You know the drill. We don't own, we just play.

Thanks to TSL for their patience and a BIG THANK YOU TO Gershwhen, my beta and to Michelle for hosting me!

This story is a sequel to: not a sequel

No Zones Allowed
by alyjude

He'd zoned.

He'd fucking zoned. When had he last done that anyway? Five, six months ago? Yeah, at least. Damn, he was nothing more than a stupid child, still fascinated by something shiny. Fucking, damn trendy clothing store. Using three silver balls that bounced up and down, up and down, to advertise themselves. Shiny and bouncy, and just like Blair, and what had Jim done? Gone all goo-goo eyed then promptly zoned.

Not that he was mad that he'd zoned. He wasn't. He was mad because he'd stood there like an idiot, in plain view of anyone who wanted to look, with Simon, for twenty long minutes. Poor Simon, trying so hard to bring him out. Okay, that still wasn't why he was really mad. He was really mad because Simon had called Sandburg. And Sandburg had come. And in two minutes, Jim had become zone free.

God damn Sandburg. He'd left a class to come to Jim's aid. A class. Forty-five students and a slide presentation. For Jim. And it had taken the little shit only TWO FUCKING MINUTES to bring Jim out. TWO FUCKING MINUTES!

Why?

A folder was dropped on his desk and he glanced up, scowling. "Yeah?"

"Homicide, via Simon, just turned this over to us, Jimbo. You and me."

Oh swell. Connor. Could his day get any worse? She leaned across his desk and grinned. He got a whiff of her perfume, sneezed three times, then nodded to himself. Yep, his day could get worse.

"What the fuck are you wearing, Connor? And did you bathe in it or something?"

She patted his cheek. "Don't worry, Jimbo, I promise not to upstage you -- this time." She snickered and walked to her desk, grabbed her jacket and purse, then with a jerk of her head, said, "Come on, hop to it. We have people to interview."

Jim looked up at the ceiling and mumbled, "Why me, God?"

This time it was an ice cream truck.

Jim and Connor were leaving the cute little mansion that belonged to the publisher of Cascade's premiere print rag when the truck came down the street. Connor was ahead of him and already down the brick steps that led from the massive front door to the sidewalk, when Jim heard the little bell.

Ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling.

He'd cocked his head, listened to the soft tones of the bell, and that was all anyone wrote. Jim was off; this time in audio sentinel la-la land. When he came out of it, he was still standing on the brick steps, thirty minutes had elapsed and Sandburg was standing in front of him, his hand on Jim's cheek.

"Sand--burg?"

"Yeah, Jim, it's me. Or the tooth fairy. Take your pick." Blair proceeded to give Jim a huge toothy grin.

"You had a conference this afternoon," Jim said, his mind numb.

"Yep. Then Connor called. I ducked out in the middle of Professor Handelman's scintillating discussion of grass huts, hats and skirts. It was a real audience pleaser."

"Sounds like it. Did he do any modeling?"

"Yeah, but the hut looked shitty on him."

Jim burst into laughter. When he was laughed out, he asked the inevitable, even though he knew the answer. "What happened?"

Blair turned and looked out over the street. "Well, according to Connor, an ice cream truck came along and the guy rang the bell and you took a nap."

"And this was how long ago?"

"Thirty, thirty-five minutes ago."

"Well, fuck."

Blair nodded. "Yep."

Jim looked down at his partner and saw those blue eyes staring up at him, wide and innocent, and Jim's own eyes narrowed. "What, Chief?"

"Nothing, Jim, nothing. Just -- nothing."

"Shouldn't you get back?"

"Yes, I should. If I can sneak back in, I might be in time for Professor Whitman's lecture on the effect of the rebirth of the blue-winged Batberry bird of Brazil on the lost tribes of the Amazon. It's a real corker."

Jim's eyes narrowed again. "You just made that up, didn't you, Sandburg?"

"I do not make stuff up, Jim. It's Whitman's theory that the lost tribes of the Amazon will be found thanks to the Batberry bird of Brazil." Sandburg cocked his head and looked thoughtful. "The Batberry bird of Brazil is really attractive. For a bird. I'd get found for it."

"You're sick, Sandburg, very sick. Go to school."

Blair had promptly trotted down the steps, waved a good-bye to Connor, then climbed into his Volvo and sped off.

Batberry bird of Brazil indeed.

"Okay, Connor, where to next?" Jim asked as if he'd never zoned in his life, let alone twice in the same day.

The rest of the morning was rather uneventful, with their witnesses disappointing them by telling the truth. As far as Jim was concerned, that meant they hadn't interviewed the murderer yet. As he negotiated the turn onto the Riverside Bridge, he asked, "Who's next?"

"Um," Connor said as she thumbed through the file, "Annie Demayo. She was Henderson's fiance. I saved her for last because she lives out on the sound."

"East end or west?"

"West. Once you get over the bridge, take the 20."

"Right."

They drove in silence for ten blessed minutes, then Connor broke it.

"So, it's been awhile, hasn't it?"

"What?"

"You and zones."

"Suppose so."

"What do you think triggered it?"

"Gee, Connor, I believe it was a bell."

"Har-har. I mean, why are you suddenly zoning?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"You're the sentinel, Ellison. If anyone should, wouldn't it be you?"

"Well, I don't know, so let's drop it, shall we?"

"But no one could bring you out of it -- except Sandy. That doesn't bode too well, you know?"

"And that means what, exactly, Connor?"

"It means, what if you zone and Sandy isn't around?"

He really hated Connor. Really, he did. And he especially wished that she wouldn't call Sandburg - Sandy. Sandburg was NOT a Sandy. Sandy was a girl, or a big beefy redheaded man, or some freckled guy named Sanderson. Sandy was NOT Blair. Blair was NOT Sandy. Jim gave a little shiver.

And why wouldn't Sandy -- BLAIR -- be around?

"I think she knows something."

"But she wasn't lying."

"But she knows something, Ellison."

Jim moved up another car length. Thank God Wonderburger finally had a drive-thru. He was only three cars away from the order menu. He glanced over at Connor and frowned.

"Yeah, you're right, she knows something. I think we'd better re-interview John What's-his-name."

They moved up another car length.

"Why re-interview him?" Connor asked, curious.

"I sensed the same kind of holding back, the same fear."

He waited for the comment and when it failed to materialize, he realized that of course, it wouldn't. Only Sandburg would have been excited to find out that Jim could sense similarities in fear scents and Connor wasn't Sandburg. Duh. For that matter, no one was Sandburg.

Thank God, only one car now separated him from his Double Wonderburger with everything. Sandburg would kill him if he knew, but hey, what Sandburg didn't know, yadda-yadda.

"So after lunch, we head back to the Cascade Whisper?"

Jim nodded, too engrossed in the approaching order menu and Wonderburger clown to actually provide a verbal answer. He was so close to the burger of his dreams that if the cell phone rang right now -- he'd toss it out the window, so help him God.

BRIIIIIING

Well fuck.

BRIIIIIING

"You gonna answer that, Ellison?"

With a tortured sigh, Jim pulled out the offending phone, flipped it open, then barked, "This better be good!"

<Hey, man, how's your day?>

"Sandburg, did you hear me? I said 'this better be good' and asking me about my day doesn't qualify."

<I was just asking, Jim. You know, concerned partner and all? And if you order the VeggieBurger, I'll let you order a small fry.>

"Sandburg, I'm hanging up now."

Jim hit the end button, but not before he heard Sandburg's laughter. The prick.

"Jim, our turn to order. I'll have the Double Wonderburger with everything, a large fry and a chocolate malt."

Jim closed his eyes, counted to ten, then when a sickeningly sweet voice asked, "May I take your order, please?" he said, "One Double Wonderburger with everything, one large fry, one chocolate malt, one Double Veggieburger with everything, one medium fry (take that, Sandburg) and one -- diet soda."

The second interview with John Tallon simply cemented Jim's certainty that Tallon and Demayo knew something together. How sweet. While they were in Tallon's office, Jim noticed a picture behind the man. Three young people, arm in arm, laughing for the camera. Jim recognized Tallon and Demayo, but the third person was not Henderson, their victim.

"Mr. Tallon," Jim asked as he and Connor stood to leave, "that picture behind you? I recognize you and Miss Demayo. I didn't realize you two were that close."

Tallon immediately drew himself up and Jim's senses went on alert. The guy was reigning in his emotions.

"We've known each other for quite a while, Detective."

"I see. And you didn't feel it important enough to tell us earlier?" Connor asked sweetly.

"You're investigating Ralph Henderson's death, you already know that I've met Miss Demayo, why would it matter how long we'd known each other?"

The man's pulse was fairly jumping. Jim smiled disarmingly. "Who is the other man in the picture, Mr. Tallon?"

Tallon gave a quick look over his shoulder and his pulse rate went off the chart.

"Oh. That's -- Geoff, my brother."

"Did Geoff, your brother, know Henderson?"

