Healey looked across the front seat and smiled grimly; he had never seen his partner so quiet. "What are you thinking?"

Haseejian started slightly, glancing over with a dry snort. "I, ah, I was just trying to figure out how in the hell Mike allowed himself to get caught up in a bar brawl, for Christ sake… It doesn't make any sense, does it? I mean, you and I know him, right? He doesn't go off half-cocked. And he certainly wouldn't start a bar brawl."

"No, he wouldn't," Healey agreed with a nod, "but how well do any of us really know Steve, answer me that…?"

The Armenian sergeant's brow furrowed and his tone took on a sharp edge. "What do you mean? You think he's a hothead who got them into this mess?" At Healey's facial shrug, he continued quickly, "Hey, we don't know that. And Steve's missing… I mean, what? He's responsible for starting this… seemingly one-sided brawl and then he just takes off? No, Dan, you're wrong about that –"

"That's not what I'm saying and you know it!" Healey almost shouted, flustered, then stared angrily through the windshield, trying to gather his thoughts and rein in his mounting irritation. He drove in silence for several seconds, feeling his partner's eyes boring into his profile, then blew out an annoyed breath. When he began again his voice had a calmer quality.

"Look, Norm, all I mean is… Steve hasn't been in the squad long enough for any of us to know how he reacts in different situations. I know Mike trusts him with his life, and I appreciate that, but what if the kid did something last night that set this whole thing in motion? That's all I'm saying."

When Healey finished talking, Haseejian turned to look out the side window. He took a deep breath. "I know," he said quietly. "And now he's missing… just like those three kids they were looking for…"

"Yeah…"

The moss green Galaxie drove past the Crocker Town Limits sign.

# # # # #

There was a soft knock on the wooden door and it opened slowly. A tall, thick-set older man in a dark blue police uniform stuck his head in the door and smiled. "Lieutenant Devitt?"

The San Francisco cop stood, turning towards the door. "Yes?"

The grey-haired police chief with the military buzz-cut let the door close behind him as he moved deeper into the hospital room, his right hand extended. "Scott Ryan. I'm the police chief here in Eureka."

"Roy Devitt." They shook hands.

Ryan gestured towards the bed with his chin. "I'm sorry about your colleague. How's he doing?"

Devitt shrugged. "Well, the doctor said he's doing okay, he just hasn't woken up yet."

"Yeah, he was like that when I was here this morning." Ryan glanced around the room. "Listen, uh, I know you want to talk… do you want to do it here or…?"

Devitt looked at the bed again. "Well, he isn't going anywhere and neither am I, if that's okay?"

Ryan smiled. "Of course." He snagged a stool from against the wall and brought it closer to the one Devitt was already using. They both sat, Ryan holding his service hat in his lap.

"So, ah, Lieutenant, what is it you need to know?"

"Well, right now we don't know anything. And if you don't mind me asking, how much do you know about what happened last night and about why the lieutenant here was in this part of the state?"

Ryan's head went back slightly and he smiled warily. "Well, to be perfectly honest, the only thing I know about last night is what Sheriff Lassiter told me… for what it's worth."

Devitt frowned. "What do you mean by that?" he asked hesitantly.

Ryan stared at him silently for several long seconds, as if deciding just how much to impart. "Roy, I've been a police officer here in Eureka for almost thirty years and the chief for the last five. I've met every one of the sheriffs in the towns around here and have a good working relationship with them all. They're all good men, dedicated to keeping their towns safe and protected… except for Lassiter."

The San Francisco detective leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs, and waited for the chief to continue.

"Now I don't know this for a fact, but rumour has it… and it's been a rumour that's been circulating for a long time now… that Lassiter turns a blind eye when it comes to the trafficking, and the use, of drugs in his community…"

"Turns a blind eye? Or actively encourages the practice?"

Ryan smiled slightly. "The jury's still out on that one. Look, Roy, all I'm saying is, take everything that Lassiter tells you with a big grain of salt, okay? If what happened to the lieutenant last night has anything to do with what goes on in Crocker that Lassiter doesn't want you to know about… well, let's just say he could take you down a lot of dead ends before you guys find out what actually happened, if you find out at all."

Devitt sat back, mulling over what he had just been told. His gut instinct was telling him that this man before him was someone he could trust and someone he could confide in. "Chief, there's something about last night that I know you're unaware of… and possibly Lassiter as well. And as of right now, what I'm about to tell you doesn't leave this room. All right?"

Ryan studied the San Francisco cop, his eyes narrowing, then he nodded.

"Good," Devitt said, leaning forward again with a glance towards the bed. "Mike wasn't alone in the bar last night. He was with his partner…"

# # # # #

A Crocker PD blue-and-white sedan was parked in front of Patches Bar & Grill as Healey swung the sedan into the lot and pulled to a stop beside it. Looking around, the two detectives got out of the car and crossed the gravel to the large wooden-and-glass doors.

The place was deserted. A man drying glasses behind the bar looked over as they moved deeper into the room, sizing them up quickly. He cocked his head to the right. "Sheriff Lassiter's back there, in the poolroom."

"Thanks," Healey smiled perfunctorily as they made their way through the empty tables and chairs.

