"Maggie?" He blinked owlishly. "Aren't you on your honeymoon?"

"Yes, Rick. James and I are lying in the sun on a Seychelles beach right now." A J Maguire, known to her friends as Maggie, shook her head. One of Rick's oldest friends from his days at college, she was a highly successful author in her own right, and one of the last people he expected to be at his door.

"Must be seeing things then." He licked suddenly dry lips. "You know?"

"I know."

"How?"

"Rick, aren't you going to let me in?"

He leaned forward, taking in her rain-flattened black hair, the faint haze of redness around her green eyes ... "Have you been crying?"

She looked surprised. "Of course."

"Good for you." He turned on his heel and stalked unsteadily away. "I can't."

From her footsteps and the slam of the front door she'd followed him inside, but he ignored her as he reached for the whiskey again. Except she was quicker, plucking it from his alcohol-slowed fingers.

"I think you've had enough."

"No." He swiped for the bottle but missed by a mile. "Not enough. Never enough."

"Smells like you've been bathing in it." She shook her head. "Rick, this isn't you. Please don't do this to yourself."

"I loved her!" He turned on her, his blue eyes blazing. "I loved her! I told her, and she still died!" There. He'd said it. Used the 'd' word.

"I know." Maggie was fighting to stop her own tears. "I know, Rick." She reached for him, offering comfort, but he stepped back.

"Is that why you're here?" he asked angrily. "Thinking you could take her place?"

She swallowed visibly, and guilt swelled inside him.

"No."

"Oh, God, Mags, I'm sorry," he mumbled out, using his own pet name for her. "I didn't mean –"

"I know."

"Maggie –"

He was going to pour it all out, tell her everything that had happened, but she interrupted. "Except you do smell like a distillery," she said, picking up the whisky bottle cap and screwing it firmly back on. "I'll make some coffee while you shower, then we'll talk."

"I don't want to talk," he groused, sounding like a contrary little boy, especially considering he had intended doing just that, but he headed for his bedroom nevertheless, although something occurred to him as he reached the door. "Where is James?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder at her.

"At home. Waiting for me." She waved both hands at him in the classic 'shooing' motion. "Go. Shower."

"I'm going, I'm going," he muttered. "Anyone would think you owned the place."

The hot water felt good, sloughing away the chill from the rain earlier, but the comfort didn't go more than skin deep. He stood with his hands against the tiles, letting it run down his shoulders, chest, dripping around his feet, but he couldn't get the energy to wash, just waited for it to clean him of its own accord.

He'd heard the TV go off, knowing Maggie was probably straightening things here and there, just for something to do while the coffee perked.

He was glad she was here, no matter what he said. And he didn't truly believe she was trying to take Kate's place. What they had now was different, more like a brother and sister relationship, and that was better. And considering his usual relationships, would probably last longer.

Kate. He'd hoped theirs would stand the test of time, if he could ever get his thumb out of his ass and tell her. Except he had. And it hadn't been enough.

If only. If. He hated that damn word. So many possibilities all blown away with a bullet. And so many reasons to hate himself. If he hadn't realised there was a third cop ... if he hadn't let himself be taken hostage by Dick Coonan ... if he hadn't looked into her mother's case ... if he hadn't assumed she wouldn't mind him following her, turning her life into a book ... into a death.

He closed his eyes tightly, trying to screen out everything except for the water drumming on his scalp. The trouble was, that brought up different memories, older, but in the light of the past few days, just as painful.

She'd been in the shower, that time. When he figured out the killer wasn't who they thought it was, that he was after Kate, that there was only so much time left in which to save her ...

And he had. Saved her. Called her, made her understand, gave her time to throw herself into the tub before the bomb went off. Saved her.

Only he hadn't. Hadn't been quick enough this time. Hadn't pulled the cat out of the bag and pushed her away. Hadn't taken the bullet himself so that she could lean over him, her face close enough to kiss, her voice begging him to stay with her ...

His stomach rolled, and he was only just in time to step out of the shower stall and hunker over the toilet before his body rebelled, trying to rid itself of the alcohol, the anger, the guilt. Again and again, until there was nothing left but dry heaves, and still he stayed hunched over, not noticing the arms around him, holding him while he shuddered, not noticing the hot tears splashing from his eyes onto his skin.

"It's okay," Maggie whispered, stroking his bare back, ignoring his nakedness. "It's okay."

Eventually, redressed and wrapped in yet another striped towelling robe, he sat on the sofa and held tightly to the mug of hot coffee. WRITER, it said on it, but right now he doubted he'd ever put pen to paper ever again.

He peered at Maggie. "Why are you here?"

"You needed me."

