Disclaimer: The characters used within this story do not belong to me, but were borrowed for the purposes of this story. They belong to CBS/Viacom and their associated copyright holders. No profit made, and I promise to return them un. . . well, relatively unscathed. The plot and original characters, such as they are, are of my own imagining.

Author's Notes: Thanks to everyone who has been so encouraging and welcoming to me as I posted my first DM stories here. Thanks to Betty, Veroon, Lissa and Julie. You guys are awesome.

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Double Jeopardy

By Writer JC

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Part One: The Verdict

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"Madame foreperson have you reached a verdict?"

"We have your honor."

All sound ceased in the filled-to-capacity court room as the stern, somewhat motherly looking woman stared across at the judge. No papers rustled, there were no sounds of any of the many bodies shifting. It seemed that all those in attendance were holding their collective breaths.

"What say you?" Judge Benning spoke into the silence. Seconds previous he had read the verdict slip with a studied lack of reaction. His private thoughts regarding the trial that had waged in his courtroom for the past week was anyone's guess. Even the press, with its array of consultants was finding this one a hard call. No one was willing to say one way or the other how the case would fall. Certainly not Lt. Steve Sloan. He, like everyone else, waited on the next sentence that would come from the jury spokesperson.

The foreperson glanced briefly toward the defendant and then toward Steve before her eyes fell to the slip of paper before her. Steve felt his stomach tighten at the look, but he had little time to dwell on it as the woman was speaking.

"On the charge of murder in the first degree of Dr. Charles Bettinger, we find the defendant not guilty." A gasp sounded around the courtroom, but was contained as the woman continued to speak, pausing only briefly in deference to the crowd's response. "On the charge of murder in the first degree of Dr. Eliot Paul, we find the defendant, not guilty."

Noise erupted all around him as Steve sat in stupefied silence. He had known that the trial had been close, that the evidence was largely circumstantial. But he hadn't realized until that moment, when the jury had actually given its verdict how much he had hoped that his and his father's word would have been believed over that of the woman who had killed two of his father's colleagues.

The judge's declaration that Amber McPherson was free to go faded to the background as he first shared a look with his father, then turned toward the beautiful redhead who he was convinced had cold-bloodedly murdered two men.

She offered a wry smile and shrug, before fingering the thin gold bracelet that circled her wrist. A taunting reminder of the piece of jewelry that he had given her before Mark had become convinced of her guilt. She had worn it every day during the trial, playing to the jury about just how much Steve's friendship had meant to her, and how bewildered she was that he was trying to pin this horrible crime on her. She mouthed the words, "I'm sorry," even managing to plaster an expression of regret across her face before she turned toward her attorney.

As always when he was in her presence, Steve felt the anger erupt through him. Anger that he had once again been used in one of Amber's plots; anger that he had believed her innocent act enough to have played into her hands in the first place. Worse, because he privately suspected that the one act of giving her a cheap bracelet at a carnival was the thing that had undermined the defense's case, and tipped the jury in Amber's favor.

"Steve. Let's go." His father's voice sounded from beside him, pulling him back from his anger. He glanced over at his family and friends and heaved a tired sigh. This case had been tough on all of them, he realized. Though Amanda and Jesse's expressions mirrored disbelief and sympathy for he and his father, he knew it was a blow to the group as a whole to know that despite their best efforts a killer was going to go free.

"Yeah, let's get out of here. We could all use some fresh air."

They were stopped several rows back by Lily Paul, Dr. Eliot Paul's widow. She had a hug and a hand shake for Mark and Steve, thanking them for their efforts in her behalf. Lily was a striking woman in her mid-fifties who, even under the most extenuating moments of the trial had been quite poised. Her shell shocked expression now though reflected Steve's own feelings. Her sister, Margaret, stood at her side, mirroring a similar emotion.

"If there's anything you need, Lily," Mark was saying, as he held one of her hands in his. Steve looked on as his father worked his reassuring magic, battling the guilt feeling that due to himself, justice had not been served. He nearly missed her announcement that she would be heading back east for a while to stay with her sister's family. With final expressions of gratitude, she and her sister wound their way through the crowd ahead toward the door.

"Maybe we can all go and have a consolation dinner at Bob's or something before the rush kicks in?" Jesse piped up as they followed, moving more slowly amid the throng toward the back of the courtroom.

Steve looked back toward his friend. "I don't feel much like eating, Jess," he announced. "I was thinking more of something along the lines of pounding the sand into submission with a nice long run. Might help to clear my head."

Jesse nodded in understanding. "Right. Rain check."

Steve's gaze was drawn beyond Jesse toward a pair of gray eyes that were focused intently on his father's back. The expression in those eyes chilled him all the way down to his toes. Then, with a blink, Amber's eyes locked with his and she smiled softly and sweetly. He shivered.

"You okay, son?" A touch on his arm called him back.

"Fine, dad," he muttered in response before he stepped through the double doors into the lobby after his father.

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-- -- -- -- --

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Steve shot a cursory look toward the late afternoon skies as he set a brisk pace across the sands. Mottled gray, they threatened an impending downpour. And there was a decided to chill to the October air. Neither was of great concern. Both matched his mood.

His feet pounded relentlessly against damp sand as he pushed his body. The sounds of wind and surf raged around him, whipping at his clothing and hair, drowning out the sounds of his breath and the uneven thumping of his heart. Nature was a wild thing; her rage and actions much larger and stronger and uncaring of his. It served to calm him, to slough away the rougher edges of his anger and frustration. He eased off to a more normal pace and let the memories come. . .

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The first thing he noticed were her legs. Encased in sheer hose beneath the hem of a short cr?me-colored skirt, they seemed to go on and on. He took in the rest of the package at a glance, even noting the naked ring finger of her left hand. She turned, nervously allowing her gaze to touch on him, before she continued an anxious perusal of the lobby.

Steve allowed a warm smile to spread across his features as he approached. After all, he was a public servant. It was his job to help damsels in distress.

"Excuse me," he smiled at her. "Is there something I can help you with? You look a little lost."

She looked up at him, startled. "Do you work here?" she asked, desperation tinged with hope in her voice.

Steve looked back into the stormy gray eyes and knew that somehow, this woman was going to change his life.

He came back to the present with a disgusted snort. She'd changed his life all right. She'd gotten the job, and a celebratory dinner with one Steve Sloan -- the son of the Head of Internal Medicine. He'd fallen for her game, hook, line and sinker. And now he was getting wet.

Another fat raindrop plopped against his forehead, splattering across his brow. Those first few drops were the opening bars of a chorus. Within moments the sky opened up, releasing a chilling symphony of moisture. His sweatshirt and pants were soaked through in a matter of minutes.

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-- -- -- -- --

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Mark Sloan watched his son's familiar gait as he ran through the pouring rain toward the house. Turning away from the scene as Steve closed the distance, he headed for the kitchen to prepare a batch of hot chocolate. As he was probably soaked through, Mark suspected that he'd head directly to his unit to shower and change before coming upstairs. The beverage should be ready just in time. And then he planned to have a talk with his offspring.

During the drive home from the courthouse, Steve had been unusually quiet. And once they'd arrived home, he'd gone almost immediately downstairs to change. Mark knew that part of the reason was the outcome of the trial, but some internal parental twinge told him that there was also something more. Although, the fact that he had systematically checked all of the windows and doors before he'd left was probably a clue.

Precisely 17 minutes later, Steve arrived upstairs, his hair still damp from the shower. "You made hot chocolate?" he asked unnecessarily, moving toward the counter for the cup that was obviously his.

"How was the run?" Mark asked, easing into the conversation.

"Wet," Steve replied.

"Yeah." Mark chuckled. "I imagine it was. I think a storm's been brewing since we left the courthouse." He took a sip from his mug, waiting to see if Steve would catch the double-meaning. He didn't have long to wait. Steve's brow furrowed and he settled his mug against the counter with a sloshy thump.

"I can't believe she got off!" He fumed. "I can't believe the jury believed her over a respected physician in the community. After all you've done for this city, it came down to your word against hers and they went with the pretty face."

Mark scratched his brow and stifled a grin. "I think my reputation will survive, son, although my ego might not."

Steve blew out an exasperated breath. "Dad. . . It was me who ruined our case. Me and that. . . damned bracelet. I caused the jury to lean in her direction."

Mark's expression sobered. "You didn't ruin anything, least of all the case. Amber is simply a very good actress. She started a relationship with you knowing that if there was a murder at Community General, you would end up working on the case one way or another. Which would have, and did, put her in a very unique position."

"I know you're right," Steve agreed grudgingly. "It's just galling to know that I fell for it and that she's gotten away with it. There's got to be something more we can do."

"She had a very specific agenda, Steve. She wanted to kill the men who she felt caused her mother's death. She didn't do it for money or property. All she wanted was revenge, and unfortunately, she's gotten it."

"So you're just going to let it go? Just like that?"

Mark's smile was back. "Now, I didn't say that, did I?"

"No you didn't."

Mark noted that Steve's returned smile was distracted. Shadows of worry were still there in his eyes. He allowed his own smile to fade away, and his voice deepened as his tone became more serious. "You're worried that I'm her next target for revenge, aren't you?"

His son's expression and body language all geared toward denial, but then he stopped and nodded. "Yeah, I am."

"I'll be careful," Mark assured him. He would trust Steve's instincts on this one. He allowed the humor back into his tone as he began to clear away their beverages. "Although, I do think she'd be a little more subtle than breaking into the house."

Steve grinned sheepishly. "Caught that did you? Well, maybe I was battening down the hatches. For the storm, you know."

Mark laughed. "Oh, I think it's blown its course for now."

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-- -- -- -- --

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Jesse Travis stifled a yawn as he stepped into the Doctors Lounge. He'd come on at 6:00 A.M., and an hour later, his body was still studiously trying to convince his brain that it was an insult to be expected to function at such an hour. And with the decided lack of traumas in the ER, his brain was inclined to agree. Stumbling around a pair of legs, belonging to a softly snoring body, he made a bee-line for the coffee pot. Caffeine. Yeah, that was the ticket.

A sigh of satisfaction escaped as the aroma of freshly made java drifted from the brew that was cascading wonderfully into his mug. Setting the practically full pot back onto the burner, he wondered that he'd managed to get the first cup of what was obviously not the hospital's usual brand. He looked back toward the lounge chair where the apparent coffee maker had drifted off listening to early morning radio. He was one of the new interns. Poor kid had probably been on for more than 12 hours. Nice of him to bring in gourmet coffee, though.

Jesse took a couple steps toward the young man, sipping his coffee as he went. The least he could do was suggest the young man sack out in the on-call room. A few feet away however, his attention was caught by the sound of a familiar voice and a familiar name.

"There you have it, Los Angeles. . . Amber definitely loves Officer Steve."

Jesse spewed coffee, and that which remained in his cup was in imminent danger of spillage as the sleeping intern came to startled wakefulness. All six foot four gangly inches of him shot to attention, nearly knocking the shorter doctor over in the process.

Jesse dismissed profuse apologies as he headed for the door. He had a phone call to make.

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Part Two: Pre-trial Emotions

Traffic along PCH was moving well for a Friday. A fact for which Steve was intensely grateful as he'd been a little behind schedule that morning. A quick breakfast of bacon and eggs between two slices of toast had been devoured while shrugging into his jacket and making his way out to the car. A bottle of water to wash it all down was retrieved from beneath the seat as he waited for a traffic signal. And the paper towel that his father had directed toward him with the sandwich was used to clear his face of any crumbs. It was the breakfast of champions, all in under a minute. Healthy too, if one discounted the bacon and noted the fact that the toast had been unbuttered. He'd be sure to stop by the coffee room for a jelly doughnut after he checked in at the precinct.

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Having planned at least the first few minutes of his workday, Steve settled in for the drive into LA. The frantic tension of the morning drained away and his mind relaxed into familiar rhythms. His thoughts turned, predictably, to Amber and the look she'd focused on his father. The threat had been unspoken, and he would be hard pressed to produce any proof. Saying he saw murder in her eyes would hardly impress the chief. Instead, he planned to go back through every shred of information they had in the case file. There had to be something there that they'd missed, something that would help him to eliminate her as a threat to his father. Steve found the situation especially ironic when he considered how very open she had been about her past. . .

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"Would you like to go for a walk?" Steve asked as they stepped out of the doors of a restaurant situated along the outskirts of L.A. The meal and the company had been very enjoyable, and as they had both driven separately to the establishment, he was looking for an excuse to extend the evening.

"I'd love to," Amber replied, offering a warm smile as she moved closer to his side. "I was hoping we weren't going to end it so soon. I've really had a great time."

"Me too," Steve replied. "But aren't those the sort of words that you say at the end of the date?"

"Well, maybe it's not an end, but a beginning," Amber challenged and came to a stop. It was still early and the sun was just beginning its descent. Golden rays reflected off of her hair and shone as a gentle breeze blew a lock across her face.

Unthinkingly, Steve reached out and pushed the silky strands away and tucked them behind one of her ears. He didn't resist the impulse to trail his fingers lingeringly along her cheek before letting her go. Something changed in her eyes and some deep male instinct told Steve that she had been very affected by his touch. Maybe nearly as much as he had been affected by the feel of her hair and the warmth of her skin against his fingers. The sensation lingered with him almost like an afterimage.

"To beginnings," he murmured, then leaned in toward her. She stopped him with the touch of a finger over his lips.

"Not yet," she whispered. "There will be more for us. I promise."

Steve straightened away from her, feeling a little embarrassed. "I'm sorry if I pushed you a little too fast," he said. "I, uh. . . sorry." He offered a sheepish grin and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He was unsure of what his next move should be. He only knew that keeping his hands to himself was going to require retraining them.

"Don't be," Amber assured, and looked up at him from the corner of her eye. "This atmosphere is very romantic. And you are very romantic. You can make a girl forget all those serious little talks she has with herself about not getting involved too quickly."

Steve chuckled. "Should I be flattered?" he asked.

"Yes." She reached toward him and wrestled one of his hands from his pockets and entwined her fingers with his. She then pulled gently so that they could continue walking. They headed across a small walkway that led to a planked overlook.

"Okay, in that case, I am." He declared agreeably, tightening his hold gently on her hand.

Amber laughed. "I like you a lot, Steve. And I really want there to be more to our relationship. I won't hide that. I want you to know right off that I'm a girl who comes with a little baggage."

Steve's brow furrowed and he remembered a dozen other relationships that he'd had that had been doomed due to his propensity for selecting the crazies. He wondered if having all the cards out on the table up front wasn't a bad idea. "What kind of baggage?"

"Well, for one thing, I'm my own girl. I won't be hovered over."

Steve grinned. "I don't have a problem with that."

Amber smiled in return. "And I'm an absolute sucker for a guy with dimples."

Steve tried to stifle his smile, but it was impossible. "Okay. I think I can work with that."

Her smile faded. "And I’m grieving." She looked up at him, taking in his reaction.

Steve sobered, taken off guard. He looked into her eyes and saw that she was serious. A sliver of empathy wound through him, causing him to realize just how much it mattered to him that she might be experiencing difficulties. "What happened?" he asked.

She smiled a gentle sad smile. "I lost my mother just over a month ago. She was wonderful. My best friend. I truly think she was the only person who really and truly understood me. She was the only family I had left. I miss her."

"I'm sorry," Steve said. "My father and I are very close. I couldn't imagine. . . " He didn't finish the sentence. It wasn't something he liked to think about. He didn't even want to consider the thought that Mark Sloan wouldn't always be there.

"Oh no," Amber sighed. "I'm not trying to bring you down. It's just that I believe that experiences in life shape us from day to day. What happened a month ago shaped who I am now. I just wanted you to know."

Steve offered a small smile and nodded. "Thanks for telling me," he said, hoping it didn't sound as inane as it felt.

He watched as Amber seemed to shake off the sadness. She then grabbed his other hand and dragged him toward the overlook. "Let's go check out the view while we still have some light."

"Oh, uh, I have a confession to make," Steve laughed, holding back slightly.

"What's that?" she teased.

"I've got this things about heights. . . "

The honking of a passing horn dragged him from his meandering. Shaking his head as if to clear it, he refocused his thoughts on the case. Amber had been very good. She'd twisted him around her fingers and then used him for her own revenge. He couldn't let their remembered chemistry cloud that.

The ringing of his cellular was not a welcome interruption. He retrieved it from an inner jacket pocket, apprehension flickering through him as he wondered who might be calling him on his way in to work and why. "Sloan."

He was immediately assaulted with an onslaught of words from his best friend and business partner. "Slow down, Jess. What's wrong?" Steve tried to focus on the words themselves as he struggled to understand. All too quickly, he got it.

"You heard what?!"

The phone was all but forgotten as he switched the radio dial to the Mike & Jim Morning Show.

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-- -- -- -- --

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"Fancy meeting you here." Amanda appeared alongside Mark as he climbed out of his car in Community General's Doctor's lot.

"Oh, good morning, Amanda," he greeted her warmly as he juggled his keys, a briefcase and canvas satchel.

"Need some help?" She offered, reaching for the satchel.

Mark relinquished it with an appreciative grin, and at her look of askance toward the brightly colored items inside, added an explanation. "Party favors for a few of the kids on Ward C."

"Ah," Amanda nodded knowingly. "Darryl Tremaine's party. He still calling you grandpa doc?"

"Yes," Mark admitted with a grin, thinking of the energetic twelve year old who was more often than not a resident of the children's cardiac ward. "Can't seem to talk him out of it."

"From what I hear, he isn't the only one," Amanda teased.

Mark wasn't bothered. He knew it had become something of a joke among the nurses on the ward. He would have been more surprised if Amanda didn't know. He made a face at her just the same as they entered the hospital proper.

"I think the experimental procedure is really helping him, Amanda," he switched subjects slightly. "When he first began the treatment, he could barely sit upright. Now he's all over the ward, terrorizing doctors and nurses alike."

Amanda laughed with him. "Do you think the procedures would have saved Amber McPherson's mother?"

Mark shook his head. "It's hard to say. Her condition was so much more advanced."

"Would you have recommended her if you were on that board?"

Mark came to a stop in the corridor. That was a question he'd considered several times during the course of the trial. It was one he still didn't have an answer to. Deciding between a 12 year old boy and a fifty-five year old woman. Perhaps choosing who should have the better chance at survival of a debilitating illness. It was an uncomfortable decision to make.

"You know that if you had been on that board and voted her off that study, Amber would have tried to kill you, along with Drs Paul and Bettinger."

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"I know, Amanda. I know. She might have succeeded, too."

Amanda opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by Jesse's frantically approaching person. "Did you hear?" he called still several yards away.

"Hear what?" Amanda and Mark questioned simultaneously.

"What she did," Jesse clarified only slightly. Then, apparently realizing that his audience had no clue as to what he was talking about, he continued. "On the Mike & Jim morning show. They've got this whole poll going about whether or not Steve and Amber should be a couple. It's 75% in favor."

"What?" Mark was stunned.

"Yeah, she was on as a guest this morning."

"She's moves faster than I thought," Mark murmured. "Does Steve know?" Considering his son's reaction to the outcome of the trial, this new incident was not going to go down very well.

"He knows." Jesse nodded in a warning tone. "And he is not a happy camper right now."

"I don't imagine so," Mark said as he hurried off. He needed to talk to Steve.

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Part Three : Opening Argument

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Steve never got a chance to enter the KKLA building. He spotted the woman who was the source of his angst coming out of the front doors. She looked irritatingly innocent and at peace with her world. It only added to his anger.

Double parking in the filled-to-capacity visitor's lot, he slammed out of his truck and strode determinedly in her direction as she made her way down the walk. She smiled at his approach.

"What do you think you're doing?" He demanded, blocking her path. He wanted to get to the bottom of this thing with her, here and now. Wasn't it enough that she'd gotten away with murder? Did she have to continue to torment him?

"Oh you mean the interview?" She gestured back toward the station. Then, not waiting for a response, she continued, "I was invited. Mike & Jim were very persuasive. I really didn't feel that I could turn them down."

"Really?" Steve asked dryly. "Were they persuasive when you decided to start a poll about us?"

"No. I didn't need much urging on that score. I think we make a great couple. I have since our first date. The chemistry is through the roof, don't you think?" She looked deeply into his eyes for several moments, before allowing a small satisfied smile to lift one corner of her lips. "I just wanted to see if any one else could see what I do."

Steve's anger deepened. "There is no us!" he ground out. "And in case it has slipped your mind, you killed two men. My father is probably next on your list since his testimony was the most damning. That is hardly what I would call a promising relationship prospect."

"Very little slips my mind, Steve," she said softly, her voice suddenly serious. "It's one of my flaws. It's also why I can't forget you. But you're wrong. I adore Mark. I wouldn't think of harming a single hair on his head. I would never try to kill him."

Stared glared at her. "I'm supposed to just believe that? The word of a murderer?"

She sighed and shook her head, her tone suggesting boredom that he didn't understand. "He was only doing what he thought was right. He was seeking justice. I admire that. And I never lied to you, Steve. Not once. And I wouldn't lie to you about this."

"A lie of omission, is still a lie. Besides, you lied to the court."

"Are you sure?" she questioned. "Are you sure that you didn't get so bogged down in all that circumstantial evidence that you refused to see what was really right in front of you? Are you so used to your father being right that you can't accept that he might have been wrong? He's a good man, Steve. But in the long run, he's just a man."

"You're not going to turn me against my father."

"I know." She smiled. "And that's another thing I love about you. You take care of him. Give him my love. He's perfectly safe from me."

Steve held her gaze for a moment longer, then grunted and turned away. There was really no place else to go with the conversation. And it irritated him that he was inclined to believe her when she said that she wouldn't harm his father.

"Steve." He'd gotten several steps away when she called him back. He turned to face her, not sure what to expect.

Her gaze smoldered. "I've always liked those pants on you."

Steve made a sound of disgust and turned away from her frank appraisal. Did she think he was a fool? That he could be led around by physical cravings? Her laughter followed him for several feet, then she spoke again.

"Your instincts are correct, you know."

That got his attention. He stopped and partially turned back. There was something more hanging on those words. The air seemed charged with the importance of it. "What instincts?" he asked over his shoulder.

She took several steps closer, and Steve observed her slow languorous approach. She stepped into his personal space, moved up on tip-toe and placed her hands on his shoulders. Steve allowed his arms to hang limply at his sides as she whispered near his ear. "Someone is going to die. But it isn't going to be Mark."

Moving back down from her tip toes she took a step back. With a small smile she turned and headed off in the opposite direction.

Steve stood stunned for several moments, then ran after her. "Who?" he demanded, grabbing her arm. "Who is going to die?"

She looked innocently up at him. "I don't know. How could I?" Removing her arm from his hand, she turned again.

Steve would have followed, but his phone choose that moment to ring.

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-- -- -- --

Mark had settled behind his desk and punched in Steve's cell phone number. His son picked up on the second ring, his tone non-too-pleased.

"Sloan here!"

"Steve?" Mark couldn’t keep the concern out of his voice. He knew how Steve had felt about Amber. He suspected that, despite all that had happened, some of those feelings were still there. They were just buried under a good bit of anger.

"Dad." Some of the frustration drained out of his voice.

"You at the radio station?" Mark asked.

"Yeah," Steve's reply came back over the line. "How'd you know?"

"Jess told us he called you." Mark didn't feel it prudent to alert his son to the fact that he was aware of how often proximity to Amber raised his blood pressure.

"Yeah, he did."

"What happened?"

"I saw her."

Mark waited. Then when nothing more seemed forthcoming, he prompted, "Did you talk to her?"

"Yes, I talked to her. But I really don't want to talk about it, Dad."

"Okay. I understand," Mark said, though he didn't. He knew that Steve tended to be a private person. But he felt strongly that whatever had happened, his son needed to get it out. He allowed his words to linger in the silence. Either Steve would volunteer the information, or he would find an excuse to exit the conversation and Mark would be forced to wait until he was ready. Mark hoped that it wouldn't be the latter. His hope was realized moments later.

"She said someone else was going to die."

Mark was aghast. He had hoped that her pattern of revenge was over. Perhaps, having succeeded with her first two targets, she was on the prowl for the next. "She didn't! Did she say who?"

"No." He could hear Steve's sigh over the line. "But she promised that it wouldn't be you." Another sigh. "I think she's messing with me dad."

"I'm sure of that, son. So you think she's after me, huh?"

"Dad, listen. I don't know. I really need to follow up on some leads. If nothing else, she did tend to telegraph her moves. I just never managed to catch on to them in time. Meanwhile, please be careful."

"I will. And I'm sure you'll come up with something." Mark tried to reassure him.

"Thanks, Dad." Steve sounded a little defeated as he disconnected.

Mark hung up his phone and settled back into his chair. Something tickled at his mind. What was it that Steve said? That Amber telegraphed her moves? The words stuck as remembered the first time he'd met her. . .

Mark was walking along the passage that connected the cafeteria with the gift shop and the pharmacy. One side of the passage was glass and opened at intervals out onto the patio. The rounded tables were filled with hospital workers and visitors taking advantage of the beautiful weather. But it was one person, a brown-haired police lieutenant seated across from a lovely redhead that caught Mark's attention.

