`I can do this.'

`I can do this.'

The mantra sang like a chorus in Blair Sandburg's head as he drove through the dark, rain-drenched streets of Cascade. He wondered if the rainstorm was messing with his head, turning the alleys into entrances to sinister caves. The buildings looked empty and foreboding. Even the cars parked along the sides of the street seemed out of place. If he didn't know for sure, he'd think he was lost.

The light at the next intersection turned yellow and he cursed. No way was he going to make it through in time, even if he floored it. Yet stopping meant shifting. And shifting meant moving his right arm.

He slowed until his engine lugged. Checking both directions and seeing only empty streets, he rolled through the red light, visibly cringing.

"Sorry, Jim. Promise to stop twice next time I'm in the area," he said, aware no one was with him, but needing to hear something other than the rain hitting the roof of his car.

Only three blocks left.

`Yes! Houston, we have splashdown.'

Blair carefully locked his Corvair, hugging his right arm close to his ribs. Forced to keep his walk slow due to the pain, he was soaked by the time he reached the lobby. The elevator carried him to the third floor and he homed in on the door bearing the numbers 307. The key wouldn't go in for a few seconds and Blair bit back another curse. He was already well over his self allotment of swear words for the day, for the week actually. Besides, he'd wake his roommate.

Finally the key slid in and Blair was home. The loft smelled like garlic and... ah, Jim had made spaghetti. It was a crime to miss his spaghetti dinner. Any other night, Blair would have been head and shoulders in the old-fashioned refrigerator praying for leftovers, but not tonight. Even though his stomach growled, demanding food, all Blair wanted was his futon.

Getting undressed for bed proved to be difficult and painful. Blair gave up after shedding his jeans, outer coat and flannel shirt. Beads of sweat broke out on his wide forehead. Carefully he rolled into bed, just managing to wrap up in the bedspread. Outside the fall night was dark and chilly. Normally Blair would burrow under the collection of wool blankets piled on his bed. Tonight, he didn't care if the thermometer dipped into the teens, he wasn't moving till morning.

It wasn't clear to Jim what pulled him out of his sleep. His internal clock placed the time somewhere around three in the morning. He could hear Mr. Schmidt moving around in his apartment across the hall, getting ready for work. What kind of person lives more than an hour's drive from work, anyway? Talk about spending your life in traffic.

But Schmidt wasn't the reason Jim was blinking at the raindrops hitting the skylight overhead. He could sleep through all the normal apartment-dwelling noises without a problem. Blair once said Jim had the ability to subconsciously register and dismiss all the sounds that belonged.

So what didn't belong?

There it was - Jim lifted his head, listening.

Blair was moaning. Not the moan of a man enjoying a dream, either.

Tossing back his blanket, Jim snagged his robe as he headed for the stairs. He knew Blair had pulled a late-nighter at Rainier. They'd talked briefly on the cell phone while Jim had driven home after work. He'd said something about having to rewrite a paper at the last minute.

Jim navigated the sparsely furnished loft in the dark with ease. Another soft pain-filled moan broke as he parted the curtains and entered his spare storage room-turned-bedroom. Blair was on his side, back facing the doorway.

There was a time Jim would have flipped on a light, grumbled a curt complaint about being woken up and stomped back up the stairs before his roommate fully awoke.

To quote the classics, `That was then - this is now.'

Pupils dilated beyond normal capacity, Jim leaned over his friend and assessed his condition. Blair was sleeping in a long sleeve thermal shirt; his long hair wet. He placed a hand over Blair's forehead, picking up a slight fever, nothing critical, just higher than normal. He'd gone to sleep on top of his blankets, which was another anomaly. Just his bedspread covered his hips and legs. What really didn't fit was the way Blair was hugging his right arm close. Normally, when Jim came home and found the younger man asleep on the couch, usually wearing headphones, both hands were flung out or up over his head.

Another moan sounded, regular as clockwork. Jim watched Blair unconsciously move his left hand towards his right arm, just below his elbow. Keeping his touch light, Jim ran fingers down Blair's right arm.

It was swollen.

"Blair... wake up." Jim gently shook his hip. "Come on. Rise and shine."

"Whaa? J'm... `zup?"

"Your body temperature for one thing," Jim said. "What's wrong with your arm?"

Blair started to move his right hand towards his face, then curled his body into a ball with a groan, cradling his arm with his left hand. "Ohhh... sonofa..."

Jim waited, getting impatient when no information was forthcoming.

"Sandburg? Care to elaborate? What did you do to your arm?"

"Nothing, man," Blair said, obviously doing his best not to look in pain. "It's just a bruise."

"Riiighht." Jim stretched out a hand to check the distal pulse, just above Blair's right thumb.

Blair flinched as if burned.

"Easy, I'm just going to take a look."

"It's nothing. Just a little accident," Blair insisted, his voice rough from sleep. "Go `way."

But Jim had the injured arm captured with both hands now, and Blair wasn't up to pulling free. Something was not right, Jim realized as he felt along the two long bones between the wrist and the elbow.

"Shit! You broke your arm!"

"Nooooo!" Blair moaned pathetically, kicking his leg straight in denial. "It can't be. I don't have time for a broken arm!"

Jim turned the arm loose and stood, running a hand over his face in exasperation. Leave it to Blair. Like ignoring an injury could make it go away. "When did this happen?"

"Go back to bed, Jim," Blair ordered weakly. "It's only bruised. I'll ice it in the morning." He had rolled onto his back now, his `not-broken' arm lying across his chest, cradled protectively by his left arm. His face was lined with pain.

Jim flipped on the lamp by his bed. "Get up, Evel Knievel. We're going to the hospital."

"Jim..."

"Yes?"

Blair blinked a few times, adjusting to the light before focusing on his friend above him. "Can we like... talk about this?"

"Sure." Jim hooked a finger under the blue jean puddle on the floor and held them up. "On the way to Cascade General."

"Blair Sandburg?" The male nurse stood next to the nurse's station, clipboard in hand.

Blair unfurled from his chair. The waiting room was busy for three-thirty in the morning. A mother with a sick child had arrived about ten minutes after them. The kid looked like he had the flu. A heavyset man with a smoker's cough that rattled the windows had already gone back into a treatment room.

"This way, please."

Blair shuffled after the man, pain sending Morse code messages up his arm and shoulder with every step.

Jim followed right behind and Blair felt like snapping an order telling him to `sit' and `stay.' But he didn't. It wasn't Jim's fault he'd broken his arm. And he knew it had broken the minute he'd heard it snap and felt the familiar pain. Just like the time he'd fallen out of that tree. He'd just hoped he was wrong.

Blair managed to perch on the exam table, waiting as Jim gave a medical rundown in his usual efficient narration-style: brief and to the point. He should resent the way the older man seemed to talk on his behalf, but couldn't summons up enough energy to even get irritated. What was it Naomi used to tell him? It took less strength to think happy thoughts, so why work so hard?

The nurse, an older man with a single braid down his back, nodded as he wrapped Blair's left bicep in a cuff and hit a button that began to flow air and take a reading of his blood pressure. "We'll notify the lab that you'll be coming up for an X-ray. Open please."

Blair accepted the thermometer under his tongue, thinking about Jim's description of the break. It occurred to him that Jim not only could not only feel the break, but knew exactly which of the two bones were broken. Wow. What if Jim had picked medicine over law enforcement? He'd have been an awesome doctor or even a surgeon. With his sense of touch and practice, he could become the ...

"Sandburg." Jim was sounding exasperated again. "Did you hear the question?"

Blair shook his head and the nurse repeated himself. "Are you on any medications?" When Blair shook his head again, the nurse continued down a long list of questions, looking up to see if Blair's head moved side to side or up and down. Finally, they were through and the thermometer was removed. After making a notation on his chart, the nurse headed for the doorway, telling them the doctor would be right in.

Jim was leaning against a stainless steel counter. "So, how'd this happen?"

Blair shrugged. "Well, I was in my office..."

"Okay, I understand you might have a broken arm." A large woman swept into the room, reminding Blair of a grandmother on speed. "Let's take a look."

She moved fast for her age and size. Blair yelped as she prodded the swollen limb and grunted. "Move your fingers... that the best you can do? Here, squeeze my hand. Humph, off to X-Ray, young man. Frank's got your wheelchair waiting."

Blair found himself being pushed down the white corridor towards the bank of elevators.

"Was that the doctor?"

Frank laughed. "Oh yeah, believe me. No one sits around twiddling their thumbs on this shift."

When the first light of dawn reached the wet streets of Cascade, Blair was sporting a white cast from his finger tips to just below his shoulder. He sighed gloomily as he waited for Jim to open the passenger side door. Tossing the bag of prescription medication onto the floorboard, he clumsily climbed in.

He was so screwed.

"Thanks, Jim," Blair said as they drove out of the parking lot.

"You're welcome. You'd better call the university. You're not going to feel like working for a few days."

Letting his head fall back against his seat, Blair considered his options. He could phone in, in fact, this might get him an extension he needed on that stupid paper that he'd been forced to rewrite last night. The one his computer had somehow messed up, or maybe it was a case of a bad disk. Whatever the cause, it resulted in starting over from scratch and the second draft just didn't measure up to the first.

"Maybe I'll call the department head and let him know, then call my advisor," Blair admitted slowly.

"You never got a chance to tell me how you broke your arm," Jim reminded him. The rain fell with increased intensity. Jim changed the wiper setting from intermittent to constant.

"Oh." Blair adjusted the sling, already hating the way it bit into his neck. "Well, it was actually kind of embarrassing..."

Jim's cell phone rang.

"Hold that thought... Ellison."

Blair listened in, recognizing that Jim was getting information about a new case, probably by Simon. Jim got that furrow between his eyebrows whenever he listened to something less than pleasant. And judging by the way the cop was dropping the corners of his mouth into a frown, it didn't sound good.

"Okay... yeah, I know where it's at...ah," He glanced over at Blair. "No, make that an hour. I need to run Sandburg back to the loft first."

Blair shook his head, waving his good arm in the air in a cutting motion. "No, man. I'm good to go."

"Hold on a sec, Simon." Jim pulled the truck over to the shoulder and pressed the small cell phone against his shirt. "Chief, you've just had a broken arm set, you should rest. Not follow me around at a new crime scene."

"I'm fine," Blair insisted. "Come on, Jim. Time's a wasting."

The furrow deepened. "Okay, but I'm not running you home halfway through this investigation. You better be sure you're one hundred percent."

"Just tell Simon we're on our way," Blair ordered, making shooing motions with his left hand.

The rain was falling hard as Jim parked his truck next to a marked patrol car. Rummaging around behind his seat, he pulled out a battered Jags cap and handed it to his partner.

"Thanks." Blair set it firmly on his head, doing a fair job of hiding the fact he'd never combed his hair that morning.

Jim eyed the building he'd been told to report to. Cinderblock exterior walls with a flat roof, it looked ready to be torn down. Judging by the heavy equipment on location, someone had given orders to do just that. Faint letters were still visible on the side of the building facing the street: Cascade Valley Rendering Company. The parking lot was hard dirt, soon to become mud.

"Looks like a hold over from when the area was a big ranching and farming community," Blair noted, eyeing the dilapidated structure.

