Disclaimer: You know, 'disclaimer' is a strange word. I guess it should technically mean 'one who disclaims'. So… I officially disclaim Bones!

Notes: I promised you all this would be here by Wednesday, and goshdarnit, it is! Of course, that's no thanks to the fact that I got bitten by the one-shot bug and wrote The Tempest before I started on this. Whoops… Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this, and that you will all note the deliberate reference to Tempe's drink of choice as a sign that I can, in fact, spell 'espresso' right.

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The sun was just beginning to stain the sky when Tempe walked in to the little corner café, the bell on the door jingling harshly as she pushed it open. She slung her bag over a chair and set a stack of books down on the little table, then stumbled over to the counter in a sleepy daze.

The problem didn't lie in the fact that she wasn't a morning person. Most of the time, when she woke up she was ready to go. She had just been too… stressed lately. Too stretched.

"One grande mint espresso, please," she asked the purple-haired youth behind the counter.

Moments later, caffeine in hand, she sat back down and picked up the book on the top of the stack. From the Nest, the cover proclaimed, by Jeff Harryl. She should have gotten it autographed, she thought wryly as she propped it open. He probably would have done it. Somehow, she couldn't imagine the pompous author she had met the night before writing a story on family and children returning home.

She sighed and took a sip of her drink, then started to read. It was better than she had expected, and it was helpful to see how Harryl expressed all of the interaction in words. She could read plainly all of the little things that she would have missed by simply observing a family.

Little things that she would always miss out on, and always be stuck observing.

She bit her tongue and pulled her attention back to the page, determined to get a good start before she had to meet Booth. This couldn't be put off any longer. Self-pity was not going to help her, and it never had. Taking a determined swig of her espresso, she refocused on the print in front of her.

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Two hours later, the sky was bright, the corner café was in full swing, and Booth and Brennan were whizzing down the highway together.

"How'd that meeting with your editor or whoever go last night?" Booth questioned, straightening his sunglasses with one hand as he drove.

Tempe shot him a look. "I've been assigned some reading, and I think I'm going to loose points or something if I turn this stuff in late. It's like high school all over again."

"Better keep your nose to the grindstone then, Bones, or you might loose your place as Science Club president," Booth teased.

She thwacked him with a her book in response, as he knew she would, and the rest of the ride passed in easy conversation until they pulled into the driveway of a worn-looking ranch house, with peeling sage-green paint on clapboard walls.

"This is it?" Brennan questioned as she stepped out.

"No, Bones, we're just stopping for coffee," he quipped.

Brennan rolled her eyes and the pair walked to the front and rang the doorbell.

It was answered by a man who looked like he might have been athletic once, but had gone slightly to seed over the years. His grey hair stood out at odd angles, and his jowls drooped depressingly. "Whaddaya want?" he asked them gruffly, the vestiges of a Chicago accent peppering his words.

"I'm Special Agent Booth, and this is Dr. Temperance Brennan, who is working with me," Booth stated as he flashed his badge. "Could we please speak with Mr. Rien Diamond?"

"That's me." He eyed them suspiciously for a moment, then let out a defeated sigh and held the screen door open for them. "Come on in."

The house was worn looking, with furniture that looked as if it had been selected at random and become very tired from years of use. Diamond motioned to a sad little brown loveseat, which Brennan and Booth sat down on while their suspect plopped down in a fuzzy green armchair opposite them.

"Mr. Diamond, could you please tell us where you were last Wednesday, the nineteenth?" Booth questioned, deciding the name 'Patrick Debrue' could wait to be dropped until later.

"I was in Los Angles."

Brennan and Booth exchanged glances. It was possible, Booth decided, that he was bluffing it. It wouldn't be hard to find out.

"Why were you in Los Angeles?" the agent prompted.

"I was helping my mother with her will. You can call her lawyer and ask, and I signed about a hundred different papers while I was down there." The man twisted around and grabbed a pen, with the end chewed, and a napkin, then scrawled a number on it and handed it to Booth.

"We'll do that." Booth said shortly. "How long were you there?"

"Ten days from yesterday. I got back around ten last night."

At a look from Booth, Tempe sprung the question. "Mr. Diamond, do you know anything about a man named Patrick Debrue?"

Diamond snorted. "The bastard who ruined my career, you mean?"

"I'll take that as a 'yes', then," Booth shot. "You got a grudge against Mr. Debrue?"

"Part of the reason I'm sitting here, and not in some fancy office in Washington, is because of my own stupidity." He pointed the chewed end of the pen at Brennan. "The other part is because of Patrick Debrue. I never met the guy, but I'm not all that fond of him. I think that's understandable. What does this have to do with him? You think I threatened him or something? I'm not that dumb."

Booth stayed silent, and Brennan decided to go for the shock tactic. "Patrick Debrue was murdered last Wednesday."

Diamond tensed. "And you think I knocked him off."

"A cliff, actually. You have to admit, Mr. Diamond, that you look good for this. Bitter ex-candidate for governor, exposed by a journalist who later gets killed." Booth rose, and Brennan followed suit. "We'll be in touch."

Looking over her shoulder, Brennan shot Diamond a hard look as they left.

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Thirty minutes later, Brennan and Booth were in an elevator, on their way to the fifth floor of an apartment building with a slightly modern vibe. On the way, Booth had called the FBI in L.A. to confirm whether or not Diamond had been there. They were supposed to call back shortly.

"What kind of thing are we looking for here?" Brennan asked as the elevator reached their floor. They walked towards apartment 405B, clearly labeled in tacky gold letters that seemed out of place.

Booth pulled out the key Tara Edison had given them and fiddled with the lock. "Something that could tell us who would want to shoot him and dump him off a cliff, Bones. I'm not picky about what."

The door swung open, and the two made their way inside.

Just then, Booth's phone chirped, and he answered it while Brennan drifted towards a bookshelf.

A moment later, he snapped it shut and turned to Brennan, looking frazzled. "He was there."

She didn't look like she was listening. Instead, she was staring intently at a paperback novel in her hands. "Booth. Come look at this."

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AN: Let me know what you thought of this chapter, please! I love reviewers!

The next chapter should be up by Sunday. Look for an interview between two dead people, a new suspect, and plans for a date.