Blair looked up from his slumped position on the sidewalk when the blue Ford pulled onto the street. It had been almost forty minutes since his partner had taken off in pursuit, and he'd started to worry. The uniforms had arrived just as Blair was stumbling his way back to the blue house to check on its occupants; he'd joined them for the preliminaries, then returned outside to wait for his partner before doing any interviews. One of the victims left in an ambulance, an older brother this time, severely beaten around the face and stomach. He hoped Jim had had better luck in his pursuit.

One look at his partner's face said otherwise. Jim slammed his way out of the truck and joined Blair as he stood up.

"Flat tire," he explained with his usual Spartan choice of words. Blair glanced at the rear passenger wheel and saw the old, nearly bald spare fastened in place.

"You all right?" he asked.

Jim just nodded, his face a mask of undiminished fury. "At least you got one of them. He already been taken to booking by a uniform?"

Blair shifted uncomfortably. He didn't know exactly what to tell Jim, because he wasn't sure what had happened himself. Running his hand through his hair, he looked at his partner and shook his head.

"He, uh, got away."

Jim stopped his pacing and looked Blair full in the eyes, his expression unreadable. "He got away."

Blair nodded miserably.

Turning around, Jim slammed his fists against the hood of the truck, every muscle rigid, as he tried to get his emotions under control. "Just tell me, Sandburg, how a small man wearing hockey pads and running on a badly twisted ankle could get away." To his credit, he didn't yell.

"I don't know." Blair tried to reenact the pursuit in his mind, wondering why it had gone so wrong. "I stopped to catch my breath and--"

"Stopped to catch your breath! A lousy 50 yards--" he waved a hand in the general direction of the privacy fence "--and you were winded!" Jim's disappointment was palpable.

"I--I'm sorry, I just... my muscles cramped and--"

"Geez, Sandburg, the suspect's ankle was sprained or broken and he seemed to manage."

Blair had had enough. "God dammit, Jim, I'm not a supercop like you, okay? I can't leap tall buildings in a single bound, and I don't have biceps the size of bowling balls." His anger was hitting him full force now. "Maybe you can chase suspects for miles over nails and broken glass and probably water, too, without getting winded but I can't, okay? I'm just a short anthropologist trying to do the best I can."

Jim looked like he'd just been kicked in the gut. Blair swallowed, the anger suddenly gone, and wondered at the lost expression on his friend's face. Neither man spoke, but Jim's face had gone stark white and he looked kind of... panicked.

Bewildered, Blair reached out. "Jim, I--"

Abruptly, Jim turned on his heels and headed for the house. "We have witnesses to interview, Sandburg," was all he said.

The bad boys of hockey had not strayed from their MO. The most recent victims, the Smythe family, experienced the same humiliation and property destruction as the others. Theo Smythe, a fourteen-year-old who attended the same private school as the other three teens, had been forced to strip and don a pair of bright red speedos. Sam-the-hockey-player had then taken several Polaroid snapshots of Theo in various macho positions (the machismo lessened slightly due to the tears streaming down his face) and placed them in an envelope stamped and pre-addressed to the girl he had a crush on. One Polaroid had been left on the floor, and mortification didn't begin to cover the expression on the chubby, underdeveloped boy's face.

Reggie Smythe, a 19-year-old attending his first year at Rainier, had tried repeatedly to defend his brother and then later his mother when she had been forced to wear the clown make- up; their father had died three years previously. Reggie had taken a stick to his stomach and more than one fist to his face for the effort.

It occurred to Jim, not for the first time, that these home invaders seemed to know an awful lot about the families they terrorized. He thought back to Blair's grid and its common denominators, and discovered that the Smythes, too, used the same gardening service.

Which is why he and Blair were now driving through upper Cascade, ocean side, to interview the owner of Exterior Designs, Bert Jeffries.

