Quincy drove up to the house on Sycamore Lane and parked his brother's car in the driveway. He stepped out and nervously fumbled with the keys, separating the house key on the ring between his thumb and forefinger. He walked up the stone path and stood in front of the door. He shivered slightly, knowing Michael had stood there many times before him. He inserted the key in the lock, opened the door and walked in, closing it behind him. He glanced around the space, not surprised in the least at the nautical theme of the dwelling, despite the fact that such a motif was slightly out of place in the desert.

He walked further into the house, placing his keys on the table in the entryway, and headed toward the kitchen. Sequana told him the fridge had been stocked, and for the first time in three days, Quincy felt slightly hungry. He snapped the light on and the cheerful yellow walls and bright Mediterranean blue tile leapt out at him: he could easily envision Michael sitting at the table, coffee in hand. Then he saw the thick manilla file folder sitting there, and it sent a wave of nausea through him: Sequana's team left it so that Quincy could familiarize himself with basic law and Michael's specific cases. He ran a finger across the top of it and realized he was no longer hungry. Quincy opened the fridge, poured himself a glass of milk, picked up the file and walked into the living room.

Settling on the couch, he switched a table lamp on and opened the folder. After reading the first nine briefs, Quincy closed his eyes, pinching the spot where the corners met the bridge of his nose; he was tired. Leaning his head back against the pillows of the leather divan, he surveyed the room, and the austerity of it struck him: there was nothing personal in it. Quincy couldn't help but wonder if his brother had purposefully abandoned anything from his life in order to protect those who had been in it. The thought of that possibility made his heart ache with sorrow for the loneliness that must have been his brother's existence.

Vulnerability suddenly stinging Quincy's eyes, he impulsively reached for the phone, until he remembered that Sequana had warned him that the house and phone were tapped not only by the FBI, but also the mob. Quincy sighed heavily as he gently returned the receiver to its cradle. He missed his friends and coworkers terribly, but there could be no sympathetic voices on the other end of a phone call allaying his fears. He once again let his head fall back against the pillows on the couch, and as his eyes closed in exhaustion, he wondered if Lt. Monahan was trying to find him, or if the FBI had warned off the local police...


"You're sure this guy is discreet?" Monahan asked.

"Yeah." Danny said as he indicated the lounge in the Sands where they were currently seated. "Consider where we are, lieutenant, this guy has heard and seen it all." One of Monahan's eyebrows arched up in disbelief. "Look, Monahan, he's my cousin and he owes me, we can trust him."

Monahan looked over at Brill. "You switched out the car?"

"Yeah, and the new one's clean. I paid cash under an assumed name at a small rental joint to prevent any trace."

"Nothin' like the cops puttin' one over on the feds," Danny commented.

Monahan ignored him. "Good, Brill. What'd you do with mine?"

Brill cleared his throat nervously. "Well, lieutenant, I'm afraid I had to make sure nobody would find it..."

"Yeah...and?"

"And I pretended I stole it and sold it to a chop shop. That's where I got the cash to pay for the rental."

"You sold my car?"

Brill shrugged. "Better'n dumping it in the lake, at least we got something out of the deal, and we know once they're done with it there won't be any trace of it."

Monahan shook his head. "I suppose..."

A tall man of Danny's general build and coloring walked up to the table, and Tovo stood, hugging the slightly younger man. "Anselmo! Come va?"

"Bene...è tu?"

"È stato migliore...Anselmo, meet my friends, Brill and Monahan."

"Pleased to meet you," the man said extending his hand in turn to each man. "Daniele has told me you three might need a little assistance during your stay in Las Vegas."

Monahan smiled cautiously. "That's right. A mutual friend is in trouble, and we wanna make sure he stays in one piece."

Danny pulled Anselmo down into the booth with them. "This friend of ours is a target of one of your New York patrons."

Anselmo's eyes opened wide. "Daniele...ma, non...dovremmo rimanerer chiari di questo..."

Danny smiled easily. "You owe me, Anselmo, and I owe the guy in question, so we're not staying clear of this."

"Do you know what you're asking?"

"We've got a pretty good idea, Anselmo," Monahan said, "Look, we don't need much from you. Just information. We'll do the rest."

"What kind of information?"

"Comings and goings," Brill answered simply.

Danny pat his cousin's arm. "Come on Anselmo, I'll be here with you and I'll do the hard part. You just keep me informed, that's all you have to do."

"And how do I explain you, cousin?"

"Tell 'em I'm here from Sicily learning restaurant management from you. Basta così."

"And if this patron finds out that I'm talking to cops, I'm dead..."

"We're not cops," Monahan said, "at least not anymore."

"Same thing, were, aren't now," Anselmo countered.

"Danny," Monahan growled, "I thought you said we could trust this guy."

Danny smiled dangerously at his cousin. "We can, Monahan. Isn't that right, Anselmo?"

Remembering well that Danny had always easily beaten him up when they were kids, Anselmo nodded. "Si, it's as he says..."

"All right. Brill, you're here with Danny, I'm on shadow. If anything develops, I'm on a walkie."

"Got it."

Monahan stood and leaned his hands on the table, coming inches from Anselmo's face. "Don't do nuthin' stupid, Anselmo; if anything happens to my friend because of you, you won't have to worry about Vandano because I'll kill you myself. Capice?"

"Daniele!" Anselmo exclaimed.

"He's kidding, Anselmo, he's kidding..." Monahan stalked away and Danny pat his cousin's arm. "He's an ex-cop, he wouldn't do it. Really."

But Anselmo had seen the look in the Irishman's eyes, and he knew Monahan wasn't exaggerating.


Monahan watched quietly as Quincy walked out of his brother's house, dressed in a three piece suit and tie. He stepped into Michael's car and drove off. The lieutenant followed him at a discreet distance to an office building in downtown Las Vegas. Quincy pulled into a parking structure and several minutes later, Monahan followed. After a little searching, the lieutenant discovered Quincy's car on the fourth level, and he parked in the opposite row, down a ways. Monahan waited for about twenty minutes, then headed toward the elevator so that he could place himself in a good position for surveillance of Quincy's office.

Quincy walked in through the glass doors of the outer office of the law firm as if he owned it: but his insides were quivering frantically. He recalled the picture of the pretty secretary from the file, and he smiled at her.

"Good morning, Mona."

"Good morning, Mr. Quincy..."

He stopped at her desk, observing her body language. "You seem...surprised to see me..."

"Well sir, you didn't leave a number last weekend, and well, you were gone for several days with no word..."

"Oh, that," Quincy smiled easily, recalling the story he'd been told to use. "Well, I slipped down to LA with a friend for a little...R&R." He winked at her. "You, uh, understand, don't you, Mona?"

"Oh, I understand, Mr. Quincy...I'm just not so sure about Mr. Phillips. He's been a little upset over your disappearing act."

"Now that I'm back, there's nothing to be upset about, is there..."

He smiled at her, and walked through the large wooden door on the right that was labeled: Michael H. Quincy, Attorney at Law. He entered the office, closing the door behind him, acutely aware of the sweat running down his back. A sharp pain stabbed him in the abdomen, and he groaned, reaching for his stomach. One thing was certain: if Vandano didn't kill him, his ulcer was going to...