Author's Note: As an early Christmas Present and an apology for the erratic updates, I'm uploading two full-length chapters! Ta-daa! After you read this one, there's, like, totally another chapter just waiting to be read! Merry Christmas to all and to all a creepy slash detective Au!

Warnings: Strong language, disturbing content. Not beta-read as always (and getting worse).

Part XXVI: Nearly Perfect

Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood lived in a two-story house with two neatly-trimmed bushes out front. He woke every morning—except for weekends and holidays— dressed in stylish black, and left the house before the traffic got congested.

He arrived at the police station within the same five-minute window everyday, waved at the parking attendant, and then guided his excessively loved car into the underground parking area.

And from then on what he did and how he did it was a mystery. Did he enter the station via the elevator or the stairs? Where was his office? What did he do once he arrived? What did he eat? Sometimes deliveries of pizza and Chinese arrived. Would Detective share these greasy meals with his wiry blonde partner?

It infuriated him, the not knowing. It had never been difficult before.

But Detective was not prone to making mistakes that would let anyone close. He always locked the doors; he always closed the blinds on his smallish windows. He would not answer the phone to unknown callers.

At night, after he returned home, he parked his car in his meticulous garage with the expensive opener like a proud lioness protecting her cub. The house itself was locked up tight with paranoid security. And there—secure in his own world—he carried on the business of being who he was where no one could see or interrupt or participate. No one was allowed into his life. He was...

That was it, wasn't it? He didn't have the words. But his mind gave him ideas and these helped him through the frustration of not knowing. It was easy to imagine him sitting in a rigid-backed chair, reading some bestseller or watching a game on television. Perhaps inside that scrubbed and tended grey house, Detective threw together a simple meal, washed the dishes and went to bed.

Or perhaps he sat up, staring at the clock, regretting a life that was already what it was and a past that would never let him live free of its weight.

Maybe.

Who knew what really went on? Only Detective, and he would not tell. He caged himself up in that house, unshakable.

But sometimes, sometimes, he went out. But when he did, it was always too late to follow. The dark would not even conceal him if he were to make the effort to try. The streets empty like a desert and lit up by streetlights, there was no way to stay hidden. Sometimes, surely, he must be going to see Milly. But sometimes, Detective had to go somewhere else. He wanted to know where that place was very much. He wanted to know what Detective did there. Or what was done to Detective there.

And all of it—the unanswered questions and mounting confusing—it made him want to scream, because Detective was so close to being like the others. So close to perfect.

But at his core, he was broken, flawed, and limping through life on crutches. That made him a liar. That made him worthy of death. Just like the others who were never quite right. They all went through the motions, did everything so prettily and skillfully, but then when things went wrong, they fell apart. It was satisfying at first, watching them struggle through the brambles he threw before them. So many of them refused to let it bother them. Initially. Kelly and Milly both had fought it and it had been precious watching them struggle on as if life could never be changed if they just willed it so. Yet, the pain of it all, the unfairness or it, finally broke them. And even that was beautiful to see, made him feel like a god, at first.

But then, later on, after the high of power like that wore off, he realized that all he had left was a broken toy. And he would need a new one to fill the void they left once he took them in his hands and made them into something…else. Something that showed what they really, truly were on the inside:

Mistakes.

So he broke them so they could never lie to anyone else. Seeing them, no one could doubt what they were.

And here was Detective, the ultimate example. He didn't need to test him at all to see where the act ended and the truth began. He knew where the contradictions rested with this one. He knew already, could practically smell the taint of imperfection that lingered around him though he did such a good job at hiding it from everyone else. So he could rid the world of him at any minute. I could kill him, he thought in clinical clarity. Yes, he could kill him and wipe out his lies and falsehoods as easily as sweeping away a cobweb.

So, why, why didn't he? Why didn't he want to?

Instead, he found himself watching, planning, brooding. And everything was wrong. His routine was all but destroyed, his thoughts were convoluted, his dreams more disturbing than usual. Because Detective didn't react. He endured. Like a weed. Like a pest. Like a clever spider that clung to its web through rain and wind. Nothing seemed to shake the man. Not in any real way and certainly not in any way that he could savor.

