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Tom's head was throbbing. The blackjack in his room at the casino, combined with the impact when the car hit the tree, pushed him firmly into concussion territory. The bullet in his upper arm sent daggers of fire stabbing through his right arm and shoulder. He was dizzy with exhaustion, heartbreak, and pain, and desperately wanted to give in to the darkness that kept encroaching on his vision. But he couldn't. Not yet. Not until he'd made things right with Cassy. She'd asked him a question. She deserved an answer.

"As God is my witness, I didn't mean it."

He watched her face, her eyes, but he couldn't see past the hurt his angry words had caused.

"So," he continued, needing to break the wall of silence between them. "Where do we go from here?" Tom held his breath, his future, his very life, depended on her words.

When she spoke, her voice was quiet. "I don't know."

"RYAN!"

Tom flinched at the sound of his name. Oh God. Ballard and Burmeister, they were here to arrest him, throw his sorry ass in jail. It was what he deserved. He'd killed two people: Archer and Virginia. Their blood was on his hands. He was a criminal. No better than all the people he'd arrested over the years. Absurdly, he wondered if his life span in prison would be as long as Tony DiFalco's, and whether or not he'd become someone's 'girlfriend' before he was killed. Maybe he should have eaten a bullet when he had the chance.

Charlene Ballard pushed past Cassy into the office. She stopped abruptly, gesturing to the blood-soaked, makeshift bandage on his arm. "What happened?"

Tom gripped the edge of Harry's desk with his good hand. It was the only thing keeping him upright. "Virginia shot me."

"When?"

"After we left the casino. In the car."

"We found the car," Burmeister said. "Why did she shoot you?"

"Because I knew the truth about Archer and her." He swayed. Another wave of dizziness washed over him.

"What truth?" Ballard spat.

"That-that she set me up to kill Archer." It was getting harder to think, to focus on the questions the I.A.D. team was throwing at him.

"And can you prove that?"

Grimacing, he turned to the discarded coat he'd used to cover his wounds. Fumbling, he managed to pull Archer's insurance papers from the inside pocket where he'd stuffed them. "Here."

"How'd you get these, Ryan?" Ballard asked. "Did you have to kill Mundson to get them?"

"No!" He shook his head in denial and the room spun. His vision grayed and he saw Cassy move toward him.

"For Godsakes," Cassy snapped. "You gonna let him bleed to death before you call an ambulance?"

Tom watched her push into the room, coming around behind to support his shaky form. Her hand snaked out, palming the miniature recorder where he'd made his confession only minutes before. He felt her hand come up to steady him, holding his good arm and pulling him back.

"Come and sit down before you fall down," Cassy said softly. "The interrogation can wait until he's been treated."

Ballard sneered. "He's not that bad." Walking around the other side of the desk, her foot slipped. She flinched when she realized she'd slipped in a small pool of Tom Ryan's blood. Locking eyes with Cassy, she picked up the phone and dialed hurriedly. "We need the paramedics in Captain Lipschitz's office."

Cassy snatched the phone away. "Hurry, we've got an officer down."

Tom turned to look at his partner. The movement was too much. The room tilted. His vision fogged. The last thing he saw was Cassy's frightened face as he slipped from her grasp to the cold tile floor.

"Tom? Tom, can you hear me?"

He heard the voice, but not the words. He was floating somewhere between here and there, and he didn't want to leave. It felt nice, not feeling. He'd been feeling too much lately, and it was killing him. Or about to get him killed. Or maybe, his foggy mind wondered, it'd killed him already.

"Come on, Tom. Open your eyes."

Again that voice. Familiar, but not familiar. Who? He had to know. His curiosity always won. Always got the better of his good judgment. That's how he landed here, wasn't it? Where was here, anyway? He looked around, everything the same: gray. No black, no white, no color, just gray.

"Tom?"

Louder now. He'd heard it somewhere before. Not someone he knew well. Maybe not someone he knew at all.

"Try to open your eyes, Tom."

A woman. It was a woman's voice. Cassy? He struggled, trying to find direction in the nothingness. Eyes. Gotta open my eyes. He tried. The lids felt like lead weights. Try again.

"That's it. That's it. Keep them open."

She came into hazy focus. Blonde halo of hair, pretty mouth, blue eyes. "Cass...." His voice rasped from a dry throat. He tried to swallow, work some moisture down to his vocal chords.

"Here."

A gentle hand raised his head, while a straw tickled at his lips. Opening his mouth, he sucked weakly.

"That's good. Not too much, " the voice continued, gently removing the straw. "How do you feel?"

He opened his eyes, focusing through the haze. Not Cassy. His heart sank. "Where?" he mumbled.

"You're in Palm Beach General Hospital. I'm Tracy Forrest, your nurse."

She had short dark-blonde hair, a small mouth colored with peach lipstick, and wide gray-blue eyes. Nothing like Cassy at all. Tom sighed. "How?"

"You were brought in by ambulance," she said, briskly checking his vitals and the IV tube running into the back of his right hand.

The hand, he noticed, was tethered to the bed rail. "Arrest?"

"What?"

He nodded toward his restrained hand.

"Oh, that." She smiled, a reassuring smile. "You were restless when you came down from surgery. We just wanted to make sure that arm didn't get jostled."

"Surgery?" His brain was fuzzy, he couldn't think straight. It scared him. "Head?"

"You've got a nasty concussion, add the sedation we had to use in surgery, and you're going to be feeling a little muzzy for awhile. Don't worry." She held his right hand, checking that the needle hadn't infiltrated. "You'll be fine in a few days. I've got to go; your doctor wanted to be notified when you woke up. Can I get you anything before I go?"

He shook his head. Not a good idea. The muted tympani behind his forehead burst into a fortissimo passage, accompanied by the rest of the percussion section. "No," he gasped.

She patted his shoulder reassuringly. "I know you're feeling pretty lousy now, but it'll pass." She guided his left hand to the call button pinned to the mattress. "If you need anything, just press the button and someone will answer, okay?"

He remembered not to nod. "Okay."

Tom lay quietly, looking up at the ceiling. There was a pattern of brownish-red dots just above his head. He knew what they were. He'd seen that often enough. He didn't want to think about who else had lain in the bed or how the color got splashed up there.

"Sergeant Ryan?" A woman walked into the room. "I'm your doctor, Julie Jordan."

A small smile crossed his lips as a tune began to play in his head.

She grinned. "I know; my mother loved that show. But, before you burst into the Soliloquy, or tell me what it'd be like if you loved me, I need to talk about you. Okay?"

"Okay." He liked her. She had a smile that reached her eyes, something he didn't encounter too often with doctors. Mostly they just yelled at him, or talked around him to the other people in his room. But there weren't any other people in the room. Not surprising. He was on everybody's avoid-like-the-plague list right now.

She sat down on the chair near his bed. "I know you saw Tracy, so you already know about the concussion. It's not the worst I've treated, but it's not too mild either. I'm afraid the headache's going to last for several days. You've been responsive every time you've been awakened, so that's a good sign. There doesn't appear to be any permanent damage from the blow."

"Blows," he corrected her.

Her eyebrows lifted. "How many blows, and where?"

"One to the back of my head." He tried to lift his arm, forgetting it was tied to the bed. Smiling lamely, he continued. "I must've hit my head when the car crashed, but I don't remember."

She looked up from her notes. "Car crash? No one said anything about a car crash. Do you recall what happened just before you crashed."

"Oh yeah." His mouth pulled into a tight line. "My fiancee shot me. She wanted me dead."

"That's a hell of a way to break off an engagement."

He couldn't stop the smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, I guess you're right." He turned serious again. "What about my arm?"

"It'll heal nicely. The bullet nicked your humerus bone, but not badly. That's probably what stopped it from going through your arm and into your chest."

"Lucky me."

"Yes, Sergeant Ryan, I'd say you're very lucky. You lost a lot of blood, but we've taken care of that with transfusions. Your injuries aren't life threatening. I'd estimate that if you follow orders, you'll be out of this hospital in three or four days."

He grimaced. "Terrific."

"Most people would be glad to hear that."

Most people aren't going directly to jail when you tell them that. "Sorry," He smiled weakly. "Headaches make me cranky."

She smiled back. "That's okay. They do the same to me."

He liked her. She made him smile. That wasn't something he'd been doing much lately. Not since Archer....

Snapping his chart shut, she rose, moving toward the door. "Tracy'll be back later to change the dressing on your arm. Why don't you try and get some sleep?"

"Sure. Wouldn't want to deprive the nurses of the pleasure of waking me up every hour." He tried for a smile. It didn't work.

She shrugged. "Sorry about that, but it's?"

"S.O.P. with concussions. I know that."

"Yes, but in your case it's more than that. With your history of head trauma, we have to be extra careful."

"Oh." He looked away. "That." He still wasn't ready to talk about the bullet that went through the back of his skull. It was the closest he'd ever come to dying, and it still scared him to think about it.

That was the real reason he hadn't shoved his gun up under his jaw and pulled the trigger. As terrified as he was about his future life, he was more afraid of his afterlife. It wasn't something he thought about very often, and even though he'd pretty much given up on the church, he was still enough of a Catholic to believe in eternal punishment.

He'd taken the life of an innocent man. It didn't matter that he believed Archer was a criminal at the time. It didn't even matter that he'd fired in self-defense, or that he knew he was as much a victim as the man he'd shot. He was also just as much a killer as Tony Di Falco, and he knew he would suffer the same fate: arrest, prison, and death. The only thing he could hope for now was that he'd die relatively fast when the time came.

"Sergeant Ryan?"

The doctor's words pulled his attention back to the here and now. "Sorry, I was just thinking. And it's Tom, not Sergeant Ryan."

"Tom." She smiled. "There's no reason you can't have visitors. Is there someone you'd like me to call?"

Yes. "No."

"What?" she teased. "No family? No friends?"

He shook his head, instantly regretting the move. "Not right now."

"Okay," she said, moving to the door. "Someone will come in every so often to check on you."

"I don't need babysitting, Doc." He raised his right hand as far as the restraint would allow. "It's not like I can get up and walk out of here."

"Speaking of which, if you need to get up, call the nurse to help you. I don't want to see you hurt yourself again.

