grace, too

Pairing: Tim Bayliss (Homicide: Life on the Street)/Billy Tallent (Hard Core Logo)

Notes: This is, in fact, a remix of the first fanfiction I ever wrote, a behemoth of a series called Going Under, which I started in early 2001. If you've read Going Under, some of this will be familiar, although some of it won't. Some of the characters are the same, but a lot of them, even those with familiar names, are different from the original version.

The prologue starts directly after the Homicide movie. Part one starts in August 2002, approximately two years later, seven years after Hard Core Logo. The story contains spoilers for the whole run of Homicide, including the movie, and for Hard Core Logo.

Soundtrack: The Tragically Hip, especially Day for Night. The songs from the epigraphs are: "Inevitability of Death," "Daredevil," and "grace, too" from Day for Night; "Toronto #4" from Music@Work; and "Summer's Killing Us" and "You are Everywhere" from In Between Evolution.

Cheerleaders: Panisdead, Kageygirl, Cathexys, The Wild Mole, Cocoajava, Dine.

Beta: Cocoajava, Panisdead, The Wild Mole; bonus help from The Amused One.

grace, too

by shell

now you'll have to tell me when

tell me when it's imminent

so you won't have to rise and fall alone

or endure the wonder of survival

alone.

Prologue

It's not every day you confess to murder. That's got to be the hard part, telling someone. Telling Frank. That part's done--the rest isn't important, not worth caring about. It'll all be over soon. All I have to do is wait.

I let everything go. I feel nothing as we walk into the squad room, less than nothing as I write Ryland's name on the Board, another solved case for Lewis. I'm tired, that's all. Then Naomi comes over to us, her face streaked with tears, and tells us Gee is dead.

I drop the marker, stunned. I put my hand on her shoulder reflexively, my eyes stinging.

Frank slowly shakes his head, his eyes tightly shut, but then I see him put it away into whatever place he puts anything or anyone that he considers a distraction. Nothing else matters when he's got a murder to put down.

"Okay," he says, turning to me. "How are we gonna do this?"

I shake my head, lost. "I don't know, Frank--you tell me."

He grabs my arm and pulls me into the aquarium. "No, you tell me, you son of a bitch," he hisses. "'You take me in, Frank--who else?' That's what you said."

I push him away. "Gee is dead, Frank. He's dead." I try to let it all go again, but I can't. His death means something--it has to.

"You'll talk to Lewis," Frank says. "He's primary. I take you in, yes, but you have to talk to Lewis. It's procedure."

"You want me to talk to Lewis tonight? After what just happened?" I ask. Frank once told me he'd give anything for a murder that made sense. None of this makes any sense anymore. Maybe it never did.

Frank waits, but he won't look me in the eye.

"Fine, Frank, we'll talk to Lewis," I say wearily. "We'll go, you and I, we'll go into the Box, and you call Meldrick over, and we'll talk to him."

A couple of the female detectives from the second shift are sitting in one of the interview rooms already, some tissues and a couple cups of coffee on the table. Frank opens the door of the second room and ushers me inside.

I see him looking at the cuffs on the table. I sit down. I've never sat on this side of the table before. It doesn't feel that different.

Frank turns around and leaves. I can see him through the glass a few minutes later, making a phone call, probably to Lewis.

Naomi sticks her head through the door. "You okay, Tim? You need anything? Some tissues?"

I shake my head. "No, thanks."

"When do you think the service will be?" she asks, tearing up. "I don't--I'm supposed to leave on Monday. I'm going on a cruise. I don't want to miss the service, but it's too late to get a refund. Do you think they'll have the service before Monday?"

"Probably," I answer, considering. "Wouldn't they want to do it on the weekend, if they can? Have a, a mass?" They should have a mass for Gee, one of those long requiems with Latin and kneeling and communion for Catholics only.

"Yeah, you're probably right," Naomi answers, relieved. "I guess I'll see you there."

"Uh, yeah, yeah, sure," I say awkwardly. I won't be there. I'll be in jail. They'll take me to processing tonight, or maybe I'll spend the night in the Box, waiting for the State's Attorney and the public defender Lewis will insist upon to iron out the details. Either way, I won't be at Gee's funeral.

"It's good to see you back, Bayliss," she says, coming over to the table. She gives me a quick hug. "We've missed you around here--it's not the same without you."

