See No Evil: Part One

by Lise

I.
hear no evil.
--

The road anywhere is paved with intentions; good, bad, ugly.

The elevator to the thirtieth floor was covered in mirrors. Scott glanced around uneasily as the bell dinged their arrival. Walking through the door, staring around in the dark, Scott almost slipped in a puddle of blood.

"We're too late," Logan muttered, and pulled his coat around him. "We won't find anything."

Scott stepped carefully down the hall and around a trail of broken glass from the expensive coffee table in the center of the living room, now just four spindly legs. The curtains were open, letting the view of Manhattan spread out in front of them. "Jesus," Scott said, "What an apartment."

It belonged to one of the most prominent contracts lawyers in the city. The entry way was bigger than Scott's whole condo, space dominated by a marble statue of three monkeys, hands over ears, mouth, and eyes. Paintings adorned every wall of the living room, and in the corner was what Scott would bet was a custom leather sofa.

Scott crunched more glass underfoot, glanced down.

"Slim," Logan growled. "Better watch it." He inclined his head to the bedroom door, slightly ajar; the two of them crept around more broken glass to push it open. It squeaked.

Logan raised an eyebrow. "Well there's Worthington," he said, and chewed on his cigar. "Poor fucker."

Worthington was stretched out on his bed, wings unfurled, face-down and bloodied, obviously dead. Scott took two steps into the room, glanced back. "Better call forensics."

He pulled out his handkerchief and swallowed, picked up a tied, used condom from the deep magenta carpeting. He looked at Worthington, and then at Logan.

The windows revealed the sky line of New York, and a sliver of pitch black sky.

~

The handcuffs were too tight. That was the first thing.

Elizabeth Braddock sighed, rolling over on the bed, and shook her head. "You're not going to get her that way." Her shapely legs hung out of a night dress that was far too short, and it was obvious that she was wearing nothing underneath. "If you want to go undercover, you have to do this and you have to know how to do this well."

"Ma'am, I--" Kitty looked down at her fake nails, clutching a pair of handcuff keys. It was better than staring at Betsy, who was wearing practically nothing. Kitty felt herself blush. "I don't know if I can do this."

Betsy pursed her lips, and then said, "Fine, unlock the cuffs. Maybe you aren't able to perform your duties."

"No." She sighed, and Betsy was pleased. "No. Let me try again." Betsy's lips curved as Kitty loosened the cuffs just enough for her to move, and then licked her lips. Kitty said, "I can do this."

Betsy murmured, "of course you can."

"Okay," Kitty muttered, still clutching the key ring. Her eyes slid, unwillingly, to Betsy, her hair spread out on the pillow. "The first thing to remember is, use my assets. The second thing is don't give away any advantages."

Betsy nodded, and said gently, "You have the strength to do this, Katherine, and we need you on this case. A lot."

"I know," Kitty answered, putting the keys down. Betsy lounged against the pillows, staring up at her face until Kitty looked back at her, biting her lip. "I know," Kitty echoed, and rubbed her face. "I can do this."

"All right." Betsy shifted, responding to Kitty's discomfort. That was another thing; Kitty knew she would have to get over that embarrassment. Betsy's low-grade telepathy seemed to be an asset in assessing the particular level of discomfort that Kitty was able to withstand, because Betsy's voice became much more business-like. "Un-cuff me, and we'll get dressed and you can go over client profiles again."

~

"What is it this time?" Logan said, driving the SUV eighty miles an hour along a suburban street. Scott spoke briefly into his phone and snapped it closed. Logan turned a corner on a red light, one hand on the wheel. "What'd they find?"

"Nothing." Scott put his phone back in the front pocket of his white shirt. "Just a guy."

"You mean no one important." Logan kept going down 52nd Avenue, until he hit another red light. "So where we headed, Slim?"

Scott glanced at him. "We're gonna check it out? I thought we were on the Worthing--"

"Yeah." Logan drove ahead as the light turned green, both hands on the wheel. "What's that address?"

Scott glanced at his notepad, where he'd written down the address. "1212 on Rupert Street. Somewhere--" Logan was grinning. "You know where?" Scott asked.

Logan drove a steady eighty, stubby fingertip tapping against the steering wheel. He considered for a moment. "An old Baptist church." His face sharpened, and his voice was more professional when he said, "We'll check it out, in case."

"You're the boss." Scott glanced down at his notepad; the agent who'd called it in had only said that it was messy, and that so far, they'd managed to keep the press away, were waiting for the forensics team. "What do you think we'll find?"

Logan's eyes half-closed, a sleepy expression in them. "Dunno."

Scott stared out the window, thinking. "Sure."

~

"It's not that we don't appreciate your enthusiasm, Elizabeth," and she nodded, curtly. "But perhaps pushing Officer Pryde into an undercover situation that she is unprepared for is not the best course of--"

"She's ready," Betsy interrupted. "She's ready."

Xavier, the section chief, sighed. "So you say."

