The Sentinel Slash Virtual Season (SVS) is based on characters and concepts developed by, and belonging to, Pet Fly Productions. The episodes of SVS are intended for private, personal enjoyment only. No money is being made, or will be allowed to be made, by any of the SVS authors or by FiveSenses, Inc. from the writing and distribution of these episodes. Any original characters introduced in an SVS episode belongs to the episode author and to FiveSenses, Inc. and should not be used without their permission.

A Note from FiveSenses: Thanks to DiDanaan for the much appreciated contribution in beta reading this story.

Notes on Safe Sex: Episodes of SVS may contain depictions of consensual m/m sex. These depictions may or may not be accompanied by specific mention of items necessary for safe and healthy intercourse. It is the intention of FiveSenses, Inc. and all SVS authors that, even when such items are not explicitly mentioned, their use is to be assumed as a matter of course. All of us at FiveSenses, Inc. are aware of the risks of unprotected sex in today's world and strongly advocate the practice of safe sex, including the use of condoms and other protective devices.

This story is a sequel to: SVS02-02: Sky

Author's Note: If you're squeamish about corpses in an indelicate state of preservation, you might have a problem.

Author's E-mail: Corbeau47@aol.com

Author's Webpage: none

INTO THE WOODS
by Corbeau

Something was wrong. No, that wasn't quite accurate... not wrong, really, just... odd. Unusual. Blair's half-awake brain ambled along for once instead of sprinting. It was sure that the body that carried it around wasn't in danger -- for once -- so it wasn't in any tearing hurry to analyze the sensory data that made their way headward with increasing frequency. Nice big soft bed, the one at home. Good. Nice big hard body in close proximity. Better. Messages from the optic nerves came in a rush as an eyeball cracked open and quickly shut. Big hard Jim-body... even better. Best. So what was the problem...

"Hey, Jim, you won't believe this -- it's sunny again!"

"No shit, Einstein." Jim stretched luxuriantly and traded the pleasures of watching Blair sleep for those of watching him rev up for the day. "Daydreaming in those astronomy classes, were you? Sun comes up every morning. That's more or less the definition of morning."

"Not in Cascade, it isn't. Not at this time of year. The average number of clear days this whole month is five, do you know that? And this makes the fourth in a row. It's weird. And the sun doesn't come up in the morning, the Earth rotates."

"Picky, picky." Jim started sucking his partner's ear lobe. "Can I help it if your presence drives me to figurative language? Next thing you know, I'll be spouting poetry."

"Oh sure... something along the lines of, There once was a Guide from Nantucket..."

Jim laughed and gathered Blair into his arms. "Don't tempt me. I know a few that will curl your hair even more than it is already."

"Yeah, but I know them in at least three languages. Not counting English."

"I know a few in languages even you probably haven't heard of... but if I taught them to you, I'd have to kill you."

"Uh-huh. Like there are limericks in Quechua." Deciding that meteorological and/or literary discussion could wait until later, Blair concentrated on kissing the man beside him until his hair, such as it was, curled. "Morning, love."

"And a very good morning it is, my amorous linguist. But much as I'd like to carry this further, we'd better get moving if we're going to get all the way out to Ravenhill to interview Mr. Vanderbeek."

"Why, what time is it?" Blair answered his own question by lifting his head over the mountainous landscape of his bedmate's chest to squint at the clock on the nightstand. "Shit!" He sat up abruptly and swung his legs over the side of the bed, groping for socks. "Why didn't you wake me up sooner? We're never going to have time to check in at the station and get all the way out to Ravenhill on time. That's as far as you can go and still be in Cascade. Simon will have a cow."

Jim reached out, rubbing Blair's shoulder as he rose to join the younger man. "Relax. You were up way too late last night working on your diss; you needed the extra sleep. I already took my shower, then called Simon and told him we'd go out to Ravenhill first thing and check in at the PD after the interview. If we get moving, we'll have plenty of time to get out there and even grab breakfast on the way."

Blair twisted his hair up high on the back of his head, almost simultaneously wrapping a band around it with the ease of long practice. "We are not going to Wonderburger so you can get that thing with a fried egg on it. That's obscene, man. Food porn."

"Oh ye of little faith," Jim intoned solemnly. "I was thinking of lemon honey pancakes and turkey sausages at Raven's Roost. It's on the way."

"Ah, that's more like it! In that case, I'll forgive you for trying to chastise me using the New Testament. Pretty pointless, that." Blair headed down the stairs at a trot.

Jim called after him, "Babe, chastising you is pretty pointless no matter what text I use. Doesn't stop you for a minute."

Blair reached the bathroom door and said quietly, "Not when I'm protecting my Sentinel from his own worst instincts it doesn't." No use hollering when it wasn't necessary -- having a Sentinel as your life partner was easy on the vocal cords. As he turned on the water and adjusted the temperature, Blair began mentally cataloguing all the other advantages. Never worrying if the smoke alarm or CO2 detector had a dead battery. Being able to concentrate on your work while the TV was on, too low for normal human hearing. Having someone with you at the Farmers' Market who always knew which fruits were exactly ripe and which had passed their peak. Having a lover who knew every button to press, and just how hard to press it, and when...

Oops. Better not go there. An offering to the porcelain god had taken care of his morning erection, but he'd better derail his train of thought right now or the Little Anthropologist would be back with a vengeance. He showered quickly, careful to keep his hair away from the spray. Living with a Sentinel had always had its moments, but the past year or so with this particular Sentinel had become the best of his life. That memorable night, the night he had walked in on Jim's declaration of love to his videotaped image, everything had changed. Although... in some ways nothing had changed. He was still juggling Rainier, and the PD, and being Jim's Guide. Granted, there weren't quite so many balls in the air as there used to be. Not teaching on a regular basis was a relief, time-wise, but strange. It kept him from getting to know the new TAs that well, and most of those he had known had graduated and scattered all over in search of jobs. He was still working on his diss, and he thought it would be a decent piece of research... but somehow, it would never be the real diss. He was still working with Jim at the PD, in his familiar but irregular, "you're-not-a-cop-Sandburg" way. At least he was getting paid now. On the surface, business as usual. But what about... nope, don't go there. Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof. Oops, New Testament. What the heck, what Jim didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Half an hour later they were on the road, heading west, two commuter cups of coffee warming Blair's hands. He didn't mind being a human cup holder, and given their luck while in motor vehicles, Blair wanted both of Jim's hands on the wheel. Besides, every time Jim wanted a drink, the cup holder in question got a smile, and a caress or two along his fingers, as the coffee was taken from his hand and replaced. Not a bad way to spend a morning, even a rainy one -- and this one was bright and sunny, with a promise of a high temp creeping into the seventies. Bizarre. Not unheard of, though. Blair remembered a time -- several years before he'd met Jim -- one fall day that even hit the eighties and tied some decades-old record. It wasn't that warm now, but it seemed unnatural all the same. Naomi Sandburg's boy seemed to attract cold and wet, despite his preference for warm and dry. He knew he'd pay for this; it was probably the misleading harbinger of a winter that would look familiar to Noah.

Well, what the hey, he'd enjoy it while he could. It was a nice change not to be spending time in the depths of a library, or hunched over his laptop at home, or hunched over Jim's computer in the bullpen. Wonder if the man still remembered how to write a report? In between turning his head to return the smile every time he felt the touch of his lover's hand, Blair enjoyed the view.

Crowded city blocks gave way to wider suburban streets, houses getting farther apart as they moved outward like stars in an expanding universe. Eventually they pulled into the parking area of a log building with a beautifully crafted totem pole in the front yard and a Haida carving of Raven above the door. Over the promised pancakes and sausage, Blair and Jim reviewed the case, discussing what they hoped to find out from Mr. Vanderbeek and how best to go about asking.

"Now that," Blair said with satisfaction, "was a productive interview."

"Sure was," Jim agreed, as he meandered slowly down the long driveway, back to the road. "I knew that bastard Forrest was lying about his past history with the victim, and Vanderbeek just confirmed it. You did a good job getting him to relax and trust us."

"It's my non-threatening exterior. That, and years of practice with a certain Sentinel. If you get shot again and need blood, I could probably get some out of a turnip for you."

"Very funny."

"Do you think he'll have to testify? I can see now why we came all the way out here to talk to the guy instead of having him come to the station."

"Yeah, it must be hard to travel with the wheelchair and the oxygen tank. I bet when Forrest's lawyer finds out about this, he'll talk his client into a plea bargain -- although I hate to see that slimeball convicted under a lesser charge."

"Yeah, well, this is too nice a day to think about slimeballs. Wish we could play hooky and spend it outdoors. I just know as soon as this good weather is over it's gonna rain for forty days and nights straight."

Jim leaned back into the seat, relaxed, one arm resting on the window opening. "Yeah, it's nice out here. Hard to believe we're still in Cascade. We don't get called out here too often -- sometimes I forget Ravenhill's even in our jurisdiction. It's almost too bad the crime rate's so low. By Cascade standards, anyway."

"Yeah it beats crack houses and alleys that smell like pissoirs. It's days like this that make me wish we could get paid to spend more time outdoors in nice places. I wonder, could you still be an effective Sentinel if you were a landscape architect, say? Or a mailman? Or a..."

The bray of Jim's cell phone ended Blair's litany of alternate career paths. "Ellison here... no, Captain, we're still in the Ravenhill district. Just finished the interview a couple of minutes ago."

Long silence. "Got it. We're almost at the turnoff, it shouldn't take more than five minutes to get there. Very good, sir."

Jim turned to his partner, then brought his gaze back to the road as he made a quick left. "Well, Chief... be careful what you wish for. Looks like we're going to be spending quite a long time outdoors today after all."

"Something tells me we're not going to be getting fresh cider or picking out our pumpkins."

"Afraid not. Seems as though one of these lovely little patches of woods has a dead body in it. Since we were lucky enough to be so close, I get to be in charge of the crime scene."

Blair groaned. "Dead bodies, outdoors -- one of my favorites. Did Simon say how dead?"

Jim shook his head. "Doesn't know. But the woman who found it didn't have to get too close to know it was dead."

"Oh, goody. Well, I guess I don't really need to tell you --"

"Dial it down. Way down."

Following Simon's directions, Jim took a right onto a narrow, winding road that ran through alternating patches of sunlight and wooded canopy. The mixture of dark evergreens and autumn-bright leaves was beautiful, but Blair found it difficult to appreciate the beauties of nature when he knew what lay at the end of their journey.

"That must be her." Jim nodded to a turnout on the side of the road, where Blair could barely make out a splash of bright purple. As they got closer, he could see it was an athletic-looking fortyish woman in a bright jacket. A dark brown dog sat next to her -- it looked like some kind of Lab to Blair, although dog breed identification was not one of his specialties.

They pulled into the space, and Jim pulled out his ID and held it up to her. "Detective Ellison, Cascade PD." He gestured in Blair's direction. "And my partner, Blair Sandburg. You're Mrs. Flegel?"

The woman nodded. "Yes. Barbara Flegel. I live on Paddock Lane, about a mile west of here. You passed it on your way."

"I remember. And you discovered the body?"

The woman patted the dog's head. "Well, technically, Cocoa here found it. There are paths through these woods made by walkers, but it wasn't near enough to one of them to be seen, and the wind wasn't blowing our way."

Blair looked at Cocoa. "But your dog smelled it?"

The woman smiled and nodded. "Cocoa's not just a dog, she's a retired professional. She's a trained cadaver dog who worked with the Pierce County Sheriff's Department for years."

Jim relaxed a bit and patted the dog's head. "So she knows better than to mess up a potential crime scene, thank God. You told the 911 operator you thought it was a homicide -- what made you say that? I assume you knew not to get too close to the body yourself."

Mrs. Flegel nodded. "Cocoa and I were partners in the Sheriff's department; we retired together. I'm a casual birder, so I had binocs with me. I got a good look from a distance. The guy was dressed only in his underwear. Not the usual attire for a stroll in the woods."

"Not usually, no," Jim agreed. "You said 'he.' "

"Well, I couldn't tell for sure, but it seemed to be guy-type underwear. Not that it's easy to tell these days, but it didn't look much like Jockey for Her."

Blair was missing their recent canine houseguest, so he proceeded to make friends with Cocoa while keeping one ear on Jim's conversation with Mrs. Flegel. She was giving suggestions for how the Crime Scene Unit and the ME's van should best approach the spot where the body lay, since it would involve some off-road driving. Jim was relaying this via cell phone to the CSU, interjecting little of his own. He seemed to be treating the woman as a fellow law enforcement professional. No doubt there'd be a background check on her, but she had that no-nonsense cop manner that Blair had come to recognize over the years. His diss even had a chapter devoted to it. Few people could really fake it for long, although he even found himself slipping into it sometimes without realizing it. Maybe a person could pick it up by osmosis. Hmm... that would be an interesting study. Wonder if there were enough civilians who worked closely enough with law enforcement for long enough to provide a decent subject pool...

"Chief?" Blair tore his attention from the half-written grant proposal in his head and back to Jim. "I'm leaving the truck here to mark the spot. The body's about a half-mile in. Maybe you should..."

"Jim, if you're even thinking of saying 'stay in the truck' you'd better put a mental sock in it." He looked meaningfully at his partner. "With a scene like that you may need my help. It's hardly my first corpse."

