Author's Note: Thanks again to all of you who have been reading along, and also to those of you who have left reviews. I appreciate all of you so much. I am going to take a week off for our Thanksgiving holiday, so this will be the last chapter until Monday, November 29th. I'll be back then with 6 more chapters to finish out our story. If you haven't reviewed yet, I would love to hear what you think of the story so far.

Natalie answered her phone while Sophia and Julie ate ice cream cones on the park bench next to her. It was a beautiful, sunny June day. She, Julie, and the younger kids had been out shopping and decided to take a break, giving Timothy a chance to nap in his stroller and Sophia a chance to run and play. From their vantage point on the hill, they could see the water sparkling below while enjoying a gentle breeze. It had been a lovely day, and they had hoped to end it with dinner at one of their favorite restaurants.

Natalie hung up her phone and sighed. "Well, it looks like Adrian won't be able to make it for dinner."

Julie swallowed her bite of mint chocolate chip. "Tied up with work?"

"Yes. They just got some new evidence they want to go over, plus an important interview."

"Do you think they will be wrapping this one up soon?"

Natalie rescued Sophia's scoop of vanilla just before it fell off the cone. "I hope so. This has been a tough one, especially for Leland."

Julie wiped her mouth with her napkin. "He looked stressed when I saw him after the play."

"He was." Natalie finished her cone, then turned back to Julie. "Speaking of the play, have you talked to Benjy again since then?"

A small smile tugged at Julie's lips. "We've talked. I'm going to take him on a tour of the campus next week. It's looking good for him to be accepted for the fall term."

"Oh, I'm so glad." Natalie leaned closer to her oldest. "You should invite him to Uncle Ambrose's wedding."

"What? Mom! I … don't … that would be like a date."

"I bet he would say yes."

Julie's cheeks turned red, and it wasn't from the summer heat. "Mom … wait, is that why you invited me to the Stottlemeyers' after the play? I don't believe it. My own mother is playing matchmaker."

"You had your turn. Now, it's mine."

Julie tucked her hair behind her ear and turned her attention to helping Sophia clean up.

Natalie pulled out a wet wipe to make the job easier. "Well?"

"I'll think about it," Julie said without looking up.

Freed of sticky ice cream residue, Sophia slid off the bench. She pulled on Julie's hand. "Come play."

Julie jumped off the bench and picked up her sister, swinging her around so her legs flew out behind her. "What do you want to play?"

Sophia threw back her head, letting loose a peal of laughter. "Swing me! Swing me!"

"Okay," Julie said, taking a step toward the playground. She stopped and turned back to Natalie, who was getting a bottle ready for Timothy. "Mom, what are we going to do for dinner since Dad can't make it?"

Natalie took a now-awake Timothy out of his stroller. "Why don't we get a pizza, go back home, and watch a movie or two. You can even stay overnight if you want.

Julie bounced her sister on her hip. "So, what do you think, kiddo? How about a sleepover tonight?"

Sophia grinned and clapped her hands. "Shweepover! In my room!"

Natalie laughed with her girls. "It will be like old times."

Stottlemeyer, Washington, and Monk were barely in the building when they were stopped by a uniformed officer. "Greg Barlowe is waiting for you in room two," she said.

Stottlemeyer glanced at his watch. "It's only 3:30. He wasn't supposed to be here until 4:00."

The officer shrugged. "He's in there pacing the floor. I guess he wants to get it over with."

The captain turned to his colleagues. "Dwayne, come with me. Monk, I want you watching through the window."

Monk nodded in understanding and turned to go to the back of the interview room where he could observe the interaction. He made it to his location before Stottlemeyer and Washington made it to theirs, giving him a chance to observe Officer Barlowe, who was currently alone. He was pacing, as they had been told. With his youthful appearance, he looked like a kid who had been called to the principal's office. Barlowe walked from one end of the small room, then turned and went back to the other. After a few minutes, he paused at the table and retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, which he used to wipe his sweaty forehead. He then reached for the water bottle that had been provided and took a few swigs. He set it down and ran his hand over his buzz cut just before the door opened. The captain and lieutenant entered and shook his hand before they took their seats.

Stottlemeyer leaned forward and turned on the microphone. "Thank you for coming in Officer Barlowe. I suppose by now you may have an idea what this is all about."

Barlowe wiped his hands on his khakis and blew out a breath. "Since you're homicide, I assume this is in regards to a homicide investigation."

