Summary: Jim's luck with partners over the years is a lot like his luck with vehicles. Rated PG.

Spoilers: Deep Water, though events or characters from Survival, Dead End on Blank Street, and Love & Guns are mentioned.

Disclaimer: Jim, Blair, Simon, Jack, and the rest of the beautiful, if wet, fictional city of Cascade aren't mine. No money made, no infringement intended against those who have a legal right to do so. In fact, more power to you.

Author's Notes: As you are no doubt aware, The Sentinel canon is a slippery creature, so I warn you that: (a) I had to make some tricky timeline choices in an attempt to satisfy as much canon history, police dept procedures, logic, etc., as possible; and (b) hopefully, I didn't miss any pertinent canon details lurking around, since some of my tapes have been packed for moving. Feel free to let me know if I did miss anything! : ) Hopefully, it'll work well enough on both counts for everyone to just enjoy. Also, Simon makes a couple of references to my first The Sentinel story, Lost and Found, although they are pretty minor. Thanks to Toni Rae and Sheryl for first-rate beta services and to Linda for helping me pin down some canon questions. Hope you enjoy. Email me with any thoughts -- I'm a work in progress!

Fall, 1996

Pigs.

How many times had Blair heard the epithet from his mom, his friends, his students? How many times had he used it himself? A dozen? Fifty? A hundred? He didn't know. And how ironic to be standing awash in a sea of them this afternoon.

Perspective is a funny thing. Before the last year or so, he'd seen cops all the time. He'd seen them the same way everyone around him had always seen them. Breaking up parties. Confrontations with protesters. DUI checkpoints. Giving that second look the long-haired college kid always got as they drove by him. The usual things any good little pawn of the government did.

But he'd never seen them this way. Never seen them standing near to each other on the green lawn around a coffin, black dress uniforms providing a stark contrast to the bright sun and lush green grass. Never listened to rote words read aloud from the Bible and witnessed that combination of sadness and guilty relief at the recognition that there but for the grace of God went each one of them. Never seen the way families were placed carefully in the front row and treated like old friends by men and women they'd often never met. Never listened to the overlapping sound of Amazing Grace and a twenty-one gun salute. Never saw the way an officer looked as he said good-bye to his partner.

The thought made him glance up to sneak a peek at Jim. The eternal enigma was perched on a concrete bench up on top of the short hill overlooking the cemetery, talking to Emily Carson. Blair had known Jim would come here today. When asked, though, Jim had just clammed up. Said Jack Pendergrast wouldn't have wanted this funeral service. And that Jim already said his good-byes four years ago anyway -- he didn't see any reason to do so in public. Good old Jim. God forbid he let anyone know he was feeling anything. So Blair had smiled, and nodded, and come here knowing full well Jim would find a way to share this with his late partner.

Blair smiled to himself. The man was just so predictable sometimes. But it was Blair's little secret. He'd never, ever tell that to his partner.

Partner. Talk about perspective being a funny thing. He had a whole new perspective on the word after this week. Truth be told, he was the tiniest bit embarrassed at having bandied around the term so recklessly since meeting up with Jim. He meant well, but he just hadn't understood. And how could he, not ever having had one himself? How could he have even begun to understand all the complex things wrapped up in that little word for men like Jim Ellison and Simon Banks and Jack Pendergrast?

One thing Blair did know, though -- he would be a better one after this because he was starting to understand what it was all about now. Why he'd jumped in front of that garbage truck. Why Jim made him stay in the car. Why Blair usually didn't. Why he never walked away for good when Jim was being stubborn and uncommunicative. Why Jim never did when Blair was annoying the hell out of him. Why his partner hadn't ever mentioned that 'one week' had already turned into almost a year. Why Blair still spent more time at the station than he did at his job, even when his subject was starting to be master of his senses.

Jack Pendergrast had taught him that, despite being four years dead.

Which meant he was glad to be here representing Jack's former partner -- his family -- this afternoon. It gave hiim the chance to honor Jack himself. He'd come to realize, after this week, that Jack was as important to Blair's current partnership as he had been to his own. He was Blair's forerunner, blazing trails through Jim Ellison's life that Blair was happily walking down. He'd boldly gone where no one had gone before. Seen through all Jim's defensive crap and been the man's friend. And Blair had just spent a week watching the level of friendship and trust and loyalty Jim had offered back. Watching what being Jack's partner had meant to him. It was a humbling experience.

And that left Blair with his own private purpose in coming here today. He wanted to make sure Jack knew he understood now. He needed to tell Jack that he got it.

It might sound a little strange to some people. Okay, maybe a lot strange. Certainly if he got caught by any of the cops here today, he'd never hear the end of it. But he wanted to do it anyway. He felt he should. He had a debt to the man.

The somber crowd was breaking up quickly now as the minister finished, leaving almost as silently as they had stood during the ceremony. Blair deliberately lingered near the grave, though, waiting until Simon finished saying whatever good-byes a captain needed to make. Finally out of earshot of the others, he had his chance. To do what he'd come to do.

He thought about the man they were burying here, about the bits and pieces of Jack he'd learned during the investigation. About the bits and pieces Blair had learned about his time with Jim. What did he want to say to the guy now that he had come all the way out here?

How did he explain what he owed to Jack Pendergrast?

Cascade Police Headquarters
Narcotics Division
Spring 1991

"Officer James Ellison. Meet your new partner, Detective Nick Vanderhous."

In response to Captain Brody's introduction, Jim took the proffered hand. He took a scant minute to size up the man in front of him. A wiry man who wouldn't necessarily stand out in a crowd, several inches shorter than Jim with graying hair and a thin, squared face. He was impeccably dressed in gray suit and tie, contrasting with Jim's own stark, black uniform. But it was the casual way he held himself that made the most impression. An unreasonably chipper demeanor, the click of chewing gum, one hand lazily tracing circles on the table that dominated the center of the office. No trace of formality or concern for being in his CO's office. The man was comfortable, at home in his environment -- a sign that he'd probably been here a long time. That could be very useful to Jim in learning the ropes around here.

"Jim," he introduced himself, standing at just the right distance so as to be pleasant but not too open.

"Nick." The other officer moved forward during the handshake, stepping into Jim's carefully delineated personal space. Intentional or not? "So you're fresh off the Academy fast track, huh?"

"Guess so." Jim stepped back marginally, out of the other's space.

"Before that?"

"Military."

"Army, right?"

Jim was surprised. He knew he radiated 'military' but it was rare for a civilian to pin down the branch. "How'd you know?"

"Oh, I know all sorts of things. Like, for example, how was the weather down in Peru?"

Jim glanced sharply at the man who had slid away now to lean casually on a file cabinet near the captain's desk, probably sizing Jim up as well. He absently noted that Detective Vanderhous was blocking the only exit from the room. In the jungle, it would have been an automatic sign of aggression. Jim fought the urge to respond to it.

Vanderhous laughed. "Relax, partner. I saw the magazine cover. That's lesson number one -- know the answers to questions before you ask them. Good research will do half your job for you."

Jim forced himself to relax, reminding himself this wasn't the jungle; his new partner wasn't the enemy. "I'll keep it in mind." The words were carefully toned not to betray his discomfort that Detective Vanderhous had the advantage over him, though. He didn't want to start out on the wrong foot.

"So," Captain Brody cleared his throat, no doubt to remind his subordinates he was still there, "if you two want to continue this, feel free to do so. Outside my office."

"Sure, Captain. C'mon, Ellison."

"Jim," he corrected again. If they were going to be working together, he needed to start by making nice with the man.

"Okay, Jim. I'll show you where you can park your stuff and then we've got a briefing. Bye, Cap."

Brody barely waved them off, not lifting his head from the paperwork filling his desk.

As soon as the door opened, Jim was on automatic alert, slightly disconcerted by all the noise and movement. He still hadn't gotten used to it, even after almost a year and a half of being back in civilization. He scanned the area, cataloguing any potential threats, and tried to focus one ear on Vanderhous talking to him.

"By the way, partner, you're buying lunch."

"I am?"

"Sure. You don't think I'm gonna share all of my wisdom with you for free, do you?" Vanderhous grinned cheekily.

"Hey, Jimmy! You listening to me?"

Nick tossed his hat at the back of his partner's oblivious head. Jim turned around and gave him a regulation glare before retrieving the hat off the floor beside him. "That was mature, Nick." He flung the hat back, frisbee-style.

"Well, you know, the methods are determined by the audience." Nick laughed, pleased with himself. Half a year with the guy, and he still enjoyed the simple pleasure of getting Jim's goat.

He slid the hat carefully back up on his locker shelf and shook out his jacket. Across the room, he heard Jim slamming and banging around in his own locker. Nick had known when he volunteered their services for the mayor's little soiree this afternoon that Jim would probably be in a foul mood when they got back. Jim hated this kind of thing. Hated 'those fancy-damn-schmancy hen parties' he had to suffer in the name of advancement opportunities. Nick had to drag his partner kicking and screaming to anything that even remotely smelled of the brass or pomp and ceremony. Jim just complained about the time they were wasting that could be better spent doing 'actual work', getting something accomplished. The problem was that Jim never understood how much he could accomplish using his brains and his character around the brass rather than his gun and his fists down in the trenches. Using the talents God gave him in a situation where people who counted were watching, not out on the streets where all a man's hard work went unrewarded.

"So, as I was saying," Nick continued with a pointed glare at Jim, "you have to learn how to work these things, kid. Your good record --"

"Excellent record."

"-- excellent record will only get you so far, Jimmy." Nick adjusted his tie as he passed the mirror, not missing a beat in counseling his partner. "You missed some real opportunities to rub elbows with important people today. These people could really help your career, believe me."

"I do fine, Nick."

"'I do fine.' We'll see what you say in twenty years when you're still in uniform." Wait until the guy had two kids in their fifth year at college with no prospects of actually paying their own way anytime soon. Wait until he was looking at not one, but two looming knee reconstructions from beating up his body for the police department for twenty years. Wait until he looked at his retirement plan and grasped just how little it was worth. "Trust me, I learned my lesson way too late." Realizing he'd gotten maudlin, he forced his tone light again. "But you can do better. You schmooze a little here and schmooze a little there, then you get bumped up and get the kind of paycheck you deserve."

Jim moved up beside Nick and checked his uniform in the same mirror. Not a thread out of place. Perfect, just the way Jim likes everything. "I told you already, Nick, I'm not gonna go around kissing ass to get somewhere."

"And I'm trying not to hold that against you, kid. Really, I'm not." Nick held the door open for them. "But that doesn't mean I stop trying."

The guy's naivete was absolutely amazing. He honestly still believed in that whole 'hard work will get what it deserves' routine. Nick didn't know how to convince him that the whole freaking city wasn't his responsibility. Look at how he did something as simple as exiting into the hallway. The moment Jim stepped out into the busy precinct, he was on alert. He acted like every damn thing was some kind of mission. Even in the middle of headquarters, he couldn't stop it.

Nick, on the other hand, knew when to shut off. He'd figured out where his responsibilities lay. Himself, his partner, his family, his cases. Beyond that, it was someone else's job. He'd figured it out a little late, but he was making up for that these days.

"Hey, Nick! You in for poker Friday?"

The call waylaid Nick before they even reached the elevator. A group of uniformed and plain-clothed officers was hanging around Dispatch, killing time before they headed out on their various assignments. Nick stopped to trade insults and compliments for a minute. This was his specialty. This was one of the ways he'd learned how to play the game. It got him good back-up, fresh coffee, advance gossip, plum cases, the occasional date or two, next week's poker winnings lined up. Things he could use.

