"Yes sir, may I help you?" The well dressed woman looked up expectantly.

"I'm here to see Mr. Williamson." Jim grimly pulled out his badge and flipped it open so that the receptionist could see it. "Detective Ellison, Cascade PD."

The woman picked up the receiver and pressed a button on an impressive looking phone bank, stealing a quick glance at Blair as she did so. "Mr. Williamson, there is a Detective Ellison from the Cascade Police Department here to see you." She paused briefly, "Yes, sir." Looking up, she said, "Mr. Williamson will see you in just a moment, Detective." She gestured towards an expensive looking couch. "Please have a seat."

Jim nodded and glanced briefly around the lobby before sitting down. An oriental rug covered the floor, the furniture was upholstered in soft brown leather and the receptionist's desk appeared to have a marble top. The law firm of Williamson, Brickler and Black was one of the most prestigious in Cascade, and the Williamsons were one of the oldest families in the city. Several public buildings were named after them, including a library. Blair sat down next to him fidgeting nervously. "Take it easy, Blair. Are you sure you want to go in with me?"

"Yes, I'm sure." He didn't sound convinced.

"There's no reason to. Why don't you just sit out here and wait for me."

"No, really Jim. I can handle it. It's just..." He looked for the right words, "hard. Is it always this hard?"

"Always. Just distance yourself, make it impersonal." Jim knew that for Blair, that would be an impossible task. He changed the subject, "So, do you have any more blind dates planned for me?"

Blair smiled, "Uh, no."

"That's good. Whatever made you think I'd want to date a 20-year-old drama student who thinks she's Norma Desmond?" He shook his head, remembering the disastrous date. The woman had spent the whole evening chain smoking, waving her cigarette around with exaggerated hand gestures and regaling him with tales of her work in 'The Theatre', which up to now had consisted of a few high school musicals and one college production of 'Our Town'.

"Try to remember in the future that I don't date women who call me 'Dahling'"

"Hey, that's not fair! I'd never met her before either. Now, my friend Hillary has a friend that's really nice, and I have met her. You two would be perfect together. She studies..."

Jim cut him off. "I don't care what she studies, Sandburg, the answer is no!"

"But you'd really like her Jim. I swear." Blair was giving him the puppy eyed look now, trying to soften him up. It didn't work as well anymore, now that Jim was wise to his devious ways.

Jim tried not to laugh. "Give it up Sandburg. That's it. The end. No more blind dates. Understand, Chief?" Jim tried to sound stern, but he knew that Sandburg would pester him and chip away at him until he finally relented and went out with this woman just to get the anthropologist to leave him alone. There had to be some way to divert Blair from his quest to find him the perfect woman. "I know, Sandburg, why don't you fix Simon up with her?"

Blair brightened at the thought. "Hey, that's a great idea! Simon hasn't dated much since the divorce. Maybe Hillary has another friend. We could all go out."

Jim groaned. All he'd succeeded in doing was drag Simon into Blair's insidious matchmaking scheme. As he was about to enumerate the many reasons why that was a bad idea, another attractive, well groomed woman emerged from the hallway. "Detective Ellison?" Jim nodded. "Right this way." She turned and the two men followed her down a long hall to a large oak door. As she opened it she announced, "Detective Ellison is here sir, and..."

The woman looked at Blair. He stood there for a few seconds and then jumped a little as he realized what she was waiting for. "Oh! Blair Sandburg."

"...and Mr. Sandburg."

"Bring them in Miss Grant." The man sitting behind the huge cherry desk stood up and strode briskly to meet them. Mr. Williamson was an imposing figure, taller than Jim, but portly and with just the perfect touch of greying black hair. Jim noted his flushed face and heavy breathing; the man was not in the best of shape. Jim guessed he was in his middle to late 60's.

"Detective," Williamson reached out and gripped Jim's hand firmly, then turned to Blair and did the same, "Mr. Sandburg. What can I do for you detective? Please, come sit down." He motioned them towards two chairs in front of his desk. Out of the corner of Jim's eye he could see Blair wincing in pain and massaging his hand.

Jim took a chair and waited for the attorney to sit. "Can I get you anything? Coffee?"

"No, thank you sir."

"Call me Roland. And you?" He glanced at Blair.

Jim heard his friend mumble, "No thanks," and saw that Sandburg was having a hard time making eye contact with the man.

"That will be all, Miss Grant."

"Yes sir." She turned sharply and left, pulling the door closed behind her.

