Rating: PG

Category: Case Story

Series: 2nd in "Daedalus" Series

Warnings: Not for this one

Notes: This series began a week or so after "Murder 101," and will continue through the fourth season. I now have 15 stories planned for the series.

Thanks to Shelley for betaing! You are so wonderful!!

Standard disclaimers apply: I don't own them, I'm just playing with them. The only character I claim is David Noble.

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

From the "Chicago Tribune," March 2, 1999:

COUPLE FOUND DEAD OF CARBON MONOXIDE POISONING IN

EAST-SIDE APARTMENT

Police Declare Deaths of Alan and Veronica Archer Accidental

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

The Purple Dragon Bar, on the intersection of 10th and Gravel Hill Road, had two major distinctions: there was no purple in the bar, unless you counted some of the clothes worn by the patrons; and it served exclusively to a homosexual clientele. The owner, Mr. Dudley Averon, was straight as a rod and married for the last eighteen years. He was, however, sympathetic to gay rights and wanted to create a place where homosexuals could congregate without fear of violence. Back in 1982, this seemed like a novel idea; in 1999, a dozen or more such bars existed within a two-block radius of the Purple Dragon.

The area was relatively peaceful. An occasional hate message was spray painted on the sidewalk or a bar window broken with a brick. Heterosexuals preferred to stay out and that was just fine by the residents. For the last eighteen months, nobody had been so much as beaten up within the two blocks that made up "Gay-burg."

So it was a shock to everyone at the Purple Dragon when a black-clothed man in a ski mask strode into the bar on Wednesday evening and began to fire an automatic weapon into the crowd.

~*~*~*~

Blair Sandburg watched Jim across the room as his partner patiently scanned the penthouse's balcony doorknob with his sentinel-sight. Captain Banks had been reluctant to assign Ellison this case, after the emotional mess he'd gone through the last few days. It was hard finding out two old friends had been killed in a freak plane crash. Banks had only conceded when he realized he was out of detectives and had no choice. Blair had promised to keep an eye on Jim.

They had arrived at the penthouse apartment of the late Mr. Tony Racine only twenty minutes ago and had little in the way of evidence to go on. From what they could put together, Racine had arrived home shortly after midnight—according to the doorman—and interrupted a robbery-in-progress. He'd been shot twice in the head, leaving most of his brain matter on the plush beige carpeting of his front hall. Racine's wallet, personal safe and silverware drawer was cleaned out. The mats of two paintings had been cut out and a dust ring on the mantle suggested a vase of some sort was also stolen.

The only point of entry for the burglar was the balcony doors—neither had been locked when they'd arrived. They just weren't sure exactly how the man had reached the balcony. The penthouse was twenty-six stories up in the Manheim Towers Suites, one of the best-guarded apartment buildings in Cascade.

Something landed hard on Blair's right foot and he yelped softly.

"Sorry about that," Jeremy Raines said. He took a step away from Blair, barely managing to catch his camera before it fell.

Blair smiled. "S'okay."

Jeremy Raines had been hired as a department photographer less than five months ago. He was twenty-six and clumsy, but always personable and eager to please. And he was damn good at his job. Hundreds of crime scenes and Blair hadn't seen the guy lose his lunch yet.

"Poor guy, huh?" Jeremy asked, pointing to the other room where the body lay.

"Yeah." Blair shook his head. "Killed for some money and a couple of paintings. You know, I've been with the department for three years and sometimes, I still don't get it."

Jeremy cocked his head curiously. "Get what?"

Blair opened his mouth to reply, but was cut short.

"Sandburg?" Jim called.

"Duty calls," Blair quipped.

He ambled over to the balcony doors, but Jim was already outside. Blair hesitated, then followed, promising to stay far away from the edge. Jim walked all the way to the edge of the balcony, then turned and looked up. Blair twisted his head, but all he could see was the roof of the penthouse.

"What do you see up there?" Jim asked, pointing at the roof.

"Not much, Jim," he replied. "The roof?"

"Yes, genius," Jim said. "In standard apartment complexes, the penthouse is the last floor, correct?"

"Usually, yeah." Blair still wasn't following. He ventured a few more feet out, craning his neck to see what Jim did.

"This one's got one more," Jim said finally.

Blair frowned. "But the elevator doesn't go any higher than twenty-six."

