Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is not intended for personal profit. All the Cause of Death canonical characters used in this fan fic are the property of Electronic Arts and/or other designated copyright and/or trademark holders.

Chapter 2: Moving On

Natara Williams sat in her apartment alone.

The only light in the room was from Natara's desk lamp, shining down on a blank piece of paper. She fiddled with her pen, trying and discarding plan after plan. She couldn't get reinstated in the FBI. She was unlikely to find a career in any other law enforcement capacity. Everything else she could think of seemed like a dead end or a total waste of her skills.

Schoolteacher? She couldn't stomach the thought of riding herd on hyperactive children or hormonal teenagers.

Practicing psychologist? She didn't really feel like sitting in a chair, guiding patient after patient through slowly paced progress to function in society.

Quite simply, she was at loose ends, and when she was at loose ends, it made no sense to write down any kind of coherent plan for her future. She missed the action, the excitement, the pressure of racing against the clock and outsmarting any criminal who was foolish enough to get on the FBI's radar. Nothing else, she felt, would come close to those exciting months in Quantico and then as a profiler.

The trilling of her phone distracted her. She yanked it out of the cradle and looked at the caller ID. She blinked, then put the phone to her ear.

"Neha?!" she blurted.

Her sister giggled. "Who else would it be, Nat? Listen, I thought I should call you, 'cause I'm having a great time down here in L.A.! This cute boy says he writes scripts for that hit TV show, you know, the one with the high school teacher who makes drugs."

"Huh," muttered Natara. Privately she wondered if the guy was telling the truth at all.

Neha replied, "Hey. You seem down. Everything okay over there?"

Natara remembered the best way to lie was to act all the emotions out. She smiled falsely to the phone and, as though she had just been through a challenging all-hands meeting about a high-profile killer, said, "Oh, absolutely! I'm just a little tired. Got called in by the D.C. police to observe a suspect."

"Sounds boring," said Neha. Her voice grew faint as she bellowed, "Listen! I'm staying at the Hilton. Gotta go, Greg wants to dance!"

The phone beeped in Natara's ear as Neha ended the call.

California.

The thought gripped Natara as she grabbed her laptop and began flipping through old e-mails. Hadn't Shawn mentioned something about a month before—?

Yes, he had! Her eyes landed on e-mail message with the "P.S." which invited her to drink with him the day she had been due to give evidence at trial. After she'd left the courtroom, Shawn had taken her for drinks at a nice bar. Just after sipping his wine, he had casually mentioned something.

"Say, Natara, I was talking to someone in the FBI field office in San Francisco, a man named Don. Must've been a slow week there, because after I followed up on a records transfer request Don started giving me a little gossip through the grapevine. Seems one of the top cops over at the SFPD resigned suddenly."

Natara had raised her eyebrow. Her curiosity, though, warred with her lack of interest in anything related to law enforcement right then. "Look, Shawn, I've had an intense cross-examination and the last thing I want to do is talk shop. Can we change the subject?"

Natara thought it over. She had to admit to herself, the thought of meeting a kindred spirit (in a sense) would be nice, but the chances of meeting such a person seemed unlikely.

Still…

Natara Williams had nothing left to lose by going to San Francisco. As a bonus, it wasn't too far from L.A. if Neha really wanted her to visit, but she'd be far enough away that Neha couldn't drag her out partying every weekend.

Without further ado, she found some boxes and began sorting through her things, deciding what to keep and what to take.

.oO[CoDCoD]Oo.

Malachi Fallon sat in his apartment alone.

He'd been divorced from Sandra for about three months and he had no current girlfriend. Still, thought Mal sourly, Sandra wouldn't have wanted to be associated with a "dirty cop" and would probably have had divorce papers in front of him the minute he left the SFPD headquarters and told her what had happened.

Seeing as he needed to pay the bills, he had launched straight into finding some kind of job related to what he used to do. But he had struck out on interview after interview. He'd gone to every security company (it seemed) in San Francisco.

They all expressed interest initially, but invariably he would either never get a follow-up, or he'd get a polite call-back. The latest message on his answering machine was yet another example of such. No mystery why: a lot of security guys were ex-cops, and they had a grapevine, too.

"Mister Fallon, this is Frederick Davis from Vann Securicorp. I'm calling to express my regrets; you were a promising candidate for the head security officer position, but we've found a more suitable person for the job. Best of luck in the future." Beep.

He let his breath out in a huff and shifted in his chair. The television blared meaninglessly in his ear as he remembered how it had seemed so easy, just once, to lean on a suspect just a little bit. Ken had been fine with it at first…

Ken had knocked at the door of the interrogation room. "Say, Mal, I gotta get a coffee. Want some?"

Mal had nodded. "Sure. Might wanna get another one for Mister, uh, Dillbag here."

"That's Dickson to you, pig!" the man spat.

Mal rolled his eyes at Ken. "See what kinda company I've got? Skip the coffee for this fella, then."

Ken had winked and left.

Mal had yanked the camera cable in a way that would look like it had fallen out. When Ken came back, he put on an air of exaggerated surprise and said, "Well, look there. Cable went and fell out, huh?"

Mal had also gotten his confession in the meantime.

It hadn't taken long to decide taking the easy way was better. Somewhere along the way, though, Ken had apparently chickened out and 'fessed up to the Chief.

"Bah. Partners like that? Don't need 'em," Mal said to the empty room. He sighed and picked up the newspaper from the side table. He flipped it open, and saw the ad for a building security guard for 345 California Center. Deciding something was better than nothing, he swallowed his pride at the notion of putting on a uniform again, and called the number given to leave a message.

Author Notes: Hopefully y'all have liked this. I'd like to again extend my thanks to Ayala, my coauthor, for helping with the chapter title and vetting this chapter. :)