A/N1: Yup. Still don't own stuff. So there.

A/N2: Ok. Here we go. This is the beginning of the actual plot of the Peralta arc. We spent the last couple of chapters catching up with our other friends. In this one, we find out what's up in the arc. Just to warn everyone, this arc is mostly Booker and Chen investigating a murder. Our regular heroes are sort of ancillary, although we'll drop in and out to watch them getting ready for the wedding of the century.

A/N3: Just one more warning. As long-time readers know, during the parts of the week when I am not happily scribbling away for you nice folks, I am a lawyer. Having said that, the only knowledge I have about the subject matter of this arc comes from either watching cop shows on TV or reading mystery novels. If any of my readers want to be more informed about how an LA homicide investigation and prosecution may progress, please reach out and ask someone who knows more about it than I do. I'm just having fun.

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Detective Luke Booker and Detective Alan Chen sat in a small conference room at the District Attorney's office with Assistant District Attorney Milla Green. She was a smart, tough prosecutor and a rising star in the DA's office. In her early thirties with shoulder length dark hair and dark eyes, she was a handsome woman. Both men found her to be attractive, but were also way too intimidated by her to ever consider asking her out on a date. She just carried that affect - do not fuck with me.

It was closing in on Christmas and, generally, the courts were slowing down for the holidays, but the trial of Oscar Harrington was going forward in any event. The defense had delayed to such an extent that the presiding Judge had lost patience and scheduled it to go forward notwithstanding the holidays. When the defense attorney had asked for yet another postponement into the new year, the Judge had almost snarled in response. So, a trial in mid-December.

It was ADA Green's first homicide prosecution and she was determined to do a good job. It would be an exaggeration to say that her career depended on it, but an embarrassing loss might give her bosses pause to assign her the next one.

As a result, they were in the conference room going over and over the testimony of the detectives until it was perfect. They had just finished the sum and substance of the direct testimony, running through the investigation leading to the man's arrest.

"Ok, guys, that was the easy part. Here's the hard part and I can't really prepare you for it. Harrington's lawyer, Kuftinec, is a smart tricky guy. When he takes you both on on cross examination he's going to try to trip you up. Any inconsistencies he can find he'll blow out of proportion to try to convince the jury you were sloppy. I know you weren't and you know you weren't. Hell, Kuftinec knows you weren't. Doesn't matter. It's his job to create reasonable doubt and he's good at his job."

"And we have no way of knowing what extraneous shit he can throw at us," said Booker. Stories of that sort of stuff abounded in the LAPD.

"Nope. We have to give him all our evidence before trial, he has no such requirement. If we are ambushed, he's got every right to do it. If that happens, I'll do my job and get in everybody's face to slow it down or get it ruled out, but you never know." She gave a shrug. "I'll have your backs' as much as I can."

"It's why most folks take a plea. You never know," said Chen.

"Exactly," agreed Green. "But I have a lot of confidence in you guys. You're smart and well spoken. Handsome – and that works with juries, believe me – and what's the best, is that you are young. You haven't had the decades to develop a history that Kuftinec can comb through to fuck us up." She laughed a little bit, almost to herself, and said, "You'll get there though."

"Answer the questions on cross with 'yes', 'no' and 'I don't know'," said Chen.

"That's the standard line from folks like me, but of course it can never work like that. Just don't volunteer information. Answer the questions as honestly and succinctly as possible as possible and then stop talking."

"Got it, Ms. Green. Not our first time on the stand," said Booker.

Shenodded seriously and said, "I know, guys. But it's the first time with me. So, humor me, please."

"Of course, Ms. Green. Just let us know what else we can do to help you out," said Booker with a nice smile.

She smiled back at both men and said, "I know, guys. I know I can count on you. And please call me Milla."

"Yes, Ms. Green," said Chen with a grin, earning him a gentle slap on the arm with the back of her hand.

