"Ellison, over here!"

Detective Jim Ellison followed the voice to the back of the large open office. Padded wall partitions created a maze in the clerk's office of `North Cascade Produce'. The large food distribution company had called the police early that morning to report a death. The staff had arrived to find a fellow accountant slumped over in her cubical, cold to the touch.

"Hey, Rodriguez, what do you have?" Jim asked.

"DB is Bethany Simmers, twenty-six, single, worked for North Cascade three years," the uniform cop read from his notebook while standing next to the body. "I found this on her computer, so I had dispatch send a detective. Hey, Blair."

Blair Sandburg gave Rodriguez a silent wave as he stood on his toes to peer over Jim's shoulder. The dead woman sat at her desk, dressed in a dark pair of grey pants and turtleneck cotton top with a floral vest. Her long dark hair was pulled back, framing her face and clasped in a silver barrette to fall a few inches past her shoulders. She was pretty, for a corpse. Her upper body slumped in her chair, looking as if she'd paused from her typing to take a nap. Snapping on a pair of medical gloves, Jim gazed briefly at the woman's body.

"Show me what you found," Jim instructed.

Rodriguez leaned toward the keyboard and hit the spacebar key with the tip of his pen. The computer screen switched from a screen saver of flying windows to a word document containing a single paragraph.

Even though Jim could easily read the small print from where he stood, he leaned into the crowded workspace and squinted at the script. With a grunt of approval, he nodded to the uniform.

"Good call. Let's get a forensic team in here." Jim pulled out his cell phone, turning to address his Blair. "You want to take the truck to Rainier?"

The call had come in while Jim was taking his roommate to Rainier University. Blair's ride-a-long with Jim Ellison was under the guise of gathering data for his dissertation on closed societies in the police force. The story seemed to satisfy most of the curious co-workers within the department. Having Blair for a partner caused more than one raised eyebrow. With his youthful appearance, long hair, earring, and grunge attire, Blair tended to stand out. Compared to Jim's neatly pressed Dockers and dress shirts, the two men looked like a Miss Manners `Do's and Don'ts' poster for work dress etiquette.

"Nah, no one will miss me until after lunch," Blair answered quietly.

Jim dialed the number to the station, pleased that Blair had time to work with him on this new case. The first few minutes of an investigation could be critical. During the last year Jim had learned it was much easier to control his enhanced senses with Blair by his side to help. After ordering the team, Jim assigned Officer Rodriquez to find the dead woman's supervisor and get a list of all people that worked in accounting. The room had already been closed off from the other employees.

"What was on the computer, Jim?" Blair asked.

"Looks like a blackmail letter," Jim answered, picking up a small purse under the workstation and opening the flap.

"Really? Someone was blackmailing her?"

"No, Chief. She was doing the blackmailing."

Blair gave the woman a surprised look. "Wow, really? She doesn't look like a blackmailer."

Looking up from examining the contents of the purse, Jim gave the younger man an amused glance. "Sandburg, what do you expect a blackmailer to look like?"

Blair shrugged. "I dunno, man...greedy."

"Greedy...Sandburg, you slay me," Jim said with a slight shake of his head. Returning the purse to where he'd found it, Jim nodded at the desk. "Okay, let's go over this before anyone comes back. I think I can smell something, but I'm not pinpointing the location."

Blair moved in close, his attention solely focused on the taller cop. All jokes ended as he took stock of the woman's workstation. "Okay, first, visually scan the desk and locate all the normal smells you'd expect; the empty coffee cup, the jar of white-out, the hand lotion..."

Jim listened to his guide as he followed the instructions. Soon he had identified and disregarded each smell. Only one smell was left.

"It's chemical ..." Jim said quietly.

Blair nodded, carefully watching Jim work, as if knowing the sentinel was getting close. "Keep your focus tight, man. Just inside the cubical. Follow the scent..."

With his eyes closed, letting his nose do the work, Jim turned towards a small burgundy plastic tray on an upper shelf, filled with letters ready to mail. Jim opened his eyes and reached for the letters.

Sorting through the letters, Jim sniffing each one before setting it down. On the third from the top, he stopped. "This one!" He sniffed it a few more times and sneezed. "Whew...smells bad. Definitely different from the others." He turned it over to read the address on the front. It was a business in Phoenix, Arizona. "Food Services Southwest."

"Jim, try something for me." Blair frowned at the woman, his eyes moving to scan the cubical again. "See if the same smell is on her..." he pointed towards the woman's grayish colored face.

Jim bent over and sniffed. "Yeah, not as strong, but it's there. How did you know?"

"The envelope is sealed, man. I don't see anything she may have used to moisten it..."

Jim followed Blair's logic. "She licked the glue to seal the envelope."

"What if the murderer put poison on the glue?" Blair asked.

Much later that afternoon, Jim tapped on the closed office door lightly; already knowing Simon Banks was inside alone.

"Enter!"

"Hey, Simon." Jim closed to door behind him and set the new file down on his boss's desk. "This is my preliminary report. I should be getting Dan's report in a few days, he promised to put a rush on the autopsy for me." Jim dropped into a seat with a sigh. Simon's coffee maker sat empty and cold in the corner of the office, not a normal occurrence.

"You said on the phone it looked premeditated? Poisoning, right?" Simon pushed his gold-rimmed glasses firmly on his face as he picked up the new file to read.

Pulling his eyes away from the empty coffee maker, Jim shifted in his chair with a nod. "I smelled a possible poison in the glue of a standard office envelope. Forensic is running tests. We also have what looks like a blackmail letter on her computer. Sandburg did some poking around in the hard drive, but couldn't find anything else. We've got the computer in the lab as well." Jim covered the smirk that was forming on his face with a hand. "You...ah, might get a phone call about that, sir. The manager wasn't too pleased to see the computer being carted out of his office."

"Tough," Simon declared with feeling. "Is this the letter?" He held up a piece of paper.

"Yeah, Sandburg printed off a copy."

Simon read the message out loud. "'Maybe you think this is a joke. I can assure you that I will go to the police if I don't get another ten thousand by the end of the week. Leave it in the usual place'..." Simon turned the paper over to check the backside. "That's it?"

"Yeah, that's all."

"Wonderful," Simon grumped, dropping the paper back into the open file. "How much manpower is this `Agatha Christy wannabe case' going to take before we close it?"

Jim's eyebrows rose in surprise at his boss's uncharacteristic attitude. There were times Jim could remember when Simon's humor leaned towards the sarcastic, but this was down right negative.

"Something wrong, Simon? You seem a little off your feed today."

Simon groaned as if in pain. "Don't say feed, food, meal...anything to do with eating."

The look of misery on the dark face warned Jim he'd better tread lightly. "Okay. I'll bite, what wrong?"

Simon leveled Jim with a look that warned Jim of long hours of tedious paperwork. "Are you doing that on purpose?"

It took a second for Jim to replay his words before he realized what he'd inadvertently said. "Sorry, Sir."

Simon opened a drawer and tossed a pamphlet onto his desk with a twist of his wrist so that it landed facing Jim. "Controlling your blood pressure by diet," Jim read out loud as he picked up the small booklet and thumbed through a few pages. This was the nightmare that his guide spouted off every time he even looked at a Wonder Burger commercial on TV.

