See end of chapter for details.

Lights were still on in Raffit's clinic when Cain pulled into the parking lot on Friday. He killed the engine and slumped back into his seat, trying not to think about why he was here. He was here for information. That was it. Case-related, informational purposes only. Does it count as denial when one knowsit's denial?He should ask Sheila to set him up… He obviously needed to get laid.

Cain slammed the door behind him with more force than was necessary, and stalked up the stairs to the door.

The waiting room was marginally more interesting when he wasn't bleeding, Cain noted, painted with bright, animal-themed murals on each wall. Realistically done, too, and each depicted a different sort of environment: dessert, oceanic, forest, and jungle. A collection of books, puzzles, stuffed toys, and games spilled out of two wicker baskets in the corner. It was more than enough to keep a kid occupied, and Cain caught himself smiling affectionately when Riff came out of the back.

"You've done well for yourself," Cain commented, and nodded towards the jungle mural. "Though your geography could use some work. Lions and tigers are on two different continents."

Riff shrugged. "I think we both know that accuracy isn't really the point. I'm still paying off the remodel, besides. Going into business for myself was probably the best thing I could have done…" He leaned against the door frame, gaze wandering over the murals. A quiet sort of pride had settled in his eyes, counterbalancing a lingering grief. "But," he said abruptly, straightening and looking back at Cain, "I don't believe my finances are why you're here. Come on through my office, I have something for you."

Cain followed in awkward silence. The hallway was short, with only four five doors—the receptionist/nurse's station, three exam rooms, and an office. This last was decorated simply: the walls a sort of sandy, tannish color that probably had some pretentious name that meant beige, while the carpet and curtains were dark blue. Behind an impeccably organized desk hung a photograph, a darkened seascape just after a storm. Oddly appropriate, Cain decided, and leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. Riff took the only chair, a wheeled thing of creaking leather and springs, and tilted his head back with a sigh. "Next investment needs to be a better chair," he murmured to himself. "Or a better mattress." Cain grimaced sympathetically—stress probably did not help back pains—and did notnotice the very clean line of his neck. "Right, though," Riff decided, sitting up and sliding towards the desk, opening a lower drawer and thumbing through the files kept there. Within seconds, he pulled a manilla folder, passing it to Cain. "Here you are."

Cain flicked it open, and raised one eyebrow. Not only were there photocopies of the medical file he probably shouldn't have given him, there were dozens of newspaper clippings and handwritten notes. "Has anyone told you you're compulsive?"

"I'd rather think of myself as thorough and organized," Riff replied, smiling. "The gun shot was definitely postmortem, by the way."

"You're willing to swear to it, now?"

The doctor shook his head. "You know better than to call me to the stand. I suspect you have contacts in the police department, and you can get a trained coroner to verify. Unfortunately, my resource for confirmation will also be unable to testify."

"Why not?" Cain demanded irritably. "I'm assuming, since you're clearly so thorough—" he waved the file for emphasis— "you spoke to a coroner, why won't they do?"

"Remember how I said I was friends with Clarence Nash at school?"

"Yes, though I don't see—" It clicked. "…You didn't," Cain breathed, impressed in spite of himself.

Riff shrugged. "I thought the best way to discredit him would be to get him to contradict himself. Unfortunately, it's entirely off the record. Besides, I needed him to confirm something else, and I could only manage that if I spoke to him."

"What else could there possiblybe?!" Cain demanded, returning to the file.

"Clarence… he's always been nervous by nature, but Wednesday…" Riff frowned, leaning back in his seat again, fingers threading between his chin while he thought. "He was rather paranoid. Whatever lies he's told on this case… He's being forced. I'd guess usually threats, or blackmail—that's usual, right? He wouldn't be so scared if he were being bribed."

"So Nash is a victim," Cain murmured. "I should talk to him myself, off the record if possible. If I can get him under protection, maybe we can get the case from here."

