Everything Old is New Again

by ChapstickLez

Sequel to OWtO: Youthful ambition meets experience when Gail and Holly face the next great challenge. Their daughter, the cop. The Old Guard is still there to help the new batch of rookies through the trials, tribulations, and triumphs of police work, but there are some things a rookie has to learn on their own. (Updated regularly)

37. 04-03 Monster

04.03 - Monster

Who is the monster?

---

Gail wondered how Holly had worked with Harold Wallace and Sandy Paretti for this long without homicide entering the picture.

The painting had malingered for a whole damn week while they waited for legal ownership to be sorted out. Since they couldn't prove it was or wasn't the missing painting, the family to whom it might have belonged to had to be tracked down via the Centre for Jewish and Israeli Affairs. They had handed her over to The Canadian Jewish Holocaust Survivors and Descendants, who were working on the matter.

In the meantime, the judge agreed that if the insurance company and the art expert agreed it was safe to reveal the true painting underneath, then they could better determine the heart of the matter.

To which: What was the painting, and who the actual fuck owned it.

"This would work better in my lab," said Harold, not a doctor, just an art historian of high renown. He had degrees, but no Ph.D. and that struck Gail as weird.

She didn't have a doctorate, but she wasn't an expert like that. Holly had one. And the great Dr. Stewart was still a board certified doctor (a phrase Gail really only knew from TV). But to have the expert, carefully cleaning the painting, inch by inch, and to know he had no extra letters after his name bothered her.

"Your lab isn't secure," said Holly, wearily.

Yeah, if it was Gail working with that guy, someone would be dead. Still she kept her peace, having been booted from Holly's lab twice already.

"We work on countless treasures. Priceless works of art. How are we not safe?"

"Secure," Holly repeated. "And this painting is part of an active investigation. An attempted bank robbery, an insurance scam, identity fraud, and possible Nazi art theft. The judge said you could clean it, but it had to be in a secure location."

Harold grimaced at the words. "This lab is too ... clinical. It's not set up properly." He sounded petulant. Worse than Gail. She hoped.

Gail noticed her wife seething. She knew she should be silent, but the wife in her wanted to help. "Doc, isn't that lab on Four, the one with no windows, still empty?"

After a heartbeat pause, Holly turned and glowered. "The one that gave three of my techs seasonal affective disorder?"

"Yeah," said Gail. "Mr. Wallace needs a place he can arrange how he wants, no windows, clean, controlled atmosphere." Because that was his current problem. The labs were too bright and cheery. Light caused deterioration of art, after all. Most art in museums was under protective glass for a reason. "And it's got two doors, so I can set up guards easily and protect him and the art."

The insurance investigator eyed her. "Really? Aren't the guards overkill?"

"No." Gail leaned against the wall. "If this is a simple robbery or insurance fraud, the accomplice is still at large. If it's actually a cover up for Nazi looting, then we have an international crime. The only reason the Mounties aren't all over this is they are graciously willing to let us determine what the truth is. Otherwise you'd be locked up in a basement with a dozen armed guards."

In truth, it had taken a lot of work for Gail to keep the case. Her primary argument was that it was an unknown. No one knew what the painting really was. And since she had agreed to hand the painting over to the Holocaust reclamation teams if, indeed, it was lost art, and provide full assistance in locating the true owners.

There was a little bit of guilt in it for Gail. She knew that some of her family had been on the wrong side of the war. That was a secret the Armstrongs kept quiet, as much as possible, but the Germanic family had indeed worn the grey uniform and saluted Herr Hitler. None of her direct line of descent, but still. Armstrongs had been Nazis. Not just German soldiers. Nazis.

Once the possibility of the painting being loot was solidified as 'very likely' instead of just a vague idea, Gail had told Holly the situation. They had not yet told Vivian, mostly because it really wouldn't impact her much. Besides being adopted, Vivian was much more a Peck. Her two worlds were vastly different from the peculiar border Gail straddled of wealth and service.

It sucked being able to see and understand why people did what they did. Service, blind service, could lead a soul to some pretty abysmal mistakes.

Harold, at least, took her seriously. "She's not joking." He looked at Sandy, somewhat unnerved.

"My dear Harold, I have long since learned that Pecks don't bluff. Or if they do, it's because the alternative is quite untenable." Sandy looked up at Gail from her comfortable office chair. "My, my, Inspector. I must say it's far preferable to work with you than your grandfather."

Gail blinked. "Oh. Well. Harold." She shrugged and then added for the resident art expert, "My grandfather was named Harold. He was an ass."

"Well said," replied Sandy. "Dr. Stewart, is her proposal amenable?"

Surprised to have been addressed, Holly looked at Gail. "Well. Yes. It'd keep him out of everyone's hair. And I'd be nearby." She paused. "Nearer."

Harold nodded. "Fair enough. Can we move today? I can load my own carts."

Holly took a moment and then pulled out her phone. "Ruth. I need a couple hands and two carry carts. Also I need the lab on four reserved in my name for ... how far does the system go? Uh huh. That's perfect. We're going to make it an art restoration room." She paused. "Seriously? That's great. Do that. Assume we're going to keep it and reuse it for similar projects. Thanks." Tapping her phone, Holly smiled, pleased. "Ruth will have it after lunch."

Giving her wife a thumbs up, Gail used the police app to requisition a pair of guards. John pinged her immediately and said he had Gerald and Jenny Aronson. Good enough. "Two guards will be here before then."

"Efficient." Harold carefully cleaned up and boxed up his supplies.

"Shall we reconvene after lunch, then?" Clapping her hands on her own knees, Sandy stood up. "Will you provide a guard?"

"Of course. I'll stay until he arrives." Gail arched her eyebrows at Holly who nodded a little. "Does that meet your requirements, Ms. Paretti?"

"Quite. Come along, Harold. Let us away." She waved a hand and, amazingly enough, Harold loped after her.

The door closed. Holly sighed. "I think Harold has a crush on Sandy."

Gail nodded and walked over, wrapped Holly into a hug. "Thank god. She can rein him in a little. He's like a toddler wrapped in a pseudo scientist tweed."

A mirthful laugh was expelled into Gail's shoulder. "I could steal your gun like this," noted Holly.

"And do what? Throw it at someone?" Gail grinned. "Besides, a gun is so inelegant."

"So true." Holly sighed again and squeezed Gail close. "They're so frustrating."

"Anything about this case not frustrating?"

"Good point." She let go and smoothed down Gail's jacket lapels, watching her own hands instead of looking at Gail. "It's going to take him a month at this rate to properly clean and reveal the painting."

"A month?" Gail startled.

"He has to peel back each layer carefully. If he hurts the canvas beneath, everything is for nothing." With a deep exhale, Holly rested her palms on the lapels.

Gail didn't know why, but it was always calming for Holly to do that. To play with Gail's lapels. Gail didn't mind it. "Well. So it's a month to find out what the hell the painting is. That means I should spend my time finding out who the owners are."

"How?" Holly stuck out her lower lip, somewhat petulantly. "You have no evidence, no trace, no clues. There's nothing on video or ... or anything."

Grinning, Gail kissed Holly chastely. "Good old fashioned police work, Doc. Interviews and questions and leg work."

Her wife looked skeptical, but Gail had hope in her team.

---

It was dark. Someone was very angry. She pulled the blanket over her head. It was still too cold under the threadbare cotton, but she stuck her fingers in her ears and hunkered. She was scared. She felt that queasy sickness in the pit of her stomach.

Then, suddenly, gentle fingers were touching her back.

Vivian's eyes snapped open, even though she knew very well it was Jamie touching her. "Whuh?" She'd been dreaming. Of course.

"Hey, wake up," said Jamie, quietly. "Viv. Wake up."

"M'wake," she said, feeling incredibly thick headed and confused. Rolling over, she looked up at Jamie who was nervous. "What... what?" Forming words wasn't working.

"You were having a bad dream. You kept saying no, over and over."

She was? Vivian frowned and tried to remember the dream. She knew it was bad, but it was so jumbled. No. Why would she say no? No to whom? The only thing she remembered of her dream was her childhood bedroom. It was dark, she was cold, she had complained. Her... oh.

Vivian grimaced and rubbed her face. "I was dreaming about my ... Um. The house..." She trailed off.

Still. Jamie seemed to understand and turned on the light. "Okay. Real memory or dream stuff?"

"Both? Kinda a fucked up amalgam ..." She sighed.

Jamie hesitantly brushed Vivian's hair back. "Do you ... When I have weird nightmares, I have this problem. Every time I close my eyes, I go back."

That sounded horrible. Vivian shook her head. "No. Not. Not like that. But I usually can't sleep again for a while..." She lifted her hands up and looked at Jamie. "What do you do?"

"Read. You?"

"Play Mario Kart." She smiled sheepishly. "Gail and I used to play whenever one of us couldn't sleep."

"Oh?" Jamie looked surprised. "Wait so that whole thing about being kidnapped?"

So Gail had really told Jamie. "True. Most of the horrific things she says, like crazy random morbid crap? True. It's how she deals with trauma."

"I can see that." Jamie kept stroking Vivian's hair. "You wanna play a little?"

"No. You're terrible at it."

Jamie laughed. "I know, sorry."

