A/N - Thanks again to everyone for their messages and reviews :) -x-

Chapter 15

Your Sudden Death Question

It took the Chief less than a minute to race downstairs to the bar, Carl rushing along beside him in silence. A wide range of questions filled his mind as he went, different responses, different possibilities. He didn't let himself follow any of them. He needed the facts before he started figuring out the answers.

Murray stood by the door to the barroom, scowling at the floor.

'Well?' Ironside demanded, looking inside to the bar. It was busier than he'd expected, clearly the hotel was more popular after midnight. In spite of all the extra people, even a cursory glance showed no Ed Brown anywhere. 'Explain! NOW!'

Murray pointed to a table by the window where the Chief could just make out two glasses and an ashtray.

'He was there until a few minutes ago,' the Lieutenant said with a growl to his tone. 'Then he ups and leaves. I found this.'

Murray showed him a ten dollar note, and Ironside gave a deep frown. A ten dollar tip? That was their code for something had gone wrong; badly, badly wrong. Both Carl and the Lieutenant knew that too.

'So?'

'My man in the foyer said Brown left his key at the desk and made as if to leave. Just like you'd told him to.'

'As if?' Ironside demanded.

Murray nodded.

'But he never made it outside. Charlie was watching the exit from the side of the car park.'

Under his breath, Ironside muttered a swear word, glaring at the ground, trying to make sense of what had happened. Even after setting this up so well, something had still gone wrong, Brown had still managed to-

He didn't continue that thought. That was unfair. He didn't know what had happened, it wasn't necessarily Brown's fault. He'd done what he was ordered: if anything had gone wrong he was to leave a ten dollar tip, hand in his key and head straight out to get a cab back to his home. He'd managed to do the first two parts without incident, so why not the last?

'What happened?' he demanded. 'Tell me the details.'

Murray was shaking his head in dismay, he looked just as worried and angry as the Chief felt.

'It was busy,' he said. 'There were a couple of other waiters moving around, but I was taking some orders from the far side of the room. Jim was changing the barrel.'

'And?'

'I'm not sure. One minute Brown was sitting there, I think he was looking out of the window. He'd been doing that a lot this evening. Then he suddenly stands up and walks straight out, ignoring everyone. Towards the main desk. I checked the table as quick as I could, and saw the tip. But by the time I got to the desk he was already gone. Phil in the foyer saw him head to the doors, and I sent him to check that Brown got a cab, but Charlie hadn't seen him. No one had been out for ten minutes. I called you straight after.'

'That's it?'

Murray nodded.

'That's it.'

The bar had slowly gotten busier and louder, but no one came to disturb him. Ed could see the waiters moving about, and paid little attention. Instead, he kept staring out to the dark beyond, watching the lights bob up and down, and vaguely aware of the reflections of people in the window.

Nothing had happened. For hours.

And as the time passed, Ed became more convinced the plan had failed. This wasn't working. The man hadn't followed him. They'd struck out.

The thought didn't frighten him as much as it had earlier. Even if he was right and this was a waste of time, he'd done what he'd had to do, what the Chief had asked of him. He'd overcome his doubts and stuck to the plan, that was at least something to be pleased about. And the Chief would have a new plan, and think of something else.

Ed tried to stifle a yawn and, as he leaned back into the chair, he winced. The painkillers from earlier had almost worn off, and he was beginning to seize up. He had a packet of pills in his inner pocket but so far he'd not taken any more. Having a couple now would help take the edge of the pain and make him feel less uncomfortable, but it also might take the edge off everything else, and Ed wasn't sure that was a good idea. He was still undercover, after all.

His empty glass sat on the table in front of him, and he looked at the nearly-finished bottle beside it and sighed. That was another reason not to take the pills, as he'd need something to wash them down. He'd had enough of tea for one evening. He wasn't sure he'd ever want to drink tea again, hot or cold.

