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Author's Note: I hope everybody out there in PCLand had a great weekend!
Nifty Fact for the Day: My Mom used to call me and my brother 'peapod' when we were little, that's where Nigel gets the nickname for Sasha.

o(29)o

"Who's a pretty princess? Who's a pretty princess? You're a pretty princess!"

The baby squealed happily tossing a dingy pink feather boa around Nigel's neck, eliciting a laugh from the man. "And now I'm a pretty princess too!"

The precinct seemed busier than usual, the P.D. and perps alike crammed into every available corner. Even with the office door shut and the window wide open, the place seemed claustrophobic and stifling, too small for its current three inhabitants.

Smecker looked up from the police report he was reading and threw a glare over his shoulder. "Do you mind?" he snapped, "Some of us have actual work to do."

The baby's face crumpled at his tone, but Nigel simply rolled his eyes, offering the little girl a sympathetic smile. "He's just mad because he's not a pretty princess," he whispered conspiratorially.

"Could you be any more of a fag?" Smecker grumbled, turning his attention back to the police report. Jesus, had monkeys written this thing? He paused for a moment, it was the South Boston PD; monkeys probably would have done a better job.

"Could you be any more of a bitch?" Nigel retorted.

"Bich?" The baby inquired and the Asian man clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. Pointing a chubby finger at Smecker, the baby beamed, her tears forgotten in lieu of the exciting new word. "He bich!"

Nigel's horrified expression suddenly turned mirthful. "Yes, sugar, he is. But we still love him, don't we?"

"No!"

"Think you could be a little more useful than corrupting the youth of the friggin' nation?" Smecker said, scowling.

With a sigh, the other man returned the boa, draping it around the baby's shoulders with a flourish. "You sit tight, sugar, I'll be back to play in a minute."

Leaning over Smecker's shoulder, Nigel snagged the headphones from where they lay, abandoned on the desk, and held them up to his ear, cocking his head as he listened.

"Not the usual," he commented, raising his eyebrows, "Tosca's a little tragic, even for you."

Snatching the headphones and tossing them back on the desk with a clatter, Smecker shot the other man a withering stare.

"All right," Nigel held his hands up, "all right." He plucked a folder from the top of the pile, leaning against the corner of the desk and flipping through it with a long suffering sigh.

"So Peapod's mother was here?" he asked, pointing to a picture of the crime scene, a bloody pool and field markers indicating where Maire Kennsett had fallen.

"Yeah, and some gangmembers were found here," Smecker produced another photo, this one showing a handful of bodies sprawling along a grungy stairwell, "All of them Street Priests."

"So these guys came after her then."

Smecker shook his head, "That's what I thought at first, but then I got a good look at the apartment the EMTs found her in front of."

Pressing his lips together, Nigel raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"A couple of vigilantes that we know and love . . ." Smecker said, watching Nigel's eyes widen.

"The Saints? Oh, my God, you don't think they did this do you?"

Shaking his head, Smecker picked up another dossier, flipping to the police report and groaning in disgust. Wasn't literacy a prerequisite for joining the force? He would have had better luck giving these assholes crayons and having them doodle the damned scene.

"There's no doubt they killed the Street Priests, ballistics confirmed that the bullets from the bodies were match to the caliber of guns they use. I'm sure that when the reports come back from the lab we'll have definite proof . The slug from Mrs. Kennsett here isn't back from the hospital yet, but I'd be willing to bet that it's nowhere near their weapons.

"So, what is it with her always being around when Street Priests turn up executed by the Saints?"

Smecker shook his head, "I don't know, all of this started when . . ."

Eureka.

"Idol Ford," he muttered, shoving files and dossiers out of his way, scanning the growing chaos for what he wanted.

Nigel frowned at him, "Want to run that by me again?"

"Mrs. Kennsett didn't start having trouble with the Street Priests until after she discovered those photographs of Idol Ford. She takes these pictures to the press and suddenly we're finding dead Street Priests left and right."

Taking a few of the scattered files, stacking them neatly on a far corner of the desk, Nigel shook his head. "Idol Ford seems a little, well, prestigious to be getting involved with something like the Street Priests. I mean, what are the chances?"

