1.11

"Zoë? No." Nick Yurko shakes his head so fast that the copper beads he's woven into his shaggy blonde dreads clack together. "No way could she kill Gwen. Or Dr. Pearce. Zoë's the gentlest person I've ever met. Whatever she's told you, she's lying. For some reason, she's lying." He looks up at Aiden, beseeching. "Can I see her, please?"

"Not at the moment." Which is a fancy, can't-tell-you-anything-because-you're-a-possible-suspect way to say, We still haven't found her. She'd made the call from a phone booth – the same one that Charlie had used to call the police after watching Gwen Meyer be killed. Aiden had processed it and taken the tape off the same afternoon Flack and I had visited.

"Oh."

Flack and I are watching through the two-way window again, and frankly I'm glad not to be in the interview room. I'm more comfortable hidden here, a member of the background.

Even if I'm stuck in here with Flack.

In the next room, Danny is interviewing Ali al-Busiri; the room after that, Stella is talking to Barbie Harris. IT has set up video cameras in each of the rooms, and all the cords lead back here to play the footage, simultaneously, on the computer, recording the interviews for posterity. So, without even looking through the window, I can see that Barbie hasn't touched up her dye job in days. There are blonde roots to her blue hair, stained a pale green by chlorine and too much dye. She shifts anxiously in her chair, unable to look at Stella. I can see that Ali al-Busiri, an international student from Cairo, is trying to be cool as a cucumber, but there's sweat dappling his forehead. It's Nick Yurko who's babbling like an idiot, unable to focus on anything for more than a full minute. None of them look a thing like the drawing that Aiden made of the man who killed Gwen Meyer; Charlie's testimony renders Zoë's confession null and void.

"You think somebody made her say it?" Flack asks, eyes flicking from screen to screen.

"It's possible. She might have been threatened into confessing by the real killer, to take the fall for him, but…she believes it." I shrug. "She believes that it's her fault they're dead. At least, that's what it sounded like. She could have killed Dr. Pearce, though," I add. "Not Gwen, but Dr. Pearce…maybe."

"I'll take your word for it." He sticks his hands in his suit pockets; they're bunched into fists. I'm certain he hasn't slept, but then again, neither have I. If there's one way Don Flack and I are similar, it's that we're both so damn stubborn. Which, now that I think about it, is probably why we've been having so much trouble getting along.

"How was the sister?" I ask, tentatively.

"Helpful." The word's a grunt. "The vic obviously had somethin' bothering her; wanted to know if it was ethical to turn in a friend who was doing wrong. Mandy had no idea what she was bothered about, though she thought it might have somethin' to do with the exhibit. Apparently they've been working on it for months now." His eyes sweep the screens again. "They all look like hell."

"Mm." Like they've gone through a clothespress and a crucible and a hanging, all at once, and they've been scraped down to a thin pale imitation of what they'd been. Barbie's eyes are red, it looks like Ali's hair hasn't been washed, and Nick's jeans are horrendously wrinkled. "They look like they've lost a friend."

He doesn't answer for a long moment. "Yeah."

I drop down into the chair, and run my hands over my face. I'm exhausted, but if I drink any more coffee I'm going to vibrate out of my own skull. I've forgotten how long these things can take, sometimes. I wonder if the case will drag on for weeks. Months. I can't handle that thought. That's too much, too much anger and pain pressed into my head for too long – I'll go insane. Maybe I should just get out now.

But it's Charlie. So I stay sitting and say nothing.

The evidence file is getting fatter all the time: more interviews, more samples from the apartment, from the crime scenes. The computer techs are getting closer to cracking the encryption on Gwen's computer, but I have a sinking feeling that isn't going to yield much. Adam managed to track down the email address that was used to send Dr. Pearce the list of missing items, but it had been created on a public computer in one of the many, many little libraries in Manhattan on a guest account. Fake name, no cameras. Ergo, no way to track the bastard down.

We've released the drawing Aiden made to the press. Hopefully it'll give us a lead. Everything else seems to be twisting away, fluttering out of reach.

"If those items were sold, then there might be some record of it." My laptop is buzzing on the table; it's been on for hours, and the keyboard feels like it's coated in lava. I've forgotten my reading glasses again, and there's a pounding behind my eyes; I've been staring at the screens for too long, trying to find something that might not be there at all so I can ignore the walls of the observation room closing in on me. "Have we looked them up?"

