Thin Blue Line
by
Mapu

Frank pulled up beside a black and white cruiser and shut the engine off. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. It wasn't normally Frank's nature to intentionally procrastinate, he preferred to confront his problems head-on, but this was an exception. This was not a place he really wanted to be and any delay in facing what lay ahead of him was welcome.

Unable to delay any longer, he opened the car door and stood up. The scene was already swarming with official vehicles and uniformed officers taking notes as they gathered evidence. Frank had expected no less, not for something like this.

Not far from him an area surrounding a tree and park seat had been taped off and Frank headed that way. The uniformed officer guarding access nodded to him and lifted the tape so Frank could duck under.

"You got my message," Officer Tony Collins, an old friend, greeted. "I'm really sorry, Frank."

"Thanks, Tony. Who's got the lead?"

Collins nodded his head toward a small group of men to one side of the exclusion zone. "Foster from the department, but you you've got Ericson from I.A. calling the shots."

"Internal Affairs is here already? That's fast."

Collins gave him a tight-mouthed shrug but said nothing.

Frank nodded and headed on toward the group. He could see the internal affairs officer Lars Ericson talking to the medical examiner, with Pete Foster and his partner John Davis standing nearby. Whatever the four men were discussing it looked to be intense and Frank could tell the medical examiner wasn't happy. He didn't know Ericson personally but from everything he'd heard the man was a hard-hitter who liked to be in control. He certainly seemed to be in control of this scene.

Ericson was a hero in the internal affairs department and a man with a great many influential friends both on and off the force. There were bets going round on how long it would be before Ericson made his move into the political arena. Most people described Ericson as tough and a man who could get things done, but there were also some who called him a shark. Frank could see for himself the way the tall, well-muscled man was intimidating the much smaller and physically weaker medical examiner that Ericson was the type to use any means available to maintain his power.

As soon as Frank came within earshot, whatever disagreement the men were having was abruptly ended.

"Just have a copy of your findings sent to me in the morning." Ericson ordered.

The M.E. was still clearly unhappy but made no further protest as he went back to gathering his evidence. Frank kept his eyes away from the shroud covered body on the ground. He wasn't ready to deal with that just yet.

"Detective, is there something I can do for you?" Ericson asked, holding out his hand in welcome, and a smile on his face.

Frank returned the courtesy and introduced himself. "Detective Frank Harper, I was wondering if I could take a look at the scene?"

"Is there any particular reason, Detective Harper?"

"Yeah, I knew him." Frank nodded toward the body, "I was Officer Cook's supervisor when he was just a rookie out of the academy. I can't believe he'd kill himself. He was a good guy."

Ericson shook his head. "I'm not sure you knew him as well as you think you did, Detective."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but Officer Cook had good reason to make this terrible decision today."

Ericson gestured to the two other cops standing a few feet away. "Officers Foster and Davis, here, were on their way to serve a warrant of arrest on Cook. It seems he got word that we in internal affairs were investigating him and he took the easy way out rather than face an investigation and eventual charges."

"Investigation… what kind of charges?"

"I'm not sure this is any of your business, Detective, but since our suspect has already extracted his own punishment, I suppose it's a moot point. William Cook was under investigation for extortion, corruption and perverting the course of justice. If he hadn't taken his own life, he could be sitting in a cell right now facing a very long prison term."

Frank was stunned, Bill Cook was corrupt? It had to be some kind of mistake. The young man he'd trained had been so eager and determined to do good for the community that he actually reminded Frank a little of Milt Hardcastle. He had the same black and white belief in the law and the solid strength of character to do what was right, no matter how hard it got. How could that all have changed in such a short amount of time? It didn't make sense.
While it had been a few years since he'd trained Billy, they had spoken often. Frank was sure he would have caught at least a hint of something being wrong. When they had last spoken, a few weeks before, Billy had been the same as always, a little nervous at the upcoming prospect of getting married but nothing secretive. There had been nothing that had given Frank the slightest cause for concern.

"Detective?"

Frank realised that he hadn't responded the first time Ericson addressed him. "Sorry, just trying to get my head around this."

"I understand," Ericson said in a soothing tone. For reasons Frank couldn't define, that compassionate tone annoyed him.

Frank cleared his throat. "Has anyone spoken to Julia Turner yet?"

The other three men exchanged looks.

"I'm not sure…" Ericson began.

"Billy's girlfriend, well, fiancé actually, they were going to marry next month." Frank thought it odd that the man investigating Billy for serious crimes would be unaware of the man's personal life, but he didn't say so.

"No, I don't believe anyone has contacted his relatives as yet."

"Mind if I do it?" Frank asked. "I know her. It would be better coming from me."

"I think that would be a good idea. Look detective, I really don't mind if you take a look around the scene, just remember to preserve the integrity of any evidence. It's clear this case is going to be ruled a suicide but it's still important to be thorough."

"Thanks. Can you tell me anything more about what happened?"

Ericson gestured to the officer behind. "Officer Foster?"

Foster, the older of the two cops, gave Frank a cool look. "Not much to tell. Dispatcher told us he was taking a meal break and we knew he liked to stop here. When we got here we saw his cruiser and pulled up alongside. Saw him over by the tree, and I guess he saw us too. We heard the shot. We found him like that. He was already dead. I guess he didn't want to do any jail time."

"No witnesses?" Frank asked.

"Other than two police officers? That's hardly necessary," Foster said.

Foster's tone was a little abrupt, but Frank could understand it. Finding another officer dead was hard for a cop, regardless of the circumstances.

"Ok, I'll just take a look and get out of your way," Frank said, moving toward where the body of his friend lay.

Ericson called out to him.

"Detective Harper?"

Frank turned and looked back at the internal affairs officer.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Detective, but you may want to be careful not to associate yourself too closely with William Cook. While he is no longer a person of interest to internal affairs, the investigation into his illegal activities is ongoing. You don't want to be caught in the fallout that is sure to come."

Frank met Ericson's gaze for a moment before he moved on. He had the strongest feeling that he'd just been threatened.

Frank lifted the sheet from the body and laid it to the side. It wasn't a pleasant sight but Frank had seen worse. There was a fair amount of blood, mostly around the young man's head and chest but aside from the obvious head injury there wasn't much damage and no unexpected bruising. Billy lay on the ground a few feet from the tree. His uniform was neatly pressed with crisp and careful seams, his shoes clean and polished. All the former neatness and attention to detail made the fact that the shirt was now slightly untucked all the more obvious. One applet was left hanging from the shoulder by only a few threads. It looked like someone had pulled at it, and pulled hard.

That wasn't a lot to base a suspicion on but Frank felt the first stirring that not everything was as it seemed. He tried to put aside his innate liking for the man and looked at the body before him with a purely investigative eye. There was something not right, something more fundamental then the rumpling of a previously neat shirt. It took Frank several minutes to figure out what that something was. Bill Cook had been a lefty. The wound to his head was on the right hand side. Frank stared at the injury for a long time, feeling a cold hard core of anger settle deep inside him. Foster and Davis had lied.

Frank didn't want to believe it but he couldn't help but to suspect that not only had Billy been murdered but it had been fellow cops that had committed the crime. He looked over toward Foster and Davis. They stood either side of Lars Ericson, looking more like bodyguards than cops. Was Ericson involved?

He carefully gathered up the shroud and recovered the murdered officer. He had very little proof, aside from his own gut instinct, and no motive at all, but Frank had never been so certain.

"Damn it," he swore. Either Ericson was being manipulated by Foster and Davis or he was behind it all. Either way there was trouble coming, big trouble, bigger than Frank knew he could handle on his own.

He rested a hand on the covered shoulder of his dead friend.

"Ah, Billy, what did you get yourself mixed up in?" he asked the silent young man.

Frank knew he wasn't going to be able to lie to Julia. He'd have to tell her of his suspicions that her fiancé death was not a suicide. Once she found that out, she would demand that Frank bring his killers to justice. Frank already knew it would be a promise he would make. It was a promise he had already made to himself.

"I'll find out what happened to you Billy, but I'm going to need a little help. Lucky I know just the right guys."

Nothing was clean.

Mark dug deeply into the small mound of clothing that had piled up beside his over-full laundry basket, looking for something to wear that was not too offensive. He gave up and pulled out his favorite shirt instead and shook it out. He reasoned that if he couldn't be clean then at least he could be comfortable. Once dressed he liberally applied his deodorant spray, both under his arms and over the shirt, in the hope that the perfumed scent would overpower any less pleasant odors. He looked at the laundry basket in despair.

"I really need to wash some clothes," he muttered to himself.

Looking in the mirror he did his best to fix his hair. After a few minutes of trying he gave up on that too.

"And for once the judge is right. I could do with a hair-cut," he told his reflection.

He put the brush away and used his hands to slick down the worst of the curls a little. It didn't work.

Finally finished doing what he could for his appearance Mark left the little bathroom. His bed was nearly as dishevelled as he was. Mark didn't have the time to bother with it so he grabbed the edge of the rumpled top blanket and pulled it up as neatly as he could. The bed looked a bit lumpy in the middle but at least it, sort of, looked to be made. He puffed a short laugh when he considered that he would never have been able to get away with making his bed like that while he'd been in prison.

"Guess freedom is a messy bed," he muttered.

"McCormick!"

Mark rolled his eyes, the judge was going to be on his case again today, he could just tell.

"McCormick, are you in there? You awake yet? It's breakfast!" The judge bellowed from just outside the gatehouse's front door.

"Yeah, hang on, I'm coming," Mark yelled in the general direction of the door as he headed down the stair.

He'd only made four steps down when he realised he'd left his civil procedures lecture notes on his bedside table. He wanted to go over them during breakfast, maybe get the judge to clarify a few points he wasn't sure about before he headed in to his classes.

"McCormick!" The judge's yell was accompanied by the older man barging in through the door.

The shout and the movement distracted Mark for an instant and he missed the step. Falling forward up the steps, he felt one knee come down hard on the step-edge. It was only the hand he still had on the rail that stopped him falling all the way.

There was the sound of a heavy thump moving rapidly up the steps toward him. Moments later the arm Mark had used to brace himself against the steps was yanked upward. For an instant he was worried the limb would be ripped from its socket the judge pulled him up so fast.

"Damn it, McCormick, you trying to kill yourself?" Hardcastle snapped at him.

Mark jerked his arm from the older man's grip. "I'm fine, Judge. Or at least I was before you tried to rip my arm off!"

"Well, if you weren't trying to throw yourself off the top step, I wouldn't have to."

"Oh, for Pete's sake, Judge, I just tripped. And I wouldn't have done that if you didn't keep barging in here."

The judge mumbled something that Mark was pretty sure had something to do with the fact that the judge owned the gatehouse but he chose to ignore it.

Mark brushed himself off and headed on up the steps. He tried hard not to let how much his knee was hurting him show. The judge would start hounding him to have it looked at, if he knew, and Mark just didn't have the time. The only problem was the injured knee hurt so much he wasn't entirely sure he could trust it not to give way on him.

"Look Judge, I'll be down to breakfast in just a minute, ok?"

"You sure you're all right?"

"Yeah, Hardcase, I'm fine. I'll be over to the house in just a minute."

He must have been convincing because the judge, still grumbling under his breath, left him alone.

Once the judge was safely out of the gatehouse Mark let himself grimace with the pain throbbing through his knee. He hobbled over to his bed, sitting on the edge to take the pressure off. Easing up his pant leg, Mark inspected the damage. There was already good amount of bruising and the knee had started to swell up a bit. It looked like he'd be stiff and sore for a few days but he didn't think he'd caused any permanent damage. Mark pulled his pant leg back down then lay back on the bed while he waited for the worst of the pain to ease. He could only give it a few minutes. He didn't want Hardcastle to get worried about him and come charging back over here.

Mark looked up at his bedroom ceiling and sighed. "That would be about right. I spend three years crashing through windows, jumping out of moving cars, off trucks and trains and tackling every bad guy that comes along, and then I hurt myself tripping on the damn stair!"

Milt found himself effectively circling the kitchen table. The eggs were ready, the table set and the coffee percolating in the bench-top coffee maker the only thing missing was McCormick. He had to fight his natural instinct to head back over to the gatehouse and make the kid come clean about his leg. Only he couldn't, McCormick had made it crystal clear he didn't want him interfering, and things had been tense enough around the estate as it was. But, damn it all, Milt just knew that he was hiding the fact that he'd hurt himself.
It had taken a year off his life to see the kid stumble and fall like that. For one terrible instant Milt had been sure McCormick was about to take a header from near the top of the staircase. He'd still be picking up what was left of him if that had happened.

Milt just wished he knew what was going on with McCormick. The young man was a little high-strung, always had been, but in recent weeks it seemed that they couldn't say two words to each other without ending up in an argument. Milt hated to admit it but he was worried the other man would soon start to crack. He was simply overworking himself and studying too hard.

McCormick had been doing so well balancing school work with their cases. Then an assignment had come back with a less than perfect result and things had changed. McCormick was moody and exhausted all the time, not surprising given how little sleep Milt knew he was getting.

Every night, to all hours of the night, McCormick's lights were on in the gatehouse. And he wasn't eating, that was something Milt thought he'd never see from the younger man. Even when McCormick was injured or sick, something they had been through far too many times, his appetite had always been the first thing to recover. Milt sometimes used McCormick's return to perpetual hunger as a signal that he'd turned the corner and was on his way back to health.

It had become a struggle to get the kid to sit at a table long enough to eat, and when he did there were the ever present notebooks. After a few mouthfuls of food, something in his journals would capture the young man's attention and he would forget to eat. But worst than eating, in Hardcastle's opinion, was the kid's sense of humour evaporating.

Over the years that McCormick had lived at the estate, his warped sense of humour had in equal parts annoyed and amused the retired jurist. Now that it seemed to be totally absent, Hardcastle found that he missed it. Something had to give, something was going to give, and Milt just hoped McCormick could make it through without immolating himself before it did.
Just when Milt decided that he was going to have to go back over there and physically drag the kid to breakfast, foul mood or not, the kitchen door opened and McCormick arrived. He was moving a little stiffly but not too bad. And, yes, there was a notebook, the exposed pages covered in McCormick's scrawl, under the kid's arm and a whole satchel of books dropped near the leg of the table. It looked like it would be breakfast with a side order of the law again today.

Tension was still a little high between them so Milt decided to let things settle, he dished up the eggs and brought over the coffee before taking his own seat. McCormick visibly relaxed when he realised that the argument of earlier wasn't going to be continued. For a short while they ate in silence until eventually McCormick flipped to a page in his notebook.

"Judge?"

"Yeah?"

Milt knew a question about the law was coming. He admired McCormick's dedication to his studies but he was becoming obsessive. Still, he'd promised he would give any and all the support that he could. If that meant answering questions about the law and its interpretation at every meal, Milt would do it.

He wasn't wrong. The question, when it was asked, involved a point of the law. Time seemed to fly by as the pair discussed the problems and evolution of the federal rules of civil procedure as compared to the state rules and where the line between the two had become blurred.

Milt didn't notice the time slipping away until a glance at the wall clock told him it was nearly eight.

"Hey, what time is your lecture, anyway?" he asked.

McCormick looked to his watch. "Oh, hell, sorry Judge, I've got to go. I've got to be there in an hour!" With that he was up and out of his seat, rapidly putting away his notes and packing up his bag.

"Hey, what time you coming back today?"

"Umm, I don't know, Judge. Late; there are some resources I need to use at the library in the protected section. I'll have to read them there."

"Okay, but don't leave it too long, ya hear? There's a good movie on tonight."

"Huh, yeah, sure, Judge. Just don't wait for me, okay?"

"Sure, kid."

Only seconds later Milt heard the distinctive roar of the Coyote firing up and the kid heading down the driveway. Milt looked across the table to the other place setting and the barely touched plate of eggs. He sighed and got to his feet to clear away the used dishes.

Mark got to the campus just before his lecture started. Traffic had been good until he hit the city, and then he'd been caught behind one slow car after another. Unfortunately, his class was pretty far from the parking lot and by the time he made it to the lecture hall he was late. Maybe if he'd been able to run he might have made it in time, but his knee was sore and had stiffed from the drive.

He stopped just outside the closed doors to listen and determine if the lecture had already begun. It had. Professor Hancock was a stickler for punctuality, and this was far from the first time Mark was going to be late for one of his lectures.

Hancock liked to make an example out of students who arrived late or annoyed him with questions. Mark seemed to do both regularly. Mark just hoped the old coot didn't hold a grudge when it came time to grade him. Most of the students in this class opted not to turn up at all rather than take the embarrassment of entering Hancock's class late. Mark had to admit he was currently tempted to do the same, but he couldn't. Not only did he not want to miss anything, he felt he owed it to the judge.

Mark was very aware that it wasn't his money he was spending. Hardcastle was the one footing the bill. Mark wasn't going to waste a single cent of the judge's money, at least not on purpose.

As expected Professor Hancock stopped his presentation in mid-sentence and turned to stare at Mark the moment he opened the door. If he hadn't felt so embarrassed, Mark would have smiled at the almost cartoonish picture the bespectacled man made standing there like that.
He could feel the eyes of the class on him as he found a seat. It reminded him of prison, when you got this kind of attention inside you knew you were in trouble. He reminded himself he wasn't a convict anymore, he wasn't even on parole.

Mark tried to concentrate on the material being presented but his mind kept drifting to the estate. The hedges needed work and he hadn't cleaned the pool filters in an age. The judge was too cheap to hire someone else and the service did a terrible job. Mark had noticed the old guy had started trying to do the jobs himself.

The judge was pretty fit, but some of that work was hard. Then there were the cases. He'd been too busy with school to help. It was just a matter of time before the lone ranger saddled up and tried to ride solo. The thought terrified him. The guys they went after played for keeps. Hardcastle out there alone was a recipe for disaster. Without someone to back him up, the old goat was going to get himself killed. For all he knew the judge could at that very moment be chasing down a drug dealer.

Milton C. Hardcastle, retired judge and a pillar of the community didn't look the part at that moment. He wore work clothes that had long since seen their best days, old gym shoes and a faded baseball cap while he dragged one of the larger trimmed branches toward the pile he'd already made. The day was perfect for doing outdoor jobs and the judge had been going hard enough to have worked up a sweat. This was usually the kind of job he'd conscript McCormick into helping him with but after this morning's adventure, tripping on the stairs, he had changed his mind. Besides, some hard exercise could only be doing him the world of good.

He heard the sound of tires on gravel and knew someone was coming down the drive. It wasn't McCormick. He could usually recognize the engine in the kid's firecracker long before he'd hear something as mundane as tires on gravel. He dumped the branch on the pile and headed toward the front of the house. He would finish up the other branches after he'd seen to his visitor.

Walking to the driveway he raised a hand in greeting and smiled. It was Frank. He hadn't seen Frank in a few weeks. It would be good to catch up with his old friend.

Frank pulled up in front of the house and got out. "Hey, Milt."

Frank was smiling but Hardcastle could easily see there was something wrong, his friend looked tired and stressed.

"Hi, Frank, what's up?"

Frank shrugged his shoulders. "I got a problem, Milt."

