A/N: Wow! Thank you so, so much, my incredibly kind and generous reviewers. It's such a joy to wake up in the morning or come home after a particularly taxing day and find a new comment waiting.

Daynaa: Sorry you were confused. There isn't really a whole lot of explanation to be had. Essentially, I've taken character names and personalities and some basic plot points and put them in another setting. There's no reason to why they're there, and they aren't physically connected to the characters from the show. I really should have done a better job explaining that.

GoddessofSnark: Thanks for the comparison! I haven't been able to find Where's Marlowe, but it's been on my list of things to see for awhile now. I'm always up for some more Miguel. I wish I could write more Garret, but I can't seem to be able to get into his psyche. I guess I'll just have to enjoy yours. I've been trying to find an opportunity to read "A Long, Slow Burn."

Textual Notes:

I've changed Devan's name to Edan, because Devan just seemed too present-day, and Edan, at least to my ear, has a similar cadence, and I've been able to track quite a few usages of the name throughout Western history. I know Jordan most likely wouldn't have been named Jordan, either, but I can't change her name or Woody's.

I've attempted to do some research into the place and period, but my knowledge is a bit spotty in some areas. If I've made any historical or geographical errors, please let me know.

Also, if anyone's curious, the painting Woody notices is Rembrandt's "The Anatomy Lecture of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp," and Kurt Weill was a German Jewish composer of mostly opera and musical theater, working in from the 1920s through 1950. He created numerous experimental works for the theater, my favorite of which is Lady in the Dark, although he is probably best known as the composer of the song "Mack the Knife."

Sorry this Author's Note has been so long. Now, on to the story. I know the ending to the chapter is a bit cliché, but as the story was inspired by the song "Lost and Found" in the musical City of Angels, in which a similar event occurs, it seemed wrong not to include it. As always, I'm thoroughly appreciative of any comments you have to make, whether negative or positive. Enjoy!

Chapter 5 – Girl Hunt Ballet

1947

The door was opened by the butler, a stiff, creaking man with unnaturally erect carriage, the type of servant frequently given the appellation family retainer. After stating his name and business, Woody followed the ramrod line of the man's back as he led him through a darkened labyrinth of hallways, finally leaving him in an ornately appointed sitting room while he ambled off in search of his mistress.

Woody was seated uncomfortably in a heavily embroidered chair that seemed to have been chosen for aesthetic rather than practical reasons, staring vacantly at a painting of a group of men in black gathered around a cadaver, which he guessed had not been of the new Mrs. Cavanaugh's choosing, when the door opened.

The figure that walked across the threshold was definitely not Evelyn Cavanaugh. Given her age and appearance, Woody concluded that she must be Edan Maguire, Evelyn's daughter from a previous marriage. She was pretty in a sharp way, very thin, with thick blonde hair and angular features accompanied by enormous eyes, which were currently taking in Woody's attractive features and well-built physique with detached appreciation. She sidled up to him, ensuring that he had a full opportunity to appreciate the view her figure presented.

"So, what are you, Max's new bodyguard?" she asked insolently.

"Hardly," he answered, gesturing to his ever-present cane. A flicker of surprise crossed her face before being dissolved by her habitual boredom.

"You're pretty brawny for a cripple," she noted.

"I wouldn't call myself a cripple," he replied coolly, not letting himself her rudeness affront him.

"Then if you aren't a bodyguard, what are you doing here?"

"I'm actually looking for your sister."

"My sister? Oh, you mean Jordan." She gave him another appraising look. "You do look like the type of man she'd drag in here."

Woody cringed at her pronouncement, uncomfortable with its proximity to the truth, and decided to steer the topic away from himself.

"Has she been around here lately?"

"Why do you want to know? Lovelorn?" she mocked.

"No," he replied with carefully modulated indifference. "I've been hired to find out where she is."

"Hired by whom?"

"An old friend who wishes to remain anonymous."

"Oh," she breathed, interested despite herself. "Then I suppose I'll have to tell you that she hasn't been here for weeks."

"Do you know where she went?"

"No. Max says she's in Switzerland, but I don't know if he's guessing or lying."