"No, Detective, he didn't. He works for the Forestry Department and patrols the Wenatchee National Forest. He's there ten months a year. He'd have no reason to know Henderson."

Bingo. The man was lying. His brother did know Henderson. Which led Jim's detective mind down another path.

"Mr. Tallon, what was your brother's relationship with Miss Demayo?"

"Relationship? We were all -- we're all -- friends. Just friends."

Double bingo. Lying again. Or rather, shading the truth.

"Were your brother and Miss Demayo ever involved, Mr. Tallon?"

Tallon's mouth took on the characteristic of a carp.

"Was your brother upset at the engagement, Mr. Tallon? Still in love with Miss Demayo, perhaps?"

"I--I--"

"When was he last here, Mr. Tallon? And I'm sure you're aware we can check it out rather easily."

"I -- my brother -- did not, would not--"

Tallon sank back into his chair and put his head in his hands.

As it happened, both Tallon and Demayo only suspected Geoff Tallon. And had been covering for the man. Which left Jim and Connor with the task of tracing Geoff Tallon's movements, then deciding whether to head up to his work site. As they both climbed back into the Ford, Connor sighed.

"You do realize that you make detectives obsolete, don't you, Ellison?"

"Oh really? You knew Demayo was hiding something, Connor. How long before you'd have come up with everything we got in Tallon's office?"

"Well damn, Ellison, that was a nice thing to say."

Smiling as he pulled out into traffic, Jim said, "I can say nice things, I just choose not to."

Connor laughed and relaxed, so feeling better himself, Jim reached into the Wonderburger bag and took out the small bit of veggie burger that he had remaining. He managed, with one hand on the
wheel and one on the burger, to push the paper down enough to take a bite. His last thought was a memory.

Connor sat in the truck, worrying her bottom lip. The traffic surged past them and she was grateful she'd managed to get the steering wheel from Jim and then guide them to the curb. They were out of traffic and no one was paying them the slightest heed. Thank God.

She checked her watch, then grimaced. It had been over twenty minutes since she'd called Sandy. Twenty long minutes. Twenty minutes of staring at a zoned-out detective. God damned, but this was scary. And she felt totally helpless. She'd done everything. She'd crooned, petted, touched, put his hand on her heart, her face, all of it. And nothing. What if he never came out of this one? Was that possible? She heard a light honk and looked up and into the rearview mirror.

Sandburg.

Thank you, God.

Blair pulled up behind the truck and jumped out, then jogged over to the driver's side. He looked in, his face a study in worry.

"Megan?"

"It's been almost thirty minutes this time, Sandy. I did everything, but nothing worked."

"Okay, okay, don't worry. Look, why don't you slide out and let me in over there, okay?"

Nodding with relief, Megan climbed out and watched as Sandburg ran around the front of the truck, then took her place inside.

"Hey, Jim?"

"I tried that, Sandy," Megan said in an impatient voice.

"Just let me do this."

Sandburg took Jim's hand and placed it over his own heart. "Jim, can you feel that? It's my heartbeat. Now I need you to concentrate and you should know, I feel like a total idiot. Heartrate indeed. As if you'd know. But still. Would you like to know what you took me away from this time? A conference with the Dean. Personally, I'm glad. I was being hauled on the carpet and I didn't even do anything wrong--"

"Chief?"

"Hey man, there you are. Cool."

Jim blinked twice, turned his head, looked over at Sandburg, looked down at his hand over Sandburg's heart, then groaned.

"Again?"

"Yeah," Blair said with a wry smile, "again."

"What did you say about a carpet?"

"Nothing, Jim, nothing. Do you know what triggered this one?"

Megan poked her head in the window and pointing at the seat between Sandburg and Jim, said, "He was eating the rest of his Veggieburger, Sandy."

Sandburg glanced down, then up into Jim's confused and -- frightened -- blue eyes.

"That's okay, Jim. Don't worry. I'm done for the day, so why don't I follow you and Connor back to the station, all right?"

In a voice Sandburg had never heard before, Jim asked, "Maybe -- Connor could take -- your car, Chief?"

Blair drove them back to the station, Megan following closely behind.

Ithad been a gas watching Connor try to wedge her tall frame into his car. He hadn't had that much fun since Orville Wallace had done it. Okay, that hadn't been fun, exactly. After all, the man had been hurting, but still, the idea was the same.

Blair often forgot how much shorter he was, but watching someone like Megan trying to get into his car, and it was easy to remember how short 5'7" could be for a guy. Not that he minded being short -- for a guy. He didn't. Being short held all sorts of advantages over the years. Good advantages. Great advantages. People forgot you were there. Heh. Hell, how many times in the last three years had he simply followed Jim into Simon's office without Simon even noticing? Too many to count.

Yeah, being shorter than average was a good thing. Of course, for a woman, he was tall. Not that he was -- a woman. Didn't want to be either. And didn't his mind have somewhere else to go?

"You're not saying anything, Sandburg."

"I'm driving."

Jim gave an inelegant snort. "Oh, like that ever stopped you. You usually talk and wave your hands around while tooling down the street."

"But that's in my car, not your sacred truck."

"Why does everyone act as though I never let anyone drive my truck?"

"Um, because you never let anyone drive your truck?"

"Do too. You're driving it right now."

Blair sighed heavily and kept driving.

"I can't believe you're not talking about it, Sandburg. Are you okay? You're not sick or anything, are you?"

"Jim, what the hell are you talking about?"

"My zones. Three zones in one day, Sandburg, and you're not asking."

"You got anything to tell me?"

Jim shrugged helplessly. "No."

"There you go. When we get home tonight, we'll see what we can come up with, all right?"

"That's it? We're just gonna wait until we get home?"

Blair rolled his eyes melodramatically. "Yes, Jim, that's it. We're going to wait until we get home."

"Oh. Okay."

He tried not to show it, but Jim was actually -- hurt. Here they were, back at the station, and Sandburg was working on a late sentinel fixer-upper of a report for Simon. Sheesh, didn't he matter at all to Sandburg? By now the younger man should have written volumes on all the possible reasons for Jim's zones. He should have asked dozens and dozens of personal questions, he should have made several charts, and yet, he'd done -- nothing. Okay, he'd said 'when they got home,' but Jim hadn't believed that for a moment. He'd just known that once back at the station, the guy would be all over him like a bear who's just found the beehive. But no. Nothing. The little shit.

So, what, being with a sentinel was old hat now? Jim was boring Sandburg? Sure, that had to be it. Greener pastures. Get tired of the new toy after the shine has worn off. Well, damn, it wasn't like he was broken or anything. You don't just trade a sentinel in - do you?

Fuck. Maybe you do.

When was the last time Sandburg had spent an entire day with Jim at the station? Two, three weeks? And how much actual time when he was here? A few hours at the most if Jim bothered to take the time to add it up.

Fine. So what? Like he needed the guy? Like he couldn't figure out how to take care of these fucking zones himself? Like he needed Sandburg to solve a case? Not hardly. He was a damn fine detective with or without his senses and yes, with or without Mister 'You're my Holy Grail' Sandburg. So he didn't want to talk about Jim's senses? Fine. Just -- fine.

"So, where are we on the Henderson investigation?"

"Where are we, Sandburg? If you mean, where is Major Crime on the Henderson investigation, or where are Connor and I on the Henderson investigation, well, we're just fine and thank you for asking."

"Whoa, what bug crawled up your ass?"

"Off hand I'd say that particular bug would be you, Sandburg. And--"

"Ellison," Connor interrupted as she walked up to Jim's desk, "I just talked to Geoff Tallon's boss, a Captain Phillips. He confirmed that Tallon was on the duty roster the two days prior to the killing and the day after, but," she grinned ferally, "not the day of the killing."

"Where is he now? Were you able to confirm his location?"

"He's at work today through Friday. They live at the station while on duty, so--"

"So we head out and talk to the guy."

Jim got up, but Connor put up her hand. "Whoa, Ellison. It's a two hour drive. You plan on spending the night or something? Or maybe we'll just drive up there in the morning?"

With a grudging nod to Connor's reasoning, he sat back down.

"This is cool, man. I've got nothing on the dockets for tomorrow, I can join you."

"Gee, Sandburg, swell."

Okay, they'd been home over two hours. They'd eaten, even cleaned up. So where were the questions? Here he sat, in his usual corner, surfing and finding nothing, and so far, Sandburg hadn't said a word about his zones. Jim was getting mad. Sandburg had an obligation. Right? Right. Jim tossed the remote onto the coffee table, got up and walked over to the French doors.

"Sandburg?"

"Yeah?"

"It's after eight."

"Gee, thanks, Jim."

"You dork. Zones? Questions? Finding out answers? He-llo?"

He could hear the bed creak, then the soft footfalls of his partner. A moment later, tired eyes looked up at him.

"You up for this, Jim?"

"Excuse me? Up for this?"

"Well, you don't usually like to discuss your emotions and that's probably what we're dealing with here, so yeah, are you up for this?"