"The tedious side of detective work," sighed Blair as they pulled onto a long driveway that led to a small brick building. The lawn and trees surrounding the office couldn't have offered a better advertisement. The healthy dark green grass wove itself in and among a seemingly random scattering of maple, oak, and white birch trees. The edge of the building and the larger sheds behind were tastefully bordered with redwood chips and 'dusty miller', a strong green weed with silver highlights that was extremely difficult to kill, but obviously manageable if you knew what you were doing.

Jim spoke carefully, but tried to keep his tone light. "You tired of detective work already, Chief?"

"Yes. No. I mean, today is just turning into one of those days where we do interview, after interview, after interview, and then we get to go back to the station and write them all up into reports."

"Not quite the roller coaster ride you thought it was?" Jim asked cautiously.

Blair frowned. "What's with you, man? I was just making a simple observation, not a blanket commentary on your career choice."

Your career choice. Ouch. Jim parked next to the door. "Sorry." They got out of the truck.

"Hey look." Blair poked him in the ribs. A white van pulled out from a large garage behind the office building and headed off down the drive.

"It's white," Jim pointed out unnecessarily.

"Yeah, but isn't that the same model as the one we saw this morning? And no windows in the back."

Jim nodded. He eyed the van more closely as it sped past. Definitely the same model. There was another van, this one grey, parked nearby, but it was too well kept to be the one he had pursued in the pre-dawn hours. However, as he strolled past it, he fingered the Exterior Designs logo on the driver's door. The corner pulled up easily. The sign was magnetic, and could be removed or replaced in seconds.

The first thing Blair noticed as they entered the office were the plants. Sitting, hanging, standing, the flora presented greens of every hue and leaves of every texture; they were everywhere. He half expected Jim's spirit guide to pop out and lead them to the Temple of the Gardner.

The second thing he noticed was Bert Jeffries, a short, bald, scruffy man with a stubby cigar smoldering in his mouth. He was dressed in green army pants and a well-worn short-sleeved shirt that allowed the tattoos on his forearms to be seen easily. One was of a mermaid, and the other had a snake slithering through the letters E D N A.

"Mr. Jeffries," Jim said. "I'm Detective Ellison and this is my partner, Detective Sandburg."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Jeffries sat back down at his desk after greeting them at the door. He had books and accounting printouts all over his desk. A stained coffee mug near his hand read Exterior Designs: We Charge by the Yard. "I'm trying to get stuff to my accountant for the taxes, so make it quick."

Jim was never one to mince words. "We understand your company does the gardening for many of the residents of Redwood Estates."

"The hell we do."

"I beg your pardon?"

Jeffries stood and leaned against the front of his desk, the cigar between a thumb and forefinger. "We're 'landscape artists', not gardeners." He gestured through the window at the expanse of his corporation. "This look like the business of a freakin' gardener to you, mack?"

Jim smiled politely as he pushed the cigar-holding hand away from his face. "You started this business, didn't you?"

"Damn straight I did. Soon as I left the Marines." Jeffries suddenly grinned and returned the cigar to his mouth. "What can I say? I gotta green thumb."

"And you have a contract with certain residents at Redwood Estates?"

"What of 'em?"

"I'm sure you've heard about the recent home invasions on the news. Are you aware that all four families victimized are customers of yours?"

"Listen, mack, we service about 70% of Redwood Estates, and a lotta other folks besides. We're damn good at our job and in high demand. Got a waiting list as long as your Aunt Fanny's muffler."

Blair watched the by-play between the two men and felt like he should be contributing somehow. On the other hand, Jim seemed to be doing just fine. Mostly, he wondered who Edna was.

"What about your employees? Would they have any reason to hold a grudge against any of these families?"

"My employees are mostly family. Three sons, a daughter, coupla nephews and my cousin's kid. They don't hold no grudges."

"What about money? There were some pretty expensive items stolen during the invasions."

"Listen, mack--" The cigar was back in Jeffries hand and poking Jim in the chest. "You ever hear of Orwin Montagna?"

"Yes." Jim's eyes narrowed. "He's one of the most prestigious landscape architects in the state of Washington."

"That's right." Jeffries grinned and rocked back on his heels. "His guys do my yard."

