The Players

It’s not so late when I look up at the door to my office. Gaila’s standing there with her ‘I’m leaving and you won’t stop me expression.’ Her well-worn brown wool coat is buttoned all the way up, her warmest hat barely containing the red curls threatening to spill out from underneath.

“You going then?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“It’s cold. And it’s snowing. Again. You need to leave soon too, Jimmy.”

“I will, doll. Just one or two more things to finish up here,” I tell her like I always do. Of course I won’t be leaving any time soon. I know it. And I know she knows it. But we have this conversation almost every night as she’s leaving.

“Alright, Jimmy. You want me to lock up?”

“No. I’ll lock up in a while,” I say, watching her nod. “See ya Monday.”

“Right,” she says, looking like she has something to add. She changes her mind and after getting her purse out of her drawer, leaves.

I turn from the door where she just left and look out the window. Snow is falling on the streets of the city, adding to the slush already there. No concern of mine, really. My apartment is just across the street. There’s a light on that says it’s not empty and I smile, not surprised when the phone on my desk rings. Even before I pick it up, I know that it’s him.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hello,” he answers, sounding as serious as he always does. “Are you coming across soon?”

“Another hour,” I tell him, looking out the window to see if I can spot him moving around our apartment. But he must be in the kitchen where I can’t see him. “How was school?”

I can hear him shrug. “They can concentrate only on their holiday.”

“I know. Just three days next week,” I remind him.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Should I bring your dinner?”

“No. Keep it warm for me. I’ll be there by 6.”

“I will. I stopped for pasta,” he says, sure that will get me home sooner.

“5:30 then,” I respond with a laugh.

“I look forward to your arrival.”

“Me too,” I say right before I hang up, a smile still on my mouth.

I’m just about to lock up for the night when I hear the sound of high heels crossing the wooden floor outside my office. “Hello?”

“Mr. Kirk,” says the woman who appears in my doorway. She is…gorgeous, tall, legs from floor to ceiling. Wrapped in a dark fur coat. Collar pulled high that does nothing to disguise the sculpted lines of her perfect face. Dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair peeking out from under the matching fur hat.

“Yes,” I finally respond, guilty for staring. “What can I do for you?”

She gracefully crosses the space that separates us, accepting my silent invitation to sit in one of the wooden chairs facing my desk. “I find myself in need of …assistance.”

“I see,” I say, waiting. She’ll talk when she’s ready. Not before.

“My husband,” she says, a tiny break in her voice. “My husband is very likely cheating on me.”

I find that hard to believe. Because no way has he found someone more beautiful than the woman sitting across from me. “That’s unfortunate, Mrs. ...?”

“Uhura,” she says, “Miss Uhura. I did not take my husband’s name.”

“I see, Miss Uhura,” I say, thinking quick. I know her name. And now that I’ve gotten used to her startling good looks, I know her face too. Seen it in all the social sections of all the papers. “Why do you suspect that Dr. McCoy is cheating on you?”

If she is surprised that I know who her husband is, she doesn’t show it. She glances down at her glove-covered hands before looking back up at me. “A woman knows, Mr. Kirk. A woman always knows.”

I can only nod. I’ve been in this business long enough to know she’s right. Why the men in this city think they can get away with it is beyond me. “You want proof then?”

“I want….” She stops, considering her words. “I have heard that you offer…other discrete services.”

“Ahh…” I say in realization. “You want me to see what I can do about stopping him.”

“In a word, yes,” she agrees. “I love Leonard. And I know that he loves me. He’s strayed. Men do. I want him back, Mr. Kirk.”

“I see,” I respond, studying her. She looks right at me, her eyes sad but determined. She’s been crying. Recently. But that’s none of my concern. I lean back in my chair, considering. I’ve promised Spock I won’t offer those…services any longer. Too dangerous, he tells me. Please concentrate on lost children and missing heirlooms.

“You are concerned I won’t pay you?” she guesses, her voice quiet.

“That’s not it,” I assure her, straightening to look at her. “I’ve cut down on providing those… services.”

“I see,” she says, glancing over the battered surface of my desk, looking at the blinds that perpetually tilt, no matter how many times I straighten them. I can see she’s evaluating, weighing. “I will make it more than worth your while.”

“I’m sure that you could,” I agree, my voice harder than I intended. She almost flinches but stops herself.

“I have heard you are the best,” she says. “I asked around. If anyone can stop Leonard, it’s you.”

I nod to acknowledge her words, not necessarily in agreement. “Why is this so important to you?” I ask.

“He’s my husband, Mr. Kirk.”

That’s not much of an answer but it’s apparently the only one I’m going to get.

“Please do this for me,” she says, surprising me. Her tone has changed. It’s softer, more sincere somehow. Like her heart really is breaking. And I’m the one who can stop it. When she begins to silently cry, I know I’m sunk.

“All right,” I agree, reluctantly. I provide her with my handkerchief, which she uses very delicately. “Where can I find him?”

“He’ll be at the hospital tomorrow. Until 1:30. Board meeting,” she says, sniffing lightly. “He always eats at Jockey’s Haven when it’s over.”

“All right,” I repeat, wishing I had said no and stuck with it. Now I have to tell Spock. Because lying to him is not an option. I discuss my fee with her and she nods in agreement. She even pays me half up-front. Always nice to have something to show for breaking my promise.

“I will contact you on Sunday,” she says.

“That’s fine,” I agree, reluctantly giving her the phone number to the apartment. She knows everybody in this city. If she wants to get my number, all she’s got to do is call the owner of the exchange. He’d give it to her, no questions asked.

“I’ll speak with you Sunday,” she says, leaving me alone.

I lock up the office, hoping Spock will still speak to me when I tell him. Well, business is always slow around Christmas. This will help. Not that we need the money so much. He’s a tenured professor of physics at the university, after all. Money’s steady. Our needs are few.

I stomp the snow off my boots before opening the door. He’s heard me on the steps and is there, waiting for me. Tall and handsome. Black hair. Black eyes. Lips that don’t usually smile but know how to kiss.

“Kiss me first. Then tell me,” he requests.

I gladly comply, greeting his tongue and tasting the wine he has already started to enjoy. “I love you. You know that, right?”

“I do know,” he agrees, taking my coat to hang it on the outside of the closet door to dry. “And whatever it is you have done that I will disapprove of will not change that.”

“Nyota Uhura came to see me,” I tell him, accepting the white wine from him.

“She is interested in hiring you?”

“She said her husband is cheating on her,” I say, sitting on the couch next to him, in front of the blazing fire. It’s a little too warm for me but he likes it hot so I don’t complain.

“And she wants proof.”

“No,” I say hesitantly, feeling his body tense. “I know, Spock. I know I said I would stop.”

“Yet you have agreed to assist her,” he says, all disapproval and pent up anger.

“Yeah,” I’m forced to agree. “I’m just going to talk to him.”

“This is what you always tell me, Jim. Then it turns into more. And you endanger yourself yet again.” He shakes his head, his disappointment tangible.

“I can handle myself,” I snap, instantly sorry. He’s always been over-protective. One more reason I love him the way I do. But it’s my job.

“It’s your choice,” he corrects, not respecting the barriers I’ve tried to place between us. His mental abilities are way stronger then mine but he usually doesn’t use that to his advantage. Unless he’s angry. Like now. “When are you ‘talking’ with him?”

