Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction written for fun and not for profit. All Diagnosis Murder characters are property of CBS/Viacom. Original characters, including Danny O'Shea and "Winnie" a.k.a. Wincel Atherton Eubanks, III, are mine.

Spoilers: Ok, there is one, I admit it, but if I tell you what it is, and you have seen the episode, it will spoil my story, so I don't know what to do about that! I guess you can e-mail me if you really need to know. My e-mail is on my info page on this site.

What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas

Chapter One: Coffee, Tea, or Crackers and Ginger Ale?

Steve Sloan looked at the contents of the toilet bowl in horror and disgust as he rinsed his mouth and spat. Throwing up seemed to have aggravated the strained muscles in his back and side, and though it had relieved some of his discomfort, he was still very nauseous. He winced as his sore muscles protested the movement of reaching out for the handle and flushing, and hoped he would feel better in the morning.

He wasn't sure how he had hurt his back, but he figured he was doing some simple thing he did every day and just didn't notice it at the time. It seemed that taking out his suitcase, packing, and being sick had all aggravated the injury, and he was in considerable discomfort now. Swallowing a couple of aspirin for his pain and some tablets to settle his stomach, he smiled slightly, glad that the rest of the world didn't really care how he had hurt himself, and grateful that he couldn't remember. He still recalled when the San Francisco Giants had been forced to put an embarrassed Sammy Sosa on the disabled list when he sneezed and strained a ligament in his back.

Steve frowned as he realized 'I don't remember' would be the wrong thing to say if his father noticed he was hurting and asked what had happened. The soreness had been bothering him for a few days, though, and he decided he could blame it on taking out the trash at Bob's. He hated lying to his dad, but he wanted to avoid worrying him, and not knowing what had caused the mysterious pain would worry Mark. Steve knew if his father pressed him, he would continue the small deception by pointing out that a few days relaxing beside the pool in Las Vegas, when he wasn't attending conference meetings, of course, would be just what the doctor would order if he were allowed to examine the injury.

Having brushed his teeth, Steve stripped down, slid into bed, pulled up the covers, and tried to remember what he had eaten that day. He wasn't feeling any fever or pain, aside from the strained muscle at any rate, so he didn't think he could really be sick, it was just that something he'd eaten had disagreed with him. He turned over, trying to find a position that was more comfortable for his sore back, and really hoped the nausea was just a bit of indigestion. He'd missed breakfast, eaten lunch at the hospital, and dinner at Bob's, and if he'd gotten sick on something he'd had at either of those places, he knew his father and friends would be suffering, too, because they had joined him at both meals.

His frown deepened as he realized that, if he had gotten sick from the food at Bob's, the restaurant was in for some serious trouble because there would be a large number of other victims, and they all would be angry. His heart beat a little faster as he considered the possibility of lawsuits and media coverage. He and Jesse, and to a lesser extent, his father, had all put a good deal of time and energy, not to mention money, heart, and soul, into the restaurant over the years. The business had gotten over a murdered marine and a crazy man who had tried to goad Steve into killing him, but a food poisoning scandal was something that no restaurant could survive unscathed.

Rolling over again, he groaned slightly as his sore muscles complained once more. The food had smelled and tasted fine. No one else had mentioned feeling ill. They were very careful about sanitation and avoiding cross-contamination in the kitchen. Chances were, if it was the food at Bob's, they would have gotten complaints from the lunch crowd by the time they began serving dinner. Satisfied for the moment that it was just him and absolutely, positively could not be the food from his restaurant, Steve changed position once more, and settled in to go to sleep. If anyone else had gotten ill, he would hear about it in the morning because his dad had planned a bon voyage breakfast for him and Cheryl before they left for their conference in Las Vegas.

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS

Steve awoke in the darkness and looked over to his clock. The red numbers told him it was three seventeen in the morning. His dad's breakfast was planned for eight, which would give him and Cheryl just enough time to get to the airport for their eleven o'clock flight. As he lay there, staring at the ceiling, Steve felt a rumble begin in his stomach and, even alone in the dark, he couldn't help smiling self-consciously. His stomach was demanding food only hours after violently rejecting it.

