A/N: Chapter number seven and the moment we've all been waiting for. This chapter kind of had a life of its own. What I planned to put in here didn't really happen and instead took a whole new direction entirely. Oh well. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

For those reviewing, I love each and every one and the smile it puts on my face. Those reading but not reviewing; don't you want to make me smile? A happy author writes more and quicker, you know.

Rating: M

Pairings: Klaine, Niff, vague mentions of Brittana.

Warnings: Character death, mentions of extreme homophobia, violence, slight gore, language and sexual situations. Alternate Universe, obviously.

Summary: Homicide Detective Kurt Hummel was just called on as Primary for a well-known District Attorney's murder. As the bodies continue to pile up, all traces lead back to one Blaine Anderson, who Kurt can't help but feel is innocent. Something connects this case that just doesn't seem to add up, and when one body becomes another, and another and another, Kurt is running out of time to figure out just what it is.

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, nor do I own any of the characters mentioned.

As soon as he stepped through the large glass doors, he saw blonde-ditz he spoke to earlier at the large receptionists' desk. He stalked over to the large desk across the spacious lobby and slapped his badge on the desk in front of her face. She looked up with a polite smile firmly in place, large beneath confused and vacant purple eyes. "How may I help—" she cut off and her eyes widened when she recognized him.

He smiled largely—and maybe with a bit too much teeth but it made him feel better when she blanched—and tapped his badge. "I need to speak to Blaine Anderson, and I need clearance to get to the forty-second level."

She swallowed nervously, tucking a piece of blonde hair behind her ear. "Oh, well, gosh. I'm sorry—uhm. Do you have an appointment, officer?"

"Sergeant. And this," again he tapped his badge with one finger. "Is my appointment."

"I, well uhm. Gosh, you can't—you really can't go up there without an appointment."

"Why don't you clear the lift and I'll speak to his admin about it?"

She frowned slightly in confusion, tilting her head. "Clear the lift?"

Dear god, no one could be this stupid, he thought. He'd go with the bitch receptionist any day. "Clearance. To get to the top floor."

Her expression cleared and she smiled brightly, but then faded when she registered what he had said. The nervous look was back. "Oh. I really can't do that." At his narrowed eyes she rushed, "No I really can't. I mean, I don't have the clearance to do that, really."

He gritted his jaw and counted to three, slowly. And was also calmed slightly when her eyes grew rounder every second that passed. "Well, do you have clearance to call up to his admin's office?"

"Yes." She was wearing confusion again.

"And does she have the clearance to let people up there?"

"Well, yes. She's his admin."

"So, maybe you could call her and inform her that Detective Sergeant Hummel needs to speak with Mr. Anderson."

"Oh," she blinked, lips pursed slightly as she thought of it, then nodded. "Well. Yeah, I can do that."

It took every ounce of will power not to roll his eyes when she turned into her headset. "Yes, Miss Pillsbury? This is Cindy, down in the lobby. Oh, no ma'am the screen is working fine; I didn't spill anything this time. Oh, no it's not that either. No, I swear. Oh! Right, sorry. Well, uhm there's a, uhm, Detective Sergeant Hummel down here and he needs to speak to—oh. I—I didn't know I could do that… Oh. Well, should I—okay. I'm sorry. Yes. Yes, I'll just send him up."

She turned to him, a light pink high on her cheekbones and looking abashed. She smiled sheepishly. "I guess I do have the clearance to send you up. Law enforcement and all that. Could I—well. Could I have your badge number?"

He patiently recited the number while she repeated it to the computer and received a green light in return. "Just, uhm. Well just through those doors, you'll find the elevator." She pointed at two doors off the lobby and said timidly, "Have a nice day," as he walked off.

He strode through directly onto the lift, placing his back to one of the mirrors in the empty space as he felt it climb higher. Unlike other elevators he'd rode in large buildings, no music was playing. Just three mirrors on the wall and the reflective doors. Plus, the security eye, small but noticeable if looked for in the top corner. He raised an eyebrow. Not very welcoming, were they? Cool glass and security that obviously said, "I'm watching you." Whatever worked, he guessed.

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open smoothly, revealing a petite red head, smiling politely as he stepped off. She reached over and slid a card in front of the doors and the light that was previously green went yellow in stand-by.

"Good afternoon, Detective Hummel. I'm Emma Pillsbury, Mr. Anderson's admin. I apologize for Cindy, she still hasn't grasped the way things work around here." She shook his hand and explained, leading him down a long windowed hallway, where Midtown below was displayed.

