An Artistic Endeavor      An Artistic Endeavor

 by Janice R. Sager

  

 Author's website: http://www.zianet.com/jsager

 Disclaimer: 

 Author's Notes: A big thank you kindly to Beth over on RSGS for
challenging me to write a gen peice featuring Turnbull.

 Story Notes: A Turnbull Tale!

 

 

 "I have an assignment for you, Constable. A real assignment. Doing real
police work." Meg Thatcher glared importantly up at the tall man as he
drew himself to sharp attention. Oh, Lord but she wished Fraser were here
and not off recovering from being shot in the leg. 

 Again. 

 "This is a very delicate matter. If you mess it up, Constable, you could
easily find yourself cashiered so fast your head will be spinning for a
week. Do you understand me?" 

 The bright blue eyes blinked in veiled alarm. "Yes, Sir!" 

 "All right..." She really wished Fraser was here. If there was a
possibility of screwing things up, then Turnbull was sure to do it. 

 The man was more than competent when handling the Consulate computers and
the intricacies of the various forms they must deal with daily, better
even than Ovitz who was supposed to be such an expert at it. The expert
had given up and transferred back to Ottawa after only two weeks of
dealing with the mess Moffatt had left in his wake. It had been Turnbull
who'd risen to the challenge and reorganized everything. It had even been
reorganized correctly. 

 But this... Well, there was no help for it. How much trouble could he get
in by knocking on the girl's door? 

 She shuddered at the thought. 

 "Sir?" he questioned hesitantly, and she realized he was still waiting
for her to dictate the requirements of his assignment. 

 "The daughter of the Canadian Finance Minister may, I repeat, may be
missing," she explained. 

 "Missing, ma'am?" 

 "Missing," she repeated. "She's an Art Major at the University of
Chicago. Apparently, she and her father had a major disagreement over the
phone last week and he has been unable to reach her since. Whenever he
calls her dorm, he only gets a recording. Her roommate refuses to return
his calls. I suggested contacting the University Police but he doesn't
want any kind of 'official' involvement. He seemed to be concerned that
she might have formed, as he termed it, 'an inappropriate liaison'." 

 "Inappropriate, ma'am?" 

 "He doesn't seem to be particularly fond of Americans, Turnbull. I
suspect any liaison with an American boy, innocent or not, would be seen
as 'inappropriate'." She sighed heavily and then drew herself up straight.
"Be that as it may, it's not our mandate to police the girl's friendships
or romantic assignations, no matter what her father might wish. He has,
however, expressed a legitimate concern as to her welfare. And even if he
isn't going through normal channels, we are duty bound to assist him, at
least in assuring that his daughter is safe and well. If you can manage to
convince her to phone her father that would be even better." 

 "Begging the Inspector's pardon," Turnbull offered conspiratorially, "but
I don't think it's in our mandate to keep track of university students
either." 

 Meg offered her subordinate officer a rather impatient glare. "He's the
Canadian Finance Minister, Turnbull," she answered coolly. "If he wants
the RCMP to knock on his daughter's dorm door, then the RCMP will knock on
her door. Clear?" 

 "Yes, Sir." 

 "Good." She nodded and slapped a folder containing the pertinent
information into his hand. "You have your orders. I'll expect a positive
resolution to this by tonight. Dismissed."  

 By tonight? Oh dear... 

 Quickly, Turnbull made his way to his desk and, without bothering to sit
down, opened the folder he'd been handed . The contents were skewed about
inside and were out of order, evidence of the fact that Inspector Thatcher
had felt rushed to put it together. She was normally a very meticulous
person. If she were feeling rushed, he reasoned, then he should be feeling
near panic! He deftly straightened and reorganized the sheets of paper
even as he scanned them. 

 Arleen Schlemiel: 23 years old, studying for her Master of Arts in Arts
Administration. 

 An Artist. Did she prefer Classical or Impressionistic styles, he
wondered. Perhaps he'd even seen some of her work at the University of
Chicago. There was a gallery there which was dedicated to showcasing the
work of talented students. He couldn't remember seeing her name. It was
even possible he'd even passed her when making his weekly visit to one of
the many galleries or museums that were scattered throughout the Greater
Chicago area. 

 No picture. A copy of her student visa. There was a brief description of
the fight that she and her father had gotten into. Hmmm... 

 6011 South Ingleside Ave, #4. 

 Ingleside, Ingleside... He quickly reviewed a mental map of Chicago. The
city was set up on a grid system, centered at the intersection of State
and Madison. It was a quite ingenious and simple system really. There was
a major street every half mile, the equivalent of four blocks. Each street
was numbered as so many blocks east/west or north/south of the
intersection of State and Madison, with the addresses increasing by one
hundred as you moved further from the epicenter of State and Madison. So,
6011 South Ingleside Ave meant that Ingleside Ave was 60 blocks south of
Madison and State. Hmm... he needed the closest cross street to pin it
down exactly as to how far it was east or west but, assuming she lived in
on-campus housing (which given that the Inspector had referred to a dorm
door, he felt was safe to do) then 60 blocks due south should be the south
side of the University of Chicago's campus. The Green Line of the "L"
should go right by there. The Randolph/Walbash station was only two blocks
east of the Consulate. 

 Yes, well, that would be the place to start. 

 He closed the now neat folder and laid it carefully to the side, having
memorized everything within it. Then he frowned at his desk. There were
still several reports needing to be input to the computer. A few of them
then needed to be faxed, e-mailed or snail-mailed to Ottawa... He glanced
toward the front door where he knew Constable Sterling stood sentry duty. 

 The 'Yutz in a hat', Turnbull remembered Detective Vecchio referring to
him once. A search of an Oxford Dictionary had failed to turn up the
meaning of 'yutz', but Turnbull didn't think it was meant as a
complimentary appellation. Even Constable Fraser didn't seem to care for
him, and Turnbull wasn't quite sure why. Having pulled up and printed the
man's personnel record for Inspector Thatcher, Ren knew it read like
something out of a spy novel. 

 He blushed slightly at the memory, knowing he shouldn't have read the
record as it was printing. Having the ability to read at over 15,000 words
a minute made not doing so quite difficult. 

 Constable Sterling was a highly decorated officer, having served in
Bosnia and Switzerland with Canadian UN Peace Keeping Forces. Turnbull
wasn't exactly sure why he'd been sent to Chicago... After all, such duty
was not normally considered advantageous for a young man who was obviously
on the 'fast track' to becoming a commissioned officer. Nor was there any
mention of an injury from which he might be recovering. The man in fact
appeared to be in superior health, cutting a very dashing presence indeed
in his red serge uniform as he stood guard. Which was undoubtedly why
Inspector Thatcher had assigned him the duty so often over the last few
weeks. Turnbull had been given little opportunity to speak to the man
because of it. 

 With a shrug, he put the irrelevant questions from his mind and turned to
retrieve his Stetson. He paused a moment to offer the picture of the queen
on the wall a proud smile. Ah, but it felt good to actually be asked to do
some real police work for once. Well, not that he was sure simply knocking
on a dorm door could really be classified as police work but it did get
him out from behind his desk. Not that he minded working behind the desk.
After all, paperwork was as important to good policing efforts as... Not
that the Consulate was a police station, of course. Most of his paperwork
involved filing marriage licences and visa requests, but it was important
to the people requesting that it be filed and as a public servant who was
dedicated to helping others in whatever way possible, that made it
important to him as well. 

 "Oh dear..." The Queen's portrait was crooked again. 

 He quickly readjusted it, making a mental note to check out the hanging
wire when he had a chance. Perhaps there was a kink in the metal which
gave it a tendency to... 

 He had already moved to the door and swung it open. He stepped back
quickly as an older man moved to enter. "Welcome to Canada, Sir!" Turnbull
greeted him brightly. 

 "Bathroom?" the older man inquired curtly. 

 "Through the conference room, second door to the left. The bathroom is
the door on the..." He paused a moment to orient himself. The road ran
north and south, so, "...northwest corner of the room." He again offered a
friendly smile, quite pleased with himself to have been able to provide
clear directions. 

 "Thanks." 

 He turned to where Constable Sterling stood immobile to the left of the
steps. "At ease, Constable," he ordered crisply. It still felt strange to
be issuing orders. Ren was the Temporary Assistant Interim Associate
Deputy Liaison Officer and technically the other man's superior, but it
wasn't a position he was comfortable with. He dismissed his unease and
tried to assume a properly authoritative air. "I have to leave and need
you to man the reception desk in my absence. I can't explain and don't
know when I'll be back. It's all quite hush-hush." He had lowered his
voice in a conspiratorial manner and now tapped the side of his nose with
his index finger before standing upright again and continuing in a more
normal tone of voice. "In any case, I've already prepared a nice
Vichyssoise Glacee for the Inspector's lunch. It's in the refrigerator.
The serving tray on the counter is already polished and ready to go. Add a
couple of slices of fresh mango and a glass of iced tea with a sprig of
mint, and you're all set. Hopefully, I'll be back before dinner. If not,
and if she should choose to work late, you'll find all the ingredients you
need to whip up a fine Caesar salad. Oh, and there's a Creme Brulee in a
covered container behind the Vichyssoise." 

 He paused in thought for a second, trying to think if he'd forgotten to
tell the man anything important... 

 "Oh, yes. The Inspector has a high level telephone conference scheduled
for one. Other than that, there's just a little filing that needs to be
done. Pretty basic stuff, really: Answer the phone, take messages, help
the needy and feed the Inspector. I'm sure you can handle it." 

 "Yes, Sir," the other man responded simply. 

 Was that a hint of derision Turnbull heard in his tone? No, he had to be
imagining it. 

 The door beside them opened again and the man from earlier stuck his head
out. "The toilet's clogged," he told them. 

 "Ah," Turnbull nodded sagely. Such things happened. He gestured the other
red clad man inside to address it. "Constable." 

 Was that panic Ren saw in his eyes for a moment? Ridiculous. Turnbull
offered a friendly nod to both men as he settled his Stetson firmly in
place, then turned to hurry down the steps. Constable Sterling had faced
machine guns and armed rebels in Bosnia! Why should a plugged toilet
frighten him?  

 The "L" was surprisingly crowded for one o'clock on a Thursday afternoon.
Or, perhaps it wasn't. Turnbull was a regular commuter but rarely used the
mass transit system at midday so he really couldn't say if it was
surprising or not. 

 Belatedly, he realized that he probably should have changed out of his
uniform before embarking on his quest. Ren was quite proud of his uniform
and all it stood for but really preferred the anonymity of commuting in
civilian attire when possible. Normally, he kept his uniforms at the
Consulate so as to avoid this very situation. Dressed in jeans and
pull-over shirt, he blended quite unremarkably with the other pedestrians
or passengers. Also, the Inspector had specifically stated that the
Minister of Finance didn't want any official involvement - although,
perhaps he'd merely been referring to involvement of non-Canadian
officials as simply by requesting their help he was in actuality
requesting official... 

 Ren glanced up to see an older woman glaring at him. 

 "Mrs. Podruchny," he greeted her with a smile, realizing as he did that
he'd inadvertently taken her normal seat. He rose immediately, naturally,
offering her his place. 

 Her eyes raked the uniform as she moved around him. "Shoulda stayed in
college!" she muttered with a heavy Slavic accent. "Waste your parent's
money..." 

 His smile became slightly strained as he tried to make sense of this
rather incomprehensible comment and what might have prompted it. 

 "Excuse me," a weary and annoyed voice behind him demanded attention. 

 He turned to see a mother carrying her child in one arm and a collapsible
stroller in the other. The reek from the diaper hit him like a physical
blow. Hastily, he squeezed himself to the side so she could pass, which
meant that he bumped into Mrs. Podruchny as she was using a handkerchief
to dust the seat he'd given up. She let out a grunt as she fell to one
knee. The woman with the child paid neither of them the slightest bit of
attention as she shoved her way past. Turnbull had to react quickly,
flinging his arm to the side to keep his Stetson from being crushed behind
him. 

 Naturally, it hit Mrs. Podruchny. 

 "I'm sorry!" he quickly apologized, helping her up. "I'm so sorry. Are
you alright?" 

 The car suddenly jerked forward and he very nearly fell on her, losing
his solicitous grip on her arm so that she plopped down in the seat with
more force than her old bones wanted to endure. 

 She glared up at him again and cursed him soundly in Russian. 

 Ren pasted a distressed smile in place, pretending not to understand.
Such language from a grand-motherly figure was simply shocking! 

 An older man across the aisle eyed him from head to toe. "You could be
arrested for wearing that in Canada," he commented with a frown. 

 Turnbull glanced to his other side even as he straightened and grabbed an
overhead strap to steady himself. "I beg your pardon?" 

 "The uniform," the older man specified. "It's illegal to impersonate a
Mountie in Canada. You could be arrested." 

 "Oh!" Turnbull nodded and pasted another friendly smile in place. He was
suddenly the center of attention in the car. Not that he hadn't been
before, he knew, but people were openly staring and listening in now. "I'm
not... That is, I am a Mountie." 

 "You're a Mountie..." the man repeated, in obvious disbelief. "You know
what The Caution is?" 

 "Of course!" Turnbull replied, knowing he was being tested. "It's similar
to your Miranda Warning, but not exactly. Our laws are different from
yours. I'm surprised an American would know what it is." 