The attorney looked at Blair, appraising him. "You are not with the police department?"

It was a problem Jim frequently had with Sandburg. More than just his appearance made him seem out of place. It was his attitude as well. He simply did not look or act like a policeman. That was what made him such a natural at undercover work, and what drew attention to him when they were on official business.

"I'm a consultant with the department."

Williamson had pulled a cigar from a humidor and was lighting it, leaning back in his chair, blowing small puffs of smoke. "In what capacity?"

Jim could see Blair formulating a less than honest answer, and he quickly changed the subject. An experienced lawyer might be able to recognize the lie. "Mr. Williamson, I'm afraid we have some bad news for you."

"Oh?" He straightened in his chair.

"It's about your daughter, sir."

"Which one?"

"Alice." Jim felt his heartbeat accelerate, and tried to push down the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. This was always the hardest part. Blair was staring intently at a criminal law book on the shelf, and Jim could hear his heart racing as well. He gritted his teeth and came to the point quickly. It was always better that way. "I'm sorry to have to inform you that she is dead."

All of the aggressiveness suddenly slid away from the man. He dropped his cigar and seemed to be out of breath. "What?"

Jim retained his even, impersonal tone, while Blair stared at the floor, his face flushed. "Her body was discovered at 2 a.m. this morning, behind Tommy's Bar and Grill."

"What?" Williamson was in shock, shaking his head.

Jim turned to Blair, saying quietly, "Go get Ms. Grant."

A wave of relief washed over Sandburg's face as he jumped up and left the room, grateful to have something to do. Normally, a uniformed officer would have been sent to break news like this, but Simon had insisted Jim do it. His captain had said, "A man of Roland Williamson's stature should be treated with respect." Jim had started out in uniform, and the implication of Simon's comment was a little insulting. The Williamson's were rich and had power, though, and he was sure the department would be spending a lot more of its resources to solve this murder than they would if a prostitute had been killed.

The detective waited for the big man to compose himself. Over the years he had broken this kind of news to more people than he cared to remember. There were almost as many types of reactions to the death of a loved one as there were ways to commit murder; rage, panic, fear, shock, even indifference and glee. The way a person reacted to a death could tell the detective a lot about them, including whether or not they were involved in the murder. As he observed the man, he came to the conclusion that Williamson was genuinely shocked and upset. Ellison remained silent. He had also learned to refrain from trite condolences. They weren't appreciated and did nothing to help.

Miss Grant returned, with Blair trailing behind. She carried a tray holding a crystal decanter filled with amber fluid, and several small glasses. Setting the tray down on Williamson's desk, she poured a drink, and handed it to him. "I've called your brother, sir. He should be here shortly."

The man downed the drink in one gulp, and reached out, pouring himself another. This time he sipped it. Taking a deep breath, he looked up at Ellison, "Tell me what happened."

Jim had been called out to the crime scene early this morning. He had left quietly, trying not to waken Blair, something the anthropologist had given him an earful about this morning. An anonymous caller had reported a woman's body in the dumpster behind Tommy's, a bar in the warehouse district. Jim had arrived and found a woman in her late 30's to early 40's. She'd been badly beaten and had a large gash in her head, probably the cause of death. He could tell from the smell that she had been drinking. There was no ID on the body, so they had run her fingerprints and discovered her identity from an old DUI arrest. No murder weapon was found, and a recent downpour had washed away any clues Jim could have used his senses to find. Jim told Mr. Williamson the short version of the story, sparing him as many unpleasant details as he could. The father would hear all of it soon enough.

Roland picked up his cigar and absently chomped on it, trying to absorb what he'd just been told. "Were there any..."

At that moment, a tall thin man in his early 50's with slicked black hair and a goatee rushed into the room, pushing his way between Blair and the assistant, nearly knocking the woman over. Blair reached out quickly to steady her. "Rollie! What's this I hear about Alice?"

"She's dead, Marty." Williamson finished the rest of his drink in a gulp.

"Jesus, what happened?" He turned around swiftly and faced Blair, "Who the hell are you? What's going on?"

Jim put a hand on the man's arm, drawing his attention away from Blair. "I'm Detective Ellison, from the Cascade PD, and you are?"

He shrugged Jim's hand away, facing him. "I'm Martin Williamson, Alice's uncle, and I demand an explanation now!"

In a polite, but commanding voice, Jim said, "Mr. Williamson, why don't you sit down?"

