Scene 4

Joe woke to the ringing of his phone. It was Rousseau, his shift manager.

"Monsieur Dawson, we've been burgled."

Joe sat up. The deposit ... He had the money with him, waiting for the bank to open. What, then?

"What's gone?"

"The petty cash and the office computer. Also that picture behind the bar. Should I call the police?"

"Yes. No, wait." Joe's sleep-fogged mind whirled. The portrait, unimportant. The petty cash, inconsequential. The computer... his Chronicles! "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Joe began dialing the phone before he got out of bed.

Scene 5

Joe and Methos were a grim pair as they surveyed the bar. The lock on the door to the back office had been broken, apparently with a heavy object like an ax, since the metal of the door bore dents and marks. Nothing else had been damaged, except for the phone jack's plastic cover where the modem phone line had been yanked.

"Have you called Watcher Damage Control?" Methos asked. He leaned his forearms on the surface of the bar and sank between his own shoulderblades. The west facing windows of Le Blues Bar admitted only diffuse morning light, but it was enough to see the stubble on Methos' face. Joe was pretty sure the sweater and jeans Methos wore had been on him yesterday.

"I am Damage Control," Joe reminded him. He sat on a barstool, his back to the bar. The roiling in his stomach might have been because he had had no breakfast, but he doubted it. "But I don't know how serious it is. That new hard drive. Had you downloaded the backup to Mac's Chronicle from the laptop?"

"Not yet. Not in front of Neal."

Thank God for small mercies. Huge ones, actually. Joe felt his stomach relax.

"However," Methos still looked worried, "whoever took it may not have known that. It could still be an immortal."

The thought was chilling. The Watchers had kept their existence secret from even the most mild of immortals for centuries, and for very good reasons. Joe's own actions had changed that. After the war known alternately as Horton's War or Galati's War, depending on your views, the Watchers had reorganized around adjusted assumptions. One of the new assumptions was that you could never be sure any particular immortal didn't know about Watchers. If an immortal had been looking for MacLeod's Chronicle...

"Joe," Methos' changeable eyes were dark. "If he doesn't find what he wants, he'll come for you."

Joe shrugged and turned away. He wasn't ready to deal with that just yet. Standard Damage Control procedure would call for a temporary reassignment of the Watcher involved, for his own safety. But Joe didn't feel threatened, for some reason. What he did feel was violated. This was his place. Now he had an outside door he couldn't lock, and the ripping away of the computer felt like something had been ripped from inside of him.

"What about the old hard drive?" He changed the subject. "Did you dispose of it at HQ?'

"Uh, no. Not yet."

"What! Adam!"

"No one took it!" he protested. "It's still in the box by your desk."

"That's supposed to be standard procedure!"

"Nobody could get anything off that hard drive! It's deader than disco."

"That's not the point. And we had some disco in here last week."

"Ew, you did?"

Methos' expression grew wary. He rose from his slouched position against the bar, his entire body poised for flight. "Joe, did you call MacLeod to come over?" His eyes were wide.

"Yeah, I did. Relax," Joe said. "I figured it concerns him." Joe mentally kicked himself for the "relax" comment. He had no business telling an immortal when he should and shouldn't fear for his life. Hadn't the experience with Cord and Charlie taught him anything? It was just so easy to get irritated with "Adam."

They heard the front door open, and seconds later Methos relaxed as MacLeod appeared around the entryway. With him was a beautiful bleached-blonde woman, wearing black leather pants and a spaghetti string tank top. Despite the early hour, they both looked groomed, fed, and rested. Joe felt abruptly grimy, and was glad that Methos looked worse.

"Morning, MacLeod," Joe greeted. "And Amanda! Good to see you."

"Look who's come to visit," MacLeod said with a forced smile. He released her arm as she moved to Joe to bestow a chaste kiss on his cheek.

"Hello Joe," she said, smiling. That woman, Joe reflected, could flirt just by entering a room. She also made the room seem very warm, he observed.

Amanda turned to Methos, who presented his cheek and fluttered his eyelids. She kissed him anyway. "Methos," she murmured.

"Adam Pierson," he corrected archly. "Say, Amanda," Methos asked with exactly the right tone of astonished confidence, as if it had only just occurred to him, "did you hear MacLeod has just acquired a bunch of valuable art?"

MacLeod snorted. Joe tried to keep a straight face, and Amanda's manner turned dour.

"Say, Adam," she returned, flicking a finger over his prominent nose, "ever hear of a thing called plastic surgery? It's amazing what they can do nowadays."

Three male groans hummed in the bar. Amanda looked pleased.

"Low blow, Amanda," Joe said. Even he didn't tease Methos about his nose.

"Well, not so low," she observed, looking up at the proboscis under discussion, "but certainly an easy shot."

Methos looked long-suffering, and allowed her the final word.

Amanda returned to Joe, her expression less than amiable. "So, I understand someone has Duncan's Chronicle?" she asked.

