Disclaimer: I do not own Crossing Jordan.

Note: This time I'll be short and only thank the people who took time to r&r, which is something I really appreciate. So: Mexwojo, NDRedSoxfan14, BugFan4Ever and lbcjfan, thank you, guys! :) And a thank you to ruth609, too.

"Say, luv," Nigel asked casually, "what are you doing tonight?"

Jordan shrugged. "Nothing special. Grab some Chinese, watch a movie."

"Alone?" he asked slowly, looking at her attentively so as not to miss her reaction.

Jordan, who had just finished stitching up Madison Moore, took off her gloves, irritated. This was a hell of a day and she wasn't in the mood for her colleague's usual questions & answers. Especially since she knew exactly where this was going.

"Nigel, if you wanna say something, just say it," she told him, tossing the gloves into the trashcan with a little more force than usually.

Naturally, Nige wasn't in the least bit put off by this obvious sign of her annoyance. There wasn't a thing in the world that he loved more than good, juicy gossip. His friends sometimes thought that his passion for technology stemmed from the fact that, using all those expensive toys, he could find out anything about anyone.

"You know, luv," he started, but somewhat cautiously since he didn't overlook the fact that about half a dozen different scalpels and knives were still within Jordan's reach. And she did have an enormous knowledge of forensics. "The rumor has it that you and our dear Woodrow… well, have proceeded to the next level, so to speak." He grinned at her, eager for her comment on that. He – well, and the rest of the shift, actually – had been suspecting it for a while, but Jordan's answers to everything concerning her love life were more than cloudy. If they came at all, that is. Everybody knew Jordan could be unbearably vague when she wanted to, but they would usually get her to really talk sooner or later. Not this time, though.

Ignoring the glow of curiosity in Nigel's wide open eyes, she said shortly and matter-of-factly:

"I'd say the rumor's right." She tucked a curl behind her ear and turned to leave.

"I thought we were friends." Nigel's voice stopped her. She turned around. That was just what she had expected and she didn't feel like having that conversation right now. But she couldn't just leave now the words had been spoken. She couldn't simply leave them lingering in mid-air.

He gave her a puppy-dog look. The truth was that he was a little hurt by her apparent lack of trust earlier and reluctance to talk now. However, he was aware of the fact that he wasn't on many people's (if anybody's) short list of confidants. After all, breaking to Woody, and consequently to Jordan, that Pollack was going to propose wasn't the biggest trouble his big mouth had gotten himself or another person into. So, first and foremost, Nigel was plain curious. Not that he had played on the friendship card on purpose – he had said that without premeditation. But when Jordan didn't leave, he saw it would serve him well.

"Look, Nige," she started, not sure how to continue. When she had been explaining it to herself, or even to Woody, it sounded logical. Now she felt it had been a really stupid thing to do. Keeping their relationship secret couldn't work for a long time. It was a miracle that it had worked even this long with people like Seely or Nigel, who were always ready to stick their noses in other people's business, around.

"It's been only two weeks. You would have found out eventually. The thing is…," she finally resumed. "… well, the thing is that, keeping my track record in mind,… heck, keeping our track record in mind, we – I didn't want anybody to know for now. I didn't want either of us to be constantly under the microscope at work or be pitied by the entire precinct and the morgue when… if we screwed it up before we'd even begun," her voice was low, thick with emotion. "And the history of our dysfunctional relationship tells us we're bound to do that. Soon."

Tears welled up in both of their eyes. Most people wouldn't believe it, but Nigel was a hopeless romantic.

"Oh, c'mon now, luv," he comforted her, feeling guilty that he'd brought the matter up, "it's not going to happen this time."

Stifling a tear, Jordan smiled insecurely. Each time during those two weeks that she would feel overwhelmed with happiness, finally fully enjoying being Jordan Cavanaugh, loving and being loved back for the first time in her life (as far as Tom Crane was concerned, she'd realized some time ago that she had been madly in love then and that she loved now), that little voice she knew too well would start talking.

"Enjoy it, for it's not gonna last much longer," the voice would say. And she would confidently reply in the same words Nigel just used, "It's not gonna happen this time." But, in fact, she wasn't sure.

Nigel was deeply touched. Seeing Jordan Cavanaugh on the very verge of tears was by no means common. Most people who knew her didn't believe she was actually able to cry.

"You really love him, don't you, luv," he observed softly.

A little, indefinable smile on her lips, she just nodded.

Then the door opened unceremoniously and Nigel grinned, exclaiming:

"Speak of the devil!" He turned to Jordan, whose face had lit up. "I'll wheel her to Crypt, luv. If you need me, I'll be in Trace. I have some unfinished business there… Woodrow." He patted Woody on the back as he was passing by, thinking how happy the detective was to have somebody like Jordan, somebody who truly loved him. That was something Nigel didn't have, he couldn't even see having that anywhere in the reasonably near future, either. They heard him sigh while he was leaving Autopsy Two.

"Where did that and that devil thing come from?" Woody asked, smiling. "Discussing yours truly with Nigel?" He was curious.

"Well," she smiled back, "that's not very surprising, is it? I mean, keeping in mind what happened this morning. No wonder Mr. Gossip is interested."

"Hey," he teased, "nobody made you answer my landline at 5 am."

Her eyes narrowed in an attempt to a venomous look, but there was a smile on her lips.

"As if I had a choice." She rolled her eyes at him. "You sleep like a rock. Hundreds of smoke alarms wouldn't wake you up. And it's not like I was able to sleep with your snoring-"

"Whoa, Jordan, I do not snore," he protested.

"Besides," she ignored his remark, "why weren't you on your beloved side of the bed?"

"Because, Jordan, you tend to occupy whichever side you like best at the moment," he leaned forward, "and I don't care what side of a bed I'm on as long as you are in that bed," she heard his whisper.