"The light helps, though." Vivian smiled and looked up at Jamie's face. Her eyes. Vivian really liked those eyes. They were dark and warm and soothing. Why didn't people talk more about brown eyes? There was a song about it though, but books always talked about green or blue eyes. "Your eyes are pretty."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. They are." Vivian reached up and touched Jamie's cheek. "They're like a well. Deep and ponderous and ... I could fall in forever." The eyes didn't make her forget anything, it wasn't like that. They just ... they made her feel better. Like Holly's hugs or Gail's laughs. Safe.

"Okay, that's way too close to deep ... talk."

Vivian squinted. She was pretty sure she knew what word it was that Jamie edited out. "Read me something?"

Her girlfriend rolled her eyes at the subject change. "I was reading a young adult lgbt story." Vivian smiled up at Jamie and got an amused eyeroll. Then Jamie pulled out her tablet and started reading.

"It's times like this Claire knows she has to dig the deepest. It is in these vital moments she has to call on everything she has ever learned over the years, utilize all she has been repeatedly shown, harness all the resources that have been handed down to her." Jamie absently ruffled Vivian hair. "Because this is where it all pays off: in the art of stealth."

Eventually they both fell back asleep. When Vivian finally woke up again, it was late in the morning. Jamie was still there. It was that rare weekday morning when they had a shared day off. Vivian rolled over and picked the tablet off of Jamie's chest and tapped it on to look at the story.

It was a cute tale, not the deep sort she'd grown accustomed to seeing Jamie read. Everyone needed a break now and then. "A Story of Now," said Vivian under her breath. For some reason it reminded her of her parents.

"Did you hack my tablet?" Jamie yawned.

"Your passcode is incredibly obvious."

Jamie grumbled and reached over, taking it back. "Go back to sleep."

"I want coffee." When Jamie groaned, Vivian laughed and got out of bed.

"Make me coffee, Peck!"

Even though she knew Christian was out, Vivian grabbed a sweatshirt and pants, pulling them on before going to brew some coffee for them both.

In the living room, which had the normal, non stained glass windows, she could see the snow piling up on the windowsill. "Damn. Glad I'm not working today," Vivian noted.

Jamie grumbled. "Can we turn the heat up? I can see my breath."

"It is a perfectly fine 19 and a half, you wimp."

"I spend my life wrapped up in a super sweaty, fireproof outfit. I like it warm." She hunched in Vivian's thick Police Academy sweatshirt, shivering.

Taking pity on her girl, Vivian turned it to 20. "You're killing the planet. I hope you know that."

"Planet's killing me. I think it's fair."

"You are going to hate the cabin next month."

Jamie stopped. "Oh. We are going?"

"Do you... Do you not want to?"

Right away, Jamie shook her head. "I do! I do! I just... In winter?"

"My birthday is placed inconveniently close to Christmas, but yes. In winter. It has heat, you know."

The issue was, Vivian knew, Jamie's opinion of the lack of modernity at the cottage. Jamie had been rather unimpressed by the swamp cooler. It was one of Holly's additions after the original, ancient air conditioner broke. The replacement was a greener and cheaper version, and while it cooled well, it was not as frigid as a more traditional cooler. As long as a fan was also on, it was fine. And they rarely used it anyway, since the breeze off the lake tended to make the house perfect.

"Real heat?"

"Furnace. The fireplace is mostly for show." Vivian handed Jamie the first cup of coffee.

"Mostly doesn't sound promising," said the firefighter, darkly.

She had a point. "Well. It's warm and the couches are right there, so you could totally, um... sit and read. Cuddle." Vivian closed one eye and looked at her girlfriend.

Somewhere between her sips of coffee, enlightenment dawned on Jamie's face. "Oh you mean sex in front of the fireplace! Isn't the floor too hard?"

"Yeah, there's one of those anti-fatigue mats under it."

Jamie stared. "Please tell me they washed the rug."

"Oh yes."

While her mothers had never outright said they'd screwed on the rug, Vivian knew otherwise. Just like she knew what really happened in the canoe. Just like she knew how they'd broken the hammock. Just like she knew why they suddenly got a new rug at home.

They were horny idiots, her moms.

"That's so cool, you know," said Jamie, sucking down more coffee. "They're so ... They're so in love."

Vivian smiled. "They are. It was a bumpy road to get there." She inhaled her own coffee and sighed happily. The coffee maker was a present from Steve, who said a good cop lived on great coffee. One cup at a time.

"Aren't they all? The best love stories have ups and downs but then they end with just ... the best feeling. Like I could watch the whole Emma and Tanner falling in love with Linda over and over. That was a great, poly, love story."

"As opposed to shit like ... Wolverine, Jean Grey, and Cyclops?"

Jamie rolled her eyes. "God. That set up is the whitest ass shit ever. Jean's screwed up, Logan's abusive, Scott's controlling. They all need a dose of therapy."

Gesturing with her coffee mug, Vivian pointed at Jamie. "You'd think the professor would know."

"I think he loves the shit," said Jamie, laughing. "Pop some corn, sit under Cerebro, watch his pet mutants act out drama."

Vivian laughed too. "You know, it would explain everything. And Magneto hates him for it, because it reminds him of Nazis."

"See? Destruction of friendship!" Jamie downed the rest of her coffee. "Second cup's on me." She hopped around the counter. "Do you know that one of my favorite things about you is your unfailing honesty about yourself?"

The topic change confused Vivian. "Uh. You're welcome?"

"I mean it. You ... so the last couple women I dated—"

"After Dennis."

"Yes, after dumb Dennis. They just ... We'd have like four dates and then they'd get all up about how much they were in love. I think it's a big part of why I dated him."

Vivian frowned, watching Jamie run the beans through and start the brew. "I was gonna say that's screwy, but... I get that. You want to feel like... Like TV."

"Like your moms."

"Hmm. Yeah. I was trying not to say that," confessed Vivian.

Jamie smiled and reached over, taking Vivian's coffee mug and refilling it. "But yes. Just like that. You want people to love you, but not in a smothering way."

Unbidden, Vivian scoffed. "Oh, you wait till you get to see Holly with a cold. I swear, she's never closer to homicide than when Gail cossets her when she's sick."

Her girlfriend grinned. "I'll keep that in mind. But they care."

"That they do," she agreed.

"And you care. About me."

Vivian felt her face flush. "I do."

"But you don't throw around things like love without thinking. A lot. And telling me you don't know what it really means for you, or me, or us." Jamie sipped her refilled cup. "And... And I like that. It's honest. You don't screw around with mixed signals or shit like that."

Shaking her head, Vivian felt incredibly confused. Was this a love confession? Maybe it meant Vivian was supposed to say how and why she liked Jamie. Of course, saying she liked Jamie because the woman made her feel safe and okay to be herself perhaps was a little codependent. "I... I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say here," she finally confessed.

Jamie didn't seem off put by that. She leaned over and kissed Vivian's cheek. "That's actually what I mean." And she kept leaning, her head resting on Vivian's shoulder. "You know what you don't know. But I'm pretty sure you like me."

This was a moment where Gail would make a flippant remark about how it was obvious, or a dismissive one about how Jamie was full of it. And Holly would have just smiled and kissed Gail and told her she loved the blonde. But Vivian was neither. She felt herself shyly smiling. "I do," said Vivian softly.

"I like you," said Jamie, equally softly. "And I don't care if you never say anything even remotely like love."

"Okay, that's actually a dreadful thought," Vivian whinged. "And it sounds like a lie."

Jamie laughed a little. "It's not a lie today, unless I'm lying to myself."

"I don't like 'never' ... or 'ever' for that matter."

"Good point. Okay." Jamie pressed her face into Vivian's shoulder. "Okay. Right now, I don't care that you don't say it."

Vivian exhaled, relieved. "Okay."

Okay.

---

It felt like a movie set, realized Holly. Art history, restoration... Fine, art in general had never been her passion. Only after Gail had moved in did Holly know they were things the cop were interested in at all. The idea of spending an afternoon in the art museum, much like an evening at the ballet or a concert hall, was not really something Holly cared for. But Holly had dragged Gail to a baseball game, and so when Gail mentioned she was going to check out the Degas exhibit at the museum, Holly said she'd come along.

At first it had been terribly boring. Gail didn't talk much. She just looked at the pictures thoughtfully. She read the plaques. She tilted her head. And then there was a painting where Gail stood differently. Suddenly she wrapped her arms around herself, like the room had gotten abruptly colder.

Holly had frowned and studied the portrait herself. It was a woman, in blue, with brown hair, looking off to the side. A profile. The woman looked thoughtful, introspective even. But it didn't feel cold to Holly at all. Just quiet.

Without being prompted, Gail said she didn't like Degas, not in the way people thought of liking art. She didn't admire or even particularly care for his style. What Gail liked wasn't something to like really, it wasn't cheerful or happy. But Degas painted something Gail had always felt. There was no attempt at a background. It was mostly solid colors, a little shading, and then a portrait.

Isolation.

Loneliness.

Degas had held firm to a belief that a true artist could have no personal life. That to succeed, he had to be alone. He drove off his friends, he never married, he died blind and alone. He probably had clinical depression. And Gail stood before the painting, watching it, studying it. Looking at it as if she saw herself within.

