"Mr. Griffin?" Dr. Ashton called softly as she entered Savannah's room. "I have some oddly encouraging news for you."

Kermit looked over Savannah's bed into the doctor's exhausted face. He had waited patiently as a second wave of technicians and white coats had put his wife through another round of tests. More needles and xrays and machinery plugged into her body seemed only pointless torture.

"And that would be...?" His tone betrayed the doubt.

Even with the substantial medical evidence she'd obtained, the doctor was still surprised herself. "We use something called The Glasgow Scale to rate coma patients. Immediately after the surgery, Savannah was a three. No eye contact, no motor response, no pain reflex. But now," under the intense scrutiny of a pair of dark green shades, the doctor uncovered her patient's foot and pricked it with a needle, "look."

Kermit watched as the pale limb extended itself ever so slightly. "What does that mean? Is she waking up?"

"No, nothing that dramatic, I'm afraid." Carefully, she slid the foot back under the blanket. "But, it is promising. The EEG also showed a greater range of activity. A slight increase, but material."

The pounding in his chest made breathing difficult. "So you say there's slight improvement. What are you doing to keep it going?" Groping bindly, never taking his eyes from the physician, Kermit squeezed his wife's hand; holding on the best way he knew how.

Dropping down wearily into a chair, the woman shook her head. "That's another issue. You see," she struggled with her own doubts, "I'm not sure if this is just spontaneous or if it has to do with a visit from a local apothecary. Caine. I believe he's a friend of your family?"

Kwai Chang Caine. He should have known the priest would come. "Yes. He has helped us from time to time." Smiling at the thought, Kermit explained, "He delivered our child."

"I've never been, well, an advocate of alternative medicine," the doctor leaned in more closely to punctuate her concern, "but, if you want to continue this Caine's visits, I see no harm in doing so." Rising from her chair and shaking her head in dismay, she said, "I'm not sure if I'm ready to credit this improvement to," she fumbled over the syllables, "Qi Gong, but right now, ammo is ammo."

As the doctor left, Kermit breathed in the slight victory and counted himself lucky to know one Caine who could help him. Bringing Savannah's limp fingers to his lips, he whispered, "I knew you were trying. We'll keep trying to get to you, sweetcakes. You just keep trying to get to us."

His only answer lay in the steady music from monitoring equipment.

It was now official. Detective Peter Caine was no longer a part of them. Dismissed. Hung out to dry. Terminated.

******

The farewell scene was brief. Peter just slung his jacket over his shoulder, leaving his belongings in his desk, a casual "See ya'" trailing throughout the precinct. He ignored calls and requests for him to stop. Jody reached out a hand to him as he passed. He ignored her as he kept his eyes down, not looking at anyone.

Mary Margaret Skalany and Jody Powell fought the tears in their eyes. T.J. Kincaid stood against the wall, unable to believe that Peter would leave without a fight. Strenlich and Broderick looked like they were carved out of stone, determined not to let an expression cross their faces. Blake...Detective Blake looked mad as hell. He refused to even look up, ignoring the whole proceeding, with his jaw clenched, eyes focused on his paperwork, and wearing the headphones on another yet endless recording.

They all watched Peter leave before turning to look at one another, helplessness betrayed in each glance. Then, most of them turned to look at Detective Griffin's closed door.

"All right," Simms's voice sliced through the silence, "get back to work."

"I am not working," Blake suddenly declared, standing up. "I am going for doughnuts."

Struck speechless, the others stared at him till he glared back at them. "What?! Life goes on and I'm hungry. I'm getting doughnuts. You all want any or not? Last call."

The befuddled detectives finally nodded. "Yeah, doughnuts...." Skalany repeated. "Sure, Blake. Good idea."

The others nodded assent, obviously deciding to humor a madman.

"C'mon, T.J., help me out," Blake fairly ordered.

"Oh, sure," T.J. drawled sarcastically, "I don't have anything better to do than to go on a doughnut run for this historic occasion." He grabbed his jacket and, two minutes later, the two detectives were in Blake's car, driving to the doughnut shop.

I don't believe this, T.J. mused silently as Blake drove.

After a long, boring silence, Blake asked, "So, anytime we need backup, T.J.'s our man. Huh?"

"Sure," T.J. said, confused.

"You heard something down in the interrogation room, didn't you? Before the hearing."