Ed registered the sound of soft footsteps approaching, but didn't turn around, assuming it was Murray coming to tell him off. Mindful of the last time the Lieutenant had spoken to him, Ed pointedly ignored him, determined not to look as nervous as before, and to play his role as a disgruntled customer. The waiter didn't speak, just placed a tumbler on the table, and waited for a response. To his surprise, Ed noticed it was another measure of bourbon-coloured liquid, on the rocks. With a soft snort, and already thinking of a smart comment to say to the Lieutenant about how tea hadn't hit the spot tonight, Ed looked up.

He froze, his mouth half-open, the words vanishing. He was in trouble.

The waiter stood, calmly looking back at him, with a cold, accusatory stare that Ed recognised. The rest of his face was familiar too; the hair was darker and he was wearing glasses, but there was no mistake. Ed's mouth was suddenly dry as he recognised the person from the tapes they'd seen.

He was face-to-face with the man who'd murdered Leo.

His instinct screamed at him to Do Something! but Ed didn't move, locked into place by surprise. The man was standing with his back to the rest of the room, and between Ed and the other barmen. Unsure how to react but knowing he had to do something to signal the others, Ed shifted in his seat, but only moved a fraction before the other man responded.

'Stay very still,' the man told him. He spoke in a low, clear voice with no obvious accent, but the menace in his tone was unmistakable.

Ed did as he was told. The man glanced down, towards his own right side, and Ed followed his gaze. His jacket was slightly open, enough to give a clear view of the silenced gun tucked in a holster under his arm. Ed gave a dry gulp, once more feeling the cold rush of fear. He was in big trouble.

'A good try, sonny,' he said. 'But not good enough, you're on their black list.' He gave a nasty smile. 'The cops. They've been tailing you.'

Ed was so shocked he couldn't speak, his thoughts in a tangle. He'd been made. How? How? Had the man been tipped off? If not, how had this happened? And what was he supposed to do now?

Then the meaning of the words sank in: "You're on their black list. The cops, they've been tailing you." The man had just told him he was being tailed by the cops. So he knew cops were here but much more importantly, he thought Ed himself didn't know.

The suspect thought he was out on his own.

Ed tried to stay cool, and keep his head. There was nothing in the plan that covered this. The man obviously didn't think he knew what was going on. What did that mean? Was that good or bad? How could he signal the others? What should he do next? His mind was in a whirl, he could hardly think through the barrage of unanswerable questions. But there was one thing he knew for certain. He was in big, big trouble.

'So we won't be doing this in public,' the man was saying. 'You're going to lose the tail, as if anyone follows you I'll put a bullet in the back of their head.' He gave the same nasty smile. 'I assume you're still enough of a cop to want to stop that.'

Numbly Ed nodded, unable to look away from the glacial expression on the man's face.

'Be at the staff door, five minutes. Remember, lose the tail. Or else.' He gave Ed one last, hard glare. 'And I'm watching you, so don't try to be clever.'

The man moved off. Ed blinked slowly and stared after him. The exchange had taken less than ten seconds.

Unsure of his next move, he looked to see what the bar staff were doing, hoping that he could surreptitiously attract someone's attention. But they were too busy with customers to look his way. Ed muttered a curse under his breath. The suspect had chosen his moment well. He turned away from the rest of the bar and gazed back out at the dark waters beyond the window, trying to think this through. The final threat sounded loudly in his mind: I'm watching. How could he tip off the others with the suspect watching what he did? One step the wrong way and that would be it.

What in God's name was he going to do now?

He realised he was breathing hard, as if he'd been sprinting for a touchdown, and his hands were balled into tight fists. He was in more trouble than he'd ever been in before. And if he made a mistake, he could get one of his colleagues killed.

Ed drew a short, sharp breath in at the thought.

But he had to do something. His mind flitted through various options. He could stay here. Sit tight and hope the man came back, maybe he would get the chance to warn the Lieutenant, so they could grab him? But he was armed, and didn't look like he minded using the gun on anyone, cop or not, and without some sort of warning, all the undercover men were in danger, not to mention any member of the public unlucky enough to get in the way. And if he stayed here at the table, the man could just walk out of the hotel and vanish into the night, and they'd have gone through all this for nothing.

