FOUR

The young man in the crumpled thousand-dollar suit waited until Daniel Wes Nightshade had left the building. Then, he went to another office a few floors up, a place where he was not meant to go to. Especially not when Mr. Wes was present. That place was Conan's office.

Daniel's step-father, the most annoying sonofabitch Wes has ever met.

And the relationship between the two was not good. Going up there would mean eternal torture from Mr. Wes if he had found out. He didn't know much about Mr. Nightshade but everytime he had conversations with Mr. Conan, Conan would keep telling him stories about how Daniel's mother abused him. How he got a divorce…and every time, Conan would laugh.

Daniel's life was not pretty. It was full of pain. He thought he was what he was now because of how he was raised. His father had left his mother and she was so broken up, she took all her anger out on him. Then, she re-married to a rich, selfish bastard. Soon, Daniel got married to a woman. A nice lady, she was. Beautiful, smart, and tough.

But they got divorced.

He remembered, back when they were friends, Daniel was the best man in his wedding. Back when they were friends. Back when Daniel wasn't so cruel. Back when they didn't know Mr. Conan. But now, it all changed. It was like they never knew each other. He recalled to that day at the church. The big day…

"Bide away, Wes. Thanks for being my best man and actually getting off your ass to come here…" he smiled.

"And the suit, man. Give me credit for actually wearing a suit." Wes whispered to him as the bride walked down the aisle.

"Yeah. Thank--"

"You've got to get out of this church ASAP." Wes suddenly said.

People nearby glared at him. He acted calm, oblivious, smiling at a particular woman in the crowd. "We talked about this, Wes." he replied.

"I'm a married man. I have a wife and a kid…Do I sound like a happy guy to you?"

"You're a jackass."

Smiling sweetly at the woman, Wes waves. She's a beautiful brunette with hazel eyes, holding a four year-old boy in her arms. "Always watching, always looking at me for financial problems…Smile at the baby, smile at the baby." Wes said, still smiling.

"Wesley, shut up. Here she comes…" He said, after smiling at the baby. The bride smiled as she came up. Wesley coughed rather loudly when the priest was about to wed them, "Don't do it!" he coughed a little more. Everyone glared at him. He looked at everyone, apologetic, "I'm sorry…it's…a sickness I have to deal with…" he explained. "Yeah.."

That wasn't the only sickness…

It was when Conan dropped back into his life. That was when the problems all began. The divorce, the kids, the job, this whole thing…

He threaded through the furniture and stood quietly in front of the desk. Conan looked up at him and put some folders away, snickering, "You do know, my son of a bitch will kill you if he found out your up here, don't you, Carl?" He put his right hand on the desktop. Actually, it wasn't even a hand. It was a hook. A simple, elegant curve sharp enough to rip flesh off. The man called Carl was quiet for a moment.

"Well?" Conan asked. "Your home early? You get what I want?"

Carl nodded and sat down on a chair. "Yeah. He was looking for a guy called D'Angelo Spencer." Conan's eyes widened and there was silence in the dim office, "D'Angelo Spencer?" he asked, making sure his ears hadn't deceived him. It was a long, long time since he had heard the name. And the last time he had was not a very good memory, he thought, glancing at his hook. Carl nodded and continued, "There was this guy at the diner. He said he wasn't D'Angelo."

"And your telling me this…why?"

"I saw him at the airport on the way back…" Carl replied. Conan glanced back down at his hook, thinking, About two big guys ask for your name…one of them turns up dead…So you think someone's after you, you tell them your not the person their after and then, what the hell do you do? You run. That's what you do. Carl continued, "…He's in Los Angeles, sir."

He glanced up at Carl, grinning wildly, "Well, then let's give him a good ol' warm greeting…"

The plane was rocking and tilting. The tall buildings sliding by under them, tinted gold by the rising sun. Then, the plane was looping around and diving for the ground, and landing.

It had been a long time since he had been to Los Angeles but he remembered everything quite well. Surprisingly well. In no time at all, he was on his way around.

The same sun on the back of his neck as he made his way around Los Angeles in the rear seat of a bright yellow taxi. Ladies and Gentlemen - D'Angelo Spencer - the most fucked up man you'll ever meet. But as smashed as he was, he was no idiot. He preferred the unlicensed operators, given the choice. Because there was no reason at all why anyone should ever want to trace his movements by checking with cab drivers.

As he got out of the taxi, he tried to get a grip on the size of task he had set himself. There was confidence he was in the right city thanks to the same two accents from the two guys. There was also arrogance and the major ego. But, problem was, there was a huge population. Who knows, there could be a hundred different Ms. Skylers out there. Oh fuck, where to start…

After much thinking, he finally decided to go to the library, yaaa know, the place where the books live? If he's lucky, a book will just sprout legs and walk over to him, telling him who and where the hell this Ms Skyler lived. Phone books? Yeah, it'll have those. Free food? You wish. A comfortable chair he could wreck? Ooh! Plenty! Let us go! Yeah, riiiiggght. But it wouldn't harm to check. Yeah, nooooo haaarrrmmm. A guy turns up dead because of him. Noooo harm at all.