T.J. felt like he'd just had a bucket of cold water dumped on him. "WHAT?!"

"You heard me."

"Why would you want to know?" T.J. countered. He couldn't figure out how Blake knew in the first place.

"Are you interested in pursuing a case? A case that could get you fired but could be the single most important case of the precinct?" Blake studied T.J.'s expression. "Because if you are, I'd want to know if you wanted the evidence in my possession."

"What kind of evidence?"

"The evidence that might be required to reinstate Detective Caine."

T.J. caught his breath. So he wasn't the only one who suspected that there was more to this than met the eye. "If you have evidence, why don't you go to the Captain?"

"It's probably circumstantial at best. I need an investigator. A detective whoms not worried about taking the heat. I have too much to lose."

And I don't? thought T.J. But he knew he could never turn down an innocent in trouble. Peter was letting them walk all over him because of guilt. If he, T.J., could help turn it around..."What's your evidence?"

"I had the room bugged." Blake couldn't suppress a grin at T.J.'s completely shocked look.

"The...the IA hearing area as well," Blake tossed lightly, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary.

T.J. couldn't believe his ears. Blake was such an upright, law-abiding, by-the-book cop. To actually record such a session seemed so unlike Blake.

"I haven't listened to it, of course," Blake assured quickly. "I just have the tape. All twenty minutes of it. If I give this to you...."

"You have my word," T.J. promised, knowing instantly what the older cop would want. Complete, total privacy. This way, Blake could help while staying completely out of the matter.

Blake reluctantly dug the tape out of his pocket. "I was saving this for Captain Blaisdell," he admitted, "but I don't think he'll be coming soon." As if the action caused physical pain, he gingerly placed the tape onto T.J.'s palm.

T.J. handled the tape if it was pure gold and for one person, ....it just might be. "Why me?"

"The others are too personally involved. You already suspect something. You have the necessary drive and dedication to pull this off. And you have friends in high places."

Friends in high places. T.J. began to view this wallflower cop in a different light. Blaisdell. There was more of a tie there than former captain and detective.

"All right, youngster," Blake hardened his voice, but quirked the corner of his mouth, "I'll give you a bone. Yes, Blaisdell and I go back a long way, to a time that doesn't have much to do with hard bound police codes and regulations. Thus, his kid means something to me."

"So, if Peter 'means something' to you because of Blaisdell, why don't you want anyone to know you're involved in helping him stay on the force?" T.J. still couldn't fathom the bonding session he was being drawn into with someone who had rarely looked up from his electronic tinkering to say 'Good morning.'

Still staring at the road, Blake answered, "Because Kermit was part of that life, too, and my loyalties go both ways." The cost of choosing was displayed in a white knuckled grip on the wheel. "I also know how it feels to see your wife torn into tiny pieces by stray bullets." Blake closed off the explainations with a deep breath and eyes fixed on the road.

"Enough said." T.J. slipped the cassette into his pocket and let it drop.

For now.

******

Driving was his only refuge at the moment. Going home meant being inside four walls with only himself for company. Going to his father's meant ten thousand years of comfort and candles. Peter Caine opted for an aimless drive for distraction. The Stealth would hide him away.

Except from yourself, he thought, stopping at a four-way. Looking around the streets, he took in the generic masses milling around him. People he didn't know. People he had sworn to protect and people who expected that oath to mean something. These people trusted him to watch their backs and be their shield.

The failure bubbled again. What was he now? Clawing a hand through his hair, he faded back into the upholstery. Peter smelled the acrid aroma of spent gunfire and blood once again. Air took on the weight of lead.

His eyes rested on his smooth forearms. Another failure that had felt like a victory. Another bad decision. Weary eyes focused once again on the crowd crossing passed his car. They were 'the public.' Who was he? No longer cop. Never Shaolin.

The jittery interruption of his cellphone cut through the character assassination. Gripping the plastic in a clinched fist, he answered. "Caine."

Yo, Pete! It is I, your eyes and ears to the unseemly world of crime. Donny Double D's voice sang out through the air.

"Donny, in case you haven't heard--"

I've heard of your unfortunate dismissal, Detective. I mean... uh... Donny's usually entertaining prose failed. Well, I got information burning a hole in my newly acquire designer wear that you'll want. Badge or no badge.

