Title: It's Five O'clock Somewhere

Chapter 1: Back and Forth Again

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: The fabled fourth mystery is here after all this time [follows Contraband, Libertad, and Ain't Life Grand (and Just Like Anything plus extra scenes on my LJ) for anyone just now joining]. I cannot apologize enough for taking this long in getting the last story to you. I hope you can forgive me. Thank you for giving this series a chance, despite the unorthodox genre. Thank you so much for your patience, and for sticking with me to the end. Let's wrap-wrap-wrap it up.

I love being married. It's so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life. –Rita Rudner

Back and Forth Again

Tristan DuGrey stood under the spray of the shower as he lathered himself up with his navy blue loofa. As the soap bubbles ran down his body, he helped himself to the shampoo. He was half way through washing his hair when the shower door opened and his wife slipped in behind him.

"Hey, you already had your shower this morning, you're cutting in on my time," he said.

"I thought you might need some help," Rory Gilmore said. She turned. "But I can go if I'm in your way."

Tristan grabbed her wrist before she could escape. "I do need help."

"You do?" she asked, stopping.

He nodded. "All I can get. And you should stay since you're already wet." He tiled his head down and she lifted her chin to meet him for a very wet kiss. He backed up to pull her under the water to further drench her.

She ran her fingers through his blonde hair and to rinse out the shampoo. Taking advantage of the situation, Tristan closed the small gap between them so their torsos were pressed up together. Without using her loofa, he lathered her up with her mango scented body wash. He pushed her against the back wall, lifting her enough to slid between her legs. Her back was against the wall again when he slid in between her legs. The soap ran down both of them as the temperature grew warmer and his lips found hers again. When he was in position, she moved her hips in rhythm with his, and her head fell back when she finished. He kissed her again and she held onto him for a moment before they parted.

When they caught their breath, Tristan reached for the conditioner to finish his shower. Once his hair was rinsed, he turned off the water and opened the door, grabbing her towel from the rack to wrap around her. He pulled on the ends of the towel so she'd step toward him. She pressed her hands to his slick chest and kissed him again. He was surprised by her willingness to continue, but didn't stop to ask questions. Instead he wrapped his own towel around his waist and followed her out to their bedroom, joining her on their bed. He covered her damp warm body with his own when her phone rang from the nightstand. They both groaned in protest.

She reached over for it and grudgingly answered, "Hello?"

Tristan didn't move from his place on top of her, nibbling on her free earlobe.

"Come on, no, not me," she said. "There has to be someone else who can go."

Sensing the inevitable, Tristan stopped his ministrations and instead snuggled against her as she continued to argue.

"Sick? I was a little under the weather yesterday afternoon, but I powered through. I'm that dedicated to my work. Can't Kyle learn from that and mimic it?" Her nose scrunched up. "Ech, I don't want to know the details." Her head fell back onto the decretive pillow in defeat, groaning again in displeasure. "Fine," she said shortly. Then, "I'm doing it, aren't I? If I'm snippy at the prospect then you'll just have to deal with it." She hung up and exhaled heavily. She lay still for a minute before finally saying, "I have to go. A car was pulled from the Hudson."

"Was someone in it?"

"Yup."

"That's unfortunate."

"Kyle is out sick and Marie is already out covering a big traffic collision on the Brooklyn Bridge." Dryly, she added, "Apparently I'm the only other staff member the Daily News has tonight."

Tristan rolled off her, letting her free to get up. She sighed again and sat, picking up the wet towel to take to the bathroom. She returned and went to her closet, while Tristan dried off and went to his own dresser. He pulled out a pair of boxer shorts and grey sweat pants. On the other side of the room, Rory was pulling on a pair of jeans over thermal underwear, all the while muttering about seniority. As she disappeared into the closet again, Tristan grabbed a t-shirt and tossed it over his shoulder. When Rory came back out, she had on a long sleeved shirt and was pulling a sweater over it. She finished off her outfit with two pairs of thick socks and shoes.

"Ugh, what am I going to do with wet hair? I'm going to catch a cold out there," she complained. "I can't believe Jimmy would risk my health like this, and when we're already a Kyle short."

Tristan ran his fingers forward through his own damp hair and watched sympathetically as his wife went to the bathroom to look for a quick solution. He put on his shirt and a pair of socks.

She returned a couple minutes later, her brown hair in a single braid, and stopped in the doorway. "How do I look?"

"Like the grumpiest reporter I've ever seen," he answered. "I'd give you any information I had just to avoid your simmering wrath."

She nodded curtly. "Just the look I was going for."

He followed her down a hallway, and then down the stairs that wrapped along a back wall of what used to be the guest bedroom. He liked the renovations and remodeling her grandparents had done to the apartment when they got married, but now it was quite a trek just to get from the master bedroom to the kitchen. It used to be a short walk. Now it was more like a day trip.

When they reached the kitchen, she was scowling. Darkly, she commented, "I don't even have time for coffee to get me through this miserable night."

"I'll warm you up when you get back," he offered. Her blue eyes met his, and then moved down to his lips. He was no mind reader, but he was pretty sure it wouldn't have taken much persuasion to get her to hike back up to their bedroom if time wasn't an issue.