Jim grabbed the edge of a metal table and dragged it over to the edge of the roof. "A service elevator might."

He was starting to see where Jim was going with this. Blair steadied the table while Jim climbed up and jumped. He watched Jim pull himself up and over the lip of the gutter and disappear.

"I was right," Jim's disembodied voice said. His head appeared over the roof briefly. "There's a small building up here, about twenty-foot square with a steel door. I'd bet my Jag's tickets that there's an elevator in there. Its position would put it just behind the main elevator."

"Well, we know how," Blair said. "Now we need to know who."

~*~*~*~

Megan Connor was on her way home from a kickboxing session with Rhonda when the call came in. She immediately set her light on the dashboard and made a sharp left into traffic, swearing colorfully at the drivers that honked at her. Less than four minutes later, she parked behind a flashing police cruiser on the north end of 10th Street. Two cruisers and one ambulance had arrived so far. Two young uniforms had their hands full keeping a curious crowd away.

She flashed her badge at the uniforms, who nodded gratefully. The front door had been propped open and Megan watched paramedics rush out with a loaded stretcher. A young man, no older than twenty, stared desperately at her as they passed. His chest was drenched in crimson. She watched briefly as the paramedics loaded the young man into the waiting ambulance.

Breathing deeply, Megan charged inside. The bar was dimly lit, as many of the florescent overhead lights were shattered all over the floor. Round tables were overturned; many sported holes and the remnants of spilled drinks. Another uniformed officer Megan didn’t recognize was soothing a small crowd of hysterical men and women. She did recognize the other officer present. Officer Jameson had been one of the officers who had found her after Kroeger's brutal attack. The only physical remnant of that night was the small pock-shaped scar on her left temple.

Reaching deeply into her reserve of inner strength, Megan marched over to Jameson, who was comforting an older man shot in the arm.

"…Be here soon," Jameson said as she approached.

"Officer Jameson?" Megan asked.

Jameson looked up, recognizing her instantly. "Inspector," he said.

"What happened?" she asked, sweeping her arm around her. Nearby, two more men were bleeding from wounds to the shoulders and legs.

"Man in black came in and shot off about thirty rounds," Jameson explained. "Killed one guy right off. He's over there."

He pointed to a spot across the room by a jukebox. Megan could see a shoe peeking around the edge of an overturned table.

"Four more were injured," Jameson continued. "We've transported the most serious injury first and are waiting for more back-up for the rest."

Megan nodded. "No one saw a face?"

"No, they said he was wearing a mask," Jameson replied.

"Connor?"

Megan turned towards the bar entrance and the familiar voice. David Noble strode towards her, out of his typical "uniform" of sweater and khakis, and in a set of gray running sweats that matched his salt and pepper hair.

"Hello, Boomer," she greeted.

David grinned widely, obviously proud. It had taken him over three weeks to convince Megan to call him Boomer like the rest of the crew did. That was mostly because she couldn't think of the nickname without wanting to laugh. When she was six, she'd had a Russell Terrier named Boomer.

"Nice outfit," she commented as he neared.

He chuckled. "None of the dryers in my apartment building work, so, naturally, all of my clothes line-drying in my apartment."

"When ya'll gonna get me a doctor?" the injured man on the floor asked hysterically, his face contorted in pain.

David squatted next to the man, locking his gaze. "Another ambulance is on its way. Don't worry; you'll be in expert hands in no time. What's your name?"

"Frank Dey," he replied. "I'm in insurance. You got a life insurance policy, Detective?"

Megan shook her head and marched over to the crowd of uninjured witnesses. She had a thousand questions and very few answers looming on the horizon.

~*~*~*~

Jim had cornered the head of security for Manheim Towers Suites in a corner of the main lobby. He was a balding man of about sixty with a chin full of whiskers and permanent body odor. Andy Garfield pulled himself up to his full five-foot-five, but Jim could tell he was intimidated. Not exactly the angle he was going for, but he could work with that.

"Do you have a service elevator with roof access?" Jim asked.

"Yes, of course we do," Garfield replied, his voice several decibels higher than normal. "It goes from the basement to a small access above poor Mr. Racine's apartment."

Jim nodded at the confirmation of his earlier guesswork. "Who has access to this elevator?"

Garfield thought a moment. "Myself, the three other security guards who work for me, and the maintenance crew."

"No one else?"

"I'm sure the building manager has a key."

