The Sentinel legally belongs to Pet Fly Productions, Paramount and The Sci Fi Channel. No money exchanged hands for this story.
I would like to thank Anna for her excellent beta work. As usual, if there are any mistakes, they are mine as I tend to be stubborn. This story first appeared in the zine "Other Lives #2--it has been cleaned up and re-written in parts for posting here.
To avoid any further misunderstandings, I have placed a disclaimer at the end of the story for those who feel more comfortable with one.

IN DEEPEST CONSEQUENCE

And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,
The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray us In deepest consequence.

William Shakespeare
Macbeth, Act I Scene III

Closing the loft door behind him with a kick, Blair Sandburg squelched into the kitchen and hastily plopped the parcels oozing from overloaded arms onto the cooking island. A sigh of relief escaping him, he quickly divested himself of his jacket, hanging the dripping garment on one of the hooks beside the front door. *This is Cascade, of course it's going to rain even though it wasn't in the forecast,* he fumed silently as he slipped out of sopping Nikes. He continued grousing as he grabbed a towel from the kitchen and wiped the wet footprints off the hardwood floor. *Naturally, the rain would hold off until I was out of the car and my arms so full I couldn't get the downstairs door open in a hurry.*

Finishing that task, he hung the towel up to dry and proceeded to pull a thick stack of envelopes from a paper sack. Laying it aside, he unloaded the other contents from the sacks into their proper places in the refrigerator and cupboards. Several minutes later, the bundle of mail in one hand and a large mug of hot tea in the other, Blair headed for the sofa. Grimacing when a drop of cold rain from his still-wet hair slipped onto the envelope sitting atop the pile, he bounced back to his feet. Taking the stairs to the loft bedroom two at a time, he reappeared in moments carrying dry clothes and vanished into the bathroom. When he emerged ten minutes later, he was dressed in a comfortable pair of sweat pants and a baggy tee-shirt.

Once more seated on the couch, the grad student took a sip of tea, savoring the flavorful blending of orange, cloves and nutmeg as he idly sorted through the mail. "Electric bill, cable bill, water bill," he chanted aloud, placing those items in a pile. "Car insurance...huh, Jim can open that one when he gets back; I'm too young to have a heart attack...letter from Mom, postcard from Brown--seems he's in St. Louis, my credit card bill..." Wincing as he slit open the envelope, Sandburg made a pained face at the amount-owed figure. "Ouch."

His sorrowful financial musings were interrupted by a piercing ring.

"Right on time, man," he snorted, reaching for the portable phone. Snagging it, he chirped, "Sandburg's House of Plumbing-we snake your pipes for you!"

Several seconds of dead silence greeted this inanity; it was followed by an exasperated sigh. "Did you ever stop to consider, Sandburg, that it might not be me on the other end of the line?"

Grinning widely at the long-suffering tone, Blair cheerily replied, "Nah, never happen, Jim. You said you'd call at seven; the phone rang precisely at seven. Who else would it be?"

Obviously deciding he wasn't going to win, Jim Ellison switched topics. "Did you get your paper presented at the seminar, Chief?"

"Yeah." Blair slouched back against the sofa. Stretching both legs across the coffee table, he took a drink of tea before saying, "Paper read, any and all accolades graciously and modestly accepted. Get this, Jim! Dr. Hennessey from Berkeley--the authority on the Ibutu--actually came up and shook my hand! He told me I had really captured the soul of the tribe. Even Chancellor Edwards unbent enough to admit to Dr. Buckner that I was a credit to Rainier."

"That's just great, Chief!" praised Jim. "I know you worked your butt off on that paper. I hope, though, that you got Edward's remark in writing. Get your feet off the furniture," he added abruptly.

Scowling, Sandburg surprised himself and obeyed the curt order. "Nag, nag, nag," he grumbled, sipping on his tea. "Pretty bad when a guy can't get comfortable in his own home."

"You can get comfortable, Chief. Just keep your feet off the furniture."

Making a disgruntled noise, Blair went on, "So how's your seminar going? You all right? You sound tired."

"This thing is just another seminar...same old, same old. I'm fine, just couldn't sleep all that well last night. The panels are so boring I could probably do some catching up during the day, but I'm afraid I'll start snoring."

"Didn't you use your sleep mask and white noise ear plugs?" demanded Sandburg. "You're not having a reaction to the hotel linens, are you?"

"Ease up on the worry button, mother hen," Jim retorted lightly. "No, I'm not having a reaction to the hotel linens. Yes, I used the sleep mask and ear plugs, but that doesn't help with the odors. Housekeeping uses some sort of apple-scented room deodorant and it clashes like hell with Mr. GQ's cologne. When I'm up here, I've got smell permanently dialed down."

"So where's Rafe?" Blair inquired, catching the reference to Ellison's temporary roommate for the three-day police seminar. "I'm guessing he's not around or we wouldn't be discussing sensory problems."

"He's still downstairs. One of the lady cops from here in Denver waylaid him as we were getting on the elevator." Ellison chuckled. "She's got it bad, Chief. Every time the poor guy turns around, she's right behind him."

His lover's voice warming him more than any hot tea ever could, Sandburg gave a snicker of his own. "Poor Rafe--the trials and tribulations of being a sex object!"

There was a minute or two of companionable silence, then a deep sigh drifted along the phone line. "God, Chief; I wish you were here."

"I know, Jim. I wish I could be there, too," Blair said softly, acknowledging all the emotions behind that wistful statement. "But you know I couldn't have missed the seminar; particularly since it was held here in Cascade. Chancellor Edwards wouldn't have had to kill me--Hal Buckner would've gotten there first. It's only another two days; you'll be back Saturday afternoon."

"Not another two days," refuted Ellison. "It's one more day." He ran right over Sandburg's incipient interruption. "This damn thing ends at three, Friday afternoon and my flight leaves ninety minutes later. I should be back in Cascade by seven, even allowing for flight delays."

"Tomorrow?" Sandburg didn't even try to hide his delighted surprise. "I thought the plane tickets were for Saturday afternoon?"

"I called the airline yesterday, told them it was a police emergency."

Sandburg burst into laughter.

"It's not funny, Chief!" But Ellison's vehement protest held a distinct undertone of amusement. "If I have to spend too many more days here, the local boys and girls are going to have to deal with a homicide. I can probably handle the seminar, but Rafe. The guy takes an hour to get dressed in the morning after his shower. He fusses about with his underwear, changes his suit, switches his shirt and tie half a dozen times; I swear, even Carolyn didn't take that long to get ready! At night, when he goes to bed, there can't be so much as one wrinkle in either his pj's or his bed sheets. If there is, the guy goes nutso. The man may be a great cop, but I sure as hell wouldn't want to live with him."

"Ow, ow, ow," whimpered Blair, one hand curling around his aching ribs. Trying to control his unruly diaphragm, he scolded, "That's so cold, Jim!" A small giggle ruined the stern rebuke.

"The truth hurts, Chief."

Blair could almost see the smirk on the cop's face. Wiping laughter tears from his face, he gave a sigh of his own. "I wish it was tomorrow evening, Jim."

"Me, too, babe. But when I get back." The smooth voice went very soft. "Just imagine, three whole days to ourselves. I'm not due back at the PD until Tuesday morning." A short, abrupt pause, then, "I'd better not find the loft trashed when I get back, Sandburg." The warm, teasing affection had vanished, leaving Ellison's usual brisk tones in its place.

"Huh?" Sandburg stared at the phone, bewildered by the sudden change in topic and mood. Then his brain tardily kicked in. "Oh, I take it Rafe just came in?"

"You got it."

At Blair's insistence, they were not `out' at the Cascade PD. Too many horror stories were entrenched in the young anthropologist's mind of what could happen to gay cops. For his part, Ellison didn't care one way or the other. In fact, he had a sneaking suspicion their secret wasn't nearly as secret as Blair believed--particularly with Joel, and maybe Rhonda; hell, he honestly had doubts about half the damn police station!--but he wasn't going to worry the younger man.

"So," continued Ellison, "the loft had better be picked up and the bathroom clean, Sandburg, or your ass is mine."

"You wish," Blair breathed huskily, an impish light dancing in his eyes. "Maybe your ass will be mine, instead."

The audible swallow on the other end of the line was his reward.

"Sandburg."

Laughing again at Jim's slightly strangled growl, Blair complained, "Well, if you won't let me talk dirty to you; I might as well hang up."

"Good idea." Ellison sounded distinctly relieved. "See you Friday evening."

"Tomorrow," Sandburg confirmed happily. Giving in to his inner demon, he whispered, "I'd better go check the lube supply, eh? Love you, bye!" Selfsatisfied grin stretching from ear to ear, he hung up on the sputtering cop.

<<<>>>

"Where's Ellison?" demanded Simon Banks as he breezed through Major Crime's double doors early Tuesday morning.

"He's not here yet, Captain," answered Rhonda. "You want to see him as soon as he arrives?"

"Sooner," growled the tall, powerfully built African-American police captain. "Of all the days for On-Time Ellison to be late. Chief Warren wants a meeting in fifteen minutes, and the detective he specifically requested be present isn't even in the building yet!"

A sudden tense look came over the dark face and he whirled on the hapless Taggart. The Bomb Squad captain just happened to be entering the bullpen. "Ellison is back in town, right? Rafe made it back?"

"Rafe is here; I just saw him going into Forensics," Joel soothed with a grin. "As for Jim-Blair and I talked for a bit on the phone last night, and he mentioned that Jim was out picking up their dinner."

Banks huffed out a sigh. "Thank god," he mumbled, heading into his office, trailed by the other man. "This is probably Sandburg's fault. Jim got back into town on Saturday afternoon, and more than likely found that the kid had trashed the loft. Knowing him, Jim's still cleaning up."

"Well," drawled Taggart, propping himself against Banks' desk, "according to Blair, Jim didn't get back to Cascade on Saturday. He got his ticket switched to Friday afternoon right after the seminar ended."

"Huh?" Pausing in the middle of taking off his raincoat, Banks stared at his friend. "Jim came back early? Why?" A sudden smile came over his face and he chuckled. "I bet Sandburg was planning on throwing a wild party Saturday night, and Jim somehow caught wind of it."

"Oh, I think Blair might've had something to do with it," mused Taggart, a speculative smile lighting his face. "But, somehow, I don't think Jim was all that worried about Blair partying." A small snicker escaped him before he could stop it.

Banks gave him a blank look. "What on earth are you talking about, Joel?"

Taggart quickly swallowed his smile. *Watch your big mouth, Joel! Remember, all you have are your suspicions, and those sort of suspicions in the wrong ears could ruin Jim's and Blair's lives.* Joel had known Simon Banks for twenty-seven years, but he really didn't know how the other man would react to any suggestion that Jim Ellison, his best detective and close friend, was possibly living an `alternative lifestyle'.

Realizing that Banks was still awaiting an answer, he conceded, "Just thinking out loud, Simon. You're probably right about why Jim came back early."

"I know I'm right," grumbled Banks, pouring himself a large mug of coffee. The Major Crime captain had recently sprung for a programmable coffee machine so that he could have a fresh, hot cup the moment he got to his office. He held the pot up toward the other man then, when Taggart shook his head, placed it back on its burner. "I'll tell you something else I'll be right about; my budget won't be worth shit if Ellison doesn't get his ass to that meeting on time!"

"What meeting is that, sir?" came a quiet, amused voice from behind the police captains.

"It's about damn time you showed your face this morning!" shot back Banks, turning to face his errant detective. Hands on hips, he glared at the two grinning men framing his office doorway.

Ex-Army Ranger Jim Ellison was casually propped against the door jamb. Tall and muscular, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, he had piercing cornflower blue eyes and continued to wear his soft brown hair cut militarily short. His classically handsome face, with its aristocratic nose and square, stubborn jaw, held a hint of amusement; a slight grin pulled up one corner of the long, sardonic mouth.

Ellison's ever-present shadow, Blair Sandburg, stood just behind and to one side of the big detective. Shorter than the cop by several inches, the grad student was not as overtly muscled as his unofficial partner, but his body was sturdily and compactly built. The long, chestnut curls hung loose that morning, framing a youthful face that was beautiful in a completely masculine way. His azure eyes sparkled with delight at having caught Banks' unaware. The full, cupid's bow lips were stretched wide in a teasing smile.

As was normal, the two men were standing pressed against each other. It had been quite a shock to the rest of his fellow police officers, when the usually stand-offish and brusque Ellison had allowed the hyper-enthusiastic, freespirited Sandburg to so quickly and effortlessly invade his life, apartment and personal space. In the beginning, more than a few eyebrows had been raised at their almost continual touching but now, nearly eighteen months after the younger man had been granted his observer's pass, no one gave their behavior a second glance.

Practically no one--the two men's constant invasion of each other's personal space continued to offend Simon Banks' sense of private and professional decorum. Even though he was aware of Sandburg's true reason for being with Ellison, knew full well that the Sentinel needed the frequent, grounding touch of his Guide in order to function without distress, it still made the older man uneasy at the sight of two men sharing all that casual intimacy. Currently, however, Banks had a more urgent objection and just gave a mental sigh at the unselfconscious display.

"Where the hell have you been, Ellison?" he griped. "Get back into town a day early, have three whole days off and you still can't show up for work on time?"

Intent on his grievance, he failed to notice the slight flush that came over Sandburg's expressive face.

