Mike jogged up the stairs. Steve had managed to pull himself up and sat leaning against the post that stopped his decent.

"Dead?" Steve already knew the answer to the question.

Mike looked at his bedraggled partner. "Yeah. Can you make it down to the bottom of the stairs until I call it in and bring the car around?"

Steve nodded his head. Mike extended his hand pulled Steve up amid moans and groans. Mike looked him over with concern and handed him a handkerchief. "You sure you're ok? Maybe a quick trip to the ER after we take care of the body?"

"I'm fine, Mike. Battered, not broken." Steve dabbed at several small abrasions on his face and a larger cut on the hand which had found purchase on the post, and more than likely saved him from a worse fate.

Mike stood his ground until Steve hobbled to the bottom of the stairs. He sat down heavily and waved Mike off, who then retraced his steps through the alley to the LTD.

Steve looked at the body of Todd Walters. Though he had tumbled in a heap, his final landing placed him on his back, in a near straight line, left arm furled out to his side, right draped on his chest, head at an odd angle. A small rivulet of blood was trailing from under his left shoulder. With his longish dark hair and black clothes against the dull sidewalk, Steve's sleep-deprived stair-addled brain saw not the dead teacher, but a vision of The Dead Toreador by Edouard Manet. He rubbed his eyes, drew his hand down his face and over his chin. I need to get some sleep, he thought. Now I'm seeing things.

He was roused by the screech of the LTD's wheels on asphalt as Mike pulled up to the curb, blocking the view of the body from the street. Several people had appeared at the top of the stairs, attracted by the disturbance. Mike waved them off as a cruiser pulled up behind the tan sedan. Mike sent one of the uniformed officers up to block the top of the stairs from onlookers. The other officer opened the trunk and retrieved two barricades, securing the sidewalk on either side of the body until it could be removed. Late on a Sunday afternoon, the whole scene was beginning to attract more attention than either Mike or Steve were comfortable with.

When the van pulled up to transport the body, both detectives were surprised to see Bernie riding along.

"What are you doing here on a Sunday afternoon?" Mike asked.

"When I heard it was you guys, I thought it might be another Da Vinci body." Bernie glanced over at Steve, who was still sitting on the steps, resting his head against the balustrade. "Is he ok? I've seen DOA's look better than that."

Mike looked pointedly at Steve, in an I told you so sort of way. Steve looked up and slowly responded, "I said I'm fine, ok?"

Mike lowered his voice before he spoke to Bernie again. "Not a Da Vinci body, but maybe our killer."

Bernie raised an eyebrow and crouched down by the body, "Not much question as to the cause of death, broken neck…" He peered up the stairs, "from a fall down the steps, not unlike our Venus."

"We kinda figured that out." Steve deadpanned as he stood and considered the long climb back up the stairs. He gave Mike what he thought was a small smile, but it looked more like a grimace. "On the bright side, I guess we don't need a warrant to search his place."

"Not you buddy boy, you're gonna get checked out and then go home to get some sleep." Mike was regretting not sending Steve home hours ago.

"Ah, come on Mike, I'm ok. Don't put me on the bench now. We need to finish this."

"Tell me truthfully, if you weren't asleep on your feet, would Walters have been able to bowl you over like he did. It coulda been you on the sidewalk."

Steve shifted uncomfortably. He knew he wasn't going to win this debate. "Ok, I'll go home, but no ER, I just need to get some sleep."

"What do you think Doc?"

The Medical Examiner looked up at Mike. "Dead people, Mike. I don't do well with the breathing, but…" Bernie got up and walked over to Steve. He pulled out a pen light and flashed it into his eyes, until Steve batted his arms away. "Pupils look ok, and, um, reactions are fine." He shoved the light back in his pocket. "Did you hit your head at all?"

"No, Bernie. And, uh, this is kind of creepy, you know." Bernie looked at the handkerchief in Steve hand.

"Lemme see." Bernie grabbed at Steve's left arm roughly and pulled the handkerchief out of his palm. An erose cut traveled diagonally from pinky to thumb. It was still weeping slightly. "That looks pretty nasty, are there any splinters in it?"

Steve pulled back his arm. "No. Nice bedside manner."

"Hey, my usual clients don't really care."

Bernie turned to Mike. "He's probably ok to go home, maybe could use a few stitches. Gonna be really sore when he wakes up." He then addressed Steve. "You got a first aid kit at home?"

"Yes." Steve was more than a little irritated at the impromptu medical examination.

"Well, clean it out good and wrap it up, you don't want to get an infection. Take a hot shower and a couple of aspirin before you go to bed, you're gonna need it."

Mike addressed a uniformed officer who had just come on the scene. He pointed at Steve. "Take him home."

Steve was poised to argue, but after one look at Mike's expression, he put his head down and meekly followed the officer to the passenger seat of the patrol car.

"Is he always like that?" The officer driving asked as he pulled away from the curb.

"You have no idea."

00000

After the cruiser left, Mike went back to the LTD to retrieve the print cards.

"Bernie can you do me a favor before you take him in." The body was being photographed before transport.

"What do you need?"

"Can we print him here? I want to get a quick comparison with these." He flashed the cards at Bernie. I'm no expert, but I pretty sure he's gonna be a match."

"No problem." Bernie walked back to the van.

"One more thing," Mike said before he made for the stairs. "When the lab team gets here, give them the prints from the body and send them up to number 15. I'll be looking around."

Mike trotted up the stairs and down the lane to number 15. The door was ajar. He used his foot to push it open the rest of the way and entered the house. At least two dozen canvases were stacked around the space. With what had happened earlier, he assumed Walters was in the process of ferrying the artworks to a vehicle when he'd seen him at the mouth of the alley.

He had barely walked through the place when Charlie entered.

"Looks like I'm following you around today, Lieutenant. What have we got?"

"Dead art thief's apartment and maybe our serial killer's." He pointed to the stacks of canvases. "I think if you compare these to the ones in original pictures from Kohler's apartment, you will have matches. There are a couple more out on the path. Did you bring up the prints from Bernie?"

Charlie handed over the print card. Mike laid it on a drafting table that was just inside the door, turning on the work lamp attached to the surface. He set down the samples from the van, and Grisko and Kohler's apartment. Pulling his glasses from his pocket, he peered at the samples. "What do you think?"

Charlie took a closer look. "I want to have our expert look at them back to the lab, but I'd say you have a match."

The prints didn't really prove anything beyond the break-ins. Walters' prints were a match for the samples from the van too, but it didn't mean he murdered anybody. Mike looked on the corner of the desk. A large book was perched precariously on the end, with newspaper clippings marking some of the pages. He carefully slid the book over and opened to the first marker. The Vitruvian Man was displayed in all its glory. He unfolded the newsprint and let out a disgusted breath when he saw Joe Randolph's byline.

"What do you got, Mike?" Charlie was giving orders to several techs when he heard Mike's reaction.

"Looks like he may have been keeping his press clippings."

Mike flipped the page to the next marker and saw a double page plate of Botticelli's Birth of Venus. The clipped news article was from this morning's paper. He set the article aside and flipped through the remainder of the book, but found no other marked pages. He pushed the book out of the way, continuing on to a stack of papers and unopened mail on the table. He carefully picked up several envelopes. One was a bank statement, the other was from the Charles Campbell Gallery.

He opened the Gallery envelope first. It was a copy of a contract and receipt for 25 paintings. Mike looked at the dollar estimates for the sale of the works and let out a low whistle. The total was close to a quarter of a million dollars. Charlie looked up again at Mike's reaction. "Anything?"

"Yep, a reason for murder, now we just have to fill in the pieces." Mike put the contract and the bank statement in his pocket, along with his glasses. He handed Charlie the four matching fingerprint cards "Tear this place apart. See if you can find me any proof that Woodward or the other victims were here. Prints, blood, a murder weapon, anything. I need to go talk to a man about a painting."

00000

Steve trudged up the stairs to his apartment door as the patrol car sped off. He grabbed the first aid kit and aspirin from the kitchen and headed to the bathroom. After a shower that threatened to empty the hot water tank, he cleaned and wrapped the cut on his hand, took more than the recommended dose of aspirin and dropped into bed. He glanced at the clock, vaguely registering 4:30 before he drifted off into a well deserved slumber.

He awoke in the dark with a start, ringing assaulting his ears. It took several tones before his brain recognized the insistent warble of the telephone. He picked up the receiver and croaked a hello.

"Steve, it's Lizzy."

"What time is it?" He whispered, not all together lucid.

"Almost nine, you said to call when I finished my shift."

He tried to sit up, but was paralyzed by a bone deep ache. "Um, yeah right…"

"Are you ok?"

"Sure. Just give me a minute."

Finally convincing his body that sitting up was a requirement, he attempted to shake the sleep from his head. It was a painful mistake "Do you have someplace to stay?"

"Yeah, my buddy Jeff said he will put me up. I just need to run by my place and pick up a few things. If it's a problem, I'll just catch a cab."

"No, no it's ok. Can you give me about 20 minutes?"

"Sure, I can hang out till then, maybe scrounge up something to eat."

"20 minutes then, wait inside the restaurant, I'll be in a Porsche."

"No kidding. Cops must make a whole lot more money than I thought."

"Not really."

Steve hung up the phone. Sitting up was one thing, actually standing and focusing was another. He half considered calling Bryant Street and asking someone else to pick up the girl, but decided he would rather deal with the physical discomfort than the endless razzing his colleagues would dish out.

He groaned and stretched. As he dressed and took stock of assorted bumps and brusies, he wondered what Mike had found out while he slept. He picked up the phone and dialed Mike's number at Bryant Street, unsurprised when his partner picked up the phone.

"Stone, Homicide."

"Mike, it's Steve. What are you still doing at work?"

"What are you doing up? I didn't think I'd hear from you until tomorrow."

"I got a phone call. This morning I told Grisko I'd get her from work to someplace safe. She's going to stay with a friend."

"That's good. Do you want me to pick her up?"

"No I got it, but thanks. You find out anything?"

"Plenty. Walters' prints were a match. I found a contract and …"

Steve's concentration wandered. He was startled when there was silence on the other end of the phone. "What?"

"Are you even listening?"

"Sorry, go ahead."

"I tell you what. Take care of the girl and go back to sleep. I'll tell you all about it in the morning."