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.

Rating: G

Summary: Amid a tragic explosion and a case of corruption Mark tries to clear his son's name.

Acknowledgement: This has been ten months in the writing and there were times that my enthusiasm waned to the point of surrender. Only Nonny's continued support and encouragement kept me going and enabled me to reach the end. Thanks, my friend!

Fugitives

Chapter 1

"Mark! It's so good to see you."

Dr. Mark Sloan stood up at the approach of his dinner companion and returned her enthusiastic embrace before holding her at arm's length. "Let me look at you. Wow! You are as beautiful as ever."

This was no empty flattery. Even in her 50's, Elise Latiere was a very attractive woman, her fine bone structure and expressive gray eyes enhanced by the vivacity of her demeanour. However, Mark did not miss the shadows under her eyes and the lines of worry on her forehead that led him to suspect that this invitation to dinner had been motivated by more than a desire to renew an old acquaintanceship. He held her chair and helped her get comfortable at the table, then reseated himself. They amiably discussed the contents of the menu before placing an order, then relaxed back in their chairs to enjoy the ambience, reminisce about old times and catch up on news.

Mark found himself thoroughly enjoying the evening. It had been a long time since he had had a date at a gourmet restaurant, usually preferring instead to experiment with exotic cooking in the comfort of his own home, or when too tired to cook, feasting on the ubiquitous ribs from BBQ Bobs. Here, the food was exquisite, the conversation comfortable and, although Mark could sometimes sense the effort behind Elise's light smile, it was easy for him to remember how much he'd always enjoyed her company.

They had met at a hospital benefit dinner six months after the death of Mark's wife. Elise's husband was, typically, away on business, and they had gravitated together, two people lonely for companionship and instinctively responding to a shared pain. Elise proved to be a good listener, and Mark was able to talk about Katherine, rediscovering the good times he'd shared with his wife and not just reliving the more recent bad times. Perhaps Elise's greatest gift was her ability to find enjoyment in even the simplest activities, and her pleasure helped Mark to realise that his own life was far from over. However, he gradually realised that, in the self-absorption of grief, he had underestimated her vulnerability and that her feelings for him were straying from the platonic. She was married, and Mark wasn't ready for another relationship, and in these circumstances, he was being utterly unfair to both of them in continuing to see her. Feeling something of a heel, he had broken it off as gently as he could. He hadn't seen her again until this night.

Elise finished her food before arranging her cutlery tidily on her plate. "How's Steve?" she asked casually.

Mark's eyes lit up as he warmed to his favourite subject. "He's doing great. He's a homicide lieutenant now." He started to tell her about the latest case that Steve had solved, but, while she was smiling at his obvious pride, a tension in her posture suggested that the information that his son was a policeman was not news to her and that she had introduced this topic for a purpose. Bringing his story to a rather abrupt conclusion, he leaned over and captured her hand in his.

"Please tell me what's wrong. Something is bothering you."

At the gentleness of the request, tears sprang into her eyes, and she looked down at their joined hands in an attempt to steady herself. Mark didn't attempt to hurry her, allowing her to tell the story in her own way.

Finally, she looked up hesitantly. "I think Robert is in trouble, and I just don't know what to do." At Mark's nod of encouragement, she continued. "I think it started a couple of years ago. We went through a really rough time financially. Robert lost a lot of money on the stock market, and we were even faced with the possibility of losing the house. He was angry and depressed all the time...it was really hard. Then, out of the blue, he got another job, and suddenly everything changed. There was plenty of money again; in hindsight, too much money maybe. I don't know, he never discusses the finances with me. I was just pleased that he was in a better mood. It didn't occur to me how strange it was at the time. He was away frequently, but, even when he was home, there were never any company functions, any socialising with friends. Then, recently, he's been very stressed and...almost scared. I'm afraid he's got involved in something illegal."

"Do you want me to ask Steve to check into it? Mark asked with concern.

"No!" Her reaction was vehement and on the edge of panic. "I don't want to get him into any trouble. He'd never forgive me if I got him arrested. Please promise me you won't say anything to Steve, not yet."

After Mark's reluctant reassurance, she relaxed slightly and continued. "I confronted him this afternoon, and he didn't deny anything, but he said that he was going to sort it out this evening and he'd explain everything to me in the morning. His boss has agreed to make some time to speak with him after a business meeting down at Pier 62, near the Vincent Thomas Bridge."

"Why did you want to meet with me?" Mark didn't want to force the issue but felt he wasn't getting the full story.

Elise met his eyes steadily, but uncertainty was reflected in their depths. "I suppose I just wanted to know there was someone out there who knew, who cared. Someone I could turn to if needed."

"A safety net," Mark supplied, with a smile. "I can certainly supply that. If you need anything more, please let me know."

"Thank you." Elise stood up and gave him a kiss on the cheek preparatory to departure. At the last moment, she hesitated and pulled a brown envelope out of her purse. "Robert gave me this as he left. He said it was 'insurance'. Would you look after it for me? I'd feel safer if you kept it; it makes me nervous."

