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.

3. Part 3

Chapter 6

Hardcastle's huffiness was a little more real by the time he walked into Harper's office the next morning. "I am still capable of driving myself, ya know," he snapped before the door was even fully opened.

The detective didn't even look up. "Yep," he said mildly, "though I am pretty sure someone tried to kill you yesterday, and that you're a little less of a target in a squad car. Besides, the report I got was that the pickup wasn't drivable, so unless you had a mechanic out overnight—"

"I could've driven the 'Vette," Hardcastle interrupted stubbornly.

Harper finally stopped what he was doing with his morning reports and looked at the other man. "That would've been very helpful," he began sarcastically, "to have you driving yourself around in a classic sports car with no top. Very circumspect."

The judge smirked as he dropped into the chair across from Frank's desk. "You really gotta stop spending so much time with McCormick; you're turning into a regular smart-ass."

Frank grinned. "I think that's why he likes me."

"No doubt. But what's going on now? What's with Walsh wanting to see us?"

Harper answered with a shrug. "Not sure; he called first thing this morning and asked if I'd get you down here. Said it might help McCormick, but that's all I know."

"Has Costa been transferred into his custody yet?"

"Nope. But you still can't talk to him."

"You're gettin' to be a real pain in the ass, too," Hardcastle muttered.

"Hey, you wanna come back to work, we'll see if we can get around the age limits. In the meantime, you're just a concerned citizen, and you can't be meddling around with questioning the suspects in a federal case—especially this case. You're gonna get us both in a lot of trouble. Let's just wait and see what Walsh wants; he should be here any minute."

The judge scrunched down in his seat and did some more low grade muttering, but he knew Harper was right, so he let the man get back to his reports and waited. Fortunately, he didn't have to wait long.

Several minutes later there was a knock, and Harper called out an invitation. Hardcastle straightened slightly, and was surprised to see Agent Carruthers entering the office rather than Walsh.

"Morning," the lieutenant greeted, motioning the agent toward an empty chair. Hardcastle thought he seemed fairly surprised, too. And then he just asked. "I was expecting your partner."

Carruthers grinned slightly. "Yeah, but he didn't figure you'd miss him. He's reinterviewing the witnesses, so I thought I'd come talk to you guys."

"So what's up with Costa, anyway?" Harper went on. "I figured the transfer papers would be on my desk this morning. You guys making any progress with him?"

"That's actually what I want to talk to you about." Carruthers shifted slightly toward Hardcastle. "Really, I wanted to talk to you, Judge."

The jurist raised an eyebrow encouragingly.

"Seems like Costa might actually have a fairly reasonable attorney—"

"They do exist, ya know," Hardcastle interjected tartly.

"Anyway," the agent continued easily, "seems like she wants him to cooperate, try and cut a deal. I guess he's a little reluctant, and she wants to talk to you first."

"Me?"

Carruthers nodded. "We figure she wants to make sure everything's lined up between you, since you'll be co-defendants and all."

Hardcastle's face slowly reddened. "You're getting ahead of yourself, Agent. First of all, whatever she's thinking, there won't be any co-defending going on. The first thing I intend to do is file for a severance of trials, though Costa's attorney is really the one who ought to be thinking about that. McCormick's defense is going to be highly prejudicial to Costa; completely inculpatory. What you oughta be doing is offering him a deal to clear my client; you know he's not really the guy you're after. Who is this attorney, anyway?"

"Ah, Doleton is her name. Michelle Doleton."

Suddenly, Hardcastle laughed. "Shelley? Well, you're lucky I don't want Costa to get off, or we would team up and beat your butt."

"I take it you know her?" Carruthers asked.

"Oh, yeah, we go way back." The judge looked over at Harper. "Do you know her, Frank? Used to work for the DA for a while before she decided we were persecuting too many innocent people and switched sides?

"I think I met her on cross once or twice," Harper answered. "She's tough."

"She is that," Hardcastle grinned. He sobered slightly. "But she's usually a better judge of her clientele. Wonder what she's doing hooked up with this Costa character?"

"Everyone deserves a defense," Carruthers pointed out.

"I suppose. I just wish she wasn't gonna be his." He gave a small shrug. "Oh, well; can't worry about that. What about your interview with Costa? What do you think he's willing to deal on?"

"I don't know," the agent admitted. "What we want is Filapiano and the rest of the money. He only hinted that he might have information to trade; we don't have any idea if it'll be useful."

"Are you throwing fifty years in his face, too?"

"Absolutely. Equal opportunity threats, that's our business. He seemed a little more fazed by it than your guy."

"That's because he's only concerned with himself," Harper pointed out. "McCormick had a greater purpose."

"You know Walsh doesn't believe that at all," Carruthers said flatly. "That's why he's talking to the witnesses again."

"And what about you?" Frank asked.

The federal officer seemed to think about that for a moment. "I don't know," he said slowly. "There were times he seemed awfully . . . sincere." He cocked a puzzled eyebrow in Hardcastle's direction. "I might almost believe he cared about you."

"I'm not a bad guy," Hardcastle said indignantly.

"You did put him in prison."

"Yeah, but that was—" Hardcastle broke off, considering. He'd been going to say 'a long time ago', but realized that wasn't entirely true. Certainly he didn't think McCormick had yet relegated it to the distant past. And yet . . . He settled for what felt like the truth.

"It was a lifetime ago."

00000

Carruthers had pointed him in the direction of the interrogation room where Shelley Doleton was meeting with her client. Hardcastle had had some small hope that she might invite him into the small room, thereby finally giving him the opening to speak with Costa that he'd been searching for, but apparently she wasn't feeling that generous. Doleton excused herself from her client and joined the jurist in the hallway. But she did greet him with a huge smile and a brief hug.

"Milton Hardcastle! How've you been? It's so good to see you, though this isn't exactly the best way to catch up with old friends." Then she looked at him critically. "And what happened to you, anyway?"

He shook his head ruefully; he'd hoped his face wouldn't attract comments. He wasn't looking forward to hearing from McCormick. "Nothing to worry about," he assured her with a quick smile. "And it's good to see you, too, Shelley. But we need to talk about this case." He frowned a little. "How'd you get stuck with this Costa guy?"

Doleton frowned back at him. "I might ask you the same thing about that McCormick character of yours. Only the way I hear it, you're kind of stuck with him long-term. Or at least that was the plan before all this. What were you thinking, taking an ex-con into your home, Milt?"

Hardcastle's frown deepened. "Don't jump to conclusions about things you don't know anything about," he warned. "You don't know Mark McCormick."

"And you don't know Rodrigo Costa."

He thought about that a second. "Oh. So you're trying to make a point? Well, I'll tell you, I might not know much about Rodrigo Costa, but I know the only thing that matters: last week, he and another guy kidnapped McCormick, held him for days against his will, and forced him into helping them rob a bank. So whatever else he may be or may've done, I honestly don't care. Trying to use McCormick like that is going to turn out to be a costly mistake for your client."

Doleton was staring, eyes widened. After a long moment, she finally spoke again. "You don't really believe that's what happened?"

"Of course I do. One of the many things you don't know about McCormick is that he doesn't lie to me."

"Would it matter to you if I said that's exactly what Costa said happened to him last week? Only in his version, it was McCormick and Filapiano who did the kidnapping and coercing."

The words dropped like a bomb and it was Hardcastle's turn to stare. He finally managed to force out, "You're kidding."

Doleton shook her head. "Nope. So how believable does it sound now?"

The judge raked a hand through his hair. "Has he said that to the feds yet?"

"Not yet. I heard you were defending that McCormick kid, and wanted to give you a heads up first. Besides, unless you file for severance, we're going to be co-counsel. But you really ought to, you know, so my client doesn't prejudice the jury against you."

Hardcastle sighed. "Look, Shelley, you've got this all wrong. I do intend to file for severance, but only because my client is innocent. He was coerced into his part in this crime. It's you that should be worried about prejudicial testimony." He looked at her intently. "Have you seen all the evidence against your client?"

"Agent Walsh has outlined it for me. We're going to meet later this morning to discuss the particulars."

"Agent Walsh," Hardcastle scoffed. "Agent Walsh just wants to close this case, and he wants three convictions. I'm not convinced he's too concerned who those three convictions are, and I'm certain he's not real worried about the details. He knows both our clients were in that bank; that's enough for him.

"But if no one's bothered to spell it out for you yet, let me tell you about the part your client's not gonna be able to get around. You know about the guard in the bank, right? Got beaten pretty badly?" Doleton nodded and Hardcastle continued, "Well he's coming around nicely now, and he's gonna swear that it was Costa who did the beating. And, incidentally, McCormick who saved his life."

The attorney paled slightly. "Costa told me essentially the exact opposite."

Hardcastle gave his head a shake. "Your client seems to have a problem with reality, Shelley. What did he think? That the guy just wouldn't remember?"

"Ah, I think it's possible that he thinks he might've been rather permanently incapacitated."

"He didn't get that lucky. And have you seen the bank security photos yet? I'll be interested to hear why your guy's wearing gloves and McCormick's bare-handed, leaving prints all over the place. I'm telling you; he's dirty. Whatever defense you might build, you should know that. And you should know that my client is innocent."

Doleton rose from her seat. "My client is my primary responsibility," she told Hardcastle.

"No arguments there," he agreed. "But I thought you'd want to know the truth."

She nodded. "We can talk again after I spend a little more time with Costa?"

Hardcastle smiled. "Sure. And before you talk to the feds, right?"

Returning the smile, she said, "We're still co-counsel so far."

00000

"I still don't understand how you don't know anything more than before," Carruthers complained for at least the fourth time.

"As I told you, Agent," Hardcastle explained with infinite patience, "Shelley simply had some questions about the case. She still has information to gather from her client before she's ready to talk any specifics with me, and certainly before she's ready to talk to you. And she absolutely understands that my agenda may run contrary to hers."

The judge thought Harper was being unusually quiet during the conversation, which almost undoubtedly meant the detective knew more than he was saying, but that could be dealt with later. For now, the fed needed to be persuaded.

"As soon as she's comfortable with the details," the jurist continued, "I'll certainly encourage her to try to work something out with you. Especially if it's something that might be beneficial to McCormick."

"And you'll keep us informed when you know something?" Carruthers asked, rising, and moving toward the door.

"As much as would be appropriate," Hardcastle replied, managing to somehow temporize while giving every appearance of honest cooperation.

"All right," Harper began, barely waiting for the door to close, "what did she really say?"

Hardcastle grimaced. "I hope I wasn't that transparent."

"Only to me," Harper reassured. "Now what's going on?"

"It wasn't good," the older man sighed. "Costa's spinning a role reversal; trying to paint himself as the victim, with Filapiano and McCormick the kidnappers."

"You're kidding."

"No." He let out another sigh and swiped a thumb across his nose. "Not that it woulda worked for long, but the story could've caused some trouble for a while. McCormick doesn't need that kind of complication right now."

