Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.

ICYMI: Scheck decides on the ultimate extreme to get another shot at Arnold. Arnold and Brainy share some male bonding. Phoebe is able to reach Olga before the arrival of an unexpected guest.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the latest chapter is upon us!

18. Because…Family Matters (Part 1)

She looked so beautiful and oh so delicate as he stood over her cradle. He stood, drinking in every minute detail; nothing was escaping his attention. Her face resembled her mother's in every regard, down to her eyes that were the same intense shade of blue. As far as he could see, his only contribution was the unruly shock of pale blonde hair on her scalp. He feared that he was currently experiencing a dream and that soon he'd be jolted awake and away from the illusion.

"I still can't get over how gorgeous she is!" he said softly to his resting wife, mother of this magnificent creation.

"Well, Lover," she replied sweetly despite her immense fatigue, "she is your daughter."

"Ours," he corrected. "And right now I can't think of any luckier couple right this minute." He then resumed his loving vigil. The clock in the room read eight-thirty, Tuesday evening. He just that moment realized that he had spent all day with his wife and newborn daughter

Tired as his wife was, she saw right through him. "You're worried about him, don't deny it!"

At least he was glad she'd broached the topic. "Hilda, he's my cousin. And I know we grew up hating each other, but…now we're more like brothers and I can't stand the thought that he's going out there to…"

"Then go help him." Hilda interrupted.

"But now there's me, you and our daughter and I can't just what did you say?" The surprise of Hilda's statement hit him mid-sentence.

Hilda re-iterated. "You'll just drive yourself crazy with worry. You'll be no good to anybody, most of all to your wife and daughter."

"But it's dangerous and you know it! How can you permit that so casually?" Arnie queried, before pausing, then sighing as he realized that he already knew the answer. "Because you're my wife and you know me so well it's scary."

"Don't you worry, Husband of Mine," Hilda reassured. "You've had plenty of quality time with her: I doubt you'll be strangers when you return. Plus, we're both on parental leave so you won't be going AWOL. Plus, my mother will be here later tonight from Duluth to help with the baby…whose name you still haven't picked."

That was the magic of Hilda: she was difficult to read. Always keeping him guessing with her smile and friendly presence that could be genuine…or could be masking censure of the highest order. How she confused him sometimes, and how he loved her and would do so forever.

Just as he was internally praising her beneficence, he heard her begin a list of curtailments that really should not have surprised him.

"Four conditions, however. One, you're limited to forty-eight hours from the moment you leave this room. Two, no getting killed. Get yourself killed and I'll serve you the divorce papers myself in whatever afterlife you find yourself. Then I'll spend the rest of my life mourning my biggest loss."

The scary aspect was that he believed her capable of such a feat…

"Three," she continued, "we are to be in regular contact, you, me and the baby while you are away, just to remind ourselves how much we love one another. Four…"

She paused as her smile contorted into a wicked grin. "Four, you're not putting one foot out of this room until that baby has a name!"

So…

One christening, some hurried travel preparation and a road journey that included three speeding tickets and several cups of coffee later, Arnie found himself in discussion with Arnold and someone named Brainy in some brownstone in Hillwood.

"So…you named the kid 'Helle', huh?" queried Arnold.

"Mm," mulled Brainy, "Danish variant of 'Helga'. Nice name. But it still doesn't explain how you found this place!"

Arnie gave Brainy's presence the briefest of consideration before turning back to Arnold: "Is he always like this?"

And for the first time in years, Arnold was forced into a mediation role. "Nothing personal. He doesn't trust cops, is all."

Arnie then turned back to Brainy, studying him briefly before the recognition hit him. "You! You're that four-eyed creep from PS 118!"

"Oh, like you're one to talk, you fucking weirdo!" Brainy retaliated. "How's the lint collection coming along? And how come you're not snorting after every other sentence? Did you finally ditch the coke habit?"

Arnie was not one to anger easily, no matter what verbal barbs were thrown his way. By way of an answer, he simpered at Brainy as he raised his left hand to show off his wedding band. "What do you think, brother?" he boasted. "I've moved on to better things!"

"Brainy, Arnie! That's enough!" intervened Arnold. "We're on the same side, remember?"

"Doesn't mean we gotta like each other!" Brainy and Arnie answered in unison.

