(Chapter 14. The beach house, Brentwood, Amanda's Lab, Mann's Chinese
Theatre. March 16&17)
Steve lay on the beach for several moments, sucking wind, struggling to get his breath back, and watching the noisy gulls wheel overhead. The knotted muscles in the back of his left thigh were causing excruciating pain, and would have left him breathless even without his recent overexertion. He knew he should be heading back to the beach house to call in the incident and have the task force come check out the scene, but he was just too exhausted to move. That last, furious burst of speed he had put on in his futile attempt to catch Emily had taken everything out of him. For right now, it was all he could do to breathe. He felt nauseous and his stomach washed with acid as he thought of her getting further and further away every second.
As if from far away, he heard a terrified scream over the roaring surf, "Dad!"
He heard bare feet slapping on the wet sand (Steven always ran barefoot on the beach), and the screaming grew rapidly closer. "Dad! Dad! Oh, my God, Dad!"
He wanted to sit up. He wanted to tell his son he was ok, but he was still fighting for air. He heard a soft thud and felt sand spray up on his body as Steven hit his knees beside him and started to examine him, checking for a pulse, and looking into his eyes. Seeing the frantic look on his son's face, he somehow summoned the willpower to control his breathing enough to relay a simple message.
"I'm ok. Caught a cramp, needed to rest. Call Cheryl, Emily was here."
He moaned as his right calf started to tighten up. At the same time, a tight fist clenched in his stomach.
"Dad?" Steven's voice was still worried.
"Go. Now." Finally, sitting up, he panted with a slight grin, "I promise…not to…wander off."
Steven reached out and gently smoothed back his father's graying hair. Then, with a final worried look, he turned, and sprinted back in the direction of the beach house. Steve watched his son run along the beach, and for a moment remembered when he was that strong and fit. Then, when Steven vanished behind the dunes, he rolled on to his hands and knees, crawled over to the edge of the ocean, and vomited into the surf. As the water washed it away, he wondered what he had eaten lately that would look like coffee grounds when it came back to haunt him.
In a matter of minutes, the beach was swarming with cops. Hannah and Donovan showed up with the immunometer, and tracked Emily as far as a small private pier a few hundred yards down the beach, but lost the trail once she got out on the water and there was nothing for the spores to cling to. Young Cioffi tracked her footprints from the pier, to a few yards from the beach house, back to an outcropping of rock where she appeared to have waited for Steve, and back to the pier. Judging from the number of footprints she had left along the beach, she must have been waiting, watching, and pacing half the night.
After Steve gave his statement, he had to let Cheryl direct the evidence gathering and investigation at the scene as he was forced to listen to lectures from his son, his wife, *and* his father about what a 'man his age' could and could not reasonably expect to do. They were all clearly worried about him, and if they hadn't been so angry at him for his foolishness in trying to run down a woman less than half his age when she was fresh and he was at the end of a long run, they would have noticed his obvious discomfort as he swallowed back wave after wave of mild nausea. Steve hid a smile. If just one of them had been there, he'd have been caught for sure, but for once, their ganging up on him worked in his favor. Each of them was trying so hard to make sure they were heard that none of them noticed there was anything wrong with him. Maybe he could finish this case before they made him go into the hospital for tests, after all.
Besides, he thought hopefully, trying hard to convince himself, it was probably just nerves anyway.
Steve stopped short when he entered Emily's house and saw Leigh Ann comfortably ensconced in the corner of the living room by the window. She had a small desk set up there, with her computer and a phone on it. A small two-drawer file cabinet sat beside her, and she had just picked up the phone when he made the connection.
"Deputy Chief Sloan's office." She spotted him and smiled warmly. "Yes, sir, please hold."
The chaos that had ensued after Emily left him eating her dust in the early hours of the morning had kept his mind awhirl. Between giving his statement, getting lectured, and trying to hide his discomfort from his family, he had barely had time to think about Emily's words. Then Amanda had stopped by to give Steven a ride to work as his car was in the shop again, and after hearing about his escapades on the beach, she had tattled on him about his upset stomach the other day. Of course, another round of lectures had followed.
He was glad she hadn't told them what had set his nerves on edge, but he was highly irate that she would bring it up at all to begin with, and he let her know it. The ensuing argument brought with it raised voices and hurt feelings. By then, Ron had arrived, and if Amanda herself hadn't physically restrained him, he would have decked Steve for making her cry. Steve had left in a rage, running the dome light and siren in his car just to have an excuse to drive too fast, and headed for Brentwood, where he could calm down and think.
And now he stood, looking at his assistant, Leigh Ann, and Emily's words clicked in his head like the tumblers in a lock…or a bullet in the chamber of a gun.
Liana…Leigh Ann. Damn.
He approached her and asked casually, "Leigh Ann, what are you doing here?"
"I'm your assistant, Chief. I'm assisting you."
"Well, yes, I know that, but why aren't you at the office?"
"It's kind of hard to assist you from the office when you're never there anymore, Sir. Don't worry, though, I've worked it all out. All your calls are being forwarded to this line," she indicated the phone, "and a regular patrol car is delivering your mail at ten and two. Since the office is on my way, I'll stop by when I come in and when I go home every day so I can take care of the things I can't do here."
Holding out the telephone receiver, she said, "It's Joe Cuiccio, from the DA's office. Judge Greer has scheduled the Gaudino trial, Sir."
The afternoon meeting was a tense one, mostly because the two powerful men in charge still wanted to tear each other's throats out, and the rest of the taskforce wasn't sure what they ought to do about it if they tried. Each time they looked up, blue ice met smoldering coals, and the tension moved up another notch.
"Judge Greer has set the trial for the twenty-eighth," Steve announced, "LAPD will be working in conjunction with the FBI to ensure security. Captain Cioffi, you'll be working on that with Agent Wagner." Turning to Dion, he felt the all too familiar twinge in his stomach as the anger in the young man's eyes matched that of his adoptive father. "Captain Wagner, you and Commander Banks will continue the search for Lieutenant Stephens and Moretti." Looking to the two very nervous and eager young men at the end of the table, he said, "Officers Cioffi and Donovan, you will remain on the search team."
He closed the file folder he had been reading from and said, "That's all for now. Dismissed."
As the meeting broke up, he said, "Ron, Dion, I'd like a private word with you."
Ron turned away from him. Dion looked from his dad to Steve and said, "I'm not sure you want to do that now, Chief."
"Maybe you're not, but I am," Steve responded. Softening his voice and his expression with a smile, he said, "Please?"
Ron turned to face him, Dion nodded, and they headed into the den and shut the door. They sat at a small study table in the den near a window, and as he spoke to his two friends about one thing, he slipped them notes about another.
"I am really sorry about what I said to Amanda this morning," he said. The note said, *Leigh Ann is the leak.*
"This has all been really rough on me, for reasons I can't explain to you yet." The note said, *Emily found out she's Ross Cainin's daughter.*
"I'll apologize to her today, you have my word." *You've never heard of her because Cainin's wife left him after he took over the Ganza crime family.*
"Meet me at the Pathology Lab today, say two o'clock, and I'll talk to her." *And maybe we can figure out what to do about Leigh Ann.*
"I don't care what's going on with you, Steve, you had no right to tear into my wife like that."
"I know, Ron," Steve said, "and I'm sorry." *In the mean time, do everything you can to keep her out of the loop, but don't let on that we don't trust her.*
Dion and Ron looked at each other for a moment, and nodded.
"We'll see you at two," Dion said.
"Ok, and thanks, guys. Uh, are we ok?"
Dion said, "Yeah."
Ron passed him a note, *Ask me after you've apologized to my wife.*
Steve's guts burned.
Leigh Ann sighed as she drove back to the station and wondered how the taskforce had managed without her for so long. No one had been coming by the office for days, and the Chief had been letting paperwork pile up on his desk, but now that she had set herself up in the house in Brentwood, it seemed as if there were a million and one things they needed from the office *now*. It was almost as if they were inventing errands for her to run.
Oh, well. At least it gave her a chance during the day to take care of other important things.
"Joe Gary Realty," the receptionist said.
"Hi, this is Leigh Ann Bergman, Chief Sloan's civilian assistant. Could I please speak to Mr. Gary?"
Her call was put through in just a moment, and when Joe Gary answered, she introduced herself again before explaining the reason she had invented for her call.
"Things have been so hectic with this search for Lieutenant Stephens, and the Chief and I are both dividing our time between the Lieutenant's house and the office," she rambled on. "Somehow, the folder has been misplaced. I need the address in order to cut you a check for the rent, and because of this stupid new accounting program, if I don't get it into the system by three o'clock, I won't be able to cut the check until next month."
Joe Gary thought about it a moment. He'd been working with Steve Sloan for almost forty years, and he'd *never* screwed up like this. He'd met Leigh Ann several times in the past three years, and Steve had always made a big deal about how much help she was. He knew Sloan trusted her, hell, he *relied* on her, but still…
"Please, Mr. Gary. It'll be one less thing for the Chief to worry over."
The girl's pleading and the genuine concern for Steve in her voice made up his mind. He gave her the address.
Leigh Ann thanked Mr. Gary politely, and closed up her cell phone with a wicked grin.
Steve had gone back to the little Italian place near Emily's house for a late lunch. The owner eyed him suspiciously, but at least the man didn't ask him to leave. Studying the menu carefully, he finally chose a bland- sounding chicken dish with no tomatoes or marinara sauce. He'd been sneaking antacid tablets all morning, and had managed to surreptitiously use a roll and a half. Maybe when he got to the hospital, he'd ask Jesse to prescribe something stronger.
Maybe not. The last thing he needed was one more lecture from a doctor.
"Hey, Steve, how ya doin'?"
Steve looked up and smiled broadly.
"Joe, good to see you." He invited the man to sit down with a gesture.
As he sat, Gary said, "I'm meeting a client, so I can't talk long. I just had to rub it in, though. You lost the file, eh?"
Confused, Steve asked, "What file?" His stomach started to cramp.
"Man, you are starting to slip. The file on that place you're renting from me for your 'friends'."
"Huh?"
