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Twice Into The Same Stream

Chapter 1

by Kate04

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"Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies."

- Aristotle

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A/N: A big thank you once again to RockinRobin B for her quick and fantastic beta and to my darling twin Kadi219 for being an awesome cheerleader and for discussing plot and characters with me.

Just to be on the safe side, this gets a WARNING for slight violence and the possibility of a miscarriage. Nothing too graphic, though.

This story is finished, but because I like to torture you a little, I'll post a chapter a day once again. :D

Disclaimer: Not my sandbox, not my toys. I don't get paid for playing with them and I promise not to break them.

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January 2005

Captain Sharon Raydor sighed in resignation as she closed the file in front of her, put it and the other documents that littered her desk into the top drawer and locked it. She rubbed her tense shoulder muscles with her hands, trying to ease the pain, rolling her head to loosen the knots, but it was useless. Spending almost two straight days on her feet or behind her desk without more than a short walk to the café around the corner as a break was apparently not as easy as it used to be. The thought of a hot bath and a few hours of sleep made her moan with longing and she didn't lose any more time to finally get out of the office and make it happen. It was very late – or maybe very early, depending on how one wanted to look at it – and she was the last person on the floor. For once, it was a quiet night for FID and the on-call officer was allowed to sleep through the night. She groaned when she realized that it would be her turn the following night and not for the first time she questioned the wisdom of spending so much time looking into that case on her own, but she knew if had it to do over, she'd make the same choice.

Despite what people thought about her and her squad, she did not enjoy accusing fellow officers of any kind of wrongdoing. Whenever suspicions or complaints were brought to her attention, she tried her very best to find out the truth, always hoping that she could clear the officer. Her years of experience showed her that things often weren't what they looked like on first glance, so she had learned to approach each case without any preconception about either the suspect or the person making the complaint. Especially when serious accusations were made she treaded very carefully, knowing that once the idea was out there, people tended to make assumptions. They talked and spread rumours and before she had a chance to prove anything one way or the other, someone was already found guilty in the court of public opinion.

Her current case was exactly one of those delicate situations. A suspect had reported an excessive use of force which had triggered a routine investigation. It was one of hundreds of complaints she had to deal with every year – until something didn't add up. The logical place to start when a suspect claimed to have been beaten up during an interview was of course the surveillance tape of that interview, only in that case there had been a mysterious malfunction of their equipment, meaning there was no recording for her to review. Although that was not exactly a regular occurrence, the building was old and so was the technology they used. These things happened and it wasn't anything to be too suspicious about. Then the suspect who had made the complaint had gone missing or, as the officers in charge of him claimed, he had been misplaced. That too, did happen occasionally, but it was usually done deliberately in order to slow down the process, giving them time to gather evidence to nail the suspect and hopefully confirm they had the right person. If the technical malfunction had not been enough to confirm that there was something they didn't want her to find, her missing victim definitely was. It only made her dig harder. She had never liked it when people tried to decide what she needed to know, so by trying to hide the truth from her, they had only succeeded in making her more determined to find it.

She had spent hours interviewing members of Gang and Narcotics Division, trying to get to the bottom of that complaint, only to end up with more versions of what had happened than the unit had officers. When there still had been no trace of her victim by the end of that day, she had started looking into the division's old cases, not just their history with FID, but also a random selection of those that had not led to any complaints. She was aware that it had been largely out of spite that she had gone that far. There was not a lot she could hope to find in their own files, but it was a way to yank their chain and make sure they knew that trying to mess with her was a bad idea. She could not start a full-blown audit without it being ordered by the Chief, but in her experience a little poking around usually helped them remember that cooperation was the easier path to walk. No one had been more surprised than her when she actually had found something. Since she was unfamiliar with the way things were done in that division, she had contacted an old friend who had retired from that unit and asked him to look at some of her findings to see if she was on to something.

They had spent most of the previous night in her office poring over case files, taking note of every person arrested, where they stood in the food chain of their gang and what had happened with them. The pattern that emerged had been more than troubling, indicating a practice of preferential treatment of gang members who were suspected or known to be affiliated with the Sinaloa Cartel. Occasionally, a relatively unimportant gangbanger was arrested and charged with possession, drug dealing or some other minor offence that got them a few years of prison at most. When they had tried to track those convicts down, they had run into another puzzle. If they hadn't found their untimely end in prison, almost all had been found dead shortly after their release. As it turned out, those cases were under investigation by Priority Homicide because the Chief and the Mayor were afraid of a gang war.

Both Sharon and her friend Detective Richards had been aware that their findings would have to be turned over to Chief Johnson, but she hadn't been ready for that yet. With the way that these investigations had been handled, with how those deals had been made and how paper trails had suddenly run cold, everything pointed to one man and Sharon had not been willing to dump the name of a decorated officer of the LAPD into a huge murder investigation without being as certain as she could possibly be that he really was involved. Richards had agreed with her, suggesting that she discreetly looked into his financial situation to see if he had made any suspiciously large purchases lately.

