Rating: PG-13

Category: Case Story

Series: 5th in "Daedalus" Series

Warnings: Caveat Lector. If you must know, go here. Spoilers for TSbyBS.

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. I do claim David Noble and Icharus.

~*~*~*~

From "The Cascade Times," May 24, 1999:

LONGSHOREMEN STRIKE STILL UNRESOLVED

Negotiator Barkley to hold press conference today.

~*~*~*~

Simon Banks was on a natural high today. He'd gotten nine hours of uninterrupted sleep the night before. Criminal activity was relatively low, with armed robbery the worst case this week. He'd even managed to dodge half a dozen calls from the mayor about the longshoremen strike. At the moment, he was finalizing plans for a weekend camping trip with Daryl, something Simon looked forward to with great pleasure.

"If we leave Thursday after school," Simon said into the phone. "We'll be in the mountains by supper time."

Daryl laughed. <"All you ever think about is food, Dad.">

"There's something about a hot dog cooked over an open fire," Simon replied. "I just need to get rid of these fund-raiser tickets."

<"Do you have your victims picked out?">

Simon peered into the bullpen. A smile crept across his face as a pair of detectives walked in.

"I've got it covered," Simon said. "I'll see you Thursday."

<"All right. Bye, Dad.">

"Bye, Daryl."

Simon hung up his phone. He picked up a pair of tickets from his desk, stood up and walked over to his office door. Simon stepped out into the bullpen, brown eyes landing on his targets.

"Connor, Noble," Simon barked.

Megan Connor and David Noble looked up from their respective desks, straight at the captain.

"Yes, sir," Noble said.

Simon smiled. "Good answer," he said as he walked over to them.

Noble looked at Connor. "Why do I always fall for that?" he asked.

Connor shrugged and looked at the tickets in Simon's hand. "What are those, Captain?"

"Tickets for a city council fundraising dinner Thursday night," Simon said. "Something has come up and I can't go. So you two are my replacements."

"A fund-raiser?" Noble asked. "You mean a lot of rich people congratulating each other on getting their friends onto the city council."

"Exactly," Simon said.

Connor smiled. "It sounds like fun," she said without much enthusiasm.

Simon simply shook his head and handed Noble the tickets. "If nothing else, you get a five-course meal and dancing out of it."

"Well in that case," Noble joked. He looked at his watch. "Megan, the rally starts in half an hour. We'd better get going."

Simon walked back to his office, feeling even better about his upcoming weekend.

~*~*~*~

Blair stretched his shoulders and adjusted the headphones over his ears. He shifted in the wooden chair, wishing for the softer one in his office. Blair turned to the next page of his thesis, red marking pen poised above the paper, and tapped his fingers on the kitchen table in time to the music.

Two thin arms wrapped themselves around his chest, startling Blair. The perfume gave his visitor away immediately. He dropped his pen and peeled off the headphones.

"Mom," he said, twisting in his chair.

Naomi smiled down at her son. "Hi, sweetie," she said.

Blair stood up. "Hi, Mom." He wrapped her in a bear hug. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I came to see my favorite son," she said, holding him at arm's length.

"Favorite son?" he said. "I'm your only son, right?"

Naomi smiled, but didn't respond.

"Right," he said. She nodded and hugged him again.

"Mom, you should have told me you were coming," Blair said, untangling himself from the hug. "I would have made some tongue."

He gathered up the pages of his thesis.

"I emailed you sweetheart," Naomi said. "There's two messages on your machine."

He frowned. "When?"

"Last night."

"Last night I had the phone turned off. I was working on my paper," Blair said. He placed the loose pages into a metal lock-box and closed the lid. He turned the key in the lock and slipped it into his pocket.

"Your thesis?" Naomi asked. "Is that your thesis? Is it finished?"

Blair hesitated, not wanting to open that can of worms. He and Jim agreed that no one was to read the thesis until they had a chance to sit and talk with them. Blair wouldn't defend the thesis until the fall and they still hadn't worked out the particulars of who to tell what.

Blair knew Naomi would understand. Sometimes he suspected she knew his paper was still about Sentinels and not the police force. But they'd never had that conversation.

"Yes, it's finished," he said. "But it's just the first draft and it needs a lot of work."

"Oh, honey, don't be silly," Naomi prattled on. "You've always been your own worst critic. I'm sure it's wonderful. Why don't you let me read it, and I'll give you some feedback."

"No, no, it's just not good enough yet and I want you to be really proud," he said, trying to cut off his mother's protests. "Just let it be."

"But sweetie—"

Blair put his hands up. "Nooooo."

Naomi sighed. "All right."

"Listen, I can't visit right now. I gotta go meet Jim," Blair said. He eyed his lock-box once more before grabbing his coat. "When I get back we can talk some more."

"It's not going to be dangerous, is it?" she asked.

"Mom, you know better than that. I'm just an observer." Blair smiled and left the loft.

~*~*~*~

Jim's eyes wandered over the crowd attending Jack Barkley's rally. Uniformed police herded reporters. Plainclothes detectives were placed here and there among the crowd. With all the death threats against Barkley over the negotiations of the longshoremen contract, the city was taking no chances.

A Jeep Cherokee pulled up next to Jim's truck. He walked over as Megan and David climbed out.

"It's gonna start in a few minutes," Jim said.

"Quite a circus," David commented, gazing over the crowd.

"It'll probably get worse," Jim muttered. He gazed around, wondering where Sandburg was.

~*~*~*~

"Listen, Sid," Naomi said. "Do you have time to do this?" She balanced the cordless phone between her ear and shoulder as she added spices to the boiling pot.

<"For you there's always time,"> Sid Graham said.

Naomi could just imagine him in his New York City office, feet up on a desk overflowing with manuscripts. She could also imagine him shivering on the sand, preparing for a polar dip in the January North Atlantic. There was nothing like a good dip in freezing water to heat a man up.

<"Have you read it yet?">

"No, I haven't, because I promised Blair that I wouldn't," she said. "But that doesn't mean you can't. If you could just give him some advice, then that would make the next draft better."

<"Email me the file, I'll get to it tonight.">

"I would, Sid," Naomi said. "But he's not here and I don't have his computer password. What if you called him yourself and explained that you could help him out. It would sound much better coming from a professional editor than from me."

