4.05 - The One That Got Away

Who stole the painting? Why? And how? Who replaced it with a fake? And why is everyone off-put by Sandy? It's time for some questions to be answered and the clues for more to be dropped.

But also... what happens when a closed cased reopens itself? Holly finds out, and she's not happy about it.


"How is looking at art related to work?" Jenny sat down at Vivian's desk, amused. "Someone blow up art?"

"You know, it's really rare to stash art in safe deposit boxes. They're not climate controlled enough." Vivian marked her place and looked up at her classmate.

Jenny snorted. "This is you trying to tell me that patrol is boring compared to your bomb girl stuff?"

Smiling, Vivian leaned back. "Yes, yes it is. It's dreadfully boring, Jenny. All we do is sit around and wait."

"Which is what you do the weeks you're on bomb duty."

"At least I'm waiting for action. Here we wait for nothing."

"Didn't you say if the day was boring, you did it right?"

That was Oliver. But. "Yes," admitted Vivian.

"Either way, waiting. Too bad you're not full time on ETF."

"No one really is," noted Vivian, though she shared the sentiment. She pushed the book back. "Tell me the truth. You missed me."

With a groan, Jenny draped herself over Vivian's desk. "I have been riding with Rich for a month. How do you deal with him?"

"He likes me." Vivian felt her hip buzz and pulled her phone out, immediately grinning when she saw a text from Jamie saying she would be home that night. "Okay, are you headed out with him this afternoon?"

"Yes," grumbled Jenny.

"Swap?"

"Me and you or you and him?"

"Whichever. I've been bored."

It worked out that, after lunch, Vivian was riding with Rich. Which she really didn't mind. He was happy to see her, she was happy to be out, and the roads were fairly quiet. Most of the time, the roads were quiet. While it was also boring, it was considerably less boring than sitting at a desk.

Andy had rolled her eye at the request, but agreed with a wave of her hand. She accepted and was fine with Vivian being hands on ETF to the field again anyway. "I don't know why I expected otherwise," admitted Andy. "Serve, protect, don't screw it up."

Not screwing it up with Rich was really easy now. He wasn't prone to innovation anymore, not since their first year, and that too was fine by Vivian. Eventually he'd find a balance of it, but if it was slow in coming, that was okay. A lot of cops were stayed and solid. A lot more actually. Few were quite as weird and unique as Gail.

"1509, Dispatch. We have a request for someone familiar with safes at Elbrus Secure Storage."

Vivian blinked at the radio and picked it up. "Copy, Dispatch. 1509 is twenty out. We're across town."

"Copy, 1509. Inspector said to send you. No lights."

"Copy that." She turned the radio off, wondering which Inspector had asked for her by name. "Rich, hang a right at the second light so we can skip traffic."

Her partner nodded. "Well this is cool. I love being partnered with you. Fun stuff happens."

"Fun?"

"Yeah, didn't you and Volk find bomb stuff at a storage unit?"

That was true. "Once. The rest of the time, it's boring."

Rich thought about that. "Why do you think they need safe crackers? Maybe there's an old safe!"

Oh god. She rolled her eyes. "It's probably nothing."

"Uh, an Inspector asked for you." He paused. "I bet it was a Peck."

"Yes, I know. And probably." There was no way of knowing which Inspector Peck, but Vivian suspected it was Gail and not Traci.

Rich glanced at her. "You know, I thought having a job you loved would make you more chatty."

That made Vivian laugh softly. "Really? Wow. I'm not sure you know me at all." She pulled her phone out and pinged Sabrina via the police app, asking what was going on. "It's the kind of gig that works best if you stay calm."

"Calm does not mean dead ass silent."

"I don't like you that much, Rich," she warned him.

He huffed. "You're so annoying."

"You missed me." She looked at her phone. All Sabrina said was that she would meet Vivian at the storage facility. "Have you thought about other .. teams?"

Rich startled. "You mean... besides patrol? No." He huffed. "Why?"

"Just makin' conversation, Richie."

"You're really bad at it."

"Bite me."

He laughed. "You, Peck, are funny. I like you."

"I think being shot made you even weirder," said Vivian.

"Less of an asshole," said Rich and he pulled up at the address. "Whose car is that?"

"Trujillo's." Vivian got out of the car and turned on her camera, reciting her name, badge, and location. Then she looked up at the sign. "Art storage..."

Rich tucked the car keys away safely. "That mean something?"

She hesitated. "Well. Maybe. The whole painting thing..." she paused. It was still not fully common knowledge that both layers of the painting were fake. The news certainly didn't know. And that meant Rich didn't, couldn't, know. Vivian sighed.

"How come there's no arrest? Super Inspector Peck usually wraps shit up super fast."

Vivian smiled. She'd have to tell Gail that later. "Well. I don't know. I just pick locks and untangle bombs." They walked in and found Trujillo and Sabrina, chatting with the owner. "You rang for a locksmith?"

Sabrina smiled. "You're gonna like this. The lock is in a painting."

"What the what?" Vivian blurted it before she could really think about what she said.

Of course Trujillo, who worked with Gail, laughed. "I told you she wouldn't believe it."

"Can you blame her?" Sabrina hefted the portable go-bag.

"No, I really can't. Come on." Trujillo gestured and led them to the back. "You're going to recognize the painting," she added, unlocking and lifting a sliding door.

The storage unit was filled with garbage bags and detritus that smelled vague organic. Old clothes. Musty like soiled, sodden carpet. Huh. Vivian swept the room with a careful glance. She looked up at the corners for videos, thinking of Safary, and then she realized she knew the smell.

"Hey, this place smells like Walter," Vivian said with a start.

Trujillo snorted. "She's good. I hate her."

Sabrina grinned. "I know, right? She's amazing."

"Who's Walter?" Rich sounded lost.

Taking pity, Trujillo explained. "Walter's the guy who broke into the safe at the bank. And this is why we called young Peck." The detective stepped back and gestured at the wall.

It was what Vivian could only describe as being a mock vault. "What the hell, is this Oceans Eight?" No knew really made mock vaults. The only time she'd seen it was in movies, and even then it was hard to do right. But the wall was a clear attempt at copying the layout of the vault where the forged painting had been found. That made her blood run cold. "Sabrina, did we clear it?"

Her teammate nodded. "I ran a sensor. All clear. And the imaging camera saw though it."

Vivian exhaled. That was better. Less terrifying at least. She took the bag and dug out the thicker nitrile gloves. "So .. how does this have to do with a painting?"

"Two things." Trujillo gestured at a well known (to Vivian) van de Velde. "That is the front of a safe." Using a pen, Trujillo nudged a door on the fake vault open. And there was a lock hooked into what looked like a picture frame. No... it looked like the box that had been around the forged painting. "And that is ... well. You see."

In that moment, Vivian understood. Take a painting in a safe crate. Slide it into a safe deposit box. Lock the painting to the box. Lock the door on the safe deposit box. Now no one can get in. And in theory you could break the wood frame, but it would be at a high risk of damaging the inside. Unscrewing it was also theoretically possible, but the screws were tucked in on the side, in a way she couldn't reach.

Huh. A long metal plate, somehow attached to the wood, hooking around the edge of the interior of the safe deposit box.

No wonder Walter had a lot of cornering tools in his kit. Usually a corner or angled pick was used for leverage on the lock itself, not the frame.

Oh.

"He was practicing getting the painting out," she said under her breath.

"So you see it?" Sabrina sounded amused.

"I think so. Maybe." She looked between painting and safe. "Which first?"

"Painting please," said Trujillo.

The painting was insanely easy. Vivian swung it open, stared at the keypad, looked at the back of painting, and groaned. "This is stupid." There was a string of numbers and, in two tries, she had the safe open. An empty safe.

As Trujillo swore, Sabrina and Rich tried not to laugh. "Fine, fine, get me my vault, Peck."

Vivian cracked her neck and shook her fingers out. "Is there a stool?"

Trujillo made a noise. "No."

"Okay. So he was practicing with the setup he'd have..." Vivian squatted, two feet in front of the fake vault wall and looked down.

Behind her, Rich hissed a question. "Why is she so far back?"

"Looking for evidence," said Sabrina, who was not whispering.

"Isn't that the lab's job?"

"Her's too. She has to make sure not to destroy the evidence." Sabrina paused. "She's also looking for tripwires and traps."

It really didn't matter what they said. Vivian wasn't bothered by people talking around her while she was thinking about crimes. She couldn't afford to be. Her job was, literally, keeping her cool and concentration while bullets were flying and people were screaming. Much like the navy, she listened for the voices she reported to, the people who were her people, and she didn't concern herself with the rest.

This time, too, she ignored Rich. And she ignored Sabrina for the most part. Sabrina knew how to get her attention properly, after all. There wasn't much trace. Settling her weight on her heels, she stared at the bottom of the wall. He put down butcher paper, Vivian realized.

Vivian shifted her weight and leaned down. Okay. She could try to free it without ruining what little trace there might be.

"When is the lab getting here?"

"Any minute now," replied Trujillo. "Do you want to wait?"

She should, realized Vivian. At they very least, they should be on hand to document what was going on. The lab would take photos as she deconstructed the lock. "Yeah. It'll be easier in court if there're here." Then she looked up. "You get how that's not the real painting, right?"

Trujillo nodded. "Sure. But did he do this or his sister?"

Oh. Interesting thought. Vivian reached forward. If she used the vault wall for leverage, her hand would go at a different height than Walter. After all, Vivian was taller. Assuming Louise was shorter... Vivian unclipped her flashlight and aimed it at the metal wall.

