It was dark by the time they got back to Miami. They drove eight hours straight stopping once for a bite to eat and a quick bathroom break. Wildy was unwilling to chance another hotel stay with her handsome sidekick. When she pulled outside his home he asked her in-like he always did-but she refused. Just another night she needed to spend without him.

Too exhausted to eat, he settled in front of his laptop. At 1:30am, the doorbell chimed.

Miles shot a quick look at the security camera and almost smiled when he saw her there. She looked ridiculous, her dress slacks coupled with a Spongebob t-shirt and burgundy hoodie. Her chestnut mane was a beautiful mess while her hazel eyes were simply beautiful. She was frowning, irate. Bracing himself for impact, he opened the door.

"Wildy – "

"Miles," she barged past him into the house, dumping a stack of papers on the kitchen worktop. "Miller and Hitchins were related. They were cousins. I'll bet Miller killed Daniels, and Hitchins served the time. Meaning Daniels must have been onto something – "

"Wildy – "

"And then there's the question of who hired Miller – "

"Wildy – "

"Of course that's assuming he was hired, and not directly involved – "

He descended upon her, placing his hand firmly over her mouth. Silence fell.

"That's better," he said. Slowly he removed his hand and backed away. She said nothing, stunned. "Wilhemina, do you have any idea what time it is?" He only used her full name when he wanted to get her attention, when he was serious.

"But we need to discuss the – "

"Yeah we do and we will, but in the morning. Right now, we sleep."

He moved closer again, but this time she swatted away his hand.

"You can't seriously expect me to sleep. This is too much information to process. Aren't you a little bit curious about what I've found?"

"You just told me what you found, so no, I'm not curious. I'm more interested in you resting. Tomorrow isn't going to be any easier than today, and you need to be ready. You can stay here." She ignored his suggestion.

"Fine Miles, you're right. I'll see you in the morning. We can talk then." She gathered up the files and made for the door but he grabbed her shoulders.

"Please Wildy it's late. If you walk out that door right now I'll spend the next half hour wondering if you're safe."

"I have mace, a taser, a whistle, and a mean left hook.  A left hook you taught me."

"Yeah I did," he grinned his one dimpled smile, "but I'd rather not think about you having to use it.  You're my friend and we're going after some very dangerous people." She tapped the stack of files on the counter so they all aligned. "Please, for my sanity's sake."

She sighed, "Where do I sleep?"

"My bed. Clothing optional." She pinched his nipple. "Ow. Guest bedroom it is."

She smiled.

…

They got ready for bed separately, taking advantage of Miles' expansive home. The private eye business had been very good to him. The former owner of the private investigation firm where Miles had once been an errand boy had retired for good 2 years ago. Miles bought the lucrative business. The young entrepreneur and former cop inherited some of Miami's richest residents as clients while also securing a few big names clients on his own. Miles' pestered Wildy incessantly about her long hours at the newspaper and her refusal to decompress, to walk away from the job when she wasn't in the office. He was hypocrite. He was just as driven as she and could often be found in the wee hours of the night reading through files, combing through the minutest of details.

Miles lived in an exclusive gated community nestled in a serene corner of Miami Beach, one that rivaled castles built in Rome in the Middle Ages. The enclave of exclusive dwellings and lush parklands was protected by walls, hedges, cameras, and armed security guards. Wildy and his mother were the only two people he'd given secured access cards that afforded them the privilege of entering the community without screening at the security check point.

Miles' house was a modest-relatively speaking-3 bedroom, 3 bath bachelor pad with amenities galore. Aside from high tech everything and plasma televisions, there was a four car garage, an outdoor room, and Wildy's favorite, the built-in coffee station.

Each room was tastefully decorated, some adorned in rich woods and dark leathers, while others boasted soothing palettes of teals, and greens, and whites. His home was an extension of him, a representation. Subtle and understated amidst youth and whimsy.

Wildy pulled on a pair of his shorts and a shirt, bunched up the masses of material and sniffed it. It smelled like him. She shook her head; when did she get like this? As she prepared to slide between the Egyptian cotton sheets, there was a knock on the bedroom door.

"It's me," he hissed, pushing it open.

"Is this an attempt to see me naked?"

"Why, are you naked?" He stuck his head into the bedroom. "I brought you a toothbrush."

"Thank you," she took it and headed for the en suite bathroom.

"I'd hate to leave you with weird morning breath."

"My hero." She spoke it with a toothbrush in her mouth.

There were still some days when he found it hard to believe they were actually friends, couldn't believe he was allowed to see her like this.

He took the opportunity to tamper with her bra that was folded neatly by the bed with the rest of her clothing. He was caressing the cups when he heard a noise from the bathroom. Panicked he threw it away, it landed on the bedside lampshade. When he turned back around she was looking at him. Her hair was cascading across her shoulders. Her lips were a deep red, eyebrow lifted. He'd been caught.

