"So, any luck finding the paperwork on that investigation Mike was working on, about their accident?"

Haseejian shook his head. "I looked through his desk and filing cabinet… but his top drawer is locked. I don't remember him ever doing that before, do you?"

Healey raised his eyebrows in surprise. "No, I don't. Probably in there, I bet. Wonder if he has the key on him, which means it will be with his personal effects at the hospital. Well, I don't know about you but I don't want to break into his desk…"

"Ha, neither do I," Haseejian snorted emphatically. They sat in silence for a long couple of seconds. "Well, I guess we could ask him when he's more compos mentis. He's gonna start asking about Steve and we're not going to be able to keep it from him forever, especially when they let him go home."

"Agreed. As the old saying goes, the best defence is a good offence. I think we should tell him what's going on before he finds out for himself and accuses us of concealing things from him. We've been on that side of the street before and I don't particularly like it. What do you think?"

"I couldn't agree more."

They fell into a short silence again then Haseejian studied his partner from under a frowning brow. "So, ah, what way to you think Gerry is leaning?"

Healey took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his eyebrows raised. "Well, to be perfectly honest, with what we have right now, I think he's gonna be hard-pressed not to charge Steve, I really do. I mean, the only thing we have to counteract everything I just laid out for him, other than Steve's word, is those hardware pieces found in the barrel," he tapped the report on the desk, "and the possibility there was that 'X' on the floor, like Mike remembers." He paused. "What about that anyway?"

Haseejian shrugged. "Well, the lab guy found more of the sticky stuff but not enough to form an 'X', if that's what you mean. There really wasn't enough of the… sticky stuff to get a good sample but he says it's consistent with that kind of reflective tape and he'll tell us more, if he can, when he gets it under the microscope… but 'don't hold your breath' were his exact words." He shrugged again.

"Great," Healey sighed, blowing air out through his pursed lips. He glanced at his watch. "Well, there's nothing else we can do tonight. Let's go home. I'll call around tomorrow morning and try to track down the owner of the garage and ask him about those pallets." He got wearily to his feet. "Talk about grasping at straws…"

"Yeah…" Haseejian sighed as he stood, casting a melancholy glance across the bullpen at Steve's desk and Mike's office. Would things ever get back to normal?, he wondered.

# # # # #

Her hand was shaking so much, she could hardly keep the ice chip on the plastic spoon. But luckily her father was still unaware of much of what was going on around him. "Feeling any better?" she asked after he had consumed several of the pieces.

He had been staring at the ceiling; his eyes slid in her direction and he managed a very slight smile. "A little," he whispered. "Thanks." His gaze shifted back to the spoon hovering over his mouth and she grinned.

"You're welcome. Look, ah, I'm gonna have to go home after this… visiting hours are almost over anyway. But I'll be back first thing in the morning. Okay?"

He blinked slowly and nodded. "Sure…"

She fed him another ice chip. In her brief foray to the cafeteria she'd bee unable to locate a recent newspaper or overhear any scuttlebutt relating to what had happened in the corridor. The patrolman had returned to his post by the hospital room door but she didn't have the nerve to ask him about what Leist had said.

She needed to talk to Rudy Olsen, and she wanted to do it tonight.

# # # # #

"Sorry for the leftovers," Marie Olsen said with a soft chuckle as she took the dirty plates away from in front of her husband and their houseguest.

Steve, wiping his mouth with the napkin, smiled up at her. "You don't have to keep apologizing, Marie, it was delicious. Ten times better than anything I can whip up, that's for sure."

Dinner conversation had been stilted at best, and non-existent for the most part. And though Steve had tried his damnedest to be engaged, he couldn't stop thinking about everything that was suddenly going so wrong in his life. And he wanted so badly to be sitting on the other side of the table from his partner, the one person in his life who he could talk to about anything; he needed his partner's perspective and support right now more than at any time in his life. But he also knew that was something he couldn't have at the moment, and might never have again.

He surreptitiously glanced at his watch; it was only 9:05 but it seemed much later. He was exhausted both physically and emotionally, and all he wanted to do was crawl into a bed and pull the covers over his head.

"I have some cake for dessert -" Marie was announcing from the kitchen when the doorbell rang and Steve jumped slightly, the sound startlingly loud.

Putting his napkin on the table, Olsen got to his feet, shooting a concerned look in the younger man's direction as he headed towards his front door. It was only halfway open when Steve heard a very familiar voice demanding, "Just what the hell is going on, Uncle Rudy?!"

"Jeannie!" The older man took a startled step back, opening the door as wide as he could. "Jeannie, what are you doing here?"

