LAPD Captain James Newman was pacing. Not roaming nervously, or wandering lost deep in thought, but stalking the room like a caged tiger, muscles bunching impressively under his shirt and vest as he clenched and unclenched his fists. His jacket had been flung across the office during his first furious outburst, and it looked like his tie was next. Cheryl Banks sat tensely and waited for the storm to strike in force.
He didn't keep her waiting long. "What kind of moon-brained lunacy were you two up to, anyway, Banks? Did the concept of clearing any kind, I repeat any kind, of investigation WHATSOEVER with your commanding officer go down the toilet just because Sloan wasn't back to duty yet?" Another yank on the tie, and he wheeled about to stand squarely in front of her. "Whose asinine idea was this, anyway? Please tell me it wasn't yours. Of course," he added sarcastically, "if it wasn't, that would mean you had lost your wits enough to go along with it!" He paused for breath, while Cheryl debated whether she should attempt to respond.
"Answer me, dammit!"
She took a deep breath and sent up a quick prayer to the patron saint, whoever he or she might be, of unfortunate cops caught between their partners and their bosses. "Actually, sir, it wasn't really Steve's idea either." She could swear the captain was starting to foam at the mouth. "It was -- Randy Wolfe --"
"What? That crazy woman?"
"--And Dr. Sloan," she finished unhappily.
Now the tie did come off, to smack viciously against the wall clock, where it hung crazily on the minute hand before sliding off onto the floor. Newman leaned over his hapless victim; her horrified gaze confirmed that he was foaming. "Detective, just because I authorized the raid doesn't mean you're going to get away with not telling me what happened. I want the whole story. Now. Fast. Then I want Mark Sloan and the Wolfe woman down here pronto."
"We're already here." Mark spoke from the doorway, his arm protectively around Randy's shoulders; Jesse and Amanda crowded behind them. "We let ourselves in; I hope you don't mind."
Newman's head came up with a snap as he started to expound on interfering medical dilettantes who didn't have enough to keep themselves busy without hanging about police investigations and getting in the way, and stopped. Mark looked like he had aged ten years overnight. There were dark bruises under his eyes, and worry had etched deep grooves down either side of his nose. The mustache drooped, and there were nicks where he had obviously had difficulty concentrating on shaving. Newman sighed. All badinage about Mark Sloan's part-time occupation aside, he had a deep respect for the man, not just as a gifted doctor and the father of one of his best detectives, but for his own investigative skills as well. He waved a hand tiredly.
"Sit down, Dr. Sloan." He scooped his jacket off the chair where he had flung it. "You too, Ms. Wolfe. Sorry about the mess." He noticed the other two as they followed Mark and Randy in, and, greeting them belatedly, quickly scared up more chairs.
"Actually," Randy said, with some trepidation, "it's Mrs. Sloan." She perched on the arm of Mark's chair, reluctant to leave whatever protection he could offer against the madman in the vest.
Newman's mouth hung open. "What?" He started to comment about the lack of an invitation, but dropped it after getting a good look at her face. She might be nuts, but she was obviously dead serious. Randy frowned. "At least, I think it is. I have a certificate saying we were married by the Ultimate Enlightened One." Her frown deepened. "Guess I'd better make sure he could do it legally."
Totally lost, Newman looked to Cheryl for help; at her shrug, he dropped into his own chair with a heavy sigh. "All right. From the very beginning. Tell me the whole sordid story."
Some time later, he leaned forward on his elbows, rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed again. Incredibly, he had been given a more or less complete picture. For once, Randy had been able to tell her part of it with a minimum of her natural tendency to digress, although she had already been through it the night before at the beach house to a much more sympathetic audience. Unfortunately, the story didn't get easier with the retelling. Captain Newman glanced at her worried eyes and saw her fears reflected in those of the others. He didn't feel too sanguine about Steve's chances himself.
"Ms. Wolfe -- excuse me, Mrs. Sloan," he said heavily, "I'm not going to belabor the point that this was not a smart idea to begin with. Believe me, your husband will hear it from me when he gets back; he'll be lucky I let him drive a desk for a while instead of busting him down to Vice." The glint in his eye took the sting from the words, betraying his own concern. "For now, though, I'm giving the search top priority, and I'm taking charge of it myself. Banks, you're going to be given a chance to redeem yourself for your part in this debacle by liaising with the Feds." He turned to Mark. "Dr. Sloan, if you want to help out, I could use you in looking through the computer files. The number of businesses and properties involved in this operation is staggering."
Mark nodded. "You think he's being held at some location owned by one of the subcompanies?" he asked.
"It's possible," Newman replied. "It's all information which will need to be reviewed for both the state and federal cases against Wyler, so it's worth looking into. If they're holding him somewhere, it's going to be some place that's not easily traced back." He gave Mark a grave look. "I have the distinct feeling you're not exactly open to the alternative possibility."
Mark shook his head. "My son's not dead, Captain. From what Randy has told us about Wyler and his associates, they have every reason to keep him alive, and a good deal more to lose by killing him, although I don't know whether we're likely to see any kind of ransom demand soon." He swallowed suddenly, and his shoulders slumped with weariness. "Let's just hope they don't do too much damage in the interim."