A/N: This is a sequel to my story Spilled Blood, although you could probably get away with not reading that and still follow this decently. The character interactions are carry-overs, but the plot is independent of SB

A/N 2: Future chapters will be longer than this...I just wanted to get a teaser out there for you guys to enjoy.

A/N 3: I was planning on skipping NaNo, since I wrote Spilled Blood in 18-ish days, but since I'm starting a new story today, I figure I'll try to make this my NaNovel. Which should mean regular updates...but then, who knows


The shrill of Bobby's phone woke him with a start. He checked the clock and found that it was 2:45 in the morning. And damn it, he'd only fallen asleep an hour ago.

The phone shrilled again.

"Answer the damn thing, Bobby," a muffled voice ordered from under the covers.

He gave the lump that was her a comforting pat and and reached for the phone. "Goren."

"How soon can you get to Central Park West?" demanded his caller.

Bobby closed his eyes and sighed. "Who died?"

The lump under the covers stiffened and began to move toward him. Before she could pounce and start hanging over his shoulder to listen, he yanked the sheets off of her and silently pointed her to the phone's other extension, which happened to be in the kitchen.

"Cold!" she mouthed.

He shrugged and waved toward the pile of clothes she'd left on the floor when they had gone to bed.

"Goren? You there?" Deakins voice called through the phone.

"Yeah, sorry. Just, uh, grabbing a pen. What's going on?"

"Gabrielle Young's been killed."

He heard the faint click as she picked up the other phone, so for her benefit he repeated, "Gabrielle Young? The defense attorney?"

"Yeah. Shot in her apartment - which brings me back to 'how soon can you get to Central Park West and Eighty-first?'"

He took a moment to calculate. Traffic wouldn't be bad this late at night, and not having to pick up Eames on the way would shave another fifteen minutes off his transit time. "Half an hour, forty-five minutes."

Deakins sighed. "I guess that'll have to do. Her husband's raising hell over here about how we're wasting 'precious investigation time,' so move it, would you?"

"Yes, sir. Half an hour," he assured the captain, then set down the phone and groaned.

"See?" she said, appearing in the bedroom doorway wearing a smirk and one of his undershirts. "I told you it's more convenient to set your clothes out before you go to bed."

"Don't start," he said over his shoulder as he grabbed a clean shirt out of the closet.

"Perfectionist," she accused teasingly, pulling on her jeans.

He just grunted and buckled his belt. "Ready?"

She held up a finger in a "wait" gesture and felt around the nightstand for a few seconds. "Aha!" She snatched up an elastic band, pulled her hair back into a crooked ponytail, and nodded. "Ok, let's go."