"Adam's workin' on that right now." He glances at me. "You all right?"

"Not particularly, but I'll work through it." I tug on my earlobe, absently, and then struggle to focus again. "They're not giving us anything. They're talking in circles and their stories synch up. Not perfectly, but…they synch, even with the shaky alibis."

"Well, we caught al-Busiri on a traffic camera. He was speeding down Lex around the same time Jackson Pearce was killed. And when Gwen Meyer was killed he was up in Renssalaer visiting his foster family."

"He's a foster kid?"

"No. He was in the high school international exchange program."

Ah. "And Yunko?"

"Working. He's a DJ in a club. He was on the clock all night, both nights, and it's on the other side of the city. He couldn't've snuck out without being noticed."

"Damn." It would be so much easier if one of them had committed the murder. "It doesn't keep them from being the smuggler, though. Or smugglers."

"Smugglers as in plural?"

"Only someone with access to those documents could have edited them to make sure Dr. Pearce and Gwen Meyer would only pick up part of the shipments. One or all of these people had the opportunity and the means to fix up those documents so they could lift a few items from each shipment. It could have been one of them on their own, but my guess is it's more than one; someone edited the documents, someone snuck the pieces (always little ones) out of the museum, and someone else is keeping them hidden. It's a smooth operation, like a fire brigade."

"And it's one of these kids why?"

"Someone random stealing stuff from the museum feels guilty enough to send a note to Dr. Pearce about it?" I shrug. "That's kind of a stretch. And they're terrified to be here. Look at her." Barbie Harris is trembling. "And the two guys. They're petrified. They're afraid of what's gonna happen if somebody's figured out that they're the ones stealing crap."

"And Meyer?"

"They didn't kill her. They had a plan, and I don't think murder was ever part of it." I give him a beady look. "And neither do you."

His expression is pure dumb insolence. "Who, me?"

"Do me a favor, Flack. Don't dumb yourself down for my sake. I won't work with someone who pretends to be stupider than they are to make the other person feel better. It's an insult to my intelligence, and yours, so quit it. Now."

"Yes sir, ma'am."

Now, that I can ignore. "I don't think any of these kids has it in them to murder someone, let alone one of their best friends. And even if they're smart enough to pull it off, I don't think any of them disrespect the artifacts enough to want to sell them on the black market. They're all too…they're archaeologists, you know? They want the artifacts preserved and protected, not sold to the highest bidder."

"So if someone blackmailed them into doing it, and threatened them with death if they talked…" He likes this idea. I can see the excitement in his eyes. "Could be kind of a stretch."

"Witness testimony, Flack. If we get one of them to talk, then we'll have the proof."

"Especially once we get the evidence to back it up." He rubs his hands together. "So basically we just have to get one of them to talk."

"But there's no guarantee they will, and if they don't, then we can't catch this son of a bitch." I close my laptop with a snap, and lean back in the chair, stretching my spine out. "I can't even think anymore without going in circles."

"You? Think? No."

"Are you permanently set to 'snark', Detective Flack?"

He smirks. "Possibly."

So. Damn. Frustrating. Though…at least he's not trying to 'figure out the voodoo'. I'm still not sure whether or not to be offended about that, and honestly, at the moment, I'm too dizzy to really care. It feels like my mind is stuck in a merry-go-round that's going crazy over the highway speed limit. I close my eyes, and simply listen to the cacophony of voices. Danny-Aiden-Barbie-Nick-Stella-Ali. Or, Ali-Aiden-Nick-Stella-Danny-Barbie. Or, hey, Aibardanlinicla. Maybe?

Evidence. Cold, hard evidence. There weren't any fingerprints on the box that there shouldn't be – the Wadjet Eyes, John McEnroe, the janitor, who probably brought the box in in the first place. The ushebtis had very few prints, since most people handle them with gloves on; no hope to pick up anything there. They were covered in limestone dust, though, which explained the stone dust Hawkes found in Dr. Pearce's hair. Adam tested both samples; they match. And the salty stuff on the sarcophagus was natron, and those two samples match as well, so the natron thing's fizzled out.

