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Chapter Text

Detective Arthur Kirkland walked into the apartment already crawling with the Crime Scene Unit. A few police officers, dressed in the customary navy jacket and cap, were milling around with nothing to do whilst the forensic team inspected every corner of the room. Arthur's eyes swept across them and finally found the two men who stood out like sore thumbs since they were wearing black suits.

“Beilschmidt, Carriedo,” he said by way of greeting as he approached them. Both of them turned and nodded to him.

“Hey,” said Detective Gilbert Beilschmidt. His almost-white hair and almost-red eyes had once unnerved Arthur. However, after several years solving murders with him, Arthur had become good friends with him. He was as diligent as Arthur but a little more laid-back which was probably good for the workplace.

Meanwhile, Detective Antonio Fernández Carriedo seemed the most laid-back of the three of them, constantly cheerful. Sometimes it rubbed Arthur the wrong way but he was hard-working and often got the job done. His tanned skin and green eyes drew attention from the other people in the precinct but none of them seemed to hold his attention beyond a hello. Arthur dreamed of the day their conversations wouldn't be interrupted by new police officers wanting to speak with him.

Arthur decided to get down to business. “What have we got?”

“It's one of those weird ones,” said Gilbert, grinning. His German accent was barely noticeable. “You always get assigned the freaky ones.”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur swept his eyes over the apartment they were in, already going into that special state of mind which helped him pick out details. The place looked rather expensive, sleek wooden floors and white walls. So the person worked and earned a lot and wasn't much on design. A few picture frames sat on a shelf and Arthur could see a variety of people captured there, one woman visible in quite a few. From this distance, all he could make out was her brown hair and white smile but he knew that would be the victim.

Another life cut short. He suppressed a sigh and turned, looking around for the body and the medical examiner.

As he made his way to a table, covered with a black tablecloth, Antonio spoke up, reading from his notebook. “The vic's name is Polly Karthington, twenty-seven. She's a psychologist, deals with people with all sorts of mental problems. Her cleaner came in this morning and found her like... that.” He gestured at the body on the table with the book as he flipped it closed.

Moving forward, Arthur took in the state of the body. Long, brown hair fanned out below her; too perfect to have been done by chance. Her eyes were closed and, though her mouth was closed in a neutral line, someone had drawn a large semi-circle with deep red lipstick in a mockery of a smile. She was wearing a black dress and was bare-foot. Someone had folded her hands over three red roses.

“Franny, what happened?” Arthur asked of his best friend, the M.E.

Francis Bonnefoy looked up with grimace, his calm, blue eyes staring right into Arthur's. His hair was tied back, as usual, but was still silky blond. The dark blue CSU jacket he was wearing proclaimed his role in the investigation. He raised a hand in greeting. “Two GSWs to the chest,” he explained, pointing them out. “She was shot over there” - he pointed to a pool of blood near the entrance to the attached kitchen - “before being placed like this. It's pretty creepy, if you ask me.”

“I didn't ask.”

“All right,” said Francis, raising his hands (including the clipboard he was holding) in surrender. “But, even if you don't, it's still pretty freaky, you've got to admit.”

“Hm,” said Arthur, absently. There was something familiar about this scene... “And the lock wasn't broken?”

“Nein,” said Gilbert, laying on his original accent.

At that, Arthur sighed and rolled his eyes skyward. “Honestly? Again with the German?”

“I like to protect my roots.”

Shaking his head, Arthur cleared his mind and glanced around. Nothing seemed to be out of place, nothing knocked over. Unless the killer had replaced everything precisely where he had found it – unlikely – she hadn't fought back. “She knew him, then,” he said aloud.

“And he even brought her flowers,” said Francis, nodding at them. “Romance, hm? Still alive.”

“Romance killed her,” added Arthur, dryly. He ran his eyes over her body once more before running his hand through his hair with a sigh. “I've seen this before.”

“You have?” asked Gilbert, stepping closer. “He's done this before?”

Arthur shook his head. “No. It's from a book. You know, the Diana Storm books.”

“Huh?” asked Antonio, listening in.

Raising his eyebrows, Arthur turned to them. “Surely you've heard of them? Alfred F. Jones? Best-selling author? Any of that ringing a bell?”

“Nope,” said Gilbert, shrugging a shoulder. “What sort of books are they?”

“Crime fiction.”

“ That would be why. I don't go home from solving murders to read about more murders.” Gilbert snorted, clearly amused.

“And that would be because you're an idiot,” said Arthur in a monotone.

“Hey!”

“Moving on,” Arthur said, hastily, “we had best look into Polly's clients. See if she had any romantic partners. Canvas the area. And I have some research to do.”

“With those books?” Gilbert's amusement was growing.

Nodding, Arthur began to make his way from the apartment, leaving the others to their assigned jobs. The image of the body stuck in his head, so similar to a death in Storm's Last Stand. He knew he would have to go after him eventually but, first, he would do his research.

Chapter Text

Alfred F. Jones was currently surrounded by his adoring female fans and he was loving his life. Several of them were shouting over each other, asking for his autograph. Over the noise he could barely hear his publisher talking through the speakers but he ignored her for the moment. In fact, when one of them pushed their way to the front, he was captivated – by the fact that her shirt was partially undone and she was practically pushing her cleavage in his face.

“Oh? You want one of those, huh?” he said, grinning at her.

“Yuh huh. Gonna make it into a tattoo,” she said, raising her voice so she could be heard.

Obediently, Alfred signed his name. However, he stopped her before she left, her black hair swinging. “Here,” he said and handed over his card, his number printed clearly. “Maybe we can arrange a time for me to sign another part of your body, yeah?” He winked at her making her cheeks light up.

“Sure!” said the woman, giggling as she hurried off.

“ALFRED F. JONES!” shouted Chloé suddenly, making the speakers screech. Everyone flinched and Alfred turned to look over his shoulder. His publisher was glaring at him – or, at least, he thought she probably was. He couldn't see past the glint of light off her glasses. But he could see the frown. She jerked her head, her long braid swinging behind her. Grimacing, Alfred excused himself quickly and jogged up onto the stage.

With a disgruntled sigh, Chloé moved out of the way for him and he bounded over to stand in front of the podium. “Hey, everyone! So, I'm sure you'll all love my latest book. It's awesome! Storm Fall will definitely be something to talk about. But, hey, this is a party so let's not talk about books – let's drink and be merry and all that jazz!”

People chuckled at his little speech and applauded before they turned to their companions and began to chatter again. Alfred turned to go back to his signing but was caught by Chloé before he could properly escape. Uh oh. Here comes the lecture.

“Everyone seems to love you and your books,” she said, a little stiffly, as she linked their arms and began to walk him off the stage.

“Of course. My books are up there with, like-”

“Please don't say Shakespeare.”

The writer paused. “Well, they're still pretty cool.”

“Sure they are. But, if they're so 'cool', why did you kill her off?” Chloé stopped walking then and turned to him. Alfred stopped, too, and sighed. He had been hoping to avoid her nagging. That was why he had divorced her in the first place: too bad she was still his publisher.

“I got rid of her because she was becoming boring and predictable. I want something new and exciting .”

“And where is this new and exciting thing?” Chloé asked with a raised eyebrow.

Shrugging, Alfred avoided her gaze and looked out at the party. Men were in fancy outfits and suits and women wore elegant evening dresses, practically screaming that they were all respectable people at a respectable party. The lighting was dull, though, and made the colours darker, made the even seem more sombre. Alfred rather liked the imagery. Only the lights at the bar provided adequate illumination and broke the illusion of the party being a wake. He turned back to Chloé when he heard her cough and he scrambled for something to say.

“You can't rush these things. They need to flow. And you know they say that geniuses shouldn't be rushed.”

“I heard that you had writer's block.”

“What?!” exclaimed Alfred, blushing and flailing his arms. Unfortunately for him, he nearly knocked a tray out of the hands of a passing waiter. “Ah! I'm sorry!” Alfred turned to the man and grabbed a couple of the glasses to stop them from falling. The other two weren't so lucky and toppled, pouring what appeared to be champagne on the waiter's pristine shirt and waistcoat. “Damn!” He eyed the waiter's chest and discretely checked out the rest of him. Not bad , he thought before deciding to concentrate on the spill. “Let me help-”

“No, no,” said the man. “I'll clean this up, sir, not to worry.” And, with that, the waiter wandered off, threading his way through the crowd.

Alfred turned back to Chloé then – and found her already gone, mingling with fellow publishers and crime novel enthusiasts. Grumbling to himself, he thought about what she had said. She had heard he had writer's block? But who could have told her? After all, only two people knew-

His eyes widened before narrowing and he turned to the bar. Sure enough, an older woman in a burgundy dress was standing, glass in hand, beside a young girl sitting on a stool. He sighed and made his way over, dodging through the dancers.

As he reached them, he heard the brunette say to the girl, “Oh, come on. Loosen up! You can study later.”

“I'll be sleeping later, grandma,” replied the girl, her smile strained. She spotted Alfred, though and her smile became genuine. “Hi, Dad. People seem to be really excited about your book.”

Grinning at that, Alfred nodded. “Yup. Now, Maddie, what's this?” He gestured to her homework, spread across the bar.

“Science,” she replied, tossing one of her strawberry-blonde pigtails over her shoulder. Delicately pushing her glasses up her nose, she glanced back down at it, seemingly remembering that she had gotten distracted from her goal.

“Honestly, Alfred,” said the brunette as she turned to him, her perceptive green eyes piercing his. “You must do something about her. This is a party not a study group. She needs to have fun! Live a little!”

“Mother,” sighed Alfred. “She's got plenty of time to have fun – unlike some of us. Besides, I need to speak with you.”

His mother, Elizaveta Héderváry, was a rather stubborn woman. An actress by trade – mostly theatre productions – she had fallen on hard times and was now living with Alfred and his daughter, Madeline, in his amazing loft. Though he didn't mind overall, sometimes his mother could be downright nosy and interfering. She meant well, of course, always encouraging his relationships and she helped him raise his own daughter all on his own, but he was living for the day when it would just be him and Maddie again.

“Oh? What is it?” Elizaveta asked, rather intrigued. “It must be pretty bad.”

“Huh? Why would you say that?”

“You only call me 'mother' in dire situations,” said the older woman, with a small grin and an overly dramatic wave of her hand.

“Urgh, Mom.” Alfred rolled his eyes. “Look, did you tell Chloé about my writer's block?”

“Of course.”

“Why would you do that?!” he exclaimed. “I don't need her on my back!”

“Well, I was just being honest, dear,” said Elizaveta with a shrug. “I don't see the problem. Every writer gets a block at some point.”

“She's going to nag. I hate nagging.”

“Hm,” said his mother, nodding along but gazing past him as something caught her eye. “Huh. Well, I must leave you here. I have fish to be a-frying.” With that, she downed her sherry, plucked a flower from a vase sitting on the bar and tucked it behind her ear. “Wish me luck!” And, with that, Elizaveta sauntered off in the direction of a – fairly – attractive, greying man.

Alfred turned to Madeline. “Can you believe that?!”

“Mm,” said his daughter, looking rather amused. “But she's right – most writers hit a wall occasionally.”

“That's not the point!”

Madeline giggled. “It's all right, Dad. I'm sure you'll get over it soon. I mean, you do have some ideas, right?”

Shifting uncomfortably under her gaze, Alfred sighed and shook his head. “'M'working on it,” he mumbled as he moved closer to the bar and leaned on it, almost doubled over in a slouch.

“Well, what do you want to write?” asked Madeline, getting to the heart of the matter, as usual. Maddie was so mature and he wasn't entirely sure where she had gotten that from.

“I still wanna do crime. But I want something new and exciting and- Urgh. I'm not even sure what that is. But definitely no more Diana Storm.”

As Madeline opened her mouth to speak, someone behind Alfred spoke. “Alfred Jones?”

“Ah,” said Alfred out of the side of his mouth to his wonderful daughter. She smiled back at him. “More autographs. Borrowing this!” And, grabbing a spare marker from her things, he straightened and turned to the person. Once he caught sight of them, though, Alfred froze. He was sure that he was looking at the most gorgeous and sexiest thing he'd ever seen.

Before him stood a man, slightly shorter than Alfred himself, with messy blond locks. He had rather large eyebrows but they definitely suited him. A fitted, navy V-necked sweater showed off how trim he was and his black pants were simple, yet pulled the eye to his lovely legs. But the best thing about him had to be his eyes – such a bright green that they were glinting in the small amount of light available.

“Wow, well,” said Alfred, blinking a little as the man gazed back. “Hel- lo . I don't normally sign guys' chests but I'll totally make an exception. Where d'ya want it?”

An expression somewhere between offence and amusement crossed the man's neutral face. Then he held something up. Alfred glanced at it dismissively, looked back into those eyes and then looked back at it in surprise. That looked suspiciously like an NYPD police badge. And if he wasn't wearing a uniform... A detective? Wow, how had he not known how sexy their police force was these days. Wait, why are they coming to me?

“Detective Arthur Kirkland,” said the man. “I'd like to have a little chat with you. In private, if you would be willing to come down to the station?”

Alfred could only stare, becoming more dumbfounded by the minute. Is that an English accent? It's damn sexy – but why's an English guy on the New York police force? He was becoming more intrigued by the second and knew that he wasn't going to resist.

Especially when his daughter leaned forward and muttered into his ear, “ That's new.”

Chapter Text

Alfred sat alone in the interrogation room, swinging on the chair. As he went back and forth, he wondered why he was there, what he would be interrogated about? After all, he hadn't done anything illegal.

Recently.

Then there was that detective – Arthur – whom Alfred was also thinking on. That man was handsome, beautiful, really, and Alfred was hoping he could get a date. Or two, if he wasn't the 'sex on the first date' kind of guy. Maybe it would take more. But he did seem worth it, what with that air of mystery that seemed to draw Alfred in. That might just be him, though. Hopefully. Competition for someone's affections sucked.

The door to the room opened and Alfred let the chair fall to the ground, crushing his stomach when he ended up too close to the steel table. Wincing, he pushed the chair back a little as he looked up at Detective Arthur Kirkland who was gazing back with an eyebrow raised. He grinned and resisted the urge to rankle the man by asking him to sit.

Closing the door, Arthur stalked over, closing the space in a couple of strides. He threw a rather large file onto the table and it was Alfred's turn to raise an eyebrow. What was in that? Briefly, he wondered if he was in trouble. Then he realised that he could talk his way out of it, anyway. He usually did.

“Mister Jones,” Arthur began as he sat down.

“You can call me 'Al',” said the writer, his grin widening.

Arthur didn't look the least bit impressed. “Mister. Jones. You have an interesting record.”

“Aw, have you been reading up on me? Like Facebook stalking? You didn't need to – I'll tell you anything.”

This time, he got a reaction. However, it wasn't what he had been hoping for – Arthur merely raised an eyebrow and flipped open the file. “Really now?”

“Yup!” exclaimed Alfred, hoping to distract him.

“Just like you told the officer where his horse was when you stole it... last year?” Arthur raised those stunning eyes to Alfred, still looking unimpressed. “Whilst naked.”

At that, Alfred laughed. “Yeah. It was a dare. Dontcha worry – I'll keep my clothes on. For now.” He winked at Arthur whose lip curled in apparent disgust. Alfred decided he'd best backtrack a little. “I'm only joking. Now, what can I do for you, babe?”

Watching the detective's eye twitch, Alfred suppressed a laugh. This was actually, surprisingly, a lot of fun. He could just imagine Arthur shouting at his handsome yet funny detective partner for saying something inappropriate while they were on a case. Or maybe not a detective. Perhaps a writer- a journalist! That would be it. Of course, he wouldn't be able to use Arthur's name-

His thoughts were interrupted by Arthur speaking. “Have you ever met Polly Karthington, Mister Jones?” he asked, slipping a photograph out of the file and placing it on the table so her face was the right way up. She was a pretty brunette, her hair pinned up in a bun in the photo.

“Nope,” said Alfred, shaking his head. “Who is she?”

“Dead,” Arthur replied, showing him another photograph. This one depicted the same woman, her long hair fanned out beneath her, a lipstick mark on her face. Before Alfred had a chance to take all of that in, Arthur placed another picture beside it, this one a shot of her whole body – including the three roses. Alfred's eyes widened in recognition even as Arthur placed a close-up photo of the roses beside them.

“Oh, my God,” breathed Alfred. “This is Storm's Last Stand!”

“I know. Now, do you know Karl Worthington?” Another photograph appeared, this time of a man with black hair and an open grin. Alfred barely noted his appearance, shaking his head, when another photograph was placed beside it. “He was found with blunt force trauma to the head two weeks ago,” Arthur continued, prodding the photograph, pointing out the matted hair on the body of the guy, blood on a poker beside him. “But he was suffocated before the killer beat his head into a bloody pulp. Now, explain to me, Mister Jones, why two people have been found in the exact way you killed off two of your own characters?”

“No idea,” answered Alfred, pulling the pictures towards him. “But it does appear as though I have a fan.”

“A sick and twisted one,” Arthur responded, frowning at the picture.

“Oh, you're not sick and twisted. At least, not that I know.” Alfred looked up at Arthur, grinning. The detective looked startled and confused but he quickly masked it with a scowl.

“What are you talking about?”

“You. The suffocation and blunt force trauma killing took place in At Dusk We Die. I've only ever known my groupies to read that .” His eyes sparkled as he watched Arthur's surprise. “So you have to be a hardcore fan, right?”

With narrowed eyes, Arthur shook his head. “This is getting us nowhere.”

“Well, I wouldn't say that. I mean, it's obvious that the killer is fixated on my books, on me. Though, really, there's a better way to get my attention. In fact, that's probably why he's doing it. He might even have some sort of a medical condition. Were either of these two a psychologist?”

For a moment, Arthur didn't speak, only staring at him from across the table. “Miss Karthington was. We're already looking into her patients and a link between them and Mister Worthington.”

“They didn't know each other?” asked Alfred, a tad surprised.

“Mm. Not as far as we're aware.”

“That seems... weird,” said Alfred, staring at the pictures.

“Oh? Do you have anything else to add?” asked Arthur, seeming to be intrigued by Alfred's input.

“Not much else, really. Except... You really do have the most amazing eyes, did you know?” Alfred took the chance to stare dreamily into Arthur's eyes. There was a pause as they stared at each other before Arthur shook his head and began to gather the pictures and paper strewn across the table.

“If he's a fan, he may have written to you. Do you mind if we look through your mail?” he asked.

“Sure, no problemo. Hey, do you mind if I have these?” Alfred placed his hands over the two pictures showing the dead bodies.

“What?” Arthur demanded, giving him an incredulous look.

“Just the pictures. See, I play poker with some good friends. You know, crime novelists like me. They would be so jealous that someone's copying my work and not theirs.” Alfred grinned at Arthur, hoping he would say yes.

But Arthur just stared back, giving nothing away. “Well, why don't you let me check?” he said, tone sarcastic.

“Really?” Alfred ventured to ask anyway.

“No,” Arthur said, shortly. He grabbed the pictures from his grasp and tucked them into the file. Standing, he grasped the folder to his chest and looked down at Alfred. “Someone will come for your letters as soon as possible.”

“Will it be you?” asked Alfred, making himself look as hopeful as possible.

This time, Arthur looked annoyed. “No. You're free to go, Mister Jones. Thank you for... your cooperation.” The sarcasm practically dripped off the detective as he slipped through the door, leaving it open for Alfred to follow suit.

However, Alfred stayed where he was for a moment, amused, staring at where Arthur had stood. Then he nodded to himself, grinning. “He likes me.”

When Alfred returned home, it was a little after midnight. Instead of the normal silence, Alfred could hear the piano before he had even unlocked the door. And... was that his mother singing, too? Frowning, he opened the door and entered.

The first floor of the loft was rather open plan. A living and dining area could be seen from the kitchen area, no walls separating them. Beyond that was a small passageway to his bedroom. On his right was his study, blocked from the rest of the space by filled bookcases, though you could see through them if you peered past the volumes. Wooden floors and minimal furniture made the room seem large and many a party had been thrown without the worry of cleaning carpets. To the left, a set of stairs led up to Madeline's room – and also his mother's, now.

Sitting at the piano was the grey-haired man from the party. Elizaveta stood beside him, singing some old song Alfred didn't recognise. Seeing him, Elizaveta waved with her free hand, the other holding a glass of wine. She pointed to his study and, seeing the door ajar, he made his way over. He slipped in and closed it behind him to find Maddie sitting in his chair, studying.

“Shouldn't you be in bed?” he asked, moving forward.

Glancing up, she nodded. “I can't sleep,” she said, gesturing towards the door and the noise beyond it.

“Ah. This is why I enjoy the days I get taken to a police station.”

“How did that go, anyway?” asked Madeline, laying down her pen and giving her father her undivided attention. “What did they want with you?”

Deepening his voice and trying to sound authoritative, he said, “That's classified.”

Madeline laughed. “The police don't classify things unless it's serious. And you weren't arrested so it can't have been all that bad.”

“Damn. Nothing gets past you, does it?” asked Alfred, moving around to another bookcase, this one filled with his own books. “Someone's killing people based off the ones in my books.” Finding Storm's Last Stand and At Dusk We Die, he pulled them out.

“Really? That's horrible,” said Madeline with a grimace as he turned back to her. “Did they ask for your help?”

“I think they were 'eliminating me from their enquiries'. But it doesn't make sense.”

“What doesn't?” asked Madeline, frowning at him.

Setting down his books at the correct places, Alfred pointed at the pages. “These murders are based on ones from these books. What people deem my lesser works. 'Course, Storm's Last Stand is pretty cool but At Dusk We Die is really obscure – if someone was trying to get people's attention, he'd use the more popular and known ones. Right?”

Arthur returned to the precinct with a box, piled full of books. He marched out of the lift, stalked past the interrogation rooms, the corridor to the holding cells and a few other desks before he reached his own. Placing the box there, he turned to his fellow detectives who stopped what they were doing to listen.

“These,” he said, holding up a book, “are all of Jones's books. Read them, familiarise yourself with them. When you come across any of these details in a case, you put them on the Murder Board.” He gestured at the whiteboard which served as an organisational tool. With that being said, he began to pass them out.

Gilbert approached the desk with Antonio. Curiously, he lifted one out and flipped to the front page. Arthur watched as his eyebrows rose and an amused expression crossed his face. He showed it to Antonio who chuckled as well. Arthur could tell what was coming and he narrowed his eyes as the rest of the detectives milled around, flicking through the books.

“'Property of Arthur Kirkland', huh?” said Gilbert, smirking now. “So you're a fan? And that's why you got to interrogate him alone? Did you have fun?”

“Shut it,” growled Arthur. “Just get to work.”

“But this is so much fun!” whined Gilbert, his smirk now a grin.

“And it will be that much more fun when I tell everyone about the film we went to see where you started-”

With a screech, Gilbert waved the book around. “Nein! Stopp! You win!”

“I always win,” said Arthur, grinning now. “What's CSU said about usable prints or DNA?”

“Not got back to us yet,” Antonio piped up, picking up a book. “They said they should have something for us in the morning. Possibly.”

“Right, then. You've got some reading to do. I'm going to reread the Worthington file again. See if there's anything we missed.” He patted Gilbert's shoulder in reassurance – he was still pouting – and marched off.

The next day, Arthur came into the precinct to see people with huge crates and boxes of papers. He stared as he wandered past, his book bag banging against his hip and his hot beverage warming his hand. “What's this?” he asked Gilbert as he passed him.

“Jones's mail for the past few months.”

“Christ,” breathed Arthur as he set down his bag and cup. “This is going to take a while. What did CSU say, then?”

“Nothing,” said Antonio, glancing up from the book he had taken. “There were no prints or DNA. Completely wiped down.”

“Fuck,” growled Arthur, running a hand through his hair. “The killer could be planning another murder as we speak – we don't have time to find a tree within a forest.”

“That's not the only thing,” added Gilbert.

“What?”

Gilbert didn't answer, merely nodded towards the Captain's office. When he looked over, Arthur's eyes widened. Alfred was standing there, chattering away rather animatedly to the stoic, blond Captain who didn't seem to be reacting. “What's he doing here?!” he demanded.

“Dunno,” mumbled Antonio, eyes glued to the book.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur glanced in the direction of the office only to jump slightly when he spotted Captain Ludwig Falkenrath and Alfred looking back. Quickly, he averted his gaze but it was drawn back a few moments later by a knock on the glass. Blinking, he saw that the tall Ludwig was on his feet, his face serious as he beckoned Arthur to the office. With a heavy, put-upon sigh, Arthur made his way over, knocked on the door and opened it, slipping in and closing it behind him.

“Sir?” he asked, looking up into his Captain's blue eyes in order to avoid looking at Alfred. Just a few minutes in the interrogation room was more than enough time to spend with the infuriating man.

Ludwig sighed. “Mister Jones here is offering his assistance on your case.”

“Oh, sir, I'm sure we can manage – as usual – without him,” Arthur said, trying to keep his voice level and monotone when he was seething inside. Who did this man think he was? And why was Ludwig letting him barge in?

“Really? I've heard that there is very little evidence to assist you. I'm sure that the more people going through that ” - he nodded to the piles of letters Gilbert was already reading - “the quicker we'll catch the guy. Yes?”

“But, sir-”

“No buts, detective. Don't worry, I've told Jones to do exactly as you say.”

“Yessir!” said Alfred, finally making Arthur look at him. He seemed very cheerful, his eyes lighting up as though he had gotten a brilliant present. “Won't put a toe out of line, sir!” Alfred saluted, still grinning and Arthur rolled his eyes before he turned back to Ludwig.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, sir?”

Looking at Alfred, Ludwig sighed and brought his hands to his temples. “I'm not entirely sure,” he sighed. “But don't just stand there – you have work to do.”

Suppressing a sigh, Arthur nodded. “Yes, sir.” Turning to Alfred, he glowered at him, though the gesture seemed to go over the grinning fool's head. “Let's go, Jones.”

As Arthur opened the door, he heard Alfred say, “'Jones'? What happened to the 'Mister'?” Arthur ignored him.

Seated at the table in the break room, Alfred glanced at one of his letters. Then he looked up and watched Arthur reading. It was actually interesting to do so, his expression changing in response to what he read. Most of the time, he had a small smile as though he enjoyed the activity but, when he came across certain passages, he would cringe or frown or blush. The latter was absolutely adorable and Alfred had to calm himself before he made the wrong move – he knew from earlier that Arthur would be a tough nut to crack.

“So. Should I call you Detective? Kirkland? Or-”

“Kirkland will do,” said Arthur without looking up. He set aside the letter he had been perusing and picked up another one.

“Right. Kirkland. What do you think of my adoring fans?”

“They seem to be... intense.” This time, Arthur glanced at him, laying down the letter. “I'm sure they'd love to read more of your books. So, why are you here instead of writing?”

“It'll make an interesting story, is all. Why are you here?”

“Pardon?”

Alfred shifted so that he was facing Arthur full on. “You seem real smart. I bet you could've been a lawyer or run your own business or something. So why're you a detective?”

Now, Arthur was giving him his undivided attention. Alfred found he rather liked that so he smiled, hoping it looked encouraging. “And why does that matter to you ?”

“You're the one solving this case, Kirkland. That makes you part of the story.”

“Huh,” said Arthur and turned back to the letters. “My answer is to mind your own damn business.”

“I'll just guess then,” said Alfred and leaned back on his chair, rocking it onto its back legs. “Lessee. You went to college, of course – who wouldn't, with your brains – and then... something happened.” He let the chair drop back down, watching Arthur who looked up again, frowning at him. “Something... horrible.”

“You sound terribly dramatic,” said Arthur, rather snarkily.

“It probably was dramatic – traumatic. Someone died, didn't they?” Alfred watched as Arthur's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open in surprise. “Someone close to you?”

For a second, Alfred thought that, maybe, Arthur would admit to it. That, maybe, Arthur would open up to him. Instead, Arthur's face returned to its usual imperceptible expression and he picked up another letter, refusing to look at Alfred. “Maybe, maybe not. Don't presume you know anything about me, Jones, just because you're sitting there.”

Sighing, Alfred turned back to his letters. Talking with Arthur now would likely not go anywhere. Glum, he began to read – and his eyes widened as he did. “Hey!” he cried. “I think I've found it!” Quickly, he handed it to Arthur so he could read what was written there.

Your stories explore the greatest accomplishments of mankind. They are art. Art begets art. They would become more so if they were real. Reality can bring the art to life – and death. You must rid the people of their fake art and bring yours to life.

“We need to get this to CSU,” said Arthur, determinedly. “If we can lift prints, we can find our suspect.”

Alfred felt that 'and we can get rid of you' went unsaid but was definitely there.

Cautiously, Alfred reached out to pick up the bunny ornament that sat on Arthur's desk. He wouldn't notice when he was doing his paperwork, right? Besides, he only wanted a closer look...

“Touch that and I will not hesitate to shoot you,” said Arthur in a monotone, not looking up.

Sighing, Alfred brought his hand back to fold his arms as he leaned against the desk. “But I'm bored!” he whined.

“Go home, then.”

He thought about that. “Eh... Not that bored.”

Arthur sighed. “Then go... read a book or something. Leave me be. I'm busy.”

“Hm,” said Alfred but didn't move. He tapped his foot a few times in thought. Then he glanced at his watch. It had been half an hour since they had sent the letter to CSU. So he turned to Arthur and said, “Have they got anything?”

“No,” Arthur replied, not even asking for clarification.

A pause. “How about now?”

“Did you hear the phone ring in the last five seconds?”

“Mmm,” said Alfred, as if he was thinking. “I didn't... But how about now?”

“Of course not,” said Arthur, the scratching of his pen halting as his grip tightened on it. “Do you ever shut up? I would like some peace to do this.”

“Right,” said Alfred. However, if Arthur had actually looked at him, he would have seen Alfred's wide grin. The writer began to count down from ten as Arthur began his task again. Just as Arthur seemed to be finishing, Alfred spoke again. “What about now?”

“Oh, for Pete's sake, Jones!” snapped Arthur, dropping his pen and glaring up at him. “It's going to take a while! There are other cases that the labs have to get through before they get to ours. Carriedo!” Alfred jumped slightly and turned to look behind him. Antonio was sitting at his desk, book out, appearing to be startled from whatever it was he was reading. Neither of them got a chance to speak as Arthur continued, clearly irritated. “Where are we with Karthington's patients?”

“Uh, no-one stood out any more than the others,” Antonio said, quickly, looking a little alarmed at Arthur's ferocity. Arthur's eyes narrowed and Alfred excused himself (without actually saying anything) to make a quick phone call to a friend. He barely caught Arthur's next words as he hurried down the hall.

“And just what are you doing right now?”

With his contacts, Alfred easily managed to wrangle his desires into reality. In this case, he asked the 'friend' to make sure their letter was processed faster. Pleased with the favourable response, he pocketed his phone and made his way back.

As he walked along, he could see that Arthur was on the phone. Antonio was feverishly flapping papers around and Gilbert had appeared, seeming baffled. “What happened?” he asked no-one in particular.

Alfred gave a nervous chuckle. “I may have made Kirkland mad.”

“Dummkopf,” said Gilbert, rolling his eyes.

Shrugging, Alfred made his way closer to Arthur just as he hung up. “Hey, Kirkland, guess what? You'll have the results of your prints within the hour.”

Arthur, who had been in the act of getting up, let himself drop back into his seat to stare at Alfred in bewilderment. “What?!”

“I called in a few favours and it just so happens that I know a guy who knows a guy.”

Surging from his seat, Arthur glared down his nose at Alfred – which was an impressive feat, seeing as he was shorter. “Where the fuck do you get off thinking you can go over people's heads like that?! We have our own procedures that we have to follow. If anything untoward happens or there's a mistake, our case will be thrown out of court! You dolt! Don't do that again!”

“But it'll get us our results faster!” whined Alfred, pouting a little. “Don't you want to know who wrote the letter?”

Still glaring at him, Arthur grabbed his coat (a fitted black one which Alfred felt looked amazing on him) and his cell phone. “Forget it. Come on: there's another body.”

When they reached the pool, Arthur confidently marched in. He dearly wished that Alfred wasn't here. The writer was annoying and a horrible distraction. On the drive over he had tried to make Arthur play I Spy and would only shut up when Arthur threatened to arrest him for disturbing his peace.

As they passed some police officers, Arthur heard Alfred say hello to them. He wouldn't have been surprised if the git struck up an entire conversation with them. If he did, he could lose him, he thought. Fervently, he hoped that would be the case. Unfortunately, it was not to be as the determined and irritating man trotted after him.

The pool had been cordoned off so that people could enter the building and use the attached gym and other facilities. Arthur ducked under the police tape and turned to Alfred before he could pass by as well. “You stay here, Jones,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. “You're still a civilian.” With that, he spun around and swept away, heading to the body in a blue dress and the M.E.

Francis looked up as he approached before looking past Arthur and raising an eyebrow. “Who's that?”

“A pain in the arse. What've you got for me?”

“This is Clara Knight, twenty-six, a manager at a coffee shop close by.”

