Thank you for your continued readership, and taking the time to review. It pleases me to know that someone other than myself is enjoying the story. It's fun to share with others who can relate to my obsession. Cathy.

Chapter 26

Sara strolled the halls of the building's basement, returning from an autopsy that had been overseen by Dr. Jaya Vuthoori, a newer assistant coroner who had joined the staff just a few months ago. The young East Indian woman had guided the criminalist through the procedure, and indicated the head trauma that had been the cause of death. The middle-aged man had been involved in a multiple car accident on the interstate, after being observed by witnesses driving erratically, and there was some question as to whether or not some health crisis, or perhaps alcohol had been a factor in the crash. Blood had been withdrawn and sent to toxicology.

Sara was well into a double shift, and she was feeling physically fatigued. Normally she had abundant energy, and seemed to require little sleep to function at optimum performance. But lately, weighted down by the emotional turmoil surrounding her resignation, she was finding her physical strength zapped as well.

She had had an intense conversation with Catherine almost one week ago, when the strawberry blonde had confronted her before shift the first time they had seen one another after Sara had told Grissom she was quitting. Sara could see the concern that shone in Catherine's sapphire eyes, and she could hear the empathy in her voice.

"Why are you doing this, Sara? I know we've had our differences, but I want to help. Talk to me," Catherine had implored.

"There's nothing to talk about really," Sara had replied. "It's done. It's just something I have to do."

"It's Grissom, isn't it?" Catherine had asked, her frustration evident.

Sara had smiled sadly. "It's me. This just isn't a good environment for me, and it's my own doing. Grissom...he's a part of it, sure. A catalyst maybe, but not the cause. I haven't been happy for a long time...I don't even know if I know how that feels. I have to get away, for me." She didn't like baring her soul, but she knew that Catherine wouldn't let it rest otherwise. And...in a way Sara felt that she owed the other woman that much. Part of Sara wanted to ask Catherine about her own relationship with their supervisor, picturing her perched at the edge of Gil's desk. But she realized that ultimately not only didn't she want to know...it really didn't matter.

"Do you have another job?" Catherine questioned with concern.

Sara shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not worried about it. I have lots of vacation time owing to me to tide me over for a while. And some money in the bank. I know I'll find something. I have a friend in the federal system who had indicated before that there might be a place there if I was ever interested."

"I just wish..." Catherine struggled with her words. "I just wish I felt like you were leaving under happier circumstances..." Her blue eyes held Sara's dark ones. "I know things between us have been strained sometimes, and I'm probably just as much to blame for that, but I hope you know...I only wish you the best."

Sara tilted her head, touched by Catherine's sincerity. "I'll miss you guys," she admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper. "It was a fluke my ever coming here. I learned a lot and met some great people. But I don't think...I don't think I was ever meant to stay. And I have to follow another path."

Catherine had nodded, though whether she really understood, or didn't want to pressure Sara any further, Sara wasn't sure.

When Sara had gone on-line later, searching for related employment, and had found the posting for her job here with the LVPD crime labher stomache had clenched and her veins had run with ice water. She had wondered if Grissom had had any applications yet. He had said nothing to her about her leaving. The next time Sara had seen him after giving him her resignation, he had been business as usual, handing out assignments as though it were any other day, not acknowledging at all that in a few more weeks she would no longer be with them.

When Grissom had passed her a sheet of paper, his features impassable, a slow smile had spread over Sara's face and her dark eyes had assessed him. She had known in that moment that not only was her decision to leave a good one, but something that was long overdue. As hard as it might be to uproot again, there was nothing for her here. There never had been and there never would be. The Grissom that Sara's foolish heart had desired had never existed and never would. This was who he was, the cool, unaffected scientist. Untouched by those around him, living behind an unseen barrier that nonetheless was more impenetrable than the best suit of Kevlar. In that moment of clarity, though the sadness stayed with her, Sara had, for the first time, felt a quiet confidence in her decision.

"Sara," the low male voice brought her out of her reverie, and the brunette found herself looking up into David's soft, round visage. Tanned following his recent vacation to Mexico.

"Oh, hey David," she greeted, her smile natural, her pleasure to see him genuine. "Did you have a good trip?"

He nodded, standing there uncertainly, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his blue lab coat. There was a sadness in the deep brown eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses. "Yeah, it was fine. I hear you're leaving us though?"