So did he do as he'd been told? Go to the staff door and hope none of the undercover cops followed him? But that was stupid. Of course someone would, that's what they'd been instructed to do, and they would stick to their orders. And if they did, if Lieutenant Simon or one of the others followed, what was he going to do then? Let them get gunned down, just like Leo? Or punch them out and hope they stayed there? That was never going to work.

But he had one other option, a last resort. The Chief had been clear about what to do if anything went wrong: Leave a ten dollar tip at the table, then stand up and walk straight out.

It was the least attractive option, as it mean that he'd failed. And if he upped and left, then this operation would be over and Leo's killer would get away.

Trying to focus, Ed closed his eyes, a strange mix of anger, confusion and resignation filling him. He knew what he should do, but he didn't want to do it. It felt like he was giving up. It felt like he'd failed. Again. Wasn't there another way? There had to be something he could do, if only he could think of it. But the more he tried to reason it out, the less clear everything became. And he was on the clock. He couldn't sit here and try to think of something better, he didn't have the time.

At the thought, his eyes flicked open, his gaze irresistibly drawn to his left arm, even though he still had no watch. He had no idea how long he'd taken, it could have been five minutes already.

Maybe if…

The thought stalled. He didn't have time for this. And he knew what he had to do.

Knowing and accepting were two completely different things. For a moment, he wanted to stand up and shout, releasing his anger and frustration at what had happened, to rage against the tide of misfortune that threatened to consume him completely. Each way he turned only dragged him down deeper, and took something else away. He had nothing left, and if this went wrong and the suspect got away, he would still be a target, he might spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. He might never get free of this.

The moment passed, leaving Ed filled with unresolved frustration and bitter disappointment. But he still knew what he had to do. After everything that had happened, he had to walk away.

How would the Chief react? How would they track the suspect? When was this ever going to end?

Too many questions, and he had no answers, so he roughly forced the questions away. The bottom line was that Ironside would expect him to follow his instructions. The Chief had been adamant: Under no circumstances was he to try and handle this on his own, and if anything went wrong he was to stand up and walk out.

That was exactly what he had to do, however much he wanted it to be different, he was going to stick to the Chief's plan.

He had no other choice. The words physically hurt to think: he had no other choice. He prayed that the Chief would see it like that as well.

Feeling like he was functioning on autopilot, Ed pulled a ten dollar bill out of his pocket and dropped it on the table. Then, needing something for his nerves, he picked up the new glass of bourbon and downed it, leaving the ice. In spite of being chilled, the alcohol burned down his dry throat, and hit his empty stomach like liquid fire.

He pushed himself standing, swaying slightly, and holding the edge of the table to keep himself steady. The muscles down his back and sides responded with swift spikes of complaint at the movement. Ed winced again and hesitated, wishing that he'd taken the chance earlier to top up on morphine. Too late now.

As he hesitated, he looked at the bottle of "bourbon" on the table and scowled. That damn thing, he should leave it. He hated tea!

But what if the suspect came back when he'd gone? He said he'd be watching. He might come over and clear the table, to check that Ed hadn't left anything that could tip off the men tailing him. And if he discovered that the bottle of bourbon was actually a bottle of cold tea, then he'd put two and two together pretty quick and he'd know Ed was in on it too.

Maybe he was getting a little paranoid, but considering what else had already gone wrong, Ed decided it wasn't worth taking that chance. So he picked up the bottle by the neck. He sighed. Besides, he'd paid for the damn thing, even if it was just tea.

With that thought, Ed turned away from the table and headed towards the foyer.

'And this was his table?' Ironside asked, looking around it. Murray nodded.

There was nothing, no note, no hint of what had gone wrong. Ironside hadn't expected there to be. If something had gone wrong, Brown was supposed to get out straight away, and not waste time leaving notes where they could be intercepted.

On the table in front of him was an ashtray with no cigarette butts or ash in it, a napkin, and two empty glasses, one with two fresh cubes of ice in it. It looked like Brown had finished whatever was in the glasses before he left. More out of habit and curiosity than because it was important, Ironside lifted the first glass, and caught the faint scent of English breakfast tea. He gave a thin smile. But when he did the same to the second, the smile vanished.

