Disclaimer: I don't own Crossing Jordan or any of its characters. Wish I did. Oh, the chaos I would cause....

Chapter One

Monday. It always happened on Monday. Jordan held her head and groaned as the incessant ringing of her cell phone woke her from a deep sleep. It always seemed that she was left to clean up the aftermath of people's bloody weekends too early on Monday mornings.

Still holding her head and nursing a hangover, she stumbled across the bedroom to where her cell phone was charging. "Cavanaugh...and whoever this is better have one hell of a good excuse for calling at," she glanced down at her wristwatch, "five frigging thirty on a Monday morning."

"Good morning to you, too, Sunshine," greeted a voice on the other end. It was Bug.

"Damn, Bug, what is it?" Her head was pounding and her stomach had decidedly not settled into the new work week.

"Hilton downtown. Man found dead of probable gunshot wound to the chest. Looks pretty open and shut right now. But you're up. It's your call. He's on the ninth floor. Garret's on his way, too. Seems like the deceased is some kind of bigwig."

Jordan sighed. "Thanks, Bug. Let me grab a shower and a cup of coffee and I'll be right on over."

Bug grinned. "Hope I didn't interrupt anything?"

"No. No chance. See you later, Bug."

"Okay, and Jordan?"

"Yeah?"

"Have a nice day."

Jordan slammed her phone shut. Have a nice day, my ass, she thought as she climbed into the shower, letting the water wash away her headache and upset stomach. Forty-five minutes and three cups of coffee later, she was at the hotel suite on the ninth floor. Garret had also just arrived and had just begun his preliminary examination of the victim. "What do we have?" Jordan asked softly, noting that there were more detectives than normal at the crime scene.

"We have one Mr. Philip Buchanan. Apparently died of a single gunshot wound to the chest. And from the looks of things, it was self-inflicted."

Jordan looked around the crime scene carefully. Something did not seem normal for a typical suicide...there were too many cops. Too many detectives. They were being watched too carefully. "Who is this guy?" she asked Garret, as she took Philip's liver temperature.

"Philip Buchanan is...was....a multi-millionaire. He made most of his initial fortune as an executive investment broker with one of the largest firms in the United States. Lately, he has been known to champion, underwrite, and sponsor new software and microchip development. And I mean micro-microchips. I've read they were developing some as small as the head of a pin.

"He's been written up in Fortune 500, listed as one of the five richest men in America, one of the ten richest men in the world. He has a lovely wife, three grown children, and five grandchildren. Houses in the Hamptons, Martha's Vineyard, Key Largo .... Boats, cars, you name it, he has it."

"Wow...then why would a guy with so much money, so much going for him, want to kill himself?"

"We don't know," said a voice behind Jordan. "And that's why I'm here. To find out why."

The voice caught Jordan unaware and with her defenses down. Even though he was still in Boston, they didn't see each other much anymore because he had moved from homicide several years earlier. Woody had transferred out of that division into the white collar crime division. "And why exactly is a corporate crime cop at the scene of a suicide?" asked Garret, warily. White collar crime investigators were known more for their skill with computers and accounting ledgers than with forensics.

Woody smiled grimly. He knew how he was now perceived by the morgue staff...as well as some of the homicide detectives he used to work with. "I used to work homicide not so long ago. I haven't forgotten much...if anything at all. This guy could have been a target of inner corporate sabotage, caught in the crossfire between rival corporations, or his kids could have just gotten tired of waiting on their inheritance. My chief thought I was uniquely qualified to deal with this....situation."

Jordan kept her head down and didn't say anything. She still saw him on occasion. Police functions. Weddings and funerals of mutual friends. An occasional christening. But not daily any more. Not since his transfer about two years ago. And whenever she saw him, she was still struck with the fact that she missed him...even after everything that had happened. "Say, Garret, are we ready to bag him and go?"

Garret nodded and Jordan proceeded to give orders to the other detectives assisting her. She was anxious to get Mr. Buchanan back to the morgue...back to her turf. She would do the autopsy, declare it a suicide, and then get on with her week.

"Are you going to start him when you get back?" Woody asked her.

"Yeah. If there's an autopsy room available."

"Good. I'll see you there."

Great. Woody back at the morgue. What a way to start a Monday. She groaned as the headache from her hangover began to rear its ugly head again.

Jordan drove herself to the morgue, lost in deep thought. She rarely saw him anymore...she rarely had reason to. She dealt with homicide detectives. Woody was no longer in homicide. Yes, she still saw him a couple of times a year. And when circumstance or situation threw them together, they did make small talk. They were civil. Despite of everything...But she could count on one hand the times this had happened...and have fingers left over. When Woody had left homicide, he had left more than that part of his career behind. To Jordan, it appeared he buried everything associated with that part of his life so deep that there was no chance it would ever be resurrected. Including her. And he didn't seem to want any reminders of that part of his past.

She hadn't pushed the issue then. She knew he had been dealing with a lot. And to be honest, the fact that he requested a transfer hadn't surprised her. Their relationship had been going nowhere. The past kept keeping them apart. Her mother's murder. Her father's disappearance. James. So when a new, perky, blonde, blue-eyed ME showed up at the morgue, it didn't shock her that Devan and Woody began dating. She had been jealous at first, but then came to the conclusion that she had no right to be jealous over something she really didn't ever have to begin with – Woody.

And it had appeared that the two were really becoming a couple. Until that night. Until the airplane crash. Until Woody pulled the manifest and realized that Devan had been on the plane. He had helped process the scene. He helped return her remains to her mother. And then he had transferred out to white collar crimes. And that was pretty much the last time Jordan had even talked to him. He changed his cell phone number. He moved from his tiny, one-room apartment.

And her life went on, too. She worked constantly. First, it was at the morgue and at the Pogue. Then her father had returned and she mainly marked her hours in autopsy and trace. Occasionally, she would help Max out on the weekends, but not often anymore. She had become intensely focused on her career. At one time, she would have shied away from promotions because they indicated she would have to bear more responsibility. Now she relished in it. And the pay.

With the increase in pay, Jordan had also moved into a bigger place, away from Pearle Street and apartment 311. She had a townhouse in the older, downtown section of Boston now, within walking distance of the morgue on good days. It had three bedrooms, two baths...a garden tub. It even had a patio area with a small yard where she was actually growing plants. She had no idea if Woody knew. She had no idea if he even cared.

But seeing him again had raised her emotions and her hackles. And now she had to work with him again. Hopefully, it would be brief. Hopefully it would be quick.

And hopefully, it would be painless.