“Cause of death?”

“Surprisingly,” said Francis, sarcastically, “drowning.”

“Time of death?”

“Just working on that.”

“Anything else?”

“Just that the attendant was the one to find her when he arrived this morning.” Francis jerked his head towards a mousy-haired man who was being interviewed by a police officer. He looked rather distraught but collected enough to answer Arthur's questions.

“Thanks,” he said and moved on, leaving Francis to his calculations and approaching the man. “Excuse me, sir,” he said to him, holding up his badge. “I'm Detective Kirkland. If you don't mind me asking a few-”

“Look,” interrupted the man. “I don't know her, all right? This is a twenty-four hour place and no-one sits in here at night unless we're specifically told there's someone coming in. Otherwise it'd be a waste of time, yeah? I've never seen her in here before and I didn't see anything. I just came into work an hour ago! Can I go now?”

“Uh...” Arthur blinked then nodded. “But we may need to talk to you later.”

“Thank God,” sighed the man, turning to leave, one of the police officers escorting him.

Shaking his head, Arthur turned to go back to Francis – and nearly had a coronary when he spotted Alfred standing next to the body, chattering away to Francis as if they were the best of friends. Eyes narrowing, he stomped over. “Oi!” he exclaimed as he reached them. “I told you to stay over there, Jones!”

“Arthur!” cried Francis, standing from his crouch and wincing slightly from the prolonged position. “Why didn't you say this was the Alfred F. Jones? I couldn't tell from so far away.” The damned coroner smirked at Arthur, knowing full well that Arthur was a fan. Arthur scowled back.

“He's compromising the evidence just by standing there!” Arthur said, gesturing at him and ignoring everything Francis said. He also ignored the flirty wink that he sent Alfred: it would be just his luck if the two of them started dating and he had to put up with Alfred for longer than this case.

“Hey, hey!” said Alfred, holding his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “I've not stepped on anything. I've been careful. Honest! But do you see anything wrong with this scene.”

“What? Other than the fact that a woman's dead?” asked Arthur, incredulous.

“Well, yeah. It's from Death of a Prom Queen.”

“I do know that, thank you.”

“But the dress is the wrong colour. It should be red.”

Frowning, Arthur shrugged. “So?”

“It just... It's weird, right?” Alfred looked puzzled now. “I mean, the killer's been so careful with everything else, staging it just right, but he can't be bothered to get the right colour of dress.”

“He probably couldn't get the right one or she just happened to be wearing that,” sighed Arthur, shaking his head. “It doesn't need to be exact to be a murder, Jones.” At that point, Arthur's mobile began to ring and he fished it out of his coat pocket. “It still looks enough like one of your books to make it the same guy. Kirkland,” he added as he answered the call.

“Yo, we got the prints back,” said Gilbert. “They belong to a Mark Turner – and he was one of Polly's patients.”

“Text me the address and we'll meet you there.” Arthur hung up and looked to Jones who was staring back expectantly. “Come on, you. We've got somewhere to be.”

“Right, this time, when I say 'stay here', I mean it, Jones,” said Arthur as he parked the car. He turned to glare at Alfred, a frown tugging his lips downwards. “We don't know what's up there and there's the chance he still has that gun. So stay. Put.”

“Totally will,” lied Alfred, intending to just follow him up once he wasn't looking. “Scout's honour!” he added, holding up a hand and placing a hand to his chest. Was that how the Scouts did that? He wouldn't know. Maybe something to look up for a book at a later date.

“Hm,” said Arthur before he slipped from the car and went to the trunk. He rooted around in there for a moment before slamming it shut and coming around the side wearing a Kevlar vest and holding his loaded pistol. Alfred took in the sight: Arthur looked incredibly authoritative and dominant. It was a sexy picture, though not something he would be asking him to wear to bed. Unless he could use it as a pick-up line...

As Alfred thought about that, the other two detectives and some uniforms turned up and they flowed into the building. Alfred blinked when he noted that Arthur had gone and rushed to leave the car, too. Following the sounds of several pairs of feet, he wandered up the stairs, going at a pace just shy of a jog.

When Alfred was a floor away, he heard Arthur yell, “NYPD! Open up!” There was a short silence before the splintering of the door filtered through to him. He reached the landing just as all the cops disappeared inside. Sidling along the hallway, he peeked through the broken door to find that the people were all spread out, their guns up as they searched the cramped apartment. Seeing as no-one had started shooting yet, he entered it as several people shouted “Clear!”

“Hey, Kirkland!” Gilbert called, beckoning Arthur into the bedroom. Once Arthur had passed through the door, Alfred slipped through, too. Gilbert was holding a gun, using a plastic bag to protect it from his own prints. “It looks like the same model as our murder weapon.”

While Arthur inspected it and looked around the bed for more evidence, Alfred made his way to the dresser. There was a piece of paper sticking out through the crack between the closed mirror doors. Intrigued, he tried tugging it out but it seemed to be stuck. So he opened the doors with the belief that no-one would mind if he found a vital piece of evidence. They'd be praising him for being a hero instead of scolding him for getting his fingerprints on everything.

And it seemed like he had, for the mirrors weren't visible: every possible space was taken up with pictures of his books, fan art of the murders and what appeared to be candid shots of himself. Alfred decided he looked damned good. “Hey. Looks like this Turner guy does have an obsession with me.” He turned in time to see Arthur spinning around with wide eyes, obviously surprised to find him there. “D'ya think it's 'cause of my awesome charm?” He chanced a wink.

“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” Arthur demanded through a clenched jaw.

Alfred shrugged. “I wasn't a Scout so I figured that promise was null an-” He broke off and everyone froze as they heard a noise coming from a closet no-one had gone near.

Staring at the doors, Arthur's eyes narrowed. He lifted his gun and nodded at Gilbert who was closest. Obediently, the detective stepped forward, grabbed the doorknob and pulled. “NYPD!” Gilbert shouted into the closet. “Hands on your head!”

That last part was unneeded, however, as the man was already curled up on the ground, his hands over his ears. As they watched, he rocked backwards and forwards. He didn't acknowledge their presence, mumbling to himself.

Raising an eyebrow, Alfred glanced over at Arthur who merely frowned at Turner.

“According to his medical records, he has some sort of pervasive developmental disorder,” said Arthur, looking down at the file in his hands. “We had his fingerprints from an altercation with a neighbour.”

“Ah,” said Alfred, glancing over from where he had been watching Mark through the one-way mirror. “That'd be why he's so focussed on me and my awesome books.”

Both Arthur and Ludwig ignored him. “Did the ballistics come back?” asked Ludwig.

Nodding, Arthur said, “They're a match. The gun in his room was the one used to kill Polly Karthington. We've sent for a psychologist since Beilschmidt and Carriedo aren't getting anywhere with their interrogation.”

“Good. We've got enough evidence to close this case.”

“What?!” exclaimed Alfred, finally succeeding in drawing their attention. “That's it?!”

The two detectives glanced at each other. “Well... Yes,” said Arthur. “We've caught the guy. Is that a problem?”

“Hell, yeah, it is! Where's the twist? The unexpected detail which leads you to a different person?”

Ludwig sighed and shook his head. “I have things to be doing, Kirkland. I'll let you explain it to him.”

“Of course, sir,” Arthur replied, rolling his eyes. Once Ludwig had left, Arthur surveyed Alfred. The writer wasn't sure what to think of this. Was he checking him out? But Arthur then shook his head, beckoned and turned to leave. Alfred hurried to follow.

“It can't be the end,” Alfred continued to protest as they walked down the room, heading to Arthur's desk. “There's got to be something else, something we're missing.”

“Look, Jones,” said Arthur, sounding tetchy once again. “We have the evidence. It leads to Turner.” He dropped the file onto his desk and turned to face him, annoyance clear for Alfred to see. “This isn't fiction or one of your books. Happy endings don't happen, all right? This is it, the end of the story.”

“But-”

“The. End,” said Arthur, his eyes narrowing further. “You should just go home, write a new story and forget this ever happened. It's not your concern. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's late and I'm going home. Feel free to show yourself out.”

Alfred's mouth dropped open slightly as he watched Arthur leave, disappointment sweeping through him. Not only had it been an anti-climax to the case, Arthur had basically rejected him by walking off like that. He was fairly sure that had never happened to him before. Had it? No, now that he thought about it, most people practically fell into bed with him.

And that just made Arthur more intriguing.

Pouting at his losses, Alfred spun around and headed to the elevator, pulling his cell out of his pocket as he went. Since he had nothing else to do, he'd see if his fellow crime writers were still on for a game of poker.

Chapter Text

“That's it?” asked Jack Tolson, tapping his cards against the table.

“Yeah, that's it,” said Alfred, throwing a few more chips on the pile.

“But where's the twist?” Sandy Timson demanded. “Where's the real killer?”

Alfred shrugged, looking towards Jack's wife who was acting as the dealer for their poker game. She was a pretty woman, blonde and petite, and was the HR manager of Jack's publishing company. Jack, meanwhile, had broken his nose at some point in his life and it was crooked, making him less photogenic. Sandy, in contrast, was a much more handsome man, his greying hair and beard not detracting from his appearance whatsoever. Both he and Jack were prominent authors and good friends of Alfred's as they had helped encourage him from the starting blocks.

“Come on, Al,” sighed Jack. “You're better than this. I know you've killed off Diana but you can't be slacking now.”

“Hey, now – maybe he should turn to science fiction,” Sandy suggested as Mrs. Tolson began to turn over the cards and sort herself out.

“Maybe,” Alfred agreed, waiting for Jack to play.

“No, no,” said Jack, shaking his head vigorously. He leaned forward and pointed at Alfred. “Look, I know you're going through a hard time with inspiration but what you need to do is find that one detail, that one piece of information that could turn that story around. After all, as a crime writer, I find it hard to believe that someone with that sort of mental disorder could plan those murders. And why wasn't the psychologist first? If you ask me, the other two were meant to be a shield for that one.”

“Oh, come off it, Jack,” Sandy protested, looking amused. “Not all crime writers need to put in red herrings. Unlike you.”

However, Alfred's eyes had widened. They were right, of course. The details were all wrong and he had been mulling on it since they arrested Turner. And it wasn't just the dress on Clara Knight. Coming back to the moment, he spoke up before the two authors could get into an age-old argument.

“Hey, no, he's right. You're both right. But, hey, if neither of you want to win your money...” Alfred gestured at the table, bringing their attention back to the game.

When Arthur arrived at the precinct the next morning, drink in hand, he was annoyed to find Alfred at his desk. Somehow, it didn't surprise him. Narrowing his eyes, he stomped over. “Hey! What are you doing here?”

Alfred jolted a little and spun around on Arthur's chair. Sheepishly grinning, he said, “Oh. You're here. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Arthur replied, somewhat out of habit. “Now, what are you doing?”

“Well, I just thought you were awesome,” said Alfred, standing now and holding something behind his back.

“Awesome?”

“Yeah, for putting up with me, an' all.” Alfred smiled brightly but Arthur was getting more suspicious. For some reason, Alfred didn't seem as confident as normal, much more subdued than Arthur had seen him. But, before Arthur could say anything, Alfred added, “So I came to give you something.”

“Oh?” Arthur raised an eyebrow, his eyes trained on Alfred's face. He really was rather handsome, with those brightly blue eyes and the blond hair. The grinning got on his nerves but he had a nice smile... He wrenched himself from his thoughts as he watched Alfred bring an arm forward, holding a book. Arthur stared at it, a little wide-eyed.

“A copy of Storm Fall, just for you, babe,” said Alfred with a wink.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur took it with a small smile. “Well. Thank you. You didn't need to.”

“'S'cool. I even signed it for you – but don't read the message till I've left or I'll be embarrassed.” He put on a pronounced pout even as his lips tugged upwards in jest.

With a shake of his head, Arthur said, “All right.” He paused for a moment, biting at his lip a little. “Well. I suppose this is it, then. Goodbye, Jones. It's been...”

“A pleasure? Awesome? Super cool?” suggested Alfred, his grin back in full force.

“Interesting,” Arthur finished, smirking at him.

Alfred laughed. “It sure has.” He brought his other hand from behind him and handed over a single, red rose. Arthur stared at it, frozen in place. What the hell was this? What was Alfred up to now? “I thought, since you love my books so much, I'd give ya a rose. It's a Fairy Prince, same as in my book.”

“Wh-? I- You... You didn't need to,” said Arthur, sure he was blushing by now. Not that he was going to let Alfred into his good graces just because of this, of course.

“Sure I did. Anyways, you know where to find me. See ya!” And, just as suddenly as he had breezed into Arthur's life, Alfred left. He watched him go, stopping to talk to Gilbert and Antonio on the way. And then he chatted to a couple of police officers. When Arthur saw him reach the lift, he quickly sat down and turned away: he didn't want to be caught staring. Especially since he could practically hear Alfred say Just couldn't keep your eyes off my ass, huh? and he could see his wink that would accompany it.

Sighing, Arthur turned to his desk and put down the book. He would have to read it later tonight. Preferably in a nice, relaxing bath. Carefully, he placed the rose next to the rabbit ornament his brother had given to him as an eighth birthday present. Arthur had loved it, squealing with excitement at the cute, green animal with wings. Smiling sadly at it, he indulged himself in thinking of his family.

And then he noticed what was missing.

Alarmed, he searched under other papers and opened the drawers in his desk. The file was nowhere to be found. Panicked, he stood to ask if Gilbert or Antonio had seen it – and froze.

“He didn't,” he murmured to himself. Replaying the brief encounter with Alfred, his eyes narrowed. “He did, the bastard.” Quickly, he grabbed the receiver of his telephone and dialled down to the front desk.

Alfred sat, triumphant, in the New York Public Library. He was sure this was the proof he needed to convince Arthur that Turner was innocent. Maybe the detective would even think of him as a hero. Now he just had to check this out and return to the precinct.

Hopefully before Arthur found out he had taken that file.

Before he got the chance to stand, the door was thrown open and several people walked in. Alfred glanced over his shoulder to see who it was and spotted Arthur and a couple of police officers. He grimaced but kept still, just in case. Several others in the room looked over, interested to know why the police were on the premises.

“Alfred F. Jones!” snapped Arthur, stalking over. “On your feet. Hands behind your back.”

Slowly, Alfred did so, keeping his back to them. He suspected that trying to point out what he had been up to would only serve to anger Arthur. “What am I being arrested for?”

“Obstruction of justice,” answered Arthur, stepping up behind him and grabbing his right arm. Alfred felt something hard hit his wrist as Arthur busied himself with the handcuffs.

“You know, you might want to wait till we get to a bedroom to do that.” Alfred couldn't help it: he'd been thinking of being handcuffed to a bed since he had met Arthur. Plus, he kind of wanted to know what Arthur would do.

As it transpired, Arthur seemed to ignore him, grabbing his other wrist and cuffing that one. “You have the right to remain silent,” he said. “Please use it. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law – including anything which can be used as evidence of sexual harassment. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney – which I doubt – one will be appointed for you.” Finished with the Miranda rights, Arthur turned Alfred around and gently pushed him towards the other officers. “Take him away.”

Letting himself be pulled towards the door, Alfred looked over his shoulder. Arthur was standing there, looking down at the file and the book beside it. Alfred had the feeling that Arthur would be able to tell what he had been checking and grinned. Arthur was definitely clever enough to piece together what he had worked out already: the roses were all wrong. Instead of the rose Alfred had given Arthur, the roses left on the body were a Hybrid Tea called American Dream.

With a horrible squeaking, the door to the holding cell was pulled open. Alfred looked up from where he was sitting and smiled at the sight of Arthur in a long-sleeved, bottle-green top which made him look even more attractive than normal. Standing, Alfred sauntered over. “Hey, beautiful,” he said, stopping just short of purring.

“Hello, idiot,” Arthur replied, dashing his hopes. Alfred pouted at him but Arthur merely stepped back. “Your family has posted your bail. You're free to go.”

Stepping out of the cell, Alfred looked along the hallway and saw his mother and daughter standing beside a cop, looking rather worried. He grimaced apologetically at them before turning to the detective. “Are you still pressing charges?”

Arthur stared at him for a moment before looking at Madeline. “No. And you should be thankful. Don't let me see your face again, though.”

There was that sinking disappointment again. Alfred sighed and rubbed at his arm, as if he was reassuring himself. Perhaps he was. After all, this wasn't over, not yet. Taking a breath, he said, “He's not the guy, y'know.”

That caught Arthur's attention and he brought his gaze back up to meet Alfred's. There was a flicker of something: understanding, perhaps, or guilt? Regret? Alfred couldn't tell. Then Arthur shook his head and nodded in the direction of the exit. Taking that as his sign to move along, Alfred stalked down the hall and smiled at his family.

“Heya. Sorry 'bout that,” he said to them as he reached them.

“Honestly, Alfred, what were you thinking?” asked Elizaveta.

“Heh. I probably wasn't,” admitted Alfred with a wince. He placed a hand on Maddie's back to guide her out and hooked his arm around his mother's. “Let's go home.”

“You're not going to do something else stupid, are you?” asked Madeline, looking weary.

“Uh...”

“If you are, I'm going to need a raise in my allowance.”

Both Alfred and Elizaveta chuckled at that.

Alfred's first stop after a rather late breakfast was to the home of Mr. William Karthington. There was no way he was going to let this lie and, since he had no clue whether anyone in the precinct would continue investigating, he would have to do this alone.

Karthington was the CEO of a shipping company which had done rather well for itself. Rich, he worked in a swanky office at the top of a metal and glass building. Even the reception desk was metal with wood inlaid to make it look pretty. A vase of flowers sat at one end and a pretty black-haired woman sat in the middle. She looked up when he entered.

“May I help you?” she asked, politely.

“Sure! I'm Alfred F. Jones. I was hoping to speak to Mister Karthington?”

“Do you have an appointment?” Glancing at her computer screen, she began to click her mouse, obviously bringing up a schedule.

“No,” Alfred began but noted the woman's frown. “But this is really important!” he added, quickly. Leaning on the desk, he smiled at the woman who promptly blushed. Winking, Alfred tried again. “Can't I just go up for a couple of minutes? It won't be too long...”

“I-I'm sorry, sir,” the receptionist murmured, staring at him. “I... I can't. It's... against the rules.” She glanced away and took a breath. “I'm afraid you're going to have to leave.”

“Aw, miss, please?”

“If... If you don't go, I'm going to have to call security.”

Worried that she would follow through on that threat, words tumbled from Alfred's mouth. “Not even if I went on a date with you?”

The poor receptionist looked trapped, eyes wide and her mouth flapping. Alfred winced; he prepared to retract his statement and leave before some sort of burly security guard turned up to throw him out. However, as he opened his mouth and the receptionist's hand began to shift towards a panic button, a familiar voice spoke behind him.

“I'm sorry, love. He's with me.” With wide eyes, Alfred spun around to find Arthur holding up his badge. Those beautiful eyes shot him a quick glare before Arthur returned his attention to the receptionist. “We're both here to see Mister Karthington – he just got here a little early. May we go up?”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah,” said the receptionist, looking quite flustered and confused. Alfred wondered if that was a typical reaction to Arthur speaking: it wasn't often that sexy people with English accents became cops in America.

“Thank you, ma'am,” said Arthur, all polite, and quickly stalked towards the elevator. Blinking, Alfred quickly shot the woman a smile and hurried after Arthur.

“So, uh,” he said as they waited.

“Not now,” Arthur practically growled.

And so they waited. Finally, the elevator reached the first floor and opened. A couple of men in suits exited and Arthur and Alfred got in, the mirrors reflecting Arthur's mildly annoyed expression and Alfred's sheepish one. Arthur hit the correct floor number and the doors closed.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Arthur demanded as soon as they were completely alone.

“Uh. Well...” Alfred thought faster than he had ever done before. “I came to pay my respects!”

Arthur looked at him, then, eyes narrowed. “You didn't know Polly.”

Opening his mouth a few times, Alfred finally said, “Uh.”

Shaking his head, Arthur rolled his eyes. “If you're going to be here, don't say anything. Let me do the questioning. Got it?”

“Sure thing!” exclaimed Alfred.

As the elevator opened, Alfred was sure he heard Arthur mumble, “I sincerely doubt you'll be able to keep your mouth shut, though.”

Before Alfred could reply, a tall, thin, greying man approached them. His skin was pale and he looked positively miserable, almost as if he was drooping. “Are you the detectives?” he inquired.

“Yes. I'm Detective Arthur Kirkland. And this is-” Arthur broke off and glanced at Alfred as though he was unsure how to introduce Alfred.

“Alfred F. Jones!” he said, to fill in the stretching silence. “I'm consulting on the case.” As he held out a hand for the man to shake, Alfred was sure he heard Arthur sigh.

“I'm Timothy Karthington. It's a pleasure to meet you – if only it could have been in better circumstances.” Karthington turned and gestured for them to follow. “Please. Come into my office.”

He led them down the bare hall, simple signs dictating what each door was for. They reached the end of the hall and Karthington held the door open for them. Inside, they found themselves in a rather large space. Floor-to-ceiling windows let the light in whilst showing a view across New York. A desk sat in front of them while bookshelves lined the wall opposite the door. Steps led to a sunken area within which sat a couch, a coffee table and a kitchenette. Everything was sleek and shiny yet functional. There was no decoration.

With the door closed, Karthington moved over to the desk. “I've heard that you've arrested the man who killed my daughter. May I ask why you're talking to me now?”

Before Alfred could protest, Arthur spoke. “We want to make an iron-clad case against him, sir. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions?”

Karthington nodded as he stared down at some papers on his desk, his fingers pinning them in place. “Of course.”

“When was the last time you spoke with your daughter?”

“The night before she was killed – she would call me once a week.”

Since Alfred wasn't allowed to speak, he began to wander around the room. Naturally, he gravitated to the bookcases but, after looking at the utterly boring, functional titles, he wandered towards the couch as Arthur continued with his questions.

“Did she mention anything odd? Any of her patients acting strangely? Anything at all.”

Shaking his head, Karthington said, “No.” Then he paused and frowned. “She only mentioned that she had visited her brother recently. He married her best friend and that's the only reason I ever hear about him.”

“Why's that, sir?” asked Arthur, sounding intrigued.

“I cut him off, that's why,” said the man. He looked up at them, Alfred staring up from his place beside the table. “Liam was using my money for all sorts of stupid ventures. Bad investments, prostitutes, buying his girlfriend of the week expensive gifts. We had an argument and I cut him off.”

Spotting a few photo frames on the table, Alfred lifted one to see Karthington's family: Timothy stood between a smiling Polly and a grinning young man with messy brown hair and a glint in his hazel eyes. Gently, he returned it to its place; he knew only too well how precious the memories of family were.

“If you excuse my prying but...” said Arthur, pausing as though he was unsure how to word his question.

“Who gets your money if you die?” Alfred asked, coming back up the steps. Karthington looked shocked and Arthur spun to stare at him, clearly alarmed. “Er,” said Alfred, rubbing the back of his neck. “If ya don't mind me asking...?”

Sighing, Arthur turned back to Karthington. “I'm sorry, si-”

“It's all right. If this helps any, only Polly would have profited.” At that, Karthington's eyes flickered down to the paper on the desk. Interested, Alfred tried to peer at it. “I'll need to change that now... But Liam isn't getting anything from me. He already takes enough from his wife.”

There was another brief silence before Arthur nodded. “All right. Thank you, sir. This was much appreciated.”

“No, no, detective,” said Karthington, looking up with a smile. “Thank you for catching the man that did this.”

Alfred felt a stab of guilt and wanted to say something to fix the mess Arthur seemed to be in. Arthur seemed to sense this, though, and began to drag Alfred from the room. “Good day to you, sir,” said the detective as they passed through the door and let it swing closed.

“What the hell was that?” Arthur snapped as soon as they were out of the building.

“What d'ya mean?” asked Alfred as innocently as possible. He glanced around before starting off in a random direction – they couldn't stay standing in front of the stairs, after all. Besides, he'd just spotted a hot dog stand!

“I told you not to speak! But, regardless, you were way too blunt!”

“You were gonna haveta say it yourself eventually,” Alfred pointed out. “Want a hot dog?”

“No,” came Arthur's short answer as Alfred jogged the last few feet to the stand.

After placing his order, he turned to Arthur. “Didja see, though?”

“What?”

“He's got his will on his desk.”

“I did notice, thank you,” said Arthur, scowling. “I'm not blind.”

“He's probably dying,” noted Alfred as he took his hot dog from the vendor. He took a large bite and watched Arthur's lip curling in disgust. “What woulda happened if he hadn't got around to changing the will?”

Arthur seemed to understand what he was getting at. “I don't pretend to be an expert but Liam could possibly have claimed his sister's share – especially if she doesn't have a will of her own.”

“So, we gonna visit Liam?”

There was a brief pause before Arthur sighed. “Fine. But you're not getting in my car with that.”

Since no-one had answered the door at the Karthingtons, they had had to drive across town to where Mrs. Karthington worked as head of an events company. They were led into a small, compact office filled with binders and folders stuffed full of papers. Small windows were set in two of the walls and the bulb above provided most of the limited light. The desk was strewn with papers and pages from magazines and a computer monitor sat to one side, taking up a third of it. Behind the desk hung a picture of some kittens – Alfred figured it was a stress reliever.

They didn't have long to wait for Mrs. Karthington to appear, her brown curls bouncing as she hurried in, her skirts billowing behind her. She looked harried and stressed. Her make-up seemed a little smeared and Alfred could see the hint of bags under her eyes, as though she hadn't been sleeping well recently.

“Good afternoon, detectives,” she said as she closed the door over, dragging a fire extinguisher to sit behind it. “I'm afraid this door doesn't shut properly. I've been meaning to get it fixed.”

“That's quite all right, Mrs Karthington,” Arthur assured.

“Oh, please. Call me Susan.”

“Well, Susan, we hear that you were best friends with Polly Karthington.”

The poor woman looked distraught for a moment and dropped into her chair. She sighed and massaged her temples. Arthur waited, not a hint of impatience crossing his face as Alfred watched him. Finally, Susan looked up. “Yeah. We... We were overjoyed that we'd be family. And now...”

“I'm terribly sorry for your loss,” said Arthur, kindly, moving a little closer to the desk.

“Yeah. Well.” Susan sighed and suddenly looked quite teary. “She was acting really odd recently.”

“Oh?”

“She kept telling me that she'd still consider me family if I divorced her brother. But she knew how I feel about him and I don't understand why she was talking as though she knew it was inevitable.”

“How do you feel about him?” asked Alfred, without thinking.

“I love him, of course,” snapped Susan, scowling at Alfred. “Even when he was fooling around with those bimbos before we got together, I loved him. He's always been kind to me. And after we got together, he's been loyal to me.”

“Did your husband get into any trouble recently?” asked Arthur.

“No. Not that I know about, anyway.”

“How was your brother getting along with Polly recently?”

Susan immediately became suspicious. “Why? Why are you asking me that? You've already got the guy, didn't you?”

Arthur seemed to decide to take a chance. “We're not entirely sure it was him – he may have been framed.”

Alarmed, Susan stood. “My husband didn't kill his sister! He was at a conference in Vancouver.”

“And where were you?” asked Alfred.

“I was at dinner with friends!” cried Susan, looking quite distressed. “How dare you-!”

“Su?” said a voice from the door. Arthur and Alfred turned to find Liam standing there, having pushed the door open with some effort. “What's wrong?”

“Li? What're you doing here? Shouldn't you be at work?”

“It's lunch. Want to see if you wanted to get something to eat?” Liam paused and looked back at Arthur and Alfred. “Who're these two? I've never seen them around here before.”

“They're detectives. They're investigating your sister's murder.”

At that, Liam's eyes widened. “I thought you'd caught the guy.”

Arthur stepped towards him, gaining his attention. “We're under the impression that the man has been framed.”

That seemed to shock Liam for he paled slightly and his eyes darted between his wife and Arthur. “R-Really?”

“Yes. We were just reasserting where everyone was at her time of death.”

“I was in Vancouver. Wasn't I, Su?”

“That's what I told them,” replied his wife, frowning at Arthur.

“What was the conference about?” Arthur pressed.

“It-It was just a general business conference. I'm trying to get mine off the ground, see?” Liam, however, was looking at Alfred more than Arthur – perhaps he felt Arthur was a threat. Alfred's eyes narrowed and Liam glanced away. Hurriedly, the man made his way to his wife's side and looped an arm around her waist. “Then I won't have to rely on Suzie here for money so much. Right, honey?”

“Right,” Susan responded, smiling proudly at him.

A ringing sound interrupted them at that moment and Arthur's hand disappeared into his coat pocket. “Thank you for your time. If you'll excuse us.” With that, Arthur strode to the door, pulling his phone out.

Alfred, however, paused and surveyed the couple. Liam still looked rather jittery and Susan looked annoyed and upset. “We'll be in touch,” he told them and followed the detective.

As he caught up, he heard Arthur say, “All right, Carriedo. Thanks. But here's something else for you to be doing instead of reading that book: find out about a business conference in Vancouver and where he was during the days leading up to Polly's murder. Yeah. I'll check in soon.” Hanging up, he turned to Alfred and raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“It's him,” Alfred assured him.

Arthur nodded, leading the way back out of the busy office space, people staring as they hurried by. “The only problem is that he was over two thousand miles away. How do you explain that, Mister Jones?”

“Well, Detective Kirkland, there are a few explanations,” replied Alfred, catching up to him.

“Care to share them, Jones?”

“Sure! He got a car and drove back.”

“People would notice he was gone if he did that and would defeat the purpose of his alibi,” said Arthur, rolling his eyes.

“Then he had to have gotten on a plane.”

“He'd have had to have used his passport.”

Alfred hummed, thinking. They exited the building just as a thought occurred to him. Grinning, he grabbed Arthur's arm to stop him. The shorter man blinked up at him, obviously surprised. He opened his mouth to speak but Alfred got there first.

“A fake passport!”

“What?”

“He gets all his money from his wife. If he took enough out of their bank account, he could get a really good fake passport.”

Frowning, Arthur's eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

“Uh. Research for a book,” said Alfred, quickly.

“Uh huh...” said Arthur, sounding disbelieving. “If you're right, we're going to have to search his flat.”

“Great! Let's go!” Alfred turned to walk down the street.

“Not so fast, Jones.”

“Huh?” asked Alfred, turning to give Arthur a bewildered look.

“First of all, the car's that way,” said Arthur, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Secondly, I need to get a search warrant.”

Arthur pulled on the handbrake and turned to Alfred. “You're staying here this time.”

“But-” Alfred began, already pouting.

“No buts,” Arthur answered, gathering himself before he opened the door to the car.

They had had to go back to the precinct for the search warrant – something Alfred protested as it was likely that Liam Karthington could get home before them and destroy the evidence. Arthur hadn't listened to him, though, going through the proper channels to get the warrant. While they were there, Gilbert and Antonio told them that they had found that Liam had removed several thousand dollars the week that Worthington had been killed. Seeing as it was an amount larger than his normal transactions, it was deemed enough evidence for the warrant. Once that was sorted out, they had all driven over to search the apartment and, hopefully, make an arrest.

“You can't leave me here! I was the one to crack the case!”

Sighing, Arthur paused, his back to Alfred. “Fine. Just... wait there, for now.” With that, Arthur stood and swung his door closed.

Meanwhile, Alfred felt giddy with excitement. He couldn't believe Arthur had just said 'yes'. Did that mean he was making progress? He hoped so. It wouldn't be long before he had managed to woo him enough to go on a date. Grinning, Alfred glanced up when Arthur opened his door for him, ready to go with his Kevlar vest. He swivelled out of the car but stopped when Arthur held up a hand, grabbing the handle attached to the roof to keep himself from toppling to the ground.

“Wait. You need a gun. There's one in the glove compartment.”

“Oh? Really?” said Alfred, getting more excited. He turned his attention to the compartment and opened it. Gazing into it, he frowned. “Wait... I don't-” A hand gripping his arm and a clicking noise stopped him and made him look up, eyes wide. Sure enough, there was another click as Arthur finished handcuffing Alfred to the handle.

Smirking down at him, Arthur leaned forward. “If I say you stay here, you'll stay here, Jones.” His voice was low and it sent a shiver up Alfred's spine: he wasn't sure if it was fear or arousal because, damn, was that sexy.

“You-You can't-”

Instead of listening, though, Arthur turned as Gilbert and Antonio approached. “You ready?” asked Gilbert, glancing at Alfred.

“No, he's not. He's accidentally-”

“Yes,” said Arthur, cutting Alfred off. “Let's go.”

And so Alfred was left to gape as Arthur, Gilbert, Antonio and several Kevlar vested police officers hurried into the building. He pouted and grumbled to himself until, finally, he was sure he was alone and no-one was paying attention to him. Then he grinned.

“Don't underestimate a Jones!” he exclaimed, pulling out his wallet. Inside one of the pockets was a handcuff key which he had taken from a set he had at home (for research – totally not for bedroom activities). He carried it around, just in case. After all, as a crime writer, he had to expect the unexpected. Or something like that.

