A/N: Hey guys, I'm back! I've been really busy this month, with vacation and all, but I'm writing as much as for the reviews! No matter how little there are of them, they are great inspiration to keep on writing!

This chapter is very touchy like the last. Well, at least it was to me when I wrote it. To those who are getting eager to get to the action, I'm very sorry, I'll write as much as possible. If you don't think that I wrote it right, please tell me! I need a lot of writing advise!

So without further ado, here is chapter 3.

Chapter Three

"The gardener?" Ryan said, not sure if a gardener would be smart enough to hide his tracks. Well, we have the internet, he thought. And there are crime TV shows.

"Yes, his name is Michael Putman. He hasn't shown up to work today or picked up any phone calls from Carl," Horatio answered. "There aren't any solid leads, but Calleigh and Walter are giving him a visit."

"Well, at least we have something." Ryan sighed. Suddenly, H's phone rang. "This is Horatio Caine," he said. He listened for a few seconds, then said, "Ok, thanks Calleigh." He hung up.

"What's up?" Ryan asked, hoping that they had a lead on Michael.

"It seems that Mr. Putman has received several calls from a storage facility called 'The Fisherman Storage' an hour before the murder. Can you grab Natalia and check it out to see what they know about Michael?"

"Yeah, sure H," Ryan answered. "Hey Natalia!" he shouted to her. She looked up at him, and Ryan motioned for her to walk over to them. She said a few words to the Carl and walked over.

"What's up Ryan?" she said. As Ryan filled her in, Horatio's phone rang again.

"This is Horatio Caine," he said. There was a pause, then he said, "It's ok Jesse, Ryan's been having the same problems," then he went on to explain the case to Jesse, telling him about Jane, the gardener, and 'The Fisherman Storage'. "Good," he said after the explanation. "Can you go and check it out? Natalia and Ryan are coming for back up. Do not approach until they arrive, understand?" He said it clear enough so that Ryan and Natalia could hear. They both nodded and walked over to Ryan's hummer.

Jesse's POV…

The Fisherman Storage, eh? I thought. Oh the things that could be going on in a fish storage building. The Fisherman Storage was a storage facility that (behold, the meaning of the name) fishermen could sell to, and the storage building would sell the fish to restaurants.

I wound through traffic, remembering everything Horatio told me. Jane Nathanson murdered, and her gardener is the prime suspect. Wow, so detailed.

I hardly know anything and before I know it, I'm heading to fish storage building. I feel so special, I thought.

I got pretty confused for why the gardener would murder Jane. What motive does he have? Didn't get a payday? He wants revenge for something that happened in the past? Man, the things that people would do for revenge.

I myself had wanted to have revenge. Tony, who was suspected, no, did kill his wife, had been set free. That cufflink just had to disappear, didn't it?

After two days, he killed my wife. I was so sure about it. The note proved it. But it wasn't good evidence, hard evidence. Not for the jury. Not for anyone. And there I was, a dirty cop who was suspected of stealing evidence. For years I didn't know what to do. I would drink till the point where I forgot who I was. I would cry every night, because of the nightmares of Tracy's death. I would see her mangled body sprawled on the bed, blood seeping into the mattress, her breath ragged and her eyes flooded with tears. And every night, I would dream of her saying, "Why Jesse? Why did you have to steal the cufflink?" And then her head would drop to the side, her arms relaxed. I dreamed that at her very last moments, she blamed me. That those words were her last thoughts, even though they weren't, but no matter how many times I reassured myself that, I found myself crying in the corner of the bedroom.

For many months I was afraid of sleeping in the bed. The same bed that we used to share stories in, where we would snuggle close and watch movies together. The same bed that Tracy died on. I wanted to sell the house, I really did, but I knew that Tracy would have wanted for me to keep it. It held too many good memories. It was the first house we bought together. I couldn't let go of it.

But soon, my heart called me to Miami. Tracy loved the place, but LA was her home, just like Miami was mine. So I moved, hoping to start out fresh. But I still couldn't stop thinking about Tony. I wanted to see him rot in jail, and for everyone to know what he had done. I didn't want to kill him, because I knew the consequences. I knew that it wouldn't bring justice. But not everyone knows that.

Many people have done stupid things for stupid reasons. They would kill for wealth, for their job , for a secret, for revenge. A soul for their greed. A life for their greed. A loved on for their greed.

Every time I look at a new, lifeless body at a crime scene I get reminded of Tracey. I get reminded that that person's loved ones were, at that moment, grieving for the loss of a friend. Or maybe even deeper than that. A girlfriend or boyfriend, a fiancé, a husband or wife. They would have to go on with their lives without the love of their life, who they were planning to move in with, marry, and have a baby with. All those planes lost, and their hearts crushed. All for someone's greed.

That was what got me motivated to finish the case. I needed to reassure the victim's loved ones that the killer wouldn't be walking free, and would be punished for his wrong doing.

As I wound through the traffic, I looked through the window into another car. A woman and a man, possibly her husband, were shouting. The man, who was driving, was trying to calm down the woman, but she kept on flaiing her arms around, shouting about something. For the split second I had to observe them, I heard a muffled word. Mail.

I sighed and shook my head. People could argue about the smallest things. Mail, the laundry, vacation planes. But without them knowing, that argument could be the last thing that happened to them. Their loved one could pass away suddenly, and the last thing that they talked about was the stupid mail. I was lucky. In the morning of my wife's murder, I had to rush to get to a new case. I barely had enough time to grab breakfast, and Tracey was still asleep. I left her that morning without a simple 'good-bye' or 'I love you'. If I those were supposed to be my last moments with her alive, I would never forgive myself. Never. But she was still alive when I got home. Barely, but alive nonetheless. We got to say our 'good-bye' and 'I love you'.

But not many get that chance.

I arrived at the storage building in only five minutes. It wasn't far from my house, but by the address that Horatio gave me, the crime scene was at least a 30 minute drive away, even if Ryan and Natalia turned on the sirens, which they were only supposed to do in emergencies. I parked my car in the empty lot, and waited outside. I parked at the far end, trying not to draw too much attention.

I leaned on my car, tapping my foot on the ground, impatiently waiting for Ryan and Natalia to arrive. I played 'You're Beautiful' in my head, nodding my head to the beat. Suddenly, there was a rustle behind me. I turned around, earning a welcoming stare of a gun barrel.