"Sorry, Captain," apologized Ellison, covering his reminiscent smile with one hand. He coughed to clear his throat, then offered, "There was, um, an unusual amount of traffic this morning." He glanced at the clock on the wall behind Banks' desk. "We are only two minutes late, sir."

Seeing that Banks was still looking faintly nettled, Sandburg thought it best to change the subject. "What meeting were you talking about, Simon?"

Opening his mouth to once again object to the authority-blind Sandburg's use of his given name, Banks abruptly decided it was too early in the day to get his ulcer upset. "Chief Warren is on his way down here," he informed the newcomers. Sitting down in his desk chair, he fixed an austere look on Ellison. "He particularly wanted you here, Jim."

"Me? Why?" protested the detective. "I haven't done anything lately!"

Taggart and Sandburg exchanged a quick grin.

"Well," began Blair, sliding backward toward the bullpen, "sounds like you're going to be busy, Jim. I'll just go park myself at your desk and wait like a good little observer."

Ignoring Banks' sotto voce "That'll be the day." , Ellison grabbed a flannel-covered forearm. "Whoa there, Chief," he expostulated. "Where the hell do you think you're going? Partners, remember?"

Holding up a hand to stop Sandburg's protests, Banks stated, "The kid is right on this one, Jim. This meeting is official police business; Sandburg doesn't belong there." At the stubborn look on the chiseled face, Simon hardened his tone, "I mean it, Ellison. Sandburg does not belong at an official meeting with the chief of police."

"He's more than welcome to stay," came a gravelly baritone from behind Blair. "In fact, I want him present."

Yelping in surprise, Blair whirled to confront a short, portly man with pure white hair. "Chief Warren!"

Brushing past the startled anthropologist, Warren gave a nod to Ellison and Taggart before saying to Banks, "I figured Sandburg would be with Ellison, Simon. This case is pretty brutal and time-delicate; I want my best partnership on it."

"Partnership?" Simon questioned blankly. "What partnership? Ellison doesn't have a partner; Sandburg isn't actually a member of the police force. Also, sir, if this case is as critical as you suggest, is it wise to let an untrained civilian get involved?"

"I don't care that Sandburg is technically a civilian," the chief said firmly. "Hell, he's done more toward saving lives and property than half the real cops around here."

Warren gracefully overlooked Banks' scowl at this remark, although he did acknowledge Jim's grin of pride with a wink in his direction. Then he went on, "This case is going to take something special, and I want my top team working it."

"Uh, sir?" Blair said hesitantly. He seemed to be having trouble quelling his own proud smile. "I'm honestly flattered by your statement, but perhaps Si--I mean, Captain Banks--is correct. Major Crime has several excellent detectives who could capably assist Jim."

"No way, Sandburg!" declared Ellison.

"I agree." Warren shook his head. "I've no idea how you and Sandburg work your voodoo, but you're definitely going to need it." He glanced down at his watch. "Shall we get down to business, gentlemen? I have another meeting in ten minutes."

"Of course, sir." Giving in somewhat ungraciously, Banks gestured his superior over to the small table by the window. Regardless of Warren's assurances, he still felt uneasy over Sandburg's presence. God knew the grad student already had a distressing habit of sticking his nose into areas of police work he had no business being anywhere near. Now, with Warren's apparent approbation, Sandburg would feel he had carte blanche to step all over proper police procedures.

As Joel Taggart left and closed the door behind himself, the men settled around the table.

"What's this about, sir?" Ellison questioned soberly.

"This is about a vicious and sadistic serial killer, Ellison." Warren's voice was hard and cold. "Four men have been tortured to death in four years and we didn't even know the murdering bastard existed until late yesterday afternoon."

Shocked silence filled the room.

Finally, Banks broke the tension. "How is that possible, sir?"

He glanced around the table and noticed that, while Ellison's face hadn't lost its habitual impassive expression, his jaw muscles had clenched. Sandburg, on the other hand, had gone pale and was looking a little sick. This is why the kid doesn't belong here, Banks argued to himself. He can't handle the nasty stuff and Jim gets distracted looking after him, instead of concentrating on the case at hand.

"Unfortunately, it happened easily enough," sighed Warren. "The first three murders each took place in three different precincts. What surprises the hell out of me is that the press didn't put it together, either. I'm damn grateful for that, but surprised all the same. It wasn't until the Pinewood precinct had a second killing yesterday morning with the same basic m.o., that anyone got suspicious and put out a query on similar murders. A detective over there got more than he bargained for when the reports came in and he immediately contacted his captain, who then came running to me."

The chief of police leaned forward in his chair. Placing his hands on the table, he fixed Ellison and Sandburg with a gimlet eye. "This mess is now officially yours, gentlemen. Detective Ron Morrell over at Pinewood has their two case files; he's been told to expect you this morning. Northern Shore and Bayside Heights are sending their case files over by courier; they should be here by the time you get back. Captain Banks will turn any cases you have open over to someone else; these murders are your top priority. Whatever you need to get to the bottom of this, just have Simon let me know and you've got it."

"Yes, sir," Ellison said crisply. "Sandburg and I will get right on it."

"Good." Warren got to his feet and headed out. Before he left, however, he turned back. "I just want you to know, Ellison...personal differences aside, I have every confidence that you and your partner are going to solve these killings quickly and efficiently."

Turning back, he strode out of the office.

"'Personal differences aside', sure," scoffed Ellison, breaking a moment of grim silence. He looked over at Banks and grimaced. "I just can't decide if he really wants me to stop this maniac, or is just waiting for me to screw up so he can fire my ass."

"Jim!" chided Sandburg, caught between laughter and severity.

Simon, however, had worries of his own. "Assign your open cases to someone else," he grouched. "Easy for him to say. Major Crime currently has nineteen open cases, two detectives out on vacation, one still in the hospital from the McGrath shoot-out, and one claiming to be sick at home. Where the hell am I supposed to assign your open cases?!" He rubbed his face; thirty minutes into his day and he already had a headache coming.

"Ah, come on, Simon," coaxed Sandburg. "It's not Lowell's fault he caught chicken pox from his kid! He didn't do it on purpose. At his age, that stuff can be deadly; he's just lucky he didn't end up in the hospital."

"I know that, Sandburg," ground out Banks, glaring at the younger man. "But that doesn't help me, now does it?"

"The Whittier case is my only actual ongoing investigation," Ellison declared. Two weeks earlier, Benjamin Whittier, a thirty-seven year old AfricanAmerican factory foreman, had been found bludgeoned to death on the factory floor. No one claimed to have seen anything suspicious or to know anything about the assault. "Two others--the Bellamin jewelry heist and the missing Symenski woman--are practically dead in the water. I was about to consign them to cold storage. I finished up my final report on the Dan Matson arson thing before I left for the seminar." He thought for a second, and then suggested, "How about drafting Joel for the duration? You know how he's always eager to brush up on his detective skills. Warren said you could have any assistance you needed."

"Actually, Warren said you could have any assistance needed," Banks rejoined caustically, "but I see your point. I'll run it by Joel; if he's not busy and agrees with it, then I'll check with Warren about seconding him for a couple of days."

Ellison stood. "Well, you and I had better head over to the Pinewood precinct, Chief."

"I've got to give Human Resources my bi-yearly drug test sample first." Sandburg climbed to his own feet. "I'll meet you at the truck, okay?"

"Sure thing."

As the door closed behind the anthropologist, Banks rose and, looking over at his friend, said, "I know you don't want to hear this, Jim, but I want you to be extra careful out there. Sandburg might be a smart kid, but he's not a cop. I'm a little uneasy about you taking on a hairy case without proper backup."

"Sandburg's all the backup I need," Ellison returned confidently. He was opening the office door when Simon spoke again.

"Oh, hey, Jim; I just thought of something. What time do you want me to pick you up Saturday morning?"

Ellison looked confused. "Saturday?"

"Yeah. Saturday's the opening day for the Cascade Auto Show, remember?" prompted Banks.

Ellison's face cleared. "Oh, yeah. I'd forgotten." He shook his head. "I'm going to have to give it a pass this year, Simon; but thanks, anyway."

"Pass?" It was Banks' turn to be puzzled. "But we go every year, Jim."

"Yeah, that's why I thought you wouldn't mind a change. See, Sandburg's been putting up a new exhibit at Rainier's Museum of Natural History. The grand opening is Saturday at three o'clock and Blair is really uptight that everything goes according to plan." Ellison grinned. "I told him I'd tag along as moral support."

"You're going to skip our yearly trip to the auto show to attend a museum opening with Sandburg, instead." The deep voice was flat.

"I thought you might want to take Daryl this year," Jim offered slowly. A slight frown came into the blue eyes. "is there something wrong, Simon?"

Feeling a little stab of hurt, Banks walked over to his coffee pot. The two men always spent the opening day of the auto show together. On that day, there was no Captain Banks and Detective Ellison; all mention of police work was banned. It was just two friends cruising Cascade Indoor Arena and admiring the latest automotive models and the always-innovative concept cars. The outing had started the year Jack Pendergrast had disappeared; that year, Banks had planned on taking Taggart, but Joel had come down with a bad cold. Deciding on a whim to ask Ellison if he'd like to go, Banks had been surprised when the other man accepted. He'd been even more pleasantly surprised to realize later that he'd had a good time with the broody detective. The second year, when Banks had approached Taggart about attending, the other man had suggested Simon ask Ellison again. Warily, Banks had done so and, once again, was relieved at how good of company Ellison could be when he was relaxed. From that year onward, Simon had started looking forward to the annual outing; he'd had no doubts Ellison felt the same.

It seemed he'd been mistaken.

"Wrong? What could be wrong?" Simon poured himself another mug of coffee. Carefully not looking at the other man, he said gruffly, "You'd better be heading over to Pinewood, hadn't you?"

Giving a mental shrug, Ellison dismissed his friend's odd behavior. 8Maybe he and Daryl had a fight or something.* Opening Banks' office door, he said, "On my way, Captain."

"Keep me informed, Detective," Banks called after him.

"Yes, sir."

Shutting the glass door behind him, Ellison headed for his desk chair to retrieve his jacket. Sliding into the garment, he almost knocked into Rafe, who was heading back to his desk from the copier.

"Whoa!" The handsome junior detective grinned. As was his habit, the slender form was encased in a well-cut designer suit with contrasting shirt and tie; the dark head had not a hair out of place. "One of us had better watch what we're doing." Seeing the scowl on the older man's face, he ventured, "New case?"

Ellison grunted in affirmation. "Personally bestowed upon Sandburg and me by Chief Warren, himself."

"Ah, the joys of being teacher's pet," Rafe sighed whimsically.

Throwing him a dirty look, Ellison left the bullpen.

<<<>>>

Thirty minutes after leaving Central, Ellison was approaching their destination. Looking out the Expedition's side window, Sandburg gave a low whistle. Most of the roads leading off Calumet Boulevard were marked `Private Drive Only' and were blocked by huge, metal gates.

"Pretty rare atmosphere around here," observed the grad student. "Funny, you don't think of murder happening in these sort of places. I mean, people here have all these locked gates and private security systems; hell, most of them probably have their own security guards! Makes it awfully difficult for someone to even gain access to the homeowners, let alone kill them."

"Makes it difficult for a stranger, Chief; but what if the killer isn't a stranger?" observed the cop, slowing for the turn into the parking lot of the precinct. "Even millionaires have families, friends and business associates. Those people are generally admitted without another thought."

"So you're thinking our killer could be someone who knew the victim?" asked Sandburg as Ellison pulled into a convenient parking slot.

"I didn't say that." Ellison turned off the engine. "I merely said those sort of people have an easier time getting in and out. Let's not jump the gun here, Chief," Jim remarked, getting out of the vehicle. "We haven't even read the files yet. It's a bit premature to be forming theories." He waited until Sandburg came up beside him and then set off across the parking lot toward the lowslung building.

"Somehow, I don't think those files are going to make for a pleasant reading experience," muttered Sandburg, holding open the frosted glass door.

Being as they were in public, Ellison settled for giving his lover's shoulder a reassuring squeeze as they entered the cool, pastel tones of the lobby. He headed straight for the duty sergeant behind the wide oak desk as Blair looked around in curiosity. * Money certainly talks, *the anthropologist thought cynically, taking in the blatant differences between this police station lobby and the one at Central. *Heaven forbid these people have to do without plush carpeting, real wood furniture and expensive art when they come in to report their illegal alien maid, nanny or gardener--who they're not even paying a living wage--just ran off with a piece of the family silver.*

Blair tried to shrug off those misanthropic thoughts as Ellison re-joined him.

"Come on, Chief." Ellison jerked his head to the left. "This way. Morrell is waiting for us in a conference room."

Following the directions given to him by the duty sergeant, Ellison led the way down a pushily carpeted hallway. At the end, he stopped before a wooden door and knocked once, then turned the gleaming brass knob to open the door. He entered first; Sandburg close on his heels. A man was rising from a chair beside the table, hand out-stretched in greeting.

"Ellison. Sandburg." The man nodded as he said each name and shook their hands. "I'm Ron Morrell. Have a seat."

The Pinewood precinct detective was a tall, lean, middle-aged man whose graying blond hair had receded even further than Ellison's. Intelligent brown eyes inspected them from behind wire-rimmed glasses. As befitted the section of Cascade he served, he was dressed in an expensive-appearing suit and matching tie, with a gleaming white dress shirt, and dark, shiny shoes.