"She's ready." She glanced down to Xavier's desk. The ashtray was full of expensive Cuban cigar ends. Xavier didn't smoke. Betsy said, "if she isn't, I'll go in her place," and her bracelets jangled. "Vice is going to do its fair share, sir," she said. "I promise."

"Of course you will," he replied, soothingly. The desk lamp shone off Xavier's bald head. He wasn't smiling. He tipped back in the chair, and added, "I have complete confidence in you."

Betsy nodded again, tugging the hem of her suit jacket down. "Thank you, sir."

"I'm going home for the day," Xavier said. "I suggest you do the same."

"I had planned on going over some thing with Officer Pryde, tonight, sir. There's still a lot of information that we--"

Xavier stood up, rubbed his head. "Go home, Elizabeth." The tone was kind but he still wasn't smiling. "You deserve a night off. Go home, relax."

She stepped out of his way. "Thank you, sir."

~

"That's Senator William Drake's boy," Logan said, and sighed. "Thank god they didn't move the body."

Scott frowned. "You think we should have?"

Logan shrugged. "When the Senator finds out that he's dead, he'll thank us for keeping a lid on it." He bent down, examining the man's neck, being careful not to touch him. "Don't look strangled."

Scott was glaring at the other uniforms, who were standing around and scowling at the two of them. He barked, "Unless you want the Senator to find you a new line of work, you'll seal this whole area off. No one in or out, including yourselves."

They started to protest, but then Logan stood up. "Yer only uniforms, so I won't arrest ya today. Get movin'." He went back to crouching on his heels, frowning in concentration. Scott glanced down. Logan kept staring at the body, which was lying in a significant amount of blood. Now that he had rolled it over, they could see the blood pooled from two entry holes in the chest; absently, Logan waved Scott off. "Go check the area. We're missin' something."

Scott pulled out a pair of latex gloves, just in case, and started pacing, watching his step carefully. The body – Bobby Drake – was stretched out on the ground, but there was nothing in the surrounding area except some puddles and dank asphalt, and behind Drake, the brick wall of the church. He pulled his phone out, dialed, and Jean answered, "Can I help you?"

"Can you look up a Robert Drake, licence plate and car model for me?"

"Take a few minutes." She sounded puzzled.

Scott glanced around. "Rule out pick up trucks. And 4x4s." There were only two 4x4s in the lot, and one of them belonged to Logan. "Maybe... maybe a Mercedes, or something fancier."

He could hear Jean clacking away. Scott kept walking, along the side of the building, and to the entrance. On the door handle, there was a suspicious hint of red. He took out his flashlight, and shone it on the handle -- "Blood."

"What?" Jean brought him back. "I found what you wanted. Silver Mercedes, T45-8ED."

Scott was already walking back to Logan, who still hadn't stirred from his crouch. "Thanks, Jean. And, could you keep this confidential, for now?"

"I don't know..."

"Please?" Scott coaxed; his mind was already working up a scenario. "I'd really appreciate it."

Her little laugh disturbed his line of thought; she replied, "All right. Good luck, Scott." He snapped the phone shut without saying goodbye.

Logan looked up. "Find anything?"

"Robert Drake's car was a silver Mercedes. And there's blood on the church entrance." He paused. "What are you thinking about?"

Logan stood up. " Nothin'. Let's clear these uniforms outta here, and wait for forensics."

"Shouldn't we look for his car?"

Logan smiled. "Doubt we'll find it."

"You think whoever's responsible took it? Or do you think he took a cab?"

Logan wiped his hands off with a handkerchief carefully. They were covered in grime from propping himself up on the ground; it had rained, and the asphalt was dirty. "Either they took it or it's not here, Slim. Do you see a silver Mercedes?"

Scott looked around, making a sweep of the parking lot. "Not here."

"Nah. So we send a couple of the grunts to check the streets around here, which gets'em outta our hair too, and we concentrate on the body." Logan walked up to one of the police officers and ordered him to look for Drake's car. Two of them went off, grumbling.

Scott looked down at Bobby Drake again. "Where's his wallet?" he asked Logan.

"Before we turned him over, it looked like it was in his pants. Gimme the Polaroids." Scott handed Logan the pictures they had taken. "Yep." He pointed. "It's there. Come on, I gotta check on something."

"So." Scott frowned again, scrubbing at his hair. "Are we missing something?"

Logan handed back the pictures. "A condom."

Scott watched Logan walk away, back to their car, glancing around his feet every few steps. The blue and red of the police cars flashed insistently around the scene.

~

She was supposed to meet Agent Braddock to go over the last details of her training. Being early as usual, Kitty had a half-hour to kill, and there was a message on her desk that said Xavier wanted to speak with her.

The girl that pointed Kitty to the right office had rabbit-teeth and a tremulous smile. Kitty squared her shoulders and knocked on the chief's door.

