What Happens in Vegas

by cheride

There's an unexpected trip, suspicious mobsters, and a murder investigation, and all that's before the feds show up. But Hardcastle isn't explaining any of it, so McCormick is on his own.

1. Part I

What Happens in Vegas- cheride

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.

Rating: T

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Author's Notes: Another piece that was originally published last year by Agent with Style. But, as usual, these things rarely get done alone, and this one is no exception. For always helpful and speedy beta-work, my thanks go to Susan Z; she helps keep my loose ends tied up. And, for beta-work and beyond, including constant encouragement and hand-holding when necessary, I say thanks to L.M. Lewis. I'm not sure this would've been finished without her.

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Chapter 1

"Hey, Hardcase," Mark McCormick called as he approached the patio table. "What's the occasion?"

Retired Superior Court Justice Milton C. Hardcastle glanced up at the grinning ex-convict. "What're you talkin' about, McCormick?"

"I'm talkin' about you, Judge," McCormick answered, seating himself and reaching to pour a glass of juice. "It's after eight; you usually have me up by six."

"And you usually bitch about it," Hardcastle pointed out. "So what's the problem?"

"No problem," McCormick said agreeably. "I'm just wondering."

"Well if you must know, kid, I thought maybe it was time for a little break." Hardcastle tossed a stack of travel pamphlets in front of McCormick.

The young man stared at the glossy pages, but didn't move to pick one up. "You're kidding."

"No, McCormick, I am not kidding," the judge replied with a huff. "I thought we'd take a vacation. You know, get away. A little R and R."

"No offense, Judge," McCormick smirked, "but vacations with you rarely include much R, and there's even less R."

Without meaning to, Hardcastle laughed. Damned cocky kid; always did crack him up. But still . . . "Don't be a smart ass, kiddo, or we'll see if vacation can't include a little extra pruning and raking in sunny Southern California."

McCormick grabbed a brochure. "No," he said quickly. "I'm sure wherever you planned is . . . Vegas? Now I know you're kidding."

"McCormick, I am not kidding. Will you quit saying that? Besides, what's so surprising about Vegas? I thought it might be kinda fun."

"Judge, c'mon. Vegas is only a few hours drive from here, but you've never wanted to go before. The only times we've ever been there, we were working on a case and . . ." McCormick's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What're you dragging me into?"

"I'm not dragging you into anything. I just thought you might like it."

McCormick's voice took on a petulant tone. "You told me before I wasn't allowed to gamble in a casino while I was on parole, remember?"

Hardcastle waved the thought aside. "That was a long time ago, kid. I didn't know you so well then; thought you might be some trouble."

McCormick grinned suddenly. "Why, Judge! Was that a compliment?"

Hardcastle immediately began to object, "Don't be . . ." but then thought better of it. It couldn't hurt to be nice to the kid every once in a while. "Maybe," he admitted.

The grin threatened to crack McCormick's face as it spread across to his ears. Sometimes Hardcastle surprised the hell out of him. Apparently this was gonna be one of those days.

"So you really want to go to Vegas?"

Hardcastle nodded. "I really do."

McCormick nodded in return. "Okay. When do we leave?"

"This evening. I figure we'll do most of our driving after the sun sets; it won't be so hot."

The young man just shook his head in amusement. This evening. Yep, it was definitely gonna be one of those days. He quickly downed his glass of juice and rose from the table. "Then I guess I better get busy. I have to pack, and call the pool service, and maybe the lawn guy- - how long are we gonna be gone, anyway?"

"I don't know; a few days or longer. We'll play it by ear. But don't worry about making those phone calls; I'll take care of that. You just get your stuff together, and give the pool a good dose of chemicals after you clean it. Then I thought you might want to run to the market for some of that junk food crap you like to have on car trips."

McCormick laughed as he headed for the gatehouse. "Watch out there, Hardcase, or I might not share my Ho-Hos."

Hardcastle watched until McCormick was safely inside, then pulled the deck side phone closer. He dialed slowly, then waited. Finally, he spoke a single sentence into the receiver. "Okay, it's done; we'll be leaving tonight."

00000

Milton Hardcastle had tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Next to him, McCormick was wearing his normal goofy grin. No one made the judge laugh like this kid.

"You're in an awfully good mood today, Judge," the young man said, as he steered the car along the highway.

"You complaining?" Hardcastle demanded.

"Nope, not a bit. You just don't usually find such humor in my tales of police ineptitude, is all."

"Guess you caught me in a weak moment."

"Hah! I haven't seen you have a weak moment in the last two years, Hardcase. I don't figure it's likely you're gonna start now."

Hardcastle just shook his head with a grin, but didn't answer. His attention drifted to the passing desert. "It's really peaceful out here at night," he commented in a now strangely subdued tone.

McCormick glanced over at his passenger. He had started this day appreciating Hardcastle's rather unusual demeanor, but now he was beginning to get worried. The judge had been almost giddy with good humor and seemed to be bending over backward to be nice, which was strange enough in itself. But there had also been moments when his eyes would become filled with an almost wistful quality and then he would make some comment like how peaceful the desert was at night. And all of that was on top of the completely sudden and unexpected trip to Vegas. Honestly, it was all just a little strange.

But McCormick had asked in almost every way imaginable what was going on, only to have his inquiries brushed aside each time. The one thing he hadn't tried was simply an honest and direct question. Often that approach didn't work well with Hardcastle, but he'd run out of ideas. And, with less than an hour before they pulled into Vegas, this seemed the perfect time to go for broke.

"Milt?" The choice of address worked as expected; Hardcastle turned immediately to face the younger man.

"What is it, kiddo?"

McCormick looked over briefly. "Is everything okay?"

Hardcastle was immediately touched by the genuine concern in the simple question. Sometimes it was too easy to get caught up in life and take friendship for granted. Still, he couldn't say that now. Apparently the kid already thought he was somehow off base. He smiled.

"Everything's fine, McCormick. I'm just looking forward to a few days away, ya know?"

McCormick wasn't entirely convinced, but he returned the smile. "Yeah, Judge, I know. Me too. Maybe I'll even get a chance to beat you in a real poker game."

"You keep dreaming, kid," Hardcastle laughed.

They completed the desert crossing with a boisterous debate over the merits of holding an ace kicker and the difficulty of filling an inside straight, and McCormick allowed himself to be convinced that everything really was just fine.

Chapter 2

McCormick stood in the shower, letting the water cascade over his still form. His mind was filled with questions, all of them centered on Milton Hardcastle. In the two years he had spent paroled in the judge's custody, he had seen a lot of aspects of the man's character. And while they hadn't all been good, they had all added up to a fairly predictable pattern of behavior. But right now, that pattern simply wasn't holding.

Tuesday, when Hardcastle had suggested the trip to Vegas, McCormick had mostly taken it in stride. Even when he had been directed down the strip and in to the drive at Caesar's Palace—a more lavish hotel choice than normal—he had let it slide with only a quip or two. And, when they were settled into their room, and Hardcastle had replied he was too tired to join the other man on a visit to the casino, but had handed over a hundred dollar bill from his wallet, McCormick had hidden his surprise and gratefully taken the money.

And Wednesday, when the older man had declared right after breakfast that he had some personal business to attend to, handed Mark another three hundred dollars, then made plans to meet for dinner, the young man had been too stunned to make even a single smart-assed remark. Then at dinner, his honestly curious and bewildered questions had been brushed aside in typical Hardcastle fashion.

But this morning, when he had awakened to find a note saying Hardcastle was again planning a solitary day, with three crisp one hundred dollar bills next to the page, McCormick had decided enough was enough. Something was wrong. And when something was wrong with Milton Hardcastle, Mark McCormick did not intend to be left on the sidelines.

So, dressed for the day, he grabbed a quick breakfast in the hotel diner and began a systematic search for his wayward travel companion. But after almost two hours, he was mostly certain that the judge was not in their own hotel, and that left him exactly nowhere in terms of where to go next. The keys to the Coyote were still safely in his pocket, so wherever Hardcastle had gotten off to, he had done it on foot.

Or in a cab, he thought. Or on a bus. Great.

Approaching the front lobby door, he pulled out his wallet and searched through the items until he found what he needed. He pulled out the D.C. newspaper clipping, and folded it so that only the picture was showing, then stepped close to one of the doormen.

"Cab, sir?" the uniformed man inquired politely.

"No, thanks, just maybe some information." He held up the photo. "Have you seen this guy? He's a guest here."

The doorman looked at him suspiciously. "What's it to you?"

"He's a friend of mine," McCormick explained. "We came here together, but now we've gotten separated. I'm just a little worried about him."

Mark watched the expression in the other's eyes change from suspicious to all-knowing. "Oh, I see." And his tone implied that he was seeing far more than there actually was to see.

McCormick almost laughed at the insinuation, but instead took a quick second to evaluate the young man standing before him. Pegging him instantly as a sucker for lost causes and happy endings, he decided not to correct the assumption. He glanced at the nametag on the jacket and leaned a little closer.

"The thing is, Andrew—can I call you Andrew? Anyway, I think he might be kinda mad. I got a little tipsy last night; spent too much, flirted too much, and then said some things I probably shouldn't have said. You know what I mean? But then he stormed off outta here without his keys, or his wallet, or anything."

He smiled sadly. "He likes to think he's all gruff and tough, but he's just a guy from a small town in Arkansas, and he really shouldn't be alone in a place like this. Can you help me out?"

Andrew looked at him closely, and—as so many before him—was swayed by the McCormick charm. "He mentioned two different casinos, both here on the strip: the Riviera and Barbary Coast."

"Did he say why he was interested in those two?"

"No. Just asked if I'd ever had any luck at either of them, and if I recommended their restaurants, then headed out."

One last question. "Barbary Coast is just across the street, right? How about the Riviera? Is it far?"

Andrew gave a half shrug. "Maybe three quarters of a mile or so." He gave McCormick a considering and appreciative look. "A guy in your shape, not too bad a walk, but in this heat, I told your friend he should take a cab."

McCormick couldn't resist. "Oh, trust me, Andrew; he's kept himself in pretty good shape, too." He grinned and slipped a twenty into the young man's hand. "Thank you for your help." And, whistling a jaunty tune, he set off down the long drive, and wondered just what the hell Hardcastle was up to.

00000

He kept the picture handy for his tour of the Barbary Coast. Walking through the casino, he thought it looked like a place Hardcastle would like, with its deep colors and stately old west feel. But though he criss-crossed the casino in a very orderly fashion designed to ensure that every nook and cranny would come into his view at least once, and though he spoke with staff at both of the bars, he found no one who remembered seeing the judge.

Finally, he made a final stop at the concierge desk and showed his picture one last time. This time, a distraught nephew looking for an ailing uncle.

"Ah, yes," the gentleman replied, "Mr. Hardcastle was here earlier. He seemed fine, sir. He made a dinner reservation for Michael's late seating this evening."

"And just when is the late seating?" McCormick asked.

"Nine o'clock."

"Okay," Mark replied with a shake of his head. "That may interfere with his medication schedule just a little bit, but I guess if that's what Uncle wants…" He slid a twenty across the desk and thanked the man for his time, then headed out into the Las Vegas sunshine.

He made the trek down the strip, ignoring the beckoning call of air conditioned casinos and the flyers that were pressed into his hand with lovely ladies promising any number of pleasures. His only thought was to figure out exactly what it was that Hardcastle didn't want him to know.

Another casino, another grid pattern. He honestly didn't anticipate finding Hardcastle sitting at a slot machine, but, then again, he hadn't really anticipated having to search for the man in the first place.

He had passed by the poker room and was coming around another bank of machines when he heard the familiar laugh. He stopped, quickly surveyed the area, and decided Hardcastle was in the lounge. He took a step backwards, circling the slots from the other direction, trying to get closer without being seen.

Why are you spying on him?

Because he's sneaking around, he answered himself. Jeez.

Just because he didn't tell you exactly what he was doing doesn't mean he's sneaking around. He doesn't have to, ya know.

But he always does. And when he doesn't, it's trouble.

There wasn't really an argument to that, so he situated himself at a slot machine where he could watch the lounge from behind Hardcastle.

