The Last Chapter by Rindee - veronicamarslivejournalarchive (jmazzy) - Veronica Mars (2024)

Unlike the first time she arrived at O’Hare, she barely registered the ethereal tinkle of the chimey, new-age music and the flickering glow of the rainbow fluorescents as she rolled her suiter down the endless United terminal. This time it felt like home, or, if not exactly home, familiar and comforting. Tucking her paperback copy of Keith’s latest thriller into her carry-on – the autographed, hardback copy had a position of honor on the bookcase in her apartment – she wound her red silk scarf a little tighter, zipped her leather jacket, and fished out her CTA pass.

Though it was only November, the weather had turned frigid over the long Thanksgiving weekend. Fortunately, she’d been living in Chicago long enough to know how unpredictable autumn could be, and had taken her heavy jacket, cashmere-lined gloves, and scarf with her to California. Swaying in the aisle as the El rattled and hurtled down the track next to the Edens Expressway, her heart lifted at her first glimpse of the stately vertical columns of black glass, steel, and concrete - the best skyline she’d ever seen. She debated grabbing a cab when she got off at Logan Square, but decided the walk would do her good, despite the whip of the winter-like wind.

Hanging up her coat on the tree in the entry-way, Veronica shoved her suitcase in the bedroom, kicked off her traveling clothes, and changed into sweat pants and thick, fuzzy socks. Rooting through her closet for something cozy and warm, she pulled out an old Hearst hoodie from the bottom of a pile of sweaters. As she tugged it out and started to put it on, she was overwhelmed by a scent. His scent, still clinging to the fabric after nearly five years of tears and quarrels and distance.

Logan.

Smiling, she rubbed her nose in the soft fleece, remembering how she’d filched it from him after an exuberant afternoon at the beach. It was their last good summer. Their only good summer, really, the one between sophom*ore and junior year. Logan had rented a cottage on the beach, and they’d spent every spare minute in or near the water. She’d learned to surf, he learned to cook, and it seemed they would finally be able to put the past behind them and be together in a healthy relationship. Except, it didn’t turn out that way.

Sighing, she padded into the kitchen and put on the coffee. It was only eleven in Neptune, but she knew Keith would be waiting impatiently for her call.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Who is this?”

“Very funny, father. It’s your wayward daughter. I just wanted you to know I’m home, safe and sound.”

“Veronica. How many times do I have to tell you, home is where your pater familias resides? No matter how old or sophisticated or well-educated you think you are now.”

“I know, old man. One of these days, you’re going to have to come here and spend the holidays at my place.”

“And brave Chicago in the winter? I don’t think so, honey. Your ancient relic of a father is liable to freeze to death in that weather. You’ll get tired of your fancy prosecutor’s job one of these days and come home to sunny California, take care of your old man.”

“I don’t know, Dad. Things are pretty good at the U.S. Attorney’s office. I have a postage stamp office with a view of the walls of the building next door, a sassy secretary who thinks she knows more about the law than me, and, by the way, she might, and a boss who thinks he’s God’s gift to women, men, agents, and judges. Oh, and I’m low man on the trial team totem pole on this new case we’re working.”

“You know you’re welcome any time, kiddo. Come back, find someone special, and give me some grandchildren.” There’s a long pause. “Veronica? Honey?”

“I know, Dad.” Her voice was tight, wistful. There’s nothing left for me in Neptune, except my dad. Wallace is in San Diego, which isn’t far, but he’s involved in coaching, the NBA D-league, and Sofia. Macs in the Valley, being paid ungodly amounts of money to do what she does best, she has a new baby and a new lover. Piz is in Darfur, working in a refugee camp, and Parker’s in New York, an associate editor at Vogue. And Logan - he’s in New York too, also in journalism, but the real kind, colorful, gritty crime, and local politics. “One of these days I’ll be ready for all that.”

“Okay, Veronica. Thanks for calling. I’ll talk to you next week.”

“Okay, dad. Bye.”

“Bye, honey. Oh, and Veronica?”

“Yeah, dad?”

“I love you, kiddo.”

“Uh huh. You too, dad.”

Taking a single-serve package of frozen lasagna from the freezer, she threw it in the oven and pulled out her laptop. Checking her email, she noted three new messages from David.Fitzgibbons@usdojgov. Sighing, she clicked open the last one first – doesn’t that man every stop? – and began reading her boss’ latest, endless list of things to be accomplished in the upcoming week.

Saving and deleting in rapid succession, Veronica weeded her in-box until she came to the message she’d been avoiding since its arrival the previous Tuesday. [emailprotected]. The last time he’d contacted her, about nine months ago, it was to say he’d be in town the following day, and wanted to have coffee. She had assumed this one would be the same, and, like the one before, she hadn’t replied, knowing she was leaving Chicago the next day.

It had seemed like a pointless exercise anyway. The last time she and Logan had seen each other, he’d been passing through Chicago on his way to Dallas. He’d arranged a stop-over at O’Hare, and she’d met him there, allegedly to have a beer. What started out as an amiable, let’s-catch-up discussion about their lives had degenerated into a near-scene as she accused Logan of cheating on her and precipitating their last break-up. He accused her of engineering the whole thing by abandoning him, blind-drunk, at a spring break party at Parker’s sorority house during the last semester of their junior year.

For Veronica, Logan’s brief, one-night reunion with Parker had been the end of the end. She had already been considering a transfer to Stanford, and Logan’s last indiscretion had given her the impetus she needed to make it happen. By May 2009, she had been accepted, found a small apartment in Palo Alto, and even had a roommate lined up. She’d received early admittance to Stanford law the following December, and, by taking day and night classes, graduated in June 2012. Having done an internship at the Chicago U.S. Attorney’s office during the summer of 2011, she’d been hired there before the ink on her degree was dry.

Logan hadn’t known what hit him. As he’d informed her, that gray, snowy afternoon at the airport, from his perspective, it felt like he woke up with a monster hangover and lost his girlfriend. She’d never given him the chance to explain, and, three years later, he was still bitter about it. Veronica was too.

Finger posed over her mouse, she debated whether or not to even bother with his email. If he’d come and gone already, there was no point torturing herself with the knowledge she’d blown him off once again. And, if he was planning a future meeting – well, she didn’t know how she felt about that. Deciding it would be easier to avoid it altogether, she saved it, unopened, to her personal file.

He grabbed his Blackberry almost the moment he stuck his tousled head out from beneath the three-hundred-thread-count sheets and fluffy down comforter. He would have checked anyway, as a reporter, it was his habit, but being in Chicago, on her turf, and knowing she was no more than a few miles away, made him crazy.

The night before, his plane had touched down at 9:47 p.m., and by 10:07 p.m., he was in a cab, headed downtown to the Drake Hotel. His employers wouldn’t foot the bill for a first-class seat, or the Gold Coast Suite at the Drake either, but even though, now, he worked for a living, it was worth it to disembark and be out the door before the “little people.”

He wasn’t surprised to see she hadn’t replied. Like his bedhead, Veronica’s capacity for avoidance hadn’t changed, some things never do. She was either still mad from last time, or embarrassed about having made a scene. It didn’t really matter which, it was clear she was planning to duck him again.

The Medill Journalism Symposium wasn’t scheduled to start until Wednesday afternoon, which gave him today, tomorrow, and Wednesday to track her down and .... He wasn’t sure what he was going to do when he found her; he figured he’d wing it. It wasn’t as if she was actually going to be hard to locate. The federal courthouse, the Everett McKinley Dirksen Federal Building, to be exact, was about three miles south, and a couple blocks west, of Michigan Avenue. Not to mention, the building was a thirty-story skyscraper designed by Mies van der Rohe. So, really, finding Veronica was the least of his problems.

Rapidly slurping his second cup o’ joe, he ruffled his hand through his hair. Forgetting he was naked, he stood at the window, taking in the view of busy, vibrant Lake Shore Drive. Just beyond the Drive, Lake Michigan was slate gray and foreboding under the deceptively brilliant, windswept blue of the late November sky. Even the weather reminded him of Veronica, picture-perfect on the surface, but cold and brittle when you were out in it.

She was already on his mind, there was no reason to fight it, so he pulled up an old favorite, The Fray’s How to Save a Life, and cranked it before slipping into the steam. Closing his eyes against the spray, he called her to mind, as he almost always did, in happier times: the curve of her neck underneath her golden mane as he rocked her from sleep, pulling her tight to his body, cupping her breast in his hand as he slid his hard dick between her thighs ... the little gasp she always made, right before he....

Groaning, he jerked himself, hard and furious, and came with a sudden gush, whispering her name. It made him mad, his inability to find something – someone – more suitable for his morning ritual, but, no matter how many beautiful women he’d been with since Veronica, she was the one who woke him. Letting the stinging spray wash away the damning evidence, he got out and got dressed: heavy black jeans, dark olive sweater, running shoes, and his brown leather car coat. He’d brought a watch-cap, wool scarf, and fur-lined gloves, but decided against the hat and scarf. He didn’t want to look like a total puss*, in case he happened to run into her in a lobby somewhere.

Making a bacon sandwich from the room service cart, he grabbed his complimentary copy of the Chicago Tribune, slung his messenger bag over his shoulder, and made his way to the lobby. Strolling around the corner, to the Magnificent Mile, he made a brisk, two-block walk to the John Hanco*ck Building, across the street from his next destination, Water Tower Place. Pushing through the revolving doors, he caught the escalator to the food court on the “second” floor, and stood at the balcony railing, watching the people teeming into the two-story lobby, gawking at the glass elevators, and gurgling cascading fountain rising next to the stairs. Christmas decorations twinkled dully in the bright sunlight; the sheer overwhelmingness of it took even his breath away.

He briefly considered buying her something, kind-of a goodbye present, but decided against it. For now, anyway. He glanced at his Rolex – he knew it was a cliche, but he wore it because he liked it – and realized he had little more than an hour to get to the South Loop. The first thing he’d done, when they told him he would be attending the journalism conference in Chicago, was wheedle his way into working Thanksgiving, and the day after, in exchange for being off on Monday and Tuesday after the holiday. In terms of crime and corruption, New York was fairly quiet on Thanksgiving, and he was not only glad he’d made the deal, but knew he’d gotten the better end of it.

The second thing he’d done was call Wallace, in San Diego, and con him into revealing Veronica’s workday schedule. It took a fair amount of fast-talking, but if there was one thing he’d learned at Columbia, it was how to “persuade” an unwilling subject to disclose information to a reporter. He knew Keith would never tell him anything, even though his attitude about Logan had softened over the years. As far as Logan knew, Keith still regarded Logan as the most unsuitable boyfriend Veronica had ever had. Keith was probably right, but then, it really wasn’t Keith’s call. Never had been.

