Part 3

I skidded to a painful halt in my bare feet and flung open the door to the third floor Metropolis Memorial room that I knew all too well. The shades were drawn and the curtain surrounding the bed was pulled, blocking my vision of all but the foot of the bed. Tina stood, facing me, tears streaming down her face.

"Santana!" she cried.

"I-i-is he?" I stuttered looking at the figure under the stark white sheets of the hospital bed. She nodded her head vigorously as I took a step forward, embracing her and peering at the head of the bed.

Propped up on pillows, Artie's drawn face and pale blue eyes weakly returned my stare from behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Can he talk? Can you talk?" I asked addressing first Tina and then Artie. Artie slowly licked his lips.

"Not yet. And don't you try!" Tina said, looking sternly at Artie. "He's been conscious less than an hour, Santana. Let's not push him."

I nodded, kissing Tina on the forehead, and stepped towards the bed, placing my hands atop Artie's. "Artie," I had a Metro phonebook's worth of questions to ask and things to say, but for right now, all I could do was repeat his name aloud. "Artie." I felt Tina's hand on my shoulder.

"I'll go get some more water. Artie, take it easy. Don't push him," she said as she retrieved the pitcher from his bedside table and left the room.

As the door closed, I sat on the edge of the bed, still holding Artie's hand. "Artie, there's a few things I need to tell you when you feel up to it and a few things I need to-" I paused seeing Artie's eyes making an exaggerated motion of looking at the foot of the bed. I looked back at him. He looked back at the end of the bed. "Artie? Is something wrong with your foot?" He closed his eyes and shook his head very slowly as if it were difficult and or painful to do so. I looked back at the foot of the bed. Besides his sheet-covered feet, the only thing there was my purse. I let go of one of his hands and reached for it. His eyes followed my hand carefully. "My purse?" I said holding it up and turning it side to side trying to deduce what he could possibly need from my purse so urgently. He opened his eyes wider in acknowledgement. "Something inside my purse...Artie, no way I'm giving you a smoke...well...maybe if we could get a nurse to distract Tina long enough..." I heard a tap.

I looked down to see Artie's index finger tapping weakly on the bed. I tilted my head, frowning at him once more. I opened my purse and dumped the sparse contents onto the bed near his hand. A small brush, a pencil, a lipstick, my cigarette case and lighter, and a ring of keys fell out. I waited for his reaction to the Buick key that belonged to Celine, but his little finger stretched anemically towards the stub of pencil instead. "You want the pencil?" Again, a tiny nod from Artie. I closed his index finger and thumb on the pencil stub and pulled a small pad of paper from the bedside table, placing it under the tip of the pencil. I watched him carefully as he struggled to drag the pencil tip across the paper. His hand was unsteady and his weakened grip had trouble holding onto the pencil. I waited, looking intently between his hand and the determined frown on his face.

"They had hot cider, I brought you one, Santana." I jumped at the sound of Tina's voice. "Will you bring the pitcher in? It's there," Tina indicated with a nod of her head the nurses' station behind her. She set down two steaming paper cups on the small table on wheels next to the bed.

"Sure," I said, pausing to push the pencil I'd knocked out of Artie's hand back in place and atop the notepad. I retrieved the pitcher while Tina fussed about the room, fluffing Artie's pillow and brushing his hair to the side of his face with her fingertips. Returning with the pitcher, I placed it on the nightstand. I palmed the pad of paper and pencil, sweeping the rest of the contents of my purse back in. Tina didn't seem to notice.

We sat and drank the cider, Tina pouring small sips of water in Artie's mouth. She recounted how just as "The Shadow" came on the radio he opened his eyes. His primary doctor was already gone for the evening so we'd have to wait for a thorough check-up in the morning. As Tina spoke, my eyes were on Artie and his eyes moved between my eyes and the piece of paper in my hand.

After more than an hour, a nurse came to tell us we'd already gotten extra hours of visiting time and that Artie really needed his rest. As Tina packed up the remains of the dinner she'd brought along, I uncrumpled the paper I'd clutched in my hand for the last hour. Artie's writing was far worse for the wear and the lines he drew shook terribly. There was a single symbol on the paper. Depending on which direction I turned the paper, it was a flattened '8' or a flattened symbol for infinity, '∞'. I looked back at Artie frowning, wondering if this was some effect of the coma.

The nurses began herding us out the door. A step from leaving, I stuck my head back in the room and called back to Artie, "Celine says hello! She's a soft top now!" and exited, chuckling to myself.

Part 4

[Florence Sur Les Champs Élysées | Miles Davis]

The piece of paper Artie had scribbled on rode shotgun as I circled Celine back to the office after dropping Tina at home. Every stoplight cast a red glow across the scrap of paper, none illuminated its meaning. The streets were empty and I parked at the curb a few steps from our office building. Shoes dangling by the straps in my hand, I cat footed up to the building, turning Artie's message over in my hand and mind as I climbed the six flights to the office. Just inside the door I paused, cigarette smoke wafted down the stairwell. Stepping quietly, I listened for any clue as to who would be in the building at this hour. I passed the second, third, fourth and fifth floor. Floor by floor, as I reached the landings, the source of the pungent smoke eluded me, the scent growing stronger as I rose. As I placed my foot on the first step leading to the sixth floor landing, the scent of flowers, gardenias, mixed with the smoke. I smiled and took the steps less carefully.

"Is there something I should know about the elevator?" the voice of Britt Anderson, greeted me as I reached the sixth floor landing. Framed by the light of the full moon coming through the hall window, she was still wearing the red gown from earlier this evening.

"I can't get the jump on anyone riding up the lift with the bells dinging on each floor now can I?" I replied, inserting my key into the door. She took a step closer to me.

