Chasing Cars by PersianFreak

Disclaimer: These characters belong to Charlaine Harris, I just consider them my playmates. This story is inspired by the show Castle, and the title is inspired by the song of the same name by Snow Patrol.

Rating: Mature

A/N: I'm back! Not tired of me, are ya? Happy May Long Weekend to all you Canadians and uhm… happy non-special Monday to everybody else.
I've been working on this story since the beginning of February and I'm predicting nine chapters right now, though it could get longer. I'm also really quite fond of it so please do let me know what you think! You guys are the reason I keep posting things over here on FF =]

This time,

Don't need another perfect line,

Don't care if critics jump in line,

I'm gonna give all my secrets away.

"Secrets", OneRepublic

Chapter One

The first thing I notice when I walk into the bullpen of the police station is that it's so much better lit than TV shows have led me to believe it would be.

The next thing is that there's a constant low thrum of conversation and movement. Detectives roll around in their office chairs, phones ring, and suspects and convicts come and go, handcuffed and with grim expressions on their faces.

I bite the inside of my lips to keep from grinning from the excitement of this whole situation; no matter how many New York Times Bestsellers I write, there are always new experiences that make my heart beat faster, and this stint is the most exciting of them all. The day my publisher Pam received a phone call from the mayor's office was my 29th birthday, and I had begrudgingly dropped by the office to sign off on some last minute changes to the cover art. With the release date mere weeks away, I had let Pam drag me down to the arts department and agreed that yes, the warmer colour theme did add to the mystery of the shadowed figures. Or whatever. As I liked to point out as often as possible, I just wrote the books. The rest were up to Pam, as far as I was concerned. Regardless, that incident had resulted in me being present when the mayor himself called, asking to speak to me. I had scrambled to pick my jaw up off the floor before grabbing the phone, and had proceeded to have a conversation with Mayor Brigant in which he had declared himself a fan who would very much like to receive an advance copy of my upcoming book.

Now, two years later and in light of the release of yet another book, I had casually mentioned to my friend Niall Brigant that it was tough, trying to write about cops when all I get to go on is interviews from retirees. There are details – I had told Niall – small nuances in every atmosphere that can make or break a book, that an author just can't write about unless he or she has experienced it firsthand. For example, I had explained, it's tough to write about a criminal case when I had never been present throughout the process of one getting solved. Niall had given me a long look, drank some of his scotch, and suggested that maybe I should find a way to get involved, to which I had responded that I had befriended the mayor in an attempt to do so. Throwing his head back to laugh, Niall had told me he would see what he could do, which is how today I'm walking into the downtown police station of the city of Calgary. I ask the kind gentleman escorting me where I can find Captain Bartlett and he points me towards the office in the far corner. I thank him and stride past the various desks to come to a stop in front of someone who appears to be the Captain's secretary. I tell her my name and wait patiently as she announces my arrival over the intercom, and smile at her as she waves me in. Captain Bartlett is an older man reminiscent of Martin Sheen, whose smile and grey eyes only hint at the depth of character that has made him a well-respected police captain. He introduces me to Lieutenant Edgington and tells me rather bluntly than no detective will enjoy having a smart-aleck mystery-writer shadow him for the next few weeks. Having said that, he promises me the detective I am assigned to is one of the best the city has ever seen, though I might as well prepare myself to feel entirely unwelcome. I take the news in stride and wait as he calls a Detective Northman to his office, declining his offer for a coffee in the meantime. Edgington eyes me up and down and makes pleasant small talk until Northman walks in a minute later. I stand up to shake his hand while mentally wondering what would make someone this pretty pick a job this ugly. I'm usually not one to dismiss someone's intelligence based on their looks since I'm often the first to get dismissed because of my D-cups and blonde hair, but I have never seen someone with eyes so blue and muscles so well-defined be anything other than an Abercrombie & Fitch model. He regards me with cool disdain, and shoots his superiors a look that hints to an argument they probably had before my arrival.

"Ms Stackhouse," he nods and extends a hand I accept.

"Detective Northman. It's great to meet you. I look forward to working with you."