"Thanks, Naomi," I say, hugging her back. It's not just the funeral. I doubt Danvers is going to want me to testify at the trial, not now. He'll have Frank's testimony, but Frank's not a cop, not anymore. Danvers needs me to testify. I was the only detective who heard James confess to shooting Gee--to killing him. I'm the arresting officer--that's on me.

"Okay, well, I'm going to go home," Naomi says, sniffling. "I'll see you later."

"Sure. Take care," I reply, distracted. She hugs me again and leaves.

Frank walks in carrying a case file and the Miranda paperwork. I don't have to look at the lettering on the top of the file to know it's Ryland's. He drops it on the table casually.

"Lewis'll be here in a minute," he says, gazing out the window.

"When do you think the funeral will be, Frank?" I ask him.

"What?" he says, startled into looking at me.

"The funeral. Gee's funeral. I told Naomi I thought probably this weekend, but you're Catholic, you'd know better than me."

"Uh, yeah, they'll probably do it Saturday or Sunday," he says. "Should be a regular media circus--I think I'll pass."

"What?" I shouldn't be surprised.

"I'll remember Gee in my own way," he says dismissively. "I don't need to be there."

"What the hell do you mean, you don't need to be there?" I say. Something snaps inside me, and the vague feelings of regret I've been ignoring turn into fury.

"Look, here comes Lewis," he says, ignoring me. "You know how you're going to play this?"

"How I'm going to--Crosetti was one thing, Frank, but come on, this is Gee we're talking about," I exclaim.

Lewis comes in. "What's this about Crosetti and Gee?"

"Nothing," Frank says, annoyed.

"He's not going, Meldrick," I say. "Frank's passing on Gee's funeral."

"You pulling this shit again?" Lewis asks, disgusted. "What the fuck do you mean, you're not going?"

"I'm not going," Frank says simply. "The church will be crawling with media, politicians, sycophants. I'll pray for Al Giardello on my own time, in my own way."

Meldrick looks at me, frowning. Then he glances at the file on the table. He looks at Frank, his eyebrows raised.

"I never went to Roshi Felder's funeral," I say to Meldrick.

"You didn't?" he asks, turning towards me. "Why not? You knew the guy."

"I don't know," I say, shaking my head. "I should have gone."

"Who's this Roshi Felder?" Frank asks. "He have something to do with Ryland?"

"I'd definitely regret missing Gee's funeral," I say.

"Well, it's a little late for regrets, Tim," Frank says.

Lewis stares at the two of us. He looks at the file on the table, frowning.

"Someone mind telling me what the fuck is going on?" he says, pointing at the Board. "It's not that I don't appreciate you two solving the Yin-Yang Harding murder for me, but did this James cat confess to killing Ryland, too?"

"Eric Thomas James didn't kill Luke Ryland," Frank says quietly, looking at me.

Lewis looks at the two of us again. He looks at the file, at the paperwork. He looks at me. He shakes his head.

"Oh, no, no, no, Frank," he says. "No. We are not doing this, do you hear me?"

"Not doing what? Last I heard, you were a homicide detective, the primary on Ryland," Frank says derisively. "Last I heard, the primary should take part in all interviews of a suspect."

"You down with this, Tim?" Lewis asks me. "This your idea of some sick joke?"

"It's no joke, Lewis," Frank says. "Bayliss told me--"

"Shut up, Frank. You just shut the fuck up for a minute," Lewis says, holding his hand up, his eyes still on me. "You got something to say to me, Bayliss? Because either you say something right now, or I'm going to forget all about this. I think I'll just go ahead and take Ryland's name off the Board completely--I doubt anyone would notice, especially tonight."

"You know, I don't want to miss Gee's funeral," I say, wondering how things could have changed so quickly. "I should be there, don't you think?" I ask Lewis.

Lewis answers without hesitation. "Absolutely."

"Are you kidding me?" Frank asks. "Meldrick, he confessed!"

"To you?" Lewis asks.

"Yes," Frank answers.

"That there is what you call hearsay," Lewis says to me. "Not admissible, Frank not being a police any more."

I nod. "Yeah, I know."

"You know something else?" Lewis says. "Luke Ryland, that was a death penalty case. The bastard would have died anyway if they hadn't fucked up and let him go."

