Jim sat on the stairs, in the dark.

The night swirled and hovered, seeping into him, filling him with a mind-numbing void, with a piercing desolation honed by the quiet breaths and thrumming heartbeat of the sleeping man upstairs. Cold clutched at his heart and despair clawed at his throat.

Jim sat.

He wanted to return to bed, to the warmth and comfort of his bed and Blair, but his leaden legs refused to allow him to stand. He had done it again, and this time, he had probably gone too far. Once again, he had let his anger -- his fears -- dictate his actions, closing himself away from the ones he cared about.

What did he fear? Losing Blair. Not being able to protect Blair. But Blair didn't need protecting, not really. Nobody in their right mind thought that, certainly not Blair himself. Not even Simon, not any more. It was only Jim who saw the need to protect, to... to blanket. To smother; to shield Blair from all the nastiness that he already knew about! So where did all this over-protectiveness come from?

Blair. It came from his wanting Blair. Everything Blair had to offer, Jim soaked up and wanted more. More. More. Never enough. Nevereverever enough. Would Blair wake up one day and realize Jim had simply drained him dry?

Would he wonder what he could have done with his life if not for Jim?

But Blair loved him. He knew that. Shouldn't that be enough?

With rediscovered candor, Jim admitted to himself that knowing was not enough, not by a long shot. Jim climbed to his feet, swallowed heavily, and forced a shaky breath into his lungs. Turning, he made his slow, painful way back upstairs. Where he would wake his partner -- his partner! -- and they would talk.

Blair lay curled on his side, hands tucked under his chin, face obscured by his dark curls, shrouded in the stillness of sleep. Jim stood at the top of the stairs and indecisively chewed on his lower lip. Should he wait until morning? It had, after all, been a busy day.

In the silence, the gunshots echoed loudly from the street below.

Blair's head jerked up, sleepy eyes groggily meeting Jim's. "Wha...?"

"Gunshots," Jim said unnecessarily, hastily yanking a pullover from his dresser. Blair leapt out of bed and stumbled to the closet, where he grabbed his jeans. By the time Jim was stepping into his loafers, Blair was hopping on one foot, shoving the other into a shoe.

Jim suddenly realized he was taking a breath to order Blair to stay in the loft, where it was safe. Gulping, he squashed that impulse, but not in time to keep Blair from catching wind of it in his expression. "You ready?" he barked out, just as Blair started to say, "Dammit, Ellison, if you tell me to --"

Blinking, Blair struggled to shift gears. "Ah, yeah... I'm ready, man. Let's hit it."

Blair took some comfort from the fair weather -- early morning Cascade could be COLD -- as he pelted down the stairs after Jim and charged out the front door of their building. Just like the last time... only this time, he had heard the shots as well. He watched as Jim turned his head back and forth, like a hunting dog gaining the scent. "This way," Jim said, somewhat unnecessarily, as even Blair could hear the sound of sirens wafting from that direction -- unlike last time, away from the water.

A police car with flashing lights had come to a stop in front of the twenty-four-hour 7-11 two blocks from the loft, which Jim and Blair often raided for late night refills of ice cream and condoms (not necessarily at the same time). As they approached, Blair made out a uniformed patrol officer with his gun drawn, cuffing someone who lay face-down on the pavement. A car rested perpendicular to the street against the curb, the driver's-side door hanging open at a skewed angle, its side and trunk riddled with bullet holes. The cop looked up as Jim and Blair came running around the corner; he leveled his sidearm on them, ordering them to stop.

Blair skidded to a halt and nearly bashed into Jim's back as Jim stopped abruptly, showing his ID. "Detective Jim Ellison, Major Crimes. This is my partner, Blair Sandburg. Can we assist?"

And what exactly did "partner" mean, really? The thought rose unbidden in Blair's mind; stifling it quickly, he focused on the patrolman squinting at Jim's badge in the hideous orange glow of the parking lot lights. "Sure, Detective," the officer -- Owen, Blair could see on his name tag -- responded curtly. "Check the car, would you? There's another unit on the way."

"Roger that," Jim murmured, jogging away from the cop, who turned back to his prisoner. Blair followed Jim to the door of the car in front of the 7-11's parking lot. He could hear a low weeping and moaning from inside the vehicle.

Jim approached cautiously, his weapon drawn, identifying himself clearly. "Cascade Police. What's the problem here?"

"Oh God... oh God... get an ambulance, Jannel, oh God... there's blood everywhere..." The voice was male, obviously young, and completely distraught. From the way Jim wrinkled up his nose and grimaced, Blair could tell he smelled blood -- hell, Blair could smell it and he was no Sentinel.

Jim motioned for Blair to help the driver and moved around to the passenger side. Up close, under the sodium-vapor lamps, Blair could see that the distressed young man was in the driver's seat. He was cradling a young woman to his chest; there was indeed blood and gore everywhere, and Blair couldn't tell if the young man was hurt as well.