<"All right, Naomi. I'll call him today, I promise.">

"Thanks, Sid," Naomi said. She adored men who remembered their old friends. And promised herself to make it up to him the next time she was in New York.

~*~*~*~

Scattered applause began as Barkley and another man emerged from behind a wall of officials. They walked over to the trio of detectives.

"Hey," Barkley said, his eyes landing on Megan. "Get any more babes on this detail?"

Megan rolled her eyes at David, who stared straight down at the egotistical little man.

"Can we do this?" Jim said.

As Jim led the way to the platform a chant of "Barkley, Barkley," rose from the gathered dockworkers. Jim stood at the base of the steps, scanning the crowded waterfront. Megan and David accompanied Barkley onto the stage. Jim let his hearing drift a bit, listening for something other than the clicks and hums of cameras. He heard the unmistakable clanking of Sandburg's Volvo.

//Better late than never, // Jim thought.

A bit of light glinted off the roof of a building nearby. Jim looked up, his sight zeroing in on the source. The long barrel of a rifle, a scope and a face partially hidden. Jim saw the man's trigger finger twitch. Jim reflexively reached over and snatched a rifle from a uniform standing next to him. He leveled the rifle straight at the shooter's scope.

Two shots fired almost instantly. Jim's shot was the second.

~*~*~*~

Blair heard the gunshots as he parked his Volvo. The crowd scattered. Blair leapt from his car and pushed his way through the herd of rushing people. Above the din of shouts and screams, he heard Jim's voice hollering orders. Blair followed the sound to the raised platform.

Jim knelt behind the podium, one hand pressed over a wound on Barkley's chest. Barkley gasped for air, eyes wide in terror. Blair practically flew up the steps and skidded to a stop next to Jim.

"An ambulance is on its way," Megan said, pushing her way over to them. "Where did it come from?"

Jim looked at her. "Top of the yellow building two blocks away, on the roof. Take over here."

Megan knelt and placed her own hand over Barkley's wound. "You got the shooter?"

Jim nodded as he stood up.

"That was a damned good shot," David said. "From two blocks away."

"Let's go, Chief," Jim said.

He took off at a run. Blair scrambled to his feet and followed.

"Did you see who it was?" Blair asked as he caught up.

Jim shook his head. "The rifle blocked most of his face. But I'll be damned if he didn't look familiar."

They crossed the street and jogged up an alley. Jim stopped in front of an apartment building on the next block.

"Up there," Jim said, pointing to the roof.

The pair ran into the lobby, quickly locating the emergency stairwell. Thirteen stories later, Jim and Blair emerged on the roof of the building. Jim walked out first, his gun drawn.

A body was sprawled face down at the north end of the roof. Jim knelt and felt for a pulse.

"He's dead," Jim said.

Jim carefully turned to body over. Blair grimaced. A perfect bloody hole replaced the man's right eye socket. But that didn't stop Blair from recognizing the man.

~*~*~*~

"…dealing with our old friend Klaus Zellar," Simon said, "a.k.a. the Iceman."

His mood had soured considerably since this morning. Megan, Rafe, Brown and Blair sat around the table. David and Jim stood against the back wall. Simon tossed a folder onto the conference table.

"Take a look at these, pass them around," Simon said. "It's all the information we have on the death threats of Jack Barkley. Let's see if we can use them to track whomever hired this hit man. For those of you who don't know, Zellar was apprehended by Detective Ellison."

Blair cleared his throat loudly.

Simon sighed. "Along with some help from our favorite observer, Blair Sandburg, for several murders and the attempted murder of a University student. He was rotting very nicely in a German prison outside of Munich until he managed to pay off a judge. It's pretty apparent why Zellar tried to kill Mr. Barkley, we just need to find out who hired him." He stared hard at his detectives. "That is your job."

Rhonda knocked on the office door and poked her head in.

"Captain Banks?" she said.

Simon walked over and Rhonda handed him a note. She looked at the conference table.

"And Blair has an phone call," she said. "Line two."

Blair grinned sheepishly and followed Rhonda out.

Simon skimmed the message, then looked up. "Barkley is out of surgery. But he's still critical." His intense gaze landed on each person in the room.

Jim was the first to stand. "We're on it," he said.

~*~*~*~

"Who is it?" Blair asked as Rhonda closed the door behind them.

"Sid Graham," she replied.

Puzzled by the unfamiliar name, Blair walked over to Jim's desk and picked up the phone.

"This is Blair Sandburg," he said.

<"Blair? Sid Graham calling from New York. I'm an old friend of your mother's.">

Blair frowned. "Are you trying to reach Naomi?"

<"Actually, she asked me to call you. Said you had a thesis giving you some trouble. I'm an editor and thought I could—">

"Excuse me," Blair said. "Mr. Graham, is it? I appreciate what Naomi was trying to do, but I don't need any help with my thesis. She worries, but the editing process is coming along just fine."

Blair spotted everyone leaving Simon's office. "Thank you very much for your offer, but the answer is no. Good-bye, Mr. Graham."

<"If you're sure—">

Blair hung up, feeling like he had somehow avoided a major disaster. He turned around as Jim and Megan approached.

"You all right, Sandy?" she asked.

"Yeah," Blair said. "It's just my mom."

Jim smiled fondly. "How is Naomi"?" Jim asked.

"Fine. She's just fine." Blair grinned. "She's here, actually."

~*~*~*~

He stood in the center of the basement room, listening to footsteps scuffling overhead. His eyes wandered over the two leather-covered sofas, divided by a cherry coffee table. On the table were a silver tray and two glasses of scotch. The rest of the room was empty, spotless.

Just as it should be.

A metal door opposite him opened and a back-lit figure entered the room. The door closed and Icharus approached.

"Good evening, sir," Icharus said.

The man nodded once and they sat one man on each couch.

"Yesterday's hit was an unfortunate success," the man said. "The task was completed and now the longshoremen will strike. But with Zellar dead, I need all ties to him broken."

Icharus leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "That should not be difficult, sir. Shall Emil be relocated or disposed of?"

"Relocated," the man said firmly. "His business is sound and we can always use this as a down payment on a future favor. We are, after all, helping him avoid police capture."

"Of course, sir."