"Oh, legal or personal?" Hardcastle asked, waving his friend toward the front door.

Frank followed him up the steps and into the house. "Legal… personal... both, I suppose."

"In that case you might want a beer?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Hardcastle fetched a couple of beers. He handed one to Frank and cracked open the other as he led the way to his den.

"Where's Mark?" Frank asked.

Hardcastle looked at his watch. It was nearly 3:30 PM. "The law library."

"Oh, right. How does he like life as a student?"

"Truth is, right now, I don't think he likes it at all, Frank."

"Why not? I thought it would be right up his alley, lots of pretty, unattached, young women. He can't be finding the study that hard. Mark's a smart kid, and with you around he's turning into a walking law encyclopaedia. He's always quoting criminal case precedent. You said he was doing well, and getting good grades."

"Yeah, he is doing well, but a few weeks back the grade on one of his assignments slipped. It was still a solid pass but not as good as he was hoping. It shook the kid up. I don't know what he's thinking but he's pushing himself too hard. If he doesn't ease off he going to break himself clean in two."

"It can't be that bad, Milt. You know Mark, he gets a little excited and carried away sometimes but he's a tough kid. He'll settle down."

"I hope so, Frank."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Short of taking him into custody and forcing him to take a break, I don't think so."

"I'm not sure there is a law against studying too hard, Milt, but I'll look into it."

Hardcastle laughed. "Thanks, Frank. So what kind of trouble are you in?"

"Are you sure you want to hear it? It sounds like you've got enough to be worrying about."

"Nah, not much I can do about the kid, except give him a break on some of the chores and keep harping on him to take better care of himself. Not that he ever listens to me. I might as well see if I can help out a friend."

"Thanks."

"So, spill, what's up?"

"Milt, did I ever tell you about Bill Cook?"

"That rookie cop that saved you when that dealer got the drop on you a few years back?"

"Yeah, that's him." Frank stared at the beer in his hand.

"What about him?" the judge asked after a few moments of silence from his friend.

"He's dead. I just came from informing the family."

"Ah damn, Frank, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too, the internal affairs agent at the scene told me he shot himself. He said Billy was under investigation for a multitude of charges, including corruption charges. It's not true, Milt."

"I hate to ask this Frank, but are you sure? Sometimes it's the guy you'd least expect who's on the take."

"I know that, Milt, I've been a cop long enough to have seen that for myself, but not this time. Billy Cook was a good cop, an honest cop. Hell, he reminded me a lot of you. There is no way he would have done any of the stuff they've accused him of. And I'll tell you something else, he didn't shoot himself. That was no suicide I saw today, Milt. It was murder, plain and simple."

"What makes you think that?"

"Left-handed men don't shoot themselves through the right temple, for a start."

"That's a pretty good start," Milton admitted. "What else have you got?"

Frank spent the next few hours discussing the physical evidence he had found at the scene and his suspicions about the odd behaviour of the internal affairs agent, Lars Ericson, and the two cops who had supposedly witnessed his friend's suicide. Neither man noticed the sun going down and the sky darkening. They had only had the one beer each then had stuck to coffee after that. At some point the discussion moved from the judge's den to the kitchen table, where they had nearly covered half the surface with papers filled with notes and theories.

"What do you know about these cops? Foster and Davis?" the judge asked.

Frank shrugged. "Not a lot. Both have solid records in the department. There's no evidence of any excessive spending, no signs that they're on the take. I'm treading a fine line here, Milt. You know what it's like. There's a line that you don't cross as a cop, but if they did kill Billy, and I'm certain they did, and then I want them to pay for it."

"You know how I feel about that whole blue code of silence rubbish, Frank. The law is the law and it's for everyone. I hate it when dirty cops try to hide behind their shields and expect good cops to protect them from their crimes."

"I know, Milt, but I work with these people and the code does more than protect the guilty, it protects honest cops from being crucified for doing their jobs. You know as well as I do there is a right way to do these things. If I do it right I'll have the whole department's support when we take these guys down. There is nothing cops hate more than a cop killer. These guys, regardless of who they are, have killed one of our own. I just have to make sure that is the message that gets out there."

"All right, Frank, he was your friend and it's your career we're risking here. How do you want to handle it?"

"Well, I know one way I can keep the department from fracturing, but you're not going to like it."

"Tell me what you're thinking, Frank."

"I need to go to the captain with this. He needs to know, so that he's not blind-sided. And I can take a look directly into Billy's affairs. Try to prove that he wasn't on the take. But, as much as I'd like to, I won't be able to go after them. Not without a whole hell of a lot more support from the chain of command. That's where you come in. You and Mark can look into Lars Ericson, Peter Foster and John Davis without any blowback hitting the department."

"Sounds alright to me... except, I'd rather keep McCormick out of this for now."

"Milt, are you sure? If I'm right, these guys have already killed a cop in broad daylight. One retired judge doesn't seem to be much of a stretch. It would be safer with Mark to back you up."

"The kid's got enough on his plate, Frank. I wasn't kidding before, he's finding the going really tough right now, and I don't want to add to it. If it looks like the case will heat up then I'll bring him in on it okay?"

"Alright, Milt, just don't do anything stupid, okay? Go gently for once. And be careful of Ericson. The man has a lot of influential friends."

"Sure Frank. I don't know what you were worried about. It sounds like a straightforward plan to me. I like the idea."

"Milt, that's because you haven't heard it all yet."

"Go on..." Milt said guardedly.

"You need to go through channels, Milt. Official channels."

"Oh, no."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, Milt, but you're going to have to let Commissioner Emhart know what's going on."

"Why? He's a jackass!"

"Because he's Commissioner Jackass, Milt, and he has to be kept in the loop or this could go very badly for me. Worse, Ericson, Foster and Davis could literally get away with murder."

"Can't you just send him a memo or something? Why does it have to be me that talks to him?"

"Because it IS you Milt. You're not exactly Emhart's favourite person either you know. You've called him a jackass twice, in public! I heard he has a dart board in his office with your picture on it. Face it Milt, people either love you or they want to kill you. Either way you make a lasting impression. You start looking into the favorite son of internal affairs without letting Emhart know and he could shut me down."

"Oh all right, I'll talk to him, but he's still an idiot."

"Thank you, Milt."

Both men could hear the Coyote coming down the drive. Frank wasn't entirely sure but he thought he heard the high performance engine miss-fire and splutter slightly. The only time he had heard the Coyote sound like that was after the poor guy had been forced to make his pride and joy drive across terrain it was not designed for. Even then the repairs were done as quickly as possible, which was never fast enough for McCormick.

The judge looked to the clock. "Huh, it's later than I thought, and the kid's home at a reasonable hour for once." He began to tidy up the notes. "Frank, don't mention this to McCormick, ok?"

"You're really sure about that, Milt? Mark isn't going to like you going out on your own."

"Yeah, I'm sure, and the kid isn't my damn nursemaid!"

"Milt, you know I didn't mean it like that, and you know, damn well, Mark doesn't see you like that. That man would do anything for you, and you know it."

Hardcastle sighed, relenting at the censure in his friend's tone. "Yeah, I know that, it's just things have been a little on edge lately."

Any reply Frank intended to make was interrupted by Mark's appearance.

"Hey, Frank, you here for dinner?" Mark glanced to the clean and empty kitchen benches and stove top. "Huh, I guess not. What's up, Judge? I thought we were going to watch the movie tonight."

Hardcastle started in surprise. He'd completely forgotten asking McCormick to come home early enough for them to watch a movie together. The discussion with Frank had completely wiped it from his mind.

"Of course we are. I just thought you'd like to have pizza tonight."

"Yeah, sounds good. What's all this?" Mark asked, looking at the last pile of papers on the kitchen table. His eyes narrowed in suspicion "Are you guys working on a case?"

"Does this look like one of my files? No, I'm just helping Frank out. Relax, McCormick, and order the pizzas will you?"

"Okay, okay, let me get in through the door will you?" McCormick put his book bag down and used his foot to shove it against the wall. Failing to hide a grimace as the movement stressed his sore knee.

Frank could see what Milt was talking about. Mark looked terrible. The younger man had always been a skinny guy, but now he looked positively malnourished. There were dark bags beneath his eyes and if Frank didn't know any better, he would have thought the man sick enough to be bedridden.

"Mark looked over to him. "Are you staying for pizza, Frank?"

"No, in fact I'd better be going. Claudia will be expecting me home. Thanks, Milt, I'll talk to you tomorrow." Frank took his leave through the kitchen door.

"What do you want on the pizzas?" he heard Mark ask as he closed the kitchen door behind him.

"Anything, you want."

"Okay, now I know something is going on," Mark's comment carried and Frank knew he'd made his escape just in time.

On his way past Frank was amazed at the state of the Coyote. Mark usually kept this car in mint condition, which, considering all the action it got to see was amazing and a testament to Mark's diligence. Right now it could only be described as 'dusty.' It was obvious that Mark hadn't had the opportunity to clean it, let alone give it the maintenance it needed. To see it like this, it wasn't right.

Mark got nothing out of the judge. The man simply scooped up the papers and whisked them away before Mark had a chance to see what was on them. Hardcase being all secretive and unwilling to even discuss the 'help' he was giving Frank was suspicious as hell. But no matter how hard McCormick tried, he couldn't get the judge to say what was going on. The fact that the older man not once simply said "No, McCormick, I'm not working on a case," had the younger man worried. Hardcastle never lied to him, never directly at least, but the man was an expert at avoidance and redirection.

McCormick realized he wasn't going to win this one. When the judge got stubborn like this there was just no shifting the old donkey.

"Right, fine, don't tell me. Just don't be chasing down bad guys on your own, okay? Promise me that much."

"You worry too much, kid. I'm not stupid you know? Order the pizzas, will ya?"

Mark did as he was told, though it didn't escape his notice that the judge still had made him no promises, and they settled down in the den to wait for the food to arrive. He did a little reading and the judge flicked through his notes. Mark couldn't help glancing up at the older man from time to time. It was a case, damn it, Hardcastle had that look. But it was just as obvious that he was not going to be included. Mark went back to the fundamentals of constitutional law text he was trying to study. He couldn't concentrate. He found himself reading the same paragraph over and over again, but nothing was sinking in. He let his mind wander a little.

McCormick thought it through rationally. So Hardcastle didn't want him in on whatever case he had cooked up with Frank. That didn't mean Hardcastle was going to work solo, right? Frank would never let him get away with that.

Frank would keep him safe. Well, as safe as anyone could. It was a hard task sometimes. Hardcase only had one speed when he went after a bad guy, flat to the floor and no brakes.
Maybe old guy wanted to keep him out of it so he could concentrate on school. Mark knew his tuition fees were high. When he'd added all the extra costs to the fees and came up with the total he'd tried to get the judge to back out of the bet.

"A bet is a bet, kiddo, you worry about the study and I'll worry about the fees," was all the judge would say on the matter.

A knock on the door interrupted his musings and he was going to get up and fetch the pizza but the judge beat him too it.

"Nah, I got it," The older man told him as he headed for the door.

They ate their pizzas and Hardcastle turned the movie on. During a commercial break, halfway through the epic, Mark picked up his text to check the details to a casual question he'd just thought up. He was still reading the text when the movie ended an hour later, completely oblivious to the judge's concerned looks.

"Hey kid, it's time to call it a night."

Mark looked up from his book to realize the movie was over. "Oh, yeah." He got to his feet. Unexpectedly, he staggered a step as his forgotten injured knee threatened to give out on him.

He was stopped from falling by the Judge's vice-like grip on his arm. "Whoa there, sport. Are you all right, McCormick?"

"Yeah, sorry, leg's asleep still."

"Probably time the rest of you got a little sleep too, you think?"

"Sure. Night, Judge."

"Goodnight, kiddo."

Three hours later Hardcastle looked out of his window. He was dismayed to see the lights were still on in the gatehouse. This had to stop but it wasn't like he could get mad at McCormick for being a conscientious student.

Milton Hardcastle considered himself a reasonable man. He had built a successful legal career on the principle that logic and reason were goals to be strived for in every undertaking, but at this moment he was finding it hard to keep any semblance of rationality or control.

Commissioner Emhart was not at all happy to have to receive the retired judge that morning and he'd tried to keep him waiting as long as possible, hoping the man would simply go away. He was even less impressed when Hardcastle had all but bulldozed his way into his office. He had finally agreed to allow the judge five minutes of his time.

Milton had promised that for Frank's sake, he would be polite and reserved, but in less than a minute his patience had worn thin with the pompous posturing and grandstanding of the other man. From the start Hardcastle could feel his temper beginning to rise. In the end he'd simply snapped at the man and told him to shut up and listen. Emhart's mood worsened.

"All right, Hardcastle, I'm listening and you have four minutes left. What is so very important that you couldn't wait for an appointment like everyone else? I am a busy man you know?"

"And you're going to be a lot busier, mostly trying to avoid the press and difficult questions if you don't listen to me."

"Are you threatening me with something?" Emhart demanded.

"What? No, of course not, I'm actually trying to help you. You idiot."

"I had to take that kind of abuse in your court room, Your Honor, but I do not have to take it in my office. Here you will address me correctly or you will leave."

Milton took a deep breath and tried to calm down, "Okay, that was uncalled for, but just listen, this is important. Do you think I'd come down here, to you, if it weren't?"

Emhart sighed and gestured to the seat across the desk from him. "Take a seat, Judge, say what you've come to say and get out."

"There is a whole lot of trouble coming down in the department and you need to know about it before it rips the whole thing apart."

Emhart looked interested. "What kind of trouble? You'd better explain to me exactly what you're talking about. The last time you, Harper and your little pet criminal investigated my department I was fielding questions from the media and the governor for months."

Hardcastle sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm going to need more than four minutes to explain this," he said stubbornly.

Emhart sighed and pressed a button on his intercom. "Jarvis?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Jarvis, reschedule my meetings for the next hour."

"Uh, oh… umm, yes, sir."

Emhart released the intercom button and gestured to Hardcastle. "Fine, just talk, but you'd better not be wasting my time."

"I'm not. What do you know about an internal affairs agent by the name of Lars Ericson?"

"Ericson, you're looking into him? You'd better have water-tight proof. Ericson is a narcissistic, elitist pain-in-my-butt but he's got a reputation as a man on the move, and he doesn't always play by the rules. I know better than to annoy him. He was the lead in that corruption mess up in San Francisco. The mayor there hailed him as the driving force that cleared a particularly nasty nest of vipers out of the force there. After that, everyone wanted him, including our esteemed mayor. It was considered a coup for our internal affairs department to get him. Since he's been here he's reportedly been doing good work."

Hardcastle raised an eyebrow. "You seem to know a lot about him."

"Of course I do. The man has ambitions. I keep a close eye on all my potential competitors. Doesn't mean I like the man, though I do like him better than some." Emhart said, with a sour look towards the judge.

"Well, I don't care about his ambitions, not yet anyway, and I do intend to annoy him. I have good reason to suspect he had a young beat cop killed and I think he's been involved in a lot of other things too."

"Are you going to send your little stalking horse in undercover again? Not that I care about your convict friend, but that simply isn't going to work. You and he made quite the impression last time. They've been using that case and your pet con as training material over in internal affairs. He'd be made in a minute."

"First, McCormick is a private citizen now. He's paid his debts to society. And second, the kid is too busy with his law studies to be involved in this. So, no, I wasn't planning on sending him in."

"Well, good, Ericson is a lot of things but he isn't stupid. I don't want to have to be explaining to the press how I ended up with a dead civilian, ex-con or not, when this all washes out."

Hardcastle nearly growled in anger at the callousness, but Emhart either didn't hear it or ignored it.

"So what are you planning?"

Hardcastle outlined the evidence Frank had brought him and the general plans they had roughed out. Emhart wasn't at all impressed but he promised to give Harper his support. Milt wasn't going to hold his breath waiting for Emhart's help. He was doing this only as a favour to Frank. As long as Emhart stayed out of their way he would be happy.

The commissioner let Hardcastle out of his office as soon as they had gone over the information.

Emhart thought Hardcastle was an A-grade arrogant mule, but as much as he hated to admit it, Hardcastle, Harper and McCormick had really helped the department and his own career last time. If he played it right there could be a little political gain after this investigation too. He'd need to keep enough distance while it was in progress, at least until he knew which side would come out on top, then he could maximize his benefits. Ericson was a well-connected and dangerous enemy to have.

Emhart decided that it would be best to let Hardcastle do all the leg work on this. Keep out of the firing line himself.

He sat brooding over the conversation and the distaste of having Milton C. Hardcastle digging into department business, again. Lord help him, he may end up having to publicly thank the infernal man again. The thought left him scowling in distaste.

Jarvis knocked politely on his door before entering. "Commissioner, is everything all right?" Emhart looked up at his new aide. The man had only been working with him for a few months but he'd already found his work to be impeccable, and the man knew how to give him the respect he deserved, unlike a certain ex-jurist.

"I wish, Jarvis. There're problems in the department, I'm afraid."

"Oh, anything I can help you with, sir?"

Emhart thought about it for a minute. "Yes, can you get me all the information we have on file for internal affairs agent Lars Ericson, and I'm going to need another hour to address this. Could you see to my schedule?"

"Yes, sir, right away."

Emhart turned away from his aide as the other man left and stared out of his window, looking to the beautiful, busy cityscape. He had a lot to consider if he was going to bring something from this situation to his advantage.

Jarvis left, closing the door, and went to his desk. He hesitated for a moment before he picked up the phone and dialled a number.

"Lars, it's Mike… Michael Jarvis here. I think you might have a problem. Commissioner Emhart just had a visit from an ex-judge, Milton Hardcastle." Jarvis wasn't surprised when Ericson recognised the name and described the man.

"Yeah, that's him. I think he's started an investigation and it involves you. Emhart just requested your file." Jarvis listened to Ericson's instructions for a minute.

"You're sure? Yeah, okay, I'll get it done and I'll let you know if he comes back."

He hung up the phone and began to carry out the biddings of both masters.

Ericson hung up the phone after issuing orders to his inside man in the commissioner's office. It had taken him a lot of money, blackmail and favors to get Michael Jarvis placed in the commissioner's office and for a while he wasn't sure if he'd wasted his resources on the move. This one phone call had just more than justified the expense he'd gone through. Commissioner Emhart was a fool and when the time came Ericson wasn't expecting any difficulty in removing the man from his position.

He knew who Hardcastle was, most people in Californian law-enforcement did. After Frank Harper had involved himself in the Cook case, Lars had looked into the detective's connections and Hardcastle's had been one of the files he had reviewed. His file made for very interesting reading. Not so much for what it directly said but for the connections Lars was able to make from it. Milton 'Hardcase' Hardcastle had a weakness.

The file showed a tough as nails man, dedicated to the law but he was also a white knight who believed in reforming ex-convicts. Previous attempts at transforming criminals had been disastrous for the judge, but the latest attempt seemed to have been more successful.
So successful that the ex-con still lived at the judge's estate even after the judge had lost any power over the man. It was clear that this particular ex-convict, Mark McCormick, meant something special to Judge Hardcastle. Lars thought that relationship could be something he could use.