How many times, Sara wondered, would she have to go through this? "Yeah. Time to move on."

David nodded. He didn't ask her to explain her reasons, or try to dissuade her in any way. Instead, he just looked at her with a tenderness that surprised her. "I think you already know that I sure am going to miss you," he said simply.

Sara could see the earnest longing on his face, and for the first time she realized how cavalierly she had always taken for granted David's crush on her. When she had first realized that he thought of her as more than a co-worker, Sara had been flattered, her ego bouyed. But she had been more amused than anything to know that she was the object of his affection.

Standing there now, for the first time, Sara imagined herself in David's place...heck she'd been in his place, with her own pie in the sky dreams of something between she and Grissom...and a hot flush of shame, immediate and overwhelming, washed over her. She almost couldn't hold his gaze, as she remembered the time she had told him, so nonchalantly, that to attract women he needed to lose the glasses and maybe grow a little scruff. She recalled her indulgent amusement as she had thrown him a bone, telling David that he did get a C for cute though.

She had not considered at the time how hard it might have been to put himself on the line like that. He had smiled at her recommendations, though he had never implemented them. His quiet confidence and sense of dignity, his pride in who he was, hadn't allowed him to transform himself, just because Sara had indicated that she felt his current appearance left something to be desired. He kept the glasses and the smooth shaven planes of his baby face. David hadn't retreated in humiliation, he hadn't made sweeping changes to try to win her approval and curry her favour, and he hadn't given any indication that he considered her a haughty bitch who thought herself too good for him. He hadn't been ashamed of his feelings, or tried to hide them from anyone, he had simply allowed it to stand that he had a crush on Sara, and that nothing more would come of it, there would be no pressure, unless she decided to pursue something.

How could she have said those things to him? Sara wondered aghast. What kind of insensitive, shallow jerk was she? As she stood there in the hallway she knew that she didn't deserve David's enduring affection for her. Sara had assessed and rejected him for superficial reasons, accepting his crush on her as her due, and overlooking all of the wonderful qualities that were a far better indicator of someone's worth.

Sara felt that she wanted to apologize, but that would be insulting, she knew. She wondered what would have happened if she had been able to put aside her single-minded obsession with Gil long enough to have gone on even one date with David. What kind of man might lay behind the gentle voice and the quiet demeanour?

"That means a lot to me," Sara said at length. "And I will miss you too." And it was true, she would.

David smiled at her, reached shyly to press his hand against hers, gave it a gentle squeeze, and then he was on his way, leaving Sara feeling hollow and alone.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Jim Brass sat at his desk, his head bowed over a sheaf of reports, though his thoughts were elsewhere, as they often were these past several days. He and Cecilia had been constant companions since the first night they had spent together. Though Jim had been on afternoons, and she nights with the graveyard shift, he would either meet Cecilia each morning, and take her to breakfast, or she would arrive at his place with coffee and donuts. Then they would spend the hours until he had to be back in to work again, either in an exquisite tangle of limbs, or tucked up against one another on his sofa, slowly sharing the stories of their lives and learning not only one another's biographies, but also the values that were mportant to them, and the way each viewed the world. The past Sunday had been a day off for both of them, and Jim had ordered spicy chicken wings. They had eaten them while watching the Nascar race in the afternoon, each cheering on their favourite, cooling their palates with icy cold beer.

Just being with her made Jim feel happy and carefree in a way that he had never felt before. He was able to be himself, without apology or regret. He didn't have to pretend to be anything that he wasn't in order not to disappoint her. Cecilia accepted him for who he was, the good and the bad. Jim found himself enchanted with her, with her sweetness and strong sense of morals and ethics. He wondered how he could ever have been suspicious of her or doubted her motives in wanting to work with the CSI unit.

Cecilia was a delight, and he had laughed more with her in the preceding week, than he had in years, Jim knew. It was only now and then that a sense of desperation, a sense of urgency, would seem to swirl beneath the surface of this idyll, and it would manifest itself in an occasional frenzy in their lovemaking. It was as though there was an unspoken realization which they managed to banish from the other moments of their time together. A realization that all of this was temporary. And then when they were their closest and most vulnerable, together in his bed, Jim rebelled against the thought of losing Cecilia and sought to claim her in that most primal of ways. She would cling to him, and cry his name, and Jim would wonder if Cecilia felt the inevitable pain of their eventual separation as acutely as he did.