"You'll need him on your side, I think. I did some follow up work… May I?" Cain returned the file. "If you did manage to discredit Nash, you'd want to exhume the body to redo an autopsy, at least as best as you could." The doctor plucked a particular article out of his file. "The report of his funeral." He placed it neatly on his desk, smoothed it out, and tapped a word underlined in red ink. "Interred, and if you check the obituary, the plans for a funeral mention burial. So, I went to the relevant cemetery during a lunch break." Riff ducked his head slightly, paging through the notes, this time. "I started talking to the groundskeeper, explaining I was looking for a friend's grave and that I'd been too late coming into town for the funeral. He was extremely helpful, actually, because he remembered the funeral."

"And that's important?"

"Extremely. It's the same principle that meant Clarence didn't remember the picture of that specific bullet wound. How many funerals do you think a groundskeeper sees? He remembered this one, not only because it was recent, but because the parents—Mrs. Lauderdale in particular—were making a fuss over the funeral itself. They wanted a burial. But Gilford was cremated, apparently by accident."

"…What?" Cain breathed, picking up the file again.

Riff nodded. "A clerical mix-up, apparently. An assistant was fired, the funeral home is being reevaluated, and there'll likely be a substantial state fine, as the corpse was not only cremated by accident but without a coroner signing off on it—according to the groundskeeper at least."

Cain stood in shocked silence for several seconds, before flipping the folder closed again. "My dear doctor," he said with a slow smirk. "I think we've got a cover up."

"I think you do," Riff agreed with another small, pleased smile. He stood, beginning to usher Cain out of his office—a rather close space for two people, really. "I hope, though, that you don't think I've forgotten about your side," he said, and herded him into an exam room, ignoring Cain's spluttered protests with insulting ease. "Shirt off, please, and lie down."

"Shouldn't you buy me dinner first?" Cain complained. If he'd hoped to put the doctor off, he was disappointed. Raffit merely raised one eyebrow as he began to wash his hands at the sink.

"I did just give you enough information to call the entire case into question, Mr. Hargreaves." Why did he have to sound so damned reasonable?! He flicked water from his fingers and turned back to face him. "Besides, this has far more to do with the health of your body than with its aesthetic appeal. Shirt off,or I shall do it for you."

Cain had a very sudden image of Raffit pinning him to the stupid, tiny, padded examination table, bent over backwards and fingers on the buttons of his shirt. "Well, fuck you, too," he quipped, and then tried not to examine his choice of expletives too closely. He unbuttoned his shirt with ruthless efficiency, and stretched out on the table as demanded. Raffit laughed. "Smugness doesn't suit you," Cain informed him, but allowed the doctor to move his arm out of the way, over his head.

"Then I shan't be smug," he replied absently. A smile lingered about his lips, but his eyes were focused, concentrating on the wound. The tips of his fingers were very warm against his skin. Cain shivered. "Sorry, I didn't know you were ticklish," the doctor murmured, before backing away. "I'll say it again; you were incredibly lucky. It's healing well, though it'll certainly leave you with a scar."

Joy. Cain hated scars. "Can I put my shirt back on?"

"Of course," Riff agreed, passing it back to him. "If I may ask, what do you plan to do now?"

"Are you asking me out?" Cain demanded, and this time was rewarded with a faint flush.

"That's not what—"

"I'm kidding," Cain deadpanned. "I'll talk to Nash, and probably the funeral director while I'm at it. I'll need to talk to Mrs. Everett, too. She's bound to have some answers—she's far too willing to take the fall to not know the truth. She's stupider than you, though, seeing as—"

The realization came to him in a flash, and Cain abruptly had to sit down again.

"Mr. Hargreaves?" And then, hesitantly. "Cain?"