"No, but this one could be pretty..."

"Disgusting? Worse than the guy who was dumped out of a plane?"

Jim turned to Mrs. Flegel, who was watching the byplay with interest, and motioned her forward into the woods. "Smellier, at least."

Blair fell into step beside him. "All the more reason to have me around to hold your nose."

They'd followed a well-traveled trail for about five minutes when Cocoa suddenly sat down, her sensitive nose twitching, and pointed toward a spot by the side of the trail where the vegetation was disturbed and a white bandana fluttered from a sapling.

"I presume this the path you took?" Jim asked, staring into the mass of weeds and grasses. Blair almost grinned at the similarity of the detective's stance and the dog's. Both were too well trained to bolt, but it was obvious that both were straining at the leash -- figuratively if not literally.

"Yes," the woman nodded. "I marked the spot -- not that I really needed it with Cocoa around, but it will help the rest of your people when they get here. We have to go off-road now, so to speak, but it's not heavy brush or anything. The body's in a sort of clearing, about a quarter mile in." She motioned to the dog, who rose and began moving along the barely visible path at a fast walk.

It was a nice day for a hike -- sunny, clear, warming up but not oppressively hot, especially under the trees. Blair was too busy monitoring his Sentinel to notice any of it, except the potential allergen load exacerbated by their passage. After another few minutes, Jim's walking rhythm suddenly faltered for a fraction of a second and his nostrils flared. Blair reached out immediately, lightly stroking the broad back in front of him. He kept the hand there as they moved along, his voice a whisper that only a Sentinel could hear.

"Dial down smell, a bit below normal if you have to. Taste, too, they're closely related. Jack up sight and hearing to compensate if you need to, but watch for the change in light... if there's a clearing ahead it might brighten up suddenly..."

A minute or two later the capricious wind shifted. "Shit!" Blair recoiled in an atavistic reflex from unmistakable scent of death, but forced himself to keep walking and keep his hand on Jim's back.

The leader of their little expedition turned back to the two men, her own face a mask of distaste. "Wasn't this bad earlier, even when I got close enough to see it. The wind's stronger now, and blowing in our direction."

"It's warming up," Jim added, "which doesn't help any."

"Still, it could be a lot worse. As somebody way too familiar with human remains, I'm guessing that he hasn't been there too long. Looked fairly intact from what I could tell. Very little bloating."

Blair closed his eyes briefly, breathing through his mouth. Oh, goody.

Another minute or two, and they stood at the edge of a clearing. On the opposite side, a vaguely human shape lay near the trees. Blair realized that the static-y sound that he'd begun to conclude was either an out-of-sight power line or his imagination, was in reality the drone of buzzing flies. A lot of flies. He decided watching Jim was a better idea than watching the clearing. Jim was staring intently at the body and its immediate surroundings. Both of them twitched a little as Barbara Flegel's voice broke their concentration.

"Sorry, I wasn't thinking," she apologized, handing her binoculars to Jim. "You'll need these."

"Uh -- thanks." He took them and held them up to his eyes.

Blair stepped closer to Mrs. Flegel. "So, did you notice anything significant about the scene? You must have had training in crime scene analysis, right?"

The woman turned to Blair, drawn, as most were, to his genuine interest in people. Jim surreptitiously lowered the binoculars so he could see over instead of through them.

"Sure. I was a Deputy, went to the Academy, the whole works. I've always been good with animals, though, grew up around them. My mother's a vet; my father breeds and trains Labs. I got into working with dogs as soon as I could, as part of a Search and Rescue unit. When Pierce County decided to establish an HRD Team I was one of the first ones with my hand in the air."

"HRD?"

"Human Remains Detection. An all-too-necessary specialty, I'm afraid."

Blair nodded. "But a valuable one. The sooner a body gets found, the more evidence that survives... and the more families who get closure. I can think of few things more painful than having someone you love disappear and never knowing for sure what happened to them. Never having the comfort of the proper rituals, at least. I know a forensic anthropologist who does a lot of work in South America and Eastern Europe, identifying people who were killed in some political pogrom or 'ethnic cleansing.' It really gets to her sometimes, but it's important work -- finding and identifying victims."

Barbara Flegel nodded. "You're right, it is. I retired when my husband got a job offer he couldn't refuse and we moved to Cascade. But now that we've gotten settled in I'm getting restless, thinking of going back to it... either with Cascade PD or the State Police. But back to your question. I suggested coming this way because I'm pretty sure whoever dumped the body didn't. There was no evidence of recent disturbance on this side of the clearing, but I thought the vegetation on the opposite side of the body looked mashed down and broken."

Jim lowered the unnecessary binoculars before he spoke. "I think you're right. Looks that way to me too."

"It would make sense," the woman continued. "There's a road only a few hundred yards from the clearing on that side, and several places in the trees where you could easily pull in a car so it couldn't be seen by anyone driving by."

"Any possibility of tire tracks?" Blair asked.

"I doubt it. The area is pretty well covered with vegetation, hardly any bare ground. And with it being unusually warm and dry lately, your chances of finding a decent impression aren't good."

Blair sighed. "Let's hope somebody managed to drop a monogrammed cigarette case, or a gasoline receipt with a credit card number on it, or something."

"Might as well wish for a signed confession while you're at it," Jim suggested.

"Hey, where's the challenge in that?"

Jim opened his mouth to answer, then closed it and cocked his head. Before he could say anything, Blair said quickly, "The rest of the team ought to be here pretty soon, don't you think?"

Jim's mouth twitched. "Any minute now, I'll bet."

Conversation ceased for a moment. Jim was clearly trying to act like he couldn't actually hear the CSU approach. All Blair could hear were the buzzing flies. He turned to Jim suddenly. "Do you think we should call Sadakian in on this one?"

"Serena already asked me that, and I said yes. Good thing, too. This is right up his alley. I hope he's not out of town or something, or this scene will take forever to process."

"Who's Sadakian?" Barbara asked.

"He's an entomologist," Blair explained. "Dr. Deran Sadakian. He teaches at Cascade State and he's certified in forensic entomology. Does a lot of work for police departments on this end of the state."

The ex-Sheriff's deputy nodded. "Sounds like a good idea. It's amazing sometimes what those guys can do." After another brief silence, she turned back the way they'd come. "Sounds like your team is almost here."

"Why, so it does," Jim agreed. "You have good ears."

Blair's glance at his partner said 'wise-ass' as well as any words could have. "I'll go meet them."

The peaceful woodland was quickly transformed into a hub of activity, and many innocent saplings gave their lives so various police vehicles could get to the site. A couple of uniformed officers were first on the scene, bearing large rolls of tape imprinted with "Police Line: Do Not Cross" and signs that commanded "Stop: Crime Scene Search Area." Jim used Barbara Flegel's advice, backed up by the evidence of his own senses, to decide just what constituted that crime scene. At his direction, the officers taped off most of the clearing and part of the wood beyond. Rafe and H were next to arrive, the former muttering and brushing burrs and bits of dried grass off his elegant suit before ducking under the tape. Taking pity, Jim set Rafe to taking Mrs. Flegel's official statement, and H to wait for the CSU. Then, with Blair close behind, he continued to search the area on the other side of the body where the vegetation was disturbed. He gave the actual corpse a wide berth, not in deference to his partner's sensibilities but to avoid disturbing the insects. By the time he returned to the clearing, a wide path had been taped off all the way to the road. The officers drove their unit around to guard that side.

Forensics had managed to drive their van all the way to the edge of the clearing, following the trail first blazed by Mrs. Flegel. The tech in charge approached Jim. She was a petite woman, almost as energetic as Blair, who was clearly dying to get started. "I take it Sadakian isn't here yet?"

Jim shook his head. "Sorry, Miyoko, not yet. Obviously you managed to reach him."

"Fortunately. He said he had to meet his eleven o'clock class to let them know, but that he'd be here ASAP."

"Well, there's not much we can do here until he does. If we can search and document a path toward the body first it will make things easier for him and Dan." Jim turned to another of the techs who was laden with cameras. "Jeff, you can start taking shots from the perimeter, but not too close to the body."

"Sure thing. I know Sadakian has a cow if you disturb his bugs." He grinned. "Not sure if that's a mixed metaphor or not."

Blair snorted. Jim gave him a mock-disgusted look and turned back to the chief tech. "Have you got enough people to work two scenes? There's a line to the road that looks like it was made by dragging a body, and a spot with some oil drips. Possibly where a vehicle was parked."

Miyoko jumped at the chance to do more. "Sure, we could start a full-scale search there. Between Sadakian and the ME, we can't do much near the victim for a while. If we start some people at the outside and work them inward, it'll be a more effective use of personnel."

"Great. Go for it. I don't think there's a whole lot to be found, but it's a lot of space to cover. "

Rafe approached with Mrs. Flegel and Cocoa. "Jim, I got a statement. Anything else you want from Mrs. Flegel or can we let her go home?"

"We've got all we need for now."

"Thanks for all your help," Blair added. "If it hadn't been for Cocoa, this body might not have been found for a long time. And you both know how to treat a crime scene. We'll have a lot more evidence to work with than we might have otherwise."

Jim handed her a card. "If you think of anything else..."

She took the card with a little smile. "Right. I know the drill." She looked wistfully at the activity behind the yellow tape, then back at Jim and Blair. "I'm beginning to realize how much I missed this -- it gets in your blood. When we get home, Cocoa gets more liver treats, and I may just start downloading some job application forms." She gave them a little wave as she headed back to finish her interrupted loop toward her house.

"Nice lady," Blair remarked.

"I was gonna say 'nice dog,' Romeo." Jim retorted.

"Get cute, Ellison, and I'll whack you with a table leg."

"No time, Junior. We've got company."

Rafe cupped a hand to his ear, then shook his head. Blair shrugged. A few moments later, the rumbling of another large vehicle was obvious to everyone. The ME's van came into view, lurching over the uneven ground. It came to a halt next to the CSU van, and Dan Wolf emerged into a small cloud of settling dust.

Trying hard not to sneeze, Jim addressed him. "Sounds like another vehicle behind you. Is that our bug guy, I hope?"

Dan nodded. "He came roaring up behind us at the turnoff. The way that man drives, he's going to be one of my customers sooner instead of later." He looked over at the body surrounded by its cloud of insects. "It's only a preliminary conclusion without a closer examination -- but I'd say he's dead, Jim."

A chorus of groans erupted from all personnel without earshot as Jim rolled his eyes skyward. "You never get tired of that one, do you, Dan?"

"Nope. It's my one constant in an ever-changing world."

Yet another van could now be heard, clanking and rattling up the widened path. Unlike the staid but well-maintained police vehicles, this one was a motley of colors in various shades of primer and rust, apparently held together largely by bumper stickers. These were unfortunately not confined to the bumpers but scattered all over the body, bearing such legends as "Subvert the Dominant Paradigm" and "Entomologists Do It With a Buzz On." It clattered to a halt and started disgorging people. A lot of people.

Foremost among them was a spry man in his fifties. Jim tried to look stern, but Dr. Sadakian's wild mane of hair always made him wonder if Blair's would look like that in twenty years. The thought of spending the next twenty years watching Blair Sandburg's hair turn gray -- preferably from an adjacent pillow -- tended to send Detective Ellison's brain off on tangents and seriously erode his resolve. The rest of the entomologist looked nothing at all like Blair Sandburg. He was taller, and thinner, and darker. The energy level was frighteningly familiar, however.

"Greetings, all!" The good doctor rubbed his hands together in apparent glee. "Hear you've got a job for me."

Jim held onto the shreds of his best professional manner. "Looks that way. I'm glad you were available so quickly, Dr. Sadakian. I thought you had a class to meet."

"Oh, I did. I do. And here they are." He waved his arm expansively at the group of six boys and girls who huddled in a cluster near the van. They looked nervous, and more than a few had a slightly greenish tinge. That could be a result of what was presumably their first exposure to a decaying corpse -- or it could just as easily be a normal reaction to Sadakian's driving. Still, what was the man thinking, bringing a bunch of freshmen to a crime scene like this?

Sadakian waved the group over. "Allow me to introduce my Senior Honors Seminar in Forensic Entomology. This is a wonderful opportunity for them."

Jim started at the approaching group. Jesus... seniors? Despite his best intentions, Jim still thought of Blair as 'the kid,' but his lover looked like a senior citizen next to this bunch. Blair kept telling Jim he was far from a kid anymore. Jim was beginning to think Sandburg had a point.

"Class, this is Detective Jim Ellison, the officer in charge of this crime scene. You recall from my lecture that it's his job to delegate assignments and give directions. He also has overall responsibility for..."

Jim decided to let the man natter on a bit while he regained his equilibrium. He leaned down to whisper in Blair's ear. "You've talked to Sadakian a lot about his teaching in the past. Do you think these kids know what they're doing?"

Blair nodded. "If they're in this seminar, they're the cream of the entomology crop, and thinking pretty seriously about forensics as a career focus. They've also had some pretty significant training in collection of insect evidence, although usually they only get to do it on pigs."

Jim winced. "Please, not pigs again."

Blair patted his partner's arm. "Sorry, but you know pigs are the best experimental animals to use in decomposition studies. The data are the most closely applicable to humans."

"But pigs, Sandburg."

"It's OK, Jim. I won't tell Beaufort if you won't."

