A Little Fault's a Bitter Sting by Fox -------- O conscience, upright and stainless, how bitter a sting to thee is a little fault! - Dante, "Purgatorio" -------- Jim Ellison leaned back in his chair and tossed a crumpled piece of paper meditatively toward the ceiling. He caught it neatly, tossed it up again, and swatted it with a flick of his wrist across the bullpen, where it hit Megan Connor between the eyes and knocked her glasses askew on her nose. She looked up from the form she was filling out. "Something you needed, Detective?" "I'm afraid you're not the girl to give it to me, Inspector," Jim returned with a wink and a grin. Megan smiled and lobbed his paper missile back at him so he could annoy someone else with it. "I'm just bored. Is anyone else bored?" he asked, sitting up and addressing the entire Major Crime division. A chorus of casual affirmatives and a couple of raised hands greeted his question. "Man, this always happens," Jim went on. "Guys downstairs put 'em all away at Halloween, and what do we have? Next year, remind me to take my vacation some time between Halloween and Thanksgiving. If I'm going to be doing nothing, I can be surfing while I'm at it." "We should get Narc up here and go three-on-three in the break room," Henri Brown offered. "Trash can basketball. Whataya say, Jim? I'd bet on you and me and Rafe over any three guys they got." "I'd bet on Connor and me and Sandburg," Jim said, throwing his paper ball at Rafe's head, "but otherwise, not a bad idea." "Sandburg isn't here," Brown began -- And suddenly everyone in the room looked busy as Simon Banks strode in. "Nicely done, everybody," he said as he crossed to his office and threw his coat and umbrella inside. "Your reaction time's coming along nicely. But you're all off the hook. Listen up. "I've just come from a meeting with the chief and the other captains. As a gesture of good will, or an initiative to help clean up the city, or some damn thing, the mayor's got it in her head to show the citizens a picture of the united face of Cascade's civil service. She's including us, the fire department, the city council, public works, park and rec, basically everyone whose paycheck says City of Cascade, and -- heh -- strongly encouraging all of us to take part in the Veterans Day parade." The chorus this time was of loud groans. "I know, I know," Simon said, waving a hand for silence. "But at least it's not one of those competitive parades the fire department's always holding. I'm here to say, officially --" he consulted a note card, then put it back in his pocket -- "that it would be greatly appreciated by me, the Chief of Detectives, the Chief of Police, the city council, and the mayor of Cascade if as many of you as possible would plan to march in the parade. As a gesture both of honor to the veterans and of commitment to the people. Demonstrate that you're proud to be citizens of the city of Cascade, the state of Washington, and the United States of America." He coughed. "Connor, you're obviously excused, if you'd prefer." "Thanks, Captain, but this sort of sounds like fun." Simon gave her a tight smile. "And Jim, if you'd rather march with the VFW than with us, we'll --" "I'm not a member of the VFW, sir." Jim carefully kept his voice calm and his breath even; he saw no need to make his distaste for the local chapter of the Veterans of Foreign Wars public knowledge. "Fine, then. Uh, anyone with a good reason not to be marching should let me know by the end of the week; otherwise, I'll expect to see you on Saturday at a meeting-point to be announced. Try to find a lapel pin or something with stars and stripes on it if you can, and this calls for full dress uniform, people. Okay, get back to work -- or whatever the hell is going on in here this afternoon." Simon retreated into his office and shut the door. Jim watched it close, remembering... "So, Jim, you in?" Brown asked. "Huh?" Jim blinked and looked at his friend. "Break room? Trash can basketball? Three-on-three with Narcotics?" Brown waved a hand in front of Jim's face. "Where you been, man?" "Uh... sorry, H," said Jim, distracted. "I have to go meet Sandburg. Looks like you and Megan are stuck with Rafe." He heard the team's laughter as he gathered his things and left the bullpen, but his mind was already several steps ahead. Between them, he and Sandburg could surely come up with a mayor-proof reason why he shouldn't march in that parade. -------- It had been a fairly lame excuse; he didn't have to meet Sandburg at the university, but the words had fallen easily from his lips and it was as plausible a line as any. They might have had dinner plans, or