Arleigh Academy

Room 115: Social Studies

The classroom is bright with the afternoon sun, which pours through the windows and warms the desks nearest to the south side of the room. Jason Stanford has to squint a little while staring at his notebook page, the white sheet almost hurting his eyes. Using his left hand to shade the light, he scrawls some detailed notes as he listens to his new social studies teacher.

"...and during the First World War, targeted groups included Germans, Irish-Americans, Jews, and labor leaders," Sunil Prasad continues, slowly pacing the aisles. His glasses shade his large, dark eyes. "Why do you think people were biased against these groups in particular? Gaia?"

Jason glances at the girl behind him to his right, a striking brunette with chin-length straight hair. "Uh, well, we were fighting a war against them. The government had to make sure that they weren't working with the enemy."

A few students laugh a little at her response. "Hello," a beefy, clean-cut jock named Dylan replies, leaning forward at his desk with a smug expression. "We weren't at war with Ireland!"

Gaia throws him a vicious glance that seems a little excessive to Jason, considering the mildness of Dylan's retort, but yesterday and today these two have been constantly sniping at each other during classes. Jason has no idea what their story is, since he hasn't spoken to either of them -- like many others at Arleigh they exude an intimidating combination of confidence and arrogance.

Mr. Prasad smiles. "So what do you think was the issue, Dylan?"

"People don't trust immigrants in times of war, it always happens that way."

"Like in World War II," Julie Fiore says. She's sitting directly across the aisle from Jason, her soft curling hair draped over one shoulder. "With Japanese Americans getting sent to internment camps."

The teacher nods at her. "Right. Now, I think we can see the fear and prejudice that lies behind this kind of racial or ethnic targeting. But I mentioned labor leaders before. During WWI, as I said, there were actually vigilante groups that sought out and lynched union organizers. Anyone able to tell me why?"

The class falls silent. Jason feels some tension in his chest, a usual response when he knows the answer to a question but doesn't have the nerve to speak up. Grinding his teeth, he forces his hand in the air. The teacher turns to him.

"Jason?"

"Because they were going against the status-quo," Jason mutters, stumbling over his words. "People thought they were planning to, uh, o-overthrow the government. And the companies used the war as an excuse to make people afraid of unions."

Mr. Prasad snaps his fingers. "Exactly. They took advantage of the atmosphere of fear and suspicion in order to clamp down on opposition. It happened throughout the country. Even the government and Supreme Court started taking a much narrower view of the first amendment when it came to the press and what they were allowed to print. Which leads us to the topic of the spring project I've been warning you all about ..."

As the teacher continues, walking over to the other side of the class, Jason notices Julie scribbling something down on a corner of her notebook. She taps her pencil on it meaningfully, and Jason realizes she intends for him to read it. The words are a little too small for him to see, so he leans over to the right edge of his chair.

How did you know that?

Jason shrugs, smiling shyly. Julie then writes another line, glancing up at Mr. Prasad to make sure he's not paying attention to them:

Latin test tomorrow. Email you later?

As Jason nods, he quickly uses his left hand to write his IM screenname -- cicero0725. At the same time, he watches her write out her email address at the bottom of the page. To read it, he has to lean over even further, but when he does he has to grin: ProMusica. She's used a Latin reference, just like him.

Suddenly he feels a puff of cool air on the back of his neck. Startled, he gasps and swivels around to find the source -- but because he's already sitting on the very edge of his chair, the movement tips him and his chair off balance, sending both crashing to the floor.

The classroom seems to erupt in laughter, and Jason's face burns with embarrassment as he grabs hold of Julie's chair to right himself.

Mr. Prasad's voice carries through the mockery. "Uh, are you all right, Jason?"

"Y-yeah," Jason mumbles, standing rubbing his elbow where it throbs from having slammed into the floor. "Sorry."

"Maybe if you keep your attention focused you'll be able to keep yourself in your seat?"

Mortified, Jason nods as he picks up his chair. He can't even look at Julie, who probably now thinks he's a total uncoordinated loser. He's never gotten reprimanded by a teacher before, even for something as mild as this, and it stings him ... especially since this is still only the first week at Arleigh. Instead of making a good impression, he's made an idiot out of himself.

Or rather, someone else did it for him. Remembering the cause of his fall, Jason sits down and sends a frustrated glance at the person sitting in the desk behind him.

Becca Nichols leans forward in her chair, head resting on her hands, and wears a flirtatious, triumphant look. She purses her moistened lips and blows as if whistling silently.