Loping down the moving staircase, he hit the street again, making his way south past the glittering, high-end shopping district – Mayor Daley’s pride and joy. He would have stopped to admire the ancient facades of the Tribune Tower and Wrigley building, but he was on a schedule, and needed to get to 219 South Dearborn by 11:45 a.m., at the latest. When he got to the north end of Millennium Park, however, he slowed and wandered through it at a leisurely pace, pausing to gaze at the shiny steel sculpture affectionately known as “The Bean” and the changing faces on the fifty-foot high towers of the Crown Fountain.

At Monroe, the south border of the park, he made a right, crossed Michigan, and headed west toward Dearborn. He had less than twenty minutes to do the last seven blocks, but fortunately for him, Chicagoans moved fast. Must be the wind. At the Dirksen, he debated going to the fifth floor and asking for her, but realized he’d be blowing the one advantage he had – surprise. In his email, he’d told her about the seminar, but hadn’t mentioned his early arrival. He hadn’t intended to be sneaky, not really, but some small part of his brain expected her to try to dodge him. Now, he was glad he’d had the forethought.

Slouching by the Calder, across the street from the courthouse, he spotted her the minute she exited an elevator, blond hair glowing against the sensible navy of her business suit. Surrounded by an officious looking group of about five men, some in suits and ties, some in jeans and jackets, she seemed more petite than he remembered. Squeezing his eyes shut, he fought against the wave of memories: Veronica in her frilly black prom dress; the way she glowed, lying in his arms after they made love; her giggle, when they were busted for making out in the backseat; the proud look she wore when he’d gotten accepted to Hearst....

Shaking his head to clear the rosy cobwebs, he stood, made ready to follow them, puzzled when they headed south rather than north. With all the posh eateries in the Loop, they walked down dismal Federal Street, past the front door of John Marshall Law School, to a seedy bar under the El tracks. A cop bar. He wasn’t surprised. She probably felt right at home.

“Here you go, Veronica.”

Handing her a glass of club soda with his usual skeptically-arched eyebrow, she was grateful Dave managed to abstain from further commentary about her inability to drink with the boys. Of course, it was noon, but the time of day was never a problem for Jimmy, Danny, Bill, Tom, and Dave. If left to his own devices, Dave would have beer for breakfast, beer for lunch, and beer for dinner. It was, as he often said, the perfect food, belonging, as it did, to three of the four main food groups. They ordered – she was just going to have a salad, but Dave made her get a sandwich too, so he could eat half.

About ten minutes into it, the waitress in the tight tee shirt delivered the second round. It was Dave’s signal to begin dictating. “Write this down, Veronica,” he ordered imperiously, popping a handful of peanuts and chewing as he spoke.

“With what, Kemosabe? I didn’t bring my laptop, and, hey,” she snapped her fingers under her boss’s nose. “I don’t have anything to write on.”

Scowling, he glanced around until he spotted something. “Here, use this.” Straight-faced, he handed over the co*cktail napkin from beneath his Sam Adams. “Okay, so we’ve got to – ”

“Wait! You’re serious? You want me to take notes on a bar napkin?” Holding the slightly damp paper between two fingers, she shook it at him. “And a wet one at that.” Her nose wrinkled. Dave laughed.

“I’ll get you a clean one.” Rising to his full height of six-foot-six, Dave marched to the bar and thumbed a hand-full of white squares from the dispenser. In his long, tapered fingers, the napkins looked like cotton swatches. “Here.” He deposited the pile at her elbow and slipped gracefully back into his seat. “Okay, so, where was I? Oh, yeah, ...collect all the police reports from CPD, and the inventories from the old search warrants. I want them in a file, each search warrant with the corresponding inventory, and any pictures we have of the guns, drugs, and money, associated with each RICO count.”

Dutifully nodding her head, Veronica scribbled as Dave talked, occasionally swiping a bite of her Caesar between items. By the time he was done with his list, he’d finished his Reuben and half of her tuna melt. The other half was wrapped while Veronica choked down as much of her salad as possible in the five minutes remaining. She tried to give Dave some money, but he waved her away, indicating it had been a working meal, and he was buying. Shrugging, a grin quirking the edges of her mouth, she tucked the graffitied napkin in her jacket, and followed the guys out the door.

Although it was half past noon, they stepped out into the slanted, criss-cross shadows of the CTA tracks. Immediately, they were assaulted by a cacophony of sound as a train rumbled overhead, taxis and delivery trucks rolled past, horns blared, and brakes squealed. Although she felt conspicuous – and really petite – surrounded by so many tall men, Veronica was glad of their company. The sights and sounds of downtown could still be a bit overwhelming, and, today, she felt eyes on the back of her head; maybe it was because of the barred, slit windows of the Metropolitan Correctional Center, a mere stone’s throw away.

She’d never been in the MCC, but it wasn’t so much the idea of being inside the prison that made her queasy, it was who lived there. She’d begun working for Dave while she was still an intern, so once she’d been hired, they’d assigned her to his team. At first, she’d spent hours and hours poring over and organizing boxes of photos, police reports, and wiretap transcripts, but, gradually, having gotten to know the case agents, she’d started to hear stories about the several cooperating witnesses, a/k/a snitches, who were helping the government in its investigation. The “flippers,” so-called by the prosecutors because they’d “flipped sides,” had been in the office lately, testifying in the grand jury as Dave and the team prepared the indictment.

A frightening collection of men with jail tattoos and ready sneers, each flipper had been an important cog in the drugs-and-bookmaking operation that was Dave’s target: Rocco was the enforcer and had provided the muscle when a bettor didn’t want to pay up; the bookie, Gino, set the odds on the games and races; the drug distribution operation, mixing and packaging, had been supervised by Horace, and Rudolpho was the big boss who oversaw the crew. All but Gino had done substantial prison time before, and all were anxious not to return to long-term confinement. Mostly motivated by self-interest, some had wives and children, and realized another prison term would destroy their last remaining chance at normalcy. So, they’d made the tough decision to rollover and cooperate with the cops, lawyers, and federal agents who comprised Dave’s team.

A few days before Thanksgiving, Dave had called her into his office, and introduced her to Rudolpho Garcia, the man who’d had the foresight and brains to orchestrate the entire operation. Before setting up the bookmaking scheme, Rudy, as he liked to be called, had done seventeen years on a two-hundred-year sentence for a double murder. He’d been about to be released on a technicality when Dave scooped him up from prison and “convinced” him to cooperate. Dave’s inducement, plain and simple, was freedom – Rudy’s freedom, to be exact. Dave had persuaded Rudy by letting him know they – the prosecutors – had enough evidence to put him back behind bars for at least another dime unless Garcia played ball. Once Rudy agreed, the other flippers fell like dominos.

Veronica hadn’t known Rudy’s history when she first met him, a large, polite, diffident Hispanic man with strangely impeccable manners. Unlike the other cooperators, Rudy was so important to the government that they didn’t think he was safe enough at the MCC. So, instead of being in jail, Garcia was out, living in a safe house in the northern suburbs, two agents with him 24/7. She wasn’t especially afraid of Rudy at first, despite his imposing stature and menacing eyes. In fact, even though she knew he’d been in charge, he actually seemed less dangerous than the other witnesses, whom she’d met a few days earlier.

It wasn’t until Danny whispered in her ear that Garcia’s aka was “Smith” – as in, Smith & Wesson, his weapon of choice and trademark – that it hit her. He was a killer. A reformed killer, perhaps, but a killer, nonetheless. According to the agents, during his seventeen years behind bars, Rudy ruthlessly controlled the entire prison, deciding not only who would be placed on which work detail, but also, who lived and who died.

Unsure whether or not she should believe the agents, she accepted the information with a poker-face and a tight-lipped nod. The day before she left for Neptune, however, she’d gotten confirmation of Rudy’s status, if not his actual prowess. She’d been in and out of Dave’s office all afternoon, ferrying documents, and files, and sitting in on some of Dave’s debriefing of Garcia. At one point, Rudy produced some photographs of the interior of his “cell” at Lincoln Correctional. It looked more like a dorm room than a prison cell; the walls of the tiny space were covered with copies of artwork, both traditional and gang-related, there were two, twenty-seven-inch TVs, and his stereo consisted of massive, bookcase-sized speakers – just like the kind she’d seen when Logan dragged her to an Aerosmith concert. It was mind-blowing, to say the least.

Now, whenever she saw the concertina barbed wire, heavy steel gates, chained locks, and barred windows of the federal prison, all she could think of was the true nature of the men housed there. Men she’d worked alongside, even shared meals with. Although she’d never admit it, they, and her job, scared her a bit, made her rethink her previously fearless attitude. Every time she walked by the MCC, she could feel eyes on the back of her head.

He seriously considered slipping into the bar and having a beer while she ate with her colleagues but decided against it. Too risky. He didn’t want a public scene, wasn’t trying to piss her off before they’d even had a chance to talk. Talk? Who was he kidding? The last time he and Veronica had really talked, they were freshman – no, sophom*ores – at Hearst. It was after Parker and Piz, but before their final, colorfully-explosive blow-out. They’d been at the beach, pretending to study for finals. Really, they’d been studying the fluffy white clouds, lazily telling stories about the shapes they saw.

Lying perpendicular and using him as a pillow, Veronica’s head had been on his chest when he asked what she wanted to do with her future. Before answering, she, in turn, made the same inquiry. New York, Chicago, and Palo Alto were the cities named: NYC for his favorite journalism program, Chicago for Northwestern Law or the University of Chicago, both of which she was just about to apply to, and, of course, Stanford’s home at Palo Alto. Anxious to get as far away from Neptune as possible, he begged her to consider some NY law schools. She reminded him of Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism.

They’d agreed being in the same city was a priority, and each would apply to schools in the other’s city. Funny how things turned out. He went to New York, she to Palo Alto, and now both were in Chicago.

He roused himself from the doorway when he noticed her, and the cadre exit the tavern. Trailing after her, he noticed her furtive backward glance and thought he’d been made. Apparently, the old P.I. instinct hadn’t completely evaporated. But when she didn’t look back again, he concluded something else was worrying her. Lagging further behind, he studied the men accompanying her.

The cops were easy to spot, with their casual street clothes, heavy jackets, and ‘I’m-the-man’ strut. It was easy to see the tall blonde guy was the boss; he had the smug air of a man who’d been both born to money and was accustomed to being in charge. He breathed a sigh of relief when he realized all of them were years older than Veronica; he guessed she was the designated gopher and token female on what was clearly a well-oiled machine. Which meant the lunch was probably purely business, and it was unlikely she’d be dating any of them.

