A/N: In penance for the enourmous amount of time since my last update, this chapter is longer than others have been, and also begins to contain some answers...

Thank you to lily moonlight for discussion and reading, this chapter is also dedicated to her as a birthday present. Thanks also to everyone who's reviewed, added this to their alerts and favourites lists, and to everyone who's been poking me, subtly or otherwise, for an update!

Danny jammed the SUV haphazardly against the kerb, in a ‘No Parking’ section of the street. Hawkes, once he had recovered from the sudden jerk forward, broken sharply by the seat belt, almost called out to warn him that a traffic warden was approaching, but then saw the look on his face and decided against it.

“Sir, you can’t park there – ” the warden, a young woman, called sharply, a frown on her face, but Danny glowered at her and held up his badge. She hesitated, and then moved on, giving both him and the vehicle a wide berth.

“Why weren’t you at the hospital?” Danny asked accusingly as they retrieved their kits from the trunk.

Hawkes sighed. “I’m on shift. I was busy at the lab, and I couldn’t leave.” Frustration was evident in Danny’s every tense movement, and he wasn’t about to take it personally. The anger was at the whole situation. He could feel the same anger smouldering in his chest, but restrained it, choosing to maintain outward calm. “How’s Mac?”

“Worried sick about Stell. Not so concerned about himself, which is just typical, but he’s not lookin’ so great. He doesn’t know what happened, so no one else does either.” Danny jerked his head, as if trying to shake away unwanted thoughts. “I hope this is quick..”

“We don’t know that anything’s happened to Stella,” Hawkes pointed out. “We could all just be jumping to conclusions.

“Yeah? Since when have you known her completely drop off the radar like this? She knows about Mac, and she’s not here. That’s reason enough for worry, or haven’t you noticed?”

“Danny, calm down.”

Danny briefly closed his eyes, and ran his free hand through his hair. “Sorry, man.”

“No worries,” Hawkes told him. “You got the info on this case from Angell?”

“Nah, she said you’d fill me in.” Clearly, he’d been too busy brooding to remember to ask for the information on the ride over.

“It’s a dump job.” Hawkes said as he led the way across the paved square, to a line of artificially placed flowerbeds attempting unsuccessfully to mask the delivery entrance to a large fast food outlet, describing the general outline of the case as he did so. He also hoped that this case would not take long, although he felt a stirring of guilt at the thought, and didn’t vocalise it. Every victim should get the same attention, he knew, every life which passed through their work hours treated equally, but at the same time he also knew that he was wishing fervently that he could be doing something else, something that would help them find where Stella was. He wondered how long it would be before they made their worry official, rather than just something which lurked in shadows in the corners of all their minds, playing on their fears.

Danny had overtaken him as soon as he’d stopped talking, and was already crouching by the middle-aged man who lay prone on the damp earth, yellowing stems of last season’s dead flowers crushed beneath him. His blue button-down shirt was stained with dirt. Angell was standing nearby, her face empty of her usual blend of humour and sarcasm. She, too, was wishing that she was elsewhere, on the other case which wasn’t a case, which no one was mentioning. “No ID,” she said bluntly, aiming her words at Danny. Hawkes already knew, of course. “He’s got a cell phone in his pocket, switched off.”

There were no signs of a struggle, and no other imprints surrounded him in the dirt.

“We know what killed him?” Danny asked.

“No obvious injury,” Hawkes told him. “There’s what appears to be an injection site on his neck, so possibly he was poisoned, or OD’d, and it must have happened elsewhere and his body carried or dragged here. But – ”

“Let me guess,” Danny interrupted dryly. “No one saw anything.”

Angell shrugged, her expression and tone flat. “What, in this city? You’re looking for a miracle, Messer.”

-

“I’m not staying here,” Mac stated firmly.

“Mac, don’t be ridiculous,” Flack said. “You’re in no condition to leave just yet. You need to listen to Doctor – ”

“Philips,” supplied the man in the white coat, for the third time, his glasses slightly askew on his thin nose which, coupled with his ruffled brown hair, gave him a general air of studiousness. At the moment, though, his expression was one of frustration at the stubbornness of his patient.

“Yeah, just listen to Doc Philips here. He says you need to stay in bed.”