Man, Warren sent the wrong guys, Blair thought irreverently. Glancing over at his partner's comfortable teal sweater and dark brown khakis, then down at his own black and red plaid flannel shirt and faded blue jeans, he gave a mental head shake. We're not dressed properly for this part of Cascade. He caught the quick, amused glint in clear blue eyes and knew Ellison was thinking the same thing.

"How'd you know which one of us was which?" queried Blair, seating himself beside Ellison. "We haven't met before, have we?"

"I've seen Ellison on the evening news a time or two," Morrell replied, taking his own seat.

Sandburg tossed his partner a teasing grin. "Jeez, Jim, looks like you're famous."

Ellison didn't deign to answer, although he did scowl blackly in Sandburg's direction. Turning to Morrell, he said gruffly, "Warren said you have the files of the two murders in your area?"

"Yeah." Not taking offense at the other cop's no-nonsense attitude, Morrell indicated two brown folders. The older one was battered and thick, with papers fairly oozing out; it was held together by a ragged piece of string tied around it. The other was thin and new, containing only a few papers and a large photo envelope. Tapping on the older file, the Pinewood detective said, "Our first victim was back in 1993: Douglas Carl Adler, age thirty-eight; owner of the `EZ Clean' string of dry cleaners. Adler was found on his front door step by his housekeeper when she reported for work on the Monday morning; she'd had the weekend off. Coroner said he'd been dead around forty hours by that time. Walt Kiefer was put in charge of the case; from what I could see by reading over the file, he was never able to develop a strong suspect."

"Could we speak with Detective Kiefer?" asked Sandburg. He shot a look over at Ellison. "You know, kind of pick his brains...that sort of thing."

Morrell shook his head. "Wish you could, kid, but Walt died of lung cancer about two years ago."

"Oh."

"So who's your second victim?" queried Ellison, breaking the awkward silence.

"Terence Allan Langstrom, age fifty-two; founder, chief stockholder and CEO of Langstrom Pharmaceuticals. His body had been dumped in a hedge outside his front gate yesterday morning; the security guard found it around ten when he went to see what was drawing so many crows. The preliminary report puts time of death between nine, Sunday night and three, Monday morning. Wolf said he'd know more after a complete autopsy. Anything Forensics discovered at the scene will, of course, be at their lab back at Central."

"Hmm," grunted Ellison. "What made you think the two deaths might be related?"

"Manner of death," answered Morrell, a pained expression on his face. "Both guys were nude; both had been tortured to death--very messily." He shook his head. "I tell you, Ellison; I've been a cop twenty-three years, and I've never seen a human body left in that condition. Hell, you couldn't even tell who the poor bastards were by looking at them or by dental records-their faces were completely smashed in, destroyed. Their wallets were found alongside their bodies, but the only way we got a definitive ID was by DNA; luckily, both of those guys had recently seen their doctors for a physical and blood tests."

Ellison made a face. "Oh, just great." He reached for the two files, but didn't open them. Conscious of the increased heart rate and respiration from the man sitting at his side, he stood and said resignedly, "If that's all you can give us, we might as well head back." Wanting to give his younger partner a little privacy in order to recover, Ellison dug out the Expedition's keys and held them out. "Why don't you bring the truck around front, Chief, while I finish up here?"

Swallowing hard against the grotesque images in his mind, Sandburg said, "Sure thing, Jim. Nice to have met you, Detective Morrell." Giving the Pinewood man a slightly shaky smile, he took the keys and left rather more rapidly than normal.

"Kid going to be all right?"

Immediately bristling, Ellison turned back to Morrell. On seeing the nonconfrontational look on the narrow face, he bit back his initial retort. "Yeah, he'll be fine."

Morrell decided to indulge a little of his innate curiosity. "I hear he's not even a cop. How come he's riding along with you?"

"He's a grad student from Rainier, doing his dissertation on police closed societies." Ellison gave the other detective the standard answer but, feeling as though he had to say more, went on, "He's been riding with me about eighteen months now, and we've gotten into some pretty weird stuff. He makes me crazy with some of the stupid stunts he pulls; even when-especially when-he's trying to protect me. The kid may not be a cop, but he sure has a cop's instincts and he's the best partner I could've asked for. I never worry about my back when he's around."

Even more intrigued, Morrell nonetheless squelched his desire for further information. "Well, good luck to both of you. I have to tell you, Ellison, I was totally relieved when I got word this morning that I'd been pulled from this case."

"Can't say that I blame you." Ellison gave the other man a small wave as he left.

The Expedition pulled up just as he was exiting the precinct. Opening the passenger door, Ellison climbed inside and deposited the files on the floor at his feet. Sandburg waited until the larger man had buckled his seat belt before sliding the vehicle smoothly into the traffic flow.

Braking for a red light fifteen silent minutes later, Sandburg said levelly, "I know this case is going to be rough, Jim; but I'm not going to screw up. You don't have to worry about me."

"I never once thought you were going to screw up, Chief," Ellison answered just as evenly. "But you have to realize these crimes were exceedingly bloody and gory."

Sandburg gave an inward shudder but forced himself to meet the direct gaze. "Yeah, I figured that out for myself." The light turned green again, and he returned his attention to his driving. "I'm not going to deny the crime scene pictures and autopsy reports are probably going to make me sick to my stomach. But I won't let that stop me from helping all I can on these murders."

"That's another thing I never doubted, Chief." Ellison suddenly turned to look out his window at the passing scenery. "I just wish."

"Hey, man; none of that guilt-trip crap, okay?" Sandburg only had time to fling a quick glance at his partner. It was getting close to noon and the midtown traffic was increasing correspondingly. "We've talked about this, remember?"

"I know, I know: You're an adult; you're where you want to be, by your own freely made choice." Ellison parroted back the oft-spoken lines. Sighing, the cop once more looked over at his young lover. "I understand that, Chief; and you know I'll respect your decisions. I just wish, damn it, I just sometimes wish you didn't have to make that choice."

"In other words," Sandburg said, grinning, "you might have to accept that decision, but you don't have to like it."

Ellison gave a grin of his own. "You've read my mind exactly."

Shaking his head over him, Sandburg pulled into the underground parking garage at Central precinct. Sliding the Expedition into its usual spot, he turned off the engine. Handing the keys to his partner, he asked, "How do you want to proceed on this, Jim?"

Having given the matter some fast thought, Ellison had a ready answer. "Why don't you stop by Forensics and see what, if anything, they found at the latest scene? While you're doing that, I'm going to head over to the morgue to see what Dan got from the autopsy." The structure housing the morgue and its environs was situated just behind the main police building.

"Better you than me," muttered Sandburg, getting out of the SUV. As Ellison, files tucked securely under his arm, started to walk toward the exit to the street, the anthropologist called out, "I'll have coffee waiting, man."

The older man waved and briskly strode up the garage ramp.

Mumbling under his breath, Sandburg got on the elevator and pushed the button for the third floor. He was still giving himself a pep talk/strong admonition when the elevator dinged to acknowledge its arrival. *I don't care how bloody and sickening those crime scene photos are, Sandburg; you are not going to throw up. Jim can't solve this case if he's too busy worrying about you. So you're going to look at those photos and keep your cool, you hear me? You can do this; for Jim's sake, if not for the sake of your own self-respect.*

Mentally fortified, the grad student ambled into the Forensics lab and looked around for a familiar face. Spotting one, he strolled over to a plump, pleasant-faced African-American woman. "Hey, Serena."

An abstracted frown curling her brows, the woman glanced up from her microscope. Frown clearing upon seeing who had greeted her, Serena Chang said warmly, "Hi, Blair. What brings you into my jungle?"

Sandburg propped himself against the table next to Serena's stool. "Chief Warren has given Jim the Terence Langstrom case. He wanted me to find out what you guys discovered at the scene."

"Pretty popular case," Serena commented, pulling the slide she'd been studying out of the microscope. "You're the fourth person I've talked to about it."

"The fourth?" Blair was puzzled. "Who were the other three? Was Chief Warren one of them?"

"Yeah, he called early this morning to see what we'd found. Paul Hanson breezed through here yesterday morning as the call came in, so he heard all about it," Serena said distractedly. Most of her attention was focused on inserting a new slide for viewing. "Rafe came in for the final fiber report on the McGrath case today while I was just starting to evaluate the evidence. He stood around while I set up the slides, just making conversation, you know: he mentioned how little evidence we seemed to have, how nothing just seemed to jump out at you. Nothing in particular."

Blair's entire statement finally registered and Chang frowned again. "Warren's given the Langstrom case to Ellison? How come? That murder happened over in Pinewood's jurisdiction."

Grimacing, Sandburg ran a hand through his hair. "Well, come to find out, the Langstrom killing is the fourth by what appears to be the same perpetrator. Warren thinks there might be a serial killer running amuck in Cascade and Jim is the lucky guy assigned to stop him."

"Really?" Serena stared at the younger man for several minutes then, shaking her head, she said, "I wish him luck. God knows he's going to need it this time."

"Oh, man," mumbled Sandburg, slumping against the table. "I hate it when you Forensic guys say things like that."

<<<>>>

His usual stoic expression firmly in place, Ellison stepped off the elevator when the door opened on the seventh floor. Automatically weaving his way around the many bodies in the corridor, he stopped when he came to the double doors of Major Crime and looked into the bullpen. On seeing Sandburg talking animatedly with an amused-looking Taggart, he relaxed slightly. *Well, if the other two files did arrive, Blair hasn't looked at them. He wouldn't be so bouncy if he had.* His face darkened as he recalled the bloody mass of tissue and protruding, splintered bones on Dan Wolf's autopsy table and he repeated his promise to himself. There was no way in hell he was going to let his partner see those crime scene pictures. Sandburg could argue until he was blue in the face, but Ellison was adamant.

Pushing through the doors, he sauntered nonchalantly up to his desk. "What tall tale is he feeding you now, Joel?"

"Hey, I resent that insinuation!" objected the anthropologist.

Grin wide, the rotund African-American man shook his head and laughed. "Blair was telling me about the hazards of setting up a museum display. I think de-fusing bombs just might be safer."

"You got that right," asserted Ellison, dropping into the chair behind his desk. He threw the two folders from Pinewood onto its surface. "But only if Sandburg is the one doing the display; when it's not him, the duty is duller than watching mold grow."

Laughing again at Sandburg's sotto voce protestations, the older man started to turn away from Ellison's desk, then stopped. "Hey, Jim, Simon tells me it was you who suggested I be given your cases while you're busy with Warren's project. Thanks, I appreciate it. I just hope the old skills haven't rusted over."

"No thanks necessary, Joel." Ellison shook his head. "I take it Warren okayed the idea?"

"Yeah. He called down about half an hour ago and gave me the thumbs up."

"I wouldn't worry about messing up," Ellison assured his friend. "I have every confidence in you, and I know Simon does, too."

"Thanks, Jim; that's good to hear." Taggart grinned again. "I'd better be getting back to my desk. I'm expecting a call from a witness in the Whittier case."

"Let me know how that one turns out, will you?"

"Sure thing," said Taggart, turning to head back to his office.

As he watched the Bomb Squad captain leave, Ellison was aware he was under close scrutiny. Before he could open his mouth, however, Sandburg ventured quietly, "I'm so sorry you had to see that, man. It must've been horrible."

Wondering anew at the way his Guide always seemed to know when he was upset, Jim muttered, "It was worse than horrible. I've seen mutilated bodies in my time, but this..." Looking over at his paling partner, he stated softly, "I've seen men in better condition after they'd stepped on a land mine."

Sandburg gulped and his face went slightly green around the edges. "Oh, man."

Continuing to hold the younger man's eyes, Ellison declared, "I know you don't like me telling you what to do, but I don't want you seeing those crime scene photos. You can read the files-and the autopsy reports, if you wish-but you're not going to see those damn photos. I mean it."

To Ellison's eternal astonishment, there was no immediate remonstrations. Eyes downcast, it was apparent that Sandburg was mulling over the issue. A few moments later, the smoky blue eyes lifted and pinned his. "All right, man. I'll go along with it on one condition."

"What's that?"

"That if it somehow becomes necessary to solving the case, you'll show me the pictures." Sandburg's eyes held a stubborn glint. "Promise me that, Jim, or it's a no go."

"I can't see it ever coming to that, Sandburg," argued Ellison. "It's not as if these killings are ritualistic in any way."

"Promise me, Jim." The husky voice was inflexible.

Irritation flared, and Ellison had to swallow hard against the harsh words which wanted to escape. *Damn kid, can't he just this once do as he's told without turning the issue into a great debate? But, then again, I'd be worried sick if he ever did give in without a prolonged discussion.* Knowing when he was beaten, Jim said dryly, "All right, Chief; you win. If it somehow seems vital to the case, I will personally sit down with you and let you go over the photos."

"Fair enough." A wry look seeped into the anthropologist's eyes. "I suspect I should be putting up more of a fight, but I have to confess--I really don't think I want to see those photos."

"Trust me on this one, Chief," Jim said grimly. "You don't." He finally looked around his desk. Not seeing what he was looking for, he frowned. "So much for Warren's full cooperation."

"Huh?" Sandburg blinked confusedly at him.

"The damn files from Bayside Heights and Northern Shore were supposed to be here when we got back, remember?" Jim waved his hand at his tidy desk. "Unless they're invisible, I'm not seeing them."