The reveal had confused Holly. Why would anyone find that appealing? But. She then thought about the Gail Peck she'd met in a forest, with a dead body, and spent a day with in her lab. The Gail Peck who'd broken down, ashamed of feelings, hating people and yet being torn that she couldn't be the shoulder for them to cry on. Not wouldn't, couldn't. Because Gail was the weird little girl who was apart from the others. She was the odd duck who didn't fit it.

She was alone.

She was lonely.

And there, looking at how Degas embraced his loneliness and his isolation, Gail clearly saw herself.

That day in the museum, Holly had taken Gail's hand, gently tugging it so they could lace their fingers together. She'd shared her warmth with Gail. She knew right then that the beautiful, complex, dichotomic woman was the one she wanted. Not just for her looks, which were a thousand ships level of inspiring, and not just for her mind, which was quick and sharp, but for her heart and soul as well. The woman who saw herself in a painting, never shied away from it, and went to look at it as a reminder.

As Holly's introduction to understanding art, it was a bit heavy. After, she asked Gail to show her more. And Gail did. They went to the regular, permanent part of the museums, looking at art. Gail even took her to the modern art museum, and explained some of the more peculiar works. Like why a painting was apparently solid green.

None of that meant Holly understood the slightest thing about art. Which meant she was still half confused about what the hell Harold was doing.

Oh she understood the science part just fine. She totally understood how the chemicals used were gently washing a layer of paint off without damaging the one below. That was cool. But the whole side chatter about the history of the painters and their moods and their works was still perplexing.

And it kind of pissed her off that her daughter was involved in the side chatter.

"You look annoyed, my dear doctor," said Sandy, sitting down with a cup of coffee.

"I didn't know coffee was allowed in here," replied Holly, trying to keep the acid out of her voice.

Sandy spoke with a tone of serious advisement, "Stay south of the Mason/Dixon line." She gestured at the tape line that preceded Harold's work tables. "He's quite dedicated. An idiot, but dedicated. That said, the best geniuses tend to be stupid in their own way. I, for example, married the same man twice. Both times it was a mistake I regret."

She looked at Holly, expectantly.

Holly snorted. "I'm not about to divulge something from my secret past."

"Oh, no no. No need. It's quite clear the world of art has passed you by. No, you wear the undisguised veneer of one brought into the fold too late in life for it to really attach itself to your heart like it should. But fear not. One day there may yet be something that speaks to your soul."

Unwilling to let the mark sting, Holly spoke up. "I have a copy of a Wyeth in my office."

"Shall I guess? Christina's World. Have you seen the original?"

"Twice. And yes, I know she's not deaf."

"Points for that. Do you like it?"

"I like the story. And I find it helps me focus sometimes."

Sandy smiled at her. "We all appreciate art in our own way."

That was mean girl for 'but you're doing it wrong, Dr. Stewart.' Holly grew up with them. She knew better than getting into that fight. "Well. All that said." She shoved her hands into to lab coat. "Is everything to Harold's specifications?"

"Quite. He's happier than I've seen him in eons."

"Good." Holly rocked on her heels. "Okay this is driving me nuts. Why do you have to be here, Miss Paretti?"

"Sandy, and because that may or may not be the painting we insured."

"It's ... pretty unlikely at this point." The edges of the painting were not a match for the photographs. That was, according to Gail, one of the things they did to check for forgeries. The backs and the edges were rarely seen, and thus harder to forge. So when a company had reason to doubt, they went there first.

The edges of their mystery painting didn't match the landscape it was supposed to be. It might match the edges of Alter Buchenwald, but no one had seen that in ... No one had seen it in Holly's lifetime.

"Quite. And that begets the question... where is it?"

Holly pursed her lips. "Oh. So you have to stick around on the slim to none chance that this painting will help you find yours?"

"Alas. Leaving me in the cold north in January. A crime for which I hope to make someone pay." Sandy scowled. "I spend my winters in the south of Europe, given a chance."

Wistfully, Holly remarked, "Greece is lovely in winter. So is Italy."

That had been a dream for her. An insanely long flight in economy plus, with gangly teen Vivian across the aisle from them. And then... two glorious weeks. They explored ruins, found mystery museums of science and invention from the days when those things were a crime, and ate some of the most amazing food on the planet.

"Ah, you're that kind of history lover," said Sandy knowingly. "Thank god. I knew you were brilliant, but I couldn't imagine a Peck or an Armstrong settling for someone who lacked ... the depth of vision of our people."

"How, exactly, do you know them?" Holly was exasperated.

"We're related, by marriage. The Fairchilds."

Holly blinked and stared. Wait. She knew this. "Miranda Fairchild?"

"The very same."

Dear god. That technically made her related to Gail in a way. No. Wait. Marriage. So Sandy had married one of Miranda's children? Grandchildren. That made sense in a way. "That. That is a small world."

"Tristan Fairchild was my first husband. A nice man, but surprisingly dull. His grandmother supported our divorce more than the marriage, though he died shortly after. It hardly mattered." Sandy smiled. "As those things go, it could have been much worse. And your wife. She is the spitting image of Charlotte."

"Miranda."

"The same." Sandy smiled. "Miranda was her married name. Charlotte was her stage name."

Oh right. "I think they spend a lot of time pretending that never happened."

Out of nowhere, Vivian spoke up. "Fat chance. Her movies are on Netflix. We watched 'em. It's hilarious."

"We?" Sandy looked interested.

"My girlfriend. And my roommate." Vivian took off her purloined lab coat. "Dr. Stewart. There's nothing I can help with here. I swabbed the samples and sent them to trace, in case any of the bomb material was on them, but I did a field test and it's pretty unlikely. At this point, I'm waiting on your lab or the Ds to find the origin, so I'm going to head back to One."

Holly quirked a smile. "One? Not Fifteen?" She admired her daughter's work ethic. It was one of the best reflections of herself and Gail.

"We have a couple rapid entries to practice."

"Have fun. I'll call you if we find anything."

"Sounds good, Doc." Vivian grinned and hung up the coat before leaving.

"She's quite talented," said Sandy. "You must be proud."

"We are," said Holly, stiffly.

She didn't trust Sandy in the slightest. For some reason, the woman got under her skin. Maybe it was just the constant reminder of the mean girls in school, but Holly couldn't escape the feeling that, maybe, it was something more.

---

Millburne prison was on Gail's list of places to avoid, no matter what, which was totally why she had to be there.

"Inspector Peck to see John Doe." The guard checked and waved her in.

Her team had asked to come with, but Gail had shaken her head. The problem, as she saw it, was that John Doe didn't have a name. He hadn't broken or spoken more than an admission for both break ins and a confirmation of his goal. The painting. That was a slip-up, Gail suspected. He'd looked pretty put out when he said it.

After that, though, he said nothing. Not to the psychologist, the lawyer, the judge, the guards, or the inmates. It was, Gail felt, incredibly impressive. Still. To jail he went and in jail he sat and this would be his lot in life.

How very depressing.

Gail went through the metal detector, locked up her gun and badge as usual, and carried only a book and a box of Kleenex into the interrogation room. She had a plan at least. A few plans, depending on how the conversation went. Long gone was the time when a criminal led her through the conversation. Nowadays, Gail was well in charge of topics and direction.

She sat down in the empty room. "This is good. Wait fifteen minutes with him out there, then bring him in," she instructed the warden and guards.

The guards nodded and went out, while the warden lingered. "He's not dangerous."

"They never look it," said Gail mildly. She opened her book and flipped to the right page. "You can sit in the observation room if you want."

The warden nodded. "Why... Usually cops come in pairs. Or more."

"I don't expect to get much out of our fellow today, Warden. I'm here to create a rapport so, when he does break, he trusts me."

That shocked the man. Well, he wasn't a detective for a reason, Gail supposed. "Trust?"

Gail sighed. "Warden, all relationships are built on trust. He knows what I want, I need him to trust me enough to give me what he wants. Unless I can do that, he won't ask for it, and he won't give me something in return. It's all trust and favors. So I'm starting small. Now. Shoo."

The warden hesitated but left.

It was hard to explain her plan. John got it, and normally she'd have him there with her, but ... Holly had red flagged the insurance investigator. While she didn't have the heart of a detective, Holly had that wonderful scientific mind. When she said something about Sandy felt 'off,' like she was pushing for a connection to Gail and the Pecks, Gail believed her.

John was running a full and proper background check on Sandy Paretti, including following up with the Armstrong family to determine if, indeed, she was the Sandy Armstrong who'd divorced Gail's great uncle Tristan, the much younger brother of the dreaded Antonia. Tristan had died in a car accident quite a long time ago, and her mother had regarded the playboy's death as no great loss to the family or its name. Elaine did not, however, remember Sandy as anything more than an insurance agent she'd run into a few times, and found the claim of brief familial ties to be rather surprising.

Of course, Gail didn't particularly trust her mother's memory at the moment.

She did trust Holly's gut. And she also trusted Vivian's. When asked, the girl admitted she felt like Sandy was hiding something. Though Vivian was less willing to theorize than Holly, at least not aloud. Vivian kept her thoughts to herself until she was sure one way or the other.