Curious, he moved through the next set of doors which led outside. He noted that the young woman wore a Community General identification badge. Mark guessed that she was the young lady that Steve had dinner with the night before.

"Hi Son," Mark touched him on the shoulder, and smiled warmly at the woman seated on the opposite side of the table.

Steve turned in his chair and smiled up at him. "Hi Dad."

Mark's sharp father's eye didn't miss the lingering light in his son's eyes, or the way he stumbled over himself as he introduced the young lady. "Dad, this is Amber McPherson. She just started here a couple of days ago. Amber, this is my father, Dr. Mark Sloan."

"It's a pleasure to meet you." Mark told her. "Where are you working?"

"I started in records," she replied pleasantly. "It's been an interesting experience."

"Oh, I'm sure it has," Mark chuckled. "You're working with Netta Meadows aren't you?" He called to mind the meticulous woman who was the administrator of the records area. The short rotund woman was not known for her tact or mercy, and struck fear in the hearts of many. But Community General's records processes were flawless.

"That would be a yes," Amber's eyes twinkled with humor. "It's only been 2 days and I think I know the clump of her heels at 20 paces."

Mark laughed, and would have said more, but Steve cut in. "Dad, would you like a coffee?"

"No, I couldn't interrupt." Mark said though he wanted nothing more than to find out more about this woman who was his son's latest love interest.

"No Dad, I insist." Steve saw right through him. He stood and moved off toward the cafeteria serving line.

Mark smiled after him, then gestured toward a free chair. "May I?"

"Absolutely."

He settled at the small table and studied the girl across from him. She was certainly lovely. She smiled at him.

"You know Netta Meadows, you must have worked here a long time, Dr. Sloan."

"Please. It's Mark. And I think Netta's reputation precedes her. But I have been here a long time. Longer than I'd like to say," he laughed.

"You must love your work," she commented, her head tilted slightly as she considered him. "You like helping people. Is that why you chose to become a doctor?"

Mark laughed and looked at her curiously. That was a question he hadn't thought about in years. "Well, I suppose that's partially true. But there is more to it than that. There were a lot of factors that went into the decision."

"I can understand that. There are always a lot of layers to why we humans do the things we do."

"That there are," Mark agreed. "Was there any particular reason you chose your particular career?"

She laughed. "Oh come now, Mark. I wouldn't call what I'm doing in records a career. It's mostly temporary work until I decide what I really want to do with the rest of my life."

Mark nodded.

She continued. "You know, I used to want to be a doctor."

"Well, it's not too late. Why don't you go for it?"

She shook her head. "No, I couldn't. You see, when I was about 12 years old, my entire family was in an automobile accident. We were all taken to the hospital. My father and my brother never left. They died there. Hospitals terrified me after that. It took a year of therapy to get me back on track. After that, it didn't seem so much a goal for me to become a doctor."

Mark frowned. "I'm very sorry to hear about what happened to your family. But you seem to be doing fine with being here now."

"Oh, well, call it a way to face my fears without benefit of the therapist. Besides, my mother became very ill about four years ago. She was in and out of Keller Memorial until her death. We were very close. And if I wanted to be near her, I had to come to the hospital. So, you see, still no good memories of hospitals."

Steve chose that moment to arrive, settling a cup of coffee in front of him. . .

Mark blinked away the memories. His eyes settled on the canvas bag carrying party favors. A thought occurred to him. Amber had killed the doctor's who she felt had taken her mother's chance for life. Young Darryl Tremaine was the person who had taken her mother's place in the study. Was it possible that she could be after him next?

Part Four: Questions

?

Steve entered the precinct building with a determined stride. Amber McPherson was not going to get away with another murder. He would personally make sure of it. He was not going to allow her to make a mockery out of himself, his father or the legal justice system. There had to be something more in the case files to help him stop her. Something to give him a clue as to her plan. Unless she truly was simply messing with him, as he'd told his father. The largest piece of the puzzle was why. Had Mark not seen the bottle fall from her purse, she never would have been suspected at all. Even on that fateful night, after she had left the scene of the crime, he'd had no inkling that anything was amiss. . .

Steve yawned as he entered his unit. Both he and his father had the early shift that morning. They'd decided to turn in earlier than usual as it had been a long day for the both of them. He'd just stepped into the room, and was reaching for the light switch when a sound caught his ear. He froze mid-yawn, suddenly alert. The noise had come from the doors leading out onto the patio.

Sinking into the shadows against the wall, he crept along toward the sounds. Someone was trying to get into his apartment! Then suddenly, the rattling stopped and he heard a soft bump. The vague shadow of a body against the outer doors accompanied the sound. The body moved slowly toward the ground.

Steve frowned. That seemed a strange motion for a burglar to make. More curious than worried, he moved toward the door and slid the curtains aside. There, settled just outside the door, was the back of a very familiar red head.

A flash of concern shot through him as he quickly unlatched and opened the doors. Amber started slightly, before turning to look up at him. Her eyes were wide with surprise.

"What's wrong?" Steve demanded, going down to his haunches beside her. He gave the rear area of the house a quick instinctive once over, before checking her over as well. His gaze stopped on the basket that was partially hidden in shadow at her side. The top of a wine bottle peaked out from beneath a checked cloth.

"Nothing's wrong now." Her expression morphed into pleasure. With his help, she moved to her feet. "I came to tell you that I got a new job. I'll be starting next week."

"What?" Steve was still coming to terms with the unexpectedness of her visit coupled with the affect her presence was having on him. "Why didn't you just come to the front door?"

"I didn't want to hurt Mark's feelings," she explained as she reached for the basket containing the wine. "Especially since I was celebrating. I think he really wanted me to stay on at the hospital."

Steve nodded in acknowledgement. Amber and his father had talked several times about how the position at Community General was going. "I didn't know you were looking for another job," he said, opening the door wider so she could enter the apartment.

Amber hung back and grabbed his hand. "Why don’t we go for a walk," she suggested. "I don't want to risk waking your dad."

"All right," Steve agreed easily, realizing that he was suddenly not very tired after all. He pulled the doors to his apartment shut and took the basket from her hand. "Shall we leave this here?" he asked.

"For now," she agreed, with an inviting smile. Steve followed that invitation out over the sands toward the beach. "I wasn't really looking for a job," she continued her explanation. "A friend of mine had been after me to come over at talk to the General Manager at her company. I finally gave in. He offered me a job."

"So where is this new company?"

"I'm afraid it's on the other side of LA from Community General. Which means I'll have to drive a little farther."

"And it also means that I won't be having lunch with you at the hospital anymore," Steve lamented. During the past two and a half weeks, they'd lunched together often. If not at the hospital, then nearby or at Bob's. There would be no time to make such a trip in traffic during the midday rush.

"We could always meet in the middle," she suggested, pulling him to a stop. Turning to face him, she moved up on tiptoe and wrapped her arms about his neck.

"Meeting in the middle sounds wonderful," Steve smiled lazily down at her.

"I thought you'd like that," she whispered as they closed the distance that separated them.

Steve lost himself as they kissed beneath the half moon, allowing the potency of their attraction to wash over him and flood his senses.

"I love doing that with you," she said dazedly when they pulled apart.

"Not nearly as much as I do," Steve breathed, leaning in for more, allowing his lips to trail a path down the side of her cheek and to her neck.

"Mmmm," she moaned. "You're so thorough. So very thorough."

Steve knew he murmured something against her neck, but any coherence was lost as he returned his attention to her lips. The very air seemed charged as they separated again. "Maybe we should go inside," he suggested.

"I thought you'd never ask."

Steve was startled out of his memories by a sudden round of applause and a few catcalls. His face flushed red with embarrassment. He looked up and about at his fellow officers in an attempt to figure out what was going on. Then one of the officers near the back of the room clued him in.

"Well, if it isn't Officer Steve! If it's any consolation Officer, I voted 'no'!"

Steve groaned inwardly. He should have known. He opened his mouth to rattle off a scathing comment, but Newman's door opened. The tall Captain beckoned him toward his office with a look that didn't bode well for the meeting to be a friendly pat on the back.

Clamping his mouth shut, Steve turned away from the amused detectives and followed his commanding officer into the all-too-familiar confines of his private abode. Aside from being 25 minutes late, he couldn't think of anything he'd done that might be construed as out of line. Really, this meeting could only be about one thing.

"Have a seat, Lieutenant," Newman ordered.

Steve obeyed, settling into the chair uncomfortably. Newman's expression was as unreadable as ever, giving him no clue as to whether he was about to help him or reprimand him.

Steve decided to begin the conversation. "Sir, is this about Amber McPherson?"

"Yes, it is," Newman replied. "I don't want this situation to in any way affect the job you do here. I don't want any calls from her attorney saying that you're harassing or stalking her. She has been tried and acquitted. On top of everything else -- including her interview this morning, that is the last thing this department needs. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes Sir," Steve responded with a frown. "As long as she doesn't break the law, she has nothing to worry about from me."

"You see, that's just the type of attitude I'm talking about. You don't follow her around waiting for her to break the law detective. You go about your business. And right now your business is focusing on the homeless murders. Detective Banks is out with Mickowsky following up on a lead that by all rights she should have been handling with her partner. But it turns out that her partner was out of reach and not where he was supposed to be. Were you anywhere near KKLA this morning?"

"I was, but I had my cell. . . " Steve's words trailed off as he remembered that he'd gotten a call that morning from his father.

"Yes, detective?" Newman prompted.

"I was on another call. I probably missed Cheryl's call."

"Was this other call in some way related to Amber McPherson?"

Steve bit down on his mounting frustration. "Yes, Sir," he managed. "There has to be something I can do."

"I've already been in touch with legal. They're working on it. Meanwhile, you do your job. Stay away from Ms. McPherson."

Steve nodded his understanding, though he had no intention of leaving the case alone. At Newman's nod of dismissal, he left the office and made a beeline for his desk where he proceeded to gather together everything he had on Amber.

-- -- -- --

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Mark glanced up from the open refrigerator as Steve entered the kitchen and settled a stack of files on the counter. The tense set of his shoulders and the lines of strain around his mouth were silent testament to the type of day he'd had. Reaching back into the refrigerator he retrieved a beverage for his son and held it up for his approval.

Steve nodded and took the bottle. "Thanks."

Mark opened his own bottle and gestured toward the files. "That everything you have on Amber?"

"Yeah," Steve replied. "Not that I've learned anything new. And Newman made sure I was very busy today so I couldn't get much done anyway."

Mark frowned. "Captain Newman tell you to stay away from the case?" he asked. He could well imagine the kind of trouble the other man feared. He no doubt had the best interest of the police department and Steve himself in mind.

"And Amber." Steve added. "Said the last thing he needed was a stalking charge."

"He does have a point," Mark said gently. "That entire radio broadcast could have been a means of provoking you."

"I know," Steve acknowledged. "I'm sure that it was now that I think back on it. This is all a game to her. That's all it has ever been."

"No, son," Mark shook his head. "I don't think so. I think she takes this entire situation very, very seriously. I think you're right, though. She is up to something. We just have to figure out what it is before someone else dies."

"Well, we certainly agree there."

"I've been thinking about what you said on the phone. You mentioned that she always telegraphed her moves. That we never caught on to them in time. Maybe she's telegraphing again. What did she say to you? Exactly."

Steve frowned as he thought back. "Well, she said that she adored you. That she wouldn't think of harming a single hair on your head. She said that she would never try to kill you."

Mark chuckled. "I think she was telling the truth. I'm not her intended victim."

"Dad, I can't take that chance. I can't just assume that she's not just trying to lull me into a sense of security before she strikes."

Mark smiled. There was no way he could talk his son out of his protectiveness toward him. "What else did she say?"

Steve sighed, apparently deciding not to argue over whether or not Amber was going to come after him. "She said that someone else was going to die, but that she didn't know who it was."

Mark frowned. "What do you suppose that means? Why would she be trying to kill someone if she doesn't know who it is?"

"Dad, you're doing it again. You're taking the things she says at face value. She said that just to taunt me."

"Well, yeah, I’m sure she did," Mark agreed. "But I think she meant it. She really doesn't know who she's going to kill."

"So you're telling me she's going after some random person? Why?"

"No," Mark was thoughtful. "I don’t think that's it. But I suppose we can rule out Darryl Tremaine."

"The kid at the hospital?" Steve looked at him oddly, then realization dawned. "He was the one who got the treatments that she felt her mother should have gotten."

"Right," Mark nodded. "But from the records, she would know who he is. Most everyone who worked in the hospital knew Darryl."

"Hmmm," Steve was obviously thinking about what he was saying. "Maybe --" His words were cut off by the ringing of the house line. Being closer, Steve picked it up. Mark knew by his sudden thunderous expression that the person on the opposite end of the line was not the bearer of good news.

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Part Five: Her Alibi

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"What?!" Steve demanded into the receiver. "You've got to stop it!"

Mark's concerned deepened with the increase in his son's volume as he made his wishes known to the person on the opposite end of the telephone connection. He knew without at doubt that it had something to do with Amber. And judging from Steve's reaction it was bad.

"Steve? What is it? What's happened?" he asked, moving a step closer. Where normally he might have waited until his son concluded the telephone conversation, he felt that he had to cut in. Maybe he could help in some way.

Steve held up a hand, holding him off as he continued his conversation. "Yeah, you're my friend but you're going to print it anyway?"

Steve's volume decreased but the frustration and bitterness of his tone did not. But the words at least gave Mark a clue as to what was going on. If it had to do with print, there was obviously going to be a story in a newspaper or one of the many gossip rags that plagued the city. Mark blew out an exasperated breath. It was more of the same. First the radio interview, and now Amber had gone to the newspaper. But with Steve's next words, Mark was not so sure.

"Pictures? What do you mean? What kind of . . . " Steve trailed off and he suddenly paled. Unhappy realization dawned over his features. "She must have had someone inside at the radio station taking photographs." Steve turned and met his gaze. A look of tiredness and defeat shown for a moment as he continued to listen.

Mark took a half step forward, wanting to offer whatever support he could. But then, Steve's expression changed to one of determination. His entire countenance seemed to change as his shoulders straightened into his usual erect posture. His tone became brisk as he continued to speak into the phone.

"How would you like an exclusive, Meg? The other side of the story. Straight from the mouth of Officer Steve."

Mark felt the beginnings of a grin lighting his features. Steve was going to fight fire with fire. He wondered how Amber would react. That thought immediately sobered him. Amber was a very dangerous woman, despite the persona she projected. And she was a master at orchestrating events for her own purposes. . .

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Mark was an early riser. He loved to get up in the mornings and enjoy a cup of coffee while watching the sky brighten over the ocean. He stood on the balcony, looking over the railing as the waves crashed against the sands, adding their music to the beauty of the surroundings.

The sounds and scenery were interrupted by a small sound from below. Frowning, he peered cautiously over the edge of the balcony. He knew that Steve wasn't home, as he'd left a note near the coffee maker saying that he had been called in because of activity on one of his cases. He had only missed him by several minutes, he knew, because he'd arrived in the kitchen just in time to hear Steve's truck pulling out of the drive.

He saw the top of a red head and immediately recognized it as belonging to Amber. She was carrying a wicker basket. He descended the steps to greet her. "Good Morning! Looking for Steve?"

Mark released a sound of dismay as she drew in a startled breath and dropped the wicker basket. Several items spilled out of it and a bottle of wine rolled across the patio into the sand.

"Oh, dear. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you." He rushed down the remaining steps to help her gather up the items that had fallen from the basket. "I hope nothing is broken."

"It's okay," Amber smiled at him as she quickly gathered several of the smaller items that had rolled beneath a patio chair. Mark picked up the wine bottle, noting the label across the front. It was a California vintage that was sold locally at La Ciel de Vin. Having been recently featured on a recent news broadcast, Jesse had embarked on a scheme to sell it at BBQ Bob's. The idea hadn't gone over well with Steve. Just seeing the bottle reminded him of the often humorous debates that had gone on between the two men for days.

"Excellent choice," he told her with a smile, handing her the bottle. He held on to it when he realized that her hands were full of small brown prescription bottles. "What's that?" he asked, curious as to why she would have prescription bottles in her basket.

"These belonged to my mother." She explained, holding one of the bottles out to him. "I suppose I must have forgotten that they were there. We used to go to the park and talk for hours -- when she felt up to it, of course. I'd pack lunch and supplies in this old basket."

Mark smiled as the memories flitted across her face. He cast a cursory look at the bottle noting that her mother's name was Starla McPherson and that she'd been prescribed Coumadin -- an anticoagulant. He placed the empty bottle into the basket and added the wine alongside of it.

"You were very close," he observed. "Friends."

"We were," Amber confirmed. "Like you and Steve. We were all each other had for a long time. But those times together really helped in the end. We said everything that we needed to say to one another. That helped a lot. I really think I am at peace with her death now. I feel as though I truly have closure."

?

"Has working at Community General helped in that respect?" Mark asked. "No more fear of hospitals?"

A sheepish expression came over her. "Actually Dr. Sloan, there is something I need to tell you."

"What's that?" Mark asked.

"Well. . . I'm not here looking for Steve. I'm just leaving. I came over last night and brought the wine because. . . well because I found another job. I'm going to be giving my notice at Community General today. My new job starts in a week."

"Oh." Mark was a little disappointed. "I'm sure the records department will be sorry to see you go. I hear even Netta Meadows had good things to say about you."

"Thank you. I really appreciate your saying that." She glanced down at her watch. "And I really should get going or I'm going to be late on the day I give notice!"

Mark chuckled and watched her leave. He then stretched and headed back up toward the upper patio. It was time to get the day started.

Mark blinked away the memories to find that Steve had wandered out of the kitchen. He followed the sound of his voice into the den where the impromptu interview seemed to still be in full swing. He was preparing to leave, giving Steve privacy to finish up when he noticed movement through the balcony doors.

It was Jesse and Amanda, no doubt having come to offer moral support. He moved past Steve to let them in, noticing as he did so that Jesse was carrying a large brown bag emblazoned with the BBQ Bob logo.

"Hi Jesse. Amanda." Mark greeted them in a hushed tone as he gestured them inside and through toward the kitchen. "That smells wonderful." Jesse and Amanda returned the greeting imitating his quiet tone when they caught sight of Steve obviously deep in concentration as he listened to something over the phone.

Amanda and Jesse hesitated when Steve suddenly spoke. "There is absolutely no possibility of a reconciliation, regardless of any manipulative tactics to make things appear otherwise. Unconditionally, no. . . " Steve's voice faded as he stood and moved past them, deeper into the house.

"What's going on?" Jesse's eyes followed his friend's departure. "Is this a bad time? Should we come back later?"

"Oh, no." Mark sought to put his mind at ease. "There has simply been a new development," he confided. "But I'll let Steve explain the rest when he's done with the interview."

"Interview?" Amanda's brow creased in surprise. "Is that what he's doing? What made him decide to do that?"

Mark held his hands up, warding off further questions. "I'm sorry. We're all going to have to wait for Steve to let him explain it. I don't even have all of the details myself. Just what I've overheard."

"We'll do anything we can to help, Mark. You know we will." Jesse's earnest expression made Mark smile.

"I know you will, Jess. You both will." He included Amanda in his smiling gaze. He then gestured toward the stack of folders that had been left on the counter. "Steve brought his files home. I think he wants to go over everything again. See what we might have missed."

"Like something to do with her hometown maybe." Steve said, coming into the kitchen. "I never realized talking to a reporter could be so enlightening."

"She able to help you with the case?" Mark asked, noting the look on his son's face. There was an edge of excitement in his lean features. He obviously had a lead.

"In an off-handed kind of way," Steve replied, moving toward one of the bags of food and peering inside.

"Well don't keep us in suspense," Jesse chimed up. "Why were you being interviewed? What happened? What did you find out?"

Steve chuckled. "A friend who works at the LA Sensation -- it's a weekly gossip rag that --"

"We know what it is," Jesse cut in. "Tell us what happened. Why were you interviewing with them?"

"I'm getting there," Steve said, sighing in exasperation. "Anyway, Meg called to tell me that there was going to be a special edition this week that contains a story on Amber. She let me know that there was someone from the Sensation with Amber today at KKLA. They took a few compromising looking photographs of us out in the parking lot. The pictures are running front page with the article."

"How compromising?" Amanda wanted to know.

"Yeah," Jess added. "What were you doing?"

"Nothing," Steve said defensively. "She was. . . well, she was all over me, but I didn't reciprocate. I was too angry and it was over too quickly for me to push her away. But I can imagine how it's going to look on the newsstand tomorrow."

"Wow. She's wily," Jesse said.

"And in for a surprise," Steve responded. "I just gave my side of the story. Meg is pretty sure that they're going to run it front page, side by side with Amber's interview."

"She is not going to like that," Amanda said, a knowing grin on her face.

"No," Steve agreed. "I don't imagine she will."

"What did you find out from Meg," Mark asked, changing the direction of the conversation slightly. His curiosity was piqued by whatever offhand information that the reporter had been able to pass on. There had to be a reason behind Amber's going to the Sensation, more than just a desire to torment his son. He was sure of it.

The woman had been sly enough to come over to his home after killing two men. She had then proceeded to use the fact that she had spent that evening with his son as an alibi. But the fact was that there had been just enough time for her to leave the scene and arrive at the beach house. Her purchase of the wine that she had brought to celebrate with Steve from La Ciel de Vin had also been a careful manipulation. The winery was two blocks away from the area where the two doctors had been sent to their deaths. With Amber there seemed to be two purposes for everything.

"She gave me a preview of the story. Amber's going to be going back to her hometown. Says that there are a few things that she needs closure on. She even said that she was hoping that I would help her!"

Mark frowned. "So you think this person, whoever is going to die, is someone from her hometown?"

"I'm sure of it," Steve said. "Question is, who has offended her so much that she needs closure?"

"The drunk driver who killed her father and brother," Mark replied, the answer coming to him in a flash of insight.

"That's the obvious answer," Steve said. "But is there anyone else? I think I'll make a few calls out to Riverside . . . "

Mark was thoughtful. An idea was germinating in his mind. One that he felt sure his son wasn't going to like.

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-- -- --

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"Thanks guys," Steve was saying to Mick and Jamie as they moved across the empty darkened dining room of BBQ Bob's. "If you want to stay on the closing schedule, just let Jesse know. I'm sure he can work it in."

"Thanks Steve," the two college freshmen replied. Having come to the city together, the two shared an apartment and a major and now they both worked at Bob's. They were hard workers, and Steve felt sure after having worked with them only twice that things would work out well. And he certainly couldn't argue with the fact that the closing duties had gotten done twice as fast with their enthusiastic help.

He shuffled the bank bag containing the day's earnings in his arms and was preparing to close and lock the door when he heard the phone ringing. He thought to ignore it. It was just after eleven, and the restaurant was closed. The answering service would kick in after the sixth ring explaining their hours and a short review of their menu.

He paused, torn. His father had managed to finagle his way into going to Riverside to investigate Amber's past. Jesse had gone with him because it was his day off. While there, his father had discovered that there was an event going on in a community center in Amber's old neighborhood. They had decided to stay for it, which would put them on the highway an hour or so prior. Though he was sure his dad would most likely have called his cellular, he was probably expected to be at Bob's for at least another half hour. He turned and headed for the phone extension that hung on the wall near the register.

"Do you want us to wait for you?" Mick called through the door.

"Nah, you go on ahead," Steve called back as he weaved through the tables. "I'll see you in a couple of days." He snatched up the phone just as their response reached his ears.

"Hello, BBQ Bob's." He spoke automatically into the receiver. All he received for his effort was a burst of static so loud that he was forced to pull the phone a little away from his ear. Putting it back more cautiously, he tried again. "Hello?" Nothing but static.

Steve cut the connection, waited several seconds, then dialed his father's cellular. The older Sloan answered on the 2nd ring.

"Hi Dad. Did you or Jess just call me?"

"No. Why? Is everything okay?" Mark's voice had taken on a slight hint of concern. Steve could hear Jesse in the background inquiring as well.

"Everything's fine," Steve sought to reassure them both. After his rebuttal article ran in the Sensation the day before, they had been expecting some kind of reprisal. Aside from the typical radio discussion, none had come. Even the Steve loves Amber poll that KKLA had begun was dropping out of public interest. But Steve knew his father still worried about a response from Amber.

"I think it was just someone with a static-y line that couldn't get through," Steve said. "I was just closing up and thought I would check. How far out are you?"

"Oh, we left a little early. We're on PCH now. Should be to the beach house in about forty minutes at the most. We discovered some rather interesting things about Amber and her family. I'll tell you about them when you get home; it's too much to go into now. How much longer do you think you'll be?"

"We're just done closing. I'm going to swing by the bank, make a drop and I'll probably be home before you."

"Okay, son. We'll see you then. Be careful."

"I will. Bye Dad."

