Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: K+

Feedback: Comments welcome at tunecedemalis@yahoo.com

Author's Notes: Another piece inspired by comments over in the forum. This one starts the day after "Ties My Father Sold Me". Oh, and there are a couple of passing references to the events of Time After Time.

Thanks again to the betas, Owl, Cheri, and Susan--who are always far more careful than I am.

When he thought about it, later on, it occurred to him that the whole thing had started right after they'd returned from Atlantic City, or, to be completely correct, maybe even a little earlier, on the kid's birthday, the night he'd done the black bag job at the federal building. But it was possible it might have gone unnoticed for a long time, if it hadn't been for the incident with Everett Peters.

They'd flown back on the red eye, and finally gotten home to the estate at a brain-numbing two a.m.-which was five a.m., Jersey time. They'd needed no better excuse to part company at the door of the cab, with hardly more than a 'good night' apiece.

The following morning Hardcastle had slept in to the unusual hour of nearly nine. He'd foregone his morning basketball, and, instead, spent the time catching up on the mail and checking phone messages.

There was nothing alarming about the first three from Frank; it might have been something as simple as needing some information about a pending case. He hadn't told the lieutenant he'd be out of town.

But as he was listening to the fourth message, the one with a rising note of impatience which was not very Frank-like at all, it occurred to Hardcastle that he himself had developed a blind spot about the events that had occurred just prior to their abrupt trip to the East Coast.

You saw the damn file he was waving around; it was definitely federal property. Well, waving was a slight exaggeration; Mark had been pretty circumspect about showing him the actual pages, and it had quickly disappeared, once he'd gotten what he needed from it.

But he didn't make much of an effort to hide it. That was damn careless.

And coming in at seven in the morning, dressed for a burglars' convention and carrying federal records, made it more than obvious what must have happened. As to whether this much openness was an act of faith, or an act of desperation, there was no way of saying.

He was still pondering that, when the ring of the phone startled him. Somehow, by timing alone, he knew it would be Frank before he picked up the receiver, and somehow, also, he knew what the topic of conversation would be, even before the Lieutenant launched himself with an angry, "Dammit, Milt, I've been trying to reach you for three days now."

"Good morning, Frank." Hardcastle kept his tone even, if not light.

"Where the hell were you?" Anger had subsided somewhat to mere grumbling irritation. "I was starting to worry."

"New Jersey," the judge replied laconically. "Atlantic City. You should be getting a postcard in a couple of days."

"So," Frank said with an exhalation that sounded like relief, "you were investigating something. But why the hell didn't you fill me in on it? And don't tell me you authorized that escapade of Mark's the other night."

"What makes you think McCormick's been up to anything?" Hardcastle asked cautiously.

Another sigh, heavy enough to carry over the phone line. "Don't bull me, Milt. He came that close to taking a fall on this one. And if I can recognize his M.O. off a typed report, a whole helluva lot of other people may, too. And, anyway, you're the only guy I know who'd be interested in figures related to the mob, who has his own second-story man on staff."

The judge gave this a hard moment's thought and decided it fell under 'innocent until proven guilty'.

"Frank, if they had anything solid on McCormick, you know they'd have been over here with a warrant. And you know I don't operate that way." He frowned to himself, and was glad he wasn't talking to Harper face-to-face. "At least not unless it's flagrantly necessary," he amended, feeling slightly less dishonest. "So, you want him down there for questioning?"

"God, no," Frank said with deep sincerity. "I just thought that you ought to know, the feds are taking this very seriously. It wasn't just an embarrassing breach of security for them; there's a lot of sensitive information in those files-witness protection stuff, ongoing investigations."

"And none of that is missing, right?"

"No, just something really odd, an inactive file. That's another reason I thought of you two."

"Well," Hardcastle let the word stand in for a shrug, "no harm, no foul. Not that I'm saying I know anything about it, or that Mark had anything to do with it."

There was a moment's silence, as though Frank were willing himself to be convinced. Finally he cleared his throat, as if to change the subject, and asked, "So, what were you doing in Atlantic City?"

"Taking down a crime boss," the judge said casually. "A guy named Tommy Sales. The feds were interested in him."

Another long moment of silence before Harper said, resignedly, "So, at least he had a good reason for rummaging around in those file cabinets after hours." Another beat of heavy silence, and then, "But it wouldn't have kept his ass out of prison, Milt, if they'd caught him. Does he understand that? Do you?"

"I don't think there's anybody around who understands it better than he does. He just gets his priorities out of whack every once in a while." Hardcastle pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly tired of tap dancing. "We're working on it." He ventured a little further forward, carefully. "There's some feds in Jersey that are pretty happy with McCormick right now, ready to write him some testimonials. If I have to, I can call in those markers. But I don't want to, unless I have a good reason. And so far, you haven't given me anything but guesses and suspicions."

"Well," Frank admitted, "that's all there is so far. But for his sake, I hope he gets a handle on this habit pretty soon," he added tightly. "The next time he falls it'll be a whole lot farther than two years."

The good-byes were terse and tense, and a moment after he hung up, the judge swiveled his chair and faced the window, shaking his head in weary acknowledgement, knowing every word that Harper had said was true. You can't cut him any slack, because they won't.

It was after ten-thirty when McCormick finally showed up in the main house kitchen. He'd come in the back way, and at first there were only a few odd sounds that were cooking related, no effort at a greeting. Still, he wasn't hiding out. And eventually the smell of coffee and bacon made his presence more than evident.

Hardcastle lumbered to his feet, starting to think he maybe ought to have slept in himself. He felt too tired for a confrontation.

The man in the kitchen was pensively considering the pan of scrambled eggs. Everything else was already on the table and places were set for two.

"How'd you know I hadn't already eaten?" Hardcastle leaned against the doorjamb for a moment.

Mark looked up and over his shoulder, as if he'd been startled out of a thought. "Oh . . . ah," he gestured with the spatula, in the direction of the sink. "No dirty dishes."

"Hey," Hardcastle protested mildly, "I do my own dishes sometimes."

"There weren't any coffee grounds in the garbage. And the milk carton wasn't open . . . good thing, too, or it probably would've gone bad while we were away." He paused for a moment on that thought, as though he'd rather not have remarked on anything that abutted on the events of the past few days.