It was enough for Gail. John would run a deep check, freeing Gail to talk to the robber. She looked up as her would-be art thief walked in. He was cuffed to the table and neither said anything. Gail dismissed the guards with a wave of her hand and then returned to her book.

From experience, she knew she had about half an hour before someone got twitchy and came in. So Gail waited ten minutes before speaking. Normally she'd just wait him out, but this guy was different.

"I was surprised to find out how many paintings were still missing," Gail said conversationally.

Nothing.

"I probably shouldn't be. I mean, I love art and art history, but not the drama of people buying and selling and stealing. No. I love going to a museum and looking at this stuff." She turned the book around and showed Alter Buchenwald to the captive. "Not my style, mind."

The man snorted. "Let me guess," he said. "You feel like no one understands you so ... Van Gogh."

Good. Conversation. And he pronounced the name right. "His stuff is amazing. Depressing, though."

That got his attention more seriously. "Van Gogh is depressing?"

"The man needed mental help. Can you imagine how much pain and agony he was in, all his life, to paint like this?" Gail shook her head. "The best works, paintings, music, stories, are made by people with so much empathy, so much that they can't express it in any other way. They don't make what they know as much as they reflect what they feel."

"Maybe they're just trying to make rent."

"Maybe that too. Dogs playing poker." They shared a smile. "This though... I wonder what Leistikow thought, knowing a concentration camp was there in later years?"

"Different part of the forest."

"True. But it brings a strange sort of irony to it."

"It's not ironic, it's tragic. Irony would be if he'd been interred there."

"I think they can both be a little ironic," said Gail. "But he died of suicide 26 years before his painting went missing. Gunshot. Not really any irony there, just tragedy."

"Most artists end in tragedy. The best ones at least."

"Which is why I think they're depressing." Gail regarded the black and white photo. "I gotta say, the colors were not what I expected, Ernst."

Her criminal blinked. Confused. A name. "That's your theory? Shit, no wonder you guys never find anything."

"I find a lot of things. Besides, I know you're not really Ernst." The man looked amused until Gail went on. "The Hoffmans don't even exist."

His face fell. It was so fast, Gail knew it couldn't be an act. Even the greatest actors had moments where their true self, their shadow self came out. And shut up Ghost of Perik. Asshole.

Never once had Gail come to Millburne without thinking of him. For now, she shoved the memories of talking to him far away. Later. Concentrate on this case, this crime. The now. Memories were just memories.

"You didn't know?" Gail tilted her head. "They're not real. It's funny, though. They were on a vacation when you broke in. Which ... I mean, if they were my fake identities, I'd just pull a Shawshank and walk right in. A man who never existed. And you know, it screwed me up, buddy. Why would you break in if you were them?" She watched his face contort into pain. Anguish. "You'd break in if it wasn't you. If you were waiting for when the mysterious Hoffman family was out of town. A family you could never find to begin with... because they never existed."

The criminal's eyes watered. "Are you sure?"

"Quite."

And there it went. Raging tears. "How... how!? He has a job! A wife!"

"Fake job. Works remotely. No one's seen him."

"But... he had to interview!"

"Actor. The face on the ID is the actor too. He thought he was making a prank show." Not a very good actor either. He'd given up on it shortly after. Gail felt that was why he was chosen.

"Fuck..." The criminal rubbed his nose on his sleeve. Gail pushed over the box of tissue. "Thank you."

"Welcome. Want to talk now?"

He shook his head. "No."

Gail fished her log book out of her pocket and wrote down a reminder. Ask Holly to see if there was a way to check relations to Leistikow. Maybe her robber was related. Or maybe he was Jewish.

"Hans Lachmann-Mosse had but one son. George. He died in 1999. No kids. Left his restitution to a lot of places. Can't trace him to Canada." Gail leaned back and watched his face carefully. "Ancestry is a funny thing. You have to go back up to go down."

There was no sign of a reaction. Hm. She wrote down the name and 'DNA' — maybe she could find that connection.

"I wanted..." He paused.

Gail waited but he wasn't picking up the thread. "So your sister. What's she want?"

He stared. "What?" That was a what of a different color. He was stunned for the hit.

"Sister. We have her finger print. I mean... We did run down the wrong road, assuming she was pretending to be Greta Hoffman, to get in and place that bomb." Gail waved her pen. "Funny thing about that. In doing so, we were able to spot the woman who planted the bomb. Pretty genius. Like you, she used the boxes alongside. Well. Above. The actual owner of that box? Pretty pissed."

"Louise..." He stopped. "I don't know where she is. Haven't seen her in years."

"She's pretty good with fake bombs."

He looked down at his cuffed hands. "Fake."

"Fake."

"Huh." He tried to lean back and got caught short by the cuffs. "You know it doesn't matter anymore. I'm here, she's not. The painting is in evidence."

"True. Wonder why she left a bomb instead of taking it though."

"Who the hell knows. Women."

Gail arched her eyebrows. "Uh huh. Well when I find Louise, I'll tell her ..." She waited a moment. The robber said nothing. "I'll tell her that her brother says hi."

"Do that, Detective."

"Inspector." He shrugged. "Call me if you get bored, Skippy." And Gail stood up.

As she reached for the book, though, he jerked his chains. "Could I... could I keep that?"

"Gotta give to get, bud." She very slowly drew the book back towards her, never taking her eyes off him.

He exhaled. "My name is Walter."

She tilted her head. "Yeah, okay Walter. Enjoy the book." She left the Kleenex as well.

Once in the observation room, she watched Walter read the book.

The warden cleared his throat. "Was that ... useful?"

"Yep."

Gail took out her phone and texted Nuñez, telling him to look for men named Walter with a sister named Louise. Then she texted Holly, asking about the possibility of seeing if Walter was related to Lachmann-Mosse, or if there were some secret Jewish markers in his DNA. Finally she told John the names and that she was confident Walter was not a faux-Hoffman.

She tossed her phone up and smiled. "I got a lot."

---

As Vivian stared at the diagram, Lara remarked, "I'm impressed you didn't waste the paper."

"You heard the Chief. A paperless field office is the way of the future." She tapped the app on her watch and rotated the circuit board with the bezel.

"I think you're just showing off."

"That too." No. The circuit board wasn't it. Vivian scowled. "If you wanted to leave someone a message in a bomb, where would you put it?"

"Oh that's easy," said Lara. "Under his dresser."

Vivian blinked and turned to stare at the baby detective. "You're useless. Why are you here?"

"One, this is the Parade room. Two, McNally asked me to kick you out please and thank you." Lara shook her head. "It's not fair. They all love you."

"They all buckled me into a car seat," sighed Vivian. "I was a small six." She turned off the screen and picked up her tablet. "What are you working on?"

"Sting op for the murder of Lucas the Sniffer."

"Jesus, people get the worst nicknames," Vivian complained. "The sniffer? Did he do cocaine?"

"Meth. Someone stabbed him, which woulda been okay except he was a CI."

"Oooh and you to get investigate?"

"I get to go undercover." Lara grinned but looked incredibly nervous.

"Yep, don't miss that!"

Lara punched her arm. "Brat! Wait till we need a technical expert to infiltrate a girl bomb gang!"

"Then I'll be coaching you," drawled Vivian. She yelped when Lara slugged her again. "Bitch. I take it back. You can die in a fire."

"Harsh words, Peck. You here for fun and games?" Sgt. McNally eyed them with unveiled amusement.

Vivian rubbed her arm. "No, ma'am. I was bogarting your big screen. Have fun with the Sniffler."

"Sniffer," corrected Lara.

"Not bombs, don't care, Volk!" Vivian waved and walked out. She started reading from her tablet as she went to the ETF ready room.

That was going to be her excuse for slamming into Gerald, who grabbed her arms for a moment. "Woah there, little Peck."

Somehow she managed to hold on to her tablet. "I'm taller than you are, Duncan," grumbled Vivian, rubbing her arm.

"Yeah, when'd that happen?" He glanced off to the side, almost nervously.

"I ate my Wheaties." She frowned at his skittish expression. "Are you working the Sniffer case?"

"Uh, no. No. I'm ..." There was a ringing sound Vivian didn't recognize and Gerald (Duncan...) pulled a phone out of his pocket. A burner phone. "Waiting on this."

"Keep being weird," Vivian told him as he walked off. She went back to her tablet, looking at the bomb.

If she was going to leave anyone a message in a bomb, it wouldn't be in the diagram. Not unless she was leaving a message for a bomb tech. No, if she was leaving a message in a bomb, a totally safe bomb, it would have to be in something they could see easily.

Vivian sat on the stairs to the detective bullpen and pulled up the original pictures of the bomb. Okay. What was there on the face of the bomb? The first photos of the scene were not great. Yes, a phone took great pictures today, but the hand that took it was shaking.

Zooming in on the picture, Vivian stared at the plain front of the bomb. It was a flat front with no obvious sensors. No clocks. That was normal. Most bombs didn't give themselves away. She'd never seen a real one with a countdown timer, at least not in the wild. A lot of things about bombs weren't real, or at least not common.

Was there anything? Any sign? She frowned and swiped to another photo. It was hard to visualize on her tablet. That was why she'd blown it up on the wall. There was something to be found in the old methods, printing physical photographs and studying them on a pin board. A person could get the big picture and the small ones all at once.