"OK, OK! Guys, focus!" cried Arnold in a stentorian tone than would have garnered attention from almost the entire block were it not for the fact that almost the entire block was either at work or school. At least it garnered the attention of the bickering pair gathered with him. And so he seized the opportunity: "But Arnie, seriously, how did you know to find me here?"

"Foutley, of course! The moment I left, I had him trace your location through your phone."

"Time out!" interrupted a wary Brainy, raising his hand as though seeking his teacher's approval to speak. "Wouldn't you cops need a warrant to track down suspects. Fourth Amendment, remember?"

Arnie didn't even blink as he countered: "Who said he's a suspect? As far as my county is concerned, he's a missing person, so…exigent circumstances, friend." A defeated Brainy let him continue. "Anyway, he gets me a fix on your location. Then…nothing."

"About the time of the cemetery—" Arnold added before being abruptly interrupted.

"Whoa, Coz!" said Arnie sharply. "Did I mention anything about certain events at the cemetery that could make anyone a person of interest to any police officer?"

When he saw Arnold shaking his head, he then turned to Brainy. "Hey Four-Eyes, you hear me say anything about any occurrences at a graveyard?"

"Didn't hear a goddamn thing about a still-open investigation mentioned by a law enforcement officer," confirmed Brainy. "And don't call me 'Four-Eyes'!"

"So please, Coz, no interruptions!" ordered Arnie, before continuing. "So I get to Hillwood, not sure what my next move will be. Then while I'm having breakfast at a diner, Foutley calls and lets me know you're back online. Plus, you're not all over the place anymore, so he's able to pinpoint your location…to this specific address. So here I am. So…what's your next step?"

"Not sure yet," conceded Arnold. "I'll have a better idea when Foutley gets back to me."

The key principle of hacking is to look for a weak point and exploit it for all its worth. The man called Foutley understood this principle all too well as he attempted to find a way into FTI. His best chance would come through one of FTI's most recent acquisitions; they'd most likely be smaller companies and as such have less rigorous IT security.

He was lucky enough to find one such company with a relatively weak firewall which he could breach with little effort. Once in, his luck held as he found that the company's email server had been integrated into FTI's central server. Some more finagling and eventually he found his way undetected into the email account of Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck.

That's when things got interesting.

The most recent mail was a to-and-fro between Scheck and…damn! The domain name established it as originating from the office of San Lorenzo's Presidency! A quick scour through the mail revealed:

1) Scheck was looking into exploiting San Lorenzo's seemingly vast mineral and natural resources.

2) He cared not one jot about any potential environmental catastrophes.

3) Neither did El Presidente of San Lorenzo, seeing as that he stood to pocket a one-billion-dollar payday from this series of transactions, plus a cut from the mining royalties.

Even more damning was a folder containing a recording of a video call in which Scheck broadly outlines his proposal to El Presidente. The mails then must have been to create a trail of sorts and finetune the details.

Never fails to amaze me how these people can be so bold with such damning evidence, he mused. Probably think they'll never be caught.

Foutley started piecing together what he had read, in combination with what he already knew.

Scheck wanted Arnold dead, fact.

Arnold was born in San Lorenzo and lived there for a significant portion of his adolescent and teen years, fact.

It, therefore, stood to reason that Scheck was banking on Arnold still having ties with the country of his birth. And from what Foutley knew of Scheck, the man was ruthless and depraved enough to kill a country just to get to Arnold, to force him out of hiding and into a losing confrontation.

Then there was the relative ease with which Foutley had accessed this incriminating documentation: normally at this level, he'd expect much higher-level data encryption. But no…this was left out in the open, so to speak.

This was no careless act, this was deliberate. Someone wanted this to be found. Someone probably figured out that Arnold Shortman had access to a hacker. Not Foutley, of course: he was always careful to cover his tracks. Anyone tracing his line would end up at a remote server in Nababeep, a South African town so remote that not many South Africans, let alone the average American, knew where it was.

So, in conclusion: Scheck was setting a trap to lure Arnold out of hiding. Where the trap was to be set... the exchange did not mention. Before signing off, he scrolled down the screen, giving it a cursory scan. Before signing off, he caught sight of an emerging folder named 'Santalov'.

Santalov? The man in charge of the original attempt on Arnold and Phoebe's lives? What was the connection between him and Scheck, the latter whose banking details he uncovered for Phoebe not two days ago?