Hardcastle ran right over the moment of awkward silence, slapping his hands together in a gesture of unwarranted enthusiasm and pulling out a chair. "Well, I'm plenty hungry."

He got a smile, brief and maybe a little worried, from the younger man, as he took the pan off the stove and went through the routine of dishing up. Everything was done with all the gestures of absolute normality, but over the year he'd spent watching the kid, Hardcastle had become a keen judge of when things were off.

He glanced down at McCormick's wrist as he reached across for the salt. He was still wearing the old watch, which had well and truly stopped sometime the night before. Hardcastle quickly averted his eyes, not wanting another embarrassed explanation, but he couldn't help frowning slightly. This part was a mystery to him. It's just a watch, dammit. How attached could he be to it?

This time, McCormick hadn't seemed to notice. He'd begun to eat, almost mechanically and without his usual enthusiasm. The judge briefly considered mentioning Frank's call but then shelved that in favor of new business. That's the ticket. That's what we need, something that'll get our mind off our troubles. He pondered for a moment where the 'we' part had come into it, but he figured it must have come from that same place in his head that had made him agree to get on that plane to Atlantic City without getting some straight answers first.

"I got a file for you to look at after breakfast. A guy named Peters. Extortion, blackmail. Came through my court about five years ago, insufficient evidence that time."

"Not many people willing to testify against a blackmailer," Mark interjected.

"Yup, not the ones who've been on the receiving end, that's for sure. The prosecution had been hoping to use the money men to get the low-down on this guy. He had a banker, guy named Jonathan Callisto, pretty much on his payroll. The guy died suddenly, right before the trial. The D.A. went ahead anyway, even though the legs had been knocked out from under their case. Didn't have any choice but to dismiss."

"And now?"

"An obituary last week, right before we-" The judge stumbled a moment; it was harder than hell to work around a three day gap, four if you counted the ill-fated birthday. He reversed and restarted, not very smoothly. "Last week, Thursday. Theodore Grauman. He died 'after a short illness'."

"And he is-?"

"Ex-business partner of Callisto's, and recently under investigation by the IRS. Criminal charges pending."

"So," McCormick frowned, "you figure he had the goods on Peters, too, and Peters got edgy when the feds got too close?"

"Got it in one."

"Or maybe the thought of being the target of a full bore tax investigation just made the guy up and have a coronary."

"There's always that," the judge smiled grimly. "But I hate coincidences."

Mark nodded slowly, still staring down at his plate. "But . . . if Grauman did have the goods on Peters, and maybe even knew he'd killed Callisto, then he would have known the guy was dangerous. So he would have made sure he had some protection. The information would have had a deadman switch, right? Some way of getting out if he was killed."

Hardcastle nodded.

"And nothing's come out, yet?"

"Not as far as I've heard," the judge admitted, not adding that he was a little out of the loop, and hadn't had time to check with sources recently. That went unremarked, but he added, "That's the beauty of it; even if Grauman had nothing on Peters, and even if Peters didn't actually cause Grauman's death, he can't be sure he's in the clear. As long as he actually did kill Callisto, he's gonna think it's possible that Grauman left something incriminating behind. After all, Peters was a blackmailer; he knows the game."

"So," Mark eased back in his chair, pushing his plate away, not even half-finished, "you need somebody to approach Peters, maybe give him a little nudge, let him think there's something out there that could nail him."

"Shake his tree a little-hope something falls out." Hardcastle grinned.

"Hope it doesn't fall out and hit the guy who's standing down below on the head," Mark added, much more philosophically than he usually approached these things.

Hardcastle squinted at him, waiting for further protest. McCormick had merely gotten to his feet and was carrying his plate to the garbage for scraping.

"He'd know me, of course. I was the presiding judge," he said quietly.

"'Course," Mark replied, rinsing the plate. "And this calls for someone who knows how to duck. Who do we know with fast reflexes?"

Hardcastle allowed himself a little smile. This was easing more towards normal. The smile became a grin. "I knew you'd like this one. Wait'll I show you the file."

One of the things he liked about the kid was that he almost always grasped the essentials on the first pass. Whether or not he could be persuaded to dig any deeper into a file was often a crapshoot, and depended on McCormick's mood, maybe the position of the stars, who knew? Today it looked like everything might be in conjunction, as Hardcastle kept one eye on Mark's progress through the papers, while he made phone calls to bring himself up to speed.

He was mostly convinced that Grauman's death had produced no great change in the level of official interest in Peters. That was probably because no one but him had made the three-way connection. This could be changed, of course, by a quick word or two in Frank's ear, but that would require calling him, and Hardcastle felt a strange reluctance there.

And to pass this along to anyone but Harper would be a snub, worse yet, an insult. It would also be a red flag that something was wrong, that he would feel the need to avoid the lieutenant.

But avoid him he would, at least for as long as he could. There was nothing in the preliminaries that absolutely required a police liaison. The judge glanced up again at the guy with the fast reflexes. He seemed to have come to a halt over one particular piece of paper, a small newspaper clipping. Hardcastle knew the file well enough to identify the item from across the desk.

"That's one of the victims, Timothy Druid, the CEO of a small firm out in the Valley."

"Doesn't say anything about Peters here," McCormick lifted the clipping in a gesture.

"No, but it was a classic story. Druid was embezzling from his own company, bad investment decisions. Callisto was his banker. Druid shot himself in the head with a .38."

Mark frowned. "And you're sure Peters was on him because . . .?"

"Because that's what Peters did. He'd get his information from Callisto, hints about money that was being moved around too fast, little shell games being played with the investors. Then Peters would move in and make sure he got his share for keeping quiet. Eventually the combined effect would bring down the whole house of cards."

"And none of these guys was ever willing to testify against Peters, when it was all over?"

"None of them ever survived it being 'all over'. Of the five that most closely fit the pattern, two were heart attacks, and three were suicides. 'Course," Hardcastle shrugged, "there may be way more than five. This was the seventies, lots of corporate scandals to go around, who knows how many others Peters was leaning on?"

The younger man had gone silent, and had put the clipping down.

"What?" Hardcastle asked, after a moment more.

