"I'm telling you, Hobbes, there's something to this," Darien insisted.

"You saw weird lines on some of the paintings in QS vision," Hobbes reiterated, giving Darien one of his patented "the Official is gonna kill us if we mess with this" looks before going back to poking into the file drawer he'd been searching through before his partner found him. "How do you know those weren't there before, huh, wiseguy? Didja ever look at them in QS before?" Bobby grunted and shoved the drawer shut, jerking open the one underneath instead.

"Well, no."

"Ah ha! That's what I'm talking about." Bobby poked Darien's flat belly with a forefinger insistently, which also served to move him just a bit further away from the drawer. "See? You don't know. Could be that's the kind of paper they were painted on the whole time. Could be that Georgia O'Keefe had that stuff specially made for all her friends."

"Wasn't just O'Keefe, doubting Thomas." Darien had to back up again when Bobby switched sides to rifle through the drawer from the right instead of the left. "Just what exactly are you looking for, anyway? I could help, but if you mess these files up, Eberts will serve up your head on a platter."

"Uh...." Hobbes abruptly shut the drawer, nearly pinching his fingers in his haste. "Nothing, really. Just research,"

Darien wouldn't have believed him, even without the odd little expression that flitted across Hobbes' face before he clamped down on whatever secret he was hiding. For just a moment, Darien was sure that his friend looked worried. "Bobby Hobbes does not do research for no good reason."

"What?" Hobbes spread his hands expansively, walking past him down the hall toward the back entrance to the McKinley building. "C'mon, I'll buy you a burger. You want McD's or a real sit down place?"

"You're changing the subject. What I want you to do is take me seriously," Darien said, although his stomach rumbled ominously at the mention of a hamburger. He pulled the other agent to a halt, turning him around so they faced one another. "I think by now I can recognize a case when I see one. And the lines weren't just on paper, they were on canvas and board, too."

Hobbes nodded just once. "You do know a crime when you see one." He rapped his knuckles on Darien's temple. "Like you got some sorta radar for felonies in there. So, saying you're right. How do we prove something like this?"

"That I can do." Darien smiled. He'd given this a great deal of thought since the night before. "You ever heard of Jose Davalos?"

"Jose Davy, the fence." Hobbes started down the stairwell to the parking area.

"I got to know him, back when."

"Back when you used to...." Hobbes winked, elbowing Darien in the ribs. "Before you got dropped on your ass in Sing-Sing."

"Sing-Sing is in New York, brainiac." Darien shoved him the way he used to shove Kevin when they were arguing over who got to sit in the front seat of the car. "For a short time I dabbled in fine art investments, but it didn't prove as lucrative as I'd hoped."

"No surprise, Sherlock," Hobbes almost rammed into Golda before he got his feet under him and laughing breathlessly, tripped Darien by hooking one foot around his ankle. "Cause crime shouldn't pay!"

Darien nearly went sprawling, but Hobbes pulled him up against the van, jerking one arm behind his back. "Hey, Officer!" Sub-zero cold silver tendrils flowed up Darien's immobilized hand onto Hobbes. "You'd better not say freeze." Darien chuckled, wiggling free when the cold got too intense for his captor.

"Sneaky brat." Hobbes shook his icy fingers, causing silver flakes to dance in the chilly morning air. "I hope you didn't give me frostbite."

"You used to beg me to make you invisible," Darien scoffed, climbing into the passenger seat.

"Like when?" Hobbes started up the engine, still wiggling his fingers.

"Like the time we were tailing Leila Bach, for one, you 'do me' queen." Darien rubbed his belly. He was definitely hungry enough to eat two, maybe three patties. Usually he'd have cheese on top, for extra protein, but with Claire's strict rules, he'd have to settle for lettuce and mustard. "McD's for burgers, then down to Market Street to the Davalos Gallery."

"He has his own gallery now?" Hobbes piloted the van out onto the street. "Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you. Saw Leila's picture in Cosmo."

"What made you pick up Cosmo?"

"The Keeper had it on her desk. Saw Leila's name and...." Hobbes grimaced at Darien's raunchy expression. "I was reading an article on what all women look for in a man, if you must know."

"Height, my friend." Darien grinned fiendishly. "And lots of hair."

"Balding men are very popular," Hobbes said. "Look at Patrick Stewart and Sean Connery."

"Oh, you think you're in the league with Mr. Bond?"

"Could be." Hobbes cocked one eyebrow, holding up an imaginary glass. "I take mine shaken, not stirred." The bad Scottish accent did nothing to lend weight to his claim of shared Bond-ness.

"Don't think they sell martinis with the French fries, JB," Darien chortled.

After a quick meal, which for Darien ended up being two burgers sans the buns and a side salad with lots of grilled chicken, fries, and the biggest container of Coca-Cola he could carry, they headed over to the Gaslamp Quarter. Jose Davalos had a ritzy gallery catering to the city's elite art-conscious buyers, as well as deep-pocketed tourists. The walls were covered with free-form abstract paintings that vaguely suggested planets suspended in a gauzy pink and purple firmament. Darien didn't like any of them, but apparently the things were selling like hotcakes, from the number of clientele all vying for Jose's attention. It took more than 10 minutes before he was able to extricate himself from a couple who bought three matching canvases to hang in their beach house. During the entire sale, Jose kept glancing over at Darien and Hobbes with a guarded expression, but, being the consummate salesman, he never let it affect his bottom line -- getting the merchandise sold.

"Gentlemen, what can I help you with?" Jose asked with the bland politeness of his current profession. Darien recalled when he'd been a great deal more oily, but selling paintings had been good to him. He was dressed in a Dolce & Gabbana suit, with sleek Italian leather shoes peeking out from under the cuffs of his tweed slacks.

"Business is goin' good, I see," Hobbes responded with equal blandness.

"And the beauty of this place is, it's all legit." Jose nearly caressed one of the more vulgar examples of planetary portraiture, a mauve sphere with lavender and gold swirls. "Don't usually get Feds in here. Trying to redecorate your offices? The paint-by-numbers landscapes for 10 bucks a pop store is across town. "

That was more the Jose Darien remembered. "What tipped you off that we were Feds?"

"Fawkes, I can spot the law at half a mile." He shook his head, assessing Darien's polyester yellow and brown striped vintage '70s disco shirt and low slung pants. "Although, most of 'em don't usually dress like you do."

"Okay, okay, we're Feds, and none of us dress like he does." Hobbes held up his badge, elbowing Darien to hold up his. "Special Agent Robert Hobbes. Can we get on with this?"

"Last time I heard, Fawkes, you'd molested some old guy and were on your way to prison." Jose led the way back to a small office just as a tall, willowy woman dressed entirely in black slunk out. "Tiffani-Ashlee, I'm taking ten."

"Whatever." She oozed ennui, and barely moved her limbs when she walked.

"Trumped up charges," Darien defended himself. "Ashlee-Tiffani?"

"She's trendy. Her real name is Mary Anne," Jose said, waving a hand at a fully stocked bar. "Can I get you anything? Apple martini?" Both agents declined, but he made himself one anyway, pouring and stirring as if he had all the time in the world to discuss the philosophy of life with two new buds.

Sensing that Hobbes was getting a little hot under the collar at Jose's cavalier attitude, Darien shot the first salvo. "Hey, man, you remember when Liz and I came by with that Roberta Webster? You already had a buyer set up before we even had the goods?"

"Sweet deal," Jose nodded, sipping his green tinged drink. "Not that I do any of that kind of stuff anymore. I'm reformed. Legit. Clean as a bleached sheet."

"You mean whitewashed?" Hobbes' voice was soft, but there was an undercurrent of pissed-off. "You used to fence paintings, right? You ever sell a . . ."

"Albert Bierstadt landscape -- horses in a cliff-lined valley." Darien consulted the list he'd made up of the paintings he suspected of being forgeries, and ones he knew for a fact had been stolen and sold at least once. " 'Red Canna' by Georgia O'Keeffe, A Monet called 'The Beach at Trouville'. And the Webster that Liz and I stole, 'Morning After'

Jose perched with one leg over the edge of a chrome and leather barstool, his bland expression replaced by something far more cunning. Like a fox, or better yet, Briar Rabbit who knows how to spin a tale or tell the truth. But the question was, which was he doing now?

"What assurances do I have of protection if I give out any incriminating information, gents?" he asked.

"Co-operation goes far in my book," Hobbes countered.

"Besides, we're not going after you, Jose. You're just...." Darien shrugged, turning away, and examined a painting hung behind the bar, first with his normal vision and then in QS. Picasso -- one of his watercolors. Only it was a fake, and he didn't have to use enhanced vision to tell that. Darien had seen enough Picassos to recognize when something was just a little off, just not quite the artistry of a genius. It was a damned good fake, though, and unless he missed his guess, by one of the foremost known Picasso forgers. "David Stein." He muttered to himself. "You're research, Jose. Confirmation of the facts."

"In that case, yeah, I obtained the Webster for a collector."

"Thing is." Darien glanced at his partner, but while Hobbes still looked far from pleased, he seemed content to let Darien run the investigation. "California Correctional Institute claims that they've owned that particular Webster since the mid-fifties -- and I'm here to tell you that isn't where I stole it from."

"How do I know who owns these things?" Jose gave an elaborate shrug, then shot the cuffs of his expensive Egyptian cotton shirt. "I was -- and I stress the word was -- a middle man. Just a go-between. Certain art collectors would request certain works and I provided them. Liz worked for me on a number of occasions, usually for smaller items like jewelry and collectables. You remember that little jade collection, miniature elephants and monkeys?" He smiled longingly. "Really sweet. Sold the entire collection to some minor potentate in the oil nations. One million large. I was putting aside a nest egg to get out of the biz."

"Not like you took much of a leap," Hobbes said with a sneer, leaning over the bar to snag a bottle of San Pellegrino water. "So, if you don't do that kind of thing no more, you got any idea who does?"

"And rat on fellow human beings?"

"I get the feeling if there's cheese in it for you, you'd rat on anyone." Hobbes tipped back his head, drinking deeply from the bottle. "How's 'bout I check on your tax returns for this year? Or better yet -- for -- what year would that be, Fawkes? When he was fencing stolen goods."

"I stole the Webster in '91," Darien supplied, remembering the little jade elephants, too. One of his earliest - and biggest - jobs, at the age of 17. Strange that he hadn't really been aware of all Liz's intricate little connections. He'd never known that she was working for someone else on that job.

"Hey, you said I wasn't a suspect!"

"And you aren't, buddy-boy. Yet." Using the bottle to lightly tap the art dealer on his Dolce & Gabbana clad chest, Hobbes backed him up against the bar. "Spill the beans, or we start wondering just what exactly paid for your wardrobe."

"S-serg? Mendelson," Jose stuttered, then batted Hobbes away irritably. "Mendelson basically took over my -- guess you'd call it a clientele list. Gets his requests from Borhays, among others...."

"Solly Borhays," Darien said to Hobbes.

Jose nodded warily. "And farms the jobs out among those who obtain the goods. Very smooth, worked for a long, long time."

"Ever get a request for something hung at CCI?" Darien asked. He couldn't imagine how any thief could boost something from inside a penitentiary but the proof was there.

"From the Heatherton collection?" Jose glanced toward the door of the office. "You hear Tiffani-Ashlee call me?"

"Nope." Hobbes stood just in front of the door, drinking from his bottle.

"Everybody wants a piece of that action, it's true," the dealer admitted eventually, when it became clear that Hobbes had no intention of moving until the questions got answered. "And stuff is getting out, no question. How, I haven't got a clue."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you hear a voice within you say "you cannot paint', then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced." Vincent Van Gogh -- To that I say, pretty good advice for a guy who cut off his ear.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Standing on the street in front of Davalos Gallery, Darien felt old. Wretched, dried up, and achy. He'd gotten to a point where he could almost ignore most of the aches and pains in his joints. They were a constant in his life, as was the sometimes mind-numbing exhaustion, but when the two joined forces to conspire against him, it was hell. It came on suddenly, at the tail end of the interview with Jose. He just wanted to curl up on the man's leather sofa and sleep for the rest of the day.

"Fawkes?" Hobbes jostled his elbow and Darien bit back a groan of pain. "You look like you're going to fall down. How 'bout a sit down?"

"Some caffeine would help." Darien followed his partner down the block, cradling his elbow. It felt hot and slightly swollen through the cloth of his shirt, and while the cortisone cream that Claire had prescribed helped a great deal, there were still odd itchy patches all up and down both arms.

"Thought Claire told you to cut all that stuff out," Hobbes admonished.

"I can't have bread, butter, milk, tomatoes... what else? Cheese, chocolate! Bobby, I gotta have some vices." Darien lowered his voice when several patrons of the sidewalk caf? turned around to look at him.

"Vices you got. How about a nice cup of green tea? Lots of antioxidants."

"The black kind, with lots of sugar," Darien practically snarled, feeling grumpy and argumentative. He hated being this way. Always hurting, always a burden on his friends. Poor Bobby caught the brunt of his bad moods and needy periods, and it wasn't fair to either of them. He'd resolved to keep his woes to himself as much as possible by the time Hobbes returned with two steaming cups and a bowl of tropical fruit salad.