"Doesn't matter," he mumbled, turning his face to the side. "No one would care."

"I care." She moved back to his bedside. Look, Tom, I know you're a cop; there's a guard on your door, and you haven't had any visitors. I worked at Cook County Hospital in Chicago; I know protection when I see it."

"Yeah, protection. But who's being protected from whom, Doc?"

The bitterness in his tone was unmistakable. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"We could put it under the heading of doctor-patient confidentiality."

His eyes narrowed. "You a shrink?" He knew IA wanted his ass. He wouldn't put it past them to try and have him certified unfit or even insane if it meant getting rid of him.

"No. I'm just trying to help."

He reigned in his suspicions. That was something new, this mistrust he seemed to feel towards everyone. Another legacy from Virginia? "Will you be back?"

"I'll stop back during afternoon rounds. How's that?" The smile was back in her eyes.

"That'd be nice." His eyes started drooping close, and he pulled them open with effort.

"Get some rest," she said, opening the door to the hall. "I'll let the nurses know that you can have visitors any time now."

"Thanks." He watched the door swing slowly shut behind her. Visitors. That wouldn't be happening any time soon. He thought, maybe, Cassy would be here. Then again, he was probably the last person she'd ever want to see. He'd hurt her. Bad. Said the one thing guaranteed to make her feel as rotten as he'd been feeling. It worked. He wanted her to bug off and she did.

Tom squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the tears that threatened. Why'd he do it? Why'd he have to go and hurt Cassy like that? He was the fool, not her. All she was trying to do was help him. She was risking her own badge to do it, too.

He couldn't think any more. His head pounded too much. He drifted off to sleep, the words of an old song slipping through his weary mind. You always hurt the one you love....

Cassy paced anxiously across the thick carpet in D.A. Alexander's office. Officially, she wasn't supposed to be there. This meeting was between Alexander, the Police Commissioner, and the two IA detectives assigned to Tom's case. The only reason she'd been permitted to attend was because Alexander owed her a favor, and she made no bones about collecting on it.

"They're railroading him, Craig." Cassy insisted. "They don't give a damn about justice and finding out the truth, all they want is to get even for Tom's arresting DiFalco."

"Show me some evidence, Sergeant." Alexander countered. "Something to refute what's in this folder." He slapped the file on his desk.

"The papers from Mundson's safe. The ones showing the link between Virginia and Archer. What about them?"

"All they prove," Commissioner Welsh said, moving into Alexander's office, "is that Archer named Virginia his beneficiary."

"Virginia," Cassy spat. "She set up her husband to be killed, and she set Tom up to do the shooting."

Welsh settled back comfortably in one of the plush office chairs. "Really? Where does it prove that Ryan was set up?" He took the papers and tossed them toward Cassy. "Show me that, Sergeant. Prove to me that your partner is innocent."

Cassy stepped back. The only thing she had was Tom's taped confession about his part in Archer's and Virginia's deaths. That wouldn't prove his innocence. It was only his word against IAD, and Cassy had no illusions about whose side Welsh was on.

"I've got some proof for you." Harry Lipschitz entered the office.

"You're out of line here, Lipschitz," Welsh sneered. "You turned in your badge; this isn't your concern anymore."

"I'm a citizen, Welsh, that makes it my concern." Lipschitz turned to Alexander, tossing a sheaf of papers onto the D.A.'s desk. "I did some checking, went back to the scene. I can tell you what happened to Archer's gun."

"Nothing happened to it, " Welsh broke in. "Because the only place it existed is in Tom Ryan's mind."

"No." Harry shook his head. "I don't believe it was a coincidence that Archer and Tom crossed paths. We didn't find the gun because Virginia got to it first. She was in the alley. She saw it fall and managed to hide it inside an electrical box until after everyone left the scene. Then she went back and retrieved it."

"Really?" Welsh's smile was smug. "And you can prove this?"

"As a matter of fact, I can. Based on what Tom said, I was able to determine where Archer's gun landed. When I went to the scene, I saw the conduit box." Harry pulled off his glasses, wiping them in his handkerchief. "I took a set of fingerprints off the handle. They were an exact match to another set I took off a glass in Tom Ryan's apartment. Both sets belonged to Virginia."

"All that proves is that she touched the handle of the box. There's still no proof there was ever a gun." Welsh leaned forward in the chair. "Where is it? Do you know, Harry?"

Lipschitz was silent.

"What about you, Sergeant St. John?" Welsh continued. "Do you have this mysterious gun?"

"We do." Heads turned as Charlene Ballard entered the office. "We ran a check on the gun Sergeant Ryan brought in with him. There were several sets of fingerprints on it, including Ryan's, Virginia's, and Archer's."

Ballard turned to Cassy. "Despite what I may think of Tom Ryan personally, I'm a cop first, and I believe in proof and justice." She looked at Welsh. "Forensics did a few tests, based on Ryan's statement. They were able to determine the bullets' directions. We found two bullets in the wall of a building two blocks away from the shooting site." Opening her brief case, she placed more papers on Alexander's desk. "They match the bullet that was taken out of Ryan's arm and," she looked Alexander squarely in the eyes, "Mundson's chest."

"That doesn't prove anything." Welsh sputtered. "For all we know, Ryan shot Mundson, and then he got shot struggling in the car with Virginia."

Ballard smiled. "As I said, I'm a cop. I learned to go by evidence, and not let opinion sway me." She turned back to Cassy. "Tony DiFalco taught me that." She stepped over to Lipschitz. "I followed your directions, Captain. We back checked and discovered that Virginia and Archer were married, and she was beneficiary on his life insurance policy. A very large policy, I might add."

"Again," Welsh said. "I'm not seeing any proof of Sergeant Ryan's innocence in this whole affair."

Ballard exchanged a quick glance with Cassy. "There is one other piece of evidence, sir." Reaching into her briefcase, she pulled out a micro-cassette recorder and several sheets of paper. "This is a tape of a confession made by Bernard Mundson to a police officer in the hospital's emergency room, along with a typed transcription. Unfortunately, Mr. Mundson died before he could sign his statement, but we believe that he knew he was dying, and thus this tape and the transcript should be considered a deathbed confession."

Alexander picked up the recorder. "Give us the abridged version for now; we can listen to this later if it's necessary."

"Very well," she said, smoothing her skirt and settling into a chair next to Welsh. "He confessed to being in on the setup to kill Archer and frame Ryan. He told us about Virginia's involvement in the plan, and that she, not Ryan, was the one who put a bullet into his chest." She smiled tightly. "Mr. Mundson was interested in seeing to it that Virginia paid for what she'd done to him."

Cassy matched her smile. "I'm sure they're both in hell together by now."

Ballard nodded. "So, as far as IA is concerned, Ryan's cleared. It was a righteous shoot. He was defending himself against an armed attacker. The fact that Archer fell off the roof is a tragic accident, not a deliberate act of murder."

"Just a minute," Welsh said. "There's still the procedural lapse in failing to identify himself as a police officer before firing his weapon." He turned to Alexander. "What's the punishment for that mistake?"

"He said he didn't remember if he identified himself or not," Cassy broke in.

Alexander smiled, an open, friendly smile. "As I'm sure you will recall, Commissioner, the Supreme Court ruled that an officer does not have to identify himself as police. It's a nice courtesy to the suspect, but it's not mandatory." He turned to the others. "As far as this office is concerned, Sergeant Ryan is cleared in the matter of Archer's death. No charges will be filed against him, and I recommend you return him to duty as soon as the doctors allow."

Welsh rose. "Sergeant St. John, I'll expect to see you in the captain's office first thing in the morning and we'll discuss your role in this." He stalked out the door.

Cassy frowned, a confused look on her face. "What did he mean, he'd see me in your office, Harry?"

Lipschitz shrugged. "You haven't heard, I guess. I resigned."

"No."

Ballard and Alexander looked stunned.

Harry nodded. "It's been coming for a while. Welsh made it clear he didn't want me in the spot." He sighed. "I thought I could hold out, wear him down. I'm sorry, Cassy, but after what's happened, I can't, in good conscience, work for that man. He's not a cop; he's a politician. He didn't give a damn what happened to Tom or justice. All he cared about was his own reputation."

"He's probably pissed as hell that Ryan's cleared," Ballard said.

"I wouldn't be surprised." Harry smiled weakly.

"You can't just walk away like this," Cassy protested.

"I already have." He extended his hand to Alexander. "Goodbye, Craig. We haven't always seen eye to eye, but you've come through when the chips were down. I won't forget that."

Alexander grasped the offered hand firmly. "Good luck, Harry. You're the best."

Lipschitz grinned and turned toward the I.A. officer. "Nice work, Ballard."

She nodded, extending her hand. "You taught me how to be a good cop. I won't forget. Good luck, sir."

With a quick wink at Cassy, Harry left the office.

"Well," Alexander began, opening another file on his desk. "Now that the Ryan matter's been handled, I've got criminals to prosecute."

They knew a dismissal when they heard one. The two cops walked silently through the building, finally pausing in the lobby just before leaving the air conditioning for the warm January day outside.

"I'm sorry, Charlie," Cassy said quietly. "Looks like I was wrong about you."

"No, you weren't," Ballard confessed. "You were right. I did want to get even with Ryan for what he did to Tony, but something inside wouldn't let me. It's ironic, everything I know about being a good cop I learned from Tony DiFalco. He taught me about the blue law, about cops watching out for cops because no one else is gonna do it." She paused, looking through the tinted glass windows at the city.

"But you and Ryan taught me what it really meant to be a cop, to really believe in the system. I hated you both for arresting Tony, even though he was guilty. And I blamed you both for his death in prison." She smiled without mirth. "I even fantasized about Ryan ending up the same way."

"If it's any consolation," Cassy interrupted. "I thought about that, too. And I'm sure Tom has."

"He probably still does. Maybe you'd better go to the hospital and tell him."

"No." Cassy shook her head quickly. "I think it'd be better if he hears it from you. He might not believe me."

Ballard looked surprised. "Why? You're his partner."

"Am I?" Cassy turned away, pushing through the revolving door, leaving Ballard alone in the marble lobby.

"Tom?"

