Working through the weekend, the next three days followed the same pattern. Steve was picked up by Budzinski at 9 a.m. and driven downtown to Pollard's law office, where they went over his testimony as meticulously as was humanly possible.

But still nothing was uncovered that could, in even the smallest, remotest way, offer some fleeting hope that the charges against the embattled homicide inspector would be dismissed without prejudice.

A sense of despair and inevitability was beginning to hang in the air within the confines of the small boardroom as the three shirt-sleeved, tieless men poured over every word on the reams of paper covering the table.

Mid-afternoon on the fourth day, Steve sat back in the sturdy wooden chair and exhaled loudly. They had finally reached the moment he had parked the car in the lot behind the Hall of Justice and turned himself in to his colleagues. It was a relief after such a tough slog but he also knew this was only the first time he would be asked by his counsel to go over the entire ordeal; he would have to do it again, or at least parts of it, any number of times until Pollard was convinced he had given voice to everything he could drag out of the recesses of his overburdened mind.

And he would have to do it all again on the stand, probably more than once, by someone who would not have his best interests at heart. That was going to be the hardest part, knowing Linda's family would be sitting in the gallery, listening to him try to explain how their daughter had so tragically been caught up in a grotesque plot by an obviously unhinged individual to ruin his life.

Trouble was, this unhinged individual now seemed like a figment of his imagination, an invisible monster conjured up to explain his own brief descent into madness and murderous destruction.

Pollard sat back, tossing his pen on the pad in front of him, and rubbed both hands across his face; he looked as exhausted as the others. He glanced at his watch. "Listen, ah, I think we've done enough for now. I don't know about you two, but an early night would be good for me. And we should take tomorrow off. We can all use it, I think. I don't want us to burn out before we get to court." He looked at Budzinski. "Take him home, Charlie, and we'll meet back here day after tomorrow, same time."

The investigator pursed his lips and nodded. "That works for me. I can take the Missus out to dinner for a change, maybe even catch a movie tomorrow," he laughed as he got to his feet.

Steve hadn't moved, staring at Pollard from across the table. "So what's next?"

The young attorney, who had started to assemble the scattered papers, looked up with a frown. "Well, I know you're not going to like it, but I want to do this all over again… but in situ."

Budzinski stopped mid-motion and shot a glance in Steve's direction.

The cop's eyes narrowed. "You mean in the garage?"

Pollard nodded, looking at the table as he continued picking up the papers. "Yep, and I want to do it at the same time it happened in real life." He glanced up at Steve and smiled blandly, ready to fend off any arguments but, surprisingly, none came. "I have to get permission from a number of sources and I've already started the ball rolling. It will probably be one night next week if I can't get it earlier, like on Thursday or Friday." He paused, allowing Steve to interject but again, there was no reaction. "You have a problem with that?"

After a long silent beat, Steve shook his head. "No… no, I don't. I'm just a little surprised, that's all. Will, ah, will someone from the D.A.'s office be there?"

Pollard stopped stacking the papers and frowned. "No. Why would they be there?"

The cop shrugged. "I don't know, I just thought they'd want to be in attendance for a walk-through with the accused." The discouragement in his voice was troubling but the attorney chose not to remark upon it.

"Well, they're not going to be if I have any say in it." He continued to gather the papers, placing them carefully in file folders. "Oh, ah, by the way, I want to talk to Mike by the end of the week. Do you think he's up to it?" He looked at Steve from under a lowered bow, continuing to clear the desk.

"Yeah, he's, ah, doing good. He's already mentioned to me he was expecting your call so, yeah, he'll be up to it. Want me to warn him?"

"If you wouldn't mind…?" Pollard smiled.

"Not at all."

"Good. So, I want you to go home and try to relax and not think about anything except enjoying the next thirty-six hours away from here." He fixed Steve with a no-nonsense stare. "I mean that. I don't want you obsessing, it won't do either of us any good. So… I don't know, take Charlie's advice and go see a movie -"

"But not with my wife!" the ex-cop interjected with feigned effrontery and there was a silent beat before the others realized he was joking. Budzinski guffawed and slapped Steve companionably on the shoulder as the inspector and the attorney chuckled softly, all of them grateful for the brief respite. "Come on, Steve, let's get outa here before Martin has your whole day off planned."

# # # # #

The drive to the De Haro house was unusually quiet as Budzinski navigated his burgundy LeSabre through the early rush hour traffic leaving the downtown core. He kept shooting glances across the front seat; Steve was staring out the side window.

"Ah, listen, kid," he said finally, "I know you're discouraged that we didn't find anything in what you told us, but it's early days yet, right? We've just started… and there's a lot to go through. And I really think that you walking us through everything, in the place and at the time that it actually happened… well, I have a feeling that's going to open up some memories that you don't even realize you have."