"Oh, the files!" Sandburg looked abashed. "I had Rhonda put them in the conference room, man. They were huge--both of them--with papers falling out all over the place. I thought we might commandeer the room so we could spread out and not have to worry about losing anything. Dale from ITS was even nice enough to set up a spare computer in case we might need it." The grad student shrugged and grimaced. "Sorry, Jim; I should've told you right off."

"No need to apologize, Chief. Actually, that sounds like a great idea." Ellison gathered up the other two files and stood. Grinning down at his partner, he said, "I seem to remember someone promising me coffee when I got back, Sandburg."

Grinning back, Blair also stood. "I can take a hint, man." He started to leave; then tossed over his shoulder, "You should be glad I didn't have that coffee waiting for you. What was left in the pot looked as if it could walk out of the break room on its own. Lucky for you, I made a fresh pot."

"Lucky for you, you mean," retorted Ellison.

After obtaining the door key from Rhonda, Ellison set off for the conference room. Exiting the bullpen, he took a sharp left and then another at the end of the corridor. Entering the first door on his right, he dropped the two folders under his arm onto the table next to two battered-appearing ones. As an afterthought, he went back to the door and changed the room's status sign from `unoccupied' to `in use'. He was just seating himself when Sandburg came in, carrying two cups of steaming coffee.

"Service with a smile." Carefully placing one Styrofoam cup in front of his partner, Sandburg grinned.

Ellison grinned back and, reaching for his cup, took a restorative gulp of the hot drink. That done, he sat the cup back down and frowned at the police files. "Well, I suppose we can't put it off any longer."

"Should we start with the first victim, or the latest?" questioned Blair, pulling out a chair next to his partner. He took a swallow of own beverage.

"The first victim," Ellison announced after several moments of thought. "Might as well begin at the beginning."

"I had Rhonda stack the ones from Bayside Heights and Northern Shore in chronological order," Sandburg stated. He pulled those over and looked at the dates written in red on the outside of each folder. "The earliest one here is October 11, 1993. Is the first Pinewood case earlier than that?"

Ellison glanced down at the older of the two files nearest him. "Yeah. The file is dated January 22, 1993. So Douglas Adler was the first victim, period. Who was the second?"

"Daniel Eric Taylor; his file is the one from Bayside Heights," reported Sandburg. "The file from Northern Shore is for Emil Lorenz Nunzio. His murder happened March 25, 1996."

"Finally, Terence Langstrom, May 16, 1997." Ellison sat back in his chair and frowned at the four files. "I can tell you something right off, Chief. Whoever the hell this lunatic is, he doesn't play favorites."

"Yeah," Sandburg agreed soberly. "Sure, the two from Pinewood were probably fairly rich, but I doubt the Taylor guy ever had two quarters to his name. He couldn't have, not when he lived in that part of town. Bayside Heights is even more disadvantaged than my old warehouse area." He looked over at Ellison. "Isn't Northern Shore mainly family homes?"

"Strictly middle-class," the cop informed him. "It's the section for all the Ward and June Cleavers of Cascade, but there's also a lot of apartment complexes."

"He obviously doesn't choose his victims by societal status," observed Sandburg. "It doesn't seem logical that the two guys from Pinewood would've had any social contact with the other two guys. So no connection there."

"Maybe Taylor and Nunzio worked for either Adler or Langstrom," Ellison suggested.

Pulling his glasses from his backpack and slipping them on, Sandburg quickly scanned the front page of each file in front of him. "Sorry, Jim," he said, frowning. "Taylor is listed as unemployed--no surprise there--at his time of death. Nunzio worked as a CPA for Donnelley Department Store."

"Well, there goes the last hope of solving these things before the turn of the millennium," grumbled Ellison. He ran a hand over his face. "I should've known there wouldn't be any obvious connections."

"Don't give up hope yet, man. Just because something isn't staring us right in the face at the moment, doesn't mean there won't be an easily detected connection found in these files. Maybe it's a piece of physical evidence; maybe it's trace fibers."

"Speaking of physical evidence and trace fibers." Jim glanced over at Sandburg. "Did Forensics find anything of significance at the Langstrom crime scene?"

Regretfully shaking his head, Sandburg relayed, "Serena told me that place was just a body dump; Langstrom was actually killed elsewhere. She said there was no stray fibers, bodily fluids or extraneous hairs found. There were a few tiny pieces of wood found in the victim's hair, but she's still working on them. She has no idea if they pertain to the crime, or if Langstrom could've picked them up where his body was discovered; it was a wooded area. Other than that, Forensics came up empty." Taking a deep breath, he asked, "How about his body? Did Dan find any foreign bodily fluids?"

"No," Ellison said curtly. "The guy had been sexually assaulted, all right, but no semen was found. This bastard is one, sick fuck, Chief; Langstrom's genitals and anus had been severely mutilated. Dan said it looked as if the killer had attacked the area with a garden claw or something. There were also multiple deep bite marks, two of which actually penetrated muscle tissue."

Blanching rather dramatically, Blair whispered, "Was it possible to tell if that happened before or...after.?"

"Dan said the genital damage was ante-mortem, as were the bite marks."

Mind already busily at work on the cases before him, it was several minutes before Ellison stopped frowning at the files. Glancing up, he caught sight of the younger man's ashen, sweating face. "Chief, maybe you ought."

Blair shook his head. "Don't even finish that thought, Jim." The grad student took several deep breaths, then continued firmly, "We're in this together, remember? I just have a really overactive imagination." He gave a faint grin. "I suppose I should say thanks that you got all protective about the crime scene photos."

"No thanks necessary, Chief." Ellison shook his own head. "No need to feel badly about it, either. This one is even making my stomach queasy."

"In that case," Blair said, standing up and grabbing both the coffee cups, "how about I get us some more coffee and we work through lunch?"

"Good idea," decided Ellison. He reached for the files and started pulling the photo envelopes out of them. "What if I read through the Pinewood files and you read the other two? Then, we'll switch. Once we're done, we can compare, see if one of us spotted something useful."

"Sounds good to me." Sandburg started out the door. "Be back in a jiff, man."

"See you in a few, Chief." Taking a deep breath, Ellison flipped open the thick file on Douglas Adler.

<<<>>>

The shadows were just starting to gather when two exhausted figures stumbled into the loft on Prospect Avenue.

"Man, I'm in desperate need of a shower," Sandburg declared wearily. "I know we never left the station this afternoon, but I feel like I've been rolling in manure or something."

"You're not alone, Chief." Ellison threw the deadbolt on the door, then tiredly took off his jacket. "I think I've been rolling in that pile of shit right along with you." Neck and shoulders aching with tension, he headed straight for the sofa and sank down onto it.

"I'm with Chief Warren; I can't believe the newspapers or TV reporters didn't spot the similarities in those four murders." Sandburg's voice came from behind him. Moments later, two capable hands were gently kneading the cop's stress-tight muscles.

"Other than the manner of death, there really was nothing readily apparent to tie them together. It was only after we read the police files that we found anything that linked them and even that evidence is pretty damn flimsy." Ellison gave a sigh of relief as the magical hands dissolved knot after painful knot. "I can't believe the only thing we have to go on is a few, small pieces of wood found caught in three of the victims' hair. There probably would've been some on Taylor, except he was found in Cascade Reservoir."

Blair stopped his massaging and stared thoughtfully down at his partner. "Well, actually, after giving it some thought, I think there might be something else about those men that tie them together."

Ellison frowned at the loss of the comforting sensation. As the anthropologist came around the furniture and seated himself next to him, he argued, "No, there isn't, Chief. There were no finger or shoe prints, trace fibers, stray items, foreign blood or other bodily fluids found with each of the bodies. Those four were not connected in any personal or professional way: Adler owned a string of dry cleaners, Taylor was a small-time thief and crack head, Nunzio was a CPA and Langstrom was the CEO of a successful corporation. Also, even though they lived within blocks of each other, Adler and Langstrom were strangers to each other. Adler had only moved to Cascade four months before his death; prior that, he'd lived in Yakima."

"I honestly don't know if it means anything about why they were murdered, Jim, but I did notice something else they had in common." Blair twisted around until he was facing his partner. "None of those guys had any close family."

Ellison's frown deepened and it was obvious he was mentally reviewing the police files. "Wait a minute, there, Chief," he said slowly. "That's not quite true. Taylor's file listed a widowed mother, with one brother and three sisters; Adler had several aunts, uncles and cousins back east in New Hampshire."

"Daniel Taylor's family lives in Boise, Idaho. According to his police file, he hadn't had any contact with them since moving to Cascade when he was nineteen. Scattered aunts, uncles and cousins on the opposite coast are not exactly what I would call close family, either, man," shot back Blair.

"What are you getting at, Chief?"

"None of them were married, had been married, or were in process of getting married."

Ellison just looked at him, eyebrow raised in confusion.

"Jim, look at it logically--Douglas Adler was thirty-eight, Daniel Taylor was twenty-nine, Emil Nunzio was forty-one and Terence Langstrom was fiftytwo. Doesn't it strike you as the slightest bit strange that none of them had been romantically involved with a woman? By the laws of statistics alone, three of them should've been married at least once, if not twice, before they died. Yet, none of these guys left a grieving widow, a steady girlfriend, or even an occasional girlfriend behind!"

"Are you telling me that you think these guys were all gay?!" Jim stared at his partner for a few seconds, then shook his head. "That's a hell of a leap of logic, Chief. Just because none of them had ever been married."

"Or had ever had a steady girlfriend," retorted Sandburg. He glared at Ellison, then shrugged. "Maybe they weren't gay, maybe all four were just shy wallflowers. All I'm saying, man, is that none of them left any women behind. Perhaps it means nothing, but we shouldn't overlook the possibility just because it seems farfetched."

"I don't like the ramifications involved; but you're right, it is another common factor," admitted Ellison. He groaned and laid his head back against the sofa. "Shit, if you're correct on this, Chief, I can just hear Warren now...and if the press ever catches wind that we've got a serial killer targeting gay men." He groaned again and closed his eyes.

"Police work can be a real bitch," empathized Blair, inching closer to his partner. Stroking a hand up and down Ellison's right thigh, he said ingenuously, "You need to unwind, man. This case already has you knotted up tighter than an old pine tree."

Ellison cracked open one wary eye. "Just how would you suggest I do that?" The dry tone had a heavy inflection of hope in it.

Leaning closer, Blair planted a tender, yet thorough, kiss on the tempting mouth. Luxurious minutes later, their lips just touching, he suggested softly, "How about you go upstairs and strip out of all those unnecessary clothes?"

A graceful hand slid into the younger man's long, loose hair and gave a gentle tug. Taking possession of the siren mouth, Jim milked and bit the full lips until they were swollen and strawberry-red. Pulling back slightly so they could breathe each other's exhalations, he asked huskily, "After that.?"

"You, me, a nice, big bed." offered Blair, running a caressing tongue tip over Ellison's lower lip. ".and a Sandburg deluxe massage. How's that sound?"

"Sounds like heaven."

"Then it's a plan." Blair gave one last lick to Ellison's lower lip, then pulled back. As he stood, he said, "Why don't you head upstairs while I get the massage oil and warm it up?"

Ellison was halfway up the stairs before his lover finished speaking. Pausing at the top, he warned lightly, "Don't take too long, Chief. This old man might cool off if he has to wait."

"That's all right, Jim; I'm very good at re-heating things."

Shivering at the sultry promise in the seductive tones, Jim commenced stripping. He threw the discarded clothing at the chair in the far corner of the bedroom, for once not really caring if the garments actually landed on it. Crossing to the wide bed, he pulled the sunshine yellow duvet back to the foot. He was just arranging himself face-down on the emerald green sheets when he heard Blair start up the stairs.

Coming up to the bed, Blair placed a small cup of scented oil, along with a new tube of lubricant, on the bedside table. Then, he stood there for some moments, just staring in wonder at the bounty spread before him.

Curious at the lack of movement, Jim turned his head to look at his lover. "What are you doing, Chief?"

"Just looking." Quickly divesting himself of his clothes, Blair walked over to the bed. Resting one knee on the edge of the mattress, he ran a proprietary hand down the strong back presented to him. Voice as smooth as silk, he purred, "Just enjoying the sight of what's mine, all mine. Others may get glimpses of bits and pieces, but only I get to see all of it." Leaning down, he pressed a reverent kiss to the small of his lover's back, just above the swell of firm buttocks.

"Possessive little bastard," grumbled Ellison half-heartedly. Inwardly, however, he joyfully hoarded away each confirmation of the younger man's commitment. The words would soak into his soul, soothing and healing the dry, withered edges; completing him long after he'd resigned himself to always feeling empty.

"Yeah, I'm possessive," Blair agreed blandly, placing small, stinging bites along the curve of the tight cheeks. "I've never had much, Jim. Naomi taught me it was wrong to be so greedy; to want someone so totally and expect them to want you back. So I learned to make do with what I could get. But now, I've got it all. I've got the winning lottery ticket, the brass ring...I've got you."

Chest tightening with overwhelming emotion, Jim vowed thickly, "You've got me, babe; don't you ever doubt that. You've got me for as long as you want me."

"Then you'd better be making reservations in both our names at the nursing home." Moving up, Blair straddled the cop's narrow hips. "Because now that I finally have you, I'm not letting you go, man. Not ever."

"Good."

Smiling at the pure satisfaction Ellison invested in the one, short word, Sandburg leaned over and snared the cup of massage oil. Letting a small amount drizzle onto the tense back, he set the cup back on the bedside table before commencing a firm kneading of the broad shoulders.