Staring at her in confusion, Jason earns another chiding from Mr. Prasad.

Jason swallows and turns to face the front of the room, determined to pay attention only to the teacher's description of the upcoming long-term project. But as he does, his fingers absently rub the back of his neck, where he can almost still feel the light, tickling sensation of Becca Nichols' breath.

David Reilly's House

52 Mason Avenue

Getting out of his car, Mike Fiore closes the door and stares at the large colonial house, with its front yard muddy from the melted snow, and notes the lack of built-up mail in the mailbox, or any extra newspapers piled up in the driveway. Apparently someone's take care of the necessities to make the house look lived in. Even though its owner is dead.

Across from him, Bill Howard's head pops up as he, too, exits the car. The lean but muscular blond squints at him. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Let's go."

They walk to the front door and Mike rings the bell. A dog yaps from somewhere inside, and after a minute or so, they hear a variety of locks being undone. The door opens to reveal Noah Morgan, wearing jeans and a black high-necked sweater that makes his hair seem paler than Mike has remembered it.

"Detective Fiore," Noah says, nodding slightly. His brown eyes shift to Bill. "Officer Howard. Good morning."

Mike returns the greeting without undue friendliness. He's not feeling particularly friendly right now. "Can we come in?"

Noah's wide mouth offers him a tight smile. "I'd hoped we'd finished our business together on Monday."

"'Fraid not, Mr. Morgan. With only ten minutes, I didn't get to ask nearly all the questions I have for you."

"I did apologize about those delays, Detective, as well as explain my reason for leaving--"

"I know. Can we come in or not?"

"Do I have a choice in the matter?"

Mike's gaze hardens slightly. "Sure. We can either come in or you can come uptown with us."

Noah glances down at Mike's empty hands. "I don't see an arrest warrant."

"Not yet you don't."

Bill hastily takes over, explaining to Noah about the need for additional details, but Mike barely listens. He's trying not to rekindle his anger over being jerked around all day on Monday thanks to this elusive suspect.

The effort isn't very successful. If it hadn't been for Noah Morgan's delayed interview, Mike might have been able to catch his fiancée's attacker in the act of breaking into their house. At the very least, he would have been with Martina when she'd discovered the wreckage. Instead she had to come to him, rushing to the police station. She looked so damn scared ...

He suddenly realizes Bill has been let inside the house, and hastens to follow his temporary partner. One thing at a time, he warns himself. God knows he'd rather be hunting down that bastard who'd invaded his home, but like it or not, that's not his job right now.

As Mike walks through the hallway, he spies the edge of a suitcase slipped beneath a chair over by the stairway. Though his eyes narrow, he doesn't otherwise react, instead joining the others on the way to the kitchen.

Noah's tall, muscular frame moves smoothly towards the stove, his back to them. "Some tea?"

"None for me, thanks," Bill replies.

"Are you sure? I was just putting some water on. Sort of celebrating the fact that I'm finally allowed back in here."

Mike raises an eyebrow. "Must've been a real inconvenience for you. Lucky the lab determined that this wasn't the crime scene after all."

Hesitating only briefly, Noah shrugs and sends an emotionless glance over his shoulder to Mike. "I didn't mean it that way. Do you want some tea or not?"

"No. Thanks." Mike glances at Bill, who's trying hard not to be distracted by the affectionate attentions of a small brown and white terrier wriggling near his legs. "Still have Mr. Reilly's dog, I see."

With a grimace, Noah nods. "I was hoping David's parents would take her back with them, but the father's allergic."

Bill bends down, attempting to appease the hyperactive animal by petting her. "Why 'hoping'? Don't you like dogs?"

"Actually I quite like them, but Sophie here doesn't return the sentiment. I suppose she's not used to me yet."

"Is she new?"

"No. I am. At least, to her."

Mike pulls out his notebook. "That's as good a segue as any, Mr. Morgan," he says quietly. "You say you're new to the dog. How new were you to Mr. Reilly?"

Noah sets the kettle on the flame and leans against the counter. "We met about six months ago."

"That's it?" Bill straightens up and brushes his hands together. "And you're already living together?"

"Six months is a long time to some of us."

"So you were, uh, committed to each other? No problems between you two?"

"That's a bit personal, isn't it?"

"It's a murder investigation, sir. Things are bound to get personal." Bill's open face looks genuinely apologetic, although Mike doubts the feeling is sincere. "Were there any problems between--"

"No. David did complain that I wasn't home all that much, but there wasn't anything I could do about that. I'm a busy man."

Bill nods. "What about him? What did he do while you were away?"

