Jim shifted in his sleep. Without rousing, he scrunched his eyes, trying to snuggle back into slumber. He couldn't quite manage it. The shock of his own strong voice finally rattled him out of sleep into a half-awake daze. He jumped again when the crack of Simon Bank's voice being recorded on the answering machine penetrated the fog.
Struggling up, he nearly tripped over the afghan which now tangled around his feet. As he stumbled to the phone, he ran into a discarded pair of shoes and Sandburg's coat. He gradually realized he was dressed, and had apparently crashed on one of the living room chairs instead of crawling into bed last night. Making a final lunge for the phone, he snatched up the receiver.
"Simon?? Are you there? Sorry - I was asleep and didn't hear the phone." He kicked the afghan into a dead lump, freeing his feet. His brain was slowly making a recovery. "Start over again. What's so urgent? And what time is it?"
"Time for work. Do I have your attention, Detective."
Jim couldn't quite reign in his irritation. "With all due respect, Simon, Sandburg and I got in after 2AM, as you well know. Yes, you have my attention, even if I'm not conscious," Jim answered. There was a definite 'give me a break' tone in his voice.
Simon to his credit, backed off a bit. No one had a right to question the work ethic of this particular partnership. "Sorry. We have a real mess. I need you and Sandburg down on the jogging trails where they go through the Wetlands Wildlife Sanctuary. The closest you can come is about a mile - leave your car at the end of Taylor Street. Half the world is already parked there."
"Shit, Simon, that's damn near the middle of nowhere." Jim noticed that across the room, Blair was leveraging himself off the couch. He didn't just look half-asleep, he was half-asleep. His new, police approved shorter haircut still had strands sticking out in all directions. He looked like the poster child for pathetic. Jim turned his attention back to the phone. "Excuse my sarcasm, but why do you need us to break up a brawl between a bunch of ducks?"
"You're forgiven, Ellison. At this point, birds sound pretty good. We have a murder - an execution would be a more appropriate term. Happened about an hour ago, in broad daylight." Simon was interrupted. Jim could hear him bellowing orders to someone off in the distance. He had tried to muffle the receiver in deference to Jim's superior hearing, but Jim still jerked away from the increased volume. Sentinel senses were not cooperative when you were waking from a near coma. "I'm back. The victim is Marissa Hunt. Shot twice through the head."
"Oh my God. Not Nathan's wife?" Jim noted that Blair had snapped to attention. "How's he taking it?"
"He was with her. Now you know why I need you. Get down here." Jim was not the least bit disturbed when the silence of the dial tone greeted his ears. Simon's abrupt manner now made perfect sense. Blair was at his side, hand on his arm. Jim softly replaced the receiver and turned to his rumpled partner, answering the questions before they were asked. "Someone shot Nathan's wife, Marissa, down on the jogging trail. They need us right away."
Blair's eyes were widened with shock. Nathan Hunt had been part of a multi-division task force working on an organized crime case. Sandburg and Ellison had been the Major Crimes contribution to the cause. Nathan was a 20-year veteran in Narcotics, well respected and decorated. Marissa had made all the members of the task force welcome in their home. Some of their strategy sessions had taken place in the basement rec room while Marissa had their three kids safely off at soccer games or the like. She was, or had been, the epitome of the perfect cop's wife.
"Not Marissa," gasped Blair. He sat down heavily on the arm of the nearest chair. Since his press conference and subsequent career suicide, Blair was always a bit nervous about moving into in a new group. He had ample reason to be wary - his reception from certain individuals at the station was often less than cordial. It still pained Jim to watch his vivacious partner become so cautious with his relationships. In this case, Blair and Nathan had hit it off immediately, and the young detective had been grateful for the warm reception, which Marissa had seemed to share wholeheartedly. Their ready acceptance had made his introduction to the task force an easier affair. "Who could want to hurt Marissa? Everybody loves her."
Jim was already moving across the room, but stopped at the foot of the stairs. "We're already dressed, but I'm going to change. If I'm going to look like death warmed over, I'm going to do it in a fresh shirt. Grab some boots, Chief. The murder site is in the Wetlands." He started to turn away, all business, when he realized Blair still wasn't moving. He was running his hands through his hopelessly tangled hair, clearly still in shock. Jim chided himself for being so abrupt. Five minutes one way or the other wouldn't make Marissa any less dead. Take the time, Ellison, you insensitive clod. With a few long, graceful steps, he went back to Blair's side.
"I'm sorry, Chief. I had a little longer to get oriented. She was a good person, and I know you got to know her better than I did."
"I'm the one who should be sorry, Jim. This is my job now. I need to quit thinking like a civilian."
"If I made you feel that way, then I'm doubly sorry. Cold efficiency isn't the only way to do this job. The greatest strength you bring to this partnership is your understanding of human nature, and I don't mean that in a clinical way. Your ability to relate to people will make you a great cop. If it makes a loss tougher to process, well so be it. My only suggestion is to focus that hurt into seeing justice done. Let's make sure some bastard doesn't walk away unpunished."
Blair closed his eyes. Jim recognized this little 'gathering ritual' for what it was. He'd seen Blair the grad student meditate his way through many a crisis - this was the abbreviated cop version. When he stood, the professional demeanor was back in place. "Can I borrow a Jags cap, Jim? I can go faster if I don't try to calm this hair down."
"Sure thing." Jim bounded off up the stairs. "I meant it about the boots, too. And bring some dry socks."
If the situation hadn't been so dire, he would have laughed at Blair's mumbled 'wet is my world' mantra as he shuffled across to his room, in search of suitable clothing.