Blair was right about one thing: this part of detective work was tedious. After they finished up with Jeffries and had a tour of his facilities, they grabbed a late lunch at a local Friendly's. Even though they hadn't eaten anything since the early morning doughnuts, Blair only ate a quarter of his turkey club sandwich. Not wanting to start another fight, Jim didn't bother to point this out. The disastrous early morning pursuit was specifically ignored as well.

Henri called after they were back on the road to announce that the hockey jerseys were a dead end. None of the local stores custom-made jerseys for specific players unless they were current stars, and then only for the player's present team. An Ulf Samuelsson Pittsburgh sweater or a Marty McSorley Kings sweater would have to have been purchased in the early '90s, or at a yard sale or second-hand store. Too hard to track down.

Which left next to no leads at all on this case. Following up on Everett Carrington's skimpy lead was a long shot at best, but it had just moved higher on their priority list.

Blair didn't show much interest as he gazed through the windshield at the narrow, winding road stretching before them. "Not that I don't appreciate cruising through the lifestyles of the rich and famous, but where are we going again?"

The pickup was climbing the foothills immediately to the northeast of Cascade. Hillside Drive was the only road into this old, stately section of the city. For someone to say they lived on Hillside meant more than a street address; it was a testimony to the elite status and enormous wealth contained within the mansions and estates gracing the neighborhood. The lots here were large, seldom less than 2 acres, and each estate was hidden by lush landscaping and curving driveways.

Jim glanced across the wide seat. "You didn't learn much about the Magliari family at the Academy, did you?"

His partner shook his head. "No, today it's the Russian mafia, Jamaican gangs, and Colombian drug cartels. I know the Magliari's were notorious back in the '40s and '50s, and really hit their height during the old bootlegger days."

"Right." Jim turned into a drive that wound between tall evergreens and perfectly trimmed deciduous trees and pulled the truck into an empty parking lot. A three-story mansion rose in stately splendor to their right, while the view to the left was of immaculate gardens showcasing a vista that included all of Cascade and the Puget Sound beyond.

Blair took in the views to either side. "Isn't this the Museum of Modern Art, Jim? I never knew you went in for this sort of stuff."

"Very funny, Sandburg," Jim returned mildly. "Yes, this is the Museum of Modern Art, but back in the '60s it was the home of the Magliari family. Except for the parking lot, it hasn't changed much."

"Wow." Blair's eyes widened in surprise. "I guess crime really does pay."

Jim put the truck in gear and circled around the parking lot to leave. "In the short-term, I guess it does. I think the grandfather is the last living reminder of their criminal days. But the family lost everything when the FBI finally managed to nail them. I was only six or seven at the time, so I don't remember much about it. I do know the three sons salvaged what they could and went legit."

"And we're going to see one of those sons today, right?" Blair asked as they started down Hillside Drive again. "Father of Andy, the one who got into a fight with Everett Carrington and gave him a black eye?"

Jim didn't miss the tone of doubt in Blair's voice. "Yeah, it's a long shot, I know. But it just seems odd to me that the children of the victimized families all attend the same private school, while their neighborhood is predominantly made up of families who send their kids to public school."

"Yeah, it is kind of a coincidence, I guess," Blair agreed with a sigh. He looked at the tidy, upper-middle-class homes as they once again entered Redwood Estates. "These homes are expensive, but it must seem like slumming after living on Hillside."

Jim parked at the curb and studied the well-kept home they'd come to visit. "Looks like they've adapted okay to their new lifestyle."

They sauntered up the walk to the front porch, and Jim rang the bell. The door was answered by a woman of about 50, whose comfortable roundness was probably the result of sampling the source of the sweet baking aromas that wafted around her like perfume. "Police officers," she said with a grin. "Lord, we haven't been raided since 1971. Come on in and have some coffee and cinnamon rolls."

Startled by her cheerfulness, Jim still dutifully held up his badge. "I'm Detective Ellison, and this is my partner, Detective Sandburg."

"I'm Rosie Magliari," the woman said, waving them inside. "Grandpa's upstairs if you need to talk to him. What did he do? Assault someone with his walker?"