The man picked up his scotch; Icharus did the same. Their eyes connected over the rims of their drinks, sharing an unspoken pact. A promise never to be broken or betrayed. They drank.

Icharus placed his glass on the silver tray with a soft clink. He rose. The man's eyes followed Icharus as he strode toward the door, intent on carrying out his new orders.

"Icharus?" he said softly.

"Yes, sir?" Icharus said. He pivoted around on his heel.

"Use Romulas," the man said. "I hear he's been feeling useless these last few months."

Icharus looked away. The man regarded Icharus curiously for a few moments.

"What is it, Icharus?"

Icharus looked the other man in the eye, his voice steady. "I do not completely trust Romulas anymore. Since his partner's death, I fear he has…lost his nerve. I hear rumors he plans to go out on his own."

The man's eyes narrowed, a dangerous look that sent a shiver up Icharus's spine.

"Find Romulas and ask his plans," the man said. He spoke softly, but the threat was no less evident to Icharus's trained ear. "Then persuade him to alter those plans. If he tries to make threats, remind him of Tabitha."

Icharus nodded, hoping he would not have to pull that trump card. No lieutenant had ever turned against them before, but Romulas could very well be the first. And he would have to be made an example of. After all, his boss expected absolute loyalty.

"I understand, Daedalus," Icharus said and left the same way he had come in.

Daedalus stood for several moments after his second-in-command had gone, glad to be alone once again. He listened to the footsteps above, a distant bird chirping. Soft, normal sounds he treasured the most when he felt like this. When he felt nothing but fear for an uncertain future…and the tremendous mistakes of his past.

~*~*~*~

Thursday morning, Naomi left for a Spiritual Retreat. Blair offered to drive his mother to the bus station before his first class, but she insisted on taking a taxi.

"Are you sure you won't take Sid up on his offer?" Naomi asked.

Blair handed Naomi her coat, shaking his head softly. "I'm sure, Mom. Honest, I'm doing fine. It was nice of you to call him, but my thesis just isn't ready for other people to read."

"You let your peer group read it," she countered.

"They have to read it," Blair said. "Have a good trip, okay?"

Naomi hugged her only son. "I won't wait so long before I visit again. I hardly recognize you sometimes."

Blair held her tightly. Naomi wasn't given to sentimental outbursts of any nature, so he took her words to heart. "Take care, Mom," he said.

She kissed his cheek and smiled brightly. "Bye." And she was gone.

~*~*~*~

Megan hung up her phone at the same moment the doorbell buzzed. She dropped the receiver into its cradle and dashed to the door, pausing momentarily to check her makeup in the gleam of a framed picture. She smoothed the front of her blue Donna Karen dress and opened the door.

David smiled at her in a black tux, bow tie and cummerbund a matching blue. His jacket and pants were perfectly pressed, every bit the well-dressed gentleman all the way down to his…

Running shoes.

Megan grinned at his unusual choice in footwear, wondering if her own heeled sandals were too much. David caught her attention and modeled his sneakers.

"I can't dance in dressy shoes," he said. "I'd step all over your feet."

"You can go barefoot if it will save my feet," Megan said. "Ready?"

"Always ready for torture," David said.

"Come on, Boomer," she teased as they left her apartment. "Dinner and dancing isn't exactly torture."

They stopped in front of the elevator bank. David pressed the down button.

"No," he admitted. "But making small talk with public officials is."

"I'm sure you can charm them with your dry sense of humor," she said.

The elevator arrived. They stepped into an empty car and began their descent.

"Jim called right before you arrived," Megan said. "He and Sandy found Zellar's car in an alley on the North Side. There was a cell phone that they're getting records for now. Said they would keep us posted."

"Good to know," David said.

~*~*~*~

Jim leaned over the conference table, skimming the forensics file in front of him. He heard Simon pacing behind him, reading as he walked. A chill danced up Jim's spine, preceding an instant of déjà vu. It was gone as quickly as it happened. Jim twisted his head to one side.

Simon stood perpendicular to him, facing the bullpen. Jim followed the captain's gaze, half-expecting Connor to be standing directly in Simon's line of sight. Jim knew she wasn't there; she was at the Charity Dinner. Directly across the bullpen, Sandburg walked in.

The euphoric déjà vu returned and a hazy image flashed through Jim's mind. The window shattering. A bullet passing through Simon's abdomen, ripping into Megan's shoulder, and stopping in the doorframe inches from Sandburg's chest.

The vision dissipated when a warm hand landed on Jim's shoulder.

"Jim?" Simon asked. "You okay?"

Jim squeezed his eyes shut and snapped them back open. He looked at Simon and nodded.

"Yeah," Jim said. "Just got a funny feeling."

Sandburg entered the captain's office, waving a sheet of paper at them.

"We got the phone list," Sandburg said. "Only three calls made on the phone. All of them from a pay phone on the 800th block of High Street. All calls made in the last five days."

Jim took the paper. He grinned at his partner. "We'll make a detective out of you yet."

"Don't count on it," Blair said with a smile.

"Let's look around High and Dahlia," Jim said. He mentally filed the earlier images away. He would say something to Blair later. Right now, he had a job to do.

~*~*~*~

The main hall at the Country Club was decorated in a tasteful mix of silver and burgundy. Two enormous chandeliers lit a wood-paneled dance floor. Around the edges of the room were dining tables, each with six chairs. A string quartet played in the north corner of the room, opposite the doors waiters constantly entered and exited with trays laden with hors devours and champagne.

Megan plucked her third glass from a passing tray, trying to concentrate on what Councilman Rogers was saying. David managed to nod along with the Councilman's land zoning proposals, but Megan found the topic exceeding the limitations of dull. But she sipped her champagne, glad to be out of the spotlight. It seemed every new conversation she and David entered into began with someone asking about her accent. Then asking about Australia, the exchange program, Foster's beer and Crocodile Dundee.

//Blithering idiots, // she thought.

Rogers seemed to tire of their one-line responses to his ideas and moved on to another group of people.

"Thank God," Megan said, downing the rest of the glass.

David laughed and put the glass on a nearby table. "You'd better slow down or you'll be drunk before they serve the main course."

"By then I'll find land zoning much more entertaining," she said.