A fuzzy face swam into view. "Cass?" he whispered. No, not Cassy. Too short, dark hair, heavier than Cassy... Frannie. "Fran?" His voice was raspy.

"Hi, Tom." Fran Lipschitz squeezed his good hand. "The nurse said it was okay for you to have visitors. How're you feeling."

He tried to swallow, work some moisture down his throat. "Dry," he croaked.

She understood. Reaching into a closed container, she spooned some ice chips into a cup. "Here," she said, placing a few of the slivers against his lips. "This should help."

"Mmm. Thanks." He couldn't stop the slight smile from forming on his lips. "Nice to see a friendly face."

She pulled up a visitor's chair, sitting next to his head. "I thought you'd have company by now."

"Don't want any." It was the wrong thing to say, but he didn't care. He knew Frannie; she was loyal to a fault. Better to alienate her now than to see her disappointed at his trial. No. He couldn't let it go that far. A trial would kill his parents. He couldn't let that happen, especially now with his dad just recovering. No trial. He'd go for a plea bargain and hope for the best. He closed his eyes, turning away from the woman, maybe she'd take the hint and go.

"It won't work, Tom. I've been with Harry Lipschitz for almost as many years as you've been alive. Strong and silent doesn't work on me." She tightened her grip on his left arm. "Open your eyes and talk to me."

He obeyed. He had no choice. He was going to hurt her later, and there wasn't anything he could do about it. Might as well let her have her way now. "Okay, Frannie. Sorry."

"Sorry? About what? What you just said, or are you feeling sorry for yourself?"

That was Frannie, nothing subtle about her. "Both," he confessed.

"Look, Tom," she began, rubbing his arm soothingly. "I've known you for what, ten years now?"

He nodded.

"Ever since you came to Homicide. I remember Harry coming home and telling me about the new guy. Some hotshot from Robbery, he called you." She smiled. "He always ranted the most about the ones who impressed him. It's like he was afraid to admit that maybe they were better cops than he was."

"Never." Tom shook his head slightly. "Harry's the best."

"So are you."

"Not any more."

She squeezed his arm. "Don't sell yourself short, Ryan. I don't for a minute believe you killed that man in cold blood. And neither does Harry."

"Doesn't matter what he believes." He pulled his arm away. "I killed an innocent man. I killed Virginia, too."

Her eyes widened in shock. "I don't believe you."

"Why?" His voice was cold as ice. "Because I'm Mister All-American jock-cop? Clean-cut, uptight Thomas Patrick Ryan can't possibly be guilty of murder?"

"Tom--"

"Don't, Frannie. Don't make excuses." He shook his head. "Not for me, and not for you." He turned away again. "Go. Please."

"All right." Her voice was quiet. "I'll go, but you can't make me stop believing in you. You're a good man, Tom Ryan, whether you believe it or not."

He felt her gentle kiss on his brow and closed his eyes tightly against the pain in his heart. He heard her footsteps cross the room then stop.

"Open your eyes, and look at me, Tom."

He blinked, surprised at the edge in her voice.

"Stop hiding, and stop feeling sorry for yourself."

"What?" He was so shocked, he could hardly get the word out.

"Just answer one question; you owe me that much." Her voice was cold, her eyes narrowed, looking daggers at him.

He'd never seen this side of her before. "Okay," he said cautiously.

"Did you deliberately kill those two people?"

He met her cold look with one of his own. "No."

"Then when are you gonna get up off your ass and help your friends prove you innocent?"

His eyes opened wider. He'd never heard her speak like this before. Never. "There's nothing they can do."

"Bull! They're bending over backwards to help you. Harry's given up everything for you, and you just lie there."

"What are you talking about? What's Harry done?"

"He quit."

"No." Tom's heart started pounding harder. No. He couldn't quit. Not Harry. Not over someone like him. He shook his head. "You've got to stop this, Frannie. He can't quit."

"It's too late." She moved back to the door. "He risked his reputation, the good name he's built over all these years, to prove your innocence. He turned in his gun and his badge because he wouldn't allow the commissioner to throw you to the wolves. He believed in you." She cast one more cold look over him. "I wonder now if you're worth it."

"You can't let him do this!" He fought against the restraint on his wrist, trying to pull free.

"It's done." She moved back toward the bed. "I can't change it; neither can he. The only one who can change is you. Show him that you're worth his sacrifice. Fight for the truth, Tom, even if you lose. Be the man Harry believes you are."

He met her gaze unflinchingly. "I will."

"Don't let him down." She moved to the door, this time opening it out to the hall.

He could see the armed guard. The man wasn't there for his protection, he was there to protect everyone else from a cop gone bad. They all believed he was a killer. To hell with them! He knew the truth, and he'd fight to his last breath to make them believe it, too. He wouldn't let Harry down. Never again.

Lying back on the hard bed, he listened to Frannie's footsteps echoing down the hall. It was time to stop being a victim. He was through with that. Virginia and Mundson set him up, but he was damned if he'd let them take him down without a fight.

Fighting against the tether, he stretched his left arm until he was able to reach the telephone. Holding it awkwardly in one hand, he managed to slide it to the end of the bedstand.

"Am I interrupting something?"

The phone crashed to the floor. "Hello, Charlie, or should I call you Detective Ballard?"

She moved into the room, closing the door behind her as she walked. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

"Do you mind if I call a lawyer?"

Her eyebrows arched. Bending gracefully, she scooped up the telephone and placed it beside him on the bed. "You can, but it's really not necessary."

"Be careful, Detective, you wouldn't want me to get off on a technicality now would you?"

"No." She shook her head. "Not if I believed you were a criminal."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like."

Tom pushed deeper into the pillows. His head ached horribly, his arm was throbbing, and he desperately wanted a pill to knock him out and get him away from the nightmare of his life. "Look, Ballard. I'm tired, I hurt, and I'm not gonna play games with you. You wanna talk? Fine. But I'm not saying anything about the case unless my lawyer's here. You understand me?"

"Perfectly." She smiled tightly. "You don't have to talk, Ryan, just shut-up and listen. The charges were dropped."

"What?"

Her smile widened. He had that deer-caught-in-the-headlights look. The arrogant, attitudinal cop she'd questioned two days ago was gone. "The charges," she said slowly, enunciating every word, "were dropped. You're in the clear."

His eyes narrowed; distrust and skepticism were clearly written on his face. "What happened?"

"Mundson confessed before he died. We know Virginia shot him, and we know that Archer's fall was accidental. You shot him in the leg. You're too good a shot to do that accidently. If you'd wanted him dead, you would've aimed for the heart."

"Funny you didn't think of that earlier when you were grilling me." His voice was bitter. "What about Virginia's death?"

"She shot you. You lost control of the car and hit a tree. The M.E. said if she'd been wearing a seatbelt, she would have survived. I'd call that poor planning on her part, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah." He didn't say anything else, just continued to stare at her for awhile.

Finally, she stood to leave. "I'm sorry, Tom."

"About what? Not being right?"

She hung her head. "About forgetting the blue law. About being so angry over Tony that I was willing to railroad you into prison."

One corner of his mouth quirked upward. "So what do you want now? Forgiveness? You want me to say 'it's okay, Charlie, I understand,' and we can all be friends again?" He sneered. "Well I can't do that. You talk about the blue law. That means cops take care of their own. But this goes beyond it. You and Burmeister forgot the reason we're cops in the first place: justice. Innocent until proven guilty, remember?

"You cleared me. So what? Am I supposed to be so grateful that I forget what you did in the first place?" He shook his head. "That's never gonna happen. I'll go back to work, and I'll wear the gun and the badge, and I can do that with a clear conscience. Can you?" He turned his head to the opposite wall. "I'm tired. Goodbye, Detective Ballard. Thanks for stopping by."

"The guard on your door'll be recalled. I'll see you at the station."

He listened to her leave, then opened his eyes. It was over. Just like that. He was cleared. But it wasn't over. Damage had been done. Could it be undone? God, I hope so.

It was late afternoon by the time Fran returned to their home. In the last twenty-four hours, their lives had been turned upside down. She still couldn't believe that Harry resigned. But then she wasn't surprised, either. She knew that many in the department saw him as a joke, a hypochondriac bumbler who was good for a laugh. What they forgot, because he wanted them to forget, was that he was a damn good cop. He made captain by being better than anyone else. It had nothing to do with longevity, or having friends in higher places. He did his job and he did it very well. And part of doing it so well was making his officers shine. All of them. And particularly those in his Homicide department. They were his stars.

He'd come up through the ranks, from flatfoot to captain, the hard way. Yes, he had his quirks, but he did his job, supported his people, and they loved him for it. He loved them, too. Sometimes, she thought, too much. It nearly killed him when Chris Lorenzo died, and then, losing Rita so soon on top of that. There was a sadness about Harry she thought would never go away. He mourned those losses for a long time. Even the birth of their goddaughter couldn't completely erase the shadows from his eyes.

Then he got that crazy notion of re-teaming Tom and Cassy. Oy, those first few days with the two of them together again nearly drove Harry crazy. Never mind what it was doing to her at home. Still, it all worked out. What she and Harry lost with Chris and Rita they found again in Cassy and Tom.

But now things were different. She saw it the moment she walked into Tom's hospital room. He wasn't the same man he'd been before. He hadn't lost anything. The smart, funny, charming man was still there, but now there were shadows in his eyes, and the humor was tinged with bitterness. He'd been hurt, more than he let on. Maybe more than even he realized. He'd given his heart and had it handed back to him, torn and bleeding. This wasn't the first time, either.

It had taken a long time for Tom to recover from the divorce, far longer than Cassy. Fran knew. She and Harry had been confidants to the unhappy couple all during their professional separation, through the divorce, and beyond. Cassy was like a daughter to them, much as Rita had been. And Tom, Tom was so much more: friend, partner, son. He and Harry were best friends, as well as captain and detective. And just as they had helped Tom and Cassy through their personal troubles, Tom had been a rock whenever she or Harry needed some extra support and understanding.

That's why she understood Harry's decision. Even more, perhaps, than he understood it himself. If it had been any other cop, Harry would've gone to the wall for him, but for Tom, he took it the extra step. Harry would have died for Tom, and she knew, deep in her heart of hearts, that Tom would've done the same for Harry.