"Wow, Simon. You're on a diet?"

"Yes...I'm on a diet!" Simon mimicked in a singsong voice.

Jim set the pamphlet down on the desk like it was a hot potato. "Sorry, I had no idea."

Simon sighed, leaning back in his chair with a look of remorse. "No, it's my fault. I shouldn't have snapped. I've been without good coffee for two days now and the withdrawal is killing me. If I can't get my blood pressure down in the next few weeks, I'm looking at a lifetime of medication. I talked the doctor into trying this first."

Jim shook his head in wonder. "No coffee? What about decaf?"

Simon's mouth curled with a hint of humor. "I've tried a few brands, it's okay but the variety just isn't there. Don't even ask me what I had for lunch today. The people that come up with this type of menu ought to be criminally charged," Simon complained with a wave towards the pamphlet on his desk. "Anyway, what's your next step on this case?"

"I've got interviews first thing in the morning with the victim's boss and co-workers. If I'm lucky, I can get a handle on her blackmail victim from her fellow workers or the water cooler gossip." Jim pushed himself out of the chair with one last look of longing towards the cold coffee maker.

"Take the kid with you, if he's free. He's a royal pain in my ass, but he can charm the stripes of a zebra." Simon reached into a drawer as he spoke. "Hey, do me a favor and get this out of here. My cousin sent it today. He doesn't know yet."

Jim caught the one-pound bag of whole coffee beans with his empty left hand. A smile transformed his face as he took a deep breath of the fragrant smelling dark roasted coffee. "Thanks!"

"Don't mention it," Simon growled, his face dark and brooding again. "Please! Just don't mention it!"

Blair eyed the near empty shelves unhappily. It was almost closing time at the small health food store he frequented near the university. He didn't have time to drive across down to the larger store before it closed. He would have to make do with the slim pickings on display.

"Susan? Where's the echinacea drops?"

"We're out, Blair. I have some tea bags, but that's it." The older woman looked over her glasses at Blair in a disapproving manner. "The flu bug's been hitting everyone. You don't look like you've kept up your immune system up."

She was right. Blair knew he'd let his schedule at Rainier and his work with Jim get in the way of taking care of himself lately. He hadn't felt too bad that morning, only a slight headache, nothing major. The rest of the symptoms hit after lunch.

"I guess I'll do the tea." Blair set his purchase on the oak counter and dug into his jean pocket for the five dollar bill he'd been saving all week, just in case.

"Sure you're not closing the barn door after the horses got out?" She pulled a pencil out of her mass of gray curls and made a note in her ledger. She retrieved a bill and a few coins out of her cigar box and handed it over with a sympathetic pat on his arm.

"I'm okay, some sleep and the tea will fix me right up." Blair forced a smile and pocketed the change. He tossed a wave at the door as she followed to lock up behind him.

A fire in the fireplace gave the loft a homey feeling as Blair hung his jacket in its regular place next to the front door. Jim was fixing dinner, wearing his floral apron. A cookbook was open and propped up against the blender. Blair took a tentative sniff, picking up the odors of beef, sour cream and garlic. His stomach gurgled, sending a firm message to Blair's brain of what it would do if he actually sent any of that down.

"You're late," Jim noted, stirring the saucepan.

Blair plodded past the table, towards his room, trying not to let his backpack drag on the floor as he walked. "Had to pick up some tea."

"Dinner in five, Sandburg. Want a beer?"

"No thanks, man. I'm beat." Blair closed the door to his room and fell face first onto his futon, letting his pack slip from his fingers to the floor.

After a few seconds, the door opened and he could hear his roommate enter. A warm hand cupped the side of his face lightly.

"You're sick!" Jim accused with a surprised tone.

Blair rolled over to his side, batting the hand away as he faced his roommate. "Am not, just tired."

"Sandburg, you have a fever and you look like crap," Jim insisted, crossing his arms over his broad chest and frowning. "You're sick."

Blair buried his face back into his pillow. One thing about having a sentinel for a roommate, it was hard to fool them. He had managed to fool himself - well, mostly - all afternoon into believing he was just tired and a little run down, but in the face of Jim's certainty, it no longer worked.

"I think I have the flu," Blair mumbled, horrified at the trace of whine that seeped into his voice. Where the heck did that come from?

With arms crossed over his chest, Jim studied Blair's pathetic appearance for a moment. "Okay, I'll put the tea water on, and bring some Tylenol in. You're not going to handle the dinner I made, so I'll fix some soup."

Blair blinked as Jim turned and walked out.

"Hey, did it occur to you that I might have a plan on how to treat this?"

Silence answered him. Blair sighed, rolling over onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes. Blair just didn't `do' sick. Sure, he'd had a few rough times in the past; fallen and broken an arm, let Lash drug him silly for a few hours, eaten pizza laced with Golden, stuff like that; but this was just the common flu. Blair's plan was to sleep it off and wait for it to go away.

Blair felt a tremor rack his body. Jim was just lucky that he wasn't feeling up to a confrontation tonight. He toed his sneakers off wearily and slipped under the blankets.

Okay, they'd do it Jim's way...for now.

The next morning, Blair was forced to call in sick, asking a fellow teaching assistant to cover his class. Jim eyed his roommate thoughtfully from the doorway. The fact that Blair was the one to suggest staying in the loft rather than go to the university spoke volumes.

"Want more Tylenol before I go?"

Blair weakly shook his head, he was curled up on his side in bed, the covers up to his ear. "I'm just going to sleep, man. I'll feel better this afternoon."

Jim tucked his gun into his belt holster. If it weren't for the new homicide, he'd stay home and keep an eye on his friend. "Eat some toast or a few crackers. I'll drop by around noon. Call me on the cell if you need anything.

"I'm fine, man. Sorry I bagged out on you," Blair muttered from under the blankets.

"Can't be helped, Chief, these things happen."

North Cascade Produce was located in a new business park that that had been build over farmland. Rich soil that produced hundred of crops of potatoes, squash and corn were now buried under asphalt and concrete. Jim parked in the spacious lot and headed for his first interview of the day. A small office had been offered by the manager to hold the interviews. All in all, the company was being very accommodating with the police investigation.

"Detective Ellison?"

Jim looked up to see a young woman standing nervously at the door. It was his third interview that morning and he hadn't learned much. He rose and invited the woman to take the chair on the other side of the desk. She looked about twenty-five. Short red hair and freckles gave her a pixie-like appearance from the neck up. She wore a large baggy dress over her heavy figure. She moved as if her body was already protesting the extra weight it had to support.

"Thank you for coming," Jim eyed the sheet of names on his desk. "...Miss Ethridge."

"Whatever I can do to help." She plucked at her sleeve and shifted in her chair. "I've heard that Beth was murdered, is that right?"

"We're still conducting the investigation. You worked with Beth?"

The young lady nodded. "I have the next desk over. I can't believe she's gone."

Ethridge sounded more amazed then sad in Jim's opinion. Interesting.

"Were you two friends?"

A look of humor appeared briefly, then disappeared. "Beth wasn't interested in being my friend, Detective Ellison. She didn't have time for female friends, especially if they looked like me."

