Chapter 9

By the time the pale rays of the dawning sun were an uncertain promise over the top of the mountains to the east, Steve was ready to depart. Two over-the-counter pain pills were his one concession to his recent injury, chased down by a cup of coffee before he descended to the garage to inspect the only car now left to the Sloan family. It was actually his father's, an old Ford that he kept more for sentimental reasons than practical purposes, taking it out for the occasional drive on lazy Sunday afternoons. Luckily it was an automatic, since Steve's right shoulder wasn't sound enough for shifting gears.

His early departure was prompted by more than one consideration. He realised that Jesse's arrival was probably imminent and he had no desire to tarry and engage in further arguments over the state of his health and his fitness to pursue police activities. He'd apologise to his friend when he returned but, for now, every cell in his body was coiled for action, on the verge of a literal explosion, as if his very skin might not be sufficient to contain the violent emotions pent up inside. He needed answers and he needed to do something to distract himself from the emptiness that surrounded him.

Reaching awkwardly across with his left hand, Steve started the car, relieved when it responded immediately. It was early enough that there wasn't too much traffic on the road and he drove mechanically, following the flow of other vehicles as his mind reviewed the information he'd read on the Devlins. It started to rain, lightly at first, but soon fat raindrops slapped noisily on the roof like Irish tap dancers in the midst of a jig and the wipers swept waves of water off the windshield. His vision was cut down to the rear lights of the car ahead which proved something of a blessing as they approached the Hilton Heights Bridge.

His tension ratcheted up a few extra notches as awareness of the edifice drenched his consciousness, his heartbeat pounding like the repetitive thud of a judge's gavel before condemning a man to death. He tried to keep his mind blank, to let the rain wash his imagination clean, but as he drove over the bridge, he could see every moment of the accident as if it were etched in glass, all sharp lines and razored edges slicing into him. The still gaping hole in the wall mirrored the awful void ripped in his soul.

Had Mark been drugged? Had there been someone in the car with him? What had he felt as he went over the edge? Steve drove on autopilot for the first few minutes, blind to everything but the shafts of pain that impaled him at each image.

Once again Steve struggled to refocus his thoughts, painstakingly transmuting loss into grim determination and channeling despair into constructive anger. The rain accompanied him up the canyons, turning the road's surface slick and the car fishtailed a couple of times as he crossed over muddy streams gushing over the tarmac. Wisdom dictated a more leisurely speed, but now away from other traffic, Steve truly didn't care enough to slacken his pace -- fighting the steering wheel one-handed at least left little time for intrusive emotions.

When he arrived at the Devlin's gatehouse, he was momentarily taken aback by the extent of the security that deep in the canyons, but on closer surveillance, he could see that most of the precautions were passive. There appeared to be no CCTV and no personnel, just the deterrent of walls and barbed wire. Leaning out of the car, he depressed the call button on the intercom system, unsurprised when there was no immediate response -- after all, it wasn't even 8:00 am. He pushed the device again, holding it down for an obnoxiously long period.

"What? Who is this?" A voice yelled back angrily -- clearly early morning visitors weren't the norm at this residence.

"This is Lieutenant Sloan, LAPD. I'm here to speak to Mr. Devlin." His tone was demanding, bordering on rude, but although he'd announced himself in an official capacity, he knew he was here as a son, not as a cop.

There was a silence, which he read as guilty, then a different voice, harder and more self-possessed came over the speaker. "This isn't the best time, Lieutenant Sloan, but you can come in."

The gates opened and he drove in, still assessing the area and its security. Not wanting to broadcast any vulnerability, he removed the sling as he pulled into a convenient parking space. The front door was already open as Steve walked towards it and a large, strongly-built man watched him approach, his height exaggerated by his elevated position at the top of the steps. There was something about him that set Steve's hackles rising, a primal recognition of the dangerous, predatory quality exuded by his adversary.

