Writer JC

~What is in the heart of a man?

Can any here ponder or show

What in the end, when all's said and done

The man must come to know?~

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Captain Paul Blaisdell watched as Detective Peter Caine lowered his weapon and checked the clip before casting a cocky grin his direction. Paul knew without looking at the black silhouetted form that the young man's shots had been dead on, but he made a show of pressing the switch that would bring the paper toward the front of the firing range anyway.

"Does this mean I can finally get back to work?" Peter asked slyly as he removed the requisite eye and ear protection.

Paul threw him a longsuffering grin as he pulled the paper from its hook. "And the doctor's cleared you?" He asked the question that he had asked three times prior.

"Yes," Peter reiterated with characteristic energy. "Fastest recovery they've ever seen. I've even got a note. Wanna see it?"

Paul looked toward him and chuckled. "No, I don't think that'll be necessary. What about your father? What does he say?"

"Paul. Come on, look at the paper. I'm ready to come back. If I have to sit around for another two weeks I'm going to end up pulling the rest of my hair out."

Paul glanced toward the barely visible spots where the doctors had drilled just weeks before. He remembered vividly how close the fall had brought Peter to death. The once jaggedly shaved sections were well on the way to catching up to the rest of the young man's thick dark hair. Thanks, no doubt, belonged to some miracle of Kwai Chang Caine's. Paul knew that the priest had provided Peter with some sort of concoction to help with the general healing process, but he had a suspicion that in addition to whatever else it did, it also put the young man's hair into some sort of hyper-growth mode.

Looking back down at the hollowed out center of the smallest white circle of the silhouette, Paul was forced to concede defeat. Peter would easily re-qualify as a marksman, effectively leaving no professional excuse for keeping his favorite hot-shot cop away from the precinct. But he had no problem coming up with personal reasons. The foremost being that they had come far too close to losing him this last time. Paul's heart just wasn't ready to take the risk so soon.

"A few weeks behind a desk would do you some good," he finally answered Peter's anxious question. "Not to mention all that filing Strenlich has been putting off for years."

"You're kidding me right?" Peter's previously self-assured grin fell away. "I can't sit behind a desk for a few weeks. I'm already half stir crazy as it is."

Paul bit the corner of his lip and leaned against the wall as he affectionately considered the younger man. "Yeah, I figured you wouldn't go for that."

Peter's grin returned, full of cocky self-assurance. "I knew you would understand. So I'm back on the streets? What's my assignment?"

Paul stood away from the wall and gestured that his foster son precede him along the row that would lead them toward the entry desk. "I'll think of something," he murmured. Safe.

"Report to Strenlich first thing in the morning. I've got that damned Mayor's retreat tomorrow so I'll be out of touch most of the day." He considered skipping the event, despite the fact that it would ruffle a few political feathers. Then, mentally shaking himself, he dismissed the idea. It was local, and he'd only be out of easy reach for eight hours. Even Peter Caine should be able to manage to keep his nose clean for an eight hour day.

Chuckling softly, he looked again at the paper silhouette. "You're still one hell of a shot. I'm proud of you, son. It's good to have you back." He ran a hand over the young man's shoulder.

"I had a good teacher," Peter murmured, looking away and down, obviously embarrassed at the praise.

"Yeah, you did," Paul replied softly, thinking that the credit should probably go more to Kwai Chang Caine than to himself. Peter already had a trained eye when he came to them.

"Speaking of which," Paul added as he handed the silhouette to the range attendant and reached into a pocket for Peter's 9mm Beretta. He took a moment to run a hand over its silver surface before passing it to the detective, butt first. "I thought you might be looking for this."

Peter accepted the weapon, settling the grip into his palm. Paul imagined that he was checking it to see if it still fit. He hadn't gotten to where he was in life without having experienced the sensation a time or two himself. That was a part of the young man that Paul knew didn't come from Kwai Chang Caine.

"Numbers please?" the attendant spoke up, breaking into the moment. Paul listened as Peter recited his badge number for the documentation, remembering that the doctors had worried that he might have memory problems during and after recovery. He stifled a small sigh of relief when Peter completed the task with no apparent difficulty. He wondered idly how long it would be before he could look at his son and not see him laying so still and near death in that hospital bed, how long before he would stop worrying or looking for signs to reassure himself that Peter was indeed going to be okay.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"Maybe it's just me," Peter said as he gazed over the balcony at the growing mass of humanity that was shuffling its way among the merchants of Chinatown Mall. "But, this feels a hell of a lot like kiddie detail."

"Relax, Peter," Detective Jody Powell said, her voice laced with friendly exasperation. "You're barely back a day--did you really think Blaisdell was going to let you loose on the streets? Besides," she added, gazing after a muscle-bound man exiting a local health food chain, "Where's your sense of art appreciation?"

"Oh." Peter laughed, not missing the way her eyes had followed the man. "I see what you're appreciating. But the art that we're supposed to be watching is downstairs."

"Damn. . . I much prefer the body in motion," Jody replied with a wicked grin as she followed him onto the escalator.

Peter chuckled and shook his head before allowing his eyes to drift over the activity taking place around them. A large ornate banner declaring that portions of the Thomas Crawford Collection would be on display for the next four days was being attached at ceiling level. Just looking up at the men working was enough to send his height sensitivity into overdrive. He quickly refocused on the people maneuvering around the cordoned-off area in front of Crawford's Jewelers.

"You know what I don't get," he said, continuing to watch as two uniformed security guards carrying a large blue case moved into the cordoned-off area. "I don't get why they even need us. It already looks like the annual gathering of Rent-A-Guards of America or something." He waved a hand at the half dozen other guards that were stationed throughout the corridor.

"And obviously very few of them have a gym membership," Jody commented, eyeing several of the more chunky guards as the escalator deposited them at ground level. "Definitely no poetry in motion going on around here. What say we join the melee?"

Peter shrugged, not seeing that he had much of a choice. He just hoped that the boredom didn’t kill him before the utter inanity of the task did.

Shouldering his way through the crowd, he displayed his badge to the two tall, burly rent-a-guards who stood at the opening of the cordoned-off area. Peter mentally tagged them Frick & Frack. Both unarmed. "We're here to see the store manager, Mr. Burton. Know where he is?"

Frick jerked his head disinterestedly toward the inside of the store.

"Thanks," Peter muttered, stepping around the two and heading into the store. As he crossed over the threshold, a subtle scent assaulted his nostrils, enveloping him in a rush of sensation. He paused and closed his eyes for a moment, drinking in the sweet smell that tickled at his memory. A fleeting image floated through his mind but was gone before he could grasp it.

"What's up, partner?" Jody eyed him strangely. "You okay?"

"Yeah . . . ." Peter half-turned toward her. "Do you smell something?"

Jody raised a brow and opened her mouth for what Peter felt sure was going to be a wisecrack. Before she could speak, there was a collective gasp of panic from beyond the doors. Bodies began to move, revealing four black clothed and ski-masked men bearing automatic weapons. The people in the hall were diving for the floor, diving for exits, diving for children; half a dozen unarmed security guards, including Frick and Frack, dove for cover.

"Nobody move!" The nearer masked man ordered as he directed a lethal looking weapon toward the occupants of the store. Peter noted that along with the black ski masks, the men also wore Ray Bans.

"You and you." The man waved his gun in Peter and Jody's direction. "On the floor. Now!"

Peter shared a quick look with Jody, before moving slowly to the carpet, careful to keep his weapon hidden beneath his jacket. He surreptitiously followed the gunmen's movements as one of them took up a position near the exit, facing outward to cover the group's flank. Another moved farther into the store, but didn't stray very far from his companion, covering Peter, Jody and a miscellaneous member of the rented security force. The two other masked men moved purposefully around the glass counters and headed toward the back of the store where Peter had earlier glimpsed a huddle of security guards and sales clerks.

Peter detected the minute movement as the gunman covering the inside of the store focused his attention toward the security guard. Ignoring the tightness of his out-of-practice muscles, he shot to his feet. In a smooth motion, he swept his right leg out and took the gunman's feet from under him. He caught the man's automatic weapon before it had a chance to hit the floor. In his peripheral vision, he saw Jody delivering an elbow to the back of the masked man who had been covering the store entrance. Peter heard her loudly identifying herself as a police officer as her struggle continued through the doors and out into the mall.

The other two masked men appeared carrying a large blue case just as Peter delivered a spin-kick to the disarmed thief who had regained his feet. The man was going down even as Peter turned to face the new arrivals. Grasping the automatic weapon in both his hands, he used it as a baton to knock the nearest robber off balance. In a flurry of shocked motion, the man stumbled back into the glass display counter. The surface gave under his weight and toppled, scattering glittering gems, gold and glass across the lushly carpeted floor.

The remaining masked man brought his weapon to bear just as Peter's left foot connected with the gun, sending it tumbling across the room. The perp raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, backing frantically away. Peter, still on guard, smirked at the cowardly motion. "Amateurs," he murmured sarcastically as he lazily aimed his own weapon at the man.

Reaching for his cuffs, he half turned to ensure that the other two men were still down. Suddenly the sound of Jody's voice cut through the air. "No! Stay back!"

Peter's head jerked around in time to see a little girl appear in the doorway. "Mommy?" the girl called in wide-eyed fear, grasping two large plastic cups to her chest for dear life.

In the next moment, Peter heard a woman's yell echoing from the back of the store. "No! Johanna!" He spun at the sound of the voice and looked directly into the face of the past. Jenine. The name seared through his mind, shocking his system.

Peter turned toward the child who was beginning to take quick, frightened steps farther into the store. And then in his peripheral vision, he saw the masked man reaching behind his back.

The gleaming black handle of a pistol was barely visible when Peter threw himself toward the running child, wrapping his larger frame around hers before spinning to pull her out of harm's way. There was a rushing sensation of coldness, then a brilliant flash and a resounding crack before the world exploded around him. Darkness came abruptly and completely.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Kwai Chang Caine released a small sigh of relief as Peter came groggily awake. His son had been unconscious for several minutes, and he was worried that being injured again so soon could prove detrimental to his still healing body.

"Wh-Where am I?" Peter tried to sit up and take in the surroundings. Wincing, he sank back against the sofa's cushions and closed his eyes.

"Do you not remember?" Caine asked, hoping to further gauge his son's condition. He placed a hand on the young man's brow, probing gently, careful to avoid the already clotting gash on his right temple.

"The mall, right?" Peter squinted up at him before closing his eyes again. "I know the smell of cheese pretzels and cherry slushee anywhere."

"Yes." Caine allowed the briefest of smiles to touch his lips as he continued to probe his son's brow, satisfied with his findings. "But the cheese and cherry slushee are perhaps more immediate than you might think."

"Huh?" Peter frowned, uncomprehending. Then his eyes flew open. "The mall," he said more forcefully. "Yeah. It's all coming back now. Armed robbers. There were armed robbers. Did they get away?"