"I agree," he said. "I'm talked out for now." David crooked his elbow and offered Megan his arm. "How about a dance?"

Megan looped her arm through his. "Absolutely."

They made a quick turn. David bumped into a portly man in a top hat, jostling the man's arm. Champagne sloshed out of the glass and onto the man's Armani tux. His face instantly turned purple and the people he was with chuckled softly.

"You clumsy fool," the portly man said.

"I'm really sorry about that," David said. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket and handed it to the man. "But it's clear, so it won't stain."

"I don't give a shit if it stains or not," the man blathered on. "You'll pay the cleaning costs or I'll have you fired."

David's expression darkened dangerously. "You are making a scene," he said, his voice low. "And if you continue to do so, I will arrest you—in front of all these fine folk—for threatening a police officer."

"It's not convictable," the man said. But his voice had lost its edge.

"No," David said. "But it is arrestable. Test me."

The portly man considered his options, then abruptly turned his back on David. Megan shook her head and tugged David toward the dance floor.

"Arrogant prick," David muttered.

An elderly gentleman stepped in front of David, a soft smile on his face.

"Thank you, young man," the gentleman said. "Alexander White has needed to be put in his place for quite some time. We all thank you."

With that the gentleman wandered off.

"Alexander White," Megan repeated. "He even sounds like a horse's ass."

David laughed and swept Megan onto the dance floor.

~*~*~*~

It was already quarter past eight when Jim parked on High Street and almost fully dark. Cars drove past intermittently, but there were no pedestrians in sight. The neighborhood was not a bad one, but random graffiti tags were enough to make people nervous.

Jim climbed out of the truck and looked around. All the shops in sight of the pay phone were closed save one. Toby's Record Outlet blazed with light, its neon OPEN sign an invitation.

Jim and Blair crossed the street and entered the shop. A musty scent tickled Jim's nose, which threatened to sneeze. The narrow store's walls were lined with bins of records, LP's and 45's. A counter covered with ripped music posters stood empty near the front door. Led Zeppelin blasted on the loudspeaker.

A teen with a skull tattooed on his left cheek swaggered out from behind a beaded curtain and approached.

"Can I find you something?" the teen asked.

Jim shook his head, flipped open his badge. "I'm Detective Ellison. This is my associate, Blair Sandburg. We just have some concerned questions we'd like to ask."

"Look, dudes," the teen said. "I ain't on drugs, I'm over twenty-one and I donated blood two weeks ago. And I don't do charity stuff."

"Do you work here everyday?" Jim asked, ignoring the boy's tirade.

"Sure do, man," he said. "I'm Toby."

"Well, Toby," Jim said. "Did you see anyone suspicious around that pay phone, say in the last five days?"

"Tons of people use that phone," Toby replied. "Most of them are suspicious."

Jim sighed. This was beginning to seem like a waste of time.

"Talk to Roger," Toby said. "He owns a model shop a few stores down. Saw him using it a few times."

"Did he use it Monday?" Blair asked.

Toby puzzled that question for a few moments. "Yeah, he did. Which is weird 'cause he's got a phone in his shop."

"And he owns a model shop?" Jim said. "Like cars and planes?"

"Yep, but he closes at six most days," Toby said. "You'll have to catch him tomorrow."

//Interesting choice of words, // Jim mused.

"Thanks for your help," Jim said.

Toby nodded. "Anytime."

~*~*~*~

Ray Stanley, president of Stanley Textiles, managed to bore an entire table of people with a detailed explanation of cotton and its various uses in fabric. Even his wife seemed annoyed. David simply concentrated on his Caesar salad.

//Torture. Pure torture, // David thought. Dancing he could do. Listening to councilmen he could do. But getting a history lesson on the Chinese silk moth was above and beyond.

"We should be getting hazard pay for his," he whispered to Megan.

She giggled, choking a bit on her salad.

A soft bell dinged and waiters swarmed from the kitchen. They began removing salad plates, preparing to serve the main course.

"I hear their roast lamb is exquisite," Mrs. Stanley said to the four people patiently ignoring her husband.

"Speaking of lamb," Stanley went on. "Wool is also a very important product for any textiles plant…."

"God help him," Megan muttered.

"Why help him?" David whispered back.

"Because if he keeps yammering on another five minutes," she said, snatching up a piece of flatware. "I'll stab him with my dinner fork."

David smiled. "That's your dessert fork."

Megan didn't reply. She stared around the room, her brow furrowed.

"What's wrong?" he asked, also gazing around.

All the salad plates had been removed from the room. A dozen waiters stood at various points around the room. David turned the other way and blinked. The light was off in the kitchen.

"Boomer—" Megan said.

"All right!" a male voice shouted.

Conversation faltered and all eyes fell on the waiter standing in the center of the dance floor. A stocking covered his face, but couldn't hide his flaming red hair. He clenched a .50 caliber rifle in his right hand. The other eleven waiters around the room pulled identical weapons from their jackets.

Several women screamed.

"Put your hands on the table, now!" the stocking man ordered. "Sit still, no heroes, and everyone goes home alive."

"Shit," David muttered.

The waiters fanned out to the tables. They took jewelry, wallets, cell phones, pagers, and watches. The nearest waiter was still two tables away from David's table. He quickly slipped his hand into his jacket and produced a cell phone. By touch alone, he turned it on and dialed 911. As a waiter turned to their table, David dropped the phone under the table and covered it with his foot.

The headwaiter still stood in the center of the dance floor, staring at his watch.

A stocky man took David's wallet. He flipped it open and stared at the badge. The man glared at David and pointed his pistol at David's nose.

"Resist," the waiter said. "Please."

David stared back coldly.

The headwaiter yelled from the center of the room, "Now!"

He and the other waiters took tiny gas masks from their coats and slipped them on. In that same instant, David's nose twitched. A sweet scent filled the room and all around him heads fell forward, backward, sideways. Several people slid to the floor. It was hard to breathe. He saw Megan pass out, her head tilting backward. David lurched from his chair, intent on breaking a window. He managed to get three feet before total blackness enveloped him.

~*~*~*~

Roger's Models and Hobbies was closed, just as Toby had said. It opened at nine the next morning. Jim peeked in through the front window. A long counter stretched the length of the narrow shop. Rows of car, ships, soldiers, paints, glues and kits lined shelves along both walls. Any remaining space was littered with advertisements, both new and old. The shop also had a perfect view of the phone booth across the street.

