"Woodrow," Nigel drawled propping his feet up on the edge of his desk as Woody opened the door to Trace.

"Let me see what you've got." Woody said reaching out to pull a file off of Nigel's desk.

Nigel was quicker. He snapped the papers away from Woody's reach and put them in a spot out of reach. "You tell me. I just spent the last eight hours analyzing eight minutes forty, two seconds of sixteen year old convenience store security feed...Funny, the Boston Police Department has no record of an officer...or anyone wearing a uniform being shot in a convenience store on that date. Neither do any of the other local departments. So unless you are telling me you've got a lead on Jimmy Hoffa... you had better start talking."

The corner of Woody jaw throbbed he held his temper. For a moment Nigel thought Woody had called his bluff. That was until Woody cleared his throat.

"...it was a gas station, in Wisconsin. The officer was my father."

As the implication of what Woody was telling him settled in so did a wave a deja vu. Four years ago he was in a similar situation with Jordan performing his magic to help her find answers in her mother's murder. Nigel also remembered how that turned out. He looked in the other man's eyes and saw the same pain, the same questions. In the subsequent months of Jordan's search, he relived those series of events and swore to himself that he'd do things differently. He would barter his career and reputation for a friend even again. But faced with the same haunted look, Nigel realized he would do it all again.

And so he did.

He sat up looking over his shoulder to make sure they were alone and click his mouse. The computer screen replayed the scene both he and Woody analyzed repeatedly. Abet for totally different reasons.

"Alright, what I assume we have here is a digitized copy of the original..."

Woody nodded almost absent mindedly. He was too busy watching the frame by frame display.

"Normally,"Nigel continued. "Digital medium is more efficient to work with than the original analog tape but in this case whoever made this copy used a RWE dvd to make this copy."

"RWE?"

"Read, write..erase." Nigel held up the scared jewel case that contained the copy that Pete had sent him from Kewaunee. "This copy was recorded over something else. From what I can make out it looked like Christmas morning someplace very snowy..."

"Kewaunee." Woody said barely above a whisper. His eyes never left the images on the computer screen...His father had just walked in the door.

In the refined image Woody could make out his father's wedding band as the man tipped his hat back. Even a dozen years after his mother's death he still wore it. Still, he took it off every once in awhile...on those nights he'd drop Woody and Cal off at their aunt's to drive into the city for the night. It wasn't until years after his death that Woody ever understood thelittle practice of leaving his wedding band on his nightstand and spending the night in a motel somewhere in Green Bay. A small town sheriff couldn't exactly troll the local bars for a little companionship. But a lonely guy in the big city could usually find a kindred spirit to scratch that preverbal itch.

Woody was just now realizing how lonely his father real was.

"Did you see that?" Nigel said bringing Woody back to the present. He backed the feed up four frames and replayed it. "There." he said stopping it a few seconds before Woody's father would turn his back to the gunman.

Woody had to squint, but it was there. A shoe.

"My God, there was another witness." Woody said.

"Or an accomplice..."

Woody nodded. It explained everything. There was a third person involved. They distracted is his enough to let down he guard. But who? Who was it?

"Can you clear that up?"

"It took a little work, but I wrote an algorithm to fill in the pixels lost in transfer." Nigel said proudly.

With a few clicks of his keyboard Nigel enhanced to corner of the store window washing out the reflection and bringing into frame a acid washed pant leg and unlaced white high top...the uniform of every kid that year, including Woody himself.

But what stuck out was the color of the shoelaces. Even in the grey shades of the film Woody could tell they weren't the original white laces that would automatically come with the shoes. They were black. Just like John Bon Jovi used to wear. He could only name one other person who used to make the same fashion statement.

He must have blanched. It was serious enough for Nigel to notice. "Mate, are you alright?"

"...fine," he said as soon as he could find his voice.

"What is it?"

"I know who that is."

"Who?"

"My brother."

Nigel's deja vu had come full circle.

It was just starting to sprinkle as Cal's Greyhound pulled into the station in downtown Boston. He's only been to Boston twice and both times the weather was miserable as he was. He unfolded his lanky frame from cramped seat and waited for his turn to step off onto the curb to claim his bag.

From city to city, the bus stations are always the same: Grey, dungy, and unpretentious. Cal knew without a doubt he could find a drink, a joint, and a game of chance all within its exhaust-grit covered walls.