Caine's smile faded. "I am afraid so. Jody said that you hit your head on one of the display cases."

"Right." Peter brushed Caine's hand away and managed to push himself into a sitting position with some difficulty. "I gotta go ge--" Peter broke off, frowning in confusion at the nearby paper cluttered desk, filing cabinet and safe.

"Where am I? And. . . and what is this?" Peter's eyes were drawn from the surroundings as he brushed a hand over the sticky wetness attached to his shirt front. "And, what are you doing here, anyway?"

"This," Caine waved a hand about the room, "is the inner office of Crawford's Jewelers. And that," Caine pointed to his son's red-tinged shirt, "is cherry slushee and cheese sauce. And I," he shrugged, "care for the plants at the herbal shop. I heard the sound of gunfire."

"Bet you were surprised to see me here."

Caine decided it best not to mention the numbing fear that had suffused him when he'd sensed his son's pain and the sudden darkness immediately following the gunshot. "I did not know that you had returned to work," he said instead.

Peter shrugged and avoided his gaze.

Caine sighed inwardly. Peter would not be Peter had he not at least attempted to burrow his way back into the precinct early. "How do you feel?"

Peter's look became a wry grin. "Like I went one on one with a hard immovable object. It's not so much the flying through the air as the sudden. . . stop. . . "

Caine frowned and reached into his bag for something to ease Peter's pain.

"Pop, I saw her. She was here."

"Who was here?" Caine asked as he placed a pinch of the combination of herbs on his son's tongue.

Peter distractedly accepted the herbs. "She was. . . There was a little girl and that's how. . . " Again he touched the front of his shirt, and his eyes focused in the distance as he brought the memories more clearly into mind. "Slushee. Gun went off. Jenine."

Caine blinked, remembering the name of the young woman from Peter's bardo.

"Jenine was here, Father. I've gotta . . . " He tried to move to his feet, but Caine easily restrained him.

"You must rest, Peter."

"Pop. . . I. . . she's here. . . " His voice dropped to a whisper. "I can still. . ."

Caine remembered the intensity of the emotions he had sensed from Peter with regard to the woman during his bardo. He also remembered that he had mentioned her later during his recovery. "She was important to you."

"She was my first true love," Peter said softly. "I saw her and . . . "

Caine waited a few moments. "And you forgot your training?" he observed his son carefully.

"I forgot how to breathe. I gotta go see her. Make sure she's okay."

"I am okay." A female voice spoke from behind them.

Peter turned sharply and stared up at a blonde-haired young woman as if momentarily dazed.

"Hello, Peter," the woman said, stepping farther into the room.

"Hello, Jenine." Peter moved quickly to his feet -- too quickly, and his knees immediately buckled. Caine eased him back down to the seat. Jenine rushed forward to help.

"You should be in the hospital," she said, brushing a hand above the bruise at his right temple. "The paramedics are on the way, but there is a First Aid team in the mall."

"I'm fine," Peter insisted, even as he winced and shied away from her seeking fingers.

"Oh, please." The young woman folded her arms across her chest. "Spare me the macho crap, Peter. You can barely stand up."

Caine watched as Peter's wince changed to a full-fledged grimace. "This is familiar," he mumbled. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I'm in charge of the exhibit," Jenine responded. "And the reason this is familiar is that you haven't changed. You're probably the police escort I requested. If you would have bothered to arrive on time, this little robbery might not have taken place."

Peter closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands.

"Would not later be a better time to speak of these things?" Caine asked the young woman pointedly. "My son is unwell and I would like to take him home, now."

"Your son?" Jenine studied Caine in disbelief for a few moments. "Who are you?"

"I am Caine." He bowed his head slightly.

"Jenine, meet my father." Peter looked up at her, then raising a hand as she opened her mouth to speak again, he added, "Long story. Some other time."

Caine stood from his stooped position near the sofa, and helped Peter move more slowly to his feet.

"Shouldn't you wait for the ambulance?" Jenine protested, moving to stand between them and the door.

"I've got my father," Peter told her.

"But. . . " she was still unsatisfied. Caine looked at her more closely and immediately caught a sense of fear, anger and another, less defined, emotion clinging to her chi. She blinked, and frowned slightly.

"We must go," Caine said.

She nodded, and stepped out of the way.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"Thank you for your assistance, Officer Dayton," Caine said as he supported an unsteady Peter Caine into his high-rise apartment. The uniformed officer nodded and waved, pulling the door closed behind himself, leaving father and son alone.

Peter tiredly lifted his slumped head and offered his father a wry grin. "Déjà vu, huh, Pop?"

Caine sighed, remembering how weak his son had been following his release from the hospital. "You should not have returned to work so soon," he chided mildly, as he assisted the young man into his bedroom. "You have not sufficiently recovered your strength."

Peter did not reply until after he settled heavily onto the bed. "I couldn't just sit around here and do nothing. I was going crazy. Besides, I know they're shorthanded at the station. They need me to be getting back to work, not watching Martha Stewart, learning how to make doilies."

Caine went into the bathroom and retrieved a damp cloth and bandages to further clean Peter's newest wound. "You were welcome to remain with me a few days longer," he said as he carefully drew the soiled shirt over his son's head and laid it aside. "Or was I not good company?"

He watched with satisfaction as Peter allowed a smile to spread across his features before he settled back against the pillows.

"Yes, you were good, if cryptic, company, Pop. It's just that I needed to be back in the swing of things. I needed. . . ." He gestured a hand in the air as he searched for the right words.

"Excitement?"

"No. . .okay, maybe," Peter admitted. "Look, I just got a little bump on the head. I've had worse."

"Yes," Caine sobered. "You have." Then, after finishing the bandaging, he allowed his fingers to drift through the soft hairs at the young man's temples and beyond. The drill wounds were healing satisfactorily, but he noted something different. The smell of Peter's hair had changed.

"Are you no longer using the shampoo I prescribed?"

"Uh. . . Pop, I hate to tell you this, but I don't think that stuff's quite ready for prime time."

"Prime time?" Caine eyed him quizzically.

"The smell, it's a little strong."

"Ah," Caine smiled. "I will remedy the situation. But first," reaching into his satchel, he withdrew an herbal mixture, "Open."

"Pop, I'm not a - -"

Caine placed the mixture in Peter's open mouth and smiled. "Good," he settled a hand along Peter's jaw. "Now chew and swallow."

"I'm better, now," Peter spoke around the herbs. "You don't have to come around to give me medicines and stuff anymore. I'm fine."

"Peter." Caine disagreed. He knew, though his son did not want to admit it, that he was still plagued by headaches and the herbs would aid in preparing his body for the demands that he placed on it in his duties as a cop.

"Please, Dad," Peter pleaded. "I'm not a child anymore. Besides, I have an entire medicine cabinet full of stuff from the doctor that I haven't even touched."

Caine nodded reluctantly. He had grown accustomed to caring for his son's needs during his recovery. Perhaps it was time to take a step back and allow him the requested space. Peter no longer needed him as he had before, and he would not force himself upon him. "As you wish, my son," he spoke quietly. "I will leave you, now."

"No. . . Pop," Peter reached for him, struggling against the sedative properties of the herbs. "I don't want you to go. You don't have to leave. It's just that sometimes. . . I mean. . . lately. . . " His eyes drifted closed, and the last word drifted off into the even rhythm of sleeping.

"I understand, my son," Caine caressed his face. "I will endeavor to do better." Sighing heavily, he brushed at Peter's long bangs, then settled near the bedside to meditate.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Peter opened his eyes and blinked. A mild lethargy clung to his body, urging him to close his eyes and return to the warm comfort of sleep, but the sound of whispering accompanied by a gentle, sweet aroma sent him into immediate wakefulness. Jenine was here.

Pushing himself carefully into a sitting position, he was relieved to find that there was no dizziness, and only remnants of the headache he had been expecting. The headaches that lingered from the surgery, along with knocking his head at the jewelry store should have been a definite recipe for something that measured on the Richter scale. With a small chuckle, he reminded himself that no matter how horrible the taste or how bad the smell, one should never doubt Kwai Chang Caine's remedies.

As he moved toward the open door, he heard his father's voice more clearly. ". . resting. I will tell him that you are here."

Jenine's voice followed quickly on its heels, rushed and sounding more than a little nervous. "No! Don't disturb him. If you would just--"

Peter frowned. Nervous wasn't exactly the Jenine he remembered. "I'm up, Pop," he told the older man as his eyes briefly rested on the woman standing in the hall, and then flitted away.

"Jenine." He spoke her name softly in greeting. "I. . . " He stumbled over the word, not sure where to begin with the questions that begged to be asked. The most pressing being what was she doing at his apartment.

"I will leave now," Caine said, interrupting what was rapidly becoming a tense silence. Peter turned and distractedly met his father's searching gaze.

"Remember, you must rest, my son." Caine spoke pointedly as his eyes continued to hold his son's.

"I will, Pop," Peter said. When Caine nodded and moved out into the hallway past Jenine, Peter blew out a slow breath and swung his gaze back to her.

"Would you like to come in?" He gestured into the apartment.

"Your father isn't what I expected," Jenine said as she stepped over the threshold.

Peter made no comment. His father wasn't what most people expected.

"Would you like a drink or anything?" he asked as he followed her movements around his apartment. She wandered the livingroom and dining area, seeming to pick up every detail of the décor, or lack thereof. He noted that she lingered over a few items that he was certain she would have vehemently argued against being present in the same space that she occupied. He remembered the many occasions when she had threatened to personally incinerate his boot lamp. In fact, until she'd dashed their plans for a future together, the thing had been existing on borrowed time.

"No. Thanks." Jenine was slow in answering his question as she continued her perusal. Probably making a mental checklist of all the things that clash. He remembered that one of the many plans that they had made was that she would pursue her dream of becoming an interior decorator. He wondered if she had ever made it. She hadn't changed much outwardly in seven years. Her hair was styled differently, but it was still long and blonde. He remembered that having her on his arm had made him the envy of many in his graduating class at the academy.

"I like your apartment," Jenine said suddenly as she turned to face him, startling him out of his memories. "It's you."

Looking into her eyes, he felt the emotions of the past buffeting him, crashing against his soul as if he were a lone tower in a storm. He blinked and glanced away. "Is that why you came here? To see my apartment, find out if I ever learned how to decorate?"

The small smile Jenine was wearing changed. "No. That's not why I came." She displayed the shopping bag that she had brought into the apartment. It bore the logo of one of the city's most exclusive men's shops. "I come bearing gifts." She reached into the bag and drew out a silk shirt done in greens with tiny interlocking designs in gold and burgundy.

"I know from experience that cherry slushee will never come out of that knit shirt you were wearing. What do you think?" she asked, draping the garment over her body and stretching her arms out to model it for him.