 "I retired from the RCMP ten years ago," the man across from him replied.
"I'm just visiting my daughter. 'Thought you were a college student in
costume for a play of some kind or other. What're you doing down here?
Extradition?" 

 "Oh, no," Turnbull shook his head, slightly embarrassed to think he might
be mistaken for someone performing such a serious duty. "I work at the
Consulate." 

 "Hey, I seen you before!" A different passenger from further down the car
suddenly spoke up. "Your picture was in the paper with that big ATF
scandal, the one where they were running guns from someone up in Canada,
right?" 

 Turnbull ducked his head, feeling himself blush again as he was mistaken
for Constable Fraser. At least the man hadn't remembered that the "someone
up in Canada" who'd been helping the corrupt ATF agents was actually an
equally corrupt Mountie. That would have been even more embarrassing! "I'm
sorry, no. You'd be thinking of Constable Fraser. He's the Deputy Liaison
Officer for the Consulate. I'm only the Temporary Assistant Interim
Associate Deputy Liaison Officer." 

 "Someone actually got paid to think up that title, eh?" The man across
from him shook his head. "I've never heard of the RCMP working at a
Consulate before. Those are part of the diplomatic corps." 

 "Yes, Sir," Turnbull answered. "Chicago is part of a trial initiative
enabling the federal and local policing services of our two countries to
better interrelate on matters of mutual security more efficiently." 

 The man shook his head and turned his attention back to his paper. "Huh.
Just another way for Ottawa to spend our taxes." 

 Turnbull felt his smile falter slightly but manfully maintained his
polite and friendly facade. 

 Mrs. Podruchny laughed. "And here I was thinking you'd become doorman!" 

 Ah, Turnbull thought as he awarded her a polite smile in turn, not sure
what to say in response. It did at least explain her comment about
dropping out of college. 

 "Why I never see you in uniform before?" she asked with a frown. 

 "I... I-" 

 "--Forget it," she told him, levering herself back up. The car was
lurching to a halt at the next station. "I get off now. Not like in the
mornings. Argh, these doctors. They tell me to take it easy because of the
arthritis and then make me to run all over town for the testing. You'll
tell me some other time, yes?" 

 "Of course, Mrs. Podruchny," he smiled more genuinely. The arthritis
explained her temper earlier. Poor woman, he thought, and helped support
her as she stepped from the car. He felt doubly bad for the inadvertent
hit which had sent her to her knees earlier. "Are you sure you're okay? I
didn't hurt you, did I, when I-" 

 The woman clucked her tongue and waved it off, calling back, "I'm fine.
Strong and healthy. What do doctors know, eh? They get paid to tell you
you're sick!" 

 Ren was forced to step back as those wishing to board pressed forward. He
turned away, grabbing for his strap again and squeezing himself to the
side so others could get by. He made a mental note to make her some
homemade Klubnika so Slivkami. He could easily carry the hard candy with
him and give it to her next time they ran into each other. 

 "Joshua!" a young woman scolded her child even as Ren felt himself bumped
about the knees. He glanced down to see a towheaded young boy trying to
squirm away from his mother's confining hold on his hand. The other
hand... "I'm sorry," the woman offered perfunctorily and dragged the child
to a seat, scolding him as she went. The child couldn't hear her. He was
too busy protesting the loss of his ice cream, now smeared across
Turnbull's pants and laying at his feet in a wet, sticky puddle. Ren
glanced up in chagrin, not missing the irony of the situation as his eyes
clashed with the 'no eating or drinking' sign. 

 The retired Mountie opposite him merely shook his head and chuckled.
"Glad those are your boots and not mine!" 

 "Oh dear..." Ren sighed.  

 Ren was not particularly happy about the condition of either his jodhpurs
or his boots as he left the public restroom at the 55th and Garfield
Station, but there was nothing more he could do about either of them at
the moment. The pants weren't a problem. They were merely a little wet and
would dry quickly. However, in his enthusiasm to get the sticky ice cream
off the carefully polished leather of his boots, he'd... Well, he'd used
too much water. He hadn't meant to use any water, except that needed to
dampen some paper towels. Unfortunately, the quality of the towels was
such that they all but dissolved when he applied them to the task, which
only served to make the sticky mess even worse! And then, while he was
attempting to correct this new mess, a rather... erm, a very inebriated
individual had come in and started ranting and raving about Chicago
putting in paid toilet stalls. He'd demanded that Ren let him use a stall
or he'd urinate on the floor! 

 Ren had tried to tell him that the stalls were free - he couldn't begin
to understand why the man thought they weren't - but the man was far too
drunk to listen and continued to rail against the injustices of the system
even as he fought to lower his zipper. 

 Ren had quickly pushed a stall door open and all but shoved the man
inside. He then turned, ignoring the man's crowing delight at besting a
"damn government flunky - why don't you get a real job!", and saw that the
sink he'd been standing before was plugged with dissolved paper towels. In
fact, it was in danger of overflowing; but, what was worse, was that the
bottom four inches of his boot, which he'd dropped when the drunk began
yelling at him, was submerged. 

 He now "squished" when he walked, which was hardly a laudable sound for a
Mountie to make! It would take him hours to clean and dry them properly;
days possibly, unless he wanted to risk the leather drying too fast and
cracking. Nor did he have a spare set. The red serge and boots were
normally reserved for state occasions and special ceremonies, but because
of the experimental nature of the RCMP posting in Chicago it was deemed
necessary that they present a highly visible and recognizable profile,
meaning that they were required to wear the dress uniform on an almost
daily basis - with the exception of Inspector Thatcher, of course. Her job
was of a more diplomatic nature and it was deemed that the uniform might
actually get in the way of such endeavors. 

 Ren needed to invest in a second set of boots but knew his uniform
allowance wouldn't cover it. He'd have to pay for them himself. 

 Setting his Stetson firmly on his head as he left the station, he
purposed to put such self-pitying thoughts from his mind. He had a job to
do. If he wanted the Inspector to be in the mood to overlook the sound of
one of her junior officer's boots "squeaking" when he walked tomorrow, he
needed to resolve this case as quickly and efficiently as possible. It
took him only a moment to orient himself. He could grab the number
fifty-five and then transfer to the number four at Cottage Grove... but he
decided he'd had quite enough adventure on the Chicago Transit Authority's
bus lines for the day, thank you kindly. He didn't have to worry about
children with ice cream cones or exploding diapers if he was walking.
Besides, it was a beautiful - he frowned up at the heavily clouded sky,
the low scudding clouds dashing eastward on a brisk and cold wind, and
amended the thought - it was a crisp autumnal day, and he could use the
fresh air. 

 His pants would dry faster. 

 What was a child doing eating ice cream on such a... He shook his head
and dismissed the thought before setting out due east, thru Washington
Park.  

 The address he wanted, 6011 Ingleside Ave, turned out to be one wing of a
large, old brick building located just southwest of the very modern steel
and glass School for Social Services Administration Building, which itself
was located due south across the Midway Plaisance from the University of
Chicago Hospital. It had been a very pleasant walk, actually, despite the
five minutes he'd spent chasing his hat when a rather strong gust had
knocked it from his head. A helpful student who was burdened down with
books and a broken backpack had stopped its flight by stepping on the
brim. The damage had been minimal and most of the dirt had brushed right
off... 

 The Scotch Guard he'd applied last week really helped. 

 He tucked the item carefully under his arm before entering the building.
The layout was quite simple. There were only two apartments on each floor;
therefore it was simple enough to realize he needed the second floor of
the three story walk-up. 

 The building was actually quite old, he judged. From the architecture,
he'd estimate it was built somewhere after the turn of the century. Given
that the University was founded in 1890, it couldn't be much sooner than
that, nor did it have the English Gothic touches that were a hallmark of
many of the truly older buildings on campus. The interior looked as if it
had been remodeled; perhaps shifting purposes as well as the campus
expanded and newer buildings were used to house classrooms. Judging by the
narrow, wood doors with their tilting window casements above them; the
narrow stairways; the use of broad, plain moldings and the old cast-iron
radiators for heating, he'd estimate the current remodeling to have been
done in the 1950s. 

 It was in surprisingly good condition for its age. There was nary a
squeak on the treads as he made his way upward. His professionally trained
eye noted the old but working light fixtures, the antique knockers on the
doors, the solid fittings of the brass doorknobs and decided it was fairly
secure as well. There were no hidden alcoves or shadowed doorways in which
a malfeasant might lurk in wait and a scream should easily be heard. The
likelihood of a kidnaping occurring within these halls was quite slim. 

 If Ms. Schlemiel were indeed missing, it was unlikely she'd been abducted
against her will, at least from this location. 

 The apartment he wanted was on the east side of the second landing.
Squaring his shoulders and wondering if all would be for naught should the
lady in question open the door, he lifted his hand and knocked. Well, his
assignment would have been completed very quickly, he thought, hoping it
would be so simple. 

 The door was jerked violently open. "It's about time you-" 

 The woman who answered the door stopped in mid-tirade to stare at him in
surprise. She blinked, letting her gaze rake him from head to toe."Don't
you think it would have been smarter for her father to call the local
authorities?" 

 "Um- Possibly?" Ren answered hesitantly, feeling strangely like he'd
started a conversation in the middle. 

 Of course, the sight of the very bald woman before him might also account
for his lack of verbal skills. Her lipstick was a deep red and her eyes
were rimmed with heavy kohl, making her face appear paler than it was. Her
attire, by contrast, was surprisingly conservative: a matching, tailored
pantsuit of powdered mauve over a sheer white stretch-lace turtleneck with
faux pearl earrings and necklace. 

 The woman leaned to the side and offered the short hall and stairwell
behind him a glance. "I don't suppose you saw a teen-something Goth girl
heading in this direction, did you?" 

 Renfield was at a total loss as to what she was talking about. "A
teen-something... Goth..?" he repeated, with an intensely confused and
pensive frown. 

 "Gothic. Looks like a vampire, all dressed in black? Clothes, lipstick,
hair..." She rolled her eyes and sighed wearily. "Hell, a vampire probably
has more coloring than she does. I take it you didn't see her?" 

 "Uh, no..." he admitted, nearly stammering the simple word as he tried to
picture someone wearing black lipstick. Apparently, he needed to get out
more. 

 "Coffee?" she suddenly asked, turning away and heading toward another
room while leaving the door open in apparent invitation. "I just got in,"
she called over her shoulder even as she disappeared through an open
archway. 

 Ren glanced around the small two bedroom apartment as he stepped inside
and shut the door behind him, unsure what the question and comment had to
do with each other. He ignored the comment and answered the question. "No,
thank you," he called back. 

 The apartment was quite large by dormitory standards; not at all like the
one-room shared efficiency dorm he'd known during his one year of
university before deciding to join the RCMP. The living room was about ten
by fifteen, he estimated, and a third of that space was dedicated to an
old dinning room table which was covered in stacks of books and papers. A
small computer desk sat behind it, where one of the chairs obviously did
double duty. The walls were covered with artwork, most of it original, and
all of it very eclectic: a Picasso-like study of a cat, a black and white
winter pastoral scene in ink, a poster of Leonardo DeVinci's anatomy of
man, a photographic negative image of a lighthouse in a storm... 

 "You like it?" the woman reappeared and leaned against the kitchnette
archway, sipping a cup of coffee. 

 "Oh, yes!" he enthused. "It's a fascinating study of light and shadow,
the after image flash on the retina if you will, capturing the sound more
than the sight. I can practically hear the crack of the lightning behind
me!" 

 The woman grinned. "You're an artist." 

 "Who, me?" Ren felt himself blush crimson and ducked his chin in
embarrassment. "Oh, no. No, I'd never call myself... That is, I've played
with, dabbled really, I..." He smiled and shook his head, or actually his
entire upper body as he couldn't bring himself to raise his head. "You
flatter me." 

 "Only an artist would hear the lightning behind him," she affirmed. 

 The door behind Renfield suddenly flew open with a soft thud as it banged
into a door stop on the wall. He spun in surprise to see the
"teen-something Goth girl", with a backpack that looked ready to explode,
tromp into the room and throw herself, and her bag, onto the nearby couch
with a huge sigh. "God! Why didn't you tell me you didn't have an
elevator?" 

 "And listen to you beg and whine for me to help you carry your stuff
upstairs?" the woman asked. "No way. I told you not to bring so much. And
get your feet off the coffee table!" 

 "Yes, mother!" the girl replied sarcastically, but she did drop her feet.


 "I'm not her mother," the woman assured Turnbull. 

 "Whoa!" The teenager suddenly sat up, noticing him for the first time and
taking in his uniform. "Dudley Do-Right. Is that for real?" 

 Renfield awarded her a friendly smile. "The uniform? Why, yes. Indeedy-do
it is," he assured her. "My name's Constable Turnbull. I'm with the Royal
Canadian Mounted Police and I work at the Consulate here in Chicago." 

 She bobbed her head in a strange way which he had to assume was a nod of
appreciation as she said, "Cool..." 

 He caught sight of the still open door in his periphery and turned to
close it. 

 "Keys," the as-yet-unnamed-older-sister demanded. 

 He turned back to see the younger young lady roll her eyes dramatically
before digging them out of a pocket and tossing them across the room. 