"So you set her straight?" Frank asked.

"Yep. She's gonna talk to him a while longer, and then we'll compare notes a little bit more. She knows he's in deep, whatever the details. She's gonna be looking for a deal. I just hope she'll be willing to offer up something that gets the kid out of this mess."

Harper didn't seem very hopeful. "Do you really think that's likely?"

"Likely? No. But we are old friends, and I do have the innocent client. What's right matters to her. If she can find a way to do the right thing, she will."

"Well, let's hope she finds a way to get creative," Frank said fervently.

00000

Hardcastle took a breath and hoped for the best before pushing the curtain aside and stepping into McCormick's room. He had seriously considered sending Frank down instead, just to avoid the inevitable questions, but had ultimately decided that would only lead to other questions. Honestly, there were times McCormick worried far too much for his own good, but this probably wasn't the time to just drop out of the kid's sight. And besides, Shelley had a question she needed answered, so someone had to ask. He offered the standard cheery greeting.

"Hey, kiddo. How ya doin?" He was a little surprised to find the young man semi-dozing, but maybe that would work in his favor. A drowsy McCormick wouldn't be an alert McCormick and—

"What the hell happened to your head?"

His hand rose reflexively to his forehead. "This little scratch?" He'd pulled the bandage off, thinking he'd attract less attention that way, but that had clearly been in vain.

"Yeah, that two-inch scratch gouged into your forehead. What is it? And what happened to your face?" McCormick was sitting upright, looking the judge up and down critically. "Don't bother trying to come up with a scam answer, Hardcase, just tell me the truth. What happened?"

Hardcastle dragged up the bedside chair and dropped into it. "I'm glad you were getting some sleep," he ventured. "Sorry I woke you."

"Hardcastle . . ."

The judge tried not to smile at the kid's attitude, and decided to quit messing with him. "It's nothing I want you to worry about," he began. "My protection did their job. But someone took a shot at me yesterday, on the way home. There was some glass, and a little bump on the head on the steering wheel. Everything's fine."

McCormick was twisting the bed sheet in his hands, clenching and unclenching his jaw, his eyes filled with anger and regret. The words he finally managed were tinged with near despair. "Why won't you let me do this my way?"

The judge did offer a small smile then, gentle and reassuring. "I told you, kid; everything's fine."

"Is Filapiano in custody?" McCormick demanded. "Because if he's not, then nothing is even close to fine. And, God, Judge, even if he is, he's not really the kind to get his hands dirty. He could've hired someone."

"All right, look," Hardcastle began firmly, "you've gotta get a grip here. This is not the first time some guy's been out to get me. I've had shots taken at me before. I can—" He broke off the lecture as he saw the tortured expression on McCormick's face. "What?"

"Nothing," McCormick muttered angrily.

"What?" Hardcastle repeated. "You know I'm gonna get it out of you eventually; you might as well just tell me."

Mark blew out a breath as he dragged a hand through his hair. "I know you can take care of yourself, Judge," he began hesitantly, "and I know Frank's got guys covering your back, but . . ."

And in the silence, Hardcastle thought maybe he finally got his answer. "But maybe that's supposed to be your job?" he suggested.

"That is what you got me for," McCormick replied with a shrug. "And especially when I caused the problems to begin with. I ought to be able to help."

"Unbelievable. Listen, kiddo, I don't wanna have to say this again. This isn't your fault. We might need to have a little talk about decision-making, and how you need to learn to maybe put the law above your personal feelings, but, still, you didn't really cause this. Filapiano crossed me off his top ten list a long time ago. And besides . . ." He hesitated a moment, considering.

"Besides what?" McCormick prompted.

The older man gave his own shrug. "I was just gonna say that having someone to watch my back isn't the only reason I keep you around."

Mark arched an eyebrow, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah?"

"Sure," Hardcastle answered gruffly. "Whattaya think? I mean, there's still the hedges, and the gutters, and—" He ducked as the pillow came flying toward him. "Just want you to keep things in perspective," he added, straightening again.

"Oh, yeah," McCormick laughed, "there's plenty of perspective around here, not to worry." He gestured vaguely around him. "Until someone gives me a key to this place, I don't think there's much chance I'm gonna forget where I stand."

Hardcastle cast a quick glance into his friend's eyes. He knew he could sometimes take his teasing too far; he didn't want this to be one of those times. He was relieved to see that the twinkle hadn't faded. He winked, and grinned. "We'll make our own key. Bad as I hate to admit it, it's another one of those things you've always been pretty good at." He sobered. "I don't have any intention of letting you stay here, kiddo."

Becoming more serious, too, McCormick nodded. "I know you don't, Judge." Then he held out a hand. "Gimme my pillow back, will ya?" He stuffed it back behind him again.

"Anyway, the guys from IA came by last night; I answered all their questions, just like you wanted me to."

"It was the right thing to do," the older man assured him.

"I'd feel better about that if you weren't sitting there looking like a guy who got stuck in a shooting gallery."

Hardcastle shrugged. "The consequence of an action is not always what makes it right or wrong."

McCormick seemed to think about that for a moment. "I might even agree with that in theory," he finally responded, "I'm just not sure it applies right now." He sighed. "All I'm saying, Judge, is to be careful. If you let this guy kill you, I'm going to be seriously ticked off."

"Okay," Hardcastle smiled, "got it. But what about IA? I haven't had a chance to talk to them yet. Do they sound like they want to help us out any?"

"I dunno. They seemed pretty thankful for my cooperation, but they weren't making any promises. Let's face it, Hardcase; they already had a case against the guy. He wasn't gonna be a cop any more, anyway. And this is a federal case. They don't have a lot of pull."

"Maybe. But it never hurts to make a few friends."

"But what's going on out in the real world?" McCormick asked. "Get anything from Randall? I mean, um, Costa?"

"I haven't been allowed to see him yet, but that's actually why I'm here. We might've caught a lucky break on that one. His defense attorney is an old friend of mine—and no, I don't know everyone, McCormick," Hardcastle huffed as the young man rolled his eyes— "and she might be willing to help us out, as long as it helps her client, too. But she had a question. She wants to know how you knew about Costa's Florida connections."

McCormick arched an eyebrow as he scratched at his forehead. "Huh? I dunno. One of 'em musta said something about it. I told you, it was kinda weird there for a while. We were really just hanging out. Sometimes Filapiano would just talk to me. What a whack job."

"So Filapiano told you, not Costa?"

McCormick paused. "Um . . ." He shook his head. "Hang on, let me think. Maybe it wasn't even something he said to me . . . no, that was it. A couple of things, really. Once, he was talking to Costa, and said something about growing up dodging all the 'gators in the swamps. Costa got pissed and changed the subject fast. Then one other time, when he was in one of his conversational moods, Filapiano was asking me if I ever thought about getting back to racing full time. Said maybe if I wanted to take my share of the money and start again, maybe Randall could introduce me to some people back in the Daytona area. That was it, though. Nothing specific."

Hardcastle rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "Well that seems a little odd, doesn't it? I mean, that he'd go to all the trouble to protect the guy's identity with a fake name, and try and hide his prints and all, but drop clues to you about where he comes from?"

"Doesn't seem that strange to me," McCormick said. "I already told Frank; he's the second fall guy."

"You think he fed you the information?"

"Sure. In his mind, we're the criminals anyway. It makes sense that the convicted felons should be the sacrificial lambs."

"Maybe." Hardcastle thought about the idea. "It just seems awfully . . . calculating."

"'Calculating'?" McCormick repeated. "Of course it's calculating. But probably not any more so than scamming out an entire bank heist and kidnapping." He shook his head. "You know what your problem is, Judge? You've got a blind spot for people like Filapiano, even after everything that's happened."

"I do not," the older man objected immediately.

"You do," Mark insisted. "You still think of him as a cop first. A dirty cop, maybe, but still a cop. He's not a cop, Judge; he's one of the bad guys, and it's time you understand that."

"I've known he was one of the bad guys a damn long time," Hardcastle snapped. "You don't need to lecture me about that."

McCormick looked at him intently. "But you still can't believe it. No," he amended quickly, "that's not quite right. You know it's true; you just don't want it to be true. You hate it when the good guys go south. That's the way all you legal types are. But it's that kind of thinking that's kept him a step ahead of you guys, and that's the kind of thinking that's going to get you killed. So when I tell you he's calculating—or anything else that I saw—you might just want to accept it instead of trying to figure out how he could maybe be just a little bit less of a criminal."

Hardcastle sat back heavily in his seat, examining his friend. "You think I'm defending him?" he asked after a moment.

"Not defending him," McCormick clarified. "But you think he's a different kind of bad. And all I'm saying is that he's just plain bad. I woulda thought the shots into your pickup might've been a pretty good clue for you on that."

The judge thought for a long moment, then let out a sigh. "You could be right," he admitted slowly. He thought the kid did a pretty good job of keeping the astonishment from his face; didn't even crack a joke to ask what he'd been smoking today. Hardcastle found that he appreciated McCormick's occasional ability to keep his mouth shut.

What Mark finally said was, "I know you don't like saying that; maybe it'll keep you a little more on your toes while you're out there working. Because I don't want to get to say 'I told you so' about anything else."

Hardcastle pushed himself to his feet. "Okay," he agreed, "that'll be the only thing. I'll have Frank triple the guard if we have to. I'll make sure I'm still walking around when you get out of here. But now I gotta go talk to some more people. And Lazenby's been doing some checking; maybe one of us will come up with something."

"Okay," McCormick nodded. "I'll keep waiting. You don't do anything stupid."

"That's my line," Hardcastle said with a grin. But as he was leaving the small ward, he couldn't help but think that a straight-forward and honest assessment of any situation was another reason he kept the kid around. And he hoped McCormick might realize just how much help he could be, even from a bed in a locked cell.

Chapter 7

Harper looked around the small conference room. After Hardcastle had gotten back from his last visit with McCormick and relayed his information to Doleton, it hadn't taken long to put together a confab with the interested parties. But the problem with this sort of situation was that that there tended to be different points of view; it was unlikely that new developments were going to please everyone. He was watching a perfect case in point.

Agent Walsh had risen half-way from his seat to lean over the table, pounding a fist for emphasis. His face was almost purple with rage as he glared across the tiny distance. For a change, it wasn't Hardcastle who glared back, the object of the anger, but rather, Shelly Doleton. But it was Hardcastle the detective watched closely, as the judge sat quietly, watching the exchange. The man didn't have much practice in the role of bystander—especially with something that would ultimately be so important to him. But Harper thought he was doing a pretty good job at simply observing.

"That's blackmail!" Walsh was saying.

"Call it what you will," Doleton answered, "though I'm not sure it's any more blackmail than the ridiculous half-century worth of imprisonment you've been threatening our clients with. But whatever you call it, you can't force a person to offer testimony that incriminates himself, and you know it. But, anyway, Agent," she added coolly, "I wasn't really speaking to you." She turned her attention to the gentleman seated next to Walsh, and Harper was amused by her dismissal of the agent.