"He was a predator," I say, wanting that to be enough, knowing it's not. "A serial killer."

"It was just a matter of time before he did it again," Lewis agrees. "I meet his killer on the street, I'd be as happy to shake his hand as to arrest him. That sick son of a bitch Ryland deserved to die."

"I thought better of you than this, detective," Frank says, looking at Lewis.

"You can think whatever you want, Frank," Lewis says. "All I know is, we lost one of our own tonight. I ain't ready to lose another, especially not over a scumwad like Luke Ryland."

"Screw you, Lewis. Screw both of you," Frank says. He walks out of the Box, slamming the door behind him.

"You okay?" Lewis asks me.

I shake my head. "Not even close," I answer, getting up and following him out of the room.

Part One

He said I'm fabulously rich

C'mon just lets go

I come from downtown

Born ready for you

I never thought I'd leave Baltimore, but I've done a lot of things I never thought I'd do. Joining the FBI seemed like a better idea than most, and if I ended up working out of the Las Vegas office, so be it. It's certainly better than the alternative. I try not to remember I ever considered anything else; looking at the view out my office window helps me forget.

After two years of pushing paper and taking MBA classes at UNLV part-time, I've finally wrangled an assignment that means something. No one, including Ed Bartlett, the senior agent heading up the investigation, knows for sure how many children are affected by what goes on in the most secretive of dozens of Mormon fundamentalist groups--the last agent who did any real leg work left notes saying he thought it was probably hundreds. Volunteering for Church Canyon is the closest I felt to speaking for the dead since I joined the FBI--it's a job where I can make a difference.

Even if only one fourteen year old girl is taken away from her family and given to a rapist, that's too many, but Bartlett was too chickenshit to really dig into it until I pushed him. The guy's a hump, shuffled off into Domestic Terrorism to spend his last couple years before he qualifies for his pension, heading up an area no one cares about anymore, not since last September, anyway. The Bureau's officially forgotten about Oklahoma City and Waco these days, and anyone who wants to move up the ranks has no time for that kind of domestic bullshit.

Me, I don't have much interest in fame and glory. Bartlett's a hump, yes, but he's willing to let me do what I can with this one neglected case, as long as I don't make too much work for him. Which is why I'll be leaving soon, heading east to the Arizona strip, posing as a fundamentalist who believes in the Angel Moroni, the Supremacy of the White Race, and the Holy Principle of Plural Marriage. It's all so I can make my way behind the walled compound in southern Utah known as the United Brethren of Church Canyon, led by the so-called Prophet Gideon Asher Hancock.

I'm in Salt Lake City now. I've been in town for a few weeks, staying in an Embassy Suites, living out of suitcases. It's a strange city, stranger than Vegas. Salt Lake is where boys from polygamist cults get tossed out like garbage when they're teenagers. Can't have any competition for the girls, after all. Some end up selling themselves--I never knew there were working girls or hustlers here, but I guess even the capitol city of the Latter Day Saints has some sinners.

Some of the kids dumped here will eventually make it on their own and may even return home, but not many, especially if they're from UBCC--the Bureau suspects boys from that particular town tend to get a little rougher treatment than merely getting tossed out a truck when they hit fourteen or fifteen. Not that we know for sure.

They tell me Salt Lake is as close as it gets to normal urban life in the state, with a sizeable minority of Gentiles, as the Mormons call garden variety Christians. No one asks anyone what they believe on certain streets, anyway, as long as they can pay. Tonight I'm in Rose Park, the closest thing here to a slum, looking for a kid supposedly named Eli, supposedly nineteen, who supposedly has information I need. That's if I can trust the background I was provided with when I agreed to take this assignment, which so far hasn't exactly been reliable.

The Rose Park neighborhood feels more familiar than any place I've been in the past couple years. I see corner boys slinging dope, pass boarded up rowhouses, see more brown faces than white, and hear hip-hop, in both English and Spanish, coming out of the beat up cars. Near Rosewood Park, there's a different type of corner boy. None of them are dressed in drag, and there are fewer than in Baltimore, but they've got the look--hungry, cold, and desperate. I only hope there's no Peter Fields among them.

I see the kid before he sees me. He's blond, too thin, and looks more like fifteen than nineteen. He's got a faded Jenifur t-shirt on over his tight cut-offs. He's shivering a bit--it's summer, but it still cools off quickly at night.