He ran across the street and into an office-supply store to buy a notebook and a pencil. After that, it was a five-minute trip to the nearest restaurant. Hey, breakfast is the most important meal of the day, okay? Well, maybe lunch, too. And dinner…

There was good news and bad news at the library. Plenty of people called Skyler listed in the phone books for Los Angeles. A little too much. Angelo gave it an hour's radius from the city he was in. People an hour away would instinctively turn to the city when they need something. If it was farther away than that, maybe they wouldn't. He made marks with his pencil in his notebook and counted fifty potential candidates for Ms. Skyler.

But the Yellow Pages showed no private investigator called Hardway, a little information on the White pages but no more than that. Angelo leaned back in his chair and tilted it back, his head lolling backwards. He shut his eyes and sighed. It would have been too good to be true to open up the damned book and see Hardway Investigations - We track down drifters who used to be doctors down south. He sat for a while, weighing his options. Then, he walked outside, to the payphone on the sidewalk. He propped the notebook on top of the phone with all the quarters he had in his pocket and started down the list of all the precincts

Each one, he asked for a 'Jean-Claude Hardway'. No such luck. Man, this sucked. Really. He stood there for a long time with no answers, no progress, and was down to one more quarter when - bada-bing, bada-boom. - There it was. The first twelve precincts were unable to help. But it would help if they sounded regretful. The thirteenth call started the same way, ring tone, a 'quick' transfer, a long pause with the annoying little wait music, then a wheezing acknowledgement as the phone was answered deep in the bowels of some, stinky, precinct that smelled of thirty day old doughnuts and some other things Angelo just made up.

"I'm looking for a Mr. Jean-Claude Hardway," Angelo said, leaning on the glass. "He's retired." Like all private dicks were. "He set up a private. He's about fifty…or sixty…I don't know. I didn't have time to ask because I realized I had a life." The last bit was whispered. "Yeah, who are you?" the voice replied. Identical accent. Could've been Hardway himself, if he wasn't busy at the morgue.

"Name's Hunter." Angelo said. A pause, and then, "What do you want from Mr. Hardway, Mr. Hunter?"

"Confidential stuff." Angelo said, putting the last quarter back in his pocket, "I kind of lost his card. I couldn't find his number in the book."

"Hardway only works for policemen and lawyers. His number is definitely not in the book, that's why."

Lawyers and Policemen….okaaayyyy, that sizes it down a bit. "Okay, thanks. Umm, do you know a woman called Skyler? She's a client. "

"Skyler?" the voice asked. Another pause. It's either the guy is hesitating on giving away information like that or he doesn't know shit. "Well, yeah. She's a lawyer. A good one, too. Of course I've heard of her. She and Hardway seemed like good friends."

Oh, lovely. Why the hell is he telling me this? Angelo thought, impatient and anxious.

"Ya know where Hardway works?" Angelo asked. "San Diego, someplace." the voice said, and stopped. Angelo sighed away from the phone in annoyance. Like pulling teeth. "You know where in San Diego?" the guy continued, as if reading his mind. "Nope. Not a clue." Angelo replied. Why do you think I'm asking, you dumb shit? "I'm sorry. I don't really know."

"Okay, thanks for your help." Angelo said. "Yeah," the voice said. Angelo hung up and leaned back on the glass once again, his arms folded against his chest, he let his head hit it with a soft 'thunk'.

"Great," he muttered. "Lawyers." He started back up to the library and checked the White Pages again for a Skyler. No listing. Fucking great.

Danny was on his terrace, thirty floors up, leaning on the railing with his back to the park. The building from which he worked was easily seen from here. Just a couple of blocks away.

His t-shirt and jeans dripping wet. His eyes cloudy and watery as he stared at the floor, dazed…

"You little bastard! Stop singing that stupid song. You fucking hear me? You have no voice, anyway, so just shut up! Shut up!"

"Mrs. Nightshade…your son has a mental illness."

I don't…I'm fine…I'm perfectly fine…

"You fucking idiot!"

"…Dissociative disorders are often misdiagnosed, and studies have shown that, on average, people with MPD have spent seven years, prior to accurate diagnosis…"

I'm not mentally sick…I'm not…

"So what the hell are you saying?"

"Your son is committing murders just to get your attention…"

I never killed anyone!

Danny glanced over at the table to his left, at the blood-spattered knife.

The glare of the fluorescent light spun around and tilted past her gaze as she fainted to the floor…

What now, Mother?

A hand was lying on the table right beside the knife, palm up, fingers curled like a beggar's.

"Daniel, what did you do!"

I just wanted your attention…

"WHAT DID YOU DO!"