She listened to the voice mail message again.

"Hey Ken, it's Wes. Listen, I need you to bring me those headshots of the new girl, Tiffany, right away. Meet me at the bistro on the corner of Robertson and Wilshire ASAP. Thanks."

The time stamp was 11:42 p.m. Although he'd identified himself as Wes she knew the sound of his voice – it was Deeks. If she'd told him once, she'd told him twenty times not to call her Ken. She had no idea what he was talking about or what he wanted. His voice betrayed just a hint of nervousness and a lot of immediacy.

It had been two weeks since she'd heard from him, Deeks was undercover with some new LAPD assignment that he hadn't told them anything about. She hated to admit it, but she'd begun to miss him.

She wove her silver Caddy through the downtown gridlock, wondering what had possessed the detective to request a meeting with her in the trendy area at the height of rush hour. The place was sure to be packed with yuppies on lunch breaks.

Kensi cut off a bright blue maserati for a space that had just opened up in front of a boutique that featured lacy lingerie in the display window. The woman in the driver's seat of the low slung sports car flipped the agent off with a professionally manicured hand and shouted "Bitch!"

Kensi rolled down her window and returned the gesture. She checked her hair and makeup in the mirror, touched up her lipstick and then got out of the car, locking it behind her.

She smoothed her red mini skirt, checked that the black silk blouse wasn't showing too much cleavage and started up the street, tapping her Louis Vuitton clutch on her hip.

The bistro Deeks had requested that she meet him at was a block up; it took her almost fifteen minutes to reach it due to the heavy crowds on the sidewalk.

She stood in front of the restaurant and scanned the faces at the tables, expecting to spot him relaxing with a fizzing drink of some bizarre color. No sign of the liaison officer.

She turned her attention to the crowds that thronged the garden area to the side of the establishment. It was filled with people talking and sipping muddy colored drinks that judging from the color was obviously some sort of health food fad.

There. She finally spotted the detective at the far edge of the crowd, near the tight box-shaped hedges. He was wearing an expensive light blue, short sleeved shirt, sharp creased grey slacks and brown loafers. His normally messy blond hair was combed back with a fringe just brushing his right eye.

Something about the stiffness of his posture gave her a twinge of anxiety and she quickly crossed the grass to him.

There were fresh scratches on his neck and right cheek and he was missing his left shoe.

"Wes?"

He jerked around and stared at her as though he had no idea who she was. His eyes were wide, unfocused, with only a narrow ring of blue visible.

"I can't find it." he mumbled, his hands fluttered nervously over his chest and he looked away, seeming to search the crowd.

"Can't find what?" Kensi asked. "Are you looking for your shoe?"

He glanced down at his feet, a confused look flashed across his face. "My shoe? No. No. Where is it? I have to find it."

She moved closer, laid a hand on his arm and he flinched.

"Marty," she said softly, "Are you alright?"

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, "It's so bright out here, it hurts my head."

He swayed on his feet and she tightened her grip on his arm.

"Let's go sit," she glanced around at the crowded tables, "somewhere…"

"I can't find it." he repeated. "I have to find it before…" he pressed his palm against the side of his head, "before…" he moaned and stumbled.

She couldn't support his sudden dead weight and let him slide down her hip and leg to the turf.

The conversations around her died as the lunch crowd took notice of them.

"Get back," Kensi demanded as they pressed closer, "Give him some air."

"Is he dead?" someone asked.

"Call 911!" someone else shouted.

The voices around her faded into a buzzing background as Kensi checked Deeks for obvious injuries. She could find no blood, wounds or broken bones.

Her heart lurched in her chest, Deeks was barely breathing and the pulse under her fingers on his neck was irregular, pulsing hard for a moment then barely discernable the next.

Sirens sounded, she was grateful now that Deeks had picked a location so close to the police station and the ambulance service. One thing about Beverly Hills, the response time was incredible.

In moments a pair of blue suited paramedics arrived with a stretcher, two uniformed patrol officers just steps behind them. The crowd of onlookers was swiftly moved back.

Kensi allowed one of the cops to lift her to her feet so the medics could get to Deeks.

"Can you tell us what happened here, miss?" the officer asked her.

"We were talking and he collapsed." Kensi replied, never taking her eyes off the fallen detective.

The paramedics worked swiftly on Deeks, asking her questions as they worked.

"Was he complaining about anything?"

"He said the light was hurting him, he had a headache."

"Any history of seizures, diabetes or stroke?"

"No, I don't think so." Kensi stuttered. "I don't know really."

"Was he stumbling or confused?"

"He wasn't acting like himself," she admitted, "he was looking for something he'd lost and it wasn't his shoe."

"Is he taking any medication or using drugs?"

"No," she protested, "he wouldn't use drugs."

"Are you sure?"

Worry made her reply sharper than intended, "Absolutely, he hates to even take an aspirin."

"Pupils fixed and dilated." one paramedic reported and Kensi gasped.

"Glasco score is three, RAS negative, BP dropping, respiration irregular. We need to bag him."

"What's happening?" she asked, her voice spiraling into a panicked high pitch. "What are they talking about?"

One of the police officers took her by the arm and held her back, "Please miss, they're trying to help your friend."

"I'm losing him!" the medic shouted.

"Let's move!"

They loaded Deeks onto the stretcher and rushed him toward the ambulance.