* * * * * * *

"Nash."

Bridges glanced at Evan as he headed to the coffeepot. "What've you got?"

"Well, we talked to Ying, called Earl's voice mail, and we actually got Pitr. He wasn't too happy about being visited by cops. He decided to demonstrate his gunpowder by firing at us."

Nash chuckled. "Well, did it perform?"

Evan grumbled and fingered a bandage on his right hand.

"That okay, bubba?"

"Just a scratch," he muttered dismissively. "Anyway, I put him in holding. He's stewing in there when you want to talk to him."

"Let's talk to him now."

* * * * * * *

"Hi there, Kosinov. Been a while since you've seen the place, huh."

"Dis barge, it be silly place to be havink cops. One bomb on hull, it sink."

Like a typical Russian, Pitr was very thin, almost emaciated-looking, and his hands, however clawlike they looked, could do magical things. Nash had met the man playing piano in a blues club, seen him at work on his weapons, and seen the evidence of his lock-picking skills. They rarely left him handcuffed anymore; there was no real point.

"Well, that's true. Now, if anyone does sink the barge, I'll be asking you about it. Thanks for volunteering the information, though." Nash took a seat beside the taller man and Evan leaned on a support, simply staring.

Pitr sighed, stretching out his lanky frame. "You be wantink to know who shooter be. Dey have not hit Joe?"

Nash gave him a hard look. "Not ours. You tell me everything, bubba, and I mean everything."

Pitr shrugged. "No one big come to my place. Recipe?" He held out a hand.

Nash gave him a steady look, then reached into the file and handed him the forensics report on the gunpowder analysis. Pitr he had know for four years, and as far as suppliers of weapons went, he was usually trustworthy. That he fired on Evan was disturbing.

Pitr pulled a pair of spectacles out of his front pocket, then studied the analysis for a few moments. "It is mine," he said finally, setting it down. "And if not mine, I do not be knowink who else use my recipe."

"Well, who have you sold to recently."

"I have closed up shop," he said, smiling slightly, and pushed the sheet of paper back at Bridges. "But I do favors for those I be knowink."

Nash picked up the sheet. "Names, Pitr."

"You let me go uncharged?"

"Why'd you shoot at Evan?"

The two men regarded each other. Pitr blinked first, glancing at Evan.

"I be thinkink he be someone else."

"Who did you think he was?"

"Someone I not be watink to sell to. Unprofessional hitpeople, they be knowink my name and reputation. Sometimes bullets be necessary to be chasink dem away."

Nash laughed sharply. "Your accent gets worse every time I talk to you, Pitr. I realize you might be impressing Evan here, but I've known you too long. Drop it and tell me what you know, and if it turns out to be useful, I'll see what I can do."

Pitr recoiled a bit into himself. "People be knowink me. Sometime not good people. I thinkink cop there be amateur , d'amateur that came in lookink for me last week. He is crazy. I do not trust him, and do not want to be sellink to him."

"What was his name."

Pitr shrugged. "He be tan, neat dark hair. Strong and sure in hand. Handled weapon well, but his eyes be . . . be not right."

Nash toyed with the folder. That description didn't match Two-Feathers at all. "His eyes are not right . . . as in different colors?"

"No . . . he be besheniy ubliudok. Crazy bastard. Ask stupid question. Pushy. He say that he have good reference, but she would not be sendink one like this to me."

Nash stared at Pitr for a moment without speaking, then pulled another piece of paper out of the file. "You recognize this woman, Pitr?"

It was a printout, slightly larger, of the woman Harvey had shown him earlier that morning. Pitr stared at it only a moment. "Da. Everyone knowink her."

"Who is she."

"She be whoever she want. Good customer. Retired when I did. She use my munitions, sometimes."

"When was the last time you saw her?"

The Russian looked decidedly uncomfortable, and stared at the photograph as though it were watching him. "Long time ago. Many months."

Nash removed another picture, this one of Two-Feathers. "What about this guy?"

Pitr glanced at it. "Da. Be knowink him too. Not so good as her. Hear he tryink to retire."

Nash broke eye contact to rub the bridge of his nose. "Pitr, I had a long night. Playtime's over."

The Russian shrugged expansively. "Neither be your killer. She would not be so stupid as to risk all to take contract on Joe. He not takink contracts anymore. They not be wantink trouble with cops."

Evan stepped forward to stand just to the left of Nash, who pulled the piece of paper away from Pitr. "Well, they're in trouble with the cops now, Pitr. She's in town, and I think she's harboring the guy that's doing the shooting. You wouldn't happen to know where he might have gone, would you?"

Pitr shook his head emphatically. "Nyet. You not be wantink to bother them –"

Evan slammed his hand, open-palmed, on the table, and Pitr stared at the gash his bullet had given the other cop. "Why are you protecting these people?"

Pitr adopted a shrewd look, and ignored Evan entirely. "Nash, you don't want to stick your head into this." There were traces of a true Russian accent, but the English itself was perfect, and in a low, husky voice. "You'll lose it. I tell you this as a friend. She is not the one you're looking for, and any man she might be with is as innocent as she."

Nash raised an eyebrow. "Trouble is, bubba, she ain't all that innocent."

* * * * * * *

Harvey grabbed Nash on the way towards the coffee pot. "Your Ruskie friend decided to be helpful. He and a sketch artist came up with this as his latest buyer."

Nash glanced at the sketch, then set the coffee pot down and snatched it from Harvey's hand. "Son of a bitch."

"You know this guy?"

"You're damn right I do. Joe!"

Dominguez ended his conversation with a lieutenant and came over, taking the offered sketch. He stared at it a moment, then frowned.

