This is a work of fanfiction, for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle and McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators.

Author's Notes: An answer to Pony's St. Pat's challenge; apologies for slightly violating the length guidelines. And thanks to Owl, who's always willing to give a quick and helpful beta, even though we usually keep her busy with a lot of other stuff.

When You Care Enough to Send the Very Best

by

Cheride

Mark McCormick strolled back onto the patio carrying the day's mail. "Seriously, Hardcase," he complained as he sat down at the small table, "it's been six months. If you and Frank want to talk privately, you could just say so instead of deciding all of a sudden I need to go check the mail. It's been sittin' down there in the box all day with no problem at all." He looked over at the visiting lieutenant. "I know it was an excuse, 'cause he's only ever worried about the mail on social security day."

Frank Harper grinned, but the judge didn't seem amused. "Don't start with the lip, kid; I can find more hedges that need trimmin', ya know." He glanced at his stack of mail, then set it aside. "And it wasn't really an excuse, anyway; I just hadn't thought about it until right now."

McCormick raised an eyebrow back in Harper's direction. It took a couple of seconds, but then the detective shrugged, and gave a slightly sheepish smile. "Just a couple of things I'd heard about how things were going inside for J.J. Beale," he said apologetically. "Didn't figure it was anything you'd be interested in."

McCormick gave that a single nod. "Well, you got that right," he answered, turning his attention to the single envelope bearing his name. Opening it, he pulled out a card, stared at it for a few seconds, then burst out laughing. "Oh, that's rich," he said with a grin. "No wonder you wanted me to go down there while Frank was here. What? You guys couldn't wait for April Fools Day?" He cast an accusing glare toward Harper. "And I thought you were just here because you wanted to sample my world-famous pork chops."

"What're you goin' on about now, McCormick?" Hardcastle growled.

But McCormick just shook his head and kept grinning. "Let it go, Judge. Even as crazy as my life has been since I hooked up with you, I'm not ready to believe death threats just show up out of the blue in a St. Patrick's day card." He tossed the card toward them for emphasis.

"What?"

The older men had cried out almost in unison, but it was Harper who quickly reached out for the card. And at first, Mark believed that it was all part of the act. But there was something about the way the detective handled the card—not really picking it up, but sliding it across the tabletop, taking great care to touch it as little as possible—that immediately got his attention. He watched as Harper grabbed a pen from his pocket and used the tip to flip open the card; saw Hardcastle lean over toward the officer, examining the card closely, and suddenly he wasn't grinning any more.

"You guys didn't send this?"

"Of course we didn't send it," Hardcastle said roughly. "What the hell are you thinking?"

"Well . . .it's just . . . I thought . . . I figured it was a joke," McCormick finally managed to get out.

"We don't joke about death threats, Mark," Harper said reasonably. "And certainly not this kind."

That focused McCormick's attention again, and seemed to do the same for the judge.

"What do you mean, 'this kind'?" the jurist asked.

But Harper shook his head. "I don't want to get ahead of myself," he told them, "so let's start with the basics. Mark, is there anyone you can think of who might have sent this? Anyone who would want to hurt you?"

Mark shook his head. "Not anyone who wouldn't rather hurt him," he answered, pointing toward Hardcastle. "Up until about six months ago or so, I was a pretty popular guy."

The lieutenant grinned slightly. "No doubt. But give it a little thought, would ya? No one you had any problems with on the inside that might be on the outside now?"

"No, nobody." The young man looked at the card still lying open in front of Harper. "And certainly no one who'd send that."

Hardcastle also looked back at the card. The front seemed innocent enough; bold green letters sending a simple sentiment, Wishing you the luck of the Irish. But it was the message inside that was causing the concern. Next to a drawing of a sad woman with long red hair in a gauze-like, flowing gray dress were the neatly printed words, The banshee wails for you, McCormick. Happy St. Patrick's Day. It will be your last.

But Harper was still looking at McCormick closely. "If there's anything at all you're involved in, Mark, you need to tell me now. This isn't the time to worry about keeping secrets."