Peter smiled his thanks. "This is great. I like it," he said, accepting the offered garment. He wasn't entirely sure it was going to like him, however. Both Kelly and Carolyn, not to mention Skalany, had warned him not to wear just such a design if he wanted to keep the fashion Gestapo off his back. He chuckled slightly; only Jenine would buy him something like this. She never had understood his taste in clothes.

"It's from Jo and me, both," she said awkwardly, setting the bag aside. "She sort of picked it out. . . a thank you for what you did."

A frown worked its way across Peter's brow as a thought occurred to him. "Uh. . . Jenine. . . ?" Then, shifting gears, he gestured a hand toward the sofa. "Would you like to sit?" What he had to say would probably best be said from a seated position.

"No." Jenine shook her head resolutely, and took a step toward the door. "I really should be going. I just wanted to bring by the shirt, and make sure you were really okay."

"I'm fine," Peter assured her quickly. "Never better. Can I assume that Jo is Johanna?"

Jenine looked uncomfortable, and took another step. "Yes."

"Your daughter?" Peter pressed.

"Yes," she replied again with the slightest lift of her chin.

"H-How old is she?"

"She's six years old, Peter."

Peter's eyes widened. "Is she. . . "

"No." Jenine told him matter-of-factly. "Her father's dead."

Peter simply stared at her. "Are you sure?" he asked a bit more forcefully than he intended.

"Of course I'm sure," Jenine snapped, crossing her arms and turning away. Then, her voice softening, "I would know that."

Peter reached out and touched her arm, drawing her back around to face himself. "Who was he? What was he like?" he asked. Anything like me?

"I told you," Jenine replied, "She's not yours. Leave it alone, Peter."

Peter stared back at her for a moment longer before swallowing and releasing her. "Is she okay? She must have been really frightened."

"She's fine." Jenine assured him. "She's tough."

Peter nodded. A child of Jenine's would be. "So what happened? I seem to remember that you didn't want children. You didn't want to subject something so young and innocent to any possible after-effects of the childhood you'd had." He paraphrased the words he had heard so often from her.

"We can't live in the past forever, Peter." Jenine responded softly, coolly. "I changed my mind. I changed my life. It's as simple as that."

"I can do the math, Jenine. We broke up almost exactly seven years ago. Your daughter is six. Anyway you slice it, you didn't wait long."

Jenine's expression hardened before she turned and headed for the door. "I didn't come back here to argue with you. I don't need this. We're not a couple anymore, and I don't owe you any explanations."

"Who's arguing?" Peter asked, following. "We haven't even raised our voices, and quite unlike old times, there are no broken dishes. I was simply making an observation. Or was it all just some feminine whim?" He watched her shoulders stiffen, and knew what was coming. Jenine had always had a temper, and nothing angered her more than having her actions relegated to the level of weak female behavior.

That was one of the things that had attracted him, her refusal to take anything lying down as well as the way that she had challenged him. Combined with her beauty, it had been an intoxicating mix. They had been like forces of nature together, and judging from the look in her eyes when she spun on him, he was in for a rough ride.

"Fine! You want to know? Well I'll tell you. You didn't have what I needed back then. Is that what you wanted to hear, Peter? You just couldn't give me what I needed, so I had to go find it with someone else."

The room seemed to still for a moment as Peter absorbed her anger and let it pass through him. "And what did you need?" he asked softly.

Jenine simply looked at him, obviously stunned that he hadn't struck back in defense at her intentionally hurtful statement.

Hell, he was surprised himself. Surprising himself further, he continued speaking. "All I'm asking you Jenine, is that you tell me what it was that you needed. Where it was that things really went wrong."

"I . . . I'm sorry, Peter, I truly am," she said, her voice softening. "But there's nothing more I can tell you." She turned back toward the door.

Peter stared after her stunned for a second. He couldn't believe that she was just going to simply walk away. "Jenine. . . . Wait." He hurried to catch her before she could slip out into the hallway. As he touched her shoulder, he thought he saw a flash of something cross her face. Regret? Remorse?

"I. . . " He struggled with the realization that she was right. She wasn't obligated to give him any answers. They had both moved on. Let go, the quietly spoken words whispered softly through his mind. "You win," he finally said. "We can't live in the past forever. I probably shouldn't have tried to dredge all of that back up. I'm sorry. I just--"

"No." Jenine shook her head, putting a hand out to silence him. "Don't be sorry. Most of what happened back then was my fault."

Peter let out a confused laugh. "What is this, reverse psychology? So if I say don't tell me, are you just going to tell me everything I want to know?"

Jenine smiled up at him. "Sorry. That shouldn't have come out that way. I'd just as soon put the past behind us." Then, tilting her head slightly to the side, "I take back what I said earlier. You have changed, Peter Caine, and I want you to know that I find the new you very appealing."

Peter felt some of his tension drain away as he responded. "Blame Pop. He's been helping me to deal with anger and a few other things."

"I can tell that he loves you a lot. I'm glad you found each other."

"You, me and the rest of Chinatown," Peter said with a chuckle. At Jenine's look of confusion, he continued. "Around here there's a saying: 'Go to Chinatown, ask for Caine. He will help you.' And he does. I've never seen him turn anyone away. Not even the riff-raff."

Jenine smiled up at him. "He sounds like quite a guy. Whatever he's done has sure had an effect on you. You've mellowed."

"Me? Mellow?" Peter feigned shock. "And you say this about the guy who was late showing up to guard your art exhibit."

Jenine smile turned wry. "Well, there is that. But you couldn't have known that anything was going to happen. I'm just glad that you were there to save Jo . I can never thank you enough for that. Are you going to be working the case?"

"Yeah." Peter nodded. "I'll do everything I can to figure out who did this. It must be nice for you to be able to take your daughter to work with you. Crawford must be a great boss."

"Yes. . . he is." Jenine smiled weakly up at him. "Peter-the-cop isn't looking for a new line of work is he?"

"No, not exactly," Peter laughed. "I was just wondering what you did for him, if you ever finished your training for interior decorator?"

Jenine made a face and looked at her watch. "Uh. . . I'd love to catch up, Peter, but I really have to go."

"I understand." Peter frowned slightly as he considered her. "You know where I live."

"I gotta go," Jenine repeated before considering him for several moments.

Peter felt the familiar undercurrent of attraction flowing to life between them as their gazes held. He met her halfway when she moved up on tiptoe and pressed a lingering kiss to his lips. The sound of a loudly cleared voice caused them to jerk suddenly apart.

"You sure do move fast partner," Jody said as Peter closed the front door. He ran a distracted hand around the back of his neck and shot her a warning look.

She raised her hands in surrender. "Hey, it's just a comment. I mean, last time I saw you, you needed your father's help to stay on your feet. And in less than what," she glanced at her watch, "6 hours, the art director lady is banging down your door. Whatever you got, maybe you ought to bottle it."

Peter shot her another look, but didn't comment, continuing to ponder what Jenine had said. Something seemed slightly off, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

"Okay," Jody blew out a breath. "I came to check on you. I tried to call, but when I didn't even get your machine I thought I'd come by. I ran into your father downstairs and he seemed sorta happy to see me. Although, he didn't mention that I'd have to rescue you."

Peter refused to rise to the bait. "I'm fine. I think Pop turned the ringer off." He thought he vaguely remembered it ringing after he'd dropped off to sleep. Moving toward his kitchen, he went to reactivate the device. The answering machine's 'tape full' light was flashing, and the telephone's ringer switch had been moved to off.

"Well that explains that," she said. "Now riddle me this, Batman: Why would these masked gunmen come into a jewelry store and walk out with only a collection of Oriental vases while leaving a fortune in diamonds and gems just lying on the floor?"

Peter looked up sharply. "They didn't take any of the jewelry? Nothing?"

"Not a thing, according to the manager as well as Mizz Jenine Smith."

Peter opened his mouth to respond but the phone bell cut him off.

"Hello?" A grimace crossed his face before he hung up and reached for the TV remote control.

"Disgruntled lady friend?" Jody asked.

"Close," Peter responded as he flipped through the channels. "The president of my personal unfan club: Sandra Mason."

"Oh, I didn't know she made house calls."

"I get special dispensation," he said, finding the proper channel. Someone with a home video camera had obviously been present at the mall that morning. The image of Peter taking down the two gunmen and saving the little girl as well as Jody's struggle in the hall outside of the jewelry store was immortalized for all of the channel 3 viewing audience.

Switching to a live scene from the Chinatown Mall, an on-site reporter stated that a portion of the famed Crawford Art Collection, valued at nearly $200,000 had disappeared with the masked robbers. The reporter pressed a finger to her ear for a few seconds before declaring that they would replay the exclusive video footage.

Peter quickly activated his VCR and hit the record button.

"You know, that really isn't my best side." Jody eyed the screen critically as the image of the fourth gunman, using the distraction of Peter and the little girl going down, kicked out, knocking her gun from her hand while his other buddy grabbed her and threw her into the jewelry store alongside Peter. He then held the gun on her, while he and the rest of his partners in crime made their escape.

"You did go a little easy on them," Peter murmured, dryly.

"Well let's see, little kids entering the crime scene, a woman yelling, a gunshot, a herd of bad guys galloping my way and you making like a speed bump. What the hell did you expect? I'm not freakin' Jane Wayne."

Peter threw up his hands in surrender. "Hey, just kiddin' partner." Clicking off the television and the VCR, he grabbed his jacket.

"Where you going?"

"I need to check on a few things."

"We need to check on a few things," Jody corrected as she sprung up behind him. "Besides, aren't you on sick leave again or something? Or at least off duty?"

"Nah," Peter replied with a grin. "I'm fine. In top form thanks to a little Shaolin apothecary magic."

"Yeah, magic. Right." Jody followed him out of the apartment.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Paul Blaisdell walked tiredly into the precinct carrying an armload of handouts and brochures that had been given him at what he'd considered to be a complete waste of time. As far as he was concerned, the first stop upon reaching his office would be at the trash can so that he could properly file all papers that the high priced consultant had been given him. Worse, there were two more days to go.

As he passed Peter's desk, he wasn't completely surprised to see that it was empty. Well into swing shift, Peter should have gone home over an hour prior. But something about the guarded look Mary Margaret Skalany flashed his way told him that he was about to get a cherry to top off a very trying a day.

"It's about Peter," he stated, without preamble.

"I take it you didn't get the message." She nodded her head toward the muted television set against the wall.

Paul completely forgot about the trip to the trash can.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"Steph!" Peter called as he stepped into the high-end pawn shop, Stephanos Import & Consignment. "How's business these days?"

The dark-haired man gave him a grim look before raising his hands in defeat. "Detective Caine, long time no see. But I am still simply an honest business man trying to make a living, yes?" The man spoke with a heavy accent that was largely show for his wealthier clients. Nicholai Stephanos was the American-born son of Greek transplants.

