"How many more?"

Jim rolled his eyes heavenward. "Sandburg."

"I'm just asking," Blair muttered mulishly.

"I already told you. We need to interview the entire apartment building. That argument must have raised a few eyebrows. Judging by the condition of her apartment, WWIII went down in there."

"Whatever."

Jim paused. They'd already interviewed over a dozen tenants. They had twice as much to complete before the job was finished. They'd gotten the assignment from the primary detectives working the case. The apartment building was four levels of poverty under one roof. The hallways smelled of old sweat and urine. It appeared the slumlord that owned it hadn't spent a dime on upkeep since Nixon was in office.

Sure, it was the ugly side of police work, but Blair had never complained yet. Why now?

"You okay?" Jim asked.

"Fine."

"Want me to take you back to the loft?"

"No."

Okay, Jim thought, I tried. One thing he knew for sure, after living with Blair the last few months, there were times to push and times to back off. Whenever Blair's answers were reduced to single syllables it time to back away. Blair was impervious to questions he didn't wish to answer.

Jim picked up the pace. Arriving at the next graffiti covered door, he raised a hand to knock.

A tall man a few years older than Jim answered, jerking the door open as if expecting a confrontation. His face was half hidden by days of dirty stubble, streaked with gray. He glared at them with reddish eyes that watered. The stale odors of bad hygiene and beer met Jim's nose.

"What?"

"I'm Detective Ellison with Cascade Pol-"

"Yeah, I get that part. What do you want?" The apartment dweller looked over Jim's shoulder at Blair.

Jim sighed quietly, a practice he learned in the army. Well, the sooner they move on to the next interview the better Jim liked it, too. "We're investigating a murder that happened last night. Did you hear anything unusual around ten?"

"No." the man responded, his attention still on Blair.

Jim pressed. "Were you home last night?"

"Yeah, but I didn't hear any fighting." Watery Eyes answered. "Hey, don't I know you, kid?"

"Sir," Jim interrupted, turning slightly to see Blair's reaction. Not good. Jim moved to the right, effectively blocking the man's view. "How did you know there was an argument?"

With a shrug that released another wave of body odor, the man turn back to Jim. "Every one of these tramps that move in here with their shit-head boyfriends fight. It's as common as the dirt they are. So one gets off'ed? What do I care? Ask the boy, he knows." The door was closed with a slam that would have been much more impressive had the door not been constructed with thin veneer.

Jim stood for a moment in surprise. What the hell just happened? Turning, he realized he was alone. He caught sight of Blair's back turning a far corner at the end of the hallway. Jim caught up with him on the stairwell.

"Let's get lunch, Chief," Jim said quietly.

Twenty minutes later they sat in a corner booth at Arby's, brown plastic trays bearing their meals. The drive had been silent. There were closer places they could have gone, but Jim felt the need to get his roommate out of that rundown neighborhood. He took a few moments to remove the top bun of his sandwich and liberally spread horseradish over his roast beef and cheddar. Blair had ordered a potato with broccoli.

"I was eleven," Blair said in a calm, quiet voice as he used his plastic fork to mix the melted cheese and green vegetable in with the bits of baked potato. "Naomi and I lived next door to him."

Jim nodded. What do you say to something like that? Obviously the place had been a dive when Blair had been a kid. A person would keep that address off their resume.

"She wasn't like that," Blair continued as if daring Jim to disagree.

Jim knew. He'd met Naomi. Whatever his opinion of her, he didn't put her in the same classification as the man they'd just spoken to. "He was a pig, Chief. If he told me it was clear and sunny, I'd still take my umbrella."

A touch of humor found its way to Blair's eyes. Breaking up the deep embarrassment Jim had seen. Flannel covered shoulders relaxed a bit as he lifted a forkful of lunch to his mouth.

"Did he ever bother you guys?" Jim had to know. Living next door to that man must have been hell.

Expressive eyes darkened as Blair chewed. "We didn't stay very long. Naomi was working two jobs. She got us out."