Thank God it didn't come to that.

Giving herself a good mental shake, Frannie crossed to their bedroom. She was expecting Harry soon and she wanted to make him smile.

"Frannie, I'm home!"

"Hi, honey." She hurried from the bedroom, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "How'd your meeting go?"

He smiled, a genuine smile, the like of which she hadn't seen since this whole mess with Tom and Archer began. "Great, honey, just great!" He hugged her tightly.

Finally, she pushed away. "Enough already with the hugs. Tell me what's got you so happy."

"Tom's been cleared. Alexander not only dropped all the pending charges, but told Welsh not to bother him with nonsense like that again."

She shared his joy. "Oh, Hesh, this is wonderful. Does Tom know?"

"By now he should. I expect Cassy was going to tell him as soon as we left."

"When was the meeting over?"

"This morning, around eleven o'clock. I tried to call, but you weren't home and I didn't want to leave news like this on the answering machine."

"I'm glad you told me in person, honey, but...." She paused, gathering her thoughts to tell him about her visit to the hospital.

"What's wrong?"

"I saw Tom this afternoon. He didn't say anything about being cleared. In fact, he acted as though he believed he was going to jail. Cassy never called him."

"That's odd." He frowned. "When I saw her at Alexander's she was happy. I just assumed she'd dash straight off and tell him. Why wouldn't she?"

Frannie shook her head. "I don't know."

"She went to see Tom on the island. Then she called me from the boat on her way back. Said she couldn't convince him to leave." The creases in his forehead deepened. "She didn't sound right. I thought it was just strain, but maybe it was something more."

"I suppose there's no way of knowing, now." She hugged him again. "Let's get you some dinner and we'll talk." She let him go and moved toward the kitchen. "I almost forgot, there's a message on the answering machine. I thought you'd enjoy hearing it for yourself. I'll call you when dinner's ready."

Cassy walked along the beach. It was her favorite place to come when she had to think. There was something about the magnitude of the ocean, the way the water stretched on forever, that made her problems seem small and manageable. She'd come to the water when she made the decision to become a cop against her family's wishes. She'd come to the water when she made the decision to end her marriage. She'd come to the water when she had to accept losing Tom to Virginia.

Telling him to make a new life with another woman was the hardest thing she'd ever done. She loved him, despite everything they'd been through. Her head knew they'd never make it as a couple, their differences were just too great, but her heart refused to listen. Just like it wasn't listening now.

He's free. Her heart sang when she heard the news. The thought of Tom going to prison terrified her. She knew what happened to cops in jail. She knew exactly what his life would be like there and his death. Thank God it never came to that.

I don't think I ever really loved you.

Tom's voice, his words, cut into her soul. She wanted to believe him that night in Harry's office when he told her he didn't mean it. But she couldn't be sure. Not completely. The skeptic in her wouldn't let her rest. He said it. He meant it. No matter what he said later.

Over and over the scene in his hotel room played in her mind. She examined his every nuance, every tone, and she couldn't see the lie. He'd meant what he said in the hotel room. He didn't love her. He never had.

Her mind rolled back to a sunny afternoon in a park. She'd told him that she needed to be reassured by him. That if he broke, she'd break, too. Well, she was broken all right, by him, his words, the look on his face. No matter what he said, he couldn't take back that moment. It was over between them. And the funny thing about the whole sorry mess was that while she'd been the one to end the marriage, he'd been the one to end the relationship.

So why wouldn't her heart let go? She pulled in a deep breath, tasting the eternal salt of the sea. Something had to give. She knew Tom Ryan, maybe better than he knew himself. She knew he wouldn't let go. He'd press, and he'd press until she gave in. And she would, she knew that now.

So where do we go from here?

She turned away from the water. A decision had been made. She knew what she would do. What she had to do. For both of them. In a few days he'd be out of the hospital. Then she would go see him and clear the air.

The alarm clock in the Lipshitz bedroom buzzed at six a.m., just as it had for over thirty years. Reaching out, Harry slapped the clock into silence, pulled off the covers, and sat up groaning.

"Hesh?" Frannie's sleepy voice came to him.

"Shh, go back to bed, honey." He stood up. Every joint ached. Mornings were getting harder and harder. "I gotta get dressed."

"Why?"

"Why? Waddya mean?" Then it hit him. He didn't have to get dressed. Not this morning, maybe not any morning anymore. He'd retired. Quit. Put his gun and his badge on the desk in front of Welsh's smug face and walked out of the office. He wasn't a cop any more.

The bed shifted and Harry felt a gentle hand stroking his back.

"You okay, Harry?"

Turning, he grasped Frannie's hand, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. "I'm fine. I just forgot." His voice trailed off.

She sat up, pushing sleep-tousled hair off her face. "Old habits, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Well," she continued, sliding out her side of the bed, "as long as we're up, why not go for an early morning walk along the beach? Then we can get breakfast and make plans."

"Plans for what?"

"I know short term memory is usually the first to go, but I figured you had a few more years." She smacked him playfully on the arm. "Last night's phone call, remember? We've got company coming in a few days and we need to get the place ready."

"What's to get ready?" He shrugged, shuffling over to his dresser and pulling a clean white shirt out of a drawer.

"This house isn't exactly set up for a small child, Harry. We've got to put the breakables up out of reach, and buy some toys." She moved into their bathroom. "Maybe we should get some of those plugs to put in the electrical outlets. Move it, Harry; we've got things to do." The door swung shut between them.

Harry looked at his reflection in the dresser mirror. "Oy."

Cassy entered the squad room at exactly seven a.m.. Moving to her desk, she stowed her purse, casting a furtive glance into the captain's office behind her. It was empty. Apparently Welsh wasn't an early riser. She sat at her desk and began shuffling papers.

Half an hour later, she stopped. Leaning back in her chair she realized she didn't have anything to do. She'd used the time during Tom's suspension to catch up on paperwork. Now, with no partner, she wouldn't be sent out on a case even if they were shorthanded. She looked at the empty desk across from her. No partner. The words hit her hard. In one instant, she'd lost her partner and her best friend. She could deal with him getting remarried. It was hard, but she accepted it. In some ways she was relieved. There was always that edge of sexual tension between them, until Virginia came along.

Cassy knew the attractive woman was different from the others Tom had dated. She could tell that he fell hard and fast, not from anything he said, more from the things he didn't say. Once they'd gotten past those first awkward months of their re-teaming, when Tom finally accepted that they weren't meant to be lovers, things changed between them for the better. They talked openly about their dating misadventures, and each offered the other a supportive shoulder when needed. But the sexual tension was still there.

She could sense it sometimes, just the way she'd catch him looking at her across the desks, or that ridiculously early morning when she dragged him out of bed to talk about her problems with Richard. She thought it was resolved during the Jarvis case. He finally accepted what she'd been telling him all long: she'd never be able to live with him. And things were fine.

Until the shouting match in Tom's hotel room at the island casino.

I don't think I ever really loved you.

As God is my witness, I didn't mean it.

Which was the truth? Cassy shook her head. She didn't know.

"Sergeant St. John."

The cool, crisp tone broke into her thoughts and she looked up. "Commissioner Welsh." Pushing back her chair, she rose before her superior. "Good morning, sir."

"Save the pleasantries, Sergeant." He walked briskly into the vacant office. "We have some things to discuss."

Half an hour later the discussion was ended. Cassy walked quietly from the office, stopping at her desk long enough to collect her purse. On her way out of the squad room she met Charlene Ballard.

"Hello, Cassy."

"Charlie."

"I went to see Tom Ryan yesterday."

"Oh? How's he doing?"

Ballard looked uncomfortable. "He hates my guts. But he's recovering okay."

"Well, I wouldn't worry about the hating. Tom's not physically capable of holding a grudge." She forced a laugh. "He's working with his ex-wife. What does that tell you about him?"

"Well, I just hope he accepts my apology in time. It'll make it easier working here for both of us."

"He'll come around, Charlie. Just give him time." Cassy moved past the woman. "If you'll excuse me, I gotta go."

"How'd the meeting go?" Ballard looked honestly concerned.

"I'm on leave for a little while." Cassy took a deep breath. "I've got some things to think about." She shook her head. "He's not Harry Lipschitz."

Ballard nodded. "I know what you mean."

Tom pushed his breakfast tray away. He hadn't eaten much, a few bites of dry toast and the brown stuff they insisted on calling coffee.

True to her word, Dr. Jordan had returned that afternoon, checked him over and promised if he continued to improve and follow directions for the next few days, he could go home sometime today. Home. A place he honestly thought he'd never see again.

He thought back to the conversation with Ballard. He owed her an apology, he supposed. He'd been rude when she came to give him the news. Hell, she'd been doing the job she'd been assigned. Nobody liked pulling IA duty, but Tom believed that Harry allowed it in this case because he felt his own people would do a more thorough, and fair, investigation. He guessed Harry was right. Knowing what he did about Police Commissioner Welsh, he knew that the only reason he had the time to investigate Archer was because of Harry Lipschitz's involvement.

Cassy stepped back, wiping her hands on her jeans and surveying the chaos of her once orderly home. Boxes filled the living room, not as many as she'd expected, given her time in Palm Beach, still more than enough to remind her that she was taking a lot of baggage with her. For a few seconds she considered just leaving everything, walking out of the apartment and never turning back. That's what Tom would have done, but then he was the romantic in the partnership. She was the realist. The romantic and the realist, sounded like a bad romance novel for the nineties. And that's what it was. A bad romance.

She shook her head, as if that would clear the thoughts clouding her mind and the feelings squeezing her heart. "Get a grip, St. John." Her voice was hard, cold, with not a touch of emotion in it. Emotion was trouble, she decided. Feelings only led to pain. And she was sick of pain.

I never really loved you.

As God is my witness, I didn't mean it.

Over and over the words rolled through her mind. For days now, they ambushed her every time she let her guard down. Did he mean it? Hell, she didn't know any more. Maybe he didn't either. Tom was so desperate to be in love, to be loved, that he deluded himself over Virginia. Maybe, Cassy grimaced, he'd deluded himself over his feelings for her.

