He knew well enough that his phone calls early evening wouldn't yield too many answers, at least not until morning, but Mike wanted to get the ball rolling regardless. Too many obvious answers and easy-to see clues had greeted them throughout this case.

Enough to raise his suspicions and make him decide to dig deeper.

He'd wanted to spare Steve the eye-roll, but his quest took him back to Erin McMillan.

Besides the alibi that was just too perfect, the young woman whom he had yet to meet in person had plenty of reason to kill her father. As for the other two victims, there was a possibility that she knew Ramon Peterson, as both her father and Peterson had worked together on and off for the past twenty-five years. It was even possible that the big Harbor moniker had tried to get his hand into some of the donations toward schools that Rudy was part of. Unfortunately, the only way he would be able to tie this angle down were to hear about the connection from Erin herself.

The kid though.

Timothy Darrings' murder was a startling oddball. Had he been chosen arbitrary, to practice on? Make sure that their killer could pull off the act of murder when it came to the actual targets? It wouldn't be the first time that had happened.

Or was there more? Had Darrings somehow gotten to know Erin through the school system, even though he went to a different High School? Had they met through some extracurricular activities?

Then there was the murder method.

Drawing in a deep breath, Mike leaned against the soft cushions of his rocking chair, then closed his eyes.

Strangulation came in many different forms, and no matter how often he revisited their three killings, it seemed to have a certain feminine touch to it. The lack of defensive wounds, the downright gentle act of garroting without having to readjust the wire, the highly skilled technique that had been used; everything he sensed pointed directly back at a woman.

Except for one thing, and he agreed with Steve on that one.

No 150lb female would be able to deposit somebody of Ramon Peterson's size in the back of her car and then drop the body off down on Market. The same held true of the feat of dragging Rudy McMillan's body over the barrier of the nearby pier to dump him into the bay.

So, unless he was completely off center with his theory, this Horatio person might just end up being her accomplice.

As his mind drifted off into an exhaustion-induced sleep, the scene in front of his inner eye changed drastically, morphing from the warmth of his living room to the darkness of Golden Gate Park, where he could see the outline of his partner's body in the twilight of the trees, lying on his side, unmoving.

Gasping, as fear-based adrenalin flooded his body, Mike ran towards him, then fell hard onto his knees.

"Easy Mike, easy…"

He could hear Haseejian, but not see him this time around. And yet, several heavy footsteps approaching from behind signaled the arrival of support, at least that much he hoped.

Reaching for the side of his partner's throat, his heart dropped at the lack of a pulse, his own hands shaking against the cold skin below his fingertips.

"Steve…", he breathed desperately, then grabbed his partner's shoulder to slowly roll him onto his back.

"He feels cold, Mike."

"Of course, he feels cold! It's freezing out here and he's just in his suit."

As he leaned over to place his ear close to Steve's face, hoping and praying to hear a breath escape, Mike noticed that the grass was gone and he was kneeling on the hard concrete of a sidewalk. Off in the distance, people were lined up, crowding and frozen in fear, as they watched him work away.

Another change was the unnatural heat spreading through the area, and Mike realized that Steve's hair was dry, the grass stains on his suit gone and replaced with scuffs of black, powdery material.

"No Mike, he feels cold."

A huge eruption nearby shook the ground, yet it wasn't enough for Mike to take his eyes off his partner.

"He's gone into shock, Norm, we gotta hurry.", the Lieutenant barked and tilted Steve's head back, "Open his shirt. He's not breathing. We gotta do CPR to start him up again."

"Mike."

"Do I need to make this an order, Sergeant?!"

Steve remained scarily still, as Mike pulled the checkered tie loose with one finger, ignoring the buttons sailing through the air, as he ripped his dress shirt wide open.

In the background, panicked screams could be heard, people yelling for help, as the unmistakable wailing of sirens filled the air. Even though he spoke to him earlier, Haseejian remained stubbornly unaccounted for, nothing more than a distant shadow, as Mike bent down to rest his ear against his partner's chest, startled by the cold skin below, and the quietness that ensued.

"Don't you dare do that to me!", he yelled desperately and began CPR, something he hadn't done for a long time. His fears turned into trauma-based dullness with each chest compression, as the reasonable part of his brain reminded him that people did come back from cardiac arrest at times, so long that life-saving measures had been started soon enough.

That thought, and the mechanical repetition of pushing his palms into his partner's chest were the only things keeping his mind on task in this dire situation.

Mike could feel his knees rubbing raw down below, tiny pieces of gravel that cut into his skin like razorblades each time his body jerked. A warm breeze rushed past him, moving a few hairs on his forehead, as if to send out a message of peace and tranquility in a situation of grave despair.

"Don't quit!", Mike begged, his mind quietly counting each chest compression until he hit thirty.

With shaking hands, he tilted Steve's head farther back, ensuring that the airway was cleared, before inhaling deeply and giving a rescue breath. From his hunched over position, he could see his chest rise, as much needed oxygen reached his vital organs. Drawing in another deep breath, Mike repeated the procedure, when suddenly, he tasted smoke on his lips.

It wasn't cigarette smoke or exhaust fumes, but actual smoke from a nearby fire.

As he straightened back out to resume CPR, Mike took a second to glance around. The park had disappeared and turned into a busy city block, lined with apartment buildings on either side. Across the street, the gathering of onlookers had grown significantly, and down the road, he could see the first fire engines arriving. Following the stares of the masses, he looked up to see the third floor of the adjacent building fully engulfed in flames.

Windows were exploding, sending shards of glass onto the road below, jumping off the roofs of parked cars like deadly snowflakes.

When another loud boom could be heard, Mike halted his life-saving measures and leaned over his partner, protecting his head and upper body with his own.

As an unbearable heat spread through the area, threatening to singe his clothes, he straightened back out to gather his bearings, looking up in time to see a large piece of the brick wall coming lose, falling toward them. Mike had all but the fraction of a second left to gasp, before both partners were crushed under the tremendous weight.