A voice called out, "Yeah?" Gruff, a little raspy. Kitty opened the door on a shorter man, wearing a hat with a wide brim and rifling through files. "What do you want?"

"I." She glanced over at the name on the desk. "Are you Xavier?"

"Nah." He went back to flipping through a brown folder. "He's gone for the day."

Kitty almost turned around, ready to flee, but then she saw the folder that the man was going through. "Worthington? You're on that case?"

She took a few more steps into the office, peering at him. He snapped the folder closed. "Nah," he said.

~

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

Logan shrugged as they drove away from the station house. "Kinda." He dropped a manila envelope into Scott's lap. After a moment, Scott started to unwrap the twine holding it together. "Not here," Logan barked.

Scott dropped the envelope. "What's in it?"

"Worthington file." Logan pulled into a coffee shop parking lot. "Want anything?"

"Oh." Scott was startled, as the engine snapped off. The coffee shop was deserted save the waitress and short-order cook. "Uh, no, I'm fine."

Logan opened his door. "You want something." Scott hesitated a moment, then grabbed his cell phone. "Bring the file," Logan said.

They ordered coffee and dessert, Logan setting into his ferociously, spooning huge chunks into his mouth and swallowing without chewing. Scott ate a few bites, and then pushed his plate away. "So, what are we doing here, Logan?"

"Gotta hunch," Logan said around a mouthful of boysenberry cobbler. "Drake looked a lot like Worthington."

Scott was pulling out the crime scene photos from Worthington's apartment, squinting at the placement of the body. "Worthington was on his stomach, spread out. You could see his wings and the blood on them, pools of it on the sheets too."

Logan swallowed the last of the cobbler, washed it down with a huge gulp of black coffee. "Drake was layin' face down too, remember."

"Worthington was naked." Scott frowned. "I'm sorry, I can't see the connect--"

"Drake's pants were off, weren't they?" Logan said, abruptly. "Zipper down, button undone. That's pretty unusual for a normal homicide."

Scott stared at the black and white photo of Warren Worthington III, and picked up his cup of milky coffee absently. Scott swirled the liquid around without drinking, while he studied the photos spread out on the table in front of them. Worthington's wings, pure bright white in places and dark grey, bloody, in others, stood out in every photograph. It was obvious the murderer intended them to.

"Gonna eat that?" Logan said, cutting into Scott's thoughts. Scott shook his head, and Logan grabbed his barely-touched piece of cherry pie. A bit of juice dripped onto the table and Scott moved the photos away from Logan, wiping the little splatter off with his coat sleeve. The fluorescent red was a little tacky against the crime scene pictures.

Robert Drake, face down on the pavement, two bullets in his chest. Warren Worthington, face down on his bed, naked, from a--

"Do we have the autopsy on Worthington? Was it really the stab-wounds to his wings that did him in?"

The photocopy of the initial forensics findings, complete with hastily scribbled notes, was slapped in front of Scott. Right there at the bottom, some careful coroner had added 'bullet entry shattered the spine, possibly post-mortem, but until full autopsy, findings inconclusive.' Logan licked cherry filling off his lips.

"The same M.O. The same guy?" Scott asked, and he saw Logan smile, very slightly.

~

"I thought you were going to meet me at the--"

"Katherine," Betsy said. "You're going to have to get used to women taking you out."

Kitty sipped her champagne, carefully taking only a very small mouthful. "I wouldn't call you taking me out appropriate, Agent Braddock."

"You wouldn't?"

Kitty answered smoothly, "You're my direct superior within the department. Socializing in any kind of romantic setting would be inappropriate."

Betsy raised her glass, the champagne bubbles popping against the delicate crystal glass. The lounge was full of people with money. "It would be inappropriate," Betsy said, finally.

"It's late," Kitty said, glancing at the clock above the bar. "I should probably go home."

"Make sure you look over those files once more," Betsy murmured, sipping from her glass. Agent Braddock looked perfectly reasonable, sitting in a plush loveseat with wine in her hand. The subdued lighting of the wine bar complimented her exotic features well, made her eyes stand out as shadows, thick liquid eyeliner softened. Her red lips looked darker, a deep, full wine color.

Kitty stood, awkwardly, and picked up her purse. "How much--"

"Don't worry about the bill, Katherine," Betsy said. After a hesitant look from Kitty, she said, "I'll bill it to the department's account. We were discussing a case, after all."

The gentle sound of the fountain in the middle of the lounge followed Kitty out to the dark street. Her watch said it was nearly midnight. From the outside, the wine bar looked like any other dull office building with a discreet entrance. The copper plate beside the double doors didn't even have the name of the bar, just its street address and logo. Kitty had no idea what the bar was named; Betsy hadn't told her, and not being a smoker, of course she hadn't picked up a pack of matches with a name on the front.

Hailing a cab, Kitty sighed. Agent Braddock would have got matches.

~

"So what do we do now?"

Logan said, "We call the uniforms over by Drake's scene, tell'em to stay the fuck away from the area until forensics can go over the place with everything they've got. I hope to god they haven't touched the body."