"I don't want to sit down, I want some answers!" There was a dangerous flash in the man's eyes, part fury, part fear. He took a step toward the detective and opened his mouth, preparing for another tirade.

Williamson stood, and in what was undoubtedly his most intimidating courtroom voice said, "Marty, sit down. Now." Jim could see why the lawyer was considered a force to be reckoned with. "I apologize, Detective. My brother has a tendency to fly off the handle." He looked down at his empty glass, and gazed at the decanter, then firmly set the glass on his desk. "I was about to ask, were there any witnesses?"

Before Jim could get a word out of his mouth, Martin Williamson glanced at Miss Grant. "Pour me a drink, sweetheart." The woman crossed the room, poured a drink from the decanter at the man's elbow and handed it to him. He snatched it from her, glaring. "Go away." She retreated again, standing next to Blair. Jim admired her ability to refrain from throwing the drink in his face. She was a nice looking woman, about Jim's age, with shoulder length blonde hair, curled under at the bottom. She was conservatively dressed in a grey suit with a hem line just above the knee. He caught a faint scent of lilacs.

The detective turned his attention back to Roland Williamson. "We haven't been able to find any yet. Tommy's had closed it's doors for business a couple of weeks ago. At that time of night, the area would have been deserted. Do you have any idea why she would have been there, sir?"

Marty cut in, "Slumming, no doubt."

Roland very nearly lost his temper, looking at his brother as if he would like to strangle him. "Alice was an alcoholic, Detective," he said by way of explanation. "No. I don't know why she would have been there. We haven't been on speaking terms lately. So there are no witnesses?"

"We're still looking into it, sir, but it doesn't seem likely."

"Huh," Marty snorted, "You cops are worthless. We have friends in high places. If you don't make an arrest by the end of today, heads will roll!"

Jim felt himself losing patience the man. He was sure that his behavior had nothing to do with being upset over his niece's murder. Williamson fixed his brother with a steady stare, and said evenly. "Shut up."

Sullenly, the ill-mannered man closed his mouth and poured himself another drink. Jim gently questioned the father about Alice. From his early morning visit to the crime scene, he already knew that she was a small woman, 43 years old with brown hair that had been dyed fire engine red, and brown eyes. Using his enhanced sight, he had seen fine scars on her face indicating plastic surgery. She lived at an expensive downtown address. Roland told him that she had been married and divorced six times, but did not have a current boyfriend that he knew of. Her profession was interior design, although she did not work at it often. Mr. Williamson cleared his throat. "One other thing, Detective. This probably has nothing to do with her murder, but I had recently cut Alice off financially. As I mentioned, she's had a long history of alcohol abuse, and I hoped that having no money would force her to deal with her problems. I fear that my actions may have contributed to her death in some way..." He picked up his cigar again, stared at it for a moment and put it down again, struggling with his guilt.

"How so?"

"She had expensive habits, Detective. She may have tried to raise money in a less than prudent way."

Jim's instinct told him that it would be a good time to wrap things up. Mr. Williamson was keeping his composure so far, but only barely. "We'll find out what happened to your daughter, sir." Jim stood. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Are you in charge of the investigation, Detective?"

"Yes, sir." He pulled a card from his wallet and handed it to the man. "You can reach me here. If I'm not in you can leave a message." Jim cleared his throat. "We'll need someone to come down today to formally identify your daughter's body. Perhaps your brother?" Jim wanted to give Roland Williamson a way out of the traumatic experience.

"No, no. I'll do it." He stood, struggling to keep himself under control. Turning to his assistant, he said gently, "Eleanor, will you please cancel the rest of my appointments for the day?"

"Yes, sir. I'm so sorry." For the first time, she displayed emotion, tears welling up in her eyes.

"If my wife should call for any reason, make something up. I want to break this to her in person."

"Of course." She turned and disappeared, returning a few seconds later with a coat, which she helped him into. The grieving man lost his concentration for a moment and looked around the room, as if he had lost something.

"Are you all right, sir?" Jim put a steadying hand on the man's arm.

"I'll be fine, Detective, thank you." The man straightened and took a deep breath. "I'll have to stop at home first, and break the news to my wife."

"Of course. That's not a problem at all." Jim reassured him.

"I'm going too. I'll drive you there, Rollie." Marty stood up, slightly off balance.

Jim had seen him gulp down two more drinks as he sat there, bringing the total to four. "I don't think that would be a good idea, sir." He watched as the man poured a fifth drink.

