~*~*~*~

~*~*~*~

From the "Cascade Times," December 19, 1999:

SANTA'S HOUSE RANSACKED—MRS. CLAUS MISSING

Burglary Ends In Apparent Abduction

~*~*~*~

"Who would want to kidnap your wife, Mr. Cla—uh, Lot?" Henri asked.

Rafe shot his partner a dirty look, but Henri ignored it. Charles Lot appeared to have missed the slip. The bakery connoisseur stared miserably at his lap, picking absently at his chest-length beard. He and his wife, Dorthea Lot, had played Santa and Mrs. Claus at the Twelfth Street Santa House for the past seventeen years, passing out candy canes and asking kids what they wanted for Christmas.

"I don't know," Charles said, his meek voice off-balance with his over-sized belly. "She stayed behind to lock up and wrap presents for today's charity drive. Dottie was so good at wrapping presents."

Rafe handed Charles a tissue as the sixty-year old began to cry.

"Did your wife have any enemies?" Rafe asked.

"Pissed-off elves, maybe," Henri muttered.

Rafe bit his tongue and reminded himself to beat his partner senseless later on in the day.

"Everybody loved Dottie," Charles sniffled. "Oh, what will I tell Anne and Andy?"

"Are they your kids?" Rafe asked.

Charles blinked. "Our dogs."

"Excuse me one moment," Henri said. He stood up, knowing he would get hell later, and walked across the bullpen toward the break room. As he passed by the side doors, Blair walked in.

"Hey, H," Blair said.

Henri took off at a run, barely making it into the break room before he began to laugh. Blair watched him go, dumbfounded. He glanced over at Rafe, who simply shrugged and returned attention to the older Santa-looking man he was with.

Blair hung up his coat, casting a curious glance at Jim's desk. Blair had spent several hours in Personnel, going over his new paperwork. Now he wondered where Jim had gone.

"Sandburg?"

Jim stood in the doorway of Simon's office. He jerked his head and Blair walked over.

"What's up?" Blair asked as he walked inside.

Simon sat at the conference table, reading a file. Most of the conference table was covered with arrest files, crime scene photographs, and various court transcripts. Simon looked up.

"Morning, Dr. Sandburg," Simon said.

"Hey, Simon," Blair said. "What's all this? Are these the king of hearts cases?"

Jim had explained his findings to Blair yesterday as they cleaned the loft. It had seemed an enormous coincidence at the time, but seeing all the evidence in one place made it more feasible.

"All that we know about," Jim said. "The earliest one we found this morning dates back two weeks before Rolph Kroeger died. Last one was a week ago."

Simon's phone rang. The captain stood up and crossed to answer it.

"So how many does that make in all?" Blair asked.

"Twelve," Jim said.

"Thirteen," Simon said. He dropped his phone back into the cradle. "I had a flag put out on all files that had a playing card on record anywhere. Lieutenant Craybill out at the 5-9 found one this morning."

"The 5-9," Jim echoed.

Simon nodded. "I'll give you three guesses who the arresting officer was."

~*~*~*~

David Noble felt self-conscious under so many gazes. He stood in Simon's office, eyes wandering over the papers spread out on the conference table. Jim had just finished explaining what everything was to him and Megan. Simon ended with a refresher on the Donato case, David's last major case at the 5-9.

"Lt. Craybill is sending over the file," Simon said. "But perhaps you could fill in the gaps until then."

"I'll try," David said. "I barely remember the case and I don't remember there being a playing card. Donato liked to sell heroin to the rich kids. Got them hooked with free samples, then charged through the nose for more. Unfortunately, he was too damn smart. We arrested him a couple times, but could never get any evidence to stick.

"He died the third week in January. I got the call and found him splattered all over Leighton Boulevard. The coroner said he was on heroin laced with angel dust when he jumped. There was no evidence it was anything but suicide."

Simon crossed his arms over his chest. "Craybill said Officer Talbot recalled seeing a deck of cards in Donato's apartment. He recalled it because the only card face-up on the deck was—"

"The suicide king," Jim said. "Just like in Kroeger's hotel room."

David stared at the table as bits of the past floated into his vision, then disappeared before he could fully grasp what they meant. There were many things about Portland he'd tried to forget, but now he forced himself to remember. The name came to him like a shock of cold water.

"Joe Stinton," David said.

