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SVS-23: A Question of Intent by The Unusual Suspects, Part 2

Despite his best intentions, it was well after eight before Jim made it home that evening. It was probably a blessing that the elevator was down -- again -- since he might have simply fallen asleep on the way to the third floor.

On automatic pilot, he opened the door, put his keys in the basket, hung up his coat, and walked into Blair's arms.

Blair's arms?

"Mmm," he sighed into Blair's hair, "I thought you would have gone to bed already."

"Well, you have excellent timing, sir," Blair replied wearily, "because as soon as I put away the chili I was heading in that direction."

Jim breathed deep, finally identifying the tantalizing aroma. "You cooked chili? After all that happened today?"

Releasing him, Blair took a bowl down from the cupboard and began spooning still-warm chili into it. "Naw," he said, "this is from A Cut Above. Here. I'll slice you a chunk of bread and bring you some milk. Go eat."

Taking the bowl and sitting at the table, Jim began eating. Blair brought him his milk and bread, then put the rest of the chili into Tupperware for storage and cleaned up the kitchen. "I didn't have time to cook chili, or even to nap," Blair said, his voice a tired monotone. "I caught a ride home with Serena, but when I got home I realized we'd used up the last of the coffee this morning. So I went to the store, and stopped at A Cut Above and got a half-gallon of chili. Oh, and by the way, they already have the composite of our bad guy up -- I saw it at the Safeway, and it was on the news too. Anyway, after my shower, I realized I had no clean underwear, and you probably didn't either, so I figured I'd better do a couple of loads of laundry. Then --"

"Chief," Jim interrupted, taking his hand and drawing him down to a chair at the table, "you didn't have to do all that. It could have waited."

Blair waved him off, but slumped in the chair next to his. "No, no, it had to be done, and since you're the one who's actually working around here..."

Ripping his bread apart with unnecessary force, Jim growled, "That goddamn prick. Sandburg, I don't care what Glover said, you pull your weight at the station. You know that."

"Jim..."

"You do. You sure pull more of your own weight than that fat slob does of his, anyway," Jim insisted. Blair smiled, leaned his cheek on one fist and caressed Jim's forearm with the other.

"I know you think so, Jim," Blair said, "but you know, in a big way, Glover's right. I'm not a cop, I'm a civilian. That means I'm your subordinate -- I'm at your beck and call. You get to call the shots on when and how deeply I'm involved in your work, when you'll listen to my opinions and when you won't. I don't have the authority to arrest anyone, I don't carry a weapon -- well, except for maybe my mouth --" Jim snorted in amusement "-- and all the report writing, all the experience in the world as a civilian observer doesn't make me equal to you. In any way."

Jim put his empty glass down and looked at his partner sadly. "I disagree with that," he said, softly. "Is that really how you think of us?"

"Of us?" Blair inquired mildly. "Define us, Jim. There's the us at the station, and the us at the loft, and the us when we're out with the guys, and..."

"Okay, okay, point taken," Jim interrupted with a weak grin, then used the last of his bread to sop up the last of his chili. Before he popped the mess into his mouth, he added, "I'd like to think that all the us are the same."

Shaking his head, Blair said, "Real life, my friend, real life forces it to be otherwise. If wishes were fishes, you know. Look..." Nervously, he traced the breadcrumbs on the tabletop with one finger. "I know you don't mean to treat me as your subordinate, but sometimes, you just do it, you know."

Not being able to think of an immediate response to that, Jim quietly picked up his dishes and moved them to the sink.

"I mean, I'm younger, I'm smaller, I'm a civilian, and social conditioning just..." Blair continued.

"And just who always gets his way around here?" Jim shot back, scowling at Blair in mock annoyance.

Blair let out a startled snort. "Uh, point taken," he chuckled. Sobering, he continued, "Still, it does get old to have to push every time, you know."

"Yeah," Jim said softly, "I know."

Just then the phone rang, causing them both to jump. Laughing sheepishly, Blair reached for the phone. "If it's Simon, I'll tell him we're in Bolivia under assumed names. Chez Ellison-Sandburg, the latter speaking," he said into the phone. His look of trepidation faded as soon as he heard the voice on the other end. "Oh, hi, Stephen. Sure. Hang on."

Passing Jim the phone with a smile, Blair headed toward the bathroom. "Hey, bro, you back?" Jim asked.

"Jim! No, dammit, I'm not," Stephen said, his voice sounding fuzzy and long-distance. "Actually, I'm in Kentucky."

"Kentucky? What the hell are you doing there?" Jim propped the phone against his shoulder as he rinsed out his dishes and set them to drain.

"You hear about what's been going on with foals? All of the thoroughbreds dying? Well, guess who got ordered to go fix it," Stephen answered sourly. "Not that I can or anything -- it's not like I'm a vet."

"Pig experience notwithstanding," Jim said dryly. Stephen laughed. "Don't laugh or I'll send you one of the many stuffed and ceramic pigs that have mysteriously begun appearing on my desk."

"Oh, you're kidding."

"I work with a strange bunch of people, bro," Jim replied, drying his hands and turning out the light in the kitchen.

"Then you should fit right in," Stephen shot back.

"Yeah, yeah, yuk it up at the old man's expense," Jim said. "I guess this means you won't be back by tomorrow."

"No way, big brother," Stephen sighed. "Can I take a rain-check? Maybe make it this weekend?"

"Sure," Jim said easily. "I'll call Mom... wow. Doesn't that sound weird?"

