Whoa. Been a while, hasn't it? :)

I'm really, really nervous about posting this story. I don't know why, I just am. Maybe because it's been so long and all. I know it's a little AU, but give it a chance, will ya? :)

Reviews would be wonderful. Hope you like it!

If music be the food of love, play on.

-Shakespeare

Melinda Meadows longed for stardom. She'd been born for it. She dreamed often of stepping out of her home and having a horde of paparazzi bombard her with pointless questions and blinding her with their prying cameras. She wanted the opportunity to flash her pretty smile at them when the mood struck, and swear at them for meddling with her personal—but she actually wanted the whole world to know—affairs at other bitchier times. She wanted to be the diva that every woman secretly wished she was, even if they openly cursed and slandered and disapproved.

Everyone turns to hypocrisy when they don't get what they want, she thought as she drove back home on a chilly night. It was only human nature to bring down someone who'd achieved what they couldn't. The world sure had its share of pretenders. And cheaters.

Like her stupid ex-boyfriend.

But as the wind whipped through her long blonde hair, she promised herself she wouldn't think of him. Couldn't think of him. She had happier things to think about, things to celebrate about.

She was on her way to becoming a real, professional singer. Okay, things weren't completely official yet, but she just had that feeling. Her instincts were telling her that soon she could smile at and curse the media just as she fancied. And she sure as hell was going to trust her instincts from now on.

She'd ignored the gut-feeling that Josh was cheating on her and look where that had got her.

It hurt, she admitted as she made a turn. The roads were fairly empty, and the air felt good on her skin. It had hurt badly when she'd found Josh and the ditzy cheerleader in a teensy-weensy excuse for a skirt making out. And the worst part was she'd loved the jerk. But she wasn't going to care anymore. Or was going to try not to. She'd find someone new. The high school football team didn't consist of just him.

But since the pain had been there anyway, she'd decided to do what she did best. Put it in a song. And it had turned out to be pretty damn good. Inspiration had struck, and she'd recorded a demo in her little home-studio.

I'm a little like Taylor Swift, she thought smiling a little. Writing about the losers who seemed sweet and adorable at first but then just go and break your heart without a second thought. But that didn't necessarily mean that her lyrics had to be as sweet as Taylor's.

It's all good now though, she thought. She'd dropped off the demo at LVN Records, and had been lucky to catch a glimpse of the label's music producer during her little visit. He'd smiled and listened to her when she rambled on about how much she loved to sing. And he'd promised to listen to it. And he was so, so heart-stoppingly cute. A little too old for her, but she'd been blushing like a fool when he'd patted her on the back and said that not many kids would have the guts to just drop by a professional recording label. Her seventeen-year-old heart had been beating like crazy.

Maybe I should write a song about him, she thought, giggling. Then my lyrics can be bittersweet, like Taylor's.

Now she was going home to tell her parents. They'd be happy for her, she knew. They'd listened to her sing since she was a little girl, and if she wanted to be a singer, they'd want it to.

Drumming her fingers against the steering wheel at a red signal, she began to daydream. She wouldn't need Josh. To hell with him. She wouldn't want to cry when she saw him in the hall at school. He'd hear her song on the radio in the days to come, and be sorry. Meanwhile, she'd be happy. She and her music. When the signal turned green, she drove on.

Melinda had too many stars in her eyes to see the black car that had been tailing her the whole drive.

--

Nancy Drew sat at her obsessively-organized desk, her brows knit together as her fingers moved expertly over her keyboard. Her eyes remained fixed on her monitor and she typed mechanically, and the blue in them was set off by the dark shadows underneath. After all, she had had about barely twenty hours of sleep over that last ten days, all in all. When Chicago had been sleeping, she'd had to rack her brains until she was sure they would become malfunctional due to incessant overuse. But she couldn't afford to stop even then. Not when some crazy serial thief was ransacking the homes of the city's ultra-rich for purposes not consistent with Robbin Hood's.

So she'd encountered a car crash, a few threats that she'd written off nonchalantly, some sundry, futile attempts to endanger her life, and a bloody—and exciting, she admitted—showdown with her criminal, all in less than two weeks. Then she'd kicked his kick-deserving butt and handed him over to the cops. The last part had been her favourite.

She lived an exciting life.

Now she was caseless, but had to write the follow-up report that the court required. She hated the damn paperwork. But it had to be done, so she crankily wrote as fast as she could.

Then she'd go home, wonderful, glorious home. And crawl into her warm, soft bed and sleep for forty hours. She sighed happily at the thought.

