Other Halves

by Argentum_LS

A/N: Here it is! Story #3 in the Something Called Forever series. It's only taken 5 years to figure out whodunnit.

This story is set after "Something Called Living" and concurrent with "Something Called Justice." It was also originally started after the one and concurrent with the other, which is a fun bit of BTS trivia, if you're into that sort of thing.

Please note that, while the story is marked gen, if you're of the opinion that gen means no relationships at all, then you should consider this f/m. The story is set in a dating club. There are lots of relationships going on in the background, some of which are directly referenced. If that bothers you, please back click and find a different gen story to read. I won't be upset.

Thanks to idelthoughts for the poking, prodding, and (frequent) inquiries as to what exactly I'm thinking. This story would still be languishing in the WiP pile, if not for her.

Questions, comments, squee, concrit, etc. are all-and always-welcome.

This story is set concurrent with "Something Called Justice" and will make a lot more sense if you've read that one recently.

Mike Hanson became a cop because he didn't like mysteries. He wasn't keen on surprises, either. But mysteries were just messy. Faced with a mystery, he wanted to root out all the details, put them in an order that told a clear story, and rest satisfied that one more piece of the universe was no longer up for debate.

His dislike of mysteries is what had brought him to Clancy's Bar for the regular Thursday night meeting of the Second Time Around Club. The group was comprised of widows and widowers, divorcees, and anyone else over the age of 35 who had ended a long-term relationship and who was searching for a new partner. It was the kind of club he was going to expressly warn his wife away from joining should he kick the bucket before old age had a chance to set in. He couldn't stand the thought of her ever being this desperate.

Someone had killed the club's president—a role its members ridiculously termed the Dolly—after a club gathering at his house. Russell Jackson had been found dead the next morning, and not from embarrassment. He'd been poisoned by a tainted K-cup, which made everyone who had access to his Keurig a suspect.

Hanson had seen a lot of homicides in his career, with weapons ranging from the typical guns and knives to cars, screwdrivers, and—surprisingly, just once—a bludgeoning with a Keurig machine. That someone would use the K-cup itself was only a matter of time.

And then it happened again. The vic this time was Shondra Patil, one of the original members of the club who, according to everyone, hadn't missed a meeting since.

Which is how Hanson had ended up seated in the club's section, doing his best to look like he was trying to drown his loneliness in his $2 Long Island Ice Tea while actually studying the other members. A dozen guys and four gals had taken up posts at the tables. Six people had wandered in since he'd arrived and four other ones had left. Even numbers and not a pair among them. So much for matchmaking.

Clancy's was the kind of bar that people who used K-cups would consider a dive. The walls were covered in pictures of famous people who supposedly had frequented the place, while sports memorabilia for the locals teams and miscellaneous antiques lined a shelf that circled the room near the ceiling. The lights were dim, the food greasy, and the wooden floors gripped the soles of his shoes.

A handful of scattered tables held other customers, though far fewer than even Hanson expected mid-week. A couple more sat at the bar. His gaze started to slide away before a familiar swatch of color dragged it back. Hanson started, and the chair he'd been leaning back in tipped forward, its front legs hitting the floor with a thud.

There, seated at the bar, was Henry—a man whose idea of a good beer involved a microbrewery no one had ever hard of, and who Hanson knew for a fact would snub his nose at K-cup coffee. His coat and scarf were hung over the back of his chair and his pocket watch rested on the bar top as if he were waiting for someone who was now late. There were only two conclusions Hanson could come to: 1. Henry was on a date, and 2. Henry was slumming. Both of them made Hanson's hackles rise.

But Hanson was here for work, not to spy on Henry. He slunk lower in his seat and hoped that Henry noticed the falling chair in his peripheral vision and wouldn't turn around and spot him. The last thing he needed was for Henry to come over and loudly ask about Karen. OK, the last thing Hanson needed was to get poisoned and to become the next victim in his own case, but Henry asking about his wife in front of a table full of lonely hearts would also end the stakeout.

"Want a refill?" the waitress interrupted, shouting over the classic rock that filled the bar and made it easier for everyone to not talk to each other. She was a kid named Zoe, college aged, with a flop of black hair across her eyes and a series of rings piercing her lip. She was full time here. She'd also taken the previous week off to go out of town for spring break. She hadn't had the lip rings before she left. Must have been some spring break.

Hanson nodded, not trusting that his voice wouldn't carry straight to Henry's ears. It was the kind of thing Henry would be able to pick out of a crowd.