Years of reflex took over. "Make it quick."

Short and sweet is the order of the day, Donny babbled on over the line. It seems that an ambitious young Turk of your interest has been heard mouthin' off about breakin' into one Bon Bon Hai's organization through a relative. Rumor has it that said junior hoodlum has ties to another thorn in the side of local justice jockeys.

Pulling through the intersection, Peter felt his cop self gaining ground again. "Cut the flowers and get to the point, Donny!"

Yes, sir, Pete! Seems Clarence Choi is Blood Lao's cousin. Donny fell obediently silent. I sincerely hope that this information will be advantageous to poppin' the perpetrator of the recent unpleasantness.

"I owe you, Donny." Peter was shifting into high gear along with his vehicle.

On the house, Donny responded, disconnecting quickly.

The ride went by in a blur of buildings and anger. Clarence Choi. Clarence Choi, the hood with nine lives. In a torrent of rage and shame, Peter Caine focussed on the habitual criminal . Smartass grin leering at him as Clarence rammed a needle into his chest. Slick hoodlum style tormenting innocent people on the street.

He knew the address; it had been common knowledge since Clarence had scammed his way past his last parole hearing. Screeching into a parking space, Peter barreled from his vehicle with a singular focus -- getting to Clarence and making him give up the boy.

Storming his way around the corner of the building, the former detective became painfully aware of the void where his weapon used to hang comfortably inside his jacket. *Won't need it,* he rationalized. Hands would have to do. Hands would do nicely. All the failure and rage surged through his veins with razor-edged voltage.

Release was just inside the building. Peter snatched the lobby doors open, only to be stopped cold by a vise grip on his shirt sleeve. Spinning with fury bottled for days, the young man whirled from the hold. Striking only air as a blur of tan cloth coat danced away, Peter's senses began to register over reflex.

"Not the time, Pop." Peter snapped the words toward his father then turned back toward the door.

"This will not help, my son." Caine held to door sealed with a one handed effort.

"This is POLICE busin--" The habitual complaint against his father's interference lost substance and evaporated in the face of his reality.

"I am aware of this." Caine stood firm, a compassionate hand reaching for his son once again. When the touch was refused, he said, "I know why you are here and it will be a fruitless venting of frustrations."

"Clarence Choi is hiding that little murderer!" Peter stepped back away from the judgment and pity directed at him, sticking to his flesh like blood. "He's going to tell me where."

"He would not tell others. Mary Margaret has already told me this." The relentless immovable object stayed in place.

Pacing replaced the face off. Peter shook his head in time with the steps. "Oh, I remember now! You and Clarence had this confessional relationship going. That line of bullshit he laid at your sandals a couple of years ago seems to have bought and paid for your protection! Nice, Pop!"

"That is incorrect." Caine watched the boiling rage consuming the son he loved. Foregoing any pointless defense of his attempts to help Clarence Choi, the priest focused on the heart of the matter. "Harming this man, unsavory as he is, will not resolve anything."

A sad bite of laughter met his guidance. "Might make me feel better."

"You know that is not so."

"Do I?!" Peter Caine met his father's burdened gaze. "Maybe you don't know me as well as you thought."

"Well, good thing I KNOW YOU!" Jody Powell stormed over the sidewalk, all shreds of compassion banished from her expression. "Donny called me, too, and I KNEW you'd pull this wild crap and butt in!"

"I'm doing what I have to do." Peter stood his ground, ignoring the fact that he was no longer part of this team.

"Well save your macho posturing, Peter." Jody pulled her badge and flashed it brazenly in his face. "You see this?! This puts ME in charge of this case and regardless of what you or Kermit or any freakin' body else thinks."

"Then BE in charge and get the information!" Peter shot back, stepping up to bellow back into her face. She was the enemy now, too.

Breathing in the smell of his hurt and anger shook free her indignation. Jody understood why he was here. Feeling comfortable with Caine as a silent support, she softened. "If Clarence knows anything, he's not telling, Peter. Kermit and I were already here and--"

"Kermit was here?" He should have guessed. Running a nervous hand through his hair, he looked away.

