Heartbeat part three

Jesse awoke staring at a hospital ceiling for the second time in as many weeks. He stifled a groan as he realised that someone else was present in the room and even as he became conscious of that fact, he immediately recognised who it was.
"Hey, Mark," he said, quietly, turning his head to look at his mentor, who was indeed in attendance in the chair next to his bed.
"Hello, Jess," Mark greeted him, with a gentle smile. "I won't bother to ask how you're feeling. I know those bruises are going to hurt."
The matter of fact tone and the lack of immediate questions lulled Jesse into a false sense of security. He quirked a half-smile at the other man. "Got a headache, too," he said.
Mark nodded. "Well, I think we can do something about that. Here." He reached for the pitcher of water on the table beside the bed, pouring some into the nearby glass. Then he produced two tablets, seemingly from nowhere. Mark had often seemed like a marvel to Jesse - especially when he had first arrived at Community General, all fresh-faced and green enthusiasm - now he wondered at the phenomenon that was Dr Mark Sloan. It was as if he had known.
"Well, of course he did, stupid," a sarcastic little voice scolded him. "He's a doctor!" He chose to ignore it.
"Sit up," Mark instructed him, surreptitiously slipping an arm under him to help him sit up.
Obediently, Jesse sipped at the cool, clear liquid, taking larger gulps as he suddenly realised how thirsty he was.
"Slow down, Jess!" Mark scolded him, although his indulgent smile took any sting out of the words. Jesse mumbled an apology and Mark sighed, as big blue eyes full of bewilderment and hurt gazed back at him. "Just take it slow," he cautioned. "I don't want you to choke on the pills."
"That's the least of your worries!" the little voice mocked. Jesse was getting heartily sick of that voice. It had been with him for some days now, making snide little remarks, trying to persuade him to do things he didn't want to do. He idly wondered if he was becoming schizophrenic. Maybe he should discuss it with Mark?
He waited for the voice to reply to that idea. When it didn't he let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. Maybe he wasn't psycho. Maybe he was just … something else.
After swallowing the tablets, he handed the glass back, then watched as Mark sat back in his chair and regarded him steadily. He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly acutely aware of how a bug under a glass must feel. "Um …"he began, then trailed off as he realised he didn't actually know what to say.
Well, this was a first!
"Jesse, I'm sorry."
He stared at his friend in astonishment. "Huh?"
"I'm sorry."
"Wh .. what are you sorry for?" he asked when he could find his voice again.
Mark ran a hand across his face. "I don't know," he admitted, wearily. "I'm sorry you got hurt for one thing and I'm sorry that you were taken into custody when you so patently don't belong there and … I'm just sorry about everything."
Jesse suddenly couldn't breathe. "You … you mean Susan and … I mean Susan dying and … don't you?" he finally managed.
Mark nodded, sadly. "Yes, I do," he replied. "And I am."
The young doctor felt like crying. But he couldn't. He couldn't let Mark see that particular weakness. Once was more than enough. "It wasn't your fault, Mark," he said, quietly. "It wasn't anyone's fault except … except …"
"I know, Jesse, I know," Mark interjected when the young man's words trailed away.
"You want to know why I left, don't you?" The question came out of left field, startling Mark with its directness. Truthfully, he shouldn't have been surprised at Jesse's perceptiveness. Besides, the questions he was aching to ask must have been written all over his face. "Only if you want to tell me," he said, firmly, thereby giving Jesse an escape route if he needed it. The last thing he wanted was for his young friend to feel pressurised.
"I … I needed to be alone, you know?" Jesse said, in a low voice. His eyes had slid away from Mark's and he was staring at the counterpane as though it was the most interesting thing in the world. "I had to .. I had to figure some things out."
"And you couldn't do that at the beach house?" It was not a criticism, merely a question. He hoped Jesse would see it that way.
He did. "No," he replied. "I … I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'm just glad you're all right."
'All right'. It was a relative term. 'But I'm not!' Jesse protested silently. 'I'm not sure I ever will be again!' But he couldn't say those words aloud. Couldn't add to the new lines of the strain which were visible on his mentor's face - lines he knew he had put there. He couldn't tell him about the nightmares or the voices that haunted him from beyond the grave. Couldn't admit that he had been wandering the streets rather than go back to the beach house and inflict himself upon his friends. God, he was such a mess. It was a miracle that Mark hadn't suggested psychiatric help although he suspected that it had been next on the agenda before his precipitate departure from his friend's home.
He couldn't go on like he had been doing. He had realised that the night of the funeral as he was bashing his head against the wall. He'd been in such a deep, dark place then, fighting an internal battle that seemed impossible to win, even had he cared at that point about the outcome.
His few days away had brought back a sense of perspective. He had found himself in the worst part of town and, uncaring, had checked into a seedy hotel under an assumed name. The living conditions were appalling there. People who had no place else to go were living in one room apartments, little more than hovels, really, trying to eke out an existence on the subsistence that was paid to them. He had tried to ignore it at first, wallowing in his misery, consumed by his overwhelming pain, but his compassionate nature wouldn't allow him to completely disregard the misery and squalor in which the residents lived. Sick babies, frightened old people, haunted, hopeless young women … it wasn't in him to simply turn his back on their plight.
He had thrust his energies into trying to help them. He had discovered the name of the building manager and harangued him, then, when the man simply laughed at his efforts, he had done some digging, finding out the name of the holding company that owned the building and whose responsibility it was to see that these people got proper homes instead of the degradation in which they currently existed.
Someone must have complained about him, because before he knew what was happening, Dobson and Malone had arrived, dragging him into their squad car, and throwing him in before driving to the precinct.
He remembered being hauled out of the vehicle, frozen in fear, soft whimpers the only sound emerging from his lips as his mind was gripped by a terrifying flashback to the night of the murder. The treatment being meted out to him by the two cops was so eerily similar that it was all he could do not to curl into a ball and weep.
He had fallen - he remembered that. And one of them - he didn't remember which one - had aimed a kick at his mid-section. At the last minute, he had tried to twist out of the way but it had caught him a glancing blow on his back instead, sending slivers of pain shooting through his spine. Before he had a chance to recover, he was being dragged to his feet and off the street, then he had been thrust unceremoniously into a chair in the interrogation room. Terrified and utterly bewildered, he had borne their insults, their rough handling, their incessant questions until suddenly his head had been smashed onto the table. The next instant the door had burst open and Steve had appeared, looking for all the world like some kind of avenging angel. Jesse had never been more glad to see anyone in his entire life.