Jim nodded, seeing the new housing tracts being built on all sides of the old property. "More good farming soil buried under concrete and asphalt. They're probably planning to put up a shopping center." He opened the door, visually planning the quickest route through the mud puddles to the main entrance. "Try not to slip and break your other arm, Sandburg. See you inside."

Jim made the shelter of the small overhang without becoming soaked. Opening the door, he wasn't prepared for the heavy wave of death in the air.

"...-ome on, Jim. Now's not the time! I can't hold you up right now."

Blair sounded desperate. Jim's brain sent an urgent message to his legs. `Get to work and stand straight.' He could feel Blair's left arm was around his ribs, the only thing keeping him from sliding down to the concrete.

"Jim? Dude, work with me here," Blair said in a quiet, yet insistent, voice.

"Sorry, Chief." Jim managed to get his knees to lock and find his balance. His hand flew to his nose as he backed away from Blair, the doorway, and the god-awful stench pouring out from inside.

"What's wrong? What caused your zone?" Blair followed him into the rain.

"Can't you smell that?" Jim asked. "Shit, it's like a thousand years of death in there."

"Oh, man! Of course, it's a meat processing plant. With your nose... you've got to turn it down, Jim. Breathe through your mouth for a while," Blair said.

Jim pinched his nose, fighting the urge to gag. If this is what being a sentinel entailed, he wanted out. "I can't."

"Yes, you can!" Blair insisted. "You think a tribal sentinel never happened upon an animal carcass before? Just let your natural ability kick in, you'll adjust. I swear."

Standing in the pouring rain, Jim shot Blair a look of disbelief. Blair held his own, virtually radiating confidence in his hypothesis. It did make sense, actually.

"You can, Jim. Don't let your first reaction take you out of the game."

Jim released his nose. He could either go in there or stand out here and continue to get soaked. "You sure?"

"Yep. Now, come on, before I get the urge to build an ark."

This time when Jim opened the door, prepared to get hit with the wall of stench, it wasn't as bad. He made sure to breathe through his mouth. A uniformed cop was waiting for them inside. The front of the building had been set up for offices. Broken sheetrock and fractured glass littered the floor. Everything of value looked like it was being removed for possible reuse.

"Detectives?" A female cop stood, her hand comfortably resting on her holstered sidearm.

"Ellison, Major Crime." Jim flipped open his ID. "This is Blair Sandburg."

She nodded. "Amanda Vasser. The body's back here." She turned to lead the way. "The construction crew was working on a back wall when they spotted it. They stopped and called 911. We haven't touched anything."

The office cubicles opened up to a large room. It appeared to be where the butchering took place. Metal tracks with sliding hooks ran along the ceiling. The floor changed from dingy carpet to rough concrete.

Jim concentrated on breathing through his mouth. Judging by the cop's expression, she didn't appear to be smelling anything foul. This had to be his sentinel senses acting up. Blair was right. He just needed his brain to tell his nose to back off.

"Here it is." She pointed to a section of an exterior wall. A male cop, presumably Vasser's partner, stood nearby.

The sheetrock had been torn down from the wooden studs, exposing the inside of the wall. Fine dirt covered everything, even the cobwebs inside. The insulation Jim would have expected to see was missing.

"Oh...man." Blair shuddered a little and looked away.

The skeleton was slumped sideways, his pelvic bone resting on the wall's floor, held upright by close proximity of the two-by-four studs running vertical on either side. Enough dried tissue had remained to keep the spine and skull attached. Jim could see small, unattached bones with tiny rodent-sized chew marks were scattered about on the floor inside the wall.

Slipping on his crime scene gloves, his eyes caught a glint of metal around what used to be the body's neck. He reached into the folds of an old black rain coat and found a gold chain. Using his fingers to carefully lift it out of the musty smelling clothing, he discovered a small gold crucifix.

Damn, he was hoping for some medical ID tag. Wishful thinking.

The white collar of the body's shirt under the raincoat caught his attention. He opened up the raincoat to get a better look.

"Holy Mother of God!" Vasser exclaimed quietly. "A priest!"

Jim looked up at the skull, noting the small hole in the skull, above the dual sockets that seemed to stare back mournfully from the skeleton's unusual grave.

Who would shoot a priest?

Jim shook his head, thinking of the work and fanfare this case promised; a murdered priest - wonderful. He couldn't remember hearing about a missing priest. Either this was a very old murder or it happened somewhere else and they had picked this building to hide the body.

"Let's get a forensic team down here," Jim said. "Where's the crew that opened the wall?"

"Outside. They've got a portable trailer set up behind the building, they're waiting inside," the male cop told him.

They had a long day ahead of them. Jim mentally organized the different tasks that needed to be done. He needed to call Simon and warn him. Once the word got out, every paper from the New York Times to the National Enquirer was likely to splash it across their front page.

Every time Blair thought the pain in his arm was getting to be too much, he'd look over at that wall. At least he could feel pain. The wall no longer housed the skeleton in priest's clothing. Dan Wolfe had personally attended this crime scene. Captain Simon Banks had also stopped in on his way to a meeting. Blair felt like selling tickets. The skeleton had been photographed, measured, and marked before being transferred to a special box and carried away. It had taken the team of specialists hours and Blair had to admire the obvious care they took to document their findings.

The construction workers were gone now. Interviews completed, they'd all left, grim faced and subdued. Blair wasn't sure if they were angry over the fact someone had died or because the job was on hold, maybe a little of both.

An upside down, empty five-gallon bucket made a poor seat and Blair shifted a little as he waited, trying to ignore the pain coming from inside the cast. He watched Jim talk with one of the remaining forensic technicians. He didn't seem to be having any more problems with the smell. Blair had noted a musty odor at first, but nothing like what Jim must have experienced. It was just plain incredible. Every time Blair got a glimpse of Jim's range of abilities, it blew him away. What would Jim be like years from now, after the advantages of training and experience?

"Ready to leave?"

Blair came back to earth and blinked up at the object of his musings. "We're done?"

"Yep," Jim said with almost an indulgent expression as he captured Blair's good elbow and helped him to his feet. "We've missed breakfast and lunch. How about we swing by Paolo's for an early dinner?"

Blair liked that plan, a lot. "Yeah, I could eat. Then, maybe you could drop me off at Rainier? I should at least be there for my office hours and get a few things squared away."

Jim didn't look very happy. "What you should do is take a pain pill and rest at home. I still need to go down to the station, but I can swing by the loft and drop you off."

Blair had to smile. Jim used the word home. Even though they'd talked during the last few weeks and it was clear Blair could stay on, it still felt strange. For the last ten years, Blair had used words like dorm, warehouse and even `crashing on the couch'; he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard the word `home'.

Maybe... never?

"I'm fine, man. And I really, really need to do this. If I'm lucky, I can get the next two days cleared and help you with this case," Blair told him as they walked through the building back towards the entrance.

"Okay, first food, then Rainier."

"Thanks, I'll catch a bus back when I'm done."

"No, call me. I'll pick you up."

"You don't have to do that."

"It's no big deal, Sandburg. Just call my cell phone."

"Right," Blair said. Having a home seemed to come with his own personal six-foot-plus walking conscience.

Jim parked under a streetlight. Rainier was deserted. The rain had been consistent all day, filling the gutters and moving around the dead leaves till they blocked the storm drains. Deep pools of dirty water lined the edges of the road. Savvy pedestrians stayed clear, knowing thoughtless drivers would send large rooster-tails of cold water across the sidewalks as they drove by.

He caught sight of a familiar shape heading towards the truck, shoulders rounded as he walked. Blair's hair was soaked when he climbed in with awkward movements.

"Hey."

"Where's that cap I gave you this morning?" Jim asked, turning up the heater before pulling out of the parking lot.

"It's safe," Blair assured him. "It's locked in my office."

That wasn't the point Jim was trying to make. It should be on his friend's head. How could someone with so many degrees be so dense at times? He chanced a quick glance over to see Blair sitting unnaturally still; his head tilted back, eyes closed in exhaustion as his left hand fumbled unsuccessfully for the seatbelt hanging by his right shoulder. Jim gently stopped the truck, reached over his friend and pulled the belt out to click the buckle into place.

Blair never even opened his eyes.

"Thanks."

"Welcome. How's the arm?"

Blair cracked one eye open and peered in Jim's direction. "Sore, man. Very sore. How's the investigation going?"

"Slowly. We found a grocery receipt in the victim's pocket. Dated three months ago."

"Any ID?"

"None. Except for the receipt and a few beads, all the pockets were empty." Jim slowed the truck as they neared a miniature lake newly formed in the intersection ahead. This was going to be a deep one. The water briefly touched the undercarriage before they got through. Jim tapped the brakes lightly without thinking, to dry the brake shoes. "We know the body was a man. Dan thinks he might be young. I've called the local churches in town, put out a few feelers to see if anyone's missing a priest. Left some messages. Did you take any pain medication?"

"Nah, I'm going to try some tea when we get home," Blair said around a wide yawn. "Got the next two days off. But still have some office hours on Friday. So I can help with the case. I'm surprised a body can become a skeleton in only three months. I thought it took longer."

"You're probably thinking about bodies buried underground or submerged under water. That takes longer," Jim explained. "Temperature is the biggie with decomposition. That and animals. In fact, a lot of things come into play. Flies probably did the first damage by laying eggs inside the body. Their larva will eat most of the organs and tissue. I understand the maggots can hatch and grow within the first day. We had some warm days in August and September. The fact the body was wearing clothes also speeds up the process. And your new age tea is not going to begin to touch the pain you're in, Sandburg."

"I'm not in pain, Jim. I'm just tired," Blair insisted. "And wet... and cold. I was hungry, but your little verbal walk through the land of pathology took care of that."

Jim chuckled. "So, dinner at Tony Roma's is out, huh? Too bad, I was hunkering for some of those ribs."

That comment drew a long groan from the other man. "I think I just became a vegetarian, Jim. Way to go."

Once they arrived back at the loft, Blair headed for his room. Jim took a second to fill the kettle with water, light the stove and crank up the heat in the loft before knocking on the doorframe to Blair's bedroom. "Need a hand?"

Blair was standing in a pair of gray sweatpants, his jeans already kicked into a far corner, his damp shirt up over his head. He looked stuck. Jim took the hem of his roommate's Henley and gently finished pulling it up, freeing his head. They worked the shirt off over his cast as a team. Blair's face was white from pain; fine lines marred his normally cheerful expression.

"How about soup?" Jim asked.

Blair was shivering as he lifted a heavy sweatshirt out of a pile of clothes sitting in a laundry basket on the floor. Jim didn't wait for permission as they repeated the process in reverse.

"Nah, I'm just going to crawl under these covers and crash," Blair told him, heading for the futon.

"Wait, at least dry your hair." Jim picked up an off-white towel from the same basket and waited for permission to proceed.

A corner of Blair's mouth lifted a little in a tired smile. "You some kind of rich man's butler in a previous life? Okay, bring it on," he invited as he sat on the edge of the mattress.

Jim tossed the towel over the wet locks and began to briskly rub. "You're going to be bad enough with a busted arm, let's not add a head cold," Jim teased.

Blair's hair was reasonably dry again. Jim covered his pillow with the towel before lifting the blankets. Blair crawled into bed with a groan.