Steve hung up the phone wondering what his father and Jesse had discovered. During the initial investigation, they hadn't gone too deeply into her past as the murder didn't seem related. Shrugging a bit, he retrieved the bank bag from the counter and headed out of the restaurant.

As he turned to lock the door a huge yawn took him. It had been a very long day. Maybe he would grab a shower before his dad and Jess arrived. Shaking off the yawn, he turned toward the lot and his truck. He was definitely going to need to drive with the window down.

As he was searching through his ring for the truck key, he heard a step behind him. He'd just barely caught a glimpse of a dark blur before he saw the white of his truck rushing forward to meet him.

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Part Six : Assault & Battery

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Unable to stop the unexpected momentum, Steve crashed into the passenger side of the vehicle with a thump. The protruding door handle caught him just below his breast bone, sending shock waves of agony in a painful band around his chest and along the left side of his body. The pain was momentarily so overwhelming that it seemed to suck the air right out of his lungs and the strength out of his body. In a detached, surreal sort of way, he heard both his keys and the money bag hit the ground. He himself was heading in that general direction, his knees buckling under him, when a pair of rough hands grabbed him from behind and spun him head on into what felt like the reverberation of several powerful fists instead of the one meaty paw that it actually was.

The blow sent him reeling once again only to be stopped by another pair of powerful arms. That blow was quickly followed up by another and another. He was never given an opportunity to really focus on his attackers, or to even gain a breath. He only knew that there were two of them and that they were tall, broad and meaty. He thought maybe that they were covering their hands with something with a weave, perhaps knit gloves. But after several more blows were rained on his face and torso, even that didn't matter. It all morphed into a pain-filled blur of relentless fists. And through it all not a word was spoken.

Finally they let him go, allowing him to crumple bonelessly to the pavement. One very large booted foot rolled him away from the truck where he could only manage to lay dazedly as he tried to focus on breathing in and out with a minimum of pain. The sound of his truck being started reached him distantly through ringing ears, brake lights came blearily into view seconds before the truck turned off to the right. Black spots appeared in his vision, and he blinked them back by force of will.

Not sure how long he could maintain any semblance of half consciousness, his thoughts turned to his father and Jesse. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he knew he had to try to reach them. They shouldn't be too terribly far away. He hoped they weren't.

Reaching into a pocket for his cellular phone was nearly his undoing. Even so small a movement increased the agony across his abdomen. Dizziness and nausea rushed him and the dreaded black spots appeared again before his vision. It took every ounce of determination and strength he could muster to continue on.

Becoming increasingly more drained by the moment, it seemed an eternity before he convinced his fingers to hit the speed dial to his dad's number. Mark answered almost immediately. But it seemed that on the verge of success, he was about to lose everything. The black spots melded to a gray haze and he felt himself slipping.

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"Hello? Steve?" Mark's voice sounded distantly over the connection again, quickly filling with sudden concern. Steve struggled to form the words to spare his father additional worry.

"Dad . . . Bob's . . . sorry . . . " was all he managed before the phone slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground. And despite his valiant effort, the haze won out and he descended into darkness.

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-- -- --

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"Oh my God! Steve!" Mark yelled into the cell phone. "Steve! Answer me!" But all he could hear across the still open connection was his son's raspy breathing. His body went completely cold as pure panic shot through him. For a moment his mind blanked and he couldn't think what he should do.

"Mark? What's wrong? What's going on?" Jesse asked, suddenly alarmed, from the passenger seat. His frantic voice pierced Mark's shock.

He blinked and realized that he was behind the wheel of the car and had suddenly released pressure on the gas pedal. The car was gradually slowing to the frustration of the tooting horns behind him. Gathering his wits, he first resumed his speed before turning a fearful glance in his young friend's direction.

"It's Steve. I think something has happened to him. He's just passed out, but I can still hear his breathing."

Jesse reached for the phone that Mark held in a death grip. At Jesse's prodding he reluctantly released it, then attempted to focus on the road ahead.

Jesse placed the small device to his ear for a moment before he spoke. "Where is he?" The professionalism that made him such a good ER doctor dropped over him like a curtain. His tone was even and he was all business.

Mark squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and tried to think. "He said Bob's. I think he's still there."

Jesse handed the phone back to him. Mark immediately placed it in between the seats on speaker while Jess reached for his own cell phone.

"I'm going to call the police and an ambulance. They'll probably be there about the same time we will."

Mark nodded and increased his speed as much as he dared. His only goal was to reach his son as soon as possible. During the long four minutes that it took for them to arrive at BBQ Bob's, Steve's raspy breathing was the only sound that filled the car.

"I don't see his truck," Jesse said tensely as they approached. "Is there any chance he could be someplace else?"

"He said Bob's," was Mark's anxious response as he forced himself to slow down and pull into the lot. The vehicle's headlights flashed against the building, illuminating it and the darkened pavement. The sweep of the headlights revealed the motionless form near where Steve normally parked.

Mark didn't remember putting the car in park or climbing out of the vehicle. It had all been done in a hazy auto-pilot as a desperately worried father tried to reach his son as quickly as possible. Once there, he paused, his hands frozen only inches away as he took in the damage displayed vividly in the illumination of his headlights.

Steve was laying curled on his side, facing out toward the road; the cell phone lay where it had dropped half in front of his face. He was completely unconscious, his only motions being the painful sounding in-and-out motions of his breathing. Dark hair had fallen half across his brow, but Mark could still make out darkening bruises and abrasions along the side of his face. There was little blood, the worse being from Steve's lower lip where it had been split.

Mark's eyes continued to trail over his son, and he noted the way his body curled inward, as if trying to protect his middle. Mark suspected that there would be abdominal injuries as well. He had seen this type of damage before. Worse, he had seen it on his own son before. Someone, probably paid professionals, had beaten him with the sole purpose of inflicting pain. It caused a squeeze of both agony and relief in his father's heart. Steve was alive and his injuries would no doubt heal. But he had been hurt. Badly. And he had a strong suspicion that he knew who was behind it.

"Mark."

Jesse called his name as if it wasn't the first time that he'd called him. Mark jerked, noticing that Jesse has arrived with his arms filled with items that he recognized as being from his trunk. The most notable being Mark's own medical bag along with a blanket and large halogen flashlight. Jesse quickly dropped the items and stooped across from him.

"Yes, Jess?" Mark's voice sounded distracted to his own ears as he watched the younger man removing items from the bag. He handed a small flashlight in his direction.

"How are his pupils? " Jesse asked pointedly when Mark didn't take the item right away.

"Uh," Mark grasped it and looked back down at Steve, willing himself to focus. The familiar motion of lifting his eyelids and evaluating his pupils went a long way in calming his turbulent insides. "Equal and reactive," he announced his diagnosis. He went on to describe the facial abrasions.

"Okay," Jesse acknowledged his responses as he lifted Steve's shirt and gingerly ran his hands along his abdomen and back. He paused over darkening bruises. "My guess is that someone worked him over pretty good," he said quietly.

"Yeah," Mark agreed solemnly. "Fractured ribs?"

"I'm pretty sure of it," Jesse replied. "I don't like the location of one of these fractures - I'm worried about some sort of splenic trauma. Where's that ambulance?" As if the words had conjured the ambulance into existence, the distant wail of sirens pierced the night. Both doctor's released sighs of relief.

?

-- -- --

?

It felt as if there was cotton wool in his head. And all sound was like the buzzing of so many bees flitting around his head, urging him into wakefulness. The buzzing tone took on substance, becoming more distinct and familiar.

". . . won't be a guard on his door? Why not? He was attacked and left laying in the street last night. As a result he has a concussion, bruised lungs, two fractured ribs and a lacerated spleen, not to mention innumerable contusions all over his body. That has to count for something."

The pleading tone in his father's muted voice brought Steve to more complete wakefulness. He knew instinctively that he was in the hospital, though the details of his arrival didn't seem forthcoming. Opening his eyes, he looked at the heart monitor machine and recognized it's steady normal beep-beep. His father, he realized, was on the opposite side of the door.

He became more fully aware of sensations. A dull ache seemed to pervade every portion of his battered body, giving mute testimony to his father's description of his injuries. The band that was wrapped about his middle gave a more physical witness. He frowned, and discovered the ache in his facial muscles as well. The memory of what had happened was there just under the surface.

" . . . understand how you feel." Cheryl's voice penetrated. "I feel the same way. But we don't have any evidence to support that. Everything we've found leads us to believe that Steve was a random victim of robbery."

"Cheryl . . . "

"Dr Sloan, you know I'll do everything I can to find any connection. But right now, I've got nothing to tie Amber McPherson to this mugging."

"To this beating, you mean."

His father's tone was uncharacteristically bitter, and triggered an onslaught of memories. Being caught by surprise, the pain of being slammed into his truck, fists, booted feet and the money bag echoed through his mind. He could imagine how it all must look to investigators. Another memory flashed into his mind then, and it seemed absolutely imperative that he communicate it.

He drew in a deep breath, anxious to call out to his father. It was a mistake. The dull ache in his chest rose to the level of excruciating. He would have gasped at the surprise of it, but the pain had taken his breath away. The previous steady beep-beep of the heart monitor had accelerated into a rapid double-time.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, feeling perspiration breaking out on his brow as he struggled to deal with the pain. When he opened his eyes, his father was standing over him, a very concerned looking Cheryl at his side.

"Steve? What happened?" His father asked as he ran a quick eye over the display of the machines.

"Breathed too deeply," Steve managed breathlessly as the pain was beginning to abate somewhat.

"That'll do it." There was no humor in his father's voice. "You're due for another dose of pain medication. I'll have the nurse bring it in."

"No, I'm alright," Steve objected, knowing that as soon as the stuff was administered, he'd be down for the count. "I can wait until the regular time."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure, Dad. It's not as if I shouldn't know better," he replied, recalling a previous experience with fractured ribs. Looking beyond his father to Cheryl, he continued speaking. "What about the phone call?"

Cheryl's brows raised in askance. "Phone call?" Her gaze flickered briefly to Mark, then back to Steve. "What phone call?"

"I got a phone call just before I walked out with the closing crew. But when I answered there was only static. I think someone wanted to make sure I stayed a little longer."

"You mentioned that call last night," Mark murmured thoughtfully.

"I'll check into it," Cheryl promised. "See where it leads us. Do you remember anything that might help us to identify the men who did this to you?"

"No. They came at me from behind. Everything is pretty hazy after that."

"Okay," she said. "You'll let me know if you remember--" She broke off as her phone rang. Excusing herself, she moved into the corner of the room to answer.

Steve turned toward his father, unable to overlook how tired he appeared. He wondered just how much sleep he had gotten the night before. He was fairly certain that if he had gotten any, it had taken place in his office on an uncomfortable couch. A small pang of guilt ran through him at causing his father, however unintentionally, to worry.

Hoping to cheer him, he offered a small wry smile. "I heard you telling Cheryl what the damage was. So I guess my next question is when can I get out of here?"

Mark obediently chuckled at his attempt to cheer him. "I'm afraid you're stuck here for a couple of days. If you're good, I'll release you the day after tomorrow."

"What if I'm very good? Can I go home today?"

Cheryl's return interrupted Mark's laughing response.

"That was a report from CHP," she began. "They found your truck. Someone wrapped it around a tree."

Steve groaned. "There goes my insurance premium."

"It would have been worse had you been in it," Cheryl shot back.

"She knew what that truck meant to me. That and this," he gestured vaguely over his body, "is her way of getting back at me after that article."

"Steve I hate to say this," Cheryl disagreed. "But her MO leans more toward murder than property damage."

"Oh but she's not done with me yet. There's still this someone who is going to die. Unfortunately, our best guess at a victim is still unknown since, at the time of the drunk driving incident he or she was a minor with extenuating circumstances, the records were sealed. Then there are hundreds of other possibilities of people who might have offended her. Until she's done with her game, I'll live."

"I tend to agree with Steve," Mark backed him up. "We learned some very interesting things yesterday in her hometown. There were several instances when she was a teenager where when things didn't turn out her way, odd and very coincidental things happened."

"Really? Like what?" Cheryl folded her arms, very interested.

"Well, when she was in high school, she wasn't chosen as a cheerleader her freshmen year. The captain of the cheerleading squad broke her ankle a week later when a cheering prop broke. No one could prove that it had been tampered with. Then there was her chemistry teacher. He gave her a failing grade. He received 2nd degree burns when the labels on some bottles of chemicals that he was using for a demonstration were mixed up."

"Is that it?" Cheryl asked.

"Oh no. There were other things, too."

"Okay, but that isn't going to prove that she was behind this assault. Everything points to robbery. The truck was abandoned after the accident; the keys were still in the ignition. And your bank bag had been thrown on the floor of the passenger side. It was empty. Crime scene is going over it.

"I'm going to go get started on this phone call business. I'll keep your posted."

"Thanks Cheryl."

Steve waited until she'd left before he turned to his father again. "I really can't stay here and do nothing. I need to be out there, trying to find out what she's up to."

"I know it's hard, son. But if you don't let your body heal, we won't need to worry about what Amber might do to you. Even a minor spleen laceration is nothing to mess with Steve. Until we're sure that there is no more bleeding, this is where you'll stay. The best I can offer is to bring your files in. That way you can at least go through them while you rest."

Steve allowed a bit of a smile to break through his frustration. He knew that his father was right. And he hated that he'd driven him to giving a stern mini-lecture on the state of his health. His father had enough to worry. "Sorry Dad. And yes, please bring the files. I'll be good."

-- -- --

Mark stepped into the first floor elevator carrying an overnight bag for Steve as well as his case files. He had been over everything in his mind during the drive back into LA, and he was certain that he knew why Amber had retaliated in this manner. She would perceive it as suitable retribution.

A cheerleader who had crossed her path received a broken ankle; a teacher, burned hands. An ex-boyfriend who took another girl to the prom had his car vandalized. The two doctors who she felt had deprived her mother of life had been overdosed on Coumadin so that their blood would not clot. And then, when the brakes on the car that they were riding in had failed, they had both bled out after the crash.

A cheerleader used her feet to kick when she cheered. A teacher wrote a failing grade with his hands. The doctors had prescribed Coumadin, among other things, after denying Starla McPherson entry into the study program. And now, Steve had gone on the offensive with his interview with the Sensation, essentially attacking everything that Amber had carefully constructed for the media to report. And so she had arranged for him to be attacked in return, throwing in the added insult of having his truck and money stolen.

Mark sighed. Unfortunately, there was no evidence to prove it. But he knew, deep in his heart, that it was true. He only wondered if there was anything else surrounding the robbery that he had missed.

Stepping out of the elevator as he reached Steve's floor, he headed along the hall toward his son's room. It was mid-afternoon, and knowing Steve's medication schedule, Mark was fairly certain that he would be sleeping. Of course, that would have been after grumbling his way through a liquid lunch.

He chuckled at that thought. Jesse had no doubt been the unlucky recipient of those complaints. Allowing the smile to linger on his face, he pushed open the door to Steve's room. Expecting to see his son peacefully slumbering, he was positively stunned to find Amber McPherson standing over his bed.

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Part Seven: Amber Takes the Stand

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Amber looked down at the man settled against the pale colors of the hospital linens. His expression was clear, bearing the complete innocence that men's faces seemed to take on in sleep. What was the phrase? Dead to the world. Yes, that was it. Her grandmother used to say that. Steve Sloan was dead to the world. Out cold. Sleeping like the proverbial (albeit drugged) baby.

The reason for the drugs was another matter entirely. Beyond the innocence of expression, the bruising stood in silent testament. She winced slightly, imagining his pain. The entire ordeal must have been very painful indeed. Perhaps as much as reading the interview in the Sensation had been for her. She had wanted him to feel just a little of that pain. And then, of course, there was the matter of the keys. Wonderful things all night hardware stores with their key copying machines.

She continued to stand there, watching, and remembering the way that things were in the beginning. They had been so close. But now that was all over. There was no turning back. When though, she wondered, had things gotten so off track? It had been a simple plan. Bettinger and Paul had deserved what they got. It was a simple case of justice served. In Steve, she'd thought she'd found a man who understood that . . .

?

The traveling carnival had been set up off the road in an old shopping center. The huge spinning Ferris wheel had caught her attention, and she had reminisced about not having ridden one in years. Steve had insisted that they were dangerous and that she'd never drag him on that thing. Fifteen minutes of cajoling didn't change his mind. She'd ended up climbing into the huge seat alone, laughing all the way as the wheel spun into the darkness of the evening.

It reminded her of her childhood and going to small carnivals such as this with her family. She loved it. But the ride was over all too soon. She wasn't ready to get off.

"Again!" She yelled down to Steve who stood at the attendant's side. He laughed at her and handed the man more money. The attendant grinned and allowed the ride to continue. There was a shout of approval from the other riders.

It wasn't until the fourth consecutive ride when the attendant shrugged and began to slow the big wheel that Amber realized that Steve was no longer standing at the bottom. As she waited her turn to disembark, she searched the small carnival from her high vantage point. She spotted him near one of the concession stands a few yards away.

Feeling exhilarated and a little dizzy she met Steve at the little table set up off to one side of the rides. He'd set the food up on the table.

"That was wonderful!" She exclaimed as she plopped down across from him. "I haven't done that in years."

"Neither have I," Steve said dryly. "And the last time I did, it wasn't pretty."

"Really? What happened?" She sensed there was a very good, and probably very embarrassing story behind that statement. She wasn't sure that Steve would share it with her. But she could certainly tease him about it until she found out for sure.

"Oh no. No way," Steve objected with a laugh. "May I have your arm, please?"

Amber blinked at the rapid change in conversation. "My arm, sir? Is that what it is going to cost me to get the answer out of you?"

"Give me your arm and find out."

She extended her arm across the table immediately, anxious to see what he was up to.

Steve grinned and reached into his pocket and retrieved a thin gold chain. He fumbled delicately with the tiny clasp, his brow furrowed in concentration, and placed it around her wrist. "It probably isn't worth very much, but the proprietor swears it's 14 karat. Said she would give me a discount for the beautiful lady laughing her head off on the Ferris wheel."

"Oh Steve, it's beautiful." Amber held her wrist up to the meager light reflecting from the multi-colored bulbs that were strung up in trees, poles or anything available. The gold links and charms twinkled, feeling warm against her skin.

"It's just a little something." Steve shrugged a bit bashfully. "Just think of it as something to remember me while you're working your new job."

"Thank you." She rewarded him with a smile that promised more later. "I won't take it off."

Steve chuckled. "You don't have to go that far. It's just a little something."

Amber just smiled in response. "Did your dad tell you we ran into each other this morning?"

"Actually, I haven't really had much of a chance to speak with him. He was called in today, and I got so wrapped up in closing out the McClellan case that we haven't had much of a chance to talk."

"Sounds like your case went well?" Amber probed. She'd noticed the triumphant look as he'd spoken of it.

"Yeah. We'd been after this guy forever. But he went around acting like he was above the law. We finally nailed him."

Amber watched him amazed. He loved his work. He loved justice just as much as she did. "It's a good feeling, huh?"

"A very good feeling," Steve agreed.

"The bad guys are out there doing bad deeds, thinking that they've gotten away with something. But then wham! Out of the blue. It's justice served!"

Steve laughed. "I never quite thought of it that way. But I guess you're right. For McClellan, it was out of the blue. He didn't expect to be taken down."

"So you got him." Amber lifted her paper cup of coke. "To justice served," she toasted.

"To justice." Steve followed suit.

A quick inhalation of breath dragged Amber back to the present. She looked up to find a very stunned Mark Sloan staring across the room at her.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "I want you to leave. Now."

His voice was not at all its usual warm timbre. But that was no surprise. She knew how he felt about Steve. He could only see her as a threat to his son. Which was too bad really, because this thing between she and Steve was personal. As much as she liked Mark, she really wished he would understand that.

"Are you worried that I've come here to finish the job those goons started?" she asked quietly as she reached a hand toward several strands of hair that had fallen across Steve's brow. Very gently, she pushed them back, allowing her fingers to trail across warm skin.

"Stay away from him," Mark commanded, moving farther into the room. He quickly lowered the items that he was carrying onto a nearby chair and made for the phone. "I'm calling security. I want you out of this room, and I don't want you to come back."

"I didn't come here to hurt him, Mark." Amber replied. "I came to see for myself that he was okay."

"No," Mark watched her as he waited for his call to connect. "You've come to inspect your handiwork." Someone must have picked up on the other end then, because Mark began speaking into the receiver.

Amber turned her attention back toward Steve, who was beginning to stir. She placed a deceptively gentle hand on the side of his face and leaned over him. "This isn't justice served, lover. Not yet," she whispered as Steve focused hazily on her before his eyes went wide with shock. He drew in a sharp breath and his entire body jerked beneath her. His face went deathly pale.

"Steve!" Mark exclaimed, running around the bed, roughly shouldering her out of the way. He barely spared her a glance as he spoke in her direction. "You. Stay back!"

Amber obeyed, backing away just as the room doors flew open.

"Get her out of here," Mark ordered, then directed that she be escorted off the floor and that the police department be contacted.

?

-- --

?

After Steve wasn't sure how long, things settled back down. The shock of waking to find Amber standing over him, whispering threats, had caused him to act instinctively. Acting instinctively had hurt like blazes and affected his breathing. But now the pain had subsided back to a general dull ache, and his breathing was approaching normal. He looked over at his father and offered a tired smile.

At some point Jesse must have arrived as he was standing over the bed looking just as worried as his dad. "How are you feeling?" Jesse asked.

"Like I've just been run over by a truck that Amber was driving."

"I'm sorry about that, Steve," Mark spoke up. "If the LAPD won't place someone on your door, then I'll just have to put one of the security guards there. This is not going to happen again."

"It wasn't your fault, Dad." Steve tried to reassure him. "She's not the most normal person in the book."

"Yeah, maybe. I heard her whisper something to you, right after you woke up. Do you remember what it was?"

Steve remembered. But he wasn't sure he wanted to tell his father. "She said that this wasn't justice served. Not yet." He tried to lessen the blow. "But I know what she's up to, Dad. And I'm going to be careful. I'll even look into getting a restraining order."

"That's a good idea," Mark murmured, his blue eyes wearing a vaguely shell-shocked expression, before turning and heading toward the door. "I'm going to go arrange for that guard. Stay with him until the guard shows up, would you Jess?"

Steve looked up at Jesse. He would have sighed if he had the energy.

"He's just worried about you, Steve."

"I know, Jess," he said tiredly. "And he has every right to be. The law doesn't have a very good record with stopping her. So far everyone that Amber has tried to kill is dead and buried."

"For the next couple of days the best you can do is get better. And that is going to involve rest."

"Yeah." Steve felt exhaustion stealing over him. He vaguely heard Jesse welcoming the guard. Then just before he drifted over the edge into sleep a memory rose to the surface of his mind. . .

?

"Dad, I'm really not sure what we're going to find," Steve said, as he and Mark walked into the section of the LAPD auto lockup where the Mercedes that had belonged to Eliot Paul was stored. Doctors Paul and Bettinger had been found dead in the vehicle two days prior. The case had been elevated to murder when Amanda discovered that both men had unusually high levels of warfarin sodium in their systems.

"Well, something Lily Paul said stuck with me," Mark responded. "She said that Eliot called her before he and Charlie left, told her that the car had been vandalized. Maybe that vandalism had something to do with whoever committed the murder."

"But Dad, the car has been gone over. There's nothing. No vandalism of any kind." Steve insisted as he led his father along the rows toward where the car was parked.

"Did they check for fibers?" Mark asked.

"What kind of fibers?" Steve asked exasperated.

"Long red hairs," was Mark's sheepish reply.

"Are we back to Amber again, Dad?"

"Well, Steve it's just a little curious. She had a couple of empty bottles of Coumadin in that picnic basket. Did you know that the active ingredient in Coumadin is warfarin sodium? Her mother was obviously a cardiac patient. Eliot and Charlie specialized in cardio-thoracic medicine. It could just be a coincidence --"

"But I should look into it," Steve cut him off. "I am looking into it. But I really don't think she's involved."

"That's all I ask, son." Mark said, appeased.

"Here it is," Steve gestured toward the black Mercedes that was crumpled on one side as they reached spot 727-A.

"Lt. Steve Sloan?" A technician appeared from around the side of a vehicle in a neighboring slot.

"Yes," Steve greeted the tech. "This is my father, Dr. Mark Sloan. He. . . we wanted to take another look at this vehicle."

"It's right here," the tech said, gesturing with his tool belt. "I went over it myself. Used this." He displayed a rectangular device that looked like a cross between a flashlight and a cassette player with a long purple cylinder.

"Ah," Mark nodded. "An ultraviolet light. And you didn’t find anything?"

"Sorry Doc."

"Mind if I take a look?" Mark asked, reaching for the light and turning toward the car. He'd already slipped gloves onto his hands.

"Sure, why not?" The technician said shooting Steve a look. Steve shrugged an apology and leaned into the car from the opposite side.

Mark fumbled with the switch on the light for several seconds before it came on. He chuckled and apologized under his breath as it was upside down. He quickly flipped it over. As he did so, Steve caught something out of the corner of his eye.