"God, Chief; your hands should be listed as lethal weapons," groaned Jim, feeling his tension starting to drain away.

"We aim to please."

Quiet descended, broken only by Jim's occasional contented grunt as knot after stubborn knot disappeared under his lover's knowing hands. Continuing to smile as he worked, Blair leaned his weight into his strokes. Contrary as to how it would appear to any casual onlooker, the cop wasn't the only one being pleasured. Blair could never get enough of the feel of velvetysoft skin over rock-hard muscle; touching his lover was an addiction he had no wish to cure. He had spent many a happy hour massaging and stroking Jim's suede-smooth skin-from the expansive, hairless chest, down the perfectly sculpted abdomen, to the long, tapering legs and well-formed feet. Then there was the flip side with its wide, muscled back and taut, round buttocks. It was pure sensual delight to touch Jim and Blair always felt a pang of loss when he was forced to stop doing so.

Uncounted minutes passed. Then, rubbing a thumb into the ball of a strong foot, Blair gave a small laugh at sight of the man sprawled limply across the bed. "You all right there, Jim?"

"If I were any more all right, Chief, it be illegal." Ellison's words were muffled due to his face being buried in a pillow. Turning his head with great effort, he muttered, "I don't think there's a stiff muscle left in my entire body."

Blair affected massive disappointment. "Not one?"

Ellison gave a wide grin. "Well, there might be one," he conceded, rolling over to reveal a prodigious erection.

An answering grin on his face, Blair stooped and pressed his lips to the middle of the broad chest; then he gently rubbed his evening-stubbled face against it. Hearing Ellison's breath start to catch, he grinned again. Brushing his nose against Jim's right nipple, he kissed and nipped at it, re-learning its shape and texture. Long, luscious minutes later, he drew his cheek across the delve between muscular breasts and tongued the other nipple, feeling it out with his teeth, giving it a slight bite of invitation.

With a groan, Jim caught Blair's head in both hands, bringing him up to share tender, nuzzling kisses. Tongues dueled and stroked while seeking hands explored and claimed already-conquered territory.

"God, I love you," panted Blair, kissing Jim's shoulder and tonguing the slab-shape of his pectoral muscle.

"Not half as much as I love you," the Sentinel answered, breathless as the stroking hands began to interfere with his ability to think.

"Should we have a fight over who loves who more?" his Guide offered, milking the large shaft pressing eagerly against his thigh.

"Maybe later," Jim decided. He grabbed the beautiful face so he could once again devour those succulent lips.

Flipping the shorter man over so that he was lying against the green sheets, Jim nosed his way through the silky hair gracing the grad student's chest. Finding one rose-brown nipple, he bit at it gently, feeling it engorge with pleasure. Not wanting the other one to feel neglected, he languidly transferred his attentions to it. Soon it, too, was cherry-red and hard. Continuing his sensuous journey, Jim licked and nipped his way to the firm stomach. Reaching down, he grasped the hot, thick length of his lover's cock. Tracing the shape of it, he toyed with the helmeted head and tickled the sensitive underside. Breaking off kissing his lover's navel, he bent over and, with the tip of his tongue, collected the pearl of moisture leaking from the needy eye. He chuckled at the resultant moan.

"Christ!" Breathing unsteadily, Blair clutched at Ellison's head. He shivered violently as a knowing tongue teased his shaft, licking up and down the throbbing organ, dipping time after time into the eye to sip the salty fluid it wept.

Lifting his head, Jim reached out and grabbed the unopened lube. Taking off the lid, he squeezed a goodly amount onto his fingers. "Hey," he exclaimed, temporarily diverted. "This stuff is already warm!"

"It's new," gasped Blair, pulling up his knees to allow his lover better access. "It's supposed to self-warm upon contact with skin."

Jim shook his head over the wonders of modern life. "What'll they think of next?"

"Do you think you could get back to the matter at hand?" snarled Blair, balls tight and aching. "I'm in need of a little assistance here, man! Jim!"

Chuckling evilly, the cop laid a teasing kiss on the grad student's quivering stomach muscles. "Easy there, Chief," he rumbled. "Or I just might decide to finish reading my book, instead. I'm nice and relaxed now."

"You do that," Sandburg ground out, "and I'll...I'll..."

"You'll what, Chief?" pressed Jim, gently trailing a tickling finger across Sandburg's sensitive perineum.

"You're a Sentinel," Blair said between gritted teeth. "You'll zone sometime!"

Laughing delightedly, Jim squeezed more lube onto his fingers. "Should I take that as a threat?" He slowly rimmed the waiting hole with the silky fluid. The orifice soon opened, letting a searching finger slip inside.

"It's a fucking promise!"

Biting back another laugh, Jim said solemnly, "Then I guess I'd better get on with it."

Although his own balls were painfully knotted, Jim took his time making his lover ready to receive him. This act of intimacy was not uncommon between them, yet Jim remained determined to never cause Blair a moment's discomfort. Massaging the younger man's testicles with his free hand, he worked in two, then three fingers, carefully stretching the guardian muscle.

Finally certain Blair was ready, Jim shifted and drew the anthropologist's hips onto the slope of his thighs. "Okay, Chief?" he asked, sweat pouring down his face as he attempted to rein in the instinctive urge to just plunge into his mate.

"Just do it already!"

"I hear and obey, master," Jim replied tightly. Taking a deep breath, he slowly impaled his impatiently waiting lover.

"At fucking last," sighed Blair. "I thought I was going to go gray before you got it in there." He wrapped sturdy legs around Ellison's hips and strained upward.

Oddly enough, there were no fireworks this night. The gradual slide into orgasm was breathtaking, however; and Jim seemed to come for minutes on end. Just when he was sure he was on the brink, the shocks of pleasure dwindling, he would take a breath and the spasms would begin again. As he came, he felt the hard, jerking pulses of Blair's cock; felt the warm gush of his seed spreading between them. Their orgasms were only seconds apart and the sense of sharing was overwhelming.

An unknown amount of time later, Jim had recovered enough to mumble, "You okay?"

From where he was lying, starfished on the sheets, Blair returned the mumble. "Just peachy, thanks." Lifting a still-shaking hand, he laid it on the muscled forearm beside him. Rubbing the softly-furred appendage, he slurred, "That performance so totally deserves a reward. Give me a few minutes to catch my breath and I'll fix you a lovely dinner. I prepped it last night; all I have to do is cook it."

"Really?" Interest surging, Jim managed to raise his head. "What are you fixing?"

"Red-cooked chicken, wild rice with mushrooms and almonds, and ginger-infused sugar snap peas."

Taste buds already slavering in anticipation, Jim discovered the energy necessary to roll to his side. Propping his head up with one hand, he gazed expectantly at his lover.

<<<>>>

Stifling a yawn, Ellison stepped off the elevator early Wednesday morning and headed down the corridor toward Major Crime. Instead of immediately going through the double doors, he took a small detour into the break room. He'd already had two cups of coffee with his breakfast, but more caffeine was needed to jump-start his sleep-heavy brain that morning. The prior night had been short, but memorable. Grinning to himself, he poured a large mug of steaming, fresh coffee.

"That is one, smug smile you're wearing there, Ellison." The perky observation came from behind the big cop.

Having heard the other man come in, and recognizing the person's cologne, Ellison turned and gave an unperturbed grin. "Morning, Hanson. How's Life?"

Paul Hanson, thirty-four years old and a three year veteran of Major Crime, gave a grin and half-shrug as he reached for the coffee pot. "No new cases, thank god." Of medium height and slimly built, Hanson's cheerful face and clownish demeanor camouflaged a deadly-keen intellect. Always attired in designer clothes-be it suits or more casual wear-he and Rafe often held playful competitions as to which one could out-dress the other. The results of those contests frequently left the bullpen blinking. Fixing bright green eyes on his colleague, Paul said gleefully, "Looks like you must've had a good night. You might want to consider wearing a turtleneck the next time your, umm...partner...gets feisty."

Giving an uncommunicative shrug, Ellison just smiled blandly and lifted an eyebrow. "I'll keep that in mind." *If he was referring to the idea of me and Blair, it sure doesn't seem to bother him much. Better not tell Blair, though. He'd only panic, and I could be reading Hanson all wrong.*

Seeing that Ellison was refusing to rise to the bait, Hanson decided to switch focus. The gossipy cop was determined to win Central PD's pool of `Were They or Weren't They?' It had been going on for over a year now and the pot had risen to a very tidy sum.

"So where's Sandburg this morning?" he inquired, trying an end-run. "Exhausted and sleeping-in, is he?"

"It's Finals next week," Ellison replied easily. "He's at Rainier doing professor-type stuff."

"Oh." Hanson's face fell, then he recovered. "I took a call for you this morning from Ron Morrell over at Pinewood," he announced, brushing a thatch of thick, brown hair out of his eyes. "He said he was faxing over a list of Langstrom's employees and visitors. So who the hell is Langstrom? I thought you were working on the Benjamin Whittier thing."

Jim saluted the other detective with his coffee cup. "Thanks for the heads-up."

"C'mon, Ellison--give. What's this Langstrom got to do with you? If you're not working on the Whittier case, who is?"

Jim turned back at the break room door. He swallowed a smile at the frustrated look on the lean face; Hanson hated being out of the loop on anything. He decided to throw the other man a few crumbs. "Sandburg and I are working on a special project for Chief Warren. While we're taking care of that, Captain Taggart will be handling my case load; refer any questions or information about Whittier to him."

"Special project for Warren, huh? Don't suppose it has anything to do with those files locked in the conference room; the ones Captain Banks has labeled `Hands Off' to everybody in the bullpen?"

"I don't know--could it?" Ellison gave the balked detective another uninformative smile as he left the break room. He made no attempt to hide his grin at the disappointed whine which floated after him.

"Jesus, what's with all the fucking secrecy all of a sudden? Who're you investigating...the damn governor!?"

Still chuckling, Ellison entered the bullpen. He was halfway to his desk when he heard his name called.

"Yes, Rhonda?" he replied, changing course toward the tall blonde's desk.

"A fax came through for you from Detective Morrell over at Pinewood," she told him. "I put it with the files in the conference room, and Captain Banks wanted to see you when you got in."

"More damn paperwork," he muttered mournfully under his breath, envisioning long hours wasted at computer and phone work. And there's no reprieve, damn it, until Blair gets here around lunch time. Becoming aware of a slightly strained air, he hurriedly gave a belated smile and took the key to the room from her hand. "Thanks, Rhonda. You didn't have to go to all that trouble; I appreciate it."

The administrative assistant just snorted and waved him at Banks' office. He hastily took himself off, refusing to believe he'd heard her mumble to herself, "Thanks from Ellison? Blair must be rubbing off on him in more ways than I thought."

Knocking once on the office door, Jim opened it and stuck his head around the corner. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Oh, yeah, Jim." A large hand gestured the detective into the office. Looking up from his paper-covered desk, Banks declared, "Believe it or not, I've already had Chief Warren on my butt this morning. He wanted to know what progress, if any, has been made."

"Christ, only twenty-four hours on the case, and he honestly expects results?!" Ellison didn't attempt to mask his astonishment. He dropped into the chair in front of Banks' desk. "It must be a damn election year. Who the hell does he think I am...Superman? Three of those cases are years old!"

"It's your own damn fault for being so good at your job," Banks said unsympathetically. "So, do you have anything?"

Ellison made a face at his friend, who merely stared back at him expectantly. "There isn't much to go on," he mumbled reluctantly, "but, yeah, we're not exactly floundering in the dark, here."

"Three of those cases are years old!" echoed Banks, leaning back in his chair. He gave a triumphant grin and shook his head. "That answer, Jim my boy, is why you're in the running for Cop of the Year; and why Warren assigned you to this case."

"Well, Warren shouldn't count his chickens just yet," warned Ellison, ignoring the comment about the Cop of the Year award. It was a ongoing battle between him and Banks: when the current nominations had been announced, Ellison had obstinately refused to allow his name to be considered. Banks had flatly refused the refusal and there the matter hung. "I only said we're not entirely clueless. That doesn't mean Sandburg and I are ready to slap the cuffs on anyone in particular."

"Sandburg can't slap the cuffs on anyone, ever," retorted Simon, smile slipping slightly. Ellison's casual dismissal of their annual outing--just to be with Sandburg--still rankled. "He doesn't carry a badge and the only arrest he can legally make is a citizen's arrest and he'd damn well better not slap a pair on handcuffs on someone during one of those!"

"You know damn well what I meant," Jim growled. "I just don't want Warren thinking this thing is already halfway in the bag; it's not. Blair's come up with what could be the common denominator in these killings, but it still needs to be proven."

The smile completely left Banks' face. "Three of those cases have had thousands of man-hours put in by dedicated, hard-working cops. Sandburg does a quick read-through of the material and, miraculously, the cases are solved." Banks had acquired a decidedly cool tone to his voice.

"Simon, that's not fair, and you know it!" Jim objected heatedly. "There's been plenty of times Blair's theories have been correct. His ideas shouldn't be immediately discounted just because they seem to come from left field; his ability to `think outside the box' is what makes him so valuable around here. Hell, even Warren admits that!"

For a moment, genuine anger settled on Banks' face and he seemed about to snap back. Then, after taking several deep breaths, the police captain said moderately, "All I meant, Jim, was that, perhaps, you shouldn't go into this with the idea of proving Sandburg's theory is correct. I know you hate to hear this; but it's true: The kid is not a cop. He could be misreading the evidence or blowing something trivial all out of proportion."