 "We'll discuss why it took you more than an hour to park it and get your
stuff upstairs later," the older sister promised. Moving forward, she
snagged a chair by the dinning room table with her foot and spun it
around. She sat down even as she turned her attention back to Turnbull and
finally introduced herself. "I'm Jessi Lester, and that's my sister,
Jamie. I take it you're looking for Arleen?" 

 "Yes, actually," he agreed, happy to be back on familiar ground. Well,
metaphorically anyway... 

 "I was just thinking about calling the police myself when you showed up,"
she admitted with a slight frown. "She left a message on the answering
machine a couple of days ago saying she had to go home for a few days; but
then I've also got all these other messages from her father, half-begging,
half-demanding, that she call him back. He even asked me to call him; but,
like I said before - I just got back." 

 "Back?" he echoed, confused. If he'd understood the report correctly, the
Minister had been trying to get in touch with his daughter for a good
week. 

 "Family emergency," she answer. "I've been gone since last Friday. My
mother decided to get remarried--" 

 "--And dumped me on her while they took off on their honeymoon," the
younger woman interjected bluntly. "I'm not going back there. The guy's a
jerk!" 

 "We'll discuss it later." 

 "That's what you said in the car." 

 "Jamie..." 

 The girl threw her head back and sagged into the futon as she sullenly
stared up at the ceiling in obvious irritation. Renfield cast the couch
she was sitting on a sympathetic frown, hoping that the hair dye she'd
used to get her hair that incredible shade of black was permanent and not
one of those rinses that... 

 "I'm sorry," her sister apologized for her. "What was I saying?" 

 He glanced back at the bald sister. "That you had just gotten back and
were considering calling the police." 

 "Yeah... Then you showed up. " She sighed and shook her head. "I have no
idea where she is. The message said she was going home and that she'd be
back on Sunday." 

 "Sunday?" He frowned in thought and tapped a finger against his lips for
a moment before looking up again. Perhaps she'd chosen to surprise her
father. "Do you know when she left the message?" 

 "There's no time stamp." She shook her head. "The machine's not that
good, but I'm guessing Tuesday or early Wednesday. What's weird is all the
messages before it." 

 "Weird?" he echoed. 

 The woman frowned harder. "Well, if she'd gotten the messages from her
father before she decided to go, she would have erased them; and there are
several messages from him after it, so that means she didn't call and tell
him she was coming. And one of them said that it was Wednesday night when
he called and asked her to call him at work the next day, so she had to
leave before that..." 

 "Hmm..." Ren nodded in pensive thought. Apparently there was a bit of a
mystery to be solved here after all. "She was gone for at least a day
before she called and left her message?" he asked. 

 "Longer," the room mate decided. "There's about five calls from her dad
before her message. Why the hell didn't she just write a note and stick it
to the frig, like we always do?" 

 "Oh? So you mean, this... this isn't normal for her?" 

 "Are you kidding?" Ms. Lester asked. "Arleen hasn't got an impulsive bone
in her body! This is about as anti-Arleen as it gets; that's why I was
thinking about calling the police." 

 Turnbull was silently impressed by this woman's observations and incisive
questions. She'd make a fine peace officer - well, if she were willing to
give up the bald look. He didn't think even the Chicago Police would
countenance such a- He abruptly dismissed the thought and shook his head.
"The police can't do anything," he decided. "Not if she left a note saying
when she'd be back." 

 "But what about her dad? She said she was going home." 

 "She might have been referring to Canada, rather than her family home; or
she might have simply lied," he answered, and offered an apologetic shrug
even as he dared suggest the missing woman might have stooped to
subterfuge. "In any case, the police won't consider her missing until
forty-eight hours after her expected return date." 

 Ms. Lester offered the room an unhappy shake of her head, and then
suddenly turned to her sister. "Did you see a gold Lexus in the parking
lot?" 

 "Like I know the difference between a Lexus and a Ford..." the other girl
groused without opening her eyes. 

 Her older sister jumped to her feet and disappeared through a doorway to
the right. Curious, Turnbull followed, ignoring the soft "squishing" as he
walked. The room was obviously a bedroom. Ms. Lester had moved to the back
and was peering through the upper panel of a double-sash, sliding-drop
window. 

 She spun back around. "Her car is still there," she told him. 

 "Perhaps she took a plane," he suggested, letting his eyes rove the small
and quite crowded room: twin-sized bed, old but functional desk with
chair, four drawer chest, small night stand and lamp, and a sheet draped
easel. There wasn't enough walking room around the various pieces of
furniture for two people to pass each other without significant effort. 

 "She didn't have the money," Ms. Lester answered. "I assure you,
full-time graduate art students don't make enough to hop on a plane at the
drop of a hat. And her father obviously didn't foot the bill." She let her
own eyes roam the room. 

 "Is this her?" Ren asked, pointing to what he'd at first believed was a
black and white photo on the wall to his left, but which on closer
inspection he saw was actually an exquisitely done charcoal sketch of a
smiling and completely normal looking young lady. 

 "Gary!" Ms. Lester suddenly snapped her fingers. "If anyone knows where
she is, it'll be Gary."  

 Ren nearly tripped over his feet in his haste to back out of the bedroom
as Ms. Lester made a beeline for the living room. She immediately detoured
into the small kitchenette, homing in on a phone just inside the doorway.
"I should have thought to call him before," she muttered even as she
picked up the handset and dialed. 

 "Yo Mountie," the girl on the couch called out, winning his attention.
"So... why're you looking for my sister's room mate anyway? You going to
arrest her?" 

 "Arrest her? Oh, no. No indeed. Her father has reported her missing.
Or... possibly missing." 

 The girl gave the small apartment a quick glare before tossing her head
back again and closing her eyes. "Can you blame her?" 

 Ren offered a confused smile, not understanding the obvious animosity the
younger sister directed toward her present situation as well as her older
sister. Perhaps it was a case of displacement, wherein she was redirecting
her anger and pain over her mother's remarriage at the most convenient
target... He thought the younger was actually quite lucky to have an older
sister who would care for her while her mother and step-father were off on
their honeymoon. Clearly, however, she didn't see it that way. He decided,
yet again, that it wasn't necessarily a bad thing to have been an only
child and turned his attention back to the elder Ms. Lester. 

 "...No! It's- Gary!" She scowled down at the handset. "Crap. He hung up
on me." 

 "I assume 'Gary' is Ms. Schlemiel's boyfriend?" Ren surmised. 

 "Yeah..." She had already pressed redial and lifted the phone to her ear.
"Answer, damn you." 

 "Gary Garrison?" 

 She glanced up in sharp confusion. "How did you know his last name?" 

 Ren gestured toward the bedroom. "I merely assumed... The artist who did
her portrait..." 

 "Yeah, incredible isn't it." She offered the phone in her hand a vicious
glare before turning to hang it up. "He turned his cell phone off, the
coward." 

 "Coward?" 

 "He knows his answer isn't good enough." She planted her fists on her
hips in a clearly belligerent mood. "He tried to tell me the same thing
her message did: that something came up and she had to go home but she'd
be back on Sunday. I told him her father had reported her missing and
he..." 

 "Yes?" 

 "He went weird on me. Silent, you know? Then said he'd talked to her last
night and not to worry and that everything would be okay on Sunday, but
too fast like. Then he made some stupid excuse about someone needing him
and hung up on me!" 

 "Hmm..." Ren again lifted his hand to his face and tapped a finger
against his lips even as he knit his brow in deep pensive thought. 

 "You don't think he'd hurt her, do you?" Ms Lester asked. "I mean... He
wouldn't! Gary would die before he let anything happen to Arleen." 

 The teenage-something Goth girl on the couch spoke up without bothering
to lift her head or open her eyes. "Maybe they eloped," she suggested. 

 "Oh, god!" Ms. Lester turned to glare at the phone again. "If they eloped
without bothering to tell me..." 

 "Hmm..." Ren offered again, still tapping his lips with a contemplative
finger, much as he imagined Sherlock Holmes might have done if he didn't
have his pipe handy; or perhaps Hercule Poirot, another famous literary
detective he was quite fond of. 

 "What?" Ms. Lester asked, turning back to him. "Oh, you're remembering
how I said Arleen didn't have an impulsive bone in her body, aren't you?
You're right. She'd never elope." 

 Actually, Ren hadn't gotten quite that far in his thoughts yet, but he
didn't think it wise to admit it. Instead, he nodded and dropped his hand.
"Perhaps I should speak to Mr. Garrison, in person," he decided. "He may
be more forthcoming when he realizes her father has actually enlisted the
RCMP to help find his daughter." 

 "'Perhaps...'" the girl on the couch drawled sarcastically. 

 The older sister awarded her an irritated glare, but decided reminding
her of her manners at the moment would merely be an act of futility.
Instead, she stepped within the kitchen archway and started to write
something on a pad stuck to the wall next to the phone. 

 "Gary's the Director of Installation at Gallery X. They're getting ready
to change over to a new exhibit tomorrow so chances are you'll find him
there." She wrote for another little bit, then tore the sheet of paper off
and marched over to hand it to Ren. "I've included his cell number and
dorm address too. He's been invited to submit an idea for a rather large
on-campus project, so if he's not at the Gallery, you should find him at
home. Course, he should have submitted the thing last week so..." She
shrugged. "If all else fails, he has a Modern Art History class tonight.
Get there early. Mr. York absolutely hates having his class interrupted." 

 Ren nodded and read through the note in his hand. Her handwriting was
quite beautiful. Neat penmanship made dealing with his dyslexia much
easier. "Thank you, Ms. Lester." 

 "Let me know what you find out, K? I'm going to be worried sick until she
shows up on Sunday, and then I'm going to be seriously tempted to wring
her little neck for scaring me like this!" 

 Hyperbole, Ren decided. She wasn't serious in her threat. None-the-less,
the smile he offered was a bit stressed. "I will," he promised and turned
to leave. 

 "Wait!" She suddenly stepped forward and took the slip of paper in his
hand back. Then, retrieving a pen from her jacket pocket, quickly jotted
another number down. "The phone number here. Do you think I should call
her father back, or wait until you learn something?" 

 "Oh dear..." What a question! Ren frowned in thought. On the one hand,
the man certainly deserved to be told what was going on where his daughter
was concerned; but, on the other, Ren feared there was little enough to
tell. Greatly daring, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I think
perhaps a little delay might be best," he said softly, fighting manfully
to ignore the very real fear of what could happen to him should the other
man learn he'd made such a suggestion. The Canadian Minister of Finance
would not be a man to cross lightly! "The little we know at present would
only serve to upset him further." On top of which, Ren couldn't fail to
remember Inspector Thatcher's warning that the man didn't like Americans.
It was probably a good idea, just on general principals, to delay such a
conversation. 

 "Right," Ms. Lester nodded. "If he calls again, I'll tell him you're on
the case. Otherwise, I'll wait to hear from you." 

 "Sounds like a plan," he nodded and gave her a conspiratorial thumbs up.
He turned to leave and then again spun on his heel at the door. "Oh! Um...
if, you know, she should happen to call, or--" 

 The woman nodded in understanding. "--I'll make sure she calls her
father." 

 He smiled again. That would indeed be a good thing, but... "Could you
call the Consulate as well and leave a message for me? Constable
Turnbull." 

 "Sure," she agreed with a smile of her own and, much to his surprise,
reached up to press a soft kiss to his cheek. "Thanks for all your help." 

 Ren felt himself blush again. "Oh! It's... It's nothing. Really." 

 "Maybe," she allowed. "Maybe not. But I do know I feel better with you
out there looking for her. Call me." 

 "I... I..." She couldn't mean... No, of course not! "When I find out
something? Yes. Yes, indeedy. I will," he promised. Twisting his hat
nervously in his hands, he backed through the door. Why had he been cursed
with such fair skin, he wondered? He hated the fact that he blushed so
easily. With a final nod of promise, he quickly turned for the stairs and
made good his escape before he embarrassed himself any further.  

 Ren was familiar with Gallery X, having visited it before in his time
off. It was actually part of the School of the Art Institute of Chicago
and not the University of Chicago, and was located just a few blocks east
of the University of Illinois at Chicago... 

 Ren debated his options and, deciding that time might be a factor in
finding Mr. Garrison at his place of work, reluctantly chose to board the
green line of the L again. Fortunately, there were no incidents involving
toddlers and ice cream this time. 

 He scratched his head as he paused outside the Columbus Drive Building,
realizing belatedly that the University of Chicago didn't offer a Master
of Arts in Art Administration... not if he remembered his perusal of the
University's Art degree offerings correctly. It had been some months ago,
shortly after he was transferred down here. He'd been interested in
possibly taking a night course or two at the time; but, of course, his
field of interest was in artistry itself and not arts administration.
Perhaps he was remembering wrong? 

 Dismissing the thought, he doffed his Stetson once more and moved to
enter. A young lady burdened with several large tubes was moving to exit.
Naturally, he held the door for her. 

 The marble tiled lobby had two corridors branching off of it, each of
them lined with several selected works from previous exhibits. The north
corridor led to the Betty Rymer Gallery and the south lead to Gallery X.
He'd actually spent some hours enjoying the current exhibitions in these
two galleries just last week, though he could certainly spend several
more. Both galleries were mazes of small and large areas that flowed one
into the other, leading the visitor slowly through the exhibit and taking
full advantage of as much wall area as possible. He was more familiar with
the Betty Rymer Gallery than he was Gallery X, as the latter tended to
focus largely on three dimensional, and even four dimensional, works. He
found the four dimensional efforts - which encompassed time within their
presentation - quite fascinating; but his first and foremost love would
always be canvas. 