He inclined his head slightly, hands in his pockets. "Has she just started?"

Her polite smile turned wry. "Believe it or not, she started here a year ago. It just takes her a bit longer, and until now we haven't had any law enforcement come in to speak with Mr. Anderson while she's been employed here." She led him into a large, comfortable room, all beige and white and cherry wood, gesturing to a plush chair. "If I could have you wait for a moment, Mr. Anderson is currently in a meeting with his second and won't be out for a few minutes yet. If I could get you something to drink? Tea, coffee, water?"

He politely declined, glancing around the room. "His second is the second in command of Anderson Enterprises, isn't he?"

Professionally, she nodded and smoothed down her skirt. "Yes, William Schuester. He was Anderson Sr.'s best friend and helped build Anderson Enterprises." A 'link rand in the distance. "If you'll excuse me."

When she was gone he pulled out his palm unit and pulled up information on William Schuester.

William D. Schuester, fifty-nine years old, second holder of Anderson Enterprises. Worked with Anderson Senior since their college years and—Kurt glanced up at one of the walls to see a picture of two young men grinning widely in front of this very building and holding up a slip of paper—a deed, he saw. Helped build Anderson Enterprises from the ground up, since him and Anderson Senior dropped out of college. And what did Papa Anderson think of his son dropping out of college. He frowned and looked at his unit for anything pertaining to Irving Anderson.

Surprisingly, Irving Anderson had nothing to do with Anderson Enterprise's dawn. Other than being a silent third-part holder, there was nothing else that linked the two together.

Kurt slid his unit in his pocket and stood when he heard feet walking quickly down the hallway. From the visual ID he'd seen, he'd gather that this was William Schuester.

Schuester stopped when he noticed someone in the room, looking frazzled and frustrated. His eyes quickly portrayed surprise, suspicion, then a cool and detached professionalism as he smiled. "Hello. May I help you?"

"Detective Hummel," Schuester looked startled for a moment, then grieved.

"Oh. Yes, I'm sorry. You're closing Santana's case."

"Investigating," Kurt corrected. "It's still ongoing."

Schuester blinked, then frowned. "Oh, again my apologies. Are you waiting to see Blaine?"

"Yes. Complications?"

The older man lips quirked in mocking humor. "The only ones you could expect with circumstances such as these. Blaine insists on working—it's how he handles things," he explained. "I'm urging him to take some time off, go see Brittany and help in any way he can."

Kurt shifted back through the files he'd read. "Are you close to their family?"

"Oh, well, no. Not especially. I think I've met them maybe twice, but with how much Blaine talks about them I feel as if we were close friends. Anyway, I must be going. Blaine should be out at any moment—ah, yes. Here he is."

Kurt was already turning when he heard footsteps, and had gathered himself by the time Schuester had finished. The visual ID had nothing on the real thing, and Kurt spent the time that Schuester was talking and Anderson's attention was trained on the older man to close off his expression and tighten off the reaction he had also had in the car.

Anderson turned his warm eyes to Kurt and something shifted before his expression blanked, and he smiled; the epitome of polite. "Detective Sergeant. I'm sorry about the wait."

As he came closer to shake Kurt's hand, Kurt could see the tired lines around his eyes and the downturn of his lips though they remained quirked. His eyes were blank and polite but for the bit of pain he could see. He was barely an inch shorter than Kurt, and he suspected they'd be the same height if Kurt weren't wearing his boots.

Kurt shook his slightly calloused hand, keeping his expression flat. "Not a problem. I'd like to speak with you, if I could?"

Anderson smiled again—with a bit more charm this time. "Of course." The charm faded as he turned to Schuester, who was standing there awkwardly. The smile hardened a bit, eyes looking a bit more tired. "I'll call you tomorrow, Will."

Schuster's eyes narrowed slightly when Anderson turned his back on him. He nodded sharply and turned on his heel.

Kurt raised an eyebrow slightly, but said nothing as Anderson released his hand and gestured towards a doorway off of the room. "We can speak in my office. Thank you, Emma." He added to his admin, who must've understood what he was saying because she smiled affectionately and simply nodded.