As Jim pulled into the area Simon had suggested, he realized why his captain had been so upset. The normally deserted area was crawling with Cascade PD personnel, ranging from uniformed patrol officers to forensics. The coroner's van was parked nearby, so that grim task was already underway. Mixed in were crews from at least three different media organizations. For a detective, it was equivalent a scene from Dante's Inferno. Surveying the scene with dismay, Jim simply closed his eyes and banged his head on the steering wheel in mock frustration.
"Not exactly the pristine crime scene we were hoping for, eh, big guy?" Considering the circumstances and Blair's remote silence on the trip over, Jim was relieved to hear the slightly teasing tone in his partner's voice.
"If it wasn't a damn nightmare already, it is now. How did the TV people manage to beat us here? No way would Simon have released a statement this soon." As the two detectives emerged from the truck, they were spotted by members of Channel 3's camera crew. Much to his dismay, Officer of the Year Ellison was not exactly a low profile guy, and was easily identified. He felt the coming approach as much as heard it. As he fought with his senses, Blair unobtrusively moved in front of him. He softly whispered a few words to settle his Sentinel, then turned to shield him from the lights and shouted questions.
"Let us through, people. Any statement will have to come from Captain Banks." Under his breath, Blair murmured, "See, I didn't develop that lecture hall voice for nothing."
"Detective Ellison, are you assigned to the case?"
"Are there any suspects, yet? Will you be making an arrest?"
"Is it true the victim was beaten to death?"
"Detective, would you comment on the PD's failure to protect the public?"
After five years of work with Jim, Blair had keen radar where his partner was concerned. An explosion was imminent and it was part of his job to keep it from happening. Reaching the first line of uniformed officers, Blair pushed Jim on ahead. Turning, Blair barked a few pointed comments at the following pack. "Captain Banks will make a statement at the proper time. Now back off. There's been loss of life here. I suggest you give this area the deference it deserves. Any victim deserves more respect than this circus." It was a great soundbite - Blair's turquoise eyes were flashing, and he sounded both indignant and sorrowful. When it played later that day at the station, a watching Rafe commented, "Way to go hairboy. Glad you're one of us, now." Rafe wasn't the only one to notice.
Quickly catching up with Jim, Blair caught his partner's smirk. "Well, I didn't call them pathetic vultures," he fumed. "I should get some credit for that, at least," he added, a bit defensively.
"You did great, Chief. Thanks for getting me out of there. Simon's up ahead. Let's get to work." Blair rolled his eyes and tried to keep up. The fact that he couldn't see Simon wasn't worth commenting on.
The Wetlands Wildlife Sanctuary was a large area of low rolling sandhills mixed with saltmarsh. The ground was so unstable and the surrounding water so shallow it had missed development as the port area of Cascade grew. In the driest areas, grasses could be several feet tall. These areas were small, almost like tiny beads strung through the larger marsh. Reeds could reach shoulder height in the wettest areas. To enhance its function as a nesting area for waterfowl, access was restricted and visitors were limited to the jogging trail during the nesting season of early spring. It was an ordinance that rarely needed enforcement. Cascade's perpetually wet weather ensured that any trip off the paved trail would result in a knee-deep bath in silty, sticky salt water.
Another five minutes of brisk walking brought them to the edge of the crime scene. A fifty-foot section of jogging trail had been cordoned off with yellow police tape. This section ran through one of the grassy hummocks which dotted the area. To the seaward side of the trail, just past the technicians carefully photographing the area and collecting evidence, Blair could just make out a mane of bright blonde hair spread like a veil across the ground. Marissa. His pace faltered - damn, he'd never be able to truly put his feelings on hold in the presence of a body of a stranger, much less a friend. Simon was motioning them over, but Jim snagged his arm and pointed him in a different direction. With a nod, Blair accepted his partner's call on this one. He could go over the murder site with Jim later when they could get the crowd cleared out. Instead, he walked resolutely past the body and concentrated on a huddled figure at the far edge of the crime scene. Joining the man on the ground, he gently moved the edge of the emergency space blanket wrapped around the bowed shoulders. The tear-streaked face of Nathan Hunt looked back at him, wordless in his grief.
"Hey, Nathan. I'm so sorry, man. So, so sorry." Nathan didn't seem to shy away, so Blair moved closer, an arm wrapped gently around the grieving man's shoulders. Blair waited in silence, hoping his presence could provide some comfort. Nathan leaned towards him, shaking his head, but didn't speak. Silent sobs wracked him, and Blair waited longer, quiet and watchful. Tightening his hold slightly, he spoke softly. "She was a beautiful special person, Nathan. Everyone loved her."
"She died right next to me. I couldn't stop it."
"Take your time, man. Can you tell me what happened? Anything you can remember will help. Just let it out - we can stop whenever you need to, but we really need your help." Blair shifted slightly to his knees, waiting for the story to pour out in heartbroken bits and pieces.
Meanwhile, Jim had joined Simon near the forensics team. Dan Wolf, the head pathologist, gave him a summary of Marissa's injuries. She had apparently been forced to her knees and shot through the back of the head, twice. A third shot had gone through her heart, but at that point she was already dead. Someone was trying to make a point. Caliber of the gun would have to wait for the autopsy. Forensics had found no other pertinent evidence. Dan had no problem agreeing to wait on the autopsy until Jim could join him at the lab. The three men stood aside as the technicians continued the grim task of bagging and removing Marissa's body.
Simon followed Jim's gaze. Blair was with Nathan. Simon guessed that Ellison was following the conversation, but didn't ask. Too many other people around.
