Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators.

Author's Note: This was first published in the second S.T.A.R. for Brian CD-'zine, and I'd like to thank my co-authors on that project, Owl and L.M., for being the best partners a girl could hope for. And, I'd like to thank all of you for the support you've shown our cause over the past couple of years; it is sincerely appreciated.

True Believers

by

Cheride

Chapter 1

Milton Hardcastle rose quickly from the desk and moved gratefully to the door. He never would've expected to get so bored so quickly, and he was glad to be interrupted from his make believe work.

"Hey, Fr—"

"Is Mark here?" Lieutenant Harper interrupted. The detective strode quickly through the open doorway toward the den, and Hardcastle immediately thought he might've preferred to stay bored. But he closed the door calmly and followed his friend.

"No," the judge answered, "he's away for the weekend. What's up?"

"Away where?" Harper replied suspiciously.

A bit to his surprise, Hardcastle found that he didn't really care for the officer's attitude. "Don't take that tone with me. I'm responsible for him. If you have something to say to him, you can say it to me."

Harper planted himself in the middle of the den and turned to glare at the older man. "You don't take that tone with me. This is an official police investigation, and I am asking you officially, where is Mark McCormick?"

Attitude or no, Hardcastle didn't intend to refuse information to a direct police inquiry, and certainly not to one of his oldest friends. But something was clearly very wrong, and if Frank had come officially, then he himself was the last thing standing between McCormick and . . . and what? Rather than an answer, he found himself asking a very simple question.

"Frank, can't you just tell me what's going on?"

Harper seemed to recognize the genuine concern and dialed back the attitude. "Milt, you know the drill. You don't get any information until I get some basic facts established. But you can't help him until you know what's going on." He paused, then added, "And neither can I. I honestly don't know how this one's going to turn out, but we still need to work together."

Hardcastle shook his head once, almost imperceptibly. This was sounding worse by the minute, but Harper had a point. Feeling that this might be a lengthy conversation, he moved to one of the leather armchairs and pointed the detective toward the other.

"He's in Las Vegas," he finally answered as he leaned into the cushion.

Harper's eyebrow shot up. "You let him go to Vegas alone? Seems a little risky, doesn't it? I mean, has it even been six months?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "Well, we had that Emmett Parnell case last week, and he did a good job. I put him in a pretty tight spot, too, but he did it.

"And, it's almost the anniversary of his parole. He wanted to celebrate. I figured he'd earned a little break. And, anyway, he's not alone. He went with a friend."

"Does the friend have a name?"

"Ah," Hardcastle grimaced slightly, "Teddy Hollins."

Harper slapped his palm to his forehead. "Milt! You sent two parolees to Las Vegas on their own? When's the last time you heard from them?"

"McCormick left here Thursday afternoon; he'll be back tomorrow night."

"You didn't ask him to check in at least once?"

"He's a grown man."

Harper just stared.

"I guess he forgot," Hardcastle admitted after a moment.

"And you weren't worried?"

"No," the judge answered truthfully. "Annoyed maybe, but not worried. What's he done to make me worry so far? And besides, aren't you the guy who's always telling me to be nice to the kid? Cut him a little slack, give him some rope?"

"I didn't mean enough rope to hang himself," Harper snapped. He took a breath. "All right. So you haven't seen or heard from him in almost forty-eight hours, and you're not expecting him for at least another twenty-four. Jeez. We need to reel this kid in. Where's he staying?"

Hardcastle sat silently and Harper shook his head. "I cannot believe that you let him go gallivanting off like that. No plan, no contact. What were you thinking?"

"That he's not a prisoner here," Hardcastle shot back. But he was rising from his chair. "I told Hollins to check in with his PO; I'll find out where they're at, and we'll get to the bottom of whatever in the hell you're not saying." He rounded his desk, flipped quickly through the Rolodex, and dialed a number forcefully. The line was answered on the second ring, and he spoke genially into the receiver.

"Leslie? Hi, Milt Hardcastle. Listen, sorry to bother you at home on the weekend, but I was wondering if you had the name of the hotel where Hollins and McCormick are staying? I seem to—what? . . . When was that? . . . Are you sure? . . . He did? . . . Okay, thanks for your help. Sorry again to have bothered you." He hung up the phone with far less certainty than he had raised it.

Harper had crossed to the desk and was waiting for the news. He raised an inquiring eyebrow, but Hardcastle was flipping through the Rolodex again. The judge found the number he wanted, but paused with his hand on the receiver and looked back at Frank.

"Hollins didn't go to Vegas," he said slowly, wishing that didn't seem so immediately damning, but just as immediately knowing that—whatever Harper was investigating—McCormick would be better off with an alibi.

"Why not?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "Dunno. Called his PO Thursday to let her know he'd changed his plans, then showed up for his regular weekly meeting yesterday morning." He picked up the phone with another shrug, though he doubted it was coming across nearly as nonchalant as he might've liked. "We'll see what Hollins has to say."

He dialed the number, then drummed his fingers on the desktop as he waited for the line to be connected. He forced himself not to ask Harper again what was going on; the man was clearly determined to stick to policy.

What does he think I'd do anyway, lie for him? The idea would've been ridiculous, except for the way he seemed instinctively determined to stand in the path of whatever was coming after McCormick, before he had even the slightest idea what it might be.

Hardcastle pinched at the bridge of his nose and was just about to slam down the phone in disgust—had Hollins never heard of an answering machine?—when the ring was suddenly interrupted and a slightly breathless voice answered from the other end.

"Yeah?"

"Teddy?"

"Yeah," Hollins breathed into the receiver, "who's this?"

"Milt Hardcastle."

"Oh . . . hiya, Judge. Sorry," Teddy paused to take a breath, "I was just coming in when I heard the phone. What's up?"

Hardcastle found himself hesitant, but he asked the first question. "Is McCormick with you?"

"No, why?"

Hardcastle thought that sounded sincere. "Why aren't you in Vegas?"

The tone turned puzzled, but no less genuine. "What do you mean? Skid called Thursday afternoon and said something had come up. Told me you needed him to hang around, so the trip was off." Teddy paused, and Hardcastle could almost hear the wheels spinning.

"But you know, I think there was this girl he met the other day. Maybe he just didn't want to tell me he'd decided to take her instead of me. Yeah, I'm sure that's all that it was."

Hardcastle was surprised by how much he wanted to believe the transparent lie, or at least wished the cops would believe it. But he stood his ground. "Don't lie to me, Hollins," he instructed firmly, "this is too important. What—exactly—did he say had come up?"

"Uh, I dunno, nothin' really. I mean, just stuff."

"Teddy . . ." Hardcastle thought the single word would probably carry enough threat to get him the information he was after.

"Jeez, Hardcastle, seriously, it was nothin'." Teddy was sounding more exasperated than conspiratorial. "Skid was just kinda pissed, is all. I mean, he was really looking forward to this trip, and he was mad you told him he couldn't go. Said it was all just a bunch of stupid 'Tonto stuff'. Talked about all the normal raking and pruning and all, and said he had to wait around half the day for some exterminator who was coming to take care of some spider problem in the gatehouse, and then he told me about the stakeout at the museum. What's going on, anyway?"

"Stakeout at the museum?" Hardcastle countered.

"Yeah, said you were going to stop some kind of kidnapping or something. Did it work?"

"What? Oh, yeah, it was fine," Hardcastle answered absently. But in the back of his mind, he was certain that McCormick had told him once that the key to a successful con was the details. He forced his attention back to Hollins. "That was Thursday?"

"Yeah, just a couple of hours before he was supposed to pick me up. Judge, what's wrong?"

Hardcastle sighed. "McCormick seems to be missing." He left out the official police aspect of the whole thing; he didn't know enough about that to talk about it yet. "Of course," he went on, "he might still be in Vegas, I don't know. But I do need to find him." He paused, then asked evenly, "Is there anywhere he would go?"

The response was quiet, but assured. "He wouldn't run, Judge."

"Is there anywhere he would go?" Hardcastle repeated.

Hollins seemed to give it some thought. "Nowhere I know of right off, but I'll think about it."

"It's important, Teddy," Hardcastle reminded him.

"I'll think about it, Judge. I'll let you know."

Hardcastle listened to the dial tone for a few seconds, then replaced the receiver and looked back at Harper. "He wouldn't run."

"Lay it out for me," Harper instructed.

The judge sighed as he dropped into the chair behind his desk. "Okay. McCormick left here Thursday about two. He was supposed to pick up Hollins at four, but he had a couple of stops to make first." He didn't wait to be asked. "The bank and the market. The kid never goes anywhere without a sack full of junk food, ya know. At least the bank should be easy enough to check. Either he made it there or he didn't.

"Anyway, Hollins says McCormick called him to cancel a couple of hours before he was supposed to pick him up." He only hesitated a second. "The kid apparently gave him some cockamamie story about me giving him a bunch of chores and some case we needed to work on. Said I wouldn't let him go. Blamed it on me."

"So, it sounds like he canceled almost as soon as he left here then, like he'd had it planned."

Hardcastle couldn't find fault with the logic, though he didn't agree with the conclusion. He leaned forward and looked at Harper intently. "He wouldn't run." Maybe if he said it often enough, he'd make someone believe him.

"Then where is he?" Harper questioned.

But the judge shook his head. "I don't know, Frank. He's in some kinda trouble, though, or he'd be out in Vegas with Teddy, drinking over-priced drinks and staring at naked women, that I do know.

"But now you know what I know—which isn't a whole hell of a lot—and you know I'm committed to my story. So why don't you tell me what brought you out here today? What is it you think he's done?"

00000

Harper sighed heavily and wished for just an instant that he was anywhere but here. He hadn't wanted this assignment, but he also hadn't wanted anyone else to bring this news to Hardcastle. He ran a hand over his head and steeled himself to the task.

"There was a bank heist last night," he began. He held up a hand to stop the argument before Hardcastle could tell him how much that didn't sound like McCormick. There'd be plenty of time for that once the whole story was told.

"From the looks of things," Harper went on, "the job was going pretty smoothly at first. Security system wasn't tripped and the work on the vault was pretty neat." He thought the judge didn't look too surprised at that, but he didn't comment. "Anyway, looks like the problem started on the way out. Night watchman making his rounds seems to have surprised Mc—ah, the perpetrator. The guy managed to get his gun taken from him and then get bashed upside the head and all 'round beat up pretty badly. He laid there for over an hour before anyone got worried about him missing radio checks; barely breathing by the time they got to him. He's listed in critical condition now."

"No way."

The calmly spoken words weren't quite the response Harper had been expecting, but their unyielding conviction was unnerving. "Milt—"

"No way," Hardcastle repeated, this time more stringently. "Not McCormick. You want to come in here and tell me he ripped off a bank? I won't like it, and I probably won't believe it, but it's not like the kid never stole anything before. And security systems and vaults? Well, I'm pretty sure McCormick knows his way around anything that locks, so I'd still be with you, even if I didn't want to be. But when you tell me that he knocked some guy in the head and then left him laying half-dead in an empty building just waiting on someone to stumble across him, then you've lost me completely. Uh-uh. It didn't happen that way. Not McCormick, and I don't care what you've got that says otherwise."

Harper didn't waste time trying to argue with the emotions of the older man's statements; he just laid out the facts. "We've got the Coyote on tape outside the bank, and we've got his prints inside. And on the guard's gun."

Hardcastle visibly blanched. He closed his eyes and slouched down heavily in his chair. For a moment, Harper thought he might have to keep the other man from toppling to the floor. He had taken the first step toward rounding the desk when Hardcastle spoke again.

"Then we'll just have to figure out why."

The detective paused mid-stride. "Why what?" he asked, momentarily lost in the conversation.