The judge was sharing a table with another man, maybe early fifties, angular face, nicely coiffed sandy brown hair, good teeth, nice suit. Rich, Mark immediately decided.

He watched more closely and saw the way the man never relaxed; his eyes were always sweeping the area, he sat very straight, looking ready to move from his chair in an instant, all while he carried on a seemingly pleasant conversation with Hardcastle. Rich crook, he amended.

And then, in a table just beyond where Hardcastle was sitting, a large man, alone, in navy suit, complete with tie even though it was early afternoon in a hotel lounge and it was about a hundred and fifty degrees outside. Even sitting in a bar with a drink in his hand—just for looks, McCormick decided—the man gave a new meaning to the word alert. And while McCormick was certain there was nothing in the entire radius of vision that the man had missed in his constant surveying, it was clear that the judge's companion was his primary focus. He made one final adjustment to his label.

Rich mob crook.

So what the hell was Hardcastle doing having a drink with a mobster in Las Vegas? He watched as a waitress approached the table with another round, her face bright with a wide smile. She made conversation with the gentlemen, and leaned a little more than was completely necessary when placing the drinks and removing the empty glasses. But she seemed to be lingering longer than usual, continuing with her friendly chatter. Then again, there was nothing particularly unusual about a waitress flirting with the rich customers. He grinned as he watched her turn to Hardcastle directly, giving him full benefit of her smile, then lean down to whisper something close to his ear. Then he heard the laughter again, and watched the judge whisper something back.

He's flirting with her!

And for a moment, McCormick was so amused with that idea that he almost forgot that the jurist had given him the slip only to come hang out with a mobster.

But a few minutes later, the waitress had returned to the bar and the mobster was standing to leave. McCormick looked around hastily, trying to find the best way to keep out of sight should Hardcastle and his friend come toward him, but then he realized the judge wasn't rising. The mobster was on his feet and offering his hand in farewell, and the thug in the suit had moved in surreptitiously to stand behind his boss, but then they were leaving the bar and heading out across the casino floor, and Hardcastle was left sitting alone in the lounge.

What? He's gonna sit alone in a Vegas bar and drink at three o'clock in the afternoon? But apparently, that's exactly what he was going to do, as McCormick watched the judge motion for a refill, then flirt a bit more when the waitress brought the drink to the table. Then, moments after that, Hardcastle carried his drink over to the bar, traded a bill for roll of quarters, and began playing the video poker machine, making idle conversation with both the waitress and the bartender.

McCormick just shook his head. What the hell? Deciding instinctively that confronting Hardcastle right now would be a mistake, McCormick hit the change light on his machine, got his own quarters, and began feeding the slot.

He was gambling unenthusiastically, most of his attention focused on the other side of the machine and the solitary man who sat hunched over the bar. He was so focused on Hardcastle that he almost didn't register the dark-haired man who had come into the bar and was now talking rather animatedly to the waitress. In fact, he probably wouldn't have noticed, except that it seemed Hardcastle was beginning to notice. The older man had lifted his head from the game in front of him and was casting a wary eye on the exchange that was taking place at the far end of the bar, aiming for a bit of privacy.

Mark stopped pulling the handle and simply watched the bar. The waitress seemed to be getting more agitated with the man, though she waved off the bartender when he wandered toward them casually. But Hardcastle was beginning to look more interested and less pleased with whatever was going on. McCormick began shoving coins into his pockets, still watching. But when he saw the guy grab the waitress' arm, he rose quickly, rounded the machines, and climbed up the two steps into the bar.

As he stepped into the darkened lounge, he could hear the fear in the woman's voice.

"Jarrod, I've told you; we're not getting back together. You can't keep following me like this. Go back home to Albuquerque, please." With apparent effort, she lowered her voice to hiss at him, "You're going to get me fired. Please leave."

"I'll follow you forever, Marie, you know that. No place is home without you." He jerked her closer. "And I've told you not to be working in places like this."

McCormick moved further into the room as Hardcastle rose from his seat at the bar and approached the couple.

"I think the lady asked you to leave," the judge said mildly, though McCormick recognized the danger lurking in the tone.

"Just who the hell are you?" Jarrod demanded, glaring at the older man.

"Just a guy who understands when a lady says no," Hardcastle answered in the same easy tone, but his eyes were hard.

McCormick took another step closer. Hardcastle hadn't noticed him yet, and he didn't want to add to the tension unnecessarily, but he didn't intend to be far away if things went bad.

"Milt, it's okay," Marie said in a frightened tone. "I can handle this."

"Milt?" Jarrod repeated. "You actually know this guy?" And McCormick completely related to the feeling of surprise.

"You need to take your hand off her," Hardcastle stated, ignoring both their comments. When there wasn't an immediate response, he took a half step forward. "I'm not gonna ask again."

With fire in his eyes, Jarrod released Marie with a backward shove that sent her right into Hardcastle, who held her for a moment to get her steadied.

"You just want to get your own hands on her, huh?" he sneered at Hardcastle. "You think a sweet little young thing like her might keep you from getting too old? Is that it?"

Hardcastle didn't immediately reply, but turned, placing Marie behind him. McCormick froze, now on the receiving end of the glare as the judge registered his presence. The young man got the message: Stay out of this.

Hardcastle turned back to face Jarrod. "I think you need to leave now. And you shouldn't come back."

But Jarrod didn't seem inclined to take the advice. He stepped deliberately toward Hardcastle, face flushed. "I don't think you can move in on another man's wife," he shouted, "and still try to defend her honor." He moved closer. "Has the little whore been good for you?"

He punctuated his final words with a wild swing toward Hardcastle's face, but his rage made him unsteady. The judge easily deflected the blow, grabbed the fist and twisted the man around to shove him roughly against the bar.

"That was stupid," Hardcastle said harshly, holding Jarrod tightly as the younger man struggled against the grip. He glanced at the bartender. "Do you suppose we might get security?" he asked.

"They're on their way," the man answered.

Jarrod was still raving. "Marie! You bitch! You can't do this to me."

Hardcastle slapped the man's head. "Shut up!"

McCormick forced himself to stay out of the fray until Marie took a step back toward the bar. He closed the distance between them quickly and gently grabbed her arm.

"Don't," he said quietly. "You can't help right now."

She looked up at him, uncertainty on her face.

"I'm a friend of Milt's," he explained. She nodded slightly and stayed where she was.

Meanwhile, Jarrod was continuing his rant, though it had deteriorated into mostly unintelligible babble.

When security arrived, Hardcastle handed Jarrod over unceremoniously.

"Do we need the police?" the guard asked.

Hardcastle looked the question behind him at Marie.

She hesitated, but then shook her head. "No, just please don't let him come back."

The judge turned back to face Jarrod sternly. "She's doing you a favor. You'd be better off going back to Albuquerque."

"This isn't over," Jarrod spat out. "She's still my wife, and what I do with her is nobody's business."

Hardcastle reached out suddenly and grabbed the other man's shirt front, jerking him forward. "You listen to me, Jarrod," he growled. "You come near her again, and I'll make it my business. The lady doesn't want to see you, so you better make sure the lady doesn't see you. Got it?" He released him roughly. "Get him out of here."

Jarrod was led away, and McCormick removed his hand from Marie's arm to allow her to run to Hardcastle.

He watched the judge fold her into a long hug, calming her, speaking soft reassurances, and he wondered just who this woman was. Then he looked around and noticed that a crowd had gathered, but was now slowly beginning to disperse as the excitement seemed to be over. He rubbed a hand across his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. But as he watched Hardcastle speak softly to the bartender, then guide Marie gently out of the bar without a word of explanation, McCormick realized he was back to his original question.

What the hell is going on?

00000

Hours later, Hardcastle returned to their hotel room to find the kid sitting rigidly, staring out the window, watching as the sky slowly darkened and the neon lights began to replace the sun. The judge threw the key onto the dresser then planted himself in the middle of the room, glaring at McCormick.

"You want to tell me what the hell you thought you were doing?"

"That's what I was gonna ask you," McCormick returned.

Hardcastle shook his head, dismissing the comment. "Since when do you think you have the right to go buttin' in to things that don't concern you?"

"Since the day you waved a file folder in my face and said 'you're gonna be my fast gun'," Mark shot back. "How the hell am I supposed to watch your back if you go sneaking off like that? You could've gotten yourself into a real jam."

The honest concern layered beneath the irritation diffused Hardcastle's anger, and he sighed slightly. "Well, I didn't," he answered more calmly. "Everything was under control."

"So you wanna tell me what's goin' on then?"

Hardcastle looked at the young man for a moment, then shook his head again. "Nothin' you need to be concerned with." He turned abruptly toward the closet. "I've got plans for dinner tonight, kid; just gotta change and then I'll be gone. You don't need to wait up." He grabbed his suit and disappeared into the bathroom without another word.

When he emerged several minutes later, the room was empty. "Dammit."

After just a moment's hesitation, he strode out the door.

Chapter 3

Breakfast the next morning was strained. Hardcastle had been waiting up fuming when McCormick returned to the room at about four am. But neither had wanted to talk, so they had simply fallen into beds for a few hours sleep. When they had awakened, Hardcastle had suggested a late breakfast, and his tone didn't allow argument, so they sat in the restaurant, staring down at food they weren't eating because it was easier than looking at each other.

"I want to know what you were doing, McCormick," Hardcastle finally said gruffly.

"Then we're even," McCormick replied without looking up.

"I wasn't doing anything illegal."

"And neither was I," Mark said sullenly. "You've been throwing money at me all week just to keep me out of your way. You had plans, so I went out."

After another moment, Hardcastle said, "It's nothin' against you, kid; I've just got some personal stuff going on."

Thinking that sounded like as much of an apology as he was going to get, McCormick relented slightly. "If you met someone, Judge, you coulda just told me."

Hardcastle cocked an eyebrow. "You think this is about a woman?"

McCormick shrugged. "Seemed like you and Marie were getting along pretty well."

"I'm at least twice her age!" Hardcastle protested.

The astonished tone finally got a smile from the younger man. "So what? You're both adults. Besides, you know what they say, Judge; what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas."

The judge just shook his head ruefully. "She's a nice lady, McCormick. She's having some issues, which you saw part of yesterday. I've just been someone she could talk to."

"Then why- -" McCormick broke off when he saw Hardcastle's face close up. Apparently questions were not going to be allowed. He thought for a moment, then asked the one thing he had been coming back to all week.

"Judge, are you okay?"

Hardcastle smiled slightly. "I'm fine, kiddo."

And again, McCormick forced himself to believe.

00000

"Milton Hardcastle?"

Both men looked up at the sudden voice. Standing at their table was a middle-aged man in an off-the-rack suit, a studied calmness on his face, and a world-weary expression in his dark eyes.

Cop, McCormick decided immediately.

"Yes," Hardcastle answered. "What can I do for you, Officer?"

McCormick grinned a little bit at the surprised expression on the cop's face.

"Have we met?" the officer asked in mild confusion. "Or were you maybe expecting an officer?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "No. How can I help you?"

"I'm Detective Colbert," the officer said as he produced his badge, probably out of habit. "I wanted to talk to you a little bit about Jarrod Lear."

McCormick looked sharply over at the judge. "Is that…?"

Hardcastle nodded once, then looked back at Colbert. "What about him?"

"He was murdered last night."

Both men stared at the officer, eyes wide with disbelief.

"I understand you had some sort of altercation with Lear yesterday, Mr. Hardcastle; is that correct?"

"Yes," Hardcastle admitted.

"He was just keeping him from hurting a lady," McCormick interjected. "And he turned him over to the security guys."

Hardcastle silenced the younger man with a look. "I was just in the right place at the right time, Detective, to maybe prevent an assault. It was nothing more than that."

"Witnesses say you threatened him."

"Oh, please," McCormick began, but Hardcastle glared at him again.

"Ah, well, I might've strongly suggested that he leave the girl alone."

Colbert nodded slowly. "Would you be willing to come to the station to give us a full statement?"

"Are you crazy?" McCormick exclaimed.

"McCormick! Will you please stay out of this?"

"Judge . . ." But the look he received was almost lethal, so McCormick let whatever complaint he had go unspoken.

"Of course I can give you a statement, Detective Colbert. Shall I meet you at your station later today?"