His curiosity stimulated, the man called Foutley sifted through the newly uncovered emails, scanning the titles, noting how the dates went back some seventeen years and change. He noted too how these particular emails did not originate from FTI. Instead, they were from a private account held by Vitaly Santalov to his associates. Scheck must have gotten hold of them by being bcc'd in all the emails from a separate private account while he was incarcerated. Foutley deduced that these mails were much later transferred to the FTI server.

The email headings were of particular, chilling interest:

'Rewards for helpers'

…

'Sunset Arms'

…

'Sunset Arms Building Plans'

'RE: Sunset arms occupants'

…

'RE: RE: RE: RE: Shortman's friends'

…

'RE: New girlfriend info and photos'

…

…

'RE: RE: RE: Possible insider'

Oh…

The headings alone sounded incriminating. Scheck was either brazen in the extreme, or a complete moron, for not deleting these mails. Maybe…he could just have been so supremely self-assured in his never being prosecuted for his past actions. Perhaps these were reminders of his triumph over Arnold Shortman.

Foutley had no time to read each mail, so he quickly made copies of them to his PC before logging off while making sure to cover his tracks as thoroughly as he usually did.

He was left now with a dilemma of which of the additional information to disclose to Arnold. Would this knowledge really be power so soon in this situation?

"Mister Scheck! Mister Scheck!"

The IT minion was escorted into Scheck's office under the watchful gazes and grasps of the burly PMC's serving as part of Scheck's updated security detail. Scheck, from behind his desk motioned for him to be released before addressing him in a curt voice.

"What is it?"

"Mister Scheck, we've had a firewall breach!"

"Oh?" was Scheck's only response. He could see the minion's confusion at his boss's unconcerned reply.

"Mister Scheck, you don't understand! The hacker accessed your email account! Who knows what this person was able to access.

At this mention, Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck forced himself to stifle a self-satisfied smile. The IT drone must have noticed, for he followed up: "Mister Scheck, I assure you this is no laughing matter! Whoever did this was even able to copy some of your confidential mails!"

Scheck still had to put on the correct appearance by pretending to be perturbed by the news. "What?" he responded in convincing faux distress. "How did this happen? When?"

The minion then went into a detailed explanation as to how the hacker was able to access the mail server, and of how attempts to track the individual had failed and only led the IT Security and Forensics teams to some flyspeck South African town called Nababeep – they had to google its location, he sheepishly admitted. Scheck maintained his veneer of engrossment while the man droned. He knew of the data breach already; he had ordered it set up, thanks to a PMC whose resumé stated to be a qualified network engineer and internet security expert. Scheck had authorized him temporary access to the FTI network to set up the trap. He knew from Santalov that someone – presumably in cahoots with Arnold Shortman – had obtained bits of information from his late partner.

If the person responsible was still active, then why not take advantage of the situation and leave lying out in the open that for which Arnold Shortman was looking? After all, Shortman was nothing if not predictably resourceful. Odds were good he'd want the inside track to his enemy's plans through whatever means.

He was starting to imagine how Shortman would respond to the plans to destroy his beloved San Lorenzo – not to mention the additional tidbits of info dating back seventeen years – when he realized that the peon was done with his doomsday report and was now awaiting instructions from the boss man.

"Are you still here?" he said to the man in quiet authority. "Get back to your post and solve the problem. You're supposed to be the best in your field, so go out and prove it, or else my organization might not be the best fit for you."

And as the man tripped over his feet in his haste to exit the office, Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck felt a sense of self-assurance that he hadn't felt in quite a while. He felt as if he had regained the upper hand over Arnold Shortman.

There was just one last part of the plan that needed his attention as he dialed the number of one of his many remaining resources.

Usually, an IAB interview being cut short would be met with sighs of relief from the police officer being interviewed. Not so for Detective Mark Vasquez. Through the Rat Squad detective who interviewed Vasquez, Scheck had hinted at a second chance for the detective, a shot at redemption. But from what Vasquez understood about Scheck, redemption always came at a steep price. He was wondering what his atonement would cost.

He wouldn't find out as soon as he left the building, where he found a swarm of reporters waiting for him, to question him on his interview. Even though they were fully aware of the confidential nature of such events. As they caught sight of him and quickly approached with their questions, he just as quickly turned away from them and headed back into the station.