"What's this?" Darien poked at one creamy yellow chunk.

"I asked the girl over there," Hobbes inclined his head at the eyebrow-pierced teenager operating the espresso machine. "Says it's cherimoya. S'posed to be like eating custard. And that's papaya, pineapple, and guava." He pointed to each with his coffee stirrer.

"Grrr." Darien sipped the hot tea too quickly and burned his tongue, only adding to his miseries. He stared at the fruit, longing for a sticky bun, and tried some of the cherimoya. Sweet and creamy, but it was still fruit and not really custard like Aunt Celia used to make.

"You been having any more symptoms, since passing out at the race track?" Hobbes inquired, pretending a sort of nonchalance that Darien could see right through. Hobbes was worried about him, and had good reason.

"Nah, especially not after this damned elimination diet. Claire won't let me eat anything. She made me call Grandma Madeline and Celia both, to ask for family histories on any allergies and odd disease clusters."

"And?"

"Madeline said my dad had hay fever, and I know Kevin did, but I was always the lucky one -- until now. Nobody in the family ever stopped breathing from eating shrimp and there's no celiac disease, lactose intolerance, or cancer in the Fawkes family. Can't say anything about the Gerard family because according to the senior home in Cold Springs, Celia and her new husband are on a cruise to Mexico." He sampled some of the guava and pineapple, still wishing for something huge, gooey, and sweet.

"Every seven years all your cells change," Hobbes said with that know-it-all-voice that set Darien's teeth on edge. "People develop allergies all the time -- and grow out of 'em. Had terrible allergies back in Jersey. Once I moved here to sunny California, most of 'em stopped."

"Thrilled for you."

"Drink your tea, it's good for you." Hobbes waited for him to do so, looking out at a group setting some booths and activities some sort of holiday season children's faire. There was an inflatable jumping house in the shape of Santa's castle being blown up at the end of the street, a small stage for musicians, toys for sale, and a petting zoo. "So, spill the details about the Webster. You neglected to tell me about that ahead of time. Should I be readin' up on your rap sheets again?"

"I was going for the element of surprise?" He grinned, giving Hobbes the puppy dog eyes, but in truth, Darien liked springing these little shockers on his friend. "Liz and I joined up again sometime in '91-- she already had the job arranged. The Webster was in this old geezer's house on Mulholland. Easy as pie to slip in, take the thing out of the frame, and slip out." Darien paused, eating more of the fruit. "Didn't have a security system or anything."

"You take anything else?"

Darien laughed. "Yes, dad. I did. Liz wanted all the good jewelry -- that was her specialty. And I usually went for any cash lying around, that sort of thing. There weren't as many small easily sold electronics like cell phones and PDAs then."

"I remember the old days, Methuselah." Hobbes smirked at him. "So you sold the Webster to Davalos?"

"Yeah, and that was it. Never saw it again. I just always liked the painting -- it was cool to actually hold it in my hands, take it out and look at the artist's work close up." Darien could still feel the texture of the paint and paper under his fingertips, like a blind man reading Braille. The different feel of each medium, the gouache and inks that Webster had used to achieve the translucent quality of the silk stockings and the shiny satin bedspread.

"And that was the real thing? No doubt about it?"

"I couldn't check it in Quicksilver 13 years ago but, yeah, it was the real thing. And that one back at CCI sure isn't."

"So, if the original's supposed to've been hanging at CCI since the fifties, and you stole it from some old guy in '91, it had already been stolen once before," Hobbes surmised. Darien nodded, finishing off the fruit salad. "So where is it, now?"

"Not sure that Davalos would even know," Darien said, looking out at the activity in the street. A van had pulled up, disgorging several animals for the petting zoo, and two women were setting up a tank to blow up balloons. "Maybe Borhays would."

"So just what makes you such an expert in forgeries? Besides knowing that there's obviously two of that Webster," Hobbes added. "What if one of 'em's a print? Nothing illegal about that."

"There is if it's being exhibited as an original." Darien started to rest his left elbow on the edge of the table. The slightest pressure sent warning signals along all nerve endings from shoulder to fingertips and he slid his arm back down to his lap. The damnedest thing -- he hadn't hurt like this earlier. He thought about aspirin, and realized Hobbes had caught the evasive arm maneuver. Going into diversionary tactics, Darien covered himself by talking.

"I went into Soledad when I was just 18, courtesy of a botched job with Liz. Figured I'd get some college credit -- at least get Uncle Peter and Kevin off my back for wasting my brains and talent. So I started taking lots of art and philosophy classes. I liked 'em -- and they were hella easy, too, nothing like chemistry or trig." He thought back to those days -- scared nearly all the time because he was pretty, baby-faced, and young -- potential prey for the lecherous older guys. The library was safe because few of them hung out there. "Spent a lot of time in the library. One of the art history books I found had a whole section on art forgeries. I couldn't paint 'em, but I learned some of the more well-known names, what to look for. That kind of thing."

"So give me the short course."

"There isn't one, but a good forger doesn't copy the Mona Lisa and try to sell it."

"Not if he wants to stay outta prison," Hobbes snorted.

Darien was momentarily diverted by the clown out on the street constructing an elaborate sculpture completely out of balloons. The shiny spheres seemed to glow in the afternoon sun: red, green, and white twisting together to make a Christmas tree complete with red ornaments and a silver star. Even the farm hand leading a string of bleating goats over to the petting zoo enclosure stopped to watch. "Best to stay with the less familiar works of the great masters," he continued, rubbing his stuffy nose. "Especially sketches in ink or pencil. Oils stay wet for years -- some as long as 50, so a good art detective can sometimes determine that the thing isn't a Rembrandt just by the tackiness of the paint."

"Copyin' someone else's work is just plain tacky in my book."

"Ha-ha," Darien responded, but in truth he didn't feel all that good, a sinus headache setting up just over his eyebrows, and the back of his throat beginning to itch just from the proximity of the animals. "Easiest stuff to get away with would be a lesser known artist, with a work done in watercolors or some kind of quick drying paint, and one that wasn't 400 years old. The aging process can be a bitch."

"Which fits the Webster to a T." Hobbes nodded thoughtfully. He shifted restlessly for a moment. "The coffee on top of that whole bottle of water, I gotta take a leak. Be right back."

"Sure." Darien cradled his arm against his side, letting himself be distracted by the organized chaos of the fair starting up. Already small children were bouncing in the jumping house and parents smiled ruefully as they paid for handmade dolls, face painting, and a chance for the rugrats to feed an alpaca some crunchy little pellets.

Damn! Alpacas. In a flash, he knew why the majestic Bierstadt he'd seen at Del Mar looked familiar. He'd seen that exact painting hung at Scott Calhoun's palatial alpaca ranch just the month before. And Calhoun most probably had obtained every single high-ticket item in his house through illegal means, pretty much confirming that the landscape was the real deal. Darien grimaced to himself; he'd unQuicksilvered that time specifically to examine the paintings in Calhoun's study. Too bad, in hindsight. Having seen them with his specially augmented vision might have gone a long way to proving his argument.

The thing was -- where was the Bierstadt now? Surely the DEA agents who'd raided the house along with Darien's fellow Agency colleagues had seized the contents of the estate? Would it be possible to compare it with the one that had hung at the PEN exhibit?

"Hobbes!" Darien stood up quickly when he saw his partner coming. The movement was far too fast for his budding headache. Pain almost as agonizing as past QSM headaches hit hard, and Darien staggered, palm pressed against his forehead, gagging with a sudden protest from his belly.

"Fawkes?" Hobbes grabbed Darien's arm, trying to guide him away from the sidewalk caf? tables. They made it five feet to a clump of cheery winter flowers before Darien lost his fruit salad. The headache was so intense that he had to straighten slowly, with his eyes closed to reduce the weird sensation of having the solid street dip and curve whenever he moved.

"How you doing?" Hobbes asked soberly.

"Let me sit a minute." Darien allowed Hobbes to lower him to the sidewalk before he opened his eyes again. The cheery street fair had once again oriented itself, small children gleefully hugging farm animals and giggling over the antics of a juggling act. The bejeweled eyes of a white fluffy alpaca seemed to stare straight over at Darien as if it knew all his secrets.

"The devil always has two sides -- the face of a brother and the face of an enemy." Debra's words pulsed in his blood like a drumbeat, clouding his hearing.

"Guess that cherimoya doesn't make it onto your diet," Hobbes remarked.

"Huh?" Darien licked his lips, slightly freaked, but the alpaca had turned away. "Uh, no, didn't like it anyway. Hobbes, did I tell you I saw Debra Scarborough at the prison?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A couple of calls to Monroe and Zembach got them viewing rights to the Bierstadt in just under an hour -- with the DEA's provision that an agent from some more well recognized and therefore presumably more trustworthy agency accompany them. Mike was glad to tag along, though Hobbes kvetched about the implied slight to his and Darien's honor.

The DEA had sent all items to a giant FBI-owned warehouse just north of San Diego for safekeeping until such time as the trial was over and everything could be auctioned off. Which, with the lawyers Calhoun had, could be decades from now. Darien used the time on the drive over to drink one of Claire's revolting shakes with a four-Advil-chaser, and catch a nap. He was still feeling shaky when they arrived, in spite of Hobbes' efforts to downplay his close encounter of the weird kind at the prision, but bucked up and tried to hide any evidence that he was less than professional.

"So what's so important about this painting that you have to come all the way out here to see it?" Monroe asked while Mike and Hobbes squared things with the guards on the door and signed in.

Giving her the abbreviated version of his hypothesis that the paintings from CCI were somehow being forged and fenced, Darien watched the wheels in Alex's brain whirl around with alarming speed. Oddly, since she was often the most difficult to convince, she seemed to grasp the seriousness of this far more quickly than anyone else had.

"So, you stole a Roberta Webster?" She regarded him with a speculative eye. "Fawkes, I didn't know you had such good taste."

"You're a Webster fan?"

"I prefer the word connoisseur," Alex said archly.

"Semantics," Darien riposted dryly.

"I own 'Friday Night at Eight'."

"The one with the theater tickets and a pair of opera glasses on top of long black gloves." Darien nodded. He hadn't seen it the time he'd done a little invisible B&E bodyguard work when Alex had first taken James home, but maybe the painting was upstairs in her bedroom? There must be some way to wrangle an opportunity to see the Webster without looking too obvious about it. "So how are you on Bierstadt?"

"Dull and fairly showy for my taste."

"Yeah, well we can't all paint the Mona Lisa."

"Guys, over here!" Hobbes called from the end of a long aisle. Evidence was stacked up in labeled boxes on shelves that went nearly to the ceiling. There was a distinct similarity to the closing sequences of Raiders of the Lost Ark when the Ark of the Covenant was wheeled into a crowded warehouse as if being plunged into purgatory. Luckily, this repository of stolen wealth wasn't quite so difficult to navigate through. Darien followed Monroe, listening to his footfalls echo in the vast building.

Hobbes and Zembach were sorting through a stack of paintings leaning against the cement wall. "Did this guy own a museum?" Mike moved one large canvas aside with a grunt, but while it was nearly big enough to be the subject of their search, it wasn't a Bierstadt.

"He had some impressive artwork in his office," Darien said, letting the other two do the heavy lifting. His chronically dicey lower back was reminding him of how wonderful a nap with a hot pad would be and his left elbow was still sore enough to limit any extraneous bending for the rest of the week. "I didn't check the whole house."

"Well, look at this." Mike whistled, holding out a small seascape. "I've seen FBI memos on this baby. It's a Rembrandt. Know where it was stolen from?"

"The Gardner Museum in Boston." Darien ignored his back, bending down to examine the exquisite 'Storm on the Sea of Galilee.' "Thieves cut the thing right out of the frame, damaging the canvas. Guess the DEA hasn't seen the memos, huh?" He peered onto the back side of the ornately framed painting, but the skilled framer had sealed the whole thing with heavy paper, and he didn't want to contaminate the FBI's evidence against Calhoun any further than they already were. Both Zembach and Hobbes were wearing rubber gloves as they pawed through the paintings.

"Biggest unsolved museum heist in the US." Hobbes nodded, stacking the paintings they'd already checked to one side. "No one was ever arrested."

"Heard it might be mob related, Hobbesy," Darien glanced over at his friend. "Know anything about that?"

"You think I would withhold vital information from the United States government if . . ." Hobbes stopped in mid-rant, and shook himself as if throwing off all traces of his sudden outburst. "You're funny, for an art thief."

"Hey, very few -- if any -- paintings were ever recovered from that job. There's a reward." Zembach informed them, wiping a dusty fingerprint across the back of his neck. "The FBI art theft division will have a field day with this."

"Which is one single very dedicated agent," Alex commented. She'd slipped on a pair of leather driving gloves to move around some of the paintings. "Mike, help me with this one. Unless I miss my guess, it's the one we're looking for."

Darien stepped back to give them space to pull the painting out into the open, glad that not one of them had mentioned anything about his lack of participation. They all understood, which was more than he could say about himself. He felt like a slacker these days, always complaining, and always in pain.