"Or what? You gonna arrest me? Bullshit. I'd have your badge in a heartbeat."

There were times when it took all of Jim's reserves of professionalism to keep himself under control. This was one of those times. Again, Roland Williamson interjected before things could get more hostile. "We'll take the limo."

Blair had been silent the entire time, standing at the back of the room with Ms. Grant, watching the drama with a mixture of horror and fascination. As the brothers left, he began chatting with the assistant, and Jim had a sudden, irrational fear that his partner was trying to set up a date for him with the woman. He walked over and smacked him lightly on the back of the head, interrupting the two. "C'mon, Chief, we've got work to do."

Blair and Jim met the Williamson brothers at the morgue a little after noon. Jim wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible so that he could get down to the real detective work. The scene at the morgue was one that Jim had seen played out too many times before. It was always difficult. Roland Williamson was a rock through the whole thing, barely betraying any emotion as he positively identified his daughter's body. Martin, on the other hand, gave the body only a nervous glance and then began expressing outrage, mostly directed at Jim, that such a thing could happen in Cascade. His face turned red and he began to look as though he would work himself into a fit. Apparently, his niece's death was the fault of the Cascade Police department, Jim and the breakdown of American society in general. Jim silently withstood the onslaught until Martin ran out of steam. Roland did not intervene this time, probably too occupied with trying to keep from falling apart. Blair had faded into a back corner of the room, trying to look inconspicuous. Apparently he had decided that if he couldn't keep an emotional distance from the case, he would at least keep a physical one. Finally it was over, and the Williamson's retreated to their limo. Jim accepted Roland Williamson's card and promised to keep the father informed of the progress in the case.

"What a jerk." Blair had a look of distaste on his face as he watched the elevator door close on the two men.

"He's involved in it somehow."

"How do you know? A gut feeling?"

"No. He was angry about something, but it wasn't Alice's murder. It was like he was transferring all of his anger into what he thought was a believable reaction to her death."

Blair looked at Jim, astonished. "Whoa, Jim. That's pretty deep reasoning. I must be rubbing off on you."

Jim narrowed his eyes and looked at his partner. "Don't give yourself too much credit, Chief. I didn't become a detective by beating confessions out of people, you know."

"Really?" Blair grinned, "That's what I always heard."

Jim raised his fist and was ready to throw a mock punch, when Simon walked out into the hallway. "I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later. If you're going to kill him, could you at least do it somewhere private? This station doesn't need that kind of publicity."

Jim smiled, "Sure, Captain." He grabbed Blair by the scruff of the neck and steered him out the door.

The next order of business was to check out Alice Williamson's apartment. The doorman, already aware of the murder, let the two men in. As he stepped over the threshold, Jim's nose began to itch and his eyes watered. The smell of perfume hung heavy in the air. He turned down his sense of smell and looked up, only to have his vision assaulted.

Blair was the first to comment. "Gross! I thought she was supposed to be an interior designer?"

Jim scrunched up his nose in disgust, "Maybe she only worked for people who were color blind."

The walls of the living room had been painted a dark shiny green, and then covered with paintings in elaborate gilt frames that were far too large for what they were enclosing. A huge overstuffed couch had been upholstered in orange velvet, with yellow and blue checked throw pillows. There were end tables and coffee tables of vastly different styles and time periods, all covered with scarves and cloths in a riot of patterns and colors. Expensive looking knickknacks following no apparent theme covered every available surface. An oriental rug covered the whole floor, but apparently it wasn't enough, because Jim saw several areas where smaller rugs had been placed on top of it. It was obvious that the room was bigger than Jim's loft, but so much furniture had been crammed into it that it was difficult to navigate.

"Why is it that rich people have such bad taste?" Blair wondered aloud.

"I dunno. Too much time on their hands? Searching this place is going to take a while." Jim instructed Blair on the kinds of things to look for, and both men split up, silently searching the apartment. Besides the living room, there was a dining room, a large kitchen with a pantry, a music room with a grand piano, and two huge bedrooms, each with a full bath. Jim picked the bedroom that seemed the most lived-in and began his inspection. The smell of perfume was so intense in the room that even visualizing a dial turned to zero didn't completely erase it. A large and no doubt expensive, bottle of Chanel No. 5 had a prominent place on her dresser. It's glass stopper was off, and Jim replaced it. He was correct in his assumption that this was Alice's room. On the bedside table, next to an eclectic stack of novels that included a gothic romance and 'War and Peace', Jim found her diary. Further searching revealed a small chest that contained a huge pile of journals, dating back at least 20 years. Alice Williamson had documented her life well. Jim picked up the ones that covered the last year of her life.

