Cup of Joe

by Jaya Mitai

Joseph Dominguez is stalked by a serial killer, and the evidence just isn't adding up.

1. The Problems

Cup of Joe

Jaya Mitai

For those that know me, I write mainly in the Marvel genre, Cable here and Cyclops there and here a Sinny there a Sinny, everywhere a Stryfe Stryfe . . .

Whoo. It's late. =)

So. Nash Bridges the concept and characters belong to CBS near as I can figure and are being used without permission. No profit is being made from this. Rigby and Mike belong to me, and if they are used without permission, they might possibly shoot you. Rigby is like that.

So for those that don't, here is my dabbling into Nash Bridges fic. For those that do . . . my avatar is in here somewhere. The woman whose name I stole. She might have something to do with sheep.

This is dedicated to Epona Harper, the coolest first year resident I know. She'll understand the joke, and maybe I'll hook her into this like she hooked me into Farscape. Happy birthday, chica.

Special thanks to Doqz for the Russian.

* * * * * * *

"Man, I just can't get into that stuff."

"Learn a little tolerance, Joe."

"Easy for you to say. You don't need to take a leak, man."

The 'stuff' Joe was referring to was a particularly loud rumble coming from behind them. A steady, grinding beat at such a low frequency you didn't so much hear it as feel it. It was occasionally accompanied by a man's low voice, so badly accented and slurred it was impossible to make out any other word besides 'mothefucker,' though most of the song seemed to be centered around this concept. It shook the 1971 bright yellow Plymouth Barracuda and sent sympathy vibrations through the white leather seats, a constant tickling rumble.

Nash raised an eyebrow and checked his rear view mirror. The occupants of the silver Oldsmobile were completely stereotypical. White, dyed blonde hair spiked, probably with Elmer's glue, chewing gum, laying down almost horizontal in the seat and staring defiantly forward with a typically bad attitude. Nash couldn't remember the last time he'd seen an actual African-American listening to rap that loudly.

And the vibrations from the beat were rattling the windshield of the offending car, and the rear-view mirror of the 'Cuda. Once he noticed it, it was impossible to ignore.

"Okay, bubba. I'll give you that. You know," he added, taking his right hand off the wheel to remove his sunglasses and wipe the sweat from his nose, "you could just jump out, do your thing, and get back in plenty of time. Not like we're goin' anywhere."

And they weren't. Usually by ten the traffic around San Francisco had died down enough to be manageable, but today it was murder. Leaning out the window of the bright yellow Cuda, Nash could just make out orange utility barrels and flashing lights.

"How much do you wanna bet it's just maintenance that coulda been done at two in the morning when no one was using the road," Joe grumbled, not making any move to exit the vehicle. "I mean, I appreciate they have a job to do, but do they have to do it when my bladder's about to pop?"

"Joe, I told you to lay off after the second refill –"

"Inger has decided that I need to go on a non-caffinated diet," Joe murmured with the oily tone of sarcasm. "It was either more expresso or my head would have exploded."

"Well, it was either your head or your bladder, bubba, so I guess you were doomed from the start."

"Yeah." Joe sighed, staring at the dash of the Cuda, trying to ignore the music behind them. The song eventually diminished to silence.

Joe waited one breath. Two. It was too much to hope for.

"Thank GOD –"

The next track ground and rumbled at them, a bit faster than the last one. Nash couldn't help but laugh at the soft whimper in the seat next to him. "Bubba, you just can't win."

* * * * * * *

The moment they walked into the SIU they knew something was wrong. Very wrong.

Bridges' team was dressed mainly in black, and not a face among them smiled.

For Harvey Leek, Nash's long-time friend and colleague, this was not necessarily out of the ordinary. He perpetually wore a black armband in memory of Jerry Garcia, best known for his stint with the Grateful Dead, and on every anniversary of the death of the great man, and several other dates that seemed to have no meaning to anyone besides him, he dressed in black in the memory of those departed. However, today he had chosen even to remove his red bouree, and his face was a little more somber than usual.

The only time Bridges had ever seen Evan Cortez wearing all black was at a funeral and when he was in his uniform. The young cop looked good in black, as it matched his goatee and brought out his eyes, and this morning he looked like a young henchman from a Disney channel movie. He was doing his level best not to look at either of them, just staring pointedly at his desk.

The office was unusually quiet, and it only took a second to pin the silence down. The staff. The staff the SIU usually had bustling around were almost nowhere to be seen. The renovated barge was quite still, not even a phone ringing.

"Oh, don't tell me we've been hit by the budget cuts . . ."

"I'm so sorry, Nash," Harvey muttered, coming up putting a hand on his shoulder. "I know what it's like to lose a partner. If you need to talk . . ."

Nash jumped when Inspector Leek touched him, and the sadness in the Deadhead's eyes was unmistakable. Positively pathetic.

"You been taking lessons from King in puppy-dog eyes, Harv?" While most would deny it, Bridges had himself seen the great Dane look more pathetic than a nine week pup caught in a trashbag. The same expression on Harvey's face.

Joe had wandered over to his desk with a shell-shocked look. It had been cleared of all his files, everything but the computer and the pencilholder, and that was empty. Just a huge expanse of faux wood. "Hey, what's this? Nashman?"

Bridges took it in, then glanced at his own desk, expecting to see a manila folder on it holding Dominguez's transfer papers. Instead, it was littered with worn-looking flowers in cheap plastic vases, and small cards displaying flowery writing 'With Sympathy and "I'm So Sorry."

"Okay, just what the hell is going on here?"

Evan came around the desk, trying very hard to look downcast. Trying so hard, in fact, that one side of his mouth was rebelling.

"I'm afraid Joseph Dominguez died last night."

Nash gave him a skeptical look, then looked back at Joe, who was standing, staring slack-jawed at Evan. "You don't say," Joe finally drawled, then shrugged. "Great! That means I don't have any work to do, so I'll just mosey on over to the boy's room. Bye, guys. Love you."

Nash eyed Harvey, who was now grinning.

"Sorry, Nash. We couldn't resist."

The sound of motion came from the second floor, and Nash half-glared upwards to see some of the staff and a few unies shaking their heads, clearly in on the joke. Joe stopped on his way to the restroom to bow gracefully, and Nash nodded and held up a hand.

"Hey, if anyone's gonna kill him, it's gonna be me." Laughter. "Now what the hell is this all about?"

"We weren't kidding when we say Joseph Dominguez was shot and killed last night, and it isn't a joking business." Evan handed him a folder, and the silence was broken. The staff and other cops wandered off to their respective jobs "We think he was tied to the sweatshops. Hispanic, illegal, no family in San Francisco. Only glitch, he was carrying a sizeable amount of black tar heroin."

Bridges flipped open the folder, sinking into his chair carefully and giving the flowers an irritated look. "Would somebody get this stuff off my desk? This is a barge, dammit, not a botanical garden."

"Well, we don't know that. It was a warehouse and a dance club, could have been anything."

This was true. The Special Investigations Unit had had some unique homes in Bridges' time, from an earthquake damaged bank to holes and closets in other law enforcement buildings. The newest and most permanent home had been a barge the SFPD had taken possession of some years ago. It had power, water, and best of all, there was no chance of any more earthquake damage. Its past was something of a joke with the other law enforcement departments, however.

Nash gave Leek a dirty look over the folder, staring at the photos of the dead Hispanic paperclipped to it. "We think this is a coincidence?"

"Dominguez is a common name. I don't think it has anything to do with our Joe."

"Too bad," Nash muttered, tossing it down. "So have we linked this guy to the drug trade yet?"

"On it," Harvey called over. "But so far nothing. Maybe just an end buyer that got caught up in a bad deal. He's dirt poor had one bank account in this name, and only $800 in it. Haven't got a residence yet."

Nash frowned, then glanced up, catching a passing staffperson by the elbow. "You're doing a great job, Melanie. Just wanted to show my appreciation." He plucked out the sympathy card and handed her a vase of lilies, looking pleased with himself as they left his vicinity. Evan shook his head.

"Nothing on the Longtown case. We found the gun, serial number filed off, no fingerprints. Forensics is taking a look now, but they're not too hopeful."

Nash sighed and frowned again, moving the other flowers from his desk to the floor so he could get to his computer. "And Fellows?"

"Not talking. Three eyewitnesses picked him out of a lineup, so we can keep him in custody, but he's quiet as a mouse."

Damn. Today was just not looking up.

"Okay, where's all my stuff?"

"Bottom drawer, Joe." Dominguez started digging his work back out of his desk, sighing with satisfaction when every available surface was once again covered. "Okay, back in business. Now, to find coffee . . ."