Grunting softly from the pain of his sore back, Steve sat up on the edge of the bed, pulled his shorts on, and climbed the stairs to the kitchen. Once there, he made a beeline for the fridge, and, after several moments of squinting into the light and frowning because nothing he saw particularly appealed to him, his eyes came to rest on a jar of strawberry jam, and he smiled.

Taking the jam out of the refrigerator, he turned toward the counter where he switched on the small light in the range hood. Getting a plate from one cupboard, and the crunchy peanut butter from another, he found two slices of bread in the breadbox and took a knife from the drawer. Whistling softly and tunelessly to himself, he slathered peanut butter thickly on one slice of bread and smeared strawberry jam on the other. After pressing the two slices of bread together, he put the jam away, and got out the milk and a glass.

Fifteen minutes later, he was wiping down the counter. When he was finished, he drained the last of his milk in one huge gulp, rinsed the glass, placed it in the sink with the plate and knife, and headed back to bed feeling very contented and relieved to know he wasn't really sick.

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS

Steve awoke again, gasping in pain this time, and he had just glanced at the clock to see that it was quarter of five when a sudden wave of nausea overcame him. He threw aside the covers and sprinted toward the bathroom, dropping to his knees before the toilet just in time to hurl the contents of his stomach into the bowl. For the next few minutes the nausea was so intense and the vomiting was so forceful it seemed as if his entire body, and not just his stomach alone, was intent upon expelling whatever had upset it so. Every time he retched, an inhuman noise came from his throat, and while he couldn't understand how he was making such a racket, he silently prayed that it wouldn't wake his dad.

After what seemed an eternity, he slumped back away from the commode and moaned softly. His abs were getting sore from the workout they had just received, and the strained muscle in his back was protesting the abuse as well. Lethargically, he rose to his feet, drew a glass of water from the sink, rinsed his mouth, and spat. Then he drew another glass of water and sipped it slowly as he tried to gather himself and think about his situation.

In two hours, he had to get up and get ready for his trip to Las Vegas. He really didn't want to miss the opportunity because, besides the informative meetings he would be attending and the new technology he would be learning about, he had a presentation to give on Friday. To be perfectly honest, he was also really looking forward to meeting his fellow police officers from across the country and spending time in the casinos and beside the pool. He'd seen Kathryn Wakeley's name on the list of presenters, and he was hoping to get together with her, too. It just wouldn't do to be sick now, but he knew, if there was something seriously wrong with him, getting on a plane for Vegas was the last thing he should be doing.

Reaching out to open the medicine cabinet so he could get the thermometer made his sore muscles complain again, and he groaned softly. Not really convinced that he was doing the right thing, but too stubborn to do anything else, he put the thermometer under his tongue and very firmly decided that, as long as he wasn't running a fever, he would just return to his bed and hope he felt better in the morning. While he waited for the electronic beep that would tell him his temperature had registered, he flushed the toilet and put some toothpaste on his toothbrush, thinking that he would want to brush the nasty taste out of his mouth before going back to sleep.

The thermometer beeped, and he took it out of his mouth, squinting to read the numbers. With a small sigh of relief, he noted that his temperature was normal. Rooting around in the medicine cabinet, he found a few more tablets for his stomach and an aspirin alternative for his sore back and now, abdominal muscles, too. After taking the pills with plenty of water, he brushed his teeth and headed back to bed for the third time that night, hoping desperately to feel better in the morning, or at least well enough that he could hide his discomfort from his father.

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS

When the alarm went off, Steve slapped the snooze button, and spent the first ten minutes of the day assessing his health. He was sleepy, and with good reason, no doubt about that, but other than a mild headache, probably the result of sleep deprivation, he felt fine. He had not the slightest twinge of nausea, and even the strained muscle in his back hurt less. So, with a yawn and a stretch, he climbed out of bed and headed for the shower. Twenty minutes later, he was sprinting up the steps, his suitcase in one hand, his socks and shoes in the other.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," Cheryl laughingly called to him as he came down the hallway to the kitchen. "Are you about ready?"

"I sure am," he told her as he pulled on his socks and stepped into his shoes. "My bag is packed and waiting by the door."

"Get a load of this guy," Jesse taunted. "He lives the closest, and he's the last to arrive. Come on, Steve, I've been waiting at least ten minutes, and I'm starving. Your dad wouldn't let us start without you."

Steve took a big whiff of the wonderful smells his father's cooking had generated, and, as he took his seat, he said, "Well, don't let me delay you any longer, Jess. Dig in."