A familiar voice cut in her thoughts. "You look really put upon, my young niece."

"Are you off duty or do I have to call you Inspector?" Vivian leaned back and looked up at Traci Peck.

"Aunt Inspector? Ugh, no." Traci sat down next to her on the steps. "Also ugh, I'm old." Vivian smiled and Traci poked her ribs. "This is where you say 'Oh no, Aunt Traci, you're not old!' you little brat."

Vivian grinned. "Gail's only a year older than you, Trace."

"Thanks for reminding me."

"Steve's the oldest."

Traci smiled. "You can keep reminding him of that, please." Then she reached over and tapped Vivian's hand. "What's the tablet?"

"My bomb."

"Oh the bank Nazi bomber art theft? Gail was swearing about it this morning. She hates triangulation." When Vivian made a quizzical noise, Traci explained. "The robber said his name was Walter, and Gail caught his sister's name as Louise. Can't find any siblings with that name match up."

That would drive Gail nuts. "They may have pretended to be cousins."

"That's what I said. Or foster siblings."

"No, no way." Vivian shook her head. "DNA was a positive sibling match. Too bad you can't match fingerprints though."

"Science has come a long way." Traci leaned into Vivian's shoulder. "You know she went to Millburne. By herself."

Vivian did know. She nodded, sadly. "Yeah. Mom brought her donuts. Said she'd be extra cranky."

"Can't really blame her."

Turning off her tablet, Vivian looked at Traci. "I have two unrelated questions."

"Okay."

"If I printed up the photos of the bomb face, would I get yelled at?"

"No. Especially not if you told Jules first. I recommend saying it'll help visualizations."

"Okay. Good." Vivian took a deep breath. "What was it really like?"

It took Traci a long minute to understand what Vivian meant. "Oh. Really?"

Vivian nodded. "I could ask Mom, but... you saw it from the outside."

"I was with Noelle, watching Olivia be born," pointed out Traci, quietly.

"But you know."

"Andy knows more." When Vivian gave her a look, Traci smirked. "Okay. Fair. Yes. I know." She clapped her hands to her knees. "Buy me lunch and we'll talk."

"Back me up with Sgt. Smith?"

"Deal."

---

Her office was a sanctuary. A safe place. A haven. And right now, a healing place.

Holly closed her eyes, lying on the yoga mat on the floor and concentrated on breathing. She wedged a roll under her back for lumbar support and exhaled deeply, trying to relax her muscles.

"Long autopsy, huh?"

Squinting up at her door, Holly resisted the urge to flip Ruth off. "Six hours. I'm officially too old for this shit."

"That's what I think, but you've been so determined." Ruth shook her head and came inside, closing the door behind her. "Don't get up."

"Har har." Holly closed her eyes again. "Don't call my wife."

"Wouldn't dream of it." There was a sound of Ruth sitting on the couch. "I have, however, taken the liberty of rearranging your schedule and moving your autopsies to a lower frequency."

"Damn," muttered Holly. Gail would hear about that.

Ruth didn't seem to care. "You're sixty, Holly. It's time to give up the ghost. Wanda volunteered to pick up a couple more a month, but she and I worked out a new arrangement where you will be monitoring the rookies more than doing your own."

It stung. It stung to hear that she, physically, could no longer keep up with the work she loved. Holly inhaled thickly and wiped at her eyes. Without a word, Ruth handed over a tissue. "Thank you," mumbled Holly, and she dabbed at her eyes.

"You're older than Quincy, you know," offered Ruth.

She couldn't help it, Holly laughed at that. "Thank you so much, Ruth."

"And the new Sam you hired looks pretty good."

The shuffle, following Rodney's move to teaching and to the Territory's ME office, had been quick and decisive. Wanda had taken over as head of field ME work, sitting in the position of Medical Director. The assistant ME was Pete Chundray, a sideways transfer from Thunder Bay. It had surprised a lot of people that she'd picked an outsider for the role, but Pete...

He was the right age, the right demeanor, and his work on frozen corpses and how to properly thaw without loss of evidence had been groundbreaking. Pete had reduced the time needed by hours. When he'd contacted Holly, it had been unsolicited. He'd heard she was stepping down as ME for Ontario, and that Dr. Frang was taking over while not carrying the double load, and did that mean she had an opening because he wanted to learn from her.

When she told him she'd heard of him, Pete had blushed so hard, his dark skin went purple. He was adorable. Shy. Soft spoken. Brilliant. He was the sort of person she had dreamed of working with. As the assistant coroner in Thunder Bay, the man only lacked the political savvy that came with the job in Toronto. His wife (a pediatrician) and their two teen daughters were delighted at the move, which certainly helped.

"I take it you approve of Pete?"

"I do. He's very polite though. I'm a little afraid the office will eat him alive."

Holly sighed. "I hope not. Ideas?"

"A few. I could float him some historical documents. Maybe help him get up to speed."

That could work. "Dial him in to sit in with me on policy meetings."

"More than normal. Okay." There was a beep of a tablet. "That will cut into his lab work."

"Eh, it's up to snuff. How much?"

"More than normal for a new hire. 18% less."

Holly smiled. "Have I mentioned I love your precision, Ruth?"

"Not today," said the woman, cheekily. "Alright. Anything else?"

"You came in here," reminded Holly.

"I did. Did you take an anti-inflammatory?"

"Yes, Mom."

Ruth laughed. "Is now a good time to ask for a raise?"

"That entirely depends on if you want to help me put a SalonPas on my back."

"Pretty sure that's illegal. I could call your wife?"

"No. Thank you." Holly exhaled and slowly sat up. "The surest sign of my age is that I have become an expert at applying those myself."

"You're moving better," noted Ruth, holding a hand up. Holly gratefully took it and stood up. "Unrelated. How's the Nazi art going?"

Holly sighed and massaged her lower back. "Frustratingly. The samples of the ghost painting are contaminated by the overlay, and we don't have any photographs of the edges, so we have to use other, more traditional methods to determine if it's real. All of which rely on Harold being done cleaning it."

Ruth smiled. "You don't like Harold?"

"Harold is frustrating. Sandy gives me the willies."

Surprisingly, Ruth's face tightened. "She's too ... She talks too much. An investigator should listen. And she knows way too much about faking art."

Arching her eyebrows, Holly pulled out her heating pad and set it up on her chair to buy some time. "As an art insurance specialist, she should know what she's insuring."

The assistant sighed. "Right, but ... it's like she could do it, if she wanted to."

"I try not to think about how much crime my wife could get into if she turned that way," mused Holly.

"Yeah, but Gail's not an expert. Not at everything." She frowned. "I'm not explaining it well."

Holly looked at Ruth for a moment. "No." She rubbed her lower lip. "Ruth, you see a lot more than everyone else. A lot differently. It... I think you saw something that doesn't fit, and it's bothering you. So I'm going to tell you the same thing I tell my baby lab rats. Keep thinking about it. Keep looking. Keep watching. Trust your gut. And come to me when you have thoughts like that."

Her assistant stared at her. "That... That's good advice."

"I have had some practice," said Holly with a grin.

"Thank you," said Ruth, sincerely. "I'm going to go figure out schedules. You rest your back."

"And write up a report." Holly watched Ruth leave and close the door behind herself. She would much rather dig into Sandy and the art case, but crime in the city never stopped, and the autopsy of a man eaten to death by his own pets, all sixteen of them, needed resolution.

Holly sighed and sat down. Heating pad on. Computer on. Time to get to work.

---

The mystery of hidden identities gave Gail a headache.

She went to bed with a headache, she woke up with a headache, she got a worse headache through the day, and she went to sleep again with the headache. The names Louise and Walter were coming up short. The trail on the power behind the Hoffmans was deader than her father. There was simply nothing to do but wait for the painting proof. And Gail hated waiting. It gave her a headache.

Come Saturday morning, Gail groaned as Holly got out of bed. "Please don't turn the light on," she begged, burrowing under the blankets.

Her wife made a noise and went to the bathroom before sitting on Gail's side of the bed. "Honey, you need a distraction. You're too up in your head again."

Gail grimaced. "Holly. I have a headache. Literally. My head is killing me and I hate my case and I just want to ignore the world."

Warm fingers wormed their way under the blanket to touch her neck and then forehead. "Okay, honey," said Holly gently. She kissed Gail's shoulder and tucked her in better.

No arguments? Gail squinted at her wife, but Holly was quietly putting on sweats and vanishing out the bedroom door. It was, wonderfully, silent. Gail's delight in that lasted too short. She had zero capacity for boredom. This was her bane and her woe. Gail did not know how to relax.

To her surprise, soft music swarmed up the stairs. Jazz. The music Gail loved listening too when she was stressed. Calming. She closed her eyes again and concentrated on the music.

Art, music, paintings, poetry. They were all different aspects of the same thing. She loved the darker aspects of it, the pain and agony behind the beauty. Once, in college, someone told her that they were glad antidepressants hadn't been invented when Van Gogh lived, because then he wouldn't have created such amazing art.

Gail had been suspended for a week for kicking her classmate's chair out from under him.

It was worth it.

The greatest art, the stuff that ripped her soul out all came from pain. Gail hadn't lied when she told Walter than she didn't love Van Gogh. It was true. She liked his work. She like the world he saw sometimes. But she felt a forced lightness in the colors. It was as if the only way he could live without being swallowed by his agony was to wash it away with bright, bold colors.