But he couldn't relate all of this to Mark. The man would wonder if he had indeed lost his hold on sanity. He would wonder what in the world had possessed him to get involved with other people's woes when he was supposed to be … where was he supposed to be?
He realised that he was doing Mark a disservice. The older man would never see someone live in such wretchedness and not try to help. He supposed he had been following his mentor's example, and in aiding those poor unfortunates, who lived in that deathtrap of a building, his own woes had seemed less important. The pain hadn't eased, but his thoughts had crystallised. That is, until he had been subjected to the not so tender mercies of Dobson and Malone.
He was trembling now as he remembered what they had put him through. He couldn't seem to help it. He could feel the bed shaking with the strength of his tremors. He wondered if Mark felt it too.
Strong arms suddenly wrapped themselves around him and he let his head fall against his friend's shoulder. It was warm and familiar and he smelled of safety and comfort. He allowed himself just a few moments of the respite it offered, one hand coming up to clutch tightly at the material of Mark's lab coat.
"Just one minute,' he told himself. 'That's all. Just one minute.'
But the little voice laughed and he found his eyes flooding with tears he had been trying not to shed, tears that refused to do anything but stream down his face, soaking that same shoulder. Words of consolation, of condolence were whispered in his ear. He couldn't respond to them. He was trying too damned hard to hold back the sobs that threatened to tear his throat apart in their effort to escape. 'No!' he screamed silently. 'No, please! They mustn't see. Mustn't see! Please …'
A soft moan emerged, followed by another, and he was shaking and crying like a baby, hoarse cries wrenched from him as his heart threatened to break in two and all the time some rational part of his mind was insisting that this would be a good thing - a catharsis - whilst another part derided him for his weakness.
And he wondered if he was crying because he had been hurt or because Susan had been killed.

"I've got a piece of information for you," Cheryl announced as Steve returned to the squad room after delivering the evidence his father had given him to the Forensics team.
"Oh?" he said, somewhat distractedly, focused as he was on Jesse and the threatening letter. "What?"
Not at all put out by his seeming lack of curiosity, she perched on the edge of his desk, watching him as he rifled through a stack of files. "It's about Jesse," she said, lightly.
"Jesse?" His head shot up at that.
Pleased to have his full attention now, she made a great show of consulting the notebook she held, unable to hold back a smile at his irritated glare. "Well, seems he was taken into custody at the behest of the manager of the 'Swanson'," she told him, eventually.
"The 'Swanson'?" he echoed, disbelievingly. "That dive? Why?"
"Gets better," she said, smugly. "The manager is an old friend of Tweedledum and Tweedledee."
His brows knit together in a puzzled frown. "'Tweedledum and … oh, right, Dobson and Malone."
"Right. And, get this. Seems Jesse was creating a bit of a stir down there. Seems like he got himself involved in some kind of campaign to get better conditions for the residents. A one-man campaign, if you get my meaning," she concluded
Steve's frown deepened then cleared as he suddenly comprehended the import of her words. "Jesse was campaigning alone to get better rights for the residents of some seedy hotel?" he exclaimed. "Why? When?"
"The 'when' is easy," she said. "Those few days when he'd 'disappeared'. As for the 'why' - well, you better ask him."
Steve stared at her, in stunned amazement. "I don't believe this," he muttered. "Jesse … campaigning for people's rights …"
"What, you don't think he would?" queried Cheryl. "I dunno, Steve. He isn't your average crusader, I'll grant you, but he cares about people."
"I didn't mean that," Steve said, impatiently. "Of course he would help people out. He doesn't talk about the stuff he does. That's not Jesse. He's got a big heart, Cheryl. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. When his family's Christmas presents got stolen one year, guess who volunteered BBQ Bob's for a group of homeless people?"
"Jesse?" she guessed. It wasn't much of a stretch. Then, "Wait a minute, what does volunteering BBQ Bob's have to do with lost Christmas presents?"
He shook his head in fond recollection. "I have no idea, but he pretended that it meant nothing. Of course, then I had to look after everyone when he got stuck at the hospital …"
"He still did something for the community, though, right?"
"Yes. Yes, he did. And he does. All the time. He just doesn't make it public - it's like he's ashamed of it, or something."
"Maybe he just doesn't see it as a big thing," mused Cheryl. "Maybe he thinks that it's natural for someone to help people like that. Boy, is he living in the wrong town!"
Steve had to smile. Cheryl was right - in her assessment of his friend and in her final declaration. Jesse was from a small town in Illinois. He wasn't a big city guy. And he had kept his values, though god knew people kept trying to knock them out of him. "So he's been fighting for the dispossessed," he mused, thoughtfully. "Good for you, Jess."
"Yeah," said Cheryl, drily. "It brought him to the attention of …"
"Tweedledum and Tweedledee." Steve finished off for her. He leaned back in his chair, deliberating the facts, as things began to coalesce and take shape in his mind. "Let me see if I've got this straight," he said. "Jesse and Susan get kidnapped and Susan is killed in front of him in an execution-type slaying. Jesse then disappears and ends up fighting for some residents of a hotel downtown and gets himself arrested. Next," he held out a thin sheet of paper to her "This letter shows up at Community General warning him about trying to 'find out why' …"
"Wait!" Cheryl interrupted him, taking the paper from him, and scanning it briefly. "Wait a minute. This letter shows up at Community General? And you were going to tell me about this when?"
He smiled sheepishly as she waved it under his nose, looking decidedly miffed! "Uh … well … hey, you hit me with that whole thing about Jesse helping those people out!" he said, defensively. "I'd just come back from Forensics. I was going to tell you! I just … forgot."
"Forgot," she echoed, disdainfully. "Right."
"I solemnly swear I won't keep you out of the loop again," he vowed, holding up a hand as he did so. It elicited a laugh from his partner. "Pals?"
"Oh, ok," she conceded. "Go on. You were espousing a theory, O Great Detective."
"Right. Oh, right. Where was I?"
"The letter?" she reminded him. "Of which I presume this is a copy since the actual letter is in Forensics."
"The letter. Right. So, Jesse gets a letter accusing him of investigating - I can only assume that it meant Susan's death. But as far as we know, Jesse wasn't doing that."
"Right," she muttered, contemplatively. "He was crusading downtown."
"Why do I get the feeling that the two are connected?" queried Steve.
"Because they just might be," concluded Cheryl. "Think about it. Why would the letter accuse him of investigating Susan's murder when he was just trying to delve into who owned the holding company responsible for the hotel?"
"That's what he was doing?"
"It's in the report," she said, holding a thin sheaf of papers out to him. "Here."
"Okay," he said, flicking through the papers. "So someone thinks he's trying to find out about Susan's murder by digging into this holding company."
"Which means that whoever is behind the murder may also be behind the company. And it could be why Susan was killed. Maybe she had something on whoever it was."
"Makes sense," he said. "Someone powerful with enough money to hire killers. It doesn't explain why Jesse was left alive, though." 'Although thank god he was'
"Or why he was taken in the first place," she pointed out.
"No, it doesn't," he agreed. "It all seems more … personal."
She frowned. "Maybe whoever it is wanted to make Jesse suffer without actually killing him?"
"But why?" he demanded. "It doesn't make sense unless he's acquired some powerful enemy."
"Jesse?" she queried, with raised eyebrows. "Jesse Travis? Powerful enemy? Now, maybe - but not then."
He nodded. "You're right. So we're back to Susan. It has to be someone from her past - or at least her past just before she moved back to LA. We have to find out where she was and who she met in the two years between."
"And we have to do it fast," Cheryl said, grimly. "Before whoever it is decides they have to get rid of Jesse, too."