Frank Harper sticking his nose into his business could a problem but Hardcastle getting involved would mean real trouble. The two of them actively working together against him was potentially disastrous. Lars suspected that was exactly what was now happening. It was too coincidental that just a day after he met Frank Harper at the unfortunate death of Officer William Cook, his friend, the ex-judge, had begun an investigation. Lars knew they didn't have anything solid yet. But he didn't have much time. He would have to deal with the situation quickly.

He considered his response for several minutes, idling tapping his pen against the clean, clear surface of his desk. Finally decided on the appropriate action, he put his pen back into its holder and picked up the phone, and dialed a familiar number.

"Foster? I want you and Davis to meet me in my private office in twenty minutes. I have job for you."

He barely waited for the other man to acknowledge his instructions before he hung up. He got to his feet and retrieved his jacket from its hook on the wall. He slipped the coat on and headed out of his professional public office. Nodding to his secretary he informed her that he would be out in the field investigating a lead for the next few hours. His private office, where he was to meet Foster and Davis was easily fifteen minutes' drive time from the internal affairs building. The location was perfect. Discreet and unobtrusive, the casual observer would think nothing of him, or the men under his command, repeatedly visiting the building. It was unfortunate that it wasn't more convenient but even the distance offered a level of security that was important. He took great pains to keep his secret life secure and separated from his public profile.

He didn't intend for a mere detective and retired jurist to jeopardise his carefully laid plans. He would do what he had to do in order to prevent that.

ACT II:

Frank Harper arrived on time at the diner where he'd agreed to catch up with Hardcastle. The judge was there with a fresh plate of food already served up in front of him.

"Looks good," Frank said looking at his friend's burger and fries plate. He took a seat across from Milton and waved the waitress over. After he'd ordered the same, they got down to business.

"So did you talk to Emhart, Milt?"

"Said I would, didn't I?"

Harper nodded, "So are you going to tell me how it went or do I have to guess?"

"You could probably guess, Frank. It went. The man is still a jackass but even he doesn't trust Ericson. I think you might be right about him."

"I hope you kept it civil, Milt, we're going to need Emhart's backup on this."

Hardcastle suddenly found his lunch plate incredibly interesting.

"Milt? Tell me you didn't …"

"Of course I didn't. I might have been a little less than polite though."

"Milt…"

"Well, I couldn't help it. He even had the gall to bring up McCormick, like he was some kind of two-bit snitch. We got past it, okay? I'm never going to be joining the man's fan club, that's for sure, but I think if we need a little quiet help he'll be there. He wants Ericson gone for his own reasons."

"That's as good as we could expect. How did things go with Mark last night? He's not here hanging over your shoulder in protection mode so I assume you managed to keep him out of the loop."

"I told ya, he's got enough on his plate."

"Yeah, Milt, I saw him last night so I believe you. He's running himself ragged. I guess I just wanted to know if the two of you were all right."

Hardcastle sighed, "Damned if I know, Frank. We don't talk anymore, not about the important stuff. It's either him asking me about the law or me harping on him to eat and sleep."

"I don't suppose he's planning to do either of those today, huh?"

"Nah, he was gone to school early this morning, and he left a note that he wouldn't be back until later. I'm not expecting him home until very late."

"It'll work out, Milt. Mark's smart enough to figure this out for himself, eventually."

"Yeah, I'm just worried about the damn fool."

"Have you told him that?"

Hardcastle looked uncomfortable, so Frank knew the answer was "no."

"The biggest problem between you and Mark is that you both assume you know what the other is thinking. Milt, just talk to him."

Hardcastle nodded.

Frank's food arrived, and after a quick nod of thanks for the waitress, he tucked in.

"Anyway, I did a little digging into Foster and Davis. I couldn't find any connection to Ericson on paper but I did uncover a couple of odd details from a few years ago," Frank managed between bites.

"Oh, yeah, like what?" Hardcastle asked.

"There was an internal affairs investigation raised a few years ago. Foster and Davis were suspected of running an insurance scam. The initial investigation was looking into potentially faked accident reports that were all signed off by the same mechanic, a guy by the name of Andrew Mattock, but the investigation apparently didn't have any basis and it was closed. No charges were laid. Foster and Davis were cleared."

"So if there's no direct connection to Ericson, what makes you think the decision was dirty?"

"Ah, I said there was no connection on paper. The internal affairs investigation was run out of the San Francisco office…"

Milt laughed a little, "The same office where Ericson was making a name for himself."

"Yeah."

"So, they do know each other, and you think it was Ericson that had the investigation buried."

Frank nodded enthusiastically and waved his empty fork in Hardcastle's direction. "Yeah, I do, and I'll tell you what else I think, Milt. I think the scam is still active. I got curious and looked into the number of motor vehicle accidents that Foster and Davis have recorded as having attended. Milt, it's nearly six times the average."

"Well, that is interesting," Hardcastle said, as he drained the last of his coffee.

"But it gets better. More than two thirds of the vehicle write-offs are processed through the same chain of repair shops, and all of them are owned by the same guy."

"Oh, let me guess, Frank, this guy who owns all these repair shops, he's the same guy who was listed in the initial investigation, right?"

"Got it in one, Andrew Mattock."

"Okay, so Ericson stumbles across an open investigation into what must have been a fairly small-scale scam operation run by Foster and Davis and their mechanic partner. Instead of continuing the investigation he sees a potential money maker and shuts down the investigation. He either buys off or coerces Foster and Davis into working for him."

"From what I saw, Milt, I'd say it was a payoff, Foster and Davis didn't look the least bit coerced."

"Yeah, probably. Anyway, Ericson has reorganised and expanded the business. Somewhere along the way your friend Bill Cook sticks his nose into Ericson's business and, bam, they kill him. Dress it up like a suicide."

Both men were silent for a while, neither suddenly very interested in their meals. Frank pushed some of his food around on the plate.

"It's a good theory, Milt, but right now that's all we've got."

After a few more moments of thought Hardcastle spoke. "I think we need to go have a talk to this auto repair king and see if we can shake anything loose there. Ericson is too smart to have left any direct trail. Foster and Davis, for whatever reason, are tight with him. Besides, they're cops and they won't scare easy. All that's left is the mechanic, Mattock. He's got to be feeling a little on the outs, going into crooked business with a bunch of cops. Could be we might be able to get a little leverage."

"Okay, but we do this together. Mark would kill me if I let you go off by yourself."

They took Milt's truck. Frank's car was unmarked, but he couldn't help it — it still 'looked' like a cop's car. Frank got out and scanned the well-appointed garage, with more than half a dozen mechanics diligently working on at least twice that number of cars. Business was good.
An older man, only a few years younger than Milt, looked up as the pair approached. He straightened and wiped his hands clear of engine grease on a nearby cloth and dumped it on a bench as he came over.

Sorry, boys, we're booked solid for the next few days. If you need urgent work done you'll have to take your truck elsewhere, but if it's a just a lube we could probably fit you in next week," the man said with a regretful shake of his head and a smile.

"Doesn't look coerced to me," Milt whispered quietly to Frank.

"Are you Andrew Mattock?" Frank asked when the man approached.

Immediately the man's eyes narrowed and the welcoming smile vanished. "Who's asking?"

"I'm Frank Harper and this here is Milt Hardcastle," Frank said gesturing to Hardcastle.

The friendly introduction seemed to mollify the man a little and he shrugged the tension easing. "Yeah, I'm Andy Mattock."

Hardcastle looked around. "Great setup you've got here," he said.

Mattock was still suspicious. "Yeah, business has been good."

"Yeah, I just bet it has," the judge said.

"Well, as I said, we're booked up so you'll have to take your truck elsewhere."

"That's fine, Andy, you don't mind if I call you Andy, do you?" Hardcastle said, barely giving the other man time to shake his head before ploughing onward. "Besides, I have my own mechanic. He's a little overworked at the moment too, but I don't think I'd trust my truck to anyone else."

Mattock looked confused and wary. "So if you're not here for a service or repair, what can I do for you?"

Milt exchanged a quick glance with Frank.

"We heard you specialise in accident repair."

Mattock looked nervously between the two men. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"We're talking about the nice little deal you've got set up with a couple of cops named Foster and Davis. We want to know how Lars Ericson fits into it all."

Mattock's head jerked back a bit, as though Milt had reached out and slapped the man.
Score, thought Hardcastle.

"I said I have no idea who you're talking about," Mattock said firmly, but it didn't take a detective genius to see that the man was lying.

"Oh, really?" Frank asked, stepping forward. Mattock took a small nervous step backward.

"You see, I have documented evidence that you do know Foster and Davis, that you know them very well. Well enough to have put together a tidy insurance scam."

"That's ridiculous," Mattock stammered. "There is no proof!"

Hardcastle shared another glance with Frank. The man was far too easily rattled to have come up with a scam like this by himself, or to have kept it going as long as it had.

Milt gestured around to the garage, fitted with the latest in technology. "So how did you get the start-up capital for this place, Andy?"

"What? I want you guys to leave… now!"

Hardcastle leaned in closer. "Are you sure about that? Your buddies Foster and Davis are going down, you know. They aren't going to be able to protect you, even if they wanted to."

Frank nodded sadly in agreement. "Cops do tend to stick together. When it comes right down to it, they are going to do the best they can for each other but anyone else, anyone on the outside, well…"

Mattock looked more than a little spooked. Hardcase shook his head too. "Shame, all this loyalty and what will it get you?"

Mattock was backing away now, not making any pretence of hiding his fear.

The judge shrugged. "Well, if you're sure. But if I were you I'd get myself a real good lawyer."

Harper and Hardcastle stood side by side and watched as Andy Mattock all but scurried away, vanishing into one of the offices within the garage. Frank looked over to his friend of many years.

"That was fun. I can see why you and Mark keep doing this."

They headed back to the truck. "Come on, Frank, you're a cop. You get to do this sort of thing all the time. It's no different."

"Oh, yes it is, and you know it. As a cop I gotta follow the rules. I've got to worry about due process and civil rights, you… you and Mark get to walk in and just stir the pot. That's a big difference."

Hardcastle opened the driver's side and climbed into the cab. He had a smile on his face while he waited for Frank to get settled. "Okay, you're right, Frank, it is a lot more fun this way."

Frank just rolled his eyes as Hardcastle started the engine and pulled out into traffic. "So, what's next?"

Milt thought about it for a few moments. "We need to get surveillance on Foster and Davis. You'll have to do that, Frank. This is one time when it's easier to be a cop. I'm pretty sure we have Mattock spooked. He's got to be at least thinking about his situation. I figure he'll either go to Foster and Davis for help or he'll go with accusations. Either way we need to know how they react."

"And what will you be doing?" Frank asked.

Hardcastle could hear the faint censure in his friends tone. "Don't worry, I'm going home. I'm going to check into Ericson's finances with my own resources, and a few slightly less official channels."

Frank nodded his agreement. "All right, sounds good. How about we meet back at your place tonight and compare notes."

Hardcastle hesitated for a moment.

"Still haven't any plans to tell McCormick, huh?"

"Frank, it's not like I want to keep him out, it's just I don't see what help he can be."

"Milt, you have to talk to him."

"Yeah… maybe."

"Milt."

"I'll think about it, okay?"

Night air, blowing through the open top of his car, ruffled though Mark's hair as he drove. It was late, very late, and the PCH was all but deserted. Mark opened the throttle up a little and pushed the Coyote through the corners. He loved how responsive this car was. Even though he knew it was long past time he gave the engine a service and a tune up, it seemed to react to his every wish almost before he directed it to. It was moments like this that he was pleased the judge let him win that bet to pay his tuition fees. If the judge hadn't taken over the responsibility of the bill there was no doubt in Mark's mind that he would have needed to sell the Coyote. He would have missed it.

It was the only thing he had that was worth anything, but it wouldn't have been the monetary value that he would have missed. He would have missed the connection it represented. This car was the last link he had to his old life, his old dreams. Dreams that had seen him through some pretty harsh days.

Very few things eased him more than tinkering with the high-performance engine. It took a lot of work to keep a car like this in top condition but Mark had never minded. He found the work therapeutic. Have a fight with the judge? Go work on the Coyote for a few hours. Something in a case going wrong? Take the Coyote out on the desert highway in the cool night air and let the car show what it could do.

He'd have to find the time to give it a little attention. It could use it. He could hear a slight variance in the engine sound and a glance at the dash let him know the engine was running a little hotter than it should be. Mark sighed. The engine needed work.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that at first he didn't notice the flashing red and blue lights behind him.

Mark looked down at the dash again and groaned. The speedometer showed he was at least eight miles per hour over the limit. The judge was going to rake him over the coals for getting yet another speeding ticket. He took his foot off the accelerator and let the Coyote idle down to a much slower speed while he looked for a safe place to pull off the road. The cruiser behind him caught up quickly and matched pace with him. Mark pulled the car over on a short straight section of road and shut the engine off. He dug into his pocket to find his licence.

He was just pulling out his registration papers when he heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel coming up besides the car. He looked over at the cop, it wasn't one he recognised. This cop was a tall man with a slightly crushed uniform, sandy-colored hair above a stern face. The cop had his hand resting on the top of his holstered sidearm in what was obviously a warning.

Must be new to this beat, Mark thought. He'd been pulled over for speeding so many times that he'd often been pulled over by the same cop. They'd gotten to know him and it had been a while since he'd been treated to the full hard-core cop routine. Fortunately he remembered it well enough to know to be particularly polite.

"Good evening, officer," Mark said, being sure to keep his hands clearly visible.

"Your licence and registration," the cop snapped.

Mark frowned a little. He supposed he'd been hanging around the judge and Frank too long and it bothered him that the officer had been so abrupt.

Mark said nothing but handed over his licence and registration papers. The officer took them and flicked on his flashlight. First shining the beam on the papers Mark had presented him before turning the light to shine full into Mark's face. The officer left the light shining brightly in Mark's eyes for more than a minute.

"Is 101 Pacific Coast Highway, Malibu your current address, Mr. McCormick?"

"Yes, it is."

"And do you own the residence?"

"Uh, no, retired Judge Milton C. Hardcastle owns the property and I live there."

Mark was resigned to getting another ticket.

"Step out of the car, Mr. McCormick."

Mark began to pull himself up and out of the car. The cop was standing too close to the side for him to open the door.

"Officer, I know I was speeding..."

Mark wasn't watching the cop so it came as a surprise when he felt himself seized by one arm and the back of the neck and dragged from the car.

"Oof," he grunted as he was dragged clear, spun around and slammed against the side of the Coyote. "Hey!" he protested.

A short, hard jab to his right kidney took his breath away, effectively silencing him.

"Shut up," the cop holding him hissed in his ear.

He could hear the approach of a second cop. Any hopes Mark may have had that this new cop could rein in his partner were dashed the moment the new cop spoke.

"Is it him?" the second cop asked.

"Yeah, it's him. Here's his licence, he lives with that judge."

"What's going on?" Mark asked. He was beginning to have a very bad feeling about the situation.

Another, even harder punch to the same kidney silenced him again. He could hear his licence being transferred to the other cop and a few muttered comments but he was too busy trying not to throw up to really gather much information from the exchange. He really hated getting punched in the kidney. Not only did it hurt like hell, it took his breath away and made him instantaneously nauseous.

Whatever was going on it wasn't just a simple case of speeding. These cops had been waiting for him specifically. At least I probably won't end up with another ticket this time, Mark thought encouragingly.

He was spun around again, the movement causing a flare of pain from his injured knee and he couldn't help but stagger slightly to the side. One cop didn't appreciate the unauthorised movement and let Mark know it with a solid punch to his stomach. Mark gagged and spat the results to the ground by his feet.

A hand grabbed him by the hair and pulled him straight. "Pathetic," was the judgement call of the cop who had him in the painful grip.

Mark didn't have time to say anything before his head was slammed backwards against the top of the Coyote. He was stunned and dazed, barely fighting off unconsciousness. When he came back to himself he found himself once more leaning forward over his own car, this time he could feel his hands pulled back behind him as cuffs were tightened around his wrists.

"Put him in the car," the older cop said.

It was too late to fight back, and when Mark thought about it, he realised that he wouldn't have a chance anyway. One lame, handcuffed person against two well-armed assailants… the calculation was not in his favor. He'd be dead before he made it two feet. Not that he thought it likely that he would be surviving whatever these guys had in store for him anyway. He was no longer even entirely sure they were real cops.

No, he revised his thought. They were real cops, just real bad cops. They had the look, the uniforms, the police cruiser, the attitude and they knew the routine, but this was not a normal arrest.

He was shoved through the opened rear door of the cruiser with no consideration to his safety. Mark barely managed to avoid hitting his head against the door jamb on the way.
As soon as the younger cop let him go and slammed the self-locking door behind him, Mark struggled into a sitting position. The older cop got in behind the wheel while the younger cop in the passenger side. The car started and turning around and heading back towards the city, accelerating away from the now abandoned Coyote. Mark wondered if the car would still be there when he made it back, assuming he did make it back. The Coyote was unlocked and keys left in the ignition.

Mark waited until he was sure his voice was not going to waver before he spoke. That 'pathetic' accusation the older cop had levelled at him had stung more than he'd like to admit.

"Are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

"I thought we told you to shut up," the younger cop said, turning so that he could glare at his prisoner. Fortunately the metal cage separating the backseat from the cops in the front served to protect Mark from any further abuse.

"I don't know what you guys think I've done, but…"

The older cop laughed at that. "You? Who said you'd done anything? Who said we have any interest in you at all."

"Then why am I here?" Mark asked.

The younger cop turned again and gave Mark a smile that chilled him.

"You're going to be our messenger boy. We have a message we want you to deliver to your judge friend."

The judge? Suddenly, Mark had a flash of insight. The papers on the kitchen table the other day had been a case. Hardcase had lied to him. He and Frank were working on a case that had something to do with bad cops in the department and instead of letting him help or at least warning him, they'd just left him hanging.

"There's a fire road up ahead," the younger cop said.

Mark's bad feeling intensified. It seemed likely that these guys were going to give Hardcastle a permanent message. Mark began to think that even near impossible odds were better than none. There had to be a way to get himself away from these guys alive. And when he did, he and Hardcastle were going to have a long talk.

The older cop turned off the highway and drove down the unsealed gravel road. The drive was done in silence. Mark had nothing to say and the cops seemed to have no more interest in baiting the little fish.

They drove for nearly half of an hour before they stopped. Mark had never been this far into the hills and he was unfamiliar with the area. He still hadn't come up with a viable plan of escape when the car pulled over.

The woods were close by the road's edge. There were no lights, and no buildings nearby. No sign of habitation at all. Again he was dragged from the car and this time thrown to the ground. He came up to his knees spitting out the leaves and dirt he'd landed in.

The older cop circled him a few times, inspecting him like he was a particularly unpleasant bug he'd found against the bottom of his shoe.

"All right, here's the message we want you to give to your judge friend."
A downward punch hit him across the right eye and knocked him to the ground in a blaze of pain.

"Judge Hardcastle needs to keep his nose out of business that doesn't concern him."

That statement was followed up by a boot to his gut. Mark tried to curl and protect his head and stomach the best he could from the sudden flurry of blows and kicks, not an easy thing to do with his hands cuffed behind his back.