"Yeah, it does," Stephen said, a note of wonder in his voice. "We've got a mom again, don't we?"

"Yeah," Jim said, the smile on his face evident in his voice, "we do. And isn't it nice? Anyway, it might be for the best, since Blair and I are heavily into a bad murder case."

"Oh, like this is different?" Stephen laughed. "Listen, they're yelling for me, I gotta go. I'll call you when I get back into town, okay?"

"Sounds good, Stephen. Have fun with all the fillies," Jim teased, and got a raspberry in return.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim had seen Blair climb the stairs for bed as he spoke to Stephen. So while he called his mother, he went around the loft, locking up and turning off. Grace was disappointed that their dinner had been postponed, and Jim reassured her that they would reschedule as soon as Stephen got back into town.

"And how's Blair?" Grace asked.

"He's fine. A little exhausted. Actually, I am, too. We haven't had any sleep the last couple of nights, either of us," Jim explained.

"Another case?" Grace asked.

"Afraid so. Well, there's always something. And Blair, he... he's trying to work on his diss, at the same time he's putting in as many hours into the police stuff as I do. I just don't know how he keeps going, sometimes."

"And I bet taking care of you takes up the greatest chunk of his time, right?"

Startled, Jim laughed. "How'd you know, Mom?"

"He's just that kind of person, always taking care of other people. I've known a few people like that in my lifetime." Grace said, her voice also carrying a hint of laughter. Jim felt the voice soak into his soul -- all these years, he'd barely remembered her voice, yet hearing it now made him realize he'd missed it deeply all along.

"He's so good to me, Mom. He's the best thing that's ever happened to me," Jim said, marveling at how easy it was to admit it to Grace.

"Tell that to the man, not to me," said Grace, her voice now ringing with laughter. "Good night, Jimmy. Sleep well. I love you."

"Thanks, Mom. I -- uh, I love you too. Night."

Jim set the phone back on the charger and hit the bathroom. Stripping, he put everything in the hamper, decided he was too tired to shower, and padded naked up the stairs to the loft. Blair had left the lamp on his table on, and it cast a warm glow over the bedroom. Blair looked nearly asleep, but when Jim opened a drawer for clean boxers, his eyes cracked open. "I'll give you a nickel if you keep 'em off," he mumbled sleepily.

Stepping into the shorts, Jim just chuckled. "Like either of us could do anything with that," he said, turning off the light and slipping into bed. To his pleasure, Blair immediately rolled over and snuggled up against him, wrapping strong arms around his torso. Jim sighed in happiness and began relaxing, finally.

"Oh, almost forgot," Blair murmured, pulling back just enough to be heard. "Stacey called tonight too."

Jim nuzzled into Blair's hair. "Damn, sorry I missed her. How's our favorite sleeping beauty?"

"She's fine, just..." Blair broke off to allow a monstrous yawn out "...decided she's going to stay with Marian for the summer. But she still wants to come home for a week or so in August, before the fall term starts."

"Good," Jim mumbled, nearly asleep. "I'll call her tomorrow and get some time worked out, so I can take it off. Maybe we can all go camping again."

"Ummm..." Blair said muzzily. "She'd like tha'... She likes your fried trout..."

"So d'you," Jim replied, tipping over into a sleep filled with dreams of sunshine, trout fishing, and two of his favorite people in the world with him and under his protection. What more could a Sentinel ask for?

Wednesday started far too early, with a call at 6:30 from Gibson. "We're flooded with responses to the news release," he told a sleepy -- but better-rested -- Jim. "We've got to get on the interview circuit. Roy and I will handle the parents, and you could help sort the tips and do the campus."

"Okay, that's fine," Jim said, yawning and scratching his backside. He was downstairs in the still-dim loft, having left Blair asleep. "Send me an email. We'll be there shortly and go through it." Hanging up the phone, he started coffee and went into the bathroom for his shower.

When he emerged, Blair was hunched over a cup of coffee at the table. Jim dropped a kiss on his wildly frazzled hair and received a grunt in return. "There's been a break," Jim told him, jogging upstairs to get dressed. "We need to get into the station and start the shitwork. You up to it today, Cheetah?"

The balled-up napkin that sailed over the railing to smack him on the back was his only answer.

There had been over 300 calls the night before, after the sketch was released. Jim and Blair spent part of the morning returning calls and weeding out the obvious wackos, then left for the campus to interview the victim's friends and fellow students. As expected, Jannel Patterson was well-liked, her friends were all devastated over her death, and no one could imagine her incurring the wrath of anyone, let alone enough wrath to be killed.

At eleven, they were at the Rusty Scupper, a restaurant/lounge down by Watertown, the 'reclaimed' portion of the docks. It was a legacy place, left over from before the gentrification of the dock area, a holdout from a less savory time. The manager of the place had called in after seeing the sketch, leaving word he would be at work after eleven in the morning.

Joe Buscemi was a big, balding man with big, stubbly jowls and red, blood-shot eyes, making him look hung-over. Blair and Jim caught him just after he opened, and he settled them at the bar. He was smoking and already nursing a beer.

"Yeah, that's Eric," he said, looking at the drawing Jim handed him. "Goddamn idiot. He's already on my shit list after Monday night, and not showing up for work yesterday. Doesn't surprise me at all."

Blair traded looks with Jim. "What do you mean, it doesn't surprise you?" Blair asked.

"Just that he's a shithead. Half the time he doesn't show up on time, and he was on probation with me anyway," Buscemi explained. He took a deep drag on his cigarette. "I hadda throw him out of the place Monday night for picking a fight after work. Then he never shows for work yesterday. Bastard."