Stottlemeyer leaned back and crossed his arms. "Very astute. The murders of Elliott Ross and Adam Gray to be precise."

Barlowe rubbed his brow. "I don't understand, though. I thought Gray killed Ross then committed suicide. Do you think Gray was murdered too?"

Stottlemeyer nodded. "That's right."

Barlowe's eyes widened. "I … I gave you guys my alibis. They checked out didn't they?"

"Yes," Washington said. "The bartender we questioned confirmed you were there at the times of their murders."

"Relax, Barlowe," Stottlemeyer said. "You're not a suspect, but we need information. You worked closely with these men, especially Elliott Ross, your partner. We suspect their deaths may be related to evidence tampering from a number of drug busts you were part of."

Barlowe's eyes darted from the captain to the lieutenant. "Evidence tampering?"

Stottlemeyer leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Just before Ross was killed, he questioned the amount of drugs checked into evidence from three of your busts on the 11th, 12th, and 13th of June. After comparing the photo evidence taken at the scene with what was weighed in the lab, we have reason to believe not all the drugs seized during the arrests made it into evidence. Do you know anything about this?"

Barlowe's brow creased again. "No. I swear. I didn't know anything about that. The only time I touched the drugs was during the arrest. I never saw them again after that."

Washington leaned forward. "Out of your team—you, Ross, Gray, and Eastman—who processed the drugs before they went to the lab?"

"That would be Eastman."

"Every time?" Washington asked.

"Yes, he insisted. He would take them to the processing room, then Gray would pick them up from there and take them to the lab. I suspect they were working together. I mean, that's how Gray ended up with all those drugs in his house, right?"

Stottlemeyer stroked his mustache. "During the three busts we just mentioned, did you see anyone on the scene who didn't belong, like a curious neighbor or a nosy reporter trying to get a story?"

Barlowe leaned back, relaxing some. "There were spectators outside, like always, but no one ever made it past the yellow tape, not that I'm aware of."

Washington looked at Stottlemeyer, then asked, "On June 12th, the Hunter's Point bust, who was positioned outside the back door?"

"Hunter's Point," Barlowe clarified. "That would be Eastman and I." He scratched his head. "I was next to the door, on the porch, and he stood on the ground, beside the porch. There was a bit of a standoff in the front, so we were there for a while."

"Did you happen to see Eastman drinking water from a disposable water bottle while you were there?" Washington asked.

Barlowe's eyes narrowed. "Yeah. That dude has been chugging water all the time lately … between that and the candy he's been eating, I wasn't surprised when I heard he was sick. I told him he needed to see a doctor."

Stottlemeyer sat up straight. "Candy?"

"Hard candy. He especially likes those strawberry ones. You know, the ones where the wrapper is red and green like a strawberry."

"Yeah, I know." Stottlemeyer looked to the window. He couldn't see Monk on the other side, but if he could have, he would have seen the smile spreading across his face. Stottlemeyer cleared his throat and continued. "Officer Barlowe, how well do you know Ken Eastman? Do you spend time together outside of work?"

Barlowe shifted in his chair. "I know him a little. He used to be a fun guy, really adventurous. We used to go boating and hiking."

"Used to be?" Stottlemeyer asked.

"Yeah," Barlowe said. "Things changed after his divorce. First, he started gambling … uh, legally. He loved Reno. I went with him a couple of times, but he was just too intense if you know what I mean. Then, he's also been getting moody and agitated. I don't know …" He stopped and furrowed his brow. "Wait, you don't think Eastman is behind all this, do you?"

Stottlemeyer sat back and loosened his tie. Washington glanced at him, then asked, "When you went to Reno, what casino did Eastman gamble at?"

"The Peppermill. Only the best for Ken.

Stottlemeyer blew out a deep breath. "That will be all, Officer. Thank you."

Monk met a deflated Stottlemeyer, along with Washington back in the captain's office.

"All right, Dwayne," Stottlemeyer said. "Let's bring in Ken Eastman."

After the lieutenant left to make the call, Stottlemeyer motioned for Monk to take a seat with him on his office couch while they waited. "Well, it looks like we got our guy, Monk. All those odd clues you found—the candy wrappers, the poker chip—you were right. And I didn't want to see what was staring me in the face. You were right about that too."

Monk's brow was furrowed. "I don't know."

Stottlemeyer quirked an eyebrow. "You don't know about what?"

"Eastman. Something doesn't seem right."

