Dave Thorne stepped swiftly into the Hawaiian Eye office, encouraged by the uniformed desk guard's wave and nod. He'd already been vetted and vouched for by Tracy and Greg, and it appeared that ticket stamp was good from here on out. He was grateful for the trust.

Dave knew from his own experience that he and Ken and Sandy were often all working their own cases simultaneously, while pitching in on each other's investigations. So it wasn't ever too surprising to see any manner of invoices, notes, reports scattered about the office. They did, however, make a point not to air anyone's dirty laundry unless absolutely necessary.

This, Dave thought, glancing at the desk in front of him, didn't seem necessary. Witch hunt came to mind, as the hack job every newspaper in Miami did on one of his most infamous cases stared back up at him. Fanned out like whoever dug up those back issues thought he was holding a royal flush. The spread on Sandy was black and white in more than one way.

GRAND JURY INDICTS SANFORD WINFIELD II.

PLAYBOY'S FATHER DUE HERE FOR TRIAL.

JURORS SELECTED FOR WINFIELD CASE.

FIRST WITNESS TAKES STAND AGAINST WINFIELD.

STRIPPER TO TESTIFY IN WINFIELD CASE.

The whole thing still bothered Dave. It was his first time back in a courtroom since he left the DA's office in New York for sunny Miami Beach. But there was absolutely no way he was gonna let anybody send Sandy up the river without him first doing everything in his power to stop it.

Sandy'd been arrested on suspicion of killing his girlfriend's ex-fiance. The guy had been stalking her for weeks, even going so far as to follow her to Miami Beach. Sandy confronted him, they got into it, and Sandy threatened his life. It was so clearly a thing said in anger, and would've been obvious to anyone with any sense that Sandy's mouth was the least of anyone's problems here. The real murderer was an opportunist, though, and took advantage of the situation by posing as a witness to the crime and offering to testify to the truth of Sandy's innocence.

For a price.

It made a certain amount of sense looking back, Dave thought, why Mr. Winfield was so eager to cave to that blackmail threat. At the time he likened it to a man watching his only son be kidnapped before his eyes and being so desperate to have him back safe and sound he'd do anything, not realizing he was playing right into the real criminal's hands.

They both wanted to defend and protect Sandy; Dave just wanted to do it the right way. To prove Sandy's innocence. He also knew the only way he could do that was to find the person who really did commit the murder Sandy had been accused of.

Without that, even a not guilty verdict would've left people with doubts. Left them wondering if he'd gotten away with murder. It would've stained Sandy's reputation and left a dark shadow looming over him for the rest of his life.

Dave hardly heard Greg greet him, tuning back in just in time for his old friend to, somewhat sheepishly, inform him, "Those just arrived." As if attempting to absolve himself of any investigative overstepping, he added, "Tom or Tracy must've sent for them. I've hardly had a chance to look any of it over myself."

"Haven't you got your own newspapers here in Hawaii?" Dave wasn't impressed. With the situation, or Greg's half-excuse.

He and Greg (not to mention Tracy) went way back, so, needless to say, this turn of events left him a little sore.

"Sure we have our own newspapers." Greg sounded amused. Until he said, "But none of ours have your friend Sandy on the front page."

"The case against him was tossed out, you know." Dave felt the need to offer this, what had to be an unneeded reminder, as he noted that the edition proclaiming Sandy's innocence and detailing what really went down wasn't anywhere in this stack of print.

"I certainly hope so."

"And not just on account of a hung jury or because the prosecution couldn't establish guilt beyond a reasonable doubt." Dave saw to that himself. He personally broke that lying weasel down on the stands. "It was a frame job, through and through."

"Yeah, I suspected that from the headlines alone." To say Greg's acknowledgment was downplayed was an understatement.

So Dave asked, "Then I take it you haven't found anything out about Sandy that might pertain to the case at hand?"

"Have you found something out about Phil that pertains to the case at hand?"

"No," Dave replied, unable to completely contain his smugness. If his time as a lawyer had taught him anything, it was that turnabout was fair play. He explained, "In fact, we couldn't find out a single thing about him."

"What?"

"Ken looked up his parents. There's a listing for them but they don't answer the telephone."

"That could have a logical explanation. Several, I'd say. People have been known to miss calls."

"Then how about neither the Social Security office or the Department of Motor Vehicles having any record of him?"

