Just a little explanatory note: in the universe of this story, Stroh is awaiting trial not for the rapes and murders Major Crimes investigated, but only for the attempted murder of Rusty and Brenda. As I understood it in the season seven Stroh episodes, the police never actually got any admissible evidence connecting Stroh to any of those crimes.

Chapter Four: And it's all quite dim

1.

In the dim and distant past, before Sharon moved to L.A., she had often thought driving was a soothing activity. She could be alone with her thoughts, the radio if she wanted it, and the steady, comfortably monotonous sound of the wheels gripping the asphalt, while the open road stretched before her. But driving in Los Angeles was not soothing. There was no open road, and in the seemingly rare intervals when her car was actually moving, she was too distracted by the road-rage-induced honks and screeching tires of other drivers to hear the sound of her own innocent little tires.

At the end of the day she'd just had, the relatively short drive home was almost more than the captain could handle. The tension that had spiked and simmered all day, especially in Brenda Leigh Johnson's company, steadily ratcheted up to alarming, I-might-scream-or-have-a-stroke levels. She enjoyed having Rusty live with her, with the energy and companionship and challenges he brought to her routine, but as she had at long last unlocked the door of the condo and stepped inside, she'd been more than a little relieved to remember that the chess tournament had been that afternoon, with the faculty sponsor taking the kids out for dinner afterward. A quick glance at her watch had confirmed that she could anticipate two whole hours of quiet, peaceful relaxation and solitude.

The problem was that that had been an hour ago, and the relaxing had not yet begun.

Sharon had gone through all the customary steps. There had been a hot shower, a change into clothing that involved no buttons or undergarments, and the pouring of an extra-large glass of chardonnay. She had even turned the thermostat down lower than normal, because sometimes she liked to feel the slight chill of the cool air on her skin – somehow it felt luxurious.

And yet it lingered, the tight, immovable knot of tension brooding in her stomach and tugging on her limbs. She'd tried forcing herself to be still; had contemplated unrolling her yoga mat, but knew she lacked the will to focus.

Finally, exasperated, she stood and stalked aimlessly around the living room, scowling. Sometimes only one thing would really help. As tight and stern as the control was that she had taught herself to maintain at all times on the job, at times she craved the kind of release that overwhelmed both mind and body. Certainly she was far too old to be prudish about something so natural, but tonight she was strangely reluctant.

"This is ridiculous," she snapped aloud, and realized it was the third time that day that she'd admonished herself with those words. She spun on her heel and marched to her bedroom, swiftly closing and locking the door just in case. Since Rusty's arrival, she had been very careful and circumspect about her indulgence in this most private and personal of acts; sadly, that meant the assortment of toys in the metal lock-box at the back of Sharon's closet had gotten little attention over the past six months. Sharon had a penchant for things that vibrated, and things that vibrated, no matter how small and sophisticated, made noise. Tonight there was no reason for such scruples, though. She knelt on the floor, turned the key in the lock, reached past her spare gun, and, not distracted by the array of bright colors and appealing shapes, laid her hand immediately upon what she wanted. As she stood, she directed a cat-like smirk at the open box. Surely most people who knew her casually would be surprised by the scope of her collection; her squad would probably be terrified.

She allowed herself a chuckle before resolutely yanking her thoughts away from work.

Drawing the comforter back, she efficiently stripped off her loose pants and stretched out on the cool sheet and breathed deeply, flexing and pointing her toes, feeling the tension zing through her body. Briefly she wondered if other women's bodies channeled anxiety like this. She felt hers already gathering, tightening at the base of her spine and between her legs. It wouldn't take much. She didn't want to rush, though. It would be better if she waited, went more slowly.

She flicked the on switch with her thumb and listened for a moment to the buzzing sound that filled the room. Letting the vibrator rest against the inside of her thigh, she allowed the vibrations to skitter across her skin, to settle so close to where she wanted to feel them. She took another breath, exhaling slowly, imagining that she could feel all her nerve endings. Only then did she shift the position of the toy, bringing the vibrating node to rest squarely against her clit. Immediately the muscles of her lower abdomen and buttocks tightened, arching toward the silicone surface, and she sighed. She drew small circles for a few minutes, just the way she liked, and then reached for the small tube of lubricant she had retrieved along with the vibrator.