"What, you've already decided this about me? My fucking emotions?"

"Well, unless something unusual has happened, and you haven't told me, which, golly, would be such a surprise," Blair wiggled his head, "ye-ah, it's about you and your emotions."

Sometimes, Jim really wanted to throttle Sandburg. Really.

"Look, let's just do this, okay? I'm fucking up for it already."

Sandburg gave him a little smirk, then disappeared for a moment and When he came out, he held a yellow legal pad in his hand. He walked over to the table and sat down, then waited. With a sigh, Jim followed and took the seat opposite.

"Okay, what did you eat from yesterday afternoon up until I met up with you and Megan on the street today?"

Okay, this was more like it. Tests, questions, yeah, real detective work.

Later:

"Any phone calls from old friends?"

"No."

"Letters?"

"No."

"Were you cleaning anything out and you came across old pictures or something like that?"

"Sandburg, where the hell are you going with this?"

Blair dropped the pen and rubbed at his eyes. "Jim, I'm just trying to pin down anything odd in the last twenty-four hours, okay?"

"Fine. No cleaning."

"Fine. Anything unusual about the case? Like, are any of the suspects old girlfriends?"

"Oh, that's funny, Sandburg. You're a real riot, you are."

"Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"Anything unusual about the case?"

Jim managed to look chagrined. "No. Nothing. I don't know any of them, don't want to know any of them. By-the-book investigation."

"Why was it kicked upstairs from Homicide if it's so by the book?"

Jim shrugged and said, "You know the victim. Big time columnist, good friend of the owner and publisher, and he's been cold for over forty-eight hours. Pressure sent it up to us."

"Ah. Okay, so nothing unusual. Describe the incident in front of the clothing store again."

"Sandburg, this is starting to feel like an interrogation here--"

"As well it should. Tell me again."

"Breakfast with Simon--"

"Why? That, in of itself, is unusual."

"Oh. Well. No reason -- exactly."

Blair tapped his fingers restlessly.

"He just wanted an informal -- setting -- for our talk."

The tapping increased.

"I've been -- kind of -- touchy, lately. A little. Not much, just a little."

The tapping doubled.

"Okay, I zoned yesterday too."

The tapping stopped. Cold.

"Don't look at me like that. It was at the station and I brought myself out. It only lasted a moment, but unfortunately, it happened in Simon's office."

"I see. What were you doing in Simon's office?"

"Well, we'd just wrapped up the Iori case, remember? I told you about it. Anyway, there we were, laughing, kind of congratulating ourselves, and I put my hand in my pocket and the next thing I knew, Simon was saying my name over and over again."

Blair frowned. "Your pocket?"

"Yeah, my jacket pocket."

Blair nodded at the camel colored jacket hanging from the peg. "That one?"

Jim nodded and Blair pushed away from the table. He walked quickly over and reached into--

"The right pocket, Sandburg, but there's nothing in there."

Blair's fingers connected with something and he drew it out. Looking disgusted, he said, "You're right. Nothing but one of my hair ties. And how do you always end up with them, by the way?"

"You take them off, fiddle with them, I grab them and--"

"Stuff them into a pocket, yeah, yeah."

He shoved the tie into his pocket and with a thoughtful expression on his face, retook his seat. "Okay, so back to breakfast. Tell me again."

"We came out of Othello's, there's this dress shop and just outside of the door, there's this stupid canister thing with those stupid silver balls bouncing all over the place. I started watching them and thinking--"

"Thinking? You never said anything about thinking? What were you thinking?"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Sandburg. I don't know, I was just -- probably -- thinking I'd like to shoot those damn balls out of the air, you know? Then you were there."

"Okay, bouncing balls. Got it. The next zone?"

"The ice cream truck. The bell."

"Did you think anything that time?"

"Um," Jim rubbed at his temples, "I don't think so, other than the bell sounded -- nice. Real nice. Not like the one the truck had when I was a kid. That thing was loud."

"You managed to think all that while zoning?"

"Sandburg--"

"Sorry. Couldn't help it. But maybe this is tied to your childhood? Do the bouncing balls relate at all to being a kid? Maybe you and your dad? Or Steven?"

Jim shook his head adamantly. "No, no bouncing balls. And these zones aren't -- bad, exactly. Not like -- when -- Danny died."

Blair cocked his head. "Not bad, Jim?"

"No, not bad. In fact, something kind of warm-like each time, now that I reexamine the zones."

"Warm-like?"

"Yeah," Jim answered defensively, "warm-like. Wanna make something out of it?"

"Who me? No way, man. Warm-like."

"I need a beer. Want one?"

"Sure, why not? We're going nowhere fast, I don't think we need a designated driver tonight."

Jim gave a little humph as he opened the fridge and took out two beers. He walked back over, handed Blair one, then twisted off the cap of his and took a good swig.

"Okay, the last zone. Tell me about that one again."

"Man," Jim said as he swallowed, "again?"

"Again."

"I reached for the rest of my Veggieburger--"

"By the way, Jim? I'm proud of you."

"Oh shut up." The fact that Jim was smiling fondly over at Sandburg somewhat diluted the command.

"So you reached for your Veggieburger--" Blair coached.

"And I remembered the first time I ever had one and the next thing I knew, you were sitting there, holding my hand to your heart."

A little excitement came into Blair's eyes and he almost bounced in his seat. "Okay, now we're getting somewhere. Sense memory."

"Uh, Chief? Run that by me again?"

"Sense memory, Jim. You may have zoned on your memory of the first Veggieburger. When was that? Were you a child? A teen? What?"

Looking thoroughly disgusted, Jim said, "No, Sherlock, I wasn't. I was A thirty-six year old detective at the time and I was tasting my annoying partner's Veggieburger because he practically shoved it into my mouth."

"Whoops."

Jim noticed that Sandburg had that thoughtful look on his face again. "What? What?"

Sandburg's expression cleared and he smiled. "Nothing. It's just odd, that's all."

Giving Blair an exasperated look, Jim said, "Sandburg, care to share exactly what you find odd?"

"You mean besides the obvious?"

"You are so dead. Just tell me."

"My hair tie. My veggie burger. Odd."

Jim frowned because there was something in Blair's eyes, a dark glitter, that caused a set of shivers to use his spine as a racetrack. The shivers were making their indecent way down his body when the phone rang. Grateful, Jim literally jumped up to answer. "Ellison."

<<This is a recording, please hold for a telephone representative-->>

"Right. You just bet I will." Jim hung up -- soundly.

"I'm thinking that wasn't Simon."

"How many years have you spent in school, Sandburg?"

"Enough to put my intelligence to work in order to figure out that wasn't our esteemed boss," Blair responded with a grin.

Jim looked at the smiling face and decided that maybe he was done for The evening. His zoning problem could wait. Giving himself a little shake, he said, "We have to be up early tomorrow, Chief. Connor'll be here at seven. I'm hitting the hay."

"Okay. This can wait another day. Besides, I already have enough information to begin to formulate a hypothesis -- or two -- or a hundred."

Jim watched as Blair gathered his pad and pencil, then rose and stretched. He watched, fixated, as the Henley shirt rose up, revealing the small of Sandburg's back--

"Jim?"

"Wha'?"

"You, ah, did it again. Only a couple of minutes though."

Jim focused, turned his head right, left, then down. Blair was staring up at him, that dark glitter back and swimming in the blue depths. Jim found himself leaning forward -- then pulling himself back up.

"Yes, well, no tie, no Veggieburger, no bouncing balls, Sandburg. I think -- I'm just really tired. See you in the morning."

He turned on his heel and took his stairs two and three at a time. When he reached the top, he wondered why his heart was beating so hard. It wasn't as if he'd been running from a pack of criminals -- or anything.

Blair followed Jim's progression upstairs, but only when it was obvious that Jim was upstairs to stay, did he walk into his own room.

He dumped the pad and pencil, then stripped down to his shorts. He pulled out and slipped on one of Jim's old cropped Cascade PD sweatshirts. The sleeves had also been chopped off, but he figured it would be more than warm enough. He padded back into the living room and spent the next couple of minutes doing Jim's job -- namely locking up.

Jim stood at the rail, his body hidden by the darkness of his room. From his perch, he watched Blair move about the loft. His senses were Sharper than he was used to, but he didn't wonder why. He just watched.

He zeroed in on the expanse of skin visible below the raggedy edge of the sweatshirt, at the contrast of pale flesh and dark hair that promised more if one only chose to go lower; at the hips that just held up the shorts; and at the sturdy, but slender legs that carried Blair around the room.

Fascinated, Jim watched the sway of dark curly hair and he listened, eager to hear it as it rubbed against both flesh and the collar of the sweatshirt.

He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes.

Aftershave, still clinging to skin, the scent of which held undertones of earthy musk. Natural body odor, the perfect note to compliment the aftershave, mingled with Sandburg's clean sweat and the detangler Sandburg used on his hair. Together, they enveloped Jim, held him captive so that even as Blair disappeared into his room, Jim could still see him.