The officer in charge glared at his partner and then decided it was time to rein in the other academic in the ointment. The lecturer seemed to be running out of steam, or at least stopping for breath. "Doctor, I trust your students are well trained in crime scene protocol?"

"Most definitely, Detective. They'll be most useful in the evidence collection stage."

"Well, I'd appreciate it if you could complete your observation of the insects in situ as soon as possible. We've kept away from the body so as not to disturb them. We've also photographed and examined the ground between the red flags, so if you stick to that path you won't be disturbing evidence."

"Thank you, Detective." He led his class to the edge of the tape and they all ducked under, carefully keeping within the confines of the marked path. "Now the good detective has kept his people away to avoid disturbing any flying insects before they can be identified and collected. Which species do you recognize?"

"Looks like Cynomyopsis cadaverina, Professor."

"And Phaenicia sericata."

"Excellent. Both commonly found on corpses in the State of Washington. What else?"

Jim listened to the entomologist go on, and watched as he and his students used insect nets to capture the flying insects and carefully put them in little marked containers, with a forensic tech taking detailed notes. It didn't need Sentinel hearing to follow his account of the procedure; the man was used to reaching the back seats of a large lecture hall. Dan also knew the drill as well as anyone, and knew when they had reached the point at which it was safe to approach. The remaining flies rose in a cloud as Dan got close enough to bend down and examine the body. He was followed by Jim, who could sense Blair's presence right behind him. He turned around.

"Chief, are you sure you want to..."

"Jim," Blair whispered, "do you really want to risk zoning in front of Sadakian? He'd have you collected and pinned to a board faster than you could say 'Cynomyopsis cadaverina'."

"I'm not sure I could say that at all, but I take your point."

"Hey, you did pretty well with in situ. I was impressed."

"I'll impress your ass, genius."

"You always do."

Jim squatted down next to Dan, beside the body. It wasn't the worst crime scene he'd ever encountered, but it wasn't pretty. He dialed up sight as Blair stood close, one leg touching his shoulder. Close up, he could now see that the body was definitely male. He was dressed in nothing but serviceable white briefs and a sleeveless undershirt. There were plenty of bruises on the body, some much more prominent than others. Most of the fainter ones were associated with scratches; Jim could see small seeds and bits of vegetation embedded in some. There were a few orange fibers on the body that appeared synthetic -- a little too bright even for autumn color. He pulled out an evidence bag and tweezers.

"Any ideas on cause or time of death, Dan?"

"Nothing obvious on the body for cause, but I won't be able to tell about head or neck injuries until we get him de-bugged and autopsied." Both men glanced over to their right, where Sadakian was gleefully removing squirming insect larvae, giving his students the benefit of his vast knowledge of such pleasant topics as maggot masses, instars, pupae, and other exciting chapters in the life cycle of the blowfly. Jim wondered fleetingly just how little Jimmy Ellison had grown up to be a man whose everyday vocabulary included a term like "maggot mass." He looked up at Blair, who appeared none too happy, but resolute. Hard to remember sometimes that this was the same innocent grad student who'd been so disturbed by the comparatively presentable remains of a young woman in a bathtub. Now he was standing next to a corpse that had been an all-you-can eat buffet for the local fauna for...

"As for the time, several days at least... that would put it during this past weekend. Can't be more precise without an autopsy. Maybe even with one, given the state of decomposition."

"The entomological evidence should pin it down quite nicely," the entomologist interjected. "Blowflies and flesh flies are extremely precise indicators of the postmortem interval within the first two weeks. Very reliable."

"Thank you for sharing," Blair muttered, only loud enough for Jim to hear. Wishing he could stroke his lover's leg in sympathy, Jim settled for leaning against it, and was rewarded with a subtle return of pressure.

"Hands are in pretty good shape," Dan pointed out as he bagged them. "I'm pretty sure we can get fingerprints."

"Good," Jim replied, "because I don't see any sign of ID. No wallet, no jewelry, nothing."

"Unless it's under the body," Dan countered. "We can turn him over soon."

"We should be so lucky," Blair added. "Dumping a guy in the woods in nothing but his underwear does suggest somebody was none too eager to have him identified."

"Hey, Sandburg, look on the bright side."

"There's a bright side?"

"Yeah -- it could be raining."

Blair awoke with a start, the tatters of his dream in danger of being washed away by the insistent barrage of rain against the bedroom windows. *Now that was weird,* he thought as he struggled to remember it. Some kind of B-movie nightmare about alien maggots taking over the world would have made sense, given how he'd spent most of what had turned out to be a really long day. It hadn't been a Guide dream, or a Shaman thing either... nothing close to a vision. It felt closer to one of those ridiculous nightmares where you suddenly realize at the end of a semester there was a class you'd signed up for but forgot to even attend, let alone study for. Yeah, like that could happen. He always assumed those would go away when he finally stopped being a student -- until one of his favorite Rainier librarians told him she still had them, twenty years after finishing her last degree. Did Jim have dreams like that? Or did he dream about forgetting to attend basic training or parachute class or some military/cop equivalent?

"Babe -- you OK?"

Blair shifted around to face the man next to him, not that he could see much in the dark. "Sorry, love. I had a dream that woke me up. Did I make a sound or what?"

"No. Your heart rate isn't that much faster than normal, even. Probably just the difference between you being awake and asleep... a 'Guide awake at three in the morning' yellow alert."

The Guide in question snuggled in closer to his Sentinel and began a gentle stroking of the broad chest. "Sorry I woke you up too. It's no big deal."

"Told you to stay in the truck. Well, tried to anyway."

The caress turned into a playful slap. "It had nothing to do with today. No bugs, no corpses. Not even any entomologists. I think it was a diss anxiety dream."

Jim started some caressing of his own. "I thought you were happy with the way that was going. Making good progress."

"I am. Diss anxiety has nothing to do with rationality, man. It's a virulent disease peculiar to grad students. It'll go away when the friggin' defense is over, but there's no known treatment for the symptoms."

"Wanna bet?" Jim's hand slid down along Blair's stomach and between his legs. The Little Anthropologist was waking up and eager to study mating behavior.

"Oh, that feels soooo good... maybe I was hasty... try an experimental treatment... owe it to mankind..."

"Fuck mankind," Jim growled as he rolled over, pulling Blair on top of him.

"No can do." Blair began licking Jim's neck. "Don't have time. Besides, I'm spoken for."

"Damn straight. So to speak."

Conversation deteriorated from that point on as mouths concentrated on other things, like kissing and tasting; like traveling along the swell of muscle, ridge of bone, softness of lips. Their movements were slow and sensuous at first; languorous rather than frenzied. They let the tension build, hands wandering while their trapped cocks rubbed against hard bellies and each other. But all too soon rubbing turned into thrusting, and slow exploration into frantic need. Blair heard himself crying out Jim's name over and over as he came with a force that left him a boneless, semi-conscious pool of total satisfaction. He was glad that Jim seemed to be alert enough to clean the both up, because he wasn't sure he still had the strength to open his eyes, let alone lift a finger.

He settled down on his side, Jim spooned up behind him. "How's the patient?" He mumbled softly into Blair's ear.

"S'a miracle," came the sleepy reply.

"Good."

Blair felt Jim relax behind him, slipping with him into sleep. Just before awareness left him, he remembered the dream. He was in a forest, a jungle -- but not the jungle of Sentinels and Guides. He stood in a clearing, looking for away out. There were many paths leading away, but somehow he knew that danger or death lay at the end of many. Others would leave him lost forever, wandering aimlessly among the gnarled trees, slowly dying. Only one would take him where he needed to go -- but he didn't know which one.

Jim dialed down his sense of smell as he approached the morgue. He'd gotten good enough at it that the procedure was almost second nature to him now. Still, it was easier when Blair was around; he didn't have to work at it quite so hard then. Unfortunately, Blair wasn't around. His Guide was probably not too disappointed to pass up the chance to attend an autopsy, but Jim missed his presence more than he liked to admit -- especially to himself.

"Morning, Jim," Dan Wolf greeted him. "Where's your better half? Decided to forego another taste of the wonderful world of forensic pathology?"

"He had a meeting at the U this morning, and some data he needed to analyze for his diss. Some software program he doesn't have on his computer."

Jim glanced at the now naked body of the victim laid out on a steel table. Sometimes he wondered if Blair's reluctance to face this facet of police work was really squeamishness, as some of his detractors at the PD assumed. How squeamish could a guy be who ate slugs and had lived for months in the jungle with so-called "primitive" peoples? Jim had begun to believe that what really disturbed his younger partner was not the unpleasant physical reality of violent death, but what he could only describe as the spiritual violation... the cosmic wrongness of one human being doing this to another. Blair's shaman soul must recoil at the awareness that a member of the tribe had been not only deprived of life before his time, but sent to his death with neither ritual nor reverence... treated not with the respect due to what had once been the dwelling of a soul, though now empty -- but like an animal. Or worse -- like garbage dumped at the side of the road.

"Jim? Are you with me?"

"Sorry, Dan. Waxing a little philosophical. Life, death, and all that."

"Yeah. Helluva way to treat somebody. At least he looks a bit better without the bugs." Dan began a detailed examination of the outside of the body, while his assistant photographed it from every conceivable angle and Jim's senses confirmed Dan's observations. Closer up, Jim still saw no sign of a potentially fatal wound, but the head and neck were too damaged by insects and scavengers to show any such evidence -- even to enhanced senses. Dan began probing the ravaged neck with a scalpel, peering closely as he pushed aside shreds of skin and muscle.

"Aha! There's one possible cause of death."

Jim looked where Dan's instruments revealed the inner structure of the victim's neck. "The hyoid bone's broken. Strangulation, you think?"

"That, or a hard blow to the throat. Sadakian seemed to think the large number of maggots in the head and neck areas suggested open wounds were present. Strangulation wouldn't cause that, but a blow could if the weapon broke the skin. Something to look for when I get to the skull." Dan motioned his assistant over. "Let's get his prints before I open him up."

Jim watched as the corpse was fingerprinted, then took a look at the results. "You were right, those are a good set of prints."

"You want to stick around or take them to Forensics?"

"I want to stay at least until you do the skull. If there's any evidence of blows I need a good idea of what could have made them."

"Good enough. Ellie, why don't you see these prints get to Forensics ASAP? If our guy is in the AFIS database, we might know who he is pretty soon."

The young woman left. Jim continued to watch as, under Dan Wolf's skilled hands, the John Doe on the table gave up his last secrets.

"Hey, watch it! You're going to... Blair?"

Blair, about to make an automatic apology for the collision on the library steps, looked up from where he had bent down on one knee. He was retrieving the books that had kept going when the rest of him collided with an innocent and less preoccupied pedestrian. "Chris? Wow, is that really you? I thought you were outta here a long time ago." He dumped the pile of books and printouts on the stone balustrade long enough to give his ex-girlfriend a hug.

Christine hugged back. "I was, Ph.D. clutched in my hot little hand. Then I found out just what good a doctorate is if you're stuck in Cascade and didn't have the foresight to major in software engineering. I was planning to pore through every book on resume or CV writing this place has, looking for an edge."

Blair looked at her quizzically. "Since when are you not willing to relocate?"

Christine held up her left hand, where a very respectable diamond glittered from the third finger. "Since this."

Hey, that's great! Congratulations." Blair made a mental note to tell Jim about this development as soon as he could. One more ex-girlfriend that his possessive partner could scratch off his worry list. "Who's the lucky guy?"

"Paul Yan."

"Not the Paul Yan -- the one whose family owns the shipping company?"

Christine smiled proudly. "The very same."

"Wow, no wonder you're planning to stick around. They've been in Cascade forever. Isn't there even talk of one of them running for Mayor some day?"

"Well, you didn't hear it from me... but Paul's oldest brother, Gerald, is very big in city politics... almost ran in the last election. I love Paul, and I love his family, but being the future Mrs. Yan has sure put a crimp in my career plans."

"I thought I heard you were teaching at Pacific Tech."

"I am, but it's only for this year, as a temporary replacement for somebody on sabbatical. Then it's out the door." She looked down at her feet. "I feel guilty complaining about it. I certainly won't need to work for financial reasons. But it's still hard to give up the idea of teaching; I never really thought of doing anything else. But you know the old saying -- life is what happens when you're making other plans."

"I'm thinking of having it tattooed on my chest."

"Oh, God, Blair, I'm sorry... I didn't mean..."

Blair waved a hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it, kiddo. Things worked out OK. Barring mental meltdown or natural disaster, I should be Dr. Sandburg by the end of this year."

"That's great!" Her smile was wide and genuine. "You deserve it. I never believed you were a fraud, you know, despite what you said. I was sure there had to be a subtext lurking around there somewhere."

"Wow... thanks, Chris." Blair's feet now became objects of contemplation. The silence had almost reached the uncomfortable stage when he continued. "Especially since you dumped me so emphatically. I thought I was pretty high on your shit list for a while."

The young woman laughed. "Well, OK, you were... for a while. I was hurt that you thought I could have been the leak, but I got over it when I remembered I was trained in logical reasoning. I was a likely suspect. And let's face it, we were both thinking with our gonads, and didn't really know each other very well back then."

"Guilty as charged. You weren't the first girlfriend who got to know me, and liked me better, after she dumped me. Or the last, actually." He looked thoughtful. "Is it really that hard to get an academic job?"