"No one could get a word out of him when we got here. The kid has a gift for dealing with victim's families. You made a good choice sending him over."
Jim turned his attention back to Simon. "We're not going to have a whole lot to go on, Captain. Can you get everyone cleared out of here so I can go over things with Blair?"
Simon nodded in agreement. "Once the body is removed, you can have it to yourself. I'll leave some uniforms to maintain the integrity of the crime scene. We'll take Nathan back to the station. I want to give him some time with the department psychologist before we do anything else. His partner is meeting us there. Apparently the kids are visiting Marissa's parents in Tacoma. I'm going to suggest he join them there and keep the press off his back. God knows we can't let him near the investigation."
"How the hell did our journalist friends get wind of this so fast?"
"Well, I sure didn't call them. I got here right behind the uniforms. Nathan flagged down a patrol checking out a routine call. He was a mess, but walked back here to the body with them. The patrol called it into the station. I was out going to pick up a paper - couldn't have taken me 10 minutes to get here from the original call. Channel 3 was unloading cameras before I could get the keys out of the ignition. Maybe Sandburg can sort it out."
Silence fell as Marissa's body was loaded onto a gurney. It was a painful moment. Several of the uniformed officers removed their hats in respect as she was moved. This was family - one of their own. A killing like this ranked right up with gunning down a brother officer. Tempers would be running high. Unless Nathan could give them some help, it would be a very tough case.
Blair had eased Nathan to his feet. He carefully guided him up the trail to follow his slain wife back to the vehicles. As they approached, Simon moved to take his place. Before leaving, Nathan straightened and looked directly at Jim.
"You taking this one, Ellison?"
Waiting for a confirming look from Simon, Jim nodded. "You'll have our best, Nathan. You can rest assured, we'll crack this one way or another."
"Well, you won't have to look too far. I don't know who pulled the trigger, but our old friend Andrew Carbone gave the order. We were getting too close with the task force, Jim. This is to warn us off. That bastard is responsible for my Marissa."
Slightly alarmed, Simon broke in. "Nathan, you know we'll check every lead, but let's not jump to conclusions. You'll blow the case if you start making accusations that we can't back up in court, especially with the press hanging around. Let everyone else do their jobs."
Nathan Hunt ignored his superior officer. "I mean it, Ellison. You bring Carbone down or I'll kill him myself."
"Tell me Nathan's version, Chief." They had waited while most of the personnel had completed their duties and retreated to the station. Except for some officers maintaining a perimeter off in the distance, they were alone.
"Nathan said they came out here for a walk. It's normal routine for them on Sunday's. The kids sleep in; they come down for some quiet time. When they get home they wake the kids and go to church. They park down on Thomas. Their usual route is to walk out to the point, sit and talk on the benches overlooking the sound, and walk back. They were on their way back."
"Did he see the shooter?"
"Sort of. Four guys passed them, jogging, on the way out. Young, fit, early 20's. Nothing unusual. Descriptions are pretty vague. They were wearing running clothes. It was raining and all four either had a hood up or a hat pulled down low. Normal for the weather. Heard the same group coming back. Next thing he knows, two have him pinned to the ground and the other two drag Marissa over to the grass and shoot her. No threats, no conversation. Bashed his head against the pavement. When he came to, the men were gone. That's it. No other descriptions. No caliber on the gun."
Jim shook his head. "And no motive, as far as I can tell. Was Nathan carrying his piece?"
"No, he was upset about that. Said he'd just gotten lazy on these Sunday morning walks. He was fretting over not having it to protect Marissa."
"Doesn't sound like it would have made any difference. He didn't see anyone else?"
"No, not that he told me about. Doesn't surprise me. It's a dreary day and really early, even for die-hard runners."
Jim crouched on the pavement, studying the actual murder site. The blacktop path would reveal nothing useful. No shoe prints, not even scuff marks. The grassy area where Marissa had been shot was trampled, but would yield nothing useful as evidence.
"Did he say specifically how they knocked him out? Did you notice an injury?"
"He had a lump on the side of his forehead and some abrasions on his cheek. They were holding him face down; so I would guess they just pulled his head back and bashed it into the pavement. He had a pretty nasty cut."
"Would it have bled freely?"
"Yeah. For awhile anyway. There was quite a bit of blood smeared across his cheek."
"I need your help. Scent first. I want to find out exactly where he was held down."
"Okay. You'll have to filter out everything else first." Blair knelt down next to him, as he had with Nathan. His jeans were already soaked, but he gave no indication it was bothering him. His hand rested lightly on Jim's arm.
Jim closed his eyes. The scent of Marissa's blood was overwhelming. When he filtered that out, he could detect a faint trace of perfume, but he already had that matched up with one of the forensic technicians. He could detect Marissa's perfume - he and Blair had purchased some of her favorite as a thank you for her hospitality. It was relatively easy to pick out and set aside. He slowly eliminated the natural scents of the nearby sound, the saltmarsh and the native grasses. Frustrated, he tried again. Nothing. No other source of blood.
"Jim. Jim, come out of it. You're gonna zone, man."
Jim shook his head to clear it. "I can't find it. Are you sure it was bleeding?"
"Yeah, but maybe is just ended up on his skin and clothes."
"Let's walk. I'm not getting anything here."
An hour later, they had walked the length of the trail to the point and back twice. They had even walked a grid out to the edge of the surrounding marsh. Jim had a raging headache and had turned up nothing helpful. He reluctantly took Blair's advice to quit scanning and to give himself a break. He was totally frustrated.