"Would I miss a chance to rid you guys of your insignificant paychecks?" He leaned in then and whispered a few vague promises to Tina behind the desk and got a giggle in response.

He spent another ten minutes or so idly joking with the other officers and harassing the civilians. Jim stopped and waited near the doors. Nick knew he'd stand patiently around for Nick to do his thing. He just wished he could get the guy to see how much a few minutes of socializing could be worth to him. He'd spent some time at it already -- trying to get Jim to loosen up, to work it a little, too -- but the kid was a tough nut. Too much Army, too little politics. But he was determined to get through to Jim before too long. Nick was coming too close to retirement with no real plan to let his partner end up doing the same.

After all, he was Jim's partner. That's what partners do.

Spring, 1992

This was the kind of day he loved in Cascade. Walking the lazy path that followed the edge of the bay from the warehouse district down through the marina with the bright post-rainstorm sun beating down on them and a soft breeze wafting in from the bay, Jim couldn't help but feel relaxed. Content, maybe. He felt great. From the moment he'd gotten out of bed this morning, everything around him seemed to just feel so alive today. The sheets had felt softer, the eggs had tasted better, the shower had pounded harder. Even now, the sun felt warmer, the sounds crisper, the breeze off the Pacific cooler. The delicious aroma of a bakery hung in the air, not dissipated in the slightest by the outside air, and he breathed deeply to inhale it. Conversations seemed to erupt all around as they walked, his instincts snatching bits of them as they passed people. Even the colors around him seemed brighter today. Reds were redder, yellows were yellower, blues were bluer.

It was a damn strange feeling.

At least it was better than the dreams he'd had last night, though. Twice he'd woken up from crazy dreams of the jungle, the crash, the Chopec. Bizarre images that reminded him too much of the dreams that had plagued him in the weeks following his 'rescue' from Peru. Running in the jungle, or big cats and warriors. A blue-tinged world. He didn't know what to make of it all, the images both unsettling and somehow almost... reassuring... at the same time. Either way, he was left with the vague feeling that something was trying to get his attention -- he just didn't know what it was.

He shook his head to clear the memory. He hated that kind of stuff. Reality provided more than enough problems to deal with without dredging his subconscious for more.

"So, how's your cousin?"

"Huh?"

When Jim looked over at his partner, Nick was staring at him like he'd suddenly grown a third eye. They crossed Pacific Boulevard at the crosswalk toward Nick's car, parked smack-dab in front of a fire hydrant. Nick had the worst driving habits Jim had ever seen.

"Your cousin. Didn't you say you'd gone to visit him this weekend?" Nick waved a hand exaggeratedly in front of Jim's face. "Are you with me here?"

"Right. Yeah, I was just thinking." "Well, don't. It's not your best attribute."

Jim gave Nick the face his comment deserved. "Rucker's fine. They've got him assigned to some rock off the northern coast now. He loves it, he says. I don't know, I hadn't seen him since before Peru. He looked pretty good, though."

"So how come I've never met any of your family? You embarrassed about me?" About Nick? Hardly. Embarrassed about his screwed-up family, was more like it. "Of course not. It's just," he looked for the right way to put it, "kind of a long story." "Yeah, well, you can tell me about it over lunch." Nick rifled through his wallet. "Here, go get us some hot dogs."

Jim took the ten his partner was pushing at him. "I thought we were going to Giamella's today."

"You thought wrong. Across the street." Nick pointed at the hot dog vendor on the opposite corner. "Just go. You know what I want."

Jim held the bill, still confused by the sudden change of plans. "Aren't you coming?"

"Me, uh, no." Nick was watching something over Jim's left shoulder. Jim turned around, but there was nothing. A bunch of cars, an alley, no people -- nothing interesting in the least. "I'll be along in a sec."

"Why?"

"I just gotta go do something." He gave Jim a slight shove toward the street. "Go order us some dogs and I'll be right back."

Jim suppressed a frown as his partner took off across the street. What was he up to? Okay, so technically, it wasn't like it was the first time Nick had taken off to 'handle something' while they were on duty. The man had a lot of extracurricular activities, to be completely truthful. Old and new friends were constantly popping up. He was famous for juggling the ladies. And he had a penchant for taking on all sorts of unofficial troubles that came to his attention. So why make an issue of this?

The hot dog cart had a typical lunch line -- harried businesspeople looking for a quick fix. Jim waited patiently while the yuppies decided what damn brand of bottled water they were gonna have with their meal, trying to keep his jaw from clenching. Finally, using his height and uniform to his advantage, he 'encouraged' the last one in front of him to make a decision and move on. Soon, a heart-attack-on-a-bun in each hand, he briskly headed back to wait for Nick.

After a couple minutes of long-distance observation of the alleyway Nick had disappeared into, he carefully crossed the street. He got to the mouth of the alley and tried to look casual. Right, like a 6 foot 2 inch cop in full uniform was going to look casual anywhere. Where the hell was Nick, anyway?

Jim's radio went off, a burst of static followed by Tina's shrill, tinny voice. Something was going down on Fourth. He mentally calculated the distance and decided they could make it in on the action. Assuming, of course, he could get Nick away from whatever it was that had diverted his attention.

He gave up and ducked into the gritty, shadowed alley. Nick and a couple of guys in suits were engaged in a heated discussion halfway down the small street. Just as Jim came around the corner, he saw one of the Suits tuck an envelope in Nick's breast pocket. The Suit looked way too familiar, in a way that made Jim's hackles rise. He knew that guy, but not from the corner grocery store or the dry-cleaners. He had a quick mental flash of a mug shot, but couldn't put a name to the face.

Strange...

"Nick?" he called.

Nick turned around, smiling as he did so. He walked toward Jim without a backward look at the Suits. "Hey, partner."

"What's going on here?"

"Nothing." Reaching Jim's side, Nick patted his partner gently on the shoulder. "Don't worry about anything. What's up?"

"Nick..." he repeated, not that easily distracted. The Suits were watching him coolly.

Nick put his arm around Jim's shoulders and guided his partner several feet back toward the street. "Relax, Jimmy. Just some business. What's up? You can't be on your own for a minute, huh?" he added patronizingly.

Nick's calm demeanor was so forced, it was almost painful to watch. It made Jim's spider-sense kick into overdrive. "What are you not telling me?"

"Nothing you need to know." That eerie, brittle smile remained plastered on Nick's face.

Jim didn't like this. Not one bit.

"Just relax, Jim." Nick took one hot dog from Jim, swallowing a third of it in one bite. "Trust me -- I'm your partner. So, what's up?"

Jim's jaw unclenched a little. What was he making a fuss about? Nick was right -- he was Jim's partner and Jim trusted him. "A call."

"Okay. Let's go."

Still uneasy, Jim looked behind Nick and saw the Suits leaving the other end. He reluctantly let Nick guide them both back to the street. He needed to put it out of his mind. Relax, like Nick had said. It was nothing. He had to trust his partner. There simply was no other option.

As they exited the alley, Jim thought he saw something move behind him. He turned around in time to see what looked suspiciously like the tail of a large black cat disappear behind a dumpster.

"What the hell?"

Nick turned as he hit the curb, a look of distraction on his face now. "What?"

Jim looked back behind them again. There wasn't anything that didn't belong. Certainly no cat. It must have been his imagination. "Nothing. Let's go."

"Jimmy! C'mon! I don't want to be here all night doing paperwork."

Amidst the raucous noise of the police garage, Jim gathered up the last of the fast-food wrappers from their car. Nick wasn't exactly fastidious about his vehicle, especially on long, grueling fourteen-hour days, so Jim usually cleaned up after them both. At first, he'd pointed it out to his partner; but after a few months of driving around with him, he'd learned it didn't bother Nick at all. In fact, he hardly noticed. So Jim just took care of it himself and moved on.

Something white and crinkled caught his attention, peeking out from the middle of the wrappers under the driver's seat. He grabbed absently at the wad, intent on shoving it in the sack with the rest of the day's garbage. No, not a paper. An envelope.

The envelope. The small, white envelope Jim had seen Nick take yesterday afternoon from the familiar-looking man in the suit. He stared at it as it occurred to him that there might be fingerprints on it. It might answer his questions. Or it might not. It might create more questions. Or it all might give everything a perfect explanation.

All he had to do was tuck it in his pocket. Or throw it in the garbage bag.

Keep it or toss it. Keep or toss.

"Hey, Jimmy, you comin'?" Nick's voice startled him, booming across the garage.

Keep or toss.

There were a million reasons to just let it go. Not to worry about it. And only one why he shouldn't let it go: he had to follow his instincts -- they were all he'd ever had to rely on.

He fumbled the envelope into his jacket pocket and zipped it out of sight before yelling back at his partner and following him inside the station.

He needed to know.

Monday mornings were notoriously busy in Carolyn's department. Crimes backed up over the weekend, invariably resulting in a pile of 'urgent', 'rush', and 'hot rush' jobs waiting for Forensics when the new week started. Carolyn was in charge until the chief was back this afternoon, which meant the ugly job of saying 'no' to all the divisions looking for their information was hers alone. It also meant yet another lunch eaten over her desk, compiling that information.

When the door opened, she gladly let it pull her attention away from both the chemical report on the Henderson case and a half-eaten club sandwich. Anything to provide some distraction.

And what a distraction it was. Six feet of uniform filled her doorway. Officer James Ellison -- Nick Vanderhous' better half, as far as she was concerned. She perked up. Her day might just have a bright spot, after all.

"Hey, Ellison." She wiped her mouth with a napkin and sat up a little more gracefully on the stool. "What's up?"

Ellison gave the room a cool once-over before shrugging casually. "Not much. How's it going up here?"

She waved at the mess of her department, stacked high with files and evidence in various stages of completion. God, what a mess. "You know. Same old same old."

"Great," he nodded absently. He wasn't very good at casual chit-chat from what she'd seen. "Um, listen, I've got something I need dusted for prints." He held out an envelope sealed inside a baggy.

"Nick making you do the legwork again?" She cleared a spot on the table for it, shoving both her lunch and the Henderson files back out of the way. With one embarrassingly mayonnaise-ridden finger, she motioned that he should leave it there.

He came over to set his package down, giving her an up-close and personal of the unbelievable way his uniform looked on him. Broad shoulders and long, lean, graceful hands... Damn, that man had it in all the right places.

"No, um, this is just something for me. A hunch I'm following up."

Huh? Oh, right, she'd asked a question. "Bucking for some brownie points, huh?" Even better -- a gorgeous man who was going places. She could definitely get into that. "Can't wait to make detective, can you?"

He looked around the room again, his gaze finally lighting somewhere over her left shoulder. "Something like that."

"Okay, sure. You got a rush on this?"

"No. Like I said, just a hunch," he added cryptically. Nothing more, no explanation, no hints.

Oh, yeah. It was definitely the strong, silent, mysterious act that worked the most on her. The rumor around the break room was that he'd been in some kind of secret military section before becoming a cop. That he'd traveled all over the world, fighting guerrillas and terrorists and assassins and such. From what she'd seen, it was probably true. He certainly carried himself like a man who could kill you with his bare hands if he had to. And yet he was also the most courteous, generous, conscientious, and professional man she worked with in this precinct. It was the study in contrasts she found the most tantalizing. She'd had such a weakness for that ever since Eddie Aguilar had taught her how to smoke behind the bleachers in sixth grade.

"Okay, then. We can probably get to it tomorrow or Wednesday."

"That'll be fine. Thanks." He turned to leave.

