Thanks to Caranath, ErinJordan, Drumboy100, max2013, sm2003495, julzdagger88, TaoTheCat, hlahabibty, Xenitha, FanHB08, racey losh, Geowyn, and all those who read and enjoyed.

Chapter 1

Joe Hardy turned to face the window in his office, straightening his back as he did so. With his hands pressed hard on his lower back, he squeezed his eyes shut and stretched his neck to one side, trying to ease the effects of standing hunched over his desk and staring at the security camera set up of yet another art gallery installation.

I'm going to have to talk to Frank about getting a taller table to work at. Or maybe one of those height-adjustable desks, he thought. I'm too young for my back to feel this old.

"Joseph Hardy... Joe?"

He spun around, the voice startling him. The man standing in the door was about his age, maybe a year younger, with stylishly messy light brown hair hanging slightly over his eyes. He was shorter than Joe, about five-ten, wiry looking despite the slight paunch beginning at his waistline. He wore a slim-cut suit, the jacket unbuttoned and looking as though it probably met in the middle when it was purchased but wouldn't quite now. He might have been an athlete at one time but now spent more time at desk than on his feet. The orange light surrounding him made other details hard to discern.

Squinting, Joe cocked his head to one side. The man's voice was familiar, but with just the few words he couldn't quite place it. What he could see of his face wasn't ringing any bells either.

Turning his head away, it suddenly struck him how dark the office was. A quick glance out the window showed the sun setting between the two building across the street and another at the clock on the wall informed him it was long past five, which explained both the other-worldly glow around the visitor and the fading light. A faint memory of Chet leaning into his office and saying something about leaving the main door unlocked "in case Kara comes looking for you" flitted through his mind, and he groaned internally. He was running late. Again.

"I'm sorry," he said, forcing an apologetic note into his voice, "but we're not actually open right now. If you're looking for an appointment..."

At his words, he could see the young man's lips twist, and he stopped, another memory tweaking his brain.

Rush week. Sophomore year of college. Waiting for the elevator at midnight – the only time the laundry room was completely empty – with a pile of clothes in desperate need of washing that ended up all over the floor when a drunken pledge came back from a frat's rush party and stumbled into him, the guy's lips twisting into a sardonic smile as he tried and failed miserably to help pick up scattered clothing.

And he knew.

He blinked the image away. "Tommy," he said evenly. "Chet said you'd been by." His head tilted to one side. "That was what… three weeks ago? Four?"

The twist continued into the same smile from Joe's memory. "That your office guy? Yeah, but no one's called me Tommy for years," he said, shaking his head. "Not since college."

"The guys in Alpha Kappa whatever called you Ryker." Joe nodded. "I could never figure out if they were rabid Star Trek fans or just not very original." He pushed a slight note of humor in his voice, hoping it diverted attention from the wariness of his stance. "What do you go by now?"

"Mr. Ryckman when I'm at work. Tom when I'm not."

Joe held his breath for a beat. "And are you at work now?" He made sure to keep his voice light.

"Nah. I'm off the clock at the moment. On personal time, you could say." He gave a lazy salute, then shrugged. "Frat life was fun, but it's not the real world, you know? The real world is much more… complicated." A momentary darkness crossed his face. "The complications are actually why I'm here."

Joe's eyes narrowed as he scanned the expensive clothes his former floor-mate was wearing. Frank could probably tell him who made them and how much they cost, but even he could tell by the way they were tailored at the shoulders and legs that they cost more money than either or his brother took home in a week.

"Real world complications, huh?" He strode up to the door, reaching around Tom to hit the light switch on the wall, then gestured to a chair with his other hand. "Have a seat, and you can explain what's going on."

Tom looked at the chair and blew out a breath. "It's about my sister." He ran a hand through his hair. "I… You know, this would be seriously easier if there was alcohol involved. Can I buy you a drink somewhere?"

"Let me check something first." Joe went back to the table, grabbed his phone, and swiped to open the calendar app. Nothing popped up, and he sighed with relief, but he still needed to tell Kara why he was late. He turned his back for a semblance of privacy, opened the phone function, and tapped the first few digits of her number, pressing on the photo next to her name when it appeared and smiling when she answered on the first ring.

"Hey, babe. Still at work?" There was a teasing note in her voice which meant she was also still at the office, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"So you're not home either?" His grin grew wider. "Now I don't feel so bad being late."

She sighed. "You know it. No matter how much I wish it would, crime doesn't always stop for dinner. And it's generally the reason you call from your cell rather than the landline when I should already be home." He could hear the smile in her voice. "So, I guess this means you're picking up the Chinese takeout tonight?"

"Actually, I was calling to make sure there wasn't anything scheduled this evening. I checked the calendar, but..."

"Something come up?" Her tone changed from breezy to brisk. "A case?"

Joe glanced back at Tom who was looking at his nails and trying to make it appear he wasn't listening intently. He bit his lip and took a breath. "Guy I knew in college stopped by. He wants to get a drink."

"The one Chet told you about?" Now there was curiosity as well.