"What do you mean?"

The woman cast a quick glance over her shoulder towards the doorway before speaking. Jim picked up his pen, prepared to take notes. He had a feeling he'd hit the mother lode with this witness.

There was something not right in the loft. Jim could tell as soon as he walked in the door. Years of working for the Army in Special Ops had given him a sixth sense. The loft had been searched. It was a near perfect job, but no one was perfect.

The picture frame on the bookcase was off. One of Blair's hideous masks was askew. The furniture had been moved and put back in almost the same location, but not quite.

Jim already knew only one heartbeat was in the loft. Dumping the takeout he'd brought for lunch on the kitchen table, he ran for his guide's bedroom in fear.

"Sandburg!"

The door was ajar. Jim pushed it open, afraid what he'd find, even though his hearing told him that Blair should be sleeping.

And he was.

Blair was laid out like a mannequin on the bed; on his back, arms and legs straight, his head perfectly centered on the small pillow. His face was relaxed in sleep, making him appear even younger then he normally did.

The only problem with the scene was Blair `never' slept this way. He didn't lie, he sprawled; his blankets were never smooth and straight, they were crumpled and crooked. And the pillow under his head? Not likely, Jim had once seen it completely off the bed and across the room. Blair did `sleep' like everything else in his life, as if it were an Olympic event.

Jim picked up a mix of faint odors, causing his blood to chill.

Expensive cologne, rubbing alcohol and the rubbery smell from latex gloves.

"Sandburg! Wake up, kid." Jim lightly slapped Blair's cheek, noting he still had a slight fever, although not as high as it had been the previous night. Thumbing up one eyelid, then the other, Jim checked the pupils - both were dilated. Blair's pulse was slow and steady. Tossing the blankets back, Jim picked up an arm and ran his fingers along the inside of the elbow, afraid of what he'd find, but not surprised when his fingertips felt it.

"Damn it!"

Anger burned at the unknown persons responsible. Jim sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Blair into a sitting position. What had they injected him with? Blair was like a rag doll in his arms, not even moaning as he was manhandled.

"Come on, Junior. Don't make me call an ambulance." Jim let the curly head rest on his shoulder as he began slapping a flushed cheek, trying to elicit a response. After a long three minutes, a low groan vibrated on Jim's sternum and Blair lifted a heavy hand to push away a particularly aggressive pinch on his upper arm.

"Blair? You with me now?"

"...uummm"

After a few more minutes, Blair's eyes opened, unfocused, but open. Blair managed to faintly answer Jim's questions as long as they where simple and only required one-syllable responses. Turning Blair in bed to get his legs over the side, Jim hoisted his friend to his feet in hopes of increasing Blair's level of conscience enough to evaluate his need for medical care. It was time to get his blood flowing.

"Jim..."

"Yeah?"

"Why are you dragging me... around the loft in my underwear?"

Jim smiled, shifting his grip on Blair's waist. They'd been roaming the loft for over ten minutes. That was the first complete sentence Blair had said so far. Blair was waking up.

"Because you aren't doing your part, Darwin. I'll stop dragging when you start walking."

"Oh." Blair blinked up at his roommate and managed a few steps on his own before yawning widely. "Ooohhh, man! What a dream I had."

They were on the far turn by the balcony door, heading back for the kitchen. Every third step Blair took resulted in his left foot dragging a bit, but he was getting better.

"Tell me about it," Jim encouraged.

"Some guys were asking me questions. I think I was in a hospital or something, `cause there was this humongous needle." Blair stopped suddenly, his eyes wide as he gawked at Jim. "Oh, shit...please tell me I was dreaming."

Satisfied that Blair was back, Jim guided the younger man to the sofa and lowered him to sit on the cushions. Blair started to shiver. Jim suspected it had nothing to do with the temperature of the loft as he pulled the afghan off the back of the couch to drape it over his friend's shoulders.

"Wish I could. Found you in bed, unconscious, with a hypo mark in your arm." Jim dropped to sit next to his friend. "How do you feel now?"

"Okay, fuzzy maybe, around the edges. But, Jim ---"

Jim held his hand up to stop the flow pointing to his ears and then around the room to suggest someone might be listening through a bug. Jim couldn't be sure, but he wasn't taking chances.

"Let's get you dressed. I want to get you checked out."

Once they got down to Jim's Expedition, Jim removed the unspoken gag order.

"What's going on, man?!" Blair pulled his hair back with shaky hands.

"I don't have a clue. What kind of questions did they ask you?" Jim asked as he started the Ford and pulled away from the building. He knew just the man to take Blair to see. Doctor Fletcher was an ex-army doctor, who was also a friend from his days as a Ranger. Most of his practice was volunteer work now, but he always took time to see Jim whenever he stopped by.

"Oh, God! You! Some guy asked me a lot of questions about you and how good your sense of smell is," Blair exclaimed with alarm, waving his hands in the air.

"Just smell?" Jim tried not to grind his molars as he drove. He didn't need a new crown to add to the problems he was looking at. In their last year together, they had been careful to keep Jim's abilities a secret, especially after the first time he'd tried to explain to a judge how he could see a killer from afar. But it looked like they hadn't been careful enough.

"Yeah, I think so. God, Jim how can I be sure! I thought the entire thing was a dream!" Blair was starting to become agitated now, shifting in his seat and drumming his fists on his thighs.

"Calm down, Sandburg. Do you remember what you said?" Jim increased his speed, it was after one now, his friend should be finished with lunch, hopefully.

"Uh...I joked about having to keep my room clean and my leftovers from getting too moldy." Blair scratched his forehead as he struggled to remember. "Man, why can't I remember?"

"You were drugged, Chief."

"Yeah, yeah, right." Blair seemed to take a little comfort in that. Jim could almost see the guilt trip being plotted inside the man's head. "Who were these guys?"

"I'm not sure," Jim replied.

"What are we going to do?" Blair asked fearfully.

Jim shot him a look of concern. Damn, Blair was really scared. He had to remember that Blair was raised by a hippie. He was probably given the party line about `big brother is watching' at the tender age of two.

"Relax. It'll be okay." Jim tried to sound convincing. "I may have to answer a few questions."

"What if it's the military? What if they decide to turn you into a weapon or something, man? They could snatch you off the street and `poof'!"

Jim turned into the parking lot for the clinic. "You watch too much television, Sandburg. That doesn't happen in real life. If the army wants me, all they have to do is send a registered letter and `Poof', I'm back in again."

"And this is supposed to make me feel better, how?" Blair asked as he released the seatbelt and opened his door.

An elderly woman with white hair and a pair of reading glasses hanging from a gold chain went to see if Doctor Fletcher was available. The small waiting room was full to capacity with young mothers and infants. After a brief wait, a short overweight man appeared, waving them back with an impatient hand motion.

"What the hell are you doing, Ellison? Do I look like I have time for your sorry problems today?" he grumbled as he led both men down a hallway and into his office.

"No, you look pretty busy, doc. But I need a favor. This is my roommate, Blair Sandburg. Blair, meet the meanest doctor every to enlist in the US Army, Doc Fletcher."