For all intents and purposes, he was trapped. The vultures outside wouldn't disperse for anything less than divine intervention or natural disasters…maybe.

"Detective Vasquez!"

A pair of uniformed patrolmen approached him.

"Having trouble leaving, Sir?"

"You have no idea, boys," the tired and pissed-off detective replied. "No fucking idea."

"Sir, would you like if we drive you home? Our car's deep down in the motor pool. We can get you out of here and those reporters won't suspect a thing."

The detective scanned the two patrolmen, both of whom had that innocent, fresh-out-of-the-academy look about them. Still believe they can make a difference, he mused scornfully and wagered to himself that their demeanors would change within a year, tops.

But still…offer accepted.

Before long, he was seated in the backseat of their Dodge Charger patrol vehicle, together with a mysterious box.

"Sir, I suggest you open that box," spoke the patrolman behind the wheel.

"The boss may believe in second chances, but there's always a price to pay," added his partner.

The price came in the form of a pistol, a .22 High Standard HDM with a sound suppressor integrated into the barrel. Alongside it, a typed note: 'Reporter. 24 Hours.'

Under a different set of circumstances, the detective would have found the job a revolting proposition. This was not a different set of circumstances; the proposition of killing Phoebe Heyerdahl was the polar opposite of revolting, even if he'd need to work on some leads to get a fix of her location. Twenty-four hours was more than sufficient, especially since Shortman was in the wind and she wasn't.

Yeah, fuck Shortman. It was Phoebe who ruined the career of Detective Mark Vasquez. It was Phoebe whom he'd enjoy killing the most. Plus, if Shortman had indeed gotten close to Phoebe, then finding and killing her would add to his lifetime of grief and loss. Gleeful thoughts were floating through his mind as he picked up the suppressed weapon and concealed it in his coat.

Detective Mark Vasquez smiled at the proposition. He continued smiling as he was driven undetected out of the building. Not even the midday traffic rush wasn't enough to diminish his smile. It was only when he turned the key to his front door and walked in to see his wife and Phoebe together…only then did his smile disappear.

Brainy had to shrink at what he was witnessing. Arnie was in sight, on his phone, checking in with his wife and daughter. The conversation with Hilda had been pleasant (read: normal) enough as he confirmed that he had (a) made it safely to Hillwood, (b) located Arnold, and (c) still loved and missed Hilda and Helle very dearly.

Then he went silent momentarily before being informed that Hilda's phone was now being held beside little Helle and suddenly the situation became awkward. Now Brainy was witness to the affectionate cooing and fawning by a man whom no betting person would ever – ever – have thought capable of displaying such levels of expression and emotion.

"It's like a train wreck I can't look away from," Brainy whispered to Arnold, who nodded in distracted agreement. Arnold, meanwhile, was between umpteen attempts at reaching Phoebe. He did not like the sour note on which their most recent call had ended. Yes, her move was extremely reckless but right now all that mattered was her safety and his knowledge thereof.

Eventually, Arnie ended the call, then saw the look of shock and awe that was Brainy's expression. Knowing fully why the weirdo from PS 118 was in such shock and awe, he said plainly to him: "Fuck you. One day you'll have kids of your own, then you'll understand." He then took a longer glance at Brainy before amending his statement: "OK, maybe not."

They were still at Brainy's residence because Arnold was still waiting for Foutley's feedback in order to determine a plan of action, for which assistance from his well-meaning cousin had now become non-negotiable. It wasn't that Arnie couldn't be useful; quite the contrary. As one of the county's top snipers, his marksmanship skills outshone Arnold's by a significant margin. Nonetheless, he lacked Arnold's battlefield experience. Plus, Arnie had a family waiting for him and the absolute last thing Arnold wanted was to deliver news to Hilda that her husband and father of her daughter would not be returning home.

Arnold had made that much known to his cousin before the latter's call home, who had then rebutted: "Coz, you're not the only one who lost family. They killed Aunt Stella and Uncle Miles, Grandpa Phil and Grandma Gertie. I lost family too on that day, so this is my fight as much as yours. It was just luck that I was stuck at home with a cold on…that day…and my folks chose to stay and take care of me."