Jim smiled slightly. "Still gets around, does he?"

She led the way into a large, sunny kitchen and gestured for them to sit at the counter. A nearby table was already laid with plates and napkins. "Lord, yes. I try to keep an eye on him, but he manages to sneak out at least once a week." She smiled fondly as she poured coffee without asking and prepared two plates of warm, oozing cinnamon rolls. She placed one of them on the counter along with a handful of napkins, then served the coffee. "He's quite senile, you know. Talks about nothing but the old days. Silly old fart." Turning toward the kitchen door, she raised her voice to a level worthy of a drill sergeant. "Antonio! Christina! Andrew! After school snack," she added for the sake of her guests. "Help yourselves. I made plenty."

She continued dinner preparations without missing a beat, peeling potatoes and adding them to a large pan containing a roast. "Are you questioning everyone about the break-ins?"

Jim wasn't sure what he'd expected from his first encounter with a member of the notorious Magliari family, but it certainly wasn't this cheerful, motherly woman who didn't appear to harbor any bad feelings about the past. "Your husband is Roberto, Senior, is that correct?"

Rosie nodded and steered the first offspring, a girl of about fourteen who apparently took her fashion tips from either Morticia Addams or Elvira, into a chair at the table. After making certain her waif-thin daughter was actually going to consume something, she turned to answer Jim's question. "That's right. The only one of the Magliari men who never went to prison." She laughed. "I think that bothers him sometimes. Even his two older brothers did some time when the law finally caught up to us." Her smile faltered for the first time. "You can't want to talk to him. He's been in Boston at a conference since last Saturday."

"No." Jim struggled to ignore the gooey temptation of the cinnamon rolls and focus on the case. "Actually, we'd like to talk to you and Andy in private, if we could?"

The look she gave him was full of suspicion, but she also didn't appear to be a woman with anything to hide. "All right. Let's go into the living room."

As they started to step through the kitchen door, Jim almost collided with a tall, gangly teenager; his belligerent scowl so much a part of his everyday expression that his forehead had actually formed a permanent crease.

"Excuse me," Jim said politely, casually glancing down.

Warrior Pros. Everett Carrington had said one of the home invasion crew had been wearing Warrior Pros. In and of itself, this meant little, since the shoes were the footwear of choice for older teens. Still...

"Nice shoes," he said, nodding toward the floor.

"Friend gave 'em to me. You hasslin' my mom?" the kid asked, deliberately getting in Jim's face. Too old to be Andrew, Jim guessed this was Antonio.

His friendly expression never faltered. "Just canvassing the neighborhood about the recent break-ins. I don't suppose you heard or saw anything suspicious?"

Antonio stepped back a pace, even though he tried hard to keep his eyes from sliding away from Jim's steady gaze. "No, man, just heard about 'em on the news, that's all."

Jim let the moment stretch, then smiled. "Okay, thanks. You'll be sure to let us know if you hear anything, won't you?"

"Sure, man, whatever." The teenager turned his back and entered the kitchen.

Blair hadn't missed the by-play. "Something there, you think?"

Jim shrugged. "Maybe." If there was, the evidence was too scant to pursue at the moment.

They joined Rosie Magliari in the living room. A moment later, a staccato pounding on the stairs heralded the arrival of a small whirlwind that launched through the room and almost reached the kitchen before Rosie's stern voice put on the brakes. "Andrew, these gentlemen are from the police. They'd like to speak with you."

The whirlwind stopped and became the figure of a boy. Andy was extremely thin, and the thick glasses perched on his nose gave him the appearance of an energetic owl. Dressed in jeans and an old flannel shirt several sizes too big for him, he hadn't quite managed to get the sleeves rolled up enough to expose his hands.

Rose tut-tutted as she straightened her youngest son's clothing.

Andy fidgeted with embarrassment. "Don't fuss, Mom," he pleaded quietly. When she had him assembled to her satisfaction, he escaped her clutches and walked over to stand in front of Jim and Blair, his expression curious. "Hi," he said shyly.