"Likewise, Ms Stackhouse." His voice drips with insincerity. I have to admit, it has been years since someone has looked at me without even a hint of interest; even if my body isn't enough, my charm and the words "New York Times Best-Selling Author" tacked on the beginning of my name often garner the attention of most males, as well as some females. And even though I'm as prone to the occasional bouts of insecurity as the next woman, a part of me realizes that his attitude not only has very little to do with me, it's not even caused by the situation Niall has put him and his captain in. He dislikes me, at a fundamental level, without having even had a single conversation with me.

I'm intrigued, to say the least.

A few minutes later, I'm following the good detective out to his desk.

"Ms Stackhouse, meet Detective Charles Twining, Detective Thalia Zervos, and Detective Clancy MacKenna. This is New York Times Best-Selling Author Susannah Stackhouse. She'll be shadowing us for the duration of this case." He sounds bored, and a tad sarcastic when he introduces me, yet I'm too curious to be offended at his attitude. I smile and shake the hands of all three, attempting to keep track of their names and faces. Zervos stands out as the only girl, her thick dark hair gathered into a ponytail, her delicate features formed into a serious expression. She nods at me and I turn to Twining who grins and goes so far as to ask me how I'm doing. He too has long dark hair, gathered into a low ponytail, and wears a single gold hoop in his right ear. He tells me he is a fan of the books, and when Northman turns away for a moment, quietly asks me if I'm willing to sign his books for him. MacKenna is equally friendly, and the very definition of Irish, though he rolls his eyes when Twining asks me for my autograph. I'm grateful that I don't seem to need to prove myself to these people; none of them, save for Northman that is, seem too bothered by me.

"Twining, care to bring Ms Stackhouse up to date with the case?"

"Yes boss." Twining leads me to a stand-alone whiteboard against the wall. It's mostly blank save for a picture of a victim, potential leads and witnesses branching out from the photo like a spider web.

"That," he taps the photo, "is Victor Madden. He was found face-down in the Men's room of the public library, in a pool of his own blood." I wince. The photo features Madden, with his waxy skin and dark greasy hair, on a morgue table. I'm almost glad there is no photo of the crime scene; there is a difference between writing about gory deaths and witnessing the reality. I'm really more interested in the process the cops go through anyways.

"When?"

"This morning. The coroner puts his time of death at around nine last night. The library closed at ten."

"How was he not found any sooner, in a public bathroom?" This doesn't sound right.

Twining shrugs. "It's an out-of-the-way bathroom in the basement stairwell. Mostly homeless people use it. That's how he was found this morning."

"Are there any leads?"

He gives me a shrug-head shake hybrid. "He does appraisals, for artwork. He has a multi-million dollar apartment downtown. We're running through his clients for anything that jumps out."

"Does he have any family?"

"Parents died years ago, but he has a sister in Vancouver. She's flying in tonight."

"We're going to Madden's apartment." Northman interrupts, and turns to me. "You can come, or you can stay. We're going to be there for a while though." He shoots a pointed look at my insensible black stilettos.

"I have flats in my bag," I smile. I may be rich and famous, but I'm not an idiot, despite what Northman might think of me.

"Alright then." He gives me a curt nod before turning to his team. "Let's haul ass."

"So what's Northman's story?" I ask Detective Zervos in the car. Her partner, MacKenna, is driving and shoots me a look in the rearview mirror. Outside the car, the arrival of February has done little to warm up the frigid Calgary climate. Here, the only difference between November and February is the colour of the snow piled on the sides of the streets; by this time of year, it's black with grime. I rub at a grey smear on my black winter coat and pray for summer.

"His story?" Zervos turns around to raise an eyebrow at me.

"Does he ever smile?"

"Why, you want to tap that?" The corner of her mouth twitches upwards.

"At this point, I'm not sure 'that' is human. Does he express anything other than disapproval?"

"I got a pat to the shoulder once," MacKenna volunteers with a wry grin.

"He's a good detective." Zervos defends.

"He really doesn't like me." I comment, looking out the window.

"He really doesn't like anybody."

"And you guys never wondered why?" I ask them. How can you work with somebody like that and not develop a complex? I'd be killing myself to get a reaction out of him.

It's Zervos' turn to shrug. "We're co-workers, not friends. He gets the job done and he does it well. He'll respect you if you earn it. Nobody really cares if he cracks jokes while shooting bad guys." Fair enough, I suppose. I figure there is very little to lighten the mood anyways, when there's a mangled body on the floor.

