Sorry to anyone who's following for the delay...anyway this is my chapter. Mine. ALL MINE! You can't have it...

LOL. Make a girl happy and review. Pretty please. :D

Note: I am officially madly in love with Ricky Donovan. :P

Chapter 4: Gone But Not Forgotten

"What's the history between you and Grant?" Ricky demanded suddenly of Dr. Fred Mitchell as they sat sharing a drink in the medical examiner's office.

Mitchell wrinkled his nose and surveyed the detective in front of him.

"I knew her father," was his answer.

"I got that," Donovan replied. "No reason to be so dead against the daughter though."

A look of anger flashed across Mitchell's face, which he masked quickly.

"I'm not against her," he said, quite unconvincingly. "The evidence is stacked up against her."

"What, that she has no alibi? Neither does half of Boston!"

Mitchell smiled condescendingly at Donovan. "But there are only two of those whose contract with the deceased was about to end."

"And what, you think that Lola thought she could still work in the Midnight Monkey if the owner is dead?"

Ricky was clutching at straws. He knew that the bar had fallen to Stanley who was a good friend of Lola's and would continue to allow them to work there. Mitchell seemed to know what Ricky was thinking and smiled nastily.

Ricky shook his head, frustrated, and stood up.

"I'll see you around, Doc," he said deprecatingly, and left the room.

----------

"Why was Ricky sticking up for her? Mitchell is right," Garret said. Woody looked at him.

"No he's not," the detective said. "She has the same alibi that the whole club had, basically. It didn't have to be her."

"And the hair?"

"Didn't have DNA testing in those days. We couldn't know whose it was."

"They matched it with another hair on her head," Garret said. Same colour, thickness, everything. Don't you think it's a bit of a coincidence?"

Woody looked away, beaten. Jordan watched the interchange, amusement in her eyes.

"Getting into the characters again, boys?"

She remembered that last time they attempted this, Woody and Garret had an argument over the opinions of their characters.

Woody grinned back. "But the question still stands. Why does Ricky stand up for her so much?"

She shrugged. "At this point," she gestured to the book, "we don't know anything Ricky was thinking. We'll have to go with what Lola perceived."

He nodded. "Let's go."

--------------

He visited her again that night. She was sitting at the bar, talking with Violet, who scarpered at the sight of him.

"Business again, detective?"

"I'm off duty," he said gruffly.

She watched him as he sat down and ordered from the new barman Stanley had hired. Lola was uneasy – she hadn't spoken much to Stanley since the event, and she hoped he did not believe, like Mitchell did, that she killed her father.

"My question is, why have I not been arrested already?"

He frowned, waiting for her to go on.

"Even if it was a blonde hair they'd found, Mitchell would still be pushing that it was me."

"Why?" he asked.

She laughed bitterly. "Because he hates my father."

"You might want to tell me about that," Ricky said. She looked at him.

"Maybe another time," she said. They fell silent, nursing their glasses.

"Do you know what the penalty is for first degree murder?" he asked softly. She looked at him, no sign of fear in her eyes.

"Death," she said, voice not wavering. He wondered at the sudden tinge of coldness in her eyes.

"Yeah," he confirmed. "And that's where you're headed if you don't help me."

She stood abruptly.

"I'll be making my leave now, detective," she said, and turned on her heel, walking out of the bar.

-------------

Violet looked around, making sure no eyes followed her as she went into the dressing room. Unbeknownst to her, a pair was.

The journalist frowned, and, excited, followed Grant's partner as she came out of the 'staff only' area. She got into her car and drove off, sending him scrabbling to get into his own. He followed at a distance, and watched as she drove to the bank of the river, got out, and threw something in.

He parked frantically, not wanting her to get away. Could she be the murderer?

Her head whipped around at the sound of the car screaming to a halt on the dirt near hers. She looked around, and sighed, knowing there was no escape.

"Miss Meridian?" Jake said excitedly, getting out of the car.

"Yes?" she asked coldly.

"Do you want to tell me what you're doing here, and what you just disposed of in the Charles?"

She smiled kindly. "Not particularly."

"Well unless you want: New Suspect in Watson Case blazoned all over tomorrow's newspapers I suggest you tell me."

She blanched. "What?" she asked. "You wouldn't."

He grinned, thinking he had her right where he wanted her.

She looked at the dirt, unable to hide her amusement. "I was throwing a stack of letters in," she said.

"Letters?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"From Stanley," she said. "I don't want Lola finding out we're having an affair."

"Lola has a thing for Stanley?"

"Has ever since they were kids," Violet lied, knowing perfectly well it was the other way around. She could see gain from this.