"Wait a minute. Dad, let me see that." Steve felt a touch of dread entering his heart. He'd only caught a portion of something, but he was fairly certain that he knew what it was. It was too familiar and too recent for it to not have struck a chord with him.

"What is it?" Mark asked, obviously catching the change in his tone.

Steve shone the black light toward the uppermost edge of the windshield. He felt himself go completely cold inside. "I think I found our vandalism."

"Justice Served." Mark read the faint red fluorescent letters which had appeared with the aid of the special lighting. "That mean anything to you?"

"I'm afraid it does."

?

Part Eight: Why Tell The Whole Truth When Half A Truth Will Do?

?

Mark rounded the corner near Community General's security offices just in time to see Cheryl replacing a pen into her notebook. The expression on her face told the story. Detective Banks was more than a little perturbed.

"What happened?" Mark asked, following her pointed gaze toward the exit. He continued to watch with a sinking heart as Amber climbed into the back seat of an orange taxi. She never looked back toward the hospital as the cab pulled away from the curb.

"Why'd you let her go?" Mark was aghast. He didn't want to accept the fact that the woman who had just threatened his son was leaving of her own free will.

"I can't hold her, Mark. Regardless of what I'd like to do, coming to the hospital to visit a patient is not a crime. Even if it isn't visiting hours. The most security could do is ask her to leave. And after the dressing down Steve got from the captain about not giving any reason for the LAPD to be accused of harassment. . . "

Mark understood that logically, but his heart had to keep trying. He had to make her understand how serious the situation was. "But Cheryl, she threatened him. Just a few minutes ago. It took the time since security called you for me to get him stabilized."

Immediate worry etched across her face. "What happened? Is he okay? The guards didn't mention anything about that."

"He'll be fine." Mark sought to reassure her. "She startled him out of sleep, caught him off guard. Security wouldn't have seen or heard anything because they arrived after she issued the threats and I had them take her out right away."

"What did she say?"

Mark sighed. "Nothing that would hold up on an arrest warrant. She told him that this wasn't justice served. Not yet. But no one heard her say it but Steve."

Cheryl understood the significance of the statement, and of the fact that there were no witnesses to her actually saying the words. "I'm going to head back to the station and have a chat with the chief. If he can't do anything, then someone will be on Steve's door, if I have to do it myself. I'm sure some of the other officers from the precinct would be willing to help out."

"Thanks Cheryl. It's nice to know that Steve has such good friends."

"My grandmother used to say, If you want a friend, you have to be a friend. We're just returning the favor to Steve. We'll look out for him."

Cheryl was as good as her word. During the next thirty six hours of Steve's stay at Community General, there was always an officer at the door of his hospital room. And on the morning that Steve was released Officer Saddler had followed behind them in his private vehicle.

Under normal circumstances, Mark might have shied away from allowing the officer's to spend so much of their free time in his behalf. But, where his son's safety was concerned, he was willing to accept every avenue of help available.

Steve, on the other hand, had grumbled through much of the drive from the hospital, complaining that the guard duty was a waste of time, that he was going to owe everyone and his brother when he got back to the station. He insisted that Amber had only issued a warning, and wasn't ready to make her move just yet. That she would want to make sure that she had humiliated him first by killing her target.

Mark wasn't sure that he agreed with that theory any longer. There was something in the woman's eyes, a hint of triumphant that worried him, warned him that things would not be quite that simple.

As he pulled into the driveway, he waved to Officer Saddler. Jesse and Amanda would be inside waiting for them. They'd arrived a few hours earlier when Cheryl had come to check the place over. Everything appeared to be all clear.

It wasn't until much later, after Amanda and Jesse had gone and the sun was making its descent into early evening that Mark noticed something unusual. He couldn't say that he was surprised exactly. If he was honest with himself, he would have to say that he'd expected it.

He took a quick glance back toward Steve who had fallen asleep in an easy chair before slipping through the patio doors into the cool November air. He took his time moving down the steps and across the sand. It really wouldn't do to get angry at this point. If he wanted to accomplish his goal his senses would have to be sharp. In this life and death game of chess, the life at stake was that of his son and his opponent was a master of manipulation . . .

"You find something?" Mark watched as Steve's shoulders tensed when he pulled a small dark utility case from a shelf in the closet. They had managed to get a search warrant for Amber's apartment based upon Mark's statement that she had been at La Ciel de Vin which was near the hotel where Doctor's Paul and Bettinger had been before their vehicle had been tampered with, and because he had seen her in possession of the type of drug that had been found in their systems. The proposed motive was revenge for her mother's death. There was motive, means and opportunity. Now they needed to see if further evidence fit those facts.

"Yeah." Steve turned toward him after a moment and displayed the item that he had found. Disappointment and resignation were heavy in his voice. He turned the case so that his father could properly read what was emblazoned across the front of it.

Before Mark could respond, an indignant voice sounded from the living room. "What is going on here?" Amber demanded. She appeared moments later, shadowed by one of the uniformed officers that was on hand for the search of the outer rooms.

At a nod from Steve, the man disappeared from the bedroom door back into the living area. Steve turned back to face Amber while Mark looked on.

"Steve? What's going on?" Amber looked between the two of them, bewilderment etched across her face. Her gaze settled attentively on Steve, her expression pleading. "Why are you and Mark in my apartment? With the police?"

Steve didn’t waver, but Mark was convinced that he'd wanted to as he looked back at the woman. "Amber, I've got a search warrant," he told her, his tone quiet. He handed it to her for her perusal.

"It's part of the investigation, and I have to follow through on it," he continued as she took it and looked it over quickly.

"What are you looking for?" she asked. "What is it that you think I did?"

Steve glanced briefly toward him before continuing. "We're looking for evidence that ties you to deaths of Doctor's Bettinger and Paul." He carefully displayed all of the items that had been found.

"We have a parking ticket from the Regency Hotel Garage on the same afternoon that the two gentlemen in question were there--"

"But Steve. That's just a coincidence. I bought wine at La Ciel de Vin. It's easier to park there. You know how parking can be in that area."

Steve continued. "We also found these empty bottles which contained the same type of medication that the doctors were poisoned with."

Amber turned her gaze on Mark. "Mark. You know what those are. They were my mothers. You know that. There were still pills in them, remember? I dumped them and threw them away after you found them in my basket. There was really no point in holding on to them."

"You filed a scathing complaint about both of these doctors specifically over at Keller Memorial shortly after your mother was denied access into RO7-9 program." Mark spoke up, laying out more of what they'd discovered. "The investigation into your complaint was dropped a couple of weeks before you applied for a position at Community General."

"I was upset and angry, Mark. Surely you can understand that. The complaint was my only means of fighting back. It doesn't mean that I killed someone."

"What about these?" Steve held up the utility box that he had found in the corner. They are photo-reactive pens. When exposed to black light they show up very well."

"And that means what?" Amber asked. "Lots of people own those. I used to be a party planner. I used them in my work. I've even got a little black light. See?" She reached beneath the bed and dragged out a leather covered object.

"You have an explanation for everything," Mark said, unconvinced despite her convincing delivery. "There was one little mistake that you made. It was what you wrote on the windshield that you never expected anyone to see but those two doctors."

Amber blinked, surprise showing for just a moment before her mask of innocence returned. But it was enough to give her away. "What are you talking about Mark? Steve, what's he saying?"

"It's Justice Served, Amber. Justice Served gave you away. We toasted it, remember?"

Mark blinked away the memories as he drew closer to the woman who sat a several dozen yards beyond his property line, her back to him. Even if Steve had gotten that restraining order, her presence here would not have been a violation. He stuffed his hands into his pockets as he came even with her and gazed out over the ocean's waves beating against the shore.

"It's so relentless and untamed." She spoke without turning in his direction. "A wild, deadly and uncontrollable force of nature."

"Everything, even nature works without the bounds of laws. And when those laws are overstepped, there are consequences to be faced."

"There are no consequences for the ocean. It's free."

"Yet it is controlled by something larger than it is. The gravitational pull of the moon affects high tide. And let's not forget El Nino, and La Nina."

Amber blew out an exasperated breath. "Shouldn't you be taking care of your son?"

Mark just looked back at her. The way he saw it, he was taking care of his son. He was fighting for his life. This woman would not have him.

"What did he ever do to you?" he asked her.

Amber tossed her head, her voice hardened with bitterness. "He broke my heart."

"He did his job," Mark insisted. "You killed two men. He followed the evidence which led him to you. And for that, he deserves to be beaten? To have his vehicle wrecked?"

"Do you know what betrayal feels like?" Amber asked.

"Yes I do," Mark replied right away, but was ignored as she continued.

"It feels like a knife to the gut. A wound to the heart. It's like a physical ache that goes on for days and days making you feel hollow inside. That's what Steve did to me. He threw everything we had away."

"What did you have that wasn't built on a falsehood?"

"I never lied to him." Amber insisted.

"You didn't tell the whole truth," Mark reminded her.

"Why tell the whole truth," she mused half to herself. "When half a truth will do?"

"Will you answer a question for me?"

"I'll answer two. But only two. Make them good."

"Do you know who is going to die?" Mark asked.

"That's pretty good. Not the one I was expecting you to ask first, but still good. And, I'd have to say that the answer to that question is yes. I do know who is going to die." She stood and began to gather her things from the surrounding area. "Now go ahead with the second."

"What would it take for you to feel like there was justice served against Steve?"

"I think I already answered that one," Amber said, having completed her task of gathering. "And now, I'll be going. It was a pleasure chatting with you Mark."

- - -

?

?

Mark carried an empty mug in from outside. Carrie Foster was the officer parked outside of his home today. Mark had advised her that she probably wouldn't need to remain for very long. He had a feeling that after spending two days in the hospital and two days in bed at home, Steve had enough. His suspicions were confirmed when he entered the kitchen.

"Morning Dad." Steve was leaning against the counter, nursing a mug of coffee. Gone was the two day growth of beard, and his hair was still damp from the shower. He'd dressed himself casually in loose slacks and a button up shirt in patterned blue. He smiled and the picture of an uninjured, unworried Steve was complete.

"Morning. How are you feeling?"

"Rested. Very, very rested."

Mark couldn't help but chuckle. "Translation: you're beginning to get a bit of cabin fever."

"Diagnosis correct," Steve replied. "Things have been pretty quiet the past few days. Tracing the cell phone call to Bob's has gotten us nowhere. Trying to get the files unsealed for the drunk driver seems to be stalled in first gear. I think I'll drive out to Riverside and have a talk with the Corona precinct chief. See what I can find out."

"Sounds like a plan. Would you like some company?"

"Absolutely."

?

Part Nine: The Usual Suspects

Steve shifted in the chair across from the desk of Lieutenant James Simkins, Zone 5 Commander for the Corona Police Department. A no-nonsense man in his late fifties, Simkins had sent one of his deputies down to the records archive to pull the report on the drunk driving incident in question. But for Steve, having ridden for nearly two hours in the cramped confines of his father's car and now sitting in one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs that Simkins reserved for guests, he was starting to feel a quite a few uncomfortable twinges.

Noting a questioning look from his father, he smiled reassuringly, before asking Simkins another question. "Were you familiar with Ms McPherson and her family when they lived here in Corona?"

"I didn't know them, no. And like I said, I wasn't involved with the investigation. But when I caught wind of the trial going on in the city, I did a little research. The name sounded a familiar on account of another case. Turned out that I did have a run in with Ms McPherson when she was in high school. Seems she got mixed up with a rough bunch for a bit. Just kid stuff, really. But a couple of that crowd moved on to bigger and better things."

"You have any names?" Steve asked. "It's a long shot, but it's possible that I may have had a run in of my own with a couple of them."

Simkins gestured toward the fading marks on Steve's face. "I was wondering. I thought I remembered your name."

Steve gave a pained expression. "I'm the one."

Simkins didn't pursue the matter, but went back to business. "I can give you a few suggestions. There are a handful that I know that had moved into your neck of the woods last I heard. "

Simkins looked up as his deputy returned. "Thanks Bart. Could you get a couple other things for me, too." He threw a look Steve's direction. "We like to help our big city brethren as much as we can."

Steve chuckled as the words weren't meant unkindly. "Why do I get the feeling I might be owing you one someday?"

"One can never have too many friends, if you know what I mean," was the Sheriff's somewhat cryptic reply as he wrote something down for his deputy.

Steve took the file that had previously been brought into the room. He noted that some items had been taken out of the report. Most notably the name of the individual driving the other vehicle. He sighed in frustration. "The name isn't here." He closed the folder and pushed it across the desk toward the Sheriff.

Simkins took up the item, and glanced through it. "Oh, the records must have been cleaned up then. Sorry about that. Things did tend to get missed some of the times. This wasn't one of them. Maybe there is something else in there that you can use."

"Maybe." Steve took the folder back. "I already knew the records were sealed because the driver was a minor and because there were some mental health issues. I was hoping someone local might remember who the driver was, or that local records might have a little more."

"Mike Jaffey was one of the officers on the scene. He's moved on back east about ten years ago. I'm not even sure where to find him these days. And Joe Thurman, the other officer, is gone too. Got religion and went off to be a missionary. Sorry fellas."

Mark spoke up, after having remained silent for much of the discussion. "Lt. Simkins, is there anything at all that you can think of that will help us find this individual? It really is a matter of life and death. Since there were mental health issues, maybe you can direct us to the physician who might have been involved."

Simkins ran a hand along his jaw, pondering that one. "Well, there weren't too many psychiatrists who worked with the county back then. More than likely it was one of two who would have gotten assigned the case. Doc Stable died a bit back so he wouldn't be any help to you. But, if you're lucky, Dr Gibsen is the one you're looking for. He's got a practice in LA. Doctor Edward Gibsen. You might want to try him."

-- --

"How are you holding up?" Mark asked as he and Steve made their way out of the police department. It had taken Simkins thirty minutes to pull together the remaining information that they'd requested and had it all faxed off to Cheryl. In that time, he thought he could practically see the lines of exhaustion spreading themselves over his son's demeanor. Maybe this trip had been a little too much too soon.

"I'm fine," Steve responded as expected.

"Any pain?" Mark pressed.

Steve let out a longsuffering breath. "Yes, Dad. There is some pain. But I am on the mend, so stop worrying, okay?"

Mark was immediately reassured. "How about something to eat before we head back? It's just about lunchtime."

"How about that restaurant we passed on PCH? The Ketchup Stain. That sounds like fun."

Mark made a face. "Oh yeah. Sounds terrific. Let's eat there. " He then mumbled under his breath, "I was hoping you'd forgotten about that."

Steve laughed out loud, but before he could respond, his phone rang. He quickly answered it, surprised at the information he received before he hung up.

"You're not going to believe this." He said in his father's direction.

"What's that?" Mark looked across the top of the car at him.

"That was Cheryl. They've already picked up one of the hoodlums that Lt. Simkins told us about."

"What are we waiting for? Let's get back to LA."

?

-- -- -- -- --

Mark watched as Steve paused a moment before moving through the door into one of the precinct's interrogation rooms. It reminded him of watching him enter the same room months prior. This time, Steve was preparing himself to play the part that would be most effective in getting the bullish looking man sitting at the table to talk. That other time, he'd been steeling himself to face the person on the other side of the door. Steve had not wanted to believe that Amber was guilty, but bits of evidence had kept piling one upon the other until he had no choice. The case had been turned over to Dawson and Jenkins.

As the door closed behind his son, Mark followed his movements through the two-way glass. Cheryl was already inside with the man whose name was Dwayne Breckish. Mark was one for giving a person the benefit of the doubt, but he was certain that the giant of a man seated at the table had been involved in, or knew who was involved in the assault on his son.

Beady, close set eyes had flickered in recognition and meaty fists had clenched atop the metal table when Steve entered the room. Mark had noticed it, and he felt certain that Steve had as well judging from the slightest pause in his stride as he entered the room. His movements became predatory as he circled the table and the man. After a several long, tense moments, Steve braced both hands on the table and stared across at Breckish.

"Do you know who I am?" he demanded.

Breckish looked up at him, feigning a lack of concern. His fists clenched again. "I may have seen you somewhere. In the newspaper maybe."

Mark didn't believe that. And neither did Steve.

"I have a hard time imagining that you've ever even picked up a newspaper. You sure it wasn't someplace else? Someplace more recent?"

The clenching became rhythmic as he locked gazes with Steve as he spoke in what was obviously Cheryl's direction. "Why did he come in here? What's going on? I thought this was just for questioning?"

"Questions pertaining to why you ran when the officers stopped you in a routine traffic violation." Cheryl said from her position near the wall opposite the two-way glass.

"I was afraid," was the sarcastic response. "And I don't like cops. Especially ones who're trying to set me up."

"Do you own a restaurant Breckish?" Steve suddenly changed tactics. He could tell that the man hadn't seen that question coming. Confusion spread across his broad face for a moment before he answered.

"What are you getting at?"

"I was just wondering why a deposit slip with the name of a local restaurant would be found in your car?" Steve replied.

"What are you talking about?" Breckish was starting to look the tiniest bit worried. "There wasn't any deposit slip in my car. Not unless you planted it there."

"Where were you the night of October 30th, Mr. Breckish?" Cheryl moved away from the wall.

The man clammed up. "I'm not saying anything else until I speak to my lawyer."

"You do that," Steve said, and stalked out of the room. Before he moved through the door, he turned back. "But meanwhile, we're getting a warrant to search your apartment. You'd better hope you don't have anything to hide."

Cheryl followed him out of the room. "He knows something."

"I'm inclined to agree," Mark responded, watching at Steve leaned heavily against the wall alongside the door. "You shouldn't be here doing this," Mark felt the familiar worry rising. It had been a pretty long day for the both of them.

"I’m alright," Steve waved away his concern. "It's just been sort of a long day," he reiterated Mark's thought.

"Why don't you two head on home? I'll keep you updated on what we find."

"I want to go. I want to be there when you search his place. Something might look familiar to me that someone else might miss." Steve stood away from the wall, determined.

"Believe it or not Steve, the investigation will go on without your presence," Cheryl said dryly. "Besides, if his apartment is anything like his car, it'll take a while to go through everything anyway."

Steve looked like he might argue, but then gave in gracefully. Mark was beginning to worry about the easy surrender until he discovered that Steve had other avenues that he wanted to follow.

-- -- --

Dr. Edward Gibsen's office was a sprawling ranch style building in the western portion of Los Angeles county. The receptionist kept them waiting in the outer area for 20 minutes before Gibsen allowed them entry. He began with a brusque demand to know what was going on. Steve quickly explained the situation.

The burly, bearded man studied them for several long moments before responding. "I can't give you that information, I'm sorry. Not without a court order."

"Even if it is a matter of death for your former patient?" Mark inquired. "We believe that this woman will try to kill this individual. She's proven how creative she can be."

"That doesn't change anything," Gibsen returned. "My patients trust me. I'd like to think I earned it honestly. Until the letter of the law says I have to do otherwise. . . " He shrugged as he allowed the words to trail off.

"I believe in oaths and laws, too, Dr. Gibsen," Steve said. "I took an oath to protect and serve. How can I do that if I can't even warn a man that his life is in danger?"

"So much for your law," Gibsen replied sardonically. "Until you present a court order, your request is no more important than the one that I received from that reporter."

Steve sat up straighter. "You were contacted by a reporter trying to get information on this drunk driver? Male or female reporter?"

"Difficult to say," Gibsen replied. "I received the request via letter. The request was signed with two initials and a last name. I don't recall the last name or the two initials."

"Do you still have a copy of it?"

"I'm afraid not," Gibsen responded. "I wasn't planning to respond, so at the time I didn't see a reason to hold on to it."

"Did the letter ask specifically about the one case?"

"No. That might have raised my suspicions. The request was quite general. The author wanted to write about experiences of how lives of drunk drivers themselves were affected years later."

"In light of the letter, maybe it would be a good idea to tell us who the driver was." Steve said, knowing it was a long shot. Gibsen didn't seem the type to change his mind so easily. "This person found you, just like we did and is trying to get the information. The police department could protect him. At the very least he should be made aware of the danger."

"And I should simply give in to your request, Lt. Sloan, and reward my patient for all his diligence and hard work by betraying him? I think not. On the other hand, if the matter is as serious as you say, obtain the necessary legal documents and I will unhappily oblige you. But for now, if you gentleman have nothing further. . . "

Steve understood the message. Still, he reached into a pocket and retrieved a card. "In case you think of anything that may be of help," he said.

"Of course." Gibsen accepted the card and placed it in the center of his desk. "Good evening."

?

Part Ten : Motions

Mark tapped lightly on Steve's bedroom down. He could hear sounds of activity on the other side, but didn't want to barge in to his personal space. At the sound of a faint "Come in" he moved on into the room.

"Morning." He called a greeting to his off spring. He didn't immediately see him, but the air bore the heavy smell of soap as if he'd recently taken a shower.

"Morning Dad," Steve appeared from the walk-in closet dressed only in dark-colored pants. He carried a shirt, socks and shoes toward the bed. He paused as he took in Mark's attire. "You have to go to work?"

"Yeah," Mark said. "I just wanted to check on you before I left. I shouldn't be too long. No more than 2 or 3 hours. But I noticed that there's no one outside this morning."

"Oh, that." Steve threw the socks onto the bed and turned. "I called it off."

The light reflecting in through the window shown on Steve's bare chest. Mark couldn't help but notice the nearly completely faded remains of the bruises from the beating. But it was the internal bruising, most especially the bruised lungs and damage to his spleen that were worrying. All of the tests that had been run before he'd left the hospital had shown him to be well on the way to recovery, but Mark decided that he looked a little tired.

"Why did you do that?" Mark asked in response to Steve's answer. "Amber is still out there." Over the past couple of days he'd thought to share his conversation with her on the beach, but in the end had thought better of it. He felt strongly that the action would have meant playing into her hands in some way. Steve would surely approach her about the proximity to his home. Mark couldn't but wonder if she was attempting to push him into a situation that jeopardized his career.

"I did that," Steve answered his question, "Because I'm better now, Dad. I don't need a body guard. I can take care of myself." Determined blue eyes flashed in his direction, as he shrugged into the shirt, thus covering much of the evidence of what had occurred.

Mark sighed. He'd been down this path before. Steve was a strong man, who didn't like to show weakness. He wouldn't be coddled. But Mark still worried that he was pushing himself too fast. He wasn't completely back to normal health. The fact that the night before he'd dropped off to sleep almost as soon as they arrived home, and then again right after dinner, seemed to bear out that fact.

Regardless, he knew that he couldn't force Steve to accept protection from the other officers. Most especially volunteer protection. But he could try to keep him close himself.

"Listen, this consult shouldn't take long. And I know your appointment isn't until tomorrow. But why don't you come on in with me today and have those last tests done. By the time you're done, I should be done and we can work the case together."

Steve saw right through the request, but acquiesced slightly anyway. "I'd like to dad. I really would. But Cheryl's expecting me at the precinct to go through the items that were found at Breckish's apartment. I might be able to help tie something to Amber. I'll come in right after, okay?"

"All right." Mark gave in. That was the best he was going to get, it seemed. He glanced down at his watch and was immediately surprised at the passage of time. "I've gotta run. I'll see you about what time?" He was moving out of the room as he spoke.

"'Bout ten-thirty-ish," Steve responded. "Bye Dad."

-- --

Steve smiled after his father, shaking his head slightly. He really did try not to be over protective. He remembered the early years of his police career when things had been very different. Not that Mark had said anything, or expressed a lack of support. It had been obvious though in his reactions, in the worry in his eyes when he thought Steve wasn't looking.

He had to admit though, that of his immediately family, only Carol seemed thrilled with the idea of him being a cop. She thought it was 'neato', and that he could be like "Ponch" on "Chips".

Tucking away those memories, Steve pulled on a blazer. The ring of his cell caught his attention, reminding him that it was still tucked into the charger on his bedside. He moved across the room and grabbed it up.

"Is this Lieutenant Steven Sloan?" A cautious, soft-spoken male voice sounded from the other end of the connection.

"Yes it is," Steve replied, at a loss as to who the caller might be. The voice was completely unfamiliar. "Who are you?"

"My name is Jonathan Bright. I believe you talked to Doc Gibsen about me yesterday."

Steve's mouth dropped open at the stunning reply. Then, years of police instinct kicked in. "Mr. Bright, where are you? Have you been receiving any threatening messages or otherwise noticed anything unusual?"

"Outside of Doc Gibsen telling me you were looking for me you mean?" Bright asked with a trace of humor. "No. Nothing like that. But we do need to talk. It would be better for me if you could meet me here."

"No problem." Steve was happy to oblige. He couldn't believe that Gibsen had actually contacted the man. His respect upped a notch for the old doctor. Though he couldn't fault the man for sticking to his guns, he'd felt certain that his request wouldn't have gone any further than the older man's ears. But he had apparently passed on the information, allowing his patient to make his own decisions. And Jonathan Bright had had the courage to come forward.