He had left him presents for the past few days. Always doves with their necks snapped or heads missing. With the man's life as airtight as it was, these small, petty acts were all he could do. So he snuck and schemed and followed and taunted. He did what he could to force the man to drop the act and be what he was. But it didn't work. Instead, he found himself marveling at the incorruptibility of the life Detective had created for himself. It was…poetry. And just maybe all of this was the way it was because Detective had figured out his game long ago. Was Detective aware of what ruined the game for him, of what made him kill? Perhaps the two of them both harbored the thought that the other was an open book. Unbelievably, that only served to make it more interesting.

But no one was invincible. Not even the nearly perfect, brilliant police detective. Everyone had a weakness and he knew all of them.

One of them had been his Milly. How he fawned over her and doted on her and looked at her. But Detective took her away from him. It was a sad loss and one that threw everything into a kind of confusion, like staring too long at the sun and then trying to focus on the world with bright, painful splashes of color in the way. Even more confusing was the smooth, efficient way Milly's removal had been handled. From one day to the next, she simply was not where she used to be.

And the fact that Detective had not sounded upset about what he had done to Milly that day on the phone. He had sounded surprised by the call, by the audacity it took to approach him in such a way. What he hadn't sounded like, was disturbed or bothered or anything quite like what the others might have sounded like. But was it an act? Because this one was an actor to his very soul. He might have entered the wrong profession. His act was so airtight, maybe no one saw through it. No one but him. And possibly the troubling Saverem who was always, always there. Even now, inside that building, they were together. Working together. Talking together. And Detective would look at Saverem with his eyes. His blue, distant eyes.

He gritted his teeth. Detective had to be different, didn't he?

But there are plenty of ways to destroy a man without ever touching him. All you need do is take the things he loves, crush them to dust, and burn them to ashes...

He fought a smile as he rolled down the window of his car and said, "Do I need a pass to park here?"

The kindly old man smiled, tipped his hat, and cooperated so wonderfully that the smile emerged despite his best efforts. The old man took it for sincerity.

Not too long after, he surveyed his handiwork with a satisfied air. He wanted to stay and watch his efforts come to fruition, but that was not something he could do.

Instead, he left as quickly as he came and, mimicking Detective, gave a friendly wave to the guard.

His footsteps echoed through the parking garage. And despite the heat of the morning and evening, it was cool down here. He had worked at this station just long enough so that the grease and oil stains on the floor were to the point where he no longer noticed them. He had been in this city, he reasoned, far too damn long. He hadn't been joking with Vash when he told him he was ready to go home. Though there were painful memories out east, he felt a longing to be back where he knew how things worked. Out here the system was truly and royally screwed. It wasn't necessarily corrupt. It was more that the things that should be done never seemed to get around to getting done. If they could handle their own business, he figured, they wouldn't need him.

His eyes ached. He had worked far too long today. He felt wrung dry and broken. Truthfully, he didn't feel as if he was investigating at all anymore. Everyday was spent wading through paperwork and almost drowning in it. What if, while he was fighting with red tape, their one and only suspect slipped away?

They were only days away from making their move, but what if they were too late? So they had to burn the midnight oil. And it was taking its toll. Wolfwood looked a bit rough, stubble dappling his chin and lines around his mouth.

Vash didn't look any better. And the tension from their fight hadn't completely disappeared, which made working together all the more difficult. The fact that he refused to tell Vash about the phone call only added to the feeling of discomfort. True, when he was trying his best to keep his cool on the phone with a madman, he had wanted nothing more than to have Vash there with him. But the minute the opportunity to tell his partner arose, he clamped down on the words. Vash knew him too well to take that lying down. He knew something was wrong, and knew Wolfwood wouldn't tell him what it was. That made for an alternately sulky/snarling Vash. It wasn't the first time secrets had caused grief between them and Wolfwood was certain it wouldn't be the last. But this time it stung—both of them—worse than ever and he couldn't put his finger on why.