Mark accepted the package, but her speech did nothing to reassure his concern, and again he urged her to accept Steve's help, recklessly pledging his son's discretion, but she was adamant in her refusal. He walked her to her car, and with a last hug, she got in and drove off.

A troubled Mark drove home, more sure with every passing mile that he'd made a mistake in not insisting she accompany him home. The sight of Steve's car in the driveway reinforced his regret in promising Elise not to involve his son, for more reasons than one. He wanted to discuss the situation with Steve to solicit his opinion, and he didn't want to be in the position of keeping a secret from his son. At one time, even if he disliked being less than open with Steve, he could at least be reasonably assured of successful concealment if necessary. But now, either Mark had become transparent in his old age or Steve was taking night classes again, this time in mind reading, because if there was ever an Olympic medal in deciphering Mark Sloan, Steve was a shoo-in for the gold.

Mark called out a greeting as he entered, the fragrant aroma of coffee reaching him. The slightly muffled response confirmed his impression that Steve was in the kitchen. He was polishing off the last piece of a large sandwich, and, since his mouth was fully occupied, his eyebrow spoke volumes as it crawled up his forehead at his first glimpse of Mark's attire. Steve swiveled in his chair to watch his father as Mark nonchalantly strolled to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. So intent was he on maintaining his facade of innocence, that he didn't see Steve move, and he almost dropped his drink as he turned and found his son beside him proffering a paper towel. He stared at it with a mixture of incomprehension and suspicion, until, with a smirk, Steve reached up and wiped a spot on his cheek, turning the towel to show him the result.

"Lipstick and ..." He made a performance out of sniffing the air, "...perfume. Hot date, Dad?"

"You should be a detective," Mark told his son dryly, sitting down at the table and attempting to ignore Steve as he dropped into a chair opposite, regarding him fixedly with a gleam in his eye that didn't bode well for the focus of his attention.

"So, anyone I know?" Steve prompted him as the silence grew.

Mark realised that Steve was only angling for information in revenge for the inordinate interest displayed by father and friends in his own love life, which Jesse had once uncharitably described as holding the appalling fascination of a train wreck. Mark's own inquisitiveness on the topic stemmed from a deep desire to see his son happily settled with a family of his own, but even he had to admit that his son's track record was less than stellar. His own personal theory was that Steve' innate protectiveness had a tendency to draw him to women with the proverbial broken wing, who often had their own agendas. Happy to see that his son could take the matter lightly, Mark played along with Steve's interrogation, a twinkle in his eye.

"You'll only get name, rank and serial number from me," he disclaimed dramatically.

Steve sat back casually. "Of course, you don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to."

Mark recognised the trump card he always played in a last ditch effort to extract information from his son and smiled, acknowledging the hit. "OK, her name is Elise."

Pulling out a notebook, Steve painstakingly wrote the name then, pen poised for more, looked up expectantly. "I'll need her last name to run a background check on her."

"Steve!" For a moment, Mark's sense of guilt over his evening activities led him to believe that his son was serious, then he burst out laughing.

Steve grinned at his father, but his smile slipped as he glanced at his watch. "I need to go. I'll get all the gory details later."

Mark's own mood nosedived as he watched his son strap on his holster and check his gun before replacing it. "It's late to be working. What's going on?"

"I had a personal visit from the Chief this afternoon asking me to assist his Task Force in an arrest this evening." Steve's back was to his father as he slipped on his jacket, and Mark couldn't help but suspect that this was a move intended to conceal his son's own disquietude over the request.

"It sounds dangerous." Mark struggled to keep his tone neutral. "Besides, I thought you had told the Chief that you weren't interested in his Task Force."

Steve picked up on the anxiety shadowing his father's voice and turned round. "It's a one time thing, Dad. Besides, when the Chief of Police asks you for a favour, it's hard to say no." On a lighter note he added - "Hey, I'm still hoping for a Captaincy one day."

"Really?" Mark perked up.

Steve watched his father's hopeful face, a familiar regret tugging at his heart. He knew just how badly Mark wanted to see him safe behind a desk, and there were some days when the idea held some charm. But those days were few and far between.

He didn't want to raise his father's hopes too far and tried to dismiss the subject with humour. "One day, Dad. But you know how bad I am at paperwork."

"There's far more to being Captain than just paperwork," Mark insisted. "You'd be a good leader."

Knowing that his response was a disappointment to his father, and regretting raising the issue in the first place, Steve felt the need to justify the tension his job caused. "You'd be a good administrator too, but you'd never be happy doing that job. You love working with patients."

"My patients don't try to kill me," Mark interrupted dryly. "Or at least, not very often," he amended.

"I love working out in the field. I can really make a difference there." Steve shrugged, hoping the gesture would convey the eloquence he felt his words lacked.