"And then?"

Logan started the car. "I'm gonna sleep some, then we'll go back out in the morning. Forensics'll be there most of the night."

"That's it?"

Logan glanced over at Scott, eyes dark. "That's it, Slim."

~

Kitty woke up ten minutes earlier than her alarm, like she always did. Her first thought upon waking was "Emma Frost, thirty nine years old, likes to be on top. Client list extensive, including politicians, bankers, wives and husbands. Third floor, office, second floor, dining room."

She was halfway through Emma's dossier before she was truly awake, and mentally had listed off all fifty five of her customers.

~

"Thank you for seeing us, this really is quite important, Senator." Scott said. The man, sixties, grey hair, dark look, nodded. "Did Robert have any enemies, did he--"

Logan blew smoke. "Thanks fer the cigar, sir," he interrupted. "I just gotta ask, was Bobby gay?"

The Senator ushered them out.

~

Betsy was sitting at her desk when Logan showed up, Scott in tow. "Bets," he said, "lookin' for some info and I think you're just the gal we need."

She stood up. "I don't hand out case files, Logan, so unless--" and he handed her a transfer req from Xavier. She raised an eyebrow. "You're moving to Vice?"

"Long enough that it gives me everything you know about Bobby Drake."

"Bobby Drake," Betsy said, frowning. "Why?"

Logan was sitting on the edge of her desk. Scott, looming behind him with his sunglasses and dark coat, looked more mafia than police. He crossed his arms. "He's dead," Logan replied, "and it looks like a boyfriend out for revenge."

Scott said, "Though--" and Logan held a hand up. Logan glanced at Betsy. There was no way for them to tell where Scott was looking.

"A boyfriend," Betsy said, digging through the recess of her bottom drawer. Bobby Drake had made several visits to the club she was currently working with, so the relevant file wasn't too hard to find. "The son of Senator Drake, found dead in an alley somewhere. And he always seemed an upstanding citizen."

"Ain't standing much of any way," Logan answered.

"Gallows humour," and she sighed. "Here, take it, enjoy."

~

"Forensics found a condom," Logan said, flipping through the papers on his desk. "In the alley beside the church. Tied off just like you please. Analyzin' the semen now."

"Did we ever get word about the semen from Worthington?" Scott said, glancing up from his computer screen. Two reports to do in an hour. At least he was speedy about doing them.

Logan chucked a page over the screen to land in Scott's lap. "Uniforms figured it might be Worthington's. Not rightly sure. Prelims think it might be someone else's."

Scott read through the lab findings, surprised. "Were we expecting that?"

"Ain't expecting anything, Slim," he answered. "You almost done? We gotta go back over to that church, and check it out."

"How did you know there'd be a condom, Logan?" Scott asked, printing off his reports. As if anyone would read them.

"Call it a hunch." He put on his long coat and hat. "You coming?"

~

Kitty spent most of the day trying on clothing, while Agent Braddock watched and nodded or shook her head. She was almost to the point where taking all of her clothing off in front of Braddock wasn't embarrassing anymore. "So we're due at seven? Is that right?"

"As long as Emma calls, we'll be fine," Betsy said. "Don't worry. You look beautiful."

Kitty stared at herself, doubtfully. "And all I'm supposed to do is talk to the girls, find out whether or not any of them have had unpleasant experiences. Which clients are dangerous."

Betsy nodded. "Vice is focusing on the john this year, not the whore."

Kitty glanced up. "I don't think I've ever heard you say the word whore before," she replied.

"Oh," Betsy answered. "Well." She glanced at her watch. "I don't ever want to hear you say it. You're going undercover."

"Of course," and Kitty adjusted her creamy silk skirt. "Right."

~

Scott and Logan spent most of the day and that night going over the Worthington apartment, and the church. Nothing.

At about one thirty am, the CB crackled to life, fuzzing every second syllable: two domestic disturbances, a grand theft auto, and a call for uniforms at a homicide. Just as the dispatcher called another car for reinforcements, Logan's cell phone jangled. Logan listened for a minute, grunted, and hung up. He said, "we got another one."

Logan wiped his fingers, and tossed the last of his taco into the trash can, then opened his car door. As he got in the driver's seat, Scott carefully took a last bite, and wiped a bit of salsa off his mouth. He walked over to the garbage, and dropped the wrapper in.

~

Even though Scott was half expecting it, the scene still took him off-guard.

"Looks to be robbed, then shot," the uniform grunted. "Still wearin' his badge and everything. Fucker shot a detective and then vanished."

Scott chased off a couple of other uniforms. Logan chewed on his lip a while. "Why do you say he was robbed?"

"He won over two hundred bucks at the poker game tonight, and he just left. It ain't in his wallet, ain't anywhere on him." The alley was three streets away from the precinct.

"You've got his wallet?" Scott asked sharply.

"Wallet, ID cards, badge. No credit cards."