Blair wandered in holding a stack of papers. "This is interesting."

"Whatcha got, Chief?"

"Bills. Big ones, and there are a lot of them Most of them are past due." He held up a pink piece of paper. "There are a bunch of collection notices, too." Something caught his eye on a piece of paper and he let out a short laugh.

"What?" Jim smiled and walked over to Blair, looking at the legal notice in his hands.

"One of her customers is taking her to court. They're demanding their money back."

It didn't surprise him at all. "Good work, Sandburg." He held up the journals. "A little light reading for tonight."

Jim felt as though he should be using his sentinel abilities in some way, but he couldn't think how they would be useful unless he knew what he was looking for. Blair suggested he give them a workout anyway. Jim sat on the plump couch and leaned back as Blair's familiar, comforting voice lulled him into semi consciousness. They started with his hearing. It was easy to pick out Blair's heartbeat. Sometimes Jim thought that he could be in a room full of people and he would be able to recognize his guide just by the thumping in his chest. The faucet in the kitchen sink was dripping slowly, and he heard a whoosh as the water heater switched on. Gentle tapping on the roof meant that it was raining again. Outside, he could hear traffic on the street below, and a couple arguing about where to go for dinner. A faint fluttering, flapping sound caught his attention. He didn't recognize it. A loud squawk startled him and he realized that it had been a crow perching on a phone line outside. His concentration was broken, so Blair told him to try his sense of smell instead. The overpowering scent of Chanel was the first thing he noticed, and he had to concentrate for several minutes before he was able to pick out anything else. Recognizing the anthropologist's shampoo, he pushed it away. There had been dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, and Jim noticed the familiar aroma of tomato sauce. Alice Williamson's last meal on earth had probably been spaghetti. There were so many different smells in a home. Laundry detergent, household cleaners, plants, perfumes, makeup, food and human smells. There were even things he couldn't identify. It almost made him dizzy trying to sort through them, but something familiar, something important, was among them all, and he concentrated harder to locate it. Lilacs! He didn't think it was a common fragrance for women, and yet he had encountered it twice today. The first time was in Roland Williamson's office. The lawyer's assistant had been wearing it. What connection did she have to Alice?

The ding of the elevator interrupted his thoughts. Footsteps approached the door. He got up swiftly, putting his hand on his gun, causing Blair to glance up at him nervously. A key turned in the lock and a man entered, looking startled at the sight of the two men. He stood warily by the door, not closing it, as if preparing himself for a quick getaway. "Who are you? Friends of Alice's?"

Jim removed his hand from his gun and walked over to the man, pulling out his wallet, flashing his badge and introducing himself.

The man acted confused. "But why are you here?"

Jim broke the news to the man, who promptly fell to his knees and broke down in unconvincing tears. Blair looked up at his partner, gesturing at the man, raising his eyebrows and smiling slightly as if to say, "Can you believe this guy?" The detective observed the man as he waited for him to 'compose' himself. He looked to be in his early 20's, Jim's height, and muscular, as if he worked out. He was wearing an expensive looking Italian suit, and was carrying a leather briefcase. As the man sobbed, with his hands covering his face, Jim focused on the knuckles of his hands. There was slight swelling and nearly imperceptible bruising there, and small, deep gash on the knuckle of his right middle finger. The detective now had his first concrete suspect. After several minutes, the man pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. There was no wetness there. He stood, staring at the floor. "I can't believe she's dead."

"May I ask who you are and what relationship you had to Ms. Williamson?"

"My name is Jay Richter. I'm...I was Alice's business partner. I just saw her last night...are you sure?" After staring unblinking for almost a minute the man had managed to produce a tear and quickly looked up at Ellison to be sure he'd see it rolling down his cheek.

"Yes, sir. Her father has positively identified her body."

He shook his head sadly. "Oh, the poor man. What happened to Alice?"

"She was murdered. Someone attacked and beat her to death behind Tommy's Bar and Grill early this morning." Jim closely watched the man's reaction. At the word murder he had put his hand to his mouth and looked as though he were about to repeat his earlier performance, but decided against it at the last moment.

"Tommy's? But that's our bar! No, it couldn't have happened there. How awful."