“Tomorrow. He has a hospital board meeting. Then he always eats lunch at Jockey’s Haven.”

“A private club,” Spock points out.

“Yeah. But you’re still a member. Even if you don’t ever go.”

“So you are proposing that you use my father in this endeavor.”

“Not your father. And I’m not using anyone. I’m a member by virtue of being married to you,” I remind him. A little too loudly.

“But you can enter only if I accompany you,” he reminds me. As though he needed to.

“You’ll worry the entire time I’m gone anyway. You may as well come,” I say, trying really hard not to sound like a 4 year old.

“You are acting like a 4 year old,” he informs me sternly. “And I should send you to bed without any dinner.”

“But you won’t,” I tell him, leaning closer and licking his ear. That gets him every time and this one is no exception.

“You are exasperating, t’hy’la. Even for a human.”

“But I’m your human. And you love me,” I remind him, kissing him soundly.

“You are. And I do. Come and eat,” he says, holding one elegant hand out to me, which I gladly accept and follow him to the table where dinner is waiting.

The Opening Gambit

He drives to the club. I don't care one way or the other, but he knows I hate driving in the snow. And he considers himself a more careful driver than I am. Which is probably true. He's never gotten a speeding ticket. Mine never stick once they find out I'm one of them, even if I am retired. Not my choice. But still.

"Father wishes us to come to dinner on Wednesday," Spock says. Smart of him to tell me while we're driving. So I can't pretend I didn't hear him. I sigh. He frowns. "He is my father."

"He hates me." It's an old conversation and we play our parts.

"He does not. He considers you his son."

"He talks to you," I say.

Spock just shakes his head, knowing I'll go on Wednesday. And I'll be appropriate and charming and he'll make it up to me when we get home. "Would you object to spending the night with him?"

"I don't care," I respond. Because I don't. Sarek is an excellent cook at least. That helps. And it would be nice to stay in the country for the night. "Is he still seeing that woman?"

"I have not discussed it with him," Spock says. "I do not think that she will be there."

"I know you don't like her," I tell him. "But she seems good for him."

"She is, as you would say, a gold-digger."

"Maybe," I say. I offered to look into her past but Spock asked me not to. Better he not know the truth when his father had already made up his mind. Because no one argues with Sarek. Least of all me.

"He is not so formidable as you like to believe," Spock tells me.

"Not to you," I say, looking out my window at the flakes drifting by. "Why don't we live some place warm? Where it doesn’t snow every day from November to March."

"Because you hate deserts," he reminds me. "And my job is here."

"Yeah," I laugh. "You sure couldn't get a job anywhere else."

He shrugs at that.

"Didn't you get a letter from PolyTech yesterday?" I ask.

"I did."

"Was it another job offer?"

"It was."

"And?" I prompt.

"My job is here. My father is here. You are here."

"I could get used to living out there. Where are all the hot babes are."

"One more reason we are remaining here," he tells me.

I laugh again, shaking my head. "Jealousy does not become you, love."

He looks over at me with his best no-nonsense expression and I laugh again.

Very soon we arrive at Jockey's Haven and Spock turns the keys over to the valet. He promises to take good care of the roadster, taking a moment to admire the power and beauty of the car.

Spock and I go to the front door which is magically opened by Henri, the maître d' who greets Spock with a combination of gratitude and surprise.

"I thought perhaps there had been an error, Professor," Henri says, his 'French' accent as artificial as his supposed pedigree.

"No error, Henri. Jim and I decided to come for a late lunch."

"Very good. Very good indeed," Henri says, eyeing me with some annoyance. Not blueblood enough for him. Marrying it doesn't count. "If you will come right this way."

Spock nods, making sure I am following as Henri walks away. We are shown to the table generally reserved for Sarek, certain he won't be coming today. Spock checked with him, able to ask without admitting why.

"A glass of wine for you, sirs?" Henri asks, managing to look down his nose at me but not Spock.

"Yes," Spock agrees. "Languedoc-Roussillon 1926."

"Very good, monsieur," Henri says, snapping his fingers to summon the wine steward.

"You love doing that to him, don't you?" I ask, watching Spock.

"What is it that I do?" Spock asks me in turn.

"Prove that you belong here. Not just because of who your father is."

Spock refuses to answer, accepting the tasting from the steward. He sniffs it delicately before taking a sip. "Yes," he says, accepting a whole glass which he hands to me before accepting his own. "Do you know what you want?"

"I haven't decided," I tell him, looking at the specials that are handwritten on the menu. They are featuring seafood, something I cannot stand to eat. But he'll be delighted by it, being adverse to red meat. "You going to have scallops?"

"I believe so," he agrees, unnecessarily leaning closer to me to see the menu. He has one of his own but looking at mine is always preferable. "Do you wish to try the filet mignon?"

"You okay with it?"

"I am," he assures me, his right hand under the table stroking my thigh. Must be the wine. He isn't generally so demonstrative, even when no one can see him. /It is because I am concerned for you./

/But you don't need to be,/ I assure him, sipping the delicious wine. /I'll be fine. He's a doctor. If he puts up a fight, he won't stand a chance./

He sighs, putting his glass on the table. "He has just entered."

I look over at the door, instantly recognizing the Doctor. He's been described as attractive but I don't see it. He has intense brown eyes and a frown that quiets conversation. His thick black hair is in perfect order even though the wind has picked up. Strong jaw line. Looks tough for a doctor.

"Do you think he's handsome?" I ask Spock ideally.

Spock studies him surreptitiously for a moment. "I suppose. He has pleasing attributes."

"Hmmm…"

"What are you planning to say to him?" Spock asks me over the rim of his glass.

"That I know. That his wife knows. That if he doesn't knock it off, it won't go well for him."

"I see," Spock says, looking up at the waiter who stops by our table. "Is that Dr. McCoy who just entered?"

"Yes, sir. Sure is," the young man agrees.

"Might you ask him to come and speak with us for a moment?" Spock asks, all high-society and expecting to get whatever he wants.

"Sure thing, Professor Spock. Right away," the young man says, hurrying away to fulfill Spock's request.

"You put on airs really well," I tell him with an internal laugh. I can see the waiter talking to Henri who nods after glancing over at us. Henri makes his way to the Doctor's table, conveying the request. McCoy frowns even more, looking up at Spock before looking back at Henri. It's clear he wants to refuse. But instead stands and follows Henri over to our table.

"You wanted to talk to me?" McCoy asks, all rough edges and resentment for being disturbed.

"Please. Join us," Spock says with courtesy and formality. "Glass of wine?"

McCoy shakes his head, sliding into the booth opposite from where Spock and I are sitting. "So what d'ya want?"

"Your wife paid me a visit yesterday," I tell him, making sure my voice is quiet but the intent unmistakable.

"You her latest?" he scoffs, dismissing me with a glance.

"On the contrary, Dr. McCoy, she has requested that I insist that you stop your dalliances," I tell him.

"I got no dalliances," he laughs. A hard, unpleasant sound. "She's the whore."

I am surprised by his rough language, especially since he's making no effort to moderate his tone. He is fortunate that there are so few patrons in the restaurant.

"That language is entirely inappropriate," Spock tells him in a well modulated voice.

"Then you've never met her, Professor. I call 'em as I see 'em," McCoy responds.