By contrast, there was Cézanne. His Dark Period, where he painted a murder and a rape. And the abduction. The year after Gail's own abduction, she found herself drawn to his works. The ideas that tormented the artist, that cast him to paint turgid, bold strokes in the darkness, felt so familiar to her.

The obvious agony of death and destruction were one. But it was The Abduction that caught her battered and beaten heart. Of course she knew Metamorphoses by Ovid. She was a Peck. Gail knew the classics inside and out. She had been drilled on them from the moment she could read. So while people argued that the mythic figures in Cézanne's broodingly dark work were Hercules and Alcestis, whom the former reduced, the title told Gail it was indeed the abduction of Proserpine.

Gail was not so egotistical as to envision herself as the princess and darling child of Ceres, nor would she wish to pass aspirations of grandeur and godhood onto Perik, who was no Pluto, but still. Still. The story of how, once kidnapped, Proserpine was doomed to spend half her life in hell... oh. Oh how that lingered.

At least she'd never been raped, Gail mused, grimly.

Dark thoughts. Hardly restful. But art was, for Gail at least, not restful. It was the systematic pealing of her pain from her skin. It was the layer by layer display of the creature that crawled beneath. It was the revelation that the demon, the monster, was never Perik and never Peck, but always and forever Gail.

Her flaws stood on display in art. Others saw the beauty of the porcelain skin and the ruby lips. And Gail, seeing her reflection, saw the pain underneath. Great art came from great empathy. It was a reflection of the agony of the world, sometimes painted over in bold strokes by Van Gogh, sometimes in the tumescent darkness of Cézanne, and sometimes in the bitter loneliness of Degas.

Art was pain. More than life itself. Because life ended and art was eternal. For years, for generations, art was created not for the vain narcissism of portraits, but for the humbling of humanity. Thou are mortal, said art. It looked back at a person and told them of their lacking. It told them of their failures. It told them of their wanting. And it told them of the external struggle.

"You're not sleeping," said Holly, jarring Gail out of her thoughts.

"No." Gail sighed and opened her eyes. Her wife was a little disappointed, but held two coffee mugs. "God, I love you."

"You're taking a painkiller chaser." Holly put the mugs down and went to fetch the pills. "Your brain is awake."

Gail sat up and greedily sucked down coffee from her favorite mug. Ceramic, lined somehow, and it kept things warm for a very long time. "It doesn't have an off switch, Holly."

The doctor sighed. "Do I want to know what you were thinking about?"

"Probably not, no."

Holly handed over two gel capsules and watched Gail swallow them. "I love you, Gail," she said softly, and sat beside Gail. Holly's warm, tan hands wrapped around her own mug, holding it still while she leaned in towards Gail, their foreheads meeting. "I love you. I hate that you're in pain."

"It's just a headache," muttered Gail.

But Holly didn't let go yet. "I hate that you hurt. That you feel so much and you see so much that it all cuts at you and tells you that the world is a ... a ... an Iron Maiden. It's not. It's a crucible, and it's tempered you. It's made you so, so beautiful to me, Gail. But god, it had to hurt you."

Gail sucked in a breath. Sometimes she wondered if Holly could read her mind. Or if she talked in her sleep. Because Holly, wonderful Holly, always saw past her flippant remarks and morbid humor. Holly saw Gail, who had walked through a fire, and Holly thought Gail was the more worth loving for it.

"Holly." That was it. She just said the name.

"I gave you decaf," replied Holly.

The spell was broken. Gail snorted a laugh and so did Holly. "Asshole."

"Your asshole. I really would like you to sleep, but you should eat something."

Because Gail had to eat, lest her metabolism try to eat her. She sighed. "Did you make me breakfast?"

"Oatmeal, bacon. Fruit."

"One of those things is not like the other," sang Gail, and she kissed Holly's nose. "Okay. Let's get up."

---

"I look like an idiot," complained Vivian, standing in front of her closet.

"You look adorable," insisted Matty, curled up in the window seat.

"I'm not dating you." She stared at the mirror. "Jamie, come on, this is stupid."

The bathroom door opened and Jamie nearly came out. She spotted Matty and then ducked behind the door. "Matty. I'm not wearing a shirt," she said, darkly.

"Got a bra on?" Matty smiled gamely.

"Yes..."

"I'm a costume maker, Jamie. And trust me, your titties do nothing for me."

The bathroom door closed and, a moment later, Jamie came out in a tank top and tight jeans. While Matty teased Jamie, Vivian just stared. The jeans should be illegal. Holy fuck. Jamie's legs and ass looked amazing. And the tank top? Jesus, it was white against Jamie's dark skin and accentuated her muscles. Did Jamie have muscles... wow.

"That's not the point, Matty. I don't want to prance around naked in front of my girl's BFF."

"Please," scoffed Matty. "Viv, tell her she's being silly."

"Uh can't talk," mumbled Vivian. "Having a queer."

Jamie's bright laughter made her stop staring. When Vivian looked up, she saw her girlfriend grinning. "It's way more satisfying, making girls go speechless," declared Jamie. "But she's right, that shirt looks silly. Matty, get her the plaid."

"I thought the plaid was better," he admitted. "But someone thought it was too stereotypical."

"We're going to a country dance in my truck. I think we're walking stereotypes." Jamie sat on the bed and pulled on honest to God cowboy boots. "Did you get your Mom's hat?"

Vivian jiggled her head. "Yes. Yes, I got Mom's sex hat." She sighed and took off the Western style shirt, tossing it on the bed, and pulled on a more normal plaid.

"Oh please tell me you cleaned it," whinged Matty. "Jamie, sweetie, come here. I need to look at those boots." He hoped off the window seat and pulled a buckle out of his swag bag. "Okay, this belt. And if you're bold, this bolo tie."

"No tie." Jamie was firm. "Do you have a matching belt for Goofus over there?" She jerked her thumb at Vivian.

"I can hear you." Vivian tucked her shirt in, raised her arms up to make sure it fit properly, and then presented herself (sans hat) to Matty. "Belt me."

Matty rolled his eyes. "It's a complimenting belt, girl on fire. Matchy-matchy is so passé." He held out a buckle for Vivian, who obligingly put it on. "See? She doesn't look so lumber-jane."

The once over from Jamie made her face burn. "A miracle in and of itself," mumbled Vivian.

Her girlfriend brushed the shoulders of Vivian's shirt. Those amazing brown eyes were dark and lovely as always. "It's the fit. Takes you from lazy to stunning." Jamie stood on her toes to kiss Vivian softly and so, so warmly. For a moment, there was just a pretty girl kissing her.

"Can we do that and stay here?" Vivian sighed and hooked her fingers in Jamie's belt loops. "We can ditch Matty."

"No. I want to teach you to dance, Two Left Foot Peck." Jamie kissed her again, less deeply. "I want to go out with a hot girl, have a beer or two, dance, get hot and sweaty and think about how you look like that. And then we can come back here and do that other stuff." She kissed the corner of Vivian's mouth. "Dance with me, Peck."

Vivian looked up at the ceiling and then over at Matty, who was smirking. "I'm whipped."

"You're whipped," agreed Matty. "But I like her idea. Just replace you with Enrique."

He and Jamie looped their arms through Vivian's and hauled her to the door, even going sideways to drag her down the hall.

She had to admit it, but she liked the dancing. Line dancing was nothing like regular dancing or (god forbid) ballroom dancing. Now that was a failed attempt of Elaine's to introduce Vivian to high society. Of course, it came with getting to see pictures of fifteen year-old Gail at her debutant ball, so that was alright. Holly hadn't seen those photos before either, and they'd giggled at them for ages.

But this was different dancing. This was following directions and not trying to be fancy but to have fun. No doubt Gail would argue regular dancing was fun, but for Vivian it was like ... It was like sports for Gail. An apt analogy.

Maybe it was fun because Jamie really enjoyed it. Her girlfriend laughed, stole her hat now and then, and laughed. Jamie laughed. And Vivian so loved that laugh. To see Jamie's face light up with joy. Mostly it was at Vivian's ineptness with the steps, but the dancing was fun. It was silly, no mistake, but it was so much fun to just goof off.

That was something Vivian had never really been good at. She didn't let loose much. She didn't eat exciting donuts (why Jamie was bothered by that, Vivian wasn't sure). She didn't stand out. And no, she didn't go to dances. Except now, here she was at a dance and here she was with her girlfriend, having fun.

Finally the night came to a close. Matty and Enrique went home together, giggling like schoolgirls, leaving Vivian and Jamie to take Jamie's truck back to their place.

"Viv, you are a strange, paradoxical, person," said Jamie as they stepped into the cold night air. She clearly had been thinking about that for a large part of the night.

"Oh? How's that?"

"You love art but you hate dancing. You're a sporto too. So that's extra funny. You like art and music and fancy stuff, and you're amazingly gorgeous, but you dress super casual. You're funny, but you barely talk, so most people never know any of that. You don't smile a lot. And I get it, I do. You don't want to draw attention to yourself."

Vivian frowned. "Okay?"

