by ROCFanKat

Disclaimers: See Chapter 1.

•••

Cassie let me off a couple of blocks from the agency; she wanted to stop by a client's office to drop off a contract, and the fastest way was the street we were already on. That was fine. I promised to be at her house at 7, with whatever wine went with the spinach-walnut pesto from the gourmet pasta place; she promised to get basil pasta, too, if I would pick up some ice cream at Starbucks. After dinner, she might put on a few jazz CDs and start the whirlpool, and if I were really good, she'd use the Porthault sheets.

"Do you ever listen to us when we talk like this?" I asked her, curious.

"Of course not, honey. Now kiss me goodbye."

Bemused, I leaned back into the Beemer. All right, we were yuppie scum, both of us, depraved beyond shame. Decent People didn't talk this way, and they didn't go to such bother about things. They'd have macaroni and cheese out of the blue boxes, and plain-vanilla ice cream, and if they decided to take a bath later, they would damn sure not take a radio in the bathroom with them. Cassie and I knew all that. We'd both been brought up along the straight and narrow. Where had we gone wrong?

And what the devil had taken us so long to go?

When Cassie finally felt sufficiently kissed, she took off in a screech of burning rubber--showing off, I guessed, or having fun just because she could. As much as her driving worried me sometimes, I couldn't help smiling; she thought that car of hers was a toy, and I imagined a 10-year-old Cassie pedaling furiously in rush-hour traffic, daring anyone to catch her, pink streamers flying from the handlebars...

Startled, I blinked hard. What had gotten into me? There I was, standing on a busy street corner thinking about macaroni and cheese, bathtub safety, and pink Schwinns, when in fact I'd just spent two hours horizontal in the middle of a work day, doing things that I certainly hadn't been brought up to do. A fine time to have a family-values flashback.

Then again, I'd just spent the morning among Decent People; maybe they were contagious. Shaking the image off, I turned and started walking fast toward J/J/G.

•••

My first clue should've been the TV trucks parked along 10th. That wasn't unusual, though. We were downtown, not far from the media strip, and real city-dwellers are immune to unusual anyway; it had been years since I'd consciously heard a siren.

The second clue didn't wait for me to catch it. Chip was pacing on the sidewalk in front of the lobby door, and the instant we saw each other, he practically sprang at me.

"Not this way," he said. "Around the back."

"Why? Is there a client in the lobby?"

"Where's Cassie?"

"Dropping a contract. Why?"

He pushed me toward the sidewalk that led to the back of the building. "Not here. C'mon."

"Chip, son, I've already had a long day. If you want to play Mulder and Scully, find someone your own..."

"Reporters," Chip said flatly.

"Reporters?"

"In the building."

"Why?"

He gave me a look that he had to have learned from Cassie.

"You're not serious," I said.

"I'm very serious. Channel 12's in Jenner's office right now. Come on, before somebody sees you."

"It's a little late, Chip. Thanks, but..."

"Kurt's up there, too."

My professional life flashed before my eyes, and the writing on the wall went by like a news ticker: REPORTERS...JENNER...KURT...

Trouble.

"Stay here and watch for Cassie," I told Chip. "Don't let her in the building."

"She won't like that."

"No. But I won't like it if reporters get hold of her. Which one of us do you want mad at you?"

Cassie would throw a fit if she found out that he didn't have to think about the answer. "I'll take care of her. Be careful, Dev."

"Too late," I said, and made straight for the front door.

•••

It had always been my experience that when you have murder on your mind, people get out of your way. True, the long black raincoat might have helped, or the speed at which I was moving, but people practically dived behind things all over the lobby as I passed through. One fool didn't react fast enough, so I went right through him, not even breaking stride. It felt surprisingly good. Also familiar, in a way that I didn't have time to examine, but for a change, I didn't want to.

To keep the dark adrenaline running, I took the stairs. A girl from Research was heading down at the same time; wisely, she flattened herself against the stairwell wall to let me pass, losing all her papers in the process. At any other time, I'd have apologized; this time, she did.

Finally, I reached Jenner's outer office. Sanchez was bravely trying to ward off a pack of media with the business end of her phone, which was ringing. Pushing through the crowd, I took the phone and hung up for her.

"You look like you could use a break, Rita," I said evenly. "Why don't you let me take over for a while?"

She puzzled over the offer for a second; then she got it, and smiled. "Thanks, Dev. I owe you."

