Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Author's Note: "The Black Widow" had a subplot which was beautifully character-defining for Hardcastle—illustrating both his tenacity and his devotion to justice, at whatever cost. It only arises, however, in the middle of what initially seemed to be the unrelated Tina Gray situation. Hardcastle, hanging out at the station to put some pieces together using LAPD resources, runs into his old nemesis, Captain Filapiano. A questionable street shooting by Filapiano was thrown out of Hardcastle's court twenty years earlier, now the captain is deeply interested in Tina Gray and her mobster boyfriend, "Jersey Joe" Bieber.

Ancient History

by L. M. Lewis

He'd been relegated to the gatehouse by his sidekick—who was definitely enjoying himself way too much in this investigation. Still, McCormick had said he was making progress with Ms. Gray. Hardcastle hoped it wasn't a matter of getting to second base, or maybe all the way 'round. At least they'd headed outside and not upstairs. He wandered into the hallway, listened for a moment, then ducked into the den, surveying the front-yard drive from the window there.

Her black sedan was still parked in the same spot and no one was in sight. The patio, then. She was hardly dressed for a stroll on the beach. He sighed. They might come back through the house eventually. He supposed he had to at least go through the motions of clearing the table. A perfectly good batch of soup, too. He could freeze it.

He did just that, and pulled the chicken cordon bleu out of the oven. He didn't have much appetite himself, right now, being more interested in observing McCormick's "progress" in the investgation. Unfortunately, it appeared the kid had made a pretty precise study of the sight-lines from the kitchen window. He'd ensconced his guest at the far end of the patio, with a brick wall between them and the house.

Hardcastle gritted his teeth in frustration and finally gave up. He wasn't going over to the gatehouse, though. As long as the two lovebirds were out there billing and cooing, he thought he'd tackle the other project that had come up that afternoon. He unbuttoned the white jacket and slipped it over the back of a kitchen chair, feeling an inestimable relief just getting the thing off, then he headed for the steps that led down into the basement.

00000

There was something soothing about being in the file-room. Not that there was much comfort to be taken from the files—their contents usually made him itch like hell. But the room itself was a refuge of sorts, a place where the injustices of the world could be boiled down to specifics, only waiting for the right time and circumstances to be righted. The statute of limitations had no meaning down here, though, in truth, there was no such statute for murder, and murder was the crime for which Filapiano had entered his courtroom on that November morning twenty years back.

He opened the drawer marked "FA-FOU" and riffled through the tabs until he came to the correct one. He inched it free, not that it was all that thick, but it was wedged in among many. The folder was yellowed—a least a shade darker than most of the rest. It was among the oldest there, maybe the oldest; he'd have to think about that.

What he didn't have to think much about was the day he'd first filed that folder, after a trial of dismal brevity concerning the death of a young boy. He opened it now, and looked at the faded ink of his notes, and the white on black photocopies of some of the evidence. A photograph fluttered free and fell to the floor. Hardcastle bent over and picked it up, staring at it for a moment. Another young man frozen in time, never to age one day further.

There hadn't been much evidence surrounding the death. The kid in the photo, Siler Johnson, had been shot twice through the chest—that much was clear—and the bullets had undoubtedly come from Detective Filapiano's gun. The rest was all speculation. The old .22, found on the scene near Johnson's outstretched right hand, had been one of those cold pieces with a filed-off serial number and no known provenance. It was just the sort of thing that might have been floating around the criminal underworld for a few years.

But there hadn't been anything in Johnson's history that would have suggested he'd acquired such a piece, let alone that he would have brandished it in a confrontation with the police. Still, with Filapiano's partner backing his story, and no other witnesses coming forward, Hardcastle had been surprised that the prosecutor had even risked his conviction record by going to trial. He'd had to grant the defense's motion to dismss.

His own suspicions had been raised, though. It hadn't been all that many years back that he'd been a cop himself. He didn't like to think that there were dirty cops out there, but everyone knew it didn't take much effort to make a bad shooting go away.

He'd looked up from his paperwork for a moment, sitting at the bench on that November afternoon. He'd caught that cocky young cop in his stare as if to let him know he knew . . . or at least he suspected. It didn't seem to matter to Filapiano, who'd turned and accepted a slap on the shoulder from his partner just beyond the railing, and a hearty handshake from his lawyer.