Blair caught the slight nod from Jim and took the lead. "Hi, Andy. My name's Blair, and this is my partner, Jim. We're police officers checking into the recent break-ins in the neighborhood."

"Yes, sir," Andy acknowledged, sidling away when his mother tried to hover protectively. "Louis' and Everett's houses."

"You're friends with both of them?"

Andy frowned. "No. They're friends with each other."

"But not your friends."

"No." The boy appeared to engage in an internal debate for a minute. "They pick on me sometimes."

"Pick on you?" Blair prompted gently.

"Yeah." Andy sighed. "Sometimes."

"You got into a fight with Everett Carrington, didn't you?"

Rosie stepped up beside her son. "The other boy started it. He insulted Andy."

"It's all right, Mrs. Magliari," Jim said smoothly. "From what little I heard, I think I would have been tempted to throw a punch or two myself."

"What was the fight about, Andy?" Blair continued.

"Nothing, really," Andy said after a pause. "Our midterm papers are due today, and Everett said I was gonna flunk."

Theo Smythe had a midterm destroyed in this morning's break-in. Jim frowned. "Does he tease you a lot about your school work?"

Looking ashamed, Andy nodded. "Everett and his friends. Last week, he threw my homework down a storm drain."

"Did that upset you?"

"A little, I guess." He smiled proudly. "But I had it on disk, too. I printed out another copy when I got to school. I got a B-plus on it."

"What about Marianne Willard? Or Theo Smythe? Do you know them?" Jim asked.

Andy nodded, his face reddening. "Theo likes to push me into the girl's room. Once he took my clothes away after I took a shower in gym."

"Is Marianne mean to you?"

"Not so much." Andy shrugged. "She said she'd go to the first dance with me, but she was just joking."

"How long have you been going to the Huntsville Academy?" Blair asked.

"This is my second semester."

Rosie put her hands on her son's shoulders and squeezed comfortingly. "It's the first year we've been able to afford to send one of our children there," she added proudly. "Everyone's working hard to help with the tuition. Even Antonio, my oldest son living at home, gives half his earnings to help pay Andrew's way."

Blair nodded, but kept his attention focused on Andy. "Do they ever tease you about your grandfather, what he used to do?"

"You mean being a gangster and all?" Andy nodded. "Yeah, all the time."

Jim and Blair had long since given up on their dreams of a leisurely dinner and an early night. Instead, they returned to the precinct to fill out the never-ending parade of paperwork required to document a case.

At least the bullpen was quiet, although the silence building between them was almost palpable. It was nearly midnight when they finally finished the reports and stopped at yet another quick food place for a late dinner. Straggling home for hot showers and some much-needed rest, both men went to bed thankful they'd get at least six hours of sleep.

As usual, it was not to be. The demanding clamor of the phone dragged Jim up from sleep after what seemed like only moments since putting his head on the pillow. Muttering curses, he fumbled for the phone and managed to get the receiver to his ear. "Ellison." His tone lacked its usual authority, sounding more like a sleepy sigh.

"Sorry to wake you, Jim," came Simon's apologetic voice.

The captain sounded tense, and Jim strove to wake up. "What's happened? Has the hockey gang struck again?"

"No, something else. But I need you both down here."

He managed to focus on his bedside clock. Seven o'clock. "Dammit, Simon, it's Saturday morning. We just got home a while ago. Can't it wait?" Then again, he figured he already knew the answer. Simon Banks wouldn't be calling from his office on a Saturday morning unless it was important.

"Sorry, Jim, but it can't. Get here when you can."

After disconnecting, Jim sat up and glared at the phone. It didn't lessen his irritation any, so he finally climbed out of bed, struggled to get his foggy brain to communicate with his limbs in order to don his bathrobe, and trudged downstairs to start coffee.

At first, he really didn't look forward to waking Blair, but his roommate was obviously not sleeping peacefully. The restlessness didn't sound like a nightmare, at least there was no mumbling or groaning. Instead, he was tossing and turning almost violently.

Jim softly entered the room and placed a hand on his loftmate's shoulder. "Chief, wake up."