"'M sorry …" mumbled Jesse as he pulled away from Mark, utterly mortified at having broken down so completely - and in Mark's arms! He avoided eye contact as he was eased back into the comfort of the mattress and pillows, choosing instead to focus on the door, almost as though he were planning an escape.
"You don't have anything to apologise for, Jess," Mark chided him, gently. "You're hurting. You're grieving. If you don't let all that out then it's going to fester and it'll only hurt you more in the long run."
The words made sense but Jesse couldn't bring himself to believe them. Nor could he bring himself to look at his mentor. He was far too ashamed. "I just … I just .. it's .. I'm so, so sorry." Mark had to stifle a sigh. He hadn't forgotten how independent Jesse was; how accustomed he was to having to deal with things on his own, nor how incredibly uncomfortable he was revealing such deep emotions even to his friends - most especially to his friends. As though they would think badly of him if he proved that he was capable of crying. He was at a low ebb now and guilt and embarrassment would only make things worse. He had to try and break this cycle somehow, to enable his young friend to start the healing process. Although he wasn't convinced that Jesse had dealt with all his grief yet. There was too much that he held deep inside. "Jesse, stop it," he said, firmly, yet kindly. "There's no shame in showing your feelings. You don't have any trouble sharing all your other emotions. Why would you think so little of us to imagine that we would turn away from you or somehow think less of you for showing us how hurt you can be?"
The younger doctor bit his lip. How could he explain his feelings to Mark when he had never truly understood them himself? How could he tell his mentor that he just didn't feel comfortable exposing himself in that way? That he believed that such emotions should be locked away, to deal with in private? Mark was so open, so honest. He had no trouble showing his grief or distress. Jesse had seen it firsthand when Steve had been shot a few years before. He had never seen the older man so devastated. It had meant a lot to him that his friend had not closed himself off to him - that he had allowed him access to his anguish. It had made him feel even more accepted, even more part of the family, even as he grieved silently for Steve, knowing that there was nothing else he could do and that time and prayer was all they had to pull him through.
So why did he find it so difficult to reciprocate? It occurred to him that it must make his friends feel as though he was shutting them out when he refused to bare the most private part of his heart. He wasn't doing it on purpose. It was just instinct. Honed over many years; so much a part of him that he didn't even realise he was doing it.
He remembered when Susan had been taken hostage a few years ago by an injured doctor who was being pursued by what turned out to be a rogue faction of the FBI.. How Steve had tried to get him to share his feelings, so he could comfort him. He hadn't been able to do it then, and it hadn't gotten any easier over the interim period.
A rogue tear squeezed itself out, sliding slowly down his cheek and into the pillow. He was so tired of keeping up the façade. So weary of keeping up the pretence that he was all right. He wasn't all right. He didn't know why he had to keep trying to convince everyone he was. He just couldn't seem to help it.
"Jesse, look at me."
He had never disobeyed that voice. He had tried, and found it impossible. It was impossible now.
Slowly, he turned, focusing his reluctant gaze on Mark. His mentor was smiling sadly. It hurt to see the anguish he was putting the older man through. He had never wanted that.
"I don't know who taught you that showing your feelings is some kind of weakness," the other man said, sombrely. "But it isn't. We're all human, Jess. We all cry at some stage in our lives. It is something that most would prefer to do in private but it's no shame to share your feelings with your friends. It's part and parcel of friendship. It doesn't just mean sharing the good times and having fun. We've each shared our tears with you. You're kind and compassionate and understanding, and I know you would never judge any of us for it. But this relationship's not supposed to be one-sided, you know. Please don't think any the less of yourself for showing that you're human. I certainly don't. I never will. I'm your friend, Jess. I would never judge you. I don't want to force you to do anything, but please just think about it. Okay?"
He managed a wan smile. "Okay." But he wasn't at all sure he would ever manage to feel secure in doing what his friend had suggested. There were times when he hated what had been ingrained into him, but there was nothing he could do about the past. He couldn't simply change who he was overnight.
It seemed to be enough for Mark, though, who patted his hand paternally. "I would never ask you to do anything you don't feel comfortable about doing, Jess," he reassured him.
The young doctor frowned as a memory surfaced. "Would that include jumping off a train?" he asked, innocently.
That elicited a broad grin. "I thought you did that to save these old bones from having to do it?" he teased.
Jesse snorted inelegantly. "Right. You manipulated me."
"I did no such thing!" Mark objected, although the twinkle in his eyes belied his words.
"Yeah, you did," insisted the younger man. "And I let you."
"You trusted me too much back then," Mark reflected. "Jumping from trains, allowing me to give you sleeping tablets, doing my legwork … it's a wonder you ever made it through your internship."
Jesse smiled shyly. "I had a good teacher," he said. "I learned from the best how to duck and dive …"
"And tuck and roll," Mark reminded him.
"Yeah, that too."
"You look tired," Mark observed, as his young friend fell silent after their trip down memory lane. Indeed, despite the sleep he had managed to get, Jesse looked completely shattered. Dark rings had taken up residence under his eyes and he was still too pale.
The young doctor shrugged. "I guess," he said, resignedly.
"Well, why don't you try to get some rest," the other man advised. "I have some catching up to do on my medical literature, see?" He held up a journal to illustrate his words. "I'll just sit here where it's quiet."
Jesse forbore to suggest that he could do that just as well in the doctor's lounge. Yes, he probably could, but Mark obviously wanted to stay with him. A warm glow filled his heart for all of a second before it was replaced by the constant ache of loss. Sighing, he closed his eyes, opening them a moment later to find his mentor eyeing him sternly, then, with a rueful smile, closed them again.
He drifted off to sleep a few minutes later.

It was late by the time Steve and Cheryl made it to the hospital. They were met by Amanda, who was just emerging from the path lab. "Hey, guys," she greeted them. "Anything new?"
"Actually, yes," Steve told her. "We were just gonna find my dad to discuss it with him. Want to come?"
"As if I need to be asked!" she replied, falling into step beside them.
"How's Jesse doing, do you know?" Steve asked as they made their way to the young man's room.
She shook her head. "I've been buried in work all day," she replied. "I haven't had a chance to find out. I hope for his sake he's sleeping."
"You heard what happened?" Cheryl queried.
"Yes. And can I just say that if those two cops end up in my lab, I'll be happy to bury the paperwork?"
It was a lighthearted comment but the undertone of malice was quite apparent to anyone who knew the pathologist. Steve cracked a smile. "I'll be sure to remember that," he said, evenly.
"Good."