"Why do you think he doesn't know?" he continued questioning impassively.

"Well, if Jordan were going to tell Max where she was going, she'd probably tell someone else, too," she confided.

"You?"

"Maybe, maybe not, but no one's heard from her in two weeks, including those friends of hers who have been coming here looking for her."

"Are you two close?"

"Jordan and I?" she asked incredulously. "No, I wouldn't say we're close. We get along decently, we don't fight often, and we like each other well enough, but we'll never be what you'd call friends of the bosom."

"And who are her friends of the bosom?"

"Oh, the usual conglomeration of unwashed peasants."

"Can you give me names?"

She did.

"Thank you, Miss Maguire."

"Is the interrogation over, detective?"

The insolence was back, with a certain edge that made Woody distinctly uncomfortable. He opened his mouth to reply, when Evelyn Cavanaugh wandered in, a distressed look on her face. She must have been several years younger than Max, but still of a respectable age, and she sported the same blonde hair as her daughter. Her features also had something of the angular look that Edan's had, but the plumpness of her face and body did a good deal to offset it.

"Edan, I didn't know you were still here," she exclaimed.

"I was just on my way out, Mother, when Snethers told me we had a visitor. I thought I'd look in and let him pay his respects," her daughter replied.

"Ah, yes. Detective Hoyt, isn't it? Of course, you'll be looking for my husband. I don't know where that man has gone off to, but he isn't here," she fretted.

"Actually, ma'am, I was hoping to talk to you and your daughter."

"Me? Why, whatever could you want with me?"

"He wants to know where Jordan is, Mother," Edan replied in his stead.

"Jordan? Now, there's another one who is impossible to find. Her father says she's gone to Switzerland for the skiing, and I suppose if anyone would know where she is, he would."

"Is that what you think?" Edan asked, adopting what she appeared to think of as a "detective voice" and throwing an amused glance in Woody's direction.

"Why, I…Edan, why are you asking me that?" Evelyn was clearly confused.

"I'm sorry, Mother. I was just trying to help out the good detective," Edan answered with mock contrition. "Now, I really must dash. I'll see you this evening, Mother. Don't forget we're attending that party at the Astons' tonight."

"Of course I remember the Astons. Now run along, dear."

Edan rose to go, but stopped, pivoting on her heal to turn back to them.

"Oh, detective," she said.

"Yes?"

"If I happen to remember anything else of value…"

Woody, who had risen along with her, reached into his pocket, pulling out several pieces of paper of various sizes. Sorting one out, he handed it to her, saying, "Here's my card. Call if you think of anything else that might help."

"And if I don't?" she asked suggestively, then sashayed at a much quicker pace out of the room before Woody could reply.

Mrs. Cavanaugh, oblivious to her daughter's blatant flirtation, continued on as if it were a normal occurrence, urging Woody to have a seat and inviting him to join her for tea.

The rain that had threatened to burst forth all day was just beginning as Woody pulled himself into his last stop of the evening. None of the leads he had gotten from Edan Maguire or Mrs. Cavanaugh had proved at all fruitful, and it was with mounting frustration that he pulled himself into the building, chosen both because of its proximity to his apartment and the fact that it was sure to be well stocked with alcohol.

The Glass Slipper was a place that Woody was well acquainted with, although it was not one he would normally choose to visit. Jordan had introduced him to it in the early days of their friendship, when she had found out that he had never considered entering it, despite the fact he lived a mere two blocks away. It was widely considered to be one of Boston's more bizarre nightclubs, a place filled with avant-garde artwork and specializing in serving drinks that the majority of its customers had never heard of before. However, Jordan had assured him that the music was always excellent and the owners were friends of hers, and he had allowed himself to be dragged along for the ride as he always had where she was concerned.

Making his way awkwardly through the artistically arranged patches of light and the crowds that fluttered around them, he seated himself upon a pair of melting lips, looking around for some sort of server, although their costumes changed so frequently they were hard to recognize. A hard slap on his shoulder told him that he had been found, and he turned to see the club's proprietor, Nigel Townsend, beaming down at him.