What he didn't expect, though, was to fumble with the key as he tried to pull it out – and drop it.

“Shit!” said Alfred and looked around for it. Thankfully, it hadn't fallen down a drain. But it was rather far away. Sighing, he slipped from the seat and twisted around so that he could reach with his free hand. Imagine his consternation when he realised that it was just out of reach. “Oh, come on!” he growled, stretching until his arms ached.

Relaxing, he frowned. How could he reach it? There had to be something to help him... So he searched the glove compartment and under his seat but found nothing to aid in his quest. He just needed something which would extend his reach slightly and drag the key towards him.

“Huh,” he said as he stared at his shoes. As quickly as he could he untied one and pulled it off, almost dropping it in his haste. He breathed a sigh of relief when it didn't get away from him. Then he took a deep breath and stretched once again, shoe upside down so that the opening for his foot could 'hook' the key.

And it worked. He dragged it closer before dropping the shoe and stretching for the key. This time, he was able to pick it up with a quiet “Yes!”

As he began to unlock the handcuffs, he looked up at the building, wondering what was going on inside. Arthur had parked directly in front of an alley which ran between Liam's building and the building next to it. A set of stairs and ladders for the fire escape was attached to Liam's building and ended between two dumpsters. Beyond them, a white van was parked in front of a wire fence. A man was currently climbing down the fire escape with a briefcase in his arms.

Alfred blinked and squinted as he tried to make out who it was. As the man turned to go down another set of stairs, he could see that it was definitely Liam Karthington. “Oh, my God,” he murmured before frantically returning his attention to the handcuffs. “Kirkland!” he yelled, trying to catch someone's, anyone's attention. “Guys! He's down here! Kirkland!”

Finally, there was a click and the handcuffs were released from the handle. Free, Alfred leapt to his feet and ran towards the alley – he had to stop Liam from getting away. As he did so, though, he realised that he couldn't run properly with only one shoe on. Briefly, he paused to tug it off and throw it away, continuing on his way.

“Down here!” he shouted again as Liam reached the ground and began to wind his way to the back of the alley.

“Jones?!” came a cry from above. But Alfred didn't stop to look up, continuing to run at full pelt towards the culprit.

Dodging behind the van and out of sight, Alfred hoped that he could catch him before he climbed over the fence. He rounded the van – and straight into the sights of a gun. Freezing, he glanced up at a panicked Liam, his breath catching and his heart skipping a beat. “Ah, hey,” he began, hoping to talk him into lowering the weapon, his heart speeding up as he stared down the barrel. Slowly, carefully, he raised his hands as if in surrender. But there was a chance he could disarm Laim...

Another shout of Alfred's name caught both their attention. Unfortunately, Alfred reacted slow and was unable to do anything as Liam grabbed his arm and tugged him around until they both faced the same way, the gun pointed at Alfred's head. Shoving at him, Alfred stumbled out from behind the van so that Arthur could see his situation.

Whilst Alfred was relieved to see Arthur, he was a little disappointed that Arthur had his gun trained on Liam and seemed to only glance at Alfred. Besides, he had wanted to catch the guy himself, be a hero. So much for that. The three men regarded each other for a few seconds before they spurred themselves into action.

“I'll shoot him!” yelled Liam – right in Alfred's ear. He winced.

“Put down the gun, Karthington!” snapped Arthur. “You're only making this worse for yourself. Let him go and the prison sentence won't be as severe.”

“Liar! Let me go or I'll kill 'im!”

There was a brief pause and Arthur glanced at Alfred. “Jones. You okay?”

Startled that Arthur had spoken to him, Alfred shrugged. “Sure. More or less. This guy needs a volume control, though.”

“Says you,” Arthur mumbled – or, at least, that's what Alfred thought he said. Then he was right back down to business. “Stop this, Liam,” Arthur said, his tone soothing. “Think of Susan. What would-?”

“Shut up! It's always about her! Even Polly sided with her and she was my sister!” Liam yelled, brandishing his gun. Arthur flinched and his finger tightened on his trigger. “Just because I was stuck with her, it meant I couldn't have fun? Bullshit. And Polly-”

At that point, Alfred got fed up with him not making any sense so he elbowed Liam in the gut. Quickly, before Liam could pull the trigger and hurt someone, he grabbed at his gun, wrenching it from his grasp. Then he spun, faced Liam and punched him in the jaw. The murderer dropped like a stone as Gilbert and a couple of other police officers hurried into the alley.

“Bloody hell!” said Arthur as he pulled Alfred out of the way. “What the fuck were you thinking, Jones?!”

Alfred shrugged. “He was boring. And that was the only way I could look super cool, right?” He grinned at Arthur who sighed, holstered his pistol and rolled his eyes.

With both shoes back on his feet, Alfred waited for Arthur to return from his questioning of Liam who was sitting in the back of a police car. He wanted to know what Liam's outburst had been about. Also, he wanted to find out if Arthur would be willing to see him again. If he didn't... Well, Alfred had a plan for that.

Watching Arthur, he saw the man nod to a police officer before walking back to his car. He stopped to speak with Gilbert and Antonio who had been stealing glances at Alfred. Then he continued on his way and, finally, stood before Alfred. The writer grinned up at him.

“Wasn't I awesome?”

“Hm,” said Arthur, merely raising an eyebrow.

“So? What'd Liam say?”

“He confessed everything,” Arthur explained as he watched the police officer drive off with Karthington in the back. “Apparently, his loose moral lifestyle from before his marriage was hard to give up. But he needed the money which was why he married Susan. When Polly found out he was having affairs, she threatened to tell Susan. Liam knew his father was giving everything to Polly and also knew he'd have nothing if he divorced Susan, so he came up with this plan to stop her in her tracks.”

Nodding, Alfred said, “Yeah... So he'd have stayed married to Susan and used her money for his various girlfriends and stuff. And there was still that slight chance that his dad would've bequeathed his wealth to him, for lack of anyone else to give the money to.”

“And he almost got away with it, too-”

“-if it hadn't been for us pesky detectives?” said Alfred, grinning again.

Arthur sighed. “I was going to say, 'if it hadn't been for you', but you rather ruined that.”

“Aw, I know I was the hero, Kirkland. No need to tell me.”

Closing his eyes as if to stem his temper, Arthur said, “Right. Now. Get out of my car.”

“What?” asked Alfred, blinking in surprise.

“I've got a pile of paperwork with my name on it and I need to go back to the precinct. You need to go home. Get a taxi. Walk. I don't care but I don't have the time to drop you off at your place.”

Standing, Alfred pouted. “What? That's it? Not even an 'I'll see you later' or a 'thanks'.”

“I did just thank you!” exclaimed Arthur, throwing his hands in the air. “And I'm not giving you that sort of thanks either.” He stared at Alfred for a moment before sighing again. “Look, this was... fun, I suppose, but it's over now. I hope I don't have to see you in the precinct again, of course. Now, this is goodbye, whether you like it or not.” And, pushing Alfred out of the way (gently), he closed the car door and walked around to the driver's side.

“But...” said Alfred, miserable now. He had been hoping to have a date with Arthur. Why was this so hard?

However, the only reaction from Arthur was a stern look. “Goodbye, Alfred. Good luck with your writing.” And then he was gone, getting into his car.

Arthur entered the precinct the next morning at a leisurely pace. No pressing cases to take care of. No paperwork left over. No Alfred F. Jones to deal with.

Although he may have disliked Alfred's presence, he smiled at the sight of the solitary Fairy Prince rose sat upon his desk. He had brought in a vase when he had found the time between Alfred's arrest and his release, in an effort to keep the flower alive for as long as possible. It seemed to be a symbol of Alfred's influence on Arthur's life – a sudden appearance before wilting in a few days.

Setting down his things, he began to situate himself before anything happened. What case would he get today? Mugging gone wrong? Murder of a cheating husband? Poisoning of an important business person? Something more complicated?

The human psyche was rather messed up at times but he thrived on his work. If he didn't have that, he knew he would go back to obsessing over that. He took a deep breath as he thought of it and glared at the rose, as though daring it to pass comment. Yet, he couldn't stop his eyes from flickering over to the mint bunny. No. Concentrate, he thought.

“Kirkland!” shouted someone and Arthur looked around, spotting Ludwig standing at the door of one of the back rooms, usually used for going through papers during a case. Arthur frowned, wondering what had happened that he was needed. Plus, Ludwig looked rather stressed. Had Alfred's presence in the last case mucked up their chances in court?

Hurriedly, he strode over, frown still in place. “Sir? What is it?” he asked as Ludwig turned and made his way back to the table. Arthur followed – and froze as he stared at Alfred F. Jones.

“Hiya!” said the writer, grinning from his seat.

“Sir...” said Arthur, slowly, trying not to lose his temper. “What is he doing here?”

Ludwig sighed. “Apparently, Mister Jones wishes to base his next major character on you.”

Startled, Arthur looked between them, rather wide-eyed. “I... Well, that's flattering but... why is he here?”

“I need to do research,” Alfred piped up. “So I wanna tag along on your next cases. Just till I've written the book and stuff.”

Arthur's eyes widened further and he looked back at Ludwig. Before he could protest, Ludwig shook his head. “The mayor insisted that this would be good publicity for the precinct. And the Police Commissioner agreed.”

“But-!”

Pulling him aside, Ludwig lowered his voice. “There's nothing I can do, Arthur. I'm sorry. But if he ever does anything you're uncomfortable with, you come to me, all right?” Ludwig sounded so sincere that Arthur could only nod in agreement. Satisfied, Ludwig turned back to Alfred. “Right. Well, since that's settled, there are some forms you'll need to fill in, Mister Jones.”

As Arthur watched Alfred enthusiastically jump from his chair and shake Ludwig's hand wildly, he could only think of one word to describe this situation.

“Bollocks.”

Chapter Text

Arthur stared at the mountain of paperwork on the table. He was glad that he wasn't the one working his way through it. The only thing he could really hope for was that Alfred would decide it wasn't worth the bother.

Then again, with the way he was sitting there, drumming his fingers on the table in impatience, Arthur doubted that.

“Would you stop that?” he snapped after a few more minutes of the annoying noise.

“Stop what?” asked Alfred, innocently, doing it one last time. Arthur merely glared back. Grinning, Alfred shrugged before leaning across the table. “Hey, how long're they gonna be?”

“I'm a detective, not a psychic,” Arthur informed him. “How would I know how long they'll take?”

“Dunno. I'm just... bored. I wanna get to the awesome bit.”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur prayed the lawyer would arrive soon. If he had to listen to Alfred complain for much longer, he was going to have to arrest himself for murder. He turned in his chair and tried to see along the corridor. Not able to see much from his position, he turned back to find Alfred's gaze had gotten a little low for his tastes.

“Hey!” he cried as Alfred hurriedly looked back up. “Watch it.”

“I am,” said Alfred, rather cockily.

With narrowed eyes, Arthur opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted as his Captain marched in, followed by a man with the look of a weasel about him. “Kirkland. Jones,” said Ludwig, nodding his head at them.

“Hiya!” said Alfred. “Can we get on with this?”

“Er,” said the man as he sat beside him. “I'm here to explain the documents-”

“Nah, I just need a pen.”

“What?” asked the poor sod, clearly bewildered.

“I know I'm gonna sign them so I just gotta do that, right?”

The lawyer grimaced. “I really think you should look over them with your lawyer-”

“Really, dude, I'm cool-”

Arthur was saved by the ringtone. Quickly, he slipped his mobile from his pocket and answered it, standing to move away from the others. “Kirkland.”

“Hey, Kirkland,” came Antonio's voice. He quickly recited an address to Arthur. “It's... interesting, to say the least.”

“Right. I'll be there soon.”

When he hung up, he glanced up to find Alfred alert and eyes wide in awe. “Is that a murder?” he demanded. It occurred to Arthur that he looked somewhat like an overexcited puppy. A somewhat odd picture, to say the least, especially in a police station.

“Yes,” answered Arthur. As Alfred hurriedly made to stand up, the detective held up a hand and shook his head. “You have paperwork to get done before you can come with me,” he said, pointing at it.

“Wha-? Bu-!”exclaimed Alfred, pouting.

“So long, Jones,” Arthur said, smirking as he turned his back on the writer and rushed off.

Nodding at the officer at the door of the flat, Arthur made his way inside. A glance around the room had him raising his eyebrows in surprise. On one wall, in what appeared to be blood, was a message: All the world's a stage . Another had the words, [Exit, pursued by a bear.] The third and final message was, To be or not to be .

Since there were three different messages and, as far as he knew, only one victim, he deduced that the red letters were written in paint and not blood. He wondered why these sentences were important.

The flat itself had an interesting layout. A living room, dining area and kitchen were all in a wide room. Large, bay windows were opposite the front door. Impressionist-style paintings, perhaps painted by the victim, hung on the walls. A single bookcase was stuffed with books – one of which, Arthur noted, was a complete works of Shakespeare. The couch, table and chairs and the kitchen were slightly lower than the entrance area. A step ran across the flat with the couch backed against it. There was only one other door and Arthur decided it must lead to a hallway and the bedroom and bathroom. The wooden coffee table had collapsed under the weight of the victim who lay sprawled across it, blood staining her white shirt.

He turned his attention to her: she had short, blonde hair and grey eyes stared at the ceiling. A green earring dangled from the ear he could see. She was slim but with wide hips. One of her legs was bent and one of her arms had been flung out, as if she had tried to stop her fall. The other hand rested on her stomach, just below where the wound was.

Francis was crouched beside the body, writing his notes onto a clipboard. Arthur approached him and got a closer look at the rip in the victim's shirt. “What've we got?” he asked.

“This is Coleen Tennor,” said Antonio, standing on the other side of the broken table. He frowned down at his notepad. “Thirty-three years old. Bank teller. And she's, uh, also an amateur actor.”

Arthur blinked at Antonio. “And how do we know this?”

“Gilbert found leaflets in her bedroom – she's got a computer in there and she'd left them on the desk.”

“Ah. How did she die?”

“Stabbed,” said Francis, adding another note before looking up at Arthur. “From the position, I'd say it nicked her heart. Death was only a matter of minutes. Liver temp suggests she died somewhere between eight and ten last night.”

“Who found the body?”

Antonio answered this time. “Landlord noticed the door had been left ajar, as if someone had left in a hurry. So he pushed it open and called out to Miss Tennor but got no answer. Stepped inside, just to make sure everything was all right and saw her there.”

“Hey,” came Gilbert's voice as he walked through from the back of the flat. He had a notebook in his gloved hand. “Take a look at what I found.”

Raising an eyebrow, Arthur took a set of gloves from his pocket and pulled them on. He was handed the little, green book and he swiftly opened it. What was inside caused him to frown in confusion. Flicking to the next page and the next, he actually became quite alarmed.

“What the fuck?” he said, glancing up at Gilbert.

“That's what I was thinking,” the other detective confirmed.

“What is it?” asked Antonio, looking between the two of them.

Instead of saying anything, Arthur turned the book around and let him and Francis get a good look at the pages before he flicked through to show them the rest. Francis's eyes widened and Antonio said a quiet, “Eh?!”

The entire book was covered in one word: Macbeth .

Chapter Text

Flipping the book back around, Arthur studied it in more detail. Although whoever had written in the notebook had mostly put down the same name over and over, there were slight variations. On this page, the repeated word formed a heart. In this one, it had hearts drawn around it each time it was written. Another had an entire phrase: I love Macbeth. Arthur thought it seemed a little obsessive, like Lady Macbeth's obsession with the blood on her hands to the point of insanity. Perhaps the victim had been a method actor, he reasoned.

“Do you have one of those leaflets?” he asked Gilbert.

“Yeah, here.” The other detective handed over a sheet of paper and Arthur gazed down at it. There was a picture of three witches around a cauldron. An advertisement for 'The Scottish Play' was printed on it and said to be taking place at the amphitheatre in Riverbank State Park in a few weeks time. “Hm.”

“You think the notebook's to do with the production?” asked Antonio.

“Possibly...” said Arthur, slowly. To be honest, he thought it was a bit much. He was sure that most actors and actresses would just run lines with someone. Pushing his thoughts on the disturbing find aside, he nodded towards the messages. “Are those written in paint?”

Francis nodded. “Yeah. There's paint tins in the cupboard through there” - he pointed at the door - “and we think he took it from there. The specific tin isn't there, though.”

Nodding, he turned back to the victim. It appeared that she had stumbled backwards and fallen. So Arthur turned his back to the victim and stepped away a little, careful not to stand on the markers where there were bloodstains on the wood. Looking up, he found himself facing the kitchenette.

Raising an eyebrow, he moved forward and looked over the units. They were clean. Several pans hung on the wall and spaces indicated that pots should have hung there, too. A spice rack sat beside low cupboards which appeared to sit on the unit. The shiny sink seemed to have nothing in it. Arthur frowned at the scene: the kitchen looked easy to move around in – yet there was no knife block. Perhaps she had none.

So he began to open drawers. No large knives were to be found. That was when he discovered the hidden dishwasher, disguised as a cupboard. He pulled that open and Francis spoke up.

“We looked in there already.”

“And you could have missed something,” Arthur replied, not missing a beat. He poked at the pots and the plates stacked there, discovering a chopping board, too. Then he straightened up. “There aren't any knives.”

“I know,” said Francis, appearing at his shoulder. “The killer must have taken them.”

“All right, Columbo,” Arthur retorted, scowling. “Leave the deducting to me, please.”

“Well, why do you think he took them.”

Breathing deeply, Arthur turned to his friend and the other two detectives who were hovering nearby. “What I see here is an opportunistic murder. Whoever did this probably interrupted her while she was cooking. To clean up, he shoved everything into a bin bag or something similar, which he found here, and took it with him. Including all the knives in the hopes we wouldn't realise there was one missing.

“So, Beilschmidt. Carriedo. Get your arses outside and organise a sweep of the area. Concentrate on dumpsters. Try to cover a ten block area, if possible.”

“Why do we have to?” groaned Gilbert. “Why not you?”

“I'm going to talk to the neighbours,” Arthur answered, rolling his eyes. “Grow up, will you?”

“Niemals!”

With another good roll of his eyes, Arthur flipped him off and made his way out of the crime scene. Gilbert's laughter followed him as he exited the flat – and he immediately wished he'd stayed put. For who should be in the hallway but the new bane of his life. And Francis was certainly bad enough.

Sighing, he waited for Alfred to bound over to him. “Hey!” said the writer. “Everything's signed, I've been filled in, so what're we doing now?”

“Wishing you weren't here,” Arthur smoothly replied.

“Oh, ouch.” Alfred laughed loudly and Arthur flinched.

“All right, keep it down.” Arthur walked along the hall. “We've got people searching for the murder weapon nearby. In the meantime, I'm going to talk to the neighbours. If you're coming, please remember what we're here for.”

“Sure thing, Detective.”

Somehow, Arthur had a sense of dread. This whole arrangement was going to irritate him, he could tell, and it would certainly change his life. He'd likely get an ulcer from the stress. Shaking his head, he knocked on his first door and prepared to ask them the usual questions.

 After getting absolutely nothing from the most immediate neighbours (the walls were thick in the building), Arthur knocked on the last door. Alfred had long since started whining about the lack of progress but the detective had zoned him out, only humming in response.

“Someone's gotta 'ave seen something!” groaned the writer.

This time, Arthur decided to change it up a little and sighed at him. Thankfully, the door was opened at that moment to reveal a harried, young mother. Her blonde hair stood up at various angles despite the fact that she had tied it back to keep it from her face. A toddler was perched on her hip, the child's pink dungarees covered in what appeared to be chocolate. So was her face. The little girl stared up at them, eyes wide with interest: the mother wearily stared up at them.

“Yes?” she asked, frowning at them.

“Hello, ma'am,” said Arthur, holding up his badge and starting his spiel again without any loss of enthusiasm. “I'm sorry to bother you but I'd like to ask you about last night, if you could spare the time?”

“I, um...” The woman looked over her shoulder, her level of stress seeming to rise.

“What's her name?” asked Alfred, smiling down at the girl. Shyly, the girl stuck her thumb in her mouth and sucked at it. Automatically, her hand was moved by her mother to stop her. The toddler pouted.

“Wendy.”

“How about I take Wendy off your hands for a few minutes and you can talk to Detective Kirkland?”

“Jones,” said Arthur, warningly. He didn't like this idea; it wasn't something that the police did and the woman could close off from them.

“Ah... Right, yeah,” replied the woman, handing the sticky child over. Alfred immediately began cooing and Wendy started giggling. “I'm sorry but I haven't got a babysitter and the woman who usually looks after her hasn't turned up today-” She broke off, frowning. “Wait... What are you here to talk to me about?”

“Do you know a Coleen Tennor?”

“Oh, no,” breathed the blonde. Her eyes widened and a hand was lifted to cover her mouth. “I... You'd better come in.”

Raising an eyebrow at Alfred, the writer shrugged – he didn't have any idea as to what the woman would be able to tell them. Nonetheless, they entered the flat. It was considerably smaller than Miss Tennor's but that might have been due to how closed off it was, each room separated by a wall. A hall led the way through to the back of the flat and out of sight. On one side, an open door revealed a cluttered kitchen, the dishes from breakfast still on the counters and the high-chair still smeared with debris. The other led into a living room with ratty couches, bookcases stuffed full of books and DVDs, most of which were for children and old TV. Toys littered the floor: teddy bears and dolls, puzzles and crayons. A section of the carpet was coated in chocolate: Arthur grimaced as he imagined having to clean that up.

“Hey, d'ya want me to keep Wendy in here?” asked Alfred, heading towards an abandoned doll.

For a moment, the mother seemed to reconsider. Then she sighed and nodded. “Yes. Please. Would you like anything to drink?”

“Nah, it's fine,” said Alfred.

“No, thank you,” was Arthur's response.

“All right.” She led Arthur into the kitchen and began to reorganise herself. She grabbed a cloth and some dishes and began to flit around the room. “Coleen is such a lovely woman. What's happened?”

“Well, Mrs...?”

“Dolton,” she replied.

“Mrs. Dolton. I'm afraid that...” Arthur trailed off, waiting for the poor woman to put down the glass she had picked up before he continued. “Miss Tennor was found dead this morning.”

The mother gasped and spun around. “What?!”

“I'm terribly sorry. I know this must be a shock but could you tell me what you knew of Miss Tennor and your relationship with her?”

“I... Well, she looked after Wendy when I needed to work,” said Mrs. Dolton in a hushed voice. She stumbled to a chair at the messy table and sat. Arthur decided to stay standing. “We took a bit of a hit when I lost my job just before Wendy was born and we've both been trying to work as much as possible.” Running a hand through her messy hair and accidentally tugging the hair band free, Dolton looked up at Arthur. “She seemed fine to me. Same as normal. Overly excited about her role as Lady Macbeth, I think it was. Um, but, nothing else I can think of.”

Arthur nodded, thinking for a moment before he moved on. “Did you notice anything odd last night? Between eight and ten?”

He let Mrs. Dolton think as he listened to Alfred's voice drifting through from the other room. After a few moments, Mrs. Dolton hummed and Arthur returned his attention to her. “The only thing I can remember from last night was when I returned home and someone I'd never seen before was trying to get into the building. She said she was visiting someone but they weren't answering their cell so I let her in. You... You don't think...?” Poor Mrs. Dolton suddenly looked quite pale.

“It's not your fault,” Arthur assured her, making sure his tone was as soothing as possible. She seemed genuine and, with how frazzled she seemed, Arthur felt his gut telling him that it was highly unlikely the woman was involved somehow. It would be best if he kept her from panicking and doing something silly. “If this person was visiting Miss Tennor – and she may not have been – you couldn't have known. Don't blame yourself.”

“But if I hadn't...”

“Honestly, Mrs. Dolton, I am sure she would have found another way into the building even if you hadn't helped her. Perhaps you could help us further, though. Do you remember what she looked like?”

After a brief hesitation, Mrs. Dolton nodded. “Y-Yeah. I think so.”

“Great. Now, how about we get Wendy cleaned up and I'll take you down to the precinct?”

 “So,” said Arthur as he pinned a picture to the murder board, “this is the woman Mrs. Dolton believes she saw at around half eight. Blonde hair, blue eyes.”

Everyone in the room looked at it, memorising the picture. The woman's eyes seemed to be a little close together. Her lips were full and there appeared to be a spot on her chin. Nothing else really stood out.

“She was wearing a white blouse with black pinstripes and a black pencil skirt,” Arthur added. “If someone can see if we have any CCTV footage of her around the crime scene, that would be great. Where are we on the weapon?”

“Still searching,” Gilbert assured Arthur. “Antonio's out with them right now.”

“Beilschmidt, you go down to the bank and get statements. See if any of them knew of any partners. Money troubles. The usual.”

“Klar doch, Boss,” said Gilbert and hurried off.

“So,” said Alfred, sidling up to Arthur who had turned back to the whiteboard. Upon it was a picture of the victim and a few of the crime scene. Her basic information had been written up as well as what they knew of the homicide. A timeline had been drawn out and the murder had been written in as well as Mrs. Dolton's sighting. One of Tennor's leaflets had also been stuck up. Alfred pointed at it. “Are we gonna go talk to them?”

“Not quite yet.”

“Oh! We're going to the morgue, right?”

Arthur shook his head and he took a deep breath. “No. I need to call the next of kin.” He walked around Alfred and sat at his desk, picking up the receiver. Alfred stared after him but kept a respectful distance as Arthur calmly conveyed the message that someone's daughter had been murdered. The writer was rather impressed by how well Arthur seemed to be coping with it and decided to leave him alone for the moment.

A cup of coffee beckoned. He didn't want to miss a thing and caffeine would help.

Chapter Text

“This is shit,” said Alfred, entirely serious as he stared down at Arthur. He shook the cup in his hand. “Nah, it's worse than shit. It's shit that a dog ate and then shit out again.”

Arthur looked disgusted. “Thank you for that wonderful image.”

“You're welcome. Because you really need to know how much this stinks.”

“I don't need you to tell me that,” Arthur assured him as he organised his desk a little.

“But you need to know. And we need to do something about it.”

Sighing, Arthur looked back up at him. “There's nothing we can do. The precinct doesn't have a budget for some kind of fancy coffee machine. Or, apparently, any halfway decent teabags.”

Alfred grimaced. “You drink tea instead of coffee?”

“Not here, I don't,” Arthur answered, beginning to look impatient.

“So you drink the coffee.”

“I avoid it as much as possible but, long hours, you know? Now, will you shut up so I can make a phone call.”

“Oh? Who're you calling?”

“If you must know, I'm calling to arrange a meeting with this acting troupe. Hopefully, we can talk to them all at the same time.”

“Interesting. But I think I'll pass on listening to one side of a conversation.” Alfred grinned which seemed to cause Arthur some concern. “I have another mission to carry out!”

“Oh, God.”

“I will totally accept that title. Be back soon!” And, with that, he hurried off to a secluded corner to make his own phone call.

When Alfred returned, Arthur was grabbing his red coat as he stalked off, heading towards the elevator. The writer turned on his heel and followed. “What's going on?”

“I got a text from Francis. He's finished with the autopsy so he asked us to go down there.”

“Ooh! Some new evidence about the murder weapon?”

Arthur snorted as he stepped into the elevator and hit the button. “Hardly. He's probably just bored and decided to call me down there.”

Alfred laughed. “Francis is kinda awesome.”

“If you think that, why don't you follow him around?”

Catching Arthur's gaze, Alfred smiled as softly as he could and said, “'Cause then I wouldn't be able to be with your gorgeousness.”

The only reaction he got was a roll of Arthur's eyes.

“So?” said Arthur as soon as they got to the morgue. Two of the metal tables were occupied, white cloths covering the occupants. Francis was the only live person in the room, dressed in blue scrubs and surveying them both with amusement.

“Good afternoon to you, too,” said Francis, pointedly.

Biting back a laugh, Alfred grinned. “Yo,” he said, raising a hand in greeting.

“It's good to see you back again,” Francis added, looking up at him. Alfred wasn't sure if the look was a flirtatious or a sly one.

“All right, enough of that,” Arthur interrupted them, scowling. “What've you got for us?”

“Well, she was definitely stabbed with a long, sharp knife.” Francis pulled the cloth up so that they could see the wound but in such a way which preserved the deceased's dignity. Arthur leaned in to survey it. “It was a single, upwards strike.”

“Upwards?” inquired Arthur, glancing up. “Are you sure?”

Tilting his head, Alfred asked, “What does that mean?”

Francis turned to Alfred, obviously glad of an audience. “It can mean anything but in this instance, the angle is much more severe than a straightforward stabbing. It could be that the killer wanted to hide their intentions and held it down here” - the coroner held his fist down at his hip - “until they were close enough to strike.” He mimed stabbing, quickly and sharply, aiming for an imagined heart. “Or there was a fight which meant the killer was on their knees before they struck. Or there was a fight and they struggled with the knife until...”

“Ah, yeah,” said Alfred. “If he'd surprised her while she was cooking, she would have been the one with the knife and would explain why he didn't use his own weapon.”

“Anything else?” asked Arthur.

“I'll have nothing else until you get me the knife, I'm afraid.”

Arthur's brow furrowed. “And you couldn't have told me this over the phone? What did I do this time?”

“Well,” said Francis smirking. Arthur sighed, as if he had suddenly realised what was coming. “I heard about your new... working relationship,” Francis drawled. “So I thought I'd check it out for myself. And it's true, I see.”

Shaking his head, Arthur turned on his heel and grabbed Alfred's arm to drag him away. “If that's all, good day. We have work to be doing.”

By the time they got back to the precinct, it was late. The other detectives were waiting patiently for them as Arthur marched in, unbuttoning his coat on the move. Alfred followed.

“Hey, Kirkland,” said Antonio. “We found the weapon and the other stuff from the apartment. They were five blocks down, behind an Italian restaurant.”

“Great. Anything interesting?” asked Arthur as he draped his coat over the back of his chair.

“Well, there's a discount for cops,” Antonio answered, staring down at his notebook. “I think I might go see what it's-”

“Not the restaurant,” sighed Arthur. “The evidence.”

“Oh. No, not yet. We've sent it down to CSU but it'll be a while before they get back to us.”

“Right.” Arthur turned to Gilbert who had been waiting nearby. “Well?”

“Nobody knew anything at the bank. They knew about the acting which, they said, made her happier. No boyfriend to speak of – because she's not that way inclined.”

Arthur didn't bat an eye at that piece of information. “I hope you asked them if she had a girlfriend, then.”

“None of them, either, so they say,” said Gilbert. “Though... One of the tellers said she had been happier than ever recently. He said he reckoned she was at least 'getting some action'.”

“That could mean anything,” Arthur sighed, dropping into his chair. “But we should check to see if she had any lovers recently.”

“She could have been making more money somehow,” Alfred pointed out. “Ooh! Maybe she was part of an elaborate scheme to steal from the bank!”

A glare was sent his way. “Jones,” Arthur started, “don't be so ridiculous-”

“Why? Why's it ridiculous. It's possible.”

“Then explain why they killed her before they robbed the bank. They would have told us if there'd been a robbery.”

Alfred opened his mouth to reply – and found he had nothing to retort with. “Ah. Well. I see.”

Rolling his eyes and shaking his head, Arthur turned his attention back to Gilbert and Antonio. “Have either of you looked through the victim's bank accounts?”

“Not yet – next on our list,” answered Gilbert. “Are you going to help this time?”

“You make it sound as if I leave you to do all the work,” said Arthur with narrowed eyes.

Gilbert shrugged and glanced at Alfred. “Well...”

“Hey, hey,” Alfred said, holding his hands up. “I'm not keeping him from working – I'm helping.” Arthur snorted. “It's true!” Alfred protested, pouting at him.

“You're not doing a good job of it, are you?” Arthur looked smug and Alfred frowned at him. “After all, you should have come up with something that we couldn't, right?”

Thinking fast, Alfred declared, “I have!”

“Oh?” Raising an eyebrow, Arthur gestured with his hand. “Go on.”

“Well... Just picture it,” Alfred began, spreading his hands in invitation. “An attractive, young – ish – woman living alone. Lots of men living around her. She's friendly and helps out as much as possible, even joining the acting troupe. One man sees her one day dressed in one of her costumes and she's so beautiful and ethereal, like something untouchable. And she is: she's uninterested in men in a romantic or sexual sense. The man grows annoyed for, each time she speaks to him, his heart beats faster and she'll wink and tease, thinking it a friendly game. But, one day, he finally gathers the courage to ask her out – after all, if she's flirting with him, she's not really gay, right? But she says no and tries to avoid him.

“But he is having none of it. When he comes to her place, he ends up forcing his way into the apartment to make her listen, just listen. She backs off, alarmed and scared. Since she was cooking, she can easily grab a knife. Now he's scared. This is obviously a mistake but will she call the cops? And now she's waving a knife and he has to protect himself. They struggle and-!”

Lowering his hands, he blinked at his audience. The three detectives were staring into space, obviously enthralled by the story. A couple of seconds of silence passed before Gilbert and Antonio jerked into motion.

“Bank accounts,” Gilbert said.