If Greg was shocked to hear that—and how could he not have been?—he hid it well. "That is a little harder to rationalize, true."

"Not to mention his supposed high school, and college."

"But since you did?" Greg was leading. A tried-and-true move. Maybe not when used on a fellow detective, though. But it was a tactic that always produced results. Of some sort.

"Oh, there's plenty of guys named Philip, and Barton. But none named Philip Barton, at least none that match his age or answer to his description. What's the logical explanation for that?"

"It could be a misunderstanding, or a mistake in the records, or-"

"Or," Dave simultaneously repeated after and interrupted Greg, "your friend isn't who he says he is."

He regretted it immediately. Sighing, he reminded himself, as well as informed Greg, "Hard as it may be to believe, I actually came to make a peace offering."

"I didn't realize there was need of one."

"Maybe there isn't." Dave left the 'anymore' unsaid.

"We cast a wide net, sure." Greg was unaffected. "But you of all people should know it wasn't personal."

"I also know we agreed that this was our case, not Hawaiian Eye's."

"It does concern a friend of ours."

"And a friend of ours."

"Which means maybe all of us has overstepped his bounds a bit here."

"I'll concede that," Dave said, with a nod. "As for that peace offering-"

Greg waved Dave off. "Not necessary."

"Then you and Tracy wouldn't like to come snorkeling with us?"

"Snorkeling?"

"Clear blue seas and all that? Or were the travel brochures lying to us?"

"Oh, they weren't lying, my friend."

"Good. Daffy chartered a boat for tomorrow and she's adamant we all go snorkeling with her and Cha Cha. You and Tracy are invited by extension. Tom, too, if he wants."

"You mean, to take the heat off of you for working during her meticulously planned group vacation?" Greg's guess was hardly that.

"Something like that. And I do think we all need to put this case on the back burner for a minute. Remember why we became detectives in the first place. Remember that we're all friends."
"I like the sound of all of that." Greg grinned and clapped Dave on the shoulder. "I'll pass word onto the guys, and then I suppose it's anchors aweigh."

Dave matched Greg's smile—sincere, but apprehensive. "We're still holding you to that pool party, too. Don't forget."

"I won't, old friend. I won't."

Cricket was looking forward to this get-together, even if she felt bad she had to turn Phil down. He asked if she wanted to spend the day with him and she wouldn't have minded it, except she'd already accepted an invitation to do just that with someone else. Not just anyone else, either: Tracy. Who happened to be alongside her, zigzagging through the marina. His old friends were going snorkeling and invited everybody to join them. Tracy, in turn, invited her.

Cricket walked arm in arm with him. They were both dressed for a day on and in the water. It wasn't often Tracy went about his business wearing anything other than a suit and the skin to skin contact made her tingle.

Still, they'd been wandering a bit and she couldn't help but wonder, "Are we there yet? Do you even know where we're going, Tracy?"

"Of course I do. Patience, lover."

"Just as long as we're not lost."

"We're precisely where we should be."

Cricket couldn't agree more. She wanted to smile, big and bright and wide, only she figured if Tracy caught a glance at her grinning like a loon, he'd just ask what was wrong with her face.

Passing another row of docked boats—some empty spaces with it being such a beautiful day and all—she thought out loud. "Dave and Ken and everyone are all so nice."

"I didn't realize you were acquainted with... everyone."

"It just so happens I had drinks with them all their first night in."

"Well, you do have a way of ingratiating yourself with people." Tracy's words were complimentary, as they often were, and he tightened his grip on her arm, just so. Pulled her closer, but didn't.

"Oh yeah?" Cricket asked, coyly. "What people?"

"Mostly gullible tourist types."

"And how about sarcastic detective types?"

"I wouldn't know. I don't know any."

"Hah! There's enough of you on O'ahu alone right now to start a team. Or a fraternity. Or a gang."

"And what would we call ourselves?" Tracy asked, stopping suddenly in front of a boat. On the smallish side, if Cricket knew anything about boats and sailing (she didn't). Just that men of the ocean were peculiar—crusty, and prickly, and named their vessels things like, "The Sassy Sea Hag? Hey, how come we stopped?"

"This is it, by Miss Dutton's description." Tracy pulled away from Cricket and leaned forward. He craned his neck, glanced this way,then that, finally calling out, "Miss Dutton?"