Jim was leaning in from the other side, gently checking the girl's throat for a pulse. He grimaced and shook his head at Blair, then swallowed and shook his head again, sharply. It was obvious from his glazing eyes that the smells, the noise of the approaching units, and the unearthly glow from the lamps were getting to him.

Blair pitched his voice low, speaking to Jim calmly and evenly. "Come on, man, snap out of it. Focus." Then, slightly louder, he added to the driver, "Are you hurt anywhere, sir?"

Raising his pale, bloodstained, distraught face to Blair, the young man said, "No, no, Jannel, oh, God, please get help..."

"The ambulance is on its way," Blair assured him, knowing from the grim expression on Jim's face that it was too late for Jannel already.

Jim blinked, shaking himself slightly at Blair's words, trying to focus on the task at hand and wrenching himself from the draw of Blair's voice. Withdrawing from the reeking car helped -- leaving the driver in his partner's hands for the moment, Jim stood up straight and examined the scene carefully. He heard the sobs of the driver and the moans of the handcuffed suspect on the ground; smelled blood and gunpowder, sweat and fear. Bullet holes marched along the passenger-side door in a macabre parade, wrapping around the vehicle in what appeared to have been an attempt to shoot out the gas tank. Jim turned toward the intersection, scanning the roadway slowly. The cluster of shell casings under the blinking traffic light told him all he needed to know about where the holes had come from. Dialing up sight, Jim counted six casings, nine-millimeter, with the Winchester mark on the bottom. He winced slightly at the flashing lights of the arriving backup, and dialed sight down to normal; another squad car had pulled up, followed by at least two more units approaching from the distance.

Jim moved towards the uniformed cop, who had apparently been first on the scene, and called out, "Need an ambulance over here."

The young cop hauled his prisoner up before turning to Jim. "Got it covered. One's on the way. How many?"

Jim sighed. "One for shock. Looks like the other's already gone."

"Damn."

Another cop emerged quickly from the second squad car as the first officer pushed his suspect against the hood of his unit. Jim blinked, looking between the two uniformed men.

"You okay, Jeff?" the second one asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Mick," the first one answered. Narrowing his focus, Jim looked at their nametags, to find they both read 'Owen' -- 'J.Owen' and 'M.Owen.'

"Uh, you guys related?" Jim asked.

"Yeah," the first one, Jeff, answered. "Yeah. Twins. This is Detective, um, what was it again?"

"Ellison. I live right around the corner and heard the shots."

"Oh -- I was wondering where you'd come from," Jeff said. He opened his unit's back door and seated the cuffed and moaning man on the back bench seat. "You did call for an ambulance and backup, right, Mick?"

"On their way, bro," Mick replied. "You want I should call it in to Central?"

"Yeah. Homicide needs to be notified."

"Fuck."

"Yeah." Jeff turned to Jim. "I gotta secure the area. Would you watch my man here? I nailed him trying to flee the scene."

"I didn't do nothing, man!" the young man exclaimed. His face was streaked with tears, and he couldn't have been more than eighteen. "I -- I heard the shooting, and the cars... God, man, I just wanna go home!"

"Yeah, yeah, it's all right, just cool your heels, man, no one's accusing you of anything," Jeff said, turning away before he muttered, "yet."

Rolling his eyes, Jim crouched before the young man. "Hey there. I'm Jim Ellison. What's your name, son?"

"Danny," he replied, sniffing. "Danny Oats. I didn't do nothing, man, you gotta believe me!"

"Hey, hey, it's all right," Jim soothed, patting the boy's knee. "This is just standard operating procedure. How old are you, Danny?"

"I -- I'm seventeen. Last month," Danny replied, beginning to calm down under Jim's patient gaze.

"Well, happy birthday," Jim smiled. "Okay. Now, you're going to have to tell this story a lot over the next few days, so take your time, and tell me what you saw. Try to remember everything, okay?"

The boy nodded, gulping back his anxiety. Peripherally, Jim was aware of the ambulance arriving and of other police units pulling up. He could hear Blair murmuring reassurances to the driver of the car, and was grateful all over again for his partner's presence.

Pulling his attention back to the young man before him, Jim smiled encouragingly. Danny smiled tremulously back and said, "Well, I was just... it was late, you know? And I was on-line with my posse. We was playing in a MUD, you know?" Jim didn't know -- at least, he wasn't sure -- but nodded for Danny to continue. "Anyway, I was out of smo -- I mean, I -- I..."

Jim patted Danny's knee again and grinned. "Those things'll kill you, you know," he said lightly. "Don't worry about it, son. Just go on."

"Oh -- okay. Well, anyway, I put down my time and walked down here to get -- to get some more, you know? And I had just come out of the store, when I saw these two cars. They was on the other side of the street."

