A/N: I don't own "Voyager."

As irritating as Ned Felix was to work with, Tim Excelsior had to admit that the man was resourceful. Ned had a network of "contacts" throughout California's underworld, criminals who he could pay with money, drinks, or sometimes just flattery, for useful information. On top of that, Ned knew how to intimidate; one might not have guessed from the man's cheery nature, but Ned had served in the war, just as Tim, and so many other men had.

"I lost my entire nuclear family in the Blitz." Ned said as they strolled down the crowded street, hands in their coat pockets. "My parents and siblings all lived in London, in the section that got it the worst. I almost hate to admit it, but I was fighting as much for revenge as I was to protect the Isle."

"There's nothing shameful about that." Tim's eyebrows didn't have much mobility, but the rest of his face and his voice showed his genuine sympathy. "I could say I've lost family too, but the truth is, I can at least get to sleep knowing that Janelle and the children are safe and sound."

"Are you divorced?" Ned asked, maybe a bit too casually.

They crossed a little bridge over a stream between the buildings, and stepped off into the "bad side" of town.

"Yes." Tim said finally. "After the War I found it…difficult to reconnect. It was my idea to end the marriage. I lied, and 'admitted' to having an affair, so we could file for a divorce. Janelle left Harlem, and took the children to live with her parents in Brooklyn. I'm hoping that in time, she'll find someone else."

Ned looked up at Tim, as if his story was somehow more devastating than his own. "Does, does she know that you didn't really…?"

"She no doubt suspects…" they turned down an alley. "Janelle and the children have both tried to get back in contact. I've avoided them."

"You can't even tell them, how much you—?"

Tim seized Ned's arm and pulled him back, just in time to save him from the car that screamed into the alley. The rounded green Buick screeched to a halt a foot away from the brick wall it almost slammed into. Tim stared bug-eyed at the mad driver, and adjusted the glasses that had fallen crooked across his nose. A young white man was shifting the car into parking gear, looking at Ned and Tim with a combination of terror and sheepish embarrassment.

"Sorry about that!" the man called through the opened window.

The hopped out of the car. He wasn't wearing a coat—wasn't wearing anything over his white shirt, save suspenders and a necktie with Porky the Pig on it.

Ned spread his arms. "Tommy-boy!"

Tommy laughed, returning the hug with a pat on the back. "How's Kaaren?"

"Better than ever. A bit down that she can't work in her garden for another six months, but she's already planning out her crop for next spring. Last year her daffodils brought in almost more money than I did!" Ned turned to Tim. "My wife sells flowers in the spring and summer. Brings in a bit of extra dough." Ned suddenly jumped. "Oh! My apologies Tim! This is Tommy Chicago, one of my best informants."

"Pleased to meet'cha!" Tommy shook Tim's hand enthusiastically.

"Likewise." Tim smiled toothily.

"Where we gonna discuss this, Ned?" Tommy glanced around the alley. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable talking right here. Or anywhere in L.A., come to think of it…"

"How about my place." Ned offered. "We'll discuss it over lunch. I can introduce Tim to the Missus, and my famous fish and chips!"

British food. Another thing about his time oversees that Tim hadn't missed.

"I've not had fish and chips in a while!" Tim said, managing to fake some enthusiasm.

Tommy opened the door to the back seat of his car. "Sounds like a plan then!"

Ned and Tim slid into the back seat, careful not to sit on the fedora Tommy had left in the middle. Old and beaten, the hat was decorated with an assortment of funny trinkets in the brim, including a Joker's card.

Tommy began providing information as soon as the car was out into the country. Tim was grateful to have something to focus on, other than how nervous Tommy's driving made him. It wasn't exactly that Tommy was a bad driver; on the contrary, he seemed able to swerve and stop the car at just the right moments, to avoid other vehicles, pedestrians, and squirrels. But Tommy was having entirely too much fun, treating the ride like some kind of roller coaster.

"For Pete's sake Mr. Chicago," Tim snapped, after close brush with a bus. "Slow down! You'll get us all killed—or worse, arrested."

"Sorry! Jeeze." Tommy brought the speed down a few notches. "So anyway, where was I?"

"The Bird," Ned said.

"The Bird! Right. It's in the possession of Miss Indiana now. Don't ask me where she's locked it up, I've got no clue. But I know she hasn't hocked it yet. The plan is to hold a little auction. But first she wants to spread the word. Miss Indiana knows a lot of big names, and she wants to invite them all to bid on that statue!"