He nodded curtly to the man, not offering a handshake, and was invited in with an equally brusque nod. Alert for both forewarnings of attack and evidence of Mark's visit there, he allowed himself to be ushered into a large sitting room. Although offered a chair, he elected to stand, too tense and cautious to let his guard down even that much.

"Lieutenant Sloan, I'm Jack Devlin. I presume you're related to Dr. Sloan?" The enquiry was cold and dispassionate, but the mere mention of Mark's name sent a current of electricity arcing through Steve's frame.

"My father," he answered shortly. He didn't expect a confession and was aware of a slight curiosity as to where Devlin intended to take this line of questioning.

"I appreciate you coming to apologise in person." Devlin leaned both hands against the back of an armchair and waited expectantly.

The shock of anger was like a hot knife in Steve's chest. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Your father inveigled his way into this house under false pretenses then proceeded to badger my father, a very sick man, to the point of collapse, making absurd allegations and totally unfounded charges. To be honest, if we hadn't been so busy coping with the aftermath of Dr. Sloan's visit, I'd have called the Medical Board and lodged a formal complaint."

Steve mentally acknowledged it was a brilliant tactical move, throwing him awkwardly on the defensive. Devlin had admitted Mark had been there, preempting any evidence on that issue, but had also seized the offensive with his accusations which, in Mark's absence, were difficult to disprove.

"My father is a doctor. He would never cause harm to anyone." Although Steve's voice was quiet, the tone underlying his calm words was smoothly dangerous. "Where were you while he was supposedly browbeating your father?"

"I was working. When I came home, I found my father agitated and barely able to draw a breath so I told Dr. Sloan to leave. He got into his car and drove away." The words were delivered with an edge of smug assurance. Devlin clearly knew that witnesses had placed Mark alone and in control of his car until he reached the bridge. It would be impossible to prove that the pharmaceutical businessman was culpable for the accident in any way as things currently stood.

Steve's blue eyes flared and then darkened with an all-consuming fury he could barely hide, let alone control, convinced now that the Devlin family were responsible for his father's...disappearance. Only the knowledge that he needed some lead to prove this enabled him to restrain the impulse to throw Jack through a wall. "How is your father?" he asked abruptly.

"Dying." It was baldly stated, but there was enough grief in those two syllables to wrestle an unwilling empathy from Steve.

"I'm sorry to hear that." It was gruff but apparently infused with enough sincerity to carry conviction for, after a moment's hesitation, Devlin gestured him to follow as he strode down a long hallway. They went past a kitchen, down a dimly lit corridor then stopped at a door that stood slightly ajar. Carefully, Jack eased the door open and Steve followed the unspoken invitation as he disappeared inside.

Steve grasped the situation the moment the cloying scent of terminal illness struck his nostrils, and one look at the older Devlin confirmed that the man's life could probably best be measured in hours rather than days. An oxygen mask was fitted snugly over his mouth and nose, hiding those features, but the flesh had fallen away from the rest of his face, leaving a death's head skull wrapped in skin.

A younger version of Jack Devlin sat by the patient's bedside, eyes blazing belligerently at the sight of the visitors, but Steve thought he could also recognise a guilty defensiveness that was familiar from experiences in many interrogation rooms.

No words were spoken, the room held the silence of a grave, and after allowing him another few seconds to process the impossibility of Michael Devlin's involvement in any recent criminal activity, Jack urged him back out into the hall.

As they regained the normalcy of the sitting room, Steve was curious enough to ask, "Why isn't he in hospital?"

"He wanted to die at home, and what my father wants, he gets." There was an ironic twist to his lips as he spoke which Steve couldn't fathom but realised was important.

Striving for the common ground of grieving sons, Steve continued, "I'm very sorry about your Dad. I hope you can understand that I'm worried about mine too. I need to figure out what happened to him."

But the detente was clearly over. Jack turned to him with patently false innocence. "Why, what did happen to him?"