"Who?" Megan asked. She was leaning against Simon's desk.

Saying the name out loud opened up a floodgate of memories surrounding the name. "Joe Stinton," David repeated. "Two years ago in Portland, we arrested him for seventeen counts of murder. Each victim was a felon, either paroled or escaped, and he used to leave playing cards nearby as a marker. Sounds like someone is using his old MO."

"What happened to Stinton?" Blair asked.

"Heart attack in his jail cell," David said.

"Did he have an alias?" Jim asked. "Or street name or some kind?"

David shook his head. "No, but the press dubbed him the Suicide King."

"That's morbid," Megan muttered.

"Sandburg and I are meeting an informant later," Jim said. "I'll run the king of hearts thing by him and see what's on the street."

"We are?" Blair asked.

"Yeah." Jim glanced down at his partner's Nike's. "Change your shoes, Chief."

~*~*~*~

Henri left the break room with a newfound respect for his partner. While Henri hadn't meant Mr. Lot any disrespect, he just found it impossible to keep a straight face when Kris Kringle was telling him Mrs. Kringle was kidnapped. But Rafe had ripped him a new one a few minutes ago. Henri wasn't sure what had caused Rafe to lash out like that, but he'd taken it in stride and would bring it up at a later—and safer—time.

"Detective Brown!" Rhonda called. She stood up at her desk and held out a manila envelope. "You're on the Mrs. Claus case, right?"

"Yeah," Henri said, finding no humor in it now.

"You'll want this, then."

Henri took the envelope. The name scribbled on the front in black marker was LOT. Henri carried it to his desk. It was so light he thought it might be empty, but a single sheet of paper began to slide around inside. He searched his top drawer for a letter opener, then slit one end open.

A piece of white bond paper slid onto his desk, landing face-up. The note was written in the same black-lettered scribble: One million for Mrs. Klause.

Henri groaned. "You spelled Claus wrong," he muttered.

~*~*~*~

Sneaks beat them to the diner. He sat in a booth halfway back from the front door, his back to them, snacking on cherry pie. Jim and Blair slid into the booth across from the young snitch. The diner attempted a retro atmosphere with red vinyl seats and a croaking jukebox, but it was run-down and grimy.

The odors of caked grease and stale coffee turned Jim's stomach, and he quickly dialed down his sense of smell.

"It's Captain America," Sneaks said. "How's life treatin' ya this holiday season?"

"Like I slept with his sister," Jim retorted.

Sneaks laughed. "So why'd ya call this little meeting?"

A waitress came by and poured coffee for Jim and Blair. "Ready to order?" she asked, her tone clearly stating she hoped they were.

"Just coffee," Jim said.

She shrugged and walked away.

Jim pushed his coffee away and leaned forward. "What do you here about the Suicide King?"

"The what?" Sneaks looked genuinely puzzled. "You mean the playing card? King of hearts?"

"Yeah, that," Jim said. "Who's using it as a calling card nowadays?"

Sneaks shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. "I dunno, man."

Jim zeroed in on Sneaks' erratic heartbeat. The telltale heart, Jim thought.

"But you do," Jim said. "This is important. You do right by us, and you'll get a nice big bonus for Christmas."

Sneaks muttered something, but Jim heard it: If I'm alive.

"How about a guy named Joe Stinton?" Blair asked.

"Nah, means nothin' to me," Sneaks said truthfully.

"Sneaks, if you know something and are withhold—" Jim said.

"Okay," Sneaks cut in. He looked at the faces in the booths nearby, glancing over his own shoulder once. "The king is a calling card for Hawk's crew. They keep order on the streets and leave cards so other criminal types know what not to do. Punish people who step outta line and such."

Jim nodded along. It sounded similar to what Noble had described about Portland.

"Who's this Hawk?" Jim asked. "The leader of a gang?"

"Just a guy," Sneaks said. "It's no gang, not like you're thinkin'. He gets his orders and carries 'em out with his crew."

"Who gives the orders?"

"He gets 'em indirectly from a lieutenant, who gets 'em from the man in charge. Nobody else ever sees the big guy."

"How do you know all this?" Blair asked.

Sneaks shrugged. "You know the streets, you know who owns 'em. Man, you fuck with these guys and they'll rip your heart out and feed it to you."

"Do you have names?" Jim asked.