"Work, mostly. He was a busy man as well. Doctors usually are, aren't they?"

"What about friends?" Mike takes over easily from Bill. "You know if he had an active social life?"

After a moment, Noah looks from the countertop to meet Mike's gaze. "David had a great many friends, Detective. I expect they kept him active, when he had some free time."

"You ever meet any of those friends?"

"No. If you've spoken to them already, you must know that."

"Do you know if he was uh, socializing with other guys?"

"I would certainly assume so." Noah's expression seems amused. "If you're asking if he was sleeping around on me, I don't believe he was."

"You're sure?"

"No, of course not. No one can be sure unless he keeps his partner under lock and key. I could be wrong. As I said, I never actually met any of these friends of his--"

"That's actually not entirely true, is it?" Mike interrupts, his voice deceptively casual. "You seem to know one of them, at least. What about Clark Durand?"

Martina Rosenoff's Office

Blake, Geary, Wallace and Ashton

Martina Rosenoff types at her keyboard, successfully able to push the demons of fear and doubt away from her mind. They've haunted her for nearly two days, ever since she walked into her beloved little house and found it violated by a stranger.

Not really a stranger. Though the police -- even Mike -- have been mouthing the possibilities that the burglary was unrelated to Martina's attack last week, she herself has no doubt of the perpetrator's identity. Didn't Rick Henderson, the mugger, warn her that he'd see her again? Didn't he say as much while groping at her, his mouth wetly whispering into her ear his regret that he didn't have time to 'do it right'?

It seems all too clear that after getting bailed out on Monday, he remembered her home address from her wallet, forced his way inside through a side window, cut up her sofa and mattress, stole her jewelry and smashed a picture of Martina and Mike.

Practically all Martina has been able to concentrate on is the terrifying thought: What if I'd been home?

But her work consoles her, fills her mind with solving other people's problems. She stops typing long enough to grab a cracker from the cellophane pack on her desk, nibbling and contemplating the draft of her opening statement. Too wimpy, she thinks with a grimace as she reads the first few lines on the monitor. What's with all the maybes and possiblys and potentiallys?

Stuffing the rest of the cracker in her mouth, she starts to edit the words but is interrupted by her telephone. She tries to chew and swallow quickly before picking up the receiver. "Hi Seiji? ... You're kidding. ... No, no, please send them on in!"

When she hangs up, Martina brushes some crumbs from her mouth just as the door opens to reveal her two visitors.

"Friend-o-Gram," Clark Durand says, his tall form waiting behind Rena Carlson as the pair lingers in the doorway. "Are we really allowed into the inner sanctum of a legal genius?"

Martina stands up and smiles. "Get your butts inside." She first heads over to Rena, who embraces her warmly despite the fact that she just saw her only a few hours ago. "What are you guys doing here?"

"Clark and I were having lunch and we thought we'd swing by," Rena says, backing away so Martina can move to Clark. "Hope that's all right?"

"Of course." Martina enjoys one of Clark's strong hugs. "Glad to see you looking so good," she murmurs to him, staring into his long, handsome face. "How's your head?"

"As screwed up as ever. Oh, I guess you meant my wound, didn't you?" Clark gives her a sideways grin. "I still have a slight lump that makes brushing hair difficult, but it could be a lot worse. How about you?"

Martina shrugs, trying to maintain her smile. "Surviving. Physically I'm all better, but ... well, you've obviously heard what happened at my house."

"Yes. I can't believe it. I'm so sorry, hon."

"Thanks." After a slight hesitation, she turns and invites them to sit down. "Well, what do you think of the office?"

Rena squeezes her hand as she passes by, perching on the edge of one of the three black leather chairs. "It's beautiful, Marty. The view is incredible."

"Amen to that." Clark glances at one of the floor-to-ceiling windows before reaching out to caress Martina's shoulders. "But I owe you congratulations on more than increased office space. What's that song? 'Wedding bells are breaking up that old gang of mine'...?"

Martina shakes her head. "Not you too! Rena said the same thing the other day. Look, I promise, wedding bells aren't breaking up anything. What's with you guys being so insecure here? I'm not going to abandon my friends just because Mike and I--"

"It was a joke, just a joke. Now let me kiss the future bride." Clark kisses and hugs her again before leaning back to examine the ring.

"So?" Martina wriggles her fingers. "Does it pass muster?"

"Yes, detective boy did very nice by you." He smiles and takes a seat, adding, "Of course, what I know about jewelry you could stuff in a thimble."