Mark frowned, and shook his head. "Nothing."

"Doesn't look like 'nothing'."

"Trust me, you won't think it's anything."

"Try me."

"Listen," the younger man let out a long sigh, "all I'll do is piss you off if I say it."

"And when has that ever stopped you?" Hardcastle jibed mildly.

Mark shook his head once more, then said, "Okay . . . see, I was just thinking, I got two years in Quentin for 'stealing' a car," the quote marks were entirely audible, "and these guys walk off with millions, and then go play eighteen holes of golf."

"Well, see, there's where you're wrong, hotshot," Hardcastle explained patiently, "'cause, like I said, they're all dead, them and the banker who led Peters to them. And now I intend to nail Peters for the whole ball of wax. Are you in?" The judge smiled.

Mark looked at him for a moment, then he said, "You're actually giving me a choice?"

"Yeah," Hardcastle looked puzzled, "don't I always?"

"No," Mark looked down, leafing through the pages as though he had missed something, "you don't." He looked up again suddenly, "So what's different this time?"

"Well, you'll be going point on this mission. And you'll need to be pretty damn convincing, or else . . ."

"Or else, what?"

"Well," Hardcastle knitted his brows, "you're too young to be likely as a heart attack victim, so he'd probably lean toward the other for you."

"But, wait a minute, what if I do convince him I'm a blackmailer?"

"Then he might still try to kill you, but he'll need to get his hands on the incriminating evidence first, so we should have a better idea of where and when he'd try to make his move."

He really expected it would hit the fan after that, but, instead, the kid still just sat there, as if he was considering the two possibilities. After a second or two, he closed the folder, laid it on the edge of the desk, and, to Hardcastle's utter astonishment, said, "So what do we do first?"

First there were more phone calls, and Mark left him to it. He couldn't explain the mood he was in, but if he hung around too much longer, Hardcastle was bound to ask him about it anyway. He thought maybe a case was exactly what he needed right now, something to distract him.

The problem was, this first part, all the setting up, that'd be the judge's job, moving all the pieces into position-he, himself, was just one of the pieces, really. He got that. He didn't much mind. It was good to be useful to somebody, he supposed. He walked back through the kitchen and stepped out the back door, taking a couple deep breaths.

He wandered down to the pool and studied it critically. It looked four days neglected. He walked over to the storage area and took out the skimmer, wondering casually who the hell had done this job before he'd come to Gulls Way.

He spotted something moving among the scattered leafy detritus and scooped out a beetle, dumping it on the concrete. It lay there for a while, sorting itself out, then began to crawl determinedly back in the direction of the water.

"You are an idiot," McCormick muttered, picking it up and flinging it in the direction of the nearest lawn. "Go, get out of here."

He turned back to pick up the skimmer and saw Hardcastle standing back on the house-side of the pool with a half-quizzical expression on his face.

"You talking to bugs?" the judge asked, quirking a smile.

"No lifeguard on duty." McCormick shrugged embarrassedly. "Somebody's gotta explain the rules to 'em, otherwise the pool'd be full of little corpses."

This got him a grunt and, "Well, if you can maybe tear yourself away from your chores, I think I got us a plan."

Mark nodded, tapped the skimmer out one last time against the wall, and put it away.

Hardcastle had already disappeared back into the house. McCormick walked around to the near side of the pool, catching a glimpse of movement on the water, close to the edge. A beetle. Struggling.

"You're hopeless." He stooped and grabbed it in one hand, dropping into the gutter and giving it a quick flick in the direction of the drain. "And there's plenty more where you came from."

As plans went, it had a certain simplicity, and Mark thought that it was one of the more unusual aspects of his job, that he might spend the morning skimming the pool, and the same afternoon be trying to blend in at the clubhouse of one of Southern California's swankiest country clubs.

"As long as you don't expect me to play golf," he'd said resignedly to Hardcastle as the arrangements to get him inside were being made-a couple more phone calls to old cronies with a conspiratorial bent. It hadn't even taken any explanation, only winks and nods that would have been almost audible over the phone line.

Now he stood casually among the potted palms, just outside the club's restaurant, ignoring the pointed glances from the maitre d', who looked like he was pretty good at spotting phonies. Mark had spent the past few hours studying photographs of his quarry and mastering his cover story. Now it was just a matter of fate, and whether Peters would choose to break with his Wednesday golf habit, in honor of the recent death of an old business associate.

But that part was not going to be a problem. Mark watched the well-tanned, fiftyish man make a calculatedly low-key entrance from the direction of the locker room. The maitre d' had noted him as well, and was on the kind of full alert that was the due of a regular customer who was a heavy tipper. Mark made his move first, and smoothly intercepted his prey, with a light touch on the elbow and a leaned-in sotto voce inquiry.

"Mr. Peters?" It got him a quick, but not nervous glance to the side, and a raised eyebrow. Hardcastle had been right again, the man was utterly at ease in his own environment, among his own people. "My name is Arthur Dupry." Mark ducked his head almost apologetically, but his touch on the man's arm became just a shade more insistent.

Here came the hook, and everything rested on the next few words. "I'm an associate of Teddy Grauman's." He gave that a moment to sink below the surface, then set it, with a quick upward flick of the wrist. "I think we have some business of mutual benefit to discuss."

He felt it, the first quiver of concern, but Peters was a pro himself, and it would take more than this to shake him. It was evident, though, that he had the man's attention.

"Dupry?" Peters asked, careless but quiet. "I don't believe I am familiar with the name." Interestingly, he hadn't tried to deny knowing Grauman. Mark was beginning to think this might be easier than he'd thought.

"Oh," he smiled thinly, "I'm not one of his more public associates, more of a silent partner." He showed a few teeth. He hoped he looked properly shark like.

Peters was going for puzzled, but it was easy to detect the first signs of worry beneath that; of course, it might merely be the worry of a man who thought he was being set up by the authorities. He produced a smile, the insincere sort exchanged between potential business partners at a country club.

"And what sort of mutual benefit might you be talking about?" he asked, still casually.

