Mike's benevolent visage turned to the Brylcreemed lawyer with the unctuous smile. "I believe we haven't have the pleasure…?"

The perfectly manicured right hand shot across the table. "Robert Manchester. I'm Mr. Turley's lawyer… obviously," he said with a well-rehearsed chuckle.

Mike reached out to take the hand and shake it, squeezing just a little harder than necessary. "Lieutenant Stone," he said flatly, staring without blinking into the dark eyes across the table. When he released the hand but didn't say anything else, Manchester looked at Steve.

With a relaxed smile, the younger detective leaned forward slightly to shake hands as well. "Inspector Keller," he said with a nod, dispensing with his first name as his partner had done. No reason to get too friendly.

Mike's eyes slid easily from the attorney to the suspect. "So, Mr. Turley, I bet you'll be glad to have all this behind you."

The 'bereaved' husband dropped his eyes and shook his head sadly. "You have no idea, Lieutenant. It's been a nightmare. I just want to get my wife's body home to St. Louis so I can give her a proper funeral."

"Yes, of course," Mike commiserated, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs, leaving his left forearm in the cast resting on the table. He could see Manchester eyeing it curiously but decided not to elaborate; let the lawyer's mind race through all the possibilities, he thought with unexpressed delight. He took a deep breath and released it slowly. "Well, unfortunately, Mr. Turley, I'm afraid that's not going to happen anytime soon."

Both pairs of eyes on the other side of the table shot towards him and he raised his eyebrows and tilted his head with a facial shrug. "But… but why not?" Turley exclaimed and Manchester quickly laid a hand on his forearm, squeezing to shut him up.

"Well, you see, we have some… well, some reservations about the way your wife died."

"Reservations?!" Turley almost shouted and the hand on his arm tightened considerably.

"What do you mean by reservations, Lieutenant?" Manchester asked, his voice low and even.

"Well, you see, we did a little experiment with the towel-ring in another room, an identical room, in the Mark Hopkins, using a policewoman the same size and weight as your wife, Mr. Turley, and…. Well, let's just show you." He turned his head slightly. "Steve…"

The younger man got up and moved to the tall trolley with the TV and the large studio-size VCR against the back wall. He turned on the TV, picked up the remote control, returned to the chair and sat. Fuzzy black-and-white 'bars' were wavering on the TV screen. He pushed the button and, after much clicking and whirring, the video of the hotel bathroom, Steve and the policewoman in the tub, appeared. As the experiment and its results played out on the screen, the two detectives watched Turley closely; he stared open-mouthed, not blinking.

When the video came to an end, Steve pushed the Pause button and the picture froze, flickering. Turley continued to stare at the screen but Manchester turned to face the detectives. "That doesn't prove anything, Lieutenant. All that proves is that your policewoman wasn't strong enough to pull the ring out of the wall, or that that ring was affixed more securely than the one in 1521."

Mike, who was smiling benignly, looked at Turley, who was still facing the TV but looking down, his stare unfocused, as if he was trying to figure out what to do next. "How did you get rid of the crowbar, Mr. Turley?" Mike asked sharply.

Turley's head snapped up; he was unable to mask the look of guilt that briefly washed over his features before he blurted out, "I didn't use a crowbar!" then froze, as if realizing what he had just said.

Beside him, Manchester's eyes widened; to Mike and Steve, it was almost as good as if the lawyer had thrown his hands up in surrender.

Smiling slightly, Mike leaned forward, putting both forearms on the desk again. He pursed his lips and grunted softly. "You see, Mr. Turley, the correct response to what I said would have been more along the lines of 'What do you mean, a crowbar?' or just plain 'What?'. But you see, you saying what you said, well, that leads us to believe that you managed to get the ring off the wall some other way."

Manchester, who had shot intermittent glances at his client, who was staring dumbfounded at the detective, leaned forward slightly. "That's not what happened, Lieutenant, and you have no proof that that ring came off the wall any other way than Mrs. Turley pulling it off when she fell."

Mike made a face and tilted his head. "No, you see, we had our lab boys take a good look at that tile wall in the bathroom, and there was no sign of rot in the wooden stud that the ring was bolted to. As a matter of fact, they could find no fault at all, in the wall or the screws that held it in place. The only conclusion they could come to was that the ring was pulled off that way through… brute strength."

Manchester smiled slightly with a deep chuckle. "Brute strength," he echoed and Mike nodded. He looked at his client. "Look at him, Lieutenant. Mr. Turley is no Charles Atlas. Now maybe someone your size, sir, could pull that ring off the wall, but Mr. Turley? I wouldn't think so."

Mike nodded slowly, as if giving the argument serious consideration. "I see what you mean, Mr. Manchester, I do." He glanced at Steve. "Would you think Mr. Turley is about the same size as the inspector here?"

Manchester looked at Steve and nodded. "Yes, I would say so."