"Perve."

"I'm not the one leaving my sexy underwear lying around," he said referring to the flesh toned, nothing special bra.

"Get out," she playfully scolded.

"You can make me remember," he said walking backwards out of the room, giving her body a smoldering perusal as he went.

"You damn right I could," she said with a smoldering perusal of her own.

It was only she was done brushing her teeth that she realized he had swiped her bra from the room. 'Perve'.

…

The next morning, they began. There was no mention in her mother's file of what had happened to Hitchins, and his letters gave nothing away. They searched for him in the prisons. When they couldn't find him, they rang the prison he died in, spoke to the warden, the guards. The warden was new, arriving only after the old warden died. The guards working at the time maintained Hitchins had been found dead in his cell, stabbed, but no investigation was launched.

They changed the plan. Over 10 years ago Hitchins was handed a 25 year sentence: it was entirely possible he'd been released early for good behavior. There were almost 100 Donald Hitchins in the state alone. Between them, his team at the p.i. firm, and Jessica, they called all of them. It took 2 days. They found nothing.

It took 3 days for Wildy to sit down. She slumped at her desk, clutching her head in her hands

"Miles – "

Wildy paused.

"We're not going to find him." He perched on the edge of her desk.

"We're not meant to find him. Your mother was a very smart woman, she did a good job, gave nothing away. I see where you get it from." She glared at him, but when she spoke it was little more than a whisper.

"I don't know what we're supposed to do now."

He went for her hand, leaned down to look her in the eye.

"We keep going. We're nearly there Wildy."

He looked so tired, he looked so hopeful, as though they would just keep going and keep going until they got their man. She wondered briefly if she had made him that way, stopped, of course she had. He was different after she was shot. He'd been by her bedside every day, been to every therapy session, encouraging her, holding her hand, holding her. Kisses on the cheek lasted a second past innocent. Meals together became more domestic, more intimate. And although he had always been bent on finding her family's murderer-mostly because she was so determined-after she was shot it became personal for him. Every waking moment when he wasn't working on something for one of his clients, he was working on the Reed murder case. His file on the case was thicker than hers and the police's combined. She'd done this to him.

Something inside her broke.

"I think," she paused. "I think I'm done here." Miles didn't move. When he spoke his voice was level, she could read nothing from his tone.

"Really?" he said.

"I can't do this anymore. I can't go chasing after nothing for the rest of my life."

"Will it be enough for you, giving up after getting this close?" She just looked at him blankly so he pulled back his hand and returned to his reading. "Did anything pop on Hitchins' financials?"

"Nothing, a month prior to his incarceration he purchased a new – "

"Hang on," Miles said, standing up.

"What?"

"I've got it."

"Tell me."

"Search the database for a Francis Walsingham." She frowned, but began to type and hit enter. The computer started its search. Wildy sat back and folded her arms, unconvinced.

"Are we all of a sudden looking for an old English gentleman?"

"Yes."

Wildy stopped. "What?"

"Sir Francis Walsingham worked for Queen Elizabeth I of England. He was one of the first spies. They called him the 'Spymaster'."

"So?"

Miles held up the book he was reading.

"So why would your mother have a meeting with him on November 12th?"

She smiled at him as he crouched, angling towards her for a better view of the computer.

"Miles – " she said, and looked at him, searching his eyes for their comfort and warmth. She couldn't say anything more. He winked.

Before them the computer began spitting out data.

And there he was.

…

Donald Hitchins was older than Wildy expected, and smaller. He didn't look strong enough to beat a man to death; he didn't look strong enough to beat an egg. He watched them as they walked his way, meeting him at the metal table. Nobody spoke until all were seated. Wildy began, all business.

"My name is Wilhemina Reed, this is Miles Fleming. We'd like to talk with you about a murder."

"What murder?"

"The murder of Grace and Samantha Reed."

"I don't know anyone by that name."

Wildy just looked at him, and nodded.

"Mr. Hitchins," she said, "we know who you are."

He said nothing.

"What are you doing in here?" Wildy asked.

"I got in a fight, the other guy died."

Wildy shook her head.

"You and I know differently, don't we Mr. Hitchins?"

"Stop calling me that, I can't help you," Hitchins said nervously, eyeing his surroundings suspiciously.

"When you were initially questioned by investigating officers you were dismissed as a suspect, why was that?"

"I have no idea. It probably had something to do with the skill of the Miami Police Department."

"It might have also had something to do with the solid alibi you gave them. The one which was corroborated by 13 people."

"That was retracted."

There was a pause.

"Who are you protecting?" Miles said. "Who are you afraid of?"

Hitchins laughed again, humorless this time.