"I find it hard to believe that's she the one guilty of indiscretion," I say.

McCoy shrugs. "You saw her, Captain. I'm sure you thought about it."

I shake my head. It's not true and it's certainly not the point. "You aren't having an affair?"

"I said I wasn't."

"And she said you were," I respond, more firmly this time.

"She's lying. Doesn't surprise me," he tells me.

"She said that she loves you. Is that a lie as well?" I ask, watching him closely.

"She loves my money. Me she can do without. But we come as a package."

"Why would she have told Jim that you were cheating on her when it is not true?" Spock asks.

"Wants him to take me out. I know your reputation, Captain. I know why you were forced out. So does she."

I shrug. That was a long time ago. No one calls me 'Captain' any longer. Not unless they say it to insult me. Like McCoy is doing.

"I doubt she thought you'd bring along the Professor. Surprises me. Not that I'm not grateful. Since you hate violence as much as the Captain seems to relish it. But I'm not cheating on her. Never have. Never will. End of story."

I look at Spock, our silent communication invisible to the angry Doctor. Spock believes him. Me, I'm not sure. But what evidence do I have to make a decision?

"What do you want me to do?" I finally ask him, watching him closely.

"I don't give a damn what you do, Captain," he replies with a sneer. "Tell her you talked to me. Don't tell her. Makes no difference to me."

"Do you want Jim to provide you with evidence of her infidelity?" Spock asks reasonably.

McCoy shrugs. "She can get her jollies where she finds them. What does it matter to me?"

"You are not concerned that she is being unfaithful?" Spock asks, certain he can't have understood McCoy correctly.

"I knew what I was getting when I married her. I'm not stupid, Professor. She's arm-candy. She stays in her place and we all get along just fine."

"Why did you marry her?" I ask, astounded at his dismissiveness.

He shrugs, looking at me with hard eyes. "It was time. It's what's done. Needed someone to stand next to at all those high-falutin society functions. She's a looker. Good family."

"You make her sound like a race horse," I say, feeling suddenly defensive on her behalf. Even though I'm fully aware it's not my business.

"Lot of similarities," he scoffs. He stands, looking down at us. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I'm going to have some lunch."

We stare after him as he returns to his table. He takes a healthy pull from the beer waiting for him before he sits down with his back to us. The opposite side of the table he originally sat at.

"What do you think?" I finally ask after we've placed our orders, the waiter swooping in as soon as the Doctor leaves.

"He is not having an affair," Spock says. He can always tell. Something about their heart rate. Or the dilation of their pupils. He can't explain it, precisely. But he's never been wrong.

"So it's her."

"Perhaps when she calls, you should invite her over. To talk in person," Spock suggests.

"You don't mind?" He usually hates the idea of my clients having access to our personal lives. But he seems okay with it this time.

"It is not my preference," he assures me. "But as the Doctor is not lying, chances are that Miss Uhura is."

"I can just return her money. Tell her I changed my mind."

He shakes his head minutely at that. "There is more to it than what we know."

Complications Arise

I call her and even though she’s surprised, she agrees to come to our apartment on Sunday. I can tell by her tone that she thinks it’s bad news. Well. Let her stew on it. Might help shake the truth loose when she gets here.

I’m looking out the window when her car pulls up in front of our building. Low. Long. Black. Driven by her chauffer. She’s wearing stilettos and he has to help her cross the snow bank the plows left in their wake. Once he sees her safely inside, he drives off.

She knocks on our door and we wait four heartbeats before opening it. She’s in fur. This one is golden brown. Sable. Perfect compliment to her skin and hair. If it’s possible, she is more beautiful this time than when she was in my office.

“Miss Uhura,” I say, taking her coat from her elegant shoulders. “Thank you for coming.”

She nods, glancing at Spock. “Professor,” she says in that tone that means she knows who he is even though they have never met.

“Miss Uhura,” Spock responds with a nod. She looks him up and down. I can see she appreciates the black trousers and black cashmere sweater he’s wearing. I appreciate them. She barely licks her lips. “Please have a seat.”

She nods in agreement, sitting on the edge of the club chair. Her red dress is the same color as the leather covering the cushions. She couldn’t have known. “Tell me what you have discovered,” she requests, slightly breathless.

“Can we get you anything?” I ask. “Coffee? A cup of tea?”

“Thank you, no,” she responds.

I nod, sitting on the couch that faces her. Spock excuses himself and goes to the kitchen. He doesn’t have to be present to hear. He’ll know what she says because I’ll know. I don’t tell her this. I’m sure he’s not the first Vulcan she’s met. She knows we are bonded.

“Did your husband tell you I talked to him yesterday?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “He stayed in the city last night. I haven’t seen him.”

I nod. “Spock and I went to Jockey’s Haven. And he was there. Just like you said he’d be.” I pause, watching her. She’s looking at me, meeting my eyes. Waiting. “I told him the jig is up. That he’s to stop cheating on you or it wouldn’t go well for him.”

She nods again, glancing down at her hands. “What did he say?”

“He said he’s not cheating on you. ‘Never has. Never will,’” I tell her. I see her frown and she looks back up at me. Measuring. Considering.

“What else did he say?” she asks, her tone softer, her eyes wider.

“That you are the one guilty of infidelity,” I tell her. And she has no reaction. She doesn’t even blink.

“Do you believe him?” she finally asks me in conversational tone. ‘Do you have the time?’ ‘Can you tell me where the library is?’

“I have no reason not to,” I respond, not willing to repeat what Spock told me. Not yet. “He said you are more in love with his money than him.”

She laughs at that, the sound startling me. “Surely you don’t believe that.”

“Again, I have no reason not to,” I tell her, leaning back on the cushions of the couch. What is she playing at?

“Do you know who my father is, Mr. Kirk?”

“Yeah. Sure. Everybody knows.”

“Then why would you believe my husband when he says I stay married only for his money?” she asks me. Her tone sounds like she can’t help but feel sorry for me. Because I can’t possibly understand the inner workings of her class of people.

“Maybe your daddy cut you off. Maybe he doesn’t like Dr. McCoy. Maybe you’ve gone through your inheritance.”

She shakes her head, that same condescending smile on her lips. “No. I can assure you none of those things have occurred. I married Dr. McCoy for love. Not for money.”

“That’s a very different story from the one he told me,” I say. “If you aren’t cheating, and you don’t need his money, why’d he say those things?”

“My husband is a very…complex man, Mr. Kirk. Leonard does things his own way for his own reasons.” She stopped, looking toward the doorway that leads into our kitchen. I can’t hear Spock moving around so I’m sure she can’t either. Because he’s in our bedroom. Reading. “We are having our annual Christmas open house on Friday. You and the professor should come. It will give you the chance to see how things really are.”

“What will your husband think?” I ask.

She shrugs one shoulder. “It hardly matters. He won’t make a fuss during the party. You can talk to our friends. You’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

“He says you’re not.”

She sighs minutely at my words. “Will you come?”

“Sure. We have no plans Friday. What time?”

“7:30,” she tells me. “Black tie.”

I nod. I figured. “My tuxedo’s back from the cleaner.”

“You own one?” she asks, not out of curiosity. But because someone like me can’t possibly have the need of one.

“Yeah. I have more reasons to wear that monkey suit than I’d like,” I tell her.

She nods and stands. “I will see you Friday at 7:30.”