"I'm at Clear Skies Rehabilitation Facility. If you'll ask for me at the reception desk, I'll come out and speak with you."

Steve paused, his hand frozen over a notepad as Bright continued. Had the man gone back to old habits, even after killing half of a family? His voice was soft spoken and his tone mild, but Steve knew that those were hardly indicators of the type of addictions a person might have. He wondered, for the first time, just what sort of person Jonathan Bright might be. Not that it mattered. He had a job to do.

He glanced at his watch. "I'm not far from you. I'll be there in about 20 minutes."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll be waiting for you." The phone went dead as the other man hung up.

Steve stared thoughtfully at the phone for several moments, wondering. He then dialed Cheryl, explaining to her why he would be late.

"Want company?" she asked him.

"Nah. Keep doing what you're doing. I'll be there before too long." He dropped the phone into an inside blazer pocket and was out of the door.

-- --

The reception area of Clear Skies Rehabilitation Facility was on the first floor of the main building of a sprawling two story complex gated complex. The woman behind the counter was friendly and seemed to expect his request to see Bright.

While waiting, Steve took a moment to take in more of his surroundings. The reception area wasn't overly large, but contained many groupings of chairs and towering greenery. It reminded him more of the lobby of a small hotel which allowed people to assemble in small private groups than a rehab.

He'd heard of Clear Skies a few times. He knew that it was relatively new. But it wasn't the sort of place he often had opportunity to visit. There were many exclusive rehab facilities in the Malibu area that catered to the Rich and Famous who also added addiction to their woes. Clear Skies wasn't exclusive, nor was it state run. It was more a middle-of-the-road facility.

He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps and took in the sight of a thin, slight man with mildly thinning blonde hair and wire-rimmed glasses.

"I'm Jonathan Bright." The man extended his hand.

Steve took it. "Steve Sloan." He glanced around cautiously. "Is there any place where were can go and talk in private?"

"Yes, of course." The man led him back the way he had come and through an access-controlled area marked "Staff Only". They continued on through a large lounge area and into an enclosed courtyard of stone benches and tables.

"Would this be okay?" Bright asked, gesturing for Steve to have a seat at one of the smaller tables.

"Sure. This is great." Steve replied, looking toward a small fountain at one corner of the courtyard. The soft sounds of running water added to the relaxing atmosphere of the place.

"The staff needs downtime, too." Bright explained. "Rehabilitation can be just as hard on them as the people they are here to help. I wanted them to have a place to go where they could feel like they were stepping away from the job, if only for a few minutes."

"You designed this place?" Steve asked, surprised.

"You thought I was a patient," Bright answered the question that hadn't been asked. "No. I didn't design it, exactly. I hired a contractor. I created this facility from money that I was left in trust. I can't bring back the people I hurt, but I can help others. And I want to do what I can to help you."

Steve frowned. "What did Gibsen tell you?"

Bright shrugged. "Just that you were a policeman. That you were looking for me to help prevent a murder. Possibly my murder."

"That's right. We're not certain that you're the one she's after. But based upon her prior motivations, it seems very likely. All the records from back then are sealed, so she may not know who you are just yet. But I think we should take measures to ensure your safety."

"I believe I’m safe here. All the entrances are controlled. And the staff, though they look friendly, are highly trained specialists."

"She may not come at you in a frontal assault," Steve tried to explain. "Her only constant is that in some way, she tries to make the punishment fit the perceived crime. Do you have any family? A car?"

"No family. But yes, I do have a car. But it is parked in a secure lot."

Steve thought about that. He was sure that Amber could find a way. "You have to leave at some point. She could be out there waiting for you. Is there any way you can stay here until I have time to check into a few things?"

Bright considered that. "I can," he nodded.

"There's something else that might help us." Steve hesitated before he continued. "And you're really under no obligation to answer this question. Can you tell me what happened that night? It might be helpful."

Bright looked at him sadly. "I'm afraid I don't remember any of it. All I've ever recalled is what I was told. I'm sorry Lieutenant."

Steve nodded. "Thanks for your help." He glanced at his watch. "Listen, I need to be going, but I'll be in touch." He was going to have to hurry if he was going to make it to the precinct and then to the hospital. If what Cheryl had found was substantial, he might even have to cancel.

Bright stood.

Steve stood as well and was immediately swamped by a wave of vertigo as the whole of the courtyard seemed to tilt before his eyes. He vaguely registered settling hard back into the chair and then he heard someone calling his name as if from a distance. Then everything coalesced back to normal.

"Lieutenant Sloan! Are you okay?"

Steve nodded shakily. He was beginning to feel slightly nauseous, but the sudden dizziness was passing. "I've been on pain medication. I probably just stood up too quickly."

"Would you like something to drink? We have a medical staff here. Someone could check you over."

Steve shook his head. "No, I'm fine." He stood up more slowly, and was happy to see that the surroundings stayed where they were supposed to. He breathed a deep cautious breath. "My father's a doctor," he added to assuage the worried expression he saw on Bright's face.

"Okay. But please have yourself checked out, Lieutenant."

"I will. Thanks again."

Steve made his way to his vehicle. He hadn't quite gotten around to breakfast yet, but had taken the pain meds anyway because the aches had seemed to be hanging on. Maybe getting something in his stomach would alleviate the nausea. As for the lightheadedness, he wasn't sure. Maybe he was pushing himself too hard too fast.

He caught sight of the colorful logo of a Burger King restaurant, and decided that a whopper for breakfast sounded like a great idea. To make it more healthful, he decided to accompany it with an orange juice.

As he ate, he reviewed the case in his mind. Such as it was. The police department only considered his assault as an open case. His and his father's idea that Amber was after someone else was all supposition. They had no proof. But if he could tie the assault to Amber then he would have a basis for building the case against her for the attempt that he knew was coming on Bright. He would need hard evidence, though.

He'd downed the juice and finished the sandwich, and was one-handedly stuffing all of the trash into the bag when all of a sudden the nausea hit again, only much worse than before. He barely made it to the side of the road and out of the rented vehicle before he fell to his knees and lost all of the recently acquired stomach contents and then some.

His head spun wickedly as he tried to control his body's violent reaction. He didn't think it would ever end. Finally, he was left breathless and panting. His entire body was shaking from the experience. Recently wounded chest muscles added their objections as well, sending sharp pains through his torso.

Making his way slowly to the car, he grabbed a couple of napkins and cleaned himself up as best he could. The blazer was a total loss. As he rolled it up and dropped it into the trunk, he swore to himself that he would never, ever again eat a whopper with everything under any circumstances.

Settling heavily back into the car, he stared out of the windshield and tried to get his bearings. Home was the opposite direction, but that was definitely where he needed to be before he even considered doing anything else. He rested a couple of moments more, then leaned over and started the car.

?

Part Eleven: Reviewing the Evidence.

?

?

"Hi Mark." Jesse entered the doctor's lounge to see his old friend sitting by the phone with a worried expression on his face. "Everything okay?"

"I hope so," Mark murmured half to himself, then more loudly, "Steve said he would be in this morning by about 10:30. It's a little after that now and he's not answering his cell phone."

"Oh." Jesse frowned thoughtfully. "Maybe he got caught up doing something. Or his battery is low. There are lots of reasons he could be running behind schedule. Ten minutes late isn't all that late with L.A. traffic."

Mark smiled, warmly. "You're probably right, Jess. I'm worrying for nothing." He picked up the phone again. "I'll just try Cheryl. He was supposed to be going to meet her this morning. Maybe he's still there."

Jesse settled in one of the lounge chairs as Mark dialed the number to the precinct and asked to speak to Detective Banks. Though he wasn't officially panicking, Jesse could tell that there was more worry beneath the surface than Mark was letting on. He wanted to be nearby in case his help was needed. He listened in on the one-sided conversation.

"Hi Cheryl, this is Mark. I'm looking for Steve. He was going to meet me here at the hospital this morning. Is he still around?"

Mark's frown deepened as he listened to her response. "Did he say who or where?" Mark asked, looking briefly in Jesse's direction. "No, no. Thanks for letting me know. He's probably still there . . . Okay. . . Oh really? I'll be sure to let him know when I see him. Thanks. Bye."

"Not there?" Jesse asked when he disconnected.

"No," Mark shook his head thoughtfully. "Cheryl says that they found a receipt from an all night hardware store just down the street from Bob's among Breckish's things. It's dated and time stamped about an hour after Steve was attacked. The receipt details his purchases with codes only, so she's not sure what he bought. Breckish claims he was home sleeping. She's going over to the hardware store to see if she can figure out what he bought, and if there is any video that puts him in the store thus in the area."

"The net closes in," Jesse said enthusiastically. "I take it Steve doesn't know about it yet?" He asked, hoping to discover a bit more.

"No he doesn't. But I do know where he went. He got a call right after I left. Turns out it was the driver calling. He went out to Clear Skies Rehabilitation Facility to see him."

"So he's probably still there talking to the guy." Jesse suggested.

"Yeah, he probably is." Mark still didn't seem satisfied. He glanced at his watch and then picked up the phone again. "I think I'll just call out there," he said sheepishly. "Tell him that I'll meet him someplace for lunch, you know."

"If I know Steve, he'll want to eat here." Jesse joked.

Mark smiled in response as he spoke with directory assistance, requesting the phone number for Clear Skies Rehabilitation Facility. Jesse supplied him with a pen and a slip of paper to jot it down, and watched again as Mark dialed the number. Despite his smiling demeanor, Jesse was certain that Cheryl's words had done little to alleviate Mark's concern.

"Hello. Yes. A police Lieutenant Steven Sloan had an appointment there this morning. Can you tell me if he is still there? Thank you, that would be nice."

Mark looked at Jesse as he waited. "I'm on hold. She said that Steve spoke with a Mr. Bright earlier today. She's going to go and--"

"Hello, Mr. Bright? My name is Mark Sloan." Mark switched conversations. "I'm trying to reach Steve Sloan. I understand he spoke with you this morning. Yes, I'm the doctor who is his father." Mark laughed as he sent a bewildered look in Jesse's direction. The laughter quickly died away. "Oh he did? He was? How long ago was that?" Mark glanced down at his watch. "Thank you, Mr. Bright. Yes, I will. Goodbye."

Mark depressed the disconnect button and immediately began dialing again. The smile was completely gone.

"Mark? What is it? What did he say?" Jesse wanted to know. He'd just seen Mark's worry increase one hundred fold.

"Steve left Clear Skies about an hour ago. He wasn't feeling well when he left. I've got to check to see if he went home."

Privately Jesse wondered why he wouldn't have called if he was ill. He waited, watching Mark's worry deepen to greater depths with each unanswered ring. He left a message asking Steve to call him as soon as he received it. Then he was up and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Jesse was right behind him.

"Clear Skies is between here and Malibu. Cheryl will have him call if he shows up at the precinct. I'm going to head home. Maybe he had trouble with the car. I just want to check it out."

"I'm going with you." No way was Jesse going to let Mark make the drive out to Malibu alone. "I'm off in an hour anyway," Jesse reminded him when it looked like he might argue. "I'll ask Ross to cover. He owes me."

-- --

Cheryl handed a scanned copy of the receipt that had been found in Breckish's apartment to the day manager of the Home Central Hardware store. The only finger prints that had been found on the original belonged to Breckish and someone who wasn't in the system. Tying Steve's attack to Amber wasn't going to be easy.

The manager, a short, dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties, glanced at the sheet for several moments and handed it back. "That's an in-store code," she said matter-of-factly. "This receipt is for 6 key copies."

Cheryl's brows rose. "Key copies? He bought six copies of a key?"

The manager shook her head. "Not necessarily. He could have gotten one copy of six different keys, six copies of one key or anywhere in between. It's the same code for any key that's copied."

Why would Breckish be in a hardware store having keys made in the middle of night, Cheryl wondered. If it was Breckish. "Do you have video of your key copy area?" She asked the manager.

"Sure." The woman led her to an upstairs office area and into a side room which was lined with monitors which each displayed a separate part of the store. Beneath the monitors against one wall were shelves of computer equipment attached to flashing lights and a multitude of cables. Dispersed about the room were several computer work stations.

"Leo," the woman called to a bushy-haired young man. "Can you load up the video at the Locksmith desk on October 30th at approximately midnight?"

While the man went in search of the information, Cheryl continued to question the manager. "Can you tell me who was on duty at the Locksmith desk that night?"

The woman nodded wordlessly toward another of the young men, who quickly rolled a wheeled chair to a work station and pulled up the file in questions.

"Looks like Terry Jensen was on until about midnight. He's on days this week. He should be at the desk now."

"I'll want to talk to him," Cheryl informed her.

"No problem."

Cheryl smiled. She was impressed at how helpful and efficient the manager was being.

"It's loaded," Leo called.

Cheryl and the manager moved over and watched the screen where the video was being displayed. The images flew by as the time elapsed in fast forward motion. Just as the time clicked over to 12:07, a familiar face stepped into the frame of the video camera. She wondered how Breckish was going to try to explain his way out of this one.

?

-- --

When Mark pulled into the driveway at the beach house, he noted that Steve's rental was there, parked a bit further back than when he'd left earlier that morning. He released a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding. A bit of the tension that had been building within him during the drive began to relax.

But then he noticed that Steve's parking looked a little haphazard. And the car was pulled in deep enough into the drive to suggest that he'd gone in through his private entrance. Though he very rarely did it, Mark decided to follow suit.

Climbing out of his own car, he glanced briefly into the windows of the rental. Nothing seemed too terribly out of place - there was a crumpled bag from a local fast food restaurant sitting on the passenger seat, but nothing else caught his eye. He continued on around to the back of the house and approached Steve's door, Jesse following quietly on his heels. He reached for his key and inserted it into the lock. The door gave under that slight pressure, drifting a couple inches inward.

Mark's mouth dropped open in surprise. "It's unlocked," he exclaimed in a stage whisper. Half a dozen disturbing thoughts shot through his mind. No ordinary circumstances would lead Steve to leave the door unlocked.

"That isn't like Steve," Jesse's worried voice sounded from beside him, voicing his own concern. "Do you think we should go in?"

Mark's response was to push the door further open. His eye was immediately caught by the sight of Steve's shirt on the floor by the sofa. If the situation wasn't so serious, he might have laughed and suggested that this was like Steve. Or at least Steve as a teenager - clothing strewn from one end of his room to the other. But the adult Steve didn't tend to leave his clothes lying around on the floor.

Mark picked up the shirt and followed what he discovered was a trail: one shoe and then the other and both socks until he reached Steve's open bedroom. He could already hear the sound of running water. It sounded like Steve was brushing his teeth. The largest portion of worry drained away, feeling as if it came from all the way down in his bones.

Letting out a deep, cleansing sigh, he shot a look in Jesse's direction. "I think he's fine, Jess. Now I'm going to go kill him for not calling me."

"Yell if you need any help," Jesse chuckled and headed for the upper levels of the house.

Mark, still holding the garments that he'd gathered, strode toward the open bathroom door. "Hi Son. Forget something?"

He caught a quick glimpse of Steve, dressed in little more than a robe, with a bottle of mouthwash tilted up at a not entirely advisable angle, before he started violently, nearly spilling the blue antiseptic rinse.

Steve gulped, squenched up his face and made a shuddering motion before bursting into a fit of coughing.

The clothing hit the floor as Mark reacted. Shock turned to alarm at Steve's continued attempts to control his coughing. Mark reached for him, but Steve held him off with a wave of his hand. "I'm fine," he managed breathlessly. "You just scared 15 years off my life, not to mention making me gulp mouthwash! Ugh!" He shuddered again.

"Well I certainly didn't intend to scare you, but think of it as parental justice considering you just scared 25 years off of mine. I don’t think I have 25 years to spare!"

Steve looked at him oddly. "This is my bathroom, Dad. . ."

"Yeah, but you were supposed to meet me." At Steve's continued blank look, Mark continued. "Ten thirty? Tests. . .?"

Steve's mouth dropped open and he moved past him and looked at the clock. It clicked over to 11:09 as he watched. "Oh, I guess I'm a little late," he said. "I must have lost track of time." He smiled sheepishly in his father's direction and settled heavily onto the bed. "Sorry Dad."

"It's all right," Mark chuckled, "I probably overreacted a little." He picked up the shirt from the floor and threw the shoes into the closet as he broached the subject that had sparked the drive home in the first place. "I spoke with someone named Bright at a rehab center who said you were ill."

He rested an assessing doctor's gaze on his son. He was still a little flushed from all of the coughing, but Mark thought he could see lines of strain around his mouth. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," Steve brushed the question off quickly before firing back one of his own. "Bright called you?"

"No," Mark corrected gently. "I called him. You weren't answering your cell. Cheryl told me where you'd gone this morning."

"My cell. . . Oh right. Sorry. It was in my jacket pocket. That's in the trunk of the car. Headed for the dump."

"The dump." Mark studied the man in front of him. Steve had just been coming out of the shower 3 hours earlier, and then there was the little matter of the trail of clothing from the door to the bedroom. "Care to tell me the whole story, son?"

Steve looked up at him, the slight flush in his cheeks darkened with genuine embarrassment. "I got sick, Dad. On the side of the road. I took pain meds on an empty stomach and then I had a whopper with everything and a juice that didn’t agree with my decision to have them for breakfast."

Mark shook his head. "Steve, that's absolutely the wrong thing to eat if you're feeling nauseous."

"Don't I know it," Steve said, chuckling uncomfortably. "But I'm feeling better now."

"What about the pain? Is that why you took the meds this morning?"

"It's faded, Dad. I really am feeling a lot better. A little tired maybe, but I'm sure you're going to tell me that's normal."

"Yeah," Mark nodded, laughing a little. "It is." He blew out a breath and moved toward the door. "I'll just go make some dry toast while you get dressed. Again. Oh, and you should give Cheryl a call."

?

Part Twelve: Exhibits A through E

Steve watched his dad leave his room for the second time that day. He sighed as a small wave of guilt washed over him at not thinking to call to say that he would be late. But to be honest, he was a little busy at the time. He'd had to stop two more times on the way home before the nausea started to abate. And then when he'd finally reached home, the only thing on his mind was getting to the bathroom and clearing the bitter taste from his mouth. The shower was the next logical and necessary step. Now, after getting out of the shower and brushing his teeth yet again, he was starting to feel a little closer to human.

Tightening his robe more securely, he scooted over toward the phone to make the call to Cheryl. He was sure that she would have a thing or two to say to him, too. She answered almost immediately, identifying herself in a serious no-nonsense tone.

"Cheryl, it's me, Steve."

"Hold a moment." He must have caught her in the middle of something. He could hear muffled sounds of her excusing herself, and explaining to someone that she was done for now, then he heard movement and she came back on the line.

"Where've you been?" she asked, her tone mildly scolding. "Your dad is worried about you."

"I know," Steve said, preparing himself for more. "But he found me. I was at home."

"Umm hmm. I'm sure there's a little more to the story than that," she replied. "But I'll let you slide for now. I've got news."

"Really?" Steve's attention immediately refocused. "What do you have?"

"We found a receipt from the Home Central Hardware around the corner from Bob's in Breckish's apartment. It was time and date stamped for around the time of your assault."

"So he was in the neighborhood." Steve saw the connection. Proving Breckish was involved in the assault brought him one step closer to tying Amber to it as well.

"Even better," Cheryl continued. "He's on close circuit video having keys made at exactly 12:07 p.m."

"That's odd." Steve frowned, then glanced up as his father re-entered the room carrying a tray with toast and tea. Jesse followed behind him, waving as he entered the room. "Hi Jess. Thanks Dad."

"That Cheryl?" Mark asked, his eyes brightening with interest. "She find anything?"

Steve sighed, amused. "Cheryl, I'm going to put you on speaker phone." That would save him from having to relay everything she said otherwise. "Dad and Jesse are here."

"Hi guys." Cheryl's voice echoed around the room. "As I was telling Steve, the video at the Home Central placed Breckish in the neighborhood at 12:07 p.m. have keys copied. That's about ten minutes after Steve's assault."

"That still doesn't tie Amber to this, never mind the fact that we're saying this guy got with a buddy, attacked me and then took a trip down to the local hardware store." None of it clicked in Steve's mind.

"No, that doesn't. But the clerk at the locksmith desk might. Turn's out he's some kind of key expert. Told me all of this stuff about how Home Central has special key blanks that are unlike anyone else's in the city. I'm going to go back through Breckish's to see if we can find the keys to go with the receipt."

Jesse spoke up. "If you find them, how are you going to know what they go to?"

"Maybe the trick is to find out what they don't go to," Mark suggested.

"Oh, like if they don't match any of this guys stuff."

"Right," Cheryl said. "We have a little more than that though. The attendant was working late that night because his replacement was late coming in. Breckish was his last customer and he seems to remember him pretty well. He says that he had 2 copies of three different keys made - which is what the video shows. Two were for Schlage door locks and one for a Kwikset lock. So that's a starting point.

"The replacement showed up right after the attendant finished with Breckish. Says that he was headed out of the store about five minutes later and saw Breckish arguing with a woman with red hair in the parking lot.

Steve felt his pulse quicken. "Amber."

"The description sounds pretty close, Steve," Cheryl replied. "Unfortunately, the woman avoided the video pickup on the surveillance camera in the parking lot. But our witness is willing to testify that he saw them and another gentleman in the parking lot that night. He gave us a fairly good description of the other guy. I'm going to be taking him into the precinct to look at a few mug shots. Maybe we'll get lucky and come up with a name for the 2nd attacker."

"We'll get them." Steve felt confident of it. Both he and Cheryl could be tenacious when they got their teeth into something. That was probably one of the reasons why they worked so well together.

He looked up toward his father. "But it still bugs me that they met at a hardware store. Why someplace so public, and why right away? Seems like they would want to go ahead and ditch the truck." He turned back to the phone as a thought occurred to him. "You didn't happen to see my truck on the parking lot camera did you?"

"No, and I tried," was Cheryl's reply.

Mark looked distracted at her response. His expression suddenly sobered. "Cheryl, you mentioned that the guy at the locksmith desk knew a lot about keys. What did he tell you?"

"He said that Home Central blanks are stamped with the word Hillman, like 75% of the key blanks used in hardware stores on the west coast. But Home Central has a special contract with Hillman. Along with a three digit code, which determines the kind of lock the key goes to, there is also a small HC stamped on the back of the key. Otherwise, they would be identical to any other Hillman blank."

Mark got up and quickly looked around the room. "Steve, where are your keys?" he asked. There was an urgency in his voice that sent a cold sinking sensation through the pit of his stomach. He really didn't like where his father was going.

"You don't think . . . "

"I don't know," Mark shot back. "I just want to check. . . "

Steve gave the room a quick once over before he remembered. "I think I left them out in the living room."

Mark disappeared from the bedroom, practically at a run.

"He thinks. . . Oh!" Jesse's eyes widened as realization began to dawn for him, too. "You guys think that they made copies of your keys," he said.

"It fits with the facts we have so far," Cheryl spoke up. "If they got to Steve, stole the truck, copied the keys and then ditched it. The timeline works."

Mark reappeared in the room then, Steve's keys in his palm. "Cheryl, do you know the codes that would have been on the keys that Breckish had copied?"

"Yes. The Schlage blanks would have had HW and number. The attendant remembers that the Schlages were HW9s. The Kwikset would have had a KW and a number - should have been 7."

Mark searched quickly through Steve's keys and looked them over. He held up the keys so that they could see what he'd found. There was a small HW9 on the face of two of his keys.

"Dad. . . " The coldness that had started in the pit of his stomach worked its way through the rest of his body. Amber was two steps ahead of them again. If she had his keys, what else did she have?

"I know." Mark's look covered a lot of ground. That he was aware of the implications was there in the set of his jaw. "I'll call the locksmith."

Steve returned his attention to the phone. "Cheryl. The beach house has Schlage locks. If they copied my keys that would account for two of the keys that were done. The front upstairs door and the one to my private entrance."

"She probably made two of each in case one didn't work. A lot of people do that. Sorry Steve."

"Yeah. Why don't you send the team out, have the place dusted for prints and swept for bugs."

"I'll get right on it," Cheryl replied. "You two be careful. I'll give you a call as soon as I have anything."

-- --

Mark pressed the disconnect button on the phone and looked across at his son. He recognized the look of suppressed fury. He felt a bit of it himself. To think that their home may have been violated left him feeling distinctly unsettled.

His eyes drifted to the untouched tray on the side of the bed, and more immediate needs. Steve would need all of his strength for whatever Amber had in store.

"Why don't you have a bit of that toast and tea?" he suggested.

Steve shot a disdainful look toward the tray. Mark could practically read the thoughts flitting through his mind. Eating the tea and toast was absolutely the last thing he wanted to do.

"I think I'll get dressed." He looked uncomfortably around the room.

Mark read the obvious reference. He didn't want to talk about the case in light of the possibility that someone might be listening. Mark couldn't help copying the gesture. It was probably time to come clean on the fact that Amber had been on the beach the day he'd brought Steve home from the hospital. But, he would have to wait a little longer.