"This place looks like it's been here a thousand years," Blair commented. He shielded his eyes to look through the dirty glass.

"I'll bet if you check the lease," Jim said, "you'll see he's been here less than five. Probably not that long."

Jim's cell phone chirped. He pulled it out and flipped it open.

"Ellison."

Jim listened for less than half a minute. "We're on our way." He hung up and sprinted back toward the truck, Blair on his heels.

"What's wrong, Jim?" he asked.

"The charity dinner was held up."

~*~*~*~

The Country Club's parking lot was full of emergency response vehicles, police cars and two fire trucks. Jim squeezed the Ford between two cruisers and threw it into park. He and Blair hopped out and bolted for the front doors. Uniformed officers led drowsy guests outside. Jim and Blair were handed paper masks as they went inside, but did not put them on. Every window and door had been thrown open, letting in the cool evening breeze.

Remnants of gas made Jim's eyes sting. He blinked hard and wiped away a bit of moisture. Medics and officers walked around, helping the slowly waking guests to their feet.

"Jim!"

He spun around, spotting Detective Rafe at the far end of the ballroom. Rafe waved frantically. Jim and Blair pushed through the crowd of people, making their way over.

Brown knelt next to Megan's chair, letting her sip from a cup of water. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused. A few feet away, David was sprawled on the floor. A paramedic hovered over him, listening to David's chest with a stethoscope. His tag said ADAMS.

"He's having a hard time breathing," the paramedic said. Adams reached into his kit and pulled out an Ambu bag. "We need to get him to the hospital. It could be an allergic reaction."

Blair took off to find a stretcher.

Henri tried to get Megan to her feet. "Come on, Connor," he said. "There's fresher air outside."

"What's wrong with Boomer?" she asked, her voice slurred as if drunk.

"He'll be fine," H said. "The paramedic's gonna take him to the hospital."

"I want to stay." Megan tried to pull away, but swayed wildly without Henri's support. She submitted and let herself be led out.

Adams reached up and pulled Jim down.

"Take this," he said. He handed Jim the Ambu bag. "Just squeeze."

Jim squeezed the plastic bulb in a steady rhythm, but noticed what had the paramedic worried. David's chest was not rising with the influx of air. His throat was closed. Adams pulled a scalpel and cotton swabbing from his bag.

"What's that for?" Rafe asked.

"He's not getting any oxygen," Adams said. "I have to do a cricothyrotomy." A fine sheen of sweat broke out on Adams's forehead.

Rafe blanched. "A what?"

"I have to cut his throat open," Adams said, his voice an octave higher.

"Have you done this before?" Jim asked.

"I've seen it done," Adams admitted. "I've only been a paramedic for a month."

Jim looked around for help, but everyone with medical experience seemed to have his or her hands full. Jim remembered his medic training in the Army and took a deep breath.

"Relax," Jim told Adams. "You'll do fine."

"Take this." Adams handed Jim the bandages. "When I cut, blood is going to spurt."

Jim nodded.

Adams took a deep breath, filtering out the noise of the room. His hand was steady as his fingers slid from David's Adam's Apple down to the second notch of the larynx. Jim watched him find the small depression and poise the scalpel over it. Adams made a small, horizontal incision, cutting through skin and muscle, down to the tough membrane that protected the windpipe.

As expected, a blast of bloody froth spewed from the wound, splattering both Jim and Adams. In one smooth motion Adams slid the tubing into the incision and Jim wrapped the cotton around it. With the Ambu bag back in place, Jim squeezed the bulb.

Air began to flow as David's chest rose and fell, drawing in the oxygen he so desperately needed.

Adams fell back on his heels, smiling.

"Good job," Jim said.

Blair and a second paramedic rushed over with a stretcher. Jim left them, intent on finding the security office. He saw Brown cornered by the mayor, getting an earful. Jim bypassed the pair and walked into the main lobby.

Jim spotted a security guard standing by a window, a bloody towel pressed against his temple. He walked over to the man.

"Where's the security office?" Jim asked.

The guard pointed to a door against the left wall. "Up the stairs. The equipment's been wrecked, though."

Jim thanked him and dashed to the door. It opened into a narrow flight of steps that curved up. He took them two at a time. The steps led into a room about ten feet squared. One wall was lined with monitors, each screen snowy and gray. A flat panel of switches had been smashed in. The time-lapse VCR was in a dozen pieces, the cassette gone.

"Damn," Jim muttered.

~*~*~*~

It was ten-thirty p.m. and the Cascade General Emergency Room was full. It was full of patients, police officers, concerned friends, city officials and the occasional paparazzi, although CPD was doing their best to keep the curious press outside the walls of the hospital. A dozen guests of the charity ball had bad reactions to the knockout gas, although none as severe as David Noble's had been. Everyone exposed to the gas, plus a dozen waiters dosed with chloroform and three security guards with concussions, had been taken to either Cascade General or Brighton Medical Center across town.

Major Crime had overtaken a corner of the waiting room. Blair, Rafe, Brown and Joel Taggart hovered around Connor like worker bees. She had been released fifteen minutes ago in perfect health, aside from being ravenously hungry. But Megan had refused all offers of food. She, like the others, was waiting. Waiting for word on David's condition.

Jim stood by the bank of elevators, conversing with a small group of detectives from various departments. Because of the nature of the robbery, city officials from the chief on up were clambering for a quick investigation and apprehension of the perpetrators. Jim was spearheading the effort until Simon Banks made it back into town. They'd sent a Forest Ranger into the mountains to find Simon and deliver the news. He was expected within the next two hours.

Blair stood, stretching sore muscles. "Anyone want coffee?" he asked.

Three heads shook no.

"Black," Rafe said.

"Sure."

Blair crossed the main lobby, threading his way through the dozens of people in and around the waiting room. He stopped by the coffee machine and fished into his pocket for change. His hand came back with three quarters.

"Crap," he muttered.

Jim's hand appeared holding another quarter. "Need something, Chief?" Jim asked.

"Thanks, man." Blair took the quarter and put them into the slot. He punched out two cups of black coffee.