Smecker gave a crow of triumph as he grabbed a file from the jumble on the desk, flipping it open and simultaneously reaching for another. Leaning over them both, Smecker scowled, reaching out for a third dossier. "I'd say the chances are pretty friggin' good. Look, this man is in the photographs that Mrs. Kennsett took as well as this surveillance photo from Special Ops."

Leaning over, examining the two pictures closely, Nigel blinked and leaned back bringing a hand to his mouth. "Oh, God, you're right."

Smecker snorted, "Of course I am."

"So where do the Saints come into all this?"

Smecker looked over at him, something that was almost a smile, playing over his lips. "That's exactly what I'm going to ask them."

"Mah!" the baby cried from across the room, pointing at the small television in the corner of the office. "Mah!"

Nigel and Smecker turned as one to see Maire Kennsett's picture on the screen, a newscaster talking about the tragedy of the previous day. An image of the blood splattered crime scene replaced the smiling blond woman and obscured the television screen as the newscaster declared Maire's condition as 'grave'.

Sliding off her chair, Sasha tottered over to the television, pressing a small hand against the screen, directly over the blood splatter where her mother had been, looking up at the grisly picture with the innocent wonder that only kids seemed to be able to manage.

Gray eyes wide, she turned around, looking at the two men, "Mah?" she asked, lower lip poking out.

"Oh, sweetie," Nigel said, setting the folder aside and scooping the baby up in his arms. Swallowing, he looked at Smecker and the Agent was surprised at the distress he saw in Nigel's eyes. The stricken expression was markedly out of place on the normally unflappable man.

"What do I tell her?" he asked, catching his lip between his teeth. Frowning, Smecker shrugged, looking away to cover his discomfort.

The news reporter switched stories, saying something about a drug dealer being found beaten and murdered in an alleyway, his girlfriend insisting that it was the devil that had come and that judgment day was upon them. Just one more thing proving that the world really was going to hell in a hand basket.

"How do you explain something like this to a two-year old?" Nigel murmured, reaching out to turn off the television. A cry from Sasha made him jerk his hand back, struggling to hold onto the child as she lunged for the screen.

"Mah!" she sobbed, reaching out toward the place where her mother's image had been, "Mah!"

Smecker returned his attention to the files before him, grabbing the nearest one and opening it, the other hand grappling for his headphones.

Solving crime was his forte; the evidence was unfeeling and cold, perfect for someone who generally despised the human race as a whole. Like him. The victims were better left to the touchy-feely types.

However, looking at the child, tears now streaming down her chubby face, as she watched the media's gleeful recounting of her loss, he felt an unfamiliar clench in his chest. He had seen the initial report on Maire Kennsett, and all the medical babble seemed to be saying the same thing:

That this little girl was an orphan now.

o()o

Ducking under the bright yellow tape that was supposed to quarantine the area, Murphy paused for a moment, and stared at the hallway. Once it had been a familiar place, one that he knew by heart, but the remains of the previous day had turned the area into a foreign landscape.

The sound of daily life in the apartment complex bewildered him. It seemed like the world should have at least stopped for a few moments to pay their respects to Maire, but the crime scene markers that had been haphazardly kicked aside and even a set of rust-colored footprints showed that the world hadn't even waited for the blood to dry.

The blatant disinterest made his stomach turn. She had been . . .was . . .he corrected himself fiercely, an amazing woman and there wasn't a soul in the world who could be bothered to take notice of her. She was becoming another faceless victim of another senseless crime.

But Murphy wasn't about to let that happen.

He reached to tear away more of the bright yellow tape that obscured the front door of the apartment, only to find ragged edges where it had already been torn. Withdrawing his gun from his waistband, Murphy nudged the door open. If those bastards were still there, waiting to finish what they had started . . .

The apartment was a disaster, still showing the remnants from their scuffle almost a week ago. Plaster and broken glass littered the floor, crushed beer cans and the occasional spatter of blood marking where each of them had thrown the other, or fallen themselves. The television was still on and his bag was still lying open by the couch, next to a half empty bottle of Guinness, another glaring reminder of how close he and Connor had been to having a little peace in their lives, and how painfully far away they were now.

A quick check showed the area to be empty. Murphy smiled grimly as his suspicions were confirmed - none of the filthy fuckers that had followed them back to the complex had survived. He had seen to that.