"Damn. I liked that guy."

"So did I, bubba."

Joe grumbled. "While we're onto bad news, Hughes doesn't own any other space in the city or bay area besides his apartment and a parking space at the hospital."

Nash glared at the sketch. "One thing at a time, bubba."

* * * * * * *

"Can you tell me why I'm here? I really need to get back, my shift is due to start and you haven't even let me call the hospital –"

"This'll just take a minute, doctor." Nash didn't waste time with sitting, and leaned over the seated Rick Hughes. "Why don't you tell me about the gun and bullets you purchased last week."

He got a blank look. The good doctor didn't look well; there were still large dark bags beneath his eyes, and while there was no trace of nervousness in his hands or face, he was sweating.

"Gun? I purchased a gun, yes. Legally, like everyone else in the state of California is supposed to. I had previously purchased a hunting rifle, so the guy said since it was in the last month, I cleared the Brady paperwork without having to wait the week or whatever it was.

"A bunch of us are going to a sweat lodge in the middle of the mountains and last year they ran into a little trouble with the locals. I figured it would be a good idea to have a gun in the glove compartment in case anyone tried anything." The confused look he gave to both Nash and Joe was positively angelic. "I have the permit and everything. I didn't realize I'd broken any laws –"

Nash took a deep breath and held it a moment, visibly calming himself. "We're onto you, bubba. I'm going to give you one chance here to come clean and cough up the weapon and the equipment."

Rick blinked several times, still apparently no more than startled and concerned. "I gave the gun to a friend of mine who's going to clean it and make sure it's been cared for properly, but I can get it to you in a couple days . . . maybe tomorrow even. But . . . the equipment? The stolen equipment? I had nothing to do with that, I told you-"

Nash moved abruptly away, almost stalking towards the main body of the barge before turning to face him again. "You just blew it, Ricky. I'm going to get that equipment, and I'm going to get you with it. And you even think about skipping town or using that gun of yours, I'll hear it, and I'll find your ass right then and there. You get me?"

All he got was puzzlement and wide eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about, Captain, I'm sorry but I really don't."

* * * * * * *

Joe watched Nash seethe at his desk for a long time before he tried to get his partner to speak.

"Think he was telling the truth?"

"Hell no I don't. Do you?" It was almost an accusatory tone of voice.

"Hey, Nashman, don't yell at me. I just work here." He watched as Hughes was escorted out towards the docks. "What I don't get is why he'd come after me. And he did it before we even paid him a visit."

"You were the one who arrested Fellow."

That was certainly true. "But how would he know that?"

Nash smiled a little, but it never reached his eyes. "How much would you like to bet the call Finny placed was to the hospital, more specifically for Hughes?"

"Then why kill all the others? He knew he'd be looking for a cop."

"Because we never even considered that it might be tied to the Fellows case. Hiding behind the lunatic with a name fixation excuse."

"No, that makes no sense. If he's a crack shot, why not hit me first or second? Why waste the time and warn me? Games?" Joe chewed his lower lip.

"Maybe, bubba. Maybe just target practice. Might explain why the first two hits were so neat and the third one was such a mess. Whoever it was wasn't used to people shooting back."

"Now that's a grim thought." Practicing for the real thing – just the thing a surgeon might do before a big operation. "So . . . now we work Fellows until he gives up Hughes?"

"Sounds good to me." The tone was dark.

"And if he doesn't?"

"He will."

"What about the hunting rifle he said he bought?"

"Evan's trying to track it down. We still need the real deal for ballistics."

Joe nodded. "Got a search warrant yet?"

Nash pointed at an inactive fax machine. "Why do you think we're sittin' here, bubba?"

Joe waved a hand. "I think I got the fax machine home front covered, Nashman. Why don't you go tell Fellows that Elvis has left the building."

* * * * * * *

"Get this piece of trash out of my sight."

"C'mon, Finny, up ya go . . ." A uniformed officer pulled the spitting image of a fuming anime character from the interrogation table as Nash stormed out and leaned on the deck railing, look out towards the bay and the city. As soon as he heard the sound of a door slamming, he relaxed into a smile, then shook his head, chuckling to himself.

Fellows was going to crack for them, possibly before his hearing. While it had been nothing but lies that Hughes had emptied his accounts and split town, Finny had no way of knowing he was being set up to rat out his partner. As far as he knew, the inspectors were fuming because Hughes had skipped town and their only recourse now was to pin the entire thing on a certain medical center librarian. Somehow Nash was sure it sweetened the deal he'd offered the suddenly tongue-tied Fellows.

He'd sent Ev and Harv off to search Rick's apartment as soon as the warrant had come in, and Joe was still working on tracking down the rifle Hughes had admitted to buying. The gun concerned Nash more – the dead Dominguezes hadn't been shot down with a handgun. There was a reason he'd purchased it, and it was likely going to show up as the murder weapon of the guys Hughes had hired to unload those machines.

Still nothing on that front. He had considered sending someone undercover as a buyer, but when he'd seen how specialized the two buyer's problems were, it had seemed unlikely that anyone they planted, however many years' worth of bogus medical records they created, would have been selected. As their dealer had turned out to be a doctor, he couldn't be happier he'd hesitated on it. Hughes would have run his own tests, and given his record, that undercover cop would have at best wound up with nothing and at worst dead.

He needed to find the guys Hughes had hired to handle the truck before Rick decided to cut his losses. Nash was almost positive Fellows didn't know a few key elements; Rick was too smart to divulge all to someone else, and it was obvious he was the brains rather than the means in this case. And without the weapon it would be extremely difficult to tie Hughes to the Dominguez shootings.