"Why don't you let me drive you?" Colbert suggested. "I'll be glad to bring you back when we're done."

Mark was about to open his mouth again, but Hardcastle held up a hand to stop any comments. "That's fine, Detective. But could you give me a few minutes to talk to my associate first?"

Colbert narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but then nodded. "Of course. I'll be waiting right over at the entrance."

The officer was barely out of earshot before McCormick exploded. "What the hell are you doing, Judge? They wanna question you about a murder, and you're just going along like it's the most normal thing in the world."

"There's nothin' wrong with cooperating with the police, McCormick. I didn't kill the guy, so it isn't going to hurt to answer a few questions. I don't know what you're gettin' so worked up about."

McCormick shook his head. "Unbelievable. Why didn't you just tell him about your dinner reservations over at that fancy restaurant across the street?"

Hardcastle's eyes hardened. "How'd you know about that?"

"I was worried about you, Judge," Mark replied in exasperation, "I was trying to find out what the hell you were up to. Besides, that'll give both you and Marie an alibi; I'm sure you're the two top candidates on their suspect list. I mean, she is the one you had dinner with, right?"

The judge hesitated, pulling a hand across his chin. "Well, we didn't make it to dinner."

McCormick couldn't stop the immediate grin. "Why, Judge, you old dog, you."

"Will you stop that, McCormick? I told you, it's not like that. Anyway, she was really scared after what happened yesterday. Said Jarrod's been following her for almost a year, no matter where she goes. She said it was time to move on again, so I put her on a bus to Reno at about seven-thirty."

"Well that takes care of her alibi; what about you? What did you do then?"

"Did you just want to ride downtown with us and maybe conduct the interrogation?" Hardcastle asked pointedly.

But McCormick had a pointed question of his own. "Is that what it's going to take to get a straight answer out of you?" He glared his frustration across the table. "Why are deliberately keeping me out of this?"

"Because there's nothing to worry about and it doesn't concern you." He rose from the table. "Now, I don't know how long I'll be, but it shouldn't be too long. Did you need any more money?"

McCormick slapped the table loudly as he pushed himself up out of his chair. "No, Judge," he retorted angrily, "I don't need any more money. I'm not sure when I became someone you could just buy off, but I'm telling you now that I don't like it. But you just go ahead and take care of whatever it is that doesn't concern me, and I'll just wait here like a good stooge until you're done, okay?" He tossed a final farewell over his shoulder as he walked away from the table. "Good luck with handling it on your own; hope it works out well for you."

He stormed out of the restaurant without waiting for a response, slowing just long enough as he passed Colbert to mutter, "He's all yours."

00000

McCormick was trying desperately not to hit the wall in the elevator, as he was pretty sure the other passengers wouldn't approve. He was just glad he only had eight floors to get through; much higher, and he thought the passengers might've gotten quite a show. He was off the elevator before the doors were even fully opened, and striding down the hall at a brisk pace. He opened up the room, stuck the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, and closed the door loudly behind him.

"Dammit all to hell!"

But after that one outburst, McCormick stood silent in the room, his anger slowly evaporating only to be replaced by a growing sense of unease. Something was wrong, and it was becoming more wrong by the minute. He thought for a long moment, then moved over to the telephone and dialed a very familiar number. The line was answered on the first ring.

"Harper."

"I need your help, Frank," McCormick blurted.

"Mark? What's wrong?"

The young man's words came in a rush. "I don't even know, but something's going on with the judge. He's acting really weird, being all secretive and meeting with people I don't know, and now some guy's been killed and they've taken Hardcastle downtown for questioning. He won't tell me anything about what he's doing, but I know he's gotten himself mixed up in something, and it's gonna be trouble. I don't know why he brought me out here, he won't tell me anything about what's going on, he disappears every day; if I'm supposed to help him, he- -"

"Mark!" Harper finally interrupted. "You gotta slow down. I don't have any idea what you're talking about. Where are you? Are you still in Vegas?"

McCormick forced himself to take a breath. "Sorry. Let me try again. Yes, we're still in Vegas. And, as usual, Hardcastle's gotten himself in the middle of something, but I don't know what the hell it is."

"You said something about a murder," Harper prompted.

"Yeah. Some guy named Jarrod, um . . . Jarrod Lear. Some cop came and dragged Hardcastle downtown just a little while ago."

"They arrested him?"

"No, no," McCormick assured the detective, "just asked him to answer some questions. But they were pretty keen on the idea of gettin' it done. I think he's probably pretty high on their list."

"Well what've they got on him?" Harper demanded.

"I dunno. I was hoping you could tell me. I know Hardcastle isn't going to give me any details when he gets back, and I'd rather not be operating completely in the dark. Could you make a few calls?"

"Well, yeah, I can do that, I guess. See what I can find out."

McCormick heard the hesitation in the lieutenant's voice. "Frank? What's the problem?"

"I don't know, Mark. Why don't you tell me what's really going on with you and Milt? What do you mean he isn't telling you what he's doing?"

"I don't know," McCormick replied in exasperation. "He's just been acting all weird, starting with the whole trip to begin with. I mean, since when does he just wake up one day and want to take a vacation? Especially to Vegas. And then, after he drags me out here, he can't be bothered to give me the time of day, just goes gallivanting off, taking care of his 'personal business'. He won't answer any questions, and then, this morning, he acts like it's all business as usual when some detective wants him to come answer questions about a murder. What do you think is going on?"

"I'm not sure," Harper admitted, "but Milt does usually know what he's doing. Maybe you should hang back until he's ready to clue you in."

"Frank . . ."

"And besides," Harper continued, "people out there don't know you. You can't be messing around in a police investigation. Let them do whatever they need to do, and trust Milt to tell you what you need to know."

McCormick tried again. "Frank- -" but the detective wasn't listening.

"Mark," he interrupted sternly, "you need to let this be. You don't have any protection out there, you know, and Milt would never forgive you if you got yourself locked up trying to watch after him."

"So you're not gonna help me?" Surprise and disappointment battled with frustration in Mark's tone.

Harper sighed loudly. "I'll make a couple of calls," he conceded, "and make sure everything seems okay. If I'm convinced, will you be convinced, even without details?"

Mark thought for a moment before answering. Finally he said, "Yeah, Frank, I'll be convinced. I don't know what's going on out here, but I still trust you guys." He didn't wait for an answer before hanging up the phone.

00000

If Mark McCormick had spent a longer afternoon outside of prison walls, he wasn't sure when it had been. He was still worried about Hardcastle, and the conversation with Frank Harper had left him with more questions than answers.

He looked at his watch again. He had forced himself to wait in the room, knowing it was the only place he could be sure of meeting up with Hardcastle, but the judge had been gone over four hours, and the patience he had struggled to find was rapidly fading.

He was pacing the room for about the fiftieth time when he finally heard the key in the door.

"So what happened?" he demanded before Hardcastle was even fully inside.

"Do you think I could take a minute to catch my breath?" Hardcastle shot back angrily.

McCormick bit back a retort. He waited until Hardcastle had crossed the room and collapsed into a chair, then he sat himself on the edge of the bed and looked intently at the judge. He didn't ask again.

After a moment, Hardcastle began to speak. "Things might be a little worse than I thought, kiddo."

Forcing himself not to say 'I told you so', McCormick asked, "What does that mean, exactly? They really think you killed this guy?"

"They're not ready to say it outright just yet, but, yeah, I think so. It would probably help if I had an alibi."

"Tell 'em you were with me," McCormick blurted. He received a scowl that said Hardcastle didn't think that was such a good idea, but he didn't back down.

"I'm serious, Judge; what would be the problem? It's not like you actually killed him and are trying to cover it up. You don't have anything to hide, you just need something to get them off your back. I'll tell them anything you want."

"What you'll tell them," Hardcastle said firmly, "is the truth. First of all, the system can only work if it gets the right information. And secondly, it might've slipped your mind, kiddo, but providing false or misleading information to a police investigation is a crime. That makes it a bad idea for me, but totally stupid for you. You wanna have to tell your new cellmate that's what you got sent up for?"

McCormick grinned fractionally. "Don't worry; I'd make up something more exciting." But Hardcastle didn't grin back, and the young man got the point. "Okay. If they ask, nothing but the truth."

"Good." Hardcastle seemed relieved. "So whatta ya say we have a little truth of our own, too? I let it slide this morning, but I'm still waiting to hear where you were all night."

"Hey, Kemosabe, I'm not the one the police came after this morning."

Still no answering grin from the judge, and Mark sighed softly. "I wasn't doing anything, Hardcase. I was downstairs in the bar for a little while, then I just went out driving. I drove all over town. Maybe around eight-thirty or so I found this local diner, and I stopped to eat. Then I drove some more, way out of town, out into the desert. I found this one road, kinda out in the middle of nowhere, that went up a hill. From the top, you could see the whole city laid out, but just the lights, ya know? No cars, or people, or buildings, or anything. Just lights in the dark, quiet night. I just sat there for a really long time, thinking." He paused, then added, "That was it, Judge. Not even a hint of criminal activity, Scout's honor."

McCormick rested his gaze squarely on the other man's eyes.

"And what about you, Judge? Do I get to hear the truth, too?"

Hardcastle rubbed at his eyes. "Sounds like our evenings weren't all that different," he began. "After Marie got on the bus, I caught a cab back to the strip. I had dinner at the Peppermill, then I just walked up and down the strip for quite a while. I had some things on my mind, too. I was back here about twelve, waiting for a certain wayward ex-con."

Ignoring the dig, McCormick answered, "Then you've got something of an alibi, Judge. The cab driver and the restaurant can back you up, and there's no way you set foot in this hotel without being picked up on at least half a dozen security cameras."

Hardcastle nodded. "Yeah, the cops are checking all that, just to make sure I'm not lying to them, but they've got time of death between nine-thirty and eleven-thirty, just about precisely the time I can't really prove where I was."

"And there's no one who can back up your story? You didn't maybe meet anyone last night?"

The judge's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Well you haven't said anything yet about the guy in the bar. Since you seem to have so many friends here in town, I thought maybe you were with one of them."

"Don't worry about the guy in the bar," Hardcastle said, his tone suddenly cold.

"Judge, if there's something- -"

"It doesn't concern you, McCormick."

"Dammit, Hardcastle, quit sayin' that! Just when do I get to be concerned, huh? When they drag you away in handcuffs for this murder? When they convict you and throw your ass in jail? At what point should I start being concerned? Tell me what the hell is going on!"

Hardcastle stared at the younger man, who was exerting every last bit of control not to lunge across the small opening and literally shake sense into the judge.

"Have I ever kept anything really important from you?"

McCormick's eyes widened in disbelief. "You're joking, right?" He waved his hand through the air, dismissing what he clearly thought was a ludicrous question.

"Now, listen," he went on, "usually I try to go along with your goofy 'need to know' policy, but this is different. Judge, something is obviously wrong; let me help you."

With a small smile, Hardcastle answered, "You're worrying about nothing, kid, but I'll tell you what: if it gets to the point where I do need help, you'll be the first one to know, okay?"

"I already know," McCormick said stubbornly, "I'm just waitin' on you to admit it."

When a full minute went by without a response, McCormick let out a heavy breath and moved to stare out the window. "Okay, then," he said after a few more seconds, "what else did the cops have to say? Surely they've got more than one little argument with a complete stranger to go on? Even without an alibi, that's not exactly a smoking gun."

"I don't know exactly what they've got," Hardcastle admitted. "I don't know these people like the folks back home. I'm not a colleague, I'm a suspect. They aren't saying a lot. They implied they're waiting on some findings from physical evidence. And they're gonna have someone in Reno take a statement from Marie. Other than that, all they really said was 'don't leave town'."

"Unbelievable," McCormick muttered under his breath. He shook his head. "And you already told 'em you were alone last night, huh?"

"Yes," Hardcastle said sternly, "because that's the truth. And if you try tellin' them anything different now, it's just gonna look bad for both of us."

"Yeah, yeah; I got it." He returned to his spot on the edge of the bed.

"So where do you want to start?" Mark asked.

Hardcastle appeared genuinely baffled. "Start what?"

"Jeez. The investigation, Judge; what else?"

