I got this idea after visiting Maria's website. There's a section called Episode Trivia, where she lists the episodes and the script changes. In Dragonwing II, Paul told Peter that he had a son who had been killed during a mission overseas. Well, that scene never made it to television, but it got me thinking, what if...
Past RegretsKaleidopy
IWashington, D.C.The black limousine slowly drove into the underground parking lot and pulled to a stop. Inside, Senator John Matheson, who struggled to hide his triumphant smile, waited patiently as the door opened and two men entered and took their places in the seat across from him. The door slammed shut.
Matheson knew the information he was about to purchase would aid his cause in more ways than one. He waited until the car was in motion before he spoke to the tallest man. "Did you find him?"
"I did, Senator. I promised you results, did I not?" The man snarled, irritated that he had been questioned. He didn't mince words, "The money first."
"You don't come cheap," the Senator commented as he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. "It's all here, as you instructed: Swiss bank account, four million in unmarked bills, Mr. Davis. That is, if that's your real name."
"My name is irrelevant, Senator. As far as you are concerned, you can consider me the President of the United States." The man called Davis leaned across the seat, pulled off his sunglasses and glared at the government official. "Let me warn you right now, Matheson, if you even attempt to gather information on me, Amelia Earhart's body will be discovered before yours. Do I make myself clear?"
John Matheson cleared the lump in his throat before nodding. His contact had warned him repeatedly about this man, but his hatred for a certain individual overrode his better judgment. "I understand," he answered nervously, his voice slightly more than a whisper. "Just tell me what you have and let's end this little meeting."
"I'm glad you see it my way." Davis took the paper out of the Senator's hand and read it. Satisfied, he opened his briefcase, pulled out a CD, and gave it to Matheson. "The information you requested is on that disk, including the details of that covert mission sponsored by the CIA several years ago. I can understand the reason behind your friends' motives for not telling you the outcome. According to them, you'd sell your own mother out for a dollar."
"Keep your snide remarks to yourself, Davis," the Senator snapped, glaring at the person who had dared to insult his intelligence. He carefully inserted the CD into his laptop and began reading the information he had paid a small fortune to acquire. "Rykker and Griffin are Blaisdell's cronies and his…Yes! It's here!" he shouted ecstatically when the information he had been seeking appeared on the laptop's screen. "And speaking of Blaisdell, he's going to be very upset when he learns his son wasn't killed like he was lead to believe by those he trusted most."
"Michael has his own plan on how to tell his father that news," Davis stated. "If you value your life, you will not reveal that information to Blaisdell. Michael wants that privilege."
"Where is Michael?"
"In a hotel room across town." Davis eyed the man very closely. "Don't get any ideas about trying to contact Michael, Matheson. You know our agreement. You'll meet Mike at his time and choosing, not before."
"I have too much at stake to risk damaging our business agreement, my friend," Matheson chuckled, allowing himself an opportunity to gloat over what he hoped would be the destruction of his hated enemy. "I've waited years for an opportunity like this to come along, and I have no intention of letting it get away." He folded his hands together. "So, tell me about Michael."
"He's spent several years in a top-secret, maximum security prison. If you want to know more, ask him yourself," Davis said, irritated and bored in the same breath. He knocked on the roof of the car, signaling the driver to stop. "You will be receiving a phone call tomorrow telling you when and where the meeting will take place. Until then no further contact will be made."
The Senator smiled, placed the CD into his chest pocket, and waited until the men departed before he pressed a button on the console. "Swing by the house," he instructed his driver. "I have some interesting news to tell my wife."
Chief of Detectives Frank Strenlich looked at his watch again for the fifth time in less than ten minutes, and then glanced anxiously at the front desk. Fifteen minutes ago, Blaisdell had received a phone call from the police commissioner. The conversation ended abruptly and Blaisdell left the precinct on his way to the commissioner's office.
Strenlich knew the conversation had something to do with Peter interfering with SWAT Commander Bartlett Stiles' jurisdiction in a hostage situation. Peter had crawled through a window, rescued the hostages, and captured the man single-handily before the criminal had time to know what had happened.
Somehow, Sandra Mason had arrived on the scene, pushed a microphone in Stiles' face, and forced the SWAT Commander to praise Peter on live television or risk losing face with his squad and the rest of the city. Everyone knew it would only be a matter of time before Stiles retaliated, and it came in the form of Commissioner Cooper's recent hostile phone call to Blaisdell.
"I don't want to be here when Blaisdell returns," Strenlich muttered, "The old man is going to have everyone within eye sight on a hit list."
"Better you than me, Chief," Mary Margaret Skalany laughed as she patted Strenlich on the arm. "Blake and I have to check out a call on Fourth and Main, so we won't be here." She turned and gasped in frustration, "Oh, Great! Fred Flintstone's here."
