Monahan was tired of standing. He'd been leaning against the marble wall of the corridor, several doors down from the glass ones announcing the Phillips, Quincy and Conlon law practice for the better part of the day. He glanced at his watch: it was after six. Quincy should be coming out soon, or at least Monahan hoped he would. He shuffled his weight once again to the other foot, and watched from the shadows of the alcove as first a small, wiry man exited from the glass doors, carrying a leather satchel, then a moment later, a very pretty redhead walked out, carrying her large tote bag. She was followed almost immediately by a tall, dark man in a heather gray suit. Monahan waited, and finally Quincy emerged through the glass doors, turning to lock them with a key from his pocket. The former lieutenant silently observed the slump of the man's shoulders and the pallor of his skin, and worry filled him. He watched Quincy walk slowly down to the elevator, and quietly Monahan slipped into the stairwell, quickly ploughing down five flights, making it to the parking garage before the elevator doors opened. The coroner walked to the garage elevators, and the Irishman took the garage stairs two at a time up four flights, barely making it past Quincy's car and to his own before the medical examiner emerged.

Monahan panted heavily, gripping the steering wheel of his car, as Quincy inserted the key into the driver's side door of his. The coroner practically fell into the driver's seat from exhaustion, letting his head rest against the car seat. Monahan swallowed hard; he wanted to walk over to the car and make sure Quincy was all right, and let him know that he wasn't alone, but the cop in him knew better than to do something that emotional; such behavior could blow the whole operation, costing both of them their lives. Monahan sat tight, and after a few minutes, he saw the tail lights on Quincy's car light up. He waited a discreet amount of time and emerged from the parking garage a little behind the doctor, and followed him to a convenience store. He waited until Quincy emerged with a gallon of milk, and then trailed the medical examiner back to Sycamore Lane. Monahan watched for the lights to come on in the house, and then awhile later, he drove back to the convenience store and the pay phone he had seen in the parking lot.


Asten's voice sounded tired, even to Monahan. "Yes, hello?"

"Asten, it's Monahan."

"Everything okay?"

"As much as it can be. Was I right about the tail?"

"Yes, you were right about it."

"Then we have to assume that this line's not secure, so watch your words, understand?"

"Yes."

"I saw our friend and he doesn't look so good. I'm not too sure what to do about it."

"Describe it."

"Pale, shaky, moving very slowly. He looks exhausted."

"Does it look like he's in pain?"

"Maybe. It wasn't a close-up..."

"Anything else?"

"Well, I thought it was a little odd that he bought a gallon of milk at the store, but no cereal to go with it, nothin' else."

Asten's throat tightened. "It's not odd. It's the easiest way to mask ulcer symptoms if you don't have access to the right meds. Problem is it's just a Band-Aid..."

"You mean it's gonna get worse?"

"Without treatment, yes." Asten forced his timbre to remain even. "Any way you can get close?"

"Doubtful."

"Figure something out. I'll call in a prescription to our friends on the strip."

"Don't call from home."

Asten sighed with impatience. "I wasn't planning to..."

Monahan's voice was gruff with exhaustion and worry. "Be careful."

"I will. You just take care of our friend."

"Yeah."

Monahan hung up the phone and sighed. He walked back to his car and headed toward Sycamore Lane; but as he approached, he felt the little hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He drove past it, and turned down the street behind, parking his car near the house that would be the neighbor behind Michael Quincy's. Monahan picked up his walkie-talkie, and pressed the button.

"Team 2? You on?"

After a moment of static and air, Brill's voice pierced the silence. "Go ahead Team 1."

"Sparrow's callin' in some meds for Falcon."

"Serious problem?"

"Not if we nip it early. I need you to coordinate and alert me for pick-up."

"Delivery's not going to be easy."

"No kidding. Just do it. Team 1 out."

The walkie went dark and Monahan set it down on the seat of the car. He waited until the house behind Quincy's had no more lights on, then he turned the volume down on his radio, pocketed it and stepped out of his car, softly closing the door. He walked up the side of the house adjacent to Quincy's, slipped through the backyard and came face-to-face with a ten-foot fence. After a little blind searching, Monahan practically tripped over a bench on the patio. With strength he wasn't even sure he still had, the ex-cop carried it to the fence, stepped up and hoisted himself over the wooden planks. He landed with a thud in the dark on the other side and grunted as a slight pain radiated up from his left ankle. Shaking it off as best he could, Monahan made his way in the blackness along the fence of Quincy's backyard and down the side of the house. Cautiously he peered out onto Sycamore Lane and after a few minutes, spotted the unmarked van parked at the north end. The dish on the top was a dead giveaway to the fact that all sounds in the house were being monitored: he had been right to avoid parking on Sycamore a second time.

Monahan quietly walked back the way he'd come, and stared up at the second floor of the house, at the window with the light on. For a moment he thought he'd like to take the easy way out of it all and just toss a pebble at the glass, and hope that Quincy wouldn't make a sound; but the cop in him knew better. Sighing, Monahan walked to the back door, and pulling a skeleton key from his pocket began to jimmy the lock. After a few minutes, it released and he stepped into the kitchen, softly closing the door behind him. He stood perfectly still for a brief moment while his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he caught the blinking infrared light on the wall; his heart slammed into his throat: the FBI had rigged the house with a silent alarm. But the access code had to be something Quincy could use since he was living in the house. Knowing he had mere seconds before his cover was blown, Monahan moved to the keypad and punched in the only thing he was sure Quincy would be able to remember: Helen. After a second the alarm disengaged and Monahan kept himself from releasing an audible sigh. Wiping the sweat that had beaded on his brow, the former lieutenant moved quietly through the house and up the stairs.