"It's a bitch, frankly. Enrollment in most majors has been in decline for years. Unless you're in business or engineering, academic departments have more tenured professors than they really need, given the number of students."

Blair nodded. "It's certainly true here. Eli tears his hair out every time he sees the FTES stats for the semester. I guess it's not just Rainier."

"All those pig-in-the-python baby boomers have been tenured in for ages. In five or ten years they'll be retiring in droves, and at least some of them will need to be replaced... fat lot of good that does us now."

"Chris, whatever you end up doing, you'll be great at it. Maybe Gerald isn't the only Yan with a future in politics. Maybe some day I can brag that Mayor Christine Yan used to be my girlfriend. Briefly."

Christine burst out laughing. "I'll have to tell Paul that. Get him prepared to be First Man of Cascade down the road. Would you come to the wedding if I sent you an invitation?"

"I'd be honored. Is it going to be a traditional ceremony?"

"Oh, you'd better believe it -- followed by a Chinese banquet for three hundred, at least. Traditional with a capital T. It makes me want to do a paper on my own wedding. Is that too postmodern?"

"Sounds like a great idea to me. I can hardly wait. I love traditional Chinese weddings."

Christine pulled a small notebook and pen out of her shoulder bag. "You're now on the list. What's your address these days?"

"Uh... 852 Prospect. Number 307."

She looked up. "Ah... same place, still."

"Yeah. Same place." Good grief. The woman had 'subtext identified' written all over her face. "Well, um, gotta go. Statistical analysis calls."

Christine leaned over and gave him a chaste peck on the cheek. "It was great to see you again. Take care."

Blair kissed her back, equally chastely. "Same here." He watched as she continued her interrupted journey up the library steps. "Tell Paul Yan he's a lucky S.O.B," he called out.

She looked over her shoulder and waved. "Oh, I do," she called back. "Tell your detective the same."

Geez. Blair gathered his pile of books and papers and turned toward Hargrove Hall. Why not just get a two-for-one deal at the tattoo parlor and put 'Property of James J. Ellison' on his forehead? Of course, the upside of the situation was that he was guaranteed a wedding invitation for two. Wonder if it was going to be a formal evening ceremony? AKA, an excuse to get the aforementioned James J. Ellison into a tux. Oh, yeah... the man did clean up nice. Lost in contemplation of Cascade's sexiest cop resplendent in formal dress, he almost dropped the books again when his cell phone rang.

He executed a rather complex move to extract the phone without dropping anything. He was successful, but several undergraduates of both sexes were sufficiently distracted to do themselves minor injuries, due to sudden inattention to the position of their feet.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Chief. It's me."

"Jim! I was just thinking about you."

"Is that good?"

"Oh, yeah. When's the last time you went to a pull-out-the-stops Chinese banquet?"

"Too long ago. Why?"

"Tell you when I see you. Do you need me for something?" Blair grinned. "Something that can be done in public, that is?"

"Smartass. Don't you still have stuff to do at the U?"

"A few things, but I'll be finished by lunchtime. Should I bring something to the PD, or meet you somewhere?"

"How about the Peking Palace? I have a sudden urge for Chinese food."

"Boy, you're suggestible. How about twelve thirty? Anything on the guy in the woods yet?"

"No, but I'll probably know more by lunchtime. We got good prints."

"Terrific. See you then, love. Bye."

"Ditto."

Megan flagged Jim down when he and Blair entered the bullpen, full of broccoli beef and mu shu chicken. Jim when or if he'd be able to face eating pork again.

"Hey mates, AFIS came through. We have an ID on yesterday's victim. Vasily Morisov, age thirty-eight."

Jim's eyes narrowed. "So why was he in the database? He have a sheet?"

Megan handed him a printout. "Picked up one time only, for shoplifting. The store eventually declined to prosecute. Seems to be the only time he was ever in trouble."

Blair craned his neck around his monumental partner for a look. "Hey, the guy's a Russian immigrant -- fairly recently, too. And his last known address was in Little Moscow... I wonder if Micki knows anything."

"Chief, I'm sure Micki doesn't know every Russian immigrant in Cascade. He wasn't even in town that long. This shoplifting charge was in Okanogan and he was living there at the time. That was only nine months ago."

"Still, it wouldn't hurt to give her a call, see how she's doing. We haven't seen her in months."

"Let's try the more official channels first, all right?"

Megan's face said 'they're so cute' but her mouth didn't. Jim scowled. As long as she didn't actually say it, he couldn't ream her out for it. She smiled with such exaggerated sweetness Jim was sure she was reading his mind.

"Want me to check out the Okanogan end?" she offered. "I know some people in the Sheriff's Department."

"All single, male and with tight butts, is my guess," Blair remarked.

Megan smirked at him. "Improving relations between law enforcement in Australia and the USA is one of the reasons I'm here, after all. Hands across the sea and all that."

Jim turned to Blair. "Wonder if her CO knows just where those hands are landing?" he wondered.

"Yeah, New South Wales should have been more specific about exactly what kind of relations they wanted to foster."

"Very funny, boys. You want my help or not? I can get more out of the blokes in Okanogan than you can, I'll wager."

A corner of Jim's mouth twitched up a fraction. "That's one bet I'm too smart to take, Connor. We'll take you up on it. That'll free us up for a visit to Morisov's last address. See if his neighbors know anything. Search his apartment. Come on, Chief."

"Thanks, Megan!" Blair called out as they left. He added a lascivious Monty Python wink for good measure.

Two hours later, Blair was more subdued. Poking through the remains of a person's life still felt like a violation to him, even when the person in question was beyond caring. In this case, there were damn few remains, anyway. The landlady, Mrs. Strejska, had been cooperative, giving them permission to search without a warrant, and eager to tell what she knew. He'd been a bit surprised at that, given the level of cooperation they were used to getting in this part of town. A real babushka, she'd seemed genuinely upset at the news of Morisov's death, and eager to help anyone trying to find his killer. Blair had volunteered to start looking through the apartment while Jim interviewed the woman.

Unfortunately, Morisov had given his notice and supposedly left the previous weekend for a new job in California. The apartment was clean as a whistle -- he must have been a good tenant -- and all that remained were a few boxes that a friend had agreed pick up later in the week and ship out to him when he had a new place to live. There wasn't much left... bulkier clothes, mostly, some household items... all looking like they'd been packed in a hurry. None of those had yielded much of interest, unless knowing the victim's taste in scarves and sweaters could be considered interesting. Blair was just opening the last box when Jim returned.

"Anything useful, Chief?"

"Well, he liked to grind his own spices and had a thing for Star Wars. He actually saved those plastic cups they gave out in burger joints."

"He liked to smoke Turkish cigarettes, too. A lot. I can still smell them, despite the Clorox and Murphy's Oil Soap."

"Ah, this is better!" Blair dove into the last box.

Jim sank to the floor beside him. "What have you got?"

"Books, for one thing. You can tell a lot about a man from the books he reads."

Jim picked one out of the box and flipped it open. "Maybe you can. I don't read Russian."

"Well, I'm not exactly fluent, but I can at least tell what they're about. Mostly international business, looks like." He rooted around some more. "Yeah, here's a few in English, too. Same general topic."

"We can get Pollock down in Burglary to take a look. His mother's Russian, and he's fluent in it. In case there's anything we've missed." Jim was about to put the book back into the box when he stopped. He looked closely at the side of the closed book, then turned it upside down and fanned out the pages. A few pieces of paper slipped out.

"Hey, how did you know that was there?"

"Pages weren't lying quite right." He quickly scanned the sheets. "Well, well -- this is interesting. The paperwork for a new car."

"Why so interesting? Mrs. Strejska said he bought a new car to drive to California, although she didn't know what kind. I figured it was a used Hyundai or something else cheap."

"How about a brand new Mercedes? Forty-five thousand bucks -- and he paid for it up front."

"Shit. How could he afford a car like that? Either he had one helluva good job offer or..."

"Or he wasn't the saint Mrs. Strejska thinks he is."

"Why would he pack it in here instead of taking it with him? Unless it got mixed in with this stuff by mistake... he wasn't being too careful when he packed this stuff. Must have been in a hurry to get out of here."

"And where's the car? Damn, if the perps took it they could be halfway across the country by now."

"You think some operation like Petrie's could have reared its ugly head again?"

"Maybe... but I don't think so. They only went for unusual, top-of-the-line stuff. Forty-five thou may sound like a lot to working stiffs like you and me --"

"But it's a long way from Lamborghini territory. I get it." Blair drummed his fingers on the box, but the vibration didn't shake loose any new ideas. He sighed. "You get anything from Mrs. Strejska?"

"Well, she told me at great length and with a lot of wailing how much the vic reminded her of her grandson. Wish I'd kept you around. You're better than me at dealing with weepy old ladies."

"Poor baby, having to face all that unbridled emotion. It could explain why she's so willing to help, though."

"Yeah. After the waterworks, she got mad. She really liked Morisov. He talked to her... listened, more likely... helped with some minor repairs around the place, and loved her piroshkis. No sign of lying or evasion. She really wants us to nail the perp."

Blair had reached the bottom of the last box, and found nothing else of interest. "She give you any leads we can follow up on?"

"The fact that she bid Morisov a teary farewell Saturday morning, and that was the last time she saw him. He was supposed to leave for California on Sunday, but she spent the weekend visiting a sister in Seattle. She did gave me the name an address of the friend -- a former roommate -- who was supposed to pick up these boxes."

"What about the neighbors? Maybe somebody heard something."

"Maybe, but our prospects aren't good. The apartment across the hall is vacant. The woman in 2A is hard of hearing, and spends the weekends with her son and daughter-in-law in Tacoma. The couple in 2C are mom-and-pop truckers. They left Monday morning on a run and won't be back for a couple of days at least."

"So we go find the ex-roommate?"

Jim shook his head. "Probably still at work, and Strejska doesn't know where that is."

"Well, we could try the car dealership. I doubt he paid with a suitcase of bills, so they probably have a cashier's check or something. If we can find out where the guy banked we could get access to his records. They might tell us something."

Jim looked at Blair for a moment, then leaned over and kissed him. "Did anyone ever tell you you're a smart little sucker?"

Still savoring the unexpected kiss, Blair was a bit slow to respond. "Uh... so you love me for my mind?"

"For your mind, and that very nice package you carry it around in." He rose to his feet and held his hand out to Blair. "But nookie while on duty is discouraged, so we'd better get moving. Being alone with you in an empty apartment is way too distracting."

"Jim, I know it's your turn to make dinner, but you're supposed to tenderize that cutlet, not beat it into submission."

Jim looked up, scowling, from the unfortunate piece of turkey lying flat -- very flat -- under his mallet. "You want turkey piccata or not, Sandburg? I can always make a Wonderburger run. Extra cheese. Supersize the fries."

Blair slipped up behind him, reaching around to coax the mallet from his fingers like a weapon from a surrendering perp. "I know you're still pissed off at that guy from the Mercedes dealership, but don't take it out on the food."

"Supercilious asshole. Where did he get off acting like he was royalty and you were a serf? The guy's nothing but a goddamed car salesman, despite his fancy suit."

"Snooty is his stock in trade, Jim. How else can he convince people to buy an expensive car that has a worse reliability record than a Toyota? Actually it was pretty funny when we first came in."

"Funny? The look he gave you..."

"That was the funny part. He sees this guy in long hair and a flannel shirt, wearing nothing that's been in spitting distance of a designer label. He doesn't know whether to sneer because I'm beneath notice, or kowtow because you never know -- I might just be a billionaire geek. Software money. Dot-com mogul." Blair chuckled with obscene glee. "Cascade is such a challenge for snobs."

"He's still an asshole."

"Maybe, but he sure laid it on thick with you. Must be that 'I had horses and a house with columns' thing you do. Lucky you weren't wearing your white socks."

"How would you like a turkey cutlet down your pants? Uncooked."

"Now that would certainly be 'piccata,' but it's low on the list of what I want down my pants." Blair slipped his arms around Jim's waist and began rubbing his head against the broad back. His partner's anger was dissipating after a short stop in the Sandburg Zone... just as intended. "We got we wanted, didn't we? The guy's bank, and even a picture of the Mercedes -- same model, same color. That let us put out an APB on the car."

"Yeah. Took him long enough. I was about ready to run the schmuck in for obstructing." Jim held a hand briefly over the skillet and added olive oil to it. "The people at the bank were a lot more helpful," he conceded.

"Yeah. Too bad it was too late to track down that guy in California who paid the forty-five K into Morisov's account. I wonder if his company is really legit? Even if we can't contact him until tomorrow, I can do a little net surfing tonight on that company name. Maybe it's got a web site. Or I can check some of the online databases from the business library at Rainier. Man, I'm gonna really hate losing those passwords."

"What do you mean, lose them?" Jim tasted the rice pilaf.

Blair wondered if Jim really needed to do that. He could probably smell or see that it was done. It better be, because the sound of that sizzling turkey, and the scent of lemon, was making Blair's mouth water. "Only students and employees of Rainier have access to those things. They cost a fortune. The library signs contracts that promise nobody unauthorized gets to use them or the head librarian has to give the vendor her first-born child, or something."