"Oh, I remember that." Peter shot him a knowing grin as he recalled the first time that he had met the man. He remembered the dreaded shopping expedition that Jenine had dragged him on in search of the perfect statuette for their soon-to-be home. Peter recalled with humor the way Jenine had squared off against the burly Greek when he had tried to pawn off a fake Harrington House collectable. The man had been shocked at the young woman who had called him a liar, and then proceeded to tell him what he had done wrong in his forgery.

A month later, Steph's special knowledge helped Peter solve a case that had gained him recognition very early in his career. Blinking away the past, Peter returned his attention to the man before him. Steph was nothing if not consistent. "Larceny with a touch of class, if I remember correctly. Maybe even a little forgery along the way? Know anything about the Crawford robbery?"

Steph shifted nervously. "Ah, Detective. I could not tell you about this thing even if I know. My clients require. . . discretion. You understand."

"Steph, Steph, Steph, don't you watch the news?" Peter leaned across the counter. "I have first hand knowledge of the robbery. Ruined a favorite shirt of mine. I'd really like to talk to the perpetrator about my cleaning bill. Getting the vases back would be a bonus."

Steph dropped his newly-arrived Greek routine. "I'm sorry, Detective. I don’t know anything. I can't help you."

Peter studied the man for several moments. Steph liked to play hard to get with his information, but this was strange. "Is something going on that I should know about?" he asked seriously, allowing the concern to show in his tone.

Steph looked at him as if he were on the verge of confiding something, then sighed. "No. But I promise you that if information about your stolen vases makes its way into my shop, I will call you."

Peter nodded. "Thanks. Before I go, what do you know about this Crawford Collection? How much is it really worth?"

Stephanos sniffed. "A pittance in comparison to Crawford's other holdings. Any collector worth the amount of oxygen he breathes knows about the old man's art collection. The vases barely rate, and TCE stocks are through the roof based on the technology side of the company alone. This little collection of vases has more sentimental value than monetary. They were given to him by his wife in Tokyo."

"Who do you think would want to steal them?" Peter asked.

Stephanos shrugged. "I didn't bring my crystal ball today."

Peter chuckled. "Fine. You've got my number for when your vision is less hazy. Take care of yourself."

"Expect nothing less."

"Do you think he knows anything?" Jody asked, once they reached her car.

Peter shrugged, glancing across the top of the roof at her. "He knows something, but not who did it. That's probably his connection right now." Peter gestured through the glass store front where Nicholai Stephanos could be seen making a telephone call.

Jody shook her head in amazement. "How is it that you know this, specifically?"

"It's all in here." Peter pointed a finger to his head as he climbed into the passenger seat.

"Yeah, I'll say it's all in there," Jody teased, climbing in as well. "I'm surprised your eyes aren't brown. So where to next?"

"I say we pay a little visit to Mr. Thomas Crawford. Maybe he can shed a little light on the incredible vanishing vases."

"All right. But, I hope you're up for a drive. It's 45 minutes outside of town. Trinity Park -- home of the filthy rich, and the filthy stinkin' rich."

"My kind of people," Peter grinned. "Let's do it."

"Are you sure you got the address right?" Peter asked as yet another gated mansion surrounded by acres and acres of well-manicured lawns slipped by. Being in the passenger seat always made him antsy.

"This isn't exactly "go to Trinity Park, ask for Crawford". . . ." Jody shot him a frustrated look, then sighed. "These damned street signs are more ornate than useful, especially in the dark."

Peter relaxed slightly, then chuckled. "I guess you're right. I just want to see if I can find out anything more about those vases. There's got to be some reason that the robbers wanted them so badly. I think we find that reason, we find the vases and the robbers."

"Well the old guy is probably in the middle of dinner or something. Why couldn't we wait till morning?"

Peter rubbed his brow thoughtfully; a headache was beginning. Pushing the pain aside, he answered his partner. "I've just got a feeling, Jody. Things aren't quite what they seem to be."

Jody cocked an eye at him. "A feeling, huh?"

"Whatever. Something's not right."

Jody shrugged, then suddenly slammed her foot on the brake, sending Peter hard against the vehicle's shoulder restraints.

"And my driving is bad?" Peter groaned.

"Sorry," Jody replied insincerely, then shifted the car into reverse. "I think this is the place." She gestured her head toward a large wrought iron fence with a calligraphic TCE woven into its design.

Peter turned and looked up at the imposing structure, complete with cameras and call box before letting out a low whistle. "Filthy stinkin' rich is right. Think they'll let the riff-raff in?"

"One way to find out." Jody reached out of her window and pressed the button. Within moments a disembodied voice requested that she identify herself.

"Detective Powell, 101st precinct." Jody displayed her badge for the benefit of the camera.

"Do you have an appointment Detective Powell?"

"No. But we are investigating a robbery at a jewelry store belonging to Mr. Thomas Crawford."

"You will have to come back at another time. If you would leave your card in the box, I will request that his secretary contact you. Mr. Crawford cannot be disturbed."

Peter leaned across the seat toward Jody's open window. "Look, Detective Powell and I have driven for nearly an hour to reach your Mr. Crawford. Or is there some reason he isn't interested in recovering his property?"

"And you are, Sir?" the disembodied voice asked.

"Caine." Peter stated succinctly. "Detective Peter Caine."

Without another word, there was a loud click accompanied by the motion of the large gates moving apart.

"Looks like you know the magic word." Jody grinned at him.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Kwai Chang Caine came to a stop and turned in the middle of busy foot traffic along the outskirts of Chinatown, sensing the presence of Paul Blaisdell moments before the man yelled to him. Moving at an angle to the flowing crowd, he stepped toward the open window of the captain's vehicle.

"I hope I'm not keeping you from anything?" Paul apologized.

"You are not," Caine replied, concerned with the tenseness he noted around Paul Blaisdell's eyes. "I was on my way to visit Mrs. Woo, but we had not agreed on a specific time. Is something the matter?"

"I don't know," Paul admitted. "I'm. . . worried about Peter. But what else is new? Have you seen him? Can you tell if he's in any kind of trouble or anything?"

Caine frowned at the question. "He is unharmed. I sense no trouble from him."

"Are you sure, Caine?" Paul asked. "Are you really sure?"

"I am certain," Caine replied, holding the man's gaze.

"I'm sorry. I know you're sure. You've got something with Peter that I could never have. And it doesn't help that I just saw my. . . your. . . "

"Our. . . " Caine injected.

"Our," Paul corrected, "son getting another blow to the head on the evening news."

"Ah," Caine said as realization came. "The new injury did not aggravate the old. Peter will recover with rest."

"Well, he's not exactly resting. I've been looking for him since I found out what happened. But since you think he's okay, I'm just going to chalk this up to a little foster fatherly worry."

"A feeling that occurs often in the case of Peter," Caine said with a smile.

"Indeed it does," Paul laughed, agreeing with him. "Thanks Caine."

Caine bowed slightly. Standing back from the edge of the street, he watched as Blaisdell pulled away from the curb and into the busy nighttime traffic. He felt worry for Peter also, but not in the physical sense. He hoped that both his and Paul's feelings were unfounded, and merely the reflection of the love they had for their child. For the moment, Peter was safe. The future, however, was unpainted.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"Please follow me," said the dignified gentlemen dressed in black as he escorted Peter and Jody into the Crawford mansion. He preceded them into a large room lined with books and leather chairs. It reminded Peter of something out of Sherlock Holmes.

At the far end of the room a gray-haired man stood near open French doors that overlooked a lighted garden. The scent of something soft and exotic wafted into the room, mingling with the smell of books, leather and old money.

"Mr. Thomas Crawford?" Peter asked. Despite the richness of the surroundings, he sensed a heaviness about the man, a weariness that seemed to weigh on the very atmosphere.

"Yes," the man spoke, then half-turned, revealing lined, but distinguished features. He gestured out the doors. "This was my wife's pride and joy. She loved exquisite things, especially flowers. The garden is one of the few things I have left of her." He looked thoughtfully out into the night. Then he turned and approached the two detectives.

"But we are not here to discuss those things. You must be Detective Powell," he nodded toward Jody. "And you're Detective Peter Caine."

"Yes, Sir," Peter said. "We apologize for disturbing you at this hour, but there were some questions that we needed to ask in relation to our investigation."

Crawford raised a hand, brushing aside Peter's apology. "I'll answer your questions. But first, Detective, I am in your debt. I must thank you for what you have done on behalf of my family."

Peter frowned. "We're investigating the robbery that took place at your jewelry store in Chinatown Mall. Your property hasn't been recovered."

Crawford blinked, and then the light of understanding shone in his eyes. "The vases were and are very precious to me, Detective. I desperately hope that you can recover them. It was only at the suggestion of my daughter-in-law that I consented to show them as a part of the display. But, what I am thanking your for, now, is saving the life of my granddaughter, Johanna. And at peril to your own life. I could never repay you for that."

Crawford reached a hand toward a side table and extended a framed photograph in Peter's direction. Peter numbly accepted the picture, unable to do little more than stare in shock at the smiling faces of Jenine and her daughter Johanna. "That's my daughter-in-law, Jenine Smith-Crawford. I'm sure you must have seen her at the store."

Peter heard a soft sound from Jody. He shot her a quick silencing look. "They're beautiful," he managed as he handed the photograph back to the older man. "You must be very proud."

Peter only half listened as the man continued to speak lovingly about Jenine and her daughter. No wonder Jenine had said that he didn't have what she needed. The sort of dollar signs that came with the Crawford name would never be attached to the name Caine.

Peter slipped behind the wheel of his car with a sigh. The ride back from Trinity Park to the mall had been a difficult one. He settled his aching head into his hands as the scene replayed itself in his mind. . .

"A married woman, Peter?" Jody's words dripped with disapproval.

"Her husband's dead," Peter replied shortly.

"Well that's a relief. But you're still being mighty touchy, Partner. Are you sure you didn't know this Jenine Smith. . . Crawford, or whatever the hell her name is, before?"

"I knew her, okay? You happy?"

"No," Jody replied, counting off on her fingers. "She lied about who she was, even to you. She convinced Crawford to have the vases sent there. She was in charge of the exhibit. I don't know about you, but I'm getting a little suspicious."

"She's not a suspect," Peter stated, though he had suspicions of his own, and those were the ones that worried him the most. "Everything we have is circumstantial."

"Maybe," Jody replied, "But she just looks like she's hiding something."

Peter's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a call coming over his police radio. There was a disturbance in the vicinity of Stephanos Import & Consignment. A sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach as he grabbed up the radio. "This is Baker One-Nine, responding. ETA seven minutes."

In a shower of gravel he spun his Stealth out of the parking lot and onto the street.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

When Peter arrived at Steph's shop, three patrol cars were already at the scene. The police lights reflected eerily off the nearby darkened storefronts. He flashed his badge at the two patrolmen who were warding off onlookers.

"What happened?" he asked Aaron Jacobsen, the uniformed officer who met him at the door.