"Go easy on that stuff, bubba. We've got a homicide scene to visit."

* * * * * * *

"Kinda weird visiting the site of your own murder," Joe muttered a little later, the Cuda stopping beside the curb. They were nearly to Chinatown, not a place one found a lot of Hispanics. Good place to hide a sweatshop full of illegals, though. Bridges climbed out of the car, pocketing the keys.

"What've we got?"

Officer Ayers handed him a clipboard. "Not much, Captain. One dead Hispanic male, mid forties, shot once in the head. Looks like a pro job, no commotion, no witnesses. Coroner thinks it happened around three this morning. Still has his watch and wallet."

"Well, so much for the easy explanation." Of course he hadn't been robbed; they'd have taken the heroin. So whoever shot him wasn't his dealer or buyer. "We got an address?"

"License listed Old Baxter Road. Had an officer over there this morning. Place was condemned after the last big quake, only a few homeless in there."

"Thought we said he was an illegal."

"License checked out. Some places give them even if you don't have an SS number."

Nash gave Ayers a look. "I'm well aware of the corruption in the system, thank you."

"I know, sir. Just reminding you."

Officer Ayers was well used to Bridges by now, and he and Joe exchanged a brief smile while Nash inspected the storefront. The bullet had gone through Dominguez's head and ended up in the kneeling wall that supported some boarded up glass. Joe wandered off to the left as Nash inspected the hole. The slug had already been removed, but the hole was quite deep. It had taken more than a handgun to propel that piece of lead completely through a man's skull and almost half an inch into the brick.

"What gets a man out on a street like this at three am . . ."

"Boss, come take a look at this."

Bridges jogged over to Joe, who was examining tire tracks in a patch of dry grey dust. "Someone better get a cast of this before it blows away."

Two officers scurried over to begin examination while Nash and Joe stared. "What do you think? 18?"

"Too big to be 16. Damn. I guess 18 inch tires come standard on SUVs, right?"

"Usually. And some station wagons, but not often." Joe sighed, then stepped out of the way to allow the mold to be mixed and poured. "Doubt it'll help us a lot, though. They're going to lose some of that because it's dust. Wish it'd rained this week, that stuff wouldn't be so dusty."

It was unusually dry for May, and there was already a bulletin out to conserve water. The city was getting a little edgy, but not as much as LA. For the millionth time, Bridges was glad to live in San Fran.

"Well, bubba, what do ya think?"

"Think someone paid someone else to kill him." Joe leaned against the 'Cuda, staring at the crime scene. Only four blocks from the first upcroppings of Chinatown, the streets were two-way, narrow, rarely swept, and not particularly safe. Dominguez had been shot in front of an empty storefront that had once been a small printing warehouse. It had already been cleared as empty by Ayers, though Nash was considering inspecting it anyway. The hydrant on the corner was hanging off the pipe crookedly, the water main obviously not hooked up. The only open shops on the street were a 24 hour convenience store that was closed, a shoe store at the end of the block, and three pawn shops lining the street across from the crime scene.

"Anybody see anything?" Nash directed it at Ayers, who was coming back from the tire casting attempt.

"Nope. The 24 store is owned by a Han Chin, who has a sick father and hasn't allowed his daughter to keep the store open after dark. No one was there at three am. The pawn shops close at midnight. Haven't seen the shoemaker yet. I've got a few officers looking through the abandoned buildings for evidence, but so far nothing."

Nash frowned. "Any housing projects nearby? Apartments, flats?"

Ayers consulted his notebook. "Nothing for three blocks. This place got hit pretty hard by the last quake, a lot of it was condemned. It's a miracle the arsonists haven't found it yet."

"Ehh. Too much brick," Joe murmured, eyeing the structures critically. "We need to find out where this guy lived. Why he'd be on this street at three in the morning with no car."

"He was broke. He might not have had a car. Certainly not an SUV."

"Yeah," Joe agreed after a minute. "Hey, wait a minute. Those old Toyota half-ton pickups had 18 inch wheels, too. There are a lot of old trucks that had that diameter tire. It could be a hit and run .. . or maybe whoever it was shot him and took the vehicle?"

"And not anything else, like his wallet or the heroin?"

"Might not have known he had it."

Nash climbed back into the 'Cuda, considering. "You think Evan is right, and the heroin is just throwing us off track?"

Joe shrugged, catching the door with his elbow at the last second to avoid slamming his jacket in the door. "Ow. Well, bub, if he were here to meet someone, and he got hit in a drive-by or that someone shot him and had someone else take his car, it couldn't have been his dealer. No one would throw away eight thousand dollars worth of heroin. And in that case, how did this Dominguez afford it? Harv said the guy was dead broke."

"He's dead broke now, at any rate. Evan is trying to get copies of his last year of statements and the address he had them shipped to."

"Huh. Poor guy." Joe stared at the dark stain on the sidewalk as the 'Cuda pulled away.

* * * * * * *

"Give me good news."

"There's bad news and worse news."

"Then why do you sound like you're smiling."

Joe glanced at Nash, face half-hidden by his cellphone, as they headed towards the bay. If Fellows wasn't talking, they weren't going to find his supplier, and the equipment he'd been hawking had to come up missing from a warehouse eventually. Dialysis machines were rather large and not exactly cheap, though the market for them had been staggeringly huge.

Then again, maybe the call had nothing to do with Fellows. Joe knew he shouldn't be so interested, but the idea of finding the killer of a Joe Dominguez was high up on his list of 'feel good for the year' things to do. Then again, finding the guy that was ripping off medical equipment intended for third-world countries and selling it at home to rich old folks was also pretty low. These would be a good two cases. Remind him why he loved being a cop.

Nash felt the skin around his eyes wrinkling as he absorbed what Cortez was telling him. "Okay, let me get this straight. Statements shipped to a PO box, PO box opened, all the statements were still there. They all said $800, no deposits for eight months, no withdrawls for seven months."

"'Fraid so. Right back at square one."

"Fine. Thanks." He flipped his cellphone closed and dropped it into his pocket. "Bank statements gave us nothing."

"So I heard. Tell you what. When I die, if I get murdered, I'll make it a lot easier on you."

"Well, thanks, Joe. I really appreciate that."

"Hey, you'd do the same for me." Joe had that funny little smile.

Nash gave him a wary look. "Joe, why do you have that look?"

"What look?"

"The look Lucia gets when she's thinking about going after food on someone else's plate."

"No reason." He was stretched out in the passenger seat with one arm on the top of the door, looking like he'd just had the best piece of key lime pie every served.

"You're thinking of somehow turning a profit with this, aren't you, bubba."

Joe had the decency to pretend to be insulted. "I would never take advantage of a fellow Joseph Dominguez that way. On the up side, though . . . reminding Inger of my mortality might be a good way to make her let me off this no caffeine kick."

Nash laughed. "You're incorrigible, you know that?"

Joe pursed his lips and thought it over. "Yep. That's me. Drive, Nashman. We've got places to go and stolen medical equipment to find."

* * * * * * *

"Yeah. Thanks." Evan dropped the receiver, so that it dangled from the phone cord he still had wrapped around two fingers. He stared at it without seeing it for a moment, then tossed it in the general direction of the cradle and yanked his sunglasses off. The ensuing clatter attracted the attention of Harvey.

"Good news, then." He tugged on one lapel of his vest as he came over to sit on the corner of Evan's desk.

The look he got would have been a glare, but surprise and a little fear rendered it harmless. "You won't believe it."

"UFOs landed." It sounded weak, even to him. "Who died."

"Joseph Dominguez."

Harvey stared at him. "Ours?"

Evan shook his head. "But two in one day, the odds aren't looking so hot."

"That's impossible. It's already been done. I think in a Terminator movie."

Evan growled under his breath, twisting one arm of his sunglasses back and forth. "Yeah, well, keep in mind they were set in California." He was already reaching for his phonebook. Harvey set his mug down and stared over Evan's shoulder as he found the Ds, and his fingertip slid down the page until it hit Dominguez.

Harvey whistled. "Look at all of 'em. Joe and Inger have been busy little bunnies."

Of the thirty-seven names, five were Joe, Joseph, or J. However, the first one listed happened to be their Joe's home phone.

Evan consulted the pad beside his phone. "Okay, the second one . . . that's the address of the guy that just got hit. And . . . number four is our friend from this morning."

"Oh, good. He hit the even numbers. Now I wonder if he starts the odds with five or one." There was a sobering thought. Evan snatched his phone and hit the keypad for an outside line.