Jim turned slightly to see where Danny was indicating. "So, you saw the two cars, and they were going east on Fowler? Is that right?"

"Is east that way? Away from Ocean Drive?" At Jim's nod, Danny agreed. "Yeah, then. They was headed east, and, like, bookin'. That's what got me looking at them, you know? They must have just come around the corner from Ocean and they tires was like squealing. Then... then I heard these sounds -- a bunch of them, like, I didn't even know what they was until I heard that glass blow up. It didn't sound like no gun, you know?"

"What do you mean, Danny?" Jim asked.

"Well, it didn't sound like TV. You know. It was, uh, more like, oh, I dunno, like a car sound. Quieter like. But when the glass blew up on the one car, on that one over there, it, like, just flew over and slammed into the curb, pow! And the other car just took off."

Jim nodded. "That's good, Danny, that's very good. You concentrate on what you saw, try to remember every little piece, okay? Do you remember what the other car looked like?"

"Um, it was a hatchback. Maybe a Celica? Real light colored, like white or yellow. I'm not real sure, 'cause when I figured out what was going on, I, like, just took a header behind the trash can over there."

"Well, I can understand that!" Jim laughed. "I think I would have, too."

"Hey, Jim, they're getting the driver out now." Blair said, as he came up behind Jim and crouched down next to him. "Who's your friend?"

"Blair Sandburg, this is Danny Oats," Jim introduced. "Blair's my partner, Danny."

"Hey, man, how's it hanging?" Blair asked. By his abortive shoulder movement, Jim realized Blair had been about to extend his hand before realizing Danny was cuffed.

Danny shrugged. "It be okay. It'll be okay, won't it, mister?"

"Yeah, it's going to be fine, Danny," Jim said, standing back up as he heard one of the uniformed cops approach. It was Jeff Owen, and Jim stepped away from the squad car, allowing Blair to continue talking softly to the witness.

"You got yourself an excellent witness here, Owen," Jim said quietly.

Jeff looked beyond him, staring with narrowed eyes at the boy sitting half-in the car. "You think? I'm thinking he might be an excellent suspect, myself."

Jim shook his head, holding down his impatience with cops who wouldn't see evidence if it were taped on to their noses. "No, no way. He was on the wrong side of the street, for one thing. For another, there's no weapon."

The cop was clearly unconvinced. "Yeah, well, we'll see."

Reaching back, Jim put a hand on Blair's shoulder and tugged slightly. Blair smiled at Danny and said good-bye, then stood next to his partner, stretching and yawning. An unmarked police car, lights flashing, heralded the arrival of Homicide, and Jim winced as he saw who climbed out of the car. Blair caught the wince and asked, "What? What is it?"

"Oh, it's okay, I just know those guys. The white guy can be a pain in the ass when he wants to."

Catching sight of Jim, the two men sauntered over, nodding to him. "Ellison," said the white guy. His shirt was rumpled, but he looked awake.

"Glover," Ellison replied, nodding back.

"What are you doing on the scene, Ellison?" asked his partner, a black man, who -- hands in his pockets, looking up at Jim -- came to stand behind Glover. His voice held only curiosity, so Jim relaxed a fraction.

Glover's eyes flickered to Blair as Jim explained, and Jim felt his face harden. "This is Blair Sandburg, my partner," he said. "Roy Glover and Phil Gibson, from Homicide."

Gibson extended his hand and shook Blair's, while Glover ignored it. "Hey, Gibson and Glover, I bet you guys get a lot of ragging, huh?" Blair said, with a tired smile.

"Yeah, well, we actually work it," said Glover sourly. "What's the story here?"

"Looks like a drive-by shooting," Jim said. "Might be a gang thing -- victims are a white male, no external injuries, and a black female, gunshot to the neck. You might want to talk with Owen, over there -- he was first on the scene. One eye-witness."

"Drive-by?" Glover looked skeptical as he hitched his pants up over his substantial belly. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, there're at least six casings in the intersection," Jim replied.

"You counted the shots?" Glover demanded.

"No, I was too busy getting dressed. But I see..." Jim cut himself off, suddenly realizing how much he was revealing. "Look, I've been here a while, I've had time to look around."

"Yeah, well, don't look around any more. This ain't Major Crimes' set, you see? We'll take care of it and call you for your statements later." Glover stalked away, heading for the uniforms, while Gibson shrugged and hurried after him.

"C'mon, Chief," Jim said, wearily. "Let's get home and try to get some more sleep. There's nothing else we can do here."

"I'm down with that, man," Blair yawned.

Morning came far too soon. While Blair had washed the blood off his hands and arms, Jim had left a voicemail for Simon, letting him know what had happened -- and telling him not to expect them before ten. But even sleeping in until almost nine wasn't enough after the day and night before.