Pulling the third chair over to sit with them, Martina crosses her legs. "Glad you like it. Unless the police manage to find Henderson before he fences everything, it looks like this is going to be the only nice jewelry I own for a while."

"He took everything?"

Martina lifts her hands, showing off both the engagement ring on her left hand, and her father's class ring on her right. "Everything but what you see here -- well, except for some cheapo stuff he wisely ignored."

"Don't forget that necklace Mike gave you," Rena says hastily. "That's safe, right?"

"Very true. And to think I was angry with myself for leaving it upstate in that repair shop. Thank God for me being a forgetful ditz."

Rena looks at her askance. "Marty. The important thing is that you're all right. Both you and Mike. How is he taking it?"

"Mike is ... Mike. He's trying to make everything right for me. You know him. He's changed the locks, he's cleaned everything up, he's even bought a new mattress. Henderson slashed up my bed," Martina explains to Clark.

Clark stares at her. "My god, what a sick son of a bitch. I have to tell you, I know I'm not in any danger from him; I was just an annoyance who got in the way. But I'm not happy that this bastard's out on the streets myself. I suppose he has an alibi for your burglary?"

"I don't know. The police can't find him. He lives somewhere down in the Numbers, but his apartment was supposedly empty. And his attorney claims not to know his whereabouts."

"Super. That's real comforting."

Rena keeps her sympathetic hazel gaze on Martina. "Are you -- do you think you'll be spending the night at my place again tonight?"

Martina thinks for a moment before shaking her head. "No," she says softly. "I have to go home sometime, and the longer I stay away, the more I'll dread it."

"Are you sure? It's only been a couple days, and you're more than welcome--"

"I know, sweetie. Thank you. But like I said, Mike's told me that he's gotten rid of all signs that the place was ever invaded -- except for the sofa. We'll have to buy a new one now." She pauses, then takes a deep breath. "I can't stay away any longer. I have to reclaim my house."

Reaching out, Rena strokes her hand. "Good for you. And you know you always have a refuge over at my place. Honestly it was kinda fun being roommates again."

"It was. But it's still cramping your lifestyle."

"I didn't know I had a lifestyle."

"You do," Clark says, leaning forward in his chair. "Even though you insist on avoiding talking about it. Marty, use your cross examination skills on the girl, will you? I want to hear about her and Greg."

Martina watches her younger friend staring down at her lap. "You are avoiding the subject lately," she murmurs. "You don't have to talk, but Clark and I do wish you would open up a little more."

"Damn straight we do. What's the story, Poopsie? Why won't you spill the beans?"

"Because in the scheme of things it's so unimportant!" Rena blurts, flushing. "I mean, there's a lot going on that's way more important than that. You and Marty get mugged, she gets burglarized, your mom's still in serious condition, not to mention the whole thing with Jem--"

Both Martina and Clark stare at the younger woman, who instantly shuts her mouth and shrinks backwards. "Jem Van Doren?" Martina asks, shocked. "What have you got to do with him? And what whole thing--?"

"He's become her latest project," Clark says dryly, not letting Rena answer. "Another broken-winged sparrow."

Martina frowns. "Broken-winged vulture, you mean. Rena, why on earth are you getting involved with someone like him?"

"He's been my patient for some time. And now ... yes, he's my friend, too." Rena's head lifts, her eyes flashing defiance. "I know what you guys think about him, and I -- I can't say you're all wrong. I know he's made mistakes, some terrible mistakes--"

Clark makes a disgusted noise. "You can say that again. Including possibly causing a disaster that nearly killed my mom."

Rena sends a stricken look at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean his penny-pinching and willingness to slide around the rules. Chelsea implied that he may have ignored some safety checks on those elevators of his. I told you about this, remember?"

Martina can't help noticing that Rena looks a little relieved, a strange reaction, but Martina concentrates on Clark. "Are you serious? Have you got any proof that it was negligence that caused--"

"Not yet." Clark angrily turns to Martina. "But yeah, when the time comes, Greg and I may hire you for yet another job. Suing Jem Van Doren's ass off."

Olivia Ortiz's Office

OmniCorp

Jem Van Doren shifts in his seat, suddenly awkward. The soft green chair outside OmniCorp's chairman's office is plush, designed for long waiting periods -- such as the one Jem is now experiencing -- but its design has nothing to do with Jem's discomfort.

This is his first outing since his attack months ago. His leg, wrist and ribs are finally free of their bandages, and anyone looking at him in his expensive gray suit and white silk shirt would find nothing physically amiss -- if they didn't notice the cane at his side. But Jem's body is furious at him. It aches terribly, a combination of Jem's forcing his under-exercised limbs into movements they've practically forgotten, and the fear-filled tension that has stiffened his muscles into noncompliance.

