A/N: Thanks to the FF net reviewers for comments on Swan Song and for the personal wishes. This chapter is for you. Only one chapter left after this one; story will be completely posted by Christmas. For those who aren't aware of it yet, I now have a homepage of sorts. It's listed on my profile.

A/N 2: Many, many thanks to a technological friend of mine for a quick course in microchip 101. This is not my field. Any errors that crept in in spite of his microchip advice are purely mine.

Musical Notes: "When I Hear Music" was composed by a man named Martin, but unfortunately, I can't track it beyond that. The concert containing that song was two years ago, and while the program identifies the composer as Martin, I was unable to find a copy of the music for more details. That particular song was borrowed (conductors have a loan system that rivals that among libraries), and our director couldn't remember where he borrowed it after so long. No luck on internet searches; the title is too general, and it doesn't realize I mean a specific song instead of separate words. I don't believe it's the same Martin who wrote "the Awakening," as the stylistic signature just strikes me as different. Anyhow, many apologies to Mr. Martin for being unable to provide all details, but the song is a beautiful one. It is a memory, probably a lover's memory, of a dead beloved, running over all the ways that he touched her life, finally coming to the bittersweet conclusion of "I'll sing on" in his memory, although without him. Musically, it is sad but positive with the memories, not a complex song but an emotional one, starting distant, working closer, looking forward at the end, returning at the very end after the resolution to the simple line from earlier repeated quietly, "I think of you."

(H/C)

"You set my life to music. . .

When I hear music, I think of you."

"When I Hear Music," Martin

(H/C)

Speed shifted into a more comfortable slouch on his lab stool and stared at the chain, comparing it again with the picture. This was definitely the original chain, although he'd seen more jewelry than he'd wanted to see in a lifetime while looking for it. How could there be enough people in the world who wanted to buy all that? And at the prices . . . he shook his head and got down to work.

Studying the pictures of the necklace Sarah now had and looking at the chain, he had to admit that Sam had made a wise choice in switching them. The chain on Sarah's necklace was a finer design and suited the stones better, even though it had one of those trick clasps that pretended to be fastened when it wasn't, probably the cause of Sarah's losing it. This original chain was heavier and coarser, not nearly as attractive, and the clasp on it was one of those round cylinders that screwed together. Speed started with the clasp first, as an obvious potential hiding place, but with his luck today, he wasn't expecting it to be that easy, and he couldn't believe it when, barely 2 minutes after he started analysis, a tiny silver device was extracted with tweezers from the inside of the clasp. A microchip.

"Hey, that's a microchip." Eric came into the room behind him, placing several evidence envelopes on the table.

"Thanks," Speed retorted. "So glad you told me that."

"What's on it?"

"I don't know yet. I just this minute started on the chain. Do you know how many chains were in that jewelry store?"

Eric grinned. "And you started at the wrong end of the stock checking them, didn't you?" Speed nodded. "See, you should have started at the opposite end from where you wanted to. Murphy's law; it had to be there."

"The thing is, I did start at the opposite end from where I wanted. I was right the first time." Eric laughed. "Don't you have anything to do yourself besides telling me what I should have done today?"

Eric's expression suddenly went serious. "The last of the evidence from the church. A lot of it was here already. I heard H caught the guy."

Speed nodded. "He's dissecting him right now." He looked at the disassembled clasp on his table and almost pitied the perp for a brief moment, imagining the blue lasers that were H's eyes taking the man apart just as Speed's tweezers had torn up the chain. Shaking off the image, he got down to work, and Eric at the next table did the same.