Sharon came reliably just from having her clit rubbed, but when she wanted to be penetrated, this was what she reached for. The vibration of the rabbit ears, not as strong as what she generally preferred but strong enough, and the perfect placement against the tip of her clitoris provided just the added stimulation she needed to get off this way; and tonight she wanted to be fucked. The shaft was firm, but the covering soft and flexible – more like an actual penis than a torture device. The hot pain of the initial intrusion, the stretching of her body to accommodate the bulbous head, tingled through her toes; and then, more easily than she had anticipated even with the lube, it slid inside, and her muscles clamped down almost to the point of discomfort. Usually silent, she let herself whimper. She must be wetter than usual. Eyes tightly closed, she pictured the luridly pink head parting her own softly pink lips. She pushed more firmly, circling her hips, and then pressed the second button on the small controller, the one that really made this toy worthwhile. The shaft began to twist, slowly, tortuously. Her hips bucked, and then settled into a rocking rhythm.

Yes, this was what she needed. Sex like this, like sex with a man or a strap-on or, hell, a cucumber. Sex with something hard and demanding inside her. She pushed the toy inside herself harder, more demandingly, all the way in, and her body took it greedily. Yes, this. Not the softness of delicate curves or the sway of breasts or the moist tickle of breath on her thigh. Not blonde curls brushing her skin, dark eyes looking up beseechingly, the practiced swipe of a soft tongue peeking from a lipsticked mouth.

Sharon's clit throbbed, her internal muscles tightening again, as her eyes flew open and fixed on the white ceiling above her bed. "No!" she cried in a kind of desperate rage, but it was too late: her pulse was hammering, her breathing ragged, her body unable or unwilling to wait. She shattered with Brenda's image imprinted on her vision.

2.

Brenda's breath caught a little, a tight flutter in her chest, and then, as her chest loosened just enough to breathe again, she chose not to wonder why. Her lips curved up into a slight smile behind the rim of her coffee cup. Certainly this wasn't the reaction the captain had hoped to provoke, if she'd hoped to provoke one at all. Brenda had to assume she had. The way she was dressed just couldn't be a coincidence. The crisp lines of the snowy white blouse, the stark folds of the fine black fabric, the severely fashionable blazer nipping in at her slender waist, the elegant flow of the expensive trousers all the way down to the black stilettos: looking at her was like falling down the rabbit hole and waking up four years ago. Her Captain Raydor, Deputy Chief Johnson's Captain Raydor, had entered the building. Had she done it on purpose, and if so, why?

Brenda levied herself away from the corner of Andy's desk into a fully upright position. "Good mornin', captain," she said too brightly, struggling mightily to keep from grinning.

The answering expression was one Brenda hadn't realized she'd missed: the slight flaring of those green eyes behind their lenses, the hollowing of the cheeks. "Not a bad dream, then," the captain murmured. "Hell-o, Brenda."

Brenda smiled. So this was the way they were going to play the game today. She was glad. As – invigorating – as sparring with Captain Raydor for sixteen hours yesterday had been, it hadn't done much to advance the investigation or to get her closer to Phillip Stroh.

"Ma'am, Peter Gravier's brother is in Interview One. I mirandized him like we talked about. Do you want me or Sykes in there with him?"

Brenda spun automatically toward the sound of Sanchez's voice, answer at the ready, to find that his mildly inquisitive brown gaze was trained not on her but on her taller companion. Becoming aware of Brenda's scrutiny, Sanchez glanced at her. "Uh, Captain Raydor, ma'am," he clarified in an awkward manner.

"Detective Sykes can do it. You have just enough time to get to the 7-11 before our appointment, I believe."

Sanchez nodded and turned away, calling out "Anybody want a slurpee?" to the Murder Room at large.

Sharon turned to Brenda with a forced smile. "Would you like to join me while I talk to the brother?" she asked with such excessive politeness that Brenda's chin puckered slightly in the embryo of a frown.