Blair shot to his feet, a half-cry escaping before he'd come fully awake. He swayed precariously for a moment, then blinked and stared at an equally stunned Jim. "What? What happened?"

Jim shook his head, concern creasing his brow. "Nothing. I just wanted to wake you up."

"Oh." Blushing, Blair ran his hands through his tangle of hair. "I'm awake."

"Yeah, no kidding. Simon needs us down at the precinct. I've got the coffee started. Why don't you grab the first shower?"

"Right." Blair still looked disconcerted after his abrupt awakening. "Shower. Right." He stumbled out the door toward the bathroom.

Unless a big case was being investigated, the bullpen was frequently quiet on the weekend. A small complement of detectives caught the overflow of cases and investigated anything new that came in, but the administrative support staff and other officers who routinely flowed through the doors were not generally called upon to work the weekend shift.

A few detectives were busy at their desks, but much of the routine follow-ups in a case couldn't take place in the early hours, so the rest of the shift wouldn't show up until later.

Jim exchanged casual greetings with everyone as he headed directly for Simon's office. His single knock was followed by a brisk, "Enter!" With Blair behind him, he stepped into the office and shut the door.

"You wanted to see us, sir?"

Simon looked tired and rumpled, a condition almost completely alien to his normal sartorial care. "Sit down." Behind him, his coffee maker exuded the rich, deep aroma of expensive coffee beans.

When Jim and Blair were seated, the captain got straight to the point. He looked at Blair. "Someone's lodged a complaint."

Jim's jaw clenched, but Blair took the news with remarkable calm. "Willard?"

Simon shook his head. "Not Willard. The complaint came from within the department and went directly to IA."

Now Blair looked surprised. "IA? Why?"

The captain didn't answer, clearly finding the whole matter distasteful. "IA doesn't confide in me, Sandburg." He sighed. "They need you to take a drug test."

Blair was a half-second behind Jim as both men came to their feet.

Jim's voice was hard enough to break glass. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Blair's tone was more incredulous but no less angry. "Simon, you can't be serious!"

"Calm down, both of you!" Simon waited, his expression grim, until the other two realized more information wouldn't be forthcoming until they obeyed his order. When he felt sufficient sanity had been restored, he leaned forward and placed his elbows on his desk. "Sandburg, we all know it's a crock, all right? But a charge has been made, and it has to be addressed."

"Yeah, but who--?"

"IA doesn't release that information. Look, this sort of thing happens a lot. We work in a volatile profession; feelings get hurt, so someone complains to the wrong people, in this case IA. They're required to look into the charges."

Blair shook his head, bewildered. "Drugs?"

Simon sighed. "These charges are bogus, and we all know it. But come on, Sandburg, even you have to admit you haven't exactly been acting like yourself lately."

Jim bristled all over again. "That doesn't give anyone the right--"

"Unfortunately, in this department, it does," Simon interrupted smoothly. "Believe me, Sandburg, this is all routine. I want you to get a drug test this afternoon. The results will be in by Monday or Tuesday, so you won't even miss much work."

Blair was doing a credible impression of Jim's jaw-clenching. "What about the case?"

"Take the files home with you if you like."

"So I am suspended."

Simon scowled, not pleased at having fallen into Blair's verbal trap. "It's called a paid administrative absence, not suspension. It'll just be for a few days, until we get this mess cleared up."

Slowly, like a man caught in a bad dream, Blair took out his gun and shield and laid them gently on the captain's desk. "I guess you'll be wanting these."

"Sandburg--" Simon gave up, scrawled on a piece of paper, and handed the note to Blair. "I already made the appointment for you. It's this afternoon with a department-approved lab. Take the test, go home, and relax. I'll call you Monday, and you can get back to work."

Blair hardly glanced at the slip before thrusting it into his shirt pocket. "Yeah, pretend it never happened." His tone was bitter. "We seem to do a lot of that around here." With that parting shot, he turned his back and left the office.

