His colleagues shared a look.

"You're saying he was trying to be a hero? That he was trying to get some recognition?"

"It seems logical to me, sir. Mr. Ryan is past his prime, he lives what I assume must be a very boring existence, watching over the same building night in and night out. And we all know what happens when one has idle hands...But he has a conscience and so he made sure no one was left in the warehouse before starting the fire. Obviously he never expected it to get so out of hand-"

There was a knock on the door and they all looked over at Higgins.

"Terribly sorry to interrupt sirs, but there's some men here to see you. They say it's urgent."

Murdoch cocked his head to see four men waiting by the admission desk. They were exactly as the old man had described.

"Care to rethink that theory, me old mucker?" asked a grinning Brackenreid who then downed the rest of his drink. "Send them in Higgins."

Nodding once he said,"Sir."

When the men were closer George sputtered, "Jimmy?! Is that you?!"

The detective peered at the smiling native American man before them and realized that his protege was indeed correct, though Jimmy looked markedly more exhausted than the last time he had been in this office.

What on earth is going on?

This was the same man who helped them track down a delusional (albeit totally justified) killer over eight years earlier using long lost skills that few if any white men still possessed.

"One and the same, George," he replied holding out a strong hand. "It's good to see you."

The constable hesitated momentarily and then shook it vigorously. Murdoch knew this hesitation was born out of a desire to grab the man in a big bear hug and the usual inner struggle against his over friendliness and not because he didn't want to touch him because he was Indian.

"What are you doing here?!" exclaimed George as Murdoch also shook hands with Jimmy.

Jimmy gave them a wry smile. "We have some information about the dead man you found in The Clarke building. Or rather, under it."

The three police men shared a look and then the other clean shaven man, the one the watchman had alluded to as being their leader, spoke up for the first time.

"Don't worry, we had nothing to do with his death...or starting the fire for that matter."

His voice was husky and weary, how Murdoch imagined his own voice must sound this morning after little to no sleep the previous night. It was also clearly American.

"And who the bloody hell are you?" enquired Brackenreid gruffly.

"Harris Johnson," replied the reasonably attractive brown haired man. He offered his hand and continued, "A senior agent of The Pinkertons and one of their most faithful servants, if I do say so myself."

Oh boy, thought Murdoch, here we go.

To say the inspector had a less than amicable relationship with that detecting agency would be a grievous understatement. Several times during Brackenreid's reign, they had trounced in here, demanding the constabulary's full support in apprehending some suspect who continued to allude them, even if they had their hands full with more important matters. They always gave off such a superior air that even Murdoch couldn't help but be a bit annoyed with them.

Brackenreid didn't take his hand and said, "Is that supposed to impress me?" and there was a bit of an awkward silence.

"Ah," said Johnson smiling faintly, "that's right. Now I remember. You're not much of a fan. Must be afraid we'll show you boys up again."

The inspector looked like he might explode for a second but then the moment passed.

"Look here sunshine," he said in a barely restrained growl, advancing on the man, "just because your agency has existed longer than this station house, doesn't mean you know everything there is to know about detecting."

Johnson was still amused. "Doesn't it though?"

When the ugly vein in Brackenreid's forehead began to pulse, Murdoch knew it was time to step in.

"What is this information you have?" he said politely, if not a bit stiffly.

Johnson glanced at the detective and then back at Brackenreid. The inspector backed off and went to pour himself another drink.

"The dead man went by the name of Richard Castle, though this was just another alias in a long line of them. His real name is believed to be Alexander Rodgers. We had been tracking him and his partner in crime, one Katherine Beckett, real name unknown, for quite some time. We had reason to believe that they were here in Toronto after skipping town in New York City."

Murdoch peered at his boss and waited for him to take the lead. He appeared to be lost in thought (or more likely the whiskey) so the detective took over this interview.

"Why were you after these people?"

"You mean besides the rather large reward?" The policemen looked at him blankly. "They were extremely talented bank robbers turned confidence tricksters and had been swindling people all across America for years. Unfortunately, they've proven to be remarkably adept at evading the police...so they finally called us in. This is the first time we've been anywhere close to apprehending them. And now it appears that only one remains."

He said the last bit somewhat sadly and Murdoch wondered what the stipulation to the bounty was. Perhaps they only got paid if they were brought in alive?

"If they're so good at evading the police, why do you want our help?"

"I'm afraid that if we don't find her soon, we never will. With her partner gone, who we suspect was also her lover, she'll likely disappear all together. We need every available man on this before it's too late. And let's face it detective, you are one of the best. Even I can admit that."

Ignoring the man's blatant attempt at flattery he asked, "What makes you so sure that she hasn't already fled?"

"We've been keeping an eye on all major transportation hubs out of the city. It should be sufficient enough to trap her for a little while. But she is a crafty woman and she'll find a way out sooner rather than later."

"One more question," he said, eyeing him closely. "Why exactly do you think that the dead man was Rodgers?"

Murdoch was still waiting on his wife's report so they couldn't have gleaned the information from her, not that she ever would have told them without his consent.

"As I said before, detective, we have been tracking them for quite some time. We knew they were in that area...we just didn't know which building exactly. If the fire hadn't started, we surely would have caught them already. They likely knew this and that's why they were hesitant to leave the building. An action that proved equally disastrous."

There was a short pause.

"So will you consent to lending us a hand, inspector Brackenred?"

Murdoch cringed internally at the mispronunciation of his name, one of his superior's biggest pet peeves. Murdoch also had the distinct impression that Johnson had made that mistake on purpose because he enjoyed getting Brackenreid's goat which seemed like a grave strategic error considering they were the ones asking for their help and not the other way around.