Logan turned to Scott. "Tell forensics to wait until we're done. Get the rest of'em to clear out and start bangin' on doors to find out if anyone heard anything."

"They won't have."

"Nope," Logan commented, and crouched down. "Look." His flashlight revealed a tied condom, looking to have been kicked out of the way by impatient feet. A couple of the prints might be usable, no way to be sure.

Scott was already looking elsewhere, right beside the detective's head. A half-smoked cigarette was lying there as well, tossed aside. Logan waved over the same cop, who explained, "Yeah, thought the butt might mean we got a chance of catching 'em."

"And the condom?" Scott asked.

"Oh," and the uniform shifted uncomfortably. "Didn't think it was relevant. The butt though. Only half-smoked. One of the ladies lives in the apartments over there heard a fella running right past her window. Figure whoever it was got surprised, had to run for it. We're working on--"

"How she know it was a man?" Scott interrupted, railroading him.

"Well, cause she looked out, says she saw him, partially at least. Fairly sure she saw right, there's enough light."

Logan was scuffing his feet in a patch of dirt several paces away. Scott glanced over. Logan stopped, "where did you find his wallet again?"

"Right in his back pocket, as calm as you please. Just like he'd put it there."

~

Kitty stared up at the impressive house, an elegant three story attached brownstone in a very nice area of town. The curtains were drawn in all the windows but the ground floor, and she could only see potted plants through those. The next house over was dark.

Betsy turned to her. "Remember. Don't ever smoke around Emma."

"I don't smoke."

Betsy had already dismissed her. She was adjusting her hair in the car's rear view mirror, putting more lipstick on. "This isn't Emma's primary residence. That's out of town. She entertains more reclusive guests here."

Kitty got out of the car as Betsy held her door open for her. They went up to the door, and Betsy pressed a door buzzer, hidden nicely behind some creeping ivy. Kitty examined the door knocker -- old and ornate, some kind of animals, like rabbits or monkeys. Three of them.

An older woman answered the door, and when Kitty glanced over at Betsy, she could hardly recognise her. The woman's smile had shifted somehow, changed so the face was lit up, and alien. Kitty realized she looked genuinely happy.

~

Scott was standing with Logan over the body of a dead detective. Logan was smoking. "Okay," Scott said, finally. "We got ourselves a witness. We got something, at least."

"If she saw anything," Logan said. "Other than 'a guy'. Which ain't much."

Scott kept staring at the detective's feet; there was something wrong with his shoes. They were dirty, scuffed, and – "Logan," he finally asked, sudden and startled, "You ever shop up on 5th Avenue? In the really ritzy stores?" Logan just looked at him. Scott added hastily, "I've seen those shoes before. In one of those stores."

Logan kneeled down. "Yeah?" He poked at the detective's sole with a fingernail. "You think a uniform like Wagner could have afforded something like'em?"

Scott said, "hell no."

A truck pulled up to the alley, a blue police van with blue lights flashing. Logan stood up, wincing against the sudden light in the alley. Scott pursed his lips. "You think they're gonna wait with the forensics?"

"Goddamned," Logan said. "Doubt it. We'd better head back."

"We have something now," Scott said, jogging to keep up with Logan as he headed back to the station house. "It was a man."

"Always figured it was a guy," Logan answered. "Some of them pretty boys pack a nice wallop."

"So he sleeps with them, shoots them, and then fucks with the corpses?"

It was a bad choice of words, Scott closed his mouth. Logan didn't notice, or didn't comment. "Prostitutes will top clients," Logan replied. "Just gotta find out which ones."

~

"Charmed," Emma said, "positively charmed."

Kitty shook her hand, and tried not to stare at the white nail polish on her short fingernails. "It's very kind of you to allow me to dine at your home," she replied, and Emma took her hand away. "The meal was amazing."

"It was, wasn't it," Emma said, steepling her hands together. "Elizabeth tells me you're considering contracting with us." She smiled, and the light frosted gloss on her lips parted, shining. "Normally I don't consider new clients without--" and Kitty saw her hesitate, "a certain amount of assurance, but for Elizabeth I'm willing to make an exception."

"Oh," Kitty replied. She bit her lip, looked down, tried to show off modesty and only a little nerves. "Yes, I'm. Considering. I," she started, and looked down instinctively. "Yes."

Emma said in delight, "She blushes! Very charmed, Katherine." Emma's cool fingers touched her chin, for a brief instant. "My darling, female clients are a breed different from men. You should enjoy every instant."

Kitty nodded, unconsciously chewing her lip. She stared at Emma's mouth while she spoke, about her friends and the kind of companion Kitty might want. Kitty stared at her mouth the whole time. Emma's lipstick didn't smudge, except when she sipped champagne. Maybe it didn't smudge even then; maybe she was just imagining it. Emma looked immaculately put together, frosted and faintly shimmering. She held her champagne with one delicate hand, and gently stroked Kitty's knee with the other.