Tim's eyebrows moved up, and he began rummaging through his coat for his notepad and pen. "Can you give us a few of those names?"

"I can give 'em to ya," Tommy laughed. "But I can't promise you'll believe 'em."

"Try me." Tim readied his pad and pen.

"Meyer Lansky and Lucky Luciano." Tommy said smoothly, as they dipped down a steep hill. "Benjamin Siegel was gonna be invited too, but I guess he won't be able to make iy, on account of a slight case of death."

"You're talking about Bugsy Siegel?" Tim's eyes widened, but stayed on his notepad. "The guy who built up Las Vegas?"

"That's the one. Only you didn't ever wanna call him 'Bugsy' to his face. He didn't like that." Tommy sounded like he was recalling a bad memory. "Anyway, Al Capone's getting an invitation too."

Tim's eyes narrowed in confusion for a moment, but then he recalled, "Capone's out of prison now, isn't he."

"Yeah, he's living in Florida. But he's not doing so good. He was pretty sick last time I saw him. And he hasn't been too involved in the business since getting out of Alcatraz. I think he's retired. But who knows, he might get himself wheeled over to California to see his old friend's daughter."

Ned looked impressed. "Indiana's old man worked knew Capone?"

"Are you kidding? Her dad was Eddie O'Hara, one of the biggest bootleggers in California! He knew all of the top gangsters."

"You've been working for Miss Indiana long, I take it?" Tim said.

Tommy shook his head. "Nope. Only met her last week."

Tommy turned, bringing the car into a gravel driveway. They were at Ned's house, a little baby-blue structure surrounded by red and gold leaved trees. The cute second-story windows were squeezed between the triangular edges of the brown roof.

Ned's wife Kaaren already had the door opened when the three men stepped out of the car. Kaaren greeted Tommy and Tim with a low, soft voice and welcoming manner. She was Hollywood's ideal of innocent, feminine beauty: petite, pale, and blue-eyed, with blond curls falling naturally around her shoulders. Her makeup was dollish, nothing glamorous. She wore a casual, cherry-red dress with floral designs, and a white pointed collar. Two matching red ribbons were tied into her hair. The only abnormal feature, Tim noticed, where her ears, which were pointed similarly to his. They had more folds though, and were a bit more rounded.

The three men continued their discussions, while both Ned and Kaaren worked on lunch. Tommy and Tim sat at the table.

"So you both cook," Tim said, during an awkward pause in the conversation.

"I work part-time as a chef," Ned searched his crowded counter and plucked up the salt. "The Privet-Eye business can be pretty slow at times."

Tommy jokingly thumbed over to Kaaren. "And she helps him work on the car when it breaks down, and pumps the gas when they need to fill the tank!"

"Tommy, stop!" Kaaren laughed.

After everyone's laughter died down, Tim asked, "Do you help Ned with the car, and…?"

Kaaren's eyes widened. "Goodness no!" she turned back to the soup she was preparing, and chuckled, "What kind of girl do you think I am, Mr. Excelsior?"

Tim shrugged. "Times have been rough, what with the Depression and the War. My own wife had to take work as a maid, all through the Depression, and while I was away fighting in the…" He dropped the subject, realizing he didn't want to talk about his family anymore. He took off his glasses, and began casually cleaning them with his handkerchief. "So, Mr. Felix, Mr. Chicago. What we have to figure out now is, where would Miss Kitty Indiana hide a priceless silver bird statue…?"

Billie Torres spent the first half of her Saturday browsing antique and pawn shops, casually conversing with the owners about their unique items, and in particular, a silver bird statue that she'd "seen somewhere, but can't remember what shop." She and Charles knew the bird was somewhere in California, and were pretty confident that it was specifically somewhere in San Francisco. But so far, Billie had no new leads.

She exited another store, tucking her red trench coat around her. It was starting to flurry—which was serious weather, for California, even in November. She stared at the ground, watching the white snowflakes pile up. She caught her reflection as she walked by a store window, watching the flurries pile up on her little red hat, weighing down the tiny feather stuck in its brim.

"Oh!" Billie gasped, as she bumped into another woman. Her hand immediately went to her stomach, to ensure that her child was alright.

"Oh goodness, excuse me!" the other woman said quickly.

"I'm sorry," Billie shook her head. "I should watch where I'm—"

"Billie?"

Billie looked up.