Jim was dressed the spinach salad, making no reply, and Blair carried it to the already-set table. "What if you get a teaching job? Won't you have access then?"

"Big if, Jim. Only big universities, or well-endowed ones, can afford so many databases. Tenure-track teaching jobs are hard to come by, unless you're willing to move to East Podunk State, or something."

His back to the kitchen, Blair missed the involuntary jerk of his partner's arm as he transferred the turkey piccata to a platter. Lemon sauce splattered the counter, and Jim grabbed a sponge, his face a mask.

Blair came back for the platter. "Come on, man, housekeeping can wait. I'm starving."

Jim threw the sponge into the sink so hard it almost bounced back onto the counter, but Blair was already halfway to the table again. Jim slipped the pilaf from pan to bowl with careful, controlled movements.

Jim was feeling more mellow now that his stomach was full. Between the meal and whatever magic Blair had worked, the frustrations of the day had dissipated, and his worries had been stuffed down and locked up. He was looking forward to a quiet evening at home, maybe a good book, and maybe later --

"Hey, you what I'm dying for right now?" Blair leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction and a dreamy look on his face.

Hmm... maybe sooner. "What?"

"Dessert." Blair licked his lips.

Oh, yeah. Jim tried for a seductive purr. "Anything in particular you have in mind?"

Blair leaned back, stretching sensuously. "Yeah... I'm just dying for..."

Whatever you want, babe it's yours. Jim was mesmerized. The dishes could wait. The book could wait. The --

"A poppy seed hamantash."

Jim stared, mouth hanging open, at the man across the dinner table. "Wha -- what?"

Blair jumped up. "C'mon, man, it's still early, it's not raining. We can get to Anya's in fifteen minutes."

"Why Anya's? What's wrong with Shipman's Deli? You keep saying they have the best food in Cascade."

"Yeah, well... except for the poppy seed hamantash. Their apricot ones are good, but Anya makes a poppy seed filling that..."

"I like the apricot ones. That poppy seed filling feels like I'm eating gravel."

Blair bounced, and began pacing, waving his hands around. "I keep telling you, dial down touch, keep taste jacked up. Besides, there's nothing wrong with Anya's apricot --"

Jim held up a hand. "Sandburg, tell me your choice of eating establishments has nothing to do with the fact that Anya's is around the corner from The Rumor."

"Aw, come on, Jim." The Sandburg eyes and mouth, all earnest entreaty, were now focused on him like a laser. Jim wondered if Sadakian's bugs felt like this, pinned to their little cards. The fact that they were dead at the time was irrelevant. Mere death would be insufficient protection against the power of The Sandburg Look.

Jim hadn't been in the Army for all those years without learning when to retreat... although in this case, surrender was closer to the truth. "Only if you do the dishes first."

Well, Anya's apricot hamantaschen were damn good. Jim could still taste the fruity sweetness, mixed with the smokier flavor of the Russian tea. They rounded the corner. Focusing on the offices of The Rumor, almost a block ahead, he could detect no sign of life. A faint light spilled from the window, and there was an irritating buzz from the dying ballast of a fluorescent fixture. They reached the window and peered into the spaces between the flyers that advertised community events or railed against some injustice. At least that's what they looked like from the pictures. No doubt Blair could actually read them.

"Nobody home, Chief. Just a night light on."

Blair nodded. "Sometimes she's here late, but not tonight, I guess." He leaned against Jim. "Her apartment's just down the block."

Jim sighed. "And here I thought you bought those extra hamantaschen for me." They continued down the block.

"I'm hoping she won't want all of them. Girlish figure and all that."

"She can have the prune ones." They stopped in front of one of the characterless apartment buildings that shared the neighborhood with small shops and offices. "Wonder why she doesn't live above the paper? It would save money, and I know she operates that thing on a shoestring."

"Jim, she comes from a place where putting out an independent newspaper was once an invitation to have your premises blown up. Would you want to be sitting over your press when it went the way of my old apartment?"

Goosebumps suddenly rose all over the Sentinel's skin, as if all the warmth had suddenly been sucked out of the air. Blair could have easily been killed in that explosion... one of so many roads not taken, so many points where his life balanced delicately between one future and another. So far, he'd been lucky... so lucky...

"Jim? Are you with me?"

"Yeah, Sandburg." He propelled Blair ahead of him up the narrow stairs. "Let's go."

As Blair knocked on Micki's door, Jim nodded. She was at home. After what they'd been through during the Mayakovsky and Gordievsky cases, and last spring at the Lodge, her scent was now one of those he could recognize instantly. Sharing danger with someone seemed to make it easier for him to imprint their sense memory in whatever corner of his Sentinel brain such things got stored.

"Who is it?" Micki's voice was muffled by the heavy wooden door. Jim wondered if the door was original, or Micki had replaced it with something more secure. It seemed too sturdy for the overall quality of construction in the building.

Blair waved cheerfully at the peephole, holding up the pink box from Anya's. "Hi, Micki. It's me and Jim. Can you stand some company? We were in the neighborhood."

Jim snorted. Blair ignored him. Micki opened the door.

"Jim -- Blair. How very nice to see you. It's been too long. Please, come in."

Chastened, Jim followed Blair into the small apartment and sank into the aged sofa. It had indeed been too long since they'd seen Micki. It must be hard for her now, since her sister Katria was spending so much time with her boyfriend. This one -- Piotor -- was more respectable than poor Sergei. And he must really love her, since he was still around after what had happened last spring to his precious van. And most of all...

"How's Katrina?" Blair asked, sitting down beside Jim. "Any chance she'll get back here soon?"

Micki was in the kitchen, turning on the burner under the teakettle and putting the pastries onto a plate. The apartment was small enough that she could continue their conversation without raising her voice. "We hoped that she would come next month, but her trip was cancelled. The Russian economy is so bad, the Moscow Metro Militia does not want to spend money on foreign travel, no matter how well Katrina does when she is in this country."

Blair jumped up as Micki came back into the living room, sliding an arm around her shoulders as she deposited the plate of pastries on the table. "That's too bad. You must miss her."

Micki lowered herself into a chair. The fleeting look of desolation that passed over her sweet face was quickly replaced with a tremulous smile. "It is hard. Harder than I thought it would be."

"Has she ever thought about emigrating?" Jim asked. "I know she was dead set against leaving Russia when we first met her, but that was before... well, you know."

"Before she fell in love with an expatriate newspaper publisher who vows she will never return to Russia." Micki sighed deeply, leaning into the back of her chair. "Katrina has a strong sense of duty, one that has been part of her much longer than she has known me. It is a hard thing, to be torn between love and duty."

Jim stared at his clasped hands, hanging between his knees. He could feel Blair lean against him, feel the subtle shifts in his lover's body as he answered Micki.

"From what my friend Jack tells me, Russia isn't a good place to be right now for anyone with a sense of duty. There are more criminals than police in Moscow, according to him, and most of the police are corrupt."

"That is true," she replied sadly. "I have read about what USA was like years ago, when your gangsters like Al Capone were powerful. I think it must be like that now in Russia. Before I came here, everyone told me America was a terrible, violent place. Now people are murdered in Russia almost twice as often as they are in this country. You can hire a -- hit man, is that right? -- for only two hundred American dollars. I am so afraid for Katrina sometimes."

"Yeah." Blair looked sideways at Jim. "Been there. I'll bet the murder rate in Cascade is a lot closer to Russia's than to the U.S. average."

The teakettle shrilled its summons, and Micki got up, waving away offers of help from the two men. They sat quietly while she poured water into a teapot and collected Russian style tea glasses on a tray. Jim reached for Blair's hand, twining their fingers together. The younger man's initial look of surprise was quickly replaced with understanding. Jim didn't really understand the action himself; who knows what Blair thought it meant. He decided he didn't really want to think about it right now.

"Extortion is a way of life," Micki continued as she brought the tray into the living room. "Hardly anyone can have a business there without paying bribes to someone, or what you call 'protection' money. If you do not pay the right people, you cannot succeed."

"Knowing the right people... Micki, does the name Vasily Morisov mean anything to you? He's a recent immigrant, just in the past year, although he only moved to Cascade about six months ago."

Micki looked at Jim, a furrow creasing her forehead. "Morisov... Vasily Morisov... I think I remember someone who came to the newspaper office, asking if I knew of any apartments for rent near here. I told him Mrs. Strejska might have a place, and she did. He came back later to thank me, and seemed to be a nice man, well spoken -- at least in Russian. In his late thirties. I saw him in the neighborhood now and again, and we would talk a little. Is that the man you mean?"

Jim nodded. "Sounds like him, all right."

"Is he in trouble?" Micki asked.

"He's pretty much beyond trouble now. We found his body yesterday, in the woods out in Ravenhill. Speaking of Cascade's murder rate... it looks like he's the latest addition to this year's total."

Micki seemed to be searching in the depths of her tea glass for some meaning. It didn't look like she was finding any. "That is very sad. I did not know him well, but I think he was a good person. Always smiling and helpful. Mrs. Strejska liked him very much. She brought piroshkis to The Rumor one day to thank me for sending him to her. It made me very popular at the paper. Why would anyone murder such a man, I wonder?"

"Good question. He was offered a new job in California by a company called Trans-Pacific Enterprises, and paid a substantial sum in advance. We haven't been able to contact anyone in the company yet, but it seems a helluva lot to pay somebody for anything legitimate. Especially for a guy whose work record since he emigrated was farm laborer, then welder."

"Ah, but Vasily knew much about business in Russia. He told me a cousin supported him when he emigrated, a cousin who worked on a farm in Okanogan. The only reason Vasily did manual work at first was his English. It was not very good. He was very short of money then. He even told me he stole from a store once, and he was much ashamed of this. He worked very hard, and his English got much better."

"So," Blair interjected, "it's possible he knew enough of the right people to make him worth good money to a legitimate business."

"I think so," Micki agreed. "Although 'legitimate' means something different in Russia than it does here. Knowing whom to bribe, and to pay off, could be worth much. What you call a necessary evil."

"Always considered that an oxymoron, myself." Jim bit savagely into an apricot hamantash, scattering crumbs all over his shirt.

Seeing Micki's blank look, Blair explained what an oxymoron was, then encouraged her to talk about Katrina and Piotor. Jim shut up and tried to pay attention. He didn't want Micki to think they only came to see her when they wanted information, although that was uncomfortably close to the truth. The poor kid. He didn't know if she loved Katrina as much as he loved Blair -- not that anyone else could possibly love another human being as much as that -- but he couldn't imagine how it felt to be separated from the person you loved for months at a time. No that was a lie... he could, and he hated the idea. As for Inspector Major Katrina Vaslova: sometimes he thought he understood her all too well. She'd pissed him off mightily during the Gordievsky case. Now, after a couple more years of Blair Sandburg's influence he was marginally more self-aware. Meeting her again last spring, and working with her again as a fellow cop, made him realize that one of the big reasons they got each other's backs up was that they were a lot alike.

Blair had confirmed this with an unasked-for comparative analysis on their last ride to Clayton Falls. First, the Special Ops background they shared -- though his old CO would have exploded at the thought of any part of the U. S. Army being equated with the KGB. Then there was the unwillingness to admit any weakness, and the deep loyalty not easily won but fierce when earned. Much as he had railed at Katrina's high-handed procedures, he had to admit that he hadn't always gone by the book himself. Blair had been too diplomatic to bring up the Juno surveillance, and thank God he didn't even know about some of the tricks that 'Slick' had pulled during his tenure in Vice. At least Jim hoped he didn't.

Jim almost enjoyed the rest of the evening. Katria Kamerev seemed to be doing great, with no recurrence of her cancer. Piotor seemed to be good for her too. Jim was glad for her, the kid deserved a break... but he hated to think what would happen to Micki if Katria got married. She'd be even more alone. He vowed to himself that they'd make an effort to see Micki more often. After an hour or so, conversation dwindled and they began to make their farewells. To Jim's disappointment, Micki kept the rest of the hamantaschen to share with the staff of The Rumor. Blair and Micki did one of those double-sided kiss and hug things, Russian style. Jim settled for a good old American peck on one cheek.

"Bye, Micki. Thanks for the info on Morisov."

"I will ask around, and call you when I know more. I hope you find whoever killed him. He was a kind man, trying to make a better life for himself."

Blair took Micki's hand. "We'll do our best, you know that. And call me if you need to talk. Things will work out with Katrina, somehow."

"I hope so," Micki replied, but her tone was anything but hopeful. "You know, I am taking course at night school in English literature, to help my English writing. I learned the difference between comedy and tragedy. Do you know this?"

"Well, it's been awhile since my last Lit class, but I remember the short version. A tragedy ends in a death, a comedy ends in a marriage."

"That is what I learned. And I think to myself, 'Russian comedy'... and it sounds like... an oxymoron."

Jim was so quiet on the ride home that Blair wondered if he really was pissed after all at being dragged out of the loft tonight. He had done his usual bitching on the way over to Little Moscow, but that had clearly not been sincere, merely Jim entertaining himself. There was no doubt that he'd enjoyed the hamantaschen. For a while there, Blair was afraid he'd have to start reminding him that pastries were not on the bottom of the food pyramid. The visit with Micki had gone well... although it was too bad about Katrina. Maybe he was just feeling sorry for Micki. Or maybe the poor guy was just tired. It had been a long day, slogging around trying to get a useful lead on Morisov's murder. Blair magnanimously decided that an early night would be best, and vowed to behave himself when they got home. No jumping his partner.