'That's bourbon,' he said angrily, passing it to Murray. 'You didn't let him have any alcohol, did you?'

Murray shook his head with an expression of surprise at the question.

'The man's on painkillers,' he said with a huff. 'He's new undercover, he's only had a few hours sleep. And you ask if I let him drink!'

He sniffed the glass, glancing to the Chief and then to Carl, confused.

'But…?' he muttered. 'How the devil did the man-'

Ironside looked at the glass, and the cubes of ice. He gave a small start.

'Ice means this glass is fresh,' he said curtly.

'But how did he get it?' chipped in Carl.

'I didn't bring him a refill,' the Lieutenant said curtly, gesturing at the far end of barroom. 'It got busy, I was taking orders, keeping my cover.'

'Someone must have brought it.'

Murray nodded, and the expression on his face matched the Chief's feelings of worry.

'Did you check all the staff?' Ironside asked, an urgent note slipping into the way he spoke.

Murray shrugged again.

'The regulars checked out,' he said. 'And there were two of my men on the floor as well. That was all I could get. We didn't have enough for anything more.'

That was the balancing act he'd wrestled with. Too many men and keeping this under wraps would have been impossible, too few and they had gaps in their surveillance. But it was obvious that Murray was now thinking the same thing as Ironside was: that the suspect had slipped past them all.

The thought made him angry with himself. In spite of all his precautions, the suspect had approached Ed while the rest of the men were occupied. Little wonder that Ed had upped and left.

'Let's say it was the suspect,' Ironside said quietly, staring down at the table, trying to imagine what had happened here. 'He's dressed like a waiter, comes over with a fresh drink, and speaks to Brown.'

'Did he have to do it himself?' Carl said. 'Couldn't he have got one of the others to pass a note?'

Ironside thought about that idea briefly, then shook his head.

'Those can be intercepted,' he said. 'I doubt he'd take that chance. It would be cleaner if he spoke to Brown himself.'

He almost added that a direct contact with Brown would be more intimidating, but thought the better of it.

'So what did he say?' asked Carl.

'Impossible to know,' Ironside muttered. 'But it spooks Brown into thinking the plan has been blown.' He paused for a moment, wondering what the suspect said to Ed to make him think it was all over. The table gave him no clues.

'Tell me what you saw,' Ironside said to Murray after a pause. 'Did anyone approach?'

'No,' Murray replied. 'But I didn't have eyes on him every moment. I couldn't. I still had to run the bar.'

'You must have noticed something,' Ironside said sharply, feeling his temper stating to rise.

'He was sitting there, staring off into space,' Murray told him. 'Then he suddenly stands up, and walks out.'

'Just like that?'

Murray nodded. He watched Ironside with an intent stare as the Chief thought through the scenario again. It didn't matter if anyone saw a waiter, as one must have been here to give Brown that glass. And it couldn't have been one of the undercover cops, as they wouldn't have brought real bourbon to him. The suspect was an obvious explanation.

He let the idea roll around his mind for a moment, aware that it didn't quite fit and there was something he was missing. This was the moment they'd been waiting for, so why hadn't Ed strung it out, or played for time, or at least signalled Murray or one of the others so they could do their jobs. He felt a small shiver along the top of his spine. It didn't feel right, somehow.

'The suspect speaks to Ed,' the Chief repeated slowly, thinking out loud. 'And whatever he says is enough to make Ed think that the whole plan has been blown wide open. The suspect walks off…'

Ironside frowned at the thought. If the suspect wanted to trade, why did he just walk away?

'…and Brown waits,' he continued quietly. And why hadn't Ed reacted immediately when the suspect left? Why would he sit and wait, and then leave? Why didn't he give the other officers a chance to step in and make the arrest? Why didn't this fit together?

'But Brown stuck to his instructions,' Murray said. 'He drops ten dollars and walks out.'

'But he also drinks the bourbon before he goes,' Carl said. 'To steady his nerves?'

Ironside paused, looking back at the table. The feeling that he was missing something grew. It was right in front of him, but he didn't know what it was. He gave a sharp shake of his head, he couldn't see it and he had to press on.

