Chapter Eleven: Reviewing the Evidence.

"Hi Mark." Jesse entered the doctor's lounge to see his old friend sitting by the phone with a worried expression on his face. "Everything okay?"

"I hope so," Mark murmured half to himself, then more loudly, "Steve said he would be in this morning by about 10:30. It's a little after that now and he's not answering his cell phone."

"Oh." Jesse frowned thoughtfully. "Maybe he got caught up doing something. Or his battery is low. There are lots of reasons he could be running behind schedule. Ten minutes late isn't all that late with L.A. traffic."

Mark smiled, warmly. "You're probably right, Jess. I'm worrying for nothing." He picked up the phone again. "I'll just try Cheryl. He was supposed to be going to meet her this morning. Maybe he's still there."

Jesse settled in one of the lounge chairs as Mark dialed the number to the precinct and asked to speak to Detective Banks. Though he wasn't officially panicking, Jesse could tell that there was more worry beneath the surface than Mark was letting on. He wanted to be nearby in case his help was needed. He listened in on the one-sided conversation.

"Hi Cheryl, this is Mark. I'm looking for Steve. He was going to meet me here at the hospital this morning. Is he still around?"

Mark's frown deepened as he listened to her response. "Did he say who or where?" Mark asked, looking briefly in Jesse's direction. "No, no. Thanks for letting me know. He's probably still there . . . Okay. . . Oh really? I'll be sure to let him know when I see him. Thanks. Bye."

"Not there?" Jesse asked when he disconnected.

"No," Mark shook his head thoughtfully. "Cheryl says that they found a receipt from an all night hardware store just down the street from Bob's among Breckish's things. It's dated and time stamped about an hour after Steve was attacked. The receipt details his purchases with codes only, so she's not sure what he bought. Breckish claims he was home sleeping. She's going over to the hardware store to see if she can figure out what he bought, and if there is any video that puts him in the store thus in the area."

"The net closes in," Jesse said enthusiastically. "I take it Steve doesn't know about it yet?" He asked, hoping to discover a bit more.

"No he doesn't. But I do know where he went. He got a call right after I left. Turns out it was the driver calling. He went out to Clear Skies Rehabilitation Facility to see him."

"So he's probably still there talking to the guy." Jesse suggested.

"Yeah, he probably is." Mark still didn't seem satisfied. He glanced at his watch and then picked up the phone again. "I think I'll just call out there," he said sheepishly. "Tell him that I'll meet him someplace for lunch, you know."

"If I know Steve, he'll want to eat here." Jesse joked.

Mark smiled in response as he spoke with directory assistance, requesting the phone number for Clear Skies Rehabilitation Facility. Jesse supplied him with a pen and a slip of paper to jot it down, and watched again as Mark dialed the number. Despite his smiling demeanor, Jesse was certain that Cheryl's words had done little to alleviate Mark's concern.

"Hello. Yes. A police Lieutenant Steven Sloan had an appointment there this morning. Can you tell me if he is still there? Thank you, that would be nice."

Mark looked at Jesse as he waited. "I'm on hold. She said that Steve spoke with a Mr. Bright earlier today. She's going to go and--"

"Hello, Mr. Bright? My name is Mark Sloan." Mark switched conversations. "I'm trying to reach Steve Sloan. I understand he spoke with you this morning. Yes, I'm the doctor who is his father." Mark laughed as he sent a bewildered look in Jesse's direction. The laughter quickly died away. "Oh he did? He was? How long ago was that?" Mark glanced down at his watch. "Thank you, Mr. Bright. Yes, I will. Goodbye."

Mark depressed the disconnect button and immediately began dialing again. The smile was completely gone.

"Mark? What is it? What did he say?" Jesse wanted to know. He'd just seen Mark's worry increase one hundred fold.

"Steve left Clear Skies about an hour ago. He wasn't feeling well when he left. I've got to check to see if he went home."

Privately Jesse wondered why he wouldn't have called if he was ill. He waited, watching Mark's worry deepen to greater depths with each unanswered ring. He left a message asking Steve to call him as soon as he received it. Then he was up and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Jesse was right behind him.

"Clear Skies is between here and Malibu. Cheryl will have him call if he shows up at the precinct. I'm going to head home. Maybe he had trouble with the car. I just want to check it out."

"I'm going with you." No way was Jesse going to let Mark make the drive out to Malibu alone. "I'm off in an hour anyway," Jesse reminded him when it looked like he might argue. "I'll ask Ross to cover. He owes me."

-- --

Cheryl handed a scanned copy of the receipt that had been found in Breckish's apartment to the day manager of the Home Central Hardware store. The only finger prints that had been found on the original belonged to Breckish and someone who wasn't in the system. Tying Steve's attack to Amber wasn't going to be easy.

The manager, a short, dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties, glanced at the sheet for several moments and handed it back. "That's an in-store code," she said matter-of-factly. "This receipt is for 6 key copies."

Cheryl's brows rose. "Key copies? He bought six copies of a key?"

The manager shook her head. "Not necessarily. He could have gotten one copy of six different keys, six copies of one key or anywhere in between. It's the same code for any key that's copied."

Why would Breckish be in a hardware store having keys made in the middle of night, Cheryl wondered. If it was Breckish. "Do you have video of your key copy area?" She asked the manager.

"Sure." The woman led her to an upstairs office area and into a side room which was lined with monitors which each displayed a separate part of the store. Beneath the monitors against one wall were shelves of computer equipment attached to flashing lights and a multitude of cables. Dispersed about the room were several computer work stations.

"Leo," the woman called to a bushy-haired young man. "Can you load up the video at the Locksmith desk on October 30th at approximately midnight?"