"Another motive?" Jake wondered aloud.

"Look, don't say anything, alright?"

He grinned and jumped back into his car.

Alright, he thought, grinning unashamedly. We write things nowadays anyway.

-----------

"Wait how do we know this?" Seely interrupted yet again, amidst more groans. "Isn't this Lola's journal?"

"I'm sure the others weren't like this their first times," Bug muttered under his breath to Lily.

"Give it a rest," she hissed back good-naturedly.

"She documented everything," Jordan said. "Jake went to Ricky and told him everything the next day, as well as the rest of Boston. It was the next day's scoop." She held up the book where a newspaper clipping was hastily stuck.

'New Motive For Watson Murder', it read, and outlined a whole, probably fabricated story about the steamy love triangle between Lola, Violet and Stanley.

Woody frowned. "That little weasel," he said. Jordan grinned at the look on Seely's face.

"Ricky in turn told Lola."

"Chinese whispers," Lily said. "Surely Violet wasn't that venomous?"

Jordan raised an eyebrow. "That's only the half of it," she said. Lily scowled.

"Why am I always the crackpot?" she asked. Jordan and Garret caught each other's eye and laughed.

"It gets better," Nigel assured Lily, then grinned at Jordan.

"Alright alright, order in the Midnight Monkey. Back to business or we won't get this finished tonight," Max interjected, and they all nodded.

-----------

Ricky groaned inwardly and shot up, following her outside.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Arrest me," she shot back. He caught up to her and grabbed her arm, pulling her around to face him, even as the thought pulsed through his head.

What am I doing?

"Why won't you let me help you?" he asked.

"I don't need your help."

In her weakened state she was perhaps more vindictive than she would normally be, but did not move to take back her words. He seemed unfazed anyway.

"I've seen this happen before," he told her. The light from the streetlamp barely illuminated their faces but it was enough. "They don't care who gets the blame, as long as someone does. Someone must be seen to be punished."

He stopped.

"We," he corrected, knowing that he himself sometimes fell under this way of thinking. As long as justice was dealt, the dead person was avenged. Right?

"And it's going to be me," she said. It wasn't a question.

"At this rate, yeah, it is."

She glared at him. "But I didn't do it," she said through gritted teeth. "The evidence can't say that I did."

"Well it is," he said. "It's safe to say you are in fact the prime suspect."

"Among how many others?" she asked flatly. "What can you do, anyway?"

"I can't prove you didn't do it. Neither can you. We have to find out who did."

She paused, looking at him. "Why don't you think I did it?" she asked.

He frowned, and looked away. "I don't know," he said. It was enough for her, she nodded. They both noticed that he was still holding onto her arm, and he let go hastily.

"Walk me through that night," he said in a low voice. She nodded brusquely and stepped back.

"Right this way, detective."

They walked back into the bar, the light nearly blinding. Both their cheeks were flushed from their argument outside. Violet's eyes narrowed. She had just gotten back and was attempting normalcy by having a drink and chatting to Jim the waiter. Lola scanned the bar, hoping to see a tall dark man bobbing around, and was disappointed when her search turned up nothing.

"From the performance," Ricky said, effectively reminding him of her presence. She nodded and took him through a little hall to the stage, waving a hand at it.

"From here, Vi and I both went through the passage out the back…" She lead him through the stage and into the hall. "Into our dressing rooms." She opened the door and showed him. "There we stayed for about…" she cast around with her mind, trying to recall, as she flopped down in the seat. "An hour?"

He nodded.

"Halfway through that time Stanley came and joined us." Her voice betrayed what she was thinking. "This is pointless," she said.

"Maybe not," he said, gesturing for her to go on.

She sighed. "Ten minutes later some talent scout came in and offered us a job. We, or I, turned him down."

Ricky sat forward. "Why didn't you tell us that?" Ricky asked. "He is another possible suspect!"

She frowned. He continued.

"Motive: if he was dead you couldn't exactly work for him anymore."

"Oh come on," she scoffed. "You're scraping the bottom of the barrel now. He killed a man because he wanted us to work for him? We're not that good."

Ricky shook his head. "It's plausible," he said, standing. "There could be some other underlying reason…"

"Will you listen to yourself?" she said. He stopped.

"Well what's your guess then?" he asked, irritated.

"It's not my job to guess," she said, standing. "That's yours."

She scribbled down an address and handed it to him.

"If you need me, I'm there," she said. "I'm going home."

"Do you think that's wise?" he asked. She turned.

"You might want an alibi," he said.