A flash of light tore Jim's eyes away from Sneaks. He looked over the snitch's left shoulder, but the glint was gone. Instead, he saw a shadow moving in an apartment window across the street.

Sneaks remained silent, weighing his options.

Telescoping in, Jim found the muzzle of a rifle peeking out the open window.

"The lieutenant's name is Ichar—"

"Get down!" Jim shouted.

There was no rifle report as the front window of the diner exploded. Patrons screamed. Jim pushed Blair down in the booth. Sneaks fell forward into the remains of his cherry pie.

When Jim looked up, the rifle was gone from the window. His hand snaked across the table and found Sneaks' pulse—steady, but weak. Dark crimson blossomed from the center of his back.

"Call an ambulance!" Jim shouted.

He stood up and bolted out the door. A small crowd had gathered outside the diner. Jim shoved his way through them. He dashed across the street, barely missing an oncoming Mazda. He bolted down the sidewalk, foregoing the front entrance to the upstairs apartments. Instead, he ran to the corner and turned onto the next block.

As expected, a man with a violin case walked out the side door of the building. He saw Jim and froze.

"Cascade PD!" Jim yelled, whipping out his gun and pointing it at the man.

Violin man pivoted on his heels and bolted.

Why do they always run? Jim wondered as he took off after him. Jim caught the violin man easily, overtaking him in less than two blocks. He tackled the man, sending the case flying to the ground. It flew open and a rifle, equipped with silencer, bounced out onto the sidewalk. Violin man deflated when he realized he was caught.

"You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…" Jim began as he reached for his cuffs.

~*~*~*~

She liked this bench in the little would-be park. Even in the winter, when the pigeons were gone and ground covered with ice and snow, Megan would eat her lunch here. This afternoon was a bit warmer than usual; she had forgone gloves and a hat. She sipped at her cream of mushroom soup, thinking of the warm weather that awaited her in Sydney.

"Seat taken?"

Megan smiled and turned her head. David stood a few feet away, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his wool coat. He seemed like a big teenager asking for a dance. The last few days had been the best of her life. She never expected to be so compatible with another human being; she often chastised herself for not realizing he was right under her nose the past ten months.

"Help yourself," she said.

David sat down next to her, and Megan found herself snuggling a bit closer. Just being near him gave her a fantastic sense of belonging and safety. After being by his side since Saturday, it had felt strange waking up that morning without him.

"You're leaving Wednesday?" David asked.

"If I want to be home for Christmas," Megan replied. "It's a twenty-six hour flight to Sydney."

"Halfway around the world." His voice was wistful, as if imagining no greater place than the farthest possible point from Cascade.

"It's a week," she said. "I'll be back for New Year's. The millennium."

"It's really not, though," he teased.

"I know. But it's more exciting to go from ninety-nine to one hundred, than from zero to one. Agree?"

"Wholeheartedly."

Megan slipped her left hand into his right, clasping it gently. "Come to Sydney with me, Boomer."

David blinked, but the content smiled never wavered. He thought a moment before speaking. "Meg, I'd feel strange—"

"Oh, bull," she said. "My father practically thinks of you as a son, as much as I talk about you on the phone." Megan blushed pink at this admission. "He knows how much you mean to me."

"I'd have to get vacation time from Captain Banks," he said. "That could be a problem with this whole playing card case."

"It's Jim's case. You told him everything you knew."

David nodded. "True. If Banks okay's it, I'll come."

~*~*~*~

Jim marched out of the interrogation room and slammed the door behind him. For the past two hours, he'd gotten nothing but silence and sullen glares. The violin man hadn't asked for a lawyer or a phone call. He had no identification on him and had refused to give his name. His fingerprints were being run through the system, but nothing had come out so far.

Blair was waiting in the hallway for him. "No luck?" Blair asked.

Jim snorted. "Understatement. I can't even get his name. How about you?"

"I called the hospital again," Blair said. "Sneaks is still in surgery, but the nurse said his vitals are stable. The bullet was lodged by the spine, so he'll be under for a while longer."

"Whatever he told us was worth something," Jim said. "I want guards—"

"Simon already ordered cops posted outside OR, Recovery, ICU, and anywhere else Sneaks may go in the hospital," Blair said.

Jim rubbed the back of his neck, trying to work away a knot of tension. He'd known Sneaks for three years now, and this was the first time he'd ever gotten hurt snitching for Jim. And Jim was taking it very personally.