Rory licked her lips, and he was sure they'd just reached a connection of telepathic proportions, but she cleared her throat. "I should get going." She went to put on her wool coat that went just past her hips and pulled gloves out of her pockets.

Tristan picked up her scarf and wrapped it around her neck for her. He pulled her sock hat over her head and gave her a kiss. "I think you're good to go."

She sighed, picking up her purse. "Yup. See you later—hopefully. Love you."

"Love you."

"Stupid cop beat," she grumbled as she headed out the door.

Tristan grimaced as he watched her exit. He gave her a couple minutes head start, ensuring she wouldn't reappear looking for a forgotten cell phone or notepad before he went to the kitchen. He went straight to the pantry and found a lone bag of popcorn.

Once his late night snack was ready, he carefully took it out of the microwave and went over to the couch. As per usual during the winter months, they had a fire crackling in the fireplace. Though the holiday was three weeks past, the Christmas tree was still sitting in the corner of the living room, fully decorated and lights twinkling amongst the branches, creating a pleasurable ambiance.

Tristan propped his feet up on the coffee table and pulled the corners of the hot popcorn bag. He'd just turned the television on when his own cell phone started to buzz from the lamp table.

He glanced over and saw the name. "No no no no no no," he whined, reluctantly reaching for the phone. "I don't want to go to the Hudson River," he answered. "It's cold out there."

"How'd you know?" his partner, Mark Stevenson asked.

"Excellent intuition."

"Great, be sure to bring it with you."

He went on to argue, "We aren't on duty."

"No, but we just cleared a case this week, so we're up. See you there."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory paid the cab driver and he thanked her in a language she believed was some form of Slavic before she climbed out of the yellow car. She headed for the police vehicles, their blue and red lights flashing in the darkness. She had to stop at the yellow tape outlining the perimeter when she reached the scene. There were uniformed officers milling about, talking in groups. They were bundled up in heavy coats and black earmuffs, and their breath was visible in the cold. She raised her gloved hand to a couple of them she recognized, but didn't smile. She wasn't in the mood for overly friendly gestures.

Rory inhaled the freezing cold air and could smell snow. It wasn't a skill that came to her naturally, but going outside with her mother on many cold occasions had honed her ability. She hoped Mother Nature had the decency to wait until she was back indoors.

She wistfully thought of the fire going in the living room at home. Having it lit, warming the room was one of her favorite things about winter. While things were icy and miserable outside, she could curl up with a book on the couch. The evening had shown such promise an hour ago.

She returned her attention to the object that had brought her out of her perfect, cozy apartment—a red Dodge Stratus that was dripping icicles. The body wasn't found in one of the seats, Rory easily deduced. There was an arm dangling lifelessly from the place where the left tail light was supposed to be. It looked like a woman's slender arm.

Rory shivered and looked away. It was only partly due to the cold. The sight of the pale arm made her a little queasy. She wondered if she'd have the strength of mind to punch out the tail pipe if she was ever trapped in a car trunk. Then she wondered if anyone had seen the wave for help. If so, help was late to arrive.

All in all, it wasn't a situation Rory hoped to ever be in. She looked back at the car and saw the two detectives. She knit her brows. "How did he do that?" she asked no one. It was her husband and his partner. She glanced behind her to the police cars that lined the streets, looking to see if she passed his black Camaro without noticing on her walk from the cab. Not seeing it, but sure it was there somewhere, she turned back. He must have changed in a phone booth, she figured.

Tristan had traded his sweatpants for a suit and long wool coat. He had his arms crossed and was glaring at the car with his jaw set, clearly as pleased at being out in the cold at this time of night as she was. She'd be amused if she wasn't feeling the same way he looked.

Rory watched the two detectives step toward the car trunk with a uniformed officer. Tristan lifted a large flashlight and shined it at the body Rory couldn't see. She had no intention of trying to get a better view. She scanned the scene, looking for the familiar face of the ME, but didn't see her anywhere. There was no medical examiner to tell the detectives anything about the body. If there was no one to tell them more, there was nothing for them to tell Rory.

This could take hours. It would take hours, she knew. And it was probably twenty degrees below zero, if she had to estimate, without including the windshield.

She glanced over at the car again, where a member of the CSI team came over with a camera. The detectives stepped out of the way to give him room as pictures were snapped at every angle of the car. When he was finished, a couple officers started to meticulously search the inside of the car.

Rory turned and started to walk away from the crime scene. If she was going to wait, she was going to do it inside. She could make a phone call later.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory walked through the deserted bullpen of the New York Daily News, passing a line of desks until she came to hers. She pressed the button on her computer to boot it up and then went to work peeling off her gloves. She tossed them on the desk and hung her scarf on the back of her swivel chair. With her coat still on, she sat down with a huff and rested her head on her bent arms. Just as she closed her eyes, she was startled by the voice of her editor.

"Finished already?" James West, the editor of the metro section asked her. "What've you got?"

Rory lifted her head enough to glare at him and wish the florescent lights weren't on. "A body was found in the trunk of a car pulled from the Hudson."

"I knew that part—except for the trunk part. What else?"