"Definitely the one I saw at Calhoun's." Darien blinked, coating his eyes with Quicksilver, head ducked to prevent Mike from catching that little trick. In the weird monochromatic world he saw in with Quicksilver, the soaring cliff walls seemed to shimmer of their own accord, leaving the small horses down at the water's edge in almost blackness.

"Yep, that one was at Del Mar," Hobbes agreed. "Near the Beatrix Potter sketches."

It didn't take much time for Darien to ascertain that this had to be an original work. There were none of the characteristic silver streaks he'd seen on the presumably forged works at CCI. He dropped the QS vision, still looking at the fine artistry and glowing colors of the landscape. "That's an original. In fact, as far as I can tell, with a quick glance in the gray spectrum all of Calhoun's stuff is genuine. Which just begs the question, how did the copies get made, and how are they being shown as originals?"

"And, if we suppose that someone at CCI is doing the forging, how has it remained a secret for so long?" Monroe straightened, stripping off her leather gloves in a way that Darien found highly distracting. He forced himself back onto the subject but thought of pretty Ivy, instead.

"At least we've got someone on the inside. Ivy could get us access behind the prison walls without a lot of fuss," Darien suggested. "She already wants me to go give an inspirational speech to her English class about changing your life around for the better."

"Didja point out to her that your brother's kick in the pants had more to do with that than you getting an A in prison English?" Hobbes snarked.

"Nah, I told her it was the kick in the pants you gave me." Darien was stung by Hobbes' comment. "Getting back to the paintings -- if nothing else comes of this, at least we've got more to throw at Calhoun."

"No, you do have a case here." Alex narrowed her eyes with a frown. "I'd say check the backgrounds on all forgers incarcerated at CCI since -- what, before 1991 when you stole the Webster? Except I can't believe that in all that time that the news never leaked out. That's a long time for a secret that big. Somebody must be making a bundle at the prison, so it can't be an inmate."

"Or a guard," Hobbes added. "Would you work there any longer than you had to if you were makin' money like that?"

"Good cover." Mike tucked a finger into Alex's back belt loop, pulling her over to him. She gave him a withering glare for the public sign of affection, but didn't pull away from his half embrace. "Which means you need to check into who has free access to the paintings, is able to get artist supplies readily, and has worked there that long. If you want, I'll liaise with the FBI and their Art Theft department." The other agents embraced that notion readily, knowing Zembach would carry far more weight with his fellow Fibbie than someone sporting a Fish & Game badge.

"Shouldn't be hard to check on CCI's staff." Alex pulled out her Blackberry to jot down a few notes. "Right up Albert's alley."

"One thing just occurred to me." Darien led the way back to the main door. "Ivy told me that the printing class worked on the PEN exhibit brochure."

"Which means they'd have all the necessary supplies -- especially since you said most forgeries these days aren't usually oils." Hobbes caught on quickly. "So, first one on the suspect list; anyone in charge of the printing class."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Here's the list of long-term CCI employees I've pulled up," Eberts said. "Turnover seems unusually low. Several people have worked there since the early '90s."

Darien, Hobbes, and Monroe crowded into Eberts' tiny office, all trying to view the computer screen. About a dozen names appeared on the list, ranked in order of importance, the first name drawing a whistle from Hobbes.

"Including Assistant Warden Aloysius Smythe... Hinky. That's some kind of poncey handle for a jailor." He took one of the printouts that had just spewed from the printer behind Eberts' desk and poked at the name in question with a forefinger.

"Hobbes, not exactly PC," Darien elbowed him in the ribs, which wasn't difficult considering how they were crammed into the narrow door frame. "But you're right. He's a good suspect, and not just 'cuz of the Masterpiece Theater name, either. The AW would have access to all areas of the prison. But then, so would the guards, and there's four of them on this list, too, including one of the supervisors. Take it from me, those guys have the keys to the kingdom. The only place they probably can't get into is the drug cabinet in the infirmary."

"Albert, run a check on the employment histories of everyone on that list of yours," Alex ordered, the command setting the Official's assistant's fingers to the keyboard as he brought up the state prison system's employee database.

"Even if the AW is our man, he can't be doing this all by himself," Alex reminded. "Unless he's the undiscovered talent of the 20^th century, he has to have an accomplice. Probably more than one. And a pipeline to all the high-end fences in southern California."

Darien pondered this, taking the list from Bobby's grasp.

"You coulda got your own, sticky fingers," Hobbes groused and secured a second copy for himself from the printer's maw.

Darien ignored the complaint as he ran through the list again. "So we have the AW, the head of the janitorial department and one of the security supervisors who all have access to pretty much everywhere in the place," he observed. "That still doesn't give us a good candidate for accomplice of the century, though?"

Eberts didn't look up from his keyboard. "Delbert Montenegro is in his thirtieth year as the art and printing instructor," he pointed out. "According to the state employee databases, he's been credited with helming one of the most successful, as in profitable, vocational rehabilitation programs in the state."

"And he's got the background to handle the forgery end of things," Hobbes agreed. "Looks like we've got a probable suspect."

"Probable suspect for what crime?" boomed the Official's voice from the hall outside. "Eberts! What the hell is going on here?"

Hobbes and Darien unwedged themselves from the doorway, stepping hurriedly out of the way as their boss waddled into his assistant's office, filling the space they'd occupied even more fully than they had a moment before. Alex was trapped between Eberts' desk and the wall, but looked unrepentant, from what Darien could see over the Official's head. Beside him, Hobbes was bobbing and weaving slightly, trying to see past the Fat Man's girth.

"We're investigating Fawkes' possible forgeries," Monroe spoke up as Eberts blanched.

"And I thought I told Fawkes we are NOT expending scarce resources on a wild goose chase, just because he," the Official glared at Darien over one shoulder, "thought he 'saw' something."

"But sir...," Eberts began, only to be cut off mid-grovel.

"But nothing. Everyone. Into my office. Immediately." With that, the Official lumbered his way past Eberts' desk to the door on the opposite wall that led to his own domain. Obediently, his employees followed, Hobbes and Eberts fussing at each other on the way.

Darien couldn't be bothered to worry, throwing himself into one of the Naugahyde chairs and slouching down so his head rested on the back. He really could have used that heating pad about now. He stretched cautiously, hoping to loosen the stiff muscles in his lower back.

Hobbes sat more warily in the chair beside him, while Alex stood front and center, arms folded defiantly across her chest as she glared back at their porcine boss who settled behind his desk like a landslide coming to rest.

"Agent Monroe, I thought you of all people knew better than to fall for one of Fawkes' con games," he chastised her.

"No con, sir. We've just spent the last few hours poking around the DEA's evidence warehouse, looking at the paintings they confiscated from Scott Calhoun's place last month. Would you care to know what we found?" she inquired snippily, tapping a finger against the opposite arm.

The Official's only response was a grim narrowing of eyes, so Alex proceeded as if he'd agreed to hear her out, letting her arms fall to her side. As if they were having a Fawkes/Hobbes moment, Eberts passed her one of the brochures from the PEN exhibit at the Del Mar raceway without a word or glance passing between them.

Darien smothered a smirk. Unlikely though it might be, the bond between Eberts and the five-star-A agent was a solid one. He wondered idly if Eberts had seen the Webster painting, wherever it was in her place? and if he was invited to play 'Avengers' with Monroe and Zembach. Eberts as Moneypenny? no, that was Bond. Still, the idea of Eberts in a black leather cat suit made him grin.

"This painting is a forgery," she informed the Official, pointing at the Bierstadt on the back side of the pamphlet. "And Fawkes can prove it."

"And then what?" he snapped back. "This is none of our concern." He snatched the paper flyer from her hand and tossed it dismissively onto his desk. "And neither are the paintings at CCI."

"You ever hear of the Gardner Museum heist?" Darien spoke up at laconically from his chair. Though the Official didn't respond directly, Fawkes didn't miss the subtle shift of mass that bespoke recognition.

Darien went on as if he'd acknowledged the question. "Guess what else we found in that warehouse?" He let the silence continue for a long moment, determined to make the Fat Man work for it.

His patience was rewarded.

"What?"

"That Bierstadt. Only the one in the warehouse was the original, and the one at the exhibit the other day was a fake."

"And what does that have to do with the collection at CCI?" the Official demanded. "Or the Gardner Museum theft?"

"One of the other paintings they located at the DEA's facility was Rembrandt's 'Storm on the Sea of Galilee'," Eberts interrupted, his excitement unmistakable. "I have yet to do the calculation, but it's one of the most valuable of the pieces stolen from the museum. And the reward for its return is at least a hundred thousand dollars, or 10 percent of its estimated value. Which, at last appraisal, was in excess of a million dollars."

That got the Official's attention. "A finder's fee?" he questioned, avarice lighting the chilly blue of his eyes.

"Indeed," Eberts confirmed with a nod.

With that, the Official leaned back in his chair, prepared to hear the rest.

Darien took over, since, after all, he was the one who'd made the connection in the first place. When he'd finished describing his visit to the halls of CCI and the results of his Quicksilver examination of the works that hung there, the Official was intrigued, but still skeptical.

"You still haven't told me how the Bierstadt connects to the CCI forgeries," he pointed out impatiently. "And what bearing does any of this have on the Gardner theft?"

"Except for finding the Rembrandt, none," Darien admitted readily. "And we were trying to find a connection between the Bierstadt and CCI when we were so rudely interrupted by the Spanish inquisition," he retorted sarcastically, his back twinging.

Eberts picked up the narration before the Official could reprimand Fawkes. "Actually, CCI has one of the most successful vocational rehab programs in the state's penal system," he reiterated his earlier finding. "Their printing program has also become one of the most lucrative of the various prison industries, taking in over $876,400 last year alone in fees, and that doesn't even take into consideration the reproductions of their own collection."

"Fees?" the Official repeated.

"From museums around the world who have reproductions of their collections photographed and printed by CCI's facilities as posters and greeting cards for sale in museum stores, gift shops and online everywhere."

Darien felt his eyebrows rise and sat up a little straighter, his attention on Eberts, as was Hobbes' and Monroe's.

"Go on," the Official prompted, leaning forward a little.

"While that is as far as my investigation got prior to your arrival, I do have an hypothesis that may explain how the paintings are being forged and stolen, then sold to wealthy private collectors," Eberts admitted modestly.

Hobbes snorted derisively. "The genius has a theory," he muttered, and Fawkes elbowed him again, wanting to hear this.

"Generally, one of the ways museums fund their operations is to lease or loan portions of their collections to other museums who are holding retrospectives of particular artists or schools of painting, which means that significant portions of their collection may be 'on the road,' so to speak, at any given time. Now part and parcel of this process is the creation of merchandising materials...."

"Ah, I get it. Like your Star Wars action figures and that Transformer lunch box," Hobbes interjected ironically.

"Star TREK, actually," Eberts shot him a wounded look then went on. "These items, ranging from expensive reproductions of featured works to budget friendly posters or cards all supplement museums' income to a measurable degree."

"Enough on the marketing angle, Eberts. Where does CCI figure into this scenario?" the Fat Man inquired shortly.

"They are hired by museums shipping works from one exhibition to another to create those reproductions," Eberts replied succinctly. "Which means that Mr. Montenegro, the printing and art instructor, is in a position to make detailed photographs of all the works entrusted to him, which would certainly aid in producing convincing forgeries."

"So he could be involved in the forgeries," Hobbes conceded. "But that doesn't explain how they're substituting the fakes for the real paintings, or how they get the real deals out of the prison and into the sticky little hands of creeps like Jose Davalos."

"Which is what we need to find out, if we're going to put a stop to it and track down the originals that have gone missing," Alex put in, eyeing the Official expectantly. "So what do you say, sir? Want us to take a crack at putting this little scam out of business?"

"Is there likely to be a reward for the recovery of CCI's paintings?" the Fat Man asked with only a hint of wistful greed.

"Unlikely, sir," Eberts put in before Monroe could so much as open her mouth. "The Gardner Museum is a private collection with a large number of missing paintings whose value is beyond price. They have the financial resources of the whole Gardner family to draw from. Technically, my understanding is that the CCI collection was donated to the prison, so the State of California is the titular owner of the art. It is unlikely they would offer a reward even if they knew the works were missing. Their budgetary struggles are nearly as severe as ours."

The dream of monetary gain from that quarter faded, but the reality of the ongoing crimes remained. Finally, the Official nodded briskly. "You're on it. I don't care how you prove what's going on, just do it quickly. We've been spending too much time on forgery cases lately, and not enough on national security issues." The gruff semi-reprimand was belied by the slight twinkle of sarcasm.

"Yeah, I guess keeping those whacked-out lunatics from blowing up a Bar-Mitzvah last October doesn't count on the side of truth, justice and the American way, huh?" Darien snarked as he pried himself out of the depths of the chair to stand beside Hobbes, who'd already sprung energetically from his own.