“Gonna check the neighbours' alibis again,” Antonio told them as he hurried off.

Meanwhile, Arthur hurriedly pulled some papers towards him and grabbed a pen. Without anything to write, though, he merely twirled it between deft fingers. Alfred moved over to sit on the seat across from Arthur's desk before realising that he was too far away and the computer blocked his view. Quickly, he dragged it around to the side and plopped onto it, crossing his legs.

“Beilschmidt's got the banks covered. Carriedo's got the neighbours. What about you?”

Arthur scowled at him. “Well, I'm going to have to help them.”

“But what about the actors?”

“I arranged to speak with them tomorrow. Apparently, that's the earliest they can gather everyone.” Placing his pen on the table, Arthur swivelled in his seat so that he was facing Alfred. “I'll just be doing what I did earlier, with the phone calls. Are you going to sit around and watch me again?”

Alfred pulled a face. “I dunno. Sounds pretty boring to me.”

“Mm. And you have a daughter to go home to, right?”

Nodding, Alfred hummed in response. “She'll be fine on her own but I suppose I'd better go.”

“Mmhmm. Goodnight, Jones.”

With a grin, Alfred leaned forward, catching Arthur's gaze before he could turn away. “Aren't you gonna wish me 'sweet dreams'?”

He watched as Arthur's eyes flashed with irritation and the detective leaned forward. They were close enough for their noses to almost touch. Alfred's breath caught as he waited to see what Arthur would do or say.

“Have some sweet nightmares, Jones.” Arthur smirked. “Now, goodbye.”

Madeline and Elizaveta were making dinner together when Alfred walked through the front door. “Ah!” exclaimed his mother, waving her spatula in his direction. “The prodigal son returns!”

“Was I away that long?” joked Alfred, grinning at them.

“It certainly felt like it.”

His daughter finished what she was doing (adding ingredients to a wok) and looked up at him. “Well? How was it?”

“Oh, you know. Dead body. Hidden messages. The usual.” Alfred waved a hand dismissively as he sat on one of the stools.

“'Usual'?” Madeline raised an eyebrow. “We're not getting anything more than that?”

“It's all very confidential,” moaned Alfred, lowering his head with a fake pout.

“And when has that stopped you before?” Elizaveta asked as she poked at the vegetables and meat in the wok.

“Hmm...” Alfred pretended to look uncertain. The reactions he wanted to get never came: his mother ignored him and his daughter merely remained unimpressed. “Oh, all right. This woman who was murdered was an amateur actress.”

“Oh, poor thing,” said his mother, grimacing.

“There were quotes from Shakespeare plays painted on the walls and a notebook which was covered in the word 'Macbeth'.”

Elizaveta's eyes widened. “The curse!” she cried and quickly spun three times.

Alfred sighed. “That's a myth, mom. Besides, we're not even in a theatre.”

“What is it?” asked Madeline, frowning.

“There's said to be a curse on Mac-”

“The Scottish Play!” Elizaveta interjected.

“-where anyone who says that in a theatre will die or bring misfortune on the play. The first time they performed it, in Shakespeare's day, the guy playing Lady Macbeth died in the middle of it.”

“That's horrible,” said Madeline, grimacing in distaste.

“It's not true.”

“But that woman died because of it,” Elizaveta pointed out.

“Hm. Maybe. We'll find out when we talk to the actors tomorrow. Now, what's in this stir fry?”

Arthur had arranged to meet the actors in the morning, as early as possible. As he sat at his desk, he checked the time. He would have to get going soon but Alfred hadn't arrived yet. Was this a blessing in disguise? Could he leave without him and be rid of him for the day? Maybe he was writing and was too busy to come for the day? The detective sure hoped so.

Tapping his pen on the desk, he stared down at the pile of papers on his desk. They had rechecked and sifted through every alibi they had been given to find that everyone was accounted for apart from their mystery woman. Tennor's monetary flow was mostly steady and consistent, only the occasional meal at a restaurant (with friends, the employees had told them) being a point of interest.

When the clock hit 9.30 exactly, Arthur surged to his feet, grabbing his warm, red coat. As he pulled it on and grabbed his things, he could see Ludwig moving around in his office from the corner of his eyes. Hopefully, he could get out of the precinct without him knowing about Alfred's absence. He also hoped he could pick up some coffee on the way because he really needed a pick-me-up. Alcohol was, sadly, off the table at the moment.

Unfortunately, he had barely gotten a few steps away from his desk when Ludwig appeared at his elbow. Arthur was so used to this that he barely jumped in surprise. He stopped, though, and turned to his boss. “Sir?”

“Where's Jones?” Ludwig asked, bluntly.

“Not here. But I can't wait any longer – I have to get to-”

“Call him.” And Ludwig disappeared again.

Arthur stared after him and sighed. He knew Alfred would mock him if he phoned. Thankfully, an idea suddenly occurred to him and he grinned, pulling out his mobile to quickly type out a message instead.

Traffic, of course, was bad and, by the time Arthur arrived in the relevant street, he didn't have time to buy himself any sort of hot drink. He should have gotten some from the precinct, he realised, despite how crap it was. Shrugging it off, he locked his car and made his way along towards the theatre: apparently, the theatre group were rehearsing there instead of in the park.

Spotting a certain someone waiting outside it, Arthur realised he wasn't as surprised as he probably should have been. “Well, Jones, you're certainly eager.”

Alfred grinned at him. “Of course. I was summoned, after all, right?” Arthur glared at him in response and took a moment to survey him, wondering how he had arrived before him. He noted that Alfred was wearing a navy coat which stopped at his knees and looked incredibly becoming on him; he looked rather attractive. Arthur ignored his observations of Alfred's looks and the pedestrians who were openly gawping to focus on the two coffee cups.

“What's that?” he asked, nodding at them.

“Oh. For you.” Alfred held out one of them and Arthur took it with a suspicious frown.

“What's in it?”

“Generally, ya get coffee in coffee cups.”

Scowling, Arthur said, “There are places which put tea and hot chocolate and other hot beverages into coffee cups, you know.”

“Huh. Yeah, well, this is a cinnamon mocha. I thought it suited you.” Alfred winked. “Spicy but sweet.”

With a sigh, Arthur shook his head and took it with a mumbled thanks. As he took a sip, he turned toward the theatre. It was a small one in Off-Off-Broadway and looked fairly aged. Its maroon paint was chipped and peeling, revealing the whitewash beneath. An old ticket booth jutted out into the street, currently empty and looking quite dusty. The poster holder was empty, the plastic cover flapping in the wake of people hurrying by. Faded green doors stood ajar and Arthur stalked up to them.

Inside was just as dreary as the outside, the foyer area dark. Blue carpet matched the walls where there were brackets for the lights. It appeared deserted so Arthur made his way to one of a matching set of doors at each corner of the room. Opening it, he held it for Alfred who muttered a thanks as he stepped through. Arthur followed him, sipping at his coffee.

The auditorium wasn't large and would barely hold a couple hundred people, Arthur noted. The black stage was visible as the curtains had been drawn to the side revealing a group of people chattering upon it. A man and woman stood below them, holding a separate, intense conversation. The rest of them appeared to be reading scripts. In fact, Arthur could see three women huddled together, sneering and cackling. The actresses who would play the witches, he realised.

“Oh!” said a man at the front of the stage when he saw the newcomers. That caught the others' attention and they turned to look. The couple in the seating area turned to them and grimaced.

“Hello... Detective Kirkland?” asked the woman. Arthur nodded and pulled out his badge for confirmation. “I'm Fiona Coleman. This is my husband Mark.” The man nodded at them.

“Fi?” said the man on stage. “What's going on?”

Turning to him, Fiona addressed her actors. “We have some bad news for everyone.”

“What?” asked one of the witches. “What is it?” She seemed to be on the verge of panic so Arthur kept silent for the moment, trusting the familiarity of Fiona to soothe them slightly.

“Coleen is dead,” she said, hurriedly, as if she was trying to get it over with quickly. She bit her lip.

There was a collective gasp and a few shouts of disbelief. Arthur stepped forward and held his badge up. “I'm Detective Arthur Kirkland. I can confirm what Mrs. Coleman has just said. Since you are some of her closest friends, I would like to ask you some questions. Is everyone here?”

“Ah, no,” said another witch. She was hugging the previously panicked one. “Beth ain't here yet. I think she got stuck in traffic again. Probably hadta drop off her husband or something.”

“Well, we can get started without her. Did anyone notice Coleen acting strangely?”

The actors shook their head. “No,” said the man who still stood at the edge of the stage. “She seemed fine to me, right?” He looked around at the others who nodded. “Happy, of course. She got the role of Lady-”

“Don't say it!” the panicked witch hissed, her head popping up. Her cheeks were wet from tears which continued to flow as she looked at Arthur. “It's the curse!”

“Are you sure?” asked Alfred. Arthur resisted rolling his eyes. “Magic isn't real. Besides, everyone's dead careful about it, right? She didn't seem the type of person to say it without thinking.”

“But she did! We all heard her! And it's my fault.”

“Why's that?” asked Arthur before Alfred could interject.

Sniffing, the woman turned fully, breaking away from the other's embrace. “I dared her to say it. As a joke. I should've- I shouldn't 'ave-”

“Sorry I'm late!” called someone behind Arthur. He turned towards the voice and watched as a woman hurried down the aisle, fiddling with her bag, a set of keys in her hand. “I'm here now, though!” she added and looked up.

She was blonde. Her grey eyes were a little close together. There was a spot on her chin. Arthur blinked in surprise and Alfred squealed softly in excitement. Ignoring him, Arthur quickly asked the woman for her name, relieved they had found their mystery woman and a possible lead. Or suspect.

“Oh. Um... It's Beth. Beth MacKinley. Why? What's going on?”

Chapter Text

Alfred followed Arthur into the interrogation room and sat beside the detective. They were facing Beth MacKinley who still seemed to be at a loss as to why she was there. She watched as Arthur flipped open a file.

"Um..." she said, meek and nervous.

"Mrs. MacKinley," Arthur began, calm and collected as always. "Do you know a Miss Coleen Tennor?"

"Well, yeah," Beth replied, still uncertain. "She's a member of my acting troupe."

"And your relationship with her?"

Beth looked alarmed. "I... What? I mean... She's a friend. A good friend. One of my best friends, actually, if you must know. Look, what is this all about?"

"Miss Tennor was found dead in her home yesterday morning."

The actress gasped. "Oh-Oh my God. What-? But she was- How?"

Arthur placed a picture on the table which showed Coleen's wide-eyed body on the floor of her apartment. Both Alfred and Arthur watched for Beth's reaction. Shakily, the woman took the photo and brought it closer, for a better look. "She was stabbed," Arthur explained. "There appears to have been a fight."

"Oh, God," Beth whispered, tears in her eyes. "I can't... This can't be happening. She's... She was- Oh, God."

"We need to know of any changes in her life, Mrs. MacKinley. Was there anything?"

After taking a few deep breaths and pushing the photo away from herself, Beth spoke. "I don't know of anything. It was the same as usual, I think. Um. A pay rise at work, couple of cents, nothing too fancy. The lead role in a play, for once."

"She didn't usually get the lead role?" asked Alfred, perking up a little. Maybe this was about Macbeth, after all.

"Nah, just... side parts. Like, important but not the main focus. Y'know, the Nurse in Romeo and Juliet, Lady Croom in Arcadia, Eunice in A Streetcar Named Desire – ones like that."

Alfred glanced at Arthur but the detective was ignoring him, choosing instead to ask, "And what role did you get in Macbeth?"

"None," Beth answered, frowning at him. "I was asked to be the costume designer. And no-one at the acting troupe would have harmed someone for a part. We all got equal chances at lead roles, if we were good enough."

"Really? Well, why did you visit Coleen on the night of her murder?"

"Wha-?" Beth was startled and paused, obviously thinking on the past few days. "I went to Coleen's to run lines with her," she said, slowly. "We often did that, even if we had no scenes together. She never answered the door or her phone when I called. One of her neighbours let me into the building but no-one came to the door so I figured she was out."

"And what time was that?" asked Arthur, a pen poised at his notebook.

"Um... Around... half eight, I think. Why?"

Arthur quickly noted this piece of information down. "Just establishing a timeline. What did you do after that, Mrs. MacKinley and can you give me rough times?"

"Oh, um, I went to the Colemans' place. I wanted to talk to them about the costumes. I was gonna go over there after Coleen's but, since she didn't answer..." Beth's eyes suddenly widened. "Wait. Was she... Was she already dead?" she whispered.

"She may have been. We're not sure," Arthur assured her, his tone gentle. Alfred glanced at Beth: she was fighting back the tears so she could continue.

"I... Sorry. I just... If she wasn't and I could have helped..."

"You wouldn't have been able to do anything, Mrs. MacKinley. The only way to help her is to tell me what time you got to the Colemans'." Alfred marvelled at Arthur's skill – his gentle assurances were helping to calm Beth and refocus her attention to the matter at hand.

"Er... Some time before nine, I think. I walked there."

"At that time of night?" asked Arthur, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah. I parked my car in a parking garage not far away and walked to Coleen's. The Colemans are the same distance in the opposite direction."

"I see. And what time did you leave the Colemans'?"

"I stayed the night actually," Beth replied, looking rather sheepish. "By the time I wanted to leave, it was late and they said it wasn't safe. They offered to drive me home but I refused to let them go out of their way."

"So you didn't leave till yesterday morning?" asked Arthur, noting that down, too. Alfred noticed that he was frowning and wondered what was going on in his head.

"Yeah."

"What about your husband? Was he aware of this?"

"I, uh, told him about going to Coleen's before I left for work on Wednesday, so he knew where I'd be. I didn't want him to worry. But I called when I left the building and left him a message."

"He didn't answer?" asked Alfred, frowning at that.

"Nah. But when I called to tell him about staying the night, he told me he'd been in a shower and missed the first one."

Arthur quickly scribbled that down. "I see. Is there anything else you can tell us about your friend or about the night of the murder? Did you see anyone suspicious around the building? Notice anyone lurking?"

"Nope. I can't think of anything, sorry."

Nodding, Arthur gathered his things and stood; Alfred hurried to follow suit. "I'll send in an officer to escort you out. Thank you for your time." With that, he exited the room and headed towards his desk.

"Well?" asked Alfred as he hurried to catch up. "Is she still a suspect or is she in the clear? She seemed pretty upset about Coleen."

"She's lying," said Arthur, simply. "But I'm not sure about what or why."

"How do you know?"

Stopping at his desk, Arthur picked up his phone's receiver. "I find it highly unlikely that she would be unable to get home. Especially since her husband likely has a car and could pick her up if she asked." He tapped in a number and waited: Alfred stayed silent, curious as to who Arthur was calling. "Beilschmidt, are you still down at the theatre?" A pause. "Oh, for God's sake, just answer the bloody question. Right. Look, ask the Colemans whether Mrs. MacKinley was at their place on the night of the murder and ask for times. Yeah, that's it. For fu-" Arthur took the receiver from his ear, glared at it and threw it back into its cradle.

"So, he's gonna do it?" asked Alfred, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Now, I have to go get Mrs. MacKinley's bank records and such. You stay here and don't touch anything."

It came just after Gilbert and Antonio returned to the precinct.

They made their way over to Arthur who stood and grabbed a marker for their board when he spotted them. "What did you find out?"

"Well, there's this nice restaurant down by the-" began Gilbert, a huge grin on his face.

"If you say one more word about it, I'll make sure it's shut down," Arthur threatened him.

"Okay, okay! Meine Güte!"

Antonio took over. "According to the Colemans, Mrs. MacKinley stayed the night. Arrived at quarter to nine and left at around seven in the morning to get to work. Said they had an intense discussion about the costumes and then watched an adaptation of Macbeth. The one with Patrick Stewart."

Arthur, wrote the details under a picture of Beth MacKinley marked 'Person of Interest', nodding along. "Right. I've started looking through Mrs. MacKinley's finances so I'll need your-"

"Mr. Jones?" came a voice from along the hall. Everyone froze as Alfred peered around Gilbert to spot a man with a rather large box in his hands. Knowing what it was, Alfred perked up and bounded towards the man.

"That's me!" he called as he skidded to a halt in front of him. Snatching the pen which was attached to a clipboard, he scribbled down his signature. "Thanks! Can you set it up, too?"

"Jones!" snapped a voice behind him and the writer turned to face Arthur. The detective was scowling. "What the hell is this?"

"A coffee machine!" Alfred announced. He noticed Gilbert and Antonio brighten at that, peering around Arthur's imposing figure.

"Wha-? Why?" demanded Arthur. "The precinct-"

Alfred waved a hand wildly, dismissing what Arthur was trying to say. "Nah. This is my gift to you guys. You're putting up with me, right? So what's a little money and a new, improved coffee machine? Which, by the way, says it can make tea, too."

Instead of a favourable reaction, Arthur folded his arms. "The precinct's coffee is perfectly... adequate. It does its job. We don't need some newfangled machine breaking down every few minutes. We should be working."

"Actually," Antonio piped up, "I wouldn't mind some better coffee..."

Gilbert nodded in agreement. "Ja. A lot of the time, I can't bear to drink the stuff."

"Cool! Come get the first cups, guys!" Alfred pointed the way for the delivery guy and glanced at Arthur. He was still glaring at Alfred but turned on his heel when he caught Alfred looking. Stubbornly, he sat himself on his seat and pointedly took a sip of the coffee he had gotten a few minutes earlier.

Alfred had to stifle a laugh at the grimace that followed.

"Kirkland," said Antonio from the other side of the table. Everyone looked up at him expectantly. "I think I found something."

"And?" Arthur inquired, setting down his pen.

"Mrs. MacKinley has been using that same parking garage for months, now. Not sure how far back this goes, though."

"How far back have you noticed it?"

"So far? About four months."

"That's... odd," said Arthur, slowly, frowning. Alfred nodded in agreement. "I doubt all that would be for this play. Something else is going on here."

"Well, it's not about making money," Gilbert announced. "Nothing strange in the Colemans' finances."

"So she comes into the city and parks between the Colemans' and Coleen's?" said Alfred, tapping at his chin. "Why would she want to see them if it's not about the play or money?"

Arthur sighed. "The only other thing which makes sense is sex."

"Uh," said Alfred, eyes wide. "What?"

"She's been parking several blocks away from them, meaning she doesn't want to be seen. Who would she be hiding from?" Arthur shrugged. "If it's not to do with money, then she'd be hiding her excursions from her husband."

"But who's she been having the affair with?"

Shaking his head, Arthur sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "We'll need to find more evidence of a connection. Or bring in the three of them to ask and see if they crack."

"I doubt they'll tell you anything," Alfred told him. "If it's one of the Colemans, then they already lied to cover it up. And Beth Mac-" Alfred broke off, his eyes widening.

Frowning, Arthur turned to him. "What? What is it?"

"Beth Mac," Alfred said, breathlessly. "Mac Beth. Macbeth. 'I love Macbeth'. It's not the play-"

"-it was Beth!" cried Arthur, his own eyes as wide as Alfred's own. "She was in love with Beth!"

"Um," said Gilbert, breaking their reverie and turning their attention to the two bewildered detectives. "That's all good and everything but we're investigating Coleen Tennor's murder, not whether Beth MacKinley was having an affair or not."

"Well, if her husband found out," explained Alfred, "he may have confronted Coleen. And... Y'know."

"We can't prove he was there," Arthur argued. "Not yet, anyway, if he was involved at all. The only way to find out is to know whether Beth's actions could have been noticed by another party. So you two need to bring in the Colemans and Beth MacKinley. I'll look into Mister MacKinley's financials and see what I can find."

"I'll help!" Alfred said, enthusiastically, drawing Arthur's attention back to him.

The detective rolled his eyes. "Might as well use you for something," he agreed.

They were still checking through the husband's finances when Gilbert knocked on the door and poked his head in. "Hey, Kirkland. The Colemans are here. Carriedo's still not got back with MacKinley, though."

"That's fine. I'll talk to the Colemans just now." Arthur stood, scooping up the paperwork as quickly as possible. Alfred followed suit, grabbing at the papers around him.

As he made to grab the last sheet of paper, Arthur reached for it. They both paused and Alfred glanced up at him, grinning. The detective stared at him incredulously and snatched the paper away from him. Then he grabbed the pile Alfred had already gathered and stalked off. Alfred pouted but quickly followed, sure he would get another chance down the road.

Arthur dropped his paperwork on his desk and spoke to Gilbert for a moment as Alfred hurried to catch up. The smaller man was faster than would be believed but Alfred's longer legs helped in his quest. He was soon striding beside Arthur as he marched towards the interrogation room.

"So... Got a strategy?" asked Alfred, interested to know Arthur's thoughts before he entered an interrogation room.

Glancing up, Arthur frowned at him. "I ask them if they've been having an affair." And he strode through the door, Alfred giving chase.

Already seated, the Colemans turned to them. "What's going on?" demanded Mark. "Why are we here?"

"We need to ask you about Beth MacKinley," Arthur explained after he had settled himself.

Fiona gasped. "She's not dead, too, is she?"

"No," Arthur assured her. "However, we do know that the three of you have been lying to us. How long has Mrs. MacKinley been coming to visit you?"

"Just what are you implying?" snapped Mark, though he looked worried.

"I only have speculation to say that Beth was having an affair. But I need to know with whom and who knew."

The couple glanced at each other, seemingly holding a conversation in their gaze. "We should... We should tell the truth," said Fiona eventually, her cheeks reddening.

"If you're comfortable with it, Fi," sighed Mark. Fiona nodded but kept her gaze on the table. Mark took a deep breath and turned back to Arthur. "You see... My wife and I rather liked to experiment, if you know what I mean."

"In the bedroom?" asked Alfred, just to clarify. After all, they could be experimenting on anything, maybe making a Frankenstein's Creature. Oh, now that would be an interesting plot point for his novel...

Alfred's attention was snapped back to the room as Mark replied. "Yeah..." Mark shifted in his seat and sighed. "Well, we spoke to Beth about it because she felt her marriage was falling flat. She seemed real enthusiastic but... Jason seemed to be a little unwilling to do most of the stuff and he worked long hours so he was always tired and... Well... She came to us and asked if she could... join in..."

"We wouldn't normally do anything like that!" Fiona exclaimed, suddenly. "But she seemed so upset and-and downtrodden that we agreed to it. And then... Well... It was exciting and... we liked it. So we kept it up. And then we met Coleen."

"That woman fell for Beth as soon as she saw her," Mark continued. "And Beth was addicted to the thrill of having sex with other people without her husband knowing. So they started having a separate affair. When we were busy, she'd go to Coleen. If Coleen was busy, she came to us."

"Could Mister MacKinley have found out about Beth and Coleen?" Arthur asked.

They glanced at each other before Mark said, "I dunno. Maybe. She was coming down more often over the past few weeks – not sure why – but I expect Jason might've noticed it."

"Did she use the same car park each time?"

"I think so."

Arthur nodded. "Right. Thank you for your time." He gathered his things and stood, moving quickly. Alfred almost tripped over the chairs trying to catch up to him.

"You think it's the husband?" he asked as they headed to Arthur's desk again.

"Possibly. But, with the picture they painted of Beth in there, it might be anyone. Someone else she was having an affair with who found out about Coleen." Arthur put everything down on his desk and stared at the murder board for a moment. "We should put a car outside the Colemans' place, just in-" Everything stopped as Arthur's cell phone began ringing. He frowned and Alfred watched him curiously as he answered. "Kirkland."

There was a lengthy silence before Arthur's frown deepened and he spoke again.

"What do you mean, 'there's a problem'?"

Chapter Text

Alfred wasn't entirely sure what was going on. He had asked Arthur what the phone call had been about but was only told that Arthur was needed at the MacKinley residence. Then he had had to keep up as Arthur hurried out of the precinct and climbed into his car. After getting no further response from his questions and guesses, Alfred fell silent and watched as Arthur drove them into Queens.

When the car drew up outside a sprawling two-storey house, Alfred could see they had been beaten to it. A couple of cop cars, an ambulance and Antonio's car were already parked outside it. Lights flashed silently and the people who had already arrived were milling around outside, as if unsure of their next course of action.

Without so much as a pause, Arthur got out of the car as soon as the engine had been turned off. Alfred scrambled to follow, hurrying after him with a worried frown. Arthur didn't seem to care as he crossed the road and wound his way past the gathered cars.

"Hold on!" Alfred called. "Wait. Don't you need, like, a vest or something?"

"No," Arthur answered him, stalking up to Antonio who was looking grim. "Well?" he asked the other detective.

"Mrs. MacKinley's over by the ambulance. She was in hysterics." Antonio gestured towards it with his notepad. "Apparently, there's no way to see into the house without going in. No guns, though – as far as Mrs. MacKinley knows, anyway."

"What's going on?" asked Alfred for the hundredth time.

Antonio looked surprised at his lack of knowledge but answered the question. "Mr. MacKinley threatened his wife with a knife when she tried to leave for the night. According to Mrs. MacKinley he was 'acting crazy' and saying how she'd 'never leave' him. When I got here, he refused to come and waved the weapon around. I think my gun scared him."

"Huh," said Alfred. "Safe to say he's the murderer, then?"

"You can't assume that just because of this," Arthur told him, scowling.

"Has Beilschmidt not gotten through his finances, yet?" asked Antonio.

"No. Not as far as we know. Or, at least, he's not called."

"So what's the plan?" asked Alfred, gazing up at the house. It appeared to be made of sandstone and had large windows. All of them had the curtains drawn. The front door had been left open, though it swung in the wind.

"I'm going to go in there and talk to him. You're going to stay here and not do anything, Jones." Arthur's expression dared him to argue.

So he did. "But you can't go in there yourself! What if you get hurt?"

"I can handle myself." Arthur's glare intensified.

"Still..."

Sighing, Arthur opened his mouth to speak and was interrupted by his phone ringing. A scowl on his face, Arthur pulled it out. "Kirkland!" he barked. Then his expression changed: it wasn't quite happy but it relaxed considerably. He sighed again and nodded. "Right. Thanks. See if you can find any CCTV footage of him. We probably won't need it, considering, but... Yeah. Okay, bye."

"What was that?" asked Alfred, quickly, as Arthur hung up.

"Beilschmidt. He found out that MacKinley was in the car park, too. It was half past nine when he paid and he'd been there for an hour or two more than Beth." Arthur put his phone in his pocket and shrugged. "He'd been there long enough to kill Coleen and cover his tracks."

"So it was him?"

"Looks like it." Arthur heaved another sigh before his expression became determined. "Stay out of the way," he told Alfred, pointing at him. Alfred was so surprised, he almost forgot to follow. He could barely believe that Arthur had suddenly changed his mind.

After getting past the police officers, Arthur and Alfred entered the quiet home. The front door opened into a long hall, happy pictures hung along the way. Alfred looked at them and was rather amused to see that they told the MacKinleys' stories: of how they grew, graduated, met, married. It was cut off when they reached an open plan area, the living room on their right and the kitchen through a door on their left. A set of floating stairs at the other end of the house led up, twisting around and out of sight.

On one of the couches in front of the wide-screen television sat a tired man. Alfred was sure he could see the bags under his eyes from where he stood. Mr. MacKinley had messy, brown hair (likely a result of his sleepless nights) which he was currently tugging at with one hand. His other held the knife, his eyes trained on it as it dipped and bobbed with each time his hand shook.

Before Alfred could step closer, he felt a hand on his chest and he stopped breathing for a moment at the gentle touch. However, he was quickly brought back to Earth by Arthur's glare. The detective pushed at him till he had taken a few stumbling steps backwards. Now the writer was mostly out of sight, if he kept still. Regardless, Alfred peered around the wall, watching as Arthur moved forward, gone from his side so suddenly he barely had time to react.

"Mister MacKinley," said Arthur, softly, attracting the man's attention.

"Stay back!" he cried, rather manically. "I-I'll kill you!" He brought up the knife and pointed it at Arthur.

"No, look," Arthur said, reaching down to his belt where his gun was holstered. Alfred almost cried out when he saw him lay it gently onto the arm of the second couch. "I'm putting this down. Why don't you put that knife down before you hurt yourself?"

"I deserve to be hurt," MacKinley said, returning his stare to the blade. "I-I... I killed her."

"I know," Arthur admitted, staying still. "We have evidence to put you there. Do you want to tell me what happened?"

It took a moment but MacKinley eventually nodded. "I only went there because I'd followed Beth there once. I wanted to know who it was, what was going on. And she told me. I just... I got so angry. How could Beth do this, after everything? You know, we were gonna have a kid but it turns out we can't. Beth was so upset. But she told me she'd never leave me. She told me-"

Arthur, who had been carefully moving forward as MacKinley spoke, stopped as he broke off. Nobody moved for a second. Then the distraught man flipped the knife and drove it into the couch cushion beside him. There was another brief pause before Arthur spoke up again.

"You confronted Coleen about it. She had the knife to begin with, didn't she?"

MacKinley nodded. "Yeah. She'd been cooking. But she got scared when I told her who I was. Some guy had been leaving when I caught the door and went up, you see. When she opened her door, she was really nice. And-And I killed- I didn't mean to. She just- It was-"

"Calm down, Jason. I understand, okay?" Arthur stepped closer. "Let me take you in. It'll be better this way."

With his lip trembling, Jason nodded, a few tears rolling down his cheek. Arthur stepped even closer until he was directly in front of the man. He held out a hand but, by that point, Jason had bowed his head, sobbing quietly. Alfred chewed his lip, watching, waiting for something to happen.

Then, suddenly, there was a blur of motion and Alfred nearly jumped out from behind the wall. He managed to stop himself, though, when he realised that Jason had his arms around Arthur's waist, crying into his stomach. The detective patted his head a few times before he awkwardly leaned over, grabbed the knife and threw it behind him onto the other couch. After taking care of that, Arthur went back to comforting the broken man.

Alfred and Arthur watched Jason MacKinley being led to the police car. Beth MacKinley was frantic, flitting between people and asking questions. She didn't approach Arthur, though – Alfred figured it was the glower he sent her way when she looked in their direction.

"You were pretty awesome in there," Alfred finally said.

"I was just doing my job," Arthur replied, curtly.

"Well, I liked the way you managed not to voice blame. I mean, you never said it was his fault but you never mentioned that it wasn't either."

"To be honest," began Arthur, turning to head to his car, "placing blame wouldn't have helped. It would only have made him more agitated."

Humming, Alfred nodded. They reached the car and, before they got in, Alfred said, "Who do you think is more at fault, then? Jason or Beth? Or was it Coleen's for letting a stranger in? Or the Colemans' for encouraging her."

Arthur caught his gaze. "Does it matter? Someone died because of this web of lies – and someone is going to serve time for it. We've done our job and that's the end of it. If we dwell on things like this-" He broke off, shook his head and got in the car.

Wondering what that had been about, Alfred hurried to get in, too, lest Arthur drive off without him.

It was late by the time Alfred reached home. Or, rather, late enough for Madeline to already be in bed. Only his mother was to be found awake, in the middle of pouring herself a glass of wine.

"Ah, hello, dear," she said, putting the bottle down. "Let me get you a glass."

"Hi, Mom. I take it Maddie's asleep."

"Yes. She said something about a test."

"Ah."

"So," said Elizaveta, turning back to the unit with a glass. "How was your day?"

"Intriguing." Alfred proceeded to recount the way the case had played out and the exceptional work done by Arthur – who, as far as he was aware, was writing it all up as they spoke. When he finished, he found his mother smirking at him. "What?"

"You really like him, don't you?"

Alfred grinned back. "Yeah. He's amazing, really. I've never met anyone like him. And there's this mysterious air about him. I can't wait to find out what he keeps hidden."

At that, Elizaveta frowned and leaned forward. "Now, Al, I know you think that but... wouldn't it be better just to ask him on a date?"

"He'd say no," Alfred retorted, not quite seeing where she was going with this.

"I just think that you shouldn't be going out there. It's dangerous. Look at the first case you were on." She took a sip of her wine. "You were nearly shot."

"Aw, come off it, Mom. It wasn't that bad."

"But it could be."

"Don't worry about it," said Alfred, smiling kindly and placing a hand on her arm. "I've ordered something that'll help with that. You'll see. Besides, I expect Kirkland will be able to keep me safe."

Elizaveta frowned but gave up. "Hm. Well, he'd better look after you or else he'll have me to answer to."

Chapter Text

"Ah, I've missed your cooking."

Alfred grinned widely as he flipped a blueberry pancake onto the top of the pile. There were already two on the plate – one with white chocolate and the other with strawberries. He quickly grabbed the maple syrup (the best money could buy, specifically for Madeline, but he was sure she wouldn't mind him using it), poured some on and sat it in front of his guest.

"Is that the only thing you missed?" he asked, winking as he gestured to his bare chest and loose pyjama bottoms. Personally, he thought it made him look sexy, especially with his ruffled hair.

"Of course not," said the person sitting across the unit from him. Smiling, he leaned forward slightly only to catch himself as she spoke again: "I missed our Maddie, too."