There'd been someone else, though, a few rows back, a woman wearing a shapeless dress two shades off black. She also wore a little hat, with a piece of black net, slightly torn, at the front edge. She'd sat there through the whole process, never taking her eyes off Filapiano. She'd looked stunned at Hardcastle's pronouncement and had turned to the man sitting next to her as if to ask what had just happened.

Hardcastle'd frowned and rose; he'd had no desire to sit there, watching Filapiano's celebration. The bailiff, caught momentarily unaware, had announced his departure. The courtroom's occupants were standing, the traditional show of respect for a judge's comings and goings, all except for the black-garbed woman, still clinging to the arm of her companion.

The kid's mother. He'd known it as certainly as if they'd been introduced.

He'd tried to put it out of his mind as he retreated to his chambers. He'd thought about going out there, into the hallway, of trying to find her and explain to her what had happened—why he had had to do what he'd done.

He'd realized it would do no good, that no explanation of the points of law and the necessity of proof would do anything to replace her dead child. In the end he could only hope it wasn't cowardice, and suspected it partly was.

That afternoon, arriving home, he'd seen Tommy over in the side yard tossing a baseball straight up and catching it—a poor imitation of pitching and fielding with the necessary father obviously missing. As he'd stepped out of the car his son had sprinted over.

"Come on. Wanna play?"

He'd shaken his head, gesturing one-handed to his suit and good shoes. He'd still been given to wearing "appropriate" garb under the robe back in his early days on the bench.

Tommy hadn't taken it too hard, probably figuring, and rightly, that they'd still have time to toss it around some after dinner. Hardcastle had paused in his walk up to the front door and turned to look back at him one more time. What would he do if someone took his son, killed him, and there was no justice to be had?

He hadn't known. He hadn't even wanted to think about it. Instead he'd turned away again, heading into the house.

He stared down at the photograph npw. Had Siler not died—his blood splattered on the pavement that bright hot July day in 1963—he would be approaching middle age, maybe with a son of his own to toss a ball to, the woman in black a grandmother. But, no, none of that would ever be. He shook his head and stuffed the photo into his pocket.

He stiffened, hearing the sound of footsteps on the stairs—McCormick—and he must have seen the light from under the file room door. Two quick quiet raps and the door opened inward slowly.

"Judge?" He stuck his head around the edge, looking curious. "Whatcha doing down here?"

"Inventory on the wine cellar," he said with just a hint of bitterness.

"Wrong room." Mark grinned, pointing over his shoulder. Then with the other hand he held up the nearly-full bottle of the Rothschild, recorked. "Could you recommend something a little cozier than this? I think I'm approaching a breakthrough."

"What kind of breakthrough?"

"She's starting to bare her soul to me," Mark sighed.

"Well, I hope that's all she's baring."

"Judge," he huffed, "she's not that kind of girl."

"Yeah, her kind usually charges by the hour."

Mark made a face and put the bottle on top of the nearest file cabinet. Hardcastle heard him head back up the stairs without replacing it, from which the judge gathered that he must have originally noticed the lights still off in the gatehouse and come in to see what was up, Rothschild in hand as an offering of peace. Reading files was apparently so commonplace as to not rate a comment or second thought.

He smiled and shook his head. The kid and his breakthroughs. That woman would have him for breakfast. He closed the file and put it back, wedging it into place with a little effort.

00000

He didn't retire to the gatehouse until well into the wee hours. He wasn't sure if McCormick and the dame had ever retired. He didn't think he wanted to know. Hardcastle was taking out the gatehouse trash early the next morning—leftover pizza boxes from five days ago—when he saw the two of them being hustled into her car. It was déjà vu all over again, only this time he had transportation and the impulse to follow was just as compelling as it must have been for Mark the day before.

He scooted into the Coyote and gunned it, taking off after the hijacked sedan. Under ordinary circumstances he knew he'd have no hope keeping pace with McCormick, but it was obvious that the kid was dogging it, even driving at gun-point.

Unfortunately, the kidnappers had back-up. A second sedan—a heavy make on a solid chassis—slid into position and tried to intimidate him. No question, if all else failed this larger vehicle could batter him into submission. But for now he had the edge in speed. He led the guy into a field littered with obstacles and let superior maneuverability lead his pursuer astray. The size advantage was lost once his attacker became airborne, and when his car came down, with damage to the undercarriage and a flare of open flame, there were only seconds in which to yank the driver free and haul him out of range of the explosion.