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Irma Fernandez opened the door to the small house on Second Avenue in the Van Ness area of Los Angeles using her key as she had hundreds of times before. The lights were off, which was to be expected.

She called out, "Hola. Anybody home? Hola." No response, which was to be expected.

She went into the kitchen and put on the tea pot to heat water for her cup of tea. While she waited for the water to boil she took out the cleaning supplies under the sink and began to assemble her tools for her work. Obviously, the kitchen would be first, but after her tea.

Sitting, she took out her phone and checked her messages. Nothing too exciting, but her daughter seemed to have forgotten how to buy a quart of milk at the local shop. By the time she had handled that particular emergency, her water was boiling. Her daughter was twelve, for God's sake. And it was only milk.

After a sip of her tea, she began to clean the kitchen. The Peralta's were good clients. They kept a tidy home, but with both of them working Fernandez assumed it was hard for them to take care of the details. So, they hired her to come in once a week to take care of the details, to clean the house. And she was happy for the work. She had over two dozen clients that she worked for. If it got to be too many more, she'd have to hire someone to help. She didn't want to do that, as she was a convinced Communist from her early days in Uruguay and hated the idea of joining the management classes. But, she smiled to herself, it was becoming increasingly easier to see how the management classes developed over the centuries.

Kitchen cleaned and the cup of tea finished, she headed for the upstairs bathrooms. Then the downstairs bathroom. Then she began to dust and vacuum.

She opened the door to Senor Peralta's office and saw him almost immediately.

He was sitting at his desk with his head on the keyboard of his computer, mostly hidden by the twin screens before him. "Hola...? Senor...?" He was perfectly still. She stepped forward gingerly. And then she saw the place on his head where his face should have been. There was nothing there but raw meat and blood. So much blood.

Her head suddenly felt as light as a feather and the room darkened.

Sometime later, she was never sure how much time had passed, she awakened on the carpet of Senor Peralta's office. The first thing she saw was the nap of the carpet, but then her eyes shifted to Senor Peralta's bare feet. They were still, but in a wide stain of blood on the carpet.

She gave a small sob and forced herself to stand. She did her best to look at the body of her employer, but could only look at his hand at the keys of his keyboard. She made the sign of the cross over her forehead, chest, and shoulders and said a quick silent prayer. Sobbing, she headed to the kitchen, closing the door to the tragedy behind her and picked up the house phone from the wall.

"911. What is your emergency?"

In her excitement, Fernandez spoke in Spanish.

"Senor Peralta is dead. He's dead. He's sitting at his desk, but he's got no face."

Now speaking in Spanish as well, the operator said, "Ok. Are you in danger? Is someone with you who might hurt you?"

"No, NO. It's just me in the house and he's dead."

"Ok. Please tell me where you are. We can send someone to help you."

Haltingly, and with pauses for crying, Fernandez told her the address on Second Avenue and a quick description of the house.

The operator said, "Ok. People are on the way to help you. What's your name?"

Fernandez said, "Irma. Irma Fernandez."

"OK, Irma. I need you to stay with me until the ambulance arrives. Ok?"

"I'll stay, but he's dead. We don't need an ambulance. He's dead. OH, GOD. Who's going to tell Senora Peralta? Oh, God."

"Ok, Irma. One thing at a time. Just hang on."

"I can hear sirens. Sirens," she said.

"Yes. That would be the people coming to help you. Can you open the door and let them in, please? Show them where Mr. Peralta is?"

"Yes, yes, I can do that. But I can't bring the phone. It's on the wall."

"Ok. I'll be here when you get back, Irma. Just let the folks in to help you."

"OK," she said.

She put the phone on the table and went to the front door. An ambulance had arrived and a man and woman in the uniform of the local EMT's got out carrying big bags of gear.

"Hi," said the man

"Hello," she said as he was coming up the steps. "Come in and I'll show you."