Rolling his eyes, Alfred began to make his own, patented 'Stars and Stripes' pancakes. "Yeah, well, I'm sure she's missed you, too, Jools."

Jools, or Julianna, pouted at him. "Didn't you miss me, too?" she prompted, tucking a stray strand of messy blonde hair behind her ear. Her green eyes glinted with mischief as she waited on an answer. With a slight tan from California and the thin, blue robe Alfred specifically kept for 'lady visitors', she looked as sexy as she had been when Alfred had first met her, just as beautiful as when they had married.

"Did I miss you?" said Alfred, pretending to think about it. "Do you mean, did I miss you spending all my money and having an affair with your director? No. No, I don't think I did."

"Al," Julianna whined.

Before their conversation could continue, Elizaveta and Madeline walked down the stairs. Alfred spotted his mother wincing at the scene whilst Madeline smiled softly at the sight of her mother. "Hey, Mom," she said as she alighted the steps and made her way over to the kitchen unit. "How long are you going to be here for this time?"

"Oh, well, I was just about to discuss that with you father," Julianna replied, a wide smile on her face. She turned towards Alfred and the alarm bells started. He had the feeling this would not be good. "You see," his ex-wife explained, "I have been given a minor part in a minor Broadway show. So I've got my foot in the door, just like I always wanted."

"Uh huh..." said Alfred, slowly, cautiously. Please let this only be a week, please let this only be a week...

"Then I'll get loads more productions on this coast, don't you think? So, I thought, since I've missed so much of Maddie's life" - at this, she turned to a concerned-looking Madeline - "I should just move back to the city permanently."

A short silence fell as the other three tried to process the new information. "I... You... What?" said Alfred, holding his spatula aloft as though that would help him fend off the unwanted presence.

"I'm moving back. It'll be such fun, don't you think?" Julianna didn't seem to notice (or merely ignored) the heavy atmosphere as she stood from her stool. "But I need to go shopping for some things right away." Rounding the unit, she leaned up and pecked Alfred on the cheek. "I'll be in the bedroom, changing, if you want me." She winked and walked off, her hips swaying suggestively.

After another short silence, Madeline spoke up. "Dad." He turned to her, spatula still raised in the air. She looked incredibly worried. "If Mom stays..."

"It'll be the end of the world as we know it," Alfred croaked. He was exaggerating, of course, but he had the feeling something bad would happen if she did stay. They had met and married young and the passion was still somewhat there. So, if she stayed and they weren't together, that could play havoc on any relationships he would have with, say, anyone he would ever meet. And if they were together... Well, Alfred had a copy of the divorce papers to prove why that was a bad idea. Not to mention the effect it would have on his new Muse Following Project.

"You did let her into the house," Elizaveta pointed out as she moved over to the unit and snagged Julianna's untouched pancakes. "I'll be in the study."

"And I'll be going to school," Madeline said, "before she tries to get me to skip it so we can go shopping. She did that once, remember?"

"Yeah," said Alfred. He watched them go before glancing down to see that his pancakes were well and truly burnt. There was no more batter, either. Staring for a moment, he realised that Madeline and Elizaveta's disappearing acts were a great idea. He should do that, too – and he had just the place to go.

Once he went back to the monster's lair to get dressed...

Ever since Alfred had bought the brand new, better coffee machine, all of the detectives had been raving about the coffee. Arthur, however, had resisted and continued to use the official, city-provided coffee machine. He didn't want to give Alfred the satisfaction of knowing that he appreciated something the writer had done. In all honesty, though, he was just being stubborn because he really wanted to use the part of it which could make tea.

Today was a slow day. Not many people were hurrying around and even fewer were craving coffee. Gilbert and Antonio were filing away folders and checking that all the evidence from their last case had been stored correctly so they were downstairs. The Captain was out at a meeting with the mayor.

Alfred F. Jones wasn't around.

Rising swiftly from his chair, Arthur marched to the break room with his mug. No-one paid him much attention. Only one detective – Brian – seemed to notice, taking a pointed sip from his own mug as if to say that his was better. Arthur just as pointedly ignored him.

When he reached the two coffee machines, he hesitated and glanced around. No-one was around. No-one was watching. So, as quickly as he could, he prodded at the machine and began to work out how to get himself some tea. It didn't take long and, after rinsing out the mug to get rid of the shitty taste of the awful drink he had had in it, he set it up and pressed a button. As the mug filled, he sighed in relief, inhaling the pleasant smell of tea.

"I thought you weren't going to use such a 'garish machine'?"

Arthur spun around, back pressed against the sink, eyes wide. Alfred was standing there, coat open to reveal a pale blue shirt. His eyes sparkled with mirth and he was grinning at Arthur. The detective shook his head.

"I wasn't- I was testing it, that's all," he insisted. "If it's dangerous, we need to know."

"Uh huh," was Alfred's amused reply. Arthur scowled back at him. "Enjoy your tea from my super awesome machine. That I paid for. Just for you."

"Just for me?" asked Arthur, eyebrow raised.

"That was a plural 'you'," Alfred quickly amended.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur picked up his cup and placed it on the unit so he could stir in the milk and sugar. "What are you doing here, Jones?"

"Do we have any murders yet? I need out of the house."

The spoon clinked on the edge of the cup as Arthur stirred. He hummed at Alfred's admission. "Is your mother telling you that you're an idiot for following me around?"

"Nope. Ex-wife is here."

Turning back to Alfred with his tea, Arthur tilted his head. "The one at that party?"

"Ah, no," Alfred replied after a moment, obviously pausing to remember what Arthur was talking about. "The other one. Maddie's mom."

Arthur nodded to let Alfred know he understood and took a sip of his tea. He almost sighed in relief and happiness – it was glorious. However, he kept his happiness hidden as he began to make his way back to his desk. "Well, we don't have a body yet."

"Aw, no fair," moaned Alfred as he followed.

"Oh, yes," Arthur drawled as he sat down, "we actively hope for people to be killed at least once a day. This isn't fiction, Jones: we can't magic up a body out of nowhere."

"Yeah, I know," Alfred replied, dropping into his chair. Suddenly, he brightened. "Speaking of fiction, I've decided on what the character I'm basing on you is gonna be like."

He wasn't sure he wanted to hear what Alfred had to say but Arthur said, "Oh?"

"He's gonna be, like, super smart, hauntingly good looks, gorgeous eyes, dedicated to the job. Driven, y'know? Oh, and really, extremely sexy. And British."

"Of course," Arthur stated, dryly. He had been right – he hadn't exactly wanted to hear that.

"Haven't got a name, though. Any suggestions?"

"Don't base a character on me?" Arthur provided, raising an eyebrow and taking a sip of his tea. The telephone on the desk rang and he had the horrible sinking feeling he wasn't going to be able to finish his beverage. Sighing, he lifted the receiver. "Kirkland." On the other end of the line, the dispatch officer told him an address. "Right," he said and hung up. "Well, aren't you in luck," he said to Alfred. "We've got a body."

The dead person has been discovered in an abandoned building which was being surveyed by contractors looking to transform it into a hotel – or do something with it, at least. Alfred and Arthur walked in, barely pausing as the detective flashed his badge at the crime scene tape. Inside, they had to climb four sets of stairs – something Alfred complained about – before they reached the dull room they needed to be in.

Large lights had been set up in the corners of the room as CSU officers worked their way around it. There wasn't much to the crime scene – just a body tied to a chair and a small bowl set to the side. A handbag sat on the opposite side from it which Francis was avoiding as he inspected the body and noted down the details. Antonio was also there, hovering, and turned when they both entered.

"Hey," he said, moving towards them. "So, the guy's name is Roland Borde, twenty-nine years old, factory worker. He comes from France and has been living here for a year. Got a temporary green card."

"Anyone know why he's here?" Arthur asked.

"We're working on it. Looks like someone took him off the streets, 'cause no-one around here knows him."

They moved over to the chair and Francis looked up. "Bonjour," he said, standing.

"Hello, Francis," Arthur replied.

"Yo," said Alfred, smiling at the coroner before he looked at the body. The black man was of average height, slumped forward so his face couldn't be seen. His black hair had been cut short. The cheap, white shirt he had been wearing was covered in blood. Someone seemed to have cut his throat. There were slashes along his arms and his fingers were bent out of shape. "Torture?" Alfred asked, gesturing at them.

"Mmhmm," said Francis. "Well spotted, Mister Jones. His fingers were broken, one at a time, and these cuts go pretty deep. Cause of death was exsanguination, as you can see. Killer slit his throat in one smooth movement." The coroner leaned down to show Arthur and the detective bent over. Alfred allowed himself a moment to stare before refocussing on what was being said. "I would say someone knew what they were doing."

"Time of death?" asked Arthur.

"Liver temp suggests some time between one and two this morning. These abrasions were beginning to coagulate, though, so he likely started some hours earlier."

"What's with this bowl, then?" Arthur crouched down to look in it and Alfred moved over to look over his shoulder.

Inside the bowl was what appeared to be blood. However, other ingredients had almost made it into a paste. The corner of something – either cloth or paper – stuck up out of the bowl. It was completely red, saturated with blood, thin and delicate.

"We're not sure," Francis admitted. "It might have been some sort of ritual. It could be the victim's blood but we're going to have to check that back in the lab."

"What about the handbag?" Alfred asked, glancing over at it.

"It's Gucci," said Francis. "Nothing in it. No indication of why it's here. However, if you look inside, you'll find something interesting."

Obediently, Arthur moved over to it and, after snapping on some latex gloves – the sound made Alfred jump – he picked it up. Opening it, he angled it into the light and his eyebrows raised in surprise. Alfred leaned over him again and saw that the interior of the bag had been ripped apart. Almost as if...

"Someone was looking for something," said Arthur, quietly, frowning. "And, judging by the state of the body, they haven't found it yet."

Chapter Text

Francis called them down to the morgue a few hours later. They entered the chilly room and stood next to the covered body. The coroner cradled a clipboard next to his chest and smiled at them. "Well, how are you two getting along?" he asked them.

Alfred opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the detective. "What is it you found?"

Rolling his eyes, Francis got down to business. "Like I said at the crime scene, his throat was slit. Abrasions on his arms, fingers broken, cracked ribs. This person suffered for a while."

"Damn," muttered Alfred, wincing at the white sheet.

"Now, we worked out what was in the bowl: victim's blood, a piece of paper which had disintegrated, and a mix of flour and cornmeal."

"Cornmeal?" asked Alfred, thinking hard. That sounded familiar. Cornmeal. Blood...

"There's something else," said Francis, breaking his train of thought.

"And that is?" prompted Arthur after a pause.

"There were fingerprints on the bowl," explained Francis as he walked over to the desk he used for paperwork. It was mostly empty, aside from pens – at least, it usually was. Now there was a lonely file upon it. "They got a match when we ran them."

"Really? So quickly?"

"Yeah. No name but... they matched another case."

Arthur tensed and Alfred raised an eyebrow at that. "A cold case?" asked the detective.

"Mmhmm." Francis picked up the file and handed it over. "A similar killing, five years ago. Well, two actually."

Stiffly, Arthur took the file. "Right."

Seeing how affected Arthur was by this, Alfred frowned. Then he noticed Francis staring at him. Giving him a look, Francis flicked his eyes to Arthur (who was obliviously reading the information Francis had found) and back to Alfred, raising an eyebrow. Alfred reacted slowly and jerkily.

"I. Uh. Need to go make a call."

"Mm," was Arthur's answer as Alfred scurried out of the morgue to give them time for a private conversation. His phone buzzed in his pocket as if mentioning it in a roundabout way had summoned a text. When he pulled it out, he sighed. Julianna was, seemingly, causing trouble again...

"Art, are you okay?" asked Francis as soon as Alfred was gone.

Having not paid attention for the past minute, Arthur looked up, blinking. "What? Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you look like you've just been told he's died. Again."

Flinching, Arthur closed the file and sigh. "I just really hate cold cases. They always remind me of that. And you know how hard I've worked to be able to... put it aside. For the moment."

"I know," said Francis, placing a hand on Arthur's arm and rubbing. "Just... don't get too worked up, all right. You'll catch the guy. You always do."

"Apart from whoever..." Trailing off, he shot Francis a pained look.

The coroner grimaced. "Sorry."

There was a short silence. Licking his lips, Arthur nodded to Francis. "I should get going. Have a read at this" - he lifted the folder - "and do my job."

"Does he know?" asked Francis, suddenly, nodding towards the door.

Arthur grimaced at that, too. "No. You actually think I'd tell Jones anything about my life?"

"I don't know. You two seem pretty cosy."

"What? What's that supposed to mean?" Arthur demanded, glowering at his friend.

Winking at him, Francis spread his arms. "He follows you around like a puppy."

"I wish he'd stay at home, like a well-behaved puppy," Arthur responded, dryly. "What exactly are you getting at?"

"You two are cute together. You should ask him out."

"No," was Arthur's emphatic answer.

"Oh, come on, Arthur. When was the last time you dated?"

"You already know the answer to that."

Francis placed a hand on his hip. "I do. And it's been months. You need to get out more. You need to date. You need to ask Alfred F. Jones on a date."

Shaking his head, Arthur turned away, a mildly amused smile tugging at his lips. "Not going to happen, Fran." He began to make his way out of the morgue.

"You need to do it soon before someone else snags him!" he heard Francis call after him.

"Shut up!" Arthur sang back to him, pulling open the door and letting it swing shut behind him with an air of finality. At least, he hoped it had an air of finality and that Francis would drop it.

He very much doubted it.

"All right, you lot, listen up," said Arthur, moving back from the murder board. For the past half an hour, he had been writing different bits of information on it. When Alfred had asked what the cold case had offered in the way of information, Arthur had shooed him away, telling him to leave him alone to 'actually do his job'. Sulking, the writer had wandered off to make use of his coffee machine.

Now, Gilbert and Antonio crowded around the board and Alfred looked up from where he sat, coffee forgotten. "What've you found?" he asked.

"I'm about to tell you, if you'd like to keep your gob shut, please," said Arthur in a falsely sweet voice. Alfred rolled his eyes and, accepting that as an acquiescence, Arthur pointed at a picture of their victim. "Roland Borde, our victim, was killed in much the same way as one Mobo Eze." He pointed to a picture of a broad, black man, an angry expression making him look rather intimidating. "He was killed five years ago on the eighth of August. Fingers broken, abrasions on his arms, cracked ribs, slit throat. However, unlike our victim, he was killed in his home."

"So the killer knew him?" Gilbert piped up, frowning. "But they didn't know Borde. What are they up to? It makes no sense."

"Perhaps the rest of this report will help," Arthur said, pointing to the picture of a young, black woman hugging her son. They both looked immensely happy. "This is Omolola Oni and her son, Bako. She was also killed in her small apartment. Her throat was slashed but there were no indications of any other injuries – except for a few old scars. Bako Oni disappeared."

"Shit," said Alfred. "Did he ever turn up?"

"No." Arthur pointed to a phrase he had written up: 'No papers'. "Neither of them were legally allowed to stay in the country. As far as witness statements said, they were awaiting papers to be shipped to them from their home country, Nigeria." The detective prodded another part of the board. Under 'Suspect' was a question mark and the words 'Nigerian man seen'. "The same man, with the same description was seen at both crime scenes. This is what he looked like." Grabbing a sheet of paper from the desk, Arthur pinned it to the board. It appeared to be a handsome black man with a stern expression. His facial structure was perfect. A single earring hung from his left ear. Nothing else was remarkable about him. "This is the man we're looking for."

"That's not much to go on," Antonio commented.

"Hm, well, thankfully, that's not all," said Arthur. "Omolola and Bako Oni as well as Mobo Eze were all from Nigeria. Mobo Eze moved to America legally a year before he was killed. As far as the detectives at the time knew, Omolola and Bako arrived a month before their death."

"Could this guy have followed them here?" asked Alfred, nodding at the sketch.

"Possibly. Though, why he killed them, I have no idea. So I can't speculate as to why he's killing again. With immigration the way it is, it could take weeks before we can match a name from a list of Nigerian immigrants to a list from then."

They fell silent for a moment. A spark of an idea made Alfred sit up as Arthur made his way to his seat, a slightly defeated air about him. "Hey. The kid. He was never found, right?"

"Right," Arthur agreed, looking at him.

"Well... Maybe that's what the guy was looking for five years ago. He never tortured Omolola, right?"

Arthur considered this as he reached for the mug on the desk. Blinking in astonishment, Alfred watched as Arthur took a sip of Alfred's carefully prepared coffee. "Hm. Yes, it does seem to be that way." He looked to Gilbert. "Find out if any boys boarded planes to Nigeria around the time of Omolola's death, will you? If the killer took him back to Nigeria, his name may be on the boarding lists in the last month. Carriedo – he may have been French but, perhaps, Borde had Nigerian lineage. Could you find out?"

"Sure," Antonio agreed easily.

"I'm going to talk to the witnesses from the old case," Arthur told them.

"Me too!" said Alfred, quickly, in case Arthur tried to leave him behind.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur took another sip as he focussed on the murder board again. "Hopefully we'll be able to give Mister Eze's family the closure they deserve."

They spoke to Mobo Eze's family and didn't get much from them – they had no idea why he would know Omolola Oni or how the killer found him. Their neighbours at the time also had nothing to say. The Onis' neighbours didn't have much to say either.

Finally, Arthur tracked down a neighbour who had not been interviewed before. Apparently, they had been out of the country – in Europe from the week before their death until the investigation had been pushed aside. The man had moved since the incident and was living in a small house in Queensbridge. When they arrived, Arthur was out of the car like a shot, startling Alfred as he hurried to keep with the detective.

Ringing the doorbell, Arthur stepped back, scowling at the brass number which contrasted against the green paint. Alfred frowned at him. "Are you all right?" he asked, genuinely concerned. There had been a desperation to the detective since they had started.

"I'm fine," Arthur said, shortly – just as the door opened to reveal a short, black man. His hair was in dreadlocks and pulled back so they swung when he looked between them. He blinked at them for a moment before, finally, he spoke.

"Can I help ya?"

"Joshua Ford?" Arthur held up his badge. "Detective Arthur Kirkland. I'm here to talk to you about Omolola and Bako Oni."

The man's brow furrowed before his dark eyes widened with recognition. "Oh! That. Sure, come on in."

Inside, Alfred glanced around. The small house was more cosy than cramped. It was a simple layout: kitchen one side of the hall, living room on the other, carpeted stairs leading up and the hall continuing to the back door. They were led into the living room, a single couch facing a small television. Books lined the walls, mostly on bookcases but there were a few wobbly piles shoved into corners. Most of them were yellowed and aged and some still had price stickers on them. Alfred spotted a few from some second-hand stores he'd been to before. A shabby armchair had been pushed over to the window so that the seated person could see into the garden. Alfred caught a glimpse of waving flowers before Joshua moved to push the chair over. He sat on that leaving Arthur and Alfred with the two-person couch.

"So, what d'ya wanna know after all this time, huh?"

"We have evidence which could be used to convict the killer. I know you weren't at home during the time of death but I was wondering if you could tell me what you know of the victim." Arthur watched Joshua so intently that Alfred found himself frowning – there was something Arthur wasn't telling him.

"Yeah..." Joshua sighed and stared at the ceiling. "Lola was a nice woman. Eager to please the neighbours. She made nice food. But..." Arthur twitched beside Alfred and he glanced at the detective. His eyes were burning with anticipation. "When I went to greet her, she seemed jumpy, as if she expected someone to come bursting in and drag her off. I thought she was some sorta criminal but I 'spect it was her ex, huh? Or whatever she was running from."

"Did she tell you who her ex was?" Arthur asked.

"Nah. Secretive was that one." Joshua looked at Arthur, expression serious. "Didja ever find the kid?"

"Unfortunately not," replied Arthur, leaning back a little. "Is there anything else you could tell us about them?"

"No, not really. I only knew them two weeks."

Arthur took a breath and nodded. "Well. Thank you for your time. We had best be going."

"Of course," said Joshua, rising to escort them to the door. "I really hope ya find Bako. He was a nice li'l guy. I hope he's not dead or anything."

"Hopefully," agreed Arthur. "Good day." And he walked off to his car. Alfred nodded to Joshua, thanking him once more as he rushed after the detective. The door shut behind them and, as Alfred caught up with him, Arthur slammed his hand on the roof of the black vehicle. Alfred blinked in surprise.

"Are you all right?" he asked again.

"I'm fine!" Arthur snapped.

"You don't look it."

Running a hand through his hair, Arthur glanced at Alfred and the writer could see something deeper in his eyes. Whatever was wrong affected Arthur more than just the desire to catch a killer. He kept his mouth shut, wondering if he'd be able to find out a little more about the man if he let him talk.

"It's just..." Arthur took a breath and turned to look at him properly. "I know what it's like to not get closure. To wonder why."

"What... do you mean?" Alfred asked, tentatively. Would Arthur push him away again?

It seemed as though the detective was in two minds about telling him since it took a few tense moments before he spoke again. "I know what it's like to lose someone to something as senseless as murder. My brother was stabbed and left to die, alone, in an alley."

"Oh, God, Ki-" Alfred began but Arthur shook his head.

"No, leave it. You're right – I'm acting irrationally. Solving an old case isn't going to help." Arthur unlocked the car door and climbed in. Alfred followed quickly, with his brow still furrowed. "We need to solve Borde's murder, not Eze's or the Onis'."

"Are you sure-?"

"Jones!" Arthur snapped, glaring at him. "I said, leave it. Drop it. Don't talk about it. What about that is so hard to understand?"

"All right, all right!" cried Alfred, holding his hands up in surrender. "Geez, Kirkland, I get it."

"Good."

As Arthur pulled away, there was a slightly uncomfortable silence. Alfred decided to break it. "Hey, where are we off to now?"

"The precinct," Arthur replied, rolling his eyes. "We've got to see what Beilschmidt and Carriedo have, don't we?"

"Sure," Alfred said, though he was already wondering about Arthur's brother. How could Arthur not solve it? He was clever and determined – so what was it about that case that had him stumped?

And how could Alfred find out more?

Chapter Text

Madeline was scribbling urgently into a notebook when Alfred got home later that night. He raised an eyebrow and glanced around. Seeing no-one to explain, he dropped onto the couch beside her. "Hey," he said, reading over her shoulder. It was something to do with French, apparently. "What's up?"

"Mom pulled me out of school," said Madeline, not looking at her father but frowning at her book instead.

"What? Why?" asked Alfred, alarmed.

That caught Madeline's attention enough to look up, still looking rather irritated. "She wanted to go shopping. Apparently, 'New York is a hub for shoppers' and she 'simply had to catch up'." The teenager rolled her eyes.

"Oh. Well. Didja get anything awesome for me?"

Rolling her eyes once again, Madeline went back to her book. "Yeah, well, I had a test today, you know."

"The teachers'll let you sit it at some other time, won't they?"

"I have other tests and homework, Dad," Madeline sighed, sounding put upon. She stopped what she was doing and looked up at him. "I love Mom, you know I do, but I don't think I can stand it if she does this constantly."

"Yeah..." Alfred grimaced a little. "Well, she's probably just excited, y'know? She doesn't get to see you very often."

"I guess..." Madeline glanced at her book before swivelling on the couch, seated cross-legged in front of him. "So. Forgetting Mom for the moment... How was your day?"

"My day was all right..." Alfred replied, deciding not to tell her about Arthur's brother. "Just not getting anywhere with the cold case part of this murder."

"Oh?"

Seeing her interest, Alfred divulged a little more. "Five years ago, a mother was murdered and her son went missing. We thought the person doing the killing took him back to Nigeria but he didn't do it from a US airport. And this French guy – we looked into his heritage but no Nigerian ancestry – came from Chad, originally. So, we've got no lead 'cept this bag."

"A bag?"

"It was found at the scene."

"Huh." Madeline tapped her chin for a moment. "You're sure it's the same killer?"

"Sure is. Got his fingerprints off a bowl at today's crime scene." Noticing Madeline's thoughtful expression, Alfred cocked his head. "Why?"

"This is only a theory but... who said he took the boy with him?"

Alfred blinked in surprise, taking in her small smile. That theory was entirely possible. And now he was back, looking for him. Bako would be thirteen by now – would he be in a foster system somewhere? Did Borde know where he was? Had he lived with the Frenchman.

"That doesn't explain the bag, though," he said after a moment, frowning absently.

Madeline shrugged a shoulder. "Maybe it's just a coincidence." She turned back to her notebook. "I have to do this, though, so I'm going up to my room. If you don't mind," she added, though she was already standing.

Watching her go, Alfred considered her statement – the bag must have been a coincidence. Or had it...?

"So," said Alfred as he handed Arthur a cinnamon mocha, "which floor are we on."

"Ten," Arthur replied before he took a sip. "And the lift's knackered."

"'Knackered'? Ha, I gotta get you to write down all your British slang and stuff."

"Google it," said Arthur, dismissively. He entered the old, brown building and held the door open for Alfred.

"Anyways, I got some things to tell you," Alfred declared as he made his way in and spun around to talk to the detective.

"Oh, Lord. Do I want to know?"

"Yup! I'll start with the most awesome first!"

"I already regret this conversation."

Holding the door open to the stairwell, Alfred pouted at him. "Mean. Anyways, the first thing is that I've decided on a name for the character in my book." They started up the stairs, Arthur looking quite unamused with the topic.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. What do you think of... drum roll, please... Nicky Heat!"

Arthur almost choked on his coffee, staring up at Alfred in disbelief. "Oh, God. Please don't tell me you're serious..."

"Sure I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"It's a stripper name!"

"Huh? Aw, c'mon. It's a totally awesome name." Alfred grinned at him, eyes twinkling with mirth. "I mean, think of all the puns and the book title."

"Please, for all that is Holy, don't tell me the title," said Arthur, grimacing.

"But, yeah, Nicky's hot on the case, see? Nicky Heat. Geddit."

"I hate it. Honestly, it sounds like someone I'd pull up when I was in uniform." Pausing for a moment, Arthur considered his words. "Pulled up and not pulled."

Alfred tilted his head as they reached the halfway point. "Huh. You in uniform. I'd love to see that..."

"And, unless I'm fired for something, you never will."

"Aww!" Alfred pouted, making sure it was a very impressive pout.

"Moving on," said Arthur, firmly, "weren't you going to tell me something else."

"Oh! Right. About the case, I was talking to Maddie about it – vaguely, y'know – and she said something about the kid."

"Bako?"

"Yup. She pointed out that we're all presuming that he was found by the killer five years ago..."

"And what if he wasn't?" Arthur interjected, smirking at Alfred's surprise. Man, Arthur was good if he could read Alfred's mind. "I thought of that last night, actually. We have no evidence of either so we're going to have to keep an open mind." He took another sip of his coffee before tilting it towards Alfred. "Doesn't explain what that bag was doing there, though."

"Well, what if he was looking for something. Something in the bag which would lead him to the kid."

"Hm. Like a GPS system? And Borde happened to pick up the wrong one?"

"Yeah. If only there was some way to find out what it was and who was using it..."

"I doubt that's going to happen," Arthur commented when they reached their destination, slightly out of breath from talking and climbing. Alfred held the door opened and Arthur gave him a nod of gratitude. "But we have a second crime scene so perhaps there will be more evidence."

"Hope so. Gonna suck if we can't catch the guy."

"Sometimes that happens, Jones."

Alfred grimaced as they approached the cordoned off apartment. He just had to open his mouth didn't he? The information about Arthur's brother had completely slipped his mind for a moment and now he sounded like an asshole! Well, there were worse things he could do, he supposed. What they were, though, completely escaped him.

Entering the apartment, they found it in a complete mess. The living room and kitchen were combined in one tiny room. All the furniture had been squeezed into the available space making movement difficult: bookcases along the wall; crappy couch and armchair set cramped around a small, round table and facing a tiny, square television which had an aerial; awful, ageing, mustard-coloured fridge-freezer set against another wall beside a wobbly sink. A door seemed to lead to the bedroom and, hopefully, a bathroom.

Although it had been small, it was clear from what had been left in place that it had been kept clean and tidy. Now, though, paper was littered on the ground and over the seats. Some books nearby were open, pages ripped from them. The tiny table had collapsed and the couch and chair had been shoved into odd angles to reveal the body.

She had been young and thin. Black hair spread out beneath her head, framing an angular face. Deep, brown eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling. She was wearing what looked like a starched and itchy waitress's uniform. Blood stained her shirt, a single rip in the fabric in the centre of the mess. Beside her lay a handbag, its contents left on the armchair.

What was easily the most alarming was the symbol drawn in flour on the floor: it had obviously been taken from a cupboard in the kitchenette where the cupboard doors had been left open. One of them seemed to have fallen from its hinges, barely hanging. The symbol itself was a swirl, little stars dotted around it. A triangle was drawn above it and another surrounded the entire thing.

Alfred was certain he had seen that somewhere before. Combining it with that niggling feeling he had had when cornmeal had been mentioned. He realised what it was just as Arthur began to start asking questions: wisely, Alfred decided to reveal his knowledge at the end of his usual routine.

"Beilschmidt. Who do we have here?"

Gilbert turned to him from where he had been peering at the ruined books. "This is Claudia Brown. Twenty-five years old, works in a diner. She studied in NYU, apparently. She was having a hard time with money."

"Which begs the question," Antonio piped up, coming through from the back of the apartment, "as to why that bag is more expensive than most of the things in here. It's Gucci again."

"That's too much of a coincidence," Alfred pointed out. Arthur nodded in agreement but turned to where the ME was crouched beside the body.

"Francis," said the detective, surveying the body as if it could tell him all the answers he seeked. "What's the verdict?"

"There was a struggle," said the ME, glancing up. "I've found skin under the fingernails. Cause of death is a single stab wound to the heart. We've lifted prints from around the flat to make sure it's the same guy but, with the bag, I would say it's a good chance it is – he just didn't get the chance to torture her. He must have slipped up when he attacked."

"That's somewhat of a relief," murmured Arthur, staring at the young woman's face. "Anything else of note?"

"She was killed at a minute to midnight."

"That's... specific," Arthur said, slowly, surprise evident on his features.

Carefully, Francis lifted a pale arm. "Her watch was broken in the fight and stopped – liver temp places her time of death between eleven and one but, with this, it narrows it down a lot."

"All right. Carriedo. Who found the body?"

"Her sister," was the reply. "She's in the bedroom – rather shaken up, poor thing." Antonio grimaced and cast a glance to the body. "Apparently, she has the spare key to the apartment and comes to visit often. She'd come to see if Claudia wanted to go out for breakfast."

"What's this?" Arthur finally asked, gesturing to the symbol.

"I'm not sure..." began Francis but Alfred decided to interject.

"Actually, I know someone who could help with that," he told Arthur. The detective raised an eyebrow so Alfred elaborated. "We'll have to show her pictures of the crime scene, though."

"Jones..." Arthur began, putting his hands on his hips.

"What d'ya have to lose?"

They left Gilbert and Antonio to question the neighbours and drove through the city. For the entire journey, Arthur expressed his doubts but Alfred was firm and had soon directed the detective into the suburbs. The car was brought to a stop outside of a whitewashed house, a little path leading up the middle of the lawn. Wind chimes moved sluggishly without a strong breeze to help them dance.

Alfred led Arthur to the door and jabbed the doorbell. "She's real nice, by the way. Kept feeding me when I was doing my research."

"Is that why you're a little chubby?"

"Hey-!" The door opened to reveal a short, dumpy, black woman with a scarf tied around her bushy hair. She was wearing an apron and seemed to have been in the midst of baking; flour dusted her cheek and the pocket of the bright cloth protecting her clothes. "Rayowa Fofana!" Alfred exclaimed. "Long time no see, huh?"

"Alfred, my boy!" she cried. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Rayowa quickly spotted Arthur. "Oh? Who's this?"

"Detective Arthur Kirkland, ma'am," the man in question replied, shaking her hand. "I'm afraid this is going to be a serious talk."

"Ah. Come on in."

Rayowa led them into the house which was as white and clean as the last time Alfred had been there. Well, except for the flour coating the kitchen unit and the dirty dishes. The kitchen space was the focus of the large room they walked into. Seats and couches were angled towards the TV at one side of them. A long dining table and what appeared to be a games area were opposite. At the far end of the room was a door leading to the rest of the house.

The woman refused to talk until she had made tea for her and Arthur and coffee for Alfred. Once they had their drinks and were seated at one end of the dining table, Arthur pulled the pictures out from the file. First, he set down one of the symbol.

"Alfred tells me you know what this is."

Taking it, she nodded. "It's a symbol used in a findsman ritual."

"Findsman?"

"It's part of the Vodun religion," Rayowa said, setting the picture back down. "Vodun has a number of rituals, most of which involve a veve. This" – she tapped the picture – "is what helps to summon the particular Loa – or spirit – involved."

"Spirits?" said Arthur, sounding incredulous.

"Mmhmm. There are many different sorts of spirits in the world, you see. Agwe: the spirit of the sea. Erinle: the spirit of the forests. Yemanja: the spirit of waters. We believe that these rituals will put us in the Loa's favour. Usually, though, we only undertake these rituals on special occasions."

