I want to say thank you to everyone who has review, followed etc. It's good to know the hard work has resulted in entertainment. :) Continued thanks to my betas, without you guys this story would not be here.


CHAPTER TWO

xXx

The pounding wouldn't stop. Chuck rolled over onto his side, wrapping his arms around his head in an attempt to dull the sound, but it didn't help. Instead, it added nuance to his discomfort as he breathed in the scent of musty carpet. He drew back in disgust and squinted at the floor. It took a long time for the bland, beige pile to come into focus, as it seemed to be obscured by a veil of ever changing images his mind couldn't quite latch onto. Chuck shook his head to try and clear his vision, groaning loudly as it caused the throbbing in his brain to kick up a notch.

He propped himself up on his elbows and looked around the room. He was indeed on the floor and sunlight was streaming in through the windows. "What the hell?" He did another sweep as things finally came into focus, his gaze settling on his laptop still open on the desk. There was a tiny trail of smoke rising from the side. As his mind registered the sight of the smoke, it also registered the acrid scent of burned electronics. His eyes widened and he leapt to his feet, ignoring the ache in his head. "No, no, nonono!" He lifted the computer and turned it over, inspecting it for damage. He was about to pull out Winona and start taking it apart to find the problem when the pounding started up again. He swung his head around, wincing at the pain. Now that awareness had dawned, he realized it was coming from the door.

"Chuck!" Ellie's voice reached him through the thick material. It had taken on a frantic quality that Chuck recognized from his youth. He spun around, trying to locate the clock. 11:30! He was supposed to meet them in the lobby an hour ago. "Chuck, if you don't open this door right now, I swear to God…"

Chuck scrambled toward the door, stumbling over a stray shoe he'd discarded the night before. Seizing the door knob, he yanked it open to find his sister – fist raised to continue her assault – standing in the hall, her eyes wide with worry. He gave her an awkward smile. Ellie blinked, starting at him for several moments before she slammed her palms into his chest, shoving him backward into the room.

"What the hell, Chuck!" she demanded. "Why didn't you answer? Devon is searching all over the village for you and I've been knocking… are those the same clothes you were wearing yesterday? Chuck did you get drunk last night? You look like crap." Chuck watched as she went from big sister on the warpath to concerned mother figure in an instant. She reached up and pushed aside his dark, curly hair, laying the back of her hand against his forehead like he was a little kid. "Are you feeling alright?"

He took her gently by the wrist and pulled her hand away, holding it to his chest. "Ellie, I'm sorry. I'm fine, I… I have an insane headache but otherwise I'm fine. I think. I'm sorry I didn't answer. I was asleep… I guess."

Ellie frowned as he let her go. She looked him over. "Well, you scared me half to death." She did a quick scan of his room and scrunched up her nose. "You're not even packed and what is that smell?"

"My laptop. It's – it's fried. I – anyway, I'll be packed up and out of here in a sec. Just, go call off Devon so he doesn't waste any more of his time looking for me."

"Okay, but hurry. You're already late for check out and if we take too much longer I won't be able to talk them out of charging us an extra day."

"If they do, I'll pay for it, I promise," Chuck said as he started grabbing up his things and shoving them into his suitcase.

xXx

Chuck sighed and looked up at the building he called home. It was tall, imposing, slightly Gothic in appearance and, despite living there for the last five years, he had never quite felt like he belonged in it. When Jill and he had first moved in together he had wanted them to find their own place, a place they picked out together. But Jill liked her posh apartment and hadn't wanted to give it up. Now, as he looked up at the darkened windows, he felt a new kind of reluctance. He wasn't going to wait to talk to Jill. Which meant this might be that last time he "came home" to this place.

The taxi driver dropped Chuck's luggage next to him. "You want help taking it in?"

"No, thanks, I got it."

The guy looked him up and down skeptically and Chuck bristled a little. Sure he was on the skinny side but he was hardly an invalid. "You sure?"

"Yeah, I got it," Chuck affirmed, his voice only slightly tinged with annoyance. He handed the guy payment for the ride with a generous tip and, with a shrug and a small salute, the man was back in his car and off to his next pick up. Chuck slung his computer bag over his neck, lifted the other two cases by the handles and headed inside.