Mark glanced up as they entered Jesse's room together. He held a finger to his lips, then made his way quietly across to them, shoeing them into the corridor. "I want him to get as much rest as he can," he explained as he closed the door behind them. He eyed his son appraisingly for a moment then smiled. "You've got something, haven't you?"
"We have." Steve said, grinning. "We have a lead on who was behind Susan's murder."
Mark's eyes widened. "You do? Come on, Steve, tell me!"
The grin turned triumphant. "Whoever planned Susan's murder had Jesse arrested."
"We think," added Cheryl.
Steve shot her a look, then turned back to his father and Amanda, who were looking completely bewildered. "Oh, right," he said, snapping his fingers. "I forgot. You don't know what he was doing while he was missing. Well, seems our Jesse went to stay at the 'Swanson' - that's a seedy hotel in one of the less respectable parts of town."
"And?" prompted Mark.
"And he couldn't keep his nose out of other people's business," Cheryl told them. "Seems he started making some noise about the conditions the residents were living in. When the manager wouldn't pay any attention, he started digging around, trying to find the owners. He got as far as a holding company before he was taken into custody."
The older Sloan frowned. "He wasn't digging into Susan's murder?" he questioned. "Then why the note threatening him that if he didn't stop …? Oh … of course. Her killer is behind the holding company and mistakenly thought that Jesse was investigating her murder when he was actually doing something totally unrelated. Her killer and the person responsible for the hotel are one and the same person!"
The detectives exchanged long-suffering looks. "You sure know how to take all the fun out of my day, dad," complained Steve. "Couldn't you even have tried to pretend you didn't get it? Just for a minute?"
"I guess that's why he gets paid the big bucks," sighed Cheryl.
"Yeah," agreed Steve, then, "Wait a minute - he doesn't get paid for consulting with the police - unless there's something you haven't been telling me!" he exclaimed, turning back to the older man.
"No, no, I don't get paid for my brilliance, son," Mark assured him, with a condescending pat on the shoulder. "I give of my time freely. I'm generous in that respect."
"Yeah, aren't you just," came the rebellious mutter from his offspring. Then, "So, you agree we're onto something?"
"I think so. Amanda, what do you think?" asked Mark, turning to the thus far silent member of their small group.
The pathologist looked from one to the other in turn and then, somewhat plaintively asked, "Note? What note?"

"So you really think that whoever is behind the murder is also the person who owns the hotel." Amanda's eyes blazed with anger as she voiced the conclusion they had all reached. They had adjourned to the doctors' lounge, where they had discussed the facts they had at the disposal.
"Yes, I do," replied Steve. "That note was specific. It told Jesse to back off asking 'why' and said he'd be next. It couldn't be interpreted as anything other than Susan's murder."
"I agree," said Mark somewhat distractedly, his brows furrowed as he read the report of Jesse's arrest. "'And 'why' doesn't make any sense except in the context of the killing. It couldn't have anything to do with his investigation into the conditions those people are living in. Otherwise the note would have been phrased differently. 'stop interfering' or 'stop trying to find out who'. It certainly wouldn't use the term 'why'."
"So the person behind the murder believes that Jesse was trying to find their identity in order to ascertain why Susan was killed?" queried Amanda.
"Exactly," said Mark. "Whoever it is probably owns several of those hotels or similar establishments. They leave the day to day running of them to managers. They don't get their hands dirty with the particulars. Often, they don't want to know the particulars."
"Yeah, mostly these people have layer after layer of managers and other personnel in place to prevent being traced. They're quite happy to accept the cash these places bring in, but they don't want to know how it's being acquired." Steve couldn't keep the edge of bitterness from his voice. That type of case always left a bad taste in his mouth.
"So people are living in poverty and degradation in order to line the pockets of someone who's already wealthy." Amanda shook her head in disgust. "I hate people like that."
"Don't we all," said Cheryl, feelingly. "But we still have to find a motive for Susan's murder …"
"And why Jesse was forced to watch and then set free," Steve finished off for her.
"I think I may have a theory about that," Mark declared. Three pairs of eyes levelled on him and he smiled, grimly. "I've been thinking about it," he explained. "It was personal. Very personal. Someone wanted Susan dead. That much we've established. But why kidnap Jesse and make him watch unless it was to prove something - to either him or themselves? It's something a jealous ex-lover would do - a highly sadistic, evil jealous ex-lover. Think about it. If the person you supposedly love rejects you and finds happiness with her ex-boyfriend and you're the jealous, malicious, possessive type, what do you do?"
"Kill her and make the boyfriend watch. A case of 'if I can't have her, neither can you'," said Amanda, in a strained whisper. "Oh my god, Mark, do you think that's what happened? My god, that's sick!"
He nodded, sadly. "I'm afraid that's what we're dealing with here, Amanda," he replied. "Unfortunately, this same ex-lover is also involved in some shady business dealings such as low rent housing. By remarkable coincidence, our Jesse just happens to chance upon one of the ex-lover's buildings and without even realising he's further antagonising his girlfriend's killer, starts digging into its records. The killer doesn't realise that all Jesse is doing is helping people. He thinks that the boyfriend - whom he allowed to escape with his life the first time - is trying to find out why Susan was killed because all he can see is Jesse investigating. He doesn't bother asking why."
"So he sends Jesse a note, telling him to back off - not from helping people, but from the investigation into Susan's death," Steve said. He rose slowly from his seat at the table and walked to the window, staring out unseeingly into the corridor beyond. "My god, I think we've got him."
"We have to find out who 'he' is, first, Steve," Mark pointed out.
"And even when we do, we have to prove he had Susan killed," Cheryl chimed in.
"We just have to find the person in Susan's past who would go to these lengths." Steve couldn't be discouraged. It was the first break they had had and he had never wanted to solve a case more. "It shouldn't be too difficult. How many men could she have been involved with, after all?"

The detective had cause to rue those words when, three days later they had made no further progress. Forensics had come up empty too. There were no fingerprints and no trace evidence on either the envelope or the note. They had called in a handwriting expert but didn't hold out much hope that he would be able to help. The print had been careful and studied and seemed to have no identifying characteristics. Their only hope was the paper it was written on. If it came from a specific batch, perhaps they could trace the store from which it had been purchased. It was a long shot, but they were beginning to get desperate.
Susan appeared to have been involved with only two men after her departure from LA. One was the chiropractor for whom she had left Jesse. He was now happily married with a baby on the way, and the other had been a prominent attorney. They were unable to find any trace of a link between either men and the 'Swanson' Hotel or, indeed, any holding company for any property anywhere.
"This is going nowhere!" snarled Steve, flinging a folder down on his desk. He had been perusing the sheaf of papers inside for what seemed to be an interminable length of time. It still hadn't yielded any new information.
Cheryl glanced up from her own file and smiled indulgently. "Calm down, Steve," she soothed. "It's only been three days."
"Three days of nothing!" he retorted, angrily. "We have to get this guy, Cheryl."
"And we will," she said, evenly. "It takes time. You know that."
He rubbed his hands over his face. He was exhausted. He had barely slept since this whole thing had begun and he was beginning to feel the effects. He was short-tempered and grouchy and his partner had even accused him of being cantankerous the previous day. Reluctantly, he had to confess she was right. But he would never give her the satisfaction of admitting that aloud. "We don't have time," he grumbled, determined to wallow in his bad mood. "Jesse doesn't have that time."
"He's not going anywhere, is he?" she enquired, sweetly. God, he hated it when she tolerated him "No, it's just …"
Sighing, she put the folder down and eyed him assessingly. "You're worried about him," she said. "I get that. I do, honestly, Steve. But prowling around like a bear with a sore head isn't going to accomplish anything. You wanted this assignment. We've got it. Let's just work through our anger, and get on with it, shall we?"
He hated it when she patronised him as well. Still, he guess he deserved it. He wasn't going to admit that either! With a world-weary sigh, he picked up the folder he had thrown down and focused on it once again. He really needed some sleep.