"We've got serious problems here, Chief. There's just got to be something. Damn, if you were going to pick the perfect spot for a murder, this would be it. No traffic. No distant witnesses. Site's not going to show any disturbance. Anything you need to get rid of you just chuck into the marsh."
"Let's head back, Jim. Maybe we'll have more luck with the autopsy. If you haven't found something by now, its just not here."
Jim could find no reasonable grounds for argument, but his instincts, honed by years of practice, were screaming that he was missing something vital. Blair, however, was right. If he hadn't gotten it by now, it would have to lie dormant for awhile. They could always try again.
Hours later, with dusk approaching, Jim was slumped in a chair in Simon's office. The lights were off. Jim was again suffering through another painful headache. His senses had been on high all day and he was beat. The autopsy had been an essay in frustration. Blair had stayed by his side, hoping to guide his Sentinel under extenuating circumstances. After the third time his partner was heaving into the plastic lined trash can, Jim kicked him out. There was only so much you could expect and Sandburg had given it all. As the door had finally shut behind him, Dan set down his instruments and leaned in Jim's direction. "Ellison, I don't care how many times that boy pukes, he's a keeper. You couldn't do better for a partner. You tell me if anyone makes any smart comments. Many a tough guy in this building would have been out of here in the first two minutes."
They had tried every possible approach and everything had came back a blank. They had ballistics information on the bullets removed from Marissa's body, but without a murder weapon, it was useless. Divers were out of the question. The gun could be five feet from where Marissa was murdered and they wouldn't find it in the silt of the marsh, and that was assuming the shooter was dumb enough to drop it at his own feet and leave it. Joel was talking to the Navy, trying to find out if they had equipment that could scan the shallow water for a metal object, but they were only going through the motions because they had no better options.
Without any other leads, Simon had reluctantly followed up on Nathan's accusations that Carbone was behind the murder. They were flaunting the line between investigation and harassment, and they all knew it. During the day, they had pulled in every underling Carbone had ever hired. Manpower was no object. Officers were coming out of the woodwork to volunteer their time to help out with the investigation. In their zeal, months of work by the task force were being put at risk. Every single one of Carbone's known associates seemed to have an ironclad alibi. Simon was getting heat from all directions and had absolutely no answers.
"Damn it, Ellison, scared me to death coming into my own office. Why don't you turn on the lights like a normal person?"
"Hello to you to, Captain. Pull up a chair and tell me what I already know. We're sunk and have no options left." Jim's headache had returned. He had retreated to Simon's office hoping for a brief respite.
"God, what a day. Yes, we are sunk. If they don't fire me for violating Carbone's civil rights, I'll get it for blowing the investigation. This is as empty a hole as I've ever seen."
"You talked to Nathan again?"
"Yea. Nothing. The psych says there's no sign of repressed memories. We've got what we're going to get. Brad Kern, his partner, is driving him to Tacoma to be with his kids. Marissa's body will be released tomorrow, but I've asked him to make the funeral arrangements by phone, since her parents will be right there with him. All we need is more coverage of this nightmare."
"Well, the media bit with Sandburg was understandable. The rest, I don't know. If this were the army, I'd be sweeping the building for bugs and searching for a battalion of covert operatives. Are you sure they don't have video feed right from this office?"
"I don't know, Ellison, but if I ever catch up to our in-house leak, I will personally roast them over a slow fire on the roof." Simon stared out his window, disgusted. "Where's Sandburg?"
"I sent him home an hour ago. He was beat. You, by the way, are driving me back to the loft. The sooner the better. We're going to have to hope that tomorrow is a better day."
"I'm driving you to the loft. Do I look like a chauffeur?"
"Right now I don't care if you look like a giraffe." Jim tossed Simon his coat. "Take me home, or you'll be investigating you own murder."
As he stood in the slow, clanking elevator, Jim stretched out his senses, hoping for a telltale scent of dinner. Blair had promised to pick up groceries and cook in exchange for leaving early with the truck. Damn you, Sandburg. If you're asleep and there's no food, I'm going to hang you from the balcony. Making the turn toward the door of the loft, Jim froze.
Two bags of groceries sat on the floor in front of the door. His keys dangled from the doorknob. A Polaroid of Sandburg, cuffed and gagged, was pinned to the door. Jim snatched, sickened by the message scrawled in black ink across the photo.
Ellison-
10th and Pine.
Come alone - no delays - we're watching.
Carbone
The intersection of 10th and Pine was lined with four and five story brick buildings. This area had once been a manufacturing and warehouse district; now it was crumbling into disuse. Even so, it wasn't exactly a deserted part of town. If Carbone was setting up an ambush, it wasn't the ideal spot. He certainly had more desirable locations at his disposal. Jim scanned the area. No obvious snipers. He probably wasn't going to buy it when he set foot out of the truck. Like I should worry about bullets, he thought ruefully. Simon's going to make me part of the rooftop bar-b-cue when he finds out I went off on my own and didn't call.
Halfway down the block a double door at the top of a loading dock was pulled partially open. For lack of any other viable alternatives, Jim crossed the street. He was a sitting duck, and he hated the feeling. He fought the urge to pull his gun. At this point, it wouldn't do any good.
The interior of the building was open. Early evening sunlight streamed in from windows on both sides and filtered through the slightly dusty air. It had almost a cathedral air. Regular floors ran on both sides of the central area. Carbone's men were stationed in the open, weapons at the ready, but not drawn. They were making no effort to conceal themselves. Jim forced himself to ignore the obvious threat, and concentrate on the scene in the center of the room. An elegant table, complete with white cloth, was bathed in light. Two of the three chairs were occupied, one by an impeccably dressed Andrew Carbone, the second by a rumpled, but blessedly unhurt, former anthropologist.