Somewhere through the assault Mark began to feel his awareness fading away.

As suddenly as they had begun the blows stopped. Mark lay there gasping for breath. It hurt like hell to breathe and he was fairly certain that a couple of his ribs were damaged. Everything seemed disjointed and confused, and Mark suspected he was fading in and out of consciousness. He heard two doors slam closed and a car engine before he worked out that the cops were leaving.

A flush of relief passed through him when he realised that he was still alive. It left him feeling shaky. From the beginning of the beating he'd fully expect that he would be killed on this dark, lonely road. His body left for some poor hiker or forestry officer to find. He'd felt bad that the judge would have most likely been the one they would call to come and identify what was left of him.

The cruiser backed up, its headlights nearly blinding him as he lay on the damp earth. In the bright light he could see splatters of red flecked across the leaf detritus covering the ground. He shivered there was a disturbing amount of red which he could only hope was coming from less serious injuries. Mark coughed and saw a fresh splatter of red speckle the leaves and the cough hurt like hell.

The car turned and drove away, taking the light with it. Mark lay still watching as the retreating tail lights were swallowed by the night.

Silence fell around him as the sound of the engine faded away. Eventually he could hear the sounds of the night creeping back. It was relaxing and Mark felt himself drifting away. He shook his head in alarm. If he fell asleep here the judge really would be identifying his body in a day or two, when someone finally found him. The exposure would kill him, even if his injuries were survivable. He couldn't let that happen. He reminded himself he'd survived worse.

With his hands bound behind him it took several attempts before he managed to get to his feet. He hobbled a few steps in the direction the cruiser had taken before he tripped over some unseen obstacle in the dark and fell back to the ground. Unable to catch himself he landed face first, no doubt adding to the collection of bruises he had there.

Sitting up Mark looked into at the darkness and realised this wasn't going to work. There was very little light from the waning moon making it through the canopy of leaves. He could barely see where the road was, let alone any obstruction on it. With his hands still cuffed behind him he had no chance of keeping his balance.

Mark remembered one long, tedious night in prison his cellmate had described an escape trick. It was a way to bring cuffed hands from the back to the front. Mark had never tried it before and it didn't sound easy, but he had no choice. He had to try.

With a pained groan Mark rolled onto his back and used the ground to force his hands lower. The action hurt like hell but he kept at it, taking only brief breaks when he needed time to catch his breath and clear his head. Each time he failed he was less sure he was going to be able to pull it off, but eventually he managed to pull his cuffed hands down his back and up behind his knees. Having made it that far he had to take a rest.

Rolling sideways back into the leaves and dirt, Mark rested. It wasn't the most comfortable position but exhaustion was catching up to him. He tried to stay awake but he was pretty sure he faded out for a while.

He wakened to find himself on his side, still bound in the awkward position and his body covered in a light coating of night dew. The moisture covered everything around him making him shiver. Encouraged that the hardest part was done, Mark managed to thread his good leg back through the cuffs. His injured leg caused him some pain but finally it was through and his bound hands were to the front.

This time when he passed out Mark could do nothing to stop it.

Milt had been waiting up for McCormick to make it home, but so far there had been no sign of him. The phone rang and for a few moments Milt hesitated before answering it. In Milt's experience, calls at 2 AM were rarely good news. His first thought was that it would be McCormick, his second and more frightening thought was that it was the police calling about McCormick. It was a call he dreaded, a voice on the phone telling him that the kid had been in some kind of accident.

"Milt?" It was Frank.

"Frank, what's happened?" Hardcastle asked hoping he wasn't not about to get the news he feared most.

"Trouble, Milt. Ericson has launched an investigation into me. He's playing hardball."

Milt felt a surge of relief. Not good news but not the worst.

"On what charges?"

"He has raised allegations of corruption and taking bribes."

"That's ridiculous, Frank, no one will believe it"
"Milt, they already believe it enough to put me on suspension pending an I.A. investigation. I've lost my access. I can't keep an eye on Foster and Davis anymore. I've spent the last several hours being questioned."

"Never mind Foster and Davis, Frank, are you okay?"

"Not really, Milt. I haven't told Claudia yet."

"Anything you need. You know that, Frank."

"Sure, Milt. I'll be out to the estate as soon as I'm released here. I have a little more information for you."

"All right, Frank, see you soon."

Hardcastle hung the phone up. He knew this had to be hard for Frank. He was a dedicated officer with a list of citations. It had to be eating him up that he could be accused of something like this.

And where the hell was McCormick? Hardcastle didn't want to admit it but he was worried.

ACT III:

Mark was cold and shivering when he woke again, the chill of the ground he lay on seeping into his body.

"It would have been easier if I had something to pick them with," he muttered darkly tugging at his wrists.

This time, with the added assistance and balance of having his hands in front of him, he managed to get to his feet on the first attempt. The effort left him panting but he already felt more in control of his situation. With a slow limp he headed down the road.

It took the better part of three hours to make it back to where the Coyote had been left. On the trek his movement had become easier and so had his breathing. There was a painful area around one of his back teeth. He gently tested the area with his tongue. Mark couldn't tell if the tooth was loose, but the gash on the inside of his cheek felt huge.

Mark knew he looked bad. The few cars that had passed him along the highway had steered a wide berth around him. He could only imagine what calls were going to be made to the police about him and he half expected to see a cruiser come along. If one did he was going to run for it. One run in a day was more than enough.

"Oh, thank God," Mark muttered as he cleared the last bend.

Pulling up the medal from where it lay under his shirt Mark gave it a quick kiss of thanks. The Coyote was still there and it still had all four wheels. He moved as fast as he could to the bright red car and ran his bound hands lovingly along its sleek side.

He opened the driver's door and carefully lowered his hurt body into the seat. The relief of not moving made his head spin and for a while all he could do was simply sit there. The sky was beginning to lighten with the false dawn. All he wanted to do was to go home. The judge would be wondering where he was. He started the car and headed towards the estate.

"Where the hell is that kid," Hardcastle muttered, pacing from the den to the front door for the umpteenth time that night. This wasn't the first time McCormick had stayed out all night, not by a long shot, but he was usually pretty good at letting the judge know when he was going to be late and when he wasn't planning on coming home at all.

The last time he'd spoken to the kid the morning before, McCormick had told him that he would be studying late. The law library had an all-night study section where students could study the night away if they wanted too. McCormick had already done that more times than Milt would have liked but he'd always, always given home a quick call first.

Milt had already called the station to see if there had been any incidents reported involving the young man. He'd nearly gotten in the truck several times to go out and look for him. It was only the promise he'd made Frank that he would be around that had stopped him.
Besides, it was most likely that the kid had fallen asleep on top of his books again.

Milt looked out at the slowly lightening sky and made a decision. He went to his desk and retrieved the truck's keys. If Frank called or showed up he would have to fend for himself for a little while. Milt was going out after McCormick and if he found him asleep at the law library this time he'd read the kid the riot act. Enough was enough.

He had only made it to the front door when he heard the Coyote coming down the drive. It was coming at a remarkably sedate pace compared to McCormick's usual style.

Ha, guilty conscience, Milt thought.

He stormed from the house ready to blast the young man. McCormick pulled up into his usual spot, but made no immediate move to get out of the car.

"It's about time you got home!" the judge shouted at the driver as he marched over.

"No! Uh-huh, no way, Judge! You do not get to be angry at me. I get to be mad at you! I have had a hell of a night. Do you want to tell me what on earth you and Frank are into?"

Milt stumbled to a stop at his first sight of McCormick, still sitting in the driver's seat. It was odd, but the first thing Milt saw, were the hands resting against the top of the steering wheel. The wrists were bruised, swollen and cuffed together with a set of cuffs that had been put on far too tightly

"What happened to you?" the judge shouted, rushing over to the driver's side and popping open the door quickly but then easing it open slowly to prevent the kid falling out of the car.

"Please, Judge, not so loud," McCormick muttered slumping back in his seat and letting his hands drop to his lap. He looked spent. "Just consider your message delivered, okay, and help me outta here," McCormick grumbled in a subdued tone.

With the car door opened Hardcastle got a clear look at him It wasn't good. Every bit of exposed skin was sported deepening bruises and the judge could see the pallor spread underneath the younger man's blood splattered shirt.

"Geez, hold on kid, I'll call an ambulance."

"No! Hardcase, I don't need an ambulance, I'm just tired. I've been walking for hours. Help me inside and get these damn cuffs off me, will ya?"

Hardcastle wanted to argue but he knew it wasn't beyond McCormick to refuse the paramedic's help if he did call them. The kid was stubborn like that sometimes.

As gently as he could he helped the younger man get to his feet. McCormick, for his part, only gasped a few times but each time he did, Milt felt it like a blow to the gut. He hadn't told him what had happened yet, but from his comments it was pretty clear that he'd been used to deliver a warning to back off. Hardcastle swallowed his anger while he was helping McCormick, but he could feel it seething just below the surface. He was angry at the people who'd done this, and he had a pretty good idea who that was. Underneath the anger was a deeper well of guilt. He was responsible for this too. He'd put McCormick in danger and hadn't even warned him that there was a risk.

Once McCormick was upright the judge took a firm but gentle grip on him and after giving the other a few moments to adjust to the change in position they began the slow walk to the main house.

McCormick let the Milt do all the work in helping him to sit on the couch. Once he was down McCormick closed his eyes and rested while the judge got the first aid kit. He pulled the coffee table over and put the kit on it before taking a seat beside McCormick and opening it. The first shock of seeing the damage had worn off and Milt was able to run a more experienced assessment of the young man's injuries.

"I don't know, kid, maybe you should let me call a doctor for you. You've taken a hell of a beating."

"Tell me about it," McCormick said with his eyes still closed and his head resting back against the well-stuffed couch. "No, Judge, there's nothing a doctor could do for me that you can't with your magic bag there." McCormick gestured blindly in the direction of the coffee table and the first aid kit it held. "Besides, I'm too tired. All I want to do is rest."

The judge grunted. "Fine, we'll do it your way… for now."

McCormick just nodded and relaxed under the judge's care. The older man was muttering and grumbling but his touch when he tended to Mark's facial injuries was gentle and careful. It felt wonderfully normal to hear the Hardcastle grumbling but to know that he was safe after the night he'd had. Mark was still angry at him for having gone off on his own but for the moment he was content to just sit there and be taken care of.

"Kid, you awake, here?" the judge asked.

Mark grunted.

There was a light tap to his shoulder. "Sit forward. I need to get this shirt off ya."

Mark considered the effort involved. He obviously took too long to make up his mind because a second tap came to his shoulder, a little firmer this time. "Come on, kid, if you're gonna pass out on me here I will be calling an ambulance for ya."

"Said, no," Mark muttered. He felt too lazy to even open his eyes as he leaned forward, relying on the judge's assistance.

"Yeah, well, I still think that's a dumb idea. Why didn't you go straight to the hospital in the first place rather than coming here?"

"Here was closer, 'sides, I told ya, I don't need the hospital."

"Stubborn, idiot kid…" the judge began a fresh rant as he slowly peeled Mark's shirt from him.

"Ah, damn, kid. They really worked you over here," Hardcastle muttered.

In Hardcastle's opinion there was even worse hidden under the kid's shirt than extensive bruising. The kid had lost too much weight. The judge had known that the young man wasn't eating properly but seeing the weight loss in the distinct outline of each and every one of McCormick's ribs spiked his anger again.

He'd been able to justify ignoring his concerns until now but this was the end. He treated each of the McCormick's injuries as carefully as he could. A gentle press to the injured area on his chest to check if the rib was intact produced a gasp and startled McCormick back into full wakefulness. Hardcastle was rewarded with a glare from the younger man. He was satisfied that he hadn't felt any give under his fingers when he'd pressed. No doubt they hurt but they weren't broken. The kid was right. He didn't really need a hospital. Not that Milton had any intention of saying that to him.

"I need to take a look at that knee of yours," the judge said.

He noticed the embarrassed flush on McCormick's face. Hardcase had no doubt that McCormick's embarrassment had nothing to do with modesty. That was not an affliction the kid suffered from. Rather, he suspected it had more to do with the fact that this particular injury pre-dated the beating.

Once he got a good look at the leg and the swollen knee his suspicions were confirmed. Most of the bruising was already beginning to yellow with age. Hardcastle tightened his lips in disapproval but he kept his touch gentle despite his frustrated anger.

"We need to talk, kid. This has to stop. And I mean right now," Hardcastle said beginning to wind a supportive bandage around the hurt joint.

"Hey, this is not my fault. I didn't do a damn thing wrong!" Mark protested.

"I'm not talking about the beating. You're running yourself into the ground, kiddo. That has to stop."

"I'd be fine if I wasn't getting pummelled on, just so some bad guy, who can't afford the cost of a postage stamp, wants to send you a message."

"Look, I'm sorrier than hell about that, kid, but you've been walking around here for weeks looking like a half-starved zombie, and it's got to stop."

Mark started to struggle up, no doubt intending to end the discussion by storming away to the gatehouse. The judge shoved him back into position.

"Sit still, will ya? I haven't finished and you aren't going anywhere until I do."

It wasn't clear if the judge meant his first aid or his lecture but either way Mark settled back into the comfort of the couch. He crossed his arms over his chest still angry at the judge and determined to let him know it.

"I'm really sorry you got caught up in that, McCormick. You weren't supposed to…"

Mark was reminded that the judge had gone out on his own. That he'd lied to him and his anger spiked again.

"That's where you're wrong, Judge! I am supposed to be involved. What, you thought you could just side-line me like this and I wouldn't mind?"

"I wasn't side-lining anyone! I was trying to look out for you, because Lord knows you weren't doing that for yourself!"

"So now I can't take care of myself?"

The judge gestured to the overly thin and damaged body before him. "I think the evidence speaks for itself, kiddo."

"What! This is because I got blindsided by bad guys, bad guys that you promised you wouldn't be going after by yourself!"

"Wasn't by myself. I had Frank with me," Hardcastle muttered but it was clear he didn't think it was much of a defence either.

"I asked you. I asked you straight up, and you said you weren't working on anything. You lied."

"I was trying to make things easier for ya, kid."

The old goat could have been killed and Mark would have been left with no answers as to why. It was only luck that the bad guys had decided to send Hardcastle a message through him instead of taking a direct approach. That would have been far worse.

"What do you want from me judge? I'm doing my best here. I don't think I can do any better!" Mark snapped.

"I'm not asking you to do better! I want you to slow down, damn it!"

"Slow down? Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea how much I have to do? I need to speed up, not slow down. I'm falling so far behind I'm not sure I'm ever going to catch up!" Mark yelled.

Mark was sick of the fight. He was tired, sore and miserable and it felt like all the rules he counted on had suddenly changed. Hardcastle excluding him wasn't right at all.

"You think this is easy for me, Judge?" Mark asked, feeling calm all of a sudden. "That I'm having fun at law school? Well, I'm not. It's hard, okay? But I'm trying my best not to waste your money and I'm trying…"

"That's what this is about!" the judge interrupted, derailing McCormick's train of thought.

"What are you going on about now?" Mark asked, confused.

"Money, the darn law school fees? That's why you're out there trying to kill yourself with study every night?" the judge gestured towards the gatehouse and the loft room where McCormick spent a significant amount of time studying every night.

"No! Well, maybe. I don't know! Look, Judge, I owe you a lot, okay, I know that, and I am trying, but I've already stuffed up once. You saw that dismal grade." Mark said harshly before dropping both his gaze and his tone. "I don't want that to happen again Judge."

"You are an idiot, do you know that kid?"

McCormick looked up defiantly at that. "That's what I just said, isn't it?"

"Oh, hogwash! You're not stupid. I said you're an idiot, that's totally different."

"Okay, I must have lost my Hardcase translation book because that doesn't make any sense, Judge."

"McCormick I don't care a whit about your law school tuition fees. I care that you're not looking after yourself, understand? So what if you hand in the occasional less than perfect assignment, it happens. You're not always going to win your cases when you're a lawyer you know? No one gets it a hundred percent right all the time."

McCormick shook his head and looked away. "What if I can't make it, Judge."

"Sure you can. You just gotta learn how to pace yourself. I do understand, kiddo. My first year in law school was hell too."

"Yeah, Judge, but I'm not you."

"Everything looks better in hindsight, McCormick. I didn't start out in my first year on the law review you know. I had a few subjects I struggled with. I even had a couple of less than stellar results here and there."

"You… really?" Mark was amazed. He'd never asked, but he'd just assumed the judge had sailed through law school like it had been no big deal.

"Sure, I'll show you my records if you like. Sometimes it got pretty tough going. I was still a cop back then, so like you, working while I studied."

Mark laughed, "I don't think slave and general dog's-body counts as a real job, Judge."

"Not that. You're still working my cases. We've already put away a couple of bad guys while you've been a student. You're being too hard on yourself, McCormick."

"I don't know, Judge, sometimes I'm not so sure."

"That's okay, kiddo. I'm sure."

Milt spent the next few hours in his den thinking over the conversation he'd had with McCormick. He had sent McCormick back to the gatehouse to sleep. He hoped the kid really was getting some rest but he doubted it. He hadn't slept either, having stayed up worrying about the younger man, and with good reason as it turned out. It had left him too unsettled to sleep.

He could hear a sedan coming down the drive toward the house that Hardcastle guessed was Frank.

Good, at least he's been released, he thought.

Milt met his friend at the door and led him to the den. "How are you doing, Frank?"

Harper shrugged, "I've been better, a long night."

Milt harrumphed. "Tell me about it. They got McCormick on his way home last night, Frank. They roughed him up pretty bad."

Frank was alarmed. He was Milt's friend, but he and McCormick had built their own strong and unusual friendship. "Is he all right?

"Yeah, he will be. He's sleeping it off in the gatehouse."

"Nah, he's awake, Hardcase. You okay, Frank?" McCormick asked from the doorway.

Frank turned and gave a low whistle at the bruises he could see on McCormick's face. "No offence, but I think I should be asking you that, Mark."

McCormick shrugged a little stiffly, "Like the man said, I'll be okay. Doesn't make it hurt any less right now. They let you go, you suspended?"

Frank sighed. "Yeah, had to surrender my badge and gun 'til the investigation is over."

Mark came down the steps and headed for one of the chairs. Even the short rest seemed to have helped him at least move easier. "I'm really sorry, Frank."

"I'll get reinstated when we catch these guys, but even if they don't put me back, I can't say I regret it. There are things I'd be willing to give it all up for and Billy Cook is one of them. But I'm sorry you got dragged into this too, Mark."

Frank didn't see the judge grimace at that comment. The judge expected a retaliatory snap of anger from McCormick but all he got was a muttered comment. "The pair of you are exactly the same. I'm gonna have to get two leashes."

Frank looked to Hardcastle, his eyebrow raised in question. His old friend didn't answer other than to shrug.

"Was it Foster and Davis who beat up Mark?" Frank asked.

Mark sighed. "I don't know Frank, all I can tell you is they were big guys, I'd never seen either of them before and they knew how to use their fists, and their boots too for that matter."

Hardcastle opened a file and pushed two photos across the desk to McCormick.