Across town, Jesse was thinking the same thing. He had gone back to his apartment after being released from hospital - against Mark's better judgement. But nothing could persuade the older man to allow him back to work. He had tried pleading. He had tried arguing. He had even attempted a little bribery - "free ribs for the rest of your life, Mark. Think about it." The answer had been a resounding 'no'. Worse, Mark wouldn't be swayed on the question of him returning to Bob's, either. Alex and the manager they had appointed were under strict instructions to inform Dr Sloan if Dr Travis even set foot inside his own restaurant.
He decided this was patently unfair. It was one thing to ban him from Community General. It was quite something else to bar him from the place he co-owned. Okay, Mark was a partner, too. But he was meant to be a silent partner. This didn't constitute 'silent' in Jesse's book. This constituted 'interfering' - although he balked at actually saying that aloud to Mark's face.
Unfortunately, all this spare time that had been afforded to him gave him the opportunity to think, and thinking led to brooding. Having asserted his independence by coming home, trying to get his life back, he now didn't know what to do with himself. He tried calling 'Bob's to ascertain if they needed his help with the books. Alex told him in no uncertain terms that if he called again, then he would inform Mark. Muttering a sulky 'snitch' under his breath he had replaced the receiver, then glanced around his apartment, searching for something to occupy his thoughts - something other than Susan and her horrific death, interspersed with terrifying memories from his arrest.
He became desperate for something to distract his mind. Eventually, he remembered the residents of the 'Swanson' and felt a pang of guilt that it had taken him this long to recall the plight in which he had left them.
Those people needed him. They must imagine that he had just deserted them - which wasn't true. He considered himself lucky - really. He had a nice place to live; he had friends, he had his work and a great car. What did any of them have, except dilapidated living conditions and no hope? They deserved better. And he was in a position to help them.
Prior to his arrest he had been tracking down the people who owned the hotel. He had no idea what he was going to do with the information when he found it - other than perhaps storming into someone's office, demanding that they do something about the situation. Well, it was a start. He had made some notes. Unfortunately, they had been confiscated by the two goons who had arrested him .. 'No, not going there,' he told himself, sternly, as the recollection triggered an image in his mind. He remembered a couple of the names he had garnered from his investigations. Maybe if he looked them up on the internet …
If it occurred to him that he was throwing himself into this research in order to avoid dealing with things, he didn't acknowledge the thought. He knew Susan was gone - had watched her die, but accepting it was a different matter entirely. If he didn't have to think about it he didn't have to recognise the fact and it couldn't hurt him. Denial was all that was keeping him going. Well, that and the regular visits from his friends. Mark and Amanda paid him daily visits, ostensibly to see if he needed anything - Amanda even came laden with groceries - but he wasn't deceived. He knew they were concerned and, try as he might, he couldn't convince them that he was okay. He was just fine. There was no need for them to worry.
He tuned out that mocking little voice that laughed maniacally at his assertions.

After four days of tracking down names and companies, Jesse was closing in on his prey. He hadn't fully realised the extent to which powerful people covered themselves. He had had to work through a labyrinth of different levels, searching through site after site, some of which were password protected. He didn't have the necessary expertise to break through them on his own so he was forced to call in some help. His computer gaming buddies were delighted to be called upon and had come round straight away. They had been as weird and exasperating as usual, and his patience, stretched thin by his recent ordeals, was expanded to breaking point before they left.
But they had accomplished what he had wanted them to do. Now he was further along the trail to the man at the top. Once he found out his identity, he could do what was necessary to put right what was so very wrong.

"So how far along are you?" Mark enquired of his son.
It was a beautiful day. The sun was pouring out rays of blistering heat and they had taken their breakfast out to the patio to take advantage of the weather. Steve was perusing a file he had brought home with him the night before, his brows furrowed into a frown. He glanced up at the sound of his father's voice. "What?" he asked, absently.
The older man gave him an indulgent smile. "How far are you with the investigation?" he clarified.
The detective shook his head. "We've been chasing leads all week," he said, dismally. "We've probed into the backgrounds of the two men Susan dated after she left here and neither of them look like likely candidates."
"Maybe there's something you're missing?" suggested Mark, mildly.
Steve let out an exasperated snort. "I've thought of that!" he retorted. "I've looked at this from every angle, Dad. I can't see it."
"Well, what about a fresh perspective?"
Steve smiled ruefully. "You mean you haven't already looked at these files?"
His father returned the smile. "I didn't say that," he replied. "I was thinking …"
"Yes?" Steve prompted him.
"Well, the chiropractor is happily married, right? And the attorney doesn't seem to have any property interests or business dealings of any kind - outside his law practice, that is?"
"Right."
"What if they're under another name?"
"And how would you suggest we find that?"
"Have you tried another angle? Like finding out who's behind the holding company? Once we have a name we can work on finding out who that name belongs to."
"Okay," said Steve, dryly. "You have been thinking! To be honest, I was going to resort to that next. Cheryl's picking me up and we're going over to see Jesse." An expression of alarm appeared on Mark's face, sliding away as quickly as it appeared, but not quite fast enough. "What?" demanded Steve. "What's wrong?"
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" ventured Mark, warily.
The younger Sloan smiled. "Look Dad, all I'm going to do is ask him where he got to in his enquiry into the holding company. It's gonna save me some time, that's all and I thought it would be a good idea to make Jesse feel useful."
Mark sighed. "I'm sorry, Steve," he said. "I'm just being over-cautious. I just don't want him hurt any more."
"I'm not going to hurt him," protested Steve, somewhat defensively. "You know I wouldn't do that. Look, he's gotta be bored out of his mind with nothing to keep him occupied. I don't know why you wouldn't just let him do 'Bob's' accounts. At least he'd feel needed for something."
"I know. Maybe I was wrong to cut him off entirely," Mark conceded. "But he's been through such an ordeal and I just wanted him to rest. You're right, of course. Without something to do, he's going to look for trouble."
The other man quirked an eyebrow in response to this. "I never said that. But you're right. I'll let him off the hook when I see him, then, shall I? I can collect 'Bob's' books later on and take them round."
Mark smiled. "That's a good idea, Steve. And, thanks."

"So what do we do now?" demanded Cheryl, after their visit to Jesse's proved to be in vain. He wasn't answering the door. Steve had been all set to break it down when a neighbour had appeared and told them that 'that nice young doctor has gone out'. In response to their enquiries as to his whereabouts she shrugged and said she didn't know but she was sure he would be back soon. After she had re-entered her apartment the two exchanged glances.
"My father's gonna kill him," he commented, ruefully. "But then, he never told Jesse he couldn't go out. And anyway, he's thirty six, not six."
"He is?" deadpanned Cheryl. "Since when?"
The stab at humour lifted Steve's descending mood. "What say you and I pay a visit to the 'Swanson's manager and get him to give us some information?" he suggested.
She grinned. "I think that sounds like an excellent idea!" she replied. "I do hope he makes it difficult."
"So do I," he agreed, fervently. "So do I."

