A/N: Hey!

Lioness-Rampant - Yeah its kind of a stand-alone…not before not after…just without the whole W/J tension and evil Slokum! So yeah I guess more before. Yeah I was dying to write something with James…he was a great character there is so much they could do with him. And the question is now, DID he do it? And if not, what was he doing there?

AthenaIceGoddess: Thanks tonnes:D

Garretelliot: Thanks so much these reviews send me jumping around squealing…I love reviews! It makes it all worth it! Well heres some more…hehe just enough…

Uh, yeah, usual disclaimer, we all know the drill…

"Damn it, Jordan," Woody said under his breath over and over, hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white. The shock of seeing Max lying so helpless on the ground, in a pool of his own blood was still gut wrenching – and if he was feeling like this he couldn't imagine what Jordan must be going through. Another murder, he thought grimly. Another one to send her crazy.

He must have said it aloud, because his frazzled passenger, Garret, who was looking decidedly worried that there would be two more fatalities due to reckless driving tonight, sent him a sharp look.

"Not this time," he said, and winced as his young friend's car flew over a bump. "Would you slow down?" he growled, and Woody sent him an apologetic look, but ignored the instruction. They had to get there before she…

"She's gone," Garret said as Woody screeched to a halt outside. Woody looked at him curiously and he pointed to the place where Jordan normally haphazardly left her car. Woody let out a growl and jumped out of the car, taking the flight of stairs two at a time. He came to her apartment and stared in alarm at the open door. Running in, fearing the worst, hardly even being able to contemplate the worst, he stopped abruptly. Her scent still lingered in the air, Woody would know it anywhere. The scent of her own body mingled with the perfume she used almost religiously hung about, tantalising as well as frustrating the detective. Garret came in, seeing Woody standing stock still, and scanned the room looking for anything. They exchanged a glance and Woody knew that Garret recognised the smell as well, and felt a small twinge of jealousy that he had gotten so close to her, close enough to remember…

Damn, what was he saying? He shook himself angrily, and made himself focus. Clothes were strewn around the room; the drawers and cupboards were hanging horribly open.

"Someone was looking for something," Garret said.

"You don't think it was her?" Woody asked, alarmed.

"I don't know what to think," Garret said, sighing heavily. "We're not going to get any joy here. Lets get back to the morgue and…" Garret almost choked on his own grief. He had known Max well, had sat with him most Friday nights before he sold the bar, drinking, laughing, lamenting. They had gotten on extremely well, because they were so very alike. And both had a fierce love of the woman they both regarded in a daughterly fashion. He blinked hard, hoping that Woody was too distracted to notice his pain. No such luck, the detective was looking at him, eyes full of concern, tempered with a budding bitterness, a bitterness Garret recognised very well. It was the look he sported at his own age, the look that told everyone who could read it that innocence was leaving the building, and wouldn't ever be returned.

"This is wrong, Garret, this is all wrong. We should all be at home, watching the football, stressing over unfinished reports…" he trailed off, waving his hand around the apartment hopelessly. Garret shook his head, but not in disagreement.

"I'll try and call her," he said, and got out his phone. He slammed it down in frustration when she didn't answer.

"Did you expect her to?" Woody said softly, wise in his worry. Garret shot him a look and stormed out of the apartment. Woody glanced around the apartment once more, inhaling deeply, trying to savour the last trace of her, and followed the Chief ME out.

-----

They walked into the morgue, together, bracing themselves for the predicted onslaught. As suspected, Lily, Bug and Nigel were all there, ashen faced. Lily glanced at the two doctors either side of her and spoke for them all, in a strained voice.

"There's a Max Cavanaugh here," she said, begging Garret to laugh at her silliness and send them all home. "We, I mean I…" she stopped at the horribly grieved look on the older and younger man.

"We weren't game to look," Nigel added, unnecessarily. Garret stared at them for a minute before hanging his head and sidestepping them. Lily clapped a hand to her mouth, turning to Woody.

"It's him, isn't it?" she whispered. Woody merely nodded, and watched the three before him reel with the shock.

"No way," Nigel said uselessly.

"My God," Bug said, shaking his head.