Mark leaned in a little further, and dropped his voice to just above a whisper. "Nothing you'd want to discuss here." He slipped a card from his pocket. Nice heavyweight stock, bearing his assumed name and fresh from a printer not three hours ago. The title below the name was the sinisterly vague 'Security Analyst'. The phone number was that of the gatehouse. No address whatsoever.

Peters glanced down at the card briefly. "But, Mr. Dupry, I don't feel I am in need of your services right now. I feel perfectly secure." He allowed himself a small smile at his own joke and made a gesture as if to return the card.

Mark had already eased back a bit. He was a half an arm's length away and he shook his head gently. "Don't be so sure of that, Mr. Peters. I think you are going to want to give me a call so that we can arrange a more private meeting." Another smile. "Our mutual interest."

He was backing off more quickly now, with a casual nod and no opportunity given for further questions. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder as he edged off through the lobby. At least the maitre d' looked happy. And as to whether or not he'd set the hook, only time would tell.

The problem with avoiding Frank was that the man knew where he lived. Hardcastle wasn't all that surprised to see a familiar sedan pulling up about an hour after McCormick had set off on his reconnaissance mission. The judge felt a twinge of relief that the kid wasn't back yet. It was easier to keep his story straight if he didn't have to simultaneously maintain an image of unwavering honesty for Mark's consumption.

But since he'd been cornered, and there was no avoiding it, he figured he might as well put a good face on it. Hardcastle rose and went to the door, opening it almost at the first knock.

"'Afternoon, Frank." He smiled blandly.

Frank scowled and stepped past him, into the hallway. "Those are good markers you've got, I hope," he said, as though the telephone conversation of that morning had only ended a moment before. "You know a guy named Rugerfield?"

Hardcastle shook his head and ushered the other man into the den.

"Nah," Frank took a seat, "you wouldn't, I guess. Just joined the office from, somewhere, ah, Seattle I think. Aiming for Washington D.C., I hear, and he's supposed to be on the fast track." Frank shook his head slowly. "Bad guy to cross. He's taking this little breach in security personally."

The judge was back behind his desk; it was feeling like a defensive position. "How personally?" he asked warily.

Frank exhaled. "I got a contact down there, old friend, used to be local; he says damn the overtime, they're lifting every print in the place, starting from that office and working out, and they'll run 'em all if they have to."

"Well," Hardcastle cocked his head, "they're gonna find McCormick's eventually," he shrugged, "mine, too. We were down there about a week ago, they wanted some more information about some of Tina Grey's associates. We got sent all over the place, must've talked to eight different people, bunch of offices."

Harper pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he looked up again at the judge and shook his head once. "Did you know he was casing the joint?"

Hardcastle grunted. "McCormick always looks that way. How the hell am I supposed to know when he really means it? But it looks like we got us some plausible deniability, at any rate."

"Is that what you're calling it now?"

"I'm not calling it anything," the judge replied stiffly.

"Well, don't start relaxing just yet," Frank replied. "My source also says he's got a team of guys canvassing the neighborhood-"

"There's not much down there at night," Hardcastle interrupted.

"They're not looking for witnesses; they're looking for security cameras-any of 'em that might have caught a shot of the getaway car, coming or going. They've also sent the tapes from their own cameras to the lab for enhancement." He paused. There was a moment of heavy silence and then, "Did he take the truck or the Coyote?"

It was an honest question, asked with forthright concern. Hardcastle sighed. "The Coyote."

"Dammit, Milt," Frank shook his head in aggravation, "That was careless. They won't even need readable plates on that one; the damn thing is unique."

As if to punctuate the observation, the deep-throated sound of that particular car's engine jerked both men's gaze to the window as the vehicle pulled into view. McCormick was out a moment later, but stood there, as if he was considering the implications of the sedan. It was a moment more before he turned, with apparent reluctance, toward the main house, and mounted the front steps.

He'd started to feel it while he'd been talking to Peters, the slightest, almost imperceptible change in his mood, the same way you couldn't really be depressed while upshifting in the middle of a race. It just didn't work that way. The chase was on.

And Frank being at the estate, that was probably just more evidence that Hardcastle expected this one would come to a boil in a hurry. With any luck at all, Peters would call later today to set up a second meet. Mark convinced himself of all of this in the space of fifteen feet, and was almost wearing a smile by the time he was in the hallway.

The look on the faces of the two men in the study corrected his impressions.

He froze at the top step. Frank was starting to stand, as though he wanted to be somewhere else very soon. Hardcastle wasn't moving, but his expression was even grimmer.

Frank didn't bother with a greeting, and his good-bye to the judge was a simple nod and a 'Later,' as he ducked past into the hall.

Mark stood there, in his wake, and then slowly turned back to the other man. "What's up, Judge?" he asked cautiously, as though he still wasn't sure.

"Not much . . . yet."

Mark sank into the chair Frank had just vacated. He preferred to be interrogated sitting down. Fewer visible nervous twitches that way. The thought passed through and astonished him with its levity. In fact, the whole undertaking now seemed like something he'd come up with in a fit of fevered madness. Why the hell did you do it?

He'd already spent the whole first night in Atlantic City-after his ill-fated first meeting with Sonny-puzzling over it. Now, three days later, he was no closer to an answer.

But after another moment's silence, it had begun to appear that Hardcastle wasn't even going to ask the question. Instead, the man had settled himself back in his chair and closed his expression. The next words out of his mouth were purely practical.

"You met Peters?"

Mark nodded. He tried to bring his mind back to bear on the problem at hand. If Hardcastle wasn't nervous, then he supposed he shouldn't be either. But Frank was damn worried.

And he supposed the judge might have moved right past worried into resigned. He was always the practical sort. Cut your losses; get the job done. And, above all, there's your legal, and your illegal. And Mark had no doubt where his own recent activities would fall in the judge's book. It had been entirely unexpected that the man had put up with the whole thing for as long as he had, and it was no great surprise that he'd take the first available opportunity, now that they were back, to bare his suspicions to Harper.

He was caught unaware in this thought, and the fear of it was written on his face, he supposed, when he heard the judge clear his throat.

"And it went okay?" The question was pitched with studied casualness. Mark supposed that was part of the man's practicality, too. Might as well get this one last job done, as long as the warrant hadn't actually been sworn out for his arrest yet.