"Can you tell us what happened Monday?" Jim asked. Blair was already jotting down notes.

"He had the four to eleven shift," Buscemi said. "I think he was already half-plotzed by the time his shift ended, but he did his work, so I'm not gonna complain. So he gets off and starts in some serious drinking. Then he picks a fight, and I threw him out. End of story."

"What time did you give him the rush, Mr. Buscemi?" Blair looked up expectantly.

"Lessee." Buscemi stared at the ceiling for a bit, rubbing the bristles on his chin. "Had to have been about midnight. Maybe 12:30. No later than that, 'cause I left at one and let Tim close for me. You might want to talk to Tim, him and Eric are tight."

"Okay," Jim said, checking to make sure Blair got all that. "We can do that. Who'd he pick the fight with?"

"Ah, some guy. I don't know. Not one of my regulars."

"Who is the regular crowd around here, now that you mention it?" Blair asked. "Bikers, teamsters...?"

"Nah, nothing like that. It's a mix. We get a real cross-section, you know?" Buscemi stubbed out his cigarette and lit another, giving the detectives a gruesome smile.

"So Eric had a problem with this new guy?" Jim offered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Blair get what he was driving at. "Does he run with any crowd we ought to be aware of, Mr. Buscemi?"

"Huh?"

"Gangs?" Blair looked up from his notepad. "White supremacist groups? Anything like that?"

Buscemi did a spit-take and laughed out loud. "Eric? Shit, no, he's too dumb. Don't have the dedication those boys want in their rank and file." He sniffed loudly, turned, and spit on the floor. "I seem to remember him dating a Chinese girl," he mused. "'Course, that was three or four girlfriends ago. So you see what I mean."

"Yes, we do," Jim said, smiling tightly, kissing the racial-motivation angle goodbye. "Thank you for your time, sir. Do you happen to have addresses and phone numbers where we can reach Eric and... Tim?"

"Sure. Gimme a minute. They won't be in until six, so you're better off going to their houses anyway."

It took Buscemi a few minutes to find the information in his cluttered office, but before noon they were out of the Rusty Scupper and on their way back to the station. "I'm starved," Blair said; "let's stop at a Mr. Tube Steak and grab some lunch on our way back."

"Wonderburger means we don't have to get out of the car, Chief," Jim said, smiling a bit.

"You are SO transparent, man," Blair laughed. Jim gave him a puppy-dog look and mimed, who me? "All right all right, I'm too hungry to care anyway."

With their bags of food, they made it back into the station at about the same time Glover and Gibson came back from their interviews. They compared notes as they ate quickly, Glover carefully avoiding even looking at Blair.

"The parents are a dead-end," Gibson said, chewing on noodles from a box. "No joy there. But we got another tip from a bar on Ocean that might pan out."

"I think we might have a suspect," Jim said, blotting his mouth on a napkin. "We're going to go talk to this Tim Van something... what is it, Chief?"

"Van Slandt. Guy works with a dude named Eric Cerkez, and their boss says our composite is Cerkez," Blair replied.

"Cerkez?" Glover said. "How you spell that?" Blair spelled it for him. "That might be the guy then. Our tip mentioned an Eric something, sounded like jerks."

The four men shared looks. "We'll go talk to the co-worker, then call you," Jim said. He snatched up his half-finished shake. "You ready, Chief? You got your cells charged, guys?"

Blair crammed the last of his french fries in his mouth and followed Jim to the elevator. "You got the address, Chief?" Jim asked, punching the button.

"Mumph," Blair replied, waving his notebook around. With effort, he swallowed and then said, "We going to call him first?"

"Nah," Jim said as they exited the elevator. "Let's surprise him."

And surprise him they did. If Tim Van Slandt had been awake when they knocked, he hadn't been awake for long; he stared muzzily at Jim's ID from the cracked-open door. "Yeah?" he asked, blinking in the light from the hallway outside his apartment. "Whaddaya want?"

"Just to ask you some questions, Mr. Van Slandt," Jim replied, tucking his ID away.

"'Bout what?" No, Blair decided, Mr. Van Slandt had not been awake long.

"Do you know a Mr. Eric Cerkez?" Jim asked, sighing, apparently resigned to standing in the hallway at least for the moment.

"Eric? Yeah, I work with him. Why? What's the damn fool done now?"

Blair caught Jim's raised eyebrows and shook his head. "Can we come in, Mr. Van Slandt? It'd be a lot easier than talking to you through a door," Blair said.

"Yeah, yeah, all right, hang on." The door closed, and they could hear a chain being removed; then it opened again. The apartment was utter chaos -- pizza boxes and stacks of newspapers everywhere, dirty clothes strewn about. Blair had to fight back a giggle at the look on Jim's face as he took it all in. "So whaddaya want to know?" Van Slandt asked, dropping on his filthy couch. He grunted as he did so, then reached beneath him and pulled out a can of beer.

"Dial it down, man," Blair murmured, and Jim shot him a dirty look.

"We're making inquiries into an event that happened Monday night," Jim said. "Mr. Joe Buscemi told us we might want to discuss it with you."

"Oh, is this about Bushy tossing Eric out? Yeah, Eric got a bit too much in him again and went off on some asshole in the Scupper Monday after he got off work," Van Slandt said, resting his head back against the couch back. "Bushy tossed him about midnight."