"I saw the same facts, sir, and although I don't entirely agree with Blair's interpretation of them, the theory does have merit," Jim responded levelly, battling with his own irritation.

"He thoroughly evaluated everything in the files before forming his theory?" pushed Banks.

Ellison opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it.

"Detective Ellison, I would appreciate an answer." Banks' tone was every inch the police captain's.

"Sandburg saw all of the files, sir...all but the crime scene photos," Ellison reported stiffly. "He was willing to look at those, but I refused to let him."

"Now, why doesn't that surprise me?" Banks drawled sarcastically. "So, even though Sandburg knew he hadn't reviewed all the evidence presented, he still managed to come up with this case-solving theory?"

"His not having seen the photos is irrelevant, sir. I...we...still need to explore his idea--along with several others."

Noting the obdurate look on his detective's face, Banks knew it was useless to say anything further. Damn it, I knew this was going to happen, he fumed silently. *Jim said himself that he doesn't agree with what Sandburg proposed, but if it'll make the kid happy, Jim will do it. To hell with the fact that it's a waste of police department resources and time; whatever Sandburg wants, Sandburg gets.*

"I'll let you get back to your work, then, Detective," Banks said coldly. "I told Chief Warren that you would call him with an update when you got in. Don't forget to do so before you start chasing your...theories."

"Yes, sir," Ellison said curtly, getting to his feet.

As the door closed behind him, Simon realized that Ellison had never mentioned precisely what Sandburg's disputed theory entailed. *Hell, it doesn't matter. It's probably so far off the wall, it's ludicrous to even consider it might actually help solve this case.*

The police captain determinedly went back to his overflowing desk.

Fifteen minutes later, Ellison's annoyance with his captain had vanished. It had been superseded by the familiar exasperation of having to deal with publicly-elected authority figures and their unrealistic expectations. Muttering darkly to himself, the Sentinel rose from his desk and, draining the last of his now-cold coffee, decided he'd make a quick trip down to Forensics before he sentenced himself to the files awaiting him in the conference room. His attention turned inward, he automatically got on the elevator when the door opened. Thus, he had practically knocked Rafe through the car wall before he'd even realized his colleague was present.

"Sorry," he apologized perfunctorily, steadying the shorter man. "Didn't see you there."

"My fault, too; I should've been paying more attention to what I was doing." Leaning against the wall of the elevator, the other detective shyly grinned up at Ellison. "What were you thinking about so deeply?"

"Not thinking, so much as recovering," Jim clarified. "I've only been at work a little over half an hour and I've already had both Banks and Warren on my case."

"Oh, brother!" Rafe looked properly sympathetic. "I know why the captain's so grumpy; he got into work this morning and found out that his coffee pot had blown a fuse. He's reduced to drinking the same break room swill as the rest of us."

Ellison grunted in understanding. That does explain a few things.

"But why would Warren be on your back?" Rafe inquired. "Does it have anything to do with that special project he gave you and Sandburg?"

"Yeah, and it's a bitch of a case, too," sighed Ellison. "Four guys tortured to death in four years, and they only now made the connection."

"The Langstrom case? They think it's connected to three others?" Seeing Ellison look at him curiously, the younger detective said, "I read the papers, Jim; I saw where they'd found the body of Terence Langstrom on Monday morning out in Pinewood. The papers didn't say anything, however, about it being part of a serial killing."

"That's because--thank god for small mercies--the papers haven't made the connection between the four. Personally, I sincerely hope they continue onward in their blissful ignorance; this case threatens to be hairy enough without them horning in."

The elevator dinged to announce its arrival on the third floor. Reaching out an arm to hold the door open, Rafe said diffidently, "Look, I'm sort of between cases at the moment. If I can be of any help."

"Sandburg and I have it covered, thanks." Ellison disembarked and started down the hallway.

"All right, but my offer still stands!"

Ellison gave him a wave over his shoulder as he turned into the Forensics lab.

<<<>>>

Suddenly coming upright in his chair at the conference table, Ellison unknowingly let out a relieved sigh. Automatically tuning in to the familiar heart beat as it drew closer, the cop let his back and shoulder muscles relax. *I have been paroled.* The frazzled detective turned a beaming smile toward the door just as his partner breezed in, kicking the door shut behind him.

"Okay, how bad is it this time?" Sandburg queried resignedly, dropping his backpack onto the table.

Huh??? The cop stared at him, taken aback. "How bad is what?"

"The computer." Seeing that Ellison was continuing to frown at him in confusion, Sandburg explained, "That smile was way too big, man. There's no mountain of reports needing to be done, so it has to mean you've crashed, infected or otherwise fried, the computer. So, c'mon, Jim: Which one is it this time?" The grad student looked at the detective in anticipation, then transferred his gaze to the computer set up at the end of the table.

This could be fun. "I'll have you know, Sandburg," Ellison said huffily, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, "that it's none of the above."

"Really?" A look of wary disbelief flitted across the expressive face, closely followed by dark suspicion. "If it's not the computer, then what... Oh." Narrowing his eyes, Sandburg leaned toward his partner and pointed an admonishing finger at him. "I am not backing off and letting you work this case on your own!"

"Christ!" exclaimed Ellison, dropping his arms and staring, stunned, at the younger man. "When did paranoid and delusional become your world? Can't a guy just be happy to see his partner? Or is that too mundane for you?"

For several moments, Sandburg continued to glare stubbornly at the big cop then, slowly, his aggressive stance relaxed. "Honestly? You were just glad to see me?"

"Yeah." Ellison snorted and shook his head. Biting the inside of his cheek to keep the grin from showing, he groused, "God knows why, if that's the attitude I can expect."

"Oh, hey, man, no!" Scrambling to assuage his lover's bruised feelings, Blair grabbed both of Ellison's hands and held them tightly against his chest. "It's not your fault, Jim; it's mine," the grad student said earnestly. "I just need to broaden my expectations, you know; what with the paradigm shift in our relationship, and all. Give me time, okay? It's only been a few months."

Ellison couldn't help himself; one corner of his mouth twitched.

Sandburg noticed. "You asshole!" he complained, grin appearing in spite of himself. "What'd you do; sit here all morning, practicing your `poor little me' routine, instead of working on the case?"

"Nah, not all morning." Grinning widely, Ellison stretched upward and laid a quick kiss on the tip of the pert nose. "I did actually do some work."

"Oh, yeah?" Letting go of Ellison's hands, Sandburg dropped into a chair beside him. He inquired solicitously, "Wear yourself out fetching your own coffee?" The anthropologist fluidly ducked the predictable swat aimed at the back of his head.

"Brat." Glaring sternly at his unrepentant partner, Ellison said, "From now on, you can deal with Banks and Warren. That way, when they start yelling for results again, you can put that always-flapping tongue of yours to good use."

Sandburg stared at him, nonplused. "You mean, they're already expecting an arrest? Jeez, all but one of those cases are years old!"

"My response, exactly."

"So what did you tell them?"

"I told them that we'd discovered a couple of possible starting places and were going to go from there. That seemed to make them happy." Ellison didn't see the need to comment on Banks' weird mood. He'd known the big African-American for almost five years; when Simon was deprived of his preferred, special-blend coffee, he could fly off the handle over the simplest trifle. "Morrell faxed over a list of Langstrom's business associates, employees, and visitors. As far as a quick computer check shows, they're all your basic, upright citizens. I also stopped down in Forensics and picked up the wood samples from three of our vics."

"So what did you find? Anything unusual about them?"

Ellison shook his head. "I haven't checked them yet. Thought I'd better wait until you got here...in case I went too deep," he explained.

"Good point," Blair said thoughtfully. "You want to do that now? Then, maybe, we could do lunch before heading out to talk with people."

"Sounds good to me."

Ellison reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out three, small brown envelopes. Peeling back the red seal, he opened one and peered inside. "Hell, these pieces are tiny," he grumbled. "I don't know what you expect me to find on them."

"Jim, how many times do I have to tell you this?" Curls flying about his face as he shook his head, Blair lectured patiently, "With your abilities, size really doesn't matter. You should be able to get the same amount of sensory information from a small piece of evidence, as you would from a larger piece. If there is anything to be found, that is," he added hastily.

"There is that," Ellison said cynically. Pouring the contents of the first envelope into his palm, he lowered his head and took a deep sniff. Immediately, his head reared back and he grimaced. "Whew, that stinks!"

"What is it?" Blair asked eagerly.

Cautiously lowering his head again, Jim took another, smaller sniff. "Pine resin, kerosene, some creosote, maybe pine tar." He wrinkled his nose.

Snagging the empty envelope, Blair peered at the writing. "This is the sample found in Terence Langstrom's hair. Can you tell if the odors are fresh or not?"

"They smell strong, but I don't know if I'd call them fresh," Jim said slowly, taking another sniff. "There's still a lot of smell to them, but the wood itself feels slightly oily. If that stuff has actually seeped into the wood, the odors could hang around for years."

Blair quickly opened the other two envelopes. "See what you can get from these."

Ellison carefully poured the pile of small splinters back into its envelope and re-sealed it. Then, one at a time, he cautiously smelled each of the other two samples. Minutes later, he looked over at Sandburg. "They're each the same, Chief--pine resin, kerosene, creosote, with a little bit of pine tar. The smell's in the wood itself."

"So the splinters had to have come from some place where those products would have been around long enough, in large enough quantities, to allow it to seep into the walls or flooring," mused Sandburg.

"That's just great!" Ellison slumped back in his chair. "That really doesn't help much, does it? There are literally hundreds of warehouses in Cascade; add in the fact that it's probably an old, abandoned one because that sort of stuff hasn't been stored in bulk in years, and you'll probably have thousands of warehouses!"

"Well, we know it's not down by the docks," Sandburg commented briskly, busily re-sealing the last of the evidence envelopes. "You didn't pick up any trace of salt water."

"That should narrow it down to a couple hundred," Jim griped.

"Oh, I think the number won't be too high," reassured Blair, grinning. He moved to seat himself in front of the computer. "A fairly old warehouse, not down by the docks, used to store kerosene and pine products. Those parameters should, hopefully, narrow it down considerably. I'll just check with the city building permits office and see if they'll send us a list of those types of warehouses."

Ellison pushed back from the table. Grabbing the three envelopes, he said, "While you start the search, I'm going to take these back to Forensics. Meet you at the truck in fifteen."

"Sure thing, man." Sandburg started typing furiously.

<<<>>>

"Now where to?" questioned Blair, holding open the door for his partner. Kesselman's Deli had been a compromise between Ellison's desire for a `lunch with punch' and Sandburg's wish for something that `won't give me a coronary as I eat it'.

"Well, since we're on this side of town, let's pop over to Nunzio's apartment building. See what we can find out from his neighbors."

"If there are any at home," observed Sandburg, climbing into the Expedition. "It's only around two, most people are still at work."

"All we can do is check." Ellison started the vehicle's motor and waited for a break in the traffic. "Maybe we'll get lucky."

Or maybe we won't, he thought gloomily, some forty minutes later. He hid a sigh as he prepared to ring another doorbell. "Three people not at home...you could be right, Chief. We might have to do this later this evening."

At that moment, a tired female voice called through the closed door, "Yeah? Who's there?"

"Cascade PD, ma'am," responded Ellison, holding his badge up so it could be seen through the door's spyhole. "We'd like to ask you a few questions."

There came the sound of several locks being thrown, then slowly, the stout wooden door opened to reveal a tall, curvaceous, weary-looking woman in her mid-thirties. Her short blonde hair was standing on end, and she clutched a thick, pale green robe closely to herself. It didn't take a genius to realize she'd been sleeping when they'd rang the bell.

"I'm Jim Ellison, Cascade PD and this is my partner, Blair Sandburg." Ellison returned his badge to his jacket pocket and nodded at the woman. "Your name is.?"

"Kathryn Mansfield."

"Bit late to still be in bed, isn't it, Ms. Mansfield?"

The woman stifled a yawn behind her hand as she propped herself against the door jamb. "Not with my job." Staring rather blearily at the two men, she said, "I'm a paramedic, work out of the Forty Sixth Street station. I just got off duty at eleven, after a bitching twenty hour shift." Clearly fighting back another yawn, she mumbled thickly, "Now, what can I do for two of Cascade's finest?"

"Sorry," Ellison apologized sincerely. "I just need to know if you knew Mr. Emil Nunzio when he lived here? He was killed at the end of March, 1996, but some new evidence has since come to light."

Mansfield shook her head. "I hadn't moved into the building yet. I've only been here about five months."

"Thanks for your help, Ms. Mansfield. Sorry to have bothered you."

"No problem." She started to close her door, then stopped. "Hey, you might try Mae Winstead in 425. She's been here for ages, and I know she's home at this time of day."

"How do you know that?" put in Sandburg curiously.

The paramedic gave a half-grin. "Because she never misses Oprah, and today's show would've just finished."

Sandburg was still laughing, while Ellison was shaking his head, as they approached the door of Mae Winstead's apartment. From inside, the Sentinel could hear the low murmur of a television and the sound of someone moving around. Reaching out, he rang the door bell and waited patiently.

Moments later, the door opened and an elderly woman peered quizzically at them. "Yes?"