“I’m discharging myself. Refusing medical treatment.” His eyes dared the other men to try and stop him.

Dr Philips groaned. “Look, you know that I can’t stop you, but I must recommend – ”

Mac’s head was pounding, and he would have liked nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep, but he knew that he couldn’t. He needed to get up and get back to the lab. Stella needed him to, whether or not anyone would yet admit that she was in trouble. Some dark place inside him was certain of it. So he cut in again, “I know, but I’m leaving.”

Dr Philips shot a desperate look at Flack, who shrugged, recognising defeat. “I’ll keep an eye on him, doc.”

He sighed. “Alright then, you’re discharged.” He held up his hands. “Against my recommendation, but I guess I lose. If you drop dead, don’t blame me. I’ll get the paperwork.” He backed out of the room.

“I’ve got a change of clothes back at the lab,” Mac said, before Flack could voice the disapproval which was written all over his face.

Flack instead gave a reluctant grin, and used his foot to push a duffel bag into view, from where it had been hidden beneath the bed. “Actually, Danny brought this with him. He thought you might want it. Apparently no one in your lab has the least bit of sense.”

Mac raised an eyebrow. “Stop pretending, Don, you want to be trying to find Stella as much as I do, not waiting cooped up in here.”

“Yeah,” Flack admitted, and sighed. “Yeah, I do. Alright, I’ll wait for you outside.”

-

The young journalist got to the scene just as the squad car pulled away, trailing a black SUV. He sighed, knowing that by now there would likely be nothing worth photographing, if there had ever been anything. Some murders were more newsworthy than others, and although nondescript middle-aged men rated higher on that scale than homeless people, or junkies, they weren’t often worth a proper story unless they turned out to be someone important. By the lack of other news vultures, he guessed that wasn’t the case today.

But still, he parked down the street and walked across the square with his notebook and camera, and laptop slung in a bag over one shoulder, just in case. After all, this was why he had been sent on this scouting mission – they were always looking for the story that no one else had. If the man turned out to be someone important, or the victim of a serial killer like the taxi cab murderer – he shuddered at the memory – then it certainly wouldn’t hurt the paper to have exclusive pictures and information.

However, the scene was disappointing. Only the slightly crushed plants and the yellow tape distinguished it as a place where a crime had been committed. Dutifully, he took a couple of photographs, and then, unwilling to drive back to his office immediately, crossed to the café at the other side of the square and selected a table with a good view of the scene, and a cup of coffee to go with it. Dark clouds were hanging threateningly in the sky, but he trusted the awning to keep away errant drops of rain. He opened his laptop, and began working on his current article.

He glanced up now and then, people watching, out of a habit he now cultivated. He was practiced at picking out people who seemed interesting, people who might have a story about them. So from time to time, when he glanced up from the screen, he found his eyes following the woman holding the hand of a toddler, both of them with a face-paint butterfly spreading wings across their cheeks, and looking not in the least bit embarrassed about it, the girl in a high-school uniform who was reading a book as she walked, not lifting her head to steer around obstacles and people, the man with a baseball cap pulled low on his bent head and hands stuffed deep in his pockets, an air of furtiveness surrounding him, passing close enough to the café that the dirt on his pant knees was noticeable…

The man strode across the square, and stopped by the flowerbeds, standing there just slightly too casually. He glanced around him, and held his arm out. Something metallic flashed in the dull light as it fell. He remained for a few seconds, and then strode off, passing the tables again, not sparing a glance for the customers.

He had dropped something onto where the crime scene had been. That was too much of an opportunity to pass by. The young journalist hesitated for a second, looking around him. He caught the eye of a Latino woman half-reading a book, bopping her head slightly to the tunes leaking out of the single earphone she was wearing. "Excuse me?" he asked. "Would you mind watching my stuff for a minute, please?"

“Sure thing, hon,” she assured him.

He picked up his camera, and walked over to the flowerbed. A few of the plants were beginning to wilt, their stalks crushed by the weight of the body that had lain on them. He crouched down. A dull cloth bag now lay on a patch of bare earth.

A rudimentary knowledge of crime scenes made him pause before touching it, but he reasoned that it could quite possibly be a piece of trash carelessly tossed away, the location of its landing a coincidence.