"Hiya Skalany, Chief," Patrick Epstein shouted at the two. He took his time walking around the bullpen before asking, "Where's tomato can? I need to see him."
"Take a number, Epstein," Strenlich growled.
"You on another diet, Chief?" Epstein jokingly asked, and then retreated to the nearest desk when Strenlich shot him his most intimidating glare. The burly detective grabbed a case file, opened it, and pretended to be interested in the contents.
Frank continued to glare at the visiting detective, almost daring Epstein to open his big mouth, until he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. He turned and spotted Peter heading towards the locker room. "Freeze where you are, Detective."
Peter's plan of sneaking in without being noticed went up in flames. "Before you start yelling, Chief …"
"I don't want to hear it, Peter," Frank interrupted his young detective. He pointed at Blaisdell's closed door. "But the old man does and right now he isn't here. You want to take a good guess where he is?" Strenlich folded his arms waiting for the expected ridiculous answer that would come from the detective.
Peter feigned innocence but Frank wasn't buying it. "Your little stunt got Blaisdell called to the commissioner's office."
"Why, because Stiles got his ego deflated on live television?" Peter smiled, trying to get the Chief to see the humor of the situation. Failing, he cleared his throat. "I guess you had to be there, Chief." He quickly hurried to his desk to get away from Strenlich's angry glare, and spotted his former partner sitting in his chair. "Eppy, what are you doing here?"
"Glad to see you too, kid," Epstein huffed in an insulted tone. He walked around the front of the desk, and squatted on the corner edge.
Peter dropped down in his chair, pulled out a file, and started reading.
Epstein waited half a minute and then sighed. "What do I have to do to get your attention? Run naked up and down the bullpen?"
Mary Margaret stopped typing her report long enough to comment. "Oh, please, I just ate."
"Skalany, I was kidding when I asked you to get me a cup of coffee. I'm all for women's rights," Eppy said, trying his best to get back in Skalany's good graces. The woman had been making him pay for the incident for the last six months. "What do you want from me?"
Mary Margaret stared at him intensely then broke into a fit of giggles.
He heard Peter laughing and turned to face his former partner, "Oh this is just great. I protect you for four years and this is how you thank me," he ranted. "Can I have that file you promised me so I can leave?"
"Sorry, Eppy." Peter chuckled and handed his former partner the folder. "Skalany will ease up on you eventually."
"Yeah, and my mother beat up Chuck Norris last night," Epstein grunted, watching the younger man with interest. "Have you forgotten rule number 48? Never lie to your partner, past or present, unless it's a matter of life and death."
"Peter, my office pronto," Kermit called to his friend, stopping long enough to pour himself a cup of coffee.
"Hey, when did Blaisdell hire Jack Nicholson?"
"That's Kermit, Eppy. I'll introduce you to him later." Peter got up from his desk and headed toward the ex-mercenary's office.
"Kermit?" Epstein shook his head after Peter disappeared into the small office. "I wonder if Big Bird answers the phones around here?"
Senator John Matheson knocked on the wooden oak door of a hotel suite. He was growing more impatient with each passing moment. He was a Senator in the United States Congress; people came to him not the other way around. Before he could gather his thoughts the door swung open.
"You're late, Matheson. We were beginning to think you changed your mind." Davis opened the door wide enough to allow the Senator to enter.
Matheson walked into the large foyer. Another man quickly approached and searched him. He then announced, "He's clean."
"Follow me," Davis ordered. He led the Senator into a large living room.
A man sat alone on a couch with his feet propped up on a coffee table. The Senator recognized the blond haired man immediately. "Michael, tell your goon squad to leave. We need to talk. "
Michael Blaisdell's only resemblance to his father was his steel blue eyes. He easily stood six foot four and had the body of a weight lifter. He appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties.
"Davis, take the boys out for a drink. Be back in thirty minutes."
Davis snapped his fingers and the two men quickly followed him out the door.
John Matheson took off his coat and tossed it over a chair before he sat down. "I had you out of prison several years ago, Michael. You had a new identity, money, and you threw it all away. For what? A drug cartel?"
"Drug cartel? How little you know, Matheson." Michael picked up his glass of wine and mockingly toasted the man before him. "I had a mission to accomplish in Florida. It was a complete success."
"Was it worth spending the four years in prison for drug smuggling?"
"Even if it meant spending the rest of my life behind bars, it was worth it," Michael admitted before he sipped the wine. "Revenge was never sweeter."
This bit of news startled the Senator.
"I don't have all day John, so why don't you spare me the routine conversation and tell me why you had me released from prison." Michael eyed him suspiciously. "I know you like a book. You want something and I am guessing it has to do with my father."