Shit, he was leaving. That was way too short a visit. "Hey, Ellison," she called. "You want us to let you or Nick know when it's done?"

"No," he answered quickly. Strangely quick. He looked a little distracted for a few seconds before finishing his statement. "No, I'll come by tomorrow for the results. Nick... doesn't exactly know about this hunch. I'd rather make sure before I bring it up to him, you know?"

"Sure. I get it -- you're not the first rookie who's wanted to look good for ol' Nick. Not a problem."

"Thanks."

No, thank you. She'd definitely have to find time to get to know Officer Ellison before too long. He was way too sexy to be all alone...

Forensics was as prompt as usual. When Jim came in Thursday morning, they had a file all nice and ready with the results on the fingerprints they'd found on the envelope. Jim had politely thanked Plummer, and then stuffed the file in his locker and ignored it all day.

But the day was done, and he was running out of excuses. He had no choice but to either look at the file or admit he wasn't going to do it. So he retrieved it from his locker, but still couldn't quite get himself to open it. Across the bullpen, he could see Nick idly flirting with Brody's secretary across her desk. Nick and Julie had been at it for months now, dancing the dance. Currently the score was Nick 0 and Julie 2. Nick was obviously trying to even the score. He probably would, too.

Jim couldn't help but think about the man Nick had been talking with six days ago. He knew he'd seen the man before, but he couldn't place him. He did know it was in the line of duty, whenever he had seen this guy. That, in turn, gave him a really bad gut feeling about this whole thing. He'd had enemies for too long not to be able to spot them a mile away.

The shift was changing, and people filled the space between him and his partner, blocking his view for a few seconds. The officers bottle-necked through the main door, accompanied by the rustling of jackets and slapping of backs. When it cleared again, his partner was laughing, leaning in toward Julie. He was probably telling her that unverifiable little story about him and the northern lights. Jim had heard variations of it several times since he'd met his partner. Nick paused mid-story to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear with a deft touch.

Jim's eyes dropped back to the file in his hands, still sealed in its brown envelope. He was walking a fine line here. If he did this... thing... he was considering, then he was saying he didn't trust his partner. If he checked up on his partner, what kind of partner did that make him?

Yes or no, Jim. Figure it out. Make a choice, goddammit.

Nick laughed, reached over, and tucked something small and white into Julie's pocket.

The man in the alley had tucked something in Nick's pocket, too. The man Jim knew. Who was he?

Jim ducked out into the hallway and across into the men's room. No one was inside. He had it all to himself. No more excuses and no better time.

C'mon, Jim. Open it.

It was probably nothing. It would be a relief to have it over. He'd feel horrible, sure, but he'd be able to look his partner in the eye again. He hadn't been able to since he first took the strange envelope from their car. Not when he knew Nick had never done anything to give even the slightest impression that he wasn't completely above-board. In fact, he'd been nothing but good to Jim since they'd met.

Most importantly, Nick had been there for him. In the ways that counted. He made Jim whiskey shooters after his first time discovering a dead kid, and again after Ricky Delgado had died. He taught him how to use snitches and how to make paperwork get done in half the time it was supposed to take. He always seemed to have some gorgeous 'friend' to set Jim up with whenever he thought Jim was just a little too alone. He even took Jim in for a couple of weeks when his apartment went condo and he'd had to find a new place to live. There certainly wasn't anything Nick had ever done to warrant this kind of mistrust.

And when he did have it confirmed he was just chasing ghosts here, Jim realized he'd need to tell Nick about this. It was a serious breach of friendship. You didn't go around checking up on your partner -- your friend -- behind his back. It was just plain wrongg. Partners had to trust each other, and you couldn't trust a man who was doing that to you.

Open it, Jim. Get it done so you can go grovel to your partner.

He opened it.

There was a mug shot clipped to the front cover. Jim recognized the man immediately as the Suit in the alley.

Damn.

His eyes scrolled down to the name and specifics. Martin Thompson. A 46-year-old businessman with a little side-business. Heroin. 'Little' -- right. 'Huge' was more like it. Thompson was probably responsible for half the heroin making the rounds of Cascade. Four times, he'd been hauled in and four times, he'd gotten off. Laughing at them while he made dinner reservations for himself and his high-priced attorney. No one could make anything stick to that man.

He sat heavily back on the edge of the sink behind him, letting the file drop onto the countertop. What the hell had Nick been taking from this bastard?

And why the hell did Jim have to be right about this?

Jim put the subject off all day Friday. But the day was almost done now, only the drive back to the station left, and he really needed to get it over with. He just couldn't figure out a way to bring it up. Oh, he'd tried. More than once. But how do you say, 'Hey, bro, what were you taking from that known heroin dealer last Friday?' And when? Over lunch? Drinks, dinner maybe? Certainly not during the meth lab bust this morning or the campus canvassing this afternoon or the crack house raid tonight. Was there really any good time to question your friend's integrity while trying to keep the city safe for civilians with him?

"Hey, Jimmy, it's getting late. Let's get going. I got an appointment."

Huh? Jim was startled out of his thoughts. He eyed his partner warily out of the corner of his eye. A siren blared down the street as the last of the squad cars left carrying the dealers they'd caught in the raid, diverting his attention for a quick second. "What appointment?"

"I got some business to take care of."

"Business," Jim repeated.

"Okay, pleasure maybe. You know -- places to go, women to entertain. C'mon, I'll drop you back at the precinct on my way."

"Nick..." Jim ground the word out between teeth that refused to unclench.

"What?" Nick smacked Jim on the shoulder when his partner didn't cough up an answer immediately. "Jeez, kid, you're always so melodramatic. You shoulda been an actor. So what's up? You've been brooding all week."

"You've been disappearing a lot lately." Every Friday, in fact, now that Jim had started paying attention to his comings and goings.

"Hey, there's a lot of women in this city to please." He headed toward the street.

"Is that all?"

"What, you want pictures? Jeez, Jimmy, you not getting any?"

"Is something going on?" There -- he'd said it.

"Hey, kid, keep up that interrogation technique, you'll make detective in no time!" Nick laughed and turned away from Jim to cross the street. The ever-popular early evening commuter traffic held him on the curb for a few seconds.

"Nick," Jim pressed, countering Nick's move away with one of his own that brought them back into arm's reach of each other, "I'm serious."

"So am I. It's none of your business, Jim."

"I'm making it mine."

"And I'm vetoing it. Senior partner and all." Nick glared at the traffic light, muttering about how long it was taking to change.

Jim pressed closer to Nick again. He watched the back of Nick's jacket ripple as he gestured frustratedly at the traffic. "What were you doing with Martin Thompson last Friday?"

Nick stopped moving, but didn't turn around. With his back still to him, Jim couldn't see his partner's face, but he could see the tension the question had brought up in his shoulders and neck. "Nothing." All his earlier humor was gone.

"Not nothing. He gave you something." Jim pressed on, guiltily grateful his partner was looking away. He wasn't sure he could keep going if he had to face Nick while he was doing it. "Listen, I want to help here. We're partners, Nick. Isn't that what you taught me?"

"Just let it go, Jim." The tone of Nick's voice was controlled, deliberate, deadly. It was a well-trained timbre Jim had only heard used on suspects. It was designed to make a man feel threatened, intimidated, dirty. It worked. Full of leashed power and authority, it conveyed all kinds of dangers for continuing on the course without having to name any of them.

"I can't."

Finally, Nick turned halfway around. He pinned Jim with intense eyes. "You have to."

'He had to'? Why did that sound like a threat? "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means this conversation is over."

Nick walked away, leaving Jim staring after him, unsure of exactly what had just happened. What was he supposed to do now? Nick had all but admitted to being involved in something bad. Very, very bad. Nick wasn't prone to exaggeration when he was actually being serious. And the look in his eyes said this was most assuredly serious.

Part 2

A week later, Jim faked an illness for the first time in his life. On Friday, exactly two weeks after the initial... incident. He called in and told Julie he'd had bad fish the night before. She'd sounded so sympathetic, he'd almost suspected she knew what he was really doing. Then he borrowed a car, telling Frank Berretti that his truck was in for repairs. Frank had been so sympathetic, too.

Now Jim was parked on Fourth, in as nondescript clothes as could find, waiting for his target to come walking around the corner from the coffee shop on Wilkinson. He stopped for coffee almost every single morning that Jim had known him.

His target. It was so much easier to fall back on Ranger training -- to think of him as the target. A quarry, that was all.

Sure enough, Nick came strolling around the corner at precisely ten-fifteen, Jim's substitute in tow. Jim hunkered farther into the shadows cast by the car's roof and watched them. It wasn't long before the two officers rounded the corner and found their car. Jim started his and pulled into traffic behind them.

He spent the entire morning carefully keeping several cars back and lurking around alleys and doorways on foot. Government-funded covert ops training made sure he stayed one step ahead of Nick's cop instincts. He watched his partner work their cases, protect their city. Watched him take Mr. Replacement to lunch at Charlie's. Watched him bounce back and forth between his always-inventive stories and sage advice about the job. Watched him joke with the kid.

Damn. Why did Jim always seem to end up on the outside looking in?

Jim shook his head and forced himself back on track. His target. That was all this was. He needed to remember that.

Right.

It was nearly two o'clock when Jim saw Nick send the rookie into the diner on Alverson. The kid had a notepad and received some instructions from Nick before being shoved in the direction of the doors. The kid looked scared to death.

Jim waited, his hackles raised. This felt way too familiar. How many times had he been sent to take statements alone? To interview potential witnesses or follow leads? To follow what Nick always called his 'cop hunches'? How many times sent off alone, blithely assuming Nick was just hanging around waiting outside?

And why hadn't it ever raised any flags?

Nick lingered out on the sidewalk for another moment after his partner went inside. Then, with a grim glance around the neighborhood, he crossed the street into the alley that led to over to Smith Road.

Jim hesitated, tucked into a doorway. He couldn't seem to make his feet work. Confused, he stared at them. He didn't feel connected to his body any more. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to have found nothing. He was supposed to have felt embarrassed and gone back to work Monday with a hell of a lot to explain.

Dammit. He closed his eyes and concentrated. He had a clear duty here. He had to cross the street. It was such a simple thing, so much simpler than so many duties he'd ever had to perform. So why couldn't he do it? C'mon, soldier.

One foot.

The other.

Left.

Right.

Forward momentum carried him to the opposite curb and to the mouth of the alley. He crouched down well behind a rusty, foul-smelling dumpster and peeked around it.

Thompson.

Damn.

Thompson and Nick went into a door about two-thirds of the way down the alley. Then they disappeared for several minutes. Jim waited, silent and still, all the while hoping the earth would swallow him up right there. Somewhere, impossibly distant, he could hear the sounds of the city going on about its business.

When they finally emerged, Jim scooted farther back out of sight until his spine hit the wet brick wall. Nick walked right past him on his way back to the street. Jim waited another five minutes huddled behind the dumpster before he stood up and walked over to the door his partner and Thompson had gone into. Took a deep breath and jimmied the lock as fast as he could. Ten seconds later, he hurried inside the door before he could think about what he was doing.

The small warehouse was old. Abandoned and filthy. It held little more than dust and broken boards. A few footprints were scattered around, some old, some new. He crouched down to examine them. One set was easy to recognize. Regulation boots. They led to the back of the building where some crates sat tucked up underneath old, worn stairs leading to a bolted door above him. Jim walked over to the boxes and ran a hand across the top of the nearest crate. No dust. New, unlike everything else in this building.