“Right,” I say, getting her coat from the back of the chair where Spock laid it. “Friday.”

I help her pull on her very expensive, handcrafted coat and without another word, she leaves.

Spock comes back into the living room, one eyebrow raised. “Well?”

I can only shrug. “I think she believes he’s cheating. I don’t know why else she would have hired me.”

“He is not cheating,” he tells me, sitting on the couch and looking up at me.

“Can you tell if she is?”

“I did not spend enough time with her. It is interesting to me that she invited us to the open house.”

“Me too. She was surprised I own my own tuxedo,” I say, sitting on the other end of the couch.

He shakes his head at that. “She’s never seen the advertisements?”

“That was a long time ago, t’hy’la. They don’t use those photographs any longer.”

“They should,” he says, his voice all smoke and heat.

“Keep it up and I’ll have to drag you back to the bedroom,” I warn with a smile I know is charming. And I know it will work.

“There would be no dragging involved,” he says, standing up and going that direction without a backward glance. He knows I’ll follow. And I do.

~Dinner With The Ambassador~

We drive the 45 minutes out of town to Sarek’s country house. He spends more of his time here now, since Spock’s mother died, four years ago already. ‘Too many memories in the brownstone’ the Ambassador says. He still keeps the city house because of his obligations. We check on it when he’s in the country. He’s offered it to us. Spock prefers our apartment. Because it’s ours.

When we pull in front of the imposing manor house, the door is opened right away by Stonn who stands in the doorway, waiting. We enter the house, and Stonn takes our coats, inquiring about our drive up. He doesn’t really care and we don’t care that he doesn’t care. But he’s very good at his job and greeting his employer’s son and son-in-law falls in that category.

“The Ambassador is in the library,” Stonn informs us.

“Thank you,” Spock responds, turning that way, me right by his side. We enter the library, all dark paneling and shelf after shelf of books, rare volumes, first editions, signed manuscripts.

“Spock, James,” Sarek says in greeting. He rises from his dark brown leather wingback to cross over to us.

“Father,” Spock says with a nod.

“Ambassador,” I add.

“How was your drive?” he asks because he always does what is expected. And inquiring about one’s journey is what one does.

“It was without incidence,” Spock says, following Sarek deeper into the library. He and I sit on the deep brown couch as Sarek returns to his chair. “The snow is holding off.”

Sarek nods. “It will come before much longer.”

“Yes,” Spock acknowledges.

“Have you closed down your labs for Christmas holiday?” Sarek asks Spock.

“Friday,” Spock says. “There is one more test which must finish running. Stron will oversee it until I arrive back tomorrow. After that, we will close the labs.”

Sarek nods at that. “How is your research progressing?”

Spock explains the hypothesis he is trying to prove, Sarek asking pointed questions. From someone else, it would sound like disapproval. But Sarek makes sure Spock has considered all the sides of the theory, challenging to Spock’s benefit.

I have already heard all this, not that I mind listening to Spock’s voice. But I’m free to consider other topics while father and son converse. Spock sends silent amusement to me and I know he doesn’t mind.

Since Miss Uhura’s visit on Sunday, I’ve done some checking. Every single person I spoke to says the McCoys have an ideal marriage. The furrier on 5th. The green grocer close by their house. The doorman at McCoy’s city apartment. Jack and I go back a long way. He tells it to me square. And he says they are happy as clams. The Doctor never has anyone up to his apartment. If he did, Jack’d know. Only one way in or out of that building.

Spock winds down telling his father about his research and easy as you please, asks if Sarek knows a doctor by the name of Leonard McCoy. I continue to watch the flames in the fireplace as though this is of no more interest to me than wave particle theory.

“Why do ask?” Sarek responds, no change in his tone.

“An acquaintance brought his name up recently. I know of his reputation but nothing of his work,” Spock says.

“I am told he is a brilliant surgeon,” Sarek says in his ‘considering it’ tone.

“Is he married?” Spock asks, a tiny shock of guilt pulsing through to me at lying to his father.

//A question doesn’t constitute a lie,// I assure him.

//It is when you already have the answer,// he responds.

Sarek nods. “He is. To Nyota Uhura. While I have never met her, I have heard that she is quite beautiful.”

“Uhura,” Spock repeats. “Is she any relation to Kheri Uhura?”

“She is,” Sarek agrees. “His daughter. She did not follow his footsteps as far as I know.”

Spock nods at that, looking over at Stonn as he appears in the doorway.

“Dinner is prepared, Ambassador,” Stonn says. We dutifully go into the dining room, all mahogany and crystal and silver. After we sit in our customary places, Sarek at the head, Spock on his left hand, me on Spock’s right, Stonn brings in the soup. Thick creamy lobster bisque. Although I don’t eat clam chowder, I always enjoy the bisque when it’s served.

The soup is followed by the usual delicious dinner, served by the silent, watchful Stonn. I know T’Pring is in the kitchen, overseeing the preparations. She will avoid making an appearance if at all possible as long as Spock is in the house. She might have married him if he hadn’t loved me. He did. She’s forgiven me but not him.

Spock and Sarek talk more about Spock’s work. About Sarek being requested to attend the Inter-species World Conference in February. Sarek would rather not go. But it’s almost impossible for even him to refuse the President.

When all six courses of dinner are finished, we adjourn back to the library. Stonn brings me a cup of coffee without me even asking. I nod my thanks. Spock accepts a glass of brandy as Sarek enjoys a snifter as well.

Since we’ve arrived, I’ve barely said five words. It’s how it always goes. I don’t mind. Not any longer. At first it was awkward. Now it’s just the way things are. If Sarek asks me a question directly, I’ll answer. Otherwise I’m an observer rather than a participant.

When Spock and Sarek wind down, Spock and I go up to the guest room where we always stay. I come out of the bathroom in my pajamas, smiling at Spock. “I sure am glad you’re on my side.”

He looks up from the book he’s been reading. “I am on the side I normally occupy.”

“No,” I laugh, sitting on the side he’s not occupying. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes,” he admits. “Had I intentionally not misunderstood, you would not have laughed. You would have continued to scowl as you have all evening.”

“I’ve done no such,” I huff. “I was the perfect guest. And who uses the word ‘scowl’ anyway?”

He shrugs one elegant shoulder at me. “I know you would have preferred to return home.”

“I don’t mind, t’hy’la. I just know my place.”

“By my side,” he reminds me, kissing me lightly. He doesn’t dare kiss me any harder. We are very respectful of Sarek’s house, even though we are married. Still. Making love in your father’s house is frowned on.

“What exactly did Nyota not follow her father into?” I ask.

“He is reputed to be a crimelord,” Spock says. “I doubt that it is true.”

“So owning the railroad is just a cover?”

“I have no further information than that,” he tells me. “I have heard that he invited Nyota to take over the railroad when he retires but she did not wish to go into the family business.”

“That’s interesting,” I say, considering this information. “Who’ll take over?”

“I am uncertain,” he says.

“Well. Hardly matters,” I say, laying down in the comfortable bed, one hand on his thigh. //Goodnight.//

//Goodnight, love,// he returns. I can feel his eyes on me until I fall asleep, feeling safe and content.

The High Toned and Fancy To-Do

Friday comes and Spock is looking exceptionally handsome in his tuxedo. He has the body for it, tall, lean, all lines and angles. My tuxedo fits the way you expect a custom job would even though I am a little shorter, more stocky. I keep in shape but my body lacks the elegance of his.