the Volvo might have been in the shop, or any one of a hundred things might have been true -- hardly anybody ever asked for details any more, and Jim never offered. None of their business, he told himself. I'm off the clock. Almost immediately, he seemed to hear Sandburg's indulgent, half-scolding-half-joking voice in his mind, the thousands of times Sandburg had sighed patiently and applied himself to easing Jim's relationship with the rest of the world. They're your friends, Jim. It's called small talk, Jim. They know the truth, Jim, and they like you anyway. So okay, Jim thought, it wouldn't have killed me to phrase it as I'd like to go meet Sandburg. Mental note for next time. The undergraduates were suffering through the tail end of midterms, and the university was a tense place. Every doorway was crowded with nineteen-year-old kids sucking down Mountain Dew and Marlboro Lights and peering out from under baseball caps to highlight strings of words in their battered, rain-spattered spiral notebooks. The older students were a shade more relaxed, but nothing could convince a freshman of the relative importance of college exams; if a hundred-level midterm does this to you, Jim wanted to call out, what are you going to do when you're facing a three-hour final in a senior seminar? Instead, he stepped around the puddles and through the pack of smokers outside the doors of Hargrove Hall, and made his way along the corridors to the main office of the Department of Anthropology. "Excuse me." The work-study kid at the desk looked up from a fat, dog-eared textbook. "I'm looking for Blair Sandburg. Any idea where I might find him?" "Um..." The kid turned and flipped through a series of printouts on a stand next to his phone. "How do you spell that?" "He's a graduate student," Jim began, aware that this didn't answer the question. "Oh, wait, Sandburg," the kid said, nodding. "Yeah, he's not teaching this semester." Jim smiled pleasantly and counted to six. "I know that." "I only have schedules for the teaching fellows. Sorry." "I just thought you might have seen him," Jim said. The kid shook his head and shrugged. "Sorry," he said again. "Thanks anyway." Jim turned away from the desk and stood for a minute, looking at the department bulletin board and wondering what to do next. There were ads for summer programs, notices of conferences and calls for papers, here and there a job posting -- surrounded by tear-off photocopies of moving sales, offers to swap language lessons, and discount air fares. He gave his head a shake. He ratcheted up his hearing and found Sandburg wrapping up a meeting with -- Jim forgot her name, but with one of the professors on his dissertation committee. "See, that's the great thing, the difference between just closed societies and secret societies," Sandburg was saying, and the professor was nodding and saying mm-hmm. Jim smiled. He found the office with no trouble, and he leaned against the wall on the other side of the hall at the angle where he'd be able to see Blair first when the door opened. He didn't have long to wait; soon the handle turned and the door opened, but Sandburg didn't exit immediately. He swung the door open and held it there with his foot as he shoved his books and his drafts into his backpack, still facing the professor. "So that'll take care of it?" he asked. "Or should I --" "I think you see my point, Blair -- just tighten up that paragraph and close the gap in the argument for the other thing, and that'll be fine. Eli'll probably have other ideas, but you just send him this way -- you have me on this committee for a reason, right? I do know a couple of things he doesn't." There was a smirk in her voice. "Great! Thanks very much," Sandburg said. "I'll be out of town for a few days next month, but I'll be sure to give a holler before the end of the semester. So long." He pulled the door shut and turned, and the genuine smile he'd given the professor turned into a full-out grin when he saw Jim. "Hey! I wasn't expecting to see you here. What's up?" "A lot of nothing," Jim answered, cuffing the back of Sandburg's head just to get the scent of that hair on his hand. "That sounded like a good meeting." "It was a great meeting." The old familiar bounce was back in his step. "I spoke to Hendrick this morning, and he was, like, so jazzed about where this is going, and I guess you heard Johansen only recommended slight changes, and I'll take it to Stoddard some time next week or so, and I'm trucking right along. I've got one more point to make, a sweet little chapter at the end, and then I'll wrap it up in a conclusion, and then I'll book a room and defend