"Robbery turned homicide," Jacobsen said. "I know he was one of your informants, Pete. So, I need to warn you: it isn't pretty."

Peter took a step back and ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to prepare himself. "How'd it go down?"

Jacobsen gestured toward a frantic looking middle-aged woman who was speaking with another officer. "She owns the shop next door and came over to say goodnight after she closed up. Says she saw a woman , blonde, slim, medium height, leaving in a big hurry about ten minutes earlier. Didn't see her face, though." He gestured toward the doorway that led to the back of the store. "She found him over there."

Peter turned and saw a pool of blood extending from the edge of the door frame, marking a grotesque path up the bottom edge of the sky blue curtain that had once covered the opening.

"One shot," Jacobsen demonstrated by pointing a finger in the center of his forehead. "Right between the eyes. Whoever it was got real close. But the woman recognized him by the tattoo on his arm."

Peter scrubbed a hand across his face, and nodded his thanks to Jacobsen before stepping closer to what was left of Nicholai Stephanos. Moving carefully around the large fragments of broken pottery that littered the outer shop area, he pushed around the blue curtain.

"Damn." He winced at the sight before him. Stooping he placed a hand above the man's barrel chest. His guess was that Steph could not have been dead for much more than an hour.

"I could have prevented this," he murmured, pushing himself to his feet. "Dammit, I could have prevented this." Aside from the killer, he thought, I'm probably the last one to see him alive. Maybe if I had tried a little harder to get him to talk. Maybe. . . .

A memory tickled in the back of his mind, and he turned quickly toward the outer shop area, his eyes focusing on the broken pottery fragments that littered much of the floor. Grabbing a pair of gloves from Jacobsen, he sorted through and picked up one of the larger shards. The intricate design clicked in his mind, reminding him vividly of the photographs of the vases that Thomas Crawford had been more than willing to offer. Peter also noticed the small, intricately inserted NS near what looked like a piece of the base of the vase.

"You always did say that your forgery would get you killed," Peter murmured. Pushing himself to his feet, he placed the shard in an evidence bag and headed toward the phone. It was time to see what the last outgoing call had been. If he was lucky, redial might lead him to Steph's contact, maybe even his murderer.

Pressing the button, he turned from the room and waited to see who would pick up the line. After the fourth ring, the answering machine kicked in. His blood ran cold when he heard the name of the answering machine's owner.

"So what was the last number he dialed? Does it reveal his contact?" Jody's voice sounded from behind him.

Peter started and almost dropped the phone, attracting the attention of Jacobsen who was greeting the night-shift coroner. The uniformed man smiled knowingly before directing the balding man toward the back of the store. Peter returned his attention reluctantly back to Jody who was waiting for an answer.

"You got here quick," he hedged, hanging up the phone.

"Obviously not quick enough," Jody shot back. "Sandra Mason is outside. You sure she doesn't have a tracer or something on you?"

"I wouldn't be surprised." Peter shrugged as he pulled off his gloves and tossed them into the trash bin. "Might oughtta put Blake on it."

"Yeah, maybe. So, you gonna tell me what the last number called from this phone was or am I going to have to arm wrestle you for it?"

"I'm sure this isn't as bad as it looks. I--" .

"Wait, let me guess," Jody cut him off. "Mizz Jenine Smith-Crawford?"

Peter nodded shortly and headed out of the door. This time Jody didn't have to ask where they were going.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"Thank you, Mrs. Woo." Caine bowed slightly to the elderly Oriental woman who handed him a small wrapped parcel containing dried herbs. The woman smiled in return before closing the door to her shop.

Placing the package in his satchel, Caine smiled inwardly as the image of the most likely recipient of the herb flitted through his mind. His son's path did indeed appear to require that Caine stock pain reducing mixtures in larger quantities. Perhaps, Caine thought, the addition of a few more seedlings of the major ingredients is in order. Perhaps, it is time Peter learns to plant them.

As he continued to focus on his son, a powerful sense of foreboding washed over him, causing him to come to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Concentrating his thoughts more fully on his son, he sensed the shock, guilt and turmoil that told clearly that his son was disturbed, and not resting as he had been instructed. But, despite his emotional state, Peter was not in physical danger. Redirecting his attention closer at hand, Caine turned to face a darkened alley directly across the street.

Adjusting his satchel, he stepped off the sidewalk and crossed toward the darkened corridor. The unmistakable feeling that this was the correct path caused him to move more confidently, as well as more cautiously into the darkness. By the time he heard the soft whimper, he already knew its owner. When the owner raised the hastily retrieved weapon to attack, he was halfway through deflecting the blow. And when his fingers found the pressure points and his attacker's body began to collapse, he was there to catch her before she fell.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Jody spent most of the trip to Jenine Crawford's residence watching her partner trying to hold it all in, while she simply tried to hold on. She knew that Peter's moods were often reflected in his driving, and judging by the current example, she had no doubt that Jenine Crawford, coupled with a healthy dose of misdirected guilt over the death of Nicholai Stephanos had Peter Caine turned upside down and inside out. She didn't even know where to begin to do damage control. Peter's strong, silent, and reckless act wasn't helping.

"You were in love with her, weren't you?" she finally dared to ask when he pulled the Stealth onto a street lined with turn-of-the-century homes.

Peter jerked the car into a driveway and brought the vehicle to a rough halt, never bothering to look in her direction. "We're here."

"I'll take that as a yes," Jody murmured to herself, watching him through the windshield as he moved toward the darkened porch and disappeared into the shadows.

"Peter, wait!" She hurriedly pushed her door open and climbed out. This was no time for him to try going off on his own. No matter what Peter thought about this woman, Jody wasn't taking any chances. She reached the porch and made out his dim outline within moments. Her heart thudded into high gear when she realized that his gun was drawn. Pulling her own was a reflexive reaction as she moved up beside him.

He inclined his head silently toward the door that stood slightly ajar. Jody nodded her understanding and deftly took up the position on the opposite side of the door, her gun up and ready. She counted mentally to three, and then Peter pushed the door open. It flew back on silent hinges, impacting with a muffled thump into the door stop.

When no other sounds followed, they moved carefully into the darkened interior, covering both sides of the entry corridor. All personal differences were aside as they responded and moved as a team covering one another. Both reacted to the low moan that came from farther back in the house.

Quick steps led them into a dining area. Peter was the first to spot the feet poking from the next doorway. Holstering his weapon, he hurried forward and kneeled near the stout older woman dressed in a starched utilitarian dress and apron.

"I'm Detective Peter Caine, 101st Precinct." Peter quickly identified himself. "And this is my partner, Jody Powell. Are you all right? What happened here?"

The woman blinked up at them, then winced. "I - I think I'm okay. Somebody. . . hit me."

"Can you tell us your name?" Jody asked over Peter's shoulder.

"My name is Agnes. Agnes Lewelyn. I'm the housekeeper. I-- Oh, dear Lord! Johanna! Where's Johanna? She was here with me! Is she all right?" The woman frantically tried to move into a sitting position. "I have to make sure. . . "

Jody watched as Peter grasped the woman's hand. "Where is she supposed to be Agnes? I'll go find her." His tone was confident, reassuring. Jody was sure that only she had seen the way that he flinched at the mention of the little girl's name.

"She's. . . She should be in bed. Third door from the right at the top of the stairs. I thought I heard Ms. Crawford come in. Johanna usually comes down to see her. But then. . . someone. . . " The woman's voice again began to rise toward hysterics, but Peter intervened.

"It's all right. Detective Powell is going to stay with you, Agnes." He handed the woman's clammy hand into Jody's. "I'm going to go check out the house. I'll be right back."

Jody scooted closer to the woman as she watched her partner move off into the house. Then offering her best reassuring smile, she tried to convince the older woman to tell her everything she could about what had happened.

Five minutes later, Peter returned with a resigned look on his face. Both Jenine and Johanna Crawford were gone.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Peter squinted against the light coming through his windshield as he parked on the street near his father's apartment. He had taken four aspirin after dropping Jody at her car, having barely managed to convince her to wait until morning before filing the official report concerning their findings. He wondered if the mostly-authentic pitiful and in pain look he had given her had been the final straw in bringing her to his side of the argument, if only for a few hours. Whatever the case, three hours of fruitless searching had pushed his headache into migraine territory, adding nausea to the mix. The solution that had been recommended early in his recovery was to lay quietly and calmly in a darkened room. Unfortunately, there was no time for lying quietly, and calm was out of the question. He had to find Jenine. But first, he hoped that his father didn't mind his showing up for a little Shaolin pain relief at 4 o' clock in the morning.

He barely made it to the door when his father appeared, fully dressed, with a concerned frown on his face.

"Come lie down." Caine immediately went into action, taking Peter's arm and leading him to the raised platform beneath the windows.

"Thanks, Pop," Peter said with a soft sigh as he stretched out gratefully, giving himself over to his father's ministrations. From the first touch of Caine's fingers at his temples, the pain began to ease.

"You know, you could make a fortune if you opened some Shaolin headache spa. You could call it Kwai Chang's Magic Fingers. I know--"

"You need to rest." Caine interrupted his ramblings, and deftly readjusted his fingers.

"No." Peter reached up, suddenly serious. "I can't go to sleep right now." He pushed himself up into a sitting position. "I've got too much to do. Can't you just give me something?" He frowned, even as the words left his lips.

"What is it that you have to do that cannot wait until you rest?"

Peter gazed at his father for several moments, wondering if he should involve him. Suddenly feeling very tired, he decided that it would feel good to tell someone. If he could trust anyone with the damaging information, he could trust his father. "A man was killed last night, and somehow Jenine is mixed up in it. I've gotta find her."

Caine nodded. "She is here."

"She is here?" Peter repeated the words, at first not comprehending what his father said. Then, as realization dawned, he shot to his feet. "What?! Where?" He headed toward his father's guest room. A touch of Caine's hand halted him.

"She is resting, my son."

"I have to talk to her." Peter pulled away.

"She collapsed in the street. I brought her here. You were otherwise occupied."

"Is she okay?" A new kind of worry washed through him as he waited for his father's answer. "And was a little girl with her?"

"She was alone," Caine replied. "She has suffered a shock, and I believe that given rest," he said pointedly, "she will be fine."

Peter couldn't back down. Too much was at stake. "I've still got to talk to her. Along with everything else, she and her daughter have been officially reported missing."

"Her daughter?" Caine frowned. He looked knowingly into Peter's features. "And there is more?"

"Oh yes, there is more," Peter told him. "Now, can I talk to her or not?"

Caine gestured him toward the room.

Peter walked into the dimly lit room and saw Jenine's form outlined beneath a light covering. For a moment the memories of watching her sleep, being with her, smelling her scent on himself afterward overwhelmed him. But then the realities of the present returned, pushing those thoughts away. He moved to her side and hesitantly touched her arm.