Not exactly what Jim would call an answer to his question, but he let it slide - for now. He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. Naomi had visited for the first time last month. Just in time to get involved with that car theft ring. She'd been ditzy and flighty at first, but when the case had taken a bizarre turn, she'd proved even airheads could have backbone; a trait handed down to her son.

One thing he had enjoyed immensely was seeing pictures of Blair as a kid. Although seeing Blair's face after charging up the stairs to find them together on his bed eating tongue had been a hoot as well. But those pictures in her scrapbook, they stuck out in Jim's memory.

Blair had been thin growing up, not that he was obese now, but as a kid he'd been all bone and curly hair. She'd showed Jim pictures of six year-old Blair in fields along side Hispanic workers, harvesting fruit by hand. He posed at her side at a dinosaur dig in Colorado when he'd been seven. She'd caught him with a Polaroid as he milked a goat in an alpine village, he looked about nine.

Each picture showed a bright eyed child, eager and intelligent. She had been quick to point out the locations, the experiences, the opportunities her son had shared with her. Jim couldn't help but see the worn-looking, ill fitting clothes. The quality of the photos showed the chapped, sunburn skin on Blair's arms and face. Sure, he looked healthy and happy. But safe? It was a big world out there and Naomi had been eager to show as much to her son as she could on a shoestring lifestyle. She'd been so damn young herself. How had she kept him safe?

"What?" Blair asked.

"What?" Jim countered. How long had he been quiet? He took a second, larger bite into his sandwich, chewing slowly.

"You, man." Blair's lunch was nearly finished. "I can practically hear the gears turning."

Caught without a plausible reply, Jim shrugged. He knew Blair defended his mother and her nomadic life. Bringing up the obvious dangers would only start a fight he didn't want to have.

Blair's blue eyes narrowed. "She got us out, Jim. Yeah, it was the worst dive I ever remember staying in. And, yeah, I spent some time alone. But, it wasn't her fault." Although Blair's voice remained low, he was heading toward a level of agitation that Jim did not care to see reached.

Swallowing half chewed food, Jim held up a hand. "Whoa, Junior. I never said a word." He almost added the line from the play about `protesting too much', but he held back. "I'm one of the good guys, remember?"

Blair pushed his potato shell away and turned, suddenly finding the parking lot worth his attention, his shoulders tense again. Jim went back to his sandwich. God, the kid had more defenses then a martial arts instructor. He concentrated on finishing lunch.

"You think the boyfriend killed her?" Blair asked after a few minutes of quiet.

"Yeah, stats show it's usually someone the victim knew," Jim answered. "We already know they were having an argument. I'm sure we'll find him."

Blair played with his straw, moving it up and down, causing a funny sound to vibrate out of the empty cup. "There used to be a bar a few blocks away, called `Playmor Tavern'. Most of the tenants would spend their unemployment checks there. It's the first of the month, so they must have been just mailed."

"Okay, we'll check it out after lunch," Jim said, finishing his sandwich. "You done with that?"

Blair nodded, then looked startled as Jim slid it over and picked up Blair's fork.

"What?" Jim asked. "You said you were finished. No point in wasting it."

After watching Jim take several bites, Blair relaxed with a shake of his head. "Damn, I'm going to have to keep my leftovers hidden, aren't I?" He reached out and tore part of the potato skin off and popped it into his mouth.

"Nah," Jim said. "You can have green." Moving the plate more to the middle of the table but continuing to eat.

"Green?" The potato was disappearing fast as Blair tore off bites.

"Yeah, I have dibs on yellow and pink. You can have green."

Both corners of Blair's mouth lifted. "Man, I'll never get why you color code your leftovers."

End.

Author's note - I realize I got my cannon backwards. Naomi met Jim after 'The Rig' where Blair talks about color coding leftovers. So, I changed the last line. Don't like it as well, but it keeps it in our TS universe.

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to LKY

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