"Is he married?" Read; does anybody put up with him at home?

"As in, does anybody put up with him at home?" MacKenna winks at me in the mirror.

"No," Thalia responds and her partner grins at her.

"They're fuck buddies," he tells me with a gleeful grin, noting my questioning silence.

"Shut your mouth, Clancy."

"I'm sorry, they used to be fuck buddies," he corrects himself, looking not at all sorry.

"What happened?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.

"What do you mean?" I can see her raised brow in the mirror.

"When fuck buddies stop – excuse my French – fucking, it's usually because one of them starts wanting something more." I would know.

"And I thought I was the detective," she muses. "Neither one of us wanted more. I got transferred to his team, and we stopped. There's a non-fraternizing policy."

"Shitty," I comment. I'd be pissed if I had to spend every day with my ex-fuck buddy. A part of me wants to ask for a whole bunch of details I have no business knowing, but the nostalgic look in her eyes stops me and I turn to admire the scenery outside the window.

888

We spend four hours at Madden's apartment, going through everything. The place is immaculate and filled with high-end furniture, and I walk around, careful not to touch anything as I've been ordered. On the bedside table lies a pile of library books which at least explains what he was doing there, though judging by the look on Northman's face he isn't entirely convinced. I get it; a library card doesn't explain why someone would be found dead in a library. There are no photos of girlfriends; nobody other than what appears to be his sister and her family, as well as some childhood photos of the two of them. They seemed pretty close, I think sadly. Twining quietly informs me that they hadn't found a cellphone on the body, and there isn't one in the apartment or in Madden's brand-new sports Audi either. There was no way somebody like Madden didn't have a cellphone, I comment and Twining grins at me, patting me on the head and calling me 'young grasshopper'.

By the end of the day when I'm about ready to head home, we know that Madden had been hired by a Felipe de Castro, a well known but never-convicted drug pusher working as an arts dealer, officially. De Castro will have to be brought in, of his own volition of course because there are no grounds to bring him in as a suspect, what with his practically spotless record.

"Why would De Castro have Madden killed?" I ask, looking around at the four detectives seated at the conference table. We all have cups of coffee in front of us, and outside it's almost dark, but I'm unwilling to leave when everybody else is still working.

"Maybe he fucked up an appraisal," Thalia suggests, running a finger around the rim of her cup.

"It would take a huge miscalculation on Madden's part to get him killed," Twining points out.

"De Castro would be far more likely to make Madden sell everything he's got to make up for whatever money he lost De Castro." Northman shakes his head. "He's too careful to whack a guy for screwing up once."

"Maybe it wasn't his first time screwing up," MacKenna suggests.

"How big of an idiot would you have to be to screw up more than once when your employer is De Castro?" Zervos rolls her eyes. I can see her point; someone like De Castro wouldn't pick any idiot to work for him, it would have been a pretty well thought out choice. Messing up once is understandable, it happens, and would have earned Madden the mob equivalent of a slap to the wrists. To mess up more than once, you'd either have to be stupid – which would imply De Castro is stupid – or suicidal. And there are easier ways to kill yourself.

"What if it had nothing to do with money?" I speak up and instantly become the center of attention as all four detectives raise their brows at me. I can't decide if it's because I've spoken in a discussion with a bunch of cops, or because what I'm saying makes sense. I forge ahead, "I mean, you said it yourself," I look at Northman, "De Castro would be far more likely to make Madden make up for what he lost if it was about money. And he couldn't have been an idiot, otherwise he wouldn't have ended up working for De Castro. So what would make a mob leader decide to whack someone who I'm assuming was making him a lot of money?" There is a long moment of silence.

"We'll figure that out tomorrow," Northman breaks the silence, looking at his watch. "It's almost seven. Let's get out of here before I get another call from Twining's girlfriend bitching me out for keeping him through dinner." That earns him laughter, and I hear MacKenna mimic who I'm assuming is Twining's girlfriend as they leave the conference room.

"Detective Northman," I begin once we're left alone, and he looks up from where he's closing a file to shoot me a coolly inquisitive look.