As they strolled the last block to the courthouse, Logan noticed something – someone – else. A black guy, or maybe Hispanic, about twenty feet behind the group, appeared to be tailing them, and not all that well. About thirty, he was non-descript, about five-eleven, a welterweight, or maybe a light middle, dressed in inexpensive street clothes, of conservative, not hip-hop style. Every few feet, he’d drift out to the curb, make sure Veronica and the others were still in front of him, and fade back into the foot traffic.

At the corner, where the team crossed Jackson to head into the federal building, the dude turned left and crossed Federal. Assuming it’d just been a coincidence, or that the guy had had another purpose, Logan returned his attention to Veronica, who was entering the glassed-in lobby. Something – instinct – made him turn back, just in time to see the shadow spin and dart across the street to the north side of Jackson, where he hovered at the edge of the other federal building, staring intently at Veronica and her boss as they got on the elevator.

That can’t be good.

If he’d been at all unsure of his decision to contact Veronica – today – the skulking dude sealed the deal. Grabbing the Sun-Times from the newspaper box on the corner, Logan wandered back to the bench where he’d perched before, and, tucking in an earbud, settled himself for a cold afternoon’s wait, Steve Tyler and Aerosmith wailing in his ear.

He became restless at three, scrolling through his email, then circling the plaza to study the Calder from all angles. By four, he was freezing, and made his way into the Dunkin Donuts on the corner, to warm up and ingest some caffeine. One foot on the rail, he stared balefully at the Dirksen, willing her to leave work early, for once in her life.

At about four-thirty, he decided to take the bull by the horns, and meet her in the lobby. Removing all the metal from his jeans pockets, he stuffed his Blackberry, iPod, and earphones in his messenger bag and got ready to brave security. Miraculously, just as he got to the entrance, she emerged from the north bank of elevators. Backing out the door, ignoring the cross-eyed, suspicious glare of the security guards, he ran around the corner and loped down the block.

“Veronica,” he huffed excitedly, just as she twirled through the revolving doors into the weak setting sun, and bracing cold of a late November afternoon.

“Logan?” She came to a complete halt, blocking the exit, heedless of the people spilling out behind her. “What are you – ” Without thinking, she flung her arms around him, pulling him into a fierce hug. “You’re here,” she murmured against his neck, her breath warm, heart pounding.

“I am,” he agreed, delighted and surprised by her enthusiasm. “I’ve missed you,” he informed her, squeezing back, his mouth brushing her temple. But when he bent to kiss her lips, she started and pulled away.

“Um ... don’t,” she whispered. “Not here, where everyone can see us.”

Perplexed, he nodded curtly, but, unwilling to let go, kept her tucked on his hip, an arm around her waist. “You have time for a drink, or maybe dinner?” he asked, his words shrouded in white steam as his breath hit the cold air. “Preferably somewhere warm?” he continued, feeling a shiver shake her slight frame as he eased her away from the door.

“Yeah, okay,” she said, hesitating, her gaze not meeting his eyes. “I don’t have any plans. It can’t be too late, though. I just got back last night, and I’m kind of beat,” she warned.

“You go home for Thanksgiving?” he asked with a small smile, brushing her golden hair from her face with bare, trembling fingers.

“How long have you been waiting?” she replied sternly, suddenly noticing his blue hands and lips.

“Since eleven-thirty this morning, give or take,” he confessed with a sheepish smirk.

Blue eyes flashing, she admonished, “Logan! Are you crazy? It’s like – ”

“Twenty-nine degrees out. I know.” He leaned in close and blew into her ear. “Believe me, Veronica, I know.”

“Is there somewhere special you’d like to eat?” she inquired shyly, looking up at him in wonder.

“I was thinking – I’m staying at the Drake – I hear they have great food at the Cape Cod? That way, you could ....” He trailed off when she began to shake her head vigorously. “Okay, so, not the Cape Cod.”

“I don’t think so, Logan. It’s at your hotel, number one, and I don’t think I’m ready to go there yet. Second, as charming as you are, I’m not hopping into bed with you again. And, I’m not really dressed for it, either. How ‘bout ... pizza? We are in Chicago, after all.”

“I live in New York, remember? Good pizza’s not really hard to come by,” he softly interjected, trying to swallow his disappointment.

“Maybe you’d like Berghoff’s?” she continued, pointing to the overhead marquis on the building next door. “Except it’s not really Berghoff’s anymore, it’s 17/West Adams. But the food’s still good.”

“Wherever you want to go, Veronica. I don’t much care, at this point, as long as it’s close, and warm, once we get there.” Stomping and hopping from foot to foot, Logan rubbed his hands together briskly.

She looked him up and down, eyes dancing merrily in the twilight. “I know where we should go,” she announced with a grin. “C’mon,” she urged, grabbing his frigid hand in her gloved one and tugging him to the stoplight. “You live in New York, right? You’ve lived there for a couple of years now, so how is it you don’t own a pair of gloves?”

“I have gloves,” he huffed, tucking her hand, and his, into his jacket pocket. “Where are we going, by the way, and is it far?”

“Relax, you big baby. It’s right up the street, two blocks.” She jerked her head, indicating they should cross Adams Street.

“It’s not another dive bar, is it? I wanted to take you somewhere nice.”

“Dive bar?” she puffed after they reached the opposite corner. Her eyes got big. “You ... saw me? At lunch?”

“Uh huh. You and your phalanx of escorts. Very impressive. Now, please tell me where we’re going. I’m f*ckin’ freezing, here, ‘Ronica.”

“You know,” she teased, scurrying to stay a step ahead of him as she guided him up the street. “I could probably have you arrested for stalking, or obstructing justice, or something.”

“Yeah, well, remind me to talk to you about that, once I can feel my fingers and toes again, and my face thaws.”

“So, the political beat for the New York Times. I’m impressed, Logan. Really, you’ve done well,” she said earnestly, fumbling with the linen napkin in her lap. “Do you like it? You must.”

Shrugging uncomfortably, he played with the array of forks and spoons flanking his now empty appetizer plate. “It’s just local politics,” he demurred, embarrassed. “It’s not that impressive.”

“I’m impressed,” she assured him, reaching across the table to touch his sleeve. “There was a time when I thought you’d never ....”

“Accomplish anything?” He arched an eyebrow. “I know. I remember.” He smacked his lips loudly. “The Rosebud, huh? Nice place,” his head swiveled as he took in the dark wood, rose-tinted leather, white linens, and lace-covered windows. “You come here often?” he asked vaguely, his body stiffening when he spotted a denim-and-wool-clad figure at the bar.

She shook her head impatiently, not noticing his heightened scrutiny of the restaurant’s denizens. “The real Rosebud, the first one, is actually on Taylor Street, in the Italian section. They’re all over now, and no, I don’t come here often. I’m not dating anyone, by the way, if that was your real question. So, do you have your own byline?” she continued, undeterred by his attempt to change the subject.

He sighed aloud, brought his attention back to the table, and shook his head. “Veronica,” he began in a slow, measured tone. “I’ll be happy to give you a disk of my published stories, but I didn’t come here to talk business, at least, not mine. ‘S fine if you want to talk about yours, though, since I have no idea what it is you do these days.” She flushed guiltily, aware she’d been the one to reduce their communication to an email or two a month.

“So,” she said, after the silence stretched on for a few moments that felt like hours. “Why are you here, other than the Medill symposium?”

“The conference’s just an excuse to see you,” he informed her cautiously, unable to lie while looking into the direct gaze of her clear aqua eyes, but afraid of the effect of his admission. “I wanted to see ... you, of course, and see if – see what’s left ... of us, if there is anything left,” he added with a rush of breath. She averted her eyes, toying with the last bits of calamari on her plate, unsure of how to respond.

“Look,” he continued, his voice now cold and matter-of-fact. “I don’t expect you to give me an answer right now.” His fingers scrubbed absently through his hair, which looked as it always did, spiky and well-kept. “I’m not sure what the question is. I just know we – I – can’t go forward until I put us to rest, one way or the other.”

“Us? There hasn’t been an ‘us’ for a long time.”

“So, the fact that you’re not dating anyone is because ... you just broke some poor schmuck’s heart? Or because you haven’t dated anyone in,” he squeezed his eyes closed, lips moving soundlessly as he did the math, “three-and-a-half years, give or take?”

Her mouth snapped shut, her face instantly blank, her eyes wary. “It’s none of your business why I haven’t been dating,” she hissed, glancing around the restaurant to make sure no one she knew was in earshot. “Or who.”

“C’mon, Veronica,” he whispered back. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I know you – I’ve known you since we were twelve. You don’t switch gears that quickly, but –”

“How do you even know I haven’t been dated any – Wallace? You called Wallace, didn’t you?” she hurled the reproach as if accusing him of murder. Red spots appeared on her cheeks, and she clenched her fork so hard he thought she’d break it in two.

“Guilty as charged. I called Wallace – he’s the only one you still talk to anyway, aside from me, and that’s only when you’re feeling nostalgic. He said you live like a nun, which is a whole ‘nother issue, and haven’t had a real date since your first year of law school.”

He paused and took a deep, sustaining breath. “So, what’s up, Veronica? Did I really hurt you that badly, or are you just being stubborn, trying to make God-knows what point?” He could tell, from the luminous sheen in her eyes, that he might have gone a bit further than he’d intended. “Veronica,” he reached for her hand, only to have her snatch it away.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been kinda busy the last few years. I was in law school, studying twenty-four-seven, so I could finish, graduate, and get on with ... my career. I haven’t had time to fool around with every pretty thing I meet, the way you have.”

“So it’s all on me, huh?” he replied defensively, his voice raw and guttural. “I’m the reason you’ve made the choices you have? It had nothing to do with your well-chronicled ability and need to run away when things get too emotional? And, not that it’s any of your business,” he leaned in, hands planted flat, his nose inches from hers, “but I haven’t had a date or slept with anyone in fifteen months, give or take.”

Stunned, the blood drained from her face, her fingers fisted on the tabletop. “Why do we keep doing this to each other, Logan?” she rasped, shaking her head. “What is it with us, anyway?”

“I have no idea, sweetheart.” He laughed mirthlessly. “But you’re right. Let’s start over. Hi, I’m Logan,” he began in a high-pitched imitation of a ditz. “And I’m interested in fluffy puppy dogs, scary movies, the New York Mets, and contemporary art. ... Oh, yeah – and handguns, did I forget to mention handguns? The bigger, the better.”