"Your bar? You mean that you own it?" The plot thickened. Tommy's was not the kind of business he would have expected a woman of Alice Williamson's stature to be involved in.

"Alice and I do. We just finalized the deal last month. We had just started to renovate it and turn it into a nightclub."

Blair shook his head, "Why would you want to put a nightclub in that part of town?"

"People like a little danger in their lives. The warehouses, the waterfront. We figured it would be a great selling point."

It didn't sound like a great selling point to Jim. "Did Alice have any enemies that you know of? Had she had any arguments with anyone recently?"

Richter shook his head, "No, none that I can think of. Of course, she was being sued by a customer, but I don't think they hated her work enough to kill her over it." Jay put his hands to his face, shaking his head. "Oh, this is so terrible. I'm afraid I need to be alone for a while."

As Jim watched the man's exhibition, he wondered if Jay had ever met his recent blind date. They seemed to have similar acting skills. "Before you go, I'll need to know where you were last night."

Richter looked startled at the request. "Me? Surely you don't... I understand. You have to ask everyone, right?"

"Sure. So where were you?"

"I was at home, working on the plans for the renovations."

"Was anybody with you? Someone who can verify where you were?"

"Yes, of course! My girlfriend, Eleanor Grant. She works for Alice's father. I was with her all night." He gulped and his face scrunched up as if he were getting ready to cry again. "Are we done? I don't think I can talk about this anymore."

"Just give me a number and address where I can reach you if I have any more questions."

Jay's address was most definitely not uptown. "It's just temporary, you understand. I'm in between moves."

"Uh-huh. OK, Mr. Richter, you're free to leave now. I'm afraid you'll have to turn over the keys to this apartment." Jim didn't want this man removing any vital evidence.

Jay eyed the detective suspiciously. "Why? I have permission from Alice to be here."

"This is a criminal investigation, sir. Is your name on the lease?"

Jay became petulant. "No. But she wasn't killed here, don't you have to have a search warrant?"

"We have her father's permission and he owns the building. The keys, please." Jim held out his hand.

"This is ridiculous, I have every right to be here." He pulled the keys from his pocket and handed them to the detective. "I've got important papers stored here. This is very inconvenient."

Jim would definitely like a look at whatever Jay was eager to get his hands on. "Well, sir, if you tell us what you need, we'll find it for you."

Jay looked frightened at the idea. "No, no. That's all right. I'll get them some other time. I have to be going." He turned on his heel and hurried out the door.

Jim turned to his partner. "Looks like we've got some more searching to do, Chief."

"You think he's the murderer, don't you?"

He had two suspects now, and they had to be connected in some way. "Yes, or at the very least he was the one who beat her up. His knuckles were bruised and swollen, and his heart was racing the entire time he was here. The man was scared to death."

"Not very subtle, either. How could he possibly believe we were buying that load of bull?"

"Beats me. He was definitely an amateur. Now all we have to do is prove he's involved in the murder."

Blair sat on the table in Simon's office as Jim presented the clues they had gathered so far. The autopsy revealed that although Alice Williamson had been beaten up, death had come from a blow to the head by a blunt object. The condition of the woman's liver indicated that she had been a heavy drinker for many years, and probably would have begun experiencing severe medical problems within the next year if she had lived. There were also traces of cocaine in her system. Jim had also run a check on Jay Richter, revealing that he had spent two years in prison for running a real estate scam in Georgia. He'd been arrested one other time for mail fraud, but had not been prosecuted in exchange for his testimony against his partners. Alice and Jay Richter had indeed signed a contract to buy Tommy's, although where the money had come from was a mystery. Both of them were in debt up to their eyeballs, and Alice's father had cut off her funds. Jim and Blair had gathered up all of the personal papers from Alice's apartment, along with a year's worth of diaries, all of which they would have to sift through later.

The phone rang and Simon answered. Blair's stomach filled with butterflies. He drew his hand through his hair and watched as Simon spoke for a few seconds and then looked up at him glaring. Oh no, not again! How did all these people get Simon's number? The captain slammed down the phone and yelled, "Sandburg!"

Blair cringed and put up his hands, "What? I swear I didn't give anyone your number!"

The look of rage disappeared and was replaced with a stern smile. "And a damn good thing, too! Make sure it stays that way." Simon turned his attention to Jim, who was chuckling to himself. "We've found the cosigner on Alice and Richter's business loan. You'll never guess who it is."

Blair cut in. "Martin Williamson?"