~

There was a reporter for the paper standing in front of the station house when Scott and Logan got back. "Don't you sharks ever sleep?" Logan asked him.

"Is that the quote you want repeated tomorrow morning?" Trish jogged to keep up to the two of them, saying, "a little bird told me something very interesting today. He told me that you guys have two bodies in cold storage with bullets in them and mutilated appendages." She dodged as the door almost slammed in his face. Logan increased his pace. "I heard that they were all mutants."

Logan turned around, abruptly, and grabbed Trish's collar. She huffed, choking a little, and struggling. Logan replied, "You know what they teach you in the Marines?" The reporter shook her head, bangs flopping one way, then the other. "How to snap people's necks in ten seconds or less. Used to practise on logs, time each other. Have races. Y'know."

He let go. Trish massaged her neck. "Is that a threat?"

"Not at all." Logan wiped his hands on his coat. "I got so's I could snap ten logs in ten seconds."

Scott watched the lady push her way to the doors of the stationhouse. "You were in the Marines?"

"Well," Logan said, and sped up again. "Kinda."

Scott fell into step behind Logan, but in Logan's coat pocket he imagined the tied condom rattling around in the plastic baggie. "If we can just," as Logan opened the stairwell door for the both of them, "get anything outta Bets tonight."

"Bets?"

"Agent Braddock," Logan replied, his mind obviously a thousand miles away. Scott could tell he was thinking about a thousand different things: his voice was clipped, short, and his forehead furrowed. Plus, Scott knew Logan would never have let slip that he called Agent Braddock by a nickname unless he was distracted. It was the kind of personal information that he never let slip.

Logan proceeded straight to Braddock's desk, and looked around. The stationhouse was practically deserted, everyone trying to figure out what was going on three blocks away. As Logan started opening drawers, Scott stared at the telephone on the desk. "Aren't we going to investigate the murder down the street?"

"Already know who did that," Logan said, waving a hand in the air. He bent over, obscuring the desk drawers with his hunched back, and did something -- then Scott heard the soft 'shhhh' of the bottom locked drawer opening. "Same guy who did in Worthington and Drake."

Logan sat in Braddock's chair, flipping files out onto the top of the desk in rapid succession. Scott peered at several of them, and then realized that they were client files for her case -- men who hired whores. "What are you looking for?"

He held a few stapled pieces of paper up for Scott's perusal, in answer. "Her contact at that club," Logan answered. "Emma Frost."

"You want to go over there tonight?"

Logan had gone over to the photocopier, and was running off copies. "Nah," he said. "No need to rush things."

Scott frowned. On the desk, a pile of some two dozen folders had the lives of some two dozen johns. "Are you sure Emma's the one?"

"She has high class men for men, all right," Logan called out over the noise of the photocopier.

Robert Drake's son wouldn't have hired anyone less than the best, Scott realized suddenly. Neither would Worthington. Nothing but the best. "What about the cop?" he said. "Not likely he could have convinced her to send someone over to service a measly street cop."

Logan shrugged, coming back with Betsy's file on Emma Frost in one hand, and pristine copies in the other. "Mighta blackmailed the kid, previous charges. Something. Anyway, he paid him."

"The two hundred bucks missing?"

"Yep," Logan said, rooting through the mess of papers he'd made. "Didn't even touch the guy's wallet. Just took the money and ran."

"After he shot him?" Scott asked. Logan was pulling out Worthington's client file, next. He stared at it, through it even, and then went back to the copier. "He shoots the guy, then runs -- when he sliced Worthington up even after he was dead?"

"Maybe he saw the light in the neighbour's window."

Something didn't feel right, something was itching at the back of Scott's mind. Something big and important; animal instincts, and the instinct that most people have when approached with danger. Fight or flight. "Whoever did in Worthington wasn't concerned," Scott said slowly. "He didn't hesitate and he didn't rush."

"Two points," Logan answered. "Hand me Drake's file? And see if the detective -- Kurt Wagner? -- has anything in that pile, too." Scott tossed him the file they'd already looked through but weren't allowed to copy, and then started looking for Wagner's name on the carefully labelled file folders. "So either he doesn't like being outside, or--"

Scott interrupted, "He killed Drake outside. And there was blood on the church door, but Drake was dragged away from the door." He frowned. "Doesn't shout worry to me. It says--"

"He's casual about it," Logan finished, as the copier hummed away.

"So the guy who ran tonight," Scott said, more to himself than Logan, but Logan shrugged, said,

"hmmm", and kept copying. Scott got the distinct impression that Logan was ignoring him, and so he closed his mouth again, frowning beneath his glasses. Eventually Logan would have to tell him what was going on.

Logan finally said, "okay, Slim, we'd best get out of here before anyone shows up from down the street."

Scott went to the window, stared out for a minute. The street was quiet; all the officers must still have been at the crime scene.