Ellison once again held up his badge as he introduced himself and Sandburg. While she carefully studied his shield, he gave her a quick, but thorough, look-over. Mae Winstead appeared to be in her mid to late eighties; she was four or five inches shorter than Sandburg and somewhat overweight. Her silver hair was combed neatly about her discreetly made-up face and she was dressed in a soft pink sweat suit.

"Oh, my," she exclaimed, finished perusing the badge. Backing up a few steps, she held the door open wider and gestured for them to enter. Once the men were inside, she shut the door and asked, "What on earth could the police want with me? I haven't had any speeding tickets since my son, Roger, made me sell my car!"

Biting back his chuckle, Ellison said, "I wanted to speak with you about someone who used to live down the hall; some new evidence has recently come to light in his case. Ms. Mansfield in 421 mentioned that you've lived in the building for quite some time."

"I've lived here for almost eleven years," she responded, leading the way into a tidy living room. Motioning for them to sit down, she switched off the television in the corner of the room before seating herself in an over-stuffed chair.

"That's good," said Ellison, sighing with relief. "We're inquiring about someone who lived here until the end of March, 1996."

"You must mean poor Emil." Mae shook her silvered head. "He really was such a nice man. It was a tragedy he was murdered, and so viciously, at that." A genuine sheen of tears glimmered in her faded blue eyes

"I take it you knew him well, then, Ms. Winstead?" questioned Ellison.

"You can use Mrs., Detective Ellison. I'm far too old to care about that politically-correct garbage. Emil was already living in 424 when I moved in; it was just after I'd lost my George. My two boys did the best they could, but they both still worked at that time and sometimes it was difficult for them to visit frequently. Emil was so sweet about helping out if some small thing needed fixing or replacing; I didn't even have to ask most of the time. Whenever he went to the grocery store for himself, Emil always asked if I needed anything. He used to clear my car off for me during the winter months...oh, numerous small, helpful things like that." She trailed off, sniffing a little.

Pulling a tissue from a box on the occasional table beside him, Blair handed it over to her. Mae gave him a brief smile as she blotted at her eyes.

"It sounds to me as if he were a truly good person," the anthropologist observed quietly.

"He was--a very good person." Mae's tone became almost hostile; she gave them both a hard glare. "I don't care if he was one of `those'; Emil was a good, decent human being!"

Exchanging a quick glance with his partner, Sandburg queried delicately, "One of `those', Mrs. Winstead?'

"I believe the proper term nowadays is `gay'." Mae sniffed and tossed her head. "Who the man slept with in the privacy of his own bedroom meant less than nothing to me and it shouldn't to anyone else, either! Emil Nunzio was a gentle, kind, hard-working man who never missed a day's work the entire eighteen years he'd worked at Donnelley's. Just because he preferred men doesn't mean he deserved to be murdered!"

"We so totally agree with you," Sandburg answered quickly. "Don't we, Jim?"

Thus appealed to, Ellison nodded. "I assure you, Mrs. Winstead," he said firmly, "the matter of Mr. Nunzio's sexual orientation makes absolutely no difference to us. All we care about is bringing his murderer to justice."

For several long moments, Mae Winstead stared intently at the two of them. Then she nodded. "Thank you."

"This...matter...wasn't in the police report," Jim stated tactfully. "You didn't mention it to anyone back then?"

"N-No, I didn't." Flushing, Mae looked down at her hands. "I'm sorry, Detective, but one hears such rumors." Expelling a deep breath, she glanced back up helplessly. "I was so afraid the police would stop looking for the killer if they knew about Emil's private habits. So I never mentioned a word."

"That's all right, Mrs. Winstead," soothed Ellison. "I can certainly understand why you would've felt that way."

Suddenly, Mae paled and her eyes widened. "Oh, dear!" she gasped, raising a shaky hand to her mouth. "You don't suppose that's why the police never caught that man? Because they didn't know about Emil's personal preferences?"

"I don't think anything of the sort," declared Jim, although that exact thought had already run through his head. *It's over and done with, no reason to dwell on what ifs and maybes. Now you know...run with it.* "Can you think of anything else you didn't mention at the time? Anything, no matter how insignificant it might appear?"

"No, not really," Mae said slowly, brow creasing in thought. "Not right off hand, at any rate."

"Did you happen to see any of his `friends'?" Sandburg asked gently. "Did he have a lot or.?"

"He dated, but it wasn't what I would call excessive," answered the elderly woman. "Certainly not as many as my one grandson--a different woman every night, that boy!" Tsking over the wayward relation, Mae remarked, "I kept hoping Emil would find that one, special person like I had with my darling George. At the end there, I really had my hopes up; such a nice boy, that one seemed to be. Who knows what could have happened if they'd had enough time?" She gave a sigh of regret and shook her head.

"So he had a boyfriend?" inquired Ellison. "Did Mr. Nunzio talk to you about him?"

"Oh, my, yes." Mae gave a sad-sounding laugh. "Emil used to call me his `make-believe Mom'. His poor mother, the shock of Emil's death was just too much for her; she died less than two weeks after him. Anyway, Emil always said he could tell me things he would never dare tell her. I gathered she was an extremely religious woman, so he could never, well, you know." When both men nodded, she went on, "I know Emil really liked this young man. They went out two or three times a week to the movies or dinner."

"Do you recall if Mr. Nunzio gave you a name for this man?"

Frowning deeply, Mae said, "The only name I can remember is Jeff, I'm afraid. If I ever knew his last name, I've forgotten it." She looked over at the men apologetically.

"That's all right, Mrs. Winstead." The cop hid a sigh. "Did you ever see this Jeff?"

"Well, I only saw him a few times, but I remember he was a bit younger than Emil, had dark hair and was slender and he always dressed well, even when he was wearing blue jeans."

"Do you recall how tall he was?" urged the detective.

The elderly woman frowned again in concentration. "No, not really. Oh, wait!" Blue eyes brightening, Mae said, "I saw them come in together late one evening and Jeff's head was almost on a level's with Emil's; so he wasn't all that tall. Emil was only five foot ten, or so."

Standing, Ellison held out his business card. "Thank you, Mrs. Winstead. You've been a great help."

Taking the small card, Mae asked, "Do you suppose you'll ever find out who did that dreadful thing to Emil?"

"I wish I could promise you that we will, ma'am, but I can't," Ellison answered honestly as she walked with them to the door. "But I can tell you this: I'm not going to give up, no matter how long it takes."

She gave him a sharp look, then nodded her head. "You know, Detective Ellison; I believe you."

As the men were leaving, Jim turned back. "I'm not trying to be rude, Mrs. Winstead." The cop's voice was soft, but firm. "But you did a very foolish thing a bit ago."

"What was that, Detective?" she asked, puzzled. Blair, too, looked confused for a moment, then his face cleared and he nodded in agreement.

"You opened this door to a couple of complete strangers without either first looking through the spyhole, or calling out to find out who it was. That wasn't very safe, ma'am," Jim reproved gently. "We could've been anyone trying to gain access to you and your apartment."

To the two men's astonishment, the elderly widow just laughed. "It must be a male characteristic; my sons are forever yelling at me about the same thing. I know I should check first, boys, but there's a couple of problems with doing so." She held up a staying hand as Sandburg opened his mouth. "Firstly, the silly hole is too high for me, and I can't get the darn building superintendent to lower it. I've been asking for years and there always seems to be something else that takes priority. Secondly, my hearing isn't as good as it once was; I just can't seem to understand people when they talk through the door."

"Excuse me, please," Jim said tersely. He turned away and strode down the wide hall.

Sandburg watched him go with a small smile on his face. He glanced over to see the older woman watching his partner, eyes wide in surprise.

Blair gave the woman a confiding smile. "You know where he's going, don't you?"

She smiled back. "I take it he's not normally that abrupt, then?"

"No, not really." Blair's grin widened as he said, "Jim's down in the basement, pounding on the superintendent's door and demanding that he get up here and lower that spyhole for you."

Mae's mouth fell open. "You must be joking!"

"Nope." Blair shook his head. "I know Jim Ellison; he doesn't like anybody being put to unnecessary risks. Plus, call him old-fashioned if you want, you just happen to be a nice, older lady."

As he was speaking, Ellison reappeared at the top of the service stairs. Scuttling nervously behind him was a skinny, balding man in grease-stained overalls.

"Oh, my goodness." Mae Winstead's jaw dropped again.

"Umm, hi, Mrs. Winstead," squeaked the newcomer in a thin tenor. Casting a worried eye at the large detective hovering in the background, the man asked tentatively, "Is...is now a good time to re-do that spyhole for you? I mean, I don't wanna bug you if you're busy and all."

"Now would be just fine, Mr. Slater," Mae said graciously, valiantly controlling her smile. "Thank you very much."

"No problem, no problem at all," babbled Slater. "I just gotta, umm, just gotta go fetch my tools, ya know?" He gave brief, spastic grin. "Be right back, okay?"

Watching him practically fly back toward the stairs, Blair bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud.

"Thank you, Detective," Mae said, blushing slightly. "That was very sweet of you."

"No thanks necessary, Mrs. Winstead." As usual, Ellison seemed uneasy with praise. Shuffling his feet a little, he mumbled, "You've got my card; let me know if that idiot doesn't do the job right."

"I will." The elderly woman smiled. "I'll also call if I think of anything else about Emil."

"Yeah, you do that." Giving her a nod, Ellison headed for the stairs again. "Let's go, Chief."

"See you, Mrs. Winstead," called Sandburg as he sprinted for the stairs.

He clattered down the steps after his partner, who had gone ahead. Re-joining the cop at the first floor landing, the grad student waved at the toolladen superintendent heading back up to the fourth floor. "Wonder why, with all those heavy tools, he isn't using the elevator?"

Looking up at Ellison, Blair had just opened his mouth when the cop snarled, "I don't want to hear it, Sandburg!"

"Hear what, man?" teased the anthropologist, tossing the embarrassed cop a mischievous grin as they left the apartment building. "Hear that I know you're full of mush, especially for sweet, elderly ladies like Mae Winstead?" He shook his head and gave a fake sigh of dismay. "What would your Ranger trainers say if they heard about this? Tsk, tsk."

"Zip it, small fry, and I mean it," threatened Ellison, unlocking the Expedition's driver's side door. "Or else."

"Or else what?" Sandburg asked interestedly.

Pausing in the act of getting in, Ellison said sourly, "Or else I don't unlock your door and you can just walk home from here."

"Never happen, man." The anthropologist shook his head confidently.

"Oh?" growled the detective, half in, half out, of the SUV. "I wouldn't push your luck if I were you, short stuff."

If anything, Sandburg's grin just spread.

Ellison glared at him. "Sure of yourself, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I am." An infuriating grin on his face, Blair sashayed up to the passenger door of the Expedition. "I know you'd never leave someone to walk, for miles, through some not-so-nice neighborhoods, especially when, look..." He held out a flat palm. "It's starting to rain." Blair shook his head. "You wouldn't do that to someone you dislike, let alone to someone you love." The grin stretched into a dazzling smile.

Mumbling under his breath, Ellison reluctantly reached across the SUV's passenger seat and unlocked the door. As the grad student slid into the vehicle, Ellison shut his own door with a slam. "Remind me again why I love you?"

Sandburg laughed and turned up the wattage of his smile. "Do you want the complete list, or just the condensed one?" He laughed again at the poisonous glare thrown his way. "Face it, Jim; your cover is blown. You might as well admit it: Big Jim Ellison has a huge soft spot for little old ladies and short, hairy anthropologists."

"Lucky for you, I do," grumbled Ellison. Coasting to a stop at a light, he changed the subject. "Pull out Taylor's file and check for his home address, will you, Chief? Since we have to drive through Bayside Heights to get to Pinewood, we might as well do some snooping there, first."

"Sure thing, man." Reaching down into a small box that rested on the truck's floorboard beside his feet, Blair pulled out the required file. Squinting at the pages in the muted light, he read, "Uh, we need 3745 Morris Street, apartment number sixty-two." Replacing the file in the box, he asked, "So what do you think about what Mrs. Winstead said?"

"I think it's a bit too early to go jumping to conclusions," said Ellison, turning left onto Pacific Beach Road. "But you were right about Nunzio, at least."

"Just you wait, man," Sandburg said cockily, glancing out the window on his right as the rain started to fall in earnest. "Blair Sandburg is never wrong about people." At Ellison's snort of disbelief, he protested, "It's true! Just tell me one time I was wrong. You can't, can you?"

"As someone--who shall remain nameless--just said: Do you want the complete list, or just the condensed one?" mocked Ellison.

Sandburg stuck his tongue out at him.

"Oh, that's real mature, Chief."

"Just you wait, Jim," Blair said smugly. He returned his gaze out his window. "I shall be proven correct. Again."

"Yeah, sure. Time will tell, Junior."

An hour and fifteen minutes later found them once again heading back to the Expedition. Or rather, Ellison was stalking toward it; Sandburg was still doing the Ibutu victory dance back at the bottom of the sagging wooden staircase that led to a depressingly dilapidated apartment building.

Holding one hand to his ear, the grad student yelled, "What's that I hear, Jim? An apology?" His self-satisfied grin threatened to split his face. "Get in the damn truck, Sandburg," shouted Ellison. "It's getting ready to rain again, and this isn't the place to be standing around, goofing off-- particularly when it's getting dark." Although it was only just approaching six o'clock, the lowering clouds had robbed the city of several hours of daylight.

Glancing nervously around him when he heard a sudden clanging sound, Sandburg made a dash for the Expedition. Crawling in, he'd barely shut his door before Ellison was pulling away from the curb.

