Day One:

Chapter Two:

"The Face of Death struck fear in me and so I tried to run.

A chase! With glee it clapped it hands! I so do love the fun!

Claire pulled over a mile down the dirt road that had lead to that little shack at the edge of the bayou. Her heart was still racing, her palms were sweaty. It was one the reasons she hadn't offered to shake hands upon departure.

She laid her head back against the head rest and licked her lips.

It had been too long. That was all; it had been too long since she'd been with a man.

She was the joke of the office really. Saint Redfield, Chaste Claire, the woman made out of steel. The only one who never even thought about sex; let alone partake of such sin.

She wanted them to see her that way. It made things so much easier. The men respected her, the women admired her. She was, if not liked, looked up to by quite a few other Agents in the Bureau.

She was the straight arrow. She never wavered, never faltered and always, always did her job. She never got too close, never went too far, never tested the limits. And yet, in about five minutes, had managed to (mentally) cross every boundary she had ever set for herself.

All for the sight of a small, ragged blue towel, a well defined, dewy torso and a face likely carved by angels (or devils.)

She was fairly certain she'd handled herself professionally, at least mostly so. But he was a man, and likely picked up on every moment of discomfort she'd felt in his presence. It was clear that he knew he'd affected her in a distinctly masculine way. He'd smiled, he'd posed, and he'd all but winked at her. But, then again, it was possible that was her own interest talking and he'd simply been his own charming self, treating her as he would any member of the opposite sex.

There was no doubt that Leon Kennedy was a flirt. She'd known that much about him before she'd even walked up the porch to his front door. She'd even known that he was handsome, having studied his case file and seen the picture on the bio in his file folder more than once. But the picture hadn't prepared her for the man. The only word she could think of to describe him was charisma. The man was loaded down with charisma and (quite obviously) knew how to use it.

Claire slid her hands over the wheel, a comfort gesture. She was being ridiculous really. He hadn't been interested in her, not in the slightest. Not like it would have made a difference anyway even if he'd gotten down on one knee and proclaimed his all consuming love for her. He was a suspect and she was a straight arrow. She wouldn't stray. No way.

She was fairly certain he'd never seen Marianne Costas before. The moment he'd seen her picture, there'd been blankness in his eyes, confusion. Claire was the best Agent she knew at reading body language. His shoulders had tightened but she was betting that was just because it was suddenly real, no longer just her word.

She pressed her foot back on the gas and eased out onto the road, driving slowly and carefully. She had to get herself together. She had people to interview.

Logically, she knew she should swing by O'Malley's, check on the first of his alibi. By she found herself making a right onto the highway instead. Apparently, she was going to the 68th precinct and was going to pay a visit to a certain Deputy.

It wasn't jealousy. For god's sake she'd only just met the man. It was just good detective work. Just good detective work that's all. (Right.)

The 68th precinct was a dirty grey building wedged between a donut shop and an athletic store. It was sort of like the oldest cop joke in the book. All they had to do was walk next door and they'd have all the fat and carbs their little hearts desired.

Claire slid out of the unmarked black sedan and strode across the parking lot, past two rather beat up cruisers and up the stone steps to the front doors of the building. Inside the lobby, a woman of loose morals (a prostitute) sat handcuffed to a steel bar on a ratty looking bench in front of the counter.

She cast a look at Claire as she came through the door, one that quite obviously was meant to be degrading.

Claire ignored her and walked toward the counter to a rather loudly stated, "Oink."

The man at the desk, a portly fellow with graying hair and a well tended moustache, said blandly, "Lucinda, knock it off, would ya?" He flashed a smile at Claire and she took the time to read his badge. Fricker.

"What can I help ya with ma'am?"

She pushed her jacket to the side and unclipped her shield, placing it on the counter. "Special Agent Redfield, F.B.I. I need to see Detective Ryman and Deputy Franks."

Officer Fricker's smile faded. He looked like he was going to say something less then accommodating when a voice called, "Officer Fricker, be so kind as to let the Agent through."

Claire turned her eyes to study the man who'd spoken. He was tall, incredibly handsome, and had just a little suggestion of muscle gone to fat around his middle and through his cowboy weathered face. His hair waved brilliant, sprinkled with salt and pepper, and reminded her of Clint Eastwood. She kept hearing Dirty Harry in her head as she looked at him. His eyes, surprisingly pretty, were a soft shade of blue and sat above a slightly crooked nose and small mouth surrounded by a dark five o'clock shadow. Since it was barely six a.m. she was assuming he probably had the shadow all the time.