"Harv, do me a favor. Do a search –"

"On all the guys Joe put away. Yeah, I started it this morning, on a hunch."

Evan hit the speed dial for Nash's cellphone and then glanced at Leek, watching him lean off the desk and head back towards his own. They had a long night ahead of them.

* * * * * * *

"Now wait a minute bubba. If he knew them, they'd know him. There wouldn't be this random hitting involved." Nash Bridges was having a very difficult time keeping the name Joe Dominguez out of this conversation, and from the suspicious looks he was getting from his partner, the effort was for naught.

"I know. Maybe someone inside hired a hit and they didn't give their man enough information? There's no doubt it's a pro. Coroner's report says the bullet entered . . . between the victim's eyebrows with a slight downward angle. The bullet went through the frontal lobes and passed almost centrally through the brainstem, back out the base of the skull. Guy made sure." He heard Evan shuffling papers. "And the angle knocks out the drive-by theory, because our victim was about five ten. The only way to get that angle would be to stand in the bed of a truck. Or a window on the second story across the street."

Nash sighed. "What about the second one?"

"Coroner's not done yet, but Harvey went down and told me it looks identical. Guy's good. And probably very expensive. At least we might be able to find a moneytrail."

"Stay on it. Get a unit out to each of the remaining addresses, and keep them under constant, and I mean constant surveillance. We're coming back in."

"I'm all over it. Tell Joe to settle down."

He flipped the cellphone closed and sighed, but before he even opened his mouth, Joe spoke.

"Don't tell me that, man. I don't want to hear it."

Nash leaned against the door and massaged his temple. "Sorry, bubba." He really meant it. They'd been the target of more than one assassin, but the sudden gripping feeling in your gut was far slower to leave than it arrived, and it was the best defense against sleep Nash had ever known. "You can stay at my place till we find out who's in town."

Joe shifted uncomfortably in his seat and couldn't help a glance at the side mirror. "Where was the second one?"

"On 28th. Worked at the Home Depot, wife, three kids."

"What do you mean, who's in town? Is that like a is the Monk in town kind of who's in town?"

Nash chewed on the tip of his tongue. "Yeah, it's exactly that kind of who's in town." Well, it wasn't the Monk, obviously, but it was a pro. "Whoever it is is pretty good, from what I hear. At least whoever it was cared enough to send the very best."

"That's really funny, Nashman, just hysterical."

"Whoa there. Don't flip out on me now, bubba. Send Inger and Lucia off to Lisa, stay at my place and keep Nick company."

"This can't be happening." Joe had sunk a little lower into the seat. "This happened in Terminator, and it was a big huge metal machine that was just relentless-"

Nash laughed, but it sounded a little force. "Come on, Joe. There's no robot after you. We'll find whoever it is. I'll give Shane West a call. He'll be thrilled to hear the news." West was an FBI agent they had dealt with in the past, and he and Nash were actually on friendly terms. Joe snorted.

"He's probably undercover again and you know it."

"We'll find him, Joe."

Dominguez was still watching the side mirror.

* * * * * * *

"Nash, I'm in the middle of things here, and I just can't –"

"She's bringing Lucia."

"That's the point! This house isn't baby-proofed! We tossed the plastic plug-covers years ago, there are kitchen utensils everywhere, stairs, wood floors –"

Nash shook his head. "It's a baby, Lisa! I thought all women went gaa-gaa when babies were involved."

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. "Not as gaa-gaa as a certain father when Cassidy was put into his arms the first time."

"Hey now. Play fair. I could ask you to take in Joe, y'know."

This pause was very brief. "Okay, okay. We can sit and gossip about our ex-husbands, I guess."

"Joe's not dead yet, Lisa, and I don't intend to let him get that way."

He heard her sigh of defeat, and was sure he heard a little smile in there, too. "Inger can cook, can't she."

"Yes ma'am."

"Okay. For a few days."

He smiled, giving a nervous-looking Joe a reassuring nod. "I'll keep your place under tight wraps, make sure no one sneaks by. I'll put Evan or Harvey on you, if it'll make you feel any safer."

"No, Nash, I'd prefer the boys were with you." He heard her quick, short steps across the kitchen tiles. "You two be careful, Nash. Oh, hi, Cassidy." There was some indistinct murmur Nash couldn't make out. "You're going to be a babysitter this weekend," Lisa said sweetly, and Nash laughed.

"Oh, this is my punishment? Listening to Cassidy giving me hell?"

"Goodbye, Nash. I'll expect her around six?"

"Sounds good. Thank you, Lisa. You're a lifesaver."

"Take care of yourself?" It was almost a plea.

"You know me." He dropped the phone into his lap, throwing the 'Cuda into a higher gear. "Well, that's taken care of. Just grab a bag, you know the drill."

"Nashman, this time I promise I won't live at your place for any longer than I have to."

"You're damn right you're not. We're going to catch this guy by tomorrow at latest and you're leaving right after."

"Won't have to ask me twice," Joe muttered, and he and Nash exchanged a look before they both smiled, Joe a little sheepishly.

"Seriously, Nashman, I could just get a room under one of our CI's names."

"Nothin' doin', bubba. The second guy got hit in broad daylight, and I'm too used to you now to tolerate training another partner."

They pulled up to the curb, and Joe sighed, eyeing his front door and trying to work up the strength to tell Inger. Inevitably when he suggested things, she resisted full-force. Their fight over Sweden came to mind, and Joe hesitated.

"Joe, I can't imagine why she'd disapprove. She and Lisa know each other, and she wouldn't risk Lucia. Just tell her the truth."

"I can't do that, man. She's Inger. She'd be a wreck if she knew –"

His front door almost exploded open, and both he and Nash were instinctively reaching for weapons when they realized the figure running towards them at breakneck speed was Inger.

"Oh, Joe! Joe, I heard on the news . . . are you all right?"

Joe had the good sense to get out of the car and catch her, stroking her hair as she did the quick hug, followed by inspection at arm's length, followed by a hard hug once more as she caught his hands and held them.

"I'm fine, Inger. It wasn't me." He gave her a peck on the cheek, and she leaned back enough that he could see her eyes.

"Listen, Inger, Nash . . . and me, we think it would be a good idea if you went to stay at Lisa's for a little while. Just a little while," he added swiftly as she started to object. "Take Lucia, you can watch Lisa cook and gossip about us all you like. I'm going to stay at Nash's place, just in case. Just in case anything, y'know, happens. Not that I think it's going to," he added hastily, then took a deep breath and waited.

"Of course. I will get Lucia." Joe stared at her with a blank expression, but she hadn't released his hands, and he found himself being dragged back into the house. "We must get her things. Joe, you collect the blankets and toys, and I will get diapers and the food, and don't forget . . ."

They trailed off into the house, and Nash shook his head, content to get out of the 'Cuda and lean on the hood, keeping an eye out and occasionally laughing as Inger's voice drifted out the door.

* * * * * * *

"Okay, Evan. Lay it on me."

Evan eyed Joe over his sunglasses. "You cool, hombre?"

"Man, when was the last time you called me hombre? Like, ever?" Joe frowned at Evan, who held up his hands placatingly. It was late afternoon, a little too late for lunch, a little too early for dinner, and it was usually the quietest time around the SIU. Today was no exception; Evan couldn't help but feel it was the calm before the storm, however trite it sounded.

"Just checkin' to see how you are. Not every day you get killed twice."

"Tell me about it." Joe wandered over to his desk, sifting through the papers and barely glancing at them. Evan exchanged a look with Nash, received a head-shake, and plowed on ahead.

"Fellows is in the chat room, thinks he's getting out in twenty minutes."

Nash snickered, brushing the tip of his nose with his thumb as he picked one cream-colored envelope from the second drawer of his desk. "Well, let's rain on his parade, shall we, Joe?"

"I think that sounds just dandy, Nashman."

Harvey looked up as Joe and Nash headed back towards the interrogation room, and raised his eyebrow at Evan, who shrugged infinitesimally.

"We got those unies on the other Joes?"

"Yeah, but one of them is a Janice," Evan was still distracted, staring after Joe. "Not sure she's going to end up a target."

Harvey stared at him in silence, but after nearly thirty seconds Evan hadn't responded. Evan liked Joe okay, he knew, but he never went out of his way to either impress him or befriend him, not the way he did with Nash. "Earth to Evan, come in."

Evan shook his head with a grimace, and removed his sunglasses. "Harv, leaving Joe at Nash's place makes them both a target."