"What about the name he gave us?" Jim asked. "Ichar?"

"Joel is running it," Blair said. "It's unusual enough, but if it's incomplete, it won't help us much."

"Anything from Forensics on the rifle?"

Blair shook his head. "I haven't—"

Jim's cell phone chirped. He snagged it from his pocket. "Ellison." He listened for several moments, said, "Thanks, Serena," and hung up.

"The gun?" Blair asked.

"Yeah," Jim replied. "Serial number was removed with acid and she can't raise it. It's a fairly common model 50-caliber rifle, so it'll be almost impossible to trace without its number."

"Damn."

"Yeah."

Blair jacked his thumb toward the interrogation room. "So what about him?"

"We lock him up," Jim said. "Until we find a trump card to bait him with."

~*~*~*~

Charles Lot's home was a tribute to the Christmas season. Outside it was a white, two-story Tudor house. Once you got past the front door, it was like entering another world. The foyer held a thirty-foot tall fake fir tree, beautifully decorated with lights and ornaments, all in silver and gold. Its base was permanently fixed to the floor and a complex train set chugged around it. Each room of the downstairs was painted in red, white and green. The china in the dining room had a holly leaf pattern; the wineglasses etched snowflakes around the rims.

Peppermint potpourri burned somewhere out of sight.

Henri Brown couldn't believe a person could actually live in a place like this. He was perched on the living room couch, a monstrosity upholstered in snowmen and Christmas trees. Rafe stood across the room by the reindeer telephone. Mr. Lot sat quietly next to the phone, clutching a throw pillow that matched the couch.

Mr. Lot picked at the pillow, casting anxious glances at the phone. "I don't think I can do this," he said

"You just have to get information on the exchange," Rafe said for the fourth time in twenty minutes. "I'll be listening and help you out if you get stuck."

Henri's stomach rumbled loudly, reminding him that it was way past suppertime.

Mr. Lot heard the sound and looked at Henri. "I'm sorry, detectives," Lot said. "Would you like something to eat? I have cookies…"

Henri bit down on his tongue to keep from laughing.

The telephone rang—it sounded like jingling bells—and Mr. Lot jumped. Rafe slipped his headphones and hit "record" on the tape player. He nodded.

Mr. Lot picked up the telephone. "Hello?"

Rafe looked at Henri and nodded. It was the kidnappers.

"I have the money," Mr. Lot said. "Can I speak to Dorthea? I want to know she's all right." There was a short pause. "Dottie! Oh my God, are you okay? I love you, sweetheart, I—Dottie?"

Mr. Lot looked at Rafe, his face stricken. His attention never wavered from the phone. "Yes, I can. Nine a.m. I understand. I'll come alone. I—" Mr. Lot dropped the receiver. The elderly man looked ready to burst into tears.

Rafe removed his headphones. "Bus station tomorrow," Rafe said to Henri. He almost smiled. "Amateurs."

~*~*~*~

On Tuesday morning, the Cascade Bus Station bustled with early holiday travelers loaded down with suitcases and bags of colorfully wrapped gifts. Couples with children were the most prevalent. Parents tried to control cranky kids and find taxis willing to carry their load.

Rafe watched one family struggle with three young children that didn't like the idea of spending hours on a bus. He cringed as a toddler began to scream loudly. The child's father looked mortified. Rafe sighed and looked away.

He stood in the bus station's inner lobby, sweeping the floor slowly. The clock said it was three minutes before nine. Across the lobby, Henri sat in a row of chairs as if waiting for his bus to arrive. Joel Taggert stood by the main entrance, the epitome of the bored security guard.

The clock's hands inched forward.

At exactly nine o'clock, Charles Lot walked into the bus station clutching a simple brown satchel. He headed straight for the row of lockers near Henri. The kidnappers had instructed he use locker 123 and leave the money inside. The stupid would-be felons hadn't said what he should do with the key.

Rafe smiled to himself and continued sweeping. He watched Lot with one eye. The elderly man opened the locker, deposited the satchel, closed it, and removed the key. Lot glanced around the lobby and placed the key in his pocket. He walked back out of the bus station, never once looking at any of the undercover detectives.

Quite the professional, Rafe thought.

Something small ran into Rafe's leg. He looked down. A girl, all of three years old, looked up at him with wide eyes. Rafe smiled. The child giggled and took off at a loping run.