They dragged over breakfast, speaking in grunts to each other, and Jim was pretty sure Blair's eyes didn't open once -- not that he could tell, hidden as they were behind an unruly mop of hair. By the time the coffee hit his bloodstream, though, Jim was feeling more like a human and less like a Cro-Magnon, and even Blair had tied his hair back.

A familiar bellow assaulted them as they unloaded at Jim's desk. "Ellison! Sandburg! My office!" Simon yelled, and both men rolled their eyes before making their way across the bullpen. Brown was on the phone, but waved at them, and Megan looked up from interviewing a bored-looking teen-aged regular on the shoplifting circuit to smile a hello.

"Close the door," Simon said as they entered his office. "Nice of you to join us this morning, gentlemen."

"I left you a voicemail," Jim began, but Simon waved his hand and cut him off.

"No problem, no problem. I understand you two spent your usual quiet evening last night. Care to give me an update?"

Jim exchanged a puzzled glance with Blair. "It was a shooting, sir. We heard the shots and ran down to see if we could assist. Looked like a drive-by; one dead, a young female. Homicide arrived and took over, and we went back to bed."

"And that's the end of it." Frowning thunderously, Simon looked between the two men perched on his conference table.

"Uh, yeah," Blair said, shooting a look at Jim. "That's really it. The poor kid's girlfriend died in his arms. Bad scene, man. But that's all it was."

"Then would you mind explaining to me why I've got Fusilli in Homicide breathing down my neck?" While Jim and Blair looked at each other in puzzlement, Simon came around his desk with an open file folder. "Something about witness corruption. Something about scene tampering. Something about..."

"What?!" Jim slid off the table, his forward momentum stopped by Blair's hand on his arm.

"What's this all about, Simon?" Blair asked, in an equally furious tone. "We were there to help. Goddammit, this is..."

Simon held his hand up for silence, and they settled down. "I don't understand what's happening either, gentlemen. But I do know that you will be high-tailing it down to Homicide and working with Gibson and Glover on this one. Ah-ah-ah," he added, glaring at them as they tried to interrupt. "Fusilli knows you two are above reproach. At least he'd better, after I read him the riot act this morning. But you were there, you were involved, and you will be working the case -- under Gibson and Glover." He continued to glare at them while handing Jim the manila folder. "I expect this nonsense cleared up as soon as possible. You have other cases pending."

Sitting down, he opened his humidor and removed a cigar. It was clearly a dismissal -- one both Jim and Blair were used to -- so they closed the door quietly behind them.

"Man, this sucks," Blair said, as he snatched his backpack up from under Jim's desk and followed his partner to the stairs.

"Could be worse, Chief," Jim said sourly, holding open the door to the stairway. "They've got better coffee in Homicide. Better donuts too."

"Yeah, and you sound exactly as thrilled about this as I am," Blair retorted. "We are going to have to kiss butt and suck up to those clowns, just because we did the right thing and responded to gunshots. This sucks."

"You said that already," Jim said, holding back a smile at the surreptitious finger Blair shot him. One floor down and they were outside the Homicide Department.

Captain Nick Fusilli of Homicide was physically the antithesis of Simon Banks: a short, skinny red-headed Italian with a beautiful light tenor voice. Where it counted, however, he and Simon could have been brothers. Fusilli took care of his unit, and woe betide anyone who messed with his people. He spied Jim and Blair the moment they appeared in the hallway outside the squad room, and motioned them into his office with a curt gesture. Seating them at his conference table, he called for coffee all around, then got straight to the point.

"Banks informs me that you two are something like God's gift to police work," Fusilli said. "Now, I trust Banks, so I'm going to take him at his word. Thank you, Eddie." The young man who'd brought them coffee smiled and shut the door on his way out. "But I'm warning you right now, fuck up and I'll have your skins nailed to my wall. Clear?"

"I don't think you have anything to worry about, sir," Jim said softly, tightly. Beside him, Blair sipped his coffee with a small murmur of appreciation.

Fusilli stared silently at Jim for a few moments, sipping his own coffee. "There's been a lot of talk around the station about you two," he finally said. Jim heard Blair's soft intake of breath and stiffened. "I don't listen to rumors. I listen to facts. And the fact is you two have an excellent record. You seem to be able to make connections and dig out stuff that no one else can. I don't think I'm going out on a limb by saying you might be valuable on this case. Ellison, you especially -- since you seem to have made a favorable impression on the witness."

Jim raised one eyebrow. "Oh, so he is a witness, huh?"

Sighing, Fusilli rubbed the back of his neck. "I also don't think I'm going out on a limb to tell you the initial work on this case was fucked. A lot of what happened was pure dumb luck, and not necessarily good luck either. Initial officer on the scene, Owen, spent too much time considering the witness to be the suspect, and so allowed the scene to become damaged. That witness is now hostile to Owen, and by extension, to my men. The survivor in the car is in shock, but we hope to get a statement out of him today, when he's released from the hospital." He shook his head ruefully. "Frankly, I could use your help, especially since you were on the scene so early."