"You're a Jenifur fan, huh?" I ask him. That's supposed to be the signal.

"I'm a fan of tall men," he answers, looking up at me flirtatiously. "Tall men who want a good time. You want a good time?"

"You going to the concert tomorrow night?" I ask pointedly. "I hear Jenifur's a good time."

His shoulders drop. "Yeah," he says. "So you're the guy, huh?"

I nod. "Come on, I'll buy you a cup of coffee."

He follows me to a nearby diner, one that looks clean enough, with an appetizing mixture of smells wafting out the door. We sit at booth in the far corner of the nearly empty restaurant, and I tell him to order whatever he wants. "You sure?" he asks warily, but he must believe me, because he orders enough for three people.

We spend a few hours there. He tells me to talk to Heather, a young woman who escaped from the polygamists in Short Creek and formed an ad hoc network of runaways in Salt Lake City. He says she helped him out of Church Canyon; he's not sure, but he thinks she's still in contact with someone there. I make a note of her name and number--I'll have to give it to Bartlett.

I drink several cups of coffee, listening and taking notes, hearing what he's saying but not reacting to it, like it's just another interview of a suspect. The less I react, the more he tells me, so I guess it works as an interview technique.

He shovels food in, talking between bites. I figure his last meal was a while ago--I'll slip him some extra money when we're done. He tells me even more than I suspected about the psychopathic Prophet Gideon and his band of polygamist thugs. They sound like something out of a horror movie, but I get the feeling he's not really exaggerating. I wonder vaguely how the hell I'm going to survive this assignment.

I try to persuade Eli to come back to the hotel, tell him I'll pay for a room for him, but he refuses, says he's got to go, gesturing at the street. I give him the envelope I got from Bartlett plus all the cash in my wallet. I wish I had a spare jacket to give him.

"You give me this much, you're entitled to more than talk, you know," he says, looking at me appraisingly. "Or did you mean I should stay in your hotel room?"

"You're entitled to more than this kind of life," I tell him, exhausted despite the caffeine. "We could get you into a foster home, get you back to school. It's not safe out there."

"I'm in school already," he tells me, frowning. "Finishing up my GED, then I'm going to community college. I know you don't believe me, but I really am nineteen. Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself." He looks at me again. "And I could take care of you. You look like you could use a little relaxation, and I can tell you you're not going to get any in Church Canyon. Not unless your tastes run more towards young girls, which I'm thinking they don't."

"No, they don't," I say, suppressing a shudder. "No one should have to go through what those girls do."

"Are you sure you can handle this assignment? I haven't told you half the stuff that goes on there."

"I'm a Major Case Specialist for the FBI, son," I tell him, tamping down my annoyance. "I graduated from the police academy before you were born, and I was a homicide detective for seven years. I can handle it."

"Okay," he says. "If you say so. Just remember--it's harder to get out than it is to get in. I speak from experience."

"I know you do, Eli, but I'll be fine. I really do want to thank you, though. You've been a great deal of help."

"I could help some more, maybe," he says, and I realize he's coming on to me again. Shit. "Draw you some maps or something."

"We've done a few flyovers, but I'm sure we'd be happy with any additional information you have," I say briskly. "Just contact Agent Bartlett--you've got his number, right?"

"How about I contact you? No offense to Agent Bartlett, but I like you better."

"Eli, you can't. I'll be leaving in a few days. It's best you contact Bartlett with anything else--it's already risky, us meeting like this."

"Yeah, I guess," he says, sounding disappointed. Did he really think I was going to turn into some sort of sugar daddy? "I don't think they'd be able to find this part of town if they tried, but whatever you want. I'll give Bartlett some maps next week. Tomorrow, though, I'm going to the concert. You change your mind, maybe I'll see you there."

"Don't count on it," I say, smiling. At least tomorrow he won't be on the street. "Enjoy the concert."

"I will. Make sure you get in touch with Heather," he says, standing up.

"We will."

He gives me one last smile as we leave the restaurant, and I think again about taking him to my hotel, but having a nineteen year old hustler in my room is not a good idea, no matter how altruistic my motives. I'd probably come back from the bathroom to find him in my bed.

I remind him again to be careful. It's not enough, but it's something.

"You too, Mr. Bayliss," he says. I watch him walk down the street, already looking for his next trick.