Jamie stopped at her truck and blocked the door. "But... I'm going to say something, and I don't want you to feel like you have to say anything back. Okay?"

"Sure— Oh. Wait wait!" Vivian's brain caught up with Jamie's babble. The only reasons a girl said things like that was when it was time for a massive confession. "Jamie, you don't —"

Her girlfriend touched a finger to Vivian's lips. "Hush. Listen."

"But—"

"Hush." Jamie leaned in and kissed her. "I love you." Shit. Jamie had said that before, but now it felt like it had some serious gravitas. This was real. Vivian swallowed and opened her mouth, but Jamie went on. "I get it. I know. I don't care right now if you can't say it, and I don't want you to feel obligated to say it back, but I want to tell you how I feel. And I feel like this and I want you to know it." There was another kiss. "I love you, Vivian, and I'm really glad I met you."

For some reason, that didn't feel oppressive. Like... every other girl (or guy probably) would expect an answer. When Dean said it to Rory on Gilmore Girls, he'd been upset that she didn't answer, after all. But Jamie didn't sound like that at all. It was almost like when Holly would remind Gail that she was loved. Or Vivian that she wasn't broken. It was just ...

It was just words. And Vivian understood the meaning. And she felt no pressure.

Vivian sighed and wrapped her arms around Jamie, holding her close. "That was a lot of words."

"I know. Sorry, it's Holly's fault."

"I'm trying to figure out how you being wordy is my mom's fault... Gail's maybe, but Holly's..."

"Hush," said Jamie for the third time.

And Jamie kissed Vivian for the third time. A long kiss, slow and deep and warm and it wasn't winter anymore. The ground wasn't frozen. The snow was gone. There were two warm hands inside her jacket, gripping the sides of her shirt. Those soft, pliant lips on hers, the reminder of good things. Great things.

Finally it ended, after someone cat called. Vivian sighed softly, resting her cheek against Jamie's head. "How did you do that?" Jamie made a soft, curious, questioning noise. "Make that actually feel not ... not pressing."

"I rehearsed a lot."

Vivian choked a laugh out. "Come on, McGann. Let's go home."

A thought came to Vivian, hours later, when she was drifting off to sleep and listening to the steady breathing of Jamie beside her, and trying not to ogle the beautiful dark skin, and actually go the fuck to sleep. Something Gail had said. There were a million ways to say 'I love you' to someone. And most of them were showing the other person (or persons) what was felt deep inside. Maybe, maybe the feeling Vivian had for Jamie was love. She still wasn't sure.

Hopefully she was able to show Jamie how she felt, even if Vivian didn't know exactly what the right name for it was.

---

While Holly considered herself the furthest thing from an art expert, she could read chemical analysis like nobody's business.

"You're sure?" Gail's face and voice were grim.

"The scan boasts 96% accuracy, but .. Yes. I'd testify in court that this painting cannot be the original. This is a fake of Alter... Alter..." Holly gave up and held out the results.

"Alter Buchenwald." The blonde sighed and put her glasses on to read. "A fake."

"What.. Um. What do we do now," wondered Pedro.

"We. Huh. Okay. Nuñez, you go tell our Mr. Walter that it's a fake. Record his reactions. We're pretty sure he's after this one, not the cover. Trujillo, you find the original."

Trujillo stared. "You want me to find a lost Nazi painting?"

"No. I want you to find that missing landscape by van de Velde. Contact the broker who claimed to sell it. If you need the Mounties, ask John to hook you up with our buddies."

The two junior detectives nodded. "And... You, ma'am?"

Gail sighed deeply. "I am going to find our forger." The duo looked impressed and left Gail's office to handle their tasks. But Gail stared at the results more.

Holly knew that look. Detective Gail Peck, the results of generations of policing in Toronto, had spotted something. So she just asked, "What've you got?"

"Paint strokes." Gail handed Holly's tablet back and picked up her phone, turning on her magic wall. "Here's the best photo of the original Leistikow Buchenwald." The picture was tiny and greyscale. "I know. But here are high quality scans of Leistikow's other works. Look at the brush strokes. He has a style. Everyone does. The pressure of their hands is based on their physiology after all."

Nodding, Holly sat on the edge of Gail's desk. "Height in relation to the canvas."

"One of the easiest ways to spot a forgery, besides the edges, is the strokes. Forging someone's hands is hard." Gail moved the Leistikow paintings up a row and brought up their fake landscape by someone pretending to be van de Velde. "Notice anything weird?"

Holly frowned. "This isn't my forte, Peck." But as soon as she said it, she saw it. "Hey, wait..."

"Yeah. Same kind of strokes. At first I thought van de Velde studied Leistikow. But then I made AV do this..." Gail brought up an overlay picture.

The strokes of the paintings of both not only matched, but were arranged in a way to make it easier for the faux-Leistikow to obscure the faux-van de Velde. The problem there was the strokes very much didn't match the norm for van de Velde.

"How much merit do you put in acceptable deviance," wondered Holly.

"You mean in the work? An artist doing something different? Yeah, this really is how the van de Velde is supposed to look. Which makes it a damn good fake, using one of his least popular pieces. Except... how fucking far and wide did the forger have to go to find this painting that would match that well? And why?"

That was a good question. "You still think your robber wanted the Leistikow?"

"Certain enough that I'm going to ask the lost art folks to help me get a warrant so I can try and figure out why Walter thought it was here."

"So ... what if it was there? And Walter didn't know it was faked."

"Which fake?"

"The Leistikow."

Gail opened her mouth, as if to snap out a snarky reply, but then she paused. "I know he didn't know the Leistikow was fake. You mean what if someone ... What? Followed him, saw he was getting too close, and swapped it out?"

"Maybe. When was the Hoffman's last visit?"

Looking at her notes, Gail frowned. "A week after the break in at the other bank, Mr. Hoffman's lawyer came to inspect the contents."

"Where's the lawyer?"

Gail waved her hand, making wispy gestures. "A ghost... I thought it was sister, to be honest." She paused. "Thought. Here." Gail pulled up the surveillance footage. "Unless she's a hell of an actor, this is a much older person. And I'm not dismissing the idea that Walter doesn't have a much older sister, but the more likely idea is that it's a third person."

"An accomplice. Or someone transient, hired for a moment." Holly watched the video. "What are they doing?"

"Dunno. They're fucking awesome at blocking."

All Holly could make out was that they had a briefcase and unfolded something and ... "You don't think this is the painting replacement?"

"Not unless she hid a frame up her skirt. You can't fold a painting. I think she's making sure it's the right fake, though." Gail huffed, annoyed.

Holly tilted her head and finally shook it. "I do not envy you this, honey."

Gail snorted. "This is not fun. I like the part where I'm delving into stupid people's lives and not the part where I'm guessing."

"I can imagine." Holly tapped on her tablet again. "I re-ran your DNA results, you know."

Her wife perked up. "You found Walter?"

"No. But I did some of those disturbingly racists tests you asked about."

She had been a little appalled when Gail asked if DNA could show if someone was a Jew. But Gail was well and truly opposed to racial profiling, and if Holly was going to trust a cop who wasn't Oliver with that work, it would be the blonde inspector. And yes, it was possible to determine some racial characteristics via DNA. The catch was that it required the tested person to have some very specific markers.

Of course, Gail knew all that. After being married as long as they had been, it was impossible for Gail not to know that. Similarly Holly knew more about diamonds than she'd thought possible.

So Gail waited, quietly but impatiently, for Holly to divulge her science.

"Yes, Walter has the markers of an Ashkenazi Jew."

Gail fist pumped and grinned ear to ear. "Wanna hear my theory?"

It was just impossible to deny that impish smile. "Okay, give."

"Walter is related to the Leistikow family. He's looking for his artwork."

"That much is obvious," drawled Holly.

"Hush you." Gail smiled. "He's been trailing someone, the Hoffman family, because he knows they have the painting. All I have to do is figure out how he knows."

Holly coughed to hide her laugh. "That's all? All? You're actually insane, Gail. You know that, right?"

"You love my crazy," said Gail firmly.

"I do. And I'm going to let you do the impossible. I'm going to baby yoga."

Gail sighed. "Oh alright." She kissed Holly softly. "See you at home."

Originally they'd gone to the same yoga classes, but the truth was it would be a very long time, if ever, before Holly was up to Gail's level. And with Gail's low capacity for boredom, Holly had decided it was best not to test her wife's patience. That meant Holly took a class for her lunch break and Gail did one at the end of the day, and they met up at home.

It was hard to make the time to do everything. Work a job, work two jobs, raise a child, practice the tools of the trade, make sure everyone was happy. Make sure they were happy. Personal happiness was the hardest thing. While humans were selfish by nature, they also seemed to want others to be happy and like them, often at the detriment of their self.

Holly fell to that one sometimes. Often. A lot of the time. That was why she didn't regret the slowing down of her career. It gave her an hour to go to yoga, to stretch and relax, in the middle of her day. It gave her time to work on a new article about the proper uses of a 3D printer to solve crimes.

It gave her time with her wife.

Taking that hour to yoga (it used to be go running, things had changed) put Holly in a better headspace. It inspired her. She cruised through her paperwork, reviewed the cases that needed a grownup, and banged it all out by the time she wanted to go home for the day.