Her mind rolled back over those seven months when everything went so quickly downhill. Maybe he did love her, maybe he didn't. Maybe he was so uptight Boston Irish that he couldn't conceive of the two of them simply living together and having an ongoing affair. No, Tom was the one who insisted on marriage. "Doing the right thing," he'd said. "Making it all legal and square forever." Only it wasn't forever; it was for seven months.

She should have known. When he lost the damn ring, she should have known. It was an omen. One she'd deliberately chosen to overlook because just for once, cool rational Cassy was thinking with her heart instead of her head. And look where it got her.

No. No more, she was through with love; it wasn't worth the effort. No more dates with men, hoping they would fill some preconceived gap in her life. No more agonizing over whether or not to sleep with a guy, and when, and where. His place? Her place? Some motel room that rented by the hour? No more dreaming of a life of male oriented security and a date for every New Year's Eve. She'd make it on her own, like that hackneyed TV theme song from the seventies. If a man came into her life, fine. If not, that's fine, too. It was time to break the pattern and get the hell on with her life.

But she couldn't do that here. Not anymore. She was leaving. That was the decision she'd made as she sat in what had been Harry's office and listened to Welsh drone on about her duty and responsibility to the department. She knew she couldn't work for the man. Harry was right, Welsh was a glory hound. He really didn't care how the department ran, so long as there wasn't a scandal and he could still hold his head up at his innumerable news conferences and political dinners.

Once more she surveyed the room. Everything was ready for the movers. They'd be here first thing in the morning. All the arrangements had been made. The only thing left to do was drop off the Boxter in the morning at the car transport company. Then she'd be on a plane to her new life.

It hadn't taken her long to find new employment. With her record, she'd had several offers from police departments all over the country. The choice was easy, it was the one farthest from Palm Beach. And once she had chosen, the only people she'd told were Harry and Frannie. She had to, she owed them that.

They were special people in her life. Frannie was friend, big sister, confidant, and the mother she never really had. And Harry, Harry was boss, big brother, favorite uncle, and the father she'd so desperately needed all those years ago in Texas. Leaving them wasn't easy, but she had to do it and they understood.

As God is my witness, I didn't mean it.

A single tear rolled down her cheek. "I believe you, Tom. I do. But it's too late for us. Too late to do anything but say goodbye."

Tom walked into his apartment. He smiled grimly. The place was exactly as he left it when he went to find the truth about Miles Archer and his life disintegrated. No, not exactly as he left it. He walked to the breakfast bar and picked up the single wine glass.

"The other one's at the crime lab." Harry's voice carried from the doorway.

"How'd you know which one to take?"

"There was lipstick on the glass." Lipschitz carried Tom's overnight bag into the small apartment, tossing it on the bed. "And I knew it wasn't your color."

Tom grinned. "Yeah, it definitely wasn't my shade." He turned toward his friend, his face growing serious. "How can I thank you?"

Harry smiled, ducking his head. "You already have. I knew you were innocent." Moving forward, Harry put a comforting hand on Tom's shoulder. "I'm so sorry about the way things worked out."

"Yeah." Tom shrugged off the hand. "Me, too." He walked toward the disheveled bed. "Thanks for bringing me home," he said quietly, gesturing to the bed. "I'm?I'm kinda tired...."

"Sure." Harry nodded. "I understand. I'll go, let you get some rest. If you're feeling up to it, stop by the house tomorrow. We're having house guests and Frannie's cooking up a storm. Even making a batch of those chocolate chip cookies you love.

"Yeah, those are great cookies." A sad smile crossed Tom's face. "I-I don't know. I haven't had much of an appetite lately." He shook his head. "I don't think I'd be very good company."

"Look, I'd take it as a personal favor if you'd show up." Harry's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Our guests are female and I'm gonna be outnumbered three to one. Please?"

He wanted to refuse. Lord knows, the last thing he wanted to do right now was play polite house guest, but he owed Harry. Big time. "Okay, I'll be there. What time?"

"Dinner's at seven, so how about six-thirty?" Lipschitz moved to the door. "See you then. Bye, Tom."

He listened to the door latch shut. "Bye, Harry." He walked to the middle of his small home, looking around. Nothing had changed, yet everything had. He wasn't the same man he'd been then.

He'd been through his trial of fire and he survived. But not intact. Something was missing, some vital part of himself was gone. He didn't trust any more.

They used to tease him about it: his other partners, Cassy, even Harry; he was too honest. He believed in the goodness of people. Oh, he wasn't naive enough to think that every suspect was innocent, or that people weren't capable of evil, he just tried to keep a positive attitude. It was his coping mechanism. Other cops drank, or did drugs, or cheated on their wives. But not him. Never once did he do any of those things, although he had to admit there were times that the idea of losing himself in a bottle was damned appealing, and he often found himself craving a cold beer after a particularly bad day. But he never let it get out of control.

He was the eternal optimist. He got that from his father, he guessed. Lyam Ryan had more than his share of life's disappointments, but he always managed to keep smiling. Okay, so there had been that bad time shortly after his retirement, but that hadn't lasted long. He'd pulled out of his slump and was now happy and more successful than ever. The restaurant was a success and the Ryan marriage was better than ever.

But this Ryan didn't have a marriage to fall back on. Or a new career. His life was exactly the same as it was before this whole mess. Except for the new hole carved through his heart.

"Shit. I can't deal with this now," Tom mumbled. Pulling off his sweaty shirt and kicking off his shoes, he threw himself full length on the bed, grabbing a pillow and scrunching it up under his head. He took a breath and the scent of Jasmine washed over him. "No." It all came back in a rush. The loving, the feel of her body locked with his, the touch of her hands on his naked skin, the bullet tearing through his arm. Everything. "No!"

He rolled from the bed, taking blankets, sheets, and pillows with him. He ripped the bedding off, gathered up the whole linen pile, and shoved it into the garbage can out back. It wasn't enough. The mattress still carried her scent.

He turned the air conditioning down low, hoping the cold would clear the air. Then he huddled on his couch, grateful the leather didn't hold her scent as well. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to sleep in that bed again.

The headache was back, but he was too tired to look for the bottle of painkillers buried in his overnight bag. Closing his eyes, he tried to lose himself in sleep, wishing the dreams would stop and his life could begin anew.

"Tom!"

Hands were shaking him. "Go 'way," he mumbled, hunching farther into himself, curling up tightly on the sofa.

"Tom, come on, wake up. You're scaring me."

Who? Cassy. That was Cassy's voice. He opened one eye. A face swam into his vision, blurred and surrounded by a halo of yellow. He closed the eye. Hands shook him.

"Tom, wake up now or so help me?"

Cassy. Definitely Cassy, and she sounded pissed. "Okay," he mumbled, trying to talk around the cotton balls in his mouth. When did he start eating cotton balls? He couldn't remember. Probably in the hospital. Was he still in the hospital? Had she finally come to visit him? He rolled, and his skin caught on his bed, pulling away from the mattress with a slight ripping sound. It hurt. It shouldn't hurt. Something wasn't right. He opened his eyes.

Home. He was in his own home, on the couch. Bare skin sticking to leather, that's what he'd felt when he moved. He lifted a shaking hand to his head. The headache was still there, coming on stronger. He knew it could happen, Dr. Jordan'd warned him that they'd probably reoccur for a little while longer. He just wished it wasn't now, when Cassy was kneeling in front of him. "Hi," he managed, desperately trying to remember where he'd left those painkillers.

She smiled, brushing the short wisps of hair that had fallen around his face. "Hi, yourself." She stood, moving back a few feet, suddenly all too aware of his half-naked state.

Tom pushed himself up on the couch, bringing a shaky hand to his head. "Sorry, gimme a minute to pull my head back together."

"Still getting headaches?"

"Yeah."

"You want some aspirin?"

He shook his head. Big mistake. "Oh.... No. In my bag... pills." He gestured vaguely in the direction where he thought he remembered tossing the overnight bag.

She moved quickly, scanning the small area and finally finding the bag leaning against the far side of the breakfast bar. "Aha!" She held up the small vial. "Here they are." Quickly filling a glass with water, she brought him the pills, resisting the urge to take the vial from his hands as he fumbled with the cap. He'd have to do things on his own, she thought. She wouldn't be around to help him any more.

He managed to open the container and shake two tablets into his hand before setting the small bottle on the coffee table. He dry swallowed the pills and then took the glass from her, drinking deeply. "Thanks, Cass." He leaned back against the couch, his eyes closed, hoping the medication would work quickly and get that damn drummer out of his skull.

She sat quietly in a chair, watching him, waiting until the pills kicked in enough to take the edge off his headache so she could talk to him. Finally, she saw his eyes open. He blinked, saw her, blinked again and sat up. "Hi." She smiled, watching as he ran a hand over his face and through his hair. It was a familiar gesture she'd seen so many times before.

"Hi." He looked around. The apartment was dark, illuminated only by the moonlight streaming in through the windows. "Did I-did I let you in?" A puzzled frown creased his forehead.

"No." She held out her hand, dangling a keychain. "You gave me this, remember?"

He nodded slowly. After the fifth time she woke him up, pounding on his door in the middle of the night, he'd given her a set of keys to his apartment. Funny, the only time she used them before now was to get into his place to track him to the casino. "Yeah, I remember."

"How's the headache?"

"Going fast, thanks for getting my pills." He stood, groaning slightly as stiff muscles protested his latest sleeping venue.

She watched him stretch, working out the kinks, watching the subtle play of smooth muscle under his skin. He was an attractive man. As much as she hated to admit it, as much as she denied it to herself and everyone else, she was still attracted to him.

"Ah, that's a little better." He smiled down at her. "I was wondering when I'd see you. I thought tomorrow... at work." His face grew serious. "Cassy, we have to talk."

She nodded. "I know." She held up a hand, forestalling his next words. "I know you didn't mean it at the hotel."

"Cass, I swear." He shook his head slightly, a look of confusion crossing his face. "I honestly don't know why I said that." He ducked his head. "No, that's not true. I was so angry... at myself, at her, at you for making me face the truth." His head came back up, his eyes meeting hers. "You hurt me, Cass, and all I could do was hurt you back. So I said the ugliest thing I could think of to make you go away. And it worked. But after... after you left, all I could think about was what I'd said, how I hurt you. I'm so sorry."