"I'd just love to," the blonde cooed, pouring on her own charm, and then frowned thoughtfully at the captain's back as the two of them walked down the hall. Something had been a little… off with Sharon the previous evening as well, although she'd seemed fine for most of the day when they'd been sniping at one another. It had started sometime after Taylor's ill-fated press conference, although Brenda couldn't pinpoint the moment.

Her mind shifted gears when they stepped into the interview room and Raydor turned and shot her a look filled with meaning. Brenda perked up immediately.

"Good mornin', Mr. Gravier," she chirped. "I'm Brenda Leigh Johnson, and this is Captain Sharon Raydor. Thank you so much for agreein' to come down this mornin'."

Peter Gravier's older brother blinked at Brenda, looking a little startled. "Um, well, when your detectives showed up at my front door, I didn't think I had much of a choice," he stammered. He looked hesitantly between the two women. "Is this about Peter? Is he in some kind of trouble?"

Raydor smiled in turn, that bland, mildly questioning smile. "Why would you assume that?"

"Just – I don't know. This awful business with Kerry. I mean, like, if Pete didn't want to talk to you, or something –

Where the younger brother oozed confidence to the point of arrogance, the older sibling was awkward, beyond ill at ease. "Oh, did you know Kerry too?" Brenda asked in the same bright tone.

"Sure." Again Tom Gravier looked from one woman to the other. "Why wouldn't I know my brother's girlfriend?"

"Kerry and Peter were in a relationship?" Sharon asked, tilting her head to meet Tom's eyes as she scrawled a note on the yellow legal pad in front of her.

"Yeah. I mean –" Tom hesitated again, his expression becoming slightly alarmed. "They broke up, like, a month or two ago. But it was amicable," he added hastily.

Raydor smiled. "It's just that he didn't mention it," she said. "If you could, please, we need you to list any real estate properties or investments that you or your brother own or manage." Still smiling, she pushed the legal pad across the table toward the agitated man.

As Brenda and Sharon exited the interview room, Sykes returned to chaperone Gravier, who was writing as if his life depended on it.

"Are you gonna roll Gravier up?"

"Hmm?" Raydor murmured, apparently distracted. "Peter? Oh, no, not yet."

From habit if nothing else the two women walked toward the break room, where Brenda refilled her disposable cup and Sharon poured strong black coffee into a travel mug that she produced from her bag. As Brenda sipped, testing to see if she'd added enough cream and sugar, Sharon asked, "Ready?"

"Let me just run to the ladies' room." Smiling again, Brenda passed her cup off to the other woman. "I'll be two shakes of a lamb's tail."

Raydor sighed very softly as she watched the other woman walk away. Sweet-as-pie Brenda was even worse than give-em-hell Brenda. The captain pressed her lips tightly together and looked down at the bright coral lipstick staining the rim of Brenda's coffee cup. She felt her eyes narrow as she scrutinized it, and resolved to be prepared for anything. That was her new mantra: be prepared for anything.

She'd thought she had been prepared the day before, remaining calm and authoritative (but not authoritarian) as Brenda had tested her boundaries like a precocious teen, attempting to throw her weight around and demanding to interview Campbell. And yet it had taken such a small thing – a tiny thing – to break the captain's stride and cause… the events of last night.

Because she hadn't been prepared for it, Sharon reminded herself, putting Brenda's cup down and straightening her blazer. And now she was prepared. For anything.

The younger woman's heels clacked as she walked briskly back toward the captain. As she approached, Brenda offered her a bright smile and reached for her coffee. "You ready?"

Sharon offered the barest of smiles in return, one that barely curved her lips, let alone reached her eyes. "For anything," she confirmed, her calm, low voice ringing with steel.

They set off for the elevator. "I'll drive," Sharon murmured, and Brenda didn't protest.

Not, the captain reflected, that she was necessarily safer on her own territory. The incident yesterday had taken place in her office.

"Detective Sanchez will be meeting us there," she added aloud, and the blonde nodded. She was being very cooperative, almost docile, and Sharon had enough sense to feel a little nervous. Brenda Leigh just loved lulling her opponents into a false sense of security.

Well. Miss Atlanta wasn't about to get her way – not the way she thought she was, anyway.

