A/N-So here is the next chapter. Please read and review. Sorry I don't update too often lately. I'm terribly busy these days.

Chapter 7

Peters and Brock sit silently in the small room, poring over two open folders. In-front of them, an impatient cop forces their suspect into his chair, the man cuffed in hands and legs.

The officers from the 2nd precinct smile at him, and through his cramped position, as he can barely stand to look into Brock's eyes, he can see that there is something behind that smile.

He cannot figure out what it is, though.

Brock smoothes over an empty paper sheet towards him, and puts a small pen in front. "What I want you to do now, Anatoly," he whispers silkily, "Is to write down everything you can remember about that day." He leans back, showing a stance of relaxation, even though anyone else could see it is probably false.

Anatoly blinks, hesitating, but then starts writing down the day's events, as he recalls them.

The computer in-front of Brock sends a ring of alert, informing of a new E-mail. As Brock clicks-open the file sent to him, his brow furrowing, he realizes suddenly that they' have a problem.

Knowing his boss, and after offering Anatoly a casual glance, Peters nods, "What is it, Brock?"

"Mmmmhm," emits Brock, then without a warning, aggressively pulls the paper from under Anatoly's hands, ignoring his gasp of surprise.

Going over the list, then back at Anatoly, he cocks an eyebrow, "Is that the time you talked to your boss?" he pointed at the time written down. A phone-call to his employer.

1:30.

Anatoly nods.

"What did you talk about?"

"Gregory tell me go get whitewash. I go get whitewash for school," Mumbles their suspect.

Twisting his lip, Brock still pushes, "He told you to unload the whitewash merchandise?"

Aronov nods again.

"When was that? When did you unload it?"

"After call." Answers Anatoly.

"How long did this call take?"

Aronov hesitates, "Not sure," he says, "5 minutes," he stutters, "I no talk much, I do work," he feels the sudden need to defend himself.

That's almost amusing. The guy is suspected for a first degree murder, and what interests him now is that he may be viewed as layabout?

"And then?" asks Peters this time.

"Then I go to get whitewash. Truck wait for me outside school. I go get it."

"Which was…around 1:30?"

"Yes."

Releasing an unsatisfied puff of air, Brock pushes the paper towards Aronov again, "Very well," he says sternly, "Continue writing. Don't let me keep you."

Nodding feebly, Aronov soon becomes concentrated on reenacting his whereabouts.

Leaving over, Brock shows Peters a now printed version of the mail sent. Eyes traveling over the list, he can understand what bothers Brock.

Phone call received and answered by Aronov. Starting 1:27 up to 1:34.

"The kid was killed around…what? 1:30? Oggani and Pierce place her at the stall around 1:30?" whispers Brock, his gaze meaningful, "He goes unloading the stocks… comes back to school, then kills her?"

"How long does it take to unload this shit?" whispers Peters back, they both understand this just doesn't add up. The timing is somehow wrong.

"More than 5 minutes, that's for sure."

"If he comes back around 1:40, 1:45? Lee should have seen him."

"Yeah, but…" puts Brock usefully, "Natalie said she asked to leave for the toilet around 1:40, it could also have been 1:42 or 1:45… Lee left just minutes before."

"She should have seen him!"

"Sssh!" demands Brocks, making sure Aronov is still busy writing down his actions, than to listen to their silent conversation, "Nothing is hard science here, there is not exact time of death known, all we have is a bunch of bullcrap given to us by two brats who don't know any better. Kid could have very well died after 1:40. Look, he finishes up his phone call around 1:35, takes two packages, comes back to school, then finishes her off. He has enough time to go back without anyone seeing him at all."

"He goes back after unloading; the lobby is packed with kids at that time, probably, so he waits a few minutes, then goes in. Here, it all assembles perfectly."

Nodding thoughtfully, Brock finally finishes, "Alright, let's wrap it up here and take him back to holding."

Leonson leans on the wall, picking out a cigarette from her jeans pocket. Offering her companion a somewhat curious gaze, she chuckles, "light?"

The tall man standing beside her in the bystreet corner brings forth the lightning, and she inhales deeply, offering an almost seductive glare, "So?" she asks, "What do you say? You're in?"

Releasing a snort, his eyes narrow, "You did a very stupid thing," he tells the female officer, "Coming over here, at this hour. My boys don't like cops hanging around."

"Oh, C'mon, Stas. We both know they won't touch me," she flaps her hair backwards, "They are very thankful for the nice cop who warned them about the raid 3 months ago. You should have gone down just for that. Offering 'Molly' to teenagers?" she clucks her tongue, "What's the punishment for that again?"

Obviously displeased, he ignores her last words, "What you offer," he says, "is not simple. We can all get into serious trouble over this. I don't feel like going back to the joint anytime soon, you read me?" he raises his eyebrows, voice rough.

"You got the 2nd precinct covering for you, Stas," offers Leonson, "I told me team you're the best. Are you going to let us down here?" her voice changes dangerously, "You cannot be that stupid."

Eyes traveling over her well-shaped body, Stanislav bites, "How much?"

"Enough," answers the female cop.

"I don't want my face printed all over for your guys to chew on," he states, "I do this for you, you give me my money, then leave me the hell alone."

"Did I ever let you down, baby?" she challenges seductively.

He smiles.

"So," after a long moment of silence, both enjoying their cigarettes, he asks- "What's this faggot's name anyway?"

Grinning, she says- "Anatoly Aronov."

"No problem," he relaxes, "Give me some time, I'll break him."

"That's all we need."

A devilish glint appears in his eyes, "Trust me, there will be no more problems after I'm done with him. This guy's going down. And painfully hard."

Leonson smiles ominously.

Arthur keeps obsessing over the news.

Agnes is agitated.

She knows she must do something, but what can she possibly do?

She can't lose this old man. If he gets locked up for this, who will feed her?

She keeps thinking about it as she washes the sink clean, every now and then sinking back into the same thought.

She remembers that day, his panic, demanding of her to help him cleaning the blood from the vehicle, as she scolds and yells at him, 'What on earth have you done, Arthur? What is this?'

The blood wise wiped clean, but the look on his face haunted her. He told her about what happened, what he had done, how awfully foolish he'd been, how he just wants to take her and run away, afraid that every moment the cops might come knocking…

No, she cannot possibly tell on him. Her poor man. He may be an asshole, but… after that one time in Jersey, a year ago? The man struggling to breath, as her husband punches him mercilessly?

And now this thing with the little kid?

Ah, they won't see the end of this!

Coming up with the decision, she knows she can't rattle on him. Even if it ends up killing them both.

She just hopes it won't.

She really does.

TBC...