"It's no secret that your father and I do not see eye to eye."
"Don't see eye to eye?" Michael laughed out loud. "My father hates your guts, unless something has changed over the years, and I'm sure it hasn't." He narrowed his eyes, "Now tell me what you really want."
"I only want what you want Michael. Justice, nothing else."
"Yeah, right!" The younger man sneered. "Just tell me what my father's been doing since I last saw him and then you can get out of here."
"Your father went into semi-retirement about eighteen years ago." The Senator pulled out a file and tossed it unto the coffee table. "It seems he preferred being a policeman and raising his family than working as a mercenary."
"The old man came out of the cold? Now that I find hard to believe." Michael leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling. "I bet that decision didn't sit well with some people."
"No, it didn't, but from what I have heard he could have cared less what his superiors thought. He was determined to close that part of his life and spend more time with his wife and children."
"You mean my sisters, don't you?" Michael snarled with contempt. "Yeah, he was around when they were growing up. Too bad he didn't show me the same courtesy. I grew up in boarding schools all over Europe wondering what the hell I'd done to be abandoned and rejected by my father. Do you know I was almost twenty-one years old before I first laid eyes on the man?"
"Your mother mentioned something about that, but she didn't go into any details. I felt it wasn't my place to pry, but working with Blaisdell as long as I did, I know firsthand what a cruel, cold bastard he can be." Matheson replied vaguely, "Joyce was terrified of him, did you know that?"
"Well, considering he used to beat the hell out of her, she had good reason to be. After eighteen months of his abuse, she finally wised up, filed for a divorce, and left him," he explained in a somber voice. "Six weeks later, she discovered she was pregnant. She moved to Switzerland, had me, and when I got old enough, she dumped me into the nearest boarding school she could find. I guess she didn't want anything around to remind her of the past."
Michael closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to control his emotions before continuing. "She would come to visit two or three times a year and bring a bunch of expensive presents with her. At first I thought she came to see me because she loved me and missed me, but I finally figured out it was only to ease her guilty conscience."
"That's not true, Michael," Matheson declared, "Your mother cared about you."
"I guess she did the best she could considering the circumstances. After all, she did give me 100,000 dollars for a graduation present with instructions to travel Europe and enjoy myself."
"That was very generous of her."
"Yeah, I thought so," he agreed. "Two years later, I started to get bored and the money ran out, so I decided to pay Mother a little visit. I tracked her down from an old postcard she had sent before I graduated. Imagine my surprise when I showed up and discovered not only had she remarried my father five years earlier, but they now had two daughters." He paused long enough to look up at the Senator and grin. "I wasn't the only one who was stunned, though. I thought my father was going to have a heart attack when I told him who I was."
"What happened?"
"All Hell broke loose," Michael explained through fits of laughter. "Once he recovered from the shock, he demanded answers from my mother. Well she started crying, and ran into the bedroom and locked herself in. He followed after her, kicked in the door and then one hell of an argument ensued. An hour later, he came back out, and started this non-stop gibbering about how he never knew anything about me, and how he had always wanted a son. He swore he would make things right between us and make up for all the time we had lost, but they were just words. They didn't mean anything to me."
"How long was it after the reunion did your parents get their second divorce?"
"It wouldn't surprised me if the divorce papers weren't filed the next day. My mother walked out and never looked back. She latched on to the very first fool who had money in his pockets." Michael looked at the Senator, not bothering to stifle his laughter. "Well, we both know who she hooked up with, don't we."
Matheson stared back at him, but refused to comment on the last statement. "I supposed after the divorce, your relationship with your father also deteriorated."
"Relationship? What relationship? I spent two long years trying to please a man who claimed he didn't know anything about me until he was forced to own up to it. No matter what I did or tried to do, Paul Blaisdell always found some excuse to criticize me. I wasn't good enough to be his son," Michael said, his anger building as he talked about his painful past with his father. "In a last ditch attempt to please him, I begged to become part of his elite mercenary team. Even that wasn't good enough because six months later, he suggested bringing in a mentor to guide me. Little did I know that the so-called mentor would be a Judas, a wolf in sheep's clothing."
"I take it you mean Griffin?"
"Of course I mean Griffin, you idiot," Michael replied, wondering why he was confiding in a man he loathed. He laughed to himself, shrugging it off as a temporary lapse in sanity. Besides, he wanted to get a few things off his chest and Matheson happened to be the only person within ear range at the moment.