And on top of all of it, it was June 30th. The last day of the month, a grueling, frustrating Thursday worthy of such a burden. Picasso's pattern required two victims in June, and there had been nothing for over three weeks. All the patrolmen on duty tonight were told to keep an eye out for single women traveling alone and there had been a tension in the station all day. Would Picasso reveal victim seventeen to them tonight? Or would Kelly Morgan be the only casualty for the month of June? Wolfwood hoped that was the case, but he feared that Picasso was planning something that he wouldn't be able to stop until it was too late. At least night had finally come and he could put this miserable day out of its misery.

A light above him flickered agitatedly. The insufficient light shone down on a parking lot that looked as barren as a windswept avenue three hours before a parade. Without the rows and rows of cars snuggled in beside each other, the parking lot was too big, the emptiness too overwhelming. Everything was quiet; everything was poorly-lit and stained.

He fished inside his pocket for his keys. They jangled loudly. The sound bounced off the cold concrete and crashed back into his ears.

His feet took him to his car unfailingly while both his vision and his thoughts were elsewhere. He stopped.

Even without looking up, he knew it was wrong. He could smell it.

It was the sick smell of acrylic-resin burned and melted. The fumes were like plastic and latex with a hint of something tangy like acid all thrown in and then bathed in smoke.

Steeling himself, he raised his eyes, telling himself that he could handle this. He could handle this. He could handle this.

Reality told him he was a liar.

His car.

His car.

His car...

It was like a burn victim: skin melted, discolored, oozing together in cracks and crevices.

Puckered, mottled and smoking, she was hideous. A failing part of his mind cracked a joke: she was Cinderella long after midnight.

Wolfwood was not the kind of man to cry. Out of the sheer principle of it, he had only ever cried under extreme duress. At that moment, staring at the mutilated body of his car, Wolfwood felt like crying. What he did instead was bolt for the guard's station. Any cars leaving or going the department's parking lot came through here. He slid to a halt before the little booth. The slight, elderly guard was named Bert. He tipped his hat at Wolfwood though his eyes went wide at the expression on the young detective's face.

"'Evening, detective. Is something wrong?"

"Who's come this way?"

"Sir?"

"Who's come this way?" he repeated, his voice frantic.

"Um...since when?"

Wolfwood gaped and then actually had to fight not to laugh. As a detective, he was supposed to ask the right questions at all the right times. Yet here he was behaving like some idiot cop in a movie or a really bad detective story. If he had been knocked out cold, the first thing he would have asked upon waking was, "Where am I? Who are you?"

He was behaving like a bloody rookie.

He needed to think clearly, but seeing his Benz turned into so much steaming shit was enough to make even the toughest cop turn into a baby.

He started over. "Has anyone come by—at all—carrying a container, equipment, anything that could conceal—" a large supply of something flammable and a match, his mind supplied sarcastically, but he kept quiet.

"We've had some visitors, no one on foot. Just cars. Nothing too big. No deliveries, I mean. I...did something happen?"

Wolfwood sighed. He decided the fastest solution was to show the man. "Call someone to switch with you for a minute," he said and Bert complied quickly, his voice sounding friendly and experienced on the phone.

It was a moment before a fresh-faced guard arrived to switch places with Bert. "Be back soon," he said to the other man and then followed the glassy-eyed, shocked-looking younger man.

Detective and parking guard walked back through the ugly concrete and asphalt. Wolfwood stopped before what was left of his car. Bert gasped and then his mouth clamped shut. The minutes passed that way.

"Your Benz," Bert said after his speechlessness subsided.

"Yes," Wolfwood replied.

"Your baby?"

"Yes."

"I'm so sorry, sir."

"Thank you."

"I-I can't believe it." He walked around it, removed his hat like a mourner at a funeral, and scratched his head. "I just can't believe it. How? What?" He stopped and looked at Wolfwood as if he were a six-foot tall dancing lizard. "I-I can't believe you're taking this so well."

"Me either."

"I hate to admit it, but if this happened to me, I'd cry."

"It's a struggle, I promise you."