"We didn't come here to do any investigating, McCormick."

McCormick turned a punishing glare on Hardcastle. "We didn't come here to get you arrested, either," he retorted angrily, "but here we are, one police detective's whim away from you with a number stenciled on your chest."

Had he not been staring so intently at the other man, McCormick might have missed the brief flicker of emotion that ran across Hardcastle's face. Even so, it was quick enough that he couldn't identify it. But seeing it was enough to confirm his suspicions.

"Dammit, Judge, what are you keeping from me?"

Hardcastle stared back silently for several seconds, but the young blue eyes were relentless.

"Do you trust me, McCormick?"

"Uh-huh," McCormick objected immediately, "don't be pulling that crap. You can't weasel out of it that easy. I asked you a question, and I have a right to know the truth."

"You certainly do," the judge agreed evenly, "but I asked you a question, too. And you should consider carefully, because if you trust me, you'll let me handle things the way I see fit without a lot of questions."

"I trust you to be the most stubborn donkey walking the earth," McCormick fumed. "And I trust you to get yourself into a lot of trouble if you don't have me around." He waited expectantly, but Hardcastle wasn't budging.

Finally, McCormick gave a huge sigh and pushed himself to his feet. "Okay, you win. Because the truth is, Judge, I trust you with my life. I thought that was a mutual thing, but clearly that was my mistake." He had almost reached the door before Hardcastle managed any type of response.

"Where the hell are ya going now?"

"I don't know," McCormick answered coldly, "but I won't do anything to cause you any trouble." He paused in the open doorway and flashed a grim smile.

"Trust me." And then the door slammed behind him.

00000

Staring at the closed door, Hardcastle spent a couple of agonizing moments wondering whether he should go after McCormick. But—hotheaded sarcasm notwithstanding—he did trust the young man implicitly. And besides, this way he wouldn't have to explain to the kid why he had made solo lunch plans again.

He let enough time pass for McCormick to huff off to wherever he was going, then, letting out a heavy breath, Hardcastle rose from his chair and left the room.

00000

Twenty minutes after storming out of the room, McCormick was sitting quietly in the valet stand outside the hotel lobby. He was watching discreetly as Andrew smoothly sidled up to Hardcastle and made a bit of conversation before motioning the next cab forward.

After the taxi was safely out of sight, McCormick crossed over to the doorman.

"Four Queens sports book," Andrew said as Mark approached. "He's meeting someone."

He thanked McCormick for the bill that was pressed into his hand, then added, "I really hope you guys work this out."

"Me, too," McCormick replied sincerely.

00000

It was harder to be discreet this time, as there wasn't a convenient row of slot machines to hide behind. But Hardcastle and his rich mobster friend were over at the far end of the sports book, and McCormick discovered he had a fairly protected view of the area from the opposite side of a small keno lounge.

But except for the fact that the judge was hanging out with a mobster, there didn't really seem to be anything unusual going on. The men were having sandwiches and beer, watching the baseball games on the big screen TVs. Occasionally, one or the other would step up to the window to place a bet. And, judging by the body language, they weren't discussing anything more important than on-base percentages.

He sat in the keno area long enough that McCormick ultimately felt obligated to place a bet in order not to stand out too badly, but he paid no attention to the numbers called. But after almost two hours of watching, McCormick thought he might go crazy if he had to hear those keno balls rattle around one more time, and he was ready to risk detection if it meant he could at least get close enough to watch one of those ball games himself. He craned his neck slightly to cast one last wary glance toward Hardcastle, then rose, stretched, and moved nonchalantly toward the sports book.

He was three steps closer to the judge when someone grabbed his arm tightly and pulled him close in a supposedly jovial fashion, shouted, "Hey, buddy!" in a loud, friendly tone, and pressed what could only be a gun against his ribcage.

"Um, hi, pal," McCormick replied uncertainly as he twisted just enough to see who his new friend might be.

Really should've thought about him, he thought, as he recognized the mobster's suited guard.

"This isn't what you think," he said quickly, planting his feet to avoid being led away to some dark corner he feared he might not come back from. "I'm not interested in your boss, just his friend."

"Still bad news for you, friend," the suit responded as he jerked McCormick along, still somehow managing to make it look like a friendly scene. "Mr. Delancie prides himself on personally guaranteeing his friends' safety in his presence."

"And that's quite a service to offer," McCormick said magnanimously, "but I'm not a threat. Hardcastle is a friend of mine, and if you drag me in that direction, he'll tell you so himself."

When the guy didn't seem inclined to change direction, he added, "Look, you're the one with the gun, and I haven't even screamed for security, which probably wouldn't be the best thing for your boss, either. Let's just go ask him. If I'm not on the up and up, you have my permission to beat me to a pulp."

The guy stared for a second, looking as if that possibility held great attraction, then dragged McCormick toward the others.

"Mr. Delancie?" the bodyguard spoke as they got within earshot.

Both men looked up at the voice, and Hardcastle's eyes widened in shock, which quickly moved to fear as he took in the firm grip the guy had on McCormick.

"I'm tellin' you now, Hardcase," McCormick started immediately, "if you claim not to know me, this guy will be seriously unhappy with me."

"No, he's okay," Hardcastle assured his friend hastily, "he's with me."

"Dave." Delancie made the vaguest gesture as he spoke, and McCormick was released.

Hardcastle was already rising from his chair. "Sorry about this, Patrick. Just give me a minute to take care of it." He jerked a thumb away from the others, and McCormick followed the movement silently, not liking the ice-cold expression that had accompanied the directive.

"What the hell are you doing?" Hardcastle demanded as soon as they had reached the relative privacy of an empty section of chairs.

"That's what I keep asking you," McCormick replied, though his guilt over being caught spying diminished some of the fire in his tone. "Why are you hanging out with some guy who travels with his own goon squad?"

Hardcastle rubbed a hand across his forehead. "McCormick," he began in a barely controlled tone, "I do not want to have to say this again. This is personal, and I want you to stay out of it. Go back to the room, or go to the casino, or hang out at the pool. I don't care what you do, but let me handle this. Is that clear?"

"Judge- -"

"That wasn't a request, McCormick," Hardcastle interrupted coldly, "and it isn't open for discussion."

Startled, the young man unconsciously took a half step backward. He felt his breath catch as if Hardcastle had physically struck him. It took a moment, but when he finally answered, he had managed to will the anger and hurt from his voice.

"Okay, I got it this time. I'm out."

Then he turned abruptly and walked away. He didn't look back to see Hardcastle's hesitation as he first moved to follow his friend, then stopped and slowly returned to sit beside Delancie.

00000

McCormick pulled up in front of the courthouse and shut off the engine. For a moment, he simply sat, trying to weigh the severity of Hardcastle's retribution for even asking, against the minimal likelihood that he was going to get any help anyway.

But he didn't really have all that many options. Frank Harper had unexpectedly stonewalled him pretty thoroughly, and Hardcastle sure as hell wasn't being very forthcoming. And anyone he might've normally turned to in Vegas was unlikely to be much help in this particular situation.

"Ah, hell," he muttered, then pulled himself from the car and started toward the building.

He tried to appear confident for the security guard.

"I'm here to see Judge Henderson. Mark McCormick."

The guard glanced at the clipboard in front of him. "Do you have an appointment?"

A quick consideration, and he opted for the truth. "No. But I think he'd like to see me. Could you just let him know that I'm Milton Hardcastle's associate?"

"The docket is pretty tight, sir. Doesn't leave a lot of time for meetings, and without an appointment- -"

"I know," McCormick interrupted. "He's very busy. And if he can't see me, I'll understand, but could you please check? It's important."

The guard hesitated a second longer, then picked up the phone. He dialed an extension, then waited a moment before speaking into the phone.

"Marilyn? It's Walt. Hey, can you check the judge's calendar for me? Got a guy down here named, ah…" He looked back for clarification.

"Mark McCormick, Milton Hardcastle's assistant."

Walt relayed the information, listened for a moment, then said, "Okay; I'll wait." He looked back at McCormick.

"She says he can't do it today, but she's checking for the next available opening."

McCormick tried to hide his disappointment. "Oh, okay. Thanks."

After a minute, Walt was speaking again. "What? Yeah? Okay, I'll let him know." He hung up the phone and looked back at McCormick.

"He must really want to talk to you. You just caught him on his way back in, but he's going to delay fifteen minutes. He'll see you in chambers. Three-twelve; turn left off the elevator." Walt pointed in the proper direction.

McCormick thanked him and hurried down the hall, not certain if he should be grateful Henderson agreed to see him, or worried that the man thought it necessary.

Henderson was waiting, already in robes, in a small anteroom of his chambers. His assistant was looking suitably perplexed as to who her boss would suddenly drop everything to see.

"Mr. McCormick," he greeted as soon as the door opened, "please come in." He ushered the younger man back to his private office and closed the door behind them, leaving Marilyn wondering.

"Thanks for seeing me, Judge Henderson. I wasn't sure you'd remember me."

Henderson smiled and pointed at a chair as he slipped into his own. "Well, if Milton Hardcastle asks me to finagle some reduced charges for someone, I remember. That's not the kind of thing that happens all that often."

Taken aback, McCormick returned the smile. "Ah, no, I guess not," he said slowly. "And thank you, by the way." He had always assumed his association with Hardcastle was the reason for the fairly lenient fines he'd faced last time he was in Vegas; it had never occurred to him the judge might've actually asked.

But before he could figure out how to explain the help he needed this time, the judge was speaking again.

"So what's wrong with Milt? Is he in some kind of trouble?"

McCormick was startled by the unexpected question. "I was sort of hoping you could tell me." He was getting a bad feeling about all this.

"Hasn't anyone been around asking questions?" Henderson asked in a suddenly anxious tone.

"You mean the cops? As crazy as it is, I think that might all be pretty routine. They just- -"

"No," the jurist interrupted, "not the cops. The feds."

"The feds?" Mark was feeling a little slow on the uptake. "What feds?"

"I thought you might be able to tell me what's going on," Henderson replied, his tone equal parts disappointment and concern.

McCormick collected his thoughts. "Let's start again. I came here because Hardcastle's been acting really strange this week, starting with the idea of coming here at all. He's been sneaking off meeting people without me, and he won't tell me what he's doing. That's all I know, but it's strange enough to worry me. Now, what about the feds?"

Henderson shook his head. "They were just nosing around, talking to anyone who knew Milt. They didn't say much, but they were obviously investigating him."

"Investigating him for what?" McCormick demanded.

"I don't have any idea. Until they showed up, I didn't even know he was in town. Then after they were gone, someone mentioned the murder, but I don't think the F.B.I. would be involved in that."

"Not likely," McCormick agreed.

There was a moment of silence, and then Henderson looked McCormick directly in the eye.

"Are you sure you don't know anything at all about what's going on?"

McCormick contemplated that for several seconds, and then decided he couldn't really blame the guy. In a contest of Choose the Guilty Party when he and Hardcastle were the only players, even he'd pick himself every time. He kept his gaze steady.

"No, Your Honor; whatever it is, I don't know anything about it. I do know one thing, though. I know I wouldn't ever do anything to get him into trouble. Ever."

Henderson still didn't look entirely convinced.

"I'm the one he pulled strings for, remember?" Mark prompted.

"He's been wrong before."

"Yeah. But I came to you."

The judge sighed slightly. "Yes, I suppose you did. So how can I help you?"

McCormick shrugged, keeping the relief hidden. "Find out what you can about the feds. And, if there's a cop you can trust, I'd like to look at some mug books. Hardcastle's been meeting with some mobster type; maybe if I can figure out who, I can figure out why."

Henderson's eyebrows had risen to his hairline. "What do you mean, meeting with a mobster?"

"I've followed him twice now," McCormick explained, "and both times, he's been with this same guy." He shrugged again. "He's working on something, I just don't know what. And I sure as hell don't know what it has to do with the F.B.I."

"Is there anyone back home you can ask?"

"Ah, not really. I called up one of our friends—LAPD—but he didn't say much."

"What did he say?" Henderson asked, his tone a little insistent.

McCormick wondered briefly if all judges could read him so well.

"Well . . ." He hesitated briefly, then admitted the truth. "He basically told me to stay out of it."