"Why his car was there and why his prints are on that gun," Hardcastle replied, as if it made all the sense in the world.

Harper completed the trip around the desk and hitched his hip up onto the corner, situating himself to face his friend directly. "Milt," he said evenly, "I think we both know why."

"No," the judge answered just as evenly, finally opening his eyes, "you think you know why because you're thinking like a cop. But you're making a rookie mistake, Frank. You're being blinded by the facts and jumping to the wrong conclusion."

Harper wasn't offended by the accusation. "But you're not thinking like a cop at all, Milt; you're ignoring the facts completely."

Hardcastle shrugged. "I'm not a cop anymore. But I'm not ignoring the facts, Frank; I'm just focusing on the most important one."

Trying not to sound impatient, Harper kept his recitation to two key items. "More important than the fact that he's missing and we can place him at the scene of the crime?"

"Absolutely." The jurist locked eyes with Harper. "I know Mark McCormick. And I'm telling you, Frank; you don't have this thing figured out yet."

And in that moment, Hardcastle seemed so confident, Harper wished that it could be true.

00000

Hardcastle sat in the gathering darkness, staring at the door of the gatehouse, willing its occupant to appear. Not that he expected to have any greater success now than he'd had the past several hours, but he didn't really have anything else to try.

The day had been surreal as he'd gone about the business of answering questions and directing a small but fairly steady stream of officers around the estate as they conducted their investigation. Harper had run a lot of interference, mostly shielding him from the knowing looks and sympathetic—if questioning—whispers. He had spoken with no one who doubted that McCormick was the guilty party, though one or two had seemed genuinely surprised. He had found himself grateful for even that small hint of loyalty.

He thought he'd handled it all pretty well, though, and let the officials do their job, even if their job was currently to gather the evidence necessary to prove the guilt of a young man he was increasingly coming to think of as a friend. He hadn't been surprised to hear Harper casually mention the name of the bank—'the First National branch over on Lincoln'—and the detective hadn't seemed surprised to learn that it was McCormick's bank. Unfortunately, what he was starting to see as a potentially flawless frame, the authorities were seeing as a rock-solid case of guilt, but he'd still made it through the day without blatantly defending the kid to anyone but Harper. He wasn't too concerned what any of the others thought, anyway, as long as they did their jobs by the book, without any kind of rush to judgment. And, no matter how damning the evidence seemed, he trusted Harper enough to know that the man would make sure that didn't happen.

Of course, it had been Harper who'd sidled up to him after the search of the gatehouse had come up empty.

"You should take a look yourself, Milt," the detective had said softly, reasonably. "You might see something that we wouldn't even recognize as important."

Hardcastle had waved off the idea angrily at the time, but hours later, after everyone had gone and there still was no sign of the missing young man, he could admit that the idea made a lot of sense. So he'd pushed down the nagging feeling of guilt and strolled over to the gatehouse to make his own search of the premises. But it had been with undisguised vindication that he'd called Harper to report that he hadn't found anything more than the officers, 'because there isn't anything to find'.

"Or maybe he's just being careful," the detective had countered, though Hardcastle thought maybe he was just playing devil's advocate. Maybe.

The judge sighed heavily and settled back into the sofa. Alone here in the dark, though, he could admit to himself that things looked really bad. But even with that admission, an honest assessment of his feelings told him there was still something missing, and if the cops weren't interested in figuring it out, that was only going to leave him.

In the meantime, on the outside chance that it could help, he stared at the gatehouse door and willed its occupant to appear.

Chapter 2

"Milt, you have got to listen to me here. This is one case you cannot be involved in. I promise, I will keep you up to speed with everything I know, and I'll make sure Mark gets a fair shake in the investigation, but you have got to let us handle it." The stern admonition was tinged with concern.

Hardcastle glared across the detective's desk. "So jurisdiction is more important than justice?" he demanded. "Territory more important than the truth?"

Harper rubbed at his forehead. "Of course not," he answered wearily. "But—"

"But nothin'," Hardcastle interrupted. He shoved a small stack of folders toward the officer. "I'm tellin' ya, you need to look at some of these guys. Any one of 'em coulda engineered a little revenge by setting McCormick up to take a fall."

"Milt . . ." The detective trailed off, shaking his head.

But Hardcastle heard the unspoken argument. "I get it, Frank, I really do. It looks bad. But if you're really gonna look out for the kid and make sure he 'gets a fair shake', as you put it, then you have to at least consider the possibility that he's innocent. I know what everyone's saying; I've been down this path before and McCormick just took a little longer to show his true colors." He shrugged. "I don't think so, but even if that's the way it turns out, I owe the kid a decent investigation. Even if he finally decided to cut and run, he did a lot of good while he was here, helped me out a lot. Hell, he saved my life, Frank. It's my turn to help him. This has to be done right. When you start digging around, I think you're gonna find more than a few missing pieces."

"And what if we don't?" Harper asked directly.

Hardcastle didn't back down from the idea. "At least it won't be because we didn't look," he answered, and pushed the files closer to the detective.

00000

Harper sighed as he pulled the folders to his side of the desk, then placed them in an ever growing stack of work. "I'll look them over," he promised. He supposed he should be grateful the man had only brought along four or five; he knew from personal experience the judge had been involved in far more cases than that in the past six months. Still, he didn't really hold out much hope for finding what Hardcastle was after, and he didn't really have much time for busy work. He took a breath and hoped for the best.

"You should go home now, Milt."

Hardcastle didn't show any sign of rising. "Isn't there anything new yet?"

"You mean in the maybe six hours since I talked to you last? When anyone with any sense was sleeping?"

"You're working," the judge pointed out with absolute reason, "I'm working. There could be news."

Harper hesitated another moment. As near as he could determine, the file folder in front of him held the final nail in Mark McCormick's coffin, and he figured even Milton Hardcastle would see it that way, but he had hoped to delay that news just a little bit longer. But he had never been all that good at keeping things from his friend, and Hardcastle seemed to recognize the truth behind the silence.

"What've you got?"

The detective hated the weary fear that crept into the older man's voice; the way that he seemed to already know that his faith was about to be dashed one more time. Harper shook his head slightly and passed his own file folder across the desk.

"Take a look at these photos."

He watched Hardcastle flip quickly through the small stack of pictures showing McCormick, dressed uncharacteristically in a suit and tie, along with another man dressed similarly and a young woman in a smart pant suit. McCormick was carrying a clipboard, and in several of the photos, could be seen taking notes. But Harper knew it wasn't the clothing or the activity that caused Hardcastle's grip to tighten almost imperceptibly on the folder he held, nor did it cause the slight reddening of his face or the horror that dawned in his eyes. No, it was the obvious location of the photographs that caused all of that.

"This is in First National?" Hardcastle asked quietly, though the detective was fairly certain there really was no doubt in his mind. McCormick could be clearly seen in several secure areas of a bank, looking closely at his surroundings, jotting things on his clipboard.

Harper's response was just as quiet. "I'm sorry, Milt."

Hardcastle nodded slowly. "Who're the others?"

Following the judge's lead, Harper stuck to the case. "Woman's name is Megan Wesley; she's with bank security. Seems this little tour is part of a fairly standard security check the Fed requires periodically, and it's been scheduled for weeks. She says the other guy's name is Ben Jackson, but we've got nothing that matches that name. We're running the picture."

Hardcastle looked at the photo again. "He's wearing gloves."

"Yeah. In every shot; no prints from him."

"No one thought anything about that?"

Harper shrugged. "We asked the banker about it; she said she thought it was strange, but just figured he had something wrong with his hands, and it would be impolite to ask."

"And she's supposed to be in security." Hardcastle shook his head. "Unbelievable. What name did McCormick use?"

"Ah, his own, mostly."

"Mostly?"

"Gave them a first name of Milton," the detective explained, almost apologetically.

"So when did this all take place?" the judge asked, closing the folder and passing it back to Harper.

"Thursday afternoon, just after business hours. And here's the thing: the Fed confirms that there really was a security review scheduled, but that the bank called earlier in the morning and asked to reschedule; said their security officer had come down with a bad case of the flu or something. Fed said their reviews had always been more than satisfactory, so they didn't have any reason to think there was a problem, and agreed to reschedule.

"And there's one more thing," Harper continued. "There was one other guy, with McCormick, using the name Black, but he never showed up on a security camera, not once. We've got Ms. Wesley going through the books, looking for a match."

"Well, that's a little odd, too," Hardcastle said slowly.

The detective could tell he was putting the pieces together, desperately wanting them to assemble into any picture other than what they actually showed.

"So let me get this straight," Hardcastle said. "The working theory is that McCormick left home on a regular Thursday afternoon, then, just a few hours later, he walked into his own bank, used essentially his own name, and executed a well-laid plan that he must've been working on right under my own nose. And nobody finds it even a little bit unusual that of the three people who went into the bank, he's the only one who can be identified? Nobody thinks it would've made more sense for him to pick a different bank, one where he wouldn't run the risk of being identified as a fraud the minute he walked in the door? And has anyone come up with any logical explanation for how McCormick would've known about the Fed's security sweep, anyway? There's a lot of questions to be answered here, Frank, and I wish someone besides me would start trying to figure it out."

"Milt—"

"Don't 'Milt' me," Hardcastle interrupted angrily. "I'm a big boy. If McCormick's dirty, he'll go down, and I'll deal with it. But from where I'm sitting, this is all coming together in far too neat a package, and it's starting to stink to high heaven. So would you please humor me, and just consider the possibility that someone's setting him up?"

"I'm considering every possibility," Harper shot back hotly, "but I don't know what kind of explanation you think I'm going to find for him posing as a security expert in a bank that got ripped off a day later. Do you think you have a logical reason for that?"

As much as he didn't want to hurt his friend, the detective did hope his bluntness would put an end to Hardcastle's arguments. He wasn't expecting the stubborn response he got in return.

"Not yet."

00000

Mark looked over as he heard the door unlock. Lying on the bed, feet bound together then tied again to the metal bed frame, hands pulled above his head, handcuffed to the bed, he hoped the glare he gave the man standing in the doorway came across as defiant. But with his position, combined with a few new bruises and a swollen eye, he figured it was probably closer to sullen.

"You really shouldn't've tried to escape from Randall," the man said as he took a single step into the small room. "You'd been cooperating so well up until then."

"Only because you'd been lying to me," McCormick said bitterly.

The man shrugged. "It would've been better if we'd actually had him, holding a gun to his head?"

Mark grimaced and didn't answer. Of course that's not what he'd meant, but he wasn't going to engage in debate with this man. This ordeal needed to be over, one way or the other. What he finally said was simple. "So what's next?"

"Randall and I are leaving now; you have a decision to make."

"Meaning what?"

The man crossed the room and placed a small duffel bag within reach of McCormick's bound hands. "This is your share of the money. Not exactly an even share, you understand, but enough to get you started somewhere else."

"I didn't do it for the money."

"No. But that's where the decision comes in. Take the money and make your escape, or go back to prison; it's up to you."

"You oughta just kill me," McCormick muttered, and was only slightly surprised to find that he honestly considered that the lesser of the evils.

"That would be too easy on him," the other man said with a shake of his head. "You're important to him, you know. Surprising, but apparently true. Personally, I hope you take off, leave him to wonder, but that's up to you." The voice hardened. "Just remember what I said about consequences for other actions."

McCormick swallowed hard. "I'm not likely to forget."

"Good. As long as we understand each other. When you've made your decision, you'll find everything you need in the bag."

And then the man was gone, leaving McCormick to contemplate a choice he had never anticipated.