After their meeting with the assistant chief on the previous day, things had gone relatively smoothly, comparatively speaking. They had avoided nuclear holocaust. Thinking it best to cut her losses and realizing that Brenda was itching to get back into an interview room, Raydor had conceded to allow her to question Campbell, provided she swore not to mention Stroh. Brenda had seemed somewhat affronted when she had caught Sharon attempting to make sure she wasn't crossing her fingers behind her back as she promised, but had settled down again when the captain hadn't insisted on chaperoning her. Instead, she had sent Provenza. A few months ago that would have been suicide, as the eldest of Raydor's lieutenants would have been perfectly willing to do the former deputy chief's bidding; but now Raydor felt confident that he was the most capable of quickly and seamlessly guiding her back into line if Brenda strayed from the parameters to which she and Sharon had agreed beforehand.

Mercifully, she didn't. Neither did she extract any stunning revelations from Campbell. After informing him that they would certainly want to speak to him again, they'd sent Campbell home to his mother in time to make his evening shift at the 7-11.

"David Gabriel?" Raydor had murmured during a momentary lull, and Brenda had focused intently on the candy she was unwrapping.

"He just needed to ask me a question about another investigation. It was urgent," she claimed.

Raydor hadn't believed her for a second, but she was glad that Brenda's good sense had prevailed.

Brenda had been further mollified by the knowledge that both surviving rape victims were coming in to be shown a composite book of mug shots, and that Stroh's photo would be included in that book. She had even smiled when the captain had suggested that Brenda be the one to talk to them.

"Perhaps Lieutenant Flynn will accompany you," Raydor had continued, turning to make eye contact with him across several intervening feet of Murder Room real estate. "You're very good with young women, Andy."

As he had sidled toward his desk, Andy had cracked a sly grin and asked, "Hear that, fellas? The captain said I'm good with young women."

"Yeah, rape victims," Sanchez had pointed out, and Raydor hadn't been able to resist adding, "It's a pity that charm of yours has no effect on women closer to your own age."

The look on Flynn's face had been priceless, and the others had looked almost equally stunned, no one more so than Brenda. It was the first time the captain had every openly cracked a joke and played along with their ribbing.

During this charming exchange, Tao had been keeping Mr. Peter Gravier company in the conference room. At Sharon's knock, he slipped out to confer briefly with her in the hallway. "Real nice guy," the lieutenant had informed her sotto voce. "Seems a lot more concerned about when he'll get his house back than he does about his dead roommate."

Twenty minutes later, Raydor could only agree with Tao. Gravier was, to put it plainly, a creep. After talking, at Sharon's instigation, about how special Kerry was and how the world had lost a unique essence, as he phrased it, he had immediately shifted gears and demanded to know when the crime scene would be released.

Raydor had regarded him with mildly raised eyebrows. "If it is absolutely necessary, the department can help you to secure accommodation until the crime scene has been thoroughly documented."

With an ankle crossed over the opposite knee, Gravier, who was only 27, had assured her that lack of accommodations was not the problem. "I'm in real estate, captain. There's no shortage of places where I can stay. But this time of year, between semesters, it's when the college kids and grad students like to move. And in that neighborhood, as close as it is to UCLA, I can get two times the rent Kerry was paying."

After Sharon's conversation with Gravier, Sykes had looked up at the captain from behind her desk with a curled lip. "I suppose it's too much to hope that he killed Kerry for the rent money?"

"See if Buzz can get a suitable still of Gravier from the security feed to use for the composite book," Raydor had replied sharply. "I don't like him."

Neither Amber Hodges nor Tiffany Pierce turned a hair at the photo of Phillip Stroh; but Tiffany had said Jeff Campbell looked kind of familiar, and Amber thought she possibly recognized Peter Gravier.

Brenda was dismayed. Sharon was dismayed, tried not to show it, and failed. The detectives were dismayed. They had sat and stood around the Murder Room in various poses and degrees of consternation, drinking burnt coffee.

"Is it possible they're working together?" Sykes had asked, leaning forward and resting her hands on her knees.