"Sister," she said, the second her light shone on the palm imprint. It was too low to be Walter's, and it was smaller than his hand. "Ain't that some shit," added Vivian.

One more piece of the puzzle.


"Dr. Stewart," said Simon, her backup secretary, as Holly walked in. "There's a Dr. White from Alberta on the phone."

Holly blinked. "Is he on hold?"

"He just called when I saw you on the video. I said you might be free."

"I'm always free for Aaron. Put him on my phone, please." She shook her coat off and walked into her office, tapping speaker right away. "Aaron! Hi, I just got in."

"Bit of a late lunch?" His cheerful voice came over the line.

It had been a long time since medical school, but Aaron White was one of her favorite students. She'd been his TA for three classes, and Lisa for a fourth. Lisa had wondered why Holly liked him so much, and accused Holly of being bisexual. That had been a fun time with Lisa, and the second worst point in their relationship.

Lisa was, alas, still biphobic, and that was part of why she'd been less than pleased about Gail. They'd opted not to mention Jamie was bisexual, and warned the firefighter as to why.

But Aaron? He was just one of the naturally gifted people who liked pathology. He'd taken an internship in Edmonton, Alberta, fallen in love with a local girl, and never left. More power to him. When he'd become the premier pathologist of the territory, and Holly's peer, she'd sent him a card to congratulate. But still, they never had much of a chance to chat.

Holly doubted this was a casual call. "Funny. Meeting with the budget overlords about my 3D printer."

Aaron laughed. "I bet that's a keeper. Three internationally recognized papers by you alone?"

She smiled. "Not to mention the talk in Boston. Yeah, it's pretty sweet. Need to borrow it?"

"Just need to pick your brain."

"You will not get an extension on your homework."

Again, Aaron laughed, but it was tinged with something a little off. Something painful. "Yeah. Homework... I was reading about that case you and the Mounties were working on?"

Holly frowned. "I haven't have anything with them for a while. Which case?"

"The international... uh. It came up when I was processing a body this morning, with a red flag, and your name was on it. So I looked it up, and... well..."

"Aaron. I don't have any active cases with the Mounties."

"I know." He paused. "This one is locked up. Like apply to the Mounties for access?"

She froze. There was one case with the Mounties. But it wasn't public, and it was indeed locked up and classified. "Aaron... what do you have?"

He cleared his throat. "A man with his head caved in."

Holly felt very very cold all of the sudden. "That could be anything," she said with forced lightness.

"I know. But there's a bone. A femur."

Jesus. "Can you... can you email me the autopsy report?"

"Haven't done it. I was about to call my reps but I wanted to call you first. If this isn't... I could just be over reacting, but I saw the list of cases we'd pulled for this over the last two years, and I swear to god, Holly, it looks right."

Closing her eyes, she nodded. "Aaron, you're a great scientist. I trust you. Send me the notes, but contact your local Mounties as soon as you hang up." Her computer chimed, indicating email. "Promise?"

"Promise. I'm really hoping I'm wrong, Holly."

"No offense? Me too."

They hung up and Holly sat down slowly. She was frankly a little afraid to open her email, but tapped the keys anyway. Avoiding that wouldn't help anyone or anything. Taking a deep breath, she read the email.

Her stomach dropped. Holly stared at the email and read it again. "Fuck." It was all she could think of to say.

While Aaron had not yet performed the autopsy, it was clear from the scene and the quick examination what was going on. There was a body of a freshly killed young man, twenty-one, whose head was bashed in. Beside a car. With a bone and a note.

We are legion.

The note was going to terrify Gail. Hell, it terrified Holly. Thank god it didn't mention her by name, or Gail would lose her mind. But regardless the message was clear.

With a shaking hand, Holly reached for her desk phone and tapped the quick dial for John Simmons. "John, we have a problem," she announced the minute he picked up, and tapped send on her email.

"We don't have any open cases," said John, confused.

"No. We don't." And she waited.

The problem with knowing him as well as she did was that she could see his face in her mind's eye. She could hear, in the tone of his sigh and the length of the exhalation, the weariness and exhaustion of the weight of his realization.

"Are you sure?" He asked the three words with a nearly querulous voice. He sounded so much like Gail when told bad news. A moment of pleading, whinging that begged to be told she (he — John) was wrong.

"I emailed you a photo."

The sound of tapping came across the photo. "Mother. Fucker." The words were distinct, clear, and profound. "Does Gail know?"

"No. I called you first."

"Okay." John made a noise Holly recognized as him gritting his teeth. "I'll call Marcel. When can we get the body?"

"Alberta would rather we go there, in general," she noted. It had long been common knowledge that Alberta hated shipping bodies, even though Holly had no idea why they cared. It probably had to do with a lost body somewhere along the line. "If Marcel can use his weight to get it here, I would rather not fly."

"We'll do what we can. Okay. I'm going to go do this." John paused. "Did Alberta call the Mounties?"

"They should be. I told Aaron— Dr. White to call as soon as we hung up."

"Oh a good friend? That could help... okay. I'll get back to you." And John hung up.

Holly tapped her phone off and steepled her fingers thoughtfully. This was not just bad, it was outright terrible.

We are legion.

Obviously she was familiar with the overused quote. That didn't bother her, and Holly suspected it was more bluster than anything else. Her studies had shown that to be the case. However given this group, more than anything or anyone else Holly had faced or read about, it was ridiculously plausible for them to be telling the truth.

That there were more.

"Fuck," she muttered and brought up the report to re-read more carefully.

That the bone was left there for them was a sign of something. It implied they wanted her (or the police) to know exactly who and what were being faced. But given that the Mounties had arrested six people in connection with the crimes, it was an odd choice. Why announce it when it was known how the crimes were done?

No. It felt too obvious to Holly. It was too staged. She pulled up the pictures and looked at the positioning of the body, the note, and the bone. "Definitely staged," she said softly, and started typing her notes as she read.

If the body was positioned that way on purpose, then it was a dramatic shift from the normal methodology of the killers. Even Bethany's body had simply been abandoned in a way that would make it difficult to accidentally stumble across. There were only a few bodies in the mix that had been obviously left out for someone to find. Why was that?

Holly pulled up her only notes on those cases. She'd marked them as aberrations initially; data outside the planned set. Looking at it now, she placed them on her full timeline and chart. There was too much data to understand in one go, so she hid some lines.

"What if I only look at bodies left in the open, matched with presumed killers and weapons..."

And there was her pattern.

The bodies left in the open tended to be the first solo kill of a new protégé. The first or second use of the new killer's preferred bone.

She would have to examine the bone and the skull in depth to be sure, but Holly's gut told her that this was not the same situation. The damage to the skull, based on the photos and initial on scene report made it look more like a side blow. A partial facial blow. Statistically, that was outside the mean of the location of the killing blows.

Holly mimed swinging a few times. "Over 80% of the deaths are caused by a back of the head blow, and the rest are above the ear," she said aloud, thinking about the paper she'd been writing about this very crime. "This appears to be a temple shot, followed by post mortem to the base of the skull. Indicating what? Ignorance? Arrogance? Rage?"

It was so hard to guess intent, she grumbled. Even Celery scoffed at the idea of psychics, though Gail and Andy both admitted to having met someone who claimed to be one. Privately, Gail would tell how he was a phenomenal cold reader, and damned perceptive. But in public, she let Andy hold the belief that maybe the future could be divined. Moments like that reminded Holly how much Gail did actually care about people.

Well. There would be time for that later. Right now, Holly could wish for super powers, but lacking them she resorted to science and history.

If, for example, someone close to the crime had been made aware of its existence. And if that someone knew the broad concepts but not the details. Then would if be possible to have this one event? One person?

A copycat.

Holly winced. There was only one copycat that she had ever investigated. Most of the officers involved were long since retired. The ones that were left... the one that would know the most happened to be the one she herself woke up beside nearly every morning. And there was, literally, no way in hell that Holly would ask Gail about Ross Perik unless it was absolutely necessary.

This case was not reason enough. Holly took a deep breath and pushed away the thoughts of cases too close to her heart. She closed her eyes and drew another, deeper, breath. In through the nose, out through the nose. Breathing like she'd learned in yoga classes was surprisingly helpful in order to remember long ago lessons.

Like anyone interested in forensics and pathology, Holly had studied the psychiatric aspects of her desired career. People were predictable and obvious. People had patterns. When people learned a method, a manner of madness, they tended to keep by it no matter what. They were taught how to swing a certain way and they did it until their own self destruction.

That had been the problem of baseball in the late nineties and early two-thousands. Too many players would insist on a tic, or a habit to make their personal flow work when it came to batting. They would adjust their stance, they would fix their gloves, they would practice swing the same way over and over at every single at bat. While this had led them to great success when they got hits, it lowered the overall batting percentages, which meant ballgames became the purview of the home run. It mattered less who was on base and more who could crush a ball.

In retaliation, fielders adopted the Shift, moving players into position where a batter normally hit a ball. That tactic, first popularized in an attempt to curtail Ted William's powerful hitting ability, resurfaced. If batters were going to be consistent and hit the ball to one place, then fielders would naturally adapt and adjust to catch the balls.

Back before that era of the home run derby, when Sammy Sosa and Mark McGuire were just normal players, there had been the scandalous Pete Rose. Rose, for all his many faults, had protean control over hitting. He was the very definition, the prime example of batting. All because he could and would adjust his hitting style in order to optimize his playing in the moment.