He runs a nervous hand through his golden-brown hair and pushes himself up out of the chair, hoping to loosen up a little before his meeting. As he does, the executive assistant sitting at the large cherry desk in front of him answers the ringing phone.

"Mr. Van Doren," the younger man says after a moment, hanging up the receiver. "You can go in now."

Nodding tightly, Jem retrieves his cane and reaches out to grab the cold metal door handle. He inhales in preparation and lets himself into the office.

Olivia Ortiz stands behind her massive desk, her tall, slim form caressed in a pale yellow suit that seems lighter in comparison to her jet black hair and eyes. The gaze leveled at Jem is wary but curious.

"Hi," Jem says, a little hoarsely. He makes a second try. "Good to see you again, Olivia."

She waits for him to close the door behind him. "I wish I could say the same, but I'm not sure it's possible yet."

"Okay, I can accept that." He steps forward, still limping slightly. "Sounds like there's hope you'll change your mind."

"It depends on your reason for requesting this meeting."

"Yeah. Um, I've gotta thank you for meeting me on short notice like this. Your gatekeeper out there made it clear this isn't usual for you. I'm sure you're a busy woman--"

"Very. And as Mark also probably mentioned to you, I only have fifteen minutes. So if you don't mind cutting through the small talk ..." Olivia nods towards the chair in front of her. "Please sit down."

Jem moves to take a seat, aware that she's trying not to stare at his cane and uneven gait. Okaaay, should I play for sympathy here or what? He contemplates the notion, hastily mulling over the possible outcomes. Not liking his chances -- Olivia Ortiz is no Nurse Rena by any stretch -- Jem just leans the cane against the chair and smiles, ignoring the pain and pretending nothing is unusual.

He waits for her to return to her own chair across the desk from him. For a couple of seconds he lets himself admire her beauty, realizing that this is the first time he's seen her up close since the whole Nora White trial. Back then, God knows, she wasn't exactly looking up to par, still showing some signs of that bizarre illness she'd had -- not to mention the shock of finding out that mousy Mrs. White had tried to poison her. But man, she's looking mighty fine now, even if she's not my type. Too tall, too dark, too --

"All right, let's get to it," Olivia says, interrupting his less-than-businesslike thoughts. Her slender, sure hands are clasped together as they rest on her desk blotter. "Why did you want to see me?"

"Um. Well, you must've heard about the Record building."

"Of course. My condolences," she adds, not sounding particularly upset. "That's quite a loss."

"It's not lost. I mean, it's a wreck, no doubt about it, but it'll get built up again. And we'll be up and running again, bringing the best twice-weekly newspaper to doorsteps all over the region. I know people are already missing their Wednesday dose today."

Olivia smiles coolly. "Indeed. My day hasn't been complete without your fine reporting. Actually, am I correct in detecting a slight shift in editorial policy over the past few months?"

"Yeah, that's 'cause I've been hospitalized for a little while. My assistant editor let some things slide through that I wouldn't normally --"

"It's not what's been added to your pages that I noticed."

"Something missing? Sure, I can see that." He grins, pleased. "I mean, I'm no expert writer, but I'm sure people notice the lack of the Van Doren style. The way I edit, I put my own stamp on articles we publish. You really can tell I've been gone, huh?"

"Oh, definitely. There's less scandal and mayhem. Fewer editorial intrusions into what's supposed to be objective reporting."

Jem's smile suddenly doesn't feel as natural as it did a minute ago. It's okay, you know she holds a grudge. Work with it. "Um, sure, I suppose that's a way to look at it. Y'know, Olivia ... about our coverage of the whole mess with your sister and father ... and those pictures of your ex-husband ... and then the Nora White thing ... I wish we could've gotten your side of things where all that stuff was concerned."

"You certainly managed to publish a great deal of dirt about me without getting my side of things."

"Not for lack of trying. Remember, I did ask you to comment lots of times. Like that night at Nora White's hearing. That cop friend of yours practically belted me one when I was just trying to get your point of view."

Olivia shakes her head, almost laughing. "Is that why you then published insinuations about my sex life with Doug White?"

Jem tries to shrug it off. "It was common knowledge that that's why Nora tried to kill you."

"It wasn't common knowledge until your scandal sheet printed it."