Blair noticed Jim watching him intently. Blair looked at his shirt, his fly, then back at Jim.

"Do I have something on my face?" Blair asked.

"Maybe it's not a good time," Jim said.

Blair sighed, the coffee forgotten. "Well, whatever it is, you gotta tell me now that my interest is peaked."

Jim leaned against the wall, keeping his voice low. "Remember what I told you about the water pools in the Peruvian temple? That they produced visions?"

"Yeah," Blair said, his attention at maximum. "You didn't get very specific, though."

"One of them was pretty bad," Jim said. "In it I saw Simon and Megan shot by the same bullet, both of them at the PD."

"Did you see who did it?" Blair asked delicately.

"No." Jim paused, gathering his thoughts. "I brought it up because this afternoon, I got the weirdest sense of déjà vu. And it had to do with that particular vision. It was like I was standing in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. Only no one shot them. Connor wasn't even at work."

Blair absorbed the information, trying to decipher its meaning. "Maybe the vision you had in the immersion pool was of a possible future occurrence. And maybe it was supposed to have happened yesterday, only something we did was different than it should have been."

"Maybe," Jim said. "Or maybe it was nothing and I'm making a big deal—"

"Don’t do that, Jim," Blair said. "You always try to find a logical way out of a situation when it gets to weird for you. But what if I'm right. Then the way it happened, the fact that they weren't shot, it's a good thing. Maybe it proves that nothing is set in stone."

"Yeah," was all Jim said.

Blair picked up the two cups of coffee. "Let's go back."

Jim followed him back to the ring of chairs. They noticed immediately that Megan was gone. Rafe took his cup of coffee as Henri stood up.

"Doctor came out while you were gone," H said. "Boomer's doin' good. They're gonna keep him on a respirator overnight until the swelling goes down. Megan went up with the doc."

"That's good news, at least," Blair said.

"Now we have to deal with this circus," Jim said, his gaze wandering around the packed waiting room.

"At least until Simon comes back," Joel said. "Then he can deal with it."

The five men chuckled, not envying their captain the job he had when he returned.

~*~*~*~

Swimming.

No, more like floating.

Yeah, floating. Except there was a lot of pain.

Not throbbing, headache pains. It was sharp and stinging, like the icy feeling of scalding hot water when it first touches your skin.

Centered in his throat and chest. That's where the pain was.

His eyes didn't work. He thought they were open, but all he saw was darkness. Inky blackness that had no depth, no end.

There were sounds that blended together, none independent of the other.

Then a new sound. Sweet and melodic, the highs and lows forming words.

He reached for the source of the words, willing it to find him. Willing himself to find the strength to find her.

Her? Yes, it was a woman talking.

Emily?

No, she was dead. Dead a long time ago. Never coming back again.

Megan.

Yes, that was it. But why was she mumbling so far away?

He willed his eyes to open; breaking through the jet blackness that surrounded him. He fought upward, felt his eyelids crack.

A blinding light forced them to close. But the voice was closer and he could now make out the words.

"David," Megan said. "Open your bloody eyes, Boomer."

My eyes aren't bloody. He wanted to say it, but his voice didn't work. The sharpness of the pain had dulled a bit, yet he could make no sound.

He tested his eyelids once again. A dark shape moved into the light, slowly coalescing into a discernible face. A beautiful face.

Megan smiled brightly, her soft hand lightly stroking his cheek.

"Don't talk," she said. "You've got a tube in your throat to help you breathe. You'll be fine."

He scrunched his eyebrows and blinked at her.

"I'm fine," Megan said.

David relaxed, comforted by her presence. He had always cared, cared for Megan very much. As his friend and as his partner on the force. But until this very moment, he hadn't realized how much he loved her.

And silently cursed himself for behind unable to say it.

Instead, David smiled warmly. It would keep.

~*~*~*~

Major Crime was still waking, downing the remnants of coffee cups and heading to the break room for refills. Fingers clacked on keyboards in steady rhythms. Papers shuffled from desk to desk, in-box to out-box.

Simon paced the length of his office, waiting for his detectives to arrive for an eight am briefing. He'd arrived in Cascade at three that morning and hadn't slept a wink in over twenty-four hours. Rhonda had come in at five-thirty without complaint, fielding calls from the mayor, the governor, the Chief of Police, city councilmen, and about two dozen reporters all eager for a sound byte.

At two of eight, Jim, Sandburg, Rafe, Brown and Taggart streamed into his office, taking seats similar to where they had been three days ago. Each man nursed a cup of steaming coffee. Case files opened as they sat down.

Simon stood at the head of the table ready to begin. The door opened and Megan rushed in., slightly out of breath.

"Sorry I'm late," she said as she popped into a seat next to Jim. "Traffic around the hospital is a nightmare."

"It's fine," Simon said. "How's Noble?"

A soft smile broke the worry lines around Megan's mouth. "He was awake when I left. Dr. Robbins is taking the breathing tube out this morning. He'll be out by Monday."

"Good news is sorely needed right now," Simon said. "Sticking to the subject, Taggart, what do you have?"

Joel stood and passed around photocopies of three different sketches. Two were men, both in their early twenties. The third was of an eagle with its wings laid back as it flew.

"We had our sketch artists put these together," Taggart explained. "It figures that when a whole lot of rich people get together, no one bothers to really look at the help."

No one missed the sarcasm, or the faint insinuation.

"We have two suspects here," Taggart continued. "The third is a tattoo. Mrs. Warrington remembers seeing it on the neck of a waiter who served her bad pate. She wanted to remember him so she could complain to the management."

Henri snickered softly. Simon shot him a silencing glare.

"You know," Megan said. "I think I saw that tattoo." She closed her eyes briefly. "He had black hair and a cleft chin. I really didn't get a good look at him." Megan looked at Simon apologetically.

"Mrs. Warrington gave a similar description," Taggart said. "But we didn't have enough information to do a sketch."

"I want these pictures distributed right away," Simon said. "And see if we can find out if any tattoo parlors do this particular design."

"Got it," Taggart said.

"Rafe?" Simon said.

Rafe didn't respond. He stared hard at the tattoo drawing, his mind elsewhere.

"Detective Rafe?" Simon repeated.

Rafe looked up. "Sir?"