Without thinking, Veronica burst out laughing, and slapped the table hard enough to make the flatware rattle. “You’re making a scene, dear,” he purred, pleased he’d managed to lighten the mood. “Let’s not rehash the past, okay?” Hand clapped over her mouth, she nodded. “You’ve hurt me, I’ve hurt you, but we’re both in a different place now. Let’s just agree to let it go.”

She nodded again soberly, puzzled hope in her glistening eyes. Saved, however briefly, from further unpleasantness by the arrival of their salads, Logan watched as she dug in with gusto, rolling her eyes in org*smic delight at the homemade Italian dressing and fresh baked bread. Good to know some things haven’t changed. Her eggplant parmesan, and his lasagna – ordered at her request, so she could sample it – arrived a few minutes later, and, after Logan ordered a second bottle of the house red, they settled into an easier conversation about more general subjects.

He amused her with scatological descriptions of the editors at the Times, while she recounted the pertinent details of the cases she’d been assigned, especially the big one she’d been working since before graduation. After he swore their conversation was off the record, she gave him a few minor details about Rudy, Gino, Horace, and Rocco, including the basic structure of the gang, and the bare outline of the indictment being prepared by the U.S. Attorney’s office. When she finished her plate, he grinned and slid his half-finished one to her side of the table. She eyed it eagerly.

“You’re not going to eat any more?”

“It’s all yours, Veronica. I’m full. I still don’t know where you put it all,” he added, shaking his head in mock dismay before lifting his wine glass and draining it.

“So ... we’re not going to have tiramisu ... and some espresso?” she asked, disappointed. He rubbed his right hand over his watch face and glanced at her. “It’s fine,” she gently assured him. “I have time, and I won’t be as tired after an espresso.”

Nodding, he signaled the waiter as she dug into his leftover lasagna. Ordering a single serving of tiramisu, two forks, an espresso, and a cappuccino, he watched with satisfaction as his former lover polished off the remains of his dinner. By the time dessert arrived, she’d finished all but a bite or two, shoving the plate away with a grimace.

“Why did you let me eat all that?” she moaned, hand on her stomach.

“Me, let you? – when was the last time I ‘let’ you do anything?”

“Yeah, okay. You’re probably right, but I don’t think I can eat that.” She nodded toward the tempting, brandy-laced concoction currently sitting between them on the damask.

“Drink your coffee. I don’t want you passing out before you get home. I’ll have them box the tiramisu you wanted so badly, and we can take it with us.”

“We?” she replied, tilting her head in the old, familiar way, a quizzical look on her face.

“Yeah, we. I think you should let me take you home, Veronica. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” With a deep breath, he launched into a description of his morning’s surveillance. Sparing no details, he told her about tailing her and her ‘posse’ to their lunch meeting, and the strange dude he’d seen following her back to the courthouse. After describing the man in detail, Logan reluctantly admitted he’d been so excited to see her he hadn’t scanned the lobby area, or the outside grounds, when she was leaving the building, but ....

“He was at the bar, Veronica, not ten minutes ago. I swear it was the same guy. Is that case you’re working a big one? I mean, does it involve ... I get that they’re bad guys, but are they those kind of bad dudes, the kind who’d be stupid enough to come after a prosecutor?”

“I don’t think so, Logan. I think you’re probably overreacting, don’t you?” she replied, her voice carefully pitched to a non-confrontational tone. “ I mean, when we walked in, there were probably five or six men at the bar who fit the description you gave me.” She waved at the bar curving along the far wall. “There’s probably four guys there now who could be him. I’ll ask the guys if they know of anyone like that who’s associated with the case, but even if there is someone out there, I doubt he’s following me,” she reassured him, reaching out to put her hand on his wrist.

“I don’t care. I still want to see you home. I’ll be a perfect gentleman, I promise.” He raised his right hand, as if taking an oath. “Just let me do this, okay?”

Dubious, she shrugged, then nodded. “I don’t think I can stop you anyway, right?”

“No,” he agreed with a smirk. “Not really.”

Gloved and garbed against the frosty night air, they boarded the El and, like lovers, sat in the corner at the end of the car, Logan’s arm draped possessively across her shoulders. Lulled by the rock and whoosh of the train, Veronica twisted so she was resting on his chest, and both stared out the window, mesmerized by the lights of the city against the velvety black of the star-strewn night.

The icy cold air had left the streets and sidewalks dangerously slick. When they descended the El platform, Veronica laced her arm through Logan’s, and they carefully treaded the glazed walkway to the courtyard of her apartment. Fishing for her keys, Veronica finally extracted them from her purse and promptly dropped them on the steps. Before she could react, Logan stooped and scooped them up. A hand pressed on the small of her back, he reached around her and fiddled with her keys, trying to find the one that opened the vestibule door. Uncharacteristically passive, she waited. When he still couldn’t find the right one, she put her hand on his and guided it to the lock.

Holding the door, he ushered her underneath his outstretched arm and into the warm, wood paneled entryway. “I’m on the third floor,” she advised, starting up the stairs, assuming he’d follow.

“What do you do when you have groceries?” he teased.

Pausing on the step above him, she turned her head and gave him a flirtatious glance over her shoulder. “Why, Ah find a big, strong mahn to help me, of cou’se,” she said, batting her eyes and twitching her hips. His dark eyes smoldered as he openly leered.

“I bet you do, sugah. I bet you do.”

Chortling, she scurried up the staircase, screeching as he slapped at her ass. When they got to her door, she faced him, cheeks pink from exertion, eyes twinkling in delight as he reached for her. “I had fun tonight,” she confided quietly.

“Me, too,” he instantly agreed, crowding in to press her against the solid oak door. “Can I – ” he bent to kiss her, “see you tomorrow?”

“Mmm hmm,” she murmured, her lips parting to meet his as she rose to her toes and twined her fingers around his neck.

Hands resting lightly on her hips, he kissed her soundly, his warm tongue slipping softly into her mouth. Eyes closed, body bowed against his, she sighed happily, low and sweet. After a minute, he broke the kiss to whisper, “This would be a lot more fun if we weren’t dressed for an impending blizzard.”

Giggling, she nodded. “Sorry, sailor,” she cooed. “But you have to go home, now. I have to be at work early tomorrow. We’re going into the grand jury at nine.”

Groaning, he said, “There’s a buzz kill if I ever heard one,” and kissed her once more, chastely. “I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon, okay?” Unable to stop touching her, he ran the back of his hand over her cheek. “Dinner. Plan on it.”

“I think I can pencil you in,” she joked, clutching his hand. “What are you going to do in the meantime?”

“Don’t you worry your pretty head, baby,” he smirked, bending so his lips fluttered against her ear. “I’ll think of something,” he promised, sinfully kissing the curve of her ear, his mouth sliding down her neck to sweep over her jaw before finding her lips again. This time, the kiss was rougher, more intense, leaving both panting for more.

“Logan,” she huffed. “You have to leave, now!”

“Uh huh,” he mumbled into her inviting mouth. “I’m going. Right now.”

“Good,” she breathed, sealing her lips on his. “I wish you would.”

Breaking the kiss after another minute, Logan announced, “This reminds me of that movie – the one you used to make me watch all the time. What was the name of it?”

Momentarily befuddled, she rolled her eyes when she remembered. “While You Were Sleeping.”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he concurred. “The part when ... Bill Pullman was ... leaning,” he whispered, tilting forward to kiss her one more time.

Elated and ebullient, he clattered down the stairs and flew out the door, a satisfied grin creasing his face. When he reached the building’s courtyard, however, the smile died on his lips. Lurking behind a tree, directly across the street, was the same unsavory-looking dude he’d seen at the restaurant, in the plaza by the Calder, and in the street behind Veronica and the other prosecutors. It was him, Logan was sure of it. He whipped out his cell, opened it, and snapped it shut without dialing.

Returning to the entrance to Veronica’s apartment building, he stabbed at her call button, once, twice, three times, until he heard her dazed, sleepy voice. “Logan?”

“Veronica. Let me in for a sec. I – I forgot something.”

“‘S late, Logan.”

“I know. Trust me, babe, just this once. Let me in, please?”

She didn’t reply, but the cellanoid buzz told him she’d agreed. Lopping up the steps two at a time, he had just raised his hand to bang on the door when it clicked open. Without asking, he shouldered in, immediately shutting the door behind him. Whirling to slide home the deadbolt, he turned to find a drowsy Veronica, in a pale pink satin robe, blinking uneasily.

“What is it? What did you forget?”

“Nothing. He’s out there. He’s out there right now, Veronica. Across the street.” A few long strides, and Logan was at the window, peering into the murky shadows. “Are all your windows locked?” he demanded; his voice suddenly adrenaline-fueled.

“I live on the third floor. I don’t really think I have to worry about anyone scaling the brick walls,” she retorted sharply, crossing to his side. “Except, maybe, Spiderman?”

“It isn’t funny.”

“It is, just a little bit,” she argued, raising her thumb and forefinger to display the space between. “It’s okay. I’m okay. Let me make you some coffee,” she added, soothing him with a stroke of her hand on his forearm. “Take your jacket off, calm down.” Holding out her hand, she waited expectantly until he unzipped and shed it. She hung it next to hers, on a hook beside the door.

“Want some tiramisu?” she coaxed, leading him by the hand into her tiny kitchen. Motioning to the doll-like cafe table, she turned to the counter and bustled about, putting on coffee and pulling the ‘to go’ box from the fridge. He sat, unable to relax, perched on the edge of the chair while his leg jiggling nervously. Placing the carton and two forks on the table, she went back to the refrigerator for milk, grabbed two mugs and set it all on the table. Reaching over, she ruffled her fingers through his hair before retreating to the coffee maker.

“You need to come back to the hotel with me.”

Although her face was impassive, her eyes revealed her conflicted emotions. “I can’t do that,” she countered. “You know I can’t.”

“Then I’m staying here,” he insisted, a dangerous, stubborn glint in his eye.

She stared at him. “You don’t need to do that. I’m a big girl, Logan,” she argued. “I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can – you always have – but there’s a wacko out there, and this is the fourth time I’ve seen him, and it’s just not safe.” She took a deep breath; he could tell she was wavering. “I’ll sleep on the couch; you won’t even know I’m here.”

“It’s really not necessary,” she sniffed. “I don’t want you sleeping on my couch. It’s too much, too fast.”

“It’s either the couch or the bed, Sugarlips,” he threatened, flashing a grim smile.

Her lips twitched. “Fine,” she conceded, defeated by his simmering glare. “I’ll get you a pillow and blanket.”

“And a nightgown?” he prodded with a mischievous grin.

“Don’t push your luck.”

Go ahead, push your luck.