The following morning she had done just that and while she had been waiting for the results of her inquiry, she had once again attempted to get Captain Sanders and his team to cooperate with her. Her seventy-two hours were running out and she still hadn't had a chance to talk to her victim. When she had spoken to Sanders a second time, he had seemed a lot more cautious in the way he answered her questions, giving her suspicious glances when he thought she was busy focusing on her notebook, trying to find out what she knew.

Then Little Mattie had made a sudden reappearance, having been located in a holding cell down with Traffic and no one had known how he had possibly ended up there. When Sharon sat down across from him in an interview room, she had barely been able to suppress her reaction to the state of his face. It had been bruised and swollen, his lip split and he'd had a large cut over his left eye. Somewhere along the line he had obviously received medical attention, which was a tremendous relief, because otherwise the charges he could have filed might have been a lot more serious. As it turned out, he hadn't been willing to repeat his accusation after all, claiming that he had been beaten up before he got arrested and that his complaint had only been an attempt to get out of being arrested. She had known that he had been lying but without a complaint her use of force case went away, which was probably why they had suddenly been able to find Little Mattie for her. They had hoped that it would get her out of their hair and put an end to her snooping around in their old cases.

She had let them believe that, wandering back to her floor to write a quick report on the complaint and subsequent withdrawal of that initial statement before she had taken a look at what her inquiry into Captain Sanders' financials had produced. That had only been two hours ago and she was still reeling from the findings. The man certainly wasn't stupid. There were no records of any overtly suspicious transactions and he lived a lifestyle that corresponded with his income. Apart from one purchase in his wife's name - a large beach house at the Mexican Gulf Coast, paid for in cash. If it hadn't been for the resources the FBI had been able to put into this, they probably would not have found out about that at all. Sharon was glad she had decided to approach Agent Howard with this inquiry despite her concerns about his close relationship with Chief Johnson. He had given her his word not to talk to her about anything relating to this case, provided she shared her findings if they proved a connection of the two cases. With that last piece of her puzzle, she was satisfied that she had enough evidence against Captain Sanders to make Chief Johnson aware of the results of her investigation, but that could wait until morning. Chief Johnson would want a detailed briefing and she would want it immediately. Before she could deal with the notoriously impatient woman, Sharon needed some sleep. Captain Sanders wasn't going anywhere.

She slipped into her jacket on her way to the elevator, wincing as her back protested. Just another half an hour and she would be up to her ears in hot water with a large mug of tea in her hand and some relaxing music playing in the background. It was her idea of heaven and she couldn't wait to get there, to leave work behind for a few hours. Maybe she would even be able to eat something more than a dry bagel or plain lettuce this time. Lately, her attempts to eat anything else had ended in a bathroom stall revisiting her most recent food choice in a very unpleasant way. Experience told her that it would likely be another week or two before her stomach settled down sufficiently for her to consider indulging in more satisfying meals without fear, though. At the moment it all came down to instinct and a lot of luck.

As she stepped out into the parking garage, she drew her jacket closer around herself, shivering as the cold night air hit her. The sound of her heels echoed loudly through the dimly lit structure, making it feel even more deserted than it already was. She hurried across the short distance to her car, eager to get out of the cold and be on her way home, one hand digging through her purse, trying to find the car keys.

She did not hear him approach and the moment she looked up and saw his reflection in her car window it was too late to react as something hit her in the back of her knees hard enough to knock her to the ground. The force of the blow and her subsequent fall made her lose hold of her purse and she heard it slide over the concrete floor, obviously kicked out of reach. Pain shot through her head from where she had first hit it on the side of her car and then on the hard ground, and she saw bright spots dance behind her closed lids. Fighting through the pain and dizziness, she tried to roll away from her attacker to get to her feet. Just as she had struggled to her knees, his foot connected with her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. She slumped back to the ground, curling into a tight ball, her hands instinctively covering her lower belly protecting it from the heavy blows that landed against her back. The assault continued to her shoulder, her legs, and with one particularly strong swing directed at her ribs, she thought she felt them crack under the force, a sharp pain shooting though her, making it impossible to breathe.

It felt like an eternity with blow after blow raining down on her, the agony so all-consuming that she could no longer tell where she was hurt or how badly. All she wanted was for it to end, for sweet oblivion to swallow reality and wrap her in a comforting blanket of darkness. Then there was the bang of a closing car door somewhere in the distance and her assailant froze before he frantically looked around him to locate the sound. Risking a quick glance at him, she noticed his unremarkable, dark clothes and the black mask that covered his face. When he turned back towards her, their eyes connected briefly, but she couldn't see them very well. Her vision was a little blurry, making it hard to focus. What did catch her eye as he raised his hands, a baseball bat held in his iron grip, was the torn sleeve of his black jacket. With startling clarity her gaze fixed on it, her mind not able to make sense of why it felt so important, why she seemed to be unable to move away from what looked like it would be his last blow, aimed at her head. A strange sense of calm settled over her as she realized that that would be it; she would die right there on the cold concrete in an almost deserted parking garage, only steps from hundreds of LAPD officers. Sharon felt a giggle bubble up inside her, but it only came out as a choked whimper without the necessary breath in her lungs. A detached part of her mind noted that it was probably a stress response issue and not related to the unbelievable irony of being killed in the police headquarters' car park. And why couldn't she tear her eyes away from those oddly flapping ends of the torn jacket sleeve?