"And where is his office?" Jim asked, eager to get away from this man. Garfield's sharp odor was making his eyes sting.

Garfield pointed. "Down this hallway, three doors past the bank of elevators."

Jim started down the hall. As he passed the elevators, one dinged and the doors slid open. Sandburg popped out and fell into step beside him.

"Nada," Sandburg said. "Forensics swept the roof and didn't find anything up there. The locks weren't tampered with, so whoever it was had access. Where are we going, by the way?"

"To interview the owner," Jim replied. "And get a list of names of people with elevator access. Hopefully, one of them is our murderer."

~*~*~*~

Jim stared at the list of Manheim employees for the umpteenth time since he'd arrived at Major Crime that morning. Three of the employees were on duty last night, but had solid alibis for the time of the murder. Six of the other nine who were not working also had alibis—most had been asleep in bed with spouses or girlfriends. The last three he hadn't been able to contact yet. With Sandburg in class for the morning, Jim had nothing to do but paperwork until his fingerprints came back.

Of course, the paperwork looked about as appealing as a Spam sandwich.

"It makes the most sense," Megan's voice said as it carried into the bullpen.

Jim looked up from his list. Megan and Boomer were coming into Major Crime from the break room, in the midst of a discussion. It continued as they crossed the floor, Megan in the lead.

"With no real leads, both options are viable," Boomer argued.

Jim tried not to smile. As one who had tried, it was very hard to argue with Connor once her mind was made up on something. Her self-confidence had risen exponentially over the last few weeks and it was a pleasant change to see.

"Only one man was killed," Megan said as the pair passed Jim's desk. "The rest of the victims received non-threatening wounds."

"Except for the guy who's still in ICU at the hospital," Boomer countered.

Megan stopped mid-step and whipped around to face Boomer head-on. "What if he was an accident? The dead victim—what was his name, Dorsey?—had a history of bad relationships. What if he pissed off the wrong person?"

"So why not kill him at home?" David kept walking, forcing Megan to catch up with him. "Elections are heating up the different groups around Cascade. It could just as easily be a hate crime."

Jim's telephone rang, cutting him off from the rest of the conversation. He shook his head at the retreating pair. Connor and Noble going head-to-head was a fight worthy of ticket sales. Both were too headstrong for their own good—it was going to be an interesting case to eavesdrop on. He picked up his receiver.

"Ellison."

<"Jim, it's Blair. I won't make it to the station today. I've got something going on this afternoon and it'll keep me tied up. Sorry I can't talk. Bye.">

Jim may as well have been an answering machine for all the talking he got in. No sooner had he replaced the receiver than Rhonda stopped by his desk with a manila envelope.

"Serena said this was yours," she said, handing over the envelope. "She said this matched that partial you found."

"Thanks, Rhonda," Jim said.

He ripped open the envelope, not noticing the young secretary walk away. He poured the contents onto the desk.

"Dale Remus," he read from the first page. Remus' rap sheet cited three counts of petty theft—all probation walks. He was a known associate of several other prominent underworld types, including muscle-for-hire Dennis Reed.

Jim double-checked his employee sheet—Remus was one of the three he couldn't contact. He scribbled down Remus' current address, then gazed around the bullpen. Rafe was his first target. Jim snagged his coat from the rack behind his desk and marched over to Rafe's desk.

"Busy, Rafe?" he asked the impeccably dressed detective.

Rafe looked up from an incident report. "Not in the least. What's up?"

"I need a hand," Jim replied. "Grab your coat."

~*~*~*~

An hour later, warrant in hand, Jim banged on the front door of Dale Remus' run-down bungalow in one of Cascades lower rent districts. Half a dozen paint chips came off on Jim's fist. The porch was badly in need or repair and sagged to the ground in three places. Rafe stood off to one side, balancing on the uneven boards.

"Cascade Police! Open up!" Jim shouted.

He banged again, listening to the sound echo emptily through the residence. He listened harder, but could locate no heartbeat anywhere in the house. With a warning glance to Rafe, Jim reared and kicked forward.

The front door swung back easily, bouncing off the wall behind it and almost shutting again. Jim caught it and stepped inside, gun out just in case. Rafe followed close behind. The scent of stale popcorn and succotash wafted around the tiny living room they stepped into. Piles of old newspapers covered every possible surface that didn't hold an overflowing ashtray. The walls were watermarked, the carpet stained; Jim doubted the guy even owned a broom.

