True Believers

by cheride

It should’ve been a fun-filled weekend in Vegas, but he had to settle for bank robbery, kidnapping, and jail time. Mark’s vacations never go as planned.

2. Part 2

Chapter 4

The first real break in the case—if you discounted the confession from Mark McCormick—came just a couple of hours after Lieutenant Harper had reclaimed his office. He fielded the return phone call from his contact in Miami and was rewarded with a name.

"He's been going by the name Randall Conroy for a while now," said the voice on the other end of the line, "but the folks up in Pinellas County say his name is Rodrigo Costa. Hired gun for the organized families up there, and he plays it anyway they want. Doesn't seem to make any difference to him if he kills, maims, or just scares the bejesus out of someone. And he's strictly freelance; no particular affiliation with anyone, which is a little bit unusual among that crowd; makes him something of a strange one."

"Makes him pretty damn dangerous, I'd say," Harper replied.

"That, too. Anyway, folks down here say he dropped out of sight four or five months ago. They thought maybe someone finally took him out, but I guess he just decided it was time to try the other coast for a while."

"Lucky us. Okay, well at least this gives us a place to start. I'll contact Pinellas if we need anything else. Thanks for all your help."

The phone rang again almost immediately; the second call nowhere near as positive, but one he'd been expecting for several hours now.

"Your clock is ticking, Lieutenant," a voice said sternly.

"You said twenty-four hours," Harper reminded the man.

"Which gives you less than eight remaining. Do you have anything for me yet?"

Frank sent up a silent prayer for good timing; if this call had come first, things would've been a lot more tense. "I got a name." No sense being too specific about where the information came from; better if the big boys think McCormick was finally cooperating. "Randall Conroy, AKA Rodrigo Costa. Hired gun out of Florida originally; mainly organized work."

"Well, that's something at least," and Frank was glad the man sounded at least slightly appeased. "But we still haven't found him."

"My guys are still looking; your guys are looking. We'll find him." Then he added, "We'll find them both. McCormick will do the right thing." He tried not to think about the idea that McCormick already thought he was doing the right thing.

"You have seven and a half hours," was the last thing he heard before the line went dead.

The detective hung up the phone with a heavy sigh and thought for a moment, then decided to make the trek down to the confinement area. He hoped he'd have a plan of attack by the time he got there.

When a young officer let him into the dim cell, he wasn't surprised to see that McCormick wasn't sleeping, though he'd wanted to be wrong about that. He didn't get a chance to express his concern.

"I thought maybe you were done with me for a while," McCormick said sullenly. "If you're trying to show me how long days can be in here, trust me; I don't need that lesson."

"I didn't figure that was anything you were likely to forget," Harper told him, as he leaned against the door, "though there's never anything wrong with a little reality check just for a refresher."

Mark rolled his eyes. "Did you want something?"

"I want a lot," the lieutenant said calmly, not responding to the bitterness, "but I don't seem to be getting much of it from you. Though I did get a name on your friend, Randall. Turns out one thing you haven't been lying about is the fact that he's out of state talent."

"I've been tellin' the truth about more than you think," McCormick replied, though Harper didn't think he put much effort into selling that particular point. "But if you know who he is, does that mean you found him?"

Harper shook his head. "Nah. Got some information from a guy down in Florida, so I guess I ought to thank you for pointing me in the right direction on that."

"I just hope you can find him. The guy really is dangerous."

"Maybe it'll help, maybe it won't," Harper answered with a shrug, "but it sure can't hurt." He waited a long moment then asked, "If we do manage to pick him up, will you give us the other guy?"

McCormick smiled grimly. "Randall's dangerous, but he's a hired hand. He's not the real threat to Hardcastle."

The officer hadn't been expecting such a straight-forward response, but he didn't let his surprise slow him down. "Has it occurred to you," he asked suddenly, "that you haven't yet been questioned by any federal agents?"

"I had sort of wondered about that," McCormick said warily.

"So far they've been content to let us—me—deal with you, but they're not going to have much more patience, and frankly, I don't blame them. You're telling me that there are two guys out there somewhere who not only ripped off a bank, seriously injuring a man in the process, but who also present an ongoing threat to the life of a retired superior court judge, and you don't think it's important enough to give up their identities. Honestly, I think the feds couldn't care less about Milt, but there's an awful lot of federally insured money still floating around out there, and right now, you're the only link to it they've got. If you don't give me something soon, they're going to come swooping in here and seriously make your life a living hell."

Mark spread his hand across the small distance that separated him from Harper. "You mean as opposed to this picnic in the park that you've arranged for me?"

"I'm not fooling around."

"And neither am I," McCormick snapped. "Don't come in here and start leaning on me, Frank, because it isn't gonna work. If I was worried about anything you—or the feds—could throw at me, I wouldn't've come back here in the first place; I woulda just taken my money and disappeared."

And Frank had to wonder how someone could be so strictly logical while still being so incredibly lame-brained all at the same time. If they all got through this even mostly intact, he thought he might have to point out to the kid how truly infuriating that could be. For now, he thought maybe he should just bring him up to speed, keep him talking.

"So Randall—though his name's really Rodrigo Costa, not that it matters—is a freelancer for the mob."

"Really?" Mark raised an eyebrow. "Well, I don't suppose that surprises me all that much."

"And why is that?"

But that was as far as the conversation got before McCormick seemed to realize that he'd already said more than he intended. His face was suddenly the picture of innocence and he gave a lazy shrug. "I dunno. Just seemed awfully professional, I guess."

Harper studied the other man for a moment, decided he wasn't buying it, but then decided it wouldn't do any good to push it. "Okay," he said, "that's really all I know for now. I just wanted to let you know that we're working on something of a deadline here if you hope to keep this even remotely friendly. The federal boys are not going to appreciate the secrets that you keep."

McCormick nodded his understanding. "Thanks for the warning, but it really doesn't change anything." Then he looked around hopefully. "Think they'll be so mad they'll stick me out in general population just to teach me a lesson?"

Harper shook his head. "It's still my jail," he said with a small, humorless smile. Then he rapped quickly on the door. "Maybe," he continued, as the door swung open to release him, "you ought to spend some time thinking about just how many levels of the government you want to piss off at once." Then he let the steel clang closed behind him, without giving McCormick a chance to respond.

00000

McCormick only realized that he had finally fallen asleep when he was awakened by a sudden slash of light that came through his now open cell door and a brusque voice that bellowed, "On your feet, McCormick!"

He didn't have to give it much thought as he instinctively obeyed the authority in the tone and pushed himself up off the cot to stand waiting for . . . whatever was coming next. Then the officer approached, stopped far too close for personal comfort, and spoke far too loudly for such close quarters. "Now turn around, and give me your hands."

Mark forced himself not to sigh as he complied. He felt the handcuffs being roughly applied, and figured this was just another one of Harper's 'reality checks'. Up to this point, the officers that had been responsible for shepherding him around the facility had been models of courtesy, and had obviously been informed that he wasn't any type of a danger, as no restraint of any kind had been used. He was pretty sure it was SOP when moving guys from the detention blocks back over to the interrogation areas, though, even without cuffs, he had to believe the opportunity for escape was pretty minimal. And, of course, he thought it ought to be clear to everyone by now that escape was the last thing on his mind. Still, as he felt the beefy hand pull on his arm and heard the almost shout say, "Let's move," he had to admit that Harper would get a few style points for the way he chose to deliver his message.

As they ambled through the seemingly endless corridors, moving from the confinement areas back over to the operational end of the facility, McCormick was watching the activity, trying to figure out just what time of day it was. Alone in a confinement cell, with no routine to judge by other than three meals a day, time pretty much lost its meaning, and once you fell asleep, that was it. Until someone came through the door again, there was just no way to determine, and Mark hated it. He'd tried asking his escort early in their journey, only to be told 'Time for you to shut up', and then the officer had laughed to himself like he was going to be the Next Big Thing. McCormick had shut up.

Now he walked silently, gathering his own information. It was hard to tell much from the detention blocks, especially since they had only barely skirted the general population cells, but it hadn't yet been lights out, so it obviously wasn't as late as it felt to him. On the other hand, now that they'd moved back into the police station proper, he could tell that it was definitely well past normal business hours. There wasn't the bustle of important-looking suits, or the milling about of dozens of clueless citizens. This was just the routine of cops going about their business, carried on with the air of people who knew full well that crime was not a nine-to-five operation. All in all, he thought it would be a lot easier if they'd just hang a clock in the hallway. Still, he was guessing maybe only seven-thirty, even though it felt like about a hundred hours had passed since Frank had sent him back to that hell-hole.

But even seven-thirty was kind of late for a typical interrogation, and he would've thought Frank would be long gone by now, which was starting to give him a bad feeling about this excursion. But he didn't have much time to consider the full ramifications before they arrived at the door to the room he was beginning to think of as a second home. He tried to stifle the sigh as the officer reached to push open the door then steer him inside. But he stopped short as he saw the assembled faces around the table, all staring at him expectantly. Harper was there after all, but more surprising was seeing Hardcastle next to him. And next to the judge were two unfamiliar men in gray suits.

Feds, McCormick immediately decided. He thought it was probably going to be a long night.

"This is the one causing all the trouble?" one of the federal agents asked, giving Mark a quick glance. McCormick thought this wasn't the time to be offended by the obviously disdainful tone. But still, he'd always hated being questioned by the superior type.

"This is Mark McCormick," Harper said, his unusually formal tone causing Mark just a bit more worry. "Mark, these are Agents Walsh and Carruthers."

McCormick nodded once, silently, then shifted slightly to allow his escort to remove the handcuffs, but they both froze when a stern voice said, "Leave them."

Everyone was suddenly staring at Agent Walsh. Then the uniformed officer shifted his gaze to Harper. "Lieutenant?"

"Don't ask him," Walsh snapped. "I said leave them."

McCormick saw the grimaces on the faces of Harper and Hardcastle, but he understood the idea that once the federal guys moved in, they started throwing their weight around in some of the strangest ways. So he wasn't surprised when Harper shook his head once at his officer, then jerked a thumb quickly toward the door to dismiss him.

He was surprised, though, when the door had no sooner closed than Harper stood and rounded the table, then moved to begin removing the handcuffs himself.

"Harper . . ." Walsh began dangerously.

Harper didn't slow his movements. "He's still my prisoner," he told the agent, "and this is still my facility. You want to fill out the paperwork to move him to a federal detention center? I'll be glad to sign off on it. But in the meantime, here, we restrain prisoners as a function of security, nothing else." McCormick thought that might be just a little bit hypocritical, all things considered, but this wasn't the time to make that point.

Harper slipped the cuffs into his pocket, and motioned McCormick toward a chair. "This man doesn't present a threat," he concluded, then he moved to reclaim his own seat, offering no further explanation.

McCormick took his seat silently, grateful for the intervention, and suddenly hoping that Harper would understand that he really hadn't intended to put anyone into the middle of a turf war. Though, he supposed, he ought to've seen that coming. An ex-con who happened to be in the current employ of a retired judge, and who also—by the strangest series of events—had managed to befriend a local police detective, and then decided to commit a federal felony . . . Yeah, he probably should've realized there might be some jurisdictional tension.

But though Walsh frowned slightly, he seemed to take the dissension in stride. "So, McCormick," he began, "let me make sure my program is up to date. You've confessed to the robbery at First National. You admit you didn't work alone, but—even though Lieutenant Harper seems to be a friend of yours—you're refusing to cooperate and release the names of the others involved. And this man," he waved a dismissive hand in the direction of the judge, "claims to be your attorney, even though I spoke with a man named Walt Lazenby just earlier today. Do I have everything straight?"

"That's not a bad start," McCormick answered coolly. "I have confessed to the crime, but to be clear, it's not that I'm refusing to name names, it's that I don't have names to give. And as for Judge Hardcastle . . ." McCormick hesitated briefly. He still didn't like the idea of having the man around for any of this, but he suddenly found that he liked the idea of demeaning him—even a little bit—in front of the arrogant Walsh even less. "He is part of my defense team," he continued confidently, "and I prefer to be represented during any interrogation."

Walsh's frown grew, but he apparently knew better than to challenge a prisoner's right to representation, regardless of what he might think about the particulars. He simply nodded his understanding.

And then Carruthers was speaking for the first time. "So you don't know the names of your co-conspirators," he said to McCormick, as he opened a file folder, "but I understand that you were introduced to them through what you refer to as," he glanced down, "a 'mutual friend'?"

"That's correct," Mark replied, carefully not looking across the table at Hardcastle. This was the weakest point in an altogether weak story, and the only point on which he couldn't claim ignorance, but had to simply refuse to cooperate. That was dangerous under any circumstance, but he certainly wasn't comfortable with his parole officer watching him lie to federal agents and deliberately stonewall their investigation.

"Then, logically, this mutual friend knows who they are."

"No doubt," Mark agreed.

"Then give us that name," Walsh chimed in, "and it'll make things look a lot better for you."

"Can you make bank robbery look better?" McCormick wondered innocently.

"It could help," Hardcastle interjected, and McCormick shot him an evil glare, wishing that the man wouldn't try to play his part.

"I'm not involving my friend," the young man said firmly.

There was a moment of silence, and then Walsh said suddenly, "What is it that you want, McCormick?"

McCormick arched an eyebrow. "Meaning what, exactly?"

"Meaning exactly that," Walsh responded smugly. "A guy like you, there's always an angle; always a price. It's easier if you just tell me up front what it is, then we'll know if we can negotiate."

With a small shake of his head, McCormick pinched at the bridge of his nose. "Okay, let me make sure my program is up to date. You're asking me my price for selling out a friend?"

"Yes."

McCormick could feel his face reddening, and he saw his own indignant anger mirrored on the faces of his friends. Knowing that Walsh was just trying to push his buttons didn't seem to be much more of a comfort for them than it was for him. But, of course, this was only the beginning, and they all knew it was only going to get worse. He forced a civil tone.

"You can't afford me."

But Walsh didn't seem impressed. "Come on, McCormick. You're a two-time loser looking at a minimum of twenty years in a federal facility. You've got a price."

Suddenly, McCormick wasn't nearly as concerned with the agent's insinuations against his character, as he was his choice of words. Hardcastle jumped on it, too.

"Minimum?" the judge asked.

"We want everyone involved," Walsh told him matter-of-factly.

"You want the money," Hardcastle contradicted.

"That would do."

"But I don't have the money," McCormick objected.

"And we believe that," Carruthers said. "So you should give us a name."

This was a pretty subtle approach to good cop/bad cop, McCormick thought, but he couldn't shake the memory of Walsh's carefully placed words.

Even Harper was looking worried, but it was Hardcastle who pursued the point. "And if he doesn't?"

"We'll be pursuing maximum charges."

"The assault?"

"Among other things."

"I didn't do anything else," Mark said, not bothering to take the time to deny the assault. This had the potential to go downhill very quickly.

"What you did is going to be more than enough," Carruthers said, not unkindly.

"Yeah. See, we've been talking to our lawyers, too," Walsh added. "To begin with, there's the issue of obstruction of justice."

"You can't prosecute him for the way he chooses to handle his defense," Hardcastle objected angrily.

"Protecting the name of an uninvolved party isn't a viable part of any defense strategy; it's obstruction, plain and simple. And it carries a five year sentence."

"If you can make it stick," Harper muttered.

"What else have you got?" Hardcastle prompted.

"Then there's a little problem with the FDIC." Walsh consulted his own file briefly. "If I understand it, before you and your friends actually carried out the robbery, you went on a little reconnaissance mission to examine the bank's security systems?"