"All right," he said aloud, resting a brief hand on Steve's shoulder. "Jess and I will be upstairs waiting for you."

"Okay Dad."

Mark and Jesse walked out of the bedroom, leaving Steve sitting there atop the comforter.

-- --

Steve was nearly completely dressed, having buttoned himself into his second shirt of the day, when the feeling hit him. It was piercing, like deep muscle pain and took him by surprise for a second. He blew out a slow breath as the pain dulled away to a low-level throbbing. He took in a cautious breath and found that the level of pain remained the same.

Rubbing absently at the offending area of his chest, he wondered that he hadn't pulled something during his earlier escapade on the side of PCH. That thought reminded him of his cellular. It was still out in the trunk of the rental. He needed to retrieve it, and to do something about the jacket.

Pushing the dull pain aside, he moved through his apartment and out to the driveway. He unlocked the trunk, retrieved his cellular and disposed of the jacket in the garbage bin. His cell phone seemed non the worse for wear.

As he took the outer stairs up to the deck, his mind went to work on the next step he would take in the case. The thought was derailed slightly when he found himself a bit winded by the time he reached the deck. Five days without exercise and he was out of shape already. He paused, taking a moment to rest before he entered the house.

Stepping through the doors, he followed the sounds of voices and a pungent smell into the kitchen. His stomach made a half-hearted objection to the aroma, but he pressed on into the room. "What's this?" he asked, upon seeing Jesse at the stove. He was pouring beaten eggs into a pan.

"This," said Jesse, "Is me making lunch. It's a recipe I want to try out for Bob's."

Steve shook his head in amazement. They were in the middle of a case, having just found out that their house might be bugged and Jesse was thinking about food. Never mind that Jess was the one at the stove. "You asked, and Dad said yes?" He questioned in disbelief.

"I did," Mark chuckled and defended the younger man. "It's nearly lunch time. Something to eat will do us all good. Besides, Jesse promised that I'd like it, and well, I was a little curious."

Steve looked at the array of items on the counter. Leftover filing from the previous night's tacos, chopped peppers, tomatoes and cheese and tortillas. There was also a clear plastic squeeze bottle containing something that look suspiciously familiar. "What is it supposed to be?"

Jesse began scooping eggs and meat and peppers into the tortillas. "It's a breakfast burrito," Jesse said, looking mildly offended that Steve hadn't figured that out yet. "Only with a twist." He finished topping the burrito filling off with cheese and then opened the squeeze bottle with a flourish. "A special BBQ Bob's touch." He squeezed something thick and brown atop the rest of the ingredients.

"What's that?" Both Sloan men spoke simultaneously.

"BBQ sauce of course!" Jesse slipped the newly made concoction onto a plate and held it aloft. "Who wants the first one?"

Steve laughed at his father's expression and backed away from the kitchen. "I'm on dry toast and tea last time I checked," he said.

Mark looked at him with widened eyes. Just then the doorbell rang. "I'd better get that," he hurried from the room. "Could be . . . anybody."

Jesse watched Mark leave, and turned toward Steve, the plate still held aloft. Steve's phone rang and he snatched it from his pocket and answered with an apologetic smile. "Steve Sloan."

"Lt. Sloan? This is Jonathan Bright. I'm glad I reached you. Your father seemed a little worried earlier."

Steve was surprised to be hearing from the man again so soon. He moved a few more steps away from the kitchen at the sounds of his father greeting Amanda at the door. "Yes, he's with me now. Thank you for your concern." He was careful to keep his end of the conversation neutral, just in case the team found a bug later.

"I just wanted to be certain that you were okay after your episode this morning. But there is another reason I called."

Steve's brow furrowed. "Why's that? Has something happened?"

"In a manner of speaking," Bright replied. "You asked me before if I had noticed anything unusual recently. Well, I hadn't. But just a little while ago I received a package. Normally, I wouldn't be concerned, but it was a rather unusual package."

"In what way?" Steve asked.

"It was just a box filled with packaging material and a bottle of Vodka. I don't drink, Lt. Sloan -- not at all. No one I know would send me this even as a joke. And I don't recognize the return address."

"What was it?" Steve asked.

"Well, there wasn't a name. Just an address. 3421 Beach Drive. Malibu."

Steve froze. "What did you just say?"

Bright repeated himself, but Steve didn't need to hear it again. He knew that address very well.

Part Thirteen: Key Evidence

As soon as Amanda rounded the corner into the kitchen alongside Mark, she knew that something had happened. Laughter at some muttered joke from Mark died in her throat at the weight of the tension in the room. Judging by the stiff set of Steve's shoulders as he spoke into his cellular, she felt sure that the tension had something to do with whomever he was speaking with.

She turned toward Jesse, who shrugged, looking as bewildered as she felt. She then turned toward Mark, wondering if he might have some idea what was going on. But her old friend's eyes were focused worriedly on his son who seemed to be bringing his call to an end. Mark moved around her in Steve's direction. She and Jesse followed.

They all waited expectantly as Steve slipped his phone into a pocket. If Amanda had to choose a word to describe his expression, it would be grim. That wasn't a word she normally applied to her friend. He seemed to be searching for a way to say what was on his mind. Then, making a waving gesture, he herded them all out onto the balcony.

Amanda followed, confused. Jesse and Mark didn't seem overly surprised, so she followed along without much of a comment.

"That was Jonathan Bright," he said once they were all outside.

Amanda frowned. Jesse and Mark had filled her in on some details of the case while they were on their way out to Malibu to see if Steve was at home. It was her day off, and she decided to come see for herself how her friend was doing. "I thought you already talked to him," she said.

"I did. But something has come up. Someone sent him a package. The return address was here, at the beach house."

"Here?!" Mark exclaimed. "What was it?"

"It was a bottle of Vodka."

"Vodka? Why would anyone send him a bottle of vodka and use your address?" Amanda asked.

"That's the million dollar question. Bright doesn't drink. At all. He swears that none of his friends would ever send him anything like that," Steve replied. "Besides, he found a card while we were on the phone."

"What did it say?" Jesse asked.

"It said: Justice is on the way."

"Amber." Mark said. "It's her."

"I agree. And I think this will be enough to convince the chief that something is really going on here."

"Maybe," Mark said. "If there is anything in that box that ties back to her."

"The note does," Jesse replied. "That's her MO."

"I think what Mark means, Jesse," Amanda spoke up, "Is that if there is no physical evidence that ties that package to Amber then it could be argued that Steve or Mark sent it to make it look like there is something there. After all, the return address is theirs."

"Right." Jesse agreed slightly disheartened. "And everyone knows about the Justice thing."

"Well, I'm going to try to get the Captain to get a team over there," Steve declared, pulling his phone out of his pocket again. "I told Bright to say put and not to touch anything. We need to make sure that the evidence doesn't get tainted."

Mark's gaze lingered worriedly on Steve for several moments before he turned toward Amanda and Jesse. "The locksmith said that he would be here some time in the next couple of hours. I don’t know when Cheryl will be able to get a crime scene team here. Can one of you stay here and wait for them?"

Amanda looked in askance from Jesse to Mark. "What am I missing?" she asked. "Why do you need a locksmith and a crime scene team. And for that matter, why are we talking on the balcony instead of inside?"

Mark clued her in. "A couple things have happened since we last talked. There is a possibility that Amber had Steve's keys copied when he was assaulted. And it's also possible that the house is bugged. Hence the locksmith and crime scene team. Steve's having the place checked out for bugs and prints."

"Oh, Mark. No," Amanda reached a reassuring hand toward her friend. "You think she was in your house?"

"We're not sure. We only know that two of the keys that were copied by one of the men who attacked Steve is the same brand as the locks here at the beach house. It seems too much to be a coincidence."

"Well, I'll be happy to stay and wait. Just let me know which doors you want to have changed."

"Thanks honey." Mark smiled at her. "Come on, and I'll show you what I need." They left Steve on the deck talking on his cellular.

-- --

Cheryl hung up her cellular as she glanced over toward the Home Central locksmith clerk. He was intently viewing images of known offenders. She had been sure to include the pictures of the men that the Corona zone commander had mentioned as well as Amber McPherson among the females. She was very curious to see what he would come up with. There was another assailant out there somewhere, and they still hadn't definitively tied Amber to the crime.

The bank bag was enough to keep Breckish in custody for the time being, or until he made bail. The locksmith clerk was going over mug shots. The techs were still going through Steve's trucks matching fibers.

She glanced up at a call from the desk sergeant. "Hey Banks? You talked to Sloan lately?"

Frowning, she crossed toward the burly man who had been with the force for over 20 years. "Just hung up with him, something wrong?"

"Don't know. Someone has been trying to reach him. Left a message this morning, but Sloan didn't come in. He just called again a few minutes ago. I asked if he could talk to someone else seeing that Sloan is technically on medical leave but he says he won't speak to anyone but Sloan. A real paranoid if you ask me."

Cheryl took the yellow while-you-were-out slip that was extended in her direction. She glanced down at the name and number of Dr. Edward Gibsen. Her frown deepened. That was the man who wouldn't give Mark and Steve Bright's name. Why would he be calling Steve now?

"I'll let him know," she waved the slip and headed back toward her desk.

-- --

They were fifteen minutes into the drive to Clear Skies and Steve had spent much of that time on the phone. There had been little to no opportunity to discuss the latest developments in the case or their meanings. It seemed that every time that the conversation would begin, Steve's phone would ring. Unfortunately the majority of the conversations related to keeping Bright's identity more-or-less anonymous while still investigating the package that he had received so there was little that Mark or Jesse could contribute.

He and Jesse had spoken softly about inconsequential things for a while, but Mark had eventually sank into his own thoughts, his mind drawn to figuring out the mechanics of the case. He couldn't divorce the idea that he was missing something very important.

He figured that there had to be a pattern to Amber's actions - there had been in the past, and like most repeat killers, she had developed something of a modus operandi. As Steve had mentioned a week prior, she tended to telegraph her moves. Whether she did it purposefully or not, Mark couldn't be sure. The trick was to figure out what she was telegraphing.

He needed to think back through everything to try to get a clear picture. The first thing that she had done after the trial was to go on the air declaring her feelings for Steve. Why had she done that? What could she possibly have hoped to accomplish? What had she accomplished? Well, it had certainly gotten Steve's attention. Was that her intention all along?

Mark could only see two potential responses. Anger or indifference. Indifference was out of the question considering the level of emotion involved. But it had led to Steve contacting her. Had that been what she was after? A continued connection? If so, he would have to say that the move had been a success.

Her second move was the newspaper interview. Her version of events continued to promote the idea of a romantic relationship between she and Steve. The radio interview had already swayed a portion of the public to the idea. Why? Did she truly want a relationship with his son, still? After everything? Or was she hoping that Steve could help her to find out the identity of her next victim? Mark blew out a breath. If she had managed to place listening devices in their home, then it was very possible that they had led her directly to Bright. Had that been her ultimate goal all along -- finding Bright?

Mark was inclined to think so, possibly with the intention of somehow implicating Steve as well. After all, she had to have sent that letter of inquiry to Gibsen under the guise of writing a book before the trial had even ended. Having grown up in and around the small town of Corona, she would surely have been able to find out that there were only two potential psychologists in the area at the time in question. And since one of them was dead, the field was considerably narrowed.

Then there was Steve's assault. The reasons behind that action was painfully clear. She was punishing Steve for his negative response to her interview in the Sensation. He had effectively squashed that and any further attempt at convincing anyone that there was anything between the two of them. There had been a brief fervor on the talk shows the morning the article was printed and then it all just fizzled away from public interest.

From that point, she had behaved as a woman scorned. A woman scorned who had taken his son's keys, wrecked his truck, and was camped outside of his home on the day he had come home from the hospital. Was it all because of the article? The feeling of dread that had begun shortly after Cheryl told him about the keys increased exponentially.

An unexpected catch in Steve's voice drew him out of his thoughts. He turned a sharp glance in his son's direction, quickly accessing, silently asking if he was okay. Steve's response was a wry half smile as he said his final good byes before disconnecting from his second call with Cheryl.

"That was Cheryl," he said unnecessarily. "She says that the locksmith identified a possible accomplice. And the name happened to be on the list of suspects that we got from the Lt. Simpkins."

"Oh really?" Mark was glad to see that they had made another positive step. "Did she say if --"

"We're here, Dad." Mark was cut off as Steve interrupted and gestured toward a turn off on the left.

Mark managed to slow down and make the turn in time, and found himself at a guard building with moveable entry and exit arms. He pulled the car to a halt and waited as the guard spoke with the driver of a delivery truck in the outgoing lane. The guard didn't look as if he would be done anytime soon.

"Did she say if he identified Amber?" Mark completed his question.

"No," Steve replied on a sigh. "He's still going through the mugs. Oh, she did say that Dr. Gibsen called."

"She say why?" Mark found that curious.

"No. She said he wouldn't talk to anyone but me. Probably something else to do with Bright. I'll give him a call if we ever manage to get past this gate."

Mark nodded, looking back toward the guard. He was still in conversation with the driver of the delivery truck.

"Maybe we should toot the horn," Jesse suggested.

"I wouldn't want to be rude," Mark replied. It really had only been less than a minute.

"Maybe I should flash my badge. Would that be rude?" Steve asked, dryly. "I'm sure it'll mean something that his boss is waiting for me and he is holding up things."

Just then, the driver of the truck handed the guard a cardboard box bearing the logo of Carlo's Restaurant. He waved and then headed out toward the road.

The guard settled the box in the shack and moved toward the driver's side window. "I'm sorry about that," he apologized immediately with a friendly smile. "Friday is pizza day. The owner always springs for lunch for everyone. There is a standing order with Carlo's." He gestured back toward the disappearing van.

"That's very generous of him," Mark commented, returning his smile as he settled back further in the seat so that Steve could display his badge from the passenger side.

"I’m Lt. Sloan. LAPD."

"Right," the guard snapped a finger. "You're expected." He pressed a button inside the guard shack and the arm began to raise. "Drive on through."

Mark thanked him and pulled onto the lane that led into the Clear Skies complex as Steve withdrew his cellular and began to dial Gibsen's number.

Steve spoke as he dialed. "Newman isn't sending a team out here. We're going to have to get the package from Bright and take it back to the lab ourselves. That way, hopefully, his identity won't be exposed to anyone else. On the very off chance that Amber doesn't already know who he is."

"Pretty remote chance if you ask me," Jesse said from the back seat.

"I agree," Mark replied. "But there are other reasons for keeping it low key."

"Like maybe preventing Amber from knowing that we know that she knows?" Jesse replied. "That is if she doesn't already know that we know that she knows."

"Exactly." Mark chuckled just as Steve responded to an answer on the other end of his call.

Mark and Jesse fell silent. Mark divided his attention between the one side of the conversation that he could hear and finding a parking space near a building marked as Reception.

"Are you sure?" Steve asked Gibsen.

Mark shared a concerned look with Jesse who leaned forward from the rear seat at Steve's suddenly very grim expression.

"I'll need you to talk to my partner. She's going to have some questions that she needs to ask you. Her name is Detective Sergeant Cheryl Banks, and I’m going to have her call you in just a few minutes."

There were a few moments of silence as the other man continued to speak. Then Steve responded. "I know. Thank you Dr. Gibsen. Yes, use this number. Thank you."

"What's happened?" Mark asked, as soon as he clicked the phone off.

"Bright called Gibsen this morning after my visit with some questions about what happened back then. Gibsen asked his nurse to pull the old file out of storage and discovered that it was gone."

"Where does he keep file storage?" Mark asked.

"He has a locked room -- and unused office near the back of the building."

"You guys thinking we found the last key copy?" Jesse asked as Mark cut the engine.

"That's what Cheryl's going to go find out." Steve replied as he opened the door to climb out of the car.

Mark opened his own door, then turned back toward Steve, before getting out. "I wouldn't mind having another talk with Dr. Gibsen, myself."

Steve half-turned in the act of standing, and then just seemed to collapse. One hand grasped for the passenger side door, but it wasn't enough to prevent his fall. He hit the ground, landing on his backside with a grunt. Jesse's sudden appearance behind him, prevented his knocking his head against the car parked in the space beside them.

?

Part Fourteen: Arrests

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Steve wasn't sure what happened. One second he was getting out of the car, feeling only slightly less than himself, the next the whole world seemed to have tunneled then taken a nose dive and he'd gone with it. He had a vague recollection of hitting ground, something hard and blunt stabbing into him, and then his dad and Jesse's voices sounded from either side of him. Their words became more coherent as his disorientation cleared.

He opened his eyes, appalled to discover that they'd managed to get him back into the passenger seat, without him quite recalling that portion of the experience. He looked between the two of them and groaned internally. They were both in full doctor mode.

"I'm fine," he replied to the barrage of worried questions coming from both men. "Just a little low blood sugar. My dad's a doctor, I should know better."

Neither Mark nor Jesse seemed amused by his attempt at humor. He had to admit that he didn't find the situation particularly funny either. He didn't have time for this. Worse, along with his other aches and pains he had the pleasure of adding soreness in another part of his anatomy to the growing list. Sitting wasn't exactly pleasant. He made a motion to get out of the car, noting as he did so that his cell phone, or the remains of it, was on the ground outside of the door. That must have been what he landed on.

"Where do you think you're going?" Mark and Jesse asked in an odd synchronicity.

Steve frowned, hoping that he hadn't imagined that they'd both spoken at the same time. "We need to go inside and get the package," he responded to both of them. The dizziness wouldn't be so bad if he stood up slowly. Besides, it was just low blood sugar. He didn't have anything in his stomach and losing what he'd gotten down that morning on the side of PCH surely hadn't helped matters.

"I don't think so," Mark spoke alone this time, Jesse backing him up with an emphatic nod. "You just collapsed getting out of the car. We need to get you to the hospital to get you checked out immediately. Nausea and dizziness can be symptoms of a deeper problem."

"I'll be all right," Steve insisted. He looked toward the building, knowing that inside was another clue that might help them get closer to bringing Amber to justice. He didn't want to put it off another minute. "Every second that Amber is free Bright is in danger, along with anyone else she sets her sights on." He didn't mention that other person that she'd set her sights on was him. He didn't have to.

"Steve. . . " Mark shook his head. "Your life is far too important to take risks with it. I need to know what's going on with you. If it's low blood sugar, then fine. If not. . . "

Steve sighed. He didn't want to cause his family and friends unnecessary worry, but he was so close to that package. And something in his gut told him that there were valuable clues there if he could just find them. He came up with a compromise.

"Okay. This morning when I was here, Bright told me that this place has a medical facility. It'll be just like being near a hospital. It shouldn't take us long to get in, get the package, ask a few questions and be on our way. Twenty . . . thirty minutes tops."

"All right," Mark acquiesced, though he didn't look entirely convinced. "But as soon as we leave here, we go to Community General and directly to Community General."

"I got it." Steve smiled his relief. "I will not pass go. I will not collect $200. And the both of you can perform any test you see fit. Now can we go inside?"

"Yes, but slowly." That from his dad.

Both Mark and Jesse insisted upon helping him out of the car, as if he was an invalid. Jesse retrieved his broken cellular and put it into his pocket for him. "I don't think these were made for falling down on," he said teasingly.

"You don’t say." He began walking toward the main building with a tell-tale limp, his father and Jesse hovering on either side. "I'm sure I'll have bruises to prove it."

"We'd better get that checked out too," Jesse replied with a devilish grin.

Steve shot him a withering look. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'll be just fine."

"Steve you never can be too careful," Mark spoke up. "I should at least order an X-ray."

"Dad! It's not . . . broken!" Steve was aghast. He'd had enough sports related injuries to know that his latest. . . incident wasn't serious.

"But Steve," Mark's eyes twinkled. "You did say you'd go to the hospital and let us perform whatever tests we wanted to. And as the Chief of Internal Medicine, I feel that I'd be remiss in my duties if I . . . "

Steve groaned aloud as his father continued, obviously enjoying himself.

-- --

Cheryl glanced in her rear view mirror, noting that the black and white was right behind her, just as her cell phone rang. She fished it out of her purse and put it to her ear. "Detective Banks, here."

"Cheryl, Steve again. Listen, that call from Gibsen was about a missing file. I told him that you'd contact him, ask him a few questions about keys maybe."

Her brow furrowed. "Are you all right?"

"Sure. Why?"

"You just sound different. . . breathless maybe," she shrugged, though that wasn't precisely the word she was looking for.

"Don't ask," Steve replied over the connection, then immediately redirected the conversation. "Do you still have Gibsen's number?"

"I do, and I'll give him a call. But I won't be able to see him in person for a bit. I tried to call you, but you didn't pick up."

"Yeah, well, my phone is. . . out of commission. I'm using Dad's phone. Did you find something?"

Cheryl thought to dig deeper into the "out of commission" statement because she sensed that there was a very good story there, but she held off. She had information that she was sure that Steve would want to hear.

"We got a hit on the guy the locksmith identified as the assailant. He's definitely local these days. His name is Joseph Stoner. He works as a delivery driver. I'm headed to his place of work now with a couple of uniforms. Maybe he'll be a little more willing to talk than his partner in crime."

"Yeah," Steve agreed. "Was Amber ever identified in the mug shots?"

"He was still looking when I left. Green will give me a call if anything comes up."

Cheryl waited for several moments, then when silence remained on the line, "Steve? You still there?"

"I. . . uh, yeah," he replied, his voice sounding strained. "Let me know what you find out." He clicked off the connection, barely giving her enough time to respond.

She wondered briefly what that had been about, but had no time to debate it as she'd just made the turn onto a side road near where Stoner worked. As she did so, she noticed another car traveling in the opposite direction toward the Interstate. "Wonder what you're doing here?" she wondered aloud as she watched Amber McPherson's vehicle fading from view in her rear view mirror.

Every detective's instinct in her body came instantly on alert. She was tempted to turn around and follow the other woman, see what she was up to. But with the black and white tailing her, she would surely be seen. Deciding to continue on, she put on her signal and turned into the parking lot of Carlo's Restaurant.

-- --

Steve blew out a breath as they approached the Clear Skies reception desk. The muscle pains had returned with a vengeance while he was talking to Cheryl. They had been so strong that for a moment he had been unable to speak. They had dulled away again, but the level was much higher than before. He had to work to not focus on it and to keep his breathing normal.

Maybe his dad was right. He really should go to the hospital to get checked out. All of these pains in his chest were starting to bother him. Wasn't there some serious condition that could easily be masked when a person had bruised lungs, not presenting until sometimes days afterward?

Reaching into his jacket for his identification seemed a chore when he did so to display it for the receptionist. Thankfully, she remembered him from earlier that day and told him that Bright was waiting and that she would take them all to his office.

She set a brutal pace along a side corridor that made Steve wonder if they were running a marathon. Keeping up with her cost him his carefully controlled breathing, and he felt sweat breaking out on his brow by the time they stopped outside Bright's door.

"Go on in. He's waiting." She tapped once, opened the door and left them there while she sprinted her way back to the front desk.

Jonathan Bright appeared on the other side of the door to greet them, before echoing the receptionist's sentiment to enter the office.

Steve immediately noted a strong, pungent aroma. It played havoc with a suddenly queasy stomach, adding perspiration above his lip to that on his brow. He identified the source of the smell easily. It was feta cheese, and whatever else made up a Greek salad. Bright had one sitting open on his desk. It seemed to come with everything, and all of it was making Steve nauseous.

He made quick introductions and was glad when Bright apologized and closed his partially eaten lunch and moved into a smaller room off the office where Steve suspected he had a refrigerator. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard the sound of the seal breaking and making. He returned carrying a card board box.

"Hey, that’s -- "

Jesse immediately stopped speaking, apparently a little surprised at what he saw. Steve followed his friend's gaze toward the package, but still didn't catch on to whatever Jesse was getting at.

"Is something the matter, Dr. Travis?" Bright asked, setting the box down on his desk within reach of each of them and the three chairs he had made available.

Steve looked at Jesse in askance, curious as well.

"Well, it's just that it's a stir-o-sticks box," Jesse explained. "We buy the straws for Bob's from them."

Steve looked back toward the box. "They probably sell them by the millions, Jess."

"Oh, right." Jesse continued to eye to box oddly as if he still believed that there was more to it, but he kept his silence.

"Has anyone else handled this box except you?" Steve asked of Bright as he pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and slipped them on his hands. He wasn't at all surprised to note that his father and Jesse were doing the same.

"The guy who signed for the delivery and myself as far as I know here. Other than that, of course, I'd have no idea."

Steve nodded then reached for the box. He settled it on his lap to better examine the contents. His father got to the bottle before he did. Steve was left to examine the insides of the box. There was little more than pink packaging material and the bubble-cushioned bag that the bottle had obviously been wrapped in. A small note card carried the message "Justice Is On The Way" in fancy script.

"This bottle appears to have been opened," Mark said from where he'd continued to examine the bottle. He looked across at Bright curiously.

"It came that way," Bright assured him. "I wouldn't have opened it."

Mark nodded and passed the bottle to Steve.