***

The next night, as I'm studying the fictional life of Timothy Rawls, the identity I'm about to assume, I get a phone call from Bartlett.

"I need you to head over to Delta Center. They found a body after the Jenifur concert, and they think it's that kid you met last night, your contact."

Shit.

"You'll need to be careful, Bayliss," Bartlett says. "The local police don't think it's connected, but wouldn't want anyone to see you who might be part of Hancock's organization. Maybe I should send Lempke instead."

Typical. Sometimes I wonder how Bartlett ever got promoted to Supervisory Agent. I guess the bosses are the same everywhere, even in the FBI. "Has Lempke ever met Eli? He know what Eli looks like? Face it, sir--you need to send me."

He reluctantly agrees. A half hour later I'm at the scene, faced with a couple clean-cut local detectives who look like they'd need help finding their asses with a flashlight and a map. One of them tells me he's got a witness, but they haven't even gotten around to talking to him yet. At least they've managed to tape off the crime scene--I guess they're not complete amateurs. I recognize the body from the last night, even at a glance, and there's an angry guitarist--the supposed witness--I recognize from everywhere. I ignore him for the moment and check out the scene.

They took the kid behind a closed concession stand. He's on his back, his knees bent--looks like he was kneeling when they shot him. They beat on him first, but his face is still clear enough, even with the bruising. There are no shell casings, but it looks like maybe a .45 from the wound, close range, powder burns around the hole in chest of a new Jenifur t-shirt, right next to a scrawled autograph I can barely make out. He probably bought it tonight, before the concert, got Tallent to sign it then.

Once I've looked the body over and released it to the local ME's office, I start with the rest of it, the detectives and the guitarist. It's just like riding a bicycle.

"Who the fuck are you?" the guitarist asks as I head over to the two detectives.

I flash my ID at the guy and tell him I'll be with him in a minute. He looks pissed, but he waits where he's told. I ask detective number one to find a place where I can talk to the witness in private--he looks pissed too, probably bitching and moaning about jurisdiction. These locals should be happy I'm taking the case off their hands, but maybe they don't get enough murders in here in Utah to want to give any bodies up.

I call Bartlett. "Yeah, it's him, sir," I tell him. "There's a witness I'm about to talk to."

"You'll be talking to him after we get done with him," detective number one says.

"No one's talking to me until after I take a fucking shower, asshole," says Tallent, "and I already told you I didn't see anything, I just talked to the poor fucker."

"Listen, Mr. Tallent," I say after I hang up the phone, getting in his face, "do the words 'impeding a federal investigation' mean anything to you? This kid, Eli, is dead, do you get that? Your fucking shower can wait." I shift my attention back to the detective. "Now, about that room where I can talk to Mr. Tallent?"

"Fuck this shit. Follow me," Tallent says, gesturing at a stocky guy standing off to the side. "We might as well use my dressing room. Fred, do the girls even have a clue what's going on?"

"I don't think so, Mr. Tallent--they've been in their dressing rooms this whole time."

"Why don't you head over there and enlighten them while I talk to this--what the fuck is your name, anyway?"

"Major Case Specialist Tim Bayliss."

"--to this Major Whatever Bayliss. Go on, get the fuck out of here." He turns back to me. "What the fuck are you waiting for? Come on."

"Detective, I'll make sure you get a copy of all of Mr. Tallent's statements," I tell detective number two.

"That's not good enough," detective number one answers. Maybe he's the only one who can talk.

"It'll have to be--we're running this as part of an ongoing investigation. Look, it's not going to be a dunker, so just be glad it's not your responsibility, all right?" I add, trying to be reasonable.

"You'll hear from my lieutenant," he says pompously. Reminds me of that little asswipe who joined the squad after I left, what was his name, Hall.

"Fine," I snap. "Tell him to talk to Supervisory Agent Ed Bartlett. You need me to spell that? No? Then, if you'll excuse me, I have a witness to interview."

Tallent's waiting impatiently a few feet away, so I follow him down a hallway, through some locked doors, past some security and an open area with tables loaded down with food, until we finally get to his dressing room. It's smaller than I imagined--the guy is a rock star, after all--but it's got a comfortable sofa, a few chairs, and a table with more food and some bottled water. There's a door to what must be the bathroom off to one side, and there are a few scattered belongings--an empty guitar case on the floor, a couple books on the sofa, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt draped over one of the chairs.

