Rating: G

Summary: A routine murder investigation is interrupted by a natural disaster, leaving Mark desperately searching for his missing son.

Author's note: Most of the action in this story takes place in a fictional part of Los Angeles. I didn't want to tempt fate (a la Writer's Block!) by setting an earthquake in a real location.

Disclaimer: "Diagnosis Murder" and the characters in it are owned by CBS and Viacom and are merely being borrowed for recreational and non-profit purposes. I promise to return them unhar... OK, not permanently harmed.

Acknowledgement: A million thanks to Nonny for inserting those pesky commas, providing inspiration in sticky places and for being the best friend anyone could have.

Quake

Chapter 1

The first earthquake hit at 4:17am. Of course, first can be a relative term. There was nothing to distinguish it from the twenty-three other minor tremors that had hit Southern California the day before. Registering barely a two on the Moment Magnitude scale, it would hardly have been felt even by someone standing directly on the epicenter. As it was, there was not a soul within fifteen miles to notice, only an analog seismograph in one of the 350 stations that are scattered through the lower half of the state. It obediently relayed this data down the phone line to the central computer on the Caltech campus. The computer calculated a preliminary location and magnitude and saved the data, but it was programmed only to monitor for anomalous readings, and an M2 quake was not considered worthy of an alarm. The swarm of foreshocks that followed would only be interpreted in retrospect as a warning that the awesome power of the earth was about to be unleashed.

Thursday 7.48am

Steve Sloan awoke slowly, two unaccustomed sensations seeping into his awareness. The first was the luxurious knowledge that he had successfully closed a case the night before and, as a consequence, had nothing to do for most of the morning. He contemplated a return to sleep, but the second sensation was becoming more insistent. He had a headache, nothing major, just a sense of pressure at the back of his head wrapping round to the side, and a slight feeling of nausea. He was tempted to blame the discomfort on the impromptu celebration he had indulged in with his partner, but, as it had been late and he had to drive home, he had only had one beer, so a hangover could not provide an adequate explanation.

Steve yawned and stretched, absently rubbing his head in a futile attempt to ease the tension there. Deciding that a run was what he needed to clear the cobwebs from his brain, he quickly dressed in some suitable clothes and let himself out the door, pausing for some perfunctory stretches. A dog howled in the distance, and unconsciously this determined Steve's choice of direction. He started jogging at an easy pace along the almost deserted beach, enjoying the slight early morning chill in the winter air. He quickly recognised the source of the barking as Bob, the bassett hound, and as he approached the Kilmer sisters' house, he slowed in concern, the doleful sound sending shivers of apprehension down his spine. This sudden presentiment of danger was abruptly banished by an unladylike yell from the house of, -"Shut up, Bob!" and, reassured, Steve continued his run. He started picking up the pace, his stride lengthening. The rhythm of his feet pounding on the firm sand near the water's edge seemed to replace the pounding in his head as if the two couldn't exist in counterpoint. The ocean worked its wondrous magic, the waves temporarily erasing all his worries as well as washing away his footsteps in the sand.

After a couple of miles, he turned round, taking the return journey at a more leisurely pace. The sound of Bob's howling reached him again, at first wavering faintly on the breeze, then gathering volume as he approached the house. It was a sound redolent of misery, and his sense of unease returned. He saw one of the sisters, he was unable to identify which, attempting to comfort the distraught hound and he called out a greeting. Her relief at seeing him was evident, and Steve took this as an invitation to check Bob out for himself.

As Steve reached them, she gave him a slightly nervous smile. "I was afraid someone would call the police and complain about him disturbing the peace or something. I've tried to take him inside but he just puts on his brakes and flatly refuses to budge. Do you think I should take him to the vet?"

She seemed to have a flattering faith in his ability to know what to do, but erratic canine behaviour was not Steve's forte. Slobbery jowls rested on his leg, and lugubrious eyes fixed on him as he knelt down next to the animal, stroking his head, gently feeling for any physical cause for the dog's distress.

"He doesn't look sick to me, just...miserable." Steve frowned, unable to offer more by way of comfort. He stood up, brushing at the wet stain on his sweatpants ruefully. "If he doesn't improve, let me know."

The dog's aberrant behaviour left Steve with a strange sense of unease, but he pushed it to the back of his mind, concentrating instead on how great he felt after his run. A shower only served to increase his sense of well-being, and he took the steps upstairs to the kitchen two at a time, his smile broadening to a grin at the smell of bacon and eggs emanating from the warm room.

"Hey, Dad," he greeted his father, who was sitting drinking coffee with a crossword in front of him. He paused in appreciation at the sight of a plate of steaming breakfast waiting for him. "That's great timing, Dad. How did you know when I'd be ready?"

Mark was just about to confess to seeing him return from his run when Steve interrupted him with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

"Never mind, I'd rather just believe in your omniscience this morning."

Mark regarded his uncharacteristically exuberant son with amusement. "I gather the Mansfield bust went well last night."

"It was perfect, Dad. We got him cold, no lawyer in the world is going to get him off this one. How did you know we'd find the papers in the drainpipe?"

Mark buffed his fingernails with false modesty. "Discerning mind," he suggested. "Boundless sagacity, dazzling intellect, sheer brilliance." He waited for his son to amiably deflate his ego, and was taken aback when Steve merely nodded with satisfaction.

"That's what I told the guys at work," he said thoughtfully. "Believe me, they didn't take much convincing. You could tell them the moon was made of green cheese and they'd believe you at this point. The only thing I haven't managed to convince them of yet is that it runs in the family, but I'm still working on that."