"Yes, Miss Stackhouse?"

I had been planning on asking him what his problem was with me, but now, alone to bear the full weight of his gaze, I'm chickening out. "Nothing. Have a good night." Downstairs, I sign out of the building with my brand-new access card and throw myself into my car. My dark blue BMW X5 is my baby, and I sigh as I navigate through my iPod to find a mood-appropriate playlist before pulling out of the parking spot and onto 6th Ave. I'm home not long after, and treat myself to a glass of wine and a bath after a light supper. Despite Northman's less than enthusiastic attitude, I'm looking forward to this. I'm used to being the author of the story; it's interesting to be the one without a clue as to how it's going to end. Like I've somehow managed to delve into my own books, I think to myself and smile as I sip at my wine. Even if I don't enjoy Northman, his team I find rather intriguing. They have an interesting dynamic; professional, yet not above teasing when the opportunity presents itself. Inevitably, as I sink further down in the warm water of the bathtub, my mind wanders to Zervos and Northman, and their pre-professional relationship. I wonder what it takes for someone as cold as Northman to show emotion; I can't imagine him being so clinical in bed, or in any intimate setting.

When the water turns cool, I wrap a towel around my body and drain the tub, pulling on my softest pajamas before crawling under the covers to fall asleep almost instantly.

888

I fall into a pattern with my temporary coworkers, specifically Northman. I try to come in early every morning, not wanting to give anybody any more reason to resent me beyond the fact that I'm some rich girl with connections. What I find, the first morning I let myself into the building with my fancy new security badge, is Northman sitting quietly in the lunchroom with a cup of coffee, evidently catching up on some paperwork. He looks up, regarding me expressionlessly, and I shoot him a small smile before pouring myself some coffee and joining him at the table. We work in complete silence until everybody else starts heading in and we join the rest of the team.

"She looks distraught," I comment later that morning, watching Isabel Robinson nee Madden answer Detective Zervos' questions from behind the interrogation room glass.

"She looks fine to me," says Twining, instigating a look from me.

"Because she's not crying?" I quirk a brow. "You can see how devastated she is by the look in her eyes."

"That's very astute of you, Miss Stackhouse," Northman comments from the corner where he's perched on a table, arms crossed and legs stretched out. Meeting his eyes, I keep my expression carefully blank and regard him.

"I'm paid to notice details and write about them, Detective." Turning back to the one-sided mirror, I add, "I can't imagine what she must be feeling right now. She's not a suspect, is she?"

"She was having dinner with her in-laws," Twining tells me with a shake of his head. In the interrogation room, Isabel is just telling Zervos that Madden had a girlfriend.

"There was nothing to indicate that in his apartment," MacKenna murmurs with a frown.

"Was she someone you knew?" Zervos asks on the other side of the glass and Isabel shakes her head.

"We talked on the phone all the time, and a few months ago he just started sounding different. Happier." She shrugs and sniffles a little bit.

"And he told you it was because of his girlfriend?"

"Well, he said there was a woman. I assumed they were together, but maybe she was just someone he knew." Madden's sister hesitates, frowning slightly. "He was always so vague about her, and he never told me her name. I thought it was weird, but I didn't push it. He sounded happy," she repeats, choking on the word.

"Why would you not tell your sister the name of your girlfriend?" I ask and turn around to face the roomful of detectives.

Northman gives me a long, hard look, and says, "Because she has the potential to get you killed."

"She had no clue her brother was working for De Castro; just that all of a sudden, a few years ago, he started getting paid better." Zervos sighs when she joins us, and we reconvene in the conference room. "And all of a sudden he's dead."

"Are we going to try and find the girl?" I ask.

"Where do you suggest we start, Miss Stackhouse?" It's Northman who speaks, with a look that makes me instantly bristle.

"Are there any women close to De Castro?" Looking around at the team, I watch as Twining pulls up the file on De Castro and flips it open.

"He has a girlfriend, and a daughter from the girlfriend."

"Age?" Northman asks.

"Girlfriend is 27, daughter is 5." He shoves two surveillance photos forward, both featuring a young woman carrying her small child in her arms. I wait until everyone has gotten a look at the photos before pulling them towards me on the table. She's gorgeous, I note, with red hair and a gamine figure seemingly unmarred by her pregnancy.