"So, it appeared that Mr. Cerkez had too much to drink?" Jim said, glancing at Blair to make sure he was taking notes.

Van Slandt snorted. "Drink, snort, shoot, who the hell knows what that pinhead was doing? All's I know is, I told him I'd meet him at the Rooster after I closed up. But when I got there, he was gone."

"The Rooster? You mean the bar on Ocean?" Blair asked. That was the name of the bar Gibson and Glover had gotten their tip at.

"Yeah, we hang out there a lot. He'd been there, all right, busted up the joint, but he was gone by the time I got there," Van Slandt said. "Guy's a serious fuckup, you know what I mean? He's always getting into trouble."

"Do you know if Mr. Cerkez carries a gun?" Jim asked.

"Yeah," Van Slandt said, lifting his head and looking at Jim. "Yeah, he's like heavily into firearms. That and computers. He's always bragging about some new CPU or Winchester he's picked up. One weird dude."

"What kind of car does he drive, do you know?" Blair asked.

"Oh, I dunno, it's some old piece of shit," Van Slandt replied, laying his head back down. Looks like one of those old Pintos. Look, are we done here? I got a lot of work to do around here."

"Ah, yeah," Jim replied, rolling his eyes. "You've been very helpful. Thanks."

Van Slandt waved his hands. "Yeah, whatever. Let yourself out, dudes."

Out in the fresh air, Blair chuckled as Jim stood still, taking deep breaths. "Not exactly up to your standards, eh, man?" Blair asked him.

Jim shot him a sour look and pulled his cell phone out. "Even the bacteria had bacteria in there, Chief," he said. "I think we got cause here. Next stop is Cerkez's place. Hey, Gibson? Ellison. Yeah, we got cause, the co-worker confirmed a lot of it. We're on our way now. You going to meet us there?"

Eric Cerkez lived in a shabby neighborhood consisting of very old, small, brick houses with tiny yards. Most of the houses were poorly maintained, and the yards consisted of dirt and scraggly plants. A few were looked after, but Cerkez's was not one of them.

There was no car in the driveway as they pulled up, but Jim confirmed there was someone in the house. Gibson and Glover appeared within five minutes and parked behind the truck; Jim and Blair met them as they exited their sedan. "Co-worker says he's into firearms," Jim reported in a low voice. "We could have a situation."

"Roy and I'll take the back," Gibson said, drawing his gun and moving around to the side. "I don't think there's an egress back there, but we'll check."

Nodding, Jim and Blair moved cautiously up the cracked walk to the front door. A television was blasting from inside, but when Jim knocked, someone turned it down. The door cracked open to reveal an older woman, her graying hair in curlers, dressed in a patched and dirty housedress. "Yeah?"

"Detective Jim Ellison, Cascade PD, ma'am," Jim said, showing his credentials. "This is my partner, Blair Sandburg. We're looking for Eric Cerkez."

The woman scowled around her cigarette. "He ain't here. Dumb shit, what'd he do now?"

"We're just looking to talk to him, ma'am. Do you have any idea where he might be?" Gibson appeared around the corner from the back of the house, shaking his head.

"Probably with that slut Sherry. He only comes home here to mooch offa me and do his laundry," she said.

"Are you a relative of his, ma'am?" Jim asked, looking through the ratty screen door past her into the house as much as he could.

"Yeah, I'm his mother," the woman said sourly. "Not that he shows it or anything."

"We'd like to come in and take a look around, if you don't mind, then," Jim said. With his Sentinel sight he could make out a rifle leaning against the wall inside.

Cerkez's mother regarded him narrowly. "You got a warrant?" she finally demanded. "I know my rights, and you can't come in without a warrant."

"I was hoping we wouldn't have to resort to that, ma'am," Jim said levelly. He could see Glover now, too, coming around from the other side.

"Yeah, I just bet you were, honey. Get lost." With that, she slammed the door. Blair shook his head and backed off the stoop.

"No luck?" Gibson asked. Glover came to stand next to him, and Blair made to cut across the lawn to the truck.

"I don't think he's here, but his mother won't let us in without a warrant," Jim said. "You think we've got enough here to get one?"

Before either Glover or Gibson could answer, Blair called out. "Hey, guys, c'mere." He was squatting on the lawn, with a twig in his hand, poking at something.

"What? What've you got, Chief?" Jim asked, automatically reaching in his pocket for his latex gloves.

"Looks like a shell casing," Blair replied. "Bet it matches what was found on the scene."

"Don't touch it, you moron!" Glover growled, and Blair gave him a nasty look.

"I'm not touching it, man, take a pill. I know better than that, okay? What do you think, Jim?"

With his gloved hand, Jim picked up the casing. "It's nine millimeter all right. Winchester. We need to get this to forensics to see if it matches." Gibson handed him a baggie and the casing went in it. "If it matches, I'd say that's enough probable cause for an arrest warrant."

"We'll take it," Glover said, pocketing the bagged evidence. "You two stay here and stake it out. If Cerkez shows, holler. We'll at least get that search warrant and be back as soon as we can."

As stake-outs went, it wasn't much of one, Blair mused, dozing against the window of the truck. Jim fiddled with the radio until he found a day-game. Neither man felt much like talking, so they sat in companionable silence listening to the Cubs get slaughtered. After a half-hour, they got a call from the station that the warrant was in the works, should only be another half-hour, forty-five minutes, tops. Jim's hand somehow found its way across the bench seat to take Blair's, and they smiled at each other.