"Jenine," he called to her. It felt strange to be waking her as if she were a stranger. She stirred slightly at his touch and then opened her eyes and looked confusedly up at him.

"Peter? What are you. . . ? What. . . ?" And then looking around the sparsely furnished room. "Where. . .?"

"You're at my father's place." He watched as memory returned. She closed her eyes as if fighting off some horrible realization. When she opened them, her mouth clamped shut and she moved from beneath the light blanket and went in search of her shoes.

"Leaving?" Peter asked.

"Yes."

"Mind if we talk a minute before you go?"

"About what?" Jenine asked, not looking in his direction as she straightened her hair.

"About Steph." Peter eyed her carefully.

Jenine stiffened, and then went back to working on her hair. "What about Steph?" she asked, turning away.

Peter moved to where he could observe her expression. "You two still keep in touch?"

"Some," she responded, avoiding his eyes.

"He's dead, Jenine." Peter said the words and then waited for her reaction. A brief hesitation in the fingers that attempted to tidy her long hair was the only sign that she had heard. Peter grasped her arm, halting the motion. "You already knew that, didn’t you?" he asked.

Jenine snatched her arm away from him and began to search for something within the folds of the blanket that she had been using.

Peter paced in a small circle, fighting the fear and anger that were growing within himself, hating the question that he knew he had to ask next. "Did you do it?"

Jenine jumped to her feet, fire in her eyes, and slapped him soundly across his left cheek. "How dare you ask me that question?! Steph was my friend! He was there for me!"

"Oh, right. And I wasn’t?" Peter shot back. "I seem to remember that was the way you wanted it. But let’s not get sidetracked, here. Where were you last night from 7:30 until 9:00 p.m.?"

Peter saw the look of disbelief come into her eyes. "What are you here for, Peter? Did you come to arrest me?"

"If not me, then someone else," Peter replied. "Let’s examine the evidence, shall we? There are broken vases that bear a striking resemblance to those stolen from the Crawford collection all over the floor. Vases that just happened to have been conveniently stolen yesterday morning. You were present during the robbery --"

"It was my job to be present!" Jenine cut in hotly.

Peter continued as if she hadn't spoken. "You misled the investigating detectives as to your identity."

"I didn't mislead them, I just didn't give my full name. This is a bunch of. . . "

Peter continued, speaking more loudly over her interruption. "You were the one who convinced your father-in-law to exhibit them. A witness saw a woman with your general description leaving the building. And you are the last person Steph called before he died. So the way I, and I'm sure a few other law enforcement officers in the city, see it, you've got a lot of questions to answer. At least with me you have someone who is willing to talk before I slam the handcuffs on. Your choice! Now where were you? Or don't you have an alibi?"

Jenine stared up at him with wide eyes, breathing heavily. Then it all crumbled and her eyes filled. "Damnit." She angrily blinked the tears away. "I’m in trouble, Peter," she said softly, reaching a hand toward him. "I was there, but I didn't kill him."

Peter's insides twisted. Her plea brought all of his protective instincts rushing to the fore. He fought them for several moments, before reaching out in return. "Come on," his voice softened. "Let's sit down."

Jenine nodded and settled beside him.

"Listen, Jen. Just tell me what happened. I’ll do whatever I can to help you."

Jenine took a deep breath and sniffed, leaning ever so slightly against his shoulder. It might have been mistaken for her having simply brushed against him had the move not been so reminiscent of others between them. Past actions and past emotions. "Your father called you?" she asked.

"No." Peter shook his head as he placed an arm around her. "No phone. I. . . came by for something else. I've been looking for you and Johanna all night."

He felt Jenine stiffen. "Johanna? Why have you been looking for Jo?"

"Where is she?" Peter asked, an unspoken fear beginning in his gut.

"Home?" Jenine's voice was hopeful, but her eyes told another story. "Tell me you didn't check there, Peter."

Peter nodded his head, confirming what appeared to be her worst fears. "Someone hit Ms. Lewelyn over the head. We searched everywhere, we even checked at your father-in-law's. We couldn't find her anywhere."

Jenine shook her head in disbelief, then pushed away from Peter, and to her feet. "I've gotta go find her," she said, moving frantically for the door.

"Jenine, wait!" Peter grabbed for her. "You can't just go running around out there in the middle of the night. . . morning. . . whatever. I'm not the only one looking for you."

"I have to find her, Peter!" Jenine cried, struggling to break away. "I won't lose her. I can't!"

"Let me find her," Peter urged, willing her to listen.

"I will help." Caine spoke from slightly behind him.

Jenine looked between the two men, then nodded. "Okay."

Peter relaxed slightly. "Do you have any idea where she might be? Could she have wandered off? Would anyone take her?"

Jenine looked up at him wide-eyed. "I'm not sure. I . . . ." She shook her head helplessly. "I don't know."

Caine rested a calming hand on Peter's shoulder and the other on Jenine's. "Do you have something that belongs to her?"

"What good is that going to--"

"It'll help," Peter assured her. "Trust him. He's pretty amazing." He offered his father a small smile.

"In my car," Jenine said. "I. . . she. . . I should have something there."

"Where is your car?" Peter asked.

"I hid it near Steph's. I'll show you."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Peter pulled the Stealth to a halt in front of a gleaming silver luxury sedan. The expensive vehicle looked out of place among the other, older automobiles in the dirty parking garage. The smashed driver's side window wasn't visible until he approached.

Taking in Jenine's shocked expression, he glanced at his father before moving closer to the vehicle. A once beautifully appointed dash looked as if someone had taken a sledge hammer to it. Peter was willing to bet dollars to donuts that whoever had wrecked the car's interior wasn't just a gang of young street punks looking for a thrill, otherwise the top-of-the-line stereo system and the small collection of compact disks would have been long gone. His thoughts were confirmed when his eyes found the corner of a white envelope sticking out from beneath a brick located on the driver's seat.

Carefully pushing the brick aside, he retrieved the envelope. 'Mrs. Crawford' was written across the front of the envelope in a neat script. He handed the envelope to Jenine and waited as she read the note it contained. All the color seemed to drain from her face as she stared at the slip of paper.

"It's a ransom note," she said simply as she refolded the note and placed it back into the envelope. "They've got Jo ."

"Do you recognize the handwriting?" Peter asked, watching her carefully.

"It's Mrs. Lewelyn's. She often left messages for me in this type of envelope."

Peter nodded thoughtfully. It made sense that whomever had kidnapped Johanna Crawford would have had access to the house and thus to the envelopes. But that person also would have had to have known about that particular habit of Mrs. Lewelyn.

"What do they want?" he asked.

"They want the vases."

"You mean the real vases," Peter corrected. "The ones that were stolen were counterfeit, weren't they? And Steph made them for you. That's why he's dead."

Jenine's gaze shot up to meet his. "I. . . yes."

"And now they have your daughter?"

"Yes."

"Mind if I ask why in the hell--"

"It is not safe here," Caine interrupted. "We are being watched. Retrieve the item that belongs to the child quickly. We must leave."

"Where?" Peter growled in Jenine's direction, forcing down his anger.

"The trunk," she replied.

Bending into the shattered window, he found the latch that released the trunk. As he pulled back out of the window, he saw Jenine moving toward the front of the car carrying a large sedately patterned overnight bag. She handed it to his father, and they all ran for the Stealth.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Kermit Griffin jerked awake, sitting up from his keyboard. Glancing around, he surreptitiously straightened his glasses. Confirming that there had been no witnesses to his lapse, and thus no bodies to dispose of, he turned toward his computer monitor.

He noted that the search parameters that he had entered had been fruitful, but that wasn't what captured his attention. A red alert window displayed in the top right corner of his screen. It was a notification that someone was accessing confidential files relating to certain ones that Kermit felt it necessary to watch over.

"Let's see who's been dipping into papa bear's porridge," he murmured as he activated the window. A stream of raw encoded data ran in a terminal emulation window. Clicking a decoder program, he waited as it attempted to decipher the data.

"Too hot," he murmured, when the attempt was unsuccessful. Whomever was accessing the data was not using standard transfer protocol.

Selecting another program, he activated it in the window. It, too, was unsuccessful. "Too cold," he said in a dangerously quiet voice. The decoder should have been able to translate the data from any government agency in the city.

Choosing a more mercenary decoder program, one that most organizations hadn't entirely confirmed existed, he activated the file in the window. "Just right," he said, leaning over the keyboard to read the decoded information. Someone from within the Department of Defense was doing a broad band search. One of the keywords surrounded the owner of the license tag number PTC-555.

"Aw, hell, Peter. You've hit the big time," Kermit said. Printing the offending document, as well as the previous search information, he left his lair and went in search of Paul.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Caine sensed Peter's nervous motions as he pulled the car onto the street near the warehouse where he lived. Night was fading, being replaced by the light of the rising sun. But the darkness of his son's anger was still growing. Every gesture telegraphed his son's emotions, making the task of seeking the child more difficult.

"Peter, you must be calm." Caine spoke softly, resting a hand on Peter's arm.

Peter cast him a quick glance. "Calm is tough at the moment, Pop."

"You must, for the sake of the child."

Peter looked at him, the light of understanding flashing in his eyes. "You mean, I'm. . . my emotions are. . . I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't be here while you do this. Do you want. . . ?"

"You do not have to leave," Caine assured him. Then turning toward Jenine, who had followed the conversation with interest, "We must all go inside." He climbed out of the passenger side of the vehicle and did not wait for the others to follow.

An uncomfortable silence settled between his son and his former love as Caine went about his meditation room lighting candles. When the room was prepared, he approached Jenine. "May I?" he asked, as he reached for her hands.

She looked confused, but offered them.

Caine nodded his thanks and took both her hands into his. Inhaling deeply, he squeezed them slightly, stretching his mind and releasing the barriers that protected his Shaolin senses from the constant assault of other, less controlled, minds. He sensed the young woman's connection to the child and latched onto it. The other things that he learned in the contact, he stored away for another time. Releasing Jenine's hands, he bowed slightly, then moved to the center of the room where he sank into full lotus before the largest of the candles and picked up the child's jacket that Jenine had given him.

"I will join you on the balcony later," he said, by way of dismissal.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"What is he doing?"

Peter looked thoughtfully toward Jenine as she asked the question, then turned back toward his father's plants. "Meditating."

"Meditating?" Jenine sighed heavily. "Peter, no offense, but how is this helping? I can't just sit here and wait for him to finish communing with his candles, or whatever he's doing." She moved toward the door, but Peter grabbed her arm.

"That's exactly what you're going to do," he warned. "Should give you a little time to tell me what's really going on."

"What do you mean?" Jenine asked, agitatedly.

"For starters, say I believe you about Steph; I don't think you could kill him. At least not with a gun. I know how you feel about them."

"Are you saying I could kill him some other way?"