"She looks miserable," says Zervos quietly.

"Like a woman in love, huh?" I grin at her over my shoulder.

"What is it with you women? Maybe she was just having a bad day." MacKenna frowns over at us, and I point out the woman's expression.

"That is not the face of someone having a bad day, Detective. Call it women's intuition; she is miserable."

"What's her name?" asks Northman, disregarding our bickering.

Twining flips through the file. "Sophie-Anne Leclerq. Originally from Lethbridge, she attended U of Calgary for a degree in Speech Pathology."

MacKenna frowns. "Who the hell gets a degree in Speech Pathology?"

"Speech pathologists," everyone – save for Northman, of course – choruses. MacKenna sighs and mutters something about getting more coffee.

"So what, you think she is the girl?" Twining asks me. I shrug and look at Northman who meets my gaze.

"Let's find out. Bring her in." That is the cop equivalent of break! And everyone begins to disperse. "Ms Stackhouse," he calls and I pause as I toss my things into my bag. "I understand that writing mystery novels gives you the impression that you can do this, but you are here to observe, not join in. I'd appreciate it if you limited yourself to observation." His gaze is steely and I have to bite back my retort, because it seemed to me like my contributions were helping the case, and nobody else seemed to mind. But he's right, I suppose. I had been overstepping my bounds, and just because nobody else complained doesn't make it right. I have no interest in rocking the boat here.

"I didn't realize I was hindering the progress of the investigation," I tell him politely.

"You may not see it, but you are. If my team learns to depend on you here, they'll expect to be able to depend on you on the scene, and I'm quite certain you don't know the protocol when there's guns involved." My silence is sufficient response; I have no clue what to do with a gun. "That's what I thought. Like I said, I'd appreciate it if you didn't overstep your bounds."

"I'm sorry that I seem to have jeopardized your team," I say solemnly.

"I don't need your apology." Wow. What a douche. You do need a swift kick to the pants, evidently. "Coming along?" he asks from where he is now standing by the door, and I nod to follow him.

888

I get to tag along when, a few hours later, we catch DeCastro's girlfriend picking up her daughter from school.

"Ms Leclerq," Zervos calls out and Sophie-Anne shoots us a look like she's cornered prey and hoists her daughter up on her hip. The little girl regards us, beaming when I wink at her. Around us, the older kids are starting to head home while parents usher away their younger children, a few kids in bright orange vests stopping traffic with the shrill sound of their whistles as people cross the suburban street. This is a nice part of town; within walking distance of the university and close to the C-Train, the houses here sell for close to a million dollars, easy, all thanks to the prime location.

"What can I do for you?"

"I'm Detective Zervos, this is my partner Detective MacKenna and this is Susannah Stackhouse," Zervos gestures while Sophie-Anne eyes me, no doubt noting my lack of a title, and I try to smile reassuringly. "We were hoping to ask you some questions?"

"Um, I can't, I'm sorry." She attempts to push past us.

"Did you know Victor Madden?" Zervos asks instead and it makes her hesitate, if only for a moment, but that's enough for Zervos to pounce. "He worked for Felipe De Castro."

Sophie-Anne seems to deflate and puts her daughter down to crouch to her level. "Sweetie, go play on the playground for a bit, okay?"

"What's her name?" I ask when the tiny redhead has run off. Over my shoulder, Sophie-Anne is watching her daughter.

"Had. Hadley."

"She's beautiful."

She smiles, though it doesn't reach her eyes, and turns back to Zervos. "Mr Madden is dead? It was on the news."

"Yes. You knew him?"

"I saw him a couple of times in passing." She shrugs, not very convincingly. "He worked for my fiancé."

Fiancé? MacKenna and I exchange a look.

"Your fiancé?" Zervos asks, and Sophie-Anne holds up her left hand where a large diamond is sparkling.

"Felipe proposed. You should update your files." She smiles a little bit, like she knows full well that she is, by association, the subject of a lot of scrutiny by the justice system.

"So you didn't really know Victor."

"Not any more than any of my fiancé's other employees."

We keep talking, Zervos continuing to needle Sophie-Anne while MacKenna keeps his distance and I do my best to figure out what her deal is. Ten minutes later, I throw myself in the backseat, my frustration matching Zervos'.