Logan sat down again, and scooped up the papers on the desk. He started throwing the folders back in the bottom drawer of Braddock's desk, shifting some around rapidly, tucking others away. It looked random, careless. Scott watched him. "You know what order they were in?"

Logan slipped the last one in, and tapped it down. Scott looked over and each folder was perfectly ordered, not a seam out of place. All the tags faced out and they followed in order, numbered on the right hand side of each file. Scott hadn't even noticed the numbers, traced in pencil. "Think so," Logan said absently. He bent over, obscuring Scott's view again, and when he stood up smoothly, the drawer was locked and good as new.

Scott followed Logan, who set a brisk pace down the hall, the stairs, to the exit. He moved to step out of the station house, then paused, frowning. Scott stepped to the side as Logan peered out into the darkness, face scrunched up, looking for something.

"What?" Scott said.

"Probably nothing. C'mon." Logan shrugged, nonchalant again. Scott glanced behind him, trying to figure out where Logan's hunches were going.

~

Betsy didn't give them a chance to explain. "You were in my files last night," she accused Logan, black coffee cup clutched in her hand. "Don't deny it."

Logan didn't even look up from his computer screen. "You tell Xavier? Rat me out?"

The brisk clacking of keys didn't waver as Logan typed out his report. Across the desk, Scott flipped through the Worthington file again, laying out first the crime scene photos of Worthington, then Drake, then Wagner. He watched Betsy and Logan out of the corner of his eye.

"No," Logan said. "You didn't. Fuck off. I'm busy."

Betsy clicked her teeth together, but rounded on her heel and stormed away.

~

There was another one two nights later.

"He drown?"

Logan indicated the bullet wound visible in the seat. "Not really."

"Why the water, then?"

"You ever hear of St. John Allerdyce?" Logan chewed on his cigar. There was going to be no easy way to examine the body without losing half the crime scene. The garden hose, stuck in a rear window and running to Allerdyce's garden tap, had filled the whole car up with icy water. Logan sat back on his haunches, staring at the front of the car. "Wonder why the water didn't get out through the cracks in the doors?"

Scott peered at the drivers' side door. It was hard to tell, squinting in the dark, but, "sealed somehow?"

"Maybe some of that cheap spray stuff, like to seal windows in the winter." Logan stood. "I had ta use that stuff last winter, make sure my apartment wasn't an icebox."

Scott looked around at the yard. A little light was spilling into the car from the street lamp, and Allerdyce's porch light was on, but that was it. "Let's get the uniforms to bring us a couple of those standing lights. Give'em something to do while we look around."

The police photographer was busily snapping pictures. Logan turned to him. "You almost done?"

"Yessir."

"Make sure you get his tires," Scott interrupted. "And be careful you don't step on anything."

"Allerdyce," Logan murmured in Scott's ear, "was a petty drug dealer. No one worth killin'."

"Someone thought he was," Scott answered. "And had a lot of time to do it. Sealed the cracks in the car so it would flood. Played with the body."

Allerdyce's throat was torn out – blood loss minimal, post mortem. "True that," Logan said.

Allerdyce had a tattoo on his shoulder, shirt rolled up carefully to reveal it. Scott pointed. "Look at that," he said. "Navy?"

Logan hunched over, staring at the car. "Not important." He pulled out a cigar, started chewing on it. "I wanna know where the condom is."

Scott shrugged. "We'll find it. Maybe in the car." There was no point trying to get any serious detective work done while the police photographer and forensic specialists were at it, so he stood back and let his mind chew on the problem of how someone could shoot a man in his car, tear his throat out, and then seal up all the doors, get a garden hose and flood the vehicle without being seen. "He was a mutant?"

Logan nodded. "Yep. Controlled fires. Little ones, nothin' special. Drowned - real symbolic."

"St. John." Scott stared at the car. Allerdyce's head was below the water, strapped in with his seatbelt. His hair was moving gently in the water, his face a little bloated. "Wasn't he the one that baptised Jesus?"

Logan watched the photographer toddle off as he chewed on the end of his cigar, and then shooed the other uniforms to a safe distance. "One of the Johns." He tried to pull the hose out of the window, but it was wedged in firmly, tape sealing the crack. Logan stepped back. "You ain't Catholic, are you Slim?"

Scott shook his head. He braced himself, and forced the door open. Water flooded over both of their shoes, and got Scott's socks wet. Allerdyce slumped over limply.

~

They found the condom tied off. Logan barely glanced at it. Instead, he stood near a patch of trampled grass, off to the side, frowning. In the mud beside the car, Scott made out a smudged footprint. He took the photo of it himself.

"Maybe," Scott said in the car, "it's time to tell the chief that we think these aren't random." He watched Logan's reaction carefully, but Logan simply glanced back over at Scott, eyes faintly narrow. "This is four," Scott added. "Something is going on."

"Something's going on," Logan echoed, agreeably.

Scott went home and tried to fall asleep. He couldn't remember his dreams when he woke up.