Harvey nodded, leaning back and loosening his yellow tie. "Yeah, it does." The tone was very level. He was pretty sure he knew where Evan was going with this. If they both got hit, what would take place at the SIU. Who would end up with the Captain's job, and what would happen to them. Sobering thought, certainly. Nash's charm was really the only reason the SIU functioned like it did, and if something happened to Joe, something would happen to Nash. It wouldn't take a bullet in the head to kill Nash Bridges, however stubborn he might seem.

Evan looked at Harvey and rubbed the back of his neck before plopping into a chair across from Leek. "There's something else going on here, Harv. I don't like the killer going after all the J. Dominguez of the world."

Harvey shrugged, trying not to look anything but casually concerned. "Well, Ev, what do you think's up? Someone with a grudge against another J. Dominguez is out for them all?"

Evan grabbed one of Harvey's pencils and tapped his knee with it, a rhythmic, complex beat. "I don't know. Who the hell goes after everyone with the same name? Those shots were identical. What professional killer would agree to a hit like that? Who wouldn't know which Dominguez to kill?"

"Someone's parent? Angry mom, Joe put her boy away?"

"They'd know he was a cop, Harv."

"Maybe the killer is looking to mask the cop's death as a serial killer with a name fixation?"

"For what purpose? Go down for multiple homicides instead of one? This doesn't make any sense, Harv."

"Evan, listen to me." He tried hard to keep from sounding preachy. Nash managed it without much effort, and it had been Nash that had told him this, so he did his best to mimic. "There are some things that we're going to see that don't make any sense. There are perps out there that do things for no damn good reason. No reason at all. Hardest ones to catch, because the motive is so hard to pin down."

Evan looked up from his knee, looked Harv straight in the face. "There's always a reason, Harvey. It just might not be the one you're looking for."

* * * * * * *

Fellows was a rather square man, with a nose that was slightly too small and eyes that were slightly too big. His square jaw seemed completely at odds with his soft features, and to Nash Bridges he looked like one of those cartoon anime people, with a chin that could chisel limestone and eyes like a cow.

The eyes were very nice, almost purple, and they probably usually got this man what he wanted. Not this time.

"Hi, there, bubba. Countin' down the minutes?"

Fellows looked bemused, but said nothing. Joe took a seat to the right of him, playing with a cream-colored envelope as Nash flipped a chair backwards and straddled it, putting his chin in his hands, elbows on the table, and staring at Fellows.

Fellows did nothing but shift uncomfortably, and Nash continued to just stare at him.

Joe glanced at his watch, then sighed, leaned back, put his feet on the table, and relaxed. "Ah. There's nothing like the quiet spring afternoons, right? The waves, the gulls, the clock ticking away to your freedom. Yep, just seven more minutes and you can walk off the barge. Man, I gotta ask you. What's the first thing you're going to do when you leave?"

Fellows eyed Joe, eyes looking ridiculously large and almost tearful. "I'm going to Wendy's."

Nash laughed sharply. "Yeah, the food's a little bad, but not nearly as terrible as that slop they serve downtown. Didn't take you for a Wendy's man, Finny. Ooh, six minutes twenty-two seconds. Time flies when you talk, bubba."

Fellows gave Nash a soulfully reproachful look. "I have nothing to say to you."

"Oh, I think you do, bubba. Like, for instance, what do you order when you go to Wendy's? Are you a chili man, or a chicken sandwich man, or a triple patty burger sort of fellow?"

Joe snerked, and Finny's mouth narrowed to an impossibly feminine line.

"That's none of your business, Inspector."

"I'm a single combo sort, myself. You, Joe?"

"Ooo . . . tough one. If I'm feeling hungry, it's a number four supersized and a Frostie. Their taco salad isn't bad, either."

"Really? I've been wondering about them, but I'm really in a rut with that single combo. They've got the best burgers –"

"It's all in the buns. Their buns are really good, y'know, a little sweet and kinda dense so you don't have to chew through so much of it to get to the juicy burger center –"

"All in the buns, huh." Nash let that comment hang in the air a moment, then leaned forward, hooking and keeping Finny's eyes. "I think the guys in prison would agree with Joe, there. It's all in the buns. 'Course, the ones really hard-up for romance might tell you it was your eyes that attracted them, but take it from Joe, here. Might want to order a soap on a rope kit when you drive through Wendy's."

"They really ought to make that a toy that comes in those little happy meals . . ."

"Wendy's has Happy Meals?"

"Well, not with Ronald McDonald, but y'know."

"Joe, it's important. Any kid'll tell you. If it doesn't come in that little box, it just isn't the same."

Nash continued to lean forward, and watched Fellows shift again in his chair. "Hey, five minutes! Looks like you'll be out in time to avoid the rush-hour mess. We really did apprehend you at the perfect time of day." He waited for a comment that didn't come, and leaned back in his chair, waving a hand Fellows' way. "And look how the man shows his appreciation. Won't even tell us what he likes to order at Wendy's. Y'know, you just can't please the perps these days."

Joe nodded in pious agreement. "Amen to that, brutha."

Nash pursed his lips and eyed Fellows again. "Tell you what, bubba. I'll let you off the hook with the whole Wendy's thing if you just tell us who in the aid department was shipping the machines to you." He waited a few seconds, but Fellows only blinked slowly. "Come on. It's not like you have nine choices here . . . do you?"

Fellows glanced at his watch, a very elegant timepiece in crystal, with gold trim. Joe leaned in closer to inspect it, and Fellows withdrew his wrist and shook his suit jacket sleeve over it. Joe gave him a bright smile.

"Hey, that thing didn't have any numbers on it . . . you can really tell what time it is just by where the hour hand is pointing? How do you know the difference between four and five?"

Fellows gave Joe a disdainful look, and Joe leaned back, readjusting his feet. "Huh. Hey, Nash, I think I remember seeing a watch like that. My wife was dragging me through a jewelry store down on Wabash. Really expensive. And I can't figure out why, you know? I mean, what are you paying for? The watch hasn't even got any numbers on the face."

"Bubba, that's the same reason women pay more for a bikini than a one-piece."

"Really?"

"Yeah, my wife explained it to me once. You pay more for less material."

"Why?"

"Hell if I know, but I'm glad they do. The more pressing question, though, is how a nice medical center librarian like you got the money to buy that watch. And the suit, is it Brooks Brothers?"

Joe looked it over. "It's not sitting well enough to be Armani. Maybe a cheap Italian rip-off?"

Nash smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Two minutes, Finny. Good thing, too. You're starting to sweat, and that'll ruin the lining of your jacket collar, you know."

"I have nothing to admit to, Inspector. You have the wrong man."

"Oh. So you're not the Finny Fellows who sold a dialysis machine to the Palwonskis? And I suppose you had nothing to do with the open MRI that was installed in Joe Holiday's office?" That one had been particularly interesting – Holiday had taken over as chief family doctor for the Family in San Fran. Italians as a nationality were not prone to developing brain tumors or lesions, so the question was which Moretti had decided that he needed his head examined on a regular basis.

"You know, it wouldn't really piss me off so much, except that equipment was supposed to go to hospitals out in the middle of nowhere that could have really used it to help a lot of people. Instead, the crime syndicate will be able to monitor which two brain cells they're rubbing together on a daily basis. I sure hope with all the money you can find a better suitmaker."

Fellows was definitely looking relieved as the clock ticked ever closer. "One minute and counting. Whoo, boy, that soda sure is going to be refreshing. Can't you just taste it already?"

"And raiding the fries while you're driving. Nothin' better than that."

Nash was content to put his face back in his hands and watch Fellows until Joe glanced at his watch, sighed, and took his feet off the table.

"Well, our twenty-four hours are up."

"So soon? Just when we were getting somewhere."

Fellows smiled thinly and got to his feet. "The handcuffs, please?"

Nash didn't return the smile. "They look good on you, bubba."

Fellows tried to glare, but the large liquid eyes got in the way, and the expression was almost ridiculous. "It is illegal to hold me a moment longer. Remove the handcuffs, Inspector, or I will have your badge."

Nash leaned up, laughing. "Joe, did you hear that?"

"Wonder what got into him." Joe tossed the ivory envelope onto the table, where it slid with a hiss, stopping just to the right of Fellows.

"Looks like we have to let you go, bubba. Can't really hold you any longer."

"Yep. So sad to see you go."

Nash nodded, standing and walking around the table towards Fellows. "It's really going to rip my heart out to see this guy walk."

"Yep." Joe paused, folding his hands across his stomach. "Y'know, we could always book him."

Nash looked at Joe consideringly, the two of them behaving as though Fellows wasn't even there. "Hey, good idea, Joe! Oh, but wait, we'd need evidence and a court's approval to do that."