"Mr. Griggs," Doleton continued to the US Attorney, "I understand that you're trying to support your investigators in this situation, but Agent Walsh is backing you into a corner. You need to start thinking about presenting a winnable case. And, you might want to give just a minute or two of thought to actually charging and convicting the right people. My client can give you fairly comprehensive information about this case, but we will not subject ourselves to additional charges. If Mr. Costa is able to establish that another of the parties acted under duress, I need a guarantee that there will be no attempt to levy additional charges pursuant to kidnapping."

Walter Griggs cast a quick glance at Walsh and seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "In this instance, kidnapping would more properly be a state charge to be pursued."

"State charges aren't going to be a problem," Hardcastle interjected. "The DA has agreed to leave this as a federal matter."

"Must be nice to have that kind of pull," Walsh muttered.

"It is, actually," the jurist agreed with a thin smile. Then he left Doleton to her business.

"And," Shelley picked up seamlessly, "what we're actually dealing with here is kidnapping to facilitate a federal crime. I need an assurance there won't be additional charges if my client offers new information."

"You mean if he lies to cover one of his cohorts," Walsh said angrily.

"I'm not in the habit of asking my clients to perjure themselves," Doleton returned icily.

Harper stepped into the mix, directing his comments carefully. "Mr. Griggs, our investigation has found nothing to contradict Mr. McCormick's account of his involvement in this situation. There is no indication that he was anything other than an unwilling participant. Mr. Walsh isn't too happy about it, but I'm sure he'll tell you that his investigation has shown the same thing. You have a chance to get corroborating testimony on record that will clear an innocent man. That has to be more important than a few extra charges you might be able to tack on to Costa."

"And what about Filapiano?" Griggs asked.

"What about him?"

"We want him." The attorney pointed to the agent. "He wants him. That doesn't seem unreasonable."

Harper was puzzled. "Well, McCormick can't give him to you. I'm not sure Costa can. But refusing to make the deal that could clear McCormick isn't gonna get him, one way or the other."

Griggs nodded thoughtfully. "Okay," he finally said slowly. "No kidnapping charges, or anything that stems from it. Get his statement on record."

Harper was watching Hardcastle again, seeing the relief begin to creep across his face. From the corner of his eye, he could see the anger on Walsh's face. Both faces filled with surprise at Griggs' next words.

"But I'm not dropping the charges against McCormick."

"What?" Hardcastle had leaned forward in his seat, looking intently across at Griggs. No more bystanding now. "You cannot possibly be moving forward with charges knowing that he was forced into cooperation. There is absolutely no basis for a good faith indictment."

"You client robbed a bank, Mr. Hardcastle; that is not in dispute. And coercion is not a matter of law, but a matter of fact. Last time I checked, matters of fact were precisely the sorts of things best decided at trial, especially if there are conflicting facts."

"What's conflicting?" Hardcastle demanded. "McCormick participated because he was forced to; Costa and Filapiano did the forcing. Simple as that."

"With the exception of the security guard, witnesses at the bank do not seem to believe there was anything less than full cooperation by all three parties. Neighbors who saw McCormick at the house in La Crescenta do not report that he was taken there against his will." Griggs paused. "Then there's always the matter of his confession."

Hardcastle grimaced, and Harper knew it was because he hated to hear the truth. He understood suddenly why they often didn't let the accused parties participate in these kinds of discussions; in the midst of all the legal wrangling, justice sometimes seemed a long way down the list. He was developing a much greater appreciation for McCormick's underlying distrust of the system. Then Hardcastle was speaking in frustration.

"What you're not getting is that I don't have anything to trade. McCormick's got nothing to give, because he wasn't involved." All the relief that had been evident just moments earlier had vanished and was being replaced by something very close to despair.

"Then you better work something out with your co-counsel," Walsh said, rising from the table, "because I intend to wrap this thing up. It'll just be easier on your guys if they help me out."

Harper watched the federal representatives leave the conference room, then turned back to the co-counsels. "It's a start," he told Hardcastle.

"Yeah," Doleton agreed. "Should guarantee a separation of trials—if it has to go that far—and make your case for duress almost unbeatable."

"It's the 'almost' part I'd like to eliminate," Hardcastle groused. Then he seemed to remember his manners. "Not that I don't appreciate what you've done for McCormick, Shelley," he added, "really. God knows, Costa didn't have to come clean at all."

"Trust me, when Walsh isn't around doing his chest-beating routine, Griggs and I are gonna have a little talk about that, too. We're going to get the charges down to a reasonable matter." She paused, then added, "And if we can find a way to deliver this Filapiano guy, I might even catch a break on sentencing, and you could get your charges dropped completely."

Hardcastle and Harper both looked at her sharply, but it was the detective who spoke. "You think he knows more than he's saying?" He narrowed his eyes. "Or do you know more than you're saying?"

"Frank," Hardcastle began, but Doleton cut him off.

"It's a fair question, Milt, but the answer—at least for my part—is no. I don't know about Costa. He's a pretty cagey character, I'll give you that. But he's been around enough to see the writing on the wall. He got the idea that Filapiano was willing to use him as a fall guy, so he gave up the kidnapping. I'm pretty sure he doesn't actually know where he is, or he would've used that as a bartering chip already; he was pretty pissed. But there might be something he doesn't even know could be useful. After we get this other thing on record and get rid of the feds again, I'll see what I can find out." She scooted her chair back and got to her feet. She looked at Hardcastle in obvious concern. "We'll make it work out," she said kindly, then left the room.

Harper took a closer look at the judge. It occurred to him then that maybe too much time in close proximity to the man hadn't fully allowed him to see the extent of the concern he was feeling, or the toll it was taking. "Just how much sleep have you gotten this week?" he asked.

"Hm?" Hardcastle seemed to be focused on something else. "Sleep?" He finally looked at Harper sharply. "Enough. Don't be getting distracted; I don't need two of you goin' all mother-hen on me. I need you to stay on top of the investigation, since you're insisting on keeping me at arm's length."

"I am staying on top of things, Milt," Harper told him. "I can still worry about you in the process. You really are starting to look a little run down."

"I'll worry about that when I can be sure McCormick's not gonna spend the next twenty years of his life in a maximum security institution." He pushed himself out of his chair, signaling the end of the conversation. "Now, yesterday you were talking about finding a way to flush out Filapiano," he continued, moving toward the door. "This seems like an excellent time to figure out how exactly we might do that."

Harper just smiled and shook his head ruefully, following his friend out the door.

00000

The two men were huddled again around Harper's desk, poring over every bit of information the LAPD had accumulated on Don Filapiano, which turned out to be quite a bit.

"That's what happens when you become the subject of an Internal Affairs investigation," Harper commented, looking over all the surveillance data.

"Yeah," Hardcastle agreed dryly, "they've got more stuff in their files than I do in mine."

Harper chuckled, then called out a greeting to the unexpected tap on the door. "Come in." He looked up, motioned Shelley Doleton in, and pointed her to the empty chair.

"You guys finding anything?" she asked, taking in the papers strewn over the desk.

"Not much," Frank answered. "They did observe Filapiano several times in what appears to have been some sort of surveillance around Milt's house." He frowned and shook his head. "Still can't believe no one bothered to warn you about that."

Hardcastle shrugged. "You know the drill; nothing overtly threatening, and they didn't want to blow their own surveillance. Besides, as it turns out, he was probably watching McCormick more than he was watching me. But what about you?" he asked, turning his attention to Doleton. "How'd the questioning go with Walsh? And did you get anything else?"

"Well, Walsh really doesn't want to let McCormick off the hook, I can tell you that. He must've rephrased his questions a dozen different ways, just trying to trip Costa up, looking for the holes in his story. But I think he's finally ready to accept the fact that he's telling the truth. You know, interestingly enough, I think he's probably not a bad guy; he just really wants to close this case."

Hardcastle's 'hmph' made clear he wasn't in complete agreement with the assessment, but he didn't say anything further about it. Instead he clarified his questioning. "So did you find out if Costa knows anything else about Filapiano? Does he have any idea where the guy might be?"

The attorney shook her head. "This really was strictly a financial arrangement; there didn't seem to be any personal involvement. At least," she corrected, "not until Filapiano apparently tried to set him up to take a fall while he got off scot-free. That seems to have made it a little more personal to Costa."

"I'll bet," Harper snorted.

"Yeah," Hardcastle agreed, "though he obviously didn't have any problem doing the same thing to McCormick."

"Anyway," Doleton went on, "he says he really doesn't know what his plans were, doesn't know where he might've gone to hide out. Said they met different places, up until they got the house in La Crescenta. There was a number Costa called to leave a message; that's the only kind of contact they had when they weren't together, so that's not much help. He did say, though, that it wouldn't surprise him to know that the guy had hung around town, just to see what happened. Said Filapiano had it in for you pretty bad, Milt. Seemed to think he would've enjoyed watching you see McCormick go down."

"Yep, I think he would've liked that, too. So what woulda made him start taking shots at me? The kid's still in jail; still looking at a big chunk of years behind bars. If that's what he wanted, he's done a pretty damn good job."

"Yeah," Harper put in, "but then folks started looking for him. He's gotta figure Mark gave him up, which is exactly what he didn't want. So, he figures he's gotta take you out, because that's the price he set for betrayal. He doesn't know Mark's still sittin' here behind bars, willing to sacrifice himself. He doesn't know his plan is still working."

"None of which helps us find him," Hardcastle snapped. "How're you supposed to work a guy who doesn't even have sense enough to know he's got what he set out for?"

"Okay," Frank placated, "so he hung around to watch you suffer. And after that didn't seem to be working, he hung around to try and knock you off. Seems the logical thing to do would've been to get the hell out of town. So he's fixated on you enough that his own safety has become secondary. Maybe we don't have to know where to find him; maybe we can bring him to us."

"How?" Doleton and Hardcastle asked in unison.

"Ah, I haven't quite gotten that far yet," Harper admitted. "Just seems like there oughta be a way to make it happen. 'Course," he looked over at the judge, "you know that means you'd have to be the bait."

"Oh, I don't care about that," Hardcastle answered, his tone making it clear that was truly a minor consideration. He thought for a second, then glanced at Doleton, "I wonder if Filapiano still answers that phone?"

But it was Harper who answered. "Even if he does, you can't be calling him. And just what do you think you'd say to him, anyway?"

"I'm sure I could think of a choice word or two," Milt said blandly.

"No doubt," the detective grinned, "though that's not exactly what I had in mind."

"Maybe we could have Costa give him a call," Doleton suggested, "see if he can set up a meet?"

"He's gotta know the guy's in custody," Hardcastle objected. "They were covering his extradition from Florida on the news. Filapiano would never fall for it."