Fletcher froze in the act of lowering his massive bulk into a worn leather chair, shooting Jim an annoyed look then turning his eyes on Blair. He gave the younger man a quick nod.

Blair swallowed hard and raised his hand to wave.

"We talking a medical favor here?" Fletcher asked.

"Yes."

"Well, for crying out loud! I'm too fat to be getting up and down for no reason. Why didn't you say so?!" Fletcher puffed and headed for a side door, disappearing into another room.

"Jim, man. Let's forget it. I'm fine." Blair started for the hallway with obvious intent to escape while the doctor was out of sight. Jim pulled him up short with a fistful of sweatshirt.

"Not an option, Sandburg. Come on."

Blair lost the battle as Jim towed him into the other room. The connecting room looked drab; the floor was old, overdue for replacement, the walls in dire need of a fresh coat of paint. In contrast to all that, the exam bed was clean and shiny, the equipment still gleaming as if just delivered, looking out of place in their surroundings.

Dragging a reluctant Blair, Jim pointed at the exam bed in a silent command to sit. Fletcher missed the byplay between the two, as his back was to them while he scrubbed his hands at the small sink. He turned to pin Blair with an intense gaze. "So what is it?"

Blair flinched as the loud question bounced off the dingy walls, trying to dodge around Jim and make a break for the door.

"Someone broke into the loft this morning, Blair was drugged and interrogated," Jim started as he caught Blair neatly and held him fast. "It took me over fifteen minutes to bring him out."

Fletcher turned, staring at Blair with frank interest as he dried his hands on a paper towel. "Injected?"

"Yeah," Jim answered, holding Blair's right arm and pushing up the sleeve for Fletcher to see. "Right here, single puncture."

Maybe it was the way Blair's chest was beginning to heave or the look of panic in his face, but Fletcher gave Blair a sympathetic look and pointed to the bed. "Go ahead and jump up there for me. Jim, you can let him go now."

Reluctantly, Blair sat on the end of the bed, his legs dangling between the two stirrups.

"Ellison's roommate, huh?" Fletcher's voice was calm now, no evidence of the earlier mood remaining. As he talked, he began his exam, pulling a stethoscope out of a pocket and warming it in his hands. "We should get together for a beer some night, young man. I need some fresh dirt on the good captain."

Blair showed a tentative smile. The warm bell of the scope was slipped under his sweatshirt.

"Did you know that Ellison helped purchase some of the equipment you see in here? Deep breaths for me." The scope moved to his back.

"Really?" Blair asked, his body starting to relax as he gave Jim a measuring look. Jim leaned his hip against a counter and shrugged.

"Yep, most of this stuff was bought with donations from men and women I served with," Fletcher said, wrapping a cuff around his arm for a blood pressure.

"That's cool. How long have you been here?" Blair asked. He showed none of his earlier apprehension as his pulse was taken and a penlight was used to check his pupils. They chatted about the clinic the whole time. Finally, the doctor was finished.

"How long have you had this virus?" Fletcher asked.

"Uh, about a day," Blair said.

"Feels pretty bad, I bet," Fletcher commented as he moved to a cabinet and began to organize some plastic tubes and a hypodermic needle.

Blair swung his legs. "Yeah, it ...what are you going to do with THAT!" Blair asked, starting to scoot off the bed when the needle appeared.

"Easy, Chief. We just need a blood sample," Jim explained, moving forward.

"Well, fine, you give some! I've had enough of needles for a while," Blair exclaimed, trying to pull his arm free of Jim's grip.

"Sandburg, I'm not the one with an unknown drug in my system," Jim explained calmly. "Stop fidgeting."

Fletcher seemed amused as he watched the two friends fight, waiting while Jim dealt with the reluctant patient.

"Come on, Jim! I'm having a crappy day. Don't do this to me."

Jim leaned over and whispered, "Consider this a little test, Sandburg. How many have I done for you?"

"This is `not' fair," Blair muttered, but he stopped squirming.

"Relax, we used to call him `Painless Fletch'" Jim coaxed as he pulled Blair's sleeve up.

Simon nodded to Rhonda as he walked into his office. The report in his hand had his complete attention as he flipped on the light and navigated around the chairs to fold his tall frame into his chair. The craving for caffeine wasn't as bad as the last few days. It was still bad, but not `as' bad.

"...mmuhhffmmm..."

With a jerk, Simon lifted his head to stare in disbelief at the couch in his office. After a second, Simon picked up his handset and punched the buttons for Jim's cell phone.

"Ellison."

"Jim, where are you?"

"Talking to Judge Saint Clair, sir."

"I see. Will you be very long?"

"No, another fifteen minutes."

"Good, do you think you could swing by my office before you go out again?"

"Office? You're at your office? I thought you had a meeting with the Mayor?"

"Cancelled, Detective," Simon said with a wicked sense of pleasure as he contemplated the upcoming meeting. "See you in twenty, don't be late."

Returning the handset, Simon cut off whatever response his friend would have given. He stood and walked over to the door to turn off the light, then settled back into his chair to wait. It wasn't even twenty minutes before Jim's long stride carried him through the bullpen, his eyes fixed on the closed door to his boss's office. Knocking lightly, Jim slipped into the darkened office. It was late in the afternoon. A storm was brewing outside, shielding the light in the November sky.

Simon sat at his desk, reading a report by the light of a small desk lamp. He looked up in amusement as Jim's eyes immediately tracked to the couch.

"He talks in his sleep," Simon said quietly, closing the file and tossing it on his desk. "But, I suppose you already knew that."

"I can explain, Simon," Jim said, going to Blair's side and checking him with a feather-light touch to his forehead.

Simon waited until Jim finished assessing Blair's temperature and turned to drop into a chair in front of his desk.

"So, explain. Tell me why `your' civilian ride-a-long is sleeping in `my' office, on `my' couch, `without' my knowledge and, therefore, approval."

"He came home last night, sick with the flu..." Jim started.

"Okay, to quote the kid, `sucks to be Sandburg'. Now what does that have to do with my office and my couch?'

Jim held up a hand. To Simon's experienced eye, Jim was not showing the proper signs of someone who'd been caught in the act of an obvious work place indiscretion. He leaned back, ready for an interesting story.

"Let me explain. He stayed home this morning. I stopped by to check on him and drop off some lunch and found the loft professionally searched and Sandburg drugged."

"What!" Simon sat upright in alarm.

"I took him to a doctor. We should know what they used on him in a few days. Sandburg has fuzzy memories of being interrogated about my sentinel abilities." Jim rubbed his nose absentmindedly. "I can't leave him at the loft, Simon. What if they come back?"

"Damn it, Jim. Who are we talking about here?"

"Unknown, Sir. But until I find out, Sandburg stays with me or somewhere I know he's safe."

Simon fell back against his chair in amazement. He studied the sleeping man on his couch for a moment. Blair was on his side, one arm under his head, the hand-knitted afghan Joan's Grandmother had knitted him for his birthday draped over his curled up body.

"Other captains get normal problems, like men that drink too much or call in sick more than they should. I get a full fledged sentinel, complete with his own side-kick."

"Guide, Simon. He's a guide." Jim managed a deadpan face, but his tone suggesting he found the comment amusing. "Sandburg would kick both our butts if he knew we called him the side-kick."