He gestures at the empty chair and sits on the sofa, his legs stretched out over the cushions. "Okay, you've got me where you wanted me, now what?" he asks.

I take a moment to look at the man in front of me as I sit down, shaking off my annoyance at the idiots we left at the scene. Time to find out what this guy actually saw, if anything.

I never paid much attention to pictures of Billy Tallent before this, but when you're stuck in a small room with him you can't miss how attractive he is. Intense blue eyes, long fingers, spiked rock star hair, loose tan jeans paired with a tight vintage t-shirt, damp with sweat, cigarette drooping artfully from his lips--it all makes quite a package. I give myself a mental shake, take out a notepad, and ask him what he saw.

"Not much," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Local station was interviewing me before the show, and I decided to hang out and sign some autographs after they finished. This kid comes up to me--" he looks at me, frowning slightly. "I dunno, I recognized something in him, so I talked to him for a minute, signed his t-shirt. I saw him looking over his shoulder a couple times, thought maybe he was looking for some friends."

"But he was alone, as far as you could tell?" I prompt.

"Far as I could tell," Tallent confirms. "I was dealing with this girl who was determined to be the next fucking Pamela Des Barres a few minutes later when I noticed the scuffle. There were maybe three or four of them, a little older than most of my fans, you know, maybe forties? White, brown hair, beards, dressed in jeans, but the jeans didn't look right, like they weren't the fucking type to wear jeans and t-shirts. They argued with the kid--his name was Eli, right?--and he shoved them, trying to get away. One of them spat on him, and then they left."

"So you didn't see him after that?" I ask, making notes.

"Uh, no, not before, they, uh. . . . Security found him, then the fucking cops came and found out I'd talked to him before the concert. They made me, uh, they had me look at the body to confirm I'd met him, someone called you, and here we are."

"I'm sorry you had to see that," I say sympathetically--I doubt Billy Tallent has seen a dead body before.

He takes a bottle of water off the table, twisting the top off, his knuckles white. "Help yourself, if you're thirsty," he says, gesturing.

"Thanks," I say, taking a moment to open a bottle and take a drink, figuring he could use a breather.

"Do you think you could identify the men you saw?" I ask after he's finished half the bottle.

"Fuck, I don't know," he answers, thinking. "Maybe. I see a lot of people in my line of work, never really pay much attention."

"The description you gave would indicate otherwise. Is there anything else you can remember about them?"

"Yeah," he says, grimacing. "Fuckers gave me the creeps. They looked like they could be related, kind of inbred. And not one of them looked like they'd ever been to a rock concert before--they looked like teenage girls in tank tops was the most disgusting fucking thing they'd ever seen."

"All right. Thank you, Mr. Tallent; you've been very helpful. I'd like you to come down to the office and look at some pictures, see if you can pick them out."

"Long as I can take a shower first, I got no fucking problem with that."

I can't help smiling at him. "God forbid the Federal Bureau of Investigation should keep you from your shower any longer than absolutely necessary. I'll wait."

"You will, huh?" he asks, grinning around his cigarette. "I don't know about anyone else, but you're welcome to wait right here, Major--what the fuck am I supposed to call you again?" He puts his cigarette out, his eyes never leaving mine.

"People usually go with Specialist," I answer, resisting the urge to tell him to call me Tim.

"Okay, Specialist Bayliss. I'll be out again in a few minutes." And with that he casually strips off his shirt and unbuttons his jeans, letting them fall to the floor as he walks in his boxer briefs towards the bathroom.

The minute I hear the water start, I loosen my tie and take a deep breath, trying to think about anything other than Billy Tallent, naked, in the shower, a few feet from where I'm sitting. Jesus.

I've worked my way through the Orioles' current season, Gideon Hancock, and some of the more gruesome murder scenes I've witnessed, and it's starting to help. Then the water shuts off, and a minute later Tallent walks back out, a towel around his hips, a few stray drops of water on his chest, and I'm right back where I started. Worse, I think he's noticed.

"You all right there, Specialist Bayliss?" he asks with a smirk. "Sure you don't need a shower yourself?"

"I'm fine, Mr. Tallent," I say, looking away. "I'll, uh, I'll wait in the hall while you get dressed."

