Disclaimer: I don't own legal rights to any of the copyrighted Resident Evil stuff in this story.

July 26th.

Leon had spent the night at his apartment, tossing and turning on his cheap mattress, haunted by images of the grim facade of Chris Redfield, ready to face certain death, and the much prettier face of Chris' little sister, who smelled like fresh flowers and who'd almost put a bullet through him without even batting her doe-like lashes.

His eyes were half-closed when he entered his office to the loud click-clack of Hunnigan on the typewriter. She took her fingers off the keys but kept her eyes glued to the paper.

"I'm almost out of ink ribbons," she said.

"We'll expense some to Miss Wong."

"She's already called twice. She wants to know if you've made any progress on the case."

"See if you can raise her. I want to see her tonight. At Sera's."

"Should I arrange all of your meetings there from now on?" Hunnigan asked, giving Leon a sideways glance. "Or just the ones with attractive females?"

Leon scoffed and opened the door to his inner office.

"What do you need all that ink for anyway?"

"Maybe I'm writing a novel."

Leon scoffed again.

"That would require you to actually have an imagination."

As he closed the door behind him, Leon felt the presence of someone else in the room. He could make out a silhouette in his chair, back to the desk facing the window. The man rose and opened the blinds, letting sunlight into the dim room.

"Good morning, Leon."

"Captain Wesker," Leon said, switching on the lamp as he tried to keep the shock out of his voice. "What a pleasant surprise."

Albert Wesker was tall and as thin as a walking skeleton, with a three-piece suit that fit his skinny form like a second skin. His platinum blonde hair was shiny from too much pomade. Sunken back in the deep sockets of his gaunt, skeletal face were the coldest blue eyes Leon had ever seen. There was no soul behind them. Combined with his thin lips relaxed in a straight line, his face lacked even the slightest hint of emotion.

"Detective Burton tells me you showed up at his house to harass him and his family."

"It was just a friendly visit," Leon said.

"Like this is," Wesker replied.

His voice was a low, monotonous purr so devoid of compassion that it made everything sound like a threat, while also allowing him to deny it was ever his intention to come across as threatening.

"How long have you been waiting at my desk? And how the hell did you get into my office?"

Wesker's only response was to reach into Leon's desk and pull out a glass and a bottle of bourbon. He calmly poured himself a drink.

"Aren't you on duty? And isn't it nine o'clock in the morning?"

"Who hired you, Leon, and why?"

"Afraid I can't tell you that. It would undermine my client's confidence."

Wesker walked over to Leon, downed his drink in one swallow, then slowly set the glass down on the desk.

"Whatever you were bothering Barry for, I need you to drop it. Now, normally, I'd mention I could have your investigator's license pulled, but we both know you're in good with Mayor Graham and he won't let that happen."

"That's right."

Wesker reached for a paper weight, picked it up, and then brought it down on the empty glass, covering the surface of the desk in broken shards. Then, with a surprising suddenness, and a surprising strength for his wiry figure, he twisted Leon's arm behind his back and bent him forward so his face hovered just above the broken glass.

"But if something were to happen to you, and it came down to your word versus mine, who do you think everyone would believe? A respected, high-ranking officer of the Raccoon Police Department, or some nobody who left the force to make a living peeking through peepholes?"

He pressed Leon down further, so his cheek just barely touched one of the biggest hunks of broken glass. Then he let go of Leon's wrist and reached over the desk to grab his fedora. As he moved for the door he took a pair of aviator sunglasses out of his coat pocket and slipped them on over his cold blue eyes.

"Consider this a friendly warning," Wesker purred. "You're not a policeman anymore. So keep your nose out of police business and stick to your peepholes."

Leon lowered himself into his desk chair. He'd almost swear Wesker had made it colder just by sitting in it.

Wesker put his hat on and reached for the doorknob.

"Oh, and, Leon, thanks for the whiskey."

"Anytime."

Leon listened to Hunnigan's startled reaction as Wesker stepped through the door and she suddenly realized he'd been hiding in the office. Then he heard her quickly regaining her composure and politely wishing him a good day.

Leon grabbed an envelope and used the edge to scrape the broken glass into his waste basket. Then, with shaky hands, he pulled another glass from the drawer and poured himself a drink from the bottle.

A moment later, Hunnigan stuck her head through his door.

"Potential client on the telephone for you," she said, before ducking back into the reception area.

Leon picked up the receiver.

"Kennedy Investigations."

There was a moment of silence, and then a shaky voice.

"Hello?"

"How can I be of assistance?"

There was silence again, long enough that Leon began to wonder if there was still someone on the other end.