Two-Feathers and Rigby had managed to disappear flawlessly. He wasn't sure if they'd left town or not, but he was thinking not. On one hand it might be safer, as Pitr suggested, to let sleeping dogs lie. On the other hand, it irritated him that a professional assassin had been living in his city for two years and he'd never noticed. The way Pitr talked, this wasn't the first time she'd allowed another colleague into her home, and giving her a reminder that she was not above the law might discourage another convention.

He hadn't called Pitr back to tell him they'd changed their suspicions from Two-Feathers to the 'amateur' Hughes. Knowing him, he'd be in contact with Two-Feathers about the questioning, and at the very least it would encourage them both to keep their heads down. Knowing that Pitr knew where they were irritated him a little bit, but the Russian was too good to phone-tap, there was no way they'd ever use him to locate either of the snipers. The older man was very careful when it came to his customers, and any attempts to put surveillance on him had met with the same end – failure. It was like trying to keep the Ruskie in handcuffs – not worth the effort.

Nash loosened the collar of his shirt with a finger, giving his head a good roll and taking a deep breath. The bay didn't smell pretty, but it was a scent he associated with success, and one he welcomed. Hughes knew his time was running out. What he did now was the real question.

* * * * * * *

"Hey, look at that. You're still alive."

Joe gave Harv a tolerant look, shuffling a few warrants on his desk. "Don't sound so excited."

Inspector Leek's hands were not empty, and he tossed three evidence bags on his desk. "Hey, Ronnie. Run this over to evidence for me next chance you get."

"You got it."

Evan settled into his chair and slapped a stack of papers and a few utility brown folders down in front of him. They hit the keyboard, and his computer squawked indignantly. "You shut up. Damn Imacs."

Joe watched the last of the warrants come through the fax machine. "Excellent. Anyone seen Nash?"

Ronnie threw his thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the bay, as he gathered the evidence Harvey had collected. "He's out sunning himself after another long talk with that Fellow we keep in lockup."

"Guess I ought to bring him some sunscreen then, huh."

"However did you guess it went so well." Harvey nodded thanks to the large officer and brought up his email.

"The lack of a certain gentleman in handcuffs accompanying you was my first indication."

Evan grumbled from behind the stack of papers. "No weapons, no trace of weapons, two legal permits, not even a bottle of prescription medication. I've never seen a bachelor's apartment so clean."

"And our boy keeps telling us he has no time."

Harvey grinned. "Oh, I talked to his attending. He's been ditching his all-night call for the past five days. Trading off with people that owe him favors. He's had a lot of late nights, but they weren't in the hospital."

Joe grinned. "Well, hey there. I am no longer the harbinger of bad news. Now I have good news and bad news, instead of bad news and bad news. It's a great day to be me."

Leek chuckled as Joe headed towards the outer deck. "I didn't know you knew what harbinger meant, Joe. I'm so proud to know you. I can feel my vocabulary expanding just by proximity."

* * * * * * *

Joe finished climbing the stairs, feeling a leg cramp start. Besides no caffiene, there was this insistence that he start stair-climbing, which was a lot like work. He paused at the landing, taking a moment to breathe and relax tight calf muscles.

"Hey! Nashman, you out here?"

Nash was leaning on the railings in his usual spot, maroon blazer flapping unconcernedly in the breeze off the bay. He started to turn his head when it snapped back, as though the deck had suddenly leapt ahead of him. Joe instinctively ducked down into a crouching run, fumbling to unholster his gun. There was no echo of a shot, there was no sound at all.

"Nash!"

In the time it took Joe to cover even two feet in his direction, Bridges' body hit the deck with a solid thud. His head bounced twice on the grating, and an arm slid bonelessly from his chest to the deck. The expression on his face was one of surprise, though it relaxed almost as Joe watched.

"Nash!"

He tore his eyes from his partner to scan the docks, looking specifically for the silhouette of a shooter, a speeding automobile. The cars moving on the docks didn't catch his eye, and there was no specific shape of a sniper. Joe jumped as a skateboarder cut across the sidewalk between two pedestrians, then ignored the docks entirely and slid the last few feet to kneel beside his partner.

"Harvey! Evan! Anybody, we need help up here!"

He hurriedly shoved his gun into its holster, his other hand digging past Bridges' collar to find a pulse as the first return shouts of alarm reached his ears. His eyes were closed, there wasn't a mark on him, and Joe reminded himself to breathe as he tilted his partner's chin, looking for a pulse, a sign of breath, a sign of anything –

Just above his right ear, a tiny mark – ridiculously small, so very tiny – and matted hair. There was little blood on the grating itself, but six inches beneath it was a solid metal sheet, and already there was a sizable, glittering dark pool collecting.

"Nash, Jesus, buddy stay with me –"

No pulse. Try as he might, he couldn't find a pulse, and he fought rising panic, grabbing Nash beneath the arms and dragging him further from the railings to a protected retaining wall. Nash's head lolled lifelessly against his chest and left a dark stain on the pressed white shirt. His eyes never opened, and his jaw hung slack.

"Dammit, somebody get up here!"

He heard the clanking of feet on the stairs, and the next thing he knew he had been grabbed about the chest and was being bodily hauled down the stairs. He lost his grip on Nash, who slumped back down to the grating, before the view was blocked by the backs of other people.

"Jesus, Joe, keep your head down!"

"Get him downstairs!"

" – I repeat, officer down, officer down at the SIU –"

He knew he was fighting whoever had him, he felt vibrations in his throat as he yelled at them, but he had no idea who it was until he made out Harvey's voice in his ear.