"I think it was a woman."

"You think?"

"The arm hanging from the place the tail light should have been looked too skinny to be a man's. So using that context clue, I can confidently say it was a female."

"You didn't stay to find out?" James asked with a frown.

"Do you know how cold it is out there?" she asked, pointing to the window lined wall. "I don't want to be out in that, waiting for the medical examiner to show up. I'll cease to be Rory Gilmore the person and instead become Rory Gilmore the ice sculpture. You could put me on display at company parties."

"Is this your first winter?" he asked rhetorically. He shifted his weight to his other foot. "So you have no facts to publish in the paper we put out."

"It won't make tomorrow's paper anyway."

"But we can get it up on the server tonight. That is, we could if you had any information to post."

"The details are pending," Rory said. "I'll get them when they're available. Watch." She pulled out her cell phone and typed a two word message, 'call me', and sent it to Tristan. "There. When he gets time to call, he'll probably have more information. And I know he'll spill his guts, because he doesn't want to be on the wrong side of my wrath." She continued, "Right now, I have enough to write a cryptic description that would make Stephen King's skin crawl." She put the phone on the desk and then returned to her crouched position.

"I guess that's something."

"I know you're just punishing me," she said accusingly. "I was off covering the UN, so now you think I need to make up for it. Couldn't you get someone from Sports tonight? Surely one of them could handle one little homicide. It'll put some muscle in their eyebrows. Like whiskey but without the hangover the next morning."

"Chuck can rub elbows with the manager of the Knicks, but he's lousy with cops. We're talking worse than you when you first got here."

"Hey!" she said indignantly.

"But you're much better now. Why don't you have some cake to cheer yourself up? There's still some left." He nodded over at one of her colleague's desk.

Rory glanced over at it and quickly looked away. "Gross, that's been sitting out all day."

"When has that ever bothered you?"

"It's probably dry. And there's a glop of icing just sitting there. Pass."

"Again, I don't remember that ever being a problem for you."

She knit her brows at him. "I saw a dead arm tonight, Jimmy. You look at a pallid appendage and then just think about eating day-old stale cake."

He was silent for a moment. Then, "You know, I'm starting to understand what people are saying about you."

She lifted her head, alert. "What are people saying?"

"That you've been acting kind of . . . crazy lately."

She scowled again. "I'm not crazy. Who's been saying I'm crazy?"

"It's just some whispering I've heard, like after the meeting yesterday. Did you say you wanted to hit Allen from marketing?"

"I don't know, when?" she asked, searching her memory. "Wait, he took up twenty minutes of the meeting, and he just yammered on and on about god knows what. Someone did need to slap him." Muttering, she added, "Such a waste of my time. I have better things to do."

"See? That there is on the abrasive side. You might want to curb that."

"So I get a little irritated sometimes, who doesn't?" She pointed a finger at him. "And if you say I'm PMSing, I will hit you. Why don't you go on home?" she suggested, making a shoeing motion with her hand. "I've got this. "

"Marie's supposed to be getting in some time tonight, too."

"We'll get our stories up, no worries. I know how to do it."

Obviously not hating the offer—both to go home and to get away from Rory—James headed back to his office for his coat. "All right. I'll see you tomorrow."

She called out, "Don't expect me before noon." She yawned and put her head back down on her desk.

"I have no intention of letting you into my newsroom before then."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Tristan and Mark walked through the front doors of the twenty-first precinct and went straight for the elevator. "I wish murderers would have the courtesy to commit their crimes indoors when it's freezing out," Tristan said.

"And earlier in the day," Mark added. He punched the floor number and crossed his arms.

When the lift stopped at the third floor, the detectives walked out to the squad room. They were the only ones there. They went straight to their desks, which faced each other, and started to remove their coats. Tristan bent down to one of his bottom drawers to retrieve a canister of coffee. It was Rory-approved, and therefore infinitely better than what the New York Police Department had to offer them. He went over to the coffee maker on a table against the wall and started a pot before returning to his desk. Across from him, Mark was staring blankly at his computer screen as it slowly booted up.

Upon checking messages on his phone, Tristan dialed his wife.

Several rings later, she groggily answered, "Hello?"

"Hey. Where are you?" he asked, wiping at the corners of his eyes.

She took a second before slowly replying, "The newsroom. I left your crime scene."

"That's twice tonight you bailed on me."

"It's freezing, and you could have taken hours. What time is it?"

"A little after two. We just got in."

"See? I was right," she said. "You sound tired."

"So do you."

"Are you crying?"

"No." He swiped at his eyes again.

"But your eyes are watering. I can hear it in your voice."

"You can hear my eyes watering in my voice? That doesn't even make sense."

"I was right wasn't I?" she challenged. Getting back to work, she asked, "Does your victim have a name?"

"Jane Doe. There was nothing to ID her."

"Drowned?"

"Probably, but not confirmed. The car wasn't rolled into the river recently." Tristan put a hand to his mouth to cover a wide yawn and then pressed the Power button on his computer.

"Stop yawning. You're going to make me yawn."

"Sorry."

"Who does the car belong to?"

"We don't know. The license plates were taken off."

