A/N: Whoa my goodness, I'm sorry it took me forever to update! I was on vacation for a couple of weeks, but still, I have no excuse. And your reviews were so lovely, too. I can only hope this chapter will make up for my lamentable sloth. But first, I must thank Nako-chan for her very helpful suggestions. Go read her stories! She's awesome! But don't forget to review mine. Cough cough.

Disclaimer: Rhodes and Bridges are mine, but I wouldn't have them if it weren't for Holmes and Watson.

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The Collection

An original fanfiction based on the Sherlock Holmes series

by Wakizashi

Chapter Two: The Brother

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A silence followed Agent Solomon's statement. I stood motionless, still trying to process what I had just heard. Then I looked up at Rhodes, and an icy chill ran down my spine as I took in his taut muscles, his rigid face, and his disturbingly emotionless eyes. His manner was beginning to frighten me.

"...Missing?" I finally repeated, albeit somewhat unnecessarily. "What do you mean, missing? Like, disappeared? Since when? How do you know all this? Who told you?"

"Nadia, please!" Solomon interrupted, holding up his palms in a beseeching manner. "One question at a time. In case you didn't notice, I'm not exactly a multi-tasker."

He had that right, I thought. "Sorry, Ed," I said with what I hoped was a placating smile. "Maybe you'd better just come inside and explain all this."

Solomon nodded and stepped through the open doorway, brushing carefully past Rhodes as he entered. I stole another glance at my partner, and was increasingly troubled to see that his face had gone completely blank. This was exactly what I was afraid would happen. I would not have been worried if I had seen surprise or disbelief, or even a fit of mild hysteria; that would be something. This non-reaction unnerved me.

As gently and unobtrusively as possible, I took Rhodes by the hand and tugged him out of the doorway. Pulling him along into the Asian-style living room, I felt like I was dating Frankenstein's monster; his footsteps were stiff and shuffling, as if it were the first day with his new legs. I didn't dare say anything, but already a sick feeling was forming in my stomach. This case was going to be bad, I knew it.

Eugene and Regina Rhodes had been married for over a decade before Ethan, their first, was born. It had been assumed, before his mother had gotten pregnant, that she simply could not have children. So either Ethan had not been her first, or Eugene had had a child with someone else.

Guess which explanation I was leaning toward.

"Okay," I said as we seated ourselves on the futon couch, "so let's start at the beginning. What do you know about Rhodes's brother?"

Solomon pulled a pocket notebook from his jacket and snapped it open, suddenly all business. "Right. His name is Christopher Jerome DeMarco. Twenty-nine years old, single, currently works as a concert pianist in New York City. Lives in a high-rise apartment in Greenwich Village."

"Wow, a pianist," I said. "Is he any good?"

"He must be," Solomon replied. "His name is famous in the New York classical community. He's even played Carnegie Hall a couple of times. 'Kit' DeMarco, the rock star pianist, or something. He has no enemies to speak of, and all of his friends and acquaintances describe him as a very friendly, outgoing, intelligent young man."

During the agent's description, Rhodes seemed to slowly come back to life. Christopher DeMarco, I thought in amazement. Rhodes's brother. The idea still seemed incredible to me. But if he was only three years older than my partner, one of Rhodes's parents must have been unfaithful. And what Solomon said next dispelled any doubts I had.

"His birth parents were..." He hesitated, shifting his bulk uncomfortably in the papasan chair. "Wanda DeMarco and Eugene Bertram Rhodes."

Rhodes leaned forward and put his shaggy head into his hands.

His father had cheated on his mother.

I cleared my throat in a feeble attempt to get the conversation past this roadblock. "So when did DeMarco go missing?"

"Uh, New Year's Day," Solomon answered, consulting his notebook with intense interest. "His manager, Michael Spencer, called NYPD when DeMarco didn't answer his phone or his door."

I shook my head. "Hang on, this isn't making any sense," I said. "His manager went to the police? Then how did the Bureau find out about it? I mean, people disappear in New York all the time. What interest could the FBI possibly have in the disappearance of a concert pianist?"