She stepped forward, wearing a sheer wrap around her shoulders, and a leopard print cutout swimsuit and looking like a movie star. Her kitten heels clicked with each step as she raised her cat-eye sunglasses to the top of her platinum blonde head. "Glad you're both here."

"Likewise." Tracy's voice was silken, like it tended to be when he was trying to impress a beautiful woman. He asked, "Permission to come aboard?"

"Granted. Welcome aboard the Daffy III, Mr. Steele, Miss Blake. Your friend is already here getting acclimated. Getting everyone... acclimated."

Cricket figured Daphne was talking about Greg, because she knew he'd been invited, too. He was friends with Dave the same as Tracy was. He was probably already in just his swimming shorts and making everyone cocktails if she knew him at all. Not that she spent a whole lot of time with just Greg, but the self-proclaimed cosmopolite did have a certain style and reputation that preceded him.

"Just Tracy and Cricket, please," Tracy insisted. He moved behind Cricket and placed both hands around her waist as she stepped off the dock and onto the, "Daffy III?"

"I'm Daffy I, the Daffy II is back in Miami Beach, and-"

Cricket couldn't help but point out, "But on the stern it says-"

"The name is uncanny, isn't it?" A deep, all-too-familiar voice said. Sandy Winfield stepped up behind Daphne. At least, Cricket thought he was Sandy and not Phil. Although, the deduction was entirely on his demeanor—the playful teasing between himself and Daphne. It was obvious they were close. Cricket couldn't help but wonder how close.

It reminded her of herself and Tracy.

"It just so happens," Daphne sounded a little miffed, "that I had trouble finding someone willing to rent their vessel out to a lady captain."

"Probably afraid of women drivers."

"You're one to talk, Sandy. I've lost count of how many times you've rammed that speedboat of yours into the dock back home. Besides, I have more sailing experience than a lot of people. I spend plenty of time on the water."

"Just like the duck." Sandy didn't miss a beat.

Neither did Daphne. "Sandy, just like a bad bowl of clam chowder."

"I know all about that. I wouldn't be allowed back in Boston if I didn't." Now Phil came forward and interrupted their banter. Or was it bickering? If it was, there was such a warmth and fondness to it. His gaze was nothing short of pleasant, still, Cricket felt its warmth most strongly in her cheeks and the tips of both ears. "When you said you'd already made plans for the day- well, who'd have thought we'd all end up here together, anyway?"

Not Cricket.

She wasn't exactly surprised to see him here, although, she was reminded, yet again, that she'd declined his invitation in favor of Tracy's. She could pretend it was that Tracy had asked her first, but that wasn't the whole truth of it. It didn't make it any less awkward. In fact, it made it worse, knowing they'd both had a mind to invite her to do the exact same thing. On the same day, with the same people.

Cha Cha was there, bless her, to ease the tension. A performer, through and through, she understood timing, improvisation, how to read a crowd—small as this one was. It was what made Cricket trust her well enough to ask her onstage the other night—on reputation alone and without so much as a hint beforehand. "See, me? It's Cha Cha, like the dance. Or... Margarita, like the drink."

"Now that sounds like a fantastic idea!" And Greg was suddenly on-deck, and already had a half-full glass of something shimmering in his hand.

"We better pace ourselves. We're still docked." Dave walked into view and clapped Greg on the shoulder. His other hand was, similarly, holding something amber in a highball glass.

Then Ken stepped up to, but it was Dave's shoulder he rested his free hand on. "That's right. We don't want to get so sauced we can't swim straight. The fish'll all be watching us, instead of the other way around."

Tracy leaned in toward Cricket. The gesture, his closeness, it was so intimate, but his voice was anything but hushed. "You missed a real opportunity there, lover, to tell everyone about your name."

But he was only smug for about half a second, because Cricket didn't have the chance to explain that her right name was Chryseis, nor did Tracy have the chance to joke that she was called Cricket like the bug, because she bugged him all the time. She wasn't and he knew that, but it seemed like just the kind of crack he'd make.

The rest of the group was staring at them, minus Greg, who was probably still thinking about mixed drinks.

It was Phil—because of course it would be Phil—that echoed, "Lover?" He was a bad combination of confused and wounded. They weren't together together, but he and Cricket had gone out a couple of times. She valued his friendship and she cared about him. He didn't deserve to be weighed down by her uncertainties. But he didn't deserve to be led on or lied to, either.

