I seem to have forgotten where Kate was actually from, so I made it up and said that she was from San Francisco. If that is way off and you do know where she's from, feel free to PM me and I might change it when I have time. :)

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Interrogation and Pursuit

"Nigel?" Nigel looked up from the microscope and glanced in Kate's direction. She stood by the door to Trace, hands on her hips and looking less than content. He sighed.

"Yeah?"

"Can we talk?" He nodded and got up, and, stretching his tired back muscles, followed her out of the room and down the hall to the crypt, the most insulated place in the building. As long as no one walked in, no one would be able to hear their conversation.

"What's up?" asked Nigel, leaning against an empty metal slab. It was cool against his sweaty palms. He was nervous; the last time Kate had said those words he had cried for the first time in a decade. He didn't want this to be another oportunity for tears.

"I called Dr. Fitzgerald," she said, sound almost breathless. Nigel waited for a moment to see if she would continue, but she didn't. He rolled his eyes in the way that only he could, as if to say, 'so, what?'.

"And who, pray tell, is Dr. Fitzgerald?" he asked cherrily, trying to make light of the conversation, though he had no clue whether it would be a 'light' conversation or not.

"He was my obstetrician in San Fransisco," said Kate, crossing her arms as if she was cold, "He's flying in to take a look at me and tell me what I already know." Nigel sighed.

"Oh." He knew it had something to do with her pregnancy. Why else would the conversation have to be private?

"I thought you might want to be there." Nigel nodded, but didn't way anything. He was thinking. Like always, he was over-analysing the situation. Dr. Fitzgerald was going to examine Kate and tell them that she was going to miscarry, which they already knew because of Kate's less-than-perfect medical history. Of course he needed to be there, if only to hold Kate when she fell apart.

"He'll be here tomorrow afternoon," said Kate quietly. Nigel nodded again.

"Okay," he mumbled. "Thank you for telling me." He was glad that she had told him, rather than just doing this all by herself. Whether she knew it or not, she needed him to be there.

They stood in silence for a while. This wasn't easy, wouldn't be easy.

XXX

"How well to you know and Sergei Tch-tchaik-ko—" Woody could never say that name right.

"Tchaikovsky," corrected Pavel automatically. Then, "Oops." He had been silent for most of the time he had been sitting in the interrogation room, not even requesting a lawyer.

"So you do know him." It was more of a statement then a question. Pavel was scared. He had let it slip! They would kill him!

"N-no."

"Yeah you do," said Woody, grinning. He slid into the chair across from Pavel, then pushed the photo of Sergei closer to him. "You know him. Do you work for Albie, too?" Pavel's eyes widened.

"No!" he retorted, his voice cracking.

"I'll take that as a yes." Pavel looked down at the photo, defeated. He was a terrible liar. "So, what? You got mad, decided to knock him around?" Woody talked quietly, menicingly, trying to weedle a confession out of the younger man. He knew that Pavel hadn't killed Sergei, he was much too small, and defidently not the type. He wasn't looking for Pavel to tell him that he did it. He was looking for him to tell him that Albie did it.

"N-no! I didn't kill him!" said Pavel desperately, eyes watering. "You've got to believe me! He vas my friend!"

"Then who did?" countered Woody, leaning forward on his elbows. Pavel's eyes went downcast.

"I can't tell you," he mumbled. Woody sighed.

"Then you're our best suspect." Pavel face paled.

"But I didn't do it!"

"And I believe you," said Woody, "But a DA won't. You knew him. You ran when you saw his picture. It's looking pretty bad for you right now." He was switching to good-cop to try and lull the guy into a false sense of security, make him talk.

"I didn't kill him," whispered Pavel. Woody nodded.

"Who did?"

"I can't tell you!" Pavel looked up at Woody, eyes watering even more. He was on the verge of tears, poor guy.

"Why not?"

"He'll kill me!"

"Albie?" Pavel's eyes widened like he'd let slip a big secret. "Albie will kill you? Did he kill Sergei?" Pavel didn't answer. "You could just nod," Woody sugested, "That way, you wouldn't actually be telling me anything. You won't get in trouble."

Pavel looked up at Woody. "Will Albie kill you if you tell us anything?" Pavel gave a tiny nod of his head.

XXX

Behind the glass divider, Jordan smiled. They had him. They had Albie.

XXX

"Did Albie kill Sergei?" asked Woody, holding his breath for the answer. Pavel shook his head. Woody looked disappointed, but continued his interrogation anyway.

"Did he hire someone else to kill Sergei?"

He nodded.

XXX

"Yes!" said Mat triumphantly. "We have sogot him!" He put up his hand and offered it to Jeffrey, to high-fived him. He had joined the group behind the glass only a minute before, after hearing that they may be close to nailing Albie Sampson to a wall.

"All we need to get to him do is agree to testify, and Albie Sampson will be behind bars," said Jeffrey confidently, smiling slightly.

"We couldn't get him for hurting Bug," said Jordan quietly, "But we'll get him for killing those men."

XXX

"Did he kill Micky Perry and Jack Webb, too?"