A warrant into the bank accounts of the Wadjet Eyes says that they haven't had any significant gains or losses in the past few months. Another warrant into the paperwork of the exhibit says that over twenty pieces – small ones, ones that would be easily missed, and some of the less valuable, though still ranking in the many thousands – have gone missing since they started bringing items in. Twenty pieces. I think Adam's still trying to figure out if any of them have gone on the market yet. Twenty pieces, and two people have died, and I need these kids to talk, damn them, but they're babbling like nervous fools!

Someone bumps my chair. "I'm gonna get coffee. You want coffee?"

"Not particularly. If I have any more coffee, I'm going to die of caffeine poisoning." Which, a week ago, I'd forgotten was possible. "You go ahead."

There's a moment of silence from behind me. Then Flack taps the back of my chair again, his expression inscrutable. He jerks his head towards the door. "Come on. They know what we're looking for."

"But—"

"I'm supposed to be the one keepin' an eye on you for the moment, and if I let you fall asleep in that chair then Aiden's gonna kill me." When I hesitate again, he gives me a flat, semi-annoyed look. "Honestly, Doc. Nobody's gonna die."

That one stings me to my feet. "Look—"

"Just come on. And no grouchiness," he adds, when I open my mouth to talk back. "You're runnin' on fumes, Dr. Carter. And you've been crawlin' up the walls for the past half-an-hour. You need to get out of here. And if I stay in this room any longer, I'm gonna shoot something, so I might as well tag along."

I can't speak. I'm stunned. He actually noticed. I don't like small spaces. Usually, only elevators and closets set me off, but I've been in and out of the observation room for two days now, and it feels smaller every time I slip inside, like a sock on a growing foot. Whatever my expression is, Flack's highly amused; his mouth twists a bit as he opens the door, and raises an eyebrow.

"Well? You comin'?"

Leaving the observation room is like breaking out of a jail cell. I can feel myself relaxing back into my skin as we get into the hallway, and then the main room, and then the reception area. I'm not sure where we're going, but, really, I'm too tired to argue about it. Miss Piercings glares at me as we head out the door, but I don't care; the only semi-fresh air of the street lets my lungs expand for what feels like the first time in hours. No more antiseptic smell.

We head east, and then cut down Mulberry Street to a small playground. It's crowded with children, and I realize – with a start – that it's Saturday. It's been over a week since Aiden's birthday party. It feels like years.

The playground is fenced in; Flack leans against the bars and lets out a long breath. I'm blinking like an owl in the sunlight, and it takes me a second to figure out that this is the destination. "What are we doing here?"

"Nothing, Doc," he says, half-laughing at me, and I can feel the tips of my ears going red again. "That's the point."

"Oh." Still half-wary, I reach out, and touch one of the bars lightly with my fingers. It's cold, despite the warmth of the sunlight on the back of my neck. "…I didn't know there was a playground down here."

"Kinda hidden away."

"Oh."

There's a bench. I take it, and rest the back of my head on the fence. My eyes slide closed as I sit there, listening to the kids shouting and yelping at each other. There are park buddies, mostly anxious new mothers, talking about inoculations and red dye #40 and ADD, and nannies who are chatting about college classes and jobs and boyfriends. There's even a tree, and when the breeze picks up, I can hear the leaves whispering.

I breathe the air in and let my mind drift. For once, I don't let myself think about the Safe House or the case or my sister or anything other than the feel of the wind on my cheeks and the sound of laughing kids. I think I might be dozing, or at the very least daydreaming. It's nearly two in the afternoon. I didn't realize the time.

For once, Flack stays quiet. I can still feel him, though, standing next to the bench. I think, lazily, that this is kind of a weird place for him to choose to unwind, and then realize that it's not so much of a place to unwind – though it is that – than it is a place to remember the reason why.

There were a lot of reasons, Bridge. We all had a lot of reasons. The only one I can remember now, though, is real easy. I wanted to keep the people I cared about safe.

I miss Uncle Frank. He's one of the few members of my family I still talk to, and the only one who really understands me. I think my mother hates him so much because he's the one who used to let me ride in his police car and mess with the siren. I was always happy when he had to babysit Mayday and me, because then I could run into the crime lab (or try to) and talk to the scientists in there. Uncle Frank hated it when I did that, but he was always laughing when he caught me, so I never felt like I shouldn't. It's a miracle that I never contaminated any evidence.