As platters of food made their way around the table, Steve helped himself to pancakes and sausage, fried eggs, bacon, toast and muffins. To avoid his father's disapproving looks, he also added a pile of freshly sliced strawberries and melon balls and poured himself a big glass of orange juice. The friends laughed and talked their way through breakfast, and Steve gave his word that he would send CJ and Dion each a post card while he was in Vegas. He also jokingly promised Jesse that he would try not to win too much at poker for fear the house would think he was cheating and try to arrest him.

Once they had finished eating, many hands made light work, and in a matter of minutes, the table was cleared, the dishwasher loaded, and the leftover muffins and sausage put away. Then everyone headed out the door. Amanda was on her way to her mother's to pick up the boys after they had spent the night with their grandma. Jesse had to work, and Mark was taking Steve and Cheryl to the airport. She had actually ridden out to the beach house with Jesse, so her car was still safely tucked away in her garage.

Out in the driveway, Steve offered to transfer Cheryl's suitcases from Jesse's car to his dad's, but when he lifted the dauntingly large bag from the trunk, the sore muscle in his back spasmed painfully and he had to quickly lower the oversized luggage to the ground. Moving her carryon from his left hand to his left shoulder, he then picked up the heavy bag with his left hand and was just able to move it over to his dad's car. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed his discomfort, but Amanda and Cheryl were busy chatting, and Jesse was about to back out of the driveway, shouting that he was late for work, calling his goodbyes through the open window of his car, and wishing Cheryl and Steve a safe trip. His dad had been busy making room for the luggage, so Steve was relieved to realize that no one had spotted his awkward moment.

Once the bags were loaded, Steve surprised Cheryl by holding the front door open for her. "Would you like to ride up front with Dad?" he asked.

"Thanks," she smiled, "but you're taller. I'll be fine in the back."

"Cheryl," he insisted, "it's a Mercedes. It's not like there isn't any leg room."

"Well, ok, if you're sure," she said, giving him a slightly confused look.

"I am, now get in, or we'll be late for our flight."

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant," she teased, and climbed into the passenger seat.

After making sure that she was settled in the car, Steve closed the door and got in behind her. The fact was, his back was suddenly killing him again, and he wanted to avoid his father's scrutiny or they would be making a side trip to the hospital for some x-rays on the way to the airport. Once they were out in heavy traffic and his dad's attention was focused on driving, he began subtly rolling and shrugging his shoulders, and twisting his upper body to stretch the cramping muscle, but nothing he did seemed to help. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he settled into the rich leather seat and tried to enjoy the rest of the ride to the airport.

At the airport, he suppressed a groan as he got out of the car, and instead of testing his sore back further, he waved a skycap over to unload the suitcases. While the man was busy with their bags, Steve opened the door for Cheryl and then went round the car to say goodbye to his dad. Mark had gotten out, presumably to help with the luggage, but since the porter had everything under control, he just stood there, behind the car, watching. And as Steve approached him, he narrowed his eyes with a knowing look.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Steve replied, trying to sound confused, "why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know," Mark answered. "You look tired."

"Well, I had a bit of a restless night," Steve admitted. It wasn't exactly a lie.

"Excited about the trip or nervous about the flight?"

Steve grinned. "Yeah." He wasn't afraid to fly, but he certainly preferred driving when he had the choice because it put him in control, and he was looking forward to the conference and to seeing some of the friends he had made on previous trips to various cities.

"Well, try to get some rest on the plane," Mark suggested as he shared a warm handshake with his son and gave him an affectionate squeeze on the shoulder. Leaning over to give Steve's partner a peck on the cheek, he said, "Cheryl, enjoy your trip and try to keep him out of trouble."

"That's a full time job, Doctor Sloan," she said jokingly, "and this trip is supposed to be a semi-vacation."

"I know," Mark replied with a grin, "but would you do it for me?"

"Hey, you know I always have his back."

"Well, I will leave you two to get checked in," Mark said as he went around the car and climbed in. Putting down the passenger side window, he told them, "Enjoy the conference, and Steve, don't forget those postcards for CJ and Dion."

"I won't, Dad," Steve replied patiently, trying not to squirm too much as his back started giving him hell again. Then he waved and stepped away from the curb so his father could drive away.