"And yet here you are."

"He's not used to working without backup. My job is to be around to pull his butt outta the fire." He shook his head dolefully. "But sometimes he plays with matches."

Henderson smiled, a little grimly. "I think I could see that." He reached for the phone on his desk. "I'll set you up with someone. His name's Jeff Rowlen; he'll put you in a room and not ask any questions." He spoke briefly into the phone to make the arrangements, then replaced it on the cradle and rose from his chair.

"I don't mean to rush you, but I've got to get to court."

"No problem, Judge; I appreciate your help. I'll let you know what I figure out."

And then Henderson was ushering him back through the outer office and into the hallway. He smiled benignly. "So the station's only about three blocks east of here. I assume you remember the way."

McCormick grinned at the typical judicial humor. "Trust me, Judge; getting into a police station has never been my problem."

00000

Walking slowly down the hallway toward the room, McCormick was wondering exactly what was in store for him. He had seriously considered another long night of driving the highways and byways of the greater Las Vegas area, but then he had remembered the anger in Hardcastle's eyes earlier this afternoon and decided this might not be the time to push the man. Besides, now he had names to go with faces of the mobster and his hired hand, but not much else, so maybe he'd get a chance to get more information from Hardcastle.

Yeah, he thought scornfully, because he's been so open and honest about everything so far. What the hell ever.

He breathed out heavily, then stuck the key in the lock.

Hardcastle was at the table, a burger and fries in front of him. He spoke without looking up. "I wasn't sure you were coming back."

McCormick shrugged. "I wasn't sure you'd care." He didn't intend to open himself up for any more grief from Hardcastle.

With a gesture toward the plate, the judge continued, "You were gone too long to wait dinner."

"Well, I figured you'd have plans anyway."

Hardcastle sighed and finally turned to face the younger man. "So do you wanna just have this out now?"

But McCormick shook his head. "Not unless it's gonna include you telling me what the hell is going on."

Long seconds passed without an answer, so McCormick continued. "I know you're working on something, Judge; I just haven't figured out what yet. You know you're gonna need my help eventually, so why not just spill it now?"

Hardcastle smiled slightly. "I already said I'd let you know if I needed help."

McCormick tried to capitalize on the unexpectedly mild attitude. "Can you at least tell me why it's not yet?"

That seemed to stop Hardcastle for a moment. "I told you," he answered slowly, "it's- -"

"Personal," McCormick interrupted. "I know what you said. But, Judge, it's always personal. What's different this time?"

The judge hesitated, then spoke quietly, "I'm not even entirely sure. I just have a feeling that I need to handle this myself."

With a sigh, McCormick finally moved from the spot in the middle of the room and dropped into the second chair at the table. "You don't need to protect me, Hardcastle, whatever it is. But . . . I'll stay out of it, if that's really what you want."

"That's really what I want," Hardcastle confirmed.

McCormick nodded slowly. "Okay." He wasn't happy about it, but if Hardcastle was going to insist on working alone, he certainly didn't want the judge distracted with worrying about him.

Trying to force himself into something resembling okay, he grinned and snaked a hand across the table to grab one of Hardcastle's fries. He made a face as he swallowed. "Mm. Soggy and cold."

Hardcastle shrugged in return. "Room service," he replied, as if that explained everything. "Plus . . . I've been sittin' here for a while."

McCormick didn't speak, just waited.

"It really isn't about trust, kiddo."

McCormick felt himself relax slightly, and offered a gentle smile. "I know that, Judge. Just be careful, okay?"

"I always am, McCormick. Now whatta ya say we go get a hot pizza or something?"

McCormick just laughed as they headed out the door, and forced down the lingering uneasiness.

Chapter 4

McCormick had awakened to an empty room again, and he resisted the impulse to try tracking down the judge. He had at least had forewarning this time, as Hardcastle had told him over pizza that he had plans for the morning. He still didn't like it, but he was trying to follow the judge's wishes.

But after dressing for the day, he decided there couldn't be much harm in placing one more call to Lieutenant Harper to see if he could at least get a little more information on the guy Hardcastle seemed to be spending so much time with lately.

"Hey, Frank," he said when the line was answered, "it's me."

"Mark, what's up?"

"Did you find out anything about what the guys out here are doing?"

"Not really," Harper replied, "they aren't saying a whole lot. Don't seem to think it's really all that much of my concern."

"Maybe you can give me some other information, then. What can you tell me about a guy named Patrick Delancie? Or his thug, David Rocco?"

"I don't know a lot about him," Harper replied—too quickly, McCormick thought. "Organized crime, second generation. Why?"

"Why's Hardcastle mixed up with him?" McCormick countered.

"Didn't know he was. Mixed up how?"

McCormick sighed. "You're a lousy liar, Frank. Just remember I'm around if whatever it is gets out of control."

After hanging up rather abruptly in Harper's ear, he placed a brief call to Henderson's office, just to let him know he'd found out the who, but still not the why. He also said that he'd gotten a tacit admission that it was some kind of case, but he still had no idea how the federal investigators figured into it, and would the judge please call if he had any more information. Then he left the contact information and said good-bye. Of course, Henderson himself was in court, but he was sure Marilyn would relay the message word for word. He had the impression she still had a lot of questions.

Welcome to my world.

He'd finished his phone calls and been sitting silently for several minutes—working hard to remind himself that following the judge right now would be a fairly bad idea—when the knock came on the door.

He opened the door expecting a member of the housekeeping staff, so the two men in suits standing in the hallway surprised him.

"Oh, good," he said sardonically, "the feds are here." He looked them up and down quickly: one tall, one short; one blond, one brunet; one smiling, one scowling. Perfect set up for good cop/bad cop, he thought.

"Mark McCormick?" the tall blond smiling one inquired.

"Don't insult me by pretending not to know," McCormick complained. "If you're looking for me, then you know you've found me. Whatta ya want?" He thought briefly that Hardcastle wouldn't approve of the attitude with the law enforcement agents, and would undoubtedly tell him to tone it down a notch or two if he was here, but since he wasn't here, McCormick also thought the donkey had given up some of his rights to tell him what to do.

"We'd like to talk to you about Milton Hardcastle," the agent replied, seeming undisturbed by McCormick's comments, though his partner's scowl had deepened a little. He was displaying his badge. "I'm Agent Sloane, F.B.I.; this is my partner, Agent Matterly. May we come in?"

McCormick backed up and opened the door wider, allowing the men to enter. He motioned them toward the two chairs at the small table, then pulled out the chair from the desk and swung it around to face them. "What about Hardcastle?" he asked as he seated himself.

Sloane's smile spread a bit. "Right down to business, eh, Mr. McCormick? Fair enough.

"First, let me say that—as you no doubt suspected—we are fairly familiar with your personal case file. Your arrangement with Judge Hardcastle is certainly unusual."

McCormick shrugged. "I don't know," he said noncommittally. "Hardcastle says there's precedents all over the place."

"Really?"

McCormick shrugged again. "But what's it to you?"

"We're interested in the nature of your work for the judge," Sloane answered.

"Oh, that. Well, you know, he lives on a big estate. Lots of mowing, hedge-trimming, weeding. Then there's the pool, and maintaining the cars. Oh, and the cooking and- -"

"We meant the other work," Matterly spoke up for the first time. And McCormick could tell from his voice that he probably enjoyed playing bad cop.

Mark narrowed his eyes. "What about it?"

"What's your part in the vigilante scam?"

McCormick held his tongue, but he couldn't stop the glare. He knew already he didn't like this Matterly guy, and he didn't care how much of it was an act. When he thought his response wouldn't get him taken away in handcuffs, he allowed himself to speak.

"Hardcastle is not a vigilante and nothing that he does is a scam. As for me, I do whatever he needs. Help him with his research, ride along for backup when he goes to ask his questions, whatever. But again, what's it to you?"

Matterly began to snap back, "We'll ask the ques- -" but Sloane interrupted.

"Mr. McCormick," the agent said smoothly, "we just need to gather some basic information about what goes on during your investigations. For instance, can you tell me how your cases are chosen?"

McCormick turned his attention back to the good cop. "I think 'chosen' might be too strong a word in most cases. They just sort of seem to drop in our lap. Friends need help, or we're just in the wrong place at the wrong time, things like that."

"What about his famous files?"

"What about them?"

"Mr. McCormick, why are you evading our questions?" Sloane truly sounded more curious than angry.

"Because you haven't told me why you're asking," McCormick replied simply.

"Isn't it sufficient that we're federal agents?" Matterly snapped.

"Oh, that's rarely sufficient, Agent Matterly."

Sloane stepped in again. "To tell you the truth, Mr. McCormick, we've recently had reason to believe that Judge Hardcastle may have been less than above-board during his time on the bench, and we have some concerns that improper behavior may be continuing even now."

McCormick stared mutely; his only thought, What the hell has Hardcastle gotten into now?

Finally, he managed a perfectly reasonable question. "What kind of improper behavior?"

"We think that he may have been taking pay-offs while on the bench, dismissing charges in exchange for financial consideration. Now, it seems like he's decided to start going after some of those same cases to finally have them put away. We'd like to know why."

"This is some kind of joke, right?" McCormick was still staring at the federal officers. "Hardcastle put you up to this, didn't he?"

"It's no joke, Mr. McCormick," Agent Sloane assured him soberly.

"What in God's name would make you think something like that?" Mark was doing his best to keep himself under control. Really, this was probably his best opportunity to gain some understanding of whatever was going on. But he'd never been all that tolerant of blatant stupidity.

"We got a couple of complaints, beginning several weeks ago. To tell you the truth, we didn't take it too seriously until we started looking into it. Then we thought there were some things that might need a little more explaining. Even your own arrangement with the judge seems just a bit unorthodox."

"I suppose," McCormick admitted slowly. "That doesn't make it 'improper'."

"Were you asked for anything in exchange for Hardcastle's judicial stay?"

"You mean money?" McCormick asked, amused. "Pay him instead of letting him send me off to jail again? Hardly. If you guys really did your homework, then you'd know that he pays me."

"And there was no other kind of quid pro quo agreement?"

This line of questioning was rapidly losing its humorous edge. McCormick spoke slowly through his gritted teeth.

"Let me spell this out for you. I was looking at a third felony conviction. And, yeah, there were some extenuating circumstances, but the truth was that most of the charges were valid. Judge Hardcastle offered me a way out of a tight corner, and the only string attached was that I had to promise him an honest day's work for an honest day's pay." This probably wasn't the time to mention the slave wage aspect of the arrangement.

"So far, it's been working out just fine, and there's been no hint of anything improper going on, ever. So if you're thinking that our 'unorthodox' arrangement is the key to whatever you're investigating, then you're barking up the wrong tree."

"Your loyalty is touching," Matterly drawled. "But in terms of those files he keeps—hasn't it ever struck you as odd that all those supposedly guilty defendants got off on apparent technicalities when you yourself appeared before him twice on relatively weak charges and still couldn't manage to catch a break? Or at least, no break that didn't involve you ending up a virtual prisoner even without a conviction?"

McCormick opened his mouth instantly, but no words came out as he took about two seconds to wonder if that wasn't a fair question. But then the moment passed and he shook his head firmly.

"Uh-huh. You've missed the point entirely. What you're describing is just opposite sides of the same coin. Hardcastle believes in the letter of the law. In his files, he's got some probably guilty folks who ended up benefiting from that belief and went free. In my case, you've got a mostly innocent guy who caught the downside of that belief and went to prison." He looked at them with his most long-suffering expression. "What're you gonna do?"

"You can't expect us to be- -"

"It's impressive that you've managed to accept all of those circumstances," Sloane broke in calmly, stopping whatever it was his partner had intended to say.

The agent reached into his jacket pocket and produced a photograph, which he handed across to McCormick. "Do you know this man?"

McCormick took the picture and looked down into the face of Patrick Delancie, Hardcastle's recent drinking buddy. "Never met him," he replied honestly. "What's he got to do with Hardcastle?"

"We thought you might tell us." Sloane passed across another couple of photos, these showing Delancie and Hardcastle together.

"Hardcastle knows a lot of people," McCormick said evenly. "Who's this one?"

The agent took back the offered pictures and returned them to his pocket. "His name is Patrick Delancie, and he's a major player in the organized crime game back in California.