"You should be ashamed of yourself, Sloan, making your poor secretary share the blame, and then not even remembering what happened. Leigh Ann called me about an hour ago and got the address so she could cut a check for the rent."
Steve swallowed hard. Then he swallowed again.
"Jeeze, man, you don't look too good."
Jabbing a finger into the tabletop, in the levelest tone he could manage, he said, "Stay right here. This conversation just became official police business. Don't go anywhere. Don't talk to anyone. I'll be right back."
Then he made a beeline for the men's room.
"So, you told him about Cainin's daughter," Moretti asked.
"Yeah."
Emily and Moretti were comfortably settled in the place she had rented in Redondo Beach. The living room was spacious, and they were practicing the tango.
"And?"
"It's up to him to do something about it. I'm sure he'll make the connection and come up with something. He's no dummy."
"No, I suppose not."
Emily jumped and cursed and yelled, "Watch the toes!"
"Sorry."
Steve pressed his face against the cold comfort of the bathroom stall door hoping its stainless steel coolness would help calm his queasy stomach. He'd been trying so hard to get Emily to bring Moretti in, so he could put him in *that* house. Thank God, she didn't listen. If she had, one call and Moretti would have been dead. Maybe she would be, too.
That last thought was enough to push him over the edge. He hadn't eaten breakfast, so all that came up was a little coffee and the remains of some antacid tablets.
He went to the sink and splashed some cold water on his face. 'It's just nerves,' he told himself. 'Every time something bad happens concerning Emily, you get queasy.' He tried hard to believe it. 'She's your daughter, and you've missed her whole life. You're afraid she'll be gone before you get to know her, that's all. It's just nerves. Just nerves.'
He patted his face dry with a paper towel, and when he opened his eyes, the owner was standing there with a glass of water for him. He accepted it meekly, rinsed and spat, and drank the rest.
"Thanks," he said, handing the glass back.
"You need-a to see a doctor before-a you come-a back to my-a place."
"I know. Sorry about that." He flashed the man his badge and ID and asked, "Is there a place I can talk to my friend where I won't be overheard or interrupted?"
The short Italian studied the ID for a moment, then his eyes widened in recognition. "You look-a different on the TV."
Steve smiled and said, "I hope that's a compliment."
The owner shook his head. "Not-a the way you a-lookin' a-now. That-a redheaded cop, she-a givin' you trouble."
Steve's smile widened into a rueful grin. "You have no idea."
"It ain't-a no wonder you have-a ulcers. You canna use-a my office."
"It's just nerves," he assured the rotund little man.
"Yeah. Anna you'll a-be sayin' that 'til you a-spittin' up a-blood."
Steve felt considerably better after his talk with Joe Gary. He had a plan. If they could just come up with a suitable ruse to make Leigh Ann and her friends really believe Emily was bringing Moretti in, they could probably sweep up the whole gang Leigh Ann was associated with and then bring Moretti in safely. Surely, then, one of them would roll over and give up their boss. He hoped he could get Emily's help with that. To prove to the owner, as much to himself, that his little episodes in the men's room were really nothing, he had them box his meal so he could take it with him to eat at the hospital.
Steve entered Amanda's lab and nodded cautiously toward Ron and Dion. Dion immediately handed him a note that said, "The room is bugged. We've found several throughout the hospital. Somebody knows your habits and has been taking advantage." Ron showed him the positive reading on his surveillance detection device, and pointed out where the bug had been hidden on the underside of one of the tables. Steve was immediately struck with the sickening realization that someone, somewhere may have been listening when he told Jesse and Amanda all about his connection to Emily.
Taking a deep breath, he apologized.
"I am so sorry for the way I yelled at you this morning, Amanda."
"I know you are, Steve."
"You do know why I got so upset, though, don't you? I mean, you know there was a reason. You were getting awfully close to…something else…that I just can't go into right now. I wasn't just lashing out at the most convenient target."
Ron jumped in. "There is no excuse for your behavior this morning, Steve…"
"Butt out, Ron," Amanda snapped.
Shocked and chastised, Ron trailed off. He obviously didn't understand some of the dynamics at play here.
"I'm not making excuses, Amanda. I know what I did was unforgivable. I just lost it, but I wanted to make sure you knew why. Can you forgive me?"
Amanda pretended to think it over a minute. Then she walked over to her friend and wrapped her arms around him.
"Of course I forgive you. You'd have to do a lot more than yell at me to make me stay mad at you."
Steve gratefully accepted and returned the hug, knowing it was as much to prove to Ron and Dion that she forgave him as it was to comfort him. As Amanda gently disengaged herself, she cupped his face in her hands, made him look her in the eye, and said, "The longer you wait, the harder it will be, Steve. Before long, you won't be able to explain why you didn't speak up sooner. You won't have any excuse."
His stomach churned, and he said, "I know, but I can't do it yet."
"Soon, you won't have a choice."
Unable to speak, Steve just nodded, and Amanda let him go.
As he turned and looked at Ron and Dion, Ron flashed him a small grin, and said, "Now we're ok."
Much to Steve's great relief, Captain Cioffi appeared just then and rapped at the glass door to the lab, gesturing to Steve that he needed to speak to him a moment.
After Steve left, Dion asked, "Mom, what's up with Uncle Steve?"
Amanda sighed, and said, "That's not for me to tell you, but," she looked intently from her son to her husband, "When all this is over, and the story comes out, a lot of people are going to be hurting. He's going to need all the friends he can get."
"Did he do something wrong, Mom?"
"What?" Amanda raised her brows in shock, then said, "Oh, God, no, honey." After a thoughtful pause, she explained things the best she knew how. "But some things did happen in the past that no one ever told him about. He did nothing wrong, son, but if his suspicions are correct, he never had the chance to do the right thing."
Steve stuck his head back in the path lab. "Guy's there's been another rash of Emily-sightings. Let's get back to work."
Emily sat in the LTD beside a mailbox in Beverly Hills listening on a stolen cell phone. The Chief wanted to meet with her. He had a plan to get Leigh Ann and whoever she was working with, but he needed Emily's help, and her voice mail wouldn't allow him time to explain it. She gave it some thought and finally went in search of a phone book.
"Barbecue Bob's," a cheerful young voice answered.
"This is Emily. Tell the Chief to wait for me, alone, at Artoo-Detoo's spot on the Forecourt of the Stars at Mann's Chinese Theatre at one thirty tomorrow afternoon. Tell him to have an explanation of his plan written out and stashed in an envelope in his hip pocket. He won't see me, and shouldn't look for me, but I'll call and let him know if I decide to go along with the plan."
She hung up.
"Emily! Emily, wait," Lauren shouted into the phone.
Olivia chuckled when Steve said where he was supposed to wait for Emily. "Figures she'd go for the robot," she muttered.
"Why do you say that, Liv," Steve wanted to know.
"Well, she was really into the new Star Wars movies when they started cranking them out. Episodes one and two came out before she was born, and she loved episode three. Anyway, Keith and I suggested she take a look at the original. We still had an old copy of it before they revamped it to fit with the newer episodes. She was not at all impressed with the special effects, but she loved R2-D2. She even dressed as him…it?…for Halloween one year."
"I think at the time…she was about ten…she felt more comfortable with technology than with people," Keith added. "She wasn't a very popular kid, and even her few friends didn't understand her. In public, some of them acted like they didn't even know her, so she spent a lot of time tapping away at the keyboard, doing God knows what, lost in her own little world."
Liv nodded her agreement, and continued, "Then one day, I show her this movie, and here's this little bucket of bolts showing friendship, trust, loyalty, affection, and a whole range of human characteristics that she rarely experienced with her peers. She loved it. She even programmed her computer with his sounds. It made one noise when she turned it on, and another when she turned it off. There were sound effects for errors, typos, opening and closing files, I swear it sounded like it talked to her."
Keith laughed and said, "Yeah, and whenever she deleted something, C-3PO's voice would say, 'We're doomed!' It was just too funny. And whenever she used their names, she insisted on spelling them out. They weren't R2-D2 and C-3PO. They were Artoo-Detoo and See-Threepio. I think sometimes they were more real to her than we were."
The discussion trailed off after Keith's last comment, and Steve found himself feeling sorry for Liv and Keith, but especially for Emily. Then he had gone off to arrange the trap he had in mind for Leigh Ann and her cohorts. He wanted everything in place before he met Emmy. That way, they would be able to go as soon as she was notified of the plan.
Emily was thrilled. She had always wanted to be a droid again, and while she was just too big for Artoo now, the See-Threepio suit was a perfect fit. She'd even bought a voice modifying system and fiddled with it until she sounded just like Threepio. She looked in the mirror, smiled behind her golden mask, and cried, "We're doomed!" Then she laughed. This was just way too cool.
Steve paced near the designated spot on the Forecourt of the Stars. He had decided to take the meeting alone because he was asking for Emily's help and didn't want to think this was just another ploy to trap her. Years ago, Hollywood Boulevard had been left go to seed. It had been slowly going downhill since the 1980's, but many of the old historic buildings had been suddenly vacated after the quake in 2005, and those that remained occupied were abandoned after the riots in 2007. Then, in the twenties, huge infusions of cash and energy had revitalized the area. Many of the grand old buildings and famous restaurants had been restored, and the drug addicts and prostitutes had been driven out. Historic Hollywood was again a place safe for families and tourists.
A burning and cramping sensation pulled Steve out of his reverie, and he pulled a roll of antacid tablets out of his pocket and munched down two or three of the chalky pills. Grimacing, he realized they were one thing that had not been improved upon with time. He rubbed his temples trying to get his headache to go away. His stomach had been so unsettled lately, he had barely eaten, and he had been feeling the effects of low blood sugar off and on for the past couple days. Now, he was feeling tired and achy and tense, too. He was nervous about this meeting because it was vital that Emily should cooperate with his plan, but he was also angry. All yesterday afternoon and evening, his mind had been dwelling on Liv and Keith's comments about Emmy's attachment to the droids. It had sounded like she'd had a very unhappy childhood.
