Catherine Willows looked at the man across from her at the conference table and gave him a little reassuring smile; he looked nervous, and at the same time, gentle.

Both of them were waiting for orientation, she knew. Nobody else had shown up yet, but there was a big screen against one wall, and lots of other chairs around the table. She smiled at the man. “Hi. I’m Catherine Willows.”

The man looked a little startled that she’d spoken to him, but smiled back, showing dimples. “Hi. I’m David Phillips.”

“So . . . “ she continued, hoping to combat her own nervousness by talking a little, “I guess we’re both in the same boat, huh?”

He nervously pushed up his glasses by the nosepiece and nodded. “Looks that way. I’ve never worked for . . . a private company before.”

“Oh I think they’re a little more than that,” Catherine murmured with a wry grin. Across the table, David nodded solemnly.

“True.” He didn’t get to say anything more though; a figure stepped through the door, stride loose, confident and eye-catching. Jelly Bean beamed, almost strutting in, a pair of dossiers under one arm, and a steel briefcase in his other hand.

“Morning and welcome to the Shop. For the moment, my name is Jelly Bean, and I’m here to give you the history, mission statement, protocols and day-to-day functions of our little organization. Both of you have had extensive background checks, right down to your toenails, so as soon as my colleague gets here, we can get rolling.”

So saying, he moved to the front of the table, set down the attaché and popped it open. Fishing inside, he pulled out two badges on lanyards and lightly tossed one each to David and Catherine. “Temp IDs so when we go on the walking tour you can get into various areas. Press your right thumbprint on the back and sign the front, please.”

Catherine was just finishing her last name when another figure came through the door. “Am I late? I thought we were starting at five,” Mike TeeVee murmured as he came over to the front of the room.

Jelly Bean gave a shrug. “No set time I guess. Just gave them their passes and was about to do the Power Point—unless you want to do it, being the tech expert and all.”

“A slide show hardly counts as high tech,” Mike grumbled, shooting a little peek at Catherine as he did so. She barely refrained from winking. He took the remote that Jelly Bean handed to him and clicked it; behind him, the screen lit up.





Mission Statement

Our common purpose at the Candy Shop is to serve justice and correct wrongs that have been overlooked or perpetrated by society at large. Each of us understands that goal clearly. To that end, we each make a personal promise to attend our therapy sessions, to accept our limitations, break no society or Shop laws, protect our fellow team members and carry out our missions to the best of our abilities and talents.

“Very . . . noble,” Catherine observed, resting her chin in her hand. “Gives it all an air of legitimacy.”

“It’s a unifying code, and one we take seriously,” Jelly Bean intoned, his expression suddenly grave. “While there isn’t a lot we hold sacred around here Ms.Willows, this basic premise is one of them.” His tone was mild, but his words held weight; Catherine blinked, and looked to Mike TeeVee, who was equally stone-faced.

She murmured a soft apology; Jelly Bean regained his sunny expression of a moment before, waving a dismissive hand. “Anyway, it also allows us an amazing degree of latitude in regard to what cases we take on, and how we achieve our objectives. We’ve done everything from returning confiscated property to carrying out assassinations, all above and below the machinations of society.”

“Assassinations?” David Phillips blanched. Mike TeeVee looked at him and spoke in a low, gravelly voice.

“Oh yeah. Remember the serial rapist in Georgia? The one who had his case thrown out for mishandled evidence, who then posted a blog announcing he was going to write a book outlining exactly, and I quote, ‘how to commit his sort of luscious crime, unquote?”

“He died of a heart attack—there were witnesses; an autopsy,” Catherine commented. Mike shook his head, his expression cynical.

“He did, but it was chemically induced—believe me, we debated that one long and hard before the Shop voted to do it. We don’t just go vigilante around here on a whim, Catherine. “

She kept her gaze level, her expression a mix of memory and stubbornness. “I know that. Believe me.”

“Who . . . “ David began softly, then paused. The other three looked at him and he continued, “Who funds you? I mean—the building, the budgets—none of this is cheap, especially in this town.”

“Valid question, Mr. Phillips,” Jelly Bean smiled, “Have a twinkie—“ So saying, he gave a flick of his wrist and tossed a little cellophane wrapped package towards the man. David flinched a little, but caught it, his face slightly red.