McCormick glanced quickly across at Hardcastle, though he already knew the answer. No sense denying something he'd already confessed to. Besides, there were pictures. "So?" he asked warily.

"And in order to facilitate that research, you had to call off the officially scheduled inspection?"

"You've read his statement," Hardcastle interrupted, holding out a cautionary hand toward his client. "What is your point?"

"Well, you see," Walsh began smugly, "by providing false information to the sanctioned security company, he was, by extension, providing false information to the FDIC. He interfered with their lawful operation. That's another two years."

McCormick thought the man was being too arrogant for just seven extra years, though he couldn't believe his mind could process that as 'just' seven extra years. He supposed that once you resigned yourself to twenty, seven seemed almost inconsequential. But he doubted it would feel that way inside. He grated out the question. "What else?"

"Well, it seems there are a lot of sub-sections in the bank robbery statute." Walsh was almost gloating. "Just entering the building is one offense; actually taking the money is another, and they each carry their own penalty. Together, they're thirty years. Then there's the part about committing an assault while you're committing the robbery. That one's twenty-five."

"You can't successfully prosecute those as separate offenses," Hardcastle said confidently, and Mark felt a small measure of relief.

"Our attorneys are willing to try," Walsh assured him, and Mark's relief vanished. "They admit," he continued slowly, "that separating the actual theft from the break-in might be difficult; they say we might have to settle for a max twenty years on that. But they are confident they can show the assault as a completely separate offense, and one that's severe enough to warrant its own maximum penalty. And," he finished triumphantly, "we're recommending that all the sentences be served consecutively."

McCormick felt the color drain from his face as the words sank in. He barely heard Hardcastle and Harper's immediate cries of disbelief, nor the agent's angry return arguments. Only one thought clamored for attention in his brain, and it was repeating itself incessantly, in rising panic.

Fifty-two years. Fifty-two years. Fifty-two years!

"I can't." The words were quiet. McCormick hadn't even realized he'd spoken aloud. But suddenly the arguments stopped and all eyes stared back at him from the other side of the table. After a few seconds, it was Hardcastle who spoke.

"Of course you can't," the jurist said, and he sounded incredibly relieved. "Just tell them what they want to know."

But McCormick shook his head slowly, then his gaze found Hardcastle's. "I mean I can't, Judge." He paused, then spoke clearly to Agent Walsh. "I don't know the names of the guys with me, and I won't involve my friend."

From the corner of his eye, Mark could see the sadness cross the faces of his friends, but it was Walsh's expression of clear incredulity that held his attention. He found he could take a small measure of satisfaction from confounding the man.

But then Carruthers was speaking again. "Lieutenant Harper has advised us of his theory that there was some coercion involved in securing your participation in this crime, Mr. McCormick. And his further belief that your refusal to cooperate is due to fear of reprisals from the other perpetrators. Do you have any comments on that?"

It was McCormick's turn to stare, though his was directed not at the agent, but toward the other end of the table at Lieutenant Harper.

"You ought to think about answering the man, Mark," Harper said calmly.

McCormick turned back to Carruthers. "I never said that," he said carefully, "and it won't be presented as a defense."

Walsh jumped back into the mix. "Let me be clear about something, McCormick. I don't believe for a minute that you were anything other than a willing participant from the get-go. And my guess is that you've been promised a big chunk of money if you'll just take the fall for the others. That's why you need to think long and hard about the charges we're pursuing. You get out when you're fifty or so, you might still have plenty of time left to spend your take. But we will put you away for fifty years, and even if you survive it, at eighty, all that money isn't going to be worth much. So if you've got something to say, this is the time to say it."

Mark sighed heavily. "And you'll make me a good deal, right? Because you figure every man has his price."

"Don't you?" Walsh challenged.

"Probably," McCormick admitted. "But let me ask you something. Agent Carruthers over there is your partner, right? Now I don't know how long you've been working together, but I'll assume that—like most police officers—your partner is important to you. That you feel some sense of responsibility for his protection, just as he would for you? So my question is, what would it take for you to serve up his head on a platter? When you figure that out—when you come up with a price for that—you come back and see me and we'll see if we can work out a deal. In the meantime, you have my statements."

"That's a dangerous position, McCormick," Walsh said as he rose from his seat. "We've got Costa's name now, and when we find him—and we will—and he starts talking, your opportunity to cut a deal is going to disappear." He turned his attention to Hardcastle. "I suggest you make your client understand." Then he gathered his partner with a look, and the two agents left the room.

"God," McCormick exhaled as soon as the door had closed. He looked across at the judge. "Can they really make that happen?"

"Probably," Hardcastle said evenly.

Mark felt the single word like a sudden fist to the gut, and he closed his eyes and drew in a steadying breath. Then he looked back at the older man. "I'm glad you were here," he said sincerely.

"I would've been here all along," Hardcastle pointed out. "And I will be here as much as you'll let me."

McCormick felt his first genuine smile in days. "I know." But then the smile paled. "But will you let me do what I need to do?"

The judge frowned. "Look, kiddo, this is getting out of hand. Either Frank or the feds really should be able to find this Costa guy, but it might take a while. And my guess is, since he's out here freelancing away from his normal family guys, he's not gonna feel a lot of loyalty to whoever's paying his way, so he probably really will give up the other guy, with the right incentive. And," he added pointedly, "for any normal guy, fifty years behind bars is pretty good incentive."

"But—"

"But nothing," Hardcastle interrupted. "My point is, you're trying to make some kind of sacrifice thinking you can protect me, but eventually, it's all going to come out, whether or not it comes from you. If you're right, if whoever this is really would come after me, then it's going to happen either way. You ending up in jail for the rest of your life isn't going to help. And besides . . ." He hesitated for a long moment, apparently choosing his words carefully.

"Besides what?" McCormick finally encouraged.

"I was just wondering," Hardcastle continued at last, "if he really does come after me, who's gonna watch my back if you're sittin' in a cell?"

Mark's eyes widened. "That's not fair."

"You expecting me to go along with this hare-brained scheme of yours isn't fair," Hardcastle countered. "I just want you to consider the full ramifications."

"But Frank can—"

"I can't keep him under wraps forever," Harper chimed in.

McCormick leaned back and glowered across at the other two men. "You know, I don't need this kind of guilt," he said angrily.

"And neither does he," Harper shot back, gesturing toward the judge. "You need to put an end to this thing."

"I can't end it," Mark said sullenly as he slumped down into his chair. "No matter what I say at this point, nothing's going to change what I did."

Hardcastle leaned forward, jumping on the first sign of weakness. "Listen, McCormick, if you'll just tell the truth, we can at least build a defense around that. You know, those statutes Walsh was throwing around in here, they don't have minimum sentences; he's talking about the maximum—worst case scenarios. They can only make that stick if you let them. If you don't defend yourself, if you don't cooperate, you'll be playing right into their hands. Let me help you make this better."

McCormick thought about that for a long moment. He decided that he appreciated Hardcastle not trying to make any blanket promises about how everything would be okay; making things 'better' was probably the best he could hope for. But he pointed out the obvious. "Making things better might get me a shorter sentence, but it doesn't keep me out of jail, so I still wouldn't be around to help watch your back. Your argument isn't holding a lot of water, Hardcase."

"Dammit, McCormick—"

"Look, Mark," Harper broke in, "you're assuming that if you tell us who they are that we're not going to be able to find them, which would leave Milt in danger and you locked up. But you need to give us this chance. You name these guys, let us get them in custody, we'll have the opportunity to prove the coercion. We'll do that and protect him at the same time."

But suddenly, McCormick shook his head firmly, his resolve returning. "I haven't seen anything yet that makes me believe you'd put this guy behind bars, Frank. I think I need to stick to my earlier statement."

Harper and Hardcastle exchanged a disappointed look, and Hardcastle drew in a breath to continue the argument.

But McCormick held up a staying hand, and grinned fractionally. "Don't make me fire you the same day I hired you, Hardcastle."

The judge pursed his lips tightly for a few seconds, then blew out a breath. "I'm not giving up, ya know," he said, swiping a thumb across his nose.

"Yeah, I figured." McCormick was still grinning. "But I learned being stubborn from you."

Hardcastle harrumphed. "Well I wish you woulda started with a different lesson." He pushed himself to his feet. "You're gonna be okay?" he asked, all pretense gone.

"I'm fine, Judge," McCormick answered, matching the tone, "really."

Harper was rising, too. "I'll have you escorted back to your cell, Mark."

"Okay. But—"

"The same cell," Harper told him staunchly.

Mark sighed soundlessly and didn't push it any further. "Okay."

It was only after his friends disappeared out the door that he realized he really should've asked someone for the time.

Chapter 5

The second break in the case came in the form of another phone call from Florida, patched through to Lieutenant Harper's home just before four the next morning. Harper had passed along his suspicions to the folks in Pinellas County, and pointed out that now would be a fine time for the man to think about returning home; Pinellas had issued an APB; and Randall, AKA Costa, had deplaned from an overnight flight from Los Angeles to Tampa, where he had been immediately taken into custody. Harper secured an assurance that the man would be held for twenty-four hours, and he, in turn, promised that he would have the extradition arranged before the day was over. Then he hung up the phone, whispered an apology to his long-suffering wife, and rolled out of bed.

00000

Frank had decided almost before he'd gotten his clothes pulled on that he would wait for a slightly more reasonable hour before notifying Hardcastle, but that he needed to talk to McCormick right away.

With very little traffic out and about yet, the drive to the office had been quick, and Harper had taken the time to stop for fresh coffee and half a dozen donuts. He'd thought about having McCormick brought to his office—he was genuinely beginning to hate this interrogation room—but then decided that Walsh would never understand that, and that neither he nor his prisoner needed any hint of impropriety. So instead, he sat in the sterile room, waiting for the ex-con to be delivered yet again.

"You know, seriously," the grumbling began as soon as the door opened, "for someone who says they want me to get some sleep, you're sure making that difficult."

Harper grinned slightly and motioned the uniformed officer out of the room.

"But I do appreciate doing it without the cuffs this time," McCormick continued as he slipped into his seat across from the detective.

"I didn't figure you were likely to try and escape."

"I wasn't last time, either," Mark pointed out with a small smile.

But Harper waved that away. "I was trying to make a point; no time for all that right now." He pushed one of the foam cups across the table. "Coffee?"

"Thanks." McCormick took a sip, then nodded approvingly. "So what's up?" he asked, rubbing a hand across his eyes. "And, hey, what time is it, anyway?"

"About five," Harper answered. He pointed at the box on the table. "And there's donuts, if you want 'em." He paused, then fixed a steady gaze on McCormick. It wasn't exactly that he doubted the picture the young man had painted, but he wanted to see the reaction to this news.

"We got Randall." That was all Harper said, then he simply waited.

But if McCormick had any concern over that fact, he was a better actor than Harper would've given him credit for, as relief was the only reaction to be seen.

"Thank God," Mark said. Then he seemed to think of something else. "He wasn't trying anything? Against the judge, I mean?"

"No," Frank assured him, "Hardcastle's fine. He was picked up in Florida."

"Okay, then." He pulled the box closer and lifted the lid, then smiled. "Oh, good; a powdered one. Thanks." He took a bite, then spoke a little thickly. "I suppose this is another bribe. What is it you want at five o'clock in the morning, Frank?"

"It's time for the whole story, Mark," Harper said flatly.

McCormick raised an eyebrow. "Didn't we just have that conversation?"

"Things are different now," Harper explained. "Your window is closing. Let me tell you what's going to happen after we talk. I'm gonna start making phone calls and filling out way too many forms to get the guy extradited back here. And as soon as that happens, there won't be a way to keep it from Walsh."

"He doesn't know already?" McCormick interrupted.

"Nah. We local guys stick together; they called me. Anyway, as soon as he knows the guy's in custody, then he's either gonna have some of his Florida Bureau guys swoop in and take over, or he's gonna hop a plane and take care of it himself. Either way, once Randall's in federal custody, it's not going to take long before he starts looking for a way to better his position. And from where I'm sittin', serving you up as the fall guy is going to be the easiest thing for him to begin with, particularly for the assault. Now, my first question is, when the hospital finally lets me talk to the guard today, is he going to be able to back up your story in that regard?"

"You mean, have I been lying about that, and the guy's gonna blow my story apart?"

"No," Frank huffed, exasperated at the defensiveness, "I mean, did the attack take place in such a manner that he's going to be able to identify his attacker? And, better yet, was he conscious long enough to know you tried to intervene?"

"Oh." Mark looked abashed. "Then, yeah, at least to the first part. He'll be able to ID Randall easy. I don't know about the rest; I was a little preoccupied."

"Okay. Then it's time to get the real story on the record. If you wait until Randall starts talking and then try to refute it, you're going to lose a lot of credibility. We need to hear it now."

"Frank—"

"I know you're worried, Mark. And I can't make you any kind of guarantees. But I can promise you this: if you do this thing, if you let yourself take the fall for this, you are not going to be the only one who suffers. The time when your decisions were all about you ended about six months ago when Milt pulled you out of a cell."

McCormick dragged a hand through his hair. "Again with the guilt? You guys have really got this down pat."

Harper ignored the bitterness. "You think I'm exaggerating?"

"No," McCormick said heavily. "But I think alone is better than dead."

"Do you really?" Harper demanded. "Because I'm pretty sure you've spent the last three days arguing that you'd rather take your chances in general population than be isolated."

"That's not the same thing," Mark said sullenly.

"Just something to think about," Frank told him, "because he doesn't have fifty years."

"There's no way to protect him," McCormick objected.

"We've already got Randall," Harper pointed out. "That's half the battle."

But McCormick shook his head. "Not really. Hired help, I told ya. I'm pretty sure this Black character knows plenty of mob killers."

"Oh yeah?" Harper asked the question mildly, waiting to see what more might be offered, but no further information was forthcoming.

"Sure. Where there's one, there's more, right?"

"Right." Frank let a moment of silence pass, then said, "Maybe we could compromise?"

"I'm always interested in cooperating with my local law enforcement officials. What did you have in mind?"

Harper grinned at the oh-so-proper tone. There was no denying that the kid amused him, though he thought this might not be the best time for such a light-hearted approach.

"If I let you stick to your ridiculous story that you don't know the guy," the detective began, "will you at least go on record with what really happened? You have got to start building your case here, Mark. Milt will tell you that duress is a hard defense to make."

McCormick seemed to be giving that a lot of thought. Finally, his shoulders slumped as he let out a very small sigh. "That wasn't the deal, Frank," he said very quietly.

"You made a deal with him first," Harper said, just as quietly, "so which is more important?"

Mark locked his gaze on the older eyes in front of him. "And what if they kill him?"

"What if they don't? Or, what if they do anyway? Our best chance at stopping them is to know the truth."

McCormick rubbed at his eyes, the confusion obvious on his face. Harper sat silently and let him work through whatever he needed to. Finally, the young man spoke.

"No names," he said firmly. "And I'm not making any promises that I'm going to let it be used as a defense. But . . . I suppose I can tell you how it went down."

"I'll take it," the detective said, and reached into his jacket for his notebook and pen. "Just start at the beginning."

Mark seemed to be thinking that over. "Do you know the last thing he said to me? When I left last Thursday?" And when Harper just shook his head, the kid let out a breath and said, "'Don't do anything stupid, McCormick.'" He shook his own head. "Pretty simple, huh? But I can't even get that right. I'm a little surprised he didn't tell you to turn me over to the feds right from the start."

"You've got that part all wrong," Frank said gently. "He never believed you were guilty, not once. You should know that."