Steve struggled to control his temper, reigning in his impulse to smash a fist into the leering face in front of him. "After he left here, he had an accident. His car went over the Hilton Heights Bridge," he replied tersely.

"Well, that's too bad." There was a mocking smile on Jack's face and Steve clenched his fists in a last-ditch attempt not to respond to this callous retort.

When he spoke, his voice was hoarse with the effort of self-restraint. "Can you tell me if he seemed ill when he left? Was there anything in his behaviour that could account for the accident?"

Jack leaned forward confidingly. "He got what he deserved," he answered provocatively.

Steve's temper bared its teeth in a snarl, slipped its short leash and leapt for the man's throat. He slammed a left roundhouse into Jack's face, trying to follow it up with a right jab as the man staggered backwards from the impact, but that caused him more pain than the recipient since in the rush of fury-induced adrenaline he'd forgotten the injury to his shoulder.

A prolonged fight was out of the question, as satisfying as it might have been. Devlin was as large as he was and, right now, probably stronger, all things considered. However, despite his injury, Steve held a considerable advantage in his comprehensive combat training. As Jack recovered enough to throw a punch of his own, Steve blocked it, then wrapping his arm round Jack's extended one, he stepped sideways past Jack pulling him into a painful and immobilising arm lock. It was an extremely effective method of restraining suspects. Jack couldn't move or attempt reprisals without breaking his own arm.

"What did you do to him? What did you do to my father?" Steve demanded savagely.

Jack Devlin was no coward and, if anything, the humiliation of his position solidified his courage. "Go to hell," he hissed.

Steve tightened the hold ruthlessly and Jack cried out involuntary from the pain. "Tell me," Steve insisted. "Did you drug him? What did you do?" He moved his arm backwards slightly and Jack let out another yell. It would take only the slightest pressure to snap his arm entirely and only the smallest thread of civilisation was holding Steve back. He finally had an appropriate target for the rage and grief that had swelled impotently inside, trapping every nerve ending, but, perhaps fortunately, there was an interruption before the battle of wills could be tested further.

Alerted by their sibling's shouts, the other two brothers burst into the room.
"What the hell are you doing? Let him go!" They moved forward with the idea of extricating Jack, but a slight twist from Steve disabused them of that notion.

"Stay back," Jack panted. "Call the cops and tell them what this maniac is doing."

Steve was aware of one of the brothers disappearing while the other hovered ineffectively in his peripheral vision. He moved his face closer to Jack's, his words spat out in icy assurance, a personal promise. "If you've hurt my father, it's not the cops or the courts you'll have to worry about. I won't take you down, I'll take you out."

Sweeping Jack's nearest leg out from under him, Steve deposited him on the floor where he sat nursing his arm and gazing up with hate-filled eyes. "A father for a father, Sloan. Remember that."

The words hit Steve like stones flung from a catapult, but there was nothing he could do at that time. He backed away cautiously from the two brothers but neither offered any aggression, frozen in position and glaring at him like carved gargoyles, cold, hard, and malicious. He retreated to his car without incident and pulled away fast, the gates operating automatically from inside.

He was half-way down the canyons when reaction set in and he pulled over to the side of the road, needing time to process the events of the last hour. His shoulder ached unmercifully and a glance down showed him a small stain where blood had soaked through his bandage and his shirt, mute evidence of overexertion on that recent injury.

Jesse'll kill me for ruining his nice work. That's if he doesn't kill me for standing him up this morning. It was just one of the myriad of fleeting impressions that piled up like windblown debris, lightweight and inconsequential, against the central pillar of thought protruding prominently above all other considerations -- the Devlin brothers were responsible for whatever had happened to Mark and, by extension, they were almost certainly guilty, altogether or in some combination, of Serena's murder.

He had to get a warrant to search their house. Somewhere there would be the evidence required for a conviction. He needed to get to the station rapidly and a direct route carried the additional bonus of avoiding the Hilton Heights Bridge. Focus restored and a clear goal established, Steve resumed his drive.