"Well, then," Harper said, "if you really don't mind being bait—and if you don't mind getting a little egg on your face—maybe we should make a little news of our own. Maybe you could do a press conference—talk about how the system is working just like it should, and how, yeah, it's hard to find out McCormick was involved, but at least justice is being served, though we won't stop until we find the last culprit—you know the drill. And then . . ." He trailed off as he saw the judge's simmering anger. "What?"

"Maybe I wasn't understanding," Hardcastle began, his voice low and threatening, "because I can't believe you'd suggest I stand up in front of a bunch of reporters and say that McCormick is actually involved in this fiasco."

"Just as part of the act, Milt," Frank explained. "Then—"

"No," the older man interrupted firmly. "Not even as part of the act. The kid has a hard enough time with some folks figuring out which side he's really on; I'm not gonna make it worse, not even for a minute. And besides, if the idea is to lure Filapiano out to me somehow, how's that gonna help? Wouldn't that just make him sit back and rest on his laurels somewhere?"

"I figured he'd show up at the press conference," Harper answered, "just to see what you had to say. Hopefully we could catch him there. But, I'll tell you the truth, I also figured if that was your statement, maybe he'd call off the attack, just in case we didn't get him. Kind of two birds with one stone type of deal."

Hardcastle shook his head. "Except McCormick ends up in the line of fire of that stone. I won't have him become collateral damage. Besides, we're supposed to be finding a way to earn him some extra points with the powers that be, not running up his tab even further."

"Then what do you suggest?" the lieutenant asked in exasperation. "Like you said, the kid doesn't really have much to bargain with. Let's face it; what he's got going for him is fast talking, fast driving, and a pretty good pair of hands. None of that's gonna help him right now."

"I know I'm a little bit of an outsider here," Doleton chimed in, "but from where I'm sitting, it seems like McCormick might actually have one other fairly marketable commodity, at least in certain circles."

Two sets of eyes turned her way. "What's that?" Hardcastle asked.

"Access to you," she told him. "Your trust. In fact, the one thing Filapiano was trying to take."

"What are you suggesting?" Harper prodded.

She shrugged slightly. "I'm not even sure, exactly. I just can't believe there's not a way to use that. Filapiano wants you, Milt, and McCormick could deliver you. You just need to find a way to put it together."

"Use Mark to set up a meet?" Harper wasn't convinced. "Like he was selling Milt out?"

"Why not?" Doleton asked.

It was Hardcastle who answered, tone bristling with anger again. "Because he wouldn't. Why do you think we're in this mess?"

"Oh, come on, Milt. I'm sure he's a good kid, but are you telling me he doesn't have a price?"

"If he does," Harper broke in quickly, "it's a safe bet that Filapiano can't afford it. I think that's been made pretty clear."

"But he doesn't know that," Doleton insisted. She looked at the judge sincerely. "Quit being so defensive for just a minute and think this through. If you can find a way to make Filapiano believe it, then McCormick can set him up for you. The feds wouldn't have a leg to stand on then; they'd have to cut him loose. So think, Milt; what would it take? What would break him?"

Harper was beginning to see the possibilities, but he could tell by the way Hardcastle's spine was rigid, his head shaking continuously, though almost imperceptibly, that the judge wasn't buying into any of it. "It doesn't have to be true, Milt," he said reassuringly, "it only has to sound true. And someone like Filapiano, he's gonna believe that everyone has a price. Hell, he thought twelve thousand dollars could buy the kid." He thought for a few minutes, then ventured a quiet suggestion.

"I think I have the answer." He was relieved to see that Hardcastle looked interested, despite himself. He took a breath. "It would have to be you. You're his anchor, Milt, the thing that's keeping him where he belongs. It's what we were just talking about—your faith. If he lost that, he'd lose an awful lot. Personally, I think he'd probably fall off the straight and narrow, even though I don't believe there's anything that could ever make him literally turn on you. But Filapiano won't know that. And we already know he's making bad decisions. He should never have stayed in town; that was sloppy. He must want you pretty bad. He'll be willing to believe anything even close to real."

"That's it?" Hardcastle asked. "That's your grand idea? We're just gonna have McCormick call him up, tell him I decided he was no good, and expect him to believe the kid's gonna set me up just like that?"

"That's the nutshell version, yeah," Frank replied. "Mark'll flesh it out; he's good at that sort of thing. He'll make it work. Anyway, worst that can happen is Filapiano won't bite, and we won't be any worse off than we are now."

Pressing his palms on his knees, Hardcastle leaned back against his chair, gazing directly across the desk. "You've only forgotten one thing. He's not gonna want to do it."

"He's not gonna want to spend the next twenty years in a federal prison, either," Harper said. "He'll do it."

00000

"You're out of your mind!" McCormick declared. "I'm not gonna do that!"

"You have to do it," Harper coaxed, though his coaxing stayed pretty firm. He hoped that McCormick would get the idea that bringing him back here to the interrogation room—with the federal agents in attendance—meant they really needed him to go along. Then he added, "It's the best chance we have of making it work." He deliberately ignored the judge's 'I told you so' smirk.

"Unless there's a reason you don't want it to work?" Agent Walsh challenged.

"A reason I wouldn't want to lure a homicidal maniac to a secluded spot alone with the person he's trying to blow away? I can't imagine what that would be."

Frank worked to control his own smirk. This probably wasn't the time to be amused by the kid's smart lip. "He wouldn't be alone," he reassured McCormick. "We'd have everything locked down tight; it would be completely safe."

McCormick simply cast a piercing blue gaze across the table, and Harper had the decency to backpedal slightly. "Okay. It would be as safe as we could possibly make it. Which is pretty damn safe, by the way."

"Of course," Agent Carruthers added in, "we'd be taking point on the detail, so there would be an entire contingency of federal agents on site, in addition to whatever local officers were covering. Judge Hardcastle would have plenty of protection."

"And I suppose they're here," Mark said sharply, jabbing a finger toward the agents, "to remind me of the consequences of not cooperating?"

Harper grimaced just a little. He'd wanted McCormick to understand it was important; he hadn't actually wanted him to feel threatened. There had been far too much of that going on lately. Surprisingly, it was Walsh who answered.

"Actually, McCormick, we're here to remind you of the benefits if you do cooperate. Things can't really get much worse for you if you decide not to. But if you can help us grab Filapiano, maybe we can make these charges go away."

McCormick arched an eyebrow. "You still don't get it, do you?" he asked the agent. "I'm not interested in saving my life at the expense of his. You want to set him up as bait for some guy that's been carrying a grudge for a couple of decades now. That seems a little crazy to me. Better just to keep him protected until you guys can do your job and find Filapiano and lock him up. And besides—"

"Besides what?" Frank prompted when it became clear Mark wasn't going to offer anything more.

The young man gave a small shrug. "I was just gonna say, I don't think he'd believe me anyway." Harper thought the subdued tone carried an undercurrent of apprehension as McCormick looked over at Hardcastle.

"Well, that's kind of what I said, too," the older man told him, "though I suppose if anyone can spin that, it'd be you."

"I suppose," Mark said slowly, though he didn't look like that was the answer he'd hoped to receive. "But I still don't think he'll fall for it." He seemed very insistent.

"It's possible that he'd want to fall for it," Hardcastle suggested. "He worked awful hard to make it true." Then the man paused and looked directly into the eyes of his young friend. "But you don't have enough scam in you to convince me."

And then, though the ex-con didn't quite smile, there was a definite air of relief that came over him, and that's when Harper understood. There had never been any fear that his cover story wouldn't be believed, but rather that it would. He just shook his head as the two unlikely friends continued their dance.

"Well, I'm glad you've got at least that much sense, Hardcase," McCormick was saying, "but I still don't like it. The man wants to kill you, Judge, and you want me to just invite him out somewhere to take his best shot at it. I don't like it all."

"And I don't like the idea of having to go to all the trouble of finding a new Tonto just because you're too stubborn to do things our way and end up spending your life in the federal pokey."

"You'll get me off," Mark said confidently.

"You understand the idea of an affirmative defense, kiddo?" Hardcastle asked, his voice taking on a slightly lecturing tone. "It means we gotta stand up in court and admit that you broke the law, and then prove that you had a damn good reason for doing it. The burden is all ours. And that would've been hard to do, even if Filapiano had actually grabbed me; as it stands, it's gonna be almost impossible. I'd sure as hell give it my best shot, but it isn't our only shot anymore."

McCormick's eyes traveled from the judge to Harper to the feds, examining them all, then finally came back to rest on Hardcastle. "You think no one's going to believe an ex-con could be held hostage by a threat to a judge," he accused.

Harper found himself watching the judge wince at the bitter pain in the kid's question, and wondered how Hardcastle would handle it. He should've known the man would opt for the simple truth.

"Not any ex-con," Hardcastle began, "and not any judge. You and me. I'm the guy who sent you up; the one you've been known to complain about—loudly—to just about anybody that would listen. That makes for a lot of witnesses. So, yeah, I think it might be kinda hard for your average jury to wrap their minds around the idea that you were forced into criminal activity against your will out of concern for me."

"But what about Costa? He'll testify, right?"

"Yeah, and that'll help. But then the prosecutor will point out that he got some leniency on charges in exchange for that testimony, and all of a sudden, the unvarnished truth starts looking a little bit suspicious.

"I'm tellin' you, kid, this is our best shot, and I want you to do it."

McCormick hesitated for another long moment. Finally he asked, "Can I be there?"

And though Harper thought all their reasons were probably different, four voices immediately spoke up, in complete agreement. "No."

McCormick seemed taken aback by the sudden solidarity, though it was Hardcastle he lashed out at. "Now you're on their side?"

"He doesn't really have a say," Frank interjected, before the judge could be drawn into an argument, "but I'm sure we'd all agree it's safer for you to not be in attendance."

"And you are still in custody," Carruthers pointed out, not unkindly. "You're really not in the best position to be participating in any kind of operation."

Mark sniffed. "I'm in custody on bogus charges," he told the agent. "Even you guys have figured that out by now, but you're just jerking me around on general principle and hoping you can get something out of it." He gave his head a single shake and turned his attention back to the judge.

"This is really what you want to do?"

Hardcastle nodded. "It really is for the best, kiddo. It helps you and it gives us our best chance at nailing Filapiano. It's a win-win."

McCormick still didn't seem entirely convinced, but at last he dragged a hand through his hair and blew out a noisy, resigned sigh. "So what's the plan?"

00000

It had taken a while to get the technical side arranged. First, they had to have a phone and recorder brought into the conference room. After that, having McCormick's gatehouse phone number forwarded to the line at the station hadn't been difficult, but they'd wanted to ensure that it didn't appear to be forwarded, just in case someone had the ability to check that sort of thing. But a little finagling with the phone company, and all was well on that front.

Walsh had taken point on working with McCormick to spell out the particulars of the cover story being used, as the agent seemed to think that everyone else involved was inclined to go too easy on the kid, and wouldn't recognize a double-cross if it happened right in front of them. McCormick had rolled his eyes, but he'd heeded the sharp look from Hardcastle and kept any smart comments to himself. And by the time they were done, the ex-con thought the fed might've actually gotten the idea that no one was more interested in making sure that this operation went without a hitch.