"Griffin squeezed his slimy carcass into my father's life and took my designated place. If there was a conflict between us, Dad always took Kermit's side. If I protested, he claimed my jealousy of Kermit was getting out of hand. From that moment on, I hated him for favoring an outsider over me. I was determined to make them both pay so I bided my time and made everyone believe I was a loyal member of their little group. The old man fell for it like a ton of bricks."
"Too bad Griffin and Rykker weren't so easily fooled," Matheson commented.
"I should have listened to my mother. She always suspected Rykker was on to me, but I ignored her. She practically begged me not to go on that mission, but all I saw were dollar signs and revenge."
"We never would have located the prison Rykker and Griffin had placed you in if it hadn't been for Joyce's ingenuity. How she got that information, I don't know because she, even to this day, refuses to tell me." The Senator's revelation didn't surprise Michael. Like him, his mother, kept her sources secret unless she thought it was beneficial to reveal them. It was just one of many traits that they shared which contributed to their love-hate relationship. Matheson continued to sing his mother's praises, which annoyed Michael to no end. The Senator noticed his reaction and added, "At least have the common decency to call Joyce and thank her for what she's done for you. She didn't have to do anything but she did because she loves you."
"Oh please, who do you think you're kidding, Matheson? My mother only cares about herself. The only reason she got me out of prison is because she wants something from me," he said, feeling the need to enlighten the sniveling government official about his mother's true motives. "She strung the old man along until she bled him dry and never looked back. She devastated her own family and I'm willing to bet they never got over the damaged she caused."
"Take a look inside some of those folders," Matheson instructed, enticing him by pointing at the stack piled on top of the table. "You might find something interesting in there, my friend."
Michael reluctantly took the top folder off the table and opened it. He blinked twice before holding up a picture. "This is Carolyn? And she's married?" He laughed after Matheson gave him a confirming nod. "I bet the groom had to survive the interrogation from hell."
"Perhaps," the Senator shrugged, "but your family seemed pleased with the young man."
"I see the old man spared no expense for his darling daughter," Michael commented sarcastically before going on to the next photograph. His attention instantly focused on the petite, blond haired woman wearing dark sunglasses, who held his father's arm. There was something about her that made him nervous. He lifted the picture and showed it to Matheson. "Who's the woman?"
"Your stepmother, Annie," Matheson answered, shocking Michael with the news. The younger man thought at first the Senator was joking, but Matheson turned serious and added, "It took a few years but your father remarried, settled down, and joined the police force."
"Well, so much for my theories." Michael flipped through the pictures, casually glancing at each one until another photograph caught his attention. "Griffin," he spat, wondering if his old adversary was still alive. "How old are these pictures? I noticed Griffin wasn't in the wedding pictures. Hopefully, he's dead."
"Those pictures were taken six months ago, and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Griffin is very much alive." The Senator answered. "Rumor has it that the reason Griffin didn't attend the wedding was because he was out of the country doing something for Blaisdell at the time."
"I'd hoped somebody would have killed him by now. Well, so much for that."
"Griffin and your father share a past, you know that."
"Anyone with a brain knows that!" Michael said still glaring at the picture. "Griffin could do no wrong in Paul Blaisdell's eyes. I bet he moved in the family home the second I supposedly died."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that if I were you, Michael."
"And if I were you, Matheson, I'd drown myself in the nearest toilet and flush myself right out of existence." Michael ripped the picture in half and tossed the rest of the unseen pictures on the floor. "I almost wish I knew where Griffin was so I could pay him a little visit. There's something I'm dying to tell him."
"I just happen to know where you can locate Griffin."
Michael's head snapped up when he heard Matheson's news. "Where?"
"He's working as a detective in your father's precinct."
"My, oh my, isn't that just cozy." Michael snarled, "Why am I not surprised? It figures the old man would have his anointed son working with him."
"Blaisdell's son does work for him, but it's not Griffin," the Senator replied with a sly grin. "Did I forget to mention that you have a brother?"
Peter stood with his back against Kermit's closed door waiting for the ex-mercenary to speak. Instead, the 101st's computer genius kept typing as though the detective wasn't even in the room. Finally reaching the end of his patience, Peter walked around to the front of the desk, leaned over, and asked, "Kermit, have you found anything on my father?"
Holding up his hand to silence his friend, Kermit continued to type. A moment later, he glanced up from the computer screen and heaved an aggravated sigh. "I've found Atlantis, the secret recipe for KFC, the formula for Coca Cola, and the idiotic reason why a certain dim-witted star has their own reality show, but nothing on Kwai Chang Caine." Noticing the disappointed expression on his friend's face, he quickly added, "I'm not giving up Peter. If Caine is out there, I'll find him. I promise."
"Thanks, Kermit. I know you're trying," Peter replied somberly, then dropped down in the visitor chair and anxiously ran his hand through his hair. "It's just that…" his voice trailed off. "It's been three months."