"Let's not get sidetracked," Peter replied. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"

"There's not much to tell, Peter. He called me, I went to see him. When I got there, he was already dead. I freaked. I just. . . ran. When I got to the garage where I'd parked my car, someone was there, they came after me. I ran some more. Ended up in Chinatown, in some alley. Then, for some strange reason, I remembered what you said, about 'Go to Chinatown, ask for Caine'. It was weird. I didn't even look for him, and he was there. I--I must have passed out and I guess he must have brought me here. When I woke up, you were standing over me, looking at me like I was an ax murderer."

Peter considered her for several moments. Just showing up was right up his father's alley, but there was a big gaping hole in Jenine's story. Like the beginning. "There's more. Tell me about it."

"Nothing more to tell." Jenine tossed her head. "Shouldn't you be doing your job and looking for my daughter?"

"Do I need to remind you that my job also requires cuffs?" Peter said warningly.

"Going a little kinky?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Peter responded. "But since you're pretending to not understand, why don't I make it clear? Technically, you are in my custody. I could make it official and place you under arrest. My partner, for one, would love to have a few words with you. That's where the handcuffs come in. It would look great on the morning news. I'm sure my own personal reporter-at-large, Sandra Mason, would be more than happy to make herself available."

"You couldn't do it." Jenine challenged him. "Not to me." But Peter could hear the uncertainty in her voice, and steeled himself against it. "Why don't I tell you the parts that I think I've figured out, and you tell me where I'm wrong?" he asked.

Jenine's response was simply to curl her lips in a small triumphant smile.

She really doesn't think I'll do it, Peter thought. I wonder if she's right.

Pushing his own uncertainties aside, he began. "Steph made counterfeit vases. You asked him to do it. Whatever it was the crooks stole from the jewelry store, they weren't authentic Crawford Collection vases. How'm I doing so far?"

Jenine folded her arms across her chest and shrugged, but said nothing.

"Whoever snatched them," Peter continued, "somehow knew or found out about Steph's place in all this and went to the shop and killed him. They knew about you, too, or how else would they know to snatch your little girl? They even knew about the kind of notes your housekeeper wrote to you. Sounds like an inside job to me. Is that it? You and a "buddy" stealing from the old man? Or is this all a big setup. You pretending that your daughter was taken? Or don't you care that you could end up getting your little girl, or yourself, killed?"

Jenine's face paled slightly, but still she didn't speak.

"Am I hitting a little too close to the truth?" Peter asked. "What I don't understand is why you would risk your daughter's life for a lousy $200,000 dollars and let Steph get killed in the bargain. It just doesn't sound like a very motherly, or a very friendly thing to do."

Peter watch as Jenine balled her fists and her face tightened in anger. He knew she wanted to strike out at him, possibly pick up one of his father's clay pots and throw it at him, but she didn't, which worried him more than anything else. He didn’t want the things he'd said to be true. He'd hoped she'd say something, or at least tell him that he was wrong if only to protect herself. Unless. . . .

"Who are you protecting, Jenine?" When there was no response, he reached for his cuffs.

"Jenine Crawford, you have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney." He tried to distance himself, looking any place but at her, as her eyes filled with tears of shock and disbelief. He knew how she hated to cry, or to feel trapped, but he had no other choice. "If you give up those rights--"

"All right." She raised her hands as tears overflowed. Wiping angrily at the wetness, she sniffed. "I'll tell you."

"I'm listening," he prompted when she didn't speak for several moments. He kept the cuffs clutched in his hand as a reminder of her status.

She threw him a look and opened her mouth.

"Start at the beginning and don't leave anything out." Peter cut her off. "Aside from everything else, my father's a Shaolin lie detector. And like you said, he's rubbing off on me."

Jenine turned away from him. "I wouldn't risk Jo's life for vases," she said. "No matter what else you think of me, I wouldn't do that. And I wouldn't kill anyone for money.

"A couple months ago, Thomas pulled his nephew, Terrance Troung, out of the corporate office in Japan and sent him to one of the administrative offices near here. He'd been embezzling from the company, and everyone knew it. Thomas didn't have the heart to fire him. But still, the transfer amounted to professional exile. Terrance was angry. Everyone knew how Thomas felt about those vases. I thought Terrance wanted to take them to get back at Thomas for transferring him."

"So this Terrance Troung is the one who convinced you to convince Crawford to display the vases?" Peter asked.

"Yes. That's why I asked Steph to make the forgeries. Terrance wouldn't know real art if it bit him. I figured he'd bend, spindle or mutilate some fakes and Thomas could hold on to his memories."

"I suppose 'Just say no' didn't occur to you? Or did Crawford put you up to getting the faked set?"

"No." Jenine shook her head. "He didn't know anything about it. He's not involved in this."

"Okay. You've never been a woman to do something you don't want to do. Why would you play into Terrance Troung's hand? You figured he was up to no good. What did he have over your head?"

"Haven't you noticed, he's holding my daughter hostage?" Jenine demanded.

"No. Unh unh. That is not going to wash. I wasn't born yesterday. She was with you at the mall, and she didn't look like a hostage at the time. What was it?"

"It's not important," Jenine said, shaking her head. "All we have to do is go and get the vases. I can tell you where they are. We deliver, we pick up Jo, and everything is fine."

"Like hell it is!" Peter yelled. "A man is dead, Jenine. Someone put a gun to his head and blew his brains out. Everything is not going to be just fine!"

Jenine flinched at his outburst. Peter didn't care. He wanted the truth.

More angry tears washed over her cheeks, and she flashed daggers in Peter's direction. "Jo isn't my daughter," she said through clenched teeth.

"What?!" Peter was dumbfounded. "What do you mean she isn't your daughter? Whose is she?"

"She's my sister." Jenine said the words almost as if she meant to use them as a weapon. There was a gleam of triumph in her eyes at Peter's reaction. "I fooled everyone." The triumph died. "Terrance found out somehow and threatened to tell Thomas. I knew he would take her away."

"Why? How?"

"You found your dead father, Peter. Odd coincidence: I found my dead mother, or rather, she found me."

"But you said she. . . ." Peter murmured in confusion.

"There's that coincidence thing again." She shrugged. "I lied. She was in prison. You can check the records. Her name is the same as mine, Jenine Smith, minus the Crawford. I was her birthday gift for a not so sweet sixteen. That's how I ended up in the foster program.

"As fate would have it, my drunken, pill-popping, ex-convict mother managed to end up married to one Thomas Andrew Crawford Jr. less than five months after getting out of the slammer. They did the deed at one of those little chapels in Vegas, I doubt he even remembered it. But mom was truly in love, or so she said. She was trying to find him.

"Funny thing is, she found me instead. It happened when I went to that Interior Decorator's expo out in Vegas. The one that you insisted I go to. Imagine my surprise to learn that she was in the family way, and by someone belonging to a family well known by any art collector or designer worth her craft. Unfortunately, Thomas Jr. had come back here and gotten himself killed. Drunk driver. It was serendipity, and dear mom didn't even know what she had.

"I tried to convince her to come back here and talk to Thomas Sr., but she wouldn't listen. She was broken up over Thomas. So, being the dutiful daughter, I. . . cut ties back here and went out there to be with her. She died shortly after Johanna was born."

Peter simply stared at her for a full minute. "Why didn't you just tell me? Or come back after your mother died?" he asked quietly. "I would have helped. We could have--"

"No we couldn't have," Jenine cut him off. "I was younger then, and. . . my priorities. . .I had other plans."

"Oh? Other plans that love just didn't figure in to," Peter said bitterly. "Isn't that right?"

"No."

"Liar. While you were back here breaking my heart into a million pieces you were probably already working on a way to scam old man Crawford. How'd you do it, anyway? Did you just show up with a baby and fake papers and pretend to love the child like you pretended to love me?"

"We argued. We broke up. . . the timing. . .Things are differe--"

"No! We broke up two months after that trip! You planned it. You had lots of time to tell me."

"Like I said," Jenine eyed him coolly. "You didn't have what I needed."

"How could I have been so stupid? Did you ever even love me? Was I ever--"

"Peter."

Peter was surprised by the feel of his father's hand resting on his shoulder. "No, Pop." He shook it off. "I. . . she--"

"Peter." Caine spoke again, more forcefully. "It is in the past, my son. You must accept that you have learned the truth. You must embrace it, and let it go."

Peter turned and focused on his father, taking several gulping breaths. "But, Pop. . . I. . . . "

"Let go, Peter." Caine insisted, his eyes boring into Peter's soul.

"Let go," Peter echoed, closing his eyes and running a hand through his hair. "Let go." He rested his head briefly against his father's shoulder, then pushed away. Caine released him, sensing that this wound that had been reopened would take time and care to heal. He would be here, he would help his son.

"I believe I know where the child is being held," Caine said, turning toward Jenine. "She is alone, and she is frightened. We must go now."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Jody walked into the precinct and nearly collided with Chief of Detectives Frank Strenlich. "Sorry, Chief," she grumbled, moving to go around the man.

"Don't be sorry," he muttered. "Be more careful." He turned, but then seemed to change his mind and faced her again. "Where's your errant partner?"

Jody raised her brows at the chief. "Considering he's got a good half hour before he's officially late, probably still dreaming. But of course, I'm only guessing."

Frank gave her a withering look and handed her a slip of paper. "Got a call on some sort of disturbance in a parking garage near that consignment shop you and Pete went to last night. He's not here; you are. Take Blake with you. He looks like he could use some fresh air."

Blake met her gaze over the rim of his glasses, looking as if he'd missed something.

"Aw, Chief," she objected. This wasn't exactly the way she'd planned to spend her morning. There was all sorts of investigating that she didn't think Peter would approve of to be done. "What about--?"

"Whatever it is, it'll keep." Strenlich cut her off, never turning around. "Crime is like that. It never takes a holiday."

"Great," Jody muttered under her breath, as she cast an eye in Blake's direction. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Blake said, before shoving some sort of electronic gadgetry into his desk and following her out of the precinct.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"Can you tell if there are a lot of people around, Pop?" Peter asked as he, Jenine and his father exited Caine's building and headed for the Stealth. "Is Johanna okay?

"Pop?" Peter turned around when his father didn't reply. The place that Peter had last seen him was empty. Jenine's face mirrored his surprise. Pushing her back into the partial cover of the doorway, he drew his gun.

"Peter! What's going on? Where's your father?"

"Trouble," Peter replied as he peered cautiously around the doorway and out onto the street. The area was clear in both directions. He gestured that she should stay back, as he quickly covered the distance between the doorway and the car. A grunt and muffled thud, followed by a thump drew his attention to the alley where his father appeared.

"What? You didn't save one for me?" Smiling wryly at the older man, he gestured that Jenine come out. Caine shrugged, while Peter went to survey the alley. Two men dressed in dark jeans and shirts lay crumpled among the debris. A search for identification revealed nothing.

"There is no time for this." His father appeared over his shoulder. "The child is in danger."