"That's the one." Joe forced lightness into his tone. "I may be home a little late. That's all."

Kara let out a breath. "As long as you tell me all about it when you get there."

Joe felt a warmth in his chest. "You know it. I'll see you at home. And I'll take care of dinner."

"Your choice, but I'm putting in a plea for Chinese. It's been a long day... I'll see you later. Love you." She disconnected.

Tom cleared his throat. "You're married? That doesn't sound like the Joe Hardy I knew," he said. "Growing up happens to us all, I guess. What is she? Pre-school teacher? Librarian? If I remember correctly, you always liked to be the knight in shining armor." The last few words had a hint of a sneer in them.

The momentary flash of anger Joe felt at the tone in Tom's voice dissolved as he barked out a laugh. "Not even close," he said, still snickering. He turned back around around, a glint in his eye. "FBI. And she's my girlfriend – partner – not my wife. Not yet anyway."

The other man took a step back, his eyes widening. "Wait… FBI? What does she do?"

Joe put on a sorrowful expression. "You know, I'd love to tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

Tom took another step back, the expression of shock mingling with unease that was spreading across his face warming the cockles of Joe's heart.

"What?"

"Kidding," Joe said, sliding his phone into his back pocket. "That's the CIA." He shook his head. "She's a Special Agent. Organized crime, cyber stuff, terrorism... You know. The basics."

"Yeah..." A shadow passed over Tom's face. "The basics..." He shook his head. "Now I really need that drink. Let's go. I know somewhere we can go where we won't be disturbed."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Joe sat sunken in the deep, upholstered leather chair in the lobby of the Algonquin Hotel and wondered, not for the first time, exactly what Tom had meant by not being disturbed. In the forty or so minutes they had been there at least five well-dressed people had come over to say hello. Most of them were wearing charcoal- colored suits and with colorful ties – the one woman who had ambled over had been wearing a pantsuit of the same color with what was obviously very expensive silk scarf, instead of a tie, draped over her shoulder that – leaving Joe feeling terribly under-dressed in his chinos and rumpled-after-a-day-of-work, button-down Oxford shirt. He glanced up at the massive, dark wood grandfather clock against a wall across the room and sighed.

I could have been home by now with my feet up eating dinner, he thought and took another sip of what he assumed would be a greatly overpriced Sam Adams beer.

The current visitor, an older man with white hair, crinkled brown eyes, and a bright purple tie and pocket square, clapped Tom lightly on the back and said his farewells. When he finally waved his goodbye, Tom took a long drink of his Old Fashioned and set the glass back down on the table, his fingers resting on the rim.

Joe cleared his throat. "If this is not getting interrupted, I'd hate to see what getting interrupted looks like." He took another sip of his beer. "Look, I don't want to be rude. It's been nice seeing you, and I appreciate the drink," – he tipped the glass in salute – "but I've had a long day, and..."

Tom's eyes didn't move from the liquid sloshing gently in his glass. "I think my sister was murdered." The words came out in a whisper.

"What?" Joe sat up straighter, beer sloshing slightly over the rim of his glass as he lowered it to the table.

"My sister died a few months ago." The other man let out a long breath. "Murder might be too strong a word, but..." The words trailed off as he turned his head and looked off into the distance. "How much do you know about my family, Joe?"

"Other than that you come from money?" He indicated their surroundings with a wave of his hand. "Pretty much nothing. Fill me in."

A half-smile appeared on Tom's face. "Come from money. Yes. We come from money..." He snorted, then took another gulp of his drink. "I'll spare you the family history and stick to the basics. We're old Dutch New Yorkers. On both sides. My parents couldn't stand one another but didn't get divorced because of the finances. My mom was diagnosed with late-stage breast cancer right after I graduated from NYU and died about six weeks later. My dad crowed about it right up until the day he dropped dead from a heart attack less than three months after that."

Joe's mouth dropped open. "Man, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Tom shrugged. "I never really saw too much of either of them. Ilse and I had nannies growing up and were sent to boarding schools when we got older. The most time I spent with either of them was when I was in college. They were both living in New York. Separately, of course. They each had their own penthouse apartment on opposite ends of Central Park."

"That's… nice?" Joe's mouth was dry. He didn't know what to say, so he took another sip from his glass. "Ilse... That's your sister?"

"Yeah. She was about six years older than me. I'm actually surprised my folks had more than one child. Ilse and I used to joke about the improbability of it. The only thing we could think was my father was desperate for a son to carry on the family name." A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "We weren't close. Any of us." He ran his hand across his forehead. "With Ilse and me it was the age difference… And spending time at school in different countries... Anyway, she got married my sophomore year at NYU. The oldest son of one my dad's business partners. I remember being bored silly at the wedding. My folks sat at separate tables. Ilse smiled, but I was never sure if Brad was her choice or my dad's."

"Keeping it all in the family?" Joe asked.