Jim stood for several minutes smelling, listening, seeing. It was only when Sandburg's breathing evened out that Jim finally went to bed himself.

When Jim came downstairs the next morning, he wasn't surprised to find Sandburg already up and at the table with one of his algae shakes. And A bowl of Rice Krispies. Which was odd.

"Chief, shake and cereal?"

"I'm hungry. The shake gives me the energy I'll need all day, but the Rice Krispies--"

"Satisfies the little boy in you?"

Head down, but grinning, Blair said, "Well, yeah. So sue me."

"Nah, I'll just get myself a bowl and join you. Do we have--"

"On the sink. One left. I used the other to add to my bowl."

"Great. Can't have Rice Krispies without--"

"Bananas."

"Right."

Two minutes later, Jim was happily eating a bowl chock full of '"snap, crackle and pop." He was half way through when he noticed that Sandburg had the Henderson folder in front of him.

"Playing catch-up, Sandburg?"

Blair shrugged and kept on reading.

"So what do you think?" Jim asked, ignoring the fact that Blair was still reading.

"I'm still reading."

"Oh."

Jim spooned more Rice Krispies into his mouth and after chewing and swallowing, said, "So, whatcha think?"

Blair's lips twitched. "I'm -- um, well, still -- you know, reading."

"Oh."

As Jim continued to eat and watch, he realized that in the last two or three weeks, he'd missed sharing cases with Sandburg. He was actually anxious to hear the younger man's views on this one. As he swallowed another spoonful, Blair, eyes still on the report, picked up his spoon and absently guided it, dripping milk, to his mouth.

Jim frowned. Cocked his head -- and watched, his entire being focused On the spoon as Blair's lips closed over it--

Jim blinked. "Just tell me -- not--"

"Again, Jim. You did it again."

"How long?"

"Just a few seconds. I asked you a question and you didn't answer. You were just -- staring. And by the way? Do you have any idea how weird it is to see you zoned? Have I ever mentioned that? How your eyes go all blank and your mouth opens slightly and--"

Jim held up an impatient hand. "Gee, thanks for the vivid description, Sandburg. Do I drool too?"

"Not yet, no. But you keep this up and one of these days, it's Happy Dale Farm for you, my friend."

"Gee, Sandburg, have you always been this reassuring? Or is this new?"

Blair snorted and went back to his chair. "I don't suppose," he asked As he sat down, "you have any idea what triggered this one?"

"Sandburg, were you or were you not in this room, at this table, with me?"

"I was. So -- do you have any idea what triggered it?"

Jim's sigh could have been heard all the way to the station, Blair was betting.

"I was eating, you were eating, I was watching you -- read and eat, listening for Connor, end of story."

"Huh-uh. Sure. Okay. Got it."

Blair got up, picked up both their empty bowls and carried them into The kitchen. When he came back, he swallowed the last of his shake, then took the glass and put it in the sink. Jim joined him, the box of cereal in his hand.

"Uh, Chief?"

Blair turned from rinsing off the dishes. "Yeah?"

Jim made a little jiggle motion with his finger, which was pointed at Blair's lips. "You - green-"

Rolling his eyes, Blair wiped his mouth. They worked together for a few moments, cleaning up, then Jim said, "So, did you finish the report before my little trip?"

"Yeah, and I'm curious. Why are we interviewing this guy in the mountains again?"

Jim knocked on Sandburg's head as he said, "Does the word suspect ring A bell? Not to mention the fact that both Henderson's fiance and his coworker, brother of our mountain man, lied to protect him."

"Ah."

Jim paused in his wiping down of the table. "Ah?" he asked, cloth in hand.

"Well, I did notice a couple of things. Small things, really, but they struck me as odd." Blair shrugged helplessly as he finished.

Jim put down the cloth and picked up the folder he'd set on the chair while cleaning. Waving it under Sandburg's nose, he asked, "Do you plan on sharing your little tid-bits?"

Catching the folder and taking it from Jim's waving hand, Blair opened it and took out one statement. Smiling, he waved it under Jim's nose.

"You and Connor interviewed Philip Abbott, the owner and publisher of the Cascade Whisper, right?"

"Yes. At his home. Does an ice cream truck ring a bell, Sandburg?"

Blair's expression changed and blossomed into a huge smile. "Wow, that was good, Jim. Ice cream truck, ring a bell. You're just so talented."

"And in two minutes, you're dead. Get to the point."

"Abbott said he hadn't seen Henderson since the morning of his death, right?"

"Correct. Henderson dropped off a particularly nasty story to Abbott."

"At his home, right?"

"Yes, Sandburg, at his home. So?"

"Well," Blair scratched the back of his head, "like I said, two things, really jumped out. First -- computers. Abbott used his while you were there, according to your notes. He looked something up for you?"

"Yeah, the subject of Henderson's last column, the one that hadn't run yet. In case one of Henderson's "victims" might have been angry enough at the man's poison pen to do him in."

"Exactly. So why did Henderson bring his story to the boss' house? Why not just send it like most reporters do?"

Jim's eyes narrowed, then his face cleared. "No way, Sandburg. If you're intimating that Abbott might be our killer, nuh-uh, his vitals were perfectly normal during the interview."

"Jim, that's not a full-proof method. You've had suspects before that could fool you. People whose signals were so odd or all over the map, that you couldn't tell if they were lying. And maybe, you didn't ask the right questions?"

"Well, we sure didn't ask if he'd killed the man. But we did ask him where he was when Henderson was killed and all signs pointed to a truthful answer."

"Like I said--"

"I know, I know. Go on. You said two things?"

"Yeah. Um, right here," Blair squinted and read, "Abbott seemed truly shocked by Henderson's death. As Detective Ellison and I were leaving, Mr. Abbott stopped and looked down at the floor of his entryway. He pointed and said, 'He stood right here, Detective. Right here. Only a few days ago, dripping all over my floor. And he was -- so worried. About the rain water ruining my wood.'"

Blair looked up. "Henderson was dripping the last time Abbott saw him. Dripping wet from rain."

"And this is important, why?"

"Jim, Jim, Jim." Blair shook his head. "Henderson was killed on Monday, the twenty-fifth. According to forensics, the time of death was between seven and nine that evening, right?"

"I read the report, Sandburg."

"Jim, it didn't rain Monday until that evening. It rained for exactly forty minutes. I know, I was trying to run to my car in the deluge. That was at seven-thirty, just after it started. By eight, it was over."

"Well, I'll be damned."

"Hey, not something either you or Connor would catch, Jim. Didn't you say you'd both been down in the old PD Files room most of Monday?"

"Yeah. The two of us, plus Taggert and Brown. That damn Fitzgerald case."

"Right. You came home red-eyed, sneezing and scratching your skin raw."

Jim nodded, remembering the miserable drive home. Barely able to concentrate, his skin crawling and eyes running, he'd been praying that Sandburg wouldn't be having another late night at the University. Jim also remembered the flood of relief when he'd spotted the Volvo, parked exactly where it should be.

Twenty minutes after walking in the door and showering, his skin had been covered in cool, soothing aloe gel, cucumber slices placed on his eyes and he was flat on his back on the couch. A miserable day had been transformed into one of the most comfortable, relaxing evenings he could remember. As he'd rested, the sounds of Blair grading papers, helped by one of Sandburg's classical CD's, lulled the detective into a restful world somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

"...hardly surprising that you guys didn't know or realize that it had only rained once that day, or should I say -- night."

Jim came back with a start and automatically nodded. "So basically, Abbott lied to us about the time he'd last seen Henderson. And considering the time of death, well, Mr. Abbott just moved to the head of our suspect list."

"Jim," Blair asked, looking thoughtful, "what exact question did you put to Abbott? I mean, how did you ask Abbott where he was at the time of Henderson's death?"

"Didn't we just cover that?"

"No, not really. And don't give me that look. This last week has been hell on you. What with zoning and all," Blair added with a wicked smile.

"Your sparkling wit constantly amazes me, Sandburg."

Grinning brightly, Blair said, "Yeah, I know. I'm like a fine champagne. All bubbly and sparkling. Question is, do I tickle your nose?"

Jim had just taken a sip of his coffee he'd had resting on the edge of the kitchen island and at Blair's words, he spit it out. The obligatory coughing followed as Blair rushed into the kitchen to get a few paper towels.

"Geesh, Jim, you're a lethal spitting weapon. That coffee made it all the way to the sink. I'm lucky it missed me. Was it," Blair smirked, "something I said?"

"You putz. And why the question about the question I questioned Abbott?"

Through Jim's entire speech, Blair's head had been nodding in sync with every "question". Crossing his eyes, he pretended to be dizzy and reached out for the counter.

"Gosh, Jim, you're so -- verbal. Excuse me while I go throw up."

"Double putz."

"Is there such a thing?"