"Sure thing, Pop. Help me drag these two into the doorway and I'll call someone from the station to come pick them up."

Caine nodded, and grabbed the shoulders of the heavier man. Once in the building entrance, Peter cuffed the two men around a support beam on the lower level. He hated that he wasn't going to see the expressions of the arresting officers.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"Sorry to drag you down here before you go to your retreat," Kermit said as Paul Blaisdell led him into his office.

"If you're really good," Paul shot back, "you'll get me out of it, altogether."

"Somehow, I don't think this is what you had in mind," Kermit said, handing a printout to his captain, "but, can do."

Paul picked up the sheets of paper with trepidation, and placing his glasses on the bridge of nose, began to scan the lines of text. "Damn," he swore softly. "How in the world did Peter manage to get the Department of Defense searching his records after only being back on the job for 24 hours?"

"Go all out. It's the Peter Caine way," Kermit replied.

"And he's got it down to a science," Paul agreed. "Where is he?"

"Hasn't come in yet."

Paul shook his head. "He's working on a jewelry store robbery. What could one possibly have to do with the other?"

"My thoughts exactly," Kermit confided. "Ran a check on Thomas Crawford Enterprises. Aside from a string of jewelry stores and miscellaneous other holdings, the corporation owns an electronics firm that has half a dozen very lucrative defense contracts, and several pending. But the company seems to be above board. There were rumors in less polite circles about a little international intrigue a few months back, but it faded away. Aside from a few press releases about changes in management, that's it."

"So the DOD is checking up on the investigating officers of stolen vases? Or is there some kind of connection between this robbery and the rumors against these people?"

"Normally I might be willing to buy that. But Jody's name didn't come up in our little data transfer. Just Peter. And why only use the license tag number, unless that was all they had to go on?"

"Good point," Paul conceded.

"There is something else that's bothering me about this transfer. While some parts of the IP tag definitely suggest DOD, the protocol wasn't anything official."

"Of course I leave the codes to you," Paul said, looking again at the paper that Kermit had given him. "I know the IP tag is like an address that shows where the request is coming from, and the protocol is like . . . like a format for transmitting the data back and forth. On the surface this looks like an official Department of Defense request for information. What am I missing?"

"The Department of Defense doesn't use this protocol. Whatever it is, it's complex. I had to use the latest version of Anihilator7 decoder to translate it. My guess is that whoever made this request is a heavy hitter who knows how to mole his way into government systems, and how to cover his tracks. Someone who works both outside and inside of official channels. Someone with, shall we say, roving allegiances."

"Damn," Paul whispered, settling back tiredly into his chair. "Only Peter could turn a simple security detail into an international incident."

"Keeps you on your toes." Kermit allowed a small smile.

"Yeah," Paul chuckled. "I want to see him as soon as he gets in. Jody, too."

"Just missed her. I saw her right before you got here. Strenlich sent her off somewhere with Blake."

Paul sat thoughtfully for several moments. "I've got a really bad feeling about this, Kermit."

Kermit's lips lifted into a ghost of a smile. "Having a Kwai Chang Caine moment?"

"No, I'm having a 'what-the-hell's-the-kid-gotten-himself-into-now' moment."

"Could be one and the same."

"Good point."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"Whoa. . . nice. Was." Jody walked around the silver luxury sedan, taking in the smashed dashboard and the broken driver's side window. "One way to keep the yuppies out of the neighborhood. Look at that leather interior. I'll bet this thing costs more than I make in a year. . . hell, two years."

Blake looked up from his own examination of the vehicle, a gleam in his eyes.

"What?" she asked, suspiciously.

"Satellite tracking system. ISS-2000. State of the art." Blake was pointing toward a flashing light near the driver's side floorboard. "The onboard receiver gives the central station the ability to track this vehicle to within a square yard anywhere on the surface of the Earth. Even underwater. The enhanced data stream--"

"Stop!" Jody held a hand up. "English."

"Sorry," Blake apologized, and adjusted his glasses before blowing out a breath and speaking more slowly. "This system allows the owner to track this vehicle if it is ever stolen. It can take the police right to it."

"Wow." Jody whistled, eyeing the car. "Then that makes me really wonder what such a nice vehicle like you is doing in a place like this."

"Maybe joy riders stole it while the owner was out of town?" Blake suggested, as he continued to scan through the many systems installed on the vehicle like a kid in a toy store.

"Maybe." Jody stifled a laugh, wondering what it was with men and cars. Sliding into the passenger seat, she reached to check the glove compartment for the registration. "What say we ask the owner?"

Blake looked up distractedly from a control panel on the driver's side. "Yeah. Okay." Scanning the controls, he hit the button that with a hiss of air released the trunk.

Jody shook her head as she found a leather-bound case containing vehicle information.

"I wonder how big the trunk is," Blake said as he scooted out of the seat.

"I'll bet you could probably fit your entire James Bond action kit in there," Jody murmured under her breath as she focused on the registration. A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach as she recognized the name of the owner.

"Oh my God, Jenine Crawford." She'd barely breathed the words when a choking sound from the back of the car caught her attention. Rushing around the vehicle, she stopped short at the contorted and very dead body that had been stuffed into the trunk.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"Blaisdell." Paul snatched the phone from its cradle.

"Paul? Broderick said that you were looking for me?"

Paul's brow furrowed at the sound of his foster son's voice. "Yeah, I was. But I don't want to go in to it over the phone. You on your way in?" Glancing quickly at his watch, he noted that Peter still had a good 5 minutes before he was truly late.

"Uh, no. I already told Broderick that there are a couple nasty types in my father's building, all nice and gift wrapped for you. They attacked me and my father this morning."

"Like a magnet," Paul chuckled.

"Yeah, like a magnet. It's in the genes, I guess. Listen, something's going down Paul, and I don't really want to tell you about it over the phone either, but there's been a kidnapping."

"What?! Who?"

"I can't explain right now. Pop, which way?"

"Peter? What's going on? Who has been kidnapped?" Paul faintly heard Kwai Chang Caine reply that Peter should turn right.

"A little girl. Johanna Crawford. My father is tracking her now. He says we can't wait. She's in trouble."

"At least tell me where you're going, I can get you some backup." The name Crawford was setting off alarms bells in Paul's head. The more he heard, the less he liked where this situation appeared to be headed.

"I wish I knew, Paul. The best I can do is tell you that it looks like we're heading into the old warehouse district. Eastbound on US71."

Paul vaguely heard Caine's quiet voice directing Peter to the left.

"I know we're talking a big area, but that's the best. . . ."

Paul heard Caine's voice rise. "Left now!" followed by the sound of a car horn and squealing tires.

"Peter! What was that?" he demanded, his heart pounding into high gear.

"Just a little offensive driving. Just like you taught me."

Paul rolled his eyes and told his heart to slow down. "Look, we're on the way. You keep me posted and let me know exactly where you are."

"Sure, no problem."

Paul sighed and closed his eyes as he hung up the phone. He didn't like where this was going. Not at all. The more he thought about it, the more uncomfortable it made him feel. Pushing himself out of his chair, he headed for Kermit's office. The room was empty, but the computer appeared to be hard at work.

Turning back toward the bullpen, he decided to have a quick word with Broderick.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Peter clicked off his car phone and turned toward his father. He had barely opened his mouth when Caine spoke.

"We are near."

"Okay, next question," Peter said, continuing along the pothole strewn service road that led behind a group of warehouses in an old industrial area of the city. He slowed as he crossed over a set of railroad tracks. "Can you tell if she is being heavily guarded?"

"I cannot," Caine said. "They have given her something to drink which is making her sleepy." He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. "We must hurry, Peter. I fear that I may lose my link with her should she fall asleep."

Peter pressed the gas pedal closer to the floorboard, increasing his speed as much as he dared.

"You can tell all that?" Jenine's incredulous voice sounded from the backseat.

"Yes." Caine turned toward her slightly. "She is trying to remain awake, but it is difficult for her."

She reached a hand across the seat and clasped his shoulder. "Is she okay? Can you tell what they gave her? It's not poison, is it?"

Peter saw his father clasp his hand over Jenine's, then focus deeply almost as if using the woman's connection with the girl. His eyes widened with surprise when Jenine gasped.

"Jo?" She spoke the child's name aloud.

Peter noticed that his father was beginning to slump.

"Pop!" He reached an arm toward the older man to steady him.

"I am all right," Caine said softly. "Stop the car. We must go on foot."

Peter did as he was told, pulling the vehicle in close to one side of a large old warehouse and quickly climbed out, keeping a critical eye on his father.

Jenine moved to get out of the car behind him.

"No way," he told her. "You stay in the car, and keep your head down."

"Are you crazy? Johanna is in there! I'm going with you."

"No you're not," Peter turned away.

"Yes, I am." She followed, determined.

Peter turned to face her. "I could cuff you to the steering wheel," he said in a low voice. "I wouldn't try me if I were you."

Jenine held his gaze for several moments. "Why does he get to go?" She jerked her head toward his father.

Peter rolled his eyes at the childish statement. "While we stand here arguing, he's steadily losing strength trying to hold on to the link with your dau--Johanna. If he loses that link, it could be too late before we find her."

Jenine only took half a second to consider his words before climbing back into the car.

"Do me a favor," Peter threw over his shoulder as he headed off after his father. "Call the station and tell them where we are. Ask for Paul Blaisdell."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"Who is this?" Broderick barked into the telephone, poking a finger into his ear to mute out the sound of a group of brawling hippies. How Peace and Love had come to disagreement, he didn't care. He just wished that they'd take it some place else.

"I told you, I'm calling for Peter Caine!"

"And I told you that he's not here, right now." He glanced around the bullpen, looking for someone else to give the call to. There was no one. Blake was still out with Powell. Even Strenlich was on the phone getting an ear full.

"I know he isn't there right now. He's here and he needs backup!"

Broderick's expression immediately turned serious. Peter Caine never called for backup. Something had to be wrong. "Where?" he asked, listening carefully as the woman described the location. As he quickly jotted it on a slip of paper, he saw a shadow fall over him.

"Peter?" Blaisdell asked without preamble.

Broderick nodded shortly and handed him the slip of paper. "There's a civilian at the scene. She was told to remain in the car. Peter and his father have gone inside."

Paul snatched the paper from Broderick's hand and headed for the door. "Tell her to follow that advice, and I want two cruisers to meet me there yesterday!"

"Yes, sir." Returning to his conversation with the woman, he instructed her to wait in the vehicle, and assured her that help was on the way. His next duty was to make it so.

Tasks completed, he turned back toward the counter just as one of the brawling hippies got a choke hold on the louder of the group. They all went down in a tangle of long hair, swinging arms and earth shoes. Several officers rushed over to sort out the mess. When all involved were at least mildly quieted, Broderick leaned across the desk, and with his best welcome-to-hell smile, said, "Congratulations. You've all ea