"What about that tea?" Jim asked.

"Too tired, I'll drink it in the morning," Blair answered, his eyes already closed.

"Suit yourself, Sandburg." He turned off the light as he left. "Good night."

"Night, man... and thanks."

The next morning the rain was still coming down, like a visiting cousin that refused to leave. Jim kept his speed slower than normal as he drove through the quiet, prestigious neighborhood on the north side of Cascade called Elk Wood Heights. Enormous homes built to resemble English Tudors were visible through wrought iron gates and perfectly trimmed hedges.

"Wow, I wonder what a house like that costs?" Blair asked, pointing at a particularly large mansion.

"I have a feeling just the yearly property tax would clean out my savings," Jim admitted. These places made his old man's house look like a shack. He spotted a spindly peaked roof in the distance. "There's the church."

"So, they reported a missing priest?" Blair asked.

"Yep."

"How come no official report was made?"

"Don't know. That's on my list of `to ask' questions, Chief," Jim admitted, silently amused with Blair's cop-like question. It was the very first thing he'd wondered when he'd taken the call. He pulled into a small parking lot next to a large stone and brick church with ornate stained glass windows over two stories high. English ivy climbed the walls.

After climbing the stone steps to the tall wooden doors, they found them locked. Spotting a small sign low on the wall with an arrow and the word office, Jim nudged his partner's shoulder and headed off. They located a smaller unlocked door that led them into a bright office-looking room. A young woman wearing a long broomstick skirt and peasant blouse greeted them with a smile. She wore her long brown hair in a single braid down her back and no makeup.

"May I help you?" she asked, looking up from her typing. Jim noticed pictures of exotic vacation destinations scotch taped to her work station and on her computer. They looked like the type someone might cut from a magazine.

"We're here to see Father Clark," Jim explained, holding his badge and ID out. "I'm Detective Jim Ellison, this is Blair Sandburg."

"Oh... certainly. I'll just see if he's available." She stood, nearly matching Jim's height and disappeared through a back door, only to return a few minutes later. "He'll see you both, please come in."

A white-haired man with a friendly smile stood as Jim and Blair entered. He shook Jim's hand, his smile diminishing to a grimace of sympathy as he noticed Blair's arm. "Oh my, that looks painful."

Blair gave him a slight smile. "It's nothing really. Looks worse than it actually is."

"Well, that's good. Please, sit down. Would you like some coffee?"

Before Jim could decline, Blair was accepting and the old man was out from behind his desk, fiddling with coffee filters and grinding beans. Jim made a mental note to talk to Blair. Although the priest was in no way a suspect, they were still investigating a murder. It was too early in the case to know who the players were. Jim preferred to keep his interviews to the point, absent of the social practices and customs.

"Coffee is my one indulgence from God, I think," the old man admitted as he measured whole beans into a mill and turned the dial.

Jim steeled himself for the sound of the beans as they were crushed; a sound that he never did enjoy. He looked around the office while he waited. The floor was wood, lovingly waxed. The large desk was placed in front of a stained glass window, so the priest sat with the light to his back. The other three walls were made up entirely of bookshelves. Books of all sizes lined the shelves, looking well cared for. Most books displayed titles on their spines that related to the church or studies of the Bible. After the coffee was started, the priest returned to his seat.

"Father Clark, we understand you had another priest who worked with you during the summer," Jim began.

"That's correct, detective." A frown appeared briefly on the priest's face. "Father Nathan. He was with us for six months before he left."

Jim shifted in the leather chair. "Left? Where did he go?"

The old man looked trapped for a moment, then gently pulled on his earlobe as he answered. "To be perfectly frank, I don't know."

"So it wasn't a planned trip?" Blair asked.

"No. To my knowledge, he told no one of his plans to leave."

"Isn't that rather odd? Why didn't you contact the police?" Jim asked.

Father Clark stood, went to the door and closed it all the way, then moved to check on his coffee. "I did report his absence to the Bishop. I wanted to go to the police, but was instructed not to."

The coffee was filling rapidly and Father Clark removed the carafe from its holder to pour two cups. Some sort of internal plug must have kicked in, because only one drip of coffee hit the burner and sizzled until it disappeared. The faint odor of burnt coffee reached Jim's nose.

"What about his friends?" Blair asked.

"Father Nathan was new to Cascade. I'm afraid I don't know much about him. None of his family is alive, that I was able to find, anyway."

"So you did investigate," Jim noted.

"Yes." Father Clark set the two coffee cups on the edge of his desk. Blair's had a logo for the Smithsonian Museum and Jim's had a picture of Mickey Mouse. "I even went to his apartment. I got the manager to let me in and found his personal things missing. I had to assume he left. It's not the first time a young man was unable to follow through with his calling."

"How old was Father Nathan?" Jim asked.

"Twenty- seven. He moved here from Kansas. He may have gone back for all I know."

The skeleton, according to Dan Wolf, was of a man whose age was anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five, so Father Nathan fit. Jim took a sip of his coffee. He couldn't hide his amazement from his host's observation. The old man smiled faintly.

"One hundred per cent Kona, from Hawaii. One of my parishioners owns a house there. He brings me a supply once a month," the priest explained.

"It's very good, thank you," Jim replied automatically. He couldn't shake the feeling the old man was not being completely honest with him. When he talked about anything other than the missing priest, he seemed normal. But when he spoke of Father Nathan, the old man's heart rate picked up and his face seemed to darken slightly. The priest would never be a very good liar; his body seemed to tattle on him. "So, officially, you and the church did all you could. What about unofficial? Don't you have some idea why a twenty-seven year old man would up and disappear?"

Father Clark was busy pouring his own cup of coffee, his back to the two men sitting in his office. "No... I'm baffled."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Jim asked.

The old man returned to his desk, coffee in hand and checked a black book on his desk, flipping a few pages before answering. "We had a meeting... the second Monday in August. I think that may have been the last time. He didn't show on the following Saturday evening for mass."

It was time to lay all the cards on the table. "We found a body yesterday. Unfortunately, we'll have to wait until we can match his dental records. But the man was wearing a priest's collar when he died."

The coffee cup trembled in the old man's hand, spilling large drops onto the hardwood floor. The priest hurriedly set the mug down. "Oh... this is terrible... I never imagined he was dead."

"Jim!" Blair jumped up, nodding his head urgently.

The old man looked suddenly feeble and Jim sprang out of his seat to assist before he fell. "Easy, sir. Let's sit you back down." He guided the priest back to his chair; with Blair taking the man's other arm. "I'm sorry, I know this is hard. Father Nathan appears to be the only missing priest in the area for the time frame we're looking at."

"But... he was... why... none of this makes any sense," Father Clark muttered as he sank back into his office chair with Jim's help.

"We're not saying for sure the body is Father Nathan. But in light of what you've told us, we need more information," Jim explained.

Blair hovered at Jim's side. "Can we get you something, sir? Water?"

"No, no." Father Clark sat up straight, visibly pulling his emotions in. He reached for a string of beads on his desk and began to absentmindedly finger them as he spoke. "Forgive me, it's just the shock. I never imagined this was the reason he left." He squared his shoulders, pinning Jim with a determined look. "What do you need to make sure?"

Jim pulled Blair back and they returned to their seats. "Well, for starters, we need the name of Father Nathan's dentist."

The old priest grimaced as if in pain, but nodded. "I'll have my secretary get his file."

Blair adjusted his arm, trying to relieve the pressure on his neck.

"Here." Keeping his eyes on the road as he drove, Jim reached one long arm behind the front seats of his Ford and pulled out an extra winter coat he stored for emergencies. "Roll it up. Rest your cast on it."

"Thanks." Blair clumsily rolled the garment up with his left hand until it was bulky enough to raise his injured arm, relieving the pressure on his neck. "Ahhhh, that's better. So, what do you think? Is the skeleton Father Nathan?"

Jim shrugged. "No point in speculating until we match the dental records. Simon should get that subpoena after lunch. We'll pick up the film and bring it to Dan personally."

Blair nodded, looking down at the picture the priest had given him. Father Nathan had been photographed unaware. He was standing in front of an outside grill somewhere. A light blue apron covered his dark shirt and pants. He wore the typical priest collar, maybe the same one he had died in. The man held a long spatula in his right hand and was smiling into the camera. He looked like a young Jim, tall and strong. "Is it just me, or was Father Clark not telling us the entire truth. He acted like he had his own theory why Father Nathan left. But he didn't share."

Jim huffed. "We'll make a cop out of you yet, Sandburg."

"So you agree? Did you pick something up when we talked to him?" Blair asked.

"Maybe, he was having a hard time controlling his heart rate and he got a little flushed when he said he didn't know why Nathan left."

"He wasn't the only one with the racing heart, man," Blair said lightly. "You made a hit with the secretary, too. What was her name? Cindy?"

Jim rolled his eyes and shot a glare at his companion, before returning to his task of driving through the current downpour. Blair had to smile, remembering the way the secretary had sized up Jim with her eyes. Not that the woman wasn't attractive in her own way, she just wasn't the type Blair had seen Jim take an interest in.

"So, where we going?" Blair asked.

"I want to check out Father Nathan's address," Jim answered.

They found the apartment complex and had to park three blocks away. Both sides of the street were lined with old cars, some with flat tires. Parking appeared to be a premium commodity in the neighborhood. Either everyone took a bus to work or they didn't have jobs at all.

Unable to stand the pain in his arm when he jogged to keep up, Blair was forced to follow Jim at a slower pace, becoming soaked in the process. He felt his hair grow heavy with moisture and mentally kicked himself for not wearing a coat with a hood or even Jim's borrowed hat. He caught up to Jim just as the door to the manager's office was opened by a heavyset woman wearing purple sweats. A small overhang above offered them protection from the weather.

"Yes?"

"I'm Detective Ellison. This is my partner, Blair Sandburg." Jim waited patiently as the woman scrutinized the leather case that held his ID and badge. She wore glasses and kept tilting her head up and down like a person getting used to new bifocals. "We're interested in looking at the apartment Father Nathan rented? Number 211?"

She nodded, seemingly satisfied with Jim's identity. "That's right. But he doesn't live there anymore. I had to list it again."

"We understand, ma'am." Jim tucked his ID back in his jacket. "Has anyone rented it?"

"No."

"Can we look around?" Jim asked.

"He's the skeleton that was found in that old building, wasn't he?" she exclaimed loudly in stunned disbelief.

What? Blair paused in squeezing the water from his hair. How in the world did this woman find out?

"I just saw it on the news!" she continued, opening her door a little wider and pointing to a TV set in the corner. "They said it was wearing a priest collar and some construction guys found it inside a wall. That was my tenant?"

Jim held up a hand to still the woman. "Ma'am, we don't have the identity established yet. We're just following up on a few leads. Do you think we could look at that apartment?"

She disappeared for a few moments to get her keys and Jim exchanged a sour look with Blair. "Just perfect, the press got wind."

Blair tagged along behind as she led them up a narrow flight of concrete stairs and along an exposed balcony. The building was dreary, with the paint peeling in large flakes and weathered looking doors. The woman walked as if every step was an Olympic event. Layers of body fat rolled and jiggled under the purple cloth. She was breathing heavily by the time she paused at a door and unlocked it with her key. She flipped on a light switch before walking inside.