"Hey, they were doing the whole forgery thing, there, too, Ace," Hobbes pointed out with a grin. "So does that make it a forgery case? Or a national security one?" he asked Darien as the pair ambled out of the Official's office with Eberts and Monroe trailing after. "So what's the plan, Kemosabe?"

"You're asking me? Eberts is the one with the theory," Darien snickered, glancing back at the Official's assistant, who peered back innocently.

"Yeah, my friend, but you're the one with the sneaky-genes," Bobby teased as Monroe peeled off and headed for her own office.

"Well, actually, I was thinking...." Darien began, bouncing his eyebrows.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The artist Edgar Degas once said: "A picture is something that requires as much knavery, trickery and deceit as the perpetuation of a crime." Which is an interesting thing for an artist to admit. Especially since he was never accused of forgery, which is about as knavish and deceitful as art gets, in my book. It was way past time that whoever was running this scam got their knuckles rapped. And this invisible man and his buds were just the ones to do it.

"You want me to what?" Alex demanded the next morning when they all gathered in her office to collaborate on their next move.

"Well, it can't be me," Darien pointed out logically enough. "I'm the one who's gonna be breaking it in the first place. Besides, they'll have me on record as coming and going out of that place more than once in the last few days," he added.

"He has a point, Monroe," Hobbes chimed in.

"Was I asking you?" she replied waspishly and turned back to Fawkes. "Why don't you take your usual suspect in with you?" she waved at Hobbes.

"Yeah. I was wondering about that," Bobby offered conversationally, knowing his partner had his reasons for the proposed division of labor.

"Because it's a women's prison, OK? And they prefer to use female vendors when they can."

"How, exactly, were you planning on convincing them that their regular repair person is gone and they sent me instead?" she persisted.

Darien shrugged. "That's Eberts' job," he said, tossing a little grin at the assistant, who perched nervously on the edge of one of Alex's black leather sofas, while Darien lounged in the other.

"I've already contacted McReedy's Offset and Prepress," Eberts spoke up. "They've agreed to work with us, and will verify your employment and clearances should Montenegro call them."

Monroe sighed, and Hobbes couldn't help the grin. However much he disliked being odd man out, Monroe was apparently liking being odd woman in even less.

"Undercover in a prison? I swear, Fawkes, if this ends up like some bad porn movie, I'm going to personally shave you bald. Everywhere," she threatened. "I mean, how clich? can you get?"

Darien 'dum-dummed' his way through the opening bars of the Mission Impossible theme song, provoking a thrown pen in his direction from Monroe.

"Smartass," she scolded. "What if I refuse the honor?"

"Then the secretary will disavow all knowledge of your mission," Darien quipped, and yawned hugely.

"I thought he only did that if I failed," she snorted in a most unladylike way.

"Well, technically, isn't not taking the mission failing?" Darien speculated with deliberate irony. "I can't believe the amazing Alexandra is gonna refuse a cake-walk assignment like this." He shook his head sadly.

" 'Amazing Alexandra' this, you wisenheimer," she snapped back with a universally recognized gesture involving one red-nailed middle finger. "Alright, alright, I'll break out the coveralls and play grease monkey for you, Fawkes, but I wouldn't do this for just anyone."

"I know. You might break a nail," he responded with a laugh, then ducked as a handful of pens came sailing his way this time. "I promise, I'll treat you to a manicure at the Hair Apparent if you so much as chip the polish," he offered, still snickering.

Two hours later, he stifled the third yawn in as many minutes and raised his hand like a grade-schooler. If Eberts was going to maunder on any longer with his diagrams and schematics for the big Heidelburg press he and Alex were planning to break and then repair, then he needed food. Hobbes had promised him a visit to the all you could eat surf and turf, where he could stuff himself with every cut of beef known to man. Hobbes had even offered to pick up the tab -- as long as he ate at least as much salad as he did ribs. Too bad he'd have to stay away from the sourdough bread, though.

"Yes, Darien," Eberts acknowledged his lazily waving hand after a long moment.

"Uh, is this going to be on the test?" he whined, earning a glare, then a grin, from Monroe.

Eberts blinked at him, thrown off track by the question, then scowled. "Yes, Darien, it is. Since this is your plan, perhaps you'd at least do me the courtesy of paying attention? I spent a good part of my usual gaming hour after work Googling the schematics for this press. At your request, I might remind you."

"I think we've got it, by Jove," Darien replied, somewhat contrite. He had assigned research detail to the Official's assistant.... "I just need to get some food before my brain goes pffft," he explained with a 'poof' gesture of his fingers.

It was Eberts' turn to look apologetic. "Oh, dear. I'm sorry, Darien. I forgot the time. We can reconvene after lunch if you need further instruction in the mechanics of the press," he offered, glancing from one to the other of them. Darien was pleased to see that Monroe's eyes had also begun to glaze over, so he didn't feel too bad about declining the offer. "Thanks anyway, Ebes, but I'm supposed to meet Ivy out at CCI by 2:30 so I can inspire her students," he reminded. "I think we've got it, though. Really," he reassured the accountant. "You done good."

Hobbes grunted at this as he stood and headed for the door, muttering something under his breath. Darien didn't listen too closely, suspecting it was just more bitchiness on his partner's part. He didn't know why, but Bobby had gone back to his snide taunts where Eberts was concerned lately. He was starting to feel the need to counter it with a little positive feedback when he could.

This small praise had the desired effect, and Eberts preened slightly. "Good luck, then, both of you. Agent Monroe, I've made arrangements to have any repair calls from CCI routed through our switchboard. When the call goes out, I'll notify you."

"Thanks, Eberts," Alex nodded and rose gracefully. "Have any lunch plans?"

To Darien's amusement, the assistant actually blushed slightly. "Actually? I, erh, uhm?"

"I guess that's a yes," Darien teased. "Who is she, Ebes? Sally in accounting?"

The blush darkened further. "Erh, no, actually. I promised the doctor I would assist her this afternoon. Lunch was the only time we could arrange."

Darien found his eyebrows rising along with his curiosity. "Claire? You're eating with Claire?" He was glad Hobbes was already out in the hall.

"It's a working lunch, Darien," Eberts replied rather primly as Alex departed, smothering a grin.

"Uh-huh," Darien grunted. Bobby wouldn't be very happy about this particular turn of events? He lingered a moment in the doorway of Eberts' cubbyhole of an office, his brain turning this tidbit over to see where it fit into the puzzle that was his life.

"Fawkes? You coming or what?" Alex prompted after a few too many seconds had passed.

"Uh, yeah," he agreed, and stepped out after them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pulling into the prison parking lot, Darien sat for a while, listening to the engine pinging as it cooled. He was surprised at how visceral his reaction was to the anticipation of walking back inside. Would he see Debra again? He hadn't admitted it to anyone at the meeting in Alex's office, but once again his night's rest had been anything but restful. He'd awakened twice, once from pain in his joints and once with his heart trying to leap out of his chest after a nightmare involving Debra Scarborough and a ghostly presence with the head of a leering jack o'lantern and a long flowing black cape. Never should fallen asleep watching that damned Johnny Depp movie, Sleepy Hollow.

Debra's voice echoed in his mind, repeating the same thing over and over;

"The devil always has two sides -- the face of a brother and the face of an enemy."

He had to get a handle on this; Scarborough and his daughter were no longer his concern. The former was dead and the latter--he should find out when she was scheduled for a parole hearing, but it couldn't be for a long time to come.

With firm resolve, Darien locked the car and walked into the prison as a free man, flashing his government ID. He really had come far in his life. Once upon a time, this would have been impossible, but with the help of his brother--not his enemy--but a loving, if slightly demented older brother, and the friends he'd found in the Agency, Darien knew he had changed. He was a different person than the punk-ass, shiftless kid who once divided his time between second story jobs and selling maps to the movie stars' homes.

Once more through the visitor's room and down the hall hung with gorgeous but fake masterpieces, and into a small wing of the prison reserved for education. He found Ivy in room 23 writing out a quotation from Hamlet on the blackboard.

"What a piece of work is man, how noble in reason...," Darien read.

"How infinite in faculty, how like a god...," Ivy warbled in a pretty soprano. "Most of these women -- those who might have heard the soundtrack from Hair, will be familiar with this piece as a song."

"So you're going to discuss how Shakespeare transcends his era and original text to influence us to this day," Darien guessed with a grin. "I would have loved to have you as a teacher, Ivy Peterson." He bent down, meaning to kiss her lightly on the lips, but found himself falling into a passion he hadn't expected. The kiss lingered on his lips even after she'd drawn away, her cheeks bright pink.

"I'd have enjoyed having you as a pupil, Darien Fawkes, but then we couldn't have done that." Ivy licked her bottom lip, still blushing.

"No extra-curricular activities?" Darien smirked.

"None whatsoever," Ivy assured as two women walked in. Both were very young, possibly not over 21, but both had the hardened expressions of girls who had grown up on the streets prepared to fight their way out of any situation. "Shantique, Jatie, welcome."

"Who's he?" Jatie purred, her black eyes undressing Darien down to his bare bones. It was unnerving, and he had to resist the urge to back up.

"Darien Fawkes," he said, feeling the old protective mannerisms he'd developed in prison drop into place: don't antagonize the natives, act unassuming, and stay neutral in a fight. "Guest speaker."

"I could think of a few other thangs I'd like our guest t'do," Shantique slurred, taking a seat in the front row.

More women filled the desks, and Ivy introduced Darien as an ex-con who'd succeeded in the outside world. Since he couldn't discuss his real job, Darien concentrated on the difficulties he'd encountered after his release and how having the right mix of friends and a positive outlook had helped him stay straight. He vaguely alluded to doing security work for a large textile firm, which dovetailed with the cover story Hobbes always used: salesman for a textile firm. About five minutes into the talk, the classroom door opened, and a dark haired woman walked in. Darien nearly choked on his own tongue.

"Sorry I'm late, Ivy. Guard didn't come to escort me on time," Debra Scarborough said with sarcasm. "I really wanted to hear Fawkes' speech. I used to know him outside."

"Debra, you're interrupting Darien," Ivy said with disapproval. "Please take a seat."

Choosing a chair in the back of the room, Debra leaned forward, gazing intently at Darien in a disconcerting display of attention that was at odds with the mingled boredom and impatience that many of the other students were displaying. Their disinterest he could handle easily. But under Debra's scrutiny, sweat saturated the armpits of his sedate blue and green striped shirt and trickled down his back. He turned his head to look out the windows, past the barbed wire and guard towers to freedom and was able to finish his presentation without making a fool of himself.

In the Q&A session afterwards, several of the woman actually asked questions that had relevance to life after prison and Darien found himself able to relax as long as he didn't look directly at Debra. However, he could feel her stare no matter where he was in the room.

"Can we all give Mr. Fawkes a big round of applause for coming out here to give such an inspiring talk?" Ivy clapped her hands together, prompting one or two other inmates to join her. Shantique made a crude gesture with both hands, which he ignored, catching sight of Debra's crafty smile over the younger woman's shoulder. His blood ran cold as he realized she was mouthing words Darien couldn't hear over the scattered student applause.

Trying to read her lips, he was almost sure it was the same phrase that had come to him in his dream; "The devil always has two sides--the face of a brother and the face of an enemy." It was all he could do not to bolt from the room.

"A short break, ladies, then we're going to discuss the lesson for the day: Shakespeare's influence on current entertainment," Ivy called out. "Be back in 10 minutes. Marla, I have a note to remind you to meet your lawyer instead of finishing class today." Ivy moved to stand by the door, supervising the departure of her students, presumably to ensure that nothing left the room with them.

Debra paused at the edge of the last row of desks, her smile eerie and yet oddly serene.

"Fawkes, I dreamed about you last night," she announced in Darien's direction. She ran a slow hand down her blue shirt and matching jeans, caressing one hand over her groin. "It was like you were back inside."

Darien blanched, glancing at Ivy to see how she was interpreting this flagrantly false innuendo. Fortunately, Ivy Peterson knew her job, and without acknowledging Debra's gesture, she called out for the guard stationed outside, eyeing the prisoner coldly as she stepped aside to allow the beefy uniform through the door.

"Officer Jenkle, could you please escort Debra back to her cell?" With this request, she finally spoke directly to the slender dark-haired woman. "Debra, you're only welcome in this classroom if you behave with respect towards everyone here. And that includes our guest speaker."

"Don't turn your back on that one, teacher," Debra warned, waving one finger in the air as she walked out with the guard's meaty hand on her shoulder. "He's ruined the life of more than one woman."

"Ivy, can I talk to you privately?" Darien asked, swallowing to moisten his mouth, making sure he was as far from the door as possible as Debra Scarborough was escorted out. He glanced at his watch: it was after 4 p.m. My, how time flew when he was busy being spooked by psychotic lunatics? By now, the vocational workshops should be closed down for the day, or so he hoped. His vision began telescoping, and he had mere seconds' warning before the familiar sensations of dizziness and nausea hit with sudden force, nearly buckling his knees. Darien staggered, grabbing hold of Ivy's desk before he lost his footing all together.

"Darien?" Ivy rushed back towards him and slipped an arm under his shoulders, lowering him into a chair.