"When we got the initial complaints that started our investigation, they hinted that Hardcastle's strings were being pulled by someone with slightly different connections. We think maybe it's Delancie."

McCormick was staring again, and he could feel the angry flush creeping across his face. He realized then he wasn't going to be able to get information from these men; they were going to have to leave soon.

"You really expect me to believe Hardcastle is working for this Delancie guy?" His voice was low and even, but only with much effort. "Do you have anyidea how ridiculous that is? I mean, do you know who you're talking about? This is Milton Hardcastle, for God's sake!"

"It's precisely that attitude that has allowed him to stay hidden for the last thirty years," Matterly said. "What better cover for a judge on the take?"

"All right, that's it!" McCormick lost the battle to control his temper, and he rose quickly from his seat. "I've heard enough. You two need to get the hell out of here before I forget you're federal agents." He started purposefully toward the door.

"We came here because we need your help, Mr. McCormick."

McCormick whirled to face Sloane. "Help? With what? You sure as hell better not be expecting me to help you prove these ridiculous lies."

"Maybe you could look at it like you're helping prove us wrong," Sloane suggested quietly.

"He doesn't need help proving his innocence!" McCormick shouted. "How can you guys not get that?"

"How can- - -" Matterly clamped his mouth shut at Sloane's warning glare.

Sloane tried the reasonable approach. "McCormick. He's already the prime suspect in a murder investigation. Surely that's got to tell you something?"

The ex-con didn't take much time to wonder when the prime suspect label had officially been hung on the judge. It had really just been a matter of time, anyway.

"Yeah. It tells me the Las Vegas P.D. is almost as stupid as the F.B.I."

Sloane almost smiled. "Only almost?"

"At least they have an actual crime," McCormick explained hotly. "You guys are just running around talking about rumors and suspicions; trying to ruin somebody with nothin' but lies. Do you actually have anything resembling evidence?"

The agent gave a faint shrug. "Just a lot of peripheral connections right now. Seems a lot of the 'cases' you two have been involved in solving have some relationship with Delancie, though, to be fair, the man is involved in a lot of things. But, at least on the surface, it looks like Hardcastle is taking care of anyone who manages to get on Delancie's bad side."

"And just how convenient would that be?" McCormick barked. "All the people on Delancie's bad side just happen to be the people Hardcastle let off on technicalities in the past thirty years? Gimme a break."

"First of all, you said yourself that you don't really choose your cases, so they obviously didn't all come from the judge's files. But secondly, we think that connection to Delancie may have been what allowed them to get off in the first place."

"So Hardcastle's been on this guy's payroll for three decades or more? That's your theory?" McCormick glared, waiting for some kind of denial, but it never came. "You're insane." He turned and resumed his stomp toward the door, then held it open and looked pointedly across the room.

Matterly looked like he might stand his ground just on general principle, but Sloane rose from his chair and motioned the other to do the same. Then, following his partner toward the exit, Sloane paused just in front of McCormick, holding out a business card.

"Mr. McCormick," he began in a low, reasonable tone, "if you are involved in anything that you'd rather not be, or if you should discover that things are not what they seem and you would like to change the terms of your parole, we can help you. Just call me."

The young man shook his head. "I wouldn't count on it," he said, but he did allow the agent to press the card into his hand just before he closed the door loudly behind them.

Then he leaned his forehead against the door and closed his eyes. "Hardcase, what have you gotten yourself into now?"

00000

Alone in the lounge, Hardcastle took a slow sip of his drink, then glanced at his watch. He thought he'd give it another half an hour, then go back upstairs and see if the kid wanted to have lunch. Of course, that was probably a toss up. McCormick had tried hard last night, but dinner was still a little tense. And when Mark McCormick couldn't relax over pizza, something was definitely wrong. He shook his head and took another drink, hating that the thing that was wrong this time was him. The Lone Ranger really didn't like working without his Tonto. He looked at his watch again. Twenty-five more minutes.

Seven minutes before his deadline, Hardcastle saw a small, sturdy, dark-haired figure approaching his table. He raised an eyebrow when the man slipped into the opposite chair without comment.

"You make a habit of sittin' at people's table uninvited?" he growled.

The other man smiled. "Never knew you were such a stickler for formalities, Hardcase."

"One always makes exceptions. Whatta ya want, Scapelli?"

Anthony Scapelli, underworld kingpin, frowned across the table. "Judge, I'm hurt. Can't I just visit an old friend?"

"We're not friends, and I don't visit with low-life racketeers, so why don't you drag your way back to whatever hole you crawled up from."

"I'm gonna ignore that, Hardcastle," Scapelli said evenly, "because I have something to say that I think will be beneficial to both of us.

"Now, listen. I saw you had two guests at your table this morning, and since one of them was Delancie, I know you're not too concerned about the type of people you associate with.

"But it was the police officer that I thought was most interesting. I assume he stopped by to tell you that they're getting closer to making their case?"

"You seem to know everything," Hardcastle snapped. "But my recommendation would probably be that you stay the hell out of my personal life."

Scapelli ignored the advice. "Yeah. They aren't going to risk arresting a retired judge until they've got all the pieces nailed down, but my sources say that won't take long. And, no offense, Judge, but you going away for murder seems like it might be bad for your health. In fact, it sort of seems like a really bad idea all the way around.

"But what if I could help?"

"I don't need your help," Hardcastle said flatly.

"My sources say otherwise," Scapelli answered. "And I have access to some legal expertise that could be very helpful in this situation."

Hardcastle snorted. "I bet."

"Of course it's possible my offer is premature," Scapelli continued, as if Hardcastle hadn't spoken. "After all, there haven't even been formal charges as yet. But if it should come to that, keep in mind that I have many services to offer, all for very reasonable fees."

The judge shook his head. "And there's a couple of things you should keep in mind, too, Scapelli: One, filing charges is a long way from being convicted, and, two, I'd rather rot in prison than do business with you."

Scapelli smiled grimly. "Very easy to say this early in the game, Judge. But there's something else I know about your personal life, too. You've got some guy staying with you, right? A parolee? You should think about what's gonna happen to him if you go away. Tell me, from the legal perspective, can you still execute a judicial stay from behind bars?"

"Leave him out of it," Hardcastle growled darkly.

"I'm not involving him; I'm just telling you to remember that your actions affect others besides yourself." He rose from the table.

"Trust me, Hardcastle; you're on the wrong side of the justice system now, and you're not gonna survive without some help. Your buddy, Delancie, doesn't have the connections here to do you any good, so when you change your mind, I'll be around."

Hardcastle watched him walk away, then decided he needed to make a phone call before lunch.

00000

"What do you mean, he knows about Delancie?" Hardcastle said angrily.

"Seemed pretty clear to me," Harper replied, not responding to the tone. "When I talked to him before, he didn't seem to know anything. But by this morning, he had a name to go with the face."

Hardcastle rubbed at his eyes wearily. "How does he do that? Besides, he told me he'd stay out of it."

"He's worried about you."

"Oh, I know." Hardcastle sounded resigned. "But now Scapelli's talking about him, and I don't like that one little bit. I don't want him involved in this one."

"And I've told you; I don't think you can keep him out of it. Why not just tell him what's going on?"

"Because he won't like it."

Harper laughed. "When does he ever?"

"Seriously. I didn't tell him beforehand because he would've had a million reasons why we shouldn't do it. And you know what, Frank? I think he would've managed to talk me out of it. Now I don't know what to do with him. It's too late to back out now, and the kid's like some kind of dog with a bone, or something." The judge sighed heavily into the phone.

"I shouldn't have brought him here," Hardcastle continued sadly. "He's gonna end up getting hurt and it's gonna be my fault. I wonder if there's a way to send him home?"

"Not likely," Frank answered. "Why did you take him, anyway? I mean, if you don't want him involved, don't even want him to know what's going on?"

"I don't know. I guess because . . ." Hardcastle trailed off, considering. Because he could always count on the kid to have his back, even without asking? Because no matter what was going on, it seemed more bearable with McCormick? Because if something should go wrong, he knew McCormick would help fix it? Finally, he spoke again.

"Because I wanted to be sure I'd have a house to go home to when this is done. If the kid had one of his famous poker games, there's no telling what might happen."

"Okay," Harper replied evenly, and Hardcastle knew the detective had heard every single one of his answers.

00000

Hardcastle found McCormick sitting on an unmade bed, watching television, and munching on a bag of potato chips, soda can at his side.

"Have you even been out of the room today?"

"Went to the vending machine," McCormick answered, holding up the small bag of chips.

"I thought you'd go out and have some fun. It's supposed to be your vacation."

"I didn't come here to vacation alone. Especially not while you're out working on God knows what."

Hardcastle sighed, and then thought briefly that he was doing a lot of that lately. Maybe he was getting too old for this crap.

"McCormick . . ."

"I'm not asking," Mark replied quickly, putting up his hand to ward off the objections. "And I'm not complaining. I'm just saying."

There was a short silence, then McCormick spoke again.

"By the way, that cop, Colbert, came looking for you this morning."

"He found me," Hardcastle told him. "Did he say anything to you?"

McCormick shook his head. "Not much. Asked me where I was the night of the murder, then muttered something about wondering why we came to a town filled with people if all we wanted to do was spend time wandering around by ourselves. Asked me a few questions about you. Imagine, me as a character reference for you." He grinned slightly.

"Well, I hope you gave me a good one," Hardcastle said, relieved to see some humor drifting back into his friend's face.

A shrug. "Told him I was the only one likely to make you angry enough to do in."

"That's helpful."

What humor there had been in the young eyes faded. "Seriously, are things okay with that?"

"No number stenciled on my chest yet," Hardcastle assured him, then decided quickly that was too flippant when he saw the flash in McCormick's eyes.

"They're still investigating," he said more seriously, "not ready to make an arrest yet. Probably soon, though."

"And you're still just gonna let this go without any investigation of our own?" McCormick asked, astounded.

"I didn't do it."

"Judge, you have way too much faith in the system."

And then there was silence again.

Finally, Hardcastle said, "Well, I'm not doin' anything right now, and I came to see if you wanted to have lunch." He gestured toward the snacks on the bedside table. "Unless you're holding out for the next course in that feast."

That managed to get through, and Mark was laughing as he pushed himself off the bed. "There's always time for a slightly melted chocolate bar later. Let's go eat."

00000

McCormick's good humor had been short lived, and as they sat at the table in the restaurant, Hardcastle decided the kid wasn't all that much fun when he was pissed. Or hurt, he corrected himself. The young man never had been fond of staying out of things for his own good.

"I need to ask you something, Judge," McCormick said quietly, breaking into his thoughts.

Hardcastle raised a warning eyebrow, and McCormick added quickly, "It's not about your case. I mean, I don't know if it's about your case, but that's not why I'm asking. And if you just tell me to butt out . . . well, I guess I will, but I won't be happy about it."

"Go on," Hardcastle said cautiously.

"Some guys came to see me today, Judge, from the F.B.I."

"What?"

"Yeah. Asking some questions about you, and my parole and stuff."

"What did you tell them?"

"What do you mean, what did I tell them? I just told them the truth, what else? But, Judge, they're saying bad stuff about you. And they've got pictures of you with that mob guy, Delancie."

"What're you asking me, McCormick?" Hardcastle asked, suddenly weary. "Are you asking me if what they're saying is true?"

"Of course not!"

Hardcastle managed to take some relief in the outraged denial, but it didn't do much to diminish the anger he could feel building. "I'm sorry you got dragged into this."

McCormick looked at him intently. "I don't care about being dragged into it; I'd just like to have some idea what it is. What I'm asking is the same thing I've been asking all week. What the hell is going on?"

But Hardcastle just pulled a hand across his chin and shook his head.

"Judge," McCormick pleaded, "if these people think you're involved in something, we need to get that worked out. Could you please just let me help you with whatever this is? Please."

Hating himself with every word, Hardcastle replied firmly, "I can handle this, McCormick. It's nothing you need to worry about."

Then he watched the anger and confusion and fear battle for control in McCormick's eyes until the young man reigned it all in and covered it with the mask that Hardcastle knew he used to protect himself from the world. He decided it probably couldn't get any worse than it was right this second, so he said the last thing he wanted to say.