The other morning, brushing her hair in the reflection of the mirror above the low bureau opposite his bed, Cecilia had reached for the single framed photograph there. It was one of the rare photos he had of he and Ellie, a picture taken in their small yard in Jersey. It had been a crisp, spring day, Jim recalled. The sky a deep, cloudless blue. Ellie was perched on his shoulders, a salty ocean breeze tumbling her platinum curls around the cherubic oval of her laughing face. His hands gripped her chubby legs, holding her safe while she surveyed her domain.

He and Nancy had been divorced by then. It was Jim's weekend with Ellie, and the day of her third birthday. Her mother had arranged for a birthday party that morning, so Jim had agreed to pick up Ellie later in the day instead. That had been back when he had still excercised his right of visitation with some regularity. Ellie had run to him when he had arrived, excitedly chattering about her party, high on cake and ice cream.

She had thrown herself against his legs, reaching her arms up for him. Jim had lifted her effortlessly, swinging her through the air and depositing her on his shoulders. Since Nancy had her camera handy from the party, and was apparently in a generous and amenable mood, perhaps caught up in their daughter's joy and infectious laughter, she had snapped the photo. It was Jim's favourite, a reminder of a time when he had still been a good father to Ellie, and when she had loved him unconditionally.

Cecilia held the photograph, tracing her finger over Ellie's babyish features. Though the girl had changed and matured between the time that photo was taken, and the school portrait in Jim's wallet, there was enough of a resemblance there that Cecilia knew it was the same girl. "She has her father's eyes," Cecilia had remarked innocently, looking up to smile at Jim.

He had been unprepared for the sorrow that had assailed him. Jim had felt as though someone had whacked him in the solar plexus, and the air had whooshed out of him in a strangle. He had turned his back to Cecilia, not wanting her to see the pain that glazed his eyes.

She had known instantly that something was wrong, had set the photo down, and gone to him, her arms circling his waist from behind, her cheek pressing against his back, above his left shoulder. "What's wrong?" Cecilia had asked worriedly.

"Ellie can't have my eyes, because I'm not her biological father," he had answered quietly. The thing of it was that they did share similarly dark eyes, only hers had come from the genetic contribution of another man. It was a secret that very few people knew, including Ellie herself.

Cecilia had waited patiently, knowing there was more to the story. And Jim had found himself taking a deep breath, and telling it to her.

She had listened without interruption as Jim had told her about the day they had broken open the corruption that tainted the Atlantic City police department. The special task force had swept in and rounded up those who were on the take. Jim had no longer been required to lead his double life. Exhausted, his feelings about what was going down a quandry, he had gone home to Nancy, to finally explain everything.

She had sat in the livingroom on the gold, velvet wing chair, and looked at Jim with a mixture of suspicion, disbelief and finally cold acceptance of the truth. When he had begun to name the names of the cops who had been arrested earlier that day, and had mentioned Mike O'Toole, Nancy had blanched. She had gotten to her feet and stumbled to the bathroom, where he heard her retching. When she had come back out, her pretty face pale and drawn, her cheeks still damp with the water she had splashed on them, Jim had inquired solicitously what was wrong.

She had laughed then, an empty, hollow cackle, that had caused his groin to tighten and icy fingers to claw his spine. Nancy hadn't tried to soften the blow. "I'm pregnant, and it's Mike's."

Jim had reeled at the revelation. He was no longer in love with Nancy, and hadn't been for years. The initial youthful infatuation that had brought them together had faded for both of them long ago. Lord knew he had broken their marriage vows himself, but still his pride had stung to realize that she had been unfaithful to him as well. It wasn't so surprising really. All of the same problems that he had used as justification for his own betrayals were just as apt for Nancy's.

If there had to be someone, it really wasn't even that surprising that it had been Mike O'Toole. As much as Jim thought the man a first class son-of-a-bitch, O'Toole was handsome, confident, and Jim knew firsthand that the other man had a silver tongue and could be as manipulative as hell. Nancy and Mike knew one another, had met briefly at various parties and functions for the PD, and it wasn't such a stretch that in Jim's prolonged abscences his wife had turned to the other cop. Ironic, perhaps, but not that shocking.