Cassy felt tears gathering in her eyes, she saw the moisture in his. "I'm sorry, too. Sorry for what happened to you. You didn't deserve to be hurt like that, Tom."

He shrugged, turning away. "Maybe I did. Maybe that was my punishment for hurting you all those years ago."

"You weren't the one who hurt me," she said quietly, admitting the truth for the first time. "I did that to myself. You were wonderful, everything a wife could ask for. You treated me with respect and honor; you pulled your weight around the house; you were the perfect husband. And that scared the hell out of me. Because I knew I could never be the perfect wife."

"I never expected you to be perfect."

"I know, but I did." She stood, moving to the breakfast bar and leaning back against the high counter. "It's my flaw, I'm compulsive, obsessive, and all those other ives." She smiled wanly. "I'm just sorry you were the one who got hurt.

"Maybe, maybe the reason you said what you did was your way of striking back at me. Not just for making you face the truth about Virginia, but for all the times I'd hurt you, too."

"No, don't say that." He moved to her, resting his hand on her shoulder and sliding it down her arm until their fingertips entwined.

"No more, Tom. No more hurting each other, using each other as verbal punching bags for our frustrations and pains." She lifted their joined hands, kissing his fingers lightly. "It's all behind us now. We have to move forward."

He returned the kiss. "Friends again?"

"Always and forever." She turned her head, suddenly, uncomfortably aware of his body so close to hers, the touch of his fingers. "What happened to your bed?"

"Oh." He pulled away, suddenly embarrassed. "I-I needed to change the sheets. I guess I got too tired and folded on the couch."

She smiled, seeing the fatigue and pain still etched on his features. Her eyes glanced off the white bandage on his arm, relieved to see it clean and free of stains. "You need to sleep in your bed, not all hunched up on that couch. Go get some fresh linens and let's get this bed made and you into it."

The last place he wanted to be was in that bed, but he didn't have the heart, or the strength, to argue with Cassy now. "Okay." He shuffled into his dressing room to pull the needed linens out of their storage drawer.

Cassy moved closer to the bed, the scent of Jasmine tickled her nose. Oh, so that's why you were on the couch. Okay, we can fix this. Leaning over, she grabbed one edge of the mattress and started to haul. "Oof!"

"What are you doing?"

He was standing in the door way, his hands full of sheets and pillowcases.

"When was the last time you turned this thing?"

"Turned? I'm supposed to turn the mattress?"

"Duh." She gave him her standard exasperated don't-you-know-anything-Ryan look. "Yes, you're supposed to turn the mattress regularly, and air it out from time to time, at least you knew enough to do that. Although most people just open a window instead of cranking the air conditioner to sub-Arctic." She stood, hands on her hips, looking around the small flat. "Where do you keep your cleaning supplies?"

"Cleaning? Oh, please, Cassy, no. No cleaning now."

She glared at him.

He dropped his head in defeat. "Under the kitchen sink."

"Thank you." She rummaged under the counter until she found what she wanted. "Step back," she warned, approaching the bed. Pulling the cap off a spray can, she directed a steady stream of mist across the surface of the bare mattress. "There," she said with satisfaction. "That'll help get rid of any unwanted smells."

"What'd you do?"

"Lysol, it's a great disinfectant, too." She pulled at one side of the mattress again. "Come on, help me slide it off, then we can flip it over and end to end and then get it all made up."

Wordlessly, he obeyed, and they wrestled the queen sized mattress off and back onto the frame. Cassy assigned Tom to filling the pillowcases while she laid the new sheets down, covering them with the light blanket he used.

"There," she said, stepping back to survey the freshly made bed. Stepping forward she sniffed in a long breath of air. "Umm, fresh and clean." She looked Tom over critically. "Which is more than I can say for you. Why don't you go take a fast shower and go to sleep?" She saw him hesitate, knowing there was more they both had to say. "Go on," she urged, "I'll still be here when you're done." A slight smile curved his mouth. The first smile she'd seen from him since their awkward lunch several days before.

Less than ten minutes later he was back, a terry cloth robe wrapped carelessly around him.

She looked up from her perch on one of the high stools at the breakfast bar. "I remember that robe."

"Yeah, you bought it for me for our one-month anniversary, and then wore it yourself. I'm surprised you didn't ask for it in the divorce."

"I did, but my lawyer told me that I should be a little generous."

"Generous? Oh, I get it, take the car and the dog and let him keep the robe."

"I didn't take the car and the dog; the judge gave them to me remember?"

"Yeah," he nodded, "I remember." He chuckled wickedly. "And then we got to give it to the judge."

She started laughing. "I can still see him diving over the side of the boat to get away from you...."

"....and landing head first in that dinghy. Now that's justice." He grew suddenly serious. "Cassy, why are you here? You didn't come to the hospital. I thought?"

"You thought I never wanted to see you again?" she asked, interrupting him, watching his eyes change color as he nodded. "I didn't," she admitted. "Not at first. It was too raw; I was too raw. I wasn't sure I ever wanted to see you again, but then I realized I had to, if for no other reason than to say goodbye."

"What?" What little color he'd had drained from his face.

"I resigned. I'm leaving Palm?"

"No!" His eyes were wild. "No! You can't do this!"

"It's all right." Her voice was calm, gentle. She reached out a placating hand, resting it lightly on his forearm, holding him in place. "This isn't about you, Tom, or even about us. It's about me." An ironic smiled flit across her lips. "I did a lot of thinking these past few days. It started with Welsh. He and I had a meeting the morning after you were cleared. He laid out the way things were going to be around the station, now that he was 'in charge'" She shook her head emphatically. "I can't work for the man.

"And I can't work with you anymore."

"Why?" he whispered.

"It's hard to put into words," she began. "We've been part of each other's lives for what, eight years now?" She watched him nod in agreement. "We've been partners, lovers, husband and wife, ex husband and wife, friends and enemies. I didn't know where you stopped and I began. It struck me when I realized you'd asked Virginia to marry you. I didn't know what to do, how to react. I felt that I was losing a large part of myself. That scared me, Tom.

"I've always been independent, prided myself on not needing anyone. And it suddenly hit me that I was terrified of the very thing I thought I had. I have to get my life back." She looked up into his eyes. "And the only way I can do that is to leave and start over new somewhere else."

"No," he countered, pulling out of her gentle grasp. "Cassy, we have to talk."

"There's nothing left to say." She looked up at him, letting the love she still felt shine through her eyes into his. "I understand everything. I really do." Her hand reached up, cupping his cheek, pulling his mouth down to hers.

He clung to her fiercely, desperately afraid to let go.

It was Cassy who broke the kiss. "Look at you." She reached up, ruffling his damp hair. "You're just about out on your feet." Slipping off the high stool, she turned him toward the bed. "Let's get you into bed."

He obeyed, shuffling to the bed and standing quietly as she pulled back the covers and made a show of plumping up the pillows. Obediently, he slipped out of the robe and climbed in.

"There you go," Cassy said, leaning down to kiss his cheek.

His hand reached up, cupping the back of her head, fingers twining in the soft golden hair. Wordlessly, he pulled her mouth to his. Lips brushed, tentatively at first, then came together again.

She pulled back, gazing into his eyes, seeing the truth he couldn't hide from her. And acknowledging the truth she couldn't hide from herself. In seconds, she'd rid herself of her clothing, pulled back the sheet once more and slipped beneath the covers into his embrace. She closed her eyes, feeling every inch of his body pressed against hers. His mouth claimed hers again and she surrendered.

Tom rolled, snuggling deeper into the mattress. He inhaled, breathing in a familiar scent. Cassy. He slipped back into his dream. A dream where they were together again, their bodies joined in perfect union. As they were meant to be. He reached for her and touched empty air. His eyes opened, and he bolted upright. "Cassy?"

"Here."

His head turned, following the sound of her voice. Through the dimly lit room he found her standing by the door, her hand on the latch. He watched as she opened the door, the barest trace of early morning sunlight spilling through the opening, washing her in soft light. He'd never seen her looking so beautiful.

"It's time," she said softly.

His heart cried out to her. Please, please don't go. "I know."

Tears glistened on her cheeks. "Goodbye, Tom. I love you."

He wanted to move, to shout, to carry her back to his bed and never, never let her leave. But he couldn't. He knew that. She had to be free. He had to love her enough to let her go. "Goodbye, Cass. I love you, too."

He sat alone in his bed for a long time, the sound of the latch clicking as she pulled the door closed behind her echoing through every fiber of his being, silent tears rolling unheeded down his cheeks.

It felt strange, walking into the station and being surrounded by well wishers. People who only a few days earlier had turned their backs, now welcomed him heartily back into their fold. Tom acknowledged their greetings politely, but still feeling a distance. He'd seen a side of them he hadn't known existed. He always believed in the brotherhood of the badge, now he wasn't so sure.

His first stop, before the squad room, was Morton's lab. Harry'd told him how Morton went beyond the call of duty to prove Virginia's prints matched those on the conduit box and later confirmed her prints on the gun. It was Morton who asked other friends in forensics to go the extra step to find the bullets Archer had fired on the rooftop that day, proving conclusively, Tom's innocence in the whole affair.

Morton's office was cold, colder than he usually kept it. Or was it Tom who was chilled? He didn't know anymore. All he felt since Cassy walked out his apartment door earlier was numb.

"Tom?"

He turned, finding Morton approaching with an outstretched hand.

"Gosh, it's so good to see you back again." The man pumped Tom's hand enthusiastically.

"Thanks, Sterling. Harry told me what you did."

Morton smiled, grinning up at the taller detective. "Did he also tell you that I told him I thought he was a fool for helping you?"

"No, I guess he left that part out."

"Figures." Morton's face turned serious. "I never for a moment believed you killed Archer in cold blood. It's just not in you."

"I wish I could be as sure as you," Tom said softly. "I'm not sure of anything anymore."

Morton nodded. There wasn't anything he could say. Everyone in the precinct had been shaken by the Archer affair. Each one of them realizing how easy it was to go from protector to victim. Tom Ryan was the best of the best, and if it could happen to him, it could happen to anyone.