00000

He had lain on the bed, tugging on the handcuffs futilely for almost fifteen minutes, more from sheer frustration than out of any true hope that anything would give way. Then he tried to calculate the odds that Hardcastle would find him, wherever he was. He finally decided that was probably close to a sure thing, but how long it might take was the real question. With no food and no water, the judge just might walk into a fairly gruesome scene. He'd like to avoid that.

Finally he stopped to think through his situation as rationally as possible. If he was really supposed to disappear and leave Hardcastle wondering about the motivations of his latest rehab project, then he must be expected to escape somehow. That only made sense.

"None of this makes sense," he contradicted himself aloud.

But still, what had his captor said? That everything he'd need was in the bag? Yeah, that was it. He twisted as far as he was able in order to look behind him. The duffel bag sat, open, on a small table just within his reach.

"Real observant, Skid," he muttered, as he reached inside the bag. He'd hoped to find a key on top of the stack of bills, but he supposed that might not've been expected to slow him down very much. Instead he found a couple of picks, but he certainly wouldn't complain. One was as good as the other, as far as he was concerned.

He made quick work of the handcuffs, then sat upright to work at the ropes around his feet. That took longer—he thought a knife in the bag would've been a nice touch—but he was finally free. Then he swung his legs off the bed and dragged the duffel bag onto his lap. Taking a closer look inside, he thought there was ten or maybe even fifteen thousand dollars inside, along with a couple of driver's licenses, complete with aliases to accompany his photo. Everything he'd need, indeed. Looking a little deeper, against one side of the bag, there was also a manila envelope. Opening it, he pulled out two photographs, clearly intended to remind him of 'consequences'. With a frown, he shoved them quickly back inside the envelope and closed it again.

He shook his head and pushed himself off the bed. Whatever he intended to do, the first order of business had to be to make sure Hardcastle was truly okay. After that . . . well, after that, he didn't know yet, but first things first.

McCormick exited the bedroom cautiously. He'd feel pretty stupid if someone was waiting for him, just hoping he'd be goofy enough to believe they really intended to let him just walk right out of here. But there was no one in the short hallway, and no one anywhere else in the small house. There also didn't appear to be any sign of the fact that this place had served as a prison for the past few days, but he hadn't yet decided if that was a good thing or bad.

Spotting a phone in the living room, he grabbed the receiver and automatically dialed the number to Gull's Way. The line didn't even complete the first ring.

"McCormick?" came the immediate reply, "Is that you?"

With every ounce of willpower he had, Mark quickly replaced the receiver in the cradle, then plopped heavily onto the sofa. All he'd wanted was to hear the judge's voice, reassure himself that the man was alive and well. He hadn't been prepared for the unvarnished hope that had greeted him from the other end. Three days with no contact, days which Hardcastle had almost certainly spent alternately pissed off and worried as hell—and that would've been before he found out about the bank job—and still when the phone rang, he seemed to expect to hear from his wayward parolee. Unbelievable.

McCormick sighed slightly and glanced down at the duffel he'd dropped at his feet. Whatever small temptation it might've held a few minutes ago had vanished in the space of a handful of words. He sat, running through his remaining options, and decided none of them were particularly good. Then he decided that wasn't particularly unusual, and sighed again as he began making his plans.

00000

Frank Harper tossed the briefcase onto the passenger seat, then slid in behind the wheel. Pulling the door closed more forcefully than absolutely necessary, he exhaled loudly, then closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat. Long days were one thing; they came with the territory. But this thing with McCormick was in a category all its own, and he'd be damn glad when it was over. Of course, he hated that when it was over, McCormick would be behind bars and Hardcastle would be disappointed again, but sometimes that's the way life could be.

He was still pondering life's injustices when he felt the movement from behind him. He was already instinctively pulling his weapon from its holster and twisting defensively when a voice spoke.

"Hope you aren't in a big hurry to get home, Frank." And then, a second later, as he completed his turn and leveled the weapon, "Jeez, Frank, it's me!"

Harper didn't lower the weapon. "Where the hell have you been? And what the hell are you doing here?"

"Good to see you, too, Frank," McCormick said sarcastically.

But even though he was running his mouth, Harper was glad to see McCormick had sense enough to keep himself pressed against the backseat, hands in plain sight. He wasn't looking forward to arresting the kid; shooting him might be more than he could handle. "I asked you a question," he said sharply to the younger man.

He watched the anger flash across McCormick's face, though he had the definite impression that the ex-con was putting some sincere effort into controlling it. And all Mark said was, "Don't go all cop on me, Frank. At least not yet."

"It's too late for that," Harper answered shortly. "You need to start talking."

"Has anything happened to Hardcastle?"

The detective had been prepared for excuses, or maybe just non-stop McCormick lip, but he hadn't been expecting the question that was actually presented. "What do you mean?" he countered, becoming alarmed. "I haven't talked to him since this morning, so what do you know?"

McCormick shook his head. "I don't mean now," he explained. "I meant while I was away."

Harper huffed a short, harsh breath. "Away? Is that what you're calling it?"

"Frank, please."

It was only then that Harper stopped to consider the fear in McCormick's eyes. Up to that point, he'd simply categorized it as a natural reaction of a man looking back at a loaded weapon—not to mention the next twenty years behind bars. He could see now that wasn't entirely the case. He relented slightly.

"He's fine," he said calmly. "Or at least as fine as he can be, wondering where you've been and what the hell you've been doing."

McCormick nodded slowly, speaking almost to himself. "Okay, good. That's what I figured; I just wanted to make sure." He took a breath, and spoke more firmly. "All right then, let's get this over with. You can go cop on me now."

Harper raised an eyebrow in surprise. Keeping up with a Mark McCormick train of thought had always been a difficult proposition, but it was far too late in a long weekend to even hope to manage it now. "What the hell are you talking about?" he growled.

"Hey, you're pretty good at that," Mark told him.

Harper thought the quip probably hadn't come off as lightly as McCormick had intended, and the kid's expression didn't quite pass for a grin, but he put a stop to it anyway. "Do I look like I'm foolin' around here?"

The almost-grin disappeared. "No. But neither am I. I came here to turn myself in."

Still more surprised, the detective simply stared for a moment, then asked, "For what, exactly?"

But McCormick waved that away. "You know what I've done; I know you've got video from the bank, and—Hey," he switched gears suddenly, slapping his hand to his forehead, "I almost forgot to ask, how's that guard?"

Harper just shook his head in disbelief. "Don't ask me stuff like that, Mark," he said wearily. "Jeez, didn't anybody ever teach you anything about admissible information?"

Mark shrugged. "Doesn't matter. It's all gonna come out anyway. So how is he?"

"He's—" Harper broke off and looked at the gun still pointing in the direction of his backseat passenger. "You gonna try anything stupid if I put this down?"

"I was waiting for you," McCormick said reasonably.

"So you were," Harper agreed as he reholstered his weapon.

"The guard?" McCormick prompted.

But the detective had taken something else from his jacket. "I think I oughta Mirandize you before this conversation goes any further," he said, almost apologetically.

McCormick shrugged again. "Okay." He pointed at the card in Harper's hand. "Learned that from Hardcastle, didn't ya?"

"You only have to be on the receiving end of that lecture once," Harper admitted. Then he read precisely from the card, "'You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at the State's expense.'" He slipped the card back into his pocket. "Do you understand these rights as they've been explained?"

"Absolutely. Now you wanna tell me about the guard?"

"He's banged up pretty bad," Harper finally replied, "but it looks like he's gonna make it. The hospital upgraded him to serious condition this afternoon."

"Thank God," Mark breathed.

The detective considered the younger man a moment, looking for an angle, but the relief was clearly genuine. This might all be easier if McCormick were just a bit more criminal. He thought maybe he was beginning to understand some small part of what Hardcastle had been feeling. But still . . .

"You know, Mark, I think we're gonna have to move this conversation inside."

McCormick frowned, but didn't object. "Okay." He gestured to the door. "I'll let you go first."

Harper decided immediately he didn't care for the easy way McCormick seemed to slip into the role of prisoner, though he supposed that might serve the kid well in the coming years. He had opened his door to slide out when Mark spoke again.

"Oh, and Frank, I have a duffel bag back here I need to give you. It's closed, and it's safe, but I don't wanna . . . I mean, what do you want . . . how do you want me to—?"

Frank sighed. And this was going to be the easy part; he didn't want to think about what came next. What he finally said was, "You were waiting for me, right? Just hand me the damn thing."

Mark reached down to the floorboard for the bag, then handed it over the seat to the officer. He moved slowly, though clearly that was not hesitation, but a deliberate attempt not to raise alarm.

"What is it?" Harper asked as he took the bag, though he was already pulling on the zipper.

"Ah, my take."

The detective arched an eyebrow as he looked inside. "Looks like this would've taken you a long ways," he suggested.

McCormick just shrugged. "No place I wanted to go."

Harper thought about that for a second, then climbed out of the car, taking the duffel with him. He opened the back door and gestured his prisoner out. "You know I need to frisk you," he said as he closed the door behind McCormick. Mark didn't comment, just turned and leaned against the car, spreading his hands and feet. And when the search was completed, he simply placed his hands behind his back, waiting.

Frank hesitated, but there were an awful lot of overzealous types who'd been looking for this kid the last couple of days. It might be prudent to make it clear he was already in custody. He didn't particularly like it, but he pulled out his handcuffs and snapped them around McCormick's wrists. For his part, McCormick didn't even flinch, but accepted it all silently.

Harper shook his head once, and sighed quietly. He'd been wrong; clearly there was no easy part of this. But it wasn't going to get easier, so he reached to the ground to retrieve the waiting duffel, then placed a gentle hand on McCormick's arm and turned him toward the building. "Okay, let's go."

They walked in silence for a moment or two, then Frank said, "What do you say we stop in my office before we start the official process? You can call your lawyer."

"Doesn't really matter," McCormick answered. "Whatever PD is catching today is fine."

Harper chuckled. "Yeah, right, that'll—" He broke off when he realized McCormick wasn't laughing, not even a grin. He spelled it out. "I meant Milt."

"I'm not calling him."

The detective stopped walking abruptly, pulling his prisoner to a halt with him. "What?"

"You heard me," McCormick said calmly. "I'm not calling him. I mean, I figure you'll tell him I'm here, so he can quit wor- - wondering. But I'm not gonna talk to him."

Harper was staring in disbelief. He would've thought this weekend couldn't get any stranger, but that was obviously not the case. "What in the hell are you talking about?"

McCormick's reply was still unruffled. "Look, Frank, we both know how this turns out. You're gonna take me in there and I'm gonna tell you all about my part in this bank job, and then I'm gonna go away for a really long time. Everything else is just extra noise; you're gonna want a lot of details that don't really matter and so's the PD. But Hardcastle . . . Hardcastle is gonna poke and prod and try to make things fit that just don't fit. He's gonna look for reasons that don't exist, and honestly, I'm just not up for that. So I'm turning myself in, and I'm gonna answer all your questions, and then I'll do my time. But I am not going to talk to him."

Harper was still staring. What he finally said was, "He is your parole officer."

McCormick shrugged dismissively. "And since when do POs get special access at interrogations?"

"He deserves to hear the story from you."

For a moment, Harper thought McCormick might relent, but then the young man simply said, "And he will. Eventually. Not today."

"Mark . . ."

"Not today," McCormick insisted.

And suddenly understanding that this might get worse than he'd even imagined, Harper just nodded, and started his prisoner walking again.

00000

"I really don't think this is a good idea," Harper said, pausing outside the observation room.

"You're right," Hardcastle agreed harshly, "it's a damned stupid idea. What I should be doing is going into the other room to get to the bottom of whatever in the hell is going through that thick skull of his. But you won't let me do that, and he won't ask to see me, so this is what I'm left with. So, do you want to let me talk to him, or do you want to get the hell out of my way?"