She raised an eyebrow. He couldn't help himself, he grinned.

"You know, just so you're not the suspect in the next murder that happens," he said.

There was a pause, then she laughed. "So you're going to be my alibi."

"If you want. Can you cook?"

"Not to save my life," she said.

"Good," he said. "Give me a chance to show off."

She turned, trying to hide the look in her eyes.

"Fine," she said. "I've just got to take care of something and I'll be out soon. You can drive, save me the cab fare."

She turned and walked away before he could reply.

Violet watched the interchange from her perch with interest. What were they talking about?

Lola walked through the bar to the 'staff only' area, then walked up the stairs to where Stanley was living. Instead of living in his father's house, which was a few streets away, he made use of the rooms above the bar.

She knocked on the door he used as his study, the place she knew he'd be.

When there was no answer, she knocked again. Stanley opened the door.

She looked into his face. His eyes were bloodshot, but not red-rimmed. He had not been crying, she thought with relief, never knowing how to deal with emotional people. She herself made it a point, ever since childhood, not to cry, and couldn't relate to anyone who did.

"Hey," he said, stepping aside. "Come in." She stepped in the room, noting the papers that were strewn over the desk, handwritten scribbles visible. One of Stanley's dream was to get one of his crime novels published, but had never even sent one of them to a publisher. He always felt as though there was something missing, something not quite right whenever he read back through them.

A number of emotions flitted across Stanley's face at the sight of her. Shock, despair, anger, and it finally settled on suspicion. It cut her that he could believe the papers, the police, over his oldest friend.

"Don't worry," she said coldly as she stepped past him. "I haven't got a knife secreted in my jacket or anything."

"Lola," he began…

"Look I know you're grieving. I know he was your father. But it doesn't mean you have to continue to evade me, continue to hurt me by your willingness to believe other people over me." Her voice had grown low. "I did not kill your father."

He stared at her, she had cut right to the heart of his thoughts, exposed them as she was so good at doing. He loved and hated that quality about her.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and stepped closer to her. "I didn't know what to believe. Of course I don't think you killed him."

He put his arms around her, and she hugged him back.

"I'm sorry this had to happen," she said. He let go of her and held her at arms length.

"Me too," he said. "Me too."

----------

"I hate to say this," Nigel said. "But I'm starting to suspect Stanley."

Jordan and Woody exchanged a glance. "Why is that?" Jordan asked.

He frowned. "I don't quite know. Just some of the things he said."

"Remember we've only got Lola's account of this to go on," she said. "We've only got what she perceived. If it was really us, and your father was murdered and I the main suspect, wouldn't you suspect me?"

"Not in a minute!" he said. "That's what I don't get, they were good friends. Had been since they were children. They were involved, weren't they?"

"That is insinuated, yes."

"How could he believe, even for a fleeting second, that Lola was the murderer?"

"Again, maybe Lola only thought he suspected her."

"Lola seems like she's got her head screwed on. Although handing out her address to some random guy wasn't the best of ideas."

"They had a connection," Woody said. "Right from the word go."

Jordan stiffened at his words, then relaxed. She was getting far too into her character. She got into Joyce Quinn last time they did this, but definitely not to this extent. She wondered at the irony that hers and Woody's character always seemed to hook up.

Turned out he was a jerk last time, she thought. Maybe he's the murderer.

She turned her gaze to Woody. He read her thought in her eyes and shook his head.

"No way," he said. "Not this time."

The two laughed, leaving the rest to wonder what on earth they were on about.

---------

In the car on the way to her very humble home, they didn't speak. It wasn't awkward, they just didn't have anything to say. She grimaced, hoping they'd find something when they arrived.

"So what are you going to cook up, chef Donovan?" she asked as he helped her take her coat off once they stepped inside. He was looking around t her house, and she felt unworthy, for some reason. Her dwelling was small at best, and not in the best neighbourhood. The house was immaculately clean, but not exactly the classiest joint she'd ever seen. She was thinking of asking Violet to move out of the room she stayed in at the Midnight Monkey and in with her, to help with the rent so they could both be more comfortable.

"What do you have?" he asked. She pointed in the direction of the kitchen. He nodded and stepped into it, leaving her in the hall. She went into her room and discarded her uncomfortable clothes, then flopped back onto her bed. It had been a nightmare, the last few days.

Next thing she knew, Ricky was shaking her gently. He had not wanted to wake her, the hard expression that accompanied her in waking was strangely absent in sleep. She looked almost peaceful.

"Dinner's on," he said. Fully awake in an instant, as was her nature, she got up and followed him into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

"Well you're a better cook than me," she said, loving the way his smile went all the way to his eyes.