But by the time everything was in place, the agents thought that it was too late in the day to attempt contact with Filapiano; they should wait until the next morning. McCormick had made the argument that nothing was going to give them away quicker than trying to stick to a nine to five schedule, though, in truth, it was well past five already. But finally Harper had reminded everyone that the number they were calling was only a message phone; the odds of connecting with Filapiano today were probably slim. Better to get the ball rolling, since they didn't know what kind of timeframe they'd be dealing with. That had convinced even Walsh, and Mark had dialed the phone, then left a simple message. 'This is McCormick. I'm out, and we should talk.' They all thought that should definitely get the ball rolling.

They'd all stayed in the conference room after that, hoping to get a response quickly, even though they knew it wasn't likely. Pizza had been sent for when McCormick had reminded them that he wasn't allowed to leave, and they had been occupying his time during scheduled meals. But several hours later, they were ready to admit no return phone call seemed immediately forthcoming and call it a night. Then two cots were brought in, so McCormick and one of them could spend the night within earshot of the phone. "It would've been easier," Mark told them peevishly, "to let me out and actually do all this at the gatehouse."

"But then we wouldn't get to have this little camp out," Walsh responded.

McCormick just shook his head slightly and threw a silently appealing look toward Hardcastle.

"You know, Agent Walsh," Hardcastle began, "I could take the overnight shift. Filapiano isn't likely to call, anyway, and the kid is my client. Least I could do is help out. Everyone's contact numbers are right there by the phone. Wouldn't be a problem at all."

But Walsh wasn't biting, though the long day seemed to have erased some of his earlier resentment. "That's okay, Judge; I'll take the shift. Besides, no offense, but it really should be handled by an officer."

Hardcastle winced slightly, but McCormick knew there wasn't really an argument to that. Might as well let this one go. "You should go anyway, Hardcase," he said, sending the message to the judge. "If we get lucky, you've got a date tomorrow with a homicidal maniac. You should be well rested for that."

Hardcastle smiled slightly as he got to his feet. "You could be right about that. You get some rest, too." He motioned to Harper. "C'mon, Frank; let's go round up a car to babysit me tonight."

"Actually," Harper told him, stretching as he rose, "Coltrane has requested to be able to see this one through, so he'll be with you again tonight. But I think I'll drive you and he can follow; an extra pair of eyes never hurt."

"That's a good idea," Carruthers commented, following the others toward the door. "We should consider the possibility that Filapiano has already received the message and simply not called back. If so, he's gotta be wondering exactly what's going on, and that uncertainty might make him more likely to strike out at Hardcastle again."

"That's a cheery thought," McCormick called after them. "Frank, you keep an eye on the donkey, ya hear me?"

And as the door closed on the calm replies and general assurances, McCormick let out a small sigh and lowered his forehead toward the tabletop, resting on his folded arms. "I'll be glad when this is over," he muttered.

There was a long silence from the other man, but then Walsh finally said, "You know, I still haven't figured out your game. But I will."

McCormick didn't look up. "That's because it's not a game, Agent, but I've quit worrying about whether or not you're going to figure that out. Whatever happens, I just need to get Filapiano out of circulation. Beyond that . . . well, honestly, anything beyond that is just gravy."

"Even if you don't get out?" Walsh asked quizzically.

"Even if," McCormick said flatly, then he let the silence stretch out.

00000

The phone was beginning its third ring before McCormick recognized it for what it was, though maybe it was the federal agent shouting his name that truly got his attention. He shook his head roughly as he rolled off the cot, silently cursing himself for picking tonight to actually fall asleep.

Walsh already had his headphones in place to listen in on the conversation, and the tape recorder was running by the time McCormick grabbed the receiver off the hook. He didn't try to hide his exhaustion; it was the middle of the night, after all. "Yeah, what?" he growled into the phone.

"Did I wake you, McCormick?" There was a slimy chuckle from the other end of the line.

"Who is this?"

The tone went a little harsher. "You called me, McCormick."

"Filapiano?" McCormick tried to sound suspicious.

"What is it that we need to talk about?"

Mark rubbed at his eyes. "Ah, what we need to talk about is Hardcastle, your plans for him, and my future."

"I thought your future was going to be pretty well taken care of; you didn't keep your end of the bargain."

"I did," McCormick contradicted angrily. "I turned myself in; I confessed. It's your boy, Randall, or Costa, or whatever his name is, that caused the problems. I guess he didn't like bein' set up as the second patsy."

Another short chuckle, though this one had an angry edge to it. "You don't expect me to believe that?"

"Believe it or don't, but I figured a guy like you woulda been keeping up on things. I was locked up for almost a friggin' week—right up until the time your guy got picked up. He's the one doing all the talking; hell, he's the one that got me sprung. Where the hell do you think I got your number, anyway?" McCormick figured with a guy like Filapiano, it was never too early to go on the offensive.

And that seemed to stop the ex-cop for a moment, but then the tone was even more suspicious. "How did you get it? They wouldn't've let you two talk alone."

"Alone? Hell, no. And he didn't give it to me, anyway. He gave it to the cops; I just happened to be around. He's trying to serve you up to cut a deal. So let me give you a tip; I wouldn't be returning any phone calls for a while."

"And why are you so eager to help me out all of a sudden?"

"Does it matter?" McCormick spat out.

"Ah . . ." Suddenly Filapiano seemed to put it together. "Something happened, huh? You figured out Hardcastle isn't quite the patron saint you've been thinking, didn't you? Well, I thought it would be the other way around, but this works for me, too."

"Let's see if it still works for you when you hear what I want."

"And why should I care what you want?"

"Because I can give you what you want," McCormick told him. "I can give you Hardcastle."

And then, without warning, the line went dead.

"What the hell?" McCormick said, as he slammed down the phone.

But Walsh was unruffled. "He's dodging a trace," he explained calmly. "Don't worry; I think you've got his attention. He'll call back."

It took just over a minute for the phone to ring again, but McCormick thought the time stretched forever. He let the second ring begin before he picked up the phone. "Yeah?"

"Now about what I want," Filapiano said from the other end, as if there had been no break in the conversation.

But McCormick wasn't letting it slide. "What the hell kind of game are you playing?" he demanded.

"That's what I'm wondering about you. I'm willing to talk with you until I can figure it out, but I'm not willing to be stupid about it, so we'll do things my way. Now, you said something about delivering Hardcastle?"

"Yeah," McCormick conceded without further argument, "I can do that."

"You know I don't want to invite him over for Sunday dinner," Filapiano said.

"Yeah, that much I got, but to tell you the truth, what you do with him is of no concern to me. I tried to do things his way; I was even willing to go to prison, if that's what it took, but no more. The man's a jackass, and the sooner I can get out from under his boot heel, the better off I'll be. And right now seems like the perfect opportunity; the one time no one's gonna suspect me if something happens to him."

"So what did he do?" Filapiano asked.

"You wouldn't understand," McCormick said.

"You ought to try me," the cop instructed firmly, "because I'm having a hard time understanding how things changed so drastically in a week. You were sure willing to do a lot to protect him just a few days ago."

McCormick threw a triumphant smirk over at the agent. True, Filapiano wasn't being particularly forthcoming, but McCormick thought that had still been pretty damn clear. Then he got back to business. "Yeah," he answered bitterly, "I woulda done just about anything. But that was before I found out what he really thinks about me. You know, I came back here, just like you said, and I told them my story. I was ready to take the fall completely. But I never expected him to actually believe I was guilty. Convict me? Sure. You set me up pretty well. But believe it? Damn. I've been bustin' my ass for six months for that guy. I would've died for him. And he gives me some lecture about 'how could you?' and 'I should've known from the beginning you weren't any different than the others'. He never once even asked me why; he was just ready to believe that I'd sold him out for the cash."

McCormick sucked in a breath. "Well, if that's what he thinks, fine. That's what made me think that maybe you and I could work a deal. I know you want him, and I know you already botched the job once. And it's not gonna get any easier with 'round the clock protection like he's had the past few days."

"What are you suggesting?" Filapiano asked.

"I can give you a place and a time," Mark answered. "No protection. He'd be a sitting duck, for the person who knew when and where."

"And what do you get?"

"Besides a great deal of satisfaction? Cash to get out."

"You got your share," Filapiano reminded him.

"My share," McCormick said coldly. "Don't insult me. I know how much we took outta that safe, Filapiano, and I know my share and Costa's combined didn't come anywhere close to half. I did the work; you need to cough up. Hell, I already earned it; word on Hardcastle is practically a freebie."

"And what if I agreed with you on that? How much are you looking for in return for this 'freebie'?"

"Probably not as much as you think," McCormick told him. "Twenty thousand should get me started somewhere else quite nicely."

"Twenty?" Apparently Filapiano didn't consider that much of a bargain price. "You need to rethink your usefulness." And then there was another click.

McCormick wasn't surprised this time, as he hung up the phone to wait. After a few seconds, he looked at Walsh and declared, "I'm gonna offer to meet him."

"The hell you are!" the agent sputtered, eyes wide with surprise. "I'll pull the plug on this little stunt of yours so fast it'll make your head spin."

The ex-con was unworried. "Oh, relax, Walsh. He's not gonna take me up on it."

"What if—"

The phone rang, and McCormick grabbed it on the first ring, cutting off the fed's comments. "You know," he greeted, "I could meet you somewhere and we could stop this game with the phone." He ignored the glare from Walsh.

"I told you we'd do this my way," Filapiano responded, "and I'm not interested in seeing you."

"Your choice," McCormick said dismissively. "Now what about my twenty grand?"

"Too much," Filapiano said flatly. "I would consider half that."

"It isn't negotiable," McCormick answered just as flatly. "That's the price."

"The price of betrayal, eh?" Filapiano sounded pleased with the idea.

"Call it whatever you like; that's the deal."

"It's not a price I'll pay, McCormick."

"Then we're done. Good luck on your own." Without another word, McCormick hung up the phone, then crossed back to his cot, stretched out, and closed his eyes.

There was a moment of stunned silence before Walsh managed to ask, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Resting," McCormick said calmly, eyes still closed. "It'll take him a while to call back."

Walsh dragged a chair noisily away from the table, then dropped into it. "You're awfully sure of yourself," he commented.

"Yep." Mark still didn't look at the other man. "There's not a lot that I know better than scams."

"I believe that."

McCormick smiled slightly, then rolled over, propping himself on an elbow to gaze across the room. "You've got sort of a one track mind, don't ya? I mean, you just don't get the idea that I really am on the level here."

"I am prepared to believe that you weren't a willing participant in the robbery," Walsh allowed. "I don't think I'm ready to believe that you don't have some sort of agenda somewhere."

McCormick shook his head and lay back down. "Then I guess it's lucky you're not the one I have to convince."