The hotel was in one of the less salubrious parts of town and looked shabby and rundown. The edifice was rotten and crumbling, and a homemade 'condemned' sign had been pasted on the wall. The interior, however, was even worse than they had expected. The lobby was dark and dingy, the peeling wallpaper reflective of the building's state of disrepair. The stairs leading to the upper floors had once been covered in a deep red carpet. This had now become threadbare and its fraying edges barely covered the dangerous cracks in the stairs themselves. Huge cobwebs hung from every corner of the ceiling and a black fungus was spreading up one of the walls.
From the upper floors could be heard the tumult of babies wailing, voices raised in argument and a stereo, blasting out some tuneless, nameless beat. There was an overwhelming stench of uncollected, rotting garbage mixed in with human waste and other unpleasant odours that neither Steve nor Cheryl cared to identify. It seemed to house the very dregs of humanity. Impoverished, desperate and helpless, the people who resided here lived in a state of deprivation and degradation that didn't seem possible outside the realms of TV or the movies. However, there were dozens of establishments similar to this at this end of town. Places where the dispossessed and disillusioned ended up, living in sordid, precarious conditions in unsound buildings. It was a disgrace - and not something talked about in 'polite' society. What made it even more reprehensible was the fact that whilst the poverty-stricken barely eked out an existence in places like this, it was their welfare money that was lining the pockets of the rich people who owned the hotels, making the rich richer.
It sickened Steve. He could not comprehend how those people slept at night, knowing how people suffered to keep them wealthy.
Trying his best to hide his distaste, he walked to the office at the end of the hall, Cheryl hot on his heels, attempting to conceal her own disgust. They picked their way over a garbage-strewn floor, not knowing what they were stepping in, before realising that the office was empty, although a half-eaten sandwich lay in its wrapper on the desk, which was laden with papers, sweet wrappers and empty coffee cups.
"He's gone out," said a voice from beside them. Cheryl glanced down, to find a boy not much older than 6 looking up at her with wide blue eyes. He was dressed in what were obviously well-worn hand-me-downs, although they did at least look clean. His hair was blond and he had the sweetest smile. She squatted in front of him.
"Do you know when he'll be back?" she asked, gently.
He shook his head. "No," he replied, earnestly. "But if he hadn't gone the other man wouldn't be here."
"Other man?"
Cheryl and Steve exchanged glances.
"What other man?" asked Steve.
The boy shrugged, then started upstairs, pausing at the bottom, clearly waiting for them to catch up.
When they reached the top of the stairs they looked around, searching for the 'man', then Steve scowled as he spotted a very familiar figure deep in conversation with a woman at the end of the corridor.
"Jesse!"
The young man in question spun round at the sound of his name and even as a half-smile of greeting appeared on his face it faded at the expression on Steve's. "Steve!" he gasped. "Look, I can explain …"
Their conversation was abruptly halted by a sudden eruption of gunfire. Steve felt the heat of a bullet fly past him and acted on pure instinct. "Jesse, get down!" he yelled, even as he drew his own weapon from his holster.
The young man simply stood rooted to the spot, his face several shades whiter than it had been mere seconds before, looking for all the world like he had forgotten how to breathe. With a muffled curse, Steve flung himself at his friend, his momentum carrying them both to the ground as he made impact. "Down!" he screamed again, as men, women and children scattered in all directions, seeking shelter from the bullets which were slicing through the air, seemingly aimed indiscriminately, and yet unerringly heading toward those who were least able to avoid them, reverberating terrifyingly down the narrow hallway.
With Jesse buried beneath his larger frame, Steve glanced around, trying to discern the direction which the gunshots were was coming from. Even as he did so, he saw a muzzle flare and heard a projectile fly past his ear, burning a trail across his cheek. A child screamed, there was an ominous 'thump' and it was silenced.
A wail went up. The child's mother. She was crying uncontrollably and screaming obscenities at the killers. The cacophony of sound was deafening. Then, just as quickly as the gunfire had commenced, it stopped. The screaming died away, to be replaced by quiet sobbing and the sounds of people asking each other if they were okay.
Steve cautiously raised his head again. Jesse wasn't moving beneath him but his eyes were open and blinking and he was breathing heavily. "Are you okay, Jess?" demanded the detective as he rose to his feet, hauling his friend up beside him. The doctor stared at him unseeingly. His mouth was working but no sound was coming out and he seemed completely paralysed. Steve swallowed hard. He had no idea what to do for Jesse, and besides, other people needed his assistance and he had to find out who had been shooting at them and why. "Cheryl!" he called. "Cheryl!"
There was no response.
Turning, he discovered why.
His partner was laying on the floor. A pool of blood - her blood - was spreading out beneath her. "Cheryl!" he cried, scrambling over to her, and falling to his knees beside her. He quickly felt for the carotid artery, relief flooding through him when he found a pulse. It was racing, but it was strong enough. "Jesse, get over here!" he commanded his friend. "Jesse, Cheryl needs you!"
Slowly, Jesse's glassy-eyed stare cleared and intelligence and life returned to the azure orbs. He looked around him, dazed by the entire thing, then instinct kicked in and before Steve could utter his name a third time he was crouching beside them.
"I think she took it in the shoulder, Steve," he said, calmly, his matter-of-fact tone doing much to reassure the older man, who had been trying to quell his rising panic.
"Look after her," he ordered. "I'm going to see if I can find out who was shooting at us. Oh, and Jess," he added as he stood, his gaze sliding over to where the woman sat in the doorway, cradling the body of her young son. "Is there anything you can do …?"
Jesse's gaze followed Steve's and, with an apologetic glance at Cheryl, he rose, albeit somewhat unsteadily, and hurried over to the mother and her son. The young boy's blond hair was in disarray and matted with dark red blood and his eyes were tightly closed. Even before he reached them, Jesse knew he couldn't do anything for him, but he had to try.
Kneeling beside them, he reached out a hand to feel for a pulse.
Nothing.
Pulling one of the boy's eyes open, he felt a huge weight settle on his chest.
He was dead.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the grieving woman, laying a blood-stained hand briefly on her shoulder. She didn't acknowledge his words, not seeming to know he was even there. A huge knot tightened in his gut

"Well?" asked Steve from beside him. He had paused briefly on his way to the end of the corridor from where the shots had originated. "Is he ...?" Jesse shook his head sadly before Steve could even complete the sentence. With a despondent sigh, the detective nodded briefly and hurried away.