They ate quietly, but Lola wasn't really tasting the food, as good as it was. She couldn't explain it, but she felt unsettled. Not in a bad way, but she still didn't like it. She wanted to be sure of everything, all the time. She had learned the hard way that any other philosophy led to pain. Which was something she tried to avoid. Didn't everyone?

"What did you think?" he asked. She smiled genuinely.

"Lovely," she said. "Best meal I've ever eaten under this roof, anyway."

"How long have you lived here?" he asked.

"A couple of years now," she said. "Since I came back to Boston."

He grimaced. She gave him just enough information to leave him curious, but not enough, so that he'd be forced to ask more questions.

"Where did you go?"

Her face closed up. "Everywhere. Nowhere."

"Want to be more specific?" he asked.

"No, not really."

He nodded, understanding. There were some things people didn't share.

"Why'd you come back?"

"Stanley tracked me down," she said. "Offered me the job at the Midnight Monkey."

"How'd Miss Meridian come into the picture?" he asked, knowing it was useful to get as much of the puzzle sorted as possible. Their background was certainly illuminating.

"Her parents had kicked her out a couple of weeks before I got back. Stanley was putting her up at the Midnight Monkey, in exchange for some bartending duties. Or rather, Stanley's father. We just kind of fell into the singing gig. We've been a regular act ever since."

"And now?"

She surveyed him. "I sense we're about to lose some business," she said. "Your friend Jake might have something to do with that.

"Carmichael?" he said. "He's harmless."

She made a disbelieving sound in her throat, but didn't contradict him.

She glanced at him, before asking,

"So how long have you been in Boston?"

"Thirty-two years this December," he said, smile playing around his mouth.

"Born and bred Bostonian, then?"

He grinned. "You could say that."

"It's a wonder I have never run into you before. What school did you go to?"

He hesitated, before answering. "I lived at an orphanage in Dorchester," he said. "We were schooled there."

Lola, to her credit, didn't even blink.

"And did you always want to be a cop?"

He considered the question. "No," he said. "It just kind of happened."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence and she stood.

"We'd be more comfortable in the lounge," she said. He nodded and followed her out. She resumed the conversation as they sat down on her only two-seater sofa.

"What happened to your parents?" she asked gently, hoping her usual brusque nature had deserted her, if only for this one fragile question.

"They died," he said flatly. "They were both shot by some burglar. How about you? Parents still living?"

He was hoping to deflect the attention from himself but regretted his callous words as she blanched. Fear flitted in her eyes for a split second before she wiped her face clean and answered him.

"I don't really know," she said. His expression asked her to elaborate. "My mother left my father and I when I was eight," she said. "And I haven't spoken to my father in eleven years."

"Since you were…"

"Sixteen, and old enough to leave home." She smiled sadly. "Probably the stupidest thing I ever did. But looking back, I wouldn't change a thing."

----------

" 'I don't know what it was about him, but his eyes made me want to tell him my whole life story. How my father beat me to unconsciousness when he was drunk, how he drank and gambled away all our money, how he continually cussed me and put me down. He was kind, but it wasn't only that. I sensed something in him, something that made him a kindred spirit to me. He'd seen the rough times too. I'd heard stories about the orphanages in Boston and it wasn't the place you'd want to grow up. That and a whole working life on the streets of Boston ridding the streets of scum and trying not to succumb to it yourself, gave him a bitter, somewhat hard edge. But now and again, something shone through that, and you could see the boy he would have been had he had Violet's lifestyle, or even Stanley's. And that's what scares me. He is so like me, yet so unlike me. He can see into me. He knows what I think, what I feel. Which is, for me, terrifying yet incredibly exciting all at once.'" Jordan finished the passage and looked up, eyes immediately finding Woody's, who looked away.

"The poor girl was a bit confused," Garret said. Jordan looked at him.

"On the contrary," she said. "I think she knew exactly what she meant, even if she couldn't yet record it even in her own journal."

"Couldn't even admit it to herself," Nigel said, shaking his head.

"Admit what?" Seely asked.

Jordan couldn't help herself, she rolled her eyes at Nigel who stifled a laugh.

"Drink break, anyone?" she said. They all agreed and dispersed from the table they were seated around.

"The boy he would have been?" a voice asked, making Jordan turn as she poured herself another round of scotch. She smiled.

"That's what it said," she replied.

"What do you think of Ricky?" Woody asked.

She shrugged. "A compelling character. I have no idea what he would have looked like when he was thirty-two, but Lola's words make him dashingly handsome and very desirable."