Crap crap crap. This is going all wrong. "Okay, yeah. Look, Olivia, you're right. I can't deny I did you wrong back then. But it sold newspapers. That was my job, you know? I was just trying to make the Record as strong as it could be. Just like your job is making Omni the best, by taking it to new heights, new arenas. New investments."

Olivia leans back in her chair, draping her arms on the armrests on either side of her. She looks serene and powerful, like an Egyptian queen. "So that's what this is about," she murmurs. "I must say I'm hardly shocked, except by your audacity in actually coming here."

With a quick glance at his watch, Jem realizes time is ticking speedily away. He pushes himself forward, trying to hide the rising sense of desperation but unable to avoid blurting the truth. "Yeah, I'm loaded with audacity," he says sharply. "So you're right, you've guessed why I'm here. I wanna know if you'd be interested in investing in the Record."

David Reilly's House

The room is heavy with silence as Mike waits for an answer to his question -- a silence that's interrupted by the shrill whistle of the teapot. Noah cuts off the flame and lifts the pot, pouring the water into a brown mug.

"Dr. Durand and I met by accident a few days ago," he says at last. "And of course we were reacquainted with one another on Friday at the hospital, when I was fortunate enough to help him and your girlfriend in that car park."

"We call them parking garages here," Mike murmurs, annoyed at Noah's pointed reference to saving Martina. "I'm glad you brought that up. What were you doing at the hospital, anyway?"

Noah smiles slowly. "I'm sorry," he says after a pause. "I don't see how that's relevant to this investigation, Detective Fiore."

"Is there any reason you wouldn't want to tell me?"

"There are many reasons, but primarily the fact that it has nothing to do with David's death."

Mike stares at him for a moment, then gives an annoyed shrug. "All right. Where'd you and David meet?"

"In London. He was on vacation over the summer."

"What were you doing there? Is that where you're from?"

"Not London, no. I was only there on business."

"Uh huh. Where are you from, then? You sound English to me."

"I never said I wasn't, Detective Fiore. Have you heard of Newcastle?"

"Yes," Mike says, annoyed at the implication that he's geographically-challenged. "Up north, right?"

"Northeast, yes. But I left there long ago."

"Left for where? The U.S.?"

Noah shrugs. "Eventually. My adventures before I met David aren't really important, are they?"

"Maybe, maybe not." Mike pushes up the pace of his questions. "Are you a U.S. citizen?"

"No. I'm a legal resident, if that's what you're asking."

"Okay, so you're living here. And you intend to stay?"

"In the States? Yes, except when my business takes me abroad."

"We'll get to your business in a minute. Are you planning a trip now?"

"Not immediately. It was my understanding that you wanted me to stay --"

"Then what's with the fully packed suitcase hiding out under the stairs?"

Noah hesitates for a few seconds, probably surprised but revealing nothing with his dark gaze. "Keen observer, Detective," he says eventually, lifting a silver teaball and placing it in the mug. "But you haven't caught me fleeing the jurisdiction, if that's what you're thinking."

"I'm not thinking anything, necessarily." Except that you're stalling me. "But I'm ready to listen to your answer, when I get it."

"Very well. The truth is, I can't stay in this house forever. It isn't mine, it's David's. His parents will likely want to sell, and I don't particularly wish to buy a house. Besides, knowing that David was killed only yards from here ..." Noah shakes his head grimly. "I prefer to stay elsewhere, probably at a hotel. Until my next business trip, that is."

"Speaking of which ... what exactly do you do, anyway?"

A chuckle escapes from low in Noah's throat. "You don't have to make it sound like such a mystery, Detective. I'm a salesman."

"Yeah? What do you sell?"

"You won't believe me if I tell you."

Smiling, although no spark of humor exists in his eyes, Mike gestures with his pen. "Try me."

"Art supplies."

This does catch Mike off guard. "Art supplies."

Noah folds his arms over his chest. "High end only. Frames, canvases, brushes, paints of course ... if you know any artists, I'd be happy to give you a full catalogue. Anyway, I go abroad to meet with suppliers and customers."

"Uh huh. So is that what you were doing the night David was killed? You were out of town selling brushes?"

"Yes. I didn't arrive home until the next afternoon. Something I deeply regret," Noah adds, his tone darkening. "Perhaps if I'd been home, things would have been different."

Mike almost grimaces at Noah's words, which all too closely reflect his own feelings at not being there for Martina. Trying to ignore the painful guilt in his gut, he looks around the kitchen. "Uh ... you mind if I ask you for hotel receipts, or plane tickets, stuff that will prove your whereabouts--"

"No, I understand completely. I have them upstairs somewhere. Should I get them now?"