When he got off the elevator, Chuck had to set down one of the cases and search his pockets for his keys. With all the noise he was making he was a little surprised Jill didn't beat him to the punch. She always seemed to know when he was right outside and usually delighted in yanking the door open, scaring the crap out of him. As he slid his key into the lock, Winona brushed against his wrist and he smiled as he thought of the woman he'd met. Katie. Okay, so maybe he was an ass to be thinking about one woman when he was coming home to another but…

All thoughts of Katie, and his own less than admirable attributes, fled his mind as he pushed open the door to a completely darkened apartment. That alone was unusual. Jill usually left the blinds open to let in as much sunshine as possible, since they were much too high up for people to peek in the windows. Now, not only were the blinds drawn and every light shut off, the place was also entirely empty. No furniture, blank walls, bare floor – empty.

Chuck didn't even take his keys from the lock as he rushed into the room. "Jill?" he called, cautiously at first, then more urgently as he moved from room to room finding nothing and no one. "Jill!"

Everything was gone. His TV was gone, his Xbox, his PlayStation, his computer and even his clothes. There wasn't a trace of Jill to be found either, not so much as a tube of lipstick left on the bathroom counter. He stopped in the hallway for a moment and ran his hands though his hair, setting the curls in disarray. What the hell was going on?

He searched the apartment twice over, but the only thing he found was the framed Tron poster his father had given to him as a child. Jill had hated it, but he hadn't been able to throw it away no matter how much she insisted. Instead, he'd hidden it away in the back of the guest closet.

He was using the sleeve of his shirt to wipe off some of the accumulated dust when someone behind him cleared their throat. The unexpected sound seemed to echo through the empty room. Startled, he lost his balance, dropped the poster and fell backward, smacking his head on the hangar rod.

"Excuse me," a man was saying as Chuck closed his eyes against the stinging pain in his scalp. "I didn't mean to startle you, but the door was open."

Chuck rubbed his head and looked up at his unwelcome guest. It was a man, slightly shorter and much older than he was, with wavy hair, cropped short. His very square jaw was set at an angle as he looked, critically, back at Chuck.

"Mmm," Chuck responded as he bent down to retrieve the poster. "Well, as you can see, I'm not quite set up for company at the moment, but how can I help you?"

"Are you Mr. Bartowski?" He sounded hoarse, like his voice was close to wearing out from over use.

"That's me." He looked the guy over, the uneasy feeling that had taken up residence in his stomach increasing.

"I'm Detective Pierre, LAPD, and I need you to come downtown."

Chuck stepped back ever so slightly and stood up straighter. "Why, what's this about?"

"Your girlfriend, Jill Roberts," Detective Pierre said, holding out a hand toward Chuck as if to escort him.

"Wha — what? What about Jill, do you know where she is?" Chuck demanded, not moving from his spot inside the closet.

The Detective sighed and dropped his hand. The look on his face was only slightly sympathetic as he said, simply, "She's dead."

xXx

Chuck was cold and it had little to do with the chill in the air. As detective Pierre led him into the viewing room, he felt cold in places that weren't affected by things like the reading on a thermostat. He trembled slightly and wrapped his arms around his chest as his eyes swept the sheet covered form on the table in front of him. He came to a stop, still some distance away, as some unknown guy in a white lab coat moved toward the head of that draped figure. Chuck had no desire to see what was under that sheet.

"Mr. Bartowski?" Detective Pierre asked, once again holding out a hand toward him. Chuck avoided it, swallowed down the bile his rebellious stomach was trying to eject, and moved closer. He could do this. He forced his eyes to remain open as the white linen was pulled back – and then there she was.

Jill, her formerly golden skin now grayish and pale, lay on the table. There was a gash, along with some bruising, on her cheek that stood out starkly against her postmortem complexion. Despite that, she was still beautiful, and in spite of all that had happened between them, Chuck still cared for her. The cold inside him grew as he looked at her lifeless form. It seeped into his bones. They had shared their lives – well, he had shared his with her – for the last seven years and he just couldn't believe it had all been a lie. Surely not every moment, every laugh, every smile. Things Jill would never do again.

"Is this your girlfriend, Mr. Bartowski?" the detective was asking from somewhere that seemed very distant and Chuck somehow managed to nod. The sheet was replaced and Jill was gone from his sight. He closed his eyes then, but the image of her was burned into his consciousness.