He'd missed the way she said it, so simple. Since she got involved with James, Maggie had not been exactly distant, but certainly not around as much. Still ... "I meant how."

"Martha called. And Alexis. Separately."

"They never can keep out of my private life." He sipped the coffee, feeling the almost too hot liquid soothe his ravaged throat.

"It's theirs too." She hitched one leg beneath her. "It's taken me this long to arrange the flights. And you should have been the one to call."

"I didn't want to spoil things for you."

"Then or when we got back, it was never going to be good."

"No." He gazed at her. "Where is James?"

"At home."

The tone of her voice gave him a clue. "Did you already tell me that?"

"Yes."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I'm fully expecting you to ask again before the alcohol's out of your system."

"I'll try not to."

There was silence for nearly a minute, Rick taking occasional mouthfuls of his drink, Maggie ignoring hers, before she spoke again. "I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault." Mine, he wanted to add.

"Or yours." She always had been able to read his mind, right back from when he'd been afraid to tell her about Kyra.

"Maggie, I don't –"

She wouldn't let him finish. Instead she interrupted, saying in an almost normal voice, "You know, if this was one of your books – or mine – Kate would walk through that door right now and tell you off for believing the worst."

"I suppose." He knew what she was doing, trying to make him feel something other than just sorry for himself, even if it was anger at her.

"Because we'd have written it as a ploy, a fake, making it so that she could investigate on her own without having to ... what?"

He'd sat up slowly, putting the mug down on the table. "It was a closed casket funeral."

"What?"

Her words had started some kind of cascade in his mind, and now he had to follow it. "Her father said it was what she would have wanted, but ... she'd never mentioned it."

She was confused. "Why would she?"

"And they wouldn't let me see her, not in the hospital."

It struck home, and her face paled. "Okay, no, that's not what I meant. I'm not suggesting it's true, Rick. It was just something to say."

He wasn't listening. "Only through a window, from the viewing room."

"Do you have any idea what you're saying?" Maggie asked, her expression verging on the appalled.

"They went for the chest, Mags. Not the head. A pro goes for the head, because it's the only way to be sure." He was starting to get animated. "And who takes out their target with all those cops about? There are easier places, easier times. Leaving her apartment, going shopping, doing laundry –"

Maggie shifted quickly from her chair to sit next to him, taking hold of his hands. "Rick. Stop. This is crazy. It's the booze talking."

"No, it isn't." His eyes fixed on hers, anguish making them tear a little. "And Kate wasn't ... isn't stupid, she'd be wearing a vest. Out there, in the open, she'd be wearing protection."

"Rick –"

"It's possible," he whispered. "And for just a little while longer, I have to hold onto something."

She gazed at him for the space of a brace of heartbeats, then nodded slowly. "Okay. Let's talk this through. You tell me what happened."

In halting tones he recalled, yet again, the events of the day nearly a week before, when his world fell apart. His voice nearly failed him as he got to the part where he was leaning over Kate, begging her to stay with him, and his empty stomach clenched painfully once more.

"And then?"

"Ambulance. The EMTs worked for a long while before they got her inside, took her to the hospital." He couldn't see the blood on her dress uniform, but her white gloves were stained red.

"Who was the attending?"

"Josh Davidson."

"Her boyfriend?" Maggie's eyebrows raised. "What was his reaction?"

"Anger. Mostly." Rick tried to remember, trying to put his own feelings out of the way. "He came out and told us. Said there was no ..." He stopped, gathered himself. "He took Jim Beckett in, but the rest of us had to stay outside."

"That makes sense. Close family only."

"But equally if they were faking it."

"I suppose," Maggie conceded. "If you're at all right – and I don't know what to think – she wouldn't want her dad to think she was dead."

His face hardened for a moment. "She let me think it!"

"We don't know anything different, not yet. Rick, breathe."

He nodded, taking air into oxygen starved lungs. "No, you're right. From what Kate told me, about after her mother died, her dad went to pieces. Started drinking." His eyes flickered towards the bottle of scotch.

"You're not that kind of person," Maggie assured him.

"I might be."

"When Kyra left for London, you poured it all into a book," she pointed out.

"I also married Meredith."

"Nobody's perfect."

He had to smile, even if it was gone as quickly. "Got that right."

Maggie reached for her coffee and took a comforting sip before getting back to business. "Okay. So if you're right – and I'm not saying you are – Jim Beckett had to know. And by the same token so did Josh. And an ME, or else they'd never be able to get a certificate."

"Lanie didn't. I'd swear to that." He'd seen the look afterwards, and at the funeral. There was no way she'd faked that.

"Then another one."

"Perlmutter?"

"What's a –"

"Another ME." His forehead furrowed. "Except he's a stickler for the rules. Although ..."