Sheriff Barry Lassiter was sitting on one of the tall stools near the pool table the furthest from the door, a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigar in the other. He looked up and grinned as Healey and Haseejian appeared in the entrance. "Hey!" he bellowed as he slid off the stool and took a step towards them, putting the beer bottle down on the rail of the pool table. "You gotta be the guys from 'Frisco, right?"

Resisting the urge to glance at each other in disdain, the sergeants crossed the room, each shaking the proffered hand and introducing themselves. Lassiter was a lot shorter than expected, a dark-haired spark plug that exuded more than his fair share of energy and enthusiasm. Haseejian hated him already.

"Well, I don't know what to tell you boys," Lassiter began without preamble. "We still haven't been able to figure out what happened last night. The staff here says that the lieutenant was in here playing pool and a bunch of bikers that no one had ever seen before came into the bar out there." He nodded towards the outer room with his chin. "Some of 'em came back here to shoot a few games. Nothing happened, according to the staff… at least nothing they were aware of, and after the bikers finally left, they found the lieutenant lying on the floor here." He gestured towards the hardwood at his feet.

Healey and Haseejian took a step back, realizing they were standing unsettlingly close to the small pool of dried blood on the floor, difficult to discern against the dark stain of the wood. Haseejian threw an angry glare in the Sheriff's direction that he didn't seem to notice.

Healey looked at Lassiter from under a lowered brow. "The lieutenant was here alone?'

Lassister nodded and shrugged. "That's what the staff says. Why? Was he supposed to be with someone?"

"Just asking," Healey tried to sound casual, looking back down at the floor.

Haseejian had drifted away slightly, looking for anything that would tell them that Steve had indeed been in the room the night before. There was nothing. Other than a surprisingly large number of full and hall-full beer bottles and every pool cue, it seemed, scattered around the room - on tables, railings and the floor - nothing else seemed out of place.

The Armenian sergeant stopped suddenly and, hands in his pants pockets, turned back towards the sheriff. "You said the staff here told you the bikers just left… what… after they finished playing pool?"

Lassiter grinned at him. "That's what they said."

"Hunh. If they left after they finished, then why do all these tables seem to have games that are still in progress? I mean, if they'd finished playing, why aren't all the balls in the pockets?"

Both detectives were staring at the little sheriff, waiting for his answer. Lassiter blinked a couple of times before almost blurting out, "That's what I was told. Maybe their… boss or their… leader or… whoever, I don't know, decided it was time to go, so they just left. Who knows what they do, right?"

"Right," Healey agreed dryly with a slow nod. "Right."

If Lassiter was afraid he'd been caught in a lie, he didn't show it. "Oh," he said suddenly, as if he'd just thought of it, "we found the lieutenant's car. At least we think it's his car, we don't have the keys so we couldn't get into it. A tan Galaxie? It's got a police radio in it so I'm assuming it's his."

"Where is it?" Haseejian asked coldly, knowing they didn't see the familiar car when they'd pulled into the parking lot.

Lassiter smiled guilelessly at him. "There's another lot across the road. It's parked at the back, away from the light. Maybe he didn't want anybody to see it and realize it was a cop car, I'm guessing." He looked from one detective to the other and shrugged. "You wanna see it?"

# # # # #

They were standing on either side of the unmarked SFPD Ford, shielding their eyes from the sun as they looked through the side windows. There was nothing in the car, other than the radio, to indicate to the untrained eye that it was a cop car. Lassiter's theory seemed to hold water.

Though the beer was gone, the sheriff was still puffing on his stogie. "So what do you want to do with it?"

"I want to get it towed to Colville," Healey said as he straightened up.

"Colville? Why Colville? The assault took place here?" Lassiter sounded more surprised than angry.

Healey turned to him, his entire demeanor now coldly aloof. "Because we say so."

# # # # #

Ryan had left Devitt with a lot of food for thought. It was imperative now, he realized, that they keep Lassiter at arm's length until they were sure, one way or the other, which side he was on. It could prove very tricky.

He had spoken to Olsen, then put in a call to the Colville Police Department. Sheriff John Manley, whom Police Chief Ryan had praised to the skies for his professionalism - sentiments that Mike had echoed in his conversation with Olsen - had been apprised of the events of the previous twenty-hours and had responded with shock and dismay.

And he was extremely worried about the disappearance of the young inspector.

Vowing to Devitt that he would connect up with Healey and Haseejian and offer any assistance he and his deputy could provide, Manley, obviously greatly disturbed, had ended the call promising to keep in regular contact, and with the assurance that Mike and Steve would be foremost in his thoughts and prayers.

Now Devitt was back in the hospital room, continuing his vigil.

He was deep in thought, trying to sort through all the disturbing possibilities that kept crossing his mind about Steve Keller's disappearance, when he heard a soft moan from the bed. He got to his feet, leaning over his injured colleague. "Mike…?" he prompted gently.

The lieutenant moved his head slightly and moaned in pain. His panting breaths were audible through his now open mouth and he groaned again.

Devitt grabbed his right hand and squeezed. "Mike, it's me, it's Roy. You're in the hospital. Take it easy…"

Mike moved his head again, catching his breath. "Steve…" He gasped in pain.

"Easy…"

"Steve… Steve…"