Harper blew out a loud breath and opened the door, leading the way inside. Hardcastle strode briskly across the small area directly to the viewing window. But he only looked for a few seconds before turning back to glare at the lieutenant.

"He looks like hell, Frank. What happened to him?"

The detective didn't miss the accusation in the tone. "We didn't do that," he objected quickly, "he showed up that way. And besides, it looks worse than it is. I had him checked out; he's fine, just some bumps and bruises. That, and the doc thinks he might be working on a pretty good case of exhaustion; told me to bring him back to the infirmary after we're done with him and get him something to help him sleep. Mark says he doesn't need it, of course, but he admitted he hasn't really slept since he left home." He cast a sideways glance over at the judge. "Me, I think he's just been too worried; wound up tight as a drum. Not that a cell cot is exactly relaxing, but I think he'll be fine when he lays down for a while now."

Hardcastle turned back to the window and looked at the form slouched in a chair, sipping on a cup of coffee. "Whattaya mean, worried?" he asked.

Harper rubbed a hand across his eyes. These two could be their own brand of exhaustion; McCormick was stubborn and Hardcastle could just be dense, though, in fairness, this particular situation wasn't the easiest to grasp. "Worried about you." He shrugged. "Don't ask me to explain it, because I don't know. I just know making sure you were okay was the first thing on his list. Nothing else really seemed to be bothering him too much."

"Well there oughta be a helluva lot bothering him," Hardcastle snapped. He drew in a deep breath. "Okay, Frank. We're not gonna figure it out with you out here babysitting me. Get in there and talk to him and find out what's going."

"All right," Frank nodded, "you just sit tight. Here's your files," he tossed a stack of folders onto the small table in the room, "though I still don't know what you think you're gonna find in there; none of it looks like it has anything to do with a bank heist. Or anything to do with McCormick at all, as far as that goes."

"I don't know what I'm looking for, either," Hardcastle admitted as he situated himself at the table where he could watch the interrogation, "but I hope I'll know it when I see it."

The detective hesitated just before exiting the room, then spoke solemnly to his friend. "Milt, you know he came here to confess."

"Yeah," the judge said wearily, "I know. That's why it's gonna have to be up to me." He looked briefly hopeful. "Or maybe us."

Harper could admit to himself that nothing in McCormick's behavior this evening was what he would've expected from an apparently reformed ex-con who'd decided to suddenly go on some sort of crime spree; something just seemed off. But he didn't want to get Hardcastle's hopes up too much; this kid was likely still going to prison for a good portion of his remaining life. He settled for, "I need to talk to him," but then couldn't stop himself from adding, "and then we'll see."

He closed the door behind him and started back toward the interrogation room, hoping the pieces would somehow fall into place the way Hardcastle wanted. And that's when it hit him that he actually had been in a hurry to get home.

00000

He had his own file folder in hand when he walked back in to the bright but barren room where Mark waited. He slapped it down onto the tabletop, then dropped into a chair and looked back across the table at the man who was watching him silently.

"You doin' okay?"

McCormick shrugged almost imperceptibly. "Sure." Then he motioned with his cup, "I appreciate the coffee."

"Wouldn't want you dozing off during our conversation," Frank answered, hoping to keep things light for at least a second or two. "Your attorney didn't hang around long," he continued.

"Nah." Mark shook his head. "He thinks I'm making a big mistake, talking to you alone."

"You might be," Harper agreed.

Another head shake. "Lawyers confuse everything; make it all take too long. I'll talk to him tomorrow, after I've had some sleep."

"Your choice." Harper opened the folder in front of him and glanced down at the contents, trying to decide where he wanted to start. He didn't figure an all-encompassing 'why?' would be all that effective, even though that was really the only thing on his mind. But then McCormick was speaking again.

"You did call him, didn't you? While I was talking to my lawyer?"

"I called him." No need to ask who the 'him' was, and no need to quibble over the fact that it had actually been done while the kid was talking to the doctor, a good hour earlier than the aforementioned attorney. He'd known he wouldn't be able to convince Milt to stay away—and he wasn't altogether sure that he should—so better to bring him in from the beginning.

"Good. I didn't want him to worry."

"Well I'm not sure this is the best way to go about that," Harper huffed. "You think he just dusts his hands off now and says 'oh well, that's that'? He's worried as hell, and he wants to see you."

McCormick looked up sharply. "Don't start. He knows I'm not laying dead somewhere; everything else will have to wait."

Rubbing a hand across his face, the detective nodded slowly. "So, let's start at the beginning. You want to take me through your weekend?"

McCormick hesitated. "Ah, maybe the broad strokes. And, I suppose I ought to start by telling you that there's a Buick out in your parking lot that someone's going to be looking for."

Harper stifled a groan. He didn't like the way McCormick hedged even on the very first question, and besides, wasn't all the crap in the bank enough? That's the thought he put into words. "You stole a car, too? The bank robbery and attempted murder wasn't enough excitement for one weekend?"

"The car's not gonna matter, Frank, and I wanted to get here to you. In the Coyote, I woulda been picked up before I'd made it five miles." McCormick's voice hardened. "And besides, I need to be clear about something; I didn't touch that guard. I was there, and I know that makes me an accessory, but I didn't hurt him. I want you to know that."

The officer studied his prisoner for a long moment, alert for deception, but there didn't seem to be a hint of falsehood in the man's demeanor. "Really not going to matter much," he finally pointed out.

"It matters to me that you—and he—know the truth."

"So who did it?" Harper asked. Not exactly the beginning, but this seemed to be where McCormick wanted to start, and letting people talk about what they wanted was almost always the quickest way to get at the truth.

"Guy's name is Randall, that's all I know. Don't even know if that's a first or last name; wish I could tell you more." He sounded genuinely apologetic. "The guy's a little bit crazy."

"He the guy that worked you over?"

McCormick shrugged. "We had a little disagreement."

"Uh-huh." Harper nodded and pulled an item out of his folder, passing it across the table. "Is that him?"

Mark looked down at the photo. "Yeah, that's him."

"So who is he?"

"I dunno, really. A guy."

"And the other guy?"

McCormick shook his head. "Dunno. He used the name Black, but I'm pretty sure it was an alias."

"C'mon, Mark, don't stall me. You just hooked up with two complete strangers and decided to waltz in and rob a bank with them? If you want me to believe anything you say, you shouldn't start with such obvious lies."

The young man sighed. "I know it sounds a little strange, Frank. But I hooked up with them through a mutual friend. It was all kept pretty need-to-know, and names weren't high on the list. I needed some cash, they needed a pair of hands; it worked out for everyone."

"So who was the friend?"

"Can't tell you that, sorry."

"Mark . . ."

"I'm not involving him, Frank. All he did was make an introduction."

"If we don't find these other guys, you're gonna take the fall alone, even for the guard."

"Well, like you said, it's really not going to matter much."

"So what'd you need the money for?" Harper asked suddenly.

McCormick studied his coffee. "I wanted out," he said quietly. "That takes cash."

"Then what're you doing here? That bag had over twelve thousand dollars in it."

"Changed my mind," Mark said, still not looking at the officer. "No one was supposed to get hurt."

Harper was studying him again; there seemed to be far less candor coming from the other side of the table this time around. "Do they know you were turning yourself in?"

"They probably thought I'd change my mind, but they didn't really care. They know I can't hurt them."

"Then what was the disagreement about?"

"What?"

Harper gestured at the bruised face. "The disagreement."

"Oh, that." McCormick hesitated. "It was sort of a negotiation. I did most of the work, thought I ought to get a bigger share."

"And why would that matter, if you weren't planning on keeping it, anyway?" the detective challenged.

"Ah, it was before I'd decided."

Harper leaned back in his chair and pinned McCormick with a long, appraising gaze. "You know," he said slowly, "it would make more sense if you just told me the truth."

But McCormick wasn't backing down. "The truth, Frank, is that I walked into First National Bank on Thursday afternoon under false pretenses and examined their security systems. Then on Friday night, I broke in, cracked their safe, and took a very large amount of money. Unfortunately, in the process, a security guard got hurt; I really didn't intend for that to happen. I even tried to stop it. But it did happen. I had planned on leaving town with my share of the take, just disappearing, but I dunno. After everything with the guard, I just couldn't do it." He locked his eyes on the detective's. "I might've been ready to get away from Hardcastle's domineering attitude, but I didn't want him thinking I'd turned into some kind of monster. I don't know why, but that's the truth."

Harper was still watching the other man closely. Everything he'd just said fit with all of the evidence; it could all be true. Hell, a couple of hours ago, the detective would've put good money on it. But, somehow, Frank definitely thought this 'confession' was starting to sound more like a practiced tale.

"So what made you want out all of a sudden?"

"'All of a sudden'?" McCormick repeated. "It's not like it's ever been a walk in the park."

"But you put up with it," Harper pointed out. "Might've thought you were even enjoying yourself a time or two."

"Just runnin' a game," McCormick said coldly, "biding my time. You know the way he treats me."

"And yet here you are, looking at the next twenty years or so of your life behind bars just so that he won't think that you were the one who clocked the innocent bystander upside the head and left him to die." Harper thought his disbelief was pretty evident.

"I didn't say it made sense."

"No, you stopped your line of crap just short of that." He glared at the ex-con, waiting for something that did make more sense, but it soon became evident nothing more was going to be offered. He tried a different approach.

"Hardcastle thinks this has something to do with one of your old cases."

It was lucky he'd been staring so intently at the younger man, because the flash of emotion that crossed his face was mastered so quickly, Harper would've missed it otherwise. Even so, he couldn't be certain of its true meaning, but he thought it would probably pass for astounded acknowledgement. It was certainly enough to convince him that Hardcastle hadn't been far off the mark, which at least narrowed things down, even if it didn't make much more sense than anything that had gone before. He wasn't surprised by the kid's immediate denial.

"That's just because the donkey doesn't want to admit he was wrong about me."

Harper snorted. "This act you're pullin' in here oughta make that a lot easier."

McCormick shrugged nonchalantly. "Nothin' I can do about that." But the detective didn't miss the hint of sadness in the young blue eyes.

There was a moment of silence, and then Harper sighed loudly. "All right, Mark, if this is the story you wanna stick with, there's not much I can do but go forward with it. But maybe you can do something for me? If we don't have to involve your friend, will you help me ID the other two guys? Look through some mug books; see if we can put a name with the face? There's really no reason you should take the heat alone."

"Yeah, I can do that," McCormick replied without much hesitation, "but I'm not sure if it'll do much good. Sort of had the impression they might've been from out of town, especially Randall. Someplace back east, Florida, maybe."

"Oh, and one other thing," Harper said casually, pushing a notepad across the table. "Think you could give me the plate on the Buick? Looks bad for stolen vehicles to be sitting in the police parking lot."

Mark almost smiled at that as he picked up the pen and jotted down the tag number, then pushed it back to the officer. "It's just a row or two over from yours."

Harper nodded, and collected his notepad and photograph, then glanced at his watch with a grimace. "It's going on ten o'clock, Mark. I'll put you with the books tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay." But McCormick couldn't quite control his own grimace, which Harper understood immediately. An end to the day meant a night in a cell, though with the tale he was spinning, Frank figured the kid ought to get used to it.

Harper resisted the impulse to offer reassurance as he rose from his chair; he really did want McCormick to think about the hole he was digging himself. "I'll have an officer take you to the cellblock."

Mark nodded. "'Kay. But I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah." He stopped at the door. "And I want you to think about one other thing. I really want you to talk to Milt tomorrow."

There was no hesitation at all before McCormick said, "I can't do that, Frank," but then he paused. "But maybe you could do me a favor? Tell him I'm sorry."

