Disclaimers: All the usual apply.

Author's Note: I have no clue where this one came from and I'm honestly a little disturbed as to what part of my mind came up with it… I'm out of ideas after this one, so suggestions are welcome (email me)

Advisory for language and adult content.

"Agent McBain?" the police department receptionist said approaching him nervously.

He looked up at her as she pushed a file towards him.

"This is the file you requested on the witness in the Melikov case," she said smiling meekly as she turned and walked back to her desk.

He looked in at the woman again. The abbreviated skirt and the stiletto thigh high boots left little doubt as to her occupation and the sunken quality of her face and the way she shivered under her leather jacket left little doubt as to why she'd chosen it. If she took off the jacket he knew the veins of her arms would be mapped out in snaking black lines. Who says heroin's on the way out? He thought to himself bitterly.

He studied her a little more carefully. Five years ago, maybe even two, she'd probably been pretty. Maybe more than pretty. He tried to imagine her face without the circles under her eyes and her red hair draping softly over her shoulders rather than teased and sprayed into a stringy cloud. Tried to imagine her eyes alert rather than glazed over. He wondered how this girl could have ended up differently if she'd been born in a different place or a different family. If someone had taken her by the hand once upon a time and shown her how to hope for something more than her next fix.

There was a bruise on one cheek badly covered with make up; someone'd hit her. Could have been a client, could have been her pimp or one of the other girls. It probably wasn't the first time.

And it wasn't her first time at the police station. He'd looked over her file—a history of arrests mostly on solicitation and drug charges with a couple of petty theft and one assault charge dating back to her mid teens. But this time, of course, was different. When they'd brought her in she made a point of acting casual, this was old hat, but he had enough practice reading people to tell that what she'd been through that night had really shaken her.

He walked into the interrogation room and sat down across the table from her. She stared back at him defiantly.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked as he sat down.

"I'd kill for a shot of tequila," she said in a practiced monotone.

"I think your options are probably coffee or water," he said.

"I'll pass."

"Nice to meet you Ms. Balsom, I'm Special Agent McBain with the FBI," he said.

"Cut the Ms. Balsom shit," she snapped, "let's just get this over with." She propped her elbows on the table and let her head fall into her hands.

"Okay," he said unphased by her tone, "I want to talk to you about what happened tonight."

"You don't want to talk," she said back in monotone, peering at him through a window made by her fingers, "I know exactly what you want you sick fuck."

"Really?" he said.

She lowered her hands from her face and leaned farther forward, flashing as much cleavage as possible. "I be nice to you, you be nice to me. I give you a freebie and you let me go. I've been through this before."

"Excuse me?" he asked as her meaning sunk in. Was she toying with him, trying to act obnoxious, or did she really think she was under arrest? Or was this some sort of coping mechanism, denial?

In a business like manner she continued. "Hand job only. You can ask around that's all I give out. Anything else ain't worth the bail money unless you have me for something a whole lot bigger than whoring."

"I don't think you understand-" he began before she seemed to change her mind immediately.

"Okay, I'll tell you what," she shrugged, "you're better looking than the local trash and it might be fun to have an FBI guy story. So if that's what it's gonna take to get me out of here tonight I'll go down on you. But not in this room. I'm not putting on a show for your friends." She motioned to the two way mirrors across one wall.

"For starters, Ms. Balsom-"

"Natalie," she corrected shedding her jacket to reveal a low-cut halter top, "please."

"Natalie," he said slowly, "I don't drop charges in exchange for sexual favors."

"Well you'd be a first," she said sitting back.

"If you have the names of any officers who have done so in the past, I'll see that they answer for it," he added.

"Sure you will," she rolled her eyes.

He met her gaze making it clear how serious he was. "Make sure I get a list before you leave tonight."

She eyed him suspiciously. She probably had every right to. He'd been in this line of work long enough to know that the good guys weren't always as good as they should be, especially to women like her. "Why do you care?"

"Because having a badge doesn't entitle them to break the law."

"Tell them that," she grumbled.

"I will," he promised. "I also want you to understand that you're not being charged with anything."

"I'm not?" she asked. She sounded surprised. Confused. As though it hadn't even entered her mind that she could be brought to this place and treated like anything other than a criminal.

"You're here as a witness."

She didn't say anything she just pulled her feet up onto the chair, hugging her knees, flashing quite a bit of white thigh, but for once there was nothing sexualized about the gesture. If he hadn't been before he was now certain that she'd seen something and whatever it was had really shaken her up.

"How well did you know Alexander Melikov?" he asked.

She regained her composure quickly. "Biblically," she said raising an eyebrow suggestively at him.

"Was he a regular?"

She shook her head, "Not of mine in particular, but he came around pretty often. We all knew who he was."

"And what did you know about him exactly?"