Giving the door one more glance, he looked around the warehouse until he spotted a small board he could use as a lever. The crate lid popped open on the third tug, throwing him back with its recoil. He tossed the makeshift pry bar down on the ground and pulled the lid the rest of the way off bare-handed. Amidst the noisy echo of his efforts bouncing around the room, he looked inside.

Small packages sealed in plain brown wrappers. He pushed his finger into one until it broke through to the inside. With one quick taste, he'd confirmed his worst fears.

"Shit."

Ray Brody looked up at the rap on his door. Two swift, short knocks. Efficient and unwavering. Ellison.

"Come in."

His 'rookie' came in, swallowing the small office in two strides. Ray, at a good five inches shorter than Ellison, resented the man's ability to take over his captain's office by sheer presence. Between the height and the military bearing left over from his last career choice, Ellison was a force to be noticed.

And he was stewing.

"Ellison," he acknowledged. "What's up?"

No answer was immediately forthcoming. Ellison paced half a step back. Looked outside through the open window. Looked at Ray's hotrod pictures lining the far wall. Looked back through the inside window to the busy bullpen.

Ray shifted gears into captain mode. "Sit."

Ellison turned toward Ray this time. He looked like he'd forgotten why he came inside.

"Sit, Jim."

Obediently, the man sat in Ray's empty visitor's chair. Ray abandoned his work to come around the desk, perching on the front edge. Getting closer to his prey, as his old captain had always called the move. "Tell me," he ordered.

Ellison's eyes continued to flit around the room, although the rest of him was ramrod straight and completely still. Ray knew from experience that when Ellison got really upset, Army training came to the fore. It did not bode well.

"Tell me," he repeated, drawing on his well-honed 'Captain' voice.

"It's probably nothing," he hedged. "I mean, I'm not sure of anything..."

"What?"

"Nick." The word was bitten out.

Ray started to get itchy about the direction this was taking. "What about Nick?"

"I, uh, I saw him with Martin Thompson."

Ray was stopped in his tracks. Thompson was notorious around CPD. He'd gotten off more times than should be legally allowable. How many times did they have to haul the guy in only to have him waltz right out the front door of the courthouse and back to business as usual?

"What was he doing?" he asked carefully.

Ellison looked out the window again, suddenly looking incredibly interested in the sanitation truck making pinging noises as it backed up next to the window.

"What was he doing, Jim?"

"He took something from Thompson." Ellison still wouldn't look at him. Everywhere in the room except at Ray directly.

"Took what?"

"I don't know. An envelope."

An envelope. Envelopes carried things inside them. Good things and bad things. "Did you talk to Nick about it?"

"Yes."

"And?"

He turned back to face Ray this time, giving him an unobstructed view of tortured, weary eyes. The kid looked hollow, like this had been eating at him for who knows how long. Ray suddenly wondered when the last time Ellison had slept was.

"And, he warned me to stay out of it."

"God."

"Yessir."

"That doesn't necessarily mean anything."

Ellison squirmed in his chair. Almost unnoticeably, he shifted first to one side then the other. "I, uh, I followed him."

"You what?"

One hand came up to rub at the bridge of his nose. "I had to know."

"When you called in sick?"

Ellison nodded, apparently not even surprised when Ray made the connection. "I followed him," he repeated. "And he met with Thompson."

"Where?"

"Alley off Smith and Alverson. There's an old warehouse."

"And?"

The roaming eyes found a spot on Ray's desk and concentrated on it. "Heroin. Crates of it, from what I could tell, pretty recently moved."

"Shit." Ray didn't know what to say. The bullpen noises outside suddenly got too loud to think. One of his people. Nick. The man had been with CPD for more years than just about anyone in his division. He was a cornerstone of the division. Worse, he was a man Ray's family had considered a friend for more years than he could count. Hell, Nick had been at Ray's wedding. Had brought a tiny CPD T-shirt the day after his son was born. Had been at Gil's first birthday party. Had even cheered Gil from the stands when his football team when to State in Seattle last year. What if it was bad? How bad could it get? Thompson wasn't a street-corner hood; he was a multi-million dollar heroin dealer.

Shit, Nick. Just what the hell have you done?

The captain in Ray took over. He stood up, leaving all traces of informality behind. "Do you have reason to believe Detective Vanderhous is involved in an illegal activity?"

Ellison closed his eyes. "Yes."

It wasn't the answer Ray was hoping against hope for. Ellison was the man's partner, his prodigy; if he was this sure -- sure enough to bring it to Ray -- then it wasn't something Ray could afford to take lightly. "I'm gonna have to set up a surveillance. Confirm this. Get IA involved. Collect evidence."

Except for his damn eyes, Ellison was a statue. The earlier fidgeting had given way to his tendency to suck up the bad shit right into himself. Ray hadn't seen it this bad since Ellison had dealt with Ricky Delgado's untimely death. The irony was that it was Nick who had gotten him through that one.

"Yessir."

"You okay?"

"Yessir."

Right. He sounded just fine. Right. "Go."

"Yessir." Released from his duty, Ellison popped out of the chair like it was red-hot and headed to the door without comment.

"Jim? You did the right thing."

He stopped and turned back to Ray. "I know, sir. It doesn't help."

Ray watched Ellison leave his office a couple of inches shorter than when he'd entered. He had left something behind in Ray's office when he left.

His soul.

Ray knew how he felt.

Jim was fidgeting. He could feel his fingers drumming on his thigh. He could feel his toes scrunching in his shoes. He could feel his jaw clenching and unclenching.

He was nervous. Which was bizarre. He didn't get nervous. Not in the middle of the desert, facing a sniper on the opposite side of an invisible political border. Not in the middle of the jungle, facing a band of hardened guerrillas. Not the first time he'd slipped out of a crowded bar and back to a woman's apartment.

He just didn't do 'nervous'. In his line of work, nervous got you killed.

But this was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. No amount of training or bravado could have prepared him for this moment. This was his partner. The one he'd turned in.

IA had followed Nick for weeks now. They'd been his and Jim's shadow, lurking around in the darkness. Jim knew they were around because they'd called him in on more than one occasion to grill him. They'd even been so kind as to let him know how the investigation was going.

Seeing as how he'd been the one to initiate it.

Now, it was ending. He was standing outside an abandoned warehouse, listening over a wire to the sounds of his partner making a deal with Thompson. Thompson's filthy blood money in exchange for Nick's silence about the warehouse, about the things hidden away in other warehouses scattered around the city. Listening as everything he had believed in was being thrown out like so much garbage.

God, he was just so tired. The police had reinvented James Ellison, had given him a life again. After he left Peru, he hadn't imagined what he could ever do that would make him feel like he belonged. To feel fulfilled again. But he had found that -- in this uniform, with the men and women of Cascade's Finest. Until today. Today, he was a ten-year old boy whose father just skipped the big game. He was betrayed, cut to the core of everything he believed in. It had all been a lie -- everything Nick had taught him, everything he'd believed Nick was, their entire friendship. A goddamned lie.

He didn't even hear Captain Brody give the order to bust the deal. There was sudden activity, and Jim's feet carried him to the door of the warehouse as it was kicked in and the well-placed officers surrounding it came out of hiding.

Nick and Thompson were standing in the center, taken completely by surprise.

Why shouldn't they be surprised? The only one who might suspect anything was Nick's partner -- and who the hell would rat out his partner? Certainly not the cop Nick had personally taken under his wing. Nope, not him.

Damn it all to hell.

Thompson reacted calmly, silently putting his hands up with a resigned shrug. Nick, on the other hand, automatically reached for his gun.

"Don't!" Captain Brody again, yelling out the warning from right inside the doorway. "Don't," he added in a quieter, earnest voice, "it'll only make this a hell of a lot worse than it already is, Nick. Don't make one of these officers have to shoot you."

Nick whipped his head around to face his partner. "Damn you, Jim!"

"I'm sorry, Nick. I couldn't..." Jim didn't know what to say. Why the hell was he apologizing?

"I was your friend. Your partner, for God's sake! I was good to you. I deserved better!"

Jim flinched. "I thought I did, too. I guess I was wrong."

He turned and walked outside, followed by the screeching of his partner's fury.

IA was at Ellison again. Ray had watched every single session. He felt he owed the guy enough to at least be there while they grilled him, even if it was only through the glass of the observation room. He'd watched Ellison start out the good little professional. The one who cared about justice and ethics and right and wrong. But over the course of the investigation, he'd also watched that fade away. By now, it was crystal clear Ellison couldn't give a rat's ass about any of it anymore.

His officer sat mostly in silence while they asked their inane questions. While they rattled on about evidence and drops and alibis and drugs. Where was Jim during the suspected exchanges? What did he hear and when did he hear it? How did he find out? Did he see anything? Why not? Why didn't the dirty cop's partner see anything coming? How long did he know? Why hadn't he reported it sooner? When Ellison was actually forced to answer anything, it was one-word responses. Eventually, it was little more than grunts. The IA cops got frustrated at trying to trying coax anything more out of him and let him leave with mild threats and vague accusations.

Ray made it to the hallway just as Ellison was pulling the door to the interrogation room closed behind him, wearily scrubbing a hand across his face. Headache. Ray could sympathize. There was nothing like hours of being harassed by the Rat Squad while beating yourself up second-guessing your actions to make anyone's head throb. Somehow, though, he didn't really think Ellison's pain was anything aspirin would be able to cure. Maybe a stop at Tony's Bar would help.

God knew Ray had made a few of them himself recently.

Ellison probably didn't even know Ray had suffered his own humiliating sessions in that room. That he'd been raked over the coals because of his officer's actions. His own man, a man he'd called a friend. A man he was responsible for. And they were right about it -- Ray should have known. He should have seen it. He failed Nick by not seeing it in time -- in time to derail whatever made him cross that line. He should have been able to save his officer from himself. That was part of Ray's job, and one he'd utterly failed.

"Jim..."

Ellison looked up at him, barely-concealed disgust all over his face. "What? Sir."

Ray tried to think of something to say that would help. Something inspirational. Something to get his man through this ordeal. Some reason for all this happening that the ever-honorable James J. Ellison could possibly fathom.

He came up with nothing. There was no way Ellison would ever understand what had made Nick turn to drug money after his long career of serving and protecting. Ellison might know why it had happened, or how it had happened, or when it had happened, but he would never, ever understand it.

Looking around the hallway, stalling for time, Ray was startled to find a pair of eyes watching them from across the hall in the doorway to the file room. And another in the break room. And another in the doorway to the bullpen. And another. And another.

Eyes -- dozens of them -- watching Ellison. Silent and staring. Angry. Accusing. Officers, civilians, support personnel. The men and women of Narcotics were a sea of silent judges. A horde of pissed-off and hurt cops.

"What?!?" Ellison yelled into the silence.

No one moved. It was an eerie demonstration.

"Fine! To hell with you all, then!"

And Ellison marched straight down the hallway and out the double doors, slamming them back on their hinges.

It all went downhill right from the beginning.

Jim showed up bright and early the first morning he was cleared to come back to work. He knew he was chained to a desk until the investigation of Nick was completed, but he needed to work -- even if it was only paperwork. It was something. It was better than hanging around his suddenly claustrophobic apartment, staring at four walls. He'd never had much in the way of hobbies or crap like that. His hobby was what he got paid for -- work. Police work. So he set his alarm and showered and dressed and drove in to the station to do something useful with his time.

After all, nothing and no one could make him feel worse or more used than Nick had. Right?