Catherine grinned. “Cool; positive reinforcement.” She turned to look at Jelly Bean. “Got any fruit roll-ups?”

“If you’re a good student,” Jelly Bean smirked, and nodded at Mike, who thumbed the remote. Another slide lit up.

“The answer to your question, Mr. Phillips is—everybody.”

The slide on the screen was a splashy graphic with a stylized tree of seven branches, all of them connecting to a trunk that read CANDY SHOP in bright pink letters.

“Your mom?” Sara echoed incredulously, rising up on the bed on all fours, and presenting such a distractingly sexy image, that Grissom had to fight back a growl before speaking up in a low, urgent tone. He moved away from the window and hurriedly pulled up his pants.

“My mother, yes. And I’m not about to introduce the two of you under these circumstances, nooooo. So come on, we’re going to plan B, pronto—“ He strode to the bed and reached for Sara’s wrist, tugging it.

She scrambled after him. “Wait! I don’t even have my skirt!”

“Can’t wait—mom’s got a key and she moves damned quick for an old lady,” Grissom confessed. “Oh, and she’s deaf.”

“Hard of hearing, you mean?” Sara chuffed, trying to find her other high heel. Grissom scooped up the bunny and tossed it away, then jabbed the elevator button repeatedly, his Morse code of controlled panic apparent.

“No, deaf. No hearing at all. In her case it means she’s got great eyesight and a nose like a bloodhound . . . damn it--“

Sara was hustled into the cage of the elevator, Grissom herding her like a corgi with a recalcitrant mare. “Soooo here’s what we do—you’ll go down to the basement and wait there while I see what mom wants and get rid of her as quickly but nicely as I can. Then I take you out to dinner for being one hell of a good sport.”

“Wait, wait--you want me to hang around in your icy spy lair in nothing but a garter belt while you have tea and cookies with mom upstairs?” Sara griped with a disbelieving snort.

“Yep.” Grissom told her absently over his shoulder. “I’m hopping out here on the bookstore level, so press the down button while I block you from view.”

“Are you . . . ashamed of me? Of us?” Sara asked as the cage stopped. Grissom spun, and in a quick caress cupped her face, kissing her forehead, nose and lips in quick succession.

“Never. Now hide.”

“I—“ She didn’t get to finish; the sound of the bell over the door of the shop tinkled loudly, the chimes carrying through the empty bookstore. Grissom clumsily stepped out of the cage, trying to smooth his hair down, his button-less shirt hanging limply around his torso.
 
Staring at his back, Sara was torn between giggling, or kicking his ass, cute as it was. Instead, she viciously jabbed the elevator button and sulked as it slowly dropped down into the basement, creaking slightly.

Drawing a quick breath, Grissom lifted his cleft chin high and tried to smile as his mother stepped inside the shop and eyed him askance. Her gaze took him in from the top of his head to his sneaker-clad feet, noting the gaping shirt and general dishevelment.

Her hands moved. //Did I wake you?//

Grissom shook his head, shifting slightly sideways in embarrassment. //Ah, yeah. Snagged my shirt on the elevator handle and lost a button or two—no big deal. So, what brings you here, Mom?// he signed, his big hands moving fluidly.

His mother gave a slight roll of her eyes. //You were going shopping with me, remember? My postponed birthday?//

Grissom’s fingers moved in a way that made his mother wince. //Crap. Sorry, I completely forgot! I thought we were meeting on Thursday!//

//Gil, it’s Thursday. Do I need to buy you a calendar?//

He shook his head impatiently, chagrin and affection in his glance as he fought the urge to look over his shoulder to assure himself that Sara truly was out of sight. His mother signed to him once again. //All right, let’s go upstairs and get you another shirt and we can get going.//

Helpless for a second; that first precious second when he might have taken control, Grissom felt his mother move past him towards the elevator. She looked up at him, her nose wrinkling. //Maybe you ought to shower, too, dear—you’re a bit ripe.//

Sara looked around the basement, crossing her arms against the chill. The subterranean lair of Mr. Peppermint looked much as it had before; slightly disorganized but full, with knickknacks and toys and high tech tools everywhere. She wandered in, and spotted a wooden standing coat rack; from it she nabbed a sweater. It was a cream-colored nubbly button down job and she wondered if it had been a gift from his mother even as she slipped it on.