He'll laugh at me when I tell him that I'm consulting. I know he will. My parents won't, though. If they hear I'm working with the police again, in whatever capacity, they'll blow a gasket. They never wanted me in criminalistics, or criminal psychology for that matter. They barely even tolerate the idea of me working for the Safe House. I think Mom wanted me to be a librarian or something. I don't even remember anymore.

Uncle Frank would like Flack, I think. They both have that bulldog aspect. Once they get their teeth into something, they don't let go.

Flack coughs, and I peek at him out of the corner of my eye. He's staring across the street, and I can almost see the gears ticking in his head; he's thinking hard about something, that's clear enough. For the first time I wonder why he's brought me out here. He could have just told me to take a break. He didn't have to bring me out here. If he really is the jerk that I seem determined to think he is, he definitely wouldn't have.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask. I can't help it; I'm curious. Also, I don't want to think about the implications of a nice Flack. A nice Flack could be infinitely more dangerous than an irritating, asshat-ish Flack. He glances at me, and even though I know the color by now, his ice blue eyes are a shock to my system, snapping me out of my reverie.

"Zoë."

Oh, hey, new record. Ten minutes without thinking about a case. Mental note: write it down and get Flack to beat the time. "What about Zoë?"

"Why would she think it was her fault?"

"She was part of the scheme." But the instant it comes out my mouth I know that can't be true. She and Gwen were in love. If I learned anything from their apartment, it's how close they are. Were. Zoë wouldn't betray Gwen by destroying her exhibit.

Or would she? Was that the betrayal that the thesis was talking about? Maybe.

"It'd explain some things," I add. "Like why she thinks it's her fault that Gwen and Dr. Pearce are dead."

"I guess." He still looks doubtful though, and with an effort, I get to my feet.

"What are you thinking?"

"I dunno." He rakes a hand through his hair. "Look, after Dr. Pearce and Gwen Meyer, Zoë di Angelo clocked the most hours in that exhibit. She wanted it to be a success. She wouldn't sell the pieces of her own free will. I don't think any of those kids would. Like you said, the pieces would mean too much to them."

There's a glimmer at the end of the tunnel. "So the backer reached out to them and made them do it. We've already thought about this."

"Exactly. So, how'd he know about the exhibit in the first place? How'd he know that there'd be a big Egyptian artifacts exhibit ripe for the taking, months before it was even advertised?"

The glimmer turns into a firework. "He had a way in. Before the smuggling even started. He knew." I stare at him. "Flack, he has to be at the Met."

"We need to get those kids to talk," he says, and together we leg it back up the street.

It's Barbie Harris who eventually cracks, even as Nick Yurko talks in circles and Ali al-Busiri keeps his mouth shut. She talks, and then we tell the guys she's talked, and they're nothing less than relieved. They're also terrified, and demand that either they stay in the interview rooms until this is all over, or we put a guard on them, or something, because once the guy learns they've talked then they'll be killed too. At least, that's what they're thinking, and I'm not so sure I can blame them.

"We don't know his name," Barbie says, linking her hand with Ali al-Busiri's and resting it on his thigh. "He sent us emails. He's always watching us; he knew if we thought about telling someone."

"Which one of you sent the email to Dr. Pearce?" Aiden asks, crossing her arms over her chest. Nick Yurko shifts a bit, his beaded blonde dreads clicking together.

"That was Zoë. She thought, you know, if we told Dr. Pearce, he'd call the police or something. He'd be able to stop it. We didn't think…" He swallows. "We didn't think he'd end up dead."

"Gwen always knew something was wrong," Ali says, in a clipped voice. "Always. I think she figured out what we were doing. There was a box of ushebtis we were supposed to drop off on the way to the Met, but she volunteered to take them instead. She…she panicked when one of us offered to do it. They're valuable ushebtis; they're made of stone, have inscriptions, the whole deal. We don't usually get ones that are so intact."

Barbie squeezes his hand. "We panicked when we figured out one of them was missing. She must have been trying to hide them, something, but…she had to bring them to the exhibit or Dr. Pearce would have figured out something was wrong." She takes a gulping breath.

"Why didn't you call the police?"

"He said if we told anyone, he'd kill Gwen and Dr. Pearce. He said if they learned about it, he'd kill us."