Detective Pierre led him away from the morgue, up through the bowels of the police station and they ended up in a dreary little area on the upper floors of the building. Long ago, someone had painted the walls a mild shade of green, probably in hopes of having a calming effect, but with the patina left behind by years of use, it only added to the grimy, neglected ambiance. Chuck was barely aware as he was ushered into to a dimly lit office. He looked around and took note that it wasn't the interrogation room he'd expected. There was a set of well worn leather couches against one wall and wide, grimy windows that looked out onto the main police floor. Detective Pierre stepped in with a manila folder under his arms and two Styrofoam cups filled with coffee.

"Do, uh, I need a lawyer for this or…" Chuck asked, looking from the cups to the older man's face.

The detective looked over and grinned at him and though Chuck had the impression he was trying to come off as friendly, it just wasn't working. "No, no, Mr. Bartowski, you're not a suspect. I just have a few questions I'm hoping you can answer about the victim."

"Oh," he breathed, smoothing a nervous hand over his t-shirt. He took the offered cup of coffee and finally asked the question that had been burning in the back of his throat. "What… um, what happened to her?" He sat shakily on the couch.

Detective Pierre took a seat opposite him and opened the folder he'd been carrying. "Miss Roberts' body was found at the Los Angeles International Airport." He opened the folder and withdrew a photo. He set it down on the coffee table in front of Chuck who leaned forward to look automatically, without waiting for the Detective to finish. "She had been stuffed inside a suitcase with a plastic bag wrapped around her head." Chuck heard the words at the same time the image in the photos registered and he recoiled. Wrapping his arms around himself, Chuck covered his mouth and closed his eyes as he tried to push down the nausea roiling up inside him. Oh God, I really wish I hadn't seen that…

When he opened his eyes, Detective Pierre was looking at him, studying him with cool blue eyes that made Chuck feel exposed and uncomfortable. He tried to sit up straight and relax, 'man up' as it were, but it was difficult. He couldn't get the picture of Jill's horrifying, silent scream out of his head.

And then, to make matters worse, his mind was suddenly filled with fifteen different images. Each a different person, each the same silent scream, their eyes open wide and helpless, plastic stretched taut over blue lips. Along with the pictures of the dead, there was also a bunch of information that passed through his mind at lightning speed.

No known photo, wanted, Fulcrum, Suspected code name: Coldstreet…

He blinked the thoughts away, not understanding where they had come from. Was it something he'd seen on the news? Maybe one of Morgan's all night B-Movie marathons?

"Mr. Bartowski?" Detective Pierre was saying and Chuck snapped his head up, wondering how long he'd been zoning out. "Are you alright? You look a little green."

"I'm fine," Chuck said, a little too quickly. "I mean, I'll be fine, I've just…" he swallowed as he thought of the picture. He gestured toward it with his hand and didn't say anything else.

Detective Pierre studied him silently for another moment before turning back to the folder in his hands. "Do you know of any reason she would've wanted to leave the country?"

Chuck frowned. "Leave? No."

"Miss Roberts had purchased two tickets to Venezuela, KIPA Airlines, flight 623. It left LAX Yesterday afternoon."

"Venezu-cwhat?"

"Was the other ticket for you?"

"No. I don't —" Chuck stood up and started pacing. "I was in Lake Tahoe. She was supposed to come with me… I – she never told me about any plans…" Chuck stopped, his shoulders slumping as he turned back to the detective. "That's not really new. She kept a lot of secrets. Maybe there was someone else."

"Mmm," was the detective's only response to Chuck's speculation. He looked down at his paper work again. "Miss Roberts was American?"

"Yeah," Chuck replied, still standing, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He frowned. It seemed an odd question.

"Her Profession?"

"She was a biochemist. She, um, she worked for Cowl-McGregor Pharmaceuticals."

"Was she a wealthy woman?"

Chuck stood up straighter for a moment. "I don't know. I always thought she inherited some money from her parents. We never really talked about it."

"Where did she keep her money?"

"I don't know. She was pretty private about that…" It had been one of the many things that had been bothering him.

"Mhm," the detective made a note. "Any living relatives?"

"I –" He released an exasperated breath. "I don't know," Chuck said again. Jill hadn't ever mentioned her family and the few times he'd tried to bring it up in the beginning of their relationship, she'd dodged the questions. Sometimes quite forcefully.

Detective Pierre tossed his pen down on the coffee table with a loud 'clack'. "That's ridiculous," he said, his voice edged with barely contained frustration.