Just like before, he was greeted by a room full of silence. The cops -- uniforms and detectives and civilians aalike -- seemed to watch him warily. Turning on him that same cold and calculating look reserved for suspects and their lawyers. The same betrayed, disgusted look Nick had worn the last time he'd seen him. Well, at least the cops of Cascade knew how to do it right.

For ten mornings after that, he continued to play the game. Put on his crisp, clean uniform and came in every day precisely at eight o'clock. He worked on paperwork and the detectives' legwork until twelve o'clock, when he ate lunch alone, and left precisely at five o'clock. He was resolutely ignored the entire day, given all the common courtesy of a leper.

On the eleventh morning, he was cleared for fieldwork again. Internal Affairs had imperiously decided he wasn't involved in what Nick had gotten himself into and had generously granted him permission to get on with his life. Jim had hoped it would get better when he could get out of the precinct. Unfortunately, the only difference was that he was ignored long-distance.

This morning had been the worst. Jim spotted the tail-end of a convenience store robbery on his way to work. It was a simple thing -- should have taken three minutes, tops. He stopped and called for back-up, then chased the suspects on foot. He caught one, but lost the other when back-up failed to show in time. Headed back to the Jeep, he cuffed the guy and waited for a cruiser.

None came.

He waited half an hour before hauling the guy in on his own. Dispatch politely assured him all units had been busy.

Busy.

Yeah, busy covering other cops' butts.

"Officer Ellison."

Jim looked up from his paperwork to see Captain Brody standing over his desk. "Yes, sir," he sighed.

"I need to see you in my office."

Jim looked Brody in the eyes, and he knew it was bad. Very bad. Only years of duty and obligation dragged him up from his desk to follow his captain across the bullpen. Not that he had to stick particularly close, considering he was being given the type of wide berth you could have plowed the Titanic through.

Brody shut the door behind them.

"So, you heard." Jim saw no point in wasting time with meaningless pleasantries.

"I heard." The captain sat down at this desk, motioning Jim to do the same. Jim remained standing. "This is going to be a problem."

A problem. What a great euphemism for getting screwed and not being able to do anything about it. First Nick and now the whole department. "I know."

"Nick was the best, and everyone loved the man."

Please. Like anyone needed to remind him of that. "And that make this okay?"

"Of course not, Jim. I'm just saying that it's not going to go away."

"Shit."

"I've got a whole division to think about here, Jim. I have to do what's best for all my officers."

"Excuse me?" He could see exactly where this was heading now. He should have known all along. Didn't cops always stick together? And where was that leaving him, again? Right back on the outside looking in. "You are saying this is okay!"

"Settle down, Ell--"

"I can't believe this! I can not believe this! I'm getting blackballed, Captain. For doing the right damn thing. And you're hopping right on the wagon!" Jim realized his hands had taken on a life of their own, so he jammed them up under his arms. "I don't believe this."

"Jim, don't be so dramatic. No one's blackballing anyone. In fact, you're getting bumped up."

"Up?" That stopped Jim in his tracks. He must have heard wrong.

"Up. A promotion. Now, I would have preferred to keep you here but, for obvious reasons, I don't see that as being in the best interests of my division."

"They're promoting me? For ratting on my partner? You're joking." Did they possibly think he'd done it for looks? That he was trying to impress them? Was anyone that stupid? All he'd wanted to do since that day was to shove the whole thing in the closet and never think about it again. And they were... rewarding him? It made no sense.

Brody nodded, adjusting his glasses. "Your detective exam results came in. Add that to an excellent record, a well-earned recommendation from this division, and what the department considers a display of moral fiber. Character. Doing the right thing."

"Damn." The room suddenly felt hot. His uniform scratched at him, the collar too tight. He fingered at the tie, tugging it looser around his throat.

"This is a good thing, Ellison."

"This is crap. Sir." The damn knot wasn't loosening. His fingers didn't seem to work right.

Brody sighed. Rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm asking if you have a preference on assignments, Detective."

He couldn't think of a thing to say. How could they possibly think he wanted their reward?

"Fine. I'll take care of it, Jim."

"Whatever." And Jim left without waiting for a dismissal for the first time in his adult life.

Vice was willing to take Ellison. To call Ray 'relieved' didn't begin to describe it. He liked Ellison and, more importantly, respected him. Okay sure, he was new, but he was also good. Very, very good. Nick had taken all those unmentionable Army Ranger skills left out of Ellison's personnel file and turned them into first-rate police instincts during the last year.

So Ray had taken Captain Tracy Connell from Vice out for some beer and conversation and had glowingly recapped the highlights of Ellison's time in his division. Leaving out, of course, the recent brouhaha. Tracy had smiled and said yes, of course she'd take the detective. She was always happy to have an officer with such a potentially useful background experience. No, she assured him, she didn't care about what had happened at the end.

Unfortunately, it didn't go as easily as Ray wanted it to.

What had apparently started the moment Jim Ellison found out what his partner was doing snowballed. Ray had seen it building while the kid was still in his division, but it only got worse when he was transferred. Brand-spanking-new Detective Ellison became increasingly difficult to keep reined in. He refused to work with anyone else. He started to take unnecessary chances, letting nothing stop him in either building cases or making collars. He stopped calling for back-up. He stopped chatting and smiling and engaging in any of the banter that made bullpen life bearable. He was called on the captain's carpet repeatedly for excessive use of force. He was often maneuvered out of interrogations altogether for the safety of the suspects and the cases. He was seen working in and out of the precinct at all hours of the day and night, refusing to take any time off until it was made an order. He was the first to volunteer for dangerous undercover assignments. He made five trips to the emergency room in the line of duty during the first four months -- kept finding his way in front of bullets.

Little by little, James J. Ellison was giving up on living. Whatever had been there before had died either on the day he'd turned his partner in or the day his fellow police officers had turned their backs on him.

Less than four months after Vice took him on, Tracy wearily threw Ellison's personnel folder back on Ray's desk and announced that, 'if he wanted the man to stay, he'd better find him somewhere else to work, because she sure as hell wasn't watching one of her people slowly kill themselves.'

And so it was back to Ray tonight. Ellison had started out his responsibility, and he wasn't prepared to give up on him yet. But it wasn't getting any easier. A carefully-worded memo sent to every division in the whole of the Cascade PD had failed to garner any more receptive captains.

Nothing. Not a single bite. No division wanted him.

How was he going to tell Ellison? Shit, what was he going to tell Ellison?

The man had done the right thing. He had. But, like it or not, he had violated one of the most sacred trusts of the police department. He'd turned on his own. Now his own had turned on him. And he'd turned on himself.

"Sir?"

Ray tossed Ellison's personnel file disgustedly back onto his desk and looked up to find his secretary at the door. The bullpen was quiet behind her, the busy day having given way to the quiet of swing shift. "Yeah, Julie?"

"Someone here to see you, Ray."

"Sure. Show 'em in." Not that Ray was really in the mood for visitors. He had a migraine forming with Ellison's name all over it. Then again, he did have a job to do, as well. One that didn't care how late the hour was or how much of a headache Ray had.

A tall, well-manicured black man came in. Picture perfect in a dark tailored suit and the ubiquitous raincoat of the Pacific Northwest, he was a superb specimen of Cascade's Finest. It was the real irony of Ray's career that he worked every day with the same burly, athletic, ass-kicking types that had beat him up all throughout high school.

"Captain Brody," the man greeted.

"Yep. And you are?" Ray stood and shook the man's hand.

"Captain Banks. I'm fairly new to the department."

He put the name to the face now, and called to memory the few things he knew about his visitor. "Right. Sure, you just got Major Crime, right?" He'd heard good things about this guy, but hadn't gotten around to meeting him yet.

"Yeah."

There was a brief awkward silence as the chit-chat of greeting ended. Ray leaned back on the edge of his desk, gesturing at his visitor's chair. "So, is this a social call, Captain?"

"Not exactly. I got your memo on Ellison."

"Yeah." Ray was tired of having this conversation. He could feel Ellison's file taunting him from the corner of his desk.

"And I'll take him."

What? "You will?" Ray tried, and failed, to not sound stunned.

"I will." Still standing, Banks was absently playing with an unlit cigar, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. He seemed unreasonably comfortable in Ray's own office, leaving Ray feeling a little defensive. What was it with people being able to take over his office without a word?

"He's a good officer."

"I know."

Not really understanding what was going on here, Ray pressed on, "And he's got a lot of potential."

"I know. We've met already."

"You have? And you know about..."

"Yes and yes." The man was noticeably amused now, smiling at him with a strange understanding smile.

"And you still want him?"

"I didn't say that." Banks smiled broadly. Ray suspected the man's amusement was at his expense. "I said I'll take him."

Ray was almost afraid to ask, "Why?"

"Because of what he did with Vanderhous."

At that moment, Major Crime got a permanent ally in Narcotics. Someone else understood. This captain could see what was -- and what could be again. "Captain Banks, you have yourself a deal." Ray pumped his fellow captain's hand, giddy with relief. "And a detective."

The moment Detective Jim Ellison sauntered into his division Monday morning, Simon knew he had bought himself some Trouble. With a capital T.

He'd suspected, after getting his hands on the guy's personnel file, but this was a bit much. Ellison clearly had it down to a science -- the whole Detective Bad-Ass package. Goatee, earring, rebellious surfer fashion statement. Not to mention the phenomenal chip on his shoulder and an attitude the size of the entire state of Washington.

Yep, Simon had bitten off a big one this time. He could only hope it didn't choke him.

The question remained, then -- why? Why take on this Walking Mood? No one else was willing to. Simon had heard the rumor that every division had turned down Brody's transfer request. He could have, too. He was captain of the most prestigious of the divisions -- he certainly didn't have to take in some dysfunctional hotshot.

So why do it then, Simon?

The answer was simple. Screwed up or not, Ellison had The Right Stuff. Simon had known it from the first moment he'd laid eyes on the man as a civilian who ran down some nameless junkie behind University Avenue. But Simon had been a day late and a dollar short on asking for the guy as a rookie, and Narcotics got dibs on him instead. Circumstances, though, were offering Simon a second chance. And, ironically enough, all because Ellison had proven himself true to Simon's initial impression -- that he was a man of honor, one who would do the right thing no matter the cost. He demonstrated that unequivocally six months ago against his entire division, the fraternity of the brothers-in-blue, and his own partner. That was the kind of man Simon Banks wanted on his team. In the long haul, it would be good for everyone, both on the force and on the streets. He knew it without a doubt.

He just had to get through the crap first.

"Ellison!" he yelled through his open door. "My office, now." Might as well get this show on the road. Operation James Ellison was about to get going.

The man took his time following the directive. Ellison strolled in, fading to a halt three feet in front of Simon's desk. It smacked of careful calculation -- just enough room that Simon couldn't intimidate him, but not enough to be disrespectful. So, this was how it was going to be. Fine, Simon could play the game, too. He came around the desk, countering Ellison's carefully-chosen spot.

"Detective Ellison." Simon put out a hand.

"Captain." There was no warmth in the response, and Simon suspected it was more of a habit beaten into an ex-military brain than any sort of deference. Ellison pointedly ignored his hand, apparently preferring to look around the room and ignore Simon as much as possible.

"Well, Detective..." Simon let the handshake issue drop, moving instead to make a show of looking at Ellison's file. Pick your battles, Simon. "It looks like you'll be joining us here."

"Looks like it," Ellison mumbled. He was clicking the cap of a pen in his right hand over and over. Simon tried to tune it out, not to let it get to him.

"You don't sound particularly happy about it."

"Should I be?"

"I like to think so." That's it, keep it nice and polite. Be the bigger man. He smiled for effect.