"It's her. Did you see the look on her face when I asked her about Madden? And that 'Mr Madden' bullshit?"

"Well, let's find proof then." MacKenna placates in a perfect example of why the two of them work well as partners.

Several hours of going through all the information we can get on both Madden and Leclerq, I can finally head home to get some writing done. I have about twenty pages of notes at this point, written in my shorthand, that I need to type up and shape into some sort of a story I can send off to Pam for her approval. It's almost midnight by the time I'm done, and I crawl into bed only to be kept awake by thoughts of my talk with Northman. I'm pissed off at his attitude, but I understand his concern, which only furthers my anger.

The next morning, I briefly consider not having my coffee in the lunchroom. What it comes down to, however, is whether or not I can't accept that he was justified in what he said. If I'd been in his place, I probably would have picked insulting him over the safety of my team. I decide I can move past it, and head into the room to work on the rough draft of a plot that is slowly taking shape. He looks almost surprised to see me but still nods in greeting and that's when I notice the extra cup of coffee he has set out. I shoot him a look and take the seat to sip apprehensively at the hot liquid. I guess he'd been paying attention because he's fixed it the way I like it, and I murmur a thank you that earns me a smile. He's pretty much all forgiven at this point even though I wish I could have held a grudge, but I find I can't. It was a surprising gesture that I had not anticipated, and I find my thoughts drifting to it throughout the day as everyone Madden ever came in contact with is interviewed. The one that knows him best, other than his sister, appears to be the Starbucks girl around the corner from his house, because his coffee preference is the most information he has divulged to everyone. His clients, the ones that actually cooperate – as in, not De Castro – are all satisfied with his work and with no information that will help us. In the meantime, Northman and Twining dig up some actually useful information; Sophie-Ann attends a creative writing class on Wednesday nights that doesn't actually exist. A little smooth-talking gets us a warrant to her phone and credit card records, the latter of which reveal nothing while the former provide us with the proverbial jackpot.

"She made a call to Madden's cellphone four hours before his death," Twining announces.

"How did this not come up when we looked at Madden's phone records?" Zervos frowns and glances at the call sheets.

"Because her phone is registered to Sophie-Ann Threadgill, so it didn't get red-flagged. Leclerq is her mother's maiden name that she took after her parents separated. Daddy Threadgill was a big domestic violence fan."

"We get to bring her in?" MacKenna asks Northman who nods. I choose to stay back this time, and grab myself a cup of coffee from the kitchen to return and find only Northman working at the conference table. I look around and find nobody nearby; Twining must have gone off with MacKenna and Zervos or something, so I make an executive decision and do a turnabout to get another cup of coffee before returning to where Northman is still working. I grab a seat and place the coffee in front of him so he glances up long enough to quirk a brow at me.

"Do you mind if I ask you some questions?"

"Are you bribing me?" I shrug. "If I say 'yes', will you not?"

"Well, since you're being so kind about it." I roll my eyes. "What made you become a cop?"

"What made you want to write?" he retorts instantly.

"If I tell you, will you tell me?"

He sighs. "My daddy beat me."

Wow. "Seriously?"

"Nope. Parents were hippies. Too mellow to beat me."

"Your parents are hippies?"

"Met at Woodstock. You can thank me for the cliché in your dedication." He nods towards my notebook.

"So what made you…?"

"An asshole?" He smirks knowingly. "Cynicism."

"Because people are idiots?"

"Quite often, yes."

"You must love your job," I remark.

"I'm surrounded by people who are smart enough to catch idiots. It could have been worse." He lets that settle in and takes a sip of black coffee.

"Why do you dislike me?" I ask after a long moment of silence. What little warmth there had been in his eyes disappears, instantly.

"Because you're dead weight in this investigation."

Ouch. That's uncalled for. I've been helping. "Then why did you let me tag along with your team?"

"I didn't have a choice. Captain's orders," he says without even looking at me.

"Wow. Stop it with the warmth, Detective."

"Did you come to me for a hug? You will be sorely disappointed."