And that was the current Arnie: if there were any positives to be had from the Sunset Arms incident, he was the embodiment of almost all of them. The trauma and loss of the event had spurred the aloof, antisocial, permanently uncaring adolescent into eventually becoming the devoted, fiercely loyal man whom Arnold was now so very proud to call family.

Affable too, as even Brainy, who over the years seemed to have developed a blanket distrust for all but a select few police officers, was beginning to cultivate a rapport with Arnie despite the two's constant bickering.

Arnold's ringing phone snapped him back to the present. It wasn't Phoebe returning at least one of his calls, it was Foutley. Arnold forced himself to put Phoebe's matter on hold as he took Foutley's call.

"Foutley!"

"Arnold."

"I'm putting you on speaker. Got the Sheriff and another associate here."

"Another associate, you say? Are you seeing someone behind my back?"

"No time for pleasantries!" Brainy cut in. "You got anything we can use?"

"Let me first say this. Good call, Arnold! It appears our friend, Mister Scheck, is indeed scheming to flush you out."

"How so?" asked Arnie.

The man called Foutley immediately launched into what he uncovered regarding Scheck's plans for exploiting San Lorenzo's natural resources to its terminal detriment, with the assistance of El Presidente. The trio in Brainy's residence stood in shocked silence at the revelations.

"Son of a bitch wants to kill a country just to get at Arnold?" Brainy asked in disbelief, the true scope of Scheck's depravity having just sunk in.

"Not just any country," added Arnold in subdued bitterness. "My birth country."

"That's the gist of it," confirmed Foutley.

Then from Brainy: "Foutley…is it? Did you have a hard time finding this data? Did you struggle to breach whatever systems you breached."

"No, now that you mention it. I got them straight from the FTI mail server, though it wasn't difficult at all to breach the security. It was almost…too easy…like they wanted someone to find the data."

Arnie then weighed in. "He's trying to set a trap!" He then turned to Arnold: "Get you to think with your heart and not your mind. He lures you out to try and stop him, right into an ambush!"

"Another one!" added Brainy as though the concept was no longer a fresh one. "He tried…what…fifteen mercs last time. What are the odds he'll bring at least double that number?"

"Assuming that's the case," Arnold postulated, "he wouldn't want to have a showdown at FTI HQ. It'll have to be somewhere open and remote. Hey Foutley, you've given us the broad strokes of Scheck's proposal. Any finer details?"

"Uh…let me check." The trio in Hillwood then heard Foutley's um's and ah's as he gave the mails more thorough scrutiny. "Interesting," he eventually responded. "There are some vague mentions of establishing a shipping lane from Puerto Clara to Hillwood via the Panama Canal, ostensibly to create jobs in shipping in both cities. Wait a moment…"

More um's and ah's, then…

"Scheck mentions that he'll personally be inspecting the docks at Hillwood Harbour…within the next three days…to see how viable they are for his plans. He promises to get back to El Presidente by Friday."

"So he's the bait this time!" concluded Arnold.

"Which means he'll also have the home ground advantage," warned Arnie. "Harbour on lockdown. Hostiles all over the place, probably every man he can spare. Orders to terminate with extreme prejudice."

"Hence, the reason obtaining the files was so easy," Foutley realized.

"So what now?" Brainy asked on behalf of everyone else who wasn't Arnold, causing those in the room to turn towards the master strategist.

"OK," paused the ex-soldier. "Foutley, you need to send copies of all the mails you found to a man called Big Gino. He's working to undermine Scheck's support base, so this will be extra ammo for him."

"Big Gino?" asked Foutley as if he heard incorrectly. "As in Gino Giovinazzo, a wannabe crime boss from Hillwood?"

"And also our guarantee that Scheck's demise doesn't lead to all-out gang warfare," completed Arnold.

"Aha! The devil we know, correct? I'm on it!"

"Tell him it's compliments of the boy scout. And see what you can do about satellite surveillance over Hillwood Harbour. No way will my drone be big enough."

"Geez, Arnold! I'm not a miracle-worker! Not on such short notice!"

Whereupon Brainy chimed in: "Don't worry, I've got this. Got a guy who can make it happen at a moment's notice. I just need to say the word."

"You can do that?" The surprise and relief were clear in Foutley's voice.