He was angry that Liv had never told him he had a daughter. If he had known, maybe he could have helped Emmy. He wouldn't have tried to take her away from Liv and Keith, but he could have been a friend and spent time with her and watched her grow up. Surely there would have been more for her to see and do in LA than in the backwoods country of Western Pennsylvania. She might have been happier if she could have looked forward to the occasional visit, and she might have gotten into less trouble.
Then there was his dad. Wherever he went, Mark Sloan had always been the resident oddball, a friendly, harmless, popular eccentric. He might have been able to teach Emmy to accept her differences and to relate to other people. There was no earthly reason a ten year old girl should prefer the friendship of a computer to that of kids her own age. If Steve had just known about Emmy, if he'd been allowed to be a part of her life, if she'd grown up knowing her younger brother…
A sudden wave of nausea struck him at that thought, and he quickly retreated from it.
Then he began to trace back through the ideas that had been passing through his mind. Who was he kidding? Had he known Emmy was his daughter, he'd have done just what he did with his son. He would have left it to his dad and Maribeth to look after her until she got into serious trouble. He was too busy playing hero to be there for Steven until it was almost too late, what made him think it would have been any different with Emily?
Disgusted with himself, Steve had to admit that Liv and Keith had done better than he could have for Emmy. Still, it would have been nice to know her. It hurt to think he'd missed the first thirty years of her life.
Then there was that other thing, the thought of which sickened him. He quickly stuffed it down, and turned to pace back to where he was supposed to be waiting.
Three tourists were standing at the Star Wars spot on the pavement, a shiny golden robot, a stormtrooper, and some sort of two-legged reptilian or amphibious creature. 'Great,' Steve thought, '*Serious* fans. They always travel in packs, don't they?' He felt a twinge of pain as his stomach protested the annoyance he was feeling, and he massaged his temples to try to coax the headache to leave. 'They can be real weirdoes. Well, they better just stay out of the way.' As he stood nearby trying to massage the stiffness from his back, he watched them take turns posing with each other and snapping photos.
"I do believe my feet are somewhat bigger than his," the robot said as he stepped onto C-3PO's footprints, still holding a camera in either shiny hand.
Steve couldn't help himself. As he approached he said, "Concrete shrinks when it dries. There's really no telling how big his feet were."
The golden face turned toward him, not with a swivel of the neck, but with an awkward, jerky motion that involved turning the whole torso and shuffling the feet. Even through the modified voice, Steve could hear a smile. "Really, sir? Do you know by how much?"
Steve forced himself to smile back. "That's hard to say," he told the golden figure before him. The droid had a comical face. The big, round, glowing yellow eyes made him seem perpetually surprised. He was still holding the cameras straight up in the air, one in each hand, as if he had forgotten them. "It depends on a lot of things like how much water was in the mix, how humid the day was, and how fast it dried."
"I see," the electronic voice sounded a bit disappointed. "So there's no telling if I would have filled his shoes, is there, sir?"
Steve grinned, playing along. Ok, it was weird, but this guy *was* amusing, and until Emily showed up, he had nothing better to do anyway. "I see, you want to know if you measure up. Well, I think you should know, filling someone's shoes is just a human expression for being able to take over where your predecessor left off. It doesn't matter the size of your feet. What matters is the size of your heart."
The digitized tone sounded even sadder, and the depressed sigh came through clearly when the android said, "Then there really is no hope for me, sir. I have no heart, just wires and circuitry and microchips." The robot hung his head, looking down along his golden shell to his shiny feet.
Steve thought a bit. Here he was, waiting to meet the daughter who didn't know he was her father, the daughter who had kidnapped a federal witness, who had been on the run for a week and a half, who was vital to his plan to trap the mafia spy in his own office; and he was having a philosophical discussion with a confused young man dressed as a golden robot from a movie over half a century old. His life was really getting strange.
For some reason, he wanted to say something to help.
"Do you have dreams," he asked. "Things you want to achieve, places you want to go?"
"Well, yes, sir, I suppose." The voice sounded uncertain. Steve was amazed at how much *humanity* remained after running a person's voice through a portable synthesizer. Modern technology was truly remarkable. "I have always wanted to…be of service…to help someone…to change a life…to make things better for someone. I know I'll never be such a grand hero as See-Threepio, but I've always wanted to make a difference."
Steve smiled and nodded. "Then you *do* have a heart, and the more life tests you the bigger it will grow. Give yourself time, and you could very well fill his shoes and more."
When the voice responded, it sounded brighter and more hopeful than a moment ago. "Do you really think so?"
"I'm sure of it," Steve replied. "I promise."
"Thank you, sir!" The robot reached out excitedly to shake hands, was startled to find the camera still there in the way, gawked at it a moment, clumsily stuck it under his arm, and reached out again. Taking the offered grip, Steve was surprised by how warm his touch felt. "Thank you so very much." The robot stood there shaking his hand for several moments, as if not realizing that he had yet to let go. Steve looked down at their still- joined hands and the movement slowed, the grip loosened, and the robot finally let go. "Um, sir, might I ask a favor?"
"You can always ask," Steve encouraged. Whoever he was, this guy was a likeable sort.
"Would you mind taking a couple pictures of the three of us together?"
Shrugging, Steve said, "I'd be happy to."
Forgetting the camera under his arm, the robot handed Steve the camera he was holding in his hand, and the one under his arm fell to the ground.
"Oh, dear," the gold-armored android muttered as he turned and started to bend to pick it up.
Suddenly realizing how unwieldy the rigid suit must be, Steve offered to help. "Here," he said, bending forward at his glittering companion's feet, "Let me." Inspecting the camera he told the tourists, "I don't think it's broken."
For the first time in days, Steve found himself doing something that genuinely made him feel good. He snapped a couple shots with each camera, returned them to the stormtrooper and the repto-amphibian thing, told them about some other sights he thought they might enjoy and waved as they walked away.
Emily ducked back into the alley where she'd left the LTD, stripped off her golden armor, removed the voice disguising system, and stashed her costume in the trunk. She pulled black denim leggings and a black turtleneck over the black bodysuit she'd worn underneath Threepio's golden carapace and pulled a wig of short, curly, brown hair over the long red braid, which she had pinned snugly to her head. After applying a foundation to mask her freckles and touching up her lipstick, she stuffed a black and white bandana in her hip pocket and put on half-moon earrings and a grinning full- moon pendant of red jasper. The large pendant, an inch and a half in diameter and set in gold, hung from a long gold chain to the middle of her chest. It was a stunning piece, the focus of her whole outfit, and it drew attention away from her face--which was the whole idea, anyway. She added a matching reddish leather, duster-length jacket, and cowboy boots, and a black cowboy hat with a reddish braided leather band studded here and there with onyx and gold beads. A pair of John Lennon sunglasses completed the look.
She had decided to leave the LTD behind. It was an older model car, a bit beat up, and it really didn't fit in with what her neighbors in Redondo Beach were driving. She needed something a bit sportier and had decided to purchase it on her way home today. She figured she'd take the bus to Burbank where she'd buy the car with a fake ID, and drive it back to the safe house.
Taking up her black leather briefcase, which held her laptop, a cell phone, her fake ID's and now, the Chief's plan, she edged up to the corner of the building and angled her compact mirror so she could watch the chief without stepping around the corner. She knew the worst possible time to step back onto Hollywood Boulevard would be when he was looking her way. It was simply human nature to carefully scrutinize things that were new on the scene. She'd seen the Chief pacing while he waited for her, and knew if she waited long enough he'd turn away. Then she'd slip out into the pedestrian traffic, move with the crowd, and just be a part of the landscape the next time he turned around.
Steve whirled and paced back to the Star Wars panel on the sidewalk. It was two thirty, and Emily hadn't shown. He was getting worried. Everything he'd known about her, and everything he'd been told indicated that she would be on time, and here she was an hour late. He stretched and reached around to knead the stiff muscles of his lower back and tried to ignore the cramping and burning in his gut. His tension had left as he dealt with the tourists, but now it was back with a vengeance.
As the Chief turned and paced away from her, Emily slipped back into the flow of traffic, and watching him as she went, started to make her way across the courtyard toward a restaurant called the Hamburger Hamlet, where she intended to read the Chief's letter and decide what to do about it.
As Steve massaged his back, he realized something was missing. The envelope! He had written out his plan in detail, and as Emily had instructed, he'd placed it in an envelope in his hip pocket. It had stuck up a couple of inches, and he should have brushed his hand against it when he reached around behind himself. Clapping his hand to the pocket, he realized in a panic that he had lost the envelope. How in the hell had he lost it?
The robot. See-Threepio. Damn, damn, damn! She was *right here* and he didn't even notice.
Turning quickly, he scanned the pedestrian traffic for anyone who seemed out of place. The repto-amphibian thing and the stormtrooper had moved off to the Star Trek square on the forecourt, but the golden robot was nowhere to be seen. There was a family probably seeking out Shirley Temple or some other child-friendly star, and a blonde who clearly fancied herself the next Marilyn Monroe. Steve found it strange how long certain icons stuck in the American imagination. An androgynous figure, he wasn't sure if it was male or female, wandered aimlessly, probably looking for some old western movie star if he could judge by the person's outfit, then, apparently finding the sought for imprints, crouched and touched them reverently.
As luck would have it, Emily was standing near Gene Autry's spot when she saw the Chief turn and search the crowd. Quickly she dropped her head and ambled along as if studying and admiring the cinematic history beneath her feet. Knowing her height would be the only thing to give her away at this distance, she dropped to a crouch and skimmed her hands across Autry's handprints and Champion's hoof prints.
Steve continued scanning the crowd. Nobody seemed out of place. He just saw the typical afternoon crowd wandering the forecourt, looking for a connection to their favorite stars. He started to catalog the people he had noticed. The stormtrooper and the amphibian stood out, surely, but neither costume allowed any way for Emmy to conceal her considerable height. She wouldn't be with the family, though the father was tall. She could have paid them to help her, he supposed, but he didn't think she'd take that risk, especially with children involved. It was a brisk, late- winter day, and given Emily's problems with the cold, he decided Marilyn simply wasn't wearing enough clothing.
But that genderless westerner was certainly bundled up, and as 'Tex' was still crouching, Steve couldn't judge the tourist's true height. He took out his map of the forecourt. He could just make out the size and shape of the spot 'Tex' was investigating. It was square number seven, according to his map, Gene Autry's.