Being a private investigator did have its disadvantages. But she loved her job. She wholeheartedly loved the sleepless nights, the dangers of the job, and the rush of adrenaline. And of course, the butt-kicking. She loved it so much that her agency, Drew Investigation Inc. had resulted. She couldn't imagine doing anything else for a living, or for entertainment for that matter.

"And this," Jolting, Nancy heard a familiar, female, bubbly voice say, "is where she works. She made this herself, you know."

"Ah, oui," said another differently-accented unfamiliar voice. "It eez very pretty."

"Andre!" said the first voice, sounding exasperated. "Offices aren't pretty. They're, you know, boring 'cause they're supposed to be."

"But mon chéri, you are very pretty."

Nancy could just about envision Bess and what she supposed was her new boyfriend, locking lips outside her office, and had a brief flash of Pepé Le Pew of the Looney Tunes. She hurried to interrupt them before they could get carried away. It was an office, after all.

"Ahem."

When they continued to kiss with apparent urgency, she felt uncomfortable and shuffled her feet. The other PIs of her agency stared at her from their workstations with eyes full of curiosity. And, well, with the delighted hope for some early morning entertainment. Some of them didn't get out much, sadly.

"Bess?" Nancy tried again.

The only response she got was a frenzied murmur. When Bess caught a handful of French Lover's shirt in her fist, Nancy knew she had to cut in.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," she shouted. "All right, you two hormonal teenagers, cut it out!"

When they broke apart, breathless, Nancy was sure she heard a few cheers from their spectators. "Um, let's go inside, okay?"

"Aw, Drew," a voice piped up from the audience. Tim Stuart was eighteen and the baby of the agency. He was red-faced, chubby and cute in a five-year-old-cute kind of way. He also had a sharp mind, an eye for detail, guts, and wanted to be like PI Nancy Drew when he grew up. "You couldn't let them be for ten minutes?"

"You, Tim, are sick," she shot back but not without some affection, and swung around.

"You're no fun," Bess complained, pouting, but followed Nancy into her office. Then she tugged on French Lover's arm and looked at him, beaming with obvious adoration. "This is Andre Laurent. We're kind of going out."

"Heh. No kidding." French Lover sure was a looker. Go Bess, she thought. If she could whistle, she would have.

"Nancy Drew," he said, smiling. "I am so pleased to meet you. Your office eez so pretty. No," he said, remembering. "No, no, je suis désolé, it is boring."

What a sweetheart. Nancy took the hand he offered and shook it. "Nice to meet you, Andre."

Bess had gone for the exotic this time, Nancy noted. Andre had the kind of face that had to have been sculpted by God's very own miraculous hand.

"My true love," he said, looking at Bess like a puppy, "said you are a detective? Like on television?"

She didn't know what shows they had in France, but she nodded. "Uh, yeah, why not?" she said, smiling.

"We were in the neighbourhood," Bess said, with a victorious grin. "Thought we'd say hi."

Oh, yeah. Nancy returned her grin knowingly. To say hi and to show off your super-sexy boyfriend.

"We'd better go, and finish off what we were prohibited from doing outside your office," Bess said, and grinned wickedly. "Call me when you're free. See ya, Nan."

"I hope to see you again," Andre said utterly charmingly, and kissed Nancy's hand. At that moment she decided that if Bess ever dumped him, she was grabbing him first chance she had.

Just before they swung out, Nancy grabbed Bess' arm, and pulled her back. "Damn you, Bess," she said with apparent admiration. "Where'd you find him?"

"You just gotta look hard, honey," she said elusively and stuck her nose up in the air.

"Does he kiss as awesome as he looks he does?"

"Better." Bess flipped her strawberry-blond hair over her shoulder and laughed. "Way better."

--

With his headphones on, Ned Nickerson casually propped his feet up on the little table that stood outside the recording room. The purpose of the table was to hold little treats to meet the voracious appetite he was famous for. But now all it held was air. He'd have to fix that soon.

First he had a song to produce.

He fiddled with the appropriate controls at the mixing console at all the necessary times. Looking through the glass and into the recording room he saw what he predicted to be the next big thing.

Justin Ryder was currently recording his second single. His first had made waves with the locals in Illinois, earning him fansites and the occasional interview on television. He was hugely introverted though, and even more hugely talented. With the second release he was striving to transcend the state frontier and was looking for national recognition.

Ned was damn sure he'd get what he was aspiring for, if not more.

They'd worked out the details. The basic vocal recording would span over three days. If they were willing to forego sleep, maybe two. Then the instrumental recording would take a day or so, and be produced by Ned's co-worker and best friend, Bill Foster. Then they'd leave it to the technical experts to wave their magic wand. Then to ensure marketability, they'd need the press and publicity.