"Apparently. I seem to be looking at one."

"I walked into that, didn't I?"

"Big time."

"Right. Okay," Blair bent down and as he mopped up the floor, said, "The reason I was asking about the question you used to ask Abbott the quest--"

"Sandburg, can it."

Blair straightened and chuckling, walked into the kitchen and tossed The paper towel into the trash.

"Get to the point," Jim added as Blair walked back over to him.

"Did you ask, 'Mr. Abbott, where were you when Henderson was killed?' or did you ask, 'Mr. Abbott, where were you between the hours of seven and nine?'"

Jim wracked his brain, then shook his head. "You're not making any sense. For a moment, I thought I knew where you were headed, but now, I'm lost. I asked where he was when Henderson was killed, as opposed to where he was between seven and nine. Which, I suspect, is what you thought I might have asked."

"Wrong. If we're right and Abbott killed Henderson, he killed him where?"

Jim shrugged and said, "It had to be at Abbott's home."

Blair's eyebrows rose in expectation. "And?"

"And?" Jim questioned, then his expression cleared and he snapped his fingers. "And Abbott told me he was at -- home."

"Bingo. He didn't lie to you."

"Damn, I've missed you these last couple of weeks," Jim said without thinking. He moved quickly to the phone, picked it up and dialed Connor's cell.

<<Connor.>>

"We're not going up to the ranger station. Meet Sandburg and I at the PD in thirty."

<<Ellison, I'm ten minutes from your place.>>

"Which means you're also ten minutes from the station." Jim hung up and faced Sandburg. "Come on, shake a leg. We have a rich, influential man to bring down."

As Jim moved to the door and grabbed their jackets, Blair shook a leg and said, "Gee, Simon will be so proud."

Connor looked from one man to the other, then said, "So how do we catch him? The victim was found in his car, miles from Abbott's home. And based on that, what makes you think Henderson was killed at Abbott's?"

Jim felt himself deflate. Damn the woman. He turned to Sandburg. "Oh, Chief? Hel-lo?"

Blair looked up from the full file on Henderson and smirked. He held Out a sheet of paper and as Jim took it, Blair said, "You guys do good work."

"Um, Chief? This is simply the report on the area where Henderson's vehicle was found. Forensics combed it thoroughly, as did yours truly, albeit days after the fact. Hikers paradise. No distinguishable footprints. No evidence worth a damn."

"The area where the car was found is less than two miles from a CTA stop, Jim."

Megan nodded her agreement, then said, "So what? Five bus lines run through that stop. Graves and Evans in Homicide ran pictures of their prime suspects and everyone Henderson worked with, by each driver on duty that night. No one was recognized."

Blair looked at her over the rim of his glasses. Jim smiled and said, "I'm thinking that neither proves nor disproves anything. Abbott would hardly be out and about following a murder in one of his Saville Row suits. We need to check out the bus stops near his home, Connor. Now."

"Okay, but I'm thinking you two are barking up the wrong tree."

She walked off as Blair mouthed "woof-woof." Jim burst into laughter.

Fifteen minutes later, Connor walked over, perched on the edge of Jim's desk and said, "Well, you may be onto something, Ellison. CTA route number 12 goes from where Henderson was found to Fifth and Amberson. At that point, CTA route number 5 picks up and goes within three blocks of Abbott's estate. One transfer, that's all he'd have to make. The travel time would be less than forty minutes."

Blair looked up and smiled. "Cool."

"But that still doesn't prove Henderson was killed at--" Connor started to say, but Blair interrupted her.

"I'm thinking our intrepid gossip mongering reporter dug up something on Abbott. I'm thinking he confronted Abbott and Abbott killed him."

Megan's left eyebrow arched. "Oh, really, Sandy? And how did he do that in his home without Detective 'I can smell anything' Ellison catching it?"

In a gesture that politely suggested Megan keep it down, Blair waved His hand impatiently. "Geesh, Connor, advertise, why don'tcha?"

"Oh for heaven's sake, Sandy. We're practically alone. No one heard me."

"Just be more careful, okay?"

Connor patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Have no fear. Now, where were we?"

"We were just about to explain to you where Abbott killed Henderson, weren't we, Chief?" Jim looked expectantly over at his partner.

"Yep. Abbott killed Henderson in the driveway of his home."

Jim turned to Connor and said, "See?"

"No," Connor said disbelievingly, "I don't see."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Jim said smugly, "Sandburg, explain It to her."

One eyebrow raised, Blair said sarcastically, "Sure, Jim. No problem. Abbott walked Henderson out to his car and when Henderson climbed in, Abbott shot him in just the manner suggested by Forensics. He went back inside, changed, then came back outside. He slid the body over--"

Connor held up a hand. "Whoa, wait a minute. No blood on the other seat. Nothing to indicate he'd been moved."

"Henderson drove a classic, cherried out Ford Fairlane. One long bench seat in the front. All Abbott had to do was spread something over it, like one of those large trash bags or something. Anyway," Blair went on, gathering speed in his excitement, "he slid the body over. Got in, drove the guy to where he was found, then got out, pulled the body back, grabbed whatever he'd used, then whistling, he walked the two miles to the bus stop. End of story."

Grinning, Jim said, "I like the whistling part, Chief."

They winked at each other, then Connor said, "So he just climbed onto a bus, in a raincoat probably covered with blood, and carrying a trash bag with blood--"

"Connor, I know you have more imagination than that. How would you have done it?" Blair asked.

"What do you mean?"

"If you'd shot Henderson in front of your home, how would you have gone about all of this?"

Realizing that Sandburg was serious, Megan gnawed on her lower lip, Then sighed and said, "I'd have two coats on. Just in case. And the trash bag, I'd have buried it or dumped it on the way to the bus stop, along with the extra coat."

Blair touched his nose. "He may not have had the crime planned, but Once Henderson was dead?"

Connor nodded excitedly, now completely caught up in Blair's scenario. "So instead of the mountains, we go back to where Henderson's car was found and walk the two miles, with our own personal houn--"

"Connor," Blair warned, "if your life means anything to you at all, say no more."

Megan made a zipping motion on her mouth. Groaning, Jim got up and headed toward the elevators. "Coming, guys?"

Connor and Sandburg scrambled after him.

It took ten minutes for Jim to find the bag and the raincoat. He was focused, paid attention to Sandburg's coaching and honed in on the evidence as if it were a buried Double Wonderburger with the works. They dug it up, bagged it and the two detectives and one observer triumphantly returned to the station.

Jim turned everything over to Serena Chang with a plea that she hurry the results. She never even blinked, not with Sandburg standing behind the taller man and batting his lashes at her. With a smirk, she turned away, saying, "Sure thing, Detective Ellison. I'll call when I have anything."

Her smirk widened when she heard Ellison say, "See? That's how you handle Serena. Simon should take a lesson from me."

She wasn't surprised to hear Blair say, "Oh, yeah, right, Jim. You're a real charmer, you are."

The break room was empty so both Jim and Blair sank gratefully into the seats at the table, hot cups of coffee in both their hands. From the time they'd left Forensics, they'd been pulling up every bit of information they could find on Abbott. So far, they'd come up empty-handed. Connor was currently holding up her end of the investigation by putting their ducks in a row and conducting an on-the-phone interview of Geoff Tallon.

"You know what we need to do, don't you?"

"No, but I'm betting you're going to tell me, Chief."

"We need to get me to Henderson's office, or better still, his home."

"Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. Everything we know about Henderson says that whatever he had on Abbott, he put into column form and it has to be on his computer. Which begs the question; why wasn't he killed long before now?"

"Good question. But since it's not about to be answered, why don't we check out his home?"

"After we finish this coffee."

"Well, duh."

Jim let them in and immediately moved to the balcony and opened the windows. Henderson's apartment hadn't been occupied in over a week and the musty smell was overwhelming Jim's senses. As he took a couple of deep breaths, he said, "His computer is in his bedroom."

Blair made a beeline for said room. He came out a few moments later and said in surprise, "Jim, where's his laptop?"

"What are you talking about? I saw his computer and there was no laptop."

"He has a docking station."

Puzzled, Jim followed Blair into the bedroom. The computer station took up one entire wall. The large, fancy computer Jim had first seen took stage left. The hard drive, the keyboard, the monitor, the speakers, everything was exactly where it should be. He saw nothing that looked like a docking station. Maybe Sandburg had been watching too many Star Trek reruns.

"Chief, I don't understand--"

Blair walked to a small on-wheels filing cabinet and pointed at a weird piece of black plastic and metal. "This is a docking station and it's hooked up to the monitor. You slide your laptop in here," he indicated the opening, "Turn it on, and you're good to go. That's why this second keyboard is here." He pulled out a shelf to reveal the second board. "This isn't dusty, Jim. The guy's laptop was here, he did use this thing."

Rubbing at his neck, Jim said, "This makes no sense, Chief. Why would a man have both in the same place?"