 As usual, there was a gallery attendant stationed just inside the door. 

 "Excuse me," Ren approached the young lady straight away and offered a
polite smile. "I was wondering if you might know where Mr. Garrison is at
the moment?" 

 The young woman chewed her gum for a second before cracking it between
her teeth, then turned her head to the side and yelled, "Gary! Visitor!" 

 Ren fought to hide his surprise at this rather unorthodox call. Museums
and galleries were usually places of quiet contemplation and- 

 "There's no one else here at the moment," she assured him and then turned
her attention back to the text book in front of her. 

 "Ah!" He nodded his understanding, embarrassed that his reaction had been
so transparent. 

 "Yeah?" a male voice called from around the corner just before a tall
young man in jeans and a light green pullover appeared. As his eyes
clashed with Turnbull's, he suddenly froze. "Oh, my god..." 

 "Mr. Garrison?" 

 The man quickly glanced around in near panic and then grabbed Renfield by
the arm, dragging him around the corner. "Did anyone see you come in here?
What am I saying - of course they saw you!" His eyes raked the uniform in
front of him. "I can't believe her father sent the RCMP all the way down-"
He suddenly decided to censor himself and glanced around again, then
heavenward, obviously very upset. 

 "Actually..." Ren found it impossible not to correct that last
assumption, "I work here." 

 As he'd half expected, the information came as a bit of a confusing shock
to the other man, who blinked sharply and glanced over his uniform again. 

 "At the Canadian Consulate," Ren added by way of explanation. At least he
seemed to have shaken the other man out of his near panic. "Has something
happened to Miss Schlemiel?" 

 The man blinked yet again, bringing his thoughts sharply back in order
and stepping away from Ren. "No," he answered. "No, she's fine. Something
came up and she had to go home... visit a friend up in Canada..." he
corrected himself, "for some reason. Death in the family, I think. Not her
family." He licked his lips nervously and glanced around again. "She'll be
back Sunday." 

 Turnbull had often been told he was rather gullible, by both his
colleagues and superiors; however, he wasn't blind. He cocked his head to
the side and dared speak his mind boldly. "I think you're lying, Mr.
Garrison." 

 The man again cast his eyes heavenward as though seeking divine help. He
took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he dropped his eyes to meet
Ren's again. The dark brown depths spoke of silent worry and fear, but
also a deep conviction. "Arleen's fine. I spoke to her last night. More
than that, I can't explain. Tell her father she'll be back Sunday." He
emphasized the date firmly. "I'll make sure she calls him right away. I
promise." 

 Ren frowned as he carefully took in Mr. Garrison's obviously guarded
mien, then cocked his head in the other direction. He leaned forward and
lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "Is she in some danger, Mr.
Garrison?" 

 The eyes closed momentarily and the jaw clenched, then the other young
man was back in control. "No," he answered firmly. His eyes drilled into
Ren's in a clear wish for him to understand and go away. 

 Ren answered with a lifted brow and again cocked his head in the other
direction. It was a move he'd seen Constable Fraser use before when
questioning information he'd been given. It seemed to work quite well for
him... 

 Gary rolled his eyes and leaned forward, lowering his own voice to hiss
urgently, even as his cell phone began to ring, "Your being here is what's
putting her in danger! If you'll just go away and leave this alone, she'll
be fine. I swear! She'll be back on Sunday. Just... back off!" 

 His cell phone rang again. Reluctantly, he answered it while giving Ren a
glare. "Hello!" 

 The voice on the other end was filtered and distorted, sending a chill up
Gary's spine.. "Talking to Mounties isn't good for your girlfriend's
health..." 

 Gary swallowed sharply and spun away from Turnbull. "He doesn't know
anything!" he answered sharply. "Have... Timothy do it," he added
awkwardly for the Mountie's sake. 

 "I wish I could believe you," the voice replied. "Those Mounties are so
persistent. This worries me, Gary. It worries me a lot." 

 "You don't need to worry," he answered firmly. "We have an agreement. I'm
not a fool." 

 "Actually, you are; but that's beside the point." He thought for a short
moment and then continued, "Tell him that you know where Arleen is and
that you'll take him to her." 

 "Oh, god..." Gary whispered.  

 Someone was knocking on his door, the steady pounding inexorably dragging
him from sleep. It only served to make his headache worse. Who could
possibly be seeking him out at such a late... Why was he lying on the
floor? Not his floor; hard, cold... Dark. It was dark, but not because it
was night. He couldn't open his eyes. There was something over them. 

 His hands were tied behind his back. 

 "I think he's waking up," a woman's soft voice whispered. 

 He belatedly realized that the knocking he was hearing was his own
heartbeat in his ears. Apparently, he'd been hit over the head and... He
had to struggle a moment to remember... He'd taken the L... Ice cream. A
drunk. Chasing his hat. Bald. Goth girl. Portrait. Ah, yes! He'd been
investigating the apparent disappearance of the daughter of the Canadian
Minister of Finance. He'd talked to her room mate and then hunted up her
boyfriend. 

 Someone must have hit him over the back of the head as they got into Mr.
Garrison's van. 

 "Constable Turnbull?" the woman whispered, nudging his leg. 

 He groaned as the resultant movement made his head pound. "Oh, dear..." 

 "I hope he doesn't get sick," a man to his left commented in apparent
concern. Ren recognized Gary's voice. 

 "Shhh!" the woman insisted. 

 Hmm... shushing him. That meant that someone might hear them - someone
they didn't want to hear them. If it were someone who might help, he would
have been gagged as well. And if Gary had been captured along with him,
than he assumed the woman was Arleen Schlemiel. At least, he thought that
assumption made sense. He really wasn't sure if it did or not because his
head was too busy pounding to let him think very well. 

 The cold floor actually felt good against his face. He found himself very
tempted to simply sink back into oblivion's gentle embrace... 

 I'm a Mountie, he firmly reminded himself! A Mountie who's been hit over
the head, tied up and blindfolded. Oh, dear... He felt suddenly frightened
and foolish. Perhaps he should feel angry instead, a part of him argued,
but he just couldn't rouse that emotion. The best he could manage was
embarrassment. Constable Fraser would never get into such a mess, he was
sure! 

 "I hope he doesn't have a concussion," Gary offered quietly. 

 Turnbull hoped he didn't either. 

 Mentally girding himself to ignore his own situation, he forced himself
to roll to his back and... "Oh, shoot!" he whispered as something of a
stiff, cloth-like-texture was crushed beneath him. Felt, he was sure. So
much for the careful blocking and steaming of his Stetson two days ago. He
only hoped the crown wasn't too badly damaged. He couldn't afford a major
visit to a milliner as well as a cobbler this pay check. And finding a
good one was so hard... 

 He rolled his weight off the item and managed to struggle to a sitting
position without crushing it further. 

 Ren frowned fiercely. The affront to his hat sparked his anger in a way
that the attack upon his person had failed too. He was in uniform. Whoever
had attacked him had attacked what that stood for: Law and order and...
and The Queen. How dare they! 

 "Someone needs a serious lesson in manners!" he decided quietly. 

 "Manners?" Gary repeated him. "He needs a doctor..." 

 "Oh, God..." 

 "No," he contradicted them, only to then have to contradict himself.
"Well, yes, I have to admit, a doctor would-" 

 "--Shhhh!" the woman warned fiercely. 

 "-probably be wise," he whispered. "Ms. Schlemiel, I presume?" 

 "Yeah," she sighed softly. "I don't suppose you have any special Mountie
tricks for getting us out of here do you?" 

 Ren fingered his ropes, testing their play. "I just might," he answered,
remembering his hat again. Or a Constable Fraser trick anyway. He scooted
himself over to the crushed item and picked it up behind his back. 

 Oh, dear, a small part of the brim was wet. Blood, he wondered? He'd
never get that out himself. It seemed a milliner was going to be
unavoidable... 

 It was a good thing he'd overheard that conversation between his superior
officer and the American detective. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but
they'd stopped right in front of his desk. He would have never thought, or
even dared to think, of adjusting his uniform in such a way himself. As it
was, it had taken him almost a week to get up the courage to try it. When
finished, it was completely undetectable. He'd even thought about writing
it up as a recommendation for all members of the Force but had chickened
out before submitting it to Inspector Thatcher. She'd only give him that
'look', he knew. Besides, it was actually Constable Fraser's idea. If
anyone were going to submit it for review, it should be him. 

 Ren had to wonder what Inspector Thatcher's response to it's practical
use, in whatever case the two men had been discussing, had been. 

 "Could... I'm afraid I'm a little confused," he admitted as he worked.
"Could one of you, if you don't mind, explain exactly what's happening?
That is... I don't supposed this is some sort of practical joke or--" 

 "--I wish," Arleen answered softly. 

 "I'm being blackmailed," Gary explained. "Or was. I'm not sure what's
going on now." 

 "Blackmailed?" 

 "Yeah. Apparently, someone didn't like the idea that I'd been invited to
submit a proposal for the big Activity Center mural project. They kidnaped
Arleen, then called to tell me not to enter or they'd kill her." 

 "Oh, my!" Ren exclaimed quietly in surprise. 

 "They also said they were watching me and that if I went to the police
she was dead. Then you showed up and..." 

 "And that was who called you while we were talking," Ren surmised. "He
told you to take me to Arleen. But," he frowned in confusion, "that would
mean you knew where she was and-" 

 "--No." Gary sighed. "That's just what he told me to tell you. I had no
idea where she was. He told me to take you to a warehouse on Dexter.
Instead, they jumped us in the van. 

 "Damn it!" he cursed softly. "He promised to let her go Sunday, after the
submission deadline passed. If you hadn't shown up, everything would have
been fine!" 

 "Oh, I'm afraid I doubt that," Ren shook his head sadly. "The kidnapper
would have to assume that when released, Arleen would go to the police.
There would be an investigation; and even if he were careful enough to
ensure that there was no direct evidence to implicate him, the entire
award process for the project would be thrown into question. The
competition would need to be repeated and he'd lose everything that he'd
hoped to gain by blackmailing you in the first place." 

 The ropes were being stubborn. Or maybe he hadn't sharpened his hat
buckle as well as he'd thought... "Ouch!" No, it was sharp enough. 

 "Shhh!" Arleen warned him again, but it was too late. Ren's cry was
answered by the sound of a key being turned in a lock.	

 As someone stepped into the room, Ren quickly palmed his sharpened hat
buckle and then winced as he cut himself again. Hopefully, his red serge
wouldn't get any blood on it. He did have a second dress uniform if he
needed it, but he'd just had this one dry cleaned! 

 The indignities suffered by his uniform today were starting to add up,
and it was beginning to really irritate him. 

 "In the name of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, you are..." He frowned
fiercely as he realized he had no jurisdiction in the United States and
couldn't make an arrest in the name of the RCMP. He quickly corrected
himself. "I am making a citizen's arrest," (Could he do that? He was
pretty sure he could do that.) "and I demand that you release us at once!"


 He was answered with amused sniggers. 

 "I think Jack hit him too hard." 

 "Not hard enough, 'you ask me." 

 "Shut up in there!" a third voice from the hall ordered sharply. "I told
you no talking. Get the boy and get out of there!" 

 "What are you doing?" Ren heard Gary exclaim. "Get your hands off of me!
Let me go! Let me-" 

 "-Gary!" Arleen cried alarm. 

 The younger man's demands, and the sounds of struggle, were abruptly
interrupted by the sound of flesh striking flesh and a soft grunt. 

 Ren gave his ropes a sharp jerk, hoping to leap to the other man's
defense, but they wouldn't give. Drat it all! 

 What would Constable Fraser do in a situation like this, he wondered?
"Gentlemen!" he called out in his best command voice. Hmm... he needed to
work on that. "I strongly advise you to give yourselves up. You won't get
away with this!" 

 One of the men paused to kick his legs, surprising him, but it was only a
glancing blow. "Shut up!" 

 "Idiot..." the other observed. 

 Ren and Arleen were forced to listen as an apparently unconscious Gary
was dragged from the room. Then, as the others retreated, whoever had been
in the hall stepped inside. Ren heard him move forward to squat down
beside him. 

 "Tell me what you know," the unknown man ordered quietly. 

 Oh, dear. That was a very dangerous question, Ren realized. He'd already
explained to Gary and Arleen that a police investigation could cost their
assailant everything he'd worked for, whether the authorities were ever
able to identify him or not. If he even suspected... 

 Silently, Ren began reciting the words his father had given him upon his
graduation from the Academy: 'Only a fool isn't afraid in the face of
danger. Courage isn't defined by a lack of fear, but by doing your duty
regardless.' His duty here was to protect Ms. Schlemiel. He ignored his
fear and refused to answer. Maybe he could distract the man... "Where are
you taking Mr. Garrison?" he rejoined instead. 

 There was nothing glancing about the blow he received this time. His head
was snapped sharply to the side. 

