A/N: Yes, an update! Sorry for the pace on this one (and most likely future ones). I have all sorts of more urgent balls in the air I'm juggling at the moment. That said, I do promise that this story will be finished, as well as future ones I get into. They are all blocked out mentally. I don't start posting a story without the complete plan in mind. I just have to find time for transferring to paper/keyboard. Phantom probably has two chapters left, maybe three. No guarantees on schedule, but I do have the day off August 1st, and while there's a long to-do list, I will get tired of physical work before the end of the day, I'm sure. So you might get a chapter then. The next chapter will be very exciting.

And yes, after Phantom, there is more in my series. At least two major stories, and more may join the line before those are done. We shall see.

(H/C)

Wilson after a moment walked across to the nearest chair in this small waiting room and sat down. He was still staring at House, but his first question wasn't focused on his whereabouts the last ten years. "Why does she call you Maestro?" he asked.

"Spend enough time around him, and you'll understand," Cuddy replied. "His specialty is solving puzzles. Speaking of which, we'd better dig into this one ASAP before somebody else recognizes you. You said you had an idea, James?"

"Yes. We're focusing an awful lot on House, his background, people who had a grudge against him. I just wondered if we should look more into the landlord's history. Maybe the location was pure coincidence, and they were just after the landlord."

House shook his head. "No. To the second comment, not the first. Someone might well have been trying to kill two birds with one stone, literally as far as one of them, but I have trouble believing that anybody just happened to walk randomly into my apartment and encounter the man they wanted to kill there."

"But what if the landlord himself made the appointment?" Wilson asked.

"In my apartment? With somebody who didn't even know who I was? I can't see it. Besides, coming in was unusual. That man hated me. He never came in, not once that I can remember after I moved there. He would stand at the door to chew me out for excessive noise and such, and he'd just glance in with his lip curling a little bit, like it was beneath him to enter."

Cuddy stepped in. "House - Maestro. I'm sorry to have to ask you, but it really would help us to know what exactly happened that day from your point of view."

He looked over at her, scrutinizing her for suspicion, finding none. One hand massaged his leg gently, something she doubted he was even aware of. Finally, he spoke slowly. "Normal day up until then - for the new normal that is. I went to PT. When I came home, the door was unlocked. I never left it unlocked, not even when I was home. There's no way I forgot to lock it leaving. So I was already on guard." He paused and cleared his throat.

Cuddy looked over at the two vending machines in this room. "What about a drink and a snack while we talk?" She didn't mention the limited selection. To someone who had spent ten years with a microfridge and a jar of peanut butter, this was five star. As she opened her purse, though, she swore under her breath. "All I've got on me tonight is a twenty, and the machine won't take that."

Wilson looked at House, who shrugged and prominently displayed both empty hands. With a sigh, Wilson stood up and fished out his own wallet. He bought them each a soft drink and a snack, delivered them, and sat back down. House studied the can of Coke as if it were the holy grail, then opened it and took a long drink, savoring the taste like priceless wine.

"Have you even had a Coke in the last ten years?" Wilson asked curiously. "Where have you been hiding out, anyway?"

"Doesn't matter," House replied shortly. "Back to that day, when I opened the door, he was in the floor, lying on his side. Pool of blood around his head. I knew he was dead, but I did go over to check for a pulse. Then -" He paused for another drink of Coke, gulping it more than savoring it this time. "Then I went over to the sink to wash up; I had some blood on me from checking him. Then I left."

Cuddy was filling in her own gaps silently. Wilson filled them in less than silently, but there was genuine sympathy in his eyes. "The stories said your mother died that day. You didn't know before going to PT, or you wouldn't have called it a normal day that far. Did you get the call telling you about her right then, when you were looking at his body?"

House shuddered. "Not going to ask why I ran if I'm innocent?"

"Actually, no. If you did find out about your mom while standing in a murder scene, that would be enough to overload anybody. I can understand running." There was sincerity there, and House looked back up from his Coke can to study Wilson in a silent differential. "I do wonder why you stayed away for ten years without ever fighting it," Wilson continued, "but running that day, I can see that."

Cuddy tried to wrestle this conversation back on track. "Maestro, did you see anything that might be important? Any clue that jumped out at you?"

House shook his head. "He was dead. That was all I could take in."

She hated to ask her next question, but she had to. "Maestro, thinking about people who might have done this, who could have wanted to frame you. Is there any chance that it was - somebody close to you?" She didn't name his father. She didn't have to. He heard her loud and clear.

His back straightened up, and a point of anger ignited in his eyes, but his reply was rock solid, closing that line of thought with echoing finality. "No."

Wilson looked from one to the other of them in confusion. "Somebody close to him? What do you mean?"

"Drop it, James," Cuddy snapped. "Okay, back to the landlord. That is a good idea you had. Maybe not just focused on him, like House said, but both of you, not just one. Think. Did you have any common enemies?"

House snorted. "If we did, I wasn't aware of them. The man probably had all sorts of enemies. He was not only a landlord; he was a jerk of one. I can only imagine the line of former upset tenants. It's possible that one of them also disliked me from the clinic or as a former inpatient or such, but if so, I didn't know him. Didn't know about the connection, anyway."

"Him." Wilson repeated the word. "What about a woman, maybe? Men kill more often, but there have been female murderers."

"No." House was definite. "Landlord was large. He went down like a felled tree, no struggle at all, and his head was bashed in. It takes some force to do that to a skull. I'd say we're looking for not only a man but a large and powerful one."

"Anger can add to strength," Wilson pointed out.

House considered. "Valid point. But I still think it was a man. This was so thought out. Not a moment of rage, and again, it happened in my apartment. Not spur of the moment. There's too much planning for hot anger. It was a cold, calculating anger. That kind doesn't quite add as much to your strength in the moment like adrenaline-rush rage does."

"Back to the apartment," Cuddy said. "The landlord obviously unlocked the door and went in. Why would they meet there? Especially if he hardly ever went in."

The room was silent for a moment. "Looking for something?" House suggested. "Planting something? Nothing was found there incriminating, though. I hadn't really thought about this much, but the landlord definitely would have liked to kick me out. Unfortunately, it's not quite that easy with notice required and tenant laws and such. It's a pain of a process. Much easier to get me out of there if I'm arrested and make the quick move from the apartment to jail. Suppose the killer also had a grudge against me, had a grudge against both of us. Suppose he contacted the landlord and suggested planting something in my apartment to get me in legal trouble, only he intended to kill the landlord all along. Landlord agreed to meet him there. But once they were alone, instead of planting evidence -" House smacked one hand into the other dramatically.

"That makes as much sense as any idea we've had," Wilson said. "What do you mean you hadn't thought about this much? What else have you had to think about for ten years besides who framed you?"

"Drop it," Cuddy repeated firmly. "Okay, running with that idea for a moment. You had a mutual enemy. He suggested to the landlord framing you for something, and they then would notify the police. Only he actually meant to kill the landlord and frame you for that all along. Killing somebody is way beyond most people's grudges. So is framing for murder. Think, House. We're not talking a small grudge. We don't know the landlord's side, but you probably know yours. Who had you really offended in the last few months?"

"Nobody," House snapped. "I hadn't done a damned thing for months except try to walk." His hand went to his thigh again, and that time, Cuddy was sure he was aware of it.

"Take it easy." Wilson stood up and went to the vending machines again, moving slowly, giving them a small breather. "Your Coke is empty, and mine's not far from it. Want something else, Lisa?"

"No, thanks, James." Just then, with Wilson's back turned as he fed money into the vending machine, she reached over and put a hand on House's arm, giving it a warm squeeze. He jumped as if shot, startled, then stared down at her fingers on his arm while his fingers were on his leg. His expression was absolutely bewildered. Cuddy gave him a reassuring smile and another squeeze of her fingers, then released as Wilson turned back around.

"This was very planned out, like you said." She picked back up the differential after Wilson had delivered the second Coke and House had had a good swallow of it. "Maybe the grudge against you came earlier, and the grudge against the landlord was more recent, plus added time to get the details worked out. Take it back a few more months, Maestro. Back when you were working. Do you think the grudge against you most likely came from an encounter at the hospital?"

He nodded firmly. "That was pretty much all I did. Work. It was the most interesting part of life."

"You mentioned the clinic," Wilson put in. "I'm sure you could make some enemies on rounds, too. Can you remember anybody you ever really offended, beyond the usual clueless patient? Anybody large, powerful, with controlled anger issues?"

At that moment, House jumped again, literally, and his head came up. Both of them saw the blue lightning in his eyes. Both of them heard the thoughts flying past, the puzzle pieces clicking into place at full speed. "Maybe - there was one - he was actually a policeman himself."

Cuddy sat up straight in her chair. A policeman himself. Who better to commit a murder and know how to frame somebody than a policeman himself? "Who, Maestro?" and Wilson, similarly upright in his chair, was only a slightly delayed echo. "Who?"

House looked from one of them to the other. "His name was Tritter."