"Yes, and it did about as much good as what you were about to do." Pulling a notepad from her purse, she offered an olive branch. "T.J. did come across a new piece of information that may give us a trail. Bon Bon Hai's organization is split into a few dozen subsidiaries, one being a cargo line to mainland China. A flight left the day after the shooting and a baggage handler may have seen our boy board that flight. I'm on my way there to meet my partner and question the guy."

Already moving, Peter was still operating in full-battle cop mode. "I'm going with you."

Reduced to chasing the long legs as she had days before, Jody gave up the urge to argue. Time was short. She could waste air and effort, but elected not to try. "You can go, but as an observer ONLY. Peter? Peter....do you understand?!"

Getting into the Stealth, he paused to offer a whispered answer. "I understand, Jody. I'm not a cop anymore."

******

Jody cast one final pained glance at the priest, who had remained silent through the brief onslaught of emotion. The slight bow of a gray head was her only advice as they drove away toward the airport.

Detectives Kincaid and Powell returned to the 101st precinct with all the force of two deflated balloons. T.J. deposited their paperwork neatly onto his desk, focusing on the pile of defeat before him. Losing this perp was more than personal, it was a slap in the already battered face of every member of the precinct.

The sharp resonance of a foot connecting with metal drew everyone's attention. Jody slammed her boot into the desk and gracelessly clattered her armload of purse and keys and coat to the cluttered surface. Anger colored her face bright red, as the frustrated woman leaned forward, palms flattened against her desk.

"Hey, partner," T.J. moved in behind her, sharing Jody's defeat, "city property can be expensive."

Swallowing angry bites of air, Jody tried to control the flood of frustration threatening to break free. "Did we do our job, T.J.? We tried to lock down the city, but if we'd made the connection with Choi a few hours sooner--"

"Don't do that," he answered quietly. "We were on it. Every cop in this town was on it and he slipped away."

Jody closed her eyes against the memory of Peter's face when the witnesses has identified Henry Lao as a passenger on that cargo plane. The shoulders, board-straight with purpose, had slumped in surrender. He had walked away without a word into his own private nightmare.

T.J. knew her thoughts. Watching Peter give up was nearly as painful as loosing their last chance of finding the animal who had triggered the destruction. Touching his partner's arm, T.J. whispered, "It hurts me, too. Let's go talk to the captain. Get it over with."

"Perfect end to a perfect day," Jody quipped, straightening her body and clothing. Simms wouldn't be pleased, she was certain of that.

Walking side by side, the pair made their way to the captain's door. After a polite rapping request, they entered Karen Simms's domain and closed the door behind them.

The weight of failure hung heavy in the small office that was Karen's home away from home. "Get it over with," she commanded, leaning back in her leather chair to accept another headache.

After a short recitation of the facts from two battle weary detectives, Karen Simms felt a vanquished growl rumble deep inside her throat. "Are both of you positive about this? You have adequate confirmation?"

"Yes, ma'am," T.J. confirmed. "Positive ID from a baggage handler and a mechanic. The kid used the name of an employee fired a couple of weeks earlier. He's history."

"What about extradition?" Jody's sharp tone belied her desperation.

"That would be a state department issue, but I find it less than likely given that he's not even been charged." Karen could read the pain of failure in the woman's eyes.

Jody leaped to her feet and began to pace. "Couldn't he be tried in absentia, Captain? They did it with that ex-hippie who killed his girlfriend in Boston. He was hiding in Europe and they--"

"ON WHAT EVIDENCE, Detective Powell?!" The bark halted Jody's frantic pacing and set T.J.'s posture bolt upright. "You have no evidence. No eye witnesses. No fingerprints. No case! No perp!" Karen assumed her customary rigid stance and walked to the center of the room. "No DA in his right mind would touch it unless we had someone to id Blood Lao as the shooter."

"How do you know for sure?!" Jody snapped from a safe distance.

"BECAUSE," Karen cut her anger in half and softened her tone, "I asked already."

Jody rocked back and forth on her heels, arms folded around the ache in her middle. T.J. elected to redirect toward the next order of business. "Who's going to tell Kermit?"

"I will." Karen grabbed her coat and headed to the door. As she struggled into the sleeves, she looked back at the two people suffering in her office. "You gave it your best. I know that. Don't beat yourselves up. It's counter productive."

Leaving her less-than-effective comfort behind, Captain Simms closed the door and went to face a hurricane.