Ironically, there was some level of comfort in that.

Slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder, Cal debated on which direction to go. We bypassed the terminal and headed down the street. He'd worry about his return ticket later. First, he needed to find a place to stay.

Cal stopped at the first group of people he saw and took up a spot against the wall with them. Cal had spent enough time on the streets to know that there was no such thing as a stranger these forgotten parts of a city. It was all in the attitude and body language. It's the way business was conducted there every day. One of them was quick to acknowledge him by looking Cal up and down and commenting on hanging out in that kind of weather.

Cal knew the lines, he knew the game. He's played it enough. Not now, maybe later. Cal shook his head and simply asked if there was someplace cheap to stay.

A little put off by having his day interrupted for nothing, the man pointed down the street mumbling the name; the Remington Street Hotel. Cal nodded, it sounded like the kind of place he was looking for.

The Remington wasn't that far away. A sign proclaiming 'rooms to rent' hung between ones for a work force office and a liquor store.

"One stop shop," Cal thought grimly to himself. Not that long ago this would have been down right homey.

That was a lifetime ago.

Cal walked inside and knocked on the wall next to the caged desk.

"Hey! Hey! I need a room!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, keep your pants on."

Within minutes, Cal climbed the stairs found his assigned room. By the cockeyed fit of the key in the lock he figured the actual use of the key was just a formality. It didn't surprise him in a place like that. He didn't bring anything worth anything anyway.

Tossing his bag on the thin-mattressed bed and fished a dog-eared slip of paper out of his pocket.

Jordan Cavanaugh's telephone number.

He had asked her for it just to spin Woody up and in his heart of heart's he knew she had given it to him for the same reason. Wood was always so easy. Always...That was until last time...When he kicked his brother out of his life.

The last time he heard her voice was the night Woody was shot. He'd never forget the hurried message left on his phone, nor would he ever forget the haunted-sounding conversation he had with her the next day telling him that Woody would be fine.

Cal wanted to be there for his brother...and for her. He asked if she needed him to come out. Her cryptic answer confused him but he still didn't jump on the first plane. Now he was the one who needed help. He wasn't proud to admit he needed a buffer. What he didn't know was how Jordan and Woody's relationship had changed. Cal dialed. Jordan answered on the second ring.

"Cavanaugh."

"Jordan!"

"Cal?"

"Yes! Jordan it's good to hear your voice again," Cal said brightly. He hoped it wasn't too brightly. He relaxed at her laugh.

"Calvin! How've you been? How are things in Wisconsin?"

"I don't no, actually I'm here in Boston."

"Boston? That's, that's...wonderful." Her tone tempered her earlier amusement. Cal took a deep breath.

"I need your help." When she didn't answer right off the bat he continued. "I need to talk to Woody and after our last meeting I doubt he'll see me..."

"You don't know that Cal."

"Come on Jordan, you were there. He was serious. I wouldn't put you in the middle if it wasn't important."

"Cal, I'd help if I could but..."

Cal's heart dropped. "...But?"

"Your brother and I..." The line was silent for a moment Cal knew she didn't hang up because he could hear her breathing.

"You're brother and I ...? You know what? Never mind."

Cal could almost see her squaring her shoulders. "What do you want me to do?"

The pub Jordan suggested they meet was an easy walk from the hotel but the spitting drizzle left him wet and cold by the time he stepped in the door. One look around the quiet room and Cal knew she wasn't there. He looked at his watch. He was early. Cal found a stool at the end of the bar and ordered a cup of coffee. It was all he could do not to ask for a side of whiskey. This time he settled for just the caffeine and warmth.

Jordan slipped into the door of the bar behind a customer who was just leaving. It didn't take her long for her to make out Cal's dark haired, tall silhouette from the end of the bar. There was no mistaking him Woody's brother. The way they held themselves was so similar. Maybe that was why they had connected so quickly. He was like an old friend...the Woody she first met; a little goofy, a little enigmatic, and a lot more troubled then he'd let show.

She walked up behind him and placed her hand on his shoulder. Cal turned and she was greeted by a pair of distant, but smiling blue eyes. She didn't think twice when he stood up and enveloped her in a warm hug. She wrapped her own arms around his waist and leaned into him.

"Thank you for meeting me Jordan."