Emily got out her map of the forecourt. 'Ok, you've started this western theme, carry it through,' she told herself. 'Where's there another western movie star close enough that the Chief won't have time to get a good look at you before you get there?' She rose slowly as she studied her map of the forecourt. 'Ah, Steve McQueen.'
Steve continued scanning the crowd, but for some reason he just had a feeling about Tex. As he watched, the object of his attention got up and moved three squares down and one to the left. 'Ok, Tex is tall,' Steve thought as he consulted his map. Steve McQueen. Tex was definitely a western fan…or trying to pass as one.
Studying her map again, Emily planned her route, and gave up the idea of lunch in the Hamburger Hamlet. William S. Hart was number forty, down and to her right. Then Miss Barbara Stanwyck and her hubby Robert Taylor were at number forty-eight, straight across the courtyard from Hart. John Wayne's prints were at number seventeen, and that would have her just a few feet from the bus stop. Thank goodness for he father's interest in the old westerns. She had some familiar names she could draw on to help her, but damn she wished she had planned for this.
Steve watched as Tex studied a map of the forecourt, apparently trying to figure out where to go next. When the tourist put the map away and struck out across the courtyard, Steve began pacing again in that general direction. If Tex wasn't Emily, and Emily was watching, he didn't want to appear to be looking too hard for her. He needed her trust, and she had specifically told him he wouldn't see her and shouldn't look for her, but dammit, he found he wanted to see her. He wanted to talk to her, now, in person, in case things went badly later. He felt his stomach start to churn with acid again, and as casually as he could, he took out some antacid tablets and chewed on them.
'Oh, great googly-moogly, the Chief is coming this way,' Emily realized with her heart in her throat. 'Why doesn't he just go away and wait for my call like I told him to do?' She hadn't seen anyone else, and didn't think this was a trap, but she didn't want to put anyone beside herself at risk if she could help it. If her contact and his people were using her to get to the Chief, he could ill afford to be seen with her now. She was officially a dirty cop and a fugitive, and if he were spotted with her and failed to arrest her, he would look dirty, too. Worse yet, if he had been followed, the bad guys could spot her, and she was just too vulnerable out here in the open away from her car. 'Just stick to your route, and get out of here as soon as possible, Em,' she told herself, wanting nothing more than to get out of there safely without confronting the Chief.
Steve watched the crowd as he ambled toward Tex, and when Tex stopped and bent to touch another spot on the sidewalk, Steve consulted his map. William S. Hart was in that area. He was another western star who went way back. When Tex rose and started walking across the courtyard again, Steve looked at the squares on his map that lay in this fan's path, and found that Barbara Stanwyck, matriarch of the old series "Big Valley," was right ahead. He turned and strolled back to the Star Wars spot, wishing he could just stop this stupid game and go straight up and see if it was Emily. He would ask if she was all right and find out if he could do anything for her. All he wanted was to see her safe.
As Emily stood up from Barbara Stanwyck's spot, she was shocked to hear the grumbling of a bus as it pulled away from the curb, and she ran a couple of steps toward the bus stop before she remembered she was supposed to be a tourist and not someone in a hurry to get out of there. "Damned ecological bus," she muttered. The modern biodiesel engines produced almost no pollutants, but they lacked the distinctive noise and odor of the sulfur- hydrocarbon-carbon monoxide belching smog factories of her youth. "I'd have heard and smelled a good, old-fashioned diesel engine before it pulled away," she groused.
'Ok,' she thought, consulting her map. 'The buses run every fifteen minutes. All I have to do is find a way to kill the time before I head back to John Wayne's spot. Hmmmm. Roy Rogers and Trigger.' She grinned and started to amble along slowly. 'Perfect.'
Steve turned to see Tex bending to touch the sidewalk right where he expected. Then the visitor did a strange thing. Tex stood up, bolted a couple of steps toward Hollywood Boulevard, stopped, consulted the map, grinned, and then wandered to the east side of the courtyard, away from the street.
Steve studied his map. As he followed Tex's path again, he realized Tex was bypassing what should have been a very important stop. Tex made a beeline for the space Roy Rogers had shared with Trigger, but skipped over Tom Mix and his horse Tony, just a few feet to the right. Something was definitely up. He munched a couple more antacid tablets to calm his uneasy stomach.
Then he realized that Tex didn't have a camera, and he decided it was time to approach. By now, he was almost certain that Tex was Emily. The only doubt he had stemmed from the fact that Tex was just moseying around like any tourist, taking no apparent direction and instead simply seeking out sidewalk panels that seemed of interest. Emily would want to get out of there quickly, and would probably have taken the most direct route out of the forecourt. If she wanted to pass for a tourist, she might have strolled past a few of the old western stars' spots, but she would have still headed for Hollywood Boulevard instead of moving toward the back of the courtyard.
Steve came to stand beside Tex as she (he could tell Tex was a she, now) studied Roy Rogers and Trigger's imprints. "So, you must be a western fan," he said.
Tex looked up at him, her eyes shielded behind a pair of John Lennon shades, and said, "Yup." Then she looked back to the pavement.
'Oh, crap,' thought Emily. 'The Chief is coming over. Doesn't he realize what could happen if he's seen with me? If he'd just stay away, he could maintain deniability if anything goes wrong.'
"So, you must be a western fan," he said.
She looked up. "Yup." Then she looked back to the pavement, hoping to discourage him. 'Just get lost, sir,' she thought.
When the Chief said nothing, she continued, "I'd reckon a feller your age woulda learned by now that women are seldom impressed with the obvious."
Steve chuckled at her gibe. That *had* to be his Emily. 'His?' Everything he knew about her told him she would be sharp tongued and sarcastic. "I'm sorry," he said, "You just look like someone I used to know."
"Another worn out line," Tex sighed. "That last filly wasn't interested either, was she?"
"Oh, she was interested, all right, but…it just wasn't the right time and place." Steve felt his nervous stomach complain. Why was he directing the conversation to this topic? Was he losing his mind?
Looking up again, she pulled her glasses down to the tip of her nose and peered at him over the rims. "At least she was a little closer to your age, I hope. I'm young enough to be your daughter, and I ain't looking fo' no sugar daddy, so you can just mosey along."
One moment Steve was smiling at those green-gold eyes, knowing he had Emily dead to rights, being amused by her barbed comments and proud of her valiant effort to carry off this charade, and the next, he was desperately struggling to keep down his lunch. Her comment had hit too close to home. As he retched and gagged, he suddenly realized with detached amusement that he couldn't lose his lunch because he hadn't eaten any. His stomach had been too upset earlier in the day.
"You don't look so good, mister," said Emily, still not dropping the act.
"Oh, God, Em," Steve groaned as the world began swirling around him. He was so grateful Emily was there as she helped him ease down to the concrete. He could just imagine the pain if he had dropped to the cement when he lost his balance. On all fours on the sidewalk, he felt the muscles in his back and ribs tense as his body prepared to deposit his stomach contents in Roy Rogers' footprints. Next thing he knew, he heaved and spit up a puddle of something that looked like coffee grounds flecked with white. Just like yesterday morning, he couldn't figure what the coffee grounds were, but he knew the white specks were his antacid tablets. 'Fat lot of good they did,' he thought.
"Shit, Chief," he heard Emily mutter as she patted him down, obviously looking for something, "How long you been pukin' blood?"
"Blood?"
"The black stuff, Chief. Partially digested blood clots," she explained as she slipped his cell phone out of his pocket.
He heaved again, and this time it was bright red.
"Oh, hell," she cursed. Steve heard her dial 911, and felt her checking his pulse as she spoke briefly. "I need an ambulance at Mann's Chinese Theatre, along the east wall, halfway back. Deputy Chief of Police Sloan has taken ill. He's spitting up blood, and I suspect a bleeding ulcer."
Gasping for breath between bouts of nausea, Steve heard her give them his vitals. "I'll make sure someone stays with him," she said and clicked the phone shut. He felt a gentle hand on his back as she leaned close to him, and murmured, "Ambulance is on its way, Chief. What are your orders?"
Steve knew what she was asking. Did he want her to stay or did he want her to go back and protect Moretti? Oh, he wanted her to stay, but he was aware that other people were drawing close, and help would arrive soon. Emmy couldn't afford to be caught now. He had to do the right thing.
"Look after your witness, Lieutenant," he whispered. "He's too important to put at risk now."
"Yes, Sir," she said. "But let me make you a little more comfortable before I go."
She helped him lay down on his side on the sidewalk, encouraging him to fold his arm under his head for a pillow, then she covered him with her coat.
"You," she pointed at Marilyn, "Come here, kneel behind him."
The young blonde was obviously petrified, but she did as she was told.
"Rub his back, big slow circles, it'll make him feel better."
Steve felt the gentle motion on his back, and was surprised that she was right. It did make him feel just a little better.
"Try to help him stay calm, and if he passes out, keep him on his side just like this, that way he won't choke."
Marilyn didn't say anything, but she must have given an affirmative response, because the next thing Steve knew, Emmy was crouching on the sidewalk in front of him.
"It's important that you stay conscious, Sir. Just stay calm and keep breathing, ok?"
Steve nodded. He was trying.
"Ok. You." She pointed to the father of the little family. "Have your wife take the kiddies away, they don't need to see this. Then come back here."
Steve heard sirens approaching.
"Em, get outta here," he told her.
"Soon, Sir. Soon."
The father came back and asked, "What can I do?"
At just that moment, Steve retched and vomited more blood. He saw the poor guy go pale, but was grateful when the man stood his ground, still willing to help.
Emily handed him a bandana handkerchief.
"Use this to wipe his mouth if you need to, and get down here, at his eye level, and keep him talking. Keep him conscious. I'm going to meet the ambulance."
The man's face, scared and worried, suddenly appeared in front of him.
"Hey there, buddy, I'm from Minnesota. How about you?"
Steve felt, rather than saw, the stranger dab at his face with the bandana.
"I'm from Malibu. I was meeting someone here."
"That nice young lady, I'll bet. Is she your daughter?"