"Look at the other computer and keyboard, Jim. They look brand new and barely used. No worn off letters or numbers on the keyboard, no prints on the glare screen, nothing. I don't think he'd had the chance to actually used that one. And being a columnist, I bet he wrote wherever and whenever and on his favorite laptop. We just need to find it."

Their search of Henderson's apartment yielded absolutely nothing. Unless you counted Henderson's collection of porn. Jim held up one magazine and crossed his eyes. "I don't think this position is even remotely possible, Chief. This has to be a manipulated photo."

Blair glanced up, then back down to the drawers he was checking out. "No, it's possible. Kind of erotic too."

"Chief, don't even try to tell me that you've done this -- tried this or ever even contemplated this--"

"Okay, I won't."

"You have," Jim said with a mixture of disgust and admiration in his voice.

"You told me not to tell you--" Blair's voice trailed off as he lifted out a clear plastic box that held a large selection of slides. "Um, Jim?"

"Let's not jump to any conclusions, Chief. They're probably just shots of his -- family. You know, nieces and nephews, that kind of thing."

As Jim spoke, Blair opened the box and held one of the slides up to the light. He blushed a bright crimson.

Jim focused, gasped, then plucked the slide and the box from Blair's fingers. "Well, I'll be damned," he said.

"Jim, I don't think those are pictures of -- Henderson's family."

Jim whistled low, then said, "I'd have to agree, Chief."

"Jim, Henderson was -- was -- I can't even come up with the right word."

Jim put the slide box back, since it wasn't really evidence, then Said, "Yeah, pervert just doesn't -- cover it."

"I was thinking of something more -- adventuresome, you know?"

Jim glanced over at his partner and shook his head helplessly. "Sandburg, considering the color your face turned when you took a look at that slide, I've come to the conclusion that you're all talk, buster."

"Now that was a mean thing to say about anyone, Jim. I'm -- insulted. Really. Insulted. And let us not forget that when you looked, well, you did a fine job of mimicking a sheet. A white sheet."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Did not."

"Did too."

Jim's eyes narrowed and he took a deep breath. "We have a laptop to find, Sandburg. Let's get cracking."

"Well, you did," Blair said petulantly.

Jim flipped him the bird.

Thoroughly dejected, they sat silently in Jim's truck. They'd searched both Henderson's apartment and his office and no laptop had been found. Now they were parked in the underground garage of the PD, but neither man showed any inclination to get out and go up to Major Crime.

"Maybe a girlfriend, Chief?" Jim finally asked.

"The file says he had no current girlfriend."

"Oh." Suddenly Jim slapped his head. "What's wrong with me? He had it in his car, Chief. Abbott took it."

"Damn, you're right. Of course. Henderson took it everywhere--"

"Just like you do."

"Yep. So now what?"

"We hope Serena has something for us, then we take everything to Simon, he takes it to the DA, who takes it to a judge--"

"Search warrant."

"Yep."

Serena looked up at one very depressed Jim Ellison and said sadly, "Sorry, Detective."

"That's it, Serena? That's all you've got for us?"

"I hope you weren't expecting your suspect to have his name stitched into the raincoat, Detective Ellison?" she said with a smile.

"That would have been helpful, yes."

"So the blood matching the victim isn't enough?"

"I could use a bit more, Serena," Jim said, looking hopeful.

Slowly Serena Chang brought her hand from behind her back. Dangling from her fingers was a plastic baggy. "How's this?"

Both Jim and Blair leaned forward to peer into the bag.

"It's a pin, Detective. Sons of Texas."

"Oh my God," Blair breathed out.

"Chief?"

"Sons of Texas. Elite group of Republicans. Abbott was one of the founding members. His move from Austin to Cascade did nothing to lessen his involvement." Sparkling blue eyes looked up at Jim. "We've got him, man. We have so got him."

"Tell me our guy wasn't stupid enough to have that pin in the lapel?"

Serena's grin widened. "No. I found it in the pocket, Detective Ellison. I suspect your perp checked the pockets, but as I nearly missed This little thing, well, I'm betting so did your guy."

"...so that's it, Sir."

Simon sat back in his chair and with a very satisfied grin, took out his celebratory cigar, sniffed it appreciatively, then said, "Good work, Jim, Connor."

Someone cleared their throat heavily. Without looking up, Simon said, "You too, Sandburg."

"Aw, shucks, Simon, no need to get all fuzzy with me or anything. Just give me one of those macho pretend punches to the gut and I'll be happy."

Simon looked up from the love of his life long enough to say, "Jim, get him outta here."

"Yes, sir."

Jim and Connor rose, Jim with his fingers tugging at Blair's earlobe. "Come on, Sandburg, we have a man to see."

Abbott had been so confident about getting away with the crime, he still had Henderson's laptop sitting in the middle of his desk. The owner and publisher of Cascade's leading gossip magazine took his arrest well.

"You don't really think I'll be convicted, do you, Detective?"

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Abbott, I do," Jim said as he cuffed the second richest man in Cascade.

"Then you think wrong, Detective. Henderson was scum. He was probably blackmailing half the influential people in the city. Henderson might have been the most read columnist in Cascade, but he was also the most hated. I'll walk, Detective."

Without another word, Jim turned him over to the squad car that had accompanied him, Sandburg and Connor to Abbott's home. As all three watched the blue and white disappear, Connor said quietly, "You know, I bet he does walk."

"With a jury of common folk? I don't think so, Megan," Blair posited. "Juries aren't known for their sympathy when dealing with the rich and stupid," Blair finished.

"He's got a point, Connor. Abbott's going down."

After a few moments, the three started for Jim's truck.

"What do you call a partnership of three?" Megan asked happily as she climbed out of Jim's Ford, Blair sliding after her.

Tossing his keys up and catching them, Jim winked and said, "I believe that's a threesome, Connor. And who knew you could be that kinky?"

The Aussie froze. She turned toward Ellison, eyes narrowed, lips twitching. "The two of you couldn't handle me, Ellison. I'm too much woman."

Blair walked confidently between the two sparring detectives and said easily, "Move it, people, short guy coming through, and actually, you two couldn't handle me. I'm too much of everything."

He kept going, leaving a stunned Jim and Megan in his wake.

Blair silently read the report back to himself, then satisfied, hit print. Jim rose, picked up the papers as they shot off the laser printer, stapled them, then walked over to Simon's office and knocked.

"Enter if you dare."

Jim quirked an eyebrow, but walked in.

"The report on Abbott, Sir?"

"Oh, good. Hand it over. And tell me this arrest is a lock."

Puzzled, Jim nodded. "It's a lock, Simon. Abbott's not even trying to hide it now. Why?"

"The Mayor, the Commissioner, you name them, I've been on the phone with every high mucky-muck in Cascade all morning."

Jim sat down in front of Simon's desk and as his boss poured him a cup of his newest brew, said, "They weren't really putting pressure on you to let him go, were they, Simon?"

Banks handed off the steaming mug as he shook his head. "No, just the opposite. They're all double checking that we've got him cold."

Jim gave a dry chuckle, then said, "Henderson might have been the prime gossip monger for the Whisper, but Abbott was the mover. I think fear might have been behind those calls, Simon."

"You have a point. How did the interrogation go?"

"It went for exactly three minutes before his lawyer, Nathan Biggs, showed up. All communication came to a grinding halt."

"Has Sandburg had any luck cracking Henderson's computer?"

"Not yet. He stopped long enough to write yet another science fiction novel on the tracking down of evidence by yours truly. But he's back on it now. He's good, he'll find what we need."

"I hope so, Jim. We might have physical evidence, but motive would look real good now. In fact, without it, all the physical evidence in the world--"

"YAAAAAHOO!"

Jim cocked his head. "Sir, unless the Marines have just landed, I think that was--"

"Sandburg. Yeah, I noticed. Let's go."

Both scrambled up and tried to beat each other to the door. Jim, being closest, won. He got it open and as the two men entered the bullpen, they froze.

Blair was at his desk, Henderson's laptop opened in front of him. And he was cackling. Jim looked at Simon. Simon looked at Jim.

"Sir, I think he's broken the code of life."

"I'm thinking he just found Jimmy Hoffa."

"So that's it? That's his blackmail material?" Simon asked doubtfully.

Blair, eyes glued to the screen, nodded. "That's it, Simon.

"Uh, Sandburg? That's not very -- um, people don't usually kill over something like being the owner of a company."

Blair shook his head and rolled his eyes. Both Simon and Jim were sufficiently cowed. When Sandburg did both -- it was not a good thing.

"Simon, do you know what Bullets, Inc. is?"

"Yeah, it's the name of the company Abbott owned, Sandburg. And while the paper trail was tricky--"

"Bullets, Inc. is the primary mover and shaker in the entire Pacific Northwest for gay porn. Soft, hard, videos, magazines, you name it, Bullets, Inc. makes it."

Blair swiveled in his seat to look up at his partner. "Get it, Jim? The slides? The magazines? We had our hands on Henderson's evidence." With that, Blair sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, his expression quite smug.