Everything in life was about balance. Balancing work and love and people was hard. Maybe Holly could have been world renowned if she'd not married and had a child. Maybe she would have been more famous. Maybe she would have be something else, just a staff pathologist, if she'd had more children.

But the thing was, she loved who she was and who she'd become. She loved being a wife, something she'd never expected out of life. She loved being a parent. She loved the family she'd made with Gail, and if that meant she sauntered on two legs and had moderate success and mild fame, then that was okay in Holly's book. She was, in a word, happy.

When she got home, Gail was cooking, but still in her yoga clothes. Sometimes Gail would jump right into cooking, and other times she would want a long, hot, shower and then to ignore the world. But tonight, it seemed Gail had made either headway or found the headspace to relax.

While Holly could take a break in her day and still be productive, Gail had to be in the mode. If she was a cop, she was a cop, and only food or target practice would help. If she was done with being a cop, she would do yoga or softball, or whatever, and be Gail. Holly loved when she got to be with Gail instead of cop Gail. She loved them both, of course, but she had favorites. Gail loved cooking, and whatever she cooking just then smelt divine. And Gail's ass looked divine...

"Hey, if you want a giggle, apparently the girls went country dancing on Saturday night," announced Gail, pouring sauce over the food.

The words stuttered Holly's brain to a halt. "My daughter went country dancing?"

"She did!" Gail looked over. "Oh, sorry, you wanted to ogle my ass?"

"Yes," admitted Holly. She put her bag on the stairs and walked into the kitchen. "The way you fill out a pair of yoga pants should be illegal."

Far too cheerfully, compared to how frustrated she'd been earlier, Gail replied. "It's not! And I'm a cop so you can trust me!"

"A cop in a much more sprightly mood than I expected." Still, Holly leaned into Gail's back and peeked over her shoulder. Her wife had something going in the pan. "Pork... chocolate?"

"Loin, marinated in coffee and fudge, with some cayenne and other spices."

Holly frowned. "Fudge. You're using the fudge for this?"

One of Holly's cousins had sent them a Christmas gift of fudge that had been alright, but Gail felt it tasted 'off' and didn't want it on sweet foods. For Gail to say that, everyone knew the food had to be weird. Still, she refused to throw it out, vowing to use it.

"Yeah, I finally looked it up. This shit is meant for barbecues."

"Leave it to you to figure out how to save weird food," said Holly with a laugh. "My garbage pail."

Gail dipped her finger into the sauce and held it up for Holly to taste. "Try."

It smelled positively heavenly. Holly sighed and sucked the sauce off, trying to be seductive. It backfired. "Holy shit! Gail that's amazing!"

Her wife laughed. "I know! I'm awesome."

Holly reached around to try and sample again, but Gail smacked her hand and pushed her away. "Hey! It's good!"

"Your hands are filthy!" Gail nudged her back and went to wash her own hands. "I'm finally getting the hang of cooking for two again."

"Two? What am I supposed to eat?" Holly laughed and washed her hands. "That is phenomenal and you're in a good mood. Is it just the food, or do I need to be on the watch for a rant later?"

"Depends on how much you like Nazis, I suppose," drawled Gail.

That sounded promising. "You're hunting Nazis? That sounds fun."

Gail smirked. "Okay, smart ass, just for that, I won't tell you."

Holly rolled her eyes. "Pleeeease tell me about your Nazi defeating ways." Gail said nothing, but she grinned. "Oh please, great detective inspector Peck. Please tell me about your awesomeness as champion of the universe."

Her wife laughed. "Okay. So you know how there's a whole group set up to help people discombobulated by the Second World War?"

Nodding, Holly sat on a stool at the kitchen island. "Sure. Two of 'em at least."

"CJHSD - Canadian Jewish Holocaust Survivors and Descendants - and ain't that a mouthful. They were really helpful this afternoon when I explained what had gone on. They got me in touch with the Leistikow family survivors, who in turn called me an hour ago to tell me they were going to have their DNA sampled by an Interpol accredited lab and sent to your lab asap." Gail beamed.

Holly gaped. "You got their DNA?"

"Should be here by the end of the week. I told them not to rush it. It's waited a whole extra war. It can wait a bit more."

"But... But this isn't the real painting!"

"I know, but I explained my theory that whomever was looking for the lost Leistikow was probably a relative or a devotee across time."

Holly narrowed her eyes. "You know, I've heard you say that before. Do people really fall in love across time?"

"Oh yeah. Totally." Gail nodded seriously. "Remember the guy we arrested for stalking who was in love with Margaret Thatcher?"

She did remember that. One of the Thatcher descendants had found it incredibly creepy. The young man had not been flattered in the least. "That's a pretty extreme example, honey."

"And the woman who lost her mind when she saw me at the opera?"

Holly laughed. "Oh my god, she almost fainted. You really are the spitting image of her, though."

There was, of course, the Armstrong who had married Antonia — the granddaughter of a B-grade actress by the name of Miranda Fairchild. She'd used Charlotte as her stage name, following a rather disastrous failed engagement, ended by the untimely death of the betrothed. The three terrible movies, including one about a police detective from the Toronto constabulary at Four Division, were on Netflix. After Jamie found out about it, they'd had a movie night double date. Everyone laughed at how much Gail looked like Miranda.

Sadly, the poor woman at the opera had gone apoplectic about Gail, in a rather beautiful slinky dress, with her hair perfectly done, her makeup amazing, and all Gail being perfection and Gail. Oh, Holly loved Gail all dolled up. The woman at the opera did too, she just thought that Gail was Miranda and had to sit with her head between her knees for a moment.

"You should have signed the autograph," teased Holly.

"She would have had a heart attack. I'm not cruel." When Holly scoffed, Gail amended. "I'm not that cruel to a total stranger." Again, Holly scoffed. "Bite me."

"I'd rather bite your food, my awesome Nazi Stalker."

Gail rolled her eyes. "Technically I'm stalking a painting."

"You'd have better luck stalking Nazis, I think."

"They're pretty much all dead now, Holly." The blonde smiled and opened the oven, pulling out roast vegetables. "Do you want garlic bread?"

"Did you make eggplant?"

"Hmm doesn't really work with the flavors."

"Rice then," said Holly, firmly. "Do you think figuring out that Walter's a long lost Leistikow will help anything?"

"Oddly, yes," said Gail, as she started making rice. "See, it's part of figuring out what he was thinking and how he was stalking."

"A painting."

"No, that's what. How means what was Walter following to find the Hoffmans. How did he know the fake people had the faked painting that was secretly the one he wanted."

Holly wrinkled her nose. "Aren't you supposed to find the real faked van de whatever?"

"That's for the insurance company, weirdly enough. The crime there, for me, is who the hell bilked a bank. Only the bank is sort of okay with it, since they always got paid in the end." Gail huffed. "Money makes the world go 'round."

"So you're not going to investigate a fake ID or a forgery?"

"Trujillo is. Pedro's trying to find the fakers. I'm god."

"You're good," teased Holly. "But you're not that good."

"That's not what you said the other night."

Holly smirked. "How did we go from work to Gail Peck, sex goddess?"

Gail grinned back at her. "You're insatiable for my hotness."

"God help me, I am," admitted Holly, and she laughed. "Okay, so for real, you think you can find a painting missing since the 1930s, with zero physical evidence?"

"I do, I do," admitted Gail, still impish, but beaming. "It's weird, but I'm actually pretty sure I can figure out how Walter was tracking this painting. He has some distinct patterns. Behavioral."

"That'd work better if you found his secret stalker lair."

"It's the future, baby, he put it on the Internet."

That made Holly blink. "You found his secret stalker lair? Was it a Tumblr? Oh! Did he have a Facerange fan page?"

"Hah hah, he used the Cloud. And yes, I got a warrant."

"Do criminals get dimmer or do we get smarter?"

Gail smiled. "I like to think it's a combination of both. We make it harder for them and they either get super smart and clever and are fun to take down, or they're incredibly stupid and I get to make fun of them."

Smiling back, Holly leaned onto the kitchen island. "That sounds like a win-win in the Gail Peck book of life."

"I do enjoy a good mocking," drawled Gail. "So the Cloud. He used a third rate service, wasn't even Amazon levels, and synced it all up with his phone. We think. The phone thing is iffy, since it vanished ten days before we arrested him." Gail sighed and took down plates. "But we pulled down his records and travels and notes."

"That strikes me as extra stupid. What do we want to drink? Red wine? Beaujolais?"

"Perfection, my perfect wife."

"Oh you are in a good mood " laughed Holly, and she got up to get the wine. "Couch?"

"Couch. And I married a trophy wife, so I get to gloat a little."

Rolling her eyes, Holly put the wine and glasses on the coffee table. "Okay, can I scare you with my brilliance?"

"Oh half the documents are encrypted and the other half are using some whack ass code." Gail brought plates over. "Or were you going to shock me with something else?"

"You're no fun anymore," said Holly, pouting. "I can't even get a rise out of you." They sat on the couch and Holly turned on a sports game, taking advantage of her wife's good mood.

Still. She'd rather have the happy Gail any day of the week.

---

Looks like we're finding something new about the crime. Walter is (possibly) looking for his long lost family heirloom. But who stole it? Who hid it? And how did they know how to hide it like that?