Then, much to their surprise, Eric Cerkez came home. It took them a few minutes to register that the dirty white Chevy Chevette hatchback was indeed going to the Cerkez house, and to realize that the young man who exited and walked into the house was indeed their suspect. They blinked at each other and Jim fumbled for the phone. "It can't be that easy, can it?" Blair murmured, as Jim reached Gibson and Glover, who were on their way with the warrant.

The two of them pulled the truck back up to the house and got out, once again crossing the yard and mounting the stoop. Jim knocked again, and Blair could see by the tension in his shoulders that he was ready for anything.

It was the young man who answered. "Yeah?" he said, frowning at them through the screen door.

"Detective Ellison, Cascade PD," Jim announced, showing his badge. "Are you Eric Cerkez?"

"Yeah?" Cerkez looked between the two of them. "Is this a joke?"

"We'd like to talk to you, Mr. Cerkez, regarding your whereabouts early Tuesday morning."

"Uh, okay, why? I mean, what'd I do?"

Blair turned as Gibson and Glover screeched up, followed by a patrol unit. He murmured, "A bit overkill, wouldn't you say?" soft enough so that only Jim would hear, and could almost see Jim fighting to keep a smile off his face.

Cerkez watched the approach of the police with wide-eyed amazement, looking from the spectacle on the street to the two men on his front porch. "Mr. Cerkez, we'd like you to come down to the station with us and answer some questions," Blair said, taking the initiative when Jim didn't speak. "It's just a formality. Would you come with us, please?"

"Uh, yeah, okay, I guess. I mean, what's going on?" Cerkez seemed to be extremely dim, which just might count in their favor.

Blair ushered him out, holding the screen door for him while Jim stood guard. The mother appeared, screeching something about a warrant, while her son winced and shouted, "Ma! Shut up!" Gibson and Glover came up, the warrant in hand, and Glover proceeded to show it to the woman.

Jim and Blair turned Cerkez over to the uniforms, telling the young man they'd see him at the station, then turned to Gibson. "The casing matched," Gibson said softly. "We pulled his records, and he's registered as owning a nine millimeter Glock, as well as half a dozen other weapons. We've got a warrant for the house and the car, why don't you get started on his interrogation?"

"Sounds good, thanks," Jim said, smiling. "We'll meet you back there."

Blair climbed into the truck shaking his head. "What, Chief?" Jim asked, starting the engine.

"It was that easy? I mean, considering the kind of case we -- I mean you -- usually handle, this was like dirt easy."

"The kind of case we usually handle is more complex, yes," Jim said. "That's why we get the big bucks, I guess," he added, making a u-turn and heading back downtown.

"Big bucks. Ha ha. Yeah. Funny man, you are," Blair replied, grinning.

"So you're saying I shouldn't quit my day job?" Jim quipped.

"I wouldn't, if I were you," Blair said.

Eric Cerkez was quite positive he couldn't have killed anybody. "I mean, I do it all the time on video games, you know? But in real life? Nah. I'm sure I couldn't," he said confidently. Not, of course, that he could remember where he was after being tossed out of the Rooster early Tuesday. Or that he could remember what route he had used to get home.

"Mr. Cerkez," Jim said wearily, "do you remember anything of Monday night or Tuesday morning?"

"Yeah, sure, I, uh, well, I was at work. Yeah. Oh! And Bushy, I mean, Mr. Buscemi, he threw me out for some damn reason. Guy's got a short fuse, you know, but the pay isn't bad. Tim told me he'd meet me at the Rooster after he closed up, so I went there."

"And what happened then?" Jim prodded.

"Well, you know, party time. Shot some pool, had some beer. There was some guy there being a real dick. Nothing big. I might've messed with him a little, but I mostly blew him off, 'cause, you know, I just can't stand guys being dicks like that." Cerkez slumped in the seat, draping his arm over the back.

"You can't." Jim scribbled on the pad in front of him. Cerkez watched, unconcerned.

"No. We were having a good time, an' that guy was..." Cerkez shrugged and waved it off. "So I went home. Party's no fun if people get pissy over nothin'. I signed on and checked my mail. Went to bed. End of story."

"See anyone on your way home?" Jim asked evenly.

"Nope. Clear shot all the way home." Cerkez drew one finger straight through the air, then let his arm fall back over the chair.

Blair said mildly, "Pretty quiet that time of night. You didn't hit the construction out at Rigby?"

Cerkez hesitated. "You trying to trick me? There wasn't nothing going on. I just went home same way I always do."

"And you don't recall the construction zone at Ocean and Rigby?" To Blair, Jim's voice sounded incredulous, and hell, he might be able to put up some disbelief himself. This guy was spectacularly dim.

Now Cerkez was uncertain. "There's...? No, I mean, I do remember getting home, cause I logged on and went into chat, and oh, somebody cut me off on my way home, I think, but that's about it."

"Uh-huh. Mr. Cerkez, do you own a nine-millimeter gun?"

"Yeah, yeah!" He sat up straight, pulling his hands together, then apart to show the size. "It's a beaut, too. A Glock. Got it with some bonus money." Cerkez looked them in the eye for the first time since the interview started.

"Where do you keep this weapon, Mr. Cerkez?" Jim asked, endlessly patient.

"In my car." Cerkez leaned forward and mimed shoving something under the chair. "You know, close by, for protection. Cascade is like getting really violent anymore. And there's been lots of car-jackings and stuff."

Nodding, his mouth hanging slightly open, Jim said, "Ahhh... yeah, that's fair to say. Do you remember firing your gun at anyone at about 2:30 a.m. Tuesday morning?"