Cheryl groaned as someone touched her. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open and she stared groggily around. There was a blurred shape in front of her and she blinked a few times, trying to bring the figure into focus.
"J … Jesse?" she gasped as the figure coalesced into the familiar form of the young doctor.
"It's okay, Cheryl," Jesse said, in a soothing voice. It was the one he used to calm frightened patients. It had a comforting effect on her and she distantly noted that he was good at this. Very good. "I just wanna turn you over, get a good look at that shoulder. Okay?"
"Okay," she whispered, then had to stifle a moan of pain as together, they completed the agonising manoeuvre. Jesse shrugged off his jacket, wadding it into a ball and placing it beneath her head. "Thanks," she managed, giving him a wan smile.
"My pleasure," he said, gently. "I'm just gonna check you out, okay? Try not to move."
"I'll do that," she murmured. She glanced around as he probed at her wound, trying not to show how much he was hurting her, knowing it was necessary for him to establish how serious the injury was. "Steve?" she asked, breathlessly.
"He's okay," he assured her, easily anticipating her full question. "He's gone to try to find the people who shot at us, and I heard him call for backup and an ambulance. We'll get you out of here, soon."
He was still using that voice, she realised. She ignored his last comment, choosing to focus on the first part of his answer. "They'll be long gone by now," she said, knowing from long experience that gunmen never stuck around afterward. "Ow!"
"Sorry," he apologised.
"That's okay." She flashed him a wan smile. "Well, doc, will I live?"
He returned the smile. "Yeah, I think so," he replied. "But you're gonna be out of commission for a while. I won't know how much nerve and muscle damage you've sustained till we can get you to the ER."
"Gee, you sure know how to cheer a girl up!" she observed, dryly.
"Sorry."
"Don't be. Just glad you're here. Really," she emphasised, off the expression of doubt that flitted across his face.
She watched whilst he removed his shirt, tearing it into strips then suffered stoically whilst he bound her shoulder. He had nice muscle tone, she noted, absently.
"Look," he said, when he was finished. "I need to go check out everyone else. Will you be okay here for a few minutes?"
"Sure." She closed her eyes, as waves of pain surged through her, trying to quell the rising nausea it elicited. "Go," she said, through gritted teeth. "Do the doctor thing. I'll be just fine."
He eyed her dubiously for a moment then rose with a heavy sigh. He couldn't do any more for her than he had already done. He hadn't brought his doctor's bag with him. He hadn't thought he would need it.
Miraculously, everyone else had escaped injury. With one notable exception. Jesse felt tears spring to his eyes as they alighted on the young mother who sat in the doorway of an apartment, her son in her lap. He checked on a young woman seated halfway down the corridor with blood pouring from an open cut on her forehead. It was nothing serious. Head wounds always bled a lot. Sighing, he advised her to keep the wad of cotton torn from his shirt on it to stem the flow. Rising to his feet again, he half-turned - and collided with someone coming from the opposite direction.
"Ow!"
"Jesse! Are you okay?"
Steve!
As the other man helped steady him, he flashed him a brief smile, unconsciously checking him out for blood. Despite what he had told Cheryl, he hadn't been entirely sure that Steve had escaped unscathed. The other man could have been concealing an injury. It would be just like him.
But he was fine.
Exhaling gratefully, Jesse then followed his friend back down the hall toward Cheryl. "Did you find anything?" he asked, noting the forbidding set to the older man's jaw.
Steve nodded. "Some shell casings at the far end of the hall," he responded, coolly. "Plus some partial footprints. I've taped the scene off. Backup and ambulance are on the way. How's Cheryl?"
The clipped tone of his voice told Jesse that Steve was trying desperately to keep his anger in check. "She's okay," he assured him. "As far as I can tell here without instruments or anything. She needs to be checked out in the hospital but I think she'll be just fine."
Steve smiled in relief. "Thank god. Thanks, Jess."
"So what was it?" Jesse demanded, trying to keep up to his friend's long-legged stride. "Gang shooting? Drugs?"
The detective shook his head. "I don't know yet," he replied. "Once Forensics is done with the scene and we can trace the bullets and those prints, maybe we'll know more."
Jesse sighed. He felt so helpless. His gaze slid back to the woman and her dead son. Neighbours had gathered round her, helping to console her. Jesse made a mental note to make sure she got to the hospital, too. They had counsellors there ... "Why would anyone shoot at women and children?" he protested, disconsolately. "It's not right."
Steve quite agreed with his friend's sentiment. However, he harboured his own suspicions about the reason for the shooting - which he wasn't about to share with Jesse. "I know, pal," he said. "I know."

The wail of an approaching ambulance alerted the ER staff to the arrival of casualties. They had been informed of a shooting downtown, but had not been given the identities of those involved. Mark's heart almost stopped as the gurney crashed through the ER doors, accompanied by not only Jesse, who was in full doctor mode, but his blood-spattered son.
"What happened?" he demanded, as soon as he was able to breath again, his swift appraising glance assuring him that none of the blood was Steve's. The detective, in fact, appeared hale and hearty, if somewhat aggravated.
"Shooting," came the curt response. "Cheryl took one in the shoulder. They killed a kid, Dad. We brought both mother and child in."
Mark felt a brief pang of regret for the passing of the young life, then his professional demeanour re-asserted itself as he assessed the female detective's injury.
"Gunshot wound to the shoulder," Jesse reported as they hurried the gurney into an examining room. "Pulse is 90, BP 110/70. Respiration normal. Patient has been awake and responsive throughout."
Mark smiled warmly at his young friend, despite his shock at seeing him there. He tabled any questions he wanted to ask till later, however. "Thanks, Jesse," he said. Then, "On my count, one, two, three … "