"An old guy came by." She took a breath. "I let him in. He said they worked together." Another breath and Blair wondered if she smoked. "Didn't find anything. This furniture comes with the apartment." She waved a hand at a beat up gold and brown plaid couch and a dark green upholstered rocker as if showing the place off to perspective renters.

Blair watched Jim walk through the small apartment, disappearing into a back bedroom and returning a few seconds later. The kitchen was tiny, about the size of a closet. Nothing had been left out. No food had been left in the cupboards and the refrigerator was turned off.

"You've had the placed cleaned?" Jim asked.

"I did it myself. Kept his deposit, too." She stuck her multiple chins up in the air slightly as if she expected either man to rebuke her. "I had to get the place ready to rent again."

Jim nodded, his eyes searching the living room again. "I'd like to look around if that's okay. We promise to lock up when we're done."

"I don't know if I should." She scratched her plump wrist with purple fingernails. "I guess so. Just don't go making a mess, okay?"

"We promise. Thanks."

After the woman left, Jim started on the sofa, pulling up the cushions to search underneath. "If she cleaned, it was just to run a few swipes with a vacuum." He reached in with a hand.

"Whatcha got?" Blair asked.

"Seventy three cents and a receipt from a restaurant," Jim said, standing straight and reading the print on the slip of paper. "Gethro's."

"Never heard of it," Blair said.

Jim looked around the room. "Let's finish going over the apartment first, then go check it out."

"What I want to know is who cleaned out the priest's apartment," Blair wondered out loud as they entered the police station. They had ended up searching Father Nathan's home for over two hours. Jim was nothing if not thorough. Nothing else in the way of a possible clue was found.

"My money's on the killer," Jim said. "He probably took his wallet and keys after he shot him, then went to his place to clean it out."

"That's sick, man. Why do all that?"

"Hard to say, we don't have a motive yet. Maybe after we discover the motive, we'll find the killer."

Blair shifted his cast in its sling. "Yeah, too bad no one remembered seeing him at the restaurant."

The restaurant had been a dead end. No one remembered a priest from last July. Judging by the size of the lunch crowd in the trendy bistro, Jim wasn't surprised. When Blair had asked for a table, the manager had shaken his head. Without a reservation, you didn't get near Gethro's, which left them with the Wonder Burger option. Jim didn't mind, but his partner had been less than pleased.

They found Dan Wolfe happily working in his world of cadavers, scalpels and large, metal drawers. He looked up as they entered, a smirk on his face. "Heard your case made a nice splash with the media."

"Yeah, we had to sneak in through the parking garage," Jim admitted. "The press was waiting to ambush us on the street."

"How'd they find out so fast, anyway?" Blair asked.

"They monitor police frequencies," Jim said. "Probably found a patrol officer with a big mouth to talk with. Word gets around. I'm surprised we managed to keep it quiet as long as we did." He folded his arms across his chest. "So, what do you have for us, Dan?"

"Not a lot. Obviously the victim died from a head injury," Dan said. "I've got the bones in the back." He led them into a smaller room where the skeleton was laid out on a table, the skull and rib cage above the pelvic girdle. One complete leg was assembled, the other missing the bones below the knee. None of the finger bones were lined up yet, but both arms bones were laid out to the wrists. "We've lost part of the skeleton. I'd guess rodents, since it was unlikely anything bigger got inside that wall."

That made sense to Jim and he nodded. "We looking at a gunshot to the head?"

"Yeah, in fact, I've got the proof." Dan held up a small, flattened piece of lead with a pair of forceps. "We found the bullet inside the skull. When I realized there was no exit wound, I dug around a bit."

Jim squinted at the bullet. "Looks like a twenty-two."

"Yep, I agree. I was just getting it ready to send to the Feds."

"Good. Anything else?" Jim asked.

"Just waiting on a dental match. Any luck finding a missing priest?" Dan asked.

"Maybe. I'll get some dental records to you later today," Jim told him.

"What about those beads Jim said was found in the pockets?" Blair asked.

"Ah... over here." Dan picked up a clear baggie. "We found three, they all match."

"May I?" Blair reached for the bag, accepting it after Jim gave Dan the nod. "I think these might be from a rosary."

"You mean like the one Father Clark had in his office?" Jim asked.

"Right, each bead represents a prayer. A set of ten beads stand for a mystery," Blair said.

"A mystery? What's that?" Dan asked.

"It's been a while since I read about this," Blair said, flashing a grin. "Naomi was never big on organized religion, except a few Jewish ceremonies when I was a kid. But I did a paper on the Catholics' belief in miracles, so I read about rosaries."

"And your point?" Jim pressed, knowing Blair could spend hours on a subject without finding one.

"Oh, my original point was the rosary has a certain amount of beads to be complete," Blair said, waving the bag slightly in his left hand before passing it back to Dan. "I was just getting ready to answer Dan's question about the mysteries, man. You see, the way I think it goes, the job of each set of beads is to remind the believer of something specific, like Christ's sorrows or miracles. Stuff like that. They call them mysteries."

"We have three beads from a set of ten. None were found in the wall, so where are the rest?" Jim asked, eyeing the beads. They looked old, not made of plastic or even glass. He took the baggie from Dan and opened it carefully, taking a tentative sniff. A musty odor of old death clung to them, underneath that, he picked up another smell.

"Roses."

"Really?" Blair leaned in to smell. "Must be faint, man. I'm not getting anything."

"Yeah, it is faint. But it's there," Jim admitted, passing Dan the baggie when his cell phone began to ring. "Ellison."

"Jim, your subpoena's ready," Simon's voice said gruffly in Jim's ear. "The dentist will be expecting you. Get those films to Dan. I want something solid for a four o'clock press meeting the brass called today."

An ache rose behind Jim's eyes. He knew what was coming next and he wasn't disappointed. Still, he tried to beg off. "Simon, I don't..."

"Save it for your lady friends, Ellison. You will be there."

He hung his head in defeat. "Yes, Sir."

The press meeting was well attended. Blair stood off to one side, doing his best to stay out of the way. A dozen lights were shining on Jim and Simon as the TV cameras recorded their answers. They knew the name of the man left inside the wall. It was in fact Nathan Seahurst, the twenty-seven year old man missing from Saint Peter Catholic Church. But they couldn't tell the press yet. They had family to notify first.

The press didn't give up though as they tried to ask the very questions that Simon had already made clear they could not answer. Blair had to admit, Simon did a decent job of keeping control of the meeting. He'd delivered the prepared release with a professional air and ended by allowing the reporters to ask Jim a few questions. What a laugh. Blair would have smiled if not for the throbbing pain in his arm. Each question they asked was met with Jim's single response.

"It's under investigation. I'm not at liberty to comment."

Finally, they gave up. Either tired of the same answer to all their questions or realizing they had to hustle to make the five o'clock news, they packed up and left.

"Well, that was fun," Jim drawled, rubbing his forehead, obviously fighting a headache from the lights.

"Yes, isn't it though? Glad you could share in the experience," Simon answered with a smug look, taking a cigar from his pocket. "We've got an APB out on the priest's car. Maybe we'll get lucky. Why don't you two call it a day? Sandburg looks ready to collapse."

Blair leaned away from the wall, indignation building within. Sure he was a little tired and his arm felt like the cast had shrunk three inches, but he was holding his own. "What do you mean? I'm fine."

"Thanks, Simon," Jim said, snagging Blair's good arm at his elbow and towing him towards the elevators. "We'll see you in the morning."

After the doors closed, Blair turned to Jim. "I am fine."

"Riiight."

"I am, damn it!"

"Listen Lefty, we've been on the run all day. I'm tired, have a king-size headache and I have two good arms. Your face is pale, you're trembling and your body temperature is up. You got - what? Maybe four hours sleep total last night? Admit it. It's time to take a pain pill and get some rest."

The doors opened and Jim walked out into the parking garage, leaving Blair to struggle for an answer. He followed at a slower pace in the taller man's wake. He had slept badly last night. Every time he had rolled over, the cast would bump the wall or something and wake him.

"Okay, but other than that, I'm fine."

Jim didn't reply as they got inside the truck and drove towards the entrance. The metal security gate began to open as Jim's truck neared. The rain was falling lightly, almost a mist. The streetlights were lit in the darkening gloom of dusk making it hard to see the figure standing just outside the gate.

"Who's that?" Blair asked.

Jim peered at the person in the raincoat, his face registering surprise. "It's the secretary from the church."

"What's she want?"

"Let's find out." Jim hit the button on the door, rolling down his window. No cars were driving into the garage, so he turned the wheel to drive up to the curb. "Miss? Cindy, isn't it? Can we help you?"

Blair leaned forward. He could see she'd been crying. Her eyes were puffy, her nose red. She wore a black cape with a hood. The bottom of her long skirt was wet from the weather.

"I didn't know," she said tearfully. "When you came to the church earlier, I...I didn't know Father Nathan was dead."

"I'm sorry," Jim told her. "We just verified it a few hours ago. Did you know him very well?"

She nodded as a fresh batch of tears fell from her eyes. Blair's heart twisted at the sight. She looked so lost. "Jim, we can't leave her, man."

"Why don't you let us buy you some coffee?" Jim said, opening the driver's door and getting out. He tilted the back of his seat forward and helped her onto the small back bench. "If you're up to it, we'd like to ask you some questions. Then we can bring you back here or take you home. Did you drive?"

She climbed in, her hood falling back from her face to reveal her long brown wavy hair. Blair had to admit, she really was pretty.

"I... I took the bus. I wanted to talk to you, Detective." She settled into the backseat.

Jim climbed back in and closed the door. "There's a coffee shop just around the block. How about we talk there, then we'll drive you home."

They found the caf and managed to get the last booth in the back. Cindy seemed a little more in control as she sipped the coffee. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to talk to you."

"It's okay," Jim told her. "I'm sorry about Father Nathan."

She smiled sadly, her gaze dropping to study her hands as they clutched her coffee cup. "He was so nice. He knew I wasn't a Catholic, but he was still so nice to me. Father Nathan made me see the beauty of his belief. He was so helpful." She broke off in a quiet sob before continuing. "And it got him killed."

"How do you mean?" Jim asked, taking a few napkins from the dispenser on the table and handing them over.

She pressed them to her eyes to catch her tears as she talked. "Everyone thought he ran away with Teresa, but he wouldn't. He loved the Church; he wouldn't leave his calling. She got him killed."

Blair held his breath, afraid to move, to risk interrupting the woman or distracting her as she talked. Jim hunched his shoulders forward, as he leaned across the table. "Who's Teresa? What's her last name?"

Cindy dropped her hand and began worrying the napkin as she explained, "Teresa Reano. She disappeared the same time Father Nathan did."

"Reano?" Jim repeated, looking over at Blair with a puzzled expression. "And no one has seen her either?"

Cindy shook her head. "No, her family goes to the church. I know her father was very upset when she disappeared. I heard him in Father Clark's office, yelling how Father Nathan ran off with his daughter." Cindy looked up pleadingly. "He wouldn't, though. I knew he wouldn't. I c-can't believe he's really dead."