the thing and -- Jesus, Jim, I could have this thing in the bag by the spring!" Sandburg gave the air a victory punch. "Blair Sandburg, Ph.D.," Jim said, trying the words on for style. Blair looked at him with crazed eyes, then grabbed him by the arm and shoved him through the nearest door. It's a storage room, Jim thought, catching a noseful of the scent of glass cleaner before Sandburg was on him, hands in his hair, one leg scrabbling for a secure hook around the back of his knee. His kiss was like an order, like a command, and something in the back of Jim's mind, the part of his consciousness that had been through basic training, said Sir, yes sir! and wrapped his arms around Sandburg's back and hauled him even closer. Blair moaned when Jim stroked the roof of his mouth with his tongue, and when Jim turned his attention solely to Blair's lower lip, worrying it between his teeth like a cherry stem, Blair pushed back against his shoulders, trying to get Jim braced against something so he could climb up higher and hang on. Jim hit his head against a shelf, which he realized when Blair whispered "Sorry" on the way around his jaw to bite his neck. He brought Blair's free hand up so he could lick the wrist. Blair's knees wobbled. Jim nibbled at the pulse point there until Blair whimpered and left his neck for another kiss, this one gentler than the one before, the next one gentler yet. Soon they were standing quite still, comfortable in each other's arms, kissing slowly with the ease of coasting in neutral. "I think," said Sandburg, between kisses, "it's probably best if you don't say that again." "Hmm," Jim answered. "I'll take that under advisement. I wasn't altogether displeased with the results." He could feel Sandburg's smile. "We should get out of here, though, huh," he said. Out of the closet, Jim thought, in spite of himself. He dropped his head back, conceding defeat to the irony of the situation. The shelf was still there; this time he felt it. "Ow." "Careful," Blair said. "Yeah. Thanks. Listen, speaking of --" Sandburg had opened the door. Jim followed him back out into the hall. "Speaking of what, Jim?" "Nothing. It can wait until we get home." -------- Simon opened the door first thing the next morning to bellow for them, but before he could even get a good breath, Jim had started toward the office. "Got a minute, Captain?" he asked, as he and Sandburg both took their usual places. Simon blinked at him. "Captain? God, Jim, you're not in some kind of trouble, are you?" Jim waved away Simon's concern. "Nah, nothing like that. I just wanted to -- well, I wanted to come in and tell you something, but Sandburg thinks we ought to discuss it first." "Figures." Simon gave Sandburg a not-unfriendly eye-roll. Sandburg grinned. "What's up?" Jim took a breath. "Simon, I don't think I can march in this parade." "What? What'll it be, too noisy or something? I thought you said you had that under control." Simon turned to Sandburg, ready to accuse him of letting his guide duties slide. "No, no, that's not it," Jim said hastily. "I should have said I can't be seen marching in this parade." "But Jim, you're the best detective in the department!" Simon exploded. "You have a better record than any other Cop of the Year before or since -- oh." He turned his cigar around in his fingers a few times. "I see. It's the publicity, isn't it -- Jim Ellison, Cop of the Year in ninety-whatever, was later associated with Blair Sandburg, the fraudulent anthropologist, and that whole thing will be dredged up again? I see your point -- and I guess you don't want to march either, Sandburg?" Sandburg had sat forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees, and was now nodding approvingly. "That wasn't why, actually, but that's not bad. Jim, why didn't we think of that?" "I don't know, but it's a good point. Think the mayor'll swallow it?" Jim pushed himself away from the wall he was leaning against. "Oh, yeah, hook line and sinker, man." Sandburg rose and started toward the door. "Especially if you spin it so it's not about you, but about how you don't want to pull focus away from her efforts to unite the --" "Excuse me, gentlemen," Simon interrupted in his Booming Voice of Fate mode. "Where do you think you're going? Get back here and sit down." They got back and sat. "So this isn't about the press conference and the fraud charge," Simon said conversationally. "Mind telling me what is going on?" Jim glanced at Sandburg, then back at Simon. He coughed. "The thing is, Simon, I'm not a member of the VFW." "So you mentioned yesterday." Simon poured himself a cup of coffee. "Right. I'm also not a member