Disclaimer: I don't own the situations or characters portrayed herein. I'm just playing with them for a while.

Unfinished Business

She was going to have a hot date tonight with a handsome and charming man. Chris had gotten the bill for their first date, and now she was repaying the favor by having their second date at her apartment. There were two incredibly expensive Maine lobsters waiting for Chris to come over and cook them.

While she had no delusions about her cooking abilities, she had no doubt that the date would go well. Francine Desmond on her own turf was a force to be reckoned with.

Smiling a little with the pleasurable anticipation of her evening, she reached for her phone and called Chris. He had, after all, rescheduled once last week, and she wanted to be sure that they were still on.

A minute later, she had a different expression and a slight correction to make to her calendar: she had been going to have a hot date tonight. Now she just was going to have to re-home two incredibly expensive Maine lobsters. It wasn't like she could cook them.

"You could do me one favor, though," she said, feeling positively spiteful against this nondescript TV newsman who had just canceled the second date in a row. "Look under 'D' in your phone book, and where it says 'Desmond, comma, Francine' — cross it out."

She slammed the phone down with a little more venom than was good for the poor phone's chances at outliving its warranty, just as Billy materialized in front of her.

"Problem, Francine?" he asked.

At least there's one man in the world who notices when I'm upset, she thought, but it didn't cheer her up.

"No, just a TV newsman committing social suicide with me." The injustice of the whole situation suddenly intruded itself yet again, and she went on with rising venom. "I tell you, brother —" The pause that followed probably wasn't as long as it felt to her, while her brain scrambled to find a way out of a sentence that had taken a sharp turn from mild complaint to unintended but insensitive disrespect at best. Nothing came to mind.

"Oh — sorry, sir," she amended, and he waved her apology away. "It's just — I mean — one broken date for the Rene Sinclair story; all right, I can understand that. Two? He's history."

Her boss did not seem enthralled by her moribund social life.

"Francine, look over these files for me, will you?" He breathed out heavily through his nose, then continued a little reprovingly. "And try and remember that Sinclair will almost certainly be elected the new president of Isle de Marin. That's probably why your newsman friend wanted the story." He dropped a newspaper on her desk, the headline declaring boldly that change was coming, and Thomas Blackthorn and Rene Sinclair were the ones bringing it.

No doubt Billy meant the reminder kindly, as consolation for her cancelled date, but she wasn't in the mood for consolation. What she wanted was a full-blown pity party, and she was about to start sending out invitations.

She looked at the article, saying something as she did so about how great Thomas Blackthorn was, but she couldn't help but think about her poor dying social life.

"He's powerful, he's rich. He's single. And as far as he knows, there is no such thing as a Francine Desmond."

Billy snatched the paper away. "Try to get your mind back to this office, Francine," he said, and stalked away.

She sighed. Her newsman had abandoned her for Rene Sinclair and Thomas Blackthorn, and even if she did meet Thomas Blackthorn — powerful, rich, and single — in the near future, she still had no date for tonight.

"Lobster for one," she said disconsolately.

If this was a romantic comedy, there would be a zoomed close-up as she said it. And the next clip would be of her meeting Thomas Blackthorn and falling in love at first sight. But it wasn't a romantic comedy; it was a job.

Lee was at it again.

Somehow, with Amanda's unerring ability to get involved in whatever Francine was involved in, Lee had gotten himself mixed up with Thomas Blackthorn and some cockamamie conspiracy theory.

As if she didn't have enough on her plate with a rumored assassination attempt on Sinclair's life, he had showed up at Blackthorn's estate and misused his badge for personal reasons. She loved Lee — probably more than she loved anyone else in the world when it really came down to it — but he drove her crazy sometimes. At least Billy chewed them both out, and she didn't have to. She really didn't need more issues with the CIA.

Amanda came to her with a book full of Pittman shorthand, saying that it was from Lee's mother but refusing to say where they found it. She joined them both upstairs and began translating.

It boiled down to something a little more complicated than a simple conspiracy theory. Thomas Blackthorn had sold Allied supplies to the Nazis during the war. Then he had taken his ill-gotten gains to Isle de Marin, and continued his wealth acquisition.

"Is Sinclair still in the country?" Lee asked, and she replied that there was a luncheon in his honor at the Plaza, but that he was leaving immediately afterwards.

"Well, if we want to talk to him, we'd better get rolling," Lee told Amanda grimly, and they disappeared.

She followed, checking in with Billy first. "We have a line on those death threats," she told him. "It's probably Blackthorn after all."

"Lee was right?" he asked, a wave of relief spreading over his face. She nodded grimly and headed for her car.

They arrived at the Plaza with scant enough time to spare. It was clear enough that Blackthorn was involved; his man was standing outside the entrance, checking his watch and glancing at an adjacent rooftop. Lee followed his gaze and spotted a sniper on an adjacent roof already setting up his gun.

It was a relatively simple operation. They bagged Blackthorn's man — "Don Johnson", as Lee called him dismissively — and Lee got the sniper. They were winding things down when she saw the silver Corvette pull away from the curb and Amanda run after it.

"Where's Lee going in such a hurry?" she asked, panting a little. But Amanda didn't answer; she jumped into the car that Blackthorn's man had driven and took off after Lee. "Amanda!" she called, even though she knew it was an exercise in futility. "I have to impound that!"

Her radio crackled, and Billy's voice spoke crisply. "All units, do you read me. We have a priority one code called in by Scarecrow. Blackthorn estate, priority one. I repeat: Blackthorn estate, priority one."

At least she knew now where they were headed.

It was ruled self-defense. Lee had fired after Blackthorn had; the security cameras that Blackthorn had installed himself exonerated his killer.

They had burst into Blackthorn's office only a few minutes after the shots. Blackthorn had lain dead on the floor behind his desk, beneath a window that had been shattered by a decorative plate.

"I threw it," Amanda had explained. "He was going to shoot Lee, and Lee wasn't moving fast enough." She had wrung her hands helplessly. "I did the only thing I could."

"Thank you," Francine had told her, frankly unconcerned about anything but the fact that Lee was all right. "All that Little League coaching came in handy, I guess."

"You don't throw a plate like a baseball, Francine," Amanda had replied patiently. "It's more like a Fris— never mind."