Almost twenty minutes of silence passed before the phone rang again. McCormick rolled slowly to his feet and padded to the table, ignoring the impatient gestures from the federal agent. "Hello?"

"I want to know why you're still with him."

McCormick pretended confusion. "What? Filapiano? What're you talkin' about now? I thought we were done."

"I want to know," Filapiano said distinctly, "why you're still with him. If he thought you'd crossed over and if that's a deal breaker for you, why are you still with him?"

Dragging a hand through his hair, McCormick remained silent, waiting.

"I said," Filapiano began again, a low anger punctuating each word, "why—"

"I heard you," McCormick interrupted. "I'm just not sure why any of this is any of your business."

"Answer the question, McCormick, and maybe we'll have business together."

Mark sighed heavily. "After Costa gave his statement," he began slowly, "I thought maybe Hardcastle would . . . I don't know, admit he'd been wrong. Apologize. Something."

"Not really in his nature," Filapiano said unsympathetically. "So what did he do?"

"Hell. He acted like nothing had happened. Just said, 'lucky it worked out, kid; let's go home.' I told him he was crazy; there was no way I was just gonna pick up like nothing had changed, not after what he'd said and the way he'd been. Told him we needed to get a few things straight if we were gonna keep working together. Hah. He set me straight, all right. He said the feds might be ready to cut me loose, but that I should remember who made the final decisions about my freedom. He gave me two choices: I could work for him or he could pull my ticket. Shit."

McCormick shook his head and let some misery creep into his voice. "Like he'd completely forgotten I'd been willing to sacrifice everything just to protect him; that didn't matter at all. It was either go back to being his underpaid yard boy or go back to Quentin." He took a breath. "That deal didn't sound a whole lot better than it had the first time around, but it didn't really sound a whole lot worse, either. I mean, I'd just dodged a bullet over the whole bank job; I sure as hell didn't want to end up back inside for some stupid-ass parole violation. And besides," his tone turned slightly conspiratorial, "after that, it took me all of about two minutes to realize I might have a score to settle, and I sure as hell wouldn't be able to do that from inside."

"McCormick, I may have underestimated you," Filapiano said with a short chortle. "We might be able to do some business after all. But here's my condition: you don't get paid until after."

"You're out of your mind," McCormick said hotly. "You're asking for an awful lot of faith, all things considered."

"You were paid last time," Filapiano pointed out with utmost reason.

"That wasn't quite the same," Mark countered, "and you know it."

"Still, what's the worst that could happen? You'd be free of Hardcastle and no one would suspect you; isn't that what you said? You said it was a freebie."

"We both know that's not exactly what I said," McCormick said testily, "but I see your point. Still, I'm gonna need some sort of good faith payment. Something."

"I'm not going to report this conversation to the parole board," his ex-captor told him.

McCormick's voice was cold. "Don't play games, Filapiano."

By now, the click was almost expected, but it was no less annoying. McCormick sighed as he replaced the receiver, then he pulled up a chair, deciding he might as well be comfortable while he waited to spin his tale. "This is getting old," he complained.

"Can't really blame him," Walsh said. "He's afraid you might be setting him up."

Mark grinned slightly, but other than that, he was the picture of innocence. But as soon as the phone rang again, he was back in character. "I'm tired of these games," he said shortly.

"I told you we're doing this my way. But I might have a suggestion to our other problem. How about this? I'll make arrangements to have your payment delivered to La Crescenta at the same time you give me for the deal. If Hardcastle doesn't show, I'll call my courier and he won't make the drop. If everything works out, you'll get your money and an alibi all at once."

"All right," McCormick said slowly, "I guess that'll have to do." He paused for a few seconds, then added, "But after everything that's happened, don't think I wouldn't turn you in just on general principle. You'd better not double cross me."

"Where and when?" Filapiano asked, not addressing the threat.

McCormick flashed a thumbs-up over at Walsh, then did his best to sound annoyed at being out-maneuvered. "You're actually gonna get a choice," he began, "kind of a two for one deal on information. One gives you a better chance, but you'd have to be ready to move fast. The other gives you more time to plan, but you'd need it."

"I'm not interested in dragging my feet," the cop told him. "It's getting pretty hot around here. So let's do this thing."

"It's tomorrow morning," McCormick said, not letting even a hint of smugness into his tone. "Apparently, the jackass has some ritual about visiting his wife on Valentine's Day." He thought he did a pretty good imitation of derisive. "He already reamed me out for making him miss it this year, like I had any way of knowing about that, and like any of what's happened this week has been my fault anyway. Besides, who knew the old goat could get sentimental about anything or anybody? I woulda figured he'd be glad to be on his own, with no one to answer to but himself." McCormick winced just a little. He thought that sounded a little too close to what he really might've thought not all that long ago.

But Filapiano seemed to think the attitude made perfect sense. "Sounds to me like you know him pretty well, really. He's probably just keeping up appearances. So where's he going?"

"Woodlawn. Said he's going right after breakfast, so around eight-thirty or nine, which is why you don't have much time."

"What about his protection?"

"Uh-uh. He's already told 'em they're not goin' any farther than the cemetery gates. Said it's a personal thing and, let's see, 'they can damn well do their jobs from a distance' I think is how he put it when he discussed it with Harper."

"And you?"

"House arrest," McCormick said flatly. "And even if I wasn't, he sure as hell wouldn't take me there."

"Sounds like I'm going to be doing you quite a favor, McCormick," Filapiano commented.

"I wouldn't've thought so a week ago," the ex-con said with a touch of sadness. He took a breath. "Do you need anything else from me?"

"Not right now. I'll be in touch if this doesn't work out and we'll go to plan B. And, McCormick? I'm glad we finally found a common ground."

McCormick hung up the phone with a grimace. "Common ground," he said disgustedly. "That'll be the day."

Walsh hit the stop button on the recorder and looked over at his prisoner. "Yeah, well, I think it's a good thing Hardcastle didn't take the night watch. You probably wouldn't want him hearing some of that stuff; you're pretty convincing."

Shaking his head, McCormick said, "That's because, like Filapiano, you're eager to be convinced. That's the secret to any good scam, you know: tell people what they want to hear."

"So that's how you make it work with the judge, huh?"

Mark sighed. "I give up. Guys like me don't ever win with guys like you. But, really, I don't need you to believe me; I just need you to do your job and get him back out of there in one piece. That's the only important thing."

"You're starting to sound a little like a broken record on that front."

"Well," McCormick shrugged, "the truth has a way of being redundant."

"Maybe it does at that," Walsh conceded with a small smile. He rose from his chair, motioning for McCormick to do the same. "Come on. I've gotta round everybody up and get them back here then into position in just a few hours." He shook his head. "I really didn't think you'd be able to sell the early set-up."

"He's eager to believe," McCormick reminded him, "and he really hates the judge." He got to his feet. "And what about me?"

"Back to your cell for now. You've done your part; it's time for us to do ours."

"I'm gonna want to see Hardcastle before this thing goes down," Mark said as he followed the agent without argument.

"That's up to him," Walsh said sternly. But then the man seemed to relent slightly as he added, "But my guess is I won't even have to ask him."

00000

McCormick was pacing, though the small isolation cell didn't allow much room for releasing his pent up emotions. He had discovered almost immediately that going back to sleep was out of the question, though his best estimation was that it couldn't be much later than five o'clock even now, and he was sure he'd been back in his cell for two or three hours. Then he'd tried just sitting for a while, but even that had proven to be more than he'd been able to manage, so he'd resorted to the pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, across the small area time and again; and, every once in a while, he'd punctuate the change of direction by slapping the wall as he turned. All in all, he didn't think it was probably doing much for his state of mind—and he knew it wasn't doing much for his palms—but it was helping to pass the time. He had just pounded the wall again—choosing a fairly loud expletive to go along with the motion—when the door finally opened.

"Does that help?" Hardcastle inquired mildly.

"Not particularly," McCormick muttered, his cheeks reddening slightly as he rubbed at his hand. "But I've been going a little crazy." He looked up hopefully. "I don't suppose I could talk you into changing your mind about letting me go along?"

The judge smiled slightly. "You know I can't, kiddo. Besides, the frame of mind you're in, I'm not sure this is the best time to put you together with Filapiano."

"I'd behave," the young man promised, though there was an edge to his voice.

"You're gonna have to sit this one out, kid. But it's all coming together because of you, ya know. Walsh told me you did real good settin' the stage."

"Hah." McCormick plopped onto his cot. "I'll bet he did. You don't have to try to spin it, Judge; I know what he thinks about me."

"Well, what he thinks isn't all that important, anyway, but, for what it's worth, he really did say you handled the set-up well."

McCormick waved that off, but he found himself wondering just what Walsh really did believe. He'd like to think that his freedom didn't depend at all upon the agent's opinion, but he'd been around far too much to allow himself that kind of delusion. He focused his thoughts back on the topic at hand.

"Okay, listen, that doesn't matter. I'm counting on you to play this smart. Tonto isn't gonna be around to ride shotgun, so you're gonna have to take care of yourself." Mark looked at the older man sincerely. "I want you to be careful."

Hardcastle met his gaze. "Don't worry. Frank already gave me almost the same lecture." He tapped at his chest. "I'm wired up so tight I won't be able to breathe without someone knowing it, and they even got me fitted with a bullet-proof vest. The feds are gonna have the cemetery staked out more than even you would probably have thought to do, and Frank's guys are gonna be there, too. It's gonna be fine, kiddo."

McCormick nodded as he thought it through. "Okay," he said slowly, "sounds like it'll be okay. But, hey, I've been wanting to ask you; are you okay with this whole set-up? At the cemetery, I mean?"

The judge quirked a small smile. "Kinda late to be worried about that now, don't ya think?"

"I'm serious about this, Judge."

"Me, too," Hardcastle answered. Then his smile broadened. "But I do appreciate the concern. And, yeah, I'm fine with it. Whatever it takes to catch this guy and get you out of here, that's the only thing I'm concerned about. So you sit tight, and try not to bang up on the walls too much until I get back, okay? Then, with any luck, we should be able to go home."

McCormick smiled in return. "Home, huh?" He thought that sounded better than he dared hope for, so all he said was, "Yeah, that would be great." He didn't add the caveat of he'd believe it when he saw it; no sense giving the judge anything extra to worry about right now. "You just make sure you do your part and get back. Everything else will work out after."

"It's a deal," Hardcastle told him, turning back toward the door.

McCormick found himself watching every movement as the judge crossed the small room and opened the door, filing away the images for later . . . He shook his head roughly, reminding himself that Hardcastle had been facing down bad guys long before he came along. Things were going to be fine. And then the man paused in the open door, turning to look back into the cell.

"You know, kiddo," Hardcastle began, "it's still pretty early. I think when I get home, I'm gonna try to stretch out again for an hour or so. You should try to get some rest, too."

And as he looked into the eyes of his friend, McCormick thought that probably wasn't what the older man was thinking at all, but maybe the judge was filing away images of his own. Still, he knew how to hold up his end of the deal. "Yeah, don't worry. I'm gonna be catching forty winks while you're out doing all the work, but that's what you get for not letting me go along."