But it was the fact of the pregnancy that stunned Jim the most. He didn't have to ask if Nancy was sure. She wouldn't be reacting this way if she wasn't, he knew. And there was no doubt that it wasn't his. They hadn't been together in that way for several months, and Nancy wasn't even far enough along to be showing yet. The idea that she was pregnant though had knifed through him. For years, beginning back when they had first married, they had tried to have a child. One disappointing month after another, that longing and all of the accompanying activity, had failed to come to fruition.

He supposed that their failure to conceive had been one more nail in the coffin of their marriage. If their marriage had been stronger, their relationship closer, more open, supportive and caring, they might have weathered their disappointments, and even grown closer because of them. But it hadn't worked out that way. Their barrenness seemed just one more way that they had proven incompatible.

How Jim had longed for a child. At first, he had actually harboured the hope that a baby might help he and Nancy heal their mutual wounds. He was frustrated when it seemed that there was a problem. Fertility treatments were still a young science then, and very expensive, and they had never pursued that option. They didn't even know why they couldn't have a baby...just that they couldn't.

And with Nancy's announcement had come the humiliating knowledge that it was Jim who was the defective one. It was he all along who had been unable to get the job done. It had taken her affair with another man for Jim's wife to become pregnant. He had never felt so emasculated in his life, and had stood there helplessly, filled with shame.

To Jim's further surprise, Nancy had lunged at him then, hammering her fists against his chest, while hot tears splashed from her eyes. "You bastard!" she had screamed at him. "You did this on purpose! Somehow you knew and you did it out of spite! You framed Mike, because you didn't want us to be together! I hate you! I HATE YOU!"

Jim had stood there woodenly, while she had rained blows. He had shaken his head, unable to give voice to the words that would counter her wild claims. Nancy had continued to try to hit him even after he had captured her wrists and held them firmly but gently against his upper body. She had twisted in his grip, spitting obscenities at him. He had felt detached from his body, the whole scene surreal. As bad as things between them had been, surely it hadn't come to this?

Eventually, her fury spent, Nancy had sagged against him, sobbing, and her tears had soaked his shirt. Then she had jerked herself away, and still crying had headed for the bedroom, leaving Jim standing in the livingroom trying to absorb the immensity of what he had just learned.

She had stayed in the bedroom all evening. Jim had poured himself a whiskey, a double, and then had sat down. That was the only drink he had taken. He had stayed there for hours, nursing it, thinking. Finally, he had risen and climbed the stairs, one heavy step after another, until he had paused outside their door. He had knocked twice, given Nancy a moment and then entered.

He found her curled up on her side, salty tracks dried on her cheeks, her blue eyes dull. Jim had sat beside her on the bed, and cleared his throat.

"Mike O'Toole is going to go to jail. For a long, long time. I...I don't know what you want to do about the baby. But..." Jim had swallowed and then forged on. "If you want to keep it, I'll help you. I'll stay if you want. You can quit your job, and concentrate on raising the child. We could live on my salary." Nancy was an ER nurse, that was how Jim had met her, when their jobs had crossed. "You can put my name on the birth certificate and no one need ever know. I know...I know things have gotten bad, but I think...maybe we could put it all behind us. Start fresh." Nancy had simply lain there, not looking at him, or even acknowledging that she heard his words.

Jim had struggled to get through to her. "I've been a jerk, and I'm sorry, and I don't blame you for...for Mike. I just want you to know that...if you want me to...I could be a father to this baby." He hadn't tried to touch Nancy at all, and had just looked at her for another moment, before leaving the room.

Three days later she had come to Jim, accepting his proposal. He could see that Nancy was frightened about the future, and unsure of what they were about to do. They had been wary with one another at first, ultra polite like strangers trying to make a good impression. Eventually, as the pregnancy had progressed, they had reached an unspoken truce. Jim had accompanied Nancy to her prenatal visits, and taken Lamaze class with her. At night...though they had still not been physical together they shared the same bed...Jim would put his hand on the swelling of Nancy's belly and feel with awe the movements of the child that grew within.

They shared their anticipation of the baby's arrival. Nancy picked out items for a nursery, and Jim painted and hung wallpaper that featured cavorting lambs. He assembled an oak crib. He would watch Nancy in the evenings as she folded impossibly tiny sleepers and socks. They discussed names, Jason for a boy and Ellie for a girl. Tentatively, they found one another again.