"I know, kid. I know," Kermit replied with sympathy. He understood the misery the younger man was experiencing, but dwelling on things that were beyond one's control was not only fruitless, but a dangerous distraction as well. The latter, he was positive, had been the cause of Peter's erratic behavior earlier. "I heard about your little run in with Stiles this morning. I thought Paul told you to stay out of SWAT's jurisdiction."
"What was I supposed to do, Kermit? Stand around and do nothing? Stiles ordered his men to rush the store with the hostages still inside. He doesn't care who gets hurt, just as long as he gets all the glory."
"Peter, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not Blaisdell. You're wasting your time using me as a rehearsal when it's the captain you should be convincing. Judging from the way he left the precinct, your best bet is to find the nearest hole, climb inside and rake the dirt in on top of you."
"He's that mad?" Peter's eyes widened, surprised by the revelation. The hazel eyes started dancing. "It's not like I did it on purpose."
"Oh, really?" Kermit challenged, trying hard to control his temper and not raise his voice in response to such an asinine statement. "You intentionally disobeyed a direct order from a superior officer, then interfered in a dangerous situation without the training or experience to back it up. You risked not only your life but those of innocent civilians, and now you have the audacity to claim you didn't do it on purpose. Who the hell do you think you're talking to, an idiot?"
"Well, maybe I did do it on purpose, but everything turned out all right, didn't it?"
"Do me a favor and save your rationalizations for Paul. You're going to have to face the consequences of your actions on your own this time, so don't expect me to be around to save your sorry ass." He mentally started counting off the seconds, waiting for Peter's next retort. The young man's confrontations with his foster father were so predictable that they had become monotonous. Without looking up, Kermit added, "And don't even try giving me that look either. I'm not siding with you against Blaisdell on this and that's final."
"Kermit, Stiles needs to…"
"Peter, let me give you some friendly advice." Kermit removed his sunglasses and eyed his coworker intensely, hoping the younger man would realize the seriousness of the situation. "There's something about Stiles that I can't quite put my finger on. Call it instinct or a gut feeling, but I don't trust him. You just…"
The door opened before Kermit could finish giving Peter his opinion of the SWAT commander. Angered over the distraction, he snapped at the person who had intruded. "The door's closed for a reason," he hissed while continuing to stare at Peter. Kermit tensed when he saw the horrified expression on the young man's face. He knew he had just stuck his foot in his mouth.
Kermit mouthed the word 'Paul' to the younger man, who managed a brief but uneasy nod. Plastering his most unemotional expression on his face, Kermit swiveled around in his chair and greeted the trespasser with an apology. "Sorry Captain."
"In my office now, Detective Caine." Blaisdell glared hard at the junior detective for a long moment before turning sharply and leaving the room. On the way out he slammed the door so hard that several items on Kermit's desk shook from the impact.
As Peter reluctantly got to his feet and made his way to the door, Kermit started humming 'Taps.'
"You think this is funny?"
"Oh, yeah!"
Looking at the picture in his hand, Michael kept grinning. "A brother."
The Senator had spent the last ten minutes explaining Peter's history with the Blaisdells, and was shocked by Michael's reaction to the news. Matheson expected the man to go into a violent rage, throw a few things, but instead Michael seemed to be delighted with the news. Why, the Senator didn't know, but he was determined to find the reason. "I didn't think you would take this so well."
"And why not?" Michael answered with a wider grin. "This is perfect. I no longer have to compete with Griffin for my father's approval. This kid Peter is a lot younger and, from what you've just told me about his real father walking out of his life, very vulnerable."
"You forget Blaisdell raised him. Peter Caine is a lot of things but vulnerable isn't one of them."
"Come on! Unless he's a Vulcan, you can't tell me his long lost father pulling a disappearing act on him hasn't affected him emotionally, and, if I'm lucky, mentally." Michael's blue eyes lit up as he considered the possibilities. "I think it's time for big brother to return to the fold. I want to get reacquainted with my father and little sisters, and meet the new additions to the family."
"And I suppose you think you can walk right back into your family's life as if nothing has happened over the years?"
"My father will welcome me back with open arms. All I have to do is tell him the truth. Well, my version of it anyway," Michael replied. "It's going to be so good seeing the family again."
"Blaisdell isn't stupid. In fact, the man's down right dangerous," Matheson argued.
"John, for someone who spends most of their time in Washington, you sure know an awful lot about my family." Michael turned his back on the Senator, and then spun around and pointed a small revolver at the man. "I don't like that."
Swallowing the large lump in his throat, Matheson never took his eyes off the weapon. "I'm only looking after your best interest, Michael. There's no need to be hostile."