"No!" he and Methos cried at once. They glanced at each other, but both continued.

"The Chronicle wasn't on it!"

"It had a new hard drive!"

"I just didn't know when I called you.!"

"It's perfectly safe!"

MacLeod regarded the two Watchers gravely; Amanda regarded them with amusement.

"So, it's all right then?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Well, probably."

Joe exchanged another glance with Methos, and explained. "It's just that we don't know why someone would take it. It was old. If they knew …"

MacLeod nodded. "Amanda, why don't you make yourself useful and take a professional look at the crime scene?" he suggested.

"I don't know," she replied. "Why would I? You know I'm not very experienced at this side of a break in."

"You'll manage," MacLeod assured her.

Amanda smiled and sashayed after a watchful Methos, who led the way to Joe's office.

"Would you like some coffee, Mac?" Joe offered, relieved that her departure had returned the room to its normal temperature.

"No, thank you." The Highlander lowered himself onto a barstool, however, and watched as Joe poured himself a cup and set the coffeemaker to "warm." "How are you doing, Joe?" he asked.

The question surprised Joe. "I'm okay. I was home in bed at the time."

"I know. But ..." MacLeod gestured vaguely at the room. "It's your place."

Oh. Yeah. That sick, victimized feeling Joe had had in his stomach all morning. So MacLeod knew about that. The consideration warmed Joe, but it wouldn't do to acknowledge it, of course.

"It's okay. The computer was old. Nothing of real value was taken." Just my sense of security and independence.

Still reading Joe's mind, MacLeod said, "You can probably get the door and lock replaced before closing time tonight."

"Yeah, I know a guy."

MacLeod nodded, approving. "I wonder why they took the portrait," he mused.

Joe stared at the immortal, considering. "That portrait. I've been wondering about it."

"Wondering what?"

"When did a soldier find time to paint a portrait? And where did he get the materials?"

MacLeod shrugged. "You know what they say. Sometimes the worst part about war is the boredom."

"Yeah. Did you find that so?"

"Sometimes." MacLeod looked away.

Damn. MacLeod always seemed to know when Joe was fishing. Oh well, it had been worth a try.

Before he could try another approach, Amanda and Methos returned to the bar.

"Do I smell coffee, Joe?" Amanda asked.

Joe poured her some. "What's the verdict?"

"Amateurs," she sniffed. She took a stool next to MacLeod and placed both manicured hands around the coffee cup. Methos set the dead hard drive on the bar, and began prowling around the room like a cat in a new place.

"Determined amateurs, though," Amanda continued. "They tried to cut the lock first, and when that took too long, they had some other tool with them for hacking. Also, they had cased the place well enough to know where the back door was, and that it was out of sight."

"What makes you think there was more than one?" MacLeod asked.

"Intuition." She sipped her coffee and reached for the sugar.

"Amanda," MacLeod said gently, "you can't do police work on intuition."

"I am not the police," she pointed out. "You asked for my professional opinion. Well, it includes intuition. Take it or leave it."

MacLeod shook his head and turned to Joe. "What do the police say?"

"The police say not enough of value is missing for them to even come see the crime scene." And the Highlander had better not ask how Joe felt about that! "My manager is downtown making a report, that's all. Amanda," he refilled her coffee, "what does your intuition tell you about why someone took my computer?"

"Well!" Amanda looked pleased and turned a dazzling smile on Joe. "At least someone respects my intuition."

Joe suspected the Highlander was rolling his eyes, but he couldn't look away from that smile long enough to check.

"Since you ask politely, I'll tell you. They didn't want your computer; they wanted Darling Boy. They just took the other things to make it look random."

Oh. Oh, of course.

This observation was apparently obvious enough to Amanda that she appeared oblivious to the bombshell she had dropped. She set her coffee cup down delicately, and consulted her jeweled watch. "My, will you look at the time," she said, and then pouted at MacLeod.

MacLeod ignored her, matching gazes with Joe. The bombshell had been powerful enough to draw Methos back to the group. His eyes were wide.

"Of course," Joe breathed. It probably wasn't an immortal threat, thank God.

"Who even knew it was here?" MacLeod asked.

"Well, it wasn't hanging up, and I had put the wrapping back on, so no one should have recognized it. I guess that means the three of us and Neal. Rousseau knew I had a painting, but I don't think he knew what it was. I wonder if Neal told anyone. Had you told the press?"

"Not yet. It hadn't come up. Adam?"

"Who would I tell?"

MacLeod looked hard at him.

"No! No one."

"Joe, has anyone noticed it or asked about it in any way?"

"No, no one. Except ..." he paused as his stomach churned again. "Except Neal."

"Neal?"

"Yeah. He offered to buy it from me for 300 francs."

Except for Amanda, who was adjusting her top, they all looked at Methos. Methos looked sullen.

"Adam, we need to have a talk with Neal," MacLeod proclaimed into the silence.