"And you took him seriously? They were only emails."

"You don't understand. He takes photographs of us, at the Museum, at school, everywhere. He knows where we live, where we work. He could kill us whenever he wanted," Nick snaps. "If we'd called the police ourselves, he would have known about it, definitely."

"So he contacted you by email. Always the same address?"

"Yeah. Um…do you have a pen?" She writes it out for us: kings dot bench at gmail dot com, and Aiden grabs it and takes it out of the room, probably to turn over to the computer technicians. Hopefully, it'll be easier to track down than the address Nick Yurko used to email Dr. Pearce. I grip the back of my chair in both hands, digging my nails into the wood. I'm very, very glad I'm not in that room. There's too much pain and fear in there. It would drive me crazy in a second. "It was always that email address. Maybe…once a week?"

"Once or twice a week," Ali agrees. "He'd tell us what items he wanted, and then Zoë would change the lists that were sent to Dr. Pearce, and Nick or Barbie or me would get them out. Sometimes we'd make copies so Dr. Pearce wouldn't suspect anything. We'd leave the originals in different places around the Met. In Dumpsters, sometimes, or in newspaper boxes, or sometimes we'd drop them off with a security guard."

"A security guard?"

"At the Met."

Danny slides a copy of Aiden's drawing over. "Is this the guy?"

Barbie's trembling, and she bites her lip so hard I can see blood welling around her teeth. Ali can't look at it. Nick nods. "That's…that's him."

"What's his name?"

"Rick something."

Security guard. Rick something. It's enough. Flack's on the phone before I can blink. "Adam, I need you to run a name through the museum database. No, you can't do it later. I need this guy's name now." He covers the mouthpiece with one hand. "You talked to Charlie about doin' a line-up?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

Nick continues: "I remember…I saw Mr. Sanchez talking to him once. But…" His brows furrow. "It can't have been Rick doing it all. He doesn't have access to the storage areas, or the exhibit. He wouldn't be able to take the pictures of us, ever." He fingers the drawing. "How did you get this?"

"You're sure that's the name?" Flack says from behind me. He scratches it into his notebook. "Spell it for me, and then call Truby, I want a team for this guy."

"What's his name?" I ask, when Flack hangs up. He's already halfway out the door.

"Richard McEnroe."

McEnroe. That sounds familiar. Why does that sound familiar?

My hands still on the keyboard.

The intern, John McEnroe.

Blonde, blue-eyed John McEnroe.

Nervous John McEnroe, who had tried to stop me from picking around the exhibit.

Too eager John McEnroe, who had been very quick to shove Zoë, then Ali, then Barbie under suspicion.

John McEnroe, who had worked with the Wadjet Eyes nearly every day for the past year.

John McEnroe, the photographer.

John McEnroe, with the brother with a gun.

John McEnroe, who knows every single piece in that exhibit, and probably every single piece out of it.

I bolt up off my chair. "Flack!"

A/N.

6/9/12: Minor edits made.

...mwahaha.

Pecan Tweet: Awwww! You're fabulous! :D And, don't worry, when I'm out of town I don't even bother to take my computer with me...unless it's to write. Hm. Maybe I should say, "I don't check my email or FF or anything while I'm out of town," instead? But yeah. Thank you for all the sweet reviews, it was lovely to get all of them at once.

yaba: Being Captain Obvious is good sometimes. :D So don't worry.

ExodusBeteNoire: I remember having a teacher burn magnesium during class, and we all had to wear sunglasses and couldn't look at it straight on...it was amazing. So bright...but yeah, I meant in terms of heat, lol. :D I love chemistry. But only sometimes. Other times it's like, ew, get it away from me. (And when it comes to Danny...yeah. I think before Lindsay (BL?) he's like that. AL, though...she gets him to hold his tongue. Either that, or just say that sort of thing about her. :D Yeah, I love Lindsay.)

Notice! I'm currently packing up and getting ready to move back into my school dorm, so posting will be incredibly weird for the next month or month and a half. PLEASE VISIT MY PROFILE FOR MORE INFORMATION.

I AM NOT DROPPING ANY OF MY STORIES. I AM JUST MOVING AND SETTLING INTO THE RHYTHMS OF SCHOOL. SO POSTING WILL BE WEIRD.

...warning accomplished. :D