Blair closed his bloodshot eyes and leaned back against the wall of the elevator as it carried them to the third floor. He looked like crap and for the tenth time that day, Jim felt guilty. He should have insisted his roommate stay in the loft today.

"How's the arm?"

"It's still attached."

"You need to elevate it. I'll fix some stir fry while you lay down. By the way, you never got around to telling me how you broke it."

"Okay, but you've got to promise not to laugh," Blair ordered.

The elevator door opened with its usual squeaky door and Jim automatically turned down his hearing to compensate. They walked towards their home side by side. He never heard the three men that stood in the shadowy corners of the hallway until he felt the end of a gun in his ribs.

"Turn around and you're dead." The voice had a casual tone that spoke of a killer who knew his business.

"I'm a cop," Jim said calmly as he felt his gun being removed from its holster.

"We know. Move."

They obeyed, heading down the hallway. Jim could hear Blair's heart trying to break free from his ribcage. While the gunman's stayed slow and even.

Reaching the door, Jim was ordered to unlock it. A black, silky material fell over his head, completely blocking the light. He could hear the sounds of a hood being dropped over Blair's head as well as they were shoved into the loft.

"What do you want?" Jim demanded. Blair bumped into his side and Jim instinctively reached out to steady him.

"Shut up."

Strong hands pulled Blair away and Jim was shoved into his own kitchen chair, the barrel of the gun still digging into his ribs. His hands were yanked behind the back of the chair and then plastic circled his wrists. Jim recognized the ratcheting sound of a flex cuff as it bit into his skin. Another ratchet spoke of similar treatment to Blair. A coarse rope wound around Jim's chest and within mere seconds he was immobilized. He cursed himself for not fighting while he had the chance.

"This is how the next few minutes is going to go, Detective Ellison," the same voice said. "We ask the questions. You give us the answers. We go away. Rather simple, don't you think?"

Jim took a second to wet his lips. He could still hear Blair nearby. Jim's nose picked up a mix of unfamiliar aftershave, spearmint and gun oil.

"Where is Teresa?"

"I don't know a Teresa," Jim replied.

The sound of cracking plaster had a distinctive sound. It echoed off the brick walls followed by a sharp, pain enriched gasp.

"There was only one skeleton in the wall. You've had twenty-four hours to investigate this case," the voice continued close to Jim's right ear. "Where did the priest send Teresa?"

"Touch him again and I'll kill you," Jim promised, turning his head towards the voice.

Another crack of plaster.

Blair's scream was cut short and muffled.

Jim swore vehemently and strained against the rope. The chair creaked but held him. "Stop it! We just learned the skeleton's identity, you morons! We don't know anything!"

"Listen carefully." The man's lips were close to Jim's ear, the moist air of his breath causing the black hood to bump Jim's cheek. "My employer has no problem doing whatever it takes to get this information. We're watching you. We could take your partner right now if we wanted." He paused for effect, giving Jim a chance to listen to Blair's groan. "But we won't. We only want Teresa. When you find out where she is, just mention it around the police station. We'll be back."

A light tap on his cheek caused Jim to jerk his head back in anger. He could feel the gloves on the man's hands. There would be no fingerprints left behind.

"That wasn't so hard now, was it? Call us, detective. Or the next time this will look like child's play."

Footsteps headed towards the door, and then they were alone.

Jim pitched forward onto his feet, the chair still roped to his back. He bent over to shake the hood off his head. It came off easily and he turned to see Blair sitting hunched forward at the table, a black hood over his head, left wrist secured by a flex cuff to the chair's leg. His cast was out of its sling and on the table. Long fractures in the plaster ran in multiple directions throughout the cast from two impact marks.

Quickly twisting sideways, Jim dropped to his knees, sliding out from the single rope around his chest. Free of the chair, he rushed to the drawers in the kitchen. A butcher knife made short work of the plastic around his wrists. Jim dropped to one knee and sliced through the plastic band around Blair's left wrist before gently lifting the hood from his friend's head.

"Hey, partner, you still with me?"

If Blair's face had been pale before, it was literally white now. Eyes screwed shut, lips pressed into a thin wavering line, Blair moaned while tears tracked down each cheek.

"I know, I know. Just stay still, okay?" Jim murmured, squeezing Blair's left shoulder. "I'll get help."

"L-lock the d-door," Blair stammered through clenched teeth, his body shaking with pain.

Crap! Jim should have thought of that. "Right."

They'd left his automatic on the kitchen counter. Jim snagged it and the cordless phone on his way to the door. He turned the deadbolt while dialing 911. After requesting an aid car and that Simon be notified, he returned to his friend's side.

The cast was toast, crushed from two solid hits. Jim gently pinched one of Blair's fingers below the injury to see if blood was still reaching his extremities.

"Don't, Jim!" Blair pleaded in a near whimper.

"Easy," Jim ordered softly. "I'm not going to move your arm."

Blair's eyes were opened and he wiped at his wet face with his good hand while drawing in a shaky breath. "Who were those guys?"

"I'm not sure," Jim said. "But I plan on finding out."

"Give him something for the pain first!"

Simon entered the loft without knocking. There was no need. The door was open, probably left that way by one of the many strangers now inside. Four firemen crowded around the kitchen table, setting out their medical equipment and opening boxes.

"Jim," Simon called out, noting the way the tall cop was standing protectively next to his roommate, still holding his gun in his right hand, pointed down at the floor.

That made no sense. Blair was obviously hurt; any fool could see that by just looking at his face. Why was Jim acting like an enraged momma bear? The bravest firefighter, a heavyset man with red hair, was doing his best to get close.

"We can't, sir. We don't carry drugs."

"Then call the medics, damn it! Why the hell didn't they get dispatched?"

"We got the report of injuries from an assault," the red head continued evenly, like dealing with protective partners was a typical day for him. "Now, you're both conscious and breathing okay, so this is not a medic response. Please step aside and let us help, officer."

"Jim!" This time Simon seemed to get through. Jim turned towards his boss and Simon could almost see the sparks flash in his blue eyes. "Stand down."

Jim grunted and moved around to the far side of Blair's chair. Crouching down to murmur something in the younger man's ear, he holstered his weapon. Simon saw the shattered cast for the first time and grimaced.

What the hell happened?

Blair nodded and managed a pain-filled smile and Jim stepped away, falling back to stand at Simon's side.

"Three men got the drop on us in the hallway outside the door," Jim said softly while the firemen worked on Blair, under Jim's watchful eye. "I never got a look at them, neither did Sandburg. They put hoods over our heads."

"What did they want?" Simon asked in surprise. He drew Jim back towards the living room. Jim looked shaken and pissed, as furious as Simon had ever seen the man.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Jim answered, "The bastard asked about the skeleton in the wall. Something to do with a missing woman named Teresa."

"What? Now we've got a missing woman?" Simon asked.

"Yeah." Jim turned sharply when Blair yelped with pain. Simon caught his arm.

"Jim! Would you stop?" This was getting ridiculous. "What's wrong with you? Let them do their job."

Thankfully, Jim stayed put and didn't pounce on the men at the table, although the dark look on his face caused more than a few nervous looks in their direction.

"Damn it, Simon!" Jim hissed, wrenching his arm free from his boss's grasp. "I can't believe I let those goons just waltz in here."

"Okay, so they obviously had gonads of steel, Jim. But, who were they?" Simon pressed.

Jim folded his arms across his chest; both eyes narrowing into slits and Simon knew the conversation was over. "Not here, Simon." Blue eyes moved to monitor the actions of the rescue personnel.

Some of Jim's rage ebbed as Blair's face took on the blissful look of a man with good drugs flowing through his blood stream. As Blair liked to sometimes joke - `better living through chemicals, man.'

"Let's try and keep this cast intact for more than twenty-four hours, shall we, Mr. Sandburg?" the same grandmotherly doctor said with a pat on her patient's shoulder.

"Suuurre, Doc'r," Blair promised, grinning as he saw Jim.

Jim could see his partner was exhausted; dark circles ringed around his eyes; his hair was dull and lifeless. His upper body swayed as he sat on the exam table.

"Heyyabi'guy!"

"Hey, yourself, Chief," Jim answered. "Ready to leave?"

Blair's happy nod was suddenly aborted, his eyes becoming wide. "What `bout... if they come back?"

"Relax. We're staying with Simon tonight." Jim helped Blair to his feet and steadied him as his morphine-high friend moved to sit in a wheelchair for his ride to the entrance. Simon sat waiting in his car, just outside the ER entrance. Jim held Blair upright with a fist full of jacket as he opened the rear door.

"Ohhh, cool. Look, Jim! Blankets... and a pillow, niiice." Blair awkwardly crawled in and scooted across the back seat on his butt. Allowing Jim to pull off his sneakers, he lowered himself down on his left side with a happy sigh.

It took Jim just a second to create enough support for Blair's cast with extra blankets. He saved the last one to drape over his friend's still form. The younger man was asleep by the time Jim had finished and carefully closed the door.

"I'll drive slowly, Jim," Simon promised as the cop got in the front passenger seat and looked over his shoulder with a frown.

"Okay." Jim caught Simon's eye and felt his face heat up. "Sorry, sir. It's just..."

Simon held up a hand. "I understand, Jim. Believe me. Now tell me about this missing girl."

As they drove through the dark streets, Jim tried to organize his thoughts. Hell, it didn't take much effort, he knew so little. He noticed the digital clock in Simon's dash. It was after midnight. The rain, caught in the twin headlights, was floating down in a light mist.

"As we left the station, the secretary from the church was waiting for us outside the parking garage," Jim said, beginning the story.

By the time they arrived at Simon's house and parked inside his attached garage, Simon was up to date. The captain sat, tapping his lower lip with his finger. Jim waited, listening to ticking sounds from the cooling engine echo off the walls. During the drive, Jim had paid close attention to the traffic and had asked Simon to make a few extra turns. He was satisfied they hadn't been followed from the hospital. For now, they were safe.

"Why does that last name sound so familiar?" Simon asked quietly.

"Yeah, I wondered the same thing. I've heard it before. I was going to run it when I got to work today."

Simon slapped the steering wheel. "I've got it! Ethan Reano! He's on the Fed's `Top Ten Gangsters List.' I know a few suits that would give up their cushy pensions to find some real dirt on him."

"Wonderful, organized crime," Jim said with a groan. "And it sounds like he's got someone at the station on his payroll. I'm betting Teresa is related somehow," he added, twisting his neck to check on Blair.

The younger man was still sound asleep. Nothing short of a factory's quitting whistle was going to bring him out of his drugged slumber. At least Jim had Simon to help get him inside.

As if reading Jim's mind, Simon turned to look into his backseat. "He looks almost harmless when he drools in his sleep."

"It's his best defense, Simon. He's always underestimated," Jim admitted. "Help me with him?"

"Sure." Simon opened the door. "Let me make sure Daryl's bed is ready first. Then we'll carry him inside."

By the time Simon returned to the garage, Jim had Blair half awake and sitting on the edge of the backseat. Together the two cops hoisted him to his feet and guided him up the two steps into Simon's home.

"J'm..."

"Yeah?"

Blair blinked in a rapid pattern at the brightness of the kitchen. "I gotta go."