"She's going to be just fine, Steve," Mark announced a couple of hours later. He had entered the doctors' lounge to find Steve pacing the floor whilst Jesse seemed to be going for some coffee-drinking record. There were several empty cups in front of him and he was fidgeting restlessly on the chair on which he was perched. "Now would anyone care to explain to me just what happened and why you," he focused his redoubtable glare on the younger doctor, "were at the scene of a shooting?"
"There was no shooting before they got there!" Jesse protested, defensively.
"Hey!" exclaimed Steve indignantly.
"That's not what I meant and you know it, Jesse," said Mark. "Now what were you doing there?"
"I wanted to let everyone know that I hadn't forgotten about them," explained the young doctor, a little sullenly. "Why?"
Why, indeed. Jesse was bristling with resentment. The young man wasn't a child. More, he wasn't even Mark's son - although it often felt like it. He really had no right questioning his protégé's movements. He may have barred Jesse from work - purely because he didn't think he was ready to come back, however much Jesse might think otherwise, but anything else he did on his own time was really up to him. It was hardly Jesse's fault that he worried about him; wanted to keep him safe. And hadn't he always had a penchant for putting himself in danger - even if inadvertently? Mark could hardly blame him for that, either. He'd made the observation a few years before that his friend was just like him in many respects. Too many. 'Stepping in where angels fear to tread' was a phrase that came to mind. He hadn't so much followed Mark's example that way, so much as refined it and made the habit very much his own.
The older man rubbed a finger across his moustache thoughtfully. Jesse's attitude also served to remind him - had he needed the reminder - that the younger doctor was far from recovered emotionally from his recent ordeals. Under ordinary circumstances, Jesse would have treated his interrogation more lightly. But these were not ordinary circumstances. His life had changed radically. More, he was under threat from the man who had killed Susan - even if he wasn't aware of it.
But how to persuade him to stop probing into the 'Swanson' hotel owners - because that was undoubtedly what he had been doing. Mark knew that as sure as he knew that a new day would dawn on the morrow? He wouldn't take kindly to any more interference in his life, and they could hardly tell him about the death threat.
"I was just worried for you, Jess," he said, finally, in as neutral a voice as he could manage under the circumstances. Given that all he wanted to do was have Jesse escorted home, locked in and guarded night and day.
"Well, you don't need to," came the sullen response. "I'm fine. I'm ready to come back to work."
"No."
Jesse stared at him in disbelief. "No?" he echoed. "No? That's all you have to say? A categorical 'no'? But why?"
Now he was beginning to sound like a petulant child denied the use of his dad's car. The very thought made Mark want to smile. He didn't think it would be a very good idea at present however. Jesse would only think he was being teased and that wouldn't go down well at all.
"Because you're not ready," he said, firmly. "No, Jess," he went on, as the younger man made to protest. "You can come back when I say and not before."
"You're not the boss of me!" was Jesse's rebellious silent response. However, Mark was his boss. More, he was his friend. He just didn't understand why his boss and friend was treating him like a small child who didn't know his own mind. He averted his gaze from the older man's, staring down at the table moodily, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't get him embroiled in the argument that was sure to follow.
"You've been through a lot recently, pal," Steve said, gently. "Why don't you give it some more time?"
"Because I'm bored!" Jesse retorted, switching his glare to the detective. "I can't even go anywhere now without being questioned!"
"I'm sorry, Jesse," Mark said. "I didn't mean to imply …"
"That's just what you meant, and you know it!" Jesse interrupted, sharply. He saw shock at his words register on Mark's face. It was quickly concealed behind a mask of concern but it sent a jolt through him nevertheless. He had just yelled at his mentor. The guy who had been there for him when Susan had been killed. The guy who had taken him to his home and looked after him. Shame washed over him in waves and he hung his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered, contritely. "I didn't mean …"
A warm hand squeezed his hunched shoulder. "I know, son. I know," came the warm response.
"We're just worried about you, Jess," Steve chimed in.
"I know," he admitted in a low, strained voice. "I wish you wouldn't."
"Well, we can't help it," Mark said. "We care about you and that's what happens when you care. You know that."
He nodded, biting his lip as tears flooded his eyes. My god, was he always going to feel this way?
He felt movement beside him, heard a chair scrape back and suddenly a warm hand was laid on his arm. "Jess, thanks for what you did back there."
He glanced up, surprised and confused. "Huh?"
"For Cheryl," Steve clarified. "I'm glad you were there."
He managed a watery smile. "It's okay," he said, hesitantly. "I was glad to help. I mean not that I was glad she got shot or anything and all I did was bind the wound, because I didn't have my bag with me, not that I thought I would need it, because I only went down there to see the people who lived there and if I'd thought anything was going to happen then I might not have gone, only I probably would because I didn't want them to come to any harm and …" Jesse was suddenly acutely aware that he was babbling and shut up. He glanced at Steve. He was grinning and shaking his head. He didn't need to look up to know that Mark was doing the same. "Um … sorry," he said, meekly. "I'll shut up now."
"Yeah, before you run out of breath," Steve remarked, good-naturedly.
Jesse stuck out his tongue at his friend. "Ha, ha," he said.
"Whilst I have you here, I'd like to ask you something, Jess."
The younger man was instantly on his guard again. Steve had gone from amused to serious in no seconds flat. He wondered what lecture he was in for this time. "What?" he asked, suspiciously.
"Cheryl and I came by your place before we went to the Swanson." Steve saw the way his friend instantly closed down, but forged ahead anyway. "I wanted to ask how far you'd got with your investigations into the hotel's owners."
"Why?"
"Because we're running an investigation that ties into that hotel." It was the truth, but it was evasive enough not to arouse Jesse's suspicions.
"Oh." Jesse relaxed. "Okay."
"So?" Steve prompted. "What did you find out?"
"Can I be in on the investigation?"
Whoa! "Uh, no," Steve replied. "This is just a routine investigation, Jess. Lots of paperwork. It's something Cheryl can do whilst she's laid up and unable to hit the streets."
"Oh." Jesse looked disappointed, but didn't press the issue, for which Steve was incredibly relieved. He didn't like lying to his friend but he could hardly tell him the truth.
"So?"
"So what?"
The detective quelled his rising exasperation. "So are you gonna help me out here?"
Jesse looked at him for a long moment, then a slow smile spread across his face. "Okay," he agreed. "But you gotta tell me what comes of it. Deal?"
That Steve could do. He hoped. "Deal."

"So, how you doing?"
Cheryl smiled wryly at her partner's question. "You sound just like that Joey character from 'Friends'," she grumbled.
Steve feigned indignation at her remark. "I don't know how you could accuse me of that," he said, perching himself on her bed.
"Comfy?" she asked, pointedly.
"Very!" he replied, with a grin.
"Glad I could help."
"So, what's the verdict?"
"You're insufferable and smug," she replied.
"I shall put that remark down to the medication," he said, evenly. "So what about your arm?"
"It's still here." She eyed the thick bandage with distaste. "It hurts, though."
"It will," he agreed, sagely, moving smoothly out of reach of the blow she aimed at him with her good hand. "When are you being released?"
"You don't mind if I recuperate first?" she demanded.
"Ooh, testy, aren't we?"
"You try getting shot. See if you feel any more cheerful."
"I have been shot," he pointed out.
"Oh, right. Sorry."
He shrugged easily. "That's okay." He eyed her critically. "You look peaky."
"I just underwent surgery a few hours ago," she replied. "You're lucky I'm awake."
"Well, I'm glad you're okay. I just came by to see how you were. I'm heading home for the night."
"Lucky you," she muttered. Then she relented and smiled. "Sorry. I get tend to get a little grumpy when I've been shot in the shoulder for no good reason. You get anything at the scene?"
"Some shells, a partial footprint. I'm waiting on Forensics calling me. Hopefully we'll be able to find the shooters before they strike again."
"You think they were shooting at Jesse, don't you?" she asked, shrewdly.
He raised a questioning eyebrow. "What, you don't?"
"I don't know, Steve," she said, thoughtfully. "Why wait till we'd got there to shoot? I mean, he'd already been there for a while. If they wanted to kill him, all they had to do was grab him outside - no-one would have noticed, not in that area. They could have taken him down some deserted alleyway and done the deed there. It doesn't make any sense for them to start shooting when we appeared."
He scowled at her. "You realise you've just shot my theory to hell?"
She beamed back at him. "I live to ruin your day!"
"Yeah," he said, gratefully. "Thank god."
"Actually, I think it's more Jesse that you should thank. Where is he, by the way?"
"I sent him home in a squad car," Steve told her. "He wasn't too happy about it, particularly as his own car is still down at the 'Swanson.'
"So's mine," she reminded him.
"I'll get a couple of the uniforms to secure them both," he promised. Rising to his feet he placed a gentle hand on her cheek. "Get better, okay? What am I gonna do without you around to keep an eye on me?"
"Watch your back," she replied, sombrely. "I mean it, Steve," she went on, as he regarded her with a puzzled frown. "I don't think that whoever was shooting was firing at Jesse. I think they were firing at you."

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