of the VA, the CVL, or any other veterans' organization. I'm sure I don't have to explain why." Jim reached out and found Sandburg's hand, locking their fingers together. Simon's brow was knit. "I'm sorry, but please do explain; your logic isn't clear to me. Were you a member of any of these groups before --" he made an inclusive gesture with his coffee cup -- "this?" "I wasn't a member of the army before this, Simon," Jim said quietly. "I mean, not before this," he clarified, waving a hand between himself and Sandburg, "but -- well, let's just say I was not asking and not telling way before that was in style." "So you knew the rules going in." "That's right, and I kept my mouth shut and did my job, and I got medals and citations and an honorable discharge. As far as the army was concerned, I was a first-rate soldier." "And the veterans' groups don't have many requirements beyond that," Sandburg broke in. "The VFW obviously requires that you've served overseas, but as long as you weren't thrown out, dishonorable discharge, they're all supposed to let you in." Simon rubbed his temples. "And you're about to tell me that's not always the case." "Guy named Jerry Brandt came out about eight years ago," Jim nodded. "He was a career man, retired with a whole armful of awards, commendations, ribbons, you name it. And the minute he did, the VFW booted him. Flagrant violation of the guy's civil rights. A few people walked." "The thing is," Sandburg chimed in again, leaning forward and stabbing the air with his hands, "these groups can probably qualify for status as a club, where they're allowed to make their own rules." "Sandburg's right," Simon said, "which is something I bet you never thought you'd hear me say. I'm not saying it wasn't wrong for your friend to get kicked out of the VFW, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't illegal." "Well, sure," Jim nodded. "If it had been illegal, someone could just have reported them, and they'd have paid a fine. People walk out and protest when the law doesn't provide a remedy for their situation." "So what are you saying?" Simon leaned back and addressed the ceiling. "You don't want to march in the parade." "No." "Because you object to the VFW's policy on homosexuality." "Yes." "And it's occurred to you that if Jim Ellison doesn't march in the Veterans Day parade, people are going to wonder why." "Yes." "And what about you?" Simon turned to Blair. "I'd, uh, rather not march either, to be honest, Simon," Sandburg said. "I didn't think that would be a problem -- I'm not the feather in the department's cap that Jim is, right?" "No, you're right... so if you don't march, that's no big deal. But if you both don't march, you don't think that's going to raise some eyebrows? What am I going to tell the mayor when she asks me why my best detective team is sitting the parade out together?" "You could tell her the publicity thing you thought we were talking about," Jim offered. "Oh, excellent. The press won't notice that at all, will they?" Simon was pacing now, back and forth behind his desk like an angry lion. "If you both stay away, you'll be lucky if all they dig up is the fraud thing. At least one of you has to appear in this parade, or you'll have more attention than you ever wanted from our friends in the fourth estate." "Simon, I've never marched in a Veterans Day parade before. I just want to keep doing that," Jim said. "I don't want to make a big deal out of this." "But that's the whole point, Jim," Sandburg said, squeezing his hand. "Simon's saying the same thing I was saying before -- you are a big deal. And the parade is a big deal, which isn't normally the case. So if you don't turn up for it, that'll be a huge deal." He made an unhappy face. "But less huge if I'm at least there, right? I'll go, and you can stay out, if you want." Jim shook his head. "No, no. Neither of us wants to march, but we'll get more negative attention if I don't go -- so I'll go, and you can stay home." "Well, there's not much point in that, is there?" Sandburg laughed a little. "What message does it send if only half a gay couple protests a homophobic practice?" "The point wasn't to send a public message, remember?" Jim smiled, tugging on a curl. "The point was to avoid participating in something we find distasteful. You shouldn't march if you don't want to." "I'm still paid by the city," Blair said. "There's not a defensible reason for me to be the only one who doesn't march. I'll go." He dropped his forehead onto Jim's shoulder, dejected, and Jim slid a hand under the curls to massage the back of his neck. "Okay, okay," Simon said, irritated. "Still my