After the necessary detour, they arrived in the room of Simon's only son. Jim knew Daryl spent the majority of his time with his mother, Simon's ex-wife. Every other weekend he stayed with his dad. It appeared Simon had taken every effort to make sure his son had his own space. The room had the normal clutter of sports equipment, books and toys a person would expect to find in child's room. Daryl seemed to be in transition, the toys of his childhood holding court with the interests of the early teenage years to come.

They manhandled Blair into the bedroom and sat him down on the edge of the twin bed. Simon left to get extra bedding for the couch.

"We're at Simon's?" Blair asked as Jim unbuttoned his coat.

"Yeah, we'll get some sleep and come up with a game plan in the morning," Jim said, working his friend's coat off then starting on shirts underneath. When he reached Blair's last layer, a white T-shirt, he stood the drugged man up and started on the belt buckle, gently slapping away Blair's single handed attempts to help.

"Those guys... they asked about Teresa," Blair mumbled between yawns. He swayed on his feet and steadied himself with a handful of Jim's sweater.

Jim let his friend lean against his shoulder as he bent down to slip Blair's jeans over his hips and fall onto the floor. "I know. We'll talk more in the morning. Nothing's going to happen tonight. Step up." Jim kicked away the jeans and guided Blair back onto the bed. "Lay down on your side."

"Cindy said..." Blair's energy seemed to wane as he became horizontal. "She talked about..."

"Put a sock in it, Junior," Jim ordered gently as he worked with the extra pillows; satisfied with the way the cast was elevated. Blair looked comfortable. "Try not to do your normal thrashing around in bed. You need to keep the swelling down in that arm."

Snorting as Jim covered him with blankets, Blair settled in with a dopey expression on his face. "'Kay, night, man."

"Good night, Sandburg."

Something big and green was snarling at him.

Blair blinked in surprised, recognizing the figure as the comic book hero from that TV show Naomi let him watch when he was a kid. When the character was normal, the guy was Bill Bixby. If you got him mad, he turned into this enormous green guy.

Blair was fairly certain he didn't own any sheets with the incredible Hulk on them.

Okay, I'm not in Kansas anymore. He lifted his head and tried to roll over. Somehow, he'd become cocooned inside a wall of pillows and blankets. The pain reached his brain about the same time he tried to move his arm.

"Ow! Ow! OW! Shit!"

"Blair?"

Jim was at his side, leaning over and looking ready to solve the world's problems. A flood of memories sluiced over Blair's mind.

The hallway. The guy's with the guns. That black hood. They broke his cast. Damn, he hurt!

"Here. Open up."

Something small was pushed into his mouth, onto his tongue. Jim lifted him by the shoulders with one arm.

"Drink."

The rim of a plastic glass pressed against his lips and cool water flowed in and carried whatever had been on his tongue down his throat.

"The doctor said you're going to be pretty sore for a few days. This will help," Jim told him.

Oh, nuts. Jim just gave him a pain pill. Well, the pain was intense, worse than before. It felt like a giant rat was gnawing on his bones. Just the thought of getting up and moving around made him sick to his stomach. In fact...

"Jimmm, I don't feel so good, man."

"Deep breaths, Blair," Jim coached, lowering his head back on the pillow and lightly rubbing the back of his neck. "Through your nose, it'll get better."

The wave passed and Blair closed his eyes in relief. God, he felt trashed. How was he going to help Jim with the investigation when he couldn't even keep his empty stomach in line? Jim lifted his left hand and filled it with two saltine crackers.

"You want to get up or sleep some more?" Jim asked him.

Keeping his eyes closed as he munched, Blair considered the options. "What time is it?"

"Ten."

"Morning or night?"

"Morning."

"I want up."

"Nice and easy." Jim pulled the blankets away and tore down the pillow wall. After a steady pull on Blair's left bicep, Blair experienced verticalness, from the waist up anyway. Jim was ready with the sling from the hospital. In seconds Blair's cast was safely tucked inside.

"Ready to stand up?" Jim asked.

Blair wondered. He finished the last of his cracker and nodded. The trip to his feet was smooth with Jim's help. His balance was similar to a newly born colt. The effort left him breathless however and wanting to sit back down.

"How about a bath?" Jim asked.

Blair took a sniff. "Not a bad idea, man. I stink." He remembered skipping his normal shower yesterday, or was that the day before? "What about this?" He looked down at his right arm.

"Ah, we've already thought of that. Hold on a second." Jim went to a small student desk and retrieved a plastic sleeve.

"What's that?"

"It's a cover for your cast. Simon's ex-wife broke her arm a few years ago," Jim explained. "You slip it over the case and blow it up like a balloon. Keeps the cast dry, even in a shower."

"Cool, lead the way."

A few minutes later, Blair was sinking into a warm bath, complete with bubbles. "Ohhhhhh, yeah."

Jim chucked from his perch on the closed toilet lid. "How's the pain?"

"Dulled some," Blair admitted. It occurred to him he was having a conversation with his roommate while naked in a bathtub. How weird was that? "Ah... don't take this wrong, Jim. I'm really thankful for your help, but..."

Jim snickered. "What? You're going to wash that mop of hair on your head one-handed?"

"Oh." Blair blinked at the shampoo dispenser sitting on the edge of the tub. He doubted he'd be able to get the stupid cap off. "You've got a point."

"You want me to get Simon in here to help?" Jim asked with a straight face.

Blair sucked in his breath. "No!" Then seeing the older man's mouth begin to curl, he relaxed. "Jerk!"

Jim laughed as he lifted a towel from the wall rack and tied it around his middle. He moved down to kneel by the tub. "Simon's too busy anyway. He's reading over some files Brown brought over from the station this morning. Scoot down and dunk your head."

Blair did as instructed. It was awkward with only one hand, but Jim cupped the back of his neck like a preacher baptizing a convert. "What files?" Blair asked, wiping the bubbles from his eyes as Jim started working shampoo into his wet hair.

"The files on Reano," Jim explained. "Turns out Teresa Reano's the only child of Ethan Reano."

"And Ethan Reano is?" Blair closed his eyes and leaned his head forward as Jim's fingers massaged his scalp. He could get used to this.

"Cascade's own organized crime boss. He's believed to have his finger in every illegal gambling operation in the northwest. He's also a member of the same church as Father Clark."

The stupid pain pill seemed to be slowing his brain activity, because for the life of him, Blair could not connect the dots. "Why is Simon looking at files about this Reano guy? Oh, wait a sec. Cindy said Teresa's father was yelling at Father Clark. So daddy thought his daughter and Father Nathan ran off together? Then... those goons last night probably work for Teresa's father."

Blair sat up straight. "Oh my God! We've got a mafia boss thinking we know where his daughter is? We're in deep shit, Jim!"

"Calm down, Sandburg," Jim ordered. "Rinse before you get soap in your eyes."

They repeated the dunking, only this time Jim kept his hair submerged a few seconds to get all the soap out. Blair turned over the puzzle of the missing woman in his mind as he floated. Why would anyone believe the two had run off together? Just because they disappeared at the same time? But Cindy had said Father Nathan was helping Teresa. Helping her how? What did a mafia kid need help with? Or was it the Thorn Birds all over again with just a criminal twist? No wonder Father Clark hadn't said anything to them. The church didn't need this kind of story getting out. The media would have a field day.

Jim lifted him back up.

"We need to talk to Father Clark again, Jim. And Cindy, too," Blair said.

"Yeah, I agree. I have a few more questions. I don't think the good Father came totally clean with us." Jim frowned at Blair's hair. "We're going to need conditioner, aren't we?"

"Only if I want to comb it."

"Hold on, let me check with Simon." Jim stood up and Blair heard his knees pop in protest. "Finish washing up, don't fall asleep."

"Right." Blair reached for the clean wash rag Jim had folded neatly and left on the rim of the tub. By the time he'd finished washing, Jim returned with a small tube in one hand.

"This stuff might work."

"Let me see." Blair read the label, or tried to. The fine print was too blurry, but the larger print told him enough. "This is good. In fact, it's pretty nice stuff. I'm surprised Simon uses it."

"He didn't. It was his ex's," Jim told him, reaching down to open up the drain. "You want to use the shower for the final rinse?"

"Sure." Blair started to stand, but was stopped.

"No, let's get it in now. It needs to sit on your hair for a few minutes." Jim squeezed a large amount into his palm and started working it into Blair's hair.

"Who knew you were a natural, man? I could get you a part time job with that fancy hair salon on Clearwater. One of my students works there. I hear they're looking for a new shampoo man," Blair teased.

Jim finished with a snort. "Did I ever tell you about the time I got suspended in high school for two days after snapping a guy in gym class with a wet towel? He couldn't sit down for a week."

Blair cracked one eye. Jim had that deadly look he liked to use on felons.

Shit.

"Ah... I think that was the pain pill talking."

"Riiight."

"How's he doing?" Simon asked as Jim entered the kitchen.

Jim shrugged. "He's in pain, but he's not admitting to it."

Simon stood from the kitchen table. "Why am I not surprised? You think he'll be hungry?"

"Maybe some dry toast for now." Jim sat down and picked up the file he'd been looking over when he'd first heard Blair wake up. "Any luck reaching Reano?"

"Yeah, Rhonda got you an appointment for eleven-thirty. Brown and Taggart are on their way over." Simon pulled down a loaf of white bread and pulled out two pieces. He carefully inspected them as if checking for mold.

"Sounds good," Jim said. "I'll swing by the loft while I'm out and pick up some clothes. Thanks for loaning him those sweats by the way."

"No problem. Daryl insists on wearing clothes that are too big on him, they should be about Sandburg's size," Simon commented as he dropped the bread into a toaster and pushed the lever down.

Blair shuffled into the kitchen, his hair combed and hanging in wet waves. "Hey."

"Good morning, Sandburg." Simon pulled out a chair. "How about some toast?"

Sinking slowly onto the offered chair, Blair offered a weary smile. "Thanks, man. And thanks for letting me stay. And for the clothes and stuff."

"No problem, happy to have both of you," Simon admitted. "You want something to drink? Coffee? Juice?"

"Tea?" Blair asked. "If it's not a problem."

"No, let me go check the pantry," Simon said heading for a far door and disappearing.

Blair leaned towards his roommate. "Why's he being so nice to me?" he said in a low, rushed voice.

Jim smiled. "Why wouldn't he?"

"It's not normal, man. He's starting to freak me out here."

"Just enjoy it for now. He'll be back to growling at you before you know it."

"I hope so." Blair shuddered. "It's just not natural. I feel like I'm dreaming or something."

"It's the pain pills, remember?" Jim teased, standing as the toast popped up.

"How's this?" Simon reentered the kitchen holding a box of Celestial Teas. "It's a sample of... ah, four types of herbal tea. The wrapper's still intact. This stuff doesn't have an expiration date, does it?"

"Nah, I'm sure it's fine. I'll have the lemon zinger. If that's okay."

"Sure." Simon busied himself filling the teapot.

"The guys are here," Jim announced, setting the dry toast down on a paper towel in front of Blair. "I'll let them in."

A few seconds later, the kitchen was filled with men. Taggart helped himself to a peppermint tea bag while Brown let Simon pour him a cup of coffee. After they inquired about Blair's health and voiced their outrage over the attack at the loft, they got down to the business at hand.