"Whatever, sir." The effect had apparently been lost on his new officer.

Simon glared over the file at Ellison. He was moving quickly from polite and civil to annoyed. He'd been in such a good mood all morning, why did this kid have to ruin it? "What crawled up your ass, Detective?"

"Nothing, sir. Are we done with the little meet-and-greet?"

"Hardly." Operation James Ellison wasn't getting off to a good start.

"Look, Captain," Ellison finally looked up to face Simon. It wasn't an improvement. Part annoyance, part tiredness, he didn't seem to care to hide his unhappiness. "We both know why I'm here. How about I just do my job and you just do yours and we'll all live happily ever after."

"Last time I checked, Detective, you were here because you have an excellent record and I think you would be an asset to my division."

"Funny," Ellison countered, his eyes rolling lazily back up to focus on what must have been cobwebs hanging from Simon's ceiling tiles, "last time I checked, I was here because Vice didn't want me anymore and no one else would take me. I'm surprised you did."

"That is not the case, I assure you."

Ellison sighed. "Whatever, sir."

That was it. Simon wasn't going to be disrespected in his own office. If he let it continue, he'd lose ground with his whole division. Since it was his unenviable job to wrangle the best and the brightest Cascade PD had to offer, if he lost control -- or even appeared to do so -- they'd plow right over him. He always had to say one step ahead, one degree higher, one point smarter, one experience wiser, if he intended to keep any kind of influence over them.

"Listen up, Ellison. This is not therapy, and it's not kindergarten. You shape up and we'll get along just fine. That means leave the attitude at the door, mister. Keep screwing around with me and you won't be here long enough to dust off your chair. You hear me?"

"Loud and clear." He followed it with a short two-fingered mock salute. Simon was pretty sure Ellison would rather have given him the one-fingered salute, if he'd had the option.

"Good. Welcome to Major Crime, Detective. Now get out of my office."

Well, that hadn't gone well at all. Simon would definitely have to shift plans here, or he'd end up killing his new detective and hiding the body.

Maybe what he needed was some help with Operation James Ellison. Someone to do his dirty work for him. Someone who could chip away at the attitude.

Glancing out the bullpen window, he decided he knew exactly who fit the bill for his little project.

Sitting at his desk facing his new partner, Jack considered this punk Banks was sticking him with. It wasn't the first of these problem-children Jack had been saddled with. James J. Ellison was just the most recent in a long line that stretched out over twenty years on the force. Every captain Jack had ever been assigned to gave him these types of rookies, based on some misguided notion that he was big brother material.

He wasn't. Not by a long shot. But he did like a good challenge.

And this one would be a tough nut to crack. As if it hadn't been perfectly clear from the moment he walked in that Ellison had 'Bad Attitude' written all over him, even a few days of working with him had made it impossible to ignore. The damned kid was an accident looking for a place to happen.

Or a mine looking for a place to explode.

Jack understood why, though. Hell, everyone knew why; just no one was talking about it. CPD was a good-size police department, but all PD's had a pretty effective grapevine. What happened with Vanderhous and how his division had reacted was common knowledge before the ink was even dry on the IA reports.

Ellison had definitely gotten the shaft. And he'd taken it pretty badly, evidently. The story read like one of those crappy late-night talk shows: When Good Cops Go Bad. After his partner had self-destructed his own career, this kid was clearly intent on following in his footsteps. And taking every damn civilian and cop inside a mile radius with him.

Except it was going to stop here. Jack Pendergrast had yet to be beaten by one of these hardcase kids. He had some tricks up his sleeve. He could handle one punk-ass rebel, no sweat.

Glancing at the clock, Jack stood up and grabbed his jacket. Headed over to where his new partner was hunched over some files, deep in concentration.

Jack allowed himself a wolfish grin. Detective James Ellison had met his match. It was time to make him see that

Part 3

"Here."

Jim looked up from his desk. Jack Pendergrast towered over him, smiling his usual smile. Jim was beginning to hate that damn cheery attitude of his. It was grating on his nerves more with each day that he had to face it for ten hours at a stretch.

He ignored Pendergrast, but the man continued to hover expectantly over his desk.

"What?" he finally asked, after Pendergrast made it clear he wasn't going away. Jim would have to get whatever this was over with before he could get back to his work.

Pendergrast held out two tickets. "Just ask me what I have here, slick."

Jim sighed. "I can see what you have. And stop with the 'slick,' all right?"

"Sure, kid." Pendergrast smiled as Jim involuntarily flinched at the nickname. Jim had never put up with nicknames -- he hated the familiarity, the power over him that they implied. "So what do I have here but two tickets to the game tonight."

Another sigh. "Good. Have fun."

"We will. Be sure to wear something with sleeves, huh?" He strolled away from Jim's desk before Jim could react.

Damn the man. Jim had to get up and follow him several feet to stop him. "Pendergrast, wait. I'm not going to the game with you tonight."

"Why? You got a hot date, Mr. Ladies Man?"

Okay, that just pissed Jim off. So he hadn't had a lot of dates since Pendergrast had been partnered with him, but whose fault was it that the women around here hadn't been very interesting lately? It sure as hell wasn't Jim's fault. "It's none of your business what I'm doing. Listen, we're partners because we got stuck together; we're not gonna be buddies or pals or whatever the hell you're trying to do here."

"Sure, whatever, slick. So we'll go to the game and not talk or something. You don't even have to like me. And I sure as hell don't have to like you." Pendergrast slipped one ticket into Jim's breast pocket and was gone.

Jim scowled after his oblivious new partner. Obviously he hadn't made it clear to Pendergrast. What part of 'we're not going to be friends' did the man not understand? Okay, he'd go to the exhibition game -- after all, the tickets were impossible to come by -- but he sure as hell wasn't getting attached to Pendergrast, either. He knew better.

Winter, 1992

Jack stormed full-throttle toward the locker room. People had been getting the hell out of his path all the way up from the garage. He was pissed. Three months -- three months -- of working with Ellison and he still managed to pull a stunt like this.

He just couldn't believe it.

Apparently, the easy tricks weren't going to be sufficient. He'd tried the soft route first: early morning coffee, night games, drinks at Tony's down the street. Quality time to dig into the deep, dark recesses of his latest challenge and find the things that would get to him. Strategies that had all worked on his projects at one point or another in the past. But not with one Jim Ellison. No, this guy was determined to give Jack a run for his money.

But this little 'incident' was the last straw. Goddamned kid left the rest of the task force far behind to chase some scared shitless teenage drug dealer with an oversize assault rifle ten blocks and corner him single-handedly with nothing but his standard-issue handgun. Hadn't told a soul, including his own partner. Jack had followed him after the fact and came in on the scene long after the deed was done.

It wasn't only against procedure, it was downright stupid. It was, in fact, suicidal. Jack had been slapped in the face by the chilling truth that his partner was that close to doing something so idiotic, he'd get himself killed over it. He was teetering too far over the edge.

It was a 911 call. And Jack had heard it loud and clear. Help was needed, and it was now or never. He'd just realized how little time he had to fix Jim unless he wanted to bury another partner. And once is more than enough for any man.

So he was giving up being Mr. Nice Guy. Now it was time to bring out Hard-Ass Jack.

The slam of the locker room door behind Jim preceded the storm cloud that was Jack Pendergrast as he blew in.

"I cannot believe you did that!"

Jim just brushed a stray drop of water from his temple and continued dressing, ignoring the outburst. Pendergrast could yell at him all he wanted. Wouldn't be the first ass-chewing he'd gotten in his life, or the last. Eventually, they all lost effect.

Pendergrast was audibly fuming behind him, hovering right over the bench Jim sat on. "Do you have any idea how stupid that was? You nearly got killed!"

"I apprehended the suspect," Jim replied calmly.

A swoosh of air blew on his neck. "You made an idiot of yourself!!"

Jim finished with the buttons on his shirt and pulled his hat from the locker. As he stood to face Pendergrast, he saw the locker room door open and a uniform walk in. Pendergrast scowled at him and, just as quickly, the man backed out the way he came.

"What did you want me to do? Let him go?" Jim sure as hell wasn't going to feel bad about having caught a perp, whatever the circumstances. That was what they paid him to do, that was what counted, and that was what he was going to do.

"No. But I'd like to know when the hell you were planning to call for backup? How about when you decided to bail on the whole damn raid team and follow some doped-up schmuck across half the city? How about when he pulled that assault rifle on you? How about at least telling me where the hell you were going!"

"I didn't need anyone else. I got the guy."

"You never need anyone else. Except you always do!"

Oh, like that made any sense. "What the hell kind of pop psychology is that?"

"The kind from twenty years on the force, that's what. You march around -- don't need no one, no how, no where. Well I've got a news flash for you, Detective Ellison -- you need someone to look after your sorry ass more than anyone I have ever known!"

Jim turned away from his seething partner. "Oh, please. I don't need some lecture from you. I've been looking after myself my entire life."

"Until you stopped doing it. Which was before you came here, that's for sure."

"Get off my back, Pendergrast." Jim shouldered past his partner, headed for the door.

"No you don't." He came around and stood between Jim and the exit. "I'm not done with you, slick."

"I told you about the 'slick' stuff!" He punctuated it by jabbing his index finger at Pendergrast's chest, using his height to intimidate. "Where the hell do you get off treating me like some damned ten-year old?"

"Since you've taken up acting like one!"

Jim made for the door again, only to find Pendergrast still refusing to get out of his face. He turned his voice icy, using that predatory tone he'd learned so well in the Rangers. "Back off. Jack."

"Fine, Jim. As soon as you tell me why you're doing this."

Oh, please. He eyed Pendergrast standing resolutely in his way. "Doing what?"

"Trying to get yourself killed."

That was crazy. Wasn't it? Jim was stopped for the tiniest of moments by the accusation. But he recovered quickly enough, he hoped, that the enemy wouldn't notice his lapse. "I am not trying to kill myself."

"You're not?" Shit, the enemy had noticed he'd struck a nerve. "Could've fooled me. You work twenty-four/seven, taking the most dangerous calls, volunteering for all the seediest undercover work, never -- and this really pisses me off, slick -- never call for backup. What part of that isn't self-destructive?"

"I'm just doing my job."

"And I'm doing mine." Pendergrast closed the couple of feet between them. Jim backed away, feeling smaller as his partner advanced on him. "What are you scared of?"

Jim was forced to stop as the back of his calf impacted with a metal garbage can, preventing him from moving any farther back. The echo of metal banged around in his head. "I am not scared."

"Oh, right, I forgot who I was dealing with." Hand's stuffed in his pockets, Pendergrast leaned in a little closer. "Why don't I take a stab at it? It's Nick."

Nick? What right did Pendergrast have bringing him into this conversation? That was none of his business. "It's not Nick."

"Like hell it isn't, slick."

"Okay, so maybe it is Nick. Why shouldn't it be? Are you gonna tell me that I shouldn't be pissed as hell at him?! That I shouldn't care that he betrayed every single thing we stand for?! That I shouldn't even care about getting screwed by him? Go ahead, slick," he shoved Pendergrast back out of his face, "tell me that!"

Pendergrast pulled back a foot, finally giving Jim room to breathe. "Of course I'm not gonna tell you that. Of course you should be angry, kid. What Nick did was wrong. Plain and simple. What happened after that was wrong. Plain and simple. But he didn't do it to you."

"He sure as hell did."