In the police parking lot, he replaced his sling, its white folds conveniently concealing the bloodstain, and the support it offered now very welcome. Many colleagues greeted him as he strode through the building, happy to see him apparently mostly recovered from his injury and expressing their condolences for his loss. He acknowledged their comments as gracefully as he could but kept moving purposefully all the while until he entered his own department.

Cheryl's absence registered immediately and he realised guiltily he hadn't checked on her progress since leaving the hospital. For a moment he paused, absorbing the additional sense of loss, the realisation of another anchor lost in his life intensifying his feelings of floating adrift.

Suddenly his left shoulder was grabbed and he turned to find Dan Berry, another homicide lieutenant. "Hey, Sloan, you're a hard man to find. I've been chasing after you for days to take your statement."

Steve hadn't given any thought to the fact that an investigation would have been set up for his own shooting. Since recovering consciousness in the hospital, his entire focus had been absorbed by his father's disappearance and he'd never even attempted a conjecture as to his own assailant. Now, considering the almost synchronous timing of the two events, it seemed likely that the assault on him was related to Mark's accident in which case any leads might prove useful in his own investigation against the Devlins.

"What have you found out...?" He began to question his fellow officer when a commanding bellow interrupted the interrogation.

"Sloan! My office. Now!"

Newman had perfected a gruff persona when dealing with his officers, but it took no detective skill to recognise that he was now genuinely furious. As Steve entered, the door was slammed shut behind him. The Captain barely took the time to move back behind his desk before launching his attack.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" A thump on the wooden desk emphasised the expletive.

The question wasn't specific enough for Steve to deduce which of his activities had aroused Newman's wrath so he countered with a wary, "Sir?"

"I just got a call from a Jack Devlin stating that you forced your way into his house, acting in a totally irrational manner and you threatened him and his family and assaulted him. He wants to press charges."

Steve struggled to control his instinctive response, realising it would only support Devlin's accusations of psychosis, but inwardly he was kicking himself. Jack had outplayed him, maneuvering him out of the game by deliberately goading him into a physical response and he had fallen for it like a rookie.

"That's not exactly what happened, Sir," he protested lamely.

"Did you go over to Devlin's house?" Feeling like a hostile witness on the stand, Steve nodded reluctantly.

"Did you hit him?" Newman persisted impatiently.

Steve felt the need to redirect the interrogation. "Sir, he murdered Serena Trenton," he claimed forcefully.

The captain threw up his hands in irritation. "All the more reason for treating him with kid gloves. Do you want the case thrown out of court for..?"

"He was also responsible for my father's accident," Steve interrupted abruptly.

Newman stopped his tirade, eying his officer carefully, noting the tight lines which seemed to be permanently etched around somber eyes and the shoulders held in a constant state of tension.

"Do you have anything...any evidence at all, to support that allegation?" he queried more gently.

Steve thought back to Jack's last words, 'a father for a father' but ultimately he was forced to shake his head. "Nothing that will stand up in court," he admitted unwillingly.

"Sit down, Detective."

Steve gritted his teeth at the restrained tones in his Captain's voice. "I'd rather stand, sir."

"And I said, sit down! What part of that did you not understand?" Obviously Newman's patience would only stretch so far.

Steve reluctantly sat, poised stiff-backed on the edge of his chair and Newman took his own seat.

"Lieutenant...Steve, I know this is a difficult time for you. Your father will be greatly missed around here. You should be on leave, bereavement leave or sick leave, it doesn't matter, but you're not in a fit state to be working right now."

If the situation hadn't been so desperate, Steve might have found some humour in his Captain's awkward attempt at paternalistic sympathy. As it was, the dismissal of his legitimate concerns as overwrought delusions was offensive. "Sir, my father figured out that the Devlin family was responsible for Serena's death. He left me a note before going out there."