"Unfortunately, I can't get out of my lunch meeting with the Mayor's task force," Simon explained. "H, you back Jim up at the meeting with Reano. And keep Jim from killing anyone." Simon pointed a long finger at Jim as the man leaned against the kitchen counter. "Do not do or say anything that gives the man cause to call the Chief, Ellison. I'd hate to pull you off this case."

Jim nodded. He'd play it by the book, for now.

"Don't worry, Simon. I'll make sure Jim toes the line," Blair said solemnly from his seat at the table.

Joel looked up in surprise. "I thought Sandburg and I were staying behind."

"What!" Blair demanded loudly, dropping the half eaten toast onto the table. "No way!"

"You got it right, Joel," Jim answered over Blair's objections. "You're under doctor's orders to rest, partner."

"Jim, I'm not going to run a marathon," Blair announced. "I'm just going to ride in the truck with you and sit in on a stupid meeting."

"No, you're going to finish your toast and go back to bed... or the couch. As long as you're horizontal, I don't care," Jim said calmly.

"Simon, didn't you say you needed some advice on rebuilding your back porch?" Taggart said. "Maybe H and I can take a look."

"Great idea," Simon agreed, happily heading for the back door. "Come on back and I'll show you."

Jim held his tongue, waiting until they were alone. Blair's jaw was thrust out, his blue eyes held the determination equal to an entire platoon of marines. Jim sighed. This was not going to be easy.

"Sandburg... you're hurt. You need to rest."

"It's just a broken arm, man," Blair countered in a defiant tone.

Holding up a single hand to stop Blair's argument, Jim interrupted, "That got additional trauma yesterday. You've got extensive soft tissue damage. The swelling almost prohibited the doctor from putting a new cast on your arm. She made it very clear to you to stay down, elevate your cast and take your medicine." Jim was proud of the way he kept his voice steady and resisted his impulse to shout. Blair could be so stubborn about issues relating to his own heath.

"Fine! But I want to go back to the loft to rest. And I don't want a babysitter!"

"Joel's a bodyguard, dufus!" Jim replied hotly. So much for keeping his anger under control. He paused, willing himself to calm down before continuing. "Look, I understand where you're coming from here, Chief. But those guys yesterday scared the shit out of me. They came that close--" Jim held up a hand to illustrate the difference of an inch with his thumb and forefinger, "--to taking you with them. Just as incentive so I'd find Teresa Reano."

That seemed to startle his friend. Jim realized Blair hadn't heard the gunman's threat, no doubt due to the pain he was in when they'd broken his cast.

After a second of contemplation, Blair shook his head, his wet hair lightly slapping his cheeks. "That just proves we shouldn't split up. I'm safer at your side. "

Jim could feel his blood pressure climbing. "No... they don't know you're here. You'll be safe with Joel."

"What about you!" Blair leaned forward, smacking his palm on the table.

"I'll have H with me; he'll watch my back." Jim gripped Blair's wrist and squeezed hard, holding it down onto the table. "I'd rather bring you, okay? But I'm not going to risk you getting hurt again. It's the best plan available here. We've got to play the cards we're dealt on this one, Blair."

Jim could see the actual moment his argument convinced his bullheaded roommate. Blair's shoulders sagged, the set of his jaw relaxed and he released a gust of air like a punctured balloon.

"This totally sucks, Jim."

"You think Hairboy will stay put?" Henri asked as they drove away from Simon's house.

Jim nodded, remembering how his partner had looked when they had left. Blair had stubbornly refused to rest, choosing instead to sit on Simon's couch, reading over the files. "I told Joel to make sure, even sit on him if he had to."

"That'd keep me in place," H chuckled. "I gotta tell you Jim, you've got a hell of a partner backing you up. The dude's like a pit bull when he's got an idea in his head."

"Tell me about it, H." Jim leaned against the passenger door and rubbed the back of his neck. "I've just got to work on his self-preservation skills."

"Oh, I wouldn't say he's a stranger to danger, Jim. Did he tell you about the African bush tribe that accused him of scaring their food away?" Henri asked. "He even showed me the scar. I'd say he can take care of himself pretty good."

Jim snorted softly. Henri was right; Blair knew how to handle himself in a tight spot. It wasn't an issue of his fight for survival; it was his tendency to forfeit his own safety to protect others that scared him. From garbage trucks to flying bullets, Blair acted first and freaked out later.

Reano's office was on the fifteenth floor of the Chinook Tower in downtown Cascade. A relatively new building to the Cascade skyline, the fifty-five storey skyscraper of glass and concrete had created quite a reaction with the surrounding businesses. The Cascade Historical Society had dubbed it the most obscene erection of ego edifice on the Pacific Coast. Jim even remembered hearing the business owners complain on the news that because their buildings would be left in the tower's shadow most of the day, their heating bills would increase.

Henri spotted the signs to the parking garage, accepted the ticket from the attendant and followed the arrows to the second floor where they found an empty parking stall near the covered walkway to the tower. After finding a directory and locating the correct elevator, they entered the posh office of Reano, Inc.

"May I help you, gentlemen?" a striking blond asked from her leather seat behind her mahogany desk, complete with an authentic tiffany lamp.

"Ellison and Brown, Cascade Police," Jim said, holding out his badge. "We have an appointment with Reano."

The smile slid off her pretty face like butter on hot Teflon. Using her left hand she reached out for a leather appointment book and began flipping through pages, her long red manicured nails flying. "Mr. Reano has been unavoidably delayed, I'm afraid," she stated flatly. "I've been instructed to reschedule your appointment. How does the end of the month look?"

When she looked up, Jim was already at the heavy double door. "I'm sure it looks just fine, ma'am. But I plan on having an arrest by then."

"Hey!" She sprang out of her chair, flashing long legs. "You can't go in there!"

"Watch me." Jim turned the handle and let himself in, aware of the secretary and Henri following close behind him. Reano's office was enormous. Three times the size of Simon's with a panoramic view of the Puget Sound. Ugly black and gold fixtures and modern art hung on the wall. The black carpet was thick, causing Jim to wonder if he was leaving footprints from walking across it.

A short man with a stocky build looked up from the black desk. He and another man had been looking over some kind of report, which the short man hastily shoved into a file folder and dropped into a drawer.

"What the hell is going on, Doris?" he shouted.

"Mr. Reano! This man just barged in!" the blonde said, her tone telling Jim the tears would be making an appearance soon. "I tried to stop him!"

Reano turned to glare at Jim. "Who are you?"

"Detective Ellison, Cascade PD. This is Detective Brown. Sorry we're late for our appointment." Jim held his ID out.

With a dismissive wave to the secretary, Reano picked up his phone and pressed a button. "Andy, tell the governor's office I'll be a few minutes late. Send my apologies... no, it's a family matter." Hanging up the phone, he waved at the man next to him. "Go. We'll talk more later."

Once the office was empty of all the employees, Reano dropped into his seat. Jim took the black leather chair in front of the desk, seeing Henri do the same out of the corner of his eye. He sniffed the air, testing for the scent of aftershave and spearmint but didn't find it.

"You must not value your position in the police department, Ellison," Reano said, leaning back. "I could have you fired with one phone call."

Jim smiled. "I'm sure you could. But you won't."

Reano's eyes narrowed. He had the face of an executive. Unnaturally tan, probably from repeated trips to a tanning booth. Judging by the files Jim had looked over at Simon's house, the man was too busy for long vacations in Hawaii. His dark hair was short and trim. Rather than a supposed leader of the regional organized crime cartel, he looked more likely to step out of the cover of a senior GQ magazine.

"And why is that?" Reano asked.

"You want me to find your daughter, right? That's why you sent your `employees' to my home yesterday." Jim leaned forward, the smile was gone now. He stared hard at the man behind the desk. "Just for the record, if anything like that happens again. I'm not going to bother with the courts. And the person responsible won't even see me coming."

"Are you threatening me?" Reano demanded, his voice low and deadly.

Jim didn't answer. He didn't blink.

Reano cleared his throat and glanced down at his hands. "What do you know about my daughter?"

"Nothing," Jim said leaning back. "As you no doubt know by now, the skeleton found was Father Nathan, the priest from the church you attend. Can you tell me what business he might have had with your daughter?"

Reano's eyes drifted to a gold frame on the corner of his desk. A pretty brunette with sad eyes and a perfect complexion stared back. "I know he was interested in more than her confession," he snapped angrily. "That fool Father Clark didn't listen to me when I demanded he be transferred to another church."

"Maybe he takes his orders from a higher source," Henri said with an innocent look.

Reano didn't respond to the comment. "My daughter loved going to church. She joined every damn committee they made up. She told me once she wanted to become a nun."

Jim didn't like the way the man sneered as he spoke. "Why do you even bother to attend?"

Reano's eyes snapped back to spear Jim to his seat. "That's not your concern. Now that I know that priest didn't run off with my daughter, I expect you to find her."

"How old is she?" Jim asked.

"She's only nineteen."

"She's an adult, she can go where she wants, when she wants," Jim said. "I admit that I'd like to talk to her about the death of Father Nathan. Frankly I'm more interested in your involvement. Maybe you had Father Nathan put in that wall. You obviously feel he was becoming too interested in your daughter."

Reano stood. "We're finished, Detective. You can be sure any future appointments will be in the presence of my counsel."

Jim rose from his chair. Taking a business card from his wallet, he laid it on the desk. "We'll be in touch. Feel free to call me at the station if you think of anything else," Jim said, using his professional `cop' voice. "And this time, handle it personally. If my roommate so much as stubs his toe, be looking for me.'"

Reano's back stiffened. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I think you do," Jim answered. "I can assure you I'm watching now. I won't be caught off guard again. And if I see your daughter, I'll tell her you're concerned. She can pick up the phone and call you if it suits her."

On the way back to the car, Henri broke the silence between them. "So, what part of Simon's earlier warning didn't you understand, babe?"

Jim chuckled. "What, you saying I was over the top?"

"Hey, Jim, don't get me wrong. I loved the show. But he's right. One phone call and you could be standing in the welfare line."

Jim grew serious. "H, if that all it takes, then I don't believe I care to be a part of this department anymore."

Simon's house was dark and quiet when Joel let them in. Jim's eyes were drawn to the form on the couch. Blair's hair was dry. He sat slumped over in the middle of the sofa. He looked like he'd been trying to read reports until he'd succumbed to the heavy pull of sleep.

"He just drifted off," Joel whispered. "You guys are late."

"We swung by the loft." Jim held up a large tote bag. "Needed to get a few things if we're going to be staying with Simon for a while."

"You weren't followed?" Joel asked as he closed and locked the door.

"As many times as Jim had me double back on the way here, I'm not even sure I know where I'm at," Henri said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

Frowning at the way his partner was positioned; Jim squatted next to the sleeping man and rescued the file from sliding off his lap onto the floor. "His arm has to stay elevated."

"You're not going to wake him, are you?" Joel asked.

"Hopefully not," Jim muttered. "Would one of you get some pillows and a blanket from Darryl's room?"

While Joel went off to fetch the requested items, Jim carefully tipped his friend over. Blair's head landed gently on a throw pillow and two unfocused blue eyes peeked out from half opened lids.

""im?"