Hardcastle laughed. "I'll see you later, kid," he said, and then he was gone, leaving Mark to stare at the locked door and pray that the images in his mind wouldn't be the last.

Mustering every ounce of willpower he had, McCormick forced himself not to start the pacing just yet.

Chapter 8

Hardcastle rolled into a seated position, then sat at the edge of the bed, gazing sightlessly at his bedroom. When he'd told McCormick he was going to rest for a while, he'd only been making conversation, delaying the inevitable moment when he was going to have to leave the kid locked alone in that infernal cell. And, by extension, delaying the moment when he was simply going to have to leave alone. It wasn't something he liked to dwell on, but in the short time the ex-con had been in residence, he had somehow stopped thinking of himself as alone. He didn't know how that had happened; wasn't even sure when it had happened, and he sure couldn't be expected to understand why; but it was most definitely true, just the same. But now, in the space of one short week, everything was on the verge of falling apart. So, rather than sit and think those sorts of thoughts, he'd simply done as he'd said and grabbed a bit of shuteye.

And besides that, in addition to his permanent shadow, Coltrane, and the other black and white unit stationed outside his home, there was one federal agent downstairs. Mead was his name, and while he had seemed like a perfectly nice guy, he had also seemed like the sort who intended to make non-stop conversation right up until the moment they walked out the door to go bust Filapiano. Hardcastle hadn't been in the mood for that, either. All in all, sleep had been a welcome recourse. But now it was after eight and time to stop hiding. He was going to nail Don Filapiano once and for all, get McCormick out of jail and back home where he belonged, and get things back to normal again. He pushed himself off the bed with a decisiveness that anyone who knew him would've recognized.

00000

Hardcastle steered the Corvette along the familiar route, his attention focused not on the usual surroundings, but on anything that might be unusual. They had discussed the fact that since Filapiano knew where he was going, it wouldn't be necessary to actually carry out the hit at the cemetery; he could be taken out anywhere along the route. But there wasn't much that could be done about that, other than be alert. Coltrane was on his tail at a very non-discreet distance, and Mead—who Hardcastle was convinced must've just barely met the bureau height requirements—was folded up on the passenger floorboard with a jacket thrown unceremoniously on top of him. And they had put the top up on the 'Vette. The judge was convinced there was nothing else that could be done. Besides, he was of the opinion that after everything that had happened, Filapiano would probably like to do the job face to face; he was convinced there was gloating to come. In fact, he was counting on it.

He turned off of Pico onto Fourteenth, checked the mirror to ensure Coltrane had made the turn as well, then proceeded up the street toward the entrance. He pulled in past the simple wooden sign, stopping just inside the grounds. Coltrane pulled in behind him, parking the patrol car out of the way of traffic but still conspicuously. The judge got out of his car briefly, made a show of telling the officer to stay put, then continued on toward his family gravesite alone. He parked at the bottom of a small hill, and then, taking care not to look around too overtly, he grabbed the single rose from his front seat and climbed out of the car.

As he trudged through the grass still damp from morning dew, Hardcastle could feel his shoulders tensing, and a tingle in his spine. He decided then that he should've really pushed to find a way to get McCormick included in this operation. True, the kid might be a little too personally involved to be strictly by the book, but this was a bad time to realize that there was no one he trusted more to watch his back when things really got tough. And with a renegade ex-cop waiting somewhere in the shadows to take his head off, things were likely to get pretty tough.

He had reached the family plot, and, sending up a quick, silent prayer for forgiveness for bringing business here, he approached Nancy's tombstone. He knelt down, and placed the rose at the head of her grave. "Hey, Nance," he said softly, "sorry I'm late. I had something come up this week that I had to deal with. That kid I told you about before, McCormick? Well, he got into some trouble. Anyway—"

"I would imagine," interrupted a voice, "that kid McCormick is always getting into trouble."

Hardcastle didn't rise, though his hand moved instinctively toward his shoulder holster, but the voice behind him was stern. "I wouldn't."

"Filapiano," the judge said, still kneeling, "what the hell do you want?'

"Oh, I think you know what I want, Hardcastle. But I've got something to tell you first, and I want to see your face, so stand up slowly and turn around. No sudden moves, okay? It wouldn't be quite as much fun to shoot you in the back, but I'd do it."

Hardcastle rose slowly, keeping his hands slightly away from his body, then turned to face the ex-cop, who had stepped out from behind two poplar trees. "You know there're an awful lot of people looking for you."

"Yeah, I think I'm gonna have to leave town today. Too bad, really. I've always kinda liked it here."

Hardcastle shook his head, looking at the automatic weapon leveled at his chest, noting the attached silencer. "What happened to you, Filapiano? Don't you ever wish you could go back to just being a cop? One of the good guys? Look at you. You've lost your badge; got felony conspiracy charges hanging over you; and you robbed a bank? And now what? Cold-blooded murder? You really have that in you? Is this really the way you want to be remembered?"

"Don't start talking to me about all that white hat crap, Hardcastle," Filapiano sneered. "You don't even understand what things are really like. I was trying to make a difference; trying to be one of the good guys. I was cleaning up the streets. But you had to bring your trained convict around and start nosing into things and screwed up everything. What I was doing was a good thing."

"What you were doing was getting people killed!" Hardcastle almost shouted. "You figure that's okay as long as it's the criminals who're getting knocked off? Well, that's where you're wrong. There are other ways. And besides, how do you justify last week? How does bank robbery fit into your defense of cleaning up the streets?"

"It might not've helped much," Filapiano allowed, "but I always intended my two 'partners' end up in jail. They're career criminals, Hardcastle; they don't belong on the streets." He frowned suddenly. "And they sure as hell don't have any business trying to help enforce the laws that they've spent a lifetime breaking."

The judge arched an eyebrow. "McCormick? Is that why you went after him?"

Filapiano shifted slightly, waving the gun in Hardcastle's direction. "Nah. That was because of you. He's important to you; you told me that. I wanted to take that from you the way you took my career from me."

Hardcastle grimaced as the guilt swept over him again; he didn't like hearing it spelled out so succinctly. "Too bad it didn't work out for you," he said sarcastically, but his eyes began sweeping the cemetery. He thought the feds should've heard enough by now. Time to move in and take this guy down.

"Oh, it worked more than you know," Filapiano told him smugly, and Hardcastle just waited for him to continue. "Did he tell you he only cooperated to protect you? He really thought your life was in danger, you know." He flashed a toothy smile. "Still, I didn't really think he'd turn himself in; I thought he'd run for sure. Lucky for me he didn't."

"How do you figure?" Hardcastle demanded. "He's the one who led us to Costa, who led us to you. What's lucky about that?"

"Because you lost your pet along the way, Hardcase, and you don't even know it yet. Showed your true colors, didn't you? Accused him of being in it for the money? I bet that didn't go over too well."

Hardcastle's eyes narrowed. "How do you know about that?"

Filapiano grinned and took a step closer to his target; Hardcastle was glad to see him moving away from the trees. "Because he told me," he gloated. "He was pissed. Said he never expected you to believe he was guilty. I guess he fell for the idea that he was important to you, too. But you sure managed to convince him otherwise real quick. You've always had a real way with people, Hardcastle."

"He told you this when?" Hardcastle asked dangerously, taking a step backward, hoping to lure the other man further out into the open. He wasn't sure where his backup was stationed, but a clear shot might be necessary at some point.

Filapiano was almost giddy with glee when he delivered the news. "When he called to arrange your murder."

Hardcastle stared, doing his best to look stunned. "When . . . what?"

"He sold you out, Hardcastle. How do you think I knew you'd be here this morning?"

"You could've followed me," the jurist supplied a weak explanation.

"You know better, you just don't want to admit it." Filapiano took another step closer. "And it didn't even cost me much," he added, rubbing it in. "Twenty thousand. You know the kind of money we took out of that bank, but he sold you out for only twenty grand. You blew it, Hardcastle. A week ago that kid would've sold his soul for you, and now . . . But at least you're going to die close to your family." He tightened his grip on the gun.

"Filapiano," Hardcastle said quickly, "you don't want to do this. Right now, you're only looking at jail time; don't step this up to a capital case." He was backing away, still looking for signs of the other officers. "You said you wanted to leave town; do it now, while you still can. You pull that trigger and people will never stop looking for you."

"That's a chance I'll take," Filapiano told him, his voice suddenly cold as he brought the weapon to bear.

And finally, another voice rang out. "Hold it! FBI! Drop your weapon!" Suddenly, the small glade was surrounded by a dozen officers, with Walsh and Harper in the lead.

Filapiano looked around frantically, but he didn't lower his weapon. "A set-up?" he asked disbelievingly.

"I said, drop your weapon!" Walsh repeated, as the circle tightened around the gravesite.

"I guess I didn't lose him after all," Hardcastle told him, unable to keep a certain amount of smugness out of his own tone.

The cop looked at the approaching band of officers, then seemed to reach a decision. "You both lose."

And just as just as Filapiano pulled the trigger, Hardcastle threw himself backward to the ground, unable to distinguish the number of shots that rang out.

00000

"Milt! Can you hear me?" Harper spoke urgently to his friend. The judge's pulse was strong, and a quick search had shown that the vest did its job and stopped the one bullet Filapiano had managed to fire; he was hoping this was nothing more drastic than Hardcastle having the wind knocked out of him. He tapped lightly on the man's cheek. "Milt!"

"Uhhhh," Hardcastle grunted. "What?" He tried to sit up. "What happened?"

"Hang on, Milt," Harper kept a gentle hand on the older man's shoulder. "How do you feel?"

Resting on his elbows, the judge seemed to be taking stock and considering the answer carefully. "Well, sort of like a Mack truck ran me down," he said ruefully, "but other than that, okay, I guess."

Harper chuckled. "Okay, good. Then let me help you up." He pulled the older man to his feet, keeping a hand on his arm until he was certain the judge was steady.

Hardcastle's eyes tracked over the area, coming to a rest on a sheet-covered form. "He didn't make it?"

Harper shook his head.

"That's not the way I wanted it," the jurist said.

"His choice," the detective said flatly. He steered the older man back toward the waiting 'Vette. "Let me drive you to the station; Mark's gonna be going crazy until he sees you." He opened the passenger door. "Besides," he added with a grin, "it'll give me a chance to drive this thing."

Hardcastle grinned back at him, and didn't argue the point as he slipped into the passenger seat. Then he seemed to remember something. "Hey!" he said, slapping at his chest. "What about the wire? Did you guys get it all?"

"Yeah," Harper smiled. "Walsh already pulled the stuff off you when we were making sure you weren't dead, but the guys in the van said it was picking up great."

"Okay," Hardcastle sighed, resting his head against the seat, "good. Then let's go."

Harper started the car and had just put it into gear when Walsh came jogging down the path. "Hey, Hardcastle, hold up."