"Dammit, Joseph, calm down! You can't do anything up there, okay?! Settle down, the ambulance is on its way –"

"Let go of me! Let me go, he's still up there –"

"Joseph!" There were more hands on him, and despite his best efforts he was hauled below, out of view of the uniforms. His last glimpse of Nash was the brown work loafers, and then he was spun around, and Leek was looking at him intently, holding his face so he couldn't look away.

"Joe, you okay? You hit, man?" There were other hands feeling down his arms and shoulders, and he shook them off sharply.

"Whoa whoa whoa there, take it easy Joe, guys, back off –"

Joe held up his hands and Leek did the same, and a few breaths later, Dominguez spoke. "Shot came from across, on the docks. I don't know where. Harvey, take Evan and get over there, I don't want anyone getting off that dock until every single person and vehicle has been searched –"

"Joseph." It was very gentle. "Joe, listen to me. He's gone. He split after taking the shot. No," he added, a little more sternly as Dominguez attempted to protest. "He's gone. Evan and I will get him, okay? But not right this instant. I want you to ride in the ambulance with Nash, make sure he gets to the hospital okay. Alright? I'll call Inger and tell her where you are, okay? Ev, stay here with Joe."

Evan moved into view, and the next few minutes went by in a blur of spinning thoughts and voices that said nothing.

* * * * * * *

Lisa hung up the phone quietly, gently, as though it were the most fragile thing in the world. The kitchen noise seemed louder than usual, and a particularly spiteful pot was boiling over on the stovetop, hissing as its contents hit the burner. Inger was slicing almonds, and looked up as the other woman leaned against the wall.

"Lisa?"

The younger woman took a deep breath, biting her bottom lip. "Can you . . . can you do me a favor? Will you please go get Cassidy and bring her down here? . . . I need to tell her something."

The blonde Swede laid the knife down carefully, methodically brushing almond slivers from her fingers, and smoothed the front of her dress. "Has something happened?" It was a very controlled sort of voice, the kind a woman uses when she's expecting to be told that her son has been killed in the war.

Lisa wondered if she looked as pale as she felt. "Yes, Inger. Something's happened."

* * * * * * *

Harvey sighed heavily, scrubbing his face with his hand vigorously for a moment. "I'll tell them." He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it a moment before setting it softly into the cradle. It was around 6 p.m., two hours after it happened.

Unthinkable as it seemed, one of their own had gotten hit surrounded, literally, by cops, and their shooter had gotten away.

Harv didn't even have to raise his voice to make the announcement. The sounds of the barge were hushed; some of the staff had simply gone home, but others had stayed, wanting to hear the news, doing a bad impression of working. When he stood, it seemed to get even quieter.

"Ladies and gentleman, can I have your attention." He found he already did, so he plowed ahead. "Captain Nash Bridges passed away at 5:26 this evening. Almost all brain activity ceased en route to the hospital, and the decision was made by his ex-wife and daughter to remove him from life support. Inspector Cortez is with Inspector Dominguez right now, and I'm sure he would appreciate your support and sympathy when he returns to duty."

Harvey sat back down heavily, but the barge remained very quiet, and Leek stared at the desk across from his for a long time before he picked up his cellphone.

* * * * * * *

Joe pursed his lips, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly upwards. "I just thought it would be me, y'know? I mean, unless that talk did it, there was no indication . . . I mean, if he was gonna sit out there and watch the barge, he coulda hit me just as easy. I mean –"

"Joe. If you say 'I mean' one more time, I'm gonna shoot you."

Dominguez gave Evan a mild glare. "Oh, you're the king of compassion here, aren't you. Here my partner lies dead and you're giving me hell for expressing my feelings –"

"You're babbling, Joe."

A stirring from the bed attracted their attention, and Joe scooted forward to take up the hand partially obscured by the pulse monitor clipped to the index finger. There was no pressure response, but an eye squinted open.

"Hey there, Nashman."

The hospital room was spartan and done in cool pastels, and the steady beeping and whirring made it seem even cooler. It was further interior than most of the trauma rooms, and reserved for older patients recovering from orthopedic surgery. A quick meeting with the head of hospital security had cleared Nash to remain there posing as a 67 year old patient with a fractured kneecap, in case of inquiry. There was a 'cadaver' in the morgue bearing his name, but the bag contained rolled-up sheets and a camera, in case anyone decided to look in to see who might be inside.

One floor below was the ICU, but it had been deemed after a CAT scan and x-rays that it was entirely unnecessary to keep Bridges there. The bullet had grazed the skull, and he had a concussion which warranted a two-night stay at the hospital, but past that, Nash Bridges had been given a clean bill of health.

The other eye squinted open.

" . . . damn lights . . ."

Evan cleared his throat, then got up and dimmed them, so only the lights beneath the headboard and the setting sun illuminated the room. Nash's eyes cautiously opened further.

"How you feelin'?"

" . . . what the hell am I doing in a hospital?"

He struggled to sit up, thinking better of it after moving a few inches, and he settled back against the pillows. Their stuffing crinkled softly.

"Doc said you'd probably be sick to your stomach for a while. Good thing your blood pressure dropped like it did – you left like half your body weight on the barge."

An exploratory hand felt his head, which was bandaged, and Nash swore softly. "That son of a bitch shot me."

Evan cleared his throat again. "Not . . . exactly." He offered Nash a folder, but at a look from Joe he laid it on the bed. "Ballistics moved pretty quick on this one, but it wasn't necessary. Different size round, fired from a different model weapon entirely. Professional grade, of course. They're running it through the database, but my guess is it'll come up clean. We don't know who shot at you."

Nash thought about that for a long moment, his eyes moving sluggishly around the room as he thought. "Well, the other difference being that I lived . . ."