“You only think that because you are in love,” he tells me as he ties my bow tie. I can tie his. But not my own.

“Is that so wrong?” I ask as he finishes up. I check the mirror. Perfect as I expect it to be.

“Not in the least,” he assures me, tying his own, also perfect.

“You’re sure we shouldn’t at least take a bottle of wine?”

He shakes his head, watching as I brush my hair one last time. Damn curls. Refuse to stay flat against me head. “A hostess gift is not required.”

“Okay,” I say, leaving the bathroom with him.

We make our way to the McCoy mansion outside of town. It’s tall and imposing and just very nearly gaudy. It’s festooned with wreathes and lights, looking for all the world like an oversized gingerbread house. Doesn’t look like some place you’d expect the Doctor to live.

“Nyota probably chose it,” Spock agrees as we leave the keys with a valet.

“Is it true her father bought it as a wedding gift?”

“I have no idea,” he says as we walk up the stone steps. The double front doors open as we approach, their butler barely acknowledging us.

“Professor Spock. Mr. Kirk,” he says, all haughty and putting on airs even as he takes our coats from us.

“Good evening,” Spock says.

“Happy Christmas,” I say, mostly to annoy him. His expression barely changes but he doesn’t look pleased at my words.

He gestures us to enter and we are in the foyer. Black and white marble floor. Three story ceiling above our heads. Gigantic crystal chandelier the size of our dining room table. Staircase that curves against the wall and up into forever. A 10 foot Christmas tree in the curve of the stairwell, every inch covered in gold stars and angels.

Music is coming from our left and we can see this is where the guests are. We enter the parlor and the sounds of the piano grow louder. The guests are gathered around the Bösendorfer grand. Whoever is playing is invisible to us. The skill of the pianist is not. The music is heartfelt and enchanting and mesmerizing.

When the last note fades away, the guests applaud, showing their appreciation. The pianist stands, a slip of a boy, all blond curls and blue eyes.

“Da,” he says with a slight bow. “You are thanked.” He bows again before smiling at Miss Uhura and Dr. McCoy. “Maybe I can play your wonderful piano again.”

“It would be our pleasure,” Miss Uhura tells him and his eyes sparkle even more.

“As wonderful as I had hoped,” Dr. McCoy adds, smiling at the young man, a genuinely pleased look on his face.

“That’s Pavel Chekov,” I say to Spock, hearing the disbelief in my own voice.

“Indeed. I did not know our hosts were a patron.”

At that moment, Miss Uhura and Dr. McCoy notice us and approach, all smiles and good cheer. “Professor Spock. Captain Kirk,” the Doctor says, smiling at us and his wife in turn. She has one hand through his arm, the black dress she is wearing nothing short of spectacular – nearly shear, intricate beading on the neckline and cuffs, her hair up in a French twist, beads shimmering from the pins holding it in place.

Dr. McCoy looks like he was born wearing a tuxedo. He’s completely at home in it. Custom job. Perfect lines.

“We’re so glad you could come,” Dr. McCoy says, shaking my hand and smiling at us both.

“I’m delighted that you accepted our invitation,” she agrees, also shaking my hand very delicately.

“We’re delighted to be here,” I respond with a smile. “You have a beautiful house.”

“Thank you,” Dr. McCoy says, looking at Miss Uhura. “It’s all due to Nyota. She’s the one that made it a home.”

She laughs at his words, her eyes sparkling up at him. “Thank you, my dear.” She drags her eyes from him, focusing instead on us. “Please. Help yourself to some refreshments. Make yourselves at home. I’m sure you know many of our guests, Professor.”

“Thank you,” he says, silently amused at her statement. If I wasn’t accustom to being treated as one of his appendages, it might upset me. But I’m used to it and don’t think twice about it. Haven’t in a long time.

We go deeper into the parlor, Spock speaking to those he knows, which is most of them. I know them because he does. The nice ones, the ones who don’t have a nosebleed from holding it so high, speak to me too. The others, the ones who only have a slippery hold on their place in society, ignore me. Not worthy of them. Several ask after Spock’s father who was invited but never attends these kinds of affairs, Christmas or not.

We’ve made it to the buffet which is comprised of more food than ought by rights be in one place. Vegetables, raw and grilled. Meats of every kind. Fruits. Cheeses. Something I’m pretty sure is rabbit. I skip that one. We’re about to leave the buffet when the pianist comes up to Spock, all smiles and bright enthusiasm.

“Professor Spock,” he says in excitement.

“Mr. Chekov,” Spock returns with a nod. “Your playing was beyond exemplary.”

“Thank you,” he gushes, clasping his hands. “Can I talk vith you about your research? Please? I know this is a party but I have been an admirer of your vork for several many years.”

“I am flattered,” Spock says, looking down at him. “I was unaware of your interest in the application of chromotrove particles as they relate to the inverse Kepler-ratio energy theory.”

The young man shrugs at that. “I am fascinated by all aspects of your research, Professor. I think ve vill return to space in our lifetime.” He glances at me, apparently noticing me for the first time. His long-fingered hands go to his cheeks, flushed red. “Oh. My. Vhere are my manners gone?”

I shrug and smile which helps put him at ease.

“This is James Kirk,” Spock says, Mr. Chekov nodding.

“Yes. Of course. I have heard about you,” Chekov responds. “Are you minding if I talk vith the Professor?”

“Not at all,” I assure him. They wander off, heads close together. I’m used to it and can entertain myself. I glance around to see a man in full Scottish regalia watching me. I smile and he returns it.

“Laddie,” he says, clapping me on the back. He is stronger than his small stature would suggest. “That boy is all excitement and enthusiasm.”

“I don’t mind,” I assure him, extending my hand. “Jim Kirk.”

“Aye. That I know. Montgomery Scott,” he returns, shaking my hand.

“Dr. Montgomery Scott of the Royal Scottish Academy of Science?”

“Aye, laddie. One and the same,” he assures me with a laugh. “Let’s get a wee bit of something to drink then we’ll sit.”

I nod in agreement, going with him to the semi-circular bar, scotch neat for him, a glass of champagne for me. We find two empty chairs in the sunroom off the library and settle in. “What brings you to America?” I ask. His aversion to sea travel is of near mythic proportions.

“I’m holding the Uhura Endowed Physics Chair next semester,” he says, which I should have known. Maybe I did and just forgot. “Thought it smart to come before the holidays. Get settled in.”

“That makes sense,” I agree. “Has your appointment been announced? I don’t remember hearing it.”

“Ach…not yet,” he says with a frown. “Some snafu in the paperwork. Don’t rightly know myself. Be announced January 2.”

“That makes sense,” I agree.

“I am thinking that Professor Spock knows,” he tells me somewhat tentatively.

“If he does, he’s never mentioned it to me,” I say, eating the delicious strawberries, here in the middle of winter.

“I know of him by reputation,” Dr. Scott says, studying me briefly. “What do you think of his research?”

“I think it will have a lot of practical applications when he proves it has real world viability. Most think it only works in his lab. He’ll prove them wrong,” I say because I do believe it. Spock is right. It will make space travel possible.