"What do these rituals involve? Sacrifice?"

Alfred snorted, deciding to chip in his two cents. "Don't be rude, Kirkland," he teased earning an eye roll for his trouble. "You're thinking of Voodoo. That's completely different."

"The boy's right," Rayowa agreed. "Voodoo was used to demonise our religion so that people stopped practising it and was monopolised by Hollywood. Christians at their best." She sighed, shaking her head sadly.

"Then could you kindly explain why we have found two dead bodies recently?" Arthur pulled out the pictures and laid them out. "Each of them appear to have been ritualistically killed."

"Oh, dear," said Rayowa, looking rather alarmed at the pictures. "Killing is not what Vodun is about. No-one who worships Vodun would do this."

"How can you be so sure?"

Rayowa chuckled. "Because I'm a mambo myself, Detective."

"Mambo?" Arthur blinked, looking bewildered. Alfred clamped a hand over his mouth so he wouldn't laugh at his expression. It was cute, really.

"A female Vodun priest," she explained. "We practise white magic in our rituals. Not this. This is dar- Ah."

"Ah?"

"You may be dealing with a caplata."

"And that is...?"

"One who practises left-handed Vodun. The black magic. I've never heard of one of them killing before, though. They usually just use substances which have certain effects on their victims."

"So, what you're saying," said Alfred, "is that this one is off the rails, yeah?"

"If you want to say that, yes."

"Do you know if there are any records about these people?" asked Arthur, beginning to gather up the photos.

"I don't think so. It's really a family thing. Then again, I was born in New York. I'm not sure how any other countries' priests keep up to date with their Vodun worshippers. We have Facebook and cell phones."

"Right. Thank you for your time – it must have been an inconvenience," said Arthur, smiling a little at Rayowa. "And thank you for the tea, of course. It wasn't necessary."

"Nonsense. You're a guest: next time you visit, I'll have cake ready."

Arthur chuckled and stood, Alfred following his lead. "Hopefully there won't be something as horrific next time."

There was no sign of Gilbert and Antonio when they got back to the precinct. Arthur made his way to the murder board and pinned up the pictures of the latest murder. Alfred sat in his seat to watch him work. As soon as he had pinned it up, Arthur noted down the words 'veve', 'Vodun' and 'caplata' below the picture of the symbol. Just as he was setting the pen down, Ludwig came out of his office.

"So how is this case going?" he asked, glancing at the board.

"It seems we're dealing with someone who practises Vodun rituals," Arthur explained. "He's looking for something or someone but, as of yet, we don't know what."

"The only clue to what he's looking for," said Alfred, rifling through a pile of sealed evidence bags, "is this." He held up one of the Gucci bags. "And even that isn't much of a clue."

Arthur nodded in agreement. "All we have is a ruined bag, the fact he's probably from Nigeria and this sketch – and that's five years old. He may have scars and other identifying features now."

"Not much to go on. What else are you looking into?" asked Ludwig.

"Well," said Antonio, suddenly appearing. "I've found something."

"Oh?"

"I figured I'd look into Eze's past. Apparently, he lived in a town called..." Antonio paused and squinted at the name on the report he was holding. "Pankshin. And who do you think stayed in a farm just outside of it?"

"The Onis?" asked Arthur, eyes lighting up.

"Yup. Omolola and Bako lived there with their husband, his brother and his wife, the Onis' parents and their grandfather."

"Is Bako there now?" Alfred asked, leaning over the armrest.

Antonio grimaced. "That was this year's census, actually. They're still declaring Omolola as staying with them. Bako could be there or he could be in America somewhere. Or anywhere else in the world if he managed to get to Canada or Mexico."

"Shit," grumbled Arthur. "This isn't getting us anywhere."

"Yo!" cried Gilbert from across the room, hurrying over. "I spoke to the neighbours and they saw the same guy – only they say he had scratches on his face as he left."

"Didn't they question why he was there?" asked Alfred, frowning at Gilbert as he grabbed a pen.

"Nope. Those apartments are shit so the people in the building come and go. No-one knows anyone and they assumed he had just moved in. They weren't sure what to make of..." He trailed off and drew three lines across the man's right cheek. "This."

Arthur stared at the board for a while before plucking the photo of Omolola and Bako off. He held it up beside the suspect and frowned. "Hm. They have the same nose."

"You reckon he's the kid's dad?" Alfred asked, standing to get a closer look.

"Yeah. If we got passport phot-"

"Kitten!" came a cry from along the floor. Alfred grimaced, eyes wide as he glanced over. Sure enough, there was Julianna, hurrying along to reach them.

"Oh, damn," muttered Alfred, glancing at Arthur.

The detective was staring back at him, eyebrows raised so high they were meeting his hairline. "'Kitten'?" he mouthed, appearing rather amused. Alfred envisioned that this would end badly.

As Julianna drew closer, he spun to face her, making sure a smile was plastered to his face. "Jools!" he said. "What're you doing here?"

"Oh, well, I just wanted to ask you for a favour," she said, smiling up at him. Several bags hung off her arms and Alfred was sure it was more clothes – all of which would have cost a small fortune. Honestly, couldn't she have bought something more practical – like a laser tag system?

"And what would that favour be?"

"I just wanted your advice on apartments in New York. And, perhaps, a little financial help?" Her smile turned sheepish.

Instantly, Alfred wanted to refuse. If she couldn't afford to live in New York she shouldn't bother moving. But, at the same time, this was not the place for an argument. Glancing at the others – who were all watching with interest – he said, "Maybe we should talk about this at home."

"Oh, of course. Which is why I was picking you up," Julianna responded with a smug look. She looked around at them all and seemed to be about to say something when she paused. With a squeal she picked up the handbag: Arthur raised a hand to stop her a second too late. "Ooh! Is this Gucci- Oh. No, it's not."

"It's not?" said Arthur and Alfred in unison. They glanced at each other and instantly looked away.

"No. Look at the G's. It's slightly squint." Arthur leaned forward to squint at it and hummed in agreement. Julianna then pointed to the edge. "And this stitching's all wrong. Definitely a knock-off."

"Well, I'll be damned," murmured Arthur.

"That explains how Claudia could afford it," said Gilbert, rather matter-of-factly.

"Looks like you have a lead, Kirkland," said Ludwig.

"Oh?" Julianna looked happy, glancing between them all as she handed the evidence over. "Did I just help solve a case?"

Chapter Text

Arthur and Alfred strolled down the street, inspecting each stall. None of them, so far, had held Gucci bags. Alfred had actually gotten quite excited when he'd spotted some black handbags only to discover that they were a knock-off of Prada. As they continued on, Alfred began to whine.

"Man, this is why me and Jools stopped getting on so well. I hate shopping."

"Do you buy everything over the Internet... Kitten?" Arthur smirked at Alfred as the writer grimaced.

"Please stop that," he begged. "I hate that name."

"Where on Earth did it come from?" Arthur asked as he stopped in front of a stall selling a variety of accessories.

"Don't ask." That made Arthur laugh, grinning evilly. It was a good look for him, actually. Alfred wrenched his thoughts back to their search. "Anyways, how long're we gonna be looking?"

"Till we find it."

"But that could take forever," Alfred whined, pouting.

"Huh," said Arthur, making Alfred glance over. "I think you may be wrong, Kitten. It only took a few more seconds." He pointed at a few tables surrounding the entrance to a storage space. The shutter was raised and there were several bags laid out for people to look at. Once they had made their way closer and inspected the closest bag, they found that Arthur was right – they'd found what they were looking for.

"Seriously, though," said Alfred as they looked around for the stall holder. "Stop calling me that."

"If you find something to help this case, I'll stop."

Huffing, Alfred folded his arms. "Fine. But how do you know this is the same stall?"

Arthur held out the bag and pointed at the edge. "It's got the same stitching. Almost like a signature, really."

"Hm. How'd you spot that?"

"It was quite easy," Arthur said – and left it at that.

Rolling his eyes at the lack of information, Alfred wandered around the small area, peeking into bags occasionally. Maybe they could find the thing that was supposed to lead to Bako before his dad did. Then they could draw him out and have some sort of an epic showdown... Realising his imagination was running away from him, he turned to speak to Arthur.

Instead, his attention was stolen by a couple across the road. They were staring into a store window, jumping up and down and waving. Laughing, they hung off each other as they caught their breaths. Alfred glanced at the sign, wondering if it was a pet store. Wensley's Electronics, it declared. Raising an eyebrow, Alfred watched as the couple left arm-in-arm.

Seeing what they had been standing in front of, Alfred hurried over to take a closer look. Sure enough, the screen which stood in the window depicted himself staring into it and the street behind him. However, that was not all he could see: behind him, he spotted Arthur poking around amongst the bags and the storage space beyond that.

The camera had a perfect view of the street.

Quick as a flash, he rushed to Arthur's side. "Kirkland!" he cried.

Turning to him, Arthur frowned. "What is it?"

"Come here!" Alfred grabbed Arthur's wrist and pulled him across the road, dodging around an old woman as he went. Behind him, Arthur apologised for startling her and tugged at his arm in an attempt to free himself. Stopping in front of the window, Alfred gestured at the TV. "What d'ya see?"

"An idiot," Arthur grumbled, glaring at Alfred. But he gave the television a scrutinising glance. His eyebrows raised. "Huh."

"Yeah. This camera is pointed across the way. Maybe we can find out who's been here."

"Well, maybe you're not such an idiot after all," Arthur said, smiling.

Alfred felt his heart leap in triumph at getting Arthur to brighten up. He really did look beautiful like that. "Maybe the killer's on there, too." Grinning into the camera, he surveyed himself on the screen.

"Hm... I don't know. I think he may have taken the camera. That would be a good way to find the ones he's being killing, don't you think?" Arthur turned to him, eyebrow raised.

"Mm," said Alfred, distractedly, twisting this way and that. "Don't you think I look handsome today? Pretty smokin', right?"

There was a pause so Alfred glanced at the image of Arthur on the TV to find him rolling his eyes. "Forget what I said – you really are an idiot. Come on." He walked around Alfred and entered the store. Alfred took one last glance at himself, ran a hand through his hair for good measure and hurried after him.

The man behind the counter was serving a customer as they entered but nodded to them in acknowledgement as they hovered in wait. He had a receding hairline, the remaining hair kept short. Stubble covered most of his chin except at the bottom left as if he had begun to shave and then got distracted. Finally, the woman left and Arthur approached him.

"Good afternoon, sir. I'm Detective Arthur Kirkland." Arthur flashed his badge. "This is... a consultant. I'd like to ask you a few questions about the camera in the window."

"Another one?" said the man, raising his eyebrows. "What's so special about them, seriously?"

"What do you mean?" asked Arthur.

"This big, scarily tall, black guy came in and asked for it a few days ago. I told him, 'Dude, I'll get you one that's not been used'. But he was all 'No. It must be that one." So I just go's, "All right, whatever floats your goat or whatever." And gave it to him."

"You were right," said Alfred. "Though that means we can't see what was on it."

"Yeah you can," the guy said, moving along the counter to the computer. "I keep a copy on my computer. For security and stuff, y'know. Kinda cheaper than getting an actual security system."

Arthur's eyes brightened and he leaned forward. "May we have a copy?"

"That's what I'm doing right now, dude."

Back at the precinct, Arthur popped the memory card into a computer and they gathered around the screen, Gilbert gravitating over to them with interest. They let it play from the beginning and were soon spooling through it on fast forward. All of them were quiet as they watched for anyone suspicious.

Suddenly, Gilbert gave a yell and Arthur hit the pause. "Look!" cried the German detective. "It's Borde." Indeed, there was the Frenchman with a large swim bag slung over his shoulder. Upon it was a name: Limitless Fitness Studios. Quickly, Gilbert shuffled through some papers. "Ah, here. Borde was known to frequent that gym – Oni must have followed him from it."

"Why did he have the bag on him, though?" asked Alfred, frowning at the time stamp on the video. It had been a few days before the murder. "He woulda left it at home if he was at the gym, right?"

"Maybe he was visiting whoever he was intending to give it to afterwards," suggested Arthur. "Did he have a girlfriend?"

"No..." said Gilbert, shuffling through his papers again. "His parents are in town, though. Maybe it was for his mother. Scheiße."

Grimacing, Arthur went back to the video, putting it on fast forward once more. A little while later, he paused it. "There," he said, pointing at the image of Claudia. "That looks like an Ovenly bag."

"That's easy enough to find and follow her home from, if she was a regular," said Alfred.

Once again, they moved the video onwards. Some time after Claudia had come and gone – during which more people bought the bags – Alfred spotted a tall, black man hovering around the tables. He didn't seem to buy any and was soon close up.

"Stop!" both he and Arthur cried. Gilbert hastily hit the pause button.

Rewinding it, they they let it play in real time and watched as the man hovered for a few hours, not buying anything. The stall holder – and balding, tottering man – approached him at one point and, after a brief argument, their target seemed to glance in the camera's direction. Ignoring the peeved man beside him, the man wandered over and stood in front of their viewpoint for a few seconds. Then he disappeared and, shortly afterwards, the video stopped.

"That must be him," murmured Arthur as he played the file again. He skipped to near the end and paused it when the man's face was close. "Beilschmidt, get a copy of this and put out an APB."

As Gilbert scurried off to do so, Antonio came hurrying in. "I've got something!" he declared.

"The passport photos?"

"Yes and no." Antonio handed over a piece of paper. "I haven't got the photos but I did get a list of everyone from the Plateau district in Nigeria who has had passports in the last ten years. As far as they're aware, Omolola and Bako had them. The brother-in-law, Charles Oni, has had one for the last five years. His wife and son, on the other hand, have only had one for a month."

"Interesting..." said Arthur, slowly, as if he was trying to drag more information from Antonio.

"Yeah. I mean, it'd explain a lot."

"Yes, it would." Arthur paused. "What exactly does it explain?"

Antonio blinked at Arthur for a moment before chuckling self-consciously. "Oh, yeah, well, when I called up Nigeria the first time, they sent out someone to see if Bako was at the farm. Turns out the teenager was there, working with his father. This Charles Oni and his wife and son – Alkana and Akoni – weren't there."

"That doesn't prove-"

"And they haven't been seen for weeks."

Arthur raised an eyebrow at that. "All right. Do you have any records of them leaving the country?"

Grimacing, Antonio shook his head. "Not yet. People in Nigeria and here are sending over the airlines' records when they find them."

"Good. You chase that up." When Antonio had left, Arthur turned to Alfred. "In the meantime, let's see who else is easy to find from this video. Looks like this was a breakthrough after all."

"Aha! That means you can't call me 'Kitten' any more!" Alfred exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air.

"Yes, well... I don't think 'Kitten' suited you, anyway," Arthur replied, as he rewound the video. "You're more of a puppy than a kitten."

The door was answered by a woman in her late twenties, her blonde hair cropped. She blinked at them with her hazel eyes before she let out a yawn, revealing a set of teeth with a couple of fillings. "Yeah?" she mumbled.

"Lucy Teller?" said Arthur, holding up his badge. The woman nodded and peered at it. "I'm Detective Kirkland. This is Mister Jones. May we come in?"

"Uh, sure..." Lucy backed out of the way, holding the door open. Alfred followed Arthur inside, glancing around at the messy living room: clothes and take-out boxes were strewn across the floor. A kitchen island drew a line in the mess, the white surfaces clean and devoid of wayward items. Square columns were set equidistant from each other, pictures adorning them to give the space a livelier look. Two doors led in opposite directions and Alfred wondered whether the rooms through them were just as messy. "Sorry about the mess. I'd 'ave cleaned up if I'd 'ave known you were coming."

"Not a problem, Miss Teller." Once Lucy had closed the door and turned to them, Arthur had spoken, not bothering to attempt to clean a space on the couch to sit for their discussion. Deciding not to attempt to excavate a space for himself, Alfred began to wander, poking at the DVDs and books piled haphazardly around the room.

"What's this all about? Did something happen at the café?" Lucy looked rather concerned.

That was how they had found her. The video had revealed her as one of the people to buy a bag after Claudia. She had been wearing her uniform, the bright tag pinned to her chest immediately recognised by Alfred. After talking to her manager in the busy establishment, they had discovered her name and address and had immediately made their way there.

"No, nothing has happened there," Arthur assured her. "However, we are here to talk to you about a cheap Gucci bag you bought a few days ago."

"What? It's not stolen is it?"

"Not at all. It's a knock-off, as I'm sure you know, and it is part of an ongoing murder investigation."

"Oh, my God!" gasped Lucy, eyes wide and fully awake now. "Seriously?!"

"May we see it?"

"O-Of course. Hang on." Lucy hurried off to one of the doorways and disappeared.

"What are you doing?" demanded Arthur, suddenly turning his attention to Alfred. Startled, Alfred jolted and turned, knocking over a pile of books – some of which were his own Diana Storm books, he was glad to see. "Now look what you've done," sighed Arthur, rolling his eyes.

Hurriedly, Alfred began to gather the books together, placing them back into a tower. "It wasn't my fault!"

"You shouldn't have wandered over there."

"You shouldn't-" Alfred broke off as Lucy returned with the bag in tow.

Arthur took it and immediately began to look in the pockets. "Thank you," he told Lucy, rather absently.

"I took all my things out of it so you can take it away if ya need to," Lucy replied, trying to peer into the bag without getting too close.

"Find anything?" asked Alfred, moving closer to peek inside. Being 'too close' wasn't a problem for him, after all.

"No..." Frowning, Arthur glanced around. Without a word, he marched over to the kitchen area and grabbed a knife, using it to slice open the fabric of the bag. He ignored Lucy's protests and Alfred's pursuit as he rooted around in the bag again. Finally, he lowered it and shook his head. "There's nothing there."

Alfred deflated. "Aw," he whined with a pout.

"We will still need to take this, though," Arthur told Lucy.

Sighing, the woman ran a hand through her hair. "Yeah. Fine. Sure." She paused before frowning at Arthur. "Do I get compensation for this?"

"I doubt it." Arthur made his way to her and pulled a business card from a pocket. "You can call this number, though. They should help you get your fifteen dollars."

"Thanks. Man, if I had known this would happen, I wouldn't have bothered."

"Shoulda probably just bought it from a store," said Alfred as he passed her.

In the hallway, Arthur turned to say a farewell to Lucy. Alfred tuned him out, hovering beside him, casting his mind back to remember the next person they would be talking to. The ding of the lift drew him from his musing and he glanced along the hall. Slowly, the doors slid open and what they revealed had Alfred whacking Arthur's arm in shock.

"What?" Arthur all but snarled, grabbing at Alfred's wrist to stop him.

"Kir- It's- Him," stuttered Alfred, eyes wide as the very man they were looking for stepped out. Alfred watched as Oni's gaze flickered from him to Lucy and, finally, to the bag in Arthur's hands. His eyes narrowed and he reached behind him, into the waistband of his pants.

"Into the apartment," Arthur ordered, shoving Alfred through the still-open door. "Get in, now!"

Lucy backed off to let them in, disbelief and confusion clear in her face. Once all three of them were inside, Arthur turned to the door and closed it. He had barely gotten the chain on the door before something slammed into it, straining the wood. Alfred glimpsed the barrel of a gun through the crack and moved further into the room.

Turning to the poor woman caught up in this, Arthur ordered her to her room. She did not argue and was gone in the blink of an eye. Then Arthur grabbed Alfred and dragged him towards the island. Behind them, the crack of a gun sounded. Like the professional he was, Arthur paid it no heed: Alfred, on the other hand, glanced over his shoulder and saw that Oni had shot off the chain and was coming through the door. He raised the gun just as Arthur pulled Alfred down into a crouch behind the makeshift barricade.

"Oh, my God," breathed Alfred, eyes wide. He had not expected this. What was he supposed to do in this situation when he didn't have a gun or a vest? Wait, did Arthur even have a gun? Were they in trouble?

But, beside him, Arthur had kept his cool. "Charles Oni?" he called out, lowering himself to sit with his back to the island. Alfred copied him, staring at him. "I am Detective Arthur Kirkland. Drop your weapon!"

The answer they got to that was the noise of the gun and the splintering of wood as the bullets hit the units. Alfred instinctively ducked despite being safe. "Fuck!" he hissed.

"If you do not drop your weapon, I will be forced to fire upon you," Arthur tried again.

Same answer.

"I don't think a caplata who goes around killing people to find a bag is gonna listen to you!" Alfred snapped as a bullet slammed into a cupboard above his head.

"You're not helping, Jones!" Arthur glanced around as if looking for something to assist them but came up with nothing. Sighing, he turned so that he was crouching and facing Oni's direction. "I'm going to have to shoot at him."

"As soon as you get up, he'll kill you!" Alfred grabbed at Arthur's arm in an effort to keep him down.

"Let go." Arthur shook him off. "I have to stop him." Shooting Alfred a look, Arthur quickly pulled his gun from a holster hidden under his coat. Then he stood – and just as quickly ducked down. A second later, several bullets crashed into the cupboard above Arthur's head. "Shit."

"Shouldn't you be, I dunno, calling someone?" demanded Alfred.

"Oh, yes. Let me just ask him to stop shooting so I can give my superior a call and ask for back up." He sighed and glared at the cupboard door in front of him. "There's got to be a way to figure out which direction I should be shooting in..."

"Like... a reflection in something?" asked Alfred, crawling to the cupboards opposite them. He was about to open one when bullets hit the space a few inches above his head. Freezing, he glanced at Arthur.

The detective pulled Alfred back a little and muttered, "I'll distract him, all right. Just... find something, okay?"

"Wait, what? Arth-" But Arthur was already rising and he couldn't stop the detective from putting himself in harm's way...

Chapter Text

As soon as Arthur had straightened he pulled the trigger. Alfred heard the crack of the police-issued gun above him as he frantically opened cupboards, looking for something large and metal. Thankfully, the third door he opened revealed a metal frying pan that appeared to be unused. Grabbing the handle, he scrambled back to the island and leaned against it as Arthur dropped back down beside him. The gunfire continued, however, as Oni fired in their direction.

"Did you find something?" Arthur asked as he released the magazine from his gun. Flipping back his coat, he took out a fresh one and slammed it home, cocking the gun immediately.

"Yup," replied Alfred. He hefted the pan and admired their reflection for a moment. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he reached up, angling it as he lifted it higher. Finally, the two of them could see the room beyond the island. The front door was wide open and the walls were a mess. It looked like they were in the middle of a battlefield, pinned down by the enemy.

"Tilt it left and right," Arthur ordered and Alfred complied, seeing as it was the only useful thing he could do.

To the left, there was nothing of interest. To the right, however, Alfred spotted someone peering from around the corner, gun raised in readiness. "There," he breathed and Arthur nodded in understanding beside him – just before there was a clang and the pan spun from his grip. He yelped and jerked away, sprawling on the floor.

Meanwhile, Arthur spun slowly around in his crouch till he was facing the right direction. "Stay down," he muttered to Alfred.

"Yessir," breathed Alfred, clutching at his chest. Holy shit; he had not been expecting that.

With a roll of his eyes, Arthur stood and fired off two rounds before dropping down. There was an answering crack of the gun followed by a quieter click. Muttering was heard from behind the column. Arthur seemed to decide that now was the best chance to negotiate their way from the situation.

"Oni! Give it up. You'll run out of bullets sooner or later."

A considering pause echoed around the room. Alfred crossed his fingers and hoped he would agree – though he sincerely doubted that would happen. Finally, Oni spoke, his accent thick. "Give me the bag."

They glanced at each other. That wasn't a good ultimatum. If they gave him the bag, he would leave and they would have given Oni the knowledge that one of the other people in the video had what he was looking for. If they didn't... Arthur shrugged a shoulder and shook his head: apparently, he had decided just to fight his way out. Alfred glanced at the bag in question, wondering what exactly could be in the right one.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Arthur called out. "But, if you come with us quietly, you may get a chance to see it." Alfred doubted he had any intention of letting Oni see it.

There was a silence. Concerned, Alfred frowned at Arthur who shrugged again and slowly inched himself upwards. Almost as soon as he could see over the worktop, he ducked back down and a spattering of bullets slammed into the cupboards above them. Some of the utensils hanging on the wall shook and the block of knives above them fell onto its side.

"Hey," said Alfred, staring at them. "Maybe if I gave you a distraction..."

Arthur followed his gaze. "You can throw knives?"

"Well, I don't need to actually hit him, do I?" Alfred explained. "Just draw his attention for a minute or-" He broke off as he heard a crunching noise from beyond the island. They froze for a second, listening. Movement could be heard and, alarmed, Arthur stood. Alfred squeaked and tried to pull him back down to safety. "Kirkland!"

"Shit!" Arthur raised his gun and fired – but not towards the column, Alfred realised. "Fuck!"

"What? What is it?" Alfred demanded, turning and cautiously poking his head up. He saw no-one. The only indication Oni had been there was the open door, the bullet holes and a few smashed photo frames.

"He's gone!" Arthur's eyes flickered over the scene before he took a few steps backwards. Taking a couple of steps forwards, he planted his hands in the middle of the worktop and leapt into the air as he vaulted over the island. He landed a little awkwardly on a pizza box, almost slipped, righted himself and hurried off.

"Wait!" Alfred called, rising to his feet. He groaned at the pain in his legs from the awkward position he had been in but hurried off just the same. However, instead of copying Arthur, he made his way around the island. When he got out of the apartment, he looked up and down the hall. Since no-one was there, Alfred made his way to the stairs.

By the time he had reached the bottom, Arthur was making his way back into the building. The scowl on his face and the absence of Oni declared that they had lost him. Alfred grimaced and followed as Arthur jabbed the button to call the elevator.

"At least he doesn't have the bag?" Alfred hoped that would lift Arthur's spirits.

The detective merely grunted.

Still grumbling, Alfred walked along the hall to the front door of his loft. He couldn't believe he'd been dismissed! Arthur was such a grump at times.

After they had gone back to let Lucy know she was safe and tell her to call the number on the card as soon as possible, Arthur and Alfred had headed back to the precinct. Arthur reasoned that Oni would try to find the other bags and so had sent cops to each of the people from the video that they had managed to track down. They retrieved the bags and stood guard in case Oni turned up.

With nothing left to do until the APB yielded fruit and the other mystery people proving difficult to find, Arthur had told Alfred to go home. At first, Alfred presumed they were both going to leave but Arthur didn't appear intent on moving. He had told Arthur he should go home and, when he refused, tried to needle him so he would take a break. Instead, Arthur slammed his hand on his desk and glared at Alfred: he had left in a sulk.

Then again, Alfred realised suddenly, with Oni's escape and the cold case still on his mind, perhaps Arthur was stressed. Alfred hadn't exactly acted sympathetically.

Sighing, Alfred unlocked the door and entered – to find the three women living there standing in the middle of the foyer area. Julianna was giving Madeline a hug whilst Elizaveta looked on. Beside the door was a set of suitcases. Blinking, he moved towards them.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Oh!" cried Julianna, releasing their smiling daughter. "Al! Guess what happened while you were busy chasing down handbags?"

The amusement on Madeline and Elizaveta's faces made Alfred blush. "It wasn't just chasing down... that! I was also busy being-" He broke off, realising he had almost revealed the shooting: he doubted his mother and daughter would be happy with that turn of events. "Ah, never mind. What happened?"

"I," said Julianna, slowly, "have got... the lead role in a new movie! With that new up-and-coming director, Sal Mattina!"

"Oooh," said Alfred, grinning happily. "So... where are you off to?"

"L.A., of course," Julianna replied. "Thanks for letting me stay." She turned to Madeline. "I'll visit soon, darling." Turning back to Alfred, she added, "And don't forget you can both visit me in L.A."

"Will do. D'ya need any help getting your bags downstairs?"

Julianna moved closer and tapped Alfred on the chest. "No, I'll be okay," she said, quieter now. "But I think Maddie will be upset so you should stay here with her. Besides, someone should be here-" A knock on the door interrupted her. "Oh! They're here." She hurried over and opened it to reveal a tall, bored-looking man. There was a flurry of activity as he took her suitcases and Julianna said her final farewells.

Finally, the place was quiet. Madeline let out a sigh of relief. "It was nice to see her," she conceded.

"Mmhmm," said Alfred beside her. "But I bet you're glad I called a friend to see if they could give her any roles in a minor production..." He grinned and winked at her. "Can't have my little Maddie upset at missing school."

Madeline rolled her eyes but laughed. "You abuse your powers too much, Dad."

"Well, I, for one," said Elizaveta, "like her – in small doses." The older woman floated off, heading for the kitchen.

"All right!" said Alfred, putting his hands on his hips. "Who wants a celebratory dinner of home-made hamburgers?!"

The next morning saw Arthur and Alfred driving to an abandoned building in Brooklyn. Apparently, an officer had spotted Oni entering it moments before Alfred turned up at the precinct, awesome surprise with him. Luckily, it was concealed in a bag so he could keep it secret as he turned around to follow Arthur, Gilbert and Antonio back into the elevator.

Alfred wasn't sure how to feel. On the one hand, he was nervous: they were about to go into another gun fight. Then again, they were about to go into another gun fight and he was tingling with excitement. He was worried, too, and a little concerned – mostly about the man driving. Chancing a glance at Arthur, he saw the detective's jaw was clenched and his eyes alight with fiery determination; Alfred deflated, realising this was a serious matter.

When they drew up, Arthur turned off the ignition and got out. Alfred eagerly followed him to the trunk where Arthur finally seemed to acknowledge his presence. "No, Jones. Get back in the car."

"Aw, no way! I signed all that stuff which said I can do this."

Arthur swung open the trunk with such force Alfred was surprised he hadn't sent it flying into the squat brown building they were parked next to. "I said no. You don't have a vest."

"Aha! And that is where you're wrong!" cried Alfred, tilting the bag to and fro under Arthur's nose.

"What...? You were given one?" Arthur looked rather confused.

"Nah, I bought it myself." And, with a flourish, he pulled it from the bag to reveal a new bulletproof vest. "And!" He turned it so that Arthur could see the back where the word WRITER was written in large, white letters.

"Oh, no. You didn't."

"I did!" sang Alfred, grinning widely as he tugged off his coat.

"You..." Arthur sighed and seemed to give up. "Fine. But you're not getting a gun. And you have to stay towards the back."

"Sure thing!" Alfred agreed – though, if he felt it was more interesting up front, he may just make sure he was there.

Alfred watched as Arthur went about his usual routine of taking off his fitted, red coat and pulling on his own vest (with POLICE on the back). Then he picked up his gun, checked it was loaded, and slipped it into his holster. Making sure his extra ammo was still there, he nodded to himself before glancing at Alfred. With another sigh, he asked him, "Got everything?"

"Yup!"

Slamming the trunk closed, Arthur led Alfred around the side of the car where they met with the other two detectives and the other police officers involved in the raid. Gilbert and Antonio looked rather surprised to see Alfred there.

"You're letting him come in?" Gilbert asked, raising an eyebrow.

"He has a vest," replied Arthur, sounding rather exasperated.

"Yeah, look!" Alfred turned so they could see the back. "How cool is that?" he asked them over their shoulder.

Gilbert and Antonio glanced at each other, looking a little perplexed. Then they shrugged and nodded with impressed expressions. "Yeah, that's pretty cool," Antonio admitted.

"Okay, boys," said Arthur, rolling his eyes. "Once you've quite finished gushing, we have a killer to capture. Preferably without anyone else dying."

"Yessir!" said Antonio, straightening.

"Jawohl!" was Gilbert's response.

"Let's go," said Arthur, turning from the group to lead the gathering inside.

Everyone made their way through a broken fire exit door, moving as quietly as possible. The interior of the building seemed cramped with tanks and piping every few feet. Alfred felt it was probably the best place to hide – or plan an ambush. Unnerved, he glanced around, trying to peer into the darkness. When he turned back to his colleagues, he found that he was alone.

"Shit. Guys?" he whispered, hurrying deeper into the building. Inching his way past pipes so close together he had to walk sideways to get by, he turned a corner – and stopped short.

Facing him, gun in hand, was Charles Oni. The shadows hid his eyes which served to make him seem a lot spookier than he already was. Slowly, Alfred raised his hands, hoping he wasn't going to be used in a hostage situation – Arthur would never let him come into an armed raid again. With steady steps, Oni drew closer. When he was close enough for Alfred to make out his dark – almost black – eyes and the scratches on his cheek, he cocked his pistol.

Before Alfred could think of closing his eyes against his probable death, movement to the left caught his eye. Glancing at it, he spotted Arthur leaping over the pipes separating them from the cops beyond. Without stopping, he ploughed into Oni and knocked him to the ground, both their guns clattering to the floor.

"Kirkland!" cried Alfred as he forced himself to move forward. Arthur was too busy struggling with the flailing Oni to say anything. He straddled the man, trying to catch hold of the handcuffs on his belt. However, a gun was in range of Oni's reach and he threw out his hand for it, almost dislodging Arthur in the process. With a squeak he would forever deny, Alfred kicked it away before Oni's fingers could brush it.

Then Arthur was grabbing his arms and pinning the man as Gilbert and Antonio came around the other corner, guns trained on Oni's head. Alfred backed off as quickly as he could so as not to be in the way. "Don't move!" shouted Gilbert. "Don't move!"