The microchip, appropriate to the name, was tiny, about the size of a grain of rice. The small size told Speed that it was probably a passive chip. Active microchips contained their own internal power supply and were larger. They could both read and write data, send out a signal, be read from a greater distance, and hold much more information. Passive microchips had no internal power supply, only a transponder that received a signal from a transceiver on the correct specific frequency, and they were only readable by a correctly set transceiver at a very close range. Even the smaller passive chips could contain up to 128 bits of data, though. The problem was going to be identifying this one's specific RFID tag or radio frequency identification tag, since there were no global rules on UHF frequency for microchip readers. Different countries had different usual ranges, but nothing was official. Speed was simply going to have to set up a transceiver to run through the possible frequencies until hitting on the correct one. He sighed. Maybe his luck today wasn't changing.

(H/C)

Horatio's cell phone demanded his attention, and he reluctantly glanced away from the driver's license records of the conference attendees to give it. He didn't recognize the number. "Horatio."

"This is Lieutenant Caine?" It was a soft, tired, Hispanic voice.

"Yes. Who is this?" Calleigh glanced up from her own computer, and he shrugged slightly.

"This is Paul Delgado." It took a second for the name to click. Of course, the senior assistant from the jewelry store. Mrs. Delgado's Paulo, who was off rafting the Colorado River with their problem son. "My raft group just landed today, and I had a message from my wife to call you."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Delgado. Did your wife inform you that Mr. Hermann had been murdered?"

"Yes." The voice was the same, soft, weary. This man was too jaded with his own failures and problems to spare much thought for his employer.

"I wanted to ask you about the procedure for checking in inventory. Were there ever any packages that you were supposed to hand on to Mr. Hermann unopened?"

There was a moment for thought, and then the voice plodded on. "Anything marked personal, of course. Also, he told me that if anything ever had the H in Hermann's Jewelry underlined, to hand that to him, too. I didn't see many of those."

"None recently?"

Another pause. "No."

Horatio left it there. "Thank you, Mr. Delgado." He hesitated for a moment, fighting a sudden impulse to wish the man luck with his wayward son and loveless marriage, but he mastered it. "Have a good afternoon." He snapped the phone shut and looked over to meet Calleigh's eyes. "Have I told you today that I love you?"

"Yes. I don't mind hearing it again, though. Why?"

"Oh, lots of reasons. Your eyes, your smile, your . . ."

"Horatio, much as I enjoy the inventory, I meant why did you ask? That wasn't spontaneous. The call reminded you of it somehow."

"Just remembering that picture in the Delgado house." He didn't have to specify which one or go any further; she remembered it just as vividly as he did.

"No love at all, just tiredness but being convinced that nothing's ever going to get better. No passion." She shuddered slightly. "We'll never be like that. And I love you too, Handsome."

He crinkled his eyes at her. "Back to the call, Delgado says that he had orders to not open anything marked personal and also anything with the H in Hermann's Jewelry underlined."

Calleigh grinned. "You guessed that. Remember?" He didn't and just looked at her blankly. "Never mind, Horatio. That had to be the packages with whatever they were smuggling along with jewelry."

"Right. I can't imagine writing personal on a shipment of illegal goods. Too attention getting. Also, Delgado said that there weren't many with the H underlined. None that he remembered lately, but he was gone from the store that Wednesday afternoon. Sam had to open the package with the necklace. He didn't know."

Calleigh nodded. "Do you think Sam will ever recover enough memory to testify?"

Horatio turned back to his computer. "It doesn't matter. The evidence will testify for him. I'll bet when we search Sanchez's place thoroughly, we'll find that missing register from the store."

"When are we going to search Sanchez's place?"

"Just as soon as we catch the top man and get them both off the streets. Give me two hours." He turned back to the computer, continuing to run driver's license pictures on the Miami residents who had attended the conference so that Sanchez could identify the man who had hired him.. Calleigh resumed her own search on her half of the names, but she did glance at her watch first, not in challenge but for future confirmation.

(H/C)

Horatio was 30 minutes inside his time limit when he, Calleigh, and Tripp rang the bell outside a medium-sized but not overly-elaborate home. This man concealed his illegal income much better than Hermann had.

The door opened. "Yes? May I help you, officers?" The man straightened slightly at the sight of the badges, no fear at all, just the normal reaction of an everyday loyal citizen. Calleigh, watching the performance, was impressed with his acting ability.