He was dressed in a pair of slight rumpled mud brown slacks and a shirt that couldn't really be called any other color then pink. His tie, dark green with Christmas trees all over it, told her he'd probably dressed in the dark before coming into work that morning. There was a shield clipped to his belt that looked shiny and out of place against such a sad wardrobe.

She smiled and said, "Detective Ryman?"

"Yep. Why don't you come on back? I'll have Officer Simms over here get us some coffee." He turned to a fresh faced looking rookie who was no doubt straight out of the academy and said, "Simms, see if you can find Franks while you're at it."

Officer Simms nodded eagerly, puffed up his chest with importance and surprisingly didn't trip on himself in his effort to do Ryman's bidding.

Claire opened the gate leading back into the inner sanctum and walked toward the office that Ryman was currently standing in front of.

They shook hands (hers was dry by now) and he escorted her with a hand on the back through the door into his cramped, but somehow charming, office.

He cleared a few books off a rather plush looking chair and gestured for her to have a seat. After she did, he rounded the rickety old desk and sat down himself. The chair groaned under the assault.

He managed to smile, (which made him seem almost charmingly suave) and said. "What can I do for you?"

She smiled and took out her notebook. "Were you at O'Malley's Pub between the hours of midnight and four a.m. last night?"

For a moment, Ryman just sat there, shocked. Then he said, "Uh, yeah. Actually. Can I ask why you want to know?"

"Well, obviously someone's dead Detective." She smiled when she said it. See? Just a harmless question with a serious outcome.

Ryman's smile faltered, "Right. Yeah I was at the pub from about ten until about four this morning."

"Were you there with –"She looked down at the notebook pretending to check the name, although she damn well knew it. "A Mr. Leon Kennedy?" And she really hated that her belly clenched on his stupid name. What a dumb name. Like a ridiculous video game character. Or a Harlequin Romance novel hero. Stupid name. Kennedy. Stupid. (Right.)

Ryman managed not to look surprised this time. He had on his cop face now. "Yeah. It was his birthday."

"What time did Mr. Kennedy leave the pub?"

"About a quarter to two I think."

"Was he alone when he left?"

Ryman couldn't keep the scorn off his face now. "No. He was with Deputy Franks. Though I'm pretty sure you already knew that."

"Just corroborating the story, Detective. That's my job."

"Right. Anyway, he was wasted, he left with Franks."

"Do you know where he went after he left the pub?"

Ryman leaned back in his chair, making it creak. "Can't say I do. Although I'd assume after he pissed all over my car, he probably took Franks back to his place."

Claire nodded and opened her mouth to ask something else when the office door opened and a perfectly coiffed head poked through.

"Detective? Simms said you wanted to see me."

"Yeah, Franks. Come on in." Ryman gestured and Jill watched Officer Franks walk through the door.

She was pretty much what Claire had been expecting. She was all boobs and slender lines from head to foot. Her hair, a very dark blonde (probably fake), was pulled back into a high ponytail with swishy little tail. She looked rested, her make up was perfect and her face was something that struck a little too close to Blake Lively for Claire's taste.

"This is Special Agent Redfield from the F.B.I. She has a few questions she'd like to ask you."

Franks' eyebrows lifted and she turned her gaze to Claire as if noticing her for the first time.

After a moment of studying each other, Claire said, "Officer Franks. Where were you between the hours of two and four a.m. last night?"

Franks' face pinked, just the slightest bit. She said, quite softly, "I…um…I don't really think…"

"Franks, just tell the Agent where you were." Ryman's voice was tired.

"I was with…a friend."

Claire's smile was harsh. "The name of this friend is…?"

"Kennedy. Leon S. Kennedy."

S. Kennedy. S for stupid, clearly. Stupid name. S for son of satan. Or maybe S for sexual deviant. S for seriously likes to fuck. Or S for seeking female fuck buddy. Or S for -Claire coughed to cover her own clearly wandering mind.

Claire nodded. "I see. And what time did you leave Mr. Kennedy's this morning?"

Franks managed to look embarrassed. "I think it was about a quarter to four."

"Did Mr. Kennedy leave your presence at any time between the time you arrived at his house and the time you left?"

Franks fidgeted a little bit. "Well, he uh took a shower for about ten minutes after we got there."