Steve vomited again. Then he saw the wheels of a stretcher roll into sight, and everything went dark.
Steve lay on the beach for several moments, sucking wind, struggling to get his breath back, and watching the noisy gulls wheel overhead. The knotted muscles in the back of his left thigh were causing excruciating pain, and would have left him breathless even without his recent overexertion. He knew he should be heading back to the beach house to call in the incident and have the task force come check out the scene, but he was just too exhausted to move. That last, furious burst of speed he had put on in his futile attempt to catch Emily had taken everything out of him. For right now, it was all he could do to breathe. He felt nauseous and his stomach washed with acid as he thought of her getting further and further away every second.
As if from far away, he heard a terrified scream over the roaring surf, "Dad!"
He heard bare feet slapping on the wet sand (Steven always ran barefoot on the beach), and the screaming grew rapidly closer. "Dad! Dad! Oh, my God, Dad!"
He wanted to sit up. He wanted to tell his son he was ok, but he was still fighting for air. He heard a soft thud and felt sand spray up on his body as Steven hit his knees beside him and started to examine him, checking for a pulse, and looking into his eyes. Seeing the frantic look on his son's face, he somehow summoned the willpower to control his breathing enough to relay a simple message.
"I'm ok. Caught a cramp, needed to rest. Call Cheryl, Emily was here."
He moaned as his right calf started to tighten up. At the same time, a tight fist clenched in his stomach.
"Dad?" Steven's voice was still worried.
"Go. Now." Finally, sitting up, he panted with a slight grin, "I promise…not to…wander off."
Steven reached out and gently smoothed back his father's graying hair. Then, with a final worried look, he turned, and sprinted back in the direction of the beach house. Steve watched his son run along the beach, and for a moment remembered when he was that strong and fit. Then, when Steven vanished behind the dunes, he rolled on to his hands and knees, crawled over to the edge of the ocean, and vomited into the surf. As the water washed it away, he wondered what he had eaten lately that would look like coffee grounds when it came back to haunt him.
In a matter of minutes, the beach was swarming with cops. Hannah and Donovan showed up with the immunometer, and tracked Emily as far as a small private pier a few hundred yards down the beach, but lost the trail once she got out on the water and there was nothing for the spores to cling to. Young Cioffi tracked her footprints from the pier, to a few yards from the beach house, back to an outcropping of rock where she appeared to have waited for Steve, and back to the pier. Judging from the number of footprints she had left along the beach, she must have been waiting, watching, and pacing half the night.
After Steve gave his statement, he had to let Cheryl direct the evidence gathering and investigation at the scene as he was forced to listen to lectures from his son, his wife, *and* his father about what a 'man his age' could and could not reasonably expect to do. They were all clearly worried about him, and if they hadn't been so angry at him for his foolishness in trying to run down a woman less than half his age when she was fresh and he was at the end of a long run, they would have noticed his obvious discomfort as he swallowed back wave after wave of mild nausea. Steve hid a smile. If just one of them had been there, he'd have been caught for sure, but for once, their ganging up on him worked in his favor. Each of them was trying so hard to make sure they were heard that none of them noticed there was anything wrong with him. Maybe he could finish this case before they made him go into the hospital for tests, after all.
Besides, he thought hopefully, trying hard to convince himself, it was probably just nerves anyway.
Steve stopped short when he entered Emily's house and saw Leigh Ann comfortably ensconced in the corner of the living room by the window. She had a small desk set up there, with her computer and a phone on it. A small two-drawer file cabinet sat beside her, and she had just picked up the phone when he made the connection.
"Deputy Chief Sloan's office." She spotted him and smiled warmly. "Yes, sir, please hold."
The chaos that had ensued after Emily left him eating her dust in the early hours of the morning had kept his mind awhirl. Between giving his statement, getting lectured, and trying to hide his discomfort from his family, he had barely had time to think about Emily's words. Then Amanda had stopped by to give Steven a ride to work as his car was in the shop again, and after hearing about his escapades on the beach, she had tattled on him about his upset stomach the other day. Of course, another round of lectures had followed.
He was glad she hadn't told them what had set his nerves on edge, but he was highly irate that she would bring it up at all to begin with, and he let her know it. The ensuing argument brought with it raised voices and hurt feelings. By then, Ron had arrived, and if Amanda herself hadn't physically restrained him, he would have decked Steve for making her cry. Steve had left in a rage, running the dome light and siren in his car just to have an excuse to drive too fast, and headed for Brentwood, where he could calm down and think.
And now he stood, looking at his assistant, Leigh Ann, and Emily's words clicked in his head like the tumblers in a lock…or a bullet in the chamber of a gun.
Liana…Leigh Ann. Damn.
He approached her and asked casually, "Leigh Ann, what are you doing here?"
"I'm your assistant, Chief. I'm assisting you."
"Well, yes, I know that, but why aren't you at the office?"
"It's kind of hard to assist you from the office when you're never there anymore, Sir. Don't worry, though, I've worked it all out. All your calls are being forwarded to this line," she indicated the phone, "and a regular patrol car is delivering your mail at ten and two. Since the office is on my way, I'll stop by when I come in and when I go home every day so I can take care of the things I can't do here."
Holding out the telephone receiver, she said, "It's Joe Cuiccio, from the DA's office. Judge Greer has scheduled the Gaudino trial, Sir."
The afternoon meeting was a tense one, mostly because the two powerful men in charge still wanted to tear each other's throats out, and the rest of the taskforce wasn't sure what they ought to do about it if they tried. Each time they looked up, blue ice met smoldering coals, and the tension moved up another notch.
"Judge Greer has set the trial for the twenty-eighth," Steve announced, "LAPD will be working in conjunction with the FBI to ensure security. Captain Cioffi, you'll be working on that with Agent Wagner." Turning to Dion, he felt the all too familiar twinge in his stomach as the anger in the young man's eyes matched that of his adoptive father. "Captain Wagner, you and Commander Banks will continue the search for Lieutenant Stephens and Moretti." Looking to the two very nervous and eager young men at the end of the table, he said, "Officers Cioffi and Donovan, you will remain on the search team."
He closed the file folder he had been reading from and said, "That's all for now. Dismissed."
As the meeting broke up, he said, "Ron, Dion, I'd like a private word with you."
Ron turned away from him. Dion looked from his dad to Steve and said, "I'm not sure you want to do that now, Chief."
"Maybe you're not, but I am," Steve responded. Softening his voice and his expression with a smile, he said, "Please?"
Ron turned to face him, Dion nodded, and they headed into the den and shut the door. They sat at a small study table in the den near a window, and as he spoke to his two friends about one thing, he slipped them notes about another.
"I am really sorry about what I said to Amanda this morning," he said. The note said, *Leigh Ann is the leak.*
"This has all been really rough on me, for reasons I can't explain to you yet." The note said, *Emily found out she's Ross Cainin's daughter.*
"I'll apologize to her today, you have my word." *You've never heard of her because Cainin's wife left him after he took over the Ganza crime family.*
"Meet me at the Pathology Lab today, say two o'clock, and I'll talk to her." *And maybe we can figure out what to do about Leigh Ann.*
"I don't care what's going on with you, Steve, you had no right to tear into my wife like that."
"I know, Ron," Steve said, "and I'm sorry." *In the mean time, do everything you can to keep her out of the loop, but don't let on that we don't trust her.*
Dion and Ron looked at each other for a moment, and nodded.
"We'll see you at two," Dion said.
"Ok, and thanks, guys. Uh, are we ok?"
Dion said, "Yeah."
Ron passed him a note, *Ask me after you've apologized to my wife.*
Steve's guts burned.
Leigh Ann sighed as she drove back to the station and wondered how the taskforce had managed without her for so long. No one had been coming by the office for days, and the Chief had been letting paperwork pile up on his desk, but now that she had set herself up in the house in Brentwood, it seemed as if there were a million and one things they needed from the office *now*. It was almost as if they were inventing errands for her to run.
Oh, well. At least it gave her a chance during the day to take care of other important things.
"Joe Gary Realty," the receptionist said.
"Hi, this is Leigh Ann Bergman, Chief Sloan's civilian assistant. Could I please speak to Mr. Gary?"
Her call was put through in just a moment, and when Joe Gary answered, she introduced herself again before explaining the reason she had invented for her call.
"Things have been so hectic with this search for Lieutenant Stephens, and the Chief and I are both dividing our time between the Lieutenant's house and the office," she rambled on. "Somehow, the folder has been misplaced. I need the address in order to cut you a check for the rent, and because of this stupid new accounting program, if I don't get it into the system by three o'clock, I won't be able to cut the check until next month."
Joe Gary thought about it a moment. He'd been working with Steve Sloan for almost forty years, and he'd *never* screwed up like this. He'd met Leigh Ann several times in the past three years, and Steve had always made a big deal about how much help she was. He knew Sloan trusted her, hell, he *relied* on her, but still…
"Please, Mr. Gary. It'll be one less thing for the Chief to worry over."
The girl's pleading and the genuine concern for Steve in her voice made up his mind. He gave her the address.
Leigh Ann thanked Mr. Gary politely, and closed up her cell phone with a wicked grin.
Steve had gone back to the little Italian place near Emily's house for a late lunch. The owner eyed him suspiciously, but at least the man didn't ask him to leave. Studying the menu carefully, he finally chose a bland- sounding chicken dish with no tomatoes or marinara sauce. He'd been sneaking antacid tablets all morning, and had managed to surreptitiously use a roll and a half. Maybe when he got to the hospital, he'd ask Jesse to prescribe something stronger.
Maybe not. The last thing he needed was one more lecture from a doctor.
"Hey, Steve, how ya doin'?"
Steve looked up and smiled broadly.
"Joe, good to see you." He invited the man to sit down with a gesture.
As he sat, Gary said, "I'm meeting a client, so I can't talk long. I just had to rub it in, though. You lost the file, eh?"
Confused, Steve asked, "What file?" His stomach started to cramp.
"Man, you are starting to slip. The file on that place you're renting from me for your 'friends'."
"Huh?"
"You should be ashamed of yourself, Sloan, making your poor secretary share the blame, and then not even remembering what happened. Leigh Ann called me about an hour ago and got the address so she could cut a check for the rent."