Most people couldn't do that. Most killers couldn't. While it was perfectly feasible for them to learn other ways to attack, they would never get the sheer volume of individuals needed to perfect anything close to Pete Rose's style of play. And while escalation was certainly a thing to be wary of, the change in physiology from insects to small animals to larger animals and finally, eventually, to humans meant that instead of a wide variety of 'swings,' it was more likely to have a style per species.

Sometimes, Holly reflected, she was incredibly morbid. Still. That propensity towards consistency, that was found in nearly all humans, leant itself to the obvious deduction that this killer was decidedly not trained by the Haan Dynasty.

That was Gail's name for it. John had rolled his eyes and Holly had been amused. Her wife's macabre humor was, in truth, one of her most favorite aspects of the irascible blonde. Gail was a spitfire, and Holly adored her that way.

Well then. This copycat had somehow learned of the killers' tendencies and attempted to mimic. How? What clues could they have found or extracted that would have told them even the slightest bit? The killers had been incredibly hard to find, let alone catch, and it had taken Holly and John over a year of dedicated effort to grasp the threads that finally led them to capture and certain arrest.

But... Aaron had mentioned he was aware of the case. He didn't name it. He just mentioned it. Being Holly's counterpart in the province, he had access to a great many details and a large amount of information that simply would not be available to the masses. Even so, considerable effort had gone into keeping the situation quiet, so as not to tip their hands. And the case had not yet gone to trial, as the lawyers were still arranging how best to prosecute hundreds of years of murder.

Holly opened her eyes. No way would Aaron have said less than he knew. And anyone of their level should have been aware of Holly's request for related cases, going back years.

Oh.

No.

Not Holly's request. Not her case. The Mounties had made that request, not Holly. Which meant for Aaron to know about her involvement, her personal connection, he had to have seen something to tie her to the case.

Her stomach turned sour as Holly realized how huge the possibility was that her old student had done something to violate confidentiality. Worse... he may have put the largest case in her life in jeopardy.


"Alberta has a mole?" Gail was highly amused by the statement. "Just one in the whole province?"

Holly rolled her eyes, far too used to Gail's humor. "One in the chief's office that we know of."

Gail looked at Marcel, who was exceptionally put out. "You want to run this one?"

"Non," he replied. Bitterness leaked out between his clenched teeth. "Apparently an in depth background check was not as properly performed as it should have been."

She glanced at Holly, who was still a little bemused, if annoyed, and John, who was outright pissed. Gail decided to just ask her wife. "Didn't you go to school with Dr. White?"

"I did. Wasn't him."

"Thank god, or we'd have a lot to talk about tonight," said Gail, flippantly. "One of his staff got access to the Haan Dynasty case files?"

"Must you call it that?" John complained under his breath and Gail ignored him.

When Marcel nodded, Gail sighed. "Okay, so he thought—"

"She," corrected Holly.

"Oh nice. She thought it would be a good idea to start up again? Killer. What a psycho. What was on her records— Oh oh! Was she actually crazy and they missed it?"

Holly gestured with both hands at Gail but spoke to Marcel. "Told you. She's hard to surprise with anything."

"I wonder what you do for her birthday," said the Mountie.

"Sex," remarked Gail. "Or doughnuts."

"I'll stick to gift cards," John remarked. "At any rate, it's thankfully not as horrible as all that, except for the part where enough information has leaked that the fucking case is in jeopardy. Apparently she was obsessed with serial killers and took the job just to get more true life stories of them. Planned to blog about it. The defense lawyers are already using it as an excuse to question our investigation."

Gail winced. "Translation. John and Holly and Marcel are about to spend a month locked in legal arguments?"

"I am hoping for two weeks," said Marcel. "Mais, oui."

"Any chance she was a plant?"

Both John and Marcel shook their heads. John explained, "Came in after. That's where it got extra fun. The mole was obsessed with serial killers, but to make it look vaguely plausible, she decided to declassify some documents."

"That's how Aaron found out I was working the case," offered Holly.

"How the hell can you declassify documents on your own, or is that a question for my nerdy kid?"

"A serious flaw in the software," said Marcel. "A scandal of its own."

Gail spread her hands out, making a faux headline. "Software Scandal Shocks Service Surrounding Serial Smashers."

Marcel looked surprised while John and Holly just nodded. They were used to her shenanigans after all. "She has a very talented tongue," the Mountie announced. A mere heartbeat later, he turned as red as his dress uniform. "Mon dieu."

Smirking, Gail did not comment. "Well, then. Besides stealing my second in command and my wife, you got anything else for me, Marcel?"

"No, unless you have something from your stolen paintings. But of course, that will require Interpol."

Gail rolled her eyes. "Fucking international crime. If, if we ever actually connect this shit to the real paintings, I might."

"And your fake identities?"

"No closer than before. The storage facility with the fake vault did not belong to my criminal, Walter."

"So you have no idea who the Hoffmans are?" Marcel raised his eyebrows.

"No. Walter, his series of fake identities are really easy to track. Can't find his sister to save my life." Gail grumbled. "At least I can be sure he isn't the safe owner." She doubted that, though. Too much was too obvious. There had to be a trap.

The Mountie looked amused. "Is this your case now? I thought your young Nuñez and Trujillo duet were to solve it?"

"It happens to hit on one of my areas of expertise," admitted Gail, a little unwillingly.

A total of four people not named Peck or Stewart knew what Gail had studied in college. Policing, of course. That was a given to the Peck heir. It had never been an option or a question. But even jamming a schedule full of criminology and justice classes, to the point that Gail could have gone to law school, she had also slipped in two other areas of studies.

Her secondary forces had been linguistics, which of course her family had seen as a perfect compliment to her end goal of being a cop. With her natural gift for it, the work had been no problem and Gail had mastered most of work to the extent that she tested out of a lot courses.

That had left her with a little more free time than she was comfortable with. Gail knew that any unoccupied hours would be swallowed up by working with her parents. It had been her godfather's suggestion that she take another class. Something for herself.

In Gail's first year, she snuck in literature classes. Those had been with the excuse that reading comprehension would be helpful in determining motives. Second year though, had been purely her heart's desire. Gail had studied art.

Not art history.

Art.

Hour after beautiful hour had been spent understanding shading and color theory and then, finally, creating art herself. Of course, it turned out Gail was pretty bad at painting or drawing. She lacked the innovation to create what she saw in her minds eye (her tongue and stomach were another matter, and definitely why she was good at cooking). In the end, Gail turned to studying how to reproduce art. It pleased her family, as it was clearly related to crime, and it was enjoyed by Gail herself. There had been precious little of that being frowned upon.

That was why Gail had tasked herself with finding the forger and not the paintings. It was also why stupid Harold annoyed her so much. The one time she knew a lot about what a lab was doing and she got punted out of the lab twice for being annoying and impatient. Of course Holly was right for doing it, no question there, but she wanted to know more and do more. So yes, she assigned the part of the case she knew how to handle to herself.

She just didn't want to explain all that to John or Marcel. They'd think it was cool and, for her, there was no way to separate the shitty disrespect of her family from the weird and fun studies she had. Yaaaaay. Pecks.

Holly cleared her throat. "Do you mind working with Pete on that, Gail?"

"Not at all." She smiled at her wife. "And I'll survive without John for a while. Mayhew can fill in. It'll be good for him."

John looked a little appalled. "Derek Mayhew is a child!"

"So was I when they put me in charge for a while," countered Gail. She watched John process the fact that Mayhew was thirty-nine and realize how old Gail had been when she first filled in for a sick Griggs. And how Mayhew was considered an 'older' detective by everyone else. "Skedaddle and go work with Marcel, John-boy."

"Fuck, I'm old," said John, walking out with Marcel.

"It could be worse. My boss is younger than I," said Marcel, and he closed the door.

Holly tilted her head. "I'm trying to talk them out of making me go to Edmonton."

"Pity. You could get Viv an Oilers shirt."

The doctor laughed and walked over to sit on Gail's desk. "Any news on the painting front?"

"I'm checking into all the known forgers in Toronto. And Harold agreed to save me a corner of the canvas now that we're sure they both fake." So she had a sample and scan to be sent to painting instructors all around the city. But all anyone could say was that it was a good copy.

There was a myth that most forgers signed their work. The reality was that they did not. People like Harold specialized in understanding the methods used to make art. It was called Morellian Analysis, and was good at detecting the use of modern tools and paints. And while it was possible to detect the use of drills and paints that didn't exist and all of that, it was still universally true that it was hard. Determining forgeries was simply hard, no matter how anyone looked at it.

"What are the odds that a local made it?"

"Lower than the odds that the same artist made both." Gail walked over and put her hands on Holly's knees. "Are you going to Alberta?"

"Hopefully not. Wanna come?"

"I'd rather be slushied," remarked Gail and she leaned in until their foreheads were touching. "I really hope you're right."

Her wife made a noise. "I'm confident."

"You're always confident."

"I'm always right."

"Oh and I'm the egotist?"

Holly grinned. "Not an exclusive club." She kissed Gail's nose. "Can you stop getting annoyed with my lab for a bit?"

"Maybe." Gail sighed. "It's frustrating. I have this ... idea. I have this thought in my head, and I'm not sure how to get it out."

"How about we go to the museum this weekend? Check out art? I could use a distraction. And you sound like you could use inspiration."

That actually sounded like a nice idea. Except. "We're supposed to have the kids over."

"Double date?"

"Does Jamie even like art?"

Holly was incredibly confident. "She will. Especially if we go to that Moroccan place for lunch."