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay, running the largest gay Porn industry in the Pacific Northwest would be pretty damaging for the upright Abbott. His rag of a paper might have been about gossip, but it was about righteous gossip and putting the evildoers of Cascade in their places. But if it got out that he was manufacturing porn of any kind, yeah, that high moral ground of his would seem pretty shaky."

"That's a bit of an understatement, Simon," Jim observed with a satisfied grin.

"Not a bad day's work, Chief, not a bad day's work at all."

Blair glanced at his partner and smiled. They were in the truck, their day finally over. Abbott was in jail and bail had been denied. The man was toast.

"Yeah, Jim, not a bad day at all."

"And I'm proud to say -- no zones."

"You noticed that, did you?"

"Is that sarcasm in your voice, Chief? That's so beneath you."

"Why, I don't know what you mean, Jim. How 'bout Italian for dinner?"

With narrowed eyes, Jim swung the trunk into traffic and headed for Michelina's Pizza Palace.

Pepperoni pizza didn't usually contain the answers to the mysteries Of life for Jim, but as he stared down at the slice in his hand -- answers were indeed provided. Maybe it was the pattern of pepperoni? Kind of like palm reading or the reading of bumps on one's head? Or maybe Jim was simply going crazy?

He could buy the latter. But until the men in white coats actually came for him, he'd be satisfied with the secrets revealed to him by the pepperoni. No, that wasn't right. The secrets were horrendous. It would be better if he were carted off to a padded room somewhere because the alternative was too shocking.

He'd zoned without Blair.

Blair had been the only one to bring him out.

The only one.

"Jim, you okay?"

If Blair were the only one, if Jim zoned only when Blair wasn't around--

"Jim? Man? You okay? Are we off in sentinel la-la land again?"

--then that meant--

"Wha'?"

"Well, at least you didn't zone. What the heck were you thinking about, man?"

Jim blinked a couple of times, then put his pizza down onto the plate. Suddenly, he wasn't hungry anymore. At least not for pizza. Pepperoni pizza.

"I'm fine, Sandburg. I wasn't thinking about anything."

Blair looked doubtful as he said, "You were wearing a pretty thoughtful expression, Jim. You also lost all the color in your face." Blair's voice lowered as he placed his hand over Jim's. "Come on, man, talk to me."

Jim pulled his hand out from under Blair's as if he'd been burned. He then got so busy grappling in his pocket for his wallet, he failed to notice Blair's expression of shock and hurt.

"Look, I'm not hungry after all, Sandburg." He tossed a twenty and a five down onto the table, then said hurriedly, "Pay the man and have everything boxed up. I'll be in the truck." Without a backward glance, Jim was gone.

"Was there anything wrong with the food tonight, Blair?"

Blair tore his gaze from the entrance and looked into the concerned eyes of their host, Michelina. Waving his hand abstractly, Blair said, "No, no, Jim doesn't feel well, that's all. Can you," he twirled his finger over the table, "box this up for me, Mickey?"

"You got it, Blair."

Jim found that his hands were actually shaking. Shaking. Him. But hey, this was worth shaking over. The night cloaked Jim from the rest of the world as he sat in his truck and contemplated the truth he'd finally found.

He needed Blair Sandburg.

No, that wasn't right either. He'd accepted that fact quite a while ago. He knew that he needed Blair's voice, his energy and intelligence, his moving hands, his smile and scent, his cooking and laughter - his friendship. But to need Sandburg for his senses? To need the younger man in order to be a sentinel? No fucking way. That was inconceivable. Intolerable. Unfair.

To Blair.

Jim dropped his head to the steering wheel and moaned softly. God, What did this really mean? Was Blair tied to him for as long as he was A sentinel? Forced to be by his side while Jim went around as the Sentinel of the Great City, arresting the bad guys and making the world safe for -- Wonderburgers?

He pounded the dashboard and immediately regretted it as the pain raced through his hand, up his arm, to lodge finally at the base of his skull.

"He didn't sign up for this," Jim said softly to no one. "He's a scientist, he'll get his doctorate and make a name for himself. He can't be chained to me -- he can't be chained to me."

By the time Blair opened the door of the truck, Jim had regained his self-control. As Blair hopped in, balancing the pizza box, Jim was able to start the engine without any telltale sign of his previous shakes. He backed out of the parking space, put the vehicle into drive and tore out of the lot.

Three blocks from the loft, Blair asked, "You gonna tell me what's wrong, Jim?"

"Nothing's wrong, Sandburg. Just lost my appetite, that's all."

"Huh-uh. I see. Just lost your appetite."

"Drop it, Sandburg."

With a shrug, Blair held up his hands. "Consider it dropped, man."

The remainder of the trip was made in silence, a silence which continued into the lobby, up three flights of stairs and finally, into the loft.

Blair put the box in the fridge, pretty certain that Jim wouldn't be eating any of the pizza that night. He pulled out a bottled water and as he twisted off the cap, he watched his partner.

"God, I hate it when you do that, Sandburg."

Blair cocked his head. "When I do what? Drink water? This I do badly?"

"I don't give a shit how you drink water, but it bothers the hell out of me when you watch me with that expression on your face."

Looking skeptical, Blair said, "We have eyes in the back of our head now, do we?"

Jim pointed at the windows. "Reflections, asshole."

"Isn't that a little like calling the kettle black, Jim?"

Truly confused, Jim twisted around until he could see the real thing. "What?" he queried with a shake of his head. "What did you just say?"

"Calling me an asshole. Kettle black. Yadda-yadda."

Jim stood up. "You saying I'm an asshole?"

"Yeah. And a black kettle too." Blair punctuated the last part with a sharp, satisfied nod of his head.

"You know what your problem is, Sandburg?"

"You?"

"You're -- impossible to fight with. No one can have a decent discussion -- you're too weird."

"Gee -- thanks," Blair said brightly.

With a disgusted look on his face, Jim shook his head and started for the stairs. "I'm going to bed."

"Goodnight."

Blair watched Jim walk upstairs, his expression now as thoughtful as worried. Something was wrong, but he had no doubt that he'd get it out of Jim -- sooner or later.

Sleep eluded Jim and he found himself tossing and turning as his brain kept shouting about chains and Sandburg being a prisoner of the Sentinel of the Great City. It was after one before Jim asked himself The important question: What would happen if he stopped being the Sentinel of the Great City? Would Blair be free then?

Okay, that was two questions. But hell, he was entitled.

Wasn't that the answer then? That he simply went back to being the plain old, everyday detective of yore? Sure, why not? There'd be no more sentinel sight (which had allowed him, so far, to catalogue over ten shades of brown and five shades of red in Blair's hair). No more sentinel scent (that could tell him when Blair was upset, or sick, or mad). No more sentinel hearing (that could pick out Blair's voice from miles away) or touch (that could distinguish a relaxed Sandburg from a tense Sandburg, thanks to a guiding hand placed at the small of Blair's back).

No more enhanced taste buds (that knew when Sandburg was swapping tofu for cheese or eggs). No more dials or piggybacking or any other brilliantly conceived Sandburg techniques.

No more obfuscations explaining how they came about their evidence (Simon might be tickled pink about that), just good old detective work.

Blair would be free and Jim could go back to being -- what he'd been before.

Normal.

Jim threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. He should be thrilled that he'd come up with the answer to Blair's emancipation. So why wasn't he?

Because -- Blair would -- leave.

He'd be gone. No sentinel, no Blair.

Jim groaned.

The very thing that kept Blair in his life, was the thing that when gone, would take Blair out of it.

"But I have no choice," Jim said in the darkness of his room. And he was right. Blair's happiness came first. His freedom came first. After all, Blair had never signed on for life here.

Depression hit Jim then, hit him hard and deep. He reached over and took his robe from where it was hanging and quickly put it on. With a sadness deeper than any he'd ever experienced, he walked downstairs and over to the windows. Jim pushed them open, but remained just inside.

As he listened to his city, he tried to puzzle out the whole zone thing. There had to be a connection between the sentinel and his back-up, something that Blair had missed, or Burton hadn't known about. A connection that tied the back-up to his or her sentinel forever. Or until -- the sentinel was no longer a sentinel.

It suddenly struck Jim that by doing away with his sentinel thing, and not telling Blair why -- he might be, no, was, robbing Blair of some pretty important information for his dissertation.

Come to think of it--

No. Blair had said himself that he could have written a dozen dissertations by now. This wouldn't hurt his doctorate, and if one little piece of information was missing -- well, what Blair didn't know existed, could hardly be missed.

Swell. Now Jim felt like a total slug. Lower than a slug.

"Jim?"

Caught completely unaware, Jim whirled around and into Sandburg. He put out his arms to keep them both balanced and realized that Blair was wearing nothing but a tank top and his boxers. Jim's arms wound around the younger man to keep him upright and the warmth spread through Jim and damn, but he felt dizzy.