He heard her shuffle into the bathroom, the sound of running water raising thoughts of Veronica, naked and soapy. Yanking the pillow over his head, he twisted into the frame of the couch, pressing his legs together, trying to will away his arousal.

Twenty minutes later, when she emerged from her bedroom humming lightly, she was dressed in a luxurious olive wool suit, complete with a cream-colored silk blouse and the pearls he’d given her once upon a time. Leaning over the padded arm, she blew in his ear and taunted, “Rise and shine, sunshine.”

“When did you become a morning person?” he grumped, flopping on his back, and looking up at her.

“I’m going to put some coffee on, and I’m outta here,” she replied, chuckling. “Stay as long as you need to, but when you call me this afternoon, I expect you to be at the Art Institute, or the Shed, or maybe even Watertower Place.”

“Uh huh,” he muttered. “I hear and obey. ... Wait!” he blurted, bolting upright. “You can’t go out there – I should go with you, at least as far as the El.”

“I don’t have time, Logan,” she said impatiently, glancing at the clock over the stove. “I have to go now.”

Flinging the quilt off his lap, he stood, unabashed despite the obvious evidence of his hard-on straining the cotton of his black boxer-briefs. “Just give me a minute to put on my jeans.”

“One minute,” she hissed, trying not to stare as he turned his back and shucked into his pants. “I’ve seen it before, you know,” she chirped sardonically.

“So why are you staring?” he rejoined, zipping up as he turned and glanced around the room. Wordlessly, she held out his sweater. “Thanks, baby,” he mocked, grinning as she blushed, stomped to the coat rack, and snatched her things.

Instead of taking the El, Logan cajoled Veronica into a cab. Whizzing downtown in comfort, they arrived at 7:45 a.m., earlier than expected. Seeing her inside with a lingering glance, he ordered the driver to the Drake. By 8:13 a.m., he was in his room, showered and shaved, and was simultaneously at his computer and on the phone to New York. “Ray, it’s Logan. I need some information, and a local contact here in Chicago.”

Within an hour, he’d assembled backgrounds on the men being investigated by the U.S. Attorney’s office, as well as one on those doing the investigating. Not surprisingly, gambling wasn’t the only thing they were into, and they appeared to be far more dangerous than Veronica had let on. Rudy’s crew, the men still at large, were impressive, if by impressive one meant, they had long, colorful-in-a-bad way criminal histories, and associated with other, storied gangs operating both in and outside the confines of the United States.

As far as Logan could tell, from the information he’d obtained from his research and the Times internal files and archives, the bookmaking was headquartered in the Bahamas, although they had local operations in Chicago, New York, Tampa, and San Diego. The drug distribution operation, which, in a way, fed into the sports book, was mostly steroids, uppers, and the mysterious Human Growth Hormone (HGH), currently undetectable in blood or urine. It was unclear whether the distribution ring was street-level or whether they dealt through middlemen, but in either case, between the dope and the gambling, the amount of cash generated was staggering. Lots of people, even respectable ones, would kill to protect that kind of income stream.

His next call was to a local detective, to find out whether or not he could get a rush on a concealed weapons permit. Upon learning Illinois did not issue so-called carry permits, except to law enforcement officials and the like, he decided to take his chances, and, with a few more phone calls, made arrangements to purchase a gun through a dealer in Gary, Indiana. Ringing up the concierge, he arranged for a car to take him.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost ten. If he left now, he could be back before two, and would have plenty of time to plan their date. Tonight, he intended to sweep Veronica off her feet, maybe even lure her back to his room for a ‘nightcap’ and some full-on sex, or, at least, something more than a mere good-night kiss in the hallway.

He missed her. That simple. And it killed him, especially the way his traitorous body never failed to respond to her, instinctively. But they weren’t kids anymore. He had overcome a lot to get here – she had too – and one night with the woman he still dreamed about wasn’t going to cut it.

The ride to Gary took longer than he expected, but he was back by two-thirty, which wasn’t bad, considering.

“Hi. Where are you?”

“In my hotel room. Where are you?”

“In my office. I thought I told you to go out and do something?”

“I did, but I’m thinking about taking a nap now.”

“A nap? What did you do this morning that you need a nap now?”

“Nothing. None of your business. And, anyway, it wasn’t what I did this morning; it was the lack of sleep from the night before.”

“I warned you about my sofa....”

“Honestly, ‘Ronica, I don’t think it was the couch – the couch was fine.”

“So ... what was it, then?”

“Knowing you were in the next room....”

“Oh,” she paused, the silence stretching over the line. Dammit, I blew that one, didn’t I? “I ... I think I had ... the same problem, Logan.”

“Your balls were blue, too, huh?”

“Logan!” she protested. He could hear her blushing.

“So, uh, think you can sneak out early today?”

“How early?”

“Like, maybe, four?”

“Yeah, I can do that. Why?”

“Well, our reservations aren’t until seven-thirty, but I figured you’d want time to get dressed up. I’m thinking, slinky little dress, strappy shoes,” he lowered his voice, “something sexy, a bit sassy....”

“Where are you taking me?” she asked suspiciously. “I can’t really wear little strappy things in this weather.”

“Don’t worry. You won’t get cold.” He chuckled, his tone telegraphing his intent. “I’ve got a limo. So, I’ll pick you up outside the Dirksen at four, okay?”

Still damp and glistening from his shower, Logan dumped the packages on the bed, ripped open the boxes, and removed both handguns. He laid them on the coffee table and examined both. Although sleek, the .9mm was big and heavy. Hefting the smaller, snub-nose .38, he slipped it into his waistband, to see if it felt right. Shaking his head, he took it out and slid it into its little leather ankle holster and strapped it on, walking around the room before putting on his charcoal gabardine slacks and indigo dress shirt. Examining himself in the mirror, he noted the Smith & Wesson was virtually invisible. Even Veronica wouldn’t be able to spot it.

Instead of lolling in comfort on the tuck-pointed upholstery behind the smoked glass windows, Logan got out and walked around, mingling with the masses as he waited for Veronica. Except, of course, he wasn’t really mingling, and he wasn’t enjoying the view. On his second circuit of the perimeter, Logan had spotted the guy; today, he looked decidedly more upscale, in an Eddie Bauer down jacket, black, and heavy-weight camo chinos. The drastic change in gear and appearance did more to convince Logan the dude was bad news than anything the guy had actually done so far.

The only reason to change up like that would be because he’s been doing it for a while now. Who knows how long the thug’s been out here, watching her.

Chest suddenly constricted; Logan felt sick.

A body slammed into him from behind. He whirled; fist clenched. “Hey, stranger. What are you doing out here? It’s cold....” She smiled, rose to kiss his cheek. “Where’s this limo you’ve been bragging about?”

Cursing to himself because he knew the punk was watching them, Logan threw an arm over her shoulder and led her to the quiet Lincoln Continental idling at the curb. She slid over the bench seat and, patting the space next to her, looked at him with bright, eager eyes. He got in and slammed the door, leaning forward to mutter her address to the driver.

“So,” she began, conversationally. “I mentioned my stalker – not you, the other one – to Dave.”

“Dave?”

“My boss.”

“Oh. And what did ‘Dave, your boss’ have to say about him?”

“He didn’t think it was related, said most of our targets are either already locked up, or have gone underground because they know an indictment’s coming.”

“So, the stalker you claim not to have can’t be related to the work you’re doing, because Dave, your boss, who, by the way, has never even seen the dude, says it’s unrelated? I hope Dave’s not as careless with his investigations as he is with his employees, or there’s gonna be some bad dudes walking free in a few months.”

“Don’t be like that,” she wheedled, batting her lashes and tilting her head. “I’m not saying he’s not out there, but I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. I still have my taser, just in case.” She patted her fancy messenger bag comfortingly.

“No gun?” he asked bluntly, disbelief apparent. “I thought you law enforcement types carried guns?”

“If I had a gun,” she flashed a pixie smile, “and I’m not saying I do, I wouldn’t bring it here because I’d only have to lock it up in the Marshal’s safe. No guns in the federal building.”

“But at least you’d have it for the trip to and from work, Veronica,” he groused.

“It’s okay,” she soothed, pulling off her glove to take his hand. “I’m fine. No one’s gonna hurt me, Logan.”

“You have any champagne glasses?” he yelled, banging through her cabinets one after another. Veronica stuck her head out of the bathroom, a towel wound ‘round her body, her hair up in hot rollers.

“Do they have to be champagne glasses? I have wine glasses, in the cupboard over the stove.” Sidling over, Logan flipped the door open and was confronted by plain, two-dollar glasses, dusty and obviously unused since the Reagan administration. “Find ‘em?”

“Yeah, I got them. I take it you don’t entertain much, do you?”

“I told you,” she began, padding into the kitchen in a deeply vee’d, dark coral co*cktail dress. Satin ribbon outlined the empire waist and flowed down the front of the filmy skirt. Logan’s wolf whistle precluded her rejoinder; she twirled, glowing under his admiring gaze.

“You told me?”

“I told you, I don’t have time for a social life.”

“We’re going to remedy that tonight, Sweetheart,” he announced with glee, popping the cork and letting the bubbles spill. Pouring into one of the two glasses he’d just polished; he handed it to her and lifted the other. “To you,” he said, clinking rims. “My favorite prosecutor, and the most beautiful woman in Chicago.”

“This is wonderful,” she murmured, snuggling into the curve of his side as the boat bobbed and rocked. “I can’t believe I’ve lived here for almost a year, and have never done this before.” She squeezed him. “Thank you, Logan. I didn’t know the skyline would look so beautiful from the water.”

“I wish I could take credit, but it was the concierge who suggested the dinner cruise,” he confessed. “It is pretty great, though, isn’t it?” He shifted to stand behind her, tucking his chin atop her glossy curls, and sighing. “Wanna dance? There’s no one out here but us,” he coaxed.

“That’s because it’s freezing, and all the sane people are inside.”

“True, but you’ll be much warmer if you pressed your body against mine.”

“I want to,” she admitted. “I do....”

“But?”

“Okay, dance with me,” she implored in a hushed voice. “Convince me.” Placing his hands lightly on her hips, he twirled her to face him, pulling her to his chest.

“You don’t have to twist my arm, Mars,” he said gruffly, burying his face in her hair. They swayed in the moonlight, her fingers dancing against his neck, his hands cradling her slender waist. “Come home with me, tonight, please,” he whispered into her ear. “We don’t have to .... Just let me wake up with you.” That way, at least I’ll know you’re safe.

&&&&&&

It amazed him, every time. Awake one moment, snoring the next. Usually when he least wanted her to be sleeping. The driver offered to help; of course, Logan declined. As if he’d let someone else carry her to his bed. On the elevator, she giggled, blew softly in his ear, all warm and cuddly-soft on his chest.