******

His blood must be completely converted to coffee by now. Karen hesitated at the entrance to the ICU lounge. Kermit leaned against the cool glass front of a vending machine in a mass of wrinkles. Even with his back turned toward her, the woman could read unspeakable burdens in the stooped shoulders. Swilling caffeine from a styrofoam cup, he seemed to be living in the hopelessness of the moment.

Drawing in a deep breath, Karen strolled forward to deliver her news. Resorting to a professional mask to deliver police information, she elected to be direct. "Kermit, I have some news for you. You won't like it."

The dark head lifted but the body stayed immobile. "What?"

Karen continued to address the bowed muscles facing her. "From all indications, Henry Lao left the country on a cargo plane bound for mainland China on the day following the shooting."

No reply or acknowledgment met her revelation. It was unnerving at best, but she continued. " An eye witness at the airport identified him and he used a phony name on the manifest." Karen moved in closer, waiting for the explosion.

The body betrayed no response.

"The plane belongs to a transport firm run by a subsidiary of Bon Bon Hai's organization and they have explained him as a stowaway and deny any complicity."

Kermit downed the contents of his cup then let it fall lightly from his hand into the garbage can. Never turning to face her, the dark shades glued themselves to the sight of his discarded cup.

Karen was unsure as to the appropriate reaction. She had prepared for fury and found indifference. "Kermit, we're not going to give up. There's always the possibility of extradition."

Turning slowly to face her, he huffed a painful amusement. Any comfort she offered was a fantasy. Kermit brushed her hand away, leaving a wordless defeat in his wake as he left the room in silence.

"Damn.....I hate this job." Karen leaned against the vending machine glass, still warm from her friend's shoulder, and closed her eyes. Sharing his defeat and feeling her own.

******

"'Saulters'," T.J. repeated, spelling the name.

The man typed the requested name onto his computer and waited for the printout. "I can't believe you have me doing this," the man whined. "You have a computer tech at your office - why drag me into this?"

"Because you owe me about 20 million favors, Harvey," T.J. retorted, not mentioning the fact that Kermit Griffin would rather boil himself in oil rather than to help Peter get out of the IAD mess. "And now, you're down to 19,999,999 favors. Hurry up."

"Believe me, I'm hurrying," the nervous tech from the 73rd precinct assured. "You know what we could get for investigating an IAD officer?"

"A job offer from the CIA?"

Harvey studiously ignored his colleague as the appropriate information was brought up. T.J. fervently hoped that he was heading in the right direction. He had listened to Blake's recording for hours on end last night, analyzing every phrase, every sound. As he had been dozing at 3:00 in the morning, it finally hit him. He was listening for a sound that was not there. Saulters had gone over Peter's past cases, using them as nails for the coffin. Reciting names and dates to throw back into Peter's face. It finally hit T.J. that he could not hear the rustle of papers. Even Peter had been fuzzy on specific dates but Saulters knew every detail without even consulting Peter's file. Without even turning a page to confirm one name. He knew Peter's file by heart.

With the conversation he had heard, this made perfect sense. Saulters must have been trying to nail Peter for a very long time. Knew all his cases and searched for flaws in every one. Something that would provide him with a good excuse. And now, as they were all presented together, it painted a very bleak picture of a detective who never cared about protocol and SOP, doing as he pleased whenever he pleased. It had sealed Peter's fate.

But Saulters was prejudiced. He hadn't bothered to tally the points for what Peter had done for the department. He glossed over those and Simms and Peter were hardly in any position to refute them. Everything Peter said, he made sure to rephrase out of content.

The kangaroo court is back from the circus, T.J. thought to himself. Now, it was Saulters' turn. T.J. had to have proof. Blake was right. The tape was circumstantial and would only serve to get Blake in trouble. They needed cold, hard facts.

Harvey had brought up every case Saulters had worked on. Now, he was correlating those with the cases that Saulters and Peter had crossed paths. T.J. only hoped there would be enough to prove his case.

"Oh, perfect," T.J. muttered, leaning over Harvey's shoulder. "This is perfect. Just beautiful...print that up, will you? Just perfect...." T.J. was on the verge of crawling into the terminal in his excitement. Harvey pushed him back, annoyed, and gave the appropriate commands.