"No need for that," he answers, and I look back to see him pulling on another loose pair of jeans. "I'll be ready in a minute."

He's quiet in the car on the way to the office, just asks if I mind if he smokes. I shake my head and concentrate on remembering how to get back to the office.

We only have pictures of five UBCC members. Tallent pulls a pair of thick glasses out of his pocket before staring at them. He doesn't recognize any of them, although he says there's a certain similarity to the men he saw.

"Forgive my asking, but were you wearing your glasses earlier?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "Fucking suits at the label hate them, don't want me wearing them in public. I was wearing contacts, but I took them out after the concert."

The people at the label are idiots. "So these men, you think they might be related to the men you saw?"

"Maybe; they've got the same look. It's hard to tell--I mean, have you noticed that all these fucking Mormons look alike?"

"So the men you saw looked, uh, Mormon?" I ask, surprised.

"Yeah, I guess they did. More than the usual concert goers, anyway. Not the kid, though," he adds thoughtfully.

"Eli didn't look Mormon?" I ask, because he did--blond, blue-eyed, with the same basic features you see almost everywhere in this city.

"Looked like he could be related, sure, but he wasn't a fucking Latter Day Saint. Lapsed, maybe."

"What made you think that?"

"Well, last time I heard, Mormons don't allow fags," he says, glancing at me to see how I react.

"Eli told you he was gay?" I ask mildly.

"Told me? No, he didn't fucking tell me, but I could tell, the way he was looking at me."

"He was working as a hustler," I say. "Are you sure he didn't see you as a potential trick?"

"No, it wasn't that," he spits out. "The kid was alone. He was fucking lonely. He came on to me a bit, but he was looking for a friend, not a trick. Can't be too many people like him in this fucking place."

"No, there aren't," I say, although I'm sure there are more than he realizes.

"You knew him, didn't you?" he asks, and I wonder how he guessed.

"I met him last night," I answer. "He was helping with an investigation."

"Did he seem lonely to you?" he asks, his eyes meeting mine.

"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, he did."

"He came on to you, too," he says, surprising me again. This Billy Tallent is a lot sharper than I would have guessed.

I nod, figuring there's no point hiding it. "Yeah, he did."

"Kid had fucking good taste, anyway," he says, laughing.

I've never had a celebrity flirt with me before. I can't remember the last time I felt like this, but I might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

"What are you investigating?" he asks.

"I can't tell you that, Mr. Tallent."

"You can't fucking tell me why the FBI is investigating a teenage hustler ex-Mormon?" he says, his eyebrows raised.

"I'm sorry."

He's quiet for a moment, then looks at me, a sly smile on his face. "Is it because I'm Canadian? The FBI have some new rule against Canadians? Because I have a fucking green card."

"What? No!" I answer, laughing.

"So it's because I'm a celebrity. An infamous fucking rock star."

"No, that's not it either," I say, smiling at him.

"It must be because I'm a fag, then," he says, his gaze as direct as his words. "Can't let any cocksucking Canadian celebrities know any state secrets, right?"

"That's definitely not it," I tell him clearly, meeting his eyes. It's not like I haven't ever done anything monumentally stupid before.

"Glad to hear it," he says, his smile warming. "Because I was beginning to wonder about you, Major Case Specialist Tim Bayliss of the FB fucking I."

"No need to wonder, Mr. Tallent."

"Call me Bill," he says, offering his hand.

I nod, shaking his hand, holding on. Giving up; giving in. "I'm Tim."

Bartlett picks that moment to knock on the door, and I drop Bill's hand like a hot potato. Great, just great.

We have to go over it all again with Bartlett. Bill doesn't seem very impressed with the guy, not that I can blame him. He answers all the questions Bartlett asks, but he's acting like a completely different person. It's like he's turned into some caricature of a rock star, demanding someone go out for some decent coffee immediately, looking bored, rolling his eyes at me when Bartlett can't see, and lighting up right next to the no smoking sign. He's laying it on so thick by the end that I can't believe Bartlett hasn't picked up on it. Fortunately, the interview doesn't last long, and sooner than I expected, Bartlett's ushering us out of the interview room.

"Go get some sleep, Bayliss," Bartlett says.

"I, uh, I'll walk you out," I tell Bill. He nods and follows me.