"Anything else?"

A shake of the head.

Zoe rolled her eyes and moved on to the next person.

When Hanson looked back at the bar, Henry had been joined by another college-aged punk. This one had short reddish-blond hair, pale Irish skin, and a leather motorcycle jacket that he didn't remove. He slipped into the seat next to Henry and said something to the bartender. A minute later, a draft beer was pushed in front of him, and Hanson almost sacrificed his cover to go card him. No way was the kid old enough to be drinking, and Clancy's was supposed to have a better reputation than that, despite its appearance. Henry gave no notice of the slight, so Hanson stayed seated. The two knew each other: that much was obvious by how the kid clapped Henry on the shoulder in greeting and how Henry grinned in response. If Henry thought the kid was legal, then Hanson would trust him. Young faces were getting harder and harder to pin to an age as he got older, and Hanson wasn't going to blow his cover over a guy sneaking a drink a year or two early.

The chair next to him abruptly scooted closer and Hanson felt a foot curl around the back of his calf at the same time as a basket of mozzarella sticks appeared in front of him. "Hey, sweetie," Miranda cooed. Miranda, he'd learned, was forty-six, twice divorced, and especially interested in any man who ignored her initial advance. She was also a bottle blonde this week. Her short hair stood in washed out contrast against sallow skin. "You look like you could use something to soak up all the liquor," she said. Picking up a mozzarella stick, she stuck one end in her mouth and leaned toward Hanson so that he could take the other end. Miranda had joined the club two months earlier, a year to the day after the finalization of her second divorce, she'd informed him.

Hanson hadn't thought sharing food like that was cute when it was dogs and a plate of spaghetti, and his stomach churned in disgust at the overture now. Willfully ignoring the offer, he grabbed a stick of his own, knocked the imaginary ash off his imaginary cigar, and stuck it in his mouth. "Very thoughtful of you," he said. "Very thoughtful." Searching for something else to say, he settled on a non-committal: "Looks like a good crowd here, tonight."

Miranda glanced around the table while she finished chewing, then brought her gaze back to bear on him. He was the only one she was interested in seeing tonight. "Yeah, I guess. Listen, I'm going to be leaving in a little while." Her hand found a resting place on his thigh. "You need a ride home?" She nodded at his drink just as Zoe switched the empty glass out for a freshly made, and undoubtedly less potent, drink. "I don't think you should be driving."

He was fine. That iced tea had been his first and he'd been working on it for—he checked his watch—almost an hour. She didn't need to know that, though. "Thanks, but I already have a ride."

Her face fell, though her hand crept a little higher up his thigh.

Hanson pointedly removed it.

"It doesn't have to go anywhere," she protested. "Sometimes an offer of a ride home is only an offer of a ride home. It's important for us singletons to look out for each other."

"And we're all old enough to know the importance of drinking responsibly," Hanson finished for her. He'd heard her use the exact same script on someone else the previous week. That person wasn't here this week. He might never return. Internally, Hanson sighed. The club had a fluid membership and nothing resembling a membership roster, which meant that finding out who was in it and how to get in contact with them had been a legwork nightmare.

One of the guys seated at the end of the table—Jack, or Jake—snapped his fingers in a summons over his head. "Hey!" he shouted, the word falling into a pocket of silence in the music, "this isn't what I ordered. Hey! Waitress!" Jack shoved his newly-refreshed drink toward the center of the table, into a collection of empty glasses and half stood up, as if to go forcibly collect Zoe. Jake was a big guy with large hands and a mean set to his eyes. A red flush burned his cheeks. Hanson shifted and slid his chair back, in case he had to get involved.

"You wanna relax?" one of the other guys suggested, first. Hanson couldn't remember his name at all. Short brown beard, baseball cap, ears that stuck out. "Mistakes happen. You don't gotta be an ass about it."

With one eye on the standoff, Hanson searched the dining room for Zoe. He spotted a couple other wait staff and noted that they both had angled themselves toward his table. Zoe, however, he couldn't find. He figured she'd gone back to the kitchen to pick up more drinks and probably had no idea of the problem brewing out front. Good. The people in the club couldn't tip her enough for where this night was going.

Movement at the bar caught his attention. Henry had suddenly bowed over, clutching his stomach. He looked up at the kid, who leaned over to ask him a question. Even from here, Hanson could see the panic in his colleague's eyes.