Her feet slipped back to the floor, she relaxed slightly as she talked. "He paid good," she said, "which is generally all I need to know about them. And, you know, he wasn't a sicko or anything. Didn't hit you or ask you to do anything too twisted. The only thing was-"

She stopped herself and he looked up interested. "Yes?" he asked.

A look of discomfort came across her face. "You know he's married. Has a couple of kids. Most guys like that they wanna do it in their car, maybe a hotel room. He always wanted to take you home. Like while his wife was out of town or shopping or whatever. I think he got off on sneaking us in and out of there. It just… made you feel kind of cheap. And I'm not, for the record." She leaned forward flashing an eyeful of cleavage again and smiling.

"I'm sure," he said smiling back in spite of himself, "So that's why you were at his house today?"

She nodded.

A pen poised in his hand he said gently, not wanting to scare her now that she was cooperating, "I need you to tell me everything that happened today from the time you met up with Mr. Melikov."

"He came by early," she said, "just as it was starting to get dark. Paid cash up front—my rule. In the car on the way to his place he said his wife was coming home and we had to be quick. That's fine with me--I'd just as soon get it over with. We were just, you know, getting started-" She paused and glanced at him; that look of defiance coming back, "You need details on what we were doing?" It wasn't an actual question, she was saying it to shock him, but he opted not to confront her on this.

"I have the idea," he said, "what happened then?"

"We heard the front door—someone came in. We thought it was his wife. I gotta tell you, guys like that, they act like they ain't scared of anything, but Alex was scared shitless of getting caught by his wife. So he shoves me in this closet, throws my boots in after me, and tells me not to make a sound. He promised to pay me extra when it was all over…" Her voice cracked slightly and she stopped herself. "Guess I'm never gonna see that money."

"Then what happened?" he asked patiently.

"We thought it was his wife," she repeated, "but the footsteps were too heavy and there were too many of them. I realized they were guys… more than one."

"Did you recognize any of them?"

"I didn't see any of them," she said, "I stayed hidden."

"So what did you hear?"

She shrugged and shook her head, "I didn't hear much. It didn't make any sense to me."

"Can you remember any of it?" he prodded gently.

"Alex asked how they got in, what they were doing there. One of them said that he could come in and out wherever he wanted and that Alex should know why he was there."

"What else did they say?"

She shook her head, staring at the wall; he could see she was trying hard to remember. "Something about a shipment. Alex had done something the other guy found out about… Then the other guy said, 'You knew what would happen… you knew what I would do.'" She hugged one knee again as she trailed off.

"Natalie?" he said, "what happened next?"

"Alex started begging. He said it wouldn't happen again. Said, 'You need me.' Offered the guy money…"

"And then?"

"There was a bang," she said. "They shot him. It took me a second… I didn't know what it was at first. And then I just froze. I didn't know what to do—I wanted to scream but they didn't know I was there and I knew I couldn't let them find me."

She was trembling now, the hardened exterior almost totally stripped away. He hated to keep pushing but he needed more information than that. "Did you hear anything else?"

"I think they left… I don't know. I heard Alex making some sounds. Like gurgling. Like a baby almost," there were tears in her eyes but her voice still sounded numb. "I kept thinking I should go help him, but I couldn't move. And then it just got quiet. It seemed like forever and then I heard a woman screaming and there were more loud footsteps and I kept thinking 'they're back, they're gonna find me'…"

"And that's when the officers found you in the closet?"

She nodded mutely.

"Natalie, I need you to think," he said, "the other man, do you have any idea who he was?"

She shook her head, "I didn't see him."

"His voice? Did it seem familiar at all?" it was a long shot but Alexander Melikov wasn't the only underworld figure known to frequent prostitutes. There was always the possibility this girl had encountered whoever it was before.

She bit her lip as she thought. "I don't usually pay much attention to voices… guys aren't usually interested in talking. He had an accent."

"What kind of accent?" he asked. "Russian?"

"I don't think so," she said, "Spanish maybe, South American or something. I don't know I-" She stopped suddenly and he knew she'd figured something out, "Santi. Santi, Santos, something like that. Alex said it I think it was his name."

He sat forward. He hadn't expected Santi to be behind this, not that he was shocked, but he hadn't traced a connection between the Santi family and the Russians yet. "You're sure?" he asked, though there was no reason she should make this up and very little chance it was a coincidence.

She nodded.

"Thank you," he said, "you've been a big help."

He started to stand up when she asked in her perfect monotone, "Am I gonna get killed for telling you that? I'm not saying I really care, I'd just like to know."

He sat back down. She'd been honest with him, blunt even. He owed her the same courtesy. "Doubtful," he said, "hopefully now that you've given us the lead towards the Santis we'll be able to gather enough evidence that we won't even need your testimony."

She looked at him steadily; she could tell he was holding back. "But if I do have to testify? I've seen the movies."