Anderson opened a tall wooden door, ushering him into one of the largest offices Kurt had ever seen. And even he had to admit it was an office many would long to work in. One whole wall was windows—and Kurt found himself mildly jealous, even if he preferred his skinny window in his home office. Where the room he waited in was warm and welcoming, this was the office of a business shark. Black leather, and steel, Kurt imagined the board room looked something like this. And judging by the easy comfort Anderson seemed to have in the room—grabbing attention and keeping it—Kurt felt a vague sort of pity for any competitors.

"Please, have a seat, Detective." Kurt sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, waiting to see whether Anderson would sit behind the desk—in the seat of power—or choose to sit in the chair next to Kurt.

At the moment, he did neither, walking over to the insta-chef instead. "Would you like some coffee? I'm getting a glass myself."

Deciding there was nothing wrong with being polite, he accepted.

"Cream?" He asked, with his back towards Kurt.

"Black."

"A man after my own heart. Here we are." Anderson returned with two mugs, and to his credit sat in the chair next to Kurt.

Kurt accepted his mug, taking a sip, and stopping dead, staring at the cup. He blinked, took another sip, and had to restrain himself from moaning. This was real coffee, not that soy shit that was sold everywhere now. It wasn't the sludge in cop shops; no this was real, coffee bean honest-to-god coffee.

"Problem?" Blaine asked, staring at the man across from him, enjoying the flutter of his eyelashes as he took another sip and the faint pink high on his pale cheeks when he placed the mug down again. He looked like a man who had just had a glimpse of heaven and enjoyed every bit of it.

Kurt turned to Anderson who was watching him with a faint smile. Kurt swallowed down his slight embarrassment and instead sat straight, looking him in the eyes. "Thank you. I had come here today to talk to you about Santana Lopez."

Just like that, the little smile faded, and Kurt felt small pang, and chocked it down mercilessly. Anderson set his coffee side also, folding his hands in his lap. "Yes, I thought so. You're primary on her case." It seemed to take a bit of effort to get that word out. Case.

Kurt nodded. "Yes. You were the last person Mrs. Lopez came to visit yesterday evening."

Anderson glanced up sharply, grief momentarily filling his clouded eyes, before he closed them. "I was." He opened his eyes, more composed now. "She was taking Brittany to one of my restaurants for their anniversary. One of my hotels, also. Which, I'm sure you already know."

Kurt gave nothing away, though he had already known both. "What time had she arrived?"

"About four ten. She wanted to go over last minute details, wanting everything to be perfect. She was a bit of a perfectionist." Anderson said, eyes lightening a bit with a smile.

"What details?"

Anderson shrugged. "Lighting in the restaurant and hotel room, music, transportation, the menu."

"Who paid for all of this?"

"I did. They're good friends and they've both been stressed lately, I wanted to ease it a bit and I had no problem with it."

"Stressed? Stressed how?"

"Britt not so much as Santana." Anderson lifted his mug to his lips. "I don't know what was with her, but something was wrong. I had seen her at the kids' birthday party and she seemed a bit wrung out, antsy about something. Obviously she covered it around Britt, but one of my jobs is to read people. Comes with the job description. Like cops, I suppose, I need to read people in order to get my job done."

"You think her wife wouldn't be aware?"

"Britt loved Santana to pieces—but even she couldn't pay attention to her twenty-four seven. Not to mention Brittany and Mike's scholarship period is coming up, so she'd been preoccupied with that."

"Her scholarship period?"

"For the older teenagers in the high school. Roseline is a public Performing Arts school—elementary, middle, and High School. Roseline and the Universities—Nyada, Julliard, give out four scholarships once a year—two to juniors, and two to seniors. There are a lot of students to sift through and she and Mike Chang have to decide."

"How was she stressed out?"

"I only saw her the one time in person before yesterday evening. But even on screen she looked tired, she was crankier than normal, she looked a bit haunted and strung out. It was another reason I offered the restaurant and hotel room, they deserve some relaxation."

"Mr. Anderson—" Kurt was cut off.

"Blaine, please."

Kurt wanted to blink but didn't, knowing Anderson was watching. Instead, he tilted his head. "Blaine then," the word felt strange on his tongue—sliding easily but twisting it in knots at the same time. "How would you describe your relationship with Santana?"