"At somebody?" Cerkez looked almost shocked. "No, I'm sure I'd remember that. I mean, I wouldn't actually fire it at somebody. I usually use it to scare off the lousy drivers, you know the ones, they cut you off in traffic, beep their horns at you, shine their brights in your eyes, that kind of stuff. They know who's boss when they see it. Oh, and I shoot at the rats that hang around the dumpsters at work. But I'd never actually shoot someone with it."

Blair leaned back in his chair, stunned.

"So, you're saying you've threatened people with your gun before," Jim said, his voice carrying that low quality that Blair recognized as his 'don't fuck with me' voice.

"Well... you can't really call it that -- I mean, they're the ones being dickheads and all. I'm just trying to get them to drive better. You know? I'd never actually use it on them. Never have to."

"Uh-huh. Okay, ah..." Before Jim could formulate his next question, the door opened to reveal Gibson, who waved Jim out of the room. "Hold that thought, Mr. Cerkez, I'll be right back."

Out in the hallway, they were confronted with a grinning pair of Homicide detectives. "Got him," Glover exulted. "We recovered a nine mil, two Winchester shotguns, three pistols of various calibers, and a semi-automatic. We've impounded his car, and Forensics has got it, but I think we've got a match -- the bullet tests will be done within the hour. Plus, we found enough coke and X in his car to float any idiot for quite a while. He's going down."

Jim was shaking his head, a frown on his face. "I -- I don't know, Glover, something about this..."

"What? We've got him cold," the cop shot back.

"Unless one of those nine-milimeters is the murder weapon, it's all circumstantial," Jim protested. "And he says he wouldn't have done it."

"Wouldn't have done it?" Gibson said, incredulous. "As in, he doesn't remember? That's bullshit."

"Look, the guy is dumb as dirt, no one's disputing that. I just don't know..." Jim was twitching, rubbing the back of his neck, constantly turning back towards the room where Cerkez waited.

Gibson and Glover were obviously losing patience with Jim's odd behavior, so Blair spoke up. "Listen, guys, go in there, finish getting the statement, talk to him. We'll be in the observation room. C'mon, Jim."

Blair hustled his partner into the other room, shutting the door firmly behind them. Through the one-way glass, they could see the other two detectives enter the room and begin speaking to Cerkez.

"Jim, what the hell are you doing?" Blair hissed. "What's going on with you?"

Jim shook his head slowly, side to side, as he watched the other room. "Chief, I believe him. I do. He never once spiked, at anything. He didn't do it."

"He said he couldn't have done it, Jim, that's far different than he didn't do it. Why are you behaving like this?"

"Look, Blair, all I know is what I can sense," Jim said, clear frustration in his voice. "My senses tell me he's telling the truth. Human lie detector, remember?" he added, frowning at Blair.

Sighing, Blair shoved his hand into his hair, pulling it back. "Oh for... Okay. Let's take this one step at a time. You're saying your Sentinel senses are telling you he's not lying."

"Right, right," Jim said, earnestly, propping one foot on a chair and leaning on his knee.

Blair began pacing. "So your senses are telling you this. But what is your instinct telling you, Jim?"

"What, you mean like my senses or..."

"No, no, your instincts as a cop," Blair qualified. "The instincts you honed well before your senses came back on-line. What are they telling you?"

Jim scratched his head. "Um. Well, I guess I'd have to say that he's guilty as sin. I mean, the composite, the gun in the car, the drugs... everything stacks up, it all fits, Cerkez is the man. But..."

"Jim," Blair said earnestly, taking Jim's upper arm in one hand, "you are not a cop because of your senses. You're a better cop because of your senses, but under all that, under all the special powers you have at your beck and call, you're a cop first. You may be a walking forensics lab, but think about it: would you trust Serena to make a bust just because she's a top forensic analyst?"

"No," Jim said, frowning, clearly considering Blair's words. "It takes more than just forensics to solve a case."

"Exactly. I think what's happening here is that you're becoming too dependent on your senses to do your job. And that's just going too far in the other direction, Jim. Way too far."

Jim grinned suddenly, lightly bopping Blair on the side of his head. "Thanks a lot, Darwin, now you tell me!"

Blair chuckled and gave the arm he still held a little shake. "Never thought I'd have to tell you to turn it off, huh? But you know I'm not," he added, releasing Jim and turning back to the glass. "You need to listen to what your senses tell you. But you also need to listen to what your inner cop says. You've got to balance, Jim."

Straightening, Jim came to stand directly behind Blair, watching the scene in the other room. "You're my balance, Chief," he said, tugging on Blair's ponytail. "It's what makes us such a great team."

Forensics came through with the bullet testing before Cerkez could wise up and demand a lawyer. To no one's surprise, Eric Cerkez's nine-millimeter Glock was indeed the gun that had fired upon and killed Jannel Patterson. It was a good bust; Gibson read the young man his rights and took him down for processing.

Jim and Blair stood outside the interrogation room with Glover, watching a still-protesting Eric Cerkez being hauled down to booking. Glover had the smirk of the righteous on his face as he turned to his companions. "Well, that's done. Good turn-around time."

Jim raised an eyebrow; could this guy get any more obnoxious? "Yeah, well, you're welcome," he said sourly.

Glover gave them both the eye. "I didn't ask for your involvement in this case, Ellison, and I wouldn't have needed it to solve it either. Just so we're clear."