Harper's answer was just as swift. "Uh-uh. That's a message you have to deliver yourself." And then he stepped out of the small room, leaving McCormick alone.

00000

"Convinced yet?" Hardcastle said the second the door opened to the observation room.

"Why the hell would he lie about this?" Harper demanded, exasperated. He plopped down in the chair across from the judge. "He obviously intends to get himself thrown in prison, though damned if I know why." He looked back across the table. "You come up with any ideas?"

The judge shook his head. "No. But, dammit, Frank, he won't talk to me, and he's lyin' to you." For the first time that weekend, a shadow of doubt worked its way across his face, and Hardcastle spoke almost fearfully. "What's he hiding, Frank? Who's he protecting?"

But Harper smiled gently. "I don't know what he's hiding," he admitted, "but in terms of who he's protecting, I'm pretty sure there's only one guy he'd take a twenty-year fall for."

"Oh yeah, who?" Hardcastle demanded. "Hollins? Because if he's involved in this after all—"

"Not Hollins," Harper interrupted firmly.

The jurist raised an eyebrow questioningly, and Harper just shook his head.

"Honestly, Milt, Mark's right; you are a donkey sometimes."

But Hardcastle just kept looking back at the detective blankly, and Harper found himself wondering if they did this sort of thing on purpose, just trying to see which of them could try his patience more. "I meant you, Milt," he finally said plainly.

The eyebrow climbed even higher toward the hairline. "Me?" Hardcastle barked. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Ah . . ." Frank lost a little bit of steam, but he tried to put it into words. "I already told you once not to ask me to explain it, but I'm tellin' you, I think that kid's been worried about you, and nothin' that he said in there made me change my mind. I mean, listen; he's sitting in my car with a service revolver pointed at him, doesn't know if I'm gonna arrest him or just shoot him on sight, and all he's asking about is you. First thing out of his mouth in there," a quick thumb jerk toward the viewing window, "is about you. And that crap about wanting to be sure you knew he wasn't the one who took out the guard? Hell, that's probably the closest thing to the truth that he said in the whole conversation. He just wants—" He broke off suddenly as Hardcastle rose from the table and crossed quickly back to the observation window. He watched as the older man stared stoically through the glass, watching McCormick led away.

"I should be able to get him out of there," the judge said quietly.

"You didn't do this," Harper told him, at his side.

Hardcastle didn't look away from the empty room. "But you said—"

"Doesn't matter," Harper interrupted sternly. "It might be for you, but that doesn't make it your fault. Besides, we'll get to the bottom of it."

And finally, Hardcastle turned to look at his friend. "'We'?" he repeated.

"Yeah, we," the detective answered, as he steered the older man gently away from the window. "The kid's lying to me, and I don't like it very much." He gathered the files into a single stack. "So tomorrow, we'll start with these again, and see what we might've missed, and we'll go from there." He was still steering Hardcastle, moving him out the door. "But not before nine," he instructed firmly, "you need some sleep. I need some sleep. Nothing we can do for him overnight, anyway." He didn't get much of a response, just a muffled grunt, which was more encouraging than he'd actually anticipated.

They had walked the short distance back to Harper's office, deposited all the paperwork unceremoniously on top of the desk, and were riding down in the elevator before Hardcastle finally spoke again. "He seems very determined," he said grimly.

"He does," Harper agreed. And he had to be honest with his friend. "Without his cooperation, we may not be able to protect him."

"Yeah," the judge sighed softly, "that's what I'm worried about."

Harper clapped him on the back as the doors slid open and they made their way to the exit. "Come on, Milt," he encouraged, "we're doing what we can." He gave a quick grin. "And besides, I figure between the two of us, we gotta be at least as smart as the kid, right?" The grin faded. "Trust me; we're doing what we can."

00000

McCormick didn't turn to watch the door being closed, but when he heard the latch click into place, he whirled back and slammed his palms against the steel. He would've screamed out in pure frustration, except for the flash of insight that warned him that things weren't quite as bad as they could get. Instead, he leaned his forehead against the cool metal, closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and simply waited. After several long seconds, he blew out the breath slowly, willing the anger away with it. Then he turned back and stared at the small room.

He knew, without being told, that this segregation from general population was a combination of genuine concern and power play, though it was undoubtedly the latter that had kept Harper from telling him about it beforehand. He supposed if he hadn't been so busy trying to figure his own angles, he might've anticipated—and tried to prevent—some of the detective's, but it was too late now. He sighed heavily and crossed over to sit on the small cot, contemplating the situation.

The problem, he thought—if it were possible to narrow it down to just one—was that it just wasn't possible to come up with a reasonable story to cover everything that had happened in the last few days. Hell, the truth was crazy enough, even if it had been an option. But he had been sure Harper would never fall for the whole 'honor among thieves' routine, and besides, he was good, but he wasn't sure he could sell that kind of loyalty to those people, anyway. So, since he really didn't know anything about Randall, he'd decided to make that his cover story for the entire ordeal. But Frank had clearly seen through that, as well. Not that he was entirely surprised. He had become increasingly convinced in the past six months or so that he was losing his edge. Which was exactly why he had to stand firm in his refusal to see Hardcastle. Harper might recognize the lie, but he'd never be able to force the truth. The judge was a whole other story. Though Hardcastle had never spelled it out, McCormick had known from the beginning that his first lie to the judge would be his last, and consequently, he hadn't spent any time perfecting the art. No, spinning this story to Hardcastle was out of the question.

Sighing again, he pulled a hand through his hair, and thought that he probably ought to get used to being alone.

Chapter 3

Harper stepped into the interrogation room carrying two large photo books and one large cup of coffee. It wasn't much of a peace offering, but maybe—

"You had me segregated?" McCormick demanded loudly before the door had even closed behind the officer. "You had no right."

"In case you hadn't noticed," Harper shot back, all thoughts of peace offerings gone, "you're incarcerated here. Your ass belongs to me right now, and which cell I put you in is my choice, not yours. Though maybe, if you tried coming clean with me about a few things, I might be inclined to consider your point of view on certain ideas. Otherwise, you probably ought to get used to taking whatever's dished out."

McCormick glared back at him for a moment, then said sullenly, "You have my statement."

The detective ignored the glare and moved to drop the heavy books onto the table. "The statement I have," he said reasonably, "is that you were working with unknown accomplices when you committed a violent felony. I certainly have no way to be sure that those men would not try to prevent you from speaking to me, and I have no idea who their other known associates might be. I can't protect you from the unknown."

"They're not gonna come after me," McCormick told him.

Harper didn't address that, either. "Add to that the fact that there's more than a few guys in here as a direct result of your work with Milt, and it seems to be a reasonable precaution to have you in protective custody."

"You knew I'd hate it," Mark accused.

"That was a little bit of a plus," Harper admitted, finally seating himself across from the younger man. "I don't like being lied to. So you wanna tell me yet what really happened?"

McCormick rubbed at his eyes. "You know what happened, Frank," the anger had suddenly been replaced with weariness. "I'm giving you a complete confession; you oughta just have someone type it up and I'll sign it in triplicate. Why are you making this so difficult?"

"Okay," Harper backtracked, "let me rephrase. Are you ready to tell me why it happened?"

"I told you that, too."

"You did," Harper nodded, "but that's where the lies started, and I know you know I know that. You really need to tell me the whole story, Mark; it's the only way I can help you."

"Help me? You think that's what I'm asking?" He shook his head. "All I need is for you to run interference with Hardcastle. I can take care of everything else."

"Hmph. Just a word of advice, Mark. Typically, someone who's taking care of things doesn't end up wearing solid denim, sitting on the other side of this table."

"We might have different perspectives this time around," McCormick conceded. He sighed slightly. "But I told you I'd look at your pictures, and I will." He pulled the first book across the table. "That's the least I can do." Then he looked at the officer hopefully. "You're not drinking that coffee."

Finally Harper smiled slightly. "It was supposed to be a peace offering," he confessed. "Maybe soften you up a little bit." He handed the cup across before continuing. "I really do want you to talk to Milt, you know."

"If it's a bribe," McCormick said, "you might as well take it back."

"Nah," Frank told him, "it's yours." He looked at the younger man carefully. "Besides, you look like you need it. I thought you said you'd sleep."

"I'm fine."

Harper didn't argue the point. "Sure, whatever you say. But listen, about Milt. I'm not gonna quit asking."

Mark nodded as he took a sip. "I can live with that." He opened the book. "You hanging out here with me?"

Harper shook his head and stood up. "No," he said apologetically, "I've got other things I've gotta take care of. I'll be back in a while. Just knock if you need anything, and an officer will help you."

"Okay," McCormick replied, but he was already flipping the pages, looking at the rows of pictures, as Harper slipped out of the room.

00000

Frank was at his desk, papers already spread out and engrossed in the information. It was eight-fifteen, which, he figured, gave him maybe fifteen minutes before Hardcastle came bursting through the door, ready to solve the problems of the world. He had realized years ago that the secret to working with the judge was simply to keep up with the man, but he'd also realized that sometimes that took some advance planning. He had just opened the file labeled 'Arthur Farnell' when he heard two quick knocks on the door. He glanced up at the clock—eight twenty-two—and shook his head with a smile. "Come in."

Harper looked up at his visitor, then pointedly back to the clock on the wall. "I thought I said nine."

"You said we needed sleep," Hardcastle pointed out. "Neither one of us are sleeping. Besides," he held up the items in his hands, "I brought bagels and decent coffee."

The lieutenant laughed. "Hey, you're better at peace offerings than I am." And he briefly related his earlier conversation with McCormick as they sorted out the breakfast and spread the cream cheese.

"So he's okay, then?" Even around the mouthful of food, Hardcastle couldn't hide the concern.

"He's fine. Though I might've been wrong about the sleeping thing; he looks really tired. I'll run him by the infirmary if I have to, though I doubt that would earn me any extra points."

"But he still won't see me?" Now the concern was tinged with hurt.

"So he says."

"And you're still okay with that?"

"I'm not okay with it," Harper objected, "but I still don't think this is the time to force him into anything. We don't know enough yet, and if you go in there, he's just going to shut down even further than he already has. I'm not going to risk that." He shrugged. "He's looking at some books now. I don't know how on the level he is with that, but it can't hurt."

"I thought the bank lady already looked and didn't find anything," the judge asked.

Harper shrugged again. "You know civilians. Really the worst witnesses. Maybe Mark will see something she missed."

"He's a civilian, too," Hardcastle pointed out with a small smile.

But Frank waved a bagel at that idea. "Yeah, but he's adopted onto the job." He paused, brow wrinkled in thought. "Maybe I should remind him of that next time I go in."

"Maybe. Though I still say—"

"Yeah, yeah," Harper interrupted, "I know. You want to go in. And as soon as I get him to agree or feel there's nothing to lose by backing him into a corner, you will. But in the meantime," he continued, deliberately changing the subject, "let me tell you what else we might want to think about.

"First, it's a long shot, mainly because I just don't know how honest he's being about anything, but you know Mark mentioned the Randall guy might be outta Florida. I contacted a guy I know down there in Miami and sent him a couple of photos; he's gonna check around and let me know if he finds anything.

"Second, I got the address on the car he boosted to come here yesterday. Wherever he's been hiding himself the past few days, he probably didn't go far before he secured transportation. I've got a couple of uniforms working the neighborhood, seeing what they can find out. Maybe we'll get lucky."

Hardcastle nodded his approval. "Sounds like you've been busy."

"Somebody I know taught me to cover all the angles." Harper pointed at the files he'd spread across his desk. "Which is why we're going back to these. Tell me what it is about these few that made you single them out."