"Sorry." He gulped in air, making an effort to look like a moderately normal human being. "Hypoglycemia. Do you have some water?"

"Sure, in the bottom drawer of my desk." Ivy retrieved a bottle of spring water.

Pulling a packet of Claire's green powder out of his pocket, Darien realized his hands were shaking. There was no way he could get the algae glop into the water without spilling three fourths of it. Ivy solved that problem for him, taking the packet and neatly pouring the contents into the bottle.

"No wonder you have your own doctor," Ivy frowned, shaking the mixture so that the green swirled sickeningly around in the water. "Not being critical here, but why does the government still allow you to work, with all these medical problems?"

After guzzling half the bottle in one swallow, Darien wearily wiped his upper lip. "You're not exactly seeing me at my best," he defended himself. "Besides, I'm good at what I do, which is what I need to talk to you about." He grimaced, drinking the rest. The taste was always worse after some of his symptoms had abated. "There's a scam going on in this prison and unless I'm totally off the mark, it's been going on for years. Maybe even over a decade." Watching the door for any stray eavesdroppers, Darien filled Ivy in on what he and the Agency had figured out concerning the forged paintings.

"That's... unbelievable. Darien, are you absolutely sure about this?" Ivy sat down limply in the student desk next to Darien. "I mean, I never paid much attention to the exhibit, but there are always paintings being taken down and put back up.... You really think that Warden Smythe and Del are," she lowered her voice, "stealing them? I've known Del for two years. We've collaborated on numerous projects, including the brochure for the PEN exhibit."

"Which is exactly why we think he has the know-how and the expertise to do something like this."

"Darien." Ivy's hand flopped into her lap, completely floored by his accusations. "You don't have any real proof here, do you? I mean, how exactly did you identify the paintings as forgeries? They look totally normal to me. I see them every day. Nothing has changed."

"Because a lot of them have been forgeries since the mid '90s, way before your time," Darien explained. "And how can I see the distinct differences between the fakes and the originals? Call it a gift. That's why the government keeps me on the payroll. That's what I'm good at."

Ivy stared across the room blankly for several moments, presumably weighing what she'd been told. When her clear green eyes focused on him again, he knew she'd help him get the proof he needed. "Assuming you're right about this, what do you need from me?" she asked firmly.

Darien told her what he had planned.

 

He used a trip to the men's room as his cover for a little Quicksilver spy action, allowing the chilly silver mirror to sweep over his skin. He only hoped Claire's green sludge would hold him through this little excursion. It was becoming more and more clear that the days of unbridled Quicksilver usage were once again coming to an end. It was at least some comfort that nowadays, the worst side effect would be a frightening drop in his blood sugar instead of the red-eyed insanity that threatened anyone who came too close.

Once invisible, he made his way back past Ivy's classroom towards the vocational rehab section of the prison, ducking through the two security gates on the heels of an unsuspecting guard before arriving at his destination. He made short work of the locked doors, his picks letting him in as easily as a set of keys, and stepped into the print shop. It was late enough in the afternoon that work had come to an end for the day, which was what he'd been hoping for, since a crowded shop and an operating press would be a lot harder to maneuver around than one that had shut down for the evening.

He glanced around, making note of the security cameras, and relinquished the idea of letting the Quicksilver drop. The last thing he needed was to have the guards alerted to his presence. Instead, he cased the place, evaluating the equipment and the layout of the room.

It was a cavernous space, though the enormous offset press that occupied a concrete pad in the center of the floor filled a solid two-thirds of it. Around the periphery of the room were all the other bits and pieces of equipment that were involved in large-scale color reproduction. Computers complete with enormous drum scanners and even bigger flatbed scanners took up most of one wall, and through a glass partition, he could see the large-format camera set up that handled everything that couldn't be scanned, whether because it wouldn't fit on the scan bed, or because it was too fragile to be handled so roughly.

The air smelled of machine oil and ink, with the slight tang of electronics as an undertone that it took him a few minutes to identify. Giant digital output RIP printers in three ever-increasing sizes flanked the other side of the room. And one of them was still ponderously whirring through a print cycle. He paused to take a look at the image that was slowly materializing a half-inch at the time on the roll of high-quality paper that unspooled under the print heads.

It was a picture of the Georgia O'Keefe floral piece that he'd seen out in the hall during his first recon of the prison's art collection. It was probably half again larger than the original, which ended his brief flare of hope that he might actually have stumbled over a forgery in the works. Reproducing art wasn't against the law. It only became illegal when you copied something with the express intention of passing it off as the original. He remembered in one of his art history classes in prison, the instructor recounting a visit to the Louvre in Paris and seeing a dozen art students and their easels gathered in a semi-circle around DaVinci's 'Mona Lisa,' all studiously copying the great man's work. It turned out that you could match every detail, down to the tiniest brushstroke -- as long as you used some other sized canvas.

Darien figured that the same was probably true in American museums, though he didn't recall ever seeing art students permitted to set up their equipment in front of the local masterpieces. Of course, he didn't exactly frequent museums.... The art he'd stolen, what little of it he'd targeted, had all been privately owned. And far easier prey than most of the works gathered so conveniently in public places like the San Diego Museaum of Modern Art.

He cruised past the working printer and checked out the smallest of the three, still a solid 48 inches wide. Instead of paper, this one held a roll of canvas. He hadn't known that inkjets could print on surfaces other than paper....

He mentally reviewed Eberts' briefing on the mechanics of a sheet-fed four-color offset press as he turned his attention to the behemoth in the middle of the room. The thing was enormous, and more than a little intimidating. According to what Ebes had said, the best bet for putting a crimp in the press which would necessitate a visit from a professional repair person was to loosen the bolts that held the suction arm which fed the paper a piece at the time into the press. The sabotage wouldn't actually be noticed at all, since the mechanism in question was deep inside the bowels of the machine, but by loosening that strategic link, eventually, the bolt would work itself loose, causing the vacuum seal to leak, and efficiently disabling the feed mechanism.

Darien reviewed the diagrams Eberts had shown him and Alex that morning in his head while he cast about for a tool box. Naturally, he hadn't been able to smuggle the proverbial monkey wrench into CCI, so he'd have to make do with whatever he could find. He knew that it would doubtless be under lock and key, since this WAS a prison, after all, so he concentrated his search on the locked cabinets and cubbies around the shop. Eventually, he found what he was looking for and filched the right sized socket wrench for the 5/8" bolt this particular press used.

It took another 15 minutes of fumbling around to wiggle himself far enough into the guts of the press that he could reach the bolt in question. However, he made short work of it, since the space he had crammed himself into was threatening to crush his ribs if he lingered overlong admiring his handiwork. With the bolt suitably loosened, he backed out of the cramped service crawlway and returned the wrench to the tool chest, locking the whole thing back up again.

Humming the Mission: Impossible theme song again, he sauntered out of the shop, locking the door behind him, and made his way to the restroom so he could shake off the Quicksilver in private.

He met up with Ivy in her classroom and they walked out of the prison together, Ivy regretfully turning down a second dinner invitation since she had papers to grade and the exam key to complete for the next day. Which left Darien with no excuse for not returning to the Agency and briefing Monroe on his little caper. Maybe he could con her into a dinner meeting. That thought sustained him on the 45 minute drive back to San Diego proper.

Unfortunately for his appetite, Alex was on her way to dinner with Mike, so she cut him off at the pass, demanding a brief update, then sent him on his way with a shove out her door so she could change for the evening.

Sulky, he turned, as always, to his partner, and called Hobbes to suggest dinner and a movie. Thankfully, Bobby refrained from any ribbing about being dateless, and agreed to meet him at the local multiplex where they could catch both a film and some chow at Chevy's. At least Mexican food was easy enough when it came to ordering around his diet restrictions. But he had to admit, he was beginning to doubt his ability to stay away from bread and all the other goodies he loved for the whole two weeks. And as far as he could tell, abstinence wasn't helping his general symptoms at all.

However, an evening with Hobbes, who was his usual cheery self, made him feel almost normal. All in all, a good way to end the day, particularly since he could embellish the story of his little exercise in sabotage out at the prison a bit more than he'd had time for with Monroe. And best of all from his perspective, that night his dreams were undisturbed by portents or visitations of the Scarborough variety.

 

The following day was one of the 'hurry up and wait' variety, which wore on the agents each according to temperament and personality. Alex found herself cranky and short-tempered for no good reason when Fawkes barged into her office for the third time in as many hours to find out if she'd heard anything from McReedy's Prepress service department.

"Do you think I'd still be sitting around here if I had?" she snapped at him, ignoring the surly expression on his usually good-natured face. "Maybe they haven't called because the press hasn't broken down. Did you consider that angle, Mr. 'Leave The Sabotage To Me'? I can guarantee you, if I'd been the one monkeying with that piece of equipment, we'd have gotten the call by now." Which was a shot below the belt, but honestly, here it was, almost four in the afternoon, and apparently, the stupid press was showing no signs of malfunctioning.

Darien's expression went from peevish to wounded with that particular jibe, and Alex heaved a sigh. "Look. Fawkes. I promise you, if... when I hear from McReedy, you and Hobbes will be the first to know. OK? Now clear out. I still have paperwork to finish up, so I might as well use the time for something constructive."

"You know, Monroe, if I'd known you were going to be so cranky about playing dress-up, I'd have asked Claire," he fired back as he headed for her door.

"Claire has better things to do than crawl around inside a press," Alex pointed out. So did she, when it came down to it, but at least it was closer to her job description than it was to Claire's.

At that moment, the phone on her desk rang, and Fawkes paused in the open doorway to eavesdrop.

"Monroe," she answered the call. It was Eberts. She listened for a moment, then smiled tightly. "Well it's about damned time," she responded. "OK, I'll round up the posse and head on out there." She replaced the receiver in its cradle, doing her best to ignore Fawkes.

Darien's grin was fraught with 'I-told-you-so' smugness. "I may not know how to disembowel enemy agents with my bare hands, but rigging a bolt to fall out I can handle," he informed her with satisfaction. "I'll get Hobbes and meet you in the garage."

"Please, mom, huh, can we?" Darien wheedled, turning the full force of his enormous, limpid brown eyes on her. The guy just didn't quit. The fact that he was utterly adorable -- and knew it -- when he pulled the puppy dog eyes thing didn't make it any less effective. And she had been rather harsh with him back in her office.

She sighed and reluctantly handed over her keys. "Alright, alright, enough already. But I get to drive my own car back," she stipulated, glancing at Hobbes' trusty, rusty van, now decked out with a magnetic sign on each front door pronouncing it part of the McReedy's Printing and Prepress fleet. "One 45 minute drive in that rattle trap is about all I can handle."

"Hey, watch it, there, Monroe. Golda's never let us down yet. So she may lack some of the amenities your ride comes with, but she'll getcha there without any trouble," Hobbes protested, defending his van. "Besides, you'll never sell yourself as a repairman if you roll up in that Corvette of yours."

Which was true, she supposed. "Just... don't go nuts on the freeway, OK? You're no good to me as backup if the Highway Patrol pulls you over for speeding."

Fawkes tossed the keys lightly into the air with a triumphant grin, aimed the remote on the ring at the front seat, triggering it to roll back as far as it could, and vaulted over the driver's side door in typical adolescent male style. "Yes, mom," he teased her. "I'll keep it to a sedate five miles per hour under the limit. Promise."

She suppressed both annoyance and amusement at the move, taking the van's keys from Hobbes as she headed for her serviceable but ugly vehicle. "Good. See that you do."

Hobbes, with his listening gear in hand, slung the duffel into the back of the 'Vette and climbed into the low-slung sports car in the passenger seat, tugging his headset over his ears. "Sound check, Monroe."

She got into the van, adjusting the little lapel mike that nestled in her uniform's breast pocket well out of sight. "Let's get this show on the road," she suggested.

"Read you loud and clear," she could hear Hobbes say through her open window.

"Gentlemen, start your engines," she grinned as she turned the key in the ignition. Beside her, the powerful roar of the Corvette's eight-cylinder performance engine filled the garage as Fawkes revved it exuberantly, chirping rubber off the tires as he peeled out ahead of her. She shook her head as she aimed the ponderous van out the exit after him. "Boys."

Alex rolled down her window to hand the gate guard the clipboard with the service order on it. "Service call?" she informed him as he peered at the paperwork in the glare of the setting sun behind her, taking his sweet time.

"Where's Maggie?" he inquired suspiciously.

"On vacation." In the back of the van, she could hear Fawkes' snicker of laughter, and she resisted the urge to throw something at him.

She'd picked Darien up a quarter mile from the main prison gates, leaving Hobbes in the Corvette to listen in on their adventures from the minimal shade of a spiny Joshua tree. The area around the prison was barren, nothing but scrub, sparse grass and an occasional Joshua tree scattered over the rocky plain. Desolate. And inhospitable as hell, even in late December. Since the van had no A/C, she'd had to drive with the windows open the whole way here to keep the blast-furnace temperatures down a bit. She was hot, sweaty, and grumpy, and this bozo was trying her patience. She was just mustering a snide comment when he turned the last page of the triplicate order, as if expecting to see something other than the pink copy that would be left as a billing invoice, and looked up at her.