She closed her eyes, expecting a kiss, but all that came was a clang followed by:

"That would be really creepy."

Half-annoyed, half-amused, she asked for explanation.

"Making out in Autopsy," came the reply as Woody was putting a couple of scalpels back onto the table. They had hit the floor when he practically jumped back, having been reminded by Jordan's scrubs where they were.

"Oh, ok, if you're gonna be picky about it," she rolled her eyes again, "then, what about a dinner at my place?" she flashed him a smile.

Reluctantly, he shook his head:

"Not tonight. I'll have to stay at work. For one thing, I still haven't talked to the Moores." Seeing the question in her eyes, he explained: "They're coming back from California this evening. Some private eye contacted them yesterday, saying that Madison was spotted in Santa Monica. They rushed there."

She nodded solemnly. It wasn't fair. Madison Moore was young, beautiful, rich. And, maybe most importantly, she was incredibly talented – she was one of the most brilliant young scientists in the country. It seemed like she had a wonderful life ahead of her. Yet she died in such a heinous way. Jordan was angry. Whoever did it was a monster and she wanted his head.

"I'm still totally in the dark," Woody continued. "I've been asking around a little about that flower and it seems that flower shops don't really sell that kind of stuff."

"That's hardly surprising," Jordan seized the opportunity when he made what seemed like a dramatic pause. "I mean, who would want such a thing for their Valentine's Day or wedding. Not even for the funeral," she exhausted her list of the occasions when she thought giving or receiving flowers was acceptable. She didn't really care about cut, lifeless flowers. If she had to, she'd choose pot-plants over them. Not that she really cared about pot-plants, either.

"Yeah, well." Woody smiled at her, wondering for a nanosecond how he could have been so stupid as to send her flowers before her surgery. That had been a disastrous decision; he should have known better. "You would be surprised. Actually, there are people who are profoundly unhappy with the fact that it's still impossible to grow completely black dahlias."

Jordan shot him an incredulous look, opening her mouth to express her opinion on those lunatics, but then she just sighed. She should have known better after all these years in the ME's office. There were a lot of weird, to put it mildly, people out there.

"So they still have to be satisfied with purplish-black ones," Woody resumed, concluding that she was not going to talk after all. "Like the one we found in Moore's hair, but not exactly. A couple of people I talked to were thrilled to see such a dark one. So, I think our guy knows what he's doing. Maybe he's a botanist, a gardener, a florist." He paused. "But it still doesn't help us." He sighed.

Jordan nodded. "There are thousands of people in Boston who'd fit into one or all of those categories." She bit her lip; it wasn't her intention to make it sound so hopeless. Woody was already having a hard time.

"Don't sweat it." He waved his hand, noticing her gesture. "I've already reached that conclusion myself," he bravely made an attempt to smile. "Anyway, do you have anything?"

It was her turn to sigh.

"The TOD is around 4 am. COD - hemorrhage and shock due to concussion of the brain and lacerations of the face." Seeing the question written over his face, she nodded, "Yes, those lacerations the sick son of a bitch made from the corners of her mouth to her cheeks." The very thought of it made her sick. And pissed off. Nobody had the right to do something like that to another human being. She wanted this guy. Badly.

"Nigel has found us Elizabeth Short's autopsy report," she talked again after a couple of seconds. "There are many similarities. For example, neither of the girls was raped. But there are some discrepancies, too. Beth didn't have any burn marks, while Madison has some. Then," she felt sick again, "there was grass in Beth's vagina and some granular substance, mostly feces, in her abdomen. We haven't found either, thank God, if I may say so."

She was quiet for some time. When she spoke again, her voice was low, but trembling with anger:

"Woody, I really want this guy." She was shaken up more than usually.

"Me too," he retorted grimly.

The Moore's mansion at Beacon Hill made Woody feel uncomfortable. Amidst that entire splendor, he again felt like a chubby, stammering kid from Kewaunee, Wisconsin. Sitting onto a chair which probably cost more than he'd ever earn, he decisively shook those thoughts off. It wasn't the time to think about his insecurities. It was the time to focus. This conversation could be the first signpost to whoever killed Madison Moore. He doubted it, but still.

"I know this is tough, Mr. Moore," he addressed the man opposite him. Mrs. Moore was obviously not able to talk. She seemed completely lost in thought, staring at one point ever since Woody had come in, and probably long before that. At the same time, she was tearing a lace handkerchief into pieces, completely unaware of doing so. Woody was positive that she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and he fully understood why.

"Do you know anybody who would want to hurt Madison?" he continued.

Mr. Moore, a lanky, charismatic man in his sixties, shook his head even before the detective finished his question.

"Our daughter is… was-" His voice broke. It took him some time to regain his composure. "Madison was a very private person. She only had a couple of childhood friends. All girls. She was engaged to her job, she practically lived for Petri dishes and all those impossible-to-remember-their-names funny substances. There was a boy, though. A year or so ago. Millie would know better." He looked at his wife gently, but she didn't give any signs of being aware that there was anybody except her in the room. "It didn't work out. But he's a good kid. Simon, Simon Willoughby. His father is my business partner. He's known Madison since she was born. He's some four or five years older. As I told you, detective, Madison was a very private person. She didn't go out much. Her mother would manage to talk her into going to one of those cocktail parties every month or two. Millie has a scrapbook somewhere with all Maddie's appearances in social column," he smiled. "She thought that was the way to persuade her to go out more – showing her how beautiful she looked in the newspaper. Poor Millie," he sighed, "she was still hoping to have a bunch of grandchildren one day. We both were."

After a couple of more questions, Woody said goodbye. Outside the house, he sighed in frustration. He wasn't a step closer to the killer. He was still groping in the dark.