Mark leaned forward and looked at the photos for a moment then nodded. "Yeah, that's them."

Hardcastle frowned and took the photos back, slipping them back into his file. He'd never wanted to nail someone as badly as he did these guys.

"So what's the plan, Kemosabe?" McCormick said, looking to the judge.

Hardcastle looked up in surprise at the term of affection McCormick used. He hadn't heard that in a while.

"What else, we take them down. Frank, you said you had a more information."

"I'm not sure how solid it is but, yeah. It looks like Ericson has expanded the insurance scam since he took over from Foster and Davis. Found a couple of references to a medical clinic over on Park Road."

"Makes sense, there's a lot more money in medical and personal injury claims then there is in vehicle insurance alone." Mark said thoughtfully.

Hardcastle sat back. "True, but there's also a lot more in the way of checks and balances, too. I don't know, Frank, they'd have to have at least one doctor willing to sign off on any of their phony medical reports. That's not as easy as getting a mechanic to fake a damage claim, you got to have real patient details and medical records to pull that one off."

"Yeah, that's why I'm not entirely sure we're on the right track. It could be done, but it would be hard to set up."

Mark shook his head. "I don't think it would be that hard, Judge. You could just recycle some of your existing patients through the system. Claim you were focusing your practise into accident recovery or something. So you could pass a large number of bogus medical claims through without raising suspicions."

"Mark might have something there, Milt. The clinic is a co-op building with several doctors all running independent clinics." Frank opened his own file and leafed through a couple of pages.

"There is one doctor in the building that does most of the accident claims. Doctor Ormond—Suite 3 on the clinic's ground floor."

"Worth checking it out," Milt said.

Hardcastle could see McCormick's frown without even looking over at the younger man. McCormick obviously thought the judge was going to go in without him again.

"We even have the perfect way in," Hardcastle said, pointing to McCormick's bruised and battered face.

"Looks like an accident victim in need of rehabilitation to me," Frank said.

McCormick gave him a half-hearted smile in return. "Feel like one too," he said.

Hardcastle nodded. "Right, you and Frank go and see if this doctor is a part of the game. That is if you're up to it, McCormick."

Mark rolled his eyes. "How many times do I have to tell you 'I'm fine', Judge?"

"Just until I believe it, kiddo."

"And what are you planning to do?" Mark asked sternly.

"Well, first I'm going to make us some breakfast, and then I'm going to go into town and talk to Commissioner Jackass."

"Emhart," Frank corrected.

"Whatever. Ericson's got to be watching, so as long as I keep his focus on me it leaves the two of you to do the leg-work."

"Just be careful, Judge. Take it from me, these guys are not playing around. I'm not even entirely sure I was supposed to make it back last night." Mark said.

"Nah, you're pretty tough, kid. But they're gonna pay for last night, trust me," Hardcastle grumbled.

Mark didn't reply but he did acknowledge the judge's oath with a nod.

"You hungry, Frank?" Hardcastle asked.

"Yeah."

"Good, you can help me rustle up some breakfast."

Mark started to struggle up to his feet.

"You stay right where you are, McCormick. You've got another long day ahead. Frank and I will get it. Besides you've got a lot of reading to do to catch up on the case," Hardcastle said, dumping his folder on the desk in front of McCormick.

"Another long day?" Mark muttered. "I haven't finished the last day yet."

Frank smiled at McCormick's dismayed expression. Milt had managed to put together a pretty thick file on the case in a relatively short period of time. He dumped his own thick folder next to the judge's and gave McCormick a pat on the shoulder.

"Enjoy," he said, and followed the judge out of the den.

McCormick sank back into his chair, pick Frank's folder up and began to look at the contents.

Frank picked Mark up right on time and they drove to the clinic. Frank was quiet and Mark was grateful for that. He had a lot of thinking to do.

He thought it was possible that Hardcastle might be right. Mark rolled his eyes at himself, what was he thinking? Hardcase was always right. But this time he really did make sense.

Mark had known going into it that law studies were going to be hard, but was he making them harder than they needed to be? One mediocre grade wasn't the end of the world.

Not even his lecturers had demanded the level of perfection he himself had been trying to achieve. It was probably time he eased up a little. He still wanted to get good grades. Actually, he wanted better than good grades. He wanted the judge to be proud of him, but more than that he wanted to be proud of himself and know that he'd done his very best.

But maybe the judge was right? He didn't have to do everything at once. He could pace himself.

"Mark?" Frank's call roused him from where he'd been staring unseeingly out of the passenger window.

"Yeah?"

"Just checking if you were awake, we're just about there."

"Oh, good."

"You got your story straight?"

"Yeah, it's easy when there is a lot of physical evidence to back it up." Mark smiled self depreciatingly down at his bandaged wrists and the bruises they covered.

"Just be careful, okay?"

"No problems, Frank, this is the easy part."

Frank pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine.

"You sure you don't want me to come in?"

"Yeah, it's a lot harder for a doctor, at least an honest one, to turn away an obviously injured patient without an appointment, if they don't have anybody around to help. You'd better get comfortable though, Frank. If they're busy this could take a while."

"Don't worry about me, Mark. This isn't my first stake-out and, with luck, it won't be my last either."

Mark nodded and got out of the car. It didn't take any acting at all for him to look injured and in need of medical help as he walked up the short path and into Suite 3 of the clinic. The receptionist behind the counter of the nearly empty office was an older woman in her late forties. She looked up as Mark approached.

"May I help you?"

Mark nodded. "Yes, I was told that Doctor Ormond is a rehabilitation therapist? I'd like to see him."

The receptionist gave him a strange smile. "Her. Do you have an appointment?"

"Sorry, uh, no, I don't but I'd really like to see her today if I could?"

The receptionist frowned and gave him a scrutinising stare, taking in his bruised face and the bandages. "I'll see if the doctor has an opening today," she finally said. "Please fill out these forms and take a seat."

Her... damn, probably should have looked into the doctor a little more before they came here. This was exactly the kind of 'go in all guns blazing' type action that sometimes got him ticked off at the judge.

The man's a bad influence on me, Mark mused.

As Mark had thought, it took a while and both of the other patients in the waiting room were called in before the receptionist came back with his answer.

"Mr. McCormick? The doctor will see you now."

It was about time. Mark was happy to leave the pale gray-green decor of the waiting room, it was an uncomfortable reminder of institutions Mark had spent entirely too long in.

Mark had to struggle to rise, and not one bit of it was faked. While he'd been waiting his muscles had seized up on him.

The receptionist watched, but didn't offer any assistance, and Mark didn't ask for any. Finally upright he followed the receptionist through the door into the clinic's inner sanctum and then into a small, ordinary-looking consultation room.

"Please undress, Mr McCormick. You can leave your belongings there," the receptionist pointed to a small chair near the door. "The doctor won't be long. Do you need assistance?"

"No, I'll be fine, thank you," Mark said, trying not to flush in embarrassment. Over the last three years he'd become reaccustomed to a certain amount of personal privacy.

Mark slowly began to peel out of his clothes and laid each item on the indicated chair.
Funny how somehow Hardcastle, the old donkey, had managed to get him into a doctor's examination room after all.

Investigating a case... ha! And he'd fallen for it.

It turned out not to be that bad. Doctor Taylor Ormond, when she arrived, was an attractive woman.

The doctor checked Mark's injuries with a careful, efficient touch. She seemed a very competent and caring doctor and Mark had a hard time believing she could be mixed up with the kind of thugs that would beat a bound man and leave him in a forest for dead. But then, even good people sometimes found themselves mixed up in events they couldn't control.

The doctor finished her examination and helped Mark to redress. Despite the doctor's care, the examination had taken a lot out of him.

"Mr. McCormick, I can reassure you that you are going to make a full recovery with very little medical intervention. The only injury you have that concerns me at the moment is your knee. You have likely suffered a torn ligament. With mild physical therapy, it should heal well. I don't expect you will need any surgical intervention."

The doctor turned to her desk and wrote on a prescription pad. "I'm giving you a script for some anti-inflammatory and pain medication. You don't have to take the pain meds if you don't want to, but I do recommend you take the anti-inflammatory, since it will reduce the swelling and help the injuries heal faster."

Mark nodded and took the 'scrip from her when she offered it. "Thanks, Doctor,"

"Now, Mr. McCormick, are you going to tell me why you really came to my office today?"

"Huh?"

"Mr. McCormick, your own doctor could have helped you with most of your injuries, yet you came here today specifically to this clinic. The injuries to your wrists appear to be ligature bruising from some type of restraint. The one injury you have that does require a doctor specialising in accident injury treatment, you have left untreated for days. Suddenly, you find an urgent need to see me without an appointment? Why is that?"

The doctor crossed her hands over her chest and stared at him.

Mark sighed. "Okay, I'm here looking for information."

"Go on."

"You're right. The knee I hurt a few days ago. The rest of it is compliments of a couple of dirty cops, named Foster and Davis."

Doctor Ormond blinked and her arms unfolded.

"So, you do know them," Mark said. It wasn't a question, it was clear the doctor was familiar with the men.

She cleared her throat. "Yes, we've met. They did this to you?"

"Yeah, last night. They beat me up and left me in the middle of nowhere. How do you know them?"

She wouldn't answer.

"Look whatever they have on you, however it is that you got mixed up in all of this, I can help you."

She looked at Mark's injuries skeptically.

"Okay, maybe not me, but definitely the guy I work for."

"And who is it that you work for?" she asked.

"Judge Milton C. Hardcastle. Listen, you don't have to live like this. You can get out. The judge will help you. You can trust him."

"Do you?" she challenged.

Mark didn't hesitate with his reply. "Yes."

"I need to think about this."

"All right, I can understand that. Look, Foster, Davis and their boss are going down. If you help us, it would be easier." Mark pulled the judge's card from his pocket and put it on the doctor's desk. "Call him."

Doctor Ormond nodded. "Thank you, Mr. McCormick. I think I might just do that."

She helped Mark out of the examination room. "Take care of that leg and do take your medication, Mr McCormick."

Mark left the offices and hobbled back down the path towards the car where Frank was waiting. Seeing him coming Frank got out, helping the younger man the rest of the way.
"How'd it go?"

Mark laughed. "Which part, the examination or the case?"

Frank chuckled. "Milt really knows how to maximise a situation, huh? How about both, but we can start with you. What did the doctor say?"

"She said what I've been saying all along, I'm fine, Frank."

"She? Doctor Ormond is a girl?"

"A woman, Frank, they do have women doctors you know."

Frank gave the younger man a sour look. "Yes, Mark, I had heard. So she said you're fine, huh?"

Mark could tell that Frank didn't quite believe him.

"Yeah, well, mostly. She said I tore a ligament in my knee and gave me a script for it. But she did say it wasn't bad."

Frank shook his head. "You do realise that Milt is going to get to say 'I told ya so' over this?"

"He's going to be insufferable," Mark groaned.

"You'll survive it. So, is your lady doctor involved?"

Mark nodded. "She knows Foster and Davis. I think they're blackmailing her over something."

Frank frowned. "Mark, you were supposed be subtle. What if she'd been dangerous?"

"Hey, I didn't do anything. She's a doctor, Frank, she's smart. She figured out I wasn't really there for medical help and things just went from there. Anyway I'm pretty sure I've got her convinced to call Hardcastle. I think he could help her."

Frank looked a little concerned. "Mark, that really depends on what Ericson and the others have on her. It might be that she'll end up facing the courts herself."

"I know that, Frank, but whatever it is she's mixed up in, Hardcase can help her. I know it."

Frank knew it was pointless to argue with McCormick. The young man didn't see it but he had developed a blind spot where the judge was concerned. Sometimes Frank thought it was McCormick, not Judge Hardcastle, who had bought into that whole Lone Ranger routine.

From inside Suite 3 of the clinic Doctor Taylor Ormond watched her most recent patient being helped into a car by an older man. She held the card McCormick had given her in her hand and gently tapped the tip of it against the table.

McCormick's visit to her clinic had been a surprise. She hadn't ever expected anyone to begin an investigation into Foster, Davis or Ericson. The young man had been earnest and convincing in his pleas that his employer, Judge Hardcastle, could help her. She would have to give it some thought but she was pretty sure this could be an opportunity. She watched the car drive away and made up her mind.

Milton Hardcastle hated waiting, and being made to wait outside Commissioner Emhart's door so that he could go in and see the incompetent idiot was pretty much the top of Milton's dislikes list.

The commissioner's assistant worked quietly behind his desk. The man had politely told the judge several times that the commissioner would see him soon, but nothing seemed to be happening.

As though he'd been drawn by the judge's thoughts, the commissioner's assistant looked up from his desk and smiled at the judge.

"I'm sure it won't be long now, Judge Hardcastle."

Hardcastle gritted his teeth together and tried to smile. "You did tell him it was important, didn't you?"

The younger man looked a little taken aback at the judge's attitude. "Of course, sir, would you like me to pop in and check on the commissioner for you?"

Milt reminded himself that there were only a few acceptable legal provocations for killing a city official and none of them involved frustration over being made to wait.

"Yes, yes, I would like that. Thank you," he said, through his clenched teeth.

The commissioner's assistant vanished though the double doors that lead to the police commissioner's inner office. Hardcastle knew Emhart had good reason to ignore him and was delaying seeing him in the hopes that Milt would take the hint and simply go home. Hah, no chance!

Frank had a lot of faith in his superiors and trust in the department. He was far too loyal to see it, but Emhart wasn't helping or standing by him like he'd promised. Milt wasn't going to let Frank be hung out to dry on this thing. It would kill Frank if the department he loved, and had dedicated his life to, abandoned him. Emhart had made a commitment to support Frank in this investigation and Hardcastle intended to see that the man held up his side.

It took a while for the assistant, Milt tried to remember the man's name, Jarin… Jaris… Jarhead, something like that, to return.

The man smiled politely to the Judge. "Commissioner Emhart will see you now, please, follow me."

"About time," Hardcastle muttered, getting to his feet and following the man into the office.

"Thank you Jarvis, that will be all," Emhart said. Emhart stood and offered his hand to Milt who took it in a crushing grip. He could see Emhart trying not to wince as they shook hands.

"Thank you for seeing me, Commissioner, I know you're busy," Milt said, looking pointedly at the large desk holding a single sheet of paper.

"Yes, what can I do for you this time, Judge Hardcastle?"

Jarvis discretely closed the office doors behind him leaving the two men alone. As soon as he was gone Milt dropped Emhart's hand.

"You can tell me why you're trying to feed a good cop to the sharks."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Hardcastle."

"Frank Harper is a hell of a cop, and you know it. If you think I'm going to stand by and watch you hang him out as a sacrifice, you are very much mistaken, you got me?"

"Hardcastle you can't come into my offices and threaten me…"

"A threat would be me telling you I'd tear your arms off and beat you to death with them, or maybe telling you that if you leave a good man to hang on your political ambitions that I'd sling so much dirt in your direction, that you'll find it hard to get a job in a supermarket, packing boxes. This is no threat, what you've got here is a man making you a promise."

It made Hardcastle uncomfortable to use bullying, but his friend's career was on the line and for a man like Emhart this tactic was the most effective. "Frank Harper's career is not an acceptable loss in this mess, you got that?"

"If Detective Harper is innocent of these allegations he will be cleared. As you are so fond of saying, Hardcastle, the law is for everyone."

Milt tried to keep his temper in control. "The good thing about being a retired judge is that I don't have to toe the party line. The great thing is that I still have a lot of friends in high places. Do you really want to go up against me?"

Emhart looked distinctly worried.

"Do the right thing, stand behind your detective, Commissioner, and get Harper back his job."

Hardcastle waited impatiently while Emhart thought it over.

"Oh, well, um, it could be that a few pertinent facts in this... I'll look into Detective Harper's situation, all right?"

"Yeah, you see that you do." Milt growled out.

Milt left, not waiting to be dismissed from the man's office. He strode past Jarvis's desk while the man was on the phone.

There were still no guarantees that a weasel like Emhart would do the right thing by Frank, but Milt had done his best. If Emhart did leave his friend to the wolves, Milt had not been joking, he would do everything he could to see the jackass brought down. Milt climbed into his truck and headed for home. Frank and McCormick should be back by now and he was eager to see if the kid really was okay.

Milt found Mark and Frank out by the pool. They had started the grill and there were already steaks sizzling on it. Mark looked up at his arrival and smiled. The smile surprised Milt for a moment. It had been a while since he'd seen McCormick relaxed enough to give him a genuine grin.

Mark turned to his companion. "See, Frank, what did I tell ya? We didn't have to wait for Hardcase. Just put a couple of steaks on the grill and hey, presto! Like magic he'll appear."

"Funny man." Milt looked over at the steaks. "Don't have the heat up so high, you'll burn 'em," he commented.

Mark laughed and clicked his fingers in Frank's direction. Frank scowled at Milton and pulled a ten-spot from his pocket, handing it over to McCormick.

"Thanks a lot, Milt, you could have maybe asked how our day was? No, you have to lodge a complaint. Mark bet me you would be a critique of his cooking before you asked us anything."

"I wouldn't need to if he'd listen to me for once."

Hardcastle reached over to the burner dials in an attempt to turn down the heat. He managed to get one turned down a little before McCormick slapped his hand away and turned the knob back up to a higher setting than it had been before.

"Shoo," Mark said, using his spatula to defend the grill until Hardcastle backed off.

Milt gave up. Besides, he'd happily eat a dried, burnt steak if it meant that he'd get the old McCormick back.

He snagged a beer from the ice box and sat near Frank at the patio table. "So, Frank, how did it go?" he asked his old friend, but his gaze firmly on McCormick.

Mark chuckled. "I got a clean bill of health, so you can stop worrying, Hardcase."

Milt felt relief at that until he noticed Mark give a slightly guilty glance in Harper's direction.

Frank was staring at McCormick and with a roll of his eyes the younger man gave in. "Well, it was mostly clean, my knee is a little weak but the doctor told me, with a few days' rest and some anti-inflammatory pills, it'll be fine."

Hardcastle glanced over toward Frank for confirmation and got a small nod. He was relieved to hear it. Milt had been worried about him this morning.

He looked over at McCormick standing at the grill and frowned. "Then what the hell are you doing standing on it then?" Milt asked fuming.

McCormick laughed aloud and Frank moaned. "Damn it, Milt, you were supposed to say 'I told you so first,'" Frank complained as he pulled out a second ten dollar note and passed it over to the now chortling McCormick.

"Well, I did tell him so," Milt said, a little miffed to be the target of his friends' bets.

He sipped his beer and watched McCormick as he tended the food for several minutes. It suddenly occurred to him, this was McCormick's way of burying the hatchet. Grill a few steaks, share a few teasing remarks, and move on. The strangest thing about the kid was that it really was that easy.

Oh, he'd dig his heals in and be a stubborn mule about the important things, but McCormick never let the little stuff get him for long. Hardcastle thought there was a good chance that if McCormick hung around for the next fifty years, he'd never really understand the way the kid's mind worked.

"Don't overcook 'em, McCormick, they'll go tough and you'll cook the taste right out of 'em," he grumbled.

"Yeah, Judge, I have done this before, a time or two, you know."