"Daphne!" a woman yelled. She bolted past Rafe and scooped the little girl up in her arms. "I told you not to run off like that."

Rafe shook his head. Kids.

He continued his slow sweeping circuit of the station lobby. Minutes ticked by. At twenty after nine, a man approached the row of lockers. He was six feet tall, dressed in dark clothes, and black gloves. The man stopped in front of 123. He glanced around casually, then reached up to open the locker.

It didn't budge.

Rafe tried not to laugh when the man tugged at the locker, realizing his mistake with the key too late. Rafe dropped his broom and reached into the pocket of his coveralls for his badge and gun.

The man turned around, his face red from frustration, and saw Rafe coming. His eyes widened. He stepped to the left, but was immediately faced with Henri Brown. A step to the right ran him directly into the bulk of Joel. He stopped moving, realizing he was trapped.

"Cascade PD," Rafe said. "You're under arrest. You have the right…."

~*~*~*~

Jim hesitated outside of the ICU. The duty nurse had given him permission to go in, but he still felt uneasy. He listened to the cacophony of beeps and hisses of life-saving machines, and to the soft snores of sleeping patients. Jim's first impulse was turn around and go back to work, but he had to do this.

He stepped through the doors and cautiously made his way past curtain after curtain, searching for the person he'd come to see. Jim stopped at the last curtain. He could see the young man in bed, sleeping fitfully. Dark circles colored his eyes, set off by his pale skin.

Jim's eyes flitted down the chart on the end of the bed. The name on it was Ronald Collins.

Jim had only ever known him as Sneaks.

"What do you want?" a voice rasped.

He looked up. Sneaks was awake, glaring up at him from under an array of tubes and wires. Jim suddenly felt trapped, like a thief caught eyeing a precious jewel.

"I called and the doctor said you were awake," Jim said. That sounds lame. "I'm really sorry—"

"Hey, forget it," Sneaks said. His voice was gravely and had a hard edge Jim couldn't remember ever hearing before. "You got your man and can sleep sound. I got a damn wheelchair outta the deal."

"Listen—"

"Forget it, Detective," Sneaks said. "Thanks to you, I'm spending Christmas in physical therapy."

Jim fell silent, unsure what to say to that. Well, it's true, Ellison. Snitches don't get health benefits. It was an absurd thought, but true. Jim knew very little about Sneaks' personal life, but he was sure the young man wasn't very well off. How's he going to pay for this?

Sneaks fixed him with a poisonous glare. "If you've got nothing better to do—"

"Who's Ichar?" Jim asked suddenly.

Sneaks frowned, then his eyes brightened with recognition. He began to laugh. "Thought I'd told you something," he said. "Guess I didn't."

And he didn't seem as though he would now.

"We have the man who shot you," Jim said. "But he's a clam. Won't say a word."

"He's smart," Sneaks said. "He knows the consequences and he obviously knew that I knew something. I want protection."

"You've got it," Jim said. "We've had guards here the whole time."

Sneaks stared at his hands for a few minutes. When he finally looked up, his eyes were intently serious. "After this we're done. I've got nothing to say to you ever again."

"I understand."

"Icharus," Sneaks said. "He's the lieutenant everyone gets their orders from. He's the only guy who sees the big man. Icharus orders Hawk, Hawk distributes justice with the suicide king. And that's it."

Jim nodded, glad that they now had something better to go on. He wanted to say something to Sneaks. They'd worked together for three years and Jim had always valued his information. But the only thing that came out was a simple, "Thank you."

Sneaks looked away. "Whatever, man."

Without another word, Jim turned and left.

~*~*~*~

Alan Jeffries sang like a canary.

Rafe and Brown sat across the table from Jeffries in the interrogation room. Both men were highly amused—and not one bit surprised—by his confession.

Jeffries was an interior designer and had done most of the work on the Lot house. He puffed up a bit when discussing his achievements in decorating the home and several design awards he'd been nominated for. Henri cleared his throat loudly, prompting Jeffries to continue with his story. Jeffries and Dorthea Lot began their affair two years ago. Apparently her husband could no longer satisfy Dorthea after a medication mix-up left him impotent.

"Whose idea was the kidnapping?" Rafe asked.

"Dottie's," Jeffries said. He looked down at his lap. "She couldn't divorce him because she signed a pre-nuptial, and she'd lose everything if he found out she was being unfaithful."