Bert made another round and then scratched his head. "But why?"

"No telling, Bert," Wolfwood lied easily. He was glad to have another human nearby. It kept him calm. Because he couldn't slip up in front of another person. He was still Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood no matter what became of the things he owned and loved.

"And why this shape?"

"The crosses, you mean?" Wolfwood asked, letting his mind acknowledge for the first time that the burns on the roof, hood, doors, and trunk of his car were in a shape. Not just heartless damage, no. Picasso had left him a message.

"Yeah," Bert said and scratched his head again. "I mean…crosses all over you car…" He shook his head firmly one last time and then suddenly pulled himself up straighter. "Well, we better get this reported. At the very least, they'll finally set up surveillance in the parking garage after something like this. I've been asking for it for years. All the new stations get great setups, but do we? No, South gets ignored like always. I bet when they find out that you have to suffer for it, they'll change their minds. Yessir, I bet they sure will..."

And the guard prattled on why Wolfwood stared ahead at the flaking black and scared metal that had once been hidden so well by shining coats of paint and finish.

The crosses stared back at him, whispering to him that some things, some things, can't stay hidden.

The surprises from yesterday—having to drive home in his Benz, having to park her in the garage like that, and having to tell Vash about what had happened to his car—had hardly worn off when he had another. Waiting in his office the following afternoon, stoically ignoring the wall across from the desk was Frank Marlin.

Frank looked bad. Unshaven, dark-circled, and with the drooping mouth of the worrier. It must have taken a lot to get him to come. "I...got a call from an old buddy—Hollister, you know him?" Wolfwood nodded and Frank continued.

"Well he mentioned...he said...What I mean is that I heard. About your car," he stuttered out the minute the door closed.

Wolfwood almost laughed. People approached the subject as if they were discussing a dearly loved relative who had passed away too soon. He wondered if his car got this kind of treatment from his friends and colleagues because he himself had always treated it that way. He guessed it was a mixture between deference to his obvious love for the Benz and genuine appreciation for a superior automobile.

"I'm very sorry," Frank added. "She was a good car. A beautiful car."

"Thanks," Wolfwood said.

"Hollister said the boys were thinking of pitching in to throw her a nice service," he said with a painfully forced smile as he tried out the joke awkwardly. Wolfwood gave him an equally forced smile for the effort.

"So what are you doing here. I don't want to slap you in the face with it, but if he got to my car while it was parked here at the station, odds are he saw you today."

Frank blanched, his ruddy face looking grotesque for just a moment. "Fuck, I know that," he snapped. "But I felt...I felt..." He waved vaguely before barking out, "Dammit, I felt guilty. I left you dangling. I never warned you properly. I was a goddamn coward for it and...Hell, Nick, if I had told you anything proper-like, maybe you wouldn't be in such a bad way.

Wolfwood regarded him as if seeing him for the first time. He had never believed Frank capable of any depth of feeling beyond the love he obviously felt for his daughter. That he could feel obligation and guilt when his own neck was on the line...

"Thank you," Wolfwood said honestly. "I appreciate you...thinking about my safety like that."

"'s nothing," Frank barked. "I heard and I...I had to come. Maybe I'm not too late to make good." There was a long pause and then he asked on a whisper, "So are you going to do it?"

Wolfwood's brows quirked impressively at the question. "Do what?"

"You know! Quit the case. Call off the investigation. Go back to your own beat. Whatever it is he asked! Are you gonna to do it?"

"He left you notes," Wolfwood stated simply, not really asking a question. "Warnings."

"Yeah, of course! What do you think I'm talkin' about, here?"

"Every time?"

"From the day I took over the investigation to the very last, he left me threats. Sometimes they were just notes. The day the bastard broke into my house, he wrote on my bathroom mirror." He held up a hand. "And before you ask, of course it was in blood. The little bastard has a flair for the dramatic."

"What did the notes say?" Wolfwood asked and sat down at his desk with a wave at Frank to do the same.