As they turned and followed the skycap into the terminal, Cheryl looked up at her partner and said, "You know, you don't look so good."

"I'll be fine," Steve grumbled, and reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his wallet and gave Cheryl a few bills. "Here's some money for a tip. I'm going to find a men's room. I'll meet you at the gate."

Before she could reply, he headed off in his own direction, intent on finding a shop that sold aspirin or something like it to ease pain of the intense spasms he was having in his back.

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS

Cheryl couldn't help watching her partner, and it wasn't just because he was such a handsome man, she mused, though he was indeed that. She kept watching him because she was seriously concerned that he was becoming gravely ill before her very eyes, and she could do nothing to help him. Twice while they were waiting in the lounge to be called to board their flight, she had suggested that a change of plans might be in order. The first time she had been rudely rebuffed with an admonishment to, 'Quit acting like my mother, you're much too young.' The second time, Steve had finally confessed that he had been suffering from a pulled back muscle for a few days and that it didn't seem to be getting any better. He promised he would see the hotel doctor about it if it got any worse after they arrived in Vegas, and he made her promise to leave him alone in the meantime.

Now, though, she was finding her end of the bargain increasingly difficult to keep. As the plane had climbed to cruising altitude, Steve had gotten paler and paler, then he had developed a slight sheen of perspiration, and his breathing had become rapid and ragged. His eyes were closed and his face was drawn in a tight mask of pain, and every now and then he would gasp or groan when it became too much to bear. Finally, after one particularly bad spasm left him shuddering, Cheryl decided she couldn't, in good conscience, honor her part of their deal.

"Uh, Steve?"

"Don't say it, Cheryl!" he grunted through tightly clenched teeth.

"Say what?"

"'I told you so!' I just don't want to hear it."

"Oh. Actually, I was going to ask if you would let me page one of the flight attendants."

"What for? What could they do?"

"Well, if there is room in first class, they might let you go up there," she suggested. "At least you would have more room to stretch out and try to get comfortable. Maybe, if there is a doctor on board, he can give you something stronger that whatever you have already taken for the pain. I don't know, there must be something they can do. I'm getting really worried."

Steve turned his head to look at her and tried a smile, but it quickly turned into a grimace as he turned green. Leaning forward, he began to rummage frantically in the storage pocket on the back of the seat in front of him.

"Steve?"

"Do you have an airsick bag over there?" he asked.

"Um, I don't know, let me look."

"Can't wait," he said curtly, unfastened his seat belt, and tried to stand.

Even before he could get his balance, a flight attendant was by his side. "Sir, I'm sorry but you have to stay in your seat until the fasten seatbelts light has gone out."

"Can't. Gonna be . . ."

His words were cut off as a thick, white, waxy paper bag was thrust, already opened, into his hands just in time. It was a humiliating moment for him, as he stood there, hunched over and retching. The force of his body's rebellion squeezed tears from his eyes, made his nose run, and made his knees go weak. He could hear the other passengers murmuring, and though he wanted to apologize for disturbing them, it was all he could do to keep breathing. If it weren't for the steadying hands of Cheryl and the flight attendant, and the fact that he was leaning heavily against the seat in front of his, he probably would have fallen over.

The ordeal ended as suddenly as it had begun, and, after taking a moment to orient himself, Steve collapsed carefully into his seat. He fumbled for a bit, trying to close the bag and fold the tabs down to seal it, but the stewardess gingerly took it from him before he could spill it all over. Then he just closed his eyes and sat there for a little bit.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, too embarrassed to even look at the young woman. "That has never happened to me before."

"It's all right, sir," she replied kindly. "You might just be the first passenger I have ever had who managed to get it all in the bag."

Steve supposed the comment was meant to lighten his mood, but it only made him feel worse. Even so, he managed a smile, though he didn't open his eyes.

"I'll just dispose of this, and bring you some water and . . . uh . . . another bag, just in case."

"Don't bother," Steve murmured, with his eyes still closed, "I feel better now."

By the time the young woman returned, Steve was dozing pleasantly. Though his eyes were closed, he was awake and aware of what was going on around him. He was just too exhausted to respond to any of it. He heard Cheryl say, "I'll take those," and sensed something being passed across in front of him, probably some bottled water and a fresh barf bag, and then his partner asked quietly for a blanket and a pillow. A few minutes later, he felt his seat slowly lean back; the blanket was tucked around him and the pillow was slipped under his head. Cheryl's cool hand caressed his face, probably checking for signs of fever, and that was all he knew until the plane hit the tarmac in Las Vegas.