"I'm not sure it was the most logical process," Hardcastle said slowly. "Though mostly I guess it had to do with cases where I thought maybe McCormick could've been seen as having a lot of responsibility for the result." He glanced at the pages closest to Harper. "Farnell, though, his actually makes the most sense. It's gonna be a long time down the road, but McCormick's gonna be on the witness list against him. Might make sense for him to try and get the kid out of the way. And, even if he's still here to testify, he has a lot less credibility as someone who has to get out on a pass to visit the courtroom. You've got Terry Harlow's file there, too, for all the same reasons, though something like this seems much more Farnell's style than Terry's. And besides, there's no guarantee McCormick's gonna take the stand against Harlow; their case could be made without him. The DA needs him for Farnell."

Harper nodded and made a couple of notes. "Okay, so we definitely want to talk to Farnell, and at least get an alibi for the weekend. Although since his latest game has become training people to follow in his footsteps, I suppose he could've hired someone to handle this."

"He might've, but I think Artie would've preferred to handle this himself." Hardcastle paused. "If it was him," he added. "Honestly, I don't think it was, but of all the cases we've worked on, he's the one guy who actually has something of a reason to go after McCormick." He tapped on another file. "And maybe Martin Cody, but he's still sitting in a cell; never granted bail."

"So who has a reason to go after you?" Harper inquired.

"Me? I'm not the one sittin' in lock-up."

"Donkey," Frank muttered into his coffee. Louder, he said, "Look, if I wanted to get to you, but not take you out . . . just discredit you, or plain make your life miserable, what do you think I'd do?"

The judge looked back blankly for a moment, then shook his head. "Uh-uh. You're not saying they went after him just to get to me?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. That's what I'd do, and I'm not the only one who could piece that together."

"C'mon, Frank, he's a parolee. He works for me. He's—"

"Your friend," Harper finished calmly.

Hardcastle sat for a moment without offering any further argument. What he finally said was, "Well, hell, they all hate me. That's not gonna narrow it down much."

"Maybe not," Harper chuckled, "but some gotta put you at the top of the list more than others. Are you getting ready to testify against anyone? You know, if your testimony included anything about Mark's contributions, the DA might want to downplay that under these circumstances. Anybody who benefits from a situation like that? Or anyone who would simply recognize your connection to the kid more readily than others and be inclined to take advantage of it?"

"Frank," Hardcastle huffed, "I barely recognize that 'connection' myself. You want me to figure out who else might?"

"Covering all the angles," Frank reminded him, still grinning. Still, he didn't let his friend squirm too long. He grabbed another file, not nearly as aged as some of the others. "What about, um, Denny Collins?" He flipped through the pages. "I don't really know about this one."

"Oh, he's a car guy," the jurist said, "racing and auto parts. At least, that's what it said on the letterhead. Financed it all with some major auto theft. Personally, I think what we're dealing with now is out of his league, but he had a pretty strong McCormick angle. I never would've been there if not for the kid."

"Your notes say he was granted bail awaiting trial, but not his flunkies?"

"Isn't that always the way? He goes back to his mansion and his boy, Larry, and the rest of 'em get stuck inside."

"So, would he do something like this without his right-hand man?"

"I don't know, Frank," Hardcastle suddenly snapped. "You know, I'm not some kinda damn shrink. I brought these files more on a hunch than anything else. Because I didn't believe that McCormick really pulled that job. But now he's sitting down the hall, confessing to the crime, and it's become not a question of if but why. You're singing a song that this is all because of me, but dammit, I don't know how to figure it out. We could go through every file in my basement and never find the answer until McCormick tells us what he knows. Without that, it's all just guesswork, because I just don't know."

Harper was accustomed to the older man's outbursts, particularly when things weren't going according to the Hardcastle Plan, so he wasn't fazed by this one, though he didn't care for the undercurrent of guilt in the man's words. But he took a moment to let the silence be, letting Hardcastle think about all the things he already knew, but wouldn't want to hear right now. He calmly wrote 'out of his league' next to Denny Collins' name, then set that file aside. Then he looked back at the judge and started to tell him the things he already knew.

"First of all, Milt, let's be clear on the meaning of 'because of you'. Someone may, in fact, be after you, and they may have decided the shortest path to you was through the kid. That doesn't make it your fault. I don't want you to forget that.

"Secondly, this," he passed his hand over the accumulated papers, "is just groundwork; you know that. I'm not looking for concrete answers; I'm just picking your brain a little, trying to get a feel for these guys. And seriously, I'd trust one of your hunches over a whole bunch of evidence most any day of the week." He stopped for a second, then added sheepishly, "I'm just sorry it took me a while to do it this time around." He grabbed another file. "Now who's next on the hit parade?

"Tina Grey," he said with a grimace.

Hardcastle matched the expression. "That got pretty ugly. But I don't know. Word is, she's doing an awful lot of talking and making a pretty good deal for herself. But there's a lot of people involved in that thing. Jersey Joe Beiber. And Filapiano." He practically spat out the last name.

"Well Tina Grey's been under pretty tight wraps, anyway," Harper told him. "I don't know that she could've orchestrated it, even if she'd wanted to. But Beiber managed to bond out. And, of course, charges haven't been finalized yet against Filapiano."

"Don't know what they're dragging their feet about," Hardcastle grumped.

"You do know," the detective contradicted. "The DA's been working closely with IAD, and they're going to make sure everything's in place before they file charges against a police captain. They can't afford to make a mistake, and they don't want to interfere with anything ongoing over here. It's really been a pretty amazing case of cooperation, if you want to know the truth."

But Hardcastle didn't seem to be appeased. "Yeah, except that he gets to keep walking around like he didn't do anything wrong."

"He was suspended."

"Hmph."

Harper didn't pursue the argument, but he added Don Filapiano's name to his list of people to question. Clearly it was personal for Hardcastle; might be safe to assume that worked both ways. He was reaching for one final file when the phone rang.

"Harper." He listened for a moment, a small satisfied smile coming to his face. "Excellent." He scribbled a few things onto his notepad, then held up a hand to forestall Hardcastle's questions. "That's it? Okay. Yeah, get the lab guys out there and get those citizens back here. Maybe somebody can recognize this guy. Good work, Lance." And he hung up the phone.

He didn't wait for the questions. "House up in La Crescenta," he said. "Found a couple of neighbors who recognized Mark and Randall and pointed them in the right direction. Coyote's in the garage. Neighbors say there was another guy, too. Say Randall's been there the longest; moved in a couple of months ago. The other guy has been in and out for a few weeks. They only saw Mark once, just a couple of days ago, and only noticed him because of the car.

"The house is a rental," Harper went on, "they've got a call in to the owner to find out about the current tenant. House itself is pretty clean, not much that's obviously useful; the techs will process it and see if we get anything. Only one thing out of the ordinary."

"What?" Hardcastle prompted when Frank hesitated.

"One bedroom. Handcuffs and ropes on the bed frame. Said it looks like someone might've been tied up there."

"So he was being held," Hardcastle said definitively.

"Maybe," Harper said slowly. "But how do we prove that?" He shook his head. "Awfully hard to make a case for kidnapping if the victim won't speak up."

The judge pushed himself to his feet abruptly. "I'm gonna ask him." And he was out the door before Harper could object.

The lieutenant was immediately on his feet and rushing after Hardcastle. "Milt!" He grabbed at an arm and pulled the judge to a stop. "I know you're getting impatient, but this is not the time. Let me ask him." Harper didn't say anything further, just locked his eyes on the older pair, and waited for Hardcastle to remember that this wasn't his station anymore.

"He's just gonna lie to you again," the jurist finally muttered.

"Maybe, but what leverage do you have? Gonna threaten to pull his ticket? In case you haven't noticed, that's exactly what he wants."

"All right." Hardcastle heaved a sigh. "But I'll be in the observation room; I at least want to hear what he has to say."

"Fair enough," Harper agreed, and they continued down the hall.

00000

"So why La Crescenta?" Harper asked as the door swung open.

McCormick looked up in surprise. "Huh?"

"Why'd you pick there for your hideout?" Harper crossed to the table, but didn't sit. Instead, he braced his hands on the back of the chair, and leaned toward McCormick, an intent glare on his face. "And how'd you swing the house, anyway?"

"Ah . . ." McCormick didn't like the shift in the detective's attitude; that could be dangerous. But still, the number one rule was always Don't Lie Unless Necessary. "The house isn't mine; I think you know that."

"Whose is it?"

Mark thought about that for a second. "I'm not sure," he said honestly. "I would guess Randall's." Though that seemed a little odd to him, now that he thought about it. Randall clearly wasn't the guy in charge, but the house seemed like his home. He dismissed the idea. "Why?"

"How long have you been working with these guys?" Harper asked, without answering McCormick's question.

This was definitely a necessary lie, though he wasn't sure what the right answer might be. He hoped for the best. "Not long; couple of weeks."

"A big job for just a couple weeks' planning," Harper observed, not sounding convinced.

McCormick shook his head. "They'd had it scoped out for a while, but they lost their vault guy; got picked up on a beef up in Sonoma County, so they said. They needed a replacement, I needed—"

"Cash," Harper interrupted. "Right. I heard that part. So they trusted you pretty quick."

"Told ya, we had a mutual friend."

"Well, listen, I'm just wondering why, if the mutual friend vouched for you, and they took you into their confidences so quickly and all, why they found it necessary to tie you to the bed up there in La Crescenta?"

"They . . . didn't," McCormick replied, though he could admit to himself that wasn't the question he'd been prepared for, and even he didn't believe the answer. He was definitely losing his edge.

"Then who were you guys holding prisoner up there?" Harper demanded.

"What?" He hadn't been prepared for that, either. "No one. What're you talking about?"

"Well, it looks like someone was being held there against their will. What with the disagreement you had with Randall, I thought maybe two and two went together, and it was you. But if not, then it must've been someone else. So on top of everything else, are we gonna have to add kidnapping charges to the list?"

Mark swallowed hard. He could recognize intimidation when he heard it, especially baseless intimidation, but that didn't mean it couldn't be effective. Besides, he could give Harper this without really giving up anything. If he was careful. He thought quickly.

"Saturday was a little tense," he began. "That guard on Friday night wasn't supposed to be there then; he was off his route. It messed up all the plans. No one was supposed to get hurt. I really had tried to stop Randall from beating him, and that caused some problems. Saturday, I tried to call the hospital to check on him, and the guys came unglued. Then I tried to renegotiate my share, which also didn't go over too well. By Saturday night, I had decided I wanted out. Told them I was going back to Gull's Way, turn myself into Hardcastle. They thought I was crazy. I reminded them I couldn't hurt them; didn't know enough to bring the heat to them, but they still didn't think it was a good idea. They overpowered me and tied me to the bed. Told me I could do whatever I wanted after they had time to disappear. Yesterday they left. I got myself untied and came here, and here we are." There. He thought that wasn't too bad. And, most important, irrefutable.

"Mark . . ." Harper seemed saddened by the answer. "You sure there's nothing else you want to say about that?"

"Nothing else to say," McCormick told him firmly.

Harper shook his head once, then pointed at the mug books. "You havin' any luck with those?"

"Not really. 'Bout what I expected."

"Yeah," the detective sighed. "About what I expected, too." And he disappeared out the door, leaving McCormick alone again.

00000

"Yeah, well that's always been the problem," Hardcastle was saying as they rounded the corner to Harper's office, "the damn kid has an answer for everything."

Harper grinned, though there was nothing amusing about this situation. "That's for damned sure."

They both pulled up short at the sight of the man pacing in front of the lieutenant's office, obviously warring with himself. They watched him stop at the door and raise a hand as if to knock, only to snatch the hand back down and turn away and begin the pacing again. It didn't seem to be the first time he'd repeated the pattern.

Harper raised a quizzical eyebrow at the judge.

