This is a work of fanfiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle and McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators.

For Owl: Thanks for the challenge.

No Doubt

by

Cheride

The late afternoon sun was shining brightly, creating a glorious sparkle as the water in the pool moved ever so slightly in the gentle breeze. The nearby highway was unusually quiet, allowing the sound of waves crashing on rocks to drift up from the beach below, adding an unending score to the song of the gulls flying lazily over the shore. It was the perfect day to be sitting on the patio with a glass of ice cold lemonade, but Frank Harper didn't seem to be aware of any of it.

In response to the warmth of the day, the detective had removed his jacket, which now hung on the back of the empty chair next to him with a tie stuffed mostly into the pocket, and his shirt sleeves were rolled casually up his forearm. He even had a glass of lemonade, but it sat untouched on the table before him as he stared dejectedly, not quite in the direction of the man sitting across from him.

"It sounds like it's been a rough few weeks," Hardcastle said to his friend.

"Hmph." The detective cast a more pointed glare at the older man. "Rough might cover it if we were only talking about the sudden glut of cocaine and guns coming from that new gang over in El Monte." He shook his head. "El Monte of all places," he said, rolling his eyes as if he still couldn't believe it. "And rough might even cover the snitch we thought we could trust making off with twenty-five grand. But now Halze's over in Saint Mary's on life support and somebody's gonna have to try and explain to his five year old boy that sometimes the good guys just don't win. I don't think rough comes anywhere close to that."

Hardcastle didn't argue the semantics of the situation, and he didn't offer any platitudes. Being responsible—in any small way—for a guy lying in intensive care was a big load to carry. He figured not too many people understood that the load was bigger when you hadn't even managed to get what you'd been after; when the sacrifice appeared to be in vain. But he also figured Harper was here because cops always understood that, even ex-cops. His next words came without much conscious thought.

"I know someone who could help you guys out."

Harper didn't look over at him. "Please don't tell me again what a good cop Sandy Knight is. No matter how good he is, he sure as hell isn't a guy I can send into a group of new blood drug runners to make a buy. Besides, he's already done at least one or two broadcasts; they do show the news out in El Monte, you know."

"Not Sandy," Hardcastle growled. He paused, suddenly giving more conscious thought to his latest idea. Not that he had any doubts, but he thought the lieutenant might. But he finally uttered the final word. "McCormick."

Frank did look up then. "McCormick? Come on, Milt. That's just about crazier than Sandy. He's been here, what? Like three or four weeks? Didn't I just tell you the first felon we tried to send in made off with a suitcase full of department money?"

"This time would be different," the judge said calmly. "This is McCormick."

Harper looked at him more closely. "You sure? You know this would not be an easy sell back at the office. And we might both end up in chains if it didn't work out."

"I'm sure," was all Hardcastle said.

Frank paused himself, looking as if he was beginning to give the idea some thought. By the time he voiced his next question, the first one seemed to have been answered. "You think he'd do it? It could be dangerous." He shook his head. "Look at Halze."

"Guys like that can smell a cop a mile away. McCormick's not a cop." He met his friend's eyes. "And, yeah; he'd do it."

"You're sure?" Harper asked again, just a touch of skepticism in his voice.

"Let's ask him." The tone and nonchalant shrug made clear the judge already knew the answer.

"McCormick!" Hardcastle pushed himself out of the chair, stretched up on his toes to see across the lawn, and repeated his shout. "McCormick!"

Mark McCormick sauntered toward the patio, garden shears in hand and a light glean of sweat covering his skin. "What's up, Hardcase? Hey, Frank."

"You up for a little job, hotshot?"

The ex-con grinned slightly. "I thought I had a job," he said, raising the shears in salute.

"This would only be a temporary assignment," Hardcastle told him dryly. "Plenty of time for the hedges afterward."

McCormick looked between the two older men. "A job for Frank, huh?"

"That's the idea," the judge answered.

"Okay."

Harper raised an eyebrow. "Might be dangerous."

Mark glanced back at Hardcastle. "What do you think?"

"Might be dangerous."

"You gonna help them set it up?"

Hardcastle didn't look to Harper for confirmation; this part of the deal wasn't negotiable. "Of course."

"Okay, let's hear it." He dropped into the chair with an easy laugh. "Anything's better than hedges."

And as Harper began his story about drug dealers and illegal guns, Hardcastle slid into his own seat, a small, satisfied smile on his face.