office, folks. Knock it off." He puffed air through his cheeks. "Look. We only got this memo from the mayor's office yesterday. If you'd had plans already, if you were going to be out of town, say, I wouldn't be able to cancel your leave to get you to march in this thing as a gesture. I don't say people wouldn't talk anyway, but --" "You know, that's another thing," Blair said suddenly. "Why is there the automatic assumption that someone who --" "Shut up, Sandburg. I don't say people wouldn't talk anyway, but out of town and not back in time for the parade is a lot less grist for the rumor mill than in town and not marching despite a specific request from the mayor. But those are the only circumstances I can think of where your not marching on Saturday would fly." He fixed them with a stern look and spoke slowly. "You see what I'm saying?" Jim smiled. "I think we do, sir." He slapped his knees and got to his feet. "I think we see exactly what you're saying. Don't we, Chief?" "Absolutely," Blair said with a grin, hopping from his chair. "Where did we say we were going this weekend, Simon?" "Get out of here." Simon's smile bled through his scowl and gave him away. His phone rang, and he moved to answer it. "Back to work. Shoo." "What's going on, guys?" Rafe asked a minute later, tossing a red rubber ball in the direction of the trash can by Jim's desk. Jim caught it before it hit his coffee cup. "Not a thing, Rafe. What's going on with you?" "We beat Narc in three-on-three after you left yesterday, Jim," Rafe said, rolling over in his desk chair. "Are you serious?" Sandburg didn't bother to hide his incredulity. "Of course I am!" Rafe protested. "It was all Connor," Brown said. "Ha, I figured," Jim laughed, looking over at Megan. She grinned and buffed her fingernails on her lapel. "What was the score?" "Twenty-one to about three," Rafe said. "We're thinking of putting a league together. We'll take Homicide this afternoon, and Vice tomorrow --" Suddenly, Simon flung his office door open and strode out into the center of the room. "Okay, listen up, people," he barked. "Party time's over. I've just had a conference call with Taggert and the mayor -- it seems someone's been threatening the Cascade Veterans League." "Guess we didn't get all the punks put away at Halloween, eh, Ellison?" Brown called out. "Well, we might have," Simon went on. "They said this didn't sound like your normal radical anti-military neo-socialist punk kids, like the ones who made all that trouble up in Seattle. That's why they brought Taggert in -- this is a bomb threat." Everyone sobered immediately; bomb threats were always taken completely seriously. "The caller has promised to detonate a couple of devices if some demands aren't met at Saturday's parade, so we're running to beat the clock, everybody. Ellison, Sandburg, take point. Get down to CVL and get talking. Rafe, Brown, back them up. Find some places where a guy could buy things to make bombs. Connor, Ramos, you're the anchor. Phone records. Start with the CVL's LUDs and follow everything -- find out who they've been calling, and then find out who else those people called, and get me dates and times for all of it. Let's do some detective work, people." -------- Fifteen minutes later, Blair followed Jim into the administrative office of the Cascade Veterans League. Their host was Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Davis, a squarely-built man of early middle age, dressed in a regular business suit. Blair realized several moments later that this looked incongruous to him because he'd been expecting a full uniform. "No, I'm retired, Mr. Sandburg," the colonel said when he mentioned it. "Cascade Veterans League, after all." "Right," Blair said with a smile. "I guess I thought once they had you, they had you, you know?" He made a pulling gesture with his fists. The colonel laughed politely. "Well, no, not always. Coffee?" The offer was pro forma, and Jim and Blair both declined. "After all," Davis went on, "we didn't have Detective Ellison for long, did we?" "No, I guess you didn't," Jim tried to laugh, taking a seat. "And we don't have you on our roster, Detective," Davis said as he sat down himself. "Cascade's most famous veteran -- you could be an important influence in our organization." "Yes, well, right now I have my hands full being an important influence over Cascade's criminal element," Jim demurred. "One of whom has been giving you some trouble -- what can you tell us about that threat? You took the call yourself?" Davis sat up a little straighter; the pleasantries were over, and it was time for business. "Yes, at about nine-forty-five this