That garnered another bitter laugh. "Pretty much." Tom put a hand on the table and drummed his fingers a few times. "My sister had… 'Emotional issues' is probably what they would call it now. Dad called it a case of the crazies. She was in the hospital a few times when I was a kid. And again when I was in high school." At the question in Joe's eyes, he shook his head. "I don't know what for. Just that it happened." He took another drink from his glass, setting it carefully back down on the table as he swallowed. "Anyway, because of her issues and my age, Dad had our inheritance wrapped up in a trust, so we wouldn't see any part of the business until we hit thirty."

"Which would have been this year for your sister?"

Tom nodded. "January. She died in April. Her will left everything of hers to her husband."

"Brad?" Joe waited for confirmation, pausing for a long moment after he got it. "How did she die?"

His answer was a headshake. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"She'd been hospitalized again. There's this clinic upstate. It's called Hargreaves Manor." Tom rolled his eyes. "I don't know why they don't just call it the Hargreaves Hospital. Everyone knows it's a loony bin." He let out a breath. "She went in after Christmas for a 'rest cure'" – he made air quotes around the words – "and by May she was gone."

"Man, I'm really sorry." Joe picked up his drink, swirling the liquid around the sides of the glass. "And you don't know what happened?"

Tom raked a hand through his hair. "No. My brother-in-law hasn't been real forthcoming with the details. And it's not the kind of thing we talk about at the office."

"So it could have been natural causes? Or suicide?" He put his glass down, keeping his eyes on the other man's face. "Sorry, but I have to ask."

"I don't… I don't know." Tom stilled, closing his eyes and pressing his lips together until there was a white line around them. For a long minute, he sat, nostrils flaring as he breathed in and out. Finally, he opened his eyes. "My gut tells me something happened to her there. I don't know what, but I want to find out. I want you to find out."

"Me?" He picked the glass back up and held it to his lips.

"You and your brother." Tom leaned forward with both arms on the table, eyes intent. "I've heard you're good. Especially at this sort of thing. I don't care what it costs. I just need to know."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

It was after ten o'clock when the apartment door opened, the light from the hallway shining around a figure with slumped shoulders.

"That was much too long of a day," Kara said as she shuffled into the living room. "Remind me again why I do this job?"

Joe moved forward, took her coat, and led her toward the sofa. "Because you're good at it? And there's no one else you trust to do it as well as you do." He kissed her gently on the forehead and lips, then folded her down on the cushion. "Sit. I'm guessing you haven't had dinner yet?"

She shook her head, pulled a throw off the back of the sofa, and curled up under it. "I just wanted to get home."

"Good thing I remembered then." Joe went into the kitchen for a moment and came out holding a tray with a bowl and a plate. "Hot and sour soup, beef lo mein, and an egg roll." He tucked the tray over her lap. "I've been keeping it warm in the oven."

Kara took a large bite of egg roll. "Oh, that's just what I needed. What did you get?" she asked, her mouth full.

"Spare ribs and a ramen bowl. I ate when I got home. Otherwise the noodles soak up all the broth."

She cocked her head to the side and swallowed. "Comfort food?"

He shrugged. "It seemed like a good night for it. Eat."

They sat for a while before Kara put down her chopsticks. "So, are you going to tell me about it?"

Joe blew out a breath. "I'm still processing. I want your opinion, but..." He gestured at the food. "I think you need some more calories first."

She smiled at him and took another delicate bite from her chopsticks, then put them down and took one of his hands in both of hers. "I'm good right now. So, what did he want?"

"He thinks his sister was murdered. He wants us to investigate."

"Murdered?" Kara sat up straight, the tray in her lap almost hitting the floor. Joe extricated his hand, took the tray from her and placed it on the table, then gave her back his hand.

"He's not sure. That's what he wants us to find out." He started rubbing his forehead with his free hand. "He didn't say it in so many words, but I think there's money involved. An inheritance of some sort. His family is old New York. The kind with more money than sense."

"What does Frank think?"

Joe shrugged. "I haven't talked to him yet. I came right home. I wanted to talk to you first."

Kara raised an eyebrow. "Really? Well, that's a first." Her tone was slightly teasing. "I'm touched."

He knocked his shoulder against hers. "Murder is more in your line of work than ours. We tend to do missing people, screwy finances, and more art galleries than I knew ever existed in the world, never mind New York." He sighed and placed their joined hands against his leg. "So. Many. Art. Galleries..."

"You do seem to have that market cornered," Kara said, moving their hands up to her mouth and brushing her lips against his fingers before yawning heavily. "Tell me about the meeting."

When he finished, her eyes were half-closed.

"Are you still awake in there?"

She nodded. "Thinking."

"So, what's your professional opinion?"

She tilted her head to one side, waiting a moment before speaking. "I think… I think he's left some information out. It sounds like he's not telling you everything. And you're right that it's probably about money. And you need to talk to Frank. And if you take this case, you need to be careful."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "That's a lot of ands. Anything else?"

"No." She shook her head, then yawned, pulling her hand free from his and stretching both arms over her head. "I'm too tired for more ands. I need to go to bed before I fall asleep right here." She looked up at him through her eyelashes and put her arms out. "Carry me?"

He grinned. "As my lady commands." He scooped her up in his arms, kissed her on the forehead, and swept her out of the room.