"So you set up a ransom to get some cash," Henri said. "Then you book it out of the country, right?"

"Yeah." Jeffries picked at his cuticle. "Dottie had a good idea for how to do it, but I told her I wanted to plan it. That key thing was pretty stupid, huh?"

"Definitely in the top ten," Henri said. "Where is Mrs. Lot right now?"

"A hotel downtown," Jeffries replied. "Sleep-Tite Inn, room 321."

~*~*~*~

Blair sat at Jim's desk and stared intently at the computer screen as names scrolled by. Jim had called forty-five minutes ago with the name "Icharus" and Blair had immediately put it into the database, along with Hawk. So far nothing had come up for Icharus. Blair was also cross-referencing known aliases.

He hit "enter" on a new search and looked up. Rafe marched into the bullpen from the direction of the interrogation rooms. He grabbed keys from his desk and left, passing David Noble on his way out. Noble crossed the bullpen and plopped down in the empty chair by Megan's desk. Megan looked up. Noble showed her something that looked like a plane ticket and Megan smiled.

The computer beeped.

Blair looked at the monitor. He had logged in to the Rainier library catalogue and brought up a list of materials that mentioned Icharus. Blair knew the basic myth of Icharus' fall from the sky from his Greek Mythology classes. Many of the books the search listed were compilations of myths and poetry. Blair sent the list to the printer. He would stop by the library later that evening.

"Did you find anything?" Jim asked.

Blair jumped at Jim's sudden appearance. "Nobody named Icharus has ever been arrested in Cascade," Blair reported. He scooted his chair over and pulled up another screen so Jim could see what he'd found.

Jim leaned over, his eyes scanning the information. "Aliases?"

"Running now," Blair said. "I've got Joel doing another search for anyone else in Cascade with a similar Greek-sounding name. There aren't any Icharuses in the city phone directory, either."

"What about Hawk?" Jim asked.

Blair shook his head. "No Hawks with records or in the directory. I found a lot of variations, though. There are about three dozen Hawkins in the directory and two have records." Blair brought up another window. "Albert Hawkins was executed two years ago for a triple homicide. Bette Hawkins was arrested six years ago for shoplifting, got probation. She moved to Chicago last winter."

Jim flagged Rhonda as she walked past.

"What's up, Jim?" she asked.

"I need a favor," Jim said. "Can you compile the name and address of everyone in Cascade with any variation or Hawk or Hawkins in their last name?"

"Sure," Rhonda said. "How soon do you need it?"

"Five minutes ago," Jim said.

"I'll get right on it," Rhonda said.

As Rhonda returned to her desk, Jim snagged a spare chair and fixed his attention on the computer monitor. "What do we know about Icharus in mythology?" Jim asked. "Anything helpful?"

Blair closed his current window and raised another one. It was an online website created by one of Rainier's history professors.

"Icharus was the son of Daedalus, an architect," Blair said, scrolling down a page dedicated to the story of Daedalus and the Labyrinth. "Both were imprisoned on an island by King Minos. Daedalus created wings so they could fly away, but the feathers were held together by wax. He warned Icharus not to fly too close to the sun, but Icharus didn't listen. His wings melted and he fell to the sea and drowned."

"I guess there's a parable in that about listening to your elders," Jim said.

"Or your boss," Blair added. "Sneaks told you Icharus was a lieutenant, that he reported to some higher up. The man in charge, right?"

"Yeah." Jim's brow furrowed. "That means they could call the guy in charge Daedalus."

"Exactly," Blair said. "There's a theme going here and I've got two more examples for you."

Blair handed Jim two case files, but Jim didn't have to read the names to know what Blair was talking about.

"Remus and Romulus," Jim said.

Blair nodded. "Dale Remus killed himself back in March after we tracked him for the Racine murder. Harold Romulas was killed in May after the charity ball hold-up."

"What are the odds?" Jim asked sarcastically.

"Not very good," Blair said. "No one else in Cascade had those last names. The only other Remus on record died of a heart attack five years ago."

"Well, Professor," Jim said. "Refresh my memory here."

Blair clicked on another link. "Romulus and Remus were brothers who built the city of Rome. They got into a fight and Remus was killed. Romulus became the first ruler of Rome and reigned for thirty-eight years. Then he disappeared and became the god Quirinius."