"People are going to kill me," the shaky voice said. "I know too much. And I told him everything. I even gave him the key. He said if I cooperated with him that he'd protect me. But now he's gone and they're coming after me."

"Slow down, friend. How about you start from the beginning? What's all this about? Who's gone, what's the key, and who's coming after you?"

"I can't tell you. Not over the phone. Anyone could be listening in."

He sounded paranoid. But paranoia was a huge part of the job. Whether someone was paranoid their spouse was stepping out on them or paranoid someone was out to get them, Leon was good at helping them put their paranoia to rest and getting paid for it. And sometimes they weren't paranoid. Sometimes the spouse was cheating. Sometimes a killer was stalking their every move. Leon knew better than to question their fears before even hearing the facts.

"Can you come to my office?"

"No. I'm not leaving the apartment. They could be outside, just waiting."

"You should know that this whole outfit is just me and my assistant. If you want I can point you towards other agencies with operatives to spare to watch you around the clock."

"No!" the voice over the phone said quickly. "I don't want just anyone. I heard you're someone I could trust. That you were in the army and in the police."

"All that's true, but what exactly do you need from me?"

Silence again, except for the sound of the frightened man nervously clearing his dry throat.

"I need to get my story out there. People need to know… everything. And then I need to get the hell out of Dodge."

"There's a journalist I trust. You can tell him your tale. Then I can put you on a train out of town. But that's going to take time."

"Time's not something I have much of," the man said. "But I guess if that's the best you can do, I'll take it."

The man gave Leon a number to call him back once arrangements had been made. It wasn't until he hung up that Leon realized he'd never even given him a name.

Leon picked up the phone again.

"Put me through to Bertollucci."

Leon waited as he was connected, then heard the reporter's gruff voice.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Ben. It's Leon."

There was a groan on the other end.

"This better be good, Kennedy. Talking to you is usually more trouble than it's worth."

"I've got a client who wants to tell you his story. Says people are willing to kill for it."

"What's his name? And what's his story?"

"Wouldn't tell me either. He's saving those for you."

Another groan.

"Dammit, Kennedy! Why do you keep sending every paranoid crackpot in the city my way?"

"If you don't want him, I can just march him into the Times and someone will listen. I just thought I'd offer it to you, first, you being freelance and trying to save up to buy a certain someone a diamond ring and all…"

"Katherine is getting impatient," Bertollucci admitted with a sigh. "Thinks if we don't make our engagement official soon it means I don't take our relationship seriously."

"How soon can we meet up?"

Leon listened as Bertollucci rifled through his desk and flipped through his day-planner.

"I'm free tomorrow after sundown."

"Sera's? I can get us in while the band's still warming up."

"Too conspicuous. And too expensive. How about Sam Jordon's place?"

"Suits me just fine. Eight o'clock? If I don't get you your next big scoop, I owe you a drink."

Leon heard the scratching of his name being penciled in, then Bertollucci said goodbye and hung up.

Stepping out into the reception area, Leon found Hunnigan with her feet on the desk and her nose buried deep in the pages of a large book.

"Spirituality Around The World," Leon said, reading the title. "I didn't peg you as the superstitious type."

"I find it fascinating," Hunnigan said. "Do you know much about voodoo? It's a commonly practiced religion across Africa and the Caribbean. According to folklore, practitioners are able to cause corpses to rise from their graves and become their mindless servants. They call them zombies."

"Zombies?" Leon said, shaking his head. "What a load of bunk."

Leon sat in his usual booth at Sera's, back to the wall, eyes on all the entrances.

Luis was setting down his drink when Ada made her way towards them.

"You surround yourself with too many beautiful women, amigo," Leon said. "It's a recipe for disaster."

"I've never heard you complain about having too many beautiful women around before."

"You should be smart and settle down with a nice girl like Ashley. You'd be comfortable for life. But this woman here… this is not a nice woman. I know trouble when I see it."

Ada took the seat across from Leon.

"Can I get something for the senorita?" Luis asked.

"Whatever she wants, it goes on my tab," Leon said.

Ada smiled wryly.

"Buying my drink with the cash you got from me. How chivalrous. I'll take whatever you're having."

"Another Old Fashioned, coming right up."

The band played and the honey sweet tones of Ashley's singing floated to their booth.

"Is that the mayor's daughter warbling up on stage and looking at you all starry-eyed?"

Leon looked up. Ashley smiled and her cheeks dimpled.

"I got her out of a tough spot once."

"Sounds like you've got a little bit of a soft spot for her."

"Maybe."

Ashley wasn't the only one on stage looking at them. The woman plucking the bass strings, a dark-skinned beauty who could give Josephine Baker a run for her money, seemed to be watching their booth intensely.