"How about that inspector who brought you up here, Inspector Tanner? He's a little taller but about the same weight."

Starting to frown slightly, the lawyer nodded. "Yes, I guess so. Why?"

His smile getting a little wider, Mike looked at Steve and nodded once. The younger man pressed the play button on the VCR and the tape started to roll again. After a very fuzzy few seconds, the same bathroom appeared on the screen once more, only this time instead of Steve and a policewoman in the tub, Tanner was standing outside the tub, a large black man standing beside him, giving him instructions.

By the time the video ended, Turley was looking down and stricken, while Manchester was staring straight ahead, his gaze unfocused and his lips pursed. He removed his hand from his client's forearm and dropped both hands in his lap.

The detectives watched them silently for several long seconds then Steve got up, returned the remote to the top of the VCR then reached down and picked up a manila file folder than was lying on the bottom shelf of the trolley. He brought it back to the table, sat down, put it on the table and opened it.

As he picked up a small stack of 8x10 colour photos and laid them out one by one on the table so Turley and Manchester could see them, he said quietly and calmly, "It took awhile, but the bruises on your wife's arms finally appeared. Antemortem bruising takes time but it does make itself known; you just have to be patient and wait."

He placed another colour photo on the table; it was a shot of the small lump and discolouration on the back of Mrs. Turley's head. "A fall in a bathtub could have caused the large bump on your wife's forehead, hard enough to knock her out, no doubt about that. But how do you explain the other bruise, a fresh bruise, on the back of her head as well, and the handprints on her arms. The prints that could've only been made by someone standing over her and holding her from behind. Holding her head under the water so she drowned."

Both Turley and Manchester stared at the photo silently. Mike had sat back, a slight smile curling his lips, watching to see if either of the men on the opposite side of the table would even try to put up an argument. He waited just the right amount of time before asking softly, "So when did you two meet in St. Louis? Did you go to school together?"

When the lawyer and his client glanced at each other before looking at him, his smile got even wider and he chuckled. Very deliberately, he leaned forward again, lacing his fingers and laying both forearms on the table as he stared at their suspect. After a long, uncomfortable beat, he asked calmly, "Is there anything you want to tell us, Mr. Turley?"

Manchester, who was staring at the detective, looked at his client, who was still looking at the photos. "Ah, may I have a moment with my client?"

Smiling benevolently, Mike straightened up. "Sure. Take all the time you need." He glanced at his partner, gathering him with a nod, then pointed at the photos. "We'll just leave those there…"

As they left the room, Mike nodded at the uniformed officer outside the door then started towards his office. Neither said anything till they got to the coffee station. As Mike picked up a cup, he shot a surreptitious glance back towards the interrogation room. "Neither of them have moved."

"That's because we just nailed them to the wall," Steve chuckled as he picked up a cup and held it out for Mike to fill. "How long do you want to give them?"

"We'll let them make the next move," Mike answered as he poured. "They're not going anywhere and we have the arrest warrant ready to go, so…" He chuckled. "Let's give the poor bereaved husband his last few minutes of freedom." He returned the carafe to the burner. "Good work, Inspector," he chuckled again, clinking his cup against Steve's.

"You too."

Taking well-earned sips, they entered the small office and sat. Mike put his cup on the desk and leaned forward, exhaling loudly. "Well, that was easier than I expected but I'm not complaining. We need a win. Now I just wish something would break on the homeless murders before another body turns up."

"I know what you mean," Steve agreed, sitting back and crossing his legs, resting the coffee cup against his knee. "So what do you want to do once the undercover teams are pulled?"

Mike raised his eyebrows. "Damned if I know. That's something I'll give some thought to this weekend, that's for sure. But who knows, we've got three days left. Something might happen, right?" The naked, desperate optimism in his voice made the younger man smile.

"Your lips…" he laughed.

"Yeah, right," Mike snorted, smiling and shaking his head.

# # # # #

It was well over a half hour later before Manchester left the interrogation room and approached the two detectives. And by the end of the day, Turley had been arrested, booked and on his way to lock-up. He would be arraigned in the morning, something Steve had to look forward to, he thought to himself as he escorted their newest felon to the holding cells. All in all, it had been a rewarding day.

# # # # #

Steve's desk was empty the next morning; he was at the arraignment. Mike was going through some files when his phone rang. "Homicide, Stone."

"Yeah, Lieutenant, it's Colin Gray." Gray was one of the undercovers. He was obviously calling from a phone booth; the traffic noise was loud and a siren could be heard in the distant background. It was hard to hear.

"Yeah, Colin, what is it?" Mike raised his voice.

"Sir, um, I think we may have a problem. I think my partner and I were made."

"Made? Why do you think that?"

"Well, we've been very careful, like you said, but this morning, well, I think some of the women we've been following, well, I think they're on to us."