Grinning, Gail had to admit Holly had a good idea. "Well. At least Viv'll understand why we need it." If Jamie totally wasn't interested, Vivian would be able to explain what was going on with her mothers.

"That reminds me... Sandy Paretti said something about how she couldn't imagine an Armstrong marrying someone who didn't appreciate the finer things in life."

"That's true," admitted Gail. Her grandmother Antonia, while a bitchy alcoholic, did love the beautiful things in life. Most of her maternal line were that way. It did make her think about her father differently, though.

"I thought Tristan was a bore." Holly's expression was thoughtfully questioning.

Gail blinked. "Well. Yeah. So I gather. I never met him." But... Holly had a point. Technically he wasn't an Armstrong, but neither was his sister Antonia, which implied they would both share the same love of culture. Not that Gail and Steve did to the same degree, but they certainly were both classically educated.

"Intellectually?"

"No. No, I get what you mean. Put it in the growing pile of inconsistencies I guess." Gail sighed.

Absently, Holly cupped Gail's face and ran a thumb over her cheekbones. "Does Elaine remember him?"

"No." Gail closed her eyes. There was that too. "She was pretty young when he died though." Closer to Elaine's age Tristan may be, but she'd still been too young to know him. Ten and nineteen had little in common.

It was just one more thing Gail didn't want to talk about. She hadn't yet told Holly about her worries that Elaine was losing her memory. Now really wasn't the time. And with Holly still coping with Lily's death and Brian being Brian about how he was just fine when he wasn't... She sighed.

"Okay, you're going to be thinking long, deep thoughts for a while, honey. I'm going to go so you can be grumpy."

"Thanks, Holly." She kissed her wife softly and stepped back.

Holly looked at Gail for a long moment before getting up. "I know your case is frustrating. Think sideways." With that, Holly walked out of Gail's office.

Think sideways.

Sometimes, John said that Gail's greatest strength as a detective was that she could think in directions other people ignored. Maybe that was the problem. She was thinking too linearly.

"Point A to B to C isn't working. So okay. If I was planning on stealing a painting that was missing, the only reason I'd bother to cover it up, let alone double cover, would be because I knew people were looking for it." She brought her wall up again. "That's easy. Stupid easy. Sideways. If I was hiding it, if I was painting... if I was forging."

Gail stared at the wall. "If I was forging," she repeated slowly. "If I was forging it. I would do what? I'd either have to pay two people to hide things or I'd have to be good enough to do it myself. Good enough would be safest. That limits what— no. That limits who I could possibly be."

Drumming her hands on her desk, Gail tried to jog her mind. "Sideways. Sideways." She made a fist, pounded it once, and cursed as her pens went flying. "Damn it. Why the hell do I have pens? It's the fucking future. Why don't I have all special wall pens? Why would anyone waste the time hiding a fucking painting behind a forgery? The thrill of the forging is in passing it off for real. But there is literally no way that we would have thought the second fake was real."

She froze.

What if they knew it was fake? That was to say, what if the forger knew it wasn't going to pass muster. Then the purpose would be to buy time. Time to get away? Or maybe to see how smart they were and, if the police were too clever, hide the real painting.

That could work, mused Gail. No other banks had been hit. No action had been made anywhere. Logically, intelligently, the forger wouldn't make a move where the police were watching. Obviously the cops would be looking at the banks. And only a true idiot would repeat the moves. Even in the movies, the criminals did something different.

How did Thomas Crowne do the paintings in the second movie? First was stealing while it was being stolen. Second ... he stole by the distraction of the return of the first one. Never mind the water would have ruined both paintings. Actually, how could you easily and safely mask a painting with another? You couldn't. Taking the cover painting off would always damage the one underneath.

This entire setup was a fabrication for show. It was the distraction. It made them, the police, concentrate on the bomb and the paintings. What if that was never the goal? What if the forger was fishing for Walter?

Gail knew John would scoff, but Gail was going sideways. If Walter was the target, then the Hoffmans were a trap to draw him in. So the bomb... A bomb set by Walter's sister meant she saw it, she knew it was a trap, and was warning him? The sister was still at large. Walter didn't know about the Hoffmans being fake. They were good fakes to draw him in, to lure him.

Someone who could forger and fake identities and knew banks.

"Jesus, slap me with a fish," muttered Gail. She picked up her phone and pulled up a number she'd not called before.

"Hello?"

"Officer Saun? Gail Peck. Quick question about that lock little Peck picked."

There was a confused intake of breath. "Um. Viv's on patrol—"

"Sabrina. If I wanted my kid, I know her number, I'm asking you."

"Okay, but this is weird."

"Get used to it. So the lock. How come you called my kid?"

"She needs the experience," said Sabrina right away. "And she dismantled the bomb so she had the most eyes on."

A good answer. "Okay. Did you look at it? Closely?"

"I did, ma'am."

"How long would it take you to put that lock on and off?"

"About fifteen minutes. With practice, I bet I could quick install. Things were done with springs." Sabrina hesitated. "But... You could ask Vivian all of this."

Gail sighed. "You've been working on ETF for as long as my kid has been a cop. Longer. You know damn well you're eyed for sergeant. I'm asking you, Saun, for a lot of reasons. Bomb and lock. Same persons?"

Without thinking, Sabrina replied. "Yes."

"Theory?"

"A message. They're too close. Give up and hide in the lion's den."

Gail grinned. "What do you know about Sandy Paretti?"

"The... Wait the insurance lady? Uh, nothing? Except she didn't seem at all surprised at the bomb stuff."

"Familiar?"

"No. Just like ... It was like she knew the punchline."

"Thanks, Saun. Keep this on the down low."

"Um. From everyone?"

Everyone meaning and also Gail's daughter. "For now, yes. You can tell Sue or Jules if you're nervous."

Sabrina forced a laugh. "I'm not now, ma'am."

After she hung up, Gail called Pete. "Dr. Chundray, I need you to compare any trace you found on the second body in the coffin with Ms. Sandy Paretti."

Pete was silent for a moment. "Yeah. Okay. Can I get that to you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow's good. I have a painter to track down."


Jamie eyed the museum. "So. We're here to look at art and so Gail can talk to a forger?"

"Technically he's an artist who specializes in the recreation of previous masters," said Holly. "Come on. It'll be fun."

When Jamie gave Vivian a look, she knew she was in trouble. Vivian sighed. "Try? You liked the opera."

"Ballet was a bust," muttered Jamie. "Did you do this growing up?"

Vivian shook her head. "No. I didn't go to the opera until I was ... thirteen?" She frowned. "That was when Liv and I caught up a grade."

Her girlfriend looked suddenly interested. "You were held back?"

"I was undersocialized. Olivia bit someone." Vivian still felt a little defensive about the matter. It wasn't until she'd been twelve that it occurred to her what being held back a grade really meant.

Jamie took her hand, grinning. "Sorry," she said sincerely, but still with the smile. "Okay. So art. Where did they start you with?"

"Find the angry model," said Gail, catching back up from parking the car. "Followed by find the queers. Classical art can be weird and kind of boring. Especially when you realize you're looking at a lot of glorified selfies. But trying to spot the people behind the art is always fun. And it gets you used to looking at the work individually and as a while." Gail paused and kissed Holly tenderly. "Hey."

Under her breath, Jamie muttered. "It's like they haven't seen each other for days and not less than five minutes."

"If you're sticking around me, get used to it," advised Vivian. "Mom, we can't start Jamie with that."

"What?" Jamie looked offended. "Why not?"

"Modern art," said Holly, taking Gail's hand cheerfully. "Don't worry. Modern art is a lot easier to understand."

Gail stage whispered. "Holly is the one person on the planet who thinks that."

"It's your own fault, making me take that tour." Holly leaned around Gail. "Don't let them make you take a tour. It's more fun to walk with them."

Still a little dubious, Jamie agreed to try and they walked in. Museums were, generally, crowded. That's just how they were. Worse on the weekends. And since Gail and Vivian both had serious crowd antipathy, they had generally gone to them during the week. Thankfully, it was one of the rare weekends when people were not swarming.

"Why is it so empty?" Gail frowned as she passed her jacket over to coat check.

"Super Bowl Sunday," said Holly with a deep sigh. "A deep expression of my love for you, Peck."

Jamie laughed. "You like football?"

"My mother did," Holly replied, and the comment kind of killed the mood.

Historically, Holly and Lily had bet on the Super Bowl. They'd made pools and teams and picks. Gail had regularly made snide comments about it, preferring the Puppy Bowl and Kitten Halftime Show. She also had teased Holly about watching men in tight pants.

Cognizant of the tension, Jamie squeezed Vivian's hand and looked a bit worried.

But thankfully Gail handled it with her usual savoir faire. "Okay, now that I'm done putting my foot in my mouth, how about we check out the Modern Art first?"

Holly bumped her shoulder into Gail's and said nothing about it, letting the blonde lead them down the maze of halls.

Modern Art, in Vivian's opinion, could be super creepy. There was something nearly smothering about it and the way it coated and permeated the viewer. Modern Art often included Picasso and Toulouse-Lautrec (who was really a Postimpressionist) of course, which meant the painting of two women dancing at the Moulin Rouge was included. And currently on display. But it showed art in a more visceral way.

Unlike the old masters, or realism, the attempt was not to provide the perfect image of the thing, but to capture the essence and raw humanity of it. A tree was a tree for the Dutch Masters. A tree meant sacrifice to the Modernists. Or maybe the roughness of the lines meant the shaky freedoms on which the subjects existed.