"Would you consider going home? I'll fly back when I'm done here."

And for a moment, he thought McCormick's anger might win out and the answer would be yes, but the moment didn't last.

"I'll drive you home, Judge. If that's what it's come down to, and that's all I can do, then I'll do that." The tone was dull and flat, devoid of emotion, and still managed to break the judge's heart.

"Do you have plans this afternoon?" McCormick continued in the same lifeless voice. "Or tonight?"

Hardcastle glanced at his watch and jumped at the opening. "Yeah, in just a bit, actually. I've gotta meet someone downtown. Sorry, kid."

But McCormick just shrugged and picked up his fork. "Then I guess we better hurry and finish lunch."

00000

McCormick thought Andrew the Doorman might be able to become Andrew the Retired by the time this vacation was over. But it had been money well spent so far, and he was hoping the trend would continue.

This time, hoping that "downtown" had meant Hardcastle would need to take a cab to his meeting, McCormick had arranged for Andrew to stash him in a taxi at the end of the waiting row of cabs, with a driver that he had been assured wouldn't have any problems with the directive 'follow that car'. So now he was hunched down in the back seat, with the meter running, and it was the first time he'd been grateful that Hardcastle had been throwing money at him all week long.

He waited close to twenty minutes, making idle conversation with the driver, Sal, before Hardcastle emerged from the hotel and motioned for the doorman to flag a cab. "That's him," he said to his cabbie, though Andrew had already discreetly identified him, as well.

"Okay," McCormick said as Hardcastle's cab pulled away from the door, "this isn't like in the movies. I don't want to end up in a high-speed chase down the strip. The point is to be discreet, but still end up wherever he does."

The driver grinned into the rearview mirror as he pulled slowly away a couple of car lengths behind the other cab. "I got it; slow and easy. For a running meter and an extra hundred, we can follow this guy all day for all I care." They followed the cab sedately past the manicured lawn and decorative fountains of the hotel property, then turned right onto Las Vegas Boulevard, keeping Hardcastle in view, but not overtaking.

"I thought you said he was probably going downtown," Sal commented as they pulled onto the strip. "Maybe the Four Queens?"

"That's what I thought," McCormick replied from the backseat. "Maybe he meant 'downtown' like the police station. I don't know. Let's just see where he goes."

"Doesn't look like the police station," the driver said after just a moment. "They're turning on Flamingo."

McCormick just shrugged. "Well, if I knew for sure, I woulda just met him there."

"Looks like a short ride; they're pulling into Bourbon Street."

"Don't go in there," McCormick said suddenly, instinctively slouching down in his seat, even though he knew Hardcastle couldn't see him. "Can you go past, then turn around and come right back?"

"Okay," Sal replied dubiously.

"That's not where he's going," Mark explained. "We're like, what? Maybe half a mile from Caesar's? He would never take a cab here; he woulda just walked. Damn donkey, he probably thinks I might be following him; he's trying to figure it out. So just be careful."

Sal grinned as he completed his turn and came up on the Bourbon Street hotel from the other direction. "This is gonna be fun."

"Not if we lose him." McCormick scanned the row of waiting cabs at the entry area of the hotel. "That cab he was in, some company named Pace, right?"

"Car three forty-four," Sal confirmed. "They're waiting right up close in the drop-off area. He can't stay there very long."

"Okay, then, just hang back a little. Make sure you can see him when he pulls back out, because he isn't getting out here."

And, just as predicted, after just a couple of minutes, the cab pulled away again, Hardcastle still inside. "Donkey," McCormick muttered under his breath.

They had repeated that pattern of pulling in and not dropping off at two more casinos before McCormick was convinced they'd been made.

"He's on to us, Sal," he said as they pulled out of the Tropicana parking lot. "So stay sharp."

As if to prove his point, their leading cab suddenly accelerated and darted through a series of lane changes that increased their lead by several car lengths.

"Dammit," Sal grumbled as he watched the traffic for an opening, then made a lane change with far too little clearance.

McCormick decided instantly he didn't like being a passenger in these situations. "Um, no offense, Sal, but I'm not sure we ought to be trying maneuvers like that. He's not gonna give us much of a slip on this road in this traffic, but if you kill us, I'll never know what he was doing."

With a small chuckle, Sal answered, "Okay. Might've gotten a little carried away in the excitement of it all, but I'll tone it down some. I won't lose him, though."

True to his word, Sal managed to keep Hardcastle's cab in sight, and, several minutes later, he announced, "They're going into Circus Circus."

By now he'd learned the routine, and the cabbie hung back a bit after pulling into the parking lot, but they could clearly see Hardcastle exiting his cab and heading into the casino.

"Looks like this is the place." Sal said, as he started to pull close to the door, but McCormick stopped him.

"Hang on. Can you just park over there in that lot for a few minutes? I just want to see what happens next. Make sure you stay where you can see both of those doors, because he'll be back out. Honestly, the idea of that guy deciding to spend any time inside a pink and white building with trapeze artists flying around and kids screaming their heads off . . . well, let's just say I give it about five minutes."

As it turned out, it took eight, but then Hardcastle came striding quickly back into the sunlight, his eyes looking quickly in all directions.

Sal grinned. "You know him pretty well."

"Usually," Mark replied, and tried not to wonder—again—why he was being excluded from whatever was happening now. But as soon as the judge started moving again, he realized he had something new to worry about.

"Damn. He's not gettin' back in a cab." He watched Hardcastle set off to cross the street on foot. "Maybe the Riviera," McCormick mumbled to himself. He spoke louder. "Where's the taxi stand at the Riviera?"

"Around back."

"Okay." McCormick glanced at the meter—$42.90—and reached into his pocket. Handing a hundred dollar bill over the seat, he spoke quickly.

"Now listen, Andrew says you're a stand-up guy, so this is what I want you to do. I want you to go around back and see if he gets into another cab. If he does, then shag your ass back over here and pick me up and we'll keep it up. I'm gonna stay here and watch this side to see if he leaves the hotel on foot. We'll give it fifteen minutes; if he's not out by then, I'm going in. If that happens, come back to Caesar's later and I'll get you the rest of your money, okay?"

Sal seemed more caught up in the intrigue of it all than the money. "Yeah, I got it. I'll go keep an eye out."

"Okay, hurry up," McCormick said as he crawled out of the cab. "Fifteen minutes," he added as a last reminder. He watched as Sal made his way through traffic and across the street, then he found a spot that let him watch the hotel without being too conspicuous, though he did worry for a moment that loitering around a bunch of parked cars could look pretty bad for a guy with his history. Hope the cops are busy somewhere else.

He had come up with what he thought would be a pretty decent cover story—just in case—when Sal was suddenly roaring back into the parking lot. He ran quickly over to the car and jumped into the back seat.

"What? He's moving again?"

Sal nodded. "But not in a cab. He came out the back door all right, but he took off on foot."

"Well where the hell's he going back there?"

"It's gotta be the Hilton; there's not really anything else back there. Unless he's still just trying to confuse you." He shrugged. "I dunno. Whatta ya want to do?"

McCormick thought for a moment. "Can you get me there before him, without driving right by him?"

"Sure."

"Okay; let's do that. If it's just another stopover for him, then we'll keep following, but maybe he thinks he's in the clear now."

Five minutes later, they were again sitting in front of a hotel in a row of cabs, waiting on Milton Hardcastle. Ten minutes after that, the man himself came strolling up the long drive. McCormick was slouched completely down in the seat, ensuring that not even a stray wisp of his curly hair was visible through the window.

"He went inside," Sal reported.

"Did he look like he was watching for anything?" McCormick asked as he straightened back up.

"Not really. I don't think he knows you're here."

"Okay. Then I think I'll risk it. Surely he wouldn't have walked down here to lose someone he thinks he's already lost." McCormick hoped he was correct. After following the guy around for well over an hour, he was going to be annoyed if he didn't find out where Hardcastle was going.

He handed another hundred across the seat. "You've been great, Sal. Thanks."

But the driver hesitated. "I can't take any more money, Mark. I've been paid for my time, and this was way too much fun."

McCormick grinned. "I don't think too much about the fun aspects of tailing people anymore, Sal, but you could be right about that. But still, a deal's a deal, and you've been more help than you can know. So take the money, and take my advice: don't make a habit of this kind of thing."

Sal laughed as he took the offered bill. "Thanks, Mark, and I'll remember what you said. Good luck. I hope you and Milt work everything out."

McCormick laughed to himself as he walked up the sidewalk and into the building. He'd have to remember to ask Andrew exactly what he'd told Sal to get him to go along with this surveillance operation.

Inside, he wandered toward the registration area, then stopped suddenly and had to duck behind a pack of tourists waiting for their tour operator to get them checked in. He blended in with the crowd until he saw Hardcastle walk away from the guest services desk and stride through the casino. Then he walked purposefully to the desk himself.

"Hi," he greeted with a huge smile. "I'm hoping you can help me."

The blonde behind the desk returned the smile. "That's why we're here."

"My name's Jeff McMillan, and I'm on a quest to make a good first impression. I'm supposed to try and close a major deal for small-scale harvest equipment with a gentleman named Carl Plummer. I think that was him you were just talking to, so I was hoping if he maybe gave you any idea of things he was interested in, or- -"

"Sorry, Mr. McMillan," the clerk interrupted, "but I think you've got the wrong guy. That gentleman is here for a symposium on office equipment."

"Office equipment?" McCormick tried to turn his surprised sputter into a polite chuckle. "Well then, my mistake. I guess you really saved me." He paused. "There's really a symposium for office equipment?"

The woman smiled. "You bet. They're meeting in one of our small conference rooms in Salon B. You'd be surprised the variety of people we get here. After all, you're selling farm equipment."

He smiled back at her. "True enough. Okay, well I guess I better go keep an eye out for Mr. Plummer. Thanks again for keeping from making a fool of myself." And with a friendly wave, he started toward the conference area and Salon B.

Salon B turned out to be comprised of two separate conference rooms in the far back corner of a fairly large convention area. McCormick grinned at the goofy cardboard sign in front of the second door: Office Productivity for the Future.

What the hell kind of scam is that?

He picked up a flyer on copy machines—Somebody is really covering their bases, he thought—and leaned casually against the door. He could barely make out the heated discussion going on inside. Hardcastle seemed to be displeased with . . . the federal agents? What the hell? He listened intently.

"You did what?" Oh, yeah; Hardcastle was definitely displeased.

"Given his background," Matterly answered, trying to stand firm, "we thought it might be helpful if he knew the story. Thought he might get the word out somehow."

"'Given his background'?" Hardcastle's voice had dropped to a dangerous low. "What do you think you know about his background?"

"Judge, he only meant- - "

"Don't try to protect him," Hardcastle interrupted Sloane. He turned his attention back to Matterly. "Well? I asked you a question."

"He is a con, Hardcastle," Matterly replied, trying to regain some gusto.

"Ex-con," Hardcastle corrected firmly. "And I hope you're not gonna tell me you think that says everything about a person, or you're a bigger jackass than I thought."

McCormick smiled slightly to himself. Thanks, Judge.

"Look, I thought we were all on the same side here," Matterly said angrily. "We're going to use whatever means we have to in order to bring this guy down."

Hardcastle's tone turned to ice. "You won't use 'whatever means' as long as you're working with me," he shouted back at the agent. "And you won't involve McCormick!"

McCormick had waited as long as humanly possible; his patience was gone. "Won't involve me in what, Hardcastle?" he demanded as he burst into the conference room. "What in the hell is going on here?"

Three pairs of eyes stared at him in stunned silence. McCormick almost laughed at Hardcastle's expression of disbelief. "What? I followed you once, Hardcase, you didn't think I'd do it again?"

"I thought I'd lost you," Hardcastle admitted, finally finding his voice.

McCormick allowed himself a small grin. "You're good, Judge, but I am so much better." He sobered quickly. "Now you wanna tell me what the hell's happening?"

Hardcastle sighed. "Close the door and sit down."

"Now hold on there, Judge," Matterly began strongly, "you can't jeopardize this case by bringing him into this."

"I'm not the one who brought him in," Hardcastle reminded the agent. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I specifically told you to leave him the hell alone."