"It's just a silly nickname." Cricket wasn't sure who she was trying to convince, and of what. Herself that it wasn't just a nickname, or everyone else that it was?

Tom had even said it a few times. In fact, he and Tracy had both called her lover in front of one another, to one another about her. Sure, it meant they were close—all of them—but if it meant anything other than that, well, someone oughta clue Tracy in. Besides, Cricket had heard Dave call Cha Cha 'honey' at least once. She was also absolutely certain the two of them were just friends.

It was the exact same thing.

But it wasn't.

Dave and Cha Cha were friends because they wanted to be, because they didn't want to be anything besides friends. Tracy and Cricket were... whatever Tracy and Cricket were because, well, she honestly wasn't sure why.

There was that one time Tracy had kissed her—really kissed her. He waltzed right up to Cricket there in the office, cupped her cheeks in his hands and leaned in. Kissed her on the lips, long, slow, and right in front of Tom. But his eyes were cold and dark, and he was as numb as she was surprised. He walked away right after without another word, leaving Tom to explain things as well as he could. Kim had just been hurt in a hit and run accident and it sparked memories in Tracy. Bad ones. The sort he hadn't shared with anyone except Tom. That he'd been serious with someone, but she died after an accident.

It made sense why Tracy always kept things so casual with women, hearing that. And Cricket, well, she kept things casual with guys because much as she tried, she couldn't help the way she felt about him. For all the time she spent with Phil, and as much as she adored him, there was always an invisible hurdle there to trip her whenever either of them tried to take things further.

"Is something wrong?" Tracy asked, and so nonchalantly it seemed like it didn't even mean anything to him, anymore. Maybe it never did. Cricket suppressed a wince.

"Nothing's wrong." Phil tried to sound convincing. "It's just, well, I've never heard anyone refer to a friend that way."

"Until today." Daphne put her hands on her hips. It only made her look curvier, even more statuesque. Classier, somehow, but more impatient, too. "But I think the real question is: are we here to snorkel or are we here to gossip?"

She didn't wait for a reply, just turned on those kitten heels of hers and the boat's engine rumbled to life and they were moving, with Captain Daffy at the helm.

"I dunno, if ever a nickname warranted an explanation, I'd say 'lover' is it." Ken's down-home accent coated the awkwardness like warm honey.

"Really? Because I think 'lover' is pretty self-explanatory." Phil's voice came out of Sandy's mouth. He looked like he was trying to smother a wicked smile.

"And I think we'd better gear up. We'll be to the dive spot in no time," Dave said, sternly. "There's snorkels and flippers and goggles for everyone. Nobody go too far from the group. Some of us are amateurs." Dave turned his head toward Greg. "And some of us are already very fish-like."

Tipsy.

"I'm sober as a judge."

"Then forgive me for saying I hope I never land in your court, MacKenzie."

"Only if you forgive me for being a spoilsport," was Greg's reply.

"How's that?"

Greg gestured to the water, his nearly empty highball glass still in hand. "While we're all down there taking in the majesties of the sea, who's going to be minding the boat? At least one of us should stay topside."

It was nothing but confused 'why didn't we consider that sooner?' stares, the rocking of gentle waves, and silence, until Tracy cleared his throat. "I'll do it. It'll give me some time to think up a reason for why I call Cricket what I do."

Wasn't he clever? Unapologetic, at that, too. But it was one of those rare times where he didn't shrink away from the suggestion of... well, whatever anybody else here was thinking when it came to the two of them.

So, just as surely as he'd volunteered, Cricket did, too. "I'll stay with him. It appears Mr. Steele and I have a few things to sort out."

"Mr. Steele?" Tracy repeated.

He wasn't the only one Cricket needed to sort things out with, but the rest of the group was already putting on swim fins and masks.

"Hoo boy," Ken muttered into the mouthpiece of his snorkel. He adjusted it, just so, then there was a splash and he was in the water.

One by one everyone else followed, until only Daphne was left. She cast Tracy a glance as she pulled her goggles down over her eyes. "Last chance to rescind that generous offer of yours, Mr. Steele."

"I'm a man of my word," he insisted. "Besides, you really don't want me down there and Cricket up here all by herself and in charge of keeping this tub afloat."

Daphne grinned and played along. "No, we definitely wouldn't want that."