Finally, the handcuffs clicked shut around Oni's wrists and Arthur clambered off him. Grabbing the cuffs, Arthur pulled the man to his feet and stared him down. The detective didn't flinch at Oni's cold stare. Instead, his eyes narrowed and he spoke – calm and a little out of breath.

"Charles Oni. You are under arrest for the murders of Roland Borde and Claudia Brown as well as the unsolved murders of Mobo Eze and Omolola Oni."

"We have enough evidence on him to take him to court, at least," said Arthur as he emerged from the interrogation room. "It's a pity he won't tell us what's supposed to be in the bag he's looking for. I'd love to know."

"I have a theory about that," said Alfred, following Arthur to his desk. "What if Alkana Oni intends to stay in America? Like, become a citizen? But she didn't want her husband to find her. She'd need proper documentation in a different name."

"Are you suggesting that she had a friend in Nigeria sending her a fake passport?" asked Arthur, gathering up some papers.

"Well, no, maybe it'd be legal under her maiden name. Or a completely different name. Maybe she knew someone who dealt with Nigerian passports."

"Yes, well, I love your theory but we'll never know, will we?" Arthur rested his pile of papers on his hip, drawing Alfred's attention there: he rather wanted to put his hand there instead. He drew his eyes away with difficulty, mentally shaking his head, as Arthur continued. "After all, it seems she's gotten hold of the bag already. She's probably long gone by now."

"Are you gonna look for her?" Alfred felt bad for Alkana if he was: she had obviously come here to run from Oni and now she could be sent back to an unsympathetic family if she had no valid Visa or a falsified passport.

"No. Why would I?" asked Arthur, sending Alfred an incredulous look. "She had nothing to do with the murders."

Grinning, Alfred nodded, relieved. "So, whatcha doing now?"

"I have paperwork to file and the families of the deceased to speak to. You should go home."

"Aw, what? Can't I come with?"

Arthur shook his head. "No. I'd rather do it on my own. Get home to your daughter." He turned to go but paused and spun back to face the pouting Alfred. "I'll see you tomorrow," Arthur said before taking off.

Watching him go, Alfred felt the grin slide back onto his face. With a celebratory fist pump, he spun, balanced himself and stalked off down the room, heading to the elevator. He was having hamburgers tonight!

However, the sight of Gilbert scribbling away at his paperwork reminded him of an idea he had had the day before and he made a quick detour.

Gilbert wasn't entirely sure why he was doing this. He could get into a lot of trouble for it. Maybe even fired. The worst would be if Arthur ever found out about this.

Finding what he had been looking for, he drew the file from its box. "Bingo!" he cried, turning to Alfred.

"Yay!" cheered the writer, grinning at him.

This man was why he was doing it. He had seen Arthur before Alfred came along: driven, focussed but hardly smiled or laughed. With Alfred around, he seemed to have lightened up a little. Alfred was good for Arthur and, if he could help Arthur further, Gilbert would do a favour or two for him. So, when Alfred had asked, he had brought the writer to the archives and retrieved a certain file.

If Arthur found out about this, he'd kill Gilbert, Alfred and probably Antonio for good measure. Francis might get lucky, though.

Flicking the file open, he gazed down at a picture of a red-headed young man, grinning out of the little square. He had shining green eyes and rather large eyebrows. As he gazed at it, Alfred leaned over, curious. "The file of Andrew Kirkland," Gilbert declared, proudly. He closed it and turned to Alfred, holding it out. Just before Alfred could touch it, Gilbert thought of something and pulled it back. Maybe he could save himself... "He doesn't get to know where you got this from, okay?"

"Huh?"

Rolling his eyes, Gilbert whacked Alfred on the arm with the file. "Kirkland doesn't get to know you got this from me."

"Ah! Oh, yeah. Totally. Scout's Honour!" Alfred gave the salute and reverentially took the file from him. With a final grin and wave, Alfred hurried off.

Gilbert had a bad feeling about this...

Chapter Text

Madeline alighted from the stairs and swung around the bannister, her bag swinging around to hit the back of her legs. Her hair swung around her (she had left it down today) as well and she tucked some behind her ear as she strode towards the front door. She completely ignored Alfred who was idly flipping pages of the morning paper.

"Ah, ah," he said as she placed her hand on the doorknob. "Where are you disappearing to?"

Turning to him, she stepped away from the door – years living with Alfred and Elizaveta had taught her not to stand behind them. "I'm going out with some friends. We're heading to Fifth Avenue for some shopping."

"Oh? Who's got the honour of your presence today?"

"Y'know, Tina, Britney, the usual. And their boyfriends."

"Boyfriends?" Alfred sat up straighter, blinking at her.

Shrugging, Madeline backed to the door. "Yeah. I think they wanted someone to hold their shopping for them," she explained as she opened the door. "Oh. Raivis will be there, too," she added. "He's single." Alfred's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak but Madeline beat him to the punch: smirking, she swung the door closed behind her.

Scowling, Alfred fumbled for his cell phone and quickly typed out a message to his mother, wherever she had wandered off to. What do you know about this Raivis guy?

As he impatiently waited for a reply, he flipped through the paper again. Then, glancing around furtively, he peeked at the file which sat on the glass coffee table. He had read it front to back and back to front but hadn't found anything to help. Then he had had a brilliant idea which he had been quick to put in motion. Glancing at his watch, he noted that the person he was now waiting for was late. Groaning and pouting, he let himself fall onto the couch, crinkling the disinteresting newspaper beneath him.

"Bored," he muttered, seconds before there was a knock on the door. Leaping to his feet, Alfred bounded across the room to answer it. Grinning, he pulled the man on the other side through the doorway. "Toris! You made it!"

The man nodded, his long, loose, brown hair falling in front of his eyes briefly before he brushed the locks away. He smiled at Alfred, holding out his hand for a handshake. "Hello, Alfred," he managed to get out before the writer pulled him into a hug, Toris's green eyes crinkling in amusement. "It's good to see you. How have you been? I hear you're terrorising people in the Twelfth Precinct."

"I'm not terrorising them," Alfred protested, pouting at the man. "I'm shadowing them. There's a difference."

"Not much if I remember correctly," Toris teased.

"Meanie! But, hey, now you're here..." Alfred turned to lead Toris to the couch.

"Yeah, you said there was something I could do for you?"

"Uh huh." Alfred collapsed on the sofa and removed the paper, throwing in the direction of his study (he'd pick it up once Toris was gone). Patting the space beside him, he waited for his friend to settle beside him before he picked up the file. "So, I was wanting you to take a look at this and tell me what you think."

Once he had unbuttoned his suit jacket, Toris leaned forward and flipped the cover open. He read a few lines before stopping. "Why do you have this? This is a cold case..."

"I wanna help a friend of mine," Alfred said as dismissively as he could. Inside, he was barely containing his need for action. "Can you?"

"What exactly do you want me to do?" Toris asked him, frowning now. "I'm a coroner, not a detective or a writer."

Alfred shrugged a shoulder. "I was kinda hoping you'd look over the autopsy report. I'm sure there's something there, something I'm missing, but I just can't see it. You've got a better eye for this stuff..."

Toris stared at him rather incredulously before turning back to the file. He flicked his way through it until, after a few unbearable moments, he sighed. "All right. I'll take this with me, then, and look over it without you bouncing around in the background."

"Hey!"

Chuckling, Toris flipped the file closed. Then he turned serious again. "Don't expect too much from me, though. I may not be able to find anything. This case is ten years old, remember. Evidence tends to be lost after this long."

"I have absolute faith in you," Alfred assured him.

Blinking, Toris sighed. "Didn't you hear what I just said?"

Alfred just grinned at him. "So," he said instead, "how's the family?"

Arthur was wearing a grey coat today, Alfred noted: it made him blend in with the city buildings a little. He raised an eyebrow at the coffee cup Alfred offered him but accepted it without a word. Alfred stared at him for a moment longer, wondering if he'd actually be able to figure out what had happened to his brother. Would he be able to bring Arthur closure?

"What is it?" asked the detective, raising an eyebrow.

"Huh?"

"You're staring at me." Arthur's eyes narrowed.

"Oh. Uh. Just thinking about how hot you ar-"

"No. Stop," Arthur ordered, holding a hand up. "Come on. We need to get in the elevator."

"Hm. Thought you'd call it a lift."

Rolling his eyes, Arthur entered the fancy building situated in Upper West Side as if he walked into expensive, steel and glass buildings on a daily basis. Alfred followed him through the shining foyer. The doorman standing by the desk looked rather stressed but barely glanced in their direction, waving them on with a terse jerk of his wrist. Walking up to the glinting doors, Arthur jabbed the button and waited.

Sparing the Brit a glance, Alfred decided to drum up conversation. "Maddie's gone out today. Which isn't odd but she mostly studies, y'know. Or has clubs at school and stuff."

"That's nice."

"She's gone shopping with friends and their boyfriends," Alfred elaborated.

"Sounds like they wanted to drag someone along to carry their bags for them."

"That's what Maddie said."

"Fascinating."

"But she said there's this one guy going with them that's single."

"Oh, my God, Jones!" gasped Arthur, suddenly. Alfred tensed and Arthur turned to him with wide eyes. "Do you know what this means?!" There was a ding from the elevator as the doors slid open. Arthur entered the rather large box; it was decorated with fancy, red wallpaper and a mirror made it seem bigger than it already was.

"Wait! What does it mean?!" exclaimed Alfred, rushing after Arthur.

Poking another button, Arthur turned to him. "Obviously, her friends are trying to set her up on a date. This shopping trip is just a precursor."

"Seriously?!" Alfred's voice came out in a squeak. Madeline having a boyfriend? What was he supposed to do? He remembered his exes during school – their parents were always rather protective of them. Should he do that? What if she was being used by the guy for sex and popularity?

He felt so old, too! His little, adorable daughter was getting a boyfriend? Where had her childhood gone?

Seeming to notice Alfred's panic, Arthur awkwardly patted his arm. "I'm kidding around, Jones. He's just a friend."

"But you don't know that!" Alfred pulled out his phone and cursed the fact that the elevator was thick enough to stop his signal. "I needta call her and-"

"No," said Arthur and plucked his cell from his hands just as he noticed Elizaveta had replied to his message. "I'm not going to let you embarrass her, for goodness' sake. He's probably gay – when I came out, a lot of girls invited me out shopping."

"Really?"

"Yes." Arthur took a sip of his coffee. "Have you calmed down?"

"Didja actually go with them?"

Sighing, Arthur handed over the phone. "No. Of course not. I'm not that into shopping. Honestly, it's so stereotypical."

"Like drinking tea?" Alfred grinned at Arthur's unamused expression. The detective opted not to respond, taking a sip of his coffee instead. Turning his attention to the buttons on the moving elevator, Alfred was surprised by the one lit up. "Top floor? Really?"

"Mmhmm."

"Woah. Is this a dip into the lives of the rich? Will we get to marvel at their crap? Ooh, will I get ideas from this?"

"Please don't," Arthur groaned.

"Aw, c'mon. How else am I gonna find out what cool gadgets are all the rage?"

"The Internet? Where these people likely bought them in the first place?" Arthur suggested as the elevator came to a smooth stop. The ding sounded and the door slid open. "Besides, Jones, you're thirty-five – most of the 'gadgets' you need by now are probably designed for sixty year olds."

Alfred pouted. "I'm not that old. And my soul is that of a teenager- Wait."

His response from Arthur was a smirk as he stepped off the elevator and into a small foyer area. There was an empty desk, a vase of flowers left to 'brighten' the place as the foyer was the same shining white as the lobby. The police officers' dark clothes stood stark against the room.

When they passed through a set of double doors, they found a sprawling living area. It appeared to combine a living room, dining room, kitchen and games room into one. A spiral staircase was in the middle, separating the space into four. At the far end was a single door set into a white wall. Black shelves held up books, awards and ornaments along with a few picture frames. The door had been left open and some CSU people were striding in and out.

"There you are," said Gilbert, approaching them. "The body's through here. You're both going to like it, I'm sure."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Arthur demanded even as he dutifully followed his fellow detective.

"Oh, you'll see."

The next room was also large but, this time, was rather minimalist. There were barely any furnishings besides the large desk and chair. Papers were sprawled across it and some had fallen to the floor amongst a spattering of blood drops. The only other thing in the room was a large painting which had been swung forward to reveal an open safe. Inside the cube of metal was the contorted body of an older woman, her chest bloodied.

Francis turned to them. "Ah, you're here. Good: now I can get her out of here so I can actually begin working."

"Belt it. Jones was late," said Arthur as he moved around the desk for a closer look.

Alfred followed Arthur, pouting again. "Hey! Don't blame me!"

"Hey, guys," said Antonio, appearing from the side of the room. "So this is Tessica Morgan. Forty-nine years old. She's a widow: her husband was head of a major communications company which raked in a lot of money. She and her daughter are well off and she decided to give back to charity by attending fundraisers and donating a lot of her money."

Snorting, Arthur glanced around the room. "So I see."

"What was in the safe?" asked Alfred, peering at the holes in the door.

"We're not entirely sure," Antonio answered. "Her daughter said she usually kept jewellery and 'back-up money' but we're not sure if she was wearing any or which items specifically were there."

"I'm going to go find the CCTV footage, if there's any," Gilbert announced. "And I'll send out uniforms to see if we can find the weapon nearby. Don't wait up." He winked at them all and strolled off.

Scoffing, Francis raised an eyebrow. "I'm certainly not going to hang around."

A sudden thought occurred to Alfred and he pressed a hand to his mouth to contain his laughter. Arthur seemed to notice, though, because he stared at him and raised an eyebrow. So, with a shrug, Alfred removed his hand and said, "I expect Mrs. Morgan thought she was safe he-"

"No," Arthur interrupted him, holding up a hand. "Don't. We are not in an episode of CSI, thank you." He glared at Alfred who stifled his giggles as best he could.

"Don't worry, Jones," Antonio piped up. "I tried that earlier and Gilbert gave me an earful."

"It was quite amusing," Francis told them.

"Getting back on topic..." Arthur said, pointedly. "Time of death?"

"From liver temp, I'd estimate between nine and eleven last night." Francis grimaced as he turned back to the body. "As you can see, she was killed with a single GSW to heart. There aren't signs of a struggle. She was shot at a distance because her clothes has no gunshot residue. From what we can make out, the shooter stood on this side of the desk and shot her while she was standing just there." He pointed to a spot just beyond the desk.

Arthur nodded and joined Alfred so he could look at the damage to the safe. "Are those plasma torch marks?" he asked, squinting at the marks.

"Someone was taking this seriously if that's the case," Alfred replied.

"And a lot of patience..." Arthur frowned at the scene for a moment before taking another sip of his coffee. "I have the feeling we're dealing with someone who knew what they were after – and they got it. With an added surprise."

Chapter Text

"What are you doing?" asked Arthur.

Guiltily, Alfred jumped and glanced across the car at him. "Uh, what?" he asked, clutching the cell phone tighter and holding it to his chest – just in case Arthur decided to take it again.

"You're not bugging your daughter again, are you?" Arthur glared at him for a moment before returning his attention to the road.

"No..."

"Jones."

"I'm not! I've got a message from my mom. I'm just reading it, jeez!"

"Hm."

Rolling his eyes, Alfred returned his attention to the screen, tapping on the message to open it. Unfortunately, it seemed that the information he was looking for was elsewhere for Elizaveta had merely sent, Who's Raivis? Then, when Alfred hadn't replied, she had sent, Is it Arthur's boyfriend? I'm sorry, darling. Perhaps you should go back to writing at home.

Sighing, Alfred replied to her with a Never mind. It's to do with Maddie.

He almost immediately got a reply: Oh, the boy she likes.

"Argh!" Alfred cried, pouting.

"What?" Arthur demanded, looking a little startled as he pulled into the precinct's parking lot.

"My mom knows more about this guy of Maddie's than I do! But I'm her dad – surely she should be talking to me more than her grandmother."

Arthur sighed. "That's exactly why she won't talk to you, Jones. How many girls talk to their fathers about anything to do with romance? She's more likely to talk to the women of her family."

"But I can help her, too! I mean, I have a lot of romantic experience."

Switching off the car's engine, Arthur turned to Alfred and gave him what could only be described as a Look. Alfred merely blinked at him. With a roll of his eyes, Arthur patted Alfred comfortingly on the shoulder. "You're an idiot," he informed him before climbing out of the car.

"Hey!" called Alfred as he hurried after him. "What's that supposed to mean?!"

"Come off it," Arthur replied, glancing over his shoulder at the writer. "Your relationships haven't lasted, have they? Why would she go to you?"

"My mother's haven't lasted either." Not even with my father, he added to himself.

He must have looked miserable for Arthur gave him a curious look before letting it drop. Instead, he stepped into the newly vacated elevator and waited for Alfred to get on. "Her mother is more likely to have gone through the kinds of prejudices and emotions she has to deal with than you did. After all, teenage girls can be awfully cruel to each other, especially in the area of romance. From what I've seen, at least."

Alfred hummed his acquiescence. "I suppose you may be right. Still wanna help her, though. What if the guy's shitty? I could totally tell her if he's just, y'know, using her or if he's really interested."

"Seriously, Jones, you need to leave well enough alone."

"But-"

"No. Drop it. For God's sake, there's a murder to solve here." Arthur turned to catch Alfred's gaze and the writer stopped breathing for a second: his eyes were still as intense as the first day he had seen them. "Your daughter is with friends and perfectly safe. Stop worrying and let her grow up. What do you want her to do, stay the same age forever?"

The elevator reached the correct floor and dinged to announce its arrival. Arthur was quick to leave the box as the doors slid open but Alfred followed slowly. When he was sure Arthur couldn't hear, he muttered an answer to himself: "Yeah... Would be good."

Arthur stalked towards his desk and pulled off his coat. He was wearing a thin, green, v-neck sweater with the usual form-fitting black pants. Alfred stared at him for a moment, watching him moving around until Arthur looked up from the files that had been left for him.

"What?" Arthur's brows furrowed in confusion.

"Nothing," Alfred said quickly, remembering Arthur's response an hour or so ago. He'd probably rip his head off if he told him how attractive he found the detective. Again. "Just, uh-"

"Kirkland!" Antonio appeared, throwing his coat over his own chair. A large pile of papers was in his other hand. "I put in a call to Robberies like you asked and they sent over a list of all the home invasion incidents of upscale homes in the past few months." He set the papers on Arthur's desk.

"What?" said Alfred, eyes wide. "All of that?"

"Most of them are opportunistic so they're probably not our guys but we're going to have to sort through them."

"But... All of that? You woulda thought, with them being rich and with all the security systems nowadays, there'd be less unsolved cases."

"Criminals get cleverer every day, Jones," said Arthur as he moved over to the murder board and began to map out what they already knew.

"Still... Maybe I should get myself some... I dunno, motion sensors and a large boulder or something."

Alfred was rewarded for his quip with a snort from Arthur. "I am fairly sure you'd end up killing yourself if you did that."

"Hey, I would not. I have Jones as my name, after all."

"Amigo," said Antonio, grimacing. "You do not have anything on Indy."

"Aw, c'mon! I'm handsome." Alfred struck a pose, jutting out his jaw and puffing himself up as much as possible. Arthur and Antonio exchanged an unimpressed glance. "I'm clever, too, right? And I could totally handle snakes."

"Even poisonous ones?" asked Arthur, a smirk slowly appearing. Alfred shuddered but was, thankfully, saved from answering by the arrival of Gilbert.

"Guess what, mein fruende!" he declared as he strode over, confident grin accompanying him.

"What?" asked Arthur, obviously not going to play along.

"We found the murder weapon!"

"Really?" Arthur brightened up immediately.

Gilbert hesitated. "Well... We found a gun in a dumpster a few blocks down but CSU still has to go over it and stuff. So we won't know for definite. Did Franny tell us what calibre of gun it is? 'Cause this one is a Beretta 92."

"He's not got back to us yet. I expect he'll call later. In the meantime..." Arthur grabbed the pile and held it up. "We should probably get through this, hm?"

A few hours later had provided no epiphanies or answers. CSU still hadn't gotten back to them about the gun and were still running tests. However, Francis had called Arthur and told him that it was likely that the Beretta was the gun used to kill their victim.

"Most of these have nothing to do with our B and E," sighed Gilbert, setting aside another sheet of paper amongst the other discarded ones and the empty Chinese takeout boxes.

"We'll find them eventually," Arthur replied, not looking up from his file.

"What if this is a singular event?" asked Alfred, prodding the air with his chopsticks. "It could be a murder set up to look like the burglary was the main event."

Glancing at him, Arthur nodded. "That could be the case. But that safe looked like it had been broken into professionally."

"Professionally?" Alfred leaned back in his chair in thought, dipping his eating utensils into the takeaway box he was eating from. "Hm. Y'know, I've talked to a lot of ex-criminals in my-"

"No." Arthur frowned at him. "We're not bringing in known criminals into this investigation. And neither are you."

"But-"

"No buts, Jones." Arthur almost growled in warning, flashing a glare in Alfred's direction. "Drop it." He paused and tried to stifle a yawn. "It's getting late. We'll sort out the rest of these until we have the ones not involving safes out of the way and then we can call it a night, all right?"

"Sounds like a plan," agreed Gilbert while Antonio only nodded in response, too wrapped up in his work to respond.

Alfred sighed. "Man. I thought we'd 'ave found something by now." He pouted.

"Bad luck, Jones," said Arthur, dismissively. "Just think – you'll be able to talk to Madeline when you get home."

"Huh." Thinking for a moment, Alfred nodded. "You know, you're right. And, on that note, I'll leave you to it. This is so boring and Maddie needs me!" He put down the remains of his food and stood, grinning down at Arthur's surprised expression. "See ya tomorrow! Find me some fun stuff for then!" And, with that, he took off, waving wildly at them.

Madeline was sitting on the couch beside Elizaveta when Alfred let himself into the loft. They smiled up at him as he made his way over, eyeing the bags encircling one end of the sofa. "Hey," he said. "Have fun?" He raised an eyebrow with another pointed glance.

Blushing, Madeline nodded. "Yeah. I found a lot of cute new outfits and some other odds and ends. Don't worry – I made sure I wasn't spending too much of my allowance."

After he had made his way around the couch to settle on the free arm, Alfred shook his head. "I wasn't worried about that, sweetheart."

His clever daughter picked up on his wording and leaned around his mother to frown at him. "What were you worried about, then?"

"Uh..." said Alfred, eloquently. "Nothing. Want coffee? Tea? Soda?"

Unfortunately for Alfred, Madeline had just the same hint of stubbornness as him and her mother. "Were you worrying about who I was-?" She stopped as something seemed to occur to her and her frown began to deepen.

"I'm gonna get some ice cream!" Alfred declared, hurriedly rising from his perch.

"Now, now, Madeline," said Elizaveta, patting her granddaughter's arm as Alfred scurried off. "Your father is just acting like all men do when their daughters grow up."

"I resent that!" Alfred called from the kitchen, pouting in their direction. "I'm much cooler than other dads!"

"See? Just like other fathers."

Giggling, Madeline turned to look at Alfred as he pouted some more and pulled open the freezer. "Aw, Dad, you don't need to worry so much."

Alfred pulled out the tub of ice cream and sighed. "But you can't rely on your grandmother to worry."

"Ah, hey, excuse me!" protested Elizabeta, frowning at them. "I do worry, thank you. For instance, I worry about you, Alfred." Her expression turned serious as he stared back at her, surprised.

"Really? Why?"

Elizabeta shot him a look which spoke volumes. Alfred could immediately tell that they both knew what she was talking about: she was worried, not only about him being out and about with murderers and criminals, but also about his emotional well-being. Also, she knew about him giving the Andrew Kirkland file to Toris and was probably worrying about how Arthur would react. Alfred was worried about that, too, to be completely honest with himself. He was expecting it not to go over so well...

A brief silence ensued. Madeline was the one to break it. "Anyway, you don't need to worry. My friends can keep me safe."

"What about that Raivis boy?" Alfred blurted out.

Madeline frowned. "What about him?" she asked, tone a little dangerous.

"Nothing," said Alfred, quickly. However, a few seconds later, as he scooped out ice cream into a bowl, he couldn't stop himself from adding, "Just... Is he just a friend?"

"Dad!" cried Madeline, her cheeks beginning to turn red. "Yes, he's just a friend. God, I was only joking earlier! Why would you think I wasn't?! Urgh!"

"Well, you've never mentioned him before." He paused before adding, "Does he think of you as a friend or does he want more?" Alfred grimaced as he wondered about the kinds of thoughts going through this guy's head.

At that, Madeline leapt to her feet, glowering at Alfred. "He's not like that!" she snapped. And, grabbing her bags, she stomped up the stairs.

"Ah, wait!" cried Alfred, leaning forward to watch her leave. Madeline didn't pause and quickly disappeared. Sighing, Alfred turned to his mother to find her shaking her head. "What?"

"You really don't understand girls, do you?"

"I do, too! How else do you think I got married. Twice."

His mom raised an eyebrow and he grumbled as he moved over to take Madeline's place on the couch. "Look," she said, "Maddie likes the guy, even if she was only messing around with you earlier. She wants him to want to kiss her and smile for only her. But she's had you for a father and Chloé for a mother figure – I doubt she'll let him get too far. If he ever asks her on a date. Apparently, he's quite the nervous customer."

"So he's a wimp?" asked Alfred, brightening up. "I could scare him off..."

Sighing, Elizaveta stood. "That is not what I meant and you know it," she scolded him lightly before wandering off to her own room.

Mumbling and pouting again, Alfred dug his spoon into his ice cream and began to drown his 'sorrows' in the delicious treat.

Chapter Text

"I take it you were an idiot about this whole boy thing?" asked Arthur without looking up from his desk.

Pouting, Alfred dropped into the chair beside him. "Maddie won't talk to me."

"She likes him, doesn't she?"

At that, Alfred frowned at the detective who was busily filling out a form. "How'd you know that without even looking at me?"

Smirking, Arthur finally looked up from his work. "Because she wouldn't be so upset if she didn't like him and if you hadn't insulted him. Just apologise and step back from the situation. You don't need to be there for every moment of her life."

Alfred sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Well, I always wanted to be there for her more than my Mom was for me. She had to work hard to keep a roof over our heads, y'know."

Arthur's steady gaze held his for a moment before nodding and returning his attention to his work. "Yeah... After the divorce, my mum had to work two jobs when she got back to England till she got a better paid admin job. She's slowly worked her way up the job ladder by now."

"Your mom went back to England?"

"She couldn't handle being in the country which took her first-born."

"Oh. Sorry..." Alfred almost asked about Arthur's other brother – then he remembered he had read about that in Andrew's file and Arthur would likely be suspicious. "Anyways, you're probably right. I'll catch her tonight and make up with her."

A grunt was all he received this time so Alfred took the brief interlude to take in Arthur's appearance. Today he was wearing a long-sleeved, plum top and Alfred frowned a little. He was pretty sure green suited him better. Another thought occurred to him and he glanced around at the other men wearing suits who were working away on their own things.

"Hey," he said, gaining a raised eyebrow from Arthur. "How come you don't wear a suit?"

Blinking, Arthur lowered his pen and looked up. "Well," he said, "when I was in uniform, I found that people were unwilling to talk to me. They must have thought I was intimidating or that I would jot down everything they said and hold it against them. And I always thought that men in suits seemed like they were wearing a uniform. Don't you?"

"Suppose so. So, what you're saying, is that you basically wear more casual clothes to put people at ease."

"Pretty much," Arthur agreed, nodding. "Besides, it's a tad easier for running in."

Alfred snorted at that. "So this is smart-casual for you?"

"Mmhmm." Arthur leaned towards Alfred, eyes darting around as though he was about to divulge a secret. Alfred glanced around as well before he copied the detective, eager to hear what he had to say. "You should see what my version of 'casual' is like."

"Oh, I would very much like that," breathed Alfred.

"It's usually difficult to get in and out of."

"Out?" squeaked Alfred, his eyes widening in surprise, not having expected Arthur to take it that far. Arthur smirked at his reaction and sat back, glancing over Alfred's shoulder. Turning, he found Gilbert – wearing his usual suit, incidentally – striding towards them, glancing between them.

"Am I interrupting anything?" he asked with his own smirk.

"No," Arthur replied.

"Yes," said Alfred at the same time.

They looked at each other in surprise for a moment before Arthur rolled his eyes and turned his full attention on Gilbert. "So?"

"Ballistics got back," he said, handing over a file. "Gun's a match. Not only that but they've got a partial – they're not sure if that's any good or not yet. The Glanzstück, though, is the DNA sample."

"DNA?" asked Arthur quickly, hurriedly opening the file.

"Yep. They found a tiny amount of blood on the gun but it doesn't match the victim. They have enough that they can find a match – if they're in the system or if we find ourselves a suspect."

"Hm." Arthur skimmed over the papers and Alfred attempted to peek at them. Arthur held them out of the way. Once he had finished his perusal, he set it down. "Hey, Jones," he said as he stood. "How many times have you fired a gun for your research?"

Alfred immediately perked up and grinned at him, eager to find out what he meant.

"So this is the gun that killed Mrs. Morgan?"

"Yes." Arthur handed it over to let Alfred inspect it. "It's already loaded so please be careful."

Once he had looked it over to his satisfaction he handed it back. "What're we doing then? Getting in the mind of the killer?"

"Something like that." Arthur handed Alfred a set of ear protectors and a pair of goggles. "I've been wondering about the DNA found on the gun."

"Ah, yeah. Wonder whose it is."

"We'll find out," Arthur assured him as he put on his goggles and carefully placed his own protectors over his head. After he had patted them down, he pulled out a target and attached it to its clip. He shot Alfred a pointed look once he had hit the button to send the piece of paper with the silhouette flying away, stopping at a fixed distance.

"Wha-? Oh. Right." Quickly, Alfred donned his protective gear and, at a raised eyebrow, stepped back to watch.

The click as Arthur cocked the gun was muffled as was his following shout of, "Firing!" Alfred flinched, however, as it was fired six times. Holes appeared in the target, hitting within the figure, close to the centre. When everything settled, Arthur pulled off his ear protectors and called to the room, "Clear!" He hit the button and the target made its way back to them.

"Didja figure it out?" asked Alfred, freeing his ears.

"No." Arthur frowned at the target. "This was how far we imagined the victim to be from the killer but I don't think there's any way for the blood to get on the gun. Some of it was inside the slide, the report said."

"Inside it?" Alfred took the gun from him and frowned down at it. "How the hell'd that happen?"

"You tell me." Arthur dipped his hand into a box of ammo. "Here: I'll load it for you and then you can try, I suppose."

"Cool." Alfred handed it over and watched Arthur deftly insert the six shells into the magazine and slam it home. Taking it again, he grinned. "Thanks."

Rolling his eyes, Arthur switched out the targets and moved out of the way. "Well? Get on with it."

"Right." Alfred turned and lifted the gun using one hand, without much thought.

"What're you doing?!" exclaimed Arthur.

"Huh? What's wrong?"

"For God's sake, your posture is all sloppy. You could hurt someone firing without aiming properly."

"But there's no-one else here."

"That doesn't matter!" Arthur snapped. "Someone could come in. Think ahead, will you?"

Alfred pouted and sighed. "Fine. How am I meant to stand?"

"Both hands on the grip, if you please." Alfred obliged. "And now," Arthur continued, "if you'd just stand like... this..." Placing a hand on Alfred's arm and the small of his back, Arthur began to manoeuvre him into a better position.

However, Arthur's touch caused Alfred's heart to stop for an instant. His breath caught in his throat and he bit his lip to keep from making any sort of noise to scare him off. He also, instinctively, clenched his fists. Seeing as his finger was on the trigger, this unfortunately fired the gun before either of them were prepared for it. There was a loud bang which echoed in the space. Minor pain bit into the space between Alfred's thumb and forefinger on his right hand, having caught on the slide. They both froze, Arthur's hands still touching the alarmed writer. It was soothing in a way and he was the first to recover from the shock.

"Oops. Shot too soon."

Arthur rolled his eyes at Alfred's grin. "We can always just cuddle, Jones," he said with a small smirk.

The writer resisted the urge to laugh and winced slightly at the throbbing pain. Lifting his hand from the gun, he stuck the injured part of his hand into his mouth and sucked on it. "Ow," he mumbled.

"What's wrong?" Arthur reached up to pull his hand away, brow furrowed: Alfred willingly let him inspect the cut.

"I had my hands too far up the gun. The slide caught me."

Eyes widening, Arthur glanced up at Alfred. "This is it. This is why there was blood on the gun. The killer was inexperienced and injured himself." He let go of Alfred's hand and pulled off his goggles. "Come on. We'll find you something for your cut."

"Ah, hey, wait!" cried Alfred. "I wanna at least fire at the target."

"Are you sure you can aim?" Arthur asked, tone mocking.

"Sure I can!" Quickly, Alfred replaced his protective items and Arthur followed suit, moving back to watch as Alfred positioned himself better.