There was no mirror anywhere nearby, but Sara had a good idea of what she looked like: a tousled sex kitten in Mr. Rogers’ uniform. Disconsolately, she pushed the big sleeves up, smelling the hint of her lover along the collar of the sweater. A second later she heard the elevator rumble; alarmed, she froze, but it was going up.

“Mrrrrr?” A brush of weight and warmth against her shin made her look down; one of the cats was making friendly by brushing up against her, so she squatted and returned the favor with a long petting stroke. Appreciative, the cat arched, and a rumble rolled out of his broad chest. He looked very well-fed.

“I’m not sure which one you are,” Sara murmured, “but it looks like we’re here for a while.”

The cat blinked up at her, and circled her stocking feet again, anxious for more petting. Sara hefted him up, grinning at the effort it took, and carried him with her over to the nearest chair, settling in.

She thought about Grissom’s mother in idle curiosity. Sara had seen photos of the woman up in the loft, most notably the one in the frame in the kitchen. Olivia Grissom had been beaming, her hands holding a trophy inscribed “Indian Springs Garden of the Year 1999.” Her smile was infectious, and Sara could see where Grissom got his dimples and bright blue eyes every time she looked at it.

He mentioned his mother once in a while too; Sara heard the exasperation and concern for her; the fears and fondness and frustration. More than once Grissom had run errands for her, and bought new paperbacks as well. Sara understood and even admired that sort of ongoing connection.

Grissom was a good son.

But at the moment—she sighed. At the moment what she really wanted was to be curled up around him under the sheets, slumbering until food or sunrise roused her. Unfortunately, she agreed with Grissom about the current circumstances—meeting the parent of your significant other while semi-naked and post-coital wasn’t the best first impression to make.

She heard the elevator again, and realized it was rising further up; to the loft. Sara bit her lips, wondering exactly where she’d left her panties.

The little statue was beautifully carved; a prime example of early Mali art, and Alex’s fingers itched to touch it. The sandstone would be cool; the weight of it a joy to the palm, but he knew better. Not only were there cameras discreetly hidden in the ceiling and along the doorframes, but also guards and time locks and several other traps designed to keep the treasures safe.

He circled around it, and shifted his gaze to another carving, letting his thoughts wander too.

The Battaglia. It wouldn’t be simple, not the way it had been back in the Seventies and Eighties. Back in those days it was just a matter of making impressions of keys, and figuring out where the fuse boxes were. Maybe bribing a cleaning lady or two. Lifting a pretty even from a place as prestigious the Louvre was possible, and most galleries in the Third World were little more than open shops where a smart thief could waltz in and help himself.

The good old days.

Now though, things were complicated by technology, or so the Bright Young Experts would have you believe. Their faith in their surveillance and state of the art laser barricades was laughably amusing, and the prices they charged for their services were outrageous. Alex had spent a good deal of time with the others at the National Trust’s private think tank—codename Barabbas—considering security. It was his job to think of things that the others missed.

It was a good career, respectable and certainly needed, but now and again Alex missed the thrill of the dark side, and the temptation to dabble was always there. He knew he couldn’t do anything in England of course, but here in the States, away from anyone who might recognize him . . . And then the call had come from dear Sara, and that set the whole thing in motion, beautifully.

So here he was, strolling through a nice gallery, assessing and debating and having a bit of fun in theoretically possibilities that with a little careful planning might easily turn into realities.

After all, he had always loved to collect beautiful things.

His cell phone rang; the lilting Men of Harlech chimed out and he answered it, shifting his gaze from the ceremonial plate he’d been studying. “Hello?”

“You still coming for dinner?” the voice growled.

Alex smiled to himself and turned away from the exhibit, seeking a more private spot for the conversation. “Certainly. What did you have in mind? A good curry perhaps, or a spot of fish? It’s your city after all—“

“Steak,” came Bruce Eiger’s low grunt. “You Limeys eat that, right?”

“Er, right,” Alex replied, wincing a little. “Beef is rather our national dish.”

“Whatever. Watson’s in about an hour.” The phone clicked off, and Alex stared at it a moment before re-pocketing it, and the fleeting worry about deals with the devil crossed his mind as he turned for the exit of the gallery.