morning. I called emergency right away." "It's good that you did. Can you remember what the caller said?" "He said he was tired of our propagandist mumbo-jumbo and it was time we started speaking for all veterans in the Cascade area. He said he'd be sending a list of demands to the offices here, and we're to apologize at the parade on Saturday for our part in the recent campaign and pledge to do better in the future. And he said if we don't do it, or if he doesn't believe us, we can expect some things to start blowing up. He didn't say what, or when." "You getting all this?" Blair nodded in response to Jim's question, but didn't look up from where he was scribbling in his note pad. "What do you think the caller meant by 'propagandist mumbo-jumbo,' Colonel?" "It's hard to say. Our political positions aren't universally embraced by all voters, of course. We endorse candidates who favor defense spending, for instance, which is always a touchy issue." "Question of how much defense spending," Blair muttered before Jim shushed him. "But in what way are your group's views not representative of the views of all Cascade's veterans?" Jim leaned back and propped his elbow on the arm of his chair. "Well, I don't know, Detective." Davis leaned back in his own seat and crossed his legs, folding his hands in his lap. "The group's stated positions are certainly representative of the views of the majority of its registered members. But we can't very well represent the views of people who aren't members, now, can we?" He paused and turned to Blair, then glanced back at Jim. "Your own, for example." Blair looked sharply at Jim; Jim's face had paled slightly, and his shoulders were tense. "That's right," he said smoothly. "So our position might not be representative of your personal views. But that's hardly our fault, now, is it?" "Maybe not. But maybe if I were a member, I'd still be in the minority and the group's position wouldn't represent me anyway." Jim gave a businesslike smile. "So that brings us around to the next question: can you think of anyone, anyone at all, whom you know to be dissatisfied with the League's recent political activity?" Davis smiled indulgently. "Recent? Oh, let me think. Well, we never seem to have many friends around the university. Every so often some of the kids come down here and picket the place, post flyers, that kind of thing. They give us trouble when we're over meeting with the ROTC gang, too." "But specifically, Colonel? Recently?" "Hmm. Seems besides the college kids, we hear from the -- ah -- I can never keep up with the current terminology, I'm afraid. We hear from the gays a good deal." "Do you." Ooh, he was cool. Blair saw the slight rise in Jim's eyebrow and heard the careful pitch of his voice daring the colonel to say something inflammatory, but he knew that was because of how well he already knew the arch of that brow and the timbre of that voice. He doubted Davis noticed anything at all. "And what -- specifically -- do you hear?" "Same thing as always -- they don't like the Armed Forces policy on homosexuality, and they don't like that we don't lobby to change it. But, you know, we don't make the policy, and the Defense Department doesn't much care what we think now that we're not in the service any more, and all in all that's not an area where we feel spending time and money and energy on it would be in the best interests of our members." Davis smiled without showing any teeth. "It's a different crop of college kids all the time, of course, but over on the other side, the name that crops up over and over again is Jerry Brandt." "Brandt. I see. Anyone else? Any non-members who've called here in the past week would be helpful." Davis spread his hands. "I'm sorry, Detective. That's the only name I can remember." "Well, if anything else occurs to you," Jim said, standing and handing Davis a card, "please give us a call." Davis rose and came around the desk to shake their hands. Jim's smile was so tight Blair thought he'd bite through his tongue. Blair nodded his own thanks to the colonel and followed Jim out into the hall. They spent the next hour and a half interviewing seven other people at the CVL, five of whom mentioned Jerry Brandt by name. Jim was seething by the time they returned to the station; then Simon said what Blair knew he would say, which was that after lunch they'd have to go have a chat with Brandt himself. Blair knew Jim would take that badly -- and he did. "That's -- that can't be right, Simon," he said. "Look, Jim," Simon said, waving them into his office and speaking quietly. "Blair. I can send someone else out to do the Brandt interview