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS

"Look, I feel fine," Steve said adamantly, and, as if to prove a point, he pulled both of their heavy suitcases off the luggage carousel at the same time and headed off to the taxi stand.

"All I am saying is that it couldn't hurt to get checked out," Cheryl said as she snatched their carryon bags off the rotating track.

"I don't think it's necessary," he insisted. "I really am all right."

"Maybe you are, but you were violently ill on the plane, and in obvious pain," she reminded him.

"And now I'm not, so let it go," Steve said impatiently and picked up his pace a little.

Cheryl kept up with him easily, partly because she was carrying the lighter load. "Ok, I'll drop it, for now," she said reluctantly. "But I still expect you to hold up your end of our deal and see the hotel doctor if your back starts to hurt again or if you get sick. I promised your dad I'd look after you, and if you don't cooperate, I'm going to tell on you."

She had deliberately finished off her argument with a touch of humor, knowing that if she could make her partner smile he would be more likely to agree. Also, if he were truly ill, it would be easier to get him to go along with her suggestions later if she avoided angering him now. She was pleased to see that her strategy had the desired effect.

"I'll honor our agreement," he said, and then smiling slyly down at her as he stopped at the curb and stood waiting for their turn at a taxi, he added, "even though you didn't."

He didn't say the words, he rarely did, but Cheryl could tell from his gently teasing tone that he had been grateful for her concern even in spite of the fact that it was slightly irritating now.

"Hey," Cheryl reminded him, "our original agreement was about your backache. It had nothing to do with you puking your guts out for the stewardess."

Steve grimaced. She'd just shot down his good humor, but he could hardly be angry with her for speaking the truth. "Don't remind me," he muttered, and gratefully moved over to the trunk of the taxi that had pulled up in front of them so he could help the driver load their bags.

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS

By the time they got to the hotel, both Steve and Cheryl were anxious to check in. Cheryl wanted to unpack and look up some old friends and close acquaintances with whom she could hit the casinos before the conference got started with the official convocation ceremonies later that evening. Steve just wanted a few minutes away from her appraising eyes to decide exactly how healthy he was feeling and whether or not he needed to lie down for a while before he connected with a couple old friends of his own.

When the taxi pulled up to the front entrance of their hotel, a porter came out and helped the cabbie with their bags. He greeted them cordially and welcomed them, and then he led them in to the front desk. The lobby and what Steve could see of the casino had a heavy Mafia theme that made Steve distinctly uneasy. While cities like New York and Chicago sometimes took a perverse pride in their Mob history, Vegas practically reveled in it. Steve imagined it was romantic and exciting to most tourists, but to him, having dealt too many times with the human casualties of such organizations, he found it rather disturbing and depressing.

"Steve Sloan and Cheryl Banks," Steve said as he approached the desk. "We're here for the Police Investigators' Conference."

The young blonde behind the desk tapped a few keys on her computer, frowned slightly at the screen, and then smiled up at him. "If you'll excuse me a moment, sir, I just need to call and confirm this reservation, and then I'll take care of you."

Steve tried hard to convince himself that all the Mob memorabilia surrounding him had made him slightly paranoid, but he couldn't help feeling the girl's behavior had been a little odd. So, as casually as he could, he wandered down the length of the desk toward her, picked up one of the hotel's tourist brochures, and tried to eavesdrop on her conversation as he pretended to read about the sights and sensations of the infamous 'Sin City'.

"Yes, I'm sure it's him," she said quietly into the phone. "Steve Sloan, and he looks just like the picture you showed me . . . Sure, I can stall him for a couple of minutes . . . Ok, but hurry."

Steve moved quickly back to Cheryl as the woman finished her conversation, and he said, "Something is about to happen. I don't know what, but I don't think it will be good."

She gave him a look that clearly said she thought he had taken leave of his sense. "What are you talking about?"

"Someone is looking for me," he said. "The girl just made a call to tell somebody I was here. Apparently, she has been given a picture of me to be sure she would know when I came in."