"No." Pendergrast walked away from in front of the door, toward the bench behind Jim, leaving the exit finally unblocked. "Listen to me, Jim. What Nick did, he did to himself. He lost his faith in the system and started looking after Number One. That's all. What happened after that was because there were a hell of a lot of cops pissed at Nick for being so goddamn human. It didn't have anything to do with you. It may be a surprise to you, but the whole world does not revolve around Jim Ellison. You were just in the really wrong place at the really wrong time, kid."

Pendergrast obviously didn't understand. "The man was my partner."

"Yes. And you guys were tight, I know. So why can't you stick with that and let go of this other crap?"

Why couldn't he? Jim turned over all the reasons, but it really just came down to one. "I trusted him. He betrayed that. Me. Everything."

"And you're giving up on everything. Is that any less wrong?"

"I'm not giving up on anything."

"Yes, you are. You gave up on everything the minute you had to do what you thought was best. But I'm telling you that life... goes... on. Things happen, Jim. People change. Good things get messed up. It happens to all of us. And when it does, you gotta decide how you're gonna deal with it. Sometimes it comes down to two choices, slick -- either curl up and die, or survive to fight another day. Nick did not ruin your life, but if you keep doing this, you're gonna do it yourself."

Pendergrast casually reached around Jim to grab his jacket from the bench. "You're the only one who can decide. I'd love to make that choice for you, but I'd have to kick your ass from here to Chicago, and I'm late for dinner."

Jim stared after his partner as he walked the short distance to the door. Curl up and die or survive. It seemed like such an easy choice. He'd been surviving his whole life, after all. So why was it so hard to get past this one? Why did the choice seem so impossible this time?

Because Nick had gotten under his skin? Because Nick had been everything when Jim had come back to this city with nothing and no one? Because, in the end, he'd trusted the guy with everything that made Jim who he was? Because that made it so goddamn personal? Not even with Alan had he felt so personally violated. No one had gotten in where Nick had. Not since he left home a lifetime ago.

But it looked as though Nick wasn't the only one who could find the chinks in his armor, either.

"Jack?"

His partner stopped and turned around, holding the door open to the noisy hallway, his jacket dangling loosely under his right arm. He certainly didn't look like he'd just kicked Jim's ass, so why did Jim feel like he had?

"Yeah, Jim?"

"See you in the morning."

Jack smiled. "Sure. You bring the donuts."

Spring, 1993

Listening as Jim's home phone rang several times, Jack idly wondered what his partner was doing. He'd been acting strangely for the past few days -- something that had been especially obvious at dinner Monday night. In fact, it could probably be traced back to the afternoon last week when he had talked Jim into helping him move his stuff to Emily's. That little scene out in front of her building probably made his partner pretty uncomfortable. Jack was still confused by her sudden change of heart about him moving in.

Women. Who'd ever figure them out?

Okay, so Jim was probably feeling awkward around Jack since then. Made sense. Jack knew how to handle it, though. He let the kid do the avoidance thing today, but he'd be sure to get things up and running between them tomorrow. Jim needed someone to ride herd on him to make sure he didn't pull back into that ready-made shell of his like some damn turtle.

Jack had put a lot of time and effort into breaking down that wall, and he was damned if he was going to let Jim build it back up. He liked Jim -- knew he was a good kid -- and although he sure as hell wasn't the easiest partner in the world, Jack was beginning to think he could get used to having this one around for a long time.

He waited for the answering machine to pick up. Listened to his partner's terse, no-nonsense state-your-business-and-get-the-hell-out-of-my-way voice asking for a message. Where was Jim anyway?

As he left a message, he made plans to give Jim hell tomorrow for missing out on this one. The Brackley case was turning out to be an awful lot more interesting than they had suspected.

Jim carefully looked for Jack around the quiet bullpen before coming inside. Great -- no sign of his partner yet this morning. Confident the few detectives already in were paying no attention to him, he casually strolled over to his desk. Jack's desk, set kitty-corner from his, showed no signs of life. Great. With any luck, he'd be knee-deep in paperwork and cases by the time Jack came in.

Although it was fairly spineless way to act, Jim really wasn't ready to deal with Jack yet. Not after last night. God, if Jack ever found out about Emily and him, he'd kill Jim. He would rip his head off his shoulders and beat him to death with it.

Then again, Emily had called it off with Jack, hadn't she? So it wasn't really any of Jack's business. It was solely between Emily and Jim.

Yeah, that's it.

Instead, Jim turned his thoughts to Emily. If he concentrated, he could smell traces of her still clinging around him. Gardenia, he thought. Some beautifully, wonderfully female scent. God, she smelled good. And looked good and felt good and tasted good and...

Whoa, boy, he scolded himself, slow down. This will get you nowhere you want to be in the middle of the precinct.

Besides, who knew when Jack would arrive, and Jim sure as hell didn't want to be entertaining thoughts of his partner's girlfriend when said partner did show up.

Nothing at all? Really?

Jim looked at the clock. He was ridiculously early, he knew. But after Emily had left last night, Jim had been plagued by bizarre dreams. He couldn't quite remember them, but images of the jungle had followed him back to the land of the conscious. Trees, ruins, natives, a black cat of some kind. Dreams he hadn't suffered in months, certainly not since he'd been transferred out of Narcotics.

Then, just to add insult to injury, the neighborhood noises had gotten strangely loud. They pounded into his brain from all around, keeping him up for three hours. Cars and trucks on the road, trains, the beat of someone's music outside, the drip of his kitchen sink. It was like he was suddenly tuned in to every tiny fragment of sound around him. By five am, he finally gave up and came in to the station.

A foul odor assaulted him, making him choke. God, what was that? He looked around, but there was no one remotely near his desk. Certainly nothing that explained that stench. Wrinkling his nose, he tried to identify it. It almost smelled like cigars.

"Ellison!"

Jim looked up in time to see Captain Banks standing across the bullpen in his office door, fuming -- literally and figuratively. A lit cigar was being chewed to bits in his teeth.

God, was that the smell, all the way across the room? He'd have to suggest a new brand to the captain. Those were obviously way too strong for anyone's good health.

Banks stormed over to Jim's desk, dragging the stink of cigars with him. "Where the hell is your partner?"

Jim shrugged. "Dunno, sir. I'm not his keeper."

Banks was clearly not amused. He jabbed his cigar in the direction of the door. "Yeah, well, find him. I want to know what happened last night."

That caught Jim's attention. "What happened last night?" All thoughts of Emily and the unpleasant odor were gone instantly.

"He didn't tell you? The ransom was delivered last night." He paused to study Jim, openly surprised at Jim's ignorance of what had gone down. "He was supposed to call you."

"Well, he didn't. And he hasn't reported in yet?"

"Would I be looking for him if he had?" he asked patronizingly.

"Have you --"

"Tried his home phone, his girlfriend's phone, even the bar down the street?" He stuck the cigar back to grind between his teeth. His damn security blanket. "Yes, I have."

Jim gathered up his jacket and headed for the door. What had happened for Jack not to show up yet? Why hadn't he let Jim know it was going down last night? Why had he gone alone? And where the hell was he now?

No one could find hide nor hair of Jack Pendergrast. He'd vanished into thin air after receiving the ransom and instructions. No messages, no notes, no luggage, no car, no money, and no kidnap victim.

Major Crime searched for days, to no avail. Internal Affairs started their own investigation, a much more focused one. They went over Jack's life with a fine-tooth comb. Pulled his financial records, talked to people who thought they knew him, and pounced on all the ugly things they found. Jim knew -- hell, everyone knew -- Jack had always lived beyond his means. That had to be the icing on IA's cake. They came back with just one conclusion. Double-cross. He had taken the money and run.

Jim fumed and yelled and cursed and denied all the foul things his partner was called. But he was beating his head against a brick wall -- no one who could make a difference was listening anymore. The brass and IA had tried and convicted his partner in absentia.

On the second evening after Jack's disappearance, Jim went to Emily's house. He knocked, and then pounded, until Emily's roommate came to the door.

"I'm looking for Emily."

Tammy stood defiantly in the doorway, meeting Jim's anger with her own determination. "I know."

"Is she here?"

"Yes."

"And?" Another obstacle, disguised as a beautiful blonde waitress, standing in his way. Everyone was standing in his way. The whole world was conspiring to keep him from any chance to redeem himself or his partner.

Her hand tightened on the door, almost as though she expected Jim to force it. "And she doesn't want to see you."

No, this was not how it was supposed to go. Things weren't supposed to end like this. It was all crashing down around him and he was powerless to do anything about it. "I need to talk to her."

"And say what?" Emily had appeared in the doorway behind her roommate. Tammy turned and left without saying a word, one hand skimming feather-light on Emily's shoulder as she did so. Eyes red and puffy, sniffling slightly, Emily watched Jim. So, she had heard. Truthfully, he was grateful -- he didn't want to have to be the one too tell her.

It was bad enough as it was.

"It's not true, Emily."

Emily sighed, one hand involuntarily raising to her chest. "I knew that. I'm just so glad to hear you say it. Do you know what they came and asked me? Do you?"

"Yes. They asked me the same things. But it's not true. Jack didn't do what they say he did. He wouldn't. Period."

"What *did* happen?"

"I don't know. I've been looking for him. I'll find him, I promise."

"God. What if something happened to him?"

"Don't jump to conclusions." He laid one careful hand lightly on her forearm, all the contact he was willing to risk.

"What if it did? While he was... we were... God, Jim."

She wasn't looking to be soothed. And Jim knew he didn't have the right to be, either. They stood there, in the doorway, silent. The implications hovered around them. That while Jack had been facing... well, whatever it was he was facing last night, his partner and his girlfriend had been cheating on him.

Jim realized he hadn't thought once about his partner last night. He wondered if Jack had thought about him.

What the hell kind of partner was he? What the hell kind of man was he?

"I'm going away."

Jim shook out of his thoughts at the soft statement. "Huh?"

"I'm going home for a while. I can't be here any more."

He nodded. At least she had someone to go to. "Sounds like a good idea." But he knew, somehow, that no matter how this ended, he'd never see her again. With or without Jack, what they had done that night had severed the past from the future.

"Go, Jim. Go and find him. Let him be all right."

Jim nodded and turned halfway to leave.

"I'll never forgive myself if he's not all right." Her unusually quiet voice stopped him, making him turn back to her. The only thing he saw, though, was the door closing on him.

"Neither will I."

Detective Jack Pendergrast was never heard from again.

Darkness.

Darkness filling his apartment, not a single beam of light left on from any source. Darkness filling the outside as rain pelted down on the city from above. Darkness filling Jim's thoughts.

Dark was good. He'd welcomed it as night fell. You couldn't see the crap in the dark. And Jim didn't want to see the crap. He didn't want to see Emily; he didn't want to see the captain; he didn't want to see the Brackleys. And he sure as hell didn't want to see Jack. Didn't want to see him staring back at Jim in every window and every mirror for days now.

He wanted to hide from it, from everything and everyone.

Trouble was, he was hiding from himself. And the dark couldn't solve that problem. He didn't need to see to know his was the face he hated the most. The one he didn't care if he ever saw again. The face that made him physically ill to see reflecting back at him in the mirror.

Damn.

He opened another beer. If the dark wasn't going to help, maybe an alcohol-induced stupor would. He'd never solved his problems that way, but maybe now was a good time to start a bad habit.

The beer was gone in two long swallows. He tossed the can down to rattle against the others on the floor and wandered over to the closed balcony doors. It was raining hard, solid sheets of water pounding on the French doors. Jim stood there and listened to it. Listened to the incessant, uncompromising rush of water and thunder booming sporadically over the mountains.