“He’s got it backward, laddie,” Dr. Scott says, shaking his head. We discuss the two conflicting theories and if he is surprised I can hold my own in the conversation, he’s kind enough not to show it. It’s a lively 45 minutes and we enjoy the talk and each other’s company. By the time Miss Uhura announces Mr. Chekov’s next performance, Scotty and I are friends, laughing and talking like we’ve known each other our entire lives.

We obediently return to the front room, and I maneuver next to Spock, who looks over at me with one raised eyebrow. I just smile and turn back toward the piano. A large man is speaking in heavily accented English. He is tall and shaped like a barrel. His grey hair is too long and unkempt. His beard at least is trimmed and neat. His voice is deep and periodically the candelabra on the sideboard vibrates in sympathy.

“He vill be playing the Piano Concerto No. 3 in D minor, Opus 30 by Sergei Rachmaninoff. The allegro ma non tanto. Ve thank our hosts for having this exquisite instrument,” the large man says, glancing over at Mr. Chekov who nods.

//That is Stefan Yakovlev, right?// I ask Spock.

//It is. Brilliant conductor. Masterful piano teacher.//

//Is it true he beats his students if they screw up?// I ask with an internal laugh.

He doesn’t respond, which I knew he wouldn’t.

Mr. Chekov begins to play and it is… as though he is channeling Rachmaninoff through his fingers. They fly over the keys, sure and delicate. The music soars and dips. Takes flight and rests. It is incomparable. When he plays the final note, the guests are entranced, motionless. Mr. Chekov looks up at Mr. Yakovlev who nods. That awakens the audience, who applaud and cheer, their appreciation reverberating through the room.

Mr. Chekov stands, all smiles and beaming. I can see the sweat on his forehead created by his efforts to play such a challenging piece. But he is pleased with the results, graciously accepting everyone’s kudos.

We finally make our way to him and he smiles at us, his eyes sparkling. “I am so pleased you vere here to hear,” he says, mainly to Spock.

“As am I, Pavel. Your talent far surpasses what I had heard,” Spock tells him, making Mr. Chekov smile even more, if that’s possible. His smile fades ever so slightly when he feels the approach of Mr. Yakovlev over his right shoulder.

“Professor Spock,” Mr. Yakovlev says, eyeing Spock with cold grey eyes.

“Dr. Yakovlev,” Spock returns with a slight bow. “You are to be commended. Your pupil is the finest I’ve ever heard.”

“Da,” Dr. Yakovlev says. “He is the clay. I have sculpted him.”

“You have indeed,” Spock says, turning slightly toward me. “This is James Kirk.”

“I have been hearing of you,” Dr. Yakovlev says, turning his focus to me, measuring and evaluating. I’m not sure he’s pleased with his assessment. “You are bonded?” he asks, his attention returning to Spock.

“We are,” Spock agrees.

I feel like I’ve just been insulted. Because I’m not good enough to be bonded to a Vulcan? Yeah, well. Spock thinks I am. That’s all I care about.

“You are lucky,” the Doctor says. Now why does that sound like some kind of threat?

//I do not believe he intends to insult you, t’hy’la.//

//As if I care,// I return. //I don’t give a damn what he thinks of me. Why should I?//

//True.//

We all turn at the approach of Miss Uhura who is now wearing a silver dress, sparkling like it’s made of diamonds. Maybe it is.

“Pavel,” she says, all breathless with excitement. “You are… well.” She stops, reaching out to hug him. The kiss she plants on his cheek leaves behind the impression of her lips. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Thank you, Miss Uhura,” he says, his cheeks nearly as red as her lipstick.

“How many times have I asked you to call me Nyota? He really should, shouldn’t he?” she says to Dr. McCoy who has joined us.

“Only if he’s comfortable with it, dear,” the Doctor says. “Incredible job, Pavel. Just amazing.”

“Thank you, sir,” Pavel says, dropping his eyes, a smile still on his mouth. A discreet waiter appears, providing champagne to us. Pavel does not attempt to take a flute, Dr. Yakovlev frowning in disapproval even so. Spock refuses as is his custom. The rest of us sip the delicious bubbles after saluting Pavel, chatting and complimenting him on his gift. It isn’t long before Dr. Scott joins us too.

“Ahh… Scotty. So glad you’ve joined us,” Dr. McCoy says, smiling over at the man in the kilt. “I wanted to introduce you to Dr. Spock. Dr. Scott will be holding the Uhura Endowed Physics Chair in the spring semester. We intended to announce his appointment but things became complicated.”

“Congratulations,” Spock says with a tiny bow. “Your presence will do much to enhance the research at the university.”

“I appreciate that, Professor,” Scott says to Spock. “I’m looking forward to comparing notes with you.”

“As am I,” Spock agrees.

“He is almost ready to activate the chromotrove particle converter,” Pavel says in excitement.

“I had no idea you’d gotten so far,” Dr. Scott says in admiration.

“Mr. Chekov’s enthusiasm is somewhat misplaced, Professor,” Spock says in his indulgent tone, one he usually reserves for me when I’ve almost pissed him off. “We are in the process of ascertaining if it is theoretically possible. Our modeling suggests that it is.”

“Iffn you don’t blow a hole straight through your lab,” Dr. Scott laughs.

“I can assure you I have no such intentions,” Spock says, one eyebrow up to indicate he really is amused by the conversation.

They continue to chat about their theories, Pavel following Dr. Yakovlev off somewhere, Miss Uhura mingling with the guests. I’m on the periphery of Spock’s conversation with Scotty but not paying any real attention. Watching the other guests is much more interesting.

I see Dr. McCoy cross the foyer and enter what must be the kitchen from the noises which come through the door as he opens it. He doesn’t look like he’s sneaking around but there’s something about his movements that tell me he is doing all he can to avoid attracting attention to himself. I naturally follow him. The caterers in the kitchen barely notice me, so busy with their preparations that an elephant could be crossing through, and so long as it wasn’t in their way, they’d just keep on with their jobs.

There is a back stairway just past the kitchen, mostly hidden by the entryway to the pantry, a back door to the house next to that. I didn’t hear the door open so I guess the Doctor went up the stairs. I follow.

I end up on the floor of the house with the bedrooms, 5 of them. All the doors stand open, each room pristine, all white and gleaming. Further down the hallway, the last door on the left stands partway open and I can hear Dr. McCoy’s voice. He’s talking.

I follow the sounds and find him in what is unmistakably his office. It is dominated by a huge mahogany desk, 3 neat piles of papers on the surface. He’s talking on the phone, looking out the window over their backyard. I’ve heard it’s all formal gardens but I’ve never seen it.

“Yes, that will be fine,” he is saying. He frowns when he sees my reflection in the dark window and turns toward me, continuing his conversation, in no apparent hurry. “I will be there on Monday unless I need to come sooner. And I know you’ll call me if I need to….All right then…absolutely….yes, you too.” He hangs up, staring at me. “What the hell do you want?” he asks, the coarse, unpleasant man from Jockey’s Haven returning.

“The truth,” I say, leaning against the doorjamb, studying him. He is a puzzle. One I will solve with or without his help.

“You think you’ll discover anything by spying on me?” he demands, his right hand jammed into the pocket of his trousers, his jaws tight.

“I have no intentions of spying on you, Doctor,” I inform him. “I am trying to figure out what game you are playing. You and your wife.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he tells me, leaning one hip against the desk in a study of taut casualness.