Okay, Jim thought, so we're playing poker. I can do poker. Forcing calm into his stance, he sauntered across the space between the door and the table, tracking the surrounding guards for any sudden movements. Not that it would do any good. They were as good as dead if that's what Carbone wanted. As he approached, Carbone busied himself with filling three crystal goblets with wine, looking every inch the accomplished, relaxed host at a dinner party.
"Detective, my apologies for the circumstances. Join us, please."
Jim didn't seat himself immediately. "Sandburg, you OK?" He did, in fact, seem fine. There was a slight bruise on his temple, and a scrape on his chin had clearly been cleaned up and treated.
"Fine, Jim. Ticked, but fine. We should be half way through dinner by now. You put the groceries away? I had ice cream in there."
At that point, Jim could have laughed out loud. Blair's heart rate told a different story, but it was a masterful bluff. "Of course I did. I'm not going to let my favorite flavor end up a puddle on the doorstep. I left your Chunky Monkey right where it was, though." Glaring at Carbone, he continued. "I'm sure you have an explanation for this little charade." He pulled out a chair and sat down.
"Ah, Detective Ellison. I respect your annoyance. A fine meal should never be sacrificed." Leaning across the table, he nonchalantly unlocked the cuffs still on Blair's wrists. Pushing back from the table, hands open and shoulder high, he slowly reached down and retrieved Blair's department issue revolver, wrapped in its holster. He placed it on the table in front of Blair. With equal slowness, the clip was placed in front of Jim. Quite a performance. Picking up his glass, he sampled the wine. "Gentlemen, your meal was delayed. Please, accept my hospitality - try the wine, the antipasto - you'll be on your way shortly."
Toying with an olive, he continued. "Detective, you can appreciate the need for communication, even in an adversarial relationship. I need a moment of your time."
Jim's stare never wavered. No threat, real or potential, was overlooked anymore. "Most people make do with the phone, Carbone. Why go through all this? Why take the risk of kidnapping a police officer?"
"Ah, yes. A calculated risk. For one thing, I wanted to meet this young man who seemed so impressive on the television today. For another, some conversations must be conducted face to face or they lose their importance. This is a very important conversation, Detective. I didn't plan on having it in an interrogation room. No atmosphere."
"All right." Jim took a polite sip of wine, then carefully set down the glass. "You have five minutes. Then my partner and I are walking out of here, unless you've decided to move on from spouses to the real thing."
"Excellent." Carbone laid his hands palms down on the tablecloth. "Just your reputation to cut right to the heart of the matter. You may disagree, but I'm a businessman. It's very bad for business to interfere with the families of either your adversaries or competitors. They are untouchable."
"Give it up, Carbone. I've seen whole families executed by the mob. Marissa Hunt's death was an execution."
Carbone leaned forward. "You are most correct. The Judas, the betrayer, this one you execute down to the last generation. Wipe them from the face of the earth. Detective Hunt is not in my employ. I had no reason to murder his lovely wife." His gaze was as unwavering as Ellison's.
"Listen carefully, gentlemen. I know all about your task force. It is your job to seek; it is my job to evade. We both understand our roles. I would not risk my business for something as foolish as killing a woman who has no role in this game. Just as all my men have orders not to kill officers of the law unnecessarily. Just as I had no intention of harming our young Detective Sandburg here."
Andrew Carbone stood, and adjusted his tie. "I trust this little chat has been highly informative for all. You have a difficult task before you, but I'm sure you will bring this villain to answer for his crime." He gracefully took another sip of wine. In a hushed tone, he added, "If it was one of my men, I will deliver him to you myself, and you will not have the irritation of lawyers and a trial." He stepped back from the table and made a slight gesture with his hands towards the doors.
As the two detectives stepped away, Carbone turned his attention toward Blair. "Detective Sandburg, its been a pleasure. Your partner has quite a reputation. A highly skilled, respected adversary. Tonight - tonight however, I will spend worrying about you. Goodnight, gentleman. Enjoy your dinner." He turned and walked away.
They delayed any conversation until they were safely in the truck and on their way. "Congratulations, Chief. You've met one of the most dangerous men in the Northwest and walked away."
"He's telling the truth, Jim. I believed him."
"Yup. He's definitely telling the truth. Hope you can rustle us up some suspects along with dinner, because I have no clue who killed Marissa Hunt. Call Simon and fill him in."
"Sandburg, I think we started in this position three days ago. What a lousy three days." Jim seriously wished that the world outside the protective walls of the loft would cease to exist.
"We were in this position, except I was asleep, you were falling into the phone, Simon was yelling and neither one of us was in a dress uniform." Blair was sprawled across the couch. "God, I hate this uniform. Promise you'll never show Naomi a picture. She'll either disown me or bring in every New Ager in the Western Hemisphere to do a cleansing. Think sage, lots of sage." Stripping off parts of the offending uniform, he headed toward the kitchen. "I want a beer. I need a beer. You?"
Jim tilted his head back into the cushions of the chair he was sitting in and stared at the ceiling. "I don't know," he answered in uncharacteristic monotone. "Do they allow guys like us a beer in failed detective hell." The question went unanswered as Blair dropped the cold, damp bottle in his lap and flopped on the couch again.
"Failed detective hell," he snorted. "Well, that's us all right. You'd think we could at least be this hopeless in private. It was bad enough at the funeral, but if another reporter is camped out at our door, I refuse to behave responsibly." He took a long sip and joined Jim in contemplation of the ceiling. "Marissa deserves better than this, man. Way better than this."