"Yeah, I think we're clear," Jim said, letting his frustration bleed into his voice. "Very clear. You're a prick, and I'm glad we don't have to deal with you any more."

"Jim, man..." Blair said, sotto voce, but Jim ignored him. Glover's eyes narrowed and his jaw worked as he stared at the two of them, visibly reining himself in.

"You just toddle back upstairs to your precious Major Crimes, Ellison," he finally ground out. "And take your little buddy with you. We haven't got time for playacting down here."

Jim took one step toward Glover, who, apparently suddenly realizing what kind of trouble he was in, backed up. But once again, Jim was pushed aside by Blair, who this time turned his back to Glover and looked into Jim's face. "Glover, just get the hell out of here, would you?" Blair said over one shoulder, his voice weary. "And do us both a favor and retire already. Before you really fuck up a case past anyone bailing you out."

Entranced, Jim watched as Glover's face turned various shades from dark pink through purple and puce. Without saying another word, he turned and stalked down the hall. With a deep breath, Jim let out some of the tension he had been holding. "Asshole," he muttered. "Prick. Gives the department a bad name."

"Yeah, well, you said that once already," Blair said, also slumping a bit as the tension left his body.

"Jackass. You're three times the cop he'll ever be, badge or not."

"Yeah, right, Jim," Blair said, and suddenly, at the defeat and resignation in Blair's tone, Jim just lost it. Or, perhaps, he got it. Finally.

Grabbing his partner by the upper arm -- "Hey!" Blair yelped -- Jim propelled him back into the observation room. He shut the door and locked it, then leaned his back on it. "What the hell...?" Blair demanded.

"Okay, before all this started, that night of the shooting, I had finally realized something," Jim growled. "I was going to talk about it yesterday, before we just collapsed, but I didn't. I should've said it when we were staking out Cerkez's house, but I didn't, because I was too much a damn chickenshit. But now I'm gonna say it, before I lose my nerve -- again -- and you're gonna listen, and not interrupt until I'm done. You hear me?"

Blair narrowed his eyes, then took up an aggressive stance in front of Jim, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Fine," he said abruptly. "Talk then."

Realizing that he might be able to talk better if he were moving -- and if he could avoid looking directly at Blair -- Jim began to pace the darkened room. "I know it's been rough on you. I know I've been rough on you -- especially, especially during the Cordell case. I know how it rankles sometimes that you're not a cop, and don't have the training, or the authority, to do what you think you should.

"I know I contradict myself so much, saying you're a good cop, offering you the actual job as my partner, and then still yelling at you to stay down, to stay safe. And it's wrong, Blair, God, it's so wrong. Because you can take care of yourself; you've proven it over and over again. I'm just... I'm just..." Jim gulped, stopped his pacing and looked at the floor. "I'm afraid, Chief. I'm afraid of losing you, of not being able to protect you. I rely on you, I need you, for so much. You're... you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Chief, and it terrifies me sometimes what we do, and how much danger my job puts you in."

Jim heard Blair take a breath, as though he wanted to speak, but Jim held his hand up to stop him. "No, wait, I'm not done. I'm gonna get this out if it kills me." Turning, he began pacing again. "There are times, you know, when I wish I wasn't a cop. I think a lot of cops think that... every time we have to deal with some of the truly horrible parts of this job. I know what you've said about the genetic imperative and about me being the tribal protector, and you're right, you've been right every time, I know that, but, damn, Blair. There are times when I hate this job."

Jim came to a stop with his forehead pressed against the one-way mirror. "And then there are times when I love it," he continued, his voice softer. "A lot of those are when you and I are working together. As a team. You pulling facts out of your hat and me smelling something weird that solves the case. You really are the best partner I've ever had, Blair, bar none. And so help me God I'm going to start treating you as a partner. An equal partner.

"But you gotta promise me, Chief, promise me you'll let me protect you. You aren't a cop, not officially, anyway, and you don't carry a gun. Promise me you'll carry your damn cell phone with you, and keep it charged, and call me. If you can do that, I promise I'll back off and try to... try to listen more. To hear you more. Can you do that, Chief?"

Finally, Jim turned and looked at Blair. What he saw nearly undid him: Blair stood rooted to the spot, his arms loose at his sides, his mouth hanging open and his face suffused with so much stunned delight that Jim thought he could box it and sell it as an antidepressant.

Blair swallowed and shook his head slowly. "You just keep surprising me, Ellison," he whispered. "Just when I think I've got you figured out..." Slowly he bridged the gap between them, taking two handfuls of Jim's shirt and tugging him down.

"So, uh, you okay with this then?" Jim asked, nervously licking his lips.

"Yeah. I'm okay with it," Blair responded. "I love you, man."

"I love you too, Chief," Jim said, kissing his partner gently.

"I think we got some bad guys to chase down, don't we?" Blair murmured into the soft lips caressing his own.

"They can wait a minute," Jim replied, enfolding Blair in a hug. Then he stiffened, cocking his head to one side. "But Simon might not. He's bellowing for me... I mean, us."

Grinning brilliantly, Blair pulled back a bit. "Yeah. Us."

"Let's go back where we belong, partner."

"Right behind you, partner."

And it wasn't even four o'clock yet. "We might get home at a decent hour tonight, Chief."

"On the other hand, we might make a decent hour thoroughly indecent."

Jim felt himself grin. "I like your thinking."

"The sooner we finish the paperwork that's been gathering dust all week, the sooner we can leave."

"Race you to the bullpen."