Ned obviously had a great sense of hearing, but his olfactory senses didn't totally suck. When the scent hit him and assaulted his brain, he couldn't take it anymore. He pushed a button on the panel. "Let's cut it there, Ryder. Something smells like food."

Platinum record or not, a man's gotta eat.

It was around eleven-thirty at night. Most of the studio's employees had called it a day, but some of them preferred working long hours, and some just preferred working at night. Late night creativity. Ned wasn't sure which category included him.

Justin Ryder followed Ned who followed his nose which lead them to the Junction. The Junction was the point that had separate recording rooms and isolation booths on all four sides. It was where the staff met to be either congratulated or yelled at by the Chief. Mostly yelled at. He didn't really approve of the casual atmosphere. But no one took him too seriously, which to him was annoyance, and to everyone who worked for him, fun.

Sure enough there stood Sally Devon, surrounded by a pack of hungry late night workers.

"Krispy Kremes?" Ned asked over the chattering of the donut-ravishers, and pushed his way through.

"You know me," she replied, smiling.

He managed to grab a couple of donuts, handed one to Justin.

"Oh, no, thanks."

He shrugged and took a huge bite. Personally, he didn't understand how anyone could refuse one. "I love you, Sally."

"You'll love me more when you hear I've got another box. Just for you," she added in a low voice.

He could almost see the halo over her head. The kind-hearted head director often took it upon herself to feed her hungry late-night musicians. She was close to fifty, and sort of the matron of the studio.

"If you were younger," he said between bites, "I'd fall on my knees and beg you to marry me. Not that you're old or anything," he added hastily, catching the gleam in her eye.

An hour or so later, after almost everyone else was sane enough to go home and catch some sleep, Ned decided to pack things up. He'd listened to the demo that kid had dropped off earlier. He caught a few traces of AutoTune in its making, but it was good. A few sharps and flats in the singing but it wasn't anything that couldn't be fixed by some formal training. And she was passionate about it. That was a huge plus. He decided he'd call her—Melinda?—and get her to record professionally. If he still thought she had the stuff, maybe he'd consider getting her signed with the label.

At around one, he started for home.

--

Alan Bolton slept lightly. He couldn't afford to otherwise, given the nature of his job. Being an officer with the Chicago PD meant that criminals had the power to drag him out of bed even at three in the morning. Stupid criminals had no sense of time.

He got the call from Dispatch, grabbed his police issue and tried to get out of bed at quietly as possible, not wanting to wake his wife. But George Fayne-Bolton hadn't been a heavy sleeper since she'd married him.

"Alan?" she said sleepily.

"I got a case," he said softly, as he dressed as quickly as he could. "Sorry to wake you. Go back to sleep."

Suddenly she was wide awake. "Are you gonna be okay?" She tried not to let the dread and fear show.

"Yeah. Yeah." He tried to smile, and bent to kiss her. "I think I'll call Nancy in on this one."

"Oh. Make sure neither of you do some stupid, heroic thing, okay?"

"Okay." He gave her one more kiss before leaving.

When he left, George lay back in bed and closed her eyes. She said a prayer, but she knew she wouldn't sleep.

--

Nancy wanted to kill the phone when it rang. Wanted it to have a slow, vicious, torturous death. She'd barely had eight hours of sleep of her desired forty.

"Hello?" she almost snarled.

"Yo, Drew."

"Alan, George is my friend. I know we used to date in high school but I'm not going to have an affair with you."

"Haha. Aren't you just non-bitchy? Listen," he said before she could retort. "I have a murder. You want in?"

It didn't take her more than two seconds. "Where do you want me to be?" she asked, already dragging on clothes.

--

When she reached the site of crime, she saw the police vehicles, and the yellow tape cordoning off any curious speculators. Not that there were any at three-fifteen.

She saw Alan standing with the people she supposed were the ones who'd called in the crime. When he caught her eye, he let another officer take over the interrogation and went to meet her.

"Do we have an identification?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied. "Almost positive that the victim is Justin Ryder. We've got officers who've gone to inform next-of-kin."

"Justin Ryder? The singer?"

"Yep."

"Great. Soon we'll have the media here, wanting to sink their fangs into anything they can get."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Is this your case, Bolton?"

"Yeah," he said, looking around at the buzz of activity. "Got a new partner. Rookie, actually. Let me find her." He searched among the officers and hospital authorities to spot his partner. When he did, he waved to her and signalled her to come.

Nancy knew his old partner, and had worked with him. When she saw the new one, she realized she knew this one as well. As if murder wasn't depressing enough.

"Oh, crap."