"I was getting to that," Solomon growled, irritated at being interrupted. "True, the disappearance of a pianist isn't exactly a federal concern. But DeMarco isn't just a pianist."

Rhodes raised his eyes and fixed an intent look on the agent. "Yes?" he said quietly. It was the first word he had uttered since Solomon's shocking revelation. "Then what else is he?"

Solomon glanced from one to the other of us, as if weighing something in his mind. "What I'm about to tell you two, I'm telling you only because I trust you not to blab about it to anyone else," he said seriously. "Your brother, Rhodes, is an unofficial consultant for the New York branch of the FBI. Unofficial, but indispensable. No one knows about his position but the Bureau - not even his closest friends. If it got out..." He paused uncertainly. "Well, at the very least, it'd be pretty hard to play the piano without your thumbs."

Rhodes and I looked at each other and winced reflexively. "Okay," I said slowly, "so maybe that's the problem. Maybe it did get out, and someone in the criminal community decided he was too much of a risk. That isn't too far-fetched, is it?"

"It's a possibility we're not ruling out," Solomon replied. "In fact, it's probably the most likely explanation so far. But as long as the Bureau is still treating it as a disappearance, there's hope. Whereas, if the other theory wins out..." He cleared his throat. "They might as well start checking the morgues."

I slipped my hand into Rhodes's again, and this time he squeezed back tightly. At least, I thought with relief, he was becoming more responsive.

After an awkward silence, I spoke again. "I have a question."

"Of course you do," Solomon muttered.

Choosing to ignore this, I continued, "How in the name of all that's holy did you find out about this, Ed? No offense, but I wouldn't guess the San Francisco branch to be exactly chummy with New York."

"No offense taken at all, Nadia," he said dryly. "But you're right. The reason for that is--"

"The reason you were informed of the disappearance of an unofficial FBI consultant from New York," Rhodes suddenly broke in, sounding indescribably weary, "is that DeMarco was going to contact me."

For a moment my mind failed to register the significance of my partner's words. I gaped at him, looking, I'm sure, rather like a goldfish, until I turned and noticed the stricken, even affronted look on Solomon's face. "He... Come again?" I blurted.

"How the hell did you know that?" Solomon demanded, almost angrily.

Rhodes sat back against the couch, his eyes on the ceiling. "If you paused for five seconds to think about it, you wouldn't be asking that question," he said, managing to sound both bitter and disinterested at the same time. "Why else would the New York office contact the San Francisco branch, of all places, unless...?" He rolled his head to the side and looked over at me expectantly.

"Unless..." My eyes widened in realization. "Unless they knew that DeMarco had learned about you and found where you lived."

For the first time since Solomon's arrival, a small smile crossed Rhodes's face. "Brava, my dear Bridges. You are a credit to your profession."

I began to open my mouth, to say that this wasn't my profession, but thought better of it and closed it again. This was all very immaterial, given the topic of our conversation, so I simply smiled at Rhodes's compliment and said nothing.

"Well, you're both right, as usual," the good Solomon groused, as only the good Solomon could. "When the feds took over the investigation, they searched DeMarco's apartment and found a leather-bound binder containing articles from all the San Francisco newspapers, all concerning cases of yours. Apparently he'd been looking for relatives on the Internet, and he found you." He paused for a second or two, hesitating. "They, uh, also found a plane ticket to San Francisco, scheduled for January third."

I felt a curious and strangely painful sensation in my chest at this. "He was coming to meet Rhodes?" I asked softly.

The heavyset agent nodded solemnly. "Yeah. He was."

There was a tense silence, during which neither of us quite had the courage to look Rhodes in the eye.

"But, obviously, he never got that far," Solomon resumed. "Security cameras at JFK didn't record anyone matching DeMarco's description, and airport officials say he never showed up for his flight. Besides, it's a moot point. If he was reported missing two days before his flight, it's clear he never got on the plane."

I realized my back had become as rigid as if the vertebrae had fused together, and I slowly leaned back on the couch. "Well," I said, "at least we know he didn't leave New York. That's... something, I guess."