Jim looked at Blair, then took a sip of coffee. Behind his own coffee cup, Blair's lips were twitching upwards. "Well, we'll do what we can, sir. We're all in this together, after all," Jim said, ignoring the tiny snort of amusement from his partner.

"Thank you," Fusilli said. "Gibson is with the witness right now, in room four. I'd appreciate it if you could lend him a hand."

Jim stood with the captain, nodded once, and left -- Blair following.

They ran into Glover on their way to the interrogation room. Apparently bent on some territorial posturing, he immediately started in on Jim. Curiously enough, all during his lecture on 'just who's going to be in charge here,' he glared at Blair -- not at Jim, who did manage to hold his temper in check. But Blair could see the teeth grind.

Danny Oats sat in the interrogation room with Gibson and a tape recorder. When Jim and Blair came into the room, he lit up like a Christmas tree, obviously relieved to see a friendly face. Jim grinned hello at him, then gave Blair a significant look -- one that Blair interpreted to mean "Work on him, get his story, I'll deal with the Neanderthals." So Blair straddled a chair and started talking to Danny while Jim pulled the other two detectives aside and started asking them questions.

It was difficult to keep his mind split between the witness and his partner, but Blair was used to multi-tasking. And the young man was friendly -- well, to Blair and Jim anyway -- and eager to help. It was fairly simple to prod Danny for more information while listening with one ear to the conversation going on in the corner of the room. And Jim was continuing to maintain his temper, which might have been in part due to Gibson's influence. From what Blair had seen the night before, Gibson was the calmer member of the Homicide partnership.

After a while, Danny wound down; there wasn't really anything else he could remember, he said, besides what he'd told Jim the night before. He hadn't been close enough to the two cars to get a good look at the assailant, and felt bad about that.

"Hey, man, don't sweat it," Blair reassured him. "What you've been able to remember is great. And if you'd been closer, you might have gotten hurt. I'd rather have you living and talking than that."

Danny smiled shyly, "Well, okay then, Blair. Thanks. So, what happens now?"

"Well, we're going to take this tape down to be transcribed. That'll take an hour or so. Then we'll need you to read it -- and, listen up man, you read it carefully! -- and sign it. And that's it, until we catch the guy and he goes to court."

"Hittin', man!" Danny said. "You mean, I could, like, have to testify and stuff? Like Court TV?"

"Yeah, like Court TV," Blair agreed, laughing. Turning, he cleared his throat. "Um, Detectives? I believe this witness is through."

Glover turned an icy stare on him, but Gibson smiled tightly. "Oh, thanks, then, uh, Sandburg, right?"

"Yeah, that's right. Do you want me to take the tape downstairs?" The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife, and Blair really wanted to escape it. He could see Jim bristling, could practically feel the hostility rolling off him -- all aimed at Detective Glover. "Jim, man, cool it already," he murmured, soft enough so only a Sentinel could hear.

"No, I'll give it to Eddie," Gibson said, popping the tape out of the machine. "He's our department secretary. Thank you very much for coming in, Mr. Oats. Can you hang around until we get this transcribed?"

"Yeah, man, I can, I just gotta call my mom when I'm done. She works like a block from here, and she dropped me off this morning. After chewing my ass out for being out so late," Danny finished ruefully.

Blair bopped Danny lightly on the head as they both laughed. "This is what you get, man, for staying on-line all night. C'mon, I'll get you situated in the waiting room with some munchies."

When Blair returned from escorting Danny, Detective Gibson grabbed him and pointed him to the observation room next to the same interrogation room. "Your partner's in there," he said, snatching up a phone from the nearest desk and dialing. "Roy's working on Owen's statement. I just got a call from the driver and... Yeah, can I talk to Mr. Hallyard please? Detective Gibson from Cascade PD returning his call. Yeah, thanks."

Blair waved to him and proceeded to the observation room. Jim was standing in the dark room, his arms crossed, glaring through the glass at Glover and Owen. With an irritated look, Blair grabbed and shook him by the shoulder. "Chill, man," he said softly. "Quit letting that asshole get to you."

"It's cops like these that give the department a bad name," Jim replied in a disgusted tone, dismissing the two men sitting in the other room. "Owen is just dumber than dirt. And I'll bet he'll never really understand why he'll be walking a beat for the rest of his natural life."

"Either that or he'll end up your boss some day," Blair said wryly. "Don't forget the Peter Principle."

Jim shot him a dirty look. "Don't even dream that, junior," he growled. They turned their attention back to the room.

"So you were on the cell phone?" Glover was asking. The tape recorder was going again, and he was also taking notes.

"Yes, sir," Owen replied. "I was on my cell phone with my brother, Mick. He's got a beat that adjoins mine."