While the man went in search of the information, Cheryl continued to question the manager. "Can you tell me who was on duty at the Locksmith desk that night?"

The woman nodded wordlessly toward another of the young men, who quickly rolled a wheeled chair to a work station and pulled up the file in questions.

"Looks like Terry Jensen was on until about midnight. He's on days this week. He should be at the desk now."

"I'll want to talk to him," Cheryl informed her.

"No problem."

Cheryl smiled. She was impressed at how helpful and efficient the manager was being.

"It's loaded," Leo called.

Cheryl and the manager moved over and watched the screen where the video was being displayed. The images flew by as the time elapsed in fast forward motion. Just as the time clicked over to 12:07, a familiar face stepped into the frame of the video camera. She wondered how Breckish was going to try to explain his way out of this one.

-- --

When Mark pulled into the driveway at the beach house, he noted that Steve's rental was there, parked a bit further back than when he'd left earlier that morning. He released a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding. A bit of the tension that had been building within him during the drive began to relax.

But then he noticed that Steve's parking looked a little haphazard. And the car was pulled in deep enough into the drive to suggest that he'd gone in through his private entrance. Though he very rarely did it, Mark decided to follow suit.

Climbing out of his own car, he glanced briefly into the windows of the rental. Nothing seemed too terribly out of place - there was a crumpled bag from a local fast food restaurant sitting on the passenger seat, but nothing else caught his eye. He continued on around to the back of the house and approached Steve's door, Jesse following quietly on his heels. He reached for his key and inserted it into the lock. The door gave under that slight pressure, drifting a couple inches inward.

Mark's mouth dropped open in surprise. "It's unlocked," he exclaimed in a stage whisper. Half a dozen disturbing thoughts shot through his mind. No ordinary circumstances would lead Steve to leave the door unlocked.

"That isn't like Steve," Jesse's worried voice sounded from beside him, voicing his own concern. "Do you think we should go in?"

Mark's response was to push the door further open. His eye was immediately caught by the sight of Steve's shirt on the floor by the sofa. If the situation wasn't so serious, he might have laughed and suggested that this was like Steve. Or at least Steve as a teenager - clothing strewn from one end of his room to the other. But the adult Steve didn't tend to leave his clothes lying around on the floor.

Mark picked up the shirt and followed what he discovered was a trail: one shoe and then the other and both socks until he reached Steve's open bedroom. He could already hear the sound of running water. It sounded like Steve was brushing his teeth. The largest portion of worry drained away, feeling as if it came from all the way down in his bones.

Letting out a deep, cleansing sigh, he shot a look in Jesse's direction. "I think he's fine, Jess. Now I'm going to go kill him for not calling me."

"Yell if you need any help," Jesse chuckled and headed for the upper levels of the house.

Mark, still holding the garments that he'd gathered, strode toward the open bathroom door. "Hi Son. Forget something?"

He caught a quick glimpse of Steve, dressed in little more than a robe, with a bottle of mouthwash tilted up at a not entirely advisable angle, before he started violently, nearly spilling the blue antiseptic rinse.

Steve gulped, squenched up his face and made a shuddering motion before bursting into a fit of coughing.

The clothing hit the floor as Mark reacted. Shock turned to alarm at Steve's continued attempts to control his coughing. Mark reached for him, but Steve held him off with a wave of his hand. "I'm fine," he managed breathlessly. "You just scared 15 years off my life, not to mention making me gulp mouthwash! Ugh!" He shuddered again.

"Well I certainly didn't intend to scare you, but think of it as parental justice considering you just scared 25 years off of mine. I don't think I have 25 years to spare!"

Steve looked at him oddly. "This is my bathroom, Dad. . ."

"Yeah, but you were supposed to meet me." At Steve's continued blank look, Mark continued. "Ten thirty? Tests. . .?"

Steve's mouth dropped open and he moved past him and looked at the clock. It clicked over to 11:09 as he watched. "Oh, I guess I'm a little late," he said. "I must have lost track of time." He smiled sheepishly in his father's direction and settled heavily onto the bed. "Sorry Dad."

"It's all right," Mark chuckled, "I probably overreacted a little." He picked up the shirt from the floor and threw the shoes into the closet as he broached the subject that had sparked the drive home in the first place. "I spoke with someone named Bright at a rehab center who said you were ill."

He rested an assessing doctor's gaze on his son. He was still a little flushed from all of the coughing, but Mark thought he could see lines of strain around his mouth. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," Steve brushed the question off quickly before firing back one of his own. "Bright called you?"

"No," Mark corrected gently. "I called him. You weren't answering your cell. Cheryl told me where you'd gone this morning."

"My cell. . . Oh right. Sorry. It was in my jacket pocket. That's in the trunk of the car. Headed for the dump."

"The dump." Mark studied the man in front of him. Steve had just been coming out of the shower 3 hours earlier, and then there was the little matter of the trail of clothing from the door to the bedroom. "Care to tell me the whole story, son?"

Steve looked up at him, the slight flush in his cheeks darkened with genuine embarrassment. "I got sick, Dad. On the side of the road. I took pain meds on an empty stomach and then I had a whopper with everything and a juice that didn't agree with my decision to have them for breakfast."

Mark shook his head. "Steve, that's absolutely the wrong thing to eat if you're feeling nauseous."

"Don't I know it," Steve said, chuckling uncomfortably. "But I'm feeling better now."

"What about the pain? Is that why you took the meds this morning?"

"It's faded, Dad. I really am feeling a lot better. A little tired maybe, but I'm sure you're going to tell me that's normal."

"Yeah," Mark nodded, laughing a little. "It is." He blew out a breath and moved toward the door. "I'll just go make some dry toast while you get dressed. Again. Oh, and you should give Cheryl a call."