookshelf that had once held accumulated possessions was empty. A cardboard box sat on the floor nearby. The apartment looked empty and freshly scrubbed.

"I hadn't told anyone," Megan said absently. "We were planning on moving in together at the end of the month. We'd found a place over on Benson Court. A nice place."

"I'm sorry," Simon said. It was all he could think of.

Megan nodded. She walked over to the kitchen phone, reaching for the receiver. "I should call someone," she said. Then she stopped and put the receiver back down. "He didn't have any family. Just his friends in Portland and at the 5-9."

"I'll take care of that," Simon said.

"I should go to his place," she said, walking quickly toward the front door. "He has a plant that needs to be watered every day."

"I'll send someone to do that, Megan."

She stopped, her back to him. Her shoulders began shaking. "Did you know he was allergic to broccoli?" she asked with a trembling voice.

"I didn't," Simon replied.

Megan spun around, her cheeks streaked with tears. "It's my fault, you know," she said. "I was the one so mad to get White. I barged into his office that day."

"We were all part of this investigation," Simon said. "Nothing was your fault."

"I guess we'll never be sure," Megan said. Her jaw trembled.

"I'm sure."

Megan opened her mouth to speak, but a choked sob came out instead. A hand flew up to cover her mouth, but could not stop a second sob. Simon walked over, enveloping her in his arms. He felt her collapse against him, her arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders.

"I want him back, Simon," she cried.

"I know," he said.

She cried hard, and he held her.

~*~

Blair hung up the cordless and sunk deeper into the couch cushions. Normally he was have been upset at having to break date on a Saturday night, but today he didn't care much. He'd apologized to Stephanie, but not gone into any detail. A broken date just didn't seem to matter much right now.

His research at the station hadn't offered up much information. Nothing they didn't already know or suspect. Only Joel had had any luck finding four cases in which a relative or friend of the victim had received a videotape and ashes. Major Crime had handled two of them, most recently the Randall Burke case at Christmas. Other precincts investigated the other two. All four had been into illegal activity when they died, but none had any previous record of criminal behavior.

Blair stared at the files lying open on the coffee table. Names, faces, dates and causes of death. Suicide, murder, cremation.

A key turned in the lock. Blair glanced at the front door as Jim walked in. He put a bag of take-out Chinese on the counter and shrugged out of his jacket.

"I don't know why you didn't just have them deliver it," Blair said.

Jim hung up his jacket. "I felt like taking a walk," he replied simply. "Any word from Simon?"

"No." Blair stood up, crossing into the kitchen. "I guess the good news of the day is we've plugged the conch venom pipeline. White had enough import evidence on his boat to put him away even without Greta's testimony."

"Yeah," Jim muttered.

They divided out the Lo Mein and Broccoli Beef, grabbed beers from the refrigerator and went back into the living room to eat.

Blair picked absently at a piece of carrot, not finding an appetite.

"Does Amy know?" Jim asked.

Blair looked up from his plate. Jim's untouched food was sitting on the coffee table. He watched Blair from behind his beer bottle.

"Thomas called her," Blair said. "She's flying in on a red-eye tonight. He's going to pick her up at the airport."

The telephone rang. Blair reached for it, but it was already in Jim's hand.

"Ellison."

Blair watched Jim's blank expression change to mild surprise to near-shock. He mouthed 'what?' but Jim didn't notice.

"What about a name?" Jim asked. He paused, listening. "Okay, thanks, Simon."

Jim hung up, then looked at Blair. "White died a few minutes ago," he said. "But not before giving up some information on Daedalus. A guess he felt like clearing his conscience at the end."

"What did he give up?" Blair asked.

"White got Daedalus to carry out the…" Jim cleared his throat. "To kill Tracey and Boomer. He admitted to sending Barry Flanders to kill the exchange students. He also said the conch venom was imported *for* Daedalus at the price of protection from the police."

"I guess Daedalus dropped the ball on that front," Blair said sarcastically. "Did he give us anything that could help us catch Daedalus? A name, a number, anything?"