"Good thing we brought our trusty arrest warrant, then, isn't it."

"Joe, I love you. Now, Finny, you can look in the envelope, or you can take our word for it. You're going down. There's a dozen charges in there, and juries don't like it when people steal from the funds taxpayers donate. You're in a world of trouble, bubba. We're going to just put you back in holding and let you think about that a while, and when you decide to remember who it was that got you that equipment in the first place, you let us know."

An officer entered the room from the doorway, apparently having waited to take Fellows into custody. His large eyes were easily coaster sized, and his enraged expression looked more like a pissed off beaver being squashed.

"Great buns," Joe murmured, patting Fellows on the back as he and Bridges headed back to their desks.

* * * * * * *

"Everything that was supposed to have gone out last Thursday didn't arrive. So we still have two dialysis machines just sitting around somewhere in San Francisco."

Joe nodded, handing Nash an affidavit. "And the truck driver that originally drove them to the airport says he delivered them, left the truck and took a taxi home, because his wife was expecting and he'd cleared it through management."

"And we know that he's the only driver County uses to transport heavy medical equipment, because you need a special license to move MRIs. We know the truck only had three sets of keys. The driver has one, County has one in their lockbox, and the Manager of Equipment and Transportation has the other."

"We have the signed copy of deliverance at the airport." Nash held up a thin yellow carbon sheet in a plastic bag. "With the driver's fingerprints and the receiving tech. We have witnesses who saw him park the truck." He handed Joe three forms. "We have the affidavit of the taxi driver that he took the truck driver home." Handed Joe another sheet of paper. "And we have the record of the cab company that he took a passenger from the airport to the address of the truck driver. What we don't have is a witness that saw the truck leaving before it was unpacked for the plane."

"We also know that the truck was returned, empty, by the time the hospital sent one of the orderlies to drive it back. So we have a two hour window that our man drove it off the airport to a warehouse, unloaded it, and returned it."

"Yeah, but there's no record of the truck being checked back in the receiving gate of the airport."

"Any way to get around that checkin?"

Joe brushed his thumb against his index and middle finger pointedly.

Nash leaned back and steepled his fingers, balancing his lower lip on his index fingers.

"The shipping date wasn't a secret, so it could have been anyone at County. We know Fellows didn't have access to those schedules, but we know that he did have almost unlimited access to the entire medical facility." Joe played with a corner of one of the evidence bags.

"I guess we need to figure out which set of keys went temporarily missing." Nash snapped his fingers. "You said an orderly drove it back?"

"Yep. Once empty, all you need is a valid state driver's license to operate the vehicle."

"Who did he get his keys from?"

Joe flipped through his pad. "Uhm . . . Trans Manager."

"Did he confirm that?"

"I don't know. I didn't get ahold of him, he was in solid meetings while they were trying to figure out what went wrong."

"Well, let's pay him a visit."

* * * * * * *

County Hospital was a fairly old one, with dingy yet indestructible tile floor and brand new sliding doors warring with passenger elevators that were every bit as old as the black and white Jimmy Stewart movies. The facilities had seen good times and bad, but no quake had ever managed to do enough damage to shut the place down. It was one of the most stable structures in San Fran.

Nash showed his badge to the reception desk and went through the ER towards the main hospital. Joe followed closely, eyeing the rooms and the smells and the activity. He wouldn't ever actually admit to being afraid of dying in a place like this, all sterile and with terrible faded yellow wall paint, but he couldn't hide his relief as a trip through two swinging doors brought them into the main hospital hallways. A large, brown, friendly-looking sign pointed the way to the cafeteria and lobby, elevators, restrooms, ICU, and the cardiac center.

"Our man is supposed to be in B2110."

"Basement, Nashman." They headed toward the elevators.

These were just off the lobby, and roomy enough for two gurneys side by side. Very swift, with stainless steel walls, and the image of a clear blue sky on the ceiling instead of fluorescent lights in a transparent plastic cover.

"I wonder if that really helps the claustrophobic."

Nash glanced up, then smiled and shook his head, watching Joe in the reflection of the walls.

He was holding up pretty well, and Nash was pleased. Keeping busy was a good way to keep their mind off things, but if Joe got too distracted, he'd have to put him elsewhere. He wanted Joe around, just in case their sniper decided to take a shot, but Joe would be much safer behind his desk surrounded by cops. He wouldn't get any work done that way, but he wouldn't end up dead, either.

They were too close on the Fellows case to abandon it, and he had the ultimate faith in Harv and Evan to work the Dominguez front. But he'd much rather be looking for a killer than a black market medical equipment circle.

"Let's get this done with today."

"I'm right behind you, brutha."

The doors opened almost before the elevator had stopped moving, and a glance at the signs hanging from the ceiling told them that the B2100s were to their right. It didn't take too long to find the destination, and Nash opened the door to find a fairly spartan office, and a young secretary bent over the printer.

"Hi there, sister."

She glanced up, flashed a pretty smile, and gave up on the printer. "These things never work," she confided in a low voice, returning to her desk and pulling out an appointment book.

Nash smiled. "Ain't that always the way. I'm Captain Bridges, this is Inspector Dominguez, we're here to see Joshua Hastings."

"Do you have an appointment?" She was scanning the lengthy list labeled 'Tuesday.'

"No, ma'am, I'm afraid we don't. But we only have a few questions, it shouldn't take long at all."

She considered, then nodded. "I'll let him know you're here." She smiled again, then blushed slightly and went around a corner, almost immediately returning.

"He's on the phone, but he'll be off momentarily."

He was, and a rather short, stocky man with a balding patch and a wide smile came out to greet them.

"Inspectors, welcome. I'm sorry I haven't been in touch with you sooner; everything's been just crazy these past couple days. I heard you've arrested someone in connection with our stolen equipment."

"Yes, sir, we certainly have." Bridges and Joe were ushered into an equally spartan office, with a fake fern, an obvious wall safe, and matching dark mahogany furniture. There were no windows, and the vents were very small. The dark furniture and lack of light gave the office an oppressive, small atmosphere.

"Please, please, sit. Can I offer you some coffee? I'd have to offer you a fork to go with it, it's a little on the thick side –"

"No, thank you, sir." Joe got out a small pad and reached into his jacket for a pen. "Inspector Bridges and I were going over the evidence in this case, and we hit a few snags. We'd appreciate it if you could help us out."

"I'll do whatever I can." He was helping himself to the aforementioned coffee, and the sound the liquid made as it was hitting the mug was not the splash of water in stoneware. It was a thicker sound, like syrup being dropped on a plate from a height.

"Well, thank you very much." Nash glanced around the office as Hastings came back to sit in his computer chair behind the desk. "We were going over who had access to the truck's keys. I understand that the driver had a set, and there's a set in the lockbox upstairs with the security team, and that you had the last set?"

"That's right." He reached into the second drawer of his desk and pulled out a pair of keys attached to an old and large plastic grey rectangle. There was writing on it in black marker, but it had long since faded. "I keep this set here."

How secure. "Do you know if anyone had access to those keys or your office on the day the equipment was shipped?"

Hastings sipped his coffee, then coughed slightly. "Not that morning, no. I was in here until about eleven, then I handed the keys to Dr. Rick Hughes. He's on his first year of residency here, and he's got a mind for computers. He comes down here from time to time to do maintenance on our computers, and he said he'd be happy to run them up to Stevens, the orderly that brought the truck back."

Joe scribbled the pertinent details down. "The truck didn't leave until around 1:30, isn't that right?"

"Yep. Should have left at one, but there was some trouble getting everything in. We left part of the MRI in the old exam room." He chuckled to himself. "We barely figured it out in time. I can't imagine them, trying to reassemble it wondering where the hell the track calibrator had gone to."

"So you gave this Dr. Hughes the keys a full two hours before the truck was even supposed to leave? I thought it was to be picked up at three by Mr. Stevens?"

"That's true. However, I had meetings with several companies that were looking to donate vehicles to the hospital as part of their charitable donations for the year. I usually handle that, as we never have enough money to actually buy our own. Every vehicle the hospital owns has been donated, so you can see why it was so important."

Bridges nodded. "Well, hell, bubba, you don't look to be doin' too bad."

Hastings grinned again. It was a very sincere smile, and Joe scribbled 'innocent' on his pad.

"I do my best. Unfortunately, with that equipment gone . . . I would stake my life that Hughes didn't take it."

"Now why do you say that?" Nash leaned on the amrest.

"I've known him since he was an intern. He got his first job here, one year into med school. He's an ambitious young man, but I've never known him to be anything but honest. He wouldn't know where to buy crack on the streets, let alone find a buyer for medical equipment."