McCormick seemed to relax a little bit at that idea, and smiled slightly. "Made you a little crazy then, didn't he?"

Harper laughed. "A little, yeah. But I should've learned a long time ago not to doubt him."

"Well, can't blame you for that," McCormick said practically, "Gotta go with the percentages."

The thought flashed through the lieutenant's mind that maybe it was that kind of easy acceptance of reality that made him like this kid so much; such a complete lack of pretense was a pretty good foundation for trust. Yeah, he really should not have doubted Hardcastle on this one. He just smiled and tapped his pen on the notebook. "The beginning?"

"Right. So I left the estate and stopped at the grocery store for a few things." He grinned slightly. "It's only a few hours to Vegas, but if something should go wrong, I'd hate to be stranded in the desert without a bag of Bugles or something. Anyway, so I get my stuff; the Coyote's parked just across the street. When I come out of the store, I can see that there's someone kind of bent over the driver's side, but they're not touching it or anything, so I don't think too much about it." He shrugged. "People are always looking at the car, ya know?"

"I can see where it would attract attention," Harper said dryly.

"But I'm not a complete dufus; I hold up a little, and don't just go barreling up to the guy. I called out when I got closer, and the guy straightened up, smiling all friendly like. It was Randall. He called back, and made some comment about the car. I dunno. Maybe I am a dufus. You'd think by now I'd be able to recognize crazy a mile away, much less standing right in front of me." He shrugged in resignation. "But I love to talk about the car. I answered back and walked over right next to him, and the next thing you know, I'm pointing out something about the interior design and he's pointing a gun. Damn. I just never saw it coming. And while I'm trying to decide if there's a way to make a break for it without getting myself or anyone else passing by killed in the process, I feel another gun jammed into my back. Then Black is there, clapping me on the shoulder like we're old friends, making quite the show of it. Now I'm sort of stuck, so I let them lead me back to their own car. Black cuffed me—in front, very smooth, I'm sure no one noticed anything out of the ordinary, even though there must've been a dozen people around—and put me in the front seat. Then he cuffed me again to the door; he was nothing if not thorough. So he takes me and Randall takes the Coyote, and then we end up at the house in La Crescenta. You know, the only thing I was thinking then was that it was sort of strange that they hadn't blindfolded me, or stuck me in the trunk, or something. I figured that was sort of a bad omen, that they let me see both their faces, and their hideout. But that was before I knew they had plans for me.

"Anyway, they took me inside, and told me to call Teddy and tell him the trip was off." McCormick looked across the table, his expression as puzzled as if it were all happening anew. "I still don't know how they knew what they knew, but they had it all. But then Black left me alone with Randall, and for a minute, I thought if there was going to be a chance for escape, that might be it, while it was one on one, even if I was still cuffed and he did still have a gun. I thought about it for a minute, but honestly, Frank, up to that point, I thought it was just your typical kidnapping. You know; do what they say, figure out what they want, find a way out. That's life in the Bat Cave, ya know? I made the call."

"That was the smart thing to do," Harper said.

"I'll tell you, Frank, in retrospect, I'm not sure anything I did was the smart thing to do." Mark drank from his coffee—maybe gathering strength—and then continued. "But, I was going along. Then Black came back into the room, so even if I hadn't wanted to go along, two armed guys against one un-armed, handcuffed guy makes for kinda steep odds. But that's when things started to get interesting. The first thing when he walked in, ol' Blackie looked at Randall and told him, 'it's done; everything is set', and man, he was pretty smug about that. Randall seemed pretty pleased about it, too, and they were talking about it being 'the key to the plan' or something. But they weren't talking to me just yet, so I just kept my mouth shut. But then Randall got sent out of the room, and Black did start talking to me. That's when he told me all about his bank job, and his plans for me in it. I told him he was crazy."

"Ah, well, that might not've been the smart thing to do," Harper interjected, "all things considered."

"He didn't really think so, either," McCormick agreed. "But he did have plans for me, so he settled for a fist to the gut, though I'm pretty sure the gun upside of the head would've been his preference. But I told him you can't very well force someone into robbing a bank; I mean, what's he gonna do? Kill me? Then I can't rob his bank anyway."

"A good point. But taunting the men with the guns should usually be avoided."

Mark nodded solemnly. "True enough. So, that's when he said something about how Hardcastle would disagree with my decision. And, okay, I know what you're gonna say, really not very bright, but I think I might've literally laughed at him. Told him he really didn't know Hardcase as well as he thought if he really believed he'd want his pet ex-con ripping off a bank just to try and stay alive. But that's when he said 'what if it keeps him alive?'.

"You know, I had been kind of talking fast, running my mouth the way I do, just looking for an edge. He stopped me cold with that question. My first thought was that he was bluffing. I mean, I hadn't even been gone two hours yet, and the judge was fine when I left. Not that it hadn't been plenty of time for me to walk into trouble, but it usually takes him at least a little longer."

Harper smiled slightly. The kid really was pretty well adapted to life with Milton C. Hardcastle. What he said was, "So no direct threat up to this point?"

"It came pretty quickly," McCormick responded. "As soon as I asked him what the hell he was talking about, he was pretty clear. He said they had him, and they'd kill him if I didn't go along. I told him flat out I didn't believe him. I mean, seriously, two hours, and for half of that, we'd been in a car driving to La Crescenta. He didn't have time to pull it off. But he just said he knew a lot of people—which is undoubtedly true—and that he and Randall weren't the only ones who knew Hardcastle was alone on the estate that afternoon.

"I dunno. He was so calm about it, like it really didn't matter to him if I believed him or not. And, really, it occurred to me that he might just want an excuse to kill the judge." He let out a sigh. "I couldn't help it; I had to know. So I demanded to talk to him, and that was the beginning of the end."

"But they never really had him."

"I know, Frank, but they were prepared. Black agreed to let me talk to Hardcastle, and he made a phone call. He tells whoever answered to put him on, and then he hands me the phone. It wasn't much of a conversation. All I got out was 'Judge', and then he said 'Whatever they want you to do, McCormick, don't do it. It's just not worth it.' But then the line went dead, like they had taken the phone from him." He shook his head. "It was enough to convince me."

Harper rested his head in his hand, rubbing at his temple. "A recording?" he asked wearily.

McCormick nodded. "But I swear, Frank, it sounded so real." He sighed again. "I told you I was stupid. I deserve whatever they throw at me."

Harper looked up sharply. "No one's blaming you."

"I'm blaming me. 'Don't do anything stupid.' That's what he said. Do you know how many rules he had to bend to let me go on that trip? And then I go walking into this mess. Honestly. I don't know how he trusts me at all sometimes."

"Is that what this is about?" The detective had realized long ago that the kid's ideas could be pretty far out there sometimes, but he certainly hadn't expected anything like this. He rested the pen and looked at the younger man intently. "Look, Mark, I know you're upset about this whole thing, and hell, you've certainly got a right to be, but I need you to wrap your mind around what you are and aren't responsible for, and a couple of guys sticking a gun to your head and forcing you into their scheme doesn't come close to the list of things you need to take on. Milt understands that. And he trusts you now for the same reason he's trusted you all along; you haven't let him down yet.

"On the other hand," Harper continued, "this stunt you're pullin' right now? You do have to take responsibility for that. And while I understand your intentions, I think you're making a mistake. And so does he. But it still isn't about trust." The detective shook his head slightly. "Really, I wish I could tell you it was. Because I think maybe that might be one thing that would make you reconsider."

"So what's stopping you?" Mark asked, the tone suddenly resentful. "You've been laying the guilt on pretty thick so far."

"And I'd do worse, if I thought I could get through that thick skull of yours," Harper shot back at him. "But what I wouldn't do is lie to you; and I sure wouldn't lie to you about that. So if any part of what you're doing is because you think you've already messed things up with him, you need to re-think that, because you couldn't be further from the truth."

McCormick opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He considered the detective for a long moment. What he finally said was, "Sorry. I'm not trying to take things out on you; I'm just a little uptight, I guess."

"Staring down a fifty-year sentence can do that to a guy," Harper said reasonably, "especially an innocent guy. You could still tell me what I want to know." He waited, but when there was no reply, he amended, "Or you could at least finish your story of how it happened."

"Fair enough," McCormick agreed. "Well, like I said, the tape sounded real, so now I was pretty trapped. I wasn't about to do anything to get the judge hurt, so I really did go along. They put me in a suit and gave me a part to play, and we went to the bank for our reconnaissance mission. I told Black up front that what I knew about safes was a pretty hands-on type of learning, and that seeing the thing wasn't likely to do much good, but what he really wanted was information about the security systems that were in place." The young man shrugged. "I am pretty good at that sort of thing—though I'm not entirely comfortable discussing that particular talent with you," he added with a small grin, "and we got the information we needed. In fact, that part went off without a hitch. All we had to do was wait for Friday night.

"And the waiting was kind of strange. We were just sitting around that house, killing time." He gazed over at the detective sincerely. "And I won't lie, Frank; at that point, I really was flat out cooperating. I mean, they didn't have to lock me in a closet or tie me to the bed, or anything. There was no way I was going to try and escape, because I didn't know anything about where the judge was. I would've done just about anything they asked."

"So then Friday night came, and it was time for the heist?" Harper steered him on.

McCormick nodded. "Yeah. And to tell you the truth, that part went pretty smoothly, too. Up until the guard came along. You know, the bank doesn't have their own security; they use the same patrol as the rest of the office building, and he was supposed to be somewhere else entirely right then. We were on our way out, and Randall literally ran right into the guy. He didn't even think twice; just laid into him. Black was content to let Randall go; he'd pulled a gun, but he had it leveled at me. The guard was fighting back, but he was no match. He had finally managed to get to his own gun, but Randall took it from him and bashed him in the head. That's when he went down for the last time. But even then, he just kept kicking the guy, over and over. Finally I decided Black was just gonna have to shoot me, and I went over and tried to pull Randall away. He was in some kind of frenzy or something. I'm tellin' you, the guy is crazy. Anyway, I finally got him away, and once the immediate action had stopped, then Black stepped in and said just to leave the guy, that he was as good as dead, anyway. They were pretty pissed at me by that point; stuck the cuffs on me again, and hauled me out of there and back to the house."

"How'd your prints end up on the gun?"

"What?"

"We found your prints on the guard's gun," Frank clarified.

"Oh, that."

"It's not a minor detail, Mark."

"Of course not. But when I finally decided to make my move against Randall, that really pissed him off. So he was just gonna shoot the guy and be done with it. Up to that point, I'd been sort of trying to tackle him, or shove him away, or whatever, but things were going too far, so I just got in front of him, popped him in the nose, and grabbed the gun away. Then I threw it across the room, though I wish what I'd done was just shoot them both and be done with it."

Harper raised his head sharply, surprised at both the turn of events and the sudden cold bitterness in the tone. "You let them take you again?"

McCormick shrugged. "Still iffy as to whether or not I could've gotten away; there were still two of them. But, Frank, nothing was more important than the judge. If I ran, how was I gonna find him?"

But then Harper focused on the earlier comment. "So you put yourself between a crazy man with a gun and a complete stranger?"

The young man seemed surprised at the question. "Well . . . yeah. I mean, what was I supposed to do? Let him kill the guy? And besides, I figured Black's the boss, right? And he didn't shoot me when I ran across the room to try and pull Randall off the guy, so I figured he probably wouldn't let Randall do it, either. But either way, that guard was laying there, completely helpless, and Randall was still just going at him, and then he's going to shoot him like a dog? Not while I'm there."

Harper smiled, wondering how this kid could ever believe he'd let his mentor down. The need to do the right thing was almost a carbon copy of the irascible jurist. "So they left him, but then Randall took his frustration out on you?"

"Oh, not much. A few punches just to remind me who was in charge; nothing major. Saturday we were waiting around again, but I didn't really understand for what. I really did try to call the hospital, and that really did piss them off even more. Of course, they weren't particularly happy with me, anyway. I just kept asking them what they were keeping me around for. I wanted to talk to the judge. I sure as hell wanted them to let him go. But they just kept saying no to everything. I was really starting to get scared. When they wouldn't make another call, I was so afraid they had done something to him." He shook his head. "Then it would've all been for nothin'. But even though they were being stubborn about everything, I was still getting the feeling they weren't done with me. Black was making some phone calls; I don't know what all he needed to arrange, but I guess he was just taking care of some business.

"Finally, late in the afternoon, they told me the rest of their plan. They were going to leave town, and I was supposed to take the fall for the robbery. They told me they didn't care what kind of story I used, as long as I didn't name names. And . . . as long as I didn't try to deny my own involvement. That's when they first showed me the pictures of the judge, and told me how easy he was to get to, any time they wanted. They had dozens of 'em, Frank. All over town. Hell, even a couple at the courthouse, where you'd think he should be safe. And in every one of them, one of them was in the picture, too. It was a fairly effective way to make a point."

"The pictures we saw only had Randall in them," Harper interrupted.

McCormick nodded. "Yeah. You've got the collage thing, but that's not even half of all the photos they had. And as for it only being Randall, that's because he's the second fall guy." He shrugged. "I don't know if he even knows it, but it seemed pretty clear to me."

Harper was busy taking notes again and motioned Mark to continue.

"Okay, so if they were threatening him still, then I figured that had to mean he was still alive, which was really the only thing I was thinking about at first, but then it all sort of started to sink in what they were asking me to do. I mean, not just go to jail for the rest of my life, but let Hardcastle believe that I was actually guilty. Or guiltier. Whatever. You know what I mean. I should've seen it coming, I guess. He'd told me from the beginning that he didn't really care if I went down for the deal; that's why he didn't let me wear gloves, and why he served me up front and center for the photo ops at the bank. I knew he wanted to cause trouble, but it never occurred to me just how much. Man, he really hates—"

Harper looked up from his notes again. "Hates who?" he asked when Mark was silent for a couple of seconds. "Which one of you?"

"Both of us, I guess," McCormick said non-specifically. "He wants me in prison for the rest of my life, and he wants Hardcastle to think I deserve it."

"So, what? He told you to just waltz up to the police station and turn yourself in?"

"I dunno. I think he probably thought I'd wait for someone to come after me. In fact, he told me I could—" McCormick broke off again.

"Could what?" the detective prodded.

Mark picked at a donut, not looking back at the other man. When he spoke again, he seemed annoyed, though Harper had the impression it was mostly self-directed.

"Dammit, Frank, I'm not supposed to be telling you all this stuff. Aren't you listening? I'm just supposed to take a fall."

"Well, you're doing a pretty good job, really. If you don't give him up, and don't try and build a defense, then he'll never know the difference. But I thought you wanted us to know the truth?"

"Yeah, I guess. For what it's worth." He was still picking at the donut with one hand, the fingers of the other drumming on the table nervously. He looked around the room suddenly. "Hey, is anyone gonna come through that door and shoot me if I stand up?"

Harper glanced at the door himself, surprised, but then processed the question. He himself hadn't laid down any of the standard directives about the prisoner remaining in his seat, but, of course, Mark didn't really need to be told the rules. "No," he assured the ex-con. "You're not a—" he hesitated a split second and then settled for, "a typical prisoner."

McCormick grinned slightly as he pushed back from the table. "Good." He rose from the chair, paced for a few steps, then propped himself against a wall. The grin grew. "Much better. Thanks."

Harper gave his head a single shake, and grinned ruefully across the room. While it hadn't occurred to him to lay down the rules, it also hadn't occurred to him to tell the kid they didn't all apply. "You shoulda said something earlier. Now, you wanna tell me what else it was this Black character said you could do besides show up on my doorstep and start spinning fairy tales?"