As Steve took the bottle, Jesse took the box off of his lap. He turned it around and around. He then pressed his face close to the box and began picking at something in the corner. "Hey, there's another label underneath this one!" he exclaimed.

"Really?" They all watched as Jesse picked gingerly at the label. It looked pretty difficult to do in gloves but he persevered.

"Got it." He grinned excitedly as he peeled it back slightly. The grin quickly faded. He looked wide-eyed between Steve and Mark. "The address is Bob's."

-- --

Cheryl stood across from Bruce Stephano, the owner and head pizza chef of Carlo's Restaurant. He had just explained that he hired a lot of people who were looking to put their lives together either after jail or battles with substance abuse.

"One fall out of the straight and narrow and they're out of here. I don't have time for bad apples. If Joey is into something bad, he and I are going to have a little talk."

"Um hmm." Cheryl nodded. The man was about to be arrested, there wouldn't be time for little talks with his boss. "When do you expect him back from his run?"

"He traded with one of the other driver's to do the Clear Skies run today. Should be back any minute, now."

Cheryl blinked. "You have a delivery to Clear Skies? The rehabilitation facility?"

"Oh, yeah," Stephano assured her. "Mr. B. helped me out a lot in a past life. I've got a lot of respect for him. And he sends a lot of business my way. He has a standing order every Friday. Introduces a lot of LA society to my food. They tell their friends. Thus, business is good."

"And Mr. B. would be?"

"Oh, sorry. Mr. Bright. Mr. Jonathan Bright. He owns the place - started it with a trust fund or something, I hear. He doesn't like to talk about it." Stephano looked over her shoulder at the sound of engine. "Hey, that sounds like Joey now."

"One more question, Mr. Stephano," Cheryl said. "Do you know an Amber McPherson?"

Stephano's brow creased into a frown for several moments, then he snapped his finger. "Oh yeah. Now I know why that name sounded so familiar. She was here today. She interviewed. Don't tell me she's in trouble too. I was thinking about hiring her."

-- --

Mark looked worriedly toward Steve when Jesse made his startling announcement. He saw him wince and grab at his chest. His face had gone from pale to downright pasty.

He broke my heart. The words that Amber had said on the beach that day echoed through his mind and filled him with a sudden sinking horror.

"Steve!" Mark crossed to his son's side in an instant. He spared Bright but half a glance, "We need to get him to your medical bay. Now!"

To his credit, Bright was in motion immediately. Jesse as well. Moments later, he appeared on Steve's other side, gently coaxing him to explain the problem while Mark took his pulse. It wasn't enough. Mark needed a stethoscope. He needed for his son to be in a hospital.

"A gurney is on the way," Bright informed them. "It'll be here in less than a minute." Mark noted distantly that Bright moved toward the office door and left it ajar, providing easier access for the medical personnel.

"Dad. . . " Steve managed breathlessly as he looked into Mark's gaze. His arm fell away from his chest to lay limply in his lap. "Worse than . . . before." His eyelids sank to half-mast, leaving only slits of blue visible. He weaved slightly as if he was having some trouble remaining upright in the chair.

"Before?" Mark questioned, steadying him. "How many times before? When did it start?"

There was a metallic sound as the gurney was pushed across the threshold into the carpeted room. Two huge men, which Mark guessed were what passed as orderlies at Clear Skies, stood alongside.

"Help me get him up," Mark ordered and the men moved into action. They hefted the smaller man easily with little resistance from their patient, and then they were on their way. Mark, Jesse and Bright all moved alongside as they rushed through the corridors. Mark knew the moment the pain worsened as Steve curled onto one side and uttered a low, barely audible moan. One hand clutched at the fabric of his shirt as if he could somehow stop the pain. The other reached out for Mark's hand which was settled on the edge of the gurney.

That small gesture, which spoke of Steve's distress and desire for comfort sent Mark's own already turbulent emotions into a tailspin. Every fatherly protective instinct he owned came rushing to the fore. He couldn’t lose his son. He would do anything to protect him. Anything.

He turned to Bright. "Please call 911. Get a med-flight to Community General. Tell them officer down."

"I will Dr. Sloan. Right away. We have a heli-pad, here. I'll call down to the clinic when it's ready. Dr. Tracy will show you the way." He then headed off to follow Mark's instructions.

Doors opened ahead of them and Mark found himself in an examining area of a surprisingly well equipped clinic. A curly haired woman entered from a room off to the right, she'd donned gloves and a other medical accoutrements. "What have we got?" she asked approaching the gurney. A nurse appeared quietly at her side.

"Do you have a heart monitor? A portable defibrillator?" Mark demanded of the woman. In his peripheral vision he noted that one of the orderlies was arranging curtains to screen off the examination area from the rest of the clinic.

"You a doctor?" she asked as she gave Steve a quick, concerned once-over, obviously convinced that there was something wrong with him.

"Excuse me." Jesse grabbed her stethoscope from around her neck and moved to Steve's other side, beginning an examination. Mark gave her no time to react to Jesse, moving off to the side of the room where he saw what he was looking for.

"Dr. Mark Sloan," he informed her as he rolled the cart over to the side of the gurney himself. "Chief of Internal Medicine at Community General Hospital. This is my colleague Dr. Travis. And we'd really appreciate your help as I suspect that my son is having a coronary episode."

The woman was immediately in motion. Jesse had already gotten Steve to roll-over onto his back and had loosened the buttons on his shirt. She began to attach the sensitive leads to the appropriate places. The machine flickered on and immediately began an audible alert at Steve's erratic heart rate. Mark couldn't say why the sound startled him as he had known that this would be the case.

"I need . . . " Jesse told the nurse, who ran toward a supply cabinet and typed in a code as he continued to rattle off the appropriate meds to her.

Jesse's words and Dr Tracy's recitation of Steve's vitals faded into the background as Mark looked down at Steve and found that he was staring at him. The cold dread of intuition shot through him at what he thought he saw in his son's slightly defocused gaze. There was barely time for the anguished 'no' that bubbled into his throat before Steve's lids began to flutter, then closed altogether as his head sank to one side. The machine screamed a warning.

"He's crashing!" Jesse lunged for the defibrillator paddles.

?

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Part Fifteen: 217 - broken hearts

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Cheryl paced back and forward along a short stretch of sidewalk outside Carlo's Restaurant, her phone to her ear. The phone on the opposite end of the line rang for the fifth time unanswered. She hung up and dialed again, shooting a glance to the black and white where the uniformed officers were waiting at her request.

Joseph Stoner was settled in the back seat of the cruiser, his hands cuffed safely behind him. He hadn't appreciated being arrested, and hadn't gone easily. But once they'd gotten him settled in the car, he'd calmed considerably. At least on the outside.

After another seven fruitless rings, she clicked the disconnect button. It was useless. She'd wanted to warn Steve about who had made the delivery to Blue Skies, but he wasn't answering his phone or his father's phone. And when she'd tried to reach Bright through the main number, she'd been informed that he could not be disturbed.

She paced thoughtfully. Something wasn't right.

Coming to a decision based more on instinct than evidence, she strode toward the uniformed officers. "Why don't you head on back to the precinct, start the processing. I'll catch up to you in a little while."

"Sure. No problem." The officers were obliging.

"Thanks guys." With that she turned and headed toward her car. Clear Skies wasn't very far from Carlo's. It would go a long way to settling her nerves if she just swung by to see if Sloan needed any help. But before she pulled out of the parking lot, she decided to try to call one more time.

-- --

"Clear!"

Mark's voice sounded in the tense atmosphere of the examination area. Aside from the machine, and the sound of Steve's body as it received yet another shock, no one seemed to hardly even breathe. Not even the two EMTs who had arrived minutes before and helped to transfer Steve from the Clear Skies gurney to the MedFlight stretcher. All eyes were trained on the computerized screen of the defibrillator machine.

The trace continued to move erratically across the screen, and the device continued to emit the alert warning.

"Again. Two-fifty," Mark said as he held the paddles back and away.

"Two-fifty," Jesse confirmed, turning toward his old friend.

"Clear!"

Again, the dull thumping sounded and Steve's body jerked as Mark shocked him.

The machine discontinued it's warning. Jesse stated, "Normal sinus rhythm."

"Let's move!" Mark ordered, barely stopping for a breath before he settled the machine atop Steve's legs and helped to steer the gurney out of the clinic enroute to the heli-pad.

Jesse followed behind him, keeping close. Mark wasn't a young man, and the struggle to keep Steve alive was taking a toll both physically and emotionally. Whatever had caused Steve's heart to stop beating was persistent, causing his heart to fall back into refibrillation twice since they'd initially shocked him. The medical facility at Clear Skies was not equipped to do the kind of testing required to determine Steve's underlying problem, and since poisoning was a good possibility, they were essentially flying blind until they had access to the proper diagnostics. They could do little more than to try to keep him functioning until they reached Community General.

They moved into a wide corridor, practically running as they passed through a set of double doors and into a large elevator. Dr. Tracy punched in a code and the elevator moved upward, depositing them on the roof after a tense ride of less than a minute. As they reached open air, and headed out toward the helicopter, Jesse heard a familiar sound. It was Mark's cellular again. Mark, he noted, was busy on the radio to Community General ensuring that the necessary tests were ready to go as soon as the helicopter touched down there and that an area was waiting which contained every drug that might possibly be used to treat Steve.

The sound of the cellular some became lost in the noise made by the powerful rotors as they drew closer to the flying machine. Wind kicked up, attempting to blow away some of the supplies that were piled atop the gurney. Jesse held them in place with one arm as his eyes remained on the display on the machine. They couldn't afford to miss something because of an inability to hear the machine's alarm.

Jesse blew out a relieved breath as they reached the wide door of the flying machine. The trace remained slow but steady as they began to maneuver the gurney inside.

Once Steve was settled, Mark climbed in and Jesse climbed in behind him. It was a tight fit, but they were all in. Dr. Tracy and her staff stepped back away from the helicopter as it began to ascend. Mark's phone started ringing again and he began to reach for it, but then the pace of the beeps became erratic. The alert on the monitor sounded.

Mark's face fell, and for a split second he looked utterly defeated. Even as those emotions slipped through his professional mask, he reached for the defibrillator and gave the necessary orders. Jesse was sure that he wasn't even aware that there was a tear streaking down his cheek as he again administered a shock to his son.

-- --

Cheryl pulled into the parking slot beside Dr. Sloan's vehicle. It had been her first clue that they were still here. She peered over into the vehicle and noticed nothing amiss - not that she was expecting to, it was just that if her intuition had come with an audible alert it would have been beeping a warning by now. Nailing down tangible reasons as to why was a little more difficult.

An inability to reach Steve by phone was only slightly worrying, but hardly new. Things happened, batteries needed recharging, signals got lost. Maybe it was something to do with their last conversation. Something there had started a twinge of warning. Maybe that twinge, combined with Steve's evasiveness and the quick way he'd gotten off the phone along with an inability to reach him was the problem.

Deciding that she wasn't going to figure it out by standing in the parking lot, she set off toward the building. As she did so, a sound came to her attention. A helicopter. Suddenly it came into view, lifting off from the roof and flying toward the city. She stopped and shielded her eyes against the early afternoon sun to read the word that was printed in large block lettering along the side of the craft. MedFlight.

Even more unsettled, she headed toward the building again, this time moving much more quickly. That the receptionist was looking tense didn't help. Cheryl quickly introduced herself and displayed her badge before demanding in a no-nonsense tone to see Lt. Steven Sloan or any of the men who had arrived with him.

"I think maybe you should talk to Mr. Bright," the young woman said. "I just saw him go back to his office. I'll show you the way."

Cheryl followed along as she was led along a corridor. She waited while the young woman tapped at a door about halfway along the hallway. The door was opened by a rather pale, disheveled looking man and the receptionist quickly excused herself.

"I'm Detective Cheryl Banks." She displayed her badge. "I--"

"You're here for the package?" he asked, looking stunned. "That was fast. In all the excitement, I thought that everyone had forgotten about it, but it seems that you were sent right along. It's this way," he gestured her into the office.

"Wait a minute," Cheryl looked at him oddly as she followed him inside, every instinct on screaming alert. "You're telling me that they've left already?" How had she missed them?

The man turned to her, his mouth dropping open. He looked as if he wasn't sure how to respond to her question. What he did do was something that was completely unexpected. He went a bit green before settling shakily into a chair that Cheryl guessed was usually reserved for visitors.

She ducked her head slightly, looking him over and suddenly remembered the portion of her purpose that didn't involve worry for her partner. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"Just a little . . . queasy all of a sudden," Bright managed, sitting up a little straighter. "It's been an interesting day."

Cheryl had to agree with him there. "Did you have lunch from Carlo's restaurant?" she asked.

Bright looked up at her curiously. "Yes. The Greek salad." He gestured in the direction of a side door. "I didn't finish it because the Sloan's and Dr. Travis showed up. I ended up putting it in the refrigerator -- for later."

Cheryl smiled a little. So they were back to the Sloan's again. Good. She opened her mouth to ask her next question, but Bright's reaction stalled her. His green shade turned even greener. His eye's widened and he murmured a harried "excuse me" before rushing out of the room. Cheryl had no illusions as to his destination.

She quickly gathered the package from the floor in front of the desk, carefully picking up the card and the bottle of vodka with a tissue from Bright's desk. She then moved through the door off to the side where he'd gestured earlier. She found the small refrigerator easily enough and retrieved the remains of a Greek Salad bearing the Carlo's logo. The salad went into a Carlo's bag which she found in the garbage can near the refrigerator.

She then moved off down the hall where Bright was on his way out of the restroom. He looked a little less green than before, but he was still pale and obviously extremely embarrassed.

"I'm terribly sorry," he apologized as he approached.

"Don't be," Cheryl told him. Then continued, "I don't have any proof. But I think that there is a very real possibility that you may have been poisoned."

"What?!" Bright looked stunned. "But I did what Detective Sloan said. I never left here."

"The poison may have come to you. It may have been in the Carlo's delivery." Cheryl said.

"But I bought enough for everyone. No one else has gotten sick that I'm aware of. And I can assure you that by now it has all been eaten. Carlo's doesn't last very long around here."

"I think you should come with me to the hospital to have yourself checked out," Cheryl said. "Just to make sure. Meanwhile, I'll have this examined." She held the remains of his lunch aloft.

"Can we go to Community General?" Bright asked.

"That's where I had in mind," Cheryl admitted. "I know someone who would put a rush on the analysis."

"Good," Bright seemed relieved. "That's where they took Detective Sloan. I'd sure like to know that he's going to pull through."

All of the sparks of intuition that Cheryl had been having that afternoon coalesced in the pit of her stomach. "Pull through what?"

"His heart attack. They took him away on a MedFlight helicopter right before you got here."

-- --

Amanda sighed and leaned against the door as she finally got Paulie, the locksmith, to leave. On discovering she was a doctor, he'd communicated every twinge and pain and "odd feeling" he'd experienced in the past six months.

She'd silently willed her phone to ring for the better part of an hour while he worked. She had even checked twice to make sure that it was on and that the ringer was activated. Still nothing. Irritation with Paulie was fading away to be replaced by concern for Mark, Steve and Jesse. She hadn't heard from them since they'd left. Maybe she should call them. It couldn't hurt -- she could let Mark know that his locks had been changed successfully.

Her train of thought was derailed as the door bell rang. She turned, and peered through the window to see the corner of a dark van with the LAPD logo partially visible. She opened the door to find a team of two women and two men there carrying equipment. She recognized a couple from some crime scenes that she'd been called to.

She opened the door wider and showed them inside, making sure that they were aware that there was an apartment downstairs that would have to be checked. They set to work with little fuss, beginning the daunting task of checking over the beach house. Amanda made a bee-line for the patio. She needed to talk to her friends to make sure that things were okay.

Just as she stepped outside of the door, her pager went off.

-- --

Jesse kept a careful eye on Mark as he stood over Steve's motionless form. He hadn't regained consciousness since they'd nearly lost him at Clear Skies. Despite the bevy of activity around them; nurses checking and rechecking vitals and announcing their findings, the arrangement of equipment or the taking of additional blood and fluid samples, Jesse wasn't certain that Mark was aware of anything else. His eyes remained focused on Steve, watching, almost as if he was worried that if he looked away for too long his heart rate might become erratic once more.

Jesse understood that fear. Even after the helicopter had touched down at Community General and they'd gotten Steve into the nearest trauma unit, there had been no certainty as to the proper medication to give him. Blood had been drawn on the helicopter so that it could be handed off to lab personnel who were standing by on the heli-pad. While Steve was rushed to the already prepared exam area, a portion of his blood was fast on its way to being tested.

The phone on the wall rang. The nurse nearest to it hit the speaker phone button.

"Trauma 1," Jesse answered the call. "What have you got?"

He, and everyone else listened intently as the lab supervisor read off the results of the first wave of tests. Jesse was quietly stunned at the combination of drugs that had been found in his system, but there was no time to ponder them at the moment. It was time to act.

He turned to one of the nurses and began to call for the proper antitoxin to the chemicals that had been discovered. The nurses were prepared and moved into rapid motion.

"What did you find on his serum potassium levels?" Mark interjected.

"There are indications of moderate hyperkalemia. We're going to rerun the test on the new batch of blood just to be sure."

Jesse ordered another drug on standby, understanding where Mark was going with the question. They all watched and waited as the chemicals settled into Steve's system.

"Pressure is coming up," one of the nurses stated.

"Heart rate increasing," another announced.

"It's working," Jesse murmured, allowing a small tired grin as he looked toward Mark. Mark's response was barely a shadow of his normally warm smile, more a lifting of the corners of his mouth and his gaze never quite left Steve.

Dismissing the nurses with a nod of his head, Jesse turned back toward Mark. Unsure of what to say, he simply stood there, quietly offering his support. His eyes followed Mark's gaze to Steve who lay supine on the table amid crisscrossing wires of monitoring equipment and invasive tubes. An oxygen mask covered half of his face. A far cry from the usually energetic man that Jesse called friend.

But he was going to be okay. Mark had to know that.

"Mark. . . "

"He almost died, Jess," Mark cut him off in a low deepened voice.

"But he didn't," Jesse replied, hoping that Mark would look up.

He only shook his head, his focus never changing. "Too close. I can't let this happen again."

Jesse frowned. "Mark--"

He was cut off by the sudden sound of running footsteps outside of the trauma room. He turned in time to see a frantic Amanda come to a halt halfway across the room. Her gaze moved from Steve to Jesse and then to Mark.

"Steve? How is he?"

Mark took a shaky breath, and finally looked up. The expression in his eyes was utterly heartbreaking. "He's going to be okay," he said, softly. "I'm going to make sure of it."

Amanda shared a sympathetic look with Jesse and then moved toward their old friend. "I know you will, Mark. I know you will." She wrapped her arms around him and held on.

Jesse stepped out of the room, leaving them in privacy.

?

Part Sixteen: Unraveling the Evidence

Jesse wandered out of the examination room and made his way toward the intake desk. Though, he was technically off duty, it had become second nature and he did it almost without thought. By the time he caught himself, he was nearly there and decided to continue on anyway. It wasn't as if he would be leaving the hospital any time soon anyway, not until they were absolutely certain that Steve was out of the woods.

If nothing else, being a doctor should have taught him how quickly things could change and just how fragile life could be. And how precious. He looked back toward the examination room door and thought of the three people he was closest to on the other side of it.

A sister, a brother and father. Like a family.

"Dr Travis?" A gentle voice at his side drew him from his thoughts and he turned toward the dark-haired nurse. "Are you on?"

"What have you got?" he asked.

"There's a little boy and his mom in two, skateboard accident."

Jesse took the chart and headed for the room.

-- --

Mark completed a final order on Steve's chart before placing it on the gurney and watching him rolled out of the examination room. He'd seen his son transported by gurney more times than he wanted to count, but this time felt different. This time along with the worry and anxiety there was a feeling of guilt.

"Mark, he's going to be fine." Amanda rested a comforting hand on his arm. "They're going to get him settled in the cardiac unit and then you'll be able to go up and see him. By then more of results will be back as well. Steve is a pretty tough guy. He’ll pull through this. You'll see."

Mark turned toward her and shook his head sadly. How could he explain to her that this time was different than all of the other times where he had been called and informed that his son had been injured due to an accident or in the line of duty? This time he had been right there by his side and he hadn't caught the signs soon enough. If they hadn't been at Clear Skies, or near some type of a facility with a defibrillator he did not want to even think what the outcome might have been.

A sudden thought occurred to him. Amanda had been at the beach house, not in the hospital. There hadn't been time for any of the staff to contact her and for her to arrive when she did. "How did you know?" he asked her.

"Cheryl paged me. Said she had some evidence she wanted me to examine. She didn't say what kind."

Mark nodded, his curiosity satisfied. "It's my fault that it went this far," he said gruffly.

"No, no it isn't. But you did save him."

"Oh but it is," Mark disagreed with her. "You see, Amber warned me. That day when we brought him home. She was out on the beach. She said that he broke her heart. It's clear as day now what she meant. She was going to break his too. I should have seen it back then. If I had I might have noticed the signs earlier. It might not have come to this."

"You didn't tell us that you spoke with Amber." Amanda looked at him curiously.

Mark shrugged. "I was trying to keep Steve away from her. I thought if he knew that she was there, he'd go after her. I thought I was protecting him. Turns out I was wrong."

"Regardless, even if you figured out some mad woman's code, there's no way you could have known how she was going to do it. Or even when she was going to try. You can't put that kind of burden on yourself. All we can do is make sure that she gets what she deserves."

"You're right," Mark agreed. "We do need to make sure that she gets what she deserves. So now the question is, just how did she get to him?"

Amanda nodded. "We find that out we're on our way to catching our killer."

-- --

Jesse came out of the examination room, a smile on his face, and again headed toward the desk. The little boy and his mother were going to be fine.

"Dr. Travis!"

He spun as his name was called. Seeing Cheryl with a supportive hand on the arm of Jonathan Bright as she handed him over Dr. Ross Carson was more than a bit of a surprise. Bright's skin had a slightly green cast to it, and he was half-stooped, an arm wrapped protectively about his middle. Jesse dropped the chart on the desk and hurried over to assist.

"What happened?" he asked.

His question was ignored as Cheryl shot back a question of her own. "Steve. How is he?"

Jesse looked up at her, noticing the anxiety that he wasn't used to seeing on the normally composed woman's face. Bright backed up the question, though his voice was considerably weaker.

"He's stable," Jesse assured the both of them. "We ran--" His explanation was cut off as Bright doubled over with a groan of pain.

"We need to get you checked out," Jesse said, then looked toward Ross. "Can you?"

"Certainly." The other doctor led Jonathan Bright off toward and examination room, calling for a nurse as he went.

"Steve." Cheryl refocused his attention, her tone slightly less urgent than it had previously been. "You said that you ran some tests."

"Yeah," Jesse nodded. "He was definitely poisoned. There is no way Steve would have gotten that particular combination of drugs in his body otherwise. The only question that remains is how."

"How about a when?" Cheryl asked. "There's been an officer on him ever since the assault pretty much. He called it off himself this morning. Any time when there wasn't an officer, Mark was there with him."

Jesse thought about that. Cheryl was right. Steve really hadn't been alone since the assault until that morning when Mark had been called in. He scratched his head. "Well, the two drugs that led to his arrest usually take about an hour maybe two after ingestion to cause the type of reaction that Steve had. So, I would say that he would have had to have received the poison at some point within the last maybe. . . two hours or so. We'd need to do more tests to be more specific. But those are being run right now."

Cheryl frowned. "Two hours ago. That's about the time Mark was looking for him. Where was he then?"

"Mark said he stopped at a Burger King. He got sick right after that. Do you think someone poisoned the food he picked up at a random fast food restaurant?" Jesse didn't think that was very likely.

"That would be pretty hard to do," Cheryl agreed with him. "But stranger things have happened. Are you sure he didn't stop anyplace else besides Clear Skies?"

"He was home." Mark's voice sounded from behind them.

Both Jesse and Cheryl turned as Mark approached with Amanda alongside him. His expression was solemn. "Two hours ago, Steve was at home."

"The keys," Cheryl spoke up. "She must have put the drugs into something that he ate at home."

"Well that's going to be a problem," Jesse said, remembering the way Steve had looked at the toast and tea Mark had made, not to mention his special breakfast burrito.

"Why's that?" Amanda asked.

"Cause he didn't eat anything while he was there," Jesse replied. "Mark tried to get him to do it, but I'm pretty sure he didn't."

"If he didn’t eat anything, then how did he get the drugs in his system?" Cheryl wanted to know.

Mark's eyes widened with sudden realization and all eyes turned toward him. Jesse knew that look. Mark had made an intuitive leap that led him to a conclusion that usually helped in solving a case.

"He did eat something," Mark said. "Or rather, he swallowed something."

Everyone waited expectantly.

"The mouthwash! I came into the bathroom and frightened him and he swallowed a whole mouth full of it. We need to get that bottle and have it tested."

"The crime scene team was still at your house when I left," Amanda told Mark.