"So it would seem, for now," Solomon agreed.

Rhodes leaned forward again, his pale face set. "I want to help," he said in a low, earnest voice.

Solomon nodded, a very slight but approving smile on his lips. "I had a feeling you'd say that."

Unfortunately, so did I.

----

This doesn't have to be so hard.

As I stood motionless in Rhodes's kitchen, I stared down at the cell phone in my hand, my thumb poised over the glowing green 'call' button. All I had to do was press it. It wasn't all that late; my boss would certainly still be awake. It was a Friday night, for heaven's sake. Who goes to bed at ten on a Friday night?

Now don't just assume that I was afraid to call her. I wasn't afraid... per se. Susan Bates completely understood the sort of... special circumstances involved in being a private investigator. If something important came up that just happened to inconveniently get in the way of any appointments I might have had scheduled, she was always happy to find someone to fill in for me. Or, if not happy, at least willing.

Then again, I had been asking for time off rather a lot lately. Thankfully Rhodes's recent "illness" - which I would prefer not to go into at the moment, or ever again - had transpired on my winter holiday, so there was no need to miss any work. However, there had been cases; complex, often time-consuming cases which had demanded my full attention. At such times, Susan and I were in full agreement that taking time off was unavoidable.

In actual fact, that was only what I had assumed, since she never said anything.

After mentally assaulting myself a few times for my cowardice, I inhaled deeply and pressed the button.

Susan knew that what I did was important. She would understand, I had no doubt. Strike that; I had little doubt.

I mean, come on. What could be more important that finding Rhodes's missing elder brother?

After three rings that seemed like they were spaced minutes apart, my boss's voice answered. "Yes?"

"Susan?" My own voice sounded unnaturally high. "This is Nadia. I'm sorry to call this late, but I need a huge favor." Not the best way to start, I'll admit. But what can one say at this point? I'm flaking out on you again?

"You need some time off."

I cringed. How well she knew me. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. And I'm really sorry to spring it on you like this, but something incredibly important has come up."

There was a silence which felt like hours, though in reality - something that, in my life, usually took a back seat - it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. "You have a case?" Susan asked flatly.

Flat but not resigned. Not so good. "Yes. Actually, no. Well, sort of..." Apparently I had opted to babble like an imbecile. That always makes a first-rate impression. "Okay, here's the thing. My partner and I just found out that he has a brother." And pause for effect... "Unfortunately, he's gone missing. We have to go to New York to assist with the search."

"Your partner? Rhodes? He has a brother?" Now her voice was laced with doubt. Definitely not good.

"Yes, I know, it's a shock to us, too. We just found out." Oh wait. I said that already. "Anyway, Rhodes is naturally very adamant about helping to find him, so--"

Susan cut me off abruptly. "And, naturally, you have to go to New York with him," she said in a knowing tone. Actually, more like all-knowing. Despite my currently humbled position, I was a little offended.

"Well, yes," I replied defensively. "He's my partner, and I want to be there to support him. I know he'd do the same for me. That's what partners do."

"Right." Another silence. "And when will you be back?"

Oy vey. "I'm afraid that there's really no way of knowing at the moment. I mean, until we find Rhodes's brother, or at least... at least find out what happened to him, it could be, I don't know, a matter of weeks before--"

A loud, exasperated sigh filled my right ear. "No, you know what, Nadia? Just forget it."

I dropped the lock of hair I had been twirling madly without realizing it. "What?" I blurted.

"I'm sorry, Nadia, but there's only so much of this I can take."

"You're..." I shook my head in what I see now was unrealistic disbelief. "You're firing me?"

"I'm afraid you've left me with no other option. Let's get real here. You take time off constantly. You give me almost no notice beforehand. For a long time - too long - I let it slide, because you're normally a hard worker. But lately, even when you're here, you're somewhere else. Your heart isn't in your work. It's with your Rhodes."

I swallowed. "My Rhodes?" I echoed weakly.

"Your partner. Your little detective business. Whenever a case comes up - whenever he needs you - you drop everything and come running. You know it's true."

I did know. But I didn't want her to know I knew. Or... wait.