"If you stick your nose in my business one more time, I'm going to blow it off."
"Well, I can see I'm not wanted here," Matheson quickly made his escape.
"Was it something that I said?" Michael asked, laughing at the retreating Senator. He turned his attention back to the pictures. Looking at one of Paul Blaisdell, he grinned. "Well, Dad, you're about to get the shock of your life."
Standing against the bookshelf, Peter anxiously waited in dreaded silence as Blaisdell finished reading a three-page report before scribbling his signature across the bottom of the page. The captain then handed the report back to Strenlich's waiting hands.
Peter glanced down at his boots, secretly wishing Bon Bon Hai, the Sing Wah, George, and the Shadow Assassin would join forces and attack because nothing they could do to him would be nearly as bad as facing Blaisdell's wrath.
Fortunately, Frank had managed to delay the upcoming tongue-lashing by demanding the captain's immediate attention on some important paperwork that, in the chief's own words, 'couldn't wait.'
Peter hoped those papers contained something positive that would improve the captain's frosty disposition. Or, if he was really lucky, perhaps it was a missing report on Stiles. He smiled, relishing that thought, but quickly dismissed it as fantasy.
He was convinced that if Stiles really was missing, not even the SWAT commander's own men would look for him. The thought of Stile's face plastered on milk cartons was almost comical.
Someone calling his name snapped him out of his reverie. When he glanced up, Blaisdell and Strenlich were staring at him. Each man appeared agitated, as if they had been waiting a long time for him to answer.
He frantically tried to think of a response but had no idea what to say. Two minutes ago, he didn't think the situation could get any worse, but he had just proven himself wrong. He quickly cleared his throat, and tried to look remorseful, hoping it would be enough to pacify both men.
Strenlich moved to the door. "I'll hold your calls, Captain."
"Got any suicide missions, Frank?" Peter asked jokingly, attempting to lighten the mood in the room. "I think I'm going to need one when this is over."
"You're not going to be that lucky," Blaisdell said, clearly not impressed with Peter's humor. With an aggressive nod of the head, the captain motioned towards the empty seat across from his desk. "Sit down, Detective. You're going to be here for awhile."
For the first time in his life, Peter was at a loss for words. As he slowly dropped down into the chair Paul had indicated, he decided the best course of action would be to keep his head down, and avoid looking at the captain unless it proved absolutely necessary.
"You must think I'm some kind of an idiot if you think that old ploy is going to work, especially now." Paul said and rose to his feet. He kicked the leather chair hard with the toe of his shoe as he made his way to the front of the desk.
Peter winced, as he watched the chair strike a metal filing cabinet and ricochet back to its original resting place. He risked a glance upwards and found his father sitting on the edge of the desk, glaring down at him.
"I've had it with your disregard for authority. Not only are you risking your life, but you're disrespecting me and my position at this precinct." Blaisdell's voice sounded like thunder, raising another decibel lever with each spoken word. "I want to know what courses you took that qualified you as a hostage negotiator, Detective?"
"None, Captain," Peter admitted somberly, and then braced himself for more of the lecture from hell.
Paul twisted around and picked up a folder on his desk, turned back around and showed it to the junior officer. "I'm sure you'll recognize your file. It often gets mistaken for the phone book around here." Blaisdell opened the folder and skimmed over the first page. "There must be some flawed information in your record because nowhere in here does it state that you transferred to the SWAT team. You mind telling me when that happened?"
"It didn't, Captain," Peter answered, and then grimaced when Blaisdell slammed the folder on the desk.
"Then you violated a direct order from a superior officer, didn't you?" The remark wasn't a question but an accusation that demanded an immediate response. When Peter failed to reply, Paul repeated the question. Peter frantically tried to come up with a good excuse for his behavior, but all he could manage was a weak affirming nod which caused the already angry Blaisdell to erupt like Mt. Saint Helens. "Since this is the second time you've interfered in Stiles' jurisdiction, Cooper is demanding your immediate suspension. I hope you realize the difficult position you've put me in today. I've spent most of the morning in his office defending you, which wasn't easy considering he had every right to throw the book at you."
"Paul, I…," he started but the anger radiating from the steel blue eyes caused the words to freeze in his throat.
"I told him that I personally will handle your reprimand," Blaisdell said, continuing with the tirade, "and believe me you're going to wish I had suspended you before this is finished."
Peter desperately tried to think of something, anything, to help him escape his current predicament before the situation deteriorated even further. "Captain, I know what I did was wrong, but Stiles needed to be stopped before he signed those hostages' death warrants. I'm sure the commissioner understood."
"Cooper agreed with Stiles."
"What? Is he insane?" Peter asked, shocked by the news. "If Cooper agreed with Stiles then someone needs to call the guys in white jackets."