"Well, thanks again." Tom shook Morton's hand once more and headed for the squad room. No sense in putting off the inevitable.

He pushed through the double doors and stopped at the top of the small flight of stairs. The room looked the same as when he'd left, walking slowly, a small box of his personal things tucked under one arm. Everyone watched him leave, pretending they weren't watching at all. Never had he felt so humiliated, or so alone.

Now he was back, and they were smiling at him, welcoming him once more into their club. He smiled, and nodded, and acknowledged their greetings but there was a part of him that stood back, watching, waiting for them to turn away from him again. He made his way through the large room and stopped at his desk. It looked so clean, uncluttered, nothing special on it to mark it as his. No personal photos, or folders scattered across the top, no pink message slips thrown haphazardly around, no fresh flowers in the small vase, nothing to indicate that he'd occupied that desk for the past several years.

His eyes slid over the smooth surface, to the desk directly opposite. It was empty. He felt like he'd been sucker punched. She told him she was leaving, but until this very moment, there was a small part of him that refused to believe it. They were a part of each other. Tom and Cassy. Ryan and St. John. A partnership that survived their divorce. Until now. Until Virginia and an argument in an expensive hotel room and words he'd give his very soul to take back. But he couldn't. There was nothing he could do except move on, as Cassy had.

"Ryan!"

He turned toward the voice and saw Commissioner Welsh standing in Harry's office door. Only it wasn't Harry's office anymore. Harry was gone. Just like Cassy. Automatically, he moved to the small windowed office, stopping before the desk.

"Sit down, Ryan, sit down." Welsh said, settling himself into the captain's chair.

Tom obeyed, feeling suddenly uncomfortable in a chair he'd sat in so many times before.

"First of all, Sergeant, welcome back. I'm glad this little unpleasantness could be cleared up with so little fuss."

"Yes, sir." No fuss, no fuss at all, just a couple of dead bodies, shattered illusions, ugly truths, a broken heart, and the loss of the person who meant the world to him.

"Well, now that you're back, let's discuss your future here."

"My future?" Tom was puzzled. He'd been cleared, what more was there to discuss?

"Unfortunately, this hasn't been a very good year for the department, and this precinct in general. The DiFalco business, and then this recent spot of trouble. I'm afraid I'm going to have to make some major changes here in order to show the public that we're aware of the problems within and we're taking care of them."

"I'm-I'm not sure I understand what you mean, sir."

"I want this precinct to have a new image in the public eye. In order to do that, I'm instituting some changes. Do you know Richard Carpenter?"

Tom nodded. "He's a lieutenant in Robbery over at the Sixth, isn't he?"

"He was. As of tomorrow, he's being promoted to captain and reassigned here." Welsh leaned back in the chair, picking up a pencil and rolling it between his fingers. "I'm also making some major shift reassignments here, Sergeant. In light of the publicity surrounding the Archer case, I think it would be best to pull you out of Homicide for a while."

"Sir?"

"I know you're not happy about that prospect, Sergeant, but you're not being paid to be happy. You're being paid to do a job, and I think, given what's happened, that it'd be best for you to keep a low profile in the department. I'm reassigning you to the Records division."

"No." Tom pushed out of his chair. "I'm a homicide detective, and a goddam good one! You can't just throw me away like this. I was cleared, my reputation's spotless and you know it."

"Yes, Sergeant, I know it, but the public doesn't."

"The public?" A sardonic smile settled on Tom's mouth. "That's what this has all been about, hasn't it Commissioner? The public. Are you really so concerned about what they think of the department or are you more concerned about what they think of you?"

"You're out of line, Sergeant."

"Yes, I guess I am. I know what you're doing Welsh, burying me in Records. It's not a temporary assignment, I'll be there until I rot." He shook his head. "I won't play your games. I wasn't sure when I came in, but I am now. I don't belong here anymore. This is your department, and you can run it the way you please, but not with me." He moved to the door, pulling it open. "My resignation will be on your desk in the morning."

Slamming the door shut, Tom moved quickly through the bustling outer office, down the corridors, through the front doors and out to the parking lot, finally stopping at the Mustang. He looked at the car, remembering all the fun he'd had with it over the years, the investigations he'd driven to, even the agony of having to give it to Cassy in the divorce and the way she'd tormented him with it whenever she could. She used it against him, but she also gave it back. Granted, she replaced it with the Porsche, but she didn't have to return the car. She could have sold it, or traded it in for scrap. She gave it back because she knew how much the car had meant to him over the years. She gave it back because she loved him. "Thanks, Cass," he whispered.

He slid in behind the steering wheel, the leather seat molding to the shape of his body. Starting the ignition, he listened to the motor purr for a moment, then shifted into gear and drove out of the parking lot. He never looked back.

The Lipschitz front door chimes rang at exactly six-thirty. Harry placed the last crystal wine glass on the linen table cloth, surveying the table critically before turning to answer the door. "She's meshugena," he muttered under his breath. "Crystal, china, and linen with a three-year old at the table."

Hurrying to the door, he pulled it open, his face breaking into a huge smile when he saw Tom Ryan standing on the step. "Tom, you came! Frannie'll be so pleased." Hooking Tom's elbow with his hand, Harry drew the younger man into the house.

"I brought these for Frannie," Tom said, holding out a colorful bouquet of flowers. "I wasn't sure which were her favorites, so I got one with a little of everything."

"She'll love it." Harry smiled, casting a critical glance at his former detective. Tom looked well. Still a little pale, but he was freshly shaved and showered, wearing a nice pair of charcoal slacks with a matching blazer and pale grey shirt. There were new lines around the hazel eyes, and some of the spark was gone, but Harry chalked that up to fatigue. He knew Ryan, the guy would bounce back. He always did.

"So," Tom began, following Harry into the kitchen and watching as the man searched for an appropriate vase. "How's retirement?"

"It's great! I can sleep in as late as I want, I finally have time to read all those books I've been buying and stacking up around here. Frannie and I can do whatever we want whenever we want. It's great."

Tom nodded. "I guess I'll be finding out for myself."

Harry frowned. "Whaddya mean?"

"I quit."

"What?"

"I quit." He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. I know what you did for me. I know you gave up your career to help me, but I walked into that squadroom today and I felt so... so empty. You were gone. Cassy's gone." He looked up. "Did you know Cassy left Palm?"

"Yeah, she told us." Harry carried the vase out to the living room, placing it with care on a small table and gesturing for Tom to sit and make himself comfortable.

"Then Welsh called me into the office. God, Harry, he transferred me to Records. It was bad enough, losing you and Cassy, but to be thrown into that hole with no chance of ever getting out. I couldn't do it." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry.

"No apology necessary. I understand." Harry smiled fondly at the younger man. "And don't even think about blaming yourself for my leaving. I probably should have retired when Welsh took over. I knew I couldn't work for him, but I figured as long as he left my precinct alone I could handle him." He shook his head. "I was wrong."

Tom nodded in sympathy.

"So," Harry continued, "what are your plans now?"

"I don't really know. I never thought beyond making things right with Cassy...." His voice trailed off.

"Did you see her or did Welsh tell you she left?"

"She told me." Tom ran a hand across his face. "She came to see me last night. We worked everything out, and then we said goodbye." His eyes misted. "God, I still love her so much. How am I going to live without her?"

"I don't know, " Harry sighed. "But I know someone who you could talk to about how you feel."

Tom's head snapped up. "A shrink?"

"No," Harry soothed. "Not a shrink, a friend of ours. As a matter of fact, it's one of our house guests. She's a widow with a small daughter. She's been where you are."

"Yeah, except that Cassy's alive."

"And that's something you should hang onto. Look, Tom, I'm not gonna pretend to know how you feel. But I know enough from living to my present ripe age to know that you've suffered a loss, and you have to go through the grieving process before you can get on with your life."

A slight grin lifted the corner of Tom's mouth. "I have heard those words before. I've been though the process once."

"You never told me that. What happened?"

"Oh, you knew, it's just that no one thinks about the loss of a dream as being like the loss of a loved one. I know I never did until I faced it."

"You're talking about football?" Harry couldn't keep a trace of scepticism out of his voice.

Tom nodded. His voice was quiet when he spoke. "From the time I could hold a football, playing pro ball was my dream. I pushed so hard: in high school, in college. It was my main focus, and I sacrificed a lot, and so did my parents, to get me to the point of achievement."

He leaned back against the cushions, eyes fixed on some faraway place in his past. "Football wasn't just a game for me; it was my whole life. I was always a good student, but I worked extra hard to make top grades, not for the grades per se, but because I knew if I wanted to play for a Big Ten school, I'd have to have the academic skills to stay on top in the classroom as well as on the field. I was smart enough to know that even pro ball doesn't last forever, and I'd better prepare then for what would happen later when I retired.

"It was great, Harry. Everything I'd dreamed about." His eyes clouded slightly and he grimaced. "Well, except for that first year with Tremayne. That was pure hell. Even Cassy doesn't know how bad it really was. No one likes it when the newcomer is better, and the guys on the senior team hated me from the beginning. But I stuck it out, because I knew.. I knew, Harry, that I was gonna come out of that school and be a star in pro ball. And damn, if I didn't almost make it, too."

"I knew you played for FSU," Harry said quietly. "But I had no idea you were pro material."

"Oh yeah." Tom nodded, a rueful smile crossing his lips. "I had a lock on the Heisman my senior year. It was a fantasy come true. Pro agents were calling; I was getting offers for product endorsements; heck, I was even getting fan mail. The guys at the fraternity house were complaining about all the mail and phone calls."

He grew suddenly somber. "Then it all came to a crashing halt."

"What happened?"

Tom rose, pushing off the plush sofa and crossing to the window, staring out at the early evening sky. "I got tackled one sunny afternoon. The guy tore my shoulder out. Just like that." He snapped his fingers. "It was gone. Everything I'd worked so hard for, all the hours of practice, the nights I stayed home studying playbooks and working out instead of partying with my friends, all the dates I never went on so I could be in top condition to play. Gone in one excruciating moment on the field.

"I was twenty-one years old and everything I was, everything I thought I would be, was gone. My parents saved me. They wouldn't give up on me, even sent me to a sports psychologist. He was the one who told me about the grieving process; that I'd have to go through it before I could go on. He was right."