"Sir, do you know if he's treated either of the Palwonski's?"

"Our lawyers looked into that." Josh reached forward to his organizer, flipping through some folders until he found the one he wanted and handed it to Dominguez. "We went back and checked all his logs. He was doing a rotation in OB/GYN when Mrs. Palwonski was diagnosed with partial renal failure."

Hmm. Joe circled Palwonski on his pad as Hastings went on. "Furthermore, I know that he couldn't have given the keys to anyone. He went on his rounds just after being down here, and I watched him put the keys in his whitecoat. He would have been wearing it until his rounds were over, at around two-thirty. He did complete his rounds, and Stevens says that Hughes handed him the keys at quarter till."

Fifteen minutes was just enough time to get the airport, but there and back at two-thirty in the afternoon wasn't the best time to be driving in and out, either. It would have taken 40 minutes at the least for him to get to the airport and drive the truck wherever it was going, and get back to the hospital. And then, who drove it back to the airport, assuming he had someone else unload it?

"Do they write down the times they do their rounds?"

"On all the sheets, yes."

"Do you mind if we ask the patients if he really was there when he claims he was?"

Hastings laughed. "I don't mind at all, Inspector, but I doubt you'll get much out of them."

Joe blinked. "Uh, why do you say that?"

"Because he's currently doing the ICU, and almost all of his patients are in comas or so drugged they don't even know who the President is."

Nash rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, it's about six right now. Is Dr. Hughes still around? I'd like to talk to him."

Hastings shrugged. "He should be. I don't handle his scheduling, obviously, but the nurses station over at the ICU should know."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Hastings. If we have any more questions, we'll give you a call."

"Mmm." He set his coffee mug down quickly and swallowed thickly. "No problem. Thank you very much, Inspectors. When do you think you'll have tracked down the rest of the stolen equipment?"

"As soon as we find the man that unloaded that truck."

* * * * * * *

There was a tap on the door, and a groan from inside. "M'coming."

"Dr. Hughes?"

"Mmmm."

The door was pulled open to reveal a young man, dark complected, with disheveled hair and the beginnings of dark bags under his eyes. The room behind him was dark, and Nash saw that the nurse had been right. He'd been taking a nap.

"I'm sorry to bother you, I know you're on call till midnight. I'm Captain Bridges, this is Joe Dominguez. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

The eyes looked a little more alert, and Hughes brushed his hair out of his eyes. "Whoo. Give me three seconds."

They followed him to the men's room, where he splashed himself enthusiastically with cold water and when he finally toweled off his face, he looked much better.

"Thanks. I was up till almost four last night, and morning rounds start at 6:30."

"Whoa, bubba. They work all the doctors this hard?"

The smile was wan. "I hear the second year of residency is a lot easier. God, it better be."

Joe chuckled. "Suddenly being a doctor isn't so appealing."

"Yeah, the $200,000 worth of loans isn't too nice, either." He took a deep breath. "I need a coffee. Can we do this in the cafeteria?"

"Sure thing. Won't take long."

"That's what my attending said last night."

Five minutes saw Dr. Hughes recovering over a cup of hot java. "Those keys never left my coat. Not that I checked, but I threw them in my front right pocket right as I left TransMan's office and they were there when I dug them out for Stevens. I mean, unless someone pickpocketed them, they never left my person."

Bridges pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do you know if anyone had access to the set that's kept in the lockbox in the main office?"

"Not even a team of Marines could get those keys." They both gave him blank looks. "I take it you haven't met Deloris."

"She's the secretary that works that office?"

"Miz Mazengale is, like, the Darth Vader of the hospital." Joe snerked, and Hughes gave Joe a long, steady look. "Dude, I am so not kidding. She uses Jedi mind tricks. She can make someone who desperately needs the keys to Storage A to get the spare defibrillator out leave with a smile on his face and start searching the hospital for one not in use while his patient is convulsing on the floor. I think I've managed to get keys from her once, and I had to have a sheet signed by ten of the fifteen administrators."

"Ever forge a few?"

"She knows a forgery when she sees one. She's been here since the discovery of dirt."

Bridges leaned back and watched Rick take a long pull on his coffee. "Did you finish your rounds early that day?"

He shook his head, still drinking, and then made a face and put the cup down. "Ow. Hot. No, I ended up spending about an hour watching Mr. Stilks. Every time I turned my back to leave his heart would give one irregular beat. Just one. So I'd sit and stare and wait, and then get up to leave, bip-BOP. Swear to god the old man was teasing me. I think he's lonely; his family hasn't been by all week."

"This is one of your patients?"

"Yep. Comatose with a heart murmur and probably never going to recover from this last stroke. He had seven in a two-hour period. Didn't notice the first two, was out mowing the yard."

"He lives in San Fran?"

"Yep. Small yard."

"I guess." Nash leaned back and crossed his ankle on his knee. "So, were you running late that day?"

"Yeah, about fifteen minutes. I usually cushion my round time in case of something like this. My first rotation through the Pre-natal ICU taught me that. As soon as I was done I tracked down Stevens and handed him the keys."

"Do you think Mr. Stilks was aware of you?"

Hughes looked at Joe. "Oh, I'm convinced. I believe that coma victims are still somewhat aware of what's going on around them. Had a young lady wake up out of a shock-induced coma once to repeat verbatim the conversation her doctors had had while they thought she was out."

"Are there any cameras or surveillance to watch the patients in the ICU, in case of the worst?"

Hughes shook his head. "Nope, just in the surgery rooms. Which is damn annoying, because we weren't logging his heartbeat at the time, so everyone thinks I'm nuts for hearing an irregularity."

"Any chance of him waking up anytime soon?"

"You're batting against a lot of brain damage there, Inspector. I'd say no, but you'd have to ask my attending. He's done this a lot longer than I have."

"Well, thank you very much, Rick." Bridges handed him a card. "If you can think of anything else that might help us, give us a call." Hughes stood with them, but after the handshaking and good-byes he sat back down to his coffee.

Nash and Joe headed back towards the entrance. "Whaddaya think?"

"Well, we've got motive and opportunity."

"Bubba, if the $200,000 constitutes a motive, we probably have to consider every intern in the place." Nash rubbed his cheek and fished his sunglasses out of his pocket as they headed towards the garage.

"True. But that hour . . . he could have slipped out at any time."

"Hmm. Tell Evan to see if Hughes owns any storage space in the city. Not that we can get a warrant for it, but at least it'll give us a place to go when we get one. And let's see if the parking garage can tell us anything."

* * * * * * *

"Bingo."

Evan knew that bingo, and was up and grabbing his coat before the printer could finish spitting out the page. Harvey was waiting for it, coat over one arm, phone clamped between his ear and his shoulder.

"We got a match on MO, a Michael Two-Feathers, flew into town last Monday."

"Address?"

"1212 Madison, Building 3, apartment 205."

"We're on our way. You run into any trouble, you pull out and wait for backup."

"I think those are mutually exclusive with this guy, don't you?" Harvey tried to keep it light. "You want me to bring him in or just pressure?"

"No time. Bring him in. Joe and I'll be there in twenty."

Harvey dropped his phone into the receiver as Evan plucked the sheet of paper out of Leek's hand.

"This is the sonofabitch that's hitting the Joes?" He was a short white guy, didn't look like there was a drop of Indian blood in him.

"According to the FBI, he's our best shot . . . pardon the phrase." Evan gave him a dirty look. "The other matches for this MO are unknown or not in 'Frisco right now."

"Let's do it."

* * * * * * *

"You do have surveillance tapes? . . . . yeah, that sounds about right. Thanks."

Nash dropped his cellphone into his lap in disgust. "The tape of the garage that day is conveniently missing."

"But we have no way of knowing if Fellows or someone else lifted it. Damn, Nash, how hard can this be?"

"We need to find that equipment. It has to be within twenty minutes of the hospital at two in the afternoon. Assuming Hughes is our man."

"I kinda liked him."

"So did I, bubba. So did I."

Joe frowned, eyeing the darkening sky. "Man, I never think well on an empty stomach."

"Well, bubba, it's staying empty till we bring in this Two-Feathers, and then I'll buy you whatever you want."

"What Two-Feathers?"

"The one we suspect of shooting Joe Dominguez a couple times today."

Joe nodded. "Oh, and you thought it'd be helpful to give him another one to shoot at?"

"Good point, Joe. Where can I drop you off? Wendy's?"

Dominguez gave him a look, and Nash chuckled.