"Run," Mark said quietly. "He said I could run, and leave the judge to wonder; make him really believe I'd jumped ship completely. In fact, he said that's what he was hoping I'd do." He shrugged. "But that seemed like the worst choice, for a whole lot of reasons, so here I am." He thought for a moment, then continued the story.

"So that's when it was all starting to get really strange. But I figured this was as good a time as any to ask to talk to Hardcastle again. But that's when they got all arrogant, and started flashing me these smug smiles. I was getting a really bad feeling again. Then Randall left the room for a minute and came back with this big tape player; you know, one of those reel to reel types. He hit play and I heard the judge's message. They actually had a couple of them; I guess just in case they'd had to fake another call. I couldn't believe it. That's when it all sank in for real. I'd just robbed a bank with these guys for no good reason. Making Hardcastle—or anyone else—believe I was guilty wasn't going to be much of a stretch; I was guilty. Black just laughed and said that ought to make it easier on me to do my part, whichever way I decided to go, since no one was ever going to believe my story anyway. And, really, I figured he was right. I never thought . . ." He met the lieutenant's eyes once again.

"I haven't thanked you, Frank. Don't think I don't know that this could be going down a lot different than it is. You know, I came to you because I knew I could trust you not to shoot me on sight, and because I knew you'd talk to the judge. I never once thought you'd believe I was innocent."

"Milt can be very persuasive. And besides, you're kind of a lousy liar."

"I do seem to have lost my touch with that," Mark chuckled. "I'll have to work on it."

"Don't go to any trouble on my account," Frank told him lightly. Then he glanced back down at his notes. "So, I'm guessing sometime after you found out the truth is when they ended up using you as a punching bag?"

McCormick nodded. "Yeah. Black, he's really got some kind of superiority complex, or something. Seriously. He's a big believer in the whole idea of 'the end justifies the means', but he also seems to think that whatever 'end' he's after is absolutely right." He seemed to give that a moment's thought, then added, "That's probably part of why he's not Hardcastle's biggest fan."

Harper thought about it for a moment himself. "Ah . . . because he thinks someone like Milt gets in the way of that kind of thinking?"

But McCormick shook his head. "Because he thinks they're the same, but he thinks the judge gets away with it. He really doesn't know Hardcase at all.

"Anyway," he went on, getting his story back on track, "after he so self-righteously told me how he'd duped me, and how the best part about that was that he got to ruin my life and Hardcastle's all at the same time, he said I had one more night to think about it all, because they were leaving the next day. Then he said he had some things he had to take care of, and he left the house. He still didn't bother to cuff me or anything, just left me there, hanging out with Randall. I guess he'd missed the part about how I was only cooperating because I thought they had the judge. So, then I had to decide; try and overpower Randall or try and sneak out while he was distracted. Hah. After the way he waled on that guard, that took about five seconds. I figured I could disappear into the neighborhood and get lost pretty easily. And even if he came after me, I thought I could probably make a big enough scene to get at least a couple of people to call the cops. I mean, we're talking middle-class suburbia here. They can't be too accustomed to crazy guys with guns chasing people through their streets."

"Doesn't sound like a bad plan," Harper said cautiously. "How'd it go wrong?"

"Because Randall apparently doesn't get distracted. Hell, he wasn't even in the same room; he'd gone into the kitchen to fix himself something to eat. But I didn't get five steps toward the door before he was back. The man literally threw me back across the room." Mark dragged a hand through his hair and offered a slight grin. "So much for my plan, huh? But one on one was still the best odds I was gonna get, so I had to try. I think he was surprised; I'm pretty sure that's the only reason I managed to get in as many licks as I did. But you know the end result; I lost. He told me I was lucky the boss didn't want me dead, and I don't doubt that he could've killed me with his bare hands without breaking a sweat." He touched his torso lightly. "I've still got bruises that hurt. He's crazy and he's thorough, which is a bad combination for the guy on the receiving end. That's when he tied me to the bed, and that's where I stayed until sometime the next day when Black came back. He reminded me about 'consequences' for not sticking to my part, and he left. He left the duffel bag as sort of a care package. It had the money, a set of picks to get out of the cuffs, and the pictures you saw. I hadn't seen the one with the rifle scope before. In a lot of ways, it's the scariest one of them all. Anyway, they were gone; I left the house and came here. You know the rest. That's how it happened."

The detective looked at him curiously. "You've lost me just a little bit. Saturday, you were willing to try and escape, but Sunday you come strolling in here, ready to give up the rest of your life in exchange for this cockamamie tale you're spinning. What gives?"

McCormick shifted uncomfortably. "Ah . . . Saturday was a mistake," he finally admitted. He shuffled back across the room and leaned on the back of his chair, gazing at Harper. "I don't know what I was thinking. I think I was just mad at the whole situation, and hadn't stopped to think everything through. If you want to know the truth, I think I might've just had the crazy idea that if I could just get out and get to Hardcastle, then everything else would take care of itself."

Harper smiled up at him. "Not such a crazy idea really, all things considered. And still a pretty viable alternative, if you want my opinion. What's changed?"

"Oh, come on, Frank," Mark swung the chair around and straddled it, looking dejected as he rested his chin on the back. "What changed is I came to my senses. A long night chained to a bed is a good cure for basic stupidity. Black didn't come back that night. And for a little while, I think Randall might've left, too. Not like there was any risk as far as I was concerned; I wasn't going anywhere. But it gave me a lot of time to think about the idea that they could be doing anything. The judge was home alone, and didn't even know someone might be after him. Sure, he can take care of himself and all that, but he didn't even have any warning. How do you protect yourself against something like that? When you don't even know there's a threat? I think that was the whole idea of that last night, to make me realize how vulnerable he could really be."

"But you said it," Harper objected, "he can take care of himself. And now he knows there's a threat. You tell us where the threat is coming from, and he's that much better prepared. How do I make you understand that you are sacrificing yourself for nothing?"

McCormick raised his head. "How do I make you understand that nothing makes me believe you can get this guy? Or that I'd sacrifice a lot more to make sure that he doesn't go after Hardcastle just because of me?"

Frank released a heavy sigh. "So there's nothing more you want to add?"

McCormick shook his head. "Nope. I've already told you more than I should've, but I do figure you guys know how to keep a secret."

"And what about Randall?" Harper asked suddenly. "Does he keep secrets, too? Or do you suppose he'll give up this Black guy?"

"To tell you the truth, Frank, I'm not sure what all the guy knows. I don't know how long they've known each other, or how they hooked up, or anything like that. Randall's not the brightest bulb in the box, I can tell you that, but I'm pretty sure he knows Black isn't the boss' real name. But, it seems to me that a guy in his line of work doesn't get very far by spilling his guts about everything he knows, so who knows what he might do?"

"If he gives us a name, will you confirm it?"

"You think he'd lie? And still manage to come up with a name you'd believe?" McCormick was obviously skeptical.

"You said yourself there's no telling what he might do. And I don't know enough about him to know what kind of information he has. Hell, as much as they seemed to know about you and Milt, it doesn't seem impossible to believe he could come up with a convincing cover story."

"I suppose you could be right about that," McCormick conceded, though he didn't sound particularly convinced. "But, yeah, sure. If it'll make you feel better, you can come to me for verification if he happens to cough up a name."

Harper laughed as he rose to his feet. "How is it that you're the one who doesn't get to leave this room without an escort, and yet I still feel like you're doing me a favor?"

"It's a gift," McCormick answered, grinning up at him. Then he rose slowly himself. "I guess this means it's time to go?"

Glancing at his watch, Frank replied, "It is almost time for the breakfast delivery." He watched his young friend's face settling into an inscrutable mask. Personally, Harper didn't see much difference between one locked room and another, but Mark clearly felt otherwise. He thought for a moment, and wondered briefly if anyone could possibly find anything improper in confining a prisoner in an interrogation room rather than a cell. Then he decided it didn't really matter much what anyone else thought. "You wanna stay in here instead, just for a while?"

The change was immediate as the mask fell away and the grin returned full force. "That would be great."

"You do know you're the only guy in the world who gets excited about being locked in an interrogation room, right?"

The grin didn't fade as Mark just waved a dismissive hand and plopped back into his chair. "There's donuts, and there's—" He dipped an experimental fingertip into his cup. "And there's lukewarm coffee," he concluded. "Those other guys don't know what they're missing."

Harper was laughing again. "I'll be back later," he said, moving to open the door. "And you know Milt's gonna want to talk to you about some of this stuff," he added, holding up his notebook.

McCormick nodded as he selected another donut. "I'll be here."

00000

About the time Lieutenant Harper had decided he never again wanted to sign his name on another piece of paper, there was a rap on his office door. "Come in!" he called without looking up.

"Morning, Frank." Hardcastle slouched into a chair.

Harper smiled sympathetically as he spared a quick glance at the older man and then finished up his forms. "Yes, it is. But maybe you should've put yours off just a bit longer."

"Wouldn't've mattered," the judge grumbled. "Been down in the basement all night anyway, trying to figure out who could've orchestrated something like this."

"And here I was trying to wait for a respectable hour to call you; should've known better."

Hardcastle perked up. "What've you got?"

"You first," Harper stalled. "Find anything worthwhile in the files?"

But Hardcastle shook his head forlornly. "Sometimes it feels like the kid's been underfoot forever, but it really hasn't been that long. I've got an awful lot of files down there, but most of them don't have anything to do with him. And we've already been over the most likely candidates." He hitched up an inquiring eyebrow. "Unless you've got something new?"

"One sure thing and one hunch," Frank told him. "The sure thing is Randall; we got him. Picked him up in Florida this morning; he should be back here before the day is over."

With a grim smile, Hardcastle said, "One down, one to go. Does McCormick know?"

"I told him this morning."

"Then it's time for him to give us that second name, before his window of opportunity closes completely."

"I told him that, too." The detective shrugged. "I didn't get very far, though. You might want to give it another shot yourself later. But he did at least tell me about the weekend; told me how he managed to get dragged into the whole thing."

The judge seemed impressed. "That's at least a start. Learn anything useful?"

"Mostly what you would expect," Harper began. "They grabbed him right away Thursday, then used some well placed information, a recording, and his own fear to convince him that they had you stashed away. He would've done just about anything for them at that point.

"Oh, and I think we need to sweep your house, by the way. They seemed to know a lot, and they got their recordings from somewhere. They must've had you guys bugged for a while."

Hardcastle was rubbing a hand across his eyes. "'A while'," he repeated. "You know, everything about this case indicates they've been planning things for 'a while', which really ought to narrow the field a bit in terms of suspects. It's not gonna be someone we ran across last week."

"No," Harper agreed, "it isn't. But let's think for a minute about who it might be, or at least the type of person it might be."

"This about your hunch?"

"Yeah. The thing is, Mark's digging in his heels because he's convinced it's the only way to protect you. He thinks we can't get this guy, even if we know who it is."

"Well that's crazy," the jurist objected.

"Maybe, but that's what he thinks. So we need to be focusing on someone that seems above the law in some way, somehow untouchable."

"No one's above the law, Frank, and I'd think if the kid had learned anything in the past six months, that would've been lesson number one."

But Harper shook his head. "You might think that, but does Mark? Does he really?"

Hardcastle sighed an admission. "He doesn't have as much faith in the system as he probably ought to."

Frank pulled a hand across his mouth to cover a small smile. From what he knew about McCormick's history, he thought the kid was doing pretty well in the faith department. But that wasn't the sort of thing he wanted to debate with Hardcastle. "So who's at the bottom of his list?"

"Oh, I dunno." The judge seemed to be giving it some thought. "I guess people in some kind of authority who abuse it for their own good and get away with it. That tends to get on his last nerve."

"Okay," Harper nodded, "then when you go home, I want you to go back over your files and look at the people who fit that description. If we know his bias, it might help us figure out who he's afraid to name."

"I can do that," Hardcastle agreed, "but I wasn't planning on going home right away." He took a breath. "You're going to interview that guard today, right?"

"No."

"No? I thought the hospital cleared him for visitors?"

"They did. I meant, no, you can't go."

Hardcastle leaned forward toward the lieutenant. "Why not?" he asked indignantly.

"You mean other than the fact that I'm trying to conduct an official investigation and you don't have much official standing?"

"The kid made me part of his defense team, ya know."

"Which doesn't give you the right to participate in witness interrogations," Harper pointed out.

"I'm going to get access to his statements through discovery," Hardcastle made his own point, "and as a material witness to the crime, he's going to have to be made available to me for questioning, anyway."

"But not now," the detective said, though he could feel his resolve slipping under the force of the Hardcastle logic.

"What's it matter now or later, in the greater interest of justice? Besides, what if I promise not to talk?"

"Then what's the point?"

Hardcastle's gaze was locked on his friend for a long moment, but then he exhaled loudly and slumped back into the chair. "Because I need to be doing something."

And the depression was so genuine, Harper knew then that he'd have a partner when hospital visiting hours finally rolled around.

00000

"Hey, kiddo."

McCormick looked up as the door opened, smiling reflexively at the greeting. He reflected quickly that it was always good to see Hardcastle, though he wasn't sure when that had that become true. He decided it didn't matter. "Hey, Judge."

Hardcastle crossed the small room. "Are you doing okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Mark answered. He searched the tired eyes of his friend. "But what about you? You've looked better."

"I've been better," Hardcastle admitted dejectedly. "And I'll be better when we get you out of here. You want to tell me yet who we should be looking for?"

McCormick was still examining him closely. After a moment, he laughed lightly. "Nice try, Hardcase."

The judge grinned and offered a small shrug. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

"No, though I was sort of serious. Are you okay?"

Hardcastle waved away the concern. "I'm not the one stuck in the pokey.

"Anyway, I just wanted to come check on you. Frank and I are going to the hospital in a couple of minutes, talk to that guard. That oughta loosen a few nails from your coffin."

"Yeah, I guess it'll help. I appreciate it. But, Judge, I don't want you gettin' your hopes up. I told you where I stand on this thing."

"Yep." Hardcastle turned back toward the door. "I know what you said. But don't forget who's in charge around here, kid."

00000

Harper was repeating his instructions. "I mean it, Milt; you can listen, you don't talk."

"I got it," Hardcastle huffed. "I'm just an observer. Though you act like you think this guy isn't gonna back McCormick's story."

"Nope. I'm acting like a guy who thinks the prosecutor isn't going to be too happy when they find out the defense attorney came along for the ride on the initial interview, not to mention how the feds are going to feel about it. Since what I really think is that this guy can probably help Mark out, I'd like to make sure we don't do anything to make the evidence questionable."

"They're not going to be able to keep his testimony under wraps, no matter how much they might want to," Hardcastle assured him. "If this guy has something useful to say, we're gonna find a way to use it."

"I'm sure you're right. But still . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, no talking," Hardcastle concluded. "I'll be good."

Harper grinned as he knocked briefly on the door, then led the way inside. "Nicholas Siggelko?"

The man in the bed turned his head slowly to face the voice. Harper figured the visible bandages impeded movement, but the sheer number of them had to mean the guy was in a lot of pain. He offered his best professional smile as he produced his badge.

"I'm Lieutenant Frank Harper, with the LAPD. I'm investigating the robbery at First National." He gestured behind him nonchalantly. "This is Milt Hardcastle; he's one of the attorneys on the case." He pulled out a notebook, assuming the answer to his next question. "Do you feel up to answering a few questions?"

"Sure, anything I can do to help. Did you catch those guys yet?"

"We have a couple of suspects in custody," Harper answered. "Can you tell me first how many there were?"