Newman's frown deepened. "If he thought they were murderers what was he doing going out there by himself?"

Steve had no intention of elucidating his Captain on that thorny issue. "I don't know exactly. You know my father, I expect he was looking for confirmation of some point."

Newman tapped on his desktop with his pen. "Do we have anything concrete to tie the Devlins in to the Trenton murder?"

"No, but have you ever known my father to be wrong?" Steve believed his father had more than earned the benefit of the doubt from the department, but he retained enough judgment to perceive that pointing out the details of his many accomplishments might prove counterproductive.

"Steve, you're a cop and a good one. Think like one for a moment. We have no hard evidence to link them to anything and meanwhile you're setting yourself and the department up for a nasty lawsuit. Now the case has been reassigned due to your injury and I'll pass along your theory to the detective in charge. You are on leave. You must have a lot to do getting your father's affairs in order."

Steve's face was set hard, a muscle jumping in jaw. "I'm not yet ready to accept that my father's dead."

Newman clearly felt out of his depth with this groundless optimism. "The witnesses seem to have left the issue in little doubt," he tried cautiously.

Steve had watched enough magic shows with his father to know that sleight of hand could fool even the most perspicacious eyes. "There's been no body found and you know how resourceful my father is."

"This is..." Newman was quite obviously searching for an acceptable synonym for crazy and as Steve considered his own feelings, he wondered if the Captain wasn't right. Any sane person would accept the circumstantial evidence, but he couldn't. Wouldn't he know if Mark was dead?

Newman came to a decision. "You are not involved in this case anymore, Steve. Go home, get some rest."

Steve leaned forward. "My father is missing and you want me to go home and put my feet up?" His voice was deceptively neutral but the hand that wasn't in the sling gripped the edge of the desk with white-knuckled anger as the rage that festered so close to surface erupted again. He stood up. "I don't think so. I'm going to find him and the people who are responsible." The words were stated with implacable resolve.

Newman mirrored his movements on the other side of the deck, containing his own anger at this insubordination. "You leave me no choice. Lieutenant Sloan, pending the IA investigation into Jack Devlin's allegations, you are suspended with pay." He ignored the flash of betrayal in the other man's eyes before they hardened into hard-won impassivity.

"You know the drill, Detective." Newman held out his hand, truly believing his actions were for the benefit of his officer in the long term but also knowing this was an additional blow inflicted on top of many.

Steve reached across with slow deliberation to pull his gun from his holster, never breaking eye contact with his Captain, hefting it for a second before slapping it into his superior's palm. He pulled the badge off his belt, the light glittering accusingly off its polished surface before he tossed it with casual contempt onto the desk. "Will that be all, Sir?" he demanded tersely. Everything in his life seemed to be splintering into tiny pieces, and the tighter he closed his fist, the more they slipped between his fingers.

"No, you're in no condition to drive. Berry will drive you home and take your statement."

Steve nodded, the accumulating tension lodging in his jaw as he ground out, "I see." And he did understand. Newman was depriving him not only of the official means of continuing the investigation, but also of his last means of independent transportation. He bit back the bitter words that sprang to his lips, turned sharply on his heel and left.

Newman watched him go, reading the tension radiating from his detective's stiff shoulders and his board-straight spine. The Captain puffed out a long breath, sinking back into his chair. Idly, he picked up the badge from his desk, turning it over in his fingers before placing it and the surrendered gun in his desk drawer.

Steve Sloan was one of his best detectives even discounting the paternal help he got in his excellent solve rate. He would probably have made Captain himself by now if his uncompromising honesty didn't lead him to eschew the political expediencies of the department. It was hard to watch such a man self-destruct and be able to do nothing more to help than remove the most obvious instruments of disaster. He was no psychologist and had no idea how to address the issues clearly devastating his officer. But in the absence of Mark Sloan, he knew who was most likely to be able to reach him.

Checking on the number, he dialed. "Jesse Travis, please."