"Cascade Police!" Rafe shouted.

They searched the house—empty, of course. Jim did, however, find a rolled-up painting stashed in the back of Remus' closet. After unfolding it, Jim identified one of Racine's stolen portraits.

"It's our boy, all right," Jim said to Rafe as he re-rolled the painting. "We'll keep a car on this place 24/7 until our boy shows up again. Chances are, he either thinks he didn't leave any prints behind, or he's in the middle of planning some escape move. Either way, he has to come back here first."

Jim looked around once more and led the way out, glad to be going. A constant *scritching* sound was grating on his ears and it unnerved him that Remus had so many roaches living under his floorboards.

~*~*~*~

The constant rat-a-tat-tat of Blair's fingers on his laptop keyboard was the only sound echoing through the loft. The words were flowing from his thoughts in a stream he could barely keep up with. He often got this way as he neared the end of a long paper—his dissertation, in this particular case.

He paused only a moment before returning once more and typing, "THE END."

Blair hit the save button and leaned back in his chair, placing both hands on the table beneath him. He'd gotten out of his department meetings early today and had broken speed records in order to get home to finish his diss. The last three hours had been an endless trail of words and thoughts as the paper drew itself to a close. Now, as he sat there looking at those final two words, it felt as if a heavy burden was off his chest. And yet, it also felt as if he'd lost a large part of himself.

The front door banged open and Jim tromped in, shaking rain from his jacket as he hung it on a hook. Blair's hand reached out on reflex and lowered the laptop screen a few inches. Jim paused by the coat hooks.

"Hey, Jim," Blair said, pushing his chair back from the table.

"What's burning?" Jim asked, ignoring the greeting. He marched over to the stove.

"What do you mean?" Then he smelt it too. "Oh, man, it's dinner."

Blair vaulted from his chair and reached the stove as Jim opened the oven door. A thin gray cloud of smoke wafted out, along with the unpleasant odor of charred mozzarella. Blair grabbed an oven mitt and lifted a glass baking dish out of the oven. The top was slightly blackened and the edges had dried out, but the lasagna was still edible.

"Man, I'm sorry," Blair said. "I just got so caught up in my work and forgot it was in there."

"Well, you get the honor of cleaning the pan," Jim barked.

Blair blinked. "Bad day at work," he surmised as Jim banged around the kitchen, setting plates and flatware onto the table.

"To put it politely," Jim said quietly. He tossed a trivet onto the table.

"Anything new on the Racine case?" Blair put the lasagna pan on the trivet and stuck a spatula into the center of it.

Jim grabbed two beers from the refrigerator. "We have a suspect. Thief named Dale Remus."

They sat down at the same time, both reaching to pop the tabs on their drinks.

"And," Blair prompted.

"He was an electrical repairman for the Manheim Suites," Jim continued. "Rafe and I went to his home address, but no one was home. We left an unmarked car to watch the place."

"So that equals a bad day?"

Jim shook his head and dug the spatula into the center of the lasagna where it wasn't quite as dry. "No, that came after we got back to the station. I got chewed out by Simon, because he got chewed out by the Chief over the Morrison case."

Blair thought back for a minute. "The Morris—that was over two weeks ago."

"I know," Jim said, dumping a pile of semi-dry lasagna onto his plate and passing the spatula to Blair. "But apparently the Chief really wanted a conviction on that guy, instead of his body splattered all over 45th Street."

Three weeks ago, a bizarre string of pet mutilations had begun in Canton Heights, one of the richest neighborhoods in Cascade. Poodles, bulldogs, Chihuahuas, and even a Doberman had been found alive, but missing teeth and claws. The atrocities had been traced back to a man named Roger Morrison, owner of a pet-grooming salon that had done business with the pet's owners at least once in the past. When Jim and Blair had found him in his 14th floor apartment, Morrison had been high on ketamine, a controlled animal tranquilizer, and had jumped from his fire escape to his death. The man had no prior history of mental instability and no one who knew him could quite figure out why he'd done it.

"I guess the Canton Heights set still want answers," Blair said. "Hell, I'd want to know why someone decided my prize poodle was going to wear dentures for the rest of its life."

Jim cracked a smile. "If you ever bought a poodle, I'd kick you both out on the street."