"All right, continue," Glover said shortly.

"At approximately two-thirty-five a.m., I heard the shots coming from the direction in which I was headed. As I turned east onto Fowler, I observed a car resting perpendicular to the roadway, with what appeared to be bullet holes in the trunk. I pulled into the parking lot of the 7-11 directly across from the scene and emerged from my vehicle."

"Did you observe any other vehicle as you rounded the corner?" Glover asked.

"No, sir."

"Fine. Continue."

"Since my cell phone was still live, my brother heard the situation, and began calling for backup for me," Owen said. "At that time, I observed a young black male attempting to flee the scene. I shouted for him to stop, pulled my sidearm and fired into the air. He stopped and I proceeded to cuff him. At that point, Detectives Ellison and Sandburg approached..."

"He's not a detective," Glover growled.

Blair put his hand on Jim's upper arm. Owen faltered in his recitation and said, "Excuse me?"

"Sandburg. He's not even a fucking cop. Never mind. Did you approach the vehicle?"

"No, sir, Detectives, I mean, Ellison and his -- partner went to the vehicle. When Detective Ellison returned, he confirmed with me that an ambulance had been dispatched and stated that the passenger in the vehicle appeared to be dead. At approximately two-forty a.m., my brother, Officer Mick Owen, arrived on scene, and shortly after that, the ambulance arrived along with other backup."

"Good. Keep going." Blair gently kneaded Jim's iron-hard biceps as they continued to listen, but neither said a thing.

"While I secured the area, I observed Detective Ellison speaking to my suspect. For some reason, he didn't consider the young man to be a suspect, even after I told him I'd caught the perp fleeing the scene."

"What made you think your suspect was the perpetrator?" Glover asked, totally disinterested.

"It was late, I had heard gunshots, and observed a young black man fleeing. That was enough probable cause for me."

Jim made a disgusted noise and said, "I've heard enough. Come on." Rolling his eyes, Blair -- once again -- followed his partner out of the room.

Gibson had set up a meeting with the driver of the car for one o'clock, which left them with a bit less than an hour for lunch. Neither of the two Homicide detectives asked -- and neither Jim nor Blair offered -- to eat lunch together, and Jim felt it was definitely time for a change of scene. He and Blair went back up to Major Crimes, and while Jim checked his messages and his email, Blair went to find something for them to eat. Fortunately, Simon had anticipated them, waving them into his office and providing sandwiches. Jim dug into his and, with his mouth full, said, "Have I told you lately that I love you, Simon?"

Simon rolled his eyes. "No, and I'd appreciate your keeping that to yourself, Detective. I figured you would have had a rough morning with the Bobbsey Twins downstairs, plus I wanted to find out how it was going."

Jim had just taken another huge bite, and waved to Blair to talk. "It's going," he answered sourly. "Those two are total cavemen, Simon. How on earth have they managed to stay employed this long?"

Simon sighed and took a swig of his drink. "I think you, of all people, should understand tenure, Sandburg. Those two have got it, and we're stuck with them. Glover especially -- but he's got to be getting close to his twenty-five years. Unless they screw up and do something heinous enough to land them in jail, they'll be here until retirement. And may God will that it be soon."

"Gibson's not too bad, sir," Jim said quietly. "But Glover is a total horse's ass. If it weren't for the fact that the forensic evidence completely contradicts his involvement, he'd be burying our only other eye-witness." Simon shook his head and took another bite of his sandwich. "By the way, Chief," Jim continued, looking through the wrappings on the table for a pickle, "I meant to thank you for handling Danny's interrogation. You probably got more out of him than either of those two apes would have." Jim looked up to find both of his friends frozen in the act of eating and staring at him. "What?" he said irritably. "I can't find the pickle."

"I didn't get one," Simon said, putting down his sandwich. "Sandburg, did I just hear him right?"

Frowning and scratching the back of his neck, Blair said, "Yeah, you did."

"Maybe you should take him home. I don't think he's feeling well," Simon continued, looking closely at Jim, who scowled.

"Look, I'm getting enough grief out of jerks today, okay? I don't need more from you two," Jim grumped, then took another bite of his sandwich. Was it really that rarely that he thanked Blair for something?

By one o'clock they were back at it again. The driver of the vehicle, Josh Hallyard, came in to the station along with his sister, Kristin. He was still pretty distraught, even after spending the night in the hospital under sedation; one look at his ravaged young face had Jim trying to convince Gibson to let Blair handle the statement.

"Look, he's good with this," Jim urged. "He can get the guy calmed down so he'll talk better. You know what'll happen if your partner gets to him."

While Blair watched from the sidelines -- too surprised to interfere -- Gibson shook his head and scowled. "All right, all right. Lemme see what I can do."