One more splash and Cricket and Tracy were alone on the deck of the Sassy Sea Hag.

She wasn't sure how long they sat in silence before Tracy said, "I hope I didn't make it awkward, calling you that in front of everyone."

"You didn't."

That didn't mean it wasn't terribly awkward. But it wasn't Tracy's fault everybody responded the way they did to a simple term of endearment.

"You're up here with me while your boyfriend is down there, swimming with the fishies." Tracy's face contorted into something resembling a frown. "That really didn't come out right."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Isn't he?" Tracy almost sounded hopeful.

"And I better not hear any smart remarks regarding that."

"My lips are sealed, belated as the gesture may be."

"You're the one who invited me to come out today, so you're the one I'm spending the day with." Cricket hoped she sounded cool, calm, and collected. As effortlessly breezy and nonchalant as Tracy typically was. "That's all there is to it."

"Is it?" he asked.

Was it?

"I just mean, we just haven't had much time to catch up since you got back. I figured this was as good a place as any. So?" Cricket asked half a question.

"So...?"

"How was Maui?"

Tracy suddenly seemed at a loss for how to answer.

"You were there an awfully long time," Cricket reminded him. "Must've been a heck of a case."

"It wasn't exactly a case." Tracy was admitting something there, but Cricket wasn't sure what.

"It wasn't? Then what were you there for so long for?"

"It started off as a case. Then one case closed and another landed in my lap. And another after that."

Cricket always knew there was more to private investigation than meets the eye. That it involved long, hard, odd hours and an overflowing bag of tricks. She asked, "Was it that much work?"

"In a sense. Groundwork is more like it."

"Groundwork?"

"That's right. Because I realized—and called to run it by Tom and Greg—that there's definitely a need for our services outside of O'ahu."

"That's not new. You've been to the other islands on cases before." He'd been farther than that. Tahiti, China—the two of them even went to Los Angeles together. It begged the question, "So, what's different about it now?"

"I ended up away from the office—from home—a long time because of the way things worked out. So I had an idea: what if I hadn't been away from the office when I was there?"

"What are you saying, Tracy?"

"I'm afraid Hawaiian Eye has grown too big for its britches." Tracy pretended to be mournful.

"Has it?"

She didn't notice that. Although, she might say a certain smooth-talking, mustached detective was on the brink of that.

"It just makes sense that if we're going to be taking so many cases on another island... that we should have an office there."

"So you were on Maui..."

Plotting, and on the sly!

"Securing space for us, making new contacts. Getting reacquainted with old contacts. Everything a good investigator,and businessman, I might add, does. All that's left is..." Tracy's voice trailed off. That it wasn't an abrupt stop had Cricket all the more convinced it was planned. He sighed, playing at remorseful again. "Anyway, all that's left is to decide whose office it is."

Tracy wasn't one for going places uninvited, but the door was open. The office was empty, although Tracy didn't know that until after he took it upon himself to step inside. He didn't discount that his action was an intrusion, an overstep. He tried to convince himself it was of the professional and time-sensitive persuasion. Excusable.

There was no shortage of things to discuss with the space's rightful occupant, after all.

Philip Barton, Social Director. Tracy picked up the plaque on the desk, gauging its weight. Was this, Phil's title, lighter or heavier than that of 'private investigator'? More or less worthy? And of what?

Of whom?

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Tracy put the plaque down and turned around.

Phil stepped into the office and closed the door behind himself. Wryly, and maybe even a bit sorely, he remarked, "If you're looking for a paperweight, I'm sure I can get you one from the hotel. Of course, it'll say 'Hilton Hawaiian Village' and not my name."

Tracy attempted to brush the awkwardness off but the red wouldn't leave his hands. "That's alright. I don't have much to hold down at the moment." He felt a pang over the truth of that. Being untethered had always been squarely in the 'pro' column when he assessed his life. Best not to dwell on that right now, though. Instead, Tracy asked, "Is Philip Barton that your right name?"

"Are you questioning my identity?" Phil's deep voice betrayed no emotion. Even if he was terribly offended—and he had a certain right to be—what could he do? Call Tracy on himself?

"Aren't you?"

"I just meant... well, seeing you in here, I just assumed you came to talk about the snorkeling trip. About-"

Cricket. About himself and Cricket.