"Looking for answers," she spat out as she charged into the house, stopping abruptly when she spotted Steve sitting at the dining room table. "What are you doing here? And why haven't you been to see Mike? He's been asking for you." She was so upset she was having trouble controlling the tremor in her voice, and both men stared at her in shock, guilt and surprise. She spun on the captain. "Why have you been keeping things from me? Why wasn't I told that Steve is under investigation because of what happened to Mike?"

"Where did you hear that?" Olsen asked, glancing at Steve again.

Jeannie hesitated, not quite sure if she should confess to overhearing the argument in the hospital corridor. She was well aware in what low regard the mud-slinging reporter was held within the law enforcement community, her own father included. She sighed heavily, her shoulders sagging. "Jack Leist was trying to get into Mike's room."

"What?!" Olsen erupted, shooting another worried look in the inspector's direction. "What the hell was he doing there? How the hell did he get to the right floor, let alone the right room?!"

Though the last question was obviously rhetorical, Jeannie shook her head. "I have no idea but the patrolman escorted him out… forcefully."

"Good."

"Well, was what he said true?" She turned her angry and accusatory blue eyes on Steve. "Did you try to kill my father?" She couldn't believe she was actually asking that question; she felt like she was in another dimension but she needed an answer.

Steve just stared at her; never in his wildest dreams could he ever have imagined that he would be asked a question like that. He inhaled deeply, hoping to be able to control the trembling in his voice. "What do you think?" he asked simply, continuing to meet her stare with equal defiance.

Her eyes suddenly brightened and she bit her upper lip as she lowered her head, breaking the brief stand-off. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Then what the hell happened?" she asked quietly after a few long beats, raising her head to look at him again.

Olsen, who had been looking from one to the other, fixed his stare on Steve. The younger man sighed heavily. "Jeannie, it's a long… long story. It started over a year ago."

Jeannie's eyes widened and she glanced at Olsen, who nodded softly. "What do you mean, it started over a year ago?"

When Steve didn't answer right away Olsen cleared his throat softly. "Ah, listen, ah, I'll leave you two here to talk. I'll go give Marie a hand with the coffee and the, ah, the dessert. You two just, ah, just take whatever time you need…" It almost felt like he was talking to himself; Steve and Jeannie were staring at each other without expression. "I'll, ah I'll just…" He gestured vaguely towards the kitchen and drifted in that direction.

When the kitchen door swung to a close, leaving them alone, Steve slowly got to his feet. He gestured towards the sofa in the living room. "I think you should sit down. This is going to take awhile." He crossed behind her and quietly helped her remove her jacket, placed it over the back of the armchair, then waited for her to sit before lowering himself onto the cushion beside her. He turned slightly so he was facing her and leaned against the back. "So, remember what Mike told you about the, ah, the Molotov cocktail thrown through your living room window…?"

Frowning, she nodded. "Yeah, he said it was the brother of some guy you two arrested for murdering his wife." When he didn't respond, her frown deepened. "What? He lied to me?"

Steve smiled slightly with a soft chuckle. "No, he didn't lie, per se… he wouldn't deliberately lie to you. But he did tell you a… well, it's a little more than a fib, I guess, but he didn't want you to know the truth. And I thought he did the right thing."

"So what is the truth?" she asked quietly, not sure how she felt about her father's deception.

"Well, it's complicated, and it's going to take awhile…"

"I have all night," she stated flatly, not taking her eyes off him.

Steve nodded softly. "So do I."

# # # # #

The alarm clock buzz jolted him awake, like it did every morning. With practiced, annoyed ease, he reached out and slapped the button, silencing the cacophony, as he squinted at the white numbers on the clock face: 6:30. He flopped onto his back and stared up at the dark ceiling. It was not going to be a good day, he could feel it in his bones.

Glancing at his wife trying to go back to sleep beside him, Olsen struggled out from under the heavy covers and reached for the dressing gown draped over the back of the vanity chair. He was shrugging into it as he left the bedroom, heading for the bathroom, not even bothering to stifle a yawn then he froze. There was a soft light coming from the direction of the living room.

Frowning, he crossed to the top of the stairs and started soundlessly down the carpeted steps, his head cocked, listening. Other than the familiar hum of the appliances in the kitchen, the house was quiet.

He stepped off the bottom stair and headed towards the living room, then pulled up. One of the endtable lamps was on. Steve and Jeannie were still sitting on the couch. He had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves; she had pulled her legs up onto the sofa and was leaning against him. Her head was burrowed against his chest, his arm was around her protectively, his chin resting on the top of her head. They were sound asleep.