"Oh my God," he breathed. "Oh my God,I've been a blind fool." He stood again, beginning to pace. "Don't you see?I doubted from the start that Mrs. Everett was the killer, but I needed evidence, I can't rely on my gut—you showed me that. But it never occurred to me to ask why!People don't do things without a payoff, so what was hers? Damn me for a fool—she's taking the fall for the real killer, willingly.She's doing the exact same thing you did, don't you see, except it's not the reputation of a dead man at stake! It's got to be something more, because she's letting herself be found guilty, so someone's freedom is at stake. And Mrs. Everett—she's old, almost sixty, she wouldn't think her life worth much, she doesn't have long to live—"

"Her daughter," Riff interrupted, his own eyes gone wide. Enough of his train of thought had filtered through the incoherency, good. "She's protecting her daughter."

Cain nodded, and fumbled for his phone. "I've got to call Oscar," he announced, dialing the local police line as he walked through the door.

"Who's Oscar?"

"My contact in the police force. He's a detective, homicide detective. Riffael Raffit, I could kiss you," he added. A clerk answered, and he turned his attention to the phone (though not before seeing the doctor's face go rather pink). "I need to speak to Detective Gabriel," he snapped immediately.

"N-now?" the clerk squeaked. Cain rolled his eyes.

"No, in fifteen minutes. Yes, now!"

"He's already gone home, um, sir. Could I ask who's calling?" Cain hung up, and scrolled through his contacts to find the relevant number.

"Are you coming with me?" he asked, turning on a heel to face Riff as he continued to walk backwards towards the waiting room door. He finished dialing and raised the phone again, pausing with his back to the door as it rang.

"Oscar?" he demanded as soon as he picked up. "You oaf, get off the couch and out the door. I need to talk to you, and I am not above storming your house to do so."

"Cain?" the detective sounded mildly stunned. "Look, if this is about Merry, I swear to God I've never touched her without her complete, absolute, explicitly verbal consent—"

"It's about the Lauderdale case, Gabriel!" Cain interrupted. He was too excited to hate even Oscar. "Meet me at my building, my apartment building, I mean, in half an hour."

"The Lauderdale case…?" he repeated.

"Slow as ever. I've got new evidence." Cain smiled at Riff, only now noticing that the doctor was holding his jacket, which he'd forgotten in the exam room. He mouthed a thank you. "If you're not there in half an hour, Oscar, you will never work in this town again." He flicked the phone off and laughed. "I've always wanted to say that," he admitted with a grin. "The idiot probably doesn't realize I can't actually do that. Are you coming, then?"

Riff handed him his jacket, amused. "I think, if it weren't completely beneath your dignity, you'd be jumping up and down," he observed. Cain paused in putting on his jacket to fix him with a very displeased look. "If it's a genuine invitation, then yes. If you were just being polite, though, then I'm more than willing to let you take full credit."

"It was a real invitation," he said, knowing he was flushing, damn it, and knowing he'd get hell for this from his sister, and Oscar, and inevitably, somehow, Crehador, and what Crehador knew Sheila would know, but… "I'd like you to be there."

For a moment, Riff looked surprised by his honesty, before he relaxed into a small smile, and straightened his coat. "Then I'll be there."

Cain swallowed, and tried not to read into it more than he already was. Oh, God, and his shirt was still half-unbuttoned, wasn't it? "Right. Then. My car." Riff nodded, plucked his own long coat from a hook next to the receptionist's door, and followed him.

A/N: So... Hi? This is unbeta-ed for the most part. I haven't been able to write at ALL on ANYTHING for like, three days and so when I managed to get this written this afternoon, and then even typed up, I wanted it posted ASAP since I don't think I've posted anything yet this year.

And Cain figured it out more quickly than I expected... Probably only a couple of chapters left on this one (though story or arc, I'm not sure) and I have said that before, only to be deeply surprised.

Also, the decision to edit everything fell through. Obviously. I still mean to go back and fix things, but I'm tempted to leave my completed stories alone. At the very least, Quite Contrary will be the very last to be edited.

Enjoy, and read and review! No anonymous review replies this time.