"I know," was all Chuck said, his gaze focused on an oddly shaped crack in the wall plaster.

Detective Pierre sighed and moved to the door. A young woman in a police uniform ran up when he poked his head out. Pierre's voice drifted in through the open door but the other officer remained muted. "Yeah, I'm ready for the belongings. … Yeah, thanks." Chuck looked over, watching as the detective shut the door. Pierre moved around and sat on the arm of the couch, facing Chuck. "On Friday, Miss Roberts sold the entire contents of your apartment, as well as several other assets, in an auction. Records show she was paid 250,000 dollars. A cool quarter of a million." Chuck felt his knees start to wobble and quickly sat back down.

A man entered the room with a plastic crate and both men turned toward him. Pierre got up and retrieved it, setting it on the coffee table. "Thanks Harvey." Turning back to Chuck, he said. "These things were found with Miss Roberts." He held up a familiar black purse. Flipping open the top flap, Detective Pierre turned it over, dumping the contents out onto the coffee ringed surface. "One wallet, containing four thousand dollars, one cell phone –– one number programed in, only two calls made to that number. One incoming call from a different number. Traced both numbers and came up empty." Pierre leaned forward and showed Chuck the numbers on the screen. He looked at them carefully and then shook his head.

"I'm sorry, I don't recognize the numbers – or the phone for that matter. Jill had one of those new iPhones. She always wanted the latest tech, she was kind of a nerd that way –"

"Mr. Bartowski –"

"Sorry."

"A small notebook with only one note - 'Colby Park, 1:30 pm.' Why? What's there?"

"I don't know. There are all kinds of events going on there all the time, maybe she wanted to go to one?"

"Obviously," Pierre murmured, non-committal, tossing the notebook aside. He reached for another item. "Two tickets to South America, one letter, stamped but unsealed – addressed to you."

Chuck blinked. A letter? He held out his hand. "Um, may I?"

The detective nodded and handed the letter to Chuck. He carefully slipped the piece of paper from the envelope. It smelled of Jill's perfume and he recognized her handwriting immediately. He read the letter out loud.

Dearest Chuck,

I hope you are having fun with your sister; Lake Tahoe is so beautiful this time of year. Listen, I've been sent on a last minute business trip! It's a huge advancement opportunity, and I couldn't say no, but I'll be out of the country for months. I want you to come and join me. I'll be in touch as soon as I can.

Love Always,

Jill

P.S. The dentist called, your appointment has been changed to December 20that one.

"This doesn't make any sense…" Chuck muttered softly. Why would she liquidate their apartment? Didn't she think he'd mind coming home to nothing? She'd sold his clothes for crying out loud!

"We called your dentist," the detective interrupted his thoughts. "Thought we might discover something."

"And?" Chuck asked, looking up hopefully.

"Nothing, you don't even have a dentist appointment scheduled. You should probably take care of that."

Chuck made a face.

"One key — to your apartment — one hair clip, one lip gloss, two condoms, a pen, a tooth brush and one tube of spearmint tooth paste." Detective Pierre finished, setting the last item down with a 'thunk.' "That's it." He held up the purse and the crate to show they were both empty. "As you can see, no quarter of a million. We already checked your account. It was never deposited." He looked at Chuck once more with that cool assessing stare. He was very good at that look. It made Chuck want to fade into the leather upholstery. Finally, Detective Pierre moved behind a desk in the corner and opened a drawer. He removed a file, along with a piece of paper that he set in front of Chuck. "If you'll just sign here, as you are the only person listed as next of kin, you can take these things with you."

Chuck frowned at that but leaned forward to scribble hi name on the indicated line, then he looked up. There was a new level of weariness in his voice as he said, "Is that it? Can I go now?"

"One more thing, Mr. Bartowski." Chuck looked up from the list warily. "Is this Jill's passport?" Pierre held up a dark blue booklet and opened it for Chuck to see. Inside were Jill's picture and name.

"Yeah," Chuck said softly, sitting up a little straighter.

"And this?" This time he held up a red booklet. Inside, Jill's face stared back at him only this time there was a different name – Roza Mihov.

"I don't…"

"And this one?" Another passport, another name.

In all, the detective showed him five different passports. Five pictures of Jill, five different countries, five different names. Chuck sat stunned, his mind reeling.

Who the hell had he been living with for the last five years?