"In a minute. There's something I don't get. How's an art supply salesman able to beat a mugger into a pulp?" Mike glances at the young officer next to him. "Billy, you saw Henderson after Mr. Morgan here got through with him. Would you say that looked like the work of a salesman?"

"No, sir," Bill replies, as if on cue. "Looked like the work of a professional boxer. Or a professional fighter, anyway."

Noah leans back and laughs. The sunlight pouring through the window behind him turns his golden-brown hair a gleaming white. "Well, that's flattering, Officer Howard, but all I am is a man who's done some training now and then. After all, I travel quite a lot, carrying expensive samples at times. I thought it best to learn how to defend myself. And how to defend others, such as in that car park -- parking garage, if you insist. How is Ms. Rosenoff, by the way?"

Mike doesn't rise to the bait, looking down and flipping through the pages of his notebook. "She's fine," he says flatly. "Let's get back to David. On Monday I asked you if you could think of anyone who had a grudge against him, like an enemy or a past lover or even some relative of one of the kids he treated. You said you couldn't think of any, but you'd mull it over."

"Right."

"Well, did you? Anyone spring to mind?"

Noah hesitates, looking at the steam rising from his cup of tea. "No," he says at last. "I can't think of anyone who'd want to kill David."
"That's not exactly answering my question."
"Very well." Noah meets Mike's gaze. "Enemies? None. Past lovers? David's relationships ended amicably, as far as I'm aware. Patients' relatives? Frankly, the thought of there being some angry parent out to get him seems ludicrous."

"So none of his past connections ended badly. What about current relationships?"

"I told you that David and I were doing perfectly well. We were very close and cared deeply for one another."

"Uh huh." Mike glances at Bill, who raises an eyebrow at him. Making his decision, Mike pockets his notebook. "Not to be the bearer of bad tidings or anything, but ... considering your closeness, would it surprise you to hear that the night David died, he and Clark Durand were seen at a nightclub being, uh, intimate with each other?"

Noah's facial muscles seem to freeze, and for the second time Mike senses that he's actually pierced the man's cool, collected shell. Finally he exhales. "I see," Noah murmurs. "You enjoyed that, didn't you?"

"No. Actually I didn't. I don't enjoy murder investigations or the ugly garbage that usually surrounds them. But my job is to find out who's responsible for smacking your boyfriend in the head with a pipe before running him over with a car, and if I have to share some unpleasant facts to get at the truth, so be it." Mike leans one hand on the counter and gets into Noah's face. "Now did you know David and Durand were involved or not?"

Schuyler Falls Police Station

Chief Richard Cahill's Office

The cluttered office seems smaller than usual as Sgt. Frank Gabriel's limping figure moves awkwardly across the room and slams the door shut. He tosses a file folder down on Richard Cahill's desk -- a gesture he wouldn't make if the police chief were actually sitting in front of him -- and grabs the phone receiver. Dialing a number he knows well, Frank exhales as he waits for someone to pick up.

"Yeah," he says to the secretary on the other end. "Sergeant Frank Gabriel here. Is he in?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't -- oh, just a moment, please."

It's actually three minutes before Ross Granger's baritone greets Frank's ear. "Good timing, Sergeant," Ross says, sounding a bit out of breath. "I just got back from a hearing. What can I do for you?"

"You know the chief's on vacation, right?"

"Of course." Ross sounds a little disconcerted by the comment, but plows forward anyway. "That reminds me, Mitchell wanted to know if you'd be attending the Law Enforcement benefit tomorrow in Chief Cahill's place?"

"No. That's not why--"

"What about Detective Fiore?"

"No." Frank clenches his fist, trying to keep calm. "Mike's not interested in dealing with political crap right now. He's a little preoccupied with keeping his fiancée safe after you let her attacker get out on bail."

"That was the judge's decision. A bad one, of course, but it was out of my hands."

"Yeah. Well, now the case is back in our hands. Let's just hope we catch the son of a bitch before he does any more damage." Frank takes a deep breath. "Getting to why I called. I'm doing the administrative work in Cahill's absence. Double-checking everyone's records and paperwork -- it's up to me since I'm on desk duty," Frank adds, practically growling the distasteful words.

"So I understand. Will your desk duty sentence be lifted soon?"

"A matter of days. Not soon enough." Frank picks up the manila folder he left on the desk, staring down at it unnecessarily. "Well, a few minutes ago I got to the first of Mike's open case files. I'm looking at it right now, matter of fact -- the Kessleman murder."