Jim didn't answer, but not because he disagreed. Under the bright spotlight of media scrutiny, they were as far from solving Marissa Hunt's murder as they were on Sunday morning. Simon's idea of giving the family a break in Tacoma had failed miserably. When Nathan and his partner had pulled up in the grandparent's driveway, the cameras were already waiting. The sight of Nathan Hunt, surrounded by his distraught children, sobbing on national TV turned Jim's stomach. Nathan's partner, Brad Kern, had tried to shelter them, get them into the privacy of home, but they were surrounded, and he had to fight his way to the door, dragging the others behind. It wasn't pretty. One very expensive camera and several journalists had ended up in the lilac bushes before the Hunt family made it to safer ground, all recorded for the inquiring minds. The media blitz hadn't let up, and despite their best efforts, Nathan seemed to be hounded at every step. With no progress on such a high profile case, criticizing the performance of the Cascade Police Department and Detective James Ellison had become a new spectator sport. If you wanted a little TV exposure, this was the perfect opportunity. Simon had stood by them, but Jim was betting that they would be pulled from the case in disgrace, tomorrow if not sooner. As bad as he felt for Nathan, the slain Marissa, and their kids, he worried about Sandburg. An already tough road was looking rockier all the time.
"I saw you with the kids back at the house, Sandburg. Everybody else just patted them on the head. You sat down and actually talked to all three of them. It was a class move, I hope you know that. All I could do was look at them and feel awful."
Blair sighed. "Yeah, I talked to them, for all the good it did. Their mom's not coming back and no one can fix that. The little one, Donny? He's just retreating into a shell. I hope Nathan gets them to counseling. I talked with Marissa's youngest sister, too. Did you know she lived with them until a year ago?"
"No. Why was that? She's what - early twenties?"
"She was working on a Master's at Rainier. She stayed at the house to save on expenses and helped out with the kids. Remember Marissa talked about teaching at a preschool? Katie watched the kids and helped with the household stuff while she was working. Katie finished her degree and moved out. She was having a really tough time with her sister's death."
Something in his voice caught Jim's attention. He watched as a slight frown deepened on Sandburg's expressive face. Jim knew that look - it usually preceded some completely off-the-wall, brilliant, Sandburg-zone observation that broke the case. Instead, his partner fell silent, but the wheels were turning. Picking at the label on his beer bottle, Jim waited. Blair was completely oblivious. When he finally spoke, the kid jumped like he'd been jabbed with a sharp stick.
"Come on, Blair. Out with it. What's bugging you?"
"Nothing - really." Blair sifted uncomfortably. Gotcha, thought Jim.
"Bull. Do I have to ask again?"
"Nothing. People say stuff when they're upset that they don't really mean. Ignore me. What do you want to do for dinner?"
"Nice try, but on the infamous Sandburg Obsfucation Scale that was about a two. It's going to take more that a pizza to distract me." Jim thumped his feet on the floor as he sat up. "Out with it."
Blair took a breath and frowned. "Remember the Matthew's case?"
"Matthew's, Matthew's. No, to be honest."
"One of the first trips I tagged along on. Darren Matthews was found dead in his office. I remember being so shocked when you questioned every member of the family - his wife, his brother, his grown son, about their whereabouts and their alibis. It seemed so cold. Here they were grieving and you were grilling them. When we drove back to the station you explained that it was just standard procedure, that everyone was a suspect until cleared, including immediate family. Especially immediate family. It was part of the job and you just had to learn to deal with it."
"Okay, so we take this little trip down memory lane. Your point?"
"Well, I don't quite know how to say this, but Katie implied that Marissa and Nathan Hunt weren't a totally happy couple. Now I can't get it out of my head, and I don't want those thoughts."
"Shit, Sandburg, he's a cop, for God's sake." Even as the words came out of his mouth, Jim looked at his partner and silently finished the thought .....Nathan Hunt was also immediate family. Standard procedure, indeed.
Jim tossed the remains of his pizza into the trash. He was totally disgusted. Blair had retreated to his room over an hour ago, music on the headphones. In retrospect, Jim was grateful he hadn't just picked up and left. Pushing off the counter, Jim headed toward the French doors and knocked, finally pushing the door open a crack after he realized he was losing the war with the headphones.
"Blair? Can I come in? I really need to talk to you."
Blair shut down the music and pulled off the headphones. "Don't say it, Jim. I was way out of line. You..."
"Stop. Just stop right there. First, you were not out of line. We can't function as partners unless we trust each other enough to be honest. Second, you were right. We haven't followed procedure. Emotions have ruled this thing from the very beginning. I'm the one who should be apologizing. I should know better."
Blair shook is head. "I disagree. Not all ideas deserve equal weight. I should have kept my mouth shut instead of cast unsubstantiated conjectures in Nathan's direction."
"At the marsh, when we left, I had a nagging feeling that I was missing something. I've spent the last hour trying to deny it as little bits and pieces fall into place, whether I want them to or not."
"Okay - enlighten me. Maybe I won't feel like such a betraying jerk."
"We didn't find the blood from Nathan's injury. We assumed it just got on his clothes. If he's face down on the pavement, unconscious for awhile, how is that possible?"
"I don't know about you, Jim, but I'm not going to open up this can of worms with anyone because you couldn't find blood where we expected to find it."
"Fair enough. So consider this. How much of a struggle do you think Marissa could put up? When taken from behind? Against two, well built guys in their 20's? How would you expect two fairly big guys to approach that?"