The bigger man settled into the chair across from him and hitched up the legs of his pants. "Same ol' same ol'. 'Quit or else.' 'Retire.' Stuff like that. Yeah, the things he did to me kept getting worse every time, but it was months before he actually took my Annie." Sobriety didn't let him talk about the subject of his daughter's abduction easily. Frank didn't look like he spent many comfortable hours outside of the bars he frequented anymore. He paused and winced after almost every word. "The way I figure, at least that means you've maybe got a few months before he does anything…more serious to you. Or your friends."

Wolfwood didn't feel a single urge to tell Frank how very wrong he was. With Milly, the phone calls, and now his car, Picasso was well invested in making his life hell.

"You've got time to get out, to stop this before he does what he did to your car to-to...someone, instead."

Wolfwood smiled wryly. "All right, that's great. But, let's just say he hasn't told me anything like that. What do I do then?"

Frank's eyes went teacup wide. "What, ain't you getting notes?"

"No," Wolwood answered, honestly. "He's left me little surprises, he's damaged my car. But he hasn't made demands. Even when he called he—"

"He called you?" Frank interrupted and shot from his chair. It was as if his big frame suddenly seemed ready to bolt out of the room away from him.

"Yes," Wolfwood said, eyeing the former detective warily. "So he never called you?" he asked in a too-calm voice.

"Hell no. You mean he…he called you and…what? Chatted about the weather?" Frank asked, his voice going up a hysterical octave.

"Not quite."

Frank was suddenly shaking his head childishly, as if denying everything would make it go away. They had both come to the same conclusion and Wolfwood watched him, feeling sorry that the man had wasted a trip and his own safety in order to tell him information that no longer mattered.

Frank sat down again a if all the weight of the past two and a half years of his life finally crashed down onto his shoulders. Who could stand under weight like that? He had been threatened, his daughter kidnapped, his job all but stolen away from him. And he had just invited a fresh batch of pain from a man more than capable of delivering it. Frank was as close to beaten as Wolfwood had ever seen from the other side. As for himself, he was well used to the workings of his own mind.

When Frank spoke again, he sounded as if he might go home, curl up in bed, and maybe never wake again. "If...if he don't want you off the case, Nick," he began and looked up with weary eyes, "then what does he want from you?"

Wolfwood didn't have an answer. At least not one that would put Frank at ease. Or make himself feel any better.

When they parted, it was almost in silence save for a few exchanged warnings to be careful. Wolfwood would be checking in on Frank from now on, even if it took calling in a favor or two.

Left alone in his office, he thought about how sad it was that a person could try their best to do what they believed was the right thing and still get kicked in the ass for it. Frank was in more danger now than ever and it was all for nothing.

Not so long ago, he would have given quite a lot to know what it was that Picasso did to Frank. Now, it was as useless as hearing yesterday's weather forecast. Looking at it simply, Wolfwood knew that Picasso wasn't playing the same game with him. What he had done to Frank would be nothing like whatever it was he had planned for him.

For reasons he didn't know, Picasso had decided that he didn't want him off the case. It was a heavy weight inside him that told him that Picasso wanted something else from him. It was July the first and Wolfwood wondered if the reason Picasso had yet to kill a seventeenth victim was because that victim was...

Vash had looked so afraid when he had told him about the car. His partner was not a coward and never had been. His fear had been for Wolfwood. He had stood in thoughtful silence for a moment and then said, "We'll get him," almost to himself. Vash felt fear for him, concern for him. It made his heart ache strangely.

He swallowed heavily and looked at the pictures on the wall, the violent magnum opus of a murderer. He resolved that if his picture would be the next to adorn the wall that he was for damn sure taking the bastard with him.

To be continued...

Raise your hand if you saw that coming! The way I figure it, no one was surprised with all the hints I've been dropping about the car. Maybe not even Wolfwood. Even still, hopefully it wasn't too painful to read. Thanks to all the readers and reviewers out there!

And (cough cough) after you review this chapter (cough cough), you can click the link at the bottom and have another chapter to read! Wow! Two chapters in a day!

I mean, I guess you can click the link without reviewing, but...er...sigh...never mind.

Up Next? Good luck storming the hotels...