"Yeah," he shrugged, corralling his own fear, unwilling to force this thing out into words. As long as it stayed down at the level of only a near-certainty, he thought he could function for a while longer yet, and, suddenly, whatever period of freedom remained seemed very precious.

He sat there, knowing he was wearing a frozen expression. He searched for a few more words. "I, ah, think he might call. He tried to brush it off but, you know . . ." It fell away into inarticulateness. He took a deep breath. He felt the judge's gaze on him.

"Well," he finally added, "I guess I'll go finish the pool." It sounded absolutely surreal, even to his own ears, but it seemed to be an acceptable excuse for leaving. He was already on his feet, making for the door.

Hardcastle gave him a look that probably meant he wasn't buying any of it, but then appeared to settle, one more time, for practical.

"Well, if you think he might call, then the pool can wait. You'd better get back over to the gatehouse and baby-sit the phone."

He heaved a sigh of relief almost as soon as McCormick had slunk out of the room. He wasn't quite sure if the kid had been teetering on the edge of a confession, but it had felt dangerously possible, and, God knew, he didn't want that right now. It was one thing to say 'innocent until proven guilty' and other matter entirely if the suspect copped a plea. And would you be the one to haul him downtown if he did confess? He'd have to; he'd already taken that stand, right from the start, and to back down now would be-

What, inconsistent? Would that be some kinda crime?

Yes, you start bending the rules and the next step is anarchy.

Except in cases of flagrant necessity.

He pondered that one a moment. The need to find out why someone would walk out of your life without so much as a look back-how flagrant was that?

For about the tenth time since they'd left Atlantic City, Hardcastle had a quick disparaging thought about Sonny Daye. The kid had really not needed that kind of grief right now. Not when things were going along pretty well. Not ever, for that matter.

And he didn't need the consequences of his own rash actions hanging over his head now, either. Not when he was working with someone as dangerous as Peters. The first meeting, taking the guy unawares in a public place, had been safe enough, but from here on in the stakes would be pretty high.

He rubbed his face wearily with his hands. Mark would wait for the call. Once it came, they'd talk to Frank again; what harm could it do now? They'd set up some surveillance, nice and tight, keep the risks to a minimum.

And he'd get on the horn to the Jersey feds. No admissions, of course, just lay out the groundwork, in case he needed it in a hurry later on. He'd just remind them gently what a valuable witness McCormick was going to be in a high profile case. No way they'd risk losing that on a hard-to-prove B and E, where nothing of importance was stolen.

And maybe, just maybe, they'd slide through this whole thing without ever having to deal up front with McCormick's little lapse in judgment. That'd really be the best, all around.

Hardcastle sat back in his chair, wondering where that last thought had come from. From the guy who looked the other way when he pulled out that file, the guy who got on the plane to Atlantic City without asking why.

He rubbed his face again, and pondered for a while on the subject of reform.

Mark lay down on the sofa within reach of the phone. That lasted for all of five minutes, after which he was up, pacing, fighting down a nearly irresistible urge to go even further than the confines of that room. Then, gradually, that subsided, too. There was something soul-scarringly familiar about the process of marking off hours in a small space, and the pattern of it reasserted itself.

He's already talked to Frank. It's only a matter of time. Once suspicions were raised, and the investigation became focused, there was no doubt that they'd find some physical evidence. And how much proof does it take to pull an ex-con's ticket?

Practically none at all.

For at least the tenth time since that first night in Atlantic City, he questioned his sanity in risking everything on a harebrained attempt to find his father. Just when things had been starting to come together, just when he'd begun to think he might have a life again. Even if it was just being Tonto.

Dammit. You liked being Tonto.

A little late to realize that, huh?

His last five steps had taken him to the mantle, where the small box lay, just as it had since the morning after his birthday. He opened it, considered the contents, and closed it again. He hadn't quite figured out his original reluctance to wear the watch the judge had given him. It might have had something to do with feeling guilty. But no way was he putting it on now, not to hand it over when he was processed into the lock-up. That much dramatic irony would probably kill him, especially if Hardcastle was the one signing him in.

He settled into a new level of moroseness, contemplating that scene, then spun it out to the hearings, and the imprisonment that would follow. He made it the five steps back to the sofa before he sat down heavily, no longer feeling any need to move at all.

No question, he'd hashed it irrevocably this time around.

And then the phone rang.

Dinnertime came and went, with no further signs of life from the gatehouse. Hardcastle passed from relieved, to vaguely uneasy. He finally took a stroll over there himself, in the late twilight, seeing only a dim light from the upstairs window as he approached.

Probably dozed off.

He knocked, heard nothing, and knocked again, only perfunctorily, before he tried the knob. Unlocked. He opened it slowly and asked 'You there?' loud enough that he didn't think even the kid could sleep through it.

"Yeah," the answer was quiet, but more awake than he'd expected, and wasn't accompanied by the usual gripes about him barging in. It came from the direction of the sofa, where the younger man sat, one leg drawn up. There was only one lamp on, over on the end table, and it did not fully cut the gloom of the surroundings.

"No call yet, huh?" Hardcastle sighed. He hated waiting; he'd never had much of a knack for it.

But now the kid looked up slowly and gave one indeterminate shake of the head. Then he straightened up a little stiffly, as though he been sitting there, unmoving, for quite a while.

"He called." It came out flat.

"Well, then . . ." the judge sputtered.

A shrug. "No hurry. Tomorrow. He'll call me again with the location. He said a motel. He'll get the room."

Hardcastle allowed himself a satisfied smile. It quickly thinned. "Tomorrow? We've gotta make some plans. Frank. I'll need to talk to him." He took two steps toward the phone, then hesitated and added, "I'll do that in a bit. He say anything else?"

"Just that he wanted to get this thing done," McCormick smiled wanly. "Everybody's on the same page, huh?"

"He'll control it, though. He's had a lot of practice at this." Hardcastle frowned. "He's good. You're going to have to watch yourself. You'll have to be careful."

This time not even a shrug. "I will be. I always am."

Hardcastle grunted. It was an entirely spontaneous expression of disbelief but apparently it went right by the kid, who was staring off, distractedly again.

"Don't worry," McCormick muttered. "We'll get him."