 Oh, dear. Oh dear indeed, Ren thought, tasting blood. Fortunately, it was
only his tongue where he'd bit it. He was scheduled to stand guard duty
tomorrow morning and the Inspector would not be happy if his lip was
swollen and split. 

 "Oh, my god!" Arleen whispered in horror. "You didn't... Constable?
Constable Turnbull!" It was apparent she was blindfolded as well. 

 His unknown assailant grabbed a handful of hair and forced his
blindfolded visage forward. "What do you know?" he repeated and shook
Ren's head by the hair. 

 "Ouch!" Ren exclaimed, more in surprise then anything else. His head
began throbbing again with the sharp movement. 

 "Are you crazy?" Arleen exclaimed. "He's a Mountie! They'll hunt you to
the ends of the Earth if you hurt him!" 

 The man abruptly released Turnbull and silence descended for a long and
dangerous moment. 

 "We don't know anything!" Ren decided to answer fearfully, including Ms.
Schlemiel in the lie. He didn't have to fake the fear by much. He was very
much afraid of what might happen to them if the other man didn't believe
him. 

 "I don't believe you." 

 Oh, dear...  

 "Jack was a fool to put all three of you together. The boy probably told
you everything, didn't he?" 

 "Oh, Lordy!" Ren gasped as he felt a gun pressed firmly against his
temple. How in the world had he managed to get himself into such a pickle!
Carefully, his heart beating double-time to 'The Minute Waltz', he began
to work at his ropes again. 

 The man bent his head close and whispered into Ren's ear. "What. Do. You.
Know?" 

 "Okay, okay..." Ren's voice squeaked rather embarrassingly, but he forced
the words out anyway. He needed to keep the other man talking and
distracted. There were a few things he could safely admit to knowing, and
which might be used to sway the man from any drastic action. What to start
with first? 

 "What are you doing?" he heard Ms. Schlemiel demand in a mix of bravado
and fear. "Let him go! Let us both go! We haven't done anything to you!" 

 Ren's head was shoved to the side by the weapon pressed against his head.


 "Well, ah, you see, for one thing, Ms. Schlemiel here is the daughter of
the Canadian Minister of Finance - he's the equivalent of your United
States' Secretary of the Treasury," he began, hoping to make the guy pause
and think. "I'm afraid there will be quite a huge uproar should anything
happen to her." 

 "There's going to be a huge uproar when her boyfriend turns up dead too,"
the man answered. 

 "No!" Arleen protested. "You can't kill Gary! This 'Jack' of yours, or
whoever the hell he is, promised to let us go when the submission deadline
passed!" 

 "He lied." 

 "No," she hissed. "No!" 

 "Jack has made a real mess of things here, and it's up to me to clean it
up or his old man will have my hide. I should probably kill the both of
you too, just to be safe." 

 "Safe?" Ren echoed, his mind frantically searching for anything that
might dissuade this madman from such a course. He was too young to die! 

 He was also rather embarrassed to realize he was now trembling, drat it
all; perhaps it would help hide the desperate sawing of his sharpened hat
buckle against the ropes as he redoubled his efforts. If only they'd used
cotton, polyester or even hemp instead of polypropylene. Had they used
nylon, he might have been able to stretch it enough to work his way free
without needing to cut it. Someone apparently knew their rope. 

 "Killing us wouldn't be safe at all!" he argued, feeling himself blush as
his voice again broke most inappropriately. "You'll have the FBI, CIA,
RCMP and CSIS all hunting you--" 

 "--Get the hell out of my way, you moron!" a voice suddenly demanded
directly outside. The door few open with a loud bang. For a moment Ren
thought it was the sound of his life ending. "What the hell is going on in
here?" 

 Their captor jumped to his feet. "Mr. Mangus!" he exclaimed in surprise,
then a moment later hissed, "Oh, crap!" 

 Ren felt his heart miss a beat or two. He didn't recognize the name, but
he knew he didn't need too; the fact that he'd heard it was enough. 

 "Oh, crap?" the other echoed. "I'll give you crap. I'll turn you into
crap! I sent you down here to check up on my son, not help him get into
trouble!" 

 "I got here too late, Mr... uh, Sir." Their unknown inquisitor managed to
catch himself this time before saying the other man's name. 

 "Idiot!" There was the sound of a dull thump which had Ren imagining that
Mr. Mangus had perhaps delivered a sound slap to the other man along the
side of the head. "You already told them my name! What do you mean you got
here too late? What the hell kind of games is Jack up to now, and who the
hell are these two idiots?" 

 "He's trying to impress you by winning some big mural competition of some
sort. 'Said it was worth two or three hundred grand. But the girl's
boyfriend is better than Jack and Jack doesn't think he stands a chance
against him; so he kidnaped the girl last week and he's been using her to
keep her boyfriend from entering. Then this guy shows up--" 

 "--This guy?" Mr. Magnus repeated. "He ain't the boyfriend? What, is he
some kind of doorman?" 

 "Uh, no..." 

 "Excuse me," Ren dared interrupt the conversation to introduce himself.
"I am Constable Renfield Turnbull of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
And the young-" 

 "-What!" 

 "--lady is Ms Arleen Schlemiel, daughter of Minister Schlemiel, the
Canadian Minister of Finance." 

 "A Mountie? This is a joke and these two are actors in a play - right?" 

 "Jack really messed up." 

 "Tell me something I don't know!" the other man growled. "So where's the
boyfriend? What does he know?" 

 "Apparently, Jack decided to use his proposal instead of his own. I tried
to talk him out of it, but-" 

 "--What!" Jack's father exploded. "Using blackmail and extortion to
eliminate the competition is one thing, but stealing the other guy's work
is... I sent him to college up here to keep him out of the business, not
set up a local branch!" 

 "...Having decided to steal the other guy's stuff," their captor
continued, "Jack decided to kill him so no one would know." 

 "Like no one's going to recognize the other guy's stuff, right? Hasn't he
attended a single class I've been paying for?" 

 Ren could almost sympathize with the father's obvious frustration.
Almost. 

 "And now, everyone knows everything so they all have to die," Mr. Mangus
continued. "Art majors and a Mountie... Mounties are worse than cops! Like
killing an FBI agent or something. There'll be a huge investigation!
Anything I forgot?" 

 "That's about it, Sir." 

 "Great. Just freaking great!" The father offered an exhausted sigh. "So,
how do we keep the cops from figuring it out?" 

 "First, now that you're here, we find Jack and stop him from using the
other guy's stuff. He'll listen to you. This whole mural scheme needs to
get dumped and Jack yanked back home before submittin' anything; that way
he has no motive. Then these two, plus the boy, just disappear. We make
sure no bodies are ever found. All the cops have is three missing persons
and a whole lot of questions from up north." 

 "Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!" Arleen whispered as she heard the men
planning her murder with such cold detachment. 

 "Where did your associates take Mr. Garrison?" Ren interrupted, causing
the two men standing over him to do a double-take. 

 "Good question," the father decided. "Where were they planning to dump
him?" 

 "Jack told Roger and Allen to take him over to the docks, pier four. They
were supposed to drown him and make it look like an accident." 

 "Accident? No one goes swimming at the docks!" Mr. Mangus exclaimed.
"Don't you idiots know anything? Jeesh. Call 'em and stop 'em! Now!" 

 There was a long moment of silence in which Ren heard a cell phone being
dialed. "You'll never get away with this, you know," he dared much to
confront them. "If I can put the pieces of the puzzle together, so can
others. They'll know what you've done." 

 "What others know and what they can prove in court are two different
things," Mr. Mangus sneered. 

 "I can't get a signal out." 

 "Idiot! Of course you can't get a signal out! We're underground here. Go
outside." 

 Ren heard their captor turn and leave. 

 "You!" Mr. Mangus then ordered, apparently addressing the guard who'd
been in the hall earlier. "Kill them. Now."  

 "Ohmigod. Ohmigod, no! You can't... Please!" Ms Schlemiel was not above
begging for her life. Neither was Ren for that matter, but he knew it
would do them no good. "We won't say anything! I swear. Please, I don't
want to die!" 

 Ren heard the unknown guard draw his weapon. "That might be a little
messy, don't you think?" he asked. "There would be evidence left behind.
Blood is very hard to clean up." 

 "Looks like they used to use this place for art classes or something,"
Mr. Mangus explained. "There are paint splatters everywhere. Now it's an
empty storage room with a bunch of stuff that looks like it ain't been
touched in years. Ain't no one going to be looking for blood down here." 

 "Oh, I think you'd be surprised," Ren answered boldly. "Have you ever
heard of luminal? It's a fascinating chemical that when sprayed on even a
seemingly clean surface will react with the slightest trace of blood to
cause a phosphorescent effect under black light. Why I've seen forensic
specialists find--" 

 "--Shut up," the guard ordered and pressed his gun to Ren's forehead. 

 It was now or never. 

 Whipping his hands up and around from behind him, Ren's left hand found
and gripped the guard's arm, shoving it aside as he ducked and kicked out
toward where the man's legs should be. The man cried out in surprise even
as a deafening explosion sounded far too close to Ren's ear for comfort.
Ren's other hand joined the first and locked onto the wrist, twisting it
sharply outward even as the man began to fall. 

 Mr. Mangus was also caught by surprise. "What the-!" 

 Ms. Schlemiel just screamed. 

 A second gun shot rang out. The man he was grappling with grunted. 

 Ren used the momentum of the man's fall to turn the duck and kick into a
roll and wrested the gun from the suddenly slack grip before exploding
back to his feet directly in front of Mr. Mangus. He knew the other man
must have drawn his own weapon by now, and so he charged forward, stepping
inside Mr. Mangus' reach before he could bring the weapon to bear. As Ren
expected, he ran directly into the other man and forced him backward. They
were jarred to a halt by the wall and Ren quickly brought his left hand up
and found the other man's right arm, which he dared assume was his weapon
arm. Ren then shoved the weapon he'd confiscated from the guard under Mr.
Mangus' chin. 

 Not surprisingly, the other man froze. 

 Ms. Schlemiel as still screaming, so Ren leaned close to make sure Mr.
Mangus could hear him. "Twitch and I kill you," he promised simply. He was
quite serious about it too. The guard on the floor, he was pretty sure,
was dead - unless Ren was mistaken, he'd managed to shoot himself in the
heart; however, the man with the cell phone could return at any time. Ren
could only hope he'd equate the two gun shots, if he'd heard them, with
their deaths. The young lady's continued screaming, however, might alert
him otherwise. 

 "Please stop screaming, Ms. Schlemiel," he told her urgently. "I'm fine.
I'll have you out of here in a jiffy." 

 The mere sound of his voice was surprising enough to stop her screams.
"You're... fine?" she echoed in disbelief. 

 Ren shoved Mr. Mangus' gun in his belt and finally reached up to strip
off his blindfold. "Fit as a fiddle," he promised her and awarded his
captive a malevolent smile. 

 He then grabbed the other man's shoulder and spun him to face the wall.
"You are under arrest. I am charging you with two counts of attempted
murder. Would you like to make a statement in answer to this charge? You
are not obliged to do so, and I must warn you that anything you say can
and will be given in evidence. Do you understand?" Ren quickly retrieved
his handcuffs from their case on his Sam Brown and deftly cuffed him. 

 "That's not the Miranda!" the man scoffed. 

 "No, you're quite right," Ren agreed, turning the man back around to face
him. "It's the Caution. I'll make sure the police administer your Miranda
Warning properly when they arrive." 

 He glanced up as he heard a distant sound: probably a door opening
somewhere. Mr. Mangus heard it too. He opened his mouth and took a deep
breath preparatory to crying a warning - only to have Ren unceremoniously
stuff his old blindfold in his mouth and bring the gun back up in warning.


 "Oh, god!" Arleen hissed suddenly. "Someone's coming!" 

 "Shhhh!" Ren warned her softly. "Lie down and play dead." 

 He grabbed Mr. Mangus by the lapel and pushed him downward, forcing him
to sit down. Ren then quickly stepped over next to the door. When the man
with the cell phone appeared in the open doorway it was to see two bodies
on the floor, neither of them wearing bright red, and his boss, obviously
gagged and bound sitting against the wall. 

 "Mr. Mangus?" he called in alarm, even as he hurried forward. He froze
two steps in as Ren grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved the gun he held
in his back. 

 "Welcome back, Sir," Ren told him. "I'm afraid you're under arrest.
Please lift your hands and don't move." The man sighed in defeat but did
as told. Ren deftly frisked him, retrieving the weapon with which he'd
been threatened earlier, and then stripped off his lanyard to bind the
man's hands behind his back. "Sorry," he apologized. "I don't have another
set of handcuffs." 

 "Can I sit up now?" Arleen asked from the middle of the floor. 

 "Oh! Yes, certainly." Ren shoved the man down next to his boss and turned
to Ms. Schlemiel. "I'm sorry. Here, let me help you." 

 He stripped the blindfold away first, then attacked her ropes as she
blinked her eyes and fought to see again. "Oh my god!" 

 Ren immediately followed her gaze to the dead man on the floor. "Sorry
about that," he told her. "I'm afraid he shot himself while we were
wrestling for his weapon." 

 She blinked at the other two men who were captive now and sitting against
the wall. "How did you..?" 