Another pause. "I see where you're headed, Sergeant, but--"

"Now I've been out for awhile, I know that, and I understand you had to take me outta the loop of this whole undercover job I set up for you people."

"Excuse me, but you didn't set it up. You helped bring Adair into it, but it was our office that clinched the deal."

Frank's lift curls in irritation. "I'm not looking for credit. My job is to solve cases, not pat myself on the back like you and Mitchell and Eckhert."

"Watch your tone, Sergeant."

"Fine. My point is, I want to know why you've been keeping Mike's hands tied behind his back. I've read his notes from talks he's had with you, and I don't see thing one in here about Kessleman's role as an informant."

Ross sighs. "Surely you can understand why I've had to be discreet here."

"If discreet means keeping a good cop in the dark, no, I don't understand that. Why wouldn't you want to share the link between Kessleman and the Nichols family? That'd explain the motive for his murder. Then Mike'd have something to go on, instead of stumbling around in the dark looking for robbers who don't exist!"

"Yes, I'm aware of that. However, I have to look at the bigger picture. There are two reasons why I haven't let Detective Fiore inside. First, solving Ossie Kessleman's murder would do nothing."

"Nothing?" Frank's stomach tightens in anger. "It'd take a murderer off the streets!"

"Perhaps not. I need proof to convict, Sergeant, and there is none connecting anyone in the Nichols operation to Ossie Kessleman." Ross's tone turns a little hard. "If you've read the file, you've seen the utter lack of physical evidence. These are frighteningly organized murderers we're dealing with. They took Kessleman's bookmaking records, they've scared the sole surviving witness into silence -- they even dug the bullets out of the wall after shooting him."

Frank swallows. "What about Adair? Doesn't he know the truth?"

"Adair's testimony would be worth roughly one cent on its own. Besides, we have to save him for a rainy day, so to speak. In any event, I've worked out a plan that should put us all in a much better position to get what we want."

"Am I gonna know about this plan?"

"Yes, once I'm certain that it's in play."

Shaking his head, Frank straightens up and stares unseeing out the office window, which looks down to the street one flight below. "There were two reasons," he says after a moment. "What's the other one?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You said there were two reasons why you're not telling Mike about Kessleman's involvement in the Nichols organiz--"

"Oh. Yes." Ross's voice suddenly sounds less sure of itself. "The second reason is his own involvement."

Frank goes very still. "What in God's name are you saying?" he asks hoarsely. "You think Mike is -- are you nuts?"

"Calm down, Sergeant. I'm not impugning his good name. I'm talking about the fact that Fiore is actually related to the Nichols family. Or at least, he will be, once Laurie Nichols becomes his sister-in-law."

Annoyed, Frank exhales. "That's his brother's doing, not Mike's. Trust me, no one's more against that marriage than Mike is. Mike'd be one hell of an ally -- he'd love to get that whole family locked up, if for no reason other than stopping Victor's wedding!"

"That's good to know. But it's this kind of close, overemotional connection that we have to avoid." Ross pauses before continuing more quietly. "You should understand this decision as well as anyone. You were taken off the Camilla O'Brien case because of that same sort of conflict of interest."

"Yeah. It was a lousy decision then and it's a lousy decision now. And besides, I ended up helping solve that case anyway." After you idiots screwed it up, he nearly adds, but checks himself when he remembers that part of the screw-up was his own fault. Angry again, Frank pushes away from the desk. "Anyway, this is a totally different case. It's not Mike's fault that his brother's making a big mistake. You can't blame him for that!"

"I'm not blaming him for anything. But I'm unwilling to jeopardize this investigation -- not to mention Jonnie Adair's life -- because of one man's wishes to prevent his brother's mistakes."

Taken aback, Frank stops moving. The words resonate in his head, connecting with the real reason behind his pent-up fury and helplessness. And in one of those coincidences that makes him question his own atheism, when Frank looks out of the window again, he's just in time to spy a familiar figure ambling out from a parked blue car and heading into the police station.

Shocked, Frank somehow manages to end the conversation with Ross in an appropriate manner before hanging up the phone. He then grabs the doorknob and pulls the door open so hard the glass rattles threateningly in its frame.

Before he's reached the stairs leading down to the lobby, the desk sergeant calls up to him.

"There you are, Gabe," Smitty says. "There's a guy downstairs says he has an appointment with you. Won't give me his whole name, though. Just says he's called Del. You know him?"

Frank clutches the banister and takes five seconds to calm down. "Yeah," he says at last. "Send him up."