He studied this girl again. She was a curiosity. One half practiced sex goddess one half frightened little girl. Ninety-percent of the time she could convince you she was numb, all business, no emotion, but every now and then he caught glimpses of pain that he suspected went back a long way. And even though he knew he might not be able to, he wanted to save this little girl. Wanted to protect her. "I'll do everything I can to keep you safe," he promised.

She nodded, her eyes focused on the table, startling him with how fragile she looked suddenly. Impulsively, he reached for her hand, "Natalie, I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

She stared at him with glassy blue eyes—eyes that seemed so much older than she was. He wanted to comfort her somehow, but couldn't think of any assurance he could honestly offer. She was involved with dangerous people; there was no way he could promise she'd be all right. "Is there anyone you'd like me to call for you?" he asked. He looked down at her file again. "I have contact information for your mother, Roxanne Balsom-"

She snorted. "She's not my mother."

He looked at her in confusion. "I'm sorry. Your file says-"

"I'm sure it does," she said, "but she's not my mother."

"You two don't get along," he said. It made sense; girls from supportive families didn't wind up where she was.

"You're not listening to me," she said, "I don't mean she doesn't act like my mother, although she doesn't. I'm saying she's not my mother. We share no DNA."

He looked back at the file as though there were going to be an explanation there, but without being asked she provided one. "The first time I got arrested, when I was seventeen. The assault charge. It was her boyfriend and by the way," she said glaring at him, "he deserved it. She was passed out the neighbors heard screams and called the police. So after they take me away they call her up there to bail me out and she comes up there and just blurts it all out. She says she's not going to pay to get me out. She's not gonna shell out another dime for me and she shouldn't have to 'cause I'm not her kid. Apparently her dead husband brought me home when I was a baby and I have this whole other family somewhere else only, she doesn't know where or who or what they think happened to me."

"You think she was telling the truth?"

She nodded. "Makes too much sense. I don't really remember my dad, or the guy who claimed to be, but he was sketch enough to be involved in something like that. Plus, after he died his sister came and took my little brother away, but she wouldn't take me. Said I wasn't her responsibility. And now I know why. Besides," she said touching her hair, "everyone else in the family is blond."

It was a crazy story, but that didn't mean it wasn't true. If it was, it shouldn't be that hard to prove. So he couldn't promise to save her life or save her soul but maybe he could do this for her. "We could check it out," he offered, "run a DNA test, check out any unsolved kidnapping cases from back then. If you do have another family we could track them down-"

"And I could show up at their door and say, 'Hi! I'm your long lost daughter the drug whore!'?" she finished, "I'll pass."

He resisted the urge to put an arm around her. "I'm sure they'd just be glad to know what happened to you."

She shook her head and closed her eyes, "They're better off hoping for the best. Not knowing the truth."

He studied her face again. He had a lot of practice reading faces; she wasn't going to be talked into this. Knowing he probably shouldn't he scribbled on a slip of paper and slipped it across to her. "If you change your mind or you think of anything else or you need anything… this is my cell. Seriously, you need anything day or night, don't hesitate to call. Thank you for all your help."

"Yeah," she said softly as he stood up, "you too."

Later that evening he was sitting at the kitchen table, trying desperately to distract himself with the sports section when something dropped on the paper. He picked up a pair of pink knitted baby booties tied together with long laces. He looked up at Caitlin with questioning eyes.

"Present for you," she explained.

"I don't understand," he said dangling them by the bow, "do I hang it from my rearview?"

She looked at him with a mixture of horror and amusement. "You could, but I thought they'd look better on your daughter's feet."

"Daughter?" he asked.

"Daughter." She patted her rounded stomach and slipped him an ultrasound photo, "You totally forgot about the appointment today, didn't you?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I did," he admitted, "I'm sorry. We had this big case come up-"

"It's okay," she reassured him, "I knew you were a workaholic when I married you. Just… you know if you could make it there for the delivery…"

"Try and stop me," he said smiling up at her and kissing her hand. As she strolled over to the refrigerator he studied the photo. That was his daughter; his little girl. He tried to concentrate on her; tried to imagine her in a few years, in five, in ten. But no matter how hard he stared at the photo he kept seeing a pair of glassy blue eyes and thinking about another little girl.

He wondered if she really did have another mother somewhere else. A mother that must miss her desperately. Another mother who might have knitted her little pink booties and planned for her future. A future that had basically ended sometime before that little girl should have graduated from high school. A future she'd sold along with her body until she didn't even care if she got killed. He knew better than to expect life to be fair, but that little girl had deserved so much better. Better than a world where dying men gurgled like babies. She deserved a big loving family, a comfortable home, and love she wasn't getting paid for.

And while he didn't want to admit it, there wasn't a whole lot he could do for that little girl. He fingered the booties and smiled sadly. In the end, the only thing he could do was create the best possible life he could for his little girl.

Fin.