Jim had been at work when he'd gotten the call that Nancy was in labour. The dispatcher had delayed giving Jim the message, payback for the residual hard feelings for Jim's part in bringing down the dirty cops and betraying the brotherhood. He had rushed to the hospital, to find that Nancy had already delivered the baby. There had been complications, and an emergency caesarean had been needed. But both mother and child were fine, resting and recovering from their mutual ordeal. He had looked in on his wife, sleeping peacefully. And then a matronly nurse with a kind smile had taken him to the nursery to see his child.

A daughter! A tiny pink-wrapped bundle with a sparse covering of blonde, downy fluff on her head. Six pounds and four ounces of perfection. When the nurse had handed him the sleeping babe, for a moment Jim's eyes had swam with tears. He held her awkwardly, terrified that he would either drop her or crush her. The nurse had assured him that babies weren't as fragile as they looked.

And then she had opened her eyes. Jim knew that she couldn't really see him. A baby's eyesight was not that well developed immediately following birth. But he would have sworn that her big, dark eyes were focused on his. His daughter. Ellie.

"Congratulations, Mr. Brass," the nurse had said. "She's beautiful. Job well done, dad."

Jim had forgotten that while this was the child of his heart, she wasn't also the child of his body. He had accepted the praise and had thought his heart with burst with pride.

He had loved Ellie from the moment he had been introduced to her. And she was his daughter in every way that mattered. She was everything that was good and right with the world. It was only rarely that Jim would remember that it was another man's blood that ran in her veins. And when he did...it didn't change how he felt about his daughter, it only changed how he felt about himself.

Sometimes, looking into her enormous dark eyes and seeing his own face reflected there, Jim would feel a dark anger towards Mike O'Toole, incarcerated now in a maximum security prison. A hatred that stemmed from jealousy. More than anything in the world, Jim would wish that this beautiful, fair-haired child really was the result of something he had done right, her conception not a culmination of all of the things that he had done wrong.

Ellie was to be their only child. Even if, by some miracle, Jim wasn't actually sterile, Nancy had suffered complications from the c-section. An ugly postpartum infection that had almost claimed her life, had resulted in an emergency hysterectomy, and there could be no more pregnancies.

Laying in a hospital bed, in pain, doped up on drugs, angry at the loss of her womanhood, the closeness that had been growing between them in the final months of her pregnancy, began that day to die. Nancy had said to Jim after the surgery. "Well, at least I have Ellie." Not we, but I, and her direct gaze had let Jim know in no uncertain terms that her choice of words had been deliberate.

Nancy had let him continue to raise the child. She carried his name. Ellie Rebecca Brass. To everyone on the outside, Jim Brass was her father. But every now and then, when Nancy was feeling particularly angry, hurt or petulant, she would remind Jim that Ellie was not his biological child. He had never understood why Nancy did it, or what pain of her own ignited her need to lash out and hurt him in return. He never asked, but he wondered sometimes if perhaps Nancy had actually been in love with Mike O'Toole. If she had believed they had a future together, as a family, and if seeing Jim with Ellie was a reminder of what would never be. He imagined that she still probably blamed him for O'Toole being behind bars.

"She has her father's eyes," Nancy would remark deliberately, always in the prescence of others who were oblivious to the undertones, or the true extent of that seemingly innocent comment. Of course, they would smile at Jim, and agree, and he would have to hide the wellspring of emotion that would threaten to drown him. And then Nancy would look at Jim coolly, while unseen, his heart bled into his chest.

The first time she had done it, he had hated her with a ferocity that had finally killed any fond feelings Jim had ever had for her. He had said nothing to Nancy after the incident, when they were alone again. Refusing to give her the satisfaction of knowing how she had hurt him. Refusing to give her another opportunity to remind him that despite his most fervent wishes, Ellie would never entirely be his.

When he had finished his tale, Cecilia had tightened her hold on him. "Thank you for telling me. I'm so sorry, Jim," she had told him quietly. "I can't imagine how that must have made you feel."

He had waited uncomfortably for the words that would come next. The ones that would tell him that there was more to being a father than biology, and that he was Ellie's real father in every way that mattered. The words that would unintentionally negate his pain, and necessitate his agreement that yes, a shared gene pool was no big deal. Words meant to comfort, but which actually took away his right to feel the anger and the sorrow. But those words hadn't been forthcoming. Cecilia had just held him. And Jim had been grateful for her understanding that nothing more could be or needed to be said.