He stood in front of the door that had light pouring through the crack underneath, and he thought for a long moment on how to handle the situation. If he opened the door, he'd startle Quincy, and the FBI would come running; if he waited until Quincy was asleep, he could go through the door, but might elicit quite a scream before subduing him. Monahan shook his head at himself; he should have thought of this problem before entering the house. He opted for the second plan and waited quietly by the banister on the second floor until the light underneath Quincy's door had been out for 30 minutes. As softly as he could, Monahan opened the door and walked into the room, which was illuminated slightly by the moonlight coming in through the window. He moved to the bed and removed the ring from his left hand, sliding it into his pocket; there was no sense in accidentally hurting the man if he resisted. Monahan switched on the lamp by the bed, sat down easily and covered Quincy's mouth with his left hand. The coroner bolted awake, and Monahan clamped down on the back of his head with his right hand. After a brief second, Quincy realized who it was, and he relaxed. Monahan removed his hands and touched an index finger to his lips, indicating the need for silence. He handed Quincy his robe and motioned for him to follow.

Quietly the two men padded through the house and out the back door, making their way to the furthest point of the backyard. Monahan put his hands on Quincy's arms.

"You look like hell," he whispered.

"I'm okay. What are you doing here?"

"Keeping an eye on you, what do you think?"

"Are you crazy? If the FBI doesn't getcha, the mob will. Go home."

"And leave you here with all the fun? No way."

"Are you here alone?"

"No. I'm watchin' you, but Brill and Danny are at the Sands keeping an eye out for Vandano."

"He's arriving in the morning. I have a meeting with him in the afternoon at the office."

"You can't meet with him alone."

"I don't think I have a choice, Monahan."

"Are you tellin' me the FBI's sanctioned it?"

Quincy shrugged. "Guess so."

"Those bastards..."

Quincy pat Monahan's shoulder. "Get in your car and drive back to LA, tonight."

"No," Monahan growled. Quincy grimaced slightly, grabbing his stomach, and Monahan took him by the arms. "Quincy? What is it?"

"Ulcer," the doctor said through clenched teeth.

"Asten was right."

"Asten? Don't tell me he's here."

"No. He and Sam are back in LA keeping the feds busy. They lost Brill, Danny and me on the drive up."

"Monahan, what are you doing? You can't play around with the FBI; Donovan will have your badge."

"You let me worry about that. I've gotta figure out a way to keep you from gettin' your head blown off. Did that little weasel Sequana at least lay out some kind of plan?"

"Yeah. I'm supposed to make Vandano think I've got some evidence on him and if he kills me, it'll be turned over to the FBI by an associate."

"And?"

"And I'm supposed to tell him that I'll trade him the evidence for my freedom and half a million dollars."

"Sequana told you to blackmail Anthony Vandano?"

"Yeah."

"I've gotta get you out of here. Right now. Tonight."

Monahan began to pull Quincy toward the fence, but the coroner stopped him. "I can't do that."

"Whaddya mean? Quincy, did you miss it? The feds are gonna get you killed, and then they're gonna arrest Vandano on a murder one charge."

"I get it."

"I don't think you do. Quincy, you have to be dead in this scenario for them to get their man."

"Monahan, I can't explain it to you, but I have to do this. And you shouldn't be here..."

Quincy started toward the house and Monahan grabbed his sleeve. "Damnit Quincy, I'm not gonna stand by and watch this go down," he hissed.

The coroner put his hands on Monahan's shoulders. "Frank, listen to me." Monahan stared into the gray eyes, startled at Quincy's use of his first name. The medical examiner gently squeezed the bulky flesh under his hands. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I can't let you do it. There's a lot more in play here than you know." The blue-gray eyes searched the light blue ones for understanding. "Please, take Danny and Brill, and go home. I couldn't bear seeing any of you hurt because of me. Let this go, Frank. Let me go."

"Quincy--"

"--Trust me. Please."

Monahan could feel his eyes stinging with moisture. "Damn you," he whispered as he broke away from Quincy's grip. "I'll find a way to get the prescription Asten called into the pharmacy on the strip on your desk before tomorrow morning."

"Go home."

"I ain't doin' that, Quincy. I don't understand why you're goin' along with Sequana on this, but I'm gonna assume it's for a good reason. But that doesn't mean I'm gonna leave you here alone. I'll be close-by, and if I can find a way to save your sorry butt, then that's what I'm gonna do whether you like it or not."

"My sorry butt? You should be worried about your own puffy ass..."

"My ass ain't puffy..."

"Monahan?"

"What?"

"Don't knock the fence down while dragging that puffy ass back over it..."

Monahan glared at the coroner. "Oh shut-up."

Quincy walked back into the house, quietly closing the door behind him, and after a moment, Monahan hoisted himself back up over the wall, sliding down onto the bench below. He returned the wooden seat to its place on the patio and softly padded back to his car. After climbing inside, he started the engine and headed toward the Sands. Exhaustion was catching up with him, and Frank Monahan sighed. It had been a long night, and it was far from over.