"Three," Siggelko said definitively. "And I got a pretty good look at all of them."

"That's good. We've got some photos we'll show you in a minute. But tell me a little bit about how you ended up here. They overpowered you? Ganged up on you? What happened?"

The patient shook his head once. "Bad as I hate to admit it, it didn't take all of them to do this, just one. I was just making my rounds and coming down the hall in the bank; I went around a corner and bumped right into the guy. I was so surprised, I think I might've frozen for just a second or two, and that's about all it took for this guy to get a jump on me. You know, they give us some training; self-defense and all, but no one ever expects to need it. But I'm not sure there's anything they could've done to prepare me for that guy. He came after me with a vengeance like I've never seen." Siggelko shifted slightly, looking uncomfortable. "I know that probably sounds like I'm trying to make excuses for why I ended up in this condition—"

"No," Harper assured him, "not at all. So one guy pretty much did all of this?" He gestured vaguely to the bandages.

"Not pretty much, entirely. The other two never touched me. In fact, one of them . . ."

Siggelko didn't continue right away, and Frank could see Hardcastle becoming impatient almost immediately. He prompted his witness before the judge could forget his vows of silence. "One of them what?"

"One of them probably saved my life," the man answered after a moment. "He finally pulled the other guy off of me, before I blacked out. I'd like to be able to thank him for that someday."

Harper didn't allow his relief to show as he jotted his notes. Instead he simply raised an eyebrow. "He was robbing your bank."

"Yeah . . ." Siggelko seemed to be growing more uncomfortable by the minute. "You know, Lieutenant, there was one thing that was kind of strange. I mentioned it to my chief earlier, but he said I was probably imagining things, not to make too big a deal out of it."

"Mr. Siggelko, any information you have, no matter how insignificant it may seem, could be very helpful to us. I'd encourage you to tell us everything you know."

"Oh, yeah, of course. It's just that this isn't exactly something I know; it's more like just an idea."

"I'll take that, too," Harper told him encouragingly. He could see Hardcastle's increased fidgeting, and hoped Siggelko would just spit out whatever it was before his friend could blow a gasket. "Every little bit helps. What is it you think you might know?"

"The one guy, the one who tried to help me? I know this is gonna sound crazy, but I sort of had the impression he didn't want to be involved in what was going on. I mean, it all happened so fast, so my chief is probably right; I probably am imagining things. But I'm sure that I saw the third guy with a gun, and he wasn't pointing it at me; he was pointing it at the guy with him, the one who helped me. Looked like they were having some kind of argument. I couldn't tell too much about what was going on, of course, since I was in the middle of getting the crap beat out of me, but it just doesn't seem like a guy pulls a gun on the guy he's working with if everything's completely copacetic between them." Siggelko gave the best approximation of a shrug he could manage from his position. "At least, that's the way I see it."

"You could be right about that," Harper replied casually. He glanced quickly at the judge and could see the satisfied smile creeping across the older face. Neither of them had expected quite so complimentary a report from the guard. "And if that was your observation," he continued, "you shouldn't let anyone talk you out of saying so, no matter how 'crazy' they think it sounds. The important thing is that the truth come out; don't forget that, okay?"

When Siggelko nodded, Harper smiled reassuringly, then pulled a small envelope from his pocket. "Okay. Now I've got some pictures to show you. All I want you to do is tell me if you recognize any of the people, and, if so, where you recognize them from, okay?" He laid out a dozen photos on the small table, then slid it over the bed. "Take your time," he said.

But it didn't take long at all. Siggelko spent about forty-five seconds scanning the various faces, then pointed confidently at Randall's photo. "That's the guy that put me in here." Then he picked up McCormick's picture and waved it slightly. "And this guy, seriously, I need to buy him a drink or something." He looked back at the remaining photos. "But the third guy isn't here."

"Okay," Frank said, gathering up the pictures, "thanks." He took McCormick's photo from the patient. "Just one other question about this guy, though," he said as he added it to the stack. "Is it possible that you're so grateful to him for helping you out that you'd like to downplay his true involvement in the robbery? Maybe you figure this is a way you can pay him back for what he did for you?"

"What? No! I mean, yeah, of course I'm grateful, who wouldn't be? I'd probably be dead right now if not for him. But that doesn't mean I'd lie for him. In fact, the bank probably isn't going to be too happy with me for saying anything good about him at all; I wouldn't risk my job to say something that wasn't true."

"They can't fire you for providing truthful testimony about this crime," Hardcastle piped up. Harper shot him a stern glare. "Well, they can't," the judge added petulantly, but that was the last thing he said.

The detective turned his attention back to Siggelko. "He's right about that, you know. Your employers aren't allowed to intimidate you into changing your testimony about this, even if what you have to say isn't particularly what they want to hear. I told you; the important thing is that we find out the truth. So is there anything else you want to add? Or anything you need to change?"

But Siggelko shook his head resolutely. "What I said is the truth, and I stand by it."

Harper smiled again. "Okay, good. Then we're gonna get out of here and let you get some rest. I'll leave you my card," he placed one on the table, "in case you think of anything else, or should have any questions yourself. We'll be back in touch soon."

00000

"What the hell were you trying to change his mind for?" Hardcastle demanded.

They were alone in the elevator, and Harper was surprised it had taken the jurist this long to start venting. "You know better than that," he answered calmly.

"Well that's sure what it looked like to me." Hardcastle didn't seem to want to be appeased.

Frank propped himself against the wall and fixed the older man with a stare. "You tellin' me it didn't cross your mind? The way he was going on about Mark like he was some kinda saint or something? Somebody's gonna ask the question; better it come from me so I can figure out the truth for myself before the guy gets blindsided with it from the prosecutor. Or did I misread the situation?"

Hardcastle huffed out a short breath. "Haven't known you to misread all that many situations," he admitted grudgingly. "But I still thought the guy was on the level."

"Oh, yeah," Harper said with a small smile, "me, too. Best thing I've heard in a few days. And it helps that the bit about Black pulling the gun on Mark matches up with his story. But maybe when you go back and talk to Siggelko in your more official capacity you wanna tell him to tone down some of that gratitude a bit before he loses all his credibility on the other thing."

The judge grinned as the door slid open and they strode down the hallway. "Maybe the kid should've hired you instead of me."

00000

As Harper walked quickly toward his office, he thought maybe things were finally starting to come together. One robber in custody—one real robber, his mind qualified—, Mark had come around enough to provide a story that at least gave him a working theory that he'd sent Hardcastle home to research, and the now recovering guard could not only clear McCormick of the assault, but even be part of a case for duress. Yep, things were definitely coming together.

And that's what he thought right up until he found the stack of messages waiting on his desk.

He scanned through the notes, then grabbed the phone and dialed quickly, though not to the return number listed on the half-dozen messages. His own message was to the point. "Grab the most likely files and bring 'em back here. The feds wanna take him."

Then he hurried back out of his office, giving only one directive to the men in his squad. "You haven't seen me yet."

00000

He was preoccupied as he strode quickly through the corridors, but Harper found that he had time to notice the dullness in the detention area, and the way it seemed just a little bit darker as he moved back toward the isolation cells. He found himself understanding Mark's desire to want even that tiny amount of perceived improvement; like it was an inch closer to actual freedom.

Mostly, though, what he found himself thinking was that Mark McCormick shouldn't have to spend the rest of his life in a place like this. And even in the short term, even if it was all temporary, he knew instinctively it was only going to get worse for the kid if Walsh and company transferred him out of here. So far, he thought McCormick was holding up remarkably well, even if he was pretty sure the young man hadn't slept more than a few hours in the entire time he'd been here. But McCormick hadn't yet been forced to spend entire days in his cell, with the hours unbroken except for scheduled meal times. And Harper knew from past experience that once that happened, Mark would begin to slip into a depression that he wouldn't likely come out of, if the feds had their way. The cop in him was beginning to get pissed that he couldn't find a way to keep an innocent man out of jail. By the time the officer on duty opened McCormick's cell, the friend in him had determined to do something about it.

He hadn't expected to find McCormick asleep, but he didn't like the bleary-eyed wakefulness. But he watched Mark rub quickly at his eyes and put on his best alert face; the kid even managed a smile of greeting.

"Hey, Frank. How'd it go with that guard?"

"It went well," Harper answered, "though I'm not sure why it matters to you."

McCormick was in his standard position, sitting on the cot, leaned casually against the wall, but the detective's tone seemed to get his full attention immediately. He pushed himself up off the cot and stood facing Harper, but he didn't move to close the distance between them. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked indignantly.

"It means 'why do you care?'" Harper said harshly. "The guy backed your story. Really, it was even better than that. He saw your boss pull a gun on you; says he got the impression you didn't really want to be involved in the happenings. Couldn't ask for a better witness when you're building a case for duress.

"The problem, Mark, is that you're not building a case. Milt and I are banging our heads up against a wall trying to figure out how to get you out of a mess you seem content to stay in, so it was a legitimate question. Why does it matter to you what the guy had to say?"

McCormick had stiffened as he listened to the detective, but he offered only one brief, surly response. "Black isn't my boss. Don't call him that."

"Really? Because you sure do seem to be dancing to his tune. I'm beginning to wonder if Walsh wasn't close to the truth. Maybe you do have a big chunk of change waiting for you if you just clam up about this guy and do some time. But you couldn't have been planning on fifty years. So, what? You point us toward Randall, and maybe now you'll start trying to whittle away at some of those years by pointing out how you're the one who told us where to look? Maybe that's why it matters what the guard had to say, because that helps you shave off another few years. Is that the game you're playing, Mark? Because if this is all about the money, at least that would be something I could understand and I could quit wasting my time.

"And if Black isn't your boss, who is he? What's he to you? I know he came from one of the cases you worked with Milt. Did you find a shared resentment for 'the system'? Both of you feel persecuted by Hardcastle, and you decided this would be a good way to get even? Partnerships have been formed on less. Just tell me the truth and let me be done with it."

Mark stood silently, face red, jaws clenching, staring in surprised disbelief at Harper. "What the hell are you talking about?" he finally spat out.

"I'm talking about you, and why it is that you can't seem to be bothered to defend yourself from a fifty-year prison sentence for something you claim not to have been responsible for. The more I think about it, the less I buy into the 'protect Hardcastle' thing. He's been looking after himself a long time; you've been riding shotgun for less than a year. The odds are in his favor. Give me a reason that makes sense."

McCormick was still staring, apparently seriously debating his response. After a long moment, he seemed to reach a decision. "What happened?" he asked, no trace of the anger that had been in his tone just moments earlier.

"What happened?" Harper countered, holding on to his own anger. "You mean other than the fact that you committed an armed federal offense in my jurisdiction? Right under Milt's nose? Isn't that enough?"

But McCormick shook his head. "Uh-uh. You can't con a con, Frank."

Harper held his glare for another few seconds, then decided the kid was probably right. "Dammit," he muttered.

Mark grinned slightly. "If it makes you feel any better, it almost worked." Then he sobered entirely. "But you really should tell me what the hell's bugging you. What's changed?"

"You're runnin' out of time, Mark," Harper said glumly. "Walsh is coming after you."

"He found out about Randall?"

Frank shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe he just got pissed off on general principle and tired of waiting; I don't know. All I know is that there's a pile of messages on my desk telling me I need to make you available for immediate transfer to federal custody. And if they don't know about Randall, they will, and then the same thing's gonna happen with him." He shook his head, suddenly not liking the way this thing was coming together at all. "Once they've got you both, they're gonna start playing you against each other, see who breaks first, and I gotta tell you; my money's on this Randall guy trying to cut a deal."

McCormick dragged a hand through his hair. "They can't make it worse than fifty years, can they? I mean, no matter what Randall says?"

"Hell, I don't know. You'd have to ask Milt about that. But isn't fifty years enough? Come on, Mark; give us what we need."

The young man dropped back down onto the cot, dejected. "You don't know what you're asking me to do," he said quietly.

Harper hunched down in front of him to meet his eyes. "I'm asking you to trust me," he answered. "To trust Milt. We can make this work."

For a minute, the detective thought it might have finally worked. But then the young face hardened slightly, and determination moved in over the fear that never seemed to leave his eyes when he was in this place. "My freedom or his life," McCormick said, "that's really not a hard choice."

"Dammit, Mark," Harper began, as he pushed himself back to his feet, "you're not making this easy. You should know that we're going to figure it out eventually, anyway, with or without you. That's what we do around here, you know. It's my job."

"It's not Hardcastle's job," McCormick objected, "and he shouldn't have to put his life on the line for it. You guys need to leave this alone."

"You really think he's going to do that? And what about me? I know you've got your doubts about cops in general, but do you really think I'm okay with the idea of letting an innocent guy go away for the rest of his life? How is it you think we can leave this alone?"

McCormick glanced up at the detective. "I'm sorry," was all he said.

Harper heaved a sigh. "Then I guess I'm gonna have to figure another way to keep you here. I don't suppose you have any bright ideas?"

"You oughta just let them take me, Frank. Maybe then he'd let it go. Maybe you both could."

"Wouldn't work that way," Frank assured him. "It would just be more difficult for everyone concerned. And you," he added pointedly, "don't look like you need anything to get any more difficult than it already is."

"I'm all right." McCormick gave a small smile, but it was a pale imitation of its normal self, and Harper wondered if the man even recognized the lie of his words.

"You're hanging on;" Harper corrected, "you're not all right. I wish you'd let the doc—" He broke off suddenly, thinking through the idea that had popped into his head. Upon clearer reflection, he decided it could work. It would be fairly transparent, and probably anger Walsh even further, but part of him thought those items might land on the plus side of things. "I need you to do me a favor," he said to his prisoner.

McCormick arched an eyebrow. "Does it involve naming names?"

"Nope."

"But I won't like it?"

"Nope."

"Will it get you off my back about the other thing?"

"Nope. But it'll make my life easier for a little while longer until you come to your senses." Harper played his trump card. "And it's what Milt would want."

Apparently that was enough. McCormick sighed slightly and gave a single nod. "Okay."

Harper grinned. "Come with me."

00000

It had taken some fast talking once McCormick had realized where they were heading, but the ex-con had ultimately decided that an infirmary wasn't much worse than a county isolation cell, and either one of them were infinitely better than being locked up in a federal holding facility.

Then a little more talking had convinced the duty doctor that it really was in the best interests of this particular prisoner to be admitted to the medical ward where he could finally get some real rest, even if it had to be chemically induced. And the fact that this particular doctor also happened to be a poker buddy from way back made it possible to put the patient in an isolation area here, too, with an assurance that there would be no visitors without Harper's direct authorization. The detective figured those precautions should protect McCormick from all manner of threats, whether the kid particularly liked it or not.

Walsh hadn't been at his desk when Harper returned his call, so the lieutenant had left a message of his own; very proper, and full of regret that they were having such difficulty connecting, and—more important—that it would be a while before the prisoner could be transferred, but medical concerns had to come before mere jurisdictional matters. Oh, and he would soon be forwarding the witness report which should remove all suspicion from McCormick regarding the assault on the guard; and please don't hesitate to call with any further questions, as inter-agency cooperation was always a good thing for all parties involved. Then he smiled, and sat back to tackle some more reports.

00000

"Where is he?" Hardcastle asked as he hurried into the office.

"He's fine," Harper began, but he didn't get any further.