"I was protecting me until you bastards showed up. You have no idea what you're dealing with. Go home," he hissed.

Hitchins stood as though to leave.

"There's no one to be afraid of anymore." Wildy said. Hitchins just laughed. "He's dead." The old man shuffled towards the exit. "Miller is dead.

He stopped and looked down at her.

"Miller is dead?" She nodded.

"He shot me and a month later he was found shot to death in his apartment."

Hitchins slowly sat down. It took all Wildy had not to look at Miles, not to seek his eyes.

"Who are you protecting? What are you –" He held up a hand.

"Alright, alright. Stop." He cleared his throat into the silence. "You guys have no clue. By coming here you've just got me killed. With all the others dead it just means that I'm the next one to go." He seemed to contemplate his situation for a moment. "I guess staying quiet won't save my life anymore."

"Tell us, Mr. Hitchins."

"In the '90s, the only people running Miami were the cops and the drug lords, and they were doing a pretty terrible job. After a couple of years, a group of police officers began kidnapping members of the drug mob and holding them to ransom. We're not talking small change here, it was millions of dollars. Now that sort of money can't change hands without people noticing. It had to be moved around very carefully; cleaned, so to speak."

"You're talking about money laundering." Miles said.

"If you want to call it that, yes. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but a lawyer by the name of Lee Daniels began sniffing around. He was pretty green, but it somehow got back to the gang of cops and they got nervous. Lawyers are dangerous, they leave clues; they take notes, they record phone calls. Miller was hired to kill Daniels."

"What went wrong?"

"I don't know. Miller came to me, said he'd messed up and left something at the crime scene. He said that he was taking a lot of heat from the cops, and when the people who'd hired him found out he'd be killed. He'd been set to get $5 million of the ransom money, and he offered it to me in exchange for my confession. He was just a kid, and at the time I didn't know who he was working for, so I said yes."

"Who was he working for?"

"A man named Roderick Sparks."

"The millionaire?" Miles asked.

"The very same." At Wildy's puzzled expression, Hitchins continued. "Sparks runs a business based in LA specializing in international trade. He is also responsible for the sale of weaponry to the Police departments in the great state of Florida. Every year his firm handles billions of dollars, so it was perfect for making the odd million disappear."

"Sparks was hiding the money for the cops."

"And taking an enormous cut. Not that he needed to, the greedy bastard."

"Where does Grace and Samantha Reed come into this?" Hitchins just smiled.

"Samantha? That little girl? Nothing. I think she was just a casualty, caught in the crossfire," he said sadly.

Wildy muscled back tears as she remembered her little sister, covered in blood, dying. Dead. Miles put a reassuring hand on her thigh under table.

"When I confessed, Sparks went nuts," Hitchins continued. "Whoever killed Daniels left a trail leading the real cops right to his door. He was convinced that the game was up and that I was to blame, so he sent his goons in the prison to kill me. I'd heard some of the boys discussing Mrs. Reed, saying she was poking her nose in where it didn't belong, and she was starting to piece things together. I figured she might believe my story, so I wrote to her. She helped me fake my death. She spoke to my lawyer, helped me to transfer between prisons under false names. I must have been in half a dozen institutions within a month, it was crazy. She saved my life."

Wildy felt a pang and her eyes began to fill. Her mother had been known to this gang long before they'd killed her; the only life she couldn't save had been her own. Nor her daughter's.

…

She didn't speak until they reached the car.

"What do you think?" He said.

"Tell me about Sparks."

"Sparks is a self-made millionaire who made his fortune shipping airplane parts into Europe. He's the epitome of straight laced – he pays his taxes, his employees are loyal and his investors happy. His personal life is pretty perfect too. He's been married to the same woman for over 30 years, with whom he has one perfect Ivy League Stepford Son. Sparks even has his own foundation, set up to help underprivileged children all over the country."

"In other words, he's too clean," Wildy said. He just hummed his agreement.

Wildy rushed back to her office and pulled everything she could on Roderick Sparks.

Sparks had been accused of drug trafficking and exporting counterfeit goods. A former business partner who'd first informed the authorities had later vanished, no charges could be brought. Sparks himself was later implicated in the disappearance by the missing man's wife, but he had never seen the inside of a court room. Witnesses always recanted statements, evidence would go missing, his legal dream-team worked their magic on judges and opposing counsel. The cases would somehow find their way to the desks of DAs who could be easily manipulated, and would be curiously shelved. Had Grace known this, there would have been nobody for her to turn to, no authority to whom she could entrust the information. Wildy was almost afraid to believe what she had read. Thirteen years of chasing false or empty leads had caused to her expect to be disappointed. A part of her doubted that she would ever find her two loved one's killer. She looked to Miles for reassurance.

"Wildy, I think this is it."