"And they were tough last time, too," Milt commented, mostly because it was true. The last batch the kid had grilled up had been tougher than old leather.

"Not everyone wants to chase their steak around on the plate, Hardcase, some of us like it to be dead before we eat it."

McCormick started to pull the steaks off the heat and plate them then finished up with the salad.

The lunch when McCormick served it up was pretty good. Despite the judge's fears, the steaks still had plenty of flavour. He and Frank had another beer, while Hardcastle noted that McCormick stuck to juice. Relaxed and well-fed, they discussed what had happened at the clinic.

They were just finishing up when the phone rang. McCormick got up after the first ring, or at least he tried to. He actually made it to almost vertical before his knee gave out and sent him back into his seat with a thump.

"For the love of… will you just sit still for ten minutes? I'll get it," Hardcastle snapped at the younger man, who had the grace to look sheepish.

"You really should take it easy, Mark," Frank said, backing him up.

Milt left them there and went inside to answer the phone but he did hear McCormick's contrite. "It's the pain meds, they work too well. I forgot for a second that I'd even hurt it."

The judge picked up the closest phone. "Hardcastle."

There was a pause on the other end of the line before a woman spoke. "Judge Hardcastle, my name is Doctor Taylor Ormond. I treated your friend, Mark McCormick, this morning at my clinic."

"Yes, McCormick said you might call. He said you might have some information that could help us."

They had discussed the doctor's involvement in Ericson's scam over lunch and the kid seemed pretty convinced that she'd want to help them. Milt hadn't been so certain. McCormick had notoriously bad judgement when it came to women, especially pretty women. From the younger man's description, Doctor Taylor Ormond definitely fit into that category.

"Good. Mr. McCormick also said that you might be able to help me out as well. Is that true?"

The kid seemed to have nailed it this time.

"It depends on what we're talking about. If you're involved criminally, I might be able to get you a deal with the district attorney, especially if there are extenuating circumstances."

"I don't want to go to jail, Judge Hardcastle, but I can't live with this anymore. I realise I will lose my medical licence when this is all over, but I have to speak out. Mr. McCormick said you were investigating the insurance scam. If it was only that I could live with it, but there's more. They're blackmailing me, Judge, into writing prescriptions for patients who don't exist, then they collect the narcotics and, I guess, they sell them."

"Drugs, huh? What kind of volume are we talking about?"

"Judge, I have hundreds of fictional patients on my books, each of them getting the maximum quantity of narcotics allowable under the law. They have me keep the amounts just low enough that no flags are raised with the medical board."

"So it's not a small volume and not a huge one either, but a very steady supply. Hell of a scam they've cooked up."

"I need help, Judge Hardcastle. These people are dangerous. Look what they did to your friend. If you help me I'll give you everything I have on them. I've managed to hide away some evidence. I thought if I could gather enough information I could get them to leave me alone, but I know they won't."

"They will once we get them behind bars, where they belong," Hardcastle promised.

"Could you meet with me, Judge? You and Mark?"

"Sure, when and where?"

"Here at the clinic is the safest place, but not during the day. Would tonight be all right?"

"Yeah, okay. We'll come by after hours, say around seven tonight."

"Thank you, Judge Hardcastle. That would be perfect. I'll see you then."

The doctor hung up on the other end and the judge slowly put down the receiver, thinking. There was still a lot about this case that didn't add up but it was a lot bigger than they first thought.

The judge walked back to where Frank was clearing away the dishes, McCormick, thankfully, was sitting in his seat letting Frank handle it.

"Who was that, Judge?" McCormick asked.

Milt snorted. "It was your lady doctor. Seems you were right, kid. She wants to cut a deal and in return she'll hand over evidence she has on Foster and Davis. If we can get them, we may be able to lean on them a bit and get them to roll over on Ericson."

Mark pushed himself up from the table. "Just give me a minute to clean up and I'll go with you, Judge," McCormick said eagerly.

Milt suspected McCormick just wanted to check out the doctor again, but that wasn't what he had planned.

"Take it easy there, Romeo. The only place you're going for now is to the gatehouse where you're going to get a few hours rest."

McCormick's frown was back. "Judge…"

"Relax, McCormick, we're not meeting her until tonight, at seven, and, yes, you are going along. At least you will be if you get a little rest, you look beat."

"Oh, I guess I could study for a bit…"

"No, no study. This is the deal, McCormick. You want to come along and talk to the good doctor, fine, you can — on the condition that you get a few hours' sleep between now and then. Deal?"

McCormick looked flustered for moment then he sighed and nodded. "Okay. I'll rest, but you don't go without me, Judge. "

"I won't be going at all, kiddo. Frank can handle taking the doctor's statement and gathering up her evidence. I'm going to check on our friendly crash repair mechanic. See if he's realised what a precarious position he's in yet. If not we'll push him a bit more."

"You're not going alone, are you?" Mark sounded worried. "Judge, you promised."

"McCormick you're worse than a den mother. No, while you're resting I'll take Frank with me, then Frank can come back here and I'll just sit on him with a whole bunch of LA's finest."

"What do you think he'll do?" Mark asked curiously.

Milt shrugged. "I think he's going to run. If he does, then it's a sure bet he's going to take anything incriminating he has along with him. That's not the sort of thing you leave lying around when you want to disappear. If he does, we'll get him."

Mark nodded. "And this way any evidence the police find is untarnished."

Milt smiled. "Now you're cooking. See, I knew all that study would pay off for ya."

"Ha, you're just this side of the law on this one and you know it, Hardcase," Mark challenged, holding up one hand with his fingers pinched close together to leave a narrow space.

"It doesn't matter how close you walk the line, kid, just as long as you don't cross it."

"I'm going to remind you of that the next time I stray a bit close."

"You? Hell, kid, half the time you move past it so fast that you don't even see there is a line!"

"Hey, I haven't done anything like that in a while!"

"No, you haven't. For which I am eternally grateful. Now, get out of here and get some rest or the deal is off."

"Yeah, okay, fine," McCormick muttered.

Hardcastle watched him go, satisfied that he would at least try to rest.

In a well-appointed office downtown, Ericson sat with his back to the door absentmindedly tapping his gold pen against the polished wood surface of his desk. He stared out of the window to the cityscape beyond and thought about his situation. He'd just had the most interesting phone call about Judge Hardcastle. He was still a problem.

This was the first time Lars had personally come across Judge Hardcastle and it hadn't taken long for him to see the reports were true. The man was every bit as tough and stubborn as they said.

He thought it was possible that he had made a tactical mistake in having Foster and Davis rough up the judge's little friend. It turned out that hurting McCormick as a warning had done nothing other than rile the old jurist up. It would have been more effective to simply have killed the young man right from the start, and hope the judge's grief derail him.

Lars wasn't sure of the exact nature of Hardcastle's relationship with McCormick so it was hard to predict how effective that would be. It might have been better to have the judge himself taken care of in the first place. It was an oversight he would now have to correct.

Taking out a high-profile target like Judge Hardcastle would have to be done carefully. There would be no half-hearted investigations and easily bullied medical examiners when someone with that kind of clout was killed. Still, it could be done, especially if the judge died amidst a scandal of some kind.

He had thought about raising implications about the judge's relationship with the man who shared his home, but soon dismissed the idea. It could be made to work but it would mean he would have to personally get closer to the investigation than he wanted. He wanted to be seen as merely an interested observer in this. Anything else and he could lose everything he'd worked so hard to gain.

There was a knock at the door and his assistant came in. He turned to look at her, sure to keep his expression neutral despite the murderous direction of his thoughts.

"Sorry, to disturb you, sir, but there are two police officers here to see you."

Lars kept his expression light, he was certain he knew exactly who it was that had come to see him.

"Oh … did they give their names?"

"Yes, Officers Foster and Davis."

"Thank you, Suzanne, send them in."

Moments later Foster and Davis came in. Foster took the seat in front of Lars's desk uninvited, looking comfortable with one leg crossed over his knee while Davis remained standing and lurked by the window.

Lars waited until Suzanne had closed the door behind her before he acknowledged the presence of the other two men.

"I told you never to come to this office! What are you thinking, wandering in here like this?"

Foster regarded him for a long minute. Ericson maintained his patience. Foster was playing well outside his class.

"I was thinking that your great plan to get Frank Harper and that nosy ex-judge, Hardcastle, off our backs didn't work out too well. I warned you that Harper was stubborn!" Foster accused.

Lars tried very hard not to sigh. Foster was an idiot, and his partner Davis, even dumber but he needed them on his side for now. When he didn't need them, Lars would use the thick and very comprehensive file of evidence he'd gathered on the two men. No allegation they made against him after that would stick. It would appear to be the desperate ranting of guilty men. If anything it would help strengthen and consolidate his position.

"Harper is not a problem. He's a little fish, in far deeper than he can swim. And, as it happens, I've already taken care of him. He's going to be the fall guy in all of this. The commissioner himself will see to that. No, it's Hardcastle that's the problem. He's who we need to remove."

Foster glanced over to his partner and smirked at Lars. "How is it that when you say things like 'remove', it's Davis and I who have to do the dirty work? What if I tell you to do your own damn killing this time?"

Lars sat back in his seat. This rebellion was an unexpected complication and it made him angry. Unlike most people, when Lars got angry he didn't yell. He got quiet, but his tone was hard as steel and cold as ice.

"Foster, not even you are stupid enough to threaten me. Hardcastle is as much your problem as he is mine, and you will show some respect. I'm the one who took your two-bit operation and made it into something. I'm the one who pulled your butts out of the fire when you were too stupid to know how not to leave a trail a blind man could follow. You were supposed to talk to William Cook, and get him to toe the line. Instead you decided to kill him. I'm the one who is going to get you out of the mess your incompetence has created."

Foster was no longer sitting in feigned comfort, he'd uncrossed his leg and there was now no trace of his previous condescending smirk.

Ericson sat forward. "If you want to get out of this mess, and go back to enjoying our previously lucrative business arrangement, you will shut your mouth. You two will do what I tell you to do, and only what I tell you to do. This has to be done right. Hardcastle isn't some beat cop, and he's not some two-bit detective like Harper. The man has power and influence. He has to be handled right or people will notice."

Satisfied that for now there would be no more dissention in the ranks, Lars laid out his plan. "Now this is what we are going to do."

ACT IV:

Mark was surprised that he did actually manage to sleep. He'd been incredibly tired, and when he took pain medication it always wiped him out, but he hadn't expected to actually fall asleep. He thought it likely that if he hadn't had the foresight to set his alarm he would have slept the night through. He thought it equally likely that neither Frank, nor Hardcastle, would have woken him had that been the case.

He rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up, testing his knee's strength before attempting to stand. It was starting to hurt again. He hadn't realised how much pain there had been until he'd taken one of Doctor Ormond's magic pills and the pain had faded. Now it was starting to come back. Mark looked at the pill bottle sitting on his bed-side table and with regret decided against taking another. He was going to need to keep a clear head tonight.
Especially if things went the way the judge's plans usually went.

Before heading into the shower, he found himself some close-to-clean clothes. He really needed to get his laundry done, and soon.

Mark made his way to the main house as soon as he was dressed and Frank greeted him with a grin. The judge's welcome was far more appraising. Eventually the older man grunted and nodded and waved Mark over to join them. Mark offered a small smile of his own, apparently he'd passed assessment and was being allowed to join the 'adult's table.'

"You look better," Frank said.

"Yeah, I feel it too. I guess I really was tired," Mark agreed.

"Well I coulda told ya that," Hardcastle groused.

"How'd it go with the mechanic, what was his name again?" Mark asked.

"Mattock, you really have been out of it, Mark, huh?" Frank commented.

Mark shrugged.

"He wasn't too pleased to see us. Seems he tried to go to his cop partners to get us to back off. By the time we got there he was already spooked. Looks like there is trouble in the partnership," Hardcastle said.

"Milt's sure he's gonna run tonight," Frank added.

"Maybe he's not as dumb as you thought, Hardcase. Maybe he figured out for himself that he's bound to be the fall-guy in all this," Mark offered.

Hardcastle shook his head, "Nah, kid, he's plenty dumb. He wouldn't have gotten mixed up in all this if he was smart, now would he?"

Mark shrugged. "I don't know, Judge, sometimes you can get in deep before realizing it happened. Maybe he's like Taylor, just got mixed up in something bigger than she'd thought."

"Don't start, McCormick."

"Start what?"

"You do this every time we have a case with a good looking woman in it. You get all cock-eyed, fall madly in love, and then I can't get anything useful out of you for weeks when she ups and dumps you!"

"I do not!"

"Oh, yes you do. What about that ex-racer friend of yours?"

"Hey, that was different... we'd been friends before the case."

"Still counts. What about that secretary, Kathy?"

"She did not dump me, Judge. She moved away!"

"You mooned for weeks. What about…"

"Guys! Hey, guys, enough," Frank interrupted.

Both Mark and Milt looked a little surprised to see him there and Frank suspected that both men had forgotten he was present.

McCormick looked contrite at the argument, and from the slight flush of red around Milt's neck Frank guessed he too was a little embarrassed. Frank couldn't have been happier. The pair of them arguing like ten year-olds was about as normal as things got at Gulls' Way.

"Sorry, Frank," Mark muttered.

Frank cuffed him gently on the shoulder. "Come on, Mark, Let's go see what the good doctor has to say."

"Okay," Mark said, getting to his feet.

The small misstep he made when he stood wasn't missed by either of the older men but they let it pass. The kid was trying and both knew McCormick would simply follow anyway if they tried to bench him. It was safer by far to have him close, where at least one of them could watch him. Beside McCormick was damn useful in a pinch.

Frank followed Mark from the room, pausing at the doorway to look over at the older man.
"You be careful, Milt, and let the cops handle the actual take-down."

"Of course, Frank. Less for the defence to question under trial that way, especially if we want whatever evidence we find against Ericson, Foster and Davis to stick," Hardcastle said, with a grin.

He was clearly looking forward to the upcoming arrest.

Frank heard the roar of the Coyote starting and smiled; giving the judge a small wave, he headed out. He didn't get to ride in the Coyote very often but every time did it was a thrill. It was a hell of a car and with McCormick behind the wheel, it was exhilarating. He could feel a small thrill of adrenaline flow through him, even though he knew McCormick would keep the speed exactly to the limit with him in the car. He thought that someday he'd have to ask McCormick to take him out to the track, or somewhere where they could forget he was a cop for a few minutes and just have some fun.

Frank slid into the Coyote's passenger seat and gave his companion a grin.

"You know the doors do open, Frank." McCormick was grinning too.

Frank thought it was likely that McCormick had slid into the driver's seat too, despite his bad knee.

"Yeah, I know, but this is better."

As Frank thought, Mark didn't once exceed the speed limit the entire drive but they still made good time and arrived at the clinic a little ahead of schedule. Mark pulled up close to the front entrance and looked over at the building.

"We're early. Do we wait or do we go in?" he asked.

Frank nodded to the light gleaming from the window of the ground floor offices. "She's here and there are no other cars in the lot so I doubt she's with another patient. We go in."

Wisely, Mark popped open the door and climbed carefully from the car. Frank followed suit and looked around. Everything looked calm and quiet. He could hear the noise from the highway a few streets over but there didn't seem to be any cars approaching or anything out of place.

Together they walked up the path to the door and knocked.

"Mr. McCormick, is that you?" a woman's voice asked from inside the door.

"Yeah, we're a little early," Mark confirmed.

Frank heard the sound of the door locks being unbolted and the door opened. Doctor Taylor Ormond stood beside the door as it opened.

"I wasn't expecting you so soon, but please come in," she said, as she gave them both an appraising glance before gesturing with one hand for them to enter.

Frank gave the woman a smile and a nod as he passed her.

Stinging fire stabbed into the back of Frank's neck and he instinctively raised a hand to slap away the sudden pain.

His hand came into contact with the doctor's hand and a small smooth object. It took Frank a moment to recognise the object as a needle but by then he was already feeling the first effects of whatever it was that had been injected into him. He staggered and felt McCormick clutch at him before he was overwhelmed by darkness.

Mark had walked through into the outer office ahead of Frank and had just turned around so he could make formal introductions between Frank and Taylor when he saw Frank stumble. The other man's eyes rolled up and he began to fall.

"Hey!" Mark yelled and moved as fast as he could to stop Frank from crashing to the floor. The awkward movement caused his leg to flare with agony, but he managed to get his arm around his friend's chest and bring him down to the floor safely. Unfortunately the only way he could do it was to go down with him. He and Harper landed in a heap on the floor. Frank, heavy and unmoving, landed mostly on top of McCormick.

Mark could see the slim syringe still protruding from his friend's neck. He pulled it free and looked at it. It was empty. Whatever was in it had already been injected. He looked up at the doctor in shock.

He was even more surprised to find himself staring into the business end of a compact revolver.

"Don't move, Mr McCormick. I'd hate to have to kill you, yet," the doctor said coldly.

Mark had no doubt she was serious. He just wasn't sure why.

He felt the side of Frank's neck and was happy to feel a strong, steady pulse under his fingertips. Frank's breathing was even and his color looked good. He held up the syringe.

"What do you think you're doing? What the hell is in this?" he demanded.

"Methohexital, it's a sedative. Relax, Judge Hardcastle will be fine. He'll just be out for a little while. Now, please take that weapon out of his shoulder holster, carefully, and slide it over here."

"Judge?" Mark muttered in confusion looking back down at Frank.

He realised that Taylor had never met the judge, she'd only spoken to him on the phone, and Frank hadn't had the chance to say a single word before she'd taken him out. She thought Frank was Hardcastle.

She thought it was the judge and her first act was to knock him out… not the actions of an innocent woman caught up in a bad situation. It seemed the judge had been right again. He'd let a beautiful woman make a fool of him. Mark sighed. He really, really hated it when the judge was right about things like this.

"The gun, and please do it slowly."

Mark decided not to correct her on her mistaken identity. He obeyed her order and eased Frank's gun from its holster and put it on the floor. He gave the gun a shove and let it slide along the floor in the woman's general direction. There was no telling what she would do to Frank and him, or Hardcastle for that matter, if she found out she didn't have who she thought.

"I guess this means you're not going to help us with the investigation. You're not being blackmailed into helping Foster and Davis, are you?"

"No. Foster and Davis do the leg work. They're idiots… useful ones, but idiots all the same. They wouldn't know a real opportunity if it walked up and bit them."

Mark looked round the clinic at all the medical paraphernalia. "This whole side of the scam was it your idea?"

"No, Foster actually really did try to blackmail me, that part was true enough. But once I saw what was going on I went to Lars and together we developed this side of the business."

"Lars… you know Lars Ericson?"

"You really have no idea what you're into. Lars thinks your friend Hardcastle is dangerous, but he doesn't look so tough to me," the doctor said looking down at Frank.

"Lars and I are more than just partners. We're going to be married once we've taken all we need and Lars has his political career underway we will leave all this behind us. Lars has the talent and the intelligence. He just needs the money to back his campaign. We're going to have such a life. He loves me. If it wasn't for those idiots, Foster and Davis, no one would ever have suspected a thing. But they got greedy—greedy and careless."

"So, what happens to us?" Mark asked, with a gesture to the still unconscious Frank resting in his arms.