"Preston Hamilton?" Tripp stepped forward. Horatio, to one side, was fiddling with something in his pocket.

"Yes. Is there a problem?"

At that moment, the man's cell phone rang. Frowning slightly, he pulled it out of an inner pocket, even though he had another, silent cell phone on his belt. He eyed the caller ID, then answered it with a smile of excuse at Tripp. "Hello there. Are we going to be able to meet tonight after all?" The voice was perfectly casual, the eyes relaxed. This man was good.

Horatio was better. He pulled Sanchez's prepaid cell phone out of his pocket, the phone on which he had just dialed the number of another prepaid cell phone, the number Sanchez had identified as that of his superior. "Actually, I believe that can be arranged."

Hamilton's casual expression froze on his face, then slowly cracked and fell away as Tripp stepped forward to apply the cuffs.

(H/C)

Speed held the reader over the microchip, trying his 178th setting. It was starting to look like a long night. Unexpectedly, the screen lit up with numbers, unlocking the data, and he studied them. The information on the microchip was brief, but he realized after a few minutes exactly what it must be, and it was certainly, to the criminal mind, worth killing for. Quickly, he pushed himself away from the table and, holding the chip and the reader, went to find Horatio.

(H/C)

Horatio was standing, deliberately using his height to symbolize his advantage over the seated Hamilton. "What were you doing, Hamilton? We'll find out anyway. Was it drug-related? Fencing stolen merchandise?" There was the faintest flicker there, and then the stony expression returned, or at least the ghost of it. Hamilton's only words since arriving at HQ had been, "I want to see my lawyer."

"Don't answer that," the lawyer stated. Hamilton had no intention of it.

"Fencing stolen merchandise, then. Thank you," Horatio said silkily. "What sort of merchandise?" Speed tapped on the window of the interrogation room. "Excuse me," Horatio said politely, and he slipped out, shadowed by Calleigh. "Speed, what have you got?"

"It's a microchip, H. Couldn't find you around earlier, but I guess you were busy." Speed glanced at the interrogation room. "It took me over an hour to find the right frequency, anyway. It's a series of bank account numbers and pass codes, I'm positive. We just have to find the right bank. I'd try Switzerland first."

"Bank account numbers," Horatio mused. "And then he could milk the income out in small bits as he needed, or just leave it there. So that was payment for what Hamilton sent, only he didn't want direct association with the sender. Probably, he had another jeweler or somebody sending whatever he sold. A nice method of exchange, and nobody without the right reader frequency could pick up on it. Very easy to slip through inspections. Now what could fit on a microchip?"

"A good bit, especially if he was sending active ones, and it's growing all the time. Moore's law states that the amount of data a microchip can hold doubles every year or at least 18 months," Speed quoted.

Horatio stared back into the interrogation room himself. "Hamilton does work in the jewelry field, which is why he was at that conference, but he might have a partner. Someone technological, maybe, to program whatever they sell onto chips, while he designs jewelry to send them both ways."

Calleigh nodded. "And never the same piece twice, to avoid somebody in customs or such happening to remember it. He might even have had other jewelers like Hermann who received for him, so no one of them got all of the business. I think I'll check on Tyler's background screen on Hamilton. Maybe he has a relative who works at a microchip company."

Speed shook his head. "Too obvious."

"Maybe not," Horatio said. "All his efforts were aimed at avoiding being personally under suspicion in the microchip exchange. He might not have a secondary line of defense, because he never expected to be caught. That's a great idea, Calleigh. Let me know if Tyler comes up with anything." He reentered the interrogation room so quickly that he surprised those outside as much as those in. "So, Mr. Hamilton, have you opened any Swiss bank accounts lately? Or, shall we say, had any opened by someone else and the numbers sent to you? Must have been an especially large deposit this time, wasn't it?" Hamilton's spine stiffened like he had just received a jolt of electricity. "What was on the microchips you sent or had sent, Hamilton? Technological secrets? Who do you know in a technological field? Who's your partner?"