if you'd rather. I don't know how well you know the guy." "I don't know him at all," Blair said. "Just for the record." "I don't -- we've been introduced, is all, but that's not the point, Simon. I'm fine to take lead on this thing, but they all said he'd been critical, not threatening. I don't think we should be wasting time interrogating an innocent man." "You're right, Jim. Which is why you're not going to interrogate him. You're just going to ask him a few questions. How many times have you assured people they weren't under arrest?" Simon gestured sharply with his cigar. "Listen to me, Ellison -- I do not want to see you lose your objectivity here." Jim's nostrils flared, and Blair knew Simon had hit a nerve. "There's no danger of that, sir." "Good. Then you'll recognize that in light of the fact that six out of eight of your interview subjects mentioned the same individual, the prudent next step is to speak to that individual as soon as possible." "But Simon --" "Dammit, Ellison, those people heard hoof-beats. Now it might turn out to be a zebra, but first we have to make sure there's not a horse coming. You got me?" "Jim," Blair said, laying a hand on Jim's arm. Jim had inhaled to yell, but he let it go again, glaring at Simon and breathing through his mouth, holding the tip of his tongue between his front teeth. "Why don't we take a walk over to the break room, huh? Get something to drink." Jim pushed him away and stormed off through the bullpen. "I'll meet you there," Blair called after him. "Sandburg, will he be able to handle this without making it personal?" Simon asked after a moment. "Give it to me straight, now." Blair raised an eyebrow at him. "Sorry." "He'll be all right, Captain," Blair said. "Let him blow off a little steam, I'll talk to him, we'll have something to eat, and we'll see Brandt around two." Simon leaned against his doorjamb and looked out across the bullpen. "I want it not to be him just as much as Jim does," he said. "He knows that, right?" "I'll tell him, Simon. Thanks." Blair left Simon's office, took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and strode purposefully to the break room to join Jim. "What the hell was that?" Jim demanded, even before the door was closed. "What was that -- were you handling me?" "Jim, I --" "And what's going on here?" Jim paced around the room, fuming. "Brandt can't possibly be behind this thing; why does his name keep coming up?" "Jim, you --" "No, don't say I'm losing my objectivity -- I'm saying the connection between what they know he's said and what they're saying he's done isn't there, Sandburg. It isn't there. Big gap in the logic!" "Jim, what are you shouting at --" "It plain doesn't make sense, is what I'm shouting about!" Jim shouted. "The man risked his life in defense of this country, and the suggestion that he would commit an act of terrorism against his fellow-veterans is nothing short of --" "JIM!" Blair yelled, successfully interrupting him. He tried to lay a hand on Jim's arm, to soothe and steady him, but Jim shook him off. "I'm not disagreeing with you, okay? But for god's sake, how many times have you told me --" Jim was looking around desperately, furiously, like a trapped animal whose young were being set upon by predators. He wanted to get back in Simon's face, but the table and the chairs and Blair himself were between him and the break room door. "How many times have you told me, Jim, you can't prove a negative?!" Blair stepped out of the path of a skidding chair and clenched his fists. "Dammit, Jim, is getting angry about it going to help find who is responsible here? The parade is in two days, may I remind you, and what we don't need is this bomb threat turning into a bomb explosion." Jim shook off his grip again, but this time he put his hands on his hips and glared. Blair had met that glare head-on in the past, and it had always made him want with part of his mind to crawl through the floor and hide; Jim was glaring at the floor, though, so the floor itself was out of luck. Blair perched on the edge of the table and put his feet on a chair. "Let's do our jobs, huh?" he said quietly. "Investigate this thing. Find who called in that threat, find who has bomb-worthy issues with the CVL, and get Jerry's name off the record." Jim turned to face Blair, but his eyes were closed. "One thing at a time, okay?" "Okay." A whisper. "Want to go detect some lunch?" A fraction of a smile. "Okay." Blair pushed the chair away and hopped down off the table, turning toward the door. "Hey -- c'mon." He looked back. Jim was standing with his thumbs in his back pockets and an apology in his eyes; Blair raised