When they reached number 307, Jim suggested locking up for the night then and there, and Blair congratulated himself on an accurate diagnosis. Jim claimed the bathroom first, and after the usual nightly ritual, turned off most of the lights and went upstairs. Blair went next, beginning to understand Jim's choice of hamantaschen as he brushed poppy seeds out of his teeth. He turned out the last of the lights downstairs, and climbed toward the bedroom, which was still washed by the soft light of a single lamp.

Expecting Jim to be at least half asleep already, Blair wasn't prepared for a surprise attack by a six-foot octopus when he reached the top of the stairs. The man suddenly seemed to have way more hands than he was entitled to, and a mouth that clamped onto his younger partner like a black hole sucking matter from a nearby star. By the time Blair adjusted to this unexpected development, several layers of his clothes seemed to have disappeared. What remained was in serious jeopardy of turning into dust rags if he didn't forestall his lover's frantic movements and get rid of the final few garments himself. He found himself naked and flat on his back on the bed before he was quite sure how he'd gotten from point A to point B.

Before he had a chance to express either surprise or pleasure -- both of which he was definitely feeling -- Jim was on top of him, once again devouring him. This time his whole body got into the act; Blair was caressed not just with hands and mouth but with every part of the man. Jim's feet slid up and down Blair's legs as his hands roamed over arms and sides; lips tasted every inch of the younger man's face. All the while the rest of his torso was moving over Blair's, skin and flesh sliding, rubbing, pressing. With every shift and slide, Jim's growing erection would press against another part of Blair, a heat-seeking missile not yet fixed on its target.

*Well, he's certainly not tired,* Blair thought briefly. Maybe he was just really horny. Before long, complete sentences were beyond him, even in thought, as Jim's loving assault set every nerve to singing. Why did the man need words, after all... his mouth was communicating a clear message, kissing its way down Blair's torso, thoroughly devouring each nipple in turn, moving downward... engulfing his cock in a slow, sweet poetry of lips and tongue -- but only briefly. Once, twice; a soft, wet kiss on the very tip... then abandonment. Blair moaned at the loss, reaching for his tormentor, wanting that mouth back now.

Through an erotic haze, he dimly realized that Jim hadn't gone far, merely leaned over to grope in the nightstand. Oh yes, yes... his legs began to open further in anticipation, but they were trapped by Jim's weight on his thighs, by the long legs that wrapped around his own. He gripped the sheet, bunching the fabric in his hands, anticipation so keen it sliced along his nerves like pain. He moaned again... maybe his lover's name, maybe just an inarticulate sound of need. When he suddenly felt the smooth slide of latex on his cock, guided by Jim's fingers, he cried out, bucking his hips off the bed. Oh, God... the hand came again, slick with lube, coating, caressing.

He reached for Jim, ready to turn them over, when Jim loomed above him like a tsunami, a sudden storm, a force of nature, and began to take Blair inside himself before his lover realized what was happening. "Omigod, Jim! Jim..." It was all he could do to keep from bucking upward, but he held himself in check, letting the larger man set the pace. As the inner ring of muscle relaxed, Jim sank all the way down, thigh muscles visibly flexing, a deep sound of satisfaction escaping his lips. This wasn't something they did very often, Jim was so much heavier... but oh, it felt good! It was like fucking a redwood tree, a monument. Blair rested his hands on Jim's sides, supporting him, guiding him. The sculpted torso slid through Blair's hands as the powerful legs thrust Jim up and then controlled his descent, letting him ride Blair's cock from root to tip, again and again.

Blair wondered if it was possible to die of this, as he found himself engulfed over and over by the hot, tight channel. He was mesmerized by the sight of Jim above him, sleek body glistening, face contorted in ecstasy as he plunged downward, seeking the jolting pleasure at the end of each stroke. Taker and taken blurred as their two bodies moved together faster and faster, seeking the same goal. Blair slid one hand from Jim's side, along his belly and down to his cock. Jim cried out when his lover's hand gripped him and began to pump, and he thrust himself down even harder and faster. Blair felt surrounded by Jim -- not just his cock but his whole body, his whole self. There was nothing but Jim's weight pressing him down; Jim's elegantly spare face and body filled his eyes; Jim's sounds of pleasure were all he could hear.

Blair pumped hard one last time, and an animal cry filled the loft as Jim's creamy essence began to spill over Blair's hand, belly, chest... with a final upward thrust into that pulsing channel, Blair poured out his own completion, crying out in loss and fulfillment all at once.

He slipped out of Jim as the larger man bent forward, the strength suddenly gone from his legs. He arched over Blair, powerful arms still supporting him, like some ancient carving of a sky god spanning the earth. Then he lowered himself slowly, capturing the mouth below him in a slow, sweet kiss that seemed to last forever.

"Love you." Jim wrapped his arms tightly around Blair, turning them on their sides, spooning up behind his still-stunned lover. He pressed up against Blair's back like the smallest empty space between them was an affront, and buried his face in a cloud of curly hair. Almost immediately, he sank into a deep sleep. It was a challenge getting the condom off and tied when he was, in essence, restrained, but Blair managed. Still bemused, he cleaned himself up as best he could with a stray pair of boxers that was fortunately just within reach, and dumped the whole mess on the floor. Like Scarlett O'Hara, he'd worry about it tomorrow. The lamp on the dresser still bathed the room with dim light, but he couldn't bear to disturb the man who lay at his back, arms and legs wrapped around him. It wouldn't keep him from sleeping, but he was surprised it didn't seem to bother Jim. Praying to the gods of energy conservation for forgiveness, he closed his eyes and gave himself up to sleep.

"Well, boys, you look happy this morning." Megan leaned on Jim's desk with a slightly prurient smile. "Like to tell me why?"

"Hamantaschen," Jim replied smoothly.

"Bless you."

"Now that you've satisfied your curiosity, have you actually got some useful information for us? Or would you like our beauty secrets next?" Blair's mouth twitched as he hunched over Jim's computer, typing and mousing industriously.

Megan huffed a bit as she opened the file she held. "Well, everything I found out confirms that our vic was an all-right bloke. His employers said he was a slogger, and dependable. The shoplifting thing happened when he was between jobs and pretty strapped. He was well enough liked around the county that the store -- some local 'mom-and-pop' -- let him off with restitution. The Sheriff confirmed that he was an easygoing fellow, no trouble."

Blair raised his head from the computer screen. "What about the cousin?"

"One Teodor Zavorov. He's been in the U.S. for quite a few years now, so most of what he knows about Morisov's recent activity in Russia is from the guy himself, or letters from his Russian relations. He pretty much confirmed what I've heard from everyone else about the sort of fellow he was. As for Morisov's life in Russia... the vic used to be in the Red Army. Seems he leaped into capitalism with both feet when the Communist government collapsed, and started a series of small businesses."

"Legit ones?" Jim asked.

Megan made a little so-so motion with her hand. "As legit as anything else in Russia at the time, I suspect. No guarantee that some of his merchandise didn't come from the gray market, or even the black market, but that's pretty much SOP from what I understand."

"So why did he emigrate?" Blair wondered.

"Didn't like the way things were going. If you didn't want to play ball with the Russian Mafia, it was getting hard to do business. Not very lucrative any more, either, what with all the bribes and protection money and whatever."

Blair leaned back, stretching, hands behind his neck. Megan looked on appreciatively. Jim didn't dare look. "So, he decided his entrepreneurial talents would have more scope in the West."

"Right. Zavorov said he had every intention of getting back into business in this country as soon as his English language skills improved. He moved to Cascade to work, even in a blue-collar job, because he figured he'd get farther, faster, in an urban area. Maybe even start a business that catered to the Russian community, where good English wouldn't be essential."

Jim nodded. "Thanks, Connor. That confirms the picture we've been getting of this guy from other sources. A swell guy, no enemies. Not the sort to get himself murdered."

"This was all over the phone, of course," Megan admitted. "If you think it's necessary to interview the cousin in person, I could..."

"No you couldn't, Connor." Simon loomed up behind her.

Jim and Blair had seen him coming, but had kept mum. Now they both grinned as she jumped up, startled. "Sir?"

"I'm not paying for you to travel halfway across the state to interview a witness for background, not at this stage of the investigation. No matter how it might improve your love life."

"Captain, my offer had nothing to do with --"

"Don't kid a kidder. Now, don't you have a few cases of your own to work on?"

Megan sighed. Jim could almost see her visions of dalliance among the apple orchards fly away. "Yes, sir."

Simon turned to the two grinning men behind Jim's desk. "And wipe those smiles off your faces. We may have to send her yet if we don't get some decent leads on this case. You have no murder weapon, no suspects, and no motive at this point, am I correct?"

Jim's good humor dissipated quickly. "Correct, sir."

The snap of Blair's fingers caused brought Simon's attention to focus on him. "You find something on Trans-Pacific, Sandburg?"

"Still working on that, Captain. Nothing definitive so far. But about motive... could it have been a carjacking? The guy had a brand new Mercedes, after all, and it seems to have disappeared."

Simon chewed his cigar for several seconds. "What do you think, Jim?"

The detective was quiet a moment. "I wouldn't completely rule it out, but it's unlikely. Carjackers don't usually take the trouble to dump their victims in the woods. It's a quick, violent crime -- all they want to do is separate the driver from his vehicle as quickly as possible and get moving. Sometimes the car's owner gets killed in the process, but the body is usually left at the scene, or tossed out by the side of the road."

Simon removed the cigar and pointed it toward Jim. "True enough. Doesn't mean the car wasn't stolen anyway. What's a little bit of grand theft auto when you've just committed murder? Or the killers could have abandoned it and someone else pinched it."

"Burglary has the info on the car model and serial number," Blair offered, "and they're keeping their eye on the local chop shops for it -- for all the good that'll do. If it was stolen, it was probably already out of Cascade or in pieces, or both, before the body was discovered."

"So what's your plan, gentlemen?"

"We have a call in to Trans-Pacific about the job offer and the forty-five thou," Jim explained. "The guy we need to talk to is in a meeting and is supposed to call me back."

Blair broke in smoothly. "However, everything I've been able to find on Trans-Pacific so far suggests it's a legitimate firm. They're a young company, a bit unorthodox, and eager to expand into foreign markets, especially Russia and China. They've hired recent immigrants with similar backgrounds before, to give them an edge in those countries."

Jim drummed his fingers on the desk. "It's frustrating that so much of our information is second-hand. We've got leads on some of the victim's associates and plan on interviewing them and most of the neighbors today. And I thought I might email Inspector Major Vaslova, see if she can add anything on the Russian end. The cousin hasn't been there in five years. Katrina's likely to know more."

"Katrina, is it?" Simon raised an eyebrow. "I'm so glad you two have bonded. I thought you were going to create an international incident during the Gordievsky thing."

"We've gotten to know her a lot better since then. She's actually human when she relaxes a little. Except for her methods of interrogation, she's a good cop."

"Besides, Simon," Blair pointed out, "email doesn't cost the Department anything."

Simon visibly brightened. "Music to a Captain's ears. Do it."

Blair watched Jim surreptitiously from the passenger seat as he drove through Cascade's mid-day traffic. His partner wasn't a happy camper; the deepening line between his brows made that all too clear. "Penny for your thoughts, love."

Jim smiled briefly at the endearment, but soon sank into gloom again. "This case is driving me nuts, Chief. It's going nowhere."

Blair shook his head. "Slowly, but not quite nowhere. That guy at Trans-Pacific confirmed that the forty-five thousand was a combination retainer and relocation package."

"Which only reinforces the notion that our victim was on the up-and-up, just like Katrina's email did. All of which leaves us with no obvious motive. We're worse off than we were yesterday."

"We did get to talk to all the neighbors but those truckers."

"And they were no help at all, except to tell us what a nice guy he was. We've got zip." Jim slammed his hand against the steering wheel.

"OK, but what about --" Blair's fruitless attempts to cheer up his partner were interrupted by the bray of his cell phone. Shrugging at Jim, he pressed the button.

"Hi, this is Blair Sandburg... Chris? I didn't expect to hear from you so soon... you what? Sure you can tell me." Blair could feel Jim's eyes boring into him as he listened to Christine Hong's explanation. "No, she wouldn't have to come down to the station, we could come there if necessary. But we don't need to do that right away. Why don't you fax us a copy of the paperwork, and we'll set it up for later if we need to. And thanks, this could help a lot."

He pressed the hangup button and turned to Jim. "That was Christine Hong."

Jim frowned. "Your old girl friend? I thought you said she was engaged."

"Jim, I find it flattering, in an irritating sort of way, that you're so paranoid that you think every woman I've ever dated still has designs on me years later. You didn't listen in?"

"No, I don't want you to feel like you have no privacy. Although I was tempted."

"Chris was calling from her fiance's shipping company. One of the shipping clerks there recognized the car. It was dropped off Sunday afternoon by a Russian guy -- for shipment to Russia."

"No shit?" The frown melted away, replaced by complete attention. "Give me the details."