The other woman was thin and brunette, huddled in a white fur coat. Her hair was swept up into elegant rolls, two coming up in the middle of her head, almost like horns. A small lock of curls was draped over one shoulder, touching the pearls around her neck. A little black barrette rested on the side of her head (probably propped on a roll of hair, or maybe pinned on). The woman's eyebrows where long and severe, her make-up dark and striking. The only feature that might've kept this woman from being a fashion model was the line of ridges running down her nose.

Billie's jaw dropped. "Seraphine?" Her lips wavered between nervous laughter and a smile. "Seraphine Chaput?"

"Billie!" Seraphine squealed, and pulled her into a hug. "Billie deary, how've you been? Oh!" Seraphine glanced down and grinned. "You're married!"

Billie's lips parted, but she didn't respond right away. "Seraphine I'm…glad you're alright! When the Nazis invaded France,"

Seraphine shook her head. "I was fine, dear. Fine. Life didn't change much for a lot of us, in Occupied France. Say, are you hungry? I'll bet the little one is."

It took almost five minutes for Seraphine to talk Billie into letting her take her out to lunch. The two women ate at a little café, seated at tall barstools by the large window, watching the hustle and bustle on the street. Their coats lay draped over the backs of their chairs. It was funny, how little the two women's taste in fashion had changed since high school. Billie wore a white (maternity) suit-dress, with black buttons and trim, and a rounded sailor-like collar. She'd rolled a portion of her hair over her forehead, in an attempt to hide her ridges. The rest was drawn back into a bun. Seraphine's dress was far less modest. The cute bow and brass flower pin on the chest only drew attention to the low top.

"I'll tell you Billie," Seraphine munched her sandwich, gazing out the window. "that exchange program to Chicago was one of the best times of my life. I always wanted to see America again, after that. And after the War, I decided, to Hell with Europe."

"You fit right in!" Billie shook her head. "Your English was always just perfect, no accent. I'd never have guessed you were from France, if I hadn't known. I'm so sorry I stopped writing, Seraphine. But, well, times got tough, I lost track of a lot."

"I'd have to say the same." Seraphine said. "Those stinking Nazis really made trying to keep contact across seas impossible."

"What're the odds," Billie stared out the window. "Both of us, right on this street, in San Francisco… I don't even live in this city, you know. I just came down here for the day."

"You looked like you were in a hurry." Her old school friend eyed her. "You were pretty distracted there."

Billie changed the subject. "So what've you been up to, Seraphine?"

Seraphine's eyes shifting, as if she were embarrassed. "I'm a maid." she said finally. "Gotta pay the bills somehow, at least until I can find myself a wealthy man."

Billie now remembered one of the things that had always annoyed her about her old friend. While Billie had spent high school working towards, well, working—teacher, secretary, model, Billie didn't care what, just as long as she did something other than staying locked up in some house—Seraphine had never voiced any ultimate goal other than landing herself a loaded husband.

"The one I work for now's got it made," Seraphine shrugged. "And he's single. Bit old though. And not exactly handsome. I swear, I spend over half my work day just dusting and polishing off his collections."

"What kind of collections?" Billie failed to hide the sudden, urgent interest of her voice.

Seraphine continued, as if she hadn't noticed. "Gems, statues, ancient artifacts. Mickey Kazon—that's my employer—he's a collector. He's got friends." She eyed Billie meaningfully.

Billie's voice dropped into a whisper. "Seraphine are you working for a—a gangster?"

Seraphine pursed her long lips. "I've never really asked him. After all, it's not just the kind of thing that comes up during your typical conversation."

"I work for a collector too," Billie said carefully. "He's an anthropologist." She hesitated, then whispered, "Seraphine, can you keep a secret?"

Seraphine shifted on her stool, looking excited to hear the gossip. "I just arrived in America two weeks ago," the Frenchwoman said quietly. "Who would I tell?"

"Your employer."

Seraphine rolled her eyes. "Mr. Kazon and I barely even talk. He's half-deaf. C'mon dear, what's the gossip?"

Billie's eyes moved around the crowded café, to ensure that no one was paying attention to them. Under the noise of the restaurant, Billie said in almost a whisper, "I'm looking for a silver statue of a bird." Seraphine's eyes slowly widened, as Billie gave a quick description of the statue. "…We tracked it here to San Francisco. Seraphine, this isn't just about money," Billie pleaded. "That bird was my father's, it belongs to my family. I've got no one, Seraphine. My Tommy left me, my father left me. My mother's working as a maid for some sea captain, because the two of us together couldn't afford to support her or put her in a rest home, and my baby's going to grow up fatherless just like—" Billie stopped, feeling the lump form in her throat.

