Authors Note: Once again thanks to DianeM for being an awesome beta, any mistakes are my own. Thanks for the reviews. Baraboo, you'll just have to wait and see, I'm promising nothing. Shout out again to Maple Street for the encouragement but thanks to you guys I'm now struggling with a plot bunny caused by Better Angels. It'll have to wait until December; I need 10k more for NaNo. Enjoy!

Apartment 132B, Queens

33 hours missing

'Another day, another dollar'

'Same shit, different day'

When did his life become like that? Everyday he found himself dreading going to work; it held none of the promise for him that it once had. He no longer felt the thrill of discovery of a lead, the pride and satisfaction when somebody was returned home, the bitter sting of defeat when they found them dead or not at all. He felt numb and tired, oh so very tired. How long he'd felt like this he couldn't remember. Something must have precipitated this changed outlook on life. It couldn't have happened overnight, right? Surely it hadn't been for as long as it felt? Martin shook his head as he entered Chloe Larson's apartment. It felt sluggish this morning like the cogs were old and creaky and full of cobwebs.

"Morning, Martin," Sam greeted, not looking up from where she was sitting rifling though Chloe's desk.

Martin felt his heart constrict painfully and his emotions increase tenfold at the sound of her voice. If he looked rationally at the way he was feeling, he could identify the problem, the cause and the solution because deep inside he knew that he hadn't felt this way before the Parker case. He knew what that meant, what it always meant and he felt his already abused heart sink a little further even while his mind tried to deny the truth.

"Found anything yet?" Martin asked, walking over to the answering machine. It was one of those new digital ones, all sleek metal and miniature design, all looks and no practicality. His father probably had one, he thought ruefully.

"No, not yet," Sam uttered dejectedly, tossing a sheaf of papers back onto the desk in annoyance. "Nothing here but scripts and don't even bother with the answering machine; it's one of those ones you need to call to get it to play and it needs a password. I've got somebody onto the company that makes it."

Martin nodded and turned his attention to the chest of drawers under the window. With speed and a sense of purpose he didn't feel, Martin started to quickly rifle through the drawers. He found mostly clothes, which didn't surprise him, as the bedroom was probably barely large enough to contain the bed; city apartments were renowned for being high-priced and miniscule. In the third drawer down there was a green lockbox and next to it a black glock handgun.

"Sam," he called to his colleague.

Sam turned round as Martin soberly held up the gun. She sighed and stood up, moving over to take a look at the ammunition. All the bullets were stacked neatly in fifteen bullet clips and a bullet was in the chamber. None of the ammo was what misogynists classed as 'for women'; it was all high piercing-plated, guaranteed to put a kink in anybody's day.

"Wonder what she's afraid of," Sam thought aloud, idly fingering one of the clips.

"Agent Spade," a voice interrupted their musings.

Both Martin and Sam turned round. The FBI's resident tech whiz that was assigned to their unit was standing nervously in the doorway unsure of whether he could come in.

"Got something for me, Steve?" Sam asked, walking over. Martin pulled an evidence bag from his pocket and placed the gun inside.

"Yeah, I just got off the phone with the answering machine company. Apparently the messages are stored on a blue chip, which means that we can bypass the security protocols by . . ."

"Can we listen to the messages?" Sam interrupted. Steve blinked owlishly a couple of times, mentally changing gears before nodding.

"Just give me a second and I'll set it up." Steve moved over to the answering machine and pulled his palmtop out his pocket, plugged a couple of leads in to link the two together and started to tap away.

Sam watched his movements with disinterest, which allowed her mind to wander along to the subject that had started to occupy her thoughts more and more of late - Jack. Working with Jack on the Parker case had felt awkward, but she'd thought that over the Bates case their relationship had improved. However, virtually overnight that had changed, how or why she didn't know. Jack had changed and their relationship had soured in a way it never had before, even after he'd told her it was over and gone back to his wife, even after he'd announced he was leaving for Chicago. Why it had changed now after all that Sam couldn't comprehend.

"Okay," Steve broke into Sam's consciousness, snapping her out of her thoughts and back to reality. "There are four messages, three saved and one new."

"Play them," Martin ordered, handing the newly bagged gun and ammo to the evidence agent before turning his attention to the answering machine.

'First saved message. Message received Sunday at 11:00 PM,' a disembodied voice announced.

There was then a loud crackle and heavy breathing could be heard; somebody was clearly on the line but not speaking. After thirty seconds of this the person hung up and the machine progressed to the next message.

'Second saved message. Message received Monday at 2:00 AM'.

Again there was a loud crackle and the heavy breathing resumed. This time, though, a sleepy sounding woman's voice cut in.

'Hello I am here . . . who is this? . . . Who is this? . . . Say something! . . . What's going on? . . .'

Again the caller hung up after thirty seconds. The woman's voice, presumably Chloe's, had sounded increasingly panicked as the call had worn on. Sam stiffened, preparing herself for the next message. Martin stood next to her, his impassive face betraying no emotion.

'Third saved message. Message received Monday at 3:45 AM'.

Once more there was a loud crackle and the heavy breathing began once more. This time, like the last time, a woman's voice cut in.

'Who is this? . . . What do you want? . . . Why are you calling me?'

A loud fearful sob was heard before Chloe ended the call herself. Sam sighed and closed her eyes. Chloe was getting affected by each call even more each time; this was not good.

'First new message. Message received yesterday at 10:00 PM.'

For the last time a loud crackle filled the air; this time, though, instead of heavy breathing a man's voice came on the line.

'Chloe where are you? You're not at the studio; you're not answering your cell phone. Are you avoiding me? Look, call me when you get this, ok?'

Sam looked at Martin and raised an eyebrow.

"Concerned boyfriend, yet it's work that calls it in. Wonder why?"