an eyebrow. Jim beckoned him over with a nod of his head; Blair went. "Sure am glad I have you around to yell at me," Jim said, pulling Blair into a quick squeeze. "Bet the rest of the division is, too." "Hey, man, I'm always ready to perform a public service," Blair said as he stepped out of the hug. "But come on, we'd better go." Jim slid one hand into Blair's hair and pressed a kiss to his lips -- then just one more. Blair returned the second kiss, an instant too late, but felt his own eyes widen. "Jim, we --" "Please. Around here, we're old news." Jim bopped him gently on the side of the head as he pushed the chairs back around the table on his way to the door. -------- Jerry Brandt lived in a well-manicured Ravenswood subdivision. Jim buttoned his cuffs as he and Sandburg stepped up the walk to the front door. "I don't like this," he muttered. "Easy, Jim, we're just here to chat," Blair murmured, touching his fingertips briefly to Jim's back. "No biggie, right?" "Right." Jim knocked at the door. "Just a minute," a voice called from inside the house. Jim took a step away from the door and rolled his neck. "Coming --" And the door was opened by a middle-aged man drying his hands on a dishtowel. "Jerome Brandt?" "Yes," Brandt said guardedly. "Who wants to know, if you don't mind my asking?" Jim held up his shield. "I'm Detective Ellison; this is Mr. Sandburg. Do you mind if we step inside?" "Well, I'm not sure." Brandt leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb and kept his other arm on the door. "Maybe you'd better tell me what this is about." "We just need to ask you a few questions, sir," Jim said, as mildly as he could. "It won't take long." Brandt raised an eyebrow, but stood aside. "Thanks." Jim felt Sandburg at his elbow as he stepped into the front hallway and Brandt closed the door. "We're very sorry to intrude on you like this." Brandt waved down the apology and went back into his kitchen. Jim and Blair followed. "I'm happy to help the police in an investigation. I'm just not sure what help I'll be able to give." "Mr. Brandt, this morning the Cascade Veterans League received a bomb threat over the telephone." "And you think I had something to --" "Several people we spoke to mentioned your name," Sandburg interrupted smoothly, "and we have to follow every trail to its end. It's just thorough police work." "We don't necessarily think you had anything to do with it," Jim assured him. "But you think I might know something about it." "Well, you have any idea why your name kept coming up down at CVL?" Jim asked. "Of course I do." Brandt snorted. "I'm not the most popular person in the veterans' community in this town." He looked over at them for a moment, then went on. "Eight years ago, I was expelled from the VFW when they discovered --" "We know who you are," Jim interrupted. "I remember the publicity, in fact. It was right around the same time I left the army." Brandt looked at him a little more closely. "Of course. I knew you looked familiar -- you're the kid who came out of Peru." "That's right," Jim said, smiling uncomfortably. Brandt had extended his hand. "That was a hell of a thing," he said. Jim shook his hand briefly. "The press was all over you, huh? Guess I stole some of your thunder." "Believe me, I didn't mind," Jim said. "So you think there's still animosity toward you among the members? Even after all this time?" "Well, they think I'm still angry at them, apparently." "Yeah," Sandburg spoke up, "but they got what they wanted, didn't they. You're not there." "No, I'm not," Brandt said, leaning against the counter, "and I don't care to be. I haven't had any contact with them, public or private, in years. You've gotten my phone records, I guess? You'll see. No calls from here to any veterans' organizations of any kind. Sorry." Sandburg pulled out his notebook again. "Can you tell us anyone else we might talk to about this thing, Mr. Brandt?" "You know, Mr. Sandburg, I can't. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd name names. I'm afraid in my book it takes a little more than someone who has a grudge and a hunch to cast suspicion on a person." "Nobody's suspicious, sir," Jim said stiffly. "But you have to know there are people who get suspicious when people don't cooperate. We don't want that to happen --" "Okay, okay," Sandburg interrupted. "If you think of anything else, Mr. Brandt, please don't hesitate to call us. Let me give you the numbers --" He scribbled Jim's work and cell phone numbers on the back of his own business card and handed it to Brandt. "Anything at all." --------

SVS2-07: A Little Fault's a Bitter Sting by Fox, Part 1