"Beats me," Hardcastle muttered, but he took the lead as they closed the remaining few feet that separated them from the other man. "Teddy! What're you doing here?"

Teddy Hollins whirled around mid-pace, a look of horror on his face. He quickly pulled his left hand behind his back. "Judge! What're you doing here?"

"I asked first," Hardcastle told the ex-con, smiling sweetly. "What's going on?"

"Ah, nothing. I was . . . was . . .um . . ."

Grinning slightly, Harper stepped into the mix. "Teddy, were you looking for me?"

"Ah, Lieutenant Harper. Sort of. I mean, maybe." Teddy cast a nervous look back at Hardcastle.

"And did you maybe want to show me something?" he asked, pointing at the item not-quite-concealed behind Hollins' back.

"No," Teddy said quickly, still keeping an eye on the judge. "I was just a little worried about Mark, is all. Wondered if there'd been any leads in, ah, finding him?"

Harper threw another questioning look at Hardcastle. Two ex-cons lying to him in one day wasn't something he really wanted to experience. But Hardcastle just shrugged.

"Teddy," Harper said in his most officially pleasant voice, "why don't you step into my office and we'll talk for a minute."

"Well, no, if you're busy . . ." But then the older men flanked the ex-con and ushered him through the doorway, leaving him no choice. "Okay," Teddy amended, "let's talk in your office then."

Harper rounded his desk, but didn't take his seat, though he gestured the younger man into one of the visitor chairs. "What's on your mind then, Teddy?" he asked. He watched Hollins twist around to look at Hardcastle, who had moved into the room, but was clearly standing between himself and the exit. Harper understood the effect the judge could have on some people, but he realized he suddenly had no compunction against strong-arming this kid. Somebody needed to start telling him the truth.

"If it's about McCormick," Harper continued to Hollins, "then it involves the judge, so why don't you just say what you came to say?"

"Then you haven't found him yet?" Hollins asked, with what Harper immediately labeled as genuine worry.

The officer opted for the truth. "He's no longer missing; he's in custody."

"He's what?" Teddy cried. "What for? He hasn't done anything wrong." He turned to look behind him again. "Judge, he would never do anything to let you down; you know that."

"Why don't you tell us what's on your mind, Teddy?" Hardcastle suggested, and he moved to drop into the chair next to the ex-con.

Hollins ran one hand nervously over his hair; his other still clutched tightly around a manila envelope. "I don't know what's going on exactly," he began slowly, "and I'm not even sure if I should be here, but I'm worried about him." He looked pointedly at Hardcastle, then back at Harper. "But, Lieutenant, wouldn't it be possible for us to speak in private?"

"No." Two voices spoke as one, and Teddy flinched at the stern solidarity.

"What's got you worried?" Harper asked.

Teddy sighed, looked longingly at the door for a few seconds, then jumped slightly when the man next to him cleared his throat loudly. "Okay. Here's the thing. Mark came to see me yesterday, and—"

"Yesterday?" Hardcastle interrupted. "When yesterday? And why didn't you call me?"

"I don't know when, exactly," Hollins blustered, "yesterday afternoon." He didn't quite meet Hardcastle's eyes. "And I didn't call you because he asked me not to. I sort of thought maybe he was going home. He didn't exactly say that, but I was hoping. But I called the gatehouse all last night and this morning and never got an answer, so I figured he didn't go back."

"He came here," Harper interjected quietly, "we've had him in custody since. What did he say to you, Teddy?"

Hollins shook his head. "He just said some bad stuff had happened that he had never intended to happen, and he needed to fix it." He glanced over at Hardcastle. "Then he said something kinda weird. Said he wasn't sure he could fix it with the judge, but he knew how to fix it for him. Didn't make any sense to me, but he wouldn't explain. Said it was better if I didn't know."

Harper shook his own head wearily. More guilt without information he figured Hardcastle could live without. "What else?"

But Teddy just shrugged. "Nothing else; he wouldn't tell me anything about what was going on. But then he gave me this." He held up the envelope weakly. "Said I shouldn't open it, ever. Told me just to hold on to it unless you came looking for it, Lieutenant."

"Me?" Harper was surprised.

"Said you were the only one I should give it to; you were the only one he'd send for it." He turned to look beside him. "I'm sorry, Judge, but he specifically said not to give it to you."

Harper finally dropped into his own chair as he looked across at his long-time friend, but Hardcastle's face had become a mask. Too late, he realized he shouldn't have tried to strong-arm Teddy at all, and should've granted his request for a private conversation. But there was nothing to do now but move forward. He reached across for the envelope.

"Whatever it is," Teddy said as he handed it across the desk, "will you tell Mark I'm sorry? But the way he was acting . . . I don't know. He was scared. Scared like I've never seen him before, not even in prison. I just thought you should have it." He stood up from his chair. "Can I go now?"

Harper was surprised the younger man didn't even want to see what was in the envelope, though he supposed Hollins might think that an even greater betrayal. "Sure, Teddy, go ahead; we'll call you if we need anything more. Thanks for bringing this, though; it was the right thing to do."

"Sure," Hollins replied without much conviction. He stopped at the door. "Can I see Mark?"

"Sorry," Harper told him, hating the answer, "he's not allowed visitors yet."

"Okay," Teddy acknowledged softy, and closed the door behind him.

"You should've made him stay," Hardcastle said once the door was shut.

"Why? You think he was lying?"

The judge shook his head. "But I've been wrong before."

"Not lately," Harper assured him.

Hardcastle harrumphed and swiped his thumb across his nose, then pointed at the envelope lying on the desktop. "So, you gonna come up with some excuse to get rid of me before you open that thing, or you just gonna kick me out?"

"Would either way work?"

"Don't think so."

Harper smiled slightly. "I didn't think so, either." He rummaged in his desk for a pair of rubber gloves, then reached for the envelope, undid the clasp, and lifted the flap. Sliding two photographs from inside, he looked briefly, then said, "I think we're getting a lot closer to 'why'." He laid them carefully out so that Hardcastle could see the images without touching them.

One of the eight by ten prints was actually a collage of sorts, with Hardcastle in a variety of different locations: shopping at the grocery store, talking with a teller at the bank, at a Lakers game, standing in line at the concession stand at a movie. But in each frame, Randall could be seen, never more than a few feet away, looking carefully at the judge. The message seemed clear, though Harper doubted this was the first thing Mark had heard about it.

But if that message seemed clear, the next photo seemed to be screaming its point aloud. A single photo, Hardcastle sitting on his patio, reading the paper. It might have been an idyllic scene were it not for the fact that the photo had been snapped through the scope of a rifle, the target sightlines clearly imposed on Hardcastle's head.

"Milt . . ." Harper trailed off when he realized that he really didn't have any type of encouragement to offer.

For his part, Hardcastle just sat silently, staring at the photos, and Harper was sure he was trying to figure out just how mad you could be at someone who would willingly throw his life away for yours.

It took several minutes, but Harper supposed he should've expected the first comment that Hardcastle finally made. "I want to see him."

The detective let the silence stretch for another moment, trying to find anything close to a reason to refuse, but he doubted he was going to find anything that could override the simple, painful expression that filled his friend's eyes, so what he said was, "Okay."

00000

They had agreed Hardcastle would go in alone, though Harper had been far less confident in that decision than the judge. But he had agreed, so this time he waited alone in the observation room, watching through the window.

McCormick was still looking diligently through the books on the table—and Harper was still wondering how much of that was just for show—when Hardcastle stepped into the room.

McCormick glanced up nonchalantly, but then stiffened perceptibly when he saw who was standing across the table. "What're you doing here?"

"I'm worried about you."

Harper watched the young man's eyebrows shoot up into his hair, and couldn't say he was surprised. Hardcastle was rarely so straightforward about his feelings. Too bad McCormick didn't follow suit. "I'm fine."

"Hah." Hardcastle slid the chair out and seated himself, laid a thin file folder next to him on the tabletop, then folded his hands on the table and looked calmly back at the other man. "You wanna try that again?"

But McCormick just shook his head and rose to his feet. Without another word, he crossed to the door and gave two quick knocks. When there was no immediate reply, he knocked again. "Officer Brandt!"

"He's not coming," Hardcastle said, and Harper had to admit he was impressed the man was able to maintain the outward composure.

It took a couple of minutes, and some increasingly frantic pounding on the door, but McCormick finally seemed to accept that no reprieve was coming and turned to shuffle back across the room and slouch into his chair. "What do you want?"

Hardcastle wasn't quite able to completely hide the hurt that flashed across his face, but his tone was even when he asked, "Since when do I need a reason to talk to you? Besides, I told ya; I've been worried."

"Frank coulda told you I was okay," Mark answered, softening just a little.

"Frank's not sure you're okay," Hardcastle told him. "In the first place, you look like hell. I give you a few days off and you can't take better care of yourself than this?"

McCormick managed a small grin. "Must've gotten used to having you around." But then the grin faded as he looked up into the older eyes. "I really am okay, Judge. And I'm really sorry."

Hardcastle matched the tone. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

McCormick shook his head slightly. "I told Frank."

"Yeah, but he's not too sure about that, either."

"So what're you, then?" the ex-con asked, bitterness creeping into his words, "The big guns? I told him I didn't want to see you. I know he couldn't have been unclear about that part of it."

"I outrank him."

"You're not even a goddamn cop," McCormick contradicted. "And even if a judge trumps a cop, you're retired."

Hardcastle shrugged. "When it concerns you, I trump everybody."

Mark sucked in a breath. "Then you're the one that needs to understand this. I robbed a bank, Judge. I broke into the building, cracked the safe, and took the money. That's it; end of story. Nothing else matters."

"Why matters," the judge insisted.

"Because I—" McCormick faltered a second, then finished weakly, "—wanted to."

Mark didn't make any immediate attempt at a more convincing argument as his gaze tore away from Hardcastle's, and Frank suddenly understood the young man's refusal to see the judge: the kid couldn't lie to him. He could throw around the attitude, and engage in a lot of half-information and misdirection, but he couldn't lay down a complete, blatant, unadulterated lie. That was an interesting piece of information. Of course, it was still a long ways from having the truth served up on a silver platter, but it was interesting, just the same. He watched as Hardcastle slid the file folder into the small space between them.

"That's okay," the judge began, "you don't really have to answer; I know why." And he opened up the folder to spread out the two photographs, now carefully contained inside plastic evidence bags, and let them make his point.

Harper saw the young man stare silently for several long seconds—trying to figure a new angle, no doubt—then saw his shoulders slump in defeat. "Ah, Teddy," Mark sighed.

"Teddy was worried about you," Hardcastle told him. "Everyone's worried about you. Now you want to come clean with me?"

But, unbelievably, McCormick just shook his head firmly. "This doesn't change anything."

"The hell it doesn't," Hardcastle huffed, some of his composure finally slipping. "You think I'm gonna let you throw your life away out of some misguided attempt to protect me?"

McCormick remained calm. "Actually, I meant that sort of literally, Judge. This doesn't change the fact that I broke into a bank, cracked the safe, and illegally removed a very large amount of money. I'm pretty sure nothing can change that."

"Nonsense. I've gotta teach you about intent."

"Intent?" Mark let out a small laugh. "Hardcase, I intended to sneak in and take them for everything they had. I think I did a pretty damn good job, too."

"Dammit, McCormick, this isn't a game."

"No." The young man sobered. "It isn't."

Hardcastle pinched at the bridge of his nose. "All right, maybe you've got a point about intent, I suppose; it's really a question of motive."

This time McCormick didn't seem at all amused. "Trust me, Judge; I don't think motive has much to do with it at all, and I've got a couple of years personal experience to back that up."

Harper saw the anger building in Hardcastle's eyes, and thought maybe the two had had enough alone time. He hurried from the observation area and around the corner, and let himself into the interrogation room just in time to hear the end of Hardcastle's shout.