"And then?"

"Is this really necessary?" Ryman was looking positively ill at the thought of hearing intimate details.

Claire said, quite calmly, "Every detail helps, Detective. You know that. Officer?"

"And then we uh…we were intimate with each other for about fifteen minutes and he well…he uh fell asleep."

Ryman''s face went purple. He looked like he might swallow his tongue. The thrill of happiness on his face was nearly enough to make Claire laugh. Nearly. She kept it in, but it was close."Oh man…" And then, he couldn't hide the smile. "Fifteen minutes…" He snickered under his breath. "I always knew it."

Claire managed to hold in her laugh. "Okay. Did he leave or exit the bed again before you left?"

"No. He was passed out like the dead." Franks looked a little disappointed by that. But she giggled. Claire didn't want to make snap judgments here, but it was hard to hate this girl. She was clearly good natured...and clearly as dumb as she was charming with it. "I tried to sleep but I couldn't. So I turned on the light in the bedroom and read for awhile. Then about 3:30 I got dressed and had a muffin and left about a quarter to four."

"Okay." Claire stood slowly and smiled, complacently. "Alright then. That's about all I have for now. Detective Ryman, Officer Franks. Thank you for your time. Please stay available in case I have any more questions."

Franks nodded. Ryman said, "Hey, is Leon in some kind of trouble? Besides being a two pump chump, of course."

Claire looked at him for a moment and light dawned on his face.

"This is about that girl, that Costas girl. They found her body on the edge of his property. You don't think…Leon wouldn't…no way…" Ryman shook his head, shocked.

Frank's managed to look oblivious. Though Claire figured it wasn't that hard of a look for her.

Claire sighed. "Thank you for your time. I'll be in touch."

She walked out of the precinct and was headed down the stone steps when she heard the roar of a motorcycle and looked up to see Leon S. (Slut man?) Kennedy swing himself between two cruisers and kill the engine.

She stopped, gathered herself and walked toward him as he dismounted. He was dressed in the outfit she'd left him in save for the addition of cranberry colored t-shirt that he'd thrown over the tank top she remembered. The shirt read "When he fuck me good, I take his ass to Red Lobster" in bold white letters across the chest with a picture of a lobster in the center. The sunglasses on his face were wrap around and polarized orange.

She stopped a foot from him and smiled. "Mr. Kennedy."

"Agent Redfield."

"That shirt is utterly offensive."

He grinned a little and shrugged, sheepishly, "You don't like Red Lobster?"

Claire laughed, lightly. "Not anymore. You ruined it for me."

"I certainly don't like offending the ladies. You want me to take it off instead?"

Yep. S for shirtless sex god. Yep. She narrowed her eyes at him. He looked like a charming thing standing there grinning and unflappable. She kinda wanted to kick him. She kinda wanted to rip off his shirt making monkey sounds and eat him.

Amused, she had to laugh at herself. Best to focus on what she did best: WORK.

She shook her head, "It's illegal to ride without a motorcycle helmet in Louisiana."

He managed to look sheepish. "Well, I think I lost my helmet."

"Right. Try to find that, would you? I'd hate to see such a pretty face smooshed all over the road somewhere." She started walking since she was unable to stay in his presence for too long without that intense pressure in her chest.

"Uh, hey."

She turned back, one eyebrow lifted. He had both hands tucked into his back pockets which...made his chest look like something you should sculpt and put in a courtyard somewhere for girls to giggle at while they sat by a fountain.

"I didn't do anything." He sounded earnest about it. He was still charming, sure, but there was an edge to his tone now that held her interest. No flirting. Just truth.

Weird thing was? She kinda believed him.

She tilted her head, studying him. "Both the detective and the officer corroborated your alibi."

"Does that mean I'm off the hook?"

"Not yet. It just means you're a little looser on it now."

He smiled, just a little lift of the mouth but it was enough to start her heart beating hard.

"Well, good to know." He took a step toward her. "Where you from, Agent Redfield?"

She barely managed not to take a step back. "Raccoon City."

"Ah, east coast. Shit, me too. Small world huh? I wondered about that accent."

She thought it was an odd comment from someone whose accent was so obviously southern. In fact, she was pretty sure she didn't have an accent at all. He had been living in Louisiana long enough now to sound like a native.

"You ever been to N'Orleans before?" There it was, she thought, that lilt. Interesting.