Simon shook his head, wondering how much truth was hidden in that statement. Obviously Blair was dead serious about his role in Jim's sentinel life. Simon had seen plenty of occasions where the determined grad student had taken on impossible odds and come out the other end victorious.

"Point taken. Okay, consider my office as the official parking spot for sick `guides'. Now, update me on your poisoning investigation," Simon prompted, keeping his voice low.

"It's moving along. I was with Saint Clair getting a search warrant for a co-worker of the deceased. He didn't come to work today. I got information that the two were having an affair on the sly. Seems he's engaged to another woman, only Beth wasn't too happy to end her relationship with the guy," Jim said.

"You get the search warrant?" Simon asked, continuing after Jim nodded. "Take Brown with you. I'll keep an eye on Rip Van Winkle."

"Thanks, Simon," Jim said with a relived sigh as he stood. "I'll check in after the interview."

Simon picked up the report again and started reading. "We'll be here."

As the two detectives neared the door belonging to John Alexander, Jim's nose picked up the unmistakable scent of death. And it didn't smell recent.

"Hold up, H." Jim pulled the other man back before he could grab the doorknob.

"What `cha got, man?"

"Blood." Jim tilted his head carefully as he listened for any sounds coming from the other side of the heavy door. The apartment building that Alexander lived in was new, built only a year ago for professionals that wanted to live close to their jobs and enjoy the things that only money could provide. After knocking and receiving no answer, they went to find the manager to let them in. Jim was thankful he'd taken the time to get the search warrant before arriving.

Leaving the manager in the hallway, Brown and Jim cautiously entered the plush living room. Both men were careful to stay near the edges of the rooms so not to disturb any possible evidence. Jim could easily trace the smell coming from the hallway, but he let Henry go first, covering his back.

"Oh, yeah, babe. We got an obvious," Brown murmured, looking through the open doorway.

Jim leaned forward to take a look. The body was sprawled on the tile floor of the bathroom. A large puddle of dark blood circled his head and shoulders. The man looked in his late twenties. His eyes were opened, staring glassily at the two men. The wall and towel hanging on a rack were splattered with blood and brain matter. Jim diverted his eyes back to the man's hand that held a stainless steel Smith and Wesson revolver.

"Looks like the model sixty," Brown noted calmly. "They call it the `Chief's special', don't they?"

Jim nodded. "I'll call Simon. You get a forensic team down here."

"I'm on it."

Jim turned to leave, but noticed an empty glass tumbler next to the sink. Without touching it, he leaned down to take a sniff.

Scotch...and something else.

"Brown, make sure no one touches this, okay?" Jim pointed to the drinking glass. "We should get the contents checked out at the lab."

"You got it, Jim."

After briefly checking the rest of the apartment and finding no other bodies, dead or alive, Jim returned to the living room to call Simon.

Simon arrived an hour and a half later with Blair. The technicians and photographer were hard at work. Jim allowed Brown to be the primary investigating officer, knowing this incident would entail its own report process even though this death was connected with Jim's investigation.

"Hey, Jim." Blair waved a hand. He looked pale but alert as he followed the captain into the living room.

"Sandburg." Jim pointed to a chair. "Take a seat. The living room has already been checked out."

"Anything new since you called?" Simon asked drawing his coat back as he rested his hands on his hips and looked around the expensively furnished room.

"Yeah. Found a note in the bedroom," Jim told them both. "Alexander admits to killing Simmers and then not able to live with the guilt, offs himself in the bathroom. We found a concealed weapons permit in his wallet."

"Nice tidy package, then," Simon commented as he regarded Jim with a tilted head. "Why do I get the feeling you're about to make it un-tidy?"

Jim shrugged. "I smelled a chemical mixed in with his drink."

Blair sat up straight. "Really? Same as on the envelope?"

The room was empty, most of the technicians and police personnel working in other parts of the apartment. Jim shrugged again, keeping his voice low.

"Maybe, I'm not sure. I just think it's strange. Alexander was the vice president for North Cascade Produce's shipping department. How would he get access to the poison that killed Simmers and get it onto that envelope?"

"We're not sure yet what killed Simmers. The autopsy report hasn't come in," Simon pointed out.

"Yeah, true." Jim rubbed his forehead.

"Look, why don't you let Brown finish this and take Sandburg home. He hasn't puked on me yet, but he was looking a little green on the drive over."

"Ha ha," Blair said, rising from his chair, but looking ready to leave.

Jim checked his watch. It was past five.

"You don't have to tell me twice, Sir," Jim said following Blair to the door. "Call me at home if anything comes up tonight."

"We'll be fine, go home."

During the drive home, Jim caught Blair up on the investigation. Between the flu and the break in, Blair was out of the loop.

"I agree, man. There's more here then meets the eye," Blair said around a wide yawn. "I feel like I've done nothing but sleep and I'm still tired. What's up with that?"

"You're sick, Sandburg. That's how your body gets better. Tomorrow is Saturday, so you should be back up to speed by Monday," Jim predicted.

"By the way, Jim. You told me Simon was out of his office for the rest of the day," Blair complained, shooting Jim a dirty look. "I nearly had a heart attack when I woke up and he was in the room."

"Yeah, his meeting got canceled. He called me when I was getting the search warrant."

"He told me he's on a diet for high blood pressure," Blair said.

"I know, he bit my head off the other day, some sort of caffeine withdrawal."

"You know, I could fix him up with an excellent herbal supplement that would lower his blood pressure, cholesterol, `and' help with his stress."

Jim smirked as he checked his side mirror and changed lanes. "I don't know if you could get Simon to take any of your witchdoctor brews, Junior."

"Hey! This is good stuff! Besides, you've tried some of the stuff I bring home," Blair argued.

"True, but I'm not Simon. Besides, judging by his heart rate when I found him in his office, I'd say just watching you sleep took away a little stress." Jim kept his face straight as he baited his friend.

Blair's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Why would watching me sleep lower his stress?"

Jim chuckled as he parked the Ford and turned off the engine. "He told me you talk in your sleep, something about wanting a pink pony?"

Blair's eyes widened in horror. "What!" he shouted, grabbing Jim's arm before the older man could exit. After staring intently into Jim's face for a second, he released his hold and slapped Jim's shoulder. "You dog! I did not!"

"Got `cha," Jim said softly with a snicker.

Blair followed Jim into the building. "Just for that, you're fixing dinner!"

Punching the elevator button, Jim grinned down as his friend. "Easy, Chief. I'll just heat up the soup I brought home for lunch."

"Not enough, big guy," Blair told him with a toothy grin. "I'm starving."

"You must be feeling better."

The elevator arrived; Jim started forward, then suddenly spun on his heel and pulled Blair behind him as he reached for his holstered gun.

"Cascade PD! Step out slowly! Hands away from your body!"

"Jim! What..." The rest of the sentence was cut off as Jim used his hip to shove Blair backwards into the empty elevator. Standing in the opening, he used his body to keep the door from closing.

Aiming for the far corner of the lobby, near an unobtrusive door to a rear access, Jim waited. A shadowy form stepped out from behind a tall plastic palm tree.