Connor's bag was missing from where Murphy had thrown it, heaving it through the door at the first whoop of the ambulance sirens. A pile of blood-stained clothes and a gory ring around the sink showed that his twin had been there. The image of Connor's broken rosary flashed through his mind and Murphy swallowed, running a hand through his hair.

Kneeling, he gathered the few things he needed, tossing them unceremoniously into his own black duffel. He glanced at the TV where pretty blonde newscaster was talking about a recent murder, and frowned. Not that he minded seeing some drug-peddling bastard get what was coming to him, but there was something about the description of the crime scene that seemed . . .off. A moment later, all thoughts of the dealer were forgotten as Maire's picture appeared on the screen.

Beaming brightly into the camera, gray eyes sparkling, she cradled a newborn Sasha in one arm, the other around her son, holding him close. Martin was proudly displaying a masterpiece and Sasha had been captured mid-yawn. It was a perfect moment, and Murphy felt sick knowing that it could never happen again.

Grimacing, he shut off the television, wrenching his duffel shut with more force than necessary, forcing the stomach-turning sensation away. There would be time for grief later; right now he had more important things to do. He had to find his twin.

Murphy opened the door and nearly ran into someone who was lurking outside the apartment. His gun was in his hand before he had made any conscious decision to draw it. A moment later he was staring into the barrel of a gun, trained on him as expertly as his own weapon was aimed. The oath he uttered was matched with one just as vile, if not as colorful.

A pause, then, "MacManus?"

Blinking, Murphy looked past the barrel to the gun's owner. "Dolly? What the fuck are ye doin' here?"

Dolly uncocked his gun, slipping it back into the holster at his waist, his expression almost comically stupefied.

"Jesus, MacManus, what are you doing here?"

Concealing his own weapon, Murphy offered the detective a shrug. "I live here."

"I was backtracking for evidence, trying to see if anything new would turn up," Dolly shot a disgusted look around the ruined crime scene, "I guess it's a lost cause now, huh?"

"Aye."

"Listen, Murph, this woman that was shot – "

"Maire." Murphy said, scowling.

"Yeah, I know, Maire, what did you know about her? Did she have friends? Family? Did you ever notice anybody strange around the complex?"

Murphy snorted, "Anybody strange would probably be the fuckin' Street Priests that shot her, all dead now." He paused for a moment, giving the detective a scrutinizing gaze.

"Ye think they were after her, then."

"Who else would they be after? Oh."

Oh was right. "They were after us, they followed Connor and myself back from the docks. Dolly, why the fuck would they be after Maire?"

"Maybe you should come down to the station with me, Murphy, we can talk there."

"With all due respect, Detective, don't be a twat. Ye know damn good and well I can't do that."

Dolly sighed heavily, kicking at a previously askew evidence marker, "You're going to go find the rest of these guys aren't you?"

"Will it be easier for ye ta look the other way if I tell you 'no'?"

"No."

Murphy nodded grimly, clapping the detective on the back. "Ye're good people, Dolly."

He started to turn away, but Dolly's voice stopped him, "Hey Murphy?"

"Aye?"

"Where's Connor?"

Murphy closed his eyes, shit. "At the hospital, with Maire."

Behind him, the detective made a noise that couldn't have been polite. "You know that drug dealer that everybody's talking about?"

"On the news?"

"Ballistics got the bullet back that killed him. Now, the PD can't put a match to it, but Smecker, that cocky son of a bitch, did."

Murphy ran a hand through his hair, impatient. "What's your point, Dolly?"

"My point is, that the match was one of you guy's weapons. And just between you and me, there's been two more lowlifes brought in since Mrs. Kennsett was shot, both killed the same way and I'm betting both by the same gun."

His heart plummeted at the words, a sudden onslaught of adrenaline making him tremble. Christ, Connor, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut, taking a deep breath to keep his composure. He didn't want to believe it. Part of him wanted to turn around and sock Dolly for spreading such a vicious lie about his twin. But a larger part of him knew, with sickening certainty, that Dolly was telling the truth and that the worst was yet to come.

Nodding slowly, he hoisted his duffel over his shoulder and headed toward the stairwell.

"Thanks Dolly."

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