Blair snickered. "Come on, Jim. Poodles are huge women magnets."

"Yeah," Jim said, poking at the hard cheese on his plate. "And flea magnets, and dander magnets, and hair magnets, and—"

"Okay, I give," Blair said, throwing his hands up. "No poodles. Now a mastiff, on the other hand…."

"Sandburg!"

~*~*~*~

Major Crime was business as usual the next morning. David Noble leaned back in his desk chair, quietly observing the din. Jim and Blair were hunched over Ellison's computer screen, speaking quietly to each other. It often amazed David, as it probably had everyone else at some point, how well the pair worked together. He had to remind himself several times a week that Sandburg was *not* actually a detective.

Rafe and Brown were in the door to the break room, each holding identical mugs of coffee. The two were a case of opposites attracting, much like Ellison and Sandburg. Rafe's businessman attire was a humorous contrast to Henri's laid-back, label clothing and berets. David had enjoyed working with Rafe on their first case together, finding the man extremely funny and quick on his toes.

His current partner, on the other hand….

David twisted around in his chair, pulling as far as he could until the center vertebrae of his spine crackled.

"Ahhhhh," he sighed. "Much better."

Megan Connor was a source of unbelievable stress in his life. This was their first case together—he'd previously worked with Joel Taggart on several cases. The Megan David knew now was a far cry from the woman he'd first met over a month ago. This Connor was bull-headed and brash, not afraid to do things her own way. Although that led to many clashes over the running of the case, David much preferred this Megan. She reminded him of Emily.

David brushed those thoughts away. No good would come of him sitting there and remembering things that he couldn't change. Besides, Portland was a long way away.

An enormous yawn signaled the fatigue of the night before. If those nightmares didn't stop, he was going to have to take stock in Sominex. David pushed his chair back and stood. Now was the perfect time for coffee. He picked up his empty mug and strolled across the bullpen to the break room.

"You look beat," Rafe commented as David stepped past. "Don't you sleep at night?"

Henri snickered, turning around to watch David. "Connor giving you stress, man?"

David snorted, pouring a steaming stream of the black brew into his blue mug. "Has she always been so head-strong?" he asked.

"Yup," they replied in unison.

"And you're lucky," Henri said, a wicked glimmer in his eyes. "She's mellowed out some since she got here."

Rafe chuckled. "Jim once said he'd like to put her in a boxing ring with a demented kangaroo."

David laughed and poured cream into his unsweetened coffee. "That I would have paid money to see."

Taking a sip of coffee, David glanced out into the bullpen and caught Ellison's eye. Jim looked away immediately, smiling like he'd heard the joke. He said something to Sandburg and the pair grabbed their coats and left the bullpen. David shook his head and took a larger gulp of coffee.

"Noble!" Connor's voice shouted through the bullpen.

"Present!" David shouted back, realizing too late Megan was already in the break room door. He smiled brightly. "Yes?"

Megan returned the smile. "Good, because you're driving."

"I'm what?" David blinked, wondering what she thought he'd said yes to.

"I got a lead on our murder victim," she explained, taking his coffee mug and placing it on the counter. "Come on."

David sighed and followed her out, ignoring the snickering coming from Rafe and Brown's general direction.

~*~*~*~

Jim turned the truck onto Lefferton Avenue, less than three blocks from Remus' house. It was their turn to sit on the house, which had been watched for the last twenty hours with no results.

<"All units, this is Lincoln 2-7,"> Taggart's voice said over the radio. <"We have movement at Fern Gulch.">

Bingo.

Jim snatched up the mike. "Lincoln 2-7, this is David 1-5-2 responding. We're less than two blocks away on Lefferton. Over." When there was no immediate response, Jim said, "Joel?"

<"He's on the move, Jim! Running in your direction.">

Jim opened his mouth to respond when a man ran into the road right in front of the truck. He dropped the mike and swerved.

"Hold on, Chief," he said as they bypassed the man and spun in a 180-degree arc.

"Ow," Sandburg muttered as he slammed into the door.

Jim stared at the man, recognizing Remus immediately from his mug shot. "That's him."

As if he heard him, Remus started to run. He leapt over a picket fence into a neatly manicured lawn and disappeared behind the garage. Jim unhooked his seatbelt and opened the door.

"Drive around the other side," Jim ordered. "Get back up and tell them I'm on foot."