She studied him for a moment. "Can't say I have."

"What do you think so far?"

"It's hot and there are a lot of bugs."

His smile lifted, dangerously close to a grin. "That all?"

"I haven't exactly had time to sight see, Mr. Kennedy."

"Leon."

"Mr. Kennedy." She smiled.

"What? No first names with suspects?"

"Something like that."

His teeth were very white and very straight. "Well, I won't be a suspect f'eva."

It was the accent. It had to be. She was charmed by that old southern boy charm. He wasn't. Hadn't he said he came from Raccoon? They all had it seemed. Wasn't Ryman an RC native as well? They'd left Raccoon, according to her data, in what – 98? The same year her brother Chris Redfield and Jill Valentine had graduated the Academy and gone to join the Bureau.

"We'll see..." She paused, considering him, "You lived here long?"

He grinned a little, "Feels like all my life sometimes. I bought the old Baker Plantation a few years back when the family had that incident and ended up dead."

She remembered it, vaguely. Something to do with a mass murder. A brave, or weird, fellow to buy a plantation laced with ghosts and bad juju. But this New Orleans, the bad juju here was legendary. Wasn't she staying in a house once reportedly owned by Marie Laveau?

Claire laughed, lightly, "You like ghosts, Mr. Kennedy?"

"...I like alot of things actually. And I love a good mystery."

She knew that too. He was good at what he did. A bit of a paranormal Indiana Jones, he had free reign to chase down weirdos and whackos and ghosts. He was the guy who published journals and reports on yetis and banshees, vampires and werewolves, nagas and Sphinxs. If it was chuckled about in polite company, Leon Kennedy was investigating it. The weird part? Most of the time what he discovered and reported could be verified. So he wasn't crazy.

He was just simultaneously the best in his field...and maybe the only one in it. So, it was pretty easy to be the best. He did had a weird little nerdy guy as a sidekick...what was his name? Quint...something. He was the Q to his proverbial Bond. Always inventing weird gadgets for catching ghouls and witches and such. Claire was curious to meet him.

Claire was curious to see the paranormal James Bond at work, actually, she just needed to clear him of killing girls on his property first.

And she'd been staring for too long, it seemed, since he was now highly amused with her.

"Last time a woman stared at me this long, I was in the third grade and had farted on her during square dancing."

Claire couldn't stop the laugh now, "...you're not as charming as you think you are, sir."

He grinned with that boyish lopsided charm. "...I kinda think I might be. Get lunch with me. Be rebel."

She kinda wanted to say yes.

So naturally? She smiled again and turned to walk to her car. "No. Good bye, Mr. Kennedy."

"Why don't you let me show you the town?"

She froze.

"Ya know. The hotspots. The night life." He poked his head around her shoulder. "Jackson Square, the Café du Monde. I'll take ya on the bike up by Lake Pontchartrain. We've got some real interestin' places down here."

She turned back to him. "Mr. Kennedy. I refuse to call you by your first name. What makes you think I would possibly even consider a date with you?"

He wagged his finger. "Not a date. A tour. Think of me like your down home, former east coast, currently native tour guide."

She felt her smile lift again. "Good bye Mr. Kennedy. I have a job to do."

"Tell me you'll think about it."

She laughed, unable to stop herself.

"Come on. Just say you'll think about it."

"It would be a lie."

"I can live with that."

"Okay. I'll think about it."

She left him smiling at her and for the life of her, couldn't figure out why she knew, deep down, that it hadn't been a lie at all.

For now? She had to the crime scene...charming paranormal Indiana Jones or not...there was still a dead girl on his property. And he was a guy who bought the bayou version of a hell house, spent his days tracking nightmares, and his nights in bed with bimbos (which had...no relevance whatsoever on the murder...but she was sure hung up on the image of it...damnit.)

Either way? He was at the top of her watch list. She would NOT be slumming around the south with him on some kind of tour. No.

She didn't a rat's ass how adorable his sexy little smile was.

She was NOT going to fuck him so good he took her to Red Lobster...today. At least not today.

Out loud, Claire scoffed, "EVER. Not ever...idiot."

And she was still shaking her head as she angled the ugly sedan toward the crime scene.

Post Note: Sorry if you catch typos in here or any mistakenly typed Jill's where it should be Claire. Obviously, I write WAY too much Jill with Leon. I catch myself automatically putting her name down as I write. Mega fail.