But Mark and the woman were gone. He found himself wanting to shake his prisoner by the scruff of his neck until he got some information. Instead he waited impatiently as the sound of police sirens drew near. At first he hoped the cruisers would slide past on the main road, sticking to the main pursuit, even though he realized by now that car was miles down the road in who knew what direction. And, regardless, the billowing black smoke attracted them like flies. Soon after came the fire department, quickly extinguishing the dying blaze.

The driver of the destroyed car, banged up some but not looking seriously injured, went into custody sullenly, saying nothing, Hardcastle listened with mixed feelings as a worried-looking young officer read him his rights off the card.

Of course they had questions for him, as well. He shelved them all, telling them he'd meet them back at the station. He wanted desperately to have a few words with Filapiano.

00000

The captain was no help, only adding to Hardcastle's burden of worry, trying to convince him that it was already too late. He'd played on the judge's concerns, relishing them.

In the end it came down to him and Stanton playing an old game with the prisoner that would almost certainly get the charges against him thrown out in someone else's courtroom. Hardcastle suddenly found that to be a mere academic interest, and one which he could easily shunt aside as they confronted the sweaty little weasel. In the back of his preoccupied mind, a small voice wondered if this wasn't the beginning of the road that led to where Filapiano had gone, and yet he found even that didn't matter.

Stanton, surprisingly, seemed to have no qualms, either. Hardcastle hadn't realized how easily Mark was acquiring friends in the LAPD. The goon, already shaken up by his brush with flaming death, caved in after only a few minutes of snarling and a couple of veiled threats from the lieutenant.

They had a location, but it also seemed likely that Beiber's intent was to kill his ex-girlfriend and McCormick as soon as possible. Hardcastle took the Coyote, knowing he could outpace the official vehicles and suspecting that seconds might make a difference.

00000

The dust settled. McCormick had taken out one of his executioners and Hardcastle had cornered the others. The kid looked okay, not even admitting to how shook up he'd been, until Ms. Grey was escorted off by the cops. That he'd admitted it at all said a lot about what a near-run thing it had been. Hardcastle stood back as he gave his statement to one of the station guys.

Seconds, just a matter of seconds and you might've been too late. Hardcastle concealed his own shudder. Things were winding down, Mark wouldn't even promise to stick around and sign the statement, unless they hustled a little, but it was obvious that he was stretched thin. He'd been going at this thing non-stop practically since the morning before.

In the squad room, where Tina was being booked, they stopped for some coffee. Jersey Joe had been rounded up and was being hauled in. He made his entry demanding his attorney. Mark ignored all that. He was ignoring Ms. Gray, too, until Hardcastle drew his attention to her. Then he wandered over. She seemed to want nothing to do with him. He finally seemed to take a hint and came back to their side of the room.

Well and good, Hardcastle thought. He's not going to have any regrets about that one, except maybe getting taken in by her in the first place. That was a small price to pay for being one of the few people to have survived a date with her.

The IA cavalry arrived—better twenty years late than never. Hardcastle couldn't keep a grim smile from crawling up. Filapiano cast him a dark look and then tried to give him one last lecture on how the ends justified any damn means required. It was evident that the only thing the captain regretted was having gotten caught.

It was in the middle of this exchange that Hardcastle remembered it, the picture he'd shoved in his shirt pocket in the file room during the night. He unbuttoned his flap, pulled the old Polaroid out, and handed it to the captain. It was the coup de grâce. He hadn't thought the man could hate him more than he already did.

Mark had said nothing during this last exchange. No more smart Freudian observations; it was apparent that the past few hours had taken their toll. He followed him out with no further words . . . until they got outside the building.

"Who was that kid?"

He must have seen the photo, maybe even taken a good hard look at it. Hardcastle started to explain, wondering how it would go down with McCormick, that an ex-cop judge dismissed a case against another cop. He waited for the smart remark. None was forthcoming. Instead, he got a backhanded compliment, as McCormick dropped wearily into the driver's seat of the Coyote.

He was thinking about that, as he replied in kind. If McCormick, whose doubts about the system were both vast and deep, thought this time he'd gotten it right, well, maybe Siler Johnson could finally rest in peace.