"You did. Bullet grazed you. You have a concussion and you lost a lot of blood, but you'll be out of here tomorrow night."

A cellphone rang, and Evan slid from his chair, picking it up and going to the other side of the curtain separating Nash from the door to his room. Nash watched him leave, then turned a little wearily and looked at Joe. "Did they take a shot at you?"

"Nope. You're the lucky stiff. Literally."

Nash took a deep breath, coughing softly, and Joe patted his hand. "You scared the hell out of me, bubba."

"'Bout time. I still owe you a couple more of those." His voice was hoarse, but the words were clearer and coming faster.

Evan came back around the curtain. "Nash, your funeral is set for Thursday. Harv talked the insurance company into allowing the funds to be transferred but it's understood that it won't actually be spent. You've got until then to catch the guy, or you're out eight thousand seven hundred fifty-five dollars and sixty-two cents."

Nash started to laugh, then groaned and put a hand to his head. "Son of a bitch . . . you know what that was, don't you."

Joe raised both eyebrows. "A sudden headache?"

He got a frown. "A warning. I didn't tell Pitr we'd dropped Two-Feathers as our main suspect."

"So you think Mike shot you in the head, and you consider that a warning."

Nash shook his head, and tried to lean up again, this time achieving a sitting position. "I was standing out there for ten minutes at least. He didn't intend to kill me, and he made sure someone else knew I was out there so I didn't bleed to death. Hughes had nothing to do with this."

"Yeah, but he doesn't know we know that."

Nash chuckled again, a little more carefully. "Joe, you're a genius."

"I know. And underappreciated."

Nash glanced around, then pointed to a plastic cup, and Evan handed it to him. He made a face as he drank, and the swallowing was quite loud. "They even have bad water."

"We'll bring you a beer. I'm going to let the news tell Hughes that you've joined the choir invisible, and I'll put Harv and Ev on him. Hopefully he'll do something stupid."

Nash nodded. "Good. Do me a favor. Tell Fellows that you don't want to die, and if he'll call off Hughes you'll cut them both free and drop all the charges. See what he does."

"Will do. Now, you're supposed to be dead, so that means no calls. We told Lisa and Cassidy immediately, and they're both pretending that you're dead. If you need anything, we picked up a department cell, use it only. Mine, Harv, and Ev's numbers have been programmed into speed-dial."

"Joe, I know this may come as a surprise to you, but I have in fact been a cop for over twenty years, and in that time I did become familiar with standard protocol –"

"Isn't he cute when he has a headache?"

* * * * * * * *

"You're back awfully early, Joseph." The tone was very light, very casual, and Dominguez gave Leek a long look.

"I'm always here at eight in the morning."

Harvey shrugged, staring at his coffee cup. "I just . . . I dunno, you sure you have enough distance to keep working this? Evan and I are all over it –"

"Y'know Harv, I've known you a long time. You've known me a long time. Since when do I sit around waiting for some punk with a chip on his shoulder to come pick me off in my own home?"

"Well, gee, why not come here, so they can pick you off in your own office." Leek said it under his breath with his face in his cup of coffee, but it was still loud enough that Joe heard it, and his eyes went flat and narrow.

"Well, gee, what a swell idea you have there, Inspector."

Harv frowned, offering a palm in peace. "Look, Joe, I didn't mean that the way it sounded, I just . . . you're probably right. You're probably safer here than at home –"

"No probably about it. Now tell me what you've got."

Harv took a seat at Joe's desk, and both men lowered their voices, temporarily dropping the act. "They lifted traces of gunpowder from the frozen dough bag. Same recipe, so it's confirmed Pitr's – but that just means that one of them buys from him. And he admitted to knowing her. Not sure whether you want to pursue Two-Feathers for hitting Nash or not."

Joe waved a hand. "If we find them, we do, but right now I'm not as worried about it. If they're pros and Nash's instincts were right, they've disappeared into the woodwork not to resurface for a while. Keep following the leads, but right now Hughes is our main concern."

Harvey nodded and slipped the file away. "Right. So now what, boss?"

"Now, I go blubber to Fellows and beg him to tell Hughes not to kill me in return for dropping all the charges. I want you and Evan on that doctor. I'll give you a half-hour to get there before I talk to the good Fellow in lock-up. You stay on Hughes."

"Will do." Harv motioned to an alert-looking Evan and they ducked into a huddle around Harv's desk. Very shortly Leek was grabbing his keys and they were heading out.

Joe leaned back and watched the clock, looking up when Ronnie stopped beside him.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but Nash needed to sign this and . . ."

Joe forced a smile and took the pen. "I got it." He didn't even read it, just shoved the clipboard back to Ronnie, and the large cop looked . . . longfaced.

"We all miss him, sir."

Joe just nodded, staring at his keyboard, and Ronnie put a beefy hand on his shoulder before moving away.

Dominguez sighed and started shuffling papers. Tuesday had never looked so long.

* * * * * * *

Evan almost choked on his coffee in his hurry to set the cup down. "Harv, we've got activity here. Our boy is leaving his happy home."

Harvey leaned back, glancing at the TV monitor. They'd used the old gray van for surveillance, though it had been outfitted with a few more gadgets since the last time they'd been working it as a team. More gadgets meant less room, so he couldn't get a proper look. Not that it mattered; who else would be strolling so cavalierly out of Hughes' apartment with a golf bag.

"Oh, and look. He brought his toys to share with the class."

Evan nodded, stooping as he stood to get to the driver's seat. "Follow me in your wheels."

"Way ahead of you, junior." He slipped out the back with no problems and waited a full fifteen seconds after Hughes had pulled out of his driveway before starting his car. The van was about two blocks ahead when he made it out onto the main street, and he joined the fast lane, passing Evan.