"Pick her up, I guess. Grab her by the arms and lift her off the ground. She'd have no leverage. If they stayed behind her, she wouldn't even be able to deliver a solid kick before they got her down. I don't think she was strong enough to pull away from two guys if they got her by surprise, like Nathan said."
"I agree. The physical struggle would be pretty minimal. But that's not what Dan found on the autopsy. I know it bothered him at the time. He wondered aloud if they had taunted her, pushed her around rather than taking her directly to her knees. She had bruises and scrapes all her arms, hands and knees. One nail was broken. She put up a fight. How? Why would they let her?"
"So, we have a injuries that would be more easily explained by being attacked by one man, and maybe not total surprise. Still not very conclusive, Jim."
"Well, lets go with this. What don't we find? No skin under her nails other than her own and Nathan's. No hair, no skin, no fibers. We've put out public appeals to anyone on the jogging trails that morning, and we've had a good response, but no one saw anything. No witnesses, no vehicle sightings. We've got four unknown guys supposedly on the crime scene and all of them may as well have been sealed in plastic."
"Highly unlikely, but possible. They could have been wearing gloves, for instance."
"Four guys in gloves that Nathan didn't mention. Want to ask him? Want to wager a guess on how quickly that could be added to his story? Maybe evidence we would expect isn't there because the four guys weren't there in the first place."
"Jim, this whole conversation is getting way too weird. It's all possible, but we have no evidence to support it. We do not want to get into this if we're not sure."
"Blair, when we walked out of that marsh, I was sure I was missing something. We never could figure out how the media got there so fast. They've been beating us to the punch all along. What if Nathan called them?"
"Jim, this is crazy. Why?"
"Think of the distraction. Think of the potential for protection. Every time Nathan plays the grieving husband on national TV, he makes it harder and harder for anyone to look in his direction. He does it from minute one and he plays his part perfectly. The problem with a false alibi is that someone can always punch holes in it if they look hard enough. No perfect crime, right? This is better than an alibi. He makes sure that we know he's there, and then gives us reasons to look everywhere else. Who sent everyone off chasing Carbone?"
"Nathan."
"Who had the ability to keep the media tipped off, since we did the professionally correct thing and kept him updated on every move we made?
"Nathan."
"Jim, we have no motive. We have no weapon."
"Ah, rookie...so we find them. We very carefully, very secretly, find them. Because if anyone gets wind of this, we may as well carry along the nails for our own crucifixion." Jim was on his way out, but paused at the door, shaking his finger at his partner. "I'm going to bring you something to eat and you are going to eat it. Then we're both going to get some sleep. I want you at your devious best tomorrow. It's going to be very ugly, but we are going to crack this case in the next 24 hours or not at all."
"Serena, are you in here? It's Sandburg... I have a treat."
"I'm right here." Blair knocked over a tray of glassware when he jumped, twisting to find Serena right behind him. "What have you got? The answer is a definite 'no'."
"Serena, I'm disappointed." Blair displayed a pristine white paper bag. " It's an almond croissant with cream cheese filling."
Serena pushed her hair back and gave Blair a grin. "You are only disappointed because I already said 'no' and you didn't have a chance to wheedle. Hand it over and I might let you stay."
"Wheedle?! Since when has our relationship been based on anything other than a straight-forward payoff."
"Since you always get what you want for a measly pastry and I do all the work."
"What if I did all the work? Totally in the name of research, of course. You get to use the results."
Serena eyed him cautiously from her perch on the lab stool. She took a bite of croissant. "I'll listen. No promises."
Blair jumped up on another stool beside her. "Remember when you told me you were working on a graphics program to catalog and compare ballistics evidence, but the brass wouldn't allocate the money for a full study, or give you the time to work on it."
"Yeah, I remember I told you. You handing out grant money or something."
"What if I pulled all the ballistics evidence for you, and all you had to do was use the program to do the matching? If we get a positive result, you get great leverage. We'll run it as a double blind, so you don't have any idea which evidence is really important. Even better, right? With that kind of confirmation, you could get an outside grant. I'll even help you write it."
"Why?"
"Because it's important. Come on, Serena. This is win- win, here. Say yes."
"Get those puppy eyes out of my face. You do the preliminary. All I do is the comparison. Take it or leave it."
"Take it."
"You have to pull the evidence and scan the ballistics photos into digital format."
"So where's the scanner?"
"What do you mean, where's the scanner? You don't need the scanner until you pull the evidence files."
"I have the files, Serena. Now eat your food and let me get to work."
Serena snorted. "I can just imagine what BS you used to get all that through an evidence clerk at once. What did you have to promise, a Hawaiian cruise or your first-born child?"
"I don't have a first-born, Serena. The scanner?"
"You don't have the cruise, either."
Megan sat at a round table, surrounded by three all-too-bouncy pre-school teachers. It was like being trapped with a roomful of female Sandburgs on overdrive. They were in the prep room of 'Mother's Dream' DaySchool, where Marissa had taught for two years. The walls were covered with bright posters, and art supplies and play supplies dotted the counters. "I want to thank you ladies for taking time to see me. Are you sure all three of you can be away from you classes this long?" Megan gave them her most charming smile.
"The aides can handle them for outside play. We'll be glad to help for Marissa. So sad."
"Well, we really appreciate your cooperation. Now, I'm going to make this really easy - we're just looking for background. Just girl talk... woman to woman ... tell me what Marissa liked, what she didn't like, her children, her family, that sort of thing."
"Oh, sure. We had great conversations..."