"The clerk is a woman who's nervous about the police, so she went to Chris first for advice. She knew Chris had a friend in the Cascade PD and figured she'd know what to do. Apparently the woman -- a Mrs. Wu -- is fluent in Chinese and Russian but her English tends to desert her when she's nervous. We'll probably need to talk to her officially at some point, but we'd better take an officer who can speak Cantonese."

"I think Liu is off for a few days, but we could probably borrow Chen from Vice if we need to."

"Chris offered to translate, but I told her we needed somebody official."

"What was that about paperwork?"

"She's faxing us copies of the forms the guy filled out, which include the time and his signature -- Vasily Morisov."

Jim swiveled his head to look at Blair, then quickly returned his attention to the traffic. "The victim shipped the car? I thought he was driving it to California. Did she give a description?"

"Yeah. It's vague, but could fit Morisov. Wish we had a better picture than that old mug shot, something that showed him after he shaved off his beard." Blair suddenly remembered something. If he hadn't been restrained by a seatbelt, he would've bounced up and down. He managed a bit of it anyway. "Hey, I have an idea about the car. I just remembered something Jack Kelso told me. There's a big black market for cars in Russia, especially luxury cars. I'll bet a car like Morisov's could be sold for enough there to make a profit, even with the cost of shipping factored in."

Jim began drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. "That might explain why Morisov blew most of his retainer on a new car. Mrs. Strejska thought he just wanted a new one because he was planning to drive all the way to California."

Blair chuckled. "And here I thought he just wanted to make a big impression. In Russia, only the top dogs would have a car like that."

Jim nodded. "Makes sense. But it sounds like he was just being a good businessman. Selling that car would give him a nice little nest egg to start his new life. He got a nice lump sum and parlayed it into more."

"So there goes the stolen car theory." Blair's satisfaction at tying up a loose end quickly disappeared.

Jim's animation disappeared with it. "Damn. It wasn't much of a motive, but it was all we had."

"We've still got interviews to do. Maybe we'll get something."

"Yeah. Maybe."

Blair sighed. Looks like he'd better plan on Jim-jollying duty tonight. That might require not only a really good dinner, but mind-blowing sex afterwards. He settled back into his seat with a little smile. A Guide's work is never done...

Jim tried to wipe the scowl off his face when he knocked on the door of a third-floor walk-up in the heart of Little Moscow. The building was as ugly outside as the one Micki lived in, but not as well kept. He could hear skittering sounds inside the walls that he chose not to examine too closely. The door, still chained, opened a crack.

"Da?"

"Mr. Navolonsky? Alexei Navolonsky?" He held up his ID. "We're from the Cascade PD. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Questions? Uh... OK." The door closed and Jim could hear the rattle as the chain slid over and out. He could feel the guy's heart rate shoot up, but that didn't mean much in this part of town. People were almost always guilty of something, hiding something, or just paranoid about cops. The legacy of life in a police state, as Blair was fond of reminding him when he bitched about it.

The apartment was small, and marginally better kept than the public spaces in the building, such as they were. They'd learned that the guy worked as the night clerk in a 7-11. Not a lot of money there, and it was almost as dangerous as being a cop. Navolonsky looked like he'd just gotten out of bed, which he probably had. Jim introduced himself and Blair, and they sat gingerly on the sagging sofa while Morisov's ex-roommate slumped in a nearby chair.

"You knew Vasily Morisov?"

The man nodded.

"Are you aware that he's been murdered?"

Another nod. "Heard yesterday on radio. Very sad... Vasily was OK guy."

Blair jumped in, his voice all velvety with sympathy. "You must have known him well. He lived with you when he first moved to Cascade, right?"

"For couple weeks only, until he found place of his own. He was, how you say -- old Army buddy."

"Did you keep in touch? When was the last time you saw him?"

"Sunday, noon -- maybe early afternoon."

"You don't sound so sure," Jim said.

"Was not feeling well. Had party for Vasily Saturday night at a bar. Very late, much vodka."

"Did Vasily leave the party with anyone?"

"We walk him home that night, singing old Russian songs. Then we meet him Sunday at Nicolai's place. Had lunch, then he drove away."

"Nicolai? Is he the other man who was with you Saturday night?" Jim got up and quietly began walking around, examining the small room.

"Da. Nicolai Pruchevsky. Also friend of Vasily."

With a quick glance at his partner, Blair continued the questioning. "Can you give us the names of some of the others who were at the party?" Jim watched as Blair scribbled down the Russian names as Navolonsky rattled them off. Good thing he 'knew something about the Slavic languages.' Jim shuddered at the thought of trying to spell all those Russian surnames -- it'd take him all afternoon to get them right. He stopped in front of a table by the window and pointed to a picture, one of several grouped there, all in cheap drugstore frames.

"Mr. Navolonsky, who's in this picture, besides you?"

Navolonsky turned to look where Jim was pointing and gave a little start. "That is Nicolai. And... and Vasily."

"Would you mind if we borrowed it? We have no recent pictures of Mr. Morisov."

"It would help us a lot," Blair added. "To find your friend's killer. We'll return it as soon as possible."

"Uh... sure. Is OK."

Jim carefully removed the picture from the frame and tucked it into his pocket. "One last thing... where were you Sunday afternoon and evening?"

"With Nicolai in afternoon, helping his cousin move into new house. She made us big dinner, we talked, watched TV. Then I go to work at 7-11 on Spruce Street, midnight until eight Monday morning."

"Well, was he telling the truth?" Blair scanned the streets, trying to read the Russian shop signs as they drove to Pruchevsky's apartment.

"Hard to tell. His vital signs were all over the map, even when he admitted to his own name. He could have been lying, or just scared shitless on general principles."

"If Morisov took the car to be shipped Sunday afternoon, he's in the clear, presuming his alibi checks out. It should be pretty easy to verify."

"Why don't you give Simon a call, see if he can spare somebody to interview Pruchevsky's cousin right now, and maybe swing by the 7-11? Let's get this damn investigation moving."

Blair did as his partner suggested, and Simon agreed to send out Rafe and H if they didn't get out of court too late. Jim was going to be a bear until they turned up a lead, but it was hard to think of what else they could do. Usually at least one of the big three was obvious early on -- motive, or means, or opportunity. Without a decent suspect, opportunity didn't mean much. The condition of the body made it hard to be very specific about means. Dan had found some evidence of blows to the head that had broken the skin, but they hadn't done any substantial damage to the bones of the skull, and couldn't have killed him. Insects and animals had done such a number on the upper part of the body that it was impossible to tell what kind of weapon had been used. And motive -- Jim was right, they had less idea of motive now than when they'd started.

Blair was jolted out of his reverie when the truck stopped. They were right at the edge between the Russian district and an old industrial park. Prochevsky's address was not an apartment, as Blair had expected, but a small cottage surrounded by commercial buildings. It looked like the sort of housing companies had often built for their workers early in the last century. Logging towns and mill towns had been filled with them once, though few survived. Cascade still had some left, but most of them had been moved to better neighborhoods and gussied up as guest cottages or picturesque little shops. This one looked like it had survived exactly where it was first built.

"Kind of a lonely place to live," Jim observed as they strolled up the weedy sidewalk.

"Great place to murder someone, though. Could you tell? You could smell the blood, right?"

"Simmer down, Junior. Practically every place that's been lived in smells like blood, you know. People have nosebleeds, cut their fingers slicing bagels, kids scrape their knees. Unless there's a lot of it, it doesn't mean anything. Besides, we have to have something that will stand up in court."

"Yeah, I know. Forensics isn't going to haul out the luminol just on your say-so. Looks pretty quiet. Is he home?"

"I can hear someone talking in what sounds like Russian, but only one heartbeat."

"So he's either on the phone or he talks to himself."

"Let's hope it's the former."

"Very funny. Like you can't tell. Who's on the other end of the phone?"

"Some guy talking in Russian. Might be Navolonsky, but I'm not absolutely sure." Jim knocked on the door. "Sometimes people's voices sound different when they're speaking another language."

Prochevsky was much more lively and outgoing than Navolonsky had been. Maybe he just had a better head for vodka. As Blair sat on yet another battered sofa taking notes, the man confirmed Navolonsky's account of events, adding that he'd spent the night at his cousin's new house, too tired to drive after a day of moving furniture on top of little sleep the previous night. His memory of Saturday night's party allowed them to add a few more names to their list. Apparently Morisov was a popular guy. At this rate, they'd be checking these names forever.

After a pretty fruitless half hour, they left. Blair was about to open the door of the truck when Jim's soft-voiced command stopped him. "Stay there a minute, will you Chief? And take off your shirt. Slowly."

Blair stared as Jim walked around to open the driver's door, reaching for something behind the seat. Was the guy nuts? The temperature was back to normal, fifty-something. He'd been wishing he'd worn a jacket, and the last thing he wanted to do was remove any layers. Was the man slipping into some kind of erotic fugue state? Had he totally lost it? God, it's not like Jim wasn't getting enough! Maybe he was getting too much -- maybe he'd become a sex addict, or...

"Earth to Sandburg! Get a move on, will you?" Jim had opened the passenger door from his side, and was glaring impatiently. OK, better humor him. Blair took off his flannel shirt slowly, as ordered, shivering in breeze that sent dry leaves and debris skittering down the almost-deserted streets.

"Now fold it up, inside out, and hand it to me. Then get in."

While he complied, Blair reviewed the names of all the therapists he knew. Jim would die before he'd go to a police shrink, but maybe he could his partner into going to some nice, no-nonsense type who wouldn't set him off too much. Maybe Jane Carlin, she could get along with anybody. Or Don Umana, he'd put in a lot of years at the VA Hospital, was used to military types. Maybe Jim was developing some kind of late-onset PTSD. It was a miracle he hadn't before now, actually, and Blair had theorized that being a Sentinel must confer some kind of protective effect. There went one more theory out the window.

"Put it in here." Jim handed Blair his shirt and a bag, then started the truck and made a smooth U-turn, heading back toward downtown.

Blair stared at his hand. A bag. A plain brown bag... the kind you put evidence in. "Jim -- what's going on?" He put his shirt inside and folded over the top.

"That godawful sofa in Prochevsky's living room was orange."

"OK, the guy has no taste in furniture whatsoever, but that's not a crime, even though sometimes I think it should be."

"You remember those unusual t-shaped orange fibers I found on Morisov's body?"

The light dawned. "Shit! You mean these are the same ones?"

"Bingo. I could tell as soon as I sat down."

"So why did I have to take off my shirt? It's freezing!"

"Poor baby -- I'll put the heater on. You're the one wearing flannel, and I'm the one wearing a leather jacket. Flannel picks up a lot more fibers. We're heading back to HQ now. You can borrow my extra jacket; it's in my locker." Jim grinned. "Meanwhile, you've got your love to keep you warm."

"Fat lot of good you're doing over there. As long as you're driving, I'm stuck with just your heater. 1969 was a good year for guides, but let me tell you -- it was not a vintage year for Ford heaters."

Jim closed the file, leaned back against the arm of the sofa, and closed his eyes. His sock-clad feet were in Blair's lap, being rubbed. He was well fed, warm, dry, and loved... but he was still pissed. This damn case was getting to him, and it shouldn't. This was his job, he did it all the time. Been doing it for a long time. It wasn't the first case he'd had in his career that went nowhere at first, until something broke. If worse came to worst, it wouldn't be the first case he'd failed to solve... although there hadn't been too many of those since a certain anthropologist joined the Cascade PD. Ah, well, pride goeth before a fall...

"I'll offer a nickel this time."

Jim opened his eyes. "What?"

"For your thoughts. Inflation, you know."

"Not worth a nickel. Just thinking that this case is a real pain in the ass."

Blair nodded. "This wasn't the most exciting afternoon I've spent... tracking down all those Russian names, matching them up with addresses. If not for Micki's help, it would have taken even longer."

"Calling them, getting even more names -- but no useful information whatsoever." Jim indulged himself in a deep sigh. "And I can't help feeling the whole thing will be a waste of time."

"Too bad Prochevsky's alibi checked out. Something about him bothered me."

Jim smiled and wiggled his feet. "Sure you're not just pissed about the shirt thing? Still?"

"Hey, it was damn cold in that truck."

"But the fibers did match; Forensics confirmed it. And they're not common ones. And yeah, if Morisov was there for lunch you'd expect him to pick up fibers, but on his underwear?"

"Just because I didn't get any past my first two layers doesn't mean Morisov didn't. He was there longer, and most people don't wear as many layers as I do." Blair grinned. "I'll never forget the look on Simon's face when you told him you had to check out my skivvies in the men's room."

"Hey, we let him come along as a witness, didn't we? No hanky-panky, all business." It had been a priceless moment, one that Jim wouldn't soon forget. The pleasure of the memory was short-lived, however. "I know what you mean about Prochevsky, though. The guy was a bit too slick. My cop instincts say that guy has a rap sheet somewhere, maybe in Russia. I think we should ask Katrina to check him out."

"He set off your cop sense, but not your Sentinel lie detector."

"That's not infallible. There are guys that are so good at lying they can beat a polygraph."

"Or a human polygraph." Blair's rubbing now extended beyond Jim's feet; his elegant hands found their way up his calves. "That trucker couple comes back tomorrow, we can talk to them. And there's still that woman at Yan Shipping."

"To hell with the case. Let's forget the damn thing until tomorrow." His voice took on different timbre -- deeper, rougher. "Except..."