Jim shook his head. "Apparently, no one knows who Daedalus really is, except Icharus. And the only thing Simon could get related to either of them was the name Tabitha. That was the last thing White said."

"Tabitha?" Blair echoed.

"Yeah," Jim said. "There are probably dozens of Tabitha's in Cascade and we aren't even sure it's a person we're looking for. But we've got the name running through the system. Simon wants us in first thing to start going over them."

Blair nodded. He stared at his plate of noodles and chicken for a few minutes before asking, "What if Daedalus runs? He could skip town now that we're on to his game."

Jim looked at Blair, his blue eyes flashing. "Hell isn't far enough for him to run to get away from me now," he growled.

~*~

From "The Cascade Times," Tuesday, January 11, 2000:

OBITUARIES

"Cascade PD Remembers One of Their Own"

~*~

The day of David Noble's funeral, nature played a cruel trick and produced the first sunny day since the previous November. The winter cloud cover broke, letting beams of sunlight smile down from a sky free from rain or fog.

Megan Connor did not march in the parade with her friends. She would have preferred to skip the entire spectacle, but an internal demand to honor David prevented her. Instead, she waited at the cemetery, seated in a row of chairs. Rhonda and her husband sat on her right, Blair on her left. Amy and Thomas West sat just behind them.

Amy was pale and red-eyed. Tracey's funeral was Thursday, but she insisted on coming today for Rafe's sake.

Dozens of people had shown up from Portland. Officers, beat cops and highway patrolmen, all people that had known David at one time or another and now mourned his passing. Many of the policemen he'd worked with at the 5-9 were among the Major Crime personnel marching across the cemetery lawn.

The sound of bagpipes playing "Amazing Grace" infiltrated all of Megan's senses. While she'd always thought the song to be beautiful, now it just compounded her sorrow.

The coffin and pallbearers followed the color guard. Jim, Simon and Henri walked on one side. Rafe, Joel, and Lt. Craybill—from the 59th Precinct—walked on the other side. Normally smiling, friendly faces attempted a dignified blankness that often came out as a sorrowful grimace.

Megan looked away, unable to watch them carry a coffin empty except for ashes. She stared up at the blue-gray sky, her cold hands clasped in her lap. An icy breeze hit her face and she shivered. Snatches of a poem ran through her mind. She'd read and reread one that David had marked in his book, one he'd shared with her that night not so long ago. She recited it silently to keep her mind focused.

<If we must die, let it not be like hogs / Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot / While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs / Making their mock at our accursed lot. >

The bagpipes quieted. A minister began to speak.

<If we must die, O let us nobly die / So that our precious blood may not be shed / In vain; then even the monsters we defy / Shall be constrained to honor us though dead! >

She was aware of the bagpipes beginning again. Then Simon stood in front of her, holding a folded American flag. Megan took it, unable to meet his eyes.

<O kinsmen! We must meet the common foe! / Though far outnumbered let us show us brave / And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow! >

The perfectly timed reports of the gunfire salute started Megan. She looked up wildly, tears spilling from her eyes. Next to her, Blair reached over to cover her hand with his.

<What though before us lies the open grave? / Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack / Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back! >

The salute ended.

It was over.

~*~

Daedalus watched the funeral from the steps of a mausoleum on the other side of the cemetery. He couldn't see a thing from that distance, but he watched shapes moving and listened first to bagpipes, then rounds of gunfire. It unnerved him, being this exposed while standing so close to that many cops. But he hadn't gotten where he was without taking a few chances.

And where was he exactly? Everything was going to hell at warp speed. He'd expected White to be killed by the police, not live long enough to talk. And Daedalus didn't know what White had told them. That unnerved him even more.

But he'd spoken to Chicago. Once Hawk was located, they would leave and all ties to Cascade would be cut. He knew he was damned for what he'd done. Damned for more than just the funeral he was observing. For dozens of transgressions, both large and small. But there was no forgiveness, not for him. It was simply time to move on.

And Daedalus could close this chapter of his life for good.

END

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