"So, your boss is a bit of an asshole, huh?" he asks, his eyebrows raised.

"He's not that bad," I say. "You, on the other hand. . . "

"What, you didn't appreciate the rock star shit?" he says, grinning. "Fuck you."

Jesus. "You need a ride to your hotel?" I ask, because I am, in fact, monumentally stupid.

"You see a tour bus anywhere around here? How about a taxi?" he says, his arms wide. "Yeah, I need a ride."

"Where are you staying?"

"Fuck if I know; that's what my manager's for. Where are you staying?"

I smile, shaking my head. "This is a bad idea," I say, but I can't seem to talk myself out of it.

"Shut up and take me home."

"Home is--shit. This isn't home, but I'll take you to where I'm staying."

"Good enough."

He's silent in the car again, but I feel his gaze on me the whole way to the hotel. I park the car, and when I turn to look at him I see him watching me. I lick my lips self-consciously, and he inhales sharply before brushing his thumb over my mouth. I close my eyes, hearing myself make a soft sound in the back of my throat. He leaves his thumb against my lower lip for a second, just resting there, and then it's gone. I fumble my way out of the car and towards my suite, knowing he's right behind me.

The minute I close the door behind us, he shoves me against it and kisses me, his tongue pushing into my mouth. We work our way through to the bedroom, kissing, panting, shedding clothing as we go. By the time we hit the bed, we're both hard, both naked. He pulls me on top of him, I grab his ass, and I'm thrusting desperately against him. He reaches down at the same time that I do, and our hands meet, fingers tangling, his palm on my dick, god, and then I'm coming, and then he's coming, and it's been no more than ten minutes since I opened the door. The last time I felt anything like this it involved a coffin.

I roll to the side to catch my breath. This was stupid. Really stupid. I'm about to leave for an undercover operation, and I just had really great sex with a material witness.

Bill turns to face me. He's flushed, sweaty, his hair still damp from the shower--he looks amazing.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

"What? Nothing. That was--it was great. Nothing's wrong."

He points one long finger at me. "Bullshit."

"No, really," I say sheepishly. "It's just, see, uh, I'm not supposed to have sex with a witness. It's not exactly professional, you know?"

"Too late," he says, smiling.

"Yeah, I know," I say, and I can't help laughing, because I feel fantastic.

"I'm leaving tomorrow anyway," he says, and I think there's a trace of disappointment there, if I'm not imagining it. "The tour, remember?"

"Right, the tour."

"I imagine you'll need to talk to me again about the case, though, right?" he asks. "I'm, like, your star fucking witness."

I look at him. "I think I'm the one doing the star fucking," I say. I try to keep a straight face, but I can feel the side of my mouth twitching.

"You got that right," he says, laughing. "You play your cards right, send me a special subpoena, maybe you'll get lucky again. When do you think you'll need me back here?"

"Uh, Agent Bartlett will stay in touch," I say reluctantly. "You'll probably hear from him sometime in the next couple days."

"Agent Bartlett--why the fuck would I want to talk to that asshole?" he says, surprised. "What about you?"

"I'm not going to be available."

"What, you leaving the country? Quitting the FBI? Going undercover?" he asks.

"I can't talk about it," I say, although right at this moment I really wish I could.

"'Can't talk about it'--fuck, you are going undercover, aren't you?" he asks.

"I told you, Bill, I can't tell you anything."

"Okay, I get it," he says, looking at me. "Just tell me one thing--you have anywhere to be tonight?"

"No, I don't. Not tonight. Not tomorrow either, unless they call me in."

"Good. One more question."

"Anyone ever told you you'd be a good interrogator?" I ask, jabbing at his chest.

"Fuck off. This place have room service?"

I smile. "Yeah, it does."

He slaps my thigh. "What the fuck are you waiting for? Tonight I played in front of screaming fans for two hours, got interrogated for another couple hours, flirted with a fucking FBI agent, and then had some really great sex. I'm fucking starving. What do you want?"

"Veggie lasagna and a garden salad, ranch dressing. And garlic bread. No, no garlic bread. Dessert. You pick. I'm going to, uh, go wash up." Yeah, that was smooth. Jesus.

"Veggie lasagna, salad, dessert, got it," he says, ticking the items off on his fingers. "You got an extra robe or something?"

"Back of the door," I say, pointing.