Disclaimer: I do not own Crossing Jordan. And I do not own the songs "used" in the previous chapter - Alone by Heart, By Your Side by Sade and Never Met a Girl like You by The Kinks.

Note: Thanks to everybody who's reading, but especially to my dear reviewers, i.e. BugFan4Ever, lbcjfan and Mexwojo. :))

P.S. I hope you all had a great Halloween. :D

"Just be civil," she told herself. "Professional and civil. A bit cold, too, maybe."

As always, it was easier said than done. She rubbed her palms against her hiphugging black jeans to remove the prickling patches of cold sweat. Her knees were jelly, but that wasn't the only reason why she couldn't move – it felt as if her feet were in cement. It was like she was in elementary school all over again – she was happy to be near him, but she would still rather be somewhere else because she was afraid. To tell the truth, she was frightened. She knew from the look he'd given her when she entered that nothing good was to be expected. He was pissed off. And no matter what the reason for his bad mood was, he was going to take it all out on her.

"Not if I can help it." She suddenly snapped out of that strange state of mind. Nobody was going to abuse Jordan Cavanaugh. She wouldn't let him mistreat her no matter how much she had… she loved him.

Taking a deep breath and straightening to her full height, she approached him quickly and decisively. Then, forcing herself to look him in the eye, she nodded shortly and asked him, satisfied with her tone, professional and non-faltering:

"What do we have?"

Why the hell did she have to walk like… that? Parading in that crimson blouse with an outrageous cleavage… He unconsciously shook his head. "The morgue really is in a desperate need for a new dress code," he thought, unable to look up from the abovementioned cleavage. "And nobody should be allowed to look so abso-fuckin'-lutely fantastic at 2 am." He groaned inwardly, absorbing her entire appearance – from the fluffy messy bun to the black high heels. Before he knew it, his hand flew to his cheek. Now he was really pissed off. "A) I don't give a crap whether I'm shaved or not. B) I especially don't give a crap whether I'm shaved or not just because I've run into Jordan Cavanaugh," he thought furiously, fighting the urge to slap himself, "C) I wouldn't give a rat's ass even if Jordan Cavanaugh walked into this room completely naked." His blood boiling with anger, but also – and mostly – with a few ideas his previous thought had given him, he hissed, "Fill her in, Blake," to the uniform beside him. That was his only answer to her question before he stormed off to the hallway.

For a couple of seconds, she just gaped at him – at his back, to be precise. And she wasn't alone – Officer Blake was doing exactly the same. Homicide detectives weren't usually treating medical examiners like that. Then again, it seemed that these two didn't have the usual detective-coroner relationship. He'd heard a thing or two about them. "A lovers' quarrel," he concluded wisely just as Jordan muttered: "Fine." under her breath and turned to him for information.

"Jacob Reilly," Blake started as she knelt beside the body. "Apparently, he was a hot shot lawyer. Obviously male, Caucasian; forty-three years old…" He paused a little, pretty much disgusted by the ME's actions. She was currently sticking a long, thin thingy into the victim's abdomen. When she finished with that, i.e. the F-tech temp probe, she gave him a questioning look, so he continued: "This is his apartment. We got the call around one. It was some hysterical lady, the dispatch could barely understand what she was saying. We found him like this."

Jordan nodded solemnly, all her attention turned to Mr. Reilly again. The poor guy's legs were bound with a piece of thick, rough rope and his hands were in flexicuffs – a kind of handcuffs, the plastic ones that police officers usually use during mass arrests. He was lying on his back and several stab wounds were visible on his upper abdomen. She spotted a wedding band on his finger, which made her shudder. He had a family, maybe kids, certainly a wife that loved him…

"So, what you've got for me?" a rudely impatient voice startled her. Woody was back, obviously.

For a second she was deciding between killing him for being such a jerk and kissing him for being so sexy in that pale blue shirt, without an appalling tie or a boring jacket this time. However, in the end, she opted for neither.

"Rigor hasn't started yet and his liver temperature is about 34.8 degrees Celsius," she told him, not taking her eyes from the victim even for a moment. If he could be a bitch, she could be one, too. "I'd say he's been dead for two or three hours. Multiple stab wounds. I'll know more when I transfer him to the morgue," she said, getting up.

She finally lifted her gaze again, only to meet his eyes, which quickly fell onto the vic as soon as she looked at him. She choked back a mirthless laugh.

"I take it back, this is nothing like elementary school. This is more like kindergarten," she mused, bending to pick up her bag as she was ready to go.

That was the last straw. He didn't know what to do first – punch Officer Blake for staring at her… hm… gluteal muscles, or take her somewhere, anywhere, and make love to her.

"No, not to make love, to have sex," he reminded himself. "And I'm not that hard up that I…"

(Un)fortunately, the exhausted employees of the nineteenth precinct didn't have the pleasure of witnessing the detective's outburst of passion because a security guard showed up at the door.

"I think you'd better see this, Detective," the young man said, clearly self-satisfied.

"This" was a beautiful redhead in her late thirties, who was wringing her hands and occasionally trying to stop their shaking. She was sitting on the stairs between the second and the third floor while a big bald man with "Avery Elevators" written over the back of his working suit was eyeing her.

"Voltage dip, Mr. Henley over there says," the voice of the guard couldn't be smugger. He was explaining his "findings" to Woody as they, followed by Jordan, were approaching the woman and her keeper. "We found her inside when he fixed the elevator."

"So, he is really dead?" the woman spoke in a low, shaky voice, addressing the newcomers.

"If "he" is Jacob Reilly, then yes, he is." Woody's sensitivity was really incredible. He didn't even wince when she started sobbing uncontrollably after hearing his words. All he did was asking her coolly: "And who are you?"

Casting him an equally outraged and disappointed look, Jordan set by the woman and started to rub her back reassuringly. For some time, they were just sitting like that – the redhead weeping and the brunette trying to comfort her. During that (short) time, a certain detective was seething with anger.

"Jordan Cavanaugh, the famous do-gooder, always there to save the day…," and similar incoherent thoughts were crossing his mind. He could have wrung her neck at that moment. Just as he was going to repeat his question to the Jane Doe, both she and the guard spoke, almost simultaneously.

"I haven't been here long, but now that I think…," he started.

"He's dead. He's dead," she said matter-of-factly.

"… about it, I believe that she is Mr. Reilly's wife."

"He's dead," she repeated one more time. Then she turned to Jordan, hugging her. "How do I live without him?"

Woody was thrilled. He had his suspect. After all, in the vast majority of cases, the partner was the murderer. He cast a glance at the women. Mrs. Reilly's sobs were becoming hysterical and Jordan was holding her tight.

"How do I live without him?" the dead man's wife asked again and he saw Jordan's eyes close and a single tear roll down her cheek. In a fraction of a moment, his heart wrenched. Then he repeated his mantra:

"She doesn't mean anything to me."