In case it wasn’t a coincidence (he didn’t really believe it was; his job had taught him well), he snapped several photos with his camera, from a couple of different angles. Then he loosened the drawstring, shaking out the contents.

A necklace slithered out to the ground. It seemed vaguely familiar, but he didn’t wait to place it, tilting the bag, so that the other, larger item, fell out to join it. It landed face up. A police badge.

Suddenly he realised where he had seen the necklace before.

He remembered to take another photograph, and then stood up quickly, searching his cell for the number he needed. He dialled, waited impatiently, until an artificial voice informed him that the man he was trying to reach was currently unavailable. He tried the other number he had, and this time heard the telephone at the end of the line ring. "Pick up," he muttered. “Come on, pick up!”

-

Lindsay sat in front of a computer, willing AFIS to flick faster through its kaleidoscope of prints. The flashing sequence of them was almost mesmerising.

The print she was currently seeking a match for was one she had pulled from the shoe of the John Doe in the square. He had already been excluded as its donor. She didn’t know where Danny and Hawkes were, but imagined that they were probably down in autopsy with Sid.

A telephone’s ring pulled her out of her thoughts, and continued ringing without an answer. As she thought about going to find it, the noise stopped. She shook her head slightly and turned back to the screen. A few seconds later, the irritating sound started up again. Not wanting to continue letting it ring fruitlessly, she got up, and opened the door of the print lab, moving down the corridor towards the source of the noise.

Mac’s office. She got there just as the unanswered phone on his desk again fell silent.

She hesitated in the doorway, not wanting to enter without permission, but then the ringing started again. Anyone trying so hard to get in contact probably had something important to say. Praying hard that it wouldn’t be Sinclair, she walked over to Mac’s desk, her feet sounding traitorously loud against the floor, and picked up the handset. “Detective Taylor’s phone.”

“Uh – is Mac there?” The voice was male, and unfamiliar.

“He isn’t at the moment, but I can take a message. Who is this please?”

“My name’s Reed Garret, I really need to speak to him…”

She knew who he was, of course, and hesitated again, before coming to a decision to tell him the truth. “My name’s Lindsay Monroe, I’m one of Mac’s CSIs. He’s in the hospital.”

“Is he ok?” The worry in his voice hitched up a level.

“He will be,” she said quickly, to reassure herself as well. “I can take a message, for him, if you like?”

A pause. “You’re a CSI? Do you know about the man they found in a flowerbed ?”

She blinked confusedly. “Yes, I’m one of the people working that case. Why, do you have information?”

“I think so…” He paused again. “Um, is Stella ok?”

Her head involuntarily jerked up, and she felt her eyes widen. “Why are you asking?”

“Because some guy just dropped a police badge and necklace onto the place where the dead man was found. And… I think I’ve seen Stella wear that necklace.”

“What’s the badge number?” she asked, her voice sharp.

“8946.”

It took a second, her mind blanking to save herself from the horror of the realisation, but then the memories were there, in pitiless focus, replaying Stella arriving at scenes, Stella moving back her jacket to show her badge, Stella holding it up as she introduced herself to witnesses. Stella carrying it with pride, teaching Lindsay to do the same.

Stella…

Damn. No more denying that anything was wrong. She remembered that Reed was still waiting for her to speak, and her voice sounded strained and brittle to herself. “Are you still at the crime scene?”

“Yeah. What should I do? Is it – hers?”

She disregarded his second question, not wanting to make the answer real by saying it aloud. “Stay where you are, and don’t touch anything. Someone’ll be right along.”

“Sure.”

She replaced the handset, and was already pulling her cell from her pocket as she left the office, pressing a speed-dial button. Danny finally answered as she was pushing open the door to the lab she had just vacated in a hurry.

“Messer.”

“It’s Lindsay…”

She caught sight of the computer screen, and her voice trailed away.

“Linds? What is it?”

“Um… something’s come up,” she said, the mockery of the understatement ringing in her ears. “I think… where are you?”

“In AV. You still running prints?” He obviously recognised the tension in her voice, not waiting for a reply. “I’ll be right there.”

She let her hand with the cell drop to her side, her eyes still fixed on the screen. The print match that the database had found was flashing contentedly. The name didn’t change on rereading.

Stella Bonasera.