"Oh, so you wanted to get the jump on me?" she smirked as I pushed the door open and waved her in.

I chuckled. "I-I forgot you were coming," I said, leading her to my office after dropping my shoes inside and closing the door behind us.

"And here I thought I'd made an impression," she took the seat opposite my desk as I tugged the chain of the lamp on my desk. Up close, I marveled at how well the red dress clung to the curves and flats of her torso.

"Can you breathe in that thing?" The words tumbled from brain to tongue without the intervention of thought in between. I sighed internally.

"No," she chuckled, "but then you can't have everything can you?"

"Well, I don't know about that," I sat down in my desk chair, retrieving a cigarette from inside the pencil drawer. I offered it to her. She shook her head. Lighting it for myself, I leaned back in my chair. A glint of light off the metal clasp of an envelope caught my attention and I pulled the manila envelope from the coroner's office in front of me. I slid the top few inches of the letter from the coroner out of the envelope, the state seal was embossed on the letterhead. "I suppose it just depends on where you're looking, Britt." I looked up from the envelope to see her looking intently, at me. I blushed.

"Are you looking?" she asked.

"Suppose I am?"

"D'you suppose you might want some company while you look?" she smiled, looking down at her hands, for the first time, uncharacteristically shy.

"I suppose that would be very nice," I answered sincerely. She lifted her head and we smiled at each other.

"Did you just call me 'Britt'? Finally?" she cocked her head to the side.

I eased out another inch of the letter seeing the words, 'Dear Sir/Madam, in regards to your inquiry'. I looked up at Britt, still eyeing me curiously. "I thought about it and seeing as I lied for you, I figure we're on a first name basis now."

Her face flushed red and I regretted having so clumsily ruined the moment. "I didn't kill him. You know that, don't you?"

"I do know that. But I also know you know who did kill him. Don't you?" I pulled the letter out of the envelope and glanced at it quickly before turning my attention back to Britt Anderson.

"What makes you think I…does it matter? Does it matter to anyone now? Can't we just put it behind us?" her eyes pleaded with me.

I took a drag on my cigarette, instead of replying, studying her as I did so.

"Fine," she sat up straight in the chair. "You're still technically working for me, right?"

I nodded my head slowly, unsure of what was coming next.

"Well, before we discuss repayment, I have one last thing to ask of you," she reached for a small brown paper bag and set it on the desk in front of me. "I need you to get rid of that for me."

I sat forward and pulled the bag towards me. Reaching in I felt the cold steel of a revolver barrel. I pulled the gun out by the handle, out of habit sniffing for the smell of fresh gunpowder. I placed the gun on my desk atop the letter from the coroner's office, business end pointing towards the window to my left. "What do you want me to do with this, Britt?"

"I don't know. I know it's no good for me to have it. Like you said, I don't even know how to use it. Can you do something with it? I realize the proper thing to do would be turn it in to the police but…you're the only one who believes me..."

As she spoke, I read the numbers engraved on the body of the gun, '.32 Rossi', just as I remembered it. I shifted the gun forward to see the words on the coroner's ballistics report, 'Colt Super .38'. She didn't shoot him. I breathed a sigh of relief for us both. I knew in my gut that she was innocent, but I'd made a special request to Dr. Grissom, just in case those bright eyes and long long legs of hers had made me lose true north. I'd had moments of doubt, to say different would be a lie, but with the gun and the letter sitting on my desk, I shrugged off the weight of carrying her secret all these months.

"I'll take care of it," I said smiling and looking up at her, "the gun and the bill. Don't worry about either one."

"Really?" Britt looked at me incredulously. "Are you sure? It would take me some time, but I could absolutely pay you back. I'm not asking you to…"

I stood up and walked around to the other side of the desk, taking her hands in mine.

"Britt, you just got a second chance at life. Live the hell out of it."

I saw blur of red and smelled a rush of gardenia. The soft wet lips of Britt Anderson were pressed firmly against my own. If the tuning fork in my chest was still vibrating, I couldn't hear it over the pounding of my heart in my ears. My hands found the blonde waves of her hair and I pulled her close to me, reveling in the feeling. Just as suddenly as the kiss had begun, Britt pulled away from me and stepped towards the door. Dazed, I stared after her.

"I still got the jump on you," she said smiling. I smiled sheepishly as the outside office door opened and closed, and the sound of her heels clicking faded down the hallway.

She must have called in advance because as I stepped to the window, I saw the headlights of a black and white cab swing onto the street below, pulling up behind Celine. Instinctively, I reached for the cigarette burning in the ashtray on my desk. As I brought it to my mouth, I licked my lips. Deciding to enjoy the sweet taste of her a little while longer, I stubbed out the cigarette.

Trouble chased some people like a tin can tied to a cat's tail. Try as they might, there was no outrunning it. As it had so many nights before, the angel on my shoulder whispered in my ear that Britt Anderson was one of those unfortunate pussycats and that taking up with her in any way was a downright awful idea.

I looked down and saw her exit the building below, red dress glittering in the full moon just as bright as it had on stage earlier. The driver jumped out of his cab, holding the door for her. He closed the door behind her and I saw the window roll down as the driver climbed back into the front seat. Britt Anderson's face appeared in the window and I imagined for a moment she was looking back up at the window. She blew a kiss and I felt my ears catch fire once again. I laughed out loud and swept the angel off my shoulder with a brush of my hand.

As I turned something caught my eye. Celine, her dark windows reflecting the tail lights of the cab as it retreated down the street, sat alone on the street. I waited, watched. Ever so faintly, a small orange glow burned from within the car. The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention as I grabbed the revolver off my desk and darted down the steps.

A/N: Thank you for sticking with me. Just one little bit to go and I promise it'll be up very soon.