"I'll call them, get them to bring it and anything else they find in Steve's bathroom." Cheryl said, already removing her phone and moving slightly away from the group.

Jesse turned toward Mark and Amanda. "We might have another problem. Cheryl just brought in Jonathan Bright. He was pretty sick. Looked like gastroenteritis."

"Food poisoning?" Mark asked doubtfully. "That's far too much of a coincidence, Jess."

Jesse nodded his agreement.

Cheryl rejoined the group and handed a white plastic sack to Amanda. "This is one of the reasons I paged. I picked up Joseph Stoner - he's the man who we think was Steve's other assailant. He was working at Carlo's Restaurant."

"That's the pizza place!" Jesse exclaimed.

"There's more," Cheryl added. "As I was pulling in, guess who I saw pulling out?"

"Amber."

Cheryl nodded. "I tried to call you to warn you, but . . . " She allowed the words to trail off, then continued, "I went out to Clear Skies myself and found Bright looking pretty ill. I decided it better to be safe than sorry."

"You did the right thing," Mark assured her, and Jesse nodded to back him up.

"I'll get right on this," Amanda said, and headed toward the elevators.

"And I need to get that package to the crime lab, have it checked out," Cheryl said. "I'll let you know what we find."

"Thanks Cheryl." Mark said, watching her go. He then turned to Jesse.

"I want to go up and check on Steve. See if maybe any more tests have come back. Would you look in on Bright, check for something besides food poisoning?"

"Sure thing." Jesse nodded and made his way toward the examination room.

-- --

He felt the soreness first, in a tight band around his chest. It made each breath in and out come with its own little spark of pain. But as the memories came rushing back, it reminded him that he was alive. Alive and surrounded by the sounds of hospital equipment and softly arguing voices. They seemed to be coming from a great distance.

"You really . . . get . . . rest," Jesse sounded as if he was trying to convince Mark. "I'll stay . . . him."

". . . can't leave yet," Mark was saying. "Not . . . wakes up."

"You saw . . . results, Mark. . . potassium levels . . . back . . . normal. . . . going . . . be fine. Besides you've . . . up all . . . watching over him. At least let us bring in a cot." That from Amanda.

"Before. . . rest. . . just want to hear his voice," Mark said, his tone softer than before.

Steve felt himself reacting on a level other than the physical. The struggle to come fully awake intensified as he fought to lift heavy lids. The battle raged for what seemed like minutes, but must have been only seconds because he caught the sensation of movement and he thought he heard his father calling his name. A gentle grunt escaped, so strong was his urge to relieve his father's anguish, to let him hear his voice

"Dad. . . " He managed to get the whispered word out and his eyes mostly open. The three people before his blurred for several seconds and then coalesced into his father and his friends. He would have tried to sit up further, to get a better look around himself, but no part of his body aside from his facial muscles seemed to have any inclination at all in moving. The soreness in his chest weighed on him and he felt utterly exhausted.

"How are you feeling?" his dad asked, concern showing in his drawn features.

Steve nearly drew in a deep breath but stopped himself in time. "Like. . . like I've been hit in the chest by a freight train." He found it easier to speak in a low voice.

Mark offered a small sad smile. "That's pretty much the size of it," he said. "The defibrillator and CPR on top of already bruised ribs is going to make you more than a little uncomfortable for a while."

"What happened?" Steve asked, needing to know. He had somewhat of an idea. He remembered going to Clear Skies and the way the pain had suddenly blossomed in Bright's office. After that things got a little hazy. Knowing that CPR was involved fairly well clinched the fact that his heart must have stopped.

There was a moment of strained silence before Mark answered. "Your mouthwash and your toothpaste were spiked with a combination of drugs that caused you to go into cardiac arrest."

Steve's mouth dropped open in surprise. "How. . . . " Realization set in. "The keys. She used the keys. Tried to kill me."

"I've been thinking about that. Shortly after we got you here, Jonathan Bright was brought in. It presented as food poisoning, but thanks to quick thinking on Cheryl's part, we got the Greek salad that he had been eating. The feta cheese was sprinkled liberally with Sodium Chlorate."

"Is he going to be all right?" Steve asked.

Mark nodded. "He's in ICU, but I think he'll make it. We caught the poisoning pretty early, and fortunately, he didn't have time to ingest as much as he could have if we hadn’t arrived when we did yesterday."

"So if things had gone according to plan she would have nailed us both at the same time."

"Not the way you think," Mark said. "She was trying to kill Bright yesterday. I'll grant you that. But I think she had something more in mind for you."

Steve frowned. "What?"

"Disgrace, and then death."

"Huh?" Steve was confused.

"She's trying to frame you." Cheryl's voice came from the general direction of the door. All eyes turned in her direction. Mark was the only one who didn't seem surprised.

?

Part Seventeen: Final Jeopardy

"Framed how?" Steve demanded.

Cheryl moved more fully into the room, satisfying herself that her sometimes partner was on his way to recovery. His voice seemed a little weaker than usual, and he still looked pale and tired, but the subject matter seemed to be putting some color into his cheeks.

She moved toward the foot of the bed, where what she said could encompass everyone. "We examined the package that was sent to Bright. It has your prints on it, Steve. And as for the Vodka: Mark asked me to have it checked. It was spiked with Sodium Chlorate, too, and it had been opened as if someone took a drink from it. Then there's the fact that the crime scene team found Sodium Chlorate in your bathroom. It looks as if you had the poison and you sent it to Bright. If we had not found the salad or the possibility of the keys, you would be under suspicion right now."

Steve rested back against the pillows. "How'd you know, dad?"

Cheryl listened as Mark began to explain. She was always amazed at the older man's intuitive abilities. But there was no way he could know of the other thing she'd discovered.

"The open bottle of vodka. I asked myself why she would send a bottle of vodka that was already open, in a box clearly from Bob's. Especially when she had already poisoned the salad."

"So why poison me at all if she was setting me up for Bright's murder?" Steve asked.

"Because, you weren't supposed to get ill so quickly," Mark continued. "The amounts of the drugs you would have generally gotten from your daily routines were small enough that they would have had a gradual building effect in your system. One of the drugs in particular, a pergolide, commonly causes nausea and lightheadedness upon standing during the initial therapy. So my guess is that she got the drugs in the house that day that we went out to Riverside.

"If all had gone according to plan, your nausea and dizziness would have tapered off. Jonathan Bright would have gotten the package, eaten the salad which would have gotten rid of the evidence. He would have become ill but would probably have brushed it off as food poisoning. Within 4-5 days he would have died. His death would have clearly been a homicide due to the effect sodium chlorate has on the body post mortem. The police would have found the package and the note and your prints and the vodka bottle."

"I would have been taken off the case," Steve said. "Someone else assigned."

"An argument could have been made that you did it to implicate Amber. Everyone knows how you feel about her."

"Yeah." Steve agreed.

"Meanwhile," Mark continued. "You would still be getting doses everyday in your mouthwash. Along with the stress of an investigation, and the worry over the loss of your career, possibly even your freedom, no one would be surprised if you had a heart attack."

"So I was saved from death and disgrace by being scared half to death in the bathroom. Was there anything in the salad that could tie back to her?"

"Not that we found," Amanda spoke up. "Amber's prints weren't on the container anywhere."

"But we do have something else," Cheryl's face spread into a wide smile as she prepared to share the final bit of information. "I got a call on the way over here. Breckish and Stoner talked when threatened with attempted murder of a police officer. Seems neither of them want to be on the hook for life in prison."

"Well what did they say?" Mark asked, his eyes lighting up. Cheryl could almost feel the tension level of the room's occupants decreasing.

"It looks as if she really kept both of them pretty much in the dark. Breckish said that he was only helping her take care of an old boyfriend who needed to learn a lesson when he assaulted Steve. He's willing to testify that he gave the keys to her. The money from Bob's was the pay off. And Stoner said that he distracted the manager during her interview long enough for her to get inside of his delivery truck. He says that the story she told him was that she was sneaking something into the rehab center for a friend that she owed a favor. Oh, and guess who else has Carlo's delivered?"

Cheryl wasn't at all surprised that Mark was the one who guessed. "Doctor Gibsen. The psychologist."

"Absolutely right," Cheryl said. "Stoner admitted to allowing Amber to ride along on one of his deliveries there. The keys for the file room were in the secretary's desk, along with the petty cash box."

"Which she used to pay for the pizza," Steve volunteered.

"You got it. So now, my next step is to pick up our friend Amber. DeCarlo is working on the search warrant as we speak."

"We got her. Finally." That from Amanda.

"We got her," Cheryl agreed. "Any physical evidence we find will just be more nails in her coffin."

"When you bring her in, I'd like to talk to her," Mark said.

"I don't see why not," Cheryl shrugged. "I'll give you a call when we're ready."

"Thanks Cheryl."

"Bye everybody."

-- --

Mark released a huge yawn and stretched before walking into Steve's new room. After a little under twenty-four hours it had been decided that he no longer needed to remain on the cardiac ward. During that time, Mark had gone to his office and managed several hours of sleep. He felt as if a giant weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His son would be allowed to fully recover under relatively normal circumstances without the worry of a mad woman hanging over his head.

As he crossed the threshold, he was happy to see that Steve was awake and flirting with one of the ward nurses. Things were very much on their way back to normal.

"Hi Dad," Steve said, his voice sounding much stronger than it had earlier that morning.

"Hi," Mark smiled at him as he picked up the chart, noting that in typical fashion, his son was continuing to progress well. "Feel up to a couple laps up and down the hallway?" He nodded a thanks to the nurse as she passed on her way out of the room.

Steve watched her go. "Absolutely."

Mark chuckled. "Okay. Let me help you out of that bed." Yes, things were definitely back to normal.

-- --

Cheryl blew out a breath as she pulled to a stop in front of Amber's apartment building. It had taken much longer to get the search warrant than she had expected. Interrupting a judge at a golfing event wasn't exactly at the top of her list of things to do on a Saturday. It was a good thing Steve was well liked. She decided that she wouldn't tell him until later how many favors she'd had to pull in on his behalf.

She met DeCarlo and the other two officers outside of the vehicle and pointed toward the squat building near the pool which was labeled 'Management Office'. "Why don't we split up? You two go see the manager about a key, in case she isn't in. We'll go on up and have a few words with Ms. McPherson."

The two men agreed and set off for the building, while Cheryl and DeCarlo continued cautiously toward apartment 7. Sounds of splashing and squealing from residents who were visiting the pool sounded through the air, at odds with the very serious duty they were there to perform. Cheryl wondered if Amber would come easily.

The curtains visible from the outside of the apartment were drawn, giving the place an empty, still feeling. A sliver of anxiety edged along Cheryl's spine. Something was wrong. She released the safety on her holster and moved closer. Her senses began to scream high alert as she came even with the door to find that it was slightly ajar, revealing a hint of the dimness beyond.

She glanced meaningfully toward DeCarlo and flattened herself against one side of the door, drawing her weapon. "LAPD!" She called, loud enough to be heard above the sounds of splashing and playing at the pool.

There was no response.

She measured out a silent count of 3 on her fingers, before swinging into the apartment, gun level. The door slammed against the jamb with a melodramatic thump. Otherwise, nothing in the apartment moved. It was as still as a tomb.

Following procedure, they made their way through the apartment, scanning each room for occupancy or signs of foul play. After satisfying themselves that they were alone, Cheryl lowered her weapon and began the more intensive search allowed by the warrant. As she moved into the room that she guessed served as an office of sorts, she found that Amber's computer was up and running. She had to shake her head at the scrolling marquee screensaver. The words 'Justice Is Served' ran across the screen in boldface white letters against a black background. Amber had some really serious issues.

Moving toward the machine, she slipped on a pair of gloves and nudged the mouse. The screen saver flashed away to reveal a word processing program. The program was opened to a file that appeared to be a letter. The letter was addressed to Cheryl. Her blood ran cold as she began to read the message.

-- --

"I think she likes me," Steve stage whispered, grinning tiredly toward his father as they made their second lap toward the elevators, moving away from the pretty nurse who had been in his room earlier. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but her presence at the nurse's station was one of the reasons he was pushing himself to do a second lap.

"What was your first clue?" Mark asked with a chuckle, matching his pace along the corridor as the early afternoon visitors and orderlies picking up lunch trays weaved around them.

"I'm a detective, I know these things."

"Oh," Mark teased. "I thought it was the fact that she brought you an extra serving of green jell-o because she knows it's your favorite."

"Okay. Well, that, too." Steve said. Then a thought occurred to him. "Wonder how she knew it was my favorite."

A smug look crossed his father's face before he quickly attempted to conceal it. The innocent fatherly smile dropped in its place.

"What do you know, Dad?" Steve asked, almost afraid to ask.

"About what?" Mark asked, feigning confusion.

Steve shot him a look and would have said more, but the sound of his father being paged for a phone call interrupted. "That's probably Cheryl," he said. "If you want to go on and take it at the nurse's station, I can make it back to my room."

"Nonsense. I'll call her as soon as we get you back and settled in bed."

"That could be a while at this rate," Steve said, surprised at how tired he was feeling and how slowly he was moving. Instant worry lines appeared on his father's face. Steve belayed them with a reassuring smile. "That's what I get for showing off for the nurses."

Mark's expression cleared a little. "You really are doing well, you know. It was . . . uh. . . touch and go there for a bit. Reminds us of what's important in life."

Steve noted the slight hint of sadness in his father's voice. "Dad. . . " he began, but was interrupted by a page.

"Dr. Mark Sloan, please call Pathology stat. Dr. Mark Sloan, please call Pathology stat."

Steve frowned. "That was Amanda. Sounded pretty urgent."

Mark's brow creased in concern. "Yeah. Maybe I should get that," he said, steering Steve in the direction of the nurse's which was closer than the room.

Steve leaned against the counter as Mark reached over it and settled the phone on the desk before dialing the Pathology Lab. "Wonder what it's about?" He asked as he leveled a thoughtful gaze Steve's way before turning and looking off as Amanda came on the line.

Just as Mark turned away, Steve caught a motion beyond his father, from the direction of the elevators. People were behaving oddly, ducking and rushing to either side of the hallway. One woman screamed as she dropped a basket of flowers before being dragged down by the man with her.

Steve hardly had time to react to the people, before he saw his father, who was then facing him, pale dramatically, before the phone fell from his fingers and banged against the side of the counter. That was when he felt something hard and cold pressed against the back of his skull. His spine stiffened in reflex at the silky sound of the woman's voice behind him.

"Hello Steve. And goodbye."

Steve stared into his father's stunned expression for a long moment, noting the shock and the fear. He had absolutely no doubt that the woman standing behind him would pull the trigger. He should have known that she wouldn't go down so easily. If he was to have any chance of preventing his father from seeing his son splattered all over the walls of Community General, he was going to have to do something. Something dangerous. Communicating his love as best he could with his eyes, he raised his hands non-threateningly and slowly turned to face Amber.

She kept the gun on him. When he was fully turned, it was pointed at the center of his forehead. "Goodbye so soon?" he asked. "I thought you had a little something more planned for me."

"Oh but I did," she sneered. "But you went and ruined it. It was flawless."

"Apparently not," Steve pushed her a little, hoping to buy time by keeping her talking. "Your little plan seems to have fallen apart. I guess good help is hard to find."

She smiled then. "Perhaps. But that isn't where it all went wrong, is it? But don’t worry, I've taken care of things. Once and for all."

Steve didn't like that sound of that. "What have you done?" he asked.

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know. But first things first." She reached a hand into the pocket of the nurse's uniform that she was wearing and retrieved a pair of hand cuffs. "Aren't they lovely?" she asked, then tossed them on to the counter of the nurse's station.

"Mark dear, would you be so kind? And don't try anything. I really don't need him standing for what I have in mind."

"I won't try anything," Mark assured her, his voice tight as he reached for the metal bracelets.

She made a small gesture with the gun, indicating that he should place his hands behind his back. "Slowly," she added aloud.

Steve did as he was told. He moved his arms slowly and carefully behind his back, felt as the metal, still warm no doubt from being on Amber's person, slid into place over his wrist. He couldn't help the small shudder that went through him as his father slid the first of the metal latchings home.

"I'm sorry," his father spoke from behind him as the latch of the second bracelet clicked closed and the metal settled against his palm.

"It's okay," he said softly, reassuring.

"How touching," Amber smirked. "I've always wanted to see you in cuffs. Where you belong. Our other friend is getting what he deserves as well. If you were to leave right now you'd find that there was a little something extra in his IV. But there won't be time, of course. He'll die. Just like you."

Steve focused intently on her as he caught sight of a movement behind her. It was Cheryl creeping around a door leading up from the stairwell. She crept silently through, several officers following behind her. They all moved to find quick cover in doorways and behind carts. They would be in place soon.

"Why are you admitting all of this now?" Steve asked. "Why after all of the lies and subterfuge."

"Justice Steve. After all of this, I never would have been able to get close to dear Mr. Jonathan Bright again. But I believe in Justice. Strongly. I'm willing to die for it. A blaze of glory is so much more honorable than prison, don't you think?"

The awful truth of her plan hit him. "You don't have to do this," he said. "You can stop this right now."

She smiled and took a slight step back from him, her gun arm still extended toward his head. "Is your partner here yet? I'll bet she's behind me. Took her long enough." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Tell me, if I shoot you in the head, will she do the same for me? Let's find out."

?

Part Eighteen: Justice Served

"LAPD! Drop the weapon!"

Mark started when Cheryl called the order from her position farther along the corridor, though he'd seen her there. She was half-hidden behind a heavy metal cart. Having completed the Amber-ordered task with the cuffs, he was waiting for some opportunity to do something, anything, that would help. But with Amber's last statement, and the pleased smile that spread across her face at Cheryl's command, he knew that he was fast running out of time.

Amber threw a quick glance over her shoulder in Cheryl's direction before refocusing on Steve. She grinned and tsked him when she noted his almost imperceptible move in her direction. "Surely you wouldn't pull the trigger, Detective Banks. You must know how very dangerous that would be for our friend Steve. Why, your bullet might go right through me and strike him. You wouldn't want that, now would you? Or worse, yet, due to reflex action, my fingers could clench on the trigger and dear Steve would be just as dead as if you'd killed him yourself. So you see, I have the upper hand here."

Mark's heart sank as Cheryl lapsed into silence. She shook her head slightly at him. The risk was too great for her to try to take Amber out with a bullet.

He looked back into the smug expression of the woman who held his son hostage and suddenly an idea struck. "Did you say goodbye to your mother?" The words that erupted from his mouth were tinged heavily with desperation. There was nothing to be done about it; he was a desperate man.

Amber blinked, seeming surprised at the question coming from his direction. She turned her eyes only minutely toward him, then refocused on Steve. "What does that have to with anything?" she asked with a frown, but Mark knew that she knew where he was going.

"I want to say goodbye to my son."

"No," she shook her head furiously. "You should have known this was coming. It's not my fault that you squandered your time."

"I didn't know. And I want to say goodbye. Justice demands it. Are you going to deny me my justice, Amber?" He waited, holding his breath as she seemed to be thinking it over.

Amber reached her decision. "Make it quick. You haven't got much time."

Mark began to move around Steve, toward his right side. He fully intended to place himself between his son and Amber under the guise embracing. Once he was between them, he would think of something, even if it meant getting in the way of that bullet. He was an old man and he'd lived a good life. Steve still had his life ahead of him. He was not going to let Amber take that away, no matter what.

He had just reached Steve's side, when Steve turned his head slightly toward him. Then suddenly, Steve was in motion. Mark wasn't sure where he found the strength or the speed after everything that he'd been through, but somehow he did. He almost seemed to blur as he dropped hard toward his knees, wrapping both his arms about Amber's waist, knocking her off balance as he went down.

"No!" she cried, having been as surprised as Mark. Moving purely on reflex, she had no time to aim, but simply began to slam the butt of the gun hard into the back of Steve's head as they both tumbled toward the floor in an effort to get him to release her.

Both she and Steve hit the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. She continued to scream for him to get off of her, but Steve remained an unrelenting weight against her abdomen. Both his cuffed and un-cuffed wrists were trapped beneath her while his upper body was above, effectively imprisoning her against the tile surface.

Mark caught the motion in his peripheral vision as Cheryl and the other officers moved in. But they wouldn't arrive soon enough to prevent Amber from doing more damage with the gun. He didn't remember moving, but felt as if he was standing outside of his body as he kicked out, knocking the gun out of her hand and crashing into the wall.

Cheryl and the other officers reached them then, wrestling with Amber as she let out an infuriated cry of frustration. It all faded into insignificance as his eyes locked on the large and growing red stain on the midriff area of Amber's once white nurse's uniform.

He called for help from the still-frozen nursing staff as he rushed to Steve's side, levering him away from the kicking and screaming mad woman who was being taken into custody. Steve remained unconscious as copious amounts of blood continue to trail from the wounds at the back of his head.

-- --

Mark found himself once again sitting at Steve's bedside. He had remained in or near that same position through sutures, X-ray and all of the other tests that had been done after the latest incident with Amber. And though he knew for a certainty that she was behind bars on suicide watch, he had no intention of leaving.

Cheryl had been very good in informing him that the keys had been found in Amber's car, and that bottles containing traces of the drugs that she had used to poison Steve and Jonathan Bright had been found in a box in her closet. Despite knowing those things, and knowing that there would be no bail for Amber, he just couldn't let his guard down yet.

He wanted to stay there and watch over his son a little longer. Just until that knot of fear deep in the pit of his stomach went away. He knew it was irrational, but there was nothing he could do about it. From harsh experience, he knew that it wouldn't go away until the moment he looked into Steve's eyes, saw the recognition and heard him call his name.

He looked up as Jesse and Amanda walked into the room, drawing him out of his thoughts.

"How's he doing?" Mark asked them, for once not talking about Steve. When Cheryl had been unable to reach either himself or Steve earlier, she'd paged Amanda who had contacted Jesse about Bright and had tried to contact Mark to warn him.

"He's pretty weak," Jesse answered. "Especially with all of the other problems he has going on right now. But I'd say he's going to pull through."

"Good." Mark smiled a little. "I'd hate to think that she won in even the smallest way."

"Us, too," Amanda agreed, her voice full of sympathy. "What about Steve? Has he regained consciousness?"

"Yes. Very briefly a little while ago. But he didn't completely surface." Mark remembered the groggy half-moan and not-quite-open eyes before Steve had lapsed back into sleep.

"He does have a rather nasty concussion to add to the list," Jesse agreed. "Rest is the best thing for him right now."

"But he's going to be all right," Amanda added.

"He is going to be all right." Mark nodded, and looked at Steve. Amanda and Jesse did likewise. He felt certain that in their own way each of them was giving silent thanks that he was still with them. He swallowed away the tightness in his throat as he reached for the warm hand that lay at the side of the bed, enjoying the physical reminder that his son lived as well as the visual.

-- --

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"Madame foreperson have you reached a verdict?"

"We have your honor."

Steve remembered those same words having been uttered months prior, during Amber's first trial. Back then most of the evidence against her had been circumstantial and no one was certain what the outcome would be. This time, there had been a lot of hard evidence against her, as well as the eye witness testimony of everyone on the ward the day she'd come in with the gun.

He did not feel any anxiety as to what the verdict might be. If he was forced to pin a name to the feelings and emotions that swept through him at that moment, he would have to go with relief. Relief that in just a few seconds the events that had been set in motion in that same courtroom months before would come to a conclusive end.

"On the first count of the attempted murder of police Lt. Steven Sloan, how do you find?" Asked the judge.

Steve didn't even look in the direction of the foreperson. He simply waited.

The words came. "We the jury find the defendant, Amber McPherson, guilty."

Steve still didn't look up, simply allowing the verdict to wash over him.

"And on the second count of the attempted murder of Mr. Jonathan Bright of Los Angeles County, how do you find?"

"We the jury find the defendant, Amber McPherson, guilty."

That was it. It was over. Truly over.

Steve drew in a deep cleansing breath and blew it out before looking toward his father who was sitting beside him. The judges closing words faded to the background as his father patted him on the shoulder and offered a reassuring smile.

The judges gavel sounded and they rose from their seats. Jesse and Amanda were with them. As they headed toward the back of the court room, Mark gestured toward a mural on the wall of a woman dressed in robes carrying scales. Her eyes were covered with a blindfold.

"We may not be able to try her again for the murders of Drs Bettinger and Paul, but the penalties of attempted murder of a police officer are stiff. I'd say in the end justice will be served."

Steve nodded his agreement. "And speaking of being served. How about a nice meal at Florentine's. Jess is looking a little hungry."

?

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The End.

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Jesse's Breakfast Burrito Recipe

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Flour Tortillas

Seasoned taco meat filling

Scrambled eggs

Diced Bell Peppers

Diced Tomatoes

Shredded cheese (Sharp cheddar and/or Monterey Jack)

Optional: BBQ Bob's smoky barbecue sauce ?

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Mix meat, eggs and veggies and fold in warm flour tortillas with cheese. Garnish with your favorite burrito condiments or additional BBQ sauce. Enjoy. . . or not!