Interpretation was different when it came to the Modernists. It was even odder when the Post-Modernists came along and then all the weird things that followed. Stuckism and New European and Street Art and Remodernism... Art was just and ever changing landscape of thought, expression, and creativity.

Vivian never thought that way. That was to say, she didn't see the world in a visual, art kind of way. Art classes in school had been a trial, though that had let her meet Pia, so it wasn't all bad. The class had been horrible, though. Realism was about the only art she was decent at, and even then it was better to keep things linear. Lined. Whatever.

Still, Gail had dragged her along a few times, talking to her about the history of the items more than the meaning behind them, and that was interesting. Then Elaine had taken her to see a Seurat exhibit, followed by a Monet, and explained how the art looked different depending on a person's point of view. The change of view, the change of perspective, changed everything. That was cool.

Finally, however, Holly had asked Gail to go to a Modern Art exhibit, and it was the first time Vivian ever heard Holly ask to see art. Not to say her science loving mother was uncultured, but Holly liked the more direct and obvious things. Pop art, modern rock, sports, monster trucks, and the like were all up Holly's alley. So was history, of course, and if Vivian had been asked, she'd have put solid money on Holly liking the ancient art part of museums.

But no. She wanted to look at the color block art. The solid swath of green on a canvas. The concentric circles. The Mondrian geometric. And it was there, looking at the paintings that inspired Yves Saint Laurent and the B-52s that Vivian understood Holly's view on art.

Truth told, Vivian liked Mondrian too.

Unlike the darker and more emotional works (which oft touched on parts of her heart and soul Vivian would rather keep under lock and key), De Stijl (aka The Style, or Neoplasticism) worked by abstraction. Finding the peace in life in the chaos. The spirituality of seeing one's true self reflected in the geometric repetition.

Absently, Vivian rubbed her tattoo, hidden under her sweater. The golden ratio was a different kind of reflection of that art. It was easy to find the pattern, the ratio, in everything. Turn it on it's own end and it fit on every major work of art, from Mona Lisa (not as impressive in person) to Seurat and, of course, Mondrian.

Like Da Vinci, Mondrian believed math and art were closely linked. The painting Composition in Red, Blue, and Yellow had a reoccurring golden rectangle, which was one of the more common golden ratio compositional tools in use in art. Of course Holly, the scientist, loved finding that in art. So of course she found the modern works, where that was embraced in obvious indulgence.

They walked through the halls, moving in and out of time periods and eras with reckless abandon. It was at the point that a TARDIS might cry when Vivian realized what her girlfriend liked. Of all things, it was Jamie who was drawn to the ancient works.

"There's someone in there," said Jamie, staring at the sarcophagus.

"Is there?" Gail leaned in to read the plaque aloud, confirming there was, indeed, a person in there.

"Everything on that means something." The firefighter let go of Vivian's hand and stepped closer. "Can you imagine? Spending hours and days and nights making the messages to carry someone into the afterlife?"

Vivian smiled. "Think they ever cheated?"

Her more impish mother chuckled. "There's a Sumerian tablet here that is basically the shittiest Yelp review of a shipping company."

Jamie looked up from her inspection. "That's cool. Can we see it?"

"Sure. Come on, it's past Rome and Greece."

Wistful, Jamie looked at the room and all it's glory. "We have to come back," she told Vivian, catching her hand again as they followed Gail. "I want to see the rest."

Promising they would, Vivian happily watched her girlfriend hound Gail with questions about the decorations on the various items. They were deep into a discussion about Greek and Roman design when a docent arrived and informed Gail that her specialist was free. Holly stayed with them, cheerfully trotting out her historical knowledge (albeit mostly scientific) about the works.

Even that proved to be interesting for Jamie, and she was still happily talking about it when they broke for lunch and met up with Gail again. The detective was introverted, more than normal, and quietly ate at the museum cafeteria. She had to be prodded by Holly to remember to eat enough.

After lunch, Gail announced she wanted to see the older works, so they all tromped down to a wing appropriately bearing the name 'Armstrong.' Jamie, unaware of the connection, just eyed them for their giggles. Somehow they ended up at a collection of Sappho statues, which brought even Gail out of her own head and into the more normal arena of inappropriateness.

Finally, though, as the afternoon wound down, they collected coats, tipped the check girl, and laughed again.

"All those in-jokes are getting tired," complained Jamie.

Holly flushed. "That's my fault. I filled in as the coat check girl on our first date." She gestured at Gail.

"That was not a date." Gail pouted. "That was a plus-one and you snuck in a kiss."

"Wait, was that when Gail was straight?" Jamie shrugged her jacket on, surprised.

"It was." Vivian looped a scarf around Jamie's neck and leaned in to kiss her. "Mom, why were you coat checking?"

Her mother looked amused. "Why was I, I wonder." Gail elbowed Holly. "Ow!"

"She was coat check because of Dov. He had no idea who she was and she was standing there, so the shit head handed her his coat and two bucks." Gail smirked. "And you wouldn't even break a five for the tip?"

"Hey, I made $22 plus tips!" Holly bubbled a laugh and tossed Gail her hat.

Vivian rolled her eyes. "They're incredibly weird. Sorry."

With her hat pulled down tight, Jamie smiled. "I like them. They made a good kid."

"I wouldn't go that far," said Vivian. "Moms, I'll see you Thursday after next?"

Nodding, Holly wrapped Vivian up in a big hug. "If your crime doesn't send you over first." Holly planted a kiss on Vivian's cheek. "I need to feed my Peck. Jamie, sweetheart, please make sure yours eats too."

"I will. I had a nice time," said Jamie, and she got a hug too.

Gail, not being inclined to hugs, just smiled and shoved her hands in her pockets. "There's a Monet show in the spring. The docent said he'd get us in early."

With a childish smile, Jamie asked, "Which one's Monet?" Thankfully everyone knew she was joking, laughing, and biding farewells. "I still think art is weird," said Jamie as they got into her truck.

Vivian smiled. "It can be." She watched her girlfriend start the truck and drive down the road. "But you liked it?"

"I did. I like the historical stuff."

"I noticed." Vivian paused. "We can go back any time. And there are other museums that have more of that kind of thing."

"Cool." And Jamie looked happy about it.

Was that finally a bridge of the gap? Were they finding the place where they both liked the artistic world? Dwelling on that, it took Vivian a few blocks to realize they were going a different direction than home. "You know I hate surprises, right, Jamie?"

"How do you feel about tattoos?"

"Well I have one, so..."

Jamie glanced over. "Matching?"

She blinked and eyed her girlfriend. "Huh. I'm not sure."

"I just... I really like yours."

"Oh." Vivian exhaled. "I think it should mean something. To you. Outside of me. Because a tattoo is there for as long as you are. And if you don't like it, it can be hard to change."

"That's a good point," replied Jamie. "Can we talk to them?"

"Sure. Need the address?"

Jamie blushed. "No. I asked Lara."

"She has a tattoo of her own name, just to be clear." They both laughed. "It's hard to think of a tattoo. A good one I mean."

"Did you ever remember how you came up with yours?"

Vivian sighed. "Phi. It's ... I'm not religious."

"I had noticed that."

"Hush." She looked at Jamie. "Phi is the symbol of perfection, or maybe order. It's everywhere and makes the universe make sense. And I don't believe in God. Never have. I can't believe in a make believe thing that men use an excuse to be men...men lie. Men betray. And god is just man." Vivian paused. "But Phi just makes sense. It's there without meaning to be, it just fits. And ... If there's anything I need in life, it's for things to make sense."

Jamie didn't say anything until they pulled up at the lot. "You know. That makes a lot of sense for you. It wouldn't for me."

Thank goodness. Exhaling, Vivian nodded. "But we've agreed on not your name."

"Hah, not yours either." Jamie hopped out. "Come on. Let's talk to the professionals."

The front desk was manned by Pork Roll, who recognized her. "Hey! Cop with the wave!"

Vivian smiled. And right there she knew. "Hi, Pork Roll. Is Lola in?"

"Yeah, she just finished up a client. You need a new tat?"

"No. No, this is my girlfriend, Jamie. She wants one." The man's eyes lit up and he hustled off to get Lola. "Lola's cool. She's a co-owner and tried to talk me out of finishing mine."

"That didn't work." Jamie took off her coat and scarf, but kept her hat on. "What kind of work does she do?"

"I have no idea," confessed Vivian. "She's just a good person."

Jamie looked askance at Vivian and frowned. "This is a shitty sales pitch, Peck."

"Hey, you're the one will wanted a tattoo after a day at the art museum."

"That's a new one," said Lola as she came out of the back. "Hey! Vivian, right? Still liking it?"

Smiling, Vivian nodded. "I am. This is the girlfriend." She gestured at Jamie. "Lola, Jamie. Jamie, Lola."

Lola extended a hand. "Do you like her tattoo?" She asked as Jamie shook hands.

"I do. It's beautiful. You tried to talk her out of it?"

"She was pretty drunk when the actual tattooing started." Lola gave Vivian a look that was on par with Elaine's best disapproving ones. "Please don't tell me you two want matching tats or something like that."

Before Vivian could say hell no, Jamie bore a face worthy of the greatest Gail moments ever. It was a stone serious deadpan. "I was hoping for a heart, done in a paintbrush outline, but one that only worked when we held hands like this." And she looped her arm through Vivian's so that Jamie's right arm and Vivian's left arm were side by side, pinkies touching.

Lola took a moment. "Please tell me she's joking, or I'm gonna have to break you up."