What he could do, it turned out, was to have all four of them in the interview room, and let Blair take the lead. Glover stood in a corner and glowered, his sour, pudgy face reflecting his displeasure at events. Jim and Blair sat at the table across from the Hallyards, the tape recorder on, and Gibson took up a position by the window.

Speaking softly, Blair started in. "Hey, Mr. Hallyard, Josh, I'm Blair Sandburg. I'm a civilian consultant to the department. This is Detective Jim Ellison, my partner, and over there is Detective Glover, and this is his partner, Detective Gibson. I know this is really hard for you, but we need to get everything we can as soon as possible; every little scrap of information could be essential. Do you understand that?"

Josh lifted his head and his anguished eyes looked into Blair's. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. I wanna get this guy, Mr. Sandburg," he said quietly, his voice thick.

His sister wrapped one arm around his shoulders and whispered, "Oh, Josh, it'll be okay," then also looked at Blair, who reached out his hand to grasp Josh's forearm.

"Call me Blair, please. And we are going to get him. Miss Hallyard?" he asked, looking at the girl.

She straightened and flipped her hair over her shoulder. Her eyes were red-rimmed and filled with pain as well. "Kristin, please," she replied.

"Kristin," Blair turned to her with his best understanding, sympathetic smile, "are you all right staying here while your brother talks about this? You can't interrupt, you know; the tape is official and will be transcribed."

"No, I'm fine, I understand. I can stay?"

"Of course you can. You ready, Josh?" Behind him, Jim heard Glover shifting from foot to foot, impatiently, and began to consider casually rising and moving to gently wrap an electrical cord around the damn detective's fat neck.

The statement was an ordeal for all concerned. Kristin was openly sobbing into Jim's handkerchief before it was over, and Josh also had tears running down his face. Blair allowed both of them to grip his hands during most of it, and was, to Jim's eyes, just as upset as they were by the end of it.

Josh Hallyard and Jannel Patterson had been engaged for two months and couldn't have been happier. But when they announced that engagement to his parents the night before, the Hallyards had not been pleased over their son marrying someone Not Like Them -- not, in other words, a white girl from an upper-middle-class family. This was a nasty surprise for the young couple; ever since Kristin had introduced them, they'd taken flak from people who still believed different races shouldn't mix, but they'd never expected such hostility from their own families. Heated words were exchanged, and the formerly happy couple left the house in tears.

They drove for a couple of hours down the coast, to a favorite pull-off spot of theirs, and just talked for a long time. Finally, at about one in the morning, they figured they'd better get back. It was around 2:30 or so, when they pulled off I-90 onto Ocean Drive, cutting through the deserted streets of Cascade, on their way to Jannel's house, when a small, sporty car, white or beige -- Josh was pretty sure was an older model Ford hatchback -- came screaming out of nowhere to swerve around them. He remembered one of the headlights -- the right one, he thought -- was out. The car passed him and then slowed down, and tried to cut him off while the driver waved his fist and screamed at him from behind his window. Jannel was scared, but Josh told her just to ignore the idiot.

But the guy would not be ignored. He followed them, cutting in front and behind them, trying to get Josh to chase him or something. Josh went faster and faster, trying to avoid the lunatic, who by then had his window down and was screaming obscenities at them. As he screeched a right turn onto Fowler, Josh heard popping sounds; suddenly, the glass on the passenger side window shattered, and his car shook with other impacts from the rear. The car skidded out of control, spun once, and came to rest against the curb in front of the 7-11's parking lot. His door flew open as the front end of the car nearly went into the pavement, and Jannel's body flopped into his. The next thing he remembered clearly was waking up in the hospital.

Josh made a good witness, and was able to fill in a lot of blanks in what had happened. He was also pretty sure he could describe the man who had shot into his car and killed his fiancee well enough for a police sketch artist to draw.

Turning the tape recorder off, Blair worked to calm the two young people down while Jim conferred with Gibson and a reluctant Glover. "We'll need interviews with both sets of parents," Gibson said quietly. "And I'd like to get the sister's statement too, since she was at the announcement and had introduced them."

"Yeah, that's good," Glover said, and Jim nodded. "It does sound like a random shooting, I guess, Ellison," he admitted, grudgingly.

Jim nodded, overlooking the reluctance of the admission. "Let's get Hernandez and her pad up here to talk to the kid," he said. "The sooner we get a sketch, the sooner we can find this bastard."

It was just after three o'clock by the time the sketch artist had her drawing. Gibson and Fusilli took it to make copies and fax out to the wire services, Fusilli making the announcement to the press. Jim was beginning to burn out, and he could tell Blair wasn't much better. They waited for Gibson, Blair perched on a nearby desk and Jim standing just in front of him.

Glover came over with a list of names and addresses in a manila folder. "Okay, I've got appointments with the Hallyard kid's parents, and I'll keep trying the deceased's family, but I should be able to get to them by tomorrow. They were both students at the U, so we'll have to go over and canvass for their friends and stuff."