"—prison for the rest of your stupid life!"

"It's my life!" McCormick shouted back.

The judge was on his feet, leaned across the table, glowering down at the ex-con. "In case you've forgotten," he was saying coldly, "it was supposed to be my life for the next couple of years or so. You're supposed to be doing what I say."

"Is that what this is about?" McCormick demanded. "You're upset because you're gonna lose your lawn boy?"

"Don't answer that, Milt," Harper broke in firmly as he crossed the room. He stood at the head of the table, holding an appeasing hand out toward each of them. "Milt, why don't you sit down? And, Mark, why don't you try and dial back the attitude and zip the lip for once?"

The glares didn't leave either face, but Harper was relieved when the judge slowly took his seat and McCormick didn't immediately offer any more heated comments. He dragged up a chair and seated himself, then turned his attention back to his prisoner.

"So," he began conversationally, "you've been lying to me."

"Not entirely," Mark argued, though without much conviction, his eyes suddenly focused on the pattern his fingertip was tracing on the tabletop. "I really did rob that bank. Has everyone forgotten that?"

"I knew that three days ago," Harper pointed out, "it's the reason I've been wanting to get from you. You let me down."

"Yeah, well, and I wanted you to keep him outta here, so maybe we're even."

"Mark."

McCormick finally looked back at the officer. "All right. I'm sorry. Is that what you want me to say?"

"Nope. What I want is for you to tell me what happened. I want to know who you were working with; who's responsible for those photos?"

He couldn't help but notice that even with just a quick glance at the pictures, McCormick couldn't quite stop the small shudder that ran through him, and Harper felt sorry for the kid. "Look, Mark, you don't need to worry. This isn't just your responsibility any more. As of about thirty minutes ago, Milt's got official police protection; we'll keep him safe." And the detective had to work to hide a smile of satisfaction at his own quick thinking. Of course, Hardcastle wouldn't want protection, but there'd be no way for him to object to it under these circumstances. He was glad the judge had calmed down enough to go along.

"That's right, kiddo. Let them do their job. Just tell us who it is and we'll find 'em, and Frank can keep an eye on me until we do."

McCormick gestured to the mug books. "Whatta ya think I've been trying to do? I told you I don't know anything about that Randall guy, except that I don't think he's from here, but I'm looking. Brandt brought me another book; I'm almost through the K's now, and still no sign of him, but I am looking. What more do you want? Trust me; I'd like to find him. The guy's dangerous; he oughta be off the streets, but I don't know him."

Harper thought that sounded pretty sincere, though it did carefully avoid full disclosure. Hardcastle beat him to the next question.

"What about the other guy?"

McCormick shrugged, and directed his answer to the lieutenant. "Told ya, he used the name Black. I haven't seen him in the books, either."

"You know one of them," Harper insisted, "at least. All I'm asking for is a name."

"I don't have a name to give you, Frank; I can't help you."

"Can't? Or won't?" Hardcastle demanded.

"Ends up the same," Mark replied, still not looking at the judge.

"You know we have other witnesses now," Harper interjected, not letting the exchange escalate. "If we can't find a mug shot of this Black character, we'll get a sketch; someone will know him."

"Maybe. But that someone won't be me."

"Well, I'm not gonna just sit here and watch you destroy your life," Hardcastle declared angrily, pushing his chair back loudly as he stood.

"No one invited you to the show," McCormick told him.

The judge shook his head wordlessly and stomped to the door, where he gave a pre-planned knock and then disappeared as soon as the door was opened.

Harper was staring with undisguised anger. "All that man wants is what's best for you."

"Yeah." Mark rubbed at his forehead. "Then I don't think it should be so difficult to understand the reverse." He let his eyes meet Harper's. "Will you really make him take protection?"

The detective thought about delivering a long and loud lecture, trying to break through the thick head he was dealing with. But the young man was so clearly genuine in his concern, so obviously well-intentioned, that honesty seemed the only approach. "I'll try," he said. "Truth is, he'll probably put up with it for a day or so, as long as he thinks it has a chance of bringing you around, but after that . . ."

"Couldn't protect him forever, anyway," McCormick said forlornly. "I knew that from the beginning."

"That's why you're here, right?"

"It's the only way, Frank."

"And these guys, the ones you don't know and can't name, you trust them so much that you're willing to give up your life on the chance that they're going to keep their end of the deal?"

"Only because it's the only chance I have," McCormick told him. "And because I think it's possible they'd rather screw around with Hardcastle than actually kill him. Doesn't mean I don't think they would," he added quickly, "because I don't think they have any qualms about killing, but I think they'd rather discredit him, if they had their choice." He shrugged half-heartedly. "I'm giving them a choice."

"But if we knew who and why, we could find them, put them away. Then he'd be safe."

"That's not a chance I'm willing to take." He pulled the photo book toward him again. "I'll let you know if I see anybody I recognize."

Recognizing a dismissal—and a lost cause—Harper collected his own photos, and exited the room.

00000

It was a couple of hours later when the door opened again. Mark lifted his head groggily off the table and looked up at the man in the suit who was now seating himself across the table. "Hey . . ." He rubbed at his eyes, thinking. " . . . Lazenby."

The newcomer's face was clouded with anger. "I can't believe they're keeping you in here like this. How long've you been in this room?"

McCormick shook his head. "Ah . . ." He lifted his wrist, realized he wasn't as awake as he'd hoped when he didn't find his watch, then tried to explain. "I dunno, but, really, it's okay. I'd rather be here than in my cell, and they—" He paused for a moment to let himself understand. "They know that," he continued, and he thought that was really pretty decent, all things considered. He continued his reassurance to his attorney. "This really isn't something you need to worry about."

Lazenby didn't seem convinced. "No one likes being in a cell, but—"

"They've got me in PC," McCormick interrupted, though he doubted that this young man in his navy blue suit and power tie could possibly understand.

"So what's the difference? At least in there you could lay down."

"I don't know," Mark sighed lightly. "The officer brings me a new mug book every now and again, along with a fresh cup of coffee. The room's a little bigger; the walls are white, not grey . . . look, it doesn't matter, okay?"

The other man still seemed uncertain, but he nodded once as he pulled a legal pad from his briefcase on the table. "I feel obligated to tell you," he began, as he looked back at McCormick, "I was approached by Milton Hardcastle today."

"'Approached'?"

"He's offered to represent you," Lazenby explained. He shrugged slightly. "I think you should probably consider it. First of all," he went on quickly, "the man's something of a legend, even if we're dealing with the federal level; having him on your side could only be a benefit. And secondly," he consulted a file quickly, "somehow, he's your parole officer, right? It would probably look good if he still maintained enough faith in you to defend you."

"I'm satisfied with my current representation," McCormick said. "And besides, I can't afford his retainer."

Lazenby knitted his brow. "I had the definite impression he was willing to work pro bono."

"The cost is higher than you know."

"Well," the attorney continued, "he has also offered to serve as second chair, if you don't have any objections to that."

"Hah. Trust me when I tell you that Milton Hardcastle doesn't take second chair to anybody. Now listen," McCormick was suddenly serious, "he's trying to make your job more difficult than it has to be. You don't need to pawn this case off on anybody else, and you don't need a second chair. I just need someone to stand up with me at the arraignment and get me through sentencing. I'd do it myself, but then Hardcase really would come unglued. Anyway, just tell him thanks, but no thanks."

Lazenby was still staring quizzically. "Sentencing? We're not going to mount a defense?"

"No. Though there actually is one thing I want from you; work with the US Attorney to drop the assault charge."

"The assault?" Clearly, Lazenby didn't understand his client at all. "That's almost the least of your worries, now that it looks like the guard's going to be okay. It's only a few extra years. What you need to do is defend the robbery."

"There isn't a defense to make on that," McCormick told him, "but I didn't do that guard, and I don't want to plead to it. Surely that's not gonna be a deal breaker for anyone. No one in their right mind is gonna risk a trial when I'm willing to given them a confession. Like you said, it's only a few years difference. You make them understand the logic, okay?"

"What about the other guys?" the attorney asked suddenly.

"What about them?"

"Are you willing to name them?"

"That's not an option, but it shouldn't matter. They'll get a conviction, which is what they're really concerned with. Anything else is gravy."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure," Mark said definitively.

"The sentence won't be negotiable, if you're refusing to give up the others. Especially since the bulk of the money hasn't been recovered." He looked intently at his client. "Twenty years is a long time."

"Yeah, I know. Just work it out, okay?"

"Okay." Lazenby still didn't seem convinced, but he was placing his notepad back into his briefcase. "I'll get to work on that angle. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

McCormick shook his head. "I don't think so. Just make sure you don't let Hardcastle badger you into anything."

For the first time, Lazenby smiled slightly. "He does seem to be rather tenacious."

"Tenacious," McCormick repeated with a snicker, "yeah, that's one word for it, all right. But seriously, you just tell him to mind his own business; that we've got things under control. He's not gonna like it, but he doesn't get to pick about this, okay?"

"Okay," Lazenby agreed as he moved across the room. "I'll remember." And he disappeared out the door.

00000

Hardcastle's face was red as he slammed his front door behind him and trudged into his den. He deliberately didn't look out his window as he moved behind the desk and grabbed the phone to dial a familiar number. His foot was tapping quickly as he waited through the ring.

"Harp—"

"I thought what we discussed was minimal protection?" the judge interrupted angrily.

"It was," Harper replied evenly, "and it is."

"That's what you call it?" Hardcastle demanded. "There's a car at my gate, and one right in front of my house, and that's not counting the guy that followed me home and then posted himself at my front door. I'd hate to see your idea of maximum protection."

"They could be inside."

"Over my dead body."

"That's what we're trying to avoid," the detective reminded him.

"Oh, come on. I thought what we were trying to do was outsmart the kid."

"You come on, Milt. Either you believe he was coerced or you don't."

"Of course he was coerced," Hardcastle harrumphed.

"Then you could be in danger," the detective said reasonably. "Until we get a better handle on what's going on, I'm leaving some guys with you."

"If you really thought I needed that much watching over, you shouldn't've run me outta your office. What's safer than the police station?"

"Well, yeah," Harper chuckled, "but then one of us woulda ended up needing some kind of protection from the other. And there's no tellin' what might've happened to poor Mark before the day was over."

"I wasn't being that bad," the older man grumped, though he took the long silence from the other end to be a disagreement. "But he's being damned hard-headed about this," he finally added as a defense. "Won't even let me work with his attorney. What the hell is his problem?"

"His problem, as you well know, is that he doesn't think he can protect himself and you at the same time. And you gettin' pissed off about it over and over again is exactly why I sent you home."

Hardcastle put a palm to his forehead and dropped heavily into his chair. "I hate this, Frank," he said, his voice suddenly low and sincere. "There has to be a way for me to help him."

"The thing is, Milt," Harper said gently, "right now, there isn't. He's either gonna have to decide to help himself, or we're gonna have to find the other guys. He put himself into this hole; he has to get himself out."

The words made Hardcastle remember something else. "But you're not gonna let him talk you out of PC?"

"Nope. In fact, I sent him back to his cell right after you left. The two of you might be too stubborn to take care of yourselves, but, fortunately, I have some authority in this situation." He paused then added thoughtfully, "As much as I hate to say this, in some ways, he's better off that this is a federal beef. He'll be a lot safer up in Lompoc or something. Not too many people will know him there."

The judge closed his eyes and shook his head. "That's not exactly the reassurance I was looking for, Frank."

"No," Harper agreed, "probably not. But it's the best I can do right now. I'll let you know if anything changes."

"I'll be waiting," Hardcastle answered, and ended the call.