"Maybe it's one of your Fed friends," Cheryl suggested tauntingly, still thinking it was some kind of joke. "They're not great ones for subtlety."

"No," Steve said, "they're not due to arrive for a couple more hours. We had plans to meet for drinks this evening."

"Detective Sloan," a voice called out across the lobby, and Steve automatically reached for his gun, which wasn't there.

Wheeling to find the person who had called him, and maneuvering to place his own body between his partner and the potential threat, he was surprised to find a rather pleasant-looking, dark-haired young man crossing the lobby to meet him.

"I'm Danny O'Shea," the newcomer said, holding out his hand to shake, "one of the casino hosts."

He fumbled a bit when Steve refused to take his hand, but brightened his grin when Cheryl stepped out from behind her partner. "And you must be Detective Banks," he continued almost without pause, and shook her hand instead.

"Forgive me if I seem a bit rude, but I don't believe I know you," Steve said, moving slightly forward so that the young man had to step back and distance himself from Cheryl.

"Oh, I wouldn't expect you to, but we did meet once in L.A."

Giving young Mr. O'Shea a grin that showed too many teeth to be friendly and using a tone that was more a threat than a request, Steve said, "Then perhaps you should refresh my memory."

"Steve," Cheryl hissed.

He cut her a look that clearly said, Be quiet, I'll handle this, and then he looked back at O'Shea. "Well?"

"My sister was Meghan O'Shea LaRue," he said as if that explained everything.

From those few words, Steve knew, it was something the young man's voice, the way it seemed difficult for him to say her name, the way he softened his tone when he spoke of her, like he was invoking some magic word, that she had been one of his cases.

"I'm sorry, but I don't remember her."

"I'm not surprised," the host said. "There were so many names. She and my four-year-old niece, Callie, had spent the day shopping in L.A. They were just about to leave the city when the parking garage they were in blew up."

Steve nodded, "I remember now, that was one of Carter Sweeney's bombings. I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Yes, I know," O'Shea replied, "I was in court for your testimony, and I could tell you had a lot of compassion for all the victims and the loved ones they left behind. That's why I asked Lori," he gestured toward the receptionist at the desk, "to let me know when you arrived. I just happened to spot your name on the list of guests registered for this conference and, I, uh, I wanted to thank you again for what you did. I've arranged with the hotel manager to upgrade your room to a luxury suite, and I got some complimentary tickets for you to see Penn and Teller tomorrow night."

"I was just doing my job, Mr. O'Shea," Steve said, a bit taken aback, "none of that is necessary."

"I know, and that only makes it all the more admirable," the young man answered, "I want to do this for you, and please, call me Danny."

"Ok, Danny," Steve said. "I appreciate the gesture, and I don't mean to be rude, but I can't accept."

"Actually, you can," Danny said. "You have no jurisdiction here, so there is no problem with you accepting complimentary services from the hotel or casino. I looked into it before I made any arrangements."

"Look," Steve said patiently, "I appreciate what you are trying to do, but a lot of people worked on that investigation, and there are a lot of other fine officers at this conference who do what I did and more every day. It wouldn't be right for me . . . "

"Detective Sloan, please," Danny pleaded. "I understand what you are saying, and I don't deny that, but you did something that mattered to me, personally. You got justice for my sister and her daughter. If any of the other people involved in that investigation were here, I would be doing the same for them. In fact, I have made the same arrangements for Agent Wagner. It would really mean a lot to me if you would accept this small gesture since I will never be able to show you how truly grateful I am for what you did."

The young man seemed so sincere that Steve wanted to accept, but he had to pause and wrestle a moment more with his conscience as he thought about all the other cops at the conference who would not receive special treatment because they didn't just coincidentally happen to have a connection to one of the hotel staff. He could tell Cheryl would like to experience the luxury of a suite instead of the LAPD's normal economy lodgings, and he would like to share such a boon with her, but he couldn't convince himself it was the right thing to do. Before he could make a decision for himself, though, Danny O'Shea and the receptionist made it for him.

"Lori, help me out here," Danny called.

The pretty blonde tapped a couple of keys on the computer and then affected a vapid giggle. "Oops!" she said sweetly and fluttered her lashes at Steve. "It looks like we accidentally double-booked your room, and the other party has already checked in. I'm afraid all we have left is one of the penthouse suites. Of course, since this was our mistake, there will be no additional charge. Is that all right?"