"Huh," came the grunted response. The clipboard was handed back. "Around to the left. Print shop's service entrance is in the back."

"Thanks ever so much," she smiled sweetly, knowing the guy would miss the sarcasm, and pulled away from the guard kiosk as Fawkes poked his spiky head through the opening into the cab, swigging the last swallow of one of his algae shakes. Hobbes had assured her that his partner was well fed and ready for some prolonged invisibility, but she wasn't taking any chances. She'd handed Darien two bottles of the stuff when he'd gotten into the van, and made him drink them.

"Why the crappy mood, Monroe?" he asked as he licked the green mustache off his upper lip and rested his arms across the back of the bench seat once the van was safely past the guard's view. "You've been crabbier than usual today. What, you and Mike have a fight?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but yes, we did. Now drop it, OK?" she said shortly as she drove along the back of the prison towards the vocation rehab area.

"I figured. You only get like this when you have a fight. So what was it? He ask you to move in again?"

Monroe cast him a quelling glance and chose to ignore the question. "Don't you think you should do your thing? We've got a guard tower coming up on the right."

Obediently, Fawkes made himself scarce, though not with Quicksilver, simply pulling back into the windowless interior of the van. Alarm bells went off and she peered back into the gloom at him. Fawkes passing up a chance to behave irresponsibly? "You sure you're up to this?" she asked, knowing her concern was evident in both the words and the tone.

He shrugged. "I'm good, Alex. Really. I'll be spending a long time shoomed, so no point in wasting energy."

Which made perfect sense. But 'sense' wasn't something she usually attributed to Fawkes. She'd been in and out of the Agency on so many loaner assignments to other agencies in the past year, she really hadn't spent more than two consecutive weeks at home. She knew Fawkes' health was problematic, and she'd had the chance to see some of the scarier symptoms, like his utter exhaustion after extended invisibility. But to see it reflected in simple things, like his sudden attack of common sense, drove home to her how poorly he must be feeling. "Fawkes. We don't have to do this if you aren't up to it. It's not worth it. It's just art. Mike can always get the FBI's Art squad to take over."

"You saying you don't want to work with me?" came the careful inquiry from the back.

She pulled into a parking space beside a dusty green Land Rover. "No, I'm not. I'm saying that you're more important than a whole museum's worth of paintings. If you're feeling crappy, then we don't have to do this." She glanced back at him and was pleased to see one of his slight smiles.

"Monroe, if you start going all 'Bobby Hobbes' on me, I'm gonna have to kick your ass," he threatened, and before her eyes, vanished with that sparkle and glitter than never failed to impress her, no matter how often she saw it. Not that she'd ever let on to Fawkes.

"Well, we can't have that," she grinned back at the place he'd been an instant before, then climbed out of the van and came around to the side door to remove the grimy tool box and give him a chance to get out unobserved. "Ready?" she asked out of the corner of her mouth.

"As I'll ever be," he answered, and together, she and her invisible friend made their way through the security entrance to the print shop.

Alex tried to ignore Delbert Montenegro where he lurked nearby, and instead concentrated on examining the suction feed of the press, wishing he would go away so she could actually check the place out.

The printing instructor was one of those tall, esthetic sorts in his early fifties who clearly spent too much time in the gym and in tanning salons. His mannerisms were equally fussy and self-conscious, and he constantly smoothed the salt-and-pepper mustache on his upper lip, patting the soul patch below his mouth as part of the gesture. She found it oddly distracting and had to mentally shake herself to bring her focus back to what she was supposed to be doing.

"You said Maggie's on vacation?" he asked, leaning over her shoulder to watch as she examined and tightened each of the bolts on the external feed housing.

"That's what I was told," she confirmed, grunting a bit as a particularly stubborn bolt refused to budge. "Could you hand me my 3/8" socket wrench?" she requested, determined to win herself at least a split second of breathing room.

She glanced around the print shop, wondering where Fawkes was at this point, and hoping her accomplice was having better luck than she was. Her perusal was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder, and she reached back for the wrench with a sigh.

"Are you sure you're familiar with this sort of press?" Montenegro queried persistently, still hovering. "We have a tight deadline to meet and we really can't afford to be offline for any longer than absolutely necessary. We've already lost half a day's work." His voice was every bit as precise and controlled as his appearance.

Fussbudget, Alex labeled him. Hardly a criminal mastermind sort of personality. She knew better than to jump to conclusions, but so far, Delbert Montenegro didn't strike her as having the spine for crime. "I'm fully certified on the Heidelberg 2000 through 6000 series, sir," she replied, doing her best to keep her annoyance out of her voice. "But feel free to request another service technician. They should be able to send someone else out by tomorrow afternoon." She applied a little more elbow grease and finally got the inky bolt to move. She straightened, turning to face him as she wiped a trickle of sweat off her forehead with a sleeve. "Should I continue? Or would you be more comfortable with one of the other service personnel?"

"No need to be snippy with me, young woman," he chastened her. "I don't have time to wait until tomorrow, so please do what you can," he commanded regally, a monarch in his kingdom.

Alex saved the eye-roll until she'd climbed into the service crawlspace under the press. God save her from control-freaks, she thought to herself as she inched along on her back, using her elbows to push her way deeper into the guts of the machine. And there it was; Darien's little bit of monkey-wrenching. As planned, the bolts holding the suction hose to the mechanical arm had come loose, resulting in the loss of a complete seal. "I think I see the problem," she called out to Montenegro. "I should have this fixed in an hour or so." With this reassurance to her constant shadow, she lay back and tapped irregularly at various bits of metal with her socket wrench in a sort of erratic drum solo, hoping the mundane sounds of 'something happening' would convince the printer to depart.

Darien made short work of his examination of the photo lab, relieved that the security cameras were confined to the hall and pressroom outside. Several paintings, one of which (a Mondrian abstract) he recognized, were lined up along the wall in racks that could be slid along tracks to be positioned under a ceiling-mounted camera with an enormous exposure plate behind the bellows attached to the lens. It looked like pictures he'd seen of the camera Ansel Adams had used, only about 20 times larger. His Quicksilver examination of the art in the lab confirmed that they were originals.

So far, nothing obvious was out of place, and it looked more or less like business as usual. At least until he began looking through the half dozen or so crated works along the far wall, all addressed and ready to be shipped out, apparently. Carefully, he pried off the end pieces of the wooden boxes and eased each one out far enough to get a look at them.

The first two were oils, and clearly originals. The next one was an Albrect D?rer silverpoint sketch of a Renaissance German courtier, every ruffle of the Elizabethan collar he wore clearly drafted. It was a breathtaking exercise in observation. Unfortunately, that's all it was. The silverpoint was marred by the same striations throughout the delicate sketch that had alerted him to the other forgeries in the first place. He'd only seen one or two original D?rer drawings, but as with the other forgeries, this one was all surface and lacked the sense that the artist's hand had touched the yellowing paper. "Bingo," he muttered softly to himself.

If the copy was here and ready to be shipped out, perhaps the original had yet to be smuggled out of the place. It was worth looking around a little, any way. He glanced through the large plate glass window that separated the photo studio from the press room, hoping to catch a glimpse of Monroe. The only one he could see, though, was Delbert Montenegro, who paced anxiously around the press like an expectant father, wringing his hands and looking anxiously at his wrist watch every few seconds.

The nervous tension in the man's body language set Darien's criminal instincts off. This was more than just a man whose livelihood was out of commission. No, this was more like a bad case of nerves or a guilty conscience. Which, if his guess was correct, meant that perhaps Delbert was being delayed in getting his latest treasure out of the prison. Which meant there might be a chance at finding the smoking paintbrush, so to speak. He ignored the growing achiness in his bones and let himself out of the photo lab. He had to find that D?rer.

"An hour?" Montenegro's voice squeaked in protest, and Alex stopped her impromptu banging.

"It looks like I'm going to have to replace part of the vacuum hose," she called back, loudly enough for him to hear. "I think I have the right part in the van, so as soon as I get the old one off, I'll -" her explanation was cut off as he interrupted.

"No, no, no, that simply won't work. I have an appointment I'm already late for, and I can't leave you unsupervised," he dithered.

She could hear his pacing resume and lay still, staring up at the tangle of mechanical parts over her head in exasperation. "Can you have one of the guards take over for you?" she suggested evenly, gritting her teeth.

"I don't think you understand, young lady," Montenegro contradicted haughtily. "There are literally millions of dollars of fine art in this shop that the state of California is responsible for as long as it's here..." his voice betrayed his progress around the press. "What to do... what to do?" he wailed quietly to himself and Alex started wriggling her way back out of the press, knowing she had to stay at least long enough for Fawkes to check things out. They'd agreed going in that an hour was about as long as they could spin the bolt replacement out, but she'd only been here -- she glanced awkwardly at her watch -- about 25 minutes.

She managed to extricate herself from the press and rose as gracefully as she could manage. "Look, you're the one who called for a service technician. Do you want me to fix this thing or not?" she asked irritably, crossing her arms under her breasts and tapping a staccato beat on her forearm with one lacquered nail. She glared at Montenegro as he rounded the far end of the hulking machine to approach her, his fidgets and anxiety setting her teeth on edge.

She was unprepared for his response, however. He stared at her hands in momentary shock, then leapt at her with all the unexpected speed of a striking snake. Before she could fend him off, he'd shoved her hard into the side of the monster press and her skull cracked painfully against an exposed corner. Her head ringing with the blow, she did her best to defend herself, but Montenegro's hours at the gym must have included some more-than-basic hand to hand training, because he kicked her feet out from under her with one well-placed stomp to her kneecap, and she toppled to the concrete floor, the reek of solvents wafting into her nose and making her retch with nausea.

Her vision went dark, the floor heaving under her like a magnitude 10 earthquake. She gagged on the saliva that suddenly filled her mouth and tried vainly to push herself to her feet, only to end up with Montenegro's topsider on the back of her neck. Her face hit the floor again, and this time, her stomach did too. She vomited, bringing up nothing but bile, and used every ounce of strength she had left to twist herself around so she could seize his ankle with the idea of bringing him down to join her on the cold floor, only she miscalculated, and instead, the tip of his shoe slammed forcefully into her cheekbone.

As darkness roared over her, she heard her assailant's furious curse.

"You stupid little twit!" Delbert hissed at the woman who lay still at his feet, nudging her motionless figure roughly with his foot. Satisfied that she wouldn't be going anywhere for the moment, he ran a shaking hand through his thinning hair and removed his cell phone from his back pocket. It took all his focus to manage to dial the number he wanted, but when the reassuring ring at the other end sounded, he heaved a massive sigh of relief.

"Al! Thank God I caught you!" he turned away from the body on the floor and began pacing, only a few steps in each direction, but the movement helped calm him. "We have a serious problem, Aloysius," he asserted himself through quivering vocal chords.

Impatience colored the words on the other end of the line as Assistant Warden Smythe cut him off. "Del, how many times have I told you not to call me while I'm in the office? Cell phone records are traceable, and you know it!"

"We have a situation. What was I supposed to do, send up smoke signals? We've got to get out of here. It looks like the law is onto us. The repair person McReedy's sent was no repair person. I'll bet my life on it." Delbert huffed at the phone in annoyance.

"My God. What have you done?" There was no mistaking the concern in Smythe's tone.

"Bought us a little time to get the hell out of here with the D?rer so we can close up this operation in style, that's what!" Delbert snarled at his partner. "Serg? has already advanced us $200,000 for it. If we don't deliver, he's going to send his goons after us. And I don't know about you, but I have absolutely no interest in spending the rest of my life on the run from him. We've got a beach-front mansion in the Caymans just waiting for us, remember?"

"You're telling me you've blown our whole operation?" Smythe whimpered, a man abruptly seeing the unexpected end of a very long and very lucrative gravy train. "Where are you?"

"Where do you think? In the shop. The cop-bitch is out cold. I'm going to find something to secure her with, and then I'm loading up the D?rer. If you aren't here by the time I'm ready to leave, you're on your own when the police show up. And I can guarantee they will." Delbert issued his ultimatum as he suited actions to words, and began ransacking his locked supply cabinets for something -- anything -- he could use to immobilize his victim.

"Del, Del, what've you done!? We have another six months of orders to fill! What about those clients? Huh?" Smythe's moan of thwarted greed made Montenegro grit his teeth in frustration.

"And just how do you expect to fill those orders from inside a prison cell, Al?" he queried sharply, then relented, voice dropping to a soft entreaty. "We knew we were pushing our luck. It was only a matter of time before someone stumbled onto our scam. We've had a good run, kiddo. We've got more money than we could ever spend...," he wheedled. "We have each other. What more do we need?"

"But there are so many treasures still behind these walls," Aloysius Smythe sighed unhappily. "Trapped in the same cages that hold these ingrates. God, what a waste. We could have taken them all, Del."

"Only if we'd had enough time," Montenegro pointed out reasonably as he rifled the tool chest and found a cable tie. It wasn't quite long enough to act as a wrist restraint, but two looped together should do the trick nicely.