"Dad, I need to talk to you about-"

Holding up one large hand to stop the rampaging advance of his first born, Commissioner Kincaid chimed sarcastically, "Nice to see you too, son. Come here to take me to lunch, have you?" Dropping his hand and pasted-on smile, he said, "Oh, I forgot. You don't HAVE lunch with me."

Sheepishly, the detective stopped to take in his father's customary martyr speech. "Sorry. Maybe we can fix that...after we talk."

The commissioner stared intently at his son. He was well aware of his son's opinions concerning the political circles his father traveled in these days. T.J. was into people and saving the world one piece at a time. He saw bureaucracy as a hindrance. Thus, the conflict.

Gesturing to a chair, Commissioner Kincaid folded his work and gave his son his full attention. "I know that look."

Shifting into PR mode, T.J. gave his father a warm grin. "What look?"

As his son slid into the offered chair, the father replied, "What kid down the street has such a bad home life that he should come live with us? What stray do I have to take to the vet for you? What-"

"I get the picture, Dad, but this is different."

"It always is." Knowing that the details and subsequent request were inevitable, the older man loosened his tie and bit. "All right. Shoot."

"It's about Peter Caine."

"NO!!!" came the unusually harsh response to the implied question.

"You haven't-"

"I SAID NO!!!"

"DAD! I am NOT twelve anymore! Listen to what I have to say! I'm not asking to borrow the car for the night! This is important!!! We're talking about a life here!"

Commissioner Kincaid looked at his impassioned son in surprise. Although T.J. claimed that many things were important, this sounded different. "A life?" he asked quietly. "Don't you think Detective Caine made his own bed in this?"

"I don't know about the case, but I know he didn't get a fair hearing with Interal Affairs and that's wrong."

The Commissioner got up, rounded the desk and looked his concerned son in the eye. "T.J., you have never - NEVER - let your position as my son interfere with your job. Why now?"

T.J. glared at him. "It's not interfering," he snapped. "I just happen to know a high-ranking county official and want to know if he's going to permit an incident of injustice. Whatever happened, at least allow Detective Caine a fair trial!"

"I can't do anything about it," the Commissioner returned, walking around to sit down at his desk again. "The case has been closed. Detective Caine has probably already been terminated."

"You can reopen it," T.J. said desperately.

"I can't just 'reopen it', I can suggest," the Commissioner corrected, "and I can't suggest without a good reason."

"I have a good reason. Saulters was biased against Detective Caine."

"How would you know that?"

T.J. opened his briefcase and showed his father the facts.

******

The blanket of wall-to-wall smoke should have sent Peter into a coughing fit. He had spent most of the day buried in this bar, hiding among strangers and stale smells of cigarettes and beer. Home was too quiet. Friends were to full of pity. There was no where else to go.

He'd hauled himself out of his apartment after days of self imposed isolation. Ignoring the pounding on his door and the endless intrusions on his answering machine, the tortured man had cut himself off from the world. Don't drag anyone else down with you.

All could be forced or frightened away. All except one.

He felt that now-familiar nudge to his thoughts. He had thought it was his soul at first, but he rejected that. He didn't really deserve a soul -- so how could he accept impressions upon it? The familiar presence came again into his fuddled brain. It was his father again, asking to help. Offering support and love. Peter turned and envisioned the most graphic image he could think of - his father's ceremonial dagger buried in his father's heart if he didn't leave him alone. That always got his father to leave, if only for a short time. He'd be back. His father knew him too well. Peter only wished that he had known himself that well. Wished that he'd never been born, in fact. Paul wouldn't have exhausted himself trying to salvage a hellbent teenager and Caine wouldn't have had a fifteen-year depression over his death. In fact, Caine might even be married again if not for him. Married with a new family, maybe with another son who wasn't too bullheaded to listen to half of what he said. And Kermit...Kermit would have his wife, safe and whole, if not for him.

Gripping the same drink he had been nursing for an hour, Peter finally tossed back the remains of warm amber liquid, swirling a mouthful before swallowing. Savoring the burning, tingling sensation, he was sorely tempted to send his body into another night of blissful, drugged unconsciousness. Slamming the glass down onto the bar, he forced himself to stop. Booze meant release. He didn't deserve release. It was too easy. He had tried it once already and it only made it worse, much worse.

"Killing yourself won't make her well," a voice said softly behind him.