"Don't mention it. Go on now."

Uncertain what to do, the reporters stood there slack-jawed, watching her go. I took advantage of their distraction to put all the lines except one on hold. Then I dialed.

"There's a disturbance at J/J/G Advertising," I said softly, when the dispatcher answered. "On the fourth floor. Can you send a car?"

"What kind of disturbance, ma'am?"

"Press. Some of them are ugly. You might want to send the SWAT team."

There was a pause. "Is anyone in danger, ma'am?"

"Everyone," I promised, and hung up.

Only then did the reporters catch on. "Jesus!" someone shouted. "That's the one from the press conference!"

I was already halfway to Jenner's office and didn't even turn. A cameraman tried to jump in my path, but I fixed his wagon with one well-aimed knee. Then, pushing the body aside, I threw Jenner's door open and slammed it shut...on a reporter part. The reporter to whom it belonged howled in pain; I waited two seconds, kicked the foot back into the outer office and slammed the door shut again, taking care to lock it.

Then I surveyed the scene with a cold eye. It was about what I'd expected--Jenner, Jack, and Kurt for our side; a lacquered anorexic and a scruffy cameraman for theirs. Well, that should be easy enough to knock off.

"Thank God you're here, Derry," Jenner said. He looked a little wilted from that distance, as though he'd sweated through his shirt, as perhaps he had; camera lights were hot enough when you had a clear conscience.

I ignored him and lasered Kurt, who jumped like a guilty lizard and tried to hide behind Jack--who, ever valiant, was trying to hide behind Jenner. It was so Larry, Moe, and Curly that if Jenner had half a wit, he'd have been trying to hide behind Kurt.

Whatever they'd told the press, I was definitely going to hate it.

"Keep rolling," the anorexic ordered the cameraman. Then, putting on a bright professional expression, she started walking toward me. "Devlin Kerry? I'm Lisa Hartwell, from Eyewitness..."

"Camera off," I told her.

She tried to look sympathetic. "I'm really sorry, but we're here on a news story. My assignment editor wants..."

"Camera off, or no comment."

"But I've already interviewed all these people here--on camera. They've already told me..."

I tapped the crystal of my watch. "Ten seconds."

For the first seven seconds, she simply stared at me. On the stroke of the tenth, she turned and nodded to the cameraman--who set the camera back on his shoulder and made a show of pressing a button. What they didn't know was that I wasn't stupid. I'd made too many commercials not to know the parts of a camera by now, and what he'd pushed wasn't the power button.

What they also didn't know was that they'd just done exactly what I wanted.

"It's off, Ms. Kerry," the reporter lied. "Can I ask you a few questions now?"

"Of course," I said.

•••

Ten minutes or so later, many, many police arrived, and in the confusion, I slipped out. It was a shame to miss all the fun, but my work there was done. Besides, Cassie would be back by now, and although I trusted Chip's good intentions, I doubted that they were a match for her temper.

Sure enough, she was sprinting up the hall--no small feat, in those heels--as I was strolling down it. Chip was doing his best to keep up with her, but the frustration was plain on his face.

"Cops," I heard Cassie mutter. "We're too late. She killed them all."

I leaned back against the wall, smiling widely, and waited. When she reached me, she simply wrapped herself around me and held on.

"I won't let them take you, Devvy," she vowed. "I'll chain myself to you, if I have to, but..."

"Kinky," I said, "but you won't have to."

She pulled back, puzzled. "What?"

"They're here for the reporters. This floor is private office space, and they weren't invited, so I called 911."

"Oh, thank God," she said, collapsing back on my shoulder. "I really don't want to go to jail."

"I really don't think you should anyway. Those orange coveralls would look terrible on you." She didn't laugh, so I stroked her hair reassuringly and nodded at Chip, who was leaning against the opposite wall, trying to catch his breath. "You tried. I understand."

"We should still get her out of here," he said.

"We should get all of us out of here. Where are Troy and Heather?"

"Out looking for you, last I heard. They ought to be back any time."

"Tell them what happened. Then all of you clear out. I'll get her home. Call us around..."

"I'm turning off the phones," Cassie said, into my shirt.

I frowned slightly. Something was wrong; she wasn't the clingy type, but she wasn't letting go for love or money. "Call us after the 6:00 news," I told him. "Use my cell number. Then we'll figure out what to do next. All right?"