"Got to love it when they cover their tracks," she said. "But it'll make it harder to deny it wasn't on purpose."

"Mm-hmm, silver lining. The car doesn't belong to anyone in the area. We canvassed the neighborhood."

"So there's a small portion of Manhattan who hates you right now."

"Isn't there always?"

Rory sighed into the phone, then began to read off her report, "So authorities are looking into missing persons reports in relation to a female body found in a red Dodge Stratus that was pulled from the Hudson River Thursday night."

"Stamp a date on it and send it to the presses."

"Will do," she said. "Right after I rest my eyes for a few minutes." She yawned again. "Maybe I'll see you in a few days."

"Here's hoping," he said before ending the call. He rubbed his forehead before logging into his computer. "Let the games begin."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Rory sat down in her chair with an oomph and pulled her top drawer open. She had a handful of new office supplies to replenish her desk. She eagerly stacked boxes of staples and brightly colored Post-its in the corner of the drawer. After she rounded up all the loose pens that were rolling around—rearranging them by color and ink levels, she closed the drawer and drummed her fingers on the desk as she glanced around the newsroom. It was nearly dawn. She'd fallen asleep until Marie came in, and finally typed up her own story. After another nap and a bad cup of coffee, she'd posted their reports on the website. She was just doing a bit of housekeeping before she went home.

She picked up her cellphone and dialed her husband. "It's your last chance," she told him when he answered.

"For what?"

"To get some details about your case in the paper."

"Always my first priority," he deadpanned, his voice still low from a night without sleep.

"I'm glad we're on the same page."

"Are you at work again or still?" he asked. "It's still dark out."

"Still. I haven't left yet."

"Neither have I. But I'm much less chipper."

"I've had a few power naps. And I'm going home soon."

Tristan groaned into the phone. "Come take me with you."

"Sorry, they need you." Getting back to business, she asked, "So is there anything new?"

"Nope. We've been buried in missing persons reports for the last five hours."

"Party time."

"Pretty much. Jane Doe is still Jane Doe, and we're waiting to find out the vehicle identification number to help us out."

"All right. Good luck." She ended the call, but didn't put her phone down. Instead, she dialed another number and leaned back in her swivel chair.

"Hmm?" Lorelai mumbled unhappily a moment later.

"Good morning to you too," Rory said happily.

"Are you bleeding?"

"No."

"In jail again?"

"No. And I really wish you wouldn't keep bringing that up. It's not that funny."

"To you," Lorelai said.

Rory went on, "This is your complimentary morning wake-up call."

"I didn't request one." Lorelai made an exaggerated crying noise, and whined, "I was asleep."

"That's the point of a wake-up call. Luke gets up early all the time," Rory reminded her.

"But he leaves quietly so I can continue my beauty sleep. That's love. I don't know what this is." Lorelai muttered, "Cruel and unusual punishment." Her voice was muffled, like she'd let her face fall back against the pillow. "Why are you so peppy anyway?"

"I've been up all night," Rory answered. "Well, off and on. I got called to work." She continued, summarizing her night. "And between napping and working, I'm still here." Powering on, she said, "I was just tidying up so everything will be ready for when I come in later, and I thought about how you should come to go shopping."

"I don't understand how that last thought is connected to anything before it."

"You'd have to be in my head."

"Sounds like a frightening place at the moment." Lorelai said, "We just went shopping."

"When?"

"Before Christmas."

Clearly, her mother was hallucinating in her half-wake state. "That was Christmas shopping, for other people," Rory pointed out. "This time will be for us."

Lorelai paused. "I like shopping for us."

"I know, so I'll see you tomorrow?"

"I can't. There's a group of bug scientists staying at the inn for a big convention."

"Entomologists?"

"Is that what they're called?"

"Yes. Hey, maybe that's why they chose the Dragonfly. It appeals to them."

"Mm, I guess," Lorelai said.

"Okay then, how about next weekend?"

"Fine," she said. "But you're going to have to remind me. I can't promise I won't think this is a dream later."

Rory pulled out one of her freshly organized pens and made a note on her large desk calendar. "Would you like another wake-up call?" she offered.

"Not remotely."

"Fine. You are penciled in. But in ink, because this is happening."

"Great," Lorelai said flatly.

Rory yawned and blinked a few times. "I should probably get home soon, I think I'm about to crash." They ended the call and she put her phone away. Her eyelids feeling heavy, and her muscles achy from lack of meaningful REM sleep, she stood and started putting her layers back on. Luckily, she was getting out of the office before she passed any of her co-workers. She'd probably only end up scowling at them anyway, disgusted by their luxurious full night of sleep.

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

With his elbow propped on his desk, Tristan rested the side of his face in his palm and closed his eyes. Across from him, Mark was on the phone, making noises indicating he was listening, as he took notes.

"Great, thanks," he said before hanging up. "All right, we have a VIN."

Tristan opened his eyes and clicked his computer mouse a few times, pulling up the police department's search engine. When his fingers were poised over the number pad, his partner read off the long number. When the results came up a few minutes later, he read, "It was reported stolen at the end of October, by a Josephine Lynnie."

Mark frowned and tilted his head, brown eyes narrowed. "Why is that name familiar?"