Matterly couldn't argue with that, so he simply motioned McCormick toward a seat and walked to close the door.

00000

Hardcastle chose a seat directly across from McCormick, though it might've been more comfortable had he not been in the direct line of that expectant gaze.

"Well?"

The most amazing thing to Hardcastle was the deep and open concern shining in the blue eyes that watched him so intently. Not suspicion. Not uncertainty. Not even anger—well, not much, anyway. Just an honest concern for a friend and an unspoken promise that he would do anything to help. Hardcastle wasn't sure when he had felt more ashamed.

"I'm sorry, kid."

McCormick brushed the comment away. "Just tell me what's going on, Judge. And tell me that you're okay."

Hardcastle smiled slightly. "Yeah, I'm fine, McCormick. The thing is, there's this judge—maybe a few cops, too—working for the wrong side. Looks like he's working for this mob guy- -"

"Delancie?" McCormick interrupted.

"No. Patrick's a friend of mine."

"Patrick Delancie is a friend of yours?"

"Do you wanna let me tell this story or not?" Hardcastle growled.

McCormick grimaced at the tone. "Sorry."

"Anyway," the judge continued, "we've got these supposed good guys out here working for the bad guys. This mobster's name is Scapelli, and he's got a judge on his payroll."

McCormick smiled slightly at the undisguised disgust in Hardcastle's voice. The judge hated to see his precious legal system tarnished. "It's a travesty, to be sure," he replied dryly, "but what the hell does that have to do with you?"

"What do you mean?" Hardcastle demanded. "Do you really think I'm just gonna let a crooked judge stay on the bench?"

"Of course not," McCormick answered with a heavy sigh. He put the pieces together. "So you're trying to end up in his court?" Hardcastle nodded, and McCormick launched into his typical argument. "Couldn't we let the cops handle things for once? There's not enough going on back at home, you have to leave the state to go lookin' for bad guys?" He motioned at the agents sitting quietly at the table. "Can't we just let these guys do their job?"

"We asked for his help," Sloane interjected.

"Why?" the young man demanded. "You've got an agency full of people at your disposal. Why involve a civilian?"

"We needed someone we could trust without question and someone Scapelli would be interested in. This particular civilian carries a lot of weight, you know."

"Yeah, for now," Mark answered bitterly. "You guys keep going around spreading rumors about him being in bed with the mob and you're gonna ruin his life."

"Don't be so dramatic, kid," Hardcastle chided gently.

"I'm serious, Judge!" McCormick's voice rose an octave. "You've worked your whole life to build the reputation you have. You've earned it; you can't just let it be destroyed over one lousy case.

"Besides, what if all your scheming doesn't work? What if you actually get convicted of this murder?"

"First of all, McCormick, I don't scheme; I plan. And secondly, my plans always work. This guy is going to find a way to get me off, even though the D.A. has an airtight case. Besides, I'm innocent."

"Take it from me, Judge, sometimes guilt or innocence doesn't have much to do with it."

Hardcastle frowned slightly. Would McCormick ever really let go of that resentment? Aloud he said, "In my case, hotshot, there hasn't actually been a crime, so even if I should be convicted, it'll be overturned before I leave the court room."

McCormick stared. "What do you mean, no crime? A guy is dead, Judge!"

"Yeah, well . . . not entirely dead, really."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's all been a set-up, kid. Jarrod is an agent from a Midwest field office. He flew in to make a scene and get gunned down, then he went back home. We won't really be able to risk having the D.A. dismiss the case, no matter how it seems the trial is going, because we don't know when the judge might make his move. But it won't matter what the jury does, since no one died."

"Judge," Mark objected, "even I know you can't have a murder without a body. They'd never make that work, especially against you."

Sloane spoke up. "We took care of that part; everything was arranged. Planted witnesses reported the body, and one of our guys who's been working inside the local department was the first responder. Then a couple of agents moved in and confiscated the 'body'." The agent shrugged.

"Then we just spun them a tale: Protected witness who fled from custody before testifying; we needed to keep his identity confidential, so we said we'd handle the forensic work. The locals didn't argue too much, since we were willing to let them have the collar, as long as they did it our way."

McCormick shook his head and turned his attention back to Hardcastle. "This whole thing is insane. I mean, you know that, right?"

"It's important, kid," Hardcastle said quietly.

For a long moment, McCormick simply stared across the table. Finally, he sighed. "So what do you want me to do?"

Hardcastle smiled gently, immediately understanding just why he had brought McCormick along . . . and why he couldn't stay. "I want you to go home."

A brief laugh escaped McCormick's lips before he realized Hardcastle was serious. His face hardened. "You want what?"

"You heard me," the judge replied firmly. "I should've insisted earlier. I don't know what I was thinkin', bringing you here in the first place. You're right for once; I shouldn't drag you into things like this. Go home and hold down the fort there until I get back."

"You mean, go home and stay out of the way," McCormick said hotly. "And like hell I will."

"You'll do what I say, kid," Hardcastle replied, a new—but not surprising—menace to his tone.

"Like hell I will," McCormick repeated, rising from his chair. "You might not know what you were thinkin' when you brought me here, but I think that's the only sane idea you've had during this whole thing." He placed his palms on the tabletop and leaned across to stare directly into Hardcastle's eyes. "I'm not going."

"He probably could help us, Judge," came a quiet voice from the other end of the table.

Hardcastle and McCormick jerked their heads to look at Sloane. They had almost forgotten the agents were there.

Hardcastle would've been content to let them stay invisible. He ignored McCormick's smirk of victory, and directed his comments to Sloane. "I told you, he's not gonna be involved."

"Judge- -"

"Listen, Hardcase- -"

"Hardcastle- -"

Hardcastle just stared as the other three men broke off their simultaneous arguments.

McCormick grinned. "Face it, Hardcase; you're outnumbered."

"Except for the fact that they," Hardcastle jerked his thumb toward the agents, "can't tell me what to do, and your vote doesn't count."

McCormick simply glared at the older man for a long, long moment until Hardcastle finally relented. "Oh, all right," the judge huffed, "you can stay." And though he made a huge show of annoyance, Hardcastle couldn't deny the immediate relief that swept over him. But his relief vanished with the young man's next words.

"Good. Now that that's settled, I have an idea."

The judge eyed him anxiously, but McCormick was undeterred. "The thing is, guys, I don't like this whole idea of using the judge's reputation as bait. Honestly, I don't know if I'm more afraid that the story won't be believed or that it will. Either way is trouble." The young man seated himself again and gazed intently at his friend. "You can't sacrifice everything you've worked for because of one case, no matter how important it is."

Hardcastle found himself unable to maintain the gruff demeanor, and he smiled gently. "I told you not to worry about that." He paused a moment, then said, "I'm almost afraid to ask, but what's your idea?"

"I'm the one that needs to go to trial, Judge."

The gruff demeanor came back easily. "What?"

"No, just think about it a minute," McCormick said quickly, including the agents in the conversation with his look. "Even if you aren't worried about protecting your reputation, it might actually work against you right now. If you're gonna build your entire case around the fact that this judge is gonna let you off, shouldn't you eliminate all other possible motives? I mean, c'mon, Judge, you're Milton C. Hardcastle, for Chrissake. Your reputation alone could get you off, and then your slime ball judge has a reasonable excuse and gets to go right on sittin' on the bench."

"That's why we're trying to build him a different reputation," Matterly reminded him.

"I know. But that's a lot of unnecessary work. Put me on trial and you can eliminate all of those problems. If anyone lets me off when there's an airtight murder case, then you know there's something fishy going on."

Hardcastle suddenly found himself hating McCormick's instinctive flair for this business. But still . . . "No offense, kid, but what's Scapelli gonna want with you?"

"He's not; you're still gonna be the bait for him. We can play it like you're willing to sacrifice your principles to save poor, little ol' me."

The grin on the young man's face almost dared the judge to make a snide remark, but Hardcastle had other things in mind. "And just what's the difference?" he demanded. "Either way, I still end up doing business with a mobster to influence a judge."

"Oh, come on, Hardcase, you know the difference, so don't be difficult. The difference is after. Once we put this guy away, it becomes clear that this whole thing was just a set-up, one case—you helping the good guys one more time. But, jeez, Judge, you let them spread around this whole made up history about years of misconduct and bribery, and you're never gonna shake that. No matter what happens with Scapelli, some folks are always gonna wonder. There is just no reason for you to go through that when you've got an ex-con sitting right here, all set to be the ready-made patsy.

"Besides, it'll be easier to sell the idea that you've finally come across the one thing that would make you bend your principles than the fact that the whole Hardcase Hardcastle bit has been a sham since day one."

The judge considered for several long seconds. "That probably is more believable," he finally admitted, then laughed at the disbelief on McCormick's face. "What? Even you can sometimes come up with a bright idea or two." Hardcastle sobered. "But I need you to think about a couple of things."

McCormick didn't like the sound of that. "What?"

"It'll be a lot easier to land you in jail than me, whether there's actually a dead guy or not. If the parole board wanted to get tough, they could probably pull your ticket just for showing up on charges. Murder one is a hell of a parole violation, you know."

The young man paled slightly, but he answered calmly. "You'll fix it."

"If our story gets believed, I might not be able to fix it. Hard to pull judicial strings when people think you might try anything to protect someone."

"Then they'll fix it," McCormick replied, waving his hand toward the agents. "What's the other thing?"

"Arranging bail will be difficult."

That stopped him. He hadn't considered that idea at all, but, of course, the judge was right. No one was going to grant bail to an ex-convict up on a murder charge. But it was still better than the alternative. "I'll survive."

Again Hardcastle was amazed. Time and time again the young man had opened his heart, demonstrated how willing he was to help, to care. But even so, the judge wasn't prepared for this level of . . . loyalty. What had he done to deserve it? And, if he allowed this, would he ultimately lose it? The gentle smile was back. "Mark- - "

McCormick held up his hand. "I said I'll survive, Judge. It's not like I don't know the drill. A short stretch in county stir should be a piece of cake." He grinned slightly. "You might not know this, but a good friend of mine sent me up for a couple of years one time."

Hardcastle finally managed to return the grin. "Helluva friend."

"He's the kind that grows on you," McCormick replied lightly. "Now, do you think we could spend some time figuring out how to make this visit to the slammer just a bit more temporary?"

And the four men huddled close to work out their plan.

00000

Hardcastle looked across the dinner table at the young man who was working his way through the steak and baked potato like nothing was wrong. McCormick was making normal look easy, but the judge thought that was probably all for his benefit. He watched silently for a couple of minutes until the kid finally looked up from his meal.

"What?"

Hardcastle gave his head a half shake. "I don't know about this, kiddo," he began.

"It'll be fine," McCormick answered, and returned to his meal.

"It's gonna happen pretty fast, ya know, probably tomorrow," the judge continued.

"I figured this was supposed to be my last meal."

Hardcastle didn't return the grin, and McCormick's slowly faded. He sighed slightly and placed his fork carefully on his plate.

"Judge, what is wrong with you? I've never seen you this uptight about a case before. Things are going to be fine." He smiled his most convincing smile.

Hardcastle gave a small shrug. "I know I've gotten you into some strange things over the last couple of years, kiddo, some tight spots. But sending you to jail? What if it takes too long to put this together? What if something happens?" He tried to smile. "Besides, you haven't completely forgiven me for the last time yet."

And beneath the failed attempt at glibness, Mark could see some true concern. Not just over nameless problems that might arise, but also some unexpected sense of guilt. He thought for a moment, not sure how to proceed.

"First of all, Judge, this time it's my idea, not yours. And as for last time, that's the past. And, believe it or not," he hesitated again, choosing his words carefully, then continued, "it's a past that I understand . . . even if I don't agree." He pulled in a breath. "But I don't have to agree to forgive." He waited for the disbelief to fade from the older blue eyes, then offered a small grin. "So can we please stay focused on this case? It's no more dangerous or hare-brained than anything else you've ever dragged me into, okay?"

The twinkle was finally back in the eyes when Hardcastle said, "Hah! Don't forget that this is your hare-brained idea, kiddo; you just said so yourself."

Laughing, McCormick went back to his meal.