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: Okay, here's the story starter number two, from the forum--You know . . . there's nothing as tempting as a locked door. Now, shhh, don't tell the judge.

Thanks, Cheri, provider of story starters as well as the best beta ever.

By L. M. Lewis

"What are you thinking?" Hardcastle gave him one of those narrow-eyed, suspicious looks.

McCormick appeared momentarily startled, maybe a touch guilty, but he regained his equilibrium in a fraction of a second and simply shrugged. "Nothing. Why do I have to be thinking something? I'm just taking a look around, same as you. Find anything yet?"

The older man frowned. "No, the other room is empty. Nothing in the waste basket even."

"Nothing in here, either. You sure about this guy?"

"Well, yeah, pretty sure. He was always reliable before. What about that door?" Hardcastle nodded toward the other side of the room. What's in there?"

"Dunno," Mark shrugged again. "It's locked."

Hardcastle squinted again. There was a moment of silence.

"Might be a closet," Mark said, almost casually. "Doesn't look like it goes anywhere." He stood in a studied slouch with his head cocked a little to the side, as if he was considering the subject of closets in general.

"Why would somebody lock a closet and leave the front door open?" Hardcastle puzzled.

"Dunno; he's your snitch."

"Informant."

"Whatever." Mark had shifted over to the other foot, hands still in his pockets. "What did he say he wanted to talk to you about?"

"He didn't," Hardcastle admitted. "He just sounded scared, and wanted me to meet him here." The older man exhaled. He lowered himself onto the couch, still looking at the closed door. "Could have been a lot of things. He knows people." The judge frowned again; this time the worry was more apparent. "And he's pretty reliable."

Mark gave this a thoughtful nod. "Well," he sat down next to the older man, "maybe he'll show up. Maybe we should just give him a little more time."

"He called from here," the judge protested. "And we came right over."

"Maybe he had to run out. Maybe he needed cigarettes." Mark pointed to the ashtray on the end table, with its half a dozen snubbed-out ends.

"The front door was open."

"He wasn't planning on being gone long."

"He sounded scared," Hardcastle said, with finality. "Somebody got to him."

"No signs of a struggle," Mark's eyes took in the room again. "No blood."

"Wouldn't have to be. These guys are very good." The judge exhaled again slowly.

Silence descended. There wasn't much else to say to that. They both knew it to be true. The silence stretched out for a moment or two.

Mark finally said, "We could call the cops."

Hardcastle lifted one eyebrow a little. "What are we gonna tell them? The guy's only been missing for thirty-five minutes. No blood, no signs of a struggle. And we don't even know what he was nervous about. They'll take a report. That'll be all they can do."

Silence again.

"Okay," the judge said, "maybe it's just a closet. But maybe he's in there."

Mark kept his face very bland. He was pretty sure he wasn't showing anything. "Well," he started out slowly, still giving it some thought, "I haven't heard anything."

Hardcastle made a face. "That doesn't mean he isn't in there. He might be dead."

"Well," Mark said again, crossing his arms and leaning back, "then there isn't any hurry, is there?"

Hardcastle turned slowly in his seat and looked at him full on. It was a long, slow assessment, full of palpable disbelief. "McCormick," he finally said, barely controlling the asperity, "you could open the damn door."

There was a pause, just a beat, and then a very calm, "No." Mark turned and looked right back at him. "It's locked."

The judge was back on his feet. He took two paces and then turned around. "What if he's not quite dead?"

Mark shot him a quick look, then another one at the door. This was followed by another pause and then a brief sad shake of the head. "Nah, Judge, these guys don't leave somebody 'not quite dead'."

There was undeniable truth in that, but it didn't do much for Hardcastle's disposition. He was scowling openly now. "But you could open the door."

McCormick's mouth was set in a firm line. "Could," he finally muttered with some intensity. He pulled himself up a little straighter and fastened Hardcastle with a glare. "What makes you so sure I can open it, anyway?"

"Come on," the judge just shook his head, "who do you think you're talking to? I'll bet you've even got a set of picks in your back pocket . . . I'm starting to think you even take them to the bathroom."

Mark came close to smiling at this, but suppressed it. The subject had become a lot more serious. "Could," he repeated, a little less angrily. "'Will' is another matter."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Another pause. Another fixed gaze from the younger man.

"It means nobody's asked me."

Hardcastle froze. Then his mouth opened and closed, once, soundlessly. Then he seemed to be considering the floor, somewhere between the two of them, very carefully for a moment. He finally lifted his head and looked at the other man very calmly.

"Okay," he'd managed to purge every ounce of exasperation out of his tone, "would you please open that door?"

Mark didn't have to give this too much thought. He was on his feet with a quick nod, reaching into his hip pocket. But then he paused again, once the familiar case was in his hand.

The judge frowned at his apparent hesitation. "What now?" he asked impatiently.

Mark looked down at the case, then up at the other man. His expression was entirely grim. "No confessions."

"What?"

"After this is over. I mean it." He sighed. "I want some kind of special dispensation. This isn't going to be like last time. I'm not talking to Lt. Carlton about it. This is serious. I'm serious."