"Where is Jordan?" Lily asked of Woody.

"I don't know," he said truthfully.

"What do you mean? You looked for her didn't you?" she demanded.

"She's gone, Lily," he said, following Garret into the crypt. Tears came, unbidden, into Lily's eyes, and she wept for yet another life lost, and yet another wrecking ball slammed into the wall Jordan had been desperately trying to build up. Bug gave her a squeeze; face a mask of shock, and followed Woody and Garret. Nigel looked at her helplessly, and she put a hand on his arm. He patted it absently, smiling weakly, and followed his friends.

Pushing open the door to the crypt, he saw all three of them standing uncomfortably around the lump that was once Max Cavanaugh.

"How are we going to do this?" Garret asked, a very poor attempt at being brusque. The other three saw straight through the façade, of course.

"We owe it to her to do it ourselves," Nigel replied firmly.

"Rene will have a fit," Garret said, an attempt at thinking about something else, anything else. The three doctors stood about, each knowing they would inevitably perform the autopsy; dread falling in their stomachs like lead.

Woody was hardly following the exchange. His thoughts were with Jordan, always with Jordan. He could not begin to imagine how she was dealing with this. He wondered idly where she had gone. Possibly LA again. He thought of following her, but the world was such a big place…

All these ridiculous thoughts whirled around in his head, tormenting him, goading him. He felt like screaming. His thought process was interrupted by the eerie silence that had fallen over the crypt, and suddenly the thought that there were countless dead bodies surrounding him hit Woody like it never had before. He shivered, and stared at the men who had their faces turned expectantly to him. He shook his head slightly, turned on his heel, and left the morgue, leaving the doctors staring sadly after him.

------

Jordan sat in her car, where she had sat all day. She was waiting for dark, like a nocturnal animal, and truthfully, that's what she felt like. Sneaking around, in a gigantic city as though it was a small country town where everyone knew everyone else and nothing was sacred.

Not here, she mused. Not in the great city of New York. She had navigated herself around ever since she arrived at about midnight the night before, looking for the address that her brother had given her. A man ran by her car, shouting over his shoulder. Jordan jumped a mile in the air, and whipped her head around, to see the retreating back of the jogger and his dog, who was panting and following his owner. Nerves recovering, she shuddered, shoulders shaking, and fell still again. Breathing deeply, knowing that to be sick at a time like this would be a huge inconvenience. She remembered the time she was sick at a friend's birthday party, when she was about eight. The girls mother had been so nice, had cleaned her up and driven her home, promising to send her party bag along with the girl the next day. Jordan puzzled at the memory, wondering why it had chosen that moment to float to the top of her mind.

There was a movement across the street, and a man walked into the house she was supposed to be watching. Opening her glove box and retrieving her gun, she jumped out of her car, and walked across to the door. She knocked. When there was no answer she knocked again, louder. She was practically bashing on it when it opened, leaving her hand poised above her head. She dropped it and stared at the man who had opened the door. James.

"You got here fast," he said, almost disconcerted. "Did anyone follow you?"

"No," she said. "No one could have."

"Except your car is out there for all to see."

"No one is going to have a clue where I am, James."

He looked up and down the street furtively before grabbing her arm and pulling her inside. Her first impression of the house was that it was cleaner than she expected. Pictures hung on the walls, pictures of people she had never seen…

"Who are these people?" she asked. He looked at the pictured frowning.

"I don't know," he said. "I think they came with the frames." He gave a lopsided grin, which looked so familiar…anyone else would know that she had seen that look in the mirror, but she couldn't see it. Who looks at someone and says, 'Hey, he looks like me'?

She followed him into the equally clean kitchen, where mugs hung off a mug tree, and there was a vase of fresh flowers on the table. The feeling of suburban family life hit her with such force; she could almost smell the dinner that would stereotypically be cooking, the be-spectacled husband sitting at the table reading a paper, and the wife at the stove with an apron. Jordan shook these stupid thoughts out of her head.

"Why am I here, James?" she asked. It was such a strange question that he stared at her for a minute before answering.

"Because I told you to come."

Jordan accepted this answer right away. "You said you know who did it? Who killed him…them?"