Jim glanced at Sandburg, who nodded. "Yeah, I agree, and since this guy was out so late, maybe a check of various bars along Ocean would be a good idea too. Maybe he was hanging at a bar beforehand."

Grimacing sourly, Glover said, "Yeah, I guess that's a good idea; there are a lot of little rinky-dink places down by Ocean and I-90."

"As for the University, Sandburg and I can --"

Glover cut Jim off abruptly. "You'll do what I tell you to do, Ellison," he snapped. "Remember who's in charge of this operation. We're gonna keep it professional, here," he added, glaring again at Blair.

Frowning, Jim fought to contain the anger that had been simmering in him most of the day. "I understand you're in charge, Glover, I was just saying that Sandburg and I have --"

Slamming the folder he carried on the nearest desk, causing those around him to jump, Glover went off. "This is not a fucking field trip, Detective," he ground out, clearly losing it. "This is a murder investigation. I don't know -- and I don't care -- how Banks runs his ship, but down here, we keep work and --" he sneered at Blair "-- play separate from each other."

That was it. Jim felt his blood boil and his fists clench, and he literally saw red. But before he could even so much as twitch a nerve in his jaw, he was shoved aside by his short, furiously snarling bantam-weight partner, who proceeded to get right into Glover's face. "Oh, I have HAD it with you, man!" Blair spat, poking the slightly taller man in the chest with one finger. "You listen up and you listen well, my friend. I may not carry a gun and shield, but I earn a goddamn paycheck here the same as you do. I may not have twenty-five years' worth of donuts under my belt, but I've been a part of this force for four years, and I know what I'm doing. If you have something to say about my abilities or lack thereof, you say it to me. Not to my partner, not to my captain -- to me. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

Blair backed Glover up until he was trapped by a desk behind him. Glover's face was red and his jaw was working, but before he could get a word out, a soft voice floated over the tableau. "Just what the hell is going on here?" Captain Fusilli asked.

Glover backed off somewhat, but Blair didn't move. In the same low, growling tone he'd used to ream out Glover, he replied, "Just a little misunderstanding, Captain. But I think I've encouraged Detective Glover to see a different side to it."

"I see." Fusilli approached the two men, taking in the appearance of both, then turned a frown on Glover. "My office, Glover. Right now."

Glaring back at Blair, Glover followed his captain. As soon as the door closed behind them, Blair deflated like a day-old balloon and shook his head. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," he muttered under his breath. Jim put one hand under his hair around his neck, and gave him a little shake.

"You were brilliant, Chief," he said softly. "That was just what that asshole needed."

"I let my temper get the best of me, Jim," Blair murmured, slumping back into the hand on his neck.

"So? So did he. Sometimes, that's what's needed, a show of strength," Jim continued, herding them out of the Homicide squad room. "I mean, normally -- most days -- I'm very glad to have opposable thumbs, you know, but there sure are times when I think those animals you see on the Discovery channel have the right idea. And this is one of them, Chief."

"Oh, so what, now you're going to start calling me Tarzan?" Blair's voice was exhausted, but Jim could hear the tiniest spark of humor in there.

"Just don't start swinging from the loft railing, okay, Cheetah?" he replied blandly, opening the door to the stairwell for his partner.

Blair started up the stairs, shaking his head. "I think I preferred Tarzan, man."

Half-way up the flight of steps, Jim reached out and grabbed Blair's arm. Without protest, Blair allowed himself to be pulled into a hug, returning it as well. "Tarzan or Cheetah, Chief. Makes no difference to me," Jim murmured.

"Makes a difference to Glover," Blair said from his spot buried deep in Jim's neck.

Jim cocked his head a bit, then smirked. "Maybe, but he'd better not say it any more. Fusilli is ripping him a new one as we speak."

Blair barked in laughter. "Oh, man, that is like so unethical."

"Maybe, but fun," Jim replied. Blair yawned, and Jim ruffled his hair fondly. "You're exhausted, Sandburg. Go home, catch some z's. Make your pet wildman some dinner."

Turning in Jim's arms, Blair continued to trudge up the steps. "You sure, man?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," Jim said, following. "I'm pretty whacked too. I'm going to make some calls, follow up on a couple of leads, and go home myself. We're not going to do anything else on the murder case today." Then he stopped and smacked himself in the forehead. "Except we came in together. Oh, never mind, take the truck."

Blair held the door open for Jim this time, laughing. "No, no, man, it's what, three-thirty? Shift change downstairs. I can get a ride with somebody. Besides, you might need the truck."

"You sure?" Jim asked.

Blair nodded and smiled. "Yeah, I'm sure. Come home soon, Jane. Tarzan will be waiting with foraged berries."

Jim aimed a half-hearted smack at Blair's head, but missed.