"Why? Barlowe just verified everything we've been looking at—the shoe prints, the odd behavior. He was the one who processed the drugs after the arrests. We couldn't get any closer unless we had fingerprints or DNA evidence. I guess we got lucky Barlowe didn't mind throwing a fellow cop under the bus."

"Too lucky almost."

Stottlemeyer sighed. "Come on, Monk. First you're all over me to look into these cops. Now, you're second-guessing it?"

"How did Barlowe know about Gray's death looking like a suicide? And how did he know about the drugs in Gray's safe?"

Stottlemeyer narrowed his eyes as he stared across the room. "Rumors spread. Besides us, there were other officers and CSI techs crawling all over that place."

Monk laced his fingers and leaned back. "Still. I think we should reexamine Barlowe's alibis."

Stottlemeyer stood. "All right. We'll reexamine Eastman's too."

Monk followed the captain out of his office where he flagged a junior detective to take on the task of reexamining the witnesses. They approached Washington's desk just as he hung up the phone.

Washington looked up. "Eastman can't come in."

Stottlemeyer placed a hand on his hip. "And why not?"

"He's in the hospital."

Stottlemeyer, Washington, and Monk arrived at San Francisco General a short time later. Officer Ken Eastman had been admitted the night before after his ex-wife found him at home in a near diabetic coma. His blood sugars had successfully been stabilized, so his doctor gave the detectives permission to see him.

They found his room and walked in. Eastman was lying in the hospital bed with his eyes closed. Monk had met him once and could tell the man was a shadow of what he had been. What he didn't have in stature, he had made up for in muscle, but much of that bulk had been lost. Lying there now, with an IV and numerous monitors attached, one could no longer ignore the ravages of the disease he fought.

Eastman opened his eyes when he heard the detectives' feet on his hospital room floor. He turned their way and blinked. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

Stottlemeyer drug a chair over to the bed, scraping its feet along the floor. "The gig is up, Eastman."

Eastman closed his eyes for a moment. He opened them, glanced at Washington and Monk, then settled them on Stottlemeyer. "I know. I was writing my resignation when I collapsed at home."

Stottlemeyer leaned forward. "Why did you do it?"

"Desperation, Captain. I suppose none of us knows how we are going to face death until it's close enough to taste." Eastman pushed the button to raise the head of his bed and grabbed the water cup resting on the bedside table. After taking a few sips, he continued. "Six months ago, I was told if I don't get a pancreas transplant, I'm going to die. Now, I'm being told I may also need a kidney transplant."

"I don't understand," Stottlemeyer said. "What does that have to do with …"

"Do you know how expensive it is to live as a diabetic, let alone having an organ transplant? Insurance doesn't cover it all, so yeah, I stole some drugs and sold them. I'm not proud of it, but as I said, I got desperate. My wife wanted out after ten years of marriage, and I was left with a stack of medical expenses to handle on my own. On top of that, I have child support now too."

Washington stepped forward. "What about the murders, Eastman? Why did you do it?"

"No. No." Eastman shook his head, then fell back against the bed as if the small effort exhausted him. "You've got it all wrong. I didn't kill Ross or Gray. They were my brothers, man. I wouldn't do that—no matter how desperate I was."

"What about Eddie Gomez?" Monk asked. "Did you kill him? We found a print from a boot that matches your print from the Hunter's Point drug bust."

Eastman rubbed a hand over his pale, bald head. "Okay, I was there, but I didn't kill him. I didn't even know he was going to be killed until after it was done."

Monk turned an eye to Stottlemeyer and Washington before turning back to the man in the hospital bed. "Can you tell us what happened?"

Eastman closed his eyes for a moment before responding. "It was Barlowe."

"Greg Barlowe?" Stottlemeyer asked.

"Yes, Officer Barlowe." Eastman shifted in the bed. "He caught me taking drugs from the processing room, and well, he blackmailed me. If I didn't let him in, he was going to report me. It was all fine until he got greedy and stupid. When I sold the drugs, I did so discreetly, but that idiot threw on what he thought was a good disguise and went out to the Mission and sold them. Anyway, I guess Gomez saw him and took a picture of him. Barlowe saw him take the picture and wanted to get it back. Like a fool, I went along with it when he asked me to come as backup. I didn't know he was going to kill the guy. I just thought he was going to use some intimidation or something."

"Were you in the house when Barlowe shot Gomez?" Monk asked.

"No, I never set foot in the house. I dropped him off, then went around to the street behind the house and waited."

"But your boot print was in the woods next to the back fence," Monk said. "Why were you there if you were just his ride?"