"Don't shoot. I just wanted to talk. You're Ellison, right?" The voice was masculine and sounded scared. Jim had no problem seeing into the shadows. The man was in his thirties, white, slightly overweight with a receding hairline.

"I can be reached five days a week at the station," Jim said, keeping his gun steady and pointed at the man. "I don't appreciate being followed to my home. It tends to make me cranky."

"I need to talk to you, Detective," the man explained.

"So talk." The gun never wavered.

"Come on, Jim." Blair's soft plea came from over Jim's shoulder. "Give him a chance."

"Stay put, Sandburg."

"Alexander did `not' kill himself," the man explained.

"Go on."

"Not here."

Jim paused and considered his options. The man looked more scared then dangerous. Both of his hands were empty, not that a weapon couldn't be tucked out of sight.

"Turn around, hands on the wall."

The man did as instructed, allowing Jim to kick his feet wide and search for weapons. Not finding any, Jim tucked his gun away.

Yeah, maybe he was being too cautious, but he didn't care. It had been a weird day and he wasn't about to let whoever broke into his home and drugged his roommate get the drop on them.

"Let's go up to the loft, Jim," Blair suggested, appearing at his side.

Before Jim could chastise him for leaving the elevator the stranger shook his head vehemently.

"No, not there either. And if you're smart, you'd check your home for listening devices."

"What? Why?" Blair stepped closer to the man.

Jim pulled Blair back by the arm, becoming exasperated over his guide's lack of self-preservation. Blair returned Jim's glare with a guilty shrug.

"Not here," the man insisted in a scared hiss.

They ended up two blocks down the street at a corner Starbucks. Grand opening signs and banners still decorated the wall behind the counter. The place attracted businessmen and students with its wingback chairs placed in small circles. Round tables with checkerboard games invited the customers to sit and linger, all ploys to get people to buy fancy coffees with five-dollar bills and not grumble when they are given little in change.

The stranger led them to an empty back corner. Three chairs were placed around a small table with a diagram of a chessboard hand painted on the surface. A box of chess pieces sat in the center. On the wall next to the table was a framed picture of a coffee bean factory from the early twenties.

"Get some drip coffees," Jim said, tucking a bill into Blair's hand. He let the man get settled before launching into his first question. "Who are you?"

The man's eyes flicked to the large window showing the street. Foot traffic was light this time of day; most folks were already home and fixing dinner or watching TV. "Jason Roget. I worked with Alexander."

"At North Cascade Produce?"

"No, one of the shipping companies that contract with them, Evening Star Trucking."

Jim nodded. "So what makes you think Alexander didn't kill himself?"

Roget leaned forward as he spoke, seemingly relieved to have someone listen to him. "It's what `they' want you to believe. They told John they'd take care of Beth when she started blackmailing him."

"Take care of her?" Jim repeated, nodding to Blair as he joined them at the small round table with three cups of black coffee in a cardboard tray.

"Yeah, only their plan was to kill her, frame John, then kill him and make it look like suicide!"

"Who, man? Who did all that?" Blair asked in a surprised whisper.

"I don't know who they are. They have a hand in North Cascade and Evening Star and most everything else involving food distribution." Roget pushed his coffee away. "You don't want to be putting anything in your mouth unless you know who grew it."

"Why do you say that?" Jim demanded as he put a hand out to still Blair's progress of raising his coffee to his lips.

Roget pointed a finger at Jim. "John told me they became `very' interested in your ability to smell that poison! You're in their spotlight, and trust me; this is not a good thing."

Jim was getting frustrated. This man continued to make weird statements, raising more questions than answering those he asked. Jim took Blair's coffee out of the younger man's hand and carefully sniffed it.

"I don't smell anything but normal coffee." He put the cup back down.

The man gave a humorless laugh. "God, I know how I must sound to you, but I have proof." He pulled out a small package of pink artificial sugar, commonly served with coffee all over the world. "Have this analyzed. It's just a trace, but it builds up in your body over the years."

Jim accepted the packet, bringing it to his nose to carefully smell. His eyebrows rose in surprise as he recognized the same odor he'd detected in John Alexander's glass.

"What?" Blair leaned forward as he whispered. "You can smell something?"

Suddenly Jim realized what he'd done. He'd brought an unknown to a public place where they could be easily observed. To top that off, he just reinforced his sentinel ability of smell in public.

Shit. What was he thinking?

"No, nothing," he lied, making it clear by shaking his head and tossing the packet back on the table. Blair snatched it up and took a sniff.

"Are you sure?" Blair asked, getting ready to tear open the package.

Jim stopped him with a shake of his head. "Look," he said turning back to Roget. "I'll take this to the lab. But you need to come down to the station and give us a statement. If you know something about Simmer's murder and Alexander's suicide---"

Jim stopped himself, zooming in on a reflection in the glass picture frame behind Blair's head. The reflection showed the street, the cars driving by, a pedestrian on the sidewalk and two men sitting in a parked car. The one in the passenger seat was pointing a semi-automatic rifle at them.

"Get down!" Jim shouted, lunging for Blair and toppling the table on its side. Black and white plastic chess pieces scattered in every direction. Jim managed to tackle Blair in his seat, sending both of them into the corner. Hitting the ground hard, Jim took most of the impact on his right shoulder. A fiery sting burned across his left arm, just above his elbow.

As bullets hammered the wall and people began screaming, Jim could hear the squeal from the tires as the shooter and driver accelerated down the street. The surprise attack ended as abruptly as it had begun. Jim took a second to readjust his hearing to a normal level.

"Jim!" Blair protested with a gasp. "I can't breathe..."

"You hit?" Jim asked as he rolled off his friend, his hands patting Blair's chest in rapid motions.

"No, you squashed me..." The bloody mess that used to be Jason Roget caught Blair's attention. Roget's body looked like a puppet after the strings had been cut, his arms and legs pointing in different directions. Blair's face paled as he stared wide-eyed at the carnage.

The man had died instantly, Jim was sure. You don't live very long with multiple bullet wounds, especially when one penetrates your head, entering by way of your right eye and exiting out the back of your head, taking most of your skull with it.

"Shit," Jim muttered. The car was long gone. He had a brief memory of a large dark colored sedan, maybe a late model Lincoln, but he was not even sure about that. He had nothing, but another dead body and a conspiracy theory.

"Oh, man..." Blair's face was turning green.

"Close your eyes, Chief. Deep breaths through your mouth." Jim shifted to block the view of the dead man.

The coffee shop was empty now, the last of the employees had already fled. Jim pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, thumbing the numbers for emergency dispatcher while keeping an eye on Blair.

"Not gonna work..." Blair moaned as the first retch shook his frame.

"This is Detective Ellison, I have a drive-by shooting at tenth and Prospect." Jim reached out and snagged the nearby trashcan, putting it in front of Blair as the first wave of vomit rose. Blair clutched the can with both hands like a lifeline. After giving the necessary information to the dispatcher, he returned the phone to his pocket. "Let's get out of here, Sandburg."

Blair's stomach was empty. Reaching for a napkin dispenser that had fallen to the floor, Blair grabbed a handful to wipe his mouth. With a hand from Jim, he got back to his feet, keeping his eyes averted as Jim led him towards the front door and fresh air.