Blair's eyes caught his. "Except what?"

Jim's abdominal muscles rippled under his tight t-shirt as he sat up suddenly. "I'm going to have to examine your underwear again." His hand slipped under Blair's waistband. "From the inside this time."

"I'm getting really tired of this building," Jim observed as they approached the apartment next to Morisov's.

"Yeah. Too bad Cassie took that job in Chicago. She and I could redecorate it."

Jim gave a mock-growl and knocked on the door of 2C. "How'd you like me to redecorate your ass?"

"Thought you did that last night," Blair replied softly.

Higher brain functions took a short vacation as a vivid sense-memory flooded Jim's brain. He quickly recalled them to duty as the door opened. "Cascade PD." He flipped open his ID. "Mr. Wardinski? Could we ask you and your wife a few questions?"

The slender middle-aged man who motioned them in looked more like an accountant than Jim's idea of a trucker. Under the scents of soap and aftershave, however, there was a distinct undertone of oil, gasoline, vinyl, strong coffee... he certainly smelled like a trucker, but one who'd done his best to wash off the ingrained grime of the road.

"I suppose this is about poor Mr. Morisov next door? Mrs. Strejska told us what happened." A sturdy woman about the same age as Wardinski came out of the kitchen, and introduced herself as Stella.

"Yes, I'm afraid it is. We were hoping one of you might have seen something, heard something, that would help us figure out why he might have been killed. We have a pretty good idea of his movements Saturday night, and later in the day on Sunday, but there's a gap early Sunday morning. He was probably in bed asleep, but it would be nice to have that confirmed."

The Wardinskis looked at each other; both visibly relaxed. "So he was alive Sunday afternoon?" Mrs. Wardinski asked.

Her husband patted her shoulder. "See, honey, you were worried for nothing."

Jim tensed like a hunting dog smelling a distant fox. "You had reason to assume he was killed earlier?"

"Well..." The woman seemed embarrassed now.

Blair's soothing, encouraging voice captured her. "Please, anything you know may be valuable. Tell us."

She took a deep breath. "I thought I heard sounds next door, early Sunday morning. Somewhere between two and three. It sounded like... well, a scuffle. Then a kind of a thudding sound."

Jim was practically vibrating; he felt Blair's hand against his back. "This didn't concern you?"

"We were both exhausted, we've been on the road for days --" the husband began.

His wife patted his hand. "Detective, Stan's right. I was only half awake, not even sure I wasn't dreaming. Vasily was more than a little fond of his vodka, and I convinced myself the next morning that he'd probably just had a late, boozy night and was none too steady on his feet."

"Did you hear anything else?" Blair asked.

"I thought I heard Vasily moving around after that, which is another reason I didn't worry. I fell asleep again almost immediately, and slept like a rock until late morning."

They asked a few more questions, trying for more details, but the woman wasn't able to be more specific. Thanking the couple, they left. More accurately, Jim left like a shot, and Blair did the thank-yous.

Blair caught up with Jim as he strode down the hallway. "Hold it a minute, will you! What's next? That wasn't exactly a smoking gun."

Jim stopped and turned to face his partner, a glint in his eye. "Maybe not, but I've got a feeling about this. Didn't something bother you about Morisov's apartment when you first saw it? Seem unusual?"

"Well, it was damn clean for your average bachelor, even one who was moving out and wanted his cleaning deposit back. The only bachelor apartment I ever saw that was cleaner was yours."

Jim smiled. "Ex-bachelor. What if Morisov didn't clean it?"

"You mean, what if somebody else cleaned it -- because there were bloodstains, or other evidence? Fat lot of good it'll do them. If more people watched Secrets of Forensic Science our work would be harder."

"So let's get Forensics over here."

"Ah... now it's time to haul out the luminol!"

"It's blood all right." Jim and Blair sighed in unison as Miyoko's light revealed a clear spatter pattern on the wall behind Vasily Morisov's bed. "There's not much of it, but the pattern is unmistakable... exactly what you'd expect if the vic was hit as he started to rise."

"So he was killed here," Blair concluded. "But I thought Dan said the blows to his head weren't enough to kill him."

"True," Miyoko agreed, "but they might have been enough to stun him. Wasn't his hyoid bone broken?"

Jim nodded. "It's a lot easier to strangle someone when they're not fighting you."

Blair shivered, hoping Jim didn't know that from personal experience. Not someplace he wanted to go. He was in this for better or for worse, but the less he knew about the 'worse' part, the happier he'd be. "They could have wrapped the body in bedclothes or a rug and nobody would notice anything missing, since Morisov was moving out anyway."

Jim and Blair left the forensics team to complete their work and headed back to the truck. "So." Blair glanced sideways at his partner. "Now it looks like we know where. But the when doesn't match up. If what Mrs. Wardinski heard was Morisov getting killed in the wee hours on Sunday, how could the guy be alive that afternoon? We've got three witnesses who say he was. Even if Navolonsky and Pruchevsky are covering for each other, we've got Mrs. Wu at Yan Shipping telling us the same thing."

"Have we really?" Jim asked as he leaned on the roof of the truck. "Get in, Chief. I think it's about time we had a talk with Mrs. Wu, up close and personal."

While Jim drove back to the PD, Blair called ahead to make sure Julie Chen was free. Fortunately she was, so next he called Yan Shipping to set things up. Paul Yan himself was there, and promised to make sure Mrs. Wu was available to talk to them. He mentioned how eager he was to meet Blair. Clicking off the phone, Blair guessed that he had a list like Jim's -- ex-boyfriends of his fiancee that he could check off as 'no threat.' Yeah, scion of one of the best-known families in Cascade and heir to lucrative business, versus semi-employed thirty-year-old grad student. Not to mention, as Willow would say, 'Hello -- gay now.' Maybe Chris had been too discreet to share her obvious conclusions on that score.

Another thing Chris hadn't mentioned, Blair mused as he shook hands with Paul Yan. The guy was as tall as Jim, and handsome. Blair could practically feel himself getting scratched off the list. Their meeting certainly put Paul Yan in an expansive mood. He, as well as Julie Chen, did a great job of calming the clearly nervous Mrs. Wu. God knew what experiences she'd had in her life that made her so wary of authority.

"Ask her to tell us what happened when the man brought the car to be shipped Sunday afternoon."

Julie Chen relayed the question and Mrs. Wu's lengthy answer. The man had been happily surprised that she knew Russian, since he was more comfortable talking in his native tongue. The car was exactly like the model in the picture the police had circulated, and it looked new -- just a little dusty from being driven. He had the title to the car, and filled out the paperwork without a problem.

Jim pulled out the picture he'd borrowed and placed it on the counter in front of Mrs. Wu. "Ask her if she recognizes the man who brought the car."

Even before Julie could translate her reply, Mrs. Wu's answer was clear. She pointed excitedly to the picture, her reluctance to speak English momentarily forgotten. "Yes, yes. This man."

"I'll be damned," Blair exclaimed, turning toward Jim. His partner looked back with a wide, feral smile. She was pointing to Nicolai Pruchevsky.

"Jim, you have no actual physical evidence that ties Pruchevsky to the murder."

Jim paced in front of Simon's desk like a caged cat, ignoring his partner's half-hearted attempts to calm him. "We will soon, when 5-0 boards Yan's ship in Hawaii and their forensics lab checks out the car. I'm sure of it."

"Maybe. Until then, can you spell 'false arrest'? How about 'lawsuit'?"

"Captain, he and Navolonsky were the last people seen with the victim."

Simon sipped his coffee calmly. "As far as you know. We haven't yet talked to everyone who was at that party Saturday night. Your damn name list looks like a casting call for a War and Peace mini-series."

"The fibers --"

"Pruchevsky knew the victim, he'd probably been in that cottage many times. Any halfway competent defense attorney would have you for breakfast on that one. And do not, I repeat, do not even bring up Sandburg's underwear."

"Sir," Blair broke in, "what possible reason could Pruchevsky have to lie -- by omission, I'll concede that -- about shipping the car? The document examiner hasn't had time for a full examination, but she compared Morisov's signature on the original shipping contract to that on the sales contract we found. Her preliminary conclusion is that the former is forged. That's a crime."

"And what if he admits it? It's still only forgery -- maybe car theft -- not murder. You haul him in, he gets a low bail, he's out of here and you never see him again." Simon put his empty cup down and leaned forward, elbows on his desk. "Look, gentlemen, I admit this stinks like week-old mackerel. But until we can prove Morisov was actually dead before Pruchevsky's very lovely alibi kicks in, I'm unwilling to authorize an arrest. So unless you --"

With an un-Captainly expletive, Simon picked up the phone. "Rhonda, I thought I told you no... what? Yes, you're right, except for that. Put him through." Simon hit the button for the speaker phone and leaned back. "Dr. Sadakian. Rhonda tells me you have important information for us."

"Yes, Captain. The immature specimens of Cynomyopsis have completed their life cycle. I was quite fortunate, really. I had excellent weather data for that area, since there's a weather station at the community college very close to the crime scene. I was able to compare their readings to my hygrothermograph data, apply a bit of regression analysis --"

Jim was ready to explode, and looked it. Simon was no explosives expert, but he was no fool either. "Doctor, you could just give us the conclusion now, and save the rest for your written report? We'll look forward to reading it."

Liar, Blair mouthed silently.

"Yes, yes, of course. The entomological evidence establishes the time of death very precisely. Or more accurately, the time the body was deposited where it was exposed to insects."

"And that time would be?" Jim almost shouted.

"Ah, Detective Ellison. Approximately dawn on Sunday. No later."

Simon thanked the entomologist and broke the connection. He glared at his best team, who were high-fiving each other. "Well, gentlemen, what are you waiting for? Don't you have an arrest to make?"

EPILOGUE

Blair stood in front of the loft windows, watching rain drench them and the balcony beyond. The brief warm and dry spell now seemed like a distant memory of summer. Hard to believe it had been less than two weeks ago. The week since Pruchevsky's arrest had been relatively quiet. It wasn't clear there was enough proof to get Navolonsky on anything but accessory at best, giving false information at worst. Jim seemed content to pull up the drawbridge when they got home each night. They'd make more ambitious dinners than usual, watch TV, read. Blair would work on his diss -- only one more of those anxiety dreams, not bad -- or plow through his stack of journals. They'd go to bed early most nights, and make love -- sometimes long and slow, sometimes hard and fast. Damn close to a perfect life, actually. If only Jim weren't so quiet, so broody...

Blair walked over to the couch where Jim lay sprawled, reading the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. He sat down next to his long, elegant legs, resting one hand on a lean thigh. "Hey, love -- is the Morisov case still bothering you?"

Jim closed the magazine and tossed it onto the table. "Yeah, I guess."

"You're not worried about getting a conviction, are you? The forensics people in Hawaii did a great job... Morisov's blood in the trunk, and the murder weapon, with hairs from Pruchevsky's head... pretty damning. And forensic experts in two states are ready to testify that the only way Morisov could have gotten those fibers onto his underwear was a transfer from somebody's clothes. Somebody wrapping up a body, for example."

"No, I'm not worried about putting at least one of the bastards away." He reached for Blair's arm and tugged gently.

Blair lay down on top of Jim, settling himself into a familiar configuration, head tucked into the angle of his lover's neck and shoulder. He began to stroke the breadth of chest beneath his hand, letting the silence build for a little while.

"So, what's bothering you?"

The chest rose high and fell beneath Blair's hand, as a profound sigh escaped. "You're a persistent little shit, you know that?"

"People have mentioned it to me once or twice. Even people other than you."

"It's just that... Jesus, Blair, those guys were supposed to be his friends, and they killed him for nothing but a goddam car. Not rage, fear, lust, passion, politics... those I can at least understand. But to kill a decent guy like that for nothing but a car."

"Yeah, well, it was a car worth almost two hundred grand in Russia. I couldn't believe that last email of Katrina's... I had no idea the profit margin was that good. Let's face it, Jim, a lot of people would find that much money worth killing for. For Pete's sake, kids have been known to kill each other for a pair of shoes."

"If this is supposed to cheer me up, it's not working."

"You're just thinking about it too much because it's been a quiet week. Not enough adrenaline." Blair unbuttoned his lover's shirt so he could slip his hand inside, caress the smooth skin, soothe with his touch.

"Yeah. You're probably right." But Jim still stared out the windows, into the dark, watching the rain.

Author's Note on Sources:

This episode is based on an actual case I saw on Secrets of Forensic Science in February 2001. It has been Sentinelized for your protection. Background information for the forensic entomology is from M. Lee Goff's A Fly for the Prosecution: How Insect Evidence Helps Solve Crimes (Harvard University Press, 2000).

For more on cadaver dogs and human remains detection, see:

Lowy, Officer Allen and Officer Pat McAlhany. "Human Remains Detection: 'Cadaver Dogs': the latest Police Canine Detector Specialty." <http://www.crime-scene-investigator.net/cadaverdogs.html>; (Accessed August 11, 2001).

Moore, Ron and Cindy Tittle Moore. "The Labrador as a Cadaver Dog." <http://www.k9web.com/kennels/waggery/cadaver.html>; (Accessed August 11, 2001).

End SVS02-03: Into the Woods by Corbeau: FiveSenses@yahoogroups.com

Author and story notes above.

Disclaimer: The Sentinel is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount.