The Dead-End Middle

Sharon squinted as another plume of black smoke wafted her way. Her eyes had given up and stopped watering about an hour ago, instead they felt dry and grainy.

She could tell she stunk - if one could smell themselves...well. She stunk and no amount of dry cleaning could ever get rid of that smell. Sharon sighed; she might as well shove it all in the trash and be done with it.

Averting her gaze from the smoldering ashes before her, Sharon's eyes landed upon Louie. The Lieutenant was ripping and tearing at her red crime scene tape and, of course, doubled his efforts once he realized he had an audience. Gleefully he motioned for Gabriel to come along with their tape to secure the perimeter.

"Cap'n Raydor."

It wasn't a question, or even a greeting, but more of a way to set the tone - not Sharon and Brenda, not tonight.

"Chief," Sharon said, but it came out as more of a rasp.

"Boy," Brenda guffawed. "That's almost as big as the bonfire we had at my aunt Isabelle's for Christmas one year!"

Sharon lifted her eyebrows at the humored chuckle beside her then glanced at Brenda, unable to help herself, and asked, "Bonfire? For Christmas?"

"A tradition," Brenda said. "In Lousiana."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

The blonde didn't bite and Sharon was somewhat grateful; she wasn't in the mood for one of their bantered discussions.

"So. Cap'n, what happened here?"

Sharon took a deep breath. "That is a very long story."

Brenda smiled at her then said, "Don't leave anything out on my account, Cap'n."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Chief Johnson."

"Captain Raydor?"

Sharon looked up from her pile of paperwork at a young woman. "Detective Oseida, Narcotics," she said and entered the office.

"How can I help, Detective?" Sharon could tell she was all business. "Have a seat."

Oseida lowered herself slowly into a chair, features stoney. "We've got a...situation."

"A situation? And I'm assuming you have been carefully selected by your Captain to bring this situation to my attention?"

"You could say that."

The ice was broken; Sharon smiled a little.

"Here," Oseida handed her a thick file.

Sharon opened it at once and discovered several photographs and reports. "What am I looking at?"

"What were you looking at?" Brenda asked immediately, her lack of patience more irritating than usual.

"Jack Prince."

"Who?"

Sharon rolled her eyes and reached into her car to retrieve the file in question. "Jack Prince is a meth dealer and manufacturer."

"What's he done to gain your attention?" The blonde asked absent-mindedly, her eyes scanning the pages already.

"He's a supplier," Oseida said.

"I'm sorry, Detective, but I still don't know how Mister Prince's meth manufacturing pertains to any of FID's open cases."

"Here's the thing..."

"Yes?" Sharon said, prompting, and looking at the photo of Prince. He looked more like a business man than a criminal, right down to the suit and matching tie.

"Prince is working with someone within the LAPD."

"Who is it?" Brenda asked immediately. "And why haven't they been arrested?"

"Jason Tolliver. He was supposed to be here tonight."

"He might be our body in there," Brenda nodded to the warehouse.

"That's for you to find out."

"And who is this Tolliver character anyhow?"

"He's been with Vice for about three years. We suspect he came into contact with Prince then. Prince is running a little prostitution ring as a side business."

"Charming."

"You could say that," Oseida grumped. "Tolliver feeds him information, we know that much. How, we don't know."

"And you want me to find out," Sharon concluded.

"You have avenues we can't pursue." Oseida averted her gaze. "He's applied for a transfer to Narcotics which may be granted."

"Oh?"

"Chief Pope seems to think it's a good idea."

"Chief Pope knew all about this?"

"No."

"No?" Brenda stared at her then the knowing glint sparked in her eyes. "Narcotics went over Will's head."

Sharon could tell what Brenda thought. "I did not know that at the time," she said firmly. "In hindsight I should have suspected it." Why else would they ask FID to come to their rescue so fortuitously?

"Then what did you do?"

"We investigated Tolliver and several of his cronies. We've arrested them earlier this evening."

"Tolliver?"

"We lost him."

"And Prince?"

Sharon sighed mightily. "Gone."

Brenda looked at her, long and hard. Sharon knew that stare, inquisitive and uncomfortably scrutinizing. "So, what's all this?" The blonde gestured to the burnt down building, the hoard of firemen, police officers, ambulances, SWAT team, riot van...and Provenza with the tape.

Sharon swallowed her initial response, her obvious failing laid out before her and highlighted by the crass flash of police lights.

She decided not to say anything. There was no answer, really, that would even remotely satisfy Brenda. But what ever did? There were always more questions.