McCormick saw Hardcastle watching him, though he thought the man's inquisitive expression stopped short of suspicion. He sighed slightly. "How is it I get threatened but still end up the suspect?" But then he looked back at the officer and spoke evenly. "No secrets, Frank. I don't know anything about this."

"Okay, then," Harper replied, heaving his own sigh. "That's what I figured, but it might've been easier if there'd been something."

"All right, Frank," Hardcastle finally spoke up, "why don't you just tell us whatever it is you're trying not to say?"

"I don't know how to tell you this," the detective began, "but I think this is from a serial killer. A guy who's picked up the name 'the greeting card killer'."

"Serial killer?" Hardcastle repeated, incredulous. "I haven't heard anything about that. How many victims so far? And why would McCormick be on the list?"

"Yeah," McCormick added, "what'd I do? Who were the others? And what do they have to do with me?"

Harper held up a hand, warding off the barrage of questions. "There have been four victims so far. And no one knows about it because that's the way we've tried to keep it. We don't want a panic on our hands, you know. The deaths have been spread out over several months; all four of the others died on a holiday—the first one was last Thanksgiving—and all of them received cards warning them beforehand.

"We haven't been able to find any connection between the victims," Harper continued, "but then, we never got to talk to any of them before they died." He fixed McCormick with a firm gaze. "I think what we need to do is get back to my office, pull out the file, and see if we can put any pieces together. And if we don't figure it out, then the next thing we need to figure out is what we're going to do about your protection."

McCormick opened his mouth to tell the man not to overreact, but Hardcastle was already speaking, and his tone made clear his mind was made up.

"We'll follow you in the truck, Frank," he said, rising with Harper, "and I'd like to have some say in who gets picked for the detail out here. We've got almost a week before the seventeenth, but I don't think we can afford to be taking any chances with this. If it isn't wrapped up soon, I want someone out here."

"Not a problem, Milt. In fact, we might talk about whether a safe house is a better bet, but we've got a day or so for that decision."

Shaking his head, McCormick rose silently and followed the others, wondering how the day had changed direction so quickly, and hoping there'd be a chance for his world-famous pork chops some other time.

00000

"I'm telling you, Frank," McCormick snapped, answering the question for the third time, "I don't know any of these people. That one guy—the New Year's victim—he looks sort of familiar, but I don't know the name, and I couldn't tell you where I've seen him before. I'm sorry, but I just don't know."

The judge placed a calming hand on the young man's arm. "Don't worry, kid, we'll figure this out. You're just gettin' worked up because you were hoping you could get rid of the patrol today."

"No," McCormick contradicted hotly, "I'm gettin' worked up because some loony tune has said he's going to kill me the day after tomorrow, and apparently he's kept his promises a few times before. That's why I'm gettin' worked up."

"Okay," Harper interjected soothingly, "I think we can take a break for now. We've been over everything I've got here at least two dozen times in the past few days, and it's not changing. Why don't you guys go on home, and I'll let you know if I hear anything else."

"Sounds like a plan," Hardcastle agreed as he got to his feet. "Is it still Officer Collins who'll be driving us?"

"Yeah; he should be waiting downstairs for you. I'll check in with you guys later." He gave an encouraging smile. "We're gonna work this out, Mark; don't worry. You still owe me a pork chop dinner."

McCormick did his best to muster a smile in return. "Thanks, Frank."

00000

"Now you're just being paranoid," McCormick said testily, glaring across the room.

"I'm not sure it's paranoia, kiddo, to try to stay protected against a threat from a known serial killer. Besides, I had the impression you were kinda worried about this yourself."

After a few seconds, McCormick admitted softly, "I am kinda worried, Judge. But we've had cops here for three days 'round the clock, and now you don't even wanna let me sleep in the gatehouse? You haven't been bothered about that before."

"Before wasn't the sixteenth," Hardcastle pointed out. "Tomorrow's this kook's deadline, and I'd just as soon you stay in one place until Frank can figure out who it is and get him locked up. You'll be much easier to protect over here."