Peter didn't turn. He recognized the voice. "But it might make amends," he returned, staring down into the empty glass. Empty...like me.

T.J. took a seat next to Peter. There was little he could say to refute that. Kermit Griffin probably would be satisfied to see Peter Caine twisted into a drunken, hopeless wreck. T.J. also knew that by antagonizing Peter, he might make himself into a target for Peter's pain.

"Go away."

T.J. raised an eyebrow. "Last time I looked, this was a free country. Not a free bar, but a free country."

Peter tried another tactic. "What do you want?" Maybe he could just give T.J. some buzzwords, some magic phrases that he wanted to hear so that he would go away.

"I've come on business." T.J. whipped out a card and wrote a time on the back of it. "Be at that office at the 59th precinct at 3:00 p.m. a week from tomorrow. Can you pull it together long enough for that?"

Peter didn't take the card. Eyes bloodshot from smoke and too many sleepless nights scanned the card and then the detective. "What for?"

"Another meeting with Internal Affairs."

Peter sighed. "Sure. They want to formally arrest me this time? I'm game." Maybe he did need another drink. Tapping on the bar, he signaled the bartender.

"No arrest - just more questions."

Peter sighed again. To T.J., his exhaustion and despair were obvious. "Look, they fired me. What the hell else to they need??! It won't help Sa...anyone."

"It might just get your job back." At Peter's questioning look, T.J. elaborated. "Some...new evidence has been unearthed. Saulters, the guy in charge of the questioning, was biased against you. It's been proven."

"Smart guy, evidently." Peter's sarcasm wafted throught the foul bar room air.

"Saulters and Blaisdell had a history, Peter. Some stupid competitive vendetta since they joined the force. Blaisdell excelled, Saulters didn't and it pissed him off." T.J. recounted the tale, "Saulters has a list of complaints against Captain Blaisdell that range from use of unauthorized firearms to being the wrong parking space."

"And just what the hell does that have to do with me?" Peter just wanted to be alone. He was tired of thinking and listening.

"The final complaint has to do with you." T.J. dropped a one page complaint over the peanuts scattered on the bar. "Seems Saulters tried to have Blaisdell dismissed for bringing in a relative under his command. From the file, the big brass seems to have decided Saulters wasn't a 'team player' since he focused more time on discrediting the captain than his own precinct and transferred him to IA."

"Sounds like perfect material for IA." Peter remembered the circling-shark mentality of Saulters not that he cared much.

At the continued silence, T.J. explained, "He railroaded you into a dismissal. Another IA investigator, one who has no association whatsoever with the 101st, has been assigned to evaluate....UPH!!!" Peter, in a move that belied his exhausted appearance, grabbed the detective and threw him to the floor.

"ARE YOU INSANE!!!???" Peter yelled, holding him by the coat lapels. He yanked T.J. to meet him face to face. "What'd you do - call Daddy's help???"

"And why not?! YOU do all the time!" T.J. spat.

As if punched by an invisible fist, Peter shuddered and slowly released T.J., making the other detective feel guilty. Peter felt bad enough already without throwing an inferiority complex and live-up-to-parents'-expectation problems into it. "Sorry, Peter. I didn't mean it that way." Peter waved him off but T.J. grabbed his arm, his fingers pressing into the flesh in his urgency. "I meant, if you need help, your family will be there to help. And you have family, Peter. Not just your father, but the entire precinct. We want to help. YES, I went to Mr. High and Mighty Commissioner. He was the only one who could suggest that the case be reopened. But, Pete, even if he wasn't my father, I WOULD HAVE DONE THE EXACT SAME THING!!!"

"And what happens if I get my job back, T.J.?" Peter asked quietly. "What happens when some other innocent gets killed because of me? What if it's Kat that gets it next time? Did my 'family' think of that angle?! Did you?"

"No, not really," T.J. said, "because we don't think it will happen. It didn't really happen this time."

"Your opinion."

"OUR opinion," T.J. corrected, "and probably IA's as well. Will you go?"

Peter looked down at his drink and drained the glass. "Why not?" he said finally. "Might be good for a laugh."

"Good." T.J. straightened his coat and patted his friend's arm. "New hearing's in a week. Give everything a few days to cool down and you a chance to get some sleep."

"Yeah, right." Peter turned back to the bar, ignoring T.J.'s parting words of comfort and exit.

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