Luis dropped off a glass for Ada and another one for Leon, who downed the rest of his current drink to turn his attention to the new one.

"That picture you gave me of Chris," Leon said. "I don't suppose you'd happen to have another one? One with you in it, perhaps?"

"I don't see how that would be helpful to you."

"You know what I hate more than anything in this business? Being given a bum steer."

Ada took a sip of her cocktail.

"You'll excuse me. Sometime your American expressions still confuse me."

"What I'm saying is a little bit of honesty would go a long way with me."

Ada scrunched up her face, bringing her eyebrows together and turning down the corners of her full lips.

"You're calling me a liar?"

Leon grinned, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest.

"And a bad one," he said. "You overplayed your hand with the family coming in from Shanghai. I couldn't find a single picture of you in Redfield's apartment. Not a single sign of a woman's touch. None of his close friends or family had ever heard of you before. I'd say if your entire family's coming to the wedding, but he's never told anyone about you, that's not a good sign for your marriage."

He paused to sip his drink and see if anything changed in Ada's scowl. Her brows remained knitted together.

"Now let's say the relationship wasn't anything serious. That you were just some fun Redfield was having on the side. Everyone who knew him and loved him might say that didn't square with his character, but I'd still give you the benefit of the doubt because that's just how secret vices work."

"You had no trouble taking my two hundred dollars from me," Ada said.

"That's a lot of cash," Leon said. "Too much for you to be on the level, but enough to make me inclined not to ask too many questions. But my poking around is putting some old friends from the R.P.D. on edge. And that's putting me on edge."

Ada took a longer drink and her expression softened a little.

"I'm a masseuse," she said. "I work in a parlor in Chinatown. The clientele is almost exclusively male, and they tend to tip very well."

Leon said nothing. He just uncrossed his arms and leaned in.

"I wasn't Chris' lover," Ada said. "I was his informant."

As she took another drink her eyes shifted around, making sure no one but Leon was within ear shot.

"We first met when he was working vice. I could blend in better and hear certain things more easily than he could. He showed up again a week or two ago, working missing persons now. The owner of a shop near my parlor had disappeared. Chris wanted me to keep my ear to the ground and let him know if I heard anything."

"And did you?"

"The rumor was he'd found religion. Evidently, it was the kind of religion that asks a man to forsake his family."

Leon reached into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper with Ada's lipstick on it. He reached across the table and dropped it in front of her.

"Not very romantic, as far as love notes go," he said. "Recognize it?"

"I remember slipping this under his apartment door."

"And did he keep that appointment?" Leon asked. "It's very important. This could make you the last person to have seen him alive."

Ada studied the note carefully and shook her head.

"No," she said. "He never showed. After a couple days, I grew concerned. That's why I came to you."

"Why were you so concerned?"

"Chris was worried about who he could trust. He said something to me. Something similar to your sinking in a cesspool speech, but less poetic."

"Chris was always a pretty literal guy."

"I really did care about him. I'd like to know what happened to him."

"You seem pretty resourceful, as far as dames go. Why come to me instead of just finding him yourself?"

"The same reason Chris needed me as an informant," Ada said. "You can get into places and hear things that I can't. Because you're a man. Or because there are people who don't like…" Ada thought about her next words carefully. "People who don't like the way my eyes are shaped."

Leon winced at the implication.

"This is one of the most diverse crowds I've seen in all of Raccoon City," Ada said, looking over her shoulder at the rest of the club. "And I still don't see anyone else who looks like me."

"I'll keep blowing smoke to see if anything crawls out of the woodwork," Leon said. "But Redfield wouldn't be the first guy in this city to turn down the wrong alley and vanish into thin air."

Ada finished her drink and stood up.

"Thank you, Mr. Kennedy."

She started walking away.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with your eyes," Leon called out.

"I was never the one who said there was," Ada said, back still turned to Leon. She walked right past a visibly jealous Ashley.

"Who was that?" the petite blonde asked, stepping up to Leon's booth.

"A person of interest."

"And just how interested are you?"

Leon stood up and took Ashley by the hand.

"Forget all that. Dance with me, angel."

The band was playing "Moonlight Serenade" as Leon led Ashley out to the center of the floor. Her grip on him was light as a feather as she rested her head gently on his shoulder and shut her hazel eyes contentedly. But as Leon twirled her around to the music, his mind was on Chris Redfield.

On the battlefield, he and Chris had both come to accept that they might each have a bullet with their name on it. When the time came, no matter how careful they were, no matter how hard they tried to avoid it, that bullet would just find them, and there would be nothing they could do about it.

But if Chris Redfield knew there was a bullet meant for someone else, he was the kind of guy who would step in the way and take it for them.