 "I sharpened my hat buckle," he told her and, finishing with her ties,
lifted an arm to display the cut rope which still dangled from his wrist.
His hands were covered in small cuts, some of which were still bleeding.
"Drats!" he frowned sharply. There was definitely blood on his sleeves and
the left one had a good size cut as well. It had probably gotten caught
inside the rope of his bonds. A glance behind him easily found his hat,
half crushed and, yes, stained with blood. He reached up to the back of
his head and discovered the large goose egg and scalp wound which was
responsible. He also discovered a trail of dried blood that flowed
downward into the collar of his uniform. 

 Irritably, he turned to his captives. "I'm afraid I'll have to insist you
gentlemen pay for the cleaning and repair of my uniform." 

 Arleen could care less about his uniform. She dismissed all other
questions and turned her mind to more pressing matters. "Gary!" she
whispered. "They're going to kill him! We've got to stop them!" 

 "I don't think so," Ren assured her and turned back to his captives. "Mr.
Mangus gave orders that they not kill him at the docks, but didn't issue
any further instructions. I assume they are waiting for orders?" 

 The cell phone man nodded in defeat, knowing that resistance to the
inevitable at this point would only make the charges against them even
worse. "I told them to meet us at the north side of Washington Park.
They're driving a blue panel van. 'Can't miss 'em." 

 "Thank you," Ren told him and bent to reach inside the man's jacket for
his cell phone. He paused in mid-motion to ask, "May I?" 

 The man gave a half-nod, half-shrug which Ren took as affirmation. 

 "Thank you kindly." 

 "Hey, we get a deal for cooperating, right?" Mr. Mangus asked, leaning in
from his minion's side. "We get a deal?" 

 "I have no authority to agree to such," Ren answered. "Yes, operator,
this is Constable Renfield Turnbull, Temporary Assistant Interim Associate
Deputy Liaison Officer for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police assigned to
the Canadian Consulate in Chicago. I need to request immediate police
assistance and report a series of crimes, the most pressing of which is an
assault and abduction in progress..."  

 Ren was in the process of introducing Gary and Arleen to Ray Vecchio
outside Interview One, after they had finished giving their statements to
other members of the twenty-seventh district police station, when
uniformed officers brought Jack Mangus in for questioning and processing. 

 "You son of a bitch," the smaller man paused in the hallway to hiss at
Gary. "You're trying to set me up. Making up ridiculous stories to get me
disqualified from the competition, huh? One phone call and my dad will
have me out of here in a heartbeat!" 

 "Your dad's too busy sitting in one of these rooms talking to his own
lawyer to worry about you!" Gary answered angrily, stepping between Jack
and Arleen in an unconscious gesture to shield her from him. 

 Lieutenant Welsh just happened to be returning to his office from
visiting the break room and easily read the scene before him. "What's
going on here?" he demanded as he quickly moved forward to head off what
was clearly a volatile situation. He didn't wait for an explanation.
"You," he ordered one of the uniforms, "get this guy in a room or holding
cell or wherever you're headed with him, just get him outta here. Let's
keep it moving." 

 "I'll still be out in a matter of hours, and you'll still be a loser!"
the handcuffed young man yelled over his shoulder, resisting the officers
and forcing Welsh to add his own light shove to get him moving again. "One
hour to deadline, Sucker!" 

 Ren and Ray suddenly had their hands full as Gary surged forward with
obvious intent. The sound of his growl drew Welsh's attention and he
immediately placed himself between the unknown man and the prisoner who
was clearly taunting him. 

 "One hour!" the prisoner yelled one last time before being dragged around
the corner to wherever he was going. 

 Gary reluctantly subsided and offered only a soft, "Bastard!" for the
departed figure. 

 "Something going on here I should know about, Detective?" Welsh demanded,
and then did a sharp double-take as he realized he didn't recognize the
man in the bright red uniform in his periphery. "You're not, Fraser." 

 "Constable Turnbull, Sir," Ray quickly stepped forward, figuring the less
talking Turnbull did - the better. "Turnbull, Lieutenant Welsh, my boss."
He also hoped Turnbull would take the hint that he was addressing Ray's
boss and would keep his mouth shut! Ray knew it was a vain hope. 

 "Ah!" Turnbull rejoined with a bright smile and extended his hand. "A
pleasure, Sir." 

 Welsh offered a perfunctory handshake but his attention had switched back
to Vecchio beside him. "We have two of them running around Chicago now?" 

 Ray knew he had to talk fast to keep his boss happy. Short and concise
was always the best way to deal with him - he didn't have time to waste on
long explanations. "Uh, not normally, Sir, no," he answered, hoping to God
it wasn't going to become a normal situation! "Fraser's off recovering
from the Zolton Motherwell case." 

 "The Performance Arsonist guy?" Welsh asked. "Fraser got burnt?" 

 "Shot," Vecchio answered. "The leg again, but it's only a flesh wound,"
he quickly reassured his boss who had the grace to look slightly alarmed.
"He'll be fine in a day or two." 

 "Good. Good... He needs to buy armor for those jodhpurs," Welsh decided
and then turned his attention back to the group in front of him. He waved
at the corner the prisoner had disappeared around. "One hour?" he asked. 

 "An art competition, Sir," Turnbull explained in a strangely
conspiratorial tone. "Mr. Garrison here," he indicated the young man
beside him, "is in the running for a rather lucrative mural project at the
Activity Center on the University of Chicago campus. The deadline for
entering a bid is one hour - or actually," he glanced at his wrist watch,
"53 minutes and 14 seconds." 

 "That bastard kidnaped my girlfriend to keep me out of it and then
decided to kill me so he could use my bid instead of his own!" 

 "Jack Mangus, Sir," Vecchio leaned in to identify the 'bastard'. 

 "Jack Mangus?" Welsh echoed. "Any relation to Johnny 'the feds would love
to bust him for anything' Mangus, from down in Indianapolis?" 

 "His son, Sir," Vecchio answer. "His father came up and tried to help him
out so, thanks to Turnbull here, we got him for attempted murder along
with his son. And that's just the start." 

 "Maybe a mini-invasion of red down here isn't a bad thing after all." 

 "Oh! And damaging my uniform!" Turnbull interjected quite seriously. "My
government will want to extradite them for that." 

 Then again, Welsh thought... He let his eyes rake the uniform beside him,
which he had to admit did look a bit worse for wear. Fraser would never
look like that. Musta been a real mess to bring the bad guys in. "I think
attempted murder and kidnaping take precedence, Constable." He turned his
attention to Mr. Garrison. "You're saying that guy kidnaped your girl and
threatened to kill you so he could steal your art work to pass it off as
his own, all to win some stupid art contest?" 

 "Mural project," Turnbull leaned forward to explain again, "worth
somewhere between two and three hundred thousand dollars." 

 Welsh's brows went up. "Really?" He was a bit impressed. Perhaps this was
serious after all. He glanced at Mr. Garrison again. "Can you prove this
'bid' he stole is yours?" 

 "Yes," Gary nodded, "but unless I can get to the dean's office before
seven o'clock, I'll still be ineligible for consideration." 

 "Vecchio!" an unexpectedly strident voice suddenly demanded attention. 

 The small group turned their gazes to the other end of the hall where
they discovered Louise St. Laurent and FBI Agent Ford glaring at them. 

 "Oh, crap. Catch you later, guys," Ray muttered and lifted his voice as
well as his hand as he hurried forward. "Coming!" 

 Welsh dismissed his detective from thought, knowing the two who looked
ready to eat him alive at the moment would soon be fawning all over the
man once he told them about Mangus. Instead, Welsh glanced over at the
clock on the wall and made a decision. "You have a license to drive in the
States, Constable?" 

 "Why yes, Sir," he answered. "Driver's training is a mandatory
requirement for all officers in the RCMP and I'm happy to report that I
graduated at the top of my class." He blushed slightly, realizing that he
must sound like he was bragging. "I am often assigned to drive the
Inspector or visiting dignitaries to various functions around town. Why,
just last week, the Chairman of the Canadian Beef Marketing Board--" 

 "--Whatever," Welsh interrupted the unnecessary explanation and dug out
his keys. He slapped them into the other man's hand. "These fit a grey
1991 Chevrolet Caprice out back. It's mine," he emphasized firmly, "so be
careful with it. Use the flasher on the dash and get this young man to the
which ever dean's office he needs to go like it was yesterday.
Understood?" 

 "Oh! I- I-" 

 "--Don't argue, Constable." Welsh took him by the shoulders and gave him
a gentle shove down the hall to get him moving. "There isn't time to get a
squad car to do it and I have a thing about the Arts. ...Just don't wreck
my car!"  

 If Ren were being strictly honest - and, well, he always was - he'd have
to admit to quite thoroughly enjoying himself as they raced through the
streets of Chicago with a flashing red strobe light and siren to clear the
way. Or help clear the way. It really was quite appalling the way some
people seemed to completely ignore the emergency warning signals! In any
case, the effort was far more challenging here than it had ever been in
rural Alberta. He could almost imagine himself behind the wheel of a fully
tricked out RCMP cruiser in the heavy traffic of downtown Toronto, rushing
to the scene of a crime in the hopes of stopping some dastardly deed! 

 Except that, of course, the Chevrolet Caprice was a far cry from the
police modified Crown Victoria which the RCMP favored. It was in fact even
larger than the sleek Consulate limo he was accustomed to driving! The
handling was terrible; nor was it equipped with anti-lock brakes. The
screech of the tires as they rounded a corner a bit faster than he'd have
liked and fish-tailed was quite dramatic but not very professional. He
shook his head and caught a misfiring of the engine. Hmm... it needed a
tune up. Ren would have to be certain to mention that to Lieutenant Welsh
when he returned the vehicle and thanked him for the loan. 

 "Oh, dear..." Ren frowned as they came up to the turnoff at 56th and
Greenwood; he quickly applied the brakes and they came to an abrupt halt
before the Cochrane-Woods Art Center. 

 "What?" Gary, in back with Arleen, leaned forward to ask in confusion. 

 "Restricted parking," Ren answered, indicating the campus parking permit
sign to the right of the driveway. 

 "It's after hours," Arleen told him, leaning forward as well. "The campus
police don't patrol the parking lots after five." 

 "But still, it's-" 

 "-I'll pay the fine!" Gary promised and pounded on the seat back. "Go!
Go! Go!!!" 

 Ren found himself obeying out of sheer habit. Having someone in a near
panic yelling in his ear was not the most pleasant thing in the world. He
would certainly be sure to hold the young man to his word if they did get
a ticket, he promised himself. Oh, but what would the inspector say if
someone reported it to her? The mere thought of it made him blush. It
would be too embarrassing for words! Perhaps he could just find a place to
drop Mr. Garrison off... 

 "That's him. That's him!" Gary was suddenly pointing past Ren to the
front of the building where an older man was exiting. 

 "Who?" 

 "Dean Woodridge! He's in charge of the competition. Let me out!" 

 The backdoor of the car had opened even before Turnbull could bring the
vehicle to a full stop. Both Gary and Arleen flew out of the car and raced
toward the other man, although according to Ren's wristwatch they had a
good ten minutes to spare. 

 "Oh, dear," Ren thought aloud. He still needed to ask Ms. Schlemiel to
call her father. He quickly scanned the area for the safest place to park
- other than in the restricted lot... The curb on the street was painted
in a red fire zone. He could only see part of the next parking lot down
but suspected it too had a color coded restriction sign on it. Glancing at
the group on the steps, he saw them turning to head into the building. He
might never find them again if he didn't join them at once! Chewing his
lip in worry and embarrassment, and hoping that Ms. Schlemiel was right in
regard to parking here after hours, he swung the large car into a spot.
Moving quickly, he locked it and ran up the steps to catch the others as
they disappeared through the doors. 

 "Woo-whooo!" he called after them. "Wait for me!"  

 "That's quite a serious accusation you're making, you know," the dean
commented as he unlocked the door of his office again. "Aside from the
kidnaping, assault and attempted murder, of course. He could be expelled
if you can prove it, but that's the rub: you have to prove it. Can you do
that? I'll need more than the word of a friend who claims to recognize it
as yours." 

 "If he used my stuff, I can prove it," Gary nodded firmly. 

 The dean nodded and moved through the outer office into his inner
sanctum. "Alright then, you will have to file a formal complaint - we can
consider this conversation good enough for right now but there will be no
backing out of it once I open Jack's file. If you can't prove your
accusations, you will be the one who's facing disciplinary action. I know
you're only taking one course here, but your actions will be reported to
the authorities at the School of the Art Institute as well. I'm sure they
would frown quite seriously upon any effort to malign another artist
without sufficient evidence. Do you understand?" 

 "Yes, Sir," Gary nodded and repeated. "If he used my stuff, I can prove
it." 

 The dean had withdrawn a Manila envelope from a locked file cabinet, but
now paused before opening it. "'If?'" 

 "I didn't see him steal it!" Gary sighed. "If it's not my stuff, I'll
tell you." 

 The dean shook his head. "That's not good enough. The bids are supposed
to stay sealed until the Board of Directors opens them next week. I can't
let you see this unless you're sure it's yours." 

 Turnbull dared lean forward to interrupt. "Perhaps Mr. Garrison could
describe his work and you could take a looksey to see if it matches what
Mr. Mangus submitted." 

 The dean frowned unhappily and let his eyes rake Ren's uniform. "You're
the Mountie he told me about?" 