Steve swallowed hard. Then he swallowed again.
"Jeeze, man, you don't look too good."
Jabbing a finger into the tabletop, in the levelest tone he could manage, he said, "Stay right here. This conversation just became official police business. Don't go anywhere. Don't talk to anyone. I'll be right back."
Then he made a beeline for the men's room.
"So, you told him about Cainin's daughter," Moretti asked.
"Yeah."
Emily and Moretti were comfortably settled in the place she had rented in Redondo Beach. The living room was spacious, and they were practicing the tango.
"And?"
"It's up to him to do something about it. I'm sure he'll make the connection and come up with something. He's no dummy."
"No, I suppose not."
Emily jumped and cursed and yelled, "Watch the toes!"
"Sorry."
Steve pressed his face against the cold comfort of the bathroom stall door hoping its stainless steel coolness would help calm his queasy stomach. He'd been trying so hard to get Emily to bring Moretti in, so he could put him in *that* house. Thank God, she didn't listen. If she had, one call and Moretti would have been dead. Maybe she would be, too.
That last thought was enough to push him over the edge. He hadn't eaten breakfast, so all that came up was a little coffee and the remains of some antacid tablets.
He went to the sink and splashed some cold water on his face. 'It's just nerves,' he told himself. 'Every time something bad happens concerning Emily, you get queasy.' He tried hard to believe it. 'She's your daughter, and you've missed her whole life. You're afraid she'll be gone before you get to know her, that's all. It's just nerves. Just nerves.'
He patted his face dry with a paper towel, and when he opened his eyes, the owner was standing there with a glass of water for him. He accepted it meekly, rinsed and spat, and drank the rest.
"Thanks," he said, handing the glass back.
"You need-a to see a doctor before-a you come-a back to my-a place."
"I know. Sorry about that." He flashed the man his badge and ID and asked, "Is there a place I can talk to my friend where I won't be overheard or interrupted?"
The short Italian studied the ID for a moment, then his eyes widened in recognition. "You look-a different on the TV."
Steve smiled and said, "I hope that's a compliment."
The owner shook his head. "Not-a the way you a-lookin' a-now. That-a redheaded cop, she-a givin' you trouble."
Steve's smile widened into a rueful grin. "You have no idea."
"It ain't-a no wonder you have-a ulcers. You canna use-a my office."
"It's just nerves," he assured the rotund little man.
"Yeah. Anna you'll a-be sayin' that 'til you a-spittin' up a-blood."
Steve felt considerably better after his talk with Joe Gary. He had a plan. If they could just come up with a suitable ruse to make Leigh Ann and her friends really believe Emily was bringing Moretti in, they could probably sweep up the whole gang Leigh Ann was associated with and then bring Moretti in safely. Surely, then, one of them would roll over and give up their boss. He hoped he could get Emily's help with that. To prove to the owner, as much to himself, that his little episodes in the men's room were really nothing, he had them box his meal so he could take it with him to eat at the hospital.
Steve entered Amanda's lab and nodded cautiously toward Ron and Dion. Dion immediately handed him a note that said, "The room is bugged. We've found several throughout the hospital. Somebody knows your habits and has been taking advantage." Ron showed him the positive reading on his surveillance detection device, and pointed out where the bug had been hidden on the underside of one of the tables. Steve was immediately struck with the sickening realization that someone, somewhere may have been listening when he told Jesse and Amanda all about his connection to Emily.
Taking a deep breath, he apologized.
"I am so sorry for the way I yelled at you this morning, Amanda."
"I know you are, Steve."
"You do know why I got so upset, though, don't you? I mean, you know there was a reason. You were getting awfully close to…something else…that I just can't go into right now. I wasn't just lashing out at the most convenient target."
Ron jumped in. "There is no excuse for your behavior this morning, Steve…"
"Butt out, Ron," Amanda snapped.
Shocked and chastised, Ron trailed off. He obviously didn't understand some of the dynamics at play here.
"I'm not making excuses, Amanda. I know what I did was unforgivable. I just lost it, but I wanted to make sure you knew why. Can you forgive me?"
Amanda pretended to think it over a minute. Then she walked over to her friend and wrapped her arms around him.
"Of course I forgive you. You'd have to do a lot more than yell at me to make me stay mad at you."
Steve gratefully accepted and returned the hug, knowing it was as much to prove to Ron and Dion that she forgave him as it was to comfort him. As Amanda gently disengaged herself, she cupped his face in her hands, made him look her in the eye, and said, "The longer you wait, the harder it will be, Steve. Before long, you won't be able to explain why you didn't speak up sooner. You won't have any excuse."
His stomach churned, and he said, "I know, but I can't do it yet."
"Soon, you won't have a choice."
Unable to speak, Steve just nodded, and Amanda let him go.
As he turned and looked at Ron and Dion, Ron flashed him a small grin, and said, "Now we're ok."
Much to Steve's great relief, Captain Cioffi appeared just then and rapped at the glass door to the lab, gesturing to Steve that he needed to speak to him a moment.
After Steve left, Dion asked, "Mom, what's up with Uncle Steve?"
Amanda sighed, and said, "That's not for me to tell you, but," she looked intently from her son to her husband, "When all this is over, and the story comes out, a lot of people are going to be hurting. He's going to need all the friends he can get."
"Did he do something wrong, Mom?"
"What?" Amanda raised her brows in shock, then said, "Oh, God, no, honey." After a thoughtful pause, she explained things the best she knew how. "But some things did happen in the past that no one ever told him about. He did nothing wrong, son, but if his suspicions are correct, he never had the chance to do the right thing."
Steve stuck his head back in the path lab. "Guy's there's been another rash of Emily-sightings. Let's get back to work."
Emily sat in the LTD beside a mailbox in Beverly Hills listening on a stolen cell phone. The Chief wanted to meet with her. He had a plan to get Leigh Ann and whoever she was working with, but he needed Emily's help, and her voice mail wouldn't allow him time to explain it. She gave it some thought and finally went in search of a phone book.
"Barbecue Bob's," a cheerful young voice answered.
"This is Emily. Tell the Chief to wait for me, alone, at Artoo-Detoo's spot on the Forecourt of the Stars at Mann's Chinese Theatre at one thirty tomorrow afternoon. Tell him to have an explanation of his plan written out and stashed in an envelope in his hip pocket. He won't see me, and shouldn't look for me, but I'll call and let him know if I decide to go along with the plan."
She hung up.
"Emily! Emily, wait," Lauren shouted into the phone.
Olivia chuckled when Steve said where he was supposed to wait for Emily. "Figures she'd go for the robot," she muttered.
"Why do you say that, Liv," Steve wanted to know.
"Well, she was really into the new Star Wars movies when they started cranking them out. Episodes one and two came out before she was born, and she loved episode three. Anyway, Keith and I suggested she take a look at the original. We still had an old copy of it before they revamped it to fit with the newer episodes. She was not at all impressed with the special effects, but she loved R2-D2. She even dressed as him…it?…for Halloween one year."
"I think at the time…she was about ten…she felt more comfortable with technology than with people," Keith added. "She wasn't a very popular kid, and even her few friends didn't understand her. In public, some of them acted like they didn't even know her, so she spent a lot of time tapping away at the keyboard, doing God knows what, lost in her own little world."
Liv nodded her agreement, and continued, "Then one day, I show her this movie, and here's this little bucket of bolts showing friendship, trust, loyalty, affection, and a whole range of human characteristics that she rarely experienced with her peers. She loved it. She even programmed her computer with his sounds. It made one noise when she turned it on, and another when she turned it off. There were sound effects for errors, typos, opening and closing files, I swear it sounded like it talked to her."
Keith laughed and said, "Yeah, and whenever she deleted something, C-3PO's voice would say, 'We're doomed!' It was just too funny. And whenever she used their names, she insisted on spelling them out. They weren't R2-D2 and C-3PO. They were Artoo-Detoo and See-Threepio. I think sometimes they were more real to her than we were."
The discussion trailed off after Keith's last comment, and Steve found himself feeling sorry for Liv and Keith, but especially for Emily. Then he had gone off to arrange the trap he had in mind for Leigh Ann and her cohorts. He wanted everything in place before he met Emmy. That way, they would be able to go as soon as she was notified of the plan.
Emily was thrilled. She had always wanted to be a droid again, and while she was just too big for Artoo now, the See-Threepio suit was a perfect fit. She'd even bought a voice modifying system and fiddled with it until she sounded just like Threepio. She looked in the mirror, smiled behind her golden mask, and cried, "We're doomed!" Then she laughed. This was just way too cool.
Steve paced near the designated spot on the Forecourt of the Stars. He had decided to take the meeting alone because he was asking for Emily's help and didn't want to think this was just another ploy to trap her. Years ago, Hollywood Boulevard had been left go to seed. It had been slowly going downhill since the 1980's, but many of the old historic buildings had been suddenly vacated after the quake in 2005, and those that remained occupied were abandoned after the riots in 2007. Then, in the twenties, huge infusions of cash and energy had revitalized the area. Many of the grand old buildings and famous restaurants had been restored, and the drug addicts and prostitutes had been driven out. Historic Hollywood was again a place safe for families and tourists.
A burning and cramping sensation pulled Steve out of his reverie, and he pulled a roll of antacid tablets out of his pocket and munched down two or three of the chalky pills. Grimacing, he realized they were one thing that had not been improved upon with time. He rubbed his temples trying to get his headache to go away. His stomach had been so unsettled lately, he had barely eaten, and he had been feeling the effects of low blood sugar off and on for the past couple days. Now, he was feeling tired and achy and tense, too. He was nervous about this meeting because it was vital that Emily should cooperate with his plan, but he was also angry. All yesterday afternoon and evening, his mind had been dwelling on Liv and Keith's comments about Emmy's attachment to the droids. It had sounded like she'd had a very unhappy childhood.
He was angry that Liv had never told him he had a daughter. If he had known, maybe he could have helped Emmy. He wouldn't have tried to take her away from Liv and Keith, but he could have been a friend and spent time with her and watched her grow up. Surely there would have been more for her to see and do in LA than in the backwoods country of Western Pennsylvania. She might have been happier if she could have looked forward to the occasional visit, and she might have gotten into less trouble.