What had happened to Jack that night? Why hadn't he called? Why hadn't he even told Jim about the drop? Dammit, why hadn't he trusted his partner?

Shit. Trust.

What exactly did you give Jack to trust?

Let's see, he'd given him anger and annoyance and silence and arrogance. A pissed-off partner and a pain in the ass. Not exactly things to build on. Not to mention, for God's sake, that he'd been with Jack's girlfriend at the time whatever it was had gone down. He certainly hadn't been where he should have been -- at his partner's side, backing his ass up. Come to think of it, Jim hadn't been where he should have been a lot lately. A hell of a lot.

No, he'd been wallowing in anger and guilt. He'd been pissed at the world in general, and partners in particular, for way too long.

Damn Nick anyhow.

How easily it all came back to him.

How dare he? How dare he throw away everything Jim believed in? How dare he screw up Jim's life this way? Where the hell did Nick get off betraying everything they'd worked for? Betraying his partner.

Like you just did?

Jim flinched at the niggling voice of accusation echoing in his head. He hadn't, had he? Done what Nick had done?

No.

Yes.

No.

God. He had. No, he'd done worse. Nick had just betrayed the officer in Jim. Jim had betrayed the friend in Jack. And that was more unforgivable than anything Nick had done to him, wasn't it?

His own reflection stared back at him in the glass door, barely visible in the dark. He stared at and through himself, the rain leaving eerie streaks in his own distorted image.

Shit. What had he come to? Jack had been right about everything, hadn't he? Jim had been hiding, licking his wounds, and the rest of the world could just go to hell. And look what had come of it. Look what he'd done to the only person who had honestly given a damn.

And here he was, still hiding in self-pity and guilt -- and failing Jack again -- because it was so much easier to just shut off than to face what he'd become. What he'd done.

Well, he'd be damned if he was going to let himself off that easily. He had done the crime, and now he had to do the time. He had his own price to pay. And that was to live with what he'd done.

He turned away from the balcony doors, unsteadily gathering up the beer cans littering the floor in front of the couch. Turned on the lamp and surveyed the damage. More cans, a few bottles he couldn't remember buying, leftovers, dirty dishes, clothes strewn around the room. The loft looked like hell. It smelled even worse. It looked about like he felt.

This would be the first order of business.

He started cleaning. At first, it was the mess he'd made. But when that was finished, it still didn't feel clean, feel done. He still felt dirty, so he moved on to other things -- scrubbing the kitchen counters and the floors and then the bathroom, from stem to stern. Emptied and scoured the refrigerator. God, it felt good to be able to make something clean again. It was exhilarating.

He scrubbed and brushed and shined and polished. He changed sheets and flipped the mattress and pulled down the curtains from all the windows. He hauled down boxes from shelves and tossed out half the contents. He washed every window in the loft and all the panes of the balcony doors, even pruned the plants on the balcony itself in the pouring rain. Still not enough. He picked one of the chairs from the living room and shoved it into the storage room in the basement, followed by the other chair and the bookshelf. All the furniture in the office. Books and tapes and papers and pictures and the throw rugs all joined the growing pile downstairs. Boxes of old paperwork, fishing equipment, the mountain bike, his skis. All of it tossed into the storage room until he couldn't find anything left that could be emptied out of his space.

He could almost breathe again.

Finally, just as the rain slowed enough to allow the sun to filter weakly in through the balcony doors on the sparkling and now mostly-emptied loft, Jim surveyed his night's work. The filth was gone, the air around him no longer stank of shame and betrayal. He felt refreshed. Not clean, not by a long shot, but less dirty than before.

He stripped, showering and shaving with twice the care as he usually spent. Shaved off his mustache and the goatee and pulled out the earring, letting it bounce down the sink drain. Then he spent half an hour scrubbing the bathroom spotless again. He needed it clean and empty. Himself, the bathroom, the whole apartment. All of it, just so he could push back the walls that had closed in on him.

And exactly fifteen hours after slinking into his apartment in the darkness, he retrieved his gun and badge and headed back to the living world, leaving all the lights burning behind him.

"Ellison."

"Morning, sir."

Simon did a double-take as Ellison walked past him across the noisy mid-morning bullpen. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that was almost pleasant.

It was even more of a surprise when Ellison stopped and addressed him. He looked Simon straight in the eyes, his posture almost... deferential. Simon hadn't seen him do 'deferential' in all the time he'd been the man's boss. He was even clean-shaven for the first time Simon could remember. All told, he looked about ten years older than the kid he'd been when he'd left the precinct two days ago.

"Any word, sir?"

"Not yet. We've still got people searching."

"Thanks."

Another double-take. Had Ellison just thanked him? "All right, who the hell are you and what have you done with my detective?"

Ellison smiled a rather paper-thin, unconvincing smile that failed to reach his eyes. Otherwise, he didn't respond to the barb. "I'd like to help with the search for Jack, Captain."

"Sure." Simon's eyes narrowed warily. Something was really, really wrong here. "You feeling okay?"

"Not really, sir."

Oh, dumb move, Simon. Just ask a few more stupid questions. "Of course you're welcome to help. Jack would want that. See Simpson, he's on the case. And avoid IA -- they're on the warpath."

"Very good, sir." Again, if he hadn't known better, Simon would have sworn that was a hint of affection. Even warmth?

"Jim..." Simon tentatively began, "I'm sorry about Jack."

"Thanks." And, true to form, his eyes found something to watch across the room. Simon didn't deny him the move.

"Do you think he's still alive?"

"No, sir, I don't. Jack would have found a way to contact us if he was alive."

Simon considered his words carefully. He didn't want to pick at a scab, but he wasn't going to pussyfoot around, either. First rule of being a good captain was to know when to do both. "Unless IA is right."

At that, Ellison's eyes dropped back to focus on Simon. "They're not."

"How do you know?"

"He was my partner, sir. I know."

Simon digested that. He'd had enough partners in his time to understand. He just nodded, accepting Ellison's reasoning, even if he knew Jack's partner was hardly the most objective person on the subject. But he decided he'd leave it alone for now, falling back on administrative details. "I'd like you to work with Simpson for a while, anyway. He lost his partner last month in that drug raid --"

"No, sir." Ellison was halfway turned away from Simon when the sound emerged.

Now there was the Ellison he knew. "Excuse me?"

Ellison turned back around to face Simon, determination radiating from his eyes. Simon stepped back mentally at the stark reminder that this wasn't the kind of green, wishy-washy rookie he usually got. This was an ex-Ranger who probably had more experience than Simon ever would.

"No partner, sir. Not again."

Simon met his icy tone with an equally firm one. "That wasn't a suggestion, Detective."

"Then I'll leave. I'm not working with a partner again."

Oh, this wasn't good. After all Jack had managed to do, here he went pulling right back in on himself again. Jack would have been pissed. "Jim..."

"No, sir." A single shake of his head and a clenched jaw. "It's not worth it."

"I thought Jack changed your mind on that one."

"He did, sir. Then he changed it again." The eyes that held Simon's determinedly weren't angry, nor sad, nor guilty. Just stony. A man who had been bitten twice and wasn't looking to risk a third. Simon knew Operation James Ellison was far from over. It would take more than a few weeks and a stiff upper lip to fix this one. "Am I in or out? Sir."

"In. But someday, Ellison, you're gonna get tired of doing this alone."

That granite-hard look in his eyes flickered, and Simon saw a fleeting glimpse of years of anger and regrets built up in there. But it was wiped away as quickly as it happened. Ellison turned one last stormy scowl on him before turning away again. "Not gonna happen, Captain. I don't repeat my failures."

Blair could hear the last of the mourners slamming car doors and idling engines. Jim and Emily were still sitting motionless on the top of the hill, near and far apart at the same time. Even though he could only guess at what was going on up there, he sure hoped Emily was somehow managing to relieve Jim of some of his guilt. Because unless Jack Pendergrast got up and walked over to smack Jim upside the head, Emily was the only one who could knock some sense into the man about this.

With one last glance around to make sure he was really alone, Blair took off his sunglasses and stood up close to the silent, flag-draped coffin. He had a quick minute before his presence here became presumptuous.

"You, ah, you don't know me, Jack. I'm Blair." That's it, Blair, introduce yourself to the dead guy. He shook his head and plunged on.

"I just wanted you to know that, despite whatever you may hear there in the Great Beyond or wherever, Jim's not making a mistake here. I know, I know, I'm not a cop -- believe me, Simon does not let me forget that -- but Jim and I, we do okay. We do good, you know? And, um, I guess I have to say thanks for sending him my way." No, that didn't come out quite right. "Not that I'm happy you had to die to leave the opening, believe me, but I'm glad I'm filling it."

He noticed he was starting to get an odd look from the cemetery caretaker. He'd better wrap it up before someone else noticed. "I guess that's all. Just, that I know you had a big job and I promise to do my best not to screw him up again, so you don't have to worry. Oh, and it was a nice funeral, man."

He glanced warily up the hill and was relieved to see Jim had disappeared off the bench. If he was lucky, Sentinel ears were still on the pretty redhead and not on his partner talking to a dead man.

Slipping on his sunglasses again, Blair headed for his car. He found Jim leaning on the trunk when he got there. Arms crossed over his chest, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, his face a carefully-schooled mask, his partner wasn't giving away any of his secrets today.

"Hey, man. Nice service."

"It was," Jim agreed, pushing off the car. Something drew his attention across the lawn.

Blair turned to follow Jim's line of sight, even though he knew well and good he'd never see whatever had caught Sentinel eyes. But it was habit. It was like nodding to a person on the other end of the telephone line -- some instinctual part of him invariablyy looked. If nothing else, at least Jim knew he was always paying attention. "What?"

Jim's eyes narrowed slightly. His head cocked a tiny bit, mouth hanging slightly open, and those two familiar worry lines appeared between his eyes -- all the things that told Blair Jim was extending those incredible feelers out into the world around him. "A call on Simon's radio." He sounded impossibly far away as he said it.

"Does Simon know you eavesdrop on him?"

Jim visibly pulled back in, shaking his head once as he shifted from Sentinel Mode to Regular Guy Mode. He pointed one long finger in Blair's direction with a little smirk. "No, and if he does find out, I'll know where it came from."

Blair smiled. There were definite drawbacks to keeping Jim's well-guarded secret. He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves to enjoy the warm early fall day; there weren't going to be too many of them left. "I thought you weren't coming."

"I changed my mind."

Concise, succinct, to the point. Distinctly unhelpful. When Jim didn't elaborate, Blair tossed around the idea of pressing for more. But he knew when he could push Jim and when he couldn't, and today was definitely one of the latter. So he just nodded acceptance and unlocked his car. Folding the jacket carefully and draping it across the back seat, he could feel Jim still standing silently several feet away. A few birds sung softly to themselves somewhere in the tree above them. The droning background noise of the city seemed far removed.

"I'm hungry," Jim announced suddenly, as though he had come to some kind of decision. "You feel like Chinese? I'll buy."

It wasn't what Blair had expected, but he'd learned long ago how to ride out the hairpin turns of life with Jim Ellison. Order your coffee to go, don't get too attached to your shoes or your car, hold on to your cell phone, and always trust that the big guy will get you home in one piece.

"Hey, if you're buying, you know I'm there."

"The Golden Pavilion. Meet you there." And with his usual abruptness, Jim turned and strode across the carefully-manicured grass toward his truck parked haphazardly across two spaces up the hill. Blair spared one final glance at the grave behind them before climbing into his own car.

Rest in peace, Jack. I'll take it from here.