Seraphine reached down her top and pulled a handkerchief up from between her breasts. A couple of male heads turned in the café. An elderly gentleman glanced up from his newspaper, and got stuck staring. Seraphine offered Billie the handkerchief.

Billie wiped away the forming tear in her eye. "I'm fine Seraphine, but thanks."

Seraphine shrugged, and stuffed the handkerchief back in. Billie feared that old man would have a heart attack.

"Mick—Mr. Kazon—he had a statue like that." Seraphine whispered. "I haven't seen it around, so maybe he's sold it. But if you'd like, I can possibly arrange a time for you two to talk. Maybe he'd be willing to sell it to you, or tell you who he's sold it to."

"You'd do that for me?"

"What are friends for?"

Samantha Wildman spoke slowly, staring at the screen. "Who the hell put Seska in this program?"

"That's Seska?" Naomi moved to get a better look.

"And Kes," The Doctor's brow was furrowed intensely. "Mr. Paris was fond of her, but I'm sure he'd have spoken to Neelix before including her." His eyes moved back to the screen with Seska and Torres. "And Seska…distasteful as Paris's sense of humor can be, I know he wouldn't do that to B'Elanna or Chakotay."

"No," Sam agreed. "No he wouldn't."

Naomi's eyebrows turned up, as she attempted an analysis. "So Kes and Seska…came out of Neelix and B'Elanna's subconscious?"

Icheb offered, "If someone is controlling this simulation, it might be easier to simply pull people up from the victim's real memories, rather than trying to create new ones from 'scratch.'"

After lunch, Tim and Ned took the train down to L.A., and spent the afternoon talking to contacts that had information on Kitty Indiana. They decided to finish the day with a little trip to Indiana's club, the Queen's Cabin. Tim felt they were both a bit underdressed, as they neared the flashing neon sign. A melting pot of people were pouring in—whites, blacks, Asians—but all of them were dressed much nicer than the two detectives. And standing out was not something they wanted tonight.

"Shame Tommy couldn't join us," Tim muttered to Ned. "He'd have been useful right about now."

"That he would have," Ned eyed the pirate queen on the sign above them. "But Tommy's supposed to be running other errands for Kitty tonight. Anyway, I want someone to keep an eye on Kaaren, whenever I think might getting involved in something dangerous."

Tim nodded. "There were times I left Janelle with a loaded pistol, and asked her not to answer the door before looking out the window to see who it was."

Ned shook his head. "Kaaren wouldn't know how to use a gun. And she's far too good-hearted and naive for her own good."

Tim was slightly disturbed by how Ned seemed to view his wife like a child. But that was probably typical, in a May-December romance like theirs.

The club was packed, and Tim almost feared they wouldn't be able to get a table. But to his relief, they were seated near the middle of the room. They sipped drinks and smoked, trying to look like they were relaxing, while taking in as much of the club as they could. A gorgeous woman sang on the stage in a black sleeveless dress, with matching gloves that passed her elbows, gold hair swept dramatically over one shoulder. It was some low, sultry tune Tim didn't recognize.

"…if you had prepared…twenty years ago! …Ya wouldn't be a-wandering from door to door, why don't'cha dooo riiiight…like some other men dooo…"

Tim found himself distracted less by the woman's beauty than by the metallic-looking disfigurements on her face. This poor girl could probably have landed a contract with Hollywood or some music studio, if not for that. He had to admire Indiana for hiring her.

"There!" Ned whispered, and pointed with his cigarette. "I think that's her."

Tim looked in the direction Ned was pointing, and saw a middle-aged woman chatting with a waiter. The top of her dress was snug-fitting black velvet, long-sleeved with gold embroidery around the square-shaped top. The long skirt was made of a smoother, gold material. Her mouse-brown hair was pulled up into two long roles that curved around her head like a crown, coming together at the center over her forehead. A gold eye-patch, made from the same material as her skirt, covered one eye.

"That's Kitty Indiana." Tim agreed.

Ned whispered, "How should we…go about this?"

"With patience." Tim cautioned. "We observe. Watch where she goes, when she's not with her guests. What doors she uses, which keys she opens them with."

"Reconnaissance mission!" Ned whispered enthusiastically, bouncing the joint in his hands. "Got'cha!"

Tim repressed a sigh and moved his eyes back around the room, not wanting to be caught staring at the lady of the house.

Behind the back curtain of the stage, Harry Kimitsu was screwing his clarinet together, watching the two strange men from the crack between the curtain and the wall.