"Oh, and Foutley?" Arnold added. "Send copies to Eduardo in San Lorenzo." He then gave the mail address of his adoptive father, now a well-respected community leader in San Lorenzo with plenty of political and popular sway. "He needs to know how El Presidente is planning to sell out his country and his people. He'll know what to do. Hell, send copies to the WWF and Greenpeace while you're at it. We need to turn the screws on him, big time!"

"All very good Arnold, but what will you be doing while I'm plying my trade?" asked Foutley.

"Preparing for the inevitable," Arnold replied enigmatically. "And Foutley, thanks for everything."

He then ended the call and announced to those still gathered, particularly to Arnie: "OK, let me get my gear, then we'll be on our way."

No sooner had Arnold left to collect his items, when Arnie's phone rang. It was Foutley, who immediately went into an urgent whisper. "Sheriff, if Arnold's still there with you, find some reason to leave the room."

"It's fine. You can talk," assured Arnie.

So Foutley did. He mentioned the mails from the Santalov folder. He mentioned the scope of the planning that went into their Sunset Arms scheme. Finally, he mentioned the contents of the mail titled 'RE: RE: RE: Possible insider'. Arnie recognized a name relayed by Foutley. He had this to say to Foutley: "Foutley, keep this info between us for now. The last thing we need now is for my cousin to be distracted and confused, you got that?"

Brainy picked up the urgency in Arnie's whisper and so piped in at an appropriate volume: "What's going on?"

Arnie's answer was to look at Brainy and then order Foutley: "Send a copy to our guy here as well." He focused again on Brainy. "Hey, Four-Eyes, what's your email address?"

Brainy wasn't fully aware of the circumstances but he complied by giving his address, which Arnie relayed to Foutley before ending the call.

To Brainy he said: "Read it and you'll understand. Just don't tell Arnold. Not yet, anyway."

"What's this about?" asked Brainy, his voice reflecting even more concern.

"Looks like we have one thing in common. We're both looking out for our boy."

Soon Arnold was back in the room, having changed back into his now somewhat tattered and soiled battle ensemble from the previous night. If he had heard any of the words spoken between Brainy and Arnie, he was putting on a supreme act of willful ignorance.

"OK, Arnie. Let's go prepare ourselves for whatever and whenever." He announced to his cousin.

"Oh? And how exactly are we getting to wherever we're heading?" queried Arnie, never at a loss at how Arnold could take charge of a group without being obnoxious about it.

"You're driving, of course. You said you're here to help…and my wheels are someplace else."

A beaten Arnie conceded defeat and the pair departed. Or at least they would have, had a news announcement on Brainy's TV made itself heard and caught the attention of Arnold, who moved to watch the subsequent report with Brainy and Arnie in curious tow.

"I'm currently in front of the police station," stated a reporter in dire need of either extra-strength coffee or a medically-induced coma, "where disgraced Detective Mark Vasquez was last seen following his disastrous press conference earlier this morning which compromised the investigation into what appears to be a gang-related shooting at the cemetery. It is understood by this reporter that the detective was being questioned by Hillwood PD's Internal Affairs Bureau. The meeting appeared to have concluded some twenty minutes ago, as the detective was seen trying to exit the station."

Footage showing Vasquez being accosted by reporters after his exit had now taken over the screen.

"As you can see," the reporter spoke over the chaotic footage, "Detective Vasquez was unwilling to answer any of our questions, and promptly returned inside the station. His present location remains unknown and a spokesperson for this station informed reporters that Detective Vasquez is no longer in the building. More as the story develops. Back to you, Anthony."

Twenty minutes…ago..?

Arnold's mind was racing as his dread manifested itself in a single utterance: "Phoebe!"

Vasquez had made his way undetected out of the station. Arnold knew it, he sensed it: the detective was too clever and resourceful to be pinned at a location by a group of hack reporters. And now he was on a collision course the one woman who fucked up his entire career in a matter of minutes!

He had to…

He had to…

"Arnie, get your car ready…NOW!" No time for manners, not with Phoebe at risk!

Arnie sensed his cousin's grave seriousness and moved without question to fulfill his instructions.

Arnold then turned to Brainy: "Brainy, you have ten seconds to tell me where the fuck that detective lives!"

"Olga, she's lying!"

