"A Kind Word and a Gun"
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of CSI:NY. They belong to Anthony E. Zuiker and CBS. I'm just borrowing them.
Disclaimer 2: I don't promise to put them back in one piece.

Author's Note: When the plot bunny hops into the room in a pinstripe suit and fedora, it can only mean one thing. Folks, Don Flack, PI, is BACK.

Chapter One:

All these happy, merry people can kiss my ass.

From where I sit, tis the season to be dark, cold, dusty, dirty and downright depressing. My office chair creaks as I lean back, blowing perfect smoke rings at the ceiling. I've got gooseflesh from my elbows down to my fingernails, thanks to the fact that the only thing my radiator is good for is bein' a coat rack. The cold is creepin' in through the cracks in the walls. And I know that outside, it's worse. It's November, and the skies are gray, the wind off the harbor is cold, and there's about three inches of snow on the ground. I know that if I turn on the radio right now, they'll be talkin' about two things- the weather, and some big to-do that the folks from the Macy's department stores are putting on at the end of the week.

I don't see a damned thing to be celebrating.

He'd have been 24 today. It's funny how I can't remember my own age half the time, or my phone number, or my address, but I can remember Adam Ross's birthday. Would have been. Instead, he's a lot colder than any of the rest of us.

And I'm the one who made him that way.

One o' the guys at the 6th Precinct said "What say ya, Flack" to me the other day, and I turned around, half-hopin' it would be him… and when I found out it wasn't I told the kid more than what he wanted to hear, in language that would've made my Stella's ears bleed. It wouldn't have surprised me in the slightest if Mac Taylor would've locked me up for what I said, but in my mind, those four words are his and his alone, and nobody has the right to ask me that anymore.

Speaking of my secretary….I hear the outside door open, hear her heels clicking on the floor. "You're late!" I yell through my office door. I watch her stop, can almost see her roll her eyes through the frosted glass. I hear her heels, watch her silhouette stop in front of the door. My name's on the door, but there's a few letters missing. One hand goes on the door knob and she slides the door open and leans against the doorframe. Even in a pair of pants and a peacoat, she's still sexy as hell. I know what sort of curves are hidin' underneath all those layers. "Three inches of snow on the ground, suddenly everybody in this city forgets how to commute," she grumbles. "Guess if I slept in the office like someone I know, I wouldn't be late, huh?" She gives me the once-over, and gives me a disapproving snort. "You look like hell."

"Thanks," I reply dryly. She runs her fingers through her curly brown hair and I grin. "You're getting the floor wet."

"It's half rotted anyway."

I know, it's one of the things on my list to fix if I ever get the money. Along with the holes in the walls, the radiator, repainting my name on the door...You'd think the man who put Sonny Sassone away for life would get some kind of reward, but no. I'm still me-Don Flack Jr, private eye. Swimming in cigarette smoke and debt.

"Your boyfriend'd kill me if you fell through the floorboards," I tease. And the world would be out one seriously fine specimen of woman. She may be a little on the older side but she's as beautiful as Marion Davies and twice as fun. And she's the only woman in this city who'll put up with me.

Stella Bonasera raises one perfectly-arched eyebrow and politely tells me I'm more than welcome to fall through the floorboards anytime…and keep going. "Come on now, Stel," I chuckle, "You kiss the Chief of Police with that mouth?"

I still haven't figured out what happened there. Two years ago, it was startin' to look like Stella and me might have a little somethin' going on. Now she's seein' the Chief of Police, and I'm chasin' skirt on Friday nights. Dames are sure complicated.

She smiles sweetly. "You're an ass, Flack," she says. "But speaking of the chief," she says, coming into the office and shivering instantly, "you're supposed to meet him at this address." She hands me a slip of paper. The address is on the Upper East Side, in an area I vaguely recognize as being the sort of neighborhood where one needs a suit and tie and half a mil in the bank just to get past the doorman.

I put it on my desk and take a drag on my cigarette. "It's too early for Mac Taylor to be ordering me around," I say.

"One doesn't keep Andrew Bedford III waiting," Stella replies, rubbing her arms with her hands. "Jesus it's cold in here." She looks at me. "And you've got your sleeves rolled up. Haven't you noticed the weather?"

"Andrew Bedford the Third, huh?" I repeat, ignoring the comment about the cold and sitting up and putting my cigarette in the ashtray. "Let's see…married to a knockout from New Hampshire, or Vermont, or one of those rich people states, makes his money telling fashionable high society how to dress, has a spoiled brat for a son-which, by the way, if my name was Andrew Bedford the Fourth, I'd probably act out too-"

"Anything else?" Stella asks with half a smile.

I lean back again. "Nope. That about covers it."

"Yeah well, I know something you don't know."

I grin. "Oh yeah? What's that?"

Stella leans over my desk and pushes the address back at me with one manicured fingernail. "He's dead. And his pretty little wife swears it was murder."

Author's Note II: Like it, love it, hate it, please review. Also, if you're just joining us, check out "A Good Man is Hard to Find." Constructive criticism is usually warranted and always appreciated.