"Oh, please don't," said Vivian. "She moved in with me and does laundry."

Jamie laughed and Lola looked incredibly relieved. "Actually I'm not sure what I want. Vivian implied you could help?"

The older woman looked between them and smiled. "Come on back. Let's talk. You too, tall, dark, and complicated."

"Oh," said Jamie. "That is so Vivian."


The text was a picture of a fresh tattoo. A shoulder blade with a outline tattoo of a book, pages open but blank. Holly studied it for a moment. The skin color was not Vivian's, though the text came from her phone. The shoulder was most likely female, however. Holly pursed her lips. So now Jamie had a tattoo as well. She thumbed a reply.

You didn't get a second one?

Couldn't decide what.

Holly smiled. Tattoos were forever, indeed, but only as forever as a person. She thought for a moment and then texted back.

A tree.

Her daughter did not reply to that one. Good. She was probably thinking about a tree, and then about her mothers and their daft plan to become a tree. Holly tapped a message to Gail.

You should get a tattoo and join the cool kids club.

Says the woman with a scar from her belly button ring.

It was Cancun!

And Lisa said you did your homework.

I don't like you anymore.

What would I get a tattoo of anyway? I don't like anything.

You like me.

That's totally gay. I'm not tattooing your face on my ass.

You could get +1

That's even gayer.

Newsflash. You're gay.

Gail's reply was a middle finger emoji.

Smiling, Holly tossed her phone back down and read her laptop screen. Decisions. Did she want to allow the autopsy to be done in another lab by other people, or did she want to claim her right and take it over. It was all politics. While she was still the titular head medical examiner of Ontario, she had a duty not to leave it in turmoil for her successor. Plus Holly liked Rodney.

The real question was how much would this look like favoritism because she, personally, knew the other medical examiner?

Stupid politics. Holly picked up her desk phone and called Marcel. "I have an ethical problem."

"You never start simple, Doctor," sighed Marcel.

"The autopsy. If I take it over, I'm pushing my power and agenda. If I don't, I may be in on it, or allowing personal relationships to cloud my judgement. I trust Edmonton, but they're being investigated because of the presumed killer, so someone should take it over. And it should be us, but I don't think I should make the request."

Marcel was quiet for a moment. "Oui, je suis d'accord. I will have my superior make this request. Thus it remains above all our heads."

When Holly exhaled, she felt the tension bleed out of her spine. "Think I can get it shipped here?"

"Most likely. I will have to observe though."

"Performance anxiety is not a problem," she laughed.

"Hmm, as you are married to Gail, I could not see how. She adores to place you where all must regard you with respect and adoration."

Holly was grateful no one was there to see her blush. "Thank you for not making an age joke."

"I wouldn't dare. And so and so. I'll call you back."

They hung up and Holly saw a reply from Gail and Vivian on her phone. Vivian was warning her she'd be in the lab for some work. Gail was asking for the results from the double body.

"Honestly, its like they were raised by wolves," muttered Holly. However she did let Gail know the results would be there by tomorrow. And she told Vivian to be nice to the lab.

Her phone rang and she saw Marcel's number. "That was fast," Holly said as she picked it up.

"I know. Apparently your friend in Alberta is quite embarrassed and guilty about this mess. He had it all prepared and it should be here tomorrow."

"I should send him a thank you."

"I would wait until this is all over. Can you autopsy tomorrow?"

"I'll make room."

"Tres bonne. I'll let you know as soon as it arrives."

Holly hung up again and sighed. Crap. Making room. She got up and opened her office door. "Ruth, I need to upend everything again."

The assistant looked delighted. "How big of a drama?"

"Oh. The head basher copycat death is coming from Alberta. It'll be here tomorrow."

Ruth nodded. "Top secret still?"

"Afraid so." Holly regarded it as the height of idiocy, to make a case as well known as theirs classified, but the international criminal associations did what they would on their own whims.

"You should get me cleared for that kind of thing."

"I should, huh? Well I will be leaning on you more." She really was looking forward to that moment. One job. It didn't feel like slowing down to her, it felt like focusing.

"I will miss my negotiations with Ken," said Ruth before laughing. Ruth's counterpart in the Territory's office was prone to overbooking Holly and underestimating her workload. Two days after Ruth was hired, the woman decided it was her mission to protect Holly's sanity.

Holly grinned. "You're a saint, Ruth. I'm going to finish up the Baldwin report."

By the time she got back to her desk, Holly had two texts. Vivian had sent her a photo of a one line tattoo in deep blue, police blue, making a wave. Gail had sent her a colorful shark.

Holly had to take off her glasses as she laughed.


One of Gail's favorite things was waking up romantic overtures from her wife. Married twenty years, Holly still managed to surprise Gail with her expression of love. And god, morning sex with Holly was totally worth it. There was something about a sunrise coupled with a tan hand sliding up under Gail's sleep shirt, skillful doctor fingers circling her belly button, and then it would drift down and Gail's brain would wake up and turn off simultaneously.

On the other hand, mornings when her wife woke her up with a phone call could go to hell.

"Yes, this is Dr. Stewart," said Holly quietly. "Uh huh. Okay. I can be there in... half an hour." She paused. "I see. May I speak to your supervisor?"

Gail cracked an eye open. "Whoever he is, he's dead," she mumbled and caught Holly's smirk.

Gently, Holly caressed Gail's hair. "Oh because it's too early there? Funny. It's early here. Listen, you are at my loading dock with a body for a very important case and somehow you neglected to contact the proper authorities. So I'm going to need you to stay with the police guard until I can come in, because this is an international case, and I'm afraid my night staff isn't authorized to sign off on it." She waited a moment. "Thank you. I'll be there in half an hour."

She hung up and groaned, flopping back onto her pillow.

Gail scooted to see the clock. "Four?"

"Could be worse." Holly sighed loudly. "Okay. I have to get up." She made no move.

"That involves getting out of bed."

Holly groaned and pulled the sheets over her face. "Fuck. Hate my life."

Smiling, Gail rolled out of bed. "Come on, sweetheart. I'll make coffee."

"I love you," said Holly from under the blankets.

Gail pulled on a robe and went downstairs, turning up the heat on the way. She started the coffee. The first cup was Gail's though, regardless of the propensity of tv and movies to make romance be giving one's partner the first cup. Fuck that. Gail needed the first cup just to make the second.

By the time cup number two was ready, Holly was downstairs with her hair in a ponytail, her jacket in one hand, and her phone in the other. "Well I hate it too, Marcel, but you can arrest him later. Call John, I'll meet you there." She hung up and stared at the coffee, already in her favorite travel mug, and a protein bar. "Oh god, I know I said I love you before, but I really love you now."

There was a brief, chaste, kiss before Holly rushed into her car and zipped off.

In the early morning silence, Gail sighed. Days in which she had the house to herself were exceptionally rare. For years there had been a kid and a wife and usually someone coming by for one of them. But now, as time inexorably moved on, the world was a little less aggressive for them.

Well, maybe not for the kids. For Gail, there were many mornings that she and Holly lingered over coffee and news and watched the city come to life. Gail reveled in those mornings. She relished them and cherished them with all her heart. Those mornings and their counterparts, the quiet evenings, were the best.

Gail leaned on the archway and surveyed her dominion.

A great house. A great wife. A great kid. A successful career for all three of them. Her kid seeming to sort out how to be an adult and, Jesus, Vivian's life was finally starting to come together. Vivian was ahead of Gail on that regard. At that age... At Vivian's age, Gail kissed Holly for the first time and her world imploded.

It had been so Kafkaesque. One day Gail woke up and realized everything she knew about herself was a lie. No, not a lie, but certainly untrue. She was not who she thought she was, and that, that was a Peck sin. Not the gay. No, only her idiot father cared about that. But the late shock to the system of recognizing she was wrong, that was galling.

How could anyone kiss a girl and not have the heavens open and light shine down... Maybe it wasn't girls in general. Gail hadn't kissed any besides Holly, not like that. Maybe it was just the girl. Maybe it was the way the doctor had snuck into her heart and unearthed emotions Gail had, for years, ignored. Maybe it was that smile. Maybe it was just Holly.

Gail grinned and sipped her coffee. She loved her wife.

Her phone buzzed and Gail scowled, pulling it out of her robe. Holly? Well that was odd. "Did you get a ticket?"

"There is literally no traffic at this hour," replied the doctor. "Your lab results are in. Sandy's trace is all over the clothes. I'm willing to speculate that she dressed our Jane Doe."

"Jane Dough, you mean. U-G-H."

Holly groaned. "I'm hanging up. Mailed you the results. Going to slice and dice now."

"Right. Hey, Holly?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you. A lot."

There was a pause and Holly made a noise that Gail associated with her blushing. "I love you too, Gail."

They hung up and Gail grinned.

She would have to arrest Sandy later that day. Fun times. Gail sighed and carried her coffee to the office. She could file the request with the judge's office now, get it approved before lunch, and not waste the whole day with the mess. No doubt there would be a lot of complaints about how she should have known. There always were.

Gail paused as she reached the kid's room and stepped on the squeaky floorboard. No matter what, Gail never managed to hit that one and not make a sound. Holly could. God knew Vivian could. Maybe, subconsciously, Gail wanted Vivian to know it was her.

Opening Vivian's room, she sighed. The bed was bare. The furniture repainted. That had been Vivian's idea, coming by one week not long after she'd moved out and stripping the stickers from her dresser and nightstand. The room was empty. Except for the dinosaurs on the wall and the galaxy on the ceiling, it felt lonely.