"Go on. I suppose you can't stop now."

"He likes Kate."

"Likes?"

"Yes, likes. Present tense. And I mean as in a crush. At least according to Ryan and Esposito." He jerked. "Ryan and Esposito."

"What about them?"

"One of them had to be in on it. Kate can't hope to figure out who's behind this without eyes and ears in the precinct."

"Which one?"

Rick didn't even pause. "Esposito."

"Not Ryan?"

"Always was a bad liar."

He thought back to the single appearance he'd put in at the precinct since ... then. Ryan had looked like he'd been crying, which he quite possibly had although nobody was about to comment on it, and a woman he didn't recognise was in Montgomery's ... the captain's office. When he'd asked who she was Esposito had been uncharacteristically short.

"Gabrielle Cleaves."

"What?"

"She's from the 15th."

"New captain?"

"Caretaking." Esposito obviously didn't want to talk about it. "Are we going to clean Beckett's desk or not?"

That was why he was there, but Rick had felt a deep sense of shock at Esposito's apparent insensitivity. He'd put it down to being the only way the detective could cope, but maybe hindsight made things a little clearer. Still, it had been so hard packing Kate's stuff away into archive boxes that he hadn't really thought about it. He'd snuck one of the tiny elephants into his pocket – he supposed he'd have to give that back if the miracle was real.

Maggie was reaching for the phone.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Calling him."

"Who?"

"Esposito."

"Why?"

"Because you have to know for sure. And if you're wrong, you have to ..."

"What? Get over it?" A trace of harshness was back in his voice.

"No." She shook her head sadly. "Never that. Not the way you feel. But maybe start to live with it."

He rested back on the couch and stared into nothing. "Am I totally insane?"

"Not totally." She flickered a smile. "Now, what's the number?"

A thought occurred to him. "Wait, Mags. What if someone's listening?"

"You mean like a bug?"

"Or a wire tap." He glanced around the apartment, as if expecting bad guys with Uzis to appear from the corners. "Whoever's the big bad – and we know there is one, Montgomery said so – he's powerful. And electronic surveillance wouldn't be that hard if you had enough money."

"Well I wasn't intending to ask outright, anyway. Or suggest he comes here."

"Then where?"

"Some place ... neutral. And I know exactly the right spot. Now, give me the number."

Rick stared at her, but picked his cell up from the table. After a moment's fiddling (his fingers didn't quite seem to be under his control yet) he managed to get to the screen he wanted and held it out.

Squinting slightly Maggie read it twice then entered it on the keypad.

The Old Haunt was reasonably full, the early evening crowd swelling the regulars who seemed to spend their days in the pub. Not that they were spared more than a second glance.

Rick leaned on the bar. "Is he here?"

Brian nodded. "Back booth."

"Thanks."

"Anything to drink?"

"Not this time."

"Ah. Not to be disturbed, then?"

"Not even if it's the end of the world." Which it could be if Esposito gave the wrong answer. Rick swallowed.

Maggie touched his arm. "Rick? Are you okay?"

"Just hoping."

"Look, it's more than likely we're wrong. This is so slim it's more than anorexic."

"I know. But I'm praying we're right." He straightened his jacket. "Come on."

He led the way to the rear of the premises, his eyes glancing as always to the photo of himself on the wall, but this time it was only habit and he didn't see it. Instead he and Maggie slid into the booth, whether by accident or design blocking Esposito's immediate escape route.

Esposito was nursing an untouched glass of what smelled like bourbon, but it didn't appear drinking was on his mind. His entire demeanour was brooding, thoughtful.

"Hi," Rick said quietly.

"Hi." Esposito turned Maggie. "Good honeymoon?"

"For the most part," she admitted.

"I hope you took a lot of pictures."

"Thousands. All to be carefully edited before anyone sees them."

A slow smile graced his face. "Those kind, huh?"

"Not at all."

"I was surprised to get your call."

"I just got back, and Rick filled me in."

Esposito nodded, the darkness surrounding him again. "Sorry to meet you again under these circumstances."

"It's those circumstances we want to talk to you about."

Esposito glanced from Rick then back to Maggie. "I don't know what you think I can tell you that you don't already know. I'm not working on the case – too close." He looked down into his glass. "Ryan and me are on desk duty, at least for the time being."

"If there's a case to work on."

"What are you talking about?" Esposito had lifted his head, his brows drawn together.

"Kate. What happened to her. Or didn't."

"I have no idea what you mean."

"I think you do, Javier."

Rick was staring at him, allowing Maggie to steer the conversation, giving him time to search the detective's face for something, for anything that might support their wild suppositions. And found it. "Shit."

"What?" Esposito repeated, his expression almost threatening.

"She's alive."