Sanchez had looked over at her. "The stalker and the roommate? What about the earlier victims?"

"At this point anything is possible," Raydor had spoken up, "which is the problem."

"Neither Tiffany nor Amber could remember where they might have seen Gravier or Campbell," Flynn had pointed out, lounging atop Provenza's desk just to piss the older man off. "Maybe Tiffany bought a soda at the 7-11 where Campbell works. Maybe Amber, I don't know, works out at the same gym as Gravier."

"Check on it, lieutenant," Raydor had replied wearily. "Check on all of it. Lieutenant Tao, we already know Jeff Campbell doesn't have a cell phone plan; see what you can get from Gravier's phone records. And get financials on both of them. Has Campbell ever bought a burner phone? Where does he stop for gas? Anything."

The detectives had begun to talk to the room at large, bandying about ideas and suggesting other tasks to be performed. As Sharon listened, she'd heard her office phone began to ring, and sighed. Only three people ever called her on her office phone: Pope, Taylor, and the principal at Rusty's school.

It had been Taylor. She would almost have preferred to hear that Rusty had been in another fistfight.

"We're convening a press briefing in forty-five minutes," he had informed her brusquely. "We need to be on top of this situation."

If Sharon had been any other police captain alive, she would have gaped. "Sir, we don't have anything to tell the press, other than the fact that there's a serial rapist attacking young, athletic blondes."

"So tell them that."

She'd blinked. "With respect, chief, that is a terrible idea. The last thing we want to do is create a panic."

"It is a terrible idea," he'd agreed with aplomb. "So you'd better think of something better. You have… forty-three minutes."

Sharon had looked up at the clock. The department still had no official media liaison. "Who will be conducting this briefing?"

"You will, captain. In forty-two minutes."

Maybe, Sharon had thought morosely, staring at the phone, Brenda's appearance hadn't been responsible for her increasing sense of doom after all; maybe it had been a premonition about the press conference.

In general, Raydor was all for transparency; and her tenure in IA had taught her very well about the value both of positive press and of getting ahead of bad news. You never wanted the media to think it had discovered something you were trying to keep quiet; instead, you wanted to serve it to them on a silver platter. But this… Taylor had called a press conference at which she could literally say nothing. At least her children and parents didn't live in L.A. They wouldn't have to see her making a fool of herself on the local news.

Brenda had knocked softly before stepping into the office. "You should take it as a compliment," she'd said. "They never would let me talk to reporters. Well, just that one time with Ramos. And that didn't go very well." Sharon hadn't bothered asking her how she knew.

The chief investigator's expression had grown more serious. "Are you plannin' to give them the victim profile?" When Raydor nodded, she'd continued, "Somebody will ask about Stroh."

It was too high profile a case to expect anything else. It wasn't every day that one of the best-known attorneys in the area was arrested on six counts of murder, two counts of attempted murder, and seven counts of rape. The captain had simply nodded again. "I know," she had replied.

She had been as prepared as she could be, but not prepared enough. Fortunately, the polished redhead from the L.A. Times hadn't voiced her question at the beginning of the half hour, or it would have ended up being the shortest press conference on record.

The journalist had begun with the inevitable question about whether or not Stroh was a suspect. Raydor had felt rather proud of herself as she had replied, "Mr. Stroh is not a person of interest at this time."

"Are you aware, captain," the woman had followed up, with the most annoying air of innocence possible, "that one hour ago Mr. Stroh provided the Times with an open letter to the Los Angeles Police Department, and to Major Crimes, yourself, Assistant Chief Russell Taylor, and Chief William Pope in particular, in which he demands that his case be reopened, in view of the facts that these new assaults, which adhere in all particulars to the M.O. attributed to Mr. Stroh, constitute evidence that exonerates him of all crimes, and that Mr. Stroh's arrest was the result of a vendetta against him carried out by a single member of the force, an officer whose employment has since been terminated?"

It had taken her the space of three breaths, but Sharon had managed to reply, in her most professional tone, "Mr. Stroh is not awaiting trial on charges pertaining to the previous rapes and murders, but rather for the attempted murder of a veteran LAPD officer and a young boy." Instinctively, the captain had taken a step back from the microphone. "That will be all at this time. Thank you."