"Hear me out on this, Chief," Jim said. "Let's assume Daedalus is the big man, Icharus is his second. Let's also assume that Romulus and Remus were not coincidences. The fact alone that Remus killed himself with the conch shell venom proves he had outside sources. Could they have worked for Icharus in some capacity?"

Blair took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's possible, Jim. And name-wise it makes sense. But Sneaks said Hawk worked for Icharus and Hawk isn't Greek. I checked."

"Are hawks paired up with anything in Greek mythology?" Jim asked. "Mentioned in any other way?"

"Let me check," Blair said. He slipped his glasses back on and began a new search.

"Sandburg," Simon said as he passed by. "You know you're not getting paid for this yet."

"I know, Simon," Blair said without looking up from his research. "I haven't been paid for three and a half years. What's one more day?"

Simon laughed. "You two have a breakthrough?" he asked, motioning to the piles of printouts Blair had made.

"More like an explosion," Jim said. "I think this is way bigger than just the suicide king angle. There's something on the streets we aren't even aware of."

Jim filled Simon in on their progress so far, abbreviating the Greek history lessons. Simon appeared thoroughly confused when Jim finished.

"So you're assuming this Hawk has a partner?" Simon asked.

"It would make sense," Jim said. "The only problem is—"

"There aren't many to choose from," Blair said. "Birds weren't a large part of Greek history, except as monsters. The harpy was half-bird and half-woman. The griffin guarded treasure with the head and wings of an eagle, the body of a lion." He double-clicked on another file.

"The best example I have is the phoenix. Most believed it was an eagle, but some historians said a hawk. It lived 500 to 13,000 years and was always male. When it died, the phoenix was burned on a funeral pyre and a new one would rise from the ashes."

"I'll have Rhonda add Eagle and Phoenix to her list," Jim said.

~*~*~*~

The list came in two hours later, just after Dorthea Lot was escorted inside Central Precinct in handcuffs. Joel's search for Icharus in any form was a crap out. Jim and Blair had transported themselves into Simon's office and had Blair's printouts mixed in with the Suicide King files on the conference table. Rhonda entered and produced several sheets of paper covered in names and addresses. Jim thanked her, sincerely grateful for the new information.

"People actually have the last name Phoenix," Blair said as he read one of the papers. "And Eagle."

"Just not many in Cascade," Jim observed. "And no one with a record."

"Maybe these guys are too smart to get caught," Blair said.

Jim fixed him with a withering look.

"I'm serious," Blair said. "Think about it. If Hawk's getting orders from someone, doesn't it stand to reason that he's also giving orders to someone? Maybe to the people who actually do whatever it is that Icharus wants done."

"He's got a point, Jim," Simon said from his desk.

"Then we've got a lot of people to talk to," Jim said, referring to the fifty-plus names Rhonda had compiled. "Let's go, Chief."

Blair stood up. He had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

~*~*~*~

David was already waiting on the sidewalk with his suitcase when Megan arrived to pick him up Wednesday morning. She was running late and their flight left in an hour and a half. The trunk popped open and David tossed his suitcase inside. He climbed in the passenger seat.

Megan leaned over for a quick kiss.

"You taste like peppermint," she observed.

David chuckled and smacked his lips. "Crest Complete," he said.

"I'm glad you decided to come," she said as she pulled away from the apartment building. "A week away would have been hard."

David reached over and tweaked her nose. "You'd have had too much fun visiting old boyfriends to miss me."

"Trust me," she said. "I'm not on very good terms with many of my exes. I'm terrible at breaking up with people."

"Maybe you won't have to any more," David said.

Megan laughed. "So does that mean you'll be dumping me?" she teased.

"Not if I can help it."

Megan's hand slid across the seat, her fingers entwining with his. They rode to the airport in pleasant silence, each looking forward to the vacation and all the possibilities it offered.

~*~*~*~

Jim never thought he would be tired of driving his truck. But by ten-thirty that morning, he was. He and Blair had visited dozens of homes since last night, systematically crossing almost every Hawke, Hawkins, Hawkton, Hawkes, and Hawken off the list. Their only wild card was Stanley Hawkins. His DMV address was outdated and had not been renewed in two years. They had also cleared every Phoenix and all but one Eagle. Dylan Eagle was unaccounted for, his address also outdated.

DMV was faxing his license photo over to the PD.