The lawyer snapped his briefcase closed and stood up. "This browbeating has gone far enough. This interrogation is over."

Horatio shook his head. "No, actually, I was just getting warmed up. You might as well tell us, Hamilton. My people are finding it out anyway."

"Don't say anything," the lawyer said. "The only thing they've got on you is the identification of a criminal for hire."

"And possession of the prepaid cell phone of the man who hired him," Horatio added. "Not to mention the microchip."

"You can't tie the microchip to me," Hamilton protested, breaking his silence, and Horatio shook his head slightly.

"Don't you mean, 'what microchip?'"

Hamilton pressed his lips together to prevent any further outbursts, and his lawyer, starting purposefully for the door with a nod to his client, ran smack into Calleigh on her way in. She marched past him and addressed her husband. "Horatio, I'm afraid we're going to have to hand Hamilton over to another investigator."

He played along, trusting her. "Why is that, Calleigh?"

"His brother works in a company that designs missile-guidance systems. If he and Mr. Hamilton have been selling secrets from his work on microchips to someone overseas, this is obviously a matter for the Department of Homeland Security. We'll have to settle with Sanchez for murder and let the feds take apart Mr. Hamilton and his brother, as well as tracking the overseas connection."

Horatio turned to look at Hamilton, who was wilting like an unwatered flower in July. "Anything you care to say, Mr. Hamilton?"

Hamilton stared at the table, all pretense gone. Horatio turned back to Calleigh, and even though it wasn't directed at her, she still flinched at the sudden anger in his eyes. His voice, as always, was perfectly calm, icy calm. "Come on, Cal. We have a call to make."

(H/C)

Horatio hung up the phone in his office and stared at the instrument. His hands were actually shaking slightly. Calleigh came around the desk to touch him. "If they don't need Sanchez as a witness, if the rest of the physical evidence is good enough, which I think it will be, we can have Sanchez. They just want Hamilton and his brother."

"It's over, Horatio." Her grip tightened around him. "The case is over, and we're all fine."

He looked up at her for the first time since hanging up the phone. "You could have been killed because of him, Calleigh. You and Rosalind both."

She kissed him. "I know, Horatio. But we weren't. And he didn't get away with it. You caught him."

"We caught him," he corrected. He leaned into her slightly. "I was so scared Monday night."

"So was I," she said. Her hand made soothing circles on his back. "Horatio, I was thinking, why don't we take a drive up the coast Sunday, just the three of us, just to spend some time together as a family." His hands had stopped shaking, but she knew it would take a little longer for his soul to do the same. She hadn't fully recovered herself yet. They would get past it together.

He smiled faintly. "I'd like that." He pulled her head down to return her kiss, and there was nothing faint about his actions now, or about her response to them. There was only love and passion and being alive.

(H/C)

Calleigh smiled, taking a mental picture as Horatio knelt down to get on more or less eye level with their daughter. It was Saturday morning, and while a good night's sleep couldn't fix everything, it had certainly helped. "You pick one, Rosalind. Okay?"

The child stepped back and tilted her head slightly in echo of her father, eyeing the three Jeeps in front of them. They had decided on a similar Jeep to Calleigh's old one after all, leaving only the color to be debated. Rosalind's analytical look was so familiar that Calleigh burst out laughing, and Horatio, missing the joke, quirked an eyebrow at her. Rosalind ran forward and tapped one on the front bumper.

"Why that one, Angel?" Calleigh was curious.

Her daughter looked up at her, Horatio's eyes but without Horatio's shadows behind them, young and still innocent. "Birds."

"Blue, like some birds," Horatio translated unnecessarily. He grinned. "The first time I picked a car myself, I picked it because it was the color of a plane, silver, so I could fly away on it. Didn't quite work, but I remember the thought. What was your reason, Cal?"