"Yeah," Jim whispered. "Keep it down, Darwin. You're sleeping."

Blair snorted softly and closed his eyes. "Jo'l... me... flat."

"Riiight." Jim lifted the cast as Joel arrived to slide the pillows under. He lifted both legs to the sofa and covering him with a blanket. Blair's eyes remained closed and his breathing leveled out. Jim nodded towards the back kitchen.

"So, how'd it go?" Joel asked once they reached the kitchen.

Helping himself to the coffee waiting in the pot, Jim shrugged. "I don't think Reano cares about the priest. He's more interested in finding his daughter."

"You think the dead priest has something to do with her disappearance?" Joel asked.

"I think she realized daddy wasn't one of the nice guys," Jim said. "The church might have found a way for her to disappear."

"Then Reano is a prime suspect, Jim," Henri insisted. "What makes you think he's not involved?"

Jim couldn't come right out and explain the way the man had reacted to the questioning today. Even though his senses were a far cry from a lie detector, Jim was learning to get a feel for reading suspects and Ethan Reano seemed more interested in finding his kid than getting revenge on a priest. "Just a gut feeling, I could be wrong. I'm just saying the field's still open for other suspects. We still have a long way to go here. Has Simon called in?"

Joel nodded his head. "Yeah, he's still tied up at the meeting. Said we could help ourselves to whatever we find for lunch."

"How did Sandburg do?" Jim opened his boss's refrigerator and checked its contents.

"Seemed okay. He read files, then got on Simon's computer, the one in his den. He found out a few interesting things," Joel said.

"Like what?" Jim closed the door and started opening cupboards. He didn't know what he was in the mood for, but he'd know when he saw it.

"Well, for one thing, he got all excited over some restaurant downtown. He thinks Reano may own it, or owns the company that owns it - that kind of thing."

Jim paused in reaching for a large can of chili. The only restaurant they'd been to recently was the ritzy one they'd found the receipt to in Father Nathan's apartment.

"Then he started checking out the online weather site," Joel continued. "Maybe he's sick of all this rain, like the rest of us."

Blair woke slowly, his arm throbbing with pain. He'd been having the strangest dream, where a king-size Joel Taggart was trying to squash him like a bug.

The wall of pillows was back, telling Blair that Jim had returned. He levered himself up into a sitting position and scrubbed his face. A serious five o'clock shadow bristled under his hand. The living room was dark; someone had drawn the drapes. Blair pushed the pillows and blanket aside, adjusted his arm in his sling and stood.

As expected, Jim appeared in the doorway, a wooden spoon in hand. "Doing okay?"

"Yeah," Blair answered, sniffing the air. Something smelled good, reminding him of winter days when he was a kid.

"Chili," Jim explained with a smile. "With chopped onions and grated cheese. You up for a bowl?"

"Yeah, I'm starved," Blair said heading for the kitchen. "What time is it?"

"Three. Joel and H left. They headed back to the station. Simon's on his way here." Jim returned to the stove and stirred. "Tell me what you found out while I was gone."

"Oh, yeah." Blair helped himself to a saltine cracker and leaned against the counter next to Jim. "Turns out Gethro's is owned by Northwest Foods, Inc. They're a subsidiary of Lucky Jack's Enterprises. Lucky Jack is owned by Reano International. Reano owns at least five restaurants, three bars and a dozen cafes in the Cascade and Seattle area."

"You have been busy," Jim admitted. "So we have another tie to Father Nathan and Ethan Reano. The amount of that receipt was too high for a single meal. He must have dined with someone else."

"Right. Now Father Clark said he had that meeting with Nathan on August third. Then we have another five days before he misses his Saturday night service." Blair finished his cracker and reached for another.

"Yeah, I figured we could place the time of the murder within those five days."

"I think we can do better then that, Jim," Blair said eagerly. "I got online. There's a site where you can check the weather for previous dates. Cascade had a big storm the first Wednesday in August, lightening and everything. The rest of the time was sunshine and high temperatures."

Jim set the spoon down and turned to study the younger man. "The raincoat. That's pretty clever, Clouseau."

Blair felt his face stretch into a grin. "Thanks, I got to thinking about all this rain. Then I remembered the raincoat on the skeleton."

Jim nodded. "Yeah, it's not conclusive, but it's still a solid case of deductive reasoning. So that's - what - August fifth?"

"Right."

Jim gave the chili a final stir and removed it from the burner. "Okay, then. Let's run it by Simon." He took down three of Simon's dark blue bowls and started dishing out chili. He'd just started to add the chopped onions and cheese when his cell phone rang. "Ellison... okay, thanks." He hit the end button. "Simons's turning the last corner. Take a seat."

True to his word, they heard the sound of the garage door opening. A few minutes later Simon walked into his kitchen, briefcase in hand and a tired scowl on his face. "I'm so sick of rubber chicken and overcooked vegetables. They even managed to screw up the dessert."

Blair was on his third spoonful of chili, enjoying the extra spices Jim had put in. It tasted fantastic. "Try some of this, Simon. It's good."

Setting his case in a corner, Simon stripped off his rain coat, hung it over the back of an empty chair and took a seat. "Don't mind if I do. Something about a rainy day makes it perfect for chili. Thanks, Jim." He gave Blair a critical eye, making the younger man self-consciously set down his spoon and pat his hair.

Great, why didn't Jim tell him it was sticking up in a billion different directions at once?

"How are you feeling, Sandburg?" Simon demanded.

"Ah... good." Blair resumed eating.

"Hmmm." Simon turned to Jim, one eyebrow raised. "And your meeting with Reano? Should I warn the Chief of a pending war between the police and the local mafia?"

To Blair's amusement and mild horror, Jim blushed.

"I'm not going to like this, am I, detective?" Simon said with obvious practice.

"I might have shaken his tree a little," Jim admitted, looking down at his bowl as he took three crackers and crushed them over the chili. "I had to see what fell out."

"And?" Simon asked.

Jim took a large mouthful, his gaze flicking over to Blair as he chewed. Blair could have sworn there was a twinge of humor hiding within those blue irises. He relaxed as Jim went over the conversation. He ended by sharing with his boss what Blair had discovered that day.

"If Reano's a dead end, where do we look next?" Blair asked.

"Well," Jim replied. "I'm thinking we check with records. If both the killer and Father Nathan drove out to the rendering plant, one vehicle might have been left. Maybe even ticketed or towed away."

"Unless there are two killers and one drove off with the victim's car," Simon offered. "But, it's worth looking into."

"When are we going back to talk to Father Clark?" Blair asked.

"I called while you were asleep," Jim told him. "Set up a meeting at five."

"Here?" Simon asked, looking less than pleased with the idea.

Jim shook his head. "No, I suggested he come down to the station, but he asked not to. I'm meeting him at the Barnes and Nobel on the strip."

Blair bristled. "You mean we're meeting him, right?"

"Sandburg." Jim frowned.

"Jim," Blair cut him off, knowing what his friend was going to say and opting for a preemptive strike. "I'm okay. This doesn't even hurt." Blair briefly glanced down at his broken arm. Sure, he was lying, a little. But it did feel better than before. "I even took a stupid nap, okay? I'm not going to sit on the sidelines here."

"Simon, back me up here," Jim pleaded to his boss.

Simon rose, carrying his empty bowl to the stove. "Sorry, Jim. If Blair's up to it, I say he goes along. Great chili, by the way." He ladled out another helping.

Jim scowled. Blair kept his triumphant to himself and resumed eating without comment.

A few hours later, Blair followed Jim into the large bookstore, his eyes taking in the numerous shelves of brand new books with shiny, crisp jackets. It was hard to pin down his feelings for the large, impersonal chain of bookstores. He loved the fact he could go online and find a title, or swing by on his way home and pick up a book in stock, but he hated knowing these stores were making it hard for the individual bookstore owners to stay in business. Who could compete with a huge volume of books and low prices?

"There he is." Jim dipped his head to the right, where a section of the store had been taken over by a Starbucks counter, complete with small round tables.

Father Clark sat at a corner table, nursing a hot coffee in a white paper cup. He stood as they approached and shook Jim's hand, then took Blair's left hand in a warm embrace. "How are you feeling, Mr. Sandburg? I heard your arm was re-injured."

Blair's eyes widened. How could a priest on the other side of town hear about the attack yesterday?

"One of my parishioners is a nurse in Cascade ER. She puts our flower arrangements out. She saw you both at the church, then saw you again at the hospital," Father Clark explained without waiting to be asked.

"Oh... I'm good, thanks for asking," Blair said.

"We wanted to ask you a few more questions about Father Nathan and Teresa Reano," Jim said, cutting to the reason for the interview.

"Ahh... I wondered when you were going to get around to that." The priest leaned back, his gentle face perfectly smooth.

Furrows appeared on Jim's forehead and Blair recognized the beginnings of a verbal explosion. Jim was not a happy man.

"Get around? You wondered when I was going to get around?" Jim leaned forward, laying both hands flat on the table and repeating the man's words back to him with emphasis. "I'm investigating a murder here, Father. I shouldn't have to get around to anything! If you know something crucial to the case, I expect your co-operation. Or I'm tempted to get around to booking you for obstruction."

Father Clark held up a hand. "Forgive me, detective. I'm not explaining myself very well. I have very little information, and what I think I know falls under the area of my duties as a priest."

"What information are you talking about?" Jim demanded.

The priest pursed his lips, his eyes sliding down to examine the lid of his latte.

"Was Father Nathan helping Teresa get away from her father?" Blair asked gently.

A tentative nod was the only answer at first, then the old man met Jim's eyes and spoke, "She was in love with a young man. I don't know his name. She wanted a life away from her father's... influence."

"You know what Ethan Reano is," Jim stated flatly.

"I know he's a member of my church and he needs God. Like we all do," Father Clark replied quickly, a hint of steel in his words. "I'm also aware he uses the church to assist him in his illusion as a respectable citizen. I can only pray that one day the Word will reach even his heart. It won't be the first time Jesus turned a criminal around."

"So, how did Father Nathan help?" Jim asked.

"I'm not sure. She only spoke to me once, early on. I knew she wasn't happy." The priest shrugged. "Father Nathan is... was younger, perhaps she felt he was easier to confide in. I don't know."

"Do you have any idea where Father Nathan would have sent her? Who he would have connected her with?" Jim pressed.

"No, none." Father Clark finished his coffee. "I know her father is powerful and normally gets what he wants. He made vague threats when his daughter disappeared. Because I was dealing with a missing priest at the same time, I think Ethan just assumed they ran off together. He didn't seem to know about her young man."

"What do you know about Father Nathan's personal life?" Jim asked. "We know he's an only child and both his parents are dead. He has an elderly aunt in the Midwest who lives in a nursing home. Apparently, she wouldn't benefit from learning her nephew is dead, most days she forgets she has a nephew."

"That's about all I know as well," Father Clark said. "He enjoyed traveling, spent his vacations taking trips. His last trip was north to Canada somewhere. He stays with fellow clergy when he travels, or just camps out in his car." The man looked up suddenly. "His car! Did you find it?"

"We're looking for it," Jim replied. "So, you don't have any idea where Father Nathan would have sent Teresa?"

The priest shook his head.

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to LKY

Home

[an error occurred while processing this directive]