"Cooper's sanity isn't the reason why we're here, is it, Detective?" Paul asked. Again Peter nodded, unable to dispute the question. Blaisdell heaved a heavy sigh, returned to his chair, and stared back at the younger man. "I'm tired of you constantly putting your own life in jeopardy without even hesitating to think about the consequences of your actions and who it may affect."
"That's not true," Peter protested, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with where he thought the conversation was headed. He was sure Paul was about to bring up his father's disappearance and he simply didn't want to go there.
"Well, I believe differently, and since my opinion is the only one that counts in this precinct, this argument is over," the captain stated firmly. The leather chair squeaked as Blaisdell leaned back and added, "As of this minute, you're off the streets and confined to desk duty for a week."
"What!" Peter shouted, jumping to his feet in objection. He expected a reprimand, a written warning, even the worst-case scenario of enduring the wrath of his mother, but he had never expected to be chained to a desk for simply upstaging Stiles. It just wasn't fair. The punishment, in his opinion, didn't fit the crime. "Why don't you suspend me? It would be a hell of a lot better than doing paperwork like some out of shape pencil pusher."
"Sit down," Paul barked, cutting off the protest with a threatening glare that would have made even Kermit shudder. The captain waited until the order was complied with, then wasted no words explaining why he had chosen this particular recourse. "Confining you to your desk for a week should make you think twice before you pull another stupid stunt like you did this morning. If not, then for the duration of your career, you WILL be a pencil pusher."
Getting back to his feet, Peter angrily moved to the door, grabbed the doorknob. He started to open the door, but paused long enough to state his opinion on his punishment one last time before leaving Paul's office, "This is totally unjustified. How am I supposed to complete my investigations, interview witnesses, check out leads on suspects and meet Donny Double D if I'm glued to my chair?"
Paul's voice was void of sympathy. "That's something you're going to have to figure out." The captain picked up a pen and started writing, glancing up only to issue one final order, "You're dismissed."
Peter's temper flared, insulted that he had been kicked out of Paul's office like some rookie, "You don't have the right to - -"
"I don't have the right to do what?" Paul demanded, furious that Peter was challenging his authority.
"Nothing." Peter wisely relented, realizing he was on the losing end of the battle. He knew his father's temper, and the few times he had crossed that line in the past, he had suffered the consequences. He had no desire to repeat those same mistakes. "I meant no disrespect. I'm sorry, Captain."
"I believe you have work to do," Paul said sternly without looking up, his attention focused solely on his paperwork.
Peter took one last glance at his boss and then walked out of the office, making sure he closed the door quietly behind him.
He glanced out into the bullpen in time to see several heads turn. Everyone suddenly pretended they were busy, and ignored him as he walked to his desk.
Frank walked by him, knocked on Blaisdell's door, and entered without waiting for an invitation.
Robert Davis opened the door to the luxury suite and walked in with two men following close behind.
"Everything is going according to plan, Mike." He walked over to the bar and poured himself a drink before he pulled out a piece of paper and showed it to his employer. "I got the lease for the building directly across the street from the 101st Precinct."
"Any problems with the owner wanting to sell?"
"Mr. Luther wanted more than our asking price, but after some intense negotiation, he accepted the final offer," Davis laughed. "He wisely settled for one third of what we were originally going to offer him."
"Reward him for his generosity," Michael said, and glanced up, an angry scrawl plastered across his face. "That idiot's greediness has put us behind schedule."
"It's being taken care of as we speak."
"I want no loose ends, Robert," Michael warned, making sure his demands were clear. "We want to appear to be legitimate businessmen new to the city."
"Trust me, Mike, you know my reputation. I am the best," Davis replied.
The phone rang and Davis picked up the receiver. "Hello, yeah, it's me. What? Good." He hung up the phone and grinned smugly at Michael. "Mr. Luther apparently fell down five flights of stairs and broke his neck." Davis said. He placed his hand across his chest and pretended to be shocked as he delivered the news. "He died instantly."
Shaking his head, Michael chuckled in amusement. "I don't know why I doubted you in the first place."
"You can easily make it up to me, Mike," Robert Davis declared as he pulled out a Havana cigar, lit it, and savored the aroma before continuing. "I want the first hit."
"Deal," Michael said, agreeing to the demand. "But I name the target."
Annie moved to the bottom of the stairs and called up to her youngest daughter. "Kelly, your sister should be here in fifteen minutes." She waited, listening to the familiar footsteps of the young woman as she rushed out of the bedroom and hurried down the stairs.
"I've got everything ready, Mom," Kelly said. "I even moved my clothes out of the spare bedroom closet so she would have plenty of room for her things."