Kicking shut the suite door, he glided into the bedroom, laying her gently on the bed. She lolled, tried to sit, cheeks still ruddy from the cold air and her body heat. He knelt on the floor beside her, breathing heavily. Shifting to her side, sleepy-eyed, she wiggled her fingers and reached for him.

“Take your coat off, beautiful,” he murmured, catching her hand and kissing her fingertips. She shot him a look, pure kitten-coquette, unbuttoned the soft wool and pulled it off one shoulder, rolling it like a stripper. Grabbing his wrist, she brought him closer, rosy lips opened, inviting. He cupped her face in his chilly hands, the heat of her flushed cheeks tingling his skin. His lips slid over hers, she sighed contentedly.

Releasing her, he stood, hastily divesting himself of his jacket, cufflinks, watch, and shoes. A soft huff caused him to turn; bemused, he watched her topple and come to rest on the snowy white sheet. Unhurried now, he hung his suit jacket and pants, brushed his teeth, and tugged on a pair of gray, Hearst sweat pants.

With gentle hands, he slid her coat from beneath her, hanging it in the closet next to his suit. Plucking the jeweled clips from her shimmery locks, he let it fan out behind her. Her shoes came off next; he debated the dress, decided she’d rather he would. As he undressed her, she woke briefly, had a glass of water, gave him another kiss, and curled up under the covers, dropping back into a deep slumber almost immediately.

Finding a blanket in the armoire, Logan wrapped up and lay down next to Veronica, atop the covers. She stirred, blinked, and slipped her hand into his, mumbling softly. He kissed her forehead, draped a hand over her quilt-covered hip, and simply watched her sleep until Morpheus claimed him.

Just as he nodded off, he recalled another night, another hotel bedroom, a less quiet ending to an evening.

“I saw you kiss her,” she hissed, eyes so dark they glittered like sapphires in the low light of his bedroom. He swayed drunkenly, grabbed for the edge of the bureau.

“That isn’t what – you didn’t see what you think you saw.”

“I know what I saw, Logan. You kissing Parker.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He staggered along the wall, a blind man feeling for the bathroom door. “Except, it’s not what you saw – not all of it.”

“Oh?” she shrilled, sheets twisting beneath her fingers. “There was more? D’I miss part of the show? Was it better than the part I caught?”

Mumbling indistinctly, he stumbled into the bathroom and fell to his knees. “...was saying goodbye ... leaving for Italy....” The sound of retching filled the room.

Mildly worried, Veronica waited, fuming. “f*ck!” he groaned. She heard the flush, water running in the sink, and a very pale Logan stumbled to the foot of the bed. He crashed forward, barely avoiding cracking his knees on the footboard.

With a huff, she threw off the covers, fetched a bottle of water from the mini-bar, and aspirin from her purse. Tugging his shoes off, she heaved him sideways, leaving him on his back, lying diagonally across the king-size bed. Shaking his shoulders, she woke him long enough to feed him two pills and water before he passed out.

In the morning, he found a note, his room key, and a pile of CDs. It was weeks before she’d even take his calls. She never let him explain.

He woke suddenly, chest heaving. In sleep, she’d encroached, snuggling her head onto his arm, her body pressed against his hip. Breathing deeply, trying to control his racing heart, he curled his fingers through her silky locks. Marveling at her beauty in repose, he couldn’t help remembering another horrible night, when she thought she’d lost Keith, and he thought he’d lost her.

Brushing his lips over her forehead, he gathered her in his arms and tried to remember the good times, the nights they fallen asleep limbs entwined, skin to skin, so close it seemed nothing and no one would ever come between them.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, the flat of his hand stroking slowly up and down her ribcage. Shuddering, she looked up at him, blue eyes filled with desire. “You don’t have to, Veronica. I can wait, I’m not going anywhere.”

“I want to,” she murmured, breathless, trembling. “I want to be with you, Logan.” As if to convince him, she trapped his hand and brought it to her mouth, kissing each knuckle in turn. Already sheathed with a condom,, his co*ck twitched against her leg. Bending to take her mouth, he pressed gently until she was on her back, and he was hovering over her. Spreading her with his knees, he settled between her legs, rubbing against her damp flesh.

She gasped, her fingers tightening on his arms. “Are you sure?” he asked again, studying her flushed face. She nodded wordlessly, slipping a hand between their bodies to fondle him. The minute her hand touched him, he was inflamed, consumed, past the point of return.

“I want this,” she said, with emphasis, drawing her hand maddeningly up and down his length. “You do, too, don’t you?”

Despite the sheet and two layers of blankets between them, he could feel her slumber-heat, making his co*ck twitch. Facing her, he laid his hand on the curve of her hip and finally willed himself to sleep. He felt it immediately, when she woke at 5:30 a.m. and slipped out of bed.

“... Um, ‘Ronica,” he mumbled. “Car’s waiting to take you home and back to work, ‘kay?”

Tiptoeing to his side of the bed, she brushed her lips over his shoulder, the only naked swatch of skin she could find. “I’m sorry I crashed last night, Logan,” she cooed, absently stroking his back. “I’m a wuss. I’ll make it up to you tonight.”

“Mmm,” he breathed, rolling to catch her hand. “I had a wonderful time.” He pressed his lips to the palm of her hand, reeling her in for a languid kiss.

“Me too,” she concurred, smiling against his lips.

“I’m serious about the car, Veronica.” He squeezed her hand. “I already made the arrangements, and paid for it, so please don’t take the El.”

“I ... I won’t,” she agreed, trying to remove her hand from his.

“Promise me,” he demanded, holding tighter. “I mean it. I’m not fooling around, here.”

“Okay, okay. I promise.” He reached up and brought her down for a deep, last kiss before releasing her. As she slipped away to get dressed, he continued to watch intently. When she got into her shoes, he said, “Your coat’s in the closet.” Startled, she looked up, puzzled. “I put it there last night.”

“Thanks,” she said nervously, flushing under his scrutiny, suddenly realizing he was more alert than he’d seemed.

“Don’t ... forget ... about the car,” he repeated, his voice clear and direct. She nodded obediently, waved, and disappeared into the sitting area and out the door. Ten seconds after he heard the door click, he was on the phone to the concierge, making sure the car was ready, and Veronica was in it.

Five minutes later, her cell trilled. “Hey! Are you stalking me?”

His warm chuckle filled her ear. “Maybe. Just a little. I only called to say ‘thank you’... for everything.”

He briefly considered blowing off the opening day of the seminar but decided against it. His boss would be upset; it would be more hassle than it was worth. When Veronica called to check in, he was standing in a two-person-deep scrum, trying to get close enough to the coffee urn to get a refill. She sounded fine, but he was anxious, nonetheless. What was I thinking? What am I doing here? I live in New York ... have a once-in-a-lifetime job, killer apartment, and more women than I could ever f*ck at my disposal, on my terms. She’s difficult – and that’s putting it mildly – obstinate, and we’ve never been able to make it work before. What the f*ck am I doing?

As the lecturer droned on and on, he snuck a peek at his Blackberry. It was only one in the afternoon – too early to call her again. His stomach churned, he shook his head impatiently, ran his hand through his hair. Why’m I so nervous? The possibility of sex? You’d think we’d never ... done it before. When the conference broke at three for refreshments, he gave in and called. Voicemail. Irritated, he called the U.S. Attorney’s main number, asked for her secretary. Marie said she was on another line. Sliding back into his hard, uncomfortable banquet-chair seat, he shot off a quick, teasing text before turning his attention to the panel discussion.

He called again, at 4:25 p.m. This time, Marie told him Veronica’d left early, implied it was because she was planning a special evening. But when he tried her cell, she still didn’t answer. His counterpart at the Chicago Tribune, the nice guy who’d hooked him up with local police department contacts, asked if Logan wanted to grab a beer – or something stronger. Politely, Logan begged off, citing a prior engagement, and hurried back to the Drake to get ready.

At 5:15 p.m., when he still hadn’t heard from Veronica, he began to get worried. Deciding to head out for her apartment, he left one last message, then called for his driver.

There were no lights on in Veronica’s apartment. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. She could still be shopping – but why wouldn’t she answer her cell when she saw his number? Telling the driver to wait, he got out, mashed all the buttons until someone let him in. Racing to her door on the third floor, he pounded, hollered, listened. Nothing.

He banged on the across-the-hall neighbor’s door; a thirty-ish guy, with round, frameless geek glasses and a scruffy cardigan, answered, said his name was Joe. Joe said he hadn’t heard Veronica come home, but added she was usually so quiet he wasn’t sure he would have. Logan asked if she’d left a spare key, just in case. Joe admitted she hadn’t, but indicated he had one anyway, because he was the building manager. Of course, he was reluctant to hand it over, but when a truly panicked Logan told Joe he’d either pick the lock or come back with the police, Joe agreed to let Logan take a look around.

Joe stood in the door as Logan poked through Veronica’s apartment. It was clear she hadn’t been home since morning. Last night’s dress was flung on the bed where she’d discarded it, along with the bath towel she’d used only hours earlier. Her strappy shoes, which had made him so happy the night before, were tumbled on their sides. And, there was no food in the fridge.

Pacing, cursing, Logan wracked his brain. What to do? What would Veronica do – if it were him who’d gone missing? Brushing past Joe, he shouted ‘thanks’ and galloped down the stairs. As he flew out the vestibule door, something caught his eye. A glove. A red leather glove. Veronica’s, lying beside the stairs, between the shrubs and the brick balustrade, atop a bag of trash. If she’d simply dropped it, it would be on the stairs, wouldn’t it?

He staggered, heart pounding, and leaned against the banister. Someone’s got her, I know it! Oh, God. OhGod. What’mIgonnado? He pulled out his Blackberry but didn’t know who to call. At a loss, he stared vacantly before bending to retrieve her glove. His hand brushed against the brown paper bag – it had handles, was filled with ... groceries. Prime rib, two potatoes, a smashed carton of sour cream, fancy lettuce, and hot-house tomatoes. His heart sledge-hammered into his stomach, he tasted bile and turned, heaving his stomach’s contents onto the sidewalk. She’d been shopping....

When the blood stopped rushing and he was able to stand, he noticed the rhythmic thud of a basketball bouncing on concrete. Craning his neck, he noticed a group of teenage boys going three-on-three in the driveway of the house next door. Snatching up the glove, he jogged over.