Mark Vasquez could only witness his already shitty day becoming even worse. He'd craved the sanctuary of his home when he left the station, and just when he thought he'd reached his refuge…well, it figured.

"Oh I'm not sure, Dear" answered Olga in a softly menacing tone. "And do you mind terribly closing the door and stepping a bit closer to me?"

He complied. What a terrible feeling of frustration it was: having his target so tantalizingly within range and not being able to a goddamn thing about it.

"OK. Now what?"

"Now, we get some clarity!" Olga answered with renewed theatrical flair. Then, as she motioned towards Phoebe: "Beginning with her!"

Her!

"Olga, I told you she's lying!"

"No, let me tell you. This woman here…I butted her on the head with this weapon, then kicked her in the stomach and ribs – as you can see by her somewhat bedraggled appearance – but she never changed her story. So I'm thinking, you know, there might be some truth to what she's saying. Starting with your involvement with her."

Olga then recited to him what Phoebe had confessed to her regarding the infidelity: Mark Vasquez was rendered anemic at the mention of each detail.

"Olga, I was on a case…we both were! Things just happened, then…they spiraled out of our control." He was clutching feverishly for an explanation and could see that his wife wasn't buying it."

"Mark, one night with her would have been bad enough. But three months? Behind my back? Making every effort to cover your tracks?" Her anger rose with each sentence, then she switched her tone to that of a kindly kindergarten teacher sweetly chastising an errant toddler: "I don't know, but that suggests an element of premeditation, don't you think?"

Oh, she's enjoying this, thought Vasquez. They both are. Right this instant, he was ruing what a bitch karma could be.

"Now let's talk about your finances, shall we?" Olga continued. "I always felt that you weren't telling me everything about our financial situation. Take your student debt for instance."

Uh-oh!

"You're a college graduate, so how come I've never once heard you complain about paying off your student loan debt? Did you have someone take care of that for you?"

Shit, she also knows how Santalov bought my services.

But he couldn't stand idly and let her rail on him. Two sides to every tale, or some shit like that.

"What would you know of student debt, Miss Scholarships-Up-The-Wazoo. Some of us have to pay for our higher learning!"

He saw his wife flinch at that statement. There was his opportunity to turn the situation around!

But…

"Olga, don't fall for his mind games!" urged Phoebe as she broke her heretofore rapt silence. "He's trying to trick you into lowering your guard!"

It was then that Mark Vasquez was reminded that Phoebe was a Psych major like him. He was also reminded of one of their pillow talk sessions when he boasted about graduating Cum Laude, only to be deflated when Phoebe disclosed her having graduated Summa Cum Laude. Plus she was siding with Olga.

Well, she may know Psychology, but I know my wife.

His brain was formulating a strategy. A risky strategy that would require split-second timing and no small measure of luck, but he had no other choice.

Change of plan, his mind told him. Try to piss Olga off.

"Yeah well, I never heard you complain about living beyond my paygrade!"

"What was that, Mark?" Olga queried in a tone daring him to repeat his statement to the armed woman with his life in her trigger finger. "Have you grown a spine all of a sudden?"

Vasquez was undiscouraged. "You heard me! You've been benefiting from the payoffs as much as me. The vacations, designer clothes, fancy restaurants! Hell, even the operas and concerts! Where were your complaints back then?"

"Olga, don't fall in his trap!" Phoebe's voice was more urgent, approaching a panicked state.

"Shit, even your piano that you love so, so much! Remember how your eyes lit up when you first laid eyes on it? Not once did you ask how a cop could afford a brand new Grotrian; you just jumped in and started playing!"

He saw the doubt creeping into Olga's expression; she was second-guessing herself.

Keep going.

"Olga, stay focussed!" Phoebe was still in his wife's corner. Unfortunately, Olga heeded Phoebe's advice, took a deep breath and recomposed herself.

"And what about Joey?"

"What about him?" Vasquez had taken on a much more brazen tone that he hoped would continue riling up Olga. "Yeah, Santalov paid my student loan debt! Yes, I worked for him! And it was a good arrangement! Fudge the odd record so that someone gets off on a technicality. Report to him on rival bosses. Solve some cherrypicked cases involving people who aren't playing ball!" He then paused, to take in the look of shock on his wife's face before proceeding in a much more sinister voice: "Send any clean cops into ambushes if they get too close to the boss's operations…"

"You heartless bastard!" wailed Olga. "Joey was your best friend! And you killed him as surely as pulling the trigger yourself!"