Mark looked up sharply at this, afraid that it showed a disparagement of his son's own contributions to the case, but Steve's mischievous grin persuaded him that he was merely planning a way to hoodwink his co-workers.

He smiled back, relieved and, once again, amazed by his son's generosity of spirit. He was always concerned that Steve might resent his father's interference in his cases, but instead he showed nothing but pride in Mark's accomplishments. In the first few years after Steve had made detective, Mark had blithely involved himself in cases without thinking of the effect it might have on his son's credibility. That had come to an abrupt halt after inadvertently overhearing one of Steve's colleagues making derisive comments about not being able to close a case without Daddy's help. Mark had frozen in place, dismayed, afraid that his son's temper would erupt, but knowing that any attempt at assistance or even distraction would merely exacerbate the situation. He had been comforted and deeply touched by Steve's cool-headed, almost dismissive reply of, - "You use what resources you have to get murderers off the streets, and my Dad is the best. Get used to it."

Steve had no doubts as to his own competence in his chosen profession. He knew he lacked Mark's intuitive leaps of deduction but he believed his father was unique, and it didn't detract from the fact that he was still extremely successful as a cop, meticulous and persistent. He excelled at following Mark's sometimes convoluted thought processes and translating them into arrests that would hold up in court. Throughout it all, he held a boundless and unshakeable faith in his father. Mark found himself rather regretting his earlier flippant attitude.

"If I was half as smart as I think I am, I'd be able to finish this crossword," Mark observed self-deprecatingly. "I'm totally stuck here, - 'Egyptian Goddess, loves silence', ten letters beginning with..."

"Meretseger," Steve interrupted nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair and pretending not to notice the classic double-take demonstrated by his father.

Mark gazed down at the newspaper, coughing to disguise his surprise at this unexpected erudition from his son. "Let me see...M - E - R - E -T..."

"S - E - G - E - R," Steve supplied helpfully, sipping his coffee and successfully suppressing his glee at his father's discomposure.

"That fits...um, thank you."

Steve continued casually, - "I believe she was the goddess of punishment and mercy. She blinded or poisoned criminals. I always kind of approved of her."

Mark stared at him suspiciously, on the cusp of asking him to explain the source of his esoteric knowledge, but unable to think of a way to phrase it that didn't sound like he thought his son was ignorant. Steve gazed back at him innocently, hoping not to have to divulge that a thriller he had recently read had provided him with the serendipitous trivia.

Mark dropped his gaze back to the paper. "Let me see, 9 down is..."

"Whoa!" Steve got up laughing and hastily started to clear the table. "I'm resting on my laurels. I have to use my genius sparingly."

Mark smiled too, happy to see his son so relaxed. He threw the newspaper down on the table and for a while just watched Steve doing the dishes, enjoying the sheer domesticity of the moment. "What are your plans for the day?"

Steve dried his hands on the cloth as he pondered his schedule. "Amanda promised she'd have the Gilman autopsy ready by 11:00, so I need to leave fairly soon. Can I give you a lift to work?"

Some of Mark's lightheartedness dropped away at the mention of the recent murder. "That would be perfect. I left my car at the hospital yesterday when Amanda brought me home. I'm not on till 2:00, but I'll come in with you anyway. I'd like to see that report for myself; after all, he was my patient for 10 years."

Steve reseated himself to concentrate on the conversation. "How well did you know him, Dad?" he asked curiously.

Mark shrugged. "Not very well, he was a very private person."

"Is there anything you can tell me about him?" Steve persisted.

Mark frowned, his attention caught by his son's insistence. "I thought it was just a break-in gone wrong. Do you suspect a different motive?"

Steve shook his head. "It probably was just a bungled robbery, but when someone that rich dies, the amount of money involved creates a proportionate volume of suspicion, so we have to check all angles."

Mark obligingly thought back to try to glean some background information from his infrequent meetings with the Gilmans. "Lisa is his second wife," he said at last. "I believe he had a daughter by his first marriage, but that they are somewhat estranged. I don't think he could have been the easiest person to live with, he was always..." Mark paused, trying to find the best word to convey his impression of Jack Gilman. "...uncompromising. Actually, I vaguely remember some scandal just before he became my patient, something about his ex-partner suing him for his share of the company. I don't recall the details."

"That sounds like a lead worth following. Thanks, Dad."

"Would you like me to come with you when you talk to Lisa?" Mark asked hopefully.

Steve pretended to weigh that suggestion carefully. "Let me see...me and a grieving widow or you and a grieving widow. That's a hard one, Dad."

Mark chuckled. "We should have time for that after getting the autopsy report. I'll get ready and meet you at the car."

Steve returned to his apartment to pick up a jacket, his enjoyment of the day already enhanced by the prospect of working with his father again. He pondered wryly on the difference that a few years could make. For a time after he had become a detective, his father had jumped enthusiastically into his cases while he had tried, without too much tact, to keep him out of them, terrified that he would be hurt. Somewhere along the way, that had all changed. Mark tended to be more diplomatic in his involvement, and Steve actively welcomed, indeed sought, his contributions. They had become a team, meshing flawlessly in their abilities, complimenting each other's strengths and weaknesses. With his father's assistance, Steve had a solve rate on his cases second to none.

In a brief spurt of introspection, born of contentment, Steve took stock of his life. He loved his job, he was facing a new challenge with his Dad by his side. It was going to be a good day.