There was a sudden bright light and for a moment Sharon thought that it was all over, but then she heard rapid footsteps retreating into the distance and once she could see again, the man with his bat and murderous intent was gone, and so was the light. All was silent once again, the dark and cold and the pounding inside her head her only companion. A small voice inside her head tried to tell her something. It was urgent and annoying, insisting she move when all she wanted was to sleep. Just for a few minutes. Just until the world around her stopped spinning. At least it had stopped hurting. The little voice attempted to warn her that no pain was not good at all, but she didn't want to listen, didn't see why she should want to suffer through more of that inconceivable agony.

As time passed, it became harder and harder to hang onto one specific thought, her mind jumping erratically. For a long while she had shivered terribly, the involuntary movement causing an occasional shot of pain to slice through the numbness. Then the shaking stopped, as did the pain and the cold. Her vision was limited to shadows and light, no discernible shapes. Sometimes she heard a car, slamming doors, footsteps or distant voices. It all sounded far away. Once she thought someone was close by, their footfall almost painfully loud. She tried to call out to them, but she couldn't remember how. She couldn't feel her lips and her tongue was thick and limp inside her mouth, completely useless. It felt as if every last bit of energy left her, seeping into the cold ground along with her blood and body heat. Her thumb twitched against her belly, the closest to a caress she could manage, and she wished she could cry. Her last thoughts were loud, a deafening scream inside her own head, full of anguish and regret.

I'm sorry.

And then there was only silence and darkness.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Andy groaned as his phone rang, the annoying sound even louder in the quiet parking garage and it seemed to take ages to get it out of his pocket to answer. As if his head didn't hurt badly enough already. A brief glance at the display showed him what he suspected; it was his partner, probably trying to find out why it took so long to shower and change into a fresh suit.

"What?" he barked into the phone, hoping to adequately convey his displeasure. Provenza knew how much he hated to be rushed like that and taking an hour and a half out of what already was a forty-nine hour shift certainly wasn't asking too much. Listening to the usual litany of complaints, he locked his car and made his way to the elevator. As Andy took a breath to ask about the purpose of his call, the older Lieutenant changed the subject to their current case, telling him to stop by the crime lab and pick up the report on the evidence from their latest crime scene. When Provenza started to grumble some more about his personal hygiene practices, Andy decided to hang up but before he could tell his partner to keep his unwelcome opinion to himself he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. In the shadow next to a car he made out the shape of a person lying on the ground. Telling the other man to hold on a moment, Andy made his way over to the motionless body. At first he thought it was a homeless person seeking some shelter from the chill of the night. Sometimes they managed to sneak past security and found a quiet corner that was safer and maybe a little warmer than their usual place. When he got closer he could see some of the person's clothes – a dark blue coat, a black skirt and heels, not the outfit of a homeless person. Jogging the last few meters, he yelled into the phone for Provenza to call an ambulance. As he gave the Lieutenant his location, he knelt down beside the still form on the ground, a curse echoing through the building when he recognized her.

"Shit! Get a team down her right now. It's Captain Raydor and it looks as if someone has beaten her up."

With that he ended the call, tossing the phone aside, his hands frantically searching for a pulse. Her skin was pale and cold, her lips blue and for a heart stopping moment he thought that he was too late. But then he felt it, weak and irregular. Shrugging out of his jacket, he covered her with it before he brushed a few strands of hair out of her face, his finger caressing her cheek as he tried to rouse her, his voice shaking with worry.

"Sharon, come on, wake up. Let me see you eyes."

He kept talking, desperate pleas and strings of senseless words, begging and demanding. One hand stroke her head, the fingers of the other keeping track of her pulse, counting in his head, every single flutter rippling through him with the power of an earthquake. The distance between each beat felt endless and it seemed to increase the longer he knelt there, leaving him breathless with fear. Life was slowly leaving her body. He could feel it drain away with every shallow breath and every almost unnoticeable heartbeat. She was slipping away right in front of his eyes, this vibrant, funny, intelligent and kind woman, so full of life and passion only a few weeks ago. He was losing her and he couldn't stand the thought. He couldn't lose her.

"Don't leave me. Please don't leave me," he muttered again and again, mesmerized by the way the blue and red light of the approaching ambulance made her appear even more ghost-like. Everything seemed distant and unreal as the quiet was suddenly filled with shouting and running and orders tossed this way and that. Someone grabbed his arms and dragged him away from her. He heard them talk to him, but he didn't want to listen, didn't want his fingers to be torn away from the proof of her continued existence as if her heart would stop beating if he didn't feel it. He wanted to scream and maybe he did, three words all he could think about.

Don't leave me.

- TBC -