"Look," I argued desperately, "I know I've been a little flaky lately. But I'm not a detective. I'm a massage therapist. That's what I do."

"But is it who you are?" she asked, catching me off guard. "Believe me, Nadia, I hate to lose you," she said, sounding genuinely regretful. "But how can I lose you when I never had you in the first place?"

My mouth moved, but I couldn't get any sound past my throat.

"I'm sorry. I hope everything works out in New York. You can pick up your table when you get back."

Finally my voice decided to come back. "Susan, please--"

"Don't make this more difficult than it has to be." She paused, then added as an afterthought, "Look, don't blame yourself for this. And don't blame me. Blame your Rhodes."

There was a click, and then the line went dead.

----

Rhodes cannot help but notice that Special Agent Solomon won't meet his eyes.

As Solomon converses on his cell phone with the New York branch, three time zones away, Rhodes observes other things as well: the agent's posture, his hand motions, the modulation of his voice, and the countless other minute and subtle details which tell him precisely how uncomfortable the man is in his presence.

Solomon, he decides, is concealing something. No... avoiding something. But what?

He shakes his head in a temporary defeat. He'll never know until the agent puts down the phone, and at this rate it could easily be an eternity.

It would appear that Solomon was informed of Christopher DeMarco's disappearance simply to pass the information along to Rhodes. It was never their intent to enlist his help, and they are now insisting that the investigation is going quite swimmingly without him.

It is naturally very easy to lie over the phone.

What Rhodes knows is that the Bureau would never suffer the likes of him, a private investigator, to assist in or, God forbid, even take the lead in the recovery of one of their own, official or not. Rhodes has learned from experience that the FBI does not relinquish control or credit gladly.

"Yes, I understand that you're doing everything you think can be done," Solomon is saying, his fleshy jaw tightened in annoyance. "But have you considered that, just maybe, you haven't thought of everything?" A pause, a roll of his faded blue eyes. "I know that. This is different. He's different. This guy... You say DeMarco's good at what he does? Well, it runs in the family."

In any other circumstances, Rhodes might almost be flattered by the agent's carefully oblique compliment. But at the moment all he can feel is a curious numbness, an absence of sensation.

Christopher Jerome DeMarco. Kit DeMarco. Son of his father and a woman who was not his mother. His father would, of course, be the unfaithful party between them. And yet he cannot deny that he is surprised. Eugene Rhodes had been a man of unflinching, even imposing ideals, which he had mercilessly instilled in his son. A doctor through and through, his father had lectured him endlessly about the dangers of smoking, alcohol abuse, drugs. How could he have ignored his own lofty standards?

Did I really know my father at all? he wonders.

"Oh, give me a break, Jerry," Solomon says vexedly. "The kid's loaded. He's not going to sue you if his brother turns up dead."

His gaze meets Rhodes's, who lifts an eyebrow quizzically, and Solomon quickly turns away.

Rhodes tunes the agent out and shifts his attention toward the other one-sided conversation currently taking place in his kitchen. He can't make out what Bridges is saying, but her voice, usually so low and smooth and pleasing to the ear, is raised half an octave in distress. His expressive eyebrows knit together in concern. His partner left the room some time ago to request time off from her massage practice. From the sound of it, it seems to be going as well as Solomon's attempt.

With an angry jab of a thick finger, the agent ends the call and shoves his phone in his pocket. "Well, you might as well go in there and tell Nadia not to bother," he says irritably. "The New York branch is pretty hell-bent on keeping you two right here in San Francisco, and out of their hair."

Rhodes breathes slowly though his nose, gathering his thoughts. "I take it," he says quietly, "that any notions of... assisting without their knowledge would meet with disapproval on your part?"

"You mean, going to New York anyway?" Solomon snorts most uncharmingly. "Don't you dare, Rhodes. With you assisting in an advisory capacity, you're relatively safe if something goes wrong. But if you go there, unsanctioned, and screw up, I can't protect you."

"Forgive me, Solomon, I had no idea your mother was a hen," Rhodes remarks dryly.