"I don't know."

He shook his head. "I'm too tired to remember, but I swear I've heard it before." He typed the name into his own computer and waited for the results. He hit his desk with his hand and pointed at Tristan. "That's right, she's the P.E. teacher at Hannah's school." He stood up and pulled his suit jacket off the back of his chair.

Tristan slowly got up and did the same. When their coats and scarves were on, they headed out to the elevator terminal. The bell dinged when it stopped at their floor, and the doors opened. The lift was already occupied. A man with dark greying hair in a charcoal pea coat stared out at them.

Tristan scowled and whined, "Now what?"

It was his father, Harrison DuGrey.

Tristan stepped onto the elevator, as though throwing himself into a confrontation, and his partner followed. Tristan tried to think of which case was coming to trial, but his brain was too muddled to come up with anything. He'd thought his father was through with him after his summer visit. There was no rhyme or reason to come to New York again. "Which case is it this time?"

Harrison glanced at him and then back to the elevator doors. "Jonathan Newman is the defendant."

Tristan frowned, confused—as he always was when trying to figure out what game his father was playing. "Who?"

"It was my case," Mark said.

"Your cases are my cases," Tristan argued.

"Not when you're out of town on vacation. The world keeps spinning."

Harrison snickered.

Tristan only tossed him a sidelong glance. When the elevator doors opened, he was still frowning, but didn't know how to respond. They all walked out of the precinct in tense silence, the cold hitting them as soon as they opened the door. Without another word to each other or a polite 'goodbye', the detectives parted from the attorney.

They continued to Tristan's car in silence, and he spent half the drive trying to make sense of the situation. He didn't have much luck. At least his father's summer visit had ended with a reveal—his opinion that Tristan's current occupation was all he was good for. He was an 'effective' investigator, and he correctly chose the job he's good at. Harrison had been wrong to try to stop him from going into law enforcement, wrong to have threatened him with money.

Harrison was wrong, and he admitted it. But for whatever reason, Tristan had yet to take pleasure in it. Having never imagined the scenario playing out, he'd intended to hold on to his resentment for the foreseeable future. This new evolution of their relationship felt worse than it had before.

Unable to hold the questions in any longer, he asked, "What happened with that Newman case? Who worked on it with you?" He pointed his thumb backwards. "Did you know he was taking your case?"

It took Mark a moment to process all the questions at once. "The guy killed his neighbor. A uni was assigned to help me. And no, this is the first I've seen of your dad since July."

Then why was he back, Tristan wondered. He hated that his dad wouldn't just come out and say it. He had to lurk around, intimidating him. Or intimidating his partner this time, for whatever reason. Tristan felt helpless, not knowing all the details of the case, not knowing if everything was done right.

He shook his head. Of course Mark did things right. He knew how to do his job, he was the one who'd recently been promoted, after all.

Something about it still bothered Tristan. Tiredly, he rubbed his face with his free hand. He needed to focus on what he was doing today, the new distraction would have to wait.

When they'd reached the elementary school on the other side of Manhattan, they signed in at the office and proceeded down the hall. Mark first headed straight for a classroom that was not the gym, but his wife's.

"We're here to work, you know," Tristan reminded him. "So keep the flirting to a minimum."

Mark gave him a withering stare. "I've had to watch you flirt with your wife for four years," he deadpanned.

"She wasn't my wife that whole time."

Mark waved a hand. "Technicality. I think you can handle five minutes."

Tristan followed Mark into one of the classrooms, finding it void of students. The only person was a redheaded woman, sitting at a cluttered desk in the front corner. She had a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and a red pen in the other. She was concentrating on the top sheet of a stack of papers.

Upon hearing someone walk in, she looked up, and her face brightened in surprise. She glanced from her husband to Tristan and back again. "Hey, what are you doing here?" she asked, setting her sandwich down and brushing her hands.

"Work brought us," Mark answered. He walked around her desk to her side and sat on the edge.

Tristan pulled out a chair from a desk in the back row of the classroom and had a seat. It was a long fall to the child size chair. While the married couple at the front of the room chatted, he leaned down far enough to peek inside the desk. There was a pile of books on each side, both unevenly stacked. Pencils and a large pink eraser laid haphazardly among the books, rather than on the designated groove at the front of the desk. Frowning at the disorder, Tristan began rearranging the books from large to small, and put the writing utensils where they belonged.

Mark heard his partner rummaging and turned to ask, "What are you doing?"

Tristan tossed him a glance. "Fixing this desk."

"Was there something wrong with it?"

"It was a mess. But it's looking much better now."

Mark and Hannah both stared at him. "Great, now I'll be able to sleep at night."

"Me too."

Dryly, Mark said, "I apologize for my anal retentive partner. He gets weird sometimes."

To the blonde, Hannah commented, "So you're a back of the room kind of student, huh?"

"It's where the cool kids sit."

"And they let you sit with them?" Mark asked.

"Funny," Tristan said. "So where's the gym? I'll go talk to Josephine Lynnie. Unless you need the board erased first."