"Woodrow!" he exclaimed. "Glad to see you, mate. It's been awhile since you've darkened our door. Can I interest you in a…"

"Straight scotch, Nigel," Woody interrupted before Nigel had the chance to get started on his latest list of concoctions, knowing that he could be there listening for the next three hours if Nigel had the chance to build up steam.

"Oh, Woodrow, you're no fun at all," he pouted, then sighed. "I suppose you can't win them all, but what brings you here after so long?"

"Actually, I'm looking for Jordan."

"Jordan?" The tall Englishman's face was a mixture of confusion, suspicion, and excitement. "I didn't know you two were…"

"We're not. It's business."

"Ah, yes." Nigel's expression dimmed. "I wish I could help you, Woody, but I've not seen or heard from her in weeks."

"Any idea where she could be?"

"None," he said slowly, "though if I hear from her I'll be sure to let you know."

"Thanks, Nigel."

"Anytime. So," he continued, "I hear you're not with the police department anymore."

"I haven't been since the war started."

"That's right. Jordan told me."

Woody looked at him, startled.

"So," Nigel continued, attempting to gloss over his faux pas, "I hear you've made quite a name for yourself as a private eye."

"I'm doing the same thing; it's just a change of title," he answered shortly.

"Yes, of course." The conversation came to a halt, neither sure what to say to the other and both unwilling to acknowledge the subject that was uppermost in their minds. Luckily, they were interrupted by another familiar voice.

"Nigel," the voice called, "you'd better come backstage. That costume is not working for…Woody! I didn't know you were here."

"Good to see you, Bug," Woody replied.

How a man such as Mahesh "Bug" Vijayaraghavensatyanaryanamurthy came to run a nightclub in Boston, Massachusetts was a mystery to all who knew him. A scientist originally from India, he had moved to the United States from England for reasons unknown sometime during the 1930's. Unable to find work in his new country, he had been offered a partnership in the nightclub that Nigel, who had somehow managed to befriend him, was setting up, and he had leapt at the chance to support himself. Over the years he had acted as an at least partial counterbalance to the wildest of Nigel's ideas, and their partnership, strange as it was, had flourished.

"It's good to see you, too, Woody. We can't stay, though. We're having a wardrobe problem, and we need Nigel backstage," Bug said slowly, significant looks passing between himself and Nigel as he did so.

"Oh, right," Nigel replied uneasily. "I should have known you couldn't get along without me. Sorry, Woodrow. We've just got a replacement singer and none of the clothes are fitting her, plus we're debuting some music by Weill that she's just not sure on. But listen, any drink you want is on the house. It was good to see you again. Drop in again sometime."

"Thanks, Nigel. Good luck with the new girl."

And with that the pair of men hurried off, chattering rapidly to each other. Woody, when his drink was finally served, sat back to watch the strange little orchestra tune its instruments, allowing himself to relax and enjoy what promised to be another memorable performance.

He didn't know how long he had been sitting, staring blankly at the stage, letting the incomprehensible music wash over his senses, when it happened again. This time, it was a whiff of perfume, absent for years but not forgotten, which brought his mind crashing back to the course it had been circling since Jordan's unceremonious reintroduction to his life. It was then that he spotted it: a small white card business card from The Glass Slipper, bearing a familiar scrawl reading, "Heard you were looking for me. – J."

The drizzle had become a deluge when Woody finally made it back to his apartment building, after an extensive search of the nightclub that had yielded no other sign of Jordan, although it had served to ruffle the feathers of both Bug and Nigel.

Exhausted, damp, and limping more than usual, Woody slowly opened his door and entered the hallway. He heard music, faintly, but dismissed it, assuming that he had forgotten to turn off the radio that morning after habitually listening to the newscast. Entering the tiny apartment's main room, removing coat and tie as he went, he received his first hint that something had truly changed since last he had been there: a decidedly feminine evening gown in flaming red and a pair of stockings draped over his radiator. Coming fully into the room, he found the culprit behind these unfamiliar touches in his living space. Huddled up in his bed, soaking wet, shivering, and apparently undressed, sat Jordan Cavanaugh.