Charles regained consciousness rather quickly this time. The crowd was still cheering for his opponent. That was good; it was extremely irritating to wake up in a hospital. His head still throbbing, he pushed himself up, and was helped out of the ring by his trainer. It always hurt Chuck's pride, just a little, to lose a match—even on purpose. But watching men in the audience not-so-discretely swapping cash, as bets were won and lost, reminded him of the wad of bills he'd find under his office door come Monday.

"You did good son," Boothby, his elderly trainer, led him through the crowd. "Not as good as in your real fights, but I suppose we all could use a little extra dough here and there."

"Point taken." Chuck snapped.

"Hmm? Oh I'm not criticizing you sonny! Throwing matches for money's one of the oldest traditions in the—"

"Oy!" A little errand boy Charles knew, a newsie who sometimes sold papers on the corner outside, smacked Chuck's arm and thumbed behind him. "Oy, Double-T! Guy at the desk says you got a phone call from a guy named Billy!"

The boy only knew Chuck as the "Tattooed Terror," and had shorted it to Double-T.

"Thanks, kid."

Billie had agreed to call him that night, so they could exchange updates on their hunt for the bird. He didn't even bother going to the front desk to confirm who'd called him. He left the gym and went straight to the payphone in the hallway. He almost tried picking the phone up with his gloves on. He yanked and the laces with this teeth. By the time Boothby caught up to him, Chalres had both gloves off.

"Need a nickel?" his trainer offered him one.

Charles realized his mistake, and took the coin. "Thanks." Boothby was still standing there, while he was dialing. "I'll pay you back."

"You don't have to." Boothby took the gloves from him. "I'll put these away for you."

"Thanks," Charles didn't move. "…G'night Boothby."

Boothby gave him a look, taking the hint, and finally left.

Billie didn't have a home phone. Only seriously well-off people did. He called her apartment complex, and asked for Billie Torres. Billie was apparently waiting right there in the lounge for him to call back, and was at the phone in seconds.

"How's the headache?" Billie asked, instead of saying hello.

"What makes you think I lost?"

"Just a guess. Listen Charles, I think I have a lead on our bird."

"What's the name?"

"Mickey Kazon. An old friend of mine works for him. I bumped into her just today. We went to high school together. She's a maid now, working for Kazon. He's probably involved with organized crime, but she doesn't know which one. He's a collector, and she said he had a statue exactly like—"

"You told her about the bird?" Charles wasn't sure if he was angry, but his voice definitely had an edge to it.

"She's one of my oldest friends Charles, I can trust her. She says Kazon had it, but he doesn't anymore. He might've sold it, or else someone stole it. She's arranged for me to meet with him tomorrow, and we'll discuss it. Far as I know, there's nothing illegal about trying to buy back a family heirloom, so I don't see why we need all the secrecy anyw—"

"We might not be able to buy it, for what that statue's worth, Billie."

Silence, on Billie's end.

"Listen, I don't want you going to talk with that man without me. What time are you scheduled to meet him?"

"One. In the afternoon."

"I'll pick you up. We'll go together."

"All right."

They wrapped up the conversation, and Chuck told Billie a little bit about his fight. After that he changed, and went outside to call down a cab. Tonight was really his night; there was a taxi sitting right out front, almost as if he were expected. Charles pulled up the collar of his trench coat, and pulled his fedora down a bit, hoping to hide some of his injuries; he didn't want to frighten the driver. The window was rolled down.

"This cab taken?" Charles asked, approaching the car.

"Matter of fact it is, but the lady won't mind sharin.' She's one of my regulars."

Charles hadn't realized that cab drivers had "regulars," but shrugged and got inside. Before he could even tell the driver where he wanted to go, the other door suddenly opened, and a woman who'd been smoking by the parking meter slid in, flicking her unfinished cigarette out onto the street. The car was taking off before she'd even pulled the door shut. The woman's face was hidden by a little black veil, dangling from her tiny barrette. Up close though, he recognized the eyes he saw through it.

"Hello Charles," she said, pulling a pistol from her fur coat and pointing it at him.

Charles owned a pistol, but didn't have it on him.

His eyes flicked to the cab's mirror, to see the driver's reaction. There was none. The guy kept the car moving forward, like this was all part of the plan. The woman smiled.

Charles had just spent seven rounds getting rid of all his anger from the week, and now he was boiling back up. Glowering at her, he returned her greeting. "Seraphine."