"Not Perry," he whispered, shaking his head. "Perry was an accident."

"Because he was diabetic?" Pavel nodded. "Did Albie kill Jack?" Pavel nodded. "Himself?" Again, Pavel nodded. "Were you there?" Another nod. "If we protected you, would you be willing to testify?"

Pavel bit his lower lip. "He'd kill me. He has many friends."

"What if we protected you? We could put you in the witness protection program," said Woody, "And he wouldn't be able to find you. Until you testify, we could keep you in a safe house. No one would hurt you." Pavel seemed to think about it. "It would help us keep a killer off the streets."

"Vould I really be safe?" he asked, eyes wide. Woody nodded. "Okay. I vill testify."

XXX

There was a lot of cheering from behind the glass. More people had gathered behind it, hoping for something they could use to put Albie Sampson, who had caused so much grief within both the Boston police department and the Morgue, behind bars.

Seely punched the air in triumph. Jeffrey grinned and resisted the urge to dance around in circles. Jordan hugged herself happily, her smile larger than she remembered smiling in a long while. Even Renee cracked a smile. They had him. They had Albie. He was going down.

XXX

Woody kicked in the locked front door to Albie's bar, gun raised in front of him. Seven other police officers followed him in, ready to arrest him for kidnapping, murder one, murder-for-hire, stalking, assult with a deadly weapon... the list went on, thanks to Pavel Ianov's testimony.

There was a light on in the back room, and Woody aproached it silently, motioning for the others to follow his lead. "Police! Get your hands up!" he yelled, kicking in the door and pointing his gun around the room in a quick sweep. The 

other officers followed suit, each picking one of the men in the room and training their guns on them.

Albie looked up from his card game calmly. "Good evening, officers," he said politely. "Is there something that you need?"

"Albie Sampson, you are under arrest," said Woody, trying not to sound too smug. Albie blinked as though he didn't understand.

He hadn't expected to be arrested. Not that he hadn't done it, he had, it was just... he'd been so careful to avoid leaving evidence or witnesses. They couldn't have had anything on him. ...Could they?

"What do you mean? For what?!"

"Murder in the first degree," he said confidently, pulling Albie from his seat and taking one of his hands, forcing it behind his back. He was about to cuff it when Albie obviously decided that he didn't want to be handcuffed.

Woody yelped as Albie's foot unexpectedly made contact with his groin, and he dropped the handcuffs. One of the other officers tried to grab him as he tried to run, while Woody screwed up his eyes in pain and bent over double.

Albie's companions who were in the room, the creepy bartender and two other Russian men, rushed at the officers and began to fight them for their guns, as if on cue. The bartender actually succeeded to wrestle one away from an officer because he had an exceptional size advantage on the 5'4" blonde man. He fired two bullets into the officer's stomach, pointed it at another officer, who fired back, hitting him squarely in the chest.

Smoke from the weapons' fire slowly filled the room, adding to the confusion. Woody, still crumpled over, soon found himself gunless and still in pain from Albie's kick (the man must have been wearing steel-toed boots or something, because man did that hurt!). He distantly heard the beep of a radio and a female officer saying, "Shots fired, officer down!", but he didn't pay attention. He was too absorbed in finding the gun he had apparently dropped while trying to ignore the pain Albie had caused between his legs.

He dropped to his knees and desperately felt around for it, a splinter or two getting caught under his fingernails as they clawed at the rough, old cherry floors in search of his weapon.

"Looking for this?"

Time seemed to stand still as Woody looked down the barrel of his own gun, pointed between his eyes by Albie himself. He sucked in a tiny breath and held it, silently praying that Albie wouldn't pull the trigger.

"Drop the weapon!" said one of the officers, seeing Albie with his gun practically touching Woody's forehead. He trained his own gun on Albie, and repeated the comand. "Drop the weapon!"

Woody glanced sideways at the officer. Hamilton, he thought, Seamus Hamilton, the rookie. He looked back at Albie, who was looking at Hamilton.

"Make one move and Hoyt is a dead man," he warned, still using that ultra-calm tone. Woody clenched and unclenched his fists. He wanted to hit Albie, kick him in the groin just as Albie had done to him, something. But he couldn't. One false move and he'd be at the Morgue on a slab, rather than as a detective. And he couldn't do that to Jordan. He needed to get out of this alive, for her sake. She would break if he was gone, and he couldn't live— or die— with that kind of guilt.

A trickle of sweat dripped down the side of Hamilton's face. The fighting around them had stopped, thank goodness. One of Albie's lackies was dead, one shot in the foot and the other in cuffs. The breathless officers watched the stare-down between Hamilton and Albie, each thinking the same thing. That they had to get Woody out of this.

One of the officers, Mike Wheeler, slowly holstered his gun. He was standing behind Albie, out of his view, and quiet as a mouse, aproached him. Albie, who hadn't heard Wheeler's approach, gently used his thumb to pull back the hammer, which clicked into place.

"I'm already a dead man," said Albie simply, "What's another murder count?"

He fired.