I shake me head, waiting. Nobody plays Jim Kirk for a fool. Nobody.

He turns slightly away from me. I can see the wheels turning in his head. They better turn to the truth very soon or it won’t go well for him. “My wife, as you know, is very beautiful,” he finally says. He could be talking to himself instead of me.

“Hard to miss that fact,” I tell him because I know he already knows.

“I’m not from money, Mr. Kirk. I have money but it’s what I’ve earned.”

I nod. I know this too. “Are you cheating on her?”

“I am not,” he says, looking me in the eye. “And I’m pretty sure she’s not cheating on me.”

“Despite what you told us.”

He nods. “I’m not proud of what I said.”

“Then why’d you say it?” I ask.

“I was angry. We’d had a fight. My fault. She thinks I work too much. That’s why I snuck up here. So she wouldn’t know. I had to call the hospital. Check on a patient.”

I nod, watching him still. His arrogance has evaporated and he looks…weary. “Nyota got it in her head that I wasn’t spending all of those hours at work. I was keeping company with other women.”

“But you’re not.”

“I said I wasn’t,” he says, no real anger in the words. “She hired you mostly as a threat to me. If I ever thought about cheating, she’d have you put a stop to it.”

I nod again. An old story. One I’ve heard before. “You made up?”

“We did. She’s going to call you tomorrow. Tell you she has no more need of you.”

“That’s fine,” I say, straightening from the doorjamb. Instead of retreating, I enter further. “I know it’s none of my business, but you look like a man who could use a friend.”

He smiles at me. It’s not an especially happy smile and doesn’t reach his eyes. “You are a very perceptive man. As I’ve heard.”

I shrug. “Can’t be in this business if you aren’t.”

“True,” he says, sitting in his big leather chair. “I suspect you know what it’s like to marry into money.”

“Yeah. Gets old sometimes. But at the end of the day, I still have Spock. And the rest is just bullshit.”

He nods. “I regret the way I acted at the restaurant. Mostly defense mechanism. I’m glad you accepted Nyota’s invitation so you’d see things the way they really are.”

“It’s forgotten,” I say, waving away his words. “Spock is wondering where I am. I ought to get back to the party. You should too.”

He stands, smiling again, this time a more real smile. “Thank you.”

“You got nothing to thank me for,” I say and we go back downstairs. Nyota greets him with a kiss and I can see they’ll be discussing our conversation before long. I tell Spock what happened and he isn’t too surprised by it.

We stay for another very pleasant hour. Pavel plays again. Again it’s spectacular. Then we take our leave, with many thanks and wishes for a Happy Christmas.

The Plot Thickens

It’s New Year’s morning. We’ve been home for a couple of hours when the grandfather clock strikes 3. We’re in bed. Just finished celebrating the new year in our own very special way when there is a hard knocking on the front door.

“What the hell?” I sit up, breathing fast. Spock also sits up, his eyebrows furrowed. The furious knocking comes again. I leave the bed, pulling on my robe. Can’t answer the door naked even if it is 3:02 in the morning. Spock also pulls on his robe and we go to the living room.

“Open up,” the voice that’s beating on our door demands.

I pull the door open to come face to face with 3 policemen, 2 in their dark blue uniforms, one in a suit. Detective Sam Giotto.

“What’s this all about, Sam?” I ask. Sam is frowning, looking unhappy in that way only cops can.

“Let me in, Jim,” he says. I comply, the uniforms staying in the hallway. “I got a warrant for your arrest.”

“What?” I say. That’s all I can say.

“With what is Jim being charged?” Spock asks, his voice hard.

“Murder, Spock.”

“What?” I’m incredulous. I can feel Spock’s shock is equal to mine. There’s got to be some mistake. I say it to Sam.

“I know, Jim. But they say you did it. Have your gun.”

“My gun?” I repeat, looking at Spock. “It’s in the safe.”

“Apparently not,” Sam says, taking the warrant out of his pocket. “Murder. First degree.”

“Who am I supposed to have killed?” I ask.

“Stefan Yakovlev,” Sam says.

I shake my head. Can’t place the name.

“The maestro,” Spock says. “We met him at the Christmas open house.”

“Oh,” I say. “Why would I kill him?”

“I don’t know, Jim. It’s not my place to say. I can only do as I’m told,” Sam says in regret.

“I didn’t kill anyone, Sam. You know that,” I say, still in disbelief.

“I can’t say one way or the other. My job’s to take you downtown.”

“Can Spock check the safe? We haven’t had a break in. My gun should still be there.”

Sam nods, eyeing me. “You need to dress, Jim.”

“Yeah. Sure,” I agree. “You need to come with me?”

Sam shrugs. “You aren’t going anywhere. I’ll wait here for you.”

I go into the bedroom and pull on some clothes. Spock comes in. The news isn’t good.

“Your gun is not in the safe,” he tells me as he begins to dress.

“Figures. Who could have stolen it without us knowing?” I ask as I pull on my shoes.

“I do not have any idea. But I will find out. I will call Hikaru and come with him downtown.”

I nod, sighing. “I’m sorry.”

“You have done nothing for which you need apologize, t’hy’la. An error has been made. We will determine the truth and this will be done with,” he promises me. He kisses me lightly before we return to the living room where Sam is patiently waiting.

“You ready then?”

I nod, putting my hands behind my back so he can put on the cuffs. He doesn’t want to but it’s procedure. He’s got no choice.

“I will call Mr. Sulu and will come with him downtown,” Spock tells Sam.

“That’s fine. Gun’s not in the safe?” Sam asks.

“It is not. We were unaware that we had been the victim of a robbery,” Spock says.

“We’ll figure it out, Spock. You’ve got my word,” Sam says. They always got along famously, back when I was still one of them. Sam and I remain friends. Not the same way. But we watch each other’s back when we need it. Spock knows Sam will do right by me. And Sam hates that he’s been put in this position.

“We will figure it out,” Spock agrees, watching Sam walk me out the door and down the stairs, the two uniforms following.

We get to the station where I’m processed. First time I’ve been on the perp side of things. Fingerprints. Mug shot. Offer of one phone call. Then I’m shown a cell. Small. But at least I’m alone. And I still have on my own clothes. If it progresses past this, I’ll end up in the penitentiary to await trail. That’s problematic since I could be incarcerated with some of the less savory people I helped send there.

About an hour after I’ve been shown my cell, one of the uniforms comes for me. Shows me to a conference room where Hikaru and Spock are waiting. The room is dark, drab. One light dangles from a wire over the table. There’s a window that has bars. Even if you could see out it, your only view’s the wall of the bank next door. Spock shouldn’t really be here. But Sam’s not going to refuse him. And he’s Vulcan. There aren’t many things they are refused. Lucky for me.

“What have you learned?” I ask as I sit down at the table with Hikaru and Spock. The chair protests at my weight.

“Not much, Jim,” Hikaru says. “Yakovlev was killed at approximately 1:30 this morning. Witnesses report hearing what sounded like firecrackers. Down by the river. A partier stumbled on his body. Your gun next to it. Empty.”

“Swell,” I say.

“Where were you at 1:30?” Hikaru asks.

“In bed. With Spock,” I say. No way to prove that.

Hikaru nods. “Spock said you met Yakovlev at a Christmas party.”

“Yeah. It was given by Dr. McCoy and Miss Uhura,” I say.