"It's a scary thought, isn't it?" Blair asked. He stared out the windshield without really seeing, lost in his thoughts.

"What's that, Chief?" Jim asked as he negotiated a turn onto Market Street.

"That there might be some sort of master criminal out there running things," he said. "That this Daedalus guy knows everything that happens on the streets and punishes people that don't listen. He's like the king of his own little subculture, with its own rules and norms."

"Kinda like the Mafia all over again," Jim said.

"Sort of," Blair said. "But this seems more subversive than the mob."

"Yeah."

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

"Ellison." Jim's eyes widened in a queer combination of amused shock. "We're a few blocks away. Be right there." He put the phone down.

"What?" Blair asked.

"The DMV photo of Dylan Eagle came in," Jim said. "Three guesses who it is?"

"Violin man," Blair said.

Jim nodded. "Bingo."

~*~*~*~

Dylan Eagle sat in the interrogation room for the second time in as many days. His demeanor had not changed, even when Jim showed him the DMV photo.

"You waved your right to an attorney," Jim said. "Doesn't sound like such a smart thing to do when you're up against attempted murder."

Eagle fixed him with an apathetic gaze. "It will never go to trial, Detective."

"Oh, you know that for a fact?" Jim sneered.

"I do."

Jim cocked his head to one side. "And how do you know that?"

A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Eagle's mouth. "Because I know how the game is played."

"The game?" Jim repeated. He crossed his arms across his chest and glared down at Eagle. "Is this the game that Icharus and Daedalus are playing?"

Eagle blinked, fear creeping in at the edges of his eyes.

"Yes, I know about them," Jim said. "I also suspect your partner is a man named Stanley Hawkins. Do you know him?"

Jim zeroed in on Eagle's heartbeat. The man's outward appearance gave no sign of his apprehension, but his pulse was fast and erratic.

"You know," Jim said, dropping his voice too low for the tape recorder to pick up. "If I can't get to Hawk for the Suicide King murders, I'll make sure your ass is strapped in the chair for them. And I don't threaten, so consider that a promise."

"Your promises mean nothing to me," Eagle said. "No matter what you do or say, I'm dead anyway."

Eagle held Jim in a cold stare. It was the same stare that had signaled the end of the interrogation yesterday. Jim knew he wouldn't get anymore information out of Eagle today.

~*~*~*~

Dan Wolfe finished the autopsy in the early hours of Thursday morning, just minutes before the sun rose up over the mountains east of the city. He peeled off his latex gloves and tossed them in a waste can with his paper smock. Safety goggles went back on their shelf. Dan stretched his back, made a few more notes on the clipboard, and then went next door to his office.

Ellison and Sandburg were already there, sipping almost-empty mugs of coffee. Ellison stood up when Dan walked in.

"You were right," Dan said. "It was the same conch venom."

"Dammit," Ellison muttered.

"But how did he get it?" Sandburg asked. "He was in a holding cell for two days?"

"You won't believe where I found it." Dan held up a plastic baggy. Inside was a tiny gold earring post. "Found this in his stomach. There was a hole in his left ear, which I assume is where he wore it before swallowing it."

Ellison took the bag, turning it over in his hand.

"Whatever decoration was on the post," Dan continued. "It must have held the poison. It dissolved in his stomach acid and released the venom."

"I'm dead anyway," Ellison muttered.

"What?" Dan asked.

"Eagle knew he had a way out," Ellison said. "He didn't try to make a deal because he didn't have to. Someone out there demands absolute loyalty."

"So we're at a dead end," Sandburg said. "Eagle was our only ace in the hole."

"There's Stanley Hawkins," Ellison said. "He's still a wild card."

"But we've got everyone in the CPD with an eye out for him," Sandburg said. "Until he show's up—"

"The case is cold," Ellison finished.

Dan watched Ellison and Sandburg leave his office. Both men seemed more tired than when they'd walked in. The department rumor mill said that Major Crime was on the fringes of a major criminal conspiracy, something no one had ever dreamed existed. But it was still rumor and happenstance. Dan was no cynic, but he was a scientist and wouldn't put any faith in the talk until something proved it true.

Still, poisonous earrings and three recorded deaths from the deadly conch venom were enough to make even Dan Wolfe suspicious. He hoped that the rumors weren't true. Something like that could prove devastating to law enforcement and Cascade itself.

He hoped for all their sakes.

~END~

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