Disclaimer: No, I do not own Crossing Jordan or any of the characters contained therein. If I did, Woody and Dr. Macy would be plagued with a series of unfortunate accidents causing them to lose their wardrobes. Ah, well. A girl can dream, can't she?

A/N: Well, here it is, my long-delayed attempt at another Crossing Jordan story. I had originally planned an entirely different story, but it didn't seem to want to be written. I then started another story, but this one came to me demanding to be written. Essentially, I've taken the characters and a few basic elements of the show and transplanted them back about sixty years, mixing in a bit of The Big Sleep and the musical City of Angels for good measure (I don't own them, either). I'm sorry if it seems confusing at first, but bear with me. All shall be revealed. Until then, enjoy reading! I would love feedback of any kind, and am always appreciative of constructive criticism. Tell me how to better myself!

Chapter 1 - A Burial Deferred

Boston, 1947

The room was stiflingly hot as Woodrow Hoyt, Private Investigator, made his way into his office, dropping a grey fedora and overcoat on the too-small office chair as he made his way over to the grime-encrusted window, jerking it up on stiff hinges in an attempt to invite in the cool November breeze that had chased him up the rickety stairwell. Business had been slow lately, and he had just finished up a particularly boring case involving a wealthy dowager's St. Bernard and was hoping to sneak quietly into his office for the remainder of the day, hiding from the eventuality of yet another customer seeking his services for yet another pointless scavenger hunt. It was on days like this one that he truly missed being a homicide detective.

The sound of the door creaking open told him that his hopes would be futile, and he looked up to see Lily, his faithful secretary, walking through the doorway, followed by a figure that Woody certainly had never expected to see in his rundown office: the hulking frame of Max Cavanaugh.

Instantly straightening his relaxed posture, Woody ran a nervous hand through his hair before remembering to offer his other one to the man who had been his boss. After several unsuccessful attempts, he was finally able to form something approaching a suitable greeting.

"Mr. Cavanaugh!" he exclaimed, voice quavering slightly, unsure of the correct way to address a man who had once been both his boss and the Chief of Police, but could now lay claim to neither of those titles. "What are you…I mean, do you…I mean, is there something I can do for you, sir?" he stammered.

"Sit down, Hoyt," he returned. "I wouldn't be here if there wasn't something you could do for me."

Woody sat, but said nothing, unable to formulate a response that wouldn't cause him further embarrassment. Fortunately for him, Max resumed the conversation, looking supremely comfortable as he eased his enormous body into the diminutive visitors' chair, the only seat in the room not piled with the odds and ends of a life that Woody had neither the time nor the inclination to straighten.

"So, how are you, Hoyt?" he asked casually. "The boys tell me you're doing better."

"I'm fine, sir."

"Not entirely, I gather," he said, eyeing the cane propped against the younger man's desk, a betrayal of the normality he desperately sought to represent.

"Well, a bullet to the spine isn't an easy thing to recover from, but I manage," Woody answered brusquely, unhappy at having his deficiencies pointed out so casually.

"Good, good. Which brings me to why I'm here. I need someone who can…manage, someone I can trust. It's about my daughter." He paused. "About Jordan."

"Jordan!" Woody exclaimed, momentarily letting his shock overcome his professionalism, but only momentarily, and he continued in a much calmer voice, "What's happened to her?"

"She's gone."

"Kidnapped?"

"I doubt it. I haven't received any requests for ransom or any threats, at least none out of the ordinary. No, I think she ran away. She…we had an argument, and the next morning she was gone. I need you to find her for me, Hoyt. She's all I've got left."

Woody tactfully chose not to mention the fact that Max had a wife and stepdaughter, who were both at least financially interested in his well-being, instead continuing with, "And how long ago was this?"

"Two weeks. I thought she might have gone away to cool off, but when I hadn't heard from her in a week and a half, I got worried."

"Can I ask what you were fighting about?"

"Sorry, I can't tell you that, Hoyt. It's not really that complicated. Just find out where she's gone and bring her back. I'd do it myself, but, well, the former Chief of Police losing his own daughter doesn't incite a lot of confidence in the people, so I decided to go with someone less visible. Will you do this for me?"

"I will, sir."

"Thank you." He began to rise, but at the sound of Woody's voice, he paused, settling once more into the chair's confines.

"Oh, just one more thing," Woody interjected.

"What is it?"

"Who knows that she's missing?"

"Only me. I told anyone who asked that she's gone skiing in Switzerland."

"All right. No one will be the wiser. If anyone needs to know, I'll tell them that an old friend hired me to look for her and find out anything I could about her."

"You're a good man, Hoyt. Now, how much am I paying you?"

"Thirty dollars a day, plus expenses."

"You'll get it."

And with that, he stood, shook Woody's hand, and disappeared, leaving the room somewhat empty without his arresting presence, and leaving the detective in question to bury his head in his hands, thinking about the woman he had just been hired to find. Jordan Cavanaugh. Just when he thought he was starting to forget about her, she whirled her way, unannounced, back into his life, with all force of an unexpected cyclone.

At least the next few weeks wouldn't be boring.