"I already went to his cell and to interrogation; he's nowhere. Did they transfer him already? They really should at least notify his attorney of any move like that. They—"

"Milt!" Frank broke in, "I told you; he's fine. The feds don't have him; he's in the infirmary." He held a palm toward the judge before more questions could be fired. "I stashed him there. They won't want to transfer someone while they're under medical care; it's too much trouble. And if the doc recommends against it—which he will—then there needs to be a pretty compelling reason for them to even think about it. They don't have anything like that."

Hardcastle shook his head. "Walsh is gonna see right through that."

"Sure he will. But he won't fight it; there's no real reason. Of course, it does put us on something more of a deadline, since it's not likely to be too pleasant for Mark once the transfer actually does take place. Doc says he can probably give us three days. Says exhaustion's a tricky thing; gets a lot of things out of whack, makes you not very coherent. Apparently plays hell with interrogations." He grinned.

The judge grinned back. "That's what he says, huh? Poor kid. Didn't know he had it so bad."

"I almost missed all the signs myself," Harper said, nodding sagely. "Thank God we caught it in time."

00000

McCormick punched at the pillows again, hoping he might eventually find a comfortable position, though experience told him it was probably a losing battle. He situated himself in the bed, then leaned back to consider his situation. What he decided most of all was that he was just about over being manipulated, even if this most recent bout did seem to be in his own best interest.

But he'd spent the weekend being the pawn of the bad guys, and then the last three days had seen Harper working on his good cop/bad cop routine, though the man didn't seem to have quite decided which part he wanted to play. Hell, even Hardcase had resorted to emotional blackmail a time or two. He thought maybe the only upside was that this time, he got to be in on the game, too. He thought screwing around with that Agent Walsh might make up for a lot. Well, that, and actually keeping himself in mostly friendly hands. He supposed that was a definite upside, too. But still, there was no doubt that this game playing was wearing on his last nerve. Though, he supposed, in fairness, he would have to admit that he was mostly responsible.

Not that all this thinking about it was helping him out much. Truth was, he wanted a solution; he wanted out. He would, in fact, give just about anything to make that happen. He sighed as he settled back into his pillow. Anything except the one thing he actually had to barter.

He was still lying there thinking—though no closer to a solution—an indeterminate amount of time later when he heard footsteps approaching his bed and then Hardcastle poked his head around the curtain that separated him from everything else.

"Hey, kiddo."

And he still couldn't help but smile. "Hey, Judge."

"How ya doin'?"

"You alone?"

"Yeah," the judge answered curiously.

"Then I'm fine." Mark grinned at him. "But for other visitors, apparently I'm supposed to be . . . wait, let me make sure I have this right . . . unfocused, a little on edge, maybe sullen or depressed, having difficulty keeping everything straight—"

"How's anybody supposed to know the difference?" Hardcastle interrupted, as he dragged up a chair and sat beside the bed.

"Hah. Truth is, I said almost the same thing when I told them I didn't need any of their damned drugs to help me sleep. Told 'em a guy had to get used to sleep deprivation hanging around you." He winced slightly when he saw the shadow of emotion flicker across the older face.

"Not to worry, Hardcase," McCormick went on quickly, "I really am okay. Hell, Frank wanted the doc to stick some tubes in me, just to make it look more convincing, but they wouldn't do it. Said I wasn't that bad off. So, see? I'm okay. Really."

Hardcastle seemed to relax a little at that, even managed a small grin. "He was gonna poke you up like a pin cushion all in the name of method acting, eh?"

"Said he thought maybe an IV would buy us an extra day or so."

"Yeah, well, he wouldn't have to be worrying about stuff like that if you'd just tell us what we want to know."

McCormick shook his head slightly, marveling at the sudden change in conversation. "So now it's your turn again, huh? You guys are making this into a regular art form."

"It's time for you to quit foolin' around," the older man said firmly.

"Nobody's foolin', Judge. I know what I'm doing."

"The hell you do. I'm pretty sure that no one who knows what they're doing gets forced into robbing a bank against their will, then confesses to the crime anyway, then withholds the crucial piece of information that would save them from a fifty-year conviction. Which part of that is you knowing what you're doing?"

McCormick gritted his teeth. He hated it when the judge got sarcastic. He tried his own brand of logic. "Let me ask you this; I give you a name, what's to guarantee I get out of here, anyway? I mean, even if you can arrest the guy, which I've got my doubts about. And even if you don't end up dead in the process. What makes you so sure that's my ticket to freedom?"

"Because . . ." Hardcastle seemed to be giving that some thought.

After a long few seconds, McCormick smiled, almost gently. "Well, I appreciate you not trying to lie to me, Judge. But I know why you think it's my ticket out. Because it's the truth. And you think the truth and justice always go hand in hand. But I know better. And I know that even if you put this guy away, he's not going to exonerate me. So I risk your donkey neck and still end up right here anyway, spending the next fifty years of my life behind bars. Now that would be someone who didn't know what they were doing."

"How about because it's the right thing to do?"

But Mark shook his head. "Putting this guy away has been the right thing to do for a while now, but you guys haven't done it yet. If it doesn't matter to you, it sure as hell doesn't matter to me."

Hardcastle looked at his friend closely. "You should know that Frank and I almost have it figured out. I left some files up in his office; we've got it pretty well narrowed down."

"Yeah?" McCormick wondered how true that was. "Then you don't need me anyway."

"Save us some time, is all," Hardcastle answered with a small shrug.

Mark thought again about manipulation, though he thought this was a pretty mild form. He gave an answering shrug. "I'm not in that much of a hurry."

"Okay." The judge rose slowly from his seat. "Get some rest, okay?"

McCormick nodded. He watched as Hardcastle took a couple of steps away from the bed, then turned back.

"We really do have a theory," the older man said. "Someone in some sort of position of authority. Me, I figure it's someone within the legal system—cop, lawyer, judge. Someone like that. Maybe some sort of politician, though that seems a little far removed to me."

Mark willed his face to remain impassive, though he thought it might've already been too late. For the first time in the last six months he honestly wished he had learned to lie to this man. "If this is a fishing expedition, Judge, I'm not biting."

Hardcastle studied the younger man for another moment, then nodded and repeated his instructions. "Get some rest." Then he was gone, and McCormick thought it was possible he'd given up more in the past few minutes than he'd given up in the entire past week.

"Dammit." He punched at the pillows again, though he now had no hope that he was going to be able to get comfortable at all.

00000

"Not what he said," Hardcastle was saying to Harper, as they sat at a small work area in front of a computer "but trust me; we're on the right track. It's in here somewhere." He waved at the small stack of file folders, then pulled a few away from the group. "But I really do think we can take Parnell and his boys out of consideration. We dealt with them less than two weeks ago; this job was way too complicated for them to have put it together so quickly."

Frank nodded. "I agree. Too much detail; too much planning. So who's this?" He pulled a file toward him. "Thomas Quinlan?"

"Not a lot of people that would end up lower on the kid's list than a dirty parole officer who was leaning on a friend," the judge explained. "Though that was a pretty open and shut case; I'm not sure why he'd think Quinlan would end up above the law. It didn't take us long to shut him down."

Harper was flipping through the notes. "But in the meantime, Teddy tries to play the game and Mark takes the fall? You know, I'm not sure you have to dig too deep to figure out why the kid's a little skeptical about the diligence of the legal system."

"Gets himself into his own binds," the older man harrumphed. "In that case, hiding another ex-con—his old cellmate—out in the gatehouse, which was just plain stupid. If he'd come to me to begin with, maybe Teddy would've thought to come to me when Quinlan started leaning on him. Could've avoided a lot of trouble."

""I'm sure he's heard all about those other options a time or two by now," Harper said with a smile, and he started punching buttons on the keyboard in front of him.

"Damn straight," Hardcastle agreed. "Kid needs to learn to keep his nose clean."

The detective glanced to his side. "So I seem to recall hearing before. It's a good thing—" he broke off as the screen changed to display the requested information. "Quinlan's been in custody since you guys busted him four months ago. So who's next?"

The judge grabbed a file. "Joe Cagney. It's a good thing what?"

Harper started tapping on the keys again. "I was just gonna say it's a good thing you're the forgiving type," he said with a chuckle. Then he added, "I'm pretty sure Cagney's been under wraps all along; though I heard they opted for a change of venue and moved everything down to San Diego County."

"Not sure you can get far enough away when the defendant is a dirty cop," Hardcastle muttered. Then he puffed up just a little. "And I am the forgiving type, anyway."

"Well, it might not be your strongest character trait, but you haven't sent the kid packing yet," Frank conceded, "though it seems to me you've questioned his thinking a time or two—kinda loudly. Last month, when he followed you to D.C.; that stunt he pulled setting up the scam with that Tina Grey character; even when he saved your life down in San Rio. Some people might think he should be thanked for some of that stuff, not forgiven, but I guess that's between the two of you.

"Anyway," he went on, scanning the new screen of information, "doesn't look like Cagney's been in any position to put this thing together, either. Really, you guys do pretty good work. Once you nail 'em, they stay nailed. It's gonna get more difficult if we have to start looking for known associates or—heaven forbid—someone trying to avenge someone. Who've you got next?" He cleared the screen, waiting for the next name, but Hardcastle was suddenly strangely silent.

The detective looked over quickly to find Hardcastle staring, a puzzled expression on his face. Harper glanced down at the next folder for the name. "Peter Avery," he read aloud as he began typing. "The CIA guy from Rio, right? Speak of the devil." But Hardcastle still wasn't speaking of anything.

"Hey," Harper said, looking back at the older man, "I was just kidding about that forgiveness thing, you know."

"What did you say?" The judge was distracted, still apparently sorting through something.

"I said I was only kidding—"

"Before that."

"About Peter Avery?"

Hardcastle shook his head roughly. "No, dammit. Something about McCormick. There's something . . ." He rubbed at his temple, muttering to himself, tracing back through the conversation. "Rio . . . Avery . . . breakout . . . D.C. . . . told him to stay put . . . Tina Grey . . . won the basketball game . . . Cagney in San Diego . . . Teddy in the gatehouse . . . that's it!" He looked up suddenly.

"I don't have the right file, Frank." Hardcastle was smiling now, more exuberant than Harper had seen him in days, and the words were coming quickly. "I should've put it together from the beginning. The kid tried to send me a message. Teddy had the key all along, but I didn't recognize it. He told me about the museum; said we had to stop a kidnapping." He slapped his palm to his forehead. "Why didn't I put that together before?"

Harper had swiveled his chair to face his friend directly, waiting out the flow of words, hoping they were ultimately going to make sense. Now that the older man seemed to have reached the end of his explanation, he could see that hope had been in vain. "Milt, what're you talking about?"

"Teddy. When McCormick called him to cancel the trip, he tried to send a message. That was before he knew what they had planned; he must've figured at some point he'd be officially missing, and he knew Teddy was the first person I'd call. So he gave him a clue. At the time, I thought it was all just part of a McCormick scam. Told him the reason he couldn't go to Vegas was because he had to deal with an exterminator about a spider problem, and then we had a case to stop a kidnapping at a museum." Hardcastle looked directly into his friend's eyes and repeated himself. "Stop a kidnapping at a museum, Frank. He had to save a damsel in distress."

Harper put the pieces together. "Tina Grey. The black widow was the spider problem. Jeez. He was expecting you to figure out a lot."

Hardcastle shook his head. "I'm sure he couldn't say much; he did the best he could. If I hadn't been so preoccupied with the idea of the robbery, I probably would've put it together a lot sooner."

"But, I already told you," Frank objected, "she's been under lock and key." But he was already typing the name into the computer, double-checking his information.

"It's not her," Hardcastle said confidently. "She's not the profile we're looking for, Frank."

Harper whirled back to face him. And then the last piece clicked into place. "Filapiano," he breathed.

Hardcastle nodded. "Let's go ask him."

The lieutenant barely managed to grab an arm before Hardcastle was out of the chair. "Hold on, Milt. We need to think this through. How much of a corner do you want to put him into?"

"Can the corner get worse than a fifty-year sentence?" the judge questioned, shaking off the restraining hand.

"Mark obviously thinks so," Harper answered reasonably, "or we wouldn't be here now. So before you ask him a question that's either going to force him to out and out lie to you, or make him realize that he's lost, you should decide what it is you hope to gain."

"I hope to gain the truth," Hardcastle answered, exasperated.

"We can do it another way. Let's have him brought in; question him a little. Besides, I might've stuck the kid in a bed mostly to hide him, but it really wouldn't bother me if he actually finally got some rest. That's not gonna happen if we keep going down there harassing him. And it's sure not gonna happen if he gets any more worried about you than he is, which he will, if he thinks we're going after the right guy.

"And besides, we're not the only ones involved here. We can't go stepping on any toes in IAD."

Hardcastle scowled at him. "That's pretty far down my list of concerns."

"That's because you don't have to work here anymore, and even if you did, cooperation is another thing that sometimes comes in pretty far down your list of concerns. Lots of people have been working this case for a lot of months, and we don't want to do anything to mess things up. Besides, I know you're worried about Mark, but I also know you want the man to pay for what he did before."

The jurist scowled a little longer, then gave his head a shake. "Anyone ever tell you you're kinda annoying when you're right?"

Harper just laughed as he scooped up the files. "C'mon, let's head back to my office and make a couple of calls."

00000

During the first phone call, Hardcastle had managed to stay seated, though his foot had tapped enough to cause Harper to give him an evil glare several times over. But the first call hadn't gotten them what they'd wanted, and all Harper had said was 'gimme a minute' before he'd dialed again.

That's when Hardcastle had decided maybe standing would be better; pacing didn't make quite as much noise as foot-tapping, though it still earned him some well- placed glares.

But now Harper was on his third call, and this end of the conversation was sounding less and less positive. At some point, Hardcastle had stationed himself by the side wall of the office and pretended to study the county map filled with push-pins. His hands were jammed in his pockets, mostly to keep them still, and while he was no longer officially pacing, he could admit that he hadn't exactly managed the art of standing still. As soon as he heard the receiver hit the cradle again, he whirled around to face the desk.

"Where is he?" he demanded.

Harper looked back, face full of chagrin. "He's nowhere. The DA finalized everything last week; officially filed the charges yesterday. But when they sent officers to pick him up, he was nowhere to be found. They've checked with family and friends, and likely known associates, but nothing. They issued a statewide APB last night."

"Dammit." Hardcastle forced himself not to pound his fist into the nearby file cabinet. "He should've been in custody all along, instead of treating him with kid gloves like they were. It's no wonder McCormick thinks the guy is untouchable. He gets off scot-free for killin' a kid twenty years ago, and then when he decides to start using department resources to facilitate a little gangland housecleaning, no one can even be bothered to lock him up." He trudged the couple of steps across the clearing and plopped back into his abandoned chair. "It's ridiculous," he concluded.

"We'll find him," Harper offered a reassurance.

"Of course you'll find him," Hardcastle snapped, swiping a thumb across his nose. "It's just a matter of time. Problem is, McCormick might not have that kind of time."

"Might not hurt for you to share some of that confidence with Mark, since my guess is all he's heard for the past few months is how Filapiano is making a mockery of the system and practically getting away with murder."

"He's a grown man;" Hardcastle answered defensively, "he doesn't get all his ideas from me, ya know." But when Harper just raised a speculative eyebrow, he made a more honest admission. "Okay, I mighta complained about it a time or two. But, dammit, he really shoulda been in custody. They were so worried about making a move on a decorated police officer too soon, and how it might look if they got it wrong, or couldn't make it stick. But how's it gonna look now?"

"I don't disagree," Frank said placatingly. "Just seems to me this might be a good time to remind Mark about why sometimes the system has to move slowly, but that doesn't mean it isn't working. He needs to believe that we can catch this guy, and that once we do, we'll actually do something about it."