She smiled at her family. "I remember the first one I wanted after I came to Miami. It was exactly the color of your eyes, and I just couldn't buy it. I was afraid everybody would see the resemblance and especially that you would. I got something else perfectly innocent, but I drove back by the lot every day or two to watch that car. I hated the day they sold it." She smiled suddenly at the newly-selected Jeep. "Actually, Rosalind, I kind of like this color. It's the same one." She stared at it suddenly. "I swear, it is the same. I didn't even see it at first."

Horatio came over to wrap an arm around her. "I didn't, either. I'm sorry you had to wait for everything, Calleigh."

She turned her face up to him. "It was worth it." They were just settling into the kiss when their daughter impatiently chimed in from where she was tugging at the Jeep's door handle.

"Mama, dada, do straps! Go!"

They were laughing as they broke apart.

(H/C)

Lynella sat in the chair, staring at years of memories. Tom proposing to her in a song he had written. Tom, tall and handsome, at the end of the aisle waiting for her, and the feeling of resentment that her father wouldn't walk her fast enough to get to him. Their children. Joy, laughter, and shared sorrows. Fights and making up from fights. She gave a watery smile on the last thought. As strong willed as they both were, there had been many fights, but in 50 years, she couldn't recall either one of them ever turning to the door to leave, even temporarily. They both always knew that what they had was worth staying for. Even in a fight, the commitment had never wavered.

His music. She remembered his music, the early struggles, the success, the constant appreciation of the success, like a kid at Christmas, never quite able to believe that the recognition was real and was for him. He had never lost the thrill of selling a new work. She remembered the students over a professional lifetime, many of them coming back years later in gratitude to say how much his belief in them coupled with his challenges had made a difference. So many songs. So many memories.

She suddenly remembered his own words from just a few nights before, when he was talking about Circle of Starlight being his last composition. "I didn't choose it, Lynn, but everything has to end sometime. We can either regret it and pine for more that won't come, or we can appreciate the wholeness of what was." She turned sideways, curling up in the chair, burying her face against the padded back of it. He had been her life. She appreciated the wholeness, but how could she go on without him?

Gradually, the tears stopped. She wondered how she could possibly be able to cry again after getting through the last few days. Surely the well of tears must run dry at some point, but it hadn't yet. And he deserved them, after all. He was worth crying for.

Sudden awareness of the time seized her. They would be back soon, the children. She had asked them to leave her alone for a while, and they had gone out to the store. She felt a little guilty sending them away, but she had to be alone for this. She had to do this, but she had still been postponing it.

Almost in slow motion, she stood and walked over to Tom's piano, opening the piano bench, quickly finding the extra copies that had been printed. Circle of Starlight by Thomas Schaeffer. In italics below the title came the dedication, "To Lynella. For everything. Forever." A cloudburst of tears threatened again, and she blinked it back. Placing the music on the stand, she played the first two notes, then stopped suddenly, her fingers suspended over the silenced keys. She could play the piano technically, but the touch, the talent could not be learned, and she had never had them. She wouldn't mar his music with her wooden playing. She would simply try to match the words to the golden memory of his playing it softly the other night, when it had been only a door that separated them. She sat back and started reading.

"When the sun rises to shine on our love,

With dawn's glow prefacing the brilliant day,

A circle of sunlight warms and greets us,

And the horizon of love still remains.

When storm clouds gather and rain beats the ground,

And love takes shelter to let the storm pass,

A circle of rainbows follows the storm,

And the horizon of love still remains.

In summer and winter, spring and in fall,

All seasons of love, the endless circle

Of sunlight, of rainbows, of starlight holds,

And the horizon of love still remains.

"And when life's landscape falls into shadows,

A circle of starlight serves as our sun,

Illuminating all that surrounds us,

And the horizon of love still remains."

The tears welled up again, and this time, Lynella yielded to them. First, though, she gently, tenderly closed the lid over the keyboard, lest her tears wash away his fingerprints from the keys.