Jim and Simon looked at the anthropologist in amazement. Simon asked, "How did you know that, Sandburg?"

Blair shrugged and looked at Jim with a twinkle in his eye. "A gut feeling."

Simon looked confused at the exchange. "Well we can't convict him on your guts, Sandburg. Maybe you'd like to try finding some hard evidence?"

Blair hopped off the desk, heading for the door. "We're on it, sir."

"Not so fast." Simon turned serious and faced both men. "I want you two to be very careful how you handle this case. Especially you, Sandburg. There haven't been any leaks to the press yet..."

Blair cut in. He didn't like what Simon was implying. "You don't really think I'd do something like that, do you?"

"No, I don't." Simon looked cross at the interruption. "As I was saying, as soon as the press gets a hold of this case, they're going to be watching the department's actions like a hawk. I want you to keep a very low profile, Sandburg. I don't want you two using this 'sentinel' stuff in public. I don't feel like holding a press conference to explain why we have a super hero on the force. Do I make myself clear?" The last question was directed at Sandburg. Simon always seemed worried that someone would find out about Jim's abilities. Blair doubted that anyone would believe him if he told them about it.

"Yes. Sure. Absolutely." Blair got up and picked up the box of papers.

"What's your next move, Jim?"

Jim answered with a straight face. "Well, sir, Robin and I are going back to the bat cave to look at Alice Williamson's journals."

"Ha ha." Simon didn't look amused. Blair wished he could find a way to help the man loosen up a little bit.

Jim was way ahead of him. "Why don't you come over Simon? We'll pick up some Italian on the way."

"No thanks, Jim, I can't. Daryl and I are gonna catch a movie later."

Blair asked, "What movie?"

"Something about explosions, or is it aliens? Maybe it's about exploding aliens. I have no idea."

Blair thought it sounded like a good movie. "Cool."

"Yeah, cool." Simon looked unenthusiastic.

Jim started out the door. "Have a good time, Simon."

Blair couldn't resist a parting shot. "If you need us, just use the bat signal." He pulled the door shut quickly just as Simon hurled a magazine at him.

Jim and Blair had stopped at the detective's favorite Italian restaurant on the way home and picked up some take out. Now they each sat at the brushed steel table, with a plate of pasta and some red wine, reading Alice Williamson's journals. Jim had taken the most recent one and was opening it when he heard Blair laugh and start to gag on his lasagna. He looked up and saw Sandburg with one of the journals open, his face bright red. Jim got up swiftly and slapped him on the back a couple of times thinking he was choking, but Blair continued to laugh.

"Oh my god." Blair could barely get the words out through the giggles.

"What is it, Chief?"

"I don't think I can read this stuff with you sitting here."

"Why not?"

"This woman's life was NC-17, and she wrote down every gory detail." He looked simultaneously guilty and embarrassed, as if his mother had just caught him reading a Playboy.

When it came to women, sometimes Blair seemed more like a teenager than a grown man. "Well why don't you just skip past those parts and find out who she was sleeping with?"

"OK." It took several seconds for Blair to tear his eyes away from what he had been reading and turn the page. When he did, the look on his face turned to one of shock and disgust. This time when he said, "Oh my god," it was in a completely different tone of voice.

"Spill it, Sandburg."

"Martin Williamson."

"Her uncle?"

Blair shuddered. "Yeah. Oh man, that's disgusting."

Jim took the journal, which was dated a little over a year ago, from Blair and leafed through the pages, scanning quickly. "Apparently they were both wasted and high on coke when it happened." He read out loud, " 'My uncle and I were drawn together by our mutual loathing of my father. Perhaps we were hoping to hurt him in some profound way by our actions, but we only ended up deepening our own pain.' " Jim flipped through more pages, most of which chronicled every mundane detail of Alice's existence. He found what he'd been hoping to.

"What is it, Jim? What did you find?" Blair strained to see the book that Jim held just out of reach.

"Blackmail. Apparently Alice had a falling out with her uncle a month after their encounter. She was threatening to tell her father about it if Martin didn't pay her. The amount of the payments isn't here, but she does indicate that she managed to get some money out of him." He handed the book back to Blair. "We've got a lot of reading to do. I want you to make note of the dates and content of any relevant entries you find."

Blair held up the journal. "Can these be used as evidence?"

"It's pretty damning stuff, but it's purely circumstantial. A good lawyer might be able to get them thrown out."