"Oh no," Hannah said, glancing at her dry erase board, which was covered with math equations. "It's Jack's job to erase the board this week." She nodded at a list of chores on a bulletin board behind her desk, each with a student's name next to it. "He'll be pretty upset if he comes in to see it's been done already."

Tristan stood and tucked the little chair back in.

"Josephine's in the cafeteria," Hannah told him. "Lunch duty."

He turned and headed toward the door.

Mark asked, "Do you know where it is?"

"I'll figure it out." Tristan left them and went back down the hallway. Just as the last time they'd stopped by the school, student work lined the walls as he passed.

He heard the chatter of a large group of children and followed the noise to the end of another hall. A line of kids waiting to get their lunches stretched to the door. They were all dressed in khakis and navy polo shirts. He asked them where Miss Lynnie could be located. Eager to be helpful, four of the kids pointed to a woman on the other side of the cafeteria. She had long dirty blonde hair and was wearing sweatpants and a long sleeved t-shirt. She made eye contact with a student who was taking his time to sit, and she sternly pointed her finger down. Tristan watched as the child sat.

Mark caught up then, a step behind Tristan. They approached the teacher and introduced themselves. Hearing they worked for the police department, she asked, "Is this about my car?"

"Yeah. What can you tell us about it?" Tristan asked.

"It got stolen last fall," she answered bluntly, confirming the police report they'd read. "I got up one morning to come to school, but when I got out to the parking lot, my car was gone. I panicked. No one had ever stolen something from me like that before. It's stupid, but I took it kind of personally."

"You don't have any idea of who would have taken it?"

She shook her head. "No. I was asleep when it happened. I didn't hear a thing." Josephine put her hands on her hips, offended. "Then when the police were on their way out, my upstairs neighbor came down and asked if they were there about my car."

She scanned the cafeteria to make sure the kids were all behaving. Tristan did the same, and saw a boy stand to goof off in front of his classmates. He wondered if he could accomplish the same thing the P.E. teacher had. When he caught the young boy's eye, Tristan pointed down. The boy quickly sat and ducked his head, glancing around to see if anyone else saw. Though pleased with the results, Tristan resisted the urge to smile.

"You're a natural," she complimented.

"Thanks. So your neighbor knew your car was stolen?"

Josephine nodded. "Apparently. She heard a noise out in the parking lot in the middle of the night and didn't do anything about it." She crossed her arms. "So why are you asking all these questions? You're more interested in my car than the cops who came to file the report."

"It turned up last night," Mark answered. When her eyes lit up, he continued, "But you won't be able to drive it. It was pulled out of the Hudson River."

Her face fell into a frown.

"And there was a body in the trunk."

Her jaw dropped. "What? A body? In my car?"

Tristan nodded somberly.

"Do you know who it is?" Josephine asked.

"Not yet." He held up a picture that had been taken at the morgue earlier that morning. It was of a young woman with dark auburn hair, matted down from being soaked. Her skin was sallow, and her lips had turned pale purple. "Do you have any idea who this is?"

Josephine slowly shook her head. "No, I've never seen her before. Sorry, I wish I could help."

He pocketed the picture. "It'll help to figure out who took your car. We need to talk to your neighbor. Maybe she remembers more about the night it was stolen."

Josephine smiled crept over her face. "Oh. You're going to have some fun with her."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

Tristan tapped his knuckles on a door on the fifth floor of Josephine Lynnie's apartment building. When no one answered he knocked again. "Police, is anyone here?" he prodded.

The door still didn't swing open, but a grave voice from inside said, "Come in."

Tristan glanced at his partner before turning the knob and entering the apartment. Dark purple drapes covered the windows, leaving the one-room abode ominously dim. The flames from several lit candles flickered throughout the room, creating a soft glow. Tristan could smell incense burning strongly. He imagined this was what a gypsy caravan would look like.

An old woman with wrinkly olive skin sat on one side of a table in the middle of the room, with another chair opposite her. Her shiny black hair was pulled back tightly. She had her eyes closed in concentration, but slowly opened them in the wake of the detectives' presence.

"Madam Atlantica?" Tristan asked cautiously.

She stared at him for a few moments, and then said, "A father is near."

Mark snickered behind him. "Hey, how'd she know?"

Ignoring him, she continued, "He wants what's best for his . . ." She paused, in thought. "Daughter."

Tristan made a clicking sound with his tongue and tiled his head. "You're one for three."

"Sit," she commanded.

"I'm not here to get my future told," he said, not moving.

"Sit," she repeated, firmer.

Tristan sighed lightly and pulled out the chair in front of the woman. Trying to continue with the actual interview, he showed her his gold shield and said, "We want to talk to you about your neighbor's car. Josephine Lynnie said you could hear someone breaking into the car the night it was stolen."

Madam Atlantica picked up a deck of cards—Tarot cards, Tristan assumed—and started flipping through them, unfazed by the detectives.

He added, "It was back in October."

She started laying the cards in a row on the table. "I was in the middle of a consultation," she said. "I was speaking with a client's grandmother. She's dead."

"The client?"

"The grandmother."

"Sure," Tristan said. "But can you tell us anything about the car theft? Did you see who took it?"

"I could not break the connection I had with the dead."