Groggy and limp, Veronica came to with a gasp, strapped into the backseat of a truck, or an SUV, she couldn’t tell which. She tried to swallow but couldn’t get past the grapefruit-sized lump. Her temple throbbed; she surmised she’d been hit there, or possibly had her head bumped when she was loaded into the vehicle. Although her hands and wrists were free, she couldn’t really move them; she’d been bound in her seat with what felt like duct tape.

It was dark outside, and even though the streetlights were on, she was unable see anything but shadows and forms through the heavily tinted side windows. Jiggling and straining at her restraints, she struggled to see out the front windshield. Even without a glimpse, she could tell, from the sound, they were traveling on surface roads rather than a highway. Without knowing the direction, however, the information didn’t mean much.

“Who are you?” she croaked, just to see if she could talk. “And what do you want?”

“Hey, girl,” a masculine voice replied. “Glad you could join the par-tay.” He laughed, an evil-sounding chuckle that filled her with dread. Of all the times she hadn’t listened to Logan, now was the one time she wished she had.

“Hey, guys,” Logan began, wallet in hand. To his surprise, following his quick, impassioned explanation, the kids cooperated without a cash bribe. They’d been outside for well over an hour, and knew Veronica on sight – the Banker Lady, they called her. She’d walked by with a bag of groceries – the next thing they knew, she was limping to an SUV.

A black guy helped her get in. He was ‘an older dude,’ at least thirty, wearing super baggy jeans, a white kuffie, and a leather jacket – not solid black, but black with a yellow, green, and red stripe on the back, like pieces of pie radiating from the shoulder down. According to the boys, the dude was short, about five-ten, and not too big, a hundred-and-sixty, sixty-five, tops.

The SUV wasn’t new, wasn’t fancy. A Ford, or maybe a Chevy Blazer, it was definitely American-made, and dark – blue or green. Definitely not a Caddy or a Hummer. No plates on it, either, which was weird.

Profusely thanking them, Logan handed the tallest a fifty, told ‘em to have one on him. Running back to the Lincoln, still idling in front of Veronica’s apartment, Logan climbed in, told the guy to take him to CPD headquarters on State Street. Punching buttons as fast as possible, he got a hold of the Tribune beat writer, Jason, who had the after-hours numbers for the CPD gang crimes unit. When Logan explained the situation, Jason, smelling a story, agreed to meet Logan at CPD, District 1, to help ‘persuade’ them to help.

As the limo hurtled toward downtown Chicago – Logan’d promised the guy an extra Benjamin if he made record time – Logan tapped out frantic notes, trying to remember everything he’d seen, everything she’d told him about the investigation. When Logan arrived at 16th and State, Jason Begge was already there and had primed the pump for him. Instead of immediately launching into the story, Logan asked if he could print his notes from one of their computers.

Five minutes later, one of the gang crime officers, LeMont Caldwell, looked up from Logan’s summary. “This is – I know who these guys are – they’re the ones O’Reilly and McMahon are after, the Southside Bankers, they call themselves.” Seeing Logan’s baffled expression, Caldwell explained the crew wasn’t a traditional street gang, but made most of their money off loans to other gangs, front money for large quantity drug purchases. It was believed the Southside Bankers had their hands in every major drug deal made within the city limits. Too insular and compartmentalized for CPD to crack, the feds had stepped in and created a joint task force, headed by Assistant U.S. Attorney David Fitzgibbons.

“That’s him, that’s her boss,” Logan practically shouted, biting his tongue to keep from spitting venom across the room.

“Yeah, but, that don’t mean that’s who’s got your girl,” Caldwell reminded him.

“It’s gotta be them,” Logan argued, frustrated and half-crazed by the lack of action. “How ‘bout if I make a positive identification of the guy who was stalking her? You have any pictures of their known associates?”

“How ‘bout if we call her Fitzgibbons,” the Tribune reporter calmly suggested. “Tell him what happened, see what he has to say?”

“Yeah,” Logan quickly agreed. “Call him, get him down here. I want to meet the jackass.” Begge and Caldwell exhanged glances; Caldwell nodded imperceptibly. “What are you waiting for?” Logan demanded. “My – Veronica’s life’s at stake.”

Jason stepped away, and, consulting his notebook, began dialing. Attempting to distract Logan with a sheaf of photos, Caldwell offered to find a sketch artist, too, in case the stalker’s photo wasn’t in the file. Heaving great, deep breaths, Logan tried to compose himself and focus on the black and whites in front of him. Displaying admirable self-restraint, Logan methodically perused the stack, one by one, then started over again. Fifteen minutes later, he triumphantly held one aloft.

“This is the guy.”

“You’re positive?” a strange voice called out. Whipping around, Logan was confronted by a tall, gracefully-gone-gray older man wearing an expensive, obviously tailor-made suit and a sneer. “You Logan Echolls?” he said gruffly, holding out his hand.

“You must be the high and mighty Dave Fitzgibbons,” Logan replied, fist clenching reflexively as he ignored the out-stretched hand. “So, Davie, tell me again how it couldn’t be related, you dickhe*d,” he grumbled.

“We still don’t know if there’s really a connection,” Fitzgibbons replied mildly, unperturbed by Logan’s invective.

“You may not know,” Logan growled, stalking closer, jabbing his finger into Dave’s chest. “But I do! She’s out there,” he made a sweeping gesture toward the bank of windows, “somewhere. She’s probably scared, maybe hurt, while you’ve sitting on your ass somewhere, probably having a congratulatory TGIF co*cktail. You even smell like a bum, you know that? But don’t worry your pretty head, Davie, ‘cause I’m going to find her. You got that?” He glowered at the taller, older man, daring him to ....

“I don’t need to listen to your crap, Echolls. We’ll find her, and when we do, I suggest you say ‘goodbye’ and go back to wherever you came from. She doesn’t need you here.”

“Funny, I don’t see you doing anything right now, Davie. And by the way, you don’t know anything about me, or Veronica, for that matter, so just mind your own business and Find My Girlfriend!” he gritted, taking a step back as if to swing on Fitzgibbons.

“Logan,” Jason cautioned before Fitzgibbons had a chance to response. “C’mon man, let’s take a walk.” He grabbed Logan’s jacket and propelled him into the hallway. “Relax, man,” he advised, still gripping Logan’s arm. “Fitz’s no favorite of CPD. I got some addresses we can check out, see what’s what.”

Huffing, Logan shook free. “You got ... addresses? What’re we waiting for? Let’s go.”

“Not so fast, Mr. Echolls,” LeMont called out, joining them in the corridor. “Before I turn you lose to scour the city on something that’s exclusively a police matter, I need to establish some ground rules about – ”

“Ground rules? I’m a civilian – a reporter chasing a story,” he snarled. “You’ve got no jurisdiction over me.”

“Listen to me, Echolls. I’m sure you got enough money, and enough lawyers to get you out of trouble if you ‘n’ me get sideways, but I’m the least of your trouble tonight. These guys, the Bankers, aren’t known for violence, but it’s obvious they ain’t playing around, either. You do nothing – nothing – without us, a’ight? You got it? NO-thing.”

Cutting him off before he could argue, Jason Begge stepped between Logan and the Lieutenant. “Fine, fine. Give us a number we can get through on. We’ll keep you posted, check in every hour or so.”

“Where am I?” she murmured, rubbing her forehead. Her arms were no longer bound, she realized, sitting up on the cold, clammy stone floor. Squinting in the murky light, her gaze swept over her surroundings. Clearly a basem*nt, the room was filled with stacks of cardboard boxes and metal barrels. She sniffed, and was met with the tangy, spoiled scent of stale beer, and the musty odor of damp earth. Her head throbbed again, she pushed at it, studied her fingers. Blood. Her blood, apparently. Leaning heavily on the wall, she struggled to rise to her feet. The effort required was tremendous, but she succeeded, finally. Slumped and panting, she surveyed the dungeon again, searching for some indication of a way out.

The only noise she could hear was from above, a steady thump, like music, maybe.

“Finally,” a gruff voice, laced with sarcasm, greeted her. “‘Bout time, Goldilocks. I been waitin’ for you.”

Blinded by the sudden light, Veronica shrank back on the wall, flattening her palms behind her. “What do you want? Who are you?” she demanded, trying to be fierce and unafraid.

“I want a lot of things, Blondie,” the disembodied voice rumbled. “And you, Veronica Mars, are going to give them to me.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, and I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re got the wrong person, mister.”

A low, malevolent chuckle filled the room. “I think you do, Miss Mars,” he said, stepping forward, her leather encased AUSA badge dangling from his fleshy fingers. He held up her purse in his other hand. “I know exactly who you are, Assistant U. S. Attorney Mars, and I know all about the case you’re currently working, so start talking. I’ll let you know when you get to something I like.” His menacing words belied his casual attitude, and as he approached, Veronica felt a chill run down her spine.

“Okay, up there, take a right,” Jason announced with conviction.

“Tell me again, why we’re in a conspicuous limo, rather than your beater?” Logan asked, on edge and unable to be quiet for more than a moment.

Jason sighed and patiently repeated, “Flash is currency in this neighborhood, and limos are an everyday occurrence. In fact, I’m afraid we’ll stand out because we’re not flashy enough.”

“Okay,” he grumbled. “What’s the name of the place, again?”

“No Exit. Should be up the block, on the left.”

“And you expect the club to be open on a Wednesday, at two-thirty in the morning?”

“Oh, yeah. They’ll be open. I don’t know if they’ll let us in, but they’ll definitely open.”

“What makes you think they’d take her to a club, anyway?”

“Process of elimination. There was nothing doing at the dope spots, no one was home at the boss’s residence, plus, the club’s part of the money laundering racket, and someone usually checks in, late, each night. Let us out here,” he directed, tapping the driver on the shoulder. “Keep it running, and – do you have a cell phone?” When the chauffeur held it up, Jason continued, “Take this number, and if anything happens, call Lieutenant Caldwell, tell him where we are. Got it?”

“C’mon, we’re wasting time,” Logan urged, stretching out kinked muscles he got out. “Take a walk,” he asked, eyeing the alley on the west side of the drab, non-descript building.

Jason gave him a startled glare. “You heard what Caldwell said. We’re just here to check it out, Echolls.”

“If that’s the way you want it,” he drawled, arching an eyebrow for emphasis. “You’re free to hang out in the club, do the hokey-pokey with the natives, but I’m pretty sure they’re not hiding Veronica in plain sight. If she’s here, she’ll be in a backroom, closet, or basem*nt. And that’s where I’m going to start looking for her. But, hey, if you see a tiny blonde, big blue eyes, annoying and stubborn, watch out for her taser, okay?” With that, Logan slouched off down the alley, turning at the last minute. “Coming?”