I run my hand along the rim of the Styrofoam cup. "Well Detective, I promise you won't have me hinder you for any longer than one case. That's it, just one." Walking away from him, I wonder at just how hurt I am by his words, even if he doesn't owe me anything. The coffee thing had seemed like progress, and it had gotten my hopes up a little bit since a part of me regards him as a bit of a challenge. It's been years since anybody didn't suck up to me. Not that I'm a bitch; it's just that everybody feels the need to appease me just because I write books that people like. Not counting the occasional critique, of course, because I do get those. Pam tends to give me a heads up so I can avoid them, but I usually spend a couple of days wondering what the hell they could be saying about me.

Regardless, the fact that Northman so openly dislikes me is a little unnerving, especially since I'm starting to like him. It has gone beyond just a preliminary attraction; most nights I go home and think about what he's up to, if he's lying awake thinking about me too. It's all very Twilight, I had to admit, but it's hard not to fall for his stunning blue eyes and sharp mind. For the next few days, I do my best to keep my mouth shut and find that it makes Northman look almost okay with having me around.

The second time the detectives have a conversation with Sophie-Anne, this time as a suspect, she breaks down and reveals that she had been seeing Madden for months.

"She says she didn't call him that night though," says MacKenna afterwards. "They met every Wednesday in the library and snuck out through the underground parking so they couldn't be followed by De Castro's surveillance team."

"But Madden was killed on a Sunday," I interject before I can stop myself and shoot Northman a nervous look.

"And if she didn't make the call…" continues Zervos.

"Oh, I don't know." MacKenna puts his elbows up on the table and rests his chin in his hands. "If you were a mobster and your hottie baby-mama was boinking your employee, what would you do?" He grins around the table and Northman rolls his eyes.

"So De Castro got Madden to meet him at the library? Why would he go, he had to suspect that something was up," says MacKenna.

"Unless they told him they would hurt Sophie-Ann," suggests Zervos.

"But she had no idea what was going on."

"She didn't have to," says Northman. "All De Castro had to do was call Madden on her phone and tell him to meet where he always meets Sophie-Ann. The fact that De Castro knew about the library thing could convince Madden that they'd somehow gotten the information out of her, and that she really could be in danger should he refuse to show."

"So he shows up to save his girl, De Castro's people grab him and he ends up with a bullet in his brain," Twining finishes the story and we all fall silent.

"Alright then, let's find the evidence," says Northman.

"It's not going to be easy," says Twining. "He's been tried a dozen times but never convicted, for anything."

"Then let's find something ironclad. I'm not letting this guy slip through our fingers again."

The following weeks are spent scouring every inch of information we can find. A lot of some pretty daunting interrogation methods later, one of De Castro's henchmen confesses to using Sophie-Anne's phone to lure Madden. The Assistant District Attorney cuts a deal with him, promising protection from De Castro and minimal charges should he tell the police everything he knows about De Castro's inner dealings.

And he does. Boy, does he ever.

What works in our favour is the fact that De Castro got sloppy with Madden; he found out about his relationship with Sophie-Anne and, in his anger, failed to cover his tracks as well as he evidently always did. Sigebert, the henchman who spilled the beans, had never been the assassin in De Castro's plans and Sigebert who is not exactly the brightest and a person of rather sensitive character had not appreciated the 'promotion'. It's almost a tad comical to see the 6'8" man make a confession with such a subdued tone, like a child who knows he has done something wrong. The DA wants to find evidence to charge De Castro with as much stuff as they possibly can from his long history of crime, and so I watch as Northman compassionately coaxes Sophie-Ann into revealing as much as she possibly can.

"Wow," I can't help murmuring as I watch and Zervos looks over at me.

"Surprising, isn't it?"

That snaps me out of my heart-wrenching moment. "What do you mean?"

"That he can be such a sweetheart out of the blue," she inclines her head towards the interrogation room.

I nod slowly and realize I have a bit of an in. "Thalia, when you guys were together-"

"We were never together."

"Right. When you were sleeping together, was he…" God, what am I even asking her. "You know what, nevermind."

"If you want him, go get him." She tells me with a smile.

"Who says I want him?"

"Nobody." Her grin widens. "He was good, you know. I don't mean the sex, but he was good. He's not always cold, just when he's at work. It makes him a better detective."

I let that sink in for a second and then nod. "Thanks."