Jim wanted to reach for his phone now, to call Cecilia and seek the reassurance of her voice. He had just started working days again, and he knew that if he called now though he would wake Cecilia, resting after working the night shift last night. He would see her again later this afternoon, he knew. She had a key to his apartment now, and had said something about cooking him dinner before she had to be back in to the crime lab later tonight. Normally a man with unending patience, Jim knew that time would stretch tauntingly for him today.

There was a knock at his open door, and Brass looked up, surprised to see Amy Martens silhouetted in the doorway of his office. "Did I catch you at a bad time, Captain?" she asked politely.

"No, not at all," Jim said, getting to his feet and crossing the room. "It's good to see you, Amy. How are you?" He extended his hand and shook hers warmly.

Jim thought guiltily that he should have called her before now, to check in and see how she and Christian were doing. Even though Denny's case had been closed, it would have been the considerate thing to do, as an old friend, if not as a cop. He had received a lovely card of thanks from Denny's widow just two weeks after his death. Handwritten, it had expressed Amy and Chris's gratitude for the generous donation to the summer camp fund, that Jim had made in Denny's memory. It had indicated their appreciation of his prescence at the funeral and for all the work that he had done, professionally, following the accident. Jim had been touched and impressed by the personal nature of the note, and wondered at the inner strength that allowed Amy Martens to be so thoughtfully conscientious at the time of such a terrible loss.

"I'm doing all right," she told him with a brave smile. There was a gentle fragility to her, an ethereal quality to her pale skin, and luminous green eyes. Amy Martens was dressed smartly in a tan, linen pantsuit, her hair neatly coiffed. Up close, Jim could see that her make up almost concealed the dark smudges that indicated sleep was not coming easy to her.

"What can I do for you?" the detective queried.

"I've been meaning to stop by for the last week," she began apologetically, "I was just waiting for a reason to be downtown. I had to come in today to sign some insurance forms. I was going to call, but I thought it better if I came in person." She prattled nervously, one hand to her slender throat.

"Please, sit down," Brass said, indicating the leather chair opposite his desk. He leaned on the edge of it while she settled herself, and he wondered curiously what had brought her here.

"Denny had a small safe, in his office at home," Amy explained. "The other night I decided to go through it. I found copies of some reports...cases he had been working on...when he died. They were duplicates, but I thought I should take them to the precinct anyways." Jim nodded his encouragement. "Anyhow, at the very bottom, there was a letter. It just...I don't know. Denny had never mentioned it, and it wasn't like him to keep secrets. Yet, whatever it was, it seemed important enough to him that he not only kept it, but he kept it locked up."

She was reaching for her purse then, opening it and extracting a plain white envelope. "I touched it when I read it. But then I remembered...finger prints...and I put it in this envelope, just in case...there was something that needed to be preserved." She handed it to the detective. "I don't really understand it, and it's probably nothing. I couldn't even say how long it's been there...but I thought...I should bring it to you."

Brass took it, feeling the ripple of gooseflesh on his forearms. Why would Amy Martens bring the letter to him? Why not take it to the station that Denny had been working out of? Did she believe that it was somehow connected to Denny's death? There could be no other reason she would think to take it him, Jim knew. "Excuse me for a minute," he was telling her. "Just let me grab some gloves." He set the letter on the desk.

He returned moments later, pushing his fingers snuggly into the latex pockets. Apprehensively, he extracted a single piece of folded parchment and read the looping, cursive hand.

Dear Detective Martens,

Do you ever lay awake at night and think about the things you've done wrong? The mistakes you've made? Wishing you could go back and rectify them? Or do you lay in bed, sleeping the slumber of the perpetually oblivious?

To serve and protect. That's the creed. But sometimes, you fail. And the wicked go free. Sometimes, there is a pivotal moment...where one is on the brink...where the future hangs in the balance of one choice, one decision. Where your error demonizes the innocent and unleashes the devil. But sometimes, too stupid to recognize the mistake, the inferior pat themselves on the back and go on and others must pay the price of their failure.

Do you sleep well, Detective? Or do you ever lay awake at night? Thinking. Remembering.