"Hot-tempered," he said immediately, and laughed a little at himself, rubbing the bottom half of his face. "Our tempers always got to one another. Something always grated with us; I'd go to the ends of the earth for either her or Britt, but it didn't mean that we didn't argue constantly. I thought of her as an annoying, obnoxious little sister," his jaw clenched slightly. "And she thought of me as a—what did she call me—a 'stubborn, dapper, prep school boy with more hair gel than brain cells.' Our friendship was unstable, but none of it was ever—real. We got on each others nerves. She irritated me." He glanced up at Kurt, directly into his eyes. "But I'd never hurt her."

Instead of replying to the last bit, Kurt continued. "You graduated from NYU the same year." He waited to see what Anderson would have to say about the whole NYU/Julliard situation.

"Yeah, but I didn't actually know her until I went to some classes at Julliard. There I met Brittany, and well, she introduced me to Santana."

"You went to Julliard."

"Kind of. An uncle was on the admission board, and with the Anderson name reaching everywhere, I didn't attend the way you would traditionally."

"How is that?"

"Detective, I was raised knowing I would someday take over Anderson Enterprises. I enjoy it, the business, but I've also always had a place in my heart for music. My father and I reached an agreement where if I got my accelerated Ph.D. at NYU then I could also do a part time four-year run at Julliard. I didn't take the core classes, just the music aspect."

"Your public information says there isn't any known info as to whether you attended, but it says you graduated with Brittany Pierce."

"Because I didn't' go the traditional route, I didn't actually attend. I graduated, but I'm not on the register."

Well. That explained that. Even though it was a bit confusing, it wasn't something that hadn't been done before. "What time did Santana leave your company yesterday?"

"She was only here for about twenty minutes. She was in a bit of a rush. So until about four-thirty."

"What happened while she was here?"

"Well, as I'd said, we went over the details. I had the final product of the menu sent up, so she had taste tested it, finding it to her liking. Had a small toast to her making it through these years happily married, then she left to drop by the restaurant then home to get ready."

"Were you two the only ones here?"

"Emma was outside in the offices out there. Will was dropping by hoping to discuss a client, but when he saw Santana was here he left after dropping a file that he wanted me to view. Santana left immediately after that, in a hurry to make sure the night went perfectly. But that was the last I had seen her." The unspoken 'ever' hung heavily in the air as he took a sip of his lukewarm coffee.

"Where were you between four-thirty and seven o'clock yesterday evening?"

"I was here in the office until about six, as was Emma. She left when I did. I drove home, and reached there at about six ten. I worked until nine thirty then had an early night."

Leaving his time open and available at the time of the murder. "Did you speak with anybody at the time you were home?"

Anderson tilted his head. "I spoke to Will from about seven until seven thirty. We were going over blueprints on a building where planning on making into apartment complexes." He explained then quirked one side of his lips. "You can check the records."

"I will."

Kurt felt his pulse skip as Anderson flashed a quick grin—charming and amused. "I have no doubt. You fascinate me, Detective."

He ignored him. "Do you own a 1945 Château d'Yquem?"

Instead of looking surprised, Anderson's eyes remained cool, and he tilted his head to the side. "I do, yes. That's the bottle of wine that Santana and Brittany were going to drink, and the wine that Santana, Will and I toasted with." His eyes sharpened. "Why?"

One way to figure out; shock factor. "A mild Buzzer was ingested in the bottle when Santana had drunk it."

Anderson's shoulders jerked before he could control it, and his face registered shock before it too was controlled. Then he looked cool; calculating and not just a little intimidating. "That's not possible. The bottle was sealed—and has been since it was bottled a century ago.

"Seals can be broken; replaced."

"And the probabilities of that happening?" Anderson shot back. "Highly unlikely."

"And yet it happened."

Anderson sat back as if exhausted, and he stared towards the wall of windows behind his desk—though Kurt doubted he really saw anything.

Because Kurt felt every instinct, personal and professional, telling him this man didn't lace the drinks, he asked gently, "How possible is it that the wine was broken laced and resealed?"

Anderson blinked and Kurt saw his Adam's apple bob once, then he shook his head. "It's not. At all. I own many vineyards, and usually I'd have them shipped for any occasion I'd need so it could've happened then, but this bottle came from my own collection in my own cellar. One of my personal favorite wines, and I felt that Brittany would enjoy it. She doesn't like wine," he said almost absent-mindedly, still gazing out the window. "Thinks it's too tart, she doesn't like sour. But I thought they'd like this one. It came from my home, and was held in my office until I broke the seal. So no, Detective," he said, turning his eyes toward him with such intensity that Kurt had to fight his breath from hitching. "It's not possible."