Mark asked, "Not even to make a quick call to the police?"

She lifted her gaze to give him a patronizing look. "They made such a racket out there, how was I supposed to know Josie couldn't hear? I thought they woke up the whole block." She looked back to the blonde. "For all I knew, she heard everything and had already called the police."

"So you can't help us at all," Tristan said, sitting back. He took out a business card with his information on it and handed it to the woman. "Call if you remember anything. There's a dead girl involved, so any information could help us."

He stood and turned to leave. Before they could exit the apartment, Madam Atlantica stopped them. "Wait, I was wrong."

He turned and warily asked, "About what?"

"The father I spoke of when you came in."

"No, you were right. The dark lord has ascended on New York. Again."

Ignoring him, she continued, "It's a son, not daughter."

Tristan turned to Mark. "Should I be concerned it took her this long to figure out my gender?"

Mark grinned and shook his head as Tristan continued out the door. He asked the old woman, "Anything for me?"

Without looking up from her cares, she said, "You're observant. You'll figure it out."

Mark nodded. "An observant detective. That's amazing."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

In the elevator at the precinct later that day, Mark pressed the button for their floor and they started to rise. Tristan crossed his arms and stared at the doors. When they stopped at the third floor, the doors opened and Stevenson stepped out. Noticing his partner had not followed, he turned back. "What are you doing?"

Tristan hit the button for the next floor. "I'll be right there." He didn't have time for any further explanation, as the elevator doors closed and continued its ascent. On the fourth floor, he walked out and went to one of the offices. He knocked quickly and let himself in before waiting for a response.

The assistant district attorney, Greg Jacobs, glanced up for a half a second and then went back to reading the document in front of him. He didn't look happy to see the detective, though he never did. "What?" he asked, eyes still cast down. He picked up a pen to write a note on his page.

"I saw my dad this morning."

"So did I."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And, why is he here again? I thought he was finished with me."

"Maybe it's not about you," Jacobs said in vain. "It isn't your case."

Tristan tapped the arm of the chair with his finger, trying to think of a response. He'd been awake too long. And possibly worst of all, there was no logical argument this time. Harrison had already seen what Tristan could do and paid him a compliment—backhanded as it was.

He'd been wrong, Tristan thought for the umpteenth time. Harrison had been wrong a long time ago, surely he could be wrong again. Who was he to say what Tristan could—and couldn't—do?

Tristan continued tapping his finger. He wondered if Harrison had told Jacobs his thoughts on Tristan's abilities and where they were best used. He imagined them having a good laugh about it. Jacobs would just love that, after years of being pestered by the lowly detective with an over-sized ego, to have his own father doubt him.

Harrison was wrong.

Tristan's eyes flashed to Jacob's. "Let me go co-counsel."

The redhead finally looked up slowly to focus on Tristan, and did so as though he'd just sprouted a second head. "What? No."

Tristan gripped the armrest, his heart starting to beat faster at the idea. "Yeah. Let me in on it."

"I don't need—or want—your help. I don't know how many times I have to tell you to get it through your thick skull."

"I didn't say I want to help you," Tristan argued. He didn't say what he wanted to do, that wouldn't fly. It occurred to him how he usually went about winning people over, and that he'd never tried it on Jacobs. Vinegar never worked, it wouldn't hurt to try honey. He took a calming breath, and as pleasantly as he could manage, he said, "You don't need my help."

The pen in Jacob's hand stopped. He looked up. "What?"

"You don't need my help. You're a competent lawyer."

He blinked. "Did it physically pain you to say that?" he asked. "Are you seriously trying to flatter me? Because I can see through you, and you don't mean it." He turned his attention back to his work. "You specifically told me I did need your help the last time your old man was in town. He's the best, remember?"

"And yet, you held your own against him. Heck, I think you even gave him a run for his money." When the attorney's forehead scrunched up in confusion, Tristan knew he'd gone too far. But once he was in suck-up mode, it was hard to tone it down.

Jacobs stared silently for a few seconds. "You work for the police department," he said. "By choice. And I work for the DA's office. Your half of the show is over, now it's my turn. Go watch an episode of Law & Order to see how it's done."

"But I didn't have anything to do with this case. I didn't get a turn."

"You still don't work for the district attorney. You might think you'd make a really great mayor, but you aren't entitled to walk into his office and take over." Jacobs considered him a moment. Then, "If you don't like it, feel free to fill out a job application downtown."

Tristan almost flinched at the blunt advice. He shook his head a little and pulled out his cell phone, scrolling down his list of contacts. Dropping the pleasant façade he'd been trying out, he acerbically said, "I don't know why I came by to talk to you. I'll just do what I normally do."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNN

"Rory," a faraway voice said. She moaned a little when her shoulder was nudged. "Rory."

"Hmm?"

"Wake up."

She sighed heavily and opened her eyes enough to squint at her husband. He was in his slacks and dress shirt, his tie loose around his neck. If it hadn't been for the tell-tale loosened neckwear, she might have thought he was starting a new day, rather than ending one. She glanced around the lamp-lit room, still glaring at being jostled awake. "What day is it?" she asked.

"Friday," he answered. "Evening. You haven't called to bother me since this morning."