Hardcastle raised his own eyebrow. "I thought you didn't even want to tell him about it yet?"

"That was before. Now that Filapiano's disappeared, I need Mark to make the complaint official. IAD's gonna want to talk to him."

The older man ran a hand across his head. "He's still not gonna want to do that," he predicted.

"No, but he needs to. We will make it work, one way or the other, but he really needs to understand that this is his last chance to make a deal for himself, because I don't know that I see Filapiano just taking the full blame and getting the kid off the hook."

"That's what he said, too," Hardcastle sighed. "He—" The sudden insistent knock on the door interrupted his thought.

"Now what?" Harper grumbled. He raised his voice. "Come in."

The door flung open and Agent Walsh barreled inside. "Lieutenant Harper," he began coldly, "since you seem to be avoiding my phone calls, I thought I'd visit you in person." He glanced at the visitor chair. "And Hardcastle. Why am I not surprised to see you here?"

"Because I have a client currently being held here and Lieutenant Harper is the officer of record on the case?" the judge suggested politely.

"Agent Walsh," Harper greeted, equally polite. "I'm sorry to hear that you feel I've been avoiding you. I did return your calls. In fact—"

"I got your message," Walsh interrupted, "and I'm here to tell you that this is completely unacceptable. McCormick is going to be transferred into federal custody."

"Of course he is," Harper agreed. "The doctor says he should only need two or three days of bed rest and medication to get everything stabilized again."

"And what about Costa?" Walsh demanded suddenly.

"What about him?"

"When were you planning on telling me he'd been arrested?"

"Once I got him extradited back here," Frank answered.

From the observer's standpoint, Hardcastle thought that sounded perfectly reasonable, and it even stopped Walsh briefly. But then the agent was continuing.

"And that was gonna be when? A week or two from now?"

Harper glanced at his watch. "I had a guy on a plane a couple of hours ago. The Florida boys are bringing him to the airport detention facility; they'll make the transfer there. My guy should be back here with Costa by early evening."

This got a longer pause from Walsh, then he seated himself in the remaining visitor chair. "I've got people out there already; could've saved you the trouble and had him brought here in federal custody."

I'll bet, Hardcastle thought, but he had to give the guy credit. It had come out sounding almost cooperative. And then Frank was playing along.

"Well, I appreciate that, Agent. I wish I'd thought of it myself. But they'll be here before the day's over. We won't lose too much time."

Walsh just nodded. Then he said, "We spoke with the bank guard ourselves; he gave us the same story he gave you about McCormick saving his life." He didn't sound particularly pleased.

"Did he tell you the rest?" Harper asked.

"You mean that crap about the third guy holding the gun on him and all?"

"Yeah, that."

Walsh shook his head. "Guy was probably delirious; doesn't know what he saw."

Hardcastle's first thought was that Siggelko must've gotten the point of Harper's earlier questioning, if Walsh's impression was that the guard was delirious rather than lying, and he was grateful for small favors. And then he heard Harper explaining how the guard's story actually matched up precisely with McCormick's own account of the events, but he wasn't entirely focused on the exchange; the beginnings of an idea were tickling at his brain.

"I sort of had the impression McCormick was stonewalling you guys as much as he was us," Walsh was saying. "Now you're telling me he's developed a chatty streak?"

"He's—"

"Finally started acting on the advice of counsel," Hardcastle interjected, stopping whatever explanation Harper was about to offer. "He's cooperating as much as his current condition will allow."

"Which means what?" Walsh challenged.

"Well, he's a little . . ." Hardcastle paused for effect, "oh, unfocused, I guess is the word you would use," he finished. "Takes him a while to make a point; makes the questioning go round in circles a bit."

"Doc says nothing knocking him out for a while and just leaving him be won't fix," Harper chimed in.

"But, as the lieutenant was going to say earlier," Hardcastle continued, "we were going to call you with another report. McCormick did finally tell us about the weekend; about how the robbery took place. And we got the name of the third perpetrator."

If asked, Hardcastle would've been hard pressed to tell which officer was more surprised by his statement, though Harper certainly mastered his expression quicker.

"You're kidding," the agent said flatly.

Hardcastle shook his head.

"So, what?" Walsh asked. "Now you're holding out, looking for a deal? You think you're gonna get your boy out of this?" He turned his attention to Harper. "And what about you? You're a cop. You can't withhold this type of information."

"Don't be ridiculous," Hardcastle responded angrily. "Nobody's withholding anything. But I do expect that you're going to withdraw your overbearing threats regarding multiple charges. You've already found out for yourself that you can't make the assault stick. This was bank robbery, nothing more, and it was under duress. In exchange for cooperation, we expect that only reasonable charges will be filed."

Walsh looked at him suspiciously. "That's it?"

"That's all we need from you," the judge confirmed. "I know you're the one pushing the charges, wanting to use them as leverage. Now you can let that drop. I'll take care of the defense."

"You don't really believe he was forced into anything?"

"I do," Hardcastle replied easily, "but that's not your concern. I just want your assurance that you'll request minimum charges."

"Fair enough," Walsh finally conceded. "Now who's the guy?"

"A cop," Hardcastle told him, not sounding too pleased with the admission. "Name's Don Filapiano."

"A cop?" Walsh was incredulous. "Now you guys are just jerking my chain."

"Maybe ex-cop would be more accurate," Harper said, picking up the story. "He's been on suspension and under investigation for several months. Apparently the DA filed formal charges yesterday."

"Then why are you sitting on this information? You need to notify them as well as your internal affairs people."

"I told ya, we're not sittin' on anything," Hardcastle huffed at the man.

"We already called them," Harper explained.

"So it's just me you're keeping in the dark."

"It's just you throwing your weight around and trying to railroad my client," the judge snapped. He took a breath. "But even so, we were going to tell you. We really don't have anything to hide. We just want the truth to come out, because that's what's best for McCormick."

"That why you stuck him in the infirmary and blocked my access, because you don't have anything to hide?"

Hardcastle decided maybe Harper had been right; maybe cooperation was pretty far down his list sometimes, though people like Walsh made it pretty easy to remember why. "Look," he began, but Harper cut him off.

"He's in the infirmary, Agent Walsh, because he's physically exhausted. The man was kidnapped, and beaten, and held against his will through emotional and psychological duress. And now he's been locked up here for three days, still not sleeping, because he thinks he has to choose between fifty years in prison for something he was forced to do or risking Hardcastle's life. If you disagree with my decision, you can file a complaint with my captain, or your captain, or anyone you want. Challenge it. You tell them that you know better than the arresting officer who's been handling the interrogations all week; better than the man who's been working with him for six months and knows him inside and out; tell them that you know better than the doctor who examined him and admitted him. You tell them that you know what's best for Mark McCormick.

"But, when you're filing your complaints, and getting him transferred, you be sure to tell them that because you know best, you want to take him from the custody of the people he trusted enough to open up to, away from the people who have the history with him, and away from the people most likely to be able to secure any future cooperation necessary to close this case. I'll be waiting for their decision."

Hardcastle worked to hide the smile. Frank Harper didn't get worked up too often, but it was kind of fun to watch when he did. Walsh, however, didn't seem to find it nearly as entertaining.

"I won't be filing any complaints," he said stiffly, as he rose from his chair, "so you've bought yourself a few more days with your boy. But I will be questioning Costa later this evening; I expect we will transfer him into federal custody immediately."

"Whatever works best for you," Harper replied affably. "We're all working toward the same goal."

This time, Hardcastle couldn't stop the smile, but fortunately, Walsh was already on his way out of the office and the door slammed behind him before he could recognize it.

"I take it back," Hardcastle said, as soon as he was gone.

"What's that?"

"Maybe you're not always annoying when you're right."

"Hah. He probably disagrees with you," he motioned toward the closed door. "But that doesn't matter. You know you just lied to a federal agent."

"I did not," Hardcastle said indignantly.

"You told him Mark gave us Filapiano's name."

"I did not," the judge repeated. "What I said was that Mark came clean about the weekend, which he did, and that we got the name of the third perp, which we did. It certainly isn't my fault if he assumed that those two events happened simultaneously. That's just sloppy police work."

"And what if we're wrong?"

"We're not wrong," Hardcastle answered confidently. "Even if McCormick won't tell us the truth just yet, we'll show Filapiano's picture to our witnesses; we'll have a positive ID in a couple of hours."

Harper grinned slightly and shook his head. "Well, I think it's a toss-up as to who's gonna be more pissed—Walsh or Mark—when they find out what you let the guy assume. I think I'll let you take the heat for that one alone."

"I've dealt with pissed off people before," Hardcastle said with his own grin, "especially McCormick." And to himself he could admit that he'd do a lot worse—maybe even worse than misleading a federal agent—if it had even a chance of making things better for the young man.

00000

"I'm getting antsy," Hardcastle said, picking aimlessly at the sandwich in front of him.

Harper, feeling a little antsy himself, let his eyes finish tracing over the coffee room crowd before returning to the man seated across the table from him. "Really?" he asked sardonically.

The judge frowned slightly. "I'm not the one who asked you to babysit me. Besides, we should've been the ones to go make the ID on Filapiano."

"As I think we discussed, you shouldn't really be the one to do anything official on this case," Frank pointed out. "And I'm not babysitting; I'm keeping you company."

"Only to make sure I don't run off and do something you don't approve of."

"That, and a chance to share this fine meal in your charming company."

Hardcastle chuckled. "All right, you made your point. But—"

"But nothing," Harper said, talking around a bite of his own sandwich. "I'll tell you, Milt, now that I know who we're dealing with, I can understand Mark's concerns. Based on everything I know about what happened last year, I think the guy would come after you. There's not any love lost, that's for sure. And if he thinks Mark gave him up, I think the motivation might be even greater. Like it or not, I really do think you're stuck with some company for a while, Milt."

"Oh, you can't go gettin' spooked now," the judge complained. "If he wanted to take me out, he would've tried already."

"Not necessarily. If he had a way of knowing—and I think we probably ought to assume that he does—then all he would've heard for the last few days was that Mark was in custody, copping to the bank job. That's exactly what he wanted. But now we've started asking questions; we're looking for him. The DA is looking for him. He's the one gettin' spooked. That makes him dangerous. Let me do my job; give me one less thing to worry about."

"Oh, all right." Hardcastle looked at his watch. "But when are your guys gonna be back? I wanna talk to McCormick."

"Soon," Frank said with a smile. "But eat your dinner first."

00000

"I think I'm kinda nervous," Hardcastle admitted as they walked toward the small, semi-private area that was serving as McCormick's latest isolation cell.

"That's because you know he's gonna be pissed," Harper answered lightly.

"Maybe. He's gonna feel . . . I dunno, betrayed, or something. And he's gonna blame himself even more."

The detective glanced over at his friend. "You're serious."

"He thinks he's doing the right thing."

"He'll know better when it's all over. In the meantime, we just have to make him understand that his life isn't any less important."

"Yeah." The judge was long-suffering. "Sounds easy; if only he wasn't so damn stubborn."

"Who's stubborn?" McCormick called out. "It's not like these are real walls, ya know."

"That doesn't mean you oughta be eavesdropping," Hardcastle grumped, as he pushed the curtain out of the way. "In fact, you oughta be sleeping."

"But then you'd be here to wake me up," Mark pointed out righteously. "And besides, if that was me you were talking about so disrespectfully out there, I told ya; I learned stubborn from you."

Harper grinned as Hardcastle rolled his eyes. "Have you slept at all?"

"Ah, not really, but the doc and I made a deal. I told him I'd take one of his stupid pills tonight. But I didn't want to be doped up today in case anyone wanted to talk to me."

"That was probably good thinking," Harper told him.

McCormick looked between the two men. "I don't think you came here to ask about my sleeping habits. What's going on now?"

Frank cast a sideways glance at the judge, but no answer was immediately coming from that direction, so he began himself. "Some people from IA are probably gonna want to talk to you."

"IA? Internal affairs?" He sat up straighter against the propped up pillows. "What the hell for? I'm not a cop."

Hardcastle stepped closer to the bed, and locked his gaze on the younger man. "We know who it was, kiddo," he said evenly.

It took a few seconds, while McCormick seemed to be processing what he'd just heard, then he swallowed hard. "What . . . whattaya mean?"

"I said we know," the jurist repeated. He took a breath. "We know it was Filapiano."

If anyone had asked him, Harper would've said the kid couldn't look any worse than he had the last day or so. But now, as McCormick responded almost as if to a physical blow, he decided he'd have to re-think that assessment. The color drained from the young man's face, and his eyes were staring back into Hardcastle's, though the expression had gone a little frantic.

"No," McCormick began weakly. He tried again. "No, it wa—" But he broke off before he finished the sentence, and Harper was struck again by the idea that the kid would do a lot of things before he'd literally lie to Milton Hardcastle.

The detective stepped into the uncomfortable silence that was settling. "We already got positive IDs, Mark, from both Megan Wesley and the guard."

"It doesn't matter," McCormick said, and Harper had the definite idea the kid was already beginning to marshal his arguments.

"I won't corroborate the ID," Mark continued. "They won't file charges without me. They'd never make it stick."

"What about Randall?" Hardcastle asked, finally rejoining the conversation. "He'll be here in another hour or so. Do you really think he's gonna be such a stand-up guy? He's not gonna be interested in protecting Filapiano; I can promise you that."

"Dammit, Judge." McCormick sat upright in the narrow bed, folding his legs underneath him. "This is not about protecting Filapiano, and you know it." He turned his gaze back to Harper. "Did you pick him up already?"

"We haven't been able to find him," the detective admitted.

"Unbelievable," McCormick said, pulling a hand through his hair. "And this is the guy you want me to believe doesn't present a threat? The one you can put away without a problem? You guys are crazy. He shoulda been in jail months ago; I don't know what makes things slide off him, but I don't intend to piss him off any more than I apparently already have. So you might as well tell the boys from IA to save themselves the trouble of stopping by and just go ahead and send those federal guys back in."

"What did I tell you?" Hardcastle said in a loudly whispered aside to Harper, "Stubborn." He hitched himself up onto the end of the bed, facing his young friend. "Look, kiddo, there's some things you have to understand. Sometimes . . . well, sometimes the system works kinda slow; maybe even works kinda strangely. But that doesn't mean it doesn't work. It just means that sometimes it takes a while for everything to fall into place. Filapiano wasn't gonna get away with what he did before, and he's not gonna get away with what he did now, either.

"You should know that the DA filed formal charges earlier this week; they're ready to put him on trial. It took a while, but the system did what it was supposed to do. He will pay for his crimes."

"Really? You think it will be before or after they have to add your murder to the list of charges?"

"Frank's got me under protective custody, kiddo; we're being careful. Now it's time for you to take care of yourself." He took a breath before he continued what he had to say. "And until you decide to take on some of that responsibility yourself, I've gotten a head start on some of it."

"What does that mean, exactly?" McCormick asked warily.

"It means I already told Walsh you decided to cooperate, and he's agreed to quit pushing the US Attorney for all the extra charges. Even if this doesn't just go away, the defense will be a lot easier to manage this way. You can be as stubborn as you want, but I don't intend to just stand by and let you give up your life without a fight."

"You told him I gave up Filapiano?"

"He might've gotten that impression, yeah."

"Dammit, Hardcastle, you didn't have any right to do that. Don't you think the guy might still have some contacts somewhere? That someone might be feeding him information?"

"It's a possibility," Hardcastle acknowledged. "Especially given the timing of this bank job and the indictment for the other stuff. But you still don't get it, do ya? I'm not worried. He's gonna get what's coming to him."