Steve turned away from the window. "I sure hope so."

They had turned onto De Haro and were starting up the steep street. "How the hell does this partner of yours ever just go for an evening stroll around here? These hills just kill me."

Steve chuckled. "Ask him yourself when you meet him."

"I'll do just that," Budzinski laughed as pulled the sedan to the curb and threw it into Park. "Listen, Steve, I'm serious, man. Try to turn your mind off, if you can. It'll do you good. And I'll see you 8:30 on Wednesday morning, right?"

Steve sighed, allowing a smile to brighten his worried features. "I'll try. Thanks, Charlie. Have a great night out with your wife - and maybe Mike and I'll see you at the movies." He slapped the older man on the arm as he opened the door and got out, Budzinski's laugh following him, then watched as the burgundy car continued up the block and around the corner. He turned, looked up at the house and closed his eyes. No matter how things turned out, he knew he would never be able to rid himself of the guilt he felt when he thought about what Mike had been put through at Nicole's hands… twice. It would haunt him his entire life, he knew, a yoke not of his own making, and one he could never cast off, no matter how hard he tried.

# # # # #

He opened the door quietly, not wanting to disturb his partner if he was asleep. But instead of a dark and quiet house, he was greeted with lights on in the living room and kitchen and the unmistakable sound of Mike's slightly off-key but enthusiastic, if unnaturally restrained, singing.

"Hey look me over,

Lend me your ear…"

He started to tiptoe towards the kitchen. Mike, in beige dockers, a checked shirt and his slippers, was standing at the counter, taking a loaf of bread out of the bread box.

"Fresh out of clover

Mortgage up to here.

But don't pass the brake, folks -"

He stopped abruptly when he caught sight of the grinning young man standing in the entrance. After a flustered beat, he said nonchalantly, "I didn't hear you come in."

"I'm not surprised. Anyone could walk in under that caterwauling."

"Caterwauling?!" Trying to look offended, Mike was fighting off a smile. "I'll have you know that's a Broadway classic."

"Really? A classic?" Chuckling, Steve stepped further into the room, suddenly enjoying this unexpected hiatus in the drama that had become his life lately.

"Yeah," Mike insisted, keeping up the swordplay. It had been awhile since they'd allowed themselves the luxury. "Lucile Ball sings it."

"So what show is it from?"

Mike frowned, pursing his lips. "I have no idea, smarty, but it's a classic."

"The show?"

"No, the song! You've never heard it?"

"Not the way you sing it."

"Ha ha." Mike glowered at him then looked up at the wall clock. "Say, what are you doing home so early anyway?"

With a happy sigh, Steve stepped to the kitchen table and sat heavily. "I, ah, we finished going over my, ah, my story and Martin suggested we go home early. He even gave us the day off tomorrow."

The older man smiled as he leaned carefully against the counter. "Well, that's good. I think you guys deserve a day off. You've been going at it hammer and tongs for days now."

"Yeah…" Steve's smile had disappeared. "Yeah, we have…"

Mike let a brief silence settle. "Well, I'm glad you're home early. I need a hand."

The younger man looked up. "Ah, yeah, what are you doing down here anyway?" He knew Mike was feeling better and stronger every day but he hadn't expected him to be prowling around the kitchen so soon.

"Well, I thought I would make you dinner tonight for a change. I'm feeling pretty good and I think I can manage to make a couple of my famous grilled cheese sandwiches… but I forgot about one thing." He grimaced apologetically.

With a soft snort, Steve grinned. "Oh yeah, what's that?"

"I can't lift the waffle iron out of the cupboard," he said pathetically, pointing to the open door of the cupboard beside the oven.

Steve frowned. "You make grilled cheese sandwiches with a waffle iron?"

"Don't you?"

"I don't make grilled sandwiches at home."

Shaking his head in feigned disgust, Mike sighed heavily. "That explains a lot," he said enigmatically then chuckled evilly. "Look, why don't you get it out for me while I open you a beer and then you can just sit back and watch while I whip up the best tasting grilled cheese sandwich this side of the Mississippi."

Not even bothering to rise to the bait, Steve dragged himself to his feet, stepped to the cupboard and squatted. By the time he had the waffle iron on the counter, Mike had opened a beer and was holding it out.

"Watch and learn, buddy boy, watch and learn," the older man chuckled as plugged the waffle iron into the socket on the top of the stove and pulled the loaf of bread closer.

Laughing quietly, Steve sat at the kitchen table. As he took his first sip of beer, watching Mike going about his task with a smile and an enthusiasm that was hard to deny, he couldn't stop his eyes from tearing up; and he wondered how many of these precious moments he would be able to enjoy before his life would change completely and forever.