"I bother you?"

"I don't think it's on purpose."

"That makes it worse." She thought about it a moment, then admitted, "Sometimes it's on purpose."

"It's okay. Sometimes I withhold information to bother you."

"I knew it."

Taking his tie off, he asked, "How long have you been home?"

She checked the time on the alarm clock in her nightstand. "All day," she said, reluctantly sitting up. "I would have gone to work this afternoon, but I didn't feel very good, so I stayed home and went back to sleep."

Tristan put his hand to her forehead. "You're sick?"

"I think I'm okay now. I'm kind of hungry though." She crawled off the bed and put on a pair of slippers that were on the floor next to her vanity before heading out of the bedroom. "Did you find out who the dead girl is today?"

"No. We didn't get very far. Although we did see a psychic, which can probably be considered the highlight of any day."

"Really?" she asked as they walked down to the first floor.

"Yeah. The car was stolen, and the psychic heard it happen."

"Did she read your fortune?" Rory asked with a smile. When they'd reached the kitchen, she went to the cabinet for a pot to boil water.

"No," Tristan answered, taking a seat at the center island. "That's not to say I wasn't impressed with her at all. She knew about Dad being in New York."

Rory sat a box of pasta down and turned to Tristan with knit brows. "Your dad? Again?"

"Yeah," he said with a nod.

She crossed her arms and leaned back against the counter. "Is he taking one of your cases again?"

"No, one of Mark's."

Rory pouted slightly. "That makes less sense than before. I thought all that with your dad was finished."

"I know, me too. But," he said, stretching out the word and leaning forward, "since I didn't have anything to do with the investigation, I'm going co-counsel."

Rory stared. "What?"

He nodded. "Jacobs wasn't interested, so I just called the DA."

"And you wonder why he doesn't like you," she said dryly.

"I don't really wonder, it's been spelled out on numerous occasions." Tristan continued, "Anyway, the DA wasn't completely against the idea. He said we'll have to let the judge decide, since I'm related to the defense attorney. And that's no big deal, opposing attorneys have been related before."

"No big deal, huh?" she said doubtfully.

"Yeah. I already found the legal precedence after I talked to the DA," he explained. "There'd be a bigger problem if we had a sexual relationship. But then we'd have an entirely different set of issues."

"Yikes," Rory said vaguely. "So now you only have to cram for a trial."

"Yeah," he said breezily, like it would be easy. He tapped a stack of manila folders that was sitting on the counter next to him.

"But can you really represent the State in an official capacity?" she asked. "You don't work for the district attorney."

"Now you sound like Jacobs."

She amended her question, "I mean, you have a job. Will Captain Meyer let you?"

He shrugged. "I didn't really ask him for permission so much as informed him after the fact."

"And how'd he like that?"

"He wasn't very outspoken."

"So he didn't like it at all."

"I promised him I'd keep up with my police work, and he won't notice at all. I can handle both."

Rory thought about it for a few minutes, and after adding noodles to her boiling water and turning the temperature down, she turned suddenly. "Are we in trouble?"

"What kind of trouble?"

"Financial. Won't your dad have to hand over your trust fund if you turn into a lawyer?"

"We're fine," Tristan answered. He slowly added, "His goal has always been to get me to turn in my badge. And I'm not turning into a lawyer."

No more than what he already was, she silently thought. "But your dad is okay with you enforcing the law, he told me. He's just being withholding now."

Tristan shrugged and averted his gaze. "I don't understand him any better than you."

Rory was fairly certain she didn't understand the father or the son at this point.

He continued, "Mark's my partner—practically a brother to me. I can't just leave him to the wolves. Well, wolf."

"Sure," Rory said, choosing not to voice her doubts on his reasoning. His usual claim was feeling protective of evidence he worked hard to get. His reasons for interfering were starting to sound more like excuses. "So you're really doing this."

"Yup." He leaned forward again. "So? What do you think?"

"I'm just a little shocked. I support whatever you do."

"Because you have to?"

"No, because I know you've always wanted to do this, to see if you can." She thought she saw his eyes flash at her. She continued, "But I didn't think you ever would. You said you never would. Your dad would think you're just giving in."

"I'm not worried about that. He should know it's because he's picking on Mark. I won't let him."

"Still, your stubbornness knows no bounds," she said. "But I guess if you don't have anything to worry about, neither do I." As she stirred through her noodles, a thought popped into her head. "I wonder if your mom is in town again too." Hastily, she added, "Like the last time your dad was here."

"That was just a coincidence," Tristan said. He shook his head. "A horrible, horrible coincidence."

Rory had another idea, but kept it to herself. He'd only reject it, she knew.

When she took out the peanut butter from the pantry and sat it next to the stove, he asked, "What are you making?"

"Noodles with peanut butter," she answered. "I had a dream about it, and it was delicious."

"Well sure," he said. "Are we having anything else for dinner?"

"I'm good with just this. Do you need something else?"

He nodded, nonplussed. "I think we have a frozen pizza." He stood and picked up the folders. "I'm going to go shower first. Can I expect you to join in to finish what we started?" he asked hopefully.

"You can, but you'll be disappointed."