Adrenalin had taken over as Toby Cranston ran to the end of the corridor and made a sliding turn into an adjacent hallway. Finding the men's room he scoped earlier, the gunman dashed in.

It should have been an easy job. Councilman Rhinelander's office was isolated. He was a man of routine and always left alone at precisely 2:35 every weekday afternoon. With a gun and a silencer, Cranston should have cleanly taken out the Councilman, but yet that did not happen. He was with two men – two cops! Why were they there? Did they know that Harold Spring had hired him to take down Rhinelander and the controversial housing project?

Cranston leaned against the wall of the restroom as he felt the ache in his arm. It wasn't a simple crease; the bullet was in the flesh and would need to come out. He walked into a stall and peeled off the ski mask and sweater. He needed something to wrap around his wound, so he pulled out a pocket knife and cut a sleeve from his sweater. With the sleeve and some paper towels he had grabbed by the sink, he fashioned a makeshift bandage which would do until he got treatment.

Next, he climbed on top of the commode and purposely displaced an overhead ceiling tile. Somewhat woozy, he hid the discarded garments in the ceiling and found the light jacket he'd left behind. Taking the jacket with him, he replaced the ceiling tile and left the stall. With the gun hidden under his shirt, Cranston put on the jacket and left. The mysterious gunman in the ski mask was gone, replaced now by a young man with straggly dark brown hair, a light blue jacket and dark jeans.

Cranston had to figure a way out and then a way to get the treatment he needed. Perhaps he would go back to Spring and blackmail him. After all, he had recorded their conversations on tape in the event that Spring did not live up to his word and provide payment for Rhinelander's death.

He saw a water cooler in the corner and decided to get a quick drink before making his way to the back of the building for his planned escape. Seconds later, he heard the sirens in the distance, but instinctively knew the police were coming for him. He wiped his mouth with his good arm and fled.

In the windowless office, Lieutenant Stone could also hear the sirens. Judging from the noise level, he figured help was only a few short blocks away. He relayed to Lessing that the three men were stuck in Rhinelander's office. The procedure Mike anticipated was that the arriving police would secure all exits and then make a move to their location. He hoped that an ambulance would arrive soon and the attendants would bring a stretcher back to the office quickly.

Only moments earlier, Steve looked as though he was losing consciousness. Mike knelt down next to Rhinelander who was still applying pressure to Steve's shoulder. He gently squeezed his partner's left arm and watched his eyes flutter open.

"So, you thought you could fall asleep on the job, huh?" the senior detective teased, but the worry in his voice revealed his true feelings.

"Just resting," he answered quietly. "I'll be okay. I'm sorry I got hit." Steve attempted to brush Rhinelander's hand away and then tried sitting up.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" Mike asked firmly.

"I'm feeling sick and I want to sit up," Steve replied honestly. Instead of sitting, however, he rolled to his side and propped himself up with his uninjured arm.

"A bit of nausea and vertigo?" Rhinelander questioned to which the young detective nodded. "Let's look at that shoulder and see how the bleeding is."

"You certainly know your way around an injury, Councilman," Mike observed.

"358th Anti-aircraft artillery Battalion," Rhinelander answered to Mike's inquiring eyes. "Europe. I wasn't a medic, but I got a lot of on-the-job training."

Mike nodded as he knew what the Councilman meant. He, too, had seen enough injury for a lifetime during his own wartime experience in the Pacific.

"The bleeding is not as bad," Rhinelander commented.

"It doesn't burn as badly either," Steve added. "I'll be all right. I just want to sit up."

"He'll be more comfortable on the sofa there," Rhinelander said as he glanced over to an unimposing two seat sofa that was appropriate for a waiting room or an office. Mike looked around and agreed. Together they helped Steve stand and guided him to the seat. The young man exhaled in relief as he sat down, holding on to his injured shoulder.

"You don't look so good," Mike added. "If you feel sick, you let us know."

Steve didn't answer, but seemed lost in thought. "Did you see his eyes?" he asked finally.

"The shooter? It was all I could see given the black mask, Buddy boy."

"Yes, but did you really notice his eyes?" Steve asked thoughtfully.

"I noticed the gun taking aim at Rhinelander." Mike was uncertain of the point Steve was trying to make.

"Heterochromia," he answered.

"What?"

"Heterochromia. He has two different colored eyes, or at least it looked like it from where I stood."

"From that distance? How could you tell?" Mike didn't know what was more impressive: Steve's attention to detail, his eyesight, or the fact that he knew the technical term.

"I never took my eyes off of him as I was pushing the Councilman out of the way. The guy was staring straight at Rhinelander and then raised his gun. I noticed his left eye first because of the angle. It was a dark brown. But then when he turned slightly, I could see the other was blue." The explanation seemed to drain the young detective.

"I've heard of that-what did you call it-heterochromia? My daughter is crazy about this musician who has different colored eyes. He's a Brit. I can't think of his name, but I'll bet you know who I'm talking about," Rhinelander said.

"I do, but I guarantee you he doesn't," Steve answered mischievously as he looked over to Mike.

"Keep it up, Buddy boy, and you'll have more to worry about than that little flesh wound."

Rhinelander smirked at the two detectives' banter, but then something suddenly triggered his memory. "Wait a minute. There's someone else I've seen around here with the same condition. I can't remember who, but it was someone I met recently. Maybe at one of the public meetings on the housing project."

Mike glanced over to his partner who was again showing his fatigue. "Councilman, I believe we have our first clue."

Cranston was down to the first floor and nearly to the back of the building when he heard the police surrounding City Hall. Alone, he knew if he tried to exit through the back now, he'd raise the suspicions of the officers. The only thing he could think to do was retrace his steps and hide.