Then there was his dad. Wherever he went, Mark Sloan had always been the resident oddball, a friendly, harmless, popular eccentric. He might have been able to teach Emmy to accept her differences and to relate to other people. There was no earthly reason a ten year old girl should prefer the friendship of a computer to that of kids her own age. If Steve had just known about Emmy, if he'd been allowed to be a part of her life, if she'd grown up knowing her younger brother…
A sudden wave of nausea struck him at that thought, and he quickly retreated from it.
Then he began to trace back through the ideas that had been passing through his mind. Who was he kidding? Had he known Emmy was his daughter, he'd have done just what he did with his son. He would have left it to his dad and Maribeth to look after her until she got into serious trouble. He was too busy playing hero to be there for Steven until it was almost too late, what made him think it would have been any different with Emily?
Disgusted with himself, Steve had to admit that Liv and Keith had done better than he could have for Emmy. Still, it would have been nice to know her. It hurt to think he'd missed the first thirty years of her life.
Then there was that other thing, the thought of which sickened him. He quickly stuffed it down, and turned to pace back to where he was supposed to be waiting.
Three tourists were standing at the Star Wars spot on the pavement, a shiny golden robot, a stormtrooper, and some sort of two-legged reptilian or amphibious creature. 'Great,' Steve thought, '*Serious* fans. They always travel in packs, don't they?' He felt a twinge of pain as his stomach protested the annoyance he was feeling, and he massaged his temples to try to coax the headache to leave. 'They can be real weirdoes. Well, they better just stay out of the way.' As he stood nearby trying to massage the stiffness from his back, he watched them take turns posing with each other and snapping photos.
"I do believe my feet are somewhat bigger than his," the robot said as he stepped onto C-3PO's footprints, still holding a camera in either shiny hand.
Steve couldn't help himself. As he approached he said, "Concrete shrinks when it dries. There's really no telling how big his feet were."
The golden face turned toward him, not with a swivel of the neck, but with an awkward, jerky motion that involved turning the whole torso and shuffling the feet. Even through the modified voice, Steve could hear a smile. "Really, sir? Do you know by how much?"
Steve forced himself to smile back. "That's hard to say," he told the golden figure before him. The droid had a comical face. The big, round, glowing yellow eyes made him seem perpetually surprised. He was still holding the cameras straight up in the air, one in each hand, as if he had forgotten them. "It depends on a lot of things like how much water was in the mix, how humid the day was, and how fast it dried."
"I see," the electronic voice sounded a bit disappointed. "So there's no telling if I would have filled his shoes, is there, sir?"
Steve grinned, playing along. Ok, it was weird, but this guy *was* amusing, and until Emily showed up, he had nothing better to do anyway. "I see, you want to know if you measure up. Well, I think you should know, filling someone's shoes is just a human expression for being able to take over where your predecessor left off. It doesn't matter the size of your feet. What matters is the size of your heart."
The digitized tone sounded even sadder, and the depressed sigh came through clearly when the android said, "Then there really is no hope for me, sir. I have no heart, just wires and circuitry and microchips." The robot hung his head, looking down along his golden shell to his shiny feet.
Steve thought a bit. Here he was, waiting to meet the daughter who didn't know he was her father, the daughter who had kidnapped a federal witness, who had been on the run for a week and a half, who was vital to his plan to trap the mafia spy in his own office; and he was having a philosophical discussion with a confused young man dressed as a golden robot from a movie over half a century old. His life was really getting strange.
For some reason, he wanted to say something to help.
"Do you have dreams," he asked. "Things you want to achieve, places you want to go?"
"Well, yes, sir, I suppose." The voice sounded uncertain. Steve was amazed at how much *humanity* remained after running a person's voice through a portable synthesizer. Modern technology was truly remarkable. "I have always wanted to…be of service…to help someone…to change a life…to make things better for someone. I know I'll never be such a grand hero as See-Threepio, but I've always wanted to make a difference."
Steve smiled and nodded. "Then you *do* have a heart, and the more life tests you the bigger it will grow. Give yourself time, and you could very well fill his shoes and more."
When the voice responded, it sounded brighter and more hopeful than a moment ago. "Do you really think so?"
"I'm sure of it," Steve replied. "I promise."
"Thank you, sir!" The robot reached out excitedly to shake hands, was startled to find the camera still there in the way, gawked at it a moment, clumsily stuck it under his arm, and reached out again. Taking the offered grip, Steve was surprised by how warm his touch felt. "Thank you so very much." The robot stood there shaking his hand for several moments, as if not realizing that he had yet to let go. Steve looked down at their still- joined hands and the movement slowed, the grip loosened, and the robot finally let go. "Um, sir, might I ask a favor?"
"You can always ask," Steve encouraged. Whoever he was, this guy was a likeable sort.
"Would you mind taking a couple pictures of the three of us together?"
Shrugging, Steve said, "I'd be happy to."
Forgetting the camera under his arm, the robot handed Steve the camera he was holding in his hand, and the one under his arm fell to the ground.
"Oh, dear," the gold-armored android muttered as he turned and started to bend to pick it up.
Suddenly realizing how unwieldy the rigid suit must be, Steve offered to help. "Here," he said, bending forward at his glittering companion's feet, "Let me." Inspecting the camera he told the tourists, "I don't think it's broken."
For the first time in days, Steve found himself doing something that genuinely made him feel good. He snapped a couple shots with each camera, returned them to the stormtrooper and the repto-amphibian thing, told them about some other sights he thought they might enjoy and waved as they walked away.
Emily ducked back into the alley where she'd left the LTD, stripped off her golden armor, removed the voice disguising system, and stashed her costume in the trunk. She pulled black denim leggings and a black turtleneck over the black bodysuit she'd worn underneath Threepio's golden carapace and pulled a wig of short, curly, brown hair over the long red braid, which she had pinned snugly to her head. After applying a foundation to mask her freckles and touching up her lipstick, she stuffed a black and white bandana in her hip pocket and put on half-moon earrings and a grinning full- moon pendant of red jasper. The large pendant, an inch and a half in diameter and set in gold, hung from a long gold chain to the middle of her chest. It was a stunning piece, the focus of her whole outfit, and it drew attention away from her face--which was the whole idea, anyway. She added a matching reddish leather, duster-length jacket, and cowboy boots, and a black cowboy hat with a reddish braided leather band studded here and there with onyx and gold beads. A pair of John Lennon sunglasses completed the look.
She had decided to leave the LTD behind. It was an older model car, a bit beat up, and it really didn't fit in with what her neighbors in Redondo Beach were driving. She needed something a bit sportier and had decided to purchase it on her way home today. She figured she'd take the bus to Burbank where she'd buy the car with a fake ID, and drive it back to the safe house.
Taking up her black leather briefcase, which held her laptop, a cell phone, her fake ID's and now, the Chief's plan, she edged up to the corner of the building and angled her compact mirror so she could watch the chief without stepping around the corner. She knew the worst possible time to step back onto Hollywood Boulevard would be when he was looking her way. It was simply human nature to carefully scrutinize things that were new on the scene. She'd seen the Chief pacing while he waited for her, and knew if she waited long enough he'd turn away. Then she'd slip out into the pedestrian traffic, move with the crowd, and just be a part of the landscape the next time he turned around.
Steve whirled and paced back to the Star Wars panel on the sidewalk. It was two thirty, and Emily hadn't shown. He was getting worried. Everything he'd known about her, and everything he'd been told indicated that she would be on time, and here she was an hour late. He stretched and reached around to knead the stiff muscles of his lower back and tried to ignore the cramping and burning in his gut. His tension had left as he dealt with the tourists, but now it was back with a vengeance.
As the Chief turned and paced away from her, Emily slipped back into the flow of traffic, and watching him as she went, started to make her way across the courtyard toward a restaurant called the Hamburger Hamlet, where she intended to read the Chief's letter and decide what to do about it.
As Steve massaged his back, he realized something was missing. The envelope! He had written out his plan in detail, and as Emily had instructed, he'd placed it in an envelope in his hip pocket. It had stuck up a couple of inches, and he should have brushed his hand against it when he reached around behind himself. Clapping his hand to the pocket, he realized in a panic that he had lost the envelope. How in the hell had he lost it?
The robot. See-Threepio. Damn, damn, damn! She was *right here* and he didn't even notice.
Turning quickly, he scanned the pedestrian traffic for anyone who seemed out of place. The repto-amphibian thing and the stormtrooper had moved off to the Star Trek square on the forecourt, but the golden robot was nowhere to be seen. There was a family probably seeking out Shirley Temple or some other child-friendly star, and a blonde who clearly fancied herself the next Marilyn Monroe. Steve found it strange how long certain icons stuck in the American imagination. An androgynous figure, he wasn't sure if it was male or female, wandered aimlessly, probably looking for some old western movie star if he could judge by the person's outfit, then, apparently finding the sought for imprints, crouched and touched them reverently.
As luck would have it, Emily was standing near Gene Autry's spot when she saw the Chief turn and search the crowd. Quickly she dropped her head and ambled along as if studying and admiring the cinematic history beneath her feet. Knowing her height would be the only thing to give her away at this distance, she dropped to a crouch and skimmed her hands across Autry's handprints and Champion's hoof prints.
Steve continued scanning the crowd. Nobody seemed out of place. He just saw the typical afternoon crowd wandering the forecourt, looking for a connection to their favorite stars. He started to catalog the people he had noticed. The stormtrooper and the amphibian stood out, surely, but neither costume allowed any way for Emmy to conceal her considerable height. She wouldn't be with the family, though the father was tall. She could have paid them to help her, he supposed, but he didn't think she'd take that risk, especially with children involved. It was a brisk, late- winter day, and given Emily's problems with the cold, he decided Marilyn simply wasn't wearing enough clothing.
But that genderless westerner was certainly bundled up, and as 'Tex' was still crouching, Steve couldn't judge the tourist's true height. He took out his map of the forecourt. He could just make out the size and shape of the spot 'Tex' was investigating. It was square number seven, according to his map, Gene Autry's.