"Not to mention," Phil, no doubt, was going to mention something, "this seems... accusatory. Did you find something out? About me and Sandy?"

"You could say that."

"Then say it. I want to know. I'm sure he does, too."

"We—that is, Surfside 6—looked into your background." And then Hawaiian Eye looked into it again when they were told it didn't check out. Tracy left that part unspoken. For the moment, at least. Revelation was a spice best used in moderation.

"I'm not surprised."

"They couldn't find anything."

"That's good." Phil was confident. Until he wasn't. "Isn't it?"

"Not necessarily. When I say we couldn't find anything, I mean anything."

"You really are questioning my identity."

"I suppose I am."

"My name is Philip Theodore Barton. I was born in Boston, Massachusetts, on January 27th, 1936. It's right here on my drivers license." He reached for his billfold, opened it up, and, as expected, presented a Hawaiian drivers license with the aforementioned credentials on it.

Tracy trusted its legitimacy, still, it said nothing of Phil's life before arriving on O'ahu.

Sensing the lingering skepticism, Phil closed his billfold and put it away. "My mother is Louise Barton and my father was Merle Maitland."

There was a surname Tracy had yet to hear in connection to this case. He filed it away as potentially significant.

Determinedly, and slightly defensively, Phil continued, "My father died when I was a year old."

If Tracy was remembering his facts correctly, Sandy Winfield had lost a parent at that tender age as well. It was his mother, though.

Phil shook his head. "Maybe he wasn't my natural father. But he was my mother's first husband." His voice became hushed, the rest of him closed off and unsure. "Then again, maybe she isn't-"

"Best not think things like that."

"Kind of hard not to."

"I'm not here to accuse you of anything. I'm just a detective working a case, trying to see it through to the truth. Is there any reason you can think of that we wouldn't be able to find a trace of you before you moved here?" Before Phil could answer, something occurred to Tracy. "You said 'your mother's first husband'."

"She remarried."

"A man named Barton?" Tracy guessed. Things just might be coming together.

"I just call him 'dad', but yes."

"Did you take his surname right off?"

"Not until just before I moved out here. It's the first time I've been so far away from my family, and considering he raised me from a baby, it was long overdue."

Interesting. That could, quite simply, explain a lot of the trouble Ken ran into in his investigation: lack of information. Tended to happen when a person took to digging without so much as consulting the crumpled map with 'x marks the spot' on it. There was something still unanswered, though.

"Nobody could reach your parents by telephone, either. We all tried."

"That can't be right. I just talked to them this morning. I called to check in with them because the weather report said they were due for a nasty storm."

"And?" Tracy asked.

"And," Phil repeated, "they lost power and phone lines were down for a while."

The explanation was convenient. It was, fortunately, also verifiable. Whether or not Phil was telling the truth would be evident soon enough.

"Well, that certainly seems to cover everything," Tracy said, all but heading for the door.

Phil beckoned him to stop. "Not quite."

Tracy glanced over his shoulder but kept his hand on the doorknob. It was his choice if he left or stayed right now. That applied to far too many things in his life of late and it wasn't the slightest bit encouraging.

"I don't plan to get in the way. Of the investigation," Phil said, simply, "or anything else."

His meaning was clear.

It was appreciated, yet Tracy knew this was a thing that also needed to be reciprocated. "Neither do I."

A/N: Cha Cha's real name was never revealed during Surfside 6's run. I went with Margarita, after the actress who played her, Margarita Sierra.

I worry about my characterization of Greg. He was never given any distinguishing traits; rather, they didn't stick as the series went on. He was initially given a really strong introduction as an old friend of both Tom and Tracy, who they trusted could handle a sensitive undercover investigation. In his earlier episodes, he's portrayed as sort of a sophisticated big city type, constantly traveling back and forth between Hawaii and California. When he was alone (ie: the leading man on an episode that neither Robert Conrad or Anthony Eisley appeared in) he tended to partner more equally with Moke than the other guys, and was shown as emotional and intense.

Also, in "Maid in America" with Tracy and Tom elsewheres, he wasted little time throwing a party in the office like a teenager left home alone for the weekend.

I feel like I leaned a little to heavy into his impulsive side and potential vices but I had to give the guy SOME personality. RIP Grant Williams, who really did give it 110%, no matter how ridiculous a given scene was. The scuffle and aftermath in "Nightmare in Paradise" comes to mind...