Once outside, Blair took a deep breath. "Oh, man. Who were those guys!" he said, running both hands through his long hair.

"I only saw the face for a second. I doubt I saw enough for a sketch. I'm more interested in who sent them."

"JIM! You're shot!" Blair exclaimed, grabbing Jim by the arm.

Red wetness stained his coat jacket and trickled down his wrist. Now that Jim saw the damage to his jacket, he became aware of the pain.

Had he automatically dialed the pain down?

"Here, sit down." Blair pushed him back to sit in one of the chairs Starbucks left out on the sidewalk by the small tables and large forest green canvas umbrellas.

"I'm fine, Sandburg," Jim grouched.

"Yeah, right," Blair said with a snort as he unbuckled his belt. "If I was the one staining the sidewalk, you'd already have me in the classic shock position."

Using a clean handkerchief and his leather belt, Blair improvised a halfway decent pressure bandage to stop the bleeding. Jim let him fuss. He was feeling a little light headed. Besides, if Blair was worrying about the bullet wound, he wasn't thinking about the corpse inside the coffee shop. But when Blair made noises about the validity of lying Jim down and elevating his feet, Jim drew the line.

"It's only seven stitches, Sandburg," Jim insisted, holding his hand out towards his roommate.

"I don't care, man. I'm driving." Blair clutched the keys to the Expedition in his left fist that was currently behind his back while his right arm was stiff, his palm planted against Jim's chest as he held the taller man off.

"Would you two knock it off?" Simon said in exasperation. "People are staring!"

The doctor had treated Jim's bullet graze, making a comment about a few inches more to the left and Jim would be wearing a cast on his arm instead of a simple gauze wrap. The prescription for pain medication was unfilled. Simon figured Jim was probably counting on his dials and Blair to keep the pain tolerable. Blair ended the argument by dodging around the older man and climbing into the driver's seat and, then locking the driver's side door.

"Simon, make him get out and let me drive," Jim demanded, refusing to concede he had lost.

Simon shook his head, looking heavenward for divine intervention. When Jim had explained that he and Blair needed a safe place to stay the night, Simon had instantly offered his house. He was beginning to wish he'd suggested a hotel.

"Jim, I'm going to write off this display of kindergarten mentality as a side effect of being shot. Now get in and let Sandburg drive," Simon replied.

Smacking the hood of his own vehicle in frustration, Jim opened the passenger door and sat down. Neither man so much as glanced at each other as Blair started the motor.

"For crying out loud," Simon muttered to himself, getting into his car and starting the engine. As the big sedan pulled away from the curb, he let his mind drift to the shooting. For now, Simon was working under the assumption that the shooter's target had been Roget. Jim had insisted Roget was in the process of divulging information that someone did not want known. Add the fact that the majority of the bullets had struck the area in and around Roget cinched it. Jim's injury was probably a ricochet or possibly a deflected round as it traveled through the glass of the window.

It was puzzling as to why Jim would not return to his loft. Jim did not run from danger, so he had to have a good reason not to go home.

Once the three men arrived at Simon's home, it was after ten. Unlocking the front door, he ushered his two houseguests in. After his divorce, Simon had purchased his uncle's small craftsman home. His uncle was planning on selling anyway, since he had retired and wanted to spend his final years in Arizona. He was more than happy to let his favorite nephew buy the house, giving him some spending money and keeping the property in the family. Simon's new neighborhood was quiet and only a thirty-minute drive to work. The only drawback was the home's small size, less than twelve hundred square feet.

"I've got a fold up cot one of you can sleep on tonight," Simon offered, switching on a floor lamp in the small living room. Heavy oak paneling and hardwood floors reflected the light, causing the room to look warm and comfortable. Simon had a small loveseat and a sturdy recliner for seating which allowed plenty of room for a large bookcase, entertainment system and wood pellet stove.

"I'll take it," Blair stated. "Jim can use Daryl's bedroom, he's with his mom, right?"

"You can set the cot up in the same room with me, Chief," Jim said.

"I'm fine out here, there's plenty of room."

"No, it would be better if we're in the same room."

"So I can give you the flu?"

"If you two do this all the time, how the hell can you live with each other?" Simon asked wearily.

Jim and Blair had the grace to look a little guilty.

"Sorry, Simon," Blair said meekly. "It's been a long day."

"Yeah, sorry," Jim added.

"Alright, if you're both finished, I've got cold cuts in the fridge. I think there's a six-pack of beer in the basement left over from the last poker night." Simon headed for the basement stairs. By the time he'd returned with the beer and a couple of diet Seven-Ups, Blair had the sandwich fixings out on the table and was setting the plates and napkins in front of each chair.

"Jim, what the hell are you doing?" Simon demanded.

Jim put down the package of meat he'd been sniffing and gave Simon a tired look. "Checking for chemicals."

"I'm sure you have a fascinating story to go with this latest personality quirk of yours, or has living with Sandburg sent you over the edge?"

Blair remained quiet as he sat at the table with his head resting wearily against one palm, elbow on the tabletop. Jim continued to check the food. Apparently satisfied, he assembled a sandwich, cut it in half on the plate and passed it over to Blair.

Blair waved a limp hand at the food. "Nah uh, I'm not hungry."

"Eat a few bites, Sandburg. You can't fight that bug without fuel," Jim said in a tone that told Blair the discussion was over.

To Simon's hidden amusement, Blair picked up a triangle and sampled a small bite. That in itself told the captain that Blair was not feeling well. Simon joined the two men and skipping the mayonnaise per his new dietary instructions, made a sandwich. "Okay, let's hear it."

Jim twisted the cap off a beer and took a second to smell the contents before offering it to Blair. After Blair declined, Simon passed the extra soft drink to Jim, who opened it, took a whiff and gave it to Blair. Simon opened his own drink and waited for Jim to check it, wondering if he should reserve his room for the mental hospital now or wait until the morning.

"If we're all finished playing `watch Jim smell our food', could someone tell me what's going on?" Simon said sarcastically.

Blair pointed a finger at Jim.

"Okay," Jim started, after taking a long sip. "Roget approached us with information about Alexander's and Simmer's death..."

Simon finished the last of his drink and contemplated breaking his diet and drinking a beer, hell, maybe the rest of the six-pack. The story that Jim had just told him sounded like an episode of that crazy TV show Daryl watched on Friday nights.

"A conspiracy involving drugs in our food."

"Right."

"For what purpose?"

Jim shrugged. "He didn't get a chance to tell us."

"And these people are interested in you, in your sentinel ability, that's why they drugged Sandburg."

"Apparently."

"What do you have in the way of physical proof?"

"Well, we'll have the poison on the envelope, the chemical in the drink at Alexander's apartment, and the blood work up that Fletcher took from Sandburg."

"And this." Blair tossed a small pink packet of artificial sweetener on the table.

Jim turned to his partner with an approving smile. "Way to go, Chief."

Blair shrugged, his chin propped up on the heel of his hand. Simon resisted the urge to tell him to get his elbow off the dinner table. At least he'd eaten a little.

"What's this?" Simon asked as he carefully picked it up, touching just the corner of the paper.