"You mean there's another closet in this house that I'm not aware of?" Annie teased, referring to her stepdaughter's fondness for buying clothes and using her sister's old room to store them. "Carolyn is only staying for two weeks while Todd's in Japan, and the final touches are being put on their new house. You should have your space back before you know it."
"I don't mind. In fact, I think it's great!" Kelly said. "We've already made plans to hit the mall as soon as she gets here."
The oven buzzer went off.
"Why am I not surprised?" Annie said laughing as she made her way to the stove. "Come into the kitchen and tell me about last night. I want to hear all about your karate tournament."
Kelly gasped. "How did you know?"
"Have any of my children ever been able to keep secrets from me?" Annie asked playfully, enjoying the fact that she could still catch her children off guard. She indulged a little smile before revealing the truth. "In this case, Peter told me about it. The way he talked, you would have thought he was the one competing, not you. Congratulations on winning first place in your division."
"Thanks," the young woman said despondently, "but I wanted it to be a surprise. I didn't want anyone to know I was competing, at least not yet."
"Kelly, you should have told us," Annie chided, confused by her daughter's feelings. If Kelly had been worried that they wouldn't have supported her decision to enter a tournament so early in her lessons, Annie wanted to dispel that fear immediately. She quickly tried to ease that fear. "Paul and I would have been there for you. It's not every day that our youngest daughter wins a tournament."
"It's not that I didn't want you all there. I was just a little nervous because it was my first tournament and I had no idea how well I would do," Kelly replied, and then laughed as she embraced her mother. "I promise, my next tournament, you and Dad will get front row seats. I'm just never taking Peter with me again."
"All right, I'll hold you to that promise," Annie said as her daughter broke the embrace. She reached out and touched Kelly's arm, giving it a gentle squeeze, "Don't be angry at your brother. You know how he tends to brag a little."
"A little? We're talking about Peter, right?" Kelly asked, releasing a frustrated sigh. "I wanted it to be a surprise and he ruined everything. Peter has a big mouth, and I'm going to tell him that when I see him. I wonder how he would like it if I told you what he got you for Christmas?"
"Don't you dare! I like surprises!" Annie replied. She then proceeded to relate the details of a phone conversation, "In your father's own words, 'my' son was in his dog house again. Peter's never his son when he's in trouble; he's always 'my' son."
"Now you made me feel bad for getting angry with him," Kelly confessed, kissing her mother on the cheek as she followed her into the kitchen. "I think I'll take my favorite brother out for lunch." She grabbed her keys from the key rack, and started for the door. "Do you think I should call first? I don't want to walk into the battlefield if Dad is still reading Peter the riot act. I should know. I've been on the receiving end of plenty of them."
"Go. You leave your father to me," Annie suggested. She reached for the telephone and called the precinct.
"101st Precinct, Broderick speaking."
"Hello, John," Annie said, greeting the precinct's desk sergeant after recognizing his familiar voice.
"Annie, hi. What can I do for you?"
"Is my husband in?"
"Sure, just a second and I'll connect you."
"Thanks, John," she answered, and then waited until she heard Paul's voice on the other line. It was obvious from his tone that he was still angry. She vowed to change that. "Hi dear. How would you like to take someone out for lunch this afternoon?"
"Anyone I know?" her husband teased.
"Well, she's blonde, mysterious, and loves a good conversation over a nice glass of wine with a handsome man," she chuckled, as Paul continued to play along with the charade. In a matter of seconds, the hostility had disappeared from his voice.
Robert Davis quietly tapped away on his laptop. He wanted to make sure one last time that everything was in place. He glanced over at his partner and smiled. Michael Blaisdell could sleep through anything, anywhere or anytime. They had been in the air for two hours and were due to land soon. Davis closed the laptop, placed it in between his feet, and then elbowed his companion awake.
"While you were dreaming, I made sure your orders were being followed. The office is set up, the equipment is in place, and the 101st is now under complete surveillance. By the time we get there, you and I should know the routine of every officer in that precinct."
"That's not my plan and you know it." Michael growled. He grabbed Davis by shirt and jerked him towards him. "I told you, I only want two people under surveillance and that's my father and Griffin. The others are insignificant. If they become a problem, then we'll deal with them. Until that time comes, we stick to the original plan."
"Lighten up, Mike. It was just for precautionary purposes, that's all," Robert said, and pulled free out of Michael's grip. "You better calm yourself down real fast or this whole operation is going to blow up in your face."
He touched his angry associate on the arm. "I know how bad you want revenge. If we play our cards right, you can have that and so much more."
Michael leaned back into his seat, folded his arms, and smiled. "What was it that Griffin use to say? 'Oh, yeah?'"