"But she's said nothing of the sort in the journal."

"Not yet," Jordan countered. "Even so, you can just tell. Couldn't you?"

He grimaced. "Must be a girl thing," he said. She laughed and reached up, throwing an arm companionably around his shoulders.

"You'll work it out soon," she said. She paused and met his eyes. "Do you think Lola did it?" she asked quietly.

He put his opposite arm around her neck and squeezed, making her squeal. "Not for a moment, kiddo," he said. She grinned and wriggled out from his headlock.

"Who are you 'kiddo'ing? I'll remind you I'm four years older than you."

"Not in 1927 you weren't," he said. "I was thirty-two and you only twenty-seven."

"Well we were much better matched," she said sarcastically. He grinned.

"So do things start to get a little hot and steamy between my girl and this 'dashing, desirable' detective?" he flirted outrageously.

She grinned, loving his infectious good nature. "Not at all full of yourself, are you?"

He threw his head back and laughed.

"Maybe you two should lay off the scotch," Garret came into view, smiling at the scene in front of him. Two of his favourite people having a carefree, worry and tension free conversation, one they could laugh about. It was a rare thing. "Max wants to get going again."

"Well maybe he can be Lola," Jordan said, laughing at the look of mock horror on Woody's face. Garret chuckled too, and the three went back to the main room. Jordan looked about herself.

"It's hard to imagine this place as it would have been for them," she said to the gang, some of whom nodded. "It's changed so much."

"Here you go," Max said, chucking her the journal.

"Hey careful with that," she said. "It's an antique." She opened the book and the eight companions were again thrust into the tumultuous extremes of 1927, in one Lola Grant's living area…

-----------

"Well I can't say that with certainty about anything in my life," he said.

She shrugged, not knowing how to reply to this.

"You see a lot of crap in my profession," he began. "A lot of things that, at the beginning, are etched in your memory for years, haunting you. How could the human condition be so depraved?" He shook his head, eyes alive with his recollections. "Then after a while it becomes numb. You try so hard to put it out of your mind, and it works. You become less emphatic, less able to feel situations."

Her fists were clenched. He unwittingly was touching the very essence of her being, her own philosophy, what she had done all those years back when it had all become too much. He was exactly like her! She shivered unwillingly.

"I don't want that, Lola," he said. The use of her name made her tremble even more. It was at that moment when she knew he had her, had her and would not let her go for a long time to come. Even if he didn't know it yet, she most certainly did.

"You don't want what?" she whispered. The emotion in her eyes was almost unbearable. He noted their proximity and one thought crossed his mind. How did they get so close, so fast? He was not only referring to their physical position on the couch. He found himself telling her things he'd not ever told another living soul. And it didn't even bother him.

"To be numb."

"Then don't be," she offered, logically. "Let yourself feel it, feel the crimes, feel the suspects and all the victims a murder has."

"All?"

"The dead guy is obviously the victim victim," she replied. "But all his loved ones are the ones that matter most. He's dead, the dead don't need justice, or avengement. They are oblivious, they know no more. The family is the one that suffers, not the dead guy."

"You're thinking of Stanley," he said, noting her wet eyes.

"It's not fair," she whispered, fearing her voice would break. "He is the sweetest of souls and would never hurt a fly. It's not fair," she repeated.

He reached forward, intending to comfort her, but they were so close, so close, and their lips met, as they were destined to the moment Ricky had offered himself as an alibi. Their kiss was sweet, anticipated and not at all rough or hurried. They were two people who sought comfort, and found it, in a kindred spirit, someone like themselves. For Lola, it felt as though something in her heart snapped, burst, imploded. She had never felt this way, ever. Her relationship with Stanley was not one to even be compared to this, she had only been with him out of a feeling of duty and friendship, and she was sure he felt the same. This was different, something else entirely. Her hand rose and rested against his cheek, rough stubble covering it. He smoothed her hair out of her eyes and their kiss deepened.

The whole thing could not have lasted more than a minute but it felt to them as if it lasted a lifetime.

They broke apart and their eyes locked. They had had no inclination before the event that anything more than a physical connection was present, but when they stared at each other they knew something deeper had occurred. It was enough for Ricky, who stood abruptly to leave. He had broken so many of his morals, so many of his own guidelines, not to mention putting his own investigation at risk. All that aside, he knew he couldn't look at her for a moment longer without something more happening.

"I better go," he said huskily.

"Maybe you better," she agreed numbly, looking away.

He nodded and without a backward glance fled the room. It was only then that Lola let the long suppressed tears slide relentlessly down her face.