Steve looked at Danny askance and said, "That's cheating."

Danny just shrugged.

"All right, I accept your hospitality," Steve finally acquiesced. "But . . .," he paused. He had been going to say, I really wish you hadn't, but that would have sounded ungrateful. "But it really wasn't necessary," he said instead.

"Maybe not for you," Danny said, "but it was for me."

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS

As Steve returned to the table with his third plate, this time heaping full with two burgers and a mound of steak fries from the late night buffet, he fended off his companions' amazed looks by telling them, "Hey, I missed lunch."

Cheryl was the only one who knew it wasn't entirely true, but she kindly refrained from saying anything. The fact was, once they had checked in at the hotel and registered for the conference, Steve had decided discretion was the better part of valor, and after unpacking, he had chosen to take a nap in the king-sized bed in his half of the suite while Cheryl went off to explore the casino. He had awoken around two, feeling a little hungry, but, reluctant to press his luck with a heavy lunch, he had called room service and ordered chicken soup with crackers and gingerale, which the waiter had served to him while he relaxed in the Jacuzzi that was located just across from the main bathroom of the suite. It had settled well in his stomach, and by the time he and Cheryl met Ron Wagner and Kathryn Wakeley for dinner, he was ravenous again.

When he had introduced Cheryl to Ron and Kathryn, he had been amused to see his partner's eyes light up when the tall handsome man shook her hand. The attraction was obviously mutual as Ron had held her chair for her when they were seated and had stayed close to her all evening, only leaving her side to fetch her a cup of coffee or a piece of cheesecake from the dessert bar. Steve secretly wondered how Amanda might feel to know her detective friend and her FBI agent had enjoyed each other's company so much, but he decided that it would be best to inform Cheryl later that, although Ron and Amanda were by no means an exclusive couple anymore, they had been very serious for a while. He knew she would want to be considerate of Amanda's feelings if they ever had the opportunity to discuss the conference, but she could only do that if she knew all the facts.

As for himself and Kathryn, well, he had thought they had worked out all of their problems the last time they had worked together, but she was being a little standoffish. He didn't think he had done anything to make her angry, but he could tell something was wrong, and he knew he would have to talk to her later. Tonight though, was for good times and getting reacquainted with old friends. It was neither the time nor the place to discuss his plans for later in the evening.

". . . he should have blown himself sky high, but there he was," Ron laughed, "a little bit singed, and with the toilet seat hanging around his neck, but otherwise unharmed."

Cheryl laughed with him, and then said, "That sounds like a guy Steve once told me about. Steve, tell them about that guy at the birthing class when you pretended to be a paramedic to get inside. What was his name, Fox or Wolf, some kind of animal, wasn't it? Steve? Steve?"

"Huh?" Steve shook his head to clear his thoughts.

"Tell them about the guy with the bomb who walked into Amanda's birthing class. What was his name?"

"Oh, Bare, Bob Bare," Steve said, still distracted. "He built a bomb with instructions he found on the internet, but when he finally surrendered, he couldn't figure out how to disarm it."

Everyone around the table blinked in confusion, obviously not seeing much humor in the situation. Cheryl gave him a mildly frustrated look and a playful swat on the arm, saying, "You left out the rabbit." Looking at Ron and Kathryn, she added, "It was much funnier last time he told it."

Ron chuckled slightly and said, "I guess we should all just be grateful that some people have more luck than brains."

Cheryl nodded her agreement and laughed with him, but Kathryn put a hand on Steve's arm and asked, "Steve, are you all right? You just seem a bit out of it."

Steve shook his head again and said, "I'm sorry, guys, I've just been under the weather the past couple of days." He gave his half-demolished plate a mildly disgusted look and said, "I think I should make an early night of it."

Cheryl shot him a look that said Remember our deal, but she only asked him, "Are you still feeling poorly?"

"No, I'm fine, just tired," he said, rising from his seat and hoping Kathryn would follow him as he suddenly felt the need to spend some time alone with her. "I'll see you all in the morning."

Kathryn rose, too and said, "I'll walk you to your room. It's been a long day for me, too, and I need to get my beauty sleep." Smiling back at Cheryl and Ron, she said, "You two have a pleasant evening. I'll see you tomorrow."