"You know what?" Brenda said. "How 'bout I see if we just found your Mr. Tolliver and then we talk."

"Okay," Sharon said softly, her throat sore, and watched Brenda walk into the storm.

It was three hours later that Sharon received the news that it was indeed Tolliver. She didn't hear it from Brenda but Morales who had identified what was left of the man's teeth as those of Jason Tolliver. He was burnt to a mere crisp, no fingerprints, and it was only a matter of DNA to make it all official.

Sighing inwardly, Sharon put her phone away and focused on the goings on in Interview 2. Porter and Jenkins were questioning Officer Pratt, a young beat cop.

Everyone had lawyered up, and they had gotten nowhere. It seemed futile.

Sharon's mind wandered back to earlier...or should she say yesterday. She was glad Brenda hadn't asked how she knew the 'where' and 'when' yet the Chief's dismissive attitude gave her pause. Did the blonde know something that Sharon didn't?

She once overheard Brenda saying that she never asked questions she didn't know the answers to. Sharon tried to cling to that, stupidly, in the hopes that she could somehow get ahead of this. First though, she would need to figure out what exactly happened.

The 'when and 'where' didn't matter, not in the big scheme of things. What mattered, Sharon thought, was how Prince knew.

And more importantly, who had told him?

It was just after 7 in the evening when her phone rang. Sharon had taken her first bite out of a soggy sandwich, her first meal, if you could call it that. She had been home briefly, right after leaving the crime scene, to change and wash the stench out of her hair.

"Please, tell me you have him, Sergeant," Sharon said immediately, dumping the sandwich in the trash.

"I have him," Elliott said on the other end of the line. "I took him to a motel on Vermont."

"Perfect!" Sharon leaned back in her chair and breathed a sigh of relief. "Did you tell anyone?"

There was a brief pause. "Shouldn't I have?"

Perhaps she should have worded it differently, Sharon thought, but Elliott she had to trust.

"I haven't," he said quietly and Sharon was inclined to believe him

"Keep it that way." Biting her lip, she ended the call. Leaning back in her chair, Sharon contemplated her next course of action. There were too may pieces of the puzzle still missing, and Sharon began to wonder whether she would ever see the completed picture.

Sighing, she stepped out into the bullpen and picked up the phone records they had accquired last week...before it all went to hell. Elliott's desk was meticulously organized; he was a very organized guy, a quality she appreciated.

Detective Samuels' desk, littered with rumpled pieces of paper, pens that had long stopped working, files hazardly piled on top of one another, the half eaten donut, and the banana and apple he had brought in last week but had never eaten, created a juxtaposition so stark, Sharon always thought it made the mess of the one and the order of the other seem like two extremes.

Across, the two desks were occupied by Lieutenant Walter Peck, who had worked in FID for almost as long as she had, and Detective Julie Michaels, the new addition. She seemed to fit in and Sharon was grateful for it.

Detective Ben Acardi, her trustworthy tech whiz, occupied the largest space. He had three computers and he reigned over the printer.

Sharon suddenly felt quite queasy. They were all so, so trustworthy. She wanted to blame Michaels, she was new, and Sharon didn't feel as attached but how could she? She wasn't even sure, really.

Frowning, she gazed over the contents of Detective Bradley's desk, and Detective Osiecki's, and began to wonder what she actually knew about them. She knew Osiecki was catholic. They had discussed it once, at Christmas, when he had displayed a menorah. His father was jewish, so he celebrated both.

Walter, she knew, was divorced twice. He loved sports, or rather watching it. He went to basketball games, and football, and sometimes went to see the Dodgers play. He had a massive TV, or so Elliott had said.

Now Elliott, her right hand man, was a sweetheart. He reminded her of her own son in a way. He wasn't seeing anyone, Sharon could tell, not that she'd ever ask. He loved his mother very much and went to dinner at her house frequently. She had never heard him speak of his father.

Sharon sighed yet again and dropped the phone records onto her desk. Sergeant Elliott was supposed to go over them again tomorrow morning but she suspected he wouldn't catch a wink of sleep tonight babysitting their informant.

Plopping into her chair and opening the folder, Sharon realized she hadn't slept either. Just that nap at 4 in the morning, when she had hit a wall of exhaustion. Before her eyes, the words and numbers started swimming until it all turned into a garbled mess.

She also hadn't eaten, Sharon thought, and she couldn't remember when she last had a decent meal.

She couldn't think. And the more she tried, the less sense it all made.

But then, as she rubbed her tired eyes, the answer, so obvious, magically appeared.