McCormick couldn't argue with that logic, so he finally just gave a sullen nod and slouched back against the couch. "I just can't believe we can't figure this out," he said grimly. "I mean, c'mon; what're the odds it's all completely random? This guy has to have something against me—and the others—even if I don't know what it is."

"Yeah, you'd think." The judge was seated behind his desk, scribbling aimlessly on a notepad. He glanced across the room. "You know what that department profiler said, that there was probably some stressor on this guy that either happened on a holiday, or somehow brought the holidays into the forefront of his mind. You sure you can't think of anything special about recent holidays?"

"Judge, this guy started killing people on Thanksgiving. I was with you this whole holiday season. And the couple of years before that, I was in jail. Hell, I was still inside last St. Patrick's day. Just what kind of holiday gatherings do you think I was getting invited to, Hardcase?"

The older man smiled slightly. "I'm not thinkin' about any kinda black tie gala or anything, kiddo. Just wondered if anything at all stuck in your memory about any kind of holiday. Anything."

"No, nothing that—" McCormick broke off suddenly. "Wait!" He slapped a palm to his forehead. "I can't believe I forgot. Last summer, July 4th, I was at . . . um . . . well, a private wagering facility, I guess you'd say. There were maybe a couple dozen guys there. That's where I remember that New Year's guy from." He grinned when he saw Hardcastle's disapproving face. "Yeah, Dalem wasn't too pleased, either, but he let it slide. Figured if I ever needed to be a witness, an ex-con was a better bet than a current one. Besides, it was just a little friendly poker."

"Witness?"

Mark nodded. "Yeah. Coupla guys rushed the place with automatic weapons. They were only after the cash, and it probably woulda stayed unofficial, but one guy didn't stay put when they told him to; they killed him." He shook his head slowly. "Just a young guy; a shame."

Hardcastle's face lit up as he grabbed the phone. "That sounds like the key," he said, punching in Harper's number. "Coulda saved us some worry if you'd remembered this a little earlier, kiddo, but I guess it won't kill the guys to stay on duty one more night." He gestured vaguely upward. "And you're still sleeping in the guestroom tonight."

McCormick just grinned as he listened to the judge relay the information.

00000

Watching the entryway as Hardcastle opened the door, McCormick figured the green tee shirt and jeans rather than the typical suit meant Frank's visit was at least partly social, and that had to be good news.

"We got him," Harper said without preamble as he led the way into the den, the judge close behind wearing an immediately relieved expression.

"Guy's name was Kevin Sullivan," the detective continued, "and it was his kid that got blasted during the run on the poker den. Turns out he was there, too." He dropped into a chair wearily and looked back at the other two men. "Everyone says he held it together pretty well for a while after the shooting, but then started acting a little strange, and finally just sort of dropped out of everything. His apartment looks like the only time he ever left was to commit the murders; the place was a mess. But we found all the evidence we'll need, including a copy of the police report with all the witness names included, and a calendar with a name penciled in on every holiday this year, and into next. He had his own name on July fourth, 1985. Seems he has the idea that someone should've saved his boy." He shook his head sadly. "I imagine his cell will be padded instead of concrete."

McCormick nodded in agreement. "Sounds about right." He thought for a moment, then added softly, "No one coulda saved that kid, ya know. Someone should tell him that—not only that we couldn't've done anything, but neither could he. It was too fast. It wasn't his fault."

Hardcastle seemed surprised, then smiled. "The guy was gonna kill you, McCormick, and you're worried about him?"

With a casual shrug, Mark answered, "I dunno, Judge. I mean, the guy watched his kid die. That kinda memory's gotta be a prison worse than any cell. I just figure he deserves to know the truth."

"You're something else, kiddo," the judge said, just a hint of pride in his tone. Then he was moving across the room and up the stairs without another word.

"Where ya goin?" McCormick called after him.

"To fire up the grill," Hardcastle answered without turning around. "Frank still hasn't gotten to try your pork chops."