Hardcastle managed a nonchalant shrug of his own. "Who's worried?" Then he tried for routine, "You eat yet?"

Mark dragged his gaze back to him, looking puzzled. He finally shook his head. "Not hungry." He didn't offer any more conversation. He looked as shut down as the judge had ever seen him.

It's Atlantic City . . . it has been since we got back, and he sure as hell doesn't want to talk about it, yet.

What was there left to say, anyhow? Hardcastle thought. He'd done his damnedest not to say anything bad about the kid's father; that wasn't his place, but he sure as hell didn't want to be put in the position of having to defend the man at this point.

Hardcastle nodded wordlessly and then moved toward the door, not expecting to hear anything more than a simple 'good-night'.

"I was just trying to figure out . . ." Mark let the words fall off, into the silence. They lay there for a moment.

The judge bit down, hard. He had one hand on the doorknob. He finally began again, slowly, "If you want to talk . . ." He couldn't help it; it'd come out sounding reluctant.

"Nothing," McCormick said quietly, after a moment's pause. "Let's just get this thing done tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah," Hardcastle gave that one nod. He didn't even try to force a confident smile. He said 'good-night' and retreated.

He thought he might feel the tension ease up some, once the man had departed.

Mark still sat, unmoving, trying to think as few thoughts as was humanly possible. He supposed Hardcastle would see to it that the process was all done fairly. He'd do that much for anyone, though undoubtedly the disappointment would rankle him some. Mark honestly thought he'd prefer anger to pity. And this was usually not an issue with Hardcase.

He tried to muster up a little anger of his own, some self-righteousness that would see him through this whole thing, but all he kept grasping at were the thin straws of despair. He got up, slow and stiff, and turned off the lamp, then sat back down in the darkness. You did this to yourself. It was your choice-now live with the consequences.

He'd come that close to asking the judge flat out what was going to happen next. Then, suddenly, he'd come to the conclusion that it really didn't matter much. If they revoked his parole, it'd be San Quentin; if the new beef got priority, he'd be headed for the federal pen.

Only you're not going to either of them, are you?

He overslept again the next morning, which was at least partly understandable, between late-night conferring with Frank by phone, and then a few hours spent figuring all conceivable angles, and putting together contingency plans.

Again there were no signs of life from the gatehouse, but when he went into the kitchen, there was already a half-full carafe in the coffeemaker. He stared at that for a moment, before pouring himself a cup, and then he became vaguely aware of an oddly familiar sound.

He went over to the window at the back of the kitchen. The noise snapped into context-McCormick, emptying the skimmer, in his usual lackadaisical way, tapping the rim on the wall. Hardcastle frowned in puzzlement and checked his watch again-eight-thirty-damn near the crack of dawn as far as the younger man was concerned. If he was up voluntarily at this time, it was usually only because he was just coming in from a late night.

Doing penance?

All right, how many chores equal a B and E? Was it even supposed to work that way?

And he sure as hell didn't want the kid not eating, and not sleeping, and then going off to do a risky undercover job. He opened the back door and stepped out, letting it swing closed behind him. McCormick looked up at the sound.

Hardcastle made a gesture of summons. Mark put down the skimmer, wiped his hands on his pants, and gave one last look around. He seemed to approach the house with some reluctance.

"You eat?" the judge asked, and this time McCormick seemed to sense that 'not yet' was going to be the wrong answer.

"Had some coffee, and . . ." then followed a vague gesture that might have been meant to imply food, as well.

"Well, I'm making some eggs and you're sitting down and eating them," Hardcastle said with practicality, and then, "Did he call yet?"

"Yeah, 'bout a half hour ago."

"He is in a hurry," Hardcastle frowned. "Good thing I called Frank last night. How come you didn't wake me up?"

McCormick was back to shrugging. "He said he'd call back around eleven o'clock. He still didn't say where we'll meet. He's saving that till the last minute."

Hardcastle nodded. "Okay, should be plenty of time. We'll eat, then we'll roust out Frank. He'll come over here and get you set up. We'll be ready when the guy calls."

"He's gonna search me. You know that. He finds something, he'll back off; we won't get a thing."

"I know. Frank knows. But you're not going in without a wire."

"It'll be harder with one," Mark insisted quietly, "to avoid having it sound like extortion."

"Uh-uh," the judge replied, "but without a wire, all you can do is provoke him into trying to take you out. We're not doing it that way." He shook his head once. "You know this dance. You let him lead. You get him talking. He sounds impatient; that'll work for you. Yeah, he's smart. You need to be smarter. If he doesn't say anything we can use, then you get coy. String him along."

Mark frowned. "I thought you wanted this thing finished?"

"Yeah," Hardcastle admitted. "But done right, so it'll stand up in court. Okay?"

Mark looked a little vague, and then finally shrugged his assent. "Don't worry. It'll stand."

He escaped to the gatehouse as soon as he'd disposed of an acceptable amount of breakfast. He heard Frank show up not too long after. He gave them a few minutes to themselves, but didn't wait to be summoned.

He approached the main house with a sense of composure he had been sorely lacking for the past few days, though he felt like he was playing a role, and he had to stop from time to time and think of what he was supposed to do next.

"'Morning, Frank." He thought he'd managed that pretty well, but he got a slightly surprised look from both of them. They'd obviously been in close conference and hadn't heard the door.

"I'm here for my fitting." He tried a smile, a little stiff but he thought not too unnatural.

It was pretty evident, from his expression, that the judge wasn't buying, but Frank seemed willing to go along. He pointed to a box on the corner of the desk.

"The smallest we've got right now. The range stinks but it'll pass a routine pat-down."

Mark took it out, tried to look interested, and nodded after an appropriate interval of study. He considered making one last appeal to reason-a wire was really just going to be a hindrance, but concluded, after another glance in the judge's direction, that this would be pushing his luck.

And what luck would that be? He smiled grimly; neither of the other men seemed to notice.

He stood patiently while Frank fitted him up, then he left them again, on the reasonable pretext that the phone call was due soon.

"He's a little tense, huh?" Frank turned back to the judge after they heard the front door click shut again. "You'd think he have this drill down pretty well by now."