But her kid had grown up, like they do. Vivian had grown and moved out and was making her life. She had a girlfriend. They lived together, with Christian as their sidekick. They were happy. They weren't rushing into anything, though Vivian had confessed that the whole official girlfriends thing had been a bit of a surprise. Jamie had asked her over a pint of ice cream. Privately, Gail suspected that 'in bed' was also a part of that scenario.

Love was a funny thing. No one had a choice in it. It happened or it didn't to pretty much everyone. Though Holly had a cousin who was quite asexual, even he admitted to understanding the way it worked. He loved his partner, they just didn't have sex. That part boggled Gail's mind, but she had the intelligence to shut the fuck up about it and ask Holly later.

Love. It made everyone who fell for it do stupid things. Once a person sorted out the difference between like, lust, and love, they were screwed. Gail thought she'd loved Nick. Twice. She'd liked Chris a lot, but never Donal. Not like that at least. Nick, though... well. Maybe not love. But something. He was a place to hide from the pressure of her name and her legacy and then he wasn't. And he chose Andy.

It all worked out in the end, though. Andy and Nick were still together. They didn't get married, though, but it worked for them. By contrast, Dov and Chloe had finally gotten married, but Gail was never sure how long that might last. Lately their respective careers, plus Chris' intention for policing, had driven a small wedge between them. Dov always over reacted about those things, and Chloe always believed too much in the inevitability of fate.

Fate. Gail leaned on the door frame. Fate led to love and to breakups. Like Sandy and Tristan. The family story had been that Sandy was below the Armstrong name, even though Tristan had not been one. Why the grandson of an actress (a bad one at that in Gail's opinion) was above anyone was beyond Gail's ken. And it was Tristan who had slapped scandal on the families, cheating on Sandy.

Gail was still torn on who the body was. It was 60-30-10 that it was Sandy, the mistress, or some rando. That the body had their Sandy's DNA on it made Gail think it was closer to a 50-50 Sandy/Mistress ratio, but her years in blue had taught her not to guess about that shit.

If she was Sandy, and Holly cheated on her, would she murder them both and stash them together? No. First of all, it would be Nick and that would make the dead chick Andy, and Gail back then would never have given Andy the satisfaction of a forever with Nicholas. Now if she flipped that around and Andy had tragically killed her beloved and Gail, god yes that's exactly what the idiot would do.

Except for the part where Gail and Andy looked nothing alike. Gail was inches taller, blonder, and boobier. Andy was captain of the itty bitty titty committee. Also annoying, and while Gail was loath to admit it, Andy was her friend.

Friends was an interesting concept. What if the women were friends and it hadn't been cheating at all. If Sandy and Jane Dough (fuck you, Holly, it was hilarious) were friends and had willingly swapped the man between them... well. It all depended on who the dead woman was. And without a DNA comparison that was fucked.

Sandy had no family alive. They needed a court order for an exhumation of her parents. Ugh. Gail pushed off the doorway and went to the office. She needed a third comparison too, now that she thought about it. Sandy, real Sandy, dead maybe Sandy. Gail tapped her laptop awake and started to type in the warrant order for the arrest.

Hopefully it wouldn't cause the judge to point out the circular argument. Gail needed the arrest to get the DNA. She needed the arrest to have just cause to exhume the body. She still had no third comparison. Damn it. If only Sandy and Tristan had kids. Even a miscarriage resulted in weird as shit locks of hair in photos in her family.

Gail had been stunned when, cleaning out Bill's place, she'd found he'd kept a frame photo with his hair, Elaine's, and the certificate of death for a sister she'd previously known only as 'baby girl Peck.' Emily Rose Peck. She'd not even known about the name. Neither had Steve. They'd both thought Pecks didn't name the unborn.

When pressed, Elaine explained Bill had done it himself. He'd lied to his own family about the law requiring the name for the death certificate. Family full of cops, they'd believed it. Maybe that was the day Bill changed. He'd wanted a second child, a daughter, and that might explain the shift from the awesome dad to the shitty one. It died with Emily Rose.

Regardless of the reason, Gail kept the certificate of her dead, unknown sister in the attic, along side her parent's marriage and divorce certificates. Both of those were framed. Elaine had a twisted sense of humor that Gail loved. Yes, she loved her mother. Talk about a weird world. Elaine had also framed the certificate of adoption, complete with locks of hair from Gail, Vivian, and Holly.

Oh!

Gail paused and then snatched her phone out of her robe. "Mom," she said the second the connection was made. "Do you know who has Tristan's marriage certificate?"

"And good morning to you too, dear. I'm fine, thank you. How are you?"

"Solving a case. Tristan. Wedding certificate. Did we keep it?"

Elaine sighed dramatically. "I raised you to be this way, it's my own fault."

"Mom!"

"Gail! Yes, I have it in the same storage facility as your crib. It's climate controlled."

Gail felt her train of thought derail. "That lead paint covered thing?"

"It was repainted after Steven," muttered Elaine.

"That explains so much about my brother." Gail filed it away for later. "Can you pick it up for me? The certificate, not the creepy ass crib."

"You can get it yourself. You have a key."

"Legal permission?"

"Oh dear god. I'll come by and sign whatever is needed, however legally I put your name and Holly's on the unit years ago."

Gail looked up at the ceiling. "That should work. Thanks."

"Dare I ask why?"

"DNA. The lock of hair thing the Armstrongs seem to be addicted to."

The pause from Elaine was reminiscent of Gail's youth. It was the pause that preceded a patented Elaine Peck verbal dress down. "Gail," she said slowly. Dangerously. "There is no bulb at the root of that hair."

If only Elaine could see Gail's scimitar smile. It was her most evil smile. The one Gail loved to use on people who were uneducated or just plain dim. Gerald saw it a lot. "Elaine. Did you know that DNA can now be extracted without the bulb?"

"Good god," muttered Elaine. "You're smirking right now, aren't you?"

"Bit. Yeah."

Elaine huffed. "I deserved that. If I come to dinner on Sunday, will Holly explain how?"

"Of course. Jamie's coming. Bring Gordo."

"Hmm. Maybe."

This time the pause was awkward. "Why did you keep it? The crib."

"Oh. Well. I held out hope you'd have a child of your own."

"News flash, Mom. She's twenty six."

"I meant a baby."

"Menopause has sailed that ship, Mom. You can probably ditch it now." Gail snorted and eyed her coffee. Cup three would have to be decaf. Holly would know otherwise. She lifted her cup to finish it off.

Her mother hesitated. "Perhaps Vivian will need it."

Gail choked on her coffee. "Aw fuck, Mom, not you too! Holly's grandmother ovaries kicked into high gear last year."

"Grandmother hands, and thank you very much for the vulgarities at five in the morning."

Feeling guilty, more about the hour than the swearing, Gail put her mug down. "Sorry. Did I wake you up?"

"Alas, no. I seem to be a perpetual early riser."

"I hope someone shoots me if I ever am."

"And yet here you are, awake."

"Holly got called in. I made her coffee."

"And had some for yourself." Elaine hesitated. "I'm very happy for you, Gail."

Gail blinked. "Thank you?"

"I mean it, dear. You have exceeded expectations. Everyone's. You have a family to be envious of, a wonderful wife who is as beautiful as she is intelligent, a daughter, a career... And you seem happy. I .. I am ... I'm ..."

As Elaine trailed off, Gail smiled. "I get it, Mom. Thanks." Because she did get it. Elaine was proud of her, but not in the way Gail would have expected years ago. Elaine was proud of her for who she really was and what she really accomplished. "I need to go arrest someone."

"Oh good. Thank you for the escape from awkwardness. Go arrest."

Gail hung up and shook her head. Hopefully her mother wouldn't think less of her for bringing possible scandal on the family name. Not that Tristan hadn't already done that with his mistress... A mistress whom no one spoke of. No one knew her name.

Gail set her face grimly. Time to dig up more than just an ancestor.


Interrogation wasn't a big part of ETF. It just wasn't their thing. Scaling buildings, charging into the dark unknown, defusing bombs, saving lives. All those things were part of her job on ETF. Complete with taking a training course from the EMTs, taught by none other than MacKenzie MacLean. Long ago, Vivian gave up marveling at the coincidences in her life.

Her presence in interrogation was far easier to explain. Vivian had the honor of being the technical expert. All Gail had done was ask Sue for one, and when Vivian showed up, Gail laughed.

"Well, at least you're in uniform," she said between chuckles.

"Funny. Want me to go get Sabrina?"

"Nah, you'll do. Taller."

"Way to make a copper feel wanted."

Gail rolled her eyes. "Here's the deal. I need you to stand in the back on the..." Gail paused and gestured with her right hand. "My right. Her left. The side of the glass."

"I got it."

"Good. If there's a question about anything security or bomb related, you are to answer. Keep the sentences short, like a tweet. Be informative but not educational."

Now Vivian rolled her eyes. "I've done this before."

"Yeah, but this is a new one. We've got a warrant for the arrest of Sandy Paretti."

Okay. That was new. Vivian found she nearly dropped her coffee cup. "Sorry. Arresting?"

"Mmm. I got a rush DNA match. She really is Sandy Paretti who married Tristan, but her DNA is all over the dead woman."

"Double coffin chick? Yikes."

Her mother scowled. "Don't call dead people names, Viv. Show a little respect."

"Sorry."