'Ed leaves the tip,' Ironside said, 'and goes to the front desk.'

The same, bored-looking young clerk stood, slumped forward at the main desk, as Ed approached, and he had no way to tell if this was another undercover officer or just an employee who was tired after a long day. As he passed his key over, the man gave him a disdainful look in return, his gaze lingering on the cut on Ed's lip, and the bruising round his neck, not hidden by the collar of his shirt. Then he caught sight of the bourbon bottle Ed was holding in his bandaged hand, and rolled his eyes.

As he'd walked through, Ed had been tempted to go upstairs and pick up his case, then had decided that there was no need and it would be safe enough here for the time being. And even if the suspect broke into his room again, there was nothing to find, there was nothing new in his case, just broken bits and pieces that he'd salvaged from the floor. The only thing he really cared about was still safely tucked in his inside pocket.

After placing his key on its hook, the clerk gave him another disdainful, pitying look and walked away, so Ed felt he should do the same.

He turned and glanced around. The main concourse was quiet, a few men were sitting on the plush seats to the side of the room, one was reading yesterday's Chronicle, a couple were talking in low voices. No one was watching him, so far as he could tell. And he didn't see the suspect anywhere, which was a bonus.

In spite of what had just happened, to his surprise Ed found himself starting to relax a little, feeling unexpectedly relieved. The plan hadn't borne fruit, it was true, the suspect was still out there, but he had managed his first solo undercover assignment without anything going seriously wrong. The panic and worry he'd felt when the suspect had spoken to him had faded and he was left feeling that he had done his best in a tough situation. Though he was still upset and disappointed, he hadn't had many other choices. The Chief might be angry too, and rant and rage about it for a while, but he'd recognise that fact, and he'd come up with a new plan. The Chief was good at things like that.

But for tonight, it was almost over. There was one final thing to do. He was to get in a cab and head straight back to the boarding house to debrief. No detours, no shortcuts, no nothing.

Ed stuffed his free hand in his pocket and walked through the foyer, swinging the bottle with the other as he did, heading to the front. Now he'd taken the decision to leave, he couldn't wait to get out of this place. The bitterness and annoyance were fading with every step he took away from the bar, replaced by an aching weariness. Maybe the debrief could wait until after he'd had a rest.

He pushed his way through the revolving doors and out to the brightly-lit cloud-like foyer, with the huge, glass windows that looked out onto the parking lot, already wondering how long he'd have to wait before he managed to hail a cab.

He'd only take a couple of steps towards the entrance, when something sharp dug into his back, right at the base of his spine, poking one of the bruises and making him gasp in pain. Before he could react, a hand grabbed his arm and yanked him to the side, towards one of the stairwell doors.

'Open it,' a voice behind him said. 'Quickly.'

'Phil was there,' said Murray, pointing to the seats and an abandoned copy of the San Francisco Chronicle. 'He saw Brown leave his key at the desk and go through those doors.'

Ironside nodded, then led the way through the revolving doors which separated the concourse from the foyer. Once there, he walked along slowly, looking left to right. Just ahead was the main entrance, with its huge glass windows. Charlie would be out there in the dark, sitting in his Ford parked discretely to one side, watching everyone come in and out.

Halfway across the foyer, Ironside slowed, stopped and turned, looking back at the room he'd just crossed, watching the revolving doors spin sluggishly to a halt.

This whole room was a blind spot. Ed had been seen coming in here, but he had not gone out. So whatever had happened, had happened here.

The Chief let himself think about the young officer for a few moments. Maybe it had all become too much, and he'd choked. Brown had been through the wringer over the last few days, perhaps it had built up and he'd not been able to take the heat. The Chief didn't like that idea, as it went against the picture he had of Ed Brown. Ironside believed that Ed wouldn't throw his hand in without a good reason. So what was the good reason?