~

"What've we got?" Logan said, striding over. Scott leaned against the wall, looking at the uniforms guarding the door. A huge man was locked in interrogation room three.

Scott said, "couple of guys picked him up near Wagner's crime scene. Got lucky with one of the footprints." He snorted. "No fucking idea why he came back wearing the same shoes, but we bagged him. Found a gun on him, looks to take the same kind of ammo that did in Wagner. We're waiting on lab results."

Logan nodded, pulling out a cigar and lighting it. He peered through the one way mirror. "He put up a struggle?"

Scott blinked. "Not sure. Want me to call up the uniform that brought him in?" Logan nodded.

The uniform said, "he tried to run, pulled the gun but didn't use it. Pretty casual about the whole thing." Shrugged. "We were lucky there were two of us. Look at him."

"Name?" Logan asked, uninterested. He was obviously deep in thought, and not about what the uniform was saying. Scott had a feeling Logan didn't care about the guy's name, or already knew it.

"Creed," the uniform said. "Couple of previous convictions."

Scott interrupted, "he a mutant?"

The uniform was taken by surprise. Scott glanced at Logan, who looked equally surprised for a moment, then covered it up. "Don't know," the uniform said.

"Anyone talk to him yet?" Logan asked.

"Nah," and the uniform scratched his head. "We figured on letting him stew for a while. Plus, this is your case."

"Appreciated," Logan said, dismissing him. He stared through the mirror. Scott tried to figure out why Logan's stance was different, what he was conveying through body language that he hadn't in words. It was relaxation, Scott realized suddenly. They'd found a solid suspect, a lead, and Logan was relaxed, easy going.

"I'm going in," Logan told Scott, finally. "Watch."

Scott nodded, and rubbed his forehead while Logan questioned Creed. Creed was calm, almost bored. Logan was – guarded. He continued to smoke. "Why d'you think you were pulled in?" Logan asked him.

"I dunno."

Logan sat down, crossed his legs, leaned back. "You know anything about Robert Drake?" Creed shook his head. "What about Warren Worthington? John Allerdyce?" Creed shook his head again. There was no mistaking the little smile on his face, the right side of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. Scott watched the scar there tighten, then go slack, as the smile played on Creed's face.

Logan stood up. "How 'bout Detective Kurt Wagner?" he said to Creed. "The crime scene you were tramplin' all over." He puffed on the cigar while Scott watched through the one way mirror.

"What you want me to say?" Creed asked. "That I killed that cop?"

Logan sat. Scott could barely see his face for the blue smoke ringing both their heads. "Fuck 'im too? Or just get on yer knees in the alley?"

Creed shifted around, rearranging his limbs. "I ain't no prostitute," he said casually.

Logan stared at him for a long moment. "No, yer not."

Outside, Scott frowned. "You think he's not the one?"

"Oh, he's the one all right," Logan said. "He just ain't pickin' the targets. Bein' led, somehow."

"By who?"

Logan tapped his finger on the one-way mirror. Creed, if Scott didn't know better, was staring right at them.

~

"So what you're telling me," Xavier said finally, "is that these seemingly random murders are connected?" He stared at Scott and Logan from behind his desk. Scott focused on the closed blinds. "That we have a potential serial murderer on the loose who is targeting mutants of various backgrounds and ages? And that you have the killer locked up, but don't think he's alone, and are going to have to release him in twelve hours on the grounds of having no evidence?"

Logan puffed away. Scott watched the smoke curl. He couldn't help wondering if Logan was even aware of his dependence on the cigars, or whether it was an affectation that he'd had so long it was unconscious. Logan would be aware, Scott decided. The ashtray was still full of cigar ends, though new or old, Scott couldn't tell.

"Well. This is an interesting report, Logan," Xavier said, "but far from proof--"

"You know it," Logan interrupted. "You know it and I know it, and very, very soon the press will know it." He put his hands on the desk, palms flat, and leaned over. "You know what that'll mean?"

Xavier turned his gaze from Logan to Scott, finally. Scott brought his attention back to the conversation. "What do you think, Scott?" Xavier said.

Scott chewed on his lip. "I think we need to keep investigating," he started. That was a safe thing to say. Xavier seemed to want more. "And I think that there's a definite connection between Emma Frost and these murders, either directly or indirectly." Xavier waited. "And," Scott finally said, glancing at Logan, "my gut tells me it's more than a random serial killer. We get someone on Creed when he's released, and keep looking."

Beside him, Logan looked pleased. Xavier didn't. "Accompany Betsy," he said shortly, piling their reports onto a corner of the desk, forgotten. Scott had no doubt he wouldn't open them again. Xavier added, "Maybe we can get to the bottom of this before it's released to the public."

Outside Xavier's office, Logan halted him with a strong hand on his shoulder. "Hey," he said, low. "Nice work. But," and Logan's eyes darted around suddenly, from the detective on duty at the desk, to the clerks with the dictaphones, to the chief's door, "I wouldn't say all that again."

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