* * * * * * *

Evan was covering him, so Inspector Harvey Leek took the risky approach.

He knocked.

There was obviously someone home. An opera was wafting – okay, blaring – from the closed apartment door, and there were sounds of a vacuum. Another louder series of knocks accomplished two things.

One, the vacuum turned off.

Two, the opera seemed ten times louder.

There was the low sense of footsteps, the rattle of a chain, the sliding of a deadbolt, and the door opened to reveal one rather tall brunette in a dusty tee shirt and black leggings.

She eyed him up and down, as well. "Vest on the outside. That's a new one. If that's what you're selling, too colorful."

"No ma'am," he said gravely. "I'm here to see Mike Two-Feathers."

An appraising look. "Murder weapon's in the freezer, careful the waffles don't fall on your foot when you open it up." And she turned and walked back into the apartment, leaving the door open. "Your friend coming in, or is he just going to loiter in the hallway? Illegal, you know."

Harvey tried not to look too taken aback. "And you are . . .?"

"Eleanor Rigby."

"You don't seemed too surprised to see us," Leek called after her, but she didn't respond. Evan and Harvey exchanged a quick glance, and the two entered the apartment.

Cortez shut the door behind him, but the brunette didn't appear to be concerned about it. The opera was stifling inside the apartment, and she was heading over to an older but high-quality stereo system. The speakers were ancient – back in the days of turntables – but they put out a decent sound. Harvey noted she was still using Studer Revox equipment as she silenced it.

Evan didn't wait. "You didn't answer the question."

She gave them a blank look. "Cops. Wanting to talk to Mike. Number fifteen on the FBI's Most Wanted But Can't Quite Convict list. Have I lost you yet?"

"You said your name was . . .?" Harvey concentrated on her while Evan scoped the place out. A one-room flat, the bed in the far corner next to the bay windows, the kitchen on the far right. The only place he could be hiding was the closet or the bathroom, and both looked to be interior rooms. If he was there, he'd have to come in sight of them to get out. Both doors were closed, and there were no vents in either.

"Eleanor Rigby." She turned to glance at them both. Her eyes were a dull blue, almost grey, and tilted up slightly in the corners. "Have the license to prove it. Best friend in all the world is a five foot white woman named Diana Ross. And the other day I met a fat, white Willie Nelson. There are a lot of cruel parents around."

"Puccini?" The more he kept her distracted, the better opportunity Cortez had. Harvey was fairly sure their suspect really wasn't there; there was no place for him to hide. Waiting for him – and Nash – might prove safer, but dammit, he'd hoped to catch him before his girlfriend could warn him. "The opera, I mean."

She nodded, turning around with a pleased smile for Leek. "Yes. Madame Butterfly. I saw a movie based on a couple making a movie of the opera, only the producer husband didn't want the actress wife playing the lead role . . . anyway. Great opera."

Evan glanced at the mantle. The apartment looked well-lived in. It had accumulated odds and ends that seemed to match, not random enough to have been purchased from a pawn shop in a hurry and arranged to look as though the place was lived in. There were a few pictures of Eleanor, one with the Taj Mahal in the background, the next with the Eiffel Tower.

"How long have you been here?"

"Two years come . . . hell. August? Can I offer you some tuna salad?"

"Thank you, but we just need to talk to Michael and we'll be on our way."

"He's not your killer, you know."

Inspector Leek looked nonplussed. "Be that as it may, we still need to talk to him."

"He's out buying ketchup."

Evan moved slowly around the couch, but there was nothing behind it. The room was clear. Leek was doing a good job of distracting her, and he nudged the closet door open with a foot, flinching back before glancing in. Aside from a few pairs of male loafers, there was nothing to indicate a man lived in the place.

"When did he leave, Miss Rigby?"

"Ten minutes? Silly me, I didn't have ketchup on hand for the tuna salad. What was I thinking, really."

Leek nodded. "I knew a guy that put ketchup on his tuna."

"It must be a man thing. Officer, you're wasting your time, and you don't know what could live in that closet. Hell, I don't know what lives in that closet." Her eyes had left Leek and were on Cortez.

Evan grinned in what he hoped was a disarming fashion. "Yeah, I've got one of those at my place, too. You're handling this very well, Ms. Rigby. Does this happen often?"

She gave him another blank look, then shook her head bemusedly. "All the damn time. Besides. There's no evidence, no murder weapon, I'm sure he has an alibi, and without evidence, you can only hold him 24 hours. Other than inconveniencing us both, you can't do much. Unless, of course, you want to create some evidence, and that wouldn't be very legal of you."

Her tone was much less friendly, and Harvey decided it was time to leave.

"Well, we didn't check the freezer like you said."

She pulled it open. Inside were bags of frozen vegetables, a half-gallon of chocolate ice cream, three mugs, and what looked like rolls of frozen dough wrapped in wax paper and plastic.

"Bake often?"

"My next-door neighbor gave me ten starter packs of Amish Friendship bread, and I couldn't give them away, so I made them all and froze the dough. It keeps well enough, and only takes a few hours to thaw and bake. Would you like some?" A little more friendly, but not much.

"Depends. How desperate are you to get rid of it?"

"It's the perfect weapon. You can beat someone to death with it and then cook it. Hell of a lot cheaper than a leg of lamb." She picked up one block and handed it to him. "I'll let him know you stopped by, Inspector . . . ?"

"Harvey Leek. This is Inspector Cortez. Lemme just give you a card . . ." He fished one out of a vest pocket. "Tell him it's very important that we speak with him soon. Oh, and if he leaves town, we do have the authority to issue an arrest warrant, and then we can keep him as long as we like."

A raised eyebrow was the only response. "Have a nice night, Inspectors."

* * * * * * *

Evan watched Leek place the frozen dough in an evidence bag and label it. "Prints?"

"Evan, you've lived in small apartments all your bachelor life, right?"

"Pretty much."

"Where did you clean your gun?"

"Kitchen counte . . . oh."

"Besides, this stuff is good. If it checks okay for no gunpowder and poison, we should cook it and give it to Joe for being such a good sport. You ever had this stuff? It's great."

Harvey capped the pen and exchanged it for his cellphone while Evan handled the evidence bag.

" . . . Hey, boss. Don't bother coming over. He's not here. We'll call it in and get a surveillance unit out here, make sure he doesn't split . . . Yep."

Leek hung up and chewed the cellphone antenna thoughtfully. "Well, let's get that down to Forensics and see what the little dumplin' can tell us."

"Y'know what worries me?" Evan slid into the driver's seat, scrunching down a bit so it would be less obvious to an approaching Two-Feathers that someone was in the car.

Leek was doing the same. "What?"

"She said it happened all the time."

"Yes, she did."

"She's been here two years, and he just flew into town. Why would cops come to her place all the time?"

* * * * * * *

"Tell me what we've got."

Nash grabbed a chair across from Evan, shoving the last bite of pizza into his napkin.

"Well, we didn't leave till the van got there. They say nothing's happened, our ketchup boy did not return home."

"Damn. We get a chance to bug her phones?"

"She was extremely . . . vigilant."

Harvey crushed a coke can, attracting their attention. "I think she's in the business too, Nash, but the name Eleanor Rigby comes up clean. She knew who we were, she knew what we could and couldn't do, and she kept more of an eye on Evan than she did me."

"Well, let's face it, he's more her age group. But I hear women are looking for older men these days . . ."

Leek leaned back in his chair and smiled thinly. "Guess I should have given her your card, then."

"Touché. Tell me about her."

"She got a speeding ticket January of this year, cop didn't show, she got out of it. Other than that, she has very good credit, owns the registration on a 1996 charcoal gray Toyota Camry, and is a Victoria's Secret Gold Member."

"Any ties to Two-Feather?"

"Not a one." Harvey tossed the crushed can towards the trash, sinking the shot cleanly. "Damn, it's my night."

"Where's Joe?" Evan shoved a fresh piece of ham and pineapple into his mouth. Since he and Harvey were going to relieve the surveillance crew later this evening, ordering pizza in had made more sense than going home and having to come back.

"Joe's at my place. I thought it might be a good idea for him to unwind."

"Is that wise? We don't know where Two-Feathers is."

Nash nodded. "I know. He and Nick are staying away from the windows and not letting anyone in, and I left a couple uniforms outside to make it look a little less inviting." He dropped his voice. "I just didn't want him around when this lead dried up."

"How's he doing?"

"Hanging in there. Isn't the first time someone's sent a killer after him." Nash looked decidedly unhappy. "It is, however, the first time I ever heard of a professional hit-man going about a hit like this."