Brenda had again been waiting for her in her office – sitting not in the visitor's chair, but behind the desk. Too preoccupied to protest with more than a pointed look, Sharon had paused by the door to take off her blazer, and the other woman had at least had the courtesy to get up.

"No candy?"

Sharon's eyes had widened. "You looked in my desk?"

Rather than answering, Brenda had said, "You handled that as well as could be expected. Nice of Taylor to give Stroh a perfect opportunity to grandstand."

Although the blonde had evidently been making an effort to be pleasant, Sharon hadn't been able to resist pointing out, "I warned you about what would happen as soon as anyone got wind of your involvement in this investigation."

"What does it matter," Brenda had fired back, "since you all are so convinced it doesn't have anythin' to do with Stroh anyway? Besides, this would have happened with or without me. Stroh planned it this way."

Still a little too traumatized by the press conference to have that conversation with the other woman right then, the captain had made the decision to retire from the field of battle – i.e., to go to the break room and get a diet soda, leaving Brenda in possession of the office (not, she'd thought fiercely, that that was in any way symbolic). It was as she'd reached for the door knob that the incident, the tiny little incident in the midst of this day packed with more important events, had taken place.

Brenda had reached out and grabbed her wrist, not hard enough to hurt but sufficiently firmly to arrest her progress for a couple of seconds. "Wait, Sharon," she had objected petulantly.

It had been a phantom sensory memory of an event that had never happened, one that the captain had only imagined dozens of times. Brenda reaching out and grabbing her wrist, Sharon spinning around with her back to the door to face her – as Sharon had felt it happening, actually happening, her heart had begun to pound, and her eyes had widened. After a few seconds she had become aware of Brenda, her forehead wrinkling as she stared at the brunette in perplexity.

The younger woman had released her wrist and taken a small step back. "We need to go talk to Phillip Stroh, Sharon. You and me. Tomorrow."

That wasn't the way it had happened all those times Sharon had imagined it.

In her vision, when Brenda grabbed her arm, it was the final straw, the breaking point; and the captain informed the deputy chief in no uncertain terms that she had finally gone too far. The words Sharon herself would speak were never clear in her mind, but she felt the reverberation inside her skull of the ringing, angry tone as she finally unleashed all her stored-up frustration and demanded the respect Brenda Johnson owed her. And so, when the blonde knelt at the captain's feet, right between her stilettos, and gently canted Sharon's hips back so that she leaned against the door – when her pale, trembling hands fumbled with the button and zipper on the black slacks that were ubiquitous in this fantasy before succeeding in pushing the material down around Sharon's thighs, and when her soft, desperate, eager mouth closed around Sharon's clit, her tongue flicking insistently - it became a fantasy that involved sex, but not really a sexual fantasy. The captain had never felt all that guilty for imagining it, replaying the details over and over, sometimes even when she talked to the deputy chief or regarded her across Will Pope's office, because she had always known it was really a fantasy of power. Just once, she would have liked to be in control; just once, she would have liked to make Brenda Leigh answer to her, literally to get down on her knees. It wasn't about sexual fulfillment or pleasure, but about being in charge and wielding the ability to withhold her approval, making Brenda work and work - for nothing. Rather dispassionately, Sharon had always imagined the stirrings of arousal she would feel; she had even imagined that Brenda would be able to make her come – with that mouth, how could she not? But the real pleasure, the rush, the appeal of the fantasy had been the knowledge that there would be no reward for Brenda, that Sharon could hold herself stiff and unyielding even as the orgasm washed over her; that she could keep her expression totally unmoved. Having that kind of power over the deputy chief would be better than sex.

Perhaps the real Sharon was so stunned there in her office because the images that blindsided her were ones she had nearly forgotten after they had lain dormant for so long. Perhaps it was also because now, instead of hearing herself unleashing a tirade of angry words, Sharon saw herself whirling the younger woman until their positions were reversed, pushing her up against the closed door, and kissing her, demandingly, with the same desperation she had attributed to Brenda in the old fantasy, determined not to stop until she had slaked the lust that crushed her entire body like an iron fist.