In a rush, Henry fell off his stool and stumbled across the restaurant toward the hallway that housed the men's room. He lurched like a man with most of a dozen drinks, not most of one drink, in his system. Hanson had suspected that Henry's refusals to come out for a beer with the guys meant he was a lightweight, and the way Henry stumbled into the bathroom door like a man on a mission to hurl gave evidence to that. Hanson saw the bathroom door swing shut, then tracked back to see the kid narrow his eyes suspiciously at Henry's drink. The kid hefted the glass, gave the contents a deep sniff, then shrugged broadly—adding one more clue to Hanson's conclusion—before turning to flag down the bartender.

"Hey! Waitress!" Jack shouted again. "I ain't paying for this! Get your ass out here and fix it!"

Miranda shook her head in condemnation. "And this is why he's been divorced ithree/i times." She spoke loudly enough for everyone at the table to hear, though no one was paying attention. Softer, she added, "How about we get out of here?"

Henry hadn't emerged from the restroom. He must have been gone long enough for his friend to be worried because the kid tipped back the rest of his beer and headed to the men's room himself. He could have been intending to use the facilities, only he walked into the room and walked right back out. No one could pee that fast.

Returning to his seat, the kid slapped some money on the bar, grabbed Henry's coat, scarf, and watch, and left without waiting for any change.

The back of Hanson's neck crawled as every one of his cop instincts told him that something was very wrong here. The bathroom hallway was a dead end; the first thing Hanson had done was verify that there were no exits that way. The kitchen, and the emergency exit, were both on the other side of the bar, opposite the main entrance. That meant that Henry was either still in the restroom or he'd somehow developed the ability to slip out of the building through the tiny—completely inadequate—air vent. Henry struck Hanson as the kind of man with lots of questionable skills up his sleeve, yet the ability to shrink or turn into mist were both clearly impossible.

And he never would've left without his watch.

Which meant that Henry's "friend" had just seized an opportunity to rob him blind.

Undercover or no, Hanson couldn't let that stand. Especially not when Henry was the one handling the autopsy side of Hanson's case.

Jake was still shouting for the waitress, and Ears had switched to threatening him if Jake didn't sit down and behave like the grown-ass man he was. Most of the bar's patrons were so focused on them that they didn't see the young black woman in tight jeans and a yellow halter top who'd been seated alone at a table for two also throw some money down and head for the door. Her drink had barely been touched. A waiter hurried over to stop her with a hamburger and French fries basket in his hand that he had been about to deliver to her table. She motioned to the money, then grabbed the paper that lined the basket and scooped the burger and most of the fries up to take with her in a hastily conceived to-go container.

Finally, a person who was showing some sense: take the food and get out. Little was worse for the digestion than dinner with a side of fighting.

"I gotta go," Hanson stated. "Got some work I gotta take care of." He extricated himself from under Miranda's hand, then pulled out some cash and dropped it on the table. He wasn't going to be waiting for his change either. For all he cared, Miranda could think he was covering half the cheese sticks. She'd probably take it as a sign of his interest in her, but she seemed to take everything a person said as a sign of interest.

"Oh?" Miranda cooed. "What do you do?" I'll bet it's something Iimportant/i." She cocked her head and did something with her eyes that was probably supposed to be flirtatious if it didn't look so much like she was trying to stare at an eclipse. "Investment banker? Oh, I know! I bet you own your own company. Something in...computers?"

Hanson gave her the same look he'd given his youngest son when he caught the boy standing on top of the refrigerator, buck naked, trying to pee into the sink. Some things were too stupid to warrant any other response. "Garbage man," he answered. He pulled his own jacket on, not bothering to zip it up, and reached for the keys in his pocket so that he wouldn't waste precious seconds fumbling for them when he got to his car.

He made it outside just in time to see a motorcycle pull out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires. From the bundle on the back flapped a piece of blue cloth that looked just like Henry's scarf. A minute later, a second motorcycle pulled out, turned the same direction as the first, and slipped into a trailing position. Hanson knew he couldn't get to his car in time to follow them, so he did the next best thing and pulled out his notepad to record the second bike's license plate numbers.

This was getting more complicated by the second.

He'd thought she was just a patron. Now he had to wonder. What was her role here? Accomplice? Plant? Reporter?

Hanson tapped his pen against his notebook, thinking. He did know one thing: While it might be for the wrong case, she was a lead.

That was when a stream of invectives and a loud crash from inside the restaurant pierced the air. Hanson hurried back inside. Two tables lay overturned, spilled drinks and shattered glassware littered the floor, and Jack and Ears were slugging each other at the center of a full barroom brawl.