"Grump all you like, man," crowed the younger man, not all fazed at the glowering scowl sent his way. "But I'm right, and you know it. All four of those men were gay."

"Two of those men were gay," Ellison corrected snappishly. "That's not all of them. I refuse to jump to conclusions without solid evidence."

"Keep basking in your illusions," Blair said serenely. "But I know I'm right."

"What you are is wet," shot back Ellison.

Confused by that non sequitur, Blair peered down at himself. "No, I'm not, Jim. I got in the truck before it started to rain again."

Ellison made a sharp left turn and pulled into the parking area of a small gas station-cum-convenience store. Looking over at the bewildered grad student, he said, "I'm thirsty, and this is my truck. You may not be wet now, but soon." The cop glanced meaningfully out the window.

"Oh, man." Sandburg groaned and grabbed the door handle. "You know, Jim; being a poor loser is not a positive character trait."

Watching until the other man had entered the small building, Ellison's grin died as he reached for the box of files. Pulling one out, he flipped it open, scanning its contents. A frown drawing at his brows, he slid his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and dialed.

The detective had just closed his phone when he noticed his partner running toward the truck. By the time Sandburg reached it, Ellison had his door open for him.

"Thanks, man," gasped Blair. "I think it's a monsoon out there." Handing the older man his bottle of water, he grabbed a handful of his long hair and twisted. He then opened his own bottle of water, starting to shiver in the cool air.

Without saying a word, Ellison turned on the heat in the truck. As the first tendrils of blessed warmth wafted through the vents, the cop said quietly, "I don't like it, Chief; I don't like it at all."

Sandburg blinked at him. "Like what, Jim?"

"You were right." As the anthropologist just sat there and stared blankly at him, Ellison confessed, "About our victims, I mean. I just got off the phone with Lawrence Shum, one of Douglas Adler's uncles. He wasn't happy about telling me, but it seems good old Doug had a thing for men."

"Oh." Instead of looking triumphant, Blair just looked thoughtful. "Did he say anything specific?"

"Only that Doug described his last boyfriend as slender with dark hair and that he went by the name of Jeff."

Sandburg choked on his water. "Oh, man!" Catching his breath, he looked anxiously at Ellison. "That's quite a coincidence, isn't it? Both Nunzio and Adler having known a dark-haired, slender guy with the name of Jeff? Could this guy be our killer?"

"I'd like it better if we could've gotten more confirmation about Taylor's love life, beyond the simple fact that he was gay," Jim muttered, thinking furiously.

Blair snorted and shook his head, not noticing the tiny drops of rain which went flying. "Man, we were lucky to get even that much from those people! That sort of environment does not make for close and friendly neighbors. I bet the only reason that one guy knew about it is because he probably tried to beat the shit out of Daniel for it." Sandburg shivered again, this time in remembrance of the hulking, scarred man they'd encountered back at Taylor's apartment building.

"You're probably right, Chief, but that's rather moot at the moment." Jim sighed as he finished his water. "What is pertinent is that there's a serial killer focusing on gay men in this city. We have to stop him, before he kills some other poor guy."

"I'm so down with that." Blair thought for a couple of minutes, then asked, "Shouldn't we attempt to find out for sure about Langstrom? I mean, like you said earlier, we probably shouldn't jump to conclusions--particularly about something as socially controversial as this."

"Yeah, we should." Ellison glanced down at his watch and sighed again. "It's almost six pm, Chief; Langstrom's business will have closed by now. There might be an off-hour shift, but we really need to talk with the upper echelon. Let's tackle that one in the morning, all right?"

"Whatever you say, man; you're the expert here."

They had been riding along in companionable silence for several minutes before Sandburg asked, "Jim, do you think that's why he did it?"

Ellison glanced over at him. "Is that why who did what, Chief?"

"Do you think the killer targeted these guys just because they were gay?" clarified Sandburg.

"It stands to reason, doesn't it?" Keeping his attention on the rain-slick road and rush hour traffic, Ellison continued, "I don't care for the idea any more than you do, but I think it's rather obvious why those men were murdered. Those four guys weren't just killed, Chief; they were tortured and mutilated, especially sexually. Whoever did this was making a point."

"A point about what?"

"Who knows? If we knew that, we'd be one step closer to stopping this bastard."

More quiet moments passed, then Sandburg again broke his silence. "This is kind of weird, I know, but I'm glad."

Ellison looked at him, frowning. "Glad about what?"

"That it's us." Voice trailing off, Blair bit his lip for a moment, then went on, "I know this case is already turning into a headache for you, and I know it could explode in your face if the press ever gets wind of it, but I'm glad that you--that we--got assigned to solve it. It's only fair, you see. Right." He looked worriedly at the other man, desperately hoping his lover understood what he was trying to say. He relaxed when Ellison smiled at him.

"You know, Chief; you're correct again. It is right that we be the ones to catch this maniac."

<<<>>>

Blair cursed under his breath as an uniformed officer, in a hurry to leave the Major Crime bullpen, rushed past him and almost knocked the full backpack off his shoulder. "Shit, this is a police station; you'd think they'd have speed laws in here."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" came a familiar voice.

Looking around, Blair smiled as he greeted the two detectives. "Hey, Rafe, Paul. How are you guys this fine Thursday morning?"

"Can't complain," answered Rafe.

Hanson just grinned and shrugged. Coming up to the grad student, he made a show of looking around him. "So where's your better half? Don't tell me Ellison stayed in bed and sent you in to work for him?"

"Oh, yeah, sure," laughed Sandburg. "Nah, Jim's still down in the garage, talking with Sergeant Wu about the Mariners game. He sent me on ahead to see if there was anything new on his desk."

"Still working on the Langstrom case?" queried Rafe.

Blair looked at him, eyebrows raised. "How'd you know about that, man?"

"Jim and I were discussing it yesterday in the elevator." Rafe shrugged. "I told him I was between cases."

Before Blair could say anything, Rhonda called his name and thrust more papers at him.

"The city building permit office faxed this over yesterday afternoon after you and Jim had left," she explained. "It's that list of warehouses you requested."

"Warehouses?" Hanson asked. "Why are you looking up warehouses?"

File box under one arm, Ellison suddenly appeared beside Sandburg.

"A night out on me, Chief; I just won fifty bucks off Wu." He playfully tugged at Sandburg's ponytail. Then, spotting papers in the younger man's hands, asked, "What's that you've got?" He nodded a `hello' at his fellow detectives.

"That list of warehouses from city records," responded Sandburg. He looked up with a grin. "See, I told you it wouldn't be in the hundreds. I think there's only about a dozen listed."

"That's still about eleven more than I care for," retorted Ellison, reaching for the papers and running an assessing eye over the information. "Let's just lock this in the conference room with the files," he suggested. "We can go over it better after we've talked with Langstrom's executives."

"I'm still between cases, Jim," Rafe stated eagerly. He nodded at the box of files. "I can start on the warehouses while you and Blair are out doing your thing."

"Thanks, but no thanks." Ellison shook his head. "Warren would have my ass if I palmed this case off on anyone else."

"Yeah, sorry, Rafe," added Sandburg. "We really appreciate the offer, man, but no can do."

"All right." Rafe gave a small, tight smile. The two fashion-plate detectives headed for Hanson's desk.

"I'm definitely going to have to have a talk with Simon about that boy," Ellison muttered in Sandburg's ear. Dropping the list of warehouses into the file box, he placed his free hand in the small of the grad student's back to start him moving.

"What do you mean?" Blair looked up at him curiously as he automatically negotiated the crowd in the corridor.

"If Rafe has enough spare time that he can keep offering to help us with this mess, he can obviously handle a heavier case load," declared Ellison as they reached their destination. He dug the conference room key out of his pocket; he'd forgotten to leave it with Rhonda when they'd left the previous afternoon. Unlocking the door, he ushered his partner in.

"It's obvious, Jim, that he really respects and admires you," observed Sandburg as Ellison put the box of files on the table. The detective slid the piece of paper with Langstrom's list of executives into his pocket. "I just hope we didn't offend him by refusing his help, man. He didn't look any too happy."

"He'll get over it," dismissed Ellison, re-locking the door behind him. "C'mon, Chief; let's get cracking. I want to catch Langstrom's upper echelon before they've had time to scatter to their golf courses or five-martini lunches."

"But it's only eight-thirty in the morning!" Blair pointed out.

"I know. That's why we have to move it."

The younger man gave him an aggravated glare, but hurried to catch up, regardless.

Watchful, wary eyes stared after them.

<<<>>>

It was two discouraged men who desultorily climbed into the Expedition around noon.

"I can't believe that stonewall, man," Sandburg said, disappointed. "To listen to those guys, Terence Langstrom was a virile, All-American male who would never have dreamed of looking at another man in anything less than a Christian manner. Can you believe that one guy's lame response when you asked why Langstrom didn't have a girlfriend?"

"'Terence would not have dated any woman until he felt he wished to marry her. He was old-fashioned in that respect'." Ellison beautifully imitated the precise, faux British upper-class accent affected by Langstrom Pharmaceuticals' Chief Financial Officer. The detective shook his head disgustedly. "What a crock of bullshit. He wouldn't date a woman until he felt enough to marry her; but how the hell could he learn to love her unless he dated her first?!"

"As you said, man--pure bullshit." Sandburg slumped back against the seat. "We had it too easy with the first three," he announced abruptly, looking over at his partner. "We should've expected something like this."

"Yeah, we should've," agreed Ellison. "Langstrom was a successful businessman, founder of an up and coming company with over a thousand employees. Of course, his management staff is going to whitewash any hint of a scandal. The employees, themselves, probably never knew him well enough to have an idea one way or another."

"If they even knew what he looked like," Sandburg said dejectedly. "So where do we go from here, man?"

"We go to lunch," the cop said decisively. "It's almost twelve, and I'm starved."

"So what else is new?"

Ellison started up the engine and backed out of the parking slot. "Just for being that way, I get to chose where we eat."

"Great, a perfect end to a perfect morning; constipated arteries on top of constipated witnesses."

Jim managed to stop the laugh from escaping, but his lips did slide upward.

Halfway through his double WonderBurger with all the fixings, the detective suddenly stopped chewing and froze.

"What is it? You hear something?" Sandburg mumbled thickly around a large bite of his own burger. Healthful protests aside, Ellison had noticed that the anthropologist had managed to inhale all of his own french fries and, subsequently, had to be forcibly restrained from making sneak attacks on Ellison's.

Ellison made a manful attempt to swallow his partially-chewed mouthful. When he was finally able to speak, he said, "I just thought of something. Who's the one person who would know who Langstrom saw socially, yet wouldn't be constrained by the need to protect the company?"

After frowning at him for a few minutes, Sandburg shook his head. "Okay, I give up. Who?"

"The security guard at his front gate," the cop declared smugly.

Jaw dropping, the younger man gave his partner a look of stunned admiration. "That's an excellent idea, Jim!" he said sincerely. Then his eyes darkened. "That is," he warned, "if this guy will even talk to us. Do we know where he is?"

"He's still at the Langstrom house until the estate is settled. And don't worry about it, he'll talk to us," Jim finished confidently, resuming his meal.

Staring at him warily, Sandburg said, "I can tell I'm going to hate myself for asking this, but why are you so positive this rent-a-cop will talk to us?"

"Chief, I'm surprised and shocked." Jim shook his head in exaggerated disbelief. "You've read the file. I can't believe you missed this."

"Missed what?" Blair's skepticism had segued into open suspicion.

"This guy is not your average rent-a-cop. The security guard's name is Carlos Salazaar."

"So?" There was a wealth of pure impatience in the word.

"So Carlos Salazaar is the father of Detective Sergeant Manuel Salazaar, who happens to work Narcotics out of Central."

Sandburg debated on whether to stick his tongue out at the complacent man, but decided against it as they were in a public place.

Snickering gleefully under his breath, Ellison tranquilly continued devouring his lunch.

<<<>>>

Forty-five minutes after leaving WonderBurger, the Expedition cruised slowly along a discreet brick drive, coming to a rest next to a small stone building flanking a pair of large, ornate wrought-iron gates. A tall, stout man, dressed in a gray uniform shirt and trousers came out of the building as the truck came to a halt. Pausing briefly to place his black uniform cap onto his bald head, he met the visitors as they were exiting the SUV.

"Can I help you?" The Hispanic accent was very pronounced.

"Carlos Salazaar?" questioned Ellison, retrieving his shield from his jacket pocket.

"Yes." The security guard looked closely at the badge. "More police, eh? So what happened to that other guy...Morrell, I think his name was."

"At the request of our superiors, I've been assigned as lead investigator on Mr. Langstrom's case," explained Ellison. "I'm Jim Ellison of Major Crime, and this is my partner, Blair Sandburg."

"Ellison?" The older man's sharp brown eyes looked the cop over. "I've heard of you; according to my son, you're a whiz at solving the hard ones."

"Manny exaggerates," Ellison said uncomfortably. "I'm no different than any other hard-working cop."

"We'll see," Salazaar said cryptically. "So, what can I tell you that wasn't in my report?"

Some deep instinct made Ellison ask flatly, "Was Terence Langstrom gay?"

For several tense minutes, a charged silence crackled between the two men then, surprisingly, Salazaar let out a bark of genuine laughter. "Manny was right about you." He took off his cap and ran a hand over his polished skull. "This murder just might get solve