"It does seem pretty strange," Leek agreed, propping his feet against the open bottom drawer of his desk. "I get the feeling we're missing a piece or two."

"Well, bubba, you think of what pieces those might be, I'll go lookin' for 'em."

"We have two dead Joe Dominguezes. Who aren't related. We have a professional assassin who flew into town, who's staying with someone who sees cops all the time." Evan consulted his phonepad. "We have a sizable amount of heroin. We have no motive, we have no moneytrail, we have no witnesses. We have very little evidence."

A click alerted Harvey to new email, and he hit a few keys. "We also have homemade gunpowder." The printer whirred as the heating element began warming up. "Swabs from the second story across the street from our first Dominguez shooting turned up positive, looks like. Our killer was lying in wait."

Evan blinked. "Homemade?"

"According to forensics. Every seller of gunpowder adds a little extra something, to identify their recipe from other recipes – how they patent it. More kick, less dust, less damage to the barrel, that sort of thing. This one has no trace of other elements. It's recipe-perfect gunpowder."

"So our boy purchased his toys from a specialist who makes his own rounds."

"Or makes them himself, from pretty much scratch. I'm with the former idea."

"Think the competition keeps up with one another?"

"Won't hurt to ask around . . . we've got . . . old Earl, Ying over in Chinatown, that Russian bald guy with the funny earlobe –"

"Pitr. Yeah, I remember him. Thought he retired a few years back."

Harvey brought up a spreadsheet. "Lessee . . . yep. Claims to have closed up shop in '98."

"I'll check it out. You two try and get me Two-Feather."

* * * * * * *

"Full house."

Joe tossed down his hand in disgust. "Nick, man, I love ya, but you're cheating."

"I am not." There was something very amused in that quiet, dry reply. "I would never cheat a business partner at cards, Joe."

"In a New York minute you would, don't give me that. Want another drink?"

"Any more margarita in the blender?"

Joe stood up, a little unsteadily, to check. "Yep. I think we should call it quits after this, though. I don't have any toothpicks left."

The majority of the 'chips' they were playing with were on Nick Bridges' side of the table, and Nash's father laughed. "Hey, it's not my fault you're such a bad player."

Joe gave him an insulted look. "Hey, that sounds to me like you want to get your own margarita."

He gathered the glasses as Nick started shuffling the cards, and had just set them on the kitchen counter when the phone rang. It was a little after one.

"Inger. On the hour, every hour."

Nick looked up unhurriedly from his card-shuffling. "You'd think she'd fall asleep by now."

"It's Inger. She probably set the alarm clock to wake her." He picked it up on the second ring, not bothering to check the caller ID. It had been Lisa's number the other six times, it would be again.

"Bridges." He grinned to himself, wondering how long it would take her to recover from that.

There was silence on the other end for a moment, then the unmistakable crackle of a cellphone connection. "Third time's the charm." The line went dead.

Joe stared into space a moment, his slightly tipsy brain wanting both to ignore it and go to bed, and also to process any background noise and the voice itself to figure out who it had been. The result was a vague sense of confusion and shock, and his hand moved automatically to hang the cordless back on the cradle.

"That was short," Nick observed, shuffling the cards methodically.

" . . . uh, yeah. Nick? Nick, I think we need to retire to the bedrooms." The drink-induced fog was trying to dissipate a bit, and the cordless was picked back up. The numbers were still relatively clear, and Joe dialed speeddial and two. "Nick, now might be a good time. C'mon, let's go."

He helped the older man stand and glanced at the windows as he listened to the rings on the other end of the phone. "Joe? Who was it that called? Wrong number? We've still got two hands to play . . ."

"We can finish it tomorrow." He shooed Nick towards the interior of the apartment. Four rings, no pickup. Joe frowned, shut the door to Nick's bedroom, and leaned on it as Nick turned on the light and began, in his unhurried way, to get ready for bed.

"I'm not so old that I can't handle three margaritas, Joe."

"I know, Nick." It was distracted, but Nick didn't seem to notice. Joe hung up and dialed Nash's desk. It rang into voicemail.

"Shit, Nash. Where are you?"

He hung up with a curse and poked the cordless antenna repeatedly against his upper lip. He was too drunk to use his gun. He could see fine, walk fine, but a buzz was warning enough. He might take Nash's head off before he realized who it was. His gun was in its holster, hung on the back of the chair with his coat, back out in the kitchen.

Joe frowned and dialed the police operator. He probably couldn't get ahold of Nash that way, but he could warn the two uniforms downstairs to keep a more alert eye out.

The sound of tinkling glass floated through the bedroom door, from the kitchen.

* * * * * * *

"Captain!"

Nash nodded, and the coroner covered the body and started zipping it up. He remained crouched there for a time, elbow on his knee and chin in his hand as he stared at the plastic-covered body. There was another outside, and a third man in an ambulance being taken to County as fast as it could go. They were both good cops.

This one was messy. Same guy, he was sure of it. But very messy.

"You panicked, bubba. Why."

"Captain Bridges! I think you should come over here."

"Be right there, Ronnie." Still he remained. There was something here, if he looked long enough he'd find it . . .

He finally stood, catching a passing nurse by the elbow. "How's the little girl?"

Sandra Crewe was a registered nurse as well as a social worker, and she looked especially exhausted. It was almost two in the morning, and she'd been pulled from a case to come out here.

"Scared. In shock. Her mother's calmed down enough to stay with her for a while, but we're taking them both into protective custody for the time being." She gave him a long look. "You catch this guy, Nash."

"Hey, I don't like pot shots taken at kids any more than you do. We're doing this by the book, and we're gonna get him. Alright?"

"Yippee. More paperwork." But it was too tired to be sarcastic. "Trust me, I'm dotting every i."

Nash was caught around the elbow by a large officer. "Nash . . . guys on your apartment radioed in. Shot fired."

* * * * * * *

Nash settled into the armchair with a glass of water rather than wine, idly watching the pattern of light play on the surface of the liquid. It was almost four am, but his apartment was still crawling with cops. He knew all of them, so it didn't bother him too badly. Nick Bridges was sleeping through the entire thing in his bedroom, which was just fine by Nash. Joe was on the couch to the right of him, rubbing his eyes repeatedly. His jacket was still in his lap, the bullethole cleanly through his left lapel.

"Do you think he wants me to catch him?"

"I don't know, bubba, but I do know that he's really pissing me off."

Joe leaned his head back and threw his arms onto the back of the sofa, staring at the ceiling. "Now what?"

"Now we wait for forensics to tell us if what Harvey lifted from Two-Feather's place matches the gunpowder we found on the windowsill. When that happens, we'll have enough to book him."

If it didn't . . . they were back to square one.

"You want to use me as bait?"

Nash looked up from his glass of water to give Joe a look. "No."

"Well? Unless he's going to go after Jamie Dominguez, I'm the only one left in the Bay area. I mean, was it a game, to see if I could catch him before he got all of them? Is it over if he wins?"

"I think when he shoots you he wins, bubba."

Leek came over from the kitchen and tossed Nash his cellphone. "You really ought to use the car charger."

"How many times have I told you? The 'Cuda wiring is extremely sensitive. Remember what happened when we added the police lights?"

Harvey shrugged. "Invest in a lithium battery, then. Can I get your opinion on something, Nash?"

It was very careful, and Nash responded instantly to the tone. "Sure, bubba. But if it's a woman, I'll not be held accountable."

"Oh yes you will."

They stepped off into the kitchen, and Leek lowered his voice and opened a folder. Inside was a picture and profile that looked as though it had been printed off the Internet.

"We kept checking even after Two-Feathers showed up, and we had a list of people who matched the MO but whose whereabouts were unknown. This woman is the same woman that owns the apartment we tracked Two-Feathers to."

Nash studied it. The thing read like a resume, with kills and dates concise and orderly. Her real name was unknown, but Eleanor Rigby wasn't one of the listed known aliases. "Where did you get this?"

"Agent West. Called tonight when you were out to see if you'd had any luck yet, I asked him to give me a temp guest password to collect the profiles on the unknowns. She was the fourth one I looked up." He lowered his voice further. "Seems the CIA also has a bulletin to pick her up." He pointed to an asterisk next to two of the kills. The symbol wasn't defined at the bottom of the page.

"She's killed company men, huh. Nice woman." They'd have nothing on her if there wasn't any gunpowder found on the frozen bag Harvey had gotten, but with a bulletin out for her arrest from both the Bureau and Agency, they could hold her pretty much indefinitely. "Bring her in."

"Problem. No one saw her leave, but she's not there anymore."

Nash leaned against the counter and swore.