Kurt stood, turning off his recorder as he did so, feeling slightly unsettled by those eyes. Instead of showing it he turned towards the man who was staring up at him with a considering and curious gaze. "Thank you for your time, and seeing me. I'll possibly need to do a follow up, so keep in mind over the next few days. And it'd be best if you didn't leave the state."

"For my own well being or consideration of the case? I'll keep it in mind, Detective." He added and he leaned forward to shake Kurt's hand, holding it for a moment longer than necessary.

Kurt pulled his hand pack, not giving any reaction and simply nodded. "I'll contact you when needed. I'll see myself out."

Kurt turned towards the door and felt Blaine Anderson's eyes on his back as he left.

*.*

After Kurt Hummel had left, Blaine sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes, letting himself feel the ever-present exhaustion he's had for eight months. Longer, if he let himself think about it.

He let out a deep breath, his hands in his pockets as he glanced around his office—strange thinking about it like that considering how long it's been his father's—feeling unsettled and out of place. He didn't lie to the detective when he said he enjoyed business, he did. But he also didn't think he'd become CEO until a far, far off day in the future. Barely a month after turning twenty two, and pulling the reins from a father who died of a stroke in his early sixties.

No, he thought. He didn't lie. But this wasn't supposed to be his for a very long time.

He shook his head, walking over to the large windows taking up a whole of his walls. He stared down at the city as he had since his father do many times before. It was always a fascinating site, one that usually left him breathless, but this time he felt nothing but sorrow. For his father, for Santana, for Brittany, and maybe for himself.

But with it he also felt anger—cool and present. He had felt it since Tina Cohen-Chang had called him with the news yesterday evening, Brittany's muffled and tired sobs in the background. He felt when he had visited her this morning and had one of his closest friends shaking in his arms. He felt it when he thought of Santana—stubborn, obstinate, and compassionate Santana—being left naked in the cold, and torn away from her family without a second thought. And he felt it again at the thought of someone drugging his friend by using Blaine and Blaine's possessions.

He felt it in his veins, hot and rushing, straining to get out. He buried it down instead, pushing it away. Now wasn't the time to lose his head and find a spare droid to beat his knuckles raw against.

He shook his head, walking over to the table where the two cooled cups of coffee were. He smiled slightly as he lifted them, thinking of Detective Sergeant Kurt Hummel's reaction to it—and at Kurt Hummel himself.

He felt his lips quirk slightly, and the curiosity that he'd never been able to break himself of fill him. The slender brunette had drawn his eyes the minute he stepped into his own foyer—and when those flat cop eyes of an indescribable color had met his, he felt them like a blow.

Odd. When he saw him he didn't think of cop. He saw a tall, willowy brunette with skin like porcelain and a gorgeous mouth. It was something he wasn't used to considering he could usually spot one a mile away—something his father had taught him at a young age considering his early business wasn't exactly legal. It was now, of course, but even years ago it was a different matter.

He placed the cups in the office dishwasher beneath the insta-chef. Intelligent, stubborn, and sexy—three things he had gathered of Kurt Hummel just from that initial meeting, and three very good reasons in his mind to take another look at a man. He shook his head at himself, sighing softly. Yes, Kurt Hummel would be a fascinating man to know, indeed.

An idea occurred to him and he felt a smirk twist his mouth when he walked to his intercom, placing a request for Emma. Satisfied afterwards, he returned behind his desk in front of the open city and returned to what he was doing before the fascinating Kurt Hummel had arrived.

*.*

Kurt sat in front of his computer at central, waiting for Puckerman to arrive.

"Engage, Hummel, code five access. ID 785256D. Open file Lopez."

ID and voice print recognized, Hummel. Proceed.

"Open sub file Anderson, Blaine. Suspect Anderson—known to victim. Possibility of emotional involvement high.

"Opportunity to commit crime. Suspect knows victim's schedule of night murdered and had opportunity to drug and tranq her. Suspect has no alibi for time the murder committed.

"Factor in personality of suspect. Cool, aloof, confident, intelligent. Interesting balance between aggressive, laid-back and charming.

"Motive," here he paused, slightly uncertain.

Why would a man like Blaine Anderson kill? Passion, personal gain? He didn't think so. Status, wealth he could gain any other way. Men or women—sex or otherwise—he would win without trying. He suspected he was capable of violence—however charming he may seem—but he suspected it'd be done coldly. More in calculation.