 Ren pasted a bright smile in place and offered his hand. "Constable
Turnbull, Sir." 

 The dean ignored the hand and turned his frown on Gary. "I would've been
happier if you'd brought a regular cop with you. Have you even reported
this to the police yet?" 

 Gary rolled his eyes. 

 "Yes, yes! It's reported!" Arleen answered for him in exasperation. "The
creeps are already in jail!-" 

 Turnbull opened his mouth to correct that assumption, knowing it was very
unlikely that any of them were actually in jail as yet - most likely they
were still being interviewed or talking to their lawyers - but Ms.
Schlemiel continued before he could do so. He decided it wasn't important
anyway. 

 "--The guy wouldn't have tried to kill you if he hadn't stolen it, Gary!"
She frowned at the dean. "Open it already!" 

 "This had better be yours and you'd better be able to prove it," he
warned Gary. The young man nodded and the dean opened the envelope. Inside
was a presentation folder and a computer CD. The clear plastic slipcover
of the presentation folder displayed an artistic rendering of the Activity
Center with what Ren assumed was the proposed mural in place. 

 Gary seemed to suddenly relax. "It's mine," he confirmed with a nod. "He
changed the background to get rid of my signature," he pointed to the
bottom right corner where a stylized "JM1996" resided, "but everything
else is mine." 

 The Dean turned the presentation folder around and slid it toward Gary.
"Prove it," he ordered simply. 

 Gary ignored the folder and nodded at the CD. "Open it," he said. 

 The dean frowned in mild confusion. 

 "Oh!" Turnbull suddenly exclaimed as a light went on. "You used a
watermark!" 

 "No." Gary shook his head but offered the Constable a secretive smile.
"Something better." 

 The dean had moved to sit at his desk and now inserted the disk into the
CD drive. Turnbull offered a curious tilt of his head for Mr. Garrison as
Dean Woodridge tapped on his keys. 

 "They wouldn't let us use a watermark; part of the rules." Gary shrugged
and moved to watch the computer screen over the dean's shoulder. "It had
to be in a layered .pdf anyway, so it would have been pointless." 

 "PDF format usually allows for encoding the author's name with the work,"
Ren knew, realizing that this would have rendered the effort to steal the
project impossible. 

 "I hadn't bothered to fill that stuff out yet," Gary answered. He frowned
slightly. "He rewrote the text of the proposal, but that's okay. Scroll
down to the actual artwork." 

 Both Ren and Arleen moved to join Gary behind the dean's desk so they too
could see what was happening. 

 "There. You see that eye?" He pointed to the first of several people
which were depicted in the midst of various athletic events throughout the
ages against a faded Colosseum backdrop, in this case a carefully-posed
naked Greek runner. "Zoom in," Gary told the dean. 

 The dean frowned and shook his head. "My secretary does all the computer
work here-" 

 "-Allow me," Ren offered, as he was closest to the mouse. A few clicks
brought the face into larger focus. 

 "I love .pdf," Gary grinned. "Keep going. It's in the reflected light of
the right eye." 

 "Ah!" Ren nodded as he worked. "You imbedded your signature." 

 "Kinda," Gary grinned and wrapped his arm around Arleen. It took only a
few more clicks to reveal Gary's 'proof': the nose and curly haired top of
a little cartoon man who resembled Gary was peeking over the edge of the
'highlight'. Below him, in white on black, were the words, "Gary was
here." 

 Ren grinned and sat back. "A Kilroy!" he exclaimed. 

 "A what?" Arleen asked. 

 "A 'Kilroy'," Ren answered. "According to the most accepted version of
events, James J. Kilroy was a shipyard inspector in Boston, Mass. during
WWII. He wrote the phrase 'Kilroy was here' on various surfaces to show
that he'd been aboard the ship and inspected the bulkheads and rivets.
Troops assigned to the ships saw his strange moniker and wondered who it
was who'd been there before anyone else. The phrase caught their
imagination and soon 'Kilroys' began appearing everywhere, as a sort of
silent representative of the American troops fighting spirit, and
continues to do so to this day. Normally, it's a bald man with a big nose
peeking over the top of something, and not a young man with curly hair,
but the concept is the same." 

 "I got the idea from a professor of mine who used to do technical
drafting for the Air Force. He said he always inserted a tiny Kilroy in
his work; you couldn't see it unless you knew where to look and had a
magnifying lens, but it was there. I'm not in the Army or anything, so I
made up my own little man to look like me." 

 "Given the odd nature of the insertion, I would definitely have to call
that proof," the dean nodded. He then frowned in thought. "On second
thought, Mr. Mangus could always claim you tampered with his work..." 

 "Ah!" Ren declared. "The question would then be decided by which man
could produce the earliest version of the original without the insertion."
He turned to Gary. "He would not have been able to change your original
artwork, so I'm afraid it was likely destroyed, but I assume you kept
back-up copies of your earlier work on the computer on disks?" 

 "No," Gary answered, looking upset. "I had a couple of them on the hard
drive but Jack probably deleted the file after he stole what he wanted." 

 "'What he wanted'," Ren agreed with a knowing wink and a finger touch to
the side of his nose. "That's the key. I somehow doubt he thought to copy
the entire file. He probably only took your final draft. I also somehow
doubt that Mr. Mangus knows a lot about computers." 

 "He knows enough to delete the files," Gary shrugged. "If he did that, I
can't prove a single thing!" 

 "Oh, yes you can," Ren assured him. "If all he did was delete them, the
files are still there." 

 "The trash folder!" Arleen suddenly exclaimed in surprised thought. 

 "Probably," Ren agreed, "but even assuming he was smart enough to empty
the trash, the files are probably still on your hard drive. Unless Mr.
Mangus took the time to do a low level format of your entire hard drive,
or the system has been used since the files were copied and the those
sectors overwritten, the files are probably recoverable." 

 "Recoverable?" Gary asked. "You mean you can rebuild files after they've
been deleted?" 

 "Oh, yes!" Ren nodded. "Experts at the RCMP do it all the time. Computer
forensics is an important investigative weapon in the fight against
crime." 

 "Can you do it?" 

 Ren had to stop himself from instantly volunteering. "I can," he agreed,
with an embarrassed blush for having to admit to this rather technical
skill, "but that wouldn't be wise." 

 "Why not?" Arleen frowned sharply. 

 "It would be tampering with evidence," he explained. "We have to let a
Chicago Police Computer Forensics Specialist handle it. It also has to be
compared to Mr. Mangus' computer. It should be relatively easy to
determine who created the original files." 

 Gary rolled his eyes and hung his head. "That'll take forever!" he
sighed. "The competition will be over by the time they get to it!" 

 Ren smiled. "Not necessarily. May I use your phone, Sir?" 

 The dean glanced up at the Mountie and offered a confused nod.  

 Ren's friend, David Mathers - whom he'd had the fortune to meet the same
day he discovered that little cyber-grind down on Madison, and who just
happened to work for the Chicago Police Computer Crimes Division down at
Central - had been quite happy to assist them in recovering Mr. Garrison's
files. A couple of phone calls was all that had been needed to make it
official - not that, as it turned out, official channels were needed.
Apparently, Jack Mangus had cracked under the knowledge that his own
father had agreed to testify against him and had confessed to everything.
Still, Ren had thought, it never hurt to follow the rules. 

 David had met them at Gary's place and, much to Ms. Schlemiel's delight,
they'd discovered the 'deleted' files still in the computer's trash
folder. Gary had been able to burn a new CD within a matter of minutes and
handed Dean Woodridge, who had accompanied them out of sheer curiosity, a
copy of his original proposal less than an hour after Turnbull had called
David. 

 While David and Gary had been busy on the computer, Ren had managed to
convince Ms. Schlemiel to call her father. It hadn't taken much convincing
on his part as, despite their argument, she'd never intended not to speak
to him again. The argument, she'd explained, had been over her change of
major from Art History to Art Administration, which entailed a change of
schools as well. Her father had been convinced the only reason she was
doing it was to be with her boyfriend, but he underestimated her; and,
obviously, knew nothing about Chicago. Attending two different schools had
never interfered with their relationship, which had been on going for more
than a year. 

 The conversation was rather tearful actually, a sudden and delayed
release of pent up emotions following the rather nightmarish ordeal of
being kidnaped and held captive for almost a week. It was perfectly
understandable, if a bit disconcerting. He'd quickly engaged David in a
discussion so as to grant her at least a semblance of privacy in the
one-room efficiency apartment that was Mr. Garrison's place of residence. 

 Ren and the other men had been laughing quietly over some of David's more
colorful tales concerning other stupid mistakes he'd seen criminals make
when using computers, when Ms. Schlemiel had unexpectedly called him to
the phone. 

 Oh, dear! The Canadian Minister of Finance wanted to speak to him? He was
suddenly tongue tied and incredibly flustered. "Canadian Con- I mean,
Consulate Turn- Constable. Constable Turnbull... Sir!" 

 "Constable... My daughter tells me you took a nasty hit to the head.
Sounds like maybe you need to see a doctor, son..." 

 "Oh, well, um..." He blushed crimson over how badly his lack of verbal
skills had just reflected on him! Ren didn't think he really needed to see
a doctor but he couldn't very well correct such a senior member of
government! "Perhaps? Maybe... that is, if, ah-" 

 "-My daughter tells me you saved her life, Constable Turnbull," the man
continued briskly, fortunately dropping the question of a doctor, "at
considerable risk to your own, from the sound of things." 

 Ren didn't think it was possible for him to blush further, but from the
feel of things he was mistaken. "Oh, Sir! I... It... that is, I... I was
only doing my duty!" 

 "And most commendably too, Constable," the man agreed. "I will personally
see to it that A Letter of Commendation and Merit is forwarded to your
Commanding Officer first thing tomorrow morning." 

 "Oh, Sir, I- I--" 

 "--No thanks, Constable; you deserve it. Now let me speak to my daughter
again." 

 What else could he say or do? Ren smiled self-consciously and handed the
phone back to Ms. Schlemiel. 

 David frowned as Ren cleared his throat and tugged at the collar of his
tunic before moving to rejoin them. "Good or bad?" he asked, trying to
assess Ren's obvious discomfiture. 

 "Oh, good. Good," he admitted, fighting to regain his composure and not
suddenly smile so hard that he split his face! "Very good, actually." 

 David relaxed and grinned along with him as he slapped him on the back.
"It's always great when a case falls into place and everything has a happy
ending. You need a lift home?" 

 "Oh, I- Actually, I have to return to the Consulate. The Inspector was
expecting my report by tonight." 

 David glanced at his watch. "It's almost nine," he observed, turning to
lead the way out of the apartment with a silent wave of goodbye for the
other men who were busy discussing something to do with an art exhibit at
Gallery X. Ms. Schlemiel was tucked under Gary's arm as she talked to her
room mate on the phone and showed no signs of wanting to move from there.
The three returned the wave and Ren found himself automatically following
his friend out the door as he continued, "Don't you think everyone's gone
home for the day?" 

 "Oh, no," Ren answered with a shake of his head, dispite the fact that
the other man had his back to him. "The cleaning staff usually arrives
around eight and, also, usually someone is assigned to man the phones
until nine, due to time zone differences between the west and east coasts,
and..." 

 "Okay, okay!" David grinned, and shook his head in sympathy. "I get the
picture. Even if your boss is gone, he's probably going to want to see
your report on his desk first thing in the morning, huh? Bureaucrats:
they're all alike. It's over on Stetson, right?" 

 "Yes, but... I need to return Lieutenant Welsh's car." 

 "Lieutenant Welsh..." David echooed pensively. "Where have I heard that
name before?" 

 "He's the officer in charge of district twenty-seven's Violent Crimes
Unit." 

 "--Right! My Lieutenant used to be his partner, way back when. 'Always
talking about the good ol' days. Your Welsh sounds like he was a bit of a
cowboy in his younger days. I'd like to meet him." 

 "He's not- he's not- that is, I don't really- I just met him today
myself." 

 "Today? He loaned you his car and you're telling me you don't even know
him?" 

 "He-- Apparently, he likes the Arts. And-" 

 "--Whatever," David interrupted. "He's probably gone home for the day.
'Woulda just taken a car from the motor pool. You can introduce us some
other time. You just dropping the car off out back?" 

 "I-" 

 "-Course ya are. I'll meet you and give you a lift back to the
Consulate." 

 "That's very kind of you, but... I don't want to impose." 

 "What 'impose'? It's on my way." 

 Ren frowned in confusion as he followed his friend, "I thought you lived
over on Deering Street?" which he knew perfectly well was in the opposite
direction of both the 27th and the Consulate. 

 His friend only laughed and agreed, "Yeah, so?" and continued leading the
way out of the building.  

 It was quite late by the time David dropped him off in front of the
Consulate and waved good-bye. Turnbull smiled happily and turned to mount
the stone steps with a merry whistle upon his lips. He was even able to
ignore the embarrassing squeak of his still damp boot. It had certainly
been a long day, he thought. Inspector Thatcher had undoubtably left long
ago, and he had little doubt that she would demand to see him first thing
in the morning. 

 To his surprise, he found the door before him locked. 

 "That's odd," he thought aloud and glanced at his wristwatch: 10:03 pm.
"The cleaning crew must have finished early," he decided with a shrug and
dug out his keys. He'd just pop in and type up his report before changing
clothes and heading home... 