He turned back from the window, facing his former captain. "So you see, I've been there. I know what I'm facing, what I have to go through to get on with my life." He grinned weakly. "Just give me a little time, Skipper. I'll be okay. I just need to figure out what I'm going to do with the rest of my life... again."

"Actually, Tom, that's one of the reasons I asked you here tonight?"

The front door crashed open, startling both men. A small, black-haired whirlwind flew into the room. "Unka Harry!"

"Hey, Putchkala!" Harry laughed, picking the little girl up. "How was shopping with Mom and Aunt Frannie?"

Her large brown eyes grew even wider. "I gots a sucker!"

"I noticed." Harry grimaced as he pulled her sticky hands from his shirt and set her down. "Why don't you go wash your hands before supper?"

"Okay." She turned to run from the room, stopping suddenly when she saw Tom. Her eyes traveled slowly from the toes of his black shoes up and up and up to the top of his short brown hair. "You a giant, Mister?"

Tom laughed, the first genuine laugh he'd given since before Archer. It felt good. Walking up to the tiny figure he got down on both knees, resting back on his heels so their eyes were almost level. "No, I'm not a giant. My name's Tom Ryan. What's yours?"

She pulled herself up to her full almost three-foot height. "Christina Lee Lorenzo."

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Ms. Lorenzo." He held out his hand. She took it, giggling suddenly when he raised her tiny hand to his lips and kissed it lightly.

"What's this?"

Tom looked up, surprised at the strange voice. A petite, dark-haired woman stood in front of them, her hands resting lightly on her hips. One look at her face and he knew she was Christina's mother. Then recognition kicked in. "Hello, Rita. It's been a long time."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Do I know you?"

He stood, towering over her and extending his hand. "Tom Ryan. We met a few times at a couple of Chris's poker games. I filled in occasionally when he needed an extra player."

"I'm sorry," she said, shaking his hand. "I don't remember you."

"That's okay, you never really looked at me. Your attention was occupied elsewhere." He grinned at the blush creeping up her cheeks.

She grinned back. "Yeah, I guess it was."

Tom grew suddenly serious. "I'm very sorry about what happened to Chris. He was a good guy."

"Thank you." A sad smile crossed her lips.

"Mommy," Christina demanded, pulling at Rita's skirt, "eat now?"

The adults laughed and Frannie stepped forward from the kitchen. "And that's a cue if ever I heard one." She moved into the living room, embracing her tall guest. "It's so good to see you, Tom."

"Thanks, Frannie." He smiled, hugging her back. A reassuring warmth spread through him. He could feel the love she had for him. It felt good. He looked at Harry and saw the man smiling back at him. Even Rita and Christina were smiling. He felt relaxed, more relaxed than he'd felt for a while. "So, what's for dinner? Can I help?"

"You cook?" Rita asked.

"You bet."

"Tom's a good cook," Harry offered. "A regular gourmet."

"I'm okay." Tom said, grinning crookedly.

Rita chuckled. "I've heard that before."

"Okay, Ms. Skeptic Lorenzo, next dinner's at my place. All of us, next Friday. Date?"

Rita looked suddenly uncomfortable.

"Date," Frannie said firmly. "Now that we've settled next Friday's dinner, how about we all eat tonight's before it gets cold?"

Tom looked down. Christina was staring up at him. "Christina, may I escort you to the dining table?"

"Huh?"

He bent to her height again. "Wanna ride into dinner, kid?"

"Yes!" She laughed delightedly as he scooped her up, swinging her over his head to sit solidly on his shoulders.

"Don't worry, " he said, turning back to Rita. "I do this with my brother's kids all the time." Laughing, Tom carried his newest friend into the meal.

Rita stood quietly watching her daughter.

"You okay, Rita?" Harry asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She smiled. "I'm fine. It's just...."

"That it should have been Chris carrying her like that?"

"Yeah," she nodded. "But that just wasn't meant to be, and I have to accept it."

"How's it going?"

"I'm okay. I still miss him. I always will, but the pain's not so bad now, and I remember more of the good times than bad. Hey." She pulled away, looking up at him. "This isn't a fix-up is it?"

"No." Harry shook his head emphatically. "Tom's been through a very rough time."

"Oh, so he's that 'Tom', I didn't realize. Frannie told me what happened. Did he patch things up with his partner?"

"Yeah, last night. And this morning she said goodbye to him and got on a plane for the other side of the country. Then he went into work and found out the police commissioner was dumping him in Records."

"What'd he do?"

"Quit."

She nodded in sympathy. "That's just what I would have done. I don't know Welsh, but from what I've heard, he's a real bastard. Harry, I'm not sure coming back here was such a good idea." He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a stopping hand. "You're gone from the precinct, Welsh is an S.O.B. Maybe I made a mistake."

"You know, " he said quietly. "I've got an idea that might be good for all of us. I'll tell you all about it at dinner. Come on, let's eat. I'm starving." Taking her arm, he led her to the dining room.

Cassy walked along Tourmaline beach, looking out at the vastness of the Pacific Ocean. She liked the beach, located just a few blocks from her new apartment and a few thousand miles from her old life.

It was a busy day. Flying in, finding the flat, checking in with the San Diego PD and getting her new assignment. She was tired, but it was a good tired. A tired born of striking out and making a new beginning. She'd purged the old place before she left, throwing out pictures and other mementoes, anything that reminded her of Tom. It was the only way she could go on.

Closing her eyes, she gave in to the feelings washing over her like the waves on the sand. She could feel Tom's hands on her body as he made love to her. The soft touch of his mouth on her breast, the hunger when their lips met. "I do love you, Tom," she whispered to the surf. "I'll love you until I die. Be happy."

Reaching into her jacket pocket, Cassy pulled out a small silvered object. Throwing with all her might, she sent the mini-recorder skipping out across the waves, watching as it was swallowed up into the sea.

*******

Tom wiped his mouth, setting the crumpled napkin on his plate. "Frannie, that was wonderful."

"Thanks, Tom." She rose, starting to gather up the plates.

He was faster, pushing up from his chair and taking the dishes from her hands. "No. You cooked, let us wash up."

"But?"

"No arguing." His voice was firm, but his eyes were twinkling. "Come on, Rita. You go fill the sink, and I'll wash. Harry, help me clear the table."

Obediently, they stood to follow his orders.

"Ryan," Harry said, glaring over the rim of his glasses. "This is the last time you're giving me orders, understand?"

"Understood, Skipper." Laughing, Tom filled his hands with dirty dishes and walked into the Lipshitz kitchen.

"I don't know, Cap." Rita said, taking another wet plate from Tom's hands, wiping it and handing it to Harry to put away.

"Why not?" he asked. "Look at how well we work together."

"Harry," Tom interjected. "We're doing a sink full of dishes, not running a business."

"Okay, so it's stretching things a little." Harry put away the last dish and sat at the small kitchen table, gesturing for the other two to join him. "Let's look at it another way. I'm retired, with a lot of years in. I got a good pension, insurance, savings, I'm set. What about you two?"

Rita frowned. "I've got Chris's pension, and a separate monthly social security check for Christina, plus a little savings of my own." She looked at Tom.

"Not much. I still haven't recovered from the divorce. I've got a few dollars coming to me in pension for the years I've put in, but," he sighed, "I've gotta admit that it's not gonna carry me very far."

Harry looked at Rita. "How about you? Can you live without working?"

"We can make it," Rita insisted. Harry looked over his eyeglass rim at her. "Okay, okay, so we can't live very well, but we won't starve."

"And how happy are you being Susie homemaker?" Harry asked.

"I love being with Christina, you know that." He nodded. "But," she sighed, "I have to admit that I miss working. Sometimes, after a long day of chasing her and picking up toys, I really miss working."

Harry turned to the other man. "Tom?"

"Hmm? Oh, sorry. I really don't know what I'll do. I suppose I could go back to Boston, work for my dad at the restaurant. He can always use a cook, or a busboy." He looked up, a desolate expression on his face. "Hell, I don't know. I just don't know if it's in me to start over from scratch again."

Rita reached out, placing a sympathetic hand on his wrist. "I know how you're feeling. Frannie told me about you and Cassy. I know it's not exactly the same as me and Chris, but you've just lost someone you love and on top of that, you've lost your job, too. It's hard." She looked away. "Nobody knows that better than I do. But I also know there's a light at the other end of that long dark tunnel you're in now."

Harry leaned forward, placing his hand over Rita's. "So how about it kids?"

Tom and Rita exchanged glances. Harry could almost see the spark that passed between them. Then all three broke out into grins.

"Okay," Tom said. "I'm in. Rita?"

"You know, Cap, when I came for a visit, I never intended to settle here again...."

"Where better to settle than with people who love you and Christina?" Harry said. "Frannie'll help take care of her. Heck, we can even put toys in the office for her to play with."

"Besides," Tom broke in, "I'm gonna need a buffer when he starts playing captain again. How about it?"

Heels clicked and the three looked up. Frannie and Christina walked hand in hand into the kitchen. "You've been out here a long time," Frannie said, looking at Harry. "So have they agreed or do I have to get tough?"

Rita smiled. "You knew about this?"

"Whose idea do you think it was?" Harry asked, grinning a Cheshire grin.

"So, Christina." Rita turned to her daughter. "What do you think about moving here and living near Uncle Harry and Aunt Frannie?"

"And Tom?" Christina asked, crawling into her new friend's lap.

"And Tom," Rita assured her.

"Yay!" She started bouncing in his lap, until Tom wrapped her in his arms, stilling the motion and planting a soft kiss on her hair.

"I guess it's settled," Frannie said, pulling out wine glasses and handing them around.

"You bet," Harry grinned as he opened a bottle of wine and filled each glass.

The three adults rose and Tom passed Christina into her mother's waiting arms. Rita lifted her glass, settling the little girl snugly on her hip. "Here's to new beginnings?"

"And new friends?" Tom added.

"And a new business." Harry finished.

Frannie held her own glass, saluting the three others. "To the firm of Lipschitz, Lorenzo, and Ryan, Private Investigators."

Glasses clinked and lives began anew.

~ Finis~