As he stood there, the images coalesced in Ironside's mind: The suspect, possibly disguised as a waiter, had spoken to Ed when he was at the table, perhaps he'd threatened him. But whatever he'd said, it was enough to make Ed think that his only safe option was to leave. He'd delayed, maybe trying to think though his next move, but ultimately he'd followed the plan. He'd left his key at the desk and headed out to hail a cab. But he hadn't made it to the outer doors where Charlie was watching. Instead, he'd ducked out here, either he'd taken the elevator, or gone up the stairs. There was no way to tell. But he must still be in the hotel. All the exits were covered, no one had reported anything, so Ed must still be here, somewhere.

Murray was hovering near his shoulder, glancing around, as was Carl.

'What do you think, Chief?' he asked.

Ironside looked at the Lieutenant without smiling.

'Ed was sticking to the plan,' he said in a hushed tone. 'So if he didn't make it out of here, then something must have stopped him.'

'Something? Or someone?' Murray asked.

The door swung shut behind him, and Ed gave a small shudder, trying to keep his cool. Unlike the foyer, the stairwell had a grubby, industrial feel, with concrete walls and metal railings, and harsh artificial lights that made the back of his eyes hurt.

'Stop,' the man behind him said.

Ed knew it was their suspect. The man who'd killed Leo had a gun pushed hard against him. Shaking, he did as he was told, trying not to sway as a chilled wave of nausea and fear rushed through him. He had to stay alert and keep calm, and not give the man a reason to pull the trigger. He gripped the bottle tightly, hoping that would help. It didn't.

'I thought you'd be a runner,' the suspect said, sounding as relaxed as if he was ordering dinner. 'You have that look to you. Guess they don't make cops the way they used to, eh sonny?'

Ed didn't reply, and pressed his lips together. Explaining what he was actually doing wouldn't help. With a soft laugh at his own wit, the man ran the barrel slowly up Ed's spine to the base of his skull. He stepped close and gripped the top of Ed's left arm as if to keep him from falling over. At the touch, Ed winced in pain from the pressure on the bruises hidden under his clothes.

The initial, disorientating shock had worn off, but inside he was reeling from what had happened. The suspect had been waiting for him beside the doors, ready to intercept him as he left. His mind was a jumble of ideas and emotions, and he wasn't sure what he should do. How could he get himself out of this?

But unlike the panic of before, one thought stood out above the others: somehow he had to let the Chief know where he was and what was going on. Within minutes, Ironside would discover his plan had gone wrong and that although Ed had left a tip and handed in his key, he'd not made it to a cab. Ironside would guess that he'd fallen foul of their suspect. He'd come after them. He'd expect Ed to stay focused and follow his orders. He'd expect Ed to find some way to help. If he could only…

Then the man behind him spoke, derailing his thoughts.

'We're going to climb these stairs to the third floor,' the suspect said, the authoritative tone of his voice showing no emotion. 'You're just a man who's had too much of a good time, and who needs a little help.'

'W-' Ed started to say.

'No!' The response was immediate, and said with cold conviction. 'Look, sonny, I make the rules. You don't speak. One twitch, one look the wrong way and I'll fire. We good?'

Ed gave a stiff nod, very aware of the gun pressed against his skull.

'Okay, then. Here we go.'

The man gave Ed a little push of encouragement, and they started to climb, step by step. It was awkward, he moved rigidly, unable to watch were he was stepping. The way the man held him made his back hurt, not to mention the pain in his arm from the bruises and the uncomfortable way his shoulder was twisted. The gun stayed steady at the top of his neck, and Ed regretted having the bourbon before he left the table, especially as he'd not had much to eat. It wasn't helping his coordination. Twice he missed his footing and staggered, the second time the bottle clinked against the metal railing, echoing loudly. He started at the noise, finding it hard to keep his balance.

'You shouldn't have drunk so much!' the man sneered.

Ed still didn't reply, but gripped the bottle more tightly, knowing that if he pushed too far, the man would pull the trigger without a second thought or a glimmer of remorse. An image of Leo's corpse flashed across his mind, and Ed gave an involuntary shudder. He could be only seconds away from joining him.

Desperate, Ed tried to figure out what he could do, or what Ironside would want him to do. But he was running out of stairs, and his mind was a blank.

He had to think of something.

Fast.