Blair grabbed a notepad and pen from his room, and returned to the table. Jim noticed that he seemed to have lost all interest in Alice's sexual adventures and was copiously taking notes. As he picked up a journal and began to read, Jim became engrossed himself.

Alice Williamson had been brutally honest about herself in her diaries. She freely admitted her alcoholism and frequent use of cocaine. There was even mention that she doubted her own abilities as an interior designer, and she frequently mocked the 'suckers' that hired her. 'They think that because I come from a wealthy family and act as if I know what I'm doing, they should accept any old crap I decide to sell them.' Sufficiently inebriated, she would sleep with any man who asked her, and frequently awoke in the morning with a stranger beside her. She rarely asked their names. Alice usually chose 'the most dangerous looking men' to bring home, writing, 'Someday I'll pick a man who will put a merciful end to my wretched existence.' Her relationship with her father was more complex. One day she would complain that his high expectations of her had led to her current condition, and the next she would wonder how she could disappoint such a great man.

Hours later, the men were still reading. Blair had moved to the couch, and now yawned and removed his glasses, rubbing red eyes. "This woman was a mess. Classic signs of manic depression. Her highs and lows were incredible." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "She also had a relationship with our prime suspect."

"Jay Richter?" Jim had expected to find mention of an affair with Jay in one of the more recent diaries, but had found only references to their business dealings.

"Yeah, shortly after her affair with her uncle. It ended when they became business partners. Did you find anything interesting in the more recent diaries?"

"She mentions that her uncle could no longer afford to make blackmail payments because he had lost most of his money in a bad investment. Apparently she and Richter were planning some sort of 'deal' that would raise enough money to buy Tommy's, something that frightened her."

"So if Alice had been blackmailing Marty, why would he have been in on the deal to buy Tommy's?"

"Maybe Alice didn't know. There's no mention of his involvement in her diaries. Maybe he and Richter cooked something up." Jim saw Blair yawn again and look at his empty coffee cup, as if contemplating whether or not to stay up or go to bed. "Hey, Chief, it's been a long day. Why don't you hit the sack?"

Blair glanced at the box containing Alice's personal papers. "No, I'm good for another couple of hours. We ought to look through all this stuff." The anthropologist had a lot of stamina when it came to staying up late.

Blair looked at the journal again and seemed about to ask a question. "What's on your mind?"

"You don't suppose that it could have been one of the men she picked up, do you? She said a couple of the guys she brought home got pretty rough with her."

"It's a possibility." Jim didn't really think so. "Something tells me Richter is involved in this, though."

Blair seemed to be struggling with something. "She wanted to die, you know. Everything she did was self-destructive. She was crying out for someone to help her, but no one did. Surely her family had to have seen it?"

"Maybe they tried to help, Blair. Her father was obviously aware of the problem." Jim felt sympathy and pity for Alice, but he couldn't let it get any deeper than that. On this case, though, it was hard to push away. Alice Williamson's journals had been literate, passionate, and full of despair. After hours of reading about this woman's most intimate feelings, Jim felt as if he knew her. "Maybe she was beyond help."

Blair shook his head. "No one is beyond help, Jim. I refuse to believe that."

Jim was too tired to debate the point. "Look, she's dead now, and we didn't know her then. There's nothing we could have done."

"I know." Blair continued to stare at the diary, looking depressed.

One of the dangers of police work was letting things like this eat away at you. Jim had managed fairly well to avoid it, but Blair was more vulnerable and he hadn't seen enough of the bad stuff to develop a hard shell. He hated to see his friend suffer, and at times like this he wondered if he should send Blair back to his college life, so that he could remain the same sweet, decent man that he was. He knew that it wasn't his choice to make, though. People changed as they grew older, and inevitably Blair would too. All that Jim could do as a friend was try to steer him in the right direction and help soften the blows. Jim put his hand on his partner's shoulder. "We'll find out who killed her and then we'll send them to prison. That's all we can do for her, but it has to be enough."

Blair blinked and dropped the book on the table. "Yeah." He refilled his coffee cup and sat on the floor in front of the box of bills. The younger man obviously didn't want to know any more about Alice's personal life tonight. Jim sat on the couch and continued to read. Alice had filled her journal with minute details about her sex life, her decorating jobs, her family and her drinking. There was a depressing sameness to it all and Jim soon felt his eyelids getting heavy. The last thing he remembered was looking over at Sandburg, still wide awake, sitting in front of the fireplace sorting through papers.

On to Part 2