Solomon's glare could boil tar. "Forget it," he growls.

Rhodes shrugs innocently, his fists in his trouser pockets. "Fair enough. Though while we're on the subject of lineage," he continues, slowly pacing the living room, "I cannot help but notice how little you've said about my brother's. Is there any particular reason for that?"

The agent's demeanor is instantly uncomfortable again. "What are you yammering about?" he mutters.

"I'm sorry, allow me to rephrase that question." Rhodes pins his bright green gaze on Solomon. "Is there any particular reason why you're sheltering me from the sordid deeds of my father?"

Solomon's shoulders seem to droop visibly. "Come on, Rhodes, you know I'm not sheltering--"

"I beg you, Solomon, don't dissemble, and don't patronize." Rhodes's voice is hard and biting now, his southern accent more palpable. "I know my father was not a saint. I always knew it, somewhere in my mind, and this only confirms my suspicions. There is nothing you can say at this point which can possibly shock or offend me. So please do not try to coddle or protect me, because quite frankly, it's beneath you."

There is a long silence, a battle of wills. Then Solomon nods almost imperceptibly. "You want to know? Fine." A deep breath. "Your parents went to New York to visit friends, three years before you were born. While your mother was at a luncheon with some other women, your father hooked up with a prostitute. Wanda DeMarco. She got pregnant, decided against an abortion, and gave the child to an orphanage. You happy?"

Though Rhodes's face doesn't change, his eyes seem to lose just a hint of their light. "Exceedingly," he says faintly.

Suddenly Solomon's cell phone rings. With a muttered curse, he pulls it out and flips it open. "Jerry, what is it now? I told you--" Gradually his face goes blank as he listens. "Yes, this is Agent Solomon..."

Slowly, Rhodes returns to his seat, watching the agent's face intently. Whoever this is on the other end, it is clearly not who Solomon was expecting. He appears flustered. Or perhaps flustered is not the correct term; he looks positively bewildered.

"Yes, that's correct. Yes. Actually, no. He'll be with his partner. Nadia Bridges, that's right. Tomorrow morning? Uhh, I'm... sure that will be fine. Let me right this down." Frantically, he begins scribbling in his notebook. "Flight 211. Six forty-five A.M. Got it. Thank you very much for your assistance."

He snaps his phone shut and turns to Rhodes. "Pack your bags," he says with a crooked smile.

Rhodes rises to his feet, regarding the agent dubiously. "What changed?"

"I have no idea, but you'd better take what you can get." He tears the top page from his notebook and hands it to the younger man. "Sounds to me like somebody else is in charge. He just called to confirm your flights, like they'd been booked all along. He sounded kind of like you, too. It was bizarre."

Rhodes folds the slip of paper in half and tucks it into his own pocket. Then he grasps the agent's pudgy hand in his slender one. "For what it's worth, thank you, Solomon," he says quietly.

He brushes off the compliment with a shake of his head. "Don't thank me. Thank Mr. Mystery Agent when you see him. He's meeting you at JFK tomorrow."

"Mystery Agent?" Rhodes repeats curiously. "Didn't he mention his name?"

"What? Yeah, of course." He waves his hand dismissively. "Pendergast. Special Agent Pendergast."

At that moment Rhodes hears soft footfalls, and he turns to see Bridges emerging from the hallway, her turquoise dress and honey-colored hair backlit from the kitchen beyond. He frowns when he sees the stricken look on her small pixie face.

"Bridges?" he prompts softly.

She looks slowly down at the cell phone in her hand, as if in a trance. "I just got fired," she murmurs.

----

A/N: (dramatic music) Well, how many of you saw that coming? Hey, I told you it was a cross-over. Anyone who knows me will not be at all surprised. What can I say, I love my Pendergast. Actually, forget I said that. Agent Pendergast is not mine, he belongs to his creators, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. I'm just borrowing him for this story. To anyone who does not know who Pendergast is, I suggest reading their books. Relic is the first one, but I recommend The Cabinet of Curiosities. It's Pendergast at his finest. In the meantime, please review! It would make me very happy.

-Waki