Phone pinched between ear and shoulder, he stooped and fastened the plastic ties around the wrists of the woman on the floor, making sure one was threaded through the other to form impromptu handcuffs. "Well, it turns out we didn't. Someone, somewhere, figured it out, and unless you want to spend the next 20 years in prison on general principle, get yourself down here and help me load up the Rover. We can take all three of the Matisses from the Getty and the Lichtenstein from the Chicago MOMA, if that makes you feel any better. I'll even let you keep the little Monet. It can be your farewell gift to your family." He was unable to keep the petty vindictiveness out of his voice.

"You've never liked my mother," Smythe complained bitterly as he hung up with a clatter.

"That's because your mother is a bitch," Delbert muttered nastily as he folded his cell phone and shoved it back into his pocket hurriedly, gave one last tug on his prisoner's cable ties, cinching them painfully tight, and then turned to more pressing matters.

"You little twit!"

Those words punctuated a pained grunt from Monroe that was clearly audible over his ear pieces. So was the thud of a falling body. Hobbes tore the headset off his head, swearing a blue streak, words tumbling out in a multilingual jumble as every curse word he knew, in any of the languages he had any facility with, ran through his head.

Damn-damn-DAMN! Something had gone all to hell in a big frickin' way, and now Monroe was out of commission, unless he totally missed his guess, and what was worse, Fawkes was alone inside without backup. Why the hell hadn't he insisted on a two-way rig for Fawkes? He'd underestimated the enemy, and that wasn't a mistake Bobby Hobbes made very often. Not often at all.

He wrenched the key over hard, the starter grinding, then tried again, this time the engine roaring to life. He dropped the car into gear and gunned it. Tires squealed as acrid blue smoke billowed up behind him, a matched pair of black skid marks testimony to the 1/4 inch of rubber he'd left behind.

The fading dusk was still plenty bright enough to reveal the squat mass of the prison ahead, especially since the guard towers were brightly lit, as was the entrance along the west side. Hobbes flung the wheel hard over and took the right turn that lead him back onto the main road from the access road he'd been lurking on and careened towards the prison gates like a bat out of hell.

Darien Fawkes stroked the heavy steel that shielded the electronic locking mechanism, wondering how long it would take to freeze the whole thing solid enough that he could smash the brittle metal. By this time, he'd been invisible nearly half an hour, and it was beginning to take a toll on his stamina. Deciding against the unnecessary wastage of Quicksilver, he elected to return to the print shop to see if he could find something that would serve as a bludgeon he could smash it with. No point in being subtle, and his lock picks wouldn't work on the electronics.

Making his way back towards the camera room at a jog, he passed the large, grilled windows that separated one wall of the pressroom from the corridor, and glanced in to catch sight of Montenegro speaking agitatedly into a cell phone. But what brought him up short was Monroe's coverall-clad figure sprawled motionless on the floor.

"Aw crap," he breathed, stumbling to a halt.

The sheer unlikelihood of Monroe having lost in hand to hand combat froze him where he stood for a long second, the spell only broken when Montenegro snapped his phone shut and cinched a pair of zip ties around Alex's wrists.

"Oh, ma-a-an," he whined under his breath as he set off at a faster pace for the camera room. It was the best way to catch Montenegro by surprise -- or avoid the bastard -- since it shared a wall with the shop as well as the hall, which would allow him to enter with less chance of being seen. He let himself back into the photo studio and made his way towards the door into the pressroom, only to have to duck out of the way as the printer came barreling in through the door from the shop.

Moving rapidly, Montenegro scurried around the studio, going first to the crated art and selecting three, which he stacked on edge against the wall near the door out to the corridor, before heading to the wall-mounted track where several other paintings were awaiting their turn in front of the lens of the big camera. One of the smaller ones, a kitschy round panel sporting a cartoon-like painting of a laughing cat, Darien recognized as a Roy Lichtenstein. Delbert lifted it off its rack with competent speed and leaned it up against the three crated pieces. He then returned to the art again, tapping a forefinger against the little patch of beard directly under his lower lip contemplatively. As if making a decision, the printer flipped through the racked paintings like pages in a book, and finally stopped at one Darien had missed in his own perusal of the selection.

Small, it measured barely a foot by two feet, and it was unmistakably a Monet. It was a simple image of a haystack or two in a field at sunrise, low clouds near the horizon drawing the eye through the painting from foreground to background. In the monochrome of Quicksilver vision, he couldn't say anything about the artist's use of color, but the brush strokes and the texture of the paint were genuine. The fact that there weren't any of the telltale striations through the image confirmed that.

Montenegro took out a multi-tool from a pocket, removed the Monet from the rack, turned it over, and swiftly set about removing the nails that held the canvas to the frame. Darien blew out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. For an awful moment, he'd thought the guy was going to cut the work from its frame, reducing the already small painting by another quarter inch all the way around and not coincidentally, reducing its value in the process. Like the Lichtenstein, the Monet was stacked against the other paintings, and Montenegro turned next to a wall cabinet fitted with what looked like an over-sized wine rack filled with cardboard tubes of varying lengths.

Mentally, Darien smacked an imaginary hand against his forehead as he realized that the tubes were doubtless filled with drawings and unframed paintings on paper. That guess was confirmed as Delbert dug one from the bottom of the heap, uncapped it and partially removed a fragile and yellowed piece of paper, checking it, then returning it to the cardboard. The D?rer. It had to be.

The tube joined the other art near the door, and Darien scanned the room, wondering what the hell to do now. He was desperate to check on Monroe, but the reality was, he couldn't do anything for her, now. He wished Hobbes wasn't sitting out in the desert somewhere instead of standing at his side, but that wasn't getting him anywhere.

He had to do something. Stop this guy. Something.

His hesitation nearly exposed him as a new player entered the game through the hall door into the pressroom, carrying a leather briefcase and an overcoat slung over one arm.

Delbert hurried back out of the camera studio with a greeting of relief, brushing past him unknowingly.

"It took you long enough!" Montenegro exclaimed, approaching the newcomer, who was staring down at Monroe's unconscious form with in shock.

Darien slipped into the printing room and circled around the press so he could get to Alex without passing the two men, concentrating on their conversation.

"What happened to her?"

"I knocked her out. What's it look like? Snap out of it, Aloysius, She'll be fine, if you don't count the headache."

"Or the black eye," Smythe retorted ironically. A smaller man than Montenegro, the Assistant Warden was also at least a decade younger than the printer, and fine-boned in a weedy and delicate sort of way. There was an unmistakable air of privilege about him, and Darien figured the Saville Row suit the man wore would probably run him at least two months' salary. Why on earth one of the silver spoon set had taken on a job in a prison escaped him, but Darien knew one of the elite when he saw him.

He'd made his way around the far end of the press by this time, and Alex's body lay on the concrete halfway between him and the two men like a discarded rag doll. He inched his way towards her, doing his best to keep his footfalls soundless, while the others argued.

"How do you know?" Smythe demanded.

"That she's not a repair person?" Montenegro specified. "That's obvious, Al. No one who works with their hands for a living has a manicure like that," he pointed out sarcastically. "Does she look like she's ever gotten her hands dirty in her life?" he asked his partner in crime as he nudged Monroe's bound wrists with his toe.

Darien winced, not only because even Quicksilvered, he could see the nasty bruise that was spreading and darkening on Alex's cheek, but because the guy was right, dammit. Her hundred dollar manicure had blown her cover! Under other circumstances, the irony would have amused him, but he didn't have the luxury of time for humor at the moment.

Unless he missed his guess, the two thieves were about to make a getaway with a half-dozen masterpieces. Not only that, but clearly, Alex needed some medical attention. He needed backup, and he needed it now.

"We don't have time for a discussion, Al, we need to leave. Right now," Montenegro interrupted some comment from Smythe that he'd missed. "If I'm right, she probably has people waiting for her to check in, and they'll come running when she doesn't contact them. So I suggest you save the breast-beating for later." The snarky impatience cut across the aggrieved tone of the Assistant Warden.

Darien sidled back around the press as rapidly as he could and ducked into the camera room again, nudging the door almost shut behind him, plucking at his lapel mike and whispered into it. "Hobbes, if you're out there, we've got trouble right here in River City. Get in here now. Monroe's out of action, and Delbert and his cutie, the AW, are about to make a run for it!"

Hobbes flashed his badge at the gate guard, who blinked owlishly at it in the deepening dusk. "Federal Agent. Where's the vocational print shop?"

"In back," the bored gatekeeper said. "Popular place this afternoon. They're closed for the day, though. You'll need to come back tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? I don't think so, pal. You've got a robbery in progress," he snarled, every instinct urging him to hurry.

A snort of amusement established that the Fish & Game Department's seal had been recognized, and he suppressed an urge to scream in frustration.

"Uh-huh," the guard grunted. "And someone's poaching the pigeons on the roof, I guess, which is why you're here, right?"

A muffled burst of noise from the headset lying on the passenger seat diverted him from planting his fist in the smirking face and he scrambled to pull them on. To his relief, Fawkes' voice was coming clearly over the earpieces. "....We've got trouble right here in River ity. Get in here now. Monroe's out of action, and Delbert and his cutie, the AW, are about to make a run for it!"

For the second time in 10 minutes, he wished he'd insisted on a two-way set up for Fawkes. "Hang on, partner," he muttered, then faced down the guard again. "Get your security guys, and get 'em now!" he ordered and floored it, the sports car leaping past the gate booth like a thoroughbred out of the starting gate. Behind him, he could hear the shouted protest of the guard, but ignored it. He swept straight up to the main entrance, hoping that the gate guard had called ahead for security. He was out of the car practically before it had stopped.

Sure enough, by the time he arrived at the wide steel-barred doors, there were three guards awaiting him -- weapons drawn and leveled at him as he approached the metal detector and security checkpoint at a run.

Flashing the next to useless F&G badge again, he opened his jacket to reveal the waist holster and his Colt. "Federal Agent," he repeated. "I've got two people inside, and you're being robbed. Now're you gonna let me in or not?"

"I'm thinking 'not'," what had to be the guy in charge of this mini SWAT unit said laconically, snatching Bobby's badge and examining it contemptuously. "You say you have people inside? How come we weren't informed?"

"Because it's a frickin' inside job! We're working with the FBI," he roared, grasping at straws. "I've got two agents in undercover, and one of them may be hurt! Check your sign-in sheet. You had a McReedy Prepress service call less than an hour ago. Alexis Monroe. My agent! Has she come back out?"

The head of security glanced over at the duty officer who manned the rear entrance for confirmation, and a quick check of the computer confirmed the arrival, but not the departure.

With that, the logjam at the security checkpoint dissolved magically, and Bobby found himself with an armed and dangerous escort as he followed their lead into the prison itself.

Darien had done what he could to summon the cavalry. Now it was up to him to try and stop the mismatched art thieves from making off with a fortune in paintings. As he scanned the studio for something that would inspire a brainstorm, his quarry entered, still squabbling.

"Just stop arguing and help me get the Matisses out of the crates, will you?" Delbert threw up his hands, exasperated. "We don't have time for one of your drama queen moments."

"I am not a drama queen!" was the retort, but the pair went to work, swiftly extracting a trio of Matisse collages from their packing materials and setting them onto the table surface under the camera on a large sheet of paper, and followed them up with the D?rer drawing, now unrolled, the Lichtenstein, and the little Monet. The paper was folded around the artwork and the compact bundle was inserted into the false lining of a standard artist's portfolio that had been taken from a locked cabinet. Clearly, it was Delbert's version of Smythe's briefcase, and evidently, this was far from the first time art had been smuggled out in it. The false lining was reattached, hiding the art from view, and Delbert returned the assorted samples of prints produced at the prison to the case, zipping it shut. The whole thing had taken less than five minutes, now the pair were on their way out into the corridor leading back towards the rear security entrance, Fawkes on their heels, or almost.

That 'almost' had unfortunate consequences as the AW swiped his security badge through the reader and stepped through the locked gate leading to the rear entrance, Delbert and the portfolio at his side. But before Darien could squeeze through, it clanged shut behind them, leaving him on the other side with no way to follow. Giving up the Quicksilver as a lost cause, he shook it off with a curse and lay his palm over the metal lock box, directing the flow instead to the metal and watched the duo disappear around the corner leading to the exit he and Monroe had come in through less than an hour before.

The steel held the frosty imprint of his hand, and he raised one sneakered foot and kicked at it hard. To no avail. The only thing he got was a badly bruised foot, and he swore again, louder, and dashed back towards the print shop, determined to find something he could use as a pick.

He slalomed around the corner, rebounding off the wall in his haste, and stumbled to a startled halt as he came face to face with Hobbes and a trio of armed-to-the-teeth security guards. "Bobby! They're getting away! Monroe's in there -" he waved a long arm towards the pressroom, "And Smythe and Montenegro are on their way out the back door right now with at least six original paintings! Keys!"

Hobbes had seldom been so happy to see his loose-limbed partner stumble into view as he was that moment. The garbled sit-rep tumbled out of Fawkes like an avalanche, but the word 'keys' got his brain moving again on the secret agent fast track. He turned to his escort. "Key," he repeated, pointing to the security badge urgently.