"Firing!" Arthur shouted for him, seconds before he pulled the trigger. The recoil caused him to jerk but he didn't pause as he aimed for the centre. For the last round, he made sure to hit the centre of the head. There was silence afterwards, things settling before a weak "Clear!" came from Arthur. Grinning, Alfred turned to him and found Arthur staring in awe at the target.

"What d'ya think?"

Hitting the button, Arthur brought the target closer and held up his own. Comparing the two, he slowly began to scowl. "Bastard: you let me believe you hadn't fired a gun before just so you could... just so you could show me up, huh?"

"Wha-? No! You just assumed I hadn't. I can use a gun pretty well."

"Pretty well?! You're better than me, you prat!"

"Well... I don't like to brag." Alfred shrugged modestly but his grin told another story. After all, he knew damn well he was good. At least, he was impressive with pistols – he wasn't all that great with a sniper's rifle.

"Tsk. Fine. Let's get your 'injury' wrapped up and then we can go see if Antonio or Gilbert have anything for us."

"Will you be giving me... personal medical attention?"

Arthur's glare told Alfred that his big mouth had just lost him the chance for that to be the case.

"Were you flirting with Kirkland again?" asked Gilbert as he compared the sizes of two band-aids. Picking the smaller one, he turned to the writer who was wincing at the sting of alcohol. (It was to disinfect the wound, Gilbert had said, though he had looked at the bottle longingly.)

"Might've been," Alfred admitted, holding out his hand.

For a few moments, Gilbert didn't answer, busy lining up the bandage properly. When he had finally stuck it down and let Alfred move his hand, he looked up at the writer. "Take it you didn't get anywhere, huh? Don't know why you want to be with him anyway..."

"Really?" asked Alfred, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, all right, I can see the appeal. It's the accent, isn't it?"

"Not just the accent. Can't ya feel the air of mystery around him?"

Gilbert chuckled. "Ah, man, you have it bad. You poor thing."

"It's not that bad."

Rolling his eyes, Gilbert gathered all the materials he had used for the cut and reorganised them in the first-aid box. "You're in the process of trying to solve his br-"

"Shush!" Alfred hissed, eyes darting around. If Arthur heard them now, he'd likely be arrested or something.

"Relax. He's over by the murder board." Gilbert nodded at the window of the break room and Alfred peered through the blinds to find Arthur writing on it as Gilbert claimed. Antonio was busy on his phone, scribbling down information as he nodded.

"Yeah, well... Don't risk it."

"Ja, ja. Come on."

They made their way over to the other two detectives. Antonio glanced in their direction and nodded – though that may have been to whatever the person on the other end was saying. Arthur looked around as they approached. Just as they reached him, Ludwig emerged from his office and strode towards them.

"How is the investigation coming?" he asked Arthur, glancing at the other two in a form of acknowledgement. "Apparently the mayor knew the victim and he wants to know we're making progress – or so the commissioner tells me."

"It's slow going," Arthur replied, setting down his marker. "So far we have a lot of evidence but no-one to link it to. We sorted through the other robberies and discovered at least five other similar modus operandi. All of them were rich apartments, all of them had safes and all of them are missing jewellery."

"Including Mrs. Morgan? Did I miss that last night?" asked Alfred, tilting his head a little.

"Yes," answered Arthur without preamble or apology. "Carriedo's in the middle of calling the victims to see if they have a connection beyond their money."

"And I've found one," said Antonio, suddenly at Alfred's elbow. Startled, the writer stumbled out of the way and fell into his chair. Everyone stared at him for a minute while he blushed at how clumsy he had looked. Antonio finally shrugged and returned his attention to the other detectives. "They all have so much money they've been donating to the same charities."

"That's hardly a connection," Arthur protested.

"No but the fact that they all attended the same charity balls probably is."

"Charity balls?" said Ludwig, brow furrowed.

"Yeah. They were all organised by different people and different charities but a lot of people attended multiple events with them. That's also some of the only times they had their jewellery in view of the public."

"Really...?" Arthur turned to the board to stare at it before turning back. "So there's a likelihood our killer was in the crowd. They were probably searching for new targets."

"How're we gonna find the right people?" Alfred asked, regaining everyone's attention.

Musing on the question, Arthur tapped at his chin. "Well... An undercover operation would be the best way. We can find the next one scheduled to take place and find a way in."

Alfred's eyes lit up at the notion. He wondered if he could tag along. Although, if he did a lot of people would notice him. Wait... That could give them the cover they needed to look for the thief. He pulled out his phone and began to search on the Internet...

"That sounds like a plan," agreed Ludwig. "And who will you be sending in...?"

"Me," was Arthur's firm answer. "I'm sure I can blend in. All the precinct has to do is pay for my ticket."

"Wait!" cried Alfred, looking up from his phone. "There's no need to do that!" Turning his phone, he held it up to let the others see what he had just bought. "There's one tomorrow night and I've got two tickets already. It won't be as suspicious as you suddenly getting a ticket, Kirkland. No offence," he added quickly, just in case.

"Wha-? No. You're not coming with me! Sir?!" Arthur stared at him with raised eyebrows, obviously pleading with him to stop Alfred from crashing the party, as it were.

Ludwig looked between them before shrugging. "It seems like a good idea. Less suspicious, more distracting. I'm sure it will work out well."

Arthur scowled and turned the unpleasant expression on Alfred. Beaming, Alfred leaned forward. "I'll pick you up at, like, seven, all right?"

Chapter Text

“Well, don't you look dapper?” was Gilbert's comment when Alfred appeared at the entrance of the venue and got close enough to hear him over the chatter of the other attendees.

“What're you doing here?” he responded, looking between him and Antonio. Both of them were wearing their usual suits and it looked like they were there to work rather than to attend the ball. Alfred himself was wearing a tailored suit of the deepest black with a sky blue tie to make his eyes pop: he thought it made him look irresistible.

“Kirkland managed to convince Falkenrath to get us stationed outside for 'security' so we'll be close by if you need us.”

“Ah, I see.” Alfred looked around, trying to spot messy blond hair and startling green eyes. “Where is he?”

“I thought you were picking him up?” asked Antonio, tilting his head.

Alfred shrugged. “He wouldn't tell me his address so I told him to meet me here, around now. It's weird: I figured he's the kind of person to arrive on time.” He looked to his watch, the shining face glinting in the warm light spilling from the hall. “Man, I hope he's not gone in without me...”

“Now, why would I go in without... you, Jones?” said a voice behind him and he spun to face Arthur. The detective was wearing a smirk, presumably proud of startling the writer. He also happened to be wearing a tuxedo , of all things. Sure, Alfred figured he'd have gotten a suit but he'd expected something on par with a fancier version of Antonio's. But, no, there he stood in a tuxedo with a neat little bowtie. Raising an eyebrow, Arthur said, “What're you staring at?”

“Uhhh...” Alfred managed, completely gobsmacked at how well the suit fitted him and how he seemed to be utterly comfortable in it. Arthur gave off an air of suave and mystery: Alfred could almost imagine him asking for a Martini, shaken not stirred. He wondered if he could ever get Arthur into one of these again – and then out of it, of course.

“Well, don't you scrub up well?” said Gilbert, jerking Alfred from his thoughts. He quickly closed his mouth and swallowed to calm himself.

“And you... are wearing exactly what you were wearing earlier,” Arthur commented. “What, couldn't have gone home and got into something a tad fancier?”

“Hey, we're still on the clock.”

“Besides,” Antonio interjected, “we wouldn't want to detract from all the flashy rich people.” He glanced at Alfred briefly.

“I'm not flashy!” exclaimed Alfred. “If anything, Arthur's being flashier than me!”

“True,” Arthur admitted. “Did you even try to look respectable?”

Alfred deflated. He had hoped he looked good, that Arthur would be falling over himself to dance with him. “This is my style,” he protested.

“Hmm.” Arthur paused to look him up and down and Alfred had the impression that the detective was checking him out. Mood improving, Alfred grinned at him as Arthur met his gaze. He stopped breathing as he stared at him, noticing how Arthur's eyes widened when he was caught by Alfred's. Then someone brushed past Arthur and the moment ended. “It will do,” he declared, offhandedly.

“Right, well, wanna go in?” Alfred offered Arthur an arm. Arthur hesitated for a second before placing a hand delicately on Alfred's elbow. Elated, Alfred waved at the other two detectives. “See ya later! Hope you don't get too bored!”

“Wouldn't dream of it!” Gilbert called back, sniggering as they left.

“Hm. You seem happier than yesterday,” Arthur pointed out, tugging on Alfred's arm so they could move around a pair of couples who had stopped to chatter. Entering the building, Arthur asked, “Did you speak to Madeline, then?”

“Ah, nah. She was at a friend's last night and was at school today so I've not actually seen her yet. I'll talk to her later,” Alfred assured his date.

“So why are you grinning like that?”

“How often do you get to dance with someone like you?” Alfred asked him, grin widening as he caught Arthur's gaze again. Arthur rolled his eyes at that.

Once they were inside, Alfred looked around: the large room was crowded with people in fancy dresses and suits and the noise had increased, genteel music playing over the chatter from the string quartet set up in the corner. “Let's find the woman who organised this bash, see if she knows who her regulars are.” Arthur let himself be led around the hall, the two of them stopping every so often to speak with people who called on Alfred. Eventually, they came upon the organiser who eagerly bounded over.

“Mister Jones!” she cried, her dyed blonde curls bouncing. “It's an honour to have someone as famous as you at our grand event.”

“No, no,” Alfred said, waving a hand. “The honour's all mine, Mrs. Martin. You've put on quite a party.”

“Oh, well...” Mrs. Martin blushed, ducking her head a little and fluttering her eyelashes. Seeing as she looked a good ten years or so older than Alfred, he had to resist the urge to grimace at her obvious antics. “I did have help,” she continued. Turning, she gestured to a younger couple who eagerly hurried over. The woman wore an ankle-length, turquoise dress with a glittering necklace whilst the man's cufflinks matched her outfit with a turquoise stone set in the middle of tiny diamonds. If they were diamonds at all.

“Hello, Mister Jones,” said the woman, smiling at him. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“We're big fans,” added the man, holding out a hand. Alfred quickly shook it. “It's a shame you killed off Diana. Why'd you do that, exactly?”

Used to this by now, Alfred shrugged. “I was just looking for something new and exciting. And I did find it.” He turned to Arthur who had been hovering nearby. “This is my new-”

“Hello,” Arthur interrupted him, “I'm Arthur Kirkland. It's a pleasure.”

“Oh, hello!” said the woman. “I'm sorry: we haven't introduced ourselves. I'm Kathy Rogers and this is my husband, Rich.”

“Nice to meet you,” Rich said, shaking Arthur's hand. He glanced between him and Alfred before tilting his head questioningly. “Are you two here together?”

“No,” Arthur assured him.

Alfred, however, said, “Yeah.”

The small group stared at each other – Alfred noted the disappointed pout on Mrs. Martin's visage – until Kathy giggled. “I see. Well, we should be making the rounds, as it were, so we'll leave you to it.”

Nodding, Mrs. Martin and Rich followed Kathy with their own farewells. Alfred waved them off and glanced to Arthur who was watching them leave. Nudging him, Alfred said, “You're being rather obvious.”

“Ah, yes.” Arthur seemed to shake himself from his thoughts and turned to Alfred. “Don't you think that they could be the ones?”

“What? Why?”

“Well, if the Rogers offered to help each person organising one of these, they could stay in the background but be guaranteed entry. Right?”

“Huh.” Alfred glanced in their direction and nodded. “I suppose so. Then again, you could probably be suspicious of everyone who regularly attends one of these. Which usually have the presence of my mother.” A movement caught his eye, a rippling peach colour, and he turned slightly. “Speaking of which...”

“Alfred!” cried Elizaveta, manoeuvring her way through the crowd. Her ankle-length dress floated around her and gave the impression that she was levitating. “You're late,” she added as she came to a stop.

“Hey, Mom. Kirkland's here now. Told ya he'd come.”

Turning to Arthur, Elizaveta beamed. “Ah, Detective Kirkland!” she said, holding out a hand. Arthur quickly shook it, smiling politely. “We've not been properly introduced: Elizaveta Héderváry, actress extraordinaire. Well, at one point at least. Haven't had a major role in a while.”

“That's a shame, Mrs. Héderváry. I'm sure people would be dazzled by your performance.”

“Now, Detective, you don't need to be so formal,” Elizaveta scolded. “Call me Liz. And I feel I may be a little too old to have a leading role, anyway. I've been thinking of teaching acting instead.”

“Really?” asked Alfred, blinking in surprise. “That's news to me. Does this mean you'll be moving out of my loft soon?”

“Hm,” said Elizaveta, dismissively. “You know, Mrs. Martin asked me to present one of the auction items – a book of yours. Signed, too.”

He decided not to acknowledge the change of topic. “I thought I might as well contribute to the charity in more ways than one.”

“That's good, sweetie. Now, I'm going to see if I can find any of my friends attending this soirée. Au revoir!” With a flick of her wrist, Elizaveta bid her farewell and disappeared back into the crowd.

“Let's get drinks!” Alfred declared almost immediately.

“All right,” Arthur agreed and they both snaked their way through the crowd again.

Upon reaching the bar, Alfred ordered Martinis for both of them – shaken, not stirred – to Arthur's obvious exasperation. However, the detective only turned away to watch the dancers and the edges of the room instead of voicing his opinion and entering into a conversation as Alfred had hoped. He took the cocktail when Alfred handed his glass to him and took a sip.

“I don't see anything suspicious. Not yet, anyway,” he told Alfred as the writer shuffled closer to him to avoid a couple of women in red dresses laughing on their way to the bar. They walked a little further from it to avoid any collisions and stopped not too far away.

“I'm sure you'll find 'em eventually,” Alfred said once they had stilled.

Arthur snorted. “Maybe I won't.”

“You will,” Alfred insisted.

“What makes you say that?”

“You're good at your job.”

Watching him out of the corner of his eye, Alfred was able to see Arthur raise his glass to hide a shy smile at the compliment. “Being good at your job doesn't mean you'll get the results you're looking for.”

“I did.”

Sighing in response, Arthur shook his head. “You're-”

“Alfred F. Jones!” cried a voice Alfred recognised. Turning, he saw his long-time friend Yong Soo Im and Mayor of New York City approaching. His dark hair was swept back except for an errant curl which, much like Alfred's own cowlick, stuck up and waved as he walked. He wore a navy suit, pressed and perfect and Alfred figured one of his underlings had made sure he looked as official as possible. “I didn't expect to see you at this shindig!” he cried as he reached the pair and placed his hands on Alfred's shoulders in his form of greeting in public places.

“It's a bit of a last minute thing,” Alfred told him. “One of my signed books is an auction item, the most recent one.”

“Oh? I better bid on it, then, huh?”

Laughing loudly, Alfred shook his head. “You've already got your own!”

“Can never have too many books. Besides, you know me – I may have... misplaced it?”

“Already?! Is that a new record?” Alfred grinned cheekily at the mayor who pretended to be affronted until he spotted something behind the writer.

“Well, now, who is this?”

'Who' happened to be Arthur as Alfred discovered when he turned to find his startled gaze shifting to Yong Soo. Seeing as Arthur was his date, Alfred decided to do the introductions. “Ah, Yong Soo, this is Arthur Kirkland, the detective I'm basing my next novel on.”

“Really?!” asked Yong Soo, excitedly. “Wow! I didn't realise he was so attractive!” A wave of jealousy struck Alfred as Yong Soo grabbed Arthur's hand and shook it: he noted Arthur was blushing a little. “Al's told me all about you. It sounds like he's having a good time down at Twelfth Precinct. If he ever gives you too much trouble, you can come to me.” Yong Soo winked at Arthur who now seemed to be amused.

“Hey!” snapped Alfred, frowning at the mayor. “You're supposed to be my friend!” He pouted for good measure.

Laughing, Yong Soo patted Alfred's arm. “Don't worry. I was joking. Anyway, I'm going to see the auction items so I'll talk to you both later.”

“Yes, sir. It's been a pleasure to meet you,” said Arthur, smiling at him.

“No, no. Pleasure's all mine.” Yong Soo waved at them and disappeared into the crowd again.

Alfred watched him go until dancing couples got in the way. In his mind's eye, he could suddenly see Arthur dancing with him, leaning against him. For once, he would smile, impressed by the fact that Alfred could waltz (even if he wasn't an expert). They would slow as Arthur looked up at him and their gaze met, realising they were close enough to kiss and stopping completely. Arthur's eyes would widen and he'd whisper-

“Oi. Have you passed out from one cocktail?”

Jerking out of his fantasy, Alfred turned to Arthur. “Uh, wha-? No. What? Seen anything?” he asked, flustered.

Raising an eyebrow, Arthur shook his head. “There's too many people in the way. We're going to have to split up-”

“And look for more clues?” Alfred suggested, grinning.

“-and patrol the edges of the room,” Arthur finished, giving Alfred an unimpressed look.

“But-”

“No buts, Jones. We need to catch the-”

“Dance!” cried Alfred as Arthur began to turn his back on him.

The detective paused, frowning. “What...?”

“If we dance, we can see the whole room at once, right?” Alfred bluffed. “And, uh, it'll be less suspicious, too!”

Staring into Arthur's narrowed eyes made Alfred want to step back but he resisted any fidgeting whatsoever. Finally, Arthur sighed and shrugged a shoulder. “All right. Let's get this over with.”

Celebrating internally (complete with a brass band and parade), Alfred held out a hand, grinning widely. Arthur reached out to take it but suddenly paused and held up his half-empty glass. “Ah,” said Alfred, taking it from him. “I'll just-” Spinning around in circles, Alfred couldn't see anywhere to put it down nearby as the tables were on the other side of the room. “I'll be back in a minute,” he said and hurried off to the bar.

He dodged around people, glancing around to see if anyone was paying particular attention to people's jewellery or acting suspiciously. Not spotting anything, he was relieved to push through and place their glasses onto the polished oak of the bar. Just as he turned, though, he saw something interesting: at the other end of the bar, ignoring the quiet bartender, were the Rogers. Both looked angry and urgent, hissing at each other – completely the opposite of their demeanour earlier. Alfred watched as Kathy prodded Rich's chest a couple of times before a retort from the man sent her away, arms thrown up in defeat.

“Huh,” Alfred said to himself as Rich turned to the bartender at last. Shrugging, he left and made his way back to Arthur.

“About time,” said the detective when he reached him. “What took you so long to put down some glasses?”

“I got distracted,” Alfred replied, shrugging. “Come on.” Holding out his hand, he waited for Arthur to take it before dragging him to the middle of the dance floor. When they found space to situate themselves, Alfred turned to Arthur, took his hand and placed his other on Arthur's hip – at the exact moment that Arthur placed his on Alfred's hip.

They stared at each other in surprise.

“What makes you think you're leading, Jones?” snapped Arthur, eyes narrowing.

Alfred wisely decided not to mention the slight height difference or the fact that he usually topped so it only made sense. “Well, 'cause I'm the one who invited you here, ergo, I should be leading.”

“That's-” Arthur seemed to freeze, trying to think of a rebuttal. However, since Alfred had bought their tickets, he knew Arthur didn't have a leg to stand on, as it were. Hopefully. So he was only mildly surprised when Arthur sighed and shifted his hand to Alfred's shoulder. “Lead on, then. I hope you're a good dancer.”

“The best!” Alfred exclaimed.

Without further ado, Alfred began to lead Arthur through the steps. One-two-three, one-two-three... Once he had gotten into the rhythm, Alfred raised his eyes from his feet (and Arthur's shiny shoes) to look at Arthur. He had been hoping to gaze into Arthur's intense eyes, perhaps have a scintillating conversation, but was faced with Arthur's distracted glances around the room.

“I'm fairly sure you're supposed to look at the guy you're dancing with,” Alfred said, rather pointedly, tapping the back of Arthur's hand.

Sighing, Arthur glanced at him. “I'm not here for fun, Jones. We're here to find a killer, remember?”

Pouting, Alfred glanced around. “I really don't understand how we'll see them, anyway. It's not like they'll come out and tell us. How exactly are-?”

“Wait,” said Arthur suddenly, standing still. Alfred almost toppled over him until Arthur gripped his arms and pulled him around so that they could stand perpendicular to the bar. Then, swaying to the beat of the music in a facsimile of a dance, he nodded in that direction. “Look at Mister and Mrs. Rogers.”

Looking over, Alfred could see that the couple had obviously set aside their differences. They were talking to an older couple who seemed to be finding the conversation amusing. The woman kept putting her hand to her chest and, when she turned slightly, Alfred was almost blinded from the glare of the diamonds around her neck. Vaguely, Alfred thought that it looked heavy and wondered briefly how she could stand to wear it.

“She keeps touching it to make sure it's still there so I think they're real,” murmured Arthur in Alfred's ear, inadvertently crowding closer to him in order to do so.

“Huh. You think she's the target?”

“Maybe,” said Arthur, shifting away again. “Even if she's not, she could easily make herself one, considering the way she's drawing attention to them.”

Alfred ran his eyes over the crowd. “I don't see anyone else staring at her, though...”

“Look!” breathed Arthur suddenly and Alfred was quick to turn and look at the bar again. This spun Arthur, too, so his back was to them but Alfred could see what he had spotted: the Rogers were in the process of asking for pictures, holding up a digital camera. However, Alfred took around a minute to work out what had caught Arthur's attention, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“You think they're taking pictures of their next target?” Alfred asked, raising his eyebrows.

Nodding, Arthur explained his reasoning. “Not only could they use it to spread around the criminal community for advertising, they could use it to remind themselves to research before the heist.”

“Clever...” said Alfred, impressed. Spotting Arthur rolling his eyes, he added, “So what do we do now?”

“Come on,” he replied, letting go of him (Alfred mourned the loss with a pout). Spinning on his heel, Arthur stalked off, heading in the direction of the Rogers. Alfred hurried after and caught up just as Arthur reached them. Out of his breast pocket, Arthur pulled his badge and held it up for the bewildered couple. “Detective Arthur Kirkland. May I see your camera, please?”

“Uh... Yes?” said Rich, rather uncertainly, sparing a brief glance to his wife.

As soon as Arthur got hold of it, he brought up the photos already taken and cycled through them. Peering over his shoulder, Alfred could see that all of them were of women and men wearing expensive jewellery and accessories. Suddenly, the location changed but the central focus of them remained the same. Finally, Arthur stopped tapping the button and Alfred spotted Mrs. Morgan, standing bold as brass before the photographer, a sparkling necklace drawing the viewer's attention.

“Hm. I do believe that's the missing jewellery,” Arthur said. He looked up at the couple, raising his eyebrows. “I have some questions for you but I really do think you should come with me to the precinct – it would be less 'embarrassing' for you than asking you here.”

Chapter Text

They split up the couple and interviewed them in two different interrogation rooms: Alfred and Arthur were with Rich while Gilbert and Antonio had to question Kathy.

"Well, Mister Rogers," said Arthur, neatening up the pile of files he had on the desk before him. "We've already explained why you and your wife are here."

"Yeah and it's ridiculous," Rich snapped. "Why would we have anything to do with poor Mrs. Morgan's death? She was our friend and we organised several charity balls with her. Why would we want her dead?"

"You didn't," Arthur conceded, clasping his hands in front of him. "You also didn't expect her to come home early and catch you opening her safe."

Rich snorted and folded his arms, leaning back in his chair. "What are you talking about?"

Flipping open one of the files, Arthur turned it so that Rich could see the pictures. A variety of expensive jewellery were spread out, including necklaces, earrings, bracelets, an engagement ring and an assortment of cufflinks. "These are items which have been stolen from people who have attended your parties and charity events over the past few months. Each one was taken from safes the owners had tucked away in their homes."

"It must've been easy," Alfred said, "to find out who had the more expensive jewellery, right? Put on a fancy ball and anyone worth their salt will trot them out to prove how much money they have."

"Who's to say it wasn't one of the other organisers?" demanded Rich. "Kathy and me aren't the only ones who helped out."

"Mm, yes." Arthur nodded. "That is true but I did a little checking when we got here and discovered that..." He paused to open another file, tossing a multitude of photos at their suspect, each one taken from Rich's camera. "Well, just look at them. Each picture shows the jewellery taken. Not one of anyone with less money than you. And there's the rub, really: your financial situation is rather dire, isn't it? Bad investments for your small business, I see."

Rich glowered at the detective. "It's nothing I can't fix."

"By stealing and selling the loot?" asked Alfred, smirking at him.

"No. I'm working overtime. So's Kathy."

"You are, aren't you?" said Arthur. "So many burglaries all in the past few months. I expect you're more used to waiting a year or so before you sell anything or work on your next target, hm?"

"There's no way you can prove that."

"Do you recognise this?" Arthur placed a picture of the semi-automatic on the table, watching Rich's reaction. The man only gave it a cursory glance. "I'm sure you will."

"Of course I don't!"

"Really? Raise your right hand, please."

Puzzled, Rich did so. Just as confused, Alfred peered at it – and gave a breathy chuckle at the sight. There was a thin, red line on the skin between thumb and forefinger. The cut was healing well but it was obviously recent.

"What's this about?" the man asked, frowning at them.

"Did you know that the slide on semi-automatics like this one can catch on your hand if you're not holding it properly?" Arthur asked him. "I expect you didn't until the other night. Did you also know that, no matter how much you wipe a gun down, if you're in a hurry and you miss a spot, you'll leave evidence? And you can never get rid of blood." He set down a piece of paper with the DNA results in front of Rich.

"What's... What's that?" he asked, dropping his hand to pull it closer and leaning forward.

"DNA from inside the slide. I expect it has a high chance of matching you."

There was silence for a minute. "Ha!" cried Rich, leaning back. "You can't get my DNA without a warrant if I don't want to give it to you. And you don't have enough proof for one, either." Scoffing at them, he shook his head. "I want my lawyer now, thanks."

In the other room, Gilbert and Antonio were having similar troubles. "Come on, Mrs. Rogers," said Gilbert, his tone coaxing. "We already have the pictures. Your alibi is each other and both of you are involved in this, I'm sure. We have DNA which we'll be able to match as soon as we get a sample from you or your husband: judging by the state of your hands" - he nodded at her clasped hands on the table, neither of them cut - "it was Mister Rogers. I think it would be easier if you just told us the truth."

Kathy, who had been silent for most of the interrogation (infuriating Gilbert as time went on), shook her head. Her light blonde hair was falling from where it had been pinned, and several strands whipped around at the action. Gilbert couldn't tell if she was shaking her head in order to pretend the situation wasn't real or if she was answering the question.

"Your husband's probably doing the same," Gilbert pressed, leaning forward a little.

"No, he's not."

That was the first time Gilbert had heard her speak and she had a determination and fiery righteousness behind her words. Gilbert studied her and, considering she had yet to look at them, he figured she wasn't entirely confident. "Are you so sure about that?"

"Yes."

"Mrs. Rogers," said Antonio, gaining her attention. "We'll keep digging until we find more evidence against you. Why don't you come clean now? It'll look better for you in the long term."

"I'm not saying a thing till my husband tells me to," was the answer, and Kathy's jaw set in tense determination.

Gilbert sighed and was about to point out the sad state of their relationship (to rile her into a state where she might answer) when there was a knock on the door and it opened to reveal the smartly dressed Arthur – something he still couldn't get over. "Could I speak to both of you?" he asked, not sparing the woman a glance.

Alfred turned when Arthur came back into the small room, Gilbert and Antonio trailing him. He focussed on Arthur, though, when he noticed that he was tugging his bowtie loose and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from fantasising.

"Well?" said Gilbert, eyebrow raised as he glanced through the one-way mirror at Rich Rogers.

"Nothing but protests at his treatment – and he's lawyering up," Arthur told him, rolling his eyes. "I'm not sure they have the money for a good lawyer but any lawyer isn't good news."

"Verdammt! And Mrs. Rogers doesn't want to say anything till the husband has." Gilbert sighed and turned to look at her, the woman still sitting straight and tense, knuckles white from clasping her hands too much.

"Huh?" said Alfred. "That's odd. Why?"

"Well, if I knew that, I'd actually be getting somewhere with her, wouldn't I?" snapped Gilbert.

"Hang on," said Arthur, slowly, brow furrowing. "Did you say she's going to wait till she's been told her husband's said something? Because we could probably use that..."

"Ah!" said Antonio. "Are we going to turn them on each other?"

"No. Rich won't talk till Kathy's been convinced to give evidence. Well, if we can..."

"We'll try, then," said Gilbert, nodding.

"We'll watch from here," Alfred told them, ignoring the glare for his presumptuous statement from Arthur.

The two detectives turned and made their way back to the interrogation room and Arthur and Alfred moved closer to the window to watch. Alfred struggled to keep his focus, though, when Arthur began to slowly unfasten his tuxedo jacket, eyes fixed on the woman. A flash of jealousy flared in him for a second till he firmly told himself that Arthur was gay and he had nothing to worry about. Shaking himself from his thoughts, he focussed on Gilbert and Antonio. The two detectives waited until they were seated before speaking.

"Well," said Gilbert, his voice crackling with the static of the intercom. "It appears we won't be needing you to talk."

"What do you mean?" asked Kathy, her grip loosening slightly. Alfred figured that she expected to be told that her husband had gotten them both lawyers or that they were being released. She would be horribly surprised, though – Rich hadn't mentioned he wanted a lawyer for his wife. After the fight he'd seen earlier, it seemed their marriage was having problems...

"Your husband told us everything."

"What?!" Kathy exclaimed, clasping her hands tightly again. "Wh-? You're bluffing." Her eyes narrowed as she looked between the two men she could see.

"Nope," said Antonio, shaking his head for emphasis. "He told us that you encouraged him to shoot Mrs. Morgan and that the thefts had been your idea. And he mentioned that he had wanted to turn himself in but you stopped-"

"What?!" shouted Kathy, leaping from her seat. "He said what?!"

"I hope this doesn't backfire," murmured Arthur.

"Huh?" asked Alfred, blinking as he turned to him.

"We need her to testify against her husband – we don't have enough evidence. If she finds out we were lying or she has a change of heart, she might retract her statement and we won't have anything to go to court with."

"Damn," Alfred sighed. "We'll just have to hope she's as angry as she was at the ball."

And that proved to be the case: still glowering at the detectives, Kathy seemed to make a decision and sat back down. "I want to make a statement. And I'm going to need divorce papers." She was positively seething as she folded her arms and began to explain everything that had happened.

Swinging the door closed, Alfred raised his arms. "I'm home!" he called out to the apartment. "Who missed me?"

"Dad!" came a shout from upstairs followed by hurried footsteps. Turning, Alfred watched Madeline hurrying towards him, ponytail swinging behind her. She stopped in front of him and blinked at him from behind her glasses. "I wanted to say that I was sorry for being... snappy, I guess," she said before Alfred could open his mouth. "I know you're just trying to protect me, as usual – even if it was misguided..." She gave him a pointed look.

"Heh," said Alfred, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, I guess I overreacted. And I'm sorry for that, too. But, y'know, dads have it hard. We have to protect our children at all times. Either that or make sure they have armour and a sword – which I did get you, I suppose..."

Madeline looked confused. "Huh?"

"That hockey stuff."

"Oh!" Madeline giggled. Then she looked Alfred up and down. "Wow, what're you wearing?"

"Ah, this? Well, I had a date with Arthur!" Alfred grinned at her.

"Really?" Madeline looked too surprised for Alfred's taste and his grin changed to a pout.

"Okay, so it was undercover for a case but I still got to dance with him. For a bit." At Madeline's bewildered expression, he explained, "The crime scene we got called to was a murder and robbery – they were stealing jewellery from a safe and the victim turned up unexpectedly."

"Did you catch the killer?" Madeline asked, leading Alfred over to the kitchen.

"Yeah, we got a statement from an accessory to the murder. It happened to be the killer's wife."

"Ouch. I expect that won't be good for their marriage."

"She wants a divorce," Alfred explained, sitting down on a stool and watching Madeline moving around without paying too much attention to what she was doing. "Apparently, she's been pissed at him for months so she eventually spilled the beans. And she gave us the location of a locker her husband was keeping their loot in. Not only that but he'd been a thief before their marriage and she had been told a lot about it before he could convince her to says there's enough evidence now to put him away."

"And the dance?"

"Oh, Maddie." Alfred sighed dramatically and stared into the middle distance. "It was wonderful. He even wore... a tuxedo."

Madeline gasped loudly, clutching her heart. "My gosh! Really? Who would have thought?" She laughed at that and Alfred joined in.

"He looked amazing in it. I actually kept expecting him to pull out his gun and strike a pose."

"What?"

Alfred grinned. "Y'know, like a certain British agent we all know and love. Speaking of which, actually..."

"I'm way ahead of you, Dad," said Madeline. The microwave beeped and she opened it up to take out a bowl, the smell of popcorn erupting from it. Alfred positively beamed at her forethought. "Why don't you go put the movie on?"

"Which one?" he asked, even as he slid off his seat to hurry off.

"How about... Diamonds Are Forever?"