“You were working for her.”

“Briefly. She thought her husband was cheating. He wasn’t. She paid me for my trouble. Haven’t talked to either of them since.”

“Your clients don’t usual invite you to their parties,” Hikaru says.

“No.”

“You don’t have to tell me, Jim. But you will have to tell the police,” he reminds me. Like I don’t know.

I explain why we were at the party, what we did, who we talked to.

“You didn’t talk to this Yakovlev?” Hikaru asks me.

“I did,” Spock says. “Very briefly. About his pupil, Pavel Chekov.”

“And that was it?” Hikaru asks.

“That was it,” I say. “What proof do they have? Besides my gun. Which was stolen from our safe.”

“That’s pretty hard evidence, Jim,” Hikaru points out unnecessarily.

“He was with me at the time of the shooting,” Spock says.

“Yeah. But they won’t take your word. Vulcan or not. Spouse ranks higher. You would lie to protect Jim.”

Spock barely sighs, taking my hand. It infuses me with warmth and love. “I would.”

“No you wouldn’t,” I say, smiling at him in gratitude.

“Moot point,” Hikaru says, looking at his legal pad. “Well. They don’t have a motive. Not that they’ve told me. You didn’t know him. If you can prove forced entry at your apartment, that will help.”

“There are no signs of a robbery,” Spock says.

“Who could have taken it? Nobody has the combination but me and you,” I say to Spock.

“How many safecrackers are in the city who could do it?” Hikaru asks.

“12. No, 11. Louie’s in jail. You have their names?”

“No,” Hikaru says, giving me his pen and pad. I write down the 11 names, their addresses, and for those with phones, their numbers. “Okay. Me and Spock will split up the list. We’ll find the one who did it.”

I nod. “Offer to pay. It’ll help.”

“Will they lie for the payment?” Spock asks.

“No. They know I’ll know they lied. Tell them we won’t have them arrested. We just need their affidavit.”

They nod. “We’ll find out who hired them too. You know they were paid off to do it,” Hikaru says.

“Yeah. Which could make it harder. If they’re scared,” I say.

“Could it be someone from out of town?” Spock asks me.

“I doubt it. Too complicated. The locals know where we live. Our patterns.”

“What now?” Spock asks Hikaru.

Hikaru explains the next steps, what will happen, we should expect. Sounds grim but none of it surprises me. “You’ll be ‘interviewed’ tomorrow. Make sure they don’t say anything until I get here,” Hikaru reminds me.

“Of course,” I agree. “Do prisoners get anything to read?”

Hikaru smiles and opens his leather briefcase from which he extracts two novels. Two I’ve never read. “Pretty sure they’ll let you keep them.”

“Thank you,” I say. I look at Spock but don’t speak. Don’t need the words anyway.

//I love you as well,// he tells me. //We will figure this out.//

//Thank you,// I say, trying very hard to be strong. This sucks and it pisses me off. All of which Spock knows.

“I’ll come by later today,” Hikaru says. “Around 3.”

“Okay. Good,” I agree.

“Try to get some sleep, t’hy’la,” Spock says.

“I will. You sleep too,” I remind him. But I know he won’t. As soon as he leaves here, he will be out tracking down safecrackers. Scaring the truth out of them.

“It’s going to be fine, Jim,” Hikaru tells me, one hand on my arm.

“I know. I didn’t kill him. Can’t be found guilty of a crime I didn’t commit.”

“Exactly.” Hikaru knocks on the door so the guard will open the door. He and Spock leave and I’m escorted back to my cell. They allow me to keep the novels, even though they aren’t really supposed to. The brotherhood extends to the outcasts too.

~The Hunt~

Hikaru and Spock come back at 3. Spock hasn’t slept. No surprise there. He thinks he found the one who did it.

“Laurel,” he tells me. I nod. She’s relatively new on the scene. I’ve come across her and her work a couple of times. Not as polished as some. But nobody’d take her for a safecracker. That helps her cover. She’s small, almost pixie-like. But you’d never say that to her. She’d feed you your balls for dinner. Bottle blonde. Tattoo on her arm of a dragon. Something else you don’t ask about.

“What’d she say?” I ask.

“She had almost nothing to say,” Spock tells us. “When I arrived at her apartment, she was not alone.”

“Oh. Who was there?” I ask him.

“A man I do not know. He was tall and hefty. Balding,” Spock says, thinking about it. “Laurel called him Cupcake.”

“Cupcake,” I repeat. “I do know him. He’s not the brightest bulb in the lamp. More brawn than brains. But he’s never been in anything illegal. Didn’t know he was connected to Laurel.”

“She seemed concerned by his presence,” Spock says. “I plan to visit her again when we leave here. If he is not around, I should receive more tangible answers.”

“I’ll come with you,” Hikaru says. “Just in case.”

Spock nods. “What should we do next?” he asks me. I’m the one usually chasing down clues. Now I’ve got to tell them how to prove I’m innocent.

“Did you call McCoy and Uhura?” I ask.

“Better not, Jim. Could be seen as witness tampering,” Hikaru warns.

I sigh. If we can’t talk to them, I could be truly and royally screwed. “Did you tell Sarek? It’s bound to end up in the papers.”

“I phoned him,” Spock confirms. “He said that if there is anything we need, he will come down. He may come at any rate.”

I nod. I’m not surprised. “It’d be better if he stayed in the country. Scandal’s going to be bad enough. I sure don’t want him dragged into it.”

“They may want you to be interrogated by a Vulcan from forensics,” Hikaru says. “You can refuse.”

I look at Spock. He looks angry, as angry as he ever does. Not at me. At the situation. If I submit to the Vulcan interrogation, it’ll include a meld. Sure way to determine guilt. Problem is our bond. As far as we know, I’m the only Human bonded to a Vulcan. And since Spock’s half Human, we’re accepted more easily by both. Vulcans don’t commit serious crimes so the Vulcan interrogation is reserved solely for Humans. Except being bonded to Spock means I have barriers no other Human would have. Not proof of guilt. But can’t help my case either. “If I agree,” I finally say. “I won’t take down all my barriers. I won’t allow anyone to violate Spock’s privacy.”

“Could be a problem,” Hikaru agrees.

“A skilled investigator will know which are personal and which are nefarious barriers,” Spock says. He doesn’t want me to necessarily submit to the meld. He’ll be affected by it too. But refusing never looks good in court. “Tell them you will submit,” he advises me.

“Can Spock be here? It’s going to be rough on him if he’s not.”

“I’ll talk to them. Probably be okay. Spock will have to swear not to interfere,” Hikaru says.

“Of course,” Spock says, almost indignant that his reputation could be impugned in any way.

“Standard procedure,” Hikaru reminds him, the laughter just below the surface.

“I know,” Spock agrees, his exhaustion and concern crossing the bond. But there’s nothing I can do about it.

“Go home and sleep,” I request of Spock again. “Nothing more you can do until tomorrow.”

“I can talk with Laurel,” he says, his voice tight.

“Don’t hurt her,” I remind them. “Could look bad.”

“I have no intentions of harming her,” Spock assures me.

“I’ll be there too. Tomorrow, they’ll call me when they’re ready to interview you. I’ll come straight away,” Hikaru tells me.

“Thanks,” I say standing as they do. They leave, Spock reluctantly. I’m taken back to my cell where I have too much time to think.