"No, the car key!" Darien corrected, panting. "You guys try and cut them off at the pass before they get out the back. I'll go out the front way and try and stop them at the main gate if they do get out," he clarified, the 'you' aimed at the prison security team. "Hobbes, Alex is pretty banged up. You'd better take a look at her."

Hobbes nodded and tossed Fawkes the keys to the Corvette. His partner caught them easily and went loping off down the hall towards the main door, disappearing around the next corner.

"You heard him." he turned to the security head. "Your AW is walking out of here with a fortune!"

The security team didn't need to be told twice. They sped off in the direction Darien had come from, weapons at the ready, the head guy already issuing orders through the radio on his shoulder to the gate guards up ahead to stop the two prison employees on sight.

Hobbes turned his attention to locating his coworker, and found her groaning, levering herself up slowly, bound hands going to her head to cradle it. If she felt as bad as she looked, he couldn't blame her for whimpering.

"Let's get those things offa you," he said briskly as he pulled open his pocket knife and carefully sliced through the cable ties that bound Monroe.

Darien burst out the front door of the prison's main building at a dead run. Whoever the guys with Hobbes were, they must have radioed ahead to warn the checkpoint team, because he had been waved through without even having to slow down.

Thankfully for his laboring lungs, Hobbes had left the Corvette at the bottom of the steps, and he tugged open the door, folding himself into the seat, sliding it all the way back from where his shorter-statured partner had left it. He got the engine started and spun the car around so fast that it lost contact with the pavement on the passenger's side for an instant before settling to earth again with a squeal of tires.

A green Land Rover, the one he and Alex had parked next to, was already headed for the main gate, and showing no signs of slowing down, either. He gunned the 'Vette's engine and arrowed after it.

Darien closed the gap between his car and theirs. While the area around CCI couldn't offer much in the way of cover for his fleeing targets, Darien didn't want to risk losing them. He wasn't quite sure how to stop them, was the problem. There was no way they could outrun him, but the Land Rover outweighed the sports car by at least a half ton, not to mention that it towered over the low-slung 'Vette. They could run right over him, if they wanted to. He briefly toyed with the idea of ramming them, but Alex would hurt him if he so much as scratched the finish.

Caught up in his quandary, he was a split second late in reacting to their next move. His presence on the night road behind the two fugitives had clearly been spotted, and without warning, the Rover veered off the pavement and into the desert.

He hesitated for only a moment, then swerved after the SUV, knowing when Monroe found out he was off-roading in her car, she'd kill him. But hell if after all this he was gonna let the bad guys get away.

The desert was far from empty after all. Rocks, tumbleweeds, plants he couldn't identify, whipped past in his charge after his prey. The 'Vette's suspension was taking a beating, but the race-inspired engine gamely powered him through the hurdles, and he clung to the Rover's bumper.

Where the hell did these morons think they were going, he wondered, swerving to avoid the rock formation that shot out of the near-dark to his left. On his right, a spiky tree slipped past, then another, on his left, and more rocks blurred past him.

The rending crunch of fiberglass as it smashed against the punishing landscape became the treble note to the bass thunder of his pulse. When the left bumper came loose and scudded off to the left like a thrown frisbee, he knew that the 'Vette couldn't hang together much longer. Ramming the Rover seemed insane, but then, he'd lived with far worse insanity in the past few years. Throwing all caution to the wind, he narrowed his eyes and threw on the high beams, spotting the one thing that might end this crazed chase through the desert in one shot.

He downshifted and floored the gas pedal, dodging the Joshua trees that slipped past in the dusk, and aimed straight at the rear bumper of the Rover.

The sports car shot forward, the low, tapered hood slipping under the rear bumper of the SUV like a forklift. He wrenched the wheel hard over, and the shriek of collapsing, breaking machinery told him he'd succeeded, even if the price would be every hair on his head. The Rover wobbled, destabilized, swerved, and plowed head-on into the barrier he'd selected.

It was impressive, he had to admit, in the split second he had to look at the damage before ducking out of the way of falling cactus-bits. The steam from a fractured radiator swirled up into the darkening night and he sat up gingerly, carefully brushing off bits of sponge-like plant material studded with two-inch thorns. The stand of prickly pear cactus was hardly native to the area, certainly not on this scale, but as far as crime deterrents went, he'd be hard-pressed to come up with a better solution.

The door of the Corvette had jammed in place, and since he was essentially wedged up under the rear axle of the Rover with no chance of breaking free, he clambered out over the door to make his way to the driver's side of the Land Rover. The Rover had lodged itself deep in the cactus patch and the scent of watery herbs and motor oil dispersed through the night air. Darien picked his way through the wreckage, the voices of his still-squabbling targets filtering out of the vehicle as he approached.

He could only get as far as the tailgate of the SUV before mangled cactus parts made it impossible to proceed. Fairly certain that the art thieves weren't going anywhere in a hurry, Darien returned to the Corvette and retrieved his jacket from the back seat, then lifted the lapel mike to his mouth again. "Hobbes, I've got 'em cornered. We're maybe-" He paused, scanning the horizon in a 360? arc and spotting the low, brightly lit bulk of CCI off to his right. "A mile from the prison in the desert just off the west-bound 94. You can't miss us. There's chunks of prickly pear scattered around for a half-mile in every direction."

Hobbes pulled to a stop in a cloud of dust, mouth dropping open at the sight illuminated in the yellow beam of Golda's headlights. His partner slouched against a rock outcropping, one knee bent, foot resting on the stone as he surveyed the wreckage before him. Bobby gulped, his mouth suddenly dry as he jumped out of the van. "Holy crap, Fawkes, are you OK?"

Darien turned to grin at him and Hobbes breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm fine, more or less. Alex's car, not so much." His partner shrugged insouciantly.

Hobbes scanned the debris. "Yeah, I'll say. She's gonna hang you up by the big toes and carve pieces out of you for this, you know," he warned, surveying the damage. What little of the front half of the 'Vette was visible under the rear of the Rover was dented, scratched and had several large pieces of fiberglass torn away from the frame in places where the desert had battered it loose.

The Rover itself wasn't looking so hot, either. Steam rose from its hood and rear, though the damage to the front end was largely hidden by the massive cactus collapsed over the hood and windshield. The sounds of angry argument could be heard coming from within, and he shot Fawkes a look. "Those our suspects?" he asked, a shouted epithet reaching his ears. The Rover rocked a bit, and even through the tinted windows, Hobbes could see someone clambering about inside, trying to crawl from the front seat to the back, presumably so they could attempt an exit from the rear.

"Uh-huh," Darien grunted confirmation and picked disinterestedly at a cuticle. "They've been screaming at each other since I plowed into them."

"Hnuh," Hobbes grunted back and drew his colt from its holster, thumbing off the safety, and leaned over the wrecked cockpit of the 'Vette to release the latch on the rear tailgate. "Alright, come out with your hands up, you two. You're under arrest for grand larceny," he announced with a wave of his pistol. "Hand over the art." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Darien detach himself from the rocks and wander over to stand beside him, peering into the Rover with interest.

Inside the vehicle, the cornered thieves continued their ceaseless argument, currently centered on which of them would attempt to extricate himself from the front seat first. The smaller of the two managed to clamber into the back seat by the expedient of putting the backrest down as far as it would go and crawling towards the only prickly-pear-free exit.

Hobbes stepped to one side to allow the fuming fugitive to step out of the back cargo area and he clambered onto the small visible wedge of the Corvette's hood and from there onto the dusty, cactusy earth.

"Where're the paintings?" Bobby queried impatiently, ignoring the dirty look the fashion plate was directing at him.

"Yeah, Aloysius" Darien echoed, grinning. "Show me the Monet."

Hobbes squelched a snicker of laughter as the paraphrase of Cuba Gooding's famous tag line in Jerry McGuire provoked a furious huff of indignation from the now badly rumpled Assistant Warden.

"Philistines!" he spat at them. "These works are priceless! Hardly the fit subject for your puerile humor!

"Yeah, and hardly fit for the likes of you, either," Hobbes snapped as he waved Smythe to one side and tossed Fawkes his cuffs. Wordlessly, Darien fastened them around the delicate wrists of the AW and led the still foaming-at-the-mouth captive over to the van.

"Yeah, sunshine, you're next. And bring the pictures with ya while you're at it," Hobbes called into the Rover, and waited patiently as the sullen and now blessedly silent second man followed the same exit strategy, shoving a flat black leather portfolio about two by three feet across the cargo area ahead of him. Hobbes took hold of the handle and passed it over to his partner, snapping one of Monroe's cuffs around Delbert's one wrist. He had to be the one who'd cold-cocked Alex, and therefore deserved no mercy. Roughly, Montenegro , too, was bundled into Golda, and leaving the wrecked cars for later, they headed back towards the prison's gleaming, illuminated fa?ade.

"Fawkes?" Hobbes spoke after a few minutes of argumentative driving, their prisoners' continued verbal sparring beginning to seem vaguely familiar.

"Huh?" Darien replied over the grumbling of his belly.

"You think that's what we sound like to other people?" Bobby asked hesitantly at the matrimonial-caliber bickering in the back of the van.

Darien burst into riotous laughter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was late -- very late -- when they gathered wearily in the Official's office to brief him on the outcome of their adventures.

"So, turns out, Smythe's a blueblood," Hobbes finished his recounting of the initial interrogation of the thieves, which he and Darien had participated in. "Those fancy paintings being donated to the likes of the inmates out at CCI rubbed him the wrong way, so he decided to do something about it when he came on board as the Assistant Warden. He hooked up-"

"Literally," Darien muttered with a grin.

"With Montenegro, and convinced him they could pull off the heist of the century between his expertise and Smythe's connections with the rich and famous crowd."

The Official nodded briskly. "I assume Mr. Smythe is busy giving up the names of the people he stole the paintings for?"

"Turns out he was stealing for a guy by the name of Serg? Mendelson," Darien filled in. "Fence I used to know, and connected to anyone who is anyone in the stolen art world on the west coast. He does a lot of 'steal-to-order' business all over the country."

The lift of Eberts' blonde eyebrow was enough to reveal what he thought of that bit of information, and Hobbes cleared his throat as a diversionary tactic. "They're being kept separate until the cops are done questioning them. Hopefully we'll know more tomorrow afternoon sometime."

The Official leaned forward a bit, elbows on his blotter. "How's Agent Monroe?" he inquired grimly, lacing his fingers together and resting one of his several chins on the knuckles.

"According to the paramedics, she'll be fine, though she's gonna be, uh, off the CTS roster for a while with that shiner," Hobbes replied tactfully. "She'll be off duty for a few days."

"And the paintings?" Eberts asked curiously from his usual position behind and to the right of the Official's elbow.

"The Feds have 'em," Darien spoke up around a yawn. "Mike's got a call in to the Stolen Art Squad guy. He'll be on the first plane out tomorrow morning. Looks like he'll have his work cut out for him for the next few months while he tries to figure out which of the paintings out at CCI are real, and which are fake. Not to mention that every museum who's run paintings through that print shop in the last 10 years is gonna have to have their collections re-authenticated."

"What about our finder's fee?" the Official's gimlet eyes gleamed.

Hobbes shot a clandestine look at Fawkes, who looked like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

Darien shrugged. "We didn't ask, Boss. Ebes can call in the morning and talk to the FBI guy who's coming out. I'm sure he knows the score."

The Official's eyes narrowed as he glanced from one to the other of them, and Hobbes fought the urge to fidget.

"Anything else I should know about this little escapade?"

"Uhm, Monroe's gonna need a new set of wheels," Darien confessed. "Hers got kind of... banged up in the chase."

"Define 'banged up,' " Borden glowered at Fawkes unhappily.

"Totaled, sir," Hobbes informed him helpfully, and earned a frown from his partner.

"Totaled?" Eberts squeaked as the potential cost of this was plugged mentally into his budgetary figures. "Oh dear."

"Not our problem, Eberts," the Official stated unequivocally. "It's registered in her name, therefore it's not considered an Agency asset. Her contract clearly states that the Agency accepts no liability for agents' personal property if they choose to use it in the performance of their duties."

Hobbes frowned at this, noting the self-satisfied smirk on the Official's thin lips. Even Eberts looked a tad nonplussed by this cavalier dismissal.

Fawkes snickered slightly as he levered himself wearily out of his chair. "I wouldn't want to be the one who breaks that bit of news to her," he commented as he stretched. "C'mon Hobbes, you can buy me dinner."

Hobbes jumped to his feet as well. "You already had a family pack of baby back ribs from Chilis!" he protested, following his partner out of the office.

Fawkes glanced at his watch with another yawn. "Yeah, Hobbes, but that was almost four hours ago. I'm hungry! I wish I could have some egg nog...."

Behind him, Eberts spoke quietly: "Perhaps we should provide Agent Hobbes with a meal allowance if Darien's appetite continues to increase...."

And Hobbes closed the door on the Official's snort of unamused laughter.