Taylor shrugged. "That's for Lars to decide. He's on his way and should be here soon. But I wouldn't make any long-term plans if I were you."

"You'll be an accessory to two counts of murder, you know?" Mark challenged, trying hard not think about the fact that his own murder would be one of those counts.

Taylor laughed. "You never did find out what Foster and Davis had on me, Mr McCormick. Would you like me to tell you?"

Mark had the feeling that he really didn't want to know. But she didn't give him the option.

"It was years ago. I was treating a patient, young guy, not much older than you. He'd been in a bad accident. Poor thing was severely depressed. He told me he wanted to die. I started to think what it would be like… you know, to take a life rather than save it. I gave him a prescription for the pain. Then I told him that it was safe, if the pain got bad, for him to take more, a lot more. I told him it would just knock him out for a day. A week later he was dead. It was ruled a suicide from an overdose, of course. He was only the first."

Mark looked at the woman in front of him with a growing sense of horror. "The first?" he asked. Then he mentally kicked himself for the question.

"Oh, yes, there have been others." Taylor looked to the gun in her hand. "I've never done it directly before. I wonder if it feels any different?" she mused.

Mark had a strange moment of vertigo as his preconceptions rearranged themselves. The doctor had seemed so genuine before but she wasn't. The woman wasn't even just a criminal, and she was certifiably and homicidally crazy.

The doctor smiled at her conscious captive. "I never thought anyone would put it together. I thought I had gotten away with it, but somehow Foster and Davis found out. Lucky for me Lars was there."

Mark thought it far more likely that Lars Ericson had been the one to discover the doctor and had sent his dirty cops in, but he didn't think the woman in front of him was in the mood to hear any alternative theories.

Mark found that he really didn't have much more to say to her. Besides, there was a chance that anything he did say to her would set her off. He resolved to do all that he could to look after Frank for as long as he was able. There was no way Mark would attempt an escape, unless he could find a way to take Harper with him.

Hardcastle sat in the squad car beside Officer Collins, a man from Frank's precinct. Frank had vouched for him and he had been watching Mattock while Milt had been back at the estate. It had been nearly an hour since nightfall and Milt was getting restless.

No sooner had Milt resigned himself to a long stake-out, than one of the roller doors to the garage opened. A candy-apple red '67 Mustang slowly drove down the garage's curb and, with a brief check for traffic, turned north and accelerated away. Officer Collins moved their car out from its protected hiding position behind a large van a hundred feet down the road and followed the car.

"That's Mattock," Milt confirmed unnecessarily.

Milt had, over recent years, developed enough love of cars to appreciate the beauty of the powerful machine they were following. He thought it a shame McCormick wasn't here to be a part of this since Mustangs had always been a favourite.

Officer Collins decreased the space between themselves and the other car. The moment Mattock spotted the police cruiser behind him, he floored it and the Mustang sped away. Hardcastle grinned as Officer Collins hit the siren and lights. Milt had been counting on Mattock's paranoia and fear that Foster and Davis would come after him to panic when he saw the police.

Mattock's reaction and flight gave them a perfectly legitimate reason to pull Mattock over and perform a search. Anything the officers found during a search like that would be admissible evidence.

The only problem was that Mattock wasn't likely to pull over if he saw the police lights. Not if he thought there was a chance that it was Foster and Davis coming to kill him. Mattock accelerated even harder, throwing the Mustang through a tight corner. Officer Collins kept tight on his tail and Milt handled the radio. He coordinated with the other cruisers in the area to converge on the fleeing suspect.

The chase didn't last long. Mattock took another corner, his Mustang spinning out of control as the driver reacted to the obstruction in the road ahead. Two police cruisers were parked nose to nose, effectively blocking the way with a third cruiser, approaching at full speed from the only other road in the intersection. Realising that he was trapped and more importantly, that it wasn't Foster and Davis after him, Mattock surrendered.

Milt was pleased with how efficiently and well Officer Collins handled their suspect. He even read the man his Miranda rights from a well-used and slightly battered card he had in his pocket. Mattock stared daggers at the judge throughout the entire process of his arrest but seemed to have nothing to say. Once the police had Mattock secure in the back of one of the cruisers, they concentrated on searching the car for evidence. It didn't take them long to find it. A box in plain sight in the passenger-side foot well held a number of files, along with what looked to be several photos in an envelope.

Officer Collins brought the box over to Hardcastle. "Is this what you're looking for, Judge?" he asked.

Milt could barely wait to get his hands on the material. He felt like a ten-year-old on Christmas morning. He took the first folder out of the box and perused its contents.

"Oh, yes, this is definitely what we were looking for," he chortled.

He glanced over to the squad car with the subdued looking Andrew Mattock in the rear seat. There was an officer stationed nearby. "Has he said anything?"

"Only to demand a phone call and his lawyer. Other than that, nothing," Collins said.

Hardcastle nodded. "We have enough here to at least go after Foster and Davis."

Milt opened the second folder and read some of the contents.

"There's a little here on Ericson. Not a lot, but maybe with Mattock's testimony we might…"

The judge had opened the envelope and pulled out the four photos that were inside. The top three were different shots, in different locations of Foster and Davis talking to Ericson. One of the locations, Milt was pretty sure was the medical clinic.

It was the fourth photograph that held Milt's attention. It was a picture of Ericson and a woman wearing a doctor's coat that he assumed was Doctor Taylor Ormond, outside the same clinic. That wasn't totally unexpected, but it was the pose and the expression on the subjects' faces that was. Ericson held the doctor in a close embrace, one that could only be described as intimate.

"Damn!" Hardcastle swore.

"Something up, Judge?" Collins asked.

"I'm not sure, could be."

Milton looked at the photo a second time. Sometimes the camera did lie and what looked like a smile might not be so. The longer he looked at the picture the more he became convinced that there wasn't anything forced or contrived about the pose. Taylor's embrace was relaxed and gentle, not the expression or actions of a woman forced.

If Taylor was so chummy with Ericson then she'd lied about not knowing him, and she'd lied about being blackmailed. If that was true why would she want to meet the kid and Frank at her clinic and … oh, hell.

"Collins, can you round up a couple of your guys?"

"Sure, Judge. I'll have one of the guys drive Mattock in and start the booking paperwork, but the rest of us can come with you. Where are we going?"

"Do you know the medical clinic over on Park road?"

"Yeah, sure."

"McCormick and Frank are there, and I think they're in trouble." He handed over the fourth photo. "They went to meet with this woman. I think she's in deep with this whole mess and might be trying to clean up a few pesky trouble-makers. We need to get there, and fast."

Collins signalled to the other officers and in just a few seconds they had climbed into the patrol cars and headed out. Milt could only hope that Frank and McCormick were all right.

Mark had been keeping his eyes open for an opportunity. Unfortunately, the doctor seemed content to simply sit and watch them, a small smile on her face. The gun wasn't pointed directly at them but Mark has no doubt that it would snap up if he made the slightest move she didn't like.

Frank worried him. He still seemed to be breathing fine, but he'd been twitching and moaning softly for the last several minutes. Mark wasn't sure if it was just the other man trying to come around or if he was in some kind of pain. He didn't trust Doctor Ormond's assurance that the drug was harmless. The woman might look good but she was a nut-case. Actually, as Mark looked at her he began to realise that she really wasn't all that attractive at all.

Mark saw a flash of headlights in the dark as a car pulled into the lot and stopped next to where he had parked the Coyote. He felt a spark of hope that it could be the judge, hopefully with half the police force behind him for backup. That hope died soon afterward. There was a discrete knock.

Taylor got up with as small squeal of delight and went to the door, all the while keeping her gun trained on Mark. He thought it a little unnecessary, unless it was Hardcastle who miraculously walked through that door, he was about to be completely outnumbered.

It wasn't Hardcastle. Three men entered the room. Mark didn't recognise the first man, other than from the photos that the judge had shown him, but he was very familiar with the other two who followed him. They were the same cops who had pulled him over, then beaten the hell out of him just a couple of days before. It was pretty clear they both recognised him as well, if the evil grin they shared between them before looking back at him was anything to go by.

Come on, Hardcastle, now would be a very good time for you to show up, Mark thought.

"Lars!" Taylor sang and, forgetting about her hostages now that there were plenty of reinforcements, she swung her arms around the man's neck and gave him a passionate kiss.

Mark was a little surprised to notice that Lars Ericson was nowhere near as interested in the kiss as Taylor was. From the way she'd spoken about him, Mark had thought Ericson was her psychotic match made in hell. It seemed that the relationship was mostly, or entirely, on one side. Mark felt the smallest spark of pity for the woman. She was so sick she really had no idea that she was, at best, a convenience to the man she professed to love.

"Taylor, darling, I thought you had secured Judge Hardcastle for me," Lars said.

Mark could hear the condescending inflection in his tone and decided that even if the man hadn't been a bad guy he wouldn't have liked him. He reminded McCormick a lot of a certain professor at his law school who constantly spoke down to everyone.

For a moment Taylor looked confused before her expression cleared and she put on a smile.
"Lars, honey, this is Judge Milton Hardcastle."

Mark could see the flash of angry irritation on Ericson's face that Taylor missed. It was a lethal look. Mark had been in enough perilous situations and around enough dangerous people to recognise the face of a stone-cold killer.

Lars Ericson detached Taylor's hands from his arms and pushed her away.

"Taylor, darling," Ericson took a deep breath, clearly attempting to calm himself. "This is not Judge Hardcastle. This is Detective Frank Harper, a man I have spent a great deal of time setting up to take the fall and a man I had planned to leave alive, at least for the short term. Not only have you not delivered Judge Hardcastle to me as you promised, you have now put me into a position where I must modify my plans."

Taylor looked confused. "But he has to be Hardcastle, I saw them together before. You told me McCormick was always close to the judge. Lars, darling, are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Do you think I'm an idiot?" Lars snapped.

Mark saw the gun in Lars' hand slowly shift direction from pointing in his direction to point at Taylor. Either Taylor didn't see that, or refused to believe it.

"Taylor, dear, I'm sorry, but I don't think we can see each other anymore. I need to have someone beside me I can rely on. Someone stable, from a known and respected, well-bred family. You, my dear, are a beautiful woman but you are neither stable nor are you from the right family to advance my career. It's over."

Mark saw Taylor move toward Lars. He wasn't sure what her intention was, but it seemed it was enough of a reason for Ericson to fire his weapon. The sound of the gun shot was incredibly loud in the small room and it left a moment of surreal silence in the moments after it died away. It was quiet enough for Mark to hear the small gasp of pain Taylor made as she slowly slid to her knees.

She knelt there gasping for breath for a moment. Lars leant forward and cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face upward.

"Goodbye, Taylor," he told the dying woman before letting her go.

Taylor toppled to the side and after a few more pained breaths lay still. Mark was horrified. Over the last few years he'd seen some of the worst that people could do but he'd never before witnessed such a cold-blooded murder.

The sound of the shot seemed to have brought Frank closer to consciousness. Harper's eyes opened and tried to focus on Mark's face.

Their position on the floor made Mark feel very vulnerable. When Lars Ericson decided that he had no more use for them he would shoot them. Mark had the distinct feeling that the only reason they weren't already dead was because Ericson hadn't finished re-evaluating his options.

Frank mumbled a little before his eyes slid closed again.

Ericson turned to Davis. "Go to the car, get the stuff."

He looked down at Taylor's body sprawled on the floor of her own surgery. There was no sadness or regret on the man's face, just a faint look of disgust.

"Maybe we can salvage something out of this mess."

Davis nodded and left the room. Ericson watched him go then turned to look appraisingly at Mark.

"Mr. McCormick, we've not met. I'm Lars Ericson, and you, Frank Harper and Judge Hardcastle have caused me some trouble recently. I can't allow that."

"I can see how you deal with problems," Mark said, looking to the dead woman. "Why all this? Why haven't you killed us yet?"

"I want to offer you a deal. You see, I know a lot about you, Mr. McCormick."

"I really don't think you do," Mark said firmly.

Ericson just smiled. "We'll see."

Davis had returned, carrying a large bag. He put the bag on the magazine table and began to unpack it. Davis built a haphazardly-stacked mound of bags, each filled with pills. Mark assumed these were the illegal prescription drugs Hardcastle had told them about.

"I'm offering you a choice here tonight, Mr. McCormick, and I am betting you will chose the smart option. The not smart option is for you join the lovely Taylor on the floor. The smart option is that you give me what I want and I'll let you leave."

"You'll let me go, just like that?"

"Just like that, no tricks. Of course, you will then become prime suspect as the perpetrator of several murders." Ericson patted one of the pill bags on the table, "And implicated in a number of serious drug offences. But if you can evade the police you will be free."

Mark didn't think much of either choice.

Ericson gestured to the unconscious Frank. "Of course the only way this will work for me is if Detective Harper and Judge Hardcastle are removed. I can't have either Hardcastle or Harper gunning for me."

Mark gripped Frank's shoulder tighter. The protective movement didn't go unnoticed by Ericson and he smiled, clearly enjoying himself.

"You can't save him Mr. McCormick, and while the entire Los Angeles police department is hunting down a cop killer, I will have the opportunity to tidy up any loose ends connecting me to this unfortunate tragedy. It's a shame to see a young man like you going back to a life of crime, just when he seemed to have straightened himself out. But these things happen." Ericson shook his head in dismay.

"What do you want?"

"I want Hardcastle. He wasn't at his estate, I want you to call him and bring him here alone. We'll take care of the rest."

"You're insane."

In a second, Ericson had stepped forward and struck Mark across the mouth. The blow stunned him for a moment.

"Have a little respect, Mr. McCormick. I am offering you your life. Don't try my patience."

Mark licked the blood from his split lip but he made no other concession, refusing to give Ericson the satisfaction.

"I wouldn't give you Hardcase, even if I could," Mark said, shaking his head.

"Are you sure, McCormick, think about it. I could make Frank Harper's death an incredibly painful one."

"Mark?" Frank's soft, confused voice drew his attention. Frank's eyes were open and he seemed to be able to focus on his surroundings. Mark couldn't help but think it might have done Frank well to have stayed unconscious for a little while longer.

"Your time has run out, Mr McCormick. This is your last chance. Tell me where I can find Hardcastle and you get to walk away with your life."

Mark didn't believe for a moment that either he or Frank would be walking away from this alive. The moment Ericson found out where Hardcastle was or, more likely, realised that neither of them was going to tell him, they would be dead, followed a little while later by the judge.

"Go to hell," he said firmly.

Frank began trying sit up and Mark helped to support him. The older man let out a pained groan and raised both hands to grip the sides of his head. Mark winced in sympathy for the headache he knew Frank was suffering.

"You okay, Frank?" Mark asked quietly, never taking his eyes from the dangerous Ericson. The man had his gun pointing directly at Frank's heart so Mark wasn't going to do anything to provoke him.

Frank looked around taking in the scene.

"So, not a simple witness interview then?" Frank asked.

Mark quirked a small smile. "What would be the fun in that, Frank?"

"Sometimes you and Milt have far too much fun for my taste."

Frank carefully pushed himself up a little straighter, keeping a wary eye on Ericson.

"Ah, you don't mean that, Frank."

"I might." Frank waved towards the murdered doctor. "Who killed Doctor Ormond?"

"Mr. McCormick did," Ericson said, before Mark had a chance to answer. Ericson looked down at Frank. "Just before he killed you. Then in a murderous rage he killed his benefactor, Judge Hardcastle."

"No one is going to believe that," Frank said.

"They will. By the time I'm finished even Mr. McCormick would think himself guilty."

Frank tensed in anger. "You won't get away with this, Ericson."

Ericson laughed. "I already have, Harper."

Frank looked across at Mark. "Over-confident isn't he?"

Mark laughed a little. "Tell me about it, Frank. I've had to listen to him all night."

Mark saw the gun come up, this time it was aimed directly at his head. It seemed anger had changed Ericson's mind, there wasn't going to be a long-drawn-out torture session. He was going to be shot in the head.

Time seemed to slow as Mark watched Ericson's finger tighten on the trigger. There was no way to stop the shot or avoid the bullet. In a second he was going to be dead and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He was surprised to find that he really didn't have that many regrets any more. There were a few, but not big ones, not like he'd had in the past. Mark just wished that he'd been able to do something to help Frank, and the judge. He had the absurd impulse to smile. Hardcastle would never know it but, because of him, Mark had finally found a way to make tracks that might just last a little while.

The world faded away until all Mark could feel was his gratitude to the absent judge, and all he could see was the seemingly cavernous aperture of the revolver pointed at him. The gun barrel seemed to glow an evil red but in that last moment Mark felt his fear slide from him.
The gunshot when it came was deafeningly loud.

Hardcastle could sense time slipping through his fingers. He didn't know where the urgency was coming from but he'd learned to trust his instincts. Doctor Taylor Ormond wasn't telling the whole truth about Ericson, and, while that didn't necessarily mean the kid and Frank were in trouble, Milt couldn't shake the feeling they were. He was grateful when Collins floored the cruiser and turned on the lights and sirens to help clear traffic out of the way.

The closer they got to the clinic the faster Milt wanted them to go. From experience working with McCormick he knew that sometimes in a case nothing would seem to happen for days, or even weeks, then all of a sudden you would find that there was simply no time. Funny, but it always seemed to be McCormick that ended up on the wrong side of those time pressure situations. Of course, the kid said Milt was the one always getting into trouble.

Collins had the perceptiveness to turn off the sirens, leaving only the lights to clear their path as they got close to the clinic. The cars following copied the lead car and also fell silent. It felt a little surreal to Milt to be tearing down the city streets in relative silence. The loss of the sirens did nothing to alleviate the anxiety he felt.

In quick succession the three cruisers pulled into the clinic's parking lot. There were two cars that Milt didn't recognise, parked on either side of McCormick's Coyote. There had to be more than just Doctor Ormond in there with Frank and the kid.

Hardcastle was out of the lead cruiser before it had fully stopped. Because he was outside the car, the shot coming from inside the building sounded especially loud.

"McCormick!" Hardcastle yelled, heading for the door without waiting for the others.

Before he made it to the front door a second shot sounded. Frank, Milt thought, followed by a sharp spike of grief.

Mark was more than a little surprised when the gun went off and he was still alive.
The shot had been so close to him, pointblank range. It seemed inconceivable that Ericson had missed him. His ears were ringing from the blast. Suddenly the scene in front of him made sense. Frank was struggling with Ericson, doing his best to simultaneously keep the gun away, and keep Ericson between Foster, Davis and himself. Frank had moved against Ericson at the last second and saved his life.

Frank needs help, Mark realised.

Foster and Davis both had their own weapons up and were looking for an opportunity to get a clear shot at Frank.

Before Mark could formulate a conscious plan, he surged up from his knees, tackling Davis around the middle. Because of his injured knee, he wasn't able to get any speed or strength behind his attack, but what he lost in skill and technique he made up for with gritty determination. He was rewarded with a grunt of pain.

Davis staggered, his arms flung wide in a vain attempt to maintain his balance. Fortunately, Mark had managed to push him into Foster's way, putting both men out of the fight for a moment. A second gunshot passed close to Mark's ear, effectively deafening him, and shattering the glass in the window behind him.