The man and the woman came into the house and followed her to the body of Senor Peralta. The pair entered the room and went to the body. The woman touched a couple of fingers to the exposed neck to fulfill their established procedure, but they were both certain that the man was already dead. He had been shot in the back of the head and the round had exited in the front, taking his face with it.

She shook her head towards her partner and stepped back. The male EMT turned to Ms. Fernandez and said, in somewhat halting Spanish, "Come with us. Ok? Come with us."

They began to lead her out of the house, certain that the police would want free reign at the crime scene.

"Wait," she said, "I have to hang up on the 911 operator."

The sound of sirens filled the air again. "Don't worry about that. Let's just stay here and wait for the police. They are going to want to talk to you and it's best that you stay away from the murder scene."

"Murder? He was murdered? Oh, God. Who would do that? He was such a nice man."

The police arrived and, after a short conversation with the EMT's and Ms. Fernandez, they called in to their dispatcher with the pertinent information. Drawing their pistols, the two officers entered the house to make sure, as Ms. Fernandez had assured them, the house was empty. Once done with their sweep they stayed outside with the distraught lady trying to keep her calm.

More uniformed officers arrived and spread-out crime scene tape to keep the curious at a distance.

As the crime scene truck arrived, the EMT's left. The coroner's van arrived only a couple of minutes later.

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Booker and Chen got back to the squad room from the meeting with Green. They carried bags with sandwiches and drinks from the shop on the corner. After they ate, they intended to tie up the last loose ends on the Jackson case. Neither of them had any enthusiasm at all for that one. The victim was in her late 70's and suffering from inoperable colon cancer. Her husband of more than forty years had cooked her favorite dinner and served it with a nice bottle of wine. They had kissed a tearful goodbye. Then he put a pillow over her head and shot her with a shotgun through the pillow. He unloaded the shotgun, finished the wine and called the police, turning himself in. More than anything else, Booker and Chen just wanted to give the man a hug. But, as it turns out, killing a sick person is the same, in the eyes of the law, as killing a robust person. Go figure.

They had just gotten comfortable in the break room when the boss stuck his head in. "You guys are up. Second avenue. Cleaning lady found the body of her boss at his desk. Looks like he was popped in the back of the head."

"Sure thing, boss," said Chen, beginning to pack up his sandwich. They wouldn't really have a chance to eat, but maybe he could sneak a few bites in the car. He saw Booker doing the same, although he took a huge bite first and had chipmunk cheeks as they left the break room to head to the crime scene.

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Booker and Chen arrived at the scene only a few moments after the CSI van, Chen still chewing his lunch, ducked under the tape, and went to the uniformed Sargeant in charge of the scene. They knew him from their days in uniform.

"Hey, Pancho. What we got?" asked Booker. The man's name was Bob, but his longtime partner had been nicknamed 'Lefty' years before for some unknown reason and they became Pancho and Lefty after the popular song. Lefty had retired to Florida a couple of years ago where he owned a beachside bar called, of course, "PANCHO AND LEFTY'S".

"Stiff was found by the cleaning lady sitting at his desk with a bullet hole in the back of his head and no face left. She's borderline hysterical, but seems to be holding it together for the moment. My guys cleared the house and it's empty."

"Ok," said Chen. "Ask her to stick around. We'll talk to her after we finish inside."

"Right," said Pancho.

Booker and Chen pulled paper booties over their shoes, gloves over their hands, and headed up the short flight of stairs into the house with the CSI crew right behind them.

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A/N4: Seems I made it on time with this chapter even with my travels. So, here we go with the real plot of the Peralta arc. Mr. Peralta seems to be pretty dead, what with no face and all. Just to repeat my earlier warning, I know it has nothing to do with Chuck and Sarah and the show. Frankly, if you insist on that, you might want to skim this arc, as it's very much a Booker/Chen cop thing working on who iced Vinnie Peralta. My wife is afraid I'm taking advantage of you nice folks to write a murder mystery of my own making. To some extent she's right, I hope you forgive me. In any event, I'd love to hear what you have to tell me.