The often surly man whipped his head up and glared at the slightly younger man. "It's Brackenreid," he barked.

"Yes, of course, inspector," he replied amicably. "A thousand pardons. So what do you say? Will you lend us your detective Murdoch?"

Brackenreid stared at him flabbergasted.

"We've got more important matters to attend to!" he bellowed. "In case you tossers hadn't noticed, the city is in goddamn disarray!"

"We're well aware of that, inspector, but miraculously no one else died in this tragedy and unless you and your men are personally going to help rebuild the city, I'd say you could spare us some of your time and man power."

"He's got a point, sir," said George bravely. "And Jimmy did help us out awhile back. We should return the favour."

Though he tried to hide it, it was obvious to Murdoch that George was quite eager to work with his friend again. No doubt this played a role in his decision to speak up.

Brackenreid closed his eyes, apparently trying to calm down. A few seconds later he opened them and stared daggers at Johnnson. "Fine! Take your bloody pick! But I want this over and done with pronto!" Pointing savagely, "And then I never want to see you lot in my station house again!"

Johnson snapped his fingers and one of the mustached men handed the inspector a large folder. "This is everything we have on the tricksters, including the most recent photographs we could find of them. There's no guarantee she'll actually look very similar anymore, given all of her wardrobe and hair changes, but I'm sure you'll agree, it's still better than nothing."

Brackenreid handed the folder to Murdoch and he flipped it open. The first page showed two very attractive people sitting on a bench somewhere undisclosed. Even from just the photograph, he could tell they were very much in love, or had been. It was a shame that they had turned to a life of crime.

"I'll give you a few hours to get acquainted with that information, detective. In the meantime, we will continue to search for her. Who knows? With any luck we will not require your services at all."

"Good hunting," said George to the men, but most likely it was really only meant for Jimmy.

They all nodded, Jimmy flashing him a smile and then were on their way.

"Well that was quite unexpected!" exclaimed George shortly after they were out of earshot.

"Indeed," replied Murdoch, the cogs of his brain struggling to get into gear in his sluggish state of mind.

George must have recognized the look for he stuck his head out of Brackenreid's office and asked one of the lads to please make them a pot of strong coffee.

Brackenreid had slumped into his chair and was silently brooding; which could be just as ominous as when he was yelling. Therefore it was a bit of a mixed atmosphere, one of extreme anticipation but also one of deep foreboding. The latter mood would not be helped now that Murdoch had just thought of something.

"What do you make of all this, Murdoch?" asked Brackenreid suddenly, gesturing towards the folder still in his hands.

"I'm not sure yet, sir, but several puzzling questions do come to mind."

"Such as?"

"Why were they hiding out in a warehouse and why that specific one? Why not just stay in a hotel under a different assumed name?"

Brackenreid was thoughtful for a moment rubbing his face, attempting to wake up. "It's like the Pinkertons said, those confidence bastards knew that they were on to them. They would have expected that all the hotels were being watched."

"Perhaps," said Murdoch, not sounding very convinced.

"What is it?" said his boss, knowing the tell tale signs that he was holding something back.

"It might not be anything, sir, but doesn't it strike you as odd that out of all places they could have been hiding, it just happened to be the one next door to the start of the worst fire this city has ever seen?"

Both Brackenreid and George frowned. "Yes, that is very curious, sir," said George. "What does it mean?"

He had an idea that would make one colleague very happy and the other indignant. However he was spared divulging this notion when constable Worseley knocked and entered bearing gifts. He placed a tray laden with biscuits as well as several cups of coffee.

George put a hand on his shoulder and said, "Good man," and with the other picked up a biscuit that he immediately crammed into his mouth. Everyone stared at him. "What?" he said thickly. "I haven't eaten since yesterday."

"Anyway," said Brackenreid, "what are you thinking, Murdoch?"

"As you know, I've been of the belief that this fire was no accident, regardless that no proof of any wrongdoing has been found. And now I believe that I know who set it off."

The inspector smirked and put his feet up on the desk and his hands in his lap. "Giving up on your previous theory so quickly, huh?"

George had apparently taken the time to follow his rather obvious train of thought and after swallowing quickly burst out, "You can't possibly think they had something to do with it, sir! Jimmy would never be a part of this!"

"How can you be so sure, George? You haven't seen or heard from him in over eight years. People can change an awful lot in that time frame."

"No!" he exploded with youthful vigour. "I'm telling you, Will, you've got this all wrong! Besides, the Pinkertons are known for being the most steadfast bunch in history!"

"Exactly," Murdoch responded calmly. "Would they then not be the most likely to catch their man by any means possible, including smoking them out at the expense of city property?"

Brackenreid laughed merrily. "I like your thinking, me old mucker! Let's put those tossers in their place!"

"But, sir," continued George in an urgent manner, "if they were guilty of starting the fire, why would they show up here?!"

"I'll tell you why," said the inspector darkly. "Because they think they're so bloody trustworthy that no one would ever suspect them of something so idiotic." He smiled. "Thankfully I don't share this consensus. And I'm glad that neither do you, Murdoch."

"But-"

"Can it Crabtree!"

George glared at both of them in turn and then marched out of the office, without so much as a second glance at the biscuits. Murdoch felt a little badly considering that his brother-in-law had been having a rough time of things lately. But the detective had a job to do and sentiment (and family) would not be getting in the way.

And no, I did not make a mistake with the coffee. George has always liked it and Murdoch developed a taste for it after his daughter was born, which I mentioned at the beginning of my war story.