"That's sure not the song you've been singing the past few months," McCormick said peevishly.

Harper couldn't quite stifle the 'I told you so' snicker, but Hardcastle just threw him a quick glare, and then continued speaking to McCormick. "No," he said, "it isn't. But that's just because I was frustrated and impatient myself, not because I didn't expect things to work out."

"And what if I don't share your faith?" Mark asked with a sigh.

"It wouldn't be the first time," the judge pointed out, "but you can't deny that I'm usually right."

The young man shook his head. "But there's something you don't understand, Hardcase. The man hates you. I mean really hates you. Now, granted, he's not overly fond of me, either, but that seems to be mostly a 'guilt by association' type of deal. You didn't see him, gloating the way he was . . . You just don't understand. He'll kill you, Judge, without batting an eye. You be as stubborn as you want, but that's the part I don't intend to let happen."

Harper waited a moment or two, but when it became apparent that Hardcastle didn't have a response, he stepped in again, offering the blunt truth, which was really the only response possible. "It's not your decision any more, Mark. You lost all your leverage when we figured out the name. Any refusal to cooperate now only hurts you— and maybe him in the process." He leaned a head toward the still silent jurist. "But you can't protect him any more. We are going after Filapiano, and we will get him. You aren't in control of this situation any more."

"Was I ever?" McCormick asked bitterly. "You guys have been playing me like a chump." He looked back at Hardcastle. "I want to talk to Frank alone."

"What? Why? Whatever you need to say to him—"

"Alone, Judge," Mark interrupted tightly. "Maybe just to prove you're not in charge of everything."

Hardcastle pushed himself off the bed, hurt and anger warring for position on his face. All he said was, "I'll wait in your office," and he turned from the bed.

And just as Harper had decided that's the way it was going to end, the young man spoke up again.

"Judge?" He waited until Hardcastle stopped walking, but McCormick didn't seem surprised when the jurist didn't turn. He spoke sincerely to the man's back. "Just be careful."

It took a second or two, but then the older man turned back, his expression and tone equally sincere. "I will," he promised. "I'm taking care of me; you take care of you, okay?"

"Deal," McCormick answered softly.

Finally looking slightly relieved, Hardcastle gave a slight nod and continued out of the ward.

Harper was marveling just a little bit at the entire exchange when McCormick focused his attention again.

"Is there anything I can say, anything I can do, that will get me out of here?" Mark asked.

Frank was surprised. "Ah, you mean, just make this go away?" At McCormick's answering nod, Harper shook his own head. "I don't think so. You're in pretty deep right now. You can certainly start making it better, but these charges aren't just gonna disappear."

McCormick sighed slightly. "That's what I figured. All right then, it's gonna be up to you, Frank. You have to keep him safe."

"We told you; he'll be under watch until we get this thing worked out."

But Mark shook his head. "That's not enough. Protect him from Filapiano, yeah. But you have to protect him from himself, too. You know him, Frank; you know how he gets. If this thing doesn't break soon, he's gonna want to do something stupid. He's gonna go after the guy himself, or he's gonna ditch your protection just on general principle, or something. You have to keep him in line. That's your job while I'm in here."

"And what's your job?" Harper questioned.

McCormick seemed to be giving that a lot of thought. "I'm not even sure any more."

"How about to get out?"

"Seems unlikely," McCormick answered with a shrug.

"Because you've been being difficult," Frank told him in exasperation. "It's time to start racking up some points in your favor. Besides, you just told Milt you'd take care of yourself. This is kinda what he had in mind."

McCormick held his gaze, long and steady, though the young blue eyes were filled with uncertainty.

Harper spoke gently, persuasively. "This isn't the way to protect him any more, Mark. He needs you on the outside."

McCormick let out a slow breath. "What do I need to do?"

00000

"I still can't believe you're letting Walsh have first crack at that Costa character," Hardcastle grumbled as he pulled on his jacket. "And I can't believe you're kicking me out."

Harper grinned at him. "First of all, I already told you, my guys tried to question him in Florida, and he lawyered up fast enough to make your head spin. They aren't gonna get anywhere with him tonight. And what do you think he's gonna do, anyway? Suddenly start weeping and moaning about how bad he feels for what they did to poor little Mark? Not likely. Besides, you seem to forget that this isn't really my case. They've been letting me take point with Mark because of our relationship, hoping to take advantage of that. I don't have anything to offer for Costa, so they don't have any reason to give me access. I'm honestly not sure why they decided to question him here instead of just moving him on over to their place; maybe just saving the paperwork until tomorrow. But either way, they can do what they want; it's a federal case.

"And as for kicking you out, all I said was, it's after six, and there's nothing more we can do today, so you should go home." He tossed a stack of papers into a briefcase. "Of course, you can do what you want, but I'm going home. I might even make it early enough that dinner will still be edible. Claudia's getting pretty good at making things that can simmer for a really long time, and then still be reheated if they have to. She calls them her 'Milt Meals'."

Hardcastle grimaced. "That's not funny. But tell her I'm sorry. When the kid gets home, we'll have you guys over for a real nice dinner; treat Claudia like a queen."

"She'd like that," Frank said with a smile. "But you know she doesn't blame you. And she'd do anything for Mark."

"Yeah," the judge answered, suddenly a little huffier, "how'd that happen, anyway? He just flashes those blue eyes at people, and they can't wait to fall all over themselves for him. You'd think—"

"Never mind, Milt," Harper interrupted with a laugh. "Let's just chalk it up to his natural charm, and get out of here. But let me call downstairs first, and get your escort arranged again."

Hardcastle stopped his turn. "Frank—"

The detective held up a palm. "It's non-negotiable, Milt. And if you try to lose them, next time you'll have a driver. And if you give me too much grief, I'll find a way to have you declared an uncooperative material witness and let you share a cell with Mark."

"Okay," Hardcastle chuckled, "let's not get carried away. Besides, I owe you one for getting the kid to agree to cooperate. The least I can do is put up with your escort, even if it is a waste of time and tax-payer dollars. Go ahead and call your guy."

With a smile, and thinking maybe he was finally on a roll, Harper quickly made the necessary arrangements before Hardcastle could change his mind, then gathered his briefcase and his friend and headed out the door.

00000

Hardcastle found that he couldn't quite stop looking in the rearview mirror, though he wasn't sure if it was to make certain his escort was still with him or to hope that he wasn't. He really did think the whole idea was kind of crazy; McCormick needed to learn to keep things in a proper perspective. Of course, he was almost getting used to it from Mark; the kid was a natural-born mother hen. But Frank . . . Frank should know better. A guy couldn't run and hide every time some low-life crazy started making threats. And this wasn't even your typical low-life crazy. He was prepared to believe a lot of things about Don Filapiano, but sheer stupidity didn't seem to fit the bill, and Hardcastle figured that coming after him now would be plain stupid.

Still, he'd been absolutely on the level about being glad McCormick had decided to cooperate. If it meant he had to put up with the hassle of armed guards following him around and staking out his house for a few days, that was a pretty small price to pay. Of course, when everything was back to normal and McCormick was settled in at home, he'd have to really play up the hassle side of things; couldn't have the kid thinking he could always get his way. Then he chuckled quietly to himself, thinking the McCormick mouth would no doubt have a thing or two to say about the idea of 'his way' not having anything to do with being stuck in the clink for days on end, especially in solitary confinement, and—

Whatever other thoughts he had on the subject were suddenly interrupted by the crack of the glass of his passenger window, breaking in a way that experience told him would only be caused by a bullet. Not wanting to be a sitting duck, he fought the instinct to pull over and try to figure out where the shot had come from, and maintained his speed as he leaned over toward the glove box to get his own weapon. It was at that instant that the second shot rang through the cab of the truck, barely flying above his lowered head, and spraying him with shattered glass. He heard the siren, and saw the lights flashing as the patrol car maneuvered itself between the truck and the shooter, and he could see the officer motioning him to the side of the road, which was beginning to seem like a pretty good idea. He was steering the truck toward the approaching pull-off when the third shot took out the front tire, pulling him violently off-course. He jerked on the wheel, overcompensated, then had to fight the skid across the gravel. He finally got the truck under control just as the flat tire dipped into the slight ditch at the roadside, stomping on the brakes and wrestling the truck to a full stop with a final bounce, punctuated as his head flopped forward, his forehead connecting solidly with the steering wheel. He thought briefly that one of the other things he'd admit only to himself was the fact that McCormick was definitely better at this sort of thing.

Hardcastle took a breath and was clambering out of the truck, when the patrol officer was suddenly in front of him.

"Judge Hardcastle, are you okay?" The man's eyes quickly took in the jurist, but then they were back to scanning the surrounding area.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Hardcastle groused, still trying to ease his way out of the truck.

"Sir, you need to stay put. In fact, I wish you'd get down. I've already called for backup." He looked again at the man in his charge. "And maybe I should call an ambulance," he suggested, passing a handkerchief to the judge.

"What're you talking about, Coltrane?" Hardcastle snapped. But he took the offered cloth and rubbed it across his face. He winced, and was surprised by the blood that came away on the fabric.

"Glass," Officer Coltrane said, almost apologetically, "and you've got a bit of a cut on your head." He was still keeping a watchful eye all around. "When the backup unit gets here, we really oughta at least run you by the ER and get that glass cleaned up. Those little pieces can be tricky."

Hardcastle didn't like the idea, but it had some merit, so he simply nodded as he twisted around, trying to figure out where his attacker had been. "Seems like he's gone now," he said to the officer, "but he was probably up on that little ridge back there." He gestured back the way they'd come. "Jackass," he muttered. "Not like I was the only car out here; coulda shot anybody."

"At least he didn't shoot anybody," Coltrane pointed out, just as the second patrol car pulled to a stop beside them. "I'm gonna go fill these guys in, sir; if you'd please stay in the truck."

Coltrane quickly met the two arriving officers; gave them a brief description of the incident, then put them in charge of arranging for getting Hardcastle's pickup back to its home as well as bringing an evidence team out to search the scene and the most likely areas of the sniper's perch. He himself was going to drive the judge to the hospital, then home, to continue his guard duty. Everyone agreed Coltrane might be getting the more dangerous assignment, and it had very little to do with the possibility of further sniper shots.

00000

Harper's phone had been ringing as he walked through his front door, and he had known by the way Claudia said 'It's for you' that he wasn't going to get his dinner after all. He had dropped his briefcase into an empty chair, and listened to a terse description of the attack before promising to meet Coltrane at the ER. Then he had hung up the phone, muttering a curse that had earned him a mildly disapproving look from his wife. Frank had smiled an apology, kissed Claudia hello and goodbye, then headed back out the door, promising her that he would grab a bite to eat before the night was over.

Now he was striding determinedly toward the emergency entrance at St. Mary's, wishing he wasn't so familiar with the route. Not that there was a single thing he could do here, and Coltrane had made it clear that the judge was fine, but Harper couldn't bring himself to subject one of his men to the ordeal of riding herd on Milton Hardcastle during an ER visit without at least running a little interference. Stopping at the admission desk, he was pointed back toward the curtained examination areas, and as soon as he spied Coltrane, he knew he'd made the right decision.

The officer was standing in the narrow hallway, looking decidedly ill-at-ease, but the expression turned hopeful as he saw Harper approaching. "Lieutenant," Coltrane began, "sorry to bother you with this."

Harper waved it away. "How's it going?"

"He's fine; they just took him in a few minutes ago. Got a bump on his head, which I don't think is too bad, but he's got some glass cuts on his face. It's probably okay, too, but I figured better safe than sorry." He shook his head. "I thought he thought so, too, until we were actually on our way here. And then when we had to wait a little while . . ." The officer trailed off, and Harper knew the younger man was trying not to say something that might be viewed as inappropriate.

"Don't worry about it, Coltrane; he just doesn't like hospitals much." Frank smiled. "Mostly it's just that anytime an ER is involved, there are usually bad guys to catch, and his priorities are a little different than most."

Coltrane chuckled. "He did say something about wanting to talk to the evidence techs, to see if they found anything useful. And even when he kicked me out and told me to wait in the hall, he was talking about going back to the station after we were done here. Said there was a prisoner he wanted to question."

Harper shook his head. "Donkey. Not to worry; this is the last stop before Gull's Way. You did the right thing." He clapped the officer on the shoulder, then continued on toward Hardcastle's treatment bay.

"Knock knock," Harper said cheerfully, pushing the curtain out of the way.

There was a nurse just finishing up the irrigation of Hardcastle's face. "None too deep," she was saying, "and we got it all out, so you'll be fine." She glanced back at the detective. "You know him?" she asked her patient.

"He's okay," Hardcastle assured her. He looked over at Frank. "Don't tell McCormick," he greeted. "He'll just want to say 'I told you so'."

Harper grinned. "He might've earned the right." He dragged up a chair. "On the other hand, we don't want to get sloppy. No one else you can think of that might've wanted to take a shot at you today, is there?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "No more than any other day."

The lieutenant laughed at the surprised expression the nurse couldn't quite hide as she worked at cleaning the small gash on the judge's forehead. "He likes to stay busy," he told her lightly.

"I suppose it could be some sort of job security around here," she responded, and Hardcastle rolled his eyes.

"It's not like I do it on purpose," he huffed. "I had my armed guard close by and everything."

"And it's a good thing. Every little bit of discouragement helps when you've got someone taking potshots at you."

"That sounds reasonable," the nurse agreed, as she swabbed at Hardcastle's forehead. "This won't even need stitches," she told him, and applied a bandage. "Sounds like you got pretty lucky." She cleared her work area. "The doctor will be back to talk with you again in a bit," she said, then left the room.

"She's right, you know," Frank said as soon as she was gone. "You were lucky."

"Well, there's probably a reason Filapiano usually hires someone to do his killing for him," Hardcastle crabbed. "But you've got his mob gun in custody, so I guess he had to give it a try himself."

"Yeah, about that . . . we're going to have to re-think our plan of attack, Milt. If he's gonna come after you in the middle of a crowded highway, there's not much telling what he might do. We both know the protection we can offer you is no real guarantee of safety, and we can't keep it up forever anyway. We have to find a way to flush him out."

"I already told Coltrane we need to go back to the station and talk to that Randall character," the judge answered. "He might have some answers for us."

But Harper shook his head. "Uh-uh. Not tonight, Milt. I already told you; he's not talking to anybody until he talks to his attorney, and I'm sure he's gonna be advised to keep pretty quiet after that. Besides, what do you really think he knows?"

"I dunno," Hardcastle admitted. "But I'm hoping the feds are gonna be just as quick to throw those fifty years at him as they were at McCormick, and then I'm hoping he's got something to offer." He shifted around on the small bed. "I know it's a long shot . . ." he mumbled, trailing off.

"No," Frank said, "it makes sense; it's a good place to start. But not for you, and not tonight. And we still need to figure out what we're gonna do if he doesn't have anything to cough up. But all of that can wait until tomorrow. Let the feds have their crack at him, for what it's worth. Tonight, you're going to let me and Coltrane drive you home so you can get some rest. And me, too."

Hardcastle grinned sheepishly. "Guess I'm gonna owe Claudia more than dinner if this keeps up, huh? You, too."

"We'll both be satisfied if you and Mark make it through in one piece," Frank said honestly. "So behave yourself, and don't be trying to bully my guys into doing things you shouldn't be doing, okay?"

"Oh, all right," the older man agreed with a mock huff, "if I have to."

"Good," Harper laughed. He looked around as the doctor re-entered the treatment area. "Then I'll be waiting outside."