Hughes led them out onto the main highway and decided to start speeding. Never a good sign.

Harvey picked up his cell, just glancing at the caller ID as it merrily jingled out 'Candyman'. "Yeah, I noticed. Drop back, I'll call you with directions soon as our boy stops jackrabbiting."

"You got it."

They were on the 10 for only about ten minutes before the doctor got off, and headed towards the large flat storage sections of San Francisco. They were all owned by the same company - Red Roof – and they went on for acres. Added bonus; they were only 10 minutes from the airport.

"Good place to ditch 'em, I'll give you that." It would take a squad of cops a month to search all those, assuming a judge would grant the warrant based on their evidence.

Harvey picked up his cell and called Evan. "Got off at the storage exit two before the airport. He's taken me past Row BI, heading towards the Ds. Looks like it won't be the Es. I'll park two down from the right row."

"Got it. I'm off the highway . . . now."

"I'm gonna call this one in, Ev. Got a feeling our stolen equipment is riiight here."

"Wait, Harv. We need to get the guys that unloaded it, too. Make sure we've got everything before we move in."

Leek hung up and contemplated. It would be awfully nice to get every last piece of scum that had been involved, but on the other hand, they were dealing with a guy that had killed at least three people in a pretty personal way. "Sorry, buddy." He used the radio to call it in, and eased the Humvee to a stop at the end of aisle BI. The shadow of his automobile was barely visible, and he shut the door very quietly.

He casually walked up the last few aisles to BL, where Hughes had turned off, and leaned against the corner, listening. He heard the garage door being shoved up, and some sounds, like metal on wood. A whiff of rubbing alcohol floated by, and then there was some muttering. Harvey eased around the corner for a closer look.

" . . . and this little pickle when 'wee wee wee' all over his pants . . ."

He seemed to have opened a door in column 7, and Leek removed his gun from his holster softly, moving slowly in an attempt to reduce the noise his material was making. There was a little breeze but not much of one, and with rows of parallel concrete, noise echoed forever.

There was a grunt of effort from within the shed, and then silence. Leek cautiously crept a little closer. There was no other way out, this should be a simple waiting game until Evan and the backup arrived. He didn't edge any closer for fear of his shadow giving him away, but all noise in the shed stopped suddenly. Leek held his breath, listening. Nothing.

The sound of a zipper. Shit. Golf bag. Gun. Had he given himself away? Harv waited for the unmistakable sound of metal brushing against metal, then swore mentally very loudly, and checked over his shoulder. No sign of Evan. He stepped around the doorframe, gun at the ready.

"SFPD! Freeze!"

He was greeted by the sight of six full-sized beer kegs, various cardboard boxes, a beat-up white pickup truck with an empty golf bag on the hood, and some apartment furniture. There was no sign of Hughes, and Harvey crouched, ready to spring back for cover at the first sign. "Come out and keep your hands where I can see 'em, doc."

There was no sound from within. "C'mon, Ricky . . . don't make this harder than it has to be . . ." He heard a sound behind him . . . concrete underfoot. Sounded like Evan finally decided to show up.

Something solid and slightly warm poked him in the back of the head. "I agree. Easy is best. So hand it over . . . nice and easy."

Leek froze and did as he was told, very slowly. "You silly wabbit you, how did you get behind me like that. You know, I'm prepared to give you an A for effort . . ."

The gun was yanked from his hand and he was shoved into the shed, directly towards the kegs.

"Gee, y'know, thanks, but I'm really not supposed to drink on duty . . ."

A chuckle from behind him. "Keep your hands up there, Inspector. Oh, a Deadhead to boot. This must be right up your alley, then."

Harv wasn't sure to what he was referring. "Nah, man. Shrooms and LSD were really my kinda thing. With pot you always ate, but hangovers . . . keg parties didn't catch on till the late seventies."

"And me and my diapers had no idea. Pull the lid off that last one, nice and slow."

Having no choice, he reached down and grabbed it. It didn't come easy, and when he did get it off he was almost knocked over by the odor of rubbing alcohol. The keg seemed to be filled with it.

"Whoo, you residents drink hard."

Another soft laugh. "Actually, this pickling jar was reserved for the librarian. But he's been such a good boy I think maybe I'll actually let him keep his money. Why don't you just step into that barrel for me there, Inspector?"

Harvey knew where this was going – and likely who were in the other five. "Ah, no, I don't think so." He turned his head, confirming that it was the man Pitr had painstakingly recreated, with the artist's help. "Man, you been in med school for how many years? There's a smarter way to do this."

Hughes was holding a handgun on him, and pressed it more strongly against Leek's head. "Didn't you hear? With your captain dead Dominguez folded like a stack of old cards. Let Fellows go. You have nothing at all . . . that is, unless I let you go. Now, either way you're going into that keg. I can shoot you in the back and let you drown, or I can kill you painlessly – if you step into that keg. Be smart, Inspector."

"My mom taught me never to be smart with strangers." There was only so much stalling to be done, at this point. There was nothing within reach, there was no way he'd move fast enough to get behind cover. Bluff time. "You get all that, Evan?"

Harv felt the gun shift as the killer turned predictably to look over his shoulder, and Leek moved fast, flinging his left arm up and over Hughes' gun arm, trapping it against him. With his right hand he sent a right hook into Hughes' eye. The doctor was a little brighter than he had been given credit for, and yanked his head back, dodging the blow. His more straightforward fist hit Harv directly in the adam's apple.