"The Zellar case?" Simon asked.

"Right." Rafe flipped open his file. "No leads on the maker of the fifty-caliber, but we know it's not local. The car Zellar had was reported stolen in Tacoma last week, but Zellar had it repainted."

"We've also hit a snag with the cell phone," Jim said. "Roger's Models and Hobbies is rented out by a man named Roger Haber. We had the name run. Roger Haber apparently doesn’t exist. Sandburg and I saw the landlord, Mr. Tarlson, early this morning. He said Haber paid every month in cash, on time. Tarlson said the only time he saw Roger Haber was the day he showed him the space, three years ago."

"Do we have Tarlson with a sketch artist?" Simon asked.

"Already on it," Jim said. "Sandburg and I are going down to the shop to pay Mr. Haber a visit when he opens at nine. We've had a patrol car watching it since late last night."

Simon crossed his arms across his chest. "Pool your resources and hit the streets, everyone. If somebody's uncle's neighbor heard a whispered plan about last night's heist I want to know about it. If a two-dollar hooker's john mumbled something in his sleep, I want her in here spilling it. Understood."

A round of affirmative replies went around the room.

"Dismissed."

~*~*~*~

The second Jim parked in front of the model shop, he knew something was wrong. The front windows were still covered with advertisements, but any holes between them had been covered over with newspaper. The front door was a canvas of gray print and the Open/Close sign was gone.

He and Sandburg approached the building cautiously. Jim looked across the street at the patrol car parked half a block away. It was empty.

Jim stepped up to the door and tried to find a crack in the newspaper. Deciding on a more up-front approach, Jim pulled his gun, reared back and kicked at the door with all his strength. The door's frame splintered. Another kick and it flew back on its hinges.

Yesterday's clutter left an eerie contrast to today's empty shop. The walls, shelves and counters had been stripped and scrubbed. Jim crossed the length of the shop to the back room and entered. He saw rows of empty shelving units and a cleaned out desk. Jim was aware of Sandburg at his elbow as he crossed this tiny room to a closed door.

The print on the glass said OFFICE. Jim turned the knob. The door swung open easily. In the semi-darkness, the unconscious bodies of Patrolmen Cameron and Tate lay curled on the floor.

"Sandburg, call for back-up," Jim said.

Blair nodded and flew from the room. Jim knelt and checked each officer's pulse. Both breathed steadily, their heartbeats strong. Jim looked around at the empty, sterile room and silently hoped they would be able to find a clue…any clue.

~*~*~*~

From a rented room above Verne's Hardware, Icharus watched the scene from a dirty window. He had not rented the room, of course. A drone had done that for him. And he had been told to do so by his lieutenant. Icharus rarely spoke to or saw the drones personally. There was a chain of command that must be followed.

//Tabitha would have called it the Mafia, // Icharus mused.

It had stung when Daedalus used Tabitha's name. But it was a threat no one that worked for him took for granted. Everyone knew the story. No one dared forget it.

When Blair Sandburg exited the model shop dialing a cell phone, Icharus dialed one of his own. The other line picked up after the first ring.

"It's done," Icharus said.

He hung up immediately. He needed only deliver the news, not wait for a reply or word or reward. No thanks was needed or expected. Icharus did his job as the others did their job. For his loyalty, he and many others would someday be rewarded. But for now, they followed without question.

For who among them would dare question Daedalus's authority?

~*~*~*~

Megan glanced up from her desk and yawned. She and Rafe had been pouring through mug books for the last hour. Page after page of burglars, murderers, child molesters and bank robbers. She was determined to find something, although many of last night's dinner guests had already looked through the books. Now Megan realized why she had looked up.

Rafe was no longer flipping through pages. He had stopped and was staring at one page.

"What is it?" she asked.

Rafe turned the book around and pointed to a photograph. The man was thin, balding black hair flowing loose around his shoulders. He as unshaven and a scraggly beard covered much of his face and neck. But Megan saw what Rafe had seen. Just below the edge of his beard, on the left side of his neck, was an eagle tattoo.

"That's him," Megan said. "He didn't have the beard, but he was there last night."

Rafe grinned. "Let's invite him in for a chat, shall we?"

~*~*~*~

Gene Concannon sat in the small interrogation room, perched on the edge of his seat. Dirty fingernails scratched at his knuckles. His hair was longer than in the mug shot, his face clean-shaven. He was on parole for burglary and sitting in a police station was a bad sign. The three-strikes law would send him up for a quarter stretch.

His head snapped forward as the door opened. A man and woman entered, wearing identical expressions of disdain. The man he didn't recognize. In fact, he seemed like too much of a pretty boy to be a cop. The woman, on the other hand, he placed immediately. She had been there last night and her pretty face reflected his own recognition.

"I'm Detective Rafe," the man said. "This is Inspector Connor."

"I believe we've met," Connor said. "You were pretty busy last night, weren't you, Gene?"

Play dumb or admit it? Play dumb or admit it?

"I was at the races last night," Gene said. "That a crime now?"

Rafe crossed the room and stood next to Gene. "It is if you committed a robbery before you went there. Then again, I believe that going to the racetrack is a violation of your parole, isn't it?"

Shit.

"Three people have picked your mug shot out of a group of ten," Connor said. "They identify you as one of the waiters at the Country Club last night. That's a pretty conspicuous tattoo."

Gene's hand flew to his neck. He thought the high collar of the uniform had hidden his eagle. Guess not.

"We have no problem sending you up on the three-strikes law," Rafe said. "But if you throw me a bone, I could put in a good word with the DA."

Gene considered his options. He could still deny it, but they'd likely nail him anyway. If he sang, the quarter might drop to a dime or less. Or course, he could be killed before that happened. Gene knew that was a risk going in, but he hadn't taken it seriously until now.

"I want protection," Gene said.

"From whom?" Rafe asked.

"I was approached," Gene said. "A man named Romulas was putting together a hit that could garner big bucks for everyone involved. Said he was striking out on his own and he needed good men to work for him. Said our take would be more than two grand each for the first job. More after that."

Rafe whistled softly. "Where did you meet Romulas?"

"Came up to me on the street," Gene said. "He gave me an address and said to be there at ten a.m. yesterday. He went over the plan and we met at the Country Club later that day."