Sharon had sucked in a harsh, shaky breath, and Brenda's frown had deepened. "You okay?"

Mercifully, there had been a distraction in the form of Jacqueline Small, Kerry's lab partner, who simply reiterated what she had told Provenza. She explained that she and Kerry had started the doctorate program in psychology at the same time, four years earlier, and had immediately become fast friends. She had, at least, unlike Gravier, seemed genuinely distraught at the death of her friend, sniffling and tearing a Kleenex to shreds with her blue-polished thumbnails as she spoke to Sharon and Brenda.

"Am I going to be able to get into the house soon? Kerry had the most recent data on our study – we hadn't typed it up yet. I tried asking Peter, but he won't text me back."

After Sharon had assured the young woman that she would be able to retrieve her property soon, Brenda had asked, "You and Peter – you don't get along?"

Jackie's red eyes had blinked, mouse-like. "Oh, I barely know him." She'd sniffed. "I don't think he was crazy about the idea of Kerry moving in with me."

Sharon had held back a sigh. Not that it had seemed terribly likely in the first place, but Gravier certainly wouldn't have needed to murder Kerry in order to get rid of a roommate who had been planning to move out anyway.

As soon as Ms. Small had departed, Brenda had again cornered Sharon and returned to her favorite subject: "You. Me. Phillip Stroh. Tomorrow."

"Yes," the captain had agreed ruefully. "Me. You. Stroh. Tomorrow."

And so now here they were, on this brilliantly sunny Southern California morning, off to see the wizard.

Sanchez must have broken several minor traffic laws, because he was waiting inside when the captain and chief investigator arrived for their meeting with Phillip Stroh. Without exchanging any unnecessary small-talk, the three of them went through the familiar process of showing their identification, having their possessions screened, and being escorted through the first of several locked gates separating the confined prisoners from the outside world. Sanchez couldn't ever help shivering internally when he heard those gates clang into place, and as he looked at his two companions, he surmised that the women shared the same uneasy thrill.

"Captain, the prisoner is ready for you," a guard informed Sharon. "The interview room is the second door on the left, and the observation room is right in front of you."

"Observation room?" Brenda asked sharply.

Oh. Observation room, indeed. Sanchez felt the captain's intent gaze, murky now, trained not on the blonde but on his own face, tracking the progress of his dismayed expression as it rapidly assumed a growing measure of grim resignation. He squared his already square shoulders, tipped his head back at a suitably superior angle, and she nodded a single time. Captain Raydor had brought him here not to assist her in questioning Stroh – not to assist in any conventional sense – but to be Brenda Leigh Johnson's guard dog.

"Good," said the older woman in that silky, unaffected way she had. "We'll meet back here."

"Captain Ray—" Brenda exclaimed, not getting the second syllable out before Raydor cut her off by stepping in very close, almost toe to toe.

"This is not open for debate, Chief Investigator," Raydor murmured, speaking directly into the shell of the other woman's small pink ear. "In your current role, you have the right to observe the interview. As a key witness, you certainly do not have the right to participate in the interview."

"I'll just –"

"No, you won't just, Brenda. You won't sit there and observe." Apparently satisfied, Sharon stepped back. Sanchez shivered, a rush of electricity whose source he didn't care to ponder shooting down his spine. The captain's mouth twitched almost into a smile, and suddenly she sounded sympathetic. She gestured toward the first door. "You will sit here with Detective Sanchez and observe through this lovely if obvious two-way mirror."

"Will you at least wear an earwig?" Brenda called shrilly at the captain's retreating back, and Sanchez turned his chuckle into a cough. After all this time, had the former deputy chief still not learned that the captain was a formidable opponent? She never broke, and she seldom bent – and even then seemingly only in the direction she chose.

Metal grated across the floor as the detective dragged the two chairs back from the scarred table and gestured between them and the infuriated blonde. "Chief," he intoned politely, "shall we?"

Author's note: thanks very much, as ever, to all who are reading, and especially to those of you who are commenting. I hope to be able to update with more regularity over the summer - but even if it does take me a long time, I promise I will update, and the story will get finished.