They circled around to the back door, which was unguarded and propped open. A butcher-aproned, tee-shirted busboy bustled out, an enormous sack of garbage dragging behind. Watching from behind the door, they saw the boy vanish inside and return, several long moments later, with another bag. He went back in again, and, after thirty seconds, when he didn’t come back, Logan jerked his head at the entrance, his unspoken question unmistakable in his expressive eyes.

Casually, as if they always came in the back door, the two men strolled inside, finding themselves in a walk-through storeroom. A quick sweep was all Logan needed to know there were no other connecting rooms, so they continued forward, into the now-empty back kitchen. Examining the walls, floor, and ceiling, Logan noticed a small hallway leading off to the side. At the end of the dead-end hall, set flush into the wall, was a narrow, almost invisible door.

Motioning to Jason, he crept down the wall to the door. Gently pressing his ear to it, he heard two voices, a faint, tremulous female one, and a louder, threatening one, clearly a man. Logan’s eyes widened, glinted hard and dangerous. Leaning down, he slipped his .38 from the ankle holster, and tiptoed back to where Jason waited, at the junction of the corridor and the kitchen. The two had a brief, whispered conversation; Jason imploring Logan to call CPD and wait for their arrival, Logan insisting they – he – needed to do something, now.

Finally, Logan won the argument, and a plan was hatched. After calling CPD, Jason slipped down the hall to join Logan at the door. Handing his snubnose S & W to Jason, Logan pulled his nine and listened again. Waiting until the man’s voice rose, Logan softly jiggled the doorknob. Finding it unlocked, he slid it open and, gun in hand, ushered Jason ahead.

Tucking his hand, and gun, in his pocket, Jason clomped loudly down the narrow, dimly lit staircase. “Hey, who’s there,” he hollered.

“Get outta here, right now,” the male voice shouted. “You’re trespassing on private property, and, unless you’re a cop with a warrant, you have no business down here.”

“My name is Jason Begge, and I work for the Chicago Tribune,” he answered, proceeding to the bottom step. “And I believe you are holding captive an Assistant U.S. Attorney, Veronica Mars. Veronica? Are you there?” Glancing up to make sure Logan was right behind, Jason slid off the bottom step and turned the corner. “You’re Veronica, right?”

“Ye - yeah, I am. How’d you know?”

As Logan watched, Jason, still talking, inched into the room, toward the large black man holding Veronica in front of him, a shield. “Dude, you need to let her go. Her boyfriend’s right behind me, with a big gun, and CPD is on the way.”

“Bullsh*t,” the man spat. “If you was with anyone, they’d be down here b’now. And if five-oh was on they way, you would’na’ come alone. So get your bony white ass outta here, NOW!, brotha.”

With a quick sideways feint, Jason darted for Veronica’s purse, half-spilled on the floor. Flinging Veronica to the ground, the man lurched for Jason. At that precise moment, Logan leapt in, brandishing the nine. “Hold it right there, brutha,” he shouted, training the gun on the dude’s forehead. “Veronica?” he croaked, temporarily overcome. “You okay? Can you walk?”

One eye on the thug, he glanced quickly at his ‘girlfriend’ ungracefully sprawled, face down, on the cement. “Say something,” he implored, his voice hushed and raw. “Please.”

“I – I’m good,” she said, picking herself up. “Logan. Thank God! How did you find – where did you get the gun?”

“We can talk about it later,” he snapped, nostrils flaring. “Get over here, behind me. Jase? You good?”

“Fine and dandy,” Logan’s newest BFF replied, dusting off his pants. “Got any rope?”

“There’s duct tape behind the chair,” Veronica chimed in.

Logan growled. “Please leave, babe, before I say something I might regret. There’s a limo outside, in front. Go! Now!”

Without another word, Veronica scampered up the stairs. Carefully securing the thug to the chair, Logan and Jason backed up the stairs and, in a flash, were out the door and pounding up the alley to the street. When they reached the open limo door, Jason pulled up, halting a few feet away. Logan shot him a quizzical look.

Panting, Jason stuck out his hand. “Man, what a story, Echolls. I can’t thank you enough.”

“No, man. I should be thanking you. You saved her life. I owe you,” he added, clasping Jason’s hand in his, pumping it enthusiastically. “I take it you’re not coming with?”

“Nah,” Jason shrugged. “CPD’ll be here any minute. I gotta get the details. Okay if I call you in the morning, for your statements?” He angled his head toward Veronica, huddled in the limo.

Instantly, Logan’s face clouded. He leaned inside. “Baby? You okay?”

Once more, he carried her into his suite, cradling her like a baby and ignoring her protests. Gently settling her on the edge of the bed, he knelt and carefully removed her serious, lawyer pumps. “You don’t have to do this,” she murmured softly, her cerulean eyes brimming with tears.

“Yes, I do, Ms. Mars,” he said briefly, sliding his hands beneath her ‘sensible’ skirt to roll her tattered stockings down her slender, bruised legs. “Don’t you understand, I would do anything for you?”

“Logan,” she breathed, trembling, the tears finally tumbling down her grime-streaked cheeks. Rising on his knees, he gathered her into a soft embrace.

“You’re safe now, baby. I’ve got you.” He kissed her arm where it lay against his shoulder, hiding his teary eyes in the blue serge of her jacket. They held each other ... until Logan raised his head. “Let me run a bath for you, ‘Ronica,” he pleaded. “I need to see if you’re hurt or – ”

“I’m just banged up, a couple of bruises,” she assured him. “But I’d love a bath.”

He grimaced. Standing, he strode into the bathroom and began filling the granite-encased jacuzzi tub with steaming water. Returning to where Veronica sat frozen, he carefully removed her suit coat. Crawling to sit behind her, he pulled her into the safety of his embrace, working the buttons of her silk blouse as he whispered soothingly in her ear. Shuddering as he drew it down her shoulders, she turned suddenly, arms flung around his neck.

“I want to kill you, you know,” he choked out, squeezing her tightly.

“I know; believe me, I know. ... How did you know where to find me?” she inquired, a hint of curiosity lightening her eyes and the mood in the room.

“I cannot reveal professional secrets to a mere federal prosecutor,” he retorted in mock outrage. “Not even one as cute as you.”

“Not even me?” She leaned back, lip quivering, but both knew it was an act.

“Time to get you out of the rest of your clothes,” he scolded, pretending to be affronted.

“So,” she baited, “you really are just trying to get in my pants?”

“Guilty, again, Madame Prosecutor,” he mumbled, pressing his lips into the valley of her breasts. “I did it all ... just to sleep with you,” he smirked, looking up at her from beneath her jaw.

Shivering again, but for a different reason, she relaxed in his arms. His lips smoothed up her collarbone and over her pale throat, to the spot just under her ear. Licking delicately, he teased her skin with tender nips until she gasped with pleasure. “Bathtub? Please,” she begged. “I need to feel clean before we ....”

Shifting around, he threw his legs over the side, lifted her in his arms and swept her into the gleaming, steamy bathroom. Briefly setting her down in front of him, he spun her toward the tub and nuzzled in behind, wrapping his arms around her slight waist.

“Mmm, you feel good,” she murmured, grinding against him. “You feel so good.”

“Strumpet,” he hissed, bending her forward to kiss the back of her neck. “Time to get you wet,” he coaxed, lips traveling down her spine as his hands working the zipper of her skirt. It fell to the floor with a whoosh, leaving her standing in her demure pink-lace bra and bikini panties. Immodestly, hands at her sides, she spun to look at him, letting him get a good look at her. “God, Veronica,” he murmured, leaning back to take her in. Under the delicate lace, rosy nipples stood at attention; his eyes journeyed down her body, following the curve of her slim hips to the tawny curls at the apex of her thighs.

Despite the scratches, dirt, bruises, and dried blood, she was as beautiful now as she’d been at sixteen. And he knew, at that moment, he’d never stopped loving her.

Rising with a growl, he picked her up and deposited her in the hot, fragrant bath. “Logan!” she whined. “My ... I’m not ... I’m still wearing my – ”

“I’ll get ‘em in a minute, baby,” he promised, whipping his shirt over his head and fumbling with his fly. “Just stay right there, okay?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she reminded him, her voice warm and energized for the first time all night.

Peeling his jeans down his long legs, he ripped his socks off, tossing his Rolex on the vanity counter, and stood, entranced, at the edge of the tub. “Mind if I join you?”

“I wish you would,” she said quietly, the play of her fingers rippling the surface.

Assessing the situation, he eased in opposite her. Flexing his knees, he slid her toward him, reaching around to unclasp her sodden bra before smothering her with a wet kiss. Giggling, she splashed at him as he tried to pull the straps off her arms, feigning modesty as she wiggled ever closer to him.

When, at last, the offending garment was removed, he twirled it overhead and launched it across the room, guffawing when it landed with a loud splatter. “C’mere, you,” he cajoled, hand on the back of her neck. Dutifully, she arched forward, eyes closing as her lips parted. Mouth slanting down over hers, he cupped her face in his strong hands, moaned her name as his tongue stroked into her warm invite.

Fingers digging into his shoulder muscles, she quivered, brought him nearer. Her taut nipples brushed his chest, burning where she arched against him. Though their mouths were still fused, he dropped his hands below the water, boosting her astride his thighs, crushing her body to his. Heart racing, he bowed up into her, his co*ck stiff and throbbing against her belly.

“Please, baby,” she groaned, hips rolling as she rubbed her body on his. “I need you, now,” she implored, her voice hoarse and desperate. Shoving the wet lace aside with frantic fingers, he plunged into her, pumping deep and sure.

Panting, head thrown back, she humped his hand wildly, calling his name as she shook. “Ohgod, Iwantyousobad,” she gasped, heaving. “Please, baby, ohgodnow.”

Ripping the fabric with a single flick of his hand, he steadied her hips and lunged into her, mashing his mouth on hers to swallow her cry. “Ohf*ckinghell, Veronica,” he grunted, driving harder and deeper with each thrust. “OhgodIloveyou.”

“Lo-gan,” she screamed, biting his lip and coming in with breathless, messy shudder. Squeezing her ass, he jerked, hips stuttering as he spurted, thick and hot inside her.

“Goddamn,” he hissed in her ear. “Veronica Mars, you’re gonna kill me yet.”

They slept ‘til noon, Veronica having called in the night before, while still at the police station. When the eggs and bacon, strawberry waffles, and chocolate croissants arrived, they were accompanied by the newspaper. On page one, below the fold, was Jason Begge’s byline, with credit to Logan Echolls, and the heading: Rookie Fed Prosecutor Brings Down Gang - Before Indictment. Fortunately, no picture was available.