Emily got out her map of the forecourt. 'Ok, you've started this western theme, carry it through,' she told herself. 'Where's there another western movie star close enough that the Chief won't have time to get a good look at you before you get there?' She rose slowly as she studied her map of the forecourt. 'Ah, Steve McQueen.'
Steve continued scanning the crowd, but for some reason he just had a feeling about Tex. As he watched, the object of his attention got up and moved three squares down and one to the left. 'Ok, Tex is tall,' Steve thought as he consulted his map. Steve McQueen. Tex was definitely a western fan…or trying to pass as one.
Studying her map again, Emily planned her route, and gave up the idea of lunch in the Hamburger Hamlet. William S. Hart was number forty, down and to her right. Then Miss Barbara Stanwyck and her hubby Robert Taylor were at number forty-eight, straight across the courtyard from Hart. John Wayne's prints were at number seventeen, and that would have her just a few feet from the bus stop. Thank goodness for he father's interest in the old westerns. She had some familiar names she could draw on to help her, but damn she wished she had planned for this.
Steve watched as Tex studied a map of the forecourt, apparently trying to figure out where to go next. When the tourist put the map away and struck out across the courtyard, Steve began pacing again in that general direction. If Tex wasn't Emily, and Emily was watching, he didn't want to appear to be looking too hard for her. He needed her trust, and she had specifically told him he wouldn't see her and shouldn't look for her, but dammit, he found he wanted to see her. He wanted to talk to her, now, in person, in case things went badly later. He felt his stomach start to churn with acid again, and as casually as he could, he took out some antacid tablets and chewed on them.
'Oh, great googly-moogly, the Chief is coming this way,' Emily realized with her heart in her throat. 'Why doesn't he just go away and wait for my call like I told him to do?' She hadn't seen anyone else, and didn't think this was a trap, but she didn't want to put anyone beside herself at risk if she could help it. If her contact and his people were using her to get to the Chief, he could ill afford to be seen with her now. She was officially a dirty cop and a fugitive, and if he were spotted with her and failed to arrest her, he would look dirty, too. Worse yet, if he had been followed, the bad guys could spot her, and she was just too vulnerable out here in the open away from her car. 'Just stick to your route, and get out of here as soon as possible, Em,' she told herself, wanting nothing more than to get out of there safely without confronting the Chief.
Steve watched the crowd as he ambled toward Tex, and when Tex stopped and bent to touch another spot on the sidewalk, Steve consulted his map. William S. Hart was in that area. He was another western star who went way back. When Tex rose and started walking across the courtyard again, Steve looked at the squares on his map that lay in this fan's path, and found that Barbara Stanwyck, matriarch of the old series "Big Valley," was right ahead. He turned and strolled back to the Star Wars spot, wishing he could just stop this stupid game and go straight up and see if it was Emily. He would ask if she was all right and find out if he could do anything for her. All he wanted was to see her safe.
As Emily stood up from Barbara Stanwyck's spot, she was shocked to hear the grumbling of a bus as it pulled away from the curb, and she ran a couple of steps toward the bus stop before she remembered she was supposed to be a tourist and not someone in a hurry to get out of there. "Damned ecological bus," she muttered. The modern biodiesel engines produced almost no pollutants, but they lacked the distinctive noise and odor of the sulfur- hydrocarbon-carbon monoxide belching smog factories of her youth. "I'd have heard and smelled a good, old-fashioned diesel engine before it pulled away," she groused.
'Ok,' she thought, consulting her map. 'The buses run every fifteen minutes. All I have to do is find a way to kill the time before I head back to John Wayne's spot. Hmmmm. Roy Rogers and Trigger.' She grinned and started to amble along slowly. 'Perfect.'
Steve turned to see Tex bending to touch the sidewalk right where he expected. Then the visitor did a strange thing. Tex stood up, bolted a couple of steps toward Hollywood Boulevard, stopped, consulted the map, grinned, and then wandered to the east side of the courtyard, away from the street.
Steve studied his map. As he followed Tex's path again, he realized Tex was bypassing what should have been a very important stop. Tex made a beeline for the space Roy Rogers had shared with Trigger, but skipped over Tom Mix and his horse Tony, just a few feet to the right. Something was definitely up. He munched a couple more antacid tablets to calm his uneasy stomach.
Then he realized that Tex didn't have a camera, and he decided it was time to approach. By now, he was almost certain that Tex was Emily. The only doubt he had stemmed from the fact that Tex was just moseying around like any tourist, taking no apparent direction and instead simply seeking out sidewalk panels that seemed of interest. Emily would want to get out of there quickly, and would probably have taken the most direct route out of the forecourt. If she wanted to pass for a tourist, she might have strolled past a few of the old western stars' spots, but she would have still headed for Hollywood Boulevard instead of moving toward the back of the courtyard.
Steve came to stand beside Tex as she (he could tell Tex was a she, now) studied Roy Rogers and Trigger's imprints. "So, you must be a western fan," he said.
Tex looked up at him, her eyes shielded behind a pair of John Lennon shades, and said, "Yup." Then she looked back to the pavement.
'Oh, crap,' thought Emily. 'The Chief is coming over. Doesn't he realize what could happen if he's seen with me? If he'd just stay away, he could maintain deniability if anything goes wrong.'
"So, you must be a western fan," he said.
She looked up. "Yup." Then she looked back to the pavement, hoping to discourage him. 'Just get lost, sir,' she thought.
When the Chief said nothing, she continued, "I'd reckon a feller your age woulda learned by now that women are seldom impressed with the obvious."
Steve chuckled at her gibe. That *had* to be his Emily. 'His?' Everything he knew about her told him she would be sharp tongued and sarcastic. "I'm sorry," he said, "You just look like someone I used to know."
"Another worn out line," Tex sighed. "That last filly wasn't interested either, was she?"
"Oh, she was interested, all right, but…it just wasn't the right time and place." Steve felt his nervous stomach complain. Why was he directing the conversation to this topic? Was he losing his mind?
Looking up again, she pulled her glasses down to the tip of her nose and peered at him over the rims. "At least she was a little closer to your age, I hope. I'm young enough to be your daughter, and I ain't looking fo' no sugar daddy, so you can just mosey along."
One moment Steve was smiling at those green-gold eyes, knowing he had Emily dead to rights, being amused by her barbed comments and proud of her valiant effort to carry off this charade, and the next, he was desperately struggling to keep down his lunch. Her comment had hit too close to home. As he retched and gagged, he suddenly realized with detached amusement that he couldn't lose his lunch because he hadn't eaten any. His stomach had been too upset earlier in the day.
"You don't look so good, mister," said Emily, still not dropping the act.
"Oh, God, Em," Steve groaned as the world began swirling around him. He was so grateful Emily was there as she helped him ease down to the concrete. He could just imagine the pain if he had dropped to the cement when he lost his balance. On all fours on the sidewalk, he felt the muscles in his back and ribs tense as his body prepared to deposit his stomach contents in Roy Rogers' footprints. Next thing he knew, he heaved and spit up a puddle of something that looked like coffee grounds flecked with white. Just like yesterday morning, he couldn't figure what the coffee grounds were, but he knew the white specks were his antacid tablets. 'Fat lot of good they did,' he thought.
"Shit, Chief," he heard Emily mutter as she patted him down, obviously looking for something, "How long you been pukin' blood?"
"Blood?"
"The black stuff, Chief. Partially digested blood clots," she explained as she slipped his cell phone out of his pocket.
He heaved again, and this time it was bright red.
"Oh, hell," she cursed. Steve heard her dial 911, and felt her checking his pulse as she spoke briefly. "I need an ambulance at Mann's Chinese Theatre, along the east wall, halfway back. Deputy Chief of Police Sloan has taken ill. He's spitting up blood, and I suspect a bleeding ulcer."
Gasping for breath between bouts of nausea, Steve heard her give them his vitals. "I'll make sure someone stays with him," she said and clicked the phone shut. He felt a gentle hand on his back as she leaned close to him, and murmured, "Ambulance is on its way, Chief. What are your orders?"
Steve knew what she was asking. Did he want her to stay or did he want her to go back and protect Moretti? Oh, he wanted her to stay, but he was aware that other people were drawing close, and help would arrive soon. Emmy couldn't afford to be caught now. He had to do the right thing.
"Look after your witness, Lieutenant," he whispered. "He's too important to put at risk now."
"Yes, Sir," she said. "But let me make you a little more comfortable before I go."
She helped him lay down on his side on the sidewalk, encouraging him to fold his arm under his head for a pillow, then she covered him with her coat.
"You," she pointed at Marilyn, "Come here, kneel behind him."
The young blonde was obviously petrified, but she did as she was told.
"Rub his back, big slow circles, it'll make him feel better."
Steve felt the gentle motion on his back, and was surprised that she was right. It did make him feel just a little better.
"Try to help him stay calm, and if he passes out, keep him on his side just like this, that way he won't choke."
Marilyn didn't say anything, but she must have given an affirmative response, because the next thing Steve knew, Emmy was crouching on the sidewalk in front of him.
"It's important that you stay conscious, Sir. Just stay calm and keep breathing, ok?"
Steve nodded. He was trying.
"Ok. You." She pointed to the father of the little family. "Have your wife take the kiddies away, they don't need to see this. Then come back here."
Steve heard sirens approaching.
"Em, get outta here," he told her.
"Soon, Sir. Soon."
The father came back and asked, "What can I do?"
At just that moment, Steve retched and vomited more blood. He saw the poor guy go pale, but was grateful when the man stood his ground, still willing to help.
Emily handed him a bandana handkerchief.
"Use this to wipe his mouth if you need to, and get down here, at his eye level, and keep him talking. Keep him conscious. I'm going to meet the ambulance."
The man's face, scared and worried, suddenly appeared in front of him.
"Hey there, buddy, I'm from Minnesota. How about you?"
Steve felt, rather than saw, the stranger dab at his face with the bandana.
"I'm from Malibu. I was meeting someone here."
"That nice young lady, I'll bet. Is she your daughter?"
Steve vomited again. Then he saw the wheels of a stretcher roll into sight, and everything went dark.