Hardcastle was still frowning. "What do you want me to do, write you a note?"

"No," Mark shook his head. "Just your word, that'll do."

"Okay," the judge glanced at the door one more time, "my word. No confessions. Now open the damn thing."

Mark gave him a quick nod, unzipped the case and set to the problem with practiced efficiency. Hardcastle stood back and tried not to let his scruples get in the way. The lock yielded after a brief interval of firm persuasion. Then Mark tried the knob gently and, feeling it turn, stood and stepped back as he edged the door open.

A closet. Boxes, some clothing on hangers, the usual clutter that winds up on closet floors. No corpses.

Hardcastle let out a breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. McCormick looked frankly relieved.

A noise on the steps behind them brought them both to shocked awareness, but even before the judge could turn around, he saw Mark smoothly close the door, wipe the knob with the cuff of his sleeve, and slip the still unzipped case back into his pocket. It was all done almost as efficiently as the lock picking had been and, in the end, the younger man's expression was utterly guileless.

They stood, shoulder to shoulder, facing the still-open front door, as Willie Tomaciano came up the last two steps and looked in, shocked.

"Ah . . . Judge," his first nervous expression was quickly replaced by a still slightly nervous smile, "sorry about that. I, ah, had to run out for a sec." He offered no further explanation, but a nearly full pack of Newports protruded from his shirt pocket.

Hardcastle gave him a hard stare. Willie shrugged. "Didn't think you'd get here that fast." Then he frowned. "How'd ya get in?"

"Willie," Hardcastle shook his head once, sharply, and then put his fingers to the bridge of his nose, "it was unlocked."

"No shit," the informant stepped through the doorway, staring down in disbelief at his own front door, standing ajar. "I always lock it. This is a bad neighborhood. Hell, I even lock my closet." The bemusement drifted toward worry. "Really," he added, walking toward the door in question.

The other two parted before him, Mark gazing off a little to the side as Willie reached for the knob and tried it. The informant's face went a visible shade paler as he felt the knob give way. Willie uttered another heartfelt explicative.

"They were here," he breathed it out. "Dammit. I thought they didn't know about this place." He turned to the judge, his expression panicked. "How long have you guys been here?"

Hardcastle made a show of glancing down at his watch. "Ah, maybe ten, fifteen minutes."

Paler still.

"Shit. They must've only missed me by a couple of minutes." He stepped backward to the sofa, half staggering as he dropped into it. "Judge, you gotta help me. Get me in with the feds, somebody you trust. If they know about this place . . . if they knew to go straight to that closet . . . shit." Willie had his face down in his hands now. His voice had dropped to a plaintive whisper. "You don't know what they'll do to me. Tell the feds I know a lot. I can give 'em names, dates, places. I've got papers." He looked up jerkily. "You'll help me?"

Mark watched Hardcastle stand there, looking very judicial. He fought back the urge to roll his eyes.

The tone was equally judicial. "Sure, Willie, I know some guys. I'll set it up. But you gotta understand, this witness protection thing is for keeps. No backsliding."

Willie nodded eagerly, the first glimmerings of hope in his eyes. "No problem, Hardcase. Just get me in."

Hardcastle nodded once, very judicially, in return. "Can I use your phone?"

Calls were made.

They got Willie safely into the delighted hands of the feds, and themselves extricated, with Hardcastle managing to maintain an attitude of fairly high moral authority thoughout the whole process. Mark thought it was good enough that only he could see the strain.

It was only after they were out of the federal building, and back in the truck, that he ventured a tentative comment.

"Well, the front door was unlocked. They really might have been on to him. Anyway," he glanced sideways, "it was for his own good."

"Maybe." Hardcastle made a face; it might have been self-disgust. "He had a good little scam going. Always made himself just useful enough to both sides. If he falls off the wagon now, he's a dead man."

"Then he'd better not fall off," Mark said, consideringly. "His responsibility though, not yours."

"Hah."

"Seriously," Mark insisted, "everybody should be responsible for their own actions. Isn't that what you're always preaching?"

Hardcastle cocked him a surprised look. After a moment of thought he replied, "Yeah, I suppose . . . yeah, that's probably about it." Then he frowned. "Except that I'm responsible for you." The frown deepened. "But the next time I say 'open the damn door' maybe you ought to say no."

"No."

"Whaddaya mean, 'no'?" Hardcastle's look had gone puzzled.

Mark smiled. "I mean I did it 'cause I wanted to do it. What if Willie had been in there? What if he had been not-quite-dead? What if we had gone away without checking? I mean, I know it was a long shot, but what if?"

Hardcastle said nothing.

"Sometimes," Mark continued, "you gotta do the wrong thing for the right reason . . . and, anyway," he sighed, "I was about ten seconds away from doing it, whether you wanted me to or not."

"When?"

"Right back at the beginning, when you asked me what I was thinking about. Though, I gotta admit, I hadn't thought about Willie maybe being in there. Not till you mentioned it."

Hardcastle looked even more puzzled. "Then why the hell were you thinking about opening it?"

"Oh," Mark smiled to himself, stepping down from the high moral ground as though the air was getting a little thin up there, "just because it was locked."