And Vivian did know better. It was Gail, not Holly, who deeply cared about he humanization of the dead. Not that Holly didn't love that about Gail, but she tended to see the dead as the dead, and not who they were. The dissociation was probably related to Holly's longevity in her field. Gail was far more sensitive than people seemed to think.

"It'll be a learning experience." Gail led her into the room and gestured to the side.

As Vivian took her place, the door opened and Nuñez struck his head in. "All set?"

"Yep," said Gail, popping the P loudly.

He nodded and vanished again, only to return in a moment.

"I'd ask what this is about, but I suspect I know," said Sandy as Trujillo brought her in. "Oh, hello Inspector and Officer Peck. I see the gang is, as they say, all here."

"Hello, Sandy," said Gail, and she politely pulled the chair out. Vivian loomed in the corner per direction, taking the requested advantage of her height. Trujillo and Nuñez were parked by the door. "So did you know we can do DNA tests on hair?"

Sandy eyed her. "Yes, everyone knows that."

"Even hair without the bulb bit at the end?"

To Vivian's amusement, Sandy went pale. "The marriage certificate?" When Gail nodded, the woman sighed and slumped in her seat. "And you have mine to compare to ... Well then. What do you want to know?"

Gail sighed and looked at the detective pair. "I'm actually a little disappointed you're really Sandy. I had this theory you stole Sandy's identity when she died in the car crash."

"I'm sorry to disappoint." Sandy looked briefly nervous and then canted her head to the side. "Are Pecks this fanciful?"

"No." Gail glanced at Vivian. "Are we?"

"Only on official frivolity designated weekends," said Vivian in her best deadpan. "Next one is in two months."

"There you go." Gail turned back to Sandy. "Who is she?"

"Patricia Evermore."

"Nice name. Patty and Sandy." Gail gestured and Pedro ducked out for a moment.

"She was Tristan's lover." Sandy sighed. "I did not kill her."

Gail nodded. "No, she died in the car accident. We have a rather excellent coroner."

Sandy sighed again. "It was really tragic... I don't suppose Dr. Stewart could determine if she was drinking? She'd been driving, you see."

"Dr. Chundray could not. No." Gail picked up her tablet. "Why did you put her in with Tristan?"

Pursing her lips, Sandy looked over Gail's shoulder. "Romance, I suppose. They did love each other quite sincerely." She glanced at Vivian. "Young Peck there doesn't seem inclined to such notions."

What on earth did her face look like, wondered Vivian.

"Huh?" Gail craned her neck. "Oh that's her interrogation face. Don't mind her. They have the same ones," and she gestured at the two detectives. "Does she have any family that should have been notified?"

"Afraid not. We were friends in school. Her parents died when she was young and she lived with an aunt who hated her. Everyone's dead now, though." Belatedly Sandy added, "Except me."

"Do you know what happened? The accident?"

This was a very different interrogation than the others Vivian had seen, especially those Gail performed. Gail was pretty much renown for her ability to string a suspect along into a confession, getting them to divulge their secrets once they were certain Gail knew them all anyway.

But Sandy was different. Sandy seemed to know that Gail knew. And unlike the others, Sandy didn't try to hide her crime. Though Vivian wasn't fully sure what the crime was. Improper disposal of a body, perhaps.

"Some. We'd been having a bit of a party. Celebrating the divorce being finalized. Tris and Patty being together." Gail must have made a surprised expression, because Sandy laughed. "Oh heavens, they had my blessing. I only married Tris because I was pregnant." There was a (heh) pregnant pause. "My miscarriage was, perhaps, a blessing to many. Certainly was to me in retrospect."

Suddenly Gail's elopement seemed rather mild. Vivian made a mental note to terrify her mothers with a pregnancy joke, should she ever get married.

"It's funny, how many people knew about Patty and wouldn't say anything," drawled Gail as Pedro came back. "Armstrongs I mean. I had to drag the story out. They were happy pretending nothing happened. Patty never happened." She leaned back in her seat. "And now you're outliving the rest. I'm working on that myself. Outlived the sons of bitches. Means I get to keep all the secrets. Know where the bodies are buried."

"Is there a point to all this?"

"Oh, a few. Patty never existed. Did she?" Gail looked up at Pedro who shook his head. "Nice story. Sorry, we were prepared for that one. Wanna try again?"

Sandy sighed and looked up. "Does it matter? I didn't kill her. I'll take the rap for stuffing the body in the coffin. Plead guilty."

"Bodies buried. I'm disappointed you didn't rise to that." Gail turned at looked at Vivian. "Am I losing my touch?'

"No, ma'am," said Vivian, holding down a smile. It was delightful to watch her mother wander all around the topic.

"Pecks are deadly," continued Gail, turning back to Sandy. She gestured over her shoulder with her thumb. "She's seen that. She doesn't know where most of the bodies are buried, though. Don't pass that shit on to the kids, y'know." Gail paused and looked at the detectives by the door. There was a slight chin jerk and the duo departed.

Vivian shifted her weight and Gail held her hand up in a signal. Vivian was to stay.

"Is this the part when you beat me into a confession?"

"This is not being recorded, Sandy."

Pursing her lips, Sandy looked down at the table. "She's still here."

"She's as much Armstrong as I am."

"Hmm. Isn't that a conflict of interests?"

"Not if you didn't kill my great uncle. Whom I never met. And frankly, the Armstrong side of the family didn't get on with the Pecks until fairly recently. I won't miss them if I have to pull skeletons out of there closet. Already did it with the Pecks and I'm still standing."

Sandy gave Gail a shocked and then respectful look. "That was you?" Gail dipped her head once. "Well." The older woman looked at Vivian. "You knew that?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I see." Sandy sighed. "Her name really was Patricia Evermore, but I highly doubt that was her legal name. I did meet her when I was in high school, but she wasn't a student. She was a prostitute."

Vivian blinked. That was a pretty mild scandal. A rich idiot hooking up with a girl for pay wasn't unheard of. In fact, in some families (like the Rose family) it was positively normal. When Donal Rose had his hearing, Vivian had tagged along as emotional support for Gail. He talked rather candidly about the pressure of his family leading to phenomenally bad choices.

Of course, Gail did not seem to be surprised by this particular reveal. "And you were...?"

"Upwardly mobile. I wanted out of Toronto, and a rich boy seemed a convenient ticket to Paris. I planned to vanish while there. Live cheap, become someone else." Sandy sighed, angrily. "Instead I had a damned cock up with a condom."

"You didn't have to marry him," remarked Gail.

"In those days? I had extremely limited options."

"You did have some."

"An abortion was both expensive and terribly dangerous. I couldn't afford a child on my own. If we were married, then even if I vanished it would be, legally at least, a Fairchild. Miranda was a crazed bitch, but she'd have done right."

Vivian wished she could see a little more of her mother's face. The quarter she did see was holding back a smirk. Clearly, Gail liked the woman. So did Vivian. Sandy was their kind of people.

"And yet... After the divorce, you did go to Paris. Vanished for a time. Married Michael Worthington. Divorced him. Disappeared again, this time in Sophia. Beautiful city by the way. Showed up with the name Paretti and .. well that's where you met Harold as well."

"I did quite like Michael. He could be a bore, but he was a sweet person."

"Good to know. The point here is that Michael was dead ass broke." Gail leaned back. "The divorce settlement was trivial, and not just for a rich moron like the Fairchilds. By the way, do you ever think they should be the Fairchildren? Arms-strong? Just me? Right," huffed Gail. "Your divorce netted you enough to move out and live in Toronto for four months if you lived low on the hog. You, my dear Sandy, did not."

The woman studied Gail for a long moment. "Young Peck, is she always like this?"

"Only when she's right," replied Vivian. It was so incredibly hard not to smile. Gail was amazing at this sort of thing.

"I was paid off to hide the body," admitted Sandy. "Patty. Tucked her away in the coffin. I bribed the mortuary with their money, kept them clean of it. Took my payoff and left. I promised not to come back for two years, until things died down." She sighed. "Will there be charges on that?"

"Probably not," said Gail.

"Probably?"

Gail smiled. "Besides the fact this will be fun for me to bust out at Thanksgiving or Christmas, it's not a part of the greater mystery."

Abruptly Sandy say up straight. "Then you've found it? My painting?"

There was something about the set of Gail's shoulders that told Vivian this remark of Sandy's was unexpected. "Your painting? No." Gail's voice was almost demure. If it wasn't for the fact that Vivian had grown up with Gail, she would never have heard the flash of panic in her mother's voice.

"Blast," grumbled Sandy. "I went through all the trouble of acquiring it only to be hoisted by my own petard. I mean, how's that for karma comeuppance? An art thief with a day job as an insurance investigator gets her own damn painting stolen out from under her nose, or I was tricked and bought the wrong painting in the first place." She sniffed. "I could cry."

All Vivian could see was the color on Gail's neck creep up slowly. There was no way in hell Gail had known any of that.

Holy shit. Just what were they into?


Dun dun dun!

What are they into?! No one saw that coming, I promise you. No, not even Gail, who is very pissed off right now.

This was the first time Vivian was in interrogation with Gail, by the way. She'd observed before, but never worked the case. Gail did expect there to be a different conversation after the whole "the Armstrong/Fairchilds paid Sandy off to help hide a body and avoid scandal" thing - she was going to bring up the fake vault.

Now there's a whole mess of shit that they didn't expect. Sandy stole the painting that is now missing!

Painting that was supposed to be in the vault was a van de Velde. This is the painting Sandy wants.

Painting that appeared to be in the fault was a missing Vermeer, but that was a fake.

Painting that was under the fake was a fake Leistikow.