Mark wasn't sure how close that shot had come but he could feel a blaze of heat across his cheek. It stung, but adrenaline flooded through his system and even the close call didn't slow him down.

Unexpectedly, there were a lot more people in the room than there should have been. For an instant Mark thought he might be suffering the effects of a concussion. Then Davis was pulled from his grip and thrown bodily against the wall by an incredibly familiar shape.

Hardcastle.

Mark smiled.

Two or three more cops pushed through the door behind the judge and Mark was sure there were more outside trying to get in and join the fun. The first cops on the scene went for the closest threat, Foster. The dirty cop tried to fight but the good guys were on him before he could do a thing.

Mark saw Ericson pull Frank around by the neck and shove him. This time there was just no way Mark could catch the falling man before he crashed into him, and sent them both to the floor.

Ericson took the opportunity the distraction created to make his escape. Taking the only exit available, he yanked the window blind away in a violent pull, and went out the broken window into the darkness beyond. Mark saw him run past the flashing lights of the police cruisers parked in the lot outside.

Frank had his head clutched in his hands and it worried Mark.

"Hardcastle!" Mark shouted.

At least he thought he shouted; he could barely hear himself. The yell had sounded muffled and indistinct, but it managed to get the older man's attention. Hardcastle spun around from where he'd been helping another cop secure Davis. Mark could see the jurist's lips move but couldn't hear a thing past the ringing in his ears.

"Judge, Frank's hurt!"

Frank slowly shook his head. One hand pressed tightly against his forehead, and used his other hand to try wave Hardcastle away.

Hardcastle was by his side in a second and checking their friend over, just as Mark had done a second before. The judge said something, but the words were lost to Mark. Fortunately, the relief on the older man's face told McCormick everything he needed to know. Frank was going to be okay. Mark closed his eyes in a short prayer of thanks.

There was a strong hand on his shoulder and a gentle hand under his chin turning his face.

Mark recognised the judge's touch and allowed it without any resistance. He opened his eyes. The judge was looking at him critically with concern on his face.

"Are you okay?"

The words were hard to hear but it wasn't hard to read the simple question on the judges' lips.

"Yeah, I'm good," McCormick said, trying to speak clearly.

The judge could apparently understand him because he nodded, even though he didn't look convinced.

Hardcastle was pulling him upright and saying something else, but Mark couldn't make it out. He glanced around the room and remembered Ericson's escape. He returned the judge's grip tightly.

"Judge, Ericson got away! We have to get him!"

There was a momentary flash of annoyance crossing the judge's face that Mark couldn't interpret.

"Come on!" Mark yelled. There was no way he was going to let Ericson get away after everything he'd done and everything he had intended to do. He pulled the judge towards the door and felt the other man follow. They made it outside in time to see Ericson's car take to the road. There was a dazed cop on the ground nearby holding his head as another cop went to his aid. Mark ran as fast as his damaged knee would let him, to the Coyote.

The ringing in his ears was still bad, but he didn't need his ears to drive. The judge got in beside him, gun at the ready. Mark knew how to drive and chase down bad guys. It was the definition of being Tonto. The judge pointed, his finger waving into Mark's field of view to indicate the way he wanted Mark to drive. Mark smiled, he was just so damn glad to be alive and to know that Hardcastle and Frank were okay. Only a few minutes ago he'd been ready for the end. It was liberating.

McCormick brought the car up alongside the fleeing car so the judge could do his thing. It was a little bizarre to know that Hardcastle was firing a .45 close by and barely being able to hear the gun's report.

The moment Hardcastle had burst through the door into the clinic office he'd gone on the attack. There hadn't even really been time to be grateful to see both Frank and McCormick on their feet, alive. But he could see they were outnumbered and not likely to win the fight.

Of the two, McCormick was in the most trouble. He was trying his best to bring Davis down, but didn't have a good angle. Davis' face was a mask of murderous rage and Hardcastle could see the man's gun arm coming down and around. In a moment the barrel would be against his head and Mark would be dead. He roared in anger and grabbed Davis by the shoulders, jerking him backward away from the younger man.

Collins and another of the cops passed him to take care of Foster who was also trying to get a bead on McCormick. Milt shoved Davis up against the wall hard, hard enough to get a grunt out of him. He made pretty quick work of securing Davis's gun. From the corner of his eye he could see McCormick and Frank had fallen onto the floor.

"Kid, are you okay?" he called out.

He got worried when there was no immediate answer. He glanced over and saw Mark had a grimace of pain and a bright red crease of raw skin across one side of his face. It looked like a muzzle burn.

Another cop had made it through the door and came to help him secure Davis.

"Damn it, where's Ericson?" Hardcastle shouted across the chaos of fighting men.

Milt looked in time to see Ericson go for the broken window. In a second he was gone. A cop dashed for the door, trying to cut Ericson off before he could get away. With Ericson gone, the fight seemed to go out of Foster. The odds were definitely now against the man.

"Hardcastle!" McCormick shouted at the top of his voice, loud enough to make Milton wince.

He turned his attention to McCormick who was on the ground besides the obviously-dazed Frank Harper.

"Is Frank okay, McCormick?" Milt asked.

"Judge, Frank's hurt!" McCormick shouted.

Milt hurried over. "Well, I can see that, McCormick!" Hardcastle grumbled.

Frank waved him off, holding his head. "I'm fine Milt, just dizzy."

He knelt beside McCormick as he checked Frank over.

"I think you're going to be all right, Frank." Milt said.

Hardcastle looked over to McCormick. He didn't like what he saw. The kid's eyes were closed and he was mumbling softly. Up close the welt across the side of his face looked painful.

"Are you doing okay, McCormick?" he asked.

He got no response and his fear ratcheted up a notch.

Hardcastle gently gripped the kid's shoulder and tilted his face upward into the stronger light. The skin around the muzzle flash welt was red and raw-looking with small blistered sections. The damn bullet had to have passed very close. McCormick's eyes opened and looked to him. Milt was relieved to see Mark's gaze was clear and focused. Both of the kid's eyes seemed to be tracking properly and were evenly dilated.

"You okay?" he said loudly and clearly.

He saw McCormick's gaze drop to his lips as he spoke and the young man nodded.

"Yeah, I'm good, Judge," McCormick hollered, loud enough to make Hardcastle wince.

He thought it likely McCormick had a slight case of blast deafness to go with the mark on his face. It sometimes happened when a large caliber gun was fired too close. He felt a surge of sympathy for the kid. As soon as McCormick's adrenaline wore off he was going to have the mother of all headaches.

Hardcastle could hear a commotion coming from outside. Ericson had broken free of the cop who'd gone out to detain him. He took McCormick by the shoulders and carefully pulled the younger man to his feet.

"I hope that's true, kid. Ericson is trying to get away and we've got to stop him."

"Judge, Ericson got away! We have to get him!" McCormick shouted directly into his ear.

Geez, kid, are you trying to deafen me, too? Milt thought in annoyance. A small push in the direction of the door got the kid moving. McCormick wasn't as fast on his feet as normal but once he was upright his knee seemed to hold his weight.

"Take care of Harper, and get these bozos downtown," Hardcastle called, going for the door after the younger man. "We'll get Ericson."

He could hear an engine starting up and the whine of a car reversing then peeling out of the parking area at high speed.

By the time he got outside of the clinic with McCormick, Ericson had made it to the road and turned out onto it. The young cop who'd chased him out was struggling to sit up on the ground.

"You okay?" Hardcastle shouted to him, still trying to keep up with his injured friend as they went for the Coyote.

"Yeah, Judge, he just clocked me one. Go get him!" the cop said with a wave of his arm, another cop already going to assist the fallen man.

McCormick was sliding into the driver's seat of his beloved car and starting the engine by the time the judge caught up to him and dropped into the passenger seat.

McCormick reversed quickly and spun the Coyote around, seamlessly changing from reverse to first and gunning the engine. The Coyote responded like the race car it was, and they were off after Ericson. The judge glanced over at his companion seeing the concentration on his face and the small smile on his lips.

"Damn fool crazy kid," Hardcastle muttered.

McCormick twitched the car wide, and then swung it in tight through a corner, the back of the Coyote only sliding out a fraction before the superior traction of the wide tires caught the road again. The move gained them a good amount of distance on the fleeing car and its less capable driver.

"Hey, watch the corners," Hardcastle shouted, forgetting the kid couldn't hear him. "Try to get up alongside him so I can get his tires," Hardcastle instructed, checking his gun.

Realising that McCormick couldn't hear his instructions, Hardcastle pointed. McCormick put the car exactly where the judge wanted it to be. He fired twice. The first shot hit the back of Ericson's car but caused it no damage. McCormick threw the Coyote through another tight corner, but quickly gained ground up beside their quarry. Milt's second shot was far more effective, which was a good thing since they were fast approaching a more populated area.
The bullet hit the rear tire causing Ericson to begin fish-tailing out of control. McCormick's reflexes were as quick as ever. He tapped the brakes bringing the Coyote safely behind the increasingly erratic car.

It was obvious Ericson was nowhere near as good a driver as the man sitting next to him. Unable to control the damaged car properly, Ericson attempted to take a corner and lost control. The car side-swiped a pole and jumped the curb before beginning to flip.

McCormick had the Coyote slowing and pulling up as Ericson's car began to roll.

The car flipped twice before coming to rest on its roof. McCormick pulled up a safe distance from the car and hauled himself up to sit on the driver's side door. Milt was already clear of the Coyote and running to Ericson's over-turned car. He pointed back at McCormick and shouted.

"You stay put. I'll get him."

Hardcastle was pretty sure the younger man hadn't heard a word he'd said but he must have gotten the message anyway since he made no additional move to get out of the Coyote and assist. With the condition the kid's knee was in, Milt doubted he'd be able to help if it turned into a foot chase.

Ericson was still alive and conscious, if a little dazed, when Milt looked in through the shattered driver's window.

"Come 'ere," Milt growled as he reached in through the opening and, grabbing Ericson by the scruff of his jacket, pulled him free.

Milt checked to make sure the man was no longer armed before half dragging and half supporting him away from the wreck. It didn't look like the destroyed car was going to catch fire, but it was better to be safe than sorry. When he got the man back to the Coyote, Milt gave him a small shove, letting him topple onto the hood of the race car. He ignored the dirty look McCormick gave him. The kid hated it when he tossed his crooks across the Coyote. Of course, McCormick had no similar reservations when it came to using his truck.

Snapping a pair of cuffs around the now subdued Ericson's wrists first, Milt then pulled out his laminated Miranda card. Even though he knew the words printed there verbatim, he was careful to read them from the card.

Milt shared a smile with his young friend. "We got him, kiddo. You did a good job."

McCormick looked confused for a moment then suspicious. "Judge, did you just say something good about me?" he asked, loudly.

"Of course not," Milt said with a firm shake of his head and then looked away from the younger man.

"You did!" McCormick crowed.

"No!" Milt said firmly so that even reading his lips there was no way McCormick could miss it.

"Oh, yes ,you did… what did you say?"

Milt refused to answer, he simply shook his head.

"Oh, come on, Judge. You can tell me, I won't tell a soul!" McCormick shouted loud enough to draw away the attention of a few of the onlookers from the crash scene.

"Shut up, McCormick," Hardcastle growled.

He had no doubt the kid had understood that too, since McCormick smiled in satisfaction and stopped yelling.

EPILOG:

The day started a little cooler than usual with just enough cloud cover to ensure it would stay that way. At last caught up on his laundry, Mark dressed with care in his nicest suit. He wanted to look his best today. It was important.

There was nothing he could do about the yellowing bruises that colored his face, or for the livid red mark that traversed half of it. He'd had the world's worst headache the last couple of days, and, if he told the truth, there was still a little of that remaining. It was nothing he couldn't deal with and nothing to bother the judge about. He looked again at his mottled reflection, and brushed his hair as neatly as he could. Finally he decided that his appearance was as good as it was going to get.

He met the judge downstairs. The older man was already waiting for him. McCormick hated the darn thing, but he used the support of the cane his new doctor had recommended, and Hardcase had insisted, he use. He'd never confess it but the cane really did make getting around on his healing knee a lot easier.

"You ready, kid?" Hardcastle asked.

Mark nodded and followed the older man out to the truck.

Mark didn't offer any witticisms on the drive to the cemetery. Frank was already there with Claudia hovering close to her husband's side.

"Frank, it's good to see you up and about," Mark said happily, after Milt and Frank had greeted each other.

"Good to see you too, Mark, how are you?"

"Pretty good, Frank. I can hear again, that's always a good thing. There's still some ringing on the right side but the doctor said that would hang around for a little while before it eventually fades away."

"Huh, didn't notice any difference," Hardcastle commented. "You never hear a thing I say anyway."

Mark shook his head, "That's where you're wrong, Hardcase. I hear ya, I just don't listen."

The judge frowned. "Shut up, McCormick, can ya hear that?"

Mark smiled as he walked at the judge's side, "Yeah, I hear ya, Judge, and I'm listening to ya, too."

Milt smothered a small smile. It was great to have the old McCormick back even, no, especially on a day like today. Hardcastle looked around the grounds and at the police honor guard standing at the ready several yards from the grave site. "Looks good, Frank."

"All I did was point out the oversight of justice. It was Commissioner Emhart's idea to do a full-honors graveside service for Bill."

Hardcastle grunted. "Man is still a jackass, but even he could see this was right. How about you, are you reinstated yet?"

Frank opened the edge of his suit coat to reveal his holster back in its rightful place and his shield badge proudly clipped to his belt where he liked to wear it.

"Yes, Milt, I'm fully reinstated — suspension lifted and expunged from my record. I'm fine."

"Well, good. Shouldn't have happened in the first place," Hardcastle grumbled.

Frank simply shook his head but didn't disagree with the older man's assessment. Mark thought Frank might have lost a little of his previous willingness to jump to the defence of the police commissioner through this experience. Ericson had all but outright told them he'd convinced commissioner Emhart to pin the entire scam on Frank's shoulders. Frank was still far more diplomatic than Hardcastle and he'd never outright call his commissioner the names Hardcastle did, but Mark noticed he also didn't appear to be in any particular hurry to dissuade the judge from saying them anymore.

"I heard they found the Commissioner's aide was supplying Ericson information, that right, Frank?" Hardcastle asked.

Frank nodded. "Yeah, Ericson gave him up and when we questioned Jarvis, he admitted to supplying information. Emhart was pretty embarrassed by it. He'd hired the man personally."

"What about Doctor Ormond's patients, the ones she said she killed?" Mark asked.

Frank sighed. "Sorry Mark, but it looks like it was true. To cut a better deal, Emhart turned over evidence that implicates her in at least four suspicious deaths. They'll be investigated. We'll find the answers."

Mark shook his head. "I'd been hoping it wasn't true."

"Come on, they're about to start," Frank said, clapping Mark on the shoulder. He took his wife's hand and the four of them walked to the gravesite to find their places.

Mark had never known Officer William Cook but he felt a connection to the lost officer. He was glad he had been able to play a small part in helping Frank and the judge bring the men who'd killed him to justice.

On the drive home Mark was still feeling solemn and so, it seemed, was the judge.

A few days later Mark was stretched out on the patio chaise lounge. It felt good, real good, to get a little sun. He felt as though he'd been inside both day and night for weeks. The sun was nice and warm against his skin and the day bright and clear. It was so pleasant he was contemplating taking a long drive later on. He had a ton of chores still to do, along with a list as long as his arm of study notes still to go over.

Since their discussion the other day, the judge had insisted Mark find time to rest and relax. It had actually become something of a game for Mark, goofing off in front of the judge and watching him get mad without being about to do anything about it. Especially since the whole "take care of yourself and get some rest," had been the older man's idea.

"McCormick!" Hardcastle yelled from the kitchen.

Mark quickly arranged himself for maximum effect, drink in one hand, a racing magazine in the other that he hastily pulled out of the satchel by his side and opened to a random page. He slouched low on the chaise, the position less comfortable than it looked, but this was all about effect. The result was only slightly marred by the still visible bruising of his body and face.

Mark didn't answer the shout. He knew the judge would find him soon enough.

"McCormick! Where is that kid?"

Mark could hear the judge muttering and knew he was close. He put the most innocent look he could on his face, the one he knew annoyed Hardcastle the most, and waited.

The judge burst from the back of the house and came around to the side of the pool where he could see McCormick. Mark glanced up at the older man.

"Looking for me, Judge?" he asked, maintaining his innocent appearance.

It was hard to keep hold on his act as the judge's face darkened to a near purple color.

"You know damn well I was … I've been hollering for you for the last twenty minutes!"

Since Mark had seen the judge less than ten minutes earlier he knew that was an exaggeration.

"I've been right here, Judge, looking after myself and catching up on my rest."

The judge looked slightly confounded.

Mark let out a small laugh and decided to let the other man off the hook. He pulled himself up into a sitting position. He still had to straighten his injured knee slowly, it was doing well but it wasn't there yet.

"It's all right, Judge. I'm plenty rested. What's up?"

Hardcastle took a deep breath. The kid had been driving him crazy the last few days. McCormick sometimes had a very perverse sense of humour, but he knew this wasn't part of the other man's game. He waved McCormick back to his seat. McCormick stopped his aborted attempt to rise, and Hardcastle pulled up one of the nearby garden chairs and sat.

"Just wanted to ask you about your schedule for the next couple of weeks, you got yourself sorted yet?"

"Yeah, Judge, I've got a handle on it. Why?"

"I was just reading in the paper that Kurt Sheers managed to slip those murder charges. I thought the D.A. had him dead to rights on that, but apparently there was some kind of accident in the evidence lab. The judge had to toss the lot out as contaminated."

"He got off, huh?" Mark asked.

"Yeah and guilty as sin, but there's no way they can prove that now."

Mark crossed his arms and looked at the judge. "Oh, and so now you're thinking this is a job for the Lone Ranger and his trusty sidekick right?"

"Got it in one, kiddo," the judge grinned.

Mark laughed. "All right, Hardcase, let's saddle up." Mark made to stand again but the judge's hand was on his shoulder keeping him in place.

"Nah, you keep working on your rest. I got a lot of calls to make, and it'll be a day or two before we ride."

Mark grinned and made a big production of relaxing back into his previous position. "Well, it is a tough job, Judge."

Hardcastle picked up Mark's racing magazine and whacked the kid on the arm with it before dumping it on his chest. Mark plucked the slightly bent magazine up and flipped it to an article he'd already read.

Hardcastle shook his head and headed back inside. "Don't cook too long in this sun, McCormick."

Mark watched the older man go inside. As soon as Hardcastle was gone, he closed the racing magazine, slipping it back into his satchel. He dug around in the bag for a moment before finding his notebook. He pulled it out and with a relaxed sigh, began to go over his notes.

Inside the house, Judge Hardcastle looked back out at the man, apparently lazing by the pool. He saw McCormick dispense with the racing magazine in favor of the less ever-present notebook.

He laughed quietly to himself. "You're gonna do just fine, kid," he said heading for the den.

He had a lot of calls to make and a lot of ground work to lay in the next few days while McCormick would be busy with school.