"And Drinkwater, too?" asked Phoebe in nervous accusation. "Was he getting too close as well?"

"He was just too clever for his own damn good!" Vasquez replied in a voice no longer hindered by remorse.

He now saw how fidgety Phoebe was becoming, and so pushed Olga further. "And here you are, living comfortably off these activities. You're in trouble too, my love! You've become an accessory now."

"Innocent, unwilling, uninvolved accessory, after the fact!" Phoebe was now doing her damndest to keep Olga focussed. "No DA will prosecute you, Olga!"

"Yeah," added Vasquez. "All you'd have to do is to cop to an insanity plea. Look how it helped you against your father!"

Olga flinched again. Her eyes then narrowed. "Don't fucking tempt me, Mark! You're on thin enough ice as it stands!" She had no idea she was almost exactly where he wanted her despite having Phoebe on her side. One more push, he thought. Just one last push!

"What's there to tempt?" he challenged. "You're fucked in the head, that's your problem. It's always been your problem. You're so full of loose wiring you need a shit ton of meds just to function! You're damaged goods!" He saw her anger boiling over. He saw Phoebe trying hopelessly to calm her down. "You know what your problem is? You can't handle adversity! Anytime something doesn't go your way, you fall to pieces. Pathetic, isn't it? All that brainpower, not one bit of mental strength!"

"No, Olga!" Phoebe butted in. "You're better than that! You're much stronger than that!"

"Yes!" sneered Vasquez. "So says the woman who wronged us by spreading her legs!" He then turned his eyes briefly towards Phoebe: "Who the fuck are you to claim moral superiority, you fucking whore?"

Olga seemed to absorb his words as her rage started drowning out more and more of Phoebe's frenzied reassurances.

"Mark, I'm fucking warning you!" growled Olga as she raised the shotgun at him and steadied her aim.

"Go ahead and do it! Prove that you'll always be as psycho as your batshit crazy sister, anyway! Only a headcase like you would try to idolize a sociopathic, certifiable loon of a 'baby sister' like her!" He made a point to imitate her high-pitched timbre when he mentioned 'baby sister'.

"FUCK YOU!" shouted Olga as she squeezed the trigger, oblivious to Phoebe's manic pleas for calm.

That will do, for now at least, my valued and esteemed readers, that will do. As ever, my most heartfelt gratitude for your continued patronage. And a special mention to albee1000 for your kind words. All I can say is: I try. As for the rest, I'll be glad to hear any comments, concerns or complaints which you may have.

Author's Note: Duluth wasn't chosen at random. It takes me back to 1985 when as a seven-year-old South African laaitie who knew nothing about the world beyond my neighborhood, I became acquainted with Looney Tunes for the first time. One such cartoon was Chuck Jones's Kiss Me Cat, in which a character references his "Grandma Esmerelda come all the way from Duluth!" It would be much later until I finally found out where the heck Duluth is.

Author's Note #2: The scenes with Arnold, Arnie and Brainy were subject to numerous rewrites, chiefly because I realized that I had Helga's two suitors plus the boy she was pursuing, in the same room (albeit as adults). So I decided to have fun with that development, by having them bickering and playing off one another, without straying into full-blown comedy. They needed to show their serious sides as the situation demanded, to temper the humor.

Author's Note #3: Staying with the trio, I wanted their second scene to play out as a single-take film scene, so I deliberately wrote it with constant POV shifts that flowed smoothly into one another. Hopefully, in doing so, I succeeded in conveying the buzz of activity and discussion and exchange of ideas at the location.

Author's Note #4: As for Foutley, I didn't want him to be a deus ex machina who would magically produce the necessary information from behind the scenes. The technique employed by him was explained to me by a friend who works in IT security, and I incorporated it into the story.

And finally, the Spotify list that most influenced the writing of this chapter:

How I Could Just Kill A Man - Cypress Hill

Calling All Stations - Genesis

Why So Serious - Hans Zimmer

Shells - Health

The Bitter End - Placebo

Princes of the Universe - Queen

Save Yourself - Stabbing Westward

Leave Home - The Chemical Brothers

I Won't Back Down - Tom Petty

That's it for my ramblings! See you next chapter!