"Whoa, Jim, you okay?"

Jumping back, Jim nodded. "I'm fine. You just surprised me, that's all."

Blair scratched at the back of his head. "Gee, Jim, I can't remember the last time -- no, wait, I've never surprised you. You're, like, you know, a sentinel."

"Thanks for the news bulletin, Winchell."

Blair's expression brightened. "Ooh, I get that. Walter Winchell."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Okay, what the hell are you doing up this late?"

"Um, Jim? You woke me up."

"I don't think so, Sandburg. I haven't made a sound."

"Jim, those sighs of yours could be heard by the Chopec in Peru, all right? Now, are you gonna tell me what's going on, or what? And don't try to buffalo me, I'm wise to you and always have been. Cough it up, Ellison."

"Nice speech, Chief."

Grinning and bouncing on his toes, Blair said, "It was, wasn't it?"

"You think you're good, don't you?"

Blair nodded, still grinning.

The moon came out from behind a cloud and bathed both men in its silvery glow. Jim could see the smiling face below him, but he could also see the stubbornness in Blair's eyes. For all their banter, Blair was serious and Jim wasn't fooling him one bit. But the truth -- wasn't an option, was it?

"The truth, Jim."

How the hell did he do that?

Jim took a deep breath and not having a clue why, said, "I only zone when you're not around and you're the only one who can bring me out, Chief."

"Uh, Jim--"

"Don't you get it, Sandburg? It's some kind of sentinel thing and if I remain a sentinel, I can't do it without you. You're tied to me as long as I'm a sentinel. Or I should say, that as long as you stay, I can be a sentinel. You're trapped, Blair, unless I stop being a sentinel."

Blue eyes widened and Blair's mouth opened, then shut, then opened again. Jim shook his head helplessly.

"Good impression of a Koi, Chief."

Blair snapped his mouth shut, then opened it to ask, "Jim, did you come up with that hypothesis all by yourself?"

"No, smartass, I brought in the United Nations. What do you think?"

"I think the United Nations is way smarter than you. You should have roped them in on this, because then you'd come up with the right answer instead of this--crap."

"Crap? Did you just say crap?"

"Yes, Jim, I did. C-r-a-p. Crap."

"I'm about to make this grand sacrifice for your freedom and you call it crap!?"

Blair did a kind of double take, then said, "Sacrifice?"

"Yeah, s-a-c-r-i-f-i-c-e. Sacrifice. I'm about to give up being a sentinel so that you can have your freedom, asshole."

"Jim, you hate being a sentinel. Where exactly is the sacrifice?"

Jim lowered his head and mumbled something. Blair leaned in close and said, "Jim? Care to try that again?"

Almost defiantly, Jim lifted his head and stared at Blair as he said in a stronger voice, "I don't hate it."

"Do too."

"Don't. I -- like -- love -- being a sentinel."

Blair's eyes narrowed as he tilted his head to give Jim a closer look."Oh, really? Since when?"

"Since -- just -- since."

"Oh, good answer, Jim. Very detailed. However, just a few weeks ago--"

"Sandburg, we're straying from the original point here. Namely that I'm not going to continue being a sentinel if it means--"

"Jim, you zoned because I've been so busy at Rainier."

Jim shook his head and made a motion as if clearing his ears of water. "Uh, Chief? I think I already said that."

"No, Jim. You said you zoned when I wasn't with you. Not the same thing at all."

"Chief, I'm standing here in my robe, you're wearing next to nothing, the lights are out, it's after two in the morning, what say we--"

"Get out the pizza?"

"Yeah."

Blair smiled brilliantly, then headed for the kitchen while Jim turned on a light and took his seat on the couch. He had no idea where this was going, but he had no doubt that the journey would be good because Blair was leading the way. For the first time in hours, he felt -- okay.

Blair returned with two paper plates, two beers and the pizza box. He set everything down on the coffee table and helped himself to a piece. Jim did the same, then they both sat back and ate and drank in silence. Companionable silence.

When the box was empty and the beers gone, Blair said quietly, "And you zoned on -- me, Jim."

Jim stared at his partner. Two revelations, both so totally out there.

"You're gonna have to explain yourself, Chief. First you say I zoned because you were at Rainier. You claim that's different from what I said, namely that I zone when you're not around. And now you tell me I zoned on you -- when no matter what, we've both established that I zone when you're not -- here."

"You zoned because I wasn't around. Remember how your emotions can guide your senses? Well, you were -- missing me. The bouncing balls? The soft sounds of the ice cream truck? My leather tie in your pocket And tasting my Veggieburger? This isn't a sentinel thing, it's a Jim thing."

"A Jim thing? You're saying that because I missed you, I zoned on anything that reminded me of you?"

Grinning smugly, Blair nodded. "Yep."

"Okay, smartypants, why are you the only one who can bring me out of a zone? If this isn't a sentinel thing, why couldn't Simon or Megan bring me out?"

"Jim, the answer is so simple. Come on, use that brilliant brain of yours. And smartypants? Mature, Jim, very mature."

"You know, the idea that I could miss you is -- totally ludicrous."

Blair's right eyebrow simply rose. The smug expression stayed firmly in place.

"Okay, I give up. Why are you the only person who can bring me out of a zone?"

Blair leaned over until his face was inches from Jim's, then whispered, "Because -- I'm the only person you wanted to bring you out."

Eyes fixed on Blair's mouth, Jim said, "Because you're the only one I wanted to bring me out?

"That's right, Jim. Because you wanted me to bring you out."

Unconsciously, Jim leaned in toward Blair. "Why would I want you to bring me out?"

"Gee, Jim, why would you want me to bring you out?"

Blair really had beautiful lips, Jim thought. Really, really beautiful lips. What had they been talking about?

Oh, yeah. Zones. Reasons. Blair.

"So," Jim said softly, "I missed you, huh?"

"Yep. You missed me something terrible."

"So I zoned and remained zoned until you showed up, huh?"

"That's about it, Jim."

"Because I missed you?"

"Yep."

Their mouths were so close, Jim could feel the moisture on Blair's lips. "So while I was zoning because I was missing you, what were you doing?"

The beautiful mouth smiled. "Me? I was forced to look up things like Classical Adlerian Psychotherapy when faced with them on an exam."

"Chief, you teach Anthropology 101, not applied anthropology."

"I was subbing for Professor Klinzman, remember? That's why I've had to spend so much time at Rainier lately. Paybacks."

"So your point about Classical Adlerian Psychotherapy?"

"Jim, Jim, Jim. Classical Adlerian psychotherapy is characterized by a diplomatic, warm, empathic, and Socratic style of treatment. This climate embodies the qualities of respect and equality necessary for building a trusting, cooperative relationship. A full psychotherapy can be envisioned as a progression though twelve stages. These stages should be--"

Jim placed two fingers against the beautiful lips. "Chief? Your point?"

"I know Classical Adlerian psychotherapy like the back of my hand."

"Ah. So that means that you had to look it up--"

"Because I was missing you."

"Because you were missing me."

"I'd swear I just heard that somewhere," Blair said with a grin.

Jim smiled softly. "So while I was missing you -- you were--"

"Missing you."

"I'm gonna assume this missing thing was beyond, say, brothers-in-arms?"

"Beyond simple partners?" Blair added mischievously.

"Beyond a deep and abiding friendship?"

"Way beyond, Jim. For instance, when I'm not around that superior ass of yours? I get downright cranky. Just ask all my students if I don't."

Jim wiggled his index finger between the small space that existed between them. "So this is a -- physical -- thing?"

"A lust thing," Blair said, his voice suddenly husky.

"A love thing," Jim added, his own voice going just as husky.

"Oh, yeah," Blair breathed out, "definitely a love thing. Maybe even -- a great -- love thing. Like, a one true love, forever thing. Maybe."

"Maybe?" Jim challenged, one eyebrow rising.

"Definitely a forever thing."

Jim slid his arm around Blair and pulled him over and the next thing Blair knew, he was straddling Jim's lap. Laughing, he said, "Oh, yeah, this is definitely a love forever thing. And," he glanced down between them, "a lust thing. A really, really big -- lust thing."

Jim buried his face against Blair's neck and inhaled deeply. God, he loved being a sentinel. "You're the only one," he murmured into the sweet skin, "I want to bring me out of a zone, Chief."

Blair dropped his head down on top of Jim's and said softly, "But you'll let others bring you out, if I'm not around, right?"

Jim lifted his head and sighed as he gazed at the handsome face. "Do I have to, Chief?"

Blair cupped the beloved face between his hands and nodded. "Yeah, you do."

"Unless," Jim said, his eyes darkening with passion, "I'm really -- horny."

"Okay, you can hold out until I get there -- if you're really horny."

Jim nibbled at Blair's lower lip, then said, "Gee, thanks, Chief."

"You're welcome, Jim."

finis

End No Zones Allowed by alyjude: alyjude@sbcglobal.net

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