"I think that's what got Roget killed," Jim said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Simon caught the sudden nod of Blair's head as he slipped off his hand. He caught himself quickly, blinking sleepily at his sandwich. The two cops exchanged brief looks.

"I'll get the cot," Simon said, reading Jim's mind. "We can finish this conversation in the morning."

Fifteen minutes later, Simon wished his houseguests pleasant dreams and headed for his own bed.

Jim couldn't sleep. His mind refused to give up the puzzle of the new case. On the cot next to him, Blair was gently snoring. He had barely lasted long enough to undress before falling asleep.

Now Jim found himself listening to Blair's snores and itemizing Daryl's possessions: the rap posters on the wall, the computer set up on the small student desk in the corner, a few textbooks in the matching chair. The room smelled like potato chips, dirty gym socks and cheap cologne. Memories of Jim's own bedroom, next to his brother's came to mind. Except for the posters on the wall, their rooms had looked just like this one. Jim let his thoughts ponder on what Blair's room would have looked like...geez, only a dozen years ago. Suddenly, Jim felt old.

`Enough,' Jim decided. He let his mind return to the mystery of Roget's words. Somehow, he was observed two days ago inside that accounting office at North Cascade Produce when he detected the poison on the envelope. But how? Closed circuit monitoring system, no doubt, not unheard of in businesses now days, but why hadn't the company offered the tapes of Simmons' last hours? Maybe they weren't aware they existed?

Jim remembered Roget's words. `They have a hand in everything...'

Was it possible to run a large business like North Cascade Produce and not know if the business was being used for illegal purposes? But even if that was true, Jim's big question was `why'.

A phone rang.

Jim woke with a snort. It was still dark. The phone rang a second time and Jim remembered they were at Simon's house. Blair's sleep was too deep to be interrupted by a distant phone ring.

He glanced at his wristwatch; he'd gotten a full hour of sleep. It was past one in the morning, not a normal time for a person to call, unless you were in a house belonging to a police captain. The third ring never came, Simon's sleepy voice drifted down the short hallway. Jim was careful not to listen in, knowing if the roles were reversed, he'd resent having his privacy invaded.

A few minutes later, Simon was tapping on the door to their room.

"Jim? You awake?" Simon softly asked.

"Yeah. What's up?" Jim kept his voice quiet. Blair continued to snore without interruption.

"Fire department's working a three-alarm downtown, second and Pine."

Jim tossed back the blanket in haste. "Not the lab!" he asked fearfully as he reached for his jeans, forgetting any pretense of letting Blair sleep.

"'Fraid so," Simon said. "You coming?"

"Yeah, give us a second, Simon."

Simon flipped on the light before leaving them to get ready.

Blair was huffing in his sleep, turning in the narrow cot as if to escape the sounds of the two cops talking. Jim reached out, firmly shaking a covered hip. "Wake up, Sandburg."

"Hey...what's with you, man?" Blair protested softly, pulling the blankets over his head.

"Shake a leg, Lazarus. We've got to go." Jim quickly pulled his clothes on, slipping his feet into his shoes. He stood, grasping the edge of the cot and giving it two hard shakes before heading for the bathroom. "Come on, I'm not letting you stay behind."

"All right!" Blair exclaimed with feeling. "Just don't dump me on the floor already!"

They arrived downtown in fifteen minutes. The city streets were filled with fire engines, command cars, aid cars and police units. Jim noticed the large HazMat truck near the command post set up in the middle of the street.

A five-story building was spotlighted by dozens of fire apparatus, making the heavy black smoke that poured out of several windows on the third floor visible. Fire hoses crisscrossed in the street connecting fire hydrants to fire engines. From their location, they could see the lights of the police station housing Major Crimes only a few blocks down from the building currently on fire. Last year, when the police station became too small to accommodate the additional departments being developed, the lab moved down the street to its current location. Still close enough to reach on foot, but allowing room for the growth that was being experienced as more people moved to Cascade and the city grew.

The four-lane street was blocked off by the police, allowing fire personnel to work in front of the burning building without fear of being hit by a car. They flashed their badges to get past the barricades. Simon led the way towards an Asian man wearing an orange vest with the words `Police Liaison' printed on the back. He was talking with a command officer from the fire department wearing a vest marked `Tactics'. After the conversation ended, the fire officer strode off towards the command post, talking into a portable radio. Simon approached the police liaison.

"How bad is it, Kinglan?" Simon asked.

"Hey, Simon. We're looking at a shitload of legal grief," the man said with a mournful expression. "The fire started on the third floor and destroyed the entire police lab. We've lost all evidence currently being analyzed. Thank God we store the finished stuff in the basement."

"How'd the fire start?" Simon asked.

"No one knows yet. Fire crews have it contained now. It should be out before long," Kinglan replied.

Jim coughed as the light breeze shifted. The smoke in the street was light, but Jim's enhanced smell could easily detect the rancid smell of burning chemicals and synthetics.

"Jim! We've got to get you out of here," Blair hissed from his side. "Who knows what burned up in that lab?"

"I'm fine, Sandburg. I'll just dial it down."

"No!" Blair was adamant. "It's not enough, Jim! You don't know how even a miniscule particle will affect you."

Jim felt a strong tug on his belt, causing him to step back or risk falling on his butt. "Sandburg! Knock it off!"

"Make me, Ellison!" Blair taunted without humor as he continued to yank backwards on the belt. Jim was reminded of a large dog playing tug-a-war with a rope.

And Jim was the rope.

Simon was distracted from his conversation to see the drama unfolding between the sentinel and guide. With a hasty goodbye to the man, he hurried over.

"Now what is going on!?"

Jim was still trying to remove Blair's hands from his waistband, not an easy task when one arm sported a bullet injury. Blair was making good head way now. He had towed Jim almost half the distance toward Simon's car.

"Simon..." Jim started, but didn't get far.

"Simon, Jim can't be anywhere near this fire. We have no idea how he'd react to those burning chemicals," Blair insisted, his head down as he used all his body's weight and muscles to pull, tugging Jim backwards.

"Sandburg, I'm going to kick your---"

"Enough! Both of you," Simon yelled, raising his hand.

Both men froze.

Simon pointed a long finger at Jim. "Sandburg's probably right. I've got a job for you anyway, I want you to take my car and your own personal tow truck there and get to the bullpen. I need a list of every scrap of evidence we currently show logged out to the lab."

Jim nodded, using Blair's momentary shock at hearing Simon admit that he was right to successfully free his abused belt from Blair's hands. "We're on it, Sir."

Glancing down at his hands still in Jim's strong grip, Blair swallowed nervously. He snuck a peek up at Jim's face - apparently not happy with what he saw - started tugging to free them. "Uh...Jim. You can let me go now."

"Sure I can, Chief. But I don't want to," Jim said with an evil grin as he started to pull Blair along towards Simon's car.

Before he could get very far, Simon ended his fun.

"Jim!"

Jim looked back.

"Keys?" He dangled the car keys briefly before tossing them. "I'll walk down after a while, just get my car off the street and in the parking garage in one piece, okay?"

Jim turned his guide loose to catch the keys. "We'll see you then, Simon."

With his hands free, Blair wasted no time sprinting for the car

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to LKY

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