 He stepped into a puddle. 

 A puddle? "What in the world..?" A spilled bucket of mop water, maybe -
but why in the world hadn't the cleaning crew... The acrid smell of smoke
struck him next. With a feeling of dawning horror, Ren swung the door shut
behind him and flipped on the foyer's light switch.  

 Thatcher was more than a little angry as she stepped from the cab in the
early morning light and saw Fraser there before her, struggling with a
pair of crutches and the heavy door. "What do you think you're doing?" she
demanded abruptly as she quickly mounted the stairs and joined him. 

 Fraser turned in surprise. "I- that is-" He waved at the door. 

 "--You're still supposed to be off recuperating!" she told him firmly,
extracting her own keys and brushing aside his efforts with the door. "Not
that I couldn't use your help. The place is an absolute disaster! You've
managed to pick a very inconvenient time to go and get shot, Constable." 

 "I- I'm sorry? Sir..." Ben answered, not sure what else to say and more
than a little confused by her obvious irritation. 

 "I sent Constable Turnbull off yesterday on a very simple assignment - to
knock on a university student's door for heaven's sake! - and the man
never returned. In the meantime, Constable Sterling managed to destroy the
place. The man's even more of a klutz than Turnbull! I should've known
there'd be trouble when he couldn't even unclog a toilet. He scrambled all
the phone lines, crashed the computer system and managed to set off the
fire sprinklers! There's water everywhere so it's probably not safe for
you to come in. The first thing I need to do is put a 'Closed' sign on
this..." She stepped forward into a perfectly clean and, more importantly,
dry foyer. "...door," she finished lamely. 

 Fraser gazed around her and saw nothing amiss. "The cleaning crew?" he
suggested. 

 "They refused to touch it last night," she answered moving forward. "Not
part of the contract, they said; and they didn't have time. They were
going to send someone out later this morning. I and the rest of the staff
mopped up the worst of it, but..." 

 "Perhaps they came earlier than expected." 

 "Perhaps..." she echoed doubtfully. 

 "Or... Constable Sterling returned to clean up?" 

 "Constable Sterling was ordered never to set foot inside this building
again!" she told him quite firmly. "The only reason I didn't cashier his
egotistical... self," she kept herself from cursing with an effort, "is
because approving his request for an immediate transfer was faster."
Gesturing Fraser in, she closed the door behind them and locked it. It
was, after all, still before normal business hours. "The man should be put
under glass with a warning sign that reads, 'Break only in time of war.'" 

 Silently, Ben agreed, and hoped the immediate transfer had been to Baffin
Island. Ottawa had sent Constable Sterling down here to teach him
humility. He'd been assigned three months of sentry duty within minutes of
his first meeting with Inspector Thatcher. Ben didn't know exactly what
had transpired in those minutes, but he had his suspicions. The man seemed
to think he was God's gift to women. Given the way he'd been walking when
he left the Inspector's office, Ben suspected she'd disabused him of that
theory. 

 "I'll check my messages," she decided, heading for her office. "Perhaps
there's an explanation there - if I can even manage to boot the system and
retrieve my email! Turnbull is going to have his hands full straightening
everything out when he finally shows up, but frankly I'll be so happy to
see the man that I wouldn't care if he'd gone and married the Minister of
Finance's daughter!" She suddenly brought herself up short. "I take that
back. Anything short of that, however, will be happily overlooked as long
as he shows up on time. You check the kitchen: just don't be surprised by
what you find. Sterling put a metal bowl in the microwave and left it.
We're lucky he didn't burn the place down!" 

 Oh dear, Ben thought, and mentally girded himself for the disaster he
fully expected to find. No wonder the cleaning crew had refused to tackle
the job last night. It sounded like there would be several hours of
serious labor involved. He adjusted his grip on the crutches, knowing
there would be little or nothing he could do to help in his present
condition. Well, perhaps he could tackle whatever Sterling had managed to
do to the computer network. 

 He was forewarned that his concerns were for naught by the smell of fresh
paint even before he swung open the free hanging door. To his surprise,
the kitchen was spotless. It was, in fact, immaculate. If it weren't for
the smell of fresh paint, Ben would have suspected that Inspector Thatcher
had suffered some sort of delusional dream. He'd been expecting to at
least find smoke stains or scorch marks on the ceiling and walls near the
microwave - which he noted was missing. It had undoubtedly needed to be
thrown out. It was also undoubtably the smoke stains and possible scorch
marks that had necessitated the paint job. 

 The janitorial service they had contracted with must have come back in
the middle of the night and tackled the job while everyone else was gone.
There simply was no other explanation. He was a bit surprised that they'd
actually taken the initiative to seal and paint the damaged areas, but... 

 Dief nosed his way around Ben and trotted across the newly waxed floor to
his water dish, which Ben noted was freshly washed and filled. He cocked
his head to the side as he watched his canine companion, knowing that only
he or Constable Turnbull ever attended to that particular task, and a
second possible explanation began to dawn. 

 "Turnbull?" he called out, hoping to confirm his suspicions but he got no
answer. With a pensive frown, he turned awkwardly on his crutches and left
Dief in the kitchen, deciding to explore the mystery further before
reporting to Thatcher. 

 She had mentioned something about the toilet so that was his next stop.
The downstair's bathroom also was perfectly cleaned. So was the attached
laundry room - except for the pair of Sam Brown boots which rested atop
the dryer. Size 15 - which meant, that unless Turnbull had seen fit to
change his uniform before setting out on his assignment yesterday, he had
indeed returned at some point last night. 

 Ben frowned and headed for the stairs, but paused as he came up beside
Turnbull's desk. As always, the surface was perfectly organized and neat.
What drew his attention was the folder in the center of it. The title
read, "Case Report: Schlemiel, Arleen. Missing Person/Kidnapping/Attempted
murder." Yesterday's date was at the bottom and an official red stamp
slashed across the middle of it stating, "Case Closed." 

 Ben's brows rose in sharp surprise. Arleen Schlemiel: that was the
university student's door the Inspector had sent Turnbull to knock upon?
He had to wonder if she were any relation to Minister Schlemiel, the
Canadian Minister of Finance. Given that he was Constable Turnbull's
immediate superior, Ben felt no compunction whatsoever about scanning the
report. His brows went up even higher and he set his crutches aside so he
could sit down and read it properly. 

 He'd just gotten to the part where Lieutenant Welsh had loaned Turnbull
his personal vehicle when a soft snore suddenly caught his attention. He
glanced up and immediately placed the sound as coming from his right. Dief
was sitting quietly beside him, giving the closed conference room door a
curious look. Loath to leave the report and the incredible story contained
therein, Ben rose nonetheless and retrieved his crutches. There was only
one likely explanation for the sound. Quietly, he approached the door and
swung it open. 

 There sat Turnbull; or, he corrected the thought, there 'slept' Turnbull.
The man was seated at the large mahogany table dressed only in his
starched boxer shorts, white T-shirt, black socks... and, apparently, a
pink floral apron! Beneath his folded arms and sleeping form was his red
serge tunic; beside him was a spool of red thread and scissors. A needle
and thread had fallen from his hand and, off to his left, sat his Stetson
- which had obviously seen better days. A dark spot on it caught Ben's
attention and, moving silently, he made his way forward to inspect it. He
was not surprised to confirm the presence of dried blood. A close
inspection of the back Turnbull's head showed him where the man had been
hit and knocked unconscious - all in keeping with the report that Ben had
just read. 

 Dief, who'd followed Ben in, glanced up and asked if the other man was
alright. 

 Ben's finger shot to his mouth and he shushed the animal sharply, not
wanting to wake Turnbull. Not only had the man faced off against several
armed men yesterday, and prevailed, but it was equally obvious that he'd
spent the night cleaning the Consulate! He deserved his rest. 

 With a silent shake of his head, Ben decided to speak with Thatcher
immediately. Moving as quietly as possible, he retreated from the room and
headed upstairs, taking Turnbull's report with him.  

 Ren sighed and turned his head to the other side, only to have bright
sunlight slash across his closed eyelids. In confusion, he blinked open
his eyes and glanced around. The confusion was quickly replaced by dismay
as memory knit itself into place. His eyes shot to the clock above the
mantel only to discover it was after eight o'clock in the morning. 

 "Oh, no!" he exclaimed, realizing that he must have dozed off. Inspector
Thatcher would be here any moment, if she wasn't already! A glance at the
red serge on the table before him, followed by a glance at his present -
less than requisite attire! - had him leaping to his feet. His jodhpurs
were in the dryer, which meant he'd have to try and sneak down the
corridor- 

 His knee smacked the edge of the table with a loud "bang!" He bit back an
exclamation of pain even as he stumbled backward and fell against a
sideboard near the door. The water decanter tilted dangerously and he
immediately made a grab for it, only to have it evade his fingers and fall
to the floor with an unmistakable "crash!" 

 To his chagrin, the door beside him immediately swung open and he found
himself standing face to face with an open mouthed Inspector Thatcher. Her
eyes started to rake his form only to immediately leap back to his face
even as he felt his cheeks heat with an intense blush. Instantly, he drew
himself to sharp attention. 

 Oh dear, oh dear! He prayed the ground would just open up and swallow him
whole! 

 Thatcher grabbed desperately at her composure as she suddenly found
herself confronted by the rather ridiculously half-dressed man before her.
Laughter was completely out of the question; but then, given his report
and the Letter of Commendation she'd just read, so was a reprimand. She
decided to simply ignore it and allowed herself a quick glance to where
the faux-crystal water decanter lay in shards on the tiled flooring: that
she knew how to deal with. "The cost for that will be deducted from your
next paycheck, Constable," she told him automatically. 

 Oh dear, she thought, hadn't she just decided not to reprimand him? She
found herself incredibly flustered and, if there were anything Meg
Thatcher hated, she hated being flustered! 

 She watched as he nodded minutely, his eyes drilling a hole through the
wall behind her as he held himself ramrod straight and answered with a
perfectly correct, "Yes, Sir!" 

 "I've read your report, Constable," she hurried on, hoping to mitigate
the harshness of her words, but not wanting to appear overly friendly
either... Oh, she hated being put on the spot like this, especially when
it was her own doing! 

 Why couldn't the man have simply stayed dressed, for heaven's sake! 

 She grabbed the bottom of her tunic and tugged it down, drawing herself
to her full height and wrapping her professional mein about herself like
invisible armor. Compared to Turnbull, she still felt incredibly tiny. 

 "The Minister of Finance sent his personal thanks along with a copy of
his Letter of Commendation via e-mail. The actual document should arrive
within a few days. Make sure I get it at once so that it can be properly
inserted into you personnel file, along with a copy of my own Letter of
Commendation." 

 "Yes, Sir!" he repeated correctly. 

 "And... thank you," she offered awkwardly. "I mean, for all the work you
obviously put in here last night. You didn't need to do that. The cleaning
crew is due to arrive shortly per arrangements last night; but, anyway, I
appreciate it." 

 The man continued to hold himself perfectly still before her. Even her
thanks sounded autocratic! She just really was not handling this well...
but what else could she do? She turned toward Fraser at her side. 

 "Constable," she addressed him crisply. "I'm ordering you to take care of
this man. See to it that he..." This was coming out all wrong, she knew,
and fought to reorganize her thoughts. "Just... get him dressed and
checked out by a doctor before taking him home," she told him bluntly.
"Use one of the Consulate cars." 

 "Sir--" Turnbull dared to interject, only to have her anticipate his
objection. 

 "--No arguments, Turnbull," she told him firmly, using his name rather
than his rank on purpose. It was just that one half-step down from
formality that she felt comfortable with. "You were knocked unconscious
for a considerable number of minutes from the sound of things and almost
certainly have a concussion, whether you realize it or not. I will not
have you endangering your health out of some misplaced sense of duty.
Besides," she continued more gently, "you've already done more than enough
here to assist in righting the disaster Constable Sterling managed to
inflict during your absence." 

 She leaned forward slightly and assured him in a somewhat conspiratorial
undertone, "He won't be returning." 

 She straightened again and continued. "I think the rest of the staff,
Constable Fraser and myself are quite capable of handling the rest of it
from here. As such, I'm ordering you to take a few days off, regardless of
what the doctor says. You are not to return to work until next Monday at
the earliest - and if the doctor recommends longer, not before he says.
Clear?" 

 "Sir!" 

 She knew the man was not about to relax until after she left the room
and, under the circumstances, she didn't want him to as it would only
force her to acknowledge his... rather bizarre attire. She and Fraser
exchanged understanding nods and she spun on her heel to exit the room,
only to abruptly halt in the open doorway as she suddenly remembered
something. "Oh, I'm also shortening your official title. Hereafter you
will simply be the 'Assistant Deputy Liaison Officer.' Congratulations.
Make sure you requisition a new name plate when you return." With that she
left and closed the door behind her. 

 In surprise, Ren dared break discipline and glanced at Constable Fraser.
His immediate superior officer was unabashedly grinning at him and reached
out to award a clap to his back. "Good job, Constable," he said simply. 

 Ren suddenly found himself grinning in return, basking in the camaraderie
of finally knowing he belonged.  

End An Artistic Endeavor by Janice R. Sager: jsager@zianet.com

Author and story notes above.