This is exactly where he was supposed to be, Jim thought. On his back, on his bed, his legs being supported by Blair's hands and Blair buried deep inside him. The eight-dollar oversize pillow Blair had bought at K-Mart -- which they laughingly called the 'love pillow' -- supported Jim's back comfortably while he let one hand stroke his erection in time with the languid thrusts in his ass. Jim just let himself float in sensual bliss. God, it was so good.

Had he said that aloud? He must have, because Blair was smiling down on him like a cat with a yellow-feathered mouth. "You're the one that's good, Ellison," Blair gasped, holding to an agonizingly slow, steady rhythm. In. Out. In. "God, you're tight. Feel so good."

"Yeah, good, oh, so good, babe," Jim gasped as Blair's cock stroked over his prostate. "Damn, I love you."

"I love you too, man, so much, oh, yeah," Blair threw his head back and groaned his pleasure. He stroked Jim's long legs sensuously, then reached down to caress the balls that lay bulged beneath Jim's penis. After a moment, Jim heard him say, "Damn. You are so hot. Do you have any idea what the sight of you does to me?"

Opening eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed, Jim saw his lover gazing down at him with a glazed, lust-filled stare. Part of him wanted to actually pose -- to drive Blair wild -- and part just wanted to spread himself even wider and give himself wholly over to the man loving him. He pulled at his cock a little harder, then reached up to pinch, then rub, one nipple.

Blair snapped his hips forward, driving deep, and Jim arched, groaning. "Yeah! Oh, Chief, Blair, yeah," he moaned. "Gonna make me come, gonna make me, yeah, oh God..."

"Not yet, not yet," Blair chanted breathlessly, slowing and deepening his strokes. "Wanna keep this, wanna keep this moment, remember, damn, oh this is good..."

Closing his eyes again, Jim let himself drift. He heard the small grunts Blair made as he held himself to his steady rhythm and heard his heart beating steady and strong. He could smell them, their lovemaking, the scent of semen and lube and sweat and latex and pheromones and just plain sex. He licked his lips, still tasting Blair's kisses, remembering how Blair had kissed him over and over again until both their lips were swollen and they were panting with desire. And he could feel Blair, feel every inch of his sheathed cock, the latex so thin as to be almost not there. The large vein on the underside of it rubbed over Jim's prostate, and he felt the flare of the head massaging him deeply.

Adding the last sense to the catalog, Jim opened his eyes. Blair leaned over him, sheened in sweat, his head thrown back as his strong arms held up Jim's legs. Jim let his eyes drift downwards, taking in the wild hair; the long, dark eyelashes lying against prominent cheekbones; the sensuous mouth; the strong neck and shoulders; the broad chest with its shock of thick hair; the large, square hands holding his legs so gently; the well-defined abdomen trembling with pent-up passion.

It was simply too much. "You... are... so... beautiful," he gasped in time with the thrusts, which were coming harder and faster now, "Blair... BLAIR!" Jim's come boiled up through him, seemingly drawing up from his feet as the top of his head came off. His back bowed and he went rigid with his intense orgasm; although his mouth was open, he was incapable of making any sound at all.

As the aftershocks hit, he felt Blair ram into him hard, then heard him start keening as his thrusts became jerky and his own personal semi ran over him hard. Just the sight of Blair's intense pleasure was enough to bring another shock to Jim's abused nervous system.

Almost as fast as they went rigid, all the tension drained out of their bodies, leaving them limp, sweaty, spunk-covered and sated. Blair drifted down, barely able to lever himself to one side of Jim rather than land on top of him. Jim turned his head and got himself a nose-full of curly, sweaty hair.

After a while, their hearts slowed, their breathing normalized, and they realized they were sticky with body fluids. Unwilling to face the stairs, they grabbed a pair of discarded boxers, wiped the worst of it off, and settled back down, this time under the covers. Jim rolled them until Blair was mostly draped across Jim's broad chest, and Blair hummed in appreciation. "My favorite pillow," he mumbled, kissing Jim's collarbone.

"Love you, Blair," Jim said, and smiled at the muttered reply. Blair was already asleep.

Curiously, despite his languor and tiredness, sleep eluded Jim. He found himself once again going back over the events of the last few days. Particularly Monday night, after the Cordell case had been wrapped up, coming back to the loft to hear Blair talking to himself -- "But this reporter is sad to announce that the relationship between said Detective and his partner, Blair Sandburg, appears to be floundering. Again." Wasn't that what Blair had said? Yeah, or something like it. At the time, he'd just called Blair overly dramatic. But it wasn't, not really. Jim had been unconscionably harsh to Blair -- again -- and the only thing good to come out of it was Jim's resolution to do better.

Could he? Taking a deep breath -- well, as deep as he could with Blair on his chest -- Jim realized he'd better do better. He'd just better quit thinking with his gut and start thinking with his head, and his heart. Damn, he just had to. Or else he was going to lose the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Once again, that sense of loss, of despair, rose up in Jim. He began making an effort to disentangle himself from the octopus formerly known as Blair, so he could get out of bed -- maybe pace a bit, maybe make some tea, maybe just wallow in feeling sorry for himself again.

With a chuff of air, Blair's hands locked around his waist. "Chief? You awake?" Jim whispered, but all his senses told him Blair was dead to the world. But he was not letting go.

He was not letting go. Blair would not let him go. Never would. Even in his sleep, the little twerp was taking care of him, Jim realized fondly. Smiling, he relaxed into the death grip Blair had on him, and shortly, to his surprise, fell asleep.

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