The judge raised up and looked over at the agent. "Agent Walsh?"

"I'm glad you're feeling okay," the agent began. "Even with a vest, taking a shot like that can pack quite a punch."

"Yeah. I'll probably be sore for a while, but I'll be fine."

"Good, good." Walsh hesitated, seeming unsure of what he wanted to say next. Finally he just blurted, "So, you gonna go take your boy home now?"

Hardcastle seemed surprised. "Ah, I hope so, but . . ."

"I already put in a call to Griggs," Walsh added. "The federal charges will be dropped by the time you get there. I figure you can probably handle the local side."

The judge smiled and extended his hand out the window. "Thank you, Agent Walsh. I appreciate all your help."

Walsh took the offered hand. "You're welcome. And listen; tell McCormick that sometimes guys like him do win, even with guys like me."

"I will," Hardcastle answered. "And thanks again." He looked over at Harper. "Let's go get the kid."

00000

McCormick had tried, he really had, to do as he'd promised and get some rest. But when you figured in the idea that he'd already gotten a couple hours sleep earlier in the conference room, combined with the fact that sleeping in a cell was always a difficult thing, well, keeping that particular promise today had become something of a losing proposition. And, he could also admit—as long as no one forced him to say it aloud—that the greater problem was the movie reel of disastrous scenarios that had played out in his head since Hardcastle had walked out of the cell. It was like trying to sleep after a marathon of horror films.

And it wasn't enough that he couldn't shake the image of Hardcastle lying in a bloody heap atop his wife's grave; the next problem was that he realized he'd been far too cavalier about the idea of securing his own freedom in the event something should happen to the judge. Not that being in prison would've particularly mattered, but somewhere in the intervening hours it had occurred to him that if he never gained his freedom, he'd never be able to avenge Hardcastle, and that would be out of the question. Yeah, all things considered, he thought it was pretty easy to see why sleep had eluded him.

On the other hand, he was also perfectly prepared to take the virtuous high road if—when, when, he corrected himself silently—when Hardcastle came strolling back through the door and he could point out that he hadn't resorted to pacing the floor even once. Yet.

He sighed and leaned back against the wall, hugging his knees tighter to his chest, and determined that he could be stronger than his fears.

He didn't know how long he sat there, forcing himself not to move, though he thought he'd come up with a pretty good escape plan—if push came to shove—all centered around the certainty that Frank would spring him at least long enough to attend Hardcastle's funeral. But finally, he heard the cell door being unlocked.

Still he didn't move from his cot, just raised his eyes to the figure coming through the door, and he was certain that his heart must actually have stopped when he saw Harper step into the cell. But before he could even find the courage to phrase the question, Hardcastle was there, and McCormick felt the relief flood over him. "Judge." That was all he said, but he was sure Hardcastle probably recognized every emotion in the single word.

"It's over, kiddo," Hardcastle said gently, offering immediate reassurance. "It worked; we got him."

McCormick examined his face, also hearing words that weren't being spoken. He finally moved, scooting to the edge of the cot and leaning forward to look intently at the older man. "So he's in custody now?"

The hesitation was brief, but noticeable, almost as if Hardcastle was weighing his options, trying to decide on the importance of the question. But then, as McCormick had known that he would, he opted for the truth. "No, he's not in custody. But it's over."

"Oh." McCormick thought about that for a moment. "That's not exactly what I had in mind." He thought a little longer. "But I don't think I can honestly say that I'm sorry." Then he frowned slightly. "I mean—"

"I know what you mean, kiddo," Hardcastle interrupted. "It's okay. He made his choices."

"Don't we all?" Mark shook his head once. "I'm just glad you're okay." He glanced at Harper for confirmation. "Everything did go okay?"

The lieutenant smiled. "It's fine. Filapiano got off one shot, but the vest did its job. He might be a little sore for a while, but nothing to worry about."

"You weren't gonna tell me that part, I guess?" McCormick accused the judge.

Hardcastle shrugged. "You worry too much," he said lightly.

McCormick grinned at the tone—the judge's way of putting all the bad stuff away. "Yeah, well, I'm over that," he answered in kind, dusting his hands together. "You can take care of yourself from now on; nothing but trouble for me, anyway—just ask Frank." And then he remembered the very real trouble he was still in. He sobered quickly.

"Hey, did Filapiano . . . I mean, before he—well, did he say anything . . . helpful?"

"I was beginning to think you weren't even gonna ask," Hardcastle said with a small smile. He pointed at Harper. "Frank's here in an official capacity this time around."

Mark swallowed as he looked back at the detective, though he supposed neither man looked like they had bad news. Still, wouldn't do to get his hopes up. "Yeah? Well at this point, I seriously think I've told you guys everything I know, and unless you've got a torture chamber here I don't know about, I don't think there's anyplace deeper you can stick me."

"Nah," Frank grinned at him, "we're not allowed to use the torture chamber anymore. But I am here as an escort. Gotta make sure you get outta here, since the guards usually frown on defense attorneys removing clients from custody."

McCormick got slowly to his feet, not fully aware he was moving, any more than he was aware of the grin that was beginning to creep across his face. "Out?" he asked, trying to be sure. "Like out of the cell and back to the interrogation room out? Or like here comes the cheeseburger with everything, large fries, and triple thick chocolate fudge shake out?"

Hardcastle laughed. "It might be a little early for Burger Man, but I told you it was over, McCormick. Out means out. The feds have dropped their charges, finally understanding that your duress defense isn't just a defense, but the truth. Frank and I took care of all the local stuff; the DA wasn't too worked up, anyway. They'd already assumed they weren't gonna have to be involved in this one, and once the US Attorney dropped it, the DA didn't see any reason to pick it up. And I talked to John Dalem, who's gonna make sure everything stays smooth with the parole board. It really is over, kiddo, and it's time to go home."

Finally feeling the truth of it all, McCormick laughed and clapped his hands together. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's get out of here."

00000

Being processed out never takes as long as being processed in; sign a couple sheets of paper, get your clothes and your personal effects, and it's done. But even so, it was almost eleven by the time Hardcastle walked out of the station with his newly-vindicated client, and he had gladly given in to the argument that eleven was almost twelve, and twelve was the perfect time for Burger Man.

Now they were headed home down the PCH, top lowered again on the 'Vette, with Mark happily eating fries from a paper sack and sucking on a triple thick chocolate fudge shake, watching the passing scenery. Hardcastle sort of hated to break the mood, but there was something that had been bothering him about this case from the beginning, and it had to be said. He cleared his throat and began.

"I think there's something we need to get straight, McCormick."

The earnest tone seemed to get Mark's attention right away. He turned from his appreciation of the early wildflowers, and raised an eyebrow. "If it's a lecture on not robbing any more banks, Judge, trust me; I learned my lesson."

"Not exactly. More like a lecture on needing to know that I can trust you to make the right decisions."

McCormick's face was set as he answered, "Given the information I had . . ." He paused, tried again with a simpler approach. "In the exact same circumstances, I'd do it exactly the same again."

Hardcastle shook his head. That was exactly what he'd been afraid of. "No, McCormick, it can't be that way."

"Why?" the ex-con demanded. "Because I broke the law?"

"No." The judge wanted to be clear on this. "Not because you broke the law; because you almost threw your life away." He took a breath and rushed on. "Dammit, McCormick, you're working hard these past few months; doing things the right way, getting things in order. You can't just give all that up because . . . because of . . ."

"Because of you?" McCormick supplied helpfully.

"Exactly!" Hardcastle declared. "You know, we're working together now. People might think they can use me to get to you—"

"Or vice versa," Mark interjected with a small grin, pulling another fry from the bag.

"Or vice versa," Hardcastle conceded. "But that's why you have to make the right decisions, see. The decisions that will let you keep moving down the right path, whether I'm around or not."

McCormick smiled gently. "But that's what I did, Judge. I mean, yeah, I went along with Filapiano and his crazy scheme to keep you alive, but you can't really blame me for that. I mean, I'm not gonna let anyone die if I can help it.

"But coming back, turning myself in? That's exactly what you're talking about, isn't it? I could've done what Filapiano wanted me to do; could've taken the money and run. But that wouldn't have been the right decision."

Hardcastle thought about that for a minute. The kid wasn't supposed to be able to turn this against him. "Yeah, but even then, you weren't telling the whole truth; you were trying to make some noble sacrifice. I can't have you doing that."

"I'll let you in on a little secret, Judge." He looked back out at the wildflowers. "Yeah, I turned myself in, and if it meant I had to go to jail for the rest of my life to keep you alive, I woulda done it. But you know what? There was a part of me that was pretty sure it wouldn't have to come to that. Somehow, I thought you'd be able to find a way to save me, even from myself."

"You did, huh?" the jurist asked gruffly.

McCormick nodded. "And it turns out I was right." He glanced back over at the other man. "Kinda like you. Frank told me you never believed I was guilty, even at the beginning, when you didn't even know where I was."

"Well . . ." Hardcastle fidgeted slightly, his attention suddenly much more focused on the task of steering the vehicle. Then he shrugged. "Not like you've done anything to make me think you'd suddenly just cut and run, with an A class felony thrown in for good measure. I told you; you've been on the right path."

"Exactly. So we both made our decisions, even with someone trying to use us against one another, and we both made the right decision. Everything turned out just fine. The bad guys got caught, and the good guys got Burger Man." He offered a salute with his shake cup. "What could be better?"

Hardcastle grinned. He was pretty sure his point had not been that McCormick had made the right decision in most of this situation, but the kid was right; it was hard to argue with the final outcome.

"Okay," he admitted, "you could be right. This time. I guess I'll settle for telling you to just be as careful as you can." He lifted a hand off the wheel and held a palm toward his passenger. "And, yeah, I know that goes for me, too."

"Good. Then you want a fry?"

Hardcastle took the offered snack with a chuckle. "Don't be thinking you can bribe me, kiddo. You've got a lot of chores waiting for you back at home."

McCormick groaned slightly. "Even when I'm in jail I don't get a break from the lawn?" he complained. "There is just something wrong about that."

"Aw, it won't take long. And then I'll even let you pick whatever you want to do tonight."

Mark took a long, thoughtful drink of his shake. "Anything?" he finally asked.

Hardcastle hesitated. He was pretty sure he was being set up, but . . . "Sure, kid; anything you want."

"I never got my trip to Vegas."

Hardcastle chuckled ruefully. He should've seen that coming. "Okay. After your chores, go ahead and call Teddy."

McCormick looked over in surprise. "Teddy? No. I thought we could go." He shrugged. "It's been a stressful week; I might be in the mood to make some bad decisions."

"Need someone who can protect you from yourself, huh?"

"Yep. And it's been a stressful week for you, too, Hardcase. Who else do you think is gonna watch over you and put up with your John Wayne fest?"

Hardcastle just laughed as he pulled under the arch at Gull's Way.

"Vegas," he agreed. "And we'll watch out for each other."