"Tense?" Hardcastle felt his own frown. "Maybe that's it. He's off. Hell, he was up cleaning the pool before breakfast this morning."

"Jet lag," Frank glanced out the window at the retreating figure, walking a little bent forward, his hands in his pockets. "You sure you got that other thing under control?" Frank gave a quick eastward jerk of his head, which was probably intended to take in the resident of the gatehouse, the federal records building downtown, and the judge's new friends in New Jersey.

"Pretty much," Hardcastle replied, "though I'm not saying anything until somebody asks."

"Good plan."

He didn't so much pace, as wander. Twice he found himself alongside the mantle, and the second time he picked up the box, opened it, and took out the watch. It felt heavy in his hand, solid, very real.

He'd given up wearing the other one the day before. It was well and truly dead.

He hadn't fully thought it through before he slipped the new one on. It felt right, that was all. He supposed part of it was that being hauled into the lock-up was no longer an issue.

And you'll be making amends, in a way. That's part of it.

So, he'd earned it, using some sort of moral credit based on events which had not yet occurred. And more than the rest of it, he didn't want the judge to think he'd been ungrateful. He checked the time, already properly set and much closer to eleven than he wished. He took one last look around and sat down on the sofa, waiting for the phone to ring.

"Hardcase, come on." It was Mark, in the hallway, much more animated than he'd seen him for the past few days-though there was an edge of nervous impatience to it. "It's on the PCH. No name, just a description," he frowned slightly as he relayed it, finishing up with, "and if I get to Oxnard I've gone too far."

"I told you the guy's sharp. Can't have any back-up meet us there if we're going to be looking for it ourselves." Hardcastle shook his head. "I dunno."

"Uh-uh," Mark was already heading back to the door. "I'm going. I'm not wasting all that time I put into reading that file."

"Just wait a sec," he reached for the younger man's arm to haul him back in. He saw the watch, looked up again, and caught a smile.

"It'll be okay," Mark said, coaxingly. "You'll see."

"You'll be careful," the judge said, with a note of utmost seriousness. "Okay?"

"Okay," Mark's smile flashed into a grin that faded almost as soon as it appeared. "Okay," he repeated, a little softer. "I'll do it right. I promise. It'll hold up in court."

And then McCormick was out the door, and headed for the Coyote, leaving them to scramble for the sedan.

For once, the kid hadn't kept up a constant patter while wearing a wire. Hardcastle didn't know whether to be worried or relieved at this development. He had given them a heads up as they'd approached the Westwind Motel, the obvious match to the description he'd rattled off back at Gulls Way.

Frank had barely slowed, passing it by, and hadn't turned around until he'd gone several miles further north. The five minutes that they were out of range had seemed unnaturally long to Hardcastle. They picked up bits and snatches as they approached the drive, and now that they'd pulled into the restaurant parking lot, along the north side of the Westwind, they could hear it was a two-way conversation.

"-I'd of course need to know what materials you have available." It was Peters' voice, crisp even above the slight crackle of the device. Very businesslike. He might have been negotiating for a wholesale deal on plumbing supplies.

"Grauman left papers, detailed notes. There's a lot of pages about a man named Druid. Also the financial arrangements you had with Callisto, and a letter Callisto sent to Grauman, to be opened in event of his death." The kid spoke with a quiet matter-of-factness that made even Hardcastle believe he must have seen the things with his own eyes.

"I see." Peters replied, after a moment's hesitation.

Then there was silence again. The naming of names seemed to have given an edge to the proceedings. Using Druid's had been a calculated risk. He hadn't been included in the original indictment. It was only Hardcastle's deep impression that he fit the profile well enough to be one of Peters' victims.

It had apparently gotten Mark across the first barrier. There was little doubt that Peters now believed he was being blackmailed.

"And how much will this information cost me?"

Now they were adrift in dangerous waters. Hardcastle held his breath. One wrong word and McCormick would become an extortionist, if in actus reus alone.

This was the tricky part, he knew, and the judge would be listening intently to every word. It would be the ideal time to develop an aggravating itch, maybe even pinch that thing like the annoying bug it was. But knocking out the wire at this point, would only bring the two of them on the double. He smiled; he stuck to the script.

"Grauman said you paid him two-hundred and fifty thousand."

The number had been chosen randomly. But, then, there was no reason Grauman would have necessarily given out the correct information. Obviously Peters thought he was getting off cheap. He smiled.

"Of course," Mark dropped a beat, "Grauman's dead."

The other man's smile had gone a little flat.

"I had nothing to do with that."

Mark shrugged. "His letter says otherwise. 'Course he wasn't dead when he wrote it. But he thought he might be soon, and he wanted to make sure he'd take you with him."

He watched Peters' eyes. This was the trick of it, to get someone so caught up in something, that they'd forget to be careful.

"No matter," he said quietly. "I think you did those bastards a favor," he was still watching the other man's eyes, dark, worried, intensely interested. He was keenly aware, himself, that he'd departed the text.

Hardcastle caught Frank's sideward look and a frown that matched his own.

"None of them would've lasted a month in prison." Mark's tone had turned unexpectedly bitter. "You wouldn't either. Take my word for it."

"What the hell's he up to?" Frank asked worriedly.

Peters' smile was back, the supercilious smile of a man who had no intention of ever setting foot inside of a prison.

"You don't know how this game is played, you know," he murmured.

Mark felt a sudden wave of rage that entirely engulfed every other grim emotion he'd carried into the room with him.

They steal, and they kill, and they go play golf.

He was sure it showed on his face. Peters had stepped back. He had one hand down deep in the pocket of his overcoat, and his smile had gone a little forced. Still he looked like he was in charge of things, and the Colt automatic that he pulled out was neatly equipped with a suppressor.

See, even easier than you thought it would be, but an illegal gun is not much more than a few months, and that doesn't solve the other problem.

"You always have to leave the victim some room to squirm, but always let them feel that you are in control, of them and yourself." Peters shook his head. "Now here, with you, you see how it is? You're clearly an amateur and not to be trusted."

He could see from the dark set to Peters' face, that they'd already moved past the rational rules of engagement.