"All right, but..." His expression grew even darker as he glanced over my shoulder. "Better get her out of here now, Dev."

"I'm all over it....C'mon, Cass. Time to leave. Want to let go now?"

"No."

I sighed. "Orange coveralls. Not a good look."

She said something I couldn't quite hear and then pushed away.

"Attagirl," I said. "We'll take the back stairs."

•••

We didn't go quite straight to her house; she insisted on stopping by the wine shop and the pasta place and Starbucks anyway. She also insisted on making a detour to my condo, for the purpose of packing a suitcase. If we were going to have to bunker down somewhere for a couple of days, she said, we were going to do it at her house.

So it was close to an hour later that we finally got around to comparing notes. I made her go first; she'd find out soon enough what I'd been up to.

Cassie had had a bad adventure herself, it seemed. She'd stopped by Sanders Travel with the contract, expecting to drop it and run, but the client had heard what had happened at the Family Foundation and insisted on having a chat. Sanders Travel had wanted to jazz up its image, he'd said, but not quite that much, so he'd decided against working with us. Although he personally had an open mind--why, some of his best friends were gay--it wouldn't be good for business for him to get involved with J/J/G now. Oh, yes, he was sure that many of his customers were gay, or maybe just not actively antigay, but a lot more of them had families, and...

I started to jump all over the "families" part, but she was way into storytelling mode and just kept going. Sanders had said he thought he'd pass on advertising right now, to let the publicity blow over--and in the meantime, why didn't she meet him for dinner at the Meridian Club one night soon? Better yet, why didn't she bring me along? He had the key to a private suite upstairs, and he'd be happy to do business with J/J/G later, if only the three of us...

"Car keys," I growled, not waiting for the rest.

"No, Devvy. It's all right. I told him..." Barely in time, she grabbed the keys off the end table. "No."

"Don't make me hurt you."

She snorted and dropped the keys down the front of her blouse.

"Like that's going to stop me."

"Let me finish," she said. "I told him I know his wife--and his boyfriend. I also told him to close his mind before the rest of his brains fall out. Then I said..."

"I love you," I told her, with feeling. "Now give me the damn keys."

"Do you want hear the rest of the story, or do you want to sleep on this couch tonight?"

Impatient, I gave her my fiercest Look. To my outrage, though, she started laughing.

"That won't work on me, Devvy. It's adorable, but it's no good."

"I saw this picture in a PBS catalog once. I think it was called 'Angry Bluebird,' and it looked exactly..."

"I do not look like a bluebird."

"Well, maybe not just exactly. You're taller. And darker. And a much better kisser, if I remember right." She leaned in to check her recollection, but I was having none of it. "Something wrong?"

"Not anymore," I said--and with one swift motion, fished out the keys. "Thanks. I'll be back."

"I'm not kidding about the couch," Cassie warned.

Torn between the need for a travel agent's blood and my even greater need for her, I wavered for a few seconds. Finally, I tossed the keys back on the end table, sulking.

"I'm not kidding about the bluebird, either," she added.

"Cassie...," I said dangerously.

She gave me a deceptively sweet smile and moved closer. "I told him that if you ever found out what he said, you'd do the same thing to him that you did to Howard Abner this morning--but only if you weren't in the mood to just rip his goodies off instead. That pretty much did it. We lost the contract, but he won't be any more trouble. Are you proud of me?"

"Yes. But don't do that again."

"I can't promise that."

"Try." As the anger started to drain off, I looked at her more closely. For all her big talk, then and just now, she still looked stressed. "So why were you so upset when I saw you right after? You just about strangled me."

"I got scared for a minute, I guess. It just hit me what kind of day we'd had. I saw you, and I saw all those police, and I thought..." Sighing, she put her head on my shoulder. "I thought, 'I usually don't have this much trouble with relationships.' "

I laughed, pulling her closer. "Sorry."

"I'm not. But do me a favor--give me a little warning the next time you decide to go public? I think I'd like to sit the next one out."

"I don't think you can, Cass. Channel 12..."

"Damn ." She grabbed my wrist to check the time. "Almost 5. Can you reach the remote?"

I could, barely, and did. She sat up a little, frowning at the TV screen as she switched the set on and tuned it to Channel 12.

I really hoped she was in a forgiving mood.

•••

(c) 1999, ROCFanKat

Continued - Part 12