The tacit apology in his son's words pricked Mark's conscience, and the force of the realisation that he'd broken his own cardinal rule stopped him in his tracks and washed away the arguments he was marshaling. From early on, he had sworn to himself not to criticise his son's choice of career or allow a father's fears to increase the burden of an already difficult job. Yet, since the discovery that Jack Sloan, his own father, had been killed in the line of duty, an already-constant worry for Steve's safety had deepened into an omnipresent dread, fueled by past experience and what he admitted to himself was a totally irrational and superstitious fear of intergenerational fate.

In an effort to reassure his son, Mark dredged up a smile that would have fooled anyone except for the one person for whom it was intended, and struggled for something supportive to say. "Keep your head down," he offered.

"Sound strategic tactics, Dad. I'll keep it in mind." Steve was more than willing to accept the olive branch implied in the words.

"There are more nuggets of paternal wisdom where that came from. How about - Go straight to Grandma's house and don't talk to strangers."

It was a lame struggle at humour, but Steve was happy to chuckle in appreciation of the effort and gave his father a quick, one-armed hug.

"Don't wait up for me."

Mark watched his tail lights disappear into the night before closing the door and gently banging his head on the solid wood with a soft whisper of -"Dammit." The evening that had started so promisingly had soured irretrievably, and he was left with the disconsolate feeling that he had let down both his son and a good friend in a dismal tandem failure. He knew that Steve wouldn't see it that way, but Mark found it hard to forgive himself for creating a distraction when his son needed to concentrate solely on his job.

His first mistake, Mark mused, had been in promising to keep information from Steve that could be a police matter. True, he'd done it before, in fact had even harboured an escaped prisoner in their home, but he'd concealed the truth only to protect his son. This was different and had put him on the defensive from the first.

Mark put his coffee down and walked resolutely into his study, a decision made. He would look at Robert Latiere's 'insurance' and try to figure out how much trouble the man was in. As an accountant, the man could have uncovered anything from simple graft to high corruption. Mark hoped for Elise's and his own sake that it was the former. The brown envelope tore slightly as he opened it and, after emptying it of its contents, he threw it in the trash. It contained a small notebook, maybe seven by five inches, and it was with considerable curiosity that Mark opened it, flicking through its pages delicately as a frown of frustration deepened on his face. All it contained was numbers, interspersed occasionally with a few letters, neatly arranged in carefully written columns of varying quantities of digits. It was probably a code, but it could, more straightforwardly, be a form of accounting. However, without headings or other clues, it was inaccessible to the uninitiated.

Although he couldn't decipher the meaning behind the numbers, the meticulous precision of the cramped writing spoke to him in muted tones of its gravity, and he couldn't ignore the warning. On impulse, he grabbed the telephone directory to find Elise's number, hoping to hear that Robert had returned and he was overreacting. However, although he let the phone ring for several minutes, it wasn't answered. On the theory that it was after midnight and that Elise might be in bed, he tried again, with no more success.

Frustrated, Mark contemplated a visit to the Latiere house, but eventually he decided that his presence in the early hours of the morning might be awkward to explain to her husband, and he discarded the idea.

Mark hadn't reached his distinguished age without learning how to exercise patience when no alternative presented itself, although it was never his favourite activity, and he much preferred action, a trait shared with his son. He decided to call Elise periodically while waiting up for Steve, although he couldn't suppress a grin at the thought of his son's reaction to that, especially considering his departing words. A 'hypothetical' discussion with Steve about a friend in trouble, however, would ease his conscience.

He poured himself a second cup of coffee and settled in the comfortable chair in front of the TV, channel surfing in the hopes of finding something to distract him from his speculations. He settled eventually on an old black-and-white Cary Grant movie, but it had been a hard week at work, and it wasn't long before the remote slipped out of a nerveless hand and a soft snore emanated from the chair that had proved too snug for the intentions of its occupant.

It was some time later that Mark was awoken, disoriented, with a start by knocking on the front door. A glance told him that it was around dawn, the pale, diluted light seeping in the room informing him that the sun had not yet made it over the mountains to the East.

The knocking was repeated, reverberating and strident. It shook the last of the cobwebs from Mark's brain, turning them into tripwires, all sounding a shrill alarm. No good could come of such an abrupt, early-morning summons. He hurried to the door, fumbling with the locks and flinging it open. There were several cars outside with men in suits lounging against the vehicles, but Mark was not aware of anyone but the person on his doorstep - the Chief of Police. Masters had perfected a poker face, but now he looked grim, every line on his face dragged down as if by some obscure, personal force of gravity.

It was the nervous swallow and the brief shift of the eyes that broke the news to Mark before a word was spoken. His heart stuttered arrythmically, then seemed to explode into a million pieces, causing a blazing trail of liquid fire to sear agonisingly through his veins, consuming all hope and strength and leaving behind the cold, gray ashes of two lives extinguished.

"Oh, God, no. Steve!"