"Quite a surprise when I got your call, Captain Banks. Major Crimes runs a tight ship. We don't have many occasions to just visit like this. And away from the station - your treat? Quite the occasion."
Simon Banks smiled and offered one of his prize Cubans, which was readily accepted. His warm, relaxed demeanor was in sharp contrast to his inward conversation. 'Ellison, you are going to owe me a lot more than the cost of lunch for two. I'd rather negotiate with a rattler than the head of IA.'
Jim stood; quietly eyeing the grass with was still stained with the blood of Marissa Hunt. He peeled off his sweats, revealing a wet suit. After carefully studying the ground where the grass faded into the marsh, he selected a site, crawling in on his hands and knees. He was soon lost from view amid the vegetation, half submerged in the silty, cold water. He had four hours to find what he was looking for before he met the others back at the loft.
Banks tossed his glasses on the table. This made him sick. He looked back at his three detectives. None of them looked very happy, either. Ultimately, this was his responsibility.
"So what do we really have? Blair matches the three bullets from Marissa's body to ballistics evidence already on file. The gun was confiscated in a narcotics raid an 18 months ago. It was Nathan Hunt's case, and the case already went to trial. No appeal pending. Only the gun isn't in evidence anymore, where it should be. Sargent Adams running the desk in evidence lockup can place Hunt in the evidence shortly before Marissa's death."
"Megan talks to her friends, Blair talks to the sister. All is not well with the happy couple. Marissa wants to work, Nathan wants her home. She complains to her co-workers about his behavior. She sobs uncontrollably when she quits the day school. She talks about divorce with her sister. Tells Katie that Nathan will never let her go, then brushes it off."
"Dan has suspicions about the autopsy results. Nathan's story doesn't totally conflict, but it doesn't completely fit, either."
"Then frogman Ellison finds our murder weapon, which just happens to match the serial numbers of the gun missing from evidence, wrapped in plastic about 30 feet from where Marissa is killed. In the same bag is a cell phone, traced to Nathan Hunt. We can confirm a call made from the cell phone to Channel 3 at the time of Marissa's death."
"I don't like it, people. I don't like it one bit, but I think we need to make our call to IA. Are we in agreement?" Jim and Megan nodded. Blair was holding his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. He didn't say no, so Simon let it go.
"Use the phone upstairs, Simon. We'll wait."
Jim watched Simon's retreating back. The room was silent except for the soft murmur of Simon's voice.
Megan hadn't taken her eyes off Blair for the last 5 minutes. "Sandy, what's wrong? You're not the bad guy here. Nathan made this choice."
Blair stalked across the room, stopping in front of the windows looking out over the city, folding his arms across his chest. "Jim, I don't want to be there when they bring him in."
"Okay, Blair. If that's what you want. I guess I understand. We could talk about this..."
"NO." Megan's head shot up at the sharpness in Blair's tone. "I'm sorry. I've just got to get out of here." He was out the door before either of them could stop him. Jim could hear the pounding of his footsteps running down the stairs. He was about ready to tear out after him when Simon, appeared at the top of the stairs.
"We go, people. We rendezvous with IA in ten minutes."
Jim was torn, but Megan placed a hand on his arm. "Let him go, Jim. Sandy needs to manage this in his own way. This part is ugly - it won't hurt to leave him out of it this time. He's done enough."
"Right. You're right, Connor." He brushed past Simon and headed out the door.
"Hey, Chief. You didn't have to wait up."
"There's some soup and bread on the stove. I know you didn't eat."
"That sounds good, better than good actually."
"Sit. I'll get it." Blair spooned the soup into a bowl, his back to Jim. "I didn't want to, but I watched the news at 11. I'm glad no one got hurt." He watched while Jim started to eat. "Where are the kids?"
"With Katie. They'll go to Tacoma tomorrow. Blair, you want to tell me where you are on this thing?"
Blair sat down at the table. "I was raised with one parent, Jim. I had nightmares about what would happen to me if Naomi ever left for good or died or something. A childhood fear that I never really got over. Being alone was my greatest fear. Those poor kids. They lose their Mom, then I make sure they can finish their childhood fatherless as well."
"You did this all by yourself, huh? You're the only one to blame? What about Nathan? He deserves to answer for his crime, doubly so because he was sworn to protect. Do you really want those three kids to stay with the man who murdered their mother, even if he is their father?"
"I'm just not sure this is justice, Jim. The real punishment is going to come down on the head of those three innocent children. Maybe we should have put their welfare first and left well enough alone."
"Would that really be best? Do you think Marissa would say that?"
"I don't know what Marissa would say." Every move telegraphed his frustration. "I don't even know what I'm saying. It's just all so wrong."
"I can't answer you, Chief. It doesn't get much uglier than this. Sometimes you can't deal with all the things that went wrong. You have to focus on what went right."
"Somehow, at this moment, I don't feel much comfort in successful closing a case."
"That wasn't what I meant. I'm so lousy at this. Blair, look at me. I meant it feels right that you stayed up and made me soup. It feels right that you're my partner. It's right that you're here and that you're my friend and that I can count on you. We did our jobs. The rest just has to take care of itself."
Jim could feel Blair's eyes on him as he walked to the stove and returned with a second bowl of soup. He gently nudged a spoon under Blair's hand and returned to his seat. "So eat your soup. We'll watch a movie. Drink a beer. Fight over the remote. Tonight we're just two friends who need to let the world solve its own problems for awhile."
"Okay. I can do that, Jim. I can do that."
The End
Return to
Jael Lyn's Fanfic