He didn't wait to see Sandburg nod. Jim shot off, running at full speed. He hurtled the fence, easily following Remus' trail in the damp grass. Jim let his hearing travel ahead of him. Remus was at least twenty feet ahead of him, but he was already winded and breathing hard.

Jim skidded around a small shed and ran through another backyard. This one had two toddlers playing in a sandbox. They watched him with wide eyes as he ran past. Jim tracked Remus through two more yards, hearing the man get closer with each step. He could also hear police sirens in the distance. Up ahead, Jim suddenly heard a loud crash.

He sped up and came around into an alley between two homes. A pile of overturned garbage cans littered the center of the gravel path. One of the cans moved and Jim pulled out his gun.

"Freeze! Cascade Police!" Jim ordered, pointing his gun at the pile of trash and cans.

A body appeared amid the garbage and it slowly stood up, back to Jim.

"Turn around," Jim said, taking a step forward.

Remus turned to face him very slowly. A plastic syringe was gripped in the man's right hand. He was breathing hard, watching Jim with a expression of mixed regret and acceptance.

"Drop the needle," Jim said.

"You'll never know," Remus replied softly.

"Know what?" Jim asked automatically.

Remus smiled and jabbed the needle into his neck, depressing the plunger and sending the entire vial of liquid into his vein. He dropped instantly, his body twitching. Jim ran over, but Remus' body was already still. He felt for a pulse and found none.

"Jesus," Jim muttered.

"Jim!"

He looked up and saw Sandburg trotting down the alley towards him.

"What happened?" Sandburg asked.

"Good question, Chief." Jim stood up and put his gun back into its holster. And damned if I know.

~*~*~*~

"We identified the contents of that syringe," Serena said, handing Jim a piece of paper covered with scientific writing he couldn't begin to understand.

Jim scanned the page until he found what he was looking for, right under a Latin name her couldn't pronounce.

"South sea conch shell," Jim read.

Serena nodded. "It's the most powerful known neuro-toxin out there, acting in less than a two-thousandth of a second. In its concentrated form, Mr. Remus was dead before he finished pushing the plunger."

"Where would somebody get this kind of thing?" he asked.

"People who work in game preserves and around wild predators are most likely to have it," Serena replied. "I don't think you can find it around here, but it can be imported."

"Thanks, Serena," Jim said.

Jim left the lab and got onto the elevator. He leaned against the wall, thinking. Jim had found a key on Remus' body, a key to a storage shed over near Southtown. Inside, he and Sandburg had found everything that had been stolen out of Racine's penthouse, amidst a few boxes of Remus' personal possessions. He'd obviously been in the process of leaving town. Still, the man's suicide bothered Jim.

The elevator opened and Jim got out. He strolled into the bullpen and paused in the doorway. Sandburg was in his desk chair, snickering softly. Jim walked over and tapped his partner on the top of his head.

"What's going on, Chuckles?" Jim asked.

"Megan and Boomer solved their homicide case," Sandburg replied, trying to keep a straight face.

Jim arched an eyebrow. "And that's this funny?"

Sandburg shook his head. "No, not quite. It turns out that Megan was right and their killer was a scorned lover trying to make the murder look like a hate crime. I guess the guy didn't want to be outted. The arrest should make the evening news tonight."

Jim could feel a smile tickling the corners of his mouth. "Dare I ask who it was?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Sandburg replied. "Turn around."

He did, just in time to see Lenny Breck escorted down the hall in handcuffs. Jim started to laugh, the smile breaking across his face.

"Well," Jim said. "If it isn't Cascade's very own Public Defender."

In the last few months, Lenny Breck had been responsible for more criminals walking away than any other lawyer in the history of Cascade. Rumors persisted of him offering and accepting bribes in exchange for certain sentences. He was not well liked within the law enforcement community and Jim could only see this as a large piece of poetic justice.

"You think he'll defend himself at his own trial?" Blair asked, also laughing.

"He'll need a better lawyer than himself," David said, walking up to the pair. "With the evidence we've got against him."

Jim nodded. "So, how does it feel to bust the crooked-est crook in the city?"

"Good," David said thoughtfully. "Really good."

Jim thought he saw something in David's eyes—just a momentary flash—but it was gone instantly. He pushed it from his mind and basked in the knowledge that another scumbag was off the streets of his city and in a barred cell where he belonged.

-Finis

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