(patrick):
I'd seen Matt angry before. Rape always got to him, and child abuse, but I'd never seen him look so grim -- or so much like an Immortal. The calm, easygoing guy that my wife liked to offer second and third helpings to had been replaced by a hard-eyed man whom I could easily believe would take a challenger's head. He was suddenly a stranger, and that made me uneasy.
"What do you think?" I asked. I needed to know what cover story he was using, if only to keep from sabotaging his efforts. Matt looked at me and blinked, and suddenly he was my partner again, familiar and comfortable.
"I've no idea," he drawled. "A Mafia execution, perhaps? Beheading is a standard fate for traitors."
In Europe, I thought, a hundred-odd years ago. Matt never made those kinds of verbal slips. It meant he was truly rattled, something I'd never expected to see.
"Maybe," I said. It was a shoddy explanation, but it was better than the truth, at least as far as the NYPD was concerned. Of course, Matt would start thinking instead of reacting pretty soon, and if I went along with him too easily now, he'd realize it then. "I thought Marks was an art dealer, though, not a mobster. Besides, he isn't Italian. Those guys don't exactly contract out.""No," Matthew mused. "Still, beheading is the sort of death that sends a message. Maybe he borrowed money from the wrong person."
"Loan sharks usually break legs," I pointed out. "Still, it's probably worth checking out." I glanced at my watch. "It's already seven-fifteen. Do you want to get started in the morning?"
"We might as well," Matt said. "It's not as if he's going to get any more dead."
I said goodnight to him at the door of the morgue, and after five minutes, followed him quietly.
(matthew):
The Highlander wasn't happy to see me again, but the bullet in Federov's chest was reason enough for me not to care. Connor took one look at my face before lowering his sword and stepping aside.
"I think you need that drink," he said.
"I'll take it, and gladly," I answered, preceding him up the hallway into his living room. I wasn't happy about putting another Immortal at my back, but as Connor MacLeod was one of the few I'd trust not to attack me from behind, I stifled my instincts.
"What's happened?" he asked, putting his sword in the corner and waving me to a seat while he himself went to the liquor cabinet. "Scotch?
"Please," I said, and accepted the glass gratefully. He poured a drink for himself, and sat down across from me.
"Federov was murdered," I said bluntly. "The autopsy revealed a bullet through his heart, put there peri-mortem."
"And you want to know if I did it." MacLeod's eyes were flat and unreadable.
"If I thought you did it, I wouldn't have turned my back on you, much less accepted a drink from your hand," I pointed out. "I came to ask you who else was in town."
"You've mistaken me for my cousin," Connor said. "I don't introduce myself to every passing Immortal."
"Maybe not -- but you know who's passing through anyway." It wasn't a question, and MacLeod knew it. He gave me a considering look, then nodded.
"There are seven of us living in the city full-time; six, now that Federov is dead."
"That much I'm aware of."
"Raoul Montaigne is staying at the Ritz," Connor continued. "I wouldn't think that breaking the Rules was his style, but you never know. There's a man staying at the Belle Grande, too. I don't know him. Oh, and Amanda's in town."
"I didn't hear that," I said firmly. Connor laughed. Amanda was beautiful, intelligent, charming - and more trouble than a basket full of live snakes. She wouldn't have had anything to do with Federov's death, but she wasn't likely to be in town for any legal reason, either.
"Anyone else?" I asked.
"I don't think so," Connor frowned. "I have felt someone at the museum a time or two in the past week. Museums aren't Montaigne's style, and I don't think the guy at the Belle Grande would be interested either."
"Amanda," I said, rolling my eyes. "I really wish you hadn't told me that, either." Connor, however, was shaking his head.
"If it were Amanda, she'd have come out to see who it was," he said. "No, I think there's someone else in town; someone who's laying low. Whether or not he's your killer is another matter."
"How wonderful," I said acidly. Ten Immortals were too many for one city. Even without a hunter in the mix, the potential for violence was too high for comfort.
"Indeed," Connor said. "I'm leaving for England at the end of the week, and I'll be bloody glad to do so."
"That'll be a first," I smiled, draining off the rest of my drink. "To be honest, I almost wish I were able to accompany you."
"On a smuggling run?" Connor laughed. "You really do want to get away."
"Wouldn't you?" I asked. We both rose, and I shook Connor's proffered hand."Be careful," he said.
"You, too," I told him. "Ballistics isn't finished with the bullet that the M.E. pulled out of Federov, but I can recognize a rifle slug when I see one. Whoever shot him did it at long range."
Author's Notes: Written for the highlander50 challenge at livejournal. The prompt was 'highlander'. Unbeta'd, so please forgive any mistakes.
Matthew of Salisbury, a.k.a. Matthew McCormick, is an eight hundred year old Immortal who has spent most of his life in law enforcement. He featured in the episode 'Manhunt'.
Feedback? Is always a good thing.