The letter was unsigned. Brass held it between his hands, rereading it, not sure what to make of it. There was nothing specifically threatening about the letter. No hint of retribution. No harbinger of violence to come. Yet Jim felt an icy chill permeate his bones. What did the letter mean? Why had Denny kept it?

"I guess there was no original envelope with this?" Jim asked, though he knew if there had been, Amy Martens would have brought it as well.

She shook her head. "Does it mean anything?" she asked reluctantly, her eyes wide. "Please. I'd like to know whatever you're thinking."

Brass sighed. "I don't know. I really don't. On the surface, there's nothing to connect this letter to what happened to Denny."

Her chin trembled. "Then you don't think there is any chance that Denny's death was deliberate? That he was...murdered?"

Jim was torn. How could he tell Amy that from the very beginning the whole scenario of a random hit and run, had felt wrong to him? That he had never really concurred with the official conclusion, that Denny's death had been unfortunate accident? How could he tell her that he was suspicious of Elliott Keeth's death as well? He had nothing concrete to go on, not a single shred of evidence. Just his gut hunch, which, though finely honed over the years, had proven to be not infallible. How could he destroy any semblance of peace she might have found in the aftermath of her terrible loss, on the basis of a feeling?

"There is nothing to indicate that," he told her truthfully. She relaxed visibly. "But if you don't mind, I'd like to keep this anyways. See if we can lift a print. See what handwriting analysis can tell us. No harm in checking it out." Brass tried to keep his tone casual but Amy was not fooled and the tension returned to her willowy frame.

"You think there's a chance it might mean something," she said bluntly.

"There's always a chance," he admitted slowly. "But I don't want you to jump to any conclusions. Realistically, it's so unlikely as to be improbable. I give you my word though that if there is anything to indicate that this letter is in any way connected to what happened to Denny, you'll know when I know."

Amy Martens stared at the detective. Denny had always said that Jim Brass was a great cop, a top notch detective. Professionally, her late husband had had a great deal of respect for him. Personally, Denny hadn't had a lot in common with Jim. There were unspoken things that he didn't like about the other detective. He'd always said that there was a sad nobility about him though. And that if push came to shove, Jim Brass would be one of the good ones. A man he would trust. Amy had always believed unfailingly in her husband's perceptions. If Denny had trusted Jim Brass, that was good enough for her. "All right," she nodded.

She stood then, and reached to shake Jim's hand, clasping his in both of hers, holding on a bit too tightly, evidence of the strain she was feeling. Brass felt the cold metal of the bands that circled the ring finger of Amy's left hand. Automatically, his eyes dipped to the plain, gold wedding band, and the modest diamond solitaire.

She followed his line of sight. "Til death do us part," Denny's widow whispered. She dropped her head then, and began to cry.

Brass put his arms around her. Amy Martens raised her hands, palms out against his chest, and leaned her face into them. He smoothed the auburn hair that fell across her shoulders, and murmured consolingly. She seemed to welcome the embrace, and his kindness caused a resurgence of tears. Eventually, she raised her head, wiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands. Jim reached over his desk, and handed her a couple of tissues. She wiped them beneath her eyes until the final black smears from her mascara had been removed and the tissue came away clean.

"Most of the time, I can deal with what has happened," Amy told Jim. "But every now and then, I just miss him so very much." She smiled crookedly, and he was glad to see that she seem unabashed by her display of sorrow, comfortable to grieve in his prescence.

"I can't imagine how it must be for you," Jim said softly, recalling to mind Cecilia's simple, but wise words to him. "I'm sorry."

She nodded her appreciation. "Thank you, Jim. For everything." She leaned toward him then and gave him a quick hug.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had company," Sheriff Mobley apologized as he stepped into Brass' office.

Amy Martens withdrew. "I was just leaving. Hello, Sheriff."

Brian Mobley recognized Denny Martens widow. "Mrs. Martens," he greeted. He inquired as to how she and her son were doing, then they exchanged pleasantries for a few moments.

"I'll call you," Jim told her, as she excused herself from the room. Then, with less enthusiasm, "What can I do for you, Sheriff?"

After Mobley had left, Jim sat down behind his desk. Pushing back in his chair he reread the letter yet again. There was something that he was missing. The letter did mean something. And when he figured out what it was...Jim knew he would have a very important piece of the puzzle.