Jim stood rock-still for a moment. Confusion, anger, guilt, and a touch of fear all vied for control of his expression. "Jesus, Simon--"

The captain help up a placating hand. "Don't you over-react, too, Jim. Did you ever have that talk with him?"

Looking numb, Jim just shook his head.

"Then maybe this weekend would be a good time for it. What do you think?"

Jim sighed. "Maybe."

Simon waved him toward the door. "Now, take your partner home, and then get back here. We've still got a vicious home-invasion crew to bring down."

"Yes, sir."

In the bullpen, everyone was working a little too quietly, their attention focused too intently on their tasks. There was an awkward tension in the air as colleagues wrestled with the urge to offer support or give Blair some personal space.

As Jim walked up behind his partner, Blair savagely thrust some file folders into his backpack with enough force to bend the cardstock covers.

"Easy, Sandburg, we don't want to sacrifice another tree to this case, do we?" he said lightly. When Blair ignored him and continued shoving things into his pack, Jim added, "Simon was right, you know. You just pissed someone off, and this is payback time."

Blair stopped long enough to scowl at him. "It was Lisa Kline; she's been batting her eyes in your direction for weeks. What the hell did you tell her, man?"

Jim looked nonplussed. "Kline? I didn't say anything-- batting her eyes at me?"

"We went through the Academy together. She's smart, but she has a real rigid view of life. Her brother O.D.'d, and ever since then she's been on a personal crusade to rid the world of drugs."

Jim nodded thoughtfully. "Okay, she saw you a few times when you weren't at your best. Why would she automatically assume drugs?"

"That's what I'm saying, Jim. Lisa's obsessed with rooting out drug abuse. She sees it around every corner." He shoved some more folders into the already straining pack.

"Fine. Then IA probably has her on file for other complaints already. You're gonna take a simple drug test, Chief. Don't let it get to you."

Blair was breathing hard and his face was livid as he turned and glared at Jim. "This may be old hat to you, Jim, but I'm still new at this back-stabbing business."

"I don't know. I think the University did a pretty good job of shafting you," Jim returned, speaking mildly but regretting the words as soon as he said them. He was skating too close to a subject he'd been determined to avoid these past several months: Blair's apparent depression over becoming a police officer.

If anything, Blair's expression hardened even further. "Yeah, and I seem to recall you were pretty handy with the knife long about that same time."

Oh, shit. "Chief--"

Time abruptly shifted into fast motion, blurring into a sequence of images that Jim would never be able to accurately reassemble. The exception was those first moments, which would be forever etched into his memory with vivid clarity. Those moments were the second-worst of his life...

First, his hearing spiked. For a mind-wrenching instant, the various sounds of the bullpen blended into one horrendous cacophony. Then, his hearing narrowed until he was consumed only by the sound of a heart accelerating raggedly out of control.

Blair's face went from flushed to white in the space of a few of those staccato beats, and a sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead. Blue eyes that had been filled with anger only a moment before now filled with confusion and sudden pain. "Jim-- what--?"

Jim caught him as he fell and eased him carefully toward the floor. The space between the desks was narrow, but he was careful not to jostle his partner. From a great distance, he heard his own voice exhorting, "Call an ambulance!"

With Blair cradled in his arms, he had no awareness of what was happening around him. There were fragments of sound, voices raised in concern and confusion, Simon restoring order with a single, sharp word. But these sounds were meaningless. He'd practically zoned on the runaway thumping of Blair's heart, and nothing mattered beyond a need to make it slow to a normal rhythm.

Blair was gasping for breath, clutching feebly at his chest as if he could rip the pain away. His body arched in agony, and he abruptly grabbed at Jim's arm in desperation. "Jim--?"

"Easy, partner, easy," Jim soothed in a voice he still didn't recognize as his own. "You're gonna be all right. Help's on the way."

Blair struggled to speak, but his breathing was too shallow and rapid to permit more than a few jumbled syllables. "Arm hurts-- can't breathe. My chest-- what's wrong?... Jim?"

What's wrong? Jim didn't know. The only thing of which he was certain was that his best friend was dying in his arms... again...