"The papers are in a safe place," Mark said perfunctorily, returning briefly to the script, so as not to set off alarms in the car below. He very carefully avoided any mention of the gun itself.

"No matter, that." The other man smiled. "I knew I'd have to be moving on very soon. I've made arrangements. It will merely be inconvenient. I only need a day or so."

That'll probably do it, Mark winced, wishing he'd snapped the wire when he'd had the chance. He moved a little to the right, lined up with the window, so that, silencer or not, there'd be some broken glass to alert Hardcastle and Harper to what they'd be walking into. And then, in a moment of full-bore and instantaneous regret, he couldn't leave even that much to chance.

"Dammit," he said, downward toward the mike, "he's got a gun."

He'd charged up the steps two at a time, with Frank only just behind him, not waiting to see which direction the conversation was going from Mark's little tangent. He was almost even with the room when there was a sudden outward explosion of glass, and the thump of something heavy against the inside of the wall. He swung to the right, using the edge of the window for cover and heard Frank, moving into position alongside him.

"Police, drop it."

The man inside looked utterly baffled, as though such things were outside the realm of reasonable occurrence. The gun stayed up, stayed aimed; he'd only shifted it a little to his left.

Frank fired.

Peters toppled slowly. Hardcastle had reached through the broken pane and unfastened the door almost before he hit the ground. Then he was inside, moving toward the other figure, crumpled below the window.

One part of him catalogued the location of the blood. Head shot, like the others. One part fumbled clumsily with his own gun, finding it impossible to re-holster; his hand was shaking. He dropped it to the ground and followed it down, winding up on his knees, crouching over the younger man, reaching to gather him up.

He heard himself saying, in an absurdly reasonable tone, "You said you'd be careful."

And then he felt him take a breath, and exhale it in a groan, and before he could even take that in, the younger man's eyes flickered open, and he muttered something that might have been, "Gonna puke."

Dry heaves. The worst hangover he'd ever had.

And you don't even remember the party.

He tried to sit up, but Hardcastle was grousing at him to 'just lie still, dammit,' which seemed to be pretty good advice, anyway.

"Head hurts," he muttered and tried to reach up and touch it. Someone, Hardcastle, grabbed his hand and pushed it back down.

He heard the judge say a bunch of words, which were probably important if he could just keep them straight, but the weirdest thing of all was the tone, which was somehow angry and frightened and relieved, all at the same time. He had the feeling that he'd screwed up royally, and had already been forgiven.

"Sorry," he said, figuring he'd find out why later on. Didn't matter; he felt safe. He closed his eyes.

The next time he woke up he remembered everything. Well, not the part between the motel and where he was now-a dimly lit room, definitely in a hospital-but everything from before that.

His head throbbed, but he was obviously not in danger of dying. They'd never let you die in peace in a hospital.

On the other hand, he wasn't under arrest yet. He lifted his right hand and reached up to his head, feeling the bandage and a ragged absence of hair above his right ear.

"Damn," he said softly.

"Better your hair than your brains," Hardcastle commented without much humor.

Mark turned his head slowly, suppressing a groan, and saw the man himself, ensconced in a chair to the left of the bed. He looked worn out.

"Sorry," McCormick muttered, then he returned his gaze to the ceiling.

"I suppose he was used to working at point-blank range," Hardcastle went on. He was keeping his voice down, but it was still plenty acerbic. "Unless you want to tell me you ducked."

Mark felt himself flush.

"But if it makes you feel any better, Frank thought you were just baiting him to get him to talk."

"Maybe that's what I was doing," he said in hasty self-defense.

Hardcastle was out of the chair, had moved back into his field of vision. There was no evading him.

"Don't lie to me," the judge said; his voice was still low, but his face was very intent.

Mark closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Okay. What difference does it make?" Then he paused for a moment, eyes still shut. He knew the man was waiting. He finally answered the unasked question with one of his own. "How much longer?"

"Huh?"

Hardcastle's response had been quick and genuinely baffled. Mark squinted open his eyes. The judge was looking down at him in frustrated bewilderment.

"Listen, kiddo, I know that whole thing in Atlantic City was hard on you. I know your old man wasn't what you were expecting, but, dammit, you were starting to put your life together. Why the hell would you want to throw it all away? Why? On account of some jerk who has to stop and figure out what name he's going by this week?" There was brittle anger beneath the words, but, even deeper, beneath that, something else.

Fear.

Mark backed his mind up, trying to picture the man who'd just said those words hauling him off to the federal lock-up. Believing that would happen made about as much sense as his foray into the records building in search of his wayward father.

He was aware that he was breathing fast, and shallow. He tried to slow that down.

"I'm sorry." He finally got it out. "I keep screwing up everything . . . I mean, I'm still on parole and then I went and-"

"Shut up." The judge said it firmly, cutting him off in mid-sentence. But it came across more as advice than admonition. "Listen," he began again, a little more gently, "you are a key witness in a major federal case against the mob right now. Compared to that, anything you may or may not have done to locate your father becomes kinda moot. Not that I want to know anything whatsoever about it unless I absolutely have to, okay?"

His voice had risen a little at the end, and McCormick, eyes fully open now, had the decency to look abashed.

"Ah . . . okay. I didn't-"

"No," Hardcastle bellowed. "Don't lie to me. Just don't say anything."

Mark shut his mouth and nodded.

"And," the judge's voice had dropped down again; he pulled the chair in a little closer and sat himself down, looking utterly weary, "don't ever do that to me again."

McCormick frowned but still kept his mouth shut.

"You are not in this alone anymore. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," Mark finally let out a breath, "sort of."

"And your back can't be up against the wall, because I'm behind you, okay?"

He thought about that one for a moment and nodded again.

"But," the judge eased back in his seat, looking like someone who'd had a pretty rough week himself, "maybe if you're about to do something dangerous, or just plain stupid, could you maybe come and tell me first, so I can talk some sense into you?" He shook his head in utter exasperation. "Is that too much to ask?" He swiped at his nose. "Is it?"

"No . . . it's not." The younger man managed a small smile. "From now on, I promise, all the stupid stuff gets run by you first."

"And if I say no?"

"Well," Mark's smile had become a little more genuine, "Then at least later on you'll be able to say 'I told you so.'"