Which the murder did have, he gave. But there was an overlaying film of crudeness Kurt couldn't connect with the elegant man he had met.

But perhaps that was the point.

"Motive, currently unknown." He said after pursuing it, hesitating only slightly. "With known personal and professional information and profile on suspect, compute probability."

His unit churned, and made a sharp grating sound that had other cops in the area glancing around. Kurt scowled at the electronics, baring his teeth until it processed.

Probability Anderson, Blaine perpetrator given supposition and known information, eighty-two point three percent.

Eighty-two. Kurt sat back, hummed. Low, but still possible. He had the possibility, he had the means. And, judging by the cool violence Kurt had sensed just under Anderson's icy surface, he had means.

So why, Kurt wondered while staring at his screen, couldn't he make it play? He just couldn't see it. He couldn't see Anderson drugging and stripping down a defenseless woman, slicing her open and ramming a rod of metal through her head. Then cutting out her tongue afterwards and dumping her body on the cool September Street. Kurt couldn't visualize him doing it to any woman, much less a woman he had claimed to know and been close to for years.

But there were possibilities, and there were facts. If he could gather enough of them he could request a psychiatric evaluation.

Wouldn't that be interesting, Kurt thought with a quiet snort. Journeying through Blaine Anderson's head would be a fascinating experience.

"Yo, Hummel." Puckerman greeted, breezing onto the floor.

Kurt raised an eyebrow and slanted him a narrow look. "So nice of you to join me."

The other man grinned without shame. "A man's gotta eat."

"You're late because you grabbed food?"

He pulled a bag of soy fries and a tube of coke from behind his back. "Got you something too."

Kurt snatched them, breaking the seal on the soda. "You're forgiven. What've you got?"

Puck sat a hip on Kurt's desk, munching on his own overly-salted fries. Kurt grimaced even as he spoke. "Not much from any possible wit's on that street, or in the building at all. Not a very nice neighborhood, and most don't have a very nice image of cops." He shook his head. "That Berry girl shouldn't be walking down that way to begin with.

"Anyway," he continued, taking a gulp of his Pepsi, "Most deny seeing anything. 'Didn' see nothin', don' know what the fuck ever you're talking about.' Is the main response I've gotten. Others didn't even mention their doors. You know how it is. But Abrams' got a run going on the tenant list."

Kurt glanced at him suspiciously. "How did Abrams get a tenant list?"

Puck grinned. "I'm guessing you got in to see Anderson."

With a frown Kurt leaned back. "Yes, I did. Why? Oh wait, don't tell me."

"Yep," Puck nodded. "Guy owns the building, of course. Must've made an impression on him to make him want to cooperate so much. But," he said with a waggle of his eyebrows, leering at Kurt, "I can definitely see the charm."

Like Kurt did whenever Puckerman had something to say, he ignored him, a bit irritated that Anderson had willingly sent over the tenant list before Kurt could nag him about it. Kurt shook his head. "Have Abrams send it to my home unit, and send what interviews you've managed there also."

Kurt stood and Puckerman looked at him questioningly. "You working from the home base?"

"For a while, yeah. Being in such proximity to your pretty face is just too much; I may do something unprofessional."

Instead of replying in turn, Puck gazed at him steadily, a bit of concern creeping into his eyes. "Catch some Z's too, yeah? How much sleep have you gotten in the past thirty eight?"

Four, maybe. Kurt rolled his eyes instead of glaring like he wanted to because he knew Puck was right. "Gee Mom, you worry too much. I'll tag you when I need you."

"Now I feel so used." Though the reply was expected, Kurt still felt Puck's worried eyes on him.

"Geez. I'll take some down time, just quit it."

Puck raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "I will," Kurt said defensively.

"I'll believe it when the shadows under your eyes recede. And seriously, what's with the coat? You love and obsess over clothes and fashion but you wear shit like this," he tugged on one of the black sleeves on Kurt's ratty suit jacket. He tugged it closer to him protectively.

"It's warm," he argued. "And besides, not much you can do for fashion when it comes to a cop's salary. Unless you're Noah Puckerman and your Granny send you a monthly allowance," he said, eyeing one of Puck's many suits.

He swiped invisible lint of his shoulder and gave Kurt a haughty look. "Don't hate me 'cause I'm beautiful."

Kurt snorted. "For someone who insists that he's straight, you sure do act gay."