"Not for sure," he said, suddenly wanting to make it all better for her, wanting to find them and bring them to justice, not for him or his mother, but for her.

"He loved you," Jordan said simply. "I could see it."

James started, frowning. "I wasn't his," he said.

"He loved you," Jordan repeated. "I know him." She didn't bother converting it to past tense.

"I'm sorry it had to turn out like this," James said, and Jordan had the feeling that he wanted to say something.

"Spit it out," she encouraged. He shook his head.

"Doesn't matter," he said, and she raised an eyebrow.

"It was you on the phone." It was not a question. James nodded. "Why didn't you say it was you?" she implored, knowing the answer.

"Would you have come?" he countered, and she conceded.

"Probably not."

There was a pause as they sat, the silence deafening.

"So what do you know?" Jordan asked, an attempt at being bright not working, the darkness she was concealing within clearly visible in her eyes.

James' face hardened. "I don't know his name, or where he lives. I know his face and I know he lives here."

"Here as in New York?"

He nodded. "I know his face, though," he repeated. I could never forget it."

Jordan wanted to shake him, but instead tried the sympathetic tactic. "What happened?" she asked softly. He looked at her, as if suspecting insincerity, but shook his head slightly and looked down at his hands, which had suddenly become very fascinating.

"I found out who I was. The diary of the people who raised me…you met them. Samuel and Doris Horton"

Jordan nodded confirmation.

"Any kid would be angry to find out the people they thought were their parents weren't. And that you bore the name of their real son, their dead son." He had a look of utter disgust on his face and he leant forward. "I don't even know my real name," he said hoarsely. "Do you know?"

Jordan was startled. It had never occurred to her that his name wasn't James, but it couldn't be. Her father had given him to the people who had called him James. She shook her head.

"No," she said inadequately. Suddenly her problems paled into insignificance and she recalled with clarity the first time she had met her brother. He had been angry, she hadn't understood.

"I got a mother who was murdered when I was ten years old!" she had shouted, angry at him for making her life sound do sought-after, so peaceful.

"And I got two people who wanted me to be their dead son," he had shot back, slamming his hand into the wall of the house on Broad Street.

She had been too scared and upset to really take in what he was saying, but the disgust he must have felt upon discovering who he really was must have been…she couldn't even imagine. No wonder he carried around such bitterness with him.

He too was remembering their first encounter, how angry he had been, how he had wanted to kill the two people standing in front of him. He almost had, too. Had the trigger halfway pulled. And then he had spoken.

"So what do you do now, James?" he had asked. "Kill us both?"

He had lost his nerve, and run. Surprisingly, they didn't follow. No doubt Jordan was too busy browbeating her father for not telling her the truth, demanding to know if there was anything else he hadn't told her. And there was. Plenty more. Max knew far more about Emily's murder than he had ever let on to her. He must have done.

"You said she told you things. Told you everything. That night, the 17th of September, 1979." She was being pedantic for a reason. She just wanted to clarify the Hortons' story, and the story, or lack thereof, given to her by James that night so long ago. He looked at her, knowing this question was inevitable.

"I was a bastard of a child," he began, staring into the wall opposite Jordan. "I was violent, arrogant and malevolent at every turn. I clashed with my father…the man I thought was my father." Even now she could see the confusion in his eyes. After all this time, it still hurt. "We were never really close," he said. "I guess now I know why."

"No, James," she said, suddenly feeling his pain like never before. He had no one, absolutely no one in the world. She knew how that felt, and would not with it upon anyone. "When he spoke of you to me he was regretful. I didn't know why, or what for at the time, but now it's starting to make sense. He did care for you," she said, but knew it was hollow. James could tell she was fabricating as well, but didn't press it. He continued.

"When I was 16, we had a huge fight. He told me I should leave. He didn't go as far as actually kicking me out, but I left anyway. I couldn't stand it."

"What about the diary?" Jordan asked.

"What diary?" James said, puzzled.

"Doris Horton told me you found her diary, the night you left. That was the reason you…" she trailed off, realising he had no diary.

"There was never any diary," James assured her. "She told me. Our mother tracked me down."