"What was the address?" Connor asked.

"Dock 17 on Cutter's Inlet," Gene replied. He felt like he was morphing into a giant rat. "There's an old tanker anchored there. Look, I don't know any other names."

"I want you to look at some mug books," Rafe said. "See if you can identify any of your cohorts."

Gene nodded, defeated. He'd done something he had sworn he would never do. Gene had ratted on someone to save his own ass. And it hadn't taken much convincing. Pathetic.

~*~*~*~

Cutter's Inlet was a small part of the Bay, primarily a graveyard for decommissioned boats. Oil tankers, tugboats, and barges lined the docks up and down the inlet. A fine sheen of oil lay on the top of the undisturbed water. The docks themselves were gray and rotting, splattered with seagull turds and dried fish guts.

Jim's eyes watered from the smell as he led the way to Dock 17. Rafe, Brown and Connor followed behind him, Sandburg bringing up the rear. They walked in the open, but Jim had a feeling no one was standing guard. The only sounds nearby were his friend's heartbeats and the lapping of the water against the boats.

He picked his way down the dock, avoiding areas that seemed unstable. The tanker was at the end of the dock, its steel body gray with age. A fairly new rope bridge led to the top deck of the tanker. Gun out, Jim led them onto the ship.

The deck was empty, but footprints had trampled through the dust and grime. Jim followed them to a metal door starboard aft. It was propped open and soft voices drifted up. He could distinguish at least four, but they were still several decks below.

With a silent nod, Jim and Brown slowly opened the door enough for everyone to slip through. They descended the metal steps into the belly of the tanker, careful to keep their footsteps from echoing in the confined space. Jim had just enough light to guide them.

He stopped at C-Deck. The door from the stairwell was open halfway, spilling out orange light. The voices were louder, definitely four of them. Jim poked his head through the door. A flat, empty room stretched the length of the boat. Directly across from him was an open doorway—the source of the voices and lights.

Four voices, four distinct heartbeats.

Jim turned to his team. "Four men," he whispered. "In a room right across from us. It's a metal boat and there's no cover, so let's be careful. Silent three. Sandburg—"

"I know," he hissed. "Stay here."

Jim grinned. One by one, the four detectives slipped across the open room and gathered at the right of the doorway.

"….Won't have any idea," one man said. "The cap'n still thinks I'm a good boy."

"But blatantly going against him like this," a second man argued. "It's suicide, man."

"Maybe," the first replied. "But I'm sick of workin' my ass off for someone else's profit. I've put in four years and not moved up once."

Jim raised his hand and lifted one finger. Two fingers. Three.

Jim and Rafe barreled into the room yelling, "Police, freeze!" Brown and Connor bolted in behind them, positioning themselves by the door.

The four men were lounging on metal folding chairs, sorting through boxes of jewelry, wallets, cell phones, pages and assorted items. The shouts startled them into dropping their boxes. The crashing sounds echoed wildly. A redheaded man with bad skin went for his gun, leveling it at Rafe. Jim fired immediately, catching the redhead in the chest. The man flew back, his finger squeezing off a wild shot.

The bullet bounced around the metal room and everyone ducked. It ricocheted off a wall and caught Jim just above his left knee. Jim fell to the ground, a sharp sting screaming through his leg. The three remaining men put their hands in the air.

"You okay, Jim?" Rafe asked. He knelt down as Brown and Connor went about cuffing the burglars.

"Yeah," Jim said.

"Jim!" Sandburg said, flying into the room. He skidded to a stop by his friend.

"It's fine," Jim said.

Sandburg already had his cell phone out, calling for an ambulance.

Rafe stood and walked over to the man Jim had shot. He expertly found the man's billfold.

"Harold Romulas," Rafe said, reading from and ID card. He looked at Jim. "Looks like we found the ringleader."

Rafe flipped through the contents of the wallet. He pulled out a slip of paper and unfolded it. A slow smile crept across his face.

"And he even had a list for us," Rafe said. "With the names of his entire crew."

"Nice guy," Jim said.

~*~*~*~

David Noble sipped at his Kool-Aid, grimacing as it slid down his aching throat. The breathing tube had been removed Friday evening and he'd been on a liquid diet for the last thirty-six hours. He didn't mind it so much. Nurses brought him juice and Jell-O whenever he asked for it—David wasn't sure if that was from his own personal charm or just doctor's orders. If nothing else, it certainly made him run to the bathroom every hour and a half.

The scent of his roommate's lunch made David feel queasy. His own diet didn't seem so bad compared to the food Jim Ellison had been eating since being admitted yesterday. Their confinement in the same hospital room was something of an experience. David's voice was barely above a whisper, turning control of all conversations over to Jim. David had always considered Jim to be a private person—much like himself—but Jim talked about himself with amazing ease. Some topics were avoided, but it had been a pleasant and educational way to spend a weekend.

Megan and Blair appeared in the doorway, knocking politely before entering. Blair's jacket bulged around the middle.

"We brought you two some contraband," Megan said.

Blair opened his coat and produced a Wonder Burger bag. He handed it over to Jim.

"Double Decker with everything for you," Blair said.

"You're my hero," Jim said. "Saving me from eating this unnamable goo."

Megan pulled a lidded cup from her own coat and handed it over to David. "And for you, a strawberry-banana shake blended very fine."

"Thank you," he rasped, smiling wide.

Blair settled into the only chair in the room. Megan perched on the end of David's bed.

"We arrested Daniel Paymer today," Megan said. "He was last on the list and had a record of petty theft and burglary, just like the others. Romulas knew how to pick people."

"What about Zellar and Haber?" Jim asked.

"Nothing," Blair said. "The model shop is clean and no one knew a thing about Haber. I guess we'll never really know who hired Zellar."

"Speaking of which," Megan said. "Barkley is being released early next week. Dr. Walls said he'll make a full recovery."

"Too bad he couldn't prevent the longshoremen from striking," Blair said.

David sipped his milkshake, the slippery ice cream soothing his throat. He didn't speak—he had nothing to say. One case was solved, the other in permanent limbo. He was out of the hospital tomorrow and back to work at the end of the week. He was alive and he was grateful. And as David Noble gazed quietly at Megan Connor, he knew one other thing for certain: he was in love.

END

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