"I'm metro sexual and very comfortable in my own skin."

"Is that what your mother tells you?"

"Get stuffed, Hummel. And you're missing a button."

Kurt glanced down and, sure enough, a button was missing on his coat. He swore and Puck glanced at him eagerly. "Does this mean we can burn it?"

Kurt turned on his heel after casting a dark look towards him, Puck's pleads of mercy for 'the poor ugly thing' ringing behind him.

*.*

As soon as Kurt walked through his door, he had to crack down on every cell in his body longing for his bed. He rubbed his tired eyes and went to pour himself another cup of coffee, contemplating taking an energy pill. He hated them, he always felt jittery and out of place in his own skin. Not to mention after the eight hours they ran through your system, you crashed—and hard.

Compromising with himself, he took a blocker instead for the headache developing behind his eyes. He hated those too, but they were the lesser of two evils in his eyes.

He flipped on his living kitchen light, which also lit his small living room, and was just turning to the insta-chef when a knock sounded on his door.

Frowning because no one came to his place besides Jeff and on occasion Nick, he walked over and glanced at the security screen. On the opposite side of the door a teenaged boy stood, shifting on his feet nervously and wearing the mandatory uniform for package delivery. Still frowning, Kurt opened his door and the boy shoved a slip of paper at him to sign. Glancing at the box the kid held, he returned the clip board and received the package.

He turned back inside, closing the door as the kid was walking away and set it on his counter. He opened the box to gold paper and instantly smelled it before he saw it.

He reached in for the card lying on top of the package of real coffee grounds, unaware that his eyes had softened. It simply said 'Since you seemed to enjoy it, Blaine A.'

Kurt shook his head, wondering vaguely how he knew where Kurt lived. You couldn't randomly pluck a cop's address out of a hat.

He lifted the bag out of the box and despite himself began to smile. Oh yes, Blaine Anderson's mind would certainly be an interesting place to journey.

*.*

Elsewhere, Officer Sam Evans was trying to get a hold of Kurt Hummel on his communicator. He swore when it fell from his fingers, picking it up with steady hands though inside he was shaking. He glanced around, swearing when his fucking communicator wouldn't work after the drop, one of too many.

"Fuck, fuck, c'mon man, just go through, I promise I'll try not to drop you ever again." He murmured anxiously. He didn't know what to do in this kind of situation. They didn't teach you this kind of shit in the Academy, especially when you were a fucking green officer. He still worked traffic, for god's sake. Shit, he told Lopez he should've gone to someone immediately. He should've gone to Homicide instead of putting it off—but she wanted to be sure. She didn't want him to slip away. And now she was dead and Sam couldn't get his fucking device to work.

Voice activation wasn't working, so he tried manually. The monotone 'one moment, please' came from it and he could've wept. Glancing both directions, he crossed the parking garage of his building, feeling the back of his neck prickle. He walked faster, almost to the door and out into the lobby, and he glanced into the corner where he knew the security eye was.

His steps faltered when he saw the light was red. Deactivated.

Sixteen steps until he reached the door and his communicator finally worked. Instead of tagging Hummel's division, he went with gut instinct instead. "Evans, Officer Sam. Officer needs backup at one—"

He didn't even hear anyone coming up behind him. His communicator was out of his hand, and an elbow slammed onto the back of his neck, taking him down hard. He reached to his waist for his basic street stunner, his only weapon. He was flipped around before he could reach it; head tilted up to face a person who he couldn't make out in the dim lighting. He caught a flash of light on a long, slim piece of metal, before it fell sharply and cleanly through his temple.

Sam Evan's body fell back after the person removed the metal from his head. A small pool of blood lay underneath him, matting his hair as his eyes filmed over with death, still staring lifelessly.

The person stood back, placed the metal in a portable baggie and walked toward he locked door where the hallway went to enter Evans' apartment lobby. They unlocked the door with the master they had been supplied, and once on the other side of the door, activated the security by remote.

The person was in and out within minutes, killing Sam Evans cleanly and efficiently. They were informed to simply get it done without everything else they had done to Santana Lopez. Sam Evans simply needed to be gone without the fuss that Lopez's death had.

The person stepped onto the cool street after crossing the empty lobby—just how they had planned it. That part complete, they had to wait twenty-four hours for their funds to be deposited, then the instructions for later.

For now, they decided, they were going to get something to eat. Something sweet, maybe. They deserved a reward.