"I got out when I heard the gunshot," Eastman said. "I was in the middle of testing my glucose when it went off. Scared the daylights out of me. I jumped out of my truck and ran up there. I should have just left then."

"But you waited on Barlowe?" Stottlemeyer asked.

"Yeah, like a fool."

"Did you cut the fence for Barlowe to come through?" Monk asked.

"No. What? I didn't know it had been cut. After the gunshot, I went up to the fence and waited a few minutes, then I went back to my truck."

"Were you wearing a brown wig at that time?" Monk asked.

"A wig?" Eastman coughed. "No, I wasn't, but Barlowe was. It was part of the stupid costume he wore when he was out selling the drugs."

Monk stopped and rubbed his eyebrow. "Mr. Eastman, do you like strawberry candies?"

Eastman's brow furrowed. "Yeah, I always keep some of those in my pocket for when my blood sugar drops too low. Why?"

Monk continued without answering his question. "Did you ever ride with Barlowe in his truck?"

"Yeah, sure. We used to go to the bar after work, and we'd often ride together to make parking easier since we both drive big trucks. We were pretty good friends until he blackmailed me."

"One more question. When was the last time you saw Officer Gray before his death on June 18th?"

Eastman closed his eyes again. "I saw him on the 18th."

"At his house?" Monk asked.

"Yes, his wife went out of town, so Barlowe and I went over there. We were all pretty shaken up over Elliott Ross's murder, so none of us wanted to be alone.

Monk stopped and turned. "Did you say Barlowe was there too?"

"Yes."

"Did you leave before him?"

"Yeah. I wasn't feeling too good. I had been here, in the emergency room, Friday night. The doctor told me to stay home and rest all weekend, but I didn't listen."

Stottlemeyer, Washington, and Monk left Eastman in his room and found Dr. Edwards, Eastman's doctor. Stottlemeyer showed him his badge and he led the men to his office.

They all found seats in the small room, and the doctor asked, "What can I help you with?"

Stottlemeyer leaned forward. "Did you see Ken Eastman the night of Friday, the 15th?"

The doctor retrieved a pair of glasses from his lab coat and took a file off the top of the stack on his desk. "Yes, I did. He came in with very low blood sugar and a kidney infection."

"Was he admitted to the hospital?"

Dr. Edwards put on his glasses and flipped open the file. "No, once we were sure his blood sugar was stabilized, we sent him home with a strong antibiotic and instructions to hydrate, rest, and see his primary care physician as soon as possible."

"I'd like to ask you a professional question," Stottlemeyer said. "Considering Mr. Eastman's condition when he left here Friday night, would you say he was capable of much physical exertion for the next few days?"

He looked over the top of his glasses. "Such as?"

"For starters, would he have been able to lift and carry a 180 lb. man, for example?"

"In my professional opinion, no. Mr. Eastman was in a weakened condition. I don't believe he would have had that kind of strength."

"Thank you," Stottlemeyer said. He stood and took a step, then turned back. "Doctor, what is Mr. Eastman's prognosis now?"

Dr. Edwards took off his glasses and closed his file. "Mr. Eastman is not in good shape. He has not been following our instructions, and it has taken a toll on his body. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure he'll see another six months without either a transplant or a miracle." He paused to clean his glasses, then found the captain's eyes. "I don't know what he's done, but I hope you'll take that into consideration when you pursue your conviction.

Before Stottlemeyer could take a seat in his desk chair, the junior detective who had been assigned to reexamine the alibis, knocked on his door.

"Come in," Stottlemeyer said.

The junior detective approached with a manila folder in his hand. "We got something, Captain. We talked to the bartender who claimed to serve Barlowe on the nights of the 16th and the 18th."

"The nights Ross and Gray were murdered—what did he say?"

"He came clean. He admitted Barlowe paid him to lie. Barlowe wasn't there either of those nights."

Stottlemeyer's eyebrows jerked upward as the detective held out the folder. "I think you'll be interested in this too."

The captain sank into his chair. He picked up the paper and ran his hand through his hair. Monk and Washington took seats in front of his desk.

"What is it, Captain?" Washington asked.

Stottlemeyer closed the file, his lips set in a hard line. "These are employment histories for Eastman and Barlowe. Greg Barlowe was a custody officer at Lancaster ten years ago. That puts him there at the same time as Eddie Gomez."

Monk looked his friend in the eyes. "He's the guy, Captain."

"Yeah," Stottlemeyer said. "He's the guy."