The pain was more of a shock than the inability to breathe, but both paled to dim grey edges around his field of vision and the sudden lack of any sound. He hung on to Hughes' arm as long as he could, but another blow to the head sent him reeling back, and he felt the arm –and gun – yank free of his grip. He knew he had fallen against the keg, felt it shift slightly behind him.

Another blow, and then the very dim idea that it was hard to breathe.

* * * * * * *

Evan finished cussing before he opened the door of the van, leaving it open and just behind Harv's. He'd heard the call go through, knew there were other units on the way, and while he didn't agree with it, he could understand the idea of using caution with this guy.

He held his gun to his side, walking casually but quickly to aisle BL and taking a quick peek around.

No sign of Harvey. He hadn't gone in by himself, had he? Evan glanced around quickly, not daring to use more than a stage whisper. No sign of him by his wheels, no sign of him on the roofs. He must have gone into the shed . . . had Hughes already split?

Evan checked his cell for a missed call; swearing at the oil tanker that had blocked the entrance to the storage facility might have drowned it out. Nothing.

Cortez hesitated for a split second, then headed down the aisle. It was easy enough to spot the shed with the open door, and the sounds of a struggle within. A strangled, choking sound. Something getting hit.

Cortez came around the corner just in time to see his partner cracked across the temple with a .9 mm handgun. Leek was on his knees and falling, one hand on his shirt collar, the other weakly trying to ward off another blow. The assailant's back was to him, but there was no doubt in Evan's mind who it must be.

"Back off and drop your weapon! This is the SFPD!"

The young doctor froze – unfortunately, his gun was still dangerously close to the other inspector. Evan didn't take his time approaching – there was almost no background noise in the heat of the concrete and the shed, and he could hear quite clearly that Harv was having trouble. "I said drop it! Now!"

"If I drop it, it might go off." It was chillingly calm, as though the doctor were simply informing him that the bill would be sent to the HMO. "And that would be a tragedy." He didn't drop his weapon, but he did slowly turn. "You know, I might suggest attacking in tandem next time? You might have more luck."

Evan bared his teeth. "Drop your weapon! Now!" He slowed down until there was only six feet between him and the target as the gun failed to drop. "Drop it or I drop you!"

The doctor shrugged and dropped his gun, from height enough that it bounced off the concrete and skittered to stop only about a foot away.

"Back away now, hands on your head. Hands on your head!"

Hughes did as he was told, slowly, and eyed Leek as he stepped aside. Harvey was barely even moving anymore, though his eyes were still open. "Hmm. I hope you're a doctor, young man." Just as calm. Cold, without a trace of inflection or fear. "Your friend really can't breathe around all that swelling, and once he stops you've only got a two minute window."

"Get over here –" Evan closed the distance between them quickly and pressed the muzzle of his gun into Hughes' back with more force than was strictly necessary. He handcuffed Hughes as quickly as possible, kicking the other gun under a covered couch. Harv had been right, backup would be helpful. Particularly the ambulance.

Once Hughes was cuffed and shoved into a corner, Evan grabbed Harv's shoulders, trying to haul him up. He met no resistance. Leek was still conscious, his mouth working without getting much accomplished. There was blood on his lips. The small gasps were mostly ineffectual and wet-sounding, and the inspector was turning both pale and blue. His throat was bright red and hot to the touch, and Harvey kept weakly tugging at his shirt collar, as though it were too tight.

"Hang in there, buddy, help's on the way –" Cortez grabbed his radio out of his jacket pocket, turning the volume back up. "This is 27 Parker Charlie, we've got an officer down, I repeat, officer down at the Red Roof exit off the 10, aisle BL –"

A scruffing sound made him turn in time to see Hughes' rear end scooting through a handmade square hole to the adjoining shed.

"Son of a bitch . . . Hughes!" Cortez leapt up but hesitated, torn between leaving Leek and pursuing their suspect. It was all for nothing if he got away –

"Harv, I'll be right back, hang on . . ."

Tires screeched to a halt as squadcars blocked both ends of the aisle. Hughes had made it out the person-sized door of the adjoining shed and stopped dead as he saw his only direction of escape cut off. He whipped around only to be confronted with a sprinting Evan, and he stopped, shaking his head.

"All right, all right, take it easy . . ."

Evan tackled him to the ground, pinning him with his body weight as Rick struggled. "You son of a bitch," Evan growled in Hughes' ear. "If he dies, you're not going to live to see your goddamned hearing, you got it?" Uniformed officers rushed up to separate the two struggling men.

"Get off me! Get off me!"

Evan was yanked out of the pile, and he looked around wildly for the ambulance. It was behind the squadcars blocking the aisle, and there was someone familiar standing right next to it . . . "Joe, get that ambulance over here! It's Harv!"

* * * * * * *

"C'mon, Rip Van Winkle. Gonna sleep the day away?"

Harv heard the voice, and it sounded vaguely familiar. Like one he might want to obey. He wondered why it was so dark, so warm and floating . . . it was like a particularly good high in a nice warm van after a bad trip.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Why was it so . . . oh. It would help to open his eyes.

The light wasn't as bright as he thought it would be, and the whirring and popping sounds finally filtered in, along with memory.

Leek tried to swallow and found there was something enormous in his throat. Panic rose like bile within him, and he fought to get it out, swallowing around it and feeling pain, god it hurt, he was gonna puke on top of it –

There was a flurry of noise, then ice in his arm, and everything floated away again.

* * * * * * *

Nash sighed and looked down as the nurse gave Evan a practiced evil look. "Well, ma'am, I didn't expect him to actually respond –"

"It was a vigorous reaction," she agreed quite quickly, opening her mouth for further comment before taking a deep breath instead. "We can't take him off the tube until this new swelling goes down, but he seemed amazingly coherent for a moment there. I'll mention it to his physician."

She glanced furtively at Evan before catching herself, taking Leek's chart, and charging out the door, leaving a bemused looking Nash Bridges and a once again unconscious Harvey Leek the only animate objects in the room.

Harv's room was much less friendly than Nash's had been. The walls were a simple white, and there was a lot more equipment. Some hung from a framework around the bed, and there was a breathing machine that took up half the space on Leek's left side. He had two large transparent plastic tubes shoved down his throat, breathing for him, an oxygen line in his nose – Nash couldn't figure out why, since he obviously wasn't breathing through his nose – and several lines connected to an IV coming out of Leek's arm.

It looked bad, but the doctors had assured them that once the swelling was down, all the equipment would vanish. Evan had watched over him like a hawk for the past ten hours, and was still fidgeting with the buttons on his sleeve, staring at his sedated friend. Cortez was beating himself up for not getting there in time; when Harvey was awake again and talking, Bridges was going to find out just what exactly had gone wrong there. But it could wait.

"Evan. Go home. Get a shower and a meal. I don't think he's going anywhere."

Cortez shrugged; it was almost a twitch. "Nah. I'm good. You're the one that should be going home . . . tonight, right?"

Nash nodded. "Thank God. I'm sure Nick's taken over the place by now."

It failed to get a smile, and Nash stood up slowly, frowning.

"Dizzy?"

"Yeah, a little bit. Not the first time I've taken a blow to the head." A chuckle. "I'm sure that explains everything." He headed out, patting Evan on the shoulder on the way. If there was blame to lay down, it could be done later. First thing was to get everyone back on duty.

As he headed down the hall to his own room to get his release papers signed, he counted the injuries. Joe had gotten shot at. He himself had been shot. Evan had been shot. And Harv was lucky to be alive. Not one of their finer moments, and a good analysis of exactly what had happened could only be beneficial.

But right now getting out of the damn cotton gown and to his own shower sounded like the most beneficial thing around.

* * * * * * *

"Hey, Nash. Doc said you shouldn't be driving, so I get the honor of chauffering you to work. And back from the dead. Not that I want to take over Angel's job . . ."

Nash moaned and shook his head, leaning back and wishing he had about ten more hours to sleep. He'd crashed in his recliner and apparently had spent the night there. "Unless you have coffee, get out."

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."

"Someone didn't wake up in a bed." A long sigh, and then the long, loud process of trying to stand. "I'm gonna catch a shower. Make yourself at home."

About ten minutes found Nash out and dressed, and Joe working on what was clearly his third cup of coffee. Nash shuffled over to the pot, picking it up and looking at the half-cup that was left. "Well thanks, bubba."

Joe nodded, gulping down the last of his mug. "No problem, man. That stuff is bad for headaches anyway. You should have eggs and orange juice."

Nash gave Joe a dark look, and he held up his hands. "Fine. I'll make another pot."

"Joe, I thought you straightened out the no caffeine thing with Inger already."

Dominguez had his back to Nash, but the shoulders sank in defeat. "Well, she didn't see it that way."

"Serves you right, bubba."

"Mmm. So I talked to Hughes last night. Very informative." Joe tossed out the old coffee filter and got fresh ingredients out. "Seems our crafty little resident planted the heroin on the first Dominguez specifically to get us involved. You were right about the target practice, too." His voice was much more somber. "Kid bragged that he wanted to make sure he could really shoot, and doesn't see why professional hitmen are paid such big bucks, since it ain't that hard."

Nash snorted, cracking three eggs into a pan. "Grad students."

"Yeah, well, I reminded him about the third shooting. Seems it's a bit harder to shoot perfectly when you've got a cop shooting back. We're getting him for both the dead officers and all the Dominguezes flat out. Both guns were recovered, so the case is open and shut."

"Good." Nash leaned against the counter, staring at the eggs floating in the pan. "What else?"

"Oh, it gets better. While he was bragging, he explained the alcohol. The five guys were Mexican illegals, like Dominguez. He had agreed to give them all prescription drugs at a slightly discounted rate since they didn't have insurance. Near as anyone knows, he just happened to know the first Dominguez. The others unloaded the truck, then he killed them and stuffed them into kegs of alcohol not only to keep the smell down, but to destroy evidence for the autopsy. He was going to attach them to heavy objects and dump 'em into the bay once the heat was off."

"What about the equipment? And where the hell is my egg beater?"

Joe threw more water in the coffemaker and handed Nash the whisk. "Was in the shed right next door, the one he cut a door into. The truck we found matched the tire casts and likely belonged to Dominguez. It was stolen, so there's no vehicle registration. Fellows ended up going there later that night, so we reapprehended him and he was shocked to find that the charges really hadn't been dropped."

Nash shook his head, grabbing the pepper shaker. "Well, that's why they're doctors, bubba."

"And that's why we're cops. All questions answered, all equipment recovered, all bad guys in jail or dead."

Nash contemplated the eggs as he transferred them from the pan to a waiting plate. "Well, bubba, I guess I agree with you. You moved back in with Inger yet?"

Joe gave Nash a hunted look. "She threatened to visit me at work to check to see how my 'diet' is going. Can I come live with you?"

Nash laughed. "No. Pour me some orange juice, will you? I wanna check on Harv before we hit the office."

A bedroom door creaked open, and Nick stepped out in his blue plaid pajamas and bathrobe. "Good morning, son."

"Morning